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Chico only weighed four pounds, but he was a force to be reckoned with. One misty, foggy morning my husband I were out for our daily early morning walk, and as we came around a corner in the trail we saw a little, cream colored cat walking on the trail. As we got closer we realized it was a dog, a very lonely looking, little, wet dog trudging along. He stopped, and we stopped as we eyed each other. He didn’t struggle when Roger bent over to pick him up. His tag said “Chico”, such a perfect name for a tiny chihuahua like dog. Someone had cared enough to put the tag on so we were sure someone was looking for him. After checking and asking around we saw no one who looked like Chico’s owner. Chico ended up at the Humane Society while they tried to reach his owner. I couldn’t get Chico out of my mind!  I called  the Humane Society every day asking if Chico’s owner had come to get him yet.  I just needed to know that Chico was safe again. While I was at work my husband made the daily call to check on Chico and when I got home I was surprised and so happy to find Chico in our living room. His owner had surrendered him and he was ours.  We were told Chico was probably 10 plus years old and we were determined to give him the best life possible for his remaining years. And we did. 

Chico ruled our house and Roger and I weren’t even ashamed to admit it. We could tuck him in our jackets when he got tired walking, or a big dog was threatening, but he loved to cover a lot of ground in the old stadium field. Soon Chico gained quite the following among the other dog walkers and our neighbors—he was a celebrity. A little guy with a big presence! We almost lost him when the vet discovered a large tumor in his abdominal area and we decided that we  would euthanize him if they found they could not remove the tumor. We waited and agonized, but finally heard from the vet that Chico was going to be ok. We were so relieved and realized how much Chico had stolen our hearts. Before we knew it, Chico was back to taking Roger and I for our walks and all was well in the neighborhood.

Soon he was galloping again. Yes,  Chico didn’t run like a dog, he galloped like a horse, and it was so fun to watch!  When he ran down the sidewalk our neighbors cheered him on. He watched people’s feet with his doggie radar and moved quickly, bouncing around, sidestepping and evading, just like the prize fighter he was.  Nobody stepped on Chico. His doggie bed was the size of a doll bed, but mostly he burrowed under the covers to the bottom of our bed and we had to dig him out in the morning. He was a great traveling companion and took some road trips with us. He liked to hike! I loved to give him a kiss on the top of his head so my lip gloss left him marked with my kiss. What can I say? Chico had me wrapped around his little paw.

But dogs don’t live forever and after a couple of years with us, Chico developed some heart problems. We willed him to keep on fighting, we begged for a few more years. He was tired and his heart was weak. With my lip print on his head he died peacefully in his sleep.  I missed him terribly, but I believed, and still do, that we were so blessed to find each other —it was meant to be. I’ve loved many dogs, but none as fiercely as I loved  Chico.  I cry, and I smile and laugh too, when I remember my little guy, my Chico .

Some rules of the road are very simple: red means stop and green means go, but a yellow light, proceed with caution, is not so simple. What does caution look like? Should I speed up to make the yellow light or should I slow down and stop? It’s a judgement call and we all know that our judgement is not always the best. . And then we have the other yellow on the road,  lines that tell us it’s ok to pass or not. A broken yellow line says that conditions may be right to pass but an  oncoming car means “no passing” no matter what the yellow lines say. I’m a long ways from the passing zones in rural Iowa. These days the yellow line I see most frequently  is the yellow line that marks the center of the walking/jogging track at the senior center. Slow moving traffic keep left, on the inside of the track, and passing is on the right, on the outside of the track, for the speedier contingent. This sounds simple, but there are always those walkers or joggers who are not paying attention or can’t read! I may be a guilty party. I know I can be distracted while driving and walking .

