Category: Uncategorized

Frantically searching for fresh content on one of our many streaming services, anxiously scrolling for my next opium hit, I came across a very interesting documentary by a futurist. This futurist talked about the importance of being able to visualize or envision our future. That perhaps by envisioning what we want, we can better manifest a brighter future. Allowing that vision to guide us toward more impactful choices today, in an effort to craft a better future.

As part of his research, he came across an interesting study done by a neuropsychologist , which posed the question…”Can we visualize our future selves? “

His research showed that when shown a picture of our selves, a certain area of the brain lights up. When shown a picture of a total stranger, a totally different segment illuminates. The fascinating finding was when he asked the subjects to try to envision their future selves, the “stranger” area lit up. Which made me wonder…Do our brains categorize our future self as a stranger? How do we have empathy for someone we have yet to meet, especially for someone as important as our future self? How do we navigate our coming years with no clear vision of the person we are to become?

Seeing an old photo of myself, as a child, a teen, a young woman…it’s all familiar. I know her. I remember where she was when she wore that scratchy dress. I remember how she felt safe under that big willow tree or how she loved the smell of wet dirt. She was me and I’m still her. We are Lisa. These memories have created indelible images of me, myself, and I. I have respect for all that she went through. I love that little girl, that young woman…she’s awesome. Not always the sharpest tool in the shed, but I’m proud to be her.

But what about my future Lisa? I haven’t met her yet but she’s right around the corner, knockin’ at my door! “Someone’s knockin’ at the door…Somebody’s ringin’ the bell…Do me a favor…Open the door and let ‘em in…yeah, yeah, yeah…let ‘em in”. Paul McCartney and Wings 1976. Classic song, right?

So, I open the door and guess who it is? “It’s me…you!”

“Oh. I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you! With your grey thinning hair and expansive waistline. Well, I just didn’t think you would be moving so slowly and forgetting your words. And when did your hearing start to fail? I SAID WHEN DID YOUR HEARING START TO FAIL? You used to be kind of cute and have some sex appeal. I don’t mean to be an ageist, but what do you bring to the table now? And when did you start wearing those old lady readers and watching birds? I ‘m sorry. I’m being a mean girl, right now, aren’t I? I just never thought you would look like this. But then again, I never tried to envision you. So…come on in!”

So now that I’ve invited you in, I promise I will kinder to you…me…us…starting now.

I will try to make decisions now that will positively impact your life, always having empathy for you, my “ inner old woman”.

I will tell you daily how I’m proud of your fortitude , which will hopefully be enough to carry you(us) through what’s to come.

I will assure you that together, we will discuss how my present choices may impact your future… what is best for our body, embracing the importance of movement and muscle strengthening so we can age with grace and resilience. Stretching as much as we can, although stretching is just so boring…maybe I will leave that part up to you?

I can’t wait to introduce you to my “ inner child”. She’s an adorable little cry baby that demands things her way. I blame her for all of my anxiety but she taught me how to have fun and be creative, so I keep her around.

I need to apologize for not really thinking about you until now, but it just hit me… I need you on my team, cause the ride’s gonna get real bumpy. Growing old ain’t for the faint of heart, sister. We are going to need to put on our big girl panties on. Got that one covered, literally with our awesome granny panties. Cool beans!

So in an effort to welcome you into my psyche, I embrace you with open arms. Cherish all that you bring to the table…wisdom, wrinkles, honesty, depth, positivity, charity, grace, and resilience. I think we are going to the best of friends. We make a great team, you and I!

My little rodentia feet silently scurried across the scorching, pristine sand. The path before me, bathed in soft moonlight. My every move strategically planned, fearing certain death by an omnipresent owl or a wiley coyote. I seemed to be on a mission. Driven by urges more primal than thirst or hunger. I was in search of something. I seemed to be making my way to a pinnacle on the far horizon.

I finally made it, stopping to catch my breath, my tiny heart exploding from my chest. Thankful to have survived such a harrowing journey. Proud of my accomplishment. I had made it to the top! Time to rest and take in this breathtaking panorama. And as I sat pondering my next move, I quickly glanced behind, taking note of how far I had come. Much to my surprise, someone had laid a path of technicolor swirls all along the desert floor! And that’s when it hit me…my tail dripping in paint…I had unknowingly created this masterpiece with my own tail! My tail was a paintbrush!

