A Christmas Memory

A lifelong friend from first grade dug this 1994 Christmas card out of some dusty box and passed it along. “I thought you might like to have this,” she said recently. The picture was shot three years before Martha and I were hit with the news of Alzheimer’s. 

In the spirit that Ella passed this Christmas memory to me, I share it with you.  

Our two attractive redheads are Rachel, 17, holding Punky, and Kathryn, 13, standing to her mother’s left. The handsome guy to my right is David, 19, discreetly hiding his ponytail.   

Today, David lives in Tampa with wife Katie and children Libby (9), Nelson (7), and Bennett (3). David runs his own investment firm, which Katie keeps organized. 

Rachel lives in St. Petersburg with husband Sergio DeSanto, an architect, and children Olivia Grace (4) and Victor (1) and docile cat Niña. Rachel is a tenured professor at a local community college, teaching English as a Second Language, or ESL. 

Kathryn lives in Washington, D.C., with her partner Jacinta Alves, an attorney, and their hyper-pup Sephy. Kathryn works for an office of the Department of Health and Human Services (HHS). 

Our family wishes you a wonderful Christmas season. 

May you give with all your heart. And may you receive all you need, and nothing more. 

Carlen
carlen@carlenmaddux.com
www.carlenmaddux.com

P.S. I’m taking a holiday break next week, as you may be. I’ll be back the following week. 

The Hardest Thing I Ever Had to Do

“You believed in God your whole life, but that wasn’t enough when you and Martha got slammed by Alzheimer’s, was it?”

That’s me at 40 asking an impertinent question of me at 70. A question I did not want to answer. A question I was afraid to answer. Yet it’s the one question that demanded an answer. 

So in response I, at 70, decided to write another letter to me at 40.  

My dear Carlen at 40, 

This letter doesn’t permit time or space to describe the ways an answer to your question unfolded over the course of our 17-year journey, often surprisingly. That’s why I decided to write a book. I’ll try, however, to describe some highlights.

For starters, this conversation would be impossible had the tough lessons we discussed in recent weeks not been learned: First, to forgive yourself and others as quickly as you can and second, to be quiet and still.

After all we’ve been through you may be wondering, Carlen at 40, why I still believe in God. 

And my answer is: I don’t.  

At least not in the way that I did for most of my life. 

You see, the belief I carried into adulthood was a rather fabricated one. It had been built from what I’d heard others say they believed: my parents, grandparents, preachers, acquaintances, peers, friends, religious authors, writers of the Bible. 

For much of my life I’d heard that God loves me. So much so that he gave his son for me and the world. That may be true, but long before Martha’s diagnosis I didn’t feel that love.

And I certainly didn’t feel any love when Martha and I got the news regarding Alzheimer’s. If I felt anything other than numb I felt we’d been abandoned. 

My faith quickly began to unravel.

In the beginning, I went searching for a solution. I wanted to find out if there was any way to get Martha out of this thing called Alzheimer’s, the doctor’s prognosis notwithstanding. Yet somehow—don’t ask me how—that search morphed into a spiritual search for God’s love, for Martha’s healing, for a wholeness that my fractured life hadn’t experienced.

Not long after I began the practice of meditation, I felt a gulf open deep and wide between God and me. I peered into this abyss with my mind’s eye, longing for something to hold on to, anything. Yet I felt nothing but desolation. The despair was palpable. 

Then as I looked more closely…poof! This gulf dissolved as quickly as it had appeared. 

As it did, my mind went quiet. My heart stilled. A drop of something fresh flowed through me. “It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” I thought, as a peace flooded my mind and body. I’d read enough of the more sublime writings in the Bible, as well as those of some saints and mystics, to have a passing insight into their depictions of divine Love. “That’s what this tastes like, like the Love described in those accounts.”

Then, that sweetness also vanished.  

“I want more!” I remember crying out loud. “How do I taste more of whatever this is—this Love? What do I need to do? How can I get across this chasm?”

I met with an older friend who impressed me as being experienced in the ways of things spiritual. “How can I get across this chasm?” I asked him. “How can I find this Love that I tasted, this wholeness?”   

He told me, “This kind of search can be frustrating and challenging, even overwhelming.” Yet he quickly added, “It also could be the richest thing you ever do.” 

He cautioned me, though, should I decide to strike out in this direction: “If you remember nothing else from our conversation, Carlen, remember this: Be gentle on yourself.”

Those words of caution frequently saved me as I ran down a number of rabbit trails searching for a way out of the obscure maze that had engulfed Martha and me. The harder I searched the more my heart and mind froze. The faster I ran, the more walls I hit.

When times are good it’s easy to let the words trip off my lips: God loves me, and I love God. Yet it seemed impossible when I felt lost in a wilderness, chased by fear and uncertainty.   

Finally, through the practice of meditation—and after learning to forgive Martha, her parents, my parents, those we had hurt and who had hurt us, and equally important, to forgive myself—I began to relax. 

I was learning to be “gentle on myself.”

Since then, there have been too many encounters with this presence I know as God, too many whispers within my heart for me to deny this Love’s existence, to deny her embrace. 

There were the weekends at St. Leo Abbey. There was that week in Thomas Merton’s cabin. There was the last night of my visit in Sydney with Canon Jim Glennon. And there was the message Rev. Lacy Harwell conveyed to me between sandwich bites at Demen’s Landing in St. Pete.

I remember well one moment at St. Leo when I was praying that Alzheimer’s be lifted from Martha and our family. As I did, I heard a whisper deep within. “What are you saying?” I asked. I couldn’t understand the words, yet their meaning was clear: “Carlen, you don’t have to settle for this fractured existence being dished out by Alzheimer’s.”

That whispered impression startled me. “Exactly how do you find anything but a fractured existence in this tragedy,” I complained silently. “How can I feel anything but the pain… the pain of seeing Martha slip away?”

Then out of this cloud of confusion a faint question curled upward. This question had a certain familiarity, as though it had shadowed me for a lifetime. It often arose in the early morning when Martha was asleep by my side: “Do I believe? No…do I know? Do I know deep within, down there where the rawest of memories and fears hide out? Do I know that the Lord my God loves me with all his heart? Do I know that my God loves me with all his soul? With all his strength? And with all his mind?”    

After that moment and many like it, I now have an inkling of what Jesus meant when he told me to do as he does: “…love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength.” (Mark 12:30).

That “inkling” arose from a growing certainty that regardless of any circumstance, good or bad, I am loved and intimately embraced by the Creator of this vast, complex, ever-changing world.   

The arc of God’s love, I now see, leads not to theologically correct beliefs. It leads to a wholeness I've experienced nowhere else.

So returning to your original question, Carlen at 40… 

It’s true, I no longer believe in God. 

Now, I believe God. 

Or, at least I seek to—and that’s a big difference.      

I love you dearly, 
Carlen at 70
carlen@carlenmaddux.com

P.S. If you’ve never written to your younger self, try it. These three recent conversations were eye-openers for me, and apparently for many who connected with them, based on the response I’ve received. If you do write, take your time to let your feelings bubble to the surface. Don’t try to FedEx a letter to yourself.  

