Stories Are For Eternity

Junk journal? What’s that?

Trying to teach myself new things. I’m learning that paper crafting is enjoyable and relaxing for me. What I will do with it in the long term remains to be seen. Right now I’m watching YouTube videos and learning different concepts and techniques. Those ideas wash through my head and acquire my influences. It’s a work in progress.

I suppose the truest form of a junk journal is the intent to create an original and handmade journal using mostly “throwaway” items. Think recyclables. Since there are no hard and fast rules to junk journaling, one is unlimited in scope. And they may be created to serve a variety of purposes: artistic, memoir, travel, tribute, etc.

Some people like to write in their journals, but, again, there are no hard and fast rules. There are journals featuring lined paper and there are journals that include small spaces for writing. Any spot is fair game for writing. And there are as many junk journal styles as there are individuals making them.

How did I become interested in this? I’ve never considered myself to be artistically inclined. As a left-handed individual, I’ve experienced loads of problems when wielding tools of any type. This includes scissors which can be an integral part of junk journaling. Today’s technology features scissors that may be used by all folks and are not defined by which hand is used to cut.

Most of my life was spent in avoidance of art activities due to my inability to use scissors effectively. I convinced myself that I had no artistic inclinations. Now, in my older and wiser stage of life, I know I was wrong. I was a coward and didn’t want to “fail.” At this stage of life, I’ve decided failing is no longer an excuse. It’s not a damn competition. It’s about enjoyment and enrichment.

What piqued my interest in this particular craft was the firm idea that there are no rules. One may junk journal as one wishes. That took away the concept of failure. I’ve long been a proponent of writing as a method to ease one’s internal pain. Or to express joy found in everyday things. Or to tell a story. Writing is soothing, though one may wade through some turbulent waters in order to arrive at the optimal cool pool of water. And that’s the point. Not all pleasures arrive without some work involved.

Why did I begin? Honestly, I was embroiled in a grief process. A few years ago, I lost someone very important to me. It was difficult for me to grieve his loss because I think I felt by grieving I was letting him go and he would truly be gone forever. Making his journal was transformative for me. I learned a great deal more about myself and about our relationship. And I did it my way, a far more meaningful process.

Sorry for the truly amateur video. Another subject where I need to learn a great deal. But you get the idea. Practicing my new hobby has temporarily put my fiction writing on hold. I’ve been rethinking my original plot lines and feeling stale. I may have to begin anew. I just don’t know. I will think about it as I continue to experiment with journal making.

“Our song” runs throughout the journal. I did a load of writing though it’s mostly hidden by pockets and tucks. Deeply personal.

Historical Events…

Each day on Word Press there is a prompt for writers. I usually have my own ideas but I wanted to respond to this prompt today. As a baby boomer, I’ve been blessed to experience many historical events. In addition to events, I’ve witnessed ways of life that have disappeared and I’ve experienced wonders the likes of which I never imagined.

I could jot a list here. Nice but not meaningful. I began kindergarten in September 1963, in Burlington, VT. Not long after the school year began we stood in line to receive a sugar cube nestled in one of those white paper pill cups. The sugar cube contained a vaccine destined to eradicate polio. Just that summer I became very ill while staying at my grandparent’s camp. My fever was high and I was ill enough that I was brought into a nearby city to be examined. It was Coxsackie Virus. My parents were grateful it wasn’t polio as they’d feared.

On July 20, 1969, I was so excited that my usual bedtime was suspended. We went to our next door neighbor’s house to watch the moon landing. They had a color tv though much of the footage was in black and white anyway. Looking at the moon took on a new meaning after that night. I didn’t understand the importance of racing into space back then and, honestly, I still don’t.

Also jammed into the decade of the 1960s was a tremendous amount of death. Vietnam, Kent State, JFK, MLK, RFK, Malcolm X, Medgar Evers. Was it all worth it? Not judging by today’s society. We lost 58,220 young men and women during Vietnam alone. I became a news junkie during this time period. Watergate occurred and all of the hearings related to it. I was back in Burlington visiting friends as “Tricky Dick” took his last ride on Marine One, still flashing his peace signs. Two points on your average if a voice in your head just said, “I am not a crook.”

