My friends,

I began this blog about “My Year Without Complaining” as an homage to my mother-in-law, Joanna Mitchell MacLaughlin.  Joanna died on 08 October 2013 after six months of decline during which I shared the care of her with her professional caregivers, her husband and children, and other family members and friends.  I had gotten it into my head that I could impact her decline by daily visits, projects to keep her mind engaged, and bringing familiar and loved objects into her increasingly foggy world.  I have no idea why I convinced myself that I could save Joanna, but convinced I was; and my efforts intensified as her condition worsened.

I failed.  My mother-in-law died as she had lived:  Sweetly, kindly, softly.

During her illness,   my father-in-law Jabez Jackson MacLaughlin and I developed a friendship which neither of us had anticipated.  Our only similarities or common bonds lay in the bed at the Sweet Life and in the eyes of his son and daughter; and in the hearts of his grandchildren.  We shared nothing other than the love we both felt for the members of the MacLaughlin / McCoskrie clan.  But that love proved sufficient to provide a rock-solid foundation for our friendship.  We put aside our differences and came to love one another.

And then: He died too, on 05 November 2014.  Again, despite my best efforts, Jay passed from this world with dignity and little fanfare other than the kind ministrations of those who loved him — including me.

Between Joanna’s death and Jay’s death, much happened to me.  My life took such sharp and overwhelming turns that I still reel at the thought of the changes that I’ve had to weather.  Sometimes my astonishment at the paths I have walked nauseates me; sometimes I laugh so hard that tears run down my face.

My mother used to say, “God only gives you as much as he thinks you can bear, and evidently he thinks you are pretty strong.”  She might be right.  But what I have borne, I could not have begun to endure without the people who love me; and I have thanked them, publicly and privately, for all that they have done even at great sacrifice to themselves.

I began this blog with the intention of going an entire year without complaining.  I cannot really say that I have gone one day without voicing some complaint — whether outloud or in  my heart.  I have learned, however; and I have changed; and I have grown.

My ex-husband, Dennis Lisenby, marveled at this undertaking.  He said, You are doing something publicly that I am afraid to do privately.  While I doubt his fear of personal growth, I certainly appreciated his compliment.  But I am not as convinced that what I’ve done is brave, as I am certain that what I have done was indispensable.  The course I had set for myself could not have taken me anywhere but spiraling into an abyss, a bottomless pit of desolation and despair, loneliness and longing.

Last June, I created an inspiration board for myself.  I tucked a few photographs and a couple of cards from various people on the board, and photographed it.  Over the last six months, I have added to it — notes from Jessica who lived with me for three months; cards from people encouraging me on my journey to healing; little notes from this person or that; more photographs of people who inspire me.   The board hangs in my kitchen where I see it every day.  I draw my strength from it.

I also draw strength from the angels in my life, both human and divine.  Without those angels, I would have surrendered this effort almost before embarking on it.  Each time I felt that I could not keep trying, could not forge forward, one of my angels appeared to encourage me.  They called, they wrote, they texted; they laughed, they cajoled, they prayed.  I cannot ask for more than they gave me; I cannot express how humbled I am by what they did for me.

I intend to continue this journey.  Today, I lost my temper at the rudeness of a bank clerk.  She had not only treated me rudely, she treated another customer rudely, also.  I felt so sorry for him; but I did not deal with her in the empathetic nonviolent way that I strive to espouse.  As I left the bank, I heard my son’s voice saying, Find your empathy.  I know I have a long way to go, but at least the new tape running in my head does eventually engage.  It does not yet come naturally to me, but I am learning.

For anyone who wants to read about the principles of Non-violent Communication by which I am striving to live, here’s a link to the Center for Non-Violent Communication.  I recommend starting with Marshall Rosenberg’s videos on YouTube, beginning with the first video in what my son and I call “the red shirt series”, because Dr. Rosenberg wears a red shirt in the videos.  The version of the series which I watch has been broken down into manageable portions, starting here.

I will close with my very best wishes to each and every person who reads this, for a joyous, prosperous, happy, and safe New Year.  I am posting this late in the evening of 30 December 2014 as my “New Year” post.  Many of you will read this on December 31st; and that’s my intention.  My next post will be on 01 January 2015, right here on this blog, My Year Without Complaining.  You may think of 2015 as my second year trying to live non-violently, and without complaint.  But my posts will celebrate the joyfulness of the world around me, including whatever people I encounter as I go forward in my year.

