The STUFF Sisters - Mental Health

Vacation Epiphany

It has taken entirely too long to pinpoint why I love vacations near the ocean. I am 47 years old and have loved the water my whole life. I have reverence for the power of large bodies of water but no fear of them. I love swimming and can find great solace floating on water or diving under and holding my breath. Oceans. Pools. Lakes. Streams. Waterhoses. Doesn’t matter. Water makes me happy and makes me want to be a part of it. (Except bathtubs. I’ve never enjoyed them in the least, and it’s probably just about the temperature. But I digress.)

goodbye beach — Yep. The requisite sunset photo.

I love water-based vacations because, if I plan my day well, I can wake up and go directly to my swim suit from my pajamas, and then, at the end of a water logged day, I can move gracefully back to my pajamas or another form of lounge wear that doesn’t involve any form of undergarments. Right there. The pinpoint. After 47 years.

I have never had to suffer under the daily strain of panty hose. I have never lived in an era where girdles were de rigueur. But I am fed up and done with bras and most forms of underpants. Unfortunately, they are a necessity at my age, and I do miss my “commando” days. I am, however, tired of being confined, and, for two weeks a year, I make sure “foundations” have no part of my life.

grasses & sky — Dramatic sky before sunset.

I am the queen of fashioning a cover-up for trips to the grocery store and casual restaurants. That’s what scarves, old cotton skirts, and T-shirts are for. This last vacation was on a beach, and trips away from the house had me sporting my favorite oxford cloth button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled way up over my strapless swimsuit with its attached skirt. That’s the whole outfit. (OK. The suit has one detachable strap, but I despise tan lines, so I save the strap for special occations. Like boutique shopping, because that demands a level of stylishness, for heaven’s sake.)

almost evening — The view from my towel on day one. Possibly my favorite shot this year.

By the time I get to vacation each year, I have tired of feeling cooped up and locked down. And vacations, if done right, are about feeling exactly opposite. And, for two weeks, I am free as a bird and loving every minute of it.

p.s. These photos were taken on Anna Maria Island over the past two weeks. A trip off island to the fishing village of Cortez warranted the oxford cloth coverup and swimsuit strap you see here.

coverup & suit — My son, me, and the stylish swimsuit strap under oxford cloth.

Leavings

In the deeply gathering dusk a few nights ago, I stood in a small group of women and discussed the concepts of leaving. Of children leaving home for college. Of friends and their families leaving for different cities.

Three years ago I began publicly letting slip that I do not use the word goodbye. Remarkably, a woman in this little group admitted that she greatly disliked the word goodbye. We ran around and around the ways she doesn’t use it and in the end we were all laughing quite brightly.

I still don’t use the word. I wrote about this deeply held issue in a blog in July of 2009. It still stands today. Click here to read more.

Tentacles

The holiday season brings out the best in me. Well, in my ability to handle many, many things.

The holiday season brings out the best in me. Well, in my ability to handle many, many things. As a self diagnosed “Type A Control Freak”, I enjoy this time of year. My only regret is that, with so many places to be and things to get done, I feel like I need more arms to hold it all together.

Which brings me to this photo:

I have very little time to read when my day ends, and reading is one of my favorite things in the world. My husband will account for the fact that, right now, there are very few minutes between the shower, me hitting the sheets, and me closing my eyes. Like everyone I know, my days in December are long, multi-faceted and demanding.

Two days ago, I found time to look through one of my favorite monthly treasures – National Geographic – and found this photo. It left me mesmerized and silent. Look at all the subtle colors. Look at the peacefulness.

I hope to feel like this in January. Contained. With all my tentacles in tact.

p.s. This photo must be credited to Jeffrey de Guzman. He captured it on a nightime dive in the Philippines. The octopus has found a place of rest inside a broken bottle. This little bit of magic was not part of an article but merely a favorite of the editors from photos received from readers. Check out December’s National Geographic Magazine here.

Days of Abstraction

I think it is human nature to believe that you can understand other people. We seek to “know” people. We are constantly making assumptions about others. “She is….” “He is….”

I am a visual person. For me, it is like I begin to paint a portrait of a person, and I add paint strokes to the image as I learn more about them. I hope to define or decode them and bring them into focus.

But I am always looking at my imaginary paintings and feeling like I am missing something. I wish could put my finger on what I missed. It is terribly confusing to discover that my imagination has led me astray – to discover my portraits are not accurate.

Maybe this is why I am drawn to abstract art. It strips the imagery completely away, and only focuses on feeling, emotion, essence, and even the void.

Some days I am more comfortable with abstraction. I am able to be less critical. I am more open. My mind is free. I am able to avoid assumptions.

A day of abstraction often helps me see what is really there.

Helicopter Parent

I have been checking in with my father almost every day since he was diagnosed with cancer late this spring. It seems like the least I can do. Sometimes we talk about cancer, sometimes we talk about work, sometimes we talk about movies, but mostly we talk about nothing in particular. And talking about nothing has been taking us at least 10 minutes almost every time we talk.

dad, D and vic — My Dad, my son, and my step mom not too long ago. Well, long enough ago that he still had facial hair. Oh, hell, any hair.

This is an impressive amount of time for me with a phone to my ear because talking on the phone is anathema to me. I’ve never been very good at it, and most of the time I can get a little short and just move quickly towards the hanging up part. I’m getting better, but I’m not cured. Yet.

A week or so ago, a friend of mine, Patti Dickinson, posted on her Facebook page an article in our local paper about the University of Missouri hiring a new person to help parents separate from their children as they enter the new world of living at college, or some such concept. I was disgusted that this was even a job that was needed at any university or college. There was much discussion on her page about how ridiculous this was, and I was in full agreement. Actually, I still am.

