At 62

Many who I love are having a rough winter. Whether it’s chronic illness, financial insecurity, life choices that maybe aren’t what they wish them to be, isolation, Covid, the loss of a friend or a family member – there are many things troubling those I care about right now. Social media amplifies our concerns, prayer lists are long, and the need continues to multiply.

As humans, we are fixers. Some of us are more content to let time sort things out, as it often will, but others of us, especially we Type-A control freaks, fuss and fume and try our best to eliminate/cope with the bad things in our lives.

It’s that realization that some things are out of our control that’s hard to swallow.

There are enormous things that happen in our lives – loss of those we love, illness, death, childhood trauma, job changes, betrayals – these things alter us. Our outlook on life changes. Our trust in others changes. Our walls go up. We wonder how we will make it through each day.

In the end, most of us cope. It’s much more pleasant to be happy than to be sad. Those bad feelings, while never gone, meld into all the other feelings, hopes and dreams that make up our lives. We may not know quite how we will do it, but as time marches on, so do we.

The danger is in not letting go. Getting stuck in the morass of the past. Taking the grief and the hurts and the wrongs and the slights that have been dealt us and cuddling them close. Doing that changes us, and not for the better.

Mama used to tell me that we make our own heaven and hell right here on earth. Our attitude determines whether we greet each day with optimism – or whether we will see only the darker side of life. We are all there at the tipping point. It is the resilience with which we take the heartbreak life gives us that determines our fate.

Many of us find solace in paying it forward. If we can’t help ourselves, perhaps we can help others. Maybe it’s a donation to a food bank or to Goodwill. Maybe it’s performing a kindness for a friend who can’t do the task on their own. Maybe it’s just a check-in phone call to listen for awhile to someone else’s troubles. It’s a stepping outside ourselves in service to others – and it’s healing.

All my life, when I’ve finally realized that I can’t fix it, I’ve asked God to just take it. Take it from me. Force me to let go. Teach me to understand that some things are beyond mortal control. Jesus, take the wheel. Literally.

The Serenity Prayer tells us to simply let it go. “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference”.

Serenity. The peace of simply letting it go. Breathe in. Breathe out. Move on.

Turning over rocks and looking for stars tonight…at 62 – and beyond.

It has been eight months since I’ve written a blog entry.  The words simply froze inside me, and there was no outlet for them.

I am a writer.  It’s mostly what I do for a living these days.  These past eight months, the fundraising letters flowed from my fingertips.  The donor communications, the e-newsletters, the pledge drive scripts – all found voice, and there’s great enjoyment in creating them.

But the personal notes, the self-examination, the willingness to share any of my life – all that froze inside me as surely as the paralysis this pandemic brought into our lives. 

The sheer loneliness of living alone during a worldwide pandemic cannot adequately be described.  Those who are isolating while living with others – your life goes on, not as it normally does, but at least with companionship.  This isolating alone is a soul-sucking kind of loneliness – accompanied by an underlying fear and uneasiness that never leaves.  It’s a fear of catching the virus, and more importantly, what would the virus do to me if I would catch it?  I’m in a high-risk group. Would I have a mild cold? Would I be left with a long-term disability – or more than one? Or worse, would it take my life in what’s described as a truly horrible death?

It’s been eight months of feeling off-kilter and feeling that nothing was in my control.

All the plans, all the coping mechanisms that I outlined to help overcome my grief after Mike’s death all went out the window.  All my plans to rebuild my life – to join a church, to travel, to have long lunches and dinners with friends – all got put on hold.  I go to the grocery.  I attend church online.  There’s no retail therapy – only necessary trips.  The rare occasions when I’ve seen friends, I’m constantly on edge – are we all healthy? 

I stopped physical therapy last spring when the virus hit.  In doing so, I lost all progress I’d made in regaining easy movement.  Over the summer, my hip osteoarthritis progressed to the point that some days, it’s now all but impossible to walk.  I get used to working around it, to stretching my capabilities, but it’s heartbreaking when I see others running around doing what I used to do without thinking. 