P.P.S. As usual, you may pass this post and others along to your friends and family. Or they may receive my free weekly newsletter by signing up at www.carlenmaddux.com.  

The Latest News on My Book

December 4, 2015

No one’s been more surprised than I in the way my book has emerged, from rough notes out of my journal and memory to a reasonably polished manuscript. 

From taking an online memoir-writing course three years ago to developing a story line that makes sense (they tell me) to my 20-plus readers, our three children, my California editor, and to me.   

From thinking I would publish the book myself to this: Paraclete Press out of Cape Cod has agreed to publish my book. My working title and subtitle: A Path Revealed: How Hope, Love, and Joy Found Us Deep in a Maze Called Alzheimer’s. 

Never heard of Paraclete Press? 

Neither had I until last spring. But the more I find out about them the more I like. For one thing, Paraclete, though not large by industry standards, has been around for three decades and is owned and run by a monastic community. And it doesn’t hurt that they’ve published some of my favorite authors. 

A nice way to wake up...the front porch view from Paraclete’s community.

About the time I stumbled on to Paraclete, a minister friend and academic urged me to submit my manuscript to a large religious publishing house he knew in Oregon, which I did. That firm agreed to take my book, but it didn’t feel right so I declined. In the meantime, I modified that first proposal and on a bit of a lark sent it to Paraclete, which publishes 40-50 books a year.

In July, their editor told me that Paraclete wanted my book. We signed a contract in early October, and I visited them two weeks ago.

If you’ve ever tried to get a book published for the first time, you’ll realize how incredibly painless this process has been. I’m still amazed.  

Begun in 1983, Paraclete describes itself as a publisher of “essential Christian wisdom … Although Benedictine spirituality is at the heart of all we do, we are an ecumenical publisher and as such we present works that unite us and enrich our understanding as Christians, whether Catholic, Protestant, Orthodox or Evangelical.” 

In addition to books, Paraclete publishes music and videos. As a side note, for two decades I’ve listened to a handful of their CDs—sung by a choir called Gloriæ Dei Cantores, or Singers to the Glory of God—without making a connection until my recent visit. (Click this link. You’ll be delighted with what you hear. I promise.)   

I felt good about my book’s fit with Paraclete before visiting them. I feel even better now. While there I learned they’ve published a couple of my favorite authors: Frederick Buechner and the late Basil Pennington. I and many others consider Buechner to be one of our best living writers, religious or secular. Pennington, a Trappist monk, was a younger peer of Thomas Merton’s.

Topping these, however, is this bit of inside-the-industry info that should give you a better idea of Paraclete’s quality of work and reach. I was delighted to learn that Phyllis Tickle served nearly two decades on Paraclete’s editorial review board until her death in late September. This is how the New York Times’ obituary described her: “Phyllis Tickle, who helped energize the religion publishing market in the 1990s, wrote dozens of books on spirituality and gave voice to a movement that believes Christianity is entering an epochal new phase…”

The Times continues: “Ms. Tickle was the founding religion editor at Publishers Weekly, the leading journal in the book trade … In that post she identified and covered a rapidly emerging market for religious-themed books and helped publishers tap into its profitability.”

“Phyllis was a dear friend of Paraclete’s,” managing editor Robert J. Edmonson told me, adding that she was intimately and energetically involved in their book selections. 

Edmonson, who’s lived in the community for three decades, is a master translator (French-English), having edited and translated several books on spirituality, including those by Saint Thérèse of Lisieux. 

Paraclete’s editor is Phil Fox Rose, who will be my book’s development and structural editor. I wasn’t able to meet him, but our correspondence makes clear his is an eclectic background, both editorially and spiritually. He cut his teeth in the mid-80s at PC Magazine, the tenth largest circulating magazine at the time, and subsequently worked in senior editorial roles with other tech publications.

Then early this century, his career path took a sharp turn into “making a living while writing and editing about faith.” Rose was content director for the Busted Halo site and he continues to blog for Patheos. But, he says, that “noisy, reactionary world” online is wearing thin. So when Paraclete offered him the editor’s position earlier this year, Rose jumped at the opportunity. “I’m still part of the conversation, but in a long-range constructive way, which I find far more satisfying.”

An equally strong reason why I went with Paraclete is its sales and marketing staffs, numbering a dozen or so. Their network includes independent and major bookstores, Protestant and Catholic bookstores, churches, conferences, libraries, and magazines—outlets that are virtually impossible for me to reach on my own. A staff like Paraclete’s is an increasingly rare gem these days in the publishing world.    

As I mentioned, Paraclete is owned and run by a monastic community founded in the 1960s, the ecumenical Community of Jesus. About 275 persons, predominantly Protestant, live on site or nearby, including 85 or so vowed nuns and monks. Here’s the interior of the community’s Church of the Transfiguration…

My apologies for so much insider trade talk on books, but for many of you who’ve asked about our book’s status I thought you would like to know in whose hands our story is placed.

Thank you, 
Carlen
carlen@carlenmaddux.com

P.S. Oh … I almost forgot. My book has a good chance of being published early next fall. But having been in the newspaper and magazine business 30-plus years, I’m not counting on that until it happens. Stay tuned.

P.P.S. Again, feel free to pass this post and others along to your family and friends. Or they can receive their own copy by signing up at www.carlenmaddux.com.

A Thanksgiving Memory

I tried to recall a short, meaningful Thanksgiving poem for this week. But none came to mind that hadn’t by now morphed into a cliché. 

Then I remembered a poem I reflected on a lot during my early 40’s—Pied Beauty. I read it scores of times, aloud and slowly. But I hadn’t picked it up since then, and I didn’t think of this as a “Thanksgiving” poem … until now.    

I was drawn to Pied Beauty (still am) because it celebrates the beauty of that which is less than “perfect.” It reflects the beauty of that which lasts, unlike all the shiny toys dancing in our eyes. 

So with a reverse twist I, at 70, thank Carlen at 40 for reminding me of this verse of praise by Gerard Manley Hopkins.  

Published in 1877, this short verse is crafted for us to drink deeply as we whisper its words aloud. We don’t have to be a poet, or even a lover of poetry, to let these images of grace dance through the imperfections of our own lives. 

PIED BEAUTY
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded¹ cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple² upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls³; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If interested, here’s a 45-second audio of Pied Beauty. 

Have a good Thanksgiving season.

Carlen
www.carlenmaddux.com
carlen@carlenmaddux.com

¹Streaked or spotted.
²Rose-colored dots or flecks. 
³Fallen chestnuts as red as burning coals.

Source: Gerard Manley Hopkins: Poems and Prose (Penguin Classics, 1985)

My One Regret

“You left little room for the growth of your interior lives, and as a result you left little space to enrich your friendship.”

That’s me at 70 talking with me at 40 years of age. 

“You moved so quickly from one activity to another, from one group of people to another, that all you could do after tucking the kids in bed was to collapse.”

