Category Archives: Acceptance

Thanks to caring for my parents, I choose to see life wearing rose-coloured glasses

Chronicles of a Chronically stressed out Caregiver. Meditations and Mindfulness Changed My Life. Mindfulness, Meditation and Me.

Let’s be honest. When you are sitting with a notepad in your lap, and the only thing on the paper are titles for the eBook (instead of actual writing), you know that you are in avoidance mode.

Damn, again? At my chronically gifted age one would assume that old trait of mine (avoidance) would have been ‘fixed’ years ago, but sadly, the only thing I do better today is actually notice when I am in avoidance. Thank you, mindfulness and meditation.

While writing another eBook, I find myself enjoying longer than normal walks, hours of playing in the dirt (gardening), and sitting on my freshly painted cobalt blue Adirondack that now matches the cobalt blue bird bath, while sketching my amazing garden. (I am entitled to call my garden ‘amazing’ because this little piece of heaven gives me peace and equanimity. And peace and equanimity is amazing.)

My dilemma is what do I give up so that I can write more?

I have plenty of time to do the things I like to do, but I keep adding to my list of “things to do that give me joy, or wisdom, or fill my curiosity” – I keep trying to cram more into my days.

I am so grateful for this time – no matter the season, or the day of the week, or the time of the day – life is good.

I choose to view life with rose-coloured glasses because I can. It’s that simple.

I learned that how we perceive life and how we co-create our lives is our choice, and that lesson I learned when I closed my children’s retail shop so that I could care and support my parents: my father had a dementia (most likely Alzheimer’s) and my mother was showing signs of a dementia-related disease, also. My life spiralled from an exciting one of fun-loving staff and customers, buying trips to the clothing marts, new encounters and learning possibilities every day, to one of stress, resentment, guilt and burn-out.

Instead of embracing each day filled with hope and gratitude, I dreaded each day as I faced endless chores and responsibilities, grief, and sadness.

Chronic stress nearly felled me, but I came through the challenge eventually as a different woman. I went into the experience with blinders on, and I came out wearing rose-coloured glasses.

I say rose-coloured glasses because my experience of caring for our parents changed my life; the experience changed me.

When my father died, both my sister and I felt that his disease, his dying and his death transformed us and gave us many gifts: wisdom, forgiveness, love, compassion, honesty, and Grace.

Wisdom to realize that self-care is integral to a purpose-filled and joy-filled life – we cannot care for another when we do not care for ourselves.

Forgiveness in the many times our parents would tell us stories of their childhood (those are the stories that are often intact when someone has Alzheimer’s) that shone a spotlight on challenging traits (things that they did that pissed us off) or events that happened (that pissed us off).

My mother would throw these (illuminating) stories out to us – the stories were like candy that she lobbed at us. We would excitedly jump up and gather them to our hearts. Those stories gave us meaning and understanding to her life, to our father’s life, and to ours.

Love and compassion grew as we spent so many hours with our parents, as we truly began to understand their lives, the hardships, their sacrifices, and the reasons why all of it was important – family! Our parents do what they do – for us. That knowledge lit something in us, and warmed our hearts.

Honesty grew. In the last days of disease, dying and death, we are our most vulnerable and authentic. Truth matters.

And Grace. There are many times in life that we know that we are surrounded by Grace, but I am always humbled and awed when Grace supports us at the bedside of our loved one who is dying. It is Grace that holds us up and whispers, “lean in” because when our bodies and minds move forward (instead of away), we learn and we expand. We grow.

These lessons have left me with a passion to help and support those who care for loved ones who have a dementia-related disease, to volunteer with residents in a long-term care home, and to advocate for change.

Like the families who have loved ones with dementia, I, too, fought my circumstances so I recognize that none of them accept their reality (they are still fighting with truth), and in my humble opinion, it is this conflict that causes the stress. We are not meant to fight; we are meant to lean in.

So today (Father’s Day) I am writing this blog as a tribute to my father (and my mother) who allowed me the privilege of caring for them – it changed my life.

I get to choose how I define my life (even if I don’t get to choose the crap that happens); I get to choose to live in gratitude, honouring the simple moments – the scent of lilies in the air, the sparrows and starlings squabbling within the hidden recesses of the viburnum, and the sun’s reflections – bands of white dancing to and fro – on the ceiling of the living room.

When we choose to define our lives from the lessons that we learn, we empower ourselves; we begin to trust ourselves, and we begin to recognize that all the answers to life are within us.

All the answers to life are within us. Thank you, Dad (and Mom) for that gem.

Meditation and a viewfinder

viewfinderI cut out a rectangular shaped box in the middle of the piece of cardboard and look through my “viewfinder.” The angles of the table are now easier to sketch. When I look through the small box, I can perceive the smaller picture and the relationships of the table within the small opening. I’m less distracted from the images that the cardboard blots out. Now I can close one eye, and like a monocular, focus on a small part of the bigger whole.

I think meditation works like a viewfinder. They are both tools to enhance our lives. One allows me to draw more accurately, to hone my attention skills while sketching. The other allows me to concentrate and pay attention to the present moment. Both tools render clarity and focus. Both make things simple and transparent. Both eliminate clutter.