The constant pain is like nothing I’ve ever experienced.  When I was in labor with Catlin, the nurse asked me if I wanted something for the pain.  I said I wasn’t in pain.  She showed me the huge birth contraction on the fetal monitor and asked, “You don’t feel that??”  Nope.  I’d had worse cramps.  So when I say that the pain is unbearable – you can understand the scope of that pain.  And NSAIDs barely take off the tiniest edge.

It’s no way to live.

Throw in our national pastime of political nastiness, of Facebook insults and excoriation of supposed friends – and I’ve been quite happy to sink into my recliner with my iPad when I’m not working.  I’ve gotten quite good at puzzles, video games, reading, watching Netflix and Prime, and just escaping from the world over these past eight months.  Anything to keep me off my feet so that I don’t hurt.

That’s also no way to live.

In the past week, I feel the dam of ice within me simply breaking.  It’s not gone yet, but huge chunks are missing.  I’m becoming unstuck. And quite honestly, it’s been a real surprise.  There was no epiphany, no reason for it that I can tell.  It’s just happening, and I’m not going to turn it down.

I celebrated my ten-year anniversary as a fundraising and marketing consultant last Tuesday.  I entered semi-retirement when Mike was diagnosed with cancer.  I started rebuilding my business after he died, and I was so excited about all the new projects on the horizon – until Covid hit.  As opportunities reopen, I’m starting that rebuilding again.  I want to focus on the work I love, while adding new ideas to my roster.  And they are surprisingly flowing, unbidden, and I’m not disparaging any of them.

Why am I unstuck? Again, I have no idea. Maybe part of it is that the vaccine is on the horizon.  That’s the most hopeful news I’ve had in a long time.  That will allow us to start to live again and to come out of this forced isolation.  I miss being a social creature.  I want people in my life, and I want to expand my circle of friends.  I’m praying that as more of us are vaccinated or have viral immunity, I can safely do that again.  

I’ve also decided to have surgery to fix my hip.  I’m too young to have this many physical limitations when there is a way to overcome them.  I’m gathering all my courage and moving forward, praying there are hikes and kayaks in my future.  My muscles have become deconditioned over this past year of pain, and I’m back in physical therapy to prepare for surgery.  There’s already a difference in my strength and mobility – slight, but I’ll take it!

I’m in the fall of my life.  We never know how many more days God will grant us.  I spent too many of them over these past eight months in stasis.

It’s more than time to thaw the inner ice dam – at 62…and beyond.

I watched one of my favorite movies last night, “Coal Miner’s Daughter”, the story of Loretta – and Doolittle – Lynn. As many times as I’ve seen it, last night was the first time I realized it was not HER story, but THEIR story.

Loretta had the talent. But Doo recognized there was so much more within her. He gave her that first guitar and encouraged her to learn to play it, with four little kiddos cheering her along. He praised and pushed, until she was on her first stage. He realized that small rural stage wasn’t big enough for her talent, so he became a one-man guerrilla marketing team from their kitchen table. He produced her first record – with publicity photos he shot in their living room – and he didn’t stop until she was standing on the stage of the Grand Old Opry.

It got me to thinking about all the many ways spouses cheer each other along in our careers. Most of us don’t make it to the Grand Old Opry, but I believe we often go a lot farther together than we might have travelled on our own. I’ve been blessed with the strongest of husbandly cheering sections over my 62 years. They each impacted who I am today, not just personally, but professionally.

From age 23 to age 36, Jim completed my raising. He helped me learn the skills I needed to succeed in television production. Jim was the best director I’d ever seen. Calm, unflappable, funny, that man could operate any piece of TV equipment that came his way. He encouraged me to keep on pushing against the male prejudice that “women can’t direct”, and he made sure I had every possible opportunity to show off what I could do. When I had to change careers due to limited opportunities in Houston TV, Jim urged me to find joy in building a whole new set of skills in advertising and media. He convinced me to see that my new career was merely an extension of my first love – not an abandonment of it.

