As we move into the last weeks of the year, I’m starting to see posts about ‘finishing 2023 strong!’
And if that feels right for you, by all means have at it.
As for me, though, I’m finishing 2023 soft.
Notice my choice of words there.
I’m not finishing weak, I’m finishing soft.
This is has been an extremely hard year and every time I think I’ve turned a corner another physical, emotional, mental, or situational challenge appears.
Facing each challenge (Not alone! I have had lots of help and support.) has required a lot of strength, focus and energy and at this point, I’m tired.
I haven’t been able to rest properly (despite my best efforts) and I don’t have the capacity to push myself to finish 2023 with a burst of extra effort.
Instead, I’m going to finish the year with extra rest, extra relaxation, and extra breathing room.
Did I put away my plants and patio stuff before the first snowfall? I did not. I am not stressed by these things, please don’t let them bother you. Instead, please join me in noticing how peaceful this soft snow looks with the patio lights shining through it. Image description: a photo taken from my patio door at dusk. There is soft fluffy snow on a tree, my patio rails, and all of the plants and stuff on my patio. My strings of patio lights are shining through and on the snow creating a soft glow.
A few years back, a friend of mine was dealing with intense anxiety (and being hard on themselves about it), so I was trying to help them be kinder to themselves by using an analogy that went a bit like this:
‘Ok, imagine your anxiety is in a measuring cup. Under normal circumstances, you are heading into your day with about 1/4 cup of anxiety. Right now, for various reasons, you are starting the day with 3/4 of a cup.
So, when you encounter challenges in your day, even if they are “only” 1/16 cup challenges, it doesn’t take very many of them before things get overwhelming and everything starts spilling out of the top.
And since your brain and body are so revved up, you can’t empty that cup, all you can do is get down to 3/4 of a cup again.
This is not your fault, you aren’t weak, and you aren’t doing things wrong. Instead of focusing on this as your fault, let’s focus on things we can do to calm your brain and body and give you a little more room in that cup.’
Don’t worry, my friend was also seeing a professional counsellor so they had more comprehensive advice than that but they did find the cup analogy helpful.
And I am finding my past self’s advice helpful right now, too.
With everything that has been going on, I’m not at my usual capacity and there’s very little space in my cup.
Every time I have gotten my level to drop a little, something has come along and started filling it again.
So, for the last 40 or so days of the year, I am going to create space in my metaphorical cup.
I’m not dropping stuff I have committed to but I’m not taking on anything else.
I’m prioritizing rest, fun, relaxation, soothing activities, comforting company, and anything that feels like softness.*
I am taking good care of myself and letting my brain and body reset.
Want to join me?
*By the way, writing ‘Making Space’ posts definitely feels like softness to me so you’ll see those return in December.
I’m in my mountains. Truckee, California. I call them mine, because I’ve been coming out here for three months a year for the last 14 years. And, usually, they are my happy place. A chance to slow down, to be more connected to nature than usual. To be on trails—running, biking or cross-country skiing.
But things are different this time.
I’m in the house I own with my ex. Filled with memories and my failure. What’s wrong with me, that I could not hold my 28-year marriage together? The house, with its lovely mountain view, is also a reminder of what I do not have anymore—financial security (I wrote about that back in March here). The house will either be sold, or my ex will keep it. In either event, I will, at least temporarily, lose the connection to nature that has nourished and sustained me for so many years. Yes, I acknowledge that I lived with great privilege. And, I wish I were a better person, a black belt in non-attachment and gratitude, able to move on with ease. I’m not. Instead, this is all depressing.
And there’s my health. A new diagnosis of Addison’s Disease, which continues to involve increases in my medication, as my potassium does not seem to want to settle down into normal range (I wrote about that last month here). My energy has returned, but the ongoing stress of regular blood tests, bad results and worried doctors is also depressing.
And it’s October—normally I would have come out to the mountains in the summer (and then again in the winter), but I couldn’t bring myself to come this past summer. My failed relationship felt too raw. Now I’m here, and I see that I have not healed enough. The grief rushes in, threatening to drown me. Plus, it’s cold (2 degrees Celsius) and dark in the mornings (we did a group post about the challenge of fall dark here). This past weekend was not only cold, but also a drizzly grey.
