Damn it, Rona. This morning I woke up groggier than usual (a tough yoga class yesterday), forgot that it was our wedding anniversary (we both did - at 62 years married, it really doesn't matter much - we did remember an hour later and Ray said, with his usual British humour, that all in all I had been a pretty good wife all these years)) and I thought perhaps, just perhaps, I will give Rona a miss this week.
But I couldn't resist the little peek and, of course, was captured, once again, by it all. I didn't know the story, but I liked the sentiment you so beautifully built up. AND then, something caught my eye at the bottom and I went to see what it was and there you are, being so generous again.
For anyone who doesn't know this, Rona Maynard is not only one of the best writers on Substack but also one of the most generous.
OH how this resonated with me, how I needed to read this today. Three days ago "we" received update from a long time friend who had just received a stem cell transplant on March 30th. "WE" being a group of six gals and guys who had become fast friends on campus in our first year of university almost 50 years ago and had always remained in touch. OF course that six now has spouses which makes a neat dozen.
His message was that a bone marrow biopsy had been performed two days prior due to a rise in T cells in the daily blood work. Shockingly after four weeks the CLL leukemia is back in an aggressive form. Other than trying to buy time, there is nothing left, time being hopefully a year to 18 months.
WE are all reeling but also are springing into action to plan a group meeting in a few weeks with a few coming from across the country. How it will look remains to be seen. My heart of course goes out to one of the guys in the group as he has been friends with our ailing friend for most of their lives.
At this age and stage of life I refer to it as us having arrived at the "stage of loss", which while it raises our awareness of how the time we have left is a small fraction of what lies behind us, does this make an impending loss any easier? Not at all, but it does reinforce it.
Liz, I am so sorry for this blow to your friend and all of you who love him. In your anticipatory grief, you share the knowledge of a rare and indelible bond. You are right about this stage of life. I no longer fear my own death, but the loss of people I love is shattering.
I currently have long covid. I find myself clinging. to my husband to be my brain, to my dogs for comfort, and to my many doctors for hope. Thank you for another beautiful essay.
A poignant piece. Thank you Rona. I wake at dawn and sit in my window rocker gazing out over Lake Erie at the Canadian shore. I read words that breathe hope into my day before bracing for the political onslaught of hate and attacks that have occurred while I slept. The voices of our lost mothers, dogs and country are heard in your writing. As well as my own.
Lovely, poetic musing. I wish there were a way to underline the lines I liked most.. here are a few that I like so much I will quote them at some point in my written concert introductions, or refer back to them when my next loss happens.
"My sad, soft existence didn’t feed my craving for purpose.
"But at our stage, the mid-70s, the loss of anything you treasure has deep reverberations." I'm a bit younger than this, but oh yes I feel that.
"The capacity to hold on, the story tells us, is part of our common humanity. We die not knowing when the living will take heart from our memory. "
"We hold others up without knowing the difference that we make. "
And my favorite I think: "Stories fall like ripe apples into open hands. My words shook them loose, wind ruffling the tree. Holding onto another person’s story can be all the permission you need to release your own."
I have been collecting in my mind all the stories I will soon begin to write.
Julie, I never imagined I might be part of anyone’s concert introductions. What an honor. Thank you for your attentive and heartfelt reading these last many months.
My mother’s mind is draining away, taking all the spiky parts of her personality with it. I actually miss the way she used to launch into a litany of complaints about me—isn’t that odd? But it’s who she was. Losing her in these chunks is a daily certainty. I am trying to rise to the occasion. Or, maybe, better said, I am rising to the occasion.
I really appreciate your stories and the quality of your writing. Thank you.
Alexandra, dementia runs in my family. It’s terribly hard to rise to the occasion day after day, year after year. I’m delighted to know my writing makes a difference to you.
I adore this. I didn’t see it coming as I was listening to you and noodling around my house slowly.
I gasped when you reported on your mother’s, “how interesting,” comment. I think it’s almost exactly what my grandmother said of her brain cancer. And she was also relieved it wasn’t dementia. Then lamented all those crossword puzzles as maybe not necessary to stave off dementia.
Jessie, how lovely that you puttered around hearing my voice. I am happy to be part of your day. Dementia was my mother’s idea of the worst way to go. It gives me comfort to know that she and your grandmother had the same reaction to their diagnosis.
