I am above the clouds at 37,000 feet, coming back from a trip to peer into my future which, in an odd twist of fate, actually might take place in a place I thought was my past.

A week or so ago someone dear said to me, “I never thought my life would look like this at 54.” Some days later I heard myself echoing the sentiment to someone else adjusting the age down by a year.

I don’t have any idea why I said that though because I don’t recall ever imagining the age of 53 at all. In fact I don’t think it ever occurred to me to think about what life would be like at the age of 53. When my mother was 53, I was 30 and I have some sense that at that time I was still kind of thinking life was about to happen, or rather thinking that whatever I was doing, and wherever I was couldn’t really be it.

It is easier to recall what I know I would not have imagined; I would not have thought that by now my best friend would already be dead. I never would have believed that someone I respected, trusted and looked to for inspiration would let me work for him and then simply not pay the thousands of dollars owed to me. A scenario in which the person I loved with my life betraying me and humiliating me even as I celebrated her, would not have flickered in my imagination. I could not have imagined then that a “bad hair day” now would entail more worry that my hair looks “middle-aged” rather than simply out of control.

Last week a butterscotch colored kitten died in my arms, even as I pleaded with her not to die, holding her in one arm and driving to the vet with the other. Despite the refrain of apologies uttered on behalf of my dog who, had only been attending to her very nature when the kitten was hurt, that cat went ahead and died. I was forced to recognize between my sobs that in my need for her to live I was desperate for a good outcome. In that moment this small being was made responsible for my hope. A good outcome in this case would be anything, anything at all that looked like living. This small being cradled in my left arm wrapped in a Sponge Bob beach towel, continuing to breathe would mean redemption, forgiveness, do-over’s for mistakes made, a few more years to accomplish the unaccomplished, belief made out of nothing. Her breath and life would somehow look like the life at 53 that I never imagined in the first place. How could such a one even have a chance with so much weight placed on her struggle?

When she died I would not believe it, and rushed her into the vet in a panic anyway. When the young woman I passed the kitten off to came back a few minutes later, her look was so kind, so tender in the harsh reality she came to communicate that words were not necessary and right there in the waiting room, in front of a number of complete strangers I broke down and sobbed out loud. Those people were all there with animals so they were kind and supportive as one might expect, murmuring their own apologies in the background, never daring to enter into my private grief space, never imagining how much more was there than the death of the kitten.

At 37,000 feet, thoughts fling themselves at me at the same speed of the passing clouds.

I think I never would have known how pure the pleasure and delight of one red poppy blooming on the morning of my recent birthday could be. Nor could I have understood the reward of a conversation with someone long admired now a friend becoming. In the taxi before dawn this morning, the driver was playing Sanskrit mantras. When we got to the airport I asked him about the mantras, at which point he looked at me and then cast his eyes down and said simply, “Morning Prayers”. “Yes” I said, “Thank you for the morning prayers”. The driver looked at me again, smiled and turned to go back to work.

Then I recalled how at the beginning of this trip I saw the sunrise in my rearview mirror which is somewhat counterintuitive, but is in and of itself a morning prayer, and I know that when I leave this place which is not working for me, that still I will cry and wear a t-shirt with its name on it. This is life in action, the life at 53 I never could have imagined.

Melissa’s love story continues…

A few week’s ago, my dear friend Lu sent me the card above. She is one of the few people in my life who still sends actual mail and I love her for that. This particular card has been sitting on my desk as a daily reminder.

I suppose the card’s message is always an important one, but for me it is particularly timely and this is also an especially difficult blog post to write. For those of you who have been following us here, you may remember the essence of my post CHANGE: From the Files of “Be Careful What You Wish For” and “Never Say Never”— essentially a love letter to one with whom I had fallen in love. The same one I changed my life for, my “last great love”.

