This post is about my friend and colleague Ellen Matis, who is speaking Aug. 18 at a Fireflies at Hameau Farm event, hosted by Lisa and Gay Rodgers, farmer and owner of Hameau Farm.
Ellen founded Hello Social Co. in 2017, combining skills in social media marketing with a deep love of community. More than anything, Ellen wants to see small towns and places like the ones she’s called home thrive economically — and knows Hello Social Co. can play a role in that.
Ellen studied Journalism and Public Relations with a focus in digital media at Indiana University of Pennsylvania, and obtained a master’s in Integrated Marketing Communications from West Virginia University.
Outside of Hello Social Co., Ellen serves as the Board Vice President of Downtown Bellefonte Inc. and is a board member for Centre Foundation. When she’s not working or volunteering, she can be found hiking or camping in the Pennsylvania Wilds with her husband, daughter, and rescue pups.
When the pumpkins were plump and glorious a couple of weeks ago, and the trees ripened in crimson, flame orange and bright yellow, I soaked in all that fleeting beauty. And I felt November coming.
Do you have a month that reminds you of seismic life events, both joyful and sad? Maybe the month when your first child was born, or you started a business — or even suffered the loss of a loved one.
To live is to pile up these milestone moments year-by-year. Sometimes they cluster in a single, loaded month. For me, that’s November.
Light & Darkness
November’s light is wise and clarifying. It reveals what should stay and what should go, shines upon gratitude, gathering and family. This month reminds me I’m living a full, good life, worth appreciating — even the painful parts.
I spent much of November in 2009 at Akron General Hospital, in my dad’s intensive care room during visiting hours. When I could not visit, I did my work in the cafeteria. As he slept deeply in a medical coma, I held his hand and clung to him with every ounce of my energy, telling him stories and talking to him about strength and the healing pinks and oranges of the sunrise.
In a tug-of-war with death, in my mind’s eye, I dug my heels into thick, splattering mud, my blistering hands and those of my sister and dad’s girlfriend pulling the rope. No. Not now. Not yet. Pulling. Pulling. Praying.
He recovered, and was out of the woods by Thanksgiving — one richer and sweeter than ever. We promised him a special turkey dinner when he was fully recovered. Three months later, our Thanksgiving in February tradition began.
I’m obsessed with telling that story, as some of you may know. Short version: Dad’s longtime girlfriend and daughters and ex-wives all pulled together into a functional family unit when he was sick. We all celebrated together in February with a big turkey dinner. Here’s the blog it inspired.
Family Gatherings
But — one kind of funny part is that no one ever mentioned that we did not typically all spend Thanksgiving together, anyway. It didn’t seem to matter.
Of course I spent a few childhood Thanksgivings with my dad. I just don’t seem to remember them.
What I most remember is my maternal grandmother’s hallmark pear salad, assembled on the small plate atop the stack at each place set for my family: My mom and grandfather, my uncles, aunts and cousins, as we crowd and take our seats around an oval dining table.
During the blessing, half a canned pear, with a dollop of cream cheese and a bright red maraschino cherry atop a single leaf of lettuce, sits perfectly untouched. Then, we sit and start to pick at the pears as the roll toss begins.
“Hey, pass me a roll!” one of my uncles asks his brother, who sails a dinner roll Hail Mary-style per tradition from one end of the table to another — or, as our family grew, into a second table in the next room. For decades, when I could no longer be there, I craved this family gathering.
Instead of making a long trip home, I celebrated “Friendsgiving” in Boston with my college friends. In my 30s, Thanksgiving was a road trip and long weekend in Philadelphia, the home of the fun-loving family of my then-boyfriend and later ex-husband. In the afternoon, I’d duck out for a long, quiet walk through downtown Philly.
November’s New Growth
A year after dad’s illness, I let go of that dying marriage. Done. Let’s free each other of this albatross that led us to the new places we needed to go, before we drown. I was numb through that holiday, a deer in the headlights.
But it had not been the kind of love that carries you past old age.
My mind still goes swimmy and butterflies zip around my belly when I re-live falling in love with my husband. In-between the dishes and the taking out the trash last night, I remind him, as November reminds me: Eight years ago, by the way, you’d finally e-mailed me, and I answered. We were talking about your brother’s wedding, and the fall chores like raking leaves and stacking wood.
Thanksgiving the next year was my dad’s last. In a snapshot from that day, our tangled, grafted family stands around him on the front steps of his house. He’s a shadow of himself, skinny and ashen, wearing a stained green t-shirt and grey sweatpants — not at all his typical holiday attire of a crisply ironed shirt, sweater vest and leather jacket.
A bittersweet moment. An exquisitely beautiful and painful image. We are all together and smiling. Functional. We know the time is waning. Is it the chemo or the cancer giving him the most trouble? It’s hard to say. My dad and his longtime girlfriend, my mom (his first ex-wife) and stepdad, my stepmother (dad’s second ex-wife), and my sister (we share a dad and have different moms), plus my dad’s brother and his wife. Together for now.
Live Fully & Deliciously
Soon, my husband and I started hosting the big family meals. Dad is gone and that family has scattered. My mom and stepdad join us in central Pennsylvania. This time last year.
During one of the first meals we hosted, I explained how my family does this traditional roll toss.
“Lisa,” my oldest stepson, then 17, said and corrected. “We’re your family.” It meant the acceptance that was so important to me, not replacement of anyone.
My heart melted like butter. Before I could cry — he sailed a dinner roll down the table to his younger brother. Now our family meals begin that way, too. In the course of a single year, I’d lost my dad — and gained a family of my own.
