Tag: Betsy

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The Recital by Betsy

It was 1944. In Europe bombs were falling; in London, but mostly in Berlin. The Allies were preparing to invade Normandy. I didn’t know any of this at the time. My parents didn’t think it would be good for a 7 year old to know about the horrors of war–not the details anyway. Everyone knew there was a war going on across the ocean. I knew about rationing, I even had my own book of savings stamps, there was never enough gas to go anywhere, but otherwise the war didn’t really effect my life. Life for me in 1944 was pretty normal.

I had recently started piano lessons. My grandmother, an accomplished musician, had hoped that the talent she had perhaps had skipped a generation and maybe all the music genes had descended into my being.

Life was normal until I got into my piano lessons. My teacher had escaped the war in Europe and, I suspect, had escaped the Holocaust. Of course, at the time we didn’t know there was a holocaust going on, and if we had known, adults certainly weren’t going to talk about it in the presence of children. The war in Europe had effected my teacher’s life all right. I suspect she still had loved ones suffering in concentration camps, or maybe they were already dead. Maybe for her making a living in a strange country in hard times was barely endurable. But I sensed my teacher’s insecurity and volatility. I did not want to make her life more difficult by being unable to perform.

“You must count!” screamed my teacher. “One and two and three and one and two and three and. I turn on the metronome, yes?”

“Tick, tock, tick, tock,” chanted the metronome. “We are running out of time. Recital coming, recital coming,” chanted teacher.

“Maybe my mother will tell me it’s okay just to play the right notes. Don’t worry about the counting at the same time,” I thought.

Am I ready for a recital? Mommy will know.

My mother assured me I was ready for the recital. After all. My velvet dress was back from the cleaners and we would soon go to the city to buy some Mary Janes and socks with lace cuffs. My hair was the perfect length for braiding. Everything was in perfect order for the recital, my mother assured me.

Everything but the music. I was to play three pieces: Marilyn Dances, A Soldier’s March, and In an English Country Garden. I actually had no idea whether or not I would be able to get through those pieces. I have to wonder if my teacher had any idea if I could get through them.

My mother was confident that everything would be perfect. After all, she was in charge of seeing that I was properly clothed and she herself would be doing the braids.

This particular occasion called for braids with rolls. The first step is to divide the hair in 1/6th’s perfectly symmetrical and each 6th–that is, each hank–being perfectly equal in volume. Mother would then roll the front hanks to form rolls of hair directly above the ears. The remainder of the hank is then braided into the other two hanks. “One and two and three and,” as she deftly wove the hair together into two smooth, perfect braids. I could only hope that in a few hours my hands would move as smoothly and deftly over the piano keys as hers moved as she worked my hair.

The day arrived. I was ready–braids with rolls in place, velvet dress with lace collar, shiny patent leather Mary Janes, socks with lace cuffs. I couldn’t have been more ready–except for being scared stiff. Would Marilyn dance, would the soldier march, would the garden flourish? Or would they all just die there on the stage in front of all those people.

Interesting that I remember such detail about my outward appearance. What I don’t remember is how I performed the music and how I felt after the recital. I guess to my mother–and therefore to me–that was an incidental of minor importance. And perhaps that explains why this was my first–and last recital.
© 8 Oct. 2011

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Wisdom – A Recipe by Betsy

1/2 cup fresh information
1 lb. knowledge
3 quarts experience
1T time
1T sage
pinch of spice
Mull information until clear.  Add time and sage. In a large pot simmer the
3 quarts of experience for several minutes, then add the knowledge. When the
knowledge is well blended with the experience stir in the fresh, mulled,
clarified information.  Continue
simmering for a long, long, time, stirring slowly and constantly to keep the
mixture from curdling. 
Allow ingredients to blend for a
few years before serving.  Then, when the
time is right serve with a flair by
adding spice and color to your presentation.

© 22 June 2014 

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Competition — In the End There Are No Losers by Betsy

I have heard many people often declare themselves to be very competitive. “I am a very competitive person, they declare. Maybe that’s why I love sports.” 

