I felt I hit my peak at age 50. Truly the top of the mountain. Wonderful things were happening in my life; love, career, health, opportunity but I could see the downward slope of my life in my future as I aged. One could call it a crisis. But I like Brene Brown’s take on it. It’s an unraveling. Now in the autumn of my life, I know my days here on this planet grow shorter but because of that I am less inclined to waste them. I want to enjoy every day, take on new challenges, breathe in new experiences, be who I want to be, not who others want me to be. Life is precious. Live it. Live it fully. Right to the end. BH
“People may call what happens at midlife “a crisis”.
But it’s not.
It’s an unraveling . . .
a time when you feel a desperate pull to live the life you want to live not the one you’re supposed to live.
The unraveling is a time when you are challenged by the universe to let go of who you think you are supposed to be
I have just returned from the most restful, relaxing vacation I have ever had in my entire life. We had nine lovely days at my brother Peter’s and his wife Sharon’s lakeside home in Bancroft while they vacationed in Italy. Thank you, Peter and Sharon. Here’s a story I wrote in remembrance of our quiet days of peace and rejuvenation.
They wake me. Their calls are wavering across the lake. I open my eyes and raise the window blind. I see them. They have arrived once again with daybreak. Normally, their eerie calls are short-lived, wild wails, mournful modulations, but this morning they have something more to say. Their talk continues and I get up and go out to see what all the commotion is about.
Five adult loons splash about on the water, dive and recover, hoot to each other, and flash their wings with a tail rattle that sprays droplets into the morning mist. One of them begins to run across the surface, churning up circles of water, wings flapping, as it prepares for takeoff with a running start. Then up, up into the sky, it circles the lake and lands once again with a smooth coasting splash to join the others.
Again, the cacophony continues. Laughing, chortling, a breaking yodel of bird voices, they are a playful party, a mad choir in 5-part harmony. What are they about this morning? We have seen these five this week but never like this. Their song and play goes on for almost a half-hour. Such beauty to the eyes and ears as they romp about in the rising mist. Then, it seems the gathering is over. One by one they retreat to further shores and the lake is quiet once again.
But nature is not done celebrating. The flowers are full of morning dew, reaching, straining to catch the warming sun as it rises in the sky. Orange, red, yellow, pink petals call to the hummingbirds, “Breakfast time.” And they come from their tree-top nests hungry and ready for a new day. There are at least six of them. Although it is difficult to tell. They flash about, whirling and twirling doing aerial acrobatics that amaze and dumbfound as they juggle for space at the three feeders that my brother has erected for them. Extremely territorial, they claim their space boldly and unendingly. It is a dance as they gyrate, and do-si-do, spinning like little helicopters, zipping and zinging as they chase each other back and forth. They are blazing whirligigs, shimmering jewels with iridescent green feathers and ruby throats. Tirelessly they fly about all day long, entertaining and amusing us with their wondrous circus act.
I walk down to the dock, coffee in hand, and just sit. And watch. A small little head pops up just off-shore and I know that the local turtle is checking me out before it dives back down into the cool, deeper waters. This morning there are three of them, one much bigger than the others. The small ones are painted with hints of orange and yellow on the edges of their smooth green backs. The larger one might be a snapping turtle but he seems to mean me no harm. After all, this is his home and I am just a visitor. A quiet one at that.
My fishing pole is sitting on the dock, daring me to make a cast, see if you can catch a fish it says. Harold did. The first day, his third cast, he latched onto a rather large pike. He called out to me, “Bring the camera” and I ran down to the shore, barefoot and eager to see what he had on his line. “Wait, wait until I’m ready. Okay, bring it up.” Snap went the line, swinging like a wet noodle in the empty air. But “Look. He’s right there in the water.” We peeked over the edge of the dock to see a good two foot pike just sitting there in the shallow water, stunned perhaps, a lure still stuck in his mouth, unmoving. For a moment, I looked away, then back, and he was gone. That fish gave us hope. Where there’s one, there will be another. But although we fished every day at different times of the day, we never got another bite. I try again this morning, but to no avail. It’s fun and a challenge just to try; balance a rod in your hand, release the reel, swing your arm and line back, snap it forward and watch your lure soar over the surface and land with a plop in the water with a perfect aim, right where you wanted it to be. Turn the reel handle, the bail clicks, and the line returns smoothly, slowly back to you, cruising the underwater depths as you hope for that sudden yank and taut line that signals a fish has taken your bait. But not this morning and that’s okay.
