Returning to Spirituality

Things I keep near me at all times: a nail file, balm for my chronically dry lips, tissues for my constantly dripping nose, eye drops…and lately, a crystal or stone.

I have crystals and stones that I’ve collected over the years in every part of my house. They’re in my work-from-home office, my bedroom, my living room, dining room, art studio… There’s even one in my car. I really want to believe in the spiritual healing powers of stones. I used to keep a stone near me or in a pocket always. At some point I stopped.

As long as I can remember, I’ve been wary of organized religion, as in groups who gather in “brick and mortar” churches. This was largely due to my mother’s on again, off again relationship with the churches in the town where I grew up. My father attended church regularly, and sang in the choir. I remember being in the car, Mother driving us to church, and the radio transmitting the choir my father was singing in. At that point in my life – I was maybe 7 or 8 – I had the idea that music played on the radio was all live, and I imagined all the performers showing up at the radio station to perform, and then rotating out at the end of each song. I still laugh when I think about this. But I digress.

There was a lot of friction between my mother and her brother, Uncle Curtis. For holidays, we used to rotate gathering between my mother’s families’ homes. On one visit to Curt and Gloria’s house, I was sitting on the living room floor entertaining myself with some toy or another, and Mother and Curt were engaged in a volatile conversation about religion as Billy Graham preached through the tv in the background. I believe that was our last visit with any of Mother’s family. Later I was told the conversation had been around my sister’s desire to divorce her husband. That was a sin. We were “disowned” by Mother’s family.

In my thirties, my sister announced she wanted to find a church. Did I want to join her in her search? Yeah, why not, I thought. My daughters were in Middle School at that point and had never been to church. I thought it would be a good idea to initiate them and let them make their own decisions about church and religion. We chose a Presbyterian church after listening to the female pastor’s sermon. I liked what she said that day, and thought it was nice to finally hear from a woman behind the pulpit. We all became members. I eventually began helping out with Sunday School lessons for the kids, and…I even became a Deacon! That blows my mind. Me. Someone who cannot quote a single bible verse. I approached it the same way I did high school: study up the night before, take the test, get a decent grade, then forget everything.

As a Deacon, I got a look behind the curtains, and I didn’t like what I saw. Some of the people who had called our Pastor to lead the church had had a change of heart. They made it their mission to make her life as miserable as possible, presumably in the hope that she would leave. The spying and gossiping were too much for me. When my girls graduated high school I stopped going, and so did they.

After moving to Tennessee in 2001, I felt the need to try out a church or two, but I never felt comfortable. I don’t care for the model you’re welcomed in, and then immediately pressured into service. Wait a minute – I just got here. Let me check the temperature of the water first. I could never commit.

Then I found a spiritual group online. What I heard there resonated with me. Their message: We’re here to experience joy and learn from the lives we’ve chosen. I followed that group for several years, even joining an ocean cruise with them, having never met any of them in person. It was a great experience for a lot of reasons – all documented in my “South Pacific Cruise” series.

I eventually stepped away even from that though. Their message felt redundant, and life got busy and stressful again. I wasn’t able to keep sight of what I really needed.

These days I’m listening to podcasts from people sharing several perspectives about religion and spirituality. I attended a spiritual fair recently, and was drawn to the room filled with crystals and stones. I bought a few to add to my collection. They are: Chrysanthemum Stone (grounding), Aquatine Calcite (energy flow/calmness), and Amazonite (calm/balance). Will they change my life? Probably not. But they help me remember to stop and check in with myself.

Hello 2026!

Yesterday I said my goodbye to 2025. Today I welcome 2026 with wide eyes and hopefulness. The change and progress brought to me in 2025 will provide a strong foundation for further growth this year.

There’s something in the air, I think. A sort of electrical charge that is lifting me and motivating me to keep moving…one foot in front of the other…with openness and childlike enthusiasm.

I don’t make resolutions because I know I won’t keep them, but I can hold tightly to the tail of the new energy stream I’m feeling and ride it through the ebbs and flows of change.

I am resilient. Life has taught me that. I can do this.

Goodbye 2025

In 2025, I found myself again. I spent huge amounts of time in my studio making art or just tinkering. The Universe delivered me the answer to relieving my chronic pain, which was literally life changing. (Mold in my crawlspace was the culprit.) I did some inner work that moved me out of constant anxiety and allowed me to enjoy life again.

I’ve felt my relationship with my daughters grow this year. My circle of friends has expanded. I’m getting out of the house again, to just have fun. For a person who struggled with acute anxiety for years, this is a HUGE deal!