When 40, I was busy getting my magazine off the ground, working 80-hour weeks. My wife Martha, 38, was busy serving on the St. Petersburg City Council during one of its most controversial eras. We both were busy as parents of David, Rachel, and Kathryn—ages 10, 8, and 5, respectively at the time.

My schedule today is different. The magazine is closed. Our children are grown and into their own careers and families. I no longer am trying to balance my hectic personal responsibilities with my wife’s equally hectic career of mothering, politics, social activities, and civic engagement.

Call me a hermit. 

As I reflect on the 17 years that Martha and I had to deal with Alzheimer’s, I often ask myself: “Have I learned anything that would have been good to know back in my 40’s—when we both were young, healthy, and active?”

As I turned this question over in my mind, I decided to write myself a letter… 

To My Dear Carlen at 40, 

We talked last week about the importance of releasing the heavy baggage of bitterness, anger, and anxiety—the need to forgive one another as well as others. So I’m not going to revisit that. 

Today, as I look at your busy, compressed schedule—and Martha’s—two things stand out. 

First, it’s amazing that you both were able to accomplish so much on so many different fronts with so many different people. That’s a good thing. 

Second, it’s clear from my perch today that the fallout from the hectic pace set by you and Martha at 40 isn’t a good thing. Too often you were ships passing in the night. 

Yes, I know, your busyness was not that different from many of your peers at the time. But I can’t talk about what went on in their lives once their front doors closed. 

I can talk, however, about the impact on our lives.   

And it took Martha and me too long to learn the importance of setting aside time to be quiet, to be still. In fact, we didn’t get the message until we were forced to—when Martha was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

By being quiet, I don’t mean sitting still in church or in front of the TV, or even reading a book or voicing a prayer. Not that these are bad, but at some point each of us needs a clear glimpse into what’s going on in our heart and mind.

I see now that I needed time and space—emotional, reflective time and space—to let God’s Spirit work in me, healing much that the rush of life had trampled on. And to do the same with our relationship, Martha’s and mine.  

I needed to assess those things within me that were good and bad, and to discern without judgment or indictment. 

A meaningful way that I’ve learned to do this is through meditation. The kind of meditation I’m referring to has little to do with trying to clear my mind and heart of all thought and feeling. So far, after nearly two decades of meditating, that hasn’t happened.  

Yet the form of meditation I’ve found to work has elicited a humility within me that helps me embrace God’s silent, intimate presence. 

Many guides exist for practicing meditation. The point is, Carlen, to find an approach that works—one that you’re comfortable with—and stick with it. Meditation doesn’t replace your prayers, it enriches them. 

Martha and I followed an approach described by the late John Main, a Benedictine monk. I find him simple, authoritative, and deeply spiritual.

He directed his teaching not so much to other monks but rather to those of us caught up in the rush of careers, social life, and families. I share more about him and the need for such stillness here. 

“Meditation is a powerfully integrative force,” John Main wrote. “It offers the capacity to be fully open to reality. That’s all. It’s a very practical skill.”   

I remember when Martha and I began meditating together, not long after her diagnosis. We sat side-by-side on the living room couch, holding hands. I whispered the word that we’d selected, because I was unsure whether Martha was able to repeat it to herself. After several weeks, this practice began to quiet the turmoil within me. 

“Is this helping?” I asked Martha. 

“I think so,” she said, unable to explain further. But Martha appeared more relaxed and less confused. And that made me less desperate. 

We learned not to expect any clear insights from this twilight zone called Alzheimer’s. Yet out of these silent, shared moments, a deep, intimate bond arose within us. 

“This is different,” I thought.   

We’d done a lot of things together. We talked, watched TV, walked, and commiserated over coffee. Together we read books, the paper, and the Bible; we played tennis and board games; we danced and listened to music. And we shared meals, prayed, made love, went to church, and screamed at each other. 

But in our 25 years of marriage we had not sat together for any period of meaningful silence. We had not experienced this rich intimacy in any other setting.

And after Martha moved into the nursing home, I remember those moments of almost transcendent peace, which I share toward the end of an earlier post.

I suppose such moments could be described as some kind of psychological phenomenon. But that feels incomplete. The best way I can describe them is that I felt we were being drawn into a presence greater than us both. I felt we were being drawn into that presence we know as Christ.     

I’m not suggesting to you, dear Carlen at 40, that you and Martha abandon your commitments. But I suspect you would find your involvements to be much less stressful and more fulfilling if you were to carve out time to be quiet and still—both when alone and with Martha.

A friend shared with me this ancient verse from the Eastern Orthodox tradition: 

“Fold the wings of your mind.
Place your mind in your heart.
Come into the presence of God.”

This is the direction in which meditation continues to guide me.

I love you dearly,  
Carlen at 70

carlen@carlenmaddux.com

P.S. Next week is Thanksgiving week. Carrying on this conversation between me at 70 and me at 40, the younger Carlen has turned up a Thanksgiving gift. It is meaningful and brief.  

P.P.S. Feel free to share this post and others with your friends. They also may sign up to receive their own free e-newsletter at www.carlenmaddux.com.

What Would I, at 70, Tell Me at 40?

That question keeps popping up years after my wife Martha was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 1997. She had turned 50 three weeks earlier. I’m not plagued by this question in the sense of feeling guilt or shame. I realize I can’t go back and do a do-over. 

Rather, the question prompts other questions: Is there anything I could share with our children? Or anyone with young families and busy lives? What could I share with someone pulled by the pressures of careers, children, making a living, whatever? 

You know the kinds of stresses I’m talking about—the typical variety of trying to get through the day while making a mark at work and making time for your children and yourself. 

Yes, each of us must learn our own lessons in our own way and time. But part of that process is having the humility to learn from one another. 

After reflecting on our grueling journey, I would share with a younger Martha and Carlen three things right now: First, be willing to forgive each other—and quickly. Second, take time to be quiet with each other. Third, experience God intimately—as divine Love, not as a religious belief.  

Today, I’m discussing forgiveness. I’ll pick up on the others in the next few weeks. 

Before getting into forgiveness, though, here’s some background. In 1983, I left a reporting job with a major newspaper to start a regional magazine. I was 38. My wife Martha, 36, was serving on the St. Petersburg City Council. By then, she had successfully managed five local political campaigns, including her own. When I launched our magazine, our children were 8, 6, and 3. Busy days and nights … and fun. 

This picture is from my 40th birthday party... 

There’s not enough time with this note to cover all that I’ve learned about forgiveness, but here are some hard-won insights that I at 70 would share with me at 40:

1) Busy as you are, Martha and Carlen, make time to forgive each other. And ALL who have hurt you. Do it quick—don’t drag it out. And don’t be selective with your forgiveness. If you try to do that, it somehow casts a shadow over all else. How do I know? Because I’ve tried numerous times to forgive one person I liked and not forgive another I liked less. It didn’t work.

