Wanna Feel Better? Then Love on Yourself!

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Joy is juice. Pleasure is the nectar that keeps us going.

Yet there are lots of excellent reasons to feel like f***ing s*** these days. And feeling like crud is bad for writers. It blocks us from flowing when we really need to keep going.

Getting dumped; getting fired (another kind of dumped); losing your friend group in a break up (yet another kind of dumped); fights with anybody important to you — family/partner/spouse/offspring/sibling/co-worker; toxic work environment; narcissistic anything and narcissists everywhere; asking somebody out only to get turned down; asking somebody out who only strings you along without a clean and honest rejection; one-sided friendships; moving to a new place where you know nobody and the culture is not friendly; realizing that the good buddy you lent money to will never pay you back; getting into a car accident; lousy customer service; deliberate rudeness…this list could go on for eternity.

Unfortunately, there is an abundance of unkindness in the world. People treat each other with disrespect all the time, and many of us are stressed and unhappy as a result.

That being the case, can we always rely on outside sources — like supportive friends and healthy relationships — for our contentment and happiness?

In my opinion, the answer is no. We need to get really, really good at filling our own wells.

How do we do that?

Again, this is an opinion: we can do that through the pursuit of pleasure, particularly the kinds that bring us to joy.

This may sound frivolous to some. Pleasure is dessert, not dinner.

And can we honestly say that the concept of joy receives the cultural respect it deserves? I came across a Ted Talk that addresses this topic, which I’ll post at the end of this article — because I want you to finish reading this. Of course.

Pleasure is extremely important. I think it’s far more crucial than people want to admit.

Stop and think about those stellar moments, when you feel amazing and your being is in a delicious state of lightness, when all your cares fall away, and you settle fully in the present. What comes not only to your mind, but to your heart?

Joy.

It doesn’t matter how you got there. What matters is that every single one of those pleasurable moments adds joy to your well, to your inner reserves that give you strength and resilience.

Those moments of pleasure remind you that life is worth living. So later, when one of the miseries strikes you, that nourishment will be there to sustain you.

Joy is juice. Pleasure is the nectar that keeps us going.

As we all know, loving, healthy relationships and true friends are the main source of juice and nectar.

But life happens. There are times when we don’t have that loving partner or our healthy friends are caught up in their own lives. Or both. Sometimes there’s nobody available to help you feel better.

These are the times to love on yourself.

Allow me to share a few of my go-to’s when it comes to bringing on the bliss. I’ll start with something simple.

Get thee to a waterfall.

I can’t encourage this enough. The powerful force of falling water does something to us on a cellular level. The negative hydrogen ions released from the splitting water molecules enter our bloodstream and increase our levels of serotonin — which relieves stress and depression.

Trust me. It works.

I’ve sat before a waterfall in a state of raging despair. When I left an hour or so later, no matter how devastated I was when I arrived, I left feeling serene.

My problems hadn’t gone away, but I wasn’t in a pretzel over them either.

Of course, not everybody can get to a waterfall readily without some kind of road trip involved. But if you can, do it.

If a waterfall is not readily available, any source of running water — such as rivers, creeks, or the ocean — will still be helpful. Even an indoor water fountain that makes that gurgling sound that’s agreeable to your ears will do some good.

Here’s another bliss blast that is not dependent on nature. This is not for the faint of heart. But damn, it works.

HOT Sauna followed with COLD plunge. Run HOT and COLD for several rounds.

Work up to this however you want.

Sauna for as long as you can stand it and submerge in a chill tub (I think this is far more powerful than a cold shower) for as many seconds as you can take it. Increase your time with each round. Take the heat until the sweat pours off of you, then immerse your torso, hands, feet, and head in a cold tub. The longer you do each, the more you get out of it.

Physically, this is amazing for lymphatic drainage. But emotionally, it pushes the ICK right out of you. It is impossible to feel depressed, anxious, or angry after going HOT and COLD for several rounds.

Once you get accustomed to this, you’ll find yourself craving the cold. You will find intense pleasure in the COLD the longer you stay in it.

The bliss is indescribable. You’re buzzing and floating and overwhelmed with well-being. You have to experience it for yourself to know how awesome it is.

And you’ll feel like a badass.

But there’s another juicy benefit of the practice of HOT Sauna followed with COLD Plunge.

Better Orgasms.

Which brings me to my last go-to.

Make love to yourself.

I mean that literally. What better way to love on yourself than to…well, really love on yourself?

I recommend this to everybody, even those with awesome sex lives with loving sweeties.

Who can truly be your own best lover more than you?

Use your imagination and get creative. There’s no excuse not to explore variety, because there are all kinds of books, methods, and sex toys to play with.

It’s win, Win, and WIN for anybody who takes the time and makes the effort.

Besides creating your own ecstasy with self-love and orgasms, masturbation will make you a better lover.

Beyond the obvious reasons of knowing your body and telling your inner shame monster to get lost, you’ll be more present in your body — not your head — the next time you have a lover in your bed.

So there you have some go-to’s for getting your bliss on. So get busy and love on yourself. You’ll feel better.

Oh, and wear bright colors. Click here that Ted Talk I mentioned earlier.

Flirting With Hypothermia, Part 4 - Healing Through Winter Swimming

Photo credit: StockSnap on Pixabay

This is my second season of winter swimming.

I’m much tougher than I was last year 2020/2021. I’m able to stay in the cold far longer.

But that’s not even the least of it.

2021 was a motherfucker of a year.

Abandonment, betrayal, heartbreak, and even one death for good measure, 2021 was a year of grief. I lost my core people, my first tier relationships - my former roommate, my late brother’s best friend, a lover, and one of my favorite people.

It doesn’t matter that I made my choice to let go. All of it sucked.

We sure do live in interesting times. I’m hardly alone in this.

I find comfort that most people I know have also left behind close people. Because everybody is doing the friendship shuffle, it’s been fairly easy to restructure my community. Yet every relationship and friendship is unique in and of itself, and those connections can never be replaced. Loss still brings pain.

But through it all, the river is always there. Nothing forces me into the present moment with the immediacy of cold water immersion.

That got me through some of my worst moments of last year.

At the end of September, I found out that a friend who had always inspired deep respect, died suddenly from blood clots in her lungs.

The next day, I went to the river.

The water was not in the winter temps yet, but dropping fast. The cold was just enough to wear down the numbness of shock, leaving my heart free to ache. It hardly felt like relief, but it was necessary.

A couple of days after that, I cut ties with somebody I once considered my closest friend, somebody I had loved as if she had been my family. Our friendship had eroded slowly. Our connection didn’t survive the chaos of shifting values due to the pandemic, or the insidious influence of a needy relationship.

I believe friend breakups need more time to heal. Personally, I never thought this would happen with this friend, and there’s no one swim that will make that kind of heartbreak go away, no matter how excruciating the water is.

But each swim renews me a little more, as the cold river cleanses.

A few months after an acrimonious parting of the ways, I found out that my swim buddy and lover from my first season pretty much left me for somebody else. At the time of the split, she had made me out as the villain, because she hadn’t the backbone or courage to be honest. I couldn’t sleep at all that night after seeing pictures of her with the new girlfriend for whom she had declared her love a month after we had broken up.

The next day, I went to the river.

The season was late November. The water was in the upper 40’s, the temperature when the river really starts to hurt.

It would have been so easy to make excuses, to fall into apathy, depression, with hints of anguish and despair. It didn’t help that the river was a reminder of my ex-lover.

I had to force myself to go in.

As usual, I grimaced and groaned when I walked in to my waist. When I stuck my hands in, I probably cussed somewhere between a little and a lot.

