Denial

A few weeks ago, I had my retreat day with the dolphins. Some of you who have been following along with my adventures for a few years know of my experiences at Discovery Cove, a limited entry day resort in Orlando. The admission price includes zillions of amenities-  food, drink, dolphin-friendly sunscreen, nice showers with toiletries, snorkeling with sting rays, floating on a lazy river, random animal encounters, lounging on luxurious beaches, wading past otters and monkeys, and swimming with dolphins. They sell no more than 1400 tickets a day, so the park never feels crowded and you always feel like a special guest. After much debating with myself, I finally decided to go as a “once in a lifetime” experience several years ago. The thing is that I am absolutely terrible at “once in a lifetime” experiences. Typically, I enjoy them beyond even my unrealistically high expectations. Experiences that I deem “once in a lifetime” never disappoint me. I usually end up making “once in a lifetime” a “regular thing.” In the case of Discovery Cove, I quickly upgraded my “once in a lifetime” to “annually.” I shelled out the rather massive bankroll necessary to gain admittance for several years running.  Besides being ridiculously fun and relaxing, I found that my dolphin day each year actually helped me grow spiritually. I am not kidding when I use the term “retreat day with the dolphins.” I go alone and leave the outside world outside the parking lot. I spend a substantial portion of these retreat days soul-searching, praying, strategizing with myself, and planning what spiritual improvement actions I will implement.

Although I always wrestle with myself when booking my dolphin retreat because of the price tag, I have NEVER been disappointed in my day at Discovery Cove. I am rarely so contented, relaxed, and hopeful as I am while I am floating along the river, reaching out to touch a sting ray while I snorkel, and giggling when my own personal outboard dolphin engine propels me towards the shore. Each time I go, I leave absolutely convinced that it was worth every dime. Last year, however, the price of admission went up substantially. It stuck in my throat, and I could not gulp it down. I kept telling myself that it was not like I had never experienced the park. I had experienced everything multiple times- even in the midst of the pandemic. How could I justify paying so much for the experience?  For the first time in six years, I did not go. And I grieved. I really, really hated not going. Luckily, last November, the park had a Black Friday special which discounted the tickets to approximately the same (high) cost as I had paid in prior years. I jumped all over that deal. I booked my May dolphin retreat day in November.

As soon as I got to the park, the euphoric feeling I remember feeling every other time I’d been there flooded over my psyche. Everything was the same, but different. Every experience is actually a “once in a lifetime” experience because no two experiences are ever exactly the same. The fact that I’d been to Discovery Cove numerous times before did nothing to diminish my joy in my 2023 experience. Also, what if it was the same experience? What would make me want to deny myself the pleasure that I had every reason to expect the day would bring me? Yes, it is expensive, but all I have to do is clean out my closet to see that I frequently spend money frivolously on stuff that brings me way less satisfaction than a day with the dolphins does. I could create a rather mountainous pile of clothes that never really fit right or that don’t reflect my current taste or have no purpose in my wardrobe given that I am a retired woman living in Florida. What I spent on that pile of clothes would far exceed the price of a day with the dolphins.

Why do we do this to ourselves?  I do not think it is just me. I balk at spending money or taking time or exerting energy on things that have the power to energize and enrich me. I tell myself I “should” not spend the money or that I “should” stop wasting time or that I “should” invest my energy on more profitable pursuits. A friend of mine once told me that I needed to stop “shoulding” all over myself. All of us have to live within some level of parameter, of course. We all have limited resources. The truth is, though, that there are likely many more possibilities than we believe we have. We probably needlessly deny ourselves much more than is good for us. We make choices about how to spend those limited resources. Would I rather buy 14 items of clothing that will never quite make me feel beautiful or spend a day feeling beautifully peaceful at Discovery Cove? Would I rather clean the kitchen for the second time this week or would I rather dance to upbeat music videos for 20 minutes? Would I rather get a part-time job making a few hundred dollars a month or would I rather write a blog that makes no money but gives me no end of satisfaction?  I think these “would I rather” questions are much more productive than the “should” questions.  

Most of the time, when people talk about living in “denial,” it means that they are hiding from the crueler realities of life. For my purposes in this blog post, I think of people living in “denial” refers to people who are needlessly denying the pleasure they could get from life if they could just open their eyes to what the potential positive realities are.

I always learn something from a day at Discovery Cove. This trip was no different.

What is something that you are denying yourself that you could make happen?  What keeps you from pursuing it? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. 

Have an abundant day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Girl Dads

I, of course, have never been a father. I have, however, been the daughter of a father. I have also observed a wide variety of fathers interacting with their daughters over my 63 years of life. In honor of Father’s Day last Sunday, I wanted to share a few life hacks I have observed for being an effective girl dad.

Loving the mother of your girl child:

The first male/female relationship your daughter will observe will be the relationship between you and her mother. Make sure you are modeling how you hope a partner will one day treat your girl child. Don’t let her see you do things that you would never, ever want a man to do to her. Be affectionate and tender. Be thoughtful and respectful towards your daughter’s mom. When you disagree or argue, do so productively and fairly. Try not to burden your daughter with your relationship problems. If you and Mom are having a serious issue that may be triggering, find a place and time to do it that will not involve your daughter. It is okay for your daughter to see disagreements. In fact, it is good for her to learn that disagreements do not equal catastrophe. It is not okay for her to see you devalue or harm her mother physically or emotionally.