Holy guacamole. Your writing, and I've only read this one piece, had me at the first syllable. I saw the name "Maynard," but it never occurred to me. Yet, in one of several of your sister's books that I've read recently, it struck me how she mentioned, perhaps even in passing, her sister's gift for writing. Well that's the understatement of the year. Welcome to my reading world, Rona Maynard. If I had any doubts, they are held in abeyance--life is good.
What a gift to have found you in my inbox today. You know how you got here? I've been writing essays on Substack on and off, but mostly on, for four years. The other night, in an attempt to rustle up more readers, I started trying to navigate the world of Substack Notes, which apparently is where I found you. Good on me.
Oh, so you didn’t find me through Joyce (hundreds did). I’m delighted to meet you. Thank you for your generous comments on my writing. By the way, I loved being greeted with “holy guacamole.”
“Stories fall like ripe apples into open hands. My words shook them loose, wind ruffling the tree. Holding onto another person’s story can be all the permission you need to release your own.”
Thanks for this! Love the idea that we’re all holding to someone’s coattails to make it through.
Beautiful! A reminder that that sometimes God guides us directly and sometimes, sometimes he guides us through others. Loving one another sometimes looks like extending our courage to quiet the other’s fear. And sometimes sharing our deepest fear is the reminder the other needs to lean on their courage.
I go to a warmer place than Toronto for six months every year. It is as vital to my life at 72 as the sun is to a plant. I have friends and a life there I treasure, like you had in Florida. If you are choosing a new direction for yourself, you could consider Merida, Mexico. I would be there with you. I am currently in my Canadian home on Lake Muskoka.
Merida less expensive than Toronto and like Toronto is a very culturally rich environment. Cuĺture is so available and so accessible. Often even free! It is why we love it so very much. The six months of winter flies by. I would be honored to help you with your decision if you have questions. We usually fly direct Toronto/ Merida or Toronto/ Cancun. We have done the drive there and back once, so could talk about that too if that is necessary for you because of the dog. Hope to be of help to you.
I know you once travelled with your mom and sister to Oaxaca. We've been there five times between 2017 and 2024, and I mention it as another place you might consider. If you'd like to know more about what Oaxaca is like these days, I'd be happy to share my thoughts.
And now I'm intrigued by Merida! Numerous cultural venues in Oaxaca, too ... and many of them free as well. (We spend no more than four weeks there; March would prove too hot for us.)
A beautiful piece, Rona. I lost both of my parents when I was in my late 20’s and early 30’s. I miss them both every single day but I often hear their voices. Whether it be something they would be proud of or a gentle reprimand about something they perhaps wouldn’t approve of. They are always there, in my heart, everywhere I go.
Rona, love this so much. It’s powerful and moving, especially as I sit here in the Midwest, less than five miles from where George Floyd was murdered. Where I contemplate moving north of the border. My husband’s death came two years ago, and my 22-year-old cat won’t be here forever. We are not alone in our sorrows. But there is always the hope that we can make that leap forward. Much gratitude for sharing these beautiful stories every week.
Damn it, Rona. This morning I woke up groggier than usual (a tough yoga class yesterday), forgot that it was our wedding anniversary (we both did - at 62 years married, it really doesn't matter much - we did remember an hour later and Ray said, with his usual British humour, that all in all I had been a pretty good wife all these years)) and I thought perhaps, just perhaps, I will give Rona a miss this week.
But I couldn't resist the little peek and, of course, was captured, once again, by it all. I didn't know the story, but I liked the sentiment you so beautifully built up. AND then, something caught my eye at the bottom and I went to see what it was and there you are, being so generous again.
For anyone who doesn't know this, Rona Maynard is not only one of the best writers on Substack but also one of the most generous.
Thank you.
My pleasure, Ann. I am glad to know you.
This week I heard a quote that I’ll treasure. It may be well known. I’d never heard it. Its spirit echoes what you’ve captured so eloquently here.
“We are all walking each other home.”
A writer of my acquaintance has often used this line. I thought it originated with him and wish I had thought of it, but credit goes to Ram Dass.
OH how this resonated with me, how I needed to read this today. Three days ago "we" received update from a long time friend who had just received a stem cell transplant on March 30th. "WE" being a group of six gals and guys who had become fast friends on campus in our first year of university almost 50 years ago and had always remained in touch. OF course that six now has spouses which makes a neat dozen.