Some highlights:

  • Road trip for a week’s vacation in Dallas with my daughters and grandkids
  • Launched my art website, MelEricksonFineArt.com (FINALLY!)
  • Displayed my art in three exhibits
  • Got myself a SCORE Mentor to support me as I grow my business
  • Played Bunco several times with a Meetup group
  • Took a Book Binding class
  • Listened to an Eagles cover band at 3rd & Lindsley
  • Enjoyed several shows at the Ryman Auditorium (Whose Live Anyway, Sarah Millican, Chris Isaak, Wanda Sykes)
  • Saw Henry Cho and Drew Lynch at Zanies
  • Hosted a Halloween party

The holiday season was exceptionally busy for me. Here’s a rundown:

  • I went to two Christmas parties; at one I learned how to play Flip 7, at the other I learned Left, Center, Right. Both were great fun.
  • I saw two live performances of A Christmas Carol – both tongue in cheek;
    • In Drunken Christmas Carol, the actor playing Ebenezer was intentionally drunk and unrehearsed. It was a hoot!
    • A Christmas Carol Cocktail Experience served audience members four themed cocktails over the course of the 90-minute event. Rideshare anyone?
  • I saw Lights Under Louisville, which is Christmas lights in a drive-thru cave. (If you ever get the chance, you really should go. I recommend the trolley rather than driving your own car so you can see the lights above you as you drive under them. And there’s so much to see you don’t want to be distracted with driving.)

I’m so grateful to the Universe for bringing these experiences to me. The world seems to be burning down around me, but somehow, my personal slice of it has been beautiful.

The Child Inside Me

There is a child inside me

She lurks in the corners of my soul as I navigate my life

She has been waiting for her chance to come out and play

.

I worked so hard for so much of my life

to raise my kids

to keep myself safe

.

I tried so hard to fit in

Hoping to be seen – to be heard

My inner child has been very patient

.

My kids are now grown and have their own lives

I’ve no one to care for but the dogs

No one to tell me what I can, can’t, or should do

.

The child is now free to play

She’s with me when I garden

She helps me tell my story through my blog

She’s there when I create the art that brings me so much joy

.

And she’s there to tell me it’s okay

when I start to feel weepy over old memories

or the state of the world

Breaking Free: A Journey to Independence

At 14, all I wanted was to be married to the boy across the street. He was going to save me from life with my bipolar mother.

At 17, we were married. Life was sure to change for the better. This was the answer.

At 18, I was angry. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, and I was restricted to either work or home. I had one friend he approved of.

At 19, we separated so he could find himself. He was 22 by then and had been with me five years already. He wanted to explore other relationships. Three months later, we were back together – not by my choice – I had been enjoying my new freedom. But he had seen the error of this ways. Mother intervened, and parental pressure won out again.

At 20, I was pregnant. Having a child would fix our marriage – I was sure of it.

At 21, I was fantasizing his sudden death so I could be free of him and grow into the strong, independent woman I was meant to be.

Not long after, I found myself single parenting our 15-month-old twin daughters. No, he didn’t die. But I grew some courage and stood up for myself. He was finally willing to let go for good.

It wasn’t easy, but we all made it through the emotional and financial struggles…as much as one can when living moment by moment.

Today my daughters are grown with babies of their own. I am happily single, in a home I own, doing the things I could only dream of way back then. There were many detours along the way, but I got here.

Dreams do come true.

Memories of Home: Farm-to-Table Living

When I think of my family home, I first remember it from the outside.  Outside was my paradise – my haven from the drama inside the house.

We lived in Central California where the weather was always mild. Never too hot, never too cold. We raised animals for our protein needs. There was a large, fenced area at the far end of the property for our sheep to roam, and a shed where hay and feed were stored that also held cages where our rabbits lived – until we needed them. Chicken, ducks and geese roamed freely on the property. Our attempts to keep them caged failed. Hunting for eggs wasn’t just an Easter activity.

As a child, in summer, I would head outside after breakfast each morning and not come back in until dinner, save for bathroom breaks. We did have an old outhouse down by the creek, though, if an emergency should arise. My parents had built it to use while they were building our house the year before I was born.

There was a dirt path that led from the front of the property down the hill to the creek below. There I would play with tadpoles and poke the black beetles we called Stink Bugs with sticks until they raised their hind ends up to deliver their stench.

Up a hill at the far end of the creek there were oak trees that I climbed and sometimes fell out of. A rope was tied to a branch that overhung the downward slope to the creek. The other end of the rope was tied around an old piece of wood. It was great fun to swing out as far as I could over the slope – until the day the rope broke, and I landed hard, halfway down the hill.

