Branching Out

 

All around me are signs of new life. The branches on my Camellia are filling with bright red flowers. There are new buds on my hydrangeas. And walking with my grandson, he pointed out daffodils, hyacinth and crocus blooms around the neighborhood. 

Inside, my Lily vases are filled with pussy willows and pink tulips. I love making my Lily vases but I also love seeing them bloom with all the different colors of the seasons from fall leaves to summer roses. 

Signs of Life. 

Since my major surgery, I’ve had a lot of difficult days. I expected the physical pain but what I didn’t expect was emotional pain. As my body healed, I got stronger and my mind cleared. But the emotions that bubbled to the surface were unexpected and upsetting. What I’ve come to find out, thanks to helpful friends who have gone through difficult surgeries, is that this is another phase of healing. 

As one new friend put it, “I just kept saying to myself, I’m alive. I didn’t die.”

So now, when the trauma hits me, I tell myself, “I’m alive.” And I look around me for other signs of life. Little leaves on my rose bushes and buds on the hydrangeas and daffodils. 

My clay is growing too. 

In the last few weeks, new growth is happening in my studio. Sparked by an idea I saw on Substack about growth patterns, I got out my clay. The words, branching out kept coming back to me. As I wedged and slapped and rolled the clay, I just let my hands lead me to form a circle. 

I pressed my favorite textures in and around it. Rolled out some coils and added them to the circle. Some fit and some didn’t but I know that’s ok, it’s all part of the process. The first one didn’t turn out exactly how I thought it would. But, again, that’s ok. 

The second one, I thought I had more of a plan based on a picture I saw. But again, my fingers lead the way and another circle appeared with what looked to me like flowers and limbs but then morphed into something like a Celtic knot motif. 

Another day, I looked around me studio and saw a watercolor painting of flowers I did whenI couldn’t do clay because I was recovering from surgery. I wondered. What would it look like in clay? Could I even do it? And why would I? Well, again, my hands got busy and something new did emerge from the clay. 

I guess my hands knew what my head didn’t, yet. 

I’m not dead. 

I’m alive. 

And like everything else around me, I’m branching out. 

2025 Word of the Year: Thrive.

 

It’s taken me a while to find my way to this year’s word. It wasn’t easy but then last year and this year have not been easy. Even as I wanted to move, like last year’s word, I was stopped at almost every turn. Stopped by pain and confusion and fear and, finally, major surgery. I’m very grateful, I finally got the help I needed.

Am I angry it took so long to get help? Yes. Our healthcare system here is sick and broken and needs major surgery too. And, so this new year, I hope for a healthier healthcare system for all of us. 

It’s time for me to thrive. 

Recovering from major surgery is not easy. It takes a lot of patience, which is not my strong suit. My instructions were: no lifting, no pushing, no pulling, no yoga. I could walk. Slowly. One day at a time, I walked a little further. Finally, I got to the park and around the lake and back home with my husband and sweet Darby by my side. 

The more I listened to my body and gave it what it craved: good food, tea, rest and walks. The more it rewarded me with more energy and less pain. There’s a lesson for me here. Maybe for you, too?

Thriving instead of Striving. 

It’s in our culture, these deep seated beliefs. Work harder. Go faster. More is better. But what if it isn’t? What if, less is really more? What if, slowing down get us where we need to go? What if working softly with intention brings more life to our lives?

Maybe to really thrive, instead of listening to my head or my culture, I need to listen to my gut. Slow down. See the heron on the branch.  Listen to the rain hitting the roof. Snuggle by the fire reading a book. Paint watercolors with my granddaughter. Cuddle with my grand baby and watch a silly movie. Play with paint and clay and crochet. 

 What if, relaxing into our days moment by moment, rather than striving, is the way to truly Thrive. 

If you want to know more about the healthcare situation, here’s a link https://open.substack.com/pub/miketurner921/p/health-care-is-broken?r=2j4566&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

Goodbye 2024 Word of the Year

 

Every year, I choose a word of the year. I do it to give myself some inspiration and motivation for the coming year. Last year, my word was Move. With all the lifestyle changes that happened both during COVID and after, I need a word to get me going. It seemed like the perfect choice. 

I’d been in the hospital before Christmas that year with an abscess that needed to be drained. It was a scary, unexpected situation and even though I came home from the hospital before Christmas, I had to take it easy and not do or move as much as I usually did. I obeyed the instructions and thought after that all would be well. 

