Last January, a friend gave me a candle with a label on which I was to write my intention for the New Moon and then burn it completely. Choosing “one little word” to build a year around has become a popular practice. My sister started it before it went mainstream, but now it’s everywhere, at least if my social media advertising stream is to be believed. But this candle wasn’t for the year – just for the month. And the candle didn’t specify it was for January. Just for a new moon.
It so happens that I’m not all that comfortable with leaving fire of any size unattended. So I was already not going to fulfill the ritual. But I did choose a word and light the candle. And contemplated the word I had chosen for a bit. Then blew the flame out.
Since I wasn't going to allow the candle to burn fully in one session, I decided to observe the new moon monthly, with a different word each time. I did not fix a certain number of minutes for it to be lit - just as long as my reflection lasted. But somehow I chose well, because it lasted to December, and on that new moon I decided to let it burn itself out no matter how long it took. Which ended up being about fifteen minutes after I had set it aside on the table. So, that's something.
January 13th: Stamina
Had I known in January I'd be writing this a year later, I might have jotted down a few of my thoughts along the way to remind me why I chose each word. It's been a long twelve months. And that alone means I obviously chose well on that first new moon. It seems likely I chose stamina because of the nine months we'd all just been through and knowing we weren't finished. CoVid-19 was still a clear and present danger, though vaccination had begun. The exhausting certification of the presidential vote was ostensibly over, and yet, just a week before this new moon, open insurrection had come to the Capitol, and no one knew what awaited the nation at the Inauguration. But everyone knew or feared (and some, obviously, hoped) that the aftermath of the election was also, like the pandemic, far from over. So recognizing stamina as a need for the coming month is likely what was top of mind. What stands out to me now, however, is that to start 2021, I had chosen to restart regimented exercise. Work from home has many emotional benefits for me, but definitely reduced my physical activity. And I had a foot that was bothering me, and figured some regular movement of my molecules (as my mom liked to call it) would limber it up as well. But alas, I was wrong. I bought waterproof walking shoes and mustered all my energy towards the stamina I require to tolerate the winter wind and cold. And my foot got worse, not better. And I saw my doctor sometime that month. And thus began an almost year long journey to recuperate from a horrible case of plantar fasciitis (it's not completed resolved even today). With full awareness of my privilege for it to be so, the fact is that my foot pain ended up being a far greater challenge for me last year than CoVid. It was a bigger factor in the most of my decisions and because even driving made it ache, I was all the more grateful to be able to work from my couch. I chose stamina for other reasons, not knowing how critical it would become. Patience and stamina are related in some way. And patience could be my "one little word" every day.
February 11th: Focus
My ability to focus has always been top notch. Usually if I had been thinking about the word "focus" it would be about where to direct the attention - not how to be attentive, per se. I don't know what I was thinking on February 11th, but I do know that over the past couple of years, my natural proclivity to focus like a champ has faltered. My train of thought used to derail much less frequently. Avoiding jumping the track did not used to take such conscious effort. I don't like it. The pandemic has of course overloaded all of our synapses. Even those who perform well in crisis are likely to struggle with maintaining high-focus functioning day-to-day under heightened stress and especially unrelenting uncertainty about the future. So no doubt the slippage in my focus amid pandemic conditions is not unique. But, given that my life changed far less drastically compared to those who lost their jobs, or have young children, or had serious illness, CoVid or otherwise, within their families, I am skeptical that external stress accounts for all, or even most, of it. I don't know if I'd realized it in February, but I've come to believe that what is sending me sideways is not the changes in the world, but the changes in me. Specifically, my hormones. I've long known I get more weepy the week before my period along with a couple of other predictable aspects of my cycle. But predictable is the key word there. And, cycle. Every woman is aware that menopause can be less than pleasant. You hear about the hot flashes and weight gain, maybe learn about reduced libido, perhaps are warned about increased risk for some cancers. But perimenopause? Oh the information is out there, but it's a lot less discussed. Not every woman experiences every symptom of menopause, but every menstruating woman's period at some point stops (whether through surgical intervention or the aging process). Not every woman experiences perimenopause identically either, but also, lots of women don't realize that many "menopausal" symptoms start well before that fateful final period. Hormones are no joke. Whether one has too many, too few, or a change in the ratios of each. My brain, now further along the elastic-plastic continuum, is not taking the new formulary well, and was taking it even less well before I realized what was going on. Interestingly, I've come to learn that some of my post-menopausal friends describe perimenopause as akin to pregnancy, when we know hormones go through massive shifts. Never having been pregnant, I couldn't pick up those clues. But now that I know, you can bet I'm going to help normalize some conversation about the adventure. Because it's hard enough without thinking you must have had well- controlled ADHD your entire life that is inexplicably now running rampant.
