Mom never discussed what I was likely to experience regarding the evolution of my female body.

The lesson on the development of breasts was reduced to a training bra left splayed on the bed I shared with my younger sister, a confusing and embarrassing surprise returning home one afternoon from fourth grade.

Menstruation, a vital and transformative passage to womanhood, was explained not by my mother, but demonstrated by a young friend as we huddled in her second floor bedroom with the door securely locked. Speaking in hushed tones just above a whisper, she removed her gingham shorts revealing a pair of delicate, pink-laced underwear which she retained throughout her demonstration. Stepping gingerly into something she referred to as a sanitary belt – a thin, circular, elastic contraption with dangling straps and tiny metal pieces, spaced strategically to hold it together – she slowly lifted one leg at a time into its center. After wriggling a bit, she wrenched it up over her hips until it fit snuggly at her waist. To this odd belt, she attached a seven-inch-long white pad, placing it lengthwise between her thighs, securing it to the straps, and nestling it closely to her vagina.

“Voila!!!”, she exclaimed, turning in a circular motion, while modeling the odd gizmo.

Following the final twirl, she suggested I would need this gadget and the accompanying pads at the first notice of blood on my underwear. She didn’t have a definitive name for the bodily part that bleeds, but referred to the phenomena as her ‘period’.

To say the least, I was in a state of shock when the lesson was over!

If Mom hesitated to speak of bras and periods, as you might expect, she NEVER uttered the word…SEX. The vast majority of 1950’s mom’s, inhibited by the social norms of their time, were unlikely to discuss any form of physical development, or God forbid sexuality, with their young daughters.

As I fumbled through adolescence, my knowledge base for sexual development and experimentation was pieced together through muted conversations in private spaces, like the middle-school girls’ bathroom with other ‘tweens’…whose ‘facts’ were often inaccurate.

We were, basically, on our own.

In the 1960’s, birth control was not available to unmarried women or legal minors. If there were manuals or books written to enlighten teens on the topics of sex, sexual attraction, sexual pleasure, or avoiding pregnancy…I was certainly unaware. Google did not exist to spit out such information in a nanosecond. Schools did not offer sex education classes. And, my Mom’s lips were sealed

Abortions were illegal, relegated to back alleys, performed generally by those NOT in the medical professions, resulting too often in death. A woman’s right to choose what was best for her body and her life, was non-existent.

It was 1966.

I lived in a small, rural, working-class town about ten miles from a city. Life was simple and sheltered. For me and my high school female counterparts, the thought of graduating and living independently, seeking an education or career far from the safety of our little town and all that was familiar, was frightening and nearly unfathomable.

Young women of the 60’s were generally limited in regard to what their future might entail. There were few role models of successful woman traversing life on their own. Few, if any of our Mom’s had a college degree, most had never traveled alone, and many still lived in the tiny town they were born in when they married.

As young, impressionable girls, we were fed images from television programs like “Leave It to Beaver”… and another, literally entitled, “Father Knows Best”… both portraying the female ‘mother’ role as the subservient caregiver. With hair perfectly coiffed, a strand of pearls hugging her neck, and 2-inch heels to match a dress suited for a social event, the television “Mom” prepared the meals, delivered them to the dining room table, and cleaned up when everyone finished eating…while donning a permanent smile.

I was Catholic. I observed the men of our Church preaching on the altar in their colorful, regal garments and crown-like headgear, as the congregation sat silent, motionless, submissive in the pews. In comparison, the nuns sharing my gender, wore loose-fitting, black dresses that began at their necks, concealed their arms, and fell to the floor lightly brushing the tops of their leather, laced footwear. Their faces generally appeared without emotion, framed in that same black cloth, completely covering their hair and exposing only a partial forehead, eyes, nose, and mouth. Their movements were stiff, almost robotic, and I noted how they sprang to attention and bowed whenever a priest entered the room.

Male authority and control was also evident in my high school. The principal and assistant principal were men.

This was also true of television news reporters and anchors; my medical doctors; the city and town police officers; firefighters; business owners; the vast majority of politicians, including the President and Vice President of the United States, Speaker of the House, and the majority of Senate and House members, all male.

It was apparent who had the power, who was in charge.

Girls, like me, could only imagine a future with a short range of opportunity…choices limited for the most part to becoming a nurse, a teacher, a secretary…or a wife.

Although my Dad encouraged me to attend college, I knew in my heart that it was unlikely. I could not imagine taking that leap on my own, by myself, without my friends who, in fact, did not express an interest in furthering their education.. The pervading atmosphere of male dominance shrouded my ability to think out of the box. Although my grades were top notch and I was enrolled in advanced classes providing the stepping stones to a college career, my closest female friends, one by one, entered the secretarial program. Not to be left behind, I joined them.