So, getting off the couch has been hard. I feel glued to the familiar, sun-faded fabric, where I used to spend easeful hours reading with my cat curled up close by. I lost her in April. Instead, now I’m watching endless Netflix, clicking on whatever the next show is that the algorithm proposes to me, too lazy to even choose. Reading feels too hard. My attention flees the page with restless lethargy.
As for getting outside in the mountains? Why bother? All this supposedly healthy outdoor exercise and I still ended up with a disease. An inner critic tries shaming me off the couch. You lazy piece of crap, you’ve got nothing better to do. Another voice in my head tries berating me off the couch. Just get the f*&%#k up. Fruitless.
Except.
Then there’s a quiet, gentle voice, barely audible at first. You will feel better. I promise you. You love the mountains. It’s never been about the exercise. It’s about joy. I retort that joy is impossible. Yes, the gentle voice says, that’s true. I won’t promise you joy. But being out there will be a tiny bit better than being glued to the couch. You don’t have to go for long. You don’t have to go hard. Go outside. Take some breaths of fresh air and be with the trees you love. Netflix will be here for you when you get back.
The gentle voice convinced me on Saturday. I went out mountain biking. My first day of the season, which is barely the season anymore. I felt less tentative than expected, given my sticky bum, so recently unglued from the couch. If I was in a better mood, I might have said that I felt bolder than expected. But I didn’t feel bold. I just didn’t feel scared, as I’d anticipated. There were even passing moments of almost-joy. Moments I overcame obstacles. Moments of flow. Moments when I danced with my bike. There were the trails, too. Familiar. Beautiful. Peaceful and wild. That’s enough. For now. A glimpse of the possible. In the future.
Given my experience on Saturday, I thought it would be easier to get out on Sunday. It was not. The glue set hard overnight and the couch would not let me go. A new voice in my head had all sorts of excuses. It’s foggy, rainy and cold, it could be dangerous on Castle Peak. There might not even be anyone else out there. Extra risk. It’s a whole different world now if something happens to you. A medic-alert bracelet isn’t much help if there’s no one to find you in the first place. Plus, there won’t even be a view. Why bother?
Again, the gentle voice intervened. She made several deals with me. I could finish my latest television binge first. I didn’t have to run the trail, if I didn’t want to. I’d take extra medication with me. I could listen to my book, Entangled Life, by Merlin Sheldrake, about all things mushroom. I’d turn around if it seemed dangerous, no shame.
Toward the top of Castle Peak in fog and Mina at the summit.
My bum had racing stripes from tearing away from the couch. I worried it would re-affix to the car seat and I wouldn’t get out when I got to the trailhead. Even as I got out of the car, I had doubts. Tears hovering in the wings. The first comfort were the cars in the parking area. The benefit of having been couch bound and coming hours later than I normally would. I wouldn’t be completely alone. I set off at a hiking pace, promising myself that I’d only run when I felt like it. Which turned out to be within 100 meters of starting. Every so often on the first half of the ascent I’d scale back to a hike, only to find that my bodymind wanted to keep running. Running felt better. As I reached the final steeper sections of the ascent, I moved into a fast-hiking pace, which is all I’ve ever really done in those bits, since it’s faster (something I learned when I was doing long trail events). At the top, the fog closed in on every side. There was snow on the spindly trees and shrubs still clinging to the rock at 9,000 feet. Unusually, there was no wind, so I could hear the ticking sound of small clumps of snow falling to the ground. Looking over the edge, the drop down to the valley below seemed even more precipitous than usual, because there was nothing there. I was inside the clouds I’d seen from below.
My last day on Castle Peak and I could see no further than a few feet in front of me.
The perfection of the metaphor was somehow comforting. I told myself that I was going to be okay, even if I had no clue yet how that would happen. I lingered on what I could see. As I listened to Merlin Sheldrake talk about the complexity and phenomenal resilience of lichens, I took in the bright green lichen on the rocks, geological time made manifest. My life, a blink of an eye.
Then the chill overtook me and I knew it was time for me to head down. I started at a slow run, re-discovering my agility as I went, recovering my confidence with every step and every misstep I navigated, until I hit cruising speed. Again, there were brushes with joy. Grief rinsed through me, too. I got back to the car with a sense of energized calm. I will be okay. It will take time. I will be okay. It will take time. I will be okay. It will take time.
