SPRINGING INTO HOPE

No matter what crises are going on in the world, the seasons reliably change more or less on schedule.. Actually, a meteorologist friend informed me that this is the earliest spring ever recorded. Early or late, it’s welcomes, for spring is reputedly a season of hope – seeds come to life, flowers bloom. But hope feels increasingly difficult these days when war ravages so much of the world and in our own divided country hatred has a megaphone. For those who have lost a loved one, the beauty of spring can be even more difficult. My husband died in the gray starkness of winter, which matched the grayness within those of us who had lost him. It felt especially cruel to me that my sister died on an April day that was filled with nature coming back to life.
So how do we manage to feel hopeful? I once read an anecdote about a man stumbling in a dark room, crying that he had nothing left. “Turn on the light,” a voice said. When he did, he was amazed to see that the room was filled with jewels. They didn’t suddenly materialize, they had been there all along – but he had to be able to see them.
We have to recognize the hopeful things we’re often blind to. Yesterday I was struggling to push my overloaded shopping cart up the muddy slope outside my house, exertion made worse by my being in a “nobody cares” syndrome. Then a neighbor I’ve barely ever spoken to asked if I wanted help. I suddenly felt a surge of hope that I wasn’t as alone as I’d thought. The moment might have slipped by and an hour later I might have felt hopeless about something else .But I’m learning to recognize when something positive happens. We tend to tell ourselves anything good was a fluke, an aberration, and far too small to compensate for a feeling of loneliness. But hope doesn’t usually come in large packages. If may be moments, acts, words so slight we ignore then or disregard their value.
So we have to take time to notice– and to say, okay maybe most of the week was bad but this hopeful thing happened. Maybe the friend we’d given up on calls us, or a holiday recipe we’ve never had success with turns into our most popular dish. We also tend to dismiss the good with a cynical ”so what, it won’t happen again.” But ”never again” is a sure recipe for despair!
Each night I challenge myself to find three things in the day that I can give thanks for. Admittedly it’s sometimes a struggle to find even one, but there’s usually something if we look for it. A friend once complained that the only thing she could think of was that she’d had a good breakfast. (When so many are starving, breakfast is no small blessing.)
“Hope is the thing with feathers,” Emily Dickinson famously wrote. But our feathered friends fly past swiftly. The ability to recognize even fleeting hope is the light we turn on for ourselves.

Website: annehosansky.com
Current book: ARISING -available in print and E versions, at BookBaby.com and Amazon.com.

A PERSONA LEAP-YEAR DAY

I went to bed last night thinking, tomorrow’s March already. Then I woke  to discover it was still February! I hadn’t even realized this is a leap year. But some things (most things) don’t reply on a calendar statistic. I used to fantasize that Leap Year Day was a gift, a special day for something we don’t ordinary do or say, like the menu item, “Specialty of the Day.” But why limit it to once a year? Why not create a personal Leap Year Day every month? What would we do with those precious uncounted hours?Maybe I won’t be solely a workaholic that day, but take time to phone the friend I never seem to have time to call. My interrupted work will still be there, but friendships don’t thrive without nourishment.
Maybe I’ll pause to watch the leaves on the tree outside my window. I never realized how they curl up as if protecting themselves from the cold. I’m inspired when I see them bravely uncurling, as if trusting the world.
Maybe I’ll make myself turn off the computer and go for a walk. If I meet that bullying neighbor I try to avoid I’ll surprise him by smiling. it won’t cost me anything and I might stop wasting energy in anger.
Maybe I’ll make a “play date” with my cat, instad of shutting the door on the lonely privacy of my “studio.” She doesn’t understand deadlines, but she does understand my affectionate rubbing of the fur by her right ear.
Maybe I’ll treat myself to the novelty of lazing on the couch,reading that book I haven’t had time to open.
Actually – what this Leap Day has done for me, was to inspire me to put aside a “must do” assignment and write this blog!
Instead , of feeling guilty if we take time off l let’s think of it as time ON – to replenish parched areas of our life.
• * * *
POETRY NOTE: My poem “Soliloquy In A Hi-Rise” has been accepted by Poemeleon Poetry Journal.
BOOK ENDS: “ARISING” and ‘ROLE PLAY” now available in E version as well as print at BookBaby.com and Amazon.com.