New love is so alluring, folded as it is into hope, delight and discovery. As a then 51-year-old, it also caught me completely by surprise. I am not an impetuous person, but in this case, in middle age, it seemed dangerous to waste time, and so we didn’t. But as with many great loves, the ending is not always happy, and I am sad to report here that we are no longer. I have not wanted to write this not only because it is sad, but also because I feel embarrassed that I put this love out in public and have seemingly failed so miserably. Also it’s hard to put something, anything, out there when I feel as I do that my guts are being ripped out.

But here is the truth and the reason why I decided to just send this into the Blogosphere, it is never a failure to take a chance on love. I believe this in each and every cell of my body. Someone showed up, (a beautiful, funny, smart, dear, extremely complex and challenging woman), and I recognized her as someone I was meant to spend my life with. Now I see that the “life” part was maybe not it, but the “recognition”, unmistakable as it was, cannot be dismissed. Maybe sometime in the future I will understand what and who we were to each other, or maybe I won’t. But I do know I have loved her with all my might. And sometimes love is simply not enough. And now we are done, and what I thought was my future, isn’t.

I am working double-time to avoid the slippery slope of recrimination and blame. It would be very easy to go there, to engage in the hurtful, acted out on Facebook, but better not to, even when I might believe I have been wronged. More damaging still is the tendency toward self-blame, doubt and despair.

Given that I believe everything in the universe is consciousness expressed in different forms, or as in quantum physics, everything is a form of energy, I know that words have indelible power, a power to destroy and a power to create and uplift. So as I begin to gather the pieces of myself splayed about, I avoid reading the hurtful—and I also do not send it or speak it, to my beloved or to myself. I have many fears and anxieties, and for the moment deep sadness is a given. However, hard as it is to choose otherwise, I am opting for other language. Instead of a mantra of “I am sad, or lonely, scared and hurt”, I listen and repeat after young Jessica as seen here (sent to me by my friend Denise). May Jessica, and indeed all of us always know the power of the words, “I like” and “I love” and where and to whom we belong, no matter the inevitable heartbreak on the road.

Repeat after me, “Life is good, I am healthy, I am smart, I am courageous, I am happy, I am good…I am!”

Melissa Howden explores the nature of faith and its attraction, hopes and painted prayers

I’ve got a thing for Faith – Faith, as in the word with the Latin root of Fidere meaning “to trust”. And then there is Faith’s friend Belief, which used to mean, “Trust in God”. For the longest time Faith was about a certain kind of loyalty or belief in a person. Somewhere along the line Faith took on the more religious connotation and Belief came to be understood as “mental acceptance of something as true.” Faith/Belief, the two together interest me. Not as a byproduct of organized religion but simply as something I rely on. Ironically I get particularly obsessed with Faith when it seems to be in short supply in my own life.

When I slip into a space of doubt I look to the faith of others. As a natural born traveler, I’ve had the good fortune to witness faith globally. Encountering someone in an act of private devotion always catches me short of breath and makes me cry. During these times I’ve started to recognize the nature of faith as active, action being critical to faith. At its core, faith is a verb, not a noun.

Each morning in Bali people can be seen making offerings of flowers, fruit and incense to the numerous roadside altars to Hindu deities. In Thailand, the same practice exists for Buddha. While the focus here is on a deity/God, the action is individual and private and that is what moves me.

At Taos Pueblo near my home, dances are held throughout the year to petition for rain, abundant crops and more. But perhaps the image that has moved me the most is that of the elders approaching the sacred pole at the end of San Geronimo Day taking the pole in their hands, and leaning their forehead on the pole with eyes closed in a moment of quiet communion. I can’t possibly know what passes between the pole, the elders and their hearts but I can feel it as something profound, an apparent confident belief in transcendent reality.

A recent journey to Guatemala for Semana Santa provided yet another window on faith albeit in the context of the Catholic Church. I have some cultural and historical bias against this church but as I mentioned earlier, organized religion is not my interest. I am captivated by the role of faith and prayer as it shows up for each person—frequently a vulnerability exposed in a moment of deep belief. I am interested in my own faith capricious as it is.