For your enjoyment, I offer some photos of people who inspired me, starting with my beloved in-laws, Jay and Joanna MacLaughlin.  They became parents to me; and I became their daughter-in-law in my heart just as I had done on paper when I married their son.  But more:  they gave me unconditional love, despite my faults, despite my failings, despite my sorrow, despite my strange ways.  I will never forget them.  Their love for me; and mine for them; sustained me through this, my year trying to learn not to complain; and I expect that it will sustain me all the rest of my days.

My Inspiration Board:

As you can see ….. It has grown!

 

 

 

 

Here are a few photos of some of the people and places that have touched my life, this year and over time.  There are so many more; I apologize to anyone who does not see their photo here — it might be that I just do not have a photo of you.  I also apologize for any lay-out issues from device to device.  One day, I hope to learn WordPress!  Until that time, please enjoy these pictures of those whom I love, and who love me.  My life is filled with  joy because of them and others, whose pictures are not here but who nonetheless inspire me.

“I keep your heart; I keep it in  my heart.”  (e e cummings)

 

Tomorrow will be the last day of my year, this year when I’ve been embracing deliberate change.  I will post something tomorrow that might well be sappy and sentimental to some; but will bring this year to a close and give way to the start of my real year without complaining, 2015.  I will be applying everything I have learned and experienced on this personal journey.

For today, let me say this:  There are several people who have tolerated my ineptness, my stumbling, and my prideful ways.  They have given much to me, even when I could not ask for help and seemed to resent the help offered or given.  I know them well enough to know that they would prefer not to be named.  But they know who they are.  They are the persons for whom I am grateful today.

And to them, to my angels, even the reluctant ones, I say — I hope you are not disappointed in me; and that you know how much your faith in me has meant.

One of my first published essays carried the title, “The Virtue of Pain”.  I argued (at age 15) that without pain, we could not appreciate joy.  The essay appeared in a magazine published by the Christian Board of Publication in St. Louis.  Before you admire me too much, let me tell you that my sister Adrienne worked for Christian Board.  I might have had an “in”.

This morning, I awakened early to prepare myself for a day of testing.  I had to limit my sleep to one-half of normal and forego caffeine.  I’ve had breakfast and herbal tea.  My bones ache from too little sleep.  But moments after waking today, just before I would have complained about my stiff joints and sore  muscles, I thought, I felt bad because I had no shoes, until I saw the man who had no feet.

Indeed.  I am blessed that I can afford health insurance which will pay for these tests; blessed that I can feel even if what I feel today is pain.  So today, I am grateful for my aches, because they tell me that I am alive.  And as “me old mither” always said, Where there is life, there is room for improvement.

 

Tomorrow, the Lady Jessica Genzer launches the next phase of her life.  I have been graced with her daily presence in my home for three months.  I am loathe to release her, but I know that marvelous wanderings and fabulous adventures await her in the Islands; and so, I must bid her adieu.

Jessica has shown me the way of joyfulness.  She has brought her sweet son Addao into my life and taught me much about parenting.  Her accepting nature, combined with her passionate defense  of what she sees as the absolute truth, have tempered my responses to my own life.  She has helped me find the  courage to challenge injustice without mistaking  the choices of others for intentional offense.

This two-day period holds three exits. My son leaves today to return to Chicago.  Jessica’s son will go back to his father’s house this afternoon, and I will see him only occasionally during Jessica’s time in Hawaii.  Tomorrow morning, Jessica departs for California from which she will fly to Honolulu for her three-month stay there.  Once again, the Holmes house will be occupied by me, the silly dog, and our outdoor cat.  I shall be sorry not to see Addao’s radiant smile and hear his adorable giggle.  I am conditioned to Patrick’s comings and goings; nonetheless I am saddened by the thought of his impending departure.

But you:  Lady Jessica.  I’m going to miss you most of all.  And once again, I have proof that I have a heart; because, although I am glad for you, to be embarking on this great journey, my heart breaks ever so slightly,  at the thought of telling you fare thee well.