I could use some road signs or rules of the road as I navigate each day. Stop! Do not say that! Go! Keep moving and don’t isolate. The toughest is when I need a yellow approach and I haven’t a clue how to proceed, much less proceed with caution. Looking at the birdie over there I can miss the herd of elephants coming right at me.  First I have to be sure that I am the driver, I make the decisions and I’m in charge of the brakes, steering wheel and the accelerator. People-pleasing puts others in the driver’s seat and me in the back seat.  Are my eyes and mind open? A blind driver is surely a hazard, but when I choose to “See no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil.”, I am living blind. How many times have I said or heard, “Hey can’t you read the sign?”  Apparently not if my mind and eyes are closed! I’m not alone out here on the road of life and other drivers really complicate things.  I can’t control what others are up to and I can get angry when things are not going my way. I’m not in charge of the world or the road.  Sometimes I get road rage and really want to flip off my fellow drivers. I suspect I’m often part of the problem and not part of the solution.

Do my years and life experiences make me a better driver, or am I know-it-all who is definitely older and most likely slower?  Can both be true? “Been there, done that.” often works on the road and in life. I’ve experienced “this” before and I know what to do, but there are those times when I insist on repeating old behaviors because this time it’s different. It’s not. Roundabouts  are so much more efficient because traffic keeps moving and people get where they want to go —as long as everyone gets on and off the roundabout smoothly. How many times have I gone round and round unable to make a decision? Not good on roundabouts or in life. As I’ve gotten older I believe I’m more of a defensive driver and I’m also more defensive about protecting myself and my time. If the sign says, “Left lane closed ahead”, I don’t wait for the last few feet to merge right. This is one of my pet peeves—those who rush ahead and sit in the lane that’s closing so they can get ahead of other drivers because we have to let them in. This is BS. I plan ahead when I can. There may be shortcuts, but I can piss off my fellow travelers if I can’t show a little respect. 

There’s that little voice in my head that often tells me my truth and the best course for me. In the car, Siri is that little voice I listen to. She tells me how to get to my destination. Thank God for GPS!!  Even if I don’t know where I am going my car can tell me.  It’s pretty obvious how useful a GPS for life would be. I’m embarrassed to admit that I am less lonely and feel more secure when Siri is talking to me, telling me to turn right at the next light. See how seductive artificial intelligence can be? I trust Siri. If only she could answer some of my “big” questions.

My sense of  “self” has been nonsense for several months. I have been sick and scared and all of my energy has been focused inward.   No writing, no storytelling, just the need to protect myself and to sustain myself . Rest, try to eat, cry, beg for help while feeling unworthy of help . Waiting, a lot of waiting. Fear, a lot of fear. Now I’m starting to feel better and I know that writing is the key to re-inhabitating my life. My writing muscle has atrophied, it’s  stiff and weak. I’m telling myself, start slow, small steps, just get writing and remind myself that writing is one of the things I do that feels right to me. Fake it till you make it. I’ve spent months living in the land of “What if?” and today I’m beginning to ask “What now?” 

It’s simple really—begin again, renew, find the scattered pieces, old and new, and put together the ever changing puzzle of my life. I don’t get a do over to recover my “missing” months, i just need to sift thru them for pieces of pain and wisdom to keep and build on. What have I learned? The truth is that although I’ve always professed “ It’s ok to ask for help.”, I didn’t really believe that. The mountains I had to climb over were my feelings of pride and unworthiness to finally get the humility to squeak out the question “Can you help me?”.  I figured out that people aren’t mind readers and sometimes they are wanting to help, but simply don’t know what to do. Asking for help is really an act of bravery and often fear over-ruled my courage. There were times when I didn’t want to be alone and I asked family and friends to stay with me. I had to tell the voice that was telling me I didn’t deserve help to “Go to hell!”, and some other expletive deletives. What I’m telling myself when I talk to myself is often old propaganda, intended to bolster fear and unworthiness, both old friends of mine. I learned it was time to let some of my old friends behind and nurture the positive friends who sustained me and who I could sustain and nurture.

Getting old can bomb dreams into a million tiny pieces.  Illusions, delusions and dreams whither in the face of time passing. It’s not all bad news because one thing I found was a lot more clarity. “How important is it?” was a question I asked myself a lot and the answer was often “It doesn’t matter.” —and it didn’t . Order Thanksgiving dinner, make all Christmas gifts gift cards, dust around objects and DO sweep under the rug. Nobody suffered and no love was lost. My son finally won big at Zilch and that’s a great Christmas memory.  I am not going to live forever. Wow that’s a news flash right? When I hear that someone has died the first question I ask is “How old were they? Younger than me and I feel fear and dread.   I prefer the dead way older than me, 80’s and 90’s so I can think about how many years I have left. 