The back yard beyond our lawn was dedicated to growing food. On one side we grew at least one tree of just about any fruit you could imagine. We grew apples, peaches, nectarines, cherries, pears, plums, and apricots – you just haven’t lived until you’ve eaten a ripe apricot right off the tree!

On the other side of the garden, various grape varieties wound their vines along long rows of wire fence. I grew to love concord grapes! Mother made her own grape juice concentrate and froze it in canning jars to keep us in supply. We also had blackberries, raspberries, and boysenberries – my favorite!

A hill sloped up from the back lawn to the garden and was covered in rows of strawberry plants. All this for a family of five. What we couldn’t eat or Mother couldn’t find a way to preserve, we would share with our neighbors.

We grew the occasional potato or tomato as well, but fruit was our primary focus. And there was a walnut tree – in the front yard, for some reason.

When I say I would stay outside until dinner, I mean there was no need to go in and make myself a sandwich. I’d just go pick something from the garden if I got hungry.

When I think back to that time, it feels magical, in spite of the family trauma that came with it. I was blessed to have had the experience of farm-to-table eating.

These days I live on the East Coast, where the weather is less mild – too hot in summer and too cold in winter. But every spring I’m inspired to get outside and start a garden – on a much smaller scale, of course. I’ve had many failures over the years, but I’ve also had my fair share of successes. I find it therapeutic to dig in the soil, and when I can fill my plate with this year’s successes, I am fulfilled.

Celebrating Life’s Simple Pleasures: Things I Love

Lately I’ve been posting a lot about my personal growth coming out of trauma. I thought it was time for a change of pace. Today’s post is quite simply a list of things I love.

Cool mornings in Summer

Puppy Snuggles

Strong Coffee

A warm chocolate chip cookie

A garden full of flowers

My beautiful daughters

Hours alone in my art studio

A good WhoDunit

Movie popcorn

Truffle fries

A good wine shared with friends

Summer trips with my daughters and grandchildren

Bunco

Halloween

Staring at the stars

Toes in my sand

The sounds of the ocean

A just-cleaned house

Laughing til I cry

A good sneeze

The smell of warm banana bread

Traveling Europe

Saturday morning free writing

A clean car

Buying art supplies

Exploring new painting techniques

Pepperoni pizza

A good burger

Butterflies

Sitting around a fire pit with friends

Thank you for reading. What things do you love?

Changing My Name: a Path to Healing

Shedding my name was a big step in letting go of my past. Every time I heard that name aimed at me, it was like fingernails on a chalkboard. It’s a fine name for someone else, just not me.

It was my first name that needed to go. The name I had been called in the house full of anger. The name I carried with me all through school, where I was afraid to make friends – didn’t know how to. It was the name I was called during my first marriage. The marriage that had been a desperate attempt to gain freedom, but in fact was even more constrictive.

I eventually fled the marriage, moved out of state, and changed my name. It seemed the perfect timing – no one knew me. I began using my middle name – a nod to my mostly un-present, but desperately missed father. I was in my early twenties, and single parenting 15-month-old twins. I needed something big to help me shift into my new life. This was it. Nothing official, I simply began sharing it as my preferred name. My health insurance was in the name I preferred. I traveled under the name I preferred. Nobody cared.

Fast forward about forty years. Travel policies had tightened and I was once again forced to acknowledge my first name. A trip to Portugal in 2022 became frustrating when I had to constantly correct the tour guides, after I had dutifully listed my middle name in the “Preferred Name” box on the forms.

That’s it, I thought. No more. So I made it official. I now am legally addressed by what had been my middle name, my first name now residing in the middle position and shortened to a single letter. No one’s going to call me that again…except…when I have the unfortunate need to communicate with my ex. But that doesn’t happen often.

I bought a piece of art off the courthouse wall the day I received the order. It hangs in my living room as a reminder of the gift I gave myself. The ink drawing of frogs perched on lily pads in a pond was created by a woman in a recovery program. I thought it fitting: the artist was working on her trauma, and her art was a symbol of me working on mine. I’m so thankful it was there on the courthouse wall that day. It’s a favorite piece in my collection.

Of course, changing my name didn’t erase my past. It didn’t make me magically stop thinking about it. But not hearing that name every day has given me space to heal. Distance. There was a level of resentment I felt when called by my given name.

I still have memories that make me sad at times. But it’s easier these days to recognize when I’m going down an unhealthy rabbit hole. I remind myself that I’m a different person than I was back then. I have better options now, because of the life I’ve created for myself. Sure, I still carry grief that bubbles up from time to time – don’t we all? And I occasionally go back to therapy for a tune-up. That’s how healing works. But I feel I’m “over the hump.” And the name change was a big part of making that happen.