I questioned my sanity when I finally dove under water to get fully submerged from head to toe. Then I gasped in desperation while trading off between breast stroke and side stroke, dunking my head under from time to time until I grew accustomed to the brain freeze.

As always, I thought the frantic panic would last forever. But it was only a few minutes before the torture was over, and I was in the here and now of that sliver of time.

On that late November evening, the sky had been overcast, and I had gone to the river around sundown. The sky was dark, but not yet black. I remember the planes flying low overhead right after take off from the nearby airport.

I remember thinking: I feel fucking amazing. I can do this, and she can’t. (My former swim buddy had been a weak swimmer.) This is MINE.

That shift to acclimation has always been a miracle. The instant the bitter cold of the water transformed into vicious pleasure, I was staggered yet again that I had been able to cross the threshold from agony to ecstasy.

That moment was pure grace.

There’s exquisite freedom to that. Freedom of choice. Knowing that I can bring myself to euphoria whenever I want - even after my heart takes a hard knock.

I can’t even go there about my late brother’s best friend. Suffice to say, it will be a long time before I can get past my enmity of him.

But I have the river. I will always have the river.

Wim Hof is right.

The cold is our friend. Relief for just about any pain can be found there.

Every time I bury myself in the freezing temperatures of a river that could kill me, I come out a little different.

After a betrayal, a death, a shock to my system, a break in my heart, I go swimming in the cold and the world disappears. I am reborn. Even if this release lasts only for those few moments, that counts. Those moments add up.

Today I am grateful.

I am grateful that 2021 is behind me. Really, who isn’t?

I am grateful for the cold water.

I’m sure as hell grateful that I kept swimming.

As I write this, it’s the 1st day of 2022. The water is about 38.75 degrees. It’s not as cold as the coldest day I shared with my ex-lover, but the season’s not over. We might get there yet.

But it’s the coldest water of this season thus far, and it’s definitely cold enough for the baptism of rebirth.

I’m meeting one of my favorite swim buddies for this, a new friendship that is very satisfying.

We crossed paths two weeks after I cut ties with my former roommate.

The season was mid-October. The Columbia had dropped below 60 degrees, and I had just finished a 40+ minute swim in 58 degree water. My body numb and my brain frozen, I had rushed to the truck to get changed as fast as I could.

A blonde woman had just gotten out of her car with her nephew.

“How’s the water?” she asked. “Gorgeous evening for a swim. I’m about to get in.”

I was so out of it, I could barely talk. I remember slurring my words as I answered – as one often does at the edge of hypothermia. The bliss of popping endorphins made me cheery, even though I only had a grace period of 5-10 minutes to get dressed.

The conversation was brief and the exchange of phone numbers immediate. She knew I didn’t have the bandwidth for conversation. She had been winter swimming for 5 years, and had a lot more experience at this than I did.

The old saying: “When one door closes, another opens” has never been more true for me than it had been in 2021. As I let go of old friends, I made new friends very easily.

True blessings I don’t take lightly.

I met a lot of nice folks last autumn while the water temps started their seasonal drop.

I also made new friends through other avenues, I’ve deepened my connections with friends I didn’t have enough of the time and energy needed to get closer. These friends are MUCH HEALTHIER in mind and body and heart, and thus, are far less problematic than the ones I had to leave behind.

This season is a different pleasure than the season last year. There is a lot less drama. Or no drama. The vibe is more relaxed, and these new connections have potential to sink deeper roots, and perhaps last over time.

Yet through all these changes, the river has been there. The water is always ready to cleanse me, freeze off the old skin of who I had been, so I can grow into who I will be. Who I want to be.

The first thought I awaken to on this first morning of 2022 is the awareness that I am a much stronger woman than I was on the first day of 2021.

That’s something to feel good about.

I’m ready to conquer that cold.

I’m ready to conquer myself.

If anybody would like to read Flirting With Hypothermia, Part 3, please click HERE.

A Man of Unconventional Integrity

The one-year anniversary of my father’s death was March 13th. To honor the memory of his life and passing, I’m reposting this.

Thank you to those who answered my note to read this.

This particular memorial piece about my father has been on my mind for 2 months. After Dad’s funeral was canceled due to the coronavirus, this idea came to mind during the drive back to Portland from Florida. The theme is difficult, and I’ve struggled to find a graceful place to start.

I’m sure a softer, more elegant segue is possible, yet I haven’t been able to figure one out. So this begins with the last authentic connection I had with my brother before he died.

As all of you know, Robert took his life in November 2012. What many of you may not know is that Robert had made a serious attempt with an overdose of pills that almost killed him in January 2010. The reason I mention that is because it’s part of this story.

In October 2012, Robert spent a week alone with Dad at the Rice Diet Center that had once been at Duke University. Going there had been Dad’s protocol whenever his blood sugar got too out of hand, and he needed to get it down and take off some weight. Although Robert also had issues with weight as he got older, this was an unusual move. Robert had struggled in his relationship with Dad for most of his life.

In November, I called Robert to talk to him about making an offer on my house, and asked him about that week with Dad. Robert said the Rice Diet was a special kind of hell before expressing pleasant surprise that the week with Dad had gone well, and that he had enjoyed spending one-on-one time with him.

There must be something about a severe diet restriction of eating only oatmeal, rice, and fruit, while taking out meat, wheat, dairy, fat, alcohol, and sugar that brings out all kinds of feelings. From what Robert told me, those two connected and went deep.

“You know, Mary, for all the therapy and meetings with doctors and psychiatrists, Dad asked me something about my overdose that week which nobody else did. I actually had to think about it before I could answer him.”

“What did he say?”

“‘Robert, before did what you did…taking those pills…what were you thinking?’”

“How many times has Dad thought about offing himself?” I blurted that out before I knew what I was saying.

For once, Robert didn’t tease me about lacking a filter.

“That was the first thing I thought as soon as he asked me that.”

Neither of us said anything for a minute.

“I hope he finds peace someday, Mary. I bet Dad never acted on it because he couldn’t do that to us.”

Robert was probably right, because he usually was about stuff like that.

“How did you answer his question?”

“I told him, ‘I think I just felt so lonely.’”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing much. He nodded, kind of like he understood.”

Photo by Loni Knehr

I don’t claim to get every word or sentence of a conversation from 7 ½ years ago exactly right. But this is close enough to the last real talk I had with Robert before he died less than 2 weeks later.

Some of you may be shocked that I would disclose something so personal. Please know that I gave this a lot of thought. I considered the personalities of Dad and Robert from various angles and how they would react to me sharing this. And my gut feeling tells me they would be okay with it.

Privacy had never been a top priority in how Dad and Robert approached life, and both of them were remarkably open people. I believe they’d even be supportive, especially knowing the why.

I chose to share that moment between Dad and Robert as it was confided to me because it indicates qualities my father possessed in great measure, which he received little credit for while he was alive – integrity and fortitude.

This is not the only story I could have shared that highlights Dad’s integrity, but it is the only one that immediately came to mind that didn’t hang somebody else out to dry. Dad would never have consented to me sharing anything like that.

This memorial is the 2nd of 3 pieces I’m working on to remember Dad and say good-bye in a way that honors him as he has deserved for a long time. The 1st and 3rd (not yet written) are intended for an audience of friends and family who knew my father, and loved him.

However, this piece is written for those who didn’t.

Besides Robert’s friends and mine, if you received a link to this, you were a part of the College Park/Winter Park/Country Club social group from my adolescence, and you happen to be one of my Facebook friends. It’s a short list – only 6 of you.

