Little Old Lady … in Waiting

Tag: self-care

  • On Grief and Loss and other Incurable Conditions of the Heart

    “Why is it that words like these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?” 
    ― James Joyce, (The Dead)

    “Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, You must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth. Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread, only kindness that raises it’s head from the crowd of the world to say ‘It is I you have been looking for,’ and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend.

    -Naomi Shihab Nye (Kindness)

    My brother, Kelly Blaine Joseph Jude Lewis or KBJJ, as he signed all our written correspondence, was 90 percent angel and only 10 percent human…always…not just in death like some knighted memory where all our flaws are conveniently forgotten. Even as a child, the middle child to be exact, he was everyone’s favourite, a good son, a sweet man, a comic, a sage, a poet, a most excellent companion, a loyal and honest friend, and a beloved brother. He was a quiet, thinking man…he noticed the little things…he was careful with other people’s hearts.

    A fit, 58 year old vegan, my brother died of a massive hemorrhagic stroke on a beautiful summer day, three and half years ago now, and the sense of loss and grief I have held every day since his parting is still so close I can barely breathe when I remember him. My days are laced with little daggers that keep him alive and I am grateful for every one…the rough cut decal fore-edge of a new book, cinnamon raison toast and earl grey tea, bookstores, and coffee shops, an Irish lilt or a Scottish burr, nature walks, and the sea…always the sea, or the tang of the sea scented streets of this dirty old town he so loved, never more so than on a crisp autumn afternoon. He was all of my favourite things … “my talk, my song,” and “everywhere he walked was holy ground” to me.

    My brother lived alone, a singleton, and it was only the kindness of a concerned co-worker that alerted us to what was to be the last day of his life. He was rushed by ambulance to hospital where neuro-surgeons explained that there was nothing to be done. So, we sat in shocky silence by his deathbed and held his still warm hands. When death came close, I lay my head on his chest and listened while his heart stopped beating and his lungs swelled with his last breath. To the woman who gave our family those last few hours with my brother, to sit with him as he left this world, to say our last goodbyes, I will forever, be in your debt.

    The physical sensation of such a loss is acutely painful … a panicky breathlessness takes hold of you, the ground is swept away, and the sky goes out. There is no place to run away to, no safe space, no comfort, no medicine to alleviate the crushing weight that comes to rest squarely on the center of your chest and refuses to shift. It makes a home inside you, and though you pray for the blanket of unconsciousness, the horror and ache is still there when you wake. You wonder how your own heart can hold out… it remains a mystery to me.

    As a nurse you can imagine the cornucopia of magic beans and pharmacotherapy that arrived at my door in the days directly following my brother’s death. Although I was desperate to forget for a few hours that he was was gone, I was afraid to venture into uncharted terrain… “what dreams may come.” I settled on a steady diet of day drinking which made it possible for me to breathe in the first few months after he left us. “Grief felt four dimensional”, weighted, surreal, and still faintly familiar… I was always cold. People bring things. I remember food arriving, food I could not eat …and friends and family saying things I could not really fathom. I nodded, I let people hold me, but I couldn’t feel their warmth. I absented myself, I learned to cry quietly. I was adrift in the dark, night swimming far from shore, unreachable, inviolate… unspeakably sad. Still, I was grateful on some unconscious level…for the people…and their words…and their offerings …distant reminders that I was still here, that my own heart still beat it’s unwanted song. I let the mourners come, and my brother’s friends, such beauties, brought some solace with their stories.

    There is no medicine that I know of, no antidote, no cure for grief. No sutures to close the gaping hole in your chest. It does not heal …you bleed out slowly …you die a death as well. Our dead take a bloody big chunk of us with them, the part that only they could see, the part that they loved best, and you don’t get that part back. You learn to carry the cavity inside you, and after a time if you are very brave, you can repurpose the space as a kind of light catcher.

    Of course, the immediate shock of such a loss is nothing to what follows … the deep hollowing out, the exquisite loneliness, a yearning for everything you saw reflected in their eyes, and all you held dear in them, the staggering loss of what you thought you could keep forever. C.S Lewis in his book, A Grief Observed, originally published under the penname Dimidus (Latin meaning cut in half), writes in his opening line, “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”

    After 6 weeks of staying as numb as I could manage on cheap pinot grigio, it stopped working altogether. Deep into my cups I was still stony cold, and I was terrified. I felt abandoned, alone, and inconsolable. Eventually I was desperate enough to attempt the unthinkable. I put down the bottle opener and stopped trying to hide from the full flare of the pain…I leaned into it, I stared at it’s sun. I stopped trying to outrun it, I stood my ground, and braced as the pain unfurled inside me, it intensified and it was eviscerating. Could I stand it…would it kill me, could I actually give it it’s head and let it run free inside me… was I strong enough? I’m still not sure.

    Today when it comes for me, the sadness, the memories, his voice, his heart, his poetry, his beautiful mind, I stay with him for as long as I can, I nod to the pain, like some old friend that crosses my path. I soften, I approach slowly…carefully now… I ask myself in a gentle voice, a voice I might use if speaking to a 4-year-old child…I ask where it hurts, what I’m most afraid of… and then I ask what might help a little, and the answer is always kindness.

    What is unbearable becomes bearable in time. Not because the grief goes away or gets smaller, but because we grow stronger around it, by holding space for a loved one who lives within us still. The transition is deeply unpleasant, like walking a “razor’s edge”, but befriending the pain and discovering the gift inside the grief, the gift of empathy and kindness, invokes an evolution of the spirit, a parting gift from the ghost of your lost loved one.

    Grief and all its jagged little teeth is the price for the privilege of being loved and having loved.  I know too that the size and shape and depth of grief is in direct proportion to the quality and breadth of that love. People ask if I’m better now. I always say ‘yes’ because it’s easier than explaining that the ache never leaves you…it’s only that I made friends with it.

    How do I keep him with me… the man called Parker Stephenson in my phone contacts, named after a tv sleuth of our youth, because he looked at life like a great mystery and always smiled like a boy pretending to be a detective, in the moment before he solves the case. I sit by the sea, I haunt the poetry section, I practice silence until I get a sense of his nearness and hear his voice, my own personal guardian angel. I look for every opportunity to practice kindness towards myself and all those I meet. Kindness ideally unobserved and undisclosed. I acknowledge daily what a grand thing it is to live a life and to know such love.

    If I could tell him one last secret, boil the kettle for tea just once more, or read a single line of poetry to him, I’d whisper

    ” …here is the deepest secret nobody knows

    (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

    and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;

    which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

    and this is the wonder that keeps the stars apart

    i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)” (Cummings)

  • In Conversation with Sherry Fitzgerald

    Sherry Fitzgerald is my extraordinary sister-in-law and the youngest little old lady in waiting I will be interviewing in this series celebrating women over 50, a project devised and designed to elucidate wisdom teachings from my peers as we enter our last and ideally most intentional years. I have learned a lot from this dynamic, pocket-sized, ‘powerhouse’ wellness expert over the years, and I saved our conversation especially for January, a time when so many of us are reflecting on lifestyle changes to optimize health and wellbeing.

    Sherry’s life story sits unequivocally in the action-adventure category.  She rises at 4 am each day, works out twice a day, running, swimming, and biking 3 times a week, and making time to strength train 4 to 5 times each week. I often see her in Yoga class as well, she calls it her ‘treat’. In her early 50’s, Sherry has a body that most women in their 20’s would covet, and her biological age is, I strongly suspect, at least a decade younger than what her driver’s license indicates. She has run dozens of marathons in her athletic career and began training for Ironman competitions in her 40s, completing four of these grueling tests of strength and endurance to date, notably in Lake Placid and Mount Tremblant. For non-sporty types, these are triathlons starting with a 3.9-kilometer swim, followed by a 180-kilometer bike race, and for the closer, a full marathon, a 42-kilometer run. Mountain climbing was Sherry’s first physical challenge, climbing Mount Katahdin at age 18 and working as a mountaineer for a time in her younger years, spending 3 months in the fiords of Newfoundland. She is proficient at rock and ice climbing, she has jumped out of planes and bungee jumped, and was married in a hot air balloon.

    I asked her where such fire comes from, the genesis of her tremendous discipline and a lifelong devotion to fitness.  She shared with me that losing her father two weeks after her 17th birthday was a traumatic and profoundly impactful experience. “To be honest with you, I think I didn’t want to be on the earth for a while…there was a period in high school where if I knew more about suicide, I might have taken my life.  Once I figured out that wasn’t what I wanted to do, I kind of went in the opposite direction and said ‘Ok, who are the healthiest people in the world…I’m going to mirror what they’re doing’, and I did a 360 turn from there.  That’s why my fitness roots are so strong.  Every triathlon, every Ironman I complete is a little memoriam to my dad…most marathons I don’t even stop for the medal…it’s never been about that.”

