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The Power of the Semicolon to Help You Pause and Connect to Your Tribe ; ; It is no wonder to me why the gorgeous, subtle, sultry image of the semicolon has been tattoed on many people in the last few years. It is the ubiquitous sign of self determination for those who are not only surviving, but thriving, after struggling with depression, deep despair, suicide, and other mental health issues. Used prolifically in literary, poetic, academic and technical writing, the semicolon directs us to ‘take a brief pause’. This dot and hook shaped article of punctuation is an elegant symbol for self love, self affirmation, self commitment to keep on. It makes so much sense to me that people tattoo this elegant and simple form on their fingers, wrists, arms, or behind the ear. Sometimes they pair the semicolon with a heart or a musical note or a butterfly to signify their chosen flavor of self affirmation. And what could be better than a sign you see all day long that reminds you that you are here, alive, and keeping on, amidst the pain, the suffering, the grief, the heartache, the beauty and terror of life? As an end of life doula, I often talk about ‘holding the space’ for the person who is nearing the end of their life, and their loved ones. I seek to make the energy comfortable and sacred and buoyant. The little pause embodies the same: a moment where we direct that sacred, rich fuel inward. The mark connects us to the many, many others with parallel struggles, similar pains, and the same hope that they will find peace, love, joy and freedom in their lives. The tattoo heals us as the connection blossoms quietly and stealthily, without noise or ego. It says, “Pause for a moment. Celebrate us. We are alive. We are making it one day at a time. Join us.” In solidarity, I plan on getting this precious symbol etched into my skin. I too have moved from survivor of pain, suffering, inner turmoil and self hatred, to a place of ease and gratitude.

https://rhyhalpern.medium.com/ten-steps-to-online-dating-when-you-are-old-32ae4cca8719

Please click to go to the post! https://rhyhalpern.medium.com/why-dating-is-a-spiritual-practice-40312e6451d5

And How You Too Can Find the Root Cause of Your Chronic Illness Please click here to read the story: https://rhyhalpern.medium.com/how-a-punch-to-the-face-caused-hashimotos-disease-9fefe37a7c95

Greater Happiness Is Closer Than You Think I found a new groove. I got my groove on. I am in the groove. I am groovin’. But it’s not what you think. Do you remember playing records on a turntable and wanting to hear the next cut on an album, so you carefully lifted up the needle just a teeny tiny bit? Stay with me now… Dark, rancid thoughts about all the crap my X-spouse pulled during the 23 years we were together. There was his sour cheapness and refusal to support the family financially, unless it benefitting him directly. There was the chronic, 24/7 soul-killing lack of help with the kids and the house. He was stoned all day every day. His insatiable need for constant pleasure and gratification could not be met. There were the obsessive porn watching and ultimately the sex-trafficked prostitutes. There was the disengagement and denial whenever I wanted to talk about anything remotely relational. There was his scary screaming which he said was no big deal because he got over it fast, despite the reality that the kids and I did not. There was me carrying the burden for the family alone day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year. I became drained, chronically fatigued, overweight and inflamed, meeting his sharp, tight energy with my own unhappy willfulness. I became my worst self. I mirrored his lack of generosity. I was resentful and critical. My closing down to him in the heart and groin. He was an energy vampire and I was in over my head. I wanted to leave but I knew it would be too wounding to my kids. Underneath all the horror stories that made my therapist’s eyes fill with fury, I still cared about him. We still cared for each other. We had two babies. We buried 4 parents. We saw his older kids marry and have babies and we became grandparents. We went through sickness and health, good times and bad. We knew each other’s stories and friends and trials and tribulations. We shared the same bed and home as companions for more than two decades. We kept forgiving and moved on. We were family. Finally, one Covid day, it was over. My kids were in college. The rubberband was stretched too far and I could not spring back. I was free of him and this is what I had wanted for so long, biding my time til my kids were launched. Right? I was free. I was unburdened. I was happy. So why did I miss him? One night, a year ago by now, when the bad stories were far overwhelming the good ones in my mind, I just picked up the needle on the record player of my mind and moved it ever so gently just that tiny amount of space onto the next cut on the album. Just slightly. Just a quick up with the needle and a skosh back down. Just that invisible nanno space. And that’s all it took. The needle came down lightly onto the next groove and my heart filled with forgiveness. It was a tiny shift; it was a profound one. My heart was open. I could see the good in him. In us. In me. Moving that needle in my mind helped me whenever I had the awareness to access it. It could be any stress or tension that I wanted to release. I found a space in close proximity to the noise in my mind where I was fine and at peace. Because that place was so proximal to the rank place, I eliminated the feelings of duality and could hold both without rancor, without aversion. I held them with loving kindness for all the lessons and all the love. Do you want to move the needle of your mind over just a skosh? Do you want to get free of the stuck grooves? Do you want to see how nearby equanimity is?

