A bowl of memories and possibilities

I wrote yesterday about not wanting to write. I felt stuck, lost to myself, up against change but unable to grasp it.

What happens when you admit out loud that you feel stuck? Sometimes nothing; sometimes everything.

Yesterday was an everything kind of day.

First I heard from a good friend who had disappeared from my life several years ago. My attempts to reach her had been left hanging in the atmosphere, dissipating gradually from her lack of response. Then suddenly, yesterday, there she was.

Next I asked for help. Help—a challenge for us independent types—help to move forward. In this case I connected with a writing coach. It is a sign of the problem that I am embarrassed to admit I need this help, given that I am busy encouraging others to write. But surely many of us have had the experience of being able to do for others what we cannot do for ourselves.

And then I served homemade chicken soup for dinner.

Believe it or not, I’ve never made chicken soup. Maybe it’s not breaking news, but I find it curious that a Jewish girl goes through life without cooking the most traditional healing elixir. I was toying with the idea the other day (maybe a hint of the change to come?) and saw a free-range whole chicken on sale. I bought it, Googled a recipe, peeled and pared veggies, and threw everything in the pot. Hours later: chicken soup.

Maybe it was the excitement of hearing from my friend, or maybe it was the energy transmitted from the coach, or maybe it was the jump start from writing yesterday’s blog, but the chicken soup felt like the cap to a momentous day. An occasion–the occasion of doing something unexpected, the occasion of breaking out of my ordinary routine.

Suddenly the chicken soup wasn’t just soup but a fusion of past, present, and future: something old (the taste of the boiled vegetables bringing to life my mother’s apron-draped body in my childhood kitchen), something new (my grandmother never added tofu and bok choy), and something right then and there (chicken soup, 2012). It was an aromatic mixture of memory and vision, both a sedative and a stimulant. I sipped soup, felt deep comfort, and wondered, “What else can I create?”

Questions for Reflection: Have you had ever experienced sudden movement after feeling stuck? What happened? What does the story of the chicken soup mean to you? When has an apparently small or ordinary action become symbolic for you?

Writing Prompts: “My best way to get unstuck is to ______” (then keep writing); “When I need help from others I feel ______” (then keep writing); “This blog reminds me of the time when ______”  (then keep writing); “I get energized and motivated when I ______” (then keep writing).

Of course I’ll continue to write on my process as the week progresses, but I may not be posting the writing as blogs.

I’m suddenly very busy! I can see scheduling is going to be an art form.

Reflecting on transitions coming my way

I am home from the gym, past breakfast, sitting with tea. It’s time to write.

I’ve been avoiding writing lately, which is not a great thing to admit.  I’ve had good excuses in January and February–busy with several presentations and a family wedding–but the energy of avoidance made itself known nonetheless.

What does avoidance mean? What is my avoidance saying to me? This is the starting place for my writing today.

Sometimes avoidance is about perfectionism. I avoid doing something because I don’t think it will be good enough. Perfectionism kills action–that’s not news to anyone. And it’s a common malady, as evidence by the number of people who write about it. Nonetheless, my instincts tell me that’s not my barrier today.

Moving on, I come to fear. We avoid things if fear threatens us. Fear can be about any number of things (including perfectionism). It can be a biological response to a threat. It can be a legitimate anticipation of something painful or difficult. It can be the feeling of having one’s comfort zone invaded or security blanket ripped away. Is fear contributing to my avoidance? Perhaps…I find myself anticipating changes, and by definition change involves uncertainty. While it is possible to enter uncertainty without the heavy load of fear, I have some habituated fear responses that may be kicking into gear.

Next up is the idea of a resting space. Sometimes when we finish one set of tasks, we enter a lull before we are ready to move on. This would make good sense, except I took that rest last week! It was a natural time of recuperation and repair, much appreciated and enjoyed. Unlike this avoidance, which leaves me unsettled, the true resting space was comforting and restorative. So we’ll pass on the resting space for today.

As I write, there is one word coming to me that is begging for its turn. (A word begging to be written is a pretty straightforward indicator I should write it, right?) That word is transition.

I have hinted about changes in previous blogs, but I’m not trying to be coy by avoiding specifics. I’m just not sure what the specifics are!

But interestingly, there’s that word “avoiding”—avoiding specifics. Sometimes we avoid what we don’t know yet, when ideas are inchoate, not yet formed, not yet hardened into “things” that exist apart from the process going on inside us. Sometimes avoiding is akin to waiting, waiting to see what’s around the next inner bend. But just waiting might not be enough to get us to poke our head out farther, to peer ahead, to take the step that finally brings into focus the landscape we are seeking.