2) Second, forgiveness is not some pious virtue as many of us have been led to believe over the course of our lives. Forgiveness, in fact, is as self-interested a trait as I’ve seen. You may remember the story of Peter asking Jesus whether forgiving someone seven times is enough (Matt. 18:21-22). Jesus said no, we need to be willing to forgive someone 70 times seven. 

Our four-year-old granddaughter might say: “Goodness, that’s a lot of forgiving.” 

Yes, it is. 

My take on what Jesus means—learned the hard way, I might add—is this: “Carlen, how long do you want to be free of the cold, dark cell of self-absorption, self-righteousness, and self-promotion that you’ve built over a lifetime? That’s how long and how often you need to forgive others, as well as yourself.” 

In Wishful Thinking, writer Frederick Buechner describes the absolute need for forgiveness as clearly as anyone I’ve come across: “Of the Seven Deadly Sins, anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back—in many ways it is a feast fit for a king. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you.” 

That’s what I mean about forgiveness being self-interested—you forgive in order to free yourself. 

3) Realize that forgiveness and reconciliation are not the same. I didn’t understand this before our crisis. Forgiveness requires one person—you, Carlen—working through issues with your God. Reconciliation requires two to tango—you, Martha or Carlen, and the person you’ve forgiven. Once you forgive within your heart, you may or may not need to reconcile with that person.   

Do you remember, Carlen, when you used to wait for Martha to say, “I’m sorry,” and to initiate your coming back together after she blew up at you? It was her fault, right? You sulked for hours, maybe days, before either of you decided to address the issue at hand—if you did at all. 

That kind of argument didn’t just evaporate. Instead, by not addressing it head on, it sank deep into your memory and consciousness. And it lay there quietly, ready to pounce when the next issue, big or little, triggered Martha’s hot temper and your suffocating self-righteousness. 

4) Finally, Carlen, I’m now convinced that forgiveness, or its lack, can be a matter of life or death, of good health or ill. It took me 17 years of living with Alzheimer’s and of digging deep as I could into a wide variety of spiritual and health practices to understand this.

If you let issues fester long enough without redress, they pile up into what I call a “closet”—its door never to be opened except to throw more stuff in. In time that closet door will burst open, spewing a bitter mix of who knows what in all directions throughout your mind and body. I explore this in greater detail here and in my forthcoming book, A Path Revealed.

Maybe you have your own stories about forgiveness. If you would like to share, please go to #APathRevealed or email me at carlen@carlenmaddux.com.

Next week I’ll discuss carving out time to be quiet and intimate with each other.   

Until then, 
Carlen

P.S. If you haven’t signed up for my free weekly newsletter and would like to, please click here. 

We Were on This Path All Along, but I Didn’t Realize It

A spiritual path can be an elusive thing.

Our family’s path is unlike what I often hear or read: “I’m on this amazing journey.”  “This is such an incredible path.” “Life is about enjoying the journey.” For me, such expressions border on the trite, making the words “path” and “journey” all but meaningless. 

Our path was lonely and hard on occasion as each of us—my wife Martha, our three children, and me—faced what appeared to be insurmountable obstacles in dealing with the fallout from Alzheimer’s.

 In fact, things got so difficult at certain points that I was uncertain whether I could continue. 

What I am certain of today, though, is this: Our family would be diminished—if not decimated—had this path not opened before us.    

Yet this is more than a path of survival. It continues to transform my view of the richness of God’s healing love, and to transform how I see myself and all of us, including you, as God’s own. 

Curiously, it was not until three years ago, after dusting off my journal, that I realized Martha and I had been on this path all along. I certainly wasn’t looking for one in the beginning, at the time of Martha’s diagnosis. I knew that over the years we’d encountered much that was bad and much that was good. And I knew we had drawn on a handful of folks—some friends and others strangers who became friends—to help us through our difficulties.   

But I hadn’t seen how these encounters were connected until I read back over my journal. I was surprised by the patterns that emerged. I was surprised to see how one event led to another, starting with our Presbyterian minister friend, who introduced us to his Catholic nun friend in Kentucky. I discussed the development of these relationships and their results in these posts here and here, so I won’t bore you with my redundancy. 

A year or so ago, as I reflected on the sharp turns and twists over the past couple of decades, my mind flashed back to our early visit with Father Matthew Kelty in Kentucky.

When Martha and I told him good-bye, it was mid-afternoon on a beautiful autumn day in 1997. So we decided to check out some woods that are part of the 2,000 acres that Gethsemani sits on. High on a hill to the left of the woods stood a large white cross, its massive arms opened wide. A welcome sign maybe, I remember thinking as we passed by. Maybe inviting us or anyone else who feels abandoned? 

At the edge of the woods, Martha and I saw a path and took it. There was nothing unique about this dirt path as it curled up a rather steep hillside. Yet what was different was Martha—she was bouncing along the path with a confidence I thought I’d never see again. At times she led, other times she fell back to stop and inspect a rock or a wild flower. And with every sun-speckled step the autumn leaves seemed brighter than usual, while the rocks and roots and wood ferns expressed a quiet joy that I’d not experienced on a walk before or since. 

Not until I was wrapping up my book’s manuscript did the meaning of that walk through Gethsemani’s woods come clear to me. In so many ways, I now see, it foreshadowed what was to come. 

Since that walk, our family has stepped over jutting rocks and tangled roots and moved through a wooded darkness speckled with light. We also stumbled onto sunlit clearings and paused at the wonder of it all, lingering with delight before turning back to the path set before us. This path indeed was maddening and frustrating, disheartening even.

Yet somehow this walk, our walk, had been transformed into a sacred walk over a sacred path, pointing our way toward a Presence far greater and more real than any loss we experienced.

As I reflect on how this path unfolded before us, the following thoughts come to mind. You may find some of these to be of value as well: 

• First, this statement by Archbishop Desmond Tutu stands among the most enduring I’ve encountered: “In a life of wholeness we may face brokenness and endure woundedness, but our suffering will not be meaningless. Meaningless suffering is soul-destroying.” (Made for Goodness: And Why This Makes All the Difference). 
   
• Don’t try to figure out if you and your loved ones are on a spiritual path. And don’t try to understand the meaning of what you’re going through. All that’s required is to step forward and to be as attentive as you can. If you do that, meaning and understanding will arise in their own time and way. In my case, I didn’t see the path nor fathom its meaning until years later. 
    
• Don’t focus on the obstacles and problems along the way. Learn to focus on Christ Jesus himself—beckoning, calling, pushing, pulling, pointing. This is a hard lesson that I continue to learn, learn, and re-learn.
   
• The path is not the object. God is. God is both the movement and the manifestation of healing. Christ Jesus is my guide along this way.  
   
• This path is not a plan with a set of goals and objectives. There’s no way to determine the next move in advance. It requires a trust in a deep, warm Wisdom, especially when the voice you hear within, or the image you see, seems to defy common sense.
   
• This path serves as a transforming agent. It reshapes and redefines who I am and where I’m heading. I finally see, after nearly two decades, that our path continues to be about the search for healing and meaning. 

