Cate LaBarre

I hope this little story brings a smile to your heart and reminds you that there are no small encounters, no coincidences, and no love that cannot overcome great obstacles. Some relationships are destined to endure. This is one.

My mother passed away nearly 10 years ago, my father has been gone for 8 now. Their love story lives on.  At my son’s most recent dental appointment, he heard his grandparent’s romantic story from the dental assistant!  The assistant remembers meeting Nick’s grandfather more than a decade ago, at a different dental office in town, and she has never forgotten him and this story. If I picked up the phone today and called my dad’s florist or any of the friends he knew later in life, each would remember this story told by a romantic “old” man. Here it is, in honor of my parent’s true anniversary.

Richard (Dick) and Vera met on the Vernal Equinox, March 20, 1937, during the height of the depression, when they were both students at Uniontown High School, Uniontown, PA.

My dad was a scholar; my mom an exotic beauty. My dad’s maternal lineage “landed” in the new world in 1640, a mere generation after the Mayflower. My mom arrived as an immigrant from Northern Italy when she was 7-years-old, her father wisely leaving his beloved homeland because of the rise of fascism. The bank crisis and depression hit Uniontown before the rest of the nation, but that’s a different story. Today’s story is a love story.

My dad was on the high school “debate team” and my mom was an usher in the auditorium for an interscholastic competition. Fortunately my dad didn’t spot her until after his debate; I think he may have been speechless.  As he describes it, nothing in his life came close to the experience of meeting my mother.

Let’s see if I can recall the story as dad told it:

I was on my high school debate team and Vera was an usher for our Spring competition.  It was the first time I noticed her; our high school was large and it was easy to get lost in the crowd. I had never seen anyone more beautiful. Her smile and grace enchanted me. During intermission, I boldly asked her if she wanted to join me for refreshments. We found ourselves in an empty classroom and opened the window to allow in the fresh, spring air. Vera leaned out the window and a light breeze caught her auburn hair. The scent of her was intoxicating. She was playful and laughed easily. I was madly in love.

I asked if I could walk her home and she said that her parents would not allow it.  She had to go with her brother. When I asked “who’s your brother?” she answered. I was stunned and swallowed hard. I HATED her brother. He was Italian and obnoxious.  He always needed to be the center of attention with his gags and horseplay. In that moment of falling in love, my prejudice and hatred fell away. In that moment the only thing that mattered was my heart bursting over with love for this girl.

Every year I buy daffodils for Vera on the first day of spring, our true anniversary.

My Uncle Hermes, who my dad proclaimed to hate until the day he met mom, became one of his best friends. Though my mom and her siblings learned impeccable English quickly with no perceptible accent, her parents did not. Dad learned fairly fluent Italian, the only “Anglo” who “married in” to the family who took the time and trouble to learn. I believe he was my grandmother’s favorite “in law”.

For many years I wasn’t particularly aware of my parents wedding anniversary, they never made a fuss about it. But I could never forget their true anniversary, because the daffodils always appeared on March 20^th and there was a special “energy” of love, hope and renewal in the air.

My parents stayed married, to the astonishment of their children and extended family. Their relationship was always fiery and often unkind. I can remember screaming at them as a teenager to just go ahead and get a divorce; their arguments were ugly and hurtful. I had a conversation recently with my only remaining relative of their generation, my mom’s sister, Aunt Lil. She said none of their siblings could understand what kept them together; they never seemed to agree about much of anything except arguing. As Aunt Lil reflected on their relationship, she could accept that this was just the way they communicated and realized that somehow it worked for them. I like her perspective.

Perhaps it was Richard’s romantic nature that brought them together and Vera’s fire that kept their love alive. Perhaps it was that they met exactly when and how they did, on the first day of Spring, both seeing something in the other that inspired them to be more, to live, grow and stay together forever.

In honor of their undying love, my husband and I married on March 20^th seven years ago.

