Living My Inspired Life Archives - Page 25 of 29 - Sacred Healing of Grief Wounds

Learn How to Give Thanks

Being a Southern girl, I was taught to always give thanks to those who help me. Some of the ways you’ve helped me are; opening my door, listening to my laments, signing up for my newsletter, giving me a difficult message, even literally saving my life. Thank you. There, I’ve lived up to my heritage’s expectation. But is that all there is to learn about giving thanks?

Why Bother Giving Thanks?

I believe everyone benefits from thanks; those who give, those who receive, and those bearing witness. Our energy is greatly affected by the energy that surrounds us. Like attracts like. Grateful feelings grow as they move from one person to the next. And gratitude is so easy to include in your life. Sometimes it shows up as a smile. Try smiling when you don’t have a reason. How does it make you feel? For me, tension leaves and lightness comes in.

When someone is nearby to receive my smile, it magnifies my joy. I have no way of knowing what they are feeling, but often I see their face change. Their eyes light up and their lips lift and broaden into an easy smile. The energy in the room goes up a notch for everyone.

Although it may seem counterintuitive, also remember to thank yourself too.

How do you give thanks to yourself?

Do something nice just for you. As in all things, this is particular to you. By learning to listen to yourself, specific ways you can thank yourself will show up. Think back on occasions when you were alone and happy. Chances are you were showing gratitude for yourself. Examples include window shopping, reading a good book in a cozy chair, stopping to smell a fragrant flower, taking a walk in a garden, choosing a colorful ink pen over utilitarian black, or treating yourself to a luxurious pedicure.

Today I choose to have a pedicure

The first task is selecting the nail polish. There was a wall of choices and the only thing I knew was that I wanted something neutral. I needed help to make such an ‘important’ decision, so I decided to call on my intuition. My gaze scanned through three displays and rested on an OPI bottle. I lifted it to feel the weight, turning it over to see the name, ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’. That cinched the decision.

Carrying my selection to the row of relaxing combination massage chair and pedicure sinks, I selected the next empty seat. The technician, Thi, handed me a menu of pedicure flavors; basic, VIP deluxe, or pearl powder. The high-end pearl powder called my name at first, but once again I checked in with my inner voice and selected the mid-range VIP deluxe. There was a long list of scents. The first choice, ‘High Seas’ seemed appropriate to honor my upcoming cruise.

Once Thi completed the tedious nail trimming, she applied a soothing cleanser, massaging my tired calves and feet. I drifted into a state of nirvana, lulled by the lilting Asian conversation in the background. Before I knew it, Thi was gently rousting me from my dreamlike state. She continued pampering me, treating me like a special person. The calmness in my heart during the pedicure stayed with me the rest of the day.

Once you start living in gratitude, almost everything tends to improve.

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Research in a Historic Library

Fifty years ago I was starting my summer vacation, already looking forward to my junior year in high school. Certainly, I was completely unaware how the start of school would impact the rest of my life. On the first day of the 1969-1970 school calendar, I met a man who would eventually be the love of my life. But when did school start that year? It sounds like an easy question to answer. It is not. I scanned my own memory and asked my 90-year-old mother, whose memory is incredible. We both believed school had started early, before Labor Day, sometime during my high school years, but we couldn’t be sure when. Then I remembered my genealogical research in a historic library. Perhaps it might hold the key to answer my question.

Posing the Question multiple ways

Next, I posted on a group page on Facebook looking for the answer.

“Call the high school and ask for the principal. They’ll know.”
“Ask the school board. They keep that information.”
“My birthday is August 27th and I remember we started school early before Labor Day and it ruined my birthday.”

I pursued talking to the school board, contacting Community Relations first. They were very helpful, but didn’t keep that type of information. They thought the high school might help me. Once again, each person I spoke with was very willing to help, but they just didn’t have the information.

One Closed Door Opens Another

It occurred to me that the Polk County History Center in Bartow, the county seat, might help, providing an opportunity to pursue research in a historic library. I called and was switched to the Historical and Genealogical Library on the second floor.

“This is your lucky day!” Dorinda Morrison-Garrard, Senior Library Assistant, responded to my question. “We have minutes from school board meetings that someone painstakingly digitized for us. Let me transfer you to Preston in that section.”

Hearing those words, it seemed the clouds parted and a stream of light shone on me alone. That’s a little over-dramatic, but I did feel excited about the prospect of Preston calling me back with the actual date. I explained I was headed a little farther south to visit a friend in hospice, and I would swing by afterward, the last hour they were open. Preston explained he wasn’t sure exactly which years were in the collection. He would research and call me if he found the answer I was seeking.

The Lure of Historic Libraries

He didn’t call back, but I had promised to stop by. Since I love libraries, especially research in a historic library, I plugged in the address on my iPhone Google Maps app and set off for Bartow.

There’s something about old Southern Government Courthouse buildings that call me to them. The original county courthouse in Bartow where the History Center is located is one of them. Sitting in the car, parked right by the building, I look up the steps to the columns surrounding the tall wooden double doors. There is a skip in my step as I head to the side entrance. The receptionist is away from her station, but I remember Dorinda reminded me they are on the second floor. I see a map of the building layout and pick one up, just in case. I was really looking for the bathrooms, but anticipation sends me upstairs.

