Mind Tricks, Isolation and Solitude

 

It’s been a hard week on my ego and loneliness meter…and that sucks. There’s that word again, the one I claim to hate but have been using too much lately. What am I whining about this time? Woe is me, there wasn't many people around to interact with this week. Ya, I know, everyone (but me) had places to go and things to do and those who didn’t were camping out in front of their air conditioners trying to avoid the blistering heat. Even the blog community has been slow. Ditto on Facebook and replies to a mass e-mail sent to my Gathering Girls group seeking RSVPs for our bimonthly brunch came in so late I was nervous we’d have to cancel. And worst of all, one of the few humans I saw all week, the cashier at the grocery store “chatted” in grunts, having left his words at home in his other pair of pants. Who knows, maybe his Guinea pig died that morning and grunts were all he could muster for a woman old enough to be his great-grandmother. Wait! Was I wearing my hearing aids? Maybe he was just a low talker like the guy featured in a Jerry Seinfeld episode.

Either way, the lady at Starbucks spoke in full sentences while she finished cleaning a machine, “I’ll be right with you, Sweetie," she said. "Give me a minute to get this back together.” Grey hair earns you nicknames like that, but I’m not complaining. The only other voice I’ve heard the past few days was the “card services” robocall-lady---Rachel---who promised to lower my rates if only I’d press #1 and give the scammer my credit card numbers. Sometimes I wish I had one of those old Chatty Cathy dolls who’d talk to me with a pull of her string. But she was a needy lump of vinyl under her nylon wig, always saying things like: “Tell me a story” and “Please brush my hair” or asking questions like, “Do you love me?” “Will you play with me?” and “May I have a cookie?” That’s just what I’d need, someone else competing with me for the cookies in the house. Levi my Might Schnauzer can smell sugar-loaded treats from two rooms over.

Four of the seven in my Gathering Girls group did show up for our two hour brunch on Monday. (The other three had medical issues keeping them from joining us.) We had a spirited conversation about books, movies and bumpy finger joints, fancy rings and the relentless heat. I love being with these ladies. We crack each other up continuously. I was the only one without some place to go on the 4rd of July. (That would be another 'woe is me' if you're counting.) I wish we all lived within cup-of-sugar-borrowing distance. Not that I have much use for raw sugar these days. I did clean, hull and mash two quarts of strawberries for shortcake that could have used sweetening. My belly and my freezer thanked me for the berries anyway. And so did Levi. He sat patiently at my knee when I cut them up waiting for the slivers he got every time 4-5 strawberries went into the stainless steel mixing bowl. He’s got great manners. Levi also got a great haircut this week. Yes, his social life was equally as isolated as mine over the holiday week. My brunch and his haircut were the sum total of our fun.  

“Isolation is aloneness that feels forced upon you, like a punishment,” wrote Jeanne Marie Laskas. “Solitude is aloneness you choose and embrace. I think great things can come out of solitude, out of going to a place where all is quiet except the beating of your heart.” I do find that beating-of-your-own-heart solitude from time to time but I’m sure I’m not the only one who occasionally struggles to find that illusive factor that turns times of isolation into solitude. Over the Fourth, people all around me were having family time or traveling and even if I stayed off Facebook my mind’s eye could still see those happy faces and almost smell the food on their grills. (Oh, wait. that's my neighbor's grill I'm smelling. I'm guessing its steak.)

Doris Grumbach in Fifty Days of Solitude wrote: “The reason that extended solitude seemed so hard to endure was not that we missed others but that we began to wonder if we ourselves were present, because for so long our existence depended upon assurances from them.” Oh. My. God! That’s me! Apparently I need people to (metaphorically) pat me on the top of my head and feed my ego by saying, “Good girl!” Painting, writing, cooking, knitting, reading, keeping a nice house---none of those are good enough if it’s only my own voice telling me I did well. 

I send these thoughts off with the winds and whims of Mother Cyberspace hoping they’ll find someone who knows how to do the “mind trick” that transitions our hours of isolation into solitude. And it is a mind trick, something that has to come from within... ©

If this were true for humans, wouldn't I have wings like Tinker Bell by now?

