A New Year Offers Hope — Right? Yes, We Must Hope

A New Year Offers Hope — Right? Yes, We Must Hope

by | Jan 12, 2022

In these troubling times, how do we keep finding hope? When I’m struggling, I climb the mountain, finding hope up on the ridge, in a deep breath, a prayer — over and over again. Hope is active. A conscious step out of fear and into love that we must keep taking.

We follow a grassy logging road, steadily climbing through the trees up onto the ridge, listening to woodpeckers hammering away against the tree trunks and watching for porcupines and black bears. The two dogs, Echo and Blue, and I are so loud that it’s hard to imagine us sneaking up on any creature. Yet, we’ve come upon porcupines frozen in fear, their sharp, barbed quills out in all directions.

We make our way on the trail, up along Brush Ridge in Rothrock State Forest in the heart of central Pennsylvania’s Ridge & Valley territory.

A deep breath. Then the next. Every step forward shakes me free of the grip of fear. Every step brings me closer to a hopeful state. I release anxiety into the fresh air, into the solid tangle of rocks, soil and pressing root beneath my feet, into the branches of oak and maple, tulip tree, birch and hemlock reaching up into the sky. 

At the top, a view of the Stone Mountain ridge. To the southwest, more mountain ridges in crumpled, corduroy rows recede to the horizon. As the dogs scan the expanse and sniff the tree stumps, I fill up on the beautiful view, the refreshing air.

Hope floods in, robbing my fear of its oxygen and space. I return home to my work refreshed, inspired and hopeful.

How do we Stay Hopeful in These Troubling Times?

In these first days of the New Year, I’ve thought a lot about hope. How do we stay hopeful in these troubling times when we are immersed in multiple wicked, global problems? 

I’ve googled, read and reflected, listened to excellent conversations, and thought some more. I’ve asked wise people who responded with passages of scripture. While that comforts me, my expertise is not to illuminate scripture — so I’ll leave that to the clergy and others far more knowledgeable than I.

Rather, I’m a seeker, better suited to share what I’ve learned so far on the journey.

Hope is active. It is the conscious step we take — we must take —away from fear and into a place of light and love. That may be a state of inspiration or motivation, or acts of kindness, helpfulness or creativity. 

Or, perhaps, simply a state of peaceful rest for the next day. That works, too. 

Hope is taking the next best step. A full, deep breath. A pause before speaking. Pouring a glass of water or tea instead of whiskey. Pausing to appreciate a kind word. Noticing new shoots of growth on a cold day, the tight buds on the tips of tree branches promising fresh growth even in January.

Hope is, for me at its essence: This walk along the ridge, the deep breath, the prayer, the writing, the reading, the seeking and sharing, connection with loved ones, the planting of a garden. 

Your step into hope is different than mine. What’s paramount is that we each find our ways to step out of fear and into hope, repeatedly.

Other people make music or sing to find hope. Some mend cloth — and mend people. Many spend their days teaching or leading or caring for strangers in the hospital. All beautiful and hopeful work. 

Superheroes of Wisdom

To explore hope, last week I turned to my favorite superheroes of wisdom: Maya Angelou, Fred Rogers and Krista Tippett. 

American poet, author, and civil rights activist Maya Angelou said: “Hope and fear cannot occupy the same space. Invite one to stay.”

In bronze Sharpie, I printed that into my 2022 planner with its perfect, crisp, unblemished pages.

Hope, then, is the act of inviting and welcoming it. 

But what if it doesn’t stay? What if the next day’s news cycle brings another horrific human act that shoves our hope aside? 

Shaking Fear — & Shaking Fear Again

I thought of how often in these last two years that I’ve been afraid. I don’t like to feel so afraid.

In spring 2020, early in the pandemic, I spent my days re-working communications plans for my clients, pivoting in-person events into safer ones. 

But at night, I laid awake.

In the dark, my mind spun and swirled like a swarm of agitated bees. Many nights, I was worn out with worry and unable to sleep or even deeply breathe.

“Hon,” said my drowsy husband. “Go to sleep.”

“I can’t,” I told him. “I feel like this thing is coming for us, and it could take away one of our kids or parents, or one of us — and there’s nothing we can do. I’m so afraid.”

“I know,” he said. He’d wrap himself around me and that physical sense of his warmth and calming strength and security on chilly spring nights was enough to soothe my being. The buzzing bees quieted. I could settle into breathing deeply and fall asleep.

Breathe — & Pray

It wasn’t fair, though, to rob him of his rest. As a school administrator, he is responsible for hundreds of students and teachers and at that time the school so essential to their lives was shut down. 

As I tried to hold it together — to “keep my cheese on my cracker” — I didn’t want to put any more strain on him.

My walks in the woods became non-negotiable life support. 

Deep breathing and praying took on surprising new power, as I found comfort and rest in the words of “Our Father” — the prayer I’d learned as a little girl growing up Catholic, rejected as a young woman, and returned to in my 40s. In the early weeks of the pandemic, silently repeating the words settled me to sleep without waking my husband.

Practicing Hope

These walks, deep breaths and prayer became even more important the deeper we got into 2020 with all that we could not un-see: The brutal murder of George Floyd, the realities of systemic racism, violence in the streets, wildfires in the West, authoritarian acts in plain sight, dysfunctional politics, a growing culture of contempt. 

Turning the calendar to 2021, of course, was not enough as I learned by Jan. 6, shaking with fear while watching violent Americans breach and defile the U.S. Capitol, threatening the peaceful transfer of power that distinguishes our beloved country. 

I have to wonder: How often is fear at the root of violence? This researcher has dug into that question

Hope, then, is the antidote.