Complimenting your girl child:

I once read that a father should praise his daughter for getting an A on a math test AND for looking pretty in her prom dress. I understand and appreciate the idea behind this advice, but I would tweak it a little bit. I think a father should acknowledge and validate a daughter for achieving academically and looking beautiful. Achieving academically may not look like an A on a math test. It may look like working hard on a project and learning new skills. It may look like finding a lifelong passion. It may look like missing the mark, but learning valuable lessons. Looking beautiful may not mean rocking a fluffy pink prom dress. It may mean a bright, happy smile. It may mean looking healthy and strong. It may mean that Daddy sees in his daughter a unique beauty that is tangled and encased in a soul that is fraught with anxiety and self-doubt. I also think that a father should praise his daughter for being kind to others AND for standing up for her own needs. A girl who understands that her father truly believes she is intelligent, beautiful, kind, and valuable in her own right is likely to expect other men to see the same qualities in her. She will be far more likely to seek out a man who truly loves and respects her as a partner.

Communicating with your girl child:

I don’t know if it is true, but I have often heard men say that women are complicated. These men assert that males are easy- what you see is what you get- but, with women, you need a secret decoder ring. The same is true of little girls. There is often much more going on in their minds than you might think. It may take some mining to figure out what they really want, believe, and fear. Look for the question behind her questions. Try different strategies. She wants to tell you. She really does. She just doesn’t always know how. She just isn’t always sure you’ll still love her if she does because what is in her mind can be scary. And, as for teasing her… don’t. You may know you are teasing. She may even know you are teasing, but some part of her may always wonder if what you said in jest was your truth.  

Sharing activities with your girl child:

It is important for a father to share in his daughter’s activities, even the girly ones. Some girls will enjoy activities that are traditionally more popular with men. Some will tolerate and try to embrace such activities simply for the opportunity to share time with their daddies. There is nothing wrong with that. In any healthy relationship, the people involved try to find common ground. That includes compromising on ways to spend enjoyable time together. However, it should be a two-way street. If a daughter tries fishing so that she can spend a few hours bonding with her father, it is only fair that the father joins her in playing an interminable game of Candyland.  Sharing time and attention should be a mutual goal. A little girl may not be able to articulate that, even if she hates fishing and thinks worms are icky, she is delighted with the idea of spending time with her father. Still, that is what she is doing. In the same vein, a father may think playing Candyland is an activity designed to push a grown man over the boredom edge but will be delighted to do it because he gets time and attention with his little girl.  Oh, and, Dads, dance with your daughters! It makes them feel cherished and beautiful and precious. You absolutely want your daughter to feel cherished and beautiful and precious… because she is.

Protecting your girl child:

There is a fine line between protecting your girl child and limiting her. You are the dad. Your job is to protect her. Don’t abdicate that role. A little girl who does not feel protected is a little girl who will grow up into a woman who is afraid she is not worth protecting. Ensure that you can financially support your girl child.  Make sure she has a safe place to live and food in her belly. Anticipate possible physical and emotional dangers. Mitigate the damage. However, figure out a way of letting your daughter stretch beyond her comfortable cocoon when she is ready. Help her to be ready by talking about the kinds of things you consider when making decisions. Help her to realize that failure is not an option because nothing that helps her learn is a failure. Help her to be ready by standing by her side when she tries new things. I remember going on the Matterhorn ride at Disneyland when I was a little girl. It was one of those things I did because I wanted the opportunity to have individual time with my father, not because I really wanted to do it. My mother and brother were not fans of thrill rides, but my father enjoyed them. I would agree to go on the ride with Daddy so he would have company. As we waited in line, my anxiety and nerves would get worse and worse. Sometimes, I ended up bailing before it was our turn. Most of the time, however, I ended up riding the toboggan because Daddy encouraged me. I have a friend who is a girl dad. He set up a back-up system for his daughters as they started to have lives outside the family. When his girls were going out with friends or to another family’s house, he told them to always call him and ask if their laundry was done if they felt uncomfortable with any situation they encountered. He would know that would be his cue that there was something going awry, and he needed to come extract that daughter right away. It also meant that he should feign getting angry and “making” the daughter come home, so there would be less social pressure for the daughter to navigate. I think that is so smart and so LOVE-ly.

No girl dad is perfect. No girl dad- NOBODY- will be able to hit the bullseye all the time. In fact, just about everyone has arrows flying around willy nilly at some point in their lives. That doesn’t mean you are not a wonderful girl dad. You probably are, simply because you want to be.  Every dad is going to be different, and every girl is going to be different. The only hack that is absolutely mandatory is to be there and to do your best. And any girl dad who loves is doing his best!

Happy Father’s Day! What are some of your best memories of your girl dads? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. 

Terri/Dorry 😊

Two Steps Forward And 114 Steps Back

Sometimes, life is so joyful. I feel strong, accomplished, and self-actualized. Even when the circumstances around me are less than ideal, I sometimes feel the growth and power that comes from accepting myself and my value. When I am hovering in that mental atmosphere, I feel like I can handle anything life throws at me.

Then, life throws something at me. And hits me with it. Life does not miss. All the finessing and dodging and feinting right or left that I attempt is useless. Life definitely lands a solid punch that leaves me on the canvas. Sometimes, it is simply for a standing eight count, and I stagger back onto my feet to continue the fight. Other times, as I lay on the floor, I feel like I won’t be able to get up again and life is going to win by knock-out.