Some of your parents judged my father none too kindly, and in some cases, that judgment passed down to some of you. For the record, I don’t have an issue with anybody who didn’t see Dad in a favorable light. And if I did, that would make me a hypocrite.

For decades, a lot of people thought of Dad as an immoral-sonofabitch-who-didn’t-give-a-damn-about-anybody-but-himself. Unfortunately, my brothers and I were a part of that, and we treated Dad like shit for a long time.

I’m ashamed of that. In many respects, I realize this wasn’t my fault. I was way too young to deal with those aspects of my parents’ marriage and divorce that should have stayed between them. As was Robert. Chances are excellent that some of your judgment about Dad came from us. I remember confiding – or venting, really – to some of you when I was a kid. And I know Robert did his fair share too.

The question asked of me about my father the most often throughout my life was: “How can you respect him?”

My answer? I respect my father from the depths of my soul.

I wouldn’t have said that until a little over 10 years ago.  

Dad is not an easy man to defend. He was pretty scandalous back in the day. His excesses were shocking, and as a husband, he put both Mom and Terry through the wringer. I’m not making excuses for his flaws. But I am saying his flaws were not the truth of who he was.

It’s a hard sell in some ways to present Dad as a man of substance and strong character. Dad did not live by the classical checklist of good behavior. Monogamy was not one of his virtues. Neither were abstinence, moderation, or equanimity. His vices and lesser moments were often in the spotlight, whereas his qualities were behind the scenes.

And that’s the kicker. Integrity comes in many forms and so many people don’t know that Dad was an awesome person who had his standards that he lived by because he held the best parts of himself inside, and did what he did without drawing attention to it.

Today is Robert’s birthday. I’m pretty sure he would have liked it if y’all would give your time to learn about some of Dad’s finer attributes. I know I would.

Tolerance:

Dad was one of the most accepting, live-and-let-live people I’ve ever known. He took people as they were, and was not one to judge and point fingers. He was also friends with gays (through Terry) and lesbians (through the bridge world) for decades.

About 15 years ago, a friend and I went to see Dad and Terry at their place in Lake Tahoe to go snowboarding and celebrate New Year’s. Friends of theirs, Hugh and Barbara Jones, were also going to be there.

My early attempts at coming out as bisexual/queer/gay had been often brushed off with “Oh Mary!” until my brothers started gossiping about it. Anyway, Jenn and I had been very close, but not as a couple. However, Dad didn’t know that because rumor had it otherwise.

When I talked to him about coming, Dad informed me that Hugh and Barbara would have the room with twin beds. When he pointed out that Jenn and I would be in the room with a double bed, he talked fast and stammered a lot like he always did when he was nervous.

That made me wonder, but whatever.

So Jenn and I went to Tahoe where Dad and Terry, and Hugh and Barbara thought we were a couple. That really wasn’t as awkward as it sounds. Except for a head-scratching moment here and there, like when Terry said she loved Jenn because she could see how much Jenn loved me – a good time was had by all, Jenn gave me some good pointers on riding my board, and later, I figured out what everybody had been thinking.

But the lasting impression that stayed with me was Dad’s immediate acceptance and support. Without saying a word, the message I received from him was “All good here. I just want you to be happy.”

That kind of puts him way ahead of his time, don’t you think?

Wisdom:

Dad was one of those who watched the goings on around him and kept his mouth shut. Really, that is a magnificently subtle act of wisdom in and of itself. God knows how many hassles and minefields he side-stepped because of that MO. But Dad never fought battles he knew he’d never win, and he tried to teach me to do the same.

But some lessons need to be learned the hard way. It hasn’t been until recently that I understood his reasons behind that.

By the way, when he did speak his mind about a person or a situation, Dad was seldom wrong. He pretty much called it every time. The first memorial piece I wrote tells those stories about Dad and his sage take on things. I’ll embed the link at the end of this for anybody who would like to keep reading and check it out.

Sensitivity:

Where do you think Robert got his sensitivity from?

Because of the nature of what’s expected of men of his generation and his life in business, this was not a side of Dad that was often seen. His presence was imposing, and I’ve lost count of all the times people have told me that my father intimidated or scared the hell out of them. That image was nothing more than an illusion.

The reality was that Dad was extremely shy, he struggled to connect emotionally, and his feelings were easily hurt. But he also hurt when he witnessed the suffering of others. One time, when we were out to lunch, he told me about an acquaintance who was terrified because his retirement did not last him the rest of his life. His wife had gotten ill and died, which ate up a lot of money, he was nearly out, and didn’t know what he was going to do.

“He said he retired with $2.5 million. You would think that’d be more than enough for anything that would come up, but it wasn’t.”

Dad was shocked and clearly upset about this man’s predicament, someone who was not a close friend, somebody he knew casually.

Forthrightness:

Once I was an adult, Mom shared more with me about the last two weeks of their marriage before Dad moved out. At this point, both were ready to stop lying to themselves and talked long into the night, every night, after putting us to bed.

Mom said she wanted Dad home more and no more mistresses.

Dad said: “That’s the nature of the beast and I’m not going to change. Your choice is whether you can live with it or not.” He was never one to mince words.

Of course that was not the answer Mom wanted. But Dad gave her the truth and there’s something to be said for that.

Which brings me to…

Honesty:

And at his core, he was. When he wasn’t covering his ass in his personal life, Dad was as honest as they came.

Years ago, I was knee deep in conversation about our families with somebody from this social group. The flow of conversation took an unexpected turn when she asked me if Dad had ever been in the mafia. To say I was taken aback would be an understatement.

“What?! The closest Dad ever came to being in the mafia was watching The Godfather too many times.”

“But how did he get in?” (making connections to do business in Florida)

“Bill Demetree. And they don’t get more pure or morally upright than him.”

Where business was concerned, Mrs. Demetree once told me that Mr. Demetree had always felt at ease in his dealings with my family. She said: “Bill always said: “I never have to worry about a thing whenever I do business with the Mahaffeys.’”

Is it so hard to believe doors would open readily for a man like this?

Drive:

In regards to that conversation, the woman I was talking to nodded, and we moved on to other subjects. There had been no malice or spite in her manner, only curiosity. I appreciate that she had been open with me like that.

But that stuck with me; and the more I thought about it, the more it bothered me.

Although it’s possible her perception of Dad came solely from her imagination, I have always found that most of our opinions and beliefs are formed within the collective of which we are a part. I can’t help but wonder about the source where she came up with my father and the mafia.

It’s one thing to judge Dad for things he actually did. It’s another to strip him of the recognition for spectacular achievements that he earned legitimately. That is going way too far.

Carlton Towers Opening, St. Petersburg Times - Dad, Mom, Nana, Dado.

As ugly and acrimonious as my parents’ divorce had been, Mom always gave Dad credit for his work ethic, and the 20 hard years of working his butt off to build up the family company. So it never occurred to me that others wouldn’t.

Dad was a self-made man in the truest sense of that phrase. Nobody becomes that without intense drive, focus, the willingness to work hard, not to mention the gift of high intelligence.

Dad might have been crazy sometimes, but he was always brilliant. The Mahaffey Company would never have happened without him.

And last but not least…

Fortitude:

The first thing that comes to mind when I think of ‘fortitude’ is emotional endurance, the kind of strength that lasts over a long period of time. To be sure, I googled the definition and found “courage in pain or adversity.”

Not what I expected, but I don’t think one cancels out the other. To combine both, there is no denying that Dad showed courage in pain and adversity that he endured for about half his life.

