Midwest Gypsy

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I said I’d be there.

Posted on March 24, 2017 by Maria Russell

A local church in my town is sponsoring a five-week study of “The Shack,” a best selling book-turned-movie about change and forgiveness, and the first session was this past Tuesday. I’m not even sure about how I learned of it, to tell you the truth; I used to attend service there, but not anymore. Still, I have friends that attend, and the pastor, Rev. Paige, holds a special place in my heart, and I dare say that her heart has a special place for me.

At any rate, one of my friends strongly encouraged me to come to the study (over a series of several days, whick I took to be ‘a sign’) so I said I would, just to end the conversation. And immediately regretted it. That’s how I am about making commitments these days. It’s not that I don’t want to follow through; it’s just that ‘commitment’ seems to contradict living ‘one day at a time.’ But I’m working on it.

Prior to learning about this opportunity, I’d gone to see the movie one evening with nearly twenty female friends in recovery. Though my turning-away-from-God was not for the same reason as the main character’s, his confusion and conflict about God were feelings that resonated with me. I think everyone, at some time or another, experiences hard times or situations that challenge one’s faith and trust in a higher power. Add grief and sadness and depression to the mix and the result is one confused and extremely angry individual.

So, basically, the study will be one of theodicy and possibly answer the question of why God permits tragedy, evil, hard times, sickness, pain, extreme sadness, call it what you will–if He wants only the best for us. I have wondered about that. The subject matter is worth pondering and exploring, and Paige will be the perfect facilitator.

Even though I didn’t feel like going to the study when the time came–it was raining and cold and staying home was much more appealing–I’m glad I went. It was good to see Paige again; our worlds intersect at just the right times, it seems. And in retrospect , I’m grateful my friend insisted I attend the study. It’s true that when the student is ready, the teacher appears.

At any rate, it will be a learning experience…no doubt in more ways than one, from what I can already tell. It’s undoubtedly speculation on my part, but to have this coincide with spring and Easter–traditional times of regrowth and regeneration–is just icing on the cake. It’s during the dark times in our lives that we question God’s existence, and need to have the faith, trust, and assurance that in the end, all will be well. And it will. Somehow, someway…

Transformations

Posted on March 12, 2017 by Maria Russell

It’s been a week since coming back from vacation and normalcy returned all too quickly. We’re back to taking care of our grandkids whilst their dad works and their mom runs the brewery. Spring cleaning projects have been identified and begun. I even cut the grass in the backyard for the first time this season.

Still, I can’t help but reflect on certain things that I either saw or heard while on vacation, which happened to be the best one we’ve ever had, by the way. Ever. I’m more aware of things these days, and I’m remembering them, too, which I find remarkable since I still have the hardest time remembering what I did with my glasses or my keys. For one reason or another, certain things make an impression.

Take, for instance, the precious luna moth laying on the asphalt ground at the gas station we stopped at in Georgia on our way back from the beach. I’m surprised I didn’t step on her and smush her as soon as I got out of the truck. There she stayed all the while I cleaned the windshield, which took some time. Fueling up the truck took much longer, and yet, she stayed.

I read that such daytime encounters are indeed fortunate since moths are nocturnal creatures. What I felt most grateful about was that she was patient enough to let me take quite a few photos of her.

Refueling completed, we prepared to leave, but I was concerned for her safety, and shooed her out of the fueling bay. Of course, where she went after that was not up to me. That’s another thing that’s changed in me–letting go of situations over which I have no control. It’s becoming easier. If I had tried to catch her or force her to go where I thought she should go, I might’ve killed her. Now I know that letting go is a choice, and when practiced (however reluctantly), can be very, very liberating.

I’d nearly forgotten about the beautiful and dainty creature until yesterday. Part of my daily routine is listening to podcasts, and one of my favorites is The Recovery Show. When I brought it up to listen to the other day, I put 2 and 2 together: I knew I had seen that moth before…it’s part of the show’s logo! Immediately I thought, “This is a God-wink.” And then when I pulled up the website to take a screen shot for this post, I saw that Spencer (the host) had put my photo up! Another God wink. ?

