Eternal Love

Posted on January 16, 2024 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, A Writer's Life, Affirmations, Aging, Angels on Earth, Asking for help, Courage, Crisis, Dealing with special occasions, Death, death of a child, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, emotions, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Fourth Dimension, Friendships, Good over evil, grief, grief relief, Grieving, Growing Up, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, hope, I need a miracle, illness, inner voice, inspiration, inspirational messages, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Loss of a Child, Meeting your needs, Natural above Normal, NEVER GIVE UP!, Nightmares, one day at a time, Out of Order Death, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Sing a new song, sorrow, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, Struggles, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, Therapy, To thine own self be true, transparency, trauma, Turmoil, Unconditional Love, Unsung Heroes, Validate Your Feelings, Veterans, Vulnerability, war

In 1993, while my infant son, my first born, lay in the NICU, his pediatric cardiologist plopped a hefty textbook about pediatric cardiology onto the surface of the nurse’s station. In fact, one of the chapters was written by my son’s doctor himself. This dense tome, a relic of a pre-internet era, was to become my constant companion, a lifeline in a sea of uncertainty.

Seventy-two hours after giving birth on January 18 of that year to a seemingly healthy baby boy, my world, which had already been turned upside down by a seven-day stretch in the Labor and Delivery room and an unexpected premature delivery, spun out of control. Doctors diagnosed my son, Marshall, with not one but two congenital heart defects – a ventricular septal defect (VSD) and an atrial septal defect (ASD).

A VSD is a hole in the wall that separates the heart’s lower chambers (ventricles), while an ASD is a hole in the wall that divides the upper chambers (atria) of the heart. Fortunately, the ASD would heal on its own within the first year of Marshall’s life. However, the VSD, shockingly, turned out to consist of multiple holes, not just one, and only open heart surgery could repair the condition.

“A Swiss cheese heart,” his doctor said in his description to me, painting a vivid picture of my son’s condition. I can still recall the doctor’s words, “Ventricular septal defects are the most common congenital heart defects.”

At the time, I interpreted this statement as a reassurance that we were dealing with a relatively common condition. Okay, we’re with the majority. It’s good. My affirmation helped me put one foot in front of another on those endless shining granite-colored titled hallways that seemed to loop around like never-ending hamster wheels.

However, while researching this blog post, I came across a startling statistic: “About 1% of babies born in the United States have a congenital heart defect, such as a hole in the heart.”

This statistic struck me with a jolt. In so many ways, as I’ve previously written, there was nothing typical about Marshall’s birth, life, or death. He truly was a one-percenter.”

Good thing back then I didn’t also know that almost 7 out of 10 infants born with a hole in the heart survive into adulthood, because I would have also obsessed about the three infants who don’t survive into adulthood.

As a new mother, I was understandably overwhelmed by the news of my son’s congenital heart defect. Textbook statistics and medical jargon did little to soothe my worries, and I couldn’t help but focus on the possibility of complications.

Despite my fears, within the first 10 months of his life, baby Marshall underwent two successful surgeries and emerged stronger and healthier than ever. However, our journey was far from easy. During his first year, he struggled with colic, an uncontrollable crying (screaming) condition that left us both exhausted and frustrated.

Hearing the constant wailing was heartbreaking. It was as if our son was in constant pain, and no amount of comforting or soothing helped. Both his pediatrician and pediatric cardiologist assured us that colic was unrelated to his heart condition, but it was hard to believe that a seemingly healthy baby could be in such distress.

As a stay-at-home mom, working as a freelance writer, I felt the weight of responsibility more heavily than ever. The endless cycle of crying, feeding, and soothing left me drained and desperate for a solution. One night, actually early hours of the morning, in a moment of sheer exhaustion and despair, I had a horrifying thought: what if I just tossed my son out the window?

The thought was fleeting, but it shook me to my core. I realized that the stress of caring for a colicky baby had pushed me to the brink.

Fortunately, I had been actively involved in various therapeutic undertakings as well as a 12-step program over the past nine years. These interventions, which I still consider to be the most profound healers in my life, provided me with the strength to navigate this challenging period. I had a reservoir of coping mechanisms and strategies for dealing with whatever life threw at me. I remained grateful for the power of faith and fellowship, and most importantly, my son taught me an invaluable lesson: the essence of unconditional love.

You see, exhausted and at my wit’s end after recounting the sleepless nights, I would often conclude my sharing in support groups with the poignant declaration, “I’m learning how to love.” It was a testament to the profound impact my son had on my life.

Gradually, the crying subsided, and Marshall’s congenital heart defects became a successful chapter in our lives. He grew into a healthy toddler and our routine returned to a semblance of normalcy, though our son’s unique challenges remained. He was a fighter, determined to live life on his own terms.