Loneliness, Isolation and Dollhouses

In the comment section of a website I visit daily, someone wrote this: “Loneliness, by my definition, is in your head. It's a decision you made that justifies your own homemade isolation. My advice? Don't allow that thought to enter or cross your mind.”

For several days I’ve been pondering this opinion and wondering if there is any validity to it. Is loneliness just a state of mind that we can change through pure willpower and thought control? I do believe in---and try to practice---the power of positive thinking but I don’t agree that loneliness and isolation are necessarily of our own making. Sure, we make the decision not to go out into the world and socialize. But socializing with others doesn’t automatically make you feel less alone or lonely. Maybe it’s just a widow’s point of view but to me, it’s not having that one person in your life who knows you better than you know yourself that makes you feel lonely and isolated. A sea full of acquaintances, neighbors and co-volunteers can help fill the void but it doesn’t replace the closeness you crave. That I crave. I also question if the people who believe that loneliness is all in your head have ever truly had an intimate relationship with another human being. How’s that for judging (maybe misjudging) a person I’ve never met? It takes time to transition from metaphorically walking two-by-two up the plank to the Ark to thinking of yourself as an island onto yourself.

Another person commented on the same article words to the effect that in order to make friends you need to stay current with the daily news so you have interesting things to talk about when you go out and about in public. I’d agree with that. My husband was a well-read person with a high IQ and he could strike up a conversation with anyone on the face of the earth and hold his own on a wide variety of topics. I watched him do it for 42 years. He was the original Chatty Kathy who never forgot anything he’d ever learned, read or saw. I know the technique for engaging strangers in conversation, I’m just not as good at it as he was. I was the observer who threw a wise-crack in from time to time, then went home and wrote about the encounter as an observer, not a participate. I can’t change my whole personality in the name of building new friendships. Can I? Can any of us? Friendships need to be built on honesty, not bait-and-switch techniques. But I am trying to be more outgoing as I interact with the outside world, Jeez, I’m making myself sound like an alien from another planet. I promise I don’t have purple antennas under the hats I wear out in public.  

Changing gears. For the past few weeks I’ve been trying to teach myself how to crochet. I’ve tried other times in my life to learn without much success. My mom was good at it and I still have the miniature hats and doilies she made for my dollhouse. I also have her set of hooks and the smallest one, the size 14, .50 mm, is so small I had to get a magnifying glass out to even know it was a hook. Most of the hooks in her set have prices stamped in the metal of twenty-five cents---that’s how old they are. Now, Jo-Ann’s online store is selling the size 14 metal hook for $9.99.  A few days ago, quite by coincidence one of my cousins posted a crochet supplies website on Face Book and lo and behold it has tutorials for left-handers. Now I’m starting to make progress! I so want a little hand project like this that I can take to the museum when I start volunteering there again in March. Last year I was the only docent who didn’t have something to keep my hands busy when we manned the not-so-busy front doors. I’ve been thinking about volunteering on Sundays when the museum has its peak number of tourists and lowest number of volunteers, but the tradeoff is I wouldn’t be able to pick volunteer days that match up with the people in the Historical Society that I’d like to get to know better. Decisions, decisions.

I absolutely can’t wait until spring! I freely admit to being isolated and lonely this winter but the weather, not a self-imposed mindset, has had me imprisoned for most of the season. And some of you reading this are probably quoting Hamlet right about now: "The lady doth protest too much methinks!” Maybe so, maybe not. We humans are good at judging others we don’t know, aren’t we. ©

Note on the photos. The one up above is one of the dollhouse hats that my mother made when I redecorated my childhood dollhouse in the 1970’s. It measures around ¾ of an inch. The first photo below is of a dollhouse carpet she crocheted. It measures 6 ½ inches square.  She made the pink bedroom rug in the bottom photo as well. My dollhouse is going to be one of those hard things to give up on my next downsizing. The house itself was made before WWII from a pattern that appeared in a magazine and it still has the original stenciled vines, hedges and shutters on the outside. I couldn't bear to cover them up after learning the house's history. My parents found the house at the Salvation Army and it was a Christmas gift from Santa. I found the magazine article and pattern decades later. I have a lighting kit and baseboards for it but I never got around to installing them.