    How she maintains such discipline has always been a mystery to me.  I asked her the secret. “I know our minds are very powerful, and sometimes not in our favor,” she tells me, “They’re always trying to keep us from doing anything hard, and I know that about my mind, and so now it’s the behavior that has to override that, so I just put actions first, before the feelings.  I am good at moving.  I get the endorphins, and I’m lucky in that I feel good when I’m moving.  But I also want to make sure that I move in a way that’s good for me, that includes rest and recovery and sometimes trying something new.  I’m not so good at sitting and that’s an area I’d like to explore more now.”

    No interview with a fitness expert would be complete without asking about diet, especially as the new year begins.  With respect to food, Sherry prioritizes longevity and optimizing feeling good above all. “I know instantly when I eat something whether it’s going to support my health or betray me.” Sherry eats a colorful rainbow of food, securing as many phytonutrients as she can get, and maximizing healthy fats and proteins.  Her diet is research-based but also customized to satisfy her palette.  “You have to make it your own, so you don’t feel hungry, or like you’re missing out. The food I eat leaves me feeling my best and if I didn’t feel that way, then I would still have some work to do.  I eat a plant-based diet. I don’t eat meat, or processed foods…no dairy, no wheat, no alcohol…I stay with whole foods. But there is no set formula. I’m not religious about food. I do take supplements and enjoy a pea or hemp protein smoothie daily maybe with chia and collagen and creatinine.  I do believe in fasting as well for my body to detox and clean.  During the day is my grace period. I graze and stay light during peak movement hours.  At the end of the day, I eat an enriched salad with a warm veg as well and I try to include 9 to 12 different colours on my plate.”

    Sherry has volunteered and worked contract and salaried positions at the YMCA in Saint John since she was in high school, initially as a fitness instructor and later as a personal trainer. Today she works full time as the Fitness Supervisor at the Y, where she is a well-loved and tremendously popular icon of fitness, a wellness mentor, and a stellar ambassador, exemplifying the philosophy and principles that the YMCA has long championed, embodying core values like inclusiveness, and kindness. I have on many occasions considered writing to her CEO to let them know what a magnificent asset they have in her and would have done so had we not shared the same last name. She has saved my life more than once.  After suffering great personal loss and working to overcome injury, it was often her voice that kept me moving and held me together on the hard days, and her steps I followed to find my way back to myself.  

    A wellspring of positive energy and a beacon of light, I know she has helped a great many others transition through similar periods of challenge with her characteristic humour, relentless encouragement, and deep hearted kindness. There is a small legion of little old ladies in waiting queuing up at the Y most days for the full Sherry experience, where she is leaving a legacy, fortifying a cohort of bodies, minds, and spirits, ensuring we live full and active lives, one standing abdominal curl and suitcase squat at a time. She makes movement fun, she creates a culture of safety that meets us where we are on our fitness journey, she distracts us from the hard parts, and encourages us to experience and enjoy the challenging work of staying healthy. She asks us to imagine what feels impossible some days and empowers us to find our own stride and strength, leading us in classes that build our muscles, create community, and elevate us all.

    Tell me your life story in seven sentences or less.

    I grew up fast after losing my father at a young age, and it changed the entire direction of my life. Health, movement, and taking care of my body became a priority from the beginning. That path led me to a lifelong career in fitness and wellness, helping others live the life they don’t want to lose. I built a family of my own, two children and a husband who anchor me, inspire me and remind me why every minute matters. I’ve learned to chase joy, strength, and connection with intention. I believe in living fully, honestly, and with purpose.

    What is the best thing about getting older?

    Understanding what truly deserves your energy and letting go of everything that doesn’t.  It’s a gift to grow older, as we know.  My energy and my first priority has always been my family, but especially now, after the kids moved out.  I make a point to keep up with what’s going on in their lives, checking in on a regular basis, and making connections when I can, when they let me, she laughs. I make dates with my mom, celebrating her is a priority to me as well.  But at the start of each day, I prioritize myself.  The stronger I am, the more strength I can lend to everything else.  So, it always starts with me.  I’m up early and in bed early by 8 or 9pm.  It would be a wild night for me if I didn’t get to bed until 10, there would be some mischief happening.

    What is the worst thing about getting older?

    Realizing that time moves faster than you think, and that you can’t get any of it back.  I set intentions every day and at the end of day I usually do a little recap. In my bed I’ll revisit what went well not only with respect to my goals but also regarding my personal values, so if I can be authentic and live up to the values I’ve set for myself, then I count that as a win, to have lived a good day.  I don’t wait for Friday every week to weigh in and see how I’m doing…I think we’re past that.

    What would you title this chapter of your life?

    Living with Intention and Purpose

    What’s the most important lesson you’ve learned so far?

    That living authentically and staying true to my values matters most, especially when life is going well. It’s important not to take anything for granted, to appreciate your life every day.  Every day is a gift.  Choosing to look for the brighter side and trusting that every experience, even the difficult ones, is something I am meant to learn and grow from, here to shape who I am becoming.

    If you could retain or retrieve one quality from your youth, what would it be?

    The ability to bounce back without overthinking. As a child when something happens you tend to get distracted by something else so quickly and it’s easier to just let things go; whereas as an adult, and I’m getting better at this now, but if someone looks at me a certain way or if I potentially hurt someone’s feelings, or someone hurts mine, it stays with you. We have more experiences at play and more meaning behind those experiences because of the life span, and things can become more emotional.

    Do you have a favourite quote?

    What you give out always finds its way back. I do believe in karma. I think angry people hold that inside themselves and I wouldn’t wish that for anyone.  My mom is very religious and brought us up on the ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’  So even if no one else is around when you do something bad you still internalize it, and it will come back to teach you again.

    Do you have a favourite word?

    Kindness.  It’s my number one strength.  Not only in how I treat others but also in how I treat myself.  I wasn’t kind to myself for a lot of years and it’s a fine balance between giving and not taking too much away from yourself.  I’m just getting it now.  I wasn’t as kind to myself as I was to everybody else for many years.  I practice kindness in a more balanced way now and that feels good.  A coach once told me to imagine someone you love very much and consider how you would treat them or counsel them in similar circumstances. You would want to treat them kindly, and so now hold the mirror up and take that approach with yourself.

    Describe your perfect day.

    A morning workout to set the tone, followed by time with my family, unrushed, present, connected. A long walk in nature and meaningful conversation. I have that perfect day every week with my friends and with my family.  Now whether that’s my husband’s shining moment of the week I don’t know. (Laughing) No… marrying Derek was probably the smartest thing I ever did, and I think there was a higher power that brought my husband to me.  He is pure kindness.  Meaningful conversation for me includes our speaking about our shared memories and the future, dreaming together, and listening to stories from my mother’s childhood as well. I’m at age now where I have the capacity to care and listen better.  I ask more open-ended questions to learn more from the people I care about most.

    If you could have tea with anyone, real or fictional, dead, or alive, who would it be and what would you talk about?

    My father. I’d want to tell him who I became, and introduce him to the family he never met, and I would ask him everything I never got the chance to ask. I’m very proud of the life we’ve built together.  It doesn’t just happen, as you know, it’s a lot of hard work and a lot of sweat, a lot of time and effort and sacrifice, but also lot of joy and a lot of learning.  My husband is a gift, I’d just have to present him. The same with the kids, they are just so unique. I would just send them in.  I never really got a chance to know my dad as an adult, to learn what he liked to do, what some of his favourite things are.  I would like to learn more about him, to really know him.  I was just so angry that he left, it made for some very hard teenage years.  I would love the chance to get to know him, and to like him.

    Tell me three things that bring you joy.

    Movement. Family. Helping someone discover their own strength. In my work at the Y, where I get the most joy is having those conversations with people and them speaking out loud their goals and dreams and the privilege of being that person that can help them get there.  I’ve been given so many tools throughout my education to support people and I feel so fortunate to be that person that can help them unlock their potential or rediscover their passion and joy. Those conversations…they’re a big part of my intention and my purpose, and my joy, catching people when they need a hand up.

    Name a guilty pleasure.

    Reality T.V and Kind bars.

    Do you believe in life after death? What does it look like?

    I believe our spirit continues, maybe as energy, maybe as memory, maybe as a presence that never fully leaves. I like to think that the people we love are nearby in ways we can’t see but sometimes can feel. Years ago, when I was in Newfoundland, I had hypothermia and was evacuated by helicopter to hospital, and I feel like it was my father who saved my life.  I think there was like a tap on my shoulder that kept me from falling asleep and I’ve always attributed it to my dad.  A lot of people wouldn’t have survived, but I did.

    What would you like your eulogy to say?

    She will be remembered for her warm smile, contagious laugh, and unique, spirited personality. She loved her family and friends with her whole heart and always put others first, while learning to be kind to herself as well. She had a gift for seeing the brighter side of life, supporting people when they needed it most, and making those around her feel truly cared for.

