retirement lifestyle blog – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement

All The Saints

Caution: This post is one of those in which I am not sure where I am going. I have some kind of feeling that I can’t quite identify and am trying to write my way through it. Often when I do this, the result is startling in its clarity. Sometimes, the result is just silly and self-indulgent. I leave it to you to decide where on the spectrum this one falls.

This past weekend, we celebrated All Saints’ Day. All Saints’ Day is an example of the concept that the Kingdom of God is both “now” and “not yet.” We celebrate the lives and examples of the saints who have gone before us- the famous ones, the everyday ones, the ones we know, and the ones known only to God. We also celebrate our own inclusion in that family of saints. Being a child of God, a disciple of Christ, and a follower of the indwelling Holy Spirit is what makes a saint. There are plenty of us walking imperfectly through life, praying for the best and knowing that God is ever loving even in the worst. On All Saints’ Day, we rejoice in the knowledge that there will be a great reunion of us all one day in the “not yet” part of God’s Kingdom.

All Saints’ Day is a uniquely beautiful concept, rich in spiritual maturity. It is an opportunity to celebrate, yes. However, in our current state, it is also a time of poignancy. Over the past several years, I have come closer to reconciling those two truths. I love All Saints’ Day. I love All Saints’ Day because it makes me cry- from both grief and joy at the exact same time. I listen to the names of the people I have lost in this life, and it is hard emotional work. The tears that escape my heart rip something open. Those tears also clean and bandage the wounds. The love I feel when I hear those names sears my soul. It is painful, but it is good. It clears the thicket of mourning to make room for another planting- a new, robust kind of love not limited by the brokenness of this world.

This year, I noticed a broader kind of grief. I heard the names of the people I lifted in prayer, but I also found myself musing over many other names that were not my family members or close friends. We, as a community, shared each other’s love and grief. Maybe it is selfish of me not to have seen it before now. Living in each other’s grief is a ministry of its own.

I reviewed the list of names of saints that we, as a church family, remembered this All Saints’ Day. I was amazed to realize that I knew twenty-two of the people on the list. I realized that they- and even the ones that I didn’t know- are ALL my family. The loved one of my brother or sister is my loved one, as well. That is a lot of loss to carry.

For some reason, this realization did not multiply my grief. I did not feel overwhelmed by the number of lost lives. I did not feel old and fading. I did not feel hopeless. As a matter of fact, my heart somehow expanded to make room for extra love. The experience might well have been the very definition of bittersweet- that extra love felt clumsy, tentative, and unwieldy at first. It soon settled into my soul and became soothing balm. Suddenly, “uncomfortably full” was “humbling and joyful.” The “now but “not yet” was happening to me right in that moment.

There have been many seasons in my life when I have hidden and protected myself from community. Because I was afraid of hurting, I did not engage. This All Saints’ Day, I learned that engaging is the best way to bear the hurting. I rejoice in the blessing of my family of saints, both in this world and the next!

Being Real

Most of us remember the children’s story The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams. In that book, the stuffed rabbit has only one aspiration in life- to become “real.” What he learns over time is that becoming “real” is a painful, exhausting process. To become “real” means letting time and love create scars, tears, and stains, not only on your body but also on your heart. When the velveteen rabbit finally becomes “real” through that unforgiving crucible of time and love, he truly understands the multi-faceted nature of “reality.” Far from feeling disillusioned or grieved, he rejoices in his epiphany. Feeling “real” is worth it.

This story always resonated with me. I, too, spent most of my life longing to be “real.” I looked around me and everyone else seemed to have vibrant, momentum-driven lives. I saw their lives- marriage, children, benchmarks, traditional celebrations- as integral to a kind of perpetual regeneration of life and culture. There seemed to be an authentic order and rhythm to their lives. It felt like a “real” life was something that happened inside you. “Real” people embodied their lives organically. For me, life was always something that never came naturally. It happened outside of me, and I worked extremely hard to pretend I was part of it all. I never quite fit. My efforts to be “real” were always awkward and ultimately, unsuccessful.

What I have learned, through my own painful and exhausting process of reality building, is that I made a fundamental error in my understanding of “real” life. I somehow believed that the only “real” life was one filled with marriage and children. For a lot of my life, my attempts to fit into “real” life were attempts to fit into a “real” life that was not my own. Now that I am worn, scarred, torn, and stained, I have been learning to become the “real” I am supposed to be. It is a reason to rejoice.

However… my heart may be healing but my body, not so much.

A year or so ago, I started dancing to help with the heart-healing. Music and movement are beneficial techniques to improve mental health. I don’t do anything fancy. I am mostly just listening to upbeat songs and playfully moving as my body wants to move. I tend to describe it, at least to myself, as moving with wild abandon. Not being the kind of person who is ever wild or abandons anybody, it makes me feel delightfully edgy. I only spend about 15-30 minutes a day on this activity. It helps quite a bit. Dancing to cheerful songs with catchy lyrics is just fun. It makes me feel lighter and more joyful.

Max and I met at a dance. He remembers that meeting (and subsequent times when we went to dances) fondly as times when we took over the dance floor and had people admiring our dance moves. I think he is projecting. He was an excellent dancer. I mostly tried to keep up without humiliating or injuring myself. Still, he unleashed the revelation that I really liked to dance, despite an incredibly elevated level of klutziness.