I examined this statement when I approached this topic because I am one of those people who loves sports, but, I find myself somewhat reticent to declare myself to be “competitive” by nature. “Why is it,” I ask myself, that I am hesitant to call myself competitive. After some deep soul-searching I find that the answer is very simple really. Being a competitive person means one is a person who likes to win. So, I surmise, when a person declares him or herself or another person to be a competitive person, now I know, deep-down the real meaning of that declaration. That person likes to win. 
Surely, I am not that person, AM I?
Think about it. Surely “being a competitive person does not mean you like to lose. Well, for that matter, does anyone like to lose? 
I honestly believe that some people do not care as much as others. “Why is that?” I ask. Why is it so important for some and not for others? 
Are we talking about only sports here? In our culture winning in sports is very important. However, some of us learn, hopefully, that how we play the game and being a good loser–being a good sport–is ultimately the most important factor. After all, in sports competition, 50% of the participants have to lose. That’s a lot of losers. 
Watching the recent Olympic Games in Sochi, the difference between the silver medalists who considered themselves winners and those who were devastated because they missed out on the gold medal was notable.
The Olympics is an awesome display of the competitive spirit. I do believe that one must want to win to dedicate him or herself to the rigors of years of training and then hold up to the pressures of the moment (often measured in one hundredths of a second). I consider it an achievement of greatness just to be on the team. 
So I guess what it boils down to is another question to ask myself. “What is winning? What does WINNING mean for me?” The simple answer: in sports ultimately it means being the best I can be–in ALL ways–including being a good loser but having played the best I could at the time. I have found myself being completely outmatched on the tennis court–overwhelmed. A very humbling experience and put the competition into perspective. The best I can do at a time like that is just stand back and clap. But put in the right perspective I do not believe the humbling experience ever hurt anyone really. 
I think the same rules apply in other areas of life as well. There’s plenty of competition out there for jobs, promotions, rewards, recognition, etc. But competition is simplified in sports and games. There’s a score, a final decider, a winner and a loser.
In other areas of life there’s politics, emotional dynamics, prejudices that enter into the outcome of the competition. And who is the decider of the outcome? That’s beyond our control usually.
I guess what is really important in competition is attitude. When I do not come out the gold medal winner in an event, whether it is sports or anything else, life does go on.
And going on with a bad attitude or a chip on my shoulder or feeling the victim is certainly not going to buy me anything positive or self-enhancing in the future, is it?
Why do we play games and participate in sports activities? Certainly not to make ourselves feel miserable. Yet I have seen plenty of times people who pay lots of money to do something that in the end has made them feel miserable because they did not win. 
Seems like kind of a risky use of good money. Would it not be a better use of funds to buy some kind of entertainment such as a play or good concert? But on the other hand in THOSE kinds of activities there is no potential for the glory of winning. 
So perhaps the truth is that in the end competition in games and sports provides a structure for an artificial prop for the EGO. There it is again! The ego–its ugly head pops up once again. 
My experiences at losing in competitions and my writing exercises are a constant reminder: “Betsy, keep your ego and yourself separate. They are not one in the same thing. My studies of Eckhart Tolle’s writing have taught me that. A good lesson indeed and one to be remembered at all times. Because in the end there really are no losers.

© 14 April 2014

 About the Author


Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Road Trip by Betsy

The most interesting thing about my road trip has been the choices that I have been presented with along the way. When the road is straight and does not branch off, die out, or deviate in any way, there are no choices for the most part and one simply follows the road until one has the opportunity to choose a different direction. On my life journey I mostly followed the main road, diligently conforming and meeting societal expectations.

A few times I have been presented with the choice to take a turn and I followed a road that goes in another direction–a road the final destination of which was unknown to me. For a person such as myself who is not a risk-taker by nature, getting off the main road can be a scary thing to do–especially when you have no map and no guide. There are no caution signs on this road. It twists and turns and there are many potholes and hazards.

On the road of life I changed direction when, you guessed it, when I came out. I dare say that was a 90 degree change in direction. And it was a choice. Oh, I know, being homosexual is not a choice, but whether or not one acts on that natural state of being, most certainly IS a choice. What one does with one’s life is a choice. Maybe within certain confines or within a certain structure, but how one behaves, acts, believes, etc. is a choice.

The road trip I took at that time was indeed an adventure. Some of the stopping off points looked beautiful and sometimes fun, but turned out to be quite disappointing. At times I felt as if I were in a foreign country, not understanding the language and certainly not the humor of the people. I actually felt quite the outsider in some of the places along the way. I persisted on that road because somehow I knew the final destination was the place I wanted to be. There were no holiday brochures, however, to tell me what this place was going to be like, but I had all my baggage with me and I had left home, so I continued.

