Have you read the news today? Not so good, right? How’s your love life? Nonexistent? And your bank balance? Kind of low?
Well, you’ve come to the right place! Nothing but cats. Take a stroll through mindless bliss. Scroll through pictures of nothing but happy cats. Let me introduce you to the two drunk acrobats who share my space: Cheshire and Charlie.
They just turned two. And they have crazily done me a lot of good. Maybe they can do the same for you.
But like the Old Man of his Pulitzer winning novel, I have long had a problematic relationship with large bodies of water.
Sea water and pool water.
As a child – by the sea, by the beautiful sea – my fair, freckled skin would fry to a crisp. Bright red and hot to the touch – it took just 15 minutes splashing around in the waves – until I was thoroughly cooked.
Slathered with Solarcaine I was waylaid on the sand. To shield me from the sun, I had to wear my father’s t-shirt and my mother’s floppy hat – while my siblings boogie-boarded and had a grand old time.
The sea was not my friend — but neither was the neighborhood pool.
My older sister, Maureen, once she reached driving age, chauffeured us in a fish-tailed Plymouth station wagon to our swimming lessons.
I flunked.
I flunked swimming lessons three times.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Terrified of heights, I never learned to dive. The best I managed to do was doggy paddle the length of the pool. By the time I finally passed, I was at least a head taller than all of the other pollywogs in my class.
Yes, I have long had a problematic relationship with water.
Water won. I lost.
So water and I made a deal.
“I’ll wear my swim suit, Water, but I will never get it wet.”
Be it by the pool or by the sea, I would find a comfortable chair, slather my fair and freckled skin with SPF 100, sit under an umbrella and read a book – or two – or three.
Slather, rinse, repeat.
And that is how I thought it was going to be — for all eternity –with water and me…
Until.
Cross training for my first half marathon, I signed up for twice weekly water aerobics at the local rec center.
Now most people think water aerobics is just a bunch of old ladies splashing around in the pool.
Nothing is further from the truth.
Barbara, the instructor, worked us like a drill sergeant. The routine is demanding and never boring. Armed with noodles and styrofoam barbells, water shoes and swimming gloves:
Like frogs we skim the surface.
Like divers we explore the depths.
Like cyclists we pedal the length, the breadth.
Like bells in a belfry we swing both to and fro.
Like flying fish we shoot out of the water.
Like dancers we pivot and turn.
Like soldiers we march.
Like taskmasters we kick our butts.
Like yogis we stretch.
Like runners we run.
Like rowers we row ourselves ashore.
Like dolphins we submerge and rise again.
Water is buoyant – it bolsters my spirit and lifts my mood.
Water is a solvent – solving and dissolving my daily cares.
Water is a liquid –it pools my soul.
Water crashes in waves – washing over me and making me clean.
Water ebbs and flows – its moods and mine obeying the moon.
Recently, a bit off my game, I have discovered my gym’s heated salt water pool. Miraculously I have managed to make it more days than not this new year. A self directed hour of flying, stretching, running and rowing. A self directed hour of renewal.
Water. Baptismal water.
Thank you, Lord God of the Universe, for the gift of water. Over it the Spirit moved at the dawn of creation. Through it you led the children of Israel out of their bondage in Egypt into the land of promise. In it Jesus was baptized by John in the River Jordan.
And in these baptismal waters — splash, dash, dunk — I die and rise again.
In the medieval sense, an alchemist is a philosopher who takes what is base and spins it into gold. A scientist in pursuit of the elixir of life.
Yep, that’s me, fits me to a “t.” But alchemist also fits in the 21st century sense.
According to my EVO Planner, this is how my brain is wired.
Alchemists gravitate toward the abstract and theoretical. They prefer experimenting with their ideas in the real world, and develop a lot of their key ideas while interacting with other people. They are mostly focused on the future and the possibilities it holds.
Ah, music to my alchemist ears: focused on the future and all the possibilities it holds.
I am about to turn 64. Can you believe it? (Here is where you say, “No, you could not possibly be turning 64!”) And vanity has made me ever grateful for my mother’s genes – people have mistaken us both in our lifetimes for a bit younger than we actually are.
64 is two times 32, right? And if you ask me that is how I feel. Two rocking 32 year olds – with a peacock feather streak of color in my gray hair. (Thank you, Olivia at Salon de Zen.) I am not my mother’s or my grandmother’s Oldsmobile, so to speak.
And 64 for me is far larger than my 46. Not simply numerically but expansively. Sure, I am 17 years older but I am also, 17 years more evolved, 17 years more alive than I have ever been.
At 46 I actually faced some of my most difficult days. My marriage imploded. The church where I was rector crashed down around my ears. In my darkest of days, it actually hurt to open eyes and it seemed better perhaps if I no longer did.
But this darkness led me to light.
I took a two-week cruise on the good ship Dominion in 2003. I actually LOVED being on the psyche ward. It totally saved my life. And it set me on a 16 year trajectory of redefining and reclaiming, resurrecting and reimagining who I am.
With God’s help, of course, I am a person of faith. But also with more than a little help from friends and family and therapists and work.
