Author Archives: Karen Martha

About Karen Martha

I am a searcher and not always sure about what I’m looking for. I’ve lived in thirty-nine houses in four states and changed my name five times. One would think I embrace change, yet I find it discombobulating. My unrest is part of what inspires this blog on retirement. It’s like a last chance to live reflectively, instead of wandering helter-skelter into whatever shows up to keep me occupied. I’m interested in the soul work that presents itself at various times in our lives and in how that changes us. In past lives I taught middle school math and science, raised two children and helped with four grandchildren, finished four degrees, worked as a professor and researcher, and married three times—whew. In my present, retired life, I’m tutoring 4th graders, learning rosemaling, and when I’m not working out—writing—writing about this wonderful, often painful, and fascinating journey.

Into Each Life. . .

Posted on by
11

It started innocently enough. I visited my granddaughter at college in early September—she’s the one that called me every day during the pandemic and the third of my four grandchildren off to college. The Friday after arriving home, I developed a horrific headache. I thought it would resolve quickly—sleep it off. But it lasted through September. Then came October. It would go away over night and come on quickly in the morning. Needless to say, I imagined the worst—tumor (even though the pain was mostly in my back and neck), long COVID (that didn’t occur to me until well into October), brain inflammation, Parkinson’s—a different catastrophe every day.

I saw an ENT doctor. Sinus? Allergy? I was clean as a whistle. As October wore on, I became incredibly anxious. One Sunday, Jim, my husband, had to talk me down as I learned to be anxious about being anxious—not a good thing.

My doctor did his best—a neurological test was perfect as was my blood test. He prescribed a pep talk—he believed in me; referral to a mental health professional; and an antidepressant that I was too anxious to take after reading about the side effects on the information sheet that came with the prescription.

In some deep place, I knew this was “all in my head” but anxiety overrode rational thought. Meanwhile, I was on a two-month waiting list for my doctor’s referral to a therapist, and everywhere else I called, all I heard was “We’re not accepting new patients.”

So I did what any good academic would do, bought and read books and scanned websites. There are some great resources out there, people committed to helping the suffering. One is Dr. Howard Schubiner, in Michigan, an authority on mind-body syndrome. By now I’d diagnosed myself. I bought the book and did his eight-week program. It helped. I also did PT, which also helped, but some days my neck and back felt on fire, which fed the anxiety.

About Thanksgiving I started feeling better, so I went ahead with cataract surgery. Maybe that would help. It didn’t, although the doctor called the results “amazing.” I was thrown into a new panic during my recovery and had difficulties getting new glasses. I postponed the second eye. 

Muddling through Christmas, I faked it, while inside feeling woozy. I started carrying hiking poles because I was afraid I’d fall—then, another perfect neurological test. “Your balance is amazing.” I wanted Ativan, but all I got was a lecture about how bad it is for someone my age—really? I should live in a constant cold shower (one of the recommendations for lowering anxiety) because there’s a correlation between Ativan and cognitive decline? Fortunately, my gynecologist wasn’t so opinionated, although I didn’t take it often—it made me enormously tired.

          In January, my turn with the psychologist finally came up—and she cancelled! A week later, I did my first virtual appointment and liked her immediately—the luck of the draw worked in my favor. She’s been supportive, available, responsive, and skilled.

          Like any good consumer, I turned to Facebook advertisements—once you look at something, they never stop coming in your feed. I now own a sunlight, a device you hold in your hand to help you sleep, a neck massager with heat, a bra to keep my shoulders back, my own tens device, a device for stretching your neck, a Theracane, and lessons in loosening your fascia from Daily Om. American Express loves me.

I’ve learned a lot about pain—that it really is in the head mostly, that childhood trauma and other traumas settle in the body and the brain finds pain pathways. But the brain can relearn, too. People do get over chronic pain even when there’s a basis in the body. Two people can have the same problem, and one will have pain, while the other will not. I learned about an app called CurableHealth.com. It’s a program started by young entrepreneurs who had struggled with chronic pain and tinnitus. It saved me on many days—podcasts with experts, information, meditations, writing exercises, and brain training—all for $69 a year. Another is the DARE app for anxiety.

Whew! It’s been a journey with good days and bad days – and I am not alone. The National Council on Aging says that between 3% and 14% of older adults suffer from anxiety and that estimate is based on reported cases only. Older adults have more problems with medications, since they are often taking other medications. My doctor prescribed three different antidepressants, while also saying “There is no pill for this.”