But it’s not a single step — it’s repeatedly stepping away from fear and inviting hope in to stay. The conscious choice we can make over and over, as much as necessary.

‘Spiritual Muscle Memory’

Perhaps this is the “spiritual muscle memory” American journalist and founder of the On Being Project Krista Tippett writes about:

“Hope is distinct, in my mind, from optimism or idealism. It has nothing to do with wishing. It references reality at every turn and reveres truth. It lives open eyed and wholehearted with the darkness that is woven ineluctably into the light of life and sometimes seems to overcome it. Hope, like every virtue, is a choice that becomes a practice that becomes spiritual muscle memory. It’s a renewable resource for moving through life as it is, not as we wish it to be.”  

“Hope, like every virtue, is a choice that becomes a practice that becomes spiritual muscle memory.

It’s a renewable resource for moving through life as it is, not as we wish it to be.”  

~ Krista Tippett, Founder + Editor in Chief, The On Being Project

These times, then, are endurance training for our “spiritual muscle memory” to repeatedly see the reality, reject fear by stepping toward hope. For me, that’s the deep breath, the walk, the prayer into a hopeful state of positive action. 

Any time we choose hope over fear, to control what we can control, I believe we help the world — even as one individual person.

This year ahead will bring days when I must will myself to be hopeful. Tuning out is not an option.

But I’ve been training my “spiritual muscle memory” for them. I’m here to share hope, not fear. That simple. 

Walk. Breathe. Pray.

And look to the helpers, as Fred Rogers — “Mr. Rogers” — has said, remembering his mother’s comforting words to help cope with tragedy.

Better still: Be a helper. Let’s help each other stay hopeful, and do what we can to help. 

Natural Reboot

It’s been awhile since we walked up to the ridge, but we will again soon. During autumn and early winter, I yield Brush Ridge and the rest of the wooded trails to the hunters — a few of whom I love with all of my heart. Now, in January, the ice has moved in.

Soon, there will be a break in the winter weather — and then spring. The light always returns in a sunrise, then the next. Each day brings a bit more daylight. The spring always returns.

I’ll take us to the wooded trails, for healing after another dose of the reality of these times, for more training of my spirit. As long as I have breath, I’ll step away from the dangers of fear and into the light of hope. 

Amazing how the natural world still renews us, despite the strain of our collective impact. Sweet melodies of birdsong. Scent of rich soil, fresh air and new growth.Such life-affirming power of regeneration.

I will drink in the spring, follow the push of shoots and stems toward the sun and lean into the beauty of the world as it is — as it could be. Hope will come easily on many days this year and on the others, I’ll insist on climbing to reach it.

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When One Long-Awaited Gift Arrived on Christmas Eve

When One Long-Awaited Gift Arrived on Christmas Eve

by | Dec 29, 2021

On the coast of Maine, I built a life of my own and sought peace. One Christmas Eve, sharing what I found there with my Dad was a long-awaited gift for us both.

The days leading up to Christmas 1999 brought the expected excitement and bustle — plus an extra, heaping dose of anxiety for me. My dad was on the road, driving northeast from Cleveland out to my apartment on the Maine coast.

I worried about this visit, starting with the trip. Jacked up on coffee, he’d drive 14 hours straight. By that Christmas, I was 29, and we were just a few years into rebuilding our relationship. Our conversations had been sparse and tense for a long time. Our visits forced. The year before, he’d driven out to visit me for the first time in the 10 years I’d left home for college in Boston.

This Christmas would be my first away from home. Instead of traveling to Cleveland, I’d see my mom and family on New Year’s Day, the start of a warm-weather vacation together.

Dad had decided to drive out to Maine. Just the two of us over those few days. No other people to buffer. No other place to go besides my two-room apartment. Whatever happened, whatever arguments erupted, we’d have to work it out.

Scents of Adventure

The front seat of my dad’s car smelled of leather, gasoline, Marlboros, coffee and a touch of Old Spice. Since I was a little girl, that blend of scents has signaled anticipation, some danger — and my adoration.

My dad, David Lee, relished driving. He was boyish, charming and funny. He could make me laugh, tease me to tears and infuriate me.

He loved cars and driving fast. He was prone to road rage and within seconds could spike from relaxed to furious. Conversations between my divorced parents often ended abruptly, with a smash of the phone back in its cradle. I’d watched as arguments quickly escalated and my dad bolted out the door, slamming it behind him and squealing his tires as he peeled out of the driveway. 

He was volatile, not violent. 

My dad, I’ve come to believe, truly wanted to be a family man — but could not control his impulses. He loved women, and his cheating had led to the failure of two marriages. The shattering of both families left me crushed and angry with someone I couldn’t help but love.

He left the day-to-day care and heavy lifting of raising his two daughters to his ex-wives. Still, he loved us. He’d never stopped calling me or trying to reconcile, despite my anger and need for distance.

Now, I suspect that had a lot to do with his longtime girlfriend, a quiet mender I’d once called the Ice Queen. But I barely knew her then. (Read more about that here, in the story
“Ms. Judgement and the Ice Queen.”)

I settled on the coast of Maine, to build a life of my own and search for peace.

Better Get Started

Dad safely arrived in Maine a couple of days before Christmas, and soon demanded to know where he could find the apricot, almond, white chocolate biscotti I bake for the holidays.

The blade of my food processor had cracked and I could not make the addictive cookies he loved to dunk in his coffee.

You don’t just run out and buy a new food processor, Dad, I reasoned. 

But he did.

He’d scratched enough lotto tickets to win some cash, and went right to the store. Your phone sucks, he said when I got home from work, explaining the box with a new cordless phone.