• To discern hints and whispers along the way requires time and space outside my normal environment—time to express anguish and time to be restored. See my monastery post. It also requires space for quiet reflection. See my journal post. 
   
• You may be traveling, as we did, through uncharted territory. It’s good to have one or more trusted confidants. For me it was vital. Mine were Rev. Lacy Harwell, the Presbyterian minister in St. Petersburg, and Canon Jim Glennon, the Anglican minister in Sydney, Australia.

Have you discovered a meaningful path that’s helping guide you through a crisis? Do you care to share? If so, you may at #APathRevealed. Or you may email me privately at carlen@carlenmaddux.com.

Thanks, 
Carlen

P.S. You may share this post or others with your friends. Or sign up for my free weekly newsletters at carlenmaddux.com. 

Why This Protestant Guy Spent 300 Days in a Monastery

Last week I described the significance that keeping a journal had for us as my wife and I crash-landed in a new, surreal life. But that journal is only part of our story. 

Monasteries played a big role, too. 

However, I had not always found monasteries to be places of interest, Protestant-reared that I was. The thought of monks, nuns, monasteries, and mother houses had rarely crossed my mind.   

But that changed in 1997 with Martha’s diagnosis of Alzheimer’s.     

In early October of that year, Martha and I were encouraged to visit a nun with the Sisters of Loretto in Kentucky. We stayed there for a week, but as we drove away I was wishing we could have remained forever. Martha and I found the time and space to talk, cry, walk, hug, hold hands, and be still. That was the first comfort we’d felt since her diagnosis.

While there, we also visited the Abbey of Gethsemani not far away. This is the monastery made famous by the writer and social activist Thomas Merton. Martha and I listened to a friend of Merton’s deliver one of the most succinct, poignant, and humorous homilies I’d heard. Father Matthew Kelty, an aging Boston Irish monk, maintained a running commentary while reciting poetry and portions of the Bible, leaving us wondering whether to laugh or cry.

When through, Father Matthew darted for the door as quickly as he had entered.  

But Martha was able to catch up to him, and he agreed to meet with her the next day. She emerged from that meeting the next afternoon with a glow on her face that I hadn’t seen in months. Martha in short order had developed a crush on Father Matthew. She always did have a thing for older men with an air of authority about them.

My interest in monastic communities—and my affection—was warming quickly.

A few years later, our children Rachel and David gave me the best gift ever. Back home from college, they agreed to stay with their mother one weekend a month while letting me do whatever I wanted. By then, someone needed to be with Martha 24/7.   

It didn’t take me long to decide how to spend their gift: I went to St. Leo Abbey, a Benedictine monastery about an hour north of St. Petersburg.

St. Leo has a guest house with half a dozen or so apartments. For my weekends there, I would leave work on Friday afternoon and return home on Sunday afternoon.

I did this for almost a decade until Martha entered a nursing home in early 2008.

I found no better place to rant and vent my fears, to be quiet and cry aloud. I did stay at a beach motel one time, but it didn’t offer the atmosphere and undistracted silence I needed. 

Do you remember Merton’s statement from my post last week? “One of the basic truths put forward in the Bible as a whole is not merely that God is always right and man is wrong, but that God and man can face each other in an authentic dialog …” 

That’s what my weekends at St. Leo were about: Discovering the honest agreements and disagreements that I had with God. As well as he with me. And me with myself. It wasn’t easy. But over time, Christ’s Spirit was gentle enough to permit me to sift through the rubble of false piety and self-righteousness I’d built up over a lifetime, eventually to touch a more authentic core.  

Space doesn’t permit me to dig into the issues that rained down on me at St. Leo and elsewhere. I do get into a number of those in my forthcoming book. Nonetheless, it was during these weekends that my readings, meditations, prayers, and journal writings proved invaluable—they helped me sort the real from the illusory. At times, though, I felt I was hitting my head against a wall, making no progress whatsoever. 

If you feel the need to be quiet and alone, here are some quick thoughts drawn from my decade of visits to St. Leo and other monastic communities: 

• First, I realize that as a caregiver you might not be so fortunate to have children who can give you a gift such as ours gave me. But maybe you have friends who can free you for a few hours. Or maybe your loved one will be willing to go to an adult day care center.   
   
• Or if the crisis is yours rather than a loved one’s, are you still independent enough to step out of your daily schedule and into a less distracting, more focused atmosphere? If so, make the time to do it.
   
• It’s important to carve out time and space on a regular basis, if possible. Go somewhere that you can be alone to unload what’s on your heart and mind. 
   
• Don’t use this time for errands. And don’t try to do this at home or the office. You’ll have more than enough distractions without worrying about to-do lists.  
   
• Arguing “honestly” with God doesn’t mean your conversations are structured and articulate. If anything, it’s the opposite for me. I find it difficult to verbalize what’s going on deep within. I have to stew in my juices for awhile—often a long while—before I’m able to call out an issue. I consider this “stewing” to be a form of God’s grace. 
   
• My conversations with God—Help! Why us?! Why me?!—often were similar to those Anne Lamott describes in her book Help, Thanks, Wow: The Three Essential Prayers. 
   
• If you don’t want to go to a monastery, many church denominations have retreat centers. 
   
• If you do visit a monastery, don’t think you have to participate in the schedule of the brothers’ prayer services. Slip in and out where you feel comfortable. I found St. Leo’s brothers to be more protective of my time and feelings than I was.

• A spiritual director often is available in a monastic community. St. Leo, Gethsemani, and the Sisters of Loretto all have one. Take advantage of that person’s guidance, if you feel the need.
   
• When you go to a monastery, you don’t have to stay isolated in your room. At St. Leo I liked to sit outside in a chair behind the guest house and look out over an orange grove spilling into Lake Jovita. I soon began calling this my “hot seat.” Also I liked to take walks on a country road near there. And go to their book store to chat with the brother in charge. Meals with the brothers were fun. Oh the stories they can tell when they step out of their frocks.
  
  Friday evenings I often ate at Pancho’s Villa in nearby San Antonio—one of the best kept secrets in Tampa Bay. There’s nothing like a piping hot plate of their enchiladas or burritos with a couple of cold beers, topped by a dessert of deep-fried ice cream. LOL! 
   
• When I left St. Leo on Sunday afternoon, I’d resolved few if any of my issues. But I usually felt more refreshed and together than when I drove in on Friday.

Have you been able to find a place to be quiet and vent? Do you wish to share your experiences? If so, you may at #APathRevealed. Or you may email me privately at carlen@carlenmaddux.com. 

Thanks, Carlen

P.S. Again… feel free to share this post and others with persons you think might be interested. Or they can sign up for my free weekly newsletters at www.carlenmaddux.com.

How Keeping a Journal Helped Save My Life

Some people are into “journaling” as a way of life. Not me. I started a journal as a way of survival. 

My first entry was written on Sept. 23, 1997, the day of my wife’s diagnosis: “The doctor told Martha she probably has ‘early onset’ Alzheimer’s disease—a devastating blow to us both. No known cause, no known cure. This came after an EEG, blood tests, CT scan of head, other tests.” 