Our Purpose?
November’s days leading to Thanksgiving are constant, rich reminders of all these joyful, painful family moments. As I pull the linens and polish the silver, and find a special place for the crystal punch bowl that belonged to my husband’s grandmother, this film reel will play in my mind.
You may have one of your own, and maybe it’s full of people you miss, too. That’s OK. November reminds us to keep loving, no matter what comes our way.
A local, talented graphic artist, Sean McCauley, recently showed his brightly colored, images of flowers and rainbows — that also included dark, sad parts like green clouds and tears below the rainbow and dark, hairy spiders under a smiling daisy. His artwork is his response, his antidote to the cultural pressure to show the world we’re happy all the time.
Rich Reminders of Light & Darkness
We’re not happy all the time — and that’s OK. Those spiders are lovely to me, too. We need them and lots of cool critters as part of healthy soil that grows beautiful food and flowers. Rainbows are all the more beautiful after the dark storm.
I’m with Sean on this. We can feel the full spectrum of life’s colors and still move forward — actually, it’s HOW we move forward.
The purpose is to live fully — sadness, grief, joy, bliss, satisfaction — all of it. To be kind, and joyful, love and be loved, appreciate, and to figure out our purpose.
November reminds us of life in all its rich glory, light, falling darkness — and gratitude for the full experience of it all. I wish you a full life, and a delicious November.
The sharp jolt of pain to the right of my breastbone lasted a few seconds, long enough to get my attention. Any ache or pain in my chest gives me pause. Heart problems run in my family. So does denial.
Three times those jabs froze me that hot July evening as I scraped and washed the dinner dishes and the messy pots — the remains of the jambalaya for a special family meal. Both of my stepsons and their girlfriends had joined us that night.
I didn’t want to ignore a warning sign and drop dead at 49 — just as I might be getting the hang of this life — nor did I want to race off to the ER, ruining precious family time over nothing.
Sitting at the table with the kids was nice, of course. Always. Yet, that had not offered much physical relief.
Mid-summer’s heat and humidity were oppressive, and the kitchen was steamy. I’d stood for hours chopping vegetables, peeling shrimp, stirring tomatoes and peppers into our biggest, heaviest cast iron skillet. The whole house had cooked all day in the scorching sun.
I told my husband. We watched for any other symptoms. I could breathe comfortably, so we finished cleaning up. The pains were short and stopped before bedtime.
Paternal Legacy
I thought of my dad and the men in his family who had ignored their pain, which made it even more deadly and dangerous.
I’ve been diving deep into the stories of my family-of-origin, obsessed with one surprisingly magical family dinner nearly 10 years ago. This work calls for rooting around in the lives of dead people, trying to unravel some mysteries and understand some painful parts of their lives.
Why was my dad so broken? His father, from what I can tell from his letters, seems to have cherished family. So how could my dad’s older, only brother — who I barely knew as I was growing up — have given up his son?
Before he died, my uncle and I had a long, recorded conversation about his life and that decision to move away from his beautiful little boy, then agree to his adoption. My uncle was surprisingly open as I asked him difficult questions. He struggled with his own pain and regrets, and was searching for some peace.
Aren’t we all?
Dangerous Denials
This summer, I diligently transcribed that audio recording. Over many hours and a few days, I replayed parts over and over until I’d captured every word.
By the time we had that long talk in May, 2014, my uncle was dealing with intense physical and emotional pain. A year of suffering with a broken leg that wouldn’t heal. Suffering with liver disease, suffering regret over the child he left behind, and searching for a way to make peace.
My uncle and I had even talked about how his father and my father had denied their pain. My grandfather walked uphill toward home as he suffered a heart attack, laid down then waited two days to call the doctor, as the family story goes.
What if he’d gone sooner?
My dad endured the severe abdominal pain of an appendicitis, mistakenly thinking it was the flu, until it burst and threatened his life.
The scariest moments that November nearly 10 years ago came Thursday evening, after three days of my dad lying unconscious, deeply sleeping in a medical coma so his body could fight infection. His hospital room was dark except for a small pool of fluorescent light above the counter where the nurses wrote their notes.
None of the numbers on the monitors showed any signs of improvement or healing — just that dad was holding on. I felt like he was walking the razor’s edge between worlds, and terrified he would slip away at any time.
A new intensive care nurse began her shift and I told her the story of this vibrant, strong man now silent and small. She shook her head at how he had not immediately sought medical care for his severe pain and said: Pain is how the body tells you something is wrong.
That night, I cried in quiet despair as I drove 30 minutes north back to my mom and stepfather’s house.
I’d not forgotten that lesson. What if my dad had not been so tough, and had seen a doctor a few days earlier? We’ll never know.
Life is full of heartbreak and pain. Finding some wisdom, good and purpose in pain brings comfort.
Our Responsibility: Face it and Heal
I have to believe — I pray — there is some purpose to pain, though I may never fully grasp it. Without that faith, reading the news of pain all over the world is crushing to me. Too much.
I find comfort in seeking whatever good can grow out of pain, some wisdom, lesson or purpose. My dad’s illness and recovery brought people in our family closer, in a way that had never before seemed possible. So at least something good came from an awful time. My uncle’s decision left a hole in our family and had to have brought my grandparents tremendous sorrow. Yet, his son may very well have had a better life.
My grandfather’s heart attack remains a mystery.
I want to heal the inherited pain from my family-of-origin as best I can. My responsibility is to avoid passing it along to our kids. Better to find some way to give them some wisdom instead.
Isn’t that why we tell stories?