As I step out of the elevator, the Historical and Genealogical Library is just to my left. It’s familiar to me from looking up property maps with my grandparents’ names showing not only the property where I grew up, but the original property where my father spent his earliest years, less than a mile from my current home.

The Excitement of the Hunt is Contagious

Dorinda meets me at the entrance, knowing I’m the person who called. She is as excited as I am.

“We have the Lakeland Ledger right here on the microfilm reader. I think this will help your research.”

Ah, microfilm! I spent many hours at these machines before the Internet exploded, offering up multiple ways to explore historical fact-finding missions on my 5 year hunt for my ancestors back in the 1980’s. Dorinda gives me some pointers on using the reader, but the article I seek is on the screen, “School Opening Pretty Normal”. I had forgotten about the desegregation countywide in 1969. Haines City schools were on the pilot program, which started a few years earlier. The newspaper date was Wednesday, September 3, 1969 and the article referred to opening day on Tuesday. Mystery solved. My husband and I can celebrate meeting fifty years ago this coming September 2nd. And I have a verified date for my memoir. You know I couldn’t stop there. That was too easy. And I’m in a History and Genealogical Library!

The Final Step in My Research

At least three people believe we started school before Labor Day. Therefore, I thank Dorinda and then ask if she could retrieve microfilm from the last week of August in 1970. She’s delighted to help me and quickly brings back the requested spool. Dorinda demonstrates how to thread the microfilm reader and I’m off. I quickly scan the article titles, trying hard to not be distracted by all the interesting information; Erma Bombeck’s daily column, articles that have my hometown of Dundee in the title, familiar names that pop out on the page. The spool is quickly filling on the take-up reel. Then I see it. There is an advertisement for buying school supplies early, with the words, “School starts on August 31st”. It isn’t a solid piece of reporting, but worth investigating.

Quickly, I Google ‘calendar august 1970’ and there it is. Labor Day falls on September 7th, with a full week of school running from Monday, August 31st through Friday, September 4th. Verified. My greatest desire at that moment is to continue looking at microfilm or wander through the stacks. I ask where the bathroom is instead. That’s how exciting it is for me to perform research. It is more important than physical need. It gives me joy.

Pulling out my iPhone calendar as I walk to the bathroom door, I scan, looking for an empty day in the coming weeks, when I can return to more research in a historic library.

Closing a Chapter in My Life

The past 10 days, I’ve flown from Florida to Denver, driven 200 miles to my mother’s home with my sister and son, filtered through mountains of paperwork, pulling out the memories my mother saved, tossed 20 tall kitchen garbage bags, filled 30 boxes of things I couldn’t part with, carefully added a few pieces of furniture and ironwork my late father handcrafted, and now I’m driving a 16’ moving truck (with my 37-year-old son as wingman) the 2,400 miles back to the county where I was born and my husband, 90-year-old mother, and dogs are waiting for me.

Visiting a Sacred Place

The last thing we did before my sister flew back to Orlando was to walk up to the clearing among the rocks where Mom and I spread my father’s ashes in 2015. Just last year I could still see remnants in the dry desert soil. Now it seemed the landscape had changed the past twelve months, but I found my intersecting landmarks; a dead piñon pine and the outcropping where my husband and I exchanged our marriage vows exactly three years ago. A sagebrush had doubled in size just outside the small circle rimmed with rocks, placed with love and care. Each of us scooped up a few spoonfuls of sand to take home, placing them in emptied spice containers from the kitchen cabinet. I thought, “The remnants of the spice or herb will add an exotic hint when we open them later.”

Leaving is Hard for Everyone

Neighbors helped us load our belongings in the rented moving truck, handshakes and hugs completed the task. One special friend remained behind, visiting in the living room where she had listened to my Mother’s stories about Florida and the many backpacking and later RV trips she and my Dad had taken over the 65 years they were together. The friend and I held each other tight, soothing our sobs with mutual back rubs. We dried our tears on our sleeves and as I held the screen door, she said, “Text me every morning and night you are on the road. And give Sue a big hug from me!”

One Last Look

With the truck packed, we could have jumped in and started our journey. We were drawn to the high rock behind the house, dubbed La Garita Rock by the locals.

Larry said, “Let’s make one more trip up there, Mom.”

La Garita - Lookout Rock — La Garita – Lookout Rock

I found an old cane to steady myself as I carefully placed my hiking boots amongst the prickly pear and hedgehog cactus with their bright orange-red blossoms opening in the waning light. Working slowly toward the summit, we turned and surveyed the view. The northern section of the San Luis Valley laid out before us, the Great Sand Dunes clearly seen 60 miles to the east at the base of the snow-capped Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Just below us to the left stood the house my parents lived in during their retirement of 30 years. Moving toward the right I saw the historic church just outside the gate to my parent’s property, Capilla San Juan Bautista. The new red metal roof in sharp contrast to the white stucco on the thick adobe walls. Just beyond, the metal gate of the Carnero Creek Cemetery with scores of white crosses within.

The place will pass from the Anderson’s to the next family, but the memories and friends we’ve made will always live in our hearts. I know I’ll return soon…