A few weeks ago, I was dancing in the living room. Instead of the faster, lighter songs I typically use, I was gliding around while listening to my spiritual music playlist. I like to listen to those songs and to dance to them when I feel like I need to calm myself and be more present in my body. Ironically.

I say ironically because I tripped over my own feet or my pants leg or a speck of dirt or something. I lost balance and got way more acquainted with my living room floor than is healthy. I yelped and let out a cry. It might have been called a scream. Max did not hear me. As I lay on the floor, I assessed the damage. I had not fallen on my head, so that was good. My left arm, especially around my elbow and forearm, hurt. The skin on my elbow was torn up and I was bleeding. I noticed that I seemed able to move, but I wasn’t exactly sure how or where I was going to go. My inclination was to use my forearms as leverage to hoist myself up off the floor. Given the pain in that region, that strategy seemed inadvisable.

After several minutes on the floor, I realized the pain was not going to immediately disappear. I began to inch my way across a few feet of hard flooring, using my good arm and my core muscles to propel myself forward. If you have ever seen my core muscles (and no one has because they are indiscernible), you can imagine how inefficient that process was. Finally, I reached for an armchair. I used my right arm to lean against the seat of the chair to work my body around to a position from which I thought I could rise with minimal pressure on my injured left arm.

Minimal pressure is a relative term. Putting any weight at all on the left arm aggravated the screaming, inflamed tissue. Luckily, I managed to get to my feet pretty quickly on the first try. I sat down in the said armchair for a few minutes and then got up to apply sufficient bandages to keep me from ruining the furniture. My arm kept hurting.

I truly expected that I would have an impressive bruise the next day. I did not. In fact, despite some distinctly noticeable level of pain, ten days passed with no sign of contusion. As is typical for me, I told myself it couldn’t be as bad as it felt because there was no bruise. At the ten-day mark, a large, dark, painful mark surprised me with its vehemence. It took a couple of days to fully blossom, but it was indeed an impressive bruise. It was about 10-inches long and multi-colored. I could even describe it as polka-dotted at first because the differences in coloration were significant. My whole elbow, a good portion of my forearm, and a couple of inches above my elbow practically shined with darkness. In some places, patches of an even darker hue gave me the polka-dot look.

I’m about two weeks into the bruising process and the area is starting to fade to a weird yellow color. I have been able to break the Tylenol addiction I acquired in the wake of the injury. I am certainly on the mend.

The lesson here is that sometimes “reality” is not what you think it should be. That doesn’t make it any less real or any less valuable. My heart has, happily, learned that being “real” includes finding authentic happiness in whatever shape the circumstances of my life give me.

On the other hand, grace in my heart does not necessarily equate with grace in my body. Just keeping it real….

Bearing

Today is my birthday. It is one of those times when I especially miss my momma. When you think about it, the day you are born is the first and most unique moment you can share with your biological mother. I understand that there are different scenarios that might complicate this theory, such as surrogacy or adoption. For most people, the partnering of mother and child during the birthing process cannot be shared by anyone else in quite the same way. My life coach says that strong intimate relationships are based on “shared experiences” and “mutual vulnerability.” Childbirth surely counts. It might even be the definitive example. I know, for my mother and me, that intimate, shared, vulnerable experience ushered in a lifetime of strong relationship.

People talk about birth trauma. I think it can happen to babies and mothers. Childbirth is a physically grueling experience for both the birther and the birthee. The mom and baby both undergo fiercely jarring changes in their bodies and environments, even in the most ideal circumstances. Both parties labor. However, it has always seemed clear to me that the mother has the more difficult job. I used to tell people that I didn’t know why I had a birthday celebration on September 30^th. It was my mother who did the lion’s share of the work. In fact, while my mother was alive, I always gave her a present on MY birthday.

One of those “thank you for birthing me” gifts was a Vermont teddy bear, custom-made especially for my mother. The bear was wearing a pink sweater, engraved with “Dorothea 09-30-59.” I gave it to her with an “It’s a girl” baby congratulations card. I thought it was super clever and adorable. I’m not sure Momma quite saw the appeal but, being who she was, she made a big fuss over it. In fact, that bear became a symbol of our relationship and an inside joke. The bear traveled with her through at least six moves, including her move to Florida. One morning, I came over to her Florida home to find that there was a problem with her heater. She had Dorothea Bear wrapped in a blanket- “to make sure she didn’t catch a chill.” Point made, Mom. I’m calling the home warranty company.

Of course, Dorothea Bear went with Momma to the skilled nursing facility where she spent the last ten months of her life. Even as my mother gradually edged away from engagement with her surroundings, she would smile when I mentioned Dorothea Bear and pointed to my fuzzy little doppelganger. I don’t know if she was responding to the bear or just to the love in my voice, but I like to believe the bear continued to have some small part in our connection.