I couldn’t have children. Jim and I were both completely shocked when I became pregnant at age 30. He calmed me, took over a full half (and often more!) of the child-rearing, and made me as confident as I would ever get as a parent. The adventures, trials and joys of parenthood cemented us for the rest of our lives. Even though we elected not to stay married, we remained parents and best friends until Jim died.

Al took the next 20 years. We met when I was just starting my career in public radio development. Al was our head volunteer, doing everything from keeping our pledge drives running to taking out the trash at the end of the shift. In his real life, Al was an award-winning professor at UT Medical School in Houston and a reproductive endocrinologist, specializing in IVF. He did cancer research, ran clinical trials – to say he was brilliant is an understatement. And, he was hysterically funny.

As my career progressed, I had more opportunities for public speaking. I was passable at it. Al asked me one evening to let him hear my speech. I delivered it to him, so proud of my work. At the end, he looked up at me. “Is your objective to put them to sleep? Because if it is, you’ve accomplished it!”

Al worked and worked with me until my delivery style was natural and funny. He taught me how to rehearse, how to engage an audience, how to deliver my points succinctly. Even in his nursing home bed, he still asked me to present every speech to him. I was never as good as he was – but his coaching got me to the national stage and dozens of conference presentations and training sessions. He supported my decision to open my own consulting firm – “If anyone can do it, you can.” His praise made me so strong.

I learned all I needed to know about Michael Powell in one early telephone conversation. He’d spent the day on the farm, up under a big piece of road equipment, covered in grease and oil, hammering and tweaking and cussing it back into working order. I’d spent the day trying to work out the kinks on a generational differences presentation that I was giving at a national business conference.

As we talked about our day, he asked me what the presentation was about – he really wanted details. He said, “You know, I think I have something in one of my old PowerPoints I used on the Slope that might help you. I’ll find it and send it along.” It was precisely what I needed to complete my work – and it ended up being one of my best sessions. That was the first time I really saw the scope of Mike’s vast and varied body of knowledge. I never found anything he couldn’t do.

Mike realized from the beginning that I run on praise. He got me to stretch so far out of my city comfort zone by encouraging me every step of the way when I was outdoors in our country world. It tickled him to see me learning new things, and he tossed something new my way on a daily – sometimes hourly – basis. I’d never had someone brag on me to others – praise was always just “between us”. Mike was open and generous with his praise, and I blossomed under it.

I sing when I’m happy, and I’m usually happily off-key. Mike got such a tickle out of that, and he was astounded that I knew all the words to any song I’d ever heard. One morning in Alaska, he called me to come out to the porch. Our carpenter looked up at me from his chair and said – “Mr. Mike here says you sing like an angel.” I looked at Mike, kind of in shock. Mike asked me to please sing for them – to sing “Amazing Grace”.

After a minute, I did. I stood there in the sunshine on that front porch of our cabin in Alaska, my hand on Mike’s shoulder, feeling his strength. I lifted my voice in a slow ballad version of Mike’s favorite hymn. He asked for another, and I sang a bluesy version of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” that I used to sing for my dad. When I finished, Mike squeezed my hand, said “Thank you, darlin”, and we all went about our day.

Our courage and our talent come from deep within ourselves. It’s the coaching and the encouragement and the coaxing we receive from those who love us, who see In us more than we see in ourselves, that lights the spark and burnishes the steel. Their pride in us allows us to shine.

I will never feel off-key again…at 62 – and beyond.

I have now been alone since March 13. Over two months. My prior version of “alone” was a street parade compared to the reality of quarantine isolation. I wave at the neighbors, but nice long visits aren’t happening. I keep up with friends through Facebook and phone, but lunches and shopping trips and dinners are just happy memories. I see the renters in passing, wave at the UPS driver through the door, and stand six feet and masked from the repairmen. Gus and Gabriel are getting used to hearing me hold entire conversations with myself. Out loud.

