Empty Nest Syndrome: a pleasant euphemism which conjures up mother birds who have gently encouraged their young fledglings to take to the air for the first time. The nest is empty… and next year mommy bird will build another one, lay her eggs, and go through the same process all over again.

Empty Nest Syndrome. We watch our children leave home one at a time, but our feelings are not always the same. With some of our children, we are more ready to have them go. They’re young adults, and it is time for them to be at least partially self-supporting. We’ll miss them, but they’ll be back. Like human boomerangs, they’ve been coming and going for a long time. Move out, move back, move out, move back. We love them, but we want to see them stand on their own. A little distance is good for everyone involved. Besides, there is still at least one bird left in the nest. It is not yet truly “empty.”

And then the last bird takes flight. For some mother’s it might be a relief, to finally have the place to themselves. Responsibilities shift. There are less demands on your time. You can do all those things you never had time to do when you were raising progeny. This is a good thing.

Not necessarily. For some of us, "Exploded Identity Syndrome" might be a better name for having our last child leave home. For decades we have been “Mom” – the one responsible for changing diapers, wiping tears, helping with English papers, cheering at baseball games, smiling through choir and band concerts, consoling through relationship trials, serving as chauffer, nurse, social secretary, teacher, wardrobe consultant, comforter and confidant. It was our job to keep them safe, to guide them into good choices, and, whenever possible, to keep them from making painful mistakes. If we ignored our responsibility it made us a “bad” mother. But then, over a relatively short period of time, our accepted role changes radically. It is no longer our job to advise, direct or suggest alternatives. That would be interfering. We are to “let go” and allow them to do whatever they choose. And what’s more, we are to release them happily, with joy in our hearts at their independence. More charitable friends and acquaintances might give us a few months to feel sad and miss that last child, to experience Empty Nest Syndrome. “She’s gone away to boot camp – I won’t be hearing her voice for months” – but a well adjusted mother accepts that this is for the best and moves on with her life, right?

I am obviously not a well adjusted mother. Having my daughter leave home and move across the country was like having my heart dug out of my chest with a sharp rock. And that was only the beginning. She would come home many times over the next few years, but each time ended with her flying away again. She married, and decided to move to a distant state. We had a lot of phone contact – I saw her several times a year – but what I knew in the depths of my wounded heart is that she would never really come home again. And as hard as I tried to accept her absence, it was like a constant stabbing pain in my gut. I tried with some success to build a new life for myself, but there was always this daughter-shaped space inside of me that ached with emptiness.

Time has passed. I’m accustomed to only seeing my daughter once or twice a year. All her possessions are gone from my house, except for a few keepsakes that I am saving to give her when she has children of her own. I talk to her on the phone 2 or 3 times a week, and we have a mother/daughter relationship that many parents would envy. But it occurred to me today that at least a part of the deep depression I battle with so often is still about her loss. She is not sick, not dying, not suffering in some horrible situation – in fact she is relatively healthy and happy, and excited to be carrying her first child in her womb. She is simply far away, and I miss her terribly. I miss her smile, her energy, her light. I miss being part of this wonderful experience she is going through now, as she prepares to be a mother herself. I will miss seeing her belly grow round – will miss being there the first time she feels her child stirring inside her. I will hear about it by phone, and might even see her at Christmas, but I will not be there for each small miracle. I am missing her life… and missing her.

I have a dear friend whose only child – a 39 year old son - passed away last year. I cannot imagine her pain. I have been with her through this loss, watched her grief, tried to support her in whatever small ways I could, and still, I cannot fathom what her experience must be like. I cannot conceive of losing one of my children in that way. When I look at her, I feel guilty for my own grief. It seems selfish to be so sad when my daughter is still so much a part of my life. It is a pain I find difficult to share with my friend, because it is too petty and small in comparison to her own tremendous loss. How could I possibly respond to my own life with anything less than gratitude for what I still have?