?

HOLIDAY HAZARD

February features a holiday that’s either sweet or bitter, depending where you are in your life. For those happily paired with a partner, Valentine’s Day can bring gifts that we translate into proof that we are loved. But what about those who are alone, victims of a death, divorce, or the breakup of a relationship?

The first Valentine’s Day after my husband died I told my bereavement counselor I’d never be hugged again. His response? “Put your arms around yourself.”
Cold comfort, I thought. Valentine’s Day isn’t supposed to be a game of solitaire. I had bought into the myth that being with anyone is better than being alone. I even wrote this into my novel ARISING, creating a heroine so needy she gets into two toxic affairs before discovering she has strength to stand on her own.
That first year I was advised to arrange some kind of socializing ahead of time. So I called a woman I knew who was single and  hawed dinner together. It became was a monologue of her miseries, that left me feeling even lonelier. That evening was a lesson: One plus one can add up to zero. In other words, we better choose our alternatives wisely.
I also made the myopic mistake of visualizing everyone else getting flowers or candy. Then one evening as I was trudging home from work, I stopped at a newsstand to buy a paper and noticed flowers being sold. I had never bought flowers for myself, but why not? I picked out a colorful bouquet of mixed flowers. “For your mama?” asked the newsman. “For me!” I announced – and that was the real beginning. The flowers I buy brighten my living room and my mood no matter who pays for them. I’ve also become shameless about devouring the Lady Godiva chocolates I treat myself to!
Perhaps the best antidote to loneliness is reaching beyond our self. I know a woman who makes a habit of calling one person each week who’s going through a bad time. A phone call doesn’t have to be lengthy. Just, “I’m thinking of you,” may be enough to let people know they’re not alone. Invariably we find that helping someone else boosts our spirits, too.
Valentine’s Day I will treat myself to a glass of wine and toast my ability to enjoy my own company. As the saying goes, “Alone means all-one.”
* * *
“ARISING” available in print and E version at BoonBaby.com and Amazon.com

MY SUBSTACK INVITATION

My hopefully balanced views of our lopsided world are now available on Substack! Thanks to those of you who have already signed on as subscribers. For those who’ve been loyal followers of my blogs, there’s no fee. You will be my guests!
The bimonthly posts will be a woman’s eye-view of the insane challenges we face every day, sprinkled with my offbeat humor. I’ll also continue to help with the unavoidable trauma of coping with loss, which I’ve written and spoken about (and lived) for years. For those of us who take refuge in books and films, I’ll include “you’ve got to read/see this.”
To join as a free subscriber to AnneH’s Substack, Email ahosansky@gmail.com.
Much to share. Stay tuned!

NEW YEAR THOUGHTS

I’m writing this brief blog the last day of 2023 as it becomes history. I can’t let the year fade without expressing my gratitude toward those of you who have been faithful followers of this blog and have taken time to let me know when my words are helpful. Unlike actors who reap immediate applause or boos, writers can only hope their words resonate with readers.
The blog before this one, for instance, about building bridges across our differences, drew one of the largest responses. I was moved by those who told me that my account of reaching out to the sister I’ve since lost inspired them to reach out to their own siblings or parents or children or friends. Being “inspired,” as many of you put it, works two ways. You, in turn, inspire me to continue sharing candidly.
By the time you read this it may already be a new year and I hope it’s one that gives each of you a renewed sense of purpose. I find there’s nothing so motivating as having something to look forward to, whether a new career step or simply Zoom with an old friend. So I’m happy to announce that I will be embarking on the year with a new venture! My blog series will be under the umbrella of Substack. Since you’re on my mailing list you will automatically become subscribers at no fee. I assure you that my messages will continue to be about the challenges we all face and ways we can triumph over them. More details to follow next year, which is only hours away.
It’s hard to feel optimistic with the world and our country in such troubled shape. But belief in a brighter future is the only view worth having. So with all my heart I wish each of you Health and Hope in the New Year.
ANNE