I notice more about my world. I stopped to watch a whirling funnel of leaves and thought about how many people just walked on by. The geese are really pretty funny to watch, such an attitude!  When I’m inside and it’s cold and the wind is blowing, it’s  warm and cozy because I am not homeless and I have 2 little doggies to cuddle up with. I guess noticing is how I get to gratitude. I don’t want anybody to tell me to be grateful, but a lot more gratitude would have eased some of the angst I’ve felt in the last few months.

Thank you seems like such a puny thing to say to my very special friend, M, who saved my ass in the last few months. Day and night, over and over she was the best friend I’ve ever had. I can’t possibly find the right words to say how very grateful I am that she did not run away. I was so sick of myself, I’m not sure how she did it. Thank you my friend.

It feels good to finish this mediocre post because I’m writing for my life.

I was a travelin’ woman last week. One morning I went for a walk in my sister’s neighborhood. The air smelled like Eau’ de  Cochon. Sounds really pretty, but it is French for the smell of pig shit! My sister has some porcine domiciles (pig barns) on their farm , which house some 4000 pigs when they are fully occupied. The air on that morning was more like a hint of pig so I actually found it comforting,  it was a smell from my childhood. The rub is, of course,  the excrement has to be hauled away and spread on the fields at some point.  Luckily, this is not a  weekly task. OMG, the smell  the next night was awful, burning and nauseating. The short run from the car to the house almost required a gas mask. The smell of money as Iowans say. If you survive it to collect your money! 

Did you know that smell is one of our most powerful senses and has a direct connection to the brain? Smells ignite powerful memories and influence our mood and behaviors.  My poor mother got a bottle of Evening in Paris every year for Christmas, because when we were kids that’s the only perfume Wessels Variety store stocked. Our Christmas shopping venues were very limited. It is featured in the American Museum of History so check it out. It was discontinued in 1969,  but I wish I had the bottle which was  a beautiful dark blue. I could find a place to display it in my home. Moms’ wore perfume and red lipstick so Evening in Paris it was. I wonder how much it cost then? A whiff of “Old Spice”and I’m with my Dad in a nano second. He’s holding my small hand in his large calloused hand and we’re walking along. I loved that scent and still do, it’s a classic.  I smell it with my heart.

Do young people today know the smell of pepto-bismal pink bubble gum or root beer barrels candy? I think they may be smell deprived, except of course for the smell of coffee. Now that’s a  smell that evokes strong positive feelings for most of us. We remember sitting with friends or family drinking coffee  or brewing a morning  cup at our campsite. Coffee shops thrive because coffee tastes great, but mainly because it’s an excuse to sit and talk. It’s a place where people congregate and share thoughts and feelings. There’s little distractions, it’s just coffee and us. People who say, “Why would I go out and get a cup of coffee when I can make one at home?” just don’t get it at all! I kinda feel sorry for them. In my opinion, if you put a good coffee shop in the middle of the dessert people would find it and hang out there. It seems coffee is a good excuse to come together and be human. We need help to do that in our world that seems so very random and often painful. Coffee shops and world peace! Now that’s a wonderful slogan.

Of course, there’s always those awful smells that bring us back to memories and places we may not want to be. If I catch a whiff of something that smells a bit like the bottle of mag citrate  used to do a colonoscopy prep, I’m immediately sick to my stomach and desperate to get away from it. A dirty diaper smell is not pleasant, but we are certainly encouraged to change it and make baby and others around more comfortable. We care for our fellow humans by keeping them clean when they can’t do it themselves. What’s that bad smell? The smell of “clean” ,like Lysol, is not exactly wonderful, but we like it a lot because it helps us get rid of bad smells. Bad smells give us a lot of information and can save our lives at times…the smell of gas, the smell of fire, a skunk, a stink bug…rotten eggs….sour milk and ad nauseum.  However, a bit of caution is needed so we don’t over- sanitize our world. We need to be exposed to some germs and we need smells for our noses to smell. The cloying scent of some smells, created  to cover-up natural smells, can be too smelly!