I turn from the lake and head back up over the dock. A morning glimmer catches my eye. At the edge of the dock where the platform joins the walkway, I see a beautiful web, full of dew and glistening in the sun. I take a picture with my camera, mesmerized by its perfect symmetry and intricate patterns. I turn and then I see another. And another. And another. The shallows are full of shining spider webs, caught between grasses and weeds, woven wonders that thrill and delight. This one looks like a giant suspension bridge strung between thin reeds. That one looks like the glowing sail of a ship. There’s one that looks like a slingshot full of sticky strings ready to nab its prey. One of them connects grassy stalk after stalk with flowing, drooping, connecting lines, moving like interlocking tightropes that flow on and on above the water. Such beauty.
I chase the dragonflies hoping for a photo. They have their own agenda, gliding, bouncing off the surface of the lake, avoiding the sudden slurp as a fish rises hopeful for breakfast. Sometimes they land on the dock or the shoreline grasses. They allow me a quick glimpse into their transparent beauty, wings like clear stained glass windows, bodies of vibrant colours, red, green, turquoise.
I return to the patio and take a seat. I am learning to just sit and wait and watch. Nature will provide some quiet spectacle. This morning, it’s a little more than that. A flock of noisy grackles arrives in a burst of squawking birds, sharp calls, and flapping wings. There’s about thirty of them. They fly about from grass to trees, chasing each other, in zig-zag lines of chaos and clamour. They upset the other birds. The flickers in the tall spruce jump from branch to branch, piercing the air with their high-pitched squeal. This is their territory and they seem fearful of these invaders. The blue jay, guardian of the forest, calls out warnings in its ear-splitting scream. The grackles continue to chatter and chase, owning the space. I stand and move toward the lawn and they retreat to the next door neighbour’s grassy areas. The other birds slowly settle down.
I walk to the base of the flickers’ tree and there on the ground is a small gift, a bright yellow, brown and white feather, a wing feather perhaps, knocked loose in the fearful kerfuffle. A few more steps and I find another prize, a blue jay feather, indigo and black, tipped with a shot of white. I say a little prayer of gratitude for this morning performance where I was granted a free, front row seat.
I breathe and count my blessings, thankful for these moments of rest and relaxation full of nature’s quiet drama and wonders. I close my eyes and lean back. Time for another coffee. Perhaps in a few minutes.
Eramosa Eden is a spiritual retreat centre for renewing body, mind, and spirit and, for the last five years, it has been an important place for me to replenish and inspire me as a writer, author, and photographer. They now need our help.
Over the period of five years, I have attended full-day writer workshops where I was given opportunity to meet with other like-minded people, to build a community of support and encouragement and to write freely in the variety of settings, both indoors and outdoors, in this beautiful and inspiring place. The rustic buildings, the cedar forest, the bubbling river are all conducive to creating an environment of peace and creativity.
For two years, I was happy to be part of the River Writers group that met bi-weekly in the rooms and buildings of Eramosa Eden where my writing skills and creativity were stretched and stimulated. How wonderful to have such a place to bond together with other creative and talented writers and authors.
My photography club, Into Focus Photography Club, which meets monthly at the Evergreen Seniors Community Centre, enjoyed a stimulating and productive day at Eramosa Eden taking photos of the natural beauty that abounds in this special place.
I, for one, would hate to see this veritable treasure of nature, creativity and spirituality, be lost to another cause or development. It has been an important part of my own growth, not only as a writer and artist, but personally, it has been a quiet retreat of beauty and replenishment, a place to renew my body and soul.
One need only to wander the rooms and the forest to see how important Eramosa Eden has been to many others who have dedicated their time, materials, and efforts to creating beauty in this magical place. Many have left behind a piece of themselves through paintings, weavings, and other creations, all as an offering of gratitude for what has been given to them.
The world needs places like Eramosa Eden. They act as sanctuaries of peace and creativity, places where one can get away from the maddening pace of our regular lives and replenish and stimulate our minds and senses in a quiet and beautiful natural setting. Can you help? Write a letter of support “To Whom It May Concern” and address it to Gloria Nye at glorianye@gmail.com
December 11, 2018, was the anniversary of Tom, my beloved husband’s death. Eight years ago, he passed away into another world. Facebook, my main social media site, has a feature that takes you back on your timeline with each passing day. You are able to see what you did and said on December 11 from 2008, 2009, and so on. I was able to trace my life for the weeks and days preceding Tom’s death. I could see all the things that were happening and my comments on them, and I couldn’t help but think over and over again, If I only knew that one week later, three days later, Tom would be dead. It put a very different perspective on life for me. We just never know, do we, what life will bring. It reminded me even more to live each day fully, with zest. This is the main theme of my book, our story, in 10 – A Story of Love, Life, and Loss that I published after Tom’s death. His death and the grief over the subsequent years has taught me much about living a full life.