Years ago, a friend who’s part Native American Indian got me interested in animal totems, and ever since then I’ve been sensitive to repeated appearances of animals in my life.

The transformation a moth goes through before reaching adulthood takes it through some harrowing changes: egg, then caterpillar, then chrysalis. It can’t be easy or comfortable.

There’s a lot of symbolism attached to moths, like optimism, good listening skills, and motivation, things I strive towards. They also symbolize the attraction to lighter things–and I think of how much humor and laughter play an integral part of my recovery and general well-being.

Luna moths live but only a week, and their sole purpose is to reproduce in that short amount of time. In the big scheme of things, my journey is just as brief, and I can see how all those qualities would grately enhance it. The awakening continues the wider I open my eyes.

Winter Escape

Posted on February 28, 2017 by Maria Russell

Last month I wrote about seeing a therapist for the first time because I felt unusually sad, and the feeling was lasting longer than I cared for it to. I also wasn’t sleeping well, and the interesting thing is that a year ago, I wasn’t sleeping well either. (I know, because I had documented it in my journal.)

I wondered if there really was something to this SAD-thing–seasonal affective disorder. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about; I bet I’m not the only one who starts feeling down come mid-winter. I’d even be willing to bet that it reaches untold epidemic proportions.

One thing that’s always pulled me out of a funk like that is having something to look forward to. So when Dave suggested I plan a trip, I knew immediately where I wanted to go: the beach. It was January, after all.

I wanted to go to Florida’s Panhandle, a place we called “home” at one point. It’s the closest beach coast to Kentucky, anyway. There was so much of it we hadn’t explored when we lived here in the mid-80s, not to mention that things have changed a lot since then.

February/March is typically Mardi Gras-time along the Gulf Coast. Plus spring break. So, making reservations was challenging, to say the least. I used the National Park Service and Florida State Parks websites to plan the Florida-part of the trip; we’d play getting there and back by ear

Three nights was the most I was able to reserve at the Gulf Islands National Seashore at the western tip of Pensacola Beach. This is a stone’s throw from Gulf Breeze, where we lived when our now-adult kids had just started going to school.

An annual pass to the National Parks sliced the cost of our stay in half, to $39 for three nights starting Tuesday. Our site had 30/50 amp electricity and water, and was paved. We were steps away from a path to the beach.

Besides miles of pristine, sugar-white beach laced with shells, there was Fort Pickens, which was fun to explore even if you’re not a military history buff.

We’ve seen sunset at the beach every night we’ve been here. I never tire of them…how could I when each one is a different spectacle?

I’d never heard of where I made reservations next, Grayton Beach State Park, only that it was midway between Destin and Panama City. Were we beyond pleasantly surprised! Our site is not only wide, level, nicely graveled and comes complete with a fire ring, picnic table, and clothesline…it has ‘full hook-ups,’ meaning we have sewer, meaning I can do laundry. Ours was piling up, so I was happy. Our site costs $30/night, and we’re here until Monday. So, $90 for a weekend on Florida’s “Emerald Coast.”

Though you wouldn’t know it because of its seclusion, GPS pinpoints our location to be just west of Seaside, one of the (too) many trendy beachside communities that have popped up along beach highway 30A. For $800,000, you can get a fixer-upper condo. We made the mistake of turning right instead of left out of the park on Saturday and got all caught up in the traffic that is probably there on a continual basis, given how closely together the houses are built. It was terrible. And to think that some people pay big bucks for this.

Back in Grayton Beach, we played tourists for a couple hours, eating lunch at a place suggested by the park ranger, Chanticleer Eatery. She said to go for the cookies, but I say go for the shrimp and grits. I have no idea how much cheese was used in the recipe, but it was fabulous and I ate every single bit. Licking the plate would have been rude, but the thought did cross my mind. Kudos to our Mississippi-friend, George Eyrich (who definitely knew how to cook) who used to say about recipes calling for loads of cheese/butter/cream, “Relax! Just don’t eat this every day.”