Some wonderful stuff I experienced was new types of television programming like “Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In,” “All in the Family,” “Monty Python’s Flying Circus (there’s a penguin on the telly),” “The Fugitive (in re-runs).” So many more wonderful and groundbreaking shows.

The AIDS epidemic captured most everyone’s attention. There is still no cure but the diagnosis is no longer an automatic death sentence. So many families were affected by the loss of friends and loved ones, mine included. My lone sibling is forever 40 in my memory.

There have been phenomenal medical advancements. I’ve certainly benefitted from several.

9/11. I will never, ever forget watching the first tower fall as a classroom of students behind me kept right on chit-chatting like we were watching a movie. Another teacher and I held hands over our mouths in shock and horror. I was speechless.

The silence of the night sky on 9/11 as all flights were grounded.

The Greatest Generation. What they did to preserve our futures was incredible. We will never see the likes of them again.

I’m not even going to tackle COVID and the current US political situation. I’m all too aware of the amount of graft, corruption, and propaganda that folks are willing to believe so that a small percentage can prosper while a high percentage of our fellow citizens struggle to make ends meet, put healthy food on the table, and have basic health care.

I look forward to the historical event that heralds the end to our current nightmare and ensures Democracy will live forever in the US.

“We shall overcome,/We shall overcome,/We shall overcome, some day.” Song originates from “I’ll Overcome Someday,” by Charles Albert Tindley (1901). First symbolic of the Labor Movement before becoming representative of the Civil Rights Movement.

Demolition of the East Wing of the People’s House 10/23/25

The priceless worth of friends…

Was invited to a local reunion event to hawk my book, a non-fiction look at the first fifty years of our local school district. Large social gatherings make me edgy but it was all about the book. I know my book in and out. No reason for social discomfort.

As it turns out, it was the best book event I’ve had so far. I sold far more than I expected. I’m thankful for the opportunity to be there. The reunion was a 50th high school event. Mine is next year. So I knew some of these folks from over the years. And I met many more wonderful folks the other night.

Here’s the deal. Back in the day, I was pleasing to the eye. Though I’m still attractive, there is waaaay more of me to love. Decades of mental and physical health issues have robbed me of my once bright spark. Or so I thought.

I love being on the periphery at these events. To watch the joy emerge on the faces of the attendees as they reunite with old friends. To have attained enough maturity to say the meaningful things to one another. To comprehend the beauty of the memories. As an individual who feels emotions deeply, it’s as moving as it is entertaining. And I think it is because I’m allowed to be an onlooker.

A couple of special moments elapsed as I greeted a couple of longtime friends. One had dated my best friend for years and the other I worked a summer job with for several years. They have been long gone from our town, are very successful, and have large and loving families. But they were humble enough to spend some time with me. And it was quality time

These two guys accepted me for me. Somehow they saw past the self-deprecating humor. It’s hard for me to explain at this moment how our conversations conveyed so much meaning in such a short time. I’ve been enveloped in a euphoric fog that turned bittersweet yesterday when I happened to think, “Is that the last time I will see either of them?”

It’s a legitimate question. Life is not guaranteed. Being able to speak to each of those men was an unbelievable gift. If I didn’t convey it at the time, each of them should know how much their kindness has always meant to me and how thankful I am to know them. Though I hope we meet again in this life, I know we will meet again eventually.

Some of my “old self” was with me at this event. The part of me that laughed spontaneously, the part of me that felt joy, the part of me that felt respected came out to play, even if only briefly. In the wise words of Lady Gaga, “Whether life’s disabilities/Left you outcast, bullied, or teased/Rejoice and love yourself today/,Cause baby, you were born this way.”

Thanks guys, it meant more than you know.

Secrets?! Do tell…

“Listen/Do you want to know a secret?/Do you promise not to tell?”

Now picture two little kids, ages 5 & 9, dancing on a bed and singing into pretend microphones. This is how I learned at age 5 that singing would not be one of my career choices.

So, here’s a secret. I’m not a big fan of the Beatles. There, I’ve said it. Some may find my utterance to be sacrilegious. I’m just not crazy about them. Their talent is undeniable as is their influence on the music industry. That said, my favorite Beatle was George and I loved that he formed the Traveling Wilburys.