Pepe le Pew, a very cute cartoon skunk,  is one of my favorite characters from my childhood. He was French and liked to wrap females in his arms,profess his love for them by declaring “My Cherie” and trying to plant a big kiss on them. I was too young to know about sexual harrassment…. He smelled like a skunk so his paramours resisted him. It was kinda touching how oblivious he was.  So I’d like to remind you how important smells are and ask you, “ Do you smell that?” 

This week there was a blip on my medical radar. I didn’t see it coming, seemed like all of a sudden it was just there. I was tested in the ER for this and that and told to follow up with a specialist, because they felt they had ruled out life threatening  causes. But of course I could get hit by a bus, and that would really be a moot point. Now, I’m feeling much better physically, but I haven’t returned to my usual emotional equilibrium. I think being sick or injured uncovers a lot of fears and vulnerabilities, and there is nothing flattering or dignified about hospital gowns.

There is a silly song from Tiny Tim that was popular during my teen years, “Tiptoe Through the Tulips”.  It seems the tulips were overrun with thistles when I wasn’t  looking, but I’m looking now! I was scared when I wasn’t feeling well and shared this with my son. Isn’t it funny how women can be so good at giving comfort but not receiving it? It is still my job to be mothering I think. Not smothering-I remind myself. Feeling vulnerability is the most “honest” of feelings, but also the most frightening. What if I share vulnerability and I’m dismissed, laughed at or talked out of it. This wound is so deep and will get infected. Healing comes slowly if at all. It isn’t this bad is it? Yes, yes it is. For those who don’t know about wound care, it can seem counter intuitive at times. Wounds needs to be kept “open” until the infection is gone. A sterile tape is inserted to keep the wound from closing and to let the pus drain.  It is not pretty. Letting the wound close too soon risks the infection getting worse. For me, the real challenge is saying “I’m afraid” and not jumping in to discount myself. “It will be fine I’m sure, I’m just a baby” etc….closing myself up before the compassion can happen. 

Getting older means I need to exercise and build up my vulnerability and humility muscle. It’s likely I will  need more help from others, at least physically.  I hate this: “I can handle it, thank you very much.” I walk much more carefully so I don’t slip on the ice, I don’t attempt to move heavy boxes that I used to throw around, loaded with books no less. How old was he or she ? Often the first question I ask when I hear about someone’s death. When I’m not feeling “little” I’m feeling filled with rage. How could this be happening to me? How dare life treat me like this when I am the exception to the rule? The joke is on me!

I’ve written about resilience and I know this is a time when I need to rustle up some of my strengths and attitudes to stay vulnerable, but also practice good self-care. I can sit for a few minutes and meditate to slow my facing thoughts . This helps  my blood pressure and my emotional pressure too. I can ask my trusted friends and family to listen to me and let me express feelings that may not be so pretty. When someone says to me that they have had the same feelings I am validated, which is such an enemy to shame. It’s  self-compassion that will give me the space to be vulnerable. I can leave the wound open until the infection is gone.

Out there in the world I tend to try and “ Fake it until I make it.” I need to get thru the day so I reply “I’m fine” when people ask “How are you?” Maybe I can take a few more risks to be authentic without unloading or over-sharing. The next time Bob asks me “How are you?” I could answer “It’s been a struggle lately. Thank you for asking.”

When shit happens….

“I simply remember my favorite things

And then I don’t feel so bad”

My apologies to Julie Andrews for cherry-picking her lyrics, but it works for me. It’s the “ favorite things” helping her to feel better that I relate to. I have things that I love and  bring me comfort because they remind me of a positive memory or feeling. Although Inanimate  and non-living they seem human to me. My word-nerd self found that “personification” means attributing human characteristics to inanimate and non-living things. For example,  “ My car died.” and“ The dishes keep staring at me, begging me to wash them.” My Mom told me that when I couldn’t find a sock it “walked off”! Missing socks felt like a conspiracy to me. I was never good at playing hide and seek. One year for Halloween I sent my son out as the sock monster, with a hundred socks pinned all over him and a sign saying “ I have your missing sock.” I’m not sure he really got it, but I did.