I have an autoimmune disease, that was finally correctly diagnosed after twenty five years of symptoms. I worked for more than a decade to lower my inflammation levels and now my body is a finely tuned machine. I don’t do red meat, gluten, sugar, and soy, processed foods and I avoid dairy and alcohol. I stay low on carbs and focus on eating lots of healthy proteins and fats. I eat 90% organic and stay away from plastics, pesticides, chemicals and toxins. I know it sounds extreme but that is what it takes for me to feel well. Sugar lights up my brain just like heroin does in an addict. But every once in a while I can enjoy some chocolate (sweetened with stevia or monkfruit) and I have done okay on a shot or two of alcohol, since vodka and gin are very low carb. But wine or those froo froo cocktails I love, not so much. I had such a bad reaction once that I had to do a several week detox. I am stronger now, so hope springs eternal, right? One recent day I had a hankering for red wine to accompany dinner on a night out on the town with a close friend. I enjoyed it wholeheartedly and expected to be okay the next morning. Because of those earlier bad reactions, I was concerned that my body would process the wine as SUGAR! I awoke several times that night feeling that weird feeling in my stomach that signifies to me that my blood sugar is off. When I weighed myself in the morning, my weight was up 5 full pounds!!! I was visibly puffy in my face, hands, feet and gut. I felt sluggish and polluted all day. As a Functional Medicine Health Coach, I had a few moves: I kept drinking water and lemon, then water and electrolytes, as well as herbal tea and bone broth all day to flush that perceived toxin out my system and bring my body back to its normal state. The second day saw a slow movement towards my healthy homeostasis and by the third day my inflammation levels had clearly lowered. I was once again back to five pounds lighter. It is true you can gain 5 lbs overnight when you ingest a foreign substance that your body repels. I won’t be drinking wine again any time soon!

As an End of Life Doula and Hospice Volunteer, I know of so many people who have experienced the loss of a loved one in the most dramatic and despairing of ways, sometimes only barely emerging after years. When I drill down and listen to their stories, I hear that they did not know their loved one’s last wishes and did not have a chance to say goodbye. Without knowing their person’s preferences about dying at home or in the hospital, with or without pain meds and machines, alone or surrounding by their loved ones, they have struggled with regret. Without that sense of completion that comes with sharing their love, acknowledging that death is near and saying goodbye, they feel that they cannot move on from their person’s death and find their way. When my mom died almost five years ago, I found that I experienced grief as profound love for her. I felt close to her, knowing she was ready to die and had not only accepted death’s inevitably, but actively embraced it at the end. I felt she gave me a huge gift by talking openly with me about her wishes and by making sure we had the time to say goodbye and express our love over and over. I even have an iphone video of her singing to me, “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina”! My friend lost her husband a year ago. He had a good, conscious death. She said to me last week that she still cries every day because she misses her beloved. But she said that amazing as it is, she also feels happy. She feels her sense of agency. She is grateful for life. She loves her life. Death is permanent. There are no redo’s. Preparing consciously for the end of our lives frees us and liberates our loved ones, that their period of mourning can be full of light and love. Grief does not have to be another trauma. It can be an honoring of your person and your love. You can miss them dearly and still embrace your life without them fully. Look for my new articles and offerings entitled End of Life Intentions for Dummies, Pragmatists and Seekers for more on conscious dying. Rhyena Halpern Health Coach & End of Life Doula who loves to write on Wellness, Third Act of Life, Death & Dying, Autoimmunity, Trauma, Food & Weight. rhyhalpern@gmail.com