Recently, I’ve encountered a whole series of events that have served as a huge blow to my glass chin. A family emergency resulted in me taking an unplanned trip to Pennsylvania, traversing strange roads in a rental car, meeting and dealing with a whole group of strangers that have very different world views from mine, mediate squabbles between said strangers, live for ten long days in an inhospitable environment,  grapple with at least four profound ethical dilemmas, face a huge helping of personal grief, confront the heartbreaking reality that the sad life of someone very dear to me was even sadder than I had known, and struggle with financial and administrative issues. And those are the biggies that I can articulate just off the cuff.  For a while, I was doing great. I was so proud of myself. I was being strong, brave, gentle, creative, and, in general, the person that I have been working very hard to become over the last two years. Despite the circumstances, I was wandering around in a bit of a euphoria because I couldn’t believe what I was able to do. I wasn’t afraid. I thought through multiple possible solutions for problems and came up with a compromise plan that I thought met the interests of all involved. I grieved appropriately but remained functional. I was kind and generous. I did not shy away from difficult conversations. I did not dismiss my own point of view the moment I was faced with opposition. I was freaking amazing.

Then, the situation started to decay. A few things happened that took me to a deeper, darker, uglier, more isolated place than I have been in a long time. I remembered what it felt like to experience these painful feelings nearly all the time. Life landed a dangerous blow.  I did not like living in my own body, heart, and mind anymore. I still am lying on that canvas trying to figure out if I can stand up or whether to just let the referee call it a loss by knock-out.

As I have alluded to in prior posts, I’ve been dealing with some pretty big emotional and mental health issues since January. You may recall my Lenten miracle (A Lenten Miracle – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement). This year, I have been able to resolve and heal some horrible events in my past. The tragedy is that it took me 40 years to let go of those particular demons. The good news is that I’m a completely different person in many ways. I have been released from the pain, fear, and self-devaluation that I have spent most of my life trying to contain. I have been able to see the difference and I often cannot believe who I have become. One example of that joyful amazement was the first half of the trip to Pennsylvania. Even in the midst of my grief, I found myself musing, “Who am I? How am I doing this?”

However, once the considerable strain and pressure I was withstanding hit a point where my life’s very state of matter was changing, I could no longer find that remarkable woman anymore. She was completely gone.  It is a demoralizing feeling. It was as if my considerable progress over the past five months meant nothing, and I was down for the count.

I remembered something that I learned in the Alpha course I help orchestrate for my church. The course is intended to help guide people who are grappling with the big questions of life- purpose, evil, faith, God, etc. One of the things that the presenter mentions is that, often, when a person finds a new place in his or her relationship with God, there is a counterintuitive effect. When someone first comes to Christ or reaches some sort of new level in their spiritual walk, there is usually an overwhelming experience of triumph, joy, satisfaction, peace, or some other positive feeling. However, it is not uncommon in the days after such an epiphany, for that person to experience some internal strife. It is as if evil has found that person in their new state of spirituality and is doing its best to kick the legs out from under this new, beautiful understanding and joy in God. Evil, darkness, Satan- whatever you want to name it- does not want us to experience that joy and peace that passes all understanding and will fight your spirit to retake control.

I understood this in terms of spiritual development. Now, I’m thinking that maybe it applies to emotional development as well. Maybe, when a person like me who has fought the emotional demons all her life, gets a taste of what it feels like to live without that pain, the emotional demons don’t go down without a fight. Maybe that is what is happening as I lie here on the canvas for the eight count. The me who has finally found her way out of the dark is still vulnerable to attacks of emotional evil and destruction. They are putting up one last stand to retake their mental territory.

This past week and a half have made me feel like I took two steps forward and 114 steps back. I am struggling to see it as 114 steps forward and two steps back. As I write this, I am beginning to feel, for the first time since 6/3, like I may regain consciousness. What do you think? Can I get back on my feet before the eight count is over?

Anybody have any encouraging words? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com

Have a better day than I have been having lately!

Terri/Dorry

The Episcopalian Card

I just wanted to make sure I left no misunderstandings in my last post, A Few More Drops In The Bucket. In the post, I discussed my various connections with Williamsburg and my quest to attend a worship service at Bruton Parish Church. I mentioned that I missed my first opportunity several years back because I had not yet converted to the Episcopal Church and did not have an Episcopalian card.

There is no Episcopalian card.

My hesitation during that trip was a me thing, not an Episcopalian thing. When I saw the closed door and noticed a sign proclaiming that a service was in process, my own shyness, insecurities, and unworthiness came barreling down, steamrolling my rational judgment. I self-edited. It was not that the Episcopalians did not want me at the service. I told myself I was not welcome there. In fact, later in the day, when we toured the church and I told the tour guide about my experience, she seemed genuinely distressed that I had not come in and joined them in worship. She engaged me in conversation and encouraged me to feel free to attend future services. She was honestly, genuinely welcoming.

So were the other Episcopalians when I did eventually start exploring changing my Roman Catholic affiliation. The rector at my local Episcopal parish spent a whole morning with me, patiently answering my questions. His perspectives were tactful and respectful. I believed he was giving me clear, direct information. He did not pussyfoot around issues and possible points of controversy. He had no wish or wash in his assertions. On the other hand, he had no problem admitting that there are some questions for which we do not have answers and that there can be a great deal of difference between competing viewpoints. Reasonable, prayerful people could and did disagree on matters of theology with no one’s Christianity being put into question.