It was on the kitchen counter, beside a box with a new food processor.

There, he said. You can make biscotti now.

“Dad,” I reasoned. “That takes several hours. You have to bake it twice, and cool it completely after the first bake.”

“Well, you’d better get started then.”

Seeking Peace

I settled on the coast of Maine, to build a life of my own and search for peace. Every morning, I found it beside the water.

Just south of the small town of Bath, Maine, the road leads out to an opening of big blue sky and water as it curves over a dam, around an ample cove on the western shore of the mighty Kennebec River. This spot is known as Winnegance, a Native American, Abenaki name that means “little portage.”

Great blue herons fish the cove’s exposed mud flats at low tide on the salty, river side of the dam. In the summer, we kayaked through the cattails on the small, freshwater lake created decades earlier by the dam.

Every weekend after Thanksgiving, the retired sea captain on our side of the cove and a neighbor across the water raced each other to be the first to light a small Christmas tree with colored bulbs. Those twin brightly lit trees popped against the dark night as I drove around the cove, the final stretch of my commute home from work.

Even in the winter, my mornings began with a short walk, cup of coffee in hand, down the lane, past the sea captain’s house, and an old rusty shed to the shore of the river. I settled on an overturned skiff — a small wooden rowboat — to watch the tide move in or out a bit more with every small wave, looking up to take in the full expanse of blue sky and blue water stretching out to the pines across the river.  

Watch. Think. Breathe.

Then a swift jaunt through the woods along the river, crossing over to the lake trails, stopping at a favorite spot on a log beside the lake. Scoot home, now warm from walking, and off to work.

Messy Guest

My in-law apartment on the end of an old Greek revival house was two stacked rooms. Downstairs, a living room, kitchen across the back wall with a big counter and a tiny bathroom in the corner. Upstairs, a bedroom, and closet with a washer and dryer. A compact, smart design, thanks to the carpenter/landlord who lived in the main house with his family.

Dad slept with my orange tiger cat on a pull-out futon downstairs. My upstairs windows offered views of glowing afternoon sunsets over the lake and in the mornings, herons fishing the river cove.

I can be messy, but need to clean up daily to a certain order: A clear kitchen counter. Dishes done. The sofa blankets folded and pillows arranged. Tidy.

My dad was like Pigpen from Peanuts. He traveled within a certain swirling flotsam of clutter, a challenge to the necessary order in my space.

The evening before Christmas Eve, I’d just cleaned up and cleared the kitchen counter, pausing to appreciate that small, calming patch of welcome order. His radar must have picked up an empty spot. He walked over and dumped his pockets full of crumpled scratch lotto tickets, books of matches, receipts and loose change all over the counter.

So frustrating — and I told him so.

But my squawking was a score for him. Negative attention, after all, is still attention. He was 51, and still like a little kid, eager for attention, taunting, teasing.

Ignoring him only worked for so long. He was relentless. Eventually, he’d set me off, and then celebrate his small victory. It was tiring.

Peaceful, Maine coast, at night
I’d gone to the Maine coast to build a life and seek peace
— then shared the peace of my sanctuary,

The Ice Skater

Christmas Eve arrived with bitter, single-digit cold. I had the day off, so dad and I walked my routine loop over the packed snow, and had almost reached my spot beside the lake when we spotted the ice skater through the trees.

A man glided on the lake’s frozen surface with a hand-held power drill, stopping to measure the thickness of the ice, presumably checking to see whether skating would be part of the coming festivities.

The skater looked up from his task and spotted us watching him from the shoreline. He waved to us, and called “Merry Christmas.” We returned the greeting. “Merry Christmas.” We waved back. 

Dad already sounded wistful, his voice registering that the moment held significance — though we couldn’t fully understand it then.

Something so wonderful about those intense moments of peace over those days stuck with both of us — because years later dad would say: Remember that Christmas in Maine? Remember that ice skater? Your neighbors and that little church?

Sweet Lift

We drove that night through the dark, cold night toward the tall pines on the other side of the river, to a late-night candlelight service at my neighbors’ tiny church. 

Near the end of the service, a soprano exquisitely sang “O Holy Night,” her crystal clear voice perfectly piercing the darkness, rising into the peak of the simple wood ceiling, lifting us all toward the stars.

On Christmas, we cooked lobsters and a beef roast rolled in peppercorns in my tiny kitchen and shared our dinner with one invited guest at a little, glass-topped table in the corner of my living room.

Surely, there was at least one more walk in-between the cleanup and post-dinner napping and leftovers.

When my dad drove away after Christmas, I immediately, painfully missed him all over again.

Despite our tension, what I most remember of that visit is a sense of peace my dad and I desperately needed together, to help us heal. Walking through the woods. Seeing the ice skater. Cooking Maine lobsters for Christmas dinner.

One visit at a time, my dad and I rebuilt, and enjoyed a pretty good relationship.

Ten years after that Christmas, when my dad was sick and in a medical coma, I held his hand and softly talked to him about the ice skater and all the energy of a sunrise. Stay with us, I begged him.

When my dad was dying a few years later, to calm and comfort us both amidst tremendous pain and fear, I’d quietly remind him of the ice skater and our Christmas in Maine. Let go into the peace, I urged.

Now, I am 51, and lucky to listen to the exquisite voice of a friend and woman in our church family who is an opera singer sing “O Holy Night.”

Through the Christmas season, those sounds transport me back through a few life chapters to the coast of Maine. I pause. I remember that Christmas Eve, when the music lifted my Dad and I, among a small group of people bundled and huddled against the cold.