  • Embracing the Crone

    “The crone must become pregnant with herself, at last she must bear herself, her third self, her old age, with travail and alone. Not many will help her with that birth.” (No Time to Spare – Ursula K. Le Guin)

    “When howling gale is rattling doors, or call of lonely wolf is heard, or cry of raven on the wing, or crack of frost upon the ground, tis she, tis she, tis she. (Calleach – Siobhan Mac Mahon)

    Less than a week before Christmas, when family matriarchs are customarily exiled to Santa’s sweatshops, wrapping gifts like Edward Scissorhands, and frosting shortbreads until our collective glycemic index reads “critical,” I decided to take a night off from the Christmas chain gang. I ventured out on a dark and stormy night, in the company of a close friend of comparable vintage, to attend a workshop that promised to introduce, depict, and interpret the power and majesty of the Crone, a feminine archetype, traditionally the last in a triad, after maiden and mother.  The Crone, often portrayed in our culture as a warty hag, complete with kerchief and shawl, is cast as the most powerful as well.   A sage, a witch, a guardian, a memory keeper, a storyteller…these are just a few of the crone synonyms we might try on for fit, as we move into this last, magical, and mysterious phase of feminine folklore.

    The workshop was led by a woman who called herself a ceremonialist, a Cailleach, or “veiled one” in Gaelic mythology, who helps people transition through significant life events.  Like so many formative moments in a woman’s life,  it began with a fairy tale and the promise of a little-old-lady felted doll of our own making by night’s end, so we charged our tenuous social batteries, did battle with our homebody hearts, discussed whose eyesight was least perilous for an after dark adventure, packed a journal and a sacred object, as directed (Jesus …will there be sharing), and set off on our quest to Encounter the Crone.

    Sat close to the sea in a small conference room, the wind outside serenaded us like a siren call, a slow whistling sea shanty, and the doors rattled loudly, heralding the night’s import, like the ghost of Christmas past. We were offered tea and invited to sit around a makeshift altar decorated with bones and stones and candlelight.  We added our own holy relics: jewelry passed down from our mothers, artwork, a pinecone, a bird, a doll, the shell of a sea urchin, a heritage Christmas angel, and a witch stone, known for its magical protective properties. We were 12 women together, artists and academics, nurses, and teachers, travelling in the dark, a winter’s walk to honour our experiences, mine for meaning, and navigate together a transformation to feminine elderhood, a privileged freehold of wisdom and authenticity, sovereignty and self-possession. The magic in the room was a palpable thing…not enough to levitate… first time out mind, but strong enough to elevate us all.  I’m certain it surprised no one in the room when the lights went out and we were forced to close our circle prematurely, but not before we built something true and lasting together.

    The fairy tale recited so beautifully by our host was the story of Vasilisa the Beautiful, a kind of hybrid Cinderella and Hansel and Gretel.  Our heroine, Vasilisa, is gifted a tiny doll with magical properties from her dying mother, that protects her throughout a perilous journey to safety.  Spoiler alert she lives a full life and eventually returns to her origin story, living out her days as an elder in the forest.   The tale is simple but rich in imagery and metaphor.  We were asked to share the images that lingered in our mind’s eye.  The death scene between mother and daughter and the gift of legacy, chicken legged furniture, the impossible task of finding poppy seeds in dirt, a metaphor for discernment, and a fire torch crafted from a skull, the instrument that leads to the story’s denoument, all had honourable mention.

    For me, the lasting power of the story was not an image but an incantation.  Vasilisa called upon the power of the doll reciting, “Little doll, little doll, drink your milk my dear, and I will pour all my troubles in your ear, in your ear.” The notion of a talisman for the storms of life, a mother’s magic, an enchantment to conjure a place of safety in our darkest hour, when we’re not sure our own strength will hold; to call on the inherited love of our ancestors and open a portal of protection, or peace abiding….definately worth the price of admission. Were we leaving the workshop later that night with such a prize in our possession, a felted doll infused with magic, a protective cloak spun from our collective sacred offerings? What sorcery was this?  I started thinking maybe I should leave the house more often, even as a tempest raged outside, and Christmas at ours, still only half conjured.

    Properly incentivized we turned our attention to working with archetypes.  We chose a role from the alter at the center of our circle. Interestingly no one chose the same archetype.  There were so many wonderful choices.  I passed on Hag, and Old One, Elder and Witch.  Hearth Keeper and Herb Wife didn’t quite fit either.  We had a Weaver and a Word Witch, I remember. My friend, selected Sage.  A new grandmother, she is interested in legacy building and passing down family tradition and wisdom.  I picked Storyteller.  I’ve always been addicted to story.  It’s my preferred way to learn.  For me it’s high art, allowing us to live a thousand lives in one, a talisman against loneliness, a cure for myopia and polarization.

    After sharing our selections and thoughts around the archetype alter, we moved, some of us more tentatively than others, to worktables set up for needle felting, a dangerous, dexterous art, that comes with small sharp stabbing needles and raw wool to be shaped and prodded into small objets d’art, a felted little old lady…in waiting.  I wish I could tell you there was no blood lost but I’m sure I wasn’t the only hag there to stifle a silent scream that night as the needle pieced my presumably pre-loved stabbing pillow, and caught the delicate skin beneath my fingernail.  Maybe the bloodletting is part of the spell, maybe human sacrifice is the elixir that makes the doll magical.  All I know is that I stabbed my doll a thousand times or more before she came to life in my hands and the stabbing was oddly therapeutic (“psycho -killer…qu’est-ce que c’est”). I plan to continue my felt making education and have already created a companion for my doll, but maybe I’ve shared too much. Still, friends are important…even felted friends.

    The power went out when I was attempting to style my doll’s hair.  Every woman will understand the import of such a moment.  Our felting mentors came to the rescue and held cell phone flashlights for us to finish this crucial phase in the work. Suffice to say, I was never so happy to own such unruly, unkept tresses. It was the work of a moment to complete the effect and even in the dark I recognized the crone I held in my hands as my own, a story keeper and maker, a sovereign in the final decades of her reign, confidant in her unique gifts, generous in her attention to those she held dear, and determined to live intentionally, according to her values and passions until her last moments in this realm. 

    I was afraid the storm raging outside would prevent our eclectic circle from sharing our thoughts on the dolls we created. Insatiably curious, I had an almost visceral need to know how the others would answer the last question on the agenda for the  night, “If your inner doll could speak to you tonight, what would she say?”  One doll spoke of cultivating more trickster energy, to seek opportunities to laugh and have fun, another counselled that there was always something new to learn and explore, others said to ask for help and not to imagine we can do it all ourselves, that it’s ok to be messy, to rest, to be steadfast, to practice unconditional self-love, to keep moving, to offer guidance, to stand in the wind, to practice childlike wonder, and to embrace and celebrate all the beauty within.

    I know the doll is just a small, symbolic, hand-built ornament, but it feels so much bigger than that to me. I know we make our own magic, but I also know that there was a wisdom teaching waiting for us in the dark that wintry night, an introduction to “crone-ology,” a threshold for letting go of all that no longer serves us and a turning point in the pages of our story.  You may cackle, but I have plans to build my doll a small house with a door that opens with ease, so whenever I need to hold her close and feel my mother’s magic near, I’ll find her waiting for me there, her spell unbroken, a warm cloak of protection against the storms of life.

  • In Conversation with Michelle Hooton

    I met Michelle Hooton a little over 20 years ago when I accepted an invitation to attend a book club evening at the home of a mutual friend.  We’ve been meeting once a month ever since with a small, stimulating, always surprising set of eclectic readers, opening our homes and our cookbooks, hosting rigorous debate, developing literary discussion points, and reciting deeply meaningful or contentious passages with the power to engage, transform and elevate. Not a bad way to spend some 200 evenings together, sharing meals, and laughter, drinking wine, and exploring a lot more than plot twists, and prose.

    You can learn a great deal about a person after perusing their bookshelves, and far more still, in the way a person approaches a book, what they find meaning in, passages they deem beautiful or poignant, what moves them to tears, what makes them angry, what words they underline to read out loud again later.

    I can tell you that Michelle Hooton is an intelligent and discerning woman, a reflective and respectful reader, less prone to deconstruction, always in earnest, mining an authors’ artwork for the gold within.  She is an immersive reader, with an ear attuned to a well-crafted story, and is often drawn to quieter books, with characters who have earned their place in the narrative, settings that transport the reader, inform, and enhance our experience, and ideally leave us with something to take away, to hold dear.

    If Michelle was a book, she would be a well-researched one. The cover design would be expertly engineered eye candy. The prose would be succinct and distilled.  There would be multiple passages where the reader could pause and rest a while in serene, inspired settings.  The heroine would be original and authentic, a self-made woman who believed in hard work, and her own powerful magic, and the ending would never disappoint.