After my mother died, I went to collect her things from the facility. It took me a couple of weeks to make it over to the residence, since that location was the last place I wanted to be. After looking around the storage area, I found a couple of cardboard boxes of completely unimportant items. I found some old photos I had placed on the wall next to Momma’s bed. I did not find Dorothea Bear amongst Momma’s belongings. It saddened me, as I sifted through the detritus in the storage room, but my loss was so much bigger than the bear. I felt an overwhelming, suffocating need to get away from the skilled nursing facility and never come back.

Over the next few weeks, my level of depression and grief increased in size and volume. I was experiencing that aspect of grief in which you realize that you have not only lost your loved one, but you have also lost so many other things tangential to your loved one. I would have no more adventures with my mother riding shotgun. I would no longer be able to call my mom to share a funny observation. I would not get Christmas surprises anymore. As my birthday drew near, a little over three weeks after my mom died, I realized that we would never again celebrate the anniversary of our uniquely intimate shared vulnerable experience. All of a sudden, the loss of Dorothea Bear took on more weight than I could hold. At the same time, I did not have the emotional energy to call the nursing facility and advocate for the return of Momma’s bear.

My brother, Ernie, happened to call and ask if there was anything he could do from California to help. He had no idea that the bear was an issue. I am pretty sure he did not remember there ever was a bear. Still, when he asked the question, I started sobbing. I bewildered him, I am sure, as I had spent the last year of my mom’s life holding things together pretty well when I spoke to him. I tried not to swallow my own tongue as I choked on my tears. I explained the Great Dorothea Bear Mystery. I forlornly related my saga and my resignation that I would never see her again. “Never see her again” was, I am sure, a deliberately ambiguous statement. I told him that I could not face returning to the facility. He said he would call and get them to find the bear and mail it to me.

Ernie, who has also since passed away, had a wonderful heart and just the fact that he offered to help in this way lightened my desolation. However, I can’t say I expected anything to come of it. He wasn’t always great at following through with good intentions. Also, I doubted the nursing home would be able to locate the bear six weeks later.

Much to my surprise, Ernie called me a few days later. He did contact the nursing home and insisted that the Director of Nursing locate the bear. I can only imagine how that conversation must have gone. Ernie did have a kind, wonderful, absolutely loyal heart. He could also be quite forceful… some would say even a little scary. Amazingly, the Director of Nursing did find Momma’s Dorothea Bear. That was the good news. The bad news was that she would not mail it and I would have to go pick it up. He assured me that the Director of Nursing would have the bear readily available, sitting at the reception desk so that all I had to do was walk in the door, take the bear, and leave.

Ernie’s action prompted some courage and initiative in me. I decided I could do that much… as long as I did not have to talk to anyone. I went to the facility and marched bravely through the door. My hope was that I could be stealthful and secretive. I, ninja-like, wanted to get in and out without being noticed. Of course, that did not happen. It was like an alarm went off when I entered the building. Although no noise went off, the reaction was as palpable as if I had tried to leave a department store with the security tag still attached to an article of clothing. A shoplifter could not have compelled so much attention. I was swamped by every employee who had so much as said good morning to me or my mother in the past year. It was exactly what I feared- an effusive outpouring of sympathy, affection, and concern.

Yes, it was exactly what I feared. But, in a strange way… it didn’t hurt at all. The kind words did not shatter my carefully cultured courage. The hugs did not hurl me into a pit of despair. It turned out that there really was nothing to fear. Instead, the care of those sweet people who walked my mother’s end of life journey with me began to lift me out of the valley of sorrow.

Terri/Dorry 🙂

And hugging my Dorothea Bear did not hurt, either.

Have I Finally Become A Floridian?

We have made it almost to the end of summer without my annual weather whine. Most years, I can’t make it until actual July before publishing my ubiquitous rant. I’m starting to wonder if I have finally become used to summer in Central Florida and become a Floridian.

The answer is no.

I will say that this summer does seem to be milder than previous years. The temperatures have been higher, but there has not been as much humidity. Also, the Florida Somme seems to have finally received the memo that World War I attacks concluded in 1918. We haven’t had day after day of thunder bombing our backyard. And we have not yet been attacked by a hurricane threatening to destroy life as we know it. I don’t know if this milder version of the Florida summer sweat-a-thon will continue through the coming weeks, but I’m a lot more cheerful than I usually am at this point in the year.

My more seasoned Florida friends- those who have been residing in this air swamp for most or all of their lives- would argue that I am (and will always be) a Northerner. They hold firmly to this belief, even though I have not lived in the North since 1965. I lived in California most of my life- Southern California. I spent most of my childhood and a great deal of my adulthood without air conditioning. It was common for temperatures to top one hundred degrees in July and August. It was different though. Usually, the temperature the thermometer reported was roughly the same as that sadistic statistic, “feels like” temperature. I watch the differential between these two numbers hit double digits virtually every day here in Florida. Often, the “real” temperature has been in the upper 90s and the “feels like” temperature is between 105-110 degrees. That is just wrong.

There is also the concept of “growing season.” In the summer, we can watch the weeds and shrubbery grow like genetically modified turkeys. I love gardens. Other people’s gardens. I even love paying a reasonable price of admission to wander public gardens. I do not, however, love the process of physical gardening. I hate weeding and cutting back branches on the shrubs. This task, which takes about 10 minutes per week between late October and the end of May, becomes a grueling, sweaty, forced labor camp activity for at least 40 minutes weekly in the extended summer that is now my home.