Though we thought it might be fun to go to Destin to see the Mardi Gras parades, the thought of bumper to bumper traffic wasn’t appealing. And that was given, since there’s only one way there and back, Highway 98.

There was a time when I didn’t mind being in the thick of crowds, but it just doesn’t appeal to me anymore. For all the beauty and tranquility that is the beach, I know that this too shall pass, and soon throngs of visitors will descend here. In the six days we’ve been in Florida, not once have I wished to live here again, though the weather and abundance of seafood are great temptations. If Saturday’s unexpected foray through the Seaside community was any indication, claustrophobia would certainly consume me within days.

It occurred to me on this trip that, at one time or another in the 38 years we’ve been married, we’ve lived in places that are really expensive today: Key West, San Diego, Washington, DC, Gulf Breeze and North Palm Beach, FL. Even when we lived on a boat, diesel and dockage were somewhat reasonable, whereas I doubt we could afford to do it today. It made me feel very grateful and appreciative for the opportunities to see and experience so much.

I’m glad we took chances over the years. As crazy as some of them were, we always figured that things would end up alright. Today we’re packing up and heading eastward to Mexico Beach, on the other side of Panama City. We’ve never been there, either. We’ve probably seen it at a distance when we passed by on the boat making our way to D.C. by way of the Intracoastal Waterway, but you miss so much when you can’t get close enough to shore to see anything. I love being in old Florida again.

The Therapist

Posted on January 29, 2017 by Maria Russell

I never thought I’d openly admit what I’m about to admit let alone blog about it, but by doing so I’m supporting my long-held conviction that the topic of mental health and wellness not be taboo. It’s important to walk the talk.

At the age of 62, I recently saw a therapist/shrink/counselor for the first time. Up until it was time to leave the house to go to the appointment though, I questioned my motive. I really didn’t know if I needed to go. How does one even know if one should see a therapist? Did what I was feeling at the time warrant such a measure? What did I expect to happen? I figured that the mere fact that I had even thought about seeing a therapist and had gone so far as to make an appointment was a pretty good indicator that I needed to see one.

If I were to rate my present life on a scale of 1 to 10, I’d give it a 6 at least, so things are okay for the most part. The holidays weren’t particularly easy but then again, they aren’t easy for a lot of people. In fact, several of my friends had it much worse than me. Fact: Misery really does love company. I didn’t feel alone.

Generally speaking, though, I felt something was missing in life–but I had no idea ‘what’–and felt I could be happier than I was–though I had no idea ‘how.’ I wondered if I was having a mid-life crisis twenty years too late. Or maybe seasonal affective disorder (SAD) because I was.

I needed to vent to someone, to hear myself verbalize the thoughts that had been running in my head. The person I’d see couldn’t be just anyone though. I needed to be able to be completely honest and know I wouldn’t be judged, which eliminated most everyone I knew. I needed a trust-worthy, disinterested third party.

I contacted a connection I’d made while working at the community college who made a couple of suggestions, and I settled on the one whose name I’d heard a time or two previously. Probably the fact that I called the day after Christmas signaled some kind of urgency, for my appointment was booked for the first week of January.

As the appointment day approached I found myself anxious (in a good way) to unload. I would be honest because I could be. She didn’t know me from Adam, and I liked that she wasn’t from this area either. In retrospect, I verbally regurgitated for an hour because she made it so easy by asking good questions. The takeaway of the experience was a mix of “ah-ha!” and a determination to answer her question, “What’s stopping you from …” I’ve been exploring and working on that ever since.

So why write about it? Because mental health and wellbeing has been an extremely important subject to me for most of my life, ever since a much loved family member descended into a deep, dark depression that lasted much, much too long, nearly two decades. That, plus my own ongoing recovery from alcoholism has taught me a lot about the importance of communication. It’s something I’m working on and probably always will.

