Love in All Seasons

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“Farewell to thee! but not farewell
To all my fondest thoughts of thee:
Within my heart they still shall dwell;
And they shall cheer and comfort me.”

—Anne Brontë

One morning, a couple of years ago, as I accompanied my dog on his first walk of the day along a well-worn trail through the woods near my home, I was surprised by something I had not noticed before. I saw a path, intentionally bordered on either side by clean barkless branches, which led away from the beaten track over dead leaves, broken sticks, and brown ferns shriveled by frost.

 It was the height of tick season in Maine, so I hesitated to step into the underbrush, trailing my dog on his lead, but my eyes followed the branch borders of the path deeper into the woods.  There, on a stick wedged between two conjoined tree trunks, something brown and out of place dangled.  I couldn’t believe my eyes, so I had to get closer to be sure. 

Taking a deep breath and hoping no deer ticks would crawl up my legs or bury themselves in my dog’s curious muzzle, I stepped onto the path and gingerly picked my way about twenty paces into the woods.  My eyes had not deceived me.  A sturdy pair of men’s walking shoes hung by their laces, artfully draped over the stick. What could this mean?  Who would leave their shoes behind in the woods?  These lace-ups still had a lot of life in them.

Something prevented me from touching them—some intuition that this was a holy place.  I took a picture of them, and retraced my steps, my dog tugging me back to our usual route. However, the image of the shoes stayed with me for the rest of our morning walk, and the place where they hung became the destination for frequent pilgrimages in days to come.

After several visits, I began to suspect that these were my neighbor Simon’s shoes, and that they had been lovingly arranged in the woods where he frequently walked, his camera dangling from his neck.  Simon had died several months before, and I surmised that his widow deposited the shoes in a setting he loved near their home, where she could visit them often to commune with her husband.  I took the risk of asking her if I had guessed correctly, and she, blushing but shyly pleased that someone else had discovered her memorial, confirmed it. 

Over the last couple of years, my pup and I have visited Simon’s shoes countless times.  Cynthia, Simon’s wife, adds bits of flora to mark the seasons—sometimes delicate wildflowers in spring, ferns in summer, red, yellow, and golden leaves in fall, and, of course, winter provides its own decoration. Each time I set out on my pilgrimage, I look forward to discovering these simple but artful adornments.

All I know of Simon are these shoes and the few memories of her beloved husband that Cynthia has shared with me. By the time the couple moved into my neighborhood, he had already begun to decline.  I would pass him on my afternoon walks and receive a silent smile in response to my cheerful hello.  He was, by then, not much of a conversationalist, especially with strangers.  His soft-spoken words were sparing, but the few I heard were direct and gentle. 

I marveled that the memorial shoes were in such good shape.  According to his wife, Simon had worn them on hikes all over Europe and America.  Once, on a walking trip in Ireland, amid a powerful wind and rainstorm, he and Cynthia took refuge in a farmhouse along their way.  The family welcomed them to warm up and dry off at the hearth. So, Simon propped his feet in front of the open fire, scorching the soles of his shoes before he realized what was happening. Thrifty as he was, he saw no reason to replace the singed footwear. Like his shoes, Simon was humble, loyal, and resilient.

Simon’s memorial shoes, their constancy, adaptation, and beauty in every season, have become an icon for me.  A symbol for the humility that embraces and accepts what is, even when the reality is absence. Gradually, these old shoes will succumb to the elements and disintegrate, but not before they have taught many passersby a profound lesson.  We continue after death, transformed surely, but ultimately, reunited with the elements that made us, enlivened us, warmed us, fed us, cleansed us, and sheltered us. Finally, we come home.

Simon and Cynthia are not the real names of my neighbors.

Ageism-A Word for the Wise

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Old people and children are two of the most vulnerable groups in American society.  Non-whites, the poor, immigrants, LGBTQ+ persons, the disabled, and women are also exceptionally vulnerable. 