For instance, administering his medication was a daily battle. The only way I could manage it was with the help of my 80-something-year-old dad, who would hold him down while I forced drops of medicine down my son’s throat. Similarly, buckling him into a car seat was another 20-minute ordeal. Marshall had an aversion to being confined, and he would resist it with every ounce of his mule-like strength. I vividly recall a struggle in the back seat of our car at a grocery store parking lot. It took me over 20 minutes, the golden number, to finally secure him in his seat. When I left the back seat, ready to hop into the passenger seat, an older woman, with her arms crossed and a face contorted with rage, confronted me. She shook her head, likely assuming I had just beaten my son in the back seat, but she didn’t investigate any further and, instead, stormed off without a word.

Dental appointments were an entirely different ordeal. Marshall’s fear of the dentist was so intense that he became hysterical in the waiting room. On one occasion, his behavior was so disruptive that a staff member reprimanded me; I mean, the responsibility always falls on mom, right? From then on, we scheduled our appointments at off-peak hours when we could avoid the presence of other children. While it was embarrassing to have to make special arrangements, it was the only way to ensure that Marshall received the dental care he needed.

Wouldn’t you know it? Marshall’s dental issues were far more severe than those of an average child. He seemed to be a one-percenter when it came to tooth problems, so we were frequent (solo) visitors to the dentist’s office.

Around the age of five or six, Marshall seemed to have outgrown his fear of the dentist. We arrived for our appointment, and everything appeared to be going smoothly in the waiting room packed with other children. However, as the hygienist approached wearing her workday garb, Marshall bolted up and ran into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. It took nearly an hour of coaxing and reassurance to convince him to come out. Despite the setback and leaving a few kids and their parents frazzled, we managed to complete the appointment, just as we always had.

“I’m learning how to love.” My update to my fellows remained the same — week after week; month after month; year after year.

When Marshall first entered kindergarten, some of his behavior was a stark contrast to what had turned into, at least for a good deal of the time, a calm demeanor at home. Specifically as soon as he arrived home and got off the school bus, he ran around the house, screaming uncontrollably. Little did I know that a lot of his behavior stemmed from the actions of his teacher — a story I won’t delve into at this point.

Consulting with the school’s psychologist revealed that Marshall exhibited exemplary behavior in class — a trait that remained consistent throughout his school years. What the psychologist further explained was that he channeled his pent-up emotions from the classroom and school grounds the minute he stepped off the school bus and onto home turf, a safe zone where he was unconditionally loved and able to express his true emotions and feelings. In this case, it was a lot of fear and frustration from performing properly on the world’s stage. Great! This knowledge helped me enormously. I bit the bullet.

Marshall’s determination to live authentically, even within the haven of love and trust, often sparked conflict with those closest to him, the casualties of his relentless quest to shed the shackles of his false self, which I didn’t learn about until his last year on earth. Once someone told me I should have received the Purple Heart medal (which my eldest brother Mike actually did, along with a few other medals, while he was in the service during Vietnam) for raising my son. I agreed wholeheartedly.

Throughout the challenges and joys of parenthood, I never lost sight of my gratitude. First, for the privilege of becoming a parent in my 30s, a rarity among my generation in those days, and second, for the honor of nurturing the most precious gift on earth: human life. It’s a concept that still amazes me to this day.

Admittedly, I didn’t always handle motherhood perfectly. I made mistakes and fell short many times. But through it all, I discovered that the extraordinary act of prioritizing another’s needs above your own — the essence of motherhood — was my ultimate purpose and it still is.

A few months ago, as I was recounting the experiences of raising my son to my dear friend Michelle, my co-author of her memoir. I told her how, especially during the many trials, I would often reiterate, “I’m learning how to love.” And then, as we conversed and I reflected on the profound impact my son had had on my life, I added, “Out of all the lessons he’s taught me, he’s taught me how to love the most.”

To that statement, she amazingly replied, “He still is.”

She couldn’t have been more accurate. Marshall would have been 31 this coming Thursday, January 18. The pain of what was and what could have been, as my therapist Louis, who had lost a daughter of his own, had promised, has softened through these years, but it remains a constant presence. My life has taken on a different dimension, with everything now filtered through the lens of his absence. Marshall is forever young at 26, and I am forever a heart broken senior citizen who understands the fragility of life at the first heart beat.

It brings to mind a podcast, All There Is with Anderson Cooper, (September 21, 2022) with Stephen Colbert: Grateful for Grief. The excerpt is below:

Anderson Cooper: Wow. Something I’ve been feeling a lot with my kids because they’re so perfect. There are these moments of such frailty that, my heart is breaking at just the beauty of this experience. And yet there’s this sense of sort of the awareness of the frailty of it.

Stephen Colbert: The first experience that I had holding my first child, my daughter. The first thing that occurred to me was, how beautiful and how wrong that this will ever end.