Fuzzy Rules
The day after the jambalaya dinner — feeling lucky for health insurance and determined to avoid my paternal family’s legacy of ignoring pain — I made a doctor’s appointment. Were those jabs a sign of heart trouble? I was confused, and wanted a way to tell the difference between chest pains that demand urgent action and the ones discouraging spicy jambalaya on a hot day.
I explained to the physician’s assistant how my dad, uncle and grandfather had all ignored their pain, so here I was. I’m here. I’m listening. The PA took her time and asked me lots of questions.
For women, making sense of chest pain is not so clear-cut. There is no hard and fast rule, I learned. She asked if I had been dizzy? No. Nauseous? No. How long did it last? Heart attack sounded less and less likely. Good. Heartburn or tight muscles were the top suspects. An EKG confirmed: No heart attack. (More on common symptoms of heart attack in women.)
I was relieved. But what the heck were those jabs? I listened for a deeper message.
Decoding Pain’s Message
Diligently, I made the rounds to my family doctor and for other preventive screenings and care. I even saw a cardiologist, who was perplexed — initially perhaps even annoyed, understandably so — at how my healthy heart had ended up in his exam room, then asked me lifestyle questions.
He suggested a plant-based diet. My carnivore family is seeing more beans, quinoa and greens on their dinner plates. People are getting a little nervous around here.
My pains, I realized, were simply a reminder to take better care of myself. Move more. Eat less junk. Grow and cook more plants. Breathe and stretch on the mat.
Exhaling Away the Bad Stuff
As I’d listened to my uncle’s voice from the past and typed his words, my body had slouched and twisted. My joints and muscles contorted and stiffened.
I took my uncle’s pain into my body, where it got stuck for days, tightening my left hip and shoulder. My left side had ached and throbbed as I unrolled my yoga mat at the beginning of class. After almost an hour, those muscles finally released with a wave of tears and emotion.
Proceed with caution, I noted. So I set the work aside for awhile, and focused on other projects. However, this delving into my family stories — or the pain of life for that matter — is impossible to avoid.
I must dig in, go there and work through it.
Then, be kinder to myself and take a break. Step back, breathe deeply and pray, stretch, walk the dogs, putter in the garden, eat the healthiest food I can — and that my family will tolerate.
Breathe in the beautiful and healthy, breathe out the junk — and relish whatever goodness and wisdom lies beyond pain.
I was a mess in the summer of 2005. Excited about big life changes — getting married, starting a freelance business, moving with my new husband to a new state. But I felt lost for a long time in my new central Pennsylvania town.
The way people talk here reminded me of my relatives, so felt a bit familiar. Otherwise, I felt disoriented. Landlocked and claustrophobic. No big water — like the mighty Kennebec River or vast Atlantic I’d worked and lived beside. Nor cool sea breeze in summer to flush away the heavy blanket of humidity. The scent of fresh pig manure spread on the farm fields was a cruel reminder to me of how far I was from the sea.
So I walked and explored, looking for footholds.
My new town was both adorable and gritty, built into steep hills among emerald ridges. Ornate, crisply painted Victorian houses with tidy lawns along tree-lined streets. And, closer to my not-so-fancy, petite “folk” Victorian house, some run-down homes, the ugly brick back-end of the county courthouse and jail, small-town dive bars below street level.
One September morning, I spotted bright orange through grey light. An enchanting pumpkin vine. Hidden far behind and down the hill from the house it belonged to, a fresh, shining small pumpkin swelled among lush vines spilling over a stone wall.
A welcome anchor
The pumpkin felt magical, and somehow just for me — although it was hardly a secret. It grew in plain sight of anyone who walked along the back alleys, public less-traveled lanes spanning backyards.
This pumpkin vine had broken loose from the patch, or perhaps just grew from the seeds of the previous autumn’s jack-o’lantern after rot had consumed its toothy grin.
Perhaps I felt a certain kinship with that rogue vine. Or we were both confused. Who knows.
The vine and the pumpkin were beautiful, and became one of my little mental anchors as I settled in. Instead of quiet mornings on the shore of a tidal river, watching the tide come in one teensy bit at a time, I watched the pumpkin grow day by day.
“I saw my magic pumpkin today,” I remember telling my dad over the phone. “It’s almost all orange now.”
Cool, he said. I could hear he was smiling. We’d reached a nice place, where we could actually talk about little ordinary stuff, because we’d tackled most of the big, thorny stuff.
Tucked among the wild patch
Now, the central Pennsylvania town where I live has much more flat land and room to spread along the valley floor.
Four ripening pumpkins grow hidden among the messiest part of my messy garden, beside the wood pile. They remind me of that magic pumpkin, that there is always magic to find in the mess. I remember to bloom where planted, to keep growing and reaching for the sun.
It all worked out — exactly as it was supposed to. Just not as I planned.
Yes — there is plenty of mess beyond my weedy garden: Huge and complicated problems we face as people finding our way day-by-day, healing our wounds, as families raising children, as a global community facing unprecedented loss.
I see and grapple with those messes.
Yet, we can’t forget to look for the magic in the mess, for what delights us and keeps us going. That magic surrounds us. It gets us through.
Among the Wild Plants
You can barely see the four little orange pumpkins below the tall green stalks of cup plants with spent blossoms, the compost pile with summer’s watermelon rinds and mussel shells, the sprawling scraggly volunteer tomato vines, the potted plants parked and awaiting a home — and lots of weeds.
I keep the front beds much tidier.
A hidden pumpkin growing out of compost in a wild patch of garden reminds me to find magic in the mess.