I’m grateful for learning and growth, even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when I have to surrender to a nagging feeling that something isn’t quite right. Even when I have to ask for help and find a therapist…maybe that’s surrendering to the solution. I don’t mind admitting it. It helped, and I’m feeling much better!

Reality Check

Posted on January 3, 2017 by Maria Russell

I’m a horse’s ass.

Well, not exactly. Actually, worse.

Whilst scrolling through Facebook the other morning, I noticed that a friend had posted the result of a quiz that supposedly analyzed her profile to determine what percentage was a-hole. She was 14%. I’d taken quizzes from this analytical site quite a few times in the past and always marveled at how right-on the results seemed to be. I clicked “analyze me” without a second thought.

Moments later I sat in disbelief. I couldn’t believe it was saying 74%!

Internally, I went ballistic. How could that be right? Denial. Shock. Anger. From 0 – 100 in a few seconds. I quickly realized that I hadn’t blown a gasket like this in a long, long time, and it actually scared me. Thank God the emotion didn’t last too long. Almost as quickly came the antidote: divine intervention in the form of acceptance. It was like a bolt of lightning.

I had to be honest with myself and admit that I could be an a-hole. Hard as it was to admit at first, it turned out to be the first step toward freedom. The floodgates opened. The blinders were off. I saw more instances than I cared to admit of me acting in the same negative ways as my mother did. Even though she’s been long deceased, I still have resentments. All the things I hated about about her and swore I’d never be, I had become. I finally understood that what we dislike in others are the very things we dislike in ourselves.

I couldn’t swear to it, but I think I had a catharsis last week. I surprised myself when I thought, “I need to change. I don’t want to be like this anymore.”

This all happened in the days between Christmas and New Years. 1/1. What better time to turn over a new leaf! One day at a time I can choose to use any one of a number of spiritual tools–prayer, meditation, service, gratitude, boundaries–to help get me through each 24-hour-chunk. I’m powerless over everything except how I’ll react in any given situation. I can pro-act instead of re-act.

Now I know why I had always liked the results of personality quizzes in the past: they were usually positive. Unexpected negative results can be so painful! Seeing the honest truth about our self takes guts, but that’s what it takes to catapult some of us into action that ultimately makes for a better human being.

Somewhere along this unmarked journey lies our purpose. “Be renewed in the spirit of your minds,” the disciple Paul told the Ephesians (4:23.) What better time than today to make changes for the better? This is, after all, the first day of the rest of our lives.

Timing

Posted on November 26, 2016 by Maria Russell

It’s been a couple of months since my last post, and I’ve felt somewhat guilty about that. I could offer any one of a number of excuses, but the truth is that things weren’t really going “my way,” and therefore I felt as if I had nothing to write about. What a myopic and immature view I sheepishly discovered that to be! But isn’t it quite natural—albeit selfish and self-seeking –to want what we want when we want it?
It took flipping the calendar page to November for me to come to my senses and stop me from falling further into the unrewarding abyss of self-pity. You see, I love November because my favorite holiday is Thanksgiving. It reminds me to look at the big picture and, in doing so, notice the little things that I take for granted.
Some time ago I began to privately journal my gratitude daily, starting with a Pinterest board I called ” Epic Gratitude: 365 Days, One Day At a Time,” onto which I posted a photo of something for which I was grateful. I love looking at it from time to time; I often find things that warm my heart and sometimes make me chuckle, like funny text messages from my daughter about the kids. While it could be construed as somewhat masochistic, I sometimes discipline myself with long-term challenges just to see if I have the stamina to finish what I’ve started, which has never been easy. But so far I’ve not missed a day in nearly three years; I’m on a roll.