My last entry was posted a decade later on January 11, 2008: “Today Martha moved into her new home—the Menorah Manor nursing home. Sad time.”

These two entries form the bookends of a 14-volume, 1,376-page journal of an estimated 150,000 words. 

One hundred and fifty thousand emotionally wrenched words.

Words drawn from memories, experiences, and images. Life-breathing words, dead words, inane words, profound words, healing words, words bright with insight, and words dim as ashen embers. These are the words that inexplicably reflected the Christ-Presence drawing Martha, our children, and me into love, joy, and meaning along our trail of tears.

After Martha’s diagnosis—the start of a crisis so freighted with emotional and spiritual fireworks—I began doing things without knowing why or how. The first of those initiatives was to start this journal. So much stuff was coming at me from so many different fronts—medical, emotional, reading materials, my business, caring for our family—I needed a place to store it all. 

Figuring out what it all meant would have to wait. 

I didn’t start a journal because of my training and career as an editor and journalist. Nor did I begin one because I wanted to write a book; that didn’t enter my mind until a decade or more later. 

I started a journal out of desperation. I began to understand that a journal could help build a rational structure for things that otherwise seemed fleeting and ephemeral. If not rational, it at least was quasi-rational as it helped me remember and understand later what was going on in a real-time sequence of events.

You may or may not want to keep a journal. If you do, here are some tips drawn from my decade of writing one:    

• A journal is not a diary. At least mine wasn’t. I didn’t feel the need to write something daily. In fact, I often went days between entries. Other times, though, I couldn’t write fast enough to get down on paper what I was seeing, experiencing, and feeling.  
   
• If you’re in a crisis and feel compelled to write down your thoughts and emotions, do it. I began a journal for only one reason: Some deep, unconscious need was driving me. When that need lifted, I quit. No doubt there are other reasons and other situations for keeping a journal, but our crisis with its explosive fallout is the only reason I needed.  
   
• If possible, write longhand with pen on paper. This helped connect my heart, mind, and hand in a way that typing on a laptop (if I would have had one back then) could not. Besides, it was a healthy thing for my tears to stain the paper I was writing on. And on occasion, as I re-read and looked at that ink on the paper, I wondered if I was seeing my blood on those pages.
   
• Be honest about your feelings and any sense of spiritual darkness. To place your confusion and your lostness on paper can help lift those feelings from you. At the same time be honest about any sense of hope and joy that breaks through, even the slightest sense. For me, such moments—both the darkness and the rays of insight and relief—often came with tears. Being honest before God, and with yourself, has a way of doing that. 
  
  Let me point out a couple of things about the two pages below from my journal, which were written a few weeks after Martha’s diagnosis. First, I’m not trying to put my thoughts into a comprehensive, final form. As a matter of fact, they’re rather scattered, real-time comments. 
  
  Second, on the left page I quote Thomas Merton, the late monk from Gethsemani: “The Bible prefers honest disagreement to dishonest submission … One of the basic truths put forward in the Bible as a whole is not merely that God is always right and man is wrong, but that God and man can face each other in an authentic dialog …” (from Opening the Bible).

P.S. If you remember nothing else I share, remember this statement by Merton. Deep in a crisis you will want to muster up all the honest arguments you can make with God, not unlike Job several millennia ago. If you do, chances are you will see the face of God in ways you never have before, just as Job did. 

• Share your journal only with your closest confidants. My thoughts and feelings were so tentative during these days, I found it best not to go public. I needed to understand—I did not need to get into a debate. As a result, I shared on an ongoing basis with our three children and with our mentor and friend Rev. Lacy Harwell. Later, I shared with Canon Jim Glennon, the Anglican minister I visited in Australia. And I shared with a few others on occasion where it seemed appropriate. I talk more about this here. 
   
• You may need someone to validate what you’re going through. I did. And that person was Lacy. As our sharing with each other progressed, I told him: “I’m feeling the need for you to be my ‘witness’ to these experiences.”  In taking that on, Lacy helped keep me from derailing spiritually and emotionally as I found myself turning some sharp curves at pretty high speeds.  

As I reflect on my experience, my journal’s two primary purposes were these: 

1. To help me unload and sort out a mass of confusing feelings and thoughts that verbalizing alone—either to myself or with another—could not do.
2. To help connect what seemed to be separate, unrelated events. Over time my journal helped me see patterns that I otherwise would not have seen.

How have you coped with your crisis? Are you finding a journal helpful? Other tools? If you care to share, please do at #APathRevealed … or privately, you may email me at carlen@carlenmaddux.com.  

If you haven’t realized it yet, I truly appreciate your interest and involvement in our family’s story. 

Sincerely, Carlen

P.S. Feel free to share this post and others with friends and family you think might be interested. Or they can sign up for my free weekly newsletters at www.carlenmaddux.com.

Why I Started a Blog-Newsletter

If you’re just now catching my blog posts, may I explain more fully for you what I’m trying to do and why? I started this newsletter/blog and opened a website for two reasons: one is practical and the other, I guess, you could call altruistic. 

You may be aware that I’m writing a book about our family’s 17-year experience with Alzheimer’s. Its working title and subtitle: A Path Revealed: How Hope, Love, and Joy Found Us Deep in a Maze Called Alzheimer’s. When my book will be published is still up in the air.

In anticipation of its publication, I decided a website and blog would be a good way to preview the book and our family’s story. The feedback I get should help sharpen what I’m saying in the book as well as be an indicator of the interest that may or may not be out there with a story like ours. That’s the practical reason. 

The “altruistic” reason? I decided to write this book … Correction: I felt compelled to write this book because I sensed that our family and I had gone through enough unique experiences that our story might be worth telling to others who are enduring their own crises. Not that they would copy what we did, but our story might spark ideas and initiatives as they wrestled with their issues. They might hear echoes in our story that would help reinforce their decisions one way or another. 

As I wrap up my manuscript, it seems like a long time yet before my book will see the light of day. Thus, my website and blog help fill that gap in time.

Which brings me to a question I’ve heard more than once: So your blog and newsletter are comprised of excerpts from your book? 

The simple answer is, “No.” The more complicated answer is, “Yes and no.” 

My posts will occasionally contain short excerpts from my book. By short, I mean a paragraph or two. Well … our daughter Kathryn’s poem is an exception, but it’s only one of her nine that will be in my book. 

Our story includes experiences that I can write about only in a book format. The context of these experiences requires too much time and space to cover in the type of posts I’m comfortable writing—short, readable, and to the point. 

Thus, my online posts are more like takeaways that my family and I continue to learn from. But I hope to do more than that with this newsletter/blog. I’ll be looking to add more variety while working around the same theme: How can I come to grips with a serious crisis, whether short-lived or long, and emerge healthier and stronger? Our crisis has been Alzheimer’s; yours may be something else. 

I do need to make this clear: The focus of my book and blog is not on Alzheimer’s; that’s the context of our story. The focus is on the spiritual path that unfolded, quite unexpectedly, before my wife Martha, our children, and me over 17 years. For lack of a better term, you can call my book a spiritual memoir. 