Since Christmas I have been lost in a number of nesting projects – clearing out old unfinished stuff that has cluttered up the corners of our bedroom, and projects that have tumbled about in my head. Nesting and resting. It’s one of the reasons that I enjoy the winter months so much, as I get a huge delight in disposing of the yellow sticky-notes (my to-do list) that line my computer screen: Shutterfly album for son, done. Old photos scanned and uploaded, done. Library wall of books dusted, done. New blind for the kitchen window, done. New sketching pen purchased, done. Watercolours purchased, done. How-to watercolour YouTube videos  watched incessantly,  done. Dining room table now a temporary art studio, done.

Writing, not done. EBook about meditation, mindfulness, dementia and me, not done.

Makeshift artist's studio

Makeshift artist’s studio

The irony doesn’t escape me: lost in projects, losing focus. (My viewfinder’s not working.)

Over the holidays I spent a few days writing about dementia and mindfulness, and because I had no plan (no organized thoughts about an eBook), I sat down and began in the middle. But disorganization unsettles me; I feel uneasy when I see disorder. It’s a trait that I have possessed since I was a child and I own it. Order, neatness and cleanliness are a good thing in my book.

Eventually my struggles with writing led me to abandon the eBook. The middle was too weird for me – I kept asking the Universe for a beginning. My intention had become: A plan! A plan (the middle isn’t working for me)!

As humans, we sure complicate things. Instead of perceiving life as it is, accepting the Now, our minds search for something greater. In my case, I went searching for answers – for a plan, one that had a beginning, middle and an end.

So for the past couple of weeks, in spite of meditating and sitting in silence, and instead of accepting the sacred in the present moment, I kept searching.

When we do it right, there is a simplicity in mindfulness: when we see the grace in each moment – in peace or unease – then we are practicing mindfulness, complete acceptance of what is. The simplicity is in the awareness.

But I ignored those moments, I chose to struggle and complicate them:

I would meet people and we would begin a discussion on Alzheimer’s, dementia, and mindfulness, and instead of acknowledging the signs and the synchronicity – the repetition and constancy –  I dismissed them. I would take long, solitary walks and soon my head would fill with memories of my father standing on the counter (how I had to find a ladder to help him down); how my father jumped out of a moving car one morning and I still ignored the signs of his illness; how my father refused to go outside (when it was he who taught us to appreciate a sunrise, while camping); and memories of my mother sobbing over the washroom sink because she couldn’t turn the taps off. All of these memories and more would continue to assault me when I found myself in stillness. Thoughts and narratives inundated me – all about dementia, mindfulness and me.

And yet, I still didn’t see the connections. Instead, I found myself wishing that the thoughts of dementia and memories would move over so that a plan of a new eBook could enter! The plan, the plan…I need a plan!

We complicate things.

The moment’s simplicity eluded me, and I continued on the quest for answers:

Why do these narratives of mindfulness and dementia keep intruding into my thoughts and meditations? Why can’t I organize my thoughts into a plan with a beginning? Why would I want to write another eBook about dementia? Why is meditation not working for me? Why am I so filled with thoughts when my meditation should be about letting go? Why can’t I let go?

Begin at the beginning. Hold the viewfinder up and see.

Immanuel Kant once said,  “We see things not as they are, but as we are.”

When we struggle, life is a struggle. When we embrace life’s flow, life flows.

My meditations had been quite clear all along, transparent even.  The whispers were getting louder and more insistent, but always constant. It’s not monkey mind and clutter. Well, it is. But there’s a message within those thoughts – the thoughts are the message:  Write the thoughts down. That’s the plan.

I let go and finally sat still. And I listened to the silence behind the silence and that’s when I sensed that everything  – my writing, my lack of writing, my projects, my painting, my thoughts about dementia, mindfulness, meditation and me –  was interconnected, including my resistance. And that in spite of my intention to be in the flow – I had been swimming upstream.

My resistance had created diversions and distractions to prevent me from writing.  My resistance had shown up as nesting. Nesting was comfortable and safe. My projects were my attempts to clear out the clutter; or more accurately, to stop the narratives. Because I am afraid of the narratives. I am resistant to writing another eBook about dementia.  The truth is I have already written an eBook about that subject and I do not want to do it again. My resistance is actually fear: My fear of having nothing new or fresh to say; my fear that because there is no order in the book, that the book is not worth writing.

But here’s where the magic lies in recognizing the interconnections: Instead of writing, I have been painting, and as a beginner – learning a new craft – I am learning to let go of the need for perfection.  As a beginner, I have a beginner’s mind. I have become open, curious, and willing to experiment and make mistakes. In a state of beginner’s mind,  I am learning to let go…of a plan. I am content with imperfection.

“Meditation doesn’t solve anything, but it helps everything.”   Ethan Nichtern, Buddhist teacher

I’m humbled when these thoughts arise because they remind me that I had the answers and the wisdom within all along.

The viewfinder has changed my perspective. I need to be aware and recognize when I am nesting, and not lost in avoidance or distractions.