My relationship with Facebook is one of love/hate. In fact, I quit it for more than a year and probably would have stayed gone forever if not for my kids saying that I’d see more pictures of my grandkids if I reactivated my account. Very well. This time around though, I’m “friends” with people I actually have a connection with…not just random acquaintances. Most of my friends are in some form of recovery or have a loved one who is, and some of us participate in a group called “5 G’s a Day,” where each day we post five things for which we’re grateful.
Word has spread and more and more people—friends of friends whom I don’t even know—have joined the practice of daily gratitude. Reading each post makes me smile and warms my heart, and watching the steady growth of the group gives me the feeling that an emotional tsunami is about to hit.
There’ve been numerous studies on the benefits of practicing gratitude, so I won’t go into that specifically; but an outstanding one is http://happierhuman.com/benefits-of-gratitude/. The researcher in me wants to interview people in our 5G’s-group and ask questions like, “How has practicing gratitude helped you? Are you happier? Less stressed? Have your relationships with family/friends/co-workers improved? Do you sleep better? Are you beginning to notice the little things in life? Do you find yourself to be less materialistic? Less self-centered? More spiritual?” Of course, I won’t. All I know is that it benefits me in these and so many other ways, I’d be foolish to stop.
I thank God for the month of November, the one that reminds me of just how blessed I really and truly am. And concurrently this month—as if on cue—my Christmas cactus that is so old it’s pot-bound and is just a big, green plant for most of the year, magically bursts forth with a huge mass of brilliant, pink flowers! The timing couldn’t be better. It wrests me from focusing on what (I don’t think) is right and instead on what IS. And that’s something to be grateful for!

Posted on September 28, 2016 by Maria Russell

Recovery is…
To bring back.
To make good.
To recapture.
To salvage.
To rescue.
To restore.
September is National Recovery Month and all of these things—and more—come to mind when I think of my own recovery from alcohol addiction.
Becoming an alcoholic is certainly something I never wanted to be, and yet that’s exactly what I became in spite of being raised in a good home by good people. It retrospect, I was well aware during my early teenage years that I was different, and I tried to think myself into becoming “normal” like everyone else. I tried so hard to fit in, but I was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole.
I even went to college and majored in the special ed areas of emotional disturbance and behavior disorders, thinking that, with any luck, somewhere in all those psychology classes I just might discover what MY own problem was. And what the heck, why not earn a degree while I was at it. Like a lot of alcoholics, I thought myself an over-achiever, and was proud of the fact that I worked hard to not only pay my own way to a private school and complete my studies in three years, not four. Over-achiever, maybe. Delusional, definitely.
I went on to become a teacher, marry a great guy, raise a family, and have an incredibly blessed and adventurous life…all while in active addiction. Nothing too terrible ever happened (unless you take into account that pesky DUI) and for the longest time my family put up with my apologies and promises not to drink ‘that much,’ ever again. Even God Himself knows the sincerity in which I begged Him to just let me drink like a normal person. I never asked for His help to actually stop drinking. Instead, I went to a psychiatrist and asked what it would take for me to learn how to drink normally. He looked at me and said, “You just don’t get it, do you?” No, I really didn’t.
I was smart, or so I thought. I had a religious upbringing. I had morals. I knew the difference between right and wrong. I hadn’t lost my health (yet), my family (yet) or my job (yet.)
What was wrong with me?!?
My house of cards began to come down with a crash when blood tests revealed that my triglycerides (“bad” cholesterol) levels were off the chart (upwards of 800…130-159 is borderline.) Of course, when my doctor asked me if I drank I denied it, but eventually everything caught up with me and I could no longer keep up the double life I was living. It was suggested I go to AA (Alcoholics Anonymous), and while at first I did so to appease others and get them off my back, I soon realized that it was exactly where I needed to be.
At my first meeting I was surprised to find people of all ages and from all walks of life. No one there fit my image of an alcoholic: a disheveled bum underneath a bridge, clutching a brown paper bag that concealed a pint of some cheap liquor. They were lawyers, and medical personnel, and business people, and educators, as well as factory workers, mechanics, and patients from the treatment facility nearby. They smiled at me. They kindly walked up to me and introduced themselves, and told me they were glad I was there. They seemed sincere and accepting of me, though I felt completely unworthy of their attention. I felt so low.
After a few readings were read and some announcements were made, a topic was brought up for discussion, and for a full hour I listened to people share feelings and experiences I could totally relate to. Before speaking, each one said, “My name is so-and-so, and I’m an alcoholic.” They weren’t at all ashamed of it, and that blew my mind. They were simply stating a fact: they had the disease of alcoholism. For the first time in my life I felt comfortable in a room full of people. I was just like them.
Some of them gave me their phone numbers and encouraged me to ‘pick up that hundred pound phone’ and call them before I even thought picking up a drink. They said things like, “You never have to be alone,” and “Keep coming back,” and “You never have to drink again.” That last one I couldn’t even imagine since liquor was a part of my everyday existence.
That was five years ago. I haven’t drank since. And while that’s quite a milestone, I know that my sobriety is a one day at a time process. I know I am by no means “cured,” because alcoholism is an incurable disease. But as long as I don’t pick up a drink today, I have a daily reprieve. Working my AA program is my daily medicine.
Currently I’m in the process of repainting all the closet doors in my old house, and the process reminds me so much of my AA program, which has become a vital part of my life and one that I have embraced. Each door is covered with layers upon layers of oil-based paint. I could take the easy path of just slapping on a few coats of latex paint, and there’s a chance that they might look okay for a little while. But I know it wouldn’t take much for the latex to chip off, or possibly peel in long strips, revealing the ugly underneath.
So even though it’s time-consuming, I’m taking the time to strip off all the oil-based paint and taking each door down to the wood. The multi-step process involves a lot of stripper and patience and scraping, and just when I think I have it all, I find that there’s more to be scraped. Scraping off all those layers is messy, and sometimes a little bit of stripper gets on my skin and it burns! But the process is so worthwhile, because eventually I begin to see beautiful wood grain. I’m inspired to just keep plugging along. While I’m doing it, I’m reminded of all the “layers” of me that had to be removed before my authentic self began to shine through.