Alone means no looking up, exchanging glances, and busting out into laughter when something tickles the both of you. Alone means no hugs, spontaneous or planned. Alone means not fixing dinner for the ones you love. Alone means no one to say, “Good morning, beautiful!” or “Good job, darlin!” Alone means no one to watch TV with, no one to sit on the porch and rock and talk with, no one to hold the ladder while you change the ceiling light. Alone is the loss of human interaction.

Mike frequently told me he didn’t understand how I could have lived alone for eight years before he came back into my life. Said he didn’t think he could have been that strong. I told him – as he well knew – you do what you have to do in this world.

My alone after Al died was filled with dinners and lunches with friends, time spent with Catlin, long driveway chats with the neighbors, travels for work and for pleasure, clients and work that I loved, renovating my house – I stayed busy. I was in my own familiar world, a world where I knew how to do everything in it. I worked through that long hell of grief and depression wrapped in the love of caring friends and family.

Alone after Mike was different than when I lost Al. Alone after Mike was the loss of the other half of me. It was the loss of his wealth of knowledge of how to make our country world work. It was the loss of our dreams. It was the loss of most of the people who Mike brought into our world. Alone after Michael was the end of the woman who was completely happy for maybe the first time in her life.

Many times over this last year, I’ve thought Mike was right. I’m not strong enough to be alone any more. I was way too happy flying along at the end of Mike’s kite-tail or holding his hand as I flew beside him. Mike packed so much living into each day. It’s a lot to live up to all by myself. And when I add the physical challenges of being some ten-odd years older and dealing with aging joints, this alone is even more daunting.

This past year, I’ve worked my way back from the edge of hell. And I was just ready to go for it again – I was starting to rebuild my business, rekindling friendships, working on the house, making travel plans, starting to want to really live again, not just go through the motions.

And then along came this damned virus that brought our world to a screeching halt.

I’ve done so much thinking these past two months, in this “real” alone. Mike used to say he’d study on something. That’s just what I’ve done. My head and sheets of paper are full of plans, lists, goals. A great many of them are Mike-driven. They are things I know nothing about, and I’m suddenly making lists as though I do. I thank Michael for that.

After over two months of isolation, it’s time to learn how to emerge into this both normal and scary new world. I don’t have to wait for life to return to pre-virus days to continue to rebuild. Life goes on. Some things, yes, they will have to wait awhile. But a lot of my plans can continue to turn into realities.

The world is out of my control. The infection pattern of this virus is out of my control. Whether other people wear masks and practice social distancing is out of my control. How people treat each other, the items they choose to post on social media, the choices others make, politics, the economy, the weather – all those and a million other pieces of the constant daily noise that can overwhelm us are out of my control.

But what I do with the 24 hours God gives me each morning, how I express the love I carry for those I hold dear, and how often I choose happiness – those things are completely within my control.

As I keep working to honor my husband, fulfilling some of our dreams that have now become my own, these are the thoughts that keep me going as I continue to learn and to grow.

Alone – at 62, and beyond.

When I started writing this blog a year ago, I called it “At 62” for several reasons. It was the age I was at the time. It was the age that all three of my husbands left this earth. And because of that, it was the age I had to pass successfully.

I am now, blessedly, 63. Now what?

When Al died, I wrote grief essays. Some of them were used in grief groups, and I felt honored by that. This blog was started, not as a series of grief essays, but because I figured there were so many others like myself, reinventing and rediscovering ourselves in our later years. That rediscovery might be by choice, by fate, or by age. But there’s a commonality to the journey.

Grief has definitely been a part of these essays. But so has happiness. I’m praying that future entries will contain even more of that emotion. Michael played a huge part in the content, and he likely will continue to do so. But so will others who touch my life.

As this first year (once again) on my own ends, I realize several things. First, I’m never really alone. I might physically be so, but my saints and guardian angels are always with me. My friends are but a phone call or a short drive away. Catlin’s grin fills my FaceTime when I need to see my girl.