When I first started attending services, I wanted to be somewhat anonymous. In the five days between the day I spoke with the rector and the day I attended my first Sunday service, my mother had a massive stroke and I was living a nightmare. For the next 13 months, my life and energy revolved around my mother. I did not have the wherewithal to make new connections or involve myself in parish life. I wanted to feel welcome and I wanted to be surrounded by warmth, but I did not want to engage. I came to the service, sat next to a couple who were, in time, to become my very great friends. After the dismissal, I made a beeline for the parking lot and went to see my mother. I did not pass Go. I did not collect my $200. I certainly did not hang out at the coffee hour. Once in awhile, someone suggested that I stay for some refreshment. I found the whole idea of socializing completely beyond my emotional pall. Still, as I worshipped and observed the congregation from a metaphorical distance, I could see genuine openness and warmth. I have never been to a church before where the “sign of peace” involved getting out of your pew and passing goodwill to people all around the church. I panicked the first time and pretended to drop my bulletin so I could fish around for it on the floor, which allowed me to sink out of everyone’s line of sight. Quite soon, though, I noticed that the people were honest, genuine, empathetic, and respectful. I felt welcome, included, but not invaded. This was a congregation that let me grow towards them at my own pace.

When I ultimately decided to convert to the Episcopal Church, I went to Orlando to be received into the church by the bishop. That day truly was one of the most wonderful days in my life. From the moment I entered the building, people greeted me and smiled at me and told me how happy they were that I was there. You can read about that experience in the blog post I wrote at the time, Grace On Robinson Street (Grace On Robinson Street – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement). It might have been overwhelming. It might have crippled me with shyness. It might have landed as artificial. However, to me, it felt like I truly was someone that they had been waiting for and were very glad to see. I put that down to the genuinely welcoming hearts of the people involved- and the Holy Spirit.

In my church today, we are working with a ministry called Invite, Welcome, Connect. This ministry was developed by Mary Parmer. Mary worked with our parish and conducted a workshop that served to energize the project. We want to grow our church in numbers and vibrancy. We want other people to have the experience that I had. We want other people to find a home where they can be closer to God and closer to His Church. Numerous task groups are working on projects and programs to share what we have. These projects and programs will launch more effective ways to invite guests to our church. They will make it easier for our guests and parishioners to feel genuinely welcome and accepted into our church. They also foster a richer sense of belonging and ownership by helping connect parishioners with ministries and programs within the church.

It is not all peaches and cream. Growing a church and replicating the feeling of authentic generosity, warmth, and community has challenges. We have been working on some stage of this process or another for a little over a year. Now that we are getting to the “nuts and bolts” of implementing new actions, we are starting to feel a few growing pains. We are also already starting to reap some rewards, which is wonderful… but also challenging in that some things get harder as you go along. For instance, the attendance at our 10:15am Sunday service was usually small enough for me to see and identify everyone who came in, if I paid attention. It was easy to spot a new face and introduce myself. Lately, the congregation has swelled and I love it. It is not so easy to see a new face, though. It takes more intentionality. Also, as we make decisions about what programs to put in place, how to spend money, and who will take responsibility for specific tasks, there are more differences of opinion.  The good news is that I believe we all have the same goals in mind- to become more Christlike in worship, outreach, and discipleship. We all, I believe, believe that God calls us to share His message and welcome His people into our hearts, as He has welcomed all of us into His. The only issue is how to best do that with our combined resources and gifts. Growth does mean working through disagreements and becoming stronger through those discussions. As we grow our own hearts, we will be even better equipped to grow the Church with new members.

And we won’t ever be asking anyone for their Episcopalian card!

If you would like more information about Invite, Welcome, Connect, you can find out more at Invite Welcome Connect. If you have any questions about my church, St. James Episcopal at 204 N. Lee Street in Leesburg, Fl, you can reach out to me on email at terriretirement@gmail.com. You can also visit our website at St James Episcopal Church (stjames-leesburg.org)

Have a blessed day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

This blog is brought to you today in celebration of Father Tom Trees’ 20th ordination anniversary. Thank you for being such a faithful servant of God.

Another Few Drops In The Bucket

Recently, Max and I went to Williamsburg, Virginia on vacation. This was our fifth trip together and my seventh trip. Some people might suggest that this is a bit extreme. Yes, Williamsburg is a lovely place but seven times? With all the other wonderful places there are to visit in the world?

These questions have merit. I have some special connections with Williamsburg, though, that seem to compel and propel me there rather frequently.

First, my parents honeymooned in Williamsburg. They took a road trip from New York City through the Shenandoah Mountains. They visited Jamestown and Williamsburg. I attribute my fascination with Williamsburg at least in part to my pre-conception nostalgia. There was actually a world before me… an intimate, personal world that would evolve to include me. Williamsburg was part of that life. There is almost an element of heredity embedded in Williamsburg for me. Both nature AND nurture connect me to Williamsburg. My father bought my mother a hand-blown green glass vase on their honeymoon. They watched the artisans create that vase at the glassworks in Jamestown. There was no part of my childhood that did not include memories of that vase. Ultimately, the vase broke. I replaced it for my mother on one of my trips to the Historic Triangle as an adult. When my mother died, the replacement vase passed to me. On this most recent trip, I purchased a matching creamer to keep the vase company. I also remember my mother talking about the delicious gingerbread cakes they made and sold in the colonial Williamsburg Revolutionary City. Anyone will tell you that, throughout my life, gingerbread has been my jam. I never met a gingerbread that I didn’t like.

I made my first visit to Williamsburg with my parents and brother when I was almost twelve. Our family drove across the country from California to New York to attend the wedding of one of my cousins. On the return trip, we turned the journey into a sightseeing tour. We made several stops at historic and natural points of interest. It was quite the summer of discovery. I saw the Grand Canyon for the first time. I proudly claimed the city of the American people, Washington DC. And we went to Williamsburg.