I feel my parents smiling today. They are enjoying the daffodils overflowing in the vase on my table. As I breathe in their fragrance, I remember.

Wishing you happy Spring, happy love, happy heart.

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad. Happy Wedding Anniversary my Love.

Lately there are moments when my husband looks at me as though the “real” me has been abducted by aliens and he wonders when I’m coming back. Of course, this is pure projection on my part because I’m the one who feels like I’ve been abducted by aliens.

In my youth I spent an inordinate amount of time not wanting to feel like me. This led to self-medicating, which eventually led to IV drug use and addiction. It’s interesting to me that in my personal recovery I was finally grateful to feel like me and found that I could alter my consciousness in positive ways through spending time in nature, having a spiritual practice and even living “off the grid” for three years. This has grown for me in interesting ways — what I’ve chosen to study, my work, my service and my current hobbies all reflect ways that I have shifted my consciousness to appreciate what it feels like to be me.

Why the current alien abduction scenario? I am in the middle of a drug regimen intended to rid me of a virus I picked up many years ago. With four months to go, I am experiencing many “alien” moments that would put my drug years to shame. I just don’t feel like me. And yet in the bigger picture of life, nothing is static, change is a given. And there is truly no going back to before, I can live only in this moment. So how do I shift to being with this new “alien” feeling?

Byron Katie wrote: “Life is simple. Everything happens FOR you, not TO you…You don’t have to like it — it’s just easier if you do.”

When I shift my perspective to life happening FOR me, for my highest good, for my spiritual growth, for my healing, for my best interest and well-being, I embrace exactly what it feels like to be me in any given moment and remind myself that change is constant. I can fight it or I can love it. I can resist it or surrender to the flow.

Where and how are you resisting the flow of your life? What would it feel like to let go? What would it feel like to embrace exactly who you are right now?

Life is an adventure, a magical mystery tour, filled with challenges, loss, joy, love, surprises and miracles. Discover what you can love about even the toughest part of your journey and feel like yourself again.

*I took this photo of my husband, Win, on Algonquin, New York’s second highest peak. Hiking this mountain for a second time was what I desired most on my 53rd birthday — despite the rain and fog. When I look at it now, I realize the “mother ship” was there all along. Beam me up Scotty!

As some of you know, I am currently in the middle of an anti-viral drug regimen.  One of the more “difficult” side effects is a drug rash. This rash can drive people right out of treatment when the itching or rash becomes unbearable. And drug rash I have. Most of the time, I can tune it out, but come the wee hours of the night, I’m wide awake, itchy, and want to jump out of my skin.  Imagine the sensation of bugs crawling on you and every now and then they all decide to bite at once.  Descriptive enough?

My girlfriends, Donna, Jackie and Jen, got me a gift certificate for the Roosevelt Baths here in Saratoga Springs. Though I have tasted all the effervescent healing waters from the springs scattered about the landscape, I have never taken in the healing baths. When I reported that I have a rash and should probably wait, Jen jumped right on it. NO, she said, YOU MUST GO NOW! IT WILL HELP YOU! She relayed her own story of being cured of a horrible allergic reaction to bug bites and then told me that a friend who had a rash from chemotherapy swore the baths got her through. Who am I to argue? I took the plunge, literally, and met my girlfriends at the baths Saturday.

I couldn’t have been more pleased and surprised. Though expecting to come away relaxed and ready for a nap, I couldn’t have imagined the results. Though the rash on my torso was still quite angry looking, the itching subsided for a full 24 hours. I hadn’t had that kind of relief from any home soak or remedy.

I made an appointment to return Wednesday. In the meantime, I spoke to my health care provider about the rash and the baths. She advised numerous over-the-counter drug store remedies. Having already tried many without any relief, I was skeptical.  I talked more about the baths; she was skeptical and suggested that it was probably “just the hydration”. This is not the case, since I have been soaking in Aveeno baths at home daily. None of the OTC remedies did anything for me but aggravate the redness. The closest I’ve come to relief with topical application continues to be PURE Aloe Vera gel (not the kind from the drug store, but the 100% gel from the health food store), and Chrissey’s magic goat’s milk body butter (check it out at joyofthejourneyfarm.com).

