She recounted the experiences of friends and those whom she read about who had passed over and returned to tell about it. She says that they report a place of extraordinary tranquility, beauty, calm, and peace. A lush landscape surrounds them. There is plenty of water. Food is abundant. She asked me to imagine what that would look like for me. I wrote it all down with intention and opened my heart to options where I might enter a place I loved as much as I love it here.

She tells me only the body dies; our spirits continue to live, that we are merely visiting Earth, waiting to get to where we really belong, that there is another world after death, magical, forgiving, comforting, a place of extraordinary beauty, another future to look forward to. She asks me to consider it a new adventure where I can jump into the void and reinvent myself. Death is an opportunity for self-renewal, and how one looks at it is a choice to embrace and accept, rather than be fearful and push it away. Culture has programmed us to be afraid of death, she says.

Go forward with intention, she says.

I say, I cannot have intention without paying attention.

My father was a questioner, a skeptic, and a cynic. He believed in the concrete, scientific proof, the here and now. He was observant but not religious. He believed in God, undefined, a concept, more like an inner spirit guide that taught him to do good in the world. Being present, contributing to positive change, behaving with integrity would be his reward for whatever came next: the unknown and the unknowable. My mother was aligned with him. I never asked either of them before they died if any of this changed. I suspect not.

Based on my upbringing, I cannot conjure up an afterlife. I consulted a teacher educated in the philosophy and practices of my forefathers and mothers. She expressed it this way:

We are charged with doing good in the world we live in now. We have been given life to be of service, contribute to the well-being of others, and be stewards of the earth -- the land, the waterways, oceans, and the air we breathe. We practice love, gratitude, and forgiveness. We look out at the infinite horizon and know that life is meaningful, and that we have made a difference.

Life is a journey and death a destination, the sages wrote. It is not described. It is amorphous. It is an unknown. I make peace with this and focus on the here and now, approaching each day with intention. I am instructed not merely to pass through life; we have obligations to other people, to our communities, to justice, and to the world we have inherited. Our responsibility is to repair the world. Acts of kindness, teaching, creating, sharing, and improving others' lives can all contribute to this repair.

It is written: It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you free to abandon it,

This is the life entrusted to me and to us. Live it fully and ethically. What comes afterward belongs to mystery – and to God. We are responsible for our lives. We do not have to possess the answer to the mystery.

What do you believe?

This sunrise this morning was spectacular. My day has begun. My work continues.

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This isn’t about alternate universes, like I remember from the 1998 film Sliding Doors with Gwyneth Paltrow. Barely catch the train, and it takes you forward into one life. Miss the train and a whole different set of circumstances happen. It’s about fate, not about choice.

This is about the road not taken, the fork in the road, the moment you decide to move forward or do nothing. Doing nothing is a choice, too. I think of how often Google Maps gives me misguided directions, and I end up going somewhere other than I intended, the detours that cost time, often years, missed opportunities.

I’m continuing to mourn the loss of my first husband, and it brings up two important crossroads when we were young, in love, and the future held many promises. A photograph in my son’s Celebration of Life album triggered this memory: Jim and I leaning against a deeply furrowed redwood tree in the Berkeley Hills during a hike. He is peeling an orange, intent, taking care of me. I am gazing outward, smiling faintly at all life has given me.

It was idyllic then, the canopy sheltering us from intense sun, filtering it so sunlight danced around us like stars. The tree promising two thousand years of life told me my future was steady, secure, and filled with delight. As it was in this moment, it would be forever. I loved him, and I loved it there.

The first fork in the road.

About a year after we married, he told me his mom wanted him to return to South Bend, Indiana, the family home, and join the small family business that ran a bowling alley and nightclub. Jim went to Northwestern University on scholarship and graduated with an engineering degree. He finished the MBA program at the University of California, Berkeley, and worked for IBM. He was dead set on going back, with or without me, he said. I was in love; I pleaded to stay. Then, I succumbed and followed. The saying then was Love Conquers All. I believed it.

It was almost two years after leaving San Francisco, and I struggled to adjust to a small-town Midwestern life. I pleaded again now to go back. Okay, he said, and got an interview with a small start-up called Hewlett-Packard. He was willing. We had an infant. Do you want to go? I asked. Not really, he said. I heard his reluctance and felt his resistance. I was afraid I would be blamed; I was afraid of consequences; I was afraid my resolve would break us. I was at the tail end of the generation when women were compliant and obedient. We were just learning about feminism and equality. Choices now are limitless compared to 1974.

I made up a story: Our life will be miserable. I will be culpable. If it doesn’t work out, he will criticize me and find subtle ways to punish me. We didn’t go.

Here is the story that might have happened if I had taken that other path.

Jim went to Mountain View and interviewed with HP, recommended by his former IBM boss, who had made the jump and landed there. He got his dream job in marketing and sales analysis, not the more stressful direct sales he’d left behind at IBM. He found his niche, was appreciated, admired, and supported. He earned enough that we could buy a mid-size adobe home on a quiet, tree-lined street in Palo Alto, not far from Stanford.

I finished my master’s degree in social justice history there, an endeavor I dropped after leaving San Francisco. A professor then encouraged me to apply to the PhD program at UC Berkeley and recommended me. I was a muckraker, turning over hidden stories of sweatshop abuse of Chinese and undocumented Latino immigrants who lacked English language skills and could not speak up for themselves. I became their collective voice, strong and clear. In back alleyways in Chinatown and South of Market, sewing machines hummed, guided by the oppressed who feared being discovered.

I’m a Capricorn, a goat; I don’t take no for an answer. I plow ahead, determined. I move like a tornado. That’s when I considered law school rather than a PhD. I decided to become a litigator-activist protecting victims of abuse of power. Did I want to do research, publish, and teach, or did I want to step in to make substantive change happen? The answer for me was clear. This was my path.

Our infant was cared for by tender Nanny Angelina, who loved him as much as I did, as much as his father did. She came to the house 30 hours a week so I could become that person I dreamed of, making an important difference in the world.

We returned to the place I loved most, Northern California, where we held hands, carried the boy on our backs as we hiked through the Redwoods and Sequoias, the wine country, and along the estuaries and tidepools of the Pacific Coast. In the Sierra Nevadas, the spring wildflowers greeted us, welcoming our family home.

I periodically drove to San Francisco to shop at specialty Asian grocery stores for ingredients to make char siu bao, the fluffy steamed bun filled with sweet-savory Cantonese barbecue pork, a recipe I taught myself while working for Frank Hong at the Cannery. I loved making them by hand, although they are especially tasty from the bakeries on Stockton Street.

The future is a placeholder, a dream that can become a reality. It pushes me to become all I’m capable of. The landscape matters. It is either a holding pattern or a vast space of possibility, creativity, and dream-making. Here in the Bay Area, I am fed by the excitement of inquisitive and challenging minds, people who go beyond the ordinary to explore what is possible and make change happen. I am surrounded by transformative art, innovation, and opportunity.

I live large, bringing people together to question, discover, and transform. I am a force.

Jim and I bought the house in Palo Alto in early 1975 for $45,950. It was a stretch, but we were confident. It is now worth $4 million. Jim had stock options in HP that more than provided. It gave him peace of mind and the freedom to explore the wilderness he loved, bringing him back to who he was as a boy: an inquisitive explorer who valued every living creature. During vacations and after retirement, he traveled the Russian Steppes, Outer Mongolia, Patagonia, and climbed Mount Kilimanjaro.

He was content, and so was I. Our life together was a blessing.

He passed some years ago; I remember that the graveside service was attended by many, family, friends, and colleagues who cherished and respected him, as I had. They gave testimony to his kindness, generosity, caring, calm and steady hand, and quiet spirit of adventure.

I continue to live in the house we bought together. I made a lovely garden in the back where I can sit and watch the Monarchs on their migratory path back to Michoacan, Mexico, and listen to the Oak Titmouse, Towhee, Mockingbird, and Chickadee sing and scratch. Above, the red-tailed hawk circles, eyeing its prey. The nearby wetlands and creeks are home to the Great Blue Heron and Snowy Egret. I gather the flowers in bouquets to fill the house I love with the aroma of memory.

When I need it, someone will come in to care for me. Meanwhile, I now sit and wonder what would have happened if I had continued to live in South Bend.

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Yesterday, I met an astrologer at a party. Remember, Taos is WooWoo. He wants to do my charts. I’m reluctant, not because of any resistance to any new approaches, just because I didn’t feel it right now.