Twenty six years ago I arrived at a spot I really liked. It was beautiful, it was comfortable, it was affordable, it was exciting, it offered all of my favorite activities. What more could a person ask. I still had all my baggage and everything I needed, I was completely satisfied, so I settled in. But that was not the end of the trip.

I do not plan to end my road trip any time soon. It’s just that now I have been traveling with my best friend, my spouse, the love of my life and we always have that beautiful, comfortable place called home to come back to.

(I still have all my baggage.)

© 24 January 2014 

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Teacher by Betsy

Whether she wants to be or not, a mother IS a teacher. By virtue of being present from the moment her child enters the world a mother, which is a mother who IS present, has to be the greatest influence in a child’s life. Later on a child may want to break away from this overwhelming influence. After all, to become an independent adult a child has to break away. But the influence will always be there. 

I remember breaking away from my mother, but by the time I was 18 I had become human again in my behavior. Now in my dotage my mother is the first person who comes to mind when presented with the topic “teacher.”
I imagine most of a parent’s lessons are conveyed indirectly by way of example. I can think of a thousand things my mother taught me without ever uttering a word about it. 
GRACE: My mother was the most graceful and gracious creature alive. She moved with grace, she ran the household with grace. I can honestly say, I never heard my mother raise her voice. (This could be why I have trouble doing this myself!) There were times she was angry, but always kept her cool. 
COMMITMENT AND RESPONSIBILITY: She never spoke of commitment and responsibility directly, but I know I learned this from her. Actions truly do speak louder than words. However certain words have a way of sticking. One particular incident comes to mind: Where we lived I became eligible to get a driver’s license when I turned 15. In Louisiana at the time, it did not matter if you knew how to drive. On your fifteenth birthday you go down with your birth certificate and get your license. My mother prepared me for this day by taking me out for practice runs in the family car. As far as she was concerned birthday or no, I would get my license when she was satisfied that I could drive SAFELY. I can still hear her voice guiding me down the road. “Don’t ever forget, Betsy. The car is a KILLER.” This obviously made a big impression on me since I remember these words to this day–60 years later. 
COURAGE: I would never have thought of my mother as courageous–until she was torn from her roots, forced to leave her comfortable home surrounded by familiarity and family members. She had to endure relocating to a new environment and new culture. At the time I had no idea that this would be a difficult adjustment for anyone. When you are young you can move anywhere many times with ease. But this had to be an awful change of environment for her. I never heard one word of complaint. It was only a few years later that she became terminally ill. Her youngest child, my little sister, had to be sent away to boarding school because mom could not take care of her or the household or anyone else, herself included. Through a painful illness, surgeries, weakness, inability to eat, numerous hospitalizations my mother never complained. This takes courage.
STEADFASTNESS: My mother and I used to argue a lot when I was growing up. When I did grow up I stopped the nonsense. But as I was trying to assert my independence we often argued. She did have some very traditional ideas about things and I was a raging radical, like most teen agers. We did not raise our voices but would banter about with our conflicting ideas. At the end of the discussion she would always say, “I may not agree with you about this, but you stick to your guns.”
CONSIDERATION FOR OTHERS. Another very powerful lesson my mother taught me was to have consideration for others. “Even if you cannot thank Grandmother for that gift you do not want,” she said, “you MUST acknowledge her generosity and thoughtfulness in sending it.” This concept seems to be dying out altogether. I wonder if the problem is that I do not have texting capability. Those of my generation can always hope that when the youngsters have their own Facebook page, they will post acknowledgments on our walls. I really don’t care. Send a carrier pigeon! Let me hear from you even if you didn’t want that gift. I know my mom–my grandchildren’s great grandmother–would approve of any of these methods of communication, as would I. These valuable lessons so well taught should not be lost!
LOVE: I do believe my mother along with my father was instrumental in teaching me how to love another. Now, how do you teach something as important and powerful as loving another? I knew my mother loved me and I believe that is what it takes to teach this greatest lesson of all.