When I was a young adult, I had this fantasy that I would go away to college. Nearly all the books I read as a pre-teen and teenager involved fresh-faced young women heading off to college in a post-war modern Utopia. These sweet young co-eds lived in dorms or sorority houses. They led madcap, fun lives and developed lifelong relationships. They wore sweaters and plaid skirts when the nip of fall was in the air. They walked through the snow caroling during pre-holiday revels. They attended a flurry of parties and formal dances throughout the spring. They looked forward to a happy summer by the sea as the term ended. Most of them ended up graduating with a MRS degree. I was never sure exactly where these mythical campuses were, but they were always historic and glistening with the patina of tradition.

On that first trip I took to Williamsburg, I think I figured out where that mythical campus was- I am sure it was the College of William and Mary.

My world was not within the pages of a 1950s teenage novel. My parents were middle class- not affluent enough to pay for me to go away to school and too affluent to qualify for any means-based scholarship money. Plus, I was raised in an absurdly practical family. Why would anyone pay a bunch of money for a private college and for a second household at said college when there was a perfectly good commuter college down the road? I spent two years at a local junior college and went on to attend a State University about 10 miles from home. My entire college education probably cost less than $1000, including books.

I absolutely understood and bought into this position, but the dream never dissipated. As I progressed through life, I always regretted not going away to school. I am sure the true experience would not have matched my fantasy, but I think I would have grown in significantly different directions had I attended the College of William and Mary away from home and family. I would have learned to live on my own. I would have learned to communicate and forge relationships in a grown-up world. I would have learned to face my fears of new people and new experiences.  I would have learned what it was like to live somewhere very different from the environment in which I was raised. I think I would have grown into more of a risk-taker. I think it is even fair to say that I might have avoided the tragedy of my marriage.

During the early days of the pandemic, I had time to examine my thoughts, feelings, and regrets about missing out on a William and Mary education. I went trawling around on the internet, just to see what it would cost to spend some time in those hallowed halls. I even fantasized about someday renting a place in Williamsburg for a couple of months and enrolling for a semester. When I realized what that would cost, I realized why it was a fantasy. However, my research did reveal an alternative. The College of William and Mary has something called an Osher Institute. This program is intended to offer short-term, non-college credit courses for enrichment. The main target for the program is senior citizens, but it is open to people of all ages. Pre-pandemic, these were on-campus classes. Because of the pandemic, however, the Osher Institute offered virtual classes through Zoom. The cost for the classes was absurdly low. I participated in several terms, taking one or two classes per term. It was great. I was enriched. Besides the interesting and diverse knowledge that I gained from the classes, I met my life coach. He was teaching one of the classes in which I enrolled. All in all, it was a very positive experience. The next time Max and I went to Williamsburg after I took the classes, he bought me a teddy bear from the college bookstore. The teddy bear, who I named WilMa, is wearing a W&M cap and gown. I may be stretching the truth a little bit with the suggestion that I actually graduated from the college. However, I really did feel a little bit like I’d accomplished a dream.

There is a specific factor that motivated our last three trips to Williamsburg. Max and I visited the Bruton Parish Church on each trip. On one trip, before I converted to the Episcopal Church, I thought it would be nice to attend a service at Bruton Parish. The idea of praising God in the same church that George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, and other luminaries worshipped was very appealing. However, I got shy about entering the church for a service- since I didn’t have an Episcopalian card. I missed the opportunity on that trip.

I resolved to remedy that omission on our next trip. I had recently become an Episcopalian, so I was no longer afraid of being run out of church on a rail. However, we were also scheduled to go to Busch Gardens on that next trip. Unfortunately, when I set up our itinerary, it never entered my head that theme parks in some parts of the country are not open all week. Living in California and Florida, I thought amusement parks were open 365 days a year. Wrong. In climates that are less temperate, the thrills and chills are rationed by the weather. When we went to Williamsburg in the early spring, I found that the park was only open on weekends. Since I had already paid for the tickets, we went to Busch Gardens instead of the worship service.

Fast forward to a couple of years later… after watching me angst over missing the worship service and throw myself into my virtual College of William and Mary classes, Max thought we needed to go back to rectify my problem. We started planning another trip, believing that surely the pandemic would be over by April of 2021.

It was not. We did make the trip and had a good time, but Bruton Parish was not holding in person services.

This year, we were on a mission. Our whole trip was built around the service at Bruton Parish. Even up to Sunday morning, I was sure something was going to happen to thwart us in our endeavor. When I parked in the lot a block away from the church, I was about 80% convinced that we were going to find the church locked when we got there. Fortunately, as advertised, the church was open, and we worshipped together with the other parishioners. My butt might have been sitting in the same place George Washington sat. Score!

It was very nice. The space, of course, was ornate and lovely. The choir sang beautifully.  I enjoyed the sermon. We went to communion and found that the process at Bruton Parish was different from our parish. As the pandemic ebbed, our parish began offering communion with wine as well as the bread, but we were only permitted to receive the wine by intinction- in other words, by receiving the wafer and then dipping it carefully into a chalice when the priest or deacon came to you. The thought was that this was more sanitary than sipping from a communal cup. Just for general principles, we never received the wafer on our tongues, as we sometimes did when I was a Catholic. The idea of a priest puttimg his fingers into the mouths of a whole bunch of people was fairly repugnant in my church. At Bruton parish, the priest only provided for receiving the wafer on the tongue and then sipping from the communal chalice. That seemed like quite an odd practice for a church in a state that carried on full COVID-cautious measures long after Florida was back operating at full speed. 