While those of us old folks who can afford to live in retirement communities recognize that we are privileged, if we are realistic, we also acknowledge our vulnerability. Though we may not have thought about it in these terms, vulnerability is the very reason we are here, willingly or not. Perhaps, as in my case, physical limitations and loss of energy made it difficult to maintain or live safely in a single-family dwelling. After the loss of a partner or the deaths of many friends of a similar age, social isolation may become a problem. Many are overwhelmed by exhaustion from caring for a spouse who is ill or dying, and they can no longer carry that burden alone. Some struggle with the subtle shift from taking care of their children to needing support and care from them, and they move to a retirement community to make their lives and the children’s more manageable and less stressful.

Some of us feel more vulnerable than others. Some of us may be in complete denial about our vulnerability. 

The elderly are often considered childlike and are treated like children.  Like children, we may have, or may believe we have, little ability to defend ourselves, and so others can easily exploit or take advantage of us.  We are often considered less intelligent than those in the prime of life due to the stereotype of decreasing cognitive abilities, and therefore, are popular targets for scams and theft. If we are retired, we are regarded as unproductive and, therefore, are considered less valuable to society. In a zero-sum culture, we are viewed as a drain on scarce resources. Of course, these negative views of old people may be mitigated somewhat if we are financially secure, famous, have a long list of accomplishments, or have very accomplished grandchildren!

 The above-listed common attitudes toward old people constitute ageism—discrimination against older people because of negative and inaccurate stereotypes. They lump all older people into a homogeneous category, ignoring the wide variety of strengths and weaknesses of seniors.

Still, whether we admit it or not, the older we get, the more defenseless we become.  We may be able to delay some forms of weakness or decline by eating well, exercising, staying mentally and socially active, or by exerting our formidable power of denial. Still, we ultimately succumb to our powerlessness as we look death in the face.

Most of us succumb to our limitations before then, though.  We appreciate the support we pay for when we move to a retirement community.  Most likely, we moved there expecting life to become easier as the services we have been promised, for the hefty fees, are delivered.  We take it for granted that we will be respected. After all, we’ve worked hard, been esteemed for our achievements, planned carefully, made difficult decisions, and gained some wisdom.  We don’t expect to give up agency in our lives. We assume that an institution ostensibly created to foster graceful aging and funded by the savings of old people will understand and accommodate the needs of the aged in all their variety, subtlety, and complexity. Or we don’t think about this at all. Retirement communities, especially those marketed as independent or active living, may be the last places we expect to find ageism.

However, retirement communities are often owned and managed by those who have not yet faced the vulnerability of aging in their own lives.  The law of averages predicts that some will be run by people motivated by greed, hunger for power, personal and professional insecurity, inexperience, grudges, ignorance, and prejudice. Those who oversee retirement communities are sometimes completely unaware of their ageist attitudes, the subtle and not-so-subtle ways in which they disrespect and take advantage of the elderly.

So, a word of caution to the old and the not-so-old.  First, old folks, don’t be naïve.  Keep your eyes and ears open, assume nothing, and continue to exercise your critical thinking. Don’t take it for granted that your increasing limitations render you powerless. Be on the lookout for ageism in the healthcare system, end-of-life support networks, home care agencies, advocacy groups, and even in the place you call home, such as your retirement community or senior housing complex.  And when you identify it, don’t hesitate to call it what it is and to support one another in resisting it.

Also, be on the lookout for ageist attitudes in and among yourselves.  Statements like “I’m having a senior moment” may seem harmless and may ease an embarrassing situation, but they contribute to the incorrect characterization of all seniors as forgetful and incompetent. Some of us use the mythic forgetfulness of old age as an excuse for our lifelong laziness and carelessness in remembering names. I could be one of those!

Finally, those of you who are not yet old.  Surprise!  You will be one day!  You, too, will be limited and vulnerable.  You will require some degree of support, however minimal. If you foster a culture of disrespect for the elderly now, you will be a victim of that culture yourself one day.  Crass as it may sound, what goes around really does come around. 