My peace I give unto you. Always — and especially at Christmas.

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Wishing you the Shared Sweetness of the Holidays

Wishing you the Shared Sweetness of the Holidays

by | Dec 22, 2021

I bake to share the sweetness. One small way to celebrate Christmas light and fight the darkness in this world. Cookies are such a simple, delicious item to share with people. Sweets won’t guarantee a “perfect” Christmas, but they can help salvage a difficult one.

My husband and I just returned from a visit to Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania. We walked the rail-trail between the railroad tracks and the Lehigh River, bundled up against the chilly air, and waved to the families and excited children riding the Santa train as it passed.

We soaked in the lights and the music, the adorable shops loaded with gifts and the Old World architecture of this small, bustling town at Christmastime and visited our favorite spots. 

On our getaway ritual, we rested up for this week’s final push of holiday preparations.

Busy week ahead! Still, I’m going to make time to bake.

I bake to share the sweetness. One small way to celebrate Christmas light and fight the darkness in this world. Cookies are such a simple, delicious item to share with people. Sweets won’t guarantee a “perfect” Christmas, but they can help salvage a difficult one.

One biscotti, two biscotti

Today, the winter solstice and shortest day of the year, seems like a perfect time to buckle down and decide the holiday baking. This morning, my head swam with memories and recipes, inspiration and possibilities. 

Crisp and sweet, delightful cut-out shapes of sugar cookies with a simple dusting of colorful sanding sugar. Or, perhaps this is the year to attempt to ice them into colorful designs?

Biscotti cookies with dried cherries
Cookies make it easy to share the sweetness of the holidays.

Long and thin biscotti cookies for dunking into coffee or hot chocolate … Mmmmm — but which kind? Apricot-almond-white chocolate biscotti from Bon Appetit magazine has been my go-to Christmas treat for decades, and I’m quite tempted to try a dried cherry and pistachio version from the King Arthur Baking Co., always inspiring and reliable.

Pie is my year-round favorite — except, mysteriously, at Christmastime. 

For me, Christmas and New Year’s celebrations call for rich, chocolate cake. 

A decadent chocolate cake, baked in a Bundt pan and slathered with a poured frosting of melted semi-sweet chocolate chips from a recipe in a miniature book of Silver Palate desserts I keep beside the KitchenAid stand mixer. The little book falls open to that sugar-dusted page with the “Decadent Chocolate Cake.”

Early one December morning a few years ago, I made Melissa Clark’s Whiskey-Soaked Dark Chocolate Bundt Cake from a New York Times recipe to bring to a holiday gathering that night. As I tasted the batter left behind in the bowl, I realized I was getting woozy on whiskey at 7 a.m. and stopped.

Let’s save that one for New Year’s.

The Christmas Blues & Shadows

Nor would I make a chocolate cheesecake. None will ever measure up to a gorgeous chocolate cheesecake that turned out to be a brightest spot of a spoiled Christmas dinner. 

Let’s acknowledge the sour, painful parts of the holidays for a lot of people. I tend to get bogged down in a little patch of the Christmas blues right after Thanksgiving — until we put up a tree with lights. All those little twinkle lights help me as the days get shorter and shorter. A relatively easy fix. Then I truly relish all the messages of joy, the light, peace and hope of the holiday season.

We never know the private struggles and burdens of the people we cross paths with. Loads of people are heading into their first Christmas after losing a loved one. This can be such a loaded, painful time. Some people are alone. Many are estranged from those they love. 

We’re bombarded by images that don’t seem to acknowledge how complicated families can be and how thorny and messy these times are for families.

Can a few cookies fix it? No — but maybe their sweetness can soften some difficult moments. Some holidays are just hard, I suppose.

Some Holidays are just Messy and Hard

One Christmas long ago, before I met my husband, another family member and I planned to shop and cook a fun and joyful Christmas dinner for four. We had a fun time browsing the butcher and produce stands at Cleveland’s iconic, open-air West Side Market. 

We picked out a perfect roast of beef and carrots, parsnips and potatoes. Some yellow onions. Some plump lemons, and fresh herbs. For dessert, I made the most gorgeous chocolate cheesecake you’ve ever seen. 

It turned out beautifully, rising rich and creamy in a lovely swollen hill above the top of its springform pan. The recipe? I’m not sure. I’ve failed to find it. Maybe the cookbook of chocolate treats from the Chocolate Church in Bath, Maine? But when I’ve paged through my mother’s copy of that cookbook, none of the recipes seems quite right. 

Chocolate cheesecake
Chocolate cheesecake, a bright spot after a spoiled Christmas dinner.

That Christmas morning, I enjoyed opening gifts over coffee and breakfast with my mom and stepfather, then packed up that beautiful cheesecake to help cook Christmas dinner in another kitchen across town. 

I arrived to learn one of the dogs had stolen and gobbled up the parsnips. No big deal. 

We settled into cooking. Awhile later, we discovered that instead of “almost done!” the roast was still raw. The oven had mysteriously, mistakenly been shut off. 

A Spoiled Christmas Dinner

Too much wine filled the delay. An argument of historic proportions broke out over a gag gift that wasn’t funny, and consumed two of the four of us. Alleycats fighting in the dark night would have scattered at the sounds.

Meanwhile, the oven now at the proper temperature, the roast cooked away. Two of us attempted to restore the peace — at least long enough to have a nice dinner together and salvage the holiday meal.

It was not to be. The two people embroiled in the argument left. The third forced down some food to take his medicine. 

Dazed, I ate a little. We talked a little. No one wanted cheesecake. My appetite for chocolate cheesecake had vanished, but I refused to waste it. 