The real secret I came to tell today is that I’ve never been one for journaling and/or keeping a diary. The earth just shook a bit. What?! I, the one who encourages people to write their feelings out on paper, don’t maintain a journal? Nope, never have. I will say my various blogs have served that function for the last fifteen years. I’ve written many, many things on sheets of paper and stashed them or tossed them.

Here’s what I know. For me, the physical act of using a pen to make words on paper brings me the satisfaction of an athlete having a good workout. So maybe I’ve achieved a new status – The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Writer. (Someone will recognize what I did there.)

Seriously, though. The pen gliding across the paper is a calming feeling. It boggles my mind that I’m the one creating the words on the paper. Though I’m never able to keep up with the lightning speed of my thoughts, I’m usually able to capture their essence. I will say that I do not give myself permission to unleash my thoughts fully. I still practice careful writing. someday the hounds will be released.

Is it hypocritical for me to make journals and encourage the use of them for writing? No. I’ve done the research. It’s beneficial for any individual to put thoughts on paper. And achieving this goal by handwriting these thoughts sharpens cognitive skills, helps the mind to be disciplined and organized, and enhances learning. Hey, who knew it could be good for you? Well, I knew.

How do I know? Because it has helped me. Just as crafting is currently helping me explore a new facet of my personality, writing has been incredibly beneficial. When I began making journals in August, one of my first was dedicated to Jim. I hadn’t dealt with his loss properly and it was time. So, I did it in a manner familiar to me. I wrote.

I didn’t pen an epic tale. There are many snippets within his journal, along with other pages of writing. When I put the finishing touches on it, I was proud of my work and felt some peace about his passing. And most of the writing I did is on notebook paper. I’m a fan of lines. One doesn’t need fancy paper. I’ve written bits of poetry on paper bag scraps.

Never, ever, discount the worth of your words or thoughts. They’re priceless. The best part is there is no right or wrong for writing them down. You do you. I favor the use of a Pentel RSVP black fine point and some lined paper.

One more secret. Recently while the weather was gorgeous, I took myself on a picnic. While I’m a hopeless Romantic and would have liked to create and share a picnic with a special someone, there just isn’t one at this moment. I didn’t want to miss the opportunity, so I asked myself and I agreed.

It was a small picnic, just right for one. Some good cheese, a nice roll, a ripe pear, and a handful of nuts…all washed down with unsweetened homemade iced tea. The tea had mint from my patio herb pot. I chose to sit at a picnic table at Thacher Park. It was lovely. And after I ate, I sat and wrote. It was better than a fantasy, almost.

Enough secrets for today.

“So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,/So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.” Sonnet 18. Shakespeare

My crafty awakening…

I’m a firm believer in the benefits of writing. I’ve never been good at keeping a journal for any lengthy period of time, but blogging has been a good substitute for me. And it’s my philosophy that writing longhand is the way to go about it. As my pen glides over the paper, I feel some of the angst flow out with it.

If anyone had told me twenty years ago that I would call myself a writer, I would have laughed heartily. Me? No way! Now I can’t imagine a day without writing something. Words have meant so much to me since I can remember. I was a voracious reader in my youth. It opened new worlds to me and I’m so thankful.

As a left-handed individual (one of the 10%), I struggled with fine motor skills. Gross motor skills (think sports) came easily as I performed those right-handed. But eating, writing, and brushing my teeth could only be accomplished with my left hand. We already know of my nightmare with scissors which turned me into a hater of arts and crafts.

Yesterday I made a journal from “scratch.” I took a flattened cracker box, destined for recycling, and made it into this.

As soon as I saw the scrapbook papers, I knew I would make something out of them. Blue is, was, and always will be my favorite color. I know that some crafters make entire journals based on a color theme. I wasn’t ready to do that…yet. But I created the physical “foundation” for the journal, made the signatures (groups of papers that form the pages), and created a spine and binding into which I sewed the signatures. For me, this borders on miraculous. Seriously.