Lastly, in allowing myself more creativity in my life, I allowed myself to return to beginner’s mind – a state that I want to transfer to my writing, and other parts of my life.

Through this process I’ve learned to trust myself. The answers are all within. Everything I need flows to me: Nesting, creativity, wisdom, insights. And, yes, resistance. Our greatest lessons come in the disguise of resistance.

Challenges are here to awaken you and even if you’re awakening, life continually gives you challenges and then the awakening accelerates and deepens.             E. Tolle

It’s time to get back to writing an Ebook, in spite of my fears. My fears are no longer hidden under distractions and diversions; my fears are transparent. I will trust that I am to begin…in the middle, and not at the beginning which would feel more comfortable. I will need to trust the process. And I will need to trust myself.

I want to fall into  beginner’s mind when I write.

But first, I need to go for a walk and see the sky. And I don’t need a viewfinder for that.

 

 

 

 

Naked, November trees are great teachers

The maples and sycamores, and the birches and oaks are almost naked; a cluster of withered, yellow leaves still cling to the hardier specimens.

It’s the season of transition. Impermanence.

Most think November is dreary, dull and dead. I do not. I think the month is one of great beauty.

Bare trees reveal their secrets. The birds have lost their hiding spots; the squirrels run hither and thither, scrambling along the branches and limbs like they are possessed. Their frantic motions are a harbinger of winter – of change.

In spring and summer foliage and flowers can distract us from the woody trunk – the true foundation of the tree. I believe that is where all the magic lies. The trunk is the soul of the tree. Everything else is just lipstick.

Trees have always fascinated me, and I am always under their spell. And even though I appreciate their greenery, it is the trunk and the shape of a tree that I find truly beautiful. The gnarled and twisted intricacies of an old oak or willow, the contorted beech trees, the aged maple that has not one, but multiple trunks that formed perfect perching spots for us when we were small.

And don’t get me started about the tree roots which form another world beneath. I have photographed roots that rise from the earth that look like alien planets. In fact, when I develop those photos, I am confused whether I am looking at the top or the bottom of the tree: I turn the photo this way and that, looking for signs of up or down. I frame them anyways, lean them against the living room wall, and when I go by, I reach out and rotate the pictures – upside down or upright, still an intriguing wonder to me.

When we walk along the river, I want to stop and gaze on each of the deciduous trees – often their limbs contort around another, like the yoga pose, the Twist. I am compelled to brush my hand over the trunks – some smooth, some so rough; some peeling, some filled with hideous burls. Hideous burls are worth sketching, are they not?

Bare tree trunks resemble torsos, their limbs reach out, cupped in prayer. And sometimes the torso has multiple arms like Guan Yin, the Chinese Bodhisattva, Goddess of Compassion, Mercy, and Kindness, that I saw in most temples in last year’s visit to China. We could do with more trees like Guan Yin. Better yet, we could do with more reminders of compassion, mercy, and kindness.

Guan Yin?

When you spend as many hours as I do watching the birds, bare trees are a gift. Just this morning I watched a family of black-headed chickadees flit from limb to limb, then fly to my wall of green (the ivy-covered fence) and then perch on the roof of our shed. Eventually they flew off to another barren yonder. In the summer, I can recognize their sounds “Chick-a-dee-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee-dee,” but often only glimpse a snatch of white and black. Today I drank a full cup of coffee while I spied on their movements. (You can hop, but you cannot hide.)

Last week, a Downy woodpecker (Downy-s are dinky; Hairy-s are huge.) was attempting to eat supper in his hidey-hole. I can see you, I call out. He ignores me. Supper is tasty. Last month his familiar rat-a-tat could be heard throughout the neighbourhood, but I spent too many minutes searching the leafy branches for his black and white presence. Eventually I gave up. His song was enough.

In my own backyard I tend to two small trees that are dead. Well, I have been informed by a number of people (some are gardeners, some are not) that the trees are dead. By their definition, I should remove them. They see rot and decay; I see life. Dead trees are apartment dwellings for sparrows, finches and chickadees. Dead trees are ornamental and sculptural when covered in snow or hoar frost. Dead trees are the perfect launching pads for squirrels and birds. And fights between the two species. Sketches of dead trees fill my sketch book. Dead trees house ready-made hooks for bird feeders and wind chimes. Oh, did I mention that during the Christmas season we decorate our dead trees?

P1030198

Remove them? What kind of gardener do you think I am? I haven’t met a dead tree that I didn’t fall in love with, yet.

Bare trees form dark silhouettes against the grey autumn and winter skies that resemble looming shapes of plaques and tangles – like a brain with Alzheimer’s disease. That image is forever imprinted in my brain.

Alzheimer’s disease and other dementia s are tragic reminders of impermanence. Of transition.

We are not what we seem; we are more than we seem. That lesson I learned while caring for parents with Alzheimer’s.

In Neale Donald Walsch’s, Communion with God, Walsch writes about impermanence and change:

Which snowflake is the most magnificent? Is it possible that they are all magnificent – and that, celebrating their magnificence together, they create an awesome display? Then they melt into each other, and into the Oneness. Yet they never go away. They never disappear. They never cease to be. Simply, they change form.