 

In 1994, a careless playground attendant failed to observe a little boy sitting on my son pounding his face with tiny but determined fists.  Both boys described the incident’s culminating events the same way.  My son “used his words” but the boy wouldn’t relent.  My son couldn’t “walk away” because the child out-weighed him and had parked his sturdy body on my son’s chest.  Since the playground attendant did not respond to his cries “seeking help”, my son bit the kid.

The kid got sent home.  I could not be reached because I had gone to Chillicothe for a day of depositions, so my son sat in a chair outside the pre-school director’s office until I arrived at 5:00 p.m.  It seems that biting a child, even in self-defense, qualified him as a miscreant.  The incident had occurred at morning recess.  My three-year-old spent six and a half hours on a chair in the director’s hallway because they would not release him to my alternate emergency contacts despite having the proper authorizations on file.  Tired, hungry, and confused, my son asked over and over:  “Why didn’t you come?”

A week later, with the help of a friend who persuaded the owner of Purple Dragon Pre-school to bump my son up the waiting list, Patrick moved schools.  That turn of events gave my son the most marvelous educational experience any three-year old could hope to have.  At Purple Dragon, he came under the care of Magda Hellmuth, whose sweet but firm tutelage surrounded her thirty charges with love and comfort and also inspired their minds to reach without limitation.  Over the next two years, son learned to read, write, sign his name in cursive, add, subtract, divide, and to cheerfully partake of every kind of food imaginable, including both borscht and artichokes.

But perhaps more critical for the progress of both my son’s life and mine, he met, and became friends with, a curly-haired, adventurous, rowdy little boy named Chris Taggart.

Nearly twenty-one years later, our lives remain intertwined with those of the growing Taggart family.  Chris’s mother Katrina became my closest friend and one of three or four people who have remained loyal, steadfast, and supportive through all of my trials, tribulations, joys, triumphs, failures, and frights.  Her children became my  “shared children”.  She and her husband, Ross, have taken me to the hospital, buried pets, baby-sat my child, taken him on adventures that my body wouldn’t allow me to do, and shared their children’s rites of passages and those of my son as well.  Ross and Katrina have received me into their home when desolation dogged me.  Together, we’ve attended weddings, funerals, births, graduations, and sports events.  I know that they would respond to any cry for help because they have done so; and they know that I would do the same for them.

While it might stretch the imagination to believe that I’m grateful for the little boy who pummeled my son on that small playground twenty years ago, I can say that I am thankful for the turn of events which took my son to Magda Hellmuth’s marvelous school, and which brought us into the orbit of one of the finest, most loving families that I have ever known.

So,  to each of you, I offer my hope that you have your own “Taggart family”, but also, that you appreciate their enriching influence on your lives.  I am grateful for a turn of events which worked out, and brought my son and me the friendship of these beautiful people.  I am grateful for them — Ross and Katrina; their children — Jennie and her husband Brett; Caitlin and her fiance Bryan; Chris and his girlfriend Sam; and Jennie and Brett’s children, Benton, Nora and Gavin.

Here are some photos of our 2014 Christmas with the Taggarts.

I wrote a bunch of stuff about not being Christian but by some miracle, it got deleted.  It’s just as well: it sank to the level of drivel by virtue of its self-righteousness.

I’m not Christian, though.  But I wait all year to walk around with a wide grin saying, “Merry Christmas!”    I vary my chortling with the occasional “Happy Holiday”, but mostly I give it the full-on Feliz Navidad.  I’m goofy about it.  I stop random strangers in parking lots for the single-minded purpose of exchanging festive salutations.

I cruise stores for perfectly picked presents, usually for weeks ahead of time, and then spend ridiculous amounts of time culling wrapping paper from the stash purchased after the holiday each year at half-price or less.  I miter corners, scrunch the ends of extra paper around oddly-shaped packages, and write names of recipients in little white spaces which form Santa’s beard or shooting stars.  The decorated gifts go under my tree or on a little table beside it, grouped by family or the day on which we’ll be seeing particular visitors.  I contrive occasions to give gifts without telling those who will be present, to be sure they won’t have one for me.  I don’t care about receiving.  I just like to give.