Back home, the couch was cleared of glue. I could sit and read a novel. I know this is a cycle. I hope it is a spiral, in which each time I’m glued, I can remember sooner that getting outside helps clear a tiny portion of the clouds of depression. And even the itty-bitty-est more ease is something, after all.
This has been an incredibly raw and challenging month but I’ve have been doing my very best to take good care of myself.
Or so I thought.
I’ve been asking for help and accepting offered help way more than usual.
I have been resting regularly and keeping things low-key whenever possible – especially after nights when I’ve slept poorly. (That is happening a fair bit.)
I’ve been sticking with yoga and walks and stretching because any time I push myself harder, even a little, I’m instantly exhausted. I suspect that after a certain point any physical exertion feels like stress to my sad and tired brain and it is refusing to play along. *
I have stuck with my daily writing and drawing and meditating routines even when I didn’t feel like it because they lend familiar shape to my days.
I’ve made sure to stay connected to friends and to sprinkle fun activities throughout my week without getting overwhelmed. I’ve kept my work and volunteer tasks to a minimum.
So, that all felt good, like I was taking charge of the things I could take charge of and letting myself do and be the way I needed to be.
How foolish, hey?
Thinking I had everything well in hand, almost like I was trying to do a ‘good job’ of grieving.**
And all along I was forgetting something something important, something incredibly basic.
A most essential element in caring for a human.
Image description: My water bottle (bright green with a black cap) sits on my patio railing. There’s a (still!) leafless tree directly behind it, and in the background there’s a stretch of grass, a few other leafless trees, and my circular swing.
Yep.
I have been drinking ridiculously little water.
I’ve had a small glass of water with my meds in the morning.
I’ve had A LOT of tea.
And, sure, I’ve been getting some hydration from my tea (it’s mostly non-caffeinated) but it’s not even close to the same as drinking the amount of water I usually do.
And I felt feeling cranky and twitchy and just off as a result.
But since EVERYTHING feels off right now it took me over a week to figure out what the problem was.
In fact, it was only as I was using the water from my water bottle to water my plants one evening that I realized how little water I had actually consumed that day.
(Yes, I had frequently followed my usual habit of filling my water bottle in the morning. I just didn’t do the drinking water part of the routine.)
If I was a plant, I would be drooped over the side of my pot by now.
I guess my tea helped save me from that fate. – I have been feeling pretty droopy though.
For the record: I do NOT recommend forgetting water.
*Yes, I know a good workout would probably be helpful overall and would probably help me sleep. However, I’m listening to my body and it is saying ‘Nope.’ There will be lots of time for more intense exercise later. Also, my ADHD brain doesn’t do so well with the ‘later reward’ business and I don’t have extra energy to put into convincing it right now.
** I wasn’t literally thinking this but, in retrospect, it kind of comes across that way.
Please note: Despite my whimsical title, this post is about grief. Proceed with caution.
A friend of mine jokingly refers to smart watches as ‘wrist spies.’ Since she says it without malice or judgement, I find it hilarious and I’ve started using the term on a regular basis.
As spies go, though, it has been failing this past week. It might end up having to come in from the cold.
On Sunday, I received a notification that my ‘Mindfulness’ minutes are down this week and I immediately said, aloud, “Shows what you know, Wrist Spy!”
(By the way, if me talking to an inanimate object makes you concerned for my state of mind, rest easy. I do it all the time and, so far, my wrist spy is the only object that talks back to me. And that only happens when I say her name…or, let’s be honest here, anything that sounds like her name.)
Seriously though, I thought it was pretty funny that my wrist spy was calling my attention to my mindfulness because this past week has been one of the most mindful times of my life.
As you know from last week’s post, my Dad passed away on May 6th.
I’ve spent the last week thinking about him, about his life, about our lives, and about what the world looks like without my Dad in it.
I had lots to do but I was never trying to keep busy to avoid thinking. Yet, I didn’t end up ruminating either. I just sat (or stood, or walked) with whatever came up.
I’m not trying to cast myself as a perfect model of emotional maturity and mindfulness here, this was more by fluke than by design.