Waiting feels too passive, so I’m going to keep writing this week.

Same topic tomorrow, wherever it finds itself going…

(Turns out it went to chicken soup!)

Questions for Reflection: What does avoidance mean to you? How do you react to perfectionism, fear, and change? Does writing about your process feel passive or active?

Writing Prompts: “When I notice myself avoiding something, I know ______” (then keep writing); “Perfectionism to me means ______” (then keep writing); “I have learned that feeling fearful means ______” (then keep writing); “When I enter a transition, I usually ______” (then keep writing).

Light filters through branches that will soon have spring buds

My husband just called me to tell me that some plum trees were starting to bloom. Seems early – February 13^th – but there’s no doubt we had a foreshadowing of spring with unseasonably warm and gloriously beautiful weather just last week. Although the gray and rain have returned, the temperatures are moderate, and I feel us turning toward spring and away from winter. (Yes, I worry that the cold will return in a final winter’s blast, brutally freezing those tender buds. But that is not for me to manage.)

I am taking note of the changes around me today, coming up for air after a work-intense weekend. I was working on a project that intersected with the task of refining materials for Wednesday’s presentation at the University of Washington. This talk was originally cancelled four weeks ago when a snow and ice storm brought the city to a standstill. Four weeks ago—snow and ice; today—budding trees.

I love intense work. I love being so engrossed that the world around me recedes. My husband recognizes the signs: mumbled responses to questions, my lack of awareness of what’s going on, the mealtimes that run late. He goes about his business, knowing that at some point I will look up and wonder where he is (even though he told me he was heading out).

Then I hit a point where I emerge, the work spate done for the time being, and I reenter a different phase. This is the phase where I love doing laundry, where I putter in my house and reconnect with ordinary life. I cook vegetables. I sit with my cat beside me and listen to her snoring in contentment.

I often write of how difficult it can be to rest, but these rest days, after a wonderful crazed time in the work zone, are deeply pleasing. Just as rest notes are part of music, so are rest days part of the rhythms of productivity. This pause, this silence, this gentle inactivity—they have nothing to do with the sloth that can take us over, or the emptiness that plagues a creative block. They are the gift of “afterwards,” a space that balances the work that has been completed and shows respect for all that is routine. Just as the work is important, so are the budding trees. I am free to drain myself with explosive work, knowing that afterwards I will move through small daily tasks and thus restore my body, mind, and spirit.

Questions for Reflection: What rhythms of productivity and rest do you notice in yourself? What do you enjoy about working hard? How do you go about restoring yourself after intense work?

Writing Prompts: “When I work intensely, I ______” (then keep writing); “My typical rhythm for work and rest is ______” (then keep writing); “My favorite way to restore myself after intense work is ______” (then keep writing).

Pink morning clouds--something small or something big?

February seems early for a hint of spring, but there’s no denying what’s outside: sun bursting through, temperatures moving to the high 50s if not 60s, and enough greenery to tempt my cat, who threw up her first grass this morning. The mood is light; much is possible.

I have an itch for change. I wrote about it on my 60^th birthday, and I’m aware of it every day. It shows up in my personal writing, often with the same words on different days. I have learned to be patient with my repetitive writing, knowing that important themes will make themselves known, either by morphing over time into the truth or simply boring me with their recitation until I say, “I get it!”

In times past I have propelled myself towards change with grand visions, following the “imagine everything you want!” approach to creating something new. But of late I’m intrigued by small. How might small changes rework the picture? How might small creations allow something new to be expressed? How might a small action surprise me in my daily routine?

I’m thinking about small writing, too. To that end, I will not begin a 400-page novel this week (actually, I’m not beginning a novel at all, but “writing my novel” symbolizes the writer’s intent and often her albatross). I recently wrote a piece for the The ASHA Leader, a magazine of the American-Speech-Language Hearing Association, and I was limited to 300 words, which was shockingly short. Although the final product seemed stripped too bare of emotion for my taste, I was intrigued by the challenge.

What can small teach us? How could small project surprise me or satisfy me? How might doing something small teach me about zeroing in on a task and completing it? How might respecting the boundary of small help me clear away excess and clutter? How might one small success create energy for the next small task and the next and the next…?

In this post I begin with small, and here I end, for now.

