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As autumn has unfolded, I have thought frequently of Pilar. She stayed with us recently, for The Twelve Days of Music. Pilar is gorgeous, inside and out. Today is her birthday.

On Sunday, our choir director asked us to sing as if we were opera singers. I knew what he meant because, while she was here, Pilar accompanied opera star Soledad at a house concert in our home. Their joint visit was nothing short of magical and not unlike big international traveling for all of us. Pianist Pilar from Paris and Soprano Soledad from Santiago swept us off our feet day after day. Our century-old piano sang. And I sang on Sunday, remembering them.

Since retiring I have struggled off and on with a sense of purpose. I pace myself as friends and family age around me, wondering how I will possibly have energy to continue living and loving fully.

And then those dozen days landed relatively gently around me. Our kids, Clarke and Carolina, arrived to help. Super agent man César traveled along too. These three C’s were stellar stage and kitchen family. Mom was delighted to join in the lunch rehearsal. My sole job was to welcome and enjoy, and introduce my friends to each other. This is Bridging. This is my life’s work.

*Photo by Soledad Mayorga Maldonado

I have a recurring dream of swiping a bus then never crashing it or even getting caught. That’s why I asked Carolina to take this photo. I have no idea who the guy is. Usually the bus in my dream is much bigger and fancier. My birthday celebration was like this: Wild. Fast. Fun.

I’m glad it was only for three days.

Now I’m home again, alone in the blue room, reflecting. Calm. Super well.

And oh-so-grateful.

Bassam Aramin was interviewed yesterday on the BBC News Hour. This Palestinian spoke along with Robi Damelin, an Israeli; both parents lost their children to violence in the Middle East years ago. I met Bassam when I was there in March of this year. He told us about the Parents Circle Families Forum.

When I heard his voice on the radio, I pulled over off the road so I could safely listen to every word and weep.

This morning I heard a homily about when the child shall play over the hole of the snake, in peace (Isaiah 11:1 -9).

I nodded to God, “Ok, I will write more as you lead me.”

Anxiety takes many forms. The other day I spoke with a friend who chooses the tight spins of ruminating. Oh God, do I know them well.

We started listing some of the strategies we might try instead to knock us off the loop of the same old same old:

Do something, anything, physical. Walk. Ride a bike. Stretch. Do yoga.

Talk out loud to myself or someone else or even God. What a concept.

In the spirit of minimizing harm, chew ice or gum, instead of numbing with drugs or alcohol or eating everything in sight.

Write…maybe a playlet with dialogue between parts of myself?

Do something for someone else. Write a card. Make cookies and freeze them until delivery is possible.

Create a Vesuvius with my body. Tear up a phone book or the like. Growl.

Take a hot (or cold) shower or bath. Play music. Light candles.

Make a mix to match my mood. Dance to it.

Sing. Whistle. Play an instrument.

Just be unsettled. Accept it. Breathe. Rest in being.

Deliver self-touch which comes in many forms…maybe try Reiki?

If procrastinating is contributing, see if I can act on a concerning issue. Do the damn pros and cons chart if I must.

Pray (there it is again).

Etc.

My husband is an original, people, maybe the original in terms of Reduce, Reuse and Recycle. His shenanigans over the years have resulted in a few of our big fights. Like when we finished the basement including laying linoleum under a leaking washing machine. Rob insisted on jerry-rigging a fix and putting a drip pan under it. Not my favorite solution but we saved some money and did get ten more years of life out of ‘er.

So this week our century-old home is in surgery—we are having an electric heat pump installed—and I’ve had ample opportunity to see evidence of Rob as Earth Steward. To prepare we had to clear out the furnace room. My word! For the most part, that workshop area has been his purview and I have stayed clear.

I was surprised to find box after box of used packaging—styrofoam, soft plastic, cardboard plus pill bottles—and realized he was waiting for a better plan for disposal. Bless Jesus! We found Ridwell, a local service that carts material away to reuse and recycle.

Thus I am enjoying the satisfaction of moving what’s accumulated along and out-of-here! I know there are oodles of issues remaining. For example, are we really avoiding landfill? And the proverbial: the rest of our house remains packed-to-the-gills with belongings we rarely use; how can we keep rid-welling without motivation from a big project?

For now we are moving in the right direction. We are digging through it. Even after all these years, I’m still getting to know and appreciate this ol’ house and my old man.