I quickly awoke. The dream was over. I grappled to find my pen and journal, frantically hoping to capture my thoughts before they dissipated back into my psyche. And as I sat journaling this sweet little dream, I started to wonder…What did it mean? How could I have lived my entire life not knowing my tail was a paintbrush? I thought I was so self-aware! How could I have been so dismissive of my own creative potential?

Now that I am a retired desert rat, no longer scurrying from place to place, I’ve had time to reflect. No longer an active participant in the rat race of life, I’ve begun to embrace my creative tail. My little nose was always so busy sniffing out success, evading failure…just doing what it needed to do that I must have forgotten I had a tail! A tail that wants me to find joy. To find what makes me happy. And what really makes me happy is to create.

Creating is the secret sauce that keeps my juices flowing. It promotes balance. Whether it’s writing, photography, cooking, painting, making music, dancing, storytelling, exploring, or giving of our time…it’s essential to find what brings us personal joy. Our chi.

So my hope for us all in these coming years, is that we can all allow some room in our lives to manifest creating. Visualize what you think might bring you joy and try it. And for those of you who believe you don’t have a creative bone in your body, I would challenge you to listen to your inner child. For he or she may have a “tall tale” to “tail”. Believe it!

I love the idea of golfing. I love the clang of the clubs when I carry my bag. I savor the feel of my snug weathered glove as I wrangle it onto my hand. I am one with the club, as I gently but firmly ready my grip. Amazed by the sudden infusion of power surging up my forearm, down my spine, and through the soles of my feet as I shift my weight, pivoting on the green velvet below. The sensation of the warm breeze on my face, so invigorating. The smell of fresh cut grass, intoxicating. The “ping” of a perfect drive, electrifying. Eighteen chances to master perfection. Eighteen chances to admit defeat. And it all revolves around the pivot!

Why is pivoting such a crucial element? In golf, it allows for the transfer of rotational power needed to propel the ball forward. Maximizing distance on your drive. Without that pivot, the swing is restricted and the potential is lost, a drive’s death knell. To go the distance, you gotta be able to pivot.

Watching my mother’s amazing golf swing, her perfectly timed pivot, made me think. There’s a lot of energy harnessed in that little maneuver. Energy we all need to harness as we pivot through life. To be able to roll with the punches and change course mid stream. To shift forward while remaining grounded. To be able to prioritize how and when we expend our energy, when life’s occurrences take us down an unforeseen path. Finding ways to thrive in the life we have, rather than the life we had envisioned. The better we are at pivoting, the more we can harness that torque to propel us forward and go the distance.

Pivoting also requires strength and steadiness. One foot firmly remaining on the ground at all times, allowing stability while other aspects change. Without that central axis staying grounded, the change that is needed is more difficult. We all need a stabilizing force when faced with adversity. Whether it is relying on others or fortifying our own internal scaffolding to carry ourselves through crises, that strength and steadiness is imperative. Self-doubt, fear and anxiety can easily erode our pivot point. Immobilize us. On the other hand, a healthy dose of self doubt can evolve into more courage. Fear can protect us from harm. And anxiety can sometimes energize us towards needed change. So, I constantly remind myself not to loathe these seemingly negative forces from within, but rather thank them for their protective nature. Just knowing how they can rob me of essential momentum is huge. That central axis is pivotal to a nice long drive!

Let’s all try to practice our pivoting as we go from hole to hole. Knowing full well that some days will be full swing ahead, while others may just be “par for the course”. All the while, allowing for plenty of mulligans (do-overs) while envisioning PGA glory.

But in the end, what really matters is finding joy along the way. In the great words of Betty Cunningham, the undefeated women’s and men’s Quail Creek Country Club Champion for 17 consecutive years…

“We sure had fun, didn’t we?”

How did I get here? One minute I’m in Kansas with my little dog Toto, the next in the land of AARP.