About five years ago, when I was still gainfully employed and in the midst of designing a plan for my retirement, aka my Third Act, I read that people tend to be thrilled in the initial phase of retirement, which lasts about eight months. They feel free and happy, and absolutely love that they no longer are being awakened by the shrillness emanating from their alarm clock, starting their day off wrong. They are dancing on the ceilings because they feel totally free, less stressed, and more joyful. After those eight months of retirement honeymoon, the article went on to say, they then begin to wonder, with sometimes a fair amount of anxiety, about things like their identity and purpose and where this is all heading. My first response was is there something special about the eighth month, when that free-floating, low-level panic emerges? I would have guessed that people start getting a bit nervous after about three months. In fact, I actually started thinking about what I would do in my retirement about three years before I retired, in part to avoid any such confrontation with that dreaded, existential angst. I developed my Third Act plan over the course of 18 months working with a coach while I was still employed, and then had another 18 months to consider that ripening plan before I actually retired. So for me, the segue from working professional to retiree was pretty seamless. Because I had a clear direction, I never felt the loss of meaning. Rather I felt I was reaching for new dreams and goals that completely excited me. As you consider your retirement, do you feel you need a sense of purpose in the Third Act of your one precious life? If you have no idea of what you want your retirement to look like, is it smarter to stay gainfully employed? In the first phase of retirement blush, I too had loved losing the alarm and sleeping a bit longer, loosening up my schedule just a bit and giggling at my tendency to maximize every minute of every hour of every day. I felt a new freedom of indulging in the occasional, lusciously decadent, afternoon spent reading an actual book. The newfound spaciousness in my life was so absolutely joyful to me, as I no longer had to struggle with- on top of a busy day in the office- getting the laundry done, shopping for food and then cooking it, paying bills, or calling the insurance company and a repair company because the garage door crashed down, barely missing slicing my moving car in two that morning. I had the gift of time to take care of daily life without my cortisol levels going bonkers and my shoulders tightening up into my skull. Amazing! My spousal unit and I could go into San Francisco for dinner and a show without advance planning and take a hike in nearby open space almost spontaneously. Delicious! We could go watch the sunset over the Pacific Ocean in Half Moon Bay! We could Bart to Berkeley to see a play without worrying about the next work day. My meditation practice opened up. I had time to invigorate my yoga practice. Brilliant! The gift of time was mine and I savored every minute of it. Before I even retired, I started my weekly volunteer work at a local hospice group and began my eighteen-month program to become a health and wellness coach. Then, after retirement, I completed the program and board exams; joined a book club; methodically went through every room in my house and expunged furniture, tchotckes, clothing and random stuff that is taking up space, thereby lightening the feel of the house. I have a small garden, despite the ravages of the moles and gophers, and fixed up the backyard to make it a sweeter place to hang out. As you think of your retirement, what makes your heart sing? What are you passionate about doing and becoming in your Third Act? Are you itching to come out of the closet with your cherished but tucked away dream art project or fantasy job or ideal start up? If not now, when? Do you want a new mission statement for your Third Act or can you let it evolve organically? As I was approaching nine months in, I too found myself experiencing a dip. I needed to re-ignite my Third Act plan or I could get overwhelmed by inertia and underwhelmed by things that needed my attention but not urgently. I noticed there was a shift from the honeymoon of early retirement into moving into the long-term shift in my life permanently. Now, I am about two and a half years into retirement. Designing my Third Act was an act of love and alignment of the values I held most dear. When people ask me what I do, I may talk about my past work as an arts manager, documentary filmmaker, artist and massage therapist. But I always tell them: I am a certified and Board credentialed Holistic Health Coach, helping 55+ women and men who want to improve their health, design their own Third Act, or create a plan for a dignified and intentional end of life. I tell them I am a hospice volunteer, working with patients as well as facilitating educational programs for the larger community. I am passionate about being an end of life doula, whether than means working with folks to create an end of life plan or being an emotional support person at the end of life. That is what really makes my heart soar and sing the loudest. I also facilitate weekly Death Cafes. I am a volunteer crisis counselor for the Crisis Text Line and I have a daily writing, meditation and yoga practice. I read voraciously and study Mussar, and am known to binge watch Netflix on occasion. What is your vision for the Third Act of your life? Is devoting the first year of your retirement to make a plan a good strategy for you? What values do you cherish and want to align in your Third Act? What makes your heart sing?