I’m a patient individual except when I am struggling to master a skill. I expect a lot from me. Too much. And I lose my temper. It’s ugly. My mother could tell you about a cooking mistake I made when I had her over for dinner at my first house. I ended up throwing the container of paprika against the wall. Can we say MESS?! I admit I’m a thrower. Maybe it was all of those years of teaching tennis. Thankfully my shoulders are shot and I can’t throw worth a damn. But, I can cuss.

I began putting things into the journal. There’s no deadline. It will proceed on its own. I don’t mind sharing the first two items. My skills are fair and the only way is up so I’m looking forward to that. I want to make and market journals that encourage people to write through their “stuff” while also discovering their inner craft personality.

Though I don’t create junk journals by their definition, I do embrace the tenet that junk journals have no rules. This allowed me not to seek perfection in my creations and, in turn, it released a spark within me that was undiscovered. I’m so grateful to have found this, though it may derail my fiction writing for a while. Be patient and I hope you might accompany me on this new journey.

Part of junk journaling is using unconventional papers for one’s writing.

Don’t look now…

It’s fall, y’all. It’s not in my usual lexicon to use the previous contraction, but sometimes the shoe fits. Well, the shoe seldom fits me. I mean that in the literal sense.

Almost two years ago at the end of September, I boarded Amtrak for a trip of a lifetime. I faced my anxiety and traveled solo to Spokane, WA from New York’s Capital District. Having watched North by Northwest a few too many times, I’d always wanted to do a train journey in my own private compartment. So, a few months shy of my 65th birthday, I set off for Spokane. I’ve talked about this journey ad nauseam so I won’t rehash any of that.

Since that trip I’ve thought long and hard about what I saw, through the train window and in person. I experienced the prairie habitat, something I hadn’t really seen too much. It’s vast. I experienced the sight of snow-capped mountains. It’s imposing. I experienced the numerous bodies of water along the way (Whitefish Lake, Lake Coeur d’Alene, Lake Pend Oreille, to name a few) along with countless rivers and creeks (Mississippi, Flathead, Spokane, to name a few). It’s intoxicating.

I soaked in all that I was able to see. What I saw was remarkable. To be honest, it also cemented my preference for the Northeast. Why? I was struck by the vast open landscape. So much vast open land. As an individual living with generalized anxiety disorder, I didn’t want to think about living in the middle of nowhere. And I love solitude much more than most people. There’s solitude and there’s isolation. If my situation was different and I lived on a ranch or family compound where there were others I wouldn’t mind.

It is undeniably beautiful, in the same vein as the Southwest. But, the colors don’t work for me. They’re so harsh. Lots of grays and browns, lots of dust, lots of rock. Each of these retains its own beauty and I recognized the raw splendor of all I saw. I yearned for the green and soft landscape of my home. Maybe it’s because it’s what I’m used to seeing. I’m adaptable enough to acclimate. I don’t think I’d want to. Never say never.

Summer is wonderful in the Northeast. I live on the doorstep of the largest park in the US, larger than Yosemite, Yellowstone and Grand Canyon Parks combined. Though folks from the West laugh at our mountain ranges, they are mountains nonetheless…constructed through tectonic movements, glacier movement, etc. Some of our mountain ranges are classified as sub-ranges of the Appalachian Mountains. Some are classified as a massif. Some are considered an escarpment. They are somewhat small compared to those out West. It doesn’t mean they don’t have their own charm.

I’m lucky enough to live within easy driving distance of the Adirondacks (NY), Catskills (NY), Greens (VT), White Mtns (New Hampshire and western Maine). Mt Washington, the highest peak east of the Mississippi, just under 6300 ft, is part of the White Mtns in NH.

Regardless of what an individual prefers, there’s no mistake that fall in the Northeast is magical. Leaf peeping is an integral part of the area’s tourist industry. There’s a charm that exists in the Northeast that I haven’t found elsewhere in the US. Maybe I just haven’t found that other spot yet.

Agree to disagree. It’s subjective, but it’s all beautiful. Make sure you appreciate it.

Will it ever happen?

I have no idea. And I don’t even know what “it” is. I’ve hoped and waited for decades but I’m no closer to an answer. My adult life thus far feels as though there should be something right around the corner, but there rarely is.