The things I love aren’t antiques or valuable, but they are valuable to me and  seem human to me. My Pillsbury Doughboy is over 50 years old ( he’s as old as I am). I love him partly because of the commercial he starred in.  I remember when he was poked in his belly he had this sweet little laugh. When I see him on my windowsill, I also see my Mom kneading bread and smell the bread just out of the oven. I couldn’t wait to cut a thick slice, slather butter on it and watch it melt in. I could see,smell and taste the bread. I got a large wicker basket with a lid on it for my first dorm room, in 1970. It’s been a lot of places and seen a lot of things through the years. I still use it as a night stand and “home” is what it holds, no matter the geography. When I see it I know “I’m home. I don’t even know what’s in it now, but it doesn’t matter. I have a small figure sculpted  of nuts and bolts and he is holding a heavy metal heart. I like to think he’s offering his heart to me in case mine gets broken. He’s been with me for I don’t even know how long. He’s in a place where I see him a lot through out the day. I notice that I use the pronoun “he” when I talk about him and I guess it’s the nuts and bolt thing. I don’t know his gender at birth. My son came home from daycare 37 years ago with mama bear and Tyler-bear paper figures stapled together.  Now they are very faded but the staple still holds.  It’s the staple I love…it connects me to my son.

A penny for your thoughts? In my life it’s a dime for your thoughts. My late husband Roger had this weird thing about finding dimes. No other coins around it…just a single dime. When we were out walking he’d almost shove me out of the way to get to a dime he saw. We laughed about it and it became his thing. He made quite a pile of dimes. When he was dying I asked him to keep sending me dimes to let me know he was taking care of me. He hasn’t let me down yet. I get dimes from heaven. He leaves dimes for me everywhere. I remember one particular day I was anxious and grieving , and I parked in a big lot and opened my car door- and there on the concrete was a single dime. I thank him for each dime I find. Sometimes I joke with him and tell him inflation means he should leave me twenties. Not everyone believes that our loved ones communicate with us after death, but I believe.

I was really hoping that my date with BadBoy was going to be a lot of fun. I had dressed to impress.

hope\ˈhōp\

• : to want something to happen or be true and think that it could happen or be true

I was dressed early, so there was nothing to do but wait for him to come pick me up.

wait\ˈwāt\

• : to stay in a place until an expected event happens, until someone arrives, until it is your turn to do something, etc.
• : to remain in a state in which you expect or hope 

He was late, but he was BadBoy so I figured he was always late. I was patient and was escaping the heat of the day and sitting outside in the cooler night air. 

patient: able to remain calm and not become annoyed when waiting for a long time 

I waited and waited and began to get impatient, and irritated. He was probably drinking with his friends and decided to blow me off. My self-esteem took a nose dive.

im·pa·tient\(ˌ)im-ˈpā-shənt

• : not willing to wait for something or someone : not patient
• : showing that you do not want to wait : showing a lack of patience

I wanted to give up on the evening completely, but instead called a friend to vent and asked her to come pick me up. We’d  go to the dance sans BadBoy and have fun. I may have drank more than I should have.

give up: to cease doing or attempting something especially as an admission of defeat 

And through all that waiting here I am. I’m no longer that young woman with a shaky sense of self-worth who thinks waiting is what it’s all about.  I’m not waiting to do what I want to do. I sure as hell am not waiting at the pearly gates of heaven.  I’ll know when it’s my turn.

re·sil·ience\ri-ˈzil-yən(t)s\ noun:

• : the ability to become strong, healthy, or successful again after something bad happens

“We think that Roger has dementia.” This diagnosis  broke my life into pieces. Grief, fear and powerlessness became my daily companions. Roger, my husband, had recently fallen and been knocked unconscious.  His affect, memory and behavior had changed, and the working hypothesis was that he had a brain injury. But even with rehab and therapy he did not get better.. He was diagnosed with Lewy Body dementia. Imagine Parkinsons and Azheimers together. My care giving journey began in earnest. I was tired. I cried. I raged. I felt numb. I was afraid of breaking into pieces and never being whole again.