It may be coincidental that I’ve decided to tackle this project as my five-year anniversary approaches, but I don’t think so. I believe it’s a God-thing. In my clear headedness and sobriety I’ve become more aware than ever before of how my Higher Power and how it works in my life. Like the closet doors, my recovery is a step-by-step process that takes time. One day at a time.

Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’…

Posted on August 25, 2016 by Maria Russell

Something recently happened that convinced me that somehow without realizing it. I’ve assimilated into the area in which I’ve lived for the past eight years. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would ever live in Kentucky, but then again, I never thought I’d live in any of the places I lived until I actually moved there.

Over the past 35 years or so, I’ve lived in 11 places in 7 different states, plus Washington, DC*, in a variety of homes (conventional, floating, and on wheels.) From very rural, like Newton, Alabama (pop. 1,500) to alluring, like San Diego, California, to bizarre, like Key West, Florida, and everything in between. That’s where Hopkinsville lies: in between.

The population, roughly 32,000, is mostly natives and just about everybody knows everybody. Just yesterday, while waiting for a friend at the doctor’s office, I saw and had conversations with three people I knew…and I’m not from here. The downtown district, cow pastures, fishing holes, and corn, soybean, and tobacco fields and, believe it or not, a scuba diving resort, are all less than three miles from my home. This is, by no means, the “country,” but driving home last evening around 6:30, I saw a deer race across one of the town’s main roads, 9th Street, and into a field.

I guess some sort of assimilation was bound to happen, considering I’ve lived in the South most of my life. After all, I say “y’all” from time to time and have actually thought in Southern terms, like “over yonder” and “fixin” for years. And even though my ears perked up when I heard my granddaughter say that “it was fixin’ to rain” the other day, I resisted the urge to correct her. After all, doing as the Romans did has served me well over the years.