All in all, I am very glad I spent that Sunday morning worshipping with my fellow Episcopalians in such a historic, tradition-laden environment. I enjoyed it very much.  However, I did leave with a very happy thought running through my mind. I like my parish even better. Bruton Parish Church in Williamsburg, Virginia might have been part of my fantasy, but St. James Episcopal in Leesburg, Florida is my home. If I had to choose one church and one community in which to worship every week, I do not even have to think about it. It would be St. James.

I am glad that I got my opportunity to fill in this gap in my life. I am happy I have been able to reimagine that college experience I wish I had had. I am definitely at peace about so many trips to Williamsburg. As bucket lists go, mine is not very exciting. I have no intention or even any inkling of desire to do something like skydive or climb Mount Everest. That does not mean that my bucket list is not worth filling. And Williamsburg has been able to add a few drops to that bucket.

What’s on your bucket list? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. 

Have a satisfying day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Life Snarls

I feel like I’ve been a bit of a slacker lately when it comes to the blog. I took a break earlier this year to concentrate on dealing with some personal issues. When I came out of that period of brokenness and rebirth, I happily engaged with you all again on the blog. The last few weeks, though, I have been missing in action again. I apologize.

It isn’t that I am running out of things to say. I have not ventured into an idea desert. Themes and phraseologies and metaphors continue to spring from my brain like a fountain. I have no less than five blog posts currently in some phase of development. An idea will occur to me, and I’ll begin writing. The words will flow from my fingers. Then, before I can complete a finished product that pleases me, another idea or turn of phrase will conflate into my mind. I sort that muddle and write a few notes to remind me where I want to go with another blog piece. This process seems to be on an unending loop.

And then, life snarls.

“Snarls” is an interesting word. It can mean tangled up and knotted. My life certainly has snarled in that way over the past few months. In the past month, there has been such uncontrolled forward momentum (in other words, “avalanche”) of activity, the threads could not help but get snarled. People think I am an organized person, but it is a façade. An organized person has systems that make sure her life moves smoothly and effectively even when she isn’t watching it. I do quite well with the smoothly and effectively when I am able to keep my eyes peeled on everything that needs doing all at once. When I run my fingers through all the threads I am holding, I’m good. When I have so many things going that I run out of slots between my fingers, those threads snarl. Once they snarl, I have to invest substantial time and energy untangling the mess I’ve made. I sometimes lose motivation. I will say, though, that it is incredibly satisfying when I do spend the time and energy untangling the knots.

“Snarls” can also mean the sound an animal makes when it is threatened or threatening. Life can snarl like that, too. When life snarls, sometimes you just have to abandon the momentum of what you are doing and pay attention. That kind of life snarl can absolutely torpedo an overpacked schedule. I don’t think I’m alone when I say that, sometimes, I look at what I’ve planned for a day or a week and realize that I have just enough time to handle everything I need to do if everything goes just exactly perfectly and I catch all the green lights. When life snarls, things do not go perfectly, and I do not catch all the green lights. Life snarls are where partially written blog posts go to die. I think I can finish them. I plan to finish them. Then some threatening life snarl happens, and I retreat. Really, life has not been snarling at me like that since a couple of weeks before Easter. Life is good. God is great. I heart writing my blog. Still, the life snarls of the first couple of months of 2023 have left my mind limping a little bit.

I have always believed that it is important that a blogger adds new content regularly and reliably. I think posting new material at the same time each week, every week keeps readers interested and looking forward to my blog. I ask your forgiveness for letting you down. It isn’t me being flighty. It is life snarling.

Do you ever find life snarls getting in the way of your productivity? How do you deal with it? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a snarl-less day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Colts

They say that, in the spring, a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. Well, this slightly not young woman’s fancy may also turn to love, but it also turns to something else. Baby Sandhill cranes.

I live in central Florida where Sandhill cranes are practically the official mascot of our region. Ball teams have cheerleaders that dress in feathers and make deep yodeling trumpet noises to encourage their players. Actual real-live Sandhill cranes are quite content to hang out anywhere reasonably close to water. They seem to have no hesitation about people or other interlopers. Since I live in Lake County, it comes as no surprise that we have quite the Sandhill crane population. In my community, we have lots of feathered Sandhill neighbors. In fact, you have probably seen bumper stickers that admonish “Share the Road With Motorcycles” or “Share the Road With Bicycles.” Instead, we share the road with Sandhill cranes. They are remarkably assertive creatures. They are perfectly peaceful and non-combative, but do not surrender their space easily. If they are standing in the road, they will likely keep standing there, even when approached by a two-ton vehicle. Once you have lived in central Florida for even a short time, you learn to just wait your turn. Those cranes will eventually move out of the way, but it will be in their own sweet time.

The Sandhill crane traffic issues may sound like a hassle, but, in reality, those of us who live with them don’t mind too much. These birds truly are beautiful, peaceful, and graceful. They glide across the sky with wings that span in excess of six feet. Their calls, something between a yodel and a dirge, are distinctively heart-warming. Sandhill cranes, like many birds, mate for life. I get worried when I see one on its own. There is something anthropomorphic about them. I have never been a huge bird person, but I find Sandhill cranes so relatable. Maybe I am more of a birdbrain that I ever thought.