    Michelle has the kind of confidence that comes from many years of self-reliance and trusting her inner compass. She is charismatic, a polished conversationalist, a flawless hostess, a gifted gardener, a celebrated chef, and an accomplished and award-winning entrepreneur.  An astute businesswoman, she is also a creative, and excels at designing beautiful settings and spaces where her circle of friends and family, may repose in charmingly rendered rooms that inspire and delight, while being treated to her many gifts, not the least of which, is her mastery in the kitchen.  As I sit in her highly photographable home, decked out in her curated Christmas finery, I feel a deep sense of comfort and joy. She tells me it’s her love language. It’s how she expresses her gratitude for you giving her your time.

    Michelle describes herself as a “serial entrepreneur” launching her first business venture at age 17. “Growing up I never heard the words ‘You can’t do it’…it was … ‘How are you going to do it?’ Once I realized that I could steer my own course and succeed, that was it.  I have worked for other people, but I didn’t care for it.  Whoever I worked for, I felt like I gave them my best, but I always operated like I owned the business, and when it got to the point where we were conflicting about the work …that was it…it was time to go”

    In 1982, Michelle opened Body Electric, an aerobic exercise studio in uptown Saint John.  A year later she opened Body Electric Aerobics on Broadway, in NYC, and a year after that, was listed as one of the top studios in Manhattan by the New York Times.

    In 1992, now back in Saint John, she opened The Secret Garden, specializing in fresh and dried florals shipping throughout Canada and the United States. In 1999, Michelle opened Sisters Italian Foods, a small Italian deli and imported food shop located in the City Market. She ran both businesses concurrently, until selling Sisters in 2005 after being elected Deputy Mayor for the City Saint John, serving from 2004-2008.

    Thirty-eight years and five businesses later, Michelle fulfilled a lifelong dream, opening Italian by Night in 2016 with business partners, Elizabeth Rowe and Gord Hewitt. This premier Saint John dining experience has been featured on Open Table’s ‘Most Romantic’ list for Canada for seven consecutive years, Best Italian Restaurants in Canada in 2017 and Top 100 Most Beloved Restaurants in Canada in 2022, accolades based exclusively on guest ratings.

    “My lifelong dream was to create the best Italian restaurant in Atlantic Canada. I don’t believe geography limits one’s ability to produce a world-class product. Achieving this requires intense knowledge, focus, the ability to inspire those around you to share your dream, and the passion and spirit to believe you can do it.”

    Michelle won Entrepreneur of the Year at the Saint John Chambers Outstanding Business Awards in 2024 and her immensely popular food blog Bite by Michelle enjoys a worldwide audience, surpassing 4,500,000 views. Her recipes are hearty and time honoured and easy to follow for even the most recalcitrant cook. They are, each one, small works of art…Michelle’s secret ingredient is love.

    Tell me your life story in seven sentences or less? 

    At a really young age I had experienced great joy and great tragedy. At that young age I chose joy for the rest of my life.  I somehow always had the ability to follow my true north. I trusted my gut, but sometimes my gut feeling was wrong. When I made a mistake, I was never too proud to admit it, and then fix it.  So…on my second try I married the love of my life, raised the three most spectacular women I will ever know, and have built the life of my dreams. I’ve had the great fortune to have been able to turn every passion that I ever had into a way to make a living.  And that’s really the story of my life…that’s it.

    What is the best thing about getting older?

    Clarity.  You just get to that point where you don’t need to see the world as grey anymore because you’ve had so many life experiences. I think people are kidding themselves when they don’t know the difference …when they can’t see whether its’ black or white.  I think it’s safer to live in the grey…and I don’t have any interest in that.

    What is the worst thing about getting older?

    Running out of time. I’m in an industry right now where I am two and a half times older than the national average…and you know there is just so much more to learn, and figure out, and experience and time is not on my side anymore.

    What would you title this chapter of your life?

    Grace. I want to finish this chapter of my life with grace. The life Ralph and I built together has given me a gift—this time to live gracefully and with gratitude. I feel incredibly grateful, constantly. It’s like a prayer, like saying grace before a meal—giving thanks. For me, it’s an internal conversation, a continuous acknowledgment of how grateful I am. And I hope that gratitude shows to the world in a graceful way.

    If you could retain or retrieve one quality from your youth, what would it be?

    The belief in endless possibilities.  It didn’t matter if I made the wrong decision when I was young because I had time…I could fix it …I was always gonna have time until all of a sudden I don’t.

    What’s the most important lesson you’ve learned so far?

    There is no finish line. All my life there was always that imaginary…when I get there…when I do this…when I accomplish that… Once I realized there is no finish line, I was free. Life is wide open. You just keep going. Be open to the universe and whatever else is thrown at you. Just keep going, without that nagging feeling that you’re running towards something.

    Do you have a favourite quote?

    Definitely, and it’s the mantra of my life.  I cross stitched it and framed it and it hung beside the door in my house so the kids would see it every morning on their way to school.

    “Whatsover thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.” (Ecclesiastes 9:10)

    I’ve lived that way my whole life, in the way I work, and the way I love, the way I garden, the way I cook…everything that is a part of my life… that was just the way I approached it.

    Do you have a favourite word?

    Grammy. I adore my children, and I never thought I could love like that again. But I do—it’s remarkable. Being with my grandchildren is incredible. When I hear them say “Grammy,” my body experiences a molecular shift. No other word gives me that feeling.

    Describe your perfect day.

    I’ve had this day and I hope to have many more of them. Its summertime…I’m at the farm and all of my family are home.  I’m the first one up. I put on the coffee… and start to make breakfast. One by one they slowly start waking up. We have breakfast on the verandah. We drink slow coffee while the girls use ‘all their words’ …thats an expression the girls use when they they tell me everything that’s going on in their lives. We spend the day on the boat. We have a place further upriver where we like to swim…its magical. I take a picnic with Prosecco, some beer, and all sorts of treats. We’ll stay there until 5 or 6 o’clock and then it’s back to the farm. We get supper ready. My mom and dad will join us. We’ll dine on the veranda under  candle light. We graze until 10 or 11 o’clock at night.  We finish off by the fire table.  Yawns start and we all go to bed, and it is a perfect day.

    If you could have tea with anyone, real or fictional, dead, or alive, who would it be and what would you talk about?

    So, I took some political license here.  If I could do that, I would come back many decades from now and have tea with my elderly grandchildren and we would talk about their lives, and all the things I’ll miss.

    Tell me three things that bring you joy.

    The people I love.  Creating beauty.  And anticipating…anticipating Christmas, anticipating family coming home…anticipating what we’re going to do next… I love it.

    Name a guilty pleasure.

    Dairy Queen. The first time that I ever tasted it, it was like a taste explosion…I couldn’t believe something could taste that good. and I’ve never lost that love of it. You could put the most fabulous European dessert on the table and a peanut buster parfait, and I guarantee you I’m gonna take the peanut buster parfait every time. It’s a special little treat and I usually have it alone.

    Do you believe in life after death? What does it look like?

    I guess it depends on how you characterize life. I believe that we have an inextinguishable life force and I believe that life force carries on after our physical bodies expire.  I’d like to think that my life force will find its way into future generations of my family.

    What would you like your eulogy to say?

    Life was not a dress rehearsal for her.  She lived her life like it was the opening night of the greatest performance she had the honour of playing.

  • The Richness of Retreat

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    “Silence is also a conversation” – Ramana Maharshi

    “Be a loner. That gives you time to wonder, to search for the truth.” – Albert Einstein

    I have never lived alone, and at 59 and a half, I can count on one hand the number of nights I’ve spent alone in my home.  So, when my daughter announced that she was off to Australia for a fortnight, and asked if I might cat sit, I decided to embark on a private retreat of my own, a silent, mind-spa staycation, an experiment in the single life, an escape to a ‘room of one’s own’. The setting was LOLIW perfect… posh, urban, ceilings to God, a spiral staircased brownstone apartment in the heritage quarter, the dream home of a much younger version of myself.  The street was Orange, the mood, indigo, and the first song I danced to, with abandon, in far too many years, was Yellow.

    I have always shared living space with close friends or loved ones.  I have never experienced the kind of solitude and silence that singletons exalt in daily, the bliss of soundless mornings, the peace of uninterrupted afternoons, the effortless, evening meal for one, or the coveted hours spent in one’s own sweet company, time whiled away without reference to the wishes or inclinations of another living soul. To keep one’s own good counsel and consult no one else (save an agreeable cat with excellent manners and clear boundaries) on how best to spend the day…what a gift to give yourself, perhaps most especially as a little old lady in waiting. There is a magic to be mined, an enchantment, a real richness of experience to be savoured in retreat. 

    As with any adventure, I overthought and planned every minute detail down to the quick. I packed separate bags for the gym, for work, and for pickleball. I made sure to include enough loungewear and smalls to avoid even the notion of laundry, and a series of comfy sweaters and toasty wool socks, as you do, unfamiliar with the heating in my new abode, a Canadian girl down to  my bones. One can’t be too careful when it comes to creature comforts.  I prepared and packaged enough food to last me about ten days, individually portioned, so I wouldn’t be troubled with cooking or cleaning dishes during my retreat.  I planned to supplement my defrostables with a few evenings of restaurant meals, I was on vacation after all…there were friends to be met, and those naan nachos from Thandi’s are a siren call that cannot be ignored.