But here is where the magic lives — in this wild patch out back. This is where the tidy, precise corners and solid strength of my husband’s woodpile meets my beautiful mess. He is not who I’d married and moved here with in 2005 — but the man and family I needed to come here to find.
Magical, orange reminders that I’ve landed in a place surrounded by beauty and love. That we’ve made a home here.
The bees love the yellow blossoms of those cup plants. An army of mighty critters — worms, ants, beetles and the “roly-poly” pill bugs — turn our food scraps and grass clippings into fresh, rich soil. As they work their wonders, surviving seeds sprout into new life. Surprise vines bearing surprise pumpkins and the gourds the little boy next door, my garden buddy, calls “skooshes.”
I look into the messes and trust they hold magic, often hidden. Today, let’s find a “secret” something just for us, that delights and lifts us — or just find a bit of time to quietly wander, be still and let it find us.
Where my beautiful mess in the garden meets my husband’s meticulously built woodpile. For a few weeks in September, the vines grow up and over the pile — until they die back with the first frost. (Lisa Duchene photo)
All of us — especially writers — need friends who can cut through our crap and help us stick to our path. Cherish yours — or go find one. Until then, you can borrow Sandi.
My friend Sandi is whip-smart, tough, lovely and wise. One of her super-powers is to make order out of anything. Even my messy mind.
She quickly sees a simple structure that guides what belongs and what must go, then strategically edits — usually with the very best, well-maintained tool for the job — to bring anything into proper order and alignment with purpose.
It may be a pile of stuff, a room, or project in her family’s home. A schedule. A life. A group of people on a noble mission.
Sandi inspires other people, too, to reach for their bigger, better purpose. She’s in high demand, her days jam-packed with making things happen.
So I always feel lucky to visit Sandi and her beautiful family and home in Boston, where we met many years ago. They are gracious hosts who open their home and guest room, lovingly absorb me into their family life. They even drive me around, ask nothing in return and make it all look easy. True hospitality. I feel like a queen.
I visited in late March, hungry for a burst of new, spring energy and for the tried-and-true inspiration of a writers’ conference at Boston University, my alma mater.
The conference was fantastic.
But the shiniest take-home gem was Sandi’s insight.
Sandi at her 50th birthday celebration.
Filling My Cup
Sandi met me at South Station. I arrived rumpled from the train ride, yet glad for the long, productive stretches of work time above the soothing rhythm and gentle rumble of steel wheels.
The next morning, we sipped our coffees and the green smoothies Sandi made from her new blender as powerful as a boat propeller. We shared the spring sunshine and news from our families and our work. Tending a rich, longtime friendship in person always fills my cup.
Sandi’s kind, capable and generous husband is doing well. Their two sons are growing fast, becoming young men and thriving. She’s crushing her calling in philanthropy — which is so gratifying. I remember when she envisioned her purpose and aligned her life so she could go to graduate school.
We talked about my family and my personal writing work, my commitment to tell the story about how my dad’s broken families had gathered together around him for a surprisingly wonderful dinner, a story of making peace in my family-of-origin that brought me great peace and healing. Read that story and related ones.
I’m determined. I’d achieved a few small victories. But things weren’t quite working out along the course I’d plotted. Muddled and anxious, I mulled over what to do next.
Pitch Perfect & Perfect Timing
Sandi listened.
Obsession? Check. Life experience? Yep, got that too. Many, many drafts and rough pieces on the hard drive.
But where’s it all going? What’s the plan?
Not your job to worry about that, she said. Just keep writing the story.
“Write your story,” she said. “Nobody has that story but you.”
“So … I just need to —”
“SHUTUP AND WRITE!”
I busted with laughter.
“Thank you,” I said. “Now I just need to your picture and that quote on top of my desk!”
Even better. Sandi whipped out her phone and recorded her own voice and cartoon head — an animated “memoji” — speaking those three words three times, then shining her beautiful, computer-generated smile. One quick swipe and it was on my phone, too.
Anytime I’m stuck, I’ve got this little video of her lovely, floating head with her black-framed glasses looking stylish and super-smart in her stunning, shimmering gray bob, and pearly smile.
“Shutup and WRITE!”
Beautiful. Brilliant. Simple.
Life is Hard — We Need Our Tribe
Sweet darlings: Cherish any friend who can cut through your crap and tell you what you most need to hear. If you don’t have a friend like that, turn off this screen and go find one. Go do something you love to do and smile at someone who seems nice. Strike up a conversation. See where it goes.
Then find another until you have a bunch. People are busy and you need backups. Make them your tribe. I’m so very grateful for my large tribe, my family-of-choice built over decades. You know who you are 😉
Life is hard. Discovering and actually fulfilling our life’s purpose? Also hard, hard work.
This is especially true if you are a writer, artist, creative, free agent or entrepreneur. We make stuff out of nothing. Start over from scratch all the time. Fail a lot. We must fail fast and keep pivoting toward success.
It gets lonely. We need our friends. Our tribe. They are essential support, conduits for inspiration, delivering whatever pep talk we need at that moment: Keep going. Keep showing up. Keep making. Trust. Believe.
Necessary Isolation
I do most of my writing work alone. I must in order to get my highest-priority writing done.
But then I get a little too isolated in my bubble. A little weird. Suddenly, I’m on the yoga mat in my studio spooning with the big dog. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that!) Or, I’m wandering around outside mid-day in the clothes I woke up in, still all disheveled with bed-head because I went right to the desk and got in the zone. Then … just forgot to check the mirror.
I need to come out of the cave, put on some lipstick and dance with my dearest friends. We all do.