PRIVATE MIRACLES

PRIVATE MIRACLES

If there’s one word that gets ample use in December it’s ”miracle”- ¬ from the Chanukah phenomenon of oil to the litany of events leading to Christmas. We also tend to apply that label to miscellaneous things .(?My gift arrived in time – a miracle!”) But what does that word really mean? Turning to Webster I discovered that miracle is defined as “an extraordinary event,” usually with Divine assistance.
We overlook the fact that these phenomenal events may also occur with some help from us. “Make a miracle and marry me,” runs the lovelorn refrain in the old musical “Where’s Charley?”” This plea assumes that the object of affection has the power to make a miracle occur. But what are the limits? We can’t bring a loved one back to life, but what about resuscitating a seemingly dead relationship ? For personal ties don’t necessarily end with our mortality, but often in a burst of pent-up anger or the fog of misunderstanding, or they simply expire from neglect. “Some of my losses are still walking around,” a woman told me. She wasn’t referring to ghostly figures, but her divorced husband and estranged daughter. Losses that may be beyond our ability to repair.
Or are they?
A teacher I interviewed spoke about her prickly relationship with her sister. For most of their lives they tried to avoid each other. But when they were older they not only got together more often, but even managed to vacation together successfully. “We both love going to the mountains and we’re both vegetarians,” she told me. “ So I learned to maximize our overlap and let the rest go.”
That’s what I learned to do with my own sister. We had a close relationship, but it was as up-and-down as a roller-coaster.. We had grown up in a family where we competed for every scrap of affection or attention. As adults our love always had the static of competitiveness. Yet as we aged and were both widowed I faced the reality that she was my sole sibling, and the two of us were the only ones left of our original family. There was no one else I shared certain memories with or could ask,”Remember when…?” Swallowing my pride ,(why do I have to be the one to reach out?) I sent her a holiday card, and wote on it “I miss you.” I waited for sarcasm or ,worse, silence. But what arrived two days later was a simple Email: “I miss you, too.” It wasn’t perfect – what is? ¬¬¬¬¬- but we reclaimed the closeness we’d lost, with the wisdom to hold it gently. I’m grateful that we did, for my sister died three years ago. Her birthday is coming soon. (Ironically, she’ll never know the birthdate is now historic -¬January 6..)
I’m aware that reconciliation isn’t always possible and that it take two to navigate the shoals. Bringing any relationship back to life requires the strength to reach out without probing every wound., the willingness to see beyond the fog of accumulated resentments, and the wisdom to value what remains. Developing the ability to do this can be our personal miracle.
“““““““““`
WEBSITE: WWW.annehosansky.com

GIVING THANKS

My sister and I used to alternate hosting the Thanksgiving feast. We shared the same habit of asking guests to say one thing they were thankful for. On occasions when she was the host I’d say, “I’m thankful that I didn’t have to cook the dinner.” That always got a laugh, but I wouldn’t say the same thing now. My sister, my husband, and too many friends are missing. It’s difficult to feel very thankful. It’s even harder these days when we’re haunted by the suffering of relatives and strangers on both sides of the war in the Middle East.

Yet, what about the people who are with us? The first holiday after my husband died our grieving son told me, “I’m glad you’re still here.” I sai’SO am  I.” But when I remember that moment I find myself putting the emphasis on a single word: HERE. Being physically present doesn’t always mean being present with our mind and heart. I’m easily distracted by trivial details, as well as the inner undercurrent of “What if…?” (My husband were still here, my best friend wasn’t gone, etc.)

IN ThorntonWilder’s pognant play “OUR TOWN, the heroine dies but is given a chance to relive one day of her life. She chooses her 12thbirthday, a time when her parents and brither were still wit  her. Reaching out to her mother Emily is shoicked to see her too busy with her chores to pay attention to her daughter. When the same thing happens with her father Emily cries out, ”It all goes so fast…why didn’t we really look at one another?”