Lately, though, I’ve caught myself speaking like the natives, and it startles me when I do. Me, a self-described grammar nazi. I almost couldn’t believe it when I used ‘theirselves’ in conversation with my daughter yesterday. Somehow, articulating it–as opposed to just thinking it–made it seem more real. I stopped in mid-sentence and even said, “That didn’t sound right.” Kate, a chip off the old block, noticed it immediately and said, “I was wondering if you were going to pick up on that.” Regardless of whether it was correct or not, the word rolled so smoothly off my tongue, it sounded right.

It’s probably because I’m originally from Missouri, the “show me state,” that I couldn’t rest until I researched whether or not “theirselves” is a word and, believe it or not, it is…as is the singular masculine, ‘hisself.’ Both are considered regional, “non-standard” English versions of the grammatically correct “themselves” and “himself.” You learn something new every day.

The truth is, I’ll never be a dyed-in-the-wool Southerner. Or Northerner, for that matter, since Missouri is considered the Midwest, and a border state at that. Having chosen to live a transitory life for most of my life, I’m different. By moving around and traveling a lot, I’ve met the most interesting people and have had a lot of experiences and adventures, certainly more than I’d have if I’d chosen to stay where I was raised. Instead of me growing deep roots, a lot of places grew on me. I feel so blessed. I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

* Alabama (Newton), Florida (Key West, Pensacola, Gulf Breeze, North Palm Beach, Jacksonville), California (San Diego), Texas (Port Aransas), Mississippi (Bay St. Louis), Kentucky (Hopkinsville), and my home state, Missouri (St. Louis–south city. GO CARDS!)

62.

Posted on August 15, 2016 by Maria Russell

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the birthday I’m celebrating this month—62. In many ways, I can’t believe it. When I was a kid, 62 sounded SO OLD and I never thought I’d get there, especially since my lifestyle didn’t exactly promote health and well-being, at least it didn’t then. I certainly don’t feel old now, but I do realize that the end of the line is not nearly as far down the road as it used to be. So, not knowing what the future has in store, I’ve decided to start tying up loose ends…simply finishing projects I’ve started and starting projects I’ve put off. There are quite a few.

One project is plowing through two similar-type books my daughter gave me years ago. I don’t know why she gave me two; it’s almost passive/aggressive. Both are compilations of my answers to questions that explore my childhood memories, family history and traditions, and recollections of special people and special times. Questions like:

Who among your childhood friends do you remember now? Are you still in contact with them?

How did you fill your childhood summertime days?

How did you learn to drive?

Who was your first crush?

Eventually very thought-provoking questions are posed, like:

What was the happiest time of my life? What was the saddest?

What was the most difficult choice you had to make?

What role does religion or spirituality play in your life?

Yow would you describe ‘success?’

If you could keep only one family photo, which would it be?

Even though the thought of writing about my own life doesn’t appeal to me personally, I can see how it could be beneficial and possibly entertaining to certain people someday. Come to think of it, I would be very grateful to find something written by any one of my four grandparents—none of whom I’d gotten a chance to know, unfortunately. I have a few memories of my maternal grandparents with whom we lived and to whom I’d been very close. Sadly, both died by the time I was eight. My dad, who was orphaned by the age of four, didn’t even know his parents, and so of course neither did I. I’ve always envied others—especially adults—whose grandparents were still alive…I can only imagine how rich some of those relationships must be!

I have a young granddaughter who’s almost 8, and she and I are like peas in a pod…much to my daughter’s disbelief. In fact, she’s commented on more than one occasion that, “the only thing worse that having a daughter just like you is having one just like your mother.” When I look at Maeby, I can easily see myself at her age, and writing about things that rocked my world then hits me hard, though it’s got to be therapeutic on some level.