© November 2011

About the Author 

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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A Few Things I Have Learned in My Old Age by Betsy

Respect your elders–even ‘though they may become fewer and fewer in number left on this earth

Take care of your body–no new models are available

Make friends with and understand your ego. When it is out of control you will need to counsel it and put it in your pocket.

Take your medicine everyday and know what it is and why you are taking it.

Exercise every day

Learn something new every day

Think, think, think—everyday

Never stop seeking adventure. Never stop dreaming

Take a nap everyday even if it’s only a two minute one.

Listen–listen to the birds, listen to the wind, listen to your children–even after they have become adults.

Measure your worth and accomplishments according to your own values–not those of others.

April 2, 2012

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Housecleaning by Betsy

There are two major reasons I don’t spend large amounts of time on housecleaning. One reason is that in my adult life I have never stayed in one place, one house, for years and years and years. Well, fifteen is about the most. Every time I’ve moved even within the area I have been forced to evaluate all my stuff–not just my stuff–but a good bit of the stuff of my three children and other family members. Then comes decision time. Either keep it and move it or throw it away. By stuff I mean memorabilia. Hundreds of photos, 8mm movies, 16mm movies that were my grandparents’, Lynne’s 1st book of drawings entitled “drawn flowers.” Or there’s her labor of love she produced in 2nd grade in the Netherlands when we lived there for two years–a drawing of a face with the words “voor Moeder Dag” glued onto a perfectly crafted wooden frame and given to me for Mother’s Day.

Or there’s Beth’s second grade handwriting exercise with the ever-so carefully drawn words:
“I wish teachers would not give us so much work
Because it makes my fingers hurt.”

Or her hand-bound booklet of birthday greetings for mom and the words “I love you” written on every page.

Or how about John’s ninth grade Mothers’ Day creation:
“One fair day, ‘Twas the month of May, A maiden received a card fair and gay.” The poetry goes on and then finally, “Fair maiden cannot you see. The labor invested in this card for thee? Upon a high mountain I meditated, and to this point my thoughts did sway. I want to wish you a Happy Mothers’ Day.”

All of these are precious bits of my life which I will never throw away. I have said so often: someone else will have to throw these things away for me after I am gone. Then THEY can do the housecleaning. THEY can decide what to keep and what to throw out.

I have much memorabilia passed down to me from parents and grandparents as well. These items will never be the victims of a housecleaning frenzy either. The few times I have considered going through memorabilia and doing some housecleaning, I have ended up spending the better part of the day reading, studying the items, and learning new things about my forebears.

Just to name a few treasures: The story of the Drib Yoj written by my grandmother Edith Rand. (The Drib Yoj, you know, is the Joy Bird.) Newspaper articles and photos describing the lives of my grandparents, great grand parents and in some cases their grandparents.

An article clipped from the New York Herald Tribune draws my attention. It is about the family gathering to celebrate my great grandmother’s 100th birthday. The words on the fragile, yellowed newsprint describe the life of no ordinary woman. Cecelia McConnell, my great grandmother, grew up in Illinois, knew Abraham Lincoln and heard the Lincoln-Douglas debates. At the age of five years she traveled from the East to the mid west in a covered wagon. Then ninety-five years later at the age of 100 she returned to her home on one of the first passenger planes to fly the skies. I was two years old at her one hundredth birthday party and I doubt anyone I know will ever throw out the photo of Cecelia 100 years old with her great grandchildren.

Not all treasures I come across in my housecleaning are ancient. One piece of family history I have acquired very recently. Cecelia’s son, my grandfather Ira McConnell, died before I was born so I have no memory of him. In spite of that I have recently gotten to know him a little bit. Last summer while visiting the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park I came across a bit of information previously unknown to me. Gill and I were camping in the park campground. We had been to the visitor center and brought back to the campsite with us a couple of brochures about the history of the area. I was reading the brochure about East Portal, the town at the bottom of the canyon on the Gunnison River. The town had a tiny community that had sprung up in 1904 when the site for the Gunnison Tunnel was chosen. The brochure describes the conceiving of the tunnel which would carry the waters of the Gunnison River five long miles through the 2000 foot solid rock cliff wall to the arid Uncompahgre Valley to the West. Surveying the tunnel and actually digging it would be a daunting engineering challenge.

Reading on I see a picture of the man I never knew but I have seen enough pictures of my Grandfather to recognize him even as a young man. Quoting from the brochure my recognition is confirmed.