Sandhill crane couples usually have 1-3 babies each year in the spring. Both parents care for the children. Kids stay with their parents for about nine or ten months. In fact, it is a bit traumatic for me to watch the crane families in December. This is about the time that the juveniles are being “encouraged” to leave the nest so that there is space in the family for a new set of hatchlings. The “encouragement” can look a little harsh.  Still, there is that circle of life thing and I am hoping that all that “encouragement” will motivate our juvenile cranes to find happiness on their own.

Starting towards the end of February every year, I start scanning the roads, greenbelts, and ponds in my community for signs of the newest Sandhill crane generation. It is a day for celebrating when I see my first Sandhill crane babies of the season. I am not the only person anticipating this annual event. There is a regular traffic sign a couple of miles away from my house that says “Caution: Baby Sandhill crane crossing.” So weird, but so nice.

The other day, the annual miraculous moment happened. I saw the Sandhill crane babies for the first time of the season.  We were driving out of our development to visit some friends when we passed a small feathery family of four loping cautiously across the green space along our community exit. I squealed involuntarily and barely refrained from slamming on the brakes. Max would have been alarmed by my reaction, except that he also saw the babies… and knew what to expect of me. I cried out in reverence, “Oh look, BABIES!” My heart jumped around inside my chest for the rest of the day, celebrating this momentous occasion.

I recently learned that Sandhill crane babies are not called “chicks” or “cranelings” or any other birdlike monikers. They are called “colts.” Now, I have always thought of “colts” as baby horses. It would seem to me that there is nothing further from a horse than a Sandhill crane. Despite being called a “crane,” I’m not thinking that the Sandhills can do any heavy construction work. Cinderella never had Sandhill cranes pull her pumpkin carriage, even with a generous helping of enchantment.  You can’t ride them. I don’t think there is a Sandhill crane racing off-track betting location anywhere nearby. Then, I realized the nexus. Baby Sandhill cranes basically look like ducklings stapled to the top of two spindly pencils, where the erasers would normally be. Their legs must be about five times the length of their bodies. When novelists write about leggy young girls who seem to not completely know what to do with their limbs, they often use the term “coltish.” I always thought those novelists were making the comparison to baby horses. Maybe, all this time, those novelists really meant baby Sandhill cranes!

What animals herald the onset of Spring where you live? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. 

Have a flighty day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

The Results Are In!

After fourteen days of bunny-hunting, the score concluded with:

Bunnies 7

Terri 7

So, the bunnies did not beat me. However, this is cold comfort when you think that all it means is that I was able to play ten inanimate, brainless rabbits to a tie. Max points out that the bunnies might have had a little help. Still, the bunny running is over for the season, and I feel like they left me in the dust! I’d better hop to it next year!

How do you comfort yourself when you feel like a dumb bunny? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Hope you had a HOPPY Easter!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Dumb Bunny

I am blessed to have a partner in life who indulges my inner child. At least, he indulges the inner child who is charming and fun. I am not sure he is quite as enchanted with the whiny one who missed her nap.

This year, as in past Easter seasons, Max hides one of my family of small bunnies in our living or dining rooms. I would clarify that they are fake bunnies, but I don’t want to hurt their feelings. This activity, a spin-off of our Elf on the Shelf revelry, is not exactly a Lenten devotional. However, given the intensity of this Lent for me, the bunnies do provide a certain comic relief. There are three sizes of bunnies- Archibald and Arabella are the parental bunnies and are each about the size of a small mandarin orange. Winken/Blinken (these two are literally joined at the hip), Nod, and Tumble are slightly smaller. They are still in diapers, however. Eenie, Meenie, Miney, and Mo are the tiniest of tiny. These little pink babies are each about the size of a sugar cube.

Those rabbits get up to no good. They are very sneaky little lagomorphs. They hide places that I cannot easily mine. One day, after several pointed hints, I found Nod sleeping on one of the Plantation shutter slats. This would not have been so remarkable except I had LOOKED THERE multiple times. The thing is, Nod is white, except for his sweet little purple diaper. The Plantation shutters are also white. The way he was sitting on the shutter, the diaper was not visible. A small white rabbit sitting on a white shutter slat has found a darn good hiding place!

My record in past years for finding bunnies and, for that matter, for finding the Elf on the Shelf, has been pretty good. Max has become a talented bunny hider, gaining expertise and nuance every year. This Easter season, the bunnies are winning. Either the bunnies are getting smarter, or my bunny-hunting skills are in serious decline. When I read articles about aging, they never mention that the bunny-hunting skills are the first to go.

You’ve heard the phrase “dumb bunny?” I think, in my scenario, I am the dumb bunny, not the rabbits!

What Easter traditions do you keep? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.  Happy Easter!

Terri/Dorry 😊

A Lenten Miracle

We’ve all heard of “Christmas miracles.” Without them, the Hallmark television channel would be bereft of programming. Lenten miracles are a little more obscure. Yet, I am experiencing one.

In 2020, I proclaimed that Lenten season to be the “lentiest Lent that ever did lent.” Lent is about sacrificing to get closer to God. In my tradition, Lent has three components of sacrifice- fasting, almsgiving, and prayer.  With the onset of the COVID pandemic, we all had ample opportunity to sacrifice. We gave up so many gifts we previously took for granted- hugs, visiting family and friends in person, going to the library, frequenting our favorite hot spots, accomplishing our work tasks conveniently and comfortably, breathing without sucking on face mask fabric, and many other of life’s little pleasures. Shortages of goods on grocery store shelves meant we were all pretty much fasting from something. As people tend to do when they see an obvious need, charitable giving increased. In desperate times, most people rallied to help others. And, as for prayer- well, we had ample opportunity and ample motivation.  

