Tell Me Your Story

She’d always hated the feel of sweat on her neck but Mississippi sweat was its own kind of beast, a slow, downward creeping that left a memory on her skin she would never fully shake off.  Walking into the Greyhound bus station, she was slightly amazed at how little she’d brought to sustain her in this next chapter of her life – a small suitcase, the old red-letter bible her grandmother had given her when she was seven, a carton of Marlboros, fifty dollars and a dread that would be her traveling companion from Jackson, MS to the mid-Atlantic. She was 19 years old in December of 1980, but she felt so much older, worn down and lost.

She barely had time to check in at the counter when it was time to board the bus.  One step was as far as she got before she looked back, seeing nothing in the early morning Mississippi haze but the taillights of the car that had left her there.  She took a quick peek at the side of the bus, barely noticing the logo of a racing dog stretched in full stride, having no idea the part that would play in her future. 

Stories.  We all have one.   The words of our lives.  The ripple that begins when we enter this world is created with the first word of the story of this lifetime.  What is your story?  Who knows it?  We all have a story and although we might think our story isn’t interesting or inspiring, trust me, it is. Every person is unique and important and every story is too.  Stories are life waiting to be shared.

As an adult, moving back in with one’s parents often doesn’t go well.  They didn’t want her there, that much was evident, so she got a job right away for no other reason than to avoid the feeling that she didn’t belong in their home.  They gave her a cot to sleep on in the hallway next to the washer and dryer.  It all became unmanageable and within a month she moved into an apartment with a woman from work.  She took the cot with her and that is where she laid at night, just far enough off the floor to avoid scurrying roaches, and allowed the darkness to come.  As the days went by, the darkness within her soul became more dense and she succumbed over and over to that which would temporarily erase her pain and make her numb. 

Our stories are remarkably important, not only because they are ours, but because they offer bits and pieces of wisdom to those with whom we share them.  Every story has lessons to offer, gems of insight that can awaken the senses of those who receive them, and countless feelings and sensations that bring other worlds into our own.

If you’ve ever wanted to know someone but they took their story to the grave with them, you know the ache of the loss of their story.  On the other hand, if you’ve been fortunate enough to come across a diary or journal, something that tells their story, you know the elation of getting to know them better even though they are gone.  Getting to know them is also getting to know you.

The years ahead had been kind and unkind, a mishmash of good, bad, ugly and amazing.  Relationships came and went, experiences either lifted her up or tore her down.  Living a nomad/gypsy like life, she flitted from here to there, never quite finding what she was looking for.  Substances that brought numbness and relief changed in quantity and type but the reasons she used them remained the same.  All the while, something stirred inside her, an unexplainable faith in something that felt just out of reach.

It doesn’t take much to tell your story other than a little time.  You don’t need a fancy computer or device to type on.  If you have pen and paper (or table napkin and pencil), you can tell your story.  If you don’t, tell it to someone, speak it out loud.  Give it life in words and tone.  Proper grammar and punctuation are optional.  Tell your story your way but please tell it because it matters.  There is something in every story that will inspire someone else. 

“I’m going to marry that guy someday,” she said to herself as she watched him from a distance and eventually that is exactly what happened.  Feeling ready to settle down surprised her but this was meant to be and they both knew it, obstacles and all.  An unfortunate medical condition in her early 30s removed all chances of having children but they had each other and that was enough.

Her first real home offered the opportunity to adopt a retired racing greyhound and that set in motion a 30 plus year odyssey of love with a breed that amazed her in how they overcame the baggage they brought with them from the race track.  She often thought of the bus that carried her north and how it foretold what would be a very special part of her life.

In many ways, the next phase of her life became a book all its own, one of settling down and settling in, getting comfortable enough for all the demons in her soul to surface and demand attention.  They would not be denied.

There is a quote that says something to the effect that in the telling of the story of the mountains you climbed, your words become pages in someone else’s survival guide.  Telling your story can heal you and help heal others.  Iyanla Vanzant is quoted as saying, “When you tell your story, you give other people permission to acknowledge their own story.”  One story can change and heal the lives of many people.