“The jovial Ira McConnell explored the depths of the canyon. He completed surveys that pinpointed the tunnel headings and towns of East Portal in the canyon, and Lujane on the valley side of the tunnel. He guided tunnel construction through the most difficult of problems.”

“Look, Gill,” I yelled. “It’s my grandfather. He is here in this brochure.” This discovery took me completely by surprise, although I knew my grandfather had engineered tunnels in Colorado in the early 1900’s. But the Gunnison Tunnel–I had no idea! This was very exciting, indeed! I returned to the visitor center where I helped myself to a good supply of the brochures knowing I would want to give some away and have some to add to my memorabilia.

I’m quite sure I accumulate material at a faster rate than I get rid of it. This makes housecleaning all the more difficult–downright impossible.

Remember, I said there were two reasons for avoiding serious housecleaning. The second reason is that I have found that housecleaning is hazardous to your health.
It can result in confusion and memory loss and sometimes stress. Let me explain.

Housecleaning can be physically hazardous.

Mop the kitchen floor and lately I find I’m wiped out for the day. These housecleaning chores have become exhausting. I think I would almost rather go to the gym and do a two hour strenuous workout, or climb Lookout Mountain on my bicycle. Nowhere near as exhausting. I wonder why that is?
Another hazard. The minute I settle into a new home I find the perfect place to house my precious memorabilia. Items that cannot be filed in a filing cabinet; such as some of the treasures mentioned above. Then a couple of years later for whatever reason a surge of energy comes upon me and I am inspired to do some housecleaning and find an even more perfect place to store my things that I treasure.

So I move them to their new, improved resting place. Next time I go to look up one of these items it’s not where it should be. Where, then is it? Of course, I have forgotten where the new, improved resting place is. I remember clearly where it used to be. Why did I change it? Or sometimes I remember very clearly where I stored my treasures in my previous home. But I no longer live there. I live HERE. 

Where IS the stuff, anyway

Someday I will learn to spend my energy doing something more useful than moving things around. Let them be. As a result of what I think is a housecleaning endeavor, I’m just confused, stressed, searching, and the house is no cleaner–all because I was inspired to do some clearing out.

Now I have confirmed that housecleaning causes stress. Today I cannot put my hands on that treasured photo of my great, great, great grandparents homestead on the Erie Canal. BEFORE housecleaning at least I didn’t know that I didn’t know where it was.

April1,2013

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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May They Rest In Pieces by Betsy

I started smoking cigarettes in high school along with most of my classmates. It was, after all, the thing to do–the cool thing to do. Seventeen years old or so, we were old enough, cigarettes were relatively inexpensive at the time, and it was a way to feel more grown up thanks to the magazine ads. Smoking at home or in the presence of my parents was not an option for me, but that was not so important. What was important was us kids smoking in the presence of each other. The same was true in college only by then smoking with my parents was acceptable and absolutely everyone smoked it seemed. Makes sense. The tobacco industry was in its hay day at the time making more profits than ever and more than most industries.

That was the 1950s. Fast forward about eight years. Now a mother with young children cigarette smoking was not so fashionable and smoking’s hazards to human health were beginning to be realized and made known to the public. So my husband and I gave up the habit and became nonsmokers or rather ex-smokers.

Quitting then was not easy. But it was do-able and we successfully went cold turkey one day.

In the early 1980s my life started to change. My children were grown up, I started the coming out process, I knew my marriage would end as a result, and I felt the need of a crutch other than my support group. So without even thinking (big mistake!) I turned to my old friend, cigarettes. I could always quit later. No problem. I had done it before.

One week of the addictive behavior and one week of inhaling the addictive substance and I was back to where I had left off all those years ago–smoking at least a pack a day. Only this time I knew that it was hazardous to my health.

I must have felt some shame in my behavior because I didn’t want my husband or children to know I was smoking. So I did it in private. Never mind. I needed it now and I could quit later. I had done it before.