That said, I’ve learned that there are supportive friends, spouses, and family; there’s an abundance of YouTube videos about reducing anxiety and meditations; there are apps for meditation and helpful books.  These offer “solutions,” which, mainly advise “accept it and get on with the business of living and what matters to you”. Easier said than remembered when you awaken at 4am in a sweat, and you don’t know why.

My heart goes out to all chronic pain and PTSD sufferers, as well as those with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, the most common in older adults. Doctors can prescribe band-aids but getting to the root of the problem takes hard work and support. I see many articles in newspapers about the lack of mental health services for every age and the importance of having insurance coverage so people can access these services. I’ve experienced it firsthand and as one of the lucky, with insurance and now a qualified counselor.

In my bookcase directly in my sightline from my desk is a book entitled This Time Next Year We’ll Be Laughing. That’s my dream. It keeps me going as does an affirmation to get on with the business of life.

The Gift of a Child

Posted on by
7
Christmas 2011
Christmas 2022

Karen and I were looking over the blogs we’ve written and realized we’ve never written about grandparenting. So I decided to take a first stab at the topic. It felt overwhelming—like I’d be writing a dissertation in order to say all that comes up for me. I remembered my mother, who wanted to be a grandmother, even though motherhood had not been easy for her. And Gary Stout, who, when told by the doctor that he had 6-18 months to live said, “Now I’m glad I have grandchildren.” His daughter’s pregnancies were not planned and came while they were both getting a foothold on being adults. He was not happy at the time.

Then, the Sunday before Christmas, sitting in church, the topic came back to me again. A woman was reading the Christmas story to some children, and I found myself asking, “I wonder if Jesus had grandparents.” (I suspect some of you know the answer to this.) Specifically, I was thinking about a grandmother, since I’m a woman. I do not know the answer to this question, but it made me recall the birth of my first grandchild, Peter, in 1999.

When my son, Walter, announced to me that he and his wife, Elizabeth, were expecting, I was excited, but more for them than for me. I was busy trying to restart my life after Gary’s death. I cheered them on through the pregnancy, but the prospect of becoming a grandmother barely entered my consciousness.

Walter and Elizabeth were adamant about experiencing Peter’s birth privately, as a couple.  They made it clear to their large family that they didn’t want anyone with them during the birth, and they especially didn’t want a waiting room of relatives hanging outside, following every development.  We respected that.  We didn’t even ask for a call when they left for the hospital.  And we knew they would not call until it was over. 

The call came on a warm July evening. I had just laid down for bed, window open, enjoying the night breeze and sounds of the city.  The phone interrupted my drift into sleep.

“Mom, he’s here.  Peter’s born,” Walter’s sobs seemed to pour through the phone.  “It was so unbelievable.  He’s wonderful.”

“Congratulations new dad,” I said, “Pretty terrific, isn’t it?” I could imagine their night.

“Please come, please.  You have to see him.”  Now he was openly crying—the unflappable Walter was crying harder than his newborn son.

When your son implores you to come, you take off your pajamas, get dressed and drive to the hospital. They were in Abbott Northwestern Hospital. I’d last been there the day before Gary died. The halls seemed to squeeze the breath out of me, but I found the maternity ward.

And there he was, Peter, my first grandchild red and raw, wrapped in a hospital blanket, looking around at his new home and his new daddy.

“Do you want to hold him?”  Walter asked.

I didn’t need to answer.  My arms opened, and Walter laid Peter in them.  I looked down into the stone blue eyes and met my first grandson.  The room and voices seemed to fade.  We simply stared at each other.  “Hello,” I said. “I’m your grandmother.”  And he just kept staring.  I could not look away, bound by a love I’d forgotten I could feel welling into me.  Here was a new soul ready for the journey.  I gave him my promise to always be there for him. 

That was 23 years ago. Peter is now a young adult working at his first job in Washington DC. I’ve been there through most of his journey thus far. That honor, that privilege, that gift makes me think of my own grandmothers, both of whom I never met. Ruth, my mother’s mother, died in childbirth at the age of 22. My mother was three, with a new baby brother but no mother. My father’s mother, Martha, died in 1930, at the age of 51. My father was thirteen years old. Neither of these women had the chance to be a grandmother.