I can’t say that I’m thankful for “God”, or “Christ”, or the pagan holiday to which Christmas can be said to be loosely tied.  Plainly, and simply, I’m grateful for the entire season.  My heart soars at the radiance on the faces of people as they unwrap what I’ve taken care to select for them.  In this season, I cheerfully subject myself to loudly tendered endearments offered by clerks, old ladies, and people whom I might normally suspect of patronizing me.  It’s Christmas, people.  Get your happy on.

Before the age of ten, I learned to crochet, knit, and embroider.  I created hats, scarves, and little pieces of cloth that could have been handkerchiefs with delicate pastel knots and flowers.  My mother leaned over the chair, fingering the yarn, tsking, encouraging, guiding my fingers.

Over the years, I abandoned embroidery and dabbled in knitting but really embraced crocheting.  But as the arthritis gripped my hands, even the easiest crocheted scarves fell unfinished into the basket.

Last year I started knitting a throw to give to a dear friend for Christmas.   I never completed it, though.  I got about a quarter of the way and had to abandon the effort, my fingers gnarled and inflamed.  The work sat neglected all year in a plastic bag.  I’ve taken it up again.  I hope to finish it.  I don’t purl; I only knit.  Knit one,  knit two, knit three.  I hear my mother’s voice telling me, guide the thread, keep the tension regular, wind the yarn, don’t let the loop slip, there you go.  I knitted for over three hours today and finished a skein started fourteen months ago.  I’m on the third skein of four with three days left until Christmas.

My mother’s voice guides me and I am grateful that she taught me this skill, imperfectly though I learned it.  I sit in my rocker, work the yarn, and feel like Lucy Corley’s little girl.  I might not finish this piece in time for Christmas. Next year, for sure.  Knit one, knit two, knit three, and rock, keep rocking, while the mind wanders and my mother’s voice shows me the way.

My Musings this week told the story of two strangers who helped me, more than twenty-three years ago.  There have been so many along the way.  Without the gentle moment when a stranger stops to offer a hand, when a voice calls to me across a store asking if I need assistance, when the car pulls behind me not with threat but with guidance — without these acts of kindness, I would be truly bereft.

If you have not read my Musings today, and would like to do so, you can find them here.

Merry Christmas week, everyone.  I am grateful to all of you, and to the angels among us who work without tiring, to make our lives rich, full, and possible.

If the sign of a successful actor lies in the employment status of the actor’s spouse, the measure of a blogger’s success appears on her stat pages, and in the comments section of her posts.

Today, I find myself grateful for the “fans and friends” who read my blog and especially those who post or e-mail about my efforts here and on my Musings.

My Musings began as e-mails to a thousand-person listserve, an attempt to write when I had no other venue.  They evolved into a weekly blogspot and found more readers by weekly tweets and Facebook posts of the link.  I’ve drawn both praise and criticism for those offerings, but all comments find me and work themselves into the fabric of my learning and growth as a writer.

This blog records  my journal of personal growth.  As such, its appeal might be somewhat less than my weekly blog but a cadre of loyal fans and friends read, comment, and e-mail about my entries.  I’m grateful for each of you.

Those who know me best, understand the events of 2014 which have made my quest to live complaint-free on all levels that much more difficult.  I’ve tried to keep the references to some of the more challenging events oblique or symbolic.  But  suffice to say that had I know what lie ahead, I would certainly not have weaned myself from narcotics and complaining at the same time.  One or the other might have been a reasonable approach.

As it is, I’ve managed to stay completely narcotic-free but have regressed from time to time in this realm.  All in all, the choice to stop taking narcotics for the first time in 45 years was a good one, even though it stressed my resolve to change my outlook on life.

Without my fans and friends, I could not have gauged my progress with certainty.  Even folks who don’t post here, or even send private e-mails, have taken the time to comment at the positive transformation that I’ve been trying to achieve.  My symbol for years has been the butterfly, with its journey from little ugly worm to fragile lovely colorful wings and a strong, sure body.  I am not there; but I am getting close.  The support of fans and friends has been instrumental in my decision to persevere.

I am — without doubt — humbled by your dedication to me, and grateful for each of you.

 

As I stepped out onto the porch to feed the cat and get the newspaper, the beauty of winter in all its possibilities surrounded me.  Today,  I need offer nothing more than the words of Robert Frost, and a vision of what I saw.