Try to imagine what it would be like to go through life and not be seen for who you truly are. Try to imagine what it would be like to know that your reputation marks you as a piece of shit - and your kids believe it - all while knowing you are a better person. Try to imagine what it would be like to know there’s nothing you can do about it. If you tried to defend yourself, speak up with your side of the story, you’d know it would be ineffective and you’d only appear weak.

So what comes to mind? Think you can live with that? Dad did for over 40 years.

Robert was the first to acknowledge there was more to Dad than all the reasons he was so angry with him.

“I found out that Dad was far more honorable than any of us ever knew.”

Robert did not elaborate about what he meant by that, but I suspect he heard some stories after he went to work for the company. One thing is for certain, Dad never abandoned his kids. As unkindly as we treated him, he never closed the door on us.

Even if our opinions of him improved over time, a lot of damage had already been done. It’s impossible to get those years back with the original bonds intact. There was always distance between us and him. For somebody like Dad, who struggled to forge the connection he craved, that had to have been excruciating.

Kind of puts a different spin on the driving force behind his excesses and lesser moments, doesn’t it?

I don’t know if this will shift anybody’s opinion of my father for the better. But I’d like to think that maybe some kindness, compassion, and even respect would be inspired for this complicated man, this wounded soul, and multi-faceted human being who had been strong enough to live through his hell.

I haven’t been a christian for a long time, but I remember it clearly stated in the bible to not judge, and this is why. Human understanding is too meager for anybody to qualify for that job.

At the end of the road, we all need redemption.

Dad wasn’t only a better man than anybody knew. He was extraordinary.

If you’ve come this far, thank you so much for your time and attention. If you feel so moved, please share this with others and pass it on.

Peace.

Here is “Nuggets of Wisdom From My Father” if you’d like to read it.

Journey of a Thousand Cranes, Part 5

Photo by me. I really wish I’d taken pictures right after I put the cranes up.

When my count was at 900 cranes, I slowed down in the folding of them. 

I was anxious about the wish because I realized how much I wanted it to come true, even if I didn’t know what I was wishing for. 

But the folding, meditating, and focusing on love and my personal roadblocks to it was confusing.

I was reluctant to let go of my initial motivation to be a conquest diva. I wrote in my journal about it incessantly and I decided any one of three things had to happen to prove the wish had come true.

And then I was done. 

In several boxes were a thousand cranes that took me four months to fold, not including all the ones I gave away. 

I wasn’t in a hot new relationship by the time I finished, and my phone was not ringing off the hook with people yearning to take me out on splendid dates. 

I finished my semester in the outdoor studies program I was enrolled in, and rented a ladder and platform to complete the art project.

Heather, one of the friends who had taught me how to make the cranes, came over and helped me put up the white Christmas lights that I lined along the ceiling and down the 90° corners and across the bottom of the walls to illuminate the paper cranes in soft golden light. 

After that, I was on my own. Grabbing a box of cranes that had been folded in tie-dye patterns, I started with the narrow wall in the stairwell and pinned a bird to the top left corner and pinned two cranes below that one.

From there, the project just finished itself. 

It is impossible to describe how I felt in that process, but there was no “I” putting up the paper cranes flying in full circle from the kimono from which they came. 

I put the kimono Jeff had sent me up at the top of the staircase, with one arm spread out, one arm bent akimbo, and one half of the front opened, with cranes coming out of the neck, the shoulders, the arms and the bottom, in formation and ready to fly. 

With each turn in the wall, lined up according to species – solid color, tie-dye, manuscript, book, or magazine - the paper cranes flew in formation towards the stairwell, whipping to the left, and to the left again, over the banister to fly back to the Mother Kimono. 

Creatively, this was the most satisfying thing I had ever done and the end result was really something.

“This is absolutely stunning,” said my neighbor, Jacque, as she stood at the top of the staircase and gaped “It’s overwhelming.”

It was the middle of December. I threw a Christmas ‘n Cranes party to celebrate. All my core friends showed up and many people have visited since to see it. 

I had just finished the project late that afternoon, so I was pretty exhausted at my own party. 

But looking around, I saw that I had a very diverse group of colorful characters for friends, and I didn’t have to do for them to get them to like me. 

Something definitely changed as a result of this wishing meditation.

I didn’t get what I wished for, but what happened was probably what I needed. 

And it was definitely what I focused on the most. 

As I said before, I fumed and raged inside at my family while I was folding paper. And I’d been having problems with them for a couple of years. 

I could no longer stand to be in the shadows, watching, listening, and wringing my hands over their doings and dramas. 

As conflicts like this usually go, my parents and brothers were united in keeping the status quo alive and me in the same role I’d always played. 

I was expected in Florida for the holidays.

The night before my flight, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned and agonized.

I knew I didn’t want to go, and I was exhausted from accommodating people who had always been so wrapped up in themselves they were oblivious, and possibly indifferent, to the pain they caused. 

I dreaded going back to the state I grew up in. 

At four in the morning, I gave up trying to sleep. So I got out of bed to make some tea. As I got to the staircase, I flipped the switch and immediately felt better.

Does not do them justice. But it’s all I have.

The cranes were flying in the golden light and the effect was incredibly peaceful. I sat in the middle of the stairs, leaned back, and stared at the paper birds I’d folded for four months and put up for two days.

“What is the point of doing all this work, if I keep doing the same thing?”

That question came from deep inside me as I stared at my work. I realized that nothing would ever change unless I did. 

I didn’t get on the plane.

It was one of the most exhilarating and frightening things I’d ever done, and I had no idea if I was doing the right thing. In fact, I wouldn’t receive the validation that I had made the best and healthiest decision a few months later.

I wish I could claim that my family had an epiphany as a result of this. I would have loved it if they became the loving parents and supportive siblings out of an orphan’s wet dream.

They didn’t.

But that was my first step towards empowerment. That step led to another, and another until I felt the satisfaction of being a stronger woman who treats herself like she’s worth something.

Some of them have come around to treating me with more respect.  Even if they are still wrapped up in themselves, they don’t expect me to be. 

The jury’s still out, but things are looking up.

As for my original wish, I’ll just say it’s always a mistake to insist the Universe prove itself. 

The following months after the Christmas n’ Cranes party were the last roar of the dinosaur just before it expired. 

I pursued every type of mistake I had ever made, in an aggressive campaign to make self-centered narcissists ache with desire for wonderful, lucky-in-love me. 

In response, the Universe whacked me upside the head until I came to my senses.

I can’t say that I’m bitter about that.  What was I thinking?

I’ve had some fun dates, but I don’t have a line of people pounding on my door to take me out on a Saturday night. 

Maybe there’s something bigger at work here that I don’t understand. 

Maybe it’s my destiny to fly solo in life. 

I feel more comfortable as I embrace the role of a woman unto herself and I no longer see myself as a failure for it. 

I think my relationship with love has become much healthier and if somebody special comes along, I think I’ll be ready to contribute to something real. 

In the meantime, I’m in love with my freedom.

Maybe folding cranes is a healing thing to do, after all.

And maybe I should have just asked for a good relationship. 

Journey of a Thousand Cranes, Part 4

Image by 1278956 from Pixabay 

When I had folded over 700 cranes I realized I wasn’t sure what I was wishing for. 

Was I wishing for love? 

Or power? 

The standard definition for the expression “lucky in love,” was somebody who had her pick of many desirable lovers - a very powerful position to be in. 

That was tantalizing. 

Or did I want to be a world-class seductress, powerful enough to finally win over those beloveds who had always been out of reach? 

That would be proof of my redemption. 

My wishing meditation to become “lucky in love” made me face just how unhealthy my perspective on love really was. 