The foliage is not the only thing that grows in “growing season.” Bugs grow, and so do my extremities when bitten by them.

I discussed lovebugs about six weeks ago in my blog piece Blooming (www.terrilabonte.com/2026/08/blooming-2/). At least the love bugs are a self-limiting condition. It is easier to tolerate an infestation that predictably dies out within two weeks. Mosquitoes are another matter. There appears to be something about me that attracts mosquitos as if I am the insect all-you-can-eat buffet. I used to say it was because I was so sweet but, when I am less delusional, I think it is more likely because I am especially salty due to all that humidity and sweat. They are like vampires in that I am usually pretty safe during daylight hours. It is rare that I am outside after dark, but, when I am… I am the appetizer, entrée, and dessert all wrapped up in one chubby little body. It is not unusual for me to be able to count twenty or more bites on my legs and arms after 20 minutes in the church courtyard in the evening.

This year, I’ve noticed another insect problem. Fire ants. One Sunday after the church service, I was on the verandah of the parish hall signing people up for a class I am teaching. It was the middle of the day. I was standing on the substantial patio- far away from any dirt or grass. Suddenly, I could feel an itchiness growing on the tops of my feet. In addition to the itchiness, there was a stingy feeling. I didn’t see anything when I looked down. I thought it was my archnemesis the mosquito, but it seemed strange because the sun was shining its vampire death rays. It itched and burned for a week after that encounter.

A couple of weeks later, Max and I were out in the yard wielding garden clippers in an attempt to tame the tree and shrub overgrowth for the week. He was up on a ladder to tackle some of the higher boughs of a tree. I was clutching the ladder to give it a little more stability than the uneven earth and rock hardscaping provided. Suddenly, I felt that sensation on my feet again. I looked down and there were fire ants crawling all over my feet. It was obviously an ant conspiracy. I was not standing on an anthill. These ants had to go out of their way to attack me.

It was insect gang violence aimed specifically at me. They even waited for the prime opportunity- me holding a ladder. I tried to push them off the tops of my feet with the bottoms of my shoes but that only, predictably, pissed them off further. Max got off the ladder quickly and I had two hands free to “encourage” the ants to disperse. My feet were so red and angry that I could not immediately assess the damage. It turned out to be eighteen visible bites on my feet and ankles. Despite ice, hydrocortisone cream, calamine lotion, and prayer- those bites plagued me for ten days before the itch finally started to subside.

When I was considering a move to Florida, a friend of mine expressed immense concern about the number of bugs per square foot here. My experience at that point led me to assure her that the mosquitoes were really the only difficult part and they tended to be a problem only in the evening, especially near water. For my first several years in Florida, that did generally prove true. This year, though, the bugs have definitely increased the summer degree of difficulty. It is like I was in the insect witness protection program for 11 years. Now, they have clearly located me and put a contract out on me. These are not bugs. They are tiny hitmen.

I should really stop whining. Fall, cooler weather, and a decrease in homicidal bugs should be coming. The calendar says that there are only a couple of weeks left of summer. However, I’ve lived in Florida long enough to know better.

Terri/Dorry 🙂

Blooming

I always imagined a life for myself that looked significantly different than the one I am currently living. I imagined a happy marriage and children. I imagined living my entire life in California, where I was familiar with the routine rhythm of the days. I imagined living in a house with my husband and children. I imagined I’d be an elementary school teacher, writer, librarian, or director of religious education. I imagined that my husband would be the primary breadwinner, but that I would go back to work after the children started school to supplement the family income.

I often say, “Terri proposes and God disposes.” My imaginary life sounds wonderful, but there was a fundamental flaw in my thinking. That fundamental flaw? Life happens. Sometimes life happening is a delightful swirl of serendipity. Sometimes, not so much. Here are some of the curves in the road that laughed in the face of my imaginary life:

A husband who was pursuing advanced degrees, requiring me to support us immediately after earning my undergraduate degree
A difficult marriage ending in divorce
The stratospheric cost of housing in Southern California
A move across the country to central Florida
My lack of confidence and resiliency in overcoming barriers

This all sounds pretty grim, I know. However, I long ago accepted the fact that imaginary lives are not always what they are cracked up to be. Another axiom I’ve espoused is “Bloom where you are planted.” These curves in the road were extremely difficult and painful, but they are richer than that. They may not have been stretches of road that I wanted to travel, but there were some benefits.

I don’t think that I am a scholar at heart. I am an intelligent person. My brain works more than passably well. I did well at every level of school. However, I don’t think I was ever a person who luxuriated in the process of studying. Yes, I enjoy learning interesting things. Overall, though, education and degrees always seemed like more of a means to an end rather than an end in and of itself. It may be that pursuing the additional degrees necessary for most of my imaginary life jobs would not have been joyful to me. The job I got right out of school might not have been dream job, but it led to a meaningful, successful career. I did it well. It enabled me to grow and explore some uniquely wonderful parts of myself. The work did not always mesh well with my unique disposition, but it did give me something that has always been important to me- security. My career also gave me some of the best friends I have ever had- friends that carried me during some difficult life challenges.