Grief has softened me. Not at first. First I felt raw and torn, laid open like a jagged wound. But with time that has healed and in the opening of that wound, deep in my gut, I have come to recognize a soft, vulnerable place. And I mean I physically feel it that way. There used to be a hole, a place where the pain of losing Tom and never having him in my life again sat like a dark cavern. It has been replaced. Now there is a fullness filling that empty hole, a soft spot, almost like the yolk inside an egg. It sits in the same place, never forgetting, but always accepting. Tom’s death took away a piece of my soul, but left behind a soft, accepting centre of love and gratitude. It may be delicate, but it’s not weak. In its softness is strength, courage, empathy. It’s pliable, secure, and forgiving.
Reading Mark Nepo’s , The Book of Awakening, I came across this passage. He seems to know about that soft spot within that comes after deep pain. He writes:
“It leads me to say that if you are unhappy or in pain, nothing will remove those surfaces. But acceptance and a strong heart will crack them like a shell, exposing a soft thing waiting to take form. It glows. I think it is the one spirit we all share.”
Grief has cracked me open, and because I was able to look and experience it full in the face, it has left behind a soft jewel in the centre of my soul.
As an introduction to each other at our recent Rhythmwood Soul Journey, Wendy Roman asked us to write a poem about ourselves from a basic form called “I Am From . . . “. All we had to do was fill in the blanks as we reminisced about our past and contemplated all the people and events that had formed who we are today. Here is my poem. What would your poem be?
I Am From by Barbara Heagy
I am from country farms,
From czardas and paprikash.
I am from grandma’s warm lap
like sheltering laughter.
I am from lilacs, fresh mown hay,
and bubbling creeks.
I am from hippies and hash,
From cool northern lakes and jumping fish.
I am from journals and contemplations,
From words and books and songs.
I am from breath and moving bodies.
I am from spiritual journeys danced in prayers,
laced with pain and grace.
This past week I went on a retreat called Rhythmwood Soul Journey, led by Wendy Roman of Rhythmwood Dance Studio. For eight weeks before our retreat where we met in person, we had online assignments using poetry, journal writing, conscious dance and shared online conferences to introduce us to each other and prepare us with some basic movement principles and ideas for contemplation and discussion.
In the studio, Wendy used daily readings, journal writing, conscious dance, meditation, nature experiences and art to take us on a further soul journey of the feminine spirit.
On the last day of our wonderful week, I sat quietly and thought about how I would explain the past week to my friends and family. It was such a deep and meaningful experience that I truly had no words. But I put my pen to paper, and let the words just flow. This poem is what came out.
I HAVE NO WORDS
I have no words.
How do you explain this feeling of wholeness, connectedness, fulfilment to another?
How do you explain a journey of the soul where I, you, us, become equally important and valuable to the woven web?
How do you explain a creation of the spirit that fills and overflows through me, to you, to earth, to sky, to water, to fire and beyond?
How do you speak of the gentle care, the kindness, the deep felt gratitude for who I am, and who I become with you, and you, and you?
How do I explain the fire within, the fire without, the consuming fire that refines and invites you to new beginnings?
How do I explain the magic of dancing with another, where the flow between us becomes liquid energy that uplifts, intertwines, and releases the ‘me’ to become the ‘us’?
How do I explain the wonder of waves rushing to shore, the birds rising through song, the sky on fire, our very souls on fire?
How do I explain the specialness, the uniqueness of another? Through vulnerability and laughter and tears, and strength and weakness, through words and song and dance and art, a new creation was born.
How do I explain all this?
There are no words.
Wendy Roman is a gifted teacher and I would recommend taking a workshop or retreat with her in the future. Check out her website at www.rhythmwood.ca
Tonight, you my student from my Gr. 1 class of 2010-11 graduate from elementary school. Next September 2018 you head on to high school. I wanted to be there to watch you accept your diploma. I wanted you to know that you and your classmates are a very special class to me. You were with me through the final stages of my husband Tom’s cancer journey and you and your family were in my life when he passed away December 11, 2010. Your kindness and support at that difficult time meant so much to me.
