For globetrotters with significantly greater means than me, my big year of travel might not seem worth even a first look, much less a second. I can understand that. But as this year winds down, I realized that for the first time in my decades-long life, I managed to put big distances between me and my home a whopping seven times, not including three quick day trips to Chicago. I feel lucky that I was able to keep going, never getting sick or waylaid by any tough circumstance, although by the end of the longer journeys, I was glad to get back home into my own bed. After all that travel, doing a whole lot of nothing was a high priority for a time. My recovery skills take longer to work their magic than they used to, back in the day. At any rate, as I traversed what I calculated as an astonishing 15,000 miles between early January and mid-November, I spent a lot of time on an interior journey that ran parallel to the miles I was logging on the exterior one. I don’t suppose that I’ll ever wholly understand how I got from way back there to here, from me to we to me again. But I’ve always had this goal of being wholly integrated, as fully self-actualized as I can be before I finally exit this chaotic world, to know that I make some sense, if only to myself. And after years of working at it, I’m finally able to measure some of my progress.
In January, I was nervous about going back to Starved Rock. Michael and I went there for about 25 years, first with our family, then on our own, and eventually, once again with our expanding crew as we added girlfriends, boyfriends, spouses and eventually grandchildren. I remembered that time in December, 2000, when we told our kids that Michael would be leaving his business and going back to college to pursue a teaching career at age 51. They were wide-eyed and nervous, two teenagers who’d never had any significant jolt to their lives until then. That was only one memory from our many times there. I thought that I might get emotionally undone by being in that familiar environment for the first time without Michael. Many years earlier, after my father died, I’d headed to a restaurant in Chicago where our family had gathered for numerous enjoyable meals. The food was always good and I’d hoped for a little nostalgia as part of my return. Instead I felt miserable and empty – I couldn’t wait to get out of there and I never returned. The emotions were too much for me. I was thinking that I’d feel similarly at Starved Rock. But I didn’t. The nostalgia was there, along with a bit of wistfulness, but mostly I was able to enjoy the natural beauty of the park along with the comfortable inn, as I’d always done in the past. I acknowledged some personal growth with that recognition. I’ve come a long way since my twenties and thirties, when just being in a sentimental place that reminded me of people who’d died was enough to make me throw up my hands and retreat. I’m stronger now, more internally cohesive and better able to manage complex emotions. I’m gratified to recognize that I’ve made some progress along my way. I’ve also been able to let go of many regrets that haunted me when I was younger. I’ve been fortunate that I was aware enough, especially in times of making big decisions, that I mostly knew what I was doing. While I rarely looked back on those with regret, I did regularly beat myself up about things I’d said or done that were petty or hurtful, especially to my family. Sometimes I was manipulative and sometimes I lied, which wound up making me feel worse than whatever had motivated my behavior in the first place. When my friendship with Michael was developing, I trusted him so completely that I told him every rotten thing I’d ever done. From that initial unloading, I moved on to sorting myself out with a few therapists over the years, eventually coming clean to my victims, who of course had no idea what had happened way back when. I have this idea that most people haul their hurts and issues from all the way back in childhood through everything that comes later. The trick is to probe around in all that debris to find healthier ways to manage it and to forgive yourself for the frailties that make a person human. Breaking down the overwhelming traumas and making issues smaller and more manageable is a great relief. Don’t get me wrong – like everyone else I have my repetitive negative tendencies. I wish I could be more disciplined about my diet and my money management. But I’m thinking of the bigger psychological stuff that can drag a person down. I’m glad I don’t have to spend much time in the dark land of regret and self-recriminations, where thoughts of feeling useless or like a failure haunt my mind. Having the good fortune of finding a life partner who worked with me as I sorted through my baggage, along with a professional or two who helped me develop skills that worked for my problems, is simply good fortune. For that I’m grateful.
February was a non-travel month. But in March I headed to Naples, Florida to be with a couple who have been part of my life since the ‘70’s. In addition to the fact that they live on the Gulf Coast, one of my favorite places on earth, they are among the very few couples I can spend time with who never make me aware that I am “the single.” It’s really kind of ironic that I’m so constantly aware of being a “one” in this part of my life. Michael and I were both fiercely committed to always being our own individual selves. In fact, the oft-used expression “better half,” which is how some people refer to their partners, has always made my skin crawl. I’m my own full person and Michael was his. My line to him was, “I don’t needja but I wantcha.” But in truth, despite the years of living independently, and being really good at it, I’m frequently reminded that the world still favors couples. In fact, I’ve learned that out in the universe, being single is often actually penalized, at least economically – think of all those deals out there that are strictly for “double occupancy.” Most of the coupled people who were part of my life when I was still with Michael, don’t recognize the ways in which they are tone-deaf to the fact, that what are givens in the world of spouses, are quite different from the truths in single/widow world. I don’t feel sorry for myself, at least most of the time, but I do get tired of feeling unseen by them. As I’ve bluntly pointed out on several occasions, when I go home at night, no matter what problems or emotional difficulties I’ve encountered in my day, I am my sole resource for managing. I can’t lay my troubles anywhere. There’s no snuggling up to anyone for comfort or help. If my stuff is broken, I have to fix it. Lots of people live that way. It’s just that sometimes the life of the “single” isn’t on the radar of the “coupled.” I hope I didn’t, or don’t, lose my sense of awareness about how the different circumstances of a life can make people feel even more isolated than necessary. Just a bit more attention paid to remembering those sensitive spots can be a big deal. So the luxury of going to stay with friends who consistently get where I’m at, who live in a place that I love, while being able to be my whole authentic self, is not something I take for granted. What good fortune for me. I hope I’m providing safe space, too, for whoever, whenever and wherever I can.