I left a few slices behind, then packed it up for the freezer and took it home to Pennsylvania. Into March of the next year, I pulled out a small section at a time to share with good friends, as I told the story of the Christmas dinner disaster. 

It was rather awful to watch, and especially painful for the two people embroiled in the argument.

But over the years, that part and the disappointment has faded for me. What I most remember is that airy, rich chocolate cheesecake. As time passes, the chocolate cheesecake becomes taller, richer and sweeter in my imagination.

Cookies (and Cake)

OK. I’ve decided: Both kinds of biscotti, some simple star and snowflake sugar cookies and a batch of cookies with the sour cream dough wrapped around apricot and cherry filling — like my grandmother made. Cookies are sweet connection. Probably the decadent chocolate cake, too.

Cookies and cakes never guarantee a great Christmas, of course. Just simple, handmade ways to share sweetness with family and friends — that might even help some of us through a rough holiday.

Wishing you sweet, joyful holidays full of light and love.

How One Tiny Home Repair Comforted a Broken Heart

How One Tiny Home Repair Comforted a Broken Heart

by | Dec 13, 2021

 

 

One sad weekend, my Dad visited with his girlfriend and tools to help me with fall home repairs. But that wasn’t what my broken heart needed most from him.

On a crisp, mid-November Sunday, my Dad called up to me from the basement of my house.

“Where are the drill bits?” he hollered.

I’d asked him to secure a loose gutter to my tall, folk Victorian with its dark grey wood clapboards and crisp white trim.

The purpose of his visit supposedly was to help me get the house ready for winter.

But really, he was checking on me, just weeks after my first marriage fell apart and we had separated.

My Dad and Stephanie, his longtime girlfriend, had driven out from Ohio to central Pennsylvania on Saturday. We’d visited, talked a lot about needed home repairs — but had not yet finished any. We’d gone to dinner at a friend’s Saturday night and to Sunday brunch at the café in town.

They would soon leave. With a little bit of luck, we could at least get that gutter repair done before then. 

Two sets of drill bits should have been in plain view, among the assorted tools in the basement. Drill bits are the detachable, business parts of a power drill tailored to the size of the needed hole. Those cases of bits, arranged by size, were around plenty as I searched for other tools, so they should be right there.

Rising Frustration, Rising Suspicion

But after 10 minutes of searching, we could not find even a single, random drill bit.

Frustration tightened my gut and my jaw. Deep breath. Stay calm, I told myself, then failed to quiet a rising suspicion that my estranged husband had taken every set of drill bits when he moved out that fall.

Three months later, my divorce lawyer would say, as we wrapped up our first meeting: “This is just so sad. You’re 40. You don’t have kids. You’re alone. You had money. Now you don’t.”

I asked her: “Is that supposed to be a pep talk?”

Crappy pep talks aside, she turned out to be fantastic at walking me through an inexpensive, DIY divorce.

But none of that had happened yet on that day the drill bits went missing. The break was fresh.

Mr. Fix-It

My Dad knew how to fix just about anything: Engines, cars, trucks, electrical wiring, lawnmowers, plumbing.

As a little girl, I loved to drive to the hardware store with him. Or, as I got older and stronger, to help him bust up concrete with a sledge hammer — to be with him no matter what we were doing. After I bought my first house, a three-family, old house in Maine, he taught me to use a blow torch to sweat pipes and install a new water heater for a tenant.

Smart, charming and funny, he was also great with women. But marriage was another story. Our two families, the one with my mom and the one with my stepmom, had broken in divorces.

I’d grown up feeling starved not just for time with him, but for us to truly know and accept each other. A master of small talk and shooting the breeze, he had trouble with serious, substantive conversations. At least with me.

He’d change the subject or make a joke, tease me into a tailspin that left me in tears. He’d leave or otherwise shut me down — when all I really needed was for him to listen.

We had both worked hard to change our thorny, cold relationship, to close our distance one visit and conversation at a time. One old-house project at a time, first in Maine, then on this adorable Victorian in a quaint Pennsylvania town. For the whole story of making peace with my dad, read The Story of Our First Thanksgiving in February.

By that fall day when we were searching for the drill bits, real, honest heart-to-heart conversations were possible and more frequent.

Just not guaranteed.

The Calvary Arrives in a Saab

That weekend, I bet my dad was also shocked. He wanted to be the calvary riding in with his tools and practical knowledge to fix and patch his fallen, eldest daughter and her house back into some sort of wholeness. My mom, quite possibly, had dispatched him and awaited a report.

When my fiancé and I were house-hunting and fell in love with the grey house described in the listing as “cutie patootie,” my dad drove out to look it over.

“Buy it,” he said. And I did.

Five years later, the marriage had failed. We separated early that November. I knew it was over.

Emotionally, I was still in shock. Raw grief lurked around the edges as I forced myself to focus on practical things: Plug the drafts. Fix the gutters. Batten down the hatches. Winter is coming. 

Listing ALL the Problems? Sorry, Not Helpful

When my dad and Stephanie first arrived, he settled with his coffee in the living room, looking around at all the work to be done. He saw the same blights that I saw every day: Stained carpet, an old, king-size beast of a sleeper sofa upholstered in chestnut brown and red diamonds that my estranged husband’s family had cherished.

And yet, there it sat. In my living room.

A half-done paint job that left the walls a ragged mess of beige, white primer and a butter yellow.

Dad listed all the obvious problems, and the list went on and on. Not helpful.

“Dad, focus please. I need your help with the gutters,” I said. The painting could wait. Plug the drafts. Fix the gutters. Winter is coming.