March 13th: Hope
I got my second Pfizer-BioNTech injection on February 13th and my sisters were looking to get theirs before too long in March. So no doubt I was feeling hopeful as more and more people were getting vaccinated almost exactly a year from when the disaster began. Also, I had just seen my dermatologist the week before and he prescribed a new treatment for my psoriasis, which had been well-managed for three or so years but had moved on to the next stage of its progression (again - stress? perimenopause? coincidence?). I hadn't started the new medication yet, but he was confident it would be a success and I was excited to get relief. Also, my foot was getting no better just from staying off of it, and probably worse, and I had gone to Eliza for a massage intervention and started doing the stretches and icing it as she assigned me and bought a brace to wear at night and a pair of orthopedic slippers. I think that was a big part of my "hope." The season of lawn-mowing was looming and summer is when I get exercise much more naturally. I was intent upon not having that all disrupted by a bum appendage. Stamina is much easier to maintain with hope mixed in. And so I endeavored to embrace hope. Meteorological spring begins on March 1st. The earth was re-awakening. I was manifesting my own re-emergence as well.
April 12th: Diligent
This one I remember specifically being about my foot. It was unchanged. But plantar fasciitis gets better. That's what the interwebs and my doctor assured me. It's not forever. Stamina and hope had to be supplemented with diligence. It is painful to submerge one's foot into an ice bath. And leave it there for 10 minutes on, 10 minutes off, until you've iced it for half an hour. But I think I'd mowed my lawn once myself by then and the aftermath was unbearable. So I diligently tortured my inflammed fascia daily as prescribed. As I write this I am realizing that, though I already had recognized that my foot was central to the new moon words, I am a third of the way through the year, and it's ALL connected to my physical being. Covid, plantar fasciitis, perimenopause, psoriasis. I'm rather startled. I am stopping here for the night, but I suspect this theme is going to continue. And that is not at all what I expected when I started this reflection. Not beyond my foot, at least.
The day before this new moon, my sister, a friend, and I had visited a native perennial greenhouse and then walked in a nearby state nature preserve the horticulturist recommended. It wasn't good for my foot, but it was good for my spirit. Trees have no "brain." But nature is in every respect purposeful. Resplendently so. Though I don't remember if that is what nudged me towards choosing my word. Purposeful, for me, builds on "focus." If I give my brain some grace in its new struggle with focus staying power, that doesn't have to mean I'm surrendering to a mental free-for-all. I can shift my focus more frequently, if my brain insists. But wherever I land next, I can at least make it have a purpose. Not just a random scroll through Facebook, whether for funny memes or the latest (usually distressing) headlines. Which is not to say that mindless activity has
zero purpose. But for it not be mindless, I have to stay aware of what purpose it is serving. I don't dismiss social media as worthless - it has allowed me to maintain and re-establish relationships with people from my past and present. Even the "para-relationships" I have in groups where I'll never interact with the person other than about (for example) our asshole felines, can give me a genuine chuckle, or a sense of connectedness with a like-minded person. But that is the key: the awareness. the intention - the thoughtfulness about what I am getting (and giving) in the interaction. Likewise, all of my work is important, but priorities do exist. If I switch from one task to another, am I doing so with a sense of the purpose and considering the colleague or team or student or client that is a stakeholder in the endeavor? It's okay if I want it to be just a "break" from some other task. But then the parameters shift. I strive to be purposeful. As my old friend Henry D. Thoreau proclaimed, "I went to the woods to live deliberately." Another good word.