The tornado came out of nowhere…picking me up, spinning me around, and spitting me out. How did my life slip by so fast? How did I get to where I am today? One minute I’m a healthy young woman plotting my course in life. The next, a retiree plotting my way to the Emerald City.

I guess you could say I was one of the early explorers amongst my peers. A real Lisa Erikson. Most step onto the yellow brick road at the ripe old age of 65, picking their first apple from the Medicare tree. My MS spun me around and spit me out earlier than planned. But thankfully my travel group is expanding as many of my close friends and family retire as well. We’re all searching for a copy of the roadmap. Quietly wondering what to pack. Frantically shopping for a pair of ruby slippers. Size nine. Overnight delivery. Add to cart!

This journey seems to be filled with more questions than answers. Looping daily in my head…

Why are my clothes shrinking?…as I stuff the straw back into my ever tightening waistband, thankful that spandex is now an acceptable Scarecrow fabric. Now… if I only had a brain!

How can my joints suddenly ache so much?…as I squeak and pop into the day, thankful for my ibuprofen oil can to lubricate my Tin Man joints. Now… if I only had a heart!

Where and when did I lose my fearless internal compass and thirst for adventure?…as I cower and chew, thankful for my Lion’s tail to quell my fears for future generations. Now…if I only had courage!

OH MY!

Do I go with the Wicked Witch of the East or her sister to the West…Medicare Advantage or Standard Medicare with Gap? Do I buy more insurance from one of those pushy fly-by-night monkeys? “ You never know when your house may land on someone, ma’am!” Do I allow myself to be lulled to a deep sleep of denial by the fragrant red fields of poppies or do I stay” woke”? Do I take dance lessons from the LolliPop kids or learn a new language? Who knew Babel offers Munchkinese? Do I join the Great Oz in his hot air balloon as he takes me somewhere over the rainbow? Do I splurge on that African safari I’ve always dreamt about, perhaps photograph a horse-of-a-different color? Or do I stretch my retirement pennies and have a staycation…they say, there’s no place like home?

So, as I muster up the courage to pull back that curtain and reveal my true self, I suddenly realize that I don’t need the Great Oz to give me a brain or a heart or courage. I’ve always had these deep within myself but somehow have forgotten that…I am the Queen of the Forest, damn it! And yes, it’s my party and I’ll click my heels if I want to…three times!

So, I’m locking arms tightly with my dear travel partners as we skip towards the Emerald City and sing.

“We’re off to see the wizard. The wonderful wizard of Oz. Because, because, because, because, because…Because of the wonderful things he does!”

Now go do wonderful things!

The winner! Ballet White it is!

After painstakingly slathering large swatches of every off white paint color known to man, we have decided on her! Why? According to YouTube, she gives off “subtle moody undertones in the midday sun and cozy hugs as night falls.” It sounds like a dating profile…”Single White Female seeks solid, established Blank Wall. Let me color your world!” Ha!

Ballet White… the color we chose to cover the robin egg blue walls of our new home. And as we pulled back the baseboards, layers of paint peeled away with it. Robin egg blue…khaki brown…olive green, each color once chosen with love by the previous owners. Each layer painted on with care, only to be covered by the next homeowner’s pallet. Defining past and present with the stroke of a brush.

It gave us pause. Respect for the labors of love that came before us but also perspective on the cycles of life within these walls. These weren’t just colors of paint. They were Thanksgiving meals, Christmas mornings, and nightly news. Just like a tree laying down concentric rings, telling her story of rainfall or drought, feast or famine. We were now the ring after the last and before the next.

It’s not as if we needed to buy an older home, gut it, and start afresh in order to realize our own mortality. After saying goodbye to both of our parents , we know we are the frontline. How did that happen? Just yesterday we were dancing in discos, staying out late, getting up early, burning the candle from both ends. And we had the energy to do it!

Now we are grandparents, living in a retirement community, and shopping for a golf cart. A “one car” couple shuffling between doctor’s appointments and water aerobics! We are all slowing down, losing steam, gravitating toward sitting more than standing, walking more than running, listening more than talking, and maybe laying down that last layer of paint.

I’m serious! I am never painting again! What? You thought I was going all morose on you? That I was implying this was going to be my last home before assisted living? That I was singing my swan song? No way, sister. Ive got a lot more living to do! I just hate painting!