This Thanksgiving I will be a host again.  After any social evening I frequently feel as though I hadn’t been there. This year I’ill try to be aware of the sound of my friends’voices, the expressions on their faces, he look of pain or joy in their eyes – and to carry this within me through lonely winters.

Giving thanks isn’t limited to a special time, of course, That evening I’llL say my daily Gratitude Prayer, giving thanks for the major gifts in my life – and the smaller  blessings that too often slip by unnoticed.

A meanngful Holiday to all.

FINDING LIGHT IN DARKNESS

These are dark days, with death and destruction ravaging the Middle East and threatening to spread. So many people feel helpless and hopeless. But often it helps to know how someone in another horrific era managed to survive and even grow. Weeks ago I reached for a book I’d never gotten around to reading. It was a random choice, for I didn’t know what headlines were about to explode, but I couldn’t have found a more apt and inspiring book. It was Viktor Frankl’s classic, ”Man’s Search For Meaning.”

A Holocaust survivor, Frankl endured three years in concentration camps, suffering starvation, beatings, and – hardest – no way of knowing if his family was still alive. When he was finally liiberated he learned that his wife, parents and brother had been killed by the Nazis. (A sister escaped to Australia.)

What kept Frankl from being defeated by despair? How do any of us go on when the loss of even one beloved person can be unbearable? For him, the answer was the book he’d been writing before he was captured. The guards had destroyed his only manuscript, but Frankl refused to accept the loss of his work. In the darkened camp at night, he secretly scribbled notes on scraps of paper, that might enable him to reconstruct his book if he survived. Years later he was convinced that writing those notes saved him, for it gave “meaning” to his life. Frankl managed to rewrite his book and go on to write many others, spreading his belief in the necessity for everyone to create a personal meaning.

His story reminded me of a woman I’d interviewed whose sole remaining siiblling had died. Depressed, she wanted to hide under the blankets. Then she decided to plan  a commitment for each day that would include something or someone important to her. “Having a purpose enabled me to get out of bed each morning,”

I discovered this for myself after my husband died. At first the empty evenings and weekends were like black holes in the universe. But after several months I began to write about my husband’s valiant fight, our joint struggle to keep some hope, and at last my faltering steps toward a new life as a single woman. I wrote this as a journal, with no belief it would ever be read. What saved me wasn’t the ultimate publication of “Widow’s Walk,” but the hours writing it when I was so involved I forgot how lonely I was. There was something I needed to do.

Of course, meaning doesn’t have to be writing a book or creating something huge. Frankl stressed that what’s meaningful is different for each person. It varies not only from one individual to another, but from one day to the next! These turbulent times there are countless choices, from becoming involved in a global cause, to helping an elderly neighbor. What they have in common is the ability to direct your life. It’s what Frankl called “the last of the human freedoms.”

When everything else has been taken from us, he said, we still have the right to choose our “attitude” toward the circumstances nd “the right to choose our own way.”

Website: www.annehosansky.com
LATEST BOOK: “ARISING”, available at BookBaby.com and Amazon.

THE SHIIFTING SCENES OF FRIENDSHIP

 

For months after my husband died the phone was unusually silent. Even the friend I had chatted with several times a week didn’t call. When I  asked her if there was anything wrong she said, “Frankly, I’m afraid of your pain.”
I was angry at what I felt was abandonment, but I understood when a bereavement counselor explained that “someone’s death reminds people of their own mortality.”

Henry, a widower I interviewed, said bluntly, “We shouldn’t be bastards throwing our problems at friends or using them as therapists.” Wary of being seen as intrusive he always begins a call with, “Do you have time to chat?”