And not just once, but several times: from solid to liquid, from liquid to vapour, from the seen to the unseen, to rise again, and then again to return in new displays of breathtaking beauty and wonder. This is Life, nourishing Life.

When I cared for parents with Alzheimer’s, I was constantly in stress and my body (and spirit) became broken. I lived in a world of grief (for the past) and worry (about the future).

But throughout that challenging time, I learned to go back to two things that I had practised as a young woman and throughout my life. I began to take them more seriously, with attention and awareness. Meditation and yoga (and eventually Tai Chi) saved me.

More accurately, the steady and constant practice of both yoga and meditation on a daily basis transformed me. Slowly I began to heal my spirit. My mind and body followed. Stillness and silence are great healers. (Qualities that we attribute to the majesty of trees.)

Today I believe that mindfulness (staying present in the Moment throughout the day) and recognizing my emotions and feelings and not trying to divert, distract, or dull them, has opened me to a richer life – one filled with acceptance, non-judgment, creativity, and wisdom. Compassion, love and mercy are part of the whole package.

Meditation has taught me that “I am the sky; my thoughts are just clouds – that come and go.” (All the great meditation, mindfulness, and spiritual thinkers subscribe to that thought; most notedly, Pema Chodron and Thich Nhat Hanh.) We are impermanent. Every minute 300 million cells die within our body. Our bodies are in constant flux, as are our daily lives. As are our thoughts.

We are reminded in meditation to breathe through the nose – breath in, breath out – and yet if we stay focused on the breath, we will begin to notice that each and every breath is different. Sometimes I breathe in 8 seconds and hold, and sometimes I breathe in 10 seconds, and exhale without holding. Sometimes I feel the coolness along the tips of my nostrils, and in the next breath, I notice an itch. Sometimes my belly expands, and sometimes I notice not as much expansion. Each breath is different.

If a fundamental thing such as breathing is different each time, then we begin to recognize that all things are changing. All the time.

The trees teach me about impermanence. They are a daily reminder. They are my cheat sheets. I need cheat sheets – they keep me grounded. (Pun, not intended.)

When I remind myself that my moods are temporary, that a particular challenging issue has me stumped and filled with worry, that a friend is suffering, I turn to the universal truth of impermanence: All things are transient. This, too, shall pass. Today the trees are nude, tomorrow they will be wearing their green dresses. My dark mood will lift. In time the challenging issue will either resolve itself, or I will gain wisdom to see it differently. My friend who is suffering will find relief.

As humans, we will adapt better to living a full and happy life when we let go of the fear of change. We will breathe easier when we learn that within the changes that take place, lies ephemeral beauty. That a decayed and rotting tree will soon nourish the earth. And another tree will be born.

When we perceive change as not right, not wrong, just is…we will teach ourselves to adjust to change, and eventually, to accept change. Acceptance leads us to a happier life. Happier? No. Wrong word. A balanced life. That’s what I strive for. Happiness is fleeting. I desire balance or equanimity.

Naked, November trees remind me of transition: from a rich and verdant existence to one of bare essentials. Like us. Whether we accept it or not, we are all aging. At this very moment. Yes, all of us. By the time you get to the end of this blog, you and I will have lost a billion cells.

Naked, November trees remind me of essential truths: we are all going to die. Everything is impermanent. Many things are inherently beautiful – even the gnarly roots that surround an old, decaying tree.  Awareness and attention are transformative. We are meant to be whole, not perfect.

As my son’s last text reminded me of the importance of “not right, not wrong; just is,” those powerful words inspire me. Acceptance. Reality. Truth.

Besides, I need not worry. Everything will change. In a few seconds, or a day, or weeks. Or years.

I think my trees are teaching me a lesson: Don’t worry. Be happy. Better yet, be balanced.

 

 

 

 

 

I seek refuge in mindfulness

This morning, as other mornings, I turn to the skies to align my day. The dawn’s sky is navy blue and red – streaks that look as if a mad painter has swished his brush to and fro with a flourish. And peeking through a pocket or two, sits the robin’s egg blue sky.

It’s beautiful. I close my eyes.

I need to be silent for awhile, worlds are forming in my heart.  Meister Eckhart

I have turned to the dawn’s sky as refuge from the news. I did not stay up late to watch the election results. Instead, I awoke at five as usual and my husband has leaned over and whispered to me, “You are not going to be happy with the election results.”

His words caused me to leap out of bed. Stunned, I watched the CBC news.

I’ve spent my last ten years trying to live a life of simplicity, wholeness, and lovingkindness. I’ve surrounded myself with people who share similar beliefs, values and intentions. We strive to live fully, creatively, in love and compassion. Some of us meditate and live mindfully; some of us pray; and some of us share with John Muir, that Nature is my Church.

And although most of us are not Buddhists, we strive to embody its’ philosophies or tenets: Do no harm; Lovingkindness and generosity; Right resolve, right action, right speech, right concentration, etc.  All philosophies shared with Christianity and other world religions.

So this morning I feel the earth has shifted. I feel that worlds are colliding (in the immortal words of Seinfeld’s beloved character, George).

Everything has changed. Nothing has changed.