Questions for Reflection: When you get motivated for change, what propels you ahead? Do you get excited about grand projects or small ones? What do you have in your life now that is small but important?

Writing Prompts: “I am energized for change by ______” (then keep writing); “When I have an idea for something grand, I ______” (then keep writing); “My reaction to the idea of doing something small is ______” (then keep writing); “Small tasks help me ______” (then keep writing).

A family photo at the big event

I have been sitting looking blankly at the screen. I have written a few words and deleted them. I have stared out the window. I have wondered where my motivation is. Then I realize: I’m tired. Flat out tired.

I’m tired from a whirlwind few days that began last Thursday with a presentation to staff from Evergreen Speech & Hearing Clinic. Great group! Committed to improving patients’ experiences and reflective about how to get there. I talked, we wrote, we talked as a group, and we repeated that until the time was up. Two hours went by in a flash (at least for me), and I came away impressed with both their genuine concern for good service and the grittiness that is real-world work.

I concentrate very deeply while preparing for and then giving a presentation, and I always requires some time afterwards to rejoin my life and the outside world. It is not unlike reentry after a trip, where I have to reestablish my footing and remember the rhythms of ordinary life. It’s a combination of “wow!,” “whew!,” “where am I?,” and “what’s next?”

Only this time, when I reentered the post-presentation space, I was jettisoned fast into another reality: family had already arrived for the weekend wedding of my step-son Tom and his financée, Michelle.

The wedding was a clear-cut joyous occasion, but the speed of the turnaround and the absence of a day for regrouping posed a challenge for my self-regulation and balance. It was a busy, family-centric weekend. Playing with my grandchild (and turning a careful ear to his language development), going to the wedding rehearsal (which was complicated enough to cause more than one person to wonder if we’d be able to get it right), and then—of course—getting to the church on time.

Yes, church. Tom and Michelle are practicing Catholics, part of our culturally, ethnically, and religiously diverse family (we have family heritages from Korea, China, Europe, Haiti, and now the Philippines). The wedding service was a Catholic Mass, definitely a first for me. I was nervous—would I feel comfortable? Would I feel like an outsider? This seemed a bigger challenge than being Jewish at Christmas.

Bride and groom have first glimpse of each other

In the end, we all did our parts well and the ceremony was beautiful. I listened with interest, bowed where I was supposed to, and was blessed by the priest (admittedly, that felt odd), seeing every action as a statement of the love and honor we were bringing to Tom and Michelle. The truth is I love ritual and was intrigued to be part of something so new to me.

Enjoying the reception - no one's tired yet!

From there we went to an outstanding wedding party (in my vast experience with formal weddings, this was an exceptionally fun reception!) and I danced enough in dress shoes that my knees reproached me for two days. I did all this while a head cold (brought to me by my grandson) blossomed.

So here I am: tired. Why do I act surprised? I love the bursts of energy that come before the fatigue–can I learn to embrace the fatigue as well?

I do not have immediate answers, but as always, writing takes me to questions I need to ask myself. This is the purpose of reflective writing: to help us connect with ourselves, to regroup, to surprise ourselves with what we learn, and to stumble upon the next questions we need to ask.

Questions for Reflection: What different energy and mood states do you experience around intense professional and personal events? How do you transition out of these events or move from one event to another? How hard or easy is it for you to rest and recuperate after you’ve expended energy?

Writing Prompts: “When I work very hard, I get into a state that is ______” (then keep writing); “Transitioning from one intense activity to another works best for me when ______” (then keep writing); “This post reminded me of my own family experience of ______” (then keep writing); “I give myself a chance to rest and recuperate by ______” (then keep writing).

Does this look like a day for an outdoor plumbing job?

Seattle’s had a lot of national press in the past week, first for the predicted megastorm (which proved less than mega), then for being wimpy in the face of snow, and finally for the major ice storm that slipped by forecasters and wreaked havoc on the region. It’s a good thing nothing else important was happening around here, because all we could talk about was the weather.

People have lovely visions of what to do with a snow day, most of them cozy and indulgent: hot cocoa, a good book, some movies (assuming you still have power), and long lazy stares out the window at magical landscapes. (This is before the cabin fever sets in.)

But a lot of people had really tough jobs in this snow event. Along with the road workers, emergency responders, and medical personnel who managed to get to work, there were two people out of the limelight who did some amazing duty. This blog is in honor of them.