Of all the devotional acts of Semana Santa the creation of the Alfombras (carpets) most captured my imagination. Throughout the streets of Antigua, families, groups of students, co-workers and others, come together to create an Alfombra before a procession comes through. These carpets are ephemeral, an artistic expression of the devotion and faith of those who create them to receive the blessing of the image that is processed through the neighborhood.

Throughout Semana Santa the making of Alfombras can be observed at all hours. In many respects the Alfombras recall the Indian tradition of Rangoli in which colored sand is streamed into elaborate designs on the floor for festivals and auspicious occasions. The Alfombras for Semana Santa are created in two traditions, one with brightly dyed sawdust often augmented with flowers. The other tradition comes from the time before the Spanish arrived, when the Mayans created elaborate carpets for their ceremonies of pine, flowers, feathers, corn, whatever was at hand to be worked into the design. The Alfombras and Rangoli both, are petitions or thanks for a favor or a miracle—in essence painted prayers, which are impermanent.

Perhaps the fleeting nature of things is the point. When my own faith falters I remember that of others and how simply witnessing it has touched me. My friend Donna says she has always simply felt that “things will be OK”. For some reason, given evidence to the contrary, I too still believe in the power of good over evil, and that Love ultimately prevails. Basically I trust that it is all worth it, and letting go of the promise is simply not an option.

Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings while the dawn is still dark.
—Rabindranath Tagore

Just as Dorothy tripped the light fantastic down the Yellow Brick Road, so of late have I.

I liken the start of 2010 to my own private storm—raggedy emotions and best-laid plans, turned upside down in quick succession. Perversely stubborn and independent, it’s begun to dawn on me that life is not created on will and persistence alone. In short, nothing in my life has been flowing with ease.

The most recent and hopefully final insult being a freak accident during a ski lesson (part of my “plan” to improve my skills, face my fears and get in the best shape possible) on a mogul made of ice topped with fresh powder. Going down, my pole stuck in the wrong position with my wrist trapped in the strap; I heard the snap, snap of two bones breaking.

Adding insult to injury, one of the first questions posed to me by the young brawny ski patrol was, “Have you had a bone density test?” If Kansas was my youth, I knew I wasn’t there anymore. To his credit, he was very skilled and he did refrain from calling me “ma’am”.

Duly splinted, “slinged” and tied into a gurney-like sled in a snowstorm, ski patrol guy skied me down one of the steepest mountains in North America. All the way down I heard a familiar refrain ringing in my ears. “Surrender Dorothy!” Funny how that happens since at that moment surrender was really my only option.

I don’t know how Dorothy interpreted the message but for me the effect was visceral, a relaxation into knowing that I don’t know…a damn thing.

Currently I am reading the book Lit by Mary Karr. When Mary questions what it means to surrender she is told:

Yield up what scares you. Yield up what makes you want to scream and cry. Enter into that quiet. It’s a cathedral. It’s an empty football stadium with the lights on. And pray to be an instrument of peace.

Sliding down the hill, injured, in the hands of a stranger becomes just another part of the journey, a spiritual journey akin to Dorothy’s—demons and all. “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!”

I know in the great scheme of things, a broken wrist is not a big deal. It has, however, forced some awakening and also made me realize in the most clichéd way how much I take for granted. Needless to say I have had to yield a lot. Or more plainly speaking, getting my pants on constitutes a good day.

Believing that the Scarecrow, Lion and Tin Man were simply aspects of Dorothy’s self, I have adopted them as my own for the time being. As I write this I am typing with only my left hand, a practice I have also had to extend to my previously good handwriting.

Thus in a peculiar homage to the Scarecrow I am developing the alternate side of my brain, and I am told, warding off early onset dementia.

Sitting in the quiet, accepting what I cannot do and asking for help is humbling. These things when mixed with practical challenges such as sheets of ice in the driveway require a digging down deep on my part, relying on faith and summoning courage.

