What did you do during the pandemic? Some folks adopted dogs. Some binge-watched their favorite shows on Netflix. My beloved Ben decided to study the Polish language. I wasn’t quite that ambitious. I completed my Guided Autobiography training and became a GAB facilitator. Since then I’ve offered online workshops based on the GAB principles envisioned by Guided Autobiography creator James Birren. GAB workshops are not writing classes. There is no critique, no correction. The workshops are a place where we can tell our story and find connection. I provide a theme and a series of questions that dust off our memories and help us to tap into our truth. On the new GAB website they quote the late, great Brian Doyle:

“Stories change lives; stories save lives...They crack open hearts, they open minds.”

If you are curious about my workshops and would like to learn more please reach out. I’d love to tell you more about this beautiful process. In the meantime, here’s the essay I wrote for this week’s workshop:

Earworms and the Soundtrack to My Life

I am constantly reminding us to find one little moment to write about. I encourage us to avoid the helicopter view and instead reflect on a single day, a small incident, a remembered conversation and to focus our story on those moments. That’s where we might find the learning. And when we do that the writing can be more personal. Intimate and insightful.

Yeah. So I did not do that. What I wrote in response to our prompt ‘hope’ is more of a prologue to the memoir I will never write. Plus, it is filled with adverbs. And you know how I feel about adverbs. Nevertheless, here’s my story:

I’ve been pondering the word ‘hope’. What is ‘hope’? What does it mean ‘to hope’?  Despite the deep contemplation, those four letters have failed to trigger a reaction. It’s as if the word has been bandied about so often that it’s lost its potency, like an open bottle of champagne gone flat or an elastic waistband that has outlived its stretch and recoil. 

Do you remember the song ‘High Hopes’? Exactly what did make that little ant move a rubber tree plant? I mean, anyone knows an ant can’t, and where was she trying to move it to anyway? But according to the song it was her irrepressible high hopes that made moving that rubber tree plant possible. And sure enough, that little ant’s success was a reminder that hope and hard work can make anything possible. Boy-oh-boy did my fifteen-year-old Pollyanna-tainted heart just love hearing that message. I knew with absolute certainty that if I believed in myself enough, if I worked hard enough, if I was nice enough, if I was pretty enough, if I hoped enough then anything was possible. No matter my circumstances or the obstacles placed in my path the life I envisioned was mine just for the hoping.

I was in my mid-thirties when I realized the error of my youthful ways. As it happened hope was nothing more than magical thinking because life had a way of diminishing our Disney-fied technicolor dreams.

No matter. 

I was in my forties and living in Donegal, Ireland about half way through my eleven-year odyssey. A stow-a-way escaping her chaotic Bay Area life. But life wasn’t going as planned. The details are silly and inconsequential. In order to survive the hurdles I faced, I set aside hope and instead channeled resilience. It wasn’t easy and I had to land on rock bottom with a decisive thud but then a new song hummed its way into my heart. Somehow I found a way to pick myself up, dust myself off and start all over again. Which I did. Again. And again. And again.

And we all know my story. I found my way out of Ireland. Back to California for twenty restless years. Wait. Can that be true? Twenty years? Has it been that long?

No matter.

I came back to California like a newborn. Once again I found myself full of hope. Ready to not only survive but to thrive. But magical thinking took me nowhere. Even when I channeled my inner ram and tried to bust holes in a billion kilowatt dam. I never did break through. I just got myself covered in dust. Which, of course, I happily brushed off so that I could start all over again. I suppose if you were on the outside looking in on my life you might think I was doing well. And don’t think for a moment that I’m not grateful for all the opportunities that sometimes fell into my lap and that sometimes I fought tooth and nail for. Some of those opportunities paved the way for what happened next. So, you might be wondering, what happened next?

Love. Love happened. Somehow, when I finally knew that love would never happen, he found me. The moment I looked in his eyes I muttered to myself, ‘dammit’, because I knew that the life I’d grown accustomed to – a life that left me never feeling quite like the woman I wanted to be – a life that felt perversely comfortable – was going to change.

And life did change. 

Ben’s and my move to Virginia changed our lives. Changed my life. I’ve come around to the idea of hope again, but it feels different this time. It feels…hmmm…the only word that comes up for me to describe the hope I feel is expansive. I’ve even embraced my inner Pollyanna (except, of course, when watching our country’s perilous descent into autocracy and fascism…but we can leave that story for another time). Hope and resilience are companions that keep me thinking less about the future and more about the present moment. Somehow they’ve slowed me down. I enjoy watching dawn break. I watch flowers grow. I even find myself saying ‘hello’ to the occasional lamppost. 

Because life? I love you. All is groovy.