Life continued as life does, both exciting and mundane.  Mistakes were made and good decisions as well.  Relationships were repaired and a few destroyed.  Birthdays accumulated as did gray hair and wrinkles.  Chronic pain joined the family and changed everything.  There were blessings and complete busts.  It was a life where one moment blended into another like words on a page.  It was a story being written in real time.

Telling your story isn’t necessarily easy.  It all depends on how much you want to divulge, how deep you want to go and how you feel about so many others knowing so much about you.  But that’s the point isn’t it?  To tell your story is to fill in the empty spaces created by words left unsaid.  Telling our stories fills in the blanks in our lives and the lives of others.

Inside the lines of her story, she lost herself in her own darkness and found herself within her own light, and vice versa.  At times she was met with love, sometimes distain, curiosity or disbelief.  She was surrounded by vibrant people and visited by the dead.  She was normal and not-so-much.  Entangled in her story were a series of unexplainable graces that gifted her the ability to easily give up decades-long drug and alcohol use that kept her numb and to dump the cigarettes she’d been smoking for almost 30 years without a single craving or desire to let either back in.  Miracles as far as she was concerned.

Outside the lines she discovered that love was enough, until it wasn’t.  Trust mattered, honestly was vital and yet sometimes crossing the line was easier than crossing the street.  She learned that her story was not just hers but became part of the stories of everyone she ever came in contact with. 

History books are filled with information and no shortage of details but not much in the way of stories within the events themselves.  We might read about war, but we are not told of the utter emotional devastation it caused or how it felt to try and rebuild one’s life afterwards.  The people who lived these stories have to be the ones to tell them. Somewhere within their stories we find a connection to our own.  History is really her-story, his-story, our story.  Without our stories, there is no history.

It sometimes catches her off guard how quickly time has gone by.  So much happened in those years since the long bus ride from Mississippi landed her in Baltimore.  She is blessed and she knows it.  She is haunted too but at least now she better understands why.

As she concludes her 62^nd year, she is keenly aware of the changing of seasons, her seasons.  The days are shorter and go by faster.  She and her beloved of 32 years ponder time and talk of retirement.  Her story is forever entangled with his and yet her story is her own.  What remains of her days are chapters yet to be written and the lifetimes to come are the sequel.

There is not one life ever lived that does not have a story worth telling.  These stories are the roadmap of the world, waiting to be told.  The earth has been telling her story since she came into being and our stories are bonded with hers, co-creating a library of lifetimes.  Together we are the book of life, the never-ending story.

“She held her whole life up to the light and it struck her how beautiful it was, even with the threads of dark woven through it and if she cried easily after that, it was only because she understood at last, this is what she is making with the life she has.” (unknown)

© Terri Onorato 2023.  All Rights Reserved.

Shift Happens

What happens when a shift occurs?  Something moves, adjusts itself, pushes and pulls until it settles into a new spot.  Seemingly at odds with itself, the shift is sometimes nearly imperceptible, yet like a runaway train it infiltrates our life and we have no control over it whatsoever.  What do we do?  We learn to adjust. But first we reach out.

What happens when a shift occurs?  Sometimes we feel the change coming, slow and ghost-like, the repercussions of it on the periphery, waiting, and we have no idea what the sensation is trying to tell us.  Once the tugging, twitching, and tweaking are complete, painful as they may have been, hindsight kicks in and we have our aha moment and see the shift for what it is.  Then what?  We have to adjust. If we don’t adjust, we can’t take the next step, or the next.

What happens when a shift occurs?  Here we are, moving at the speed of life when out of nowhere tragedy strikes a horrible blow, its shockwaves causing the ground upon which we stand to quake with fury, buckling the road we were so obliviously cruising on, forcing a seismic shift of the most painful proportions…and we are blindsided. We don’t see it coming so we hold on to whatever feels stable long enough to survive the onslaught.  Eventually, when the broken foundation beneath us finally goes still, we assess the damage and see where the shift occurred.  We strike a deal with ourselves and ask for help. This could be our only saving grace, our road to adjusting to the new landscape left behind by the shift.