Two months ago, I had a huge autoimmune flare. First, it started with my bladder getting really hot and uncomfortable and super overactive. After that, the all-over flu-ish feeling pervaded every pore of my body, a sensation that I hoped to never feel again. I had had the symptoms of the flu for twenty-five years and I could not go back into that unrelenting hell. Next, I started getting super achy in my joints and muscles throughout my entire body. After two weeks of this, I was even colder than usual and I was starting to feel melancholy. My autoimmune thyroiditis- aka Hashimoto’s- was flaring up after a full year of no symptoms and I had no idea why. I knew I was in trouble. I needed some miraculous intervention! If not, I knew I would soon be barraged by even more of the oh-so-unpleasant but oh-so-predictable symptoms I have already experienced for oh-so-long in the past, such as intestinal sluggishness, intense inability to get warm, irritability, loss of hair, depression, and brain fog. After those symptoms were firmly ruining my life, my latent, autoimmune candidiasis would wreak havoc in my pelvic region, including the triggering of full-blown interstitial cystitis, another autoimmune disease. It was going to be ugly. I decided I had to do three things right away and the first one was bringing out the big guns fast and furiously. First, I went back on LDN- low dose naltrexone. You may have heard about a drug called naltrexone that helps addicts get off opiods, at a high dosage of 50 mg or more per day. LDN is not for addicts. LOW DOSE Naltrexone is prescribed at a low dosage of under 5.0 mg. It is used to relieve people from chronic, non-responsive pain that results from inflammation, like the chronic pain caused by autoimmune diseases. It is used by more and more people every day; approximately 500,000 people worldwide as of 2019 numbers, with 100+ published studies citing its efficacy for more than 60 medical conditions. LDN works by staying in the body for a very short time, supporting the body’s ability to produce endorphins and kick start the immune system into gear. (High dose naltrexone does not work in the body the same way.) If you would like to know more about LDN, check out these stories: Got Inflammation? How LDN can help in the times of Covid. rhyhalpern.medium.com Are you Freezing Cold When Everyone Else is Warm? LDN to the Rescue!! rhyhalpern.medium.com Thank goodness for LDN! It did not disappoint me this time either! Within 3 short days, I no longer felt flu-ish and the aches in my joints and muscles were significantly less. I felt like my body was lapping up the LDN with glee. It had been more than a year since I had taken it. My first step was activated and working! Hope was in sight. Secondly, I needed to make sure I was correct that my Hashimoto’s was flaring up. I felt sure but evidence in the form of a blood test is best. My second step was to get my labs done to test my antibody levels. I tried to enjoy the privilege of paying out of pocket for these labs, since the HMO I have paid a huge amount of money to for 25 years won’t provide them. Conventional medicine is still in the 1970’s when it comes to thyroid disease, and hold fiercely on to their much-disproven theory that these tests are unnecessary. A week and $150 later, my results were ready. Sure enough, my thyroid antibody levels were high. My Thyroglobulin and Thyroid Peroxidase Antibodies (TPO and TPA) were definitely out of any normal range, never mind any sort of proximity to the optimal range. It was affirming to know that I was accurately sensing what was happening in my body, with levels high enough that I would have symptoms. Third, I had to do a detox to bring down my inflammation levels. I had no idea what was causing the inflammation, the flare, and making my white blood cells fiercely do battle. (It was not COVID!) Whatever that perceived outside threat was, it had to be cajoled, calmed, and soothed. I am now two weeks into the detox; all my symptoms are gone. I am certain that if I had my labs redone now, my TPO and TPA numbers would be down. LDN ushered me down the red carpet to my reward of renewed health. But how am I going to figure out the cause of the flare? I eat only organic food so my ingestion of pesticides is down; I have detoxed from heavy metals and toxins; my stress level is down; my sleep is pretty good; I don’t go overboard on devices at night; and I eat mostly plants and clean protein, abstaining from gluten, sugar, dairy, soy, and processed foods. My emotional health seemed okay. Although perhaps breaking up my 23-year relationship 8 months earlier was taking its toll? I don’t think so since I have been happier, less irritated, less conflicted, and more peaceful than I have felt in years. Is my body- despite all my good efforts- just aging and not working well in general, and thus