How beautiful and how wrong that this will ever end. I repeat that line all day in my head and it never fails to rekindle my sense of gratitude.

In this new, old world of mine, I’m totally indifferent, and that’s okay. I do not need a textbook to interpret my lot, for it is a journey reserved solely for me not bound by external factors, but my own inner compass. Yet without question, intrinsically I know the the path was carved for me to walk; the metaphorical bullet others dodged, but I took the hit. Each step, a small victory over the overwhelming feeling of defeat that threatens to consume me. The hallways endless; granite tiles, cold and unforgiving. Faith forward, my final spin on the hamster wheel of life.

Damn. I’m learning how to love — without victory, without reserve.

Love transforms you. It stretches your limits until you feel like you’re in a league of your own, a realm that only a select few will ever experience. It breaks you down, only to rebuild you stronger, more resilient, and more capable of love than you ever thought possible, a medal of honor with no comparison.

The Case of the Missing Big, Bad Bags

Posted on November 14, 2023 by cattalespress under A Writer's Life, Affirmations, Aging, Angels on Earth, Asking for help, Courage, Crisis, Death, death of a child, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, emotions, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Fourth Dimension, Friendships, Good over evil, grief, grief relief, Grieving, Growing Up, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, hope, I need a miracle, inner voice, inspirational messages, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Long-Term Coping Strategies, Loss of a Child, Meeting your needs, Natural above Normal, NEVER GIVE UP!, one day at a time, Out of Order Death, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Simple Pleasures of Life, Sing a new song, sorrow, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, Struggles, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, Therapy, To thine own self be true, transparency, trauma, Turmoil, Unconditional Love, Validate Your Feelings, Vulnerability

When I was an adolescent, Mac, along with my other peers, called me the “Bag Lady.” I don’t blame them. My purse always looked like a carry-on piece of luggage. I could have easily stuffed a 20-pound turkey and a few bags of stuffing inside, with room to spare.

I was never able to get away with slipping into the classroom at middle school — and later high school — late. As I precariously balanced my purses, the silver bracelets that looped up to my elbows, transforming my arms into two gleaming pipes, jangled and clanged incessantly. In an attempt to muffle the jarring symphony, I shuffled my feet and swayed my hips, but I always found myself teetering on the brink of toppling over.

I know getting detention for tardiness is not ideal, but it was worth it to me. My bags bulged with hardcover journals, precious cargo I clutched close to my heart. Pages upon pages overflowed with my innermost thoughts and feelings: poems, doodles, to-do lists, secrets, deep thoughts, quotes. Every inch of space was filled, a testament to my teenage angst and yearning for self-expression.

In middle school and high school, my journal was my sanctuary, a place where I documented every triumph and heartbreak, all my fleeting thoughts and deep-seated emotions. Each page was a snapshot of my life, a personal drama that unfolded before my eyes. Even my to-do lists were epic sagas, with tasks labeled “MUST DO!!” and “VIP!!!” in fiery red ink. I was the heroine, the only one who could save the day (or at least finish my homework).

With each pen stroke, I became the director of my own life, crafting a story that was uniquely mine. My journal was my canvas, and my pen was my brush.

Mac would sometimes ask me for my purse. Naive as I was, I’d hand it over without hesitation. He’d hold it up like a prize at auction, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“A bowling ball!” he’d exclaim, his voice laced with mock surprise. “It must weigh a ton.” He’d heft my purse in the air, his arms straining under the weight. Then he’d hand it back to me with a chuckle, and we’d move on to another topic without further drama.

I clutched my big bag as if it were a third hand, no matter where I went: to school, to work, or on my frequent trips to Florida. Everything inside felt as permanent and essential as fingernails. As I grew older, my time was consumed with raising a young family. My journals disappeared, replaced by small notebooks filled with inspirational quotes. But my bags remained oversized, bulging with a wallet, coupons, comb, brush, blush, and more.

Then, about seven months ago, something strange happened. Without making a conscious effort, I switched to small crossbody bags. My big, bad bags became a relic of the past.

In the wake of my trauma, I realize that my love of carrying big, bad bags was a metaphor for my fear of letting go. I was terrified of losing control, of not being enough, and of missing out. But four years ago, my life was turned upside down. I lost my son, and the future I had envisioned for myself, for us, was shattered.

I still live in a haze, waiting for Marshall to pop out of the corner. On my daughter’s recent birthday, I realized that she is now older than her older brother, who was buried with his wisdom teeth intact. She will soon be getting her wisdom teeth removed.

Compared to that loss, do I really need an extra tube of lipstick? I’ve realized that the more possessions I cling to, the heavier my burden becomes.

After experiencing a crash course in letting go, all that’s left is to trust. As unwilling as I was, I’ve retired my hero cape. I’m not anyone’s savior, not even my own. My director role has also taken a hit, falling into obscurity. I may have a unique voice, but I don’t set the stage.