Today, when the awareness of my longstanding grief about my daughter came to me, another awareness came as well. I love my daughter deeply, and would never want my behavior to have a negative affect on her life. Allowing her absence to drag me into the pit of depression does not serve either of us. I am not improving her life by suffering so much in her absence. In fact, the contact we do have in tainted by my sadness, no matter how hard I try to hide it. She knows me too well… knows my tone of voice and my energy. Even if we dance around the subject, she knows I am unhappy, and she worries about me. She worries about me because I am so absorbed with missing her that I sometimes can’t get my head above water. How twisted is that scenario?

Empty Nest Syndrome. I am trying to accept that, like so many other things in life, it is essentially what we create it to be. I can wallow in my loss, hoping that it will somehow change and things will go back to the way they are “supposed to be.” Or I can try to accept that things already are exactly as they are “supposed to be” and get on with my life. Seems a lot easier said than done. But in truth, what other reasonable choice is there?

It seems like I have always suffered some degree of insanity. Suicide attempts, drinking , drugs, and promiscuity were the bizarre palate from which I painted the canvas of my earlier life. An extraordinary amount of pain and abuse in my childhood and young adult years manifested itself in an oppressive cloud of fear that, as I grew older, encompassed my being and left me closed off from much of the world around me. Safety came in such tiny increments and was so precious to me that I would horde up anything that gave me the slightest feeling of refuge and wrap it around me like a cocoon.

Caterpillars use the security of their cocoon to protect them as they metamorphose into beautiful butterflies. Their time in the cocoon is purposeful and time-limited, and the end product is glorious. But my cocoon was quite different. What started out as a place of safety from the assaults of life ultimately became a hideout - a thickly layered binding that protected me from everything outside, including accomplishment and joy. Eventually it became my prison as well. I was indeed protected from most outside assaults, but my incarceration did nothing for the inner attacks that I constantly inflicted on myself. My cellmates of poor self-esteem and constant self-criticism gave living an almost nightmarish quality. My freedom was gone, my life was at a standstill, and I was going nowhere at the speed of light.

I have been lucky. Over recent years wonderful people have been led into my life who truly care about what happens to me. These people have led me to therapy, awareness, education, and knowledge that have made a huge difference in my life. Today I function in the world. I take care of my body, mind and spirit in a way I never have before. I guess you could say I am as sane as I've ever been, and I've regained a good deal of my freedom. But I realize that I still run back to my cocoon at times… and maybe that's okay. Maybe we all need a safe place to run when things get rough. The thing I have to diligently watch for is that I don't get too comfortable back in that familiar space. Grace Slick said, "No matter how big or soft or warm your bed is, you still have to get out of it." That cocoon is my big soft, warm place to visit when life becomes overwhelming. Everyone should have somewhere like that; a place of safety and respite where we can regenerate before we move on. But the point is that "you still have to get out of it." You have to get your rest and then get going again. My cocoon is too well cushioned with nice safe reasons for not moving forward or taking risks ... all my wonderful excuses for playing it safe. A prolonged visit can lull me into complacency about continuing my healing journey. That may be what I want at times, but it's certainly not what I need.

I read a brilliant quote from someone named Tony Campollo that really made an impression. The quote said this: "Most of us are tiptoeing through life so we can reach death safely. We should be praying, 'If I should wake before I die.' Life can get away from you. Don't be satisfied with just pumping blood." What a potent concept! No matter what you believe about life after death, this life is our current assignment, and simply being a hemoglobin pump is not what that assignment is about. Feeling safe and secure all the time is not what it's about either. Personally, I'm tired of tiptoeing through life, looking for spooks in every dark corner. I still have a way to go before I can eradicate the ghosts of my past and the dysfunctional behaviors that used to be necessary survival skills. But depression and despair have already robbed me of too many years, and I don't intend to let these thieves continue their larceny.

Life can be an exciting and challenging adventure...or simply the ultimate terminal illness. It's our choice. We can take risks that will help us learn and grow, adding color, texture, and fullness to our lives, or we can chose to tick away our lifetimes staying safe…. and going nowhere at the speed of light!

