The Magic of Helping

January 29, 2023February 1, 2023 / Julie Gentz / Leave a comment

“Do your little bit of good where you are: it’s those little bits of good put together that overwhelm the world.” ~ Desmond Tutu

A year ago about this time I attended a concert at the university where my oldest grandchild is a music performance major. Not too long before that I’d read an article about the health benefits of random acts of kindness. The big take away from it was this: Spreading kindness to others turns out not only to be beneficial to the receiver, but also to the giver. It’s just what we all need so much right now: A Win-Win Situation.

Studies have shown that when we are altruistic, putting the well being of others before our own and expecting nothing in return, the reward centers in our brain are stimulated, causing good chemicals to flood our system . . . and, Viola! We get a “Helpers’ High”! But, wait! There’s more! Engaging in these kinds of activities has also been shown to reduce the risk for cognitive impairment, helps us live longer lives, lower blood pressure and improve heart health, as well as lessen pain. Wow! It turns out that by giving of ourselves to others, we not only help to make the world a better, kinder place, but at the same time are giving a gift to ourselves. So, with this background information now firmly seeded in our brains, here is what I wrote in February 2022.

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“As I read the article it struck me that this kind of thing is what I have been consciously doing to help me deal with the grief around my husband’s death. Some days it seems like every breath I take is surrounded by sadness and missing him. Doing things for others has been a lifeline for me. The more I thought about it the more I realized that a few days ago I had experienced exactly what the author of the article was talking about.

On a recent Saturday I was having one of those bad/sad days. The landscape of life, as well as the weather, seemed bleak. A strong, cold north wind, coupled with the bone chilling temperature, made it feel like -10degrees. There was no sun, and even if there had been, the combination of temperature and wind chill would have negated any warmth that it could have contributed. In short, it was a dreary winter day, both in my mind and outside my door. A day that was not conducive to raising one’s spirits. The constant quietness that seems to pervade my house for the past 10 months only made me even more aware that I was, indeed, alone, and exacerbated the all too real knowledge that my husband was, gone forever. Even writing this now makes me emotionally exhausted.

With more than a little effort, I had gathered up the pieces of myself, stuck them haphazardly together, and managed to get out the door and drive the 35 miles to the concert. I didn’t want to take time to make supper at home, so I decided to grab something at a fast food place once I arrived at my destination. Eating has been a real challenge lately, as about 6 weeks ago I had some oral extensive oral surgery, which has made chewing a challenge for me. Luckily, Arby’s came to the rescue with mac and cheese, which I could eat (hooray!). So I ordered that and a small drink. The drive through line was long, and by the time I got to the takeout window I was running short on time, so even though when I was handed my bag of food I thought it seemed rather light for what I’d ordered, I didn’t take time to check. When I examined it a stop light or two later, I found not what I’d ordered, but a fish sandwich instead. And, while I do like fish sandwiches, it was not something I could manage to eat given my chewing challenge. Not having time to go back and straighten out the mix up, I decided, rather than let it go to waste, to find someone I could give it to. Had it not been so late in the day and so cold, there would have been any number of homeless people along my route to the concert who would have loved to have a nice, hot fish sandwich. But, alas, just when I needed someone to be standing on the corner, there was no one. Still pondering how to give the sandwich away, I parked my car in the ramp, which just happened to be attached to a small shopping mall. I had a light bulb moment then! I knew that the first business inside the door was an art supply store. Fortunately for me it was staffed by college students (who are notoriously hungry creatures!) It was 5:30 pm so I thought my chances of finding a worker in the store who might not have any plans for supper were pretty good. As it turned out, I was not disappointed. Walking into the store a young clerk appeared at the counter and asked how he could be of help. With the thought of “Well, here goes nothing” floating around in my head I launched into my sales pitch: “This is probably going to be the strangest request that you’ve had all day,” I began, “but just hear me out.” And I proceeded to tell an abbreviated version of how I happened to end up with the wrong order and no time to make it right. As I set the Arby’s bag on the counter, I ended my story by saying, “And so, since I don’t want a perfectly good sandwich to go to waste, is there anyone here who would like to have a nice, hot fish sandwich for supper?” Smiling at me, he took the bag and lifted the sandwich out, noting that it was, indeed, still warm. Smiling even broader now, he looked back at me and said, “I was just wondering what I was going to have for supper tonight, and now I know! Thanks!” With that he turned and walked away, bag in hand to enjoy the supper he never knew was coming.