It’s suggested we should make things happen to enrich our lives. While I concur with that idea to a point, I also know there are limitations. Things just aren’t always as easy as they sound. I’m tired of trying to hit the curve balls.

Right now I’m stuck in an existence that’s difficult to explain. I don’t go forward or backward, I just float. As I drift, I bounce off obstacles and just drift. It’s hard to put into words. It’s like I’m plodding along doing what I have to do. There’s no joy, no relief, no carrot out in front of me.

At least twice a week I visit with my mom. I never know what to expect when I visit. Today was a happy time, other days aren’t. I’ll take what I can get, but it drains the life out of me. Life drains the life out of me.

And yet, I keep waiting for “it.” Will there be a day when my mind isn’t rocketing along at the speed of sound? Will there be a day when my mind is able to focus instead of flitting from idea to idea? Will there be a day when I understand my purpose for being here?

The practical side of me thinks “it” will never appear. But the other part of me that dreams and yearns for inner peace and contentment is going to keep hoping. I feel I could have done so much more with my life although given what I’ve endured thus far, I’m proud of where I am. It did exact a terrible price.

I’m grateful for each day I’m able to get out of bed and function. But I miss the connection of friends and laughter, and the spontaneity of my youth. I think I shall be able to get back to my writing soon. I can’t force it. For now I’m enjoying this new artsy craftsy person I’m becoming.

Don’t read into this narrative too much. Sometimes I need to see my thoughts on paper in order to sort through them and better understand them. My two closest supporters are no longer available to me and I’m learning to navigate in new ways. I’m not ready to throw in any sort of towel. There’s too much beauty I haven’t experienced yet. And I have so much more to give.

“There were moments of gold/And there were flashes of light/There were things I’d never do again/But then they’d always seemed right/There were nights of endless pleasure/It was more than any laws allow…”. It’s All Coming Back to Me Now Celine Dion. Sometimes the grief just appears.

An avowed food stalker…

There I’ve said it aloud. I have a fondness for food that, at times, borders on the ridiculous. In “psych-speak” terms, I have an eating issue called binge eating disorder. It seldom manifests itself in public but waits for that quiet time at night when I’m alone. Simply put, there are times when I eat too much. I’d say 95% of the time there’s an emotional trigger or two that gets the ball rolling.

Outwardly I handle stress well. On the inside, forget it. Do I have generalized anxiety disorder because of my overeating or vice versa? Yes, folks, the phrase is vice versa…not vice verses or vice versus or, heaven forbid, vice-a-versus. Have you noticed that many people write highschool when it should be high school? I digress.

In the third grade I was in a fairly bad car accident during a snowstorm. I sustained a compound fracture of my left tibia. My mom, also an accident victim, tutored me at home for three months. Being in a hip-to-toe cast for over 3 months isn’t fun. In the blink of an eye, my life had changed drastically. To counter my feelings of anxiety, I learned that some foods calmed me down. We shopped at a local market where they had one of those ginormous wheels of cheese. There was always a slab of that delicious cheddar in our fridge because my father was a cheese and crackers kind of guy.

My brother and I loved to make open-face cheese sandwiches using the top brown feature of our toaster oven. One for lunch was sufficient but I learned I could quietly make more. If there wasn’t cheese, a sweet snack could be concocted in the toaster oven. A piece of bread with a thin layer of butter and then sugar sprinkled on top resulted in a sweet and buttery treat. The sugar even made a crunchy topping.

Perhaps this stage of my life was when I developed my stealth abilities which came in handy during my teaching career. I regard my sneak eating as a shameful behavior and I’m pretty much powerless over it. Plus I spend too much time fretting over food. Though I was raised to eat in a healthy manner, I’ve always felt the need to “supplement” my food intake. It was fine when I was younger and active. But now 2/3 of my life has been spent as an overweight adult.

That situation causes repercussions with both mental and physical health. I was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes thirty years ago. Right now I’m insulin-dependent. Thankful for my health insurance, I wear a continuous glucose monitor and an insulin pump. The pump delivers a proper stream of insulin based on the glucose monitor readings and I let it know when I’m eating a meal. The pump learns what one’s typical meal intake is.