I was like Humpty Dumpty! He fell off the wall and could not be put together again.He was not resilient, he shattered and there was no recovery. In 1871, Alice,in Lewis Carroll’s “Through  a Looking Glass” reached for an egg in a shop and saw human features on it. She declared that it was Humpty Dumpty, who as an egg was very fragile and easily cracked and broke open. Was Humpty Dumpty pushed off the wall he was sitting on, or did he jump or was it a horrible accident? Life can certainly knock us out of our secret and secure hiding places. I was pushed into caregiving by a disease that was relentless and had no remorse. I did fall apart many times but I got up one more time then I fell down. I attended a support group for caregivers and the group members kept me going when I didn’t see how I could. When I stumbled, the arms of the group members were there to help me right myself.

My sister worked in an egg packing plant checking to see if eggs were fertilized. A light was shined on the eggs and they became translucent. Inside the egg, developing embryos could be seen and then those eggs were placed in incubators. It is the yolk that provides sustenance to the growing  embryo.  There is no way to scan humans for resilience and no way to know for sure if we are growing through the pain. What sustains us? Grief takes and takes from us, but are there things that grief gives to us?

When my caregiving journey ended I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t a caregiver any longer. My shell certainly had some big cracks in it, but I held together.  With no caregiving to do I was lost, but I had this newly freed time to finally rest and grieve without guilt. Hard boiled eggs don’t crack or break as easily, but resilience is not about becoming “hard”. Learning and changing required that I remain open to pain, but not hardened by it. My caring for Roger transformed me, I was stronger, more flexible and more compassionate. My perspective on what was truly important had changed. Caregiving stripped a lot of “important” things from my life. I couldn’t “will” things to turn out the way I wanted them to. Running away and denial were tempting options of course, but I made a conscious decision to stay and care for the man I loved. 

I accepted the gifts of grief which enabled me to use my caregiving experience to facilitate support groups for caregivers of people with dementia. What a gift it was for me to be a resource for other caregivers!

I’m sitting in a coffee shop and watching  a young adult with Down Syndrome. playing with a rubber frog. He is holding it upside down and shaking it so it’s legs move making the frog look alive.He hasn’t set it down for the last hour. It soothes him and calms him, but it makes me nervous as hell! I think he’s lucky that he’s found a way to soothe himself,  but most of us have a much harder time figuring out what can relax and comfort us. I’ve tried those things we call “self-medicating”, like booze, drugs, food, and sex.  They  seemed to work for awhile, but soon  the solution became part of the problem. If  you’re numb, even destructive behaviors that bring pain can be more appealing than feeling numb. I watch him leave with his frog and I’m shocked to realize that I’ve been concentrating on the frog for quite awhile. I’m surprised at how it got my attention. 

I move and fidget when I’m anxious. The frog is pretty fidgety too!  I pace, drum my fingers and tap my foot. Sitting still is so hard for me. I always feel better after I take a walk, or run. This seems to clear my head or help me see solutions. If I work hard physically the kind of tired I feel makes it harder for me to get deep into my anxiety. It’s amazing what I can do to distract myself. I’ve even been known to clean house to ward off anxiety. I love to read and a good novel can suck me right in. My meditation practice can be pretty inconsistent, but when I do it I do feel better. This requires sitting still, so I have to slow down enough and be motivated enough to sit still and clear my mind. I am so fortunate to have a dear friend who has a black belt in listening and punching holes in my crazy thinking.