The decision to change a name is a big one, and isn’t for everyone. In case you’re considering it, you should know: The courthouse step is surprisingly easy. The name changing on every official document in your life is the hard part. I’m still working on it.

What big thing have you done for yourself that caused a shift in your life? Did it do the trick? Was it everything you hoped for?

Grandma’s Banana Bread: The Taste of Nostalgia

My grandmother made the best banana bread I’ve ever had in my life. I’m certain of this, in spite of the fact she passed away when I was ten, and she was only part of my life for a short time. Grandma came to live with us after Grandpa’s death and she died of a stroke in our driveway a few months later.

That’s the funny thing about trauma. You often remember bits and pieces, but sometimes there are big holes. I remember how Grandma died, but I don’t remember who told me, or what, exactly, they said to me. I don’t remember a funeral. Grandma was just there, and then she was gone.

When Grandma Lena first moved in, I was told to stay clear of her because she didn’t like children. But that could have been my Mother’s voice in my ear. She hadn’t been overjoyed at having her mother-in-law living with us. Or maybe my childhood anxiety made up that story and it’s what I’ve stuck with all these years? Who knows.

Grandma felt like a stranger in our home. Whatever the reason, we never got close. But she made us all Banana Bread a few times. It must have been her specialty, because that’s all I remember her baking. Mother never made banana bread. She made Nestle Toll House Cookies, and butterscotch brownies. She even made me a Barbie cake one year for my birthday – you know the kind – where the cake is the skirt and a Barbie is inserted into the middle of it. But she never made banana bread. I don’t think I’d ever had banana bread before Grandma came to live with us.

I remember the warm fragrance of cinnamon and banana when Grandma pulled it out of the oven. I would lurk just out of sight waiting for Grandma to clean up and retreat to her room. Once the coast was clear, I would creep in and cut a slice. I’d slather it with butter, and then make my way back to my bedroom to enjoy it in private.

The butter melted easily into the still warm bread, enhancing the banana and walnut aromas. My head would swim with anticipation of that first bite!

I would lap up every crumb and every drop of butter from the plate and then plot my next heist. How much time should I wait before snatching another piece? How many slices could I get away with?

For some reason, I’ve never been good at making banana bread. But to this day, whenever I spot it, freshly baked in a shop, I need to try a piece. “Warm it, please. And may I have some butter?” Sadly, none so far have lived up to my memory of Grandma Lena’s banana bread.

It’s amazing how a short-term, innocuous event or circumstance can leave such a clear and lasting impression. There’s a lot I don’t remember about my dysfunctional upbringing, but oh – I remember that banana bread!

What fond memories do you have of childhood – or any other time – that stand out in spite of life not being so great otherwise during that time? Any you’d like to share?

Rediscovering Joy Through Art: My Healing Journey

I have recently restarted my painting practice, and what a life-changer! I sat in anxiety and fear for years – art studio gathering dust – paintings in storage.

I had been dealing with some depression…disconnectedness. It crept in slowly…as it can…and had gone on for so long, I forgot what it was like to be joyful. I accepted it as my new normal. But I missed my old self. Eventually, through some divine interventions, I was able to break through the fog. It took several intentional changes in my lifestyle and weaning off a neurologic prescription to get there, but eventually, I began to feel better again.

Then one day I started moving forward. First, I reorganized my studio, making friends with the space again. Next, I began playing. Just dabbling. Soon after, an Art Healing Workshop appeared on my social feed, and I signed up for that. A full week of self-reflection through art gave me the boost I needed. I signed up for the monthly membership, where I get to have regular working sessions with others across the country.

Last weekend, I did my first live art show in probably ten years, and it felt wonderful! I was excited to get some of my new work out into the world and dip my toes into the live show experience. I came away, elated! People commented on the deep textures and bright colors I use in my floral paintings. They enjoyed their whimsical feel. I loved hearing what people had to say. I felt validated!

I am sure this is where I’m meant to be, at this moment. I believe I wasn’t ready until now. Now, I can fully appreciate my gift without self-judgment. It’s such a freeing experience to have given in to the thing that brings me so much joy!

A key part of this story is that I’ve forgiven myself for keeping my joy at bay for so long. I had things I needed to go through in order to get here…in order to appreciate the magic of this part of me.

Are you embracing the things that bring you joy today?

Have you ever had a breakthrough that suddenly brought you back into your joy?

For information about Leah Guzman’s Art Therapy program: LeahGuzmanStudio.com

To see more of my art: MelEricksonFineArt.com