My future is here. I’m aging, and the age of Aquarius is supposed to last 2,000 years, beginning in around 2150-ish, if you believe in these things. Aren’t we all looking for explanations? Everyone around me is getting taller. When I say my age, people either say, You look good or You don’t look it. They are usually much younger and have a long way to go, not fully understanding what the future holds. We don’t really, until we get there.

My dear friend Natalie, whom I’ve known since 1974, is in assisted living in Indianapolis. I went to visit. Natalie is an abstract painter, taught high school art, was one of the most supportive people I’ve known, and was my anchor for most of the eighteen years I lived in the mid-size Northern Indiana town that gave the world Notre Dame and Pete Buttigieg.

Her kids moved her from South Bend to Indianapolis this year so she could be closer to her son. She has mid-range memory loss and calls her unit the hospital, which, in some respects, I guess it is. Her room has an adjustable bed, call button, TV, a Barcalounger, and grab bars in the toilet. Others provide constant care. The food is good, she says.

When I arrived, I didn’t recognize her.

She is in a wheelchair in the dining room and gained weight; she calls for help to get to the toilet, get dressed, go anywhere within the complex, and must use a lift to get up and sit down. I went into shock and immediately shifted into 5^th gear. I’m a goat, a Capricorn, and people have called me a bulldozer! I like to get things done. No one wants to be pushed by heavy machinery.

I made a list of all the changes I wanted for her – diet, exercise, therapy, social activity, medication -- and shared it with the caregivers and children. I cried. I talked to her about it, and then I came back around to everything I know: I cannot change others, only myself. My job is to love and support her. My dear sister reminds me that I don’t have to fix it.

I’m scared of this process called aging and leaving this world. I want to change it, change my genetic inheritance, protect my quality of life. If I could live forever, I would, but I know this is not how things go. I watch loved ones deteriorate, change, and then pass on. I watch others stay active, cogent, and engaged. And then, they die, too. I’m learning to accept: Life is a journey, death a destination.

I can intervene in my own life. Move, stay active, eat consciously, adhere to an exercise plan, and use my mind. Writing helps.

Way back in my youth, I wondered how long I would live. I revisited this question periodically. I wondered what I might be like in 2025 when I would be eighty, and if I would make it until then. Now, it feels that I’m a bit preoccupied with this subject and not completely at peace.

I’ve decided to engage a therapist to help me better deal with dying and my changing body, and the friends whom I want to protect. While I’m hoping life will continue for me a good while longer, and who knows? It’s all a mystery.

Perhaps we can make our own Age of Aquarius happen now and for as long as possible.

Would you leave a comment to share your own reactions to this essay, your feelings and experiences?

Thank you,

Norma

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There is unspeakable mystery in Taos, punctuated by summer monsoons, lightning strikes, and cloud-filled skies that turn from white to black in an instant, foretelling an apocalypse or a secret wound pushed down so deep it is named generational trauma. Here, we migrate between psychology and mystical explanations for self-soothing.

We speak in tongues. This is a place where astrology meets astronomy, where gurus practice the healing arts, where claiming this as home requires more spiritual receptivity, even when one was raised as a skeptic, like me, taught to question everything, dissent from the mainstream, and eschew authority.

What is your sign? Is a common question, but only a superficial one. Most of my women friends know not only their star sign, but also their moon sign, and their rising sign. For them, this explains how the forces of the universe shape their lives as a whole and in the moment. To date, I remain clueless, other than to simply state, Capricorn.

Isn’t this why humans invented religion? Belief is powerful, and it is humans’ destiny to embrace some external guiding force that must be present to provide answers. Any of us can take our pick and adhere to it until another magic sweeps us away when an explanation seems plausible and we are influenced to change.

Think of all the evil witches you’ve heard about. Witches are a connotation of evil, aren’t they? Remember the Wicked Witch of the West (Wizard of Oz), the evil witchy stepsister in Cinderella, or Melisandre (Game of Thrones)?

I am writing about this because in my sisterhood of spiritually and emotionally connected women friends, we’ve been talking about the Witch’s Wound. Or they’ve been talking about it, and I just started to listen! I knew nothing about this. I conjure up images of a Witches Brew, creating a cauldron of tasty stew to seduce one into submissiveness and compliance, dancing around bonfires, hocus pocus chanting, pacts with the devil, pointy hats, riding on broomsticks, and defying the dominant culture.

The truth is, evil witches were actually marginalized women (and some men and children), outspoken women, those who would not stand for being abused and controlled, healers or midwives targeted by society’s fear and religious panic during the European and American witch trials, and let’s add independent thinkers, questioners, and the rebellious ones. Tens of thousands of women were sentenced to death by burning or hanging, accused of witchcraft, and many feel that this constitutes a collective trauma among us who are afraid to speak up and speak out, hiding one’s gifts or talents for fear of being criticized or ostracized, experiencing shame about intuition, healing practices, or spirituality, of having a deep fear of being judged, rejected or punished for being different.

Think of all the working women you know who are still paid less based on gender rather than talent or output. Class action, joining together to make a wrong right, is still not widely acceptable. It’s risky business being shunned, isolated, or named a troublemaker.

This can be considered a collective cultural inheritance. Trauma doesn’t disappear. It gets passed along through families, institutions, and social norms. Even more, how is it acceptable to disparage or gossip about other women? Why do we do this?

Contrary to what we feel about gossip, judgment, and character attacks, they create a false sense of bonding when one person becomes a common target. Does it provide one-upmanship and power (when we cannot compete legitimately) through criticism, rumors, or put-downs that psychologists call indirect aggression? Do I feel better if I compare myself more favorably to or question a friend’s motives or judgment? Sometimes, it’s just a way to manage information and is not malicious. Can I discern which is which?

I’m examining why we do this. Are other women safe targets? Does it give me permission to direct my hostility toward other women rather than changing the system that created it? Do we succumb to shame, vulnerability, and the need to belong by not speaking up?

Perhaps one reason we love it here in Taos is that Native American spirituality permeates our very being. Being spiritual is accepted here. Spiritual also has a traditional connotation of being un-Christian, other-worldly, independent, a dreamer, too sensitive. Society roots out those it deems heretics through heinous acts of violence.

As for the witches’ brew, we are acculturated to think this is a lethal potion designed to signal danger – events, emotions, or circumstances. It is rarely considered to be an herbal tea, or an elixir created to heal. It is a potent and unpredictable mix, based on folklore, to suppress, control, and lead to trouble: volatile, dangerous, and having devastating results.

This is a moment to acknowledge that women have the power to change definitions, reclaim our connection, intervene on behalf of, and support each other. The change begins with each of us.

To honor different voices, to explore other paradigms, to interrupt the generational trauma with new messaging. This is our responsibility to one another.

Footnote:

Kelsey Pfendler, age 32, just completed a historic, record-breaking solo row from California to Hawaii. She shattered the women’s record of 86 days and beat the men’s speed record, finishing in just 43 days, 17 hours, and 55 minutes. A spate of criticism erupted on social media, including accusations that she was hiding a motor on board, fudging her GPS tracking data, claiming she was faking her route, calling her reckless, and criticizing her for not wearing a life jacket in videos, grandstanding. An experienced Grand Canyon river guide and maritime skipper, naysayers called her out as a liar.

She raised funds to support the Whale Foundation and Planned Parenthood.

Some might think she is a witch!

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There are no assurances. The Monsoon season is fickle. The dance for rain is incessant, the rattles taking on a timbre of urgency, the drums beating, the prayers beseeching answers. Water, source of life, where are you?

Out to the west, the sky is full of cotton clouds. Imagine resting atop one of these, deep in sleep, lulled into complacency. They are feather pillows upon which I could drift afar in a magical slumber in a dreamland between here and there.

Wind is the harbinger of weather, the promise of moisture. The tale around these parts is, if the wind is too strong, the rains won’t come. There is an urgent need. We are thirsty, the plants and I; we are parched. In these parts, there is constant drought.

One month past the solstice. The days are truncating bits at a time. The increments are so small, one barely notices. The wind picks up. It blows through the nostrils of the kitchen vent, reminding me to take another look outward. The picture window reveals a stormy sky to the south. There are hurricanes today on the Panhandle where water is the destroyer. Roofs rip apart. Floods consume life and property. Who will have a near-death experience and remember it as comforting, soothing, peaceful, and live to say, I didn’t want to come back; it felt so good?