So Move seemed like the perfect choice. 

Not so fast. 

Yeah. This last year was a maze of doctor, urgent care, express care visits with so many different drugs and diagnoses that I was in a constant state of confusion. If you want to know more, read the blog “Easily Dismissed”. 

To say I was in a haze is to put it mildly. I lived with pain and fear. I was low on energy, yet pushed through to move on with my life as best I could. I couldn’t throw clay because it hurt to push the clay around on the wheel. So I made small figures in clay because I could do it sitting down in a comfy chair and rolling out the clay in small batches was manageable. 

I’m moved by those who helped. 

First, my wonderful husband who did the heavy lifting all year. He took over so many of my duties that I could not do. He grocery shopped, cooked and cleaned. He baked up a storm of cookies and treats and meals to keep me eating when I didn’t feel I could. 

My children, adults now with their own families and jobs, stepped up to walk, feed and care for the dog when I was in the hospital. Twice. They, along with friends, brought food and treats and things to keep me busy while I was confined to my bed. They are so wonderful. 

Thank you  to my art supporters from the gallery to the pottery group. It’s because of you that I was able to keep doing what I really love to do and manage to get my art out there. With the help of my husband doing the hauling and lifting and driving, I did Ceramics Showcase and sold a few things. Best of all, I had a gallery and a wonderful supportive owner and staff who wanted my work and worked with me to make it possible and sold it too!!

And a big thank you to the doctor and nurses and aides at St. Vincent Hospital, I was finally diagnosed correctly. Yes, I had a major but much needed surgery. And I went home finally, whole and healthy and able to really move on.  

A Quiet Christmas

I didn’t plan it. I didn’t expect it. But sometimes life just takes over whether you want it to or not. And sometimes, it saves your life. 

Ok, here’s the story. I woke up and felt sick. The kind of sick you can’t ignore anymore and believe me, I had become an expert in ignoring it for months. But on this morning, it was not going to let me ignore it anymore. It scared me enough to make me head to the local urgent care. 

Luckily, I was seen right away. The nurse, doctor and tech staff were all patient, good listeners and soon had a diagnosis. I had diverticulitis. Which, I have found out is very common in adults over the age of 40. A prescription for antibiotics was phoned in, a CT scan was scheduled asap and I was sent home. 

Two days later, I went in for a CT scan and the diagnosis was the same: diverticulitis. I was relieved. A course of antibiotics and I would be fine. Right? 

Emergency Hell.

At 5pm that same day, I got a call from the urgent care doctor telling me to go to the Emergency Room ASAP. I was shocked. Stunned. I tried to talk him out of it. He said, “NO, you have to go to the hospital. NOW.”

So, in a panic, my husband drove to St. Vincent’s. We checked into the emergency room. We found a bench and waited for two hours. Just as we were getting up to leave, they called us into an emergency room.

Next thing I knew, I was admitted and taken to the surgical floor. I was told I needed a procedure to drain an abscess in my colon. I was set up with several antibiotic IV. I was terrified. But I had great nurses, who helped me understand what was going on. A young doctor came in and explained what they were going to do. The next day I had a procedure to drain the abscess. By the following day, I was allowed to go home with many instructions.

Cancelling Christmas. 

It was a very hard decision. We had all the presents, food arranged but it was decided with my condition and little  grandchildren with colds that we had to cancel our Christmas Day celebration. I was upset, but I knew it was for the best. 

Instead, my husband and I just hunkered down by the fire. I read, sipped tea and looked at the lovely lighted tree. I talked and video chatted with my kids. Nibbled on holiday cookies brought by a friend. And tried hard to see the bigger picture. 

Goodness and gratefulness.                                                                                                                                                                               

Thank goodness for my husband for doing the heavy lifting: wound care, medicines, groceries, cooking, cleaning and moral support. I’m so grateful for my great kids who took care of the dog and ran grocery errands. I’m grateful for the kind nurses, doctors and imaging staff. I’m grateful so, so grateful to the doctor who insisted I go to the hospital, he probably saved my life. 

Sometimes life throws you a big curve.

Listen to your body. 

Be brave. 

Don’t fight it out of fear. 

Trust it.  And help it heal. 

 

 

Last year, I was hopeful. Through all the fear and pain and division and difficulty of 2020, I found hope in my word for that year: heal.