I wrote a book called 10 – A Story of Love, Life, and Loss about my life with my husband and our final days. Did you know that you and your classmates are in my book? Here are some excerpts from the book to show you how much you all meant to me.
I love, love, love my little class this year . . . I have been very open about Tom
and his cancer, and they regularly make cards and letters for both of us, telling
us how much they love us and how they are really hoping Tom feels better.
It’s a regular little Love Fest’. They are so cute!
We made some wonderful memories together and you brightened my days at some of my darkest hours.
My class went to Puck’s Farm, over near Schomberg, last week with the other
Gr. 1 class, and we had a fabulous day! The weather was sunny with a blue sky.
It was cool but not cold, and the kids and adults had a ball. We were rotated
through ten different centres of activity which included pony rides for every kid,
a hay wagon ride led by two big old horses, a tour through the barn to see the
pigs, chickens, sheep, horses, donkeys and geese, a cedar maze . . . , another maze
made on a hill made of sorghum grass which grows up to 12 feet, and a tour through the apple orchard where we picked and ate to our heart’s content while sitting under the old apple trees which were spray-free. There was a little carnival area with a jumping castle and a tiny Ferris wheel, and we each got to try our hand at milking the very patient and well-behaved cow. It wasn’t as easy as it looked.
The cow was not very pleased with me as I tried and tried to get milk squirting,
(she kept looking over her shoulder at me, but I finally did it). Every kid went home
with a pumpkin and a smile.
In November and December, we made more memories.
My Christmas spirit is starting to kick in. It has to when you teach small children.
We made our first Christmas craft in the classroom, pizza boxes cut into wreaths
decorated with tissue paper puffs and crepe paper ribbons. You can still smell
the cheese and pepperoni on the box, but it is our attempt at reusing cardboard
in a creative and environmental way. Mmmmm, our wreaths smell good! I also
got handed the script for the Christmas play with the music so we have already
started to listen to it and are getting ready for rehearsals which start next week.
We finally finished our last writing project we were doing as a whole school on
the theme of ‘Courage’. The last project was writing a letter to someone we felt
had demonstrated courage. My Grade Ones wrote to soldiers, fire fighters, and
to Terry Fox’s Mom, Dad and family. Some wrote to their own sisters, brothers,
moms, dads, and grandparents. One little boy wrote to a Special Needs kid I
had in my class last year whose life daily hangs on a thread.
So, you see, your love and support as a small child was very important to me. Kindness, at any age, is a gift of love no matter who is offering it or who is receiving it. I hope you remember to be kind to others as you go on to high school and become an adult. Knowledge is important but care for your world whether it be a person, an animal, or nature is more important.
My best wishes for you as you go on to new adventures. Keep learning, keep being curious, keep being open to the world. I believe in you. Most of all, keep believing in yourself. You can do anything you set your heart to.
This month I visited the renowned city of New Orleans, the birthplace of jazz music. We stayed close to the French Quarter and had many opportunities every day to hear jazz music in a variety of venues – the street, small pubs, the beautiful Orpheum Theatre, aboard the Steamboat Natchez, and the night clubs of Frenchman Street. I’ve been to several jazz events and festivals in my life but, for some reason, the New Orleans musicians made me see my life differently. The way they related to each other as they played, their culture, their spirit, all spoke to me. It seemed there were some unspoken rules while playing that could be good examples for living a balanced, kind, and joyful life for us all.
Thank you, New Orleans musicians. This is what you taught me.
Live in the moment. Catch the groove and ride it.
Be creative. Look for the magic and let it happen.
Be generous. Offer your best. Give it your all.
Take turns. Share the glory. Give everyone a chance to shine.
Be authentic. Be real. Be you, for you are special.
And, above all,
Have fun.
Life is a celebration. Throw yourself into it and share your joy with others.
I want to say a big “Thank You” to a neighbour who helped me out yesterday with snow clearing. I had completed all that I had wanted to do but I still had that wall of snow sitting at the end of the driveway blocking my access to the road. You know that horrible stuff that is full of road dirt, salt and mud, and is more ice blocks than snow.