We carry on. We continue to be aware – to be mindful of the moments that make up our days, our lives. We continue to laugh, to cry, to support one another, to pray, and to meditate.

But for me, I vow to see more, to see clearly – to remove the rose-coloured glasses that prevented me from seeing and acknowledging the truth – that many suffer. And they suffer deeply.

When I wrote my free ebook on caring for parents with dementia, I offered to the reader that all of us, including those who suffer with Alzheimer’s and other dementia s, want to know that we matter – we all want to be seen, to be heard, and most of all, we want to know that we matter.

For me, this is the lesson that we have been profoundly offered.

My grandma would say when things go wrong it’s a Buddhist gift.  The Provence Cure for the Brokenhearted, Bridget Asher

Let us carry on today with eyes wide open. In awareness, may we really see each other. And let us touch base with the stillness within each of us, that continually guides and steers us to a life of acceptance, love, kindness, compassion and generosity.

I intend to let go of the discord and toxic energy that I felt this morning when I first turned on the television.

Instead, I turn to my strengths: honesty, trust, compassion, curiosity, service, creativity and connections.

All gifts.

The more we accept and expand our own unique gifts, the more we can share and connect with others. And all of this begins with awareness.

When we live in awareness (that is, we begin to pay attention to each moment) we change our perceptions. In mindfulness, we perceive the many acts of grace that surround us.

Acts of grace. Those are the gifts that will transform us.

 

“Oh, grandma. Look at all the other grandmas!”

I’m really getting tired of how people react to a long-term care facility. And I’m really getting tired of how people treat someone who has a dementia as if that person no longer mattered.

Family members and visitors (and once in a blue moon, a staff member) will often lean in and whisper to me, “Just shoot me if I ever have to live here. Just shoot me.”

And even though I understand where they are coming from – fear – it still hurts me when I hear the comment. How can we accept our present moment, when we are living in such deep fear?

What do we fear? We fear getting old, aging, illness and disease, losing our memory, losing our physical capabilities, losing control, and dying. Our deepest fear is that no one will take care of us when we cannot take care of ourselves, and that we will spend our last days in a long-term care facility – alone.

But I also believe that we fear that we will no longer matter.

When we constantly judge long-term care facilities, and when we dread the weekly or bi-weekly, or daily visits to them, do we not deny our loved one who lives in the care home dignity and respect?

Are we not (in a not so subtle way) expressing distaste for the space and, therefore,  disrespect for our loved one? Isn’t there an undertone of dread and dismay? “I’m so glad I don’t live here (thank God!) but hey, mom, hope you settle in here nicely!” I can’t help thinking of that line, See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya!

When I wrote an eBook about my experience of caring for parents with Alzheimer’s, I included a story of my friend who visited her mother in a long-term care home and took her granddaughters to visit. Her one granddaughter grabbed my friend’s leg and hid behind her. She began to shake; she was terrified.

Her other granddaughter stopped dead in her tracks, looked around the spacious, open activity room filled with residents, and clapped her hands. With a big, silly grin on her little face, she exclaimed, “Oh, grandma. Look at all the other grandmas!”

From that moment on, her granddaughter was always excited to visit her great-grandmother.

And I am willing to bet that my friend’s mother (and all of the other residents) looked forward to her visits, too.

When we visit our loved ones with dementia, do we visit with an open mind? Or do we visit with dread? I believe that our loved ones sense our state of expectation (or energy) when we visit. What if they can feel the dread?

When I volunteer at the long-term care home where my mother used to live, I see a lot of unhappy residents. But I am also witness to many beautiful moments of love, laughter, joy, kindness and compassion. These small moments are exquisite.

I see wives, husbands, daughters, sons and grandchildren who visit daily or bi-weekly. I wish I had a dollar for every cup of tea or coffee or cookie that accompanies most visits. Many cups of tea are shared with residents and their loved ones. And here’s the beautiful thing: Many of these same visitors bring extras for other residents. (And staff.)

When I visit some residents and enter their personal rooms, flowers often welcome me – some are elaborate bouquets and others are simple posies. Greeting cards, postcards, posters and photos are pinned to bulletin boards or line the window sills. Handmade quilts or knitted afghans line the bottom of the beds, or are draped over comfortable, cushy bedside chairs.

In a quick glance around the room I can usually spot the family who cares about their loved one’s well-being. Books are piled high; bird feeders that overflow with seed hang outside the windows; walls display framed photos of family life, horses, dogs, ships, farms, landscapes and cityscapes from their home countries, angels, prayers, and life affirmations: Family, Love, Laughter top the list.

I’ve witnessed personal support workers who sneak extra cups of tea (and cookies) to the resident who has a sweet tooth; I’ve witnessed staff lovingly hug residents and rock them as if they were new-born babes. And I’ve leaned against the wall with tears in my eyes while a personal support worker has sung to a distraught or confused resident. (You Are My Sunshine is definitely top of the charts here.)

I have witnessed the residents who have no dementia support those who do. Residents look out for one another, and care for one another. Hugs and pats on the arm are doled out freely and frequently. (My mother who wandered the hallways in her wheelchair would often be returned to her room by another resident, Here, Gwen, you live here. And her dining companions would often greet me to report my mother’s latest skipped meal. You should know, my dear; your mother is not eating properly.)