(Written in 2002)

I have had a love/hate relationship with chocolate all my life. It is my passion, my addiction, and my doom. My mouth, mind, heart, and soul worship at the chocolate altar. Conversely, my body rejects it full out. Inflamed joints, headaches, digestive problems and initial hyperactivity which then gives way to dysphoria – these are the gifts with which chocolate rewards me for my homage. It is not a compatible substance for my physical being. I suspect that the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil that is said to have gotten Adam and Eve in so much trouble was probably hung with cocoa beans instead of apples… irresistible, but with disenchanting after effects, to say the least. That, in a cocoa bean shell, is the definition of chocolate and me.

Today I found a small piece of Dove milk chocolate lurking near the bottom of my backpack. I had picked it up from the candy dish in a friend’s office, and then miraculously forgotten about it. Finding it was like discovering a chest full of gold doubloons. Here was this tiny, 1½ inch x ¾ inch rectangle of delight in a deep purple and red foil wrapper, sitting there waiting to be discovered. It was just there among my books and backpack minutiae – enticing me – calling alluringly, “I won’t hurt you. I’m so small. Savor me. Melt me on your tongue. Relish my sensual richness. You know you want me.” It was such a tiny indulgence – and I immediately convinced myself it was not enough to really cause any trouble. Just an infant piece of chocolate. Innocent. There was no other choice but to yield to its pleadings.

The thought immediately came to me; “I will eat this mindfully. I will fully explore the experience of this tiny miracle I have been given. Being mindful will make it okay. This will be a good thing for me.”

I set the stage for my experience with classical music so that the lilting tones of Mozart or Beethoven would enrich my mindful state, and a fountain on my headboard added the bubbling sound of water over rocks. I placed my body in a semi lotus position in the middle of the quilt covering my waterbed. How Zen of me. I cleansed my palate with a drink of cool, clear filtered water, then began to examine my treasure. The shiny wrapper gleamed in my hand, and I listened attentively to the crackle of the foil as I gingerly untwisted the ends. Immediately, the wonderful aroma began drifting up to me. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. “Ahhh.” Joanne Harris’ book came to my mind. Chocolat. Speaking French, I realized, was just another meaningful part of this transformational experience. Chocolat.

Always being one to follow instructions, I tore where the wrapper said, “tear here.” It parted easily and I once again inhaled the fragrance of my obsession. Then I thought, “How should I best indulge myself? Should I bite it in two pieces, giving the illusion of increased quantity?” I quickly decided that it would be more mindful to luxuriate in the entire bite all at once. Gently placing the morsel on my tongue, I tenderly closed my mouth around it.

The first sensation was the sweet smoothness… the deep richness of it. I ran my tongue across the rectangular bottom, defining the distinct edges, and then over the smooth rounded top. “Do not bite it.” I warned myself. “Let it melt slowly, savoring each tiny delectable drop.” The sweetness was intense, leaving an odd but pleasurable sensation in the back of my throat. “This is the way to do it. Let it melt in your mouth. You won’t even need to chew. Just let it vanish. Do not bite it!”

I bit once on the left side and twice on the right. I couldn’t control myself. I had to feel it – that exquisite sensation of teeth gliding through dense chocolate. Then I continued to let the smooth sweet confection melt down the back of my palate.

“This is the epitome of being ‘in the moment,’ ” I told myself smugly. “There is no way anyone can tell me I don’t have this mindfulness thing down-pat.” The last creamy drops of milk chocolate were meandering down the back of my tongue and sliding down my throat.

“Ahhh, Chocolat.” I repeated.

Mindfully I put on my shoes, paying attention to the way the shoe slipped onto my foot and the way the shoe strings felt under my hands. As I grabbed my car keys I fully experienced the cool metal and the jingle as they clinked gently together. I felt the soft leather of my wallet as I tucked it under my arm. The night air felt cool on my cheek, and the road was bathed in the golden glow of a full moon as I turned my car toward my destination. I wandered thoughtfully through the aisles with a renewed appreciation for the bounty that we have in our land. And as I drove away, I knowingly patted the small bag next to me on the seat. I knew in my heart that just as I had mindfully savored that single nugget of delicious chocolate just moments before, so would I be fully in the moment as I indulged in these additional 24 pieces of Dove milk chocolate nestled on the seat beside me.