The default next step… was a ‘Mrs. Degree.”

I was 17…and…‘in love’.

Captain of the football, baseball, and basketball teams – of Italian heritage, dark complected, ebony-colored hair with a hint of wave – was the most sought-after guy in our senior class. He was first prize in the potential husband department…and he was mine.

We depended on the boys to give us status. Men were the assumed ticket to stability, the pathway to a future.

At that time, many of us began experimenting with sex, pressured by the guys we dated, and a concern we would otherwise be heckled as prudes, or even worse, be overlooked. Sex became a badge of honor, a giant leap into womanhood. After only two encounters, one performed on a twin bed while his parents were out to dinner, and another in a wooded section of town known for such activity in the back seat of a borrowed car, I soon discovered I was pregnant.

In the late 1960’s, only married women had access to diaphragms…and birth control pills were not available to single women until 1972.

The Vietnam War was raging. Young men lived in fear of the draft. We opted to postpone marriage, and I would continue to live with my parents until he returned from a military stint in the Texas Air National Guard, an assignment arranged by an uncle who had a position of power.

I was navigating pregnancy unmarried, as a high school senior. I had disappointed my parents who had imagined me as the first of our huge extended family to attend college. For a period of time, my Dad, overwhelmed with disappointment, hardly spoke to me. I hid my pregnancy under ponderous layers of blouses and sweaters, so not to be expelled from school….protocol in the 60’s. I experienced unimaginable guilt. To be unmarried and pregnant during that decade assummed a ‘scarlet letter’ of shame.

Months passed.

I graduated high school, primarily undetected, coping with an expanding bulge.

It was a late evening in early November 1967 when I began to feel something odd.

I was not prepared for the pronounced back ache and the overall bodily discomfort I was experiencing. I was in my ninth month of pregnancy. My male obstetrician (at that time OBGYN’s were 95% male) often flirted with any female friend who accompanied me to my appointments, rather than attend to me as I lay exposed on the examination table, my heels firmly planted in the metal stirrups that pried my legs apart. I was too overwhelmed, embarrassed, and humiliated to ask questions, so I never queried him on what to expect as time grew closer to my delivery date.

It was 1:00 a.m.

The household was still, aside from the movement of life in my belly.

Lying on my back beside my sister, in the room that would soon also harbor my child in a basinet at the foot of our double bed, the pain increased until this space of refuge could no longer be tolerated. Holding my bloated abdomen, taking quiet steps in the dark, I approached my parent’s bedroom as I held back the urge to moan.

I remember the courage it took to wake them.

My Dad would accompany me that night to the hospital, stopping to pick up the father of my unborn son on the way. My Mom, who was not equipped to enlighten me on womanhood, chose to remain at home. I knew all of this must be overwhelming. Her very young daughter, her first-born child, was about to become a mother.

As I passed her standing in the doorway that opened to our driveway and a pitch-black night, I said, “Ma, this hurts.”

Her response, “Well, it will only get worse.”

The men sat aside one another in the front seat, engaged in conversation, as my father drove down the darkened roadways leading to the hospital, about 30 minutes away. I sat by myself in the back, attempting to remain calm and comfortable, as my anxiety and fear reached a pitch I had never before experienced.

The remainder of the night was a blur, aside from vivid moments spent in a type of ward, alongside multiple women in labor readying to give birth, separated by curtains in a room dimly lit. Intermittent sounds of pain permeated the thin sheeting in low groans. At times, they were my own.

A female nurse checked periodically to assess how I was progressing, but for most of the experience I was alone.

It was a relatively brief period of contractions, two hours, before my son was born. I write these words as though it were a simple process. It was not.

These many years later, fifty-five to be exact, I sit at my laptop, re-living this event, writing about it for the first time, breathing into the awareness of how my life was acutely altered by this one moment in time.

I married at age 19, and divorced within ten months, as the drinking that began in high school for my son’s father was clearly a pattern, and not just teenage experimentation with alcohol.

On the extremely important ‘other hand‘, there were many valuable gifts offered throughout this odyssey.

I successfully navigated life and all its complications as a single, divorced Mom at the tender age of 20.

College eventually became an option…delayed until my late-twenties when I married my current husband, who happened to be a Dean of Students, affording me tuition-free classes. I went on to a Master’s program and became a psychotherapist. I chose my life’s work based on an encounter with a blind counselor I met during my pregnancy, who ‘saw’ my tears through her soul, and with gentle words, set me on a journey to shed my shame. I knew in that moment I wanted to be a therapist, and dedicated much of my career to empowering female adolescents and young adults, as well as working with other marginalized groups.

I admire the courage I possessed that persevered and buoyed me throughout the experiences etched on these pages.

I acknowledged my ability to overcome obstacles and attain goals, in spite of a culture that minimized the capabilities of women and squelched their rights.