I’m learning to let go and trust that certain things are beyond my control. I’m learning that I don’t need to be defined as a victim. I’m learning that pity isn’t what I want. I’m learning to trust myself and make decisions on my own, because I am a competent adult. My newfound trust stems from finally accepting this simple fact: I am enough, just as I am. Without faith in myself, who can I put it in?

As I trudge into year five without my son unexpectedly emerging from a hidden corner, I’ve learned that the things I really need can’t be carried in a bag. They are carried in my heart and soul.

Doing Nothing Leads to Everything

Posted on October 17, 2023 by cattalespress under A Writer's Life, American Dream, Angels on Earth, Career, Courage, Death, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, Grieving, hope, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Natural above Normal, NEVER GIVE UP!, Positive Change, Positive thinking, Problem Solving, Relationships, seasons, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Sing a new song, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual inspirational thoughts, To thine own self be true, Turmoil, Unsung Heroes, Vulnerability, Widowhood

My mind is a restless thing.

I can do a million different things at once, most of them trivial, such as dusting. I’ve never been one to procrastinate, but doing nothing at all stumps me every time.

When I’m not actively engaged in a task, my mind is always working. I might be analyzing a character arc, figuring out a past perfect tense, or projecting things like financial ruin because of my paranoia from working in a non-essential and highly competitive field for my entire life.

Over the past two years, I’ve had the good fortune to collaborate with my dear friend on her heartfelt grief memoir that is finally ready to take flight. It’s complete, at least on my end, and I’m so proud of what we’ve accomplished.

My heart swells with gratitude as I recall my collaborative journey with Michelle, the beautiful and relatively young widow behind the story. In the early months, writing her memoir felt like an Impressionist painting: a blur of colors and emotions, akin to our own personal lives, with no clear definition. But over time, like a Realist painting, the memoir and our worlds became sharper and more focused.

Through my encountering her grief, my own perspective on life and tragedy has widened and deepened. I’ve learned that even in the darkest of times, there is always hope. And that love is the most powerful force in the universe.

Thank you, my dear neighbor, colleague and friend, for your faith in me and teaching me so much about what it means to be human. I am truly blessed to have shared your “voyage.“

Almost every goodbye is a hello in disguise. Therefore, as I celebrate the completion of this project, I’m scheduling only ONE thing on the to-do list — spending downtime with the most important person in my life: me. It’s high time we reconnect and get acquainted again, even if it is only to say, “Hello! I’m here.”

In exchange for this kind of surrender, I will find peace, joy, and gratitude. It’s a paradox, but the more I let go of my need to control everything, the more I find that I am truly in control. (Michelle’s memoir really drives this point home.)

My soul is my compass, and when I don’t procrastinate, take the time to “do nothing” and listen to its gentle guidance, I am always led to the right path, because I have opened my heart to the divine.

Halved World

Posted on August 15, 2023 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, A Writer's Life, Aging, American Dream, Birthdays, Courage, Dealing with special occasions, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, Growing Up, Healing of Memories, hope, I need a miracle, inner voice, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Letting Go, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Meeting your needs, mindfulness, Natural above Normal, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, NEVER GIVE UP!, Positive Change, Positive thinking, positive words of encouragement, Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Sing a new song, Soul Food, special occasions, Struggles, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, To thine own self be true, transparency, Unconditional Love, Vulnerability

Smart. Cute. Not-so-cute. We all have inner self-identifiers.

We all have ways of defining ourselves, whether consciously or unconsciously. We might think of ourselves as smart, funny, kind or brave. We might also think of ourselves as less than perfect, with flaws and limitations.

A few weeks ago, I started to understand all on my own that I am now a “half person” as opposed to the whole person I once was before our family tragedy. For me, I find it very empowering to define myself in this manner.

I used to be afraid of my limitations. I thought they made me weak and inadequate. But now I see them as a source of strength. They’ve taught me to be more realistic about my expectations and to appreciate the things I can do.

Looking back, I appreciate even more the time I spent watching the aging process of my parents. As they grew older, they became acutely aware of their limitations. For instance, after my dad’s retirement at 70, he used to be able to work about eight hours a day in the garden. But as he grew older, he cut his gardening back to a daily hour or two. My dad would come into the house after gardening, his face, the color of the beets he grew in the rich soil, and dripping from sweat, and announce with conviction, “I’m not so good anymore.”

There wasn’t a hint of self-pity in his tone. Instead, it sounded as if he had landed at a new place in life, and he opened his arms wide with acceptance. He left me with a poignant picture of what it means “to age gracefully.”

That place parallels with how I feel about being a half person. I’ve retired from my Atlas position of holding up the world, and now I just lean into it.