When you witness the small acts of kindness and compassion, you begin to understand the deeper meaning (or at least the lessons within) of aging, disease, dying and death; you begin to understand that we are all connected – that we are all One. You begin to understand that love makes all the difference.

We are not meant to live forever in our physical body. We are all going to age, and one day, to die.

When we accept this unchangeable fact of life, we can begin to let go of some of our fear.

Instead of announcing that I would rather die than end up here in a long-term care home, why not begin to make life easier for those who do live here. Why not visit more often, not less; visit with love, not fear; visit with anticipation, not dread. If you are disturbed by the management and care of your loved one, visit often so that you can become an advocate. Become better informed: visit the care facilities website, the Ministry of Health’s website, and learn what the basic standards are. Speak up if you have an issue. Learn the names of the staff and begin to advocate for your parent. Attend the care meetings. Become a visible presence in the home. That will make a difference.

But recognize your emotions and discern whether you are fearful of the place because I dislike all facilities, like these; or do you have legitimate complaints about care.

Acceptance is a choice.

We can all open our eyes and choose to see the love, the laughter, and the joy that is still present – within the home, and within our loved one. They still matter.

When we choose to experience the joy in the present moment, disease, aging, and death do not disappear. But we will transform ourselves. Because in spite of the suffering, we choose to experience the wonder and awe in the most simplest of moments. We choose to see the beauty in everything – even in suffering. We choose to see the strength, the resilience, the exquisite vulnerability.

Suffering reminds us of some universal truths: We are not perfect. Nor is our body. We are human. Humans suffer. Life is not just. Life is not always balanced. To be whole, we must accept the good and the bad. Love can make a difference. In the last moments of life, love is the only thing that matters.

Over time I have learned that within us is an invincibility – that no matter how life unfolds, we endure. I’m still here. You’re still here.

That self-knowledge matures us as we recognize that challenges in life will not defeat us. Those same challenges (or crises) may fell us to the ground, but we will get up – sooner or later.

That’s one of the lessons that I have learned on my journey. When I visit the care home (or a hospital), I am reminded that when I first entered these halls so many years ago, I was heart-broken. When we had to make the decision to enter my father into a long-term care home where he lived for a short time before his death, I wept for hours. I was felled.

Now I visit with love and joy. I got up. I am still here.

I have absorbed the wisdom and strength that is offered to me each time I visit. I am not hear to cure anyone or fix anything. My presence is enough. (That’s another lesson that I have learned.)

I am here to just visit. My presence alone validates and honours the residents. My presence alone shares their pain and suffering. My presence alone says You are worthy. I care for you.

Laughter, love, joy and compassion tether us to our spirit. Or, perhaps laughter, love, joy and compassion is our spirit.

I challenge everyone who visits someone in a care home (or a hospital) to let go of their basic fears. Remember the little girl who clapped and exclaimed, “Oh, grandma, look at all the other grandmas!”

 

 

Caregiving and Mindfulness: Gifts

overnight, autumn crocus appears

overnight, autumn crocus appeared

There are a lot of articles, blogs, books, videos and websites that focus on those who care for people who have Alzheimer’s and other dementia-related diseases.

And that’s because the role of caregiver is not an easy one. Whether one cares for a person full-time or part-time, the stress is unbelievable.

One of the reasons there is so much content on the Web and support for the caregiver is because many caregivers become ill or undergo life-threatening illnesses themselves, perpetuated by the stress.

From my own personal journey (and watching others care for their parents) I have learned that a great deal of the stress is caused by our non-acceptance of the disease and non-acceptance of our new reality.

For me, mindfulness and acceptance led me to a new awareness of the disease, to a more fulfilling relationship with my parents, and to a new way of dealing with loss and sorrow, as well as aging and death.

Mindfulness led me to loving kindness and compassion for both my parents who had Alzheimer’s, and for myself. I had spent a lot of time beating myself up in the past, and self-compassion completely transformed me.

Mindfulness is really just another word for awareness or paying attention. And most people who do not practice mindfulness or meditation are completely unaware of their underlying emotions and thoughts. Thoughts and emotions are connected – we cannot have negative thoughts without a negative emotion following.

When we live in a hurry-up culture and a culture that emphasizes the ego, most of us are in the dark about how other people feel; most of us don’t pay attention to our own bodies or emotions, let alone another person’s.

The challenge of caring for someone who has a dementia-related disease leaves very little time for the caregiver to dwell on his own emotional state. And that’s a problem.

Because it is in mindfulness or sitting in silence (or meditation) where insights to our real state of mind occur.

Most caregivers spend their day supporting their loved one and managing their symptoms: toileting, bathing, dressing, feeding, laundry, doctor appointments, and management of medicines/prescriptions. Sometimes the person is in a wheelchair or uses a walker or cane so heavy lifting or supporting the individual is necessary throughout the day and night, a physical toil.

Many nights the bed linens will need to be stripped and laundered. And most times, pajamas, too.