And knowing my stance was toxic, and…well…unloving…made it much more difficult to play the usual role with the people at the root of that. 

I have come to appreciate the expression “family of origin” as well as its implied meaning that true family is found elsewhere for those who had to make that distinction.

In my family of origin, it was always about somebody else. Drama was the focus in a family where everybody was proud to be crazy. 

As the least powerful and least valuable member of my family of origin, my dutiful role was to be the the watcher enthralled with the chaos stirred up by the colorful people around me, or the peacemaker who listened and make soothing, agreeable noises in the fights and crises that were constant. 

I caused little, if any, trouble, and received as little, if any, attention from the others. If I tried, I was either brushed off or shut down. My main source of approval was from my role to and for the others, not in and of myself. 

I was the good one, but the others were fascinating.

How can anybody be lucky in love with a start like that?

Many times when I folded cutout photos from magazines, excerpts from my abandoned novel, and yellowed pages from the book of one of my favorite writers, I wasn’t in a loving frame of mind. 

I was enraged at those who had brought me to where I was – folding paper in the hopes that maybe things could get better. And I wasn’t just obsessing over family members, false friends, and selfish lovers.

I was angry with myself for my own participation. 

In the meantime, my paper cranes were really beautiful. 

My folds had become very precise; and the designs on them from the manuscript pages, the novel pages, and the photographs were unique - no two cranes were alike. I was excited about being done with the paper birds so I could finally put them up on the wall. 

I wasn’t the only one who appreciated them. 

Going around town, I’d occasionally see cranes I’d folded and given away. 

They were taped to the computer at the hairdresser and the florist, to the cash register at the café where I got my mocha, and the bakery where I got my bagels. 

In colleagues’ offices, I’d see them tucked between the stalks of a plant, or peering at the top of a framed print. 

It was very satisfying to see them because that told me that they were truly appreciated. I’m sure most of the cranes I gifted ended up in the garbage.

But I saw enough of them out that I felt a recognition I never knew I craved.

When my count was at 800 cranes, I was on a camping trip with my philosophy class. Yet I still brought paper to fold. 

Everybody knew what I was doing, but nobody knew what my wish was. 

One of my classmates asked me if I’d heard about the true story, “Sadako and the Thousand Cranes.” 

Allie explained that Sadako had been a twelve-year-old girl born with leukemia in Hiroshima after WWII. Her wish was to be healed and live, but she died before she finished folding a thousand cranes. 

After her death, her classmates finished the project for her and she was buried with all the cranes and a statue was erected in her honor. 

That is how the crane has become a universal symbol for peace and the devastation of war. 

As poignant as that story is, I was distressed at the time I heard it, and then I felt guilty for being so selfish. 

On a deep level, Sadako’s wish has come true, because a part of her lives on every time somebody folds a crane – even me, with my shallow desires. 

But she still died. 

And so did Jeff’s mother. 

I just wanted to date on a regular basis. I didn’t want to have to die to have a mob of people pining for me.

When my count was at 900 cranes, I slowed down in the folding of them. 

I was anxious about the wish because I realized how much I wanted it to come true, even if I didn’t know what I was wishing for. 

Journey of a Thousand Cranes, Part 3

Image by Anja🤗#helpinghands #solidarity#stays healthy🙏 from Pixabay

Meditation is a strange trip, leading to unexpected places within one’s psyche. 

Modern day spirituality – call it New Age or not - has called out fear as the opposite of love, and our problems come down to being in a state of fear and not love. 

That sounds like an easy problem to take care of, and I wish it were that simple. But it’s not. 

I think the opposite of love is all about power, the aphrodisiac of the ego.  

Power is far more seductive than fear.

The more I’ve experienced and the more I’ve observed within the dysfunctional arena of love, I’ve found that power is the enemy. Our most basic good and evil struggles is the tug of war between the two. 

I think most of us can remember not so much the one who got away, so much as the one who was never caught.

Can’t you still picture that would-be beloved who was always out of reach?

Can you still feel the residual of past yearning churning in you belly? 

“Why doesn’t he call?” 

“Why is she so distant?”

“How can they not love me when I’m so good to them?”

Maybe the reason was because there is pleasure to receiving the love without giving any back. Maybe you weren’t challenging enough. 

Power.

On a less romantic note, can’t most of us think of a time when we did something we knew was wrong, but were tempted by the short-term benefits? 

How many of us acknowledged it to the person wronged with a sincere apology? 

Was the burden of your conscience enough to direct you to the high road? 

Even after the long term consequences were starting to demand pay back? 

Enough said. 

In any unhealthy group – family, work, friendship, relationship - in the struggle between love and pride, power usually wins because who wants to surrender in a struggle? 

Power feeds the ego at the starvation of the heart, but the more powerful in toxic groups ignore that painful stress to couple, family, and even community welfare. 

The powerful get their strokes and that satisfies. Guess who gets stuck paying off the emotional tab, and guess what gets used to hook you?

After all, don’t you want them to be happy? 

If you truly loved them, of course you would.

Yet don’t they want you to be happy? 

But you should be happy, for you’re given a place in their lives and how can that not make you feel loved? 

I speak from experience and my track record proves it. 

My significant relationships were with extremely self-centered people.  These men never considered my feelings in the way things were supposed to go in the relationship. 

When it came to “fixing” our problems, the focus was on their malcontent and my inadequacy. As an extension of him, I wasn’t supposed to be unhappy, and if I was, I should just get over it because there was certainly nothing wrong with him. 

And the awful part is that I accepted that dynamic until I was so miserable I extricated myself from the tar baby. That is always a torture.

Such were my thoughts and memories as I folded paper.

Around 500 cranes, I noticed that the traveling gym rat had not responded to the letter I wrote about an incredible kayaking trip I had taken. 

As I focused on that, I fumed that this project was a stupid idea on the day I got a package from Jeff, the friend who had first told me about folding the cranes. 

Inside the package was a blue kimono and a note explaining that he had gotten it for me a year and a half ago in Tokyo, and how sorry he was it had taken so long to send it on. 

But the kicker was on the kimono – it was covered with cranes in flight.

My jaw had to be picked up off the floor.

Since the Buddha said there are no coincidences - and I respect the Buddha - I took it as a sign to hold the faith and keep folding.

By 600 cranes, I had gotten really creative. Cutting out equidistant squares from magazines and photographs made for some far more unique, one-of-a-kind cranes.

One morning, I sitting on the ground in the long line of people who had gotten there early for the annual ski swap – the one chance every year to get good gear cheap. People practically camp out to be one of the first in line.

I sat on the ground, and folded paper as I waited with everybody else. 

A man sitting nearby noticed and told me that he and some friends had made a thousand cranes out of gold paper for a Japanese couple about to get married. It was a traditional thing to do and according to legend, it brought good luck to the newlyweds.

“These are nice folds,” he said, picking up one of my paper birds.        

My road to love has suffered many gridlocks as I dated the no-good’uns and ne’er-do-wells. There were nice guys who asked me out and sometimes I dated one and they were always a pleasure to be around. 

But there was always a reason why it wouldn’t last. And frankly, that reason was because I wouldn’t give them a real chance. 

Of all my self-destructive patterns when it came to love, I had to see all the time wasted for what it was – wasted time – every time I yearned for the love who was out of reach, falling madly in love for the friend who liked me well enough, but just wasn’t interested. 

That disinterest put him on a pedestal high above me and I pined more than ever, paying no mind to the suitors who offered something real.    

When I had folded over 700 cranes I realized I wasn’t even sure what I was wishing for. 