June 10th: Faith
It is 3 weeks past my first cortisone injection, and my foot felt great for 24 hours, but has regressed to the mean. This is not, says the sports podiatrist, to be unexpected. Keep icing, keep stretching, follow up on custom orthotics. Stamina can't wane. Hope must endure. A Bible verse, now ensconced in popular culture, talks of faith, hope, and love. I just now read the full chapter for context. It's a good one. But doesn't actually discuss how faith and hope differ. So why did I choose faith after having chosen hope three months earlier? (I don't think I remembered I had chosen hope for March, actually). I think hope is more generalized. You can have hope in a completely unorganized universe somehow still producing a wished for outcome. Faith, it seems to me, externalizes hope towards something/someone more concrete fulfilling that desire. Hope says it can happen. Faith says it will happen, and it will be because some power allows/causes it to. Was my faith in June directed towards my doctor or God? I'd love to say it was God. I'd love to believe God cares specifically to help my foot heal. But I think God's got bigger goals and my bum foot staying a bum foot might fit right in with them for all I know. But my doctor -- her education, experience, and goal is to make it better. And I decided to put faith in her assurances.
July 10th: Healing
The third week in June, I spent a delightful vacation with my sisters, one of my brothers and his family, and a friend, in a beach house on Oak Island, NC. I had it in my head that walking on the sand would somehow be therapeutic for my foot. I was wrong. I came home limping. A few days later I got a second cortisone injection. Unlike injecction #1, this one didn't give me even 24 hours relief. In fact, it hurt. Immediately and for a couple of days. Not unexpected, and no cause for concern, per the good doctor. Keep stretching. Keep icing. Get your orthotics (those things take a long time to get made), keep paying someone to mow your lawn (argh!). In the meantime, the treatment for the psoriasis was working its magic. Well, not magic. Magic is magic. Science is science, even if "results may vary." One up, one ... treading water. Oh, and masks were finally optional, if you'd done your civic duty to be vaccinated. And it's summertime. Sunshine alone heals my spirit, even if my corporeal being is not cooperating. I was healing. We were healing.
August 8th: Wealth
On July 21st, I finally got my custom orthotics. And they were free (that's what we tell ourselves for all the medical care we get after meeting our giant deductible for the year, yes?). By August 8th, I'd given them a few spins. I was rather impatient regarding the gradual adjustment protocol We generally are our own worst enemies. But the tide appeared to be turning. And I reflected on how much of my ability to roll with that tide was based on my wealth. Wealth, as I learned more fully in a grad school course I took in the College of Public Health, is not just about one's bank account or salary. It is the accumulated resources that are compounded within families, communities and nations across generations. The wealth to which I have access is preposterous, really. I don't recall what exactly made me choose wealth. But it is a word worth understanding and considering, humbly.
September 7th: Grateful and Curious
The September new moon fell sometime during the day on September 7th, my 50th birthday, but I actually burned my candle the night before. On September 5th, my sister lost her sense of taste and smell smack dab in the middle of my birthday celebration. She already had enough symptoms that my immuno-compromised friend had worn a mask during our time together. Knowing your baby sister has CoVid-19 is unsettling, no matter what. But she was fully vaccinated and I had confidence she would be okay, and that so would my other sister and I, should we end up testing positive too. The gratitude I feel for the scientists who sequenced the virus and developed the vaccines, and the public health apparatus that made it quickly available to us all, and the dumb luck that I was born in a country wealthy enough to make it all happen - that gratitude is big. Huge. September got two words though, because remaining curious (the midpoint of the mood elevator) about the world around me is a life goal. And if turning 50 isn't a time to reflect on one's life goals, when is? My relationship to aging is an example of the dialectical in action. So much about it I love. So much about it terrifies me. But staying curious helps temper fear, anger, even sadness. I often founder on the rocks of of exasperation (and judgment) that others will believe and do things that seem so self-evidently the wrong choice to me. But at least I can (try to) remind myself that being "puzzled, not pissed" can help to right my ship.