Moriah participates in Book Fairs this Summer

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I will be participating in two local book fairs in August 2025, offering for sale my three publications: The Blue Room, a novel; You Can’t Get Blood from a Turnip, a collection of poetry; and I’ve Got Your Back, non-fiction.

The first event, 2nd Friday, Brunswick, is scheduled for August 8 from 4:00 to 7:00 p.m. in downtown Brunswick, located on Pleasant Street.

My friend and fellow writer, Nancy Collins, who has recently published a memoir entitled The Perfectly Imperfect Potter, will join me for this event. We’ll sell our books, visit with shoppers and other vendors, and enjoy the culture of Brunswick. Please plan to stop by as you explore the offerings by local artists, writers, musicians, and actors.

The second event is scheduled for August 23 at the Maine Book Festival, held at the Thomaston Public Library in Thomaston, Maine.

Please join me and other Maine authors, and share this with your friends!

Tea Bag Wisdom – Self Respect

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I drink Yogi Tea every morning, first thing, right after I feed the animals and take the dog out for his first sniff and tinkle of the day. Just after I ring my meditation bell, turn on three tea lights in front of my Buddha statue, and sink into my seat on the couch, facing the window overlooking our garden. I take a sip of Yogi tea, a deep breath, set my timer for twenty minutes, and come home to myself.

The other morning, as the cats were chowing down and my electric kettle was bubbling, I opened a new tea pouch and pulled out a fresh bag of ginger tea. As I unwound the paper tag attached to the bag by a thin thread, I was astounded to see this message: “The purpose of life is to know yourself, love yourself, trust yourself, and be yourself.”

I’m fond of the word ‘gobsmacked,’ which is British slang for being astonished. I was gobsmacked that the universe had sent me such a message, first thing on a July morning in the politically, socially, and personally turbulent summer of 2025. Right away, I knew it was a message that needed some unpacking, so I settled into my meditation posture—the dog tight to my left thigh, the Maine Coon cat spread across my lap. The black and white cat was, of course, doing his aloof morning meditation on chipmunks, squirrels, and birds at the screen door that opens onto the patio. I took a sip of ginger tea and began.

Know yourself. No problem for me, the most introspective creature on-the-planet, as my friend Bruce would say. Self-examination is my middle name, has been since birth, for good or ill. For most of my life, self-examination has meant self-critique. I have a more than passing familiarity with all my faults, bad habits, propensities, temptations, mistakes, and the karma that results from them. However, genuine self-knowledge or self-awareness has only emerged in later life as I learned to meditate and look deeply at the roots of my motivations—my fears, attractions, and repulsions. That self-awareness, though more true, is also softer, as I’ve allowed self-compassion to touch and soothe the wounds uncovered by my x-ray inner eye. It felt good to have my ingrained habit of self-reflection validated as part of life’s purpose by the Yogi Tea Messenger. Part of myself is okay. Phew! That’s a relief!

Love yourself. My stomach twisted in a knot, and I knew this was not going to be an easy one to delve into. I make this deeply personal revelation only because I suspect there may be a few of you out there who share my experience, and I want you to know that you are not alone. Since early childhood, I have sensed that I am, at my core, a flawed person. There is something wrong with me that makes me do bad things, or, at least, fear that I will do bad things. I think this sense may have come from my mother, and I am certain my Baptist upbringing with its emphasis on original sin reinforced it. I long ago forgave my mother, but I will never forgive St. Paul and the Christian Church for instilling the hideous notion that I was born full of sin. Buddhism, which I’ve gravitated towards in recent years, teaches that we each contain both good and harmful seeds in our store consciousness and can learn to nurture the former rather than the latter.