On Wednesday, January 18th–the day the snow really fell–we were scheduled to have a new pipe inserted into our sewer pipe system. We had learned of a major crack (with giant tree roots intruding in) when we had water in the basement on New Year’s Eve. The plumbing company, Fox Plumbing and Heating, at first said work could go on as planned, but the workers were stuck in various icy regions. Nevertheless, the next day, as more snow fell and the freezing rain worked its way over to us, Wyll and Jose showed up at 8:00 a.m. It was about 28 degrees out.

Two workers confer about procedures for laying pipe

For the next  12 hours or so, these two men dug, dumped, dragged, and delivered. They cut concrete from the driveway, shoveled out a large square in our once-beautiful mulch, and hauled long lengths of pipe, somehow pushing a new pipe through the old to shore up the broken area. While they were at it they also shoveled, since it wasn’t possible for them to even reach the needed areas without clearing the snow and ice.

There's a hole in our driveway! And pipes!

We watched out the window, fretting at intervals about the hole in the yard and the incredibly high price tag for this job, but mostly being astonished at how long and hard these men were working. We joked about how it was a job for young people, but I don’t know that many young people who could (or would?) work like that.

When they were “done enough” for the day, they faced long drives on dark, hazardous roads, which started with them getting stuck trying to drive off our by-then-glazed street. They couldn’t have had much sleep that night, because they were back the next morning to finish the job.

My husband and I may have become a bit stir crazy, and it was problematic not having use of the sewer system for extended periods, but life inside seemed pretty cushy compared to the work outside. So it seems like a good time to extend appreciative thoughts to the workers who help keep the world going when things break down and who perservere even when the weather makes us all a little more humble.

Thank you Wyll and Jose! You were amazing!

Questions for Reflection: How do you react when you see people doing dangerous or difficult jobs? How have you been helped or rescued by workers in an emergency? To whom would you like to express appreciation for a tough job well done?

Writing Prompts: “I am always amazed when I see workers who ______” (then keep writing); “The last time we had a storm, we got terrific help from ______” (then keep writing); “One thing I like to do for workers is ______” (then keep writing).

A lovely snowfall outside while I work inside

It’s a cozy afternoon, with snow falling steadily (our first of the season). I would like to be reading a novel and drinking tea, but I’m knee deep in defenses—projection, denial, rationalization, identification. I’m preparing for an up-coming University of Washington presentation, and I’m translating academic ideas into user-friendly material.

The workshop is for supervisors of graduate students in speech-language pathology and audiology, and the specific focus is one of the most distasteful tasks: talking to a student about poor progress.

Who likes to be the bearer of bad news? Only sadists, perhaps, or masochists, or people who resolve their own insecurities by being hurtful to others, or maybe some ordinary people who are having a bad day, or…

This is why I’m studying defenses. Defenses are the way we react to anxiety to keep the discomfort at bay. No psychiatric diagnosis required—we all have defenses, and the best we can do is strive to keep them functional and, to the extent possible, recognizable.

We deny truth in the face of overwhelming grief or fear.

We (over)identify with someone we admire and lose track of differences.

We don’t realize we feel angry but we recognize it in someone else (or so we think – is it really their feeling or ours?)

Part of the key to communicating difficult news is to examine our own attitudes and beliefs, to recognize the feelings we have that might color our understanding or shape our response. Part of the responsibility that comes with authority—and the power to say to someone, “You are making inadequate progress”—is willingness to take care of our own side of the street.

Are we frustrated and angry and likely to treat someone hostilely?

Are we so afraid of hurting someone that we cannot speak honestly?

Are we carrying an old hurt or trauma that makes us either cruel to others or overly protective?

Do we have trouble sitting quietly while someone processes the information we’ve given?

Is it hard for us to balance compassion with limit setting?

In the end, our skill in presenting bad news depends on boundaries and balance: we need a compassionate but separate self, able to offer support without assuming all responsibility, able to put aside a private agenda or a personal story that gets triggered, able to stay in the present with truth and good judgment.

I am looking forward to the presentation, and I’m not aware of feeling particularly anxious. But last night I dreamt I was standing before a motley group of unfriendly children and adults, and we weren’t past introductions before people started complaining and leaving. I couldn’t speak because my throat was filled with an unidentifiable plastic gunk.

So although my conscious mind told me I was not anxious, my unconscious mind said otherwise. As you see, we are all human, and we all cope with our anxiety, one way or another.

Questions for Reflection: What do you notice in yourself when you are anxious or feeling pressured? Have you been in the position of having to communicate bad news to someone? What helps you do this well and what puts you off balance? What is helpful to you when you have to receive difficult news?