The picture window ledge is six feet from the floor. Looking up into the sky is like watching God create a painting with sweeping brush strokes, forever changing. Today, it is white, blue, hues of gray and black. Perhaps the wind will push this scene farther away from me, and it will be lucky for those who will witness a downpour elsewhere, however brief, to quench this porous soil.

Now, the wind dies down. Huge droplets explode on the metal roof, a shrapnel of sound for a minute, then a steadier downpour, and thunder rattles; the windchimes sing. The sky screams like a siren, mouth gaping to spit out the accumulation of heat, bringing it down to seventy-two from eighty-six in an instant. Will it be a storm or a tease? Whatever it will be, will it be enough?

Still, I worry that the aquifer is shrinking, the rivers are drying up, the well will run dry, and there will be no nourishment. Blade Runner dystopia creeps into my being. The parched crust is dust. There are deep crevices that suggest a skin with insufficient moisture, crackled from years of sun exposure. The body shrivels from lack of water, essential for life. We are sixty percent water, necessary for regulating body temperature, transporting nutrients and oxygen, removing waste, lubricating joints, and supporting every chemical reaction.

What then? There will be no more ions to smell before a rain when the desert floor bursts forth in blooms of wildness: Indian blanket, blue asters, scarlet hedgehog cactus, penstemon, phlox, and rabbitbrush. Red. Orange. Blue, Yellow. Purple. Pink.

It still requires water to brew a cup of coffee, my morning elixir.

If it’s raining, will the party be canceled?

Surely, a tent will protect the mourners at the funeral.

Who is worried out there?

Not the oligarch-deniers who will have enough funds to hire AI robots to distill water from farms on Mars or a nearby star, a place to escape to when the rest of us can no longer survive here, curled up in the desert of no forgiveness and despair. See them waving goodbye with giddy smiles, boarding their fully equipped space ships complete with a well-stocked bar and a cozy mistress, leaving the past behind them.

Those in power will rot in hell, if there is one. I hope there is one. I hope they do.

Meanwhile, the storm moves northeast, sweeping the land with moisture. For the moment, there are drops in the bucket.

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Like the sand on a beach deconstructed from eroded shells, the bones will become brittle and sun-bleached, dried by an unrelenting wind, nature’s convection oven, decomposing to become soft sandy earth offering home to summer wildflowers only needing a shallow foothold.

***

Old bones, once strong, a runner who could outdistance herself, a bicyclist who could pedal seventy-five miles in one day. A human who could defy gravity and stand upright for decades, stand tall next to an over six-foot man.

My antecedents were small of stature. Easier for them to hide in basements, dark corners, forests, caves, hunker down, and pretend not to be seen. They were sturdy people, fit for survival. They huddled for protection. They disappeared when it was time, before others realized it was too late.

When the father of the six-footer blurted to my mother, "You people are so short," she unsheathed her verbal sword with, "Yes, but we have big brains." He shrunk a bit with that one.

Now, I hover at the boundary of creakiness and pain. Everyone I love seems to be getting taller. These almost ancient bones are aching and brittle, in need of repair. I have metal replacement parts: rods, screws, plates, joints. The bones speak loudly in a tongue I am not familiar with. They begin to protrude from knees, knuckles, ankles, and toes.

Last week I noticed I am having difficulty texting with two thumbs, a technique I learned years ago with speed and accuracy with my first iPhone. This keyboarding became second nature, as if it had always been the natural way to manipulate technology in my hand, crafting instant messages and sending them immediately.

Now, my left thumb joint is swollen and distended. Pain radiates from the place where my digit meets the palm of my hand. Perhaps a steroid injection here will give me relief. It is yet another reminder that my bones are brittle and deteriorating. The collapse is at hand.

Dry bones. In summer, the desert heat is tolerable, even as it reaches close to one-hundred degrees. This is where the generations before migrated to seek comfort from humidity, swollen joints, stiffness, loss of mobility. Dry heat is an antidote. Long views and clear air are cleansing.

I admit it. I am bargaining with the devil. How long can I stave off this quiet decline? Each day reveals something newly discovered about my body and the bones that hold it intact. I do exercises to strengthen my core. I hope this will help. I lift weights in hopes that my muscles will support the bones that are failing me. My bones scream in defiance, crunch with every move.

What will heal me? Will it be the charlatan blue stone sold at the local lapidary shop, said to relieve aching bones by rubbing across the joints? Or is it the daily injection to add bone density? For how much longer will modern medicine give me comfort? If I believed the blue stone would help, can belief create miracles?

These are body signals to prepare me for what I know: Life is a journey and death a destination. I’m working on acceptance.

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Eventually, I will have my place in the desert where my bones will rest. I will look east toward Taos Mountain. Perhaps, a prickly pear cactus will grow and take nourishment there. I will be deep enough that no scavengers will find me. My solace is that this is where I belong as sun sets, and the sky is illuminated in red, purple, orange, yellow, gray, and then darkness descends.

Even in darkness there is light.

After I wrote and published I Loved You Then, a reader wrote, the solace is a life well lived.

This has stuck with me like a huge gulp that goes down my throat too quickly, and I’m about to choke, as I’m mourning Jim’s passing, the aching sadness, sometimes guilt tied to memories of our early years together, the joy, hopefulness, promise, and all that goes with this as we made our vows, until death do us part. And then, I walked away when I could no longer live a life disconnected from the man I loved, who fathered my child, a blessing.

Have you or I enjoyed a life well lived? Am I living with purpose, intention, fulfillment, kindness, gratitude, intimacy, and deep connections to others? Does a life well lived mean I have reached for and accomplished much? Have I earned enough money and made charitable contributions? Am I satisfied?

According to Viktor Frankl, philosopher and concentration camp survivor, we must not measure the value of life by a quest for and attainment of success or happiness. He says that we find meaning in purposeful work (paid or volunteer), love, caring for others, and having courage in difficult times.

On this path, we make hard choices. Do we turn left, right, retreat, or push on? As I live through the last decades of my life and as Jim made his final journey, I reflect on meaning, the phrase a life well lived, and find that it all had purpose and was good, even as there were difficulties, hardships, and doubt along the way.

At this moment, as the copal incense burns and the memorial candle flickers, I’m thinking of life’s contradictions and choices, of the separation and divorce, of choosing joint custody in 1982 when it was only a nascent experiment. I think of his commitment to his son, the reliability of child support payments, and the support he gave me in raising and nurturing the boy who became a loving, caring, emotionally intelligent man. He was a contributor.

Who am I to sit here and evaluate, measure, or judge whether Jim had a life well lived? As I moved forward, created, built, engaged, found purposeful work, loved, and learned to become courageous, Jim chose another path. He sought solitude, isolation, and work that could be considered neither valuable nor meaningful, comforted by a bottle and the safety of a television screen he could control with a remote button. He never talked about his demons. I can only imagine them and see how deeply he was hurt.

Yes, I loved him then, that tall, lanky, sandy-haired man. It was 1969 in San Francisco, California. We embraced all our generation promised: peace, love, personal freedom, and harmony with nature. We were idealists and flower children. I love him still, now, in Taos, New Mexico, where the Rio Grande Gorge is just beyond my kitchen window, and I look out onto infinity. I am learning the lessons of death, the process of letting go, and the acceptance of how my body does and will continue to fail me. In the end, Jim was surrounded by love from Jacob, his daughter-in-law Shelley, me, his eldest brother, and his nephew, as well as gentle caregivers who offered comfort.

Every human being deserves this. Perhaps for Jim, a life well lived is as simple as being outdoors, hiking in Yosemite and the Rocky Mountains, rafting the Colorado, and loving his son. I can accept this. I will never know if he made peace with his choices. I have to think he did. Now, I honor the goodness and gentleness in him.

A Memorial Prayer

God, full of compassion, who dwells on high, grant perfect rest beneath the wings of Your Divine Presence, among the holy and pure who shine like the radiance of the Heavens, to the soul of James Bruce Singleton, who has gone to eternal life.

This comforts me. I do not know where this destination is that we fly away to. Perhaps it is in the hearts of those who remember, cherish, and forgive.

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I think of you lying there in a hospital bed, breathing in the shadows of life, slow, shallow, throaty, the sounds of a man on his final journey. I imagine a mist begins to cover you. Soon, I will be there to whisper I love you. It is not a lie.

I loved you then, so long ago, when our dreams were intertwined; we were coupled on a journey to an unknown future together, filled with hope and promise, commitment, and complete happiness.