The fog of grief is lifting, for the most part. I still have days that I simply cannot be productive. I want my energy back, that unrelenting energy that enabled me to keep up with Mike’s incredible pace. Grief has taken that away, and I miss it. And I’m learning that when it’s not used, it’s difficult to reclaim. But it feels good when I find it again. I’ve spent too many evenings either lost in thought or caught up in mindless video games, all to avoid focusing on healing. I do sense Michael is leading me to make certain choices, to see things that need to be done around here, things that I wouldn’t know to notice. I’m seeing life more as he saw it, in so many ways. It’s new for me, and often surprising.

I’m comfortable in my own skin. I’m still working through physical pain and stiffness with my hip, and some days are arguably better than others. I’m settling in and drawing the parameters of my new life – building a new network of friends and connections. Making the list of projects – Rebuilding my consulting business. Rediscovering my love of beads, and finding new creative things to do with them. Sorting through the mass of stuff we brought here with us, curating it to sell and to keep. Organizing. Unpacking the boxes we never got time to empty. Exploring this part of our country. Traveling. Learning new skills. There is so much on the to do list, that I will never live long enough to do it all.

Much of this is on hold right now due to our national quarantine. But our country will eventually open up for business again, and I’ll start to stretch my wings beyond our mountain.

Michael left me with many lessons, both learned and still to ponder. One of the biggest, I think, is the power to live in the moment, to simply savor where I am. To plan for the future, but to live fully and enjoy today. My current life may not be what we planned, not what we imagined, and it’s certainly not with the man I loved to distraction. I never thought I’d be starting over, once again, at 62 years of age. But there are so many overwhelming blessings to celebrate each and every day.

So in the end, as I turn 63, I’ve decided to keep my blog title in honor of the four of us – Jim, Al, Michael and me – and adjust the closing slightly to reflect who I am becoming. No number to the years. Praying for as many as God blesses me to count. And so very, very thankful for those who have helped to shape and mold me over these many turbulent, exciting, adventurous years.

Walking forward wrapped in love…at 62 – and beyond.

One year ago today, I lost the love of my life. He had no plans to leave when he did. His exit was a huge surprise to both of us.

I will forever remember the day he was diagnosed with esophageal cancer. He was 61 years old – his birthday. We sat on the back porch, wrapped in each other, tears on both our faces. He just kept saying that he didn’t understand God’s plan. How he had almost lost his life to heart failure brought on by pneumonia the year before – and how he had survived, and how much he was cherishing each day. How he had been so unhappy for so many years – and had finally found love and happiness beyond anything he’d ever known. How we had made so many plans, dreamed so many dreams, and had years ahead of us to live them – and now what? Why had this happened after all the hell he had overcome? What was ahead of us and how would we cope?

The way Mike fought cancer is a lot like I’ve fought this past year. There was a lot of pushback and even more grief. There was determination to beat it and to live the best life possible. There were days when he didn’t feel he could go on. There was so much pain to overcome. And in the end, there was a large measure of peace in the future. I feel like I’ve moved through each of those stages once again this past year.

I’ve felt far less sorry for myself than I have for Michael. I’m still alive. There’s such a vast wrongness to losing such a vital, good man, someone who had such talent and such zest for life. I’d never concretely contemplated mortality, even after losing Jim and Al. I lived it with Mike, daily. He shared so much of the processing of it with me. I walked that path with him every single day, both cherishing and fighting for life. And in the end, our miracle drug went drastically wrong, and the 18+ months we knew the drug would give us – until the next miracle drug came along – were yanked away with breathtaking swiftness.

My just-starting-four years with Mike were some of the happiest – and the shortest – of my life. I sparkled. I laughed. I went way out of my comfort zone and loved the woman Mike drew out of me. And I loved that man. We were each other’s perfect match. And I did not think I would survive when he died. There were many nights that survival was questionable.

But I am here. I honor his memory every single day. Those memories give me laughter, learning, a nudge when I need it. And I feel him pushing me to keep going, to overcome my limitations, to continue to live my best life.

I’ll never be the same person I would have been had Mike lived. But I’m not the same person I was before Mike loved me, either. I’m a hybrid of those two women, and I am continuing to grow and to learn.