I confess that seeing the bright side of a painful marriage is not easy. I’m not sure I bloomed through that particular curve in the road. I may have wilted, but I did not die. That must be the win, I guess. I believe that, somewhere in that experience, something was planted in me that has enabled me to evolve and grow into the person I am now. I am an empathetic person. I am a loving person. I am an intuitive person. I am a person who reads nuances well. I think God put all those things inside me, but I am not sure I would have learned to use them as effectively had I not experienced my marriage. It took me many years to figure that out, but here we are.

A divorce? The silver lining, although I could not see it at the time, was that I needed to be free. I railed against that freedom for some time, much to my detriment. Today, I am so grateful for the divorce, which gave me the space to start living who I am rather than what I thought a wife should be. There probably was nothing wrong with my vision of marriage, but the marriage I had was not the vision. Also, a divorce meant that, many years later, I got to build a life with a man who is my partner in happiness.

I never bought a house in California- largely because of financial limitations. I made decent money, but I did not have the benefit of being part of a DINK (double-income, no kids) household. I bought a tiny little condominium, which became pretty crowded when Max moved in with me. Still, it was a cozy, happy little home where we went from being girlfriend/boyfriend to being life partners. When I eventually sold the condo before our move to Florida, I cleared enough money to start our new life in Florida in a debt-free house and a nest egg to buy furnishings. That little condo was good to me and my memories of it will always be soul-warming.

The move to Florida was scary and jarring. I left the known and steeled myself for the unknown. You have heard the saying, “better the devil you know than the devil you don’t know?” I’m afraid my personality tends to take it even further- “better the devil you know than the angel you don’t know (because who can really trust an angel, anyway?)” The first eighteen months or so were brutal. I had an existential crisis practically every day. Everything was so different and more complicated than I expected. Right about the time the mental overload was receding enough for me to see that not everything about Florida was trying to kill me, my mother had a massive stroke. This tide rolled in again on my medulla oblongata. It was hard not to blame Florida for this constant state of brain flood. The cortisol running around in me kept screaming at me, “UNSAFE! UNSAFE! UNSAFE!”

Still, today I am so happy we moved. I love our little house. I love my church. I love my Florida friends. I love the ways I have been able to develop my talents and passions. I love how safe I feel.

So, the only real hairpin curve that remains to examine is my own lack of confidence and resilience in facing challenges. I’m not sure if the lack of these traits is a circumstance on its own or simply a natural result of the other circumstances. I suspect the latter. And, given the analysis I have just relayed here, I think lack might be a fallacy. It seems to me that I have been more confident, resilient, and positive than I might have thought all those years. I have spent years coming to that realization and shoring up that realization to make it more stable and lasting. If I am honest, I know that some of the curves in the road I’ve experienced have brought some of the opportunities that helped with the shoring up.

So, bloom where I’m planted? Maybe God planted me exactly where I can bloom best.

Tourist Of Lives

I kind of like tourist traps. I don’t like crowds. I don’t like sweating. I don’t like overpaying for things. But I do like seeing the things everybody goes someplace to see. And a good gift shop never hurt anyone. Maybe it is because I grew up in the shadow of Disneyland and now live forty miles from the “Most Magical Place On Earth.” Maybe it is because the only time I have been out of the country, I went on a nice, safe, prefabricated bus tour. Maybe it is because I do not trust my own ability to entertain myself and others. Anyway, my travel orientation has always been touristy. I have a fine, virtually invisible line between “kitschy” and “tacky.”

When people visit me, I tend to take them to the kind of touristy places for which Florida is known- Disney, beaches, Universal, waterfront dining, outlet malls. I live close to The Villages, which is a retirement city on steroids. It has become its own tourist attraction. I take people through the gob-smacking experience of the themed town squares.

My very dear friend Judy has a completely different perspective on tourism. She and her husband do quite a bit of traveling all over the world. They do some tours but have also done extensive traveling on their own. I’m sure they enjoy seeing the things that everybody goes places to see, but they tend to prioritize experiences that show them what it is actually like to live in the location they are visiting. I must admit; the idea intrigues me. Still, I have always struggled to slip the leash and trust myself to create such an experience. As I get older, I become more keenly aware that the time I have remaining when I will be able to navigate leash-slipping is limited.

A couple of years ago, we went to the Great Smoky Mountains. I thought I was being very adventurous because I booked a mountain cabin on Vrbo. Also, I made the brave decision to drive us all the way from central Florida to Tennessee. These choices were both outside my comfort zone and I congratulated myself on my courage all the way there. When we entered Pigeon Forge, however, I was amazed to find out that my tolerance for tackiness does actually have a limit. The aging sparkle and whimsy on the main drag and the huge hordes of crowds on the sidewalks grated on me. There was a seediness about the place. It kind of gave me the “ick.”

It was odd that the Dollywood, which one might imagine to be the crown rhinestone in the Pigeon Forge plastic tiara, was quite restrained. Well, maybe “restrained” is not exactly the right word for anything affiliated with Dolly Parton. However, the park was immaculate, the décor and theming beautiful, and the crowds were not overwhelming at all. The days we spent in the Great Smoky Mountain National Park and Skypark in Gatlinburg were amazing. No taint of tack at all.