Who are we to know, as children playing with adulthood, that the future is obscure and will become dark, not quite bitter like pure chocolate, still, we moved forward.

In San Francisco, we coupled and soon married. You were the calm anchor I needed. A tall, sandy-haired Midwesterner with an aquiline nose, who was set to be a draft resister and go to Canada. I was the committed partner who would go, too. I am the daughter of the schtetl, where there is constant bickering, anger, outbursts, and drama. You are the son of stoics who internalized and suppressed emotions, avoiding conflict at all costs. Learned behavior runs deep. I did not understand your family dance. I only wanted to escape from mine.

We held hands walking the Embarcadero, slurping oysters and biting into just-caught abalone. We sipped remarkable wine in Napa and Sonoma before the best labels were bought by international distilleries. We camped on the Sunshine Coast of Canada, hiked to Tuolomne Meadows, and talked of being buried together there under an ancient Sequoia along the riverbank above Hetch Hetchy. The idyllic days.

We created a child who became a man, tender, competent, and the best of us both, a gift.

I see you lying in bed now, your back inclined, facing a television screen that hums with the energy of a basketball game. Your team got left behind, but it doesn’t matter. You’d never know.

You point at the screen and hum in approval for whatever is going on. As you raise your hand, I see your long, slender fingers, elegant as I remember, the fingers of a concert pianist might possess, bony now, skeletal. Your skin is thin and pallid, the color of bread dough.

I watch your head sink back into the pillow, exhausted from this small burst of energy.

Why am I so sad? I left you to save myself, as you withdrew during our last years together, preferring to work late hours, coming home, embraced by the aroma of cigarettes and beer, falling into bed exhausted at two or three, sleeping late to catch up, a repetitive cycle of life unraveling, distancing, turning inward.

I didn't have emotional intelligence then to understand how I might have helped. You refused therapy as a sign of personal weakness. A psychiatrist suggested it was my fault and gave me a prescription for Valium to calm down. I refused this addictive solution, and we were at a standoff.

I moved on, and now more than fifty years later, I mourn the loss of who we were, in love then, hopeful, dreamy-eyed, pledging a life of commitment, compassion, in sickness and in health, forever, as we vowed.

You retreated to the BarcaLounger, settling in with a big screen television and burying yourself in a bottle of whiskey, taking solace in forgetting whatever it was that hurt you long before we met. You never talked about it, but when we moved from San Francisco back to your natal home to manage the family-owned bowling alley, you became someone I didn’t recognize. You, who went to Northwestern on a full scholarship, you who earned an MBA at UC Berkeley. You who withdrew into a form of self-soothing I didn’t recognize.

Now, I sit by your bedside and tell you stories of our youth together. San Francisco in the late sixties and early seventies. Nothing could have been better. Weekends strolling the Marina, or traveling on Highway 1, south to Santa Cruz, in the red Fiat Spyder, top down, leaving all behind with the wind. Other times, we would head north to Fort Ross, once a Russian outpost. Remember the neat picket fences, climbing roses, and Victorian houses. It was romantic, and as fleeting as the dense morning fog before it lifts to reveal the warmth of a new day.

Our son picked you up from detox in another desert town and moved you here, on the cusp of dementia. I cry for the loss of you, the promise of you and us, of a life unfolding with a vast potential that went unrealized.

I loved you then. I love you, even now. For who we were, what we might have become together, and in gratitude for the child we created. For the memories of falling in love with a tall, sandy-haired stranger who seemed strong, calm, competent, and secure. Everything I wished for. Don’t we imbue the other with the persona of dreams?

Each act is a choice, whether it is conscious or not. You chose this. It was not destiny. It could have been different. It wasn’t.

Now, I am here again by your bedside. We are told you have but moments to live. Your eyes are cloudy, and I see how time comes to a close. It won’t be long now. I am content to sit, hold your hand, and attend to your comfort, if only for now, even if you cannot express that you are hot or cold. My wish now is that you will pass in peace.

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Digging Deep, Then Deeper: Something to Say

I write. It may be memoir, prose poetry, or whatever else comes to mind. It used to be fiction. Now, the stories are more "real," about family, friends, aging, living a bimodal life in Oaxaca, and Taos, New Mexico. Thank you for reading and subscribing!

By Norma Schafer

I frequently procrastinate, or so it seems. Perhaps because I see what I have to do as unpleasant (like looking at numbers in a proposal), or a boring chore (sweeping the floor or doing dishes), or fear of rejection or pushback (as in the case of pricing something for sale, is it too high, will people complain?).

Several days ago, I wanted to start writing about this. It was top of mind. I didn’t. Maybe I wasn’t ready. Maybe it wouldn’t be good enough! Maybe you, the reader, will think it is a mundane topic, glance at it, and push it aside. Or maybe, you’ll procrastinate and put off reading it because you don’t want to deal with this topic, either, just like me! There is some flaw in me, I could say, that can’t stick to doing what is necessary.

Does procrastination go hand in hand with the need to be perfect? Likely, yes. Maybe this is why I never learned to play the piano. After the first few lessons, I quit. I’ve always needed to be good at something without having to work too hard at it. This is not a response that encourages dedication. Maybe procrastination is linked to the need for approval. If I hear, not good enough, do it better, or practice more, then why bother?

These are all choices, I imagine, both conscious and unconscious. I’d rather put aside what I consider the mundane in favor of something I perceive as more fun: sewing and stitching, cooking, planning a tour, taking photographs, organizing a dinner party, gazing out the window in mindless meditation at the vastness of the New Mexico landscape until day descends, and my energy for getting to the list is swept into the fissures of my brain.

Let’s examine other explanations here.

1. In my mind, I feel I have the control to decide when I will get something or not. No one can impose a deadline on me, even me. (Yet, in the world of paid work, we know this is not possible. We would be out of a job if we couldn’t keep a deadline.)

2. Procrastination opens up a space for free will, freedom to roam, explore, get off the beaten path, do something, or create something because there is a wide-open opportunity to explore with fewer to no constraints. Maybe it’s possible to think about this as a free radical that offers brain cell signaling, balanced and necessary for mind and body health, only dangerous when out of balance. Freedom to be creates opportunities to enjoy, savor, look and not do, imagine, find a voice, be expressive, make a dress.

3. SHOULD. The word everyone hates to hear, or should hate to hear. This word has powerful meanings and evokes strong feelings — obligation, anxiety, judgment, duty, correctness, criticism. If I tell myself I should be doing something on my priority list instead of what I’m doing now, the self-rejection loop kicks in, which freezes me from moving forward. A dopamine fix is much more satisfying.

4. Maybe there’s more to this than meets the eye.

Don’t get me wrong. I love lists (though it may not sound like it). Without them, I would accomplish little. Perhaps I learned to make them during my 40-plus years of professional life to stay focused. There is a sense of satisfaction in completing something, taking pen to paper, and crossing it off. When the page is full, I throw it away and start another. Moving forward this way is how we are acculturated. These days, lists are a necessity because I tend to be more forgetful.

In defense of procrastination!

My mind can wander. It can take a walk across the mesa into infinity, discover, dream, and watch the clouds float. They will never again be in this configuration. There will never be another day like this one. I can look in another direction and climb Taos Mountain, imagining the aspen leaves swaying to the rhythm of a gentle breeze, tinkling a sound of magic. I can discover the small lilac colored wildflower along the trail, and realize there is a natural world more grand and awesome than what I thought was most important to do today:

• clean the toilet

• sweep the kitchen floor

• pull the sprouting tumbleweed shoots

• set the mouse trap in the carport

• put a cage around the yarrow (rabbits have to eat, too)

Outside, it is the green of spring, lime, sage, fern, honeydew, and avocado. Renewing and refreshing. The slender trunks of the cottonwood are black in contrast to the mint-colored leaves just emerging.

This is a moment of love, tenderness, and nothingness. It’s okay for that list to wait.

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Tell us what you think about procrastination — Leave a comment!

Every day, it seems, I acknowledge the becoming of more of me, and yet time limits my knowing who I will become beyond now. I think about what it will be next.

I have lived many nexts, and I’m not done. The reinvention of self is continuous and begins with the seed of awareness, the knowing, based on my own history, that change is inevitable, though it may not be as dramatic as it has been in the past.

When I called San Francisco home in its heyday, in my young adult years, it was not long enough. A reluctant move and a difficult transition to South Bend, Indiana, laid the foundation for who I became, giving birth to deep friendships, creative opportunities, and my dearest son.