I used to think I had to be strong and capable all the time. I needed to be the Atlas of my family and friends, holding up the world for them too. But now I know I can’t do that. I’m just a half person, and that’s okay.

Given this new state, I am proactive and fiercely protective of myself. I’m not going to let anyone take advantage of me or make me feel bad about myself and how I feel. Walking on egg shells is becoming an impossible feat for me.

For obvious reasons, I steer clear of the real-life nemesis in my life and others who fall into that category. Right now I’m not up to exposure therapy of any form. And just because that particular therapy is not in the cards at the moment, it may be at another time.

Anyway, all this being said, I want to address two things.

First, I recently learned that my eye doctor had faced some serious sexual assault criminal charges in 2020. I’m still processing the information and at the current time, I have no updates about the crimes, which also allegedly included a minor. On the one hand, I’ve never had any personal experience with him that would make me think he’s guilty of any criminal acts. On the other hand, I’m a half person, and, as already mentioned, I guard myself fiercely and certainly don’t intend to invite any more stress than necessary into my life.

Second, my birthday is coming up next Tuesday. I’m really not looking forward to it. I wasn’t too thrilled about my birthday before I became a half person, but now it’s utterly meaningless. I used to be afraid of growing old and becoming wrinkled and frightful, but now I couldn’t care less. So it’s not about growing old and falling out of grace. It’s about staying in grace, which means being true to myself, and, to me, the day symbolizes just another day of the year.

So, here’s what I’m going to do on my birthday. I’m going to be alone. I’m going to minister to my half person. I’m going to be honest with myself and with others, the way I used to be with my son. He would always listen to me without judgment, and he would always say, “That sucks!” I miss that.

My life as a half person has made me surrender so much unnecessary energy. It has also made me realize that nothing has the same meaning as it used to. Everything is vanilla now. But I’m okay with that, too, and vanilla has always been one of my favorite flavor choices.

I do, however, find meaning in other people’s lives and in the joy they find. It fills my empty vessel with hope and faith. I know that I’ve been passed up for a number of invitations over the years because people see me as a walking image of pain. But I don’t take it personally. I’m grateful for the joys I’ve had the opportunity to share in, such as my dear friend Pat’s 85th birthday surprise party in 2020. It was a time of such raw pain, but it was also a time of great joy. I remember Pat’s radiant joy, and I felt her deep connection and compassion for life, however fleeting it was for me. These are the moments that get me through my vanilla life. These are the moments that make it all worth it.

I’m not sure what the future holds for me. I may never find meaning in life again. But I’m okay with that too. I’m content to live my life in vanilla, as long as I have the occasional cherry on top.

Freewheeling Prayers

Posted on August 8, 2023 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, A Writer's Life, Affirmations, Aging, American Dream, Angels on Earth, Courage, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Fellowship, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, grief relief, Grieving, Growing Up, Healing of Memories, hope, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Letting Go, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Meeting your needs, mindfulness, Natural above Normal, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, NEVER GIVE UP!, Positive Change, Positive thinking, positive words of encouragement, Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Sing a new song, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, spiritual transformation, Struggles, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, To thine own self be true, transparency, Unconditional Love, Vulnerability, zen

Last Monday night, the weather was perfect, having cooled down after a stifling heatwave, when Santana and his band took the stage at 8 p.m. sharp at the nearly sold-out 1001 Rainbows, 2023 Tour, performance at the Hartford HealthCare Amphitheater in Bridgeport, Connecticut. I attended the concert with Anna, one of my dearest friends since childhood.

Oye Como Va! The show started off with a bang and the energy immediately electric. Carlos Santana’s guitar playing was as virtuosic as ever, and the band’s backing vocals sounded soulful and soaring.

The setlist was a mix of Santana’s greatest hits, and some from the band’s latest album, Blessings and Miracles. We were treated to classics like “Smooth,” “Maria Maria,” and “Evil Ways,” as well as newer songs like “Joy.”

As the concert went on, Carlos announced to the audience that he felt Jerry Garcia, among others, playing alongside him. I had a strong sense of my deceased brother Mike and me singing together again in a dingy, off-the-beaten-track bar in Tallahassee, Florida, our voices gliding through the air as if the seventies would never end.

Years fade, and with them, people and some of their talents. But Carlos remains one of the greatest guitarists of all time, and his band members are also masters of their craft. I was also particularly impressed by the drummer, Cindy Blackman Santana.

She’s been married to Carlos since 2010. All I can say is, her drumming blew us and the audience away. She played with such passion and intensity that it felt like a supernatural experience. I kid you not, I had goosebumps during her solo acts.

The Wikipedia article about her states: “Blackman cultivates spirituality in her musicianship. “I believe that music is so sacred that once you’re playing music you are doing the work of prayer, whether you’re conscious of it or not, because you have a focused intent,” says Blackman.

