Everything that you love you will eventually lose, but in the end, love will return in a different form. Franz Kafka
This quote comes from a beautiful story of Franz Kafka and The Doll. CLICK HERE to read it.
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Category Archives: Inspirational Quotes
The Wisdom of Anne Lamott
I am a huge fan of Anne Lamott. (If you’ve never heard of her, you can link to her inspiring TEDtalk here.)
When I think of that imaginary dinner party I would love to host, with some of the most amazing people sitting at my table, she is up there at the top of the list.
I love her humour, her wisdom and her grace, and it was that wisdom that helped me through some of the worst times following my divorce. Continue reading
Aging
Photo by Yogendra Singh from Pexels
My mother always warned me that the very worst time in your life to lose weight was when you were in your ‘mature’ years, as your skin – particularly on your face – never bounces back the way it does when you’re young.
And she was right.
A few years ago, I lost a (ahem) substantial amount of weight! The health benefits were amazing, but… I discovered that my mother’s caution was bang on. Proud of my weight loss (it took a lot of hard work!) and the fact I was now healthier than I was ten years ago, I jokingly posted on Facebook that, while it was great that, in profile, my boobs now stick out (marginally) more than my belly, it was a shame about my sagging jowls.
It was as simple as that. A joke!
But some of the responses startled me, because it occurred to me that my friends thought I was either a) trying to fish for compliments , or b) terribly insecure, because they all responded by assuring me that I looked great/beautiful/whatever.
I’m pretty realistic about my looks. Even when I was young I would never have won a beauty competition, but I’m okay. I look fine. Sometimes I can even look pretty great. Sure I could do without some of the sagging and lines, but I’m sixty-five now. Every single line has been hard won and I’m particularly proud of the fact that the smile lines around my eyes far outnumber my frown lines.
But should my external be what really matters? To the world?
To me?
Sitting back and thinking about some of those comments, I realised that I am blessed every single morning I look at my face in the mirror, because I see my mum and dad reflected back at me in my own features. They were good – good – people, offering me a childhood filled with love and security and values. What a wonderful daily reminder of those gifts they gave me.
Since then – and particularly since my divorce – I have been blessed with so many other gifts.
The love of friends and family.
My health.
Reasonable financial security.
I live in a safe, beautiful city in what was recently declared the second most wonderful country in the world.
Passions in my life including hanging out with friends and family, travel, storytelling of all kinds (watching movies, reading books and writing), learning, cycling, walking, cooking, my home, photography, working on this blog, listening to and playing music.
So, in the realm of things, how much should our looks – or our perceptions of our physical selves – matter? Sadly in this day and age of social media, selfies and photoshopped images on magazines and billboards, it’s hard not to compare our outward appearance with those of others.
I read something the other day – can’t remember the exact quote – but it was something along the lines of, “A beautiful woman loses her currency with every day that passes.”
But I look at my list above, and with every day that passes, I realise I am getting richer. My life-just-keeps-getting- better.
I know we all pay lip service to the idea that ‘looks aren’t everything’, but sometimes we need to step back and really acknowledge, deep down in our souls, that all the other stuff that has nothing to do with they way we look – the real stuff in life – is what truly matters, and be very, very grateful for it. And if we have our health, we are doubly blessed.
The Power of Words
Photo by picjumbo.com from Pexels
I have loved books and reading since that first Janet and John book in Primary 1. When I was a child, my mum joked I had square eyes because my nose was always buried in a story. (Enid Blyton’s The Famous Five was my favourite!) Until a few years ago, I always had several books on the go; one by my bed, one in the bathroom, one in the kitchen and one in my bag.
And then my husband left me and I could no longer concentrate on the printed page. I tried to, but would find myself reading the same paragraph over and over again, the words refusing to connect with my brain, so I walked away from one of the passions of my life.
Until the last couple of years. Continue reading
Ghosted – Dating after 60.
A while back, I wrote about going out on my first date in over 40 years! The first date went well, I thought, as did the following two.
And then he ghosted me.
It was the beginning of Covid and he hadn’t been feeling well, so I texted him to make sure he was okay. No response. I gave it a couple of days, then texted him again. Still, no response. So I checked out his FB page. He’d added several posts in the days since I’d seen him.
I didn’t send a third text. I’d got the message – loud and clear.
It wasn’t a great feeling. I’d been so nervous about getting back into the ‘dating scene’ anyway, fearing even a small rejection after my husband’s massive one.
And here it was.
What was I going to do about it?
After my husband left me, I vowed – vowed – I would never ever risk having my heart broken again. I wasn’t going to even consider letting a man into my life again.
Maybe that had been the wisest decision? Maybe I should just stick with my original plan. After all, Covid had put paid to social gatherings, and my life is good. I have friends. I am busy. Until the pandemic, I was travelling. A lot.
And yet…
Despite everything, those three dates had been fun.