If the parent or loved one has ‘sundowning’ (which is fairly common – day and night turned around) then the caregiver will be awakened throughout the night and on “high alert” to listen for the night wanderings. Unfortunately, the person with a dementia-related disease is often agitated at this time and symptoms become more difficult to manage. Ultimately this translates into less sleep for everyone in the household – especially for the person with the disease and for the primary caregiver.

As I wrote in my free-eBook, meals, laundry and housekeeping will need to be attended to throughout the day – meals, snacks, drinks, toileting, personal care; repeat.

The individual will need to have regular medical check-ups, blood work, hospital appointments, and prescription pick-up. Banking and financial matters will be the primary caregiver’s responsibility, along with your loved one’s home maintenance and responsibilities, not to mention your own home’s maintenance and care.

And sadly, most of these tasks will need to be done with cajoling and subtle manipulation so that the individual will oblige. Many persons with Alzheimer’s will be upset with the caregiver, stubborn, angry or resistant and demanding at times as their world is changing too quickly for them to understand and their loss of control is terrifying to them. Many stubborn acts of resistance are due to their fear – that is the only way for them to express their loss of control. Both the person with Alzheimer’s and the caregiver will be emotionally and physically weary.

Caregiving fatigue will often follow and it has many symptoms: fatigue, sleep deprivation, anxiety, stress and depression. And the experts remind us that stress leads to illness (which makes us more stressed).

When our stress levels become so high, we become disinterested in life and we begin to lose hope that this difficult journey will ever end. Did I just write that we begin to lose hope that this difficult journey will ever end? What kind of horrible caregiver am I to think such a thought? Now, I am more stressed.

What if I told you that it is normal to feel some resentment, anger and guilt while caregiving? What if I told you that while doing research over the years, that I have discovered that it is perfectly normal (when stressed to the max and so bone-weary) to have such emotions?

We cannot take care of ourselves and hope to heal if we cannot feel compassion for ourselves and that process begins with recognition and awareness of our thoughts and emotions.

And that is where mindfulness is the key to healing ourselves.

Our anger or resentment or caregiver fatigue is a red flag to remind us that we are off-balance – we need to pay attention to an issue that hasn’t yet been accepted or resolved. (Perhaps you have not accepted that your loved one has this disease, and so you are still fighting it. Or, perhaps you resent the time that it takes to care for someone because it means less time to care for your spouse and children. Or, perhaps you are caring for your spouse, and deep down you are terrified of being left alone.)

If we sit just for a few minutes throughout the day, in silence and in stillness, and ask ourselves a few questions:

Why do I feel this resentment?

Why am I so angry?

Why do I feel guilty?

Why am I trying so hard to be the perfect, supportive caregiver?

Allow yourself to just sit with whatever arises.

With honesty and truthfulness, allow yourself to look at your situation, at your relationship with your loved one, at the disease, and the sorrow and the sadness.

Allow your feelings and your thoughts to come up. We cannot heal if we do not recognize and then accept these emotions that we have been spending so much time trying to hide. We think if we push the emotions down or away (or ignore them) that we will be able to carry on. But the truth is that these emotions (without addressing them) will become toxic and harmful. The truth is these emotions never go away or disappear – they just fester.

Recognition and acceptance of our underlying emotions can (in time) lead to compassion for ourselves, and this self-compassion will lead to forgiving ourselves. When we begin to forgive ourselves with compassion, we will open our hearts to forgiving others. Our compassion will expand towards others, and kindness and love will enter.

It’s a heavy burden to feel guilt and resentment when caring for a loved one. Imagine how freeing it is to allow ourselves recognition, acceptance, and forgiveness of our emotions.

Imagine how healing it is when we accept that we are mourning for our loved one – even though he/she hasn’t died! (Yes, it is normal to grieve before your loved one dies – anticipatory grief.)

It’s okay and normal to mourn the many losses that surround the prognosis of Alzheimer’s disease: our loved one is no longer the person that he was; perhaps our loved one does not remember us; our loved one cannot support himself; our loved one has lost many of his abilities; our relationship has changed – we are the primary carer now (the roles have reversed); we are fearful of the future and what it may bring; our life has been drastically altered; our own health and well-being has suffered; perhaps our family sees less of us because we devote a full day to caregiving; we want our old life back, before Alzheimer’s entered our life. And we are full of sorrow when we see how our loved one suffers. We are heart-broken.

Once we face our fears (and name them aloud), we are able to let go of them, almost as if these thoughts that float around in our subconscious create havoc wherever they land, and once acknowledged – that is we pay attention to them – they begin to shrivel up and slowly dissipate. (Have you ever had ideas and thoughts jumbling around (portmanteau word: a jumble that tumbles) making no sense, and then began to write? Just the process of writing your stream of consciousness helps. As if we pluck these ideas from the interior muddle, and plop them down onto paper and poof! They no longer randomly float in our head. The muddle clears.)

I often think of Pema Chodron, Tibetan Buddhist, who advises us that when we run from the monster in our nightmare, we are terrified…but when we stop and turn around and finally stare the monster down…we find peace. The monster shrinks in size, and when he shrinks, we become more aware of his vulnerability. We begin to feel seeds of compassion for the monster.