more prone to a flare? I don’t think so or why would I be doing so well for 17 months? It goes without saying that twenty-five years of trying to figure out why I had a low-grade fever, in the face of a medical misdiagnosis, was a grueling, enraging experience. I became a detective in search of all the cues. Bit by bit I uncovered things that helped with my many symptoms, whether it was homeopathically, or via acupuncture and Chinese herbs, or nutrition. Finally, about seven years ago, working with a functional medicine doctor and a correct diagnosis, I was able to vault over the chronic pain and sprint towards non-linear but tangible wellness. I have no answer for this current flare. Other than sh*t happens. And we get to deal with it. But for now, I am well again. I recognize that I may need my miraculous LDN and detoxification regimen again, should I flare again. We get to know our bodies so well and through trial and error, we learn ways to manage pain or flares, compassionately and holistically.

I have often inadvertently pissed people off by speaking openly and honestly, violating the constraints and strictures of the majority culture of the USA, aka White Anglo Saxon Protestant decorum. My Jewish-styled directness is shared by many other people of my ancestry so I am not alone, but it doesn’t feel that way. I may be extreme in my rebellion against the repressive structures that lead to so many stupid, inane, absurd misunderstandings - even wars- between friends, families, nations. I am amazed by how the culture of silence has caused such irreparable harm. I think of the woman who told me that she ‘lost’ her mother as a child. No one in her family- her father, her grandparents, her aunts and uncles, ever spoke of her mother again. It was as if she never existed. It took this kind, gentle woman four decades to actually cry over the loss of her mother and find her powerful anger about how her mother’s memory had been so cruelly denied. I find this common story stunning. I think about the millions of people around the globe who have had a similar experience. Why? The deafening silence around embracing death and remembering the deceased is a blanket holding fear, denial, tradition, custom and emotional repression. But so many people who have lost loved ones are filled with the gift of time. Death often is slow in coming after a prolonged illness or decline, affording us the chance to connect and share so much love. Afterwards, those who are left behind experience loss veined with that experience of a good death. They freely and sweetly share stories about their husband’s silly jokes and annual treks to see the wildflowers bloom. They got to say goodbye over and over again, so grateful for the peacefulness of their sister’s passing. In this country, about 50 of each 100,000 deaths are sudden. That means at least 900,000 of each 1,000,000 deaths have the gift of time. Time to say goodbye, to prepare for greeting death, to implement last wishes. Creating a death positive culture, where it is the norm to contemplate and plan for our deaths, fits me like a glove. Holding this space, I can be my true self, and speak authentically. I can stand quietly and speak openly and gently. I can listen deeply and be of service. There is a maxim that may or may not be true, but is certainly provocative: ‘how we live is how we die’. People long to leave a legacy, to be remembered for their true selves, and to leave things finished for and with their loved ones. They want to state their final wishes on how and where they want to die. They want to say “I am sorry” and “Please forgive me” and “Thank you” and “I love you”. Don’t you think it would be tragic to die without any of your peeps knowing your final wishes about the type of death you wanted? Would they choose to live if they were hooked up to a machine? Who do you want bedside at your death? What do you want to be remembered for? Living with regret for what was left unsaid adds mountains of complications to grief. If we took away the tired old repressive rules to not speak too directly, to not be too much yourself unless you comport with the status quo, to not express your emotions lest you appear unseemly, imagine it being completely normal to sit around the dinner table every once in a while to share about your wishes and your thoughts about death (http://www.deathoverdinner.com) (http://gowish.org/) What if everyone had an advance care directive and other documents at the ready, like they had a driver’s license or bank account? (www.joincake.com) (https://theconversationproject.org/) (https://fivewishes.org/five-wishes#) (https://www.finalchoices.co.uk/end-of-life-planning)(https://www.pdffiller.com/jsfiller-desk15/?projectId=484299424#fae55bd51a2a6ff460869d0b52baf7e9) What if legacy letters and ethical wills were the