Journey of a Thousand Cranes, Part 2

Image by t_s_l from Pixabay

“Your cranes are beautiful,” she said.  “What are you going to do with them?”

I hadn’t thought about that. 

I had folded over two hundred of them, and they were starting to pile up. 

And then I got a vision of my paper cranes flying up the stairs as they were stuck to my wall. 

I had bought a townhouse condo with a tremendous wall space, and for two years, that space had me stumped. 

Since the small upstairs bedroom didn’t extend across the stairwell, the main wall at the bottom of the steps was fourteen feet from floor to ceiling, and at the top, it was seven feet. The wall space was 270°, resulting in a wrap-around effect as it turned in the narrow width of the stairwell and turned again where the outside wall of the small bedroom faced the main wall of the staircase. 

With such a big space to play with, I wanted something more special than the usual pictures, posters, or prints. I couldn’t think of anything, so I did nothing and that massive wall space remained bare.

All of a sudden, my wishing meditation had a purpose. 

Not only was this going to change my life, it was now art in the making. 

I went from origami paper to folding photos from magazines, yellowed pages from my favorite book, bright white pages from my abandoned novel to make the cranes that would transform my staircase and make it magical. 

I folded cranes everywhere I went and got a lot of people’s attention. 

I gave them away at random for I had so many and it seemed like good karma. I left them with the tip in restaurants I ate in, to the barista who made my mocha, to the florist who arranged the flowers. I gave them to classmates, to friends, to strangers.

At work, I covered for the receptionist for a week, and my respite supervisor sulked when I gave other colleagues a crane and didn’t think of her.  So of course, I let her pick her favorite. 

I’d look up from wherever I was and see somebody smiling at me as I folded those cranes bringing me closer and closer to my wish. 

The anti-war movement had a dedicated following here in Juneau, and I strongly suspect many people thought I was folding peace cranes in protest to the President (George W at the time). 

But I was only thinking of myself.

Around 300 cranes, a good-looking bad boy entered my sphere. 

I thought he was obnoxious, but I also thought I could get him if I wanted to. We disliked each other, but our conversations were loaded with energy because we didn’t agree on anything. 

It was exciting.

I also had my eye on a gym rat with a questionable reputation - sought after and commitment afraid. What a conquest! 

We had a couple of dates; and it didn’t matter that the gym rat was leaving town to travel for six months - I was elated. I was finally on my way to being lucky in love. 

And it occurred to me that I didn’t even know what that meant 

When I first made my wish, the image I had in mind of what it was to be lucky in love was to win over the ones I yearned for. 

But the more I observed those sought after beloveds, it was obvious that they were not the ones who yearned.

Most of them were good people. 

Others were nice in some ways and not so nice in others. And there were plenty of beloveds that had all kinds of unlovable attributes – shallow, vain, self-absorbed, rude, vicious, cruel, selfish. 

The list could go on and on, but they all had one thing in common. They loved themselves. It didn’t matter whether it was too much or just enough, but matters of the heart were not something they fretted over as they went about their day. 

One morning, I was folding cranes in my favorite breakfast joint, occasionally catching a phrase here and there from the table across mine by two out of town men who were in Juneau for a hunting trip. 

The cell phone of the man facing me rang; he answered and sounded very happy to have been interrupted. 

The person on the other end was probably his wife and I believe his child was also on, because he ended each chat with “I love you.” 

Of course, that got my attention. 

He seemed like such a good man and I was so struck by the ordinary scene I recorded it in my journal, where I wrote that the people who were his wife and child were very lucky indeed. 

Meditation is a strange trip, leading to unexpected places within one’s psyche. 

Journey of a Thousand Cranes, Part I

Image by Vibeke Lundberg from Pixabay 

I once folded a thousand cranes because I wanted to be lucky in love. 

Having had more runs of datelessness than I needed for inner strength, along with an unpleasant run-in with my last mistake at the wedding of mutual friends, I determined that when it came to love, I was cursed. 

At the time, I was convinced that the Universe owed me the exciting love life that was long overdue. So, ignoring my usual frustration with things that require patience and precision, I started folding paper. 

It took several lessons by two different teachers, but I was finally able to fold the origami crane.

Years before, a friend whose mother had died from cancer told me about a project when he and his sister worked together to fold a thousand cranes during the illness. They had hid them all over the house and presented their mother with a scroll explaining the cranes they had folded for her healing. 

Of course, she was touched to the point of tears - and who wouldn’t be?  For months, she’d find a crane in a coffee cup or in the cabinet when she reached for laundry detergent, which reminded her of the gift from her kids. 

I was intrigued by the story and asked Jeff to show me how to make a crane. We were out, having drinks in New Orleans. He tried to fold his cocktail napkin into a bird.

But he couldn’t get the hang of it - either because the paper was too flimsy, or his brain was from the alcohol, so my first lesson never got off the ground. 

They say that when the student is ready the teacher will come. 

Years later, I was in Chicago, “breaking rice” with a friend and one of her oldest friends, George, who was Japanese. Somehow the subject came up about folding cranes, and I vaguely remembered it as a “healing” thing to do.

“Folding a thousand cranes makes wishes come true,” said George as we finished our sushi.

The light bulb flashed on in my mind. Everybody has something they’ve always wanted, and I was no exception.

This was in the summer of 2003.

At that time, my life was full. 

Between summer work as a hiking guide, winter work with the disabled, and going back to school for an outdoor studies program, I had a lot going on. 

But, like many single people who were not in a relationship, I wanted to be. I was loath to admit this, but I was also more than a little anxious at my relative powerlessness to change that. 

There was a part of me that believed I had failed as a woman by not being married or in a domestic partnership.

“Get on the Internet,” people said. “There are tons of people out there.”

Sound advice, I had to admit. Yet for various reasons, I was reluctant to go there. One of them being I lived in SE Alaska, and the internet was still viewed with suspicion by many.

So I figured I’d fold a thousand cranes and my problem would be solved. 

As soon as I was back in Juneau, I sought out a friend who was an art teacher and who had lived in Japan for a year. 

My instincts were right. Heather knew how to fold the crane and she gave me my first two lessons. 

A couple of days later, I got lost around the tenth fold and my crane had floppy wings. 

That was when I crossed paths with a yoga teacher active in the peace-love-anti-war movement. 

Of course, she knew how to make the crane, and I received my third and final lesson. I think it helped that she also showed me a breathing technique to calm me down when I got frustrated. 

That was when I got it. I had finally mastered the crane and was good to go.

But what do I wish for? 

I knew I wanted to be in a relationship, but I also knew that I was feeling… ambivalent. 

And ambivalent feelings like mine tend to put the kabash on relationships working out. 

I figured that if I was going to go to the trouble of folding a thousand pieces of paper into cranes, I should ask for something that had long-term value and to keep the request simple. 

As a meditation, I knew from experience this would likely result in more than I asked for. I thought of those people who always have a relationship or options to get into one. I knew I wanted to be one of them.

So I wished to be lucky in love and started folding paper with gusto. 

I was obsessed.

This project consumed me. I folded a minimum of 10 cranes a day. 

By the time I’d folded around 100 cranes, it looked as if my wishing meditation was getting results. 

I met somebody attractive, nice…and single on one of my tours. 

We clicked and made a date after the tour, which ended with a walk on the only sandy beach in the city and borough of Juneau on Douglas Island. 

Rather a peculiar spot for romance, given that the “sand” was from mining tailings, and the glory hole where we hung out on a petrified log, was born from the flooding and caving in of the Treadwell Mine in 1917. 

Between the shut-down of the largest gold mine in the world at that time, and the dumping into the glory hole thereafter, that area is one of the most toxic spots in the country.