When I had my own children I was in my twenties. They were a precious responsibility, and much as my heart overflowed with love, there was always that looming responsibility to parent well and provide for them. But I am now older. I realize that not everyone gets the gift of grandchildren. I know what a gift a child is. I know, too, that a grandmother is another sort of gift, since I never really had one. These realizations make me want to bring joy and love into every moment I spend with my grandchildren. These realizations make me feel blessed.

My Perfect ‘Little p’

Posted on by
7
Lake Harriet Community School

If you’re someone who’s followed this blog, you know that ‘little p’ refers to one of those small purposes that each of us carries out daily, purposes that make families run smoother, make people feel loved, and spread kindness. Things like volunteering at a book sale to raise money for scholarships, preparing and serving lunch at church after a funeral, and making sure family members have a good day. These are not grand purposes, but incrementally, they make life better.

A common ‘little p’ is volunteering. Although it’s almost a cliché to say that when we volunteer, we get more than we give, I have to indulge that cliché when I talk about tutoring, my ‘little p.’ I definitely get more than I give.

I have the perfect tutoring gig—four mornings a week at a nearby school in Minneapolis where my son is the principal, Lake Harriet Community School. It’s a small school, grades 3-5, and a highly successful school—a Minneapolis Public School that ranks 4th in the state. It’s also over a hundred years old, with shiny wood floors, heavy oak doors, windows, and woodwork, and tired classrooms, even though they’ve been kept up well. Like many districts, currently, it has children who were in primary school during the COVID shutdowns, and some are not ready for grade level work (we are avoiding calling them “behind.”). One way schools are addressing the needs of these children is through tutoring. That’s one reason I’m tutoring, specifically in math. The gift to me is that I AM NEEDED.

I tutor three small groups and then I help in a classroom. I’m on my feet for three hours, and on my toes mentally, even though it’s basic mathematics—in my day we called it arithmetic. Mathematics is not being taught the way you and I learned it or the way I taught thirty years ago. Now arrays are used to teach multiplication; children learn properties like commutative and identity; and algebraic thinking is introduced in first grade, etc. Clearly I must stretch mentally and find ways to teach new ways of doing arithmetic. That’s my second gift—keeping my brain challenged.

Then there are the obvious benefits, tutoring gets me out of bed and cleaned up early in the day; it gets me moving in natural ways rather than going to a gym; and my favorite, tutoring gives a purpose to my days.

Like other things we do in our mostly small lives, tutoring, at first, felt insignificant. I initially labeled it a feel-good way to spend some of my time in retirement. (By now you know I’m a hopeless cynic). I mean, how much difference can 2-4 hours a week make in a child’s mathematical growth? But to be an educator—which I am—is to believe fervently in small steps, small miracles of understanding. So, cynicism notwithstanding, a part of me believes what I do matters. I’m a caring adult in these children’s school experience who believes in them and supports them.

Yesterday, the impart of tutoring was resoundingly brought home to me. It occurred in the 4th grade class where my role is to hang out and help as needed. I’m the right hand “woman” to the teacher, who is especially creative and commanding when she teaches. She often starts the class period with a video that gives an example of kindness. Here’s a link to the video she showed yesterday. I urge you to watch it before you read further.

Please Enjoy before You Read On!

After viewing the video, the teacher asked students what was going on, what was the video about. Why were some residents in the nursing home tearing up? It took some time for these ten-year-olds to stop focusing on the gifts and to think about what was really going on for the residents. But they got there. As one little girl put it, “She showed that she cared about them.” That led to a discussion about loneliness. I’m not sure that all the children understood, but it was one of those small steps of learning.

For the remainder of the class we studied what to do with a remainder in division. That was fun and equally challenging. In my car on the way home, I reflected on the class in the context of the video. And suddenly I felt it, the biggest reason I tutor—I feel like I belong! I belong to this one classroom, to the other teachers I support with small groups, and in this small school. Best of all, I belong in a world that I care for because I know what individual children need.  I am doing my part to make this place and their lives better in small, incremental ways. 

If you want to find out more about Ruby, here’s her website:

https://3wishesproject.org/who-we-are/

And the Learning Continues

Posted on by
3

In June I signed up for rosemaling summer school at Vesterheim Folk Art School in Decorah, IA. The 5-day course didn’t start for several weeks, so I had time to daydream about how wonderful it would be. I’d paint for eight hours, starting at 9am Sunday morning and until 5pm the following Thursday. Even better, we’d be painting in the Os style, which I wanted to learn because it’s the style from the area where my ancestors lived in Norway.  Anticipating the fun reminded me of teaching summer school as an elementary school teacher. One summer we made balsa wood model airplanes. Another year we made kites—it’s not easy to make a kite that will actually fly—we had lots of crashes before we perfected a design. Best of all, I got to make things with kids who liked to make things. Now, here I was, looking forward to making something with adults who liked to make things—and there’d be a road trip, too.