Blinders, Isolation and Needing Help

 

A friend of mine is in the hospital recuperating from back surgery. He’s dealt with pain for many years and finally he decided to bite the bullet and do something about it. His doctor told him he’d be up walking and back home the next day. At least that is what my friend heard the doctor say. Whether or not that’s what he actually said is anyone’s guess. There’s a reason why they tell you to bring someone along when you talk to a surgeon. I’m guessing my friend heard the best case scenario and let the rest go right over his head. It’s been a week now and my friend is in a rehab hospital, fighting mad and angry at the doctor for “lying to him.” When I asked him if his pain is any less than it was before the surgery he says it is, and they don’t have him on any pain medications to explain the change, but he still claims he wishes he hadn’t gone through with the whole thing. And this is coming from a guy who is usually pretty logical. He hates hospitals, having spent many, many months in one as a kid, and I’m afraid he’s letting his anger at having to stay in one now keep him from getting the most out of rehab. Why is it so easy to see what others are doing wrong but when it comes to ourselves, we have blinders on?

My friend’s situation made me wonder what parts of my own life I wear blinders in, where things aren’t really the way I think they are. There are probably others, but I’ve narrowed down the main issues in my life where that is happening to my feelings of isolation and worrying about not having back up in an emergency---both common widow and old people woes. But when I’m forced to be honest with myself I have to acknowledge that I have nieces and nephews on both sides of the family, and one very close friend, who would help me in a worst case scenario. I’m the problem. The classic, “it’s me, not them” because I’m the one who is too proud to ask for help should I need it. I’m so used to handling everything that life can throw at me that it feels like weakness or signs of aging that I might not be able to get myself out of any given situation. When my husband was alive we were each other's back up until his stroke. Even after that I didn’t feel weak or old when people helped us in the months after that catastrophic event. In my mind they were helping him, the social butterfly the favorite uncle. False impressions are hard to let go. They were helping us both---the bookends, the matched set.

As for feelings of isolation, on the rare occasions when I call a relative and suggest an outing they seem happy that I asked. And I’ll bet most people can say the same thing about their family. One of my favorite sayings when people complain that no one in their family ever calls them is, “The phone lines run in both directions.” (And, boy, that saying is getting dated fast with cellphones taking over the world.) So why do I sometimes get overwhelmed with feelings of isolation? I don’t blame other people for those feelings. I blame myself for not picking up the phone. With family, part of the issue is we know what is going on in their busy lives and we don’t want to bother them. At least that is true for me. Nieces and nephews are the filling in The Sandwich---the ones with kids and parents, and in some case even grandchildren and grandparents, all vying for their time. I never had kids or grand-kids but I sure know what it’s like to have parents that need help. Been there, done that. The Sandwich Generation have a lot on their plates.

So instead of curing my isolation with those I care the most about, I try to fill my time up with acquaintances at the senior hall and Red Hat Society ---places where you could fall off the face of the earth and no one would notice except for your name printed in the ‘send prayers’ column of the newsletters. The very first person who made me feel welcome at the senior hall's Movie and Lunch Club, shortly after Don passed away, died this winter from complications from a minor surgery. Life is short. The reminders of that are everywhere where old people gather. And maybe that explains why we all have a good time together but we don’t really make much of an effort to take it to the next level and form closer friendships? Nope, most of the people I’ve met at the senior hall and Red Hats seem content to just be widows and/or seniors looking for group fun and my new favorite word, “enrichment.”

I’ve been having trouble finding an ending for this post and before I knew it I had a chocolate pudding in my hand…not the kind that comes in little plastic tubs. No, this pudding was homemade and filled a footed, antique goblet which makes it harder to overlook the calories you just consumed. Why? Because you can’t put the goblets in the dish washer, so as you’re washing them by hand you have time to think about how the pudding became a comfort food in the first place. I love chocolate pudding and the memories that goes with eating it out of the same, sentimental dish my mom used for pudding. Most of the time those goblets sit in the cupboard waiting to be needed and that grounds me to a happier, carefree time in my life. And despite wearing blinders from time to time, I know my family will also be there if I need a different kind of comfort or help. I should get that tattooed on my arm so I don’t forget. Maybe just a discreet little, “They Care” would do the trick.  ©