    My car was already packed the morning I set off to drive my daughter to the airport. I kissed my husband and hugged my son and small geriatric dog goodbye.  A little old lady herself, I had a quick word and cuddle with my last true dependent.  I let her know it was alright if she had an accident or two in my absence, as the menfolk aren’t as attuned to her bathrooming pecadillos, an easy concession as I wouldn’t be there to look after any mess.  I wished her well and promised to make it up to her.  We settled on half my breakfast bacon for a period no shorter than one year, and a promise that she could come away with me next time.  Oh yes, spoiler alert, there will be a next time.

    After imparting a steady stream of last-minute motherly advice to my savvy, world travelling daughter, advice she did not need, but tolerated as best she could, I watched my baby pass through security, before discarding whatever illusion of control I still harboured, and then, mentally slipping off my mother cape, a favourite cloak, I turned with a little tear in my eye, before going dark, the start of a full-blown smile forming on my lips. I was a stranger in a strange land, alive to the endless opportunities that waited for me. I decided on a quick stop to Costco (I mean …I was in the neighbourhood) for a few emergency supplies…ready made bacon, the Christmas fruitcake (singletons host friends too) and then it was straight back to the little uptown palace I would call home for the next two weeks, party of one.

    I made my escape in mid-November, an excellent time of year for retreat, just at the onset of the introspective months of the Canadian winter, but before the circus of Christmas pageantry that engulfs most matriarchs in December and doesn’t let go until after New Year’s day. For the first few days I sat in a kind of meditative slumber, wonderstruck by the tidied rooms, the luxurious silence, the fragrance of aloneness, the cadence of a single set of steps. I floated from room to room, I listened to the voice of a girl set free from a set of inherited instructions for living, a voice that spoke softly at first, but eventually commanded my entire attention. 

    Most of what she told me is private of course, you understand, what happens on Orange stays on Orange, and anyway it would probably be lost in translation.  I can share that I never once felt lonely during my retreat, that it took several days to miss the loved ones I live with, and if there were any monsters under the bed I slept in alone at night, they kept to their dark recesses and didn’t intrude on my peace. Suffice to say, I was away long enough to remember that there is no better counsel than your own, there is no truer friend than yourself, and if you’ve been neglecting that friendship, then it is time to take yourself away for a long overdue conversation, the kind where you listen more than you speak. Our words can physically influence the world around us, most especially the words we recite incessantly to ourselves silently, in a closed circuit.  The truth is that every cell in our body is listening to us, which makes the quality of the interior dialogue so critical. Do we settle for questions like, “what’s for dinner?” or even “where to travel next year?”  or do we ask ourselves how we might best build joy today? Or “what exactly Elliot meant when he wrote, “I grow old…I grow old…I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind?  Do I dare eat a peach?’

    If you, like me, prefer Elliot’s poetry to a cookbook, these are the essential rules of retreat. There must be quiet. Your mind must be calm and unleashed from the concerns and demands of those closest to you.  So much of our action in life is economically or socially determined. Even love can feel like a Chinese finger trap some days. As we get older the claims of our immediate environment, our preferred living arrangement, can be so pervasive that we can actually lose sight of ourself in the family photograph, beneath the Wifee sweatshirt, behind the sacred veil of motherhood, to the woman who waits within like a nested Russian doll. We can become so consumed with what we perceive as the requirements of daily living; nutritious meals, a tidy home, daily exercise, the social scene, that we forget ourselves and our real work, discovering and exploring the beauty and mystery that lies within.

    Finding a quiet place to stoke your inner fire is an essential and sacred ritual, an absolute necessity for every little old lady in waiting. If you can’t get away for a dedicated retreat, then lay claim to a certain hour every day, a space of time inviolate to family or friends, where the news of the world cannot reach you, and where you do not recognize or acknowledge what is owed to others.  A space where you are free to simply experience who you are, and what you might be, a place of creative incubation, a venue to challenge your everyday assumptions, to grow, to follow the winds of your own inclinations, to feel your courage, and to care for yourself, like the treasure you are.

    At first it may feel like you’re wasting time.  If that is your experience, at least initially, I would encourage you to hold fast, it is, after all, your time to waste. We have a limited lease of time apportioned to each of us, and whether you spend that time truly awake or asleep in the detritus of daily living is entirely up to you.  Life has no pause button or rewind setting.  If you read this blog post all the way to then end, each of us is 5 minutes closer to our demise than when you started.  If you can stay present to this moment, if you can be here now, and genuinely engaged in pursuits that bring you joy, then you know the secret to a beautiful life. So often we become embroiled in activities we do not relish and have not chosen for ourselves but believe are required of us.   Fresh from my retreat I have begun to question everything I habitually tell myself needs doing. I engage in small acts of rebellion as often as possible.  I eat cereal for dinner some nights, my bed often goes unmade, sometimes I skip the gym to write or read …there is a feathery owl atop my Christmas tree this year, slightly askew, and it has never looked more beautiful to me.  I hold space for myself to wonder and to consider questions outside the realm of my daily routine. “Do I dare eat a peach?”

    It’s true that to create a pleasant and harmonious environment in our lives together with loved ones we need the cooperation of all those we choose to hold close in our immediate circle, but pleasure carried within ourselves, within our own body and mind, and within that part of ourselves that has no name, that is our business alone. This dark season of early nights and twinkling lights, I wish for you a happy retreat…I invite you to cast your eyes to the wintry sky, to stand alone sometimes, to “look at the stars and see how they shine for you.”

  • The Little Old Lady…in waiting sits down with Ottawa podcaster Trudy Chapman

    The Little Old Lady…in waiting sits down with Ottawa podcaster Trudy Chapman

    https://meanderings-with-trudy.simplecast.com/episodes/meander-with-sylvie-fitzgerald

  • Solvitur Ambulando…It Is Solved by Walking

    “Walking, I am listening to a deeper way. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.” – Linda Hogan (Native American writer )

    “‘But it isn’t easy ‘ said Pooh. ‘Poetry and hums arent things which you get, they’re things that get you. And all you can do is go where they can find you.’”- A.A. Milne

    If I’ve ever invited you on a walk then there is a fair chance you’re someone I love very much…family, and a handful of friends I keep close, like “a cloak, to mind (my) life.”(O’Donahue) I don’t walk, as our ancestors once did, to arrive at a particular destination, nor can I honestly say that I walk to safeguard my health, although, as a nurse, I know it to be powerful medicine, and an essential practice in the Little old lady in waiting’s handbook on how best to live a long and healthy life.  For me, walking is a sacred sojourn, like writing in a journal, or sitting down for a cup of tea on a busy day to savour a last bit of cake; it is a solitary ritual, a reflective exercise, a rich, sensual, fortifying experience, that grounds me in the present moment, and reveals a deeper way of looking, illuminating a world just beyond what our sedentary eyes can capture. Walking is a portal to the natural world where time may stand still, where we may even disappear for a while, as our unconscious unfurls, and insights and creative leaps lay waiting on well-trod paths like so many flowers to be gathered, an endless bouquet of ideas and dreams waiting to be revealed and rehomed.

    I have always believed a regular walking regime to be a salve for most of life’s ailments.  All those feel-good neurotransmitters dormant and eager for activation. I won’t bore you with the overly marketed health benefits…well, maybe just a quick review. Just as the doctors have always preached, walking, even a little, can significantly increase your lifespan, and reduce your biological age (marginally more appealing to the chronologically disadvantaged).  Walking also lowers your risk of cardiovascular disease, diabetes, and depression.  If that’s not enough to persuade you, there is also statistically significant evidence that walking lowers your stress level and reduces rumination and negative thinking.  Wait… I mean I’m down with the stress management, but I’m kind of trauma bonded with the rumination and negative thinking, that’s half my material.  Whatever…you get the idea…the health zealots are spot on, walking is good for you, body, and mind…but when has that ever been sufficient incentive to lace up, or drop the fork, if you see what I mean…again with the negative thinking and rumination. Let’s try again. Little old lady in waiting to little old lady in waiting, post-menopausal women who walk 4 hours a week have a 41% lower risk of hip fracture.  I like that. That’s positive…right?  I’m not sure where they get these exact numbers but I found it on my socials so it must be true. 

    Health considerations aside, here is what I know about walking from my own clinical trials, population of one.  No matter the setting for my walk: be it the sleepy, maturely tree’d, largely childless suburb that I call home, or any of the woodland parks scattered liberally in our beautiful picture province, or possibly the sea paths that wind along the miles of coastland in our stunning port city, nestled on the Bay of Fundy, or even a streetscape in the heritage block of Canada’s oldest incorporated city; a walk out of doors is a way through the wardrobe to a bountiful sensual world, where a steady stream of eye candy and auditory enchantments remind us to embrace the wild animal within, an invitation to howl for all the little old ladies in waiting, sat at home disguised  in grandma’s clothes, both figuratively, and literally some days.  We are meant to move our bodies, we our built to explore on foot, our ancestors walking ten times the distances we typically cover today. 