Flashlight for the Dark Forest
Then, Sandi and I dove deeper — because while she’s right, I still need a rough idea of a road map, a sense of structure. I’d explored a few initial book ideas long enough to know they would dead-end. I’d been thinking and thinking on my train ride … thinking so very hard. Stuck on where to go next.
Sandi shared her refreshing, very cool idea for a structure. I love it.
She handed me a flashlight for the dark forest. By the time we parted, I could see the bright hash marks on the tree trunks, marking the trail.
I soaked in her invaluable strategic vision. My pro retreat became a sacred and spiritual one, because this whole project is a leap of faith I must make. If I shutup long enough to listen, and keep the faith, I am granted priceless, divine guidance. It’s a deep-tissue spa treatment for my brain and psyche.
Sandi shared her divine gift for alignment — to properly organize space and time around goals — a nudge, some encouragement. Now, it’s up to me to plot the course.
Later in the weekend: “Plan your work. Work your plan.” She said it to her younger son about a bike repair, but I grabbed that little morsel, too, and packed it away. Simple. Priceless. Strategic.
I returned home to our valley refreshed, inspired and clear as a bell, because I’d been to “the mountain” — one that just happens to be in the heart of a major city that was once both my playground and kiln.
I’ve been writing. Aligning. Committing. Shutting up for long stretches so I can say something. Plotting and planning my work. Working my plan, baby.
Thank you to my talented, generous friend for her divine guidance. Now — shutting up. So many miles to go.
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Sister Louise looked like she’d bit into a frog. I’d just read my assignment out loud in her fifth-grade religion class.
Her stunned expression made me nervous. The kids’ faces also registered shock.
We were to write about how our parents reflected Catholic church teachings at home. My response was a literal, matter-of-fact report — missing entirely that I was expected to highlight the holiest, most wholesome and loving moments from home.
There were, indeed, lots of those.
My single mom rose early for work and made dinner every night. On winter evenings after supper, we’d twirl and glide across the ice rink at the park, warming up with hot chocolate. Every summer, she somehow found a way to take us on vacation, pay for swimming and piano lessons and explore the woods.
She worked hard to raise me and provide everything I needed, and pay the tuition at St. Wenceslas. The parish of brick buildings included a combined school and church building with stained glass windows of garnet red and sapphire blue, classrooms for kindergarten through eighth grade along shiny linoleum corridors perpetually scented with disinfectant.
Good King Wenceslas, alabaster and life-sized, stood sentry over the black asphalt parking lot where we had recess. For many years, I thought that statue high up on the brick building was God watching us play kickball and tag.
By every measure, she is a great mom. There. Steady. Loving.
Yet, I was a kid who could fixate on who wasn’t there — my dad — and how things at home fell short of the Eight is Enoughfamily I saw on TV. All those brothers and sisters looked like so much fun.
En Route to Hell
So, how were my parents reflecting the Catholic lifestyle and teachings at home?
Well … Not exactly, I wrote. It’s just my mom and I. My parents are divorced and sometimes we argue about stuff and she gets mad. She swears sometimes. We say “Oh my God” which is wrong because we’re taking the Lord’s name in vain.
My mom remembers the phone call that day. My guess is Sister Mary Gerald, the principal, acting on Sister Louise’s concerns, gave her a ring.
“The nuns were so sure you were going to hell and I was pushing you along,” my mom recalls.
By sending her daughter to Catholic elementary school, my mom was already subjecting herself to judgment and shaming. The Catholic teaching is that only death can break a marriage, and that divorce is immoral because it breaks up the family, has a contagious effect and is a “plague on society.” Civil divorce can be “tolerated” under certain conditions.
I can’t imagine how painful it was for my mom to be part of a community that “tolerated” her difficult decision to split with my father to protect her child and herself. He was volatile — not violent — unpredictable, and unfaithful. Later, he and I made peace.
While reconciling with my dad was beautiful and healing, it was my mom who nurtured me through childhood, with all its wonders and pain.
Imminent Punishment
By the time I reached my grandparents’ house after school that day, my mom had gotten the call, which she shared with her mother. My grandmother asked me some tough questions. I told her what I’d said.
As she TSKed her disapproval, my cheeks were already hot with shame.
Public opinion mattered. What I did at school reflected on our family. And, surely, my grandmother was being protective of her own daughter.
My grandparents were good, strong, honorable, capable people, part of the Greatest Generation. They were World War II veterans and devout Catholics who regularly attended St. W’s. My grandmother had served as an Army nurse and then worked nights in the local hospital as a maternity nurse. My grandfather was a community leader, the full-time, elected mayor of our suburb outside Cleveland.
I was 10, clueless about the big picture — and certain I’d be in big trouble when my mom got home from work.
A Lesson in Unconditional Love
When she arrived, my mom shook off the whole thing. She chuckled. No big deal. My grandmother’s face showed her disapproval, but she held her tongue and dropped it.
Alone in our blue station wagon in my grandparents’ driveway, my mom said she was proud. She was pleased, she said, to be raising a daughter who would question authority and tell her truth. She wasn’t raising a parrot, but a thinking, questioning, honest human being.
That day, she respected me and honored who I was at my core: A truth-teller, come what may. She knows me inside and out. How I struggled because I longed for my dad and our family was atypical.
She made it crystal clear she loved me unconditionally. Still does.
I became a professional journalist and non-fiction writer, digging, searching, thinking and writing about truth every day.
Despite my many flaws, bad habits and quirks, I am strong. I am resilient. Of this I’m sure.
Dr. Meg Meeker, a pediatrician and author of six books on how strong parents can raise strong children, identified “Believe in Her” as the number one way in which parents can raise strong daughters.