norm? (https://med.stanford.edu/letter.html) (www.legacyproject.org)(www.ethicalwill.com www.thelegacycenter.net) What if our love of life was reflected in our plans for our remains? https://beremembered.com/member/my_plan https://www.greenburialcouncil.org/ https://www.orderofthegooddeath.com https://www.thelivingurn.com/pages/product I love being part of a world devoted to serving people at an extraordinary time in their lives with full permission to talk gently about hard things. I love the deep listening that is part of the gift of being present in the sacred space of nearing death. Removing the verbal repression allows me to be fully open-hearted. I can finally be myself. I have had many people die in my life; a dear friend was murdered; grandparents, aunts, uncles faded; my father was so weak he died on the crapper; my sister died of metastasized breast cancer to her brain; my hospice patients die. My mother greeted death, reaching her arms out to the light and let herself be cradled by death’s welcoming arms. She and I got to say goodbye and share our love for months. All her paperwork and personal belongings and funereal plans were completed long before. She drifted off peacefully after a ten day death journey, 5 years and 2 hours after her eldest daughter had died. She gave me an incredible gift by preparing her body and mind so thoroughly. I simply circumvented the heavy load of grief. I was in a high place of love and light. I was able to just honor her and love her. Her memorial was a beautiful gathering of honoring her goodness and filled me with affirming joy. Someone once told me that grief is just another word for pure love. I totally get it. What if we opened up to talking about death so we could open up to life more? What if we died as we lived, open and honest and unafraid to say what wants to be said?

Photo by Marek Piwnicki on Unsplash I almost drowned once. I did not speak of the experience for decades, nor did I get angry about it for years afterward. I just pushed it aside to a cobwebby corner of my mind. Why did I feel like it was my fault? I was a newly enrolled, 18-year-old college student at an amazing college on the glorious Puget Sound in Washington state, having grown up 3,000 miles away in New York and New Jersey. On my first day of campus, I ran into a friend from my very progressive but equally funky and tiny high school, whose claim to fame was that Buckminster Fuller sat on its board. We decided he would take me on my first kayaking trip ever. We each got into our kayaks, life jackets firmly strapped, and entered the glistening water on a sunny and warm afternoon. I remember thinking that the air felt like a blanket on my skin and I was sweetly excited to take this amazing boat on the beautiful, luscious Sound in my new home in the great Pacific Northwest. My momentary reverie was sharply broken by his instructions. He said something about how to paddle and before I knew it he was about 20 feet ahead of me on the water. I wondered how lame I looked, completely unskilled in this boating activity. I wondered why he didn’t look back or wait for me, but my focus was on getting the hang of my paddle so that I could actually approximate gliding through the water. About fifteen minutes in, I noticed that I was a good distance from the shore by now and that my friend was so far ahead of me, that he was a small dot in an elliptical shape I could barely see. He was probably closing in on reaching the other shore while I was feebly moving ahead, like a turtle with nothing to prove. Suddenly, what I later learned was called a squall- or flash storm- came up. The wind started blowing fiercely and before I knew it the bright, cheery sun was replaced with dark ominous clouds that began emitting huge raindrops diagonally lancing the air, hitting me and my little boat like mini-daggers. My supposed friend clearly had unceremoniously deserted me. I wondered what I should do, besides not panicking. Should I still attempt to follow him or retreat back to the shore? It was raining so hard by now that I could barely see the shore. I knew that the promise of land under my feet was less than a half-hour away but seemed like miles. I needed a plan, fast. So I tried to point my kayak towards the shore. That was a problem. Pointing. It implied an ability to steer. I felt doomed as I saw I was making no progress; instead, I was going around in circles. I noticed out of the corner of my eye another kayaker passing me swiftly, heading straight for the shore. I didn’t dare make eye contact; I knew I looked ridiculous and was embarrassed and scared and had a stomach ache all the way up to my throat. I struggled for several minutes when I heard a male’s voice barking at me. It was the kayaker who had passed me. He had come back for me! He was going to save me! He started screaming that he would help me but I had to listen to him and if