But you would never know it to be there, even if you had to be careful where you stepped because there were rusted out mining tools, broken dishes, and other parts on the beach.   

The history of the area was the last thing on my mind, however…

Sandy Beach was conveniently near my home, which was part of my master plan. We ended our date making out in my living room until it was time for the ship to sail. 

After an exchange of email addresses, we parted, and I was sure that was only the beginning.    

Initially, I bought the brightly colored origami paper at a few dollars a pop, in all kinds of patterns. 

I folded cranes in cafés, at the bowling alley with one of my clients, in class when I was bored, outside in my yard on those rare sunny days in Southeast Alaska where it’s a cardinal sin to be inside when you don’t have to be. 

It was on one of those days when my neighbor Jacque asked me about them as I was folding away. 

I had a tattered wicker table with an underbelly and was sticking the cranes by the tail in the holes between the webbing as I finished. The faded occasional table was rendered festive with the bright birds sticking out of it.

“Your cranes are beautiful,” she said.  “What are you going to do with them?”

Nuggets of Wisdom From My Father

One of my favorite memories of Dad was at my cousin’s wedding.

Tag was the first to get married in our generation of the family. Aunt Ann and Uncle Bill (divorced by this time, but united as Mother and Father of the Groom) went all out.

Tag’s wedding was in an old, cavernous cathedral in Indianapolis. Majestic, with stained glass windows and soaring ceilings, the wedding was elegant and stately.

I was going through a camera-crazy phase. I had a flat, horizontal, Kodak Instamatic with a flash that blinded and stunned. That camera was small, but mighty. And I took pictures of everything.

This was only my second wedding. I didn’t know taking pictures in the middle of a dignified wedding ceremony was not the thing to do because nobody had told me.

So I stood up from the pew right before Tag and JoJo were about to recite their vows, aimed my camera for the altar, and bam!

I sat down next to Dad, who immediately started laughing, and covered his face with his hand in an attempt to hide it.

It didn’t work.

Even though Dad had mastered the art of the near-silent snigger, his quaking shoulders gave him away.

Aunt Ann and Uncle Bill turned around and gave me the look and glared at Dad, who kept laughing.

In fact, Dad didn’t stop laughing for the rest of the ceremony.

Another father would have scolded, reprimanded, or at least corrected their kid for the social gaffe, but not him.

This was not the only time Dad handled something in an unexpected manner.

In high school, I started the unfortunate habit of smoking.

Of course, I got caught.

Robert and I lived with Dad and Terry during the summers while we were in high school when Mom worked in North Carolina. In an attempt to hide my new bad habit, I flushed the cigarette nubs – or thought I did.

Terry saw the bloated butts in my bathroom toilet, and asked me about them. She made it clear she wasn’t big on keeping secrets from Dad, and would tell him.

I was smoking in his boat right before that dreaded conversation.

The boat was a great place to smoke on the sly. The dock was at the end of the backyard, with a shelter over it, and far enough from the house that I could see whoever was coming before they got a good look at me.

Anyway, I remember Dad had his leg in a cast that evening. He’d broken his ankle and then made the injury worse when he had rushed across an airport because he was always late to catch a plane.

As soon as I saw him hobbling down the yard, I tossed my lit cigarette in the water.

Dad raised his brows and didn’t bother making his way to the dock.

“So I hear you started smoking.”

I nodded, my stomach in knots, and wondered how long I would be grounded.

“How much are you smoking per day?”

“I don’t know. Maybe half a pack.”

I didn’t think that was unusual at the time, but damn! That was a helluva lot of smoking for somebody who had started a few months before.

Mom, Dad, and Terry were all smokers. But Dad was the one who wasn’t addicted.

He could smoke Lucky Strike non-filters like a dragon – usually when he was stressed out. But then he’d just stop as if he’d grown bored of it.

“You know, Mary, smoking is a terrible habit and I wish you hadn’t started. But when I was your age, I was allowed to smoke in front of my parents and my teachers. So, if you’re going to smoke, smoke. Don’t sneak around and hide it.”

To Dad’s credit, he kept a straight face and didn’t laugh at the look on mine. I was so floored I couldn’t say a word.

Mom was displeased when she heard because she saw it as giving permission, which made smoking too easy for me.

She had a point.

I did smoke openly from then on until I quit almost 20 years ago, yet I still disagreed with her because I thought it was awesome. I more strongly disagree with Mom now because I know Dad’s approach was not just awesome, but even kind of brilliant.

The choice to smoke was one of my first adult decisions; and even if it was a bad decision, it was mine to make. By stepping aside, Dad settled the responsibility of that choice on me.

Not to mention that sneaking around is degrading. When has that ever motivated anybody to change an unhealthy habit into a wholesome one?

But back to that moment when I was a 16-year-old in a boat, stunned with the realization that I was not in any trouble.

Yeah, I didn’t see that coming.

I guess it’s true what I’ve always heard that we never fully recognize and appreciate the gifts somebody imparted to us until after they’re gone.

Growing up with Dad as my dad was definitely an unusual experience. Jim Mahaffey was not a conventional man by the stretch of even the most vivid imagination, especially considering the time and place he came from.

In many respects, he was light years ahead of his time. His nuggets of wisdom were singular, and I’m fairly certain I could have only learned these particular life lessons from him.

It shouldn’t surprise anybody that one of those wisdom nuggets had to do with money – particularly around lending money.

Over 20 years ago, I worked as a bartender in New Orleans, on Bourbon Street, for the last of the “old-time” families who used to run the French Quarter.

The reward for that job had more to do with the experience of the colorful, crazy characters I worked with. Where money was concerned, I would have made 3 times as much for nearly half the hours at any other bar in the French Quarter.

That bartending gig was the hardest job I ever had, as well as the most demanding and draining. It consumed 50-70 hours of my blood, sweat, and tears every week.

When a “friend,” (not somebody I worked with) had some crisis and asked for a loan of close to a $1000 – the last $1000 I would earn before the miserably hot and slow months of summer – my gut and one of my co-workers said this was a bad idea, but I lent her the money anyway.

It did not end well, and I had no way to get that hard-earned money back.

I was pissed off and bitter about that. And embarrassed.

On my next visit to Florida, I bitched incessantly. Dad listened patiently while I dumped my whines, snivels, and other grievances.

“You never lend money, Mary. Either you give it or you don’t.”

“I didn’t give her the money! That’s-”

He cut me off.

“That’s my point. If somebody asks for a loan, you don’t lend them the money, you give it to them.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It would if you’d listen. If you think of every ‘loan’ as a gift, first you have to consider whether you can afford to be so generous. Whenever you lend money, most of the time you won’t get it back. So let it go. Obsessing about it will only make you miserable and crazy.”

Best. Advice. Ever.

That was not the last time I was confronted with somebody asking for a loan here and there. But that perspective transformed how I handled it.

And for the record, I have been paid back almost every time – usually after I had completely forgotten about my gift to them which had been their loan from me.

I did not receive this next wisdom nugget from Dad readily or easily. In fact, I resisted this thing that he lectured me about for most of my life.

Dad had always been a man with a plan. And he asked me about mine pretty much every time I talked to him.

“So…Mary, what’s your plan?”

“Do you have a plan? Well you need a plan, so get with it.”

“This isn’t going to work, Mary. So. What. Is. Your. Plan?”

These were a few of the variations on the same question and my usual reply was a long and drawn out “Daaadddd…” with an eye roll.

I was all for living in the moment. Plans were rigid, and the killer of spontaneity. So I took Dad’s fixation on “having a plan” as a rain on my parade.