And, just like that, the melancholy mood that had been following me like a gray cloud over my head all day, just waiting to rain on my parade, disappeared. Amazed and relieved, I walked out the door with a little bounce in my step as I crossed the street to the concert hall, feeling for all the world, warm and good inside, despite the bitter cold and biting wind.

As I made the journey home that night, I replayed the whole sandwich incident in my mind, feeling more than just a little proud that I had been able to take a potentially negative situation and turn it into one where I did something unexpected and nice for a total stranger. And, as an added bonus, in the process I had made myself feel good, too. In fact, I thought, it felt almost as good as a hug and a kiss from my husband . . . not quite, but it was still a pretty darned good feeling. And, who knows, according to the article I’d read, perhaps I’d also added a few years to my life, as well as what felt at that minute, like even a bit more life to my years.”

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And so, remembering the “mistake fish sandwich”, I have continued making a conscious effort to do those “little bits of good” that Desmond Tutu talks about, especially when I am feeling down. Because, in the end, it’s the little things that matter, no matter how small they may seem at the time.

The Little Things

It's the little things we do that make this world go 'round.
They're like the tender sprouts of flowers in the Spring.
They are the breeze that cools our face on a sunny summer's day.
They are the things that touch our hearts and make us sing.

For we can't walk this earth alone, thinking only of ourselves
as we live each day from birth until we die.
We make the world a better place when we share God's love and grace.
The little things can make a difference if you but try.

So, when your heart is feeling sad, and your life feels cold and bleak,
look beyond yourself and help another out.
Then your soul will feel a joy that will make your spirit soar,
because you'll learn what Love is truly all about.

Julieanne Gentz, January 2022

Being Memories

January 20, 2023January 20, 2023 / Julie Gentz / Leave a comment

Ah, the wonderful, mighty Internet. Sometimes it’s a source of frustration; other times a distraction from what I need to do, sometimes from what I want to to do. It can be a source of comfort, inspiration, and occasionally even joy. Today the Internet was for me a “light bulb moment,” one of those rare stumbles upon something that sparks a thought in my head. A thought that stopped me in my tracks before I even got going. A catalyst that changed the trajectory of my day before it had barely even begun to take shape in my mind.

I subscribe to a site called “Inspiring Quotes.” If you already know me, you are well aware of how important words are to me — both my words and those of others. Sometimes the words I write have been carefully thought out and chosen; words painstakingly matched with thoughts to express an emotion I am feeling. Other times words just spring up in my head, unceremoniously and unannounced, pouring out of my brain so quickly that I can barely get to my journal fast enough to write them down before they are gone forever. Sometimes they make me smile or laugh. Another time they might make me sad or cry. But, no matter what their end effect on me, words always have their beginning deep inside my soul, snatched from an unknown repository that I myself cannot quantify, much less fully understand. Then, there are those times like this morning when the words of another writer ignite the spark that starts the cogs and wheels of my mind whirring and, just like that, a thought is born. Emotions are put into words. Feelings are better understood. Meaning is given to a question I have been pondering. Today, it would seem, was one of those days.

Marcel Proust was a writer, who, in the period of his life between 1909 when he was 38, and his death in 1922, wrote what is considered a monumental work entitled Lost Time. An impressive 3,200 pages that fill seven volumes, this work would turn out to have an important impact on other writers, such as Virginia Woolf. Though I am aware of this work, I have never read it, per say. I do, however, know that the prominent theme throughout all of those thousands of pages is memory. “Memory,” I think to myself. “It has, for the last nearly two years since my husband died, been the center of my life.” Memories that I have wrestled with, regretted, cried over. Memories that I have sometimes wished would fade into oblivion, but oh so many more that have sustained me through turbulent, troubled times of grief.