I try to set the tone of this spiritual journey in my book’s Prologue: “In telling our story, I must speak in Christian terms and images because that’s the faith and tradition I grew up with, carried into adulthood, and after a long drought, embraced. In doing this I’m not denying another’s spiritual heritage. Our story is not about scoring theological points. It’s about trying to survive, about finding what works and what doesn’t as we move through a dark, inscrutable maze. It’s about stepping outside our comfort zone to reach anything that holds fast and true. Words do matter. But the truth behind the words matters more.” 

That said, I know some people are just not into spiritual things. I get that. I’ve been there too. So if you’re not, you may want to unsubscribe from my e-newsletter because that’s where this blog and my book lead—into the spiritual. There’s no authentic way I can tell our story otherwise. The names “God” and “Jesus Christ” are so overused today, and often abused for manipulative reasons, that invoking their names out in the public square would give most persons pause, including me. Yet here’s my dilemma: I can’t tell our story without calling on their names, often in the most intimate of ways.  

Several friends from traditions other than Christianity have signed up for my newsletter. I hope my telling of our story permits enough breathing room so that you can translate our story into your own faith’s vocabulary and experience.  

A few more quick comments, and I’ll close. 

First, if you’d like to check out previous newsletters, you can start here with my first one.  

I state this in those early posts: I am not a licensed psychologist/psychiatrist or an ordained minister. What I’m sharing in these posts is drawn from nearly two decades of experience wrestling with the consequences of Alzheimer’s disease on our family. Each person’s odyssey is unique. As you travel your own path and encounter serious obstacles—be they mental, emotional, physical, or spiritual—I strongly encourage you to start an ongoing conversation with a trusted counselor, guide, pastor, doctor, or friend. And with your family.

Finally, if you find what I’m sharing to be valuable, you may sign up for my free weekly newsletter here: www.carlenmaddux.com.

Thanks for your interest in our story.   

Carlen Maddux
carlen@carlenmaddux.com

The Power of Art and Poetry in a Crisis

“Writing these poems was a real turning point for me,” our daughter Kathryn told me not long ago. “I was able to move forward with my life.” She’d written them six years after her mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 1997. 

One poem was inspired by this watercolor of Martha’s, titled “Feeding the Ducks”: 

Other of her paintings can be seen here. 

Each of our kids found Martha’s condition hard to swallow, an understatement to say the least. But I suspect the news came down hardest on Kathryn, who was still in high school while her brother and sister were away in college. 

It was from the crucible of those high school and ensuing years that Kathryn’s poetry emerged. In a class during her senior year of college, she wrote nine poems all themed around her mother’s condition. Kathryn was fortunate to have such a talented and sensitive teacher: Natasha Trethewey subsequently won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry and was named the nation’s 19th poet laureate.

When Kathryn sent me her poems, I couldn’t get through them. The rawness of memory was too palpable. Finally I did. And their energy and darkness and tenderness released something deep within as I cried and read them aloud. 

It was vital that I share with our children my thinking and feelings regarding their mother’s status, which I discuss further here. Yet it also was important for them to share their feelings with me. 

That’s exactly what Kathryn did in this poem, Feeding the Ducks. She provides some context to her thoughts…

Reflecting on this painting, I saw my mother in a way that I had not been able to before. Although I had hints that she was more aware of her surroundings than she was able to express, I had not really grasped that. I’d been caught up by the “fact” that she couldn’t speak. 

My insight emerged not only from this painting but also from the works of both a famous artist and a research scientist. The late Willem de Kooning was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in the 1980s, after five decades of accomplished work. Critics dismissed his later paintings as not of the same “caliber” as the earlier ones. His use of vivid, primary colors supposedly wasn’t “serious enough.”  

However, Dr. Pia Kontos of the University of Toronto argues that regardless of any dementia, Mr. de Kooning’s later work was as valid as his earlier, darker work. Dr. Kontos is convinced by her research that despite any loss, such persons still retain an “embodied selfhood,” and should be respected as such.

(The last two lines of this poem are drawn from a journal article by Dr. Kontos. I also use a statement of hers at the end of the first stanza in which she describes Mr. de Kooning’s later works, but here I draw on it to describe my mother’s watercolor paintings).

And here is the poem:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Feeding the Ducks
by Kathryn Maddux

Bending over her island
she peels Florida oranges, five of them,
in her magenta long-sleeved blouse
and sunflower-yellow floor-length skirt.
The painting on the back wall of the kitchen
is not your typical four-sided frame, but rather,
three sides are visible, with one not so straight-edged. 
Two-dimensional geometric triangles and rectangles
come together into an amorphous something only she
can decipher. “This work exists in a separate space, a more
contemplative arena with less drama and cleaner air.”

She looks down from her work on the orange peels
and hears the ducks coming, trying to sneak up on her,
but the eye-less one quacks, making sure his four buddies
haven’t left him. She asks them, “What would you all like to have
for a snack? I am peeling five oranges, one for each of you. Look,
here are five flowers, too, for you to stop and smell awhile.
                                                                                   One is without
petals, sorry. It’s still a nice flower, though, right? Even without petals, 
it still emanates its pungent, pollen-filled smell . . . and it still holds
its blue hue, like its sister, while the other three are a pastel
pink in color.”

—“Actually, Martha, I’d say you are right on target,” Willem pipes up
as he responds in front of her five friends. “How can the ‘flowerness’
of a flower be lost because it has no petals?”

—“I would agree with you, Mr. de Kooning, just as a duck cannot lose
its ‘duckness’ by having no eyes nor a picture frame its ‘frameness’
by having three sides.”

Putting aside the oranges, Martha picks up her brush and bright paint
to peel back layers of the popular assumption that “only the mind
relates us to the world and gives it meaning.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Have you and your family been able to discuss your deepest feelings surrounding a crisis you’ve gone through? Would you like to share how you did that? If so, you may at #APathRevealed. Or you may email me at carlen@carlenmaddux.com (subject line: My Story).

Thanks, Carlen

P.S. If you’d like to share more stories with each other, please sign up for my free newsletter if you haven’t already.

At 52, I Learned What Real Fear Is

I thought I knew what fear was. Turns out I didn’t know the difference between a common, garden-variety fear and a real nightmare until I was 52 years old. That’s when my wife Martha was told she “may” have Alzheimer’s disease. I say “may” because this disease can only be diagnosed by autopsy. So there we were, as I describe in my forthcoming book A Path Revealed—looking into an unknown future with no solutions. 

I thought nothing else could shock me after that news. But I was wrong. Almost two years later I was forced to take Martha’s car keys away. As she stormed upstairs crying, I cried to myself, I didn’t just take her keys away—I cut her heart out. 

I learned soon enough that a life crisis, like an earthquake, can bring shock upon shock of fear. And that it’s difficult, if not impossible, to prepare for them. Another aftershock occurred one morning two years after the key incident. 