But he was not hearing me.

Then he found and remarked on more things that needed attention: A crack in one plaster wall. A tea-colored splotch on the ceiling, indicating a leak. The uneven molding between the rooms. So many little things had cracked in the more than 100 years since this wood, limestone rock and plaster had been assembled into a shelter and built into a steep hill.

 Now, feeling quite shaky, I turned to Stephanie.

“Steph, you have to make him stop doing that,” I pled. “I’m going to lose it. Please. I’m already so overwhelmed.”

She understood.

“David!” she said, and he snapped his head in her direction. “Stop it. That’s not helpful.”

He looked confused. But he stopped talking about everything that needed attention.

Then, he turned to me and said: “How did all of this happen?”

I can’t even recall whether I attempted an explanation of the condition of the house or the failure of the marriage. Perspective comes later, after survival.

But I knew winter was coming. Secure the gutter. Plug the drafts.

White Rage Unleashed

And that one task required drill bits.

He must have taken them, I thought that Sunday, getting shakier with frustration turning to anger at my estranged husband.

And if so — it would be a tiny, petty act he knew would hurt me. My love for old houses that needed constant attention had been a source of conflict for us. Working hard on some project, gritty and covered in sweat, was not his favorite way to spend a weekend. He preferred traveling and many other forms of relaxation.

And so for him to take the damn drill bits …

The more I thought about that, the more enraged I became. My short fuse lit up like the flaming, Olympic cauldron. Blood boiling, my vision blurred as I slammed the cabinet door and stomped up to the kitchen in a rage that turned my vision white, shouting and cussing.

Upstairs, Stephanie was mending. As I blew by her, to check the attic for the drill bits, I muttered the problem.

“You need tools with PINK handles!” she called out. “Then no man will take them.”

This only poured gasoline on my fiery rage. I’d used tools with pink handles. They tended to be crap. An offensive marketing gimmick, actually.  I’d thrown them away.

“I don’t want tools with f-ing PINK handles!” I shouted as I climbed to the attic, where there were no drill bits. “I want MY tools, my GOOD tools. He isn’t even handy! He doesn’t CARE about any of this stuff. He doesn’t need drill bits!”

Nothing shocks my dad into quiet like an enraged woman.

When I returned to the basement, I found him standing at the washing machine, patiently waiting for my storm to pass.

A Clutch Moment

It swept out, leaving me spent, weary and full of sorrow.

I started to cry.

My Dad quietly, gently opened his arms.

I stepped into his embrace, and collapsed against his chest, sobbing and heaving. A big, snotty, sobbing mess against his red cotton sweater.

He did not say a word. Just wrapped his arms around me — and it was precisely what I needed from him in that moment, and had needed from him over all those years of distance.

I was still 40 — and also somewhere in that mess a five-year-old kid, missing her Dad.

A little girl, resting and comforted by her dad. (Adobe stock image.)

Oh, You Mean Gone

When I was in my 20s and living on the Maine coast, I volunteered with an organization that helped families through the grieving process. During our training, I’d learned how a child often grieves, and some ways to help.

A child will seem just fine, we were told, going about his day despite a loss we know to be devastating to him, because he doesn’t fully understand what “gone” means.

But he’s working on it in the background. As time passes.

Then there’s a little moment. A shoelace breaks. Or the peanut butter sandwich falls on the floor.

And “gone” floods in, and takes over.

Oh, you mean gone. I can’t see my mom or dad or sister or grandmother any more. Never again.

The full devastation of “gone” rushes in.

In that moment, the most helpful response to that child is not to fix the shoelace or replace the peanut butter sandwich.

Please don’t tell him it’s “just a shoelace” or “just a peanut butter sandwich.”

Silently see his pain. Simply be with him as he feels it.

Long-Awaited Comfort

That day in the basement, I felt the “gone” in a whole new way.

My pain in that moment was believing a man I’d trusted, married and planned a life with had seemingly gone out of his way to hurt me. Deep down, I knew the split was for the best — and still I had to grieve the marriage, the future we’d planned together.

My Dad found himself in a clutch moment with a track record of choking.

But instead of changing the subject or zipping off to the hardware store, he gave me exactly what I needed, and had been craving from him for 40 years.

The calvary rode in, not with a hammer or paintbrush — but with a silent embrace.

Quiet acceptance. Strength and comfort.

Just hold me through this sorrow.

Sit beside me for some of my darkest moments. Remind me that I’m not alone, that I’m loved, and that it will get better.

That’s all.

Finding the Drill Bits

Upstairs in the kitchen, I apologized to Stephanie. “I’m so sorry I snapped at you.”

“Did you?” she said, and chuckled.

“I live with your dad, you know. I hadn’t noticed.”

We did not fix the gutter that day. The house still stands. I drive by it when I visit the charming little town.

A couple of weeks later, I cleaned out a bag I’d forgotten all about and found a whole set of drill bits. Memory flooded back, of packing a bag of tools for a scarecrow-making workshop at Halloween.

To be clear: My ex-husband had nothing to do with the missing drill bits that day, and I wish him only happiness and peace.

Over the next several months and a few years, my dad and I had many real, honest heart-to-heart conversations as I worked through the divorce and fell in love with a wonderful man and his two sons — my stepsons, our sons.

Dad and I talked many times as he faced a terminal diagnosis. Those talks were not all calm nor sunshine — but they were real and honest.

When my stepmother put together the invitation for the memorial open house in Stephanie’s garden, I found my favorite picture of my Dad: A broad smile below his grey mustache. He’s wearing that red sweater, almost a year later, waiting for his French toast in the little café down the hill from my sweet humble Victorian house.