We are here on earth such a short time. Each day we spend without learning, without appreciating God’s world, without laughter, is a day that’s wasted. Michael Powell lived his life full-out. He loved to learn. He was so very funny. He took chances. He always told me that he woke up every single day determined to do something to make the world a better place.

And those are the ways I will continue to live in honor of my husband. I will miss him every day until I see him again. And until then, I promised Mike I would live life for both of us.

One year has passed. We made it through all the firsts, Michael.

And I’m still standing – and looking forward to all the seconds and thirds and fourths – at 62.

I’ve been in a form of self-quarantine for the past two weeks. I traveled through O’Hare on the way home from a business trip, and I just felt more comfortable not getting out much. I kept one doctor’s appointment, went to the grocery a couple of times, got take-away food, and went to the feed store to get plants. Wow, guess that’s more outings than I thought!

But except for checkout clerks (and I stood way back from them), I’ve pretty much had little to no face to face social interaction. Gus and Gabriel are sticking close. With lots of phone calls, some business calls, a Zoom meeting or two, a couple of FaceTimes – technology is keeping me connected to the outside world. I’m now checking in with the news only a couple of times a day. It’s no longer a constant drum beat in the background.

In the beginning, I was antsy, angry and scared. Don’t want to get sick. Don’t want Catlin to get sick. Don’t want anyone I love affected by this horrible virus. But as time marched on, I became less agitated. I realize that I’m actually pretty calm.

I’ve been forced to just stop.

And I like it. This life – the life I’m now living – will be my life for the foreseeable future, minus the eating out, the interaction with friends, and the easy dropping in to a store or even the gas station. I miss those things. But I still haven’t completed a daily to do list. There’s a project everywhere I look here – and there’s also just sitting.

I think about the ways our world has changed. Bad things are still happening. Friends are dealing with cancer diagnoses, with the loss of a loved one, with medical emergencies. They can’t do these horribly life-altering things through the normal procedures, with their normal coping skills. We can’t gather in groups of ten or more. Patients aren’t allowed visitors in most hospitals. Heck, we can’t even go into the vet’s office with the dog right now.

But even in the midst of life’s true tragedies, we are learning new ways to cope. Video chats with patients and nurses. Graveside services instead of a packed church. It’s not optimal, by any means, but we are finding ways to care for our loved ones, honor our traditions and discover new strengths in the process.

Several clients have mentioned that they will never go back to a normal office environment. They’ve discovered that certain members of their team absolutely kick butt when they work from 9p – 3a, but they just don’t quite mesh with the normal 9a-5p office hours. New superstars are emerging, just from the simple fact of letting people work when they are most productive. Many offices will telecommute at least a few days a week after all of this is over. One client holds short Zoom meetings with his staff twice a day to see each other and to touch base. Offices have marched right on.

School is going back in session from spring break, and students/teachers will be navigating distance learning. One of my friends is teaching her dance classes on Zoom. Catlin will be teaching her Mommy and Me music classes the same way. Kids are having play dates, putting on plays, doing talent shows, having story time – all with their friends, all online.

Churches are streaming live – often via a cell phone and Facebook. The late night TV talk shows are moving online, as are parts of the morning live TV news programs. It’s intimate, it’s personal, it’s rough and it’s not produced. But it works. Who knew Jimmy Fallon has a two-story slide in his house?!

One of my friends started a Facebook baking challenge. The group now stands at over 500 members. Another started a daily sing-a-long. There are craft groups, art groups – so many ways to reach out. Museums all over the world are putting their collections online through video tours. Symphonies, operas, Broadway – all are joining them with live or taped online performances.

This virus may have us paralyzed as a nation, as far as our regular daily movements. It will likely take many more lives before it goes into hibernation until the next infection cycle. We are looking at job losses, money worries, lives and plans disrupted, some forever. A part of our minds is simply numb, unbelieving that our world is so upended in every way possible. It is a worldwide nightmare.

But we are figuring it out. One of the news people calls us AmeriCANS. And that’s true. This crazy optimistic American spirit is working full-out right now to adapt and to move forward as we take care of ourselves and our families. And as spring begins to get the pollen levels elevated in a serious way, we are exactly where we need to be right now.