I was fixing breakfast when I heard a thud! overhead. I rushed up the steps to find Martha in a full seizure, her body stiff and shaking, and her face frozen like that in the painting The Scream. This was the first time I’d seen anyone, let alone my wife, overcome by a seizure.   

Maybe you too have awakened from a nightmare only to discover that it was not a nightmare at all—it was real. If you have, then we have something in common. 

You may already have learned what I’m still learning about fear and anxiety. Do I fight fear? Or do I give in to it? Or do I just ignore it? None of these options worked for me. If I fought fear, I lost. And if I gave in to fear, or ignored it, I also lost.

I talk more about learning to confront this kind of fear here.  

How have you learned to deal with anxiety and fear? If you’d like to share, please do so at #APathRevealed. Or email me at carlen@carlenmaddux.com (Subject line: My Story).

Thanks, Carlen

P.S. If you’d like to share more stories with each other, please sign up for my free newsletter if you haven’t already.

Finding Unexpected Gifts Deep in a Crisis

In 1999, a year and a half into our struggle with Alzheimer’s and its depressing symptoms, Martha’s confidence suddenly surged.

Our sister-in-law KK was encouraging Martha to take an art class with her. Martha hadn’t shown an interest in quiet hobbies like art. She instead liked action—things like dancing, playing tennis, singing, talking smack, and hiking.

So I was surprised, stunned really, when Martha said yes. I think she did because she loved KK, and anyone who knew KK knew she could be persuasive. They started a watercolor class once a week for four hours at the St. Petersburg Art Center. The teacher was Judi Dazzio. 

Martha jumped in feet first. She painted scores of pictures large and small—turtles and fish in an orange-and-green sea; a multi-colored zebra; a blue-faced hippo walking atop an orange-and-yellow rainbow, to describe a few. To see these and others, click this picture…

I think this picture is a self-portrait of Martha, but I’m unsure what she had in mind. It hangs in our living room, where I’ve seen it thousands of times.

Her teacher Judi would hand Martha a sketch to paint, and Martha began to do so with a complexity and boldness of color that reflected a dimension I’d never seen in her. I have no idea where that came from. 

Neither did Judi, who pulled me aside one day. “Carlen, this can’t be taught,” she said of Martha’s use of color. But what a delight it was to see this talent unfold out of a dark and scary place. 

And to see the surge in Martha’s confidence.  

As much as I enjoyed Martha’s artwork, I enjoyed even more hearing her talk about each piece. And seeing the glow in her face when she completed one. The lethargy so common with Alzheimer’s just melted away. 

I remember Martha talking on the phone with our daughter Rachel, who was away at college. She was describing an art show in which she exhibited two paintings. Martha was excited and fluent. 

At that exhibit, Martha’s paintings were the only ones from her class to be displayed.  The exhibit was at the Suntan Art Center on St. Pete Beach, next door to the big pink Don Cesar hotel. 

The Friday the exhibit opened, Martha couldn’t wait to get there. “Look, here they are,” she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me to the paintings. You’d think there were no other paintings in this show, I thought as I smiled. She beamed as she looked at them and then she showed me their price tags: $200 each. “Judi helped me price them.” We returned Sunday afternoon to see if the paintings had sold. They hadn’t. But that didn’t matter. 

And then…after two years or so of painting, Martha’s desire and talent evaporated as quickly and quietly as they had emerged. “If it were only possible to bottle this confidence,” I thought as Martha’s mind slipped away to an unknown place. Those two years, however, are engraved warmly on my heart. 

Along our way, a mentor friend told me to look for the little things that emerge and to be thankful for them. That was good advice, but boy it’s hard to do when you’re deep in a crisis. Yet as he often told me, especially when I was about to give up: “I didn’t say it was easy, Carlen. I just said it works!” 

As Martha’s interest in painting grew, I at first tried to figure out how this was happening. I wanted to replicate it in other realms of her life. But I quickly stopped, deciding instead to enjoy the moment for what it is—a moment of grace revealed.  

Have you experienced anything good in the midst of your crisis that surprised you? Would you care to share? You can at #APathRevealed. Or you can email me at carlen@carlenmaddux.com (subject line: My Story).

Thanks,

Carlen

P.S. If you’d like to share more stories with each other, please sign up for my free newsletter if you haven’t already.

Where’s the Joy in an Unimaginable Tragedy?

I remember the moment when, after 25 years of marriage, my wife’s bright blue eyes turned dull and gray. 

We were sitting in the doctor’s office, peering across a vast desk, waiting for him to speak. The doctor could have been a perfect stand-in for Mr. Spock on “Star Trek.” Stiff and formal, he turned to Martha and said, “I’m sorry to tell you this, but it appears that you have early onset Alzheimer’s disease.” 

His voice was calm, ice-cold calm. His words were harsh beyond belief, freezing our hearts and minds. 

Martha and I looked at each other in pained bewilderment. Her confident bearing crumbled. She seemed to have retreated into her shadow, her eyes dulled gray. Me? Who knows where I went. Maybe into Dante’s fifth circle of hell. Our world wasn’t turned upside down. It was imploding before our eyes. 

The date was September 23, 1997—just twenty days after Martha turned 50.

So began the last seventeen years of our life together. And our family, desperate and lost, was left to wonder: “Just how do you find anything good in the worst tragedy we could ever imagine?”

You may or may not be aware of our family’s crisis with Alzheimer’s. By almost any measure, it’s an insidious disease. And I suspect Alzheimer’s ranks right up there among a Baby Boomer’s greatest fears as this generation surges into its sixties and seventies.

But deep traumas don’t just strike in our later years. Two of our children, David and Rachel, were in college when their mother was diagnosed, and Kathryn was a junior in high school still living at home. Two decades earlier, I was 28 when my mother died of brain cancer at age 56.    

I’ve been writing a book trying to describe what we’ve gone through over these seventeen years, trying to make sense of it for me and for our children … and for their children. 

While also trying to make sense of it for anyone wanting to see how our story may echo with theirs.

Our story, however, is not about the fallout from this degenerative disease. Rather, it’s the story of a path that emerged during our darkest hours, a path that we neither planned nor foresaw. 

Shortly after her diagnosis, Martha and I traveled to the backwoods of Kentucky where the quiet presence of a Catholic nun revealed to these two lifelong Protestants this path’s opening. I was forced to slow down as I traced this path halfway around the world to Australia; retreated weekends to a nearby monastery; learned to embrace meditation; and landed all alone one week in the cabin of Thomas Merton, the popular monk and prolific writer. 

Maybe you’ve had your own crisis—whether it be Alzheimer’s, cancer, another health issue, financial issues, loss of a loved one…whatever. What have been the obstacles you’ve faced? What successes have you experienced? If you’d like to share any of these, please go to #APathRevealed. Or feel free to email me at carlen@carlenmaddux.com (Subject line: My Story). 

Thanks. I bet we can learn from each other. 

Carlen Maddux

P.S. If you’d like to share more stories with each other, please sign up for my free newsletter if you haven’t already.