I have the enormously precious gift of John, my son, who taught me how to be a caring and loving Mom, and brings joy to my life…every…single…day.

I was fortunate to have loving parents who provided what I needed as a single Mom to care for my son.

I learned that growth does not come when life is lived in its moments of comfort, but more likely when the challenges of change, transition and calamity are met.

And…having personally experienced the overwhelming dilemmas, enormous heartache, and loss of freedom that occurs when vital data required to make sound judgements and decisions are restricted or unavailable; when women are relegated to the status of second-class citizens; when male dominance make choice and option non-existent…I know firsthand, women will suffer.

It is imperative that we, women of the 60’s, be conscious and vocal about a women’s right to have access to choices concerning her own, precious body. We need to be certain our nieces, great-nieces, daughters and granddaughters are afforded equal rights and freedoms in all areas of their lives…and not be saddled with the dire restrictions we were forced to challenge and overcome.

Let’s not step backwards into a blighted history of male dominance… let’s move forward asserting and celebrating womanhood in all it’s intended glory!

Back in early spring of 2023, this sounded like a great idea: travel north a few hours to the quaint seacoast town of Rockport, during the luscious month of August, to attend a workshop with others who love to write. To do this with a dear friend, all the more enticing.

As time grew near, the thought of packing…utilizing my cumbersome method of multiple lists, holding the concern of forgetting a needed item…weighed heavily.

Adding to the exhaustion were upcoming short-term trips requiring a similar organizing-style, preceding the travel week to Maine’s mid-coast. I was also in the midst of staging our condo for sale, planning a Florida trip to welcome our second grandson, in addition to organizing a celebration honoring my husband’s 80th birthday on the Friday following the workshop.

What the hell was I thinking?

But nestled underneath this surface angst, dwelled the true hidden issue…the nagging thought… “am I truly a writer?”

Although I might appear to others as an extrovert, I am truly, at heart, an introvert. In my introversion, there exists an element of shyness, a touch of anxiety, and a hesitation to put my ‘full self‘ out there. To place my inner experiences and emotions on display was typically reserved for circles of close friends, or my therapist…not a room of relative strangers.

As is often true for me, once I jump into the dreaded abyss, I am gently caught in a soft web of comfort.

As each member of the writing class provided an introduction, shared their personal stories, took risks, shed tears, bared their authentic selves…I felt the open space of the unknown, gently close in around me like a hug.

These women were real, were willing to be vulnerable, had jumped into the abyss along with me.

The nagging question of ‘am I a writer?’ — faded into the background as I gave myself permission to share, permission to write.

I tenderly folded my concern, like a napkin, into a tiny, unobtrusive square, and slipped it into the side pocket of my backpack, as I retrieved my laptop…and began to type.

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”

……from Winnie the Pooh

I know I need to eat.

My stomach, hollow, aches with emptiness…sensations that mimic the anguish teeming in my soul, in my heart.

My brain is active, as though on steroids. Memories flash repeatedly since I received the call…the five of us at recess in fourth grade dodging a ball, jumping rope, and participating in some ridiculous antic of squeezing each other around the waist until we nearly faint; then a quick recollection of our intramural basketball league, practicing in a decrepit gym attached to the Town Hall, with team names we coined like, “Have Ball Will Travel”; or standing in an outstretched line of maroon caps and gowns, slowly snaking its way into a full auditorium for high school graduation…straining to see the other four, together up ahead, seemed like miles in front of me, because they were fortunate to share the same height…immediately, I recall the loneliness I felt, because as everyone knew, we were inseparable; followed by a flash to years later in a shared cottage on Cape Cod, a vacation we scraped our dollars together to afford…us ‘working-class gals‘ of little means…spending a weekend at the beach with our infants and young children…faces young, unlined, pretty; next image brings glimpses of gatherings at Darel and Charlie’s place…an enormous home he built by hand in the small, sports-rival town bordering ours…doors wide open each weekend to us raucous party-goers; and numerous dinners at the Fontaine’s suburban ‘farm’ where Pam might be serving a piece of a cow you had unknowingly patted on the head the day before…memories that once brought comfort and smiles, now heavy with loss and pain, carry a wound I have no clue how to heal.

It was 1974, a year after we married, when Dennis and I moved due to a job offer he received at a college in central Maine. Pam and Jim hauled our things up from Massachusetts in a truck, staying several days to help us unpack and hang pictures on the wall. My first experience of navigating life without my treasured friends no longer living just down the street. There were no cell phones back then, long distance calls were costly…instead we wrote long, detailed letters to one another, many I still possess. Remembering that first year, I felt lost, alone; far away from my kin, the ‘Great Five‘, a name bestowed on us in grade school that stuck throughout our lives.

