restingmotion

A Visit to Mohonk Mountain House

When we gathered together in the Hudson Valley to scatter George's ashes in the Hudson, I wanted us to stay someplace condusive to family activities, yet also with enough to offer that we could all find pleasant ways to while away hours, both individually and together.  To this end, we stayed at Mohonk Mountain House.

In many ways it was the perfect choice.  George's mother had gone to Mohonk.  When his children were small, George would occasionally fill-in for a colleague as the in-house weekend doctor and his family would spend the weekend at Mohonk.  Even though George and I had never stayed as guests, I knew the grounds were beautiful we had been there many times.  As a testament to the power of memory, even though Mohonk has been updated and renovated, George's son's first comment to me upon arrival was "It smells just as I remember it from childhood". 

Our rooms were in one of the oldest parts of the hotel.  My room was not large, but was bright, clean and charming, neither too old-fashioned, nor too blandly modern.

The view from my balcony was fabulous.  But as I wandered the hotel and the grounds it was hard not to concede that the view is probably gorgeous in all directions.  The hotel has been beautifully maintained and beautifully decorated, in a way that maintains ties to its history without being overly fussy or overdone, with a nod to the past, but also fully accommodating itself to the present. 

Walking down the hall toward my room, another row of balconies.  These face the sunset.

The view from the large sunset porch.

There were beautiful gardens, also beautifully maintained,  a kids activity center, and trails for hikers and nature lovers of every interest and ambition.  I stuck to the simple and well manicured paths.  The gardens were extensive and beautiful, but as usual I was too enraptured by being there to spend much time taking pictures.

I also walked around the lake, a simple trail, while others in the family ventured forth on steeper and more rocky climbs.  I was perfectly content with small vistas and easy walks.

Even so I managed to log at least 5 miles every day we were there, a level of activity I've had to work at maintaining since I've returned to normal life.    

Admittedly I still managed to sneak in a nap or two.  The youngest member of our group was far more interested in feeding the fish.

Even the food was fabulous, at least the menu service was, although even I, the pickiest member of our little coterie, have to admit the buffet was excellent, for a buffet.  Alas, I didn't take pictures of the food, I continue to be old fashioned-enough that I can't quite bring myself to cross that line.

 

Overall, it was a fabulous vacation, and I would happily go back if I had the opportunity to do so.  It was relaxing and envigorating.  Everyone was helpful and accommodating and the hospitality staff exceeded expectations in working with our group to plan special events and transportation to the dock in Beacon for the clearwater sail.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Settling In and Seeking a Sense of Routine

Oh so much time has passed and where have I been?  Here and there; everywhere (not really) and nowhere. I've been home from the Hudson Valley for a week and have written nary a word, though not because I haven't had things to say.  Hopefully they will come out one of these days.

 

But I have just been more normal and more settled into myself and, probably at least partly due to that sense of settling, I have resumed the tasks of organizing and nesting and finally abolishing piles and boxes and the general unsettledness that continued to haunt my home.  At the same time,  I have been making a concerted effort at establishing a routine, and sticking it with it.  Unfortunately, much as I want writing this blog to be a part of that routine, and I know it will be, writing can also be a distraction.  For example I have been sitting here, pondering what to write, rather than taking my evening walk. 

 

I need to take my evening walk. I will feel better if I do.  My trip neatly coincided with a resurgence of my energy and comfort levels, and I realized that I do need to make the effort to walk more.  Of course it was easier when I was away, unburdened by obligations, accompanied by charming companions, not to mention beautiful mountain and garden trails.  But I still need to walk.  And although vacations are lovely, they upset the schedule, a schedule I had barely settled myself into before I went away, a schedule I am struggling to maintain before my next trip.  The simple truth is that if I don't maintain a schedule I am not better off, because I am easily distracted and daydreamer.  As stated above, I am much more settled into myself, and far less concerned about worrying over whether I live up to anyones expectations, but I also know that there are things that make my life easier.  Routine, and the right balance between routine and flexibility, are an important part of maintaining equanimity.