And the quote that spoke to me and clicked my mind into writing mode today was this:

We are not provided with wisdom, we must discover it for ourselves, after a journey through the wilderness which no one else can take for us, an effort which no one can spare us. ~Marcel Proust

“So,” I ask myself, “am I wiser now because of what I have gone through since Brian’s death?” Without a moment’s hesitation I would answer, “Yes, most definitely.” If you asked me if it was wisdom I am glad I have gained, I would say, “Yes and No.” YES, because I now understand, or at least am more cognizant of, feelings and thoughts that I never knew existed. Feelings that the “Me Before” was only acquainted with through books and the experiences of others. NO, because there are too many times to count when I have wished I’d never been put in the position to gain the wisdom I now have. Wisdom gained through tears, heartbreak, loneliness and sorrow. Yet, on my very personal “journey through the wilderness” of loss and its ensuing grief, I know I’ve gained wisdom that was previously unthinkable. Wisdom, that though bought at a high emotional cost, will serve me well as I live out the rest of my time here. Wisdom that would not have been possible had life not stopped me in my tracks, forced me to remember, and set me out on an entirely different life path. While I don’t feel I am “There” yet — where ever “There” may be — I am well aware that I may never get “There,” and that if I do, I may not even know I have arrived. What I do know is that I am on my way there, and I am convinced that I can do it— arriving “There” as one, gloriously new Me.

Being Memories

~by Julie Gentz~

Perhaps life is not so much TO DO, as it is

TO BE

To Be at peace with one’s self.

To Be content with what one has,

yet to never stop being open to what new things come your way.

To Be happy, even when you aren’t sure why, or don’t see happiness around you.

To Be a seeker, yet to not try and see too far beyond your line of sight,

though still far ahead enough to dream.

To Be the best human being you can be for as much of your time

here as you are given.

And, most of all,

To Be a light, not only for your own path,

but for paths of others as well.

To Be whole.

To Be complete.

To Be genuine.

To Be until your being is but a loving memory.

And, to quote Proust one last time:

What matters in life is not whom or what one loves, it is the fact of loving.

The Complicated Dance of Looking Back While Moving Forward

January 7, 2023January 8, 2023 / Julie Gentz / 2 Comments

It’s my blog’s birthday! In leafing through some of my writings this morning, looking for an inspiration for this week’s post, I came across my “Christmas Letter,” written in January of last year in which I, among other things, talked about the “birth” of this blog. Now that year is over, and I have come a long way in my grief journey. Thinking about this, the wheels in my head began to turn. I decided that since now is when we look back on the old year just past and look forward toward the new one that lay ahead of us, perhaps I should do some reflecting on where I now find myself in my grief journey and where I see myself headed. Revisiting that letter and the year that followed might be just the very thing I should write about today. So, welcome to my head — full of thoughts, memories, dreams, and hopes.

That letter starts out like this: This year I decided to skip the traditional Christmas letter and send New Year’s greetings instead. For me, Christmas 2021 carried with it a deep sadness because not only is there an empty place at my table this year, but an aching, empty place in my heart as well. For those of you who are not already aware of it, Brian’s fight with his Parkinson’s disease ended on April 1 when God said, “Enough” and called him Home. Between the isolation of the pandemic, having to put valuable therapies on hold, and the loss of the all-important socialization piece, all of which, together, helped to control the progression of his PD, his symptoms rapidly worsened between January and April. When, on March 19th, he took the last of many falls, he ended up in the hospital and then eventually home on Hospice for three days before he died, befitting for him, in the early morning hours of Maundy Thursday. It has been a tough journey for me over the last nine months, but I try to keep hearing his voice telling me that, while he wishes he hadn’t had to leave so soon, he has claimed his reward in Heaven. I am eternally grateful for all of the support and comfort everyone has extended to me on my grief journey thus far.