Until the night he shared more insight. This was about 7 years ago. Dad was in the hospital and he asked me what my plan was yet again.

“Don’t have one, Dad. Just living.”

“That’s too bad. A Jesuit priest taught me about how crucial it was to have a plan when I was in high school. He said if I always had a plan, I’d be way ahead of 97% of the guys out there.”

“Why?”

“Because most people don’t have one.”

He paused.

“That old Jesuit was right. I’ve met so many of my goals because of that advice. A plan gives you a path to follow and something to work towards.”

“Well, what if you change your mind?”

Dad shrugged.

“That’s okay. Go ahead and change your mind. And come up with a new plan.”

“Oh.”

That shut me up because Dad’s achievements in his lifetime are mind-boggling.

And he always had a plan.

Dad, born James Watson Mahaffey on Day of the Dead - November 2, 1936, took his last breath at 4:10 in the morning on Friday the 13th, March, 2020.

His funeral was supposed to be on March 23rd, but this was also when the coronavirus picked up momentum, and Dad’s memorial was one of many events that got canceled.

At the time, the tentative plan was a postponement of 2-3 months. However, this has shaped up to be such a mess that it could go on much longer than that.

 An indefinite period is a long time to wait to say good-bye, and the limbo of not having a send-off is pretty awful to contemplate.

So, in the meantime, I’ll make use of the internet and my blog in this time of coronavirus to remember Dad in some of his moments of unique glory to wish him safe passage to a place where he can finally rest in peace.

God knows he earned it.

How Loneliness Became Blessed Solitude

Image by Jonny Lindner from Pixabay

In my former home of Juneau, Alaska, more than one person has said that there’s no lonely like Juneau lonely.

And it’s true.

It was there that I developed a problem with being alone for the first time in my life. And it was in Juneau that I learned to contribute to community and to fill up my inner space.

But if you don’t have everything you need there, the loneliness is excruciating and only gets worse with time.

So much that I left Juneau and moved to Portland, Oregon.

But I brought that writhing anguish of loneliness with me, and it continued to consume me for several more years.

Of course, there were a few short-lived dating disasters during this time. But the long gaps of dateless years continued.

I prayed, meditated, begged, bargained, and even threatened God, Goddess, and the Universe to fall in love and have the relationship of my dreams. There wasn’t anything that I wouldn’t have done to meet somebody special.

During this time, I didn’t just sit around and mope in my self-pity.

I filled up my life with all kinds of wonderful things. Fortunately, Portland, Oregon is a creative city that makes it very easy to be single.

There are so many things to do while flying solo here where one can find connection, and sometimes even touch — like Ecstatic Dance, Silent Disco, Contact Improv, Dinner Salons, and Cuddle Parties to name a few.

Image by Michael Pajewski from Pixabay

That’s not to mention all the meetup groups and 1–3 day workshops around anything and everything you could want in creativity, meditation, breathwork, energy work, sexuality, Tantra, kundalini, and expanding consciousness.

And hot springs. Lots and lots of hot springs.

The possibilities were endless.

Yes, my tastes run to the hippie/New Agey end of the spectrum. But fuck it, those things work.

It was incredibly healing to bring my lonesome self to natural highs. Those moments of self-created bliss and ecstasy gave me relief, and the afterglow was pretty gosh-darned lovely as well.

Image by cocoparisienne from Pixabay

Those moments gave me relief from that incessant gnawing ache of reluctant solitude.

In spite of all this loneliness and personal strife, by some miracle, I have at my core a reserve of self-respect and self-esteem. I’ve never been one to settle for less than what I want.

Ironically enough, those desolate years built up my self-worth. I knew from the depths of my being that I was not so wretched to deserve the isolation I endured.

I also built up an eclectic network of beautiful humans as friends.

That did not come easy either.

Even though loneliness has become an American epidemic - to the point that it’s considered even more deadly than smoking or obesity - there’s little support for the isolated.

To admit that you’re lonely is to beg for ostracism.

Loneliness is a repellent.

Isolation makes you vulnerable, and thus makes it challenging to attract healthy people who have integrity and would make quality friends.

Friendships that are false or weak, riddled with judgment, and bereft of understanding will make one feel lonelier than ever.

I suffered numerous fall-outs, and many times I walked away from various individuals and groups who didn’t support me or treat me well.

In the short term that made the loneliness worse, but in the long run I built up a marvelous community, which I am so grateful for.

With each authentic friendship I forged, a chunk of loneliness fell off me.

Image by Michal Jarmoluk from Pixabay

I had a ridiculous amount of freedom. And I would later regret not appreciating that freedom while I had it.

An energy worker told me she could feel the anguish of my loneliness in my third chakra. She also paused and said:

“Mana, you really need to get comfortable with being alone before you can have the relationship you want. If you don’t, the kind of person you call in will be a reflection of your loneliness. And it will not go well.”

I knew she was right, and I wanted to be able to heed what she said. But I had been so lonely for so long, that pain was unbearable. I simply couldn’t.

Falling in love was all I could think about. And I didn’t know how much longer I could stand being alone.

The energy worker was right.

I finally met somebody about 6 months after that session. I was on a dating marathon through OkCupid, and she was date #8.

Our hungers drew us together. Both of us were desperate for different reasons.

The first three months were incredible. To be gratified in love after being long-denied was one of the purest ecstasies I’ve ever known.

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

We only got to enjoy that for a few months. Then the stress of her excessive load of baggage burst our bubble, and in I fell into the pressure cooker of her mistakes.

But I was already hooked. I took on her baggage as my own, and did everything I could to make that relationship work.

We lasted for nearly 4 years.

In that time, we got engaged and lived together for the last year we were together. The miseries of our relationship got worse every year.

I made serious attempts to end it before the first year was up, and at the 2nd year, and several attempts while we lived together. But each time, I caved under pressure to stay.

My friends asked me why. One friend even came straight out and suggested I stayed because I was afraid of being alone. She was stunned when I went back after the 2nd breakup attempt. I was with her and she witnessed the relief on my face.

I really wanted this relationship to work. But as time passed, fear of loneliness kept me there far more than love.

Yet I found myself missing the freedom I once had with the loneliness. I didn’t do the things I loved that brought me to euphoria as much any more. My ex-fiancee did not enjoy those things.

So when I did them, I went alone.

I didn’t reach those bliss peaks as often. The insidious realization that I was in the worst kind of lonely — the loneliness of being in an unhappy relationship that drained me — made that difficult.

As time passed, I realized that I had everything I never wanted in a relationship and nothing that I did.

Living together had been a catastrophe from the start.

On the suggestion of another friend, I came up with an exit plan. That was necessary because when the last straw was loaded, my tolerance broke and I left.

My exit plan was immaculate and left no room for persuasion. The relief was immediate and rather intoxicating.

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

I left my own home for 5 weeks to give my ex-fiancée and my ex-stepdaughter time to move out.

It’s very strange to be transient without traveling, especially because I had 4 cats with me.

Although I was alone, I had so much support. My friends supported me, as well as the beautiful people I met along that peculiar journey. The cats helped too.

I definitely went through periods of despondency and loneliness. But the even greater sensation is relief. Because even when I’m lonesome and depressed, I’m still happier and much lighter than I was in a relationship that made me miserable.

I left my fiancée three months ago, and solitude has a different flavor now.

I’m alone, but I’m not lonely. I savor every minute of freedom, every time I can change my mind and my plans at the last minute and not have somebody to answer to.

Spontaneity is almost orgasmic it feels so good.

A couple of days ago, I even savored the pleasure of excitement.

It had been so long since I was excited about something.