But if it is so, so be it. If this is the last chance to pick a Color of the Year, I embrace it with gratitude. I cherish being a grandma to my sweet Theo. I love sitting and thinking about plants and watching birds. I’m excited for my morning coffee and thankful for every sunrise, just as my mother was thankful for every one of her sunrises.

So I’m embracing this concentric ring of life. It’s all ethereal and temporary anyway. In a blink of an eye…Nothing lasts forever…except for Ballet White.

SWF meets Blank Wall and lives happily ever after. The end!

I was shocked to realize that it had been a year since I’d posted a blog. Yikes!!

In the past, my blogs would bubble up like crude oil from a freshly tapped source. My pen couldn’t keep up with my brain. But ever since my mother passed, I have been feeling kind of lost. Wondering why after more than a year, I still feel unlike myself. Some days I’m joyous, some days robotic. Wondering when all of this grieving crap will end. Then an acquaintance mentioned a book called “The Myth of Closure” by Pauline Boss, PhD.

The book debunks the myth that we have to find closure in order to complete the grieving process. I guess I have been waiting for closure but it just never seemed to come I’ve been waiting for that door to smack shut, freeing me to open another. Yet, what this book has taught me is that we are barking up the wrong tree if we think grief has an ending.

By hanging onto the myth of closure, we miss the more important aspect of grieving. Transition. By thinking of our loss as simply a transition, rather than a closed chapter, it frees us up to keep our loved one’s spirit alive. To move forward in life after loss, without having to say good bye. There is no proverbial door to shut, allowing another to open. I am free to continue the relationship with my mother. Yes, the relationship has lost the physicality of being able to pick up the phone and hear her voice or wrap my arms around her strong body. But it has gained a wildly free spiritual connection. By wishing for closure to my sorrow, I have been unable to fully embrace the magnitude of this new relationship.

In her book, Dr. Boss touches on reconstructing your identity after loss. We tend to cling to the previous role we held while our loved one was alive. For me, it was being Betty’s daughter. I know in my heart of hearts, I will always be her daughter. Yet, now, I need to be open to the transformation of that relationship. Her spirit now resides within me. I am a living remnant of her fabric. And in doing so, I remind myself of the special gift her passing brought to my life. I can talk with her anytime, anywhere, even when I have no cell phone signal. It’s Verizon’s newest Omnipresent Family Plan!

So, as I set about reconstructing my identity, I guess I would say I would like to begin by seeing myself as Betty’s daughter and messenger. The message I have to pass on is one of strength, savvy, resilience, self-confidence, and gusto!

This is who I am…Betty’s daughter 2.0

That was my “focal point”. The object I was going to focus on to get through the process of labor. I had waited nine long months to bite into that rich creamy chocolate, laden with caffeine and sugar. All I needed to do was to keep my eye on the prize in order to reach the ultimate goal of giving birth to a precious soul, who’s face I had yet to behold. The Snickers bar was familiar to me, a much needed distraction from the pain of labor. Unfortunately, my dear husband ate it, mistakingly thinking it was packed in our labor bag for the soul purpose of satiety. Honest mistake, miscommunication, funny memory…So instead, I focused on his loving, supportive face, which ended up being a much better focal point to help me “move on”…

“Moving on” is really what this blog post is about. After my mother left this realm, I felt adrift, lost in a sea of not knowing who I was. I guess I experienced my first existential crisis. Questioning who, what, and why? Feeling paralyzed, as if hit by a stun gun. Wading through the mud of daily life. And as I struggled through this new paradigm of being “parentless”, I came to realize that I feared being unprotected, vulnerable, incapable, irrelevant, no longer needed as a daughter. After my father died, I felt the same grief but this time there seemed to be a finality to my role as someone’s daughter. But I moved on then and am moving on now.