Dealing with the symptoms of anxiety is important, but still reactive.  I need to be proactive in my understanding the causes and origins of my anxiety. Why do I feel the way I feel? What am I thinking? What stories am I telling myself? In 12 step programs they talk about  “rigorous honesty”. Recognizing, facing and dealing with trauma requires a deeper commitment to get up close and personal with my pain, but my first instinct is to avoid pain. I think looking forward is positive, but I can’t move forward if the past is putting the brakes on and still in control. How do I understand and change the stories I tell myself?  First I have to hear what my stories are.  When I can do it, sitting quietly and meditating in the “sound of silence” can help me hear my own stories of victim hood,  aggrievement and self-hate. I can then challenge myself to see how these “truths” are really lies I tell myself. I think myself into a feeling and then the feeling changes my thinking, what a closed system of dysfunction! Breaking this cycle is critical to lowering my anxiety level. Writing is an important way I discover what I am thinking. If I write quickly without sensoring myself, and not paying attention to punctuation or grammar, I can write without time to edit and  correct myself. The truth is more likely to come out of this unstructured writing.

One thing I know for sure is that worry does not add anything positive to my life and takes my attention away from today . Worrying is not taking action against my anxiety, though I may feel if I worry enough I will be prepared for the bad things that will inevitability happen. I don’t want to be surprised so I worry proactively. There is no guarantee, as we all know, and so much is out of my control. What if I decided to stop worrying so much? That makes me nervous and I could even start to worry about worry. Right now I don’t know how to stop practicing worry.

So where can I find that frog for myself?

Angst:  feelings of anxiety, apprehension, or insecurity about the future. Teens and angst fit together. Teenage angst, it’s real and we all felt it even if we didn’t name it.  Still I might tell my teenage self that it’s a bit of drama and over indulgence when you’ve likely got  50 years of  future to figure it out!  I think my angst is multiplied by the limited number of years I have left to begin to make sense of this thing called life and my humanity. Urgency and angst are not good for each other. Each magnifies the other.. 

I don’t court angst, but sometimes it does sneak up on me. How much time do I have left? What do I want? What if I can’t accomplish my dreams. So there it is—urgency and angst. How do I cool this anxiety and fear? There really is  some positive awareness or even wisdom that often comes with age.  I think I have some glimmers of this wisdom.  I believe life is meant to be lived joyfully. Are we having fun yet? If at 70, my answer is “ No” then I’m not doing it right. Curiosity is a virtue and a blessing to me. “I wonder if I would like that. Let’s check that out”  I might like it or hate it, or be not interested. Sure I’ll go to the Dog Hawaii print shirt contest,  with or without my dogs, who probably would think getting dressed up was  animal abuse. I’ll checkout that poetry workshop and open mic poetry reading and get inspired. Time to restart my guitar lessons. It’s a challenge and I know it will bring me joy to be able to play some of my favorite songs. I don’t want to die “with the music in me!”. Who would have thought storytelling would bring me such joy?  My writing, storytelling and poetry might bring enjoyment to others besides me, and that’s an “angst buster” for sure .

I’ve learned that I can be self-aware, but not self-absorbed. The more I think about what I want to create and share, the less time I have to obsess about my mortality. When I have an idea I imagine what the end result might be and how I would do it. At that moment I’m not ruminating on the “meaning” of life.  I’m curious and my imagination is in overdrive which is  another “angst buster”!  Enthusiasm that comes from genuine interest and commitment is energizing. It turns out that some of the things I thought I would like, I don’t, and I may even suck at some things, even those things I like. Skill is not always a requirement for fun, sometimes the fun is in my total ineptitude. Doing something badly can be so liberating. 

Where is my focus? I’m not cross-eyed anymore. What about my neighbor—next door and the other side of the world. I’ve lived long enough to truly comprehend what the poet John Dunne wrote, “Never ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.”  I am “of” this world, not apart from it. I’m not a missionary in a foreign country, but I can choose to act for the greater good.  I try not to pollute the world with my own onerous and angry verbal emissions.  I can recycle, buy used, and contribute to causes I believe in. I can stand and hold a sign in protest of lies and cruelty. It matters. I matter. Knowing I matter is another “angst buster.”

I think I am much better equipped to deal with angst than a teenager. Maybe urgency and angst together is exactly the catalyst that I need. Meanwhile I’m having fun. Are you?