Hearing her and the band was holier than a prayer. On one hand, it brought everybody together, and I mean, EVERYBODY, including elders who danced the night away while donning cataract surgery sunglasses. What really struck me was the sight of a quadriplegic man who appeared to be in his thirties. He was stationed in his wheelchair on the upper level of the theater. The man could only move his head slightly, but had no facial expression.

I was really touched by this man’s determination to enjoy the concert despite his significant challenges. Then I wondered how he felt watching other audience members out of their seats, dancing, singing, and moving in perfect harmony with the music, flowing along with the oxygen.

I didn’t know if he was envious of the movement, or, on the other hand, simply savoring the sights, sounds, and tasting every moment like snacking on a buttery concoction.

At first, I thought how lucky the rest of us were to have mobility, until I realized maybe he was the lucky one. I liked to believe that he didn’t rush from one thing to the next, consumed to the point of falling in step with the armies of walking mummies, failing to appreciate simple things like a soft breeze brushing against a pair of moving limbs.

Perhaps this particular man piqued my curiosity because grief is an isolating experience, especially for me. It can be easy to feel like you’re the only one going through it, out of sync with the rest of the world (even if they are walking mummies!). As I scanned the venue, it appeared that the young man really was the only one in a wheelchair, but I hoped that the music would connect us all in the same spiritual way that Cindy feels it, in a miraculous way that would flush out our disunion and differences.

It was interesting to see Anna’s reaction when Cindy first performed her solo drum act. She shouted out, “She’s a woman!” in a way that said, “Yes, sister! We can do anything.”

Cindy Blackman Santana

Later, Carlos made a point to say that many men have passed out from drumming in the vigorous manner that Cindy is able to.

Wikipedia’s article further defines Cindy as “a rarity as a female jazz percussionist.”

It goes on to quote her, “In the past, there were a lot of stigmas attached to women playing certain instruments,” Blackman says. “Any woman, or anyone facing race prejudice, weight prejudice, hair prejudice … if you let somebody stop you because of their opinions, then the only thing you’re doing is hurting yourself. I don’t want to give somebody that power over me.”

The keyword in her quote is “power.” There’s a loaded definition behind that word, but when we pray in the purest spiritual realm, we transcend feelings of exclusion, rejection and not belonging. As a result, hair, nails, body image – the physical plane melts, sort of like in harmony with a slow, fluid dance. That’s the power of music, a special prayer to turn to for comfort. There’s something about the combination of lyrics and melody that can reach into the soul and make you feel less alone. And when I see someone, such as the quadriplegic man at Santana’s concert, who has pushed through what people can define as limitations, and reigns over his own power of thought, it reminds me that there is always hope.

Music is a universal language that brings people together from all walks – and wheels – of life. It doesn’t matter if you’re able-bodied or not, young or old, rich or poor. Music has the power to connect us all, and it can be a powerful tool for healing and hope. In this way, it is the most powerful prayer of all.

Bow-Tie Breakthrough

Posted on June 27, 2023 by cattalespress under 12-Step Program, a spiritual life, A Writer's Life, Aging, alcoholism, Angels on Earth, Birthdays, Career, Courage, disciplined non-conformist., Divorce, Do Not Be Afraid, Dreams, Embrace Change, emotions, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Fellowship, Fourth Dimension, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, hope, humor, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Letting Go, Long-Term Coping Strategies, Lost youth, Meeting your needs, Natural above Normal, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, NEVER GIVE UP!, one day at a time, Pipe Dreams, Positive Change, Positive thinking, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serene-diptious Moments, Sing a new song, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual inspirational thoughts, spiritual transformation, Struggles, Suicide Loss Survivors, The God Channel, To thine own self be true, transparency, Unconditional Love, Unsung Heroes, Vulnerability, What you resist persists

About six years ago, when my friend, Richard, a retired art director, celebrated his two-year sobriety milestone, he donned an eye-catching crimson bow tie that juxtaposed his somber expression. The poignant declaration he uttered at that moment has remained ingrained in my memory ever since: “This is not my world anymore.”

Richard was faced with the realization that his marriage of 50 years was not only coming to a close, but also that his children had grown distant from him. In addition, he also needed to reconcile with the reality that he had wasted a considerable amount of his earlier years as an alcoholic who functioned nevertheless.

His faith in what once was, had come crashing down.

Richard’s realization that “This is not my world anymore” is a sentiment that we all may encounter at some point in our lives. It represents the stark (sober) realization of what truly holds significance in life, and conversely, what does not; such as an unfulfilling marriage that has become a matter of convenience and habit rather than one that is rooted in love and admiration.