That’s sage advice but it assumes you  have your  old friends. Many of us find our social circle dwindling ,especially if it involves couples. The norm has been”two by two’ ever since Noah chose the pairs for his ark.” So often when we suggest an evening our friends dodge with, “Why don’t we have lunch instead?”. This may cover subterranean issues. As a candid widow told me, “Wives know that many men see widows as fair game.” She, herself, she added wryly,  ” keep my necklines and my fantasies discreet.”
It’s easier for widowers,since a single man is usually welcome, whereas a single woman isn;’t .We may even encounter this when our spouse is still alive.  I remember the time a ineighbor nvited Mel and me to a dinner party .I told her I would come but Mel was  ona business trip.”That’s too bad,” she said.”Another time.”
Fortunately not everyone has that conventional view. I bless the memory of Dorothy, a married friend, who invited me for every occasion.. The first tinme she did I told her I didn’t think Icshould come.”Theylre alll couoles and I’m on;ly half of one now,”I said,.
“Arenn’;tyou a whole person?” she shot back.
,But it takes time to feel whole again. It’s a skilll we have to practice.
We also have to learn that accepting offers of helip is not a sign of sweakness. During the first months I refused cliché offers asuch as,”Is there anything I can do to help?” I’d just murmur “Nothing” or lie that I was doing “fine.” (Me Big Strong Woman).But I realized that most people want to help and that they feel better when theylre allowed to. So I began accepting routine offers, such as “Need anything at the supermarket?” But the most appreciated gift was the offer to take the children for the day, freeing me for the wonders of the Metropolitan Museum! Yes it was a gift gjven to me, but it was also a gift I gave myself by not letting pride get in the way
There’s an even more valuable gift that friends can guive– and that we, in tiurn, can give to them. It doesn’t cost any money or take much effort. It’s the willingness to listen – with empathy and jwithgout judgment. It isn’tnecessary to reply or to come up with answers (aret here anyy?) Just knowing that someone really hears s us is the greatest gift and the truest friendship.
Websitte: http://annehosansky.com
New book! “ARISING” available in print and E-version
at BookBaby and Amazon

SISU

I feel as if I’ve found treasure when I learn a new word, so I was  delighted to discover sisu (pronounced see-su).  It’a  a word  that’s so important in Finland it’s become part of the national culture.  I don’t know Finnish,  but I do understand – and desire – the qualities the word embodies:  determination, perseverance, courage . That doesn’t mean momentary bravery, but the ability to remain courageous in the face of overwhelming odds.

            This brings  me to my husband.  When he was given a stark diagnosis Mel said , “I don’t like the cards I’ve been dealt but I’ll  play the hand the best I can.” That’s not only courage, it’s what Hemingway famously called “grace under pressure.”

            Is there anyone who doesn’t have to cope with pressure of one kind or another? Some of us fold up under it. I confess that my original reaction to my husband’s illness was a tearful, “Why us?”  He said, ”Why not us?”

            The Finnish soldiers revere the concept of sisu and believe it gave them the fortitude  to  fight the powerful Soviet  army in 1939 and perseverance during months of  dangerous sub-zero weather.

But challenges don’t have to be historic or life-threatening, they can be wrapped in any ordinary moment.  How about the sngle mother coming home from a long day in the office,­­­ ­“too tired toto do anything but crawl into bed,” as a friend put it,  yet summoning strength  to give  her children the undivided attention they need? The Finns understand that as “calling on your sisu.”

            And what about writers who get a discouraging series of rejections? Their sisu isn’t the ultimate publication, but the detrmination to keep going to the computer each day. For sisu doesn’t mean the goal, but what you do to reach it.

            On a far more major scale, what about those of us who have to endure the loss of a loved one? Do we see ourselves as helpless (and hopeless)  victims ­– or do we find  the strength within ourselves to move on?

            Another personal note: Six weeks after Mel lost his valiant battle I heard that one of our favorite poets, Stanley Kunitz, was giving a reading in the public library. In a wrenching struggle I decided to go to the reading for both Mel and myself.  I was numb, could barely hear a word Kunitz read.  But without realizing it,  I was taking a sisu step toward a necessary new life.

            For ultimately sisu means refusing to accept your limits, then willing yourself  to go beyond them.

Website: www.annehosansky.com

Latest book: ARISING, available at BookBaby.com and Amazon.