Writing Prompts: “When someone is giving me bad news, I want that person to ______” (then keep writing); “I can tell I’m anxious when ______” (then keep writing); “If I need to have a difficult conversation with someone, I can prepare by ______” (then keep writing).

Moving in time and space, a frisbee travels in balance

I am writing this post in bed, limping to the finish line of Week #1, 2012. Has it really been just one week since New Year’s?

Incident 1

For New Year’s Eve my husband and I had an impressive lineup of movies planned (True Grit, The Road, and 127 Hours). But when a key drainage pipe backed up and left water in the basement, we mopped and blotted our way to midnight. I stayed oddly cheerful, buoyed by recent energy towards change and optimism.

“This,” I thought smugly, “is what emotional balance is about.”  I felt great, blocked pipe and all.

Incident 2

A few days later I was running errands with great efficiency (in my wonderfully balanced state) and I was pulled over by the police. Turns out my tabs were outdated…uh, six months outdated. I didn’t believe it at first—surely they had fallen off or the Department of Licensing had bungled my application—but the very pleasant policeman convinced me that I had never renewed the tabs. I accepted my fine and drove home, more startled than upset, still relaxed in mood.

Balance! What a great state!

Incident 3

The next day I had a session with a new trainer at my gym. It was a tryout—no commitment—but I was excited and hopeful. Trying something new—that’s what I want!

I worked hard in the session and came home cheerful. Still balanced? Maybe.

The Collapse

Within a short time I started unraveling. My body had strange sensations, aches that didn’t feel right. Had I injured myself? Had the session been a terrible mistake? Had I misjudged myself?

My anxiety soared as every decision I’d ever made was called into question. I paced around and verbalized a host of fears. I rehashed events and my choices, searching for the flaws. Then I put on heavy comfort clothes and huddled in a dimly lit room. I tried to watch my new favorite pleasure, Downton Abbey, but the characters’ lives were too much for me.

In the space of a few hours I’d gone from emotional balance to chaos, to a state of imbalance that threw me back in time. My husband said, “Maybe you should take your own advice and write,” but I felt separate even from writing. I was in another age, another decade, maybe another lifetime. I was lost.

Resolution

By the next morning I had found myself again. My body was fine—with ordinary (and rather pleasant) muscle soreness—and my mind and heart were restored to 2012.

Had my anxiety been a delayed reaction to the previous days’ incidents? Was the reality of change thrown at me more dramatically by the session with the new trainer? Or was it something else entirely, something that has no words and no memory?

The truth is, it doesn’t matter. Emotional regression happens, a dip in time when we forget how to stand upright, when we flail about in a younger or lost-soul self. Those moments do not invalidate us. They just remind us of our human nature, and when they are over, we return to our imperfect adulthood, ready for ordinary life and the next episode of Downton Abbey.

Questions for Reflection: How do you react to your experiences of balance and imbalance? What gives you comfort when you feel emotionally lost? What helps restore you to balance?

Writing Prompts: “My most recent experience of balance was ______” (then keep writing); “I was thrown into imbalance by ______” (then keep writing); “When I am imbalanced I most need ______” (then keep writing).

Contemplating a new story as dusk heralds New Year's Eve

Here it is, December 31^st, the sky dusky as we move towards evening, and I haven’t written a New Year’s blog. That startles me—after all, I love end-of-year reviews and the reflection inherent in this final calendar day. But I’ve also been caught up in the energy I felt on my big birthday just nine days ago. You might say I’ve been marinating in the sensations from the psychic shift of turning 60 and finding myself (gasp!) open to an unexpected change.

I thought about this last night while at a wonderful concert by the Seattle Baroque Orchestra. Called “A Toast to Brandenburg,” the program consisted of two of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos, two pieces by his contemporary Georg Philipp Telemann, and Bach’s famous—and always lovely—Air on a G String.

Your mind can go a lot of places at a concert, and mine traveled wildly in time last night. My life story has many musical moments, and I was visiting them in random order—from childhood recitals to piano lessons in Paris, from the comfort of a junior high orchestra (where intonation is a relatively flexible concept) to the agony of a high school conductor who terrified me and brought me to tears. I found I was remembering more failures than successes, more regrets than pleasures; my memories laden with discomfort and shame rather than with the sweetness of life and the beauty of music itself.