I was struggling. I had to chop it out and then heave heavy blocks of snow and ice up onto the snow bank, making sure it didn’t topple back onto the sidewalk or the road. A young man approached me from the other side of the road. He said, “I couldn’t walk by and watch you struggling without helping. Let me finish the job for you.”
I was flabbergasted and relieved. My regular snow clearing guy of eight years is unable to do it this year and I have been worrying about how I was going to handle clearing a six car driveway for the rest of the winter. It’s made even more difficult because the driveway is long and narrow and the only place snow can be piled up is at either end of the driveway and it must be heaved up over a raised wall at the front.
I ran in the house and brought him out a coffee. The job took him ten minutes. For me, it would have been a half-hour or more with frequent rests between shovelfuls. I offered him money but he wouldn’t take it. I told him my story and how I was still looking for someone to help me clear my driveway for the rest of the winter. He offered to help me out until the end of March.
It turns out he is a mature student, gone back to school to get a social work degree. He has four children of his own and hopes to work with children some day. He’s going to help me keep just the end of the driveway clear, enough for two cars, until school is over. He lives just down the street and walks by my house every day. “Just leave the shovels out for me at the back of the house, and I will clear your driveway when I go by as it is needed. It won’t take me more than half and hour.” For that, I will pay him the fee I would have paid my regular snow guy. I will insist.
Thank you, Chris, my Snow Angel. Thank you for your kindness.
This week a group of friends, all working and/or retired teachers, celebrated our Christmas pot luck dinner. I drove almost two hours one way to see them, as I do every month, but I love this group of friends and am willing to do it. We always go to Anne and Bobby’s log cabin home set back off a country road, surrounded by forest and fields. Years ago, they built this beautiful log home mostly by themselves; they dug their own well and set themselves up to be as self-sufficient as possible. They have a deep sense of stewardship for the earth and live as simply as possible. Their home is cozy and warm and I always feel welcome.
The group, as a whole, is creative and fun. We always go for a hike before dinner, enjoy our meal and then often play board games or share photos and conversations of recent trips or events. This month we had a celebrative Christmas party.
I arrived a little late and found Bobby putting the finishing touches on a Christmas tree set up in the corner. I complimented him on his choice, assuming that he had cut down one of the many trees on his property. He invited me to come take a closer look. I was amazed! He had found a dead maple tree trunk, put it in a pot and using fresh spruce boughs and a drill and ingenuity, inserted the live boughs to create a truly beautiful little Christmas tree.
“Would you call this a fake live tree or a live fake tree?” he laughed.
We always pick a theme for our dinner. This month, because it was Christmas, we all made ‘ginger’ dishes. There was carrot ginger soup, cheese and ginger mini sandwiches, ginger flavoured cheese, a stirfry with ginger sauce and rice, ginger and cabbage salad, ginger molasses cookies, chocolate covered candied ginger, and a lemon grass/ginger bubbling beverage.
After dinner we constructed a gingerbread house that turned into a gingerbread stable when one of the walls collapsed. We had lots of laughter and fun as each of us contributed to the Christmas creche we spontaneously created with two gingerbread figures for Mary and Joseph. A bright candy wrapper became a swaddling blanket for the baby Jesus, a tiny toy figurine Anne found that looked more like a tiny alien than a baby, and we stuck him into a gingerbread molasses cookie cradle. A plastic toy giraffe became the ‘donkey’ that carried Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem. Lyn, with a huge amount of patience, finished off the final touches to the gingerbread stable with candies and chocolate.
We exchanged gifts and cards: Moraine had a friendship bracelet for each of us, brought back from her recent trip to Guatemala; Lyn had hand-made soaps and toothpaste she had made at a local workshop; I handed out my own photo Christmas cards and Anne and Bobby gave us each a copy of their annual “Egbert Courier” newsletter.
Kathy brought a Christmas trivia game and we had fun asking each other questions and trying to come up with the correct answers as a group. Many of the questions had to do with Christmas carols and each time one came up, we would stop the game and sing a Christmas song together with Anne playing piano and Bobby his violin.
At the end of the night, we dimmed the lights, and with musical accompaniment and two part harmony, we sang “Silent Night” in unison. With lots of hugs and kisses, we said our goodbyes and wished each other a Merry Christmas.
For me, this was a memorable evening that I will treasure for years to come. It was the simple things that counted the most: good friendships, a tasty meal, music, hand-made gifts, and lots of laughter and spontaneity.
Merry Christmas to all. I pray that you too will have a memory-filled, happy holiday season.