I have always felt that when something negative happens to me, I need to learn from it and then use that knowledge to help others. So, in keeping with that, I have become very active in working with the American Parkinson’s Disease Association, helping to educate others, especially healthcare workers, about dealing with the disease, not just on a daily basis, but in a hospital setting as well. I participated in a 6-week training course to become certified as an Aware in Care Ambassador. As one of only two Ambassadors in Iowa I can help make hospital stays, like Brian’s, safer and less extensive by educating others, including medical professionals, on ways to deal with the many and varied symptoms of Parkinson’s. I was also able to participate in a training for a new program that works with PWP (People With Parkinson’s), helping them manage physical symptoms such as rigidity, smallness of movements, and changes in their ability to use their voice/speech. I also continue to facilitate the PD support group here in Washington that Brian and I started in 2019. This spring I will begin a two-year term as a member of the board for Parkinson’s of the Heartland. While none of these things will bring Brian back, my goal is to use the knowledge I have gained over the past thirteen years of our Parkinson’s journey together to make the journeys of others a bit easier. And last, but certainly not least, as a part of my personal healing, I have been doing a lot of writing and have started a blog. My hope is that, as well as being beneficial for me in my quest for healing, my writing will help others, too.

And that is pretty much all I remember about the past year. I am cautiously optimistic that the new year will be a much better one. If I could leave everyone with just one thought, it would be this: “We are all merely cogs in the great circle of life. How many trips around the sun we are granted is up for grabs, so enjoy the ride — no matter how bumpy it gets.” (author unknown) And, I might also add, don’t take any day or anyone for granted.

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And now, here I am. It’s January 2023. I haven’t written that New Year’s letter yet, not because I don’t want to, but because it seems like there has been so much to do. It has been a year of accomplishments for me, that, when I think about the place I was in the grieving process last year, seems nothing short of a miracle. So, I’ve dug back in the archives of things that I have written over the past 20 months. While these were written in October of 2021, just six short months after Brian died, I can see that, even then, I knew the path I needed to take to move forward . . . I just had to convince myself to do it. That is were I am now, at the beginning of this new year; finding my way and carving out a new life, taking with me memories that I wouldn’t trade for all the world, even if they are sometimes painful. I have come to appreciate this great quote by Drew Barrymore: “In the end, some of your greatest pains become your greatest strengths.”

Different Drummers

As we all work to find our way forward,
we march to our own personal drum.
Some of us are ready to break out in song
while others can still only hum.

There is not a "right way," 
nor is there a "wrong." 
No grief is too short
or too long.

The secret of living our life where we are
lies not in the "then," but "today."
And the sooner we grasp that this truly is real,
the soon we'll start feeling OK.

For our story's now written on a totally new page,
one devoid of so much from the past. 
And if we but listen to the song that life sings,
our heart will be set free at last.


Seasons

I need you here to hold me close;
to wipe my tears away. 
To gently stroke my hair and whisper, 
"Sshh . . . it's all OK."

I need you here to share this night,
the sky, the sounds of fall.
But you are gone, and I am here
with none of that at all.

Warm summer nights are memories now,
and autumn days fly fast.
Winter looms, and like our lives,
shows good things just can't last.

So, I'll dry my tears and raise my eyes,
my gaze turned towards the sky,
and hear your voice say softly,
"Hush now, sweetheart, please don't cry.

I may be gone, but that's OK.
My struggles there are past.
But you have life you've yet to live,
and it will fly by fast.

So, make the most of every day.
It's what you have to do.
And when I see  your smiling face,
I will be smiling, too."

Here’s to 2023 — May yours be memorable in many wonderful ways!

Practicing Active Hope

January 3, 2023January 3, 2023 / Julie Gentz / Leave a comment

I have been thinking a lot about where I have been since Brian died, where I am right now in my grief journey, and where I am headed moving forward. New Year’s Day marked 20 months since Brian unexpectedly died. It is hard to believe that in just four more months he will have been gone for two years. I’ve been doing a lot of reading, research, and learning, trying to discern the best way out of this black hole I got sucked into. And I really feel like I am making progress. The kind of progress that Brian would want me to make. The kind that will help me move forward and write the rest of my story . . . the part with him no longer physically in it. One of my favorite quotes is this one: “Your 2nd life begins when you realize you only have One.“ Raphaele Giordano.