When we dwell in our heads with thoughts and fears about… what if?… we are not present. When we wish the difficult journey was over or that it had never happened, we are rejecting the present moment. We are rejecting our reality; we are rejecting life as it unfolds.

Caregiving is a challenge, and there is no denying that fact. But when we cannot accept the prognosis or our reality, the challenge will even be more difficult. Most importantly, our time with our loved one will be fraught with stress and sadness.

Mindfulness or being present or paying attention to the present moment will lead us to a compassion-filled journey. It will allow us to be authentic. We will mourn, yes. We will cry, yes. But those moments will be real. We will not try to deny our sadness. Instead, we will lean into them and just feel them. Allow them space. And it is in that space, that Grace enters. And as Thich Nhat Hanh often reminds us to tell ourselves, “My darling, I am here for you.”

When we allow compassion, love and Grace to enter, our awareness will begin to notice the joy and the love within the sorrowful moment.

While I mourned by my mother’s bedside while she was dying, I watched the sun rise each morning. The magnificent palette of the skies will stay in my memory bank forever, as will the loving and kind gestures of the staff. Those moments are joy and love-filled, side by side with sorrow and tears.

Mindfulness allows for an easier journey because it will be filled with little sacred moments – of laughter, peace and fulfillment, reconciliation and forgiveness. Sorrow and tears, too.

Gifts; all gifts.

 

 

 

A new dawn; a new sunset – book-ends

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sun rise on the way to London

When I arose just after six this morning, my living room was pink. The white sheer window shades allowed the sky’s dawn to enter in all its glory. The pink had saturated the walls and ceiling and when I scrunched my eyes, I am almost certain that even the air was pink.

But the rosy glow didn’t last long, and by the time I turned away from the screen door as I watched the sky’s pink palette, the magic had disappeared in my living room.

I never get tired of the show. It’s the reason I am an early riser.

The sunrise and the sunset of each day are gifts – gifts that bookend each of my days. The simple ritual of breathing in the dawn’s glory, and hours later, breathing out the dusk allows me to make a mental realignment.

A realignment that grounds me. I become centered, focused on living mindfully. My bookends allow me to be present, in awareness: to stop and listen to the sparrows and wrens that live within the branches of the viburnum (that should be pruned, but I don’t want to disturb their homes); to pause when the Harbor Bay bell that hangs from the shed that my father built us twenty years ago, gongs – a gong that resonates so beautifully that no matter who is in the yard, they stop and savour the sound; to kneel beside a resident in the long-term care home where I volunteer, to listen deeply, and witness her story.

The shed that Dad built

The shed that Dad built

harbour-bay-bell

harbor bay bell

My mind is cluttered with thoughts throughout the hours – mindfulness does not eliminate them. But the practice allows me to align them – to at least put some order to them.

I’m aware of the big questions in life: Who am I? What do I want? What is my purpose?

And mindfulness allows me compassion for myself and those thoughts that consume me – never-ending thoughts, like books stuffed in a bookcase – piled high, teetering on chaos.

Mindfulness allows me to peruse the titles: Nature, Family, Aging and Disease, Death, Creativity, Art, Writing, and more. The shelves are crammed.

Mindfulness allows me to be the observer – detached, yet alert. I notice the thoughts that often consume me when I am walking. I write in my head, stories that I discard later or save to paper. I draw in my head. Water and the elements of nature are a never-ending, repetitive meme. What colour is that blue? I must learn how to use watercolours. OMG, is that sky not the most beautiful thing ever? The pink of that canna lily reminds me of the shawl that we bought my mother one Christmas – the same shawl that my sister now wraps around her shoulders during meditation.

The observer within me embraces all of the subtitles: envy, judgment, inadequacy. (I own the series of all of those subtitles.)

But here’s the thing: mindfulness allows me to recognize the two prevailing themes that underline all of my thoughts. Love and fear. Thankfully, this life-transforming strategy opens my heart to self-care and compassion – self-care and compassion lead to gratitude, joy, love and acceptance.

Acceptance means that I recognize the thoughts that I have – of envy, judgment, inadequacy – I recognize the titles, I thumb through a few pages, and then I discard them. Enough. Life is too short to read the book. Instead, I recognize the fear and I just sit with it. I have learned to trust that soon those thoughts will disappear.

Thoughts are transitory; impermanent; illusions.

The joy that I experienced this morning while in the pink glow will return tonight when I experience the sky as the sun disappears.

Tonight. Tomorrow morning. Tomorrow evening.

The jumble of thoughts and all its disorder and chaos will realign itself. I will re-set.

And it is this re-set that reassures me that all is well.  I am. Cluttered mind and all.

Whether I need to re-set multiple times throughout the hours (and that is inevitable), or I simply observe the thoughts, I learn to accept the moment. Whether the books are jumbled or the tomes are straight and orderly – I am content to be in my skin (and in my mind).

I have learned that if I am not content…I wait. My thoughts will dissipate and new ones will replace them.

The library in my mind is ever-changing.

Sunrise, sunset. Bookends. Gifts.

sunset at Canatara

sunset at Canatara