And….
I am going to tell you the truth (not to sound conceited.) The biggest help to me was me. Me, myself, and I.
I have made a bazillion daily decisions over the last 6,0205 days. Each a little choice, each a small turn in the direction of my future and not my past. Step by step by step, the steps add up until a few small steps add up to one enormous leap. A leap into the fullness of my life.
And I am grateful for the sun that has come up everyday and thankful for every breath that I have been blessed to breathe – that have brought me happy and whole to this day.
So 64 is the new 46! And in no particular order, let me count the ways.
Coffee.
Colored pens.
Shelves full of books.
A closet full of dresses.
Half a dozen pairs of walking shoes.
A dog named Bailey.
Two Tabbies: Cheshire & Charlie.
Baptizing babies.
Performing on stage.
Six million rounds of the rosary.
Walking in God’s great outdoors.
Three half marathons.
Three little pills I take each night.
Three years with Sondra on the therapist’s couch.
Ten years prior with Mary.
Four rocking adult children: Rebecca, Zach, Colleen & Jacob.
Four gospels to preach.
An office to call my own.
Colleagues who are more than colleagues.
Coworkers who have become friends.
Digital connectivity in cyberspace.
Gathering folks in God’s name.
Regular dips in the pool.
Fire in my fireplace and pillows to rearrange.
My soul sister, Mical.
My soul brothers, Neal and Chuck.
A little bit of chocolate every day.
Canadian sister Maureen, big bro Tim & baby brother Joseph — age 58!(and maybe the other siblings, too.)
Brown courdouroy smocked dress and white puffy blouse. Navy blue polka dot shift and striped Danskins. Parochial school uniform and Peter Pan collars. Mary Janes, saddle shoes, and Keds.
1973. Open my wardrobe and what do you see?
Peasant dresses, halter tops, and army jacket. Denim cutoffs, bellbottom pants, and macrame belts. Parochial school uniform and Oxford cloth shirts. Platforms, flip flops, and saddle shoes.
1983. Open my wardrobe and what do you see?
Pleated skirts and cardigan sweaters. Padded shoulders and tailored slacks. Designer jeans, and tasteful flats.
1993. Open my wardrobe and what do you see?
Khaki trousers, corduroy jumpers, and denim overalls. Cotton turtlenecks, kilts and tights. Embroidered vests and cable knit sweaters. Black flats, brown flats, and tennis shoes.
2003. Open my wardrobe and what do you see?
Target basics and Talbot’s work clothes. Cotton sweats and running suits. Clergy shirts and clerical collars. Random flats, Birkenstocks, and flip flops — in every color under the sun.
And thirteen years on.
2016. Open my wardrobe and what do you see?
Funky tunics and interesting tops. Comfy leggings and skinny jeans. Prints, patterns, and primary colors. Autumn hues and basic black. Dressy dresses and dresses just for fun. Lululemon trousers and button down shirts. Bits of ribbon and bits of lace. TOMS, saddle shoes, ASICS, and a multitude of multicolored flats.
I have both lost and found myself in my wardrobe.
Middle child, parochial school girl, head of the class.
Flower child, high school nerd, and rebel without a cause.
Computer programmer, working mom, sometimes a wife.
Seminary student, kindergarten volunteer, and Del Ray mom.
Parish priest, divorcee, and mostly manic.
Half marathoner, storyteller, blogger, irreverent reverend, and pseudo-libarian.
I have lost and found myself in my wardrobe.
Clothes are the window dressing of the soul. Spiritual expressions of our psyches and personalities. Creative expressions of our passions and our moods.
In my darker days, my wardrobe was all solid colors. No prints. Basic and boring. I would buy three colors of the same pants and the same sweater.
All the better to hide in. All the better to disappear.
Those dark days are long — and hopefully forever — gone.
How do I know?
Because my wardrobe therapist tells me so.
My therapeutic fashion consultant, Stephanie Hernandez, helped me work through my closet issues.
Stephie is a very good friend of my awesome daughter Colleen. Stephie is a young LCSW with a passion for style and an entrepreneurial spirit. She’s the founder of “Look Good, Feel Good” — “a therapeutic approach to finding your personal style.”
A brilliant idea! This bipolar soul signed herself up right away!
Personable, warm, and observant, Stephie first sat down on my couch and we had a chat. I walked her through a “regular day” so she could learn about my bipolar life — both at work and at play. I gave her a one minute tour of my condo and then we took a thirty minute walk through my wardrobe.
And then for the next half hour, we played dress up. Mixing and matching funky and flattering combos, Stephie helped me come up with outfits that I can wear just about anywhere: @ LOC, @EEC, walking Del Ray, or strolling DC.
Working with Stephie made me feel so much cooler and so much cuter than I actually am!
On the eve of 2016, herewith is Joani’s bipolar analysis of the yins and yangs, ups and downs, and ins and outs – especially the ins and outs – of the last twelve months, 2015.
So once again with apologies to the Washington Post (my hometown newspaper!) and without editorial comment, and in no particular order, I submit this list for your consideration. And might I suggest that you consider, for the sake of your brain, doing the same!