His message was that a bone marrow biopsy had been performed two days prior due to a rise in T cells in the daily blood work. Shockingly after four weeks the CLL leukemia is back in an aggressive form. Other than trying to buy time, there is nothing left, time being hopefully a year to 18 months.
WE are all reeling but also are springing into action to plan a group meeting in a few weeks with a few coming from across the country. How it will look remains to be seen. My heart of course goes out to one of the guys in the group as he has been friends with our ailing friend for most of their lives.
At this age and stage of life I refer to it as us having arrived at the "stage of loss", which while it raises our awareness of how the time we have left is a small fraction of what lies behind us, does this make an impending loss any easier? Not at all, but it does reinforce it.
Liz, I am so sorry for this blow to your friend and all of you who love him. In your anticipatory grief, you share the knowledge of a rare and indelible bond. You are right about this stage of life. I no longer fear my own death, but the loss of people I love is shattering.
I currently have long covid. I find myself clinging. to my husband to be my brain, to my dogs for comfort, and to my many doctors for hope. Thank you for another beautiful essay.
Tommie, that sounds so hard. I’m glad you are surrounded with love and am honored to be part of your world.
Beautiful, the stage of loss
So sorry. Make every day count
A poignant piece. Thank you Rona. I wake at dawn and sit in my window rocker gazing out over Lake Erie at the Canadian shore. I read words that breathe hope into my day before bracing for the political onslaught of hate and attacks that have occurred while I slept. The voices of our lost mothers, dogs and country are heard in your writing. As well as my own.
I wish we could meet. We are not far apart in miles. But in needless trouble, a world apart.
Let me know when you are at/having an author event! I
Nothing planned but I am glad to know of your interest.
A writing retreat on Lake Ontario! I love Toronto. I'm a great fan on Anne Michaels.
Lovely, poetic musing. I wish there were a way to underline the lines I liked most.. here are a few that I like so much I will quote them at some point in my written concert introductions, or refer back to them when my next loss happens.
"My sad, soft existence didn’t feed my craving for purpose.
"But at our stage, the mid-70s, the loss of anything you treasure has deep reverberations." I'm a bit younger than this, but oh yes I feel that.
"The capacity to hold on, the story tells us, is part of our common humanity. We die not knowing when the living will take heart from our memory. "
"We hold others up without knowing the difference that we make. "
And my favorite I think: "Stories fall like ripe apples into open hands. My words shook them loose, wind ruffling the tree. Holding onto another person’s story can be all the permission you need to release your own."
I have been collecting in my mind all the stories I will soon begin to write.
Julie, I never imagined I might be part of anyone’s concert introductions. What an honor. Thank you for your attentive and heartfelt reading these last many months.
My mother’s mind is draining away, taking all the spiky parts of her personality with it. I actually miss the way she used to launch into a litany of complaints about me—isn’t that odd? But it’s who she was. Losing her in these chunks is a daily certainty. I am trying to rise to the occasion. Or, maybe, better said, I am rising to the occasion.
I really appreciate your stories and the quality of your writing. Thank you.
Alexandra, dementia runs in my family. It’s terribly hard to rise to the occasion day after day, year after year. I’m delighted to know my writing makes a difference to you.
I’ve been clinging too tightly to traditional views of gender. My teenaged daughter is challenging me in all the ways.
I love the way you phrased the part about stories triggering the release and sharing of other stories. That is indeed where the magic happens!
Mothers and daughters! It’s easier with sons, says this mom of one boy.
I adore this. I didn’t see it coming as I was listening to you and noodling around my house slowly.
I gasped when you reported on your mother’s, “how interesting,” comment. I think it’s almost exactly what my grandmother said of her brain cancer. And she was also relieved it wasn’t dementia. Then lamented all those crossword puzzles as maybe not necessary to stave off dementia.
Jessie, how lovely that you puttered around hearing my voice. I am happy to be part of your day. Dementia was my mother’s idea of the worst way to go. It gives me comfort to know that she and your grandmother had the same reaction to their diagnosis.