In order to move on, I’ve needed a focal point once again. A much needed distraction to fend off stagnation. My Snickers has been replaced by Mother Nature…listening to her melodic birds, studying her intricate plants, and soaking in her daily gift of the sun rising. With my family and friends… my husband’s strong embrace, our son’s texts and calls, my sibling’s daily “check-ins”, my sweet grandchild’s smile that melts my heart, and my FaceTime with my dear friends…All so essential lifelines I have grabbed to keep me moving on. We can so easily get caught in life’s eddies…patterns of circularity that keep us from moving on. Vortices that hinder our journey’s progression. In order to break free, we sometimes need a focal point on which to concentrate. To get us to the next current we will ride.

I’ve always thought that moving on denoted that you’ve fully healed from your wounds. But it’s never linear. We carry our grief with us, just as we forge new paths of healing and rebirth. It all happens in parallel, one circuit keeping the lights on while the other malfunctions for awhile. That’s the beauty of adaptability.

Moving on is not forgetting. It is remembering and honoring those that came before us. By moving on, we carry the torch. That’s how I like to look at it now. I feel my parent’s, and their parent’s, and their parent’s strength and fortitude coursing through my veins. And although the current of life seems passive by nature, I choose to move forward with intent. Choosing to honor all of the past heartbreaks and overwhelming joys that brought me to where I am. Thanking my parents for what they taught me. Realizing that I live on because of their struggles and strengths, their desire for me to thrive well after they move on. My blood is strong, and capable, and enriched with all that I need…except now I’m hungry!

Where is my Snickers????

As I sat to compose my mother’s obituary, erroneously thinking this would be a simple task, to somehow summarize my mother’s life in 150 words or less, I was struck by the enormity of the task at hand. All I could see was this technicolor tapestry unfolding before my eyes. A tapestry woven over 93 years by a soul with boundless energy.

This intricate piece of textile art seems to be composed of vibrant colors and patterns, woven from brilliant magentas and cobalt blues. Patterns derived from fiery red times and glimmering splashes of golden hope. And just as I sit back and want to see only the happy, humorous patterns that define this story of a life fully lived, I realize there are flaws in this tapestry, areas less tightly woven with faded thread, derived from sadness and loss and hardship. Yet, I realize that it’s not only the fortitude that lends strength to this creation but also the weaknesses and flaws that makes this tapestry authentic and tactile and recognizable to me as my mother’s weave.

I cower at the thought that this is a finished piece of art. I refuse to close down the loom. To place finality on this masterpiece. So I choose to envision that the very threads that made her tapestry so vibrant and fun and full of spunk, are now being used by those touched along her path . Threads of generosity and support and invention. Those very threads are already in use by us all as we unknowingly weave our own tapestries.

I realize I have been handed a pink thread from her gentle “ purr” as I brushed her silver hair, a cobalt blue one that now drives my sense of wonder, a cardinal red strand matching the lipstick she needed to apply before leaving her home. The popping red that defined that beautiful inviting smile forever etched within my heart, rekindled by the wise little red bird outside my window. Oh, and don’t forget the canary yellow thread that for most would signal caution, one she used rarely but judiciously or the emerald green thread that bathed her masterpiece with memories of her beloved fairways and the elation felt as she sunk her hole in one!

So we all have our strands to carry on the work, to keep the loom in motion.Threads of laughter and joy, of heartache and support, of grief followed by healing and slow but sure celebration…all woven together lending amazing tensile strength and purpose to our own unique creations moving forward.

And “ sew” it goes.

Lights…camera…action!

The orchestra starts it’s masterpiece with a gentle crescendo as the curtain slowly opens. It’s the morning sunrise quietly ascending up from the horizon bringing hues of slate, purple, pink and orange, followed seamlessly by a brilliantly golden chorus, bursting to sopranic heights. It’s the Morning Aria and it’s coming to a theatre near you. Yes, every day, free admission and open to all!

One of my favorite 80’s songs by Thomas Dolby is “ She Blinded Me With Science”. That’s what nature does to me. She blinds me with her science and her beauty and her complexity. I realize that this production I’m enjoying is mainly explained by science, yes. Composed of a few basic chemical elements shared by all of life. A carefully orchestrated dance guided choreographed by invisible electromagnetic forces. “Fosse, Fosse, Fosse” This is the blinding-me-with-science part.

Yet, there is the mystical, spiritual connection I feel as I sit quietly absorbing this production. There exists an omnipresent, omniscient message bathing the performance. A spiritual connection just waiting to be tapped into and embraced. That’s the blinding-me-with-awe part that I crave.