    Outside, in the natural world I am routinely transported by the startling beauty of the Disneyesque birds that sing in choirs on my quiet street, their sweet sad tunes in perfect pitch; or the spiral dance of autumnal leaves twirling upward as though commanded by the invisible hand of some ancient sorceress, reciting a spell to safeguard the woodland wildlife from winter on its way.  I hope she remembers to include me and mine in her magic. The animals nearby have a narrative all their own as they go about their daily errands and I nod to them when we meet: the black-sheep squirrel who lives in the tree at the front of my house, alone and happy to be so, or the family of deer who eat from my neighbours unpicked apple tree, heavy with fruit. I met, by chance, a beautiful fox not long ago, but neither of us had time to stop.

    Near the sea, I always envision I am walking with my dead relatives and even imagine I can hear their whispers in the wind and on the waves.  Walking in the woods, the air is perfumed with spruce and pine and something more elusive that smells like childhood and brings me back to a more innocent age, when the scariest monster I could imagine lived under my bed, not some beast who throws Gatsby themed balls, an evil, self-proclaimed king whose every soundbite is some variation of “let them eat cake.”  In the woods, while I’m walking at least, the king is dead…long live all the wild beings who walk this beautiful planet in peace.

    Saunter, stroll, scuttle, scale or stride,  I walk faithfully, alone, into the halcyon summer breeze of fresh cut grass and full strength sunny days, or the warm spring rain that bursts gardens into bloom, or my favourite, the crisp autumnal harvest days scented with chimney smoke and alight with golden interior tapestries of life, the window frames of  our neighbours homes in the gloaming, or out into the first snowfall of winter, a crampon crawl up and down frozen streets,  footfalls in virgin snow where I spy the tracks of smaller species, freshly awoken from a winter’s sleep.  Garlanded in cap and scarf, mittened, earmuffed, and balaclava’d, I’m adrift, a snowman flying through the air…la la la la la laaaaa.

    Outside, enveloped by ancient all-knowing trees, or surrounded by heritage architecture older than three little old ladies in waiting counted together, or stood at the thin space adjacent to the sea, there is a clarity of mind to be discovered that cannot be found in a book, or sat safely by the fireside, nor even under the tutelage of a wise seer.  There is a reverie known to the solitary walker (Rousseau), an enlightenment, an illumination, a flow of insights around every corner we turn. One foot in front of the other, there is space to think and puzzle and solve all the vexations visited upon us. Walking costs us nothing but time, no special gear required, only the capacity to listen to the resounding truth of our own intuition, a voice inside that speaks louder in silence, in the quiet found out of doors.

    A walkers’ trail is alive with imagery that invokes tangential lines of poetry and philosophical enquiry.  There is a hum when we walk…a higher frequency, a quiver of ideas and creative sparks. “What will you do with your one wild and precious life?” (Oliver) “I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.” (Elliot) And if while walking we by chance fall awake for a moment, to know this life is only a dream, how do we stay awake long enough to remember we are dreaming? (Wittgenstein). Walking is a whirlwind dance of ideas, a flow, an unconscious current in a deep primordial sea. And the story we rehearse inside ourselves, making up the parts we can’t quite recall, is a conversation I am happy to host most every day.

    I like to walk at a slower pace now, not quite the crawl my geriatric dog prefers, stopping to sniff every few feet, but I’m more interested in exercise for my mind and the quieting or distilling of my thoughts, than I am in exercising my body or protecting my cardiovascular health or even promoting longevity…still, perhaps aging backwards is something to aspire to.

    For me walking is a meditation, “with every step, I arrive.” (Thich Nhat Hahn) I practice slowing down, I come awake and allow time to stretch out before me, like clotheslines where birds gossip with their friends and freshly laundered linens flap their wings.  I see winter bared branches with captured notes and receipts, escaped from recycled bins, adrift in the wind like so many clues. I listen to the sound of my own footsteps and then deeper still to my breath, and my own heartbeat, and the hum that hangs over everything, the sound of the universe, I suspect, like an hourglass set close to a microphone recording the ever-escaping sands of time.

    I have found many treasures on my walks: old coins and worry stones, sea glass and driftwood art, lost letters and grocery lists, emblems of lives lived next to our own, and reminders that we are, none of us, alone.   I have heard the voices of lost loved ones and remembered the thoughts and images of versions of myself long since lost with them.  Walking I have found the answers to problems, big and small, I’ve found perspective, and gratitude, an abiding peace, and a strong feeling of connection with something greater than myself, something capable of conjuring the unspeakable beauty that is all around us, best viewed by foot, moving at your own pace, walking alone, in the natural world.

  • A Curated Life

    “If you want a golden rule that will fit everything, this is it: Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.” – William Morris

    “Those who commit to nothing are distracted by everything.” – Bhagavad Gita

    I’m twelve weeks into a “down to the studs” reno of my basement. We are getting there…almost ready for paint and wallpaper …yes…that’s right…I said wallpaper. I happen to like wallpaper…just not the 50 year old striped job that lined the stairwell leading from my kitchen to the lower level of our home. I’ve hated that patterned stairwell since we moved into the house almost fifteen years ago. That’s a long time to abide an abhorent passage in your home. So…ankle deep into quasi-retirement, and my baby moving out to a beautiful space of her own; it’s got me thinking about embracing a less lackadaisical, more curated life. I refer here not only to my immediate setting, and decor choices in my home, but also to a more bespoke aproach to everything I allow entry into my mental and physical space. How we spend our time and who we choose to spend it with are weighty considerations indeed, particularly as the sands of time accelerate through the LOLIW hourglass.

    I am a woman who has always known what she loves. I’m never at a loss for how to spend my time. My baseline is reading in bed, followed closely by reading upright in well lit rooms, rooms with doors to discourage the detritus of day to day discourse. Toss in a daily walk, a few writing hours, and few games of pickleball (a smattering …mind), and maybe a sprinkling of meaningful communication with friends and family and you have the basic components of my perfectly appointed life.

    It won’t surprise you to learn that with respect to decor I like to sit in spaces that smell and feel like 19th century reading rooms. Jane Austen meets functional, animal-friendly, old-world elegance and comfort, with Rembrandt lighting in the shade of expensive cognac and furniture made to last let us say, longer than me. I like plain lines…nothing busy…smalls piles of books in every conceivable nook, and walls overfilled with art that makes me think and feel.

    Approaching 60 it seems long past time to take charge of my decor and embrace a more curated lifestyle. With more time at home to play and ponder and be, its important to invest in our space and make it conform to our notion of how to live well. Out with the acquired furniture that found its way into every corner of the basement (granny’s telephone table, the uni trunks, the side tables the dogs used as chew toys, the wedding art, the chairs I reupholstered one time too many…gone). What would your space look like if you started from scratch… what gets to stay, what gets dumpstered in the night?

    To curate is to carefully gather sift, choose and organize so that everything is handpicked, assembled, and edited by you. This might mean the dedication of an old bedroom to a fly tying workshop or a yoga studio or a writing room. The downstairs grand room might be reworked as a cozy british bar, or a working library, or a music or pottery studio. Adult spaces like day nap chaise-lounges in light colours might be positioned near full window walls for stargazing with telescopes or simply to watch the dancing autumnal leaves or the spring rains pelting your garden seedlings to life, or the magical snow that falls on Christmas eve.

    Of course lighting is everything… my mother taught me that. She liked rose tinted bulbs for evening ambiance, strong enough to read by in the after dinner hours but not so bright you can see the skin wrinkles on your LOL hands as you turn the pages…its a delicate balance ladies. A comfortable seat by the fire built for you and yours is essential for the long Canadian winters, perhaps a dartboard, a drinks cabinet… you get the idea. It’s time to focus less on containment of mess and sticky fingered childrearing chaos, and more on zones of comfort and joy for the soft bellied adults who remain. Don’t forget a posh pillow for the geriatric dog.

    Take your time visioning how to create yout LOL space.. explore your options…think about what you want your home to provide now, and build it from the inside out. There are no design rules that can’t be broken except one, namely, abandoning your own ideas on beauty and functionality. This is your home we’re speaking of, you have only yourself to please so if you want to string eddison lights from the rafters, share space with too many plants or cats or books, create an industial feel by painting the piping black or steel coloured… do it. If you want to showcase some macabre collection of antique surgical instuments or early century pharmaceutical elixirs (weirdo), now is the time to make your space into a reflecting pool for all your darlings. An invitation to your home should always feel like an invitation to you.

    Outside your home it’s equally important to curate the spaces you decide to inhabit. In rertirement if you don’t decide how you’ll spend your time, others, well meaning friends and colleagues, will ensnare you in their version of a life well lived. The siren call of casual work, the escalating addictive properties of pickleball, best resticted to promote injury preention, the silent scream of the sour dough starter and its incessant demand to be fed. That little white bread baby isnt the boss of me.