The heart part I am finding in the prayers.

And pray to be an instrument of peace.

Prayer has as many interpretations as people who practice it. For me it’s often a simple plea, “Help”. Sometimes it’s a silent interaction with the natural world such as the resident magpie on my fence. But heart, I’m finding is also about extending patience and tenderness toward loved ones and myself. Acceptance brings peace.

With two more weeks of imposed stillness, I am hoping I can make solid friends with the silence and carry it always as a reminder of all the things I do know but had for some months lost sight of. “Surrender Dorothy!” then becomes a most valuable mantra.

Melissa Howden shares a special treat for the “word nerd” in all of us.

I am a fan o’ words, an alphabet lover as my friend Lori b has named herself.

I love the history, the roots, the story of words. In my etymological meandering through cyberspace I found http://podictionary.com/

Podictionary puts a word root in your in-box everyday. While I receive my word root in text form the word root can also be heard as an audio word through a daily podcast (subscribe through iTunes). This is a site for word lovers. Charles Hodgson, the brains behind Podictionary, is clever, conversational, informational and contemporary. Take for instance the recent exploration of the word Nike, which, looks to the Greek Goddess of the same name and explores how she came to be more known as a shoe! Taking your etymological trivia and history a bit further, iPhone now has a Podictionary application, which can bring you a month’s worth of episodes for $1.99. Given the history of Podictionary there are 1000 episodes to choose from. I found my daily word habit came in quite handy over a Thanksgiving weekend game of Scrabble!

Roatan, Honduras

When Melissa Howden embarks on a lesbian cruise, a tropical storm is not the only occurrence that stirs things up.

Prologue
A couple of years ago I started to learn how to surf. At the time my greatest challenge was learning to read the water.
How many waves in a set?
Which set might have a wave I can possibly catch?
Are they breaking to the right or to the left?

The combination of matter—the water, the board, the bottom and me—had the potential for magic or mayhem. And so it is with so many things in life.

——–
My girlfriend is a fan of the group lesbian get-a-away. The only group I’m a fan of is the small dinner party. Nevertheless, for the last week I have been on a lesbian cruise.

Lesbian cruises are not a new phenom. OLIVIA Travel has been doing them for 20 years. This voyage however is the first for a new company called SWEET: The Future of Lesbian Travel.

A week ago we hauled out of New Orleans in a mad attempt to skirt Hurricane Ida as she hurtled into the Gulf. Some were saying that the hurricane had been downgraded to a tropical storm. Weather distinctions make no difference to me. A boat in any storm worthy of Weather Channel note is NOT fun. A subtle reading of the water becomes very simple: THOSE ARE BIG FREAKIN’ MY FREAK WAVES BREAKING ON MY ELEVENTH DECK BALCONY!

Having survived the night and next day of hurricane water has its merits. With its inaugural cruise SWEET sails on with an epic tale and a certain esprit d’corps. As I survey the lot of us, some 1,500 strong, I think perhaps SWEETS’ marketing tagline is more than just hubris and is in fact “The Future.”

Before we set sail, some 65,000 trees had been planted to help restore the wetlands around New Orleans and to carbon offset the cruise. As we docked in Belize, the headlines of the local newspaper read, “Humanitarian Lesbians Cruise Into Belize.” The “humanitarian” being a reference to the fact that in every port, community service projects were among the excursion options. In Belize, a mural was painted in the pediatric ward of a hospital. Additionally SWEET cruisers created a storytime corner in a local elementary school. To support this effort all of us brought books and art supplies as requested by the school.

In Roatán, Honduras, our group helped to beautify the community e-learning center and installed two brand new computers. In both Belize and Honduras, being gay is illegal! But on two separate afternoons, gay women came off the ship and worked alongside the local people to create something these people had determined was needed in their community. In this place the seeds of change were sown person to person, community to community. It seems not so far-fetched to think that perhaps the greatest gift any of us can give to the world is who we are.