At home. Safe. With the power to reach out electronically when we need to, and to take pride in the realization that we are truly adaptable and resilient…at 62 – and beyond.

I was on the road working with a new client when the WHO announced that the novel coronavirus was now considered to be a worldwide pandemic. I must admit, even though I’m usually pretty unflappable, I had a moment when I teared up and just flat wanted my mom!!

At 62, I’ve never experienced anything like this. Parts of it, yes. After 9/11, all flight stopped. Work travel mostly stopped. I’ve lived through stock crashes, recessions, gas lines and national riots. Hurricane prep and empty stores. The fear of Ebola, SARS, MERS, and more. But all of it at once? No.

The uncertainty, the lack of testing, the unfamiliarity with the disease, the threat of mortality, the need for national isolation, the constantly changing news – all are wearing on our nation’s collective psyche and nibbling on our very last nerve.

A friend made an excellent recommendation – we should all just go on a month-long fishing trip.

We are being encouraged to stay home. Work remotely. Schools are closing. Entertainment venues are going dark. Large gatherings are cancelled. Businesses are working to remain open, especially service businesses. Our nation is half-open, half-closed. We’re not quite sure what’s next.

What to do with forced isolation of a couple of weeks or a couple of months? I have work projects. I work mostly remotely, so that’s no change. There’s NPR, the TV, Netflix and other movie channels. But what else?

There will be cooking. Excellent time to sort the junk room or junk drawer. Time to craft, to read, to start prepping the yard for spring. Do our taxes. Walk around the yard and enjoy the spring sunshine – or rain. If there are kids in your house, read books, play games, tell stories.

Just slow down. Recharge frazzled batteries. Cuddle up with the pets. Don’t look at your retirement accounts. Check in with the news just long enough to stay informed – and listen to the calm of NPR when you do.

And I hope we carry part of this into the future. Automatically wash our hands and cover our coughs. Learn the necessity of staying home when we are sick – and develop some sort of national sick leave plan for all workers. Keep emergency supplies on hand – especially extra toilet paper!

It’s a national attempt to stay healthy. I’m praying that I will. I’m praying all who I love will move through this unscathed. I’m praying this is soon over, that paychecks will quickly flow again, that disrupted lives will move forward and be made whole. I’m praying that we find some peace and ease of soul in this forced slowdown.

Praying for good health for all…at 62.

One year ago today, Michael Powell and I stood up in front of a minister at the Pope County Courthouse and exchanged the vows that we had already said to each other years before. Mike called me “Mrs. Powell” with that slow grin that I loved so much, we went by the pharmacy to pick up his prescription, and headed home to our recliners. We laughed and said we certainly knew how to throw a party!

One of Mike’s friends told me a story last summer that I’d never known. I was coming to Coffman Cove for the very first time. Our relationship was in its infancy. We’d never even been alone in the same room with each other. He said, “You know, I’ve never even kissed her. But I’m going to marry that woman!” And so, he did.

And that’s as much of our story as I can share today. I’ve tried for two weeks to write this post, but the words I thought I would write just won’t come. It’s not grief, it’s not depression, it’s not even anger – it’s none of those.

I think it’s just – privacy. So many people knew both of us. And many of those people looked at the us they knew and just couldn’t figure out how we worked so well. But Mike and I were different around each other when we were alone. Mike became more like me and I became more like him. We stretched each other in ways that we never expected. We were both amused and horrified by it. Like any good couple, Mike and I pulled a ring around ourselves that no one else could enter. We talked about that so much – how was it possible to be this close to another person so instantly? Mike said it best when he said we had simply been together forever. Forever across time.

I can’t look at the widow memes on Facebook. I can’t look at the ones that say how sad I am and how much I miss him. I don’t like the sadness associated with the word “widow”. The only saying that I can identify with is this – “I’m not a widow. I’m a wife to a husband with wings.”