What happens when a shift occurs?  Our options, it would seem, are few.  We can (and sometimes do) fall apart.  We lose our shit and we crumble, which is perfectly acceptable when horrible things happen.  But this is not where we want to hang our hat and spend the rest of our lives.  The Shit and Crumble Hotel is okay for a visit but we aren’t meant to move in permanently.  It’s cold, it’s lonely and it doesn’t offer continental breakfast.  We can’t adjust here, not honestly anyway.

Then there is the often used but rarely successful option to brush off the dust and march forward with no willingness to look at the shift at all because we are too hell bent on trying to “get back to normal.”  It takes a while but at some point we come to see that the only normal now existing is the one the shift created.  We begrudgingly admit this is doable even though it isn’t what we expected so we launch adjustment mode and hope for the best.

Then there is the choice that makes the most sense but is the hardest to do and that is simply sitting down and taking it all in, evaluating the shift, what it means and how it pertains to life as we now see it.  Take the time to feel all the feels and grieve for life as it was before the shift sent it into orbit.  This option allows the shift to move us in the direction we need to go, and once we get our bearings, well, you know.  We adjust. Wash, rinse, repeat.

This isn’t giving up or giving in, it’s change.

When we were young no one warned us that shift happens all.the.freaking.time.  The tectonic plates of our existence are forever in motion, sometimes moving towards each other and sometimes away.  When the stress in our lives overcomes our ability to cope, there is friction and the next thing we know we are up shifts creek without a paddle.  Or munchies.  This is when we need to find it within ourselves to reach out.

My reaching out ability is abysmal.  I think it’s because I don’t know what I really want when my personal tectonic plates are in full shift mode.  On the outside looking in, oftentimes a shift looks more like an unholy mess that needs fixing, but it’s not.  I feel that most of us don’t want anyone to “fix” our shift, we don’t need our shiny new shift-ness to be mended, repaired, nailed or duct taped.  What so many of us want, what we need, is someone to sit in the middle of our shift and tell us, “Yes, this really does suck and I will sit here with you in all the suckage until you are okay.”  And maybe they will bring us soup.

Sometimes we need help, other times we need to be the help.  There are no steadfast rules on how to handle either one except to be kind.  We need to be kind to ourselves when the shift hits the fan and love ourselves enough to reach out, no matter how hard it is.  There is also the kindness that follows when we are asked for help.  This kindness is born not from wanting to fix, but to sit in companionship, and if necessary slurp soup, until the person and their shift have decided on the details of a peace treaty.

(Side bar:  if we can’t help, that’s okay, we all have our shift to deal with, but at least don’t cause hurt.  Maybe find a way to help the person needing help to find help for their shift.  Got that?)

Shift happens.  (Personally, I think this should be a required class in middle school, the age of total chaos and confusion in kids, so maybe they won’t feel so bat-shift out of sorts and will seek help.) 

It’s no big secret that change is inevitable, sometimes it hurts and if nothing else it’s confusing but regardless, the shifts of life require one thing above all else and that is to adjust.  We can do this at our own pace and on our own terms but adjust we must.  Shift is going to happen with or without our permission but we don’t have to go it alone.  We can reach out, take a hand and let someone help us with our shift. 

© Terri Onorato 2023.  All Rights Reserved.

Resist and Release

Just recently I closed my pet grief website of 27 years.  It was a huge part of my life, beginning after the loss of Misty Blue, the first retired racing greyhound my husband and I adopted when we got married.  Her death opened an unexpected door for me and the website was born.

I expected to feel a great deal of pain in closing the site, it had come to mean so much to so many, but I didn’t.  I think it’s because I’d started the process of letting go months before.  Two years ago I’d planned to close the site but a combination of feeling pressured to continue and not being quite ready to let go stopped me. This time, I gave myself a pre-mourning opportunity that helped a great deal.  Instead of feeling bad about the site closure, I find myself feeling gratitude for all that it meant, all those it helped and how the experience changed and enriched my life.