“When your daughter senses you believe in her, she begins to believe in herself, and when she does, she can do anything,” wrote Dr. Meeker in a March 2017 post.
The most important, powerful birthright of any child is to feel loved beyond measure, no matter what. Seen. Respected. Honored.
That’s what I remember most from that day.
Just Fine — and Furious
My mom most remembers being furious.
The sister told her the nuns were concerned about my moral upbringing, certain my mom was leading me down the wrong path, if not straight to hell, then certainly a long imprisonment in purgatory.
My mom stood right up to her for both of us. She, as the parent, was in charge of my moral upbringing and thought it was going just fine.
So, respectfully: Butt out, sister.
My mom and I in Maine, shopping a favorite greenhouse for plants on Memorial Day weekend.
Mission Accomplished
My blood boils thinking of what my mom went through. I cringe at my accidental humiliation of her before a community that should have been so much kinder, more loving and accepting of her.
The most satisfying irony of that day in 1981 is that the nuns indeed did their job, just not in the way they’d apparently intended. They deserve my benefit of the doubt that they genuinely did what they felt was right and in my best interest.
They gave my mom an opportunity to teach me, not only that she believes in me, but about love.
My blood boils thinking of how judgmental people and divisive rules block anyone’s reach for God and a loving community.
Love is more important than rules or judgment or church doctrine. God is Love. We are all loved.
I grew up knowing right from wrong, knowing I was loved. I shook free of the nuns’ judgment but never lost my faith, or belief that LOVE is above all else.
That’s my truth.
(Which makes me neither perfect nor holier-than-thou. Still struggling to put a lid on my swearing.)
So, my mom said when we compared memories of the incident in Sr. Louise’s fifth-grade religion class, What I tried to instill in you worked?
She knew the answer.
Yes, mom. You did a fine job.Actually, truth be told, a damn good job.
Thanksgiving in February is a true story of making peace within my family-of-origin, a delayed celebration of gratitude — and quite literally the name of a big family Thanksgiving dinner we hold in February.
That story, plus stories about my family, love, the making and unmaking of family, finding gratitude in everyday, ordinary moments — and on the darkest days.
Those stories are listed here. Many more are coming soon.
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Recent stories:
During World War II, my grandfather wrote my grandmother nearly every day from March to November 1945. They comfort and remind me that We Came From Love.
We Came From Love. Aged and tattered, my grandfather’s WWII letters to my grandmother when they were young, newly married and half a world apart provide a comforting peek into their love story.
On Being Brave ~ Taking Small & Big Steps On the day I turned 35, I left a secure “regular” job. The next morning, I bought a second house five states away — both steps toward a writing dream. What I remember most is my faith: I knew I’d be OK, just knew and trusted, even when things didn’t work out. Every day, we all must be brave and take another step.
Turning February Around How hosting this one “little” turkey dinner for a crowd in the middle of February has completely changed my experience this month. Now it’s really too short!
Rough Oak: the Joy of Finishing As I obsessively re-finished an oak table — a piece “normal” people would have long ago tossed to the curb — I remembered my dad’s broken promise.
Red heart in hands top view. Healthy, love, donation organ, donor, hope and cardiology concept. Valentines day card. Copy space for text.
Rule #1: Come Home Safe My kids were already teenagers when I met them, so we made some funny, family rules. Now, there’s only one: Come Home Safe. The rest of it can always be worked out. From the Blessed & Grateful archive.
Oh, my TEDxPSU talk! I told the whole, tangled Thanksgiving in February story on Penn State’s TED stage in, appropriately, February, 2019.
The first workday of 2019 tested my New Year commitment to be brave.
I pictured 65 fifth-graders staring blankly back at me for what was certain to be an agonizing 45 minutes. I caught myself clenching my shoulders and stomach, breathing shallow and typing with sweaty palms.
What would I say to them? How would I connect with them and hold their attention?
Husband in Hot Water
Then I got really grumpy with my husband — despite that he’s an almost absolutely perfect man, and definitely perfect for me. (Read Meeting my Superhero.)
Weeks before, he’d asked me to talk to students at his school about writing.
No problem, I said.
Over the holidays, he was sketchy whenever I asked about details — until the morning before the talk.
“Talk about writing with 65 fifth-graders for 45 minutes, then questions.”
“Excuse me? 65?! 45 minutes?!”
Yeah.
Grumbling through the First Work Day
I stressed through the afternoon. By the evening, now really tired, I had more preparation to do.
I was ticked — and I told him so.
He headed to bed. I grunted and growled.
“Good night, hon,” he gently said, and tiptoed upstairs.
Themes, not Resolutions
I’ve been dreaming of a big year ahead, and now it’s here. I don’t bother with resolutions. They are too rigid for me. Feels like a setup for failure.
Instead, I pick themes for the year and commit to chipping away at them slow and steady over the course of the year. So if I skip a day, it’s no big deal, I just double-down the next day, or next week.
One of my two big themes for 2019: Be Brave.
In a few weeks, I’ll speak in front of hundreds of people. I’ll have no notes and nowhere to hide. No podium. No table. No panel.
Just me and my story. I will feel naked. I will feel vulnerable. I may throw up beforehand.
I’ve been preparing since mid-October — and I’ve been working on this story for eight years.
Still — This is completely outside of my comfort zone. My happy work place is at my oak desk, in the light and warmth of my home office, with the dogs curled up on the floor, snoring. Comfy in my yoga pants, surrounded by all my favorite thing-a-majigs: Family pictures — including one of my badass grandmother who served in World War II — inspirational quotes, a book of gratitude word art, colored lights in the big red jar.