Finally, it was time to go. I set out Saturday afternoon, so I’d be ready for the 9am start on Sunday. The drive to Decorah had all the elements of a scenic midwestern countryside—rolling hills, tidy fields of corn, idyllic farms with enormous barns, clusters of contented cows grazing, and a highway lined with prairie flowers in full bloom. The beautiful drive heightened my anticipation. An entire week of painting my own beauty awaited me!

Sunday morning at last. I walked up the three flights of the Vesterheim Folk School and into the classroom with a mix of excitement and some trepidation. After choosing my spot and pulling out my supplies, I looked around the room.

Then I saw it, the plate we’d be making. It stood on a counter in the front of the room, and it was HUGE, nothing like what I’d imagined from the course description. Okay, I’d read that the plate was 18 inches, but my mind had glossed over that part. I was picturing a plate like one of my original rosemaling attempts—more like 8 inches.  Still, I mostly admired the plate, not fully comprehending what its size meant…

The BIG one and My first ever plate

After introducing ourselves, our instructor said “today we will learn to make Os flowers”. She proposed eight hours of practicing. I took another look at the plate and started to wonder whether it was wise to spend a day practicing, but I had no idea how to make an Os flower, so I listened to her instructions and started to practice.

And thus began the first lesson of the week. Up until this class, I’d followed designs from our local teacher, Shirley Evenstad, an internationally known rosemaler, although I had to learn many skills to do that. But here was a new teacher, asking me to design and paint my own flowers. I felt frustrated and uncertain, and as I watched others plunge in and design flowers, I wondered whether I belonged in the class. But, I’d paid a sizeable tuition, and I didn’t want to go home, so I gave it a try.

It was fun! I could design my own flowers, and I liked them. I’d taken a new step in my learning by working independently. However, by the end of the day, I was exhausted—I’d never painted for more than a few hours, and I wasn’t sure how I’d get through the week. As I left, I looked again at the beautiful sample plate. Having just spent seven hours making four flowers, I didn’t see how I’d finish that plate in the remaining four days.

The next day I asked the instructor if I could make a smaller plate. She said, “Oh no, you will easily finish.” Huh! By the end of day two, I still had not started on the plate as I was practicing the big scrolls that anchor the design. As class ended, I begged her again to let me make something smaller. Once again, she dismissed my concerns. Where was Shirley when I needed her?

Well, of course I didn’t come close to finishing. I managed only to make the scrolls and one large flower at the top. I was angry and frustrated. I wanted to take my anger out by blaming the teacher for not letting me switch, but in truth, I was crabby because I was face-to-face with my limitations.

In craft circles there are always jokes about UFO’s—unfinished objects. As the class wrapped up, everyone was joking about not wanting another UFO! So it wasn’t just me. No one finished, but our instructor seemed unconcerned. As a former teacher, I judged that she was learning something, too. It was too much to do in five days, although she did not admit this.

Or maybe she was just less worried about UFOs than I was.  At home, I put the plate on our hutch, and I started calling it my albatross. I don’t want UFO’s of any sort in my life. I don’t like quitting, but I had no idea how I’d finish such a huge plate.

The following Wednesday, when I met my local rosemaling friends, I told them that I was carrying the plate around like an albatross—it got a laugh, but no suggestions.  But a few days later my daughter saw the plate and said, “I want that for my office. Don’t quit, keep going!” I carried my plate to my local group the following week and the intrepid Shirley said, “You can take it a flower at a time, and you’ll have it for your daughter’s next birthday!”

Thinking back, two observations come to mind: “Beginner’s Mind” and resilience. Beginner’s mind is dropping our expectations and preconceived ideas about something, and seeing things with an open mind, fresh eyes, just like a beginner. I believe I started out with that—Os was new and I was willing to learn, though initially I’d been uncertain about flowers and scrolls. Resilience, however, took some time to develop. I was angry that the class had not fulfilled my eager anticipations—a finished plate to take home. The support of others, however, helped me see that I can turn my UFO from an albatross into a beautiful plate. That’s what I’m now doing, one flower at a time.

As of September 26th