I did not, I would capsize and drown. Did I understand? he demanded. Yes, I gulped, nodding. He screamed at me to paddle hard and when I could not paddle anymore, he screamed some more. His voice cut through the squall like a sadistic drill sergeant. It seemed to go on for hours as I leaned into that paddle, fingers frozen, sight obliterated, arms and shoulders aching, stomach in knots, and fear coursing through my veins. Somehow, he got us back to shore. I remember awkwardly getting out of the boat, stiff with cold and adrenaline. He told me to remove my soaked life jacket but I could not unzip it because my fingers would not move. He ended up doing it for me, unhappy about this further task of the rescue operation. Before I knew it he muttered something about being late and disappeared into the woods leading back to campus. I sat on my heels and let out some kind of tortured, primeval sound of relief and exhaustion. Then I followed the same trail, amazed by each step I took on solid land, and shaking off the rain, hurried towards a hot shower and dry clothes. That was my first day of college. I never told anyone about that day for more than two decades. I put the experience away in some cavity of my mind labeled ‘things I will never think about again’. I couldn’t think about it because my shame and humiliation were too great. I remember running into the man who saved my life a few times on campus over the next year or so until he graduated. I always looking away in extreme embarrassment. As for my high school friend, I also ran into him on a few occasions and we awkwardly made small talk. We never spoke of the incident. Again, I was utterly ashamed, assuming 110% fault as if my own inadequacy at kayaking for my first time meant that there was something irreparably wrong and defective about me. But such thinking was insane? How could it have been my fault? How did my mind come up with this distorted and twisted belief? Why would I take the trauma of the experience and internalize it into a seething ball of shame? Within a week or two of my fateful date with the squall, I learned that each September some poor schlub at my school drowned in the Puget Sound. They were typically new to kayaking and got caught in a storm and could not maneuver their boat back to shore safely. Those storms were fierce and required tremendous amounts of upper body strength to fight the wind and rain and build momentum. That took training, and practice, and time. I cringed at this data. I was a secret member of a club of people who almost drowned in the water, due to their novice knowledge and the frigid waters of the Puget Sound. Every fall, I cringed deep inside my soul when another drowning occurred. Still, I did not divulge my experience. Rationally I knew that some terrible shame inside me was not the reason why I could not paddle better the first time I went kayaking. But it was shame that made me feel so insanely responsible for my own inadequacies. Why? Why was I so ashamed? What was so wrong with me? Why did I view the experience as something to hide rather than celebrate? Why did it take me years to whisper the story to anyone? I have searched and searched and can only come up with having absorbed shame into every cell in my being during my childhood. My constant refrain as an unhappy kid was shame. I internalized everything against myself. During those truly growth-filled years at college, I wrestled with body shame, familial shame, existence shame, identity shame and personality shame. Shame was the lens I experienced my days through. Shame was like a master cell in my body’s composition, through which everything was filtered. Slowly, very slowly, and with many twists and turns and defeats over the years, and after copious therapy, I might add, I have learned to extract myself from my automatic tendency to blame and shame myself when something goes wrong as if my presence caused the problem. It is awfully egotistical way to react, don't you agree? At some much later point, I was able to move off and let go of the denial, personal shame, and humiliation of that near-drowning incident. It dawned on me that I could re-imagine the event with appropriate emotional responses. I suddenly grasped that the appropriate response would have been, absolutely should have been, red, hot anger. What was my pal thinking? How could he have left me? Why didn’t he hustle back when the storm came up? Did he realize I could have died? I mean WTF!!! I remember writing and telling him of my anger. He had graduated by then but I found his new address in Boston from another high school friend. He sent a short postcard back that he did not think it was a big deal and I was overexaggerating. Nice! Thankfully, it never occurred to me to avoid kayaking. I never thought about my near-death experience when I went out kayaking, probably because