I had a total knee done a few years ago and need another one. Leg pain is a constant, never mind the permanently damaged right ankle. One learns to live with it and sometimes a few extra cookies are soothing. They really aren’t but one’s mind plays mean tricks.

I’ve tried every diet and food plan in existence. I know all of the psychological tricks for keeping busy in the evenings so I don’t overeat. I’m too smart for my own good because my psyche has not allowed it to work for me. Recently I even consulted with a bariatric surgeon. But my system isn’t broken, my head is. Changing my stomach isn’t going to resolve my drive to eat.

There are no soothing song lyrics or beautiful artwork today. I’m not feeling it. My mood is ugly which isn’t conducive for a good food day. That and I will be watching the NY Giants…. I am definitely one of the fat people who doesn’t like being fat. Intellectually I know the steps to be taken. I usually manage to take one step forward and then three steps back. It truly sucks.

I’ve been dealing with macular edema in my right eye for several months. Treatment entails laser use and injections. And now it has appeared in my left eye. I’d cry but my vision is already a tad cloudy. Honestly I’m very fortunate. There are far worse illnesses and conditions. My health insurance benefits cover the treatments. Could I lose my vision at some point? Possibly.

My retinologist’s answer? “Get a hold of yourself.” I rolled my eyes and replied, “why didn’t I think of that?” Then he asked if I was being sarcastic. Ya think? Don’t get me going about today’s assembly line practice of medicine.

“You might as well face it, you’re addicted to …”. I’d far rather be addicted to love but he passed away. I will have to continue to stalk food. Apologies to the late, great Robert Palmer.

Running with scissors…

Are you kidding? I’m not entirely certain that I’m still capable of running. And I have a love/hate relationship with scissors since I’ve been old enough to use them. The logical conclusion is that it’s unlikely I’d be seen running with scissors. You never know.

My uncomfortable relationship with shears is waning. In fact, I’m feeling downright hopeful about the improvement in my ability to wield a sharp object with far more precision. Sounds silly, doesn’t it? Oh, but it isn’t. My ability to cut paper, fabric, etc., has been a thorn in my side since nursery school.

If you’ve surmised that I’m left handed, you’re correct. A sports-minded kid, I grew up imitating my older brother and his friends. My mimicry earned me the ability to attempt all sports as a right-handed participant. Gross motor skills were/are the domain of my right hand. Fine motor skills such as writing, eating, cutting, toothbrushing, etc., are exclusive to my left hand. Don’t ask about tools because I never know until I approach one.

What happened to running with scissors? Here comes the connection. I was adept in gym class and looked forward to it. As one of the kids frequently chosen as “captain” of a team for gym class, it was not lost on me that for many of my classmates it was not a comfortable time for them. And as much as I wanted to win, I also didn’t want another girl to feel left out. Heck, it wasn’t hard enough going through puberty without throwing a thrice-weekly, horrible class into the mix?

Empathy has always been a huge part of me. I felt for those poor girls who hated gym class. My Achilles heel was art class. Dread is an understatement. I never chose to take an art class after 8th grade. Why put myself through it? Look, I was a good student. I took pride in earning decent grades. I will never get over receiving a “needs improvement” on my report card in kindergarten, never. And what was that grade for you may ask? Cutting.

Scissors were a weapon I dreaded. They caused me pain because they were meant for right-handed kids. When I used them, I received major indentations in my thumb and finger. The older I got, the more painful the task. When universal scissors debuted, I was in my 20s. It was delightful to wield a pair of scissors and actually make cuts instead of tearing everything.

The upshot of this is I ended up fearing participation in any sort of arts and crafts because I felt so inept. As I approached my 30s, a friend taught me to crochet. I liked it and was able to do it right handed. Feeling a bit adventurous, another friend taught to do counted cross stitch. That was a bit more difficult because I would do it either handed which resulted in a slight variation of how the stitches looked. I now do it left handed.

When I produce a creative product, people I know are often surprised. Whatever. If you could see what I’m attempting right now, your heads would explode. Writing is an important part of my life. I know how beneficial it is for my psyche. When I learned I could make my own handmade journal and it could be styled/decorated any way I desired, I wanted to give it a try.