But I also know growth is at the edge of my comfort zone.
Being Brave
Kids make me brave. My stepsons, the college students I work with — and those fifth-graders — who were awesome.
Maybe someday they’ll remember this when they pick up the book of our family tales that’s bouncing around in my head. (Current working title: Underpants in the Cast-Iron Skillet, a Squirrel on the Cutting Board, and other tales from the Man Cave.)
My parachute plan, should the kids blankly stare back: Lead them through jumping jacks. All those cardio kick-boxing classes I taught in a former life come in handy.
Fully Engaged
The kids were great sports about trying the writing exercise, listened politely, responded when I asked them questions, asked thoughtful questions and became more and more engaged as we went.
We spent about 90 minutes together, talking about writing. No jumping jacks needed.
Back in the car, trapped in end-of-day gridlock in the school parking lot, I got it. My heart swelled with greater appreciation for my husband.
He believes in me. He is such a natural teacher. He knew it could be great for the kids — and me — and also knew he could pull the plug if I choked.
And, if he had told me the details a week earlier, I’d have a full week to stress and obsess about them. His way meant just one day of my grumbling and growling.
So, thanks to him, my 2019 big theme to Be Brave is off to a great start. No other choice, really.
And big thanks to the college student who urged me to pitch the talk.
“If you don’t get scared, then you aren’t living,” she said. “Nothing worth doing is easy.” Adding that next to the quotes on my wall.
Happy New Year, everyone. Let’s have a great, big, juicy, grateful 2019.
Two girls go on a snowy hill during a mountaineering adventure in the mountains.
Over Christmas, 1999, I was lucky to share the peace I’d long sought with my dad, among the spectacular beauty of the Maine coast. As we both worked hard to heal old, painful family wounds, that visit was a gift that still brings me comfort, peace and hope — my wish for you.
Just south of Bath, Maine, the road leads out from town and trees to an opening of big blue sky and water as it makes a sweeping curve over a bridge, around an ample cove on the western shore of the mighty Kennebec River. When I lived alone in an in-law apartment near the bridge, the spectacular beauty of that teeny place called Winnegance brought me peace every day.
Great blue herons fish the cove’s exposed mud flats at low tide on the salty, river side of the bridge. On its other side, a small freshwater lake. Two men who lived across the cove from each other raced every year to be the first to light a small Christmas tree on the edge of the cove.
My mornings began with a short walk, cup of coffee in hand, down the lane, past the captain’s house, and an old rusty shed to the shore of the river. I would settle on an overturned skiff — a small wooden rowboat — and 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.
Not a bad way to start the day. Then a longer walk along a path through the woods beside the river, across the road toward the lake to the woods, all threaded with trails. I had a favorite little spot on a log beside the lake. Brisk walk home, then off to work.
The Hard Work of Rebuilding
Over Christmas 1999, I shared that peaceful place with my dad. In the years to come, we would draw on those powerful moments when we needed quiet comfort. I still do.
We were rebuilding our relationship then, both working hard toward a place of peace that had long eluded us. I was angry with him for a long time for hurting our family. Our conversations were few, far-between and strained. To his credit, over those 10 years my dad never let go or stopped calling. Then it was time for me to begin to forgive, and focus on the good he had done and could do.
About four years into our rebuilding, as Christmas approached along with the stress of traveling and balancing visits with long-divorced parents, I decided to spend the holiday in Maine. I would see my mom and most of our extended family on an upcoming vacation. Dad had just started visiting me in Maine, where I’d settled after leaving home 10 years prior for college. He decided to drive out from Ohio for Christmas.
The Ice Skater
On that bitter, single-digit cold Christmas Eve, dad and I walked my routine loop over the packed snow, and had almost reached “my” log beside the lake when we saw the ice skater.
A man glided on the lake’s frozen surface with a hand-held power drill, stopping to measure the thickness of the ice, presumably to determine whether skating would be part of the festivities.
The skater looked up from his task and spotted us watching him from among the trees on the shoreline. He waved to us, and called “Merry Christmas.” We returned the greeting. “Merry Christmas,” we called, and waved.
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 during a good visit stuck with both of us — because years later dad would say: Remember that Christmas in Maine? Remember that ice skater?
There was also a bearable dose of chaos and tension between us.
My apartment was two stacked rooms — living downstairs, where dad slept on a pull-out futon — and my sleeping, laundry and studio space in the room upstairs. From the second-floor, I could spot the herons fishing the river cove or the sunset over the lake.
Making Order
I have never been a neat freak. But I do need a certain order: a clear kitchen counter, dishes done, the sofa blankets folded and pillows arranged. Tidy.
My dad was boyish, charming, funny — and like Pigpen from Peanuts. Messy. He traveled within a certain swirling flotsam of clutter, a challenge to the order in my apartment.
One evening before Christmas Eve, I’d just cleaned up and cleared the kitchen counter, pausing to appreciate that small patch of welcome order when his radar 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.
I squawked at him — which was a score for him, because he’d riled me up. He was like a little kid, eager for attention, taunting, teasing.
I could ignore him for only so long. Eventually he’d set me off, and then celebrate his small victory. It was tiring.
Better Get Started
When dad arrived a couple of days before Christmas, he’d demanded to know where he could find the apricot, almond, white chocolate biscotti I made for the holidays. Since the blade of my food processor had cracked, I could not make the addictive cookies he loved to dunk in his coffee.
I came home from work one day to find a new food processor on the kitchen counter. Dad had scratched enough lotto tickets to win some cash, and went right to the store.