my denial was so deep that it had ever happened. I remember taking a class at the pool at our college, and learning how to roll the kayak. I was completely safe when I was underwater with the boat on top of me. I kept at it, learning how to get the boat to go where I wanted it. I loved the smooth silky gliding on calm waters mixed with upper body exertion through rough choppy waters. I loved the quietness of sitting literally on the water. Friends and I went on a few overnight trips where the stillness quieted us profoundly. Kayaking was full of majesty and magic, and mindfulness. If I could do it over again, I would have yelled at my friend to not leave me. I would have had a whistle on me and blew that thing for help. I would have turned back at the first sign of the squall. I would have profusely thanked the dude who saved me and gone out of my way to find him and keep thanking him. I would have all but strangled my pal while throttling him with vituperative, reverberating screams that he risked my very own, precious life. How dare he be so cavalier? How dare he dismiss and deny me? Was he crazy in his miserable chauvinistic arrogant denying head that his life would have been unaffected had I drowned? Such audacity! Then I would smush his face into a cement wall, his torso into barbed wire, kick him in the butt, and stomp away. Now, several decades later and after a lot of sorting out in my head, I am so profoundly grateful that I did not drown that day! I am not ashamed anymore that my first kayaking experience in the cold waters of the Puget Sound during a squall was nearly my last experience on this earth. I am so happy and thankful that someone saved me! It was not my fault. I am not mad at my high school friend anymore. What did he know? He was as stupid as I was. But, I want to say solemnly and sacredly, that I would give a lot to thank the guy who saved me in person. I don’t even know his name but I remember what his younger self looked like. I send him total gratitude and thanks, and hope he continued to help others in need over these four decades. I pray that when he was in need that others helped him. I hope he had a good life.

I relish the weekly time, each Friday afternoon, I spend with the words of the goddess Mary Oliver, whose poems fill me astonishment, delight, beauty and love. A friend and I contemplate a poem of hers each week as we honor the Sabbath. It is a ritual that has become so very personally meaningful to me that missing it is no longer an option. I hope you will enjoy Oliver’s words her as well as the saintly John O’Donahue and wise Cathy Comandy, as we collectively slip on something saging, and find a way to step into our third and final act, with the spaciousness of love. Enjoy these three poems and a link to more! BECOMING AN ELDER Leaving behind my journey of struggling and racing through the white water of many rivers, I become the river, creating my own unique way. Leaving behind my self-imposed role as a tree upon which others have leaned, I now become the wind, with the freedom to blow whenever and wherever I choose. Leaving behind the boxes I’ve created in my life, crammed with roles, responsibilities, rules and fears, I become the wild and unpredictable space within which flowers sprout and grow. Leaving behind the years of yearning for others to see me as somebody, I soften into becoming my future, with permission from SELF to continually unfold as I choose, without concern for how others may see me. Leaving behind years of telling and teaching, I become instead a mirror into which others can peer and view reflections of themselves to consider. Leaving behind the urge to provide answers for others, I become — in the silence of this forest retreat – the question. Leaving behind the rigor of my intellect, I become a single candle in the darkness, offering myself as a beacon for others to create their own path. I become an elder. ~Cathy Carmody~ Cathy Carmody passed in 2017, but before she passed she allowed her poem to be shared as long as she is credited as the author. For Retirement Here is where your life has arrived, After all the years of effort and toil; Look back with graciousness and thanks On all your great and quiet achievements You stand on the shore of new invitation To open your life to what is left undone Let your heart enjoy a different rhythm When drawn to the wonder of other horizons Have the courage for a new approach to time; Allow it to slow until you find freedom To draw alongside the mystery you hold And befriend your own beauty of soul. Now is the time to enjoy your heart’s desire, To live the dreams you’ve waited for, To awaken the depths beyond your work And enter into your infinite source -John O’Donohue, To Bless the Space Between Us For a list of other poems, please go to this link: https://www.joincake.com/blog/retirement-poems/