SWEET is a young company, headed up by a tiny, smart and fierce young woman named Shannon Wentworth who is given to exclaim, “Holy crap people!” whenever she is excited, which is often. When I look around this ship, I see a veritable arc of young lesbians who have come of age at a time in history which is so different than mine. They have a kind of entitled fearlessness that would’ve been difficult for me to even imagine 20 years ago. These young women are making a world where the bounds of gender are fluid and fashion is an ever-expanding statement. This is a world where gay woman means as many things as there are women to be it. And even as a reluctant cruiser I can say that I find comfort in this world, where I can wear whatever and be whomever I am inclined to be, and sit on a lounge chair with my girlfriend without any cares watching the sun go down surrounded as we were by the future.

As with any new venture there are lessons to learn and improvements to be made. But in the presence of these young women I have been reminded not just of the spirit of possibility but I have seen it made manifest. Grace in a hurricane is not so easy. But Grace having been honed in a storm becomes it’s own kind of magic. And that my friends, is not a bad way to spend a week.

photo by M.A. Howden

The change of season has Melissa Howden working on her equilibrium.

We just hurtled into fall. The autumnal equinox has just taken place. But lest you think you’ve missed anything, know this; the actual equinox (etymology = equal & night) actually takes place several days after the event depending upon where you are, geographically speaking.

In my neck of the woods, we will experience equal amounts of day and night within a minute on the 25th and 26th of the month. What does any of this mean? Generally speaking it means that the Sun rises directly in the east and sets directly in the west. It is a turning point—literally—in the year, the seasons being determined by the tilt of the Earth on its axis. It is also the time when we enter into the astrological constellation of Libra, the sign of balance on the scales.

THIS is where metaphor is made manifest. I find this time especially meaningful if not extremely challenging. I’ve been off kilter, out of step, unsure of my center, off my game, call it what you will it has not been especially pretty.

Simply put, I. AM. OUT. OF. BALANCE!

So with the arrival of the equinox, I welcome the possibility for some kind of return to balance.

This is the first time in over 30 years that I have lived in place with distinct seasons. I have almost lived here for a full cycle of seasons. I can say that summer went too fast and autumn is throwing itself toward winter with great abandon. Flip flops have already been traded in for down jackets.

Given my internal unrest I have been trying to learn the lessons the seasons have to offer. September brings the last day of summer and the first day of fall. I am awash in bushels of apples off of my tree, soon to become pies and cider, and plums and peaches off friend’s trees soon to be jam.

Here in the Southwest, the Native Americans believe that the Sky is Father, Earth is Mother and the Great Mystery contains aspects of both. We are the seed, the seed is intention and the ground in which we are cultivated is our will. The perfect balance makes all things possible. Therein lies the rub.

How does one achieve perfect balance? For an object to have definition there needs to be a balance of light and shadow in order to give it shape, indeed life—in effect the yin and the yang of it all. I have an overabundance of one hormone and not enough of another. I am weighted heavily toward technology and not enough in the zone of poetry and nature.

I find amidst all this harvest abundance that I cannot get enough air; the smallness of this town has its benefits and also claustrophobic drawbacks. Finding the place between impulse and intuition is proving to be a monumental challenge.

I have watched the leaves on the maple tree through my kitchen window go from green to red without stopping at orange. They will soon be last season’s artifacts. It seems as though the meadow grass I planted in my back orchard pushed through just in time to welcome the snow, and the flower pots no sooner got planted than it’s time to bring them in. How does this happen that the seemingly timeless becomes time limited in a flash?

So as I seek balance, so too does the season of equal light and dark; my overabundance of a particular hormone can be counteracted by increasing exercise. The technology can be self-limited as one does a child’s television viewing, replaced with more time on a trail, or mulching the fruit trees and planting bulbs.

As with cooking, when one adds a pinch of salt or a dash of cumin, achieving life balance seems to be nothing more than trial and error.

And sometimes, one simply has to gracefully accept the fact that the pie is just too tart.