A few months later, Pam and her family were off to Florida to start a new life, Penny fell in love with a Cape Cod fella and moved to Dennisport, followed some years later by Darel, and eventually DeDe, who loved being near the ocean even more than the rest of us. Life went on…seeing each other sporadically… in pairs, perhaps a rare threesome, never the five of us…until our 50th birthday.

Everyone trekked to my home on an island in Maine to gather for the first time without partners, kids, or pets…no distractions…to reunite and celebrate our fiftieth year on the planet.

That weekend began twenty years of annual visits…mostly to Pam’s beach home in Florida…spending a week to ten days immersed in gossip, laughter, some playful teasing…sprinkled with an occasional disagreement or a moment of well-intentioned feedback, always interspersed with the darkest of secrets.

In the evenings we danced together, belting out old 50’s and 60’s tunes, as we emptied bottles of wine, transformed into microphones. Our days were indulged in mutual favorites: lying in the sun on the beach, relaxing trips to a spa, or consuming large quantities of incredible food…yummy appetizers served in platters overwhelmed with assorted cheeses, salami, mixed olives, and fresh baked bread, lovingly prepared by Pam…and dinners out every night at local restaurants along the main drag of New Smyrna Beach.

The first year we gathered in Florida, Pam hired a ‘butler’…a playful, handsome ‘dude‘ who prepared our meals and on request, drew our whirlpool baths. He carried chairs across the road to the sandy shore for us each morning, and turned down our sheets at night, leaving behind bits of chocolate on our pillows. Later in the week, he invited a friend, who gave each of us massages under a tent on the waterfront. Indulgence on overload!

These flashbacks continue to roll like a feature film in my mind as I dribble spoonfuls of yogurt into a bowl, add slivers of almond and a tablespoon of maple syrup, in an attempt to give my appetite a shove.

I look up, and across the room, see Dennis typing on his laptop. His face is red, eyes are sad, tears dripping onto the keyboard. He has been so attentive to my grieving, he has, until now, held in his own.

DeDe first met Dennis in the summer of 1972, when we double-dated to Misquamicut Beach, on what would be our second date.

He was missing her, too.

I left my breakfast on the counter to give him a hug…noting an email on his laptop, written to Pam, Darel and Penny…the remaining members of the “Five”, expressing his tortured feelings over the loss of our shared friend.

Our DeDe.

On a Sunday evening, August 28th 2022, Diane Marie DeStratis Connors passed away after a year-long, relentless struggle with uterine cancer.

This is how I will remember her….

De was a force to be reckoned with. A tough Massachusetts ‘broad‘, spirited and feisty. Sometimes stubborn and excitable…dramatic and demanding.

Being an extrovert, Diane loved concerts, night clubs, parties…the more crowded the better. She embodied the cliche’…men were drawn to her like a magnet‘…she wasn’t just cute, or even pretty…she was gorgeous, striking! Her hair, as a young woman, was an ebony color with a slight wave, her eyes a deep, penetrating blue…the kind of beauty other girls envied.

De was health conscious and physically strong…preached the value of exercise and probiotics…always touting the latest homeopathic supplement she had discovered. She was physically active her entire life…arguably, the best female athlete ever at Leicester High…excelling at softball and basketball. Making this outrageous cancer diagnosis even more of a puzzle.

She was a voracious reader. Wise. Self-educated. A prolific poet.

Diane was a fierce mother. Insistent about her children’s physical well-being and health…to the point where I wondered, as their young years unfolded, if she were actually going to breast feed those kiddos until they graduated high school?!! Determined to secure their happiness and success, she was adamant they would attend college and paved that path with conscious ways of providing opportunities along the way. Proud of the incredibly accomplished, solid, loving adults they had become, she spoke often of how much she admired her daughter and son…and how deeply she loved them.

Her grandchildren were her passion. Nothing made her happier. Nothing gave her more pleasure than the joy she saw reflected back at her from all five of them…and they embody the essence of who she was…sweet, adorable, engaging and beautiful.

Grandkids were her soul, her children her pride and joy, her friends…companions for life.

DeDe was a nurturer. A caretaker. She authentically cared about your well-being. Two years ago, right by my side as I recovered from a fractured ankle. She dropped everything, drove to Maine …and proceeded to make my meals, manage my medications, shower me, dress me, and wouldn’t leave until Dennis returned from a business trip.

She did the same when my heart was broken, or my life was off-kilter….a steadfast presence, with me during a separation, a divorce, the loss of my parents, and more recently celebrated with gusto the birth of my first grandchild.

I could count on her like no one else, for over sixty-five years.

I cannot begin to imagine a life that does not include her.

Gone are my future plans with her: the hope of frequent stays at our new condo…one of the primary reasons we are upgrading from one bedroom to two…imagining our forays to the local beaches, perusing the Old Port shops, dinners shared at the fabulous restaurants that dot the harbor; the anticipation of a week together next winter in Florida; the assumed excitement of sharing time with each other’s grandkids; planning a Great Five reunion this year. The possibilities, now no longer possible.