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.”
Sweet Lift
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.
That Christmas Eve, we drove through the dark night toward those tall pines on the other side of the river, to a candlelight service at my neighbors’ tiny church.
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.
Every family has a story. They seem to all have some pain, tension and disappointment — all often cutting sharper and deeper over the holidays.
My Peace I Give Unto You
But there is peace, beauty, joy and light, too. All around us. All of it in abundance every day.
My wish for everyone is to fully experience all of that goodness, for the holidays call our attention to it. To take it in may simply require a pause — or perhaps a long road of healing.
Better get started. One step. Then the next. The sweetness and peace will be worth it.
When my dad was sick and dying and I wanted to calm and comfort us both amidst tremendous pain and fear, I’d remind him of the ice skater and our Christmas in Maine. I think it helped some.
Whenever I hear O Holy Night, I’ll pause, listen closely, and tear up. It’s never sounded quite the same as on that Christmas Eve, when it lifted my dad and me, among a small group of people bundled and huddled against the cold.
My peace I give unto you, especially at Christmas.
Wishing you all wonderful, holiday joy. If you liked this post, please consider sharing! ~ Lisa
If only life served us soft-toss pitches, one at a time as we stood strong and tall in the batter’s box.
But no — real life can be a pitching machine on overdrive, hurling curve-balls, wild pitches and dancing knuckleballs all at once. Maybe we’re already depleted, so now we’re cowering naked as the fastballs zing by or even sting us square and hard, leaving an ugly bruise.
I’m feeling a touch of that. Just a bit overwhelmed.
My antidote is gratitude. I’m sharing my ritual, because maybe it will work for you.
Counting Down & Catching Up
Eleven days to Christmas. I want the joy, light, peace — and to give and enjoy a beautiful, festive, family time.
Yet, right now, I’m anxious about the crush of the prep: The gifts still at the store, the cleaning, baking, cooking — all as I’m catching up after losing a lot of work time in November.
Last month, a sick dog, living room under construction and the prep for Thanksgiving were the fastballs to juggle. The downside of the flexibility of working from home is the reckoning on things I postponed while taking care of what was more important then.
Our details vary. I bet you too know the feeling of juggling bowling balls — stuff that seems heavier than our hands can catch and toss.
Things can Snowball
Let’s face it. The holidays are an emotionally loaded time. Funerals don’t stop. Fresh grief, especially at Christmas, leaves a lasting wound. This time often sharpens life’s losses, even the ones that have healed over. They ache more than usual, their tug on our energy greater, stronger, louder.
All as the days shrink and the darkness extends. December’s chill sets in.
All as blaring messages surround us to ENJOY this time.
What to do?
Pause for a Gratitude Lift
Gratitude is always the key, turning my outlook and any situation all the way around, starting with a simple shift.
Here is my antidote to that anxious, overwhelmed feeling, or the blues that will surely follow if I don’t manually re-set myself:
1. Stop. Just freaking stop. Don’t even look at your phone for the next five minutes. Freeze yourself. Count to three.
2. Take three big, deep breaths. Seriously. Really, truly breathe. Fill your body cavity with air starting down below your navel, all the way up your sternum up above top of your throat. As deeply and slowly as you can. Three times.
3. Name three things that you are grateful for. The big stuff, always: family, health, sunshine, the roof over my head. Little stuff like … yesterday: the fine point of a mechanical pencil, the clippity-clop of a passing horse and buggy, the comfort of a good office chair, a sip of good coffee.
And today: Amy Grant singing Alleluia repeatedly through my headphones, the warmth rising from our woodstove, the guilt-free solar twinkle lights in the backyard (now working because I realized there was an on-off switch).
Soon, thoughts of so much that feels good and gives me joy starts popping in my mind — just like popcorn that swells and fills me as three things become three more and so on. This is the welcome snowballing of gratitude and abundance.
My whole perspective shifts toward light.
4. Let’s remember the people and families struggling with health and finding peace. Been there, too. And let’s remember people struggling with clinical depression and darkness, core wounds that refuse to heal, the disease of addiction. People who for whatever reason cannot shift their perspective toward light, who cannot feel all the love around them. When I shift into a place of light and abundance, I’m in a better position to help, to care for myself, my family, my community.
5. Pray — or not. All that in itself is a prayer — but you don’t have to call it that. I believe in love above all else. If prayer works for you, maybe add some more right about here. I pray for strength and focus to do the right things to shine my light, to fulfill my purpose and be of service.
6. Decide your next most important step.
7. Remember: One Thing at a Time. Next most important thing. Start now.
The most important stuff
I’m going to step out of that batter’s box, out of the path of as many of those wild pitches as I can. Our house won’t look like the pages of a magazine. It never does. No styling crew here! It will be clean and simple and lovely. Some things will fall off my list.
I’ll use the lessons learned from last year: Shop for gifts with my mother-in-law, because she is an awesome co-conspirator. Last year, we bought the Pie Face game for the little kids. My nephew squealed in delight as he turned the dial until the game’s plastic hand flung a pile of whipped cream into the faces of his cousins, aunts and uncles, one-by-one as they took their turn and we all reveled in a child’s joy.
Even Grandpa took his turn. (Not Grandma, now that I think of it …)
Finally, when I’m tired and getting cranky, I’ll try to follow my own advice. I’ll stop and rest. I’ll sink into the music, pause to look at the lights, take a few deep breaths, remember my blessings — maybe even take a nap.
Wishing you and your families love, light, peace, health, and joy this holiday season — however you and yours celebrate.