By 1990 my life had calmed down. I had gone through an amicable divorce, I still had the stable job I loved, and I had been through two stormy short term relationships, and I had met Gill, the love of my life and we were now in a committed relationship. I hated the fact that I smoked cigarettes, but I was truly hooked. I tried and tried but I couldn’t stop. I read books and articles on the subject, I took classes, I went to support groups, and there were a multitude of groups to choose from. Many people were trying to quit smoking in those days. In fact “how to quit smoking” was becoming a profitable industry. Advertisements for quitting smoking aides were abundant. I often wondered about the ad that declared that you could “quit smoking in less than two weeks” using their technique. Please. It takes at least ten years of not smoking to know that you are finally unhooked.

I will never forget one of the groups that I attended for only one trial session. The leader was ruthless. She was paid well, I am sure, because the cost of the class was considerable (if one chose to join it after trying one session). That leader, in the course of performing her job, humiliated a man who confessed that he had given in to temptation and had lit a cigarette but had not inhaled. She literally kicked him out of the group in front of everyone for the sin of backsliding. This action, I am sure, was supposed to be a deterrent to back sliding for the others. Well, it deterred me from paying the considerable fee and going back to that group.

A couple of years of this back and forth in and out of smoking behavior was becoming tiring and trying. My main problem was not so much the addiction to the behavior and the substance, rather I hated being dependent on something, especially something that was not good for me in any way. How many packs of cigarettes did I buy, smoke one and then throw the rest away somewhere like in a dumpster where I could not get to them later when the craving started. It was making Gill crazy too. “Either quit smoking or quit quitting, she said one day.”

Of the many words of advice I read on the subject, two in particular stuck with me. “Realize and accept that you will fail and back slide maybe many times even after you have made a strong commitment to quitting,” I read. Do not beat yourself up for this; do not view yourself as a failure. When it comes, wait the craving out. It WILL go away. Just keep trying and keep up the commitment.

The second piece of advice I found helpful for some strange reason I do not understand, was this. Make it a ritual. Take cigarettes outside and bury them deep in the ground, say goodbye, and grieve for them. One of my last cigarette purchases succumbed to this act of finality, this memorial service. For some reason it worked for me. Maybe I was just fed up and ready. Whatever the reason all I can say is “may they rest in pieces.”

© 28 January 2013 

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Coming Out Spiritually by Betsy

Contemplating today’s topic I realize that before I can write anything about the subject I must be clear about what is meant by “coming out.” In the context of sexual orientation it means first that I acknowledge and accept that I am homosexual and that I am willing and able to openly declare that I am gay. Stated another way: “coming out” means revealing a truth about myself. Of course, if I do indeed accept my homosexuality, it naturally follows that I will not spend my life in the closet and I have no problem with declaring my sexual orientation to the rest of the world.

I am examining the phrase “coming out” because it is usually used in the context of sexual orientation. So when applied to spirituality I find there is a problem. That is that in the case of sexual orientation I am applying the phrase to the way I AM, who I am. In the case of spirituality I am referring to what I believe or do not believe, regardless of who I am. “I AM what I believe?” This statement does not ring true for me. What I believe is something I do, not who I am, and what I do or think can change from one day to the next. Furthermore, if coming out means revealing the truth about myself, then coming out spiritually is impossible because spirituality is based on faith, not known facts.

Enough semantic gymnastics. For the sake of today’s topic coming out spiritually means that I acknowledge that I have certain beliefs about the nature of the universe and the nature of life and death and I am willing and able to make these beliefs known to others.

In this way the two comings out (sexual orientation and spirituality) are similar. Also similar is the fact that coming out in both cases ends with the declaration as mentioned above to others and ends there. That is, I have no need or desire to try to persuade others of my sexual way of life or my spiritual beliefs.

I consider my sexual orientation and lifestyle to be a personal matter as do I regard my spiritual beliefs. Another similarity. What is different about the two comings out is that my sexual orientation has stayed the same throughout my life; of course, that’s who I A M and that’s not going to change. On the other hand my spiritual beliefs are ever-changing. Furthermore I am constantly asking questions, observing, hopefully learning and developing beliefs around my spirituality; ie, changing my ideas about the nature of the universe and where I fit into it. Whatever ideas evolve in my head are beliefs though, not facts. You could argue that my sexual orientation, acknowledgement and acceptance and revelation thereof, has everything to do with my spirit. Used in this broader context then, I believe, revealing anything about myself IS coming out spiritually.

Okay, then, here it is: what I happen to believe today. My spiritual coming out.