Selfishly, I don’t want to live without her.

I’m pissed.

I feel abandoned, afraid. I’m irritable and lost…and sad…sad beyond measure, crying spontaneously, without warning, multiple times a day.

I’m grieving.

I ask myself…is my profound grief a blessing, a testament to how much she was loved?

And…where has she gone?

I look for a sign. I want to feel her touch from the other side.

Was that her speaking to me when I found the heart rock last week at the lake, with a line clearly dividing it in half? Was she the heron that landed on the shore beside me? Or the hummingbird hovering outside the window? Did she leave that penny on the sidewalk?

Losing a friend, especially one of this longevity, I am keenly aware of my own mortality, struggling to find strength or purpose. And…I know DeDe is mystically kicking my butt, nudging me toward the life that awaits me when my tears dry and I can lift my head again toward the light.

What sustains and keeps me buoyant are friends and family who graciously walk this journey with me.

Like Elise who is in constant contact…granting me permission to feel what I am feeling, sending ‘gigantic hugs, love and warmth’, telling me she’s ‘got’ me, and inviting us for dinner…knowing it would be a welcome, nurturing experience to share an evening with her and Shaun, two women we intensely love.

My sister, Theresa, who checks in on me, and whose voice expresses not only her own love for De, but her understanding of my sorrow…joining me at the wake.

Micki, who through her calls and texts, expresses an understanding of pain given a recent unspeakable loss of her own…and invites me to participate in a spiritual ceremony to honor DeDe when she visits in October from Houston.

Greg and Leslie, who were with us at a lake house in the woods of Maine when I received news that I was losing my sweet friend…gave me space to process my feelings, cried with me…sat beside me on Friday, holding my hand in a pew at the funeral…and intently listened to precious memories shared by me and Darel, another member of G5, at the private reception that followed the burial.

Our son, John, came from Boston to be our primary support…made hotel reservations in Worcester, drove us to every event over the two days of mourning, and held me outside of the church as we sobbed in each other’s arms. Diane was a second mother to him.

And Dennis, my pillar and rock, who has multiple times over the past few weeks yanked me from an abyss of gloom, catching and holding me with his empathic words of wisdom breathing new energy and sage advice into my tattered soul.

Dreading the inevitable day we would lose one of the ‘Five’, the texts and phone conversations between Penny, Pam, Darel and I, have been life preservers, keeping each other afloat, as we all sank in grief.

A quote sent from a friend…“grief is love struggling toward acceptance”…sounds about right. I’ve visited every stage of grief, at least twice, but can’t sit very long yet with acceptance…not yet.

From my spirit sister, Maggie…“those whom we love and lose are no longer where they were before. They are now wherever we are”…in this thought, I find hope and solace.

And yet another friend shared…“Grief is a most peculiar thing; we’re so helpless in the face of it. It’s like a window that will simply open of its own accord. The room grows cold, and we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we wonder what has become of it.”

When the clouds of sorrow part…I will hold gratitude for having been abundantly blessed. I have held hands, throughout my life, with four warrior women, beloved sisters to my soul, a cohort on whom I could rely and depend…whose love was solid, bonds unwavering… loyal and trusted friends…with whom I have spent some of the most cherished moments of my life.

The women who have shared my history since we were nine years old.

Together, we lift our DeDe toward the heavens in hope that one day we will be again united. Rest in peace, our beloved…

TGF…forever…and ever…and ever…

His eyes rarely open. He hardly moves.

When disturbed…his head bobs up, then down…barely supported by a thin, wobbly neck. A limb might stir, like a wounded bird, otherwise, his body hangs limp.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t talk. He seldom acknowledges me.

Yet….I am deeply, madly, in love.

I was not one of those women who longed to be a grandmother.

I never ached, pined away, and prayed to be a grandparent. If it happened…I assumed it would probably be wonderful. I didn’t realize…until now…that it would be a totally awesome, friggin’ fabulous, life-altering, spiritual, and breath-taking experience.

I never imagined this new being could take up so much space in my heart; that at times, there would be little room, for little else.

I never thought anything could occupy my mind and soul like the birth of Brennan Perry DaRos.

For months prior to his birth, I studied every misshapen, other-worldly, alien-like ultrasound image from the OGBYN’s office…holding it this way and that…whispering to myself, “is that a mouth, or perhaps an arm?” “wonder if his nose will always look like that?” “is he happy…or uncomfortable and cramped in there?”

I once felt him hiccup through his Mom’s skin, and in that moment, he became real. He became human. That was the beginning of my love affair with this baby bump.