 

And of course, part of that routine is making time to get out and just walk, or eventually to bike, to stretch, to move.  I have trouble motivating myself to exercise, but once I get started I love the way it makes me feel.  Even more than the movement itself, I love the feeling of  energy and uplifted spirits, an almost boyant calmness, that follows movement.   If recovery from surgery has taught me anything it is that no matter how tired I am, no matter how stiff or sore I am, movement is always better than non-movement.  The amount of movement may be determined  by pain or exhaustion, but even small amounts of movement help. Giving in to pain and slothfulness only begets more pain and slothfulness; movement lights up the body the way a smile lights up the soul.

 

I am posting photos of the small, under cared-for crape myrtle in my front yard because the blooms greeted me when I returned home from New York. Until this summer I didn't even know this tiny tree was a crape myrtle.  The characteristic bark began to appear about the same time as the tiny flower buds.

 

I've wanted a crape myrtle since I moved into this house.  I've been jealous every summer that everyone else had one and I didn't.  Even the house built after mine has beautiful crape myrtles. Pehaps it is because they were planted later in the year, not in January. Perhaps their front planting beds aren't mere piles of clay like mine.  For whatever reason, my crape myrtle was a slower starter. But being a slow starter is not such a bad thing in the long run.  Like the blooms on my crape myrtle, my words will return as soon as as I get my roots a little more settled.  

 

I'm not going to say I won't post while I am shifting and redoing and generally overdoing things.  I'm not going to say I won't write while I am travelling.  I merely expect that I may continue to be a bit erratic, but that, in time, I will settle in.  Routine and words will return.

 

Farewell

Yesterday afternoon we scattered George's ashes in the Hudson River.  It was a small but perfect group of family and close friends. Although I could not help hoist the Clearwater's main sail, which I had indeed done in the past, since I have not yet built up enough strength following my back surgery and it is hard work.  George's children and several friends did help though, and he would have been proud. He of course, when he was able to do so, would have been pulling with the others.

 

 

We were blessed with the perfect day.  Hot yes, but there was a breeze on the water, and the humidity, although present, was tolerable.  But mostly the day was special because family and friends were together, here, in the Hudson Valley, on the river George so dearly loved.  Although he hadn't sailed in years, he had loved to sail, loved boats, and particularly loved the Hudson River.  In the earlier years of our marriage we had even taken a few public sails on the Clearwater, although most of our time together on the Hudson was spent in a canoe, and since George liked to be out on the water, not hugging the shore, more often than not we were rowing across the river and back.  A flotilla of canoes did not really strike me as a suitable option however, and the Clearwater proved to be the perfect setting for launching George's remains to the water and land he so dearly loved.  

 

I have to admit that when Owen and I released George's ashes into the breeze, watching them float in the air, catching the light and settling on the water, it was a beautiful moment.  The past year has not always been easy, but we have reached a place from whence it is easier to move forward.  Being on the water, on the boat, together, sharing memories, catching up, and looking forward to the future, was a good way to share and remember the many ways in which we have been shaped and touched by those we have lost, and how their influence continues to float in our spirits, always a part of us.

 

 

Photo of Clearwater from Clearwater.org.

Raising the sail.

My step-son, Adam, assisting with lowering the sail. 

 

The Tracks of My Tears

I was surprised the other morning to find tears running down my face.  I was not particularly sad or distressed.  They were contented tears.  I had simply been reading something that moved me.  A few moments later I noticed that my blouse was wet, and was itself tear stained.  

 

How wonderfully remarkable. 

 

Once I was a woman who cried at everything.  I cried when I was happy.  I cried when I was sad.  I cried at sappy movies, no matter how predictable.  I cried when I heard beautiful music.  And then I lost the ability to cry.  In the past couple of months I have started crying again, tears of sadness and loss, tears of grief.  But I hadn't quite gotten back to being that person who would let tears slip at the simplest of things, that person who could allow herself to be easily moved to tears, unbidden.  Slowly the door I closed a few years ago, the door I closed because I needed to be strong, is becoming unstuck, and is beginning to open.