At age 45, I left the cozy comfort of Indiana after twenty years, where time moved slowly, life was predictable, and friendships were secure. I wrenched myself away to break the glass ceiling and move to Charlottesville, Virginia, to accept a job bigger than my imagination. I carried things with me in boxes, life in storage, unwilling to let go of the past.

I read somewhere that it takes practice to change. Each time, it becomes less stressful, and I reassure myself that, as the future feels unsteady, I have the courage and strength to do this. I must be steady, pull in all my emotional and physical resources to prepare for what comes next. I would not call it easy. The motivation to create a new life is predicated on a desire for something different, be it political, economic, or even a need for adventure. I did not need adventure; I needed to become who I thought I was.

It was easier to move next to Washington, DC. By then, I was practiced at purging household belongings I didn’t need or want, shedding the detritus of emotional baggage, or so I thought, and building a career when other women of my era were satisfied in long-term marriages where men provided, the weekly bridge game was scheduled, and almost adult children lived nearby. I chose otherwise.

Then, on to Chapel Hill, North Carolina, to do it again. To marry. To discover Oaxaca. To divorce. To continue becoming who I knew I was, without knowing what that would be.

At age 75, I turned on a dime and impulsively moved from North Carolina to New Mexico. It was right. I remember crying in the first weeks after arriving, looking out at a sea of endless sagebrush that had replaced the always-green loblolly pine forests. The landscape here was stark and unforgiving. I came to appreciate the vastness that became the unknowing. I belonged here.

Yet, here is not the last place I will live, nor will it define who I will become next.

I do not grieve this loss of knowing, a steadfast belief that from here on out, I can depend on place to embrace me, this house, this land, this view of the Rio Grande Gorge, the things that have traveled with me over the years that I believed were part of my identity. Eventually, I will shed these things in favor of necessary simplicity.

Change will continue to come. I celebrate it as if it were the vibrant colors of promise, before the seed is planted, fertilized, then germinates, takes root, and grows to become its destiny. Perhaps this is vague. The future is an outline, its vagueness is a shadow, an unknowingness. Can we take comfort in the unknowing?

These days, I adamantly declare that I want to live to 100. I am determined in this declaration. Few question me. What will I conjure up between now and then to sustain myself physically, emotionally, and creatively?

I am the seed, regenerative, as in birth and rebirth, cycle and recycle, becoming and becoming again. Then, death. Then, what?

Honestly, I don’t believe my full potential has been realized yet. Perhaps it has, and I’m unwilling to acknowledge it. What shall we call it if I still have new ideas, new plans, and am energized by my creative will?

Growth needs the open space to create, build, explore, become, become again, to desire nothing more than meaning. For me, meaning is created by the people I meet, the cloth I touch, the hands I hold, and the vastness of a diversely populated universe where differences are celebrated and honored.

Parched earth can be watered, planted, seeded, and nurtured into becoming verdant. As my cheeks sink, as the lines become more etched around my mouth, as my body contracts from bones too porous to support it, I want to tell you

I AM NOT OLD

I am replanting, becoming, becoming again.

Preparing for change means acceptance that life is transient. My next change will require another downsizing, a re-evaluation of what is most important and meaningful. Planning ahead, I know I will build a small casita in Albuquerque next to my son and daughter-in-law’s house. It will be ready for me when I need it. That time is not now. When I do not know. Perhaps in a few years, hopefully much longer. There will be no assisted living for me.

I want to be ready for what’s next, and live here in this vast unknown called Taos as long as I am able. I am doing core exercises faithfully to steadily navigate these dirt trails, and then Japan in May 2027.

In many respects, I’m writing this to honor my dear friend of over fifty years, NK, who now suffers from increasing memory loss and imbalance, comfortable in her barcalounger with the National Geographic channel offering a glimpse of a world beyond the room where caregivers offer round-the-clock support. She was not ready for this, believing she could live out her old age in the comfort of the home she had occupied for sixty years.

I see her with me as we celebrated life-cycle events with young children in tow, sunbathed on the shores of Lake Michigan, and meandered through the Chicago Art Institute, mesmerized by the masters. She was a painter and teacher; she taught me.

The awakening is that there is no adequate preparation for what may come next.

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I rarely pay attention to this when I am alone, this expanse of space unknown to me. I am neither an astronomer nor an astronaut, feet planted firmly on earth, except when I fly inside a metal tube to carry me from here to there. I rarely pay attention to what is out there, as if it were wallpaper, static, a screensaver, nothing more than a backdrop.

How long does it take for the sun to set here? Not seconds or minutes. As the day passes into the night, the brilliance in the western sky refuses to give up. It is procrastinating, and it can take a good long while of sitting out here as cold sets in before we can see the dance of starlight.

Do the stars speak? Do they speak to me as messengers of something inexplicable, unknowable, constellations named by Galileo, the heretic, and before him, Babylonians, Greeks, and Egyptians? Why bears, twins, hunters, swans, twins, scorpions, or goats? We apply what we know to what we don’t. Humans have a tendency to make things up as we go along, don’t we, until there is research and then fact, or at minimum, theory.

My friend downloads a stargazing app to his phone and turns on the infrared feature. I prefer to look with my eyes, but I’m tempted to capture details my declining vision can’t. I succumb, look at the screen, then revert to just looking up and taking in whatever experience presents itself. And, the app shows what the ancients named, those animals and human replicas they saw in the stars. I prefer to see the natural dazzle.

By now it is dark and nearing nine o’clock at night. I should be getting ready for bed, I say to myself, as I begin to drift into a reverie of sky magic and cold.

There, my friend points, exclaims with assurity, is a meteor. The meteor shower tonight (and at its peak, today, April 22) is supposed to be spectacular, says the other friend. We watch. I don’t see it. There, he says, again, this time with greater authority. I begin to think he is imagining things; perhaps he is Greek.

The cold sets in, distancing me from any intimacy with this experience. I climb into myself, protected by two layers of down. Clouds begin to obscure the stars, which disappear, then reappear as vague shadows. I realize the sky becomes a cluster of the real and the unreal, the natural and the man-made. Some of these I recognize as satellites, fixed, without orbit, a dazzle of green, red, and white lights sending signals to earth day after day, intercepting our brainwaves to offer AI as an alternative way to create, without thinking. As I look at them, I think about how it was before humans proliferated the sky with false promises of instant knowledge accessible to all, regardless of innate intelligence.

Soon, I think, nothing will be natural, and it will all be imagined as something that happened long ago, when the stars helped sailors navigate the earth. When we no longer become star-struck, fascinated by fame or fortune, or the star-crossed lovers, destined never to be together.

What do the stars say when they are no longer useful, and the sky vanishes with objects glowing, blinking automatically, controlled by computers, and soon AI will program computers, and we will all become useless, only to revert to the Garden of Eden. Is this what is meant by rebirth?

Once the dark sky arrives

Stars emerge to guide me home, a

Path to shelter, peace.

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Once the leap is taken, there is no going back, no replay on the clicker, no opportunity to reconsider. I see this as a metaphor for change, although once I put an act in motion, I can say, stop, wait, this isn’t the best time, if my ego allows it and I have the courage to recognize an impending mistake. But once the deed is done, a momentum takes shape that makes change almost impossible. The only other option is to see what happens next and take a different direction if the road becomes bumpy and impassable. That is, if one is on solid ground, not flying through space on a rapid descent to self-destruction.

Leap is one of those words that can be interpreted as accepting something eagerly. As in, He leapt at the chance. She leaped forward to accept the award. She was far ahead of the competition by leaps and bounds. He took it as a leap of faith. Jump is in a similar category. She made him jump through hoops. He jumped at the chance. I woke up with a jump. It does not necessarily mean that he jumped off the bridge or that he took a fatal leap.

Does it take courage or cowardice to leap from the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge? What goes on in the mind of a nineteen-year-old who runs from the security officer who is intent on stopping him (they are all young men), evading the barriers and warnings, to end a life just beginning? How deep is the despair? Why didn’t anyone see or help him? Was this inevitable regardless of who was there to offer support?

All this was triggered by a brief conversation I had with a writer friend on Tuesday, who needed to cross the bridge on Easter Sunday. It was shut closed. The tragedy had just happened. Taos County Sheriff’s and emergency vehicle lights were flashing, blinding the onlookers. She turned around to go home, to return another day. This had an impact on me. I live on the last road before the gorge bridge.