It’s kind of weird being this age and writing about things that happened when I was very young (and not so very young)—things I hadn’t thought about for a while. Of course, memories best forgotten and latent emotions have been conjured up. But by writing my answers, I’m beginning to see how the puzzle pieces of my life fit together. Especially the dark pieces that seem to have neither rhyme nor reason. You know, those things in life that happen that never make sense at the time and leave you wondering, “Why did THAT (have to) happen?”

I feel as though I’ve been given the key to understanding so many things, and truthfully, I am amazed at what I’m learning, now that I’m looking at things in retrospect. They say that hindsight is 20/20 and the older I get, the more I find that to be true. Our past is always something we can learn from. Maybe insights on my hindsights will shorten Life’s learning curve for my children’s children’s children. I hope so anyway.

The future is now.

Posted on August 13, 2016 by Maria Russell

We just got back from four days of camping with two of our grandkids and, according to my fitbit, I logged way more than the daily recommended 10,000 steps just being active with them than I do when I go for my daily multi-mile walks. In a way, I find that amazing, but then again, it shouldn’t. It does make me wonder, though, just how many steps I must have taken each day when their mother was young. Funny…that doesn’t seem so long ago.

Time goes by so fast, and it’s really only lately that I’ve become aware of just how precious each day is. When I really think about it, I’m usually either thinking about things I have to do or things that already happened. The ‘now’ inconspicuously melds into the background, quickly becoming the past.

Perhaps that’s why I so wanted to plan a trip with Bobby and Maeby this summer. Ten and eight respectively, they are growing up much too fast. Pretty soon they will want to spend most of their time with their friends; I know I did. Already, Bobby’s two baseball schedules pretty much dictate our lives, so even planning this short trip was challenging. That’s all the more reason to want to be as much a part of their lives now, while I’m able. After the past few days, though, I find my ‘ableness’ is limited.

This was to be ‘their’ vacation, and we’d do whatever they wanted. Playing wiffle ball at 7 o’clock in the morning was not out of the question. After all, it was just for a few days. But boy, oh boy, did we play wiffle ball a lot! Whenever we weren’t swimming in the lake or the pool or jumping on the monster pillow or making S’mores, or fishing, we played wiffle ball.

As it turned out, my husband and I took turns being with the kids so as to give the other a much needed break. I thanked God when I happened to meet another little boy who was camping nearby with his grandparents who was the same age as Bobby. Actually, our meeting didn’t just “happen”…I walked up to the kid and asked him if he liked to play wiffle ball. He was a temporary playmate for just one day. Kids are so great at being in the moment with whoever they’re with. Later on when he and I were in the pool, Bobby commented that, “playing wiffle ball with kids is harder than playing with you and Papa,” and he wondered why the difference. I knew what the difference was immediately: 50+ years!!!

Dave didn’t even attempt jumping on the giant inflatable pillow, but I did. I couldn’t resist. There was a time after all, back in the day, when I did a bit of jumping on the trampoline at my high school. So, I figured I was able. Ha! There is something to be said for ‘balance,’ and jumping with them on the pillow proved to be a lot more challenging than I imagined. The experience made me just more aware of just how precious my hips and knees are, and grateful for my good health, too. What fun!!! I laughed in a way I hadn’t in a while—hard and a lot!!

Being at Lake Barkley in the middle of the week was serene, and I was so thankful we hadn’t gone to the beach as originally planned. I take the Land Between the Lakes here in western Kentucky for granted because it’s close by, less than 30 miles, and sometimes I forget how grateful I am to live so near the water. There was a time in my life where the water was my life, having lived on a boat and all.

We rented one one afternoon, a pontoon, and took the kids tubing. I couldn’t resist that either. We took turns, two at a time on the tube, and had a blast. Kids’ bodies are so pliable; I’d forgotten how tubing bounces one around, and when my turn-on-the-tube ended, I was thankful.

Camping lasted only for a few days, but the number of memories each of us have are way more than that. Naturally, we took a gazillion pictures with our phones, and I’m going to have a few sets printed. Or made into one of those books that can be made in an hour. Already, our trip is in the past. See how fast time goes by?