As they say, I’m hooked. It’s fun. I enjoy it. I look forward to it. After watching many YouTube videos, I’m getting my feet wet with a few prototypes. I have a few in various stages of assembly. I’ve looked for a niche for decades. Have I found it? Too early to tell, but I’m hopeful.

A couple of my favorite cross-stitch projects. Cape Cod is a special place for me. The other is the beginning of my personal journal. As with many other things, I’m teaching myself as I go along. It’s also an experiment to see how it impacts my depression/anxiety. Hope is an encouraging concept.

“Then one day the sun appears/And we come through those lonely years.” Barry Manilow

“Take me to the magic of the moment/On a glory night…”. Scorpion

I never could have imagined making something like this.

Various and sundry thoughts…

A once friend recently told me to get a life. Geezum, I’m in my 60s and have had a life for a long time. I put myself through school, acquired bachelor’s and master’s degrees. Spent several years in the wrong occupation. Fixed that circumstance. Then I had a rewarding career in education.

Along the way, I worked other jobs to sustain and enrich my way of life. Thirty of those years involved tennis instruction and/or coaching, half of that after sustaining a nasty ankle injury and being told I’d never play tennis again. Most of my adult life has been conducted under the umbrella of mental and physical health issues.

So far in retirement, I’ve written and published a book, and have spent a great deal of time caring for an elderly parent. I’ve deconstructed the households of two family members, moved my own household three times, absorbed the loss of a significant other, but, yeah, I should get a life.

While I’m not always the outgoing, effervescent individual I once was, it’s still very much a part of me. It depends on the situation. As time marches on, I find myself celebrating the lives of friends and loved ones far more often than I once did. As a lifelong empath, my inner being shines in those moments. It’s acceptable for me to unleash my caring nature. I don’t worry about being admonished because I care too much. I don’t worry about being chastised because I hit an area within you that needs attention. I don’t worry about being told I’m imagining things because you’re too willing to overlook your own areas of need.

All because I care.

Why do I care? That I can’t answer. But, as a curious individual, I’ve done a great deal of reading and research. Others may dismiss it as “horse hockey.” Each of us has choices. I’ve used the word ‘empath’ a few times lately. I don’t mean empathetic. Empath implies a far higher level of sensitivity than mere empathy.

Dr. Judith Orloff writes, “Empaths share a highly sensitive person’s love of nature, quiet environments, desire to help others, and a rich inner life.” Some common traits may include: 1. An empath feels pain and suffering deeply; 2. Empaths are natural healers in the sense that people look to us for help or advice. We have an inner sense that help is needed and apply it consciously or unconsciously; 3. Empaths are tuning forks for what’s going on around them. If you enter a room and can “feel” the energy, need, emotions, etc., we absorb them like a tuning fork absorbs energy. Empaths have to learn to feel these things and then move forward. Otherwise they can become part of us and bog us down; 4. Empaths are more sensitive to our environments. Imagine all of your senses functioning 24/7 at their highest levels. Sound, motion, touch, taste, etc. We hear things you don’t…like a fly buzzing, the neighbor’s car door, a bass line thumping from a car radio. You get the drift.

There are other traits but I figure some of your heads are exploding, some of your heads are shaking in disgust, and some of your heads are overwhelmed (welcome to empath life). I have a love/hate relationship with the field of psychology. In the academic realm, I abhorred the study of it. In the life realm, I’m fascinated at how it plays out. Go figure.

It’s taken me most of my life to figure myself out. Being an empath is a burden at times. Overall I view it as a gift. It allowed me to connect with hundreds of students over the years who needed my ability to “see” and “experience” what they needed. And because I treat it as a gift, I’ve been able to understand myself better and I’m learning more about creating boundaries so I don’t function at “tuning fork” level much of the time.

But now, since I need to get a life, let me return to the rough draft of my mystery novel. Be careful, you never know when you might wind up in one of my books!

Boating on the Seine – Pierre Auguste Renoir

N.B. Empaths love nature and art. Impressionism appeals to me and I find looking at it is so relaxing. Monet is my favorite but I never limit myself. There’s too much good stuff to see! And, Doc Y., if you’re reading this and thinking it’s “hooey,” it’s ok. Because I still care.