I’ve always had a hard time letting go, whether it’s people, places, ideas, or things. My mother once told me that I held on to my belief in Santa Claus (as well as the Easter bunny and tooth fairy) far longer than most kids. I’m pretty sure I quit believing in a literal sense at an earlier age but I held on because there was magic in these unseeable friends of mine, and I wanted to feel that magic for long as possible.

I’ve done this with people too, gotten wrapped up in their magic, and then when things went sour, struggled to let go.  I thought maybe, if I waited long enough, the magic would return but that was never the case.

It’s funny how things change because now that I’m older I’m in the process of trying to let go of a lot of things.  We want to retire and downsize, and this requires letting go.  Much to my surprise, letting go of material things has turned out to be much harder than I expected.  I am rather taken aback at my own reaction to letting go of stuff, even the stuff that has no sentimental value. 

It’s not easy, this business of letting go.  It has to be done with compassion otherwise it becomes a sense of inner tension.  The soul knows when it’s time to let go and it will prompt us to this knowing. 

Friend and author Peg Morse Conway, who wrote the beautiful and poignant must-read book The Art of Reassembly: A Memoir of Early Mother Loss and Aftergrief, helped me understand more of what letting go entails in a recent workshop.  “Clearing out a closet or a home can feel overwhelming. Whether you’re dealing with childhood treasures, ancestral heirlooms, or ordinary household items, the real dilemma at the heart of the process is: “How do I know what to keep and what to move along?  This question is deeper than it appears and requires more thoughtful discernment than mere decluttering.”  I couldn’t agree more, in both letting go of material things and that which I hold on tightly too within myself.  (More information on Peg’s next workshop can be found at https://www.pegconway.com/event-making-space-rituals-of-releasing-stuff/ .)

Getting older in and of itself requires letting go too, while at the same time looking forward, which is a delicate balancing act.  I do not equate letting go with giving up.  Letting go is partly a dismantling of the life I have which allows space to open for what’s to come.  Nothing new can come in if there is too much of what I don’t need taking up space.

For me, one of the most surprising discoveries in letting go is how I breathe a bit more freely when not surrounded by the stuff (or situations, expectations etc.) that I don’t need.  Don’t be fooled!  I’ve not thrown away all my possessions (far from it), nor dumped all my people (noooooo) but as I attempt to disengage from the material things I no longer need, loosen my grip on this home I will be leaving, and face my feelings about it all, I’m beginning to feel a little less encumbered. 

I once saw a plaque that said life is a balance of holding on and letting go and it seems to me this is true.  Life is full of surprises, and we never know when a surprise will need a place to land.  I want to make sure I have space for the surprises to come.

(c) Terri Onorato 2023. All Rights Reserved.

My 2022 Year In Review

2022 Year in Review

As I approach my 62^nd year, I am thinking of things I’ve learned over the past 365 days.  It’s what we do, right?  We reflect.  So, what has touched my soul?  What has hurt my heart?  What lessons have brought me closer to being my authentic self?  (And for the love of all that’s holy, how do I change the notification sounds on my phone?)

My soul has been touched by what felt like the near loss of it. A dark night of the soul as it’s often called, has helped me appreciate those tender gifts of mercy and grace when I’m given a glimpse of the depth of faith that I carry within. My faith has sustained me practically my entire life. It does not fall inside party lines, religious lines, or any other lines. It is a conglomeration of so many facets of Mother and Father, Son and Magdalene and columns of saints galore.  It encompasses the earth and her many creatures.  My faith embraces friendships, relationships, and hardships. It is everything all the time.

This faith is my own, it sustains me and I grow from it every day.  It doesn’t matter if anyone else approves, it works for my soul.  My heart and soul are devoted to the most divine force and all that branches out from it.  I have a devotion to the Blessed Mother and Mary Magdalene.  I am a firm believer that the dead are ready and willing to walk this road of life with us if we would only pay attention.