    A few years ago I read a little book called “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck” which espoused a pretty basic but essential philosophy with respect to time management and boundaries. Summarily, the author suggests that in an age where we are inundated with information and competing demands on our attention, and very often incompacitated by overstimulation and endless options, its important to decide to live deliberately and in accordance with a few key individual values and interests and spend our time and ultimately, our lives, accordingly. The book advises adopting a maximum of 5 things to give a fuck about. Thats not a lot if family and healthy living are 1 and 2. If reading, writing and pickle ball are my 3,4,5 then maybe maybe pottery and painting, knitting and felting, are curated out of my daily living line up…at least this year. Every LOLIW must choose how best to spend their time. Maybe you’ll make your garden and greenhouse your second home from May to September, perhaps you’ll join a rug hooking guild or a choir or an arts collective during the long winter months. Let your interests drive your pursuits and don’t be cajoled, or convinced to spend your time in settings that don’t meet your individual criteria for comfort and joy.

    A quick comment on mental space. I live so much of my life in my mind it’s important for me to dine on a steady diet of images and words that resonate with meaning. I hold space for vetted novels and films and converations with new and old friends who know secret things. Stories and stimuli that bring comfort and joy and occasionally cast out to higher things. While I have just as much of an unseemly fascination with Ed Gein and his skin suit pursuits and niche decorating vibe, I’m not sure I need to absorb the 8 episode narritive of the man who was the inspiration for Psycho, The Chain Saw Massacre and Buffal Bill. I mean I guess he didnt eat anyone …so thats good…right? My point is that curating that series out of my mental space and protecting my inner sanctum and sleep hygiene is probably for the best. I don’t need a visit from Gein in my dreams at night. But if real crime horror is your LOL jam, maybe Ed Gein gets a pass.

    You are the gatekeeper of your mental and physical space. Guard your boundaries, with knitting needles if need be. Allow entry only to what you decide to give a fuck about. Design a space and a life dedicated to your passions… an art room…a dream kitchen…a library…a pocast studio… a music room. It’s waiting for you beneath the debris of a lifetime of collecting the residue of other people’s idea of how to live well. So if you’ve been neglecting your mental and physical space like I have, begin an inventory of everything that you find beauty and comfort in, then drag the rest to the curb and begin again, consulting no one but your own inner curator. I believe you’ll find her taste is unerring.

  • “What’s for Dinner?”

    Edinburgh Tea Biscuits

    As a little old lady in waiting I try not to think about what’s for dinner anymore. For years it was the first thing I thought of each day, even before my feet hit the ground. I’ve spent a lot of my life thinking about food, too much of it. What’s best to eat, when to eat, what not to eat, what to pack for lunches, the daily miracle of coordinating, mandating and delivering family dinner at the table, the sometimes dubious nutritional value of said dinner, and the fallout of loosing the family dinner battle. What should I eat to maintan a healthy BMI? What does a healthy diet means beyond the parameters of the food pyramid? Which diet is best: vegan, vegetarian, low fat, low carb, high protein, one meal.. three meals…four, ‘one potato, two potato, three potato, four.’

    As a woman who stayed home for a dozen years and felt the full weight of the domestic hausfrau experience, food purchase, prep and delivery was a significant part of my work day. Suffice to say, I’ve steamed my way through several rice makers and peeled enough potatoes to feed the whole of Ireland. I’ve menu planned and scrutinized thousands of grocery lists and contemplated how best to infuse two growing humans, with as many fruits and vegetables as possible, a herculean task in an age of ‘lunchables’ and packaged candy in the shapes and flavours of actual fruit…highly processed, heavily marketed frankenfood. I take pride in the fact that my daughter refers to us as an “ingredient family’, where very little comes from a box or is overly processed (notable exceptions – yogurt, cheese and bread…we’re in the 21st Century friends… I draw the line at kneading, churning, aging or vigilent attention to temperature). There is very little that is instantly consumable in my cupboards…all food stuffs require some sort of preparation: rinsing, dicing, slicing, roasting, toasting..or a quick commingling in the Ninja.

    For my 50th Birthday I decided to hang up my apron for good. Back to work outside the home for a number of years, I was ready to resign from my second job as menu architect, head chef, prep chef, pastry chef, bus boy, dish diva, and lunch maker. Happy Birthday to me. I explained to my family that I would cook only if the spirit moved me and that dinner was no longer to be expected by any of my spoiled, unskilled, hangry housemates, especially on days when they arrived home before me. Looking back it was the death toll for the family dinner, that and competing schdules. The kids were both in high school at the time. Ten years later, on the road to 60, I can report only mixed success in divesting my culinary role…I blame myself, and my misguided attempts to safeguard my family’s heath, protect my kitchen, and reduce ceiling splatter and any permanent damage to appliances.

    “Whats for dinner?” is a kitchen query that still eminates from my hungry adult children in the late afternoon from time to time. Shoulder deep into the fridge or pantry, desperate to make the ingredients on display coalesce into something approaching a satisfactory meal, but too inexperienced or myopic to see the beauty of ‘breakfast for supper’, or the fact that chickpeas are really hummus in disguise. I think it’s important to acknowledge here that my husband is too clever to ever broach the subject of dinner. When the kids do slip up and ask whats for dinner, I smile a happy little boundary smile, and if I’m not hangry myself, I might suggest cereal, or eggs or pb and j’s. At other times I simply repeat, “dinner” with a slightly stupefied, quizical brow, as though they were speaking in some foreign language… a look I learned from my husband, a master at navigating family life with minimal effort on his part.

    The subject of supper aside, as a little old lady in waiting…who am I kidding here…at all stages of ladydom, I have given a great deal of thought to my diet, in an attempt to consume nutrient dense, high volume, low caloric-load foods, to look good in my jeans, to avoid suburban square arse syndrome, a hideous plague of middle age, and later, as a nurse, to avoid carcinogenic foods like processed meats and cardiac villains like trans fats, and more recently, to restrict inflammatory culprits in order to reduce pain…that’s right…I’m going after the sugar and simple carbs, to reduce the meno-pot, the 10 or so pounds of fluff floating around my mid section. No, its not there to protect our organs as we age. Closing in on 60 it’s time to quit the cake … not the wine though (maybe ditch the fruity sugary stuff), but wine’s a living whole food ..its not processed… its allowed to age. LOL to LOL no one is taking the wine off the table.

    Dessert, however, and the bread basket I believe are a fair trade for decreased joint pain, ease of zipper glide, improved meno head and energy levels, and potentially increased longevity with greater functionality and mobilty in the last quarter of our lives. After a lifetime of exhaustive and ongoing research on the topic of food and diet I can recommend only three books on the subject that form the genesis of my LOL approach to food. The first, Michael Pollan’s In Defence of Food – an Eater’s Manifesto” can be distilled in a simple maxim: “Eat food (real food), not too much, mostly vegetables.” Next, Savour: Mindful Eating – Mindful Life by Thich Knat Hahn which encourages a mindful reverence when eating and a grateful appreciation of all the work and people involved in bringing food to your table. Lastly, French Women Dont get Fat by Mireille Giuliano, which promotes a self awareness of individual food challenges and suggests a highly customized self-taught approach that respects your personal food picadillos and preferences. No foods are off the table for les femmes francais.

    I’ll be honest and say that if I get to choose my last meal, one final opportunity to taste, smell and enjoy food, my pedestrian pallette will no doubt yearn for a tea biscuit made by some proper little old lady…perhaps of Scottish descent. I’d lather each half with a generous mound of clotted cream (the kind from a jar imported from England) and lemon curd (also imported from the British isles…not the lemons mind). I love simple carbs and homemade sweets. I grew up on them. Cheap, easily portable and quickly put together, some of my fondest childhood memories by the Bay of Fundy in the wilds of the Maritimes, star these cheerful oven baked ‘rib stickers.’ My mother taught me that there isn’t much a good tea biscuit or pan of fudge can’t cure…except maybe diabetes. I know sweets are not recommended on anyone’s food pyrimad, even the ones heavily influenced by “Fat/Sugar/Salt” pressure groups …yeah …they’re out there, doing a sweet business with their sugar-coated promise of a 10 second dopamine high that will keep you coming back for more. Hanging onto my fifties by my fingernails, I have grudgingly come to accept that my dear old friend, bread, the plain sister of the sweet family, is nothing but a nutritionally void filler… bread is bad, and I’m finally ready to embrace a life without sugar laden simple carbs.

    For this little old lady in waiting, dinner for the foreseeable future is some variation of fruit and veggies, legumes and lean protein, like fish, quinoa, nut butters and beans. I’m allowing for reevaluation at age 80 depending on the efficacy of a clean diet as regards pain management and cognitive capacity. There may come a day when tea and toast and biscuits lathered in cream become a mainstay again but for now this LOLIW is off the edible dopamine drip and opting for foods that promote less fluff, more energy, a clear head and ideally a pain free active lifestyle for many years to come. That’s what’s on the menu.