There are so many unique characters in my Sonoran Desert Play. It’s a drama, a comedy, a ballet all in one. As the curtains part, I see a purple haze outlining the jagged, cascading mountain range brought on by the sun’s slow ascension from the East. Yes, a quiet peaceful symphonic opening. I notice the Saguaro Cacti planted steadfastly on stage like noble yet benevolent guards from a Roman play. Their strong arms outstretched wide, heralding shelter for those in need of a refuge from the intense Arizona sun. Suddenly the loud staccato shrill of the Gila Woodpecker is heard as she pops her head out of her saguaro hole. Just as the enigmatic little Flycatcher appears with his funky toupee, a beautiful White Tailed Dove lands atop the saguaro, blue eye shadow and all!( Binoculars not included in the price of admission.)

Oh my gosh, a guest appearance from the primo ballerina…the Mockingbird flits to center stage, break dancing and singing an amazing compilation of oldies but goodies. Yes, copyright infringement for sure but a cover band like no other. They all sing their avian encoded musical as they swoop from black barked Mesquite to effervescently green Palo Verde. The backdrop changes hourly as dazzling sunlight changes to massive monsoon clouds engulfing the mountain range below. I have to hand it to whomever is doing set design. Give her an Emmy! And just as you are entranced by this Cirque Du Soleil, the comic relief arrives. A covey of drunken Quail, party hats and all, come stumbling across stage, as if late for something but have forgotten what it was. “ Toga, Toga, Toga” You got it…Animal House The Play.

Soon the lights begin to dim. The mood changes suddenly as you sense impending doom. The antagonist enters stage right. Yes, it’s suddenly Phantom of The Opera as the majestic Owl swoops in. “DaDaDaDaaaa…DaDaDaDaaaa”. So feared and misunderstood. If you stay long enough you may be able to see West Side Story as a scrawny, sly, desperate gang of coyotes howl their way across the set in search of helpless victims. And let’s give a big shout out to our extras…the fat little Barrel Cacti and the brave little Lizards scurrying from rock to rock.

And as the encore of a trillion twinkling Stars unfolds, you realize you’ve just been privy to a masterpiece. Mesmerized by an artful hypnotist. “ You are getting very sleepy…happy…fulfilled…grounded.” I suddenly realize that I am part of this play! Am I a lead, a fill in, a supporting actor, a producer? Not sure where I fit into this Divine Creation, but I feel connected and somehow essential.

This play called Nature is unfolding in a playhouse near you, everyday. Granted there may be different backdrops, players and plots. Yours may be an ocean wave, a tree, a canyon wall. Or perhaps it’s an urban rooftop, a local park, or your front porch. If we want to support the Arts…here’s our chance!

We can’t let the longest running act die. The show must go on!

There is something mystical about the Sonoran Desert.

Her intense sunrises and mesmerizing sunsets lure me into a happy place. As I observe the Sonoran desert’s ecosystem up close, I can’t help but think of how interconnected we all are and how efficient mother nature is when left to her own devices. The perfect example is the delicate bloom of the saguaro cactus.

Each bloom blossoms overnight and perishes within twenty four hours. Yet within that short life span, it gives birth to a pollination station attracting nocturnal bats followed by diurnal birds and bees. The bloom then shrivels into a succulent deep purple fruit that eventually is devoured by the rooting javelina, as it falls to the desert floor. What isn’t eaten decays into the earth, unleashing more seeds and fertilizing the soil. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

I guess I started thinking about the cycle of life as I sat there staring at those blossoms, reminiscing about my own life as I ease into my AARPness.

I can’t help but stop and ponder, what has my contribution to others been on this earth? Luckily, I have been granted more than twenty four hours to “give back”. But at the end of my bloom, well past my fruit bearing days, when my petals lack luster, what have I given to those I’ve encountered? Love and understanding or hatred and indifference? Sustenance and acceptance or greediness and disapproval? Laughter and authenticity or negativity and dishonesty?

I love this little altruistic state flower, leading by example, and reminding us that we all have something sweet to give.