My heart has been hurt by the reluctant acceptance that I am too much for some, and not enough for others.  I am keenly sensitive and have the ability to tap into what others feel and it is not always welcome.  I know things that I don’t know how I know, and for some people it’s too much.  I have a chronic condition that prevents me from doing many things and for some people, that’s not enough. 

I discovered that my people-pleasing-problem stems, in part, from trying to be enough for some and less than enough for others. It’s a futile effort, I tell you, and a waste of time.  I can’t be authentic if I’m altering parts of myself to suit anyone else.  This is a lesson in progress.

I am beginning to feel the shift of growing older.  What do I want to keep and what do I want to relinquish?  What matters most?

I long ago learned that in certain things, I am consistently inconsistent.  In case you haven’t noticed, my blog entries alone are proof of that. 

Oh, as for those pesky notification sounds, I actually did figure them out and now I have Guns N’ Roses filling the airwaves whenever I get a phone call.  Welcome to the jungle baby…

One of the things I want to do this coming year is participate more in my own blog.  Seems simple but for some reason, it easily slips my mind.  A beautiful friend gifted me a lovely journal that I’m going to use to help me stay focused and also give me room to remember to jot down what I would otherwise forget I want to talk about.  (Did you get all that?)

Everyone has something to share, bits and nuggets of wisdom, humor and reflection.  Perhaps I will go on a sort of wisdom scavenger hunt, not only within but “out there” too, and see what I can bring back here.

Stay tuned.

May the upcoming year be one that nourishes us all.

The Stuff of Crones

The Stuff of Crones and Life (by Terri Onorato)

If I could shoot through a portal and meet all my future crone incarnations and crone friends, there are things I’d want to share.  For instance:

~ Crones are worth listening to.  They know stuff.  Crone stuff and life stuff.  (It’s all very technical.)

~ If someone calls you a crone, thinking they are insulting you, plant a knowing smile on your face and say “thank you.”  (You can include the word “asshole” with your thank you but it’s not recommended.)  Crone is not an insult.  A crone is an archetypal figure if you will, a wise woman.  With intuition, experience and history as her guide, a crone finds her way back to the Earth Mother and as she ages, she finds she cares less about the things that once seemed so important. 

What else do crones know?

~ That anyone who seems to have all the answers usually has very few.

~ Not all who lead are leaders.

~ Not all who follow are followers.

~ If something smells fishy, it’s either an actual fish or something is off.  Trust your gut.  You’re a crone, you’ve been around a while and so has your gut.  It knows things too.

~ Milk supports strong bones.  Forgiveness does the same, spiritual and emotional bones, that is.  Forgiveness does not make you weak, it is grace offered to those who, many times, deserve it least.  

~ Sometimes you simply must go against the status quo.

~ The status quo is highly overrated.

~ You do not have gray hairs, they are silvery highlights of wisdom.

~ Find your faith and be faithful to it.  Nurture it, give it your full attention and integrate it into every corner of your life.  When you need it, it will be there.

~ Do not allow yourself to feel obligated to everything that presents itself to you.  You have earned the right to say, “hell to the no.”

~ Do no harm.  Unless someone takes your coffee (or tea or spirited adult beverage) because that is unacceptable.

~ Be authentic.  Even if it pisses people off.

~ If you absolutely have to fake it, be as authentically fake as possible.  It’s a bit complicated but not rocket science complicated so don’t worry.

~ Share your crone wisdom, even with those who may not be interested.  Especially those not interested.  A good crone knows how to annoy people and leave them a bit wiser for it.

~ Ornery crones are the best kind of crones so be on alert for ornery crones.  That is, unless you ARE an ornery crone and then, by all means, carry on my wayward crone.

~ Avoid using the word crone too many times in one sentence.  Unless someone in a blog post tell you that you shouldn’t.  Screw them, you don’t need that kind of negativity in your life. 

~ You can most assuredly go out kicking and screaming, but it’s better to go out with an air of mystery and a bit of a smirk on your face.  Those left behind will be left forever guessing what you were up to.

~ More than anything else, hold your head high and be the best crone you can be.

(c) Terri Onorato. All Rights Reserved.