My Dad, in a favorite red sweater, on the weekend we finished re-painting the living room and dining room of my little folk Victorian house, about a year after the drill bits went missing — and we could laugh about it.

~~~

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How to Crush the Meanest Monkey Mind? Try Butter & Biking

How to Crush the Meanest Monkey Mind? Try Butter & Biking

by | Dec 3, 2021

Early in our romance, my husband and I decided to host big family, holiday dinners. I just needed to learn how to do it without losing my cool. This year, I crushed the meanest monkey mind with biking — and some butter.

The year I turned 40, I did a big bike ride with my Uncle Dizzy. Our goal: 75 miles on one summer day. He had biked the “Pedal to the Point” event, riding from Cleveland west to the Cedar Point amusement park in Sandusky, to raise money for multiple sclerosis research and treatment. 

I once biked across Maine in a similar, three-day event. So for a few years at family Christmas Eve gatherings, over our plates of meatballs and cocktail shrimp, Uncle Diz and I chatted about doing the Ohio event together.

Then it was time. 

Back in central Pennsylvania, as soon as the weather warmed, I started riding my black Schwinn cruiser on country roads beside beautiful creeks and farm fields, adding five miles to my rides each week. By the high heat of late July, I’d worked up to 65-mile solo rides. 

The early August day of the Cleveland ride brought high humidity and blistering, dangerous 95-degree heat. The kind that warps the air into waves above the asphalt and makes the cornstalks appear to sway in their tidy rows. 

In the cool dawn, Uncle Diz picked me up at my mom’s house and helped me load my bike and gear into the bed of his shiny new pickup truck, beside his bike. We headed to the starting point.

As we pedaled and ticked off our miles, we paced ourselves, drank lots of water, stopped at every snack tent for a break.

Ohio is flat terrain. On the only big hill, I down-shifted and dug in. My stamina and strong legs pedaled me up, past lots of people groaning about the hill.

I’d trained on steep hills among the ridges and valleys of central Pennsylvania, building my strength with each sweaty ride.

I crushed that hill. I crushed the ride and my goal. And I felt fantastic. 

Training and Triumph to Battle Stress

That memory of triumph popped to mind the week of Thanksgiving, as I battled my holiday hosting stress.

Hosting is both a joy — and an endurance challenge. My big challenge is when stress over all of the pieces wears me out, makes me cranky, and derails the goal for my husband and I to take good care of everyone. 

Our family would be just fine with paper plates and plastic utensils. So this pressure comes from me, and my layers of internal pressure stack up higher than a seven-layer salad. 

Especially at Thanksgiving (the one in November), which is especially emotionally loaded.

There’s my desire for our home to look its very best and be its very cleanest. My motivation for the family time to be as delightful as all those Christmas Eves my aunt hosted. 

My eco-foodie desire to use the most flavorful, local ingredients. For every dish to be really delicious. 

The fresh ginger and an organic orange for the cranberry sauce. The pie apples from the local orchard. The prettiest table runner. 

I have a creative vision for how I want everything to taste, look and feel, all together. 

OK, I’ll confess. I want it all to be perfect — and therein lies the problem.

When No One Feels Cherished

I’ve noticed my husband frozen with shock, staring as my quest to find enough polished, good vintage silver dinner forks tipped me to tears.

I once body-blocked my mother-in-law just before she was about to set out ghastly, regular paper napkins instead of the proper, matching cloth ones. She was just trying to help. 

When guests arrive to a stressed-out host, no one feels cherished, or taken care of or comfortable — which is the opposite of what I want — my friend Elizabeth reminded me when we talked about my challenge. I knew she was right.

So this year, especially since we missed our big family Thanksgiving meal last year, I wanted to crush my stress, like I crushed that hill on that big bike ride, and nail the mission of a relaxed hostess giving a comfortable holiday meal.

It was time. I was determined. My training schedule was a big, prioritized prep schedule for the month of November. I asked for help. I adjusted my creative vision to allow for some paper plates for dessert. (Gold ones.)

I imagined how great it would feel to wake up Thursday morning with the smell of roasted turkey, and the table all decorated and set. My husband cooks the turkey overnight in a roaster, makes the mashed potatoes and works with my mom and I on the final push of serving all the dishes.

By the Sunday before Thanksgiving: Our big, 12-foot Amish wedding table was set up in our clean living and dining room. Ready! Let’s do this.

On Monday: Hello Monkey Mind 

I took my struggle to the page and used my writing time to dig for the source of this internal pressure, obsession and strive for perfection at our holiday table. 

The critical, irrational meanies, I realized, are in my own mind. Good news — I could control it.

Decades ago, I learned about “monkey mind” from Natalie Goldberg, a favorite author of books on writing who teaches strategies for tuning it out. For decades, I’ve used them as a pro writer.

If you have no idea what this means, well, I’m a little jealous. Let me explain.

A Buddhist teaching is that we all have the monkey mind of ongoing, mental chatter.

“Monkey mind” for some is the restless, insatiable inner critic — or a committee of critics. This Psychology Today article on calming monkey mind quotes Goldberg, quoting the term from Buddhism, and describes monkey mind as easily distracted and related to the ego.

These monkeys are mean and nasty. Their mantra becomes “not-good-enough, not-good-enough, not-good-enough.” And for me, that means no matter how early I start, this mantra drives me to fill the extra time to make it perfect — which is impossible. 

Short version: Monkey mind running amok will screw me every time. Every. Single. Freaking. Time.

Short version: Monkey mind running amok will screw me every time. Every. Single. Time.

Warriors Breathe, Play Music & Dance