Overall- despite the oppressive vibe of the main tourist drag (consisting of “roadside attractions” junk food, and Great Smoky Mountain made-in-China gift shops)- I left the state of Tennessee feeling that the trip was a triumph of Terri brand tourism. It felt good to have a few adventures mixed into my normally staid trips to see the things everybody goes places to see. And I did get to see the things everybody goes to the area to see- just maybe a little more than I wanted to see!

Recently, I traveled to Vermont to see my dear friend Delcie. I was in Vermont twice before when my goal was to see the sights that people always want to see. I decided that this was the time to try my friend Judy’s Modis operandi- I wanted to see what Vermont was like up close and personal. I wasn’t going to see VERMONT. I was going to see Delcie’s Vermont. My priority was to see her life in Vermont, not the Vermont Department of Tourism and Marketing’s Vermont. Since I had a safety net- Delcie would make sure I made it out alive- it could be carefully controlled adventure.

It was a huge success. We did sightsee. We went on a quest to find the Cabot Creamery store. You honestly don’t get kitschier than driving a couple of hours to see a mega store dedicated to cheese. I admit to insisting on a return trip to the Vermont Teddy Bear Factory. I may or may not have also spent a rather long time in a Christmas store that looked like the North Pole had vomited all over Vermont. On the other hand, we explored a number of places that I doubt figure prominently in any tour book. They all delighted my soul.

We went to the Robert Frost Interpretative Trail in the Green Mountain National Forest. We spent an hour or so hiking through an absolutely gorgeous forest, alight with dappled sun and sparkling brooks. Wildflowers danced in meadows and beneath the canopy. Every hundred yards or so, there was a wooden post with a plaque engraved with a Frost poem. The poem on each post fit what it overlooked.

One day, we took a ride through Smuggler’s Notch and stopped at the side of the road to explore. It is one of the best proofs ever that God’s architecture is superior to anything man can build. Winding through a corridor of the Green Mountains, you see that the walls around you are chiseled sheets of the most exquisite stone. The shading of the stone is remarkable. It is silver and gray, with hints of sage, rust, and garnet weaving through it. It could be a jewelry grade gemstone- all the way up the mountains all around you when you stop at the side of the road. The precise, oddly angular traveling of the stone to the sky is striking, as well.

We drove out to Delcie’s cabin on Lake Champlain. I got to glimpse her summertime life out in the woods. I was instantly enveloped in the peace and beauty of her very own forest. I learned about the difficulties in maintaining this breathtakingly sacred space. I learned about invasive flora. I learned about septic tanks. I learned about snowplowing. I learned about winterizing. I also learned about feeling like a different version of oneself simply by changing one’s environment.

I attended a church service with Delcie. I met one of her daughters and sons-in-law. I loved on her sweet dog Coco. On several evenings, I walked the community track across the street from her home for exercise. I enjoyed the fresh, cool evening air. I reveled in the sweet fragrance of lilac outside Delcie’s verandah. I drank in a beautiful sunset on St. Alban’s Bay while eating a “creemie”- a Vermont gourmet soft serve delicacy. I ate more than my share of delicious food. I came home over-snacked, but I enjoyed it while I was in the moment.

I liked coming home. I love my own life. Still, I am a tourist at heart. I always thought that meant touring amusement parks, museums, historical monuments, internationally famous landmarks, and the all-important gift shops. I find that being a tourist can be more intimate than that. I am learning that I am a tourist of lives!

The Great Chasm

I hardly know how to act. A week or so ago, I looked at my calendar and realized that my life has become underscheduled. This is a cataclysmic shift in my Universe.

I knew this phenomenon was coming. I wanted it. I planned for it. For a long time, I have been trying to capture a season of stillness. I have been telling myself to concentrate on the people most important to me. I have been telling myself that I should only take on commitments that speak specifically to my soul. I have been telling myself, as far as ministry goes, I should only do what only I can do.

The talking-tos I’ve given myself don’t usually land. More often, they crash. There is always someone who needs a little extra love and attention. There is always some activity that sounds interesting. There is always some need that cries out for me to meet it. I get caught in a weird dichotomy. I never think that I am the person who is best qualified to do anything, yet I always think that disaster will ensue if I do not volunteer.

Now that I’ve finally found some breathing space, I was not prepared for how it would feel.

As usual, Lent was a busy time. I had my array of Lenten activities to fulfill. I have also been leaning into a quiet ministry that I feel is my calling right now- providing support one-on-one to people who need love. I know a lot of people going through difficult circumstances right now. I try to be intentional about providing support and tender loving care in a way that speaks a language that the recipient best understands. Also, a very close friend in Florida picked this time to move back to Delaware. I was trying to spend as much time as I could with her and I wanted to participate in all the farewell events leading up to her departure.

As Lent wound down and I finished the planned activities, I realized that I was no longer having to look three weeks forward in my calendar to find a time slot when I wanted to arrange a date for something. I have plans on the schedule, but there ae no longer days when I have the calendar booked with back-to-back activities. I won’t have to break basic laws of physics to meet my scheduled commitments. My first reaction was a feeling of elation. For a few days, it felt so good to know that the wind of life was going to still to a gentle breeze.