But let’s not get too theoretical here. Loving myself is challenging! And I don’t believe I am alone with this challenge. Understanding what self-love is and how to practice it will take me the rest of my life and then some, and I’m getting a very late start. But, while breathing evenly and gently as the ten-minute meditation bell chimed, I remembered the self-compassion I congratulated myself on developing as I’ve aged. Let’s start there, add a little self-forgiveness, tenderness, thanksgiving—whatever else might water those tiny seeds of goodness the universe has planted in me. I recalled my connection to all the beauty around me and recognized that I am made of the same stuff. Soon, I thought, I may have enough confidence in my basic goodness to…

Trust myself! Again, the passage of time, also called aging, is of some help here. It teaches lessons of humility but also repeatedly validates my intuition, my gut, or bodily intelligence. As I’ve looked back over my life, I’ve seen instances where I had a premonition, an insight, or an inner sense about the reality of a situation, the right course of action, or an action to avoid. Sometimes I heeded the hint, and other times I ignored the impulse.   But time and again, what my body intuited was revealed as events unfolded. I pay more attention to my un-rational intelligence these days. The more self-aware I am, the more I accept and love myself, the more I can trust myself to make the right choices, the life-giving, kind, and just ones. And I understand these three—self-awareness, self-love, and self-trust as inextricably linked, forming the foundation on which I can…

Be myself. What a sense of relief and ease washed over me as I entered the home stretch of that morning’s meditation. I paid attention to my body, as I set my imagination free to envision what it might be like to be who I truly am, instead of who I or others expect me to be. I noticed a sense of effortlessness. Straining and striving melted away, replaced by an unhurried settledness. A pervasive feeling of well-being and wholeness refreshed my tired mind and body. Yet, on the horizon, I saw the tremendous responsibility of freedom dawning, and I experienced a charge of fear, like a tiny electric shock—joy and sadness, pain and pleasure co-arising and interdependent.

The meditation bell chimed three times, signaling the end of twenty minutes. I breathed out, letting go, and lingered for a few moments longer in the silence and stillness. Then I lifted my cup and took a long, full gulp of still-warm tea while reciting the Tea Messenger’s morning wisdom one more time: “The purpose of life is to know yourself, love yourself, trust yourself, and be yourself.”

Practicing for the Big Let Go: Love

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I have mentioned here before that I meet monthly on Zoom with a group of women who talk about our experiences of aging and our musings on death. We explore our stories, insights, discomfort, and fear about the inevitable decline of our bodies and the certain end for us all. A few weeks ago, we had a courageous discussion about dying, our own and that of those we love. Not surprisingly, most of us expressed more fear about the possibility of a painful, demeaning, drawn-out dying process than about the moment of death and what, if anything, comes after it. We ventured onto the delicate topics of Death with Dignity and Physician-Assisted Death, which is legal in some countries, including Canada, where I was born.

I told the story of my Canadian cousin’s husband’s death. I’ll call him Leigh and her Meredith. He suffered for years from debilitating cancer, which was diagnosed just after his retirement when they had planned finally to begin their travel adventures together. Leigh, supporting and delighting in Meredith’s wanderlust and love of natural beauty, encouraged her to go exploring on her own and with their daughters. He enjoyed her travels vicariously and enthusiastically. However, as time went on, she traveled less as he needed more care and experienced frequent hospitalizations for treatment and long energy-less periods confined at home.

Though he tried his best not to be a burden for his family and patiently bore the symptoms of his disease, it troubled him that Meredith’s life centered around him and his ups and downs. He recognized her profound sadness as she watched him suffer, helpless to alleviate it, and worried about how she would cope with what they had good reason to believe would be a painful and degrading end. As the pain increased and his energy ebbed, recognizing his own and Meredith’s exhaustion and the toll his suffering was taking on her, he decided to apply for MAID, Medical Assistance in Dying. Canadian law provides this option for individuals who are terminally ill or in intolerable pain.

Together, Leigh and Meredith navigated all the legal requirements and preparations and finally arrived at the day of his death. Meredith and both of their adult children gathered around his hospital bed, said their goodbyes, and expressed their love and gratefulness for each other. Medical personnel administered the necessary medications, and quietly and peacefully, Leigh went to sleep and then ceased to breathe. Meredith experienced the meticulously planned and compassionately orchestrated end as a gift of love Leigh gave to himself, her, and their daughters. Years later, she still speaks movingly of this gift and her memories of their last intimate moments together. She says Leigh was right; a horrible end would have been much more difficult for both of them to endure and for her to recover from. Instead of her beloved in agony, her last memory of him is tender and peaceful.