October 6th: Shhhh...
So my sister ended up okay, my other sister and I were not infected (one friend was, though it is not certain she got it from my party). My foot continued to gradually improve. A possible detached retina a week after my birthday ended up being just a tear of the vitreous. Delta was everywhere, but I was more or less chugging along. But sometime in late September I was looking at a website and saw a coffee mug with the words "Shhhh... No one cares" on it. No question it was meant to be used as a snarky message to anyone reading the cup, but that was not how I absorbed it. To me, it was looking in a mirror. For all my life I've identified as an introvert. And really I stand by that statement today. But to illustrate a point, once in my mid-20s, I, along with the other members of the band I used to be in, were being interviewed by a local reporter. In response to some question, I declared myself an introvert. When the article came out, the interviewer wrote, "Catherine describes herself as an introvert, but she's the most talkative introvert we've ever met." Do I need to explain further? I have opinions. And I know lots of words. And I can, and do, go on. And I'm lucky people are (generally) patient with me. So, naturally I ordered that cup and on October 5th, I posted a photo of me holding it. Some people came to my defense and assured me that
they care about what I say. But by and large what I got was a LOT of laughing emoji responses and comments like "this is awesome." As I said, I'm lucky people are patient with me. It's almost 3 months later and I'm still using this mantra. And my friend got me socks for Christmas with "Shhh" on one foot and "No one cares" on the other. She said they were in a subscription box - she didn't order them. The Universe is speaking.
November 4th: Listening
The Universe is speaking. Am I listening? That's the other half of "shhhh" of course. Achieving "shhhh" is only the first part of the process. Absence of speaking doesn't not guarantee presence of listening. There are, per some business consultant who probably got them from somewhere else, FIVE levels of listening. Not listening (not attentive at all), listening to tell your story (one up), listening for judgment (to argue), listening for application (necessary information only), and listening to understand. Listening for application and to understand are the two levels that intersect with being "curious." I'm trained as a therapist and any therapist who doesn't listen to understand is, well, not a therapist. But that doesn't mean we are universally listening to understand. So I could go from "Shhh ... no one care" to "Shhh ... listen." But, it's not as startling. I have to start with the Shhh still. And really, that includes with myself. Who hasn't gotten sick of their OWN _____ (fill in the blank: self-defeating, self-pitying, self-righteous, etc) talk on occasion. Who hasn't needed to find a place of "Shhhh" to really hear what we need to listen to within?
December 4th: Reflect
And so I arrived at the final new moon last month. Our decision of where the "year" begins and ends is arbitrary. But the cycle of nature is not. The seasons do repeat, even if not in an exactly identical or precisely predictable fashion. And I don't know if the unexamined life is not worth living for everyone, but an unexamined life is unthinkable for me. And I am an outlier in many ways, but I am conventional in keeping track of time. Amongst us three surviving sisters I am known for it - the keeper of birthdays and anniversaries not just of weddings but of meaningful occasions of all types. I put stock in my own "year" of birthday to birthday for reflection. And I'm much more attuned to the rhythm of the seasons the older I get. But I don't mind our collective embrace of auld lang syne and fresh starts. And so reflection, yes. But we don't do resolutions in my sisterhood. We do affirmations. We speak in manifestation of what we believe is and can be. I'm still trying to settle on a word for 2022. I've got a concept but can't wrestle down ONE word to encapsulate it. Ahead of me lie twelve new moons and twelve full moons, twelve perfect waxing and twelve perfect waning crescent moons (my favorite), four seasons, 365 potential sunsets (and sunrises should I determine to be a daybreak person), countless blossomings and bird songs and lightning bug flashes, and cuddles with my boon companion, and exquisite morsels of food, and conversations with my loves, and opportunities to make a difference in someone's life. Also awaiting me ahead are tears and clenched fists and words I'll wish I'd swallowed instead of spoken. Tempus will continue to fugit. And I'll be clinging to its coattails. Marveling at the ride.
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