And, it helped that the tasks I took on – writing the obituary, writing and delivering the eulogy – not only gave me some good structures for my thinking, they were also the types of practices I do to help me process big emotions.
I didn’t consciously choose those tasks to serve that purpose but my subconscious was clearly on the case this time.
So, instead of spending my time thinking about the fact that my Dad is gone, I could spend my time thinking about how he lived and who he was, and how his spirit lives on in his family and friends.
All of that thinking felt very mindful, very in-the-moment to me.
And when I started to cry, I just let myself cry until the worst of the feeling had passed.
When I felt overwhelmed, I breathed through it. Sometimes I did that on my own, sometimes because my husband said, “You’re breathing fast, try to slow it down.”
And, I found myself noticing everything so sharply and clearly.
I saw crocuses on a lawn when I was out for a walk with the dog. I looked at them closely – the petals, the colours, the leaves – and I had a flash thought that my Dad won’t ever see flowers like that again. He wasn’t big into flowers or anything but the thought still welled up. Instead of getting carried off into grief about the things he would miss, I, luckily, was able to choose to notice them for him. I paid close attention to the colours, the contrasts, the petals and leaves, and how they stood out against the dull grass.
Image Description: a cluster of crocuses ( a few yellow and a few each of three shades of purple) surrounded by winter-worn grass.
And I drank my (many, many) cups of tea slowly, letting the mug warm my hands and letting the scent and taste wash over me.
I turned my face to the sun when it came out, feeling warmed and hopeful and bright, despite the circumstances.
I talked with so many people who knew Dad and I paid attention to the details they shared with me and leaned into the connection to him.
And, I did a hundred other small things that felt mindful and kept me present.
On Friday, as I was waiting before the memorial service began, I played some songs from a playlist that I created – Songs that make me think of Pete *- and I sat and breathed slowly and felt like things would be ok.
Ever since listening so carefully on Friday, a few lines from Itchycoo Park by Small Faces have been floating up over and over in my brain, reminding me of the good things in the world even during this challenging time.
(What did you feel there?) well, I cried (But why the tears there?) tell you why It’s all too beautiful, it’s all too beautiful It’s all too beautiful, it’s all too beautiful
Obviously, I’m having a very different kind experience than the main character in the song m. His ability to notice the beauty around him hinged on the substances he took. I am looking for and feeling the beauty around me because the intensity of my emotions is making everything very vivid right now.
While it isn’t always easy, this vivid sense of awareness means I have been very “present” from moment to moment for the past week or so.
I’m feeling all the difficult feelings, I am acutely aware of my experiences, and I am sharply attuned to the beautiful things around me like crocuses and hot cups of tea and my friends rallying to support me.
And all of that adds up to mindfulness even if it isn’t happening in a way that a wrist spy can track.
My watch may be spying on me but it doesn’t know everything.
*Please note, some of these songs are from my Dad’s youth and hence some of the lyrics are sketchy at best. Please don’t judge my Dad for the songs he liked then and please don’t assume that he held every value (or lack thereof) expressed in every song. I included them in my playlist because they make me think of Dad singing them.
He’s been unwell for a long, long time but it was a ‘might live a long long time’ type of frailty, not a ‘could pass any time’ sort of illness so losing him on Saturday was sudden and jarring.
I am sad, disoriented, and unfocused and every muscle in my body has been tense since Saturday.
But even amidst grief, ordinary life details must continue and holding on to those routines is helping me to put one foot in front of another while I make my way forwards.
Khalee and I have been going for walks.
Image description: a light haired dog looks back toward the camera. She is standing on a sidewalk next to some winter-worn grass.
I’ve been drawing a daily monster.
Every May, I set a drawing challenge for myself to create MAYbe 20 Monsters. This year the monsters are giving advice. Obviously this one was a note to self. Image description: a drawing of a teardrop shaped purple and blue monster with big glasses with text to the right that reads “Terri wants to remind you that it is okay to feel however you feel. “Go ahead and feeling your feelings,” she says, “Let them wash over you like a wave and they will pass.” She knows it isn’t easy to do but it will get easier in time.”
I’ve been meditating. (On Sunday, it was warm enough to lie in my saucer swing to meditate.)
Image description: the view upwards from my saucer swing – the black rope from the swing, some bare branches and a cloudy sky with some blue peeking through.