Another friend, Leslie, asked me to write about courage and what it took for me to step onto an unknown path from security to risk, my own jumping-off point. These were a series of steps over a lifetime, each one riskier than the last, I think, but fully shaped me. I was raised in a household of risk-averse parents who encouraged me to choose a secure career path, one already familiar to them, which I interpreted as boring and mundane. So, I rejected their urgings and leaped onto a moving conveyor belt of life to be determined by me alone.

Change takes practice, and courage is developed. It’s not something that happens instantly, unless one is in free-fall. My favorite motto is: Life begins at the end of your comfort zone. It’s scary, and the future is unknown. I often thought of myself trapped inside the body of an empty Pinot Noir bottle, wriggling slowly through the narrow neck to renewal and freedom. I convinced myself that if a decision doesn’t work out, I have the resilience, resolve, and self-assurance to know I’ll be okay, and that something else will materialize. I’ve traveled this life path mostly independently, influenced to some degree by husbands and partners. In the end, I was set on making my own way in the world, determined, often impulsive, perhaps driven.

I grew up in Southern California and learned to drive the nearly empty freeways at age 16, going fast. I moved to San Francisco as a young adult, where I became an adventurer, hiking the Sierras and exploring the urban landscape I loved. Soon after, I reluctantly relocated to South Bend, Indiana, to become a mother, stretching beyond the matronly persona of other young women my age, to start a gourmet cookware shop and cooking school. When it closed, I spent the next eight years in university continuing education, a career path that would inform my life. The glass ceiling there could not be broken, and despite 20-year-long friendships, I tore myself away to Charlottesville, Virginia, then to Washington, D.C., and again to Chapel Hill, North Carolina. I said I could be a development officer when I had no direct experience in the field. If a man could say so, so could I. While at UNC, I started Oaxaca Cultural Navigator because I fell in love with Teotitlan del Valle and Oaxaca, and wanted to figure out a way to go back, and back, again.

I don’t know exactly what propelled me to leap off into the unknown. I don’t know that I would call it courage. It felt more like a need to manifest who I really was deep inside of me, who needed to express creativity, connection, and meaning by exploring and revealing the unknown. This became a 40-year practice, so that change, innovation, and discovery become easier each time it is completed, but it never really is complete; it’s a work in progress until the end, when the body crashes into the ultimate unknown. There are no guardrails for end-of-life, if one dies by natural causes. (I don’t think suicide is one of them.)

My dear friend Natalie from South Bend days, who is only a few years older than me, enjoys her days in a Barcalounger, watching the National Geographic channel, taking lunch in her room, cared for by assisted living. I am doing core exercises and weight-lifting to be stronger for a May 2027 return to Japan. I am intent on living to 100, perhaps beyond. I am intent on continuing to change, albeit differently than in the past. I am intent on propelling myself into the future.

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I sit and listen. The only sounds I hear are the refrigerator’s hum and the wind’s voice as it calls in a bellow, then a whisper. The creak of my chair as I shift my weight is an interruption to the silence, too. I live in isolation, with some distance from my closest neighbor. An occasional car or truck will raise dust on the dirt road out front, but I barely hear them.

There is no snow on Taos Mountain when I return, and none on those nearby that are part of the Southern Rocky Mountain Range. Snow-capped mountains have been a dependable and welcoming recurrence year after year, something those of us in these parts may have taken for granted. I imagine the water table will be low. There was little flow along the river as I drove along the winding canyon between Española and home.

Water is the source of life, I remind myself, as I pay attention to personal consumption, keep the kitchen tap at a dribble, showering less frequently, and recycling gray water. The human adult body is 55-60% water. Water is essential for nearly every bodily function, including circulation, digestion, temperature regulation, and cellular function.

It is springtime. The season of renewal and growth, abundance, and hope. The circle of life continues as the earth cycles and recycles, as it has for millennia. Tulips and daffodils are blooming in raised beds. Trees are leafing out. The wild chamisas in my yard are green with promise, drought-tolerant, bent on survival.

The spring feast holidays are upon us: Easter, Passover, Holi, Eid al-Fitr, and Nowruz, and many others around the world. The Taos Pueblo closed for two weeks for Quiet Time. The symbols and meanings are universal: we open the door to more light and longer days; the planting season is here; rain is promised; and it is a time of cleansing, rebirth, and regeneration. Eggs, greens, and flowers proliferate rituals. I think about water, again.

As I eat, I hear myself chewing, paying attention to the crunch and the swallow. This is a basic meaning of life. To ingest, to savor, to sustain oneself. It is also a time to look out and beyond to attend to others. Ancient mystics and contemporary spiritual leaders remind me that while I live alone here, I live in relationship with and to others.

This is a landscape that could be loneliness. Yet for me, it is a place of soothing, where heart and soul combine to offer clarity and help me restore. This is a place to retreat, and every moment becomes a choice. Life here can be simple. There is no construction next door with the incessant sound of drills and jackhammers. There are no cocks crowing, ranchero music blaring, no goats bleating, no gobble gobble of guajalotes to interrupt the flow.

Here, it is perfect introspection, where the only thing to do is create, or just be, to think about how to thrive and survive in an age of turmoil, oppression, and grief.

This is a time to ask myself: Am I creating enough joy in my life, connection with others, having good manners, being kind and understanding, patient and forgiving? Am I doing my best to repair the world, making it a better place, beginning with me and then with you?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m imperfect. I make mistakes. I behave poorly. Usually, I can step back, take a 180-degree spin, recognize wrongdoing, and try to reset. I am not too proud to apologize.

How about you?

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I’ve had reason to get more things done late into the evening, which means I’m pushing my bedtime much later. However, the body plays tricks. If I go to sleep at eleven at night, will I arise at six or seven? No. First, it takes a good thirty to forty-five minutes to wind down and fall asleep, if I’m lucky. So, normally that would mean a six- to seven-hour sleep cycle. But that also doesn’t account for the time I wake up at night. How many times is unpredictable? How long it takes to fall back asleep again is also unpredictable.

Okay, so the bottom line is, I’m waking up between four and five in the morning. Hence, my feeling of living two days in one. Instead of languishing in bed trying to fall back asleep, which is not easy, I find it better to rise, quickly inhale two cups of coffee, and get to the computer to start work or putter around the house, or start on a sashiko embroidery project.

Perhaps living two days in one is a positive thing. My point of view is that I am extending my life by staying awake longer. Two days in one means living twice as long, doesn’t it?

By mid-afternoon, I’m toast, but I rally, determined to stay alert until at least eight-thirty at night, when I begin bedtime preparations that can take an hour. I’ve never been able to nap, though I can lie down to rest for a bit.

This is all to say that by getting up earlier, I can be more creative and productive. For the last several weeks, I’ve made chipotle mayonnaise, a recipe I created, and written several proposals to help artisan makers develop their businesses, including strategic marketing analysis, business development, marketing, communications, social media, and website creation.

I’ve had meetings. I’ve driven to an indigenous town two-and-a-half hours away to go to their glorious once-a-week Saturday market. I’m creating a tapestry design for a rug. I’ve met friends for lunch and dinner. I hosted a visitor and took her to my favorite artisans. I’ve made shopping and to-do lists, satisfied when I’ve been able to complete and delete them.

The night before I left Oaxaca to return to the USA on March 27, to catch a six-thirty flight in the morning, I set my alarm for three-fifteen. Except my alarm went off at four-fifteen, and my taxi was coming at four-thirty. Big mistake I made. I guess I was so tired, I didn’t clearly see the clock hands. I scrambled to get dressed, and the last things were packed.

Seems like living two days in one caught up with me!

Ancient Zapotec people calculated time using agricultural cycles and a 365-day solar calendar. I wonder how much sleep they got?

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I’m practicing letting go. I have been the operator of this artisan textile craft and tour business for seventeen years. I’m shifting toward becoming an advisor, offering support only when asked. This is difficult for me. It has required that I stop the urge to fix everything and anything I see as a problem.

I suffer from the I can do it best syndrome! This is the yoke of every founder who sees that s/he must make a clean break. I have stepped back and removed myself to allow my dear godson and goddaughter to make their own mistakes and learn from them. Continuing my close family relationship with them is my top priority.

Time is my benefactor. Time is my healing. Time is my friend. Time gives me space to be open to what comes up next.