There is more to me than a brain and a body and that once that body dies my spirit, essence, Being will go on. In what form I do not know. That spirit, essence, Being is within me now and always as long as I exist in this form. The key word here is WITHIN. The power of the Universe is within all of us not out there somewhere making rules and orchestrating our existence.

Coming out spiritually means that I have abandoned the religious teachings and traditions with which I was raised. I have departed from those beliefs. It means that I accept that I have no answers to the usual questions about the nature of life and death. In other words I have no beliefs about such matters except as described above. I have not taken any leap of faith. The only thing I really know for sure at this moment is that I DON’T Know. And when I really think about it I come to the conclusion that I don’t need to know.

Historically and still today however it appears that most people do need to know or more truthfully stated: it appears to me that most people do need to believe in something. History has shown that many people, especially collectively not only need to believe, but need others to believe as they do, and are often distrustful of those who have a different belief system. Of course, now I am talking about power and politics and that is another subject for many future discussions and story telling writing topics.

July 1, 2013

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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One Monday Afternoon by Betsy

When I retired I was quite elated that I would no longer have to do any work. That is work other than the menial chores of maintaining a household. The rest of the time I would play–perpetual play for the rest of my life. This attitude only lasted for about the first week of retirement. I soon found myself redefining what for me was work and what was play and just exactly what was rest and recreation anyway? Since I did quite a bit of writing in the last 10 years of my job, it seemed like writing was work.

I soon adjusted to retired life. The only writing I did was in our travel log as we journeyed here and there in our beloved VW camper van to many different parts of the U. S. “Mileage today was 350. Spent the night at Frigid Frosty Forest Service campground. Woke up to snow and froze our butts,” would be a typical entry into the journal.

Then one day about twelve years into retirement my partner Gill and I were presented with the opportunity to join a certain writing group at the LGBT Center. Currently I was told the group is made up of about 10-15 men–zero women, but surely more women would be joining the group. Well, that’s okay I said. I like men. But do I want to do the work of writing?

How often does the group meet, I ask? Every week. Surely, I say to myself, we don’t all write something every week. Probably we take turns so that each individual ends up writing something maybe once a month. I suppose I could try this out. When I learned that there is an assigned topic about which every one writes and shares with the group, it did seem for a moment like this would be burdensome. But Gill was enthused about doing it so why not give it a try. After all, I could pass or just not attend when I had nothing to share.

I must confess. The fact that this group was made up of men did get my attention. I had always had men in my life. I was close to my father and adored him. I was married for 25 years to my best friend, and I have a son and grandson whom I love very much. Life as a lesbian leaves little room for men and I had missed the contacts.

I made some close male friends years ago when I answered an announcement in the LGBT community for anyone interested in forming a tennis group. I showed up on the appointed day at Congress Park tennis courts with 20 men–no women. Our group maintained the same twenty-something to one gender ratio for several years. I became very good friends with some of these men and consider a couple of them still my friends although the group broke up several years ago after about 7-8 years of tennis and friendship.

But a writing group? Creating a piece of writing EVERY week. Telling my story. That sounds like work to me. I’ll have to exercise my brain and delve into memories and emotional stuff of the past and present. Do I really want to do that? Writing. Much harder than talking or thinking or imagining. After all, I thought, writing my story I will have to finish my dangling thoughts as well as correcting my dangling participles. Do I really want to get into that?

That was two years ago. Here I am cranking out the words to share just about every darn week. I feel deprived if I miss a week. I had no idea I would get so much out of being a part of this group when I was considering whether or not to join.

I have learned more than I can measure from the stories I hear from others on Monday afternoons. Sometimes funny and entertaining, sometimes heart-wrenching, sometimes informative, sometimes insightful, sometimes inspiring. I believe these Monday afternoons hone not only my writing skills, but also my listening skills. I don’t want to miss a word most of the time.

Furthermore, there is tremendous value to me in documenting experiences I have had, feelings I now have or have had in the past, beliefs I hold dear; ie, documenting who I am. The process of telling one’s story is not always easy, but with practice it gets easier. How much value the stories have for anyone else I will never know. But I find it oddly comforting knowing that I am leaving them behind when I depart this life.

Finally I believe this Monday afternoon activity of telling our stories gives a broader perspective on our own lives–a perspective perhaps not otherwise attained and certainly a perspective not easily attained.

March 3, 2013

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.