Back to the healing waters. Despite the skepticism of my lovely nurse practitioner, who I truly believe has my best interest at heart, I decided to throw the list away of even more drug store topicals and make my investment in another bath.

Wednesday I arrived 45 minutes before my bath. I picked up a book at Saratoga Library written by a doctor who studied The Queen of Spas healing waters for decades. It seemed the perfect addition to my tea as I relaxed before a steam and bath. The tubs are in private rooms, relaxing music, soft lighting, candles, private bathroom. An attendant draws the bath water and comes to find me at the appointed time for my 40 minute soak. The water is deep, effervescent and brown! I can’t see my toes. I float like I’m in a warm sea. This time I visualize the toxins that are no longer needed to kill the virus easily and gently leaving my body. Drawn out by the healing waters, returned to the earth to be transmuted into harmless base. I stay with this visualization throughout my treatment. My bath attendant knocks after 40 minutes and brings me a heated towel. It’s all I can do this time to get dressed and leave the baths. I fantasize about returning on Thursday. I know I’ll be back soon.

There is a risk that I am mistaken. That this “water cure” that I firmly believe in now has no merit. And yet the thought of putting more chemicals ON my skin to relieve an itch and rash that is an allergic reaction to chemicals I’ve ingested just doesn’t make sense. Who am I to argue with thousands of years of tradition of human beings to take in the baths? And to the millions of people who have flocked to Saratoga for its healing waters. Who am I to argue with the dozens of people I see in lines at the springs each time I drive through the park? They aren’t just tasting the waters, they are filling bottles to take home.

This morning my husband reported that the rash on my back is no longer red and angry. In some places it is gone. My chest and belly certainly look better. The itch is subsiding. Now I lay in bed at night and let go of the discomfort. I ask the divine to take it away and bathe me in peace and healing light. I visualize the chemicals that I no longer need easily leaving my body with no allergic reaction. And I dream of my next visit to the baths!

I share this not just to convince you that there are natural healing waters available to us but to pose the following questions: How often do you ignore your intuition that invites you try something new? How often do you defer to the experts when your gut says NO, THERE’S ANOTHER WAY? How often are you afraid to take a risk because you might make be wrong, make a mistake or displease another? Trust yourself, be strong, take a risk. And next time you’re in Saratoga Springs, I’ll meet you at the Roosevelt Baths!

Roosevelt Baths, Saratoga Springs

Our coaching community meets by teleconference twice a month. It’s a great way to stay connected to our colleagues and friends, since we are scattered all over the world. A group of volunteers from our community organize and take turns facilitating the calls. Last month, Martyn was on the call early to greet coaches as we chimed in from England, Denmark, New Zealand, South Africa, Nova Scotia, Sweden, Vancouver, Taiwan, NY, California, Florida, and points in between.  PHEW!

Martyn lives in Australia. I love talking to him on Thursday afternoon from NY, because it is already Friday morning “down under”. As Martyn is having his first cup of coffee sweating into his wallabies, setting his clock for daylight savings time, I am snuggled in my polar fleece complaining about an early freak snowstorm! I smile as I think about Martyn beginning MY tomorrow as I complete HIS yesterday.

An early arriver on the call from Canada, playfully asked Martyn to tell us about HIS today, OUR tomorrow: “What can we expect tomorrow, Martyn?” In an equally playful voice Martyn responded: “Ooooooo, I can’t tell you that. It’s a secret. You must discover it for yourself.”

What if we began every day like a young child anticipating a birthday, filled with surprise, celebration, excitement?  What would our days be like if we awakened every morning knowing that there is a secret waiting to be revealed in any moment? What would our lives be like if we realized that each day contains a gift beyond anything we can imagine?