I’ve noticed that I have time to get together with friends while my godson travels and leads in Chiapas. I’m exploring restaurants, small boutique shops, designing clothing, sewing, and mending. I have the freedom to take day trips into remote Oaxaca mountain villages to explore and savor. There is time to write and just be, or roam the campo with my dog, Tia, in a modified walking meditation (I do have to pay attention to where I’m stepping).

In the many years past, I have missed these opportunities because I’ve been too busy planning, organizing, doing, going, leading, marketing, and promoting. I’ve allowed only a week to ten days between each tour. So that time was used to rest and regenerate. There was no time for friends, nor much time for myself. So while I was in my Oaxaca home, I wasn’t there. I was traveling elsewhere.

Another step forward is a metaphor for new directions and beginnings. Letting go is honoring the past, having regrets, yet creating the open space to allow positive change to manifest.

I have changed my email signature and created new profiles on Facebook and Instagram: MarCom Master + Business Development Pro, entrepreneur, writer, creative, Oaxaca Cultural Navigator founder-advisor, textile virtuoso, mezcal lover. I’m ready to start advising local artisans and small businesses with brand identity, building a clientele, and keeping them engaged.

All is unfolding to reveal the next steps.

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Reinvention is different for me. I have always been resilient and open to what can come next. Mostly, over my life, I have been presented with opportunities, or perhaps, merely noticed them, and decided to move forward. These have and have not been deliberate. They have been experiments. Some have been impulsive, like moving to Oaxaca (mostly part-time) and embracing a Zapotec weaving family, then living with them for the past twenty years. I helped put them on the map. These choices have served me well, created meaningful friendships, new career paths, and satisfied my dreams.

In January, I transferred full ownership of Oaxaca Cultural Navigator LLC, which I founded in 2007, to my Zapotec godson and his wife. It is my gift to them, a way to pass what I created to the next generation, and in thanks for giving me a home here. This has been a wise decision, yet I have mourned this letting go for the past three months.

Questions kept popping up: What will I do? How will I continue to make a difference? How do I slow down and give myself the time to just BE, relax, contemplate, and enjoy the gifts of friendship, family, and a sense of place? What will I do to continue to be creative? What will I do next?

Nothing concrete was coming to mind. There have been no clear answers. I decided to enjoy the open space for a while. For a while didn’t take long!

I’m eighty years old, yet people keep telling me age is a number. Sometimes it feels like that. Sometimes my body rebels, creaks, tells me it isn’t happy with this process you might call getting old. I’m coming around to realizing that meaningful work is more important now than earning more money. I have enough. It’s not significant, but it will (hopefully) sustain me for the next twenty years if I’m careful and stop buying huipiles.

Yesterday, I went to visit a favorite mezcal palenque, Don Secundino 1914, and maestro mescalero Jorge Mendes Cortes in Santiago Matatlan. I wanted to buy Sierra Negra to take back to the US at the end of this month. This is a rare agave that is difficult to find. It is delicious. No one makes it better than Jorge.

Jorge and I have known each other for years. I discovered him on a back road up a hill on a plot of land his grandfather, Don Secundino, had given him. His mezcal is small batch, artisanal, made the same way as his forebearers. He has since moved to a larger plot given to him by his fraternal grandmother and is growing his imprint. But he’s just getting started. Not many people know about his brand.

We started talking. He wants to grow his business, and I shared how I might help with marketing, promotion, communications, website content, photography, and special events. I could apply everything I’ve learned in my forty-year career in higher education marketing, communications, and business development to this project. I could distill my knowledge of small business start-ups and make a difference locally, literally right up the road from where I live in Teotitlan del Valle.

It is meaningful to me because I admire and respect Jorge’s vision and the quality of his handmade product. He is an artisan, too.

My sister wrote to me yesterday. I love how when one door closes, another opens for you. I love how you keep reinventing and building on your strengths. You are a role model. You have so many relationships with all kinds of artisans and insights into what makes their work so unique, she said.

I’m not that special. I do notice things, the gaps, the crevices, and I listen to what others are saying. Mostly, I think these things happen because I want to help, and I hear the need.

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Is there one?

The one with the biggest heart, most generous spirit

Among us

Travels with the wind, like a kite

Unanchored, floating beyond sight

Until her spirit soars and settles

Within each of us, to remember

What joy feels like

What comfort provides

What caring means

Modeling all the best.

I know her embrace.

You do, too. You know how

She understands, dances, and

Twirls, raises her arms high in delight,

Accepts, gives without hesitation.

She is adorned in color, magenta, royal blue,

Intense pink, emerald, elegant, yet accessible,

Wearing the traje of indigenous people she respects

For their artistry and ability to make more than

What they have. She sees them.

You, I call Carol, rests deeply within,

Coming forth at unpredictable moments

Bringing tears and smiles,

To remind me of what commitment, honesty,

And compassion means.

I am an imperfect being, raised on the bread of affliction,

Seasoned with resistance, impatience, and edginess,

For which I must apologize to anyone

I have hurt or angered.

She, we call Carol, is filled with glee, love, acceptance,

Upholding values that attend to keeping

Those less fortunate, those rising from pain,

Those struggling with anxiety, addiction, and loss

Out of harm’s way.

Offering time to heal and live to the

Fullest possible.

A quiet force, a warrior, radiant, resolved, giver

And wisdom keeper,

Offering the magnitude of her being to each of us as she

Travels through our memories.

I am lost, living with loss, where is she?

Carol, creator and healer, friend, who manifests what

I yearn for:

The grace to be good, do good, contribute,

Persist, make change where needed, make art

Filled with color

Be kind and gracious.

Repair the world and create a

Better place for us all.

I hear the wind.

She, we call Carol, is speaking to us,

Fully, with the breath of adventure, promise,

A future filled with wonder and well-being.

I believe it is her wish to inspire love

Hope, commitment, and intention,

Within each of us.

I read this yesterday, on Valentine’s Day, our Memorial Day for Carol Egan, where a close group of Oaxaca, Mexico, friends gathered to honor Carol’s life. We told stories, made jokes, cried, and laughed. In true Mexican style, we ate delicious food while music played in the background, though some of us had little appetite.

Carol’s daughter Darragh was with us from New York, her son Roger came from Barcelona, and her wasband, Roger, provided support to these two adult children, whose own young children would never know their grandmother. There were flowers and photos. Carol’s beautiful huipiles decorated the altar that friends created.

We sat. We mourned. We remembered and appreciated each other with hugs and kisses, knowing that life is fragile, unpredictable, and can be snuffed out in a moment. It is in our hands to take good care of and attend to our loved ones.

Please read more about Carol Egan by clicking on this link. She was a force for good.

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We had lunch plans that day. Five of us were to gather. Four showed up. Carol was sometimes late, but never this late. Susie and I called and texted. No answer. We kept looking at the restaurant door, certain she would show up at any moment. After lunch, Susie went to her hotel, heard the news, called me, and I got there so we could cry together. Then, we called close friends. We melted in shock and disbelief. We cried out NO. How is this explainable?

At my 80th birthday party, last Sunday, February 8, Carol was in pink + green

Carol was a beacon, a silent warrior who fought the opioid crisis in the United States, content to make a huge difference without needing or wanting public recognition or accolades. She comforted parents whose children had died from a fentanyl overdose, and advocated for shutting down the Sacklers’ Purdue Pharma operations, holding them responsible for addiction to OxyContin and oxycodone. She was loved and respected in so many places beyond her beloved Oaxaca, where she wintered for almost twenty years.

We will let you know soon how you can donate in Carol’s memory.

I admired and respected Carol’s dogged determination in this realm. I knew the consequences of being prescribed the Oxy’s after my first knee surgery in 2014, when I was told by doctors to take both medications every four hours for pain on schedule without fail. Stay ahead of the pain, was the advice of the time. By the end of the first week, I was hallucinating and demanding a refill when the prescriptions ran out, screaming out of control for more, more, more.

A beacon shines light. It was wonderful to be with Carol. She illuminated the spaces she entered. She brought with her an indomitable spirit, joyful, positive, upbeat, and filled with energy to go, see, do, be with friends here, and create. Everyone wanted to be with her, and she attracted many friends. The cliche I think of is like a bee that makes honey and invites all to partake. Generous is an understatement.