However, today something hit me. I have become a helicopter daughter. I am hovering around my father and checking in to make sure he is OK, adjusting and getting used to his new “environment”. I had become one of those dreaded people that can’t let their family out of their sight – or, in my case, hearing range.

At a time in my life when our son is entering his last four years of schooling before college and I am working hard at making sure he’s independent and capable and can troubleshoot some of his shortcomings, I am spending great amounts of time making sure my father is coping and is not overwhelmed by a bully he can’t even lay hands on directly.

Can I be a helicopter daughter while not being a helicopter parent? I think I can. We’ll see.

Organizational Freak

I am an organizational freak. I could spend days just organizing stuff. No joke. Ask anyone I know. I actually put my toothbrush back in the same exact spot everyday. This blessed gift (I am choosing to be positive about this quirk since it doesn’t warrant medication) comes with a love of hardware stores, art stores, office supply stores and paper warehouses. So last week, when these little wooden trays arrived at the store, I was short of breath all afternoon.

I even worked the staff into a dither last week with my uncontained joy.

Aren’t they cool? Don’t you just want a giant stack of them? Won’t they solve all your organizational needs? Won’t your neighbors and friends be amazed at your new sleek and tidy shelves, drawers, desktop and cabinets?

oohhhhhhh. ahhhhhhhh.

Okay, okay I am calming down…

Just one more for the road! It’s like organizational porn.

Almost Stupid

I almost walked right into a grand tour down memory lane. Almost.

While our 14 year old son is off traipsing around Paris, I decided to travel right into the grand abyss that is his closet. It was packed to the gills with old costumes, rolled posters, too-small shoes, last year’s jeans, and his “keepsafe” boxes. That’s where I was almost stupid. Almost.

When he was young and still learning the finer points of the English language, he heard me mentioning his keepsake boxes. To be precise, what he heard – but not what I said – was KEEPSAFE boxes. He will still ask me to put things away in his keepsafe boxes. I have never corrected him, and I doubt I ever will. It’s just too precious to me, and there needs to be some thread to him that ties me to his babyhood.

Back to the closet. Right on top, in the uppermost keepsafe box, was the Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit I bought him in 1997 for my stepsister’s wedding. I went a little crazy in the weeks before the wedding and purchased this amazing ensemble at Saks Fifth Avenue. It’s a pima cotton placketed blouse and a navy blue velvet jumper with button closures. No tacky snaps here!! I finished it all off with white socks and leather Buster Brown ankle shoes. He was 8 months old, and that night his feet never touched the ground. He was held by many and pandered to all night. He was as happy all evening as he is in this picture.

In the box, right under this fashion statement, is the outfit we took him home from the hospital in. I can’t say what else is in that box – or the boxes it was resting on – because I stopped right there. I felt the big cry coming on, and I waltzed right around it. I went back to sorting and dusting and cleaning and ignored the memories waiting in those boxes.

I guess that, because I only have one child, I will not need to remind myself to not go cleaning out the closets of an almost high schooler while they are away. It is a treacherous and slippery slope if you are not properly prepared.

I should, however, remind myself that drying my eyes with the cotton rag in my hands that is coated in lemon Pledge and dust bunnies is almost stupid. Almost.

Waiting

From the beginning of my Dad’s cancer diagnosis, I was waiting on that little ray of sunshine to bless us all. I didn’t care what form it took – better than average test results, a glimmer in a doctor’s eye, or just general good news. I wasn’t going to be picky. I was going to be patient.

Then the call came from Casey, who traveled with him for his first treatment at MD Anderson in Houston. All had gone as planned. The good news: his doctor was putting him in the 90th percentile for complete remission.

ceylon et cie sculpture — I found this in Architectural Digest last month. It's stunning. It is brass and turquoise and stands on a clear lucite cube.

There will be very few rays of sunshine as he moves through six months of chemotherapy. Rest assured, I’ll be keeping my eyes peeled for every single one.

Sloane

Split Personality

I was told that living with a teenager is like living with multiple people in one body. Mothers of girls say it’s worse than with boys.

I can only speak of the young man I’m living with right now. Well, I can only speak of all three of him.

Sloane

Today I went for a long walk. My “baby girl” stayed behind with her Grammie and I enjoyed a very long walk. As I walked my mind roamed. And it landed in Japan. A great sadness came over me. I started to feel guilty. I felt like I should go home. How could I be so brash to enjoy a beach vacation with the devastation in Japan?

My body grew heavier with each step. My legs started to fail me.

I then thought of the book Eat, Pray, Love. There is a part of the book that chronicles her experience with meditation. I often think of meditation in a romantic way. I keep thinking I could one day learn to meditate. I am not there yet.

But today I tried. I tried to not think. I walked. I walked. I walked.

And this is what my walking meditation brought to me. Mother Earth is not a God. She does not reward or punish her children. She does not pick one country over another. She is just living and trying to thrive. She is random, beautiful, powerful, devastating and glorious.

I realize that trying to suffer for the people of Japan will not ease their suffering. That my daughter’s screams of delight in the waves is okay. It does not mean I am entitled, that somehow being in America makes me special and that I have somehow earned this pleasure.

It just means my joy was here – now – and I need to soak it in completely. I ran back to my family. I laughed, I played, I read, I napped, and I thanked Mother Earth for this peaceful day on the shore.

And I keep silently chanting – “you are here, you are here, you are here”.

Casey