Thank you, Karen and Martyn, for this playful exchange that has inspired me to face each day with the curiosity of a child.

I have been thinking about my mother’s cooking lately. When I was a kid, she made wonderful homemade soups and golden, crusty loaves of bread in the cool months. One of my jobs in her kitchen was to “sort beans”. I took a pound of beans and snipped open a corner of the bag, dropped one layer of beans onto a small plate and removed any “defective” beans, grit and tiny stones.  I loved my job. At the time I didn’t realize that it was a meditative experience. I was focused on one thing, pouring, sorting and placing the “clean” beans in a saucepan for soaking. My mother took great care in cooking for her family.

As my kitchen fills with the smell of garlic sautéing in olive oil, I miss her. I recall that the love and warmth that I longed for and was often lacking, I felt most when I was by her side in the kitchen. Along with gardening and sewing, it was the only time she slowed down at home, and it was apparent in the quality and love reflected in what she produced.

My mother went “back to work” when I was 7. She worked as a secretary at a local public school with the benefit of having school vacations off with her children. She still took the time on weekends and vacations to make fabulous, healthy meals. But during the week, her cooking became rushed and frenzied. This was the late 50s and the advent of “frozen food plans”. The big upright kilowatt-sucking freezer went in our basement and was filled monthly with frozen fish sticks, burgers, assorted pot pies and vegetables.  Lucky thing we had that deep freeze, my mother was the blur of a whirling dervish weeknights!  I learned how to cook “on the fly” from her as well, which served me later as a short order cook and for my years as a single mom and caregiver to both of my parents.

As I slow down my cooking, I picture my mother and grandmother side by side in the kitchen, aprons on, delicious smells, wooden spoons flying as they bantered and argued in Italian.  I’ve stopped preparing canned beans except in the direst pinch of time. And yet I notice there are some things I make that just don’t taste as good as my mom’s. As I reflect on this during bean preparation last night, I recall that I have been creating my OWN short cuts to save time and they are not turning out the quality that I remember. I never skip sorting beans, heaven forbid anyone break a tooth on a stone (though I haven’t found one since I was 10). As I look closely, I realize my preparation time has been reduced by short cuts. I no longer use everything I learned by her side in the kitchen.  I decide to go back to the basics. My mother’s Cannellini beans were slightly creamy and deliciously saturated with the flavor of olive oil, salt and garlic. I remember the vital step!  It wasn’t the beans, it was ALL the steps in the preparation, skipping even one spoils the recipe.  I cook the beans as my mother taught me, slowly, deliberately, skipping nothing. I laugh at myself and wonder who AM I to mess with the culinary skills and love of generations of Northern Italian mamas and  cooks in my maternal lineage?

What does this have to do with life? What I learned from my mother was to be deliberate in my intention, preparation, and execution and to always remember to stir in some love.  When I rush to get a meal on the table, the taste is just a little “off”.  I can’t taste the love.

When I rush to produce in my work or communicate in relationships, I am bound to miss an important step, appear unprofessional or uncaring, make a mistake, have to apologize, then double back to try to fix it.  And the love is missing.  When I am deliberate in my intention, preparation and execution, I produce a meal, class, workshop or piece of writing that reflects all the love and caring that I feel in my heart. My communication is clear with clients and loved ones; they know they have been heard and that I care. In the long run I also save the time that it takes to double back and try to “fix it” when I’ve rushed.

My mother, Vera, in 1999 on the left, with two of her four sisters, Lilia and Dina.

How about you? What short cuts are you taking that no longer serve you? What do you miss about a slower pace? What did your mother teach you that still has the value of generations of wisdom? What wise “old” practice or habit can you reclaim now and make your “new” practice today?