Here at the very end of this year, I see more wounds all around me. I saw the need for healing from covid, from divisive politics, from quarantine and fear. I wished healing that would bring us together. Solve long unsolved problems. Find places to come together for the good of everyone. 

Did we heal?

I don’t know. I did see some steps forward. More and more people did get vaccinated and boosted. Children went from virtual to in person learning. Soccer games filled the neighborhood fields. Playgrounds again played the sounds of laughter.

Ok, the laughter was behind masks. Because there were scary variants in the air. And some still denied the problems, avoided the solutions all to avoid their own fear.  

Life lived anyway. 

In spite of the masks, I kept throwing. In spite of a flooded kitchen, I kept on making vases, teacups, bowls and plates. In spite of galleries closing and cancelled shows, opportunities literally ‘popped up’. 

Thanks to other wonderful artist friends, I got chances to get out there with my work in a whole new way. I learned to set up a tent, table and my art outside on the grass on a sunny day in August. Another time, I set up outside a pub in the rain on a cold day in December. Both times, I met new people, got great feedback on my work, learned new skills and sold my work. 

Healing, like mending, takes time. 

Fixing or mending a break whether it’s bone or cloth is a process. It only happens stitch by stitch. Day by day. Week by week. Month by month. Even though I had hopes a year would be long enough, I was wrong. 

Healing takes its own time. And I know some wounds, even in one lifetime, don’t heal. 

And looking back, I see some progress.

How about you? Looking back this year, what small steps did you see?

Perfectly Overwhelmed

 

I don’t  see blue sky outside my window. I see orange fog. Smoke. And gray particulates falling through the air. Just when I was getting used to wearing a face mask, cleansing everything with sanitizer and accepting a pandemic, my part of the world started burning. 

I am scared. I worry about all the people I know in danger and their children and animals and homes. I thank the brave firefighters and responders and want them to all come home, safe. And there is nothing I can really do to help stop any of this. What can any of us really do?

All I see on social media is pictures of the smoke, orange sky, flames outside everyone’s windows. I keep reacting to each and every one the same: shocked emoji. And I’ve taken my own pictures as well, but it just seems hard to post them. 

Sharing. 

Here’s a post I did see on social media this week and I found it very helpful.

 

This is from Lisa O’ Baire:

Dear West Coast friends, if you’re feeling anxious or unsettled by our orange, smoky skies, please remember that your animal body is responding *perfectly*. 

Your nervous system is so smart. 

You’re biologically wired to feel afraid.

Your body is prepping for threat that is not yet here.

What can you do to feel more settled in this moment?

1) Self-Touch

2) Self-Talk

3) Reach Out for Connection

4) Remember Impermanence

✨Self-Touch✨

Massage your body, even if it’s *just* squeezing your own arms. Take a shower with cool water. Ask a loved one to lay on top of you or use a weighted blanket. Sitting up with your feet on the floor, ask a friend to slowly press down on the top of your feet (it works!). Take a moment to smell something lovely. Connecting to our senses is one of the quickest ways to get “unstuck” when overwhelmed.

✨Self-Talk✨

Speak aloud what you most need to hear. Pretend you’re a loving parent and speak to your younger self: “Thank you, body, for reminding me that this is a scary moment. I am safe right now. I am resilient and prepared to act, if necessary. Until then, I am completely safe — even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

✨Reach Out for Connection✨

I appreciate every picture of an orange sky on FB right now. I see it as a bid for connection. You are not alone. Write to a family member or friend who lives in another area. Ask them to send you a photo of a beautiful blue sky. Call someone who delights you! Friends are our lifelines and can help us co-regulate. It’s likely your call will make their day too. 

✨Remember Impermanence✨

Our sweet brains need help remembering there is a different (better) future ahead. In times of strife, the body’s job is to keep us alive at all costs. Chemicals flood the body to “help”, but you may find yourself frozen — or desperate to flee or fight. 

Remind yourself that this WILL end. 

This WILL shift. 

Blue skies WILL come again. 

And finally, please remember that none of this anxiety mismatch is your fault. Nervous system regulation and resiliency was not taught in school.  Self-regulation and somatic awareness are the most important skills you can gift yourselves and your children. You’re worth it. 

Thank you, Lisa for helping me understand that feeling overwhelmed right now is perfectly all right.