Then, I got uncomfortable and flustered. I felt empty. I struggled with some decrepit demons about appearance and worthlessness that refuse to die. Finally, I realized that this reaction is rooted in a wave of insecurity. Some people fly into a flurry of activity because they feel their value comes from doing. The act of completing tasks and achieving and “being important” helps give their lives meaning. I’m not exactly one of those people. In fact, I dislike “being important” and the attention it brings. What I love and crave is connection. Attaching to people and becoming interdependent with them feeds my soul. Relationships are my coin of the realm. More scheduled on my calendar suggests more connections. When my calendar doesn’t feel overfull, I worry that my relationships will disappear. I feel I must force an intentional opportunity to keep me at the forefront of people’s radar screens, or they will detach from me.

If I am being rational, I know that more activity does not necessarily translate to more connection. I also know that the people with whom I am in relationship love me and will still love me even if they go more than a few days… or even a few weeks… without the awesomeness of my presence. I know that I have value and worth to a relationship that does not depend on busyness.

But…

What I know rationally has very little value in a conversation about insecurity. Neither does anyone else’s assurances. The fact remains that I am having an internal experience that is not congruent with reality. I can’t change it. Certainly, no amount of thinking is going to change it. Believe me, I have tried. It does not work. My stubborn heart does what it does. This time, I am not even going to waste the emotional effort of trying to force myself to feel the way my brain insists I should.

So, I go along for the ride. I pray. I meditate. I inventory my blessings. I move my body. I try to get enough sleep. I eat things that are going to make me feel holistically better instead of worse. I am gentle with myself. I surf the wave until it crashes to the shore. It will pass and I trust that I will be okay. I know I will recall the truth of my rational self. I know that God equips me in mysterious ways to be the person He created me to be.

This Lent, I realized I was standing on one side a rickety bridge. Beneath the bridge is a huge chasm of nothingness. The bridge looks shaky and difficult to maneuver. Truth be told, however, the ground on which I am standing- the ground of insecurity- is much more shaky than the bridge. On the other side of the bridge, there is steadier ground- an internal land in which I have a secure foothold on my sense of self and my worth. The other side of the bridge is the land where God’s perspective of me resides.

I would like to say that, during Lent, I courageously crossed the bridge and am happily on the other side. That isn’t quite true. This Holy Week, though, I did take enough steps to truly see the other side and begin to appreciate what living on that side feels like. This Easter, the work of my Lent culminated and the fruit ripened.

At the same time, Easter invited me to continue. Ripe fruit is delicious and I want more.

Dear Blog Readers:

In my last post, I discussed some of my Lenten journey this year. Today, I wanted to mention another Lenten discipline I have been embracing.

Every few years, I use Lent as a time to reflect on my blessings. I like to think of the people that God has put in my life who have positively impacted my spiritual growth. I send a thank you letter each day in Lent to someone who has inspired me, helped me, or just loved me through something.

Today, I want to thank you all. Thank you for reading my blog. Thank you for encouraging me. Thank you for making it safe for me to experiment and consider the big issues of life- big issues that are sometimes displayed in the smallest of silliness. It has been such a blessing to have this creative outlet. Sometimes, it has been a veritable lifeline of mental health. At other times, it has been a pure escape to the lighter places in my befuddled brain. The act of writing, in itself, is an excellent emotional processing vehicle. Knowing there are people reading and caring makes it even more effective. Hoping that maybe I am inspiring someone or helping someone feel less alone or even just making someone laugh- these are all dreams of mine.

In short, thank you all for being part of my dream. All my life I have wanted to write, but I never had the confidence to do so. It takes a certain amount of arrogance for me to believe that anything I write could be of the slightest interest to anyone else. That may be why I started using the name Terri LaBonte. Terri LaBonte might have the confidence that Dorry Curran lacks.

Blessings,

Dorry/Terri

The Lightening Lent

A Lightening Lent

Although I have been an Episcopalian for nearly ten years, I grew up in an observant Roman Catholic family. I wouldn’t say we were especially devout or even consistent, but there were certain traditions that my family followed. One of those traditions was that my parents expected my brother and I to “give up something” for Lent. As I have evolved in my own spiritual maturity, I think about Lenten disciplines differently. However, I continued to make an intentional Lenten commitment before Ash Wednesday each year.

In recent years, I’ve struggled a little to settle into a special observance every Lent. It seems that I have not always found something to do for Lent, but I have to say Lent has ALWAYS found something for me to do for Lent. I have learned that, for me at least, this tends to be the most powerful Lenten discipline- trusting in the Holy Spirit to find me where my open heart is and giving me the curriculum for what I most need to learn.

This year has been a little different. I was more than a week into Lent, and I had not felt the Holy Spirit tapping on my shoulder. I was starting to get antsy. There were a few things I had decided to do- listening to a series of lessons comparing the parable of the Prodigal Son to the novel The Brothers Karamazov, helping to coordinate and teach a Sunday School series, finishing a Young Adult Spiritual Formation Course. These all felt like appropriate Lenten observances, but not THE THING that was going to grow my soul this year.

For several days it seemed like I encountered the concept of fasting in different readings, sermons, devotionals, prayers. I decided I might be getting the nudge I needed after all. Better late than never, I suppose. But fast from what, exactly?