My husband and I had a conversation a few days ago about “what it takes” to make a BIG change in life. I shared with him that for me my biggest changes occurred when I felt like I had hit “rock bottom”. In my early 20s I was living near NY City and I was addicted to heroin and losing my grip fast. I was about to lose my apartment and just barely got myself to work each day. I saw what Methadone programs were doing to others — creating greater addiction and dependence and there was no way I would take that path. I did not feel I could turn to my parents nor did I want to. They had their own “rock bottom” at the time and my shame was too deep. I had to face the truth. I was an addict. I couldn’t get clean alone.

Through allowing myself to surrender to “rock bottom” and then the grace of the Divine, I found another way. Removing myself completely from my environment, giving up my job and apartment, packing up my VW bug and heading a couple hundred miles away to a friend who had offered help, I quit, “cold turkey”, and got the monkey off my back, never to return.

I realize today that this is a theme in life, at least in my life, that sometimes I need to hit “rock bottom” in order to surrender, ask for help, let go, let God.  From somewhere in that place of humility I find the strength to go on.

I could write a book just about my experience of “hitting rock bottom”. But I’ll stop with two more stories.

My first “real” Adirondack Mountain hike that I took was when I was in my late 40s.  I was overweight, out of shape, and had lousy hiking boots. As I struggled to make it to the top and back again, in true tortoise fashion (and covered with mud — head to boot), I engaged in self-deprecating dialogue: I hated myself for being so unfit, I hated hiking, I hated my boots, I hated the boyfriend who took me on this slog, and I vowed I would NEVER hike again. It was October and it looked like I was safe from an invitation until the following year.  I threw away my hiking boots in the nearest trash can and started thinking of excuses.

That was a “rock bottom” place for me. I felt defeated and weak. Something shifted over that Winter that I can’t even recall consciously. By Spring I was shopping for new boots and had begun to work out to strengthen my legs and core, improve my balance and increase my aerobic capacity. Over the next year or so of frequent hiking, I was able to work up to a high peak experience for my 50th birthday! All from hitting “rock bottom” and surrendering to the truth;  I was pathetically out of shape and I needed help.

Fast forward to today. As you know from reading my blog I am in a treatment protocol to cure me of hepatitis C infection I picked up as an IV drug user all those many years ago. Being transparent, no longer hiding both the “truth” of my addiction and my decision to go for treatment, took hitting “rock bottom”. In order to “thrive” during my treatment, I knew that I needed help from the divine, my angels, all the powers of the universe. I reached out and asked for support and the prayers of friends, to have the strength to face treatment each day. I pray for strength. All from experiencing “rock bottom”.

Now at about 11 weeks in, at moments I feel that I’ve hit “rock bottom” again. I need more rest than I did even when pregnant or sick. I need to practice impeccable self-care more than ever. That self-care changes on a daily basis, because my needs seem to change on a daily basis. I never know what to expect. Being fluid, surrendering and “going with the flow” and making constant adjustments has been an extraordinary lesson. I’ve been forced by “rock bottom” to give up hiking and my usual training routine. My body just won’t let me.

I have grown so much in just these few short weeks. I relish in leisurely walks with time to explore my surroundings. My husband and I bought our first canoe (having sold our kayaks a few years ago because we preferred hiking). We’ve been getting outdoors while the weather still allows  us to “paddle”. What a treat! I’ve never really “loved” paddling until “rock bottom”. I feel like a little kid again, noticing all that nature has to offer along the shore, in the water and air.

I love naps. I’ve learned that I really CAN live without caffeine. I appreciate the support of my friends more than ever. I love my life, with all its challenges, and am grateful that I can have this treatment that may be a cure.

I look forward to the days of getting my muscular self back in shape. I believe that I’ll be even stronger because the virus that has been there to offer an extra challenge to everything I do will be gone.  I have a VISION of a healthier-than-ever ME. I have a GOAL of hiking with ease a year from now. Both my vision and goal fuel me on the path to full recovery. I can picture myself scrambling over the ROCKS of BOTTOM. Nothing can stop me.

Do you need to hit “rock bottom” in order to make a change?

Have you created a new VISION and GOAL to inspire your journey? I would love to hear all about it.