This Lent, though, I feel like God has taken things to a whole new level. The difference is that the COVID-19 pandemic was a worldwide cataclysm that led to worldwide transformation. This year, the infection is individual and intimate. My personal cataclysm has been very hard to bear. Years of old pain and shame came to storm the castle of my very soul, wielding knives and pitchforks and serious intentions to destroy.  Every molecule of my energy has gone into fighting off the attack. The battle has waxed and waned through the past weeks, but never ends.

When one is engaged in battle, one needs weapons. I have an effective arsenal, thanks to my life coach, Todd Payne.  I told him my story at a pace that was challenging but tolerable (by tolerable, I mean a pace that was significantly beyond comfort level but did not inspire thoughts of jumping from a bridge.) He gave me tools to process and to cope. I use those tools as we agreed. I started asking for what I needed to manage my emotional energy during this time of warfare. I completed the writing assignments he gave me.  I made sure to dance for 20-30 minutes a day. I began supplementing my daily meditation practice with short, anxiety relieving guided meditations when I began to feel the pitchforks getting dangerously close to piercing my soul. We prayed in a number of our sessions.

We agreed on another strategy. There were Sundays when I pronounced myself “unfit for human consumption” and did not go to church. I realized, though, that I always felt better when I did attend the service- both from a spiritual and a social sense. My God was at the service and so was my family of friends. I resolved that, during Lent, I would attend Sunday service AND the weekly healing service on Thursdays. I think I felt that I needed healing before I knew I needed healing.  I decided to attend the Thursday service as a Lenten devotional because I thought it would be comforting in a difficult time and would remind me that God is always near me. I was not thinking so much about healing.

Now, we are Episcopalians. The term “healing service” tends to denote a more Pentecostal, charismatic vibe. Our healing service at my traditional, little Episcopal church looks a lot less dramatic. It is basically a sparsely attended informal gathering in the chapel that looks a lot like a “regular” Sunday worship liturgy. The only difference is that we do put an additional focus on praying for those who are suffering. Our pastor anoints us with oil and prays for healing in our lives. Just because the event does not APPEAR as dramatic as the more loud and overt healing services you see in the movies does not mean that what happens beneath the surface IS not dramatic, though. I have sat through several of these services now, with tears oozing out of my eyes. Those tears have been coming on a wave of pain and shame and healing and truth and acceptance. The tsunami of emotion is such a tangled mix of positive, negative, and confusion. It is hard to articulate. However, the biggest takeaway from the tears might be this- GOD DOES NOT WANT ME TO FEEL LIKE THIS!

As I worked through my sessions with Todd, it became more and more clear that events that occurred 40 years ago largely created the mess in my mind and the trainwreck in my heart. Those events created an infection within me that has caused me to live with such a distorted sense of myself. I tend not to even try to explain how I feel to other people because it is pretty incomprehensible. From the outside, I look functional and successful. Inside, life is much different. In reliving that time of my life 40 years ago, my pain became more focused, and the shame hailed down on my soul. I was engaged in mental, emotional, and spiritual warfare as I slogged my way through Lent this year.

Now, most people do see Lent largely as a time of sacrifice. In my Christian tradition, that focus on prayer, fasting, and almsgiving are seen as signs of repentance during this pre-Easter season. If we look closer, I think we could see Lent as not simply a time for penance and sacrifice, but as a time for transformation. We should be crafting Lenten observances that help transform us into the people God wants us to be. I do not know if I intentionally did that this year, but both Todd and I believe that God thought it was more than time for my transformation.

One Sunday, late in Lent, something happened. I call it a miracle. Everything in the service and the Sunday school lesson that preceded it spoke to me in a very direct, very intimate way. The anthem the choir sang was Shepherd Me, O God, a hymn beseeching God to shepherd us beyond all our fears. I had 40 years of fear and shame whittling away at my soul. The epistle reading was from Ephesians, chapter 5. In that reading, St. Paul admonished that we should take no part in the unfruitful works of the darkness but expose them to become visible so that they will cease to cause darkness. I had just spent the past month or so working with Todd, revealing evil things that were hidden in the dark of my psyche. The Gospel was about Jesus healing the blind man by smearing his eyes with mud and sending him to the pool of Siloam to wash. God was opening my eyes to the truth of what happened. He was healing me of pain and shame. Our pastor’s sermon also mentioned that Jesus intentionally involved the blind man in his own healing. Jesus sent him to the pool of Siloam to rinse his eyes so that the healing would be manifest. I have participated. I have been on a long, painful, dredging up of feelings that I should have named and felt 40 years ago. In the dark, they have grown and multiplied and become even worse than they would have been if I had processed them at the appropriate time. Now, not only do I mourn the actual events of the time, but I also mourn the more joyful, more abundant, more grounded life that I could have been having during these 40 years of brokenness.

This Lent, as I prepare for Easter, I am rinsing my eyes in my personal God-created pool of Siloam. I am accepting that I am transformed. I do not understand why God waited 40 years to transform me. I don’t really care. I guess miracles don’t happen until one is ready for them to happen. I will not question God’s judgment about that.

You could argue that what I’ve experienced is not a supernatural event. You could argue that this transformation is simply the result of hard work with an excellent therapist. I do not doubt that God used my hard work and my life coach’s skill as tools to deliver the miracle. I know there is more to it, though. And, if you lived inside my soul, you would know it, too.

Easter has come early for me this year. Happy Resurrection!

I’m back! Did you miss me?

Terri/Dorry 🙂