Typically, people think of food. That is problematic for me because of my diabetes. Also, I have never found food deprivation makes me holier- just grumpier. I have nearly 60 years as an observant Roman Catholic. I have experience with the food fasting thing. I tried to be holy. I really did. I understood that fasting is supposed to feel uncomfortable and sacrificial. However, the uncomfortable and sacrificial feeling was supposed to be a vehicle to get closer to God. It never worked for me. I doubt it will now.

Last year, I did commit to a fast- no Facebook for 40 days. It was challenging and uncomfortable… and I did find it to be spiritually refreshing. So was the additional sleep that resulted from the Facebook fast. Coming back to Facebook after Easter did show me that I engage with social media differently now. I am much more discriminating about what I view. I do not simply scroll and kill time. I read and watch only content providers that I specifically find entertaining, informative, and/or truly uplifting. I post when I want to do so but no longer feel compelled to document everything good that happens. It is a pleasant shift.

This brings us to Lent 2026. I bumbled around in prayer for awhile and then an idea came to me. As part of my own journey of self-discovery and mental health, I am coming face-to-face with a scary, painful tendency of mine. I believe a lot of really cruel and negative things about myself- things I want to believe are lies, but I can’t quite get there. I think I’ve always known about this tendency of mine but never believed I could do anything about it. I didn’t believe I could do anything about it because I couldn’t quite shake the certainty that the negative assertions are true.

In my first draft of this post, I recounted a partial list of the fundamental truths or lies I believe about myself. However, I decided I would be breaking my fast by even mentioning them. You see, this year I am fasting from engaging in views of myself that differ from God’s view of me. I have this mantra that I produced a few years ago that I tell myself when I am feeling especially wobbly…. I am a precious child of God, and I bring joy to the world. He has created me elegantly and equips me perfectly to walk the path He sets before me. I suppose this mantra is the gist of my fast this year- reprogramming my brain to believe it and honor God in it.

I don’t know where these negative perceptions of myself originate. Maybe they are things that other people tell me because, of course, everyone else’s perception is clearly much more valid than my own. Maybe they are things I tell myself because they are true. Maybe they are things that people told me so long ago they are my own. Maybe they are things Satan is telling me. I say that only half-facetiously.

I can’t make myself stop thinking or feeling the negative things- I cannot control my natural reactions. I can control my responses, however. I can choose to recognize the truth-lies when they appear and banish them.

This is the work of Lent for me this year. The rest of my observances- the classes and the studies- are not wrong or unhelpful. It is just that they feel more like busyness. My fast from engaging with the lies is the heavy lifting that nurtures growth. I hope that heavy lifting creates a shift that survives long past Easter.

Please pray for me!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

Living On The Edge

I have never been much of a thrill seeker, but I’ve been thinking it is about time I shook things up a bit.

I recently began teaching a spiritual formation course for a group of young adults. The participants are between the ages of 17 and 30. I am a 66-year-old woman who has never had children. Additionally, some of the participants are also students at a nearby college for students with learning differences. The wide range of ages, life experiences, backgrounds, learning styles, and personalities would be a challenge for anyone, but it is especially difficult for someone like me. I do so love a plan, preparation, and predictable processes.

I taught this same course to our parish at large last year. It is helpful to note that our “parish at large” consists of a plethora of senior citizens, many of whom have been churchgoers their whole lives. I knew going into my young adult class that the experience would be different. I was excited about it. I looked forward to learning from them and sharing with them. I looked forward to stretching my sensibilities.

The premise of the course is that adults, young and old, have plenty of ideas, life experiences, feelings, and assorted other mental material in their brains. There is no need for the instructor to “fill them up.” The role of the instructor is to help the participants look at the stuff that has been sitting in their brains for a long time and “stir it up,” to see if it is still within the “use by” date and if it can grow richer.

I could not have known what a blessing it would be for me. Plans, preparation, and predictable processes have absolutely no place in this adventure. In fact, the experience is wild, wooly, and completely unpredictable. I would say there is no process whatsoever, but that would not be strictly true. I believe there is a process, but it is not I who has designed it. It is the Holy Spirit. I often stop for a moment and think about what a marvel it is that I have been able to step back and let the Holy Spirit truly take the reins. It is good for me to get knocked off my perch.

We have just finished session five of a six-session program. So often, my carefully prepared lesson plan has gone completely by the wayside. This week, I do not think I even picked it up. The students are driving the bus. And that is a wonderful thing. Sometimes, the segues are non-existent and the gear shifting transitions threaten to destroy the transmission. Sometimes, I am not even sure what we are talking about. However, at least once in every session, someone says something so introspective and profound that it is clear Grace has entered the building. Additionally, the students’ kindness, sense of ownership, and accountability are inspiring.

Sometimes, there is a clash of world views, even from all of us in the arms of Jesus. Sometimes, it feels a little too intense for comfort. I’m talking about my world view as well as those of the different students. We haven’t quite figured out how to settle all that, but everyone is unfailingly kind. That, perhaps, is the best world view to have. Besides, don’t “they” always say there is no comfort in growth and no growth in comfort? These students are stirring me up AND filling me up!