Holy guacamole. Your writing, and I've only read this one piece, had me at the first syllable. I saw the name "Maynard," but it never occurred to me. Yet, in one of several of your sister's books that I've read recently, it struck me how she mentioned, perhaps even in passing, her sister's gift for writing. Well that's the understatement of the year. Welcome to my reading world, Rona Maynard. If I had any doubts, they are held in abeyance--life is good.
What a gift to have found you in my inbox today. You know how you got here? I've been writing essays on Substack on and off, but mostly on, for four years. The other night, in an attempt to rustle up more readers, I started trying to navigate the world of Substack Notes, which apparently is where I found you. Good on me.
Oh, so you didn’t find me through Joyce (hundreds did). I’m delighted to meet you. Thank you for your generous comments on my writing. By the way, I loved being greeted with “holy guacamole.”
“Stories fall like ripe apples into open hands. My words shook them loose, wind ruffling the tree. Holding onto another person’s story can be all the permission you need to release your own.”
Thanks for this! Love the idea that we’re all holding to someone’s coattails to make it through.
Yes, and the person you hold onto today could be holding onto you tomorrow.
Beautiful! A reminder that that sometimes God guides us directly and sometimes, sometimes he guides us through others. Loving one another sometimes looks like extending our courage to quiet the other’s fear. And sometimes sharing our deepest fear is the reminder the other needs to lean on their courage.
Anna, I like your observation about the link between fear and courage. Thank you for sharing this insight.
I go to a warmer place than Toronto for six months every year. It is as vital to my life at 72 as the sun is to a plant. I have friends and a life there I treasure, like you had in Florida. If you are choosing a new direction for yourself, you could consider Merida, Mexico. I would be there with you. I am currently in my Canadian home on Lake Muskoka.
Diane, Mexico is one of the destinations we’re considering. Less expensive than Florida, too.
Merida less expensive than Toronto and like Toronto is a very culturally rich environment. Cuĺture is so available and so accessible. Often even free! It is why we love it so very much. The six months of winter flies by. I would be honored to help you with your decision if you have questions. We usually fly direct Toronto/ Merida or Toronto/ Cancun. We have done the drive there and back once, so could talk about that too if that is necessary for you because of the dog. Hope to be of help to you.
You drove from Toronto to Merida? That’s quite an adventure. Thank you for your kind offer.
I know you once travelled with your mom and sister to Oaxaca. We've been there five times between 2017 and 2024, and I mention it as another place you might consider. If you'd like to know more about what Oaxaca is like these days, I'd be happy to share my thoughts.
Visiting Oaxaca is on my bucket list. I especially love the ethnic clothing of that state.
My mother loved the pottery.
And now I'm intrigued by Merida! Numerous cultural venues in Oaxaca, too ... and many of them free as well. (We spend no more than four weeks there; March would prove too hot for us.)
Thank you, Dan. I remember Oaxaca with affection.
A beautiful piece, Rona. I lost both of my parents when I was in my late 20’s and early 30’s. I miss them both every single day but I often hear their voices. Whether it be something they would be proud of or a gentle reprimand about something they perhaps wouldn’t approve of. They are always there, in my heart, everywhere I go.
It may be a cliche, but relationships really do continue after death. And thank goodness.
Rona, love this so much. It’s powerful and moving, especially as I sit here in the Midwest, less than five miles from where George Floyd was murdered. Where I contemplate moving north of the border. My husband’s death came two years ago, and my 22-year-old cat won’t be here forever. We are not alone in our sorrows. But there is always the hope that we can make that leap forward. Much gratitude for sharing these beautiful stories every week.
Thank you, Mary, for this heart-filling comment. Thinking of you and your sweet Mini.
I'm holding onto the hand of "my possibly imaginary Friend," who was also a Jewish rabbi, or so I'm told, and when my hand slips, He holds on to me. https://thehappynarcissist.wpcomstaging.com/2022/05/08/what-a-friend/
Thank you, Majik, for extending the conversation. The surest hand is bound to slip now and then.
Except for His, Rona, thank God!
I’m getting this beautiful book of stories that you’ve written about this simple Sunday morning. ❤️
Wonderful. I hope you enjoy it.
I already love it just from the story you told about your mother loving it and also the story you shared from this precious book.
Our stories do matter and especially when chaos surrounds us. They expose our commonalities helping us to feel less alone in times of uncertainty.
I lije to think our commonalities are greater than our differences even now.