Carol coined the term, Fiberista. There is a group of us who are enamoured with, make, and wrap ourselves in textiles. She called me the Queen Fiberista, but really, she was the Textile Queen of Oaxaca, the Ultimate Fiberista, who looked amazing in everything she wore. Carol gravitated towards the hot pinks, purples, fuchsias, and reds. She could carry off blue, green, and yellow, too. She was a stunning model for indigenous handwoven textiles from throughout Mexico, particularly Oaxaca, and most recently, Guatemala, where she traveled with a group of textile appreciators and makers, including me.

We sat next to each other in the van, going back and forth for six hours to Coban, Alta Verapaz, from Antigua, sharing stories and intimacies, our worries, concerns, and hopes for our children and our world. When we were silent, she was on her phone texting and planning the next action to save people from fentanyl addiction. She had a direct pipeline to the Drug Czar at the White House, which she said wasn’t widely known.

I respect Carol Egan for her quiet resolve, dedication, and desire to do something big to help the world be a better place, to repair it, and to expect no public acknowledgement for this.

I love Carol Egan for her big heart that brought people together in a circle of friendship so expansive that we all knew we met each other years ago and most recently through Carol.

It was years ago that I met Carol here in Oaxaca, perhaps through an arts workshop I organized, or through a tour I developed. I can’t pinpoint it. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is her outstretched arms of welcoming, joy, and celebration; this was her trademark.

I can’t imagine this world without her.

What can I accept about Carol’s death? My own mortality, the precariousness of life, the caution I must take as I age, my need to slow down and pay attention, my vulnerabilities, and the fact that life cannot be predicted. Carol showed us that we can prevent drug abuse through education and wide communication. Yet there is no rationale for how her loss could have been prevented.

This is a stunning loss.

May her memory be a blessing to all of us.

A recent photo album of Carol, 2023, on the Oaxaca Coast

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I am now passing Oaxaca Cultural Navigator LLC along to Eric Chavez Santiago and his wife, Elsa Sanchez Diaz, two very important people in my life. I started this project nineteen years ago, breathing life into it, dedicating myself to making a difference for travelers and indigenous artisans, bringing them together to understand how culture and community across borders can connect, regardless of our differences.

Loss is typically attributed to the death of a loved one, especially a mother, father, brothers, and sisters. I have also experienced a deep sense of loss when I was separated and divorced, when dear friends moved away, and when my son left for college to make his own way in the world. We can each recount times of loss and mourning when the depth of emotion is difficult to explain.

I am at that place now, at a transition point when I must leave what I created behind and move on to elsewhere, yet to be determined. Making this transition is difficult. I’m right smack in the middle of it. I’ll explain.

In 2023, I invited Eric, whom I met in 2005 when he was a twenty-year-old university student, along with his wife, Elsa Sanchez Diaz, to join me in operating the educational workshop and travel company I created in 2007. I gave them majority ownership then, with the plan that, at some point (certainly not now!), this would be my legacy to carry forward. I had no idea when that would be, but I anticipated it. I did everything then, a one-woman solo operation. In the transition, I modeled the operation, and they learned how it worked, taking a leadership role. Yet, I was still the force behind it all.

Everything included writing a blog, marketing, promotion, and communications; planning, organizing, and delivering tours and workshops; participant recruitment; artisan visits; arranging transportation, hotels, and food service; identifying and securing on-the-ground expert guide resources; and accounts payable and receivable.

More than that, the relationships I built with participants and artisans over the years sustained and energized me, creating a sense of abundance and purpose. I loved traveling with like-minded people who appreciated the adventure as much as I did. Many became personal friends.

I have always worked, it seems, at least since I was a teen. My work life has been filled with adventure, surprise, satisfaction, and most importantly, creativity. It has also been peppered with disappointment and yearnings. Owning my own business has been the capstone of a long career. It’s hard to let go. My identity is wrapped up in it.

This January, a short time after turning eighty, during our first tour of the season, I was noticing a shift. The transition plan I put in place was not going smoothly for me. I was cranky, proprietary, critical, and unable to accept that there were other ways to operate the project that were different from how I did. I needed to give Eric and Elsa the space they deserved and needed, because I love and respect them, and because my relationship with them is more important than anything else.

I confronted these demons and came to a hard, yet liberating conclusion: Time to let go. Writing and talking about it helps.

Recently, my dear seventy-five-year-old friend was told her high-level management job was redundant. It was eliminated, and she exited. I was feeling the same way: redundant, obsolete, irrelevant. I also found myself losing interest in the fine details of the part of the operation I was responsible for. My body is not as cooperative as it was a few years ago. After spinal fusion surgery in 2024 and knee replacement in 2025, I’m moving slowly. I crunch and creak. I can still walk 10,000-13,000 steps daily, but slowly, trailing the group.

My mind is agile. I can still dream up new programs, but I am unable to implement them on my own. Too much detail now. I came to this decision to let go mostly because it is distressing for me to be a participant rather than a leader, something I have done all my life. So instead of being resentful, I decided it was in my best interests to shift, withdraw, and mourn.

I need to create a new paradigm of being. This is about me, and not about Eric and Elsa, who are generous, sensitive, and kind.

I am in transition, and I don’t know where I’m going. I am grieving this loss. And, at the same time, I’m also thinking about what I might create next, how I might do things differently, and even how I might continue to contribute to Oaxaca Cultural Navigator in new and evolving ways.

Will any road do if I don’t know the destination? Will I meander until I find what matters? My tendencies have been to jump in, move fast, and do something impulsive (which has always worked out). Now, I can savor these past almost twenty years and take my time.

My guess is that all will reveal itself, as it always does. Here, in Mexico, there is a saying: Patiencia, calma, tranquila. Be patient, calm, and tranquil. The magic can be in what comes next.

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I didn’t even think of making New Year’s resolutions this year. I forgot, or I sublimated it. This was not part of my consciousness as it had been in years past. The topic surfaced on January 2 as I was finishing up lunch at Café del Elfo at Casa del Barro, Oaxaca. I had gone to this small boutique shopping center on Calle Reforma, east of the historic center, to look at new glasses (a fraction of the cost of US frames) at B-Sight.

Gathering at nearby tables were about twenty people, the Oaxaca Philosophy Group, there to discuss New Year’s Resolutions, intentions, making them, keeping them, breaking them, and digging deeper. The conversation turned to who we are, what we are satisfied with, what we want to change, who we want to become, and how to be a better person. I was fascinated and pulled my chair closer to listen to this more intimate exploration of self.

This brought up questions: Who am I? Where do I belong? How do I see myself in relation to others? How do I want to be in the world? This necessitates self-awareness and an impact on others.

What I believe about myself and how I describe myself can create a new reality, supercharging the self-narrative, which Vince Gray, the facilitator, describes as our operating system. He advises that we stand outside our operating systems and look at ourselves, and say, I want to be this … I don’t want to be that. It’s a slow transition that he likens to riding a huge elephant and steering it to change direction. A reference point is Nudge Theory.

Are we born with the traits we exhibit in the world, or do we have the power to do things differently? It’s that powerful yin-yang of nature vs. nurture.

This caused me to reconsider New Year’s resolutions. They are tangible and can be measured. For example, I need to lose 10 pounds; then, did I lose these or gain more? How much money did I save, and how much more do I need to save? How many steps did I walk today, and how many more do I need to take to reach my goal? Did I lift weights and increase my muscle strength? Did I read more books? Interact with friends twice a week? Did I cut down on drinking and only take two glasses of wine a week? What about smoking cessation for many who are habitual? This list can go on and on.

We are a culture that is based on setting goals and reaching them. When we fail, we feel bad and fall back on old habits and dependencies, lamenting that we cannot reach them, sinking deeper into despair and self-punishment.

How do we measure being a better human being? I constantly ask myself, am I listening more than talking? Am I engaging others by asking questions, rather than expressing my opinions and demonstrating my knowledge, dominating the conversation, and commanding airtime? Am I capable of reflecting on what others say and validating them? Am I supportive rather than critical?

These are more spiritual questions that draw me into digging deeper. For me, it means that I must move slowly, with more intention, and concentrate on the person I want to become. Now that I am an octogenarian, this has more meaning than ever. It’s the relationships in life that matter most.

I wish you a New Year filled with contentment, satisfaction, peace, and well-being.

The group meets weekly and is led by Vincent Gray, a philosopher and retired teacher who is also an accomplished guitarist and singer originally from Kingsport, Tennessee. After completing a Fulbright in Greece, taking (very) early retirement for a more meaningful life, he and his wife settled in Oaxaca in 2020.

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Vince (left) and Wilbert, owner of Cafe del Elfo