We had the blessed opportunity to share a home with the parents of the ‘bump’ from Christmas of last year until just days prior to his birth, on April 23rd. As his Mommy’s belly grew, seemed exponentially a package appeared on their doorstep…gifts of clothing from newborn to toddler, diapers of every size, a variety of toys, bottles, stuffed animals, and lots of infant paraphernalia…received from cherished friends and family…the first steps in building a community of support that would surround this little one. Brennan’s ‘village’.

We read complicated instructions, nailed and screwed together furniture that would become a bureau, changing table and bed in the nursery. We were present the first time he moved in the womb, and the first time our son felt the movement, witnessing the awe on his face and in his voice…his child, our grandchild, coming to life.

As Brennan reached the age of five weeks, we flew to Florida to meet him. (I sit here staring at the computer screen, searching for words to describe my feelings prior to walking through the front door…as I held back tears, and my breath.)

My first glimpse was him nestled in someone’s arms (can’t remember whose, as I was rigidly focused like a beam of light on this tiny creature) and was immediately overcome, flooded with emotion one cannot define.

The first time I held him…worrying before our arrival if I would remember ‘how’...(my sons are 45 and 54, it’s been a while!)…and like magic, all my mothering instincts kicked in… he and I, became one. Feeding, changing, diapering, burping was fun, pleasurable, pure bliss! Who knew? Didn’t seem so when my own children were infants…this was something new, something different, something special. Perhaps with one layer of responsibility removed, a space of pure enjoyment is created.

My anxiety revisited when first attempting to soothe him, but this too became natural, normal and second nature as Brennan and I got to know one other better.

Tomorrow he will mark eleven weeks on this earth. In that short time he has learned to breastfeed, smile, coo, and make delightful little sounds that reverberate in my heart. I am forever grateful for FaceTime and Zoom, and the receipt of photos within moments of being taken, an almost daily delight…at least some compensation for living over 1,500 miles apart.

And as is true of most things cherished, it is accompanied by concerns, and worries:

Will our current political climate impact his ability to have the trauma-free life he deserves? Will he always breathe clean air, drink uncontaminated water, swim in clear oceans? Will he be safe, sitting in his grammar school classroom? Will the persons making decisions in high places, having an immense impact on his life, be honest, trustworthy, willing to make the tough decisions for the greater good, or be immersed in their own narcissism, power and greed?

Dennis and I are in our 70’s…will we witness him graduate from high school, even 8th grade?

Many of our friends are grandparents, in some cases, great-grandparents. I know, they, too, share my angst….wanting NOTHING to ever harm, hurt or upset their bundle of sweetness…and yet I know, I cannot protect him completely from life and what will unfold.

What I do know is I can be present every day to the blessing of his birth. I can be active in making the world a safe, healthy, peaceful place. I can share the joys of grand-parenting with Dennis, ‘oohing and aahing’ at every ping of photo on our devices.

I will savor at my core the love and tenderness I witness between Jeremy and Danielle, Uncle John, and baby Brennan. I will continue to send pictures to his great-aunt, Theresa, every day…and to his cousins Melissa, Rhyen and Jaedyn….who, along with John, share with me Brennan’s middle name…my maiden name.

I will share and describe this euphoria of grand-parenting to anyone willing to tolerate one more video, photo, or heart-centered description of this little guy and his progress in life. (Thank you, dear friends, for indulging me these last few months.)

Most importantly, as his Nana, I vow to keep my worst fears at bay and laser focus on the incredible delight that Brennan truly is.

“The trouble is that old age is not interesting until one gets there, a foreign country with an unknown language to the young, and even to the middle-aged.” – May Sarton

Months ago, I altered the name of my blog. No longer ‘approaching‘ 70…actually reaching 70…my blog title required an adjustment.

Yet now….as I approach 80…I am more content, confident, relaxed…. more at ease with myself. In my mind, I remain decades younger than my given age. I hear these sentiments as well from other women friends in their 60’s and 70’s.

Most of us still working do so because it is our desire, because we enjoy what we do, and not necessarily because we have to. And if we do work, we work less. We have time to stretch our meditation or yoga practice to twenty or thirty minute intervals…truly relax into our breath…versus the rushed 5 or 10 minutes jammed into the frantic rush that was our life.

Friends my age are leisurely tending their gardens, reading voraciously, enjoying their grandkids, kayaking along the Maine coast in the middle of the week, sleeping-in when they please, vacationing more frequently or for extended periods of time. A few are writing books. Some are exploring their creative side in pastels or fabric art, gourmet cooking, photography.

Most find ways to stretch their social security check and IRA’s to meet daily needs, with money left over for leisure activities….all hopeful the accumulated stash outlives their mortality.