With that as my jumping off point, I am going to share two things with you. The first is the letter I wrote, sitting at Brian’s bedside, on March 25th, the day I realized that my new reality was a life without him in it. The second speaks of Active Hope.

March 25, 2021

Dear Brian:
     How did it come to this? You, lying in the bed at the nursing home. Me sitting in the chair beside you. Holding your hand. Watching you sleep. Not a natural sleep, but a deep, profound sleep, brought on by pain killers that make you comfortable, but, in doing so rob you of your ability to communicate me with in any way. Drugs that mask your pain, but that only multiply mine. Do you know how much I love you? How I ache to see you this way? How empty I already feel, knowing that I have such a short time left to have you in my life? At home, my footsteps echo through the house, a cruel reminder of what will soon be your permanent absence. The silence that surrounds me is deafening. No one calls my name. There are no dishes from a meal, because there is no one to cook for, and I don't feel like eating. At night, alone in our house, I read and reread the letters you wrote to me so faithfully for the 2 years we dated, all of those 29 years ago. The love and joy that are in the words you wrote to me warm my heart and tear it apart at the same time. I wish we had more time. But, since that gift will not be ours, I hope you know that I could not have asked for anything better than our time together. I love you, Brian Gentz, and I miss you already.

All my love, 
Julie

Fast forward to tonight, and I know that, while I have a long way yet to go, and I will never “be over” losing Brian, still, I have come a long way. My hope for this new year is that I am perhaps, starting to realize that I can either waste the rest of my one precious life, wishing I could change things I can’t, or I can make the most of what is mine yet to live. The choice is mine to make. The following piece pretty much sums up where I see my life right now. It uses the term “Active Hope.” Isn’t that a wonderful word?! Here’s the piece. My New Year’s wish for you, dear readers and fellow travelers on the journey of grief, is that you, too, are able to find Active Hope, embrace it, and live the rest of your one life to the fullest. Peace and Hope on your own grief journey.

“Trusting the Spiral

Active Hope is not wishful thinking. Active Hope is not waiting to be rescued by the Lone Ranger or some savior. Active Hope is waking up to the beauty of life on whose behalf we can act. We belong to this world. The web of life is calling us forth at this time. We’ve come a long way and are here to play our part. With Active Hope we realize that there are adventures in store, strengths to discover, and comrades to link arms with. Active Hope is a readiness to engage. Active Hope is a readiness to discover the strengths in ourselves and in others. A readiness to discover the reasons for hope and the occasions for love. A readiness to discover the size and strength of our hearts, our quickness of mind, our steadiness of purpose, our own authority, our love for life, the liveliness of our curiosity, the unsuspected deep well of patience and diligence, the keenness of our senses, and our capacity to lead. None of these can be discovered in an armchair or with out risk.”
–Joanna Macy & Chris Johnstone, “Active Hope: How to Face the Mess We’re in without Going Crazy” p. 35

“Grief is a practice, not a problem to be fixed. A practice of holding on and letting go, of letting in and letting out, of falling and rising, of speaking and listening, of honoring and living, of trembling and soothing, of carving out a space for love and loss to co-exist in our heads and in our hearts. . . A practice of being human.”
https://www.lapdfsg.org/inspriations/grief-is-a-practice-not-a-problem-to-fix

Don’t Miss the Dance

January 2, 2023January 2, 2023 / Julie Gentz / Leave a comment

I am proud of me. And I am proud of you, too. Today marks the beginning of a new year. I am here writing this, and you are here reading it, because in our lives we have all lost something precious to us — the love of the person we were the closest to. And, while we are struggling at times to find our way in this new reality, the fact remains that we are trying. That is all we can do. That is what will help us find our way back onto the dance floor of life: “Dance before the music is over. Live before your life is over.” Today is not just a new day, it is also a brand new year. We all have the opportunity to embark on 365 chances to dance to the music of life, even if the tune does sound unfamiliar to us. So, with that thought in mind, I want to share with you my “theme song” for the year. It’s by one of my favorite groups, Abba, and is called “I Have a Dream.” I encourage you to find your dream. Then find a way to follow it. Find your life again. Rejoin the dance before you miss your chance.