I know that Mike is at peace. I know he is blessedly free from pain. He is sometimes cheering me on, sometimes frustrated with days I still spend in grief, and every now and then he just nudges me to pick up the danged vacuum and give it a whirl!

He’s here with me daily. Do I wish he was here in person? Yes, I do. God, yes, I do. Mike always said everything happens for a reason. I will never understand this one. I am, however, closer to working on acceptance.

One year later, I am still inordinately proud to say that I am Mrs. Michael Farrell Powell. Jane Carrie Patrick-Powell.

Happy Anniversary, baby. I will love you forever…at 62 – and beyond.

There’s something about a cold winter’s day that makes me want to make soup. Texas chili…meatball spinach soup…taco soup…clam chowder… tomato basil…just give me a great big pot, a bunch of ingredients, some shredded cheese, a loaf of crusty bread – and we’re in business.

Mike told me that cooking is an act of love. There’s something about that bubbling soup pot that personifies love. Warmth on a cold day. The food your mama feeds you when you’re recovering from the flu. A thermos of warmth out in the deer stand. A quick lunch. Soup is one of our universal foods.

Daddy loved to make beef and vegetable soup. As a little girl, I didn’t like anything in my soup but the wonderful rich tomato-y broth and the little niblet corn kernels. I kept begging him to add more and more corn. Bless him, he always did. I could pick out everything else and leave it on the side of the bowl, as long as I had my corn. I’ll never forget him spoiling his little girl, scooping my chilly castoffs into his own bowl when I was done.

Mama dealt in cans of Campbell’s, doled out sparingly as I was recovering from whatever childhood disease was going around. Soup and 7-Up. That soup was served in large flat soup bowls. I never knew – until I was an adult – that they were Wedgwood china, remnants from a service of 24 dating back to the Civil War. In our family, we kept things and used them.

In college, I visited a now-defunct restaurant chain whose name I cannot remember. I always ordered the same thing, the Ploughman’s Lunch. It was a crock of beefy French onion soup layered over with melted Gruyere cheese. There was a baguette, fresh butter, a sliced apple, and some sliced smoked sausage. Heaven on a plate.

For twenty years, our Christmas lunches were baked Brie, fresh grapes, freshly made bread, and La Madeleine tomato-basil soup. I missed that soup, and once we moved to Arkansas, I couldn’t get it here. I made it from scratch one night for supper, and it was amazing. That’s the first night that Mike talked to me about cooking being an act of love – it wasn’t just tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches to him – I’d served up love.

My taco soup recipe is handwritten by Tamara, my next-door neighbor in New Territory, our subdivision in Sugar Land. I walked into her house that first Christmas, and found the twin to my Christmas stocking. Her mom made hers, just like Mama made mine. We’d grown up 90 miles from each other, and never knew it. Those stockings instantly bonded us. We’ve lost touch over the years, but her soup brings her back to me every single time I make it.

Cans of Progresso soup kept Mike going once he was diagnosed with cancer. He didn’t want me to cook those big pots – he wanted lots of variety. No “used food”, as he called leftovers. I added all manner of butter, proteins, cream – whatever would add the most calories. Life was served up from blue cans with creamy photos for many months.

Our friend Kate brought us chanterelle mushrooms in Coffman Cove. I’d never cooked with them before, and Mike asked for two things – smothered hamburger steaks and cream of mushroom soup. I couldn’t eat the soup – I can’t do milk – but Mike told me that he never knew cream of mushroom soup could be that delicate and flavorful. He said it had spoiled him for any other version. I still don’t know how I made it, just guesswork, prayer, and the combo of several recipes!

Across the world, soup is a universal food. Every culture has its staple soups. The warmth, the melding of ingredients, the using up of what’s left over from our weekly meals – all of our kitchens have a soup pot. A little bit of everything, all thrown into the melting pot. There’s always room for experimentation, and we can easily feed as many as gather round the table. We make up fine, hearty mixtures. There’s strength in these modest pots. There’s unity, there’s a medley. There’s life. There’s family.

The memories warm me to the bone…at 62.