During the spring months of April and most of May, I was at home, enjoying spring weather along with the pleasures and hard work of my garden. I marvel at how, after so many decades of digging in the same ground, I am always excited to see my favorite flowers, trees and shrubs show up once again, in all their glory. Sometimes I’m not sure where the dirt ends and I begin, or vice versa. I’m committed to my little patch in the world, in what is probably the most straightforward relationship in my life. Nature doesn’t have any hidden agendas. I do my best thinking out there without ever being distracted by the complexity of the human landscape. If there’s any conflict it’s pretty direct – more water, more light, or will you remove those weeds that are choking me? A fine refuge.
Of course, my garden, like every other living thing on this planet, is never static. In the best of times, my dependable perennials return, as do Michael’s long-lived perennial herbs, all now over thirty years old. But I lose a few plants every year which means l get to choose something new and often unusual to poke into the earth.
And of course, I still delight in some colorful annuals which need to be added each year to my landscape, as they won’t survive the cold winters. But change is certainly afoot. For the last three years, droughty conditions have been a constant worry. I spent a lot of time and a lot of money ensuring that the ground would have enough water to sustain all my plants. This year was a big struggle, with a number of normally hardy regulars, looking as though they couldn’t wait for their season to end. Recently the updated plant hardiness zones for my area were released. When I started out in my yard back in the day, the zone held steady at 3-4, meaning lots of cold-sensitive plants would not survive over the winter. Now my zone is 5A-6A. Will I live long enough to see tropical flowers or cacti planted in my neighborhood? How will the entire ecosystem fare with these changing conditions? I can’t say. But I worry about it as I continue to remove grass from the ground, replacing it with plants that can sustain the insects and animals who need them to thrive. Having a goal that allows me to have a positive impact on at least some part of the world is important for my continuing to feel relevant. With all the enormous problems out there that make me feel helpless, this is one way to preserve my mental health, no small thing in these fraught times. More good fortune.
My 72nd birthday was at the end of May. My daughter treated me to dinner at a fancy restaurant which I’ve never patronized. The food was great but the best part of the night was uninterrupted time with her. The work and family demands on her life are constant so being alone together is a rare and treasured experience for me, especially as I advance into this aging business.
Equally as special is what’s become our annual family trip to Lakeside, Michigan for the long Memorial Day weekend. The date of Michael’s death coincides with that time and we’ve made the journey there to honor his life with us since the pandemic retreated. For so many years, Lakeside was our summer version of the Starved Rock winter trip. Michael and I went there on our own, eventually bringing the kids along, and reverting back to just us before our family expanded. We had the joy of bringing our first grandson to that lovely place.
I had the same anxiety about going back to Lakeside, worried that I wouldn’t be able to enjoy myself in a place so memory-laden. Ironically, I was just as delighted to be there as usual, but on the actual anniversary of Michael’s death this year, for a time I was overwhelmed by sadness. Yet it wasn’t about the past. Instead I was pained by the knowledge that he’s missed so much of the abundance of life that I’ve been able to experience. No amount of balance or maturation will ever change that sorry fact. I just have to make my way through the reminders and go forward. I do that for both of us.
And then I went back home for a while. My niece and her daughters came for a visit after not seeing each other for a long time. Like everyone else, our family didn’t share many get-togethers during the pandemic.
I was back in the garden but also swimming daily at my beloved outdoor pool, another sustaining comfort in my life. I’m not sure why I am one of those people whose troubles dissipate, at least temporarily, when I’m submerged in the water. But I’m glad I have access to that luxury year-round.
On a more somber note, I headed to Chicago in June, accompanied by my generous kids, to attend a memorial service for one of my old friends from college. The deaths seem to have really piled up during the past few years. I realize that this part of my life will be marked with more losses than additions. Although I feel all the emotions that are normally associated with these passages, I realize that a part of me is somewhat detached from the more recent death experiences I’ve been tracking, especially since Covid entered the world. Maybe I’ve created a defense mechanism that allows me to continue living my life without getting swamped by too much additional sadness. I know very well that there remain certain potential tragedies that could knock away any equilibrium that seems to be working for me on the journey into old age. After all, I’ve already gone through some of the most painful deaths I can imagine. This issue remains one I expect to contend with for the foreseeable future.
NEXT UP, PART 2…