Then sometime during the concert I said to myself, “Why do I still blame myself for my youth? Why am I so harsh in remembrance? Why do I not understand that in my childhood, in my teens, in my 20s, even in my 30s, I was just a young person learning about life? How could I not have had many limitations? Would I ever be so unforgiving to someone else?” Then, “Why am I even dealing with this at age 60?”

That is when I knew that it was time to tell a new story. I wasn’t just trying to convince myself–I suddenly knew it. I am not talking about rewriting the old story. I’m talking about simply giving myself permission to tell a new one. Perhaps that means staying fully present in a concert, to appreciate the music without the parallel buzz of the old recriminations. Perhaps it means experiencing my creativity more fully, without the old fears and failures whispering in my ear. Perhaps it means saying to myself, “I forgive you for not achieving everything you dared hope for since the beginning of time.”

It now seems fitting that I did not write a traditional New Year’s blog this year with all the “re-” words (resolution, recalibration, review, renewal). I am not revising or rewriting (although nothing ever stops me from reflecting!). I am starting a brand new story, and I don’t even know the first sentence. I just know that I’m really ready.

Questions for Reflection: What old stories do you tell yourself? Have you been harsh towards yourself about other stages of life or is it easy to forgive yourself? Are there any new stories you are ready to tell?

Writing Prompts: “When I think of my younger self I ______” (then keep writing); “I have my own recurring story about ______” (then keep writing); “My attitude towards my earlier limitations tends to be ______” (then keep writing); “As I face a new year, I am ready to ______” (then keep writing).

Happy to work out on my birthday

I was slicing raw beets today, and I found myself remembering three years ago when bearing down on a hard surface like this made my shoulder and arm ache. My body went through a rough time in my 50s, with illness and surgeries and post-surgical problems. When the pain finally stopped and I was able to move through an ordinary day, I decided it was time to improve my physical self–while I still could.

So on the last day of December 2008, I joined a local gym, SNAP Fitness. (The timing wasn’t about a New Year’s resolution but about a coupon that expired at midnight.) This is where I met trainer Diane DeFuria. Ever patient and ever precise, Diane helped me reverse my body’s physical disintegration and brought me into a world I’d never known, where working out was physically and intellectually challenging, rewarding, and revitalizing. So it seemed only fitting that I celebrate my 60^th birthday with a training session.

Yes, 60. If you’ve read my blog recently, you know that two months ago I was fearful of this birthday, feeling weighed down by the new number and all the uncertainties about aging.

I’m happy to report that between the original blog and my birthday, I changed. I stopped feeling fearful and started feeling curious (what would the new decade bring?). I stopped feeling mournful and started feeling excited  (what can I do in a fresh new decade?). I stopped feeling old and started feeling healthy (not bad for 60!).

So there I was on my birthday, training with Diane and ready to move full steam ahead. I felt strong. I felt directed. I felt eager.

Then Diane told me she would not be working at the gym after January 1^st.

Whoa! Wait a minute—what’s going on? Here I thought everything was in place for me to surge ahead, embrace my 60s, continue on my path. I hadn’t planned on Diane’s exit.

Thus my 60s started with a challenge:

adjust to change…adapt to unexpected circumstances…face a loss you wouldn’t have chosen.

Throughout my lifetime I have been weak on change. I have fought it, delayed it, ignored it, and suffered through it. I have spent more than a few therapy hours on the topic.

I have stories from my 20s, 30s, 40s, and 50s where I held on to what always worked (even after it stopped working) and resisted letting go.

Yet suddenly, in the blush of turning 60, I didn’t react in my old way. I didn’t panic, didn’t withdraw into a mournful hole, didn’t catastrophize or dramatize. I felt some shock, certainly surprise, and I knew this was a big deal (Diane is a fantastic trainer for me, and her role in my renewal cannot be overstated). But I didn’t think her leaving was going to be the end of my workouts or the end of my progress. I would survive, and even thrive.

Endings are real and should be acknowledged. But they also are transitions—one thing ends and another thing begins. Who knows what beginning this ending is leading to?

Losing Diane at the gym was not the birthday present I would have requested. But being able to cope with an unexpected change without losing my balance—that is one of the best gifts I could get. It may have taken 60 years to receive it, but it was worth the wait.

Diane and Judy, post training session

Questions for Reflections: Have unexpected changes come to you this year? How have you reacted to them and what have they brought into your life?

Writing Prompts: “My typical way of coping with change is ______” (then keep writing); “When I read this, the change that comes to mind is ______” (then keep writing); “I had to let go of a key person in my life when ______” (then keep writing).