And I have been doing yoga.
I really liked how straightforward and direct this video was and how she didn’t try to be soft and singsong when she spoke.
A video from the SaraBethYoga YouTube channel. The still image shows a person with brown hair and a yellow shirt leaning to one side to stretch their neck. The background of the image is purple and white text reads ‘Grief Yoga Neck & Shoulders.’
And all of those are keeping me moving forward, literally and metaphorically.
I’m being kind to myself about it, I’m going slowly, I’m being gentle with this new version of me, I’m moving with/in/through grief.
My Dad was Peter Hennebury, a mostly-Civil Engineer, who loved bad jokes and thick books. He had a quick wit, a sharp tongue and a equal penchant for both formality and irreverence.
He was and is loved.
If you are so inclined, please raise your next cup of tea or coffee to Pete.
Yes, these grumpy faces are deliberate and they are a joke. Image description: a photo of me and my Dad with grumpy expressions on our faces. He’s a thin older man with grey hair and glasses, wearing a collared shirt and a hoodie. I’m a middle aged woman with a round face and light brown hair and glasses wearing a black hoodie.
I feel seasick a lot of the time at the moment. I’m working through a perfect storm of grief in my life. Between relationship woes, no longer living with my beloved cat, illness and death among family and friends and moving from my long (long) time home in New York City to Montreal (a city I love, but under these challenging circumstances …), it is an effort every day to remember who I am. Never mind why I am and if my life has any meaning or purpose. Fortunately, I have a good amount of challenging and enjoyable work to keep me busy. I have family and friends. And, there’s movement.
I almost wrote, “I’ve learned” or “I’ve discovered”, but that wouldn’t be right. I have known for some time that coming home to my body through movement is one of the ways I locate myself in space and time. Movement offers sign posts to help me map the territory of my being-ness. Movement reconnects to me to my aliveness, especially in times when even my enjoyment of food and sleep are interrupted. Yes, I might move less or exert less. And, I am deeply grateful to be able to continue moving, in the midst of the waves of upheaval.
In Montreal, I’m re-connecting with the wooded trails on Mont Royal and the slow climb up the paved road over on a 40lb BIXI (the social bike system in Montreal). I’m making myself a Thursday morning fixture in the pocket park across from my apartment, where I jump rope and do a sequence of “regular” lunges and other Bulgarian and Romanian versions (I don’t know why the movements are ascribed these nationalities). I’ve gone back to mat yoga, after many years of aerial yoga and am re-acquainting myself with that challenge.
Here’s the BIXI and that’s me on April 30 at the lookout on Mont Royal during my ride–notice the trees with absolutely NO green on them behind me!
There are brief moments when I can almost forget my troubles and just breathe into the pleasure of my heart beating and my lungs expanding. A respite from the seasickness. Becalmed and invigorated.
Also, there is a special side benefit that occasionally comes with my BIXI workouts. This morning, as I huffed up the road, I passed a Montreal public works truck in the vista parking lot. A woman jumped out of the truck and started calling out to everyone (in French)—“She’s on a BIXI. Amazing.” And then she pretended to bow down to me. I waved and laughed. That was a nice shot of encouragement. I’ve had similar events happen on my BIXI workouts before.
Of course, other times, I’m moving and crying at the same time. (Like when I started my ride this morning—before the nice bit of cheering—I was missing my cat.) Crying and moving is its own gift. I’ve accompanied others on their run-cries, too, when they were traversing difficult periods. I have a precious memory of a run during the last weeks of my father’s life—it was a misty, grey morning (probably in March). I was strung out with the sadness of impending loss. The wet air was unseasonably warm and my long sleeve shirt felt like it was tightening around my lungs. So, I took it off. I never run shirtless, in just a sports bra. I don’t have anything against it … for other people. In fact, I admire women who express that freedom. I am both self-conscious and sun-conscious (after all, my father died of melanoma). That day in 2015, there was no sun to burn my skin and I didn’t care who saw me. I just wanted to feel my body blend with the air, to cleanse my spirit, to let my sweat meet the morning mist on my skin. For me, there’s solace, even healing, in moving (literally moving) through the emotion.
Now, if only there could be warmer weather, that would be a treat!
