Month: May 2020

It took me nearly nine years to clean one closet. After John died and most of his clothes had made it to the men’s shelter like he’d asked, I attempted to clear it but mostly kept it crammed with everything from seldom worn jackets to supplies for making vision boards.  Unlike me, John delighted in getting rid of things. Because his journey from a terminal diagnosis to the day he left this earth spanned over a decade, I watched him part with everything from business receipts to a beloved acreage in the country. He had room for morning meditation, calling faraway friends, and playing cribbage.  Letting go has never been my strong suit. My son once opened my

When recent results from the Covid-19 Impact Survey revealed that 6 out of 10 of us had felt anxious, depressed, lonely, or hopeless in the preceding 7 days, I was reminded of that which I have mostly had the luxury of merely observing.  I heard the buzzing open of two sets of locked doors that clang loudly behind you as you enter the hospital unit where your possessions are in a locked metal cabinet and the walls are bare of objects of interest to those skilled in suicide attempts.  I witnessed the weeping father who would not see his little boys on Christmas because his malfunctioning brain led him to beat them.   I stood in the darkened hallway in hushed conversation about how

Sometime between the fading of the hot pink blooms of the redbud trees and the arrival of the purple striped tulips, I began my daily watch. Last week I drove by to see, but it was not yet time. Patience, I reminded myself. But now it was a Monday morning after a week of biding my time. I awake at six. I sharpen my clippers. I put on walking shoes and my garden gloves. I find the turquoise bucket that once belonged to my late friend Mary and fill it a third full of water. I head out, softly singing

“Was what I just said really true?” I silently asked myself.  I’d just claimed I felt sad that I would not be with my children on Mother’s Day. In the moment I did feel a little sad. While not an unusual thought for a mother to have, I questioned it.  My children moved to other cities many years ago. If pressed, I could not remember the last Mother’s Day I spent with them.  I have long been at peace that this day is not celebrated around mushroom quiche and mimosa toasts to my mom awesomeness.  I have been greatly spared from the biggest separation sorrows that so many are experiencing.  Still, week after week I do not see my remoting work family, my

May Day reminds me of how I’ve never been good the anonymous acts of kindness.  I do love to help. With three younger siblings there was always a child in need of shoe tied or a nose wiped.  When I was old enough to babysit for other families, I delighted in sweeping the floors and doing the dishes to please the returning parents. By junior high, volunteering was vital in my life.  First as a lawyer, now as an executive coach, helping is my jam. An enneagram assessment affirms my identity as a Number Two—The Considerate Helper. Being kind is easy.  Being anonymous not so much for me.  Unlike countless friends and family I could name (naming them would rob them of their incognito intention), I feel compelled to tell someone else about good things I’ve done. It’s quite unattractive.  I