Friends are also, sadly, burying older family members, close friends, and life partners. Some are recuperating from unanticipated surgery or a cancer diagnosis. Others are caring for severely ill parents, ailing spouses…or are babysitting grandchildren to assist their adult children struggling with the overwhelming cost of childcare.

This period of life is a study in extremes.

It is a time of great joy….and ambivalence.

Of freedom and burden.

Of gain and loss.

A friend has invited me to join her newly forming ‘Women and Aging’ group. The timing is perfect. I feel an interest, almost an urgency, to explore the barrage of emotions and new insights I’ve been wrestling with. We begin in October with women between the ages of 60 and 85, gathering via Zoom. In preparation for our discussions and processing, we have been requested to read, ‘Women Rowing North” by Mary Pipher. You may have read her bestseller years ago, “Reviving Ophelia: Saving the Lives of Adolescent Girls”.

I began the assigned reading while on vacation last week. I was hooked by the first line in the first chapter: “There are many lifetimes in a lifetime.”

Think about that for a moment.

Pipher also writes…”we elders must maintain clarity about the kind of women we want to be”.

I continually revisit this thought.

Perhaps acknowledging the short runway in front of me, I have become more honest with myself. I own more of my ‘dark side’. I know I can be judgmental, easily injured by the behaviors of others, prone to withdraw when experiencing emotional pain, minimize my needs and accommodate others. I have not always handled myself well when I am hurt or angry. Although I love the depth to which I experience emotion, at times my emotions overwhelm. I have less tolerance for these unhealthy behaviors I deem unbecoming the woman I desire to become. I check myself more frequently to assess my authenticity.

I seek relationships with women I trust….those who are comfortable sharing their stories, expressing their vulnerabilities, who openly process their flaws and request feedback, who own their improper behaviors apologizing when appropriate and celebrate with abandon their accomplishments and moments of happiness. Through these precious relationships I learn, change, grow. Openly expressing our love of one another we simultaneously, with tenderness, hold a mirror to our blind spots. There is a mutuality, a loving contract of honesty and desire for personal growth that we share. I am confident the upcoming “Women and Aging” group will embrace this powerful, limitless protocol.

Quoting Pipher again, “until we understand how short life is, many of us make the mistake that our routines will go on forever, but after our awakening, we realize we’ve taken far too much for granted. We only have left a finite number of full moons, spring mornings, and nights out on the town.”

Time is running short. Live the best life you can muster…totally woke….and to the fullest.

“Chaos: a confused mass or jumble of things, a state of utter confusion, disorganization; a state of things in which chance is supreme”

On our walk this sun-lit Christmas Eve morning, meandering through the winding, snowy paths of historic Evergreen Cemetery, our conversation turned to sharing how we felt about being separated from family, how were we each managing our emotions as we thought about celebrating this holiday honoring the tradition of family, peace and joy….with a bit of grief and loss in our hearts.  The background for this particular conversation in an apropos setting, surrounded by tombstones. 

Dennis mentioned he recently read an article someone had written on ‘chaos’…how we are all just a moment away from chaos interrupting our lives. How, like COVID, it shows up uninvited, impromptu, as a surprise, a shock, with an overwhelming set of emotions. As he spoke, the concept of chaos instantly resonated with me as I thought about tomorrow’s Christmas dinner…for (only) two.

I believe this is the first time in over 50 years that we would be physically separated from both our sons, and Danielle, for the holiday. Last year our family celebrated together for a fun-filled, memory-laden week in West Palm Beach.  

At this later stage of life, it seems legitimate to wonder how many Christmases might be in my future?  Seems cruel and unfair to miss a single one.  To be reduced to a small screen Zoom celebration, an aberration.

It breaks my heart.  

It will most likely be a full year before we’re in the physical presence of Danielle and Jeremy.  We have rarely seen John in the last nine months, although he lives just outside Boston, due to COVID. When we do connect, we are always masked, unless outside, and then distancing at least six feet apart.  Each time we get together,  I take the risk to hug John…..it is always from behind, masked, my arms around his waist, my face buried in his shoulder blades, holding back tears.

It is the day after Christmas and I am reflecting on the holiday that wasn’t ideal, nor that bad.  

Our Zooms were fun. Our dear friend, Elise, drew names and assigned the five of us a Secret Santa duty.  We were to order something under $50 and have it sent directly to the recipient…in Florida, Massachusetts or Maine..not to be opened until our Zoom on Christmas Day.  John received a box  from Target and to be on the safe side, placed it under the tree.  As instructed, he didn’t open it until we were all together, only to find it contained a bottle of Shower Spray that he had ordered!  Luckily, there was another package containing a beautiful sweater from his Dad.  

As Dennis and I shared Christmas dinner, we propped an iPad up at one end of the dining room table and via FaceTime, included John, as he ate his dinner from his home in Winthrop.  Later, the family regrouped again for dessert together…including Danielle’s parents visiting West Palm Beach from Pennsylvania.