Over the past two decades, and particularly during the last three years, I have encountered numerous epiphanies that have left me feeling disconnected from my surroundings. These experiences forced me to recognize who my true friends are while accepting that most of them, for various reasons, have vanished from my life. Furthermore, it is clear that the path I had once envisioned for myself will never come to fruition. Each time I catch sight of my age-spotted hands that no longer resemble my own, I can’t escape the fact that before I know it, a significant birthday is just around the corner. In truth, “This is not my world anymore” often morphs into “This is not the world I imagined at 19,” which serves as a poignant reminder of life’s perpetual evolution.

Richard’s and my journey serves as an example to illustrate how life is constantly changing. We may not always be in control of these changes, but we can choose how we respond to them. While conceding that there are numerous occasions when my faith falters and my perseverance wanes, it is evident that I am able to persist through such moments due in large part to inspirational figures, such as Richard.

Richard is not, as far as I know, a religious man. However, he does believe that there is something that is ultimately good and benevolent and, despite all his challenges, Richard never lost faith that things would turn out okay. He faced each obstacle head-on and emerged stronger from it all. Sure, it’s still not “his world” anymore, but he never falters as he adds a colorful array of bow ties to his wardrobe reminiscent of a blooming garden filled with vibrant peonies.

My Pierogi Trail Wish to you in the New Year! 🥳

Posted on December 27, 2022 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, A Writer's Life, Affirmations, Aging, American Dream, Angels on Earth, Asking for help, Christmas, Courage, Crisis, Damage Control, Dealing with special occasions, Death, death of a child, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Dreams, Embrace Change, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Fellowship, Fourth Dimension, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, grief relief, Grieving, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, Holidays, hope, I need a miracle, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Loss of a Child, Meeting your needs, Mental Health, mindfulness, Natural above Normal, NEVER GIVE UP!, New Year, one day at a time, Out of Order Death, Positive Change, Positive thinking, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serene-diptious Moments, Sibling Death, Sing a new song, sorrow, Soul Food, special occasions, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, spiritual transformation, Struggles, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, To thine own self be true, trauma, Unconditional Love, Unsung Heroes, Vulnerability, zen

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One of my blogger buddies shared that self-motivation is tough and, obviously, that’s what it takes to blog on a regular basis. It’s even harder when there appears to be a lack of interest in the blog your write and, as a result, no or sparse comments. I can relate to why she feels that way. It can be scary to reveal your thoughts with the world. In return, it’s discouraging to feel like you’re not heard and people don’t listen to what you have to say.

Occasionally, I look at other blogs and marvel (with green eyes) over the thousands of followers and dozens of comments that each post attracts.

This concept is along the same lines as when my son, an adolescent at the time, cried out in defeat, “I’ll never be famous.”

No, he wouldn’t be famous. Not in the same vein as Justin Bieber or the Jonas Brothers. The reality is most of us are not famous or achieve an influencer status. Most of us just are. A close friend of mine, Father Francis Canavan from Fordham University, who passed in 2000, always taught me that being content with our mundane lives is a tough call for our ego to reconcile with. In our world of constant social media distractions, it is easy to feel we are missing out on the great life that everyone else is “Fakebooking” at the given moment.

We live in a society that celebrates beauty and success and encourages us to chase after it at all costs. Couple this phenomenon with an innate desire to be better, do better, and have more. It makes sense that when you tune into almost any news outlet for five minutes or less, it seems everything publicized is a punch fueled with greed, power and a lot of plastic surgery thrown in.

Don’t get me wrong, if these superficial things are floating someone’s boat, I’m all for it, but if outside impressions affect the silent majority, the “armchair onlooker,” to suffer in an unhealthy “I’m-a-nothing-compared-to-them” way, then the reaction can turn into toxicity and hurt them or, in its extreme, motivate them to turn against others or to resort to self-harm.

Of course, the antidote for ego deflation is to “live in the spiritual.” How? Who knows really what floats someone’s boat?

What provided me with some insight was watching a documentary on Mother Teresa this past Christmas Eve. I learned many things about this incredible woman, but the one that resonates with me is that she lived for 50 years, 50 YEARS feeling abandoned by God.

This state of abandonment is called “The Dark Night of the Soul,” and in Mother Teresa’s case, “The” night stayed with her for a total of 18,250 nights to be exact.

How did she forever change the world in such a profoundly positive way when she herself lived in despair? Certainly she did NOT allow herself to be guided by her dark feelings. She was, however, candid and wrote down her dark feelings and shared them to her own personal God and to a priest, who was also her mentor. Service, of course, was the glue in her life and later exulted her to a sainthood status.

Who, of course, would come close to exemplifying Mother Teresa? Certainly NOT me. After watching that wonderful documentary, I must say, my walk is lighter in my heavy-paired shoes. My faith is stronger and my hope is greater. In essence, I have a deeper understanding of how we really do matter in our own little ways.