  • The Art of Happiness

    My mother, Mary Eileen (Bunny) Lewis caught in a moment of everyday happiness

    “I must learn to be content with being happier than I deserve.” – Jane Austen

    “Letting go takes a lot of courage. But once you let go, happiness comes very quickly” – Thich Nhat Hahn

    Happiness is a slippery state of being, an elusive, inconstant companion. Like a feckless lover or an indifferent cat, it’s never near at hand when you need it most. It’s approach is often unheralded, it’s visit, never long enough, it resists all enticements to stay. It cannot be captured…it will not be held…we cannot keep it. It is as impermanent as an ice cream on a hot summer afternoon, as fleeting as a first kiss, or a glass of fine wine, it lingers briefly, and disappears into the realm of memory. The art of happiness sits haplessly in the space between our first world sense of entitlement, and our readiness to cultivate a sense of wonder, that magnifies the trace elements of happiness drawn from everyday dealings. Little things like the dog’s yawn, the carol of the wind in the trees, the smell of freshly brewed coffee, or the uncalled-for-kindness of a stranger can, with practice, conjure a sensation of peace, an ‘invisible cloak’ of contentment, protection against the certain storms of life. There are glimmers everywhere if we learn to spy them, and they can sustain us, even on our darkest days, if we apprentice in the art of happiness.

    First lesson – kill all expectation of happiness. It’s Buddhism 101, the first noble truth, ‘Life is suffering.’ Happiness is not our baseline or our birthright. We don’t deserve it, and we can’t earn it. We are not on some episode of Friends with a laugh track running every 30 seconds. Chandler Bing died of drug use disorder, and Rachel’s husband left her for Angelina Jolie. We’re in the ‘real’ people, and to quote the venerable Monty Python, ‘Life’s a piece of shit…just remember it.’ (It works better if you sing it). My kids would say that that’s a bit dark or defeatist, but I’m with Schopenhauer and the Pessimists, you need a sense of humour to get through the tragicomedy we call life, and ‘the safest way of not being very miserable is not to expect to be very happy.’

    Buddha’s second noble truth is that we’re the problem…we are the root of all our suffering…we build our own hell. The art of happiness is to desire less…stop trying to make the world conform to our preferred narrative…that way lies madness. Relax…we control nothing… and anyway, sometimes bad news is good news in disguise, if we wait long enough. It is a mighty thing to slay your expectations and lay yourself open to your share of frustrations, disappointments, and loss. My mother always told me that ‘acceptance is liberation.’ She was a very wise woman, a gift earned from enduring her measured cup of sorrows.

    William James wrote ‘We need to stop deciding how we want things to be and then getting ourselves upset when things don’t turn out that way.” Easier said than done Willie, especially when you discover the last piece of cake gone, or the poop your geriatric dog deposits on the dining room floor every night.  Still, I say give it a try next time you’re provoked by an uncapped toothpaste, a Sunday driver when you’re running late, a rainy day when you wanted it fine.  Start there and when you’re ready you can move on to little old lady sized stuff, like chronic pain, or learning about a friend’s new cancer diagnosis, or loosing someone you loved very deeply…someone you thought you could keep forever…a loss that feels like the sky’s gone out and taken all the stars away. It gets a little harder to wash down then, even with a good red.

    James would say, ‘If you believe feeling bad, or working long enough will change a past or future event, then you are living on a different planet, with a different reality system.’ He’s right of course. we can’t get so mired in the shitty pieces of our story that we miss the good bits…the glimmers.

    We can’t be ‘shiny, happy people’ all the time and I guess we shouldn’t even try. Don’t we need a certain measure of malcontent to get anything done? It’s only unhappiness, disappointment and disenchantment that puts our clay feet on the floor every morning, isn’t it, that fuels our pursuit of wisdom…some magic beans to make the daily grind a bit more palatable? If we were happy all the time, we’d stay at home all day and roll around in it, wouldn’t we, hedonists supping on donuts and Netflix until our brains and our bodies turned to mush.  That’s Hotel California my friends…’and you can never leave.” (Again, much better if you sing it with me)

    If we can’t capture happiness and keep it caged, as we might like best, then we can cultivate habits and practices that invite happiness in, offer her tea and something sweet to encourage a long and robust relationship.  Gratitude is the first and best invitation to happiness that I’ve discovered.  It is that great looking glass that magnifies all the beauty and riches around us, large enough for us to see all that we have been allowed to keep… legs that take us walking, minds that may still read and discuss, running water still clean enough to drink, maybe even a hand to hold.  I’ll add to this the extraordinary occasion for a fine cup o’ tea and in good company.  Vonnegut suggests we recite in such moments of clarity, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”

    We must fall in love with the beauty that is all around us.  Cast our eye about ourselves each morning and count our blessings.  Oscar Wilde wrote that ‘most of us are living in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.’  We need to look for the glimmers.  They’re everywhere once you start practicing: the dance of late summer leaves, the first line of a new book, or that feeling of being understood…an easy, effortless fellowship that lets us know we’re not alone.

    Friendship is the second essential pillar in my study of happiness.  Friends come in many shapes and sizes.  They can be fictional, or four-legged, they can be blood, and people we grew up with, or choose to grow old with, but more often than not you’ll find them out roving on some adventure.  They arrive unexpectedly, a happy surprise, and their company can feel like coming home after a long time away, or a gift you didn’t know to ask for, but have wanted your whole life. ‘The secret Alice, is to surround yourself with people who make your heart smile, it’s then, only then, that you’ll find wonderland.’

    If you’ve not yet landed in Wonderland, then I suggest you take a break from your own troubles and concerns and look around you for a way to help others with theirs.  Service is chapter 3 in the little old lady book of happiness.  My brother was in love with Emily Dickinson, she was a dear friend of his.  She wrote, “If I can ease one life the aching, or cool one pain, I shall not die in vain.”  I say do harm to no man and never miss an opportunity to do a kindness. Be a light for others.  I love the old Indian proverb, ‘Blessed is he who plants a tree under whose shade he will never sit.’ To my mind there is no better way to cultivate your own happiness than to contribute to the happiness of others, unseen, unacknowledged and with great humility. If we’re all made of the same stuff in the great fabric of being, then watching out for a dropped stitch here and there only makes good sense…keeps us all from unravelling. 

    If we can stay with the knitting analogy for a minute, then I suggest that the fourth practice in this little old lady’s guide to a happiness, is to keep to your knitting every day.  The work we choose to do is key to practicing good happiness hygiene. If you love your work, then every day is a delight and you’ll be a success, no matter the weight of your wallet. That’s not to say you won’t have to find some job to keep you in beer and bread and a roof over your head.  But you must never let those necessary hours detract from your real work, the work you recognize as your own. And if you haven’t yet found this work then, to quote Ms. Dickenson once more, you must be ‘out with lanterns, looking for yourself.’ 

    John Muir the great naturalist counsels that ‘nothing dollerable is safe.’  That’s the way, he implies, to Thoreau’s ‘life of quiet desperation.’ I say be curious, go adventuring, stretch yourself beyond your imagined limits, investigate, take yourself away, let yourself go quiet.  Your work will find you…artist, teacher, carer, baker, candlestick maker…it matters not.  Trust only that which speaks to your soul, that engages you wholly, that causes you to lose time and that you can’t wait to get back to again each day on rising. ‘It’s foolish for people to want to be happy,’ wrote Georgia O’keeffe, ‘our interests are the most important thing in life.’ ‘Happiness,’ she said, ‘is only temporary, but our interests are continuous.’

    Lastly, and maybe most importantly, happiness lives principally in the present moment.  We need to slow down and stay grounded here in the now, and as the Stoics suggest, ‘do every act of our lives as though it was the very last act of our lives.’ All the greats say the same. To quote my favourite Buddhist, Thich Nhat Hahn, we must ‘drink our tea reverently, as if it is the axis on which the world revolves.’ ‘Eternal life’ wrote Wittgenstein, ‘belongs to those who live in the moment.’  But the poets say it best, To see a world in a blade of grass…heaven in a wildflower.’  It’s that moment when the musician understands that he is not only the strings of the instrument he plays on, but also the music that fills the room and touches the heart strings of everyone who hears.  There can be no higher experience of happiness to my mind then being fully present and awake to your surroundings.

    If you asked me the raw ingredients of my own happiness, I would quote Tolstoy, ‘Rest, nature, books, music, such is my idea of happiness.’ I also try to practice what my brother taught me… to live in a state of radical amazement.  E. B. White urged us to ‘always be on the lookout for wonder.’ So, I get up each morning and try to look at the world in a way that takes nothing for granted. The art of happiness lies in extracting it from commonplace things and as a little old lady in waiting, I’ll give the last word to that old sage, Socrates, ‘Let’s enjoy ourselves,’ now, ‘It’s later than we think.’