 

Once again my heart knows tears of joy.

Exploring the Fringes of Melancholy

The last couple of weeks have been a struggle in some ways although in other ways that same period was one of extraordinary gifts.  It is this paradox that strikes me now, how I could feel myself struggling even as I experienced deep joy and appreciated the fortune of my life, even the recognition that it is the very nature of that sense of struggle, of floundering even in the currents and responsibilities of life, that allows those moments of joy to shine all the more brightly.  I am sure that I will resolve nothing here in this post, resolution and understanding take time, often revealing themselves long after the spark which ignited them in the first place. 

In fact, sometimes when one is feeling at odds with the world, those little things, those small joys, take on a sharper significance, and one can appreciate them all the more.  Take a hibiscus blossom for example.  The large showy flowers make me smile every time I see them, and I experience a tiny seed of disappointment on those few days between periods of bloom.  But on a melancholy afternoon, a large yellow blossom is like a beacon of hope, with an impact far greater than its physical presence.

 

 

Not surprisingly,  it all started with a bout of exhaustion. I run around all wrapped up in the world of doing, not wanting to miss anything. Yes, there is time to  stop and notice the flowers, the blackberries, the joy of time spent with friends. But I really don't allow enough time to rest, not until my body just cries out "enough" and I am overwhelmed by exhaustion. Exhaustion does not, in and of itself, imply depression, and if it did this time, I was perhaps too eager to blame my ennui on my own self-perceived failings than on any real understanding of myself or the world.  And therein lies the problem.  It seems that it is too easy to both to blame myself for failings that aren't, in fact, failings at all, and to blame everything on the most obvious thing that pops to mind.

 

I was exhausted and I blamed myself.  "How could I not know I was overdoing it?" I would ask, ignoring the fact that I had not felt tired and that I had allowed time for rest.  I was not really listening to what my mind and my body were telling me, that this was just a period of refueling that was necessary before I could make the next leap forward, a leap I did indeed make, a leap that surprised me because it was so unanticipated.  The whole process makes me wonder how much any of us really know and understand ourselves.  It makes me wonder if understanding only comes after the fact, if our comprehension of the world and ourselves actually is more retrospective than current, if by the time we see where we think we are, we are actually looking at where we've been.   I know that I am often initially wrong when I try to explain why I am unhappy or upset; that I latch onto the most obvious answer, and although that supposed event may indeed have been a trigger to my feelings, it often hides something deeper, something that had been biding its time, waiting to surface.  If I only look to the obvious triggers, I miss the opportunities for growth that come with allowing the depths to surface, even though the dredging process is often uncomfortable, and I don't tend to see the actual benefit until days, or weeks, or months afterwards.

I was exhausted and I blamed myself for my exhaustion, driving myself further into despondency. I was self critical instead of self-accepting.  It is true that I needed physcial rest, but primarily I needed to allow myself to listen to my body, and my soul, and respect their needs according to their schedules, not some predetermined time-frame determined by an overfilled agenda.  I suppose that finding balance is one of the problems of modern life, we have too many options to fill our time, and experience too much pressure to keep our lives full, to the extent that rising to the occaision takes on a greater importance than just letting ourselves rest and letting our minds wander. But tiredness wasn't to blame for my melancholy.

 

I was exhausted and I was frustrated with myself. I was frustrated wtih the process of healing, frustrated with the slow process of getting stronger, frustrated that I cannot do more.  Worse, I was annoyed with myself for pushing myself too hard, for exhausting myself to the point of not being able to function.  And then, beaten down by exhaustion,  all my self-doubts would rear their ugly heads and I would fear that the world see my inability to function, see me for the overwhelmed, irresponsible flake I really am.  And of course, feeling like a failure, I would wallow in my own sense of uselessness rather than tackle some small task in order to regain a sense of accomplishment.  But one can only wallow for so long.  And although frustration and insecurity may have been the shadow demons that haunted my thoughts, they were only symptoms and not the cause of my melancholy. 