On to the next holiday.

This week, I look forward to closing the door on 2020 and holding tight to a promise of better things to come in 2021.

I am thankful for all that carried me through this chaotic, unpredictable year…the ability to Zoom and FaceTime with family and friends on a regular basis, writing and taking pictures, losing my thoughts in every nature walk.

I have a deeper appreciation for the incredible natural art found in beach sand and ocean water, in the soul-touching colors of the sky…in a shell, a rock, a piece of driftwood, a cloud formation…and most especially,  I am thankful for sharing a space with my best friend and love of my life.  Without his playfulness, optimism and support, I am certain this pandemic experience could have been devastating.

I am certain that much of the chaos of this past year will dissipate as we venture into January and  toward a change in our government and the continuation of the vaccine program.  It is only a matter of time before I can hug each of you, mask-less, and with great vigor.

A toast of good health, peace and bits of magic to every one of you! Happy New Year!!  

Continue reading “Embracing Chaos….” →

“Be present in all things, and thankful for all things.” -Maya Angelou

It is Thanksgiving Eve….and everything is different.

We picked up tomorrow’s dinner at Union, a popular Portland restaurant and a favorite of ours. Two handsome, male valets plopped a huge brown-paper bag filled with food in the opened trunk of our SUV with a cheerful, “Happy Thanksgiving”. We shouted the same in return as we drove away into the night.

I am 71 years-old, and in all those years only once have I not had a homemade Thanksgiving dinner at someone’s dining room table. The exception was one year…. seven family members decided to do something different and celebrated Thanksgiving at a local Inn. It was lovely to share the holiday together, but missing was the hustle/bustle in a kitchen, overlapping laughter/playfulness and discussion, punctuated with kisses and embraces.

I swore to myself…never again.

Fast forward and here we are in the midst of a worldwide pandemic.

Along with our restaurant-made banquet…on the agenda is a breakfast and dinner Zoom call with our sons…John in Boston, Jeremy and his fiancé Danielle in West Palm Beach, and the two of us in Maine…relegated to an iPad screen to share the festivities.

Thanksgiving is a time for family rituals, an opportunity to pause and reflect.  The past year leaves much to ponder…the challenges….and gifts.

I have been surprised by feelings of relief when staring at a sparse calendar with few places to go and little to do.  It has opened time for meditation, reading, photography, writing, catching up on projects, quiet time to myself, and couple-time.

My emotions have swayed, plunged, overwhelmed, delighted, devoured and startled me….from fear, concern, worry….to boredom and stress….and revved-up….to flat.  I have learned I am remarkably resilient.

I have instinctively sought stability and peacefulness, immersing myself in nature…tranquilized by strings of sunbeams lighting a landscape, enthralled with the melody of a bird song, amused by the acrobatic behavior of a squirrel, mesmerized by a stroll along a Maine beach…offerings of profound medicinal relief I had not anticipated would be so delightfully strong, so welcomed.

I have learned living in a loft setting with one person over an extended period of time will magnify frustration and annoyance, while simultaneously expanding gratitude for companionship, shared laughter and calming presence..ultimately blessed to live with my best friend.

I appreciate the ability to linger longer in meaningful conversation with a scheduled Zoom call every Sunday with family, several times a month with my two women’s groups, with our couple friends, and one-on-one with cherished close companions.

I miss hugging. I so miss hugging. I cannot wait to enfold those I love in my arms, envelop, squeeze, linger, with tears…lots of tears.  I give you all fair warning.

The last nine months have been an extension of a difficult year.  I have recovered from both a fractured ankle and a knee replacement, paling in comparison to what many of you have experienced.  We have family who have been on the front lines of providing medical services to COVID patients.  Friends have lost parents, been estranged from new grandchildren, are care-taking those they love.  We have all seen the extensive food lines, the intubated loved ones in the media.  I am humbled and saddened by what others have endured. 

I am thankful to those workers who have delivered our food, our mail, our masks/hand sanitizer, our toilet paper; for the members of our medical and dental community who have gone the extra mile to perform procedures in a safe environment; and to all of those who have worked under difficult conditions to provide the essential services keeping the rest of us cared for and comfortable…my profound gratitude and thankfulness go out to each of you.

And….for the scientists who have worked tirelessly to produce vaccines, we can, relatively soon, anticipate freedom of movement, the ability to connect with one another and a return to a semblance of life as we once knew it….coupled with a shift in government that at least for me, represents relief from chaos, with movement toward hope, re-connection, and country-wide  comfort.  Bravo!

This is not the Thanksgiving we all have been accustomed to…or would have wished for or wanted…but perhaps, for the level of consciousness, depth of gratitude and gratefulness…it will most likely be the most memorable.

Happy Thanksgiving!