I’m reading the book Everyone Brave is Forgotten by Chris Cleave. It’s set in the UK during WW2 and I came across this line. “There are two kinds of dinner and two kinds of women. There is only one combination out of four where both will be rotten.’
So maybe – maybe – when Covid is all over, I should replace the word ‘women’ in the above line with ‘men’.
A 75% chance of having a nice evening out – with no expectation of the relationship going any farther – is pretty good odds, don’t you think?
We will see.
The Power of Poetry
I don’t know about you, but I have a love/hate relationship with poetry. I hated it when I was at school, dabbled a bit in writing angst written lines when I was a teenager, then once I got married and ‘real life’ took over, it fell off my radar for years.
Decades.
Until a few weeks ago when a writer friend of mine suggested we each write a poem. I had no idea where to start, so she suggested we take a line from one of her favourites – Love After Love by Derek Walcott – and make that our beginning. Continue reading
You might enjoy this.
This is a wonderful monologue by the fabulous actress Lesley Manville. In it she voices a lot of emotions most women whose husbands have walked on a long-standing marriage might recognise. She does them with pain, humour and hope.
Enjoy – and if you can donate, please do.
Mother’s Day
Mother’s Day is almost over here in Canada and I find myself, this evening sitting here, reflecting on the lessons my mother taught me.
I look back on my childhood and think of the magical moments we shared; of Mum waking me at dawn on May Day to wash my face in the dew; of her standing behind me as we waved my brother off to work in the shipyards, the windows rattling in the wind, the rain pouring down; of her driving me down to the baker’s on Dumbarton Road to get rolls for breakfast; of standing on her toes as she danced me around the kitchen floor; of standing by the window on a Scottish island and gazing out at the full moon; of watching the deer gathering on the hills at dusk.
My mother taught me about the magic in life.
She also taught me about the hard, cold realities.
Mum was widowed at sixty-three, and lived twenty-two years more on her own before she died. Neither of us realised it at the time, but in those twenty-two years, she taught me how to survive the years after my husband abandoned me.
You get on with things. Yes, you cry and rage and grieve, but you get up and get on with things. You carve out a life for yourself that is yours.
Yours.
Mum, you were and are the strongest woman I ever met. You lived through World War Two, bringing up a child, my brother, never knowing if Dad would make it home alive. And you did it. You thrived. You were the heart and soul of our family. Dad might have provided the home and support and money in our lives, but you gave us the support and love. It was you who made sure our clothes were warm when we ventured out on those cold frosty mornings to school. It was you who provided those ‘picnic’ lunches that i loved so much.
It was you who, after Dad died, walked that beach, sobbing your heart out, but found that inner strength to survive.
It was you who, at seventy-six – yes, seventy six! – years of age applied for your first job in more than fifty years – and got it, driving a jag around London. (And got two proposals of marriage in the process – which you turned down.)
Oh Mum, you were amazing. You didn’t think you were… but you were. You are – and always will be – the heroine, and inspiration, of my life.
I love – and miss you – Mum. Every day of my life.
How’s it going?
This Saturday, April 25th, 2020, it will be exactly 5 years since that horrendous Saturday morning, April 25th 2015, when my husband came downstairs as I was making his breakfast and announced our marriage was over.
Five years.
Five years.
I thought I was over it.
And then, this weekend something happened which brought me (temporarily) back to my knees.
I had hoped a good night’s sleep would help me put things in perspective, but it didn’t. So when I got up this morning, I wrote about it in my Morning Pages, hoping that would exorcise it… but all I did was stain the pages with tears. Continue reading
The boy, the mole, the fox and the horse
I came upon a review of this book in The Guardian at the weekend. It looked lovely, so I thought I would pick up a couple of copies for my grandchildren. However, when I went to the bookstore, they had only one copy left. So I bought it… and I’m going to keep it for myself. I will buy other copies for my grandkids, but this one is mine.
It’s the kind of book that takes five minutes – or a lifetime – to read. In many ways it’s reminiscent of Winnie-the Pooh, both in terms of the illustrations, wisdom and the fact that it’s a book about friendship. By the end of it, I was in tears. Some of the conversations between the animals are so profound. One, in particular, given the fact that my heart – and I imagine yours too – has been broken, really struck me.
“What do we do when our hearts hurt?” asked the boy.
“We wrap them with friendship, shared tears and time, till they wake hopeful and happy again.”
Isn’t that so true. It’s one of the most profound lessons I learned after my husband left me. I will be forever grateful for the friends who gathered around me, who allowed me to talk and cry. And it’s also true about time. Time does heal all wounds. There may be a scar left, but the wound heals and the pain is gone.
Or how about…
“Asking for help isn’t giving up,” said the horse. “It’s refusing to give up.”
The boy, the mole, the fox and the horse by Charlie Mackesy is the perfect book for any occasion – happy or sad.
If you’d like to find out more about the artist, check out his Twitter account.
And buy the book.
Please, if your heart is hurting – or even if it’s not – buy the book.
thegreydivorcee 