Chocolat… Sweet Chocolat. Namaste.

I am a writer who cannot write. I guess that makes me a former writer. Something has happened to my creativity, and to my ability to put words together in even a vaguely interesting manner. For some people, this would be a minor setback. But for me, it is a tremendous loss. Writing is a huge part of the way I define myself. I am a mother, a musician, a friend... and the rest all has to do with writing. Poet, essayist, short story writer, playwright, novelist - they all have to do with the ability (or lack thereof) to lay words down one upon the other and build something funny, intriguing, inspirational, educational… words worthy of someone’s valuable reading time (even if it is my own).

The odd thing is that I yearn to write – crave it, like a drug. I still journal, but most of that is just a release of the pent up thoughts and emotions that swarm around in my head like a horde of locusts. It is not official writing, but rather the random rantings and ravings of my challenging life. It is perhaps the stuff of which essays or poems might be made, but when I try to move on to that next step - when I try to get my "fix" - nothing comes. Nothing. Nada. Null.

There are a plethora of books around that address writer’s block. They suggest all kinds of great exercises to help you reconnect to your inner creativity. But what if I’m too tired to try all the different gimmicks? What if I am just psychically burnt out? Or what if creative well has gone dry?

Anyone have any encouraging words that do not include simplistic advise? Is this all a side-effect of depression? Will the words come back, and will I be able to fit them together in a meaningful way again? I know that in the big picture, I am the only one who can really help me, but I certainly could use some positive input right now. So... input, please!

November 2002

I step off bus #1 of my journey to work, remove my bike from the rack on the front of the bulky vehicle, and commence my wait for bus #2. As I guide my bike to the sidewalk, I see an amazing portrait. Two homeless men are sitting at the blue-canopied bus stop, each holding a partially eaten Big Mac. The two men have the look of so many men that you see around town this time of year… shaggy beard, ragged clothing deeply layered for warmth, knit cap, worn shoes and tattered gloves. One man has a cast on his left foot. A shopping cart stands nearby, containing a walker, a beat-up old gym bag, and a cardboard box. As I lift my gaze, I can see the huge red and gold McDonald’s sign above and behind the bus stop, with its accompanying American Flag fluttering in the breeze.

Homeless men at a blue bus stop eating Big Macs under the Stars and Stripes. What a perfect representation of the times we live in. The incredible wealth of a conglomerate like McDonald’s contrasted to the incredible poverty of others in this country. The flag, our symbol of freedom, contrasted to the imprisonment of need. And as for the Big Macs – the fact that a large percentage of the most affluent country in the world subsists on a diet of white flour, dead cow and fat-soaked potato chunks is an incredible metaphor for this nation’s willingness to close it’s eyes to obvious problems.

Don’t get me wrong. I think McDonald’s French fries are the food of the gods. I delight in a Big Mac in a real moment of weakness. I turn up the volume on my denial about what I’m actually putting in my body, and gustily inhale “two all beef patty’s, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame bun.” For someone with no home and no food, I’m certain that a #1 Combo meal is Heaven wrapped in a paper sack. This is not about McDonald’s. It’s about the inequities of wealth in America. It’s about the judgements people make when they see a ragtag person pushing their shopping cart down the road. And unfortunately, it’s about my own need to reprogram the judgmental thoughts that run through my mind before I rethink my automatic responses.

I’ve gotten better with time and awareness. I’ve gotten better since being inches away from homelessness myself a couple of times. I’ve become wiser with age, and less quick to judge about many things in life. But I still need work. I’m an enlightened, card carrying, bleeding heart liberal who believes the government should spend whatever it takes to help citizens in need, but even I occasionally slip back into the condemnatory and hypercritical mind-set of my youth. If it can happen to me, is there any hope for all those "just let 'em get a job" right-wingers out there?

Two homeless men sitting at a blue bus stop eating Big Macs under the Stars and Stripes. Norman Rockwell would probably have enjoyed painting the scene. Hang it next to "American Gothic." Title it "American Travesty." Enjoy your lunch, guys. It might be the last one for a long time.