I did not tell the story of my mother’s death in that morning’s discussion group. In her early eighties, she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer after a long period of ignored symptoms and then months of waiting for tests and doctors’ appointments. The specialists said that her only hope of survival was a drastic surgery in which her abdominal organs would be removed from her body to make the tumor on her pancreas accessible for excision. Then, they would replace the organs, and everyone hoped everything would work properly again. It was a risky option back then for even a younger, more fit person, but it was a long shot for someone in their early eighties. By demonstrating determination and pestering her doctors, she got them to agree to perform the surgery, even though success was extremely uncertain. She wowed them on the pre-surgery stress tests, proving that she was strong enough to withstand the operation, but as the day approached, she was anxious and irritable. 

One evening, I asked her why she was willing to put herself through such trauma for perhaps just a few more years of extended life when she could not count on a full recovery or high-quality health. She responded without hesitation, as though she had already asked herself that very question and was certain of the answer. “It’s for your father,” she said. “He will be too lonely when I die. But don’t tell him.” I didn’t press her further. She and my dad did not have an overtly romantic relationship. I can’t remember her ever expressing feelings of love to anyone. On the contrary, she tossed criticism liberally in all directions. But they had been married for more than fifty years, and their lives were so intertwined that she knew her death would be his undoing. 

She had the surgery. The team opened her up and saw an abdomen riddled with cancer, so they closed her and sent her to recovery. The surgeon told us the outcome and gave a prognosis of one to three months. She lived through the night and, early the next morning, experienced massive internal bleeding, was taken back to surgery, and died of heart failure. My father’s sobbing heartbreak is seared into my memory, as is the sight of his forlorn, defeated figure standing outside her empty bedroom at home that evening.

I’m not sure if my mother ever told my father that she loved him, but she knew how much he loved her, and she was willing to endure a horrendous surgery out of compassion for him—her gift of love. He lived for five lonely years after her death, making the best of each day but missing her profoundly. It was tough to watch.

Another member of the aging-and-death discussion group shared a glimpse into a recent awakening. She’s been seeking understanding of love, what it is, how it feels, how it manifests, for quite some time. Recently, she and her husband were walking during an outing. He is older than she and is slowing down slightly. She found herself dropping back to match his slower pace and wondering at the tender willingness she felt as she did so. Could this be love, she asked herself—some facet of love? 

As I draw nearer to my own inevitable death—The Big Let Go—I ask myself what will be most important to me, and I know instantaneously and completely that it will be love. Everything else will fall away, and the only important activity will be loving—giving and receiving it. Knowing this, shall I start to practice now? Let go of all but love, in every moment and situation, and lean into loving—fall into it, and trust it utterly.

Your Boulder

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Ajahn Chah, a Thai Buddhist monk of the Forest Tradition, was walking through a field with his disciples.  They came upon a large boulder, and he asked his followers,

            “Is this boulder heavy?”

            They responded, “Yes, teacher, it is very heavy.”

            Ajahn Chah smiled. “Only if you try to pick it up,” he said.

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Only if you try to pick it up.

If you stand on it and look around, you can see farther into the distance, and you might get a sense of the bigger picture.

If you gather sticks and build a fire on top of the boulder, the fire may serve as a beacon, drawing others to this place.

If you lean your back against it or sit on it, you can rest.

If you take a chisel and chip away at it, you may find precious minerals inside or create a beautiful sculpture.

If you hide behind it, you may find solitude, shelter, or safety.

If you plant flowers around it, you will create a garden.

If you join hands around it, you may find friends and build community.

Oh yes, and if you lift it together, combining your strength, ingenuity, and shared intention, you may discover it is lighter than you thought.

Here’s a boulder?  What will you do with it?

