Waaaay Beyond Lemonade


Healing is ongoing

In 2007 I asked my husband to renew our vows to celebrate our upcoming 20th wedding anniversary.

His reply: “Isn’t once enough?”

Disappointment akin to grief manufactured the self-protective construct: During our vacation to Cloudcroft, New Mexico, amid the mountains and into the desert, “God renewed our vows.”

So I told myself and my dearest friend, Denise.

I acquired a ring to mark the occasion and was told by a wise and lovely green-eyed woman that my choice had significance and power:

“Another profound Native American experience as I chose my 20th anniversary present – a sterling silver ring with the squash seed, tendril, blossom and feather, and the story was told to me by a kind, wise woman of 86 years. She has beautiful green eyes and I suddenly recognized an Elder. Tears moistened my own.” —Travel Journal, June 10, 2007, Sunday, 8:24 p.m. Cloudcroft, New Mexico

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The ring was too big for me, but I wanted it anyway. An ironic inner voice said, “The ring doesn’t fit; neither does the marriage. It’s too big for you.”

I hoped I’d “grow into it,” that perhaps one day when I was old and my hands were gnarled and my knuckles were swollen, then the ring would fit.

I rarely wore it, fearing it would slip off my finger and be lost.

I’m wearing it now, as the July heat and humidity make my fingers swell. The ring is still a bit large, but feels more comfortable than the bands I usually wear.

The marriage failed, as I think I knew it would, five years after getting my wondrous ring.

I’ve grown beyond (waaaay beyond) the orthodox God-concept and realize my belief back then for what it was: a way of soothing an intense form of sorrow.

The ring is still important to me. It symbolizes hope and renewal: seed to leaves and tendrils to flowers, and flowers to more seeds, without end, like the circle of a ring.

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Healing is ongoing and my life is in repair. Sorrow remains and I am learning to forgive myself for loving and leaving and being so human and vulnerable.

In the M A R I G O L D Initiative, Monday’s Practice is Self-forgiveness. It’s the hardest of all for me, requiring the most discipline and mindfulness. I don’t know if I will ever be able to release myself. A new collection of poems—blessings—by Florida writer, artist and minister Jan Richardson is easing the path.

May your healing be ongoing.

 

 

 

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Hello. It’s been a while.

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Greetings, Dear Reader.

You could say life has really gotten in the way of maintaining blogs and websites I’ve started.

 

Two things happened last year that exhausted me:  I finished, copyrighted and published a much-abbreviated memoir, Waaaay Beyond Lemonade. It was nothing like the original plan, which was to include journal excerpts and poetry. It was so painful to write, I quit the project for months at a time, then decided to go with a bare bones account.

 

The second thing was having to euthanize my beloved greyhound, Lady Jane. She was 13, ever fragile, but one weekend in August, she failed precipitously. Howling in pain, unable to walk, eat, or drink. The vet didn’t encourage testing, or “chasing the disease,” as he called it, as doing so would only have prolonged her misery. She fell asleep on my lap and drifted away. I still miss her horribly, especially during a walk, which I’ve taken less and less frequently since her passing.

 

Add to these events the ongoing struggles of forging a new life and relationship after my divorce in 2012. The writer in me went AWOL. Life became very quiet: tending home and garden, caring for my cats, helping my companion find his way after a job he held for 15 years was outsourced, manifesting in an 18-month, stress-induced disability.

 

The older one is privileged to be, the longer recovery takes, it seems.

 

We are now nearing the end of 2015. I struggle less with my derailed life plans and focus more on the sacrament of the present moment. Here is real life. Maturity is a process of detachment from material desires and cultural norms/expectations. I live pretty much “under the radar,” as my uncle observed recently.

 

Fine by me.

 

I have moved not only waaaay beyond that lemonade, but waaaay beyond the people and circumstances that created the need to concoct it. The “lemonade stand” is falling into disrepair. I am purposely neglecting it.

 

On a bookcase is a note to self that reads: “Your past is toxic. Visit with caution.”

 

The memoir is available in Kindle format from Amazon here: http://www.amazon.com/Waaaay-Beyond-Lemonade-Merry-Wilson-ebook/dp/B00HUJRO6M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1449079349&sr=8-1&keywords=waaaay+beyond+lemonade  and I’d love to hear your feedback about it.

 

But, as promotion of any of my writing exhausts me further, I’ll just say “There it is,” and let you know that for now, I’ll be writing about new topics, like The M A R I G O L D Initiative, for instance. There’s another neglected blog about it floating around in cyberspace that I might or might not revisit. I do have a fairly robust Facebook page chronicling this philosophy of recovery and renewal.

 

Enough for now.

 

Oh, one more thing:  I’m not certain I am a writer anymore. Writing is something I did, mostly—I realize now—for therapy. In fact, writing is/was a survival mechanism. I’m not forcing the creative process.