_{Photo by Marshall D. Maxwell, Indian Well State Park, Shelton, CT}

And to that end, my son mattered to me. He mattered to Whitney, whom I spoke to on Christmas night. He mattered to a handful of incredible people who really loved him not only for his “worldly” facade (which was incredible!), but for the riches he left in all our hearts: his bright, inquisitive mind; compassionate heart and courage to go on for at least 16 years more than he could bear.

And, the same goes for my little, mundane life that I like so much in its own little way, because what elevates it to greatness is not my recent writing awards (although I am proud of them!), but of the special few people in my life who really, really love me. Who really, really matter to me.

A few of my friends, actually all of us, are aging faster than lightening. There is no other holier, loving gesture to me than looping my arm into a friend’s arm. Recently, for instance, my friend Camille and I were going into a Polish deli and, literally, strolled in arm and arm as if we were children, carefree; FREE AGAIN to just be the way we ARE.

“Not all of us can do great things, but we can do small things with great love.” — Mother Teresa

Camille did not need pierogies and, actually, doesn’t like them, but insisted that we go to a Polish deli she found on the internet a few days before the holiday, so I could get pierogies for Christmas Eve dinner, because the ones I hold dear to my heart “have to have pierogies for Christmas Eve,” and the Ukrainian church was too busy to make them this year due to the war. Pierogie is a type of food that originated in Eastern Europe and is now popular in the United States. It consists of a dough shell with a mixture of mashed potatoes, cheese, onions, and sometimes meat inside.

A few days after my deli visit, on Christmas Eve after church, the next one I strolled arm-in-arm-arm with was my friend Anna from childhood, who is having knee problems these days. She has been struggling with medical issues. It was hard to see her like this, and it felt good to be by her side during this tough time. It was good for both of us. Just for a moment, we were kids again in the same church where we were raised; laughing as we once did, standing on the same floor that has anchored us through these many years.

Now, in this rather fragmented blog post that will probably not attract many comments 🤣, what I’m trying to convey is that, in my opinion, it isn’t the NUMBERS and FAME of my blog so much that counts as it is those few special blog buddies that I’ve developed relationships with — from Preema and Anand in India to Judy in California and Alec in England and Ana and L. Hale and Cindy and Kathy and … wow … with such a tribe, I can go on and on, but I hope you know who you are. You, members of my blogging community, are the ones who truly matter, not thousands of nameless people who deep down really don’t care and wouldn’t go out of their way to buy pierogies for me, if given the chance on Christmas.

And, you see, that’s love. It’s the meaning BEHIND the words and thoughts. The people who love me this year, really, really were there on Christmas (symbolic of Christmases past). First and foremost, I name my daughter who goes to church for me most of all. (And I go mostly to honor my parents and to see Anna, my childhood friend.) The love also spun through the gifts I received: from Anne in New Mexico with her woolly socks that she probably went on a long, pain-in-the-butt peirogi kind of hunt to find, and my friend Michelle with her thoughtful “pain-in-the-butt pierogi kind of hunt” gifts and the same goes for my friend Hope, my daughter and the kid’s godmother and my fiance, who even took the time to wrap his gifts this year, and others who took the time because I matter in their lives. And, they, of course, matter to me and that’s why instead of scoping out something I like to eat, I’d rather go on my pain-in-the-butt pierogi kind of hunts for them.

So, at the end of the pierogi trail, as it turns out, the pierogies from the Polish deli that Camille and I found were not nearly as good as the pierogies from the Ukrainian church, but it’s the thought that counts.

And that’s what I want every single buddy blogger in the community to know: YOU MATTER TO ME. YOUR THOUGHTS COUNT! You fuel my steps throughout each year and get me out of my all mighty, egotistical self so I can manage to think of YOU and some of the things that surround your lives that I see as quite monumental and not at all mundane.

I wish all of you, dear blogger buddies, a wonderful New Year, filled with people who love you enough to take the time to find and buy you pierogies (even if they aren’t the best-tasting ones!) because the love behind the pain-in-the-butt pierogi hunt without fail brings home the prize. The batch may not be the best food you’ve ever tasted, but I promise, the meal will last a lifetime in your memory.

Renew! Refresh! Restart!

Posted on November 15, 2022 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, A Writer's Life, Affirmations, Aging, American Dream, Asking for help, Courage, Damage Control, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Dreams, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief relief, Healing of Memories, hope, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Living through death, mindfulness, Natural above Normal, NEVER GIVE UP!, Positive Change, Positive thinking, positive words of encouragement, Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Sing a new song, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual inspirational thoughts, To thine own self be true, What you resist persists, zen

Renew! Refresh! Restart! in the morning … afternoon … evening … RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND. Faith is fluid, bursts forth like a river flowing, able to calm, cool and collect the most explosive moments and transform them into fresh beginnings. Whatever you have faith in, call upon it NOW!