Something about hosting holidays for me wakes up the meanest monkeys, loads them with Red Bull and opens their cages.

But — I realized, I already have lots of strategies like listening to music to squash the monkey mind. I function. I finish. I publish. So I wrote up 15 of those stress-busting strategies. Read about them here.

I’d set and crushed goals before, like standing on the TEDxPSU stage in front of hundreds of strangers to tell a deeply personal and painful story without notes, and completing that 75-mile bike ride with Uncle Dizzy.

So I knew I could be my own warrior against the monkeys. I’d have to keep them far away from the steering wheel, drown out their mantra with music and dance them back to their cages if they got rowdy.

But first, the big grocery shopping.

On Tuesday: Pie Crust Disaster

After hours of work, my pie crust crumbled under the rolling pin. Nothing I tried could save it. Throughout the year, I make gorgeous pies, kind of training for Thanksgiving. Apple. Cherry. Mixed berry. Peach. All with little designs and cut-outs of hearts and stars.

Maybe that pie crust sensed my anxiety. Now, I was frustrated, behind schedule and had no pies. I won’t lie: I cried a little. Then shook it off, took a break from the kitchen, got in the car and drove over the mountain to a favorite farmers market. 

I bought squash and brussels sprouts and garlic, then stopped at the big grocery store in search of pre-made pie crust. There — I cut a corner. Small victories!

But there was an empty space in the dairy section where the pre-made pie crust should be. My anxiety built as I waited for a kind clerk to check in the back for me. No luck.

My apple pies were to be the dairy-free dessert option. 

So I bought a fresh batch of shortening sticks — and two more pounds of butter. OK – the butter made no sense — but I just felt better at the thought, and tossed the butter into my basket. The monkeys had the wheel.

I bought a fresh batch of shortening sticks and two more pounds of butter.

OK, the butter made no sense.

But I felt better at the thought, so tossed it into my basket.

I swung by Trader Joe’s, found the frozen pie crust and looked around for signs against hoarding, then tossed four boxes into my basket. Back home, I read “contains milk” on the package, stuffed them in the freezer, put the shortening sticks in the refrigerator, and called it a day. 

Hostess Serving Apple Pie
When the Piecrust Crumbles, Keep Calm & Take a Break

On Wednesday: The Scent of Victory

On Wednesday, I was fresh for the battle. Victory would be mine. I’d trained for this over many years of holiday hosting. Now, the monkeys were really pissing me off. I blamed them for the pie crust problem and imagined them as the winged monkeys from the Wizard of Oz.

Even the Wicked Witch of the West could be melted with a bucket of water. Surely, something could melt the flying monkeys. Why not butter?! I imagined pelting the monkeys with the extra sticks of butter. The monkeys vaporized.

I posted my stress-beating strategies, to focus on my game plan.

I made a new batch of dairy-free pie crust with extra-cold shortening, carefully cut in and it rolled out beautifully. The Trader Joe’s pie crust cracked into many pieces, but I patched them together, made it work and baked the pies — with tiny heart cut-outs. Done!

I made the fresh cranberry relish with oranges and ginger. Done!

I finished the final round of cleaning and washing floors, before my mom and stepfather arrived from Ohio with their dog. I took a break to relax with them. My husband picked up takeout for dinner, then I tackled the stuffing. As the music played loudly, I made a double-batch of stuffing and then dug in and pushed myself to polish the silver.

Setting the table would have to wait until the morning. Winding down and getting a full night’s rest was more important. As I slept, the turkey cooked in the roaster while my husband napped.

Thanksgiving Morning

On Thanksgiving morning: The smell of roasted turkey! Thankyou, my dear, sweet husband. I promised myself I would breathe, stay present and calm, and enjoy the day. The dogs and I took a short walk outside. The chilly air gave way to warmth. 

I played more music and scrambled to finish the silver, set the table and pull out the rest of the serving pieces. 

All the prep was relatively calm and organized. It can always be smoother. Our tall, grown-up “boys” helped my husband and mom in the kitchen with all the little, last-minute things as my mom made the mushroom gravy. They reached things high up on shelves my short mom can’t reach.

I don’t know how my mom does it, but she takes over the stove and makes a pile of brussels sprouts with bacon and a load of mushroom gravy. 

For me, that was the best, most joyful part: Our family working together in the kitchen. 

The best, most joyful part: Our family working together in the kitchen. 

I finished the flowers for the dining table at our kitchen table, listening to the people I love with all of my heart chatting and cooking together behind me, then took some time to get ready. Even mascara this year! 

My mother-in-law arrived with light snacks. She dressed the kitchen table for the little kids and read my checklist of menu items.

When the little kids arrived, we were ready to go and our family served our extended family a lovely meal. All the food turned out well. My mom had brought a gorgeous pumpkin cheesecake. The little kids loved their special table with their own tablecloth and flowers. The big kids played with the little kids after dessert. Precious.

Beautifully Imperfect & Thoroughly Enjoyable

It was … beautifully imperfect. We worked together to give each other a warm and special holiday experience — one I thoroughly enjoyed.

Last week, I crushed the meanest monkey mind, and learned a lot. Bring on Christmas.

This Thanksgiving brought much insight for the next rounds of hosting — and a lot of leftovers. Too much.

So next year: One batch of stuffing. One pie, starting with wicked cold shortening. Shop the farmers market the week before. I made notes, and stuffed them in my 2022 calendar. Would you help me remember?! 

A big bike ride challenge in 2022 also sounds pretty good. There’s time to train before the Thanksgiving prep begins. Who’s with me?!

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