What Now? Reprise

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It’s been over a month since I posted here and over two since I wrote the first “What Now?” article. Honestly, I don’t know what to think or say about anything these days. I’m tongue-tied. That’s as it should be, counsels the Tao te Ching: “Those who know, don’t talk. Those who talk, don’t know.”

Each morning, sometimes before and sometimes just after my meditation time, I read Heather Cox Richardson’s daily newsletter, Letters from an American. I choose to follow her rather than some other news commentator because I like her framing of current events in the context of history, and she’s a Mainer from near my home. Her newsletter and listening to the occasional few minutes of NPR while driving are my meager attempts at awareness of significant events in our country and the world. Like many of my friends, I feel a responsibility to be aware but cannot cope with more intense and in-depth exposure to the news. It is too depressing, frightening, and immobilizing.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve identified and clung to specific anchors that steady me in times of turmoil like this one—help me rise and fall with the tides but keep me from drifting in rough currents. Some anchors are rituals or repetitive practices that calm and focus me. Some are objects or words that inspire or guide me. I’m always looking for symbols that help me make meaning and keep me steady. 

A few weekends ago, I visited Blue Cliff, a Vietnamese Buddhist Monastery in upstate New York. The monks and nuns who live there practice the Thich Nhat Hanh Buddhist tradition. That weekend, they were celebrating the third anniversary of his death, or “continuation” as they call it. Besides a few American Buddhists from Maine, Vermont, and elsewhere, dozens of Vietnamese Americans from the New York-New Jersey area came to meditate, chant, hear Buddhist teachings, and eat delicious Vietnamese food. I was fascinated by the rituals and chanting, curious about the customs, and delighted by the food. It wasn’t the sort of silent, secluded retreat I typically seek or enjoy, but it had a simplicity, pageantry, and wisdom that moved me deeply.

One of the most potent takeaway images from the weekend was this wooden calligraphy panel that focused the eyes immediately upon entering their exquisitely designed meditation hall.

I was awestruck the moment I saw it—so profoundly true and precisely the message I needed to receive, an anchor I could cling to. This Is It. This moment, this place, this situation, this country, this world—this is all there is. So, stop wishing for this to end, for something else to come, to be somewhere else, to be rescued from this current calamity. This is it—the only thing you have to work with, the only reality, your only opportunity. So, embrace it, celebrate it even. Open your eyes, ears, and heart, let the right action arise within you and proceed from you, and let go of the burden of the outcome. This is it. Nothing more, nothing less, nothing other.

For an hour on Sunday afternoon, their gift shop was open for guests to browse and shop. I went looking for a token of the message I had received and found this simple postcard in Thich Nhat Hanh’s calligraphy. I purchased it and brought it home to place in the window opposite my meditation seat so, as candles flicker beneath it and the sun rises behind it each morning, I can look at it and beyond it to what is outside my window.  

This Is It—the only time and place I have. I am surrounded by the only people I can respect and love. This is the only moment when I can recognize beauty, speak the truth, be kind, and do justice.

The World is Coming Apart at the Seams

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The world is coming apart at the seams.

A stitched and restitched garment

Now, tearing

Everywhere.

I awake from tossing and turning,

Sleep that gives no rest,

From dreaming a companion seamstress,

Abandoned me midst ragged scraps.

My body is heavier than a mountain.

The weight of grief and hopelessness,

Countless tons of it,

Pins me, motionless to my bed.

But I must rise and stitch,

Though the garment is split far beyond my skill—

Rips gaping and subtle,

Ancient and new,

Fissures spread across the earth,

Among and between the nations

And now to us.

My thread is thin and frayed,

My craft, rudimentary and crude,

My tools modest:

Needle, thread and vision:

Do no harm.

Ease suffering.

Embrace what is and learn from it.

These, my implements for mending.

With them I practice sewing.

Insert the needle gently,

Draw thread

Through tattered fabric,

Hold it tenderly,

Mending its ruptures.

Come seamstress, tailor, join me.

Draw threads of love and beauty,

Kindness, patience, truth,

Through our torn world,

Stitching it back together again.