 

I was also lonely. And yet at the same time I wasn't lonely.  I am surrounded by friends and my life is full.  But something was different and I hadn't quite accommodated myself to the change.  For the first time in months, I didn't have someone coming in to the house every morning to help me with my morning chores. I could do the chores myself; I didn't need help.  But I missed having someone to talk to in the morning.  I reliazed that I had counted on that bit of conversation to start my day.  But lonliness has nothing to do with living alone.  One can be lonely in a house full of people: there were times in the last years of George's life when I was never alone and yet I was lonely.  My inner Yoda was telling me "Live alone you do, yet lonliness you must not choose".  Upon reflection I realized that I don't feel alone in the world.  And happiness must come from within, not because a few kind words from others. Lonliness was not to blame for my melancholy.

 

Then one morning I woke up with bright eyes and dancing spirits. I lept out of bed with a glad and cheerful cry.  I had been missing this part of my nature; I had wondered if my inner lark had lost her way, and there she was, brightly singing her morning song. Suddenly my days got easier.  I did more, did it more easily, without explanation.  In this constantly measured and quantified world, I jumped from walking 6,000 steps to 8,000 steps a day without even trying.  But I also rest more easily. I still get tired, yes, but now when I am tired, I am simply tired.  That zombie-like state where both my mind and body seem to shut down has passed, although I am sure that if I tried I could force myself back into it.  But why would I try?  I can focus again. How did it happen?  Why now?  Why was I melancholy even?  Was it really that simple? Did I simply have to accept that I was melancholy, simply have to accept that melancholy is a normal state of existence? Or was there some seismic shift that I am only just beginning to understand?

 

Oh, my mood shifts are not gone forever.  I am certain that on an occasional tired afternoon, when I hit my usual 3 o'clock slump, my mind will wander off into the shadow lands.  But I am also confident that it will wander back into the light again as well.  Perhaps my inner lark can only sing when I can acknowledge my own insecurities and imperfections, in accepting them I give them less power to weigh me down. Understanding lurks somewhere on the fringes of my mind and helps guide me even as I can't quite put my finger on its pulse. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Simple Gift

There is a wild blackberry bush growing in my front yard. It is actually somewhat hidden at this point, located as it is at the corner of the house behind some of the foundation plantings.  It won't remain hidden for long as it will grow larger in time and it needs to be moved.

Moving the bush isn't a problem.  I am beginning the process of landscaping the side and back yards.  I live at the end of the street, at the edge of the woods, and Iike the ideas of mixing blackberries into the more formal landscape, of finding some symbiosis between the wild and the more civilized.

 

But it strikes me that I hadn't even noticed it was there until it was pointed out to me. I stand mere feet from that bush every day as I unwind the hose, water plants, wind the hose back up again.  How could I fail to notice something so different from the surrounding shrubbery? Easily as it turns out. The truth is that I had seen the blackberries:  I had noticed the blossoms, different as they are from the adjacent bush and  I had even noticed the bright red berries foming. But my mind wasn't attending  to what my eyes were telling me. Beyond that brief flash of acknowledgement, that brief passing awareness, I had payed no attention at all.  I was too busy counting off the steps to "what next" to pay any attention to what was right in front of me.  

 

How much of life do we see and not see simultaneously? I suspect more than we care to admit.  How much of what is really valuable in life do we miss by not being present, wrapped up as we are with tasks, and lists, and schedules, our minds focused on "what next" rather than "enjoy now"?  Does striking one more item off our To Do lists really make life more meaningful?  Is there some reward for having been busier and done more?  Is the meaning of life defined by one large tally sheet in the sky? Increasingly I am not convinced.  

 

A blackberry bush seems so unimportant.  And yet it is not.  The blackberry bush is a gift. More than a gift, it is an invitation to stop for a moment, take a few steps out of one's way, and enjoy a blackberry or two or three, sweet and warmed by the sun, perhaps to share a blackberry with someone else; it is an invitation to open our eyes to those precious little things that are truly important in life, and to escape for a moment, the tyranny of that large tally sheet that so occupies our minds.