Category Archives: Emotional Health

Books and other Soul Food, Character, Emotional Health, Family, Goals and Dreams, Holidays and Traditions, Music and Theatre, Relationships, Uncategorized

The Ghosts of Christmas Past

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The memories belonged to her. The memories were hers to keep. For a long time, she didn’t know that. Some of the memories were too wondrous to believe. Other memories were so painful she didn’t ever want to revisit them. She noticed that even with the wonderful memories came that twinge in the side, the catch in the breath, the knowledge that those good times were gone forever and would never return. So, because even the good times hurt; because she chose not to revisit the bad times – to ever think of them again; she boxed up those memories, labeled them, “do not open,” and stored them in the attic of her mind. 

Somehow, she thought she could no longer use the silver and gold and the good china simply because it was all packed up with the shattered crystal and the refuse of past relationships. It was a tangled mess. But there is a difference between untangling and unraveling. Once the years had run their course and she was healed of her unraveling, she began the untangling. She separated the paper roses and shards and discarded them. And she resolved not to be any longer robbed of the good memories. The good memories belonged to her. She was an active participant in those memories; not a passive, shriveled up defeated observer. There were memories of diamonds and rubies and stars and constellations and melodies and stages. There was snow and sleigh rides; warm beaches and plane rides. There were memories of small children and grown children and parents and grandchildren. And yes, sigh, there were memories of lovers and proposals – – and betrayals. 

“Only a friend can betray a friend, a stranger has nothing to gain (Michael Card 1984).”

When a friend comes close enough to be a real friend – to actually mean something to your heart – there is always the potential for pain. If not the pain of betrayal; then certainly, some day, the pain of loss.

And this was the year she decided to actively, intentionally unpack the memories; to savor the good memories. To experience joy. To be at Peace. With her past and with her future.

The Ghosts of Christmas Past Slide Show by Cherry Odelberg 2020. Smile At This Lovely Time of Year, written and sung by Cherry (Cheryl Shellabarger) Odelberg, Produced and Arranged by Harvey Schmitt. Recorded at WHS recording studios, Dallas Texas first released on Christmas With Jonah and the Wailers CD and cassette at Fellowship Bible Church, Dallas Texas circa 1995

Books and other Soul Food, Character, Emotional Health, Goals and Dreams, Health and Long Life, Holidays and Traditions, Metaphor, Relationships, Uncategorized, Write

All I Want For Christmas

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All I want for Christmas

All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth. Well, actually, I got that wish way back in 1963 when I exited third grade. However, time has run its course and I did have all my front teeth filled and sheathed in early 2020. It was one of the gifts I gave myself this year.

All I want for Christmas is you? Frankly, my dear, having you under the Christmas tree would only complicate things. It has been a wonderful year of innovation and self-actualization. Not like the year I hung the mistletoe in a prominent arch and waited – for two years – without result. In that case, the gift I tried to give was not reciprocated. I’ve learned to live without kisses – just as many have learned to live without hugs this year.

Mostly, my grown up Christmas wish list is still intact.

No more lives torn apart
That wars would never start
And time would heal all hearts
And everyone would have a friend
And right would always win
And love would never end…This is my grownup Christmas list – and I wish it particularly for the families and friendships that have been damaged and distanced in this vicious and heinous election year. It is not worth it, friends. In the end you alone cannot control the outcome of world events by your rhetoric. But you can make it your business to love your mother, your father, your sister, your brother; to love your neighbor as yourself – and to never, never, give up on your children.

What do I want for Christmas? In the course of the year I have provided for myself a washer, a dryer, bass amp, power drill and driver, a down sleeping bag, down vests, smart wool socks, a kayak, and some smart wool underwear. Once I get waterproof winter hiking boots I will be better equipped than ever before to get outside and keep myself healthy; physically, mentally, emotionally and especially spiritually. 

Even though I don’t need my two front teeth or someone or something wrapped and under the tree; I’ve been thinking a lot about gifts this December. 

A few years back I was traveling with my daughter in the Rocky Mountains. Snow still lay on the ground so it was probably April, my typical vacation time. We parked at the lovely rock chapel of Saint Malo Retreat. We tried the door. It was unlocked. Empty chapel. Available piano. I sat and played a chorus; Ode to Joy. Other tourists passed in and out. A mother and nine-year-old daughter stood behind me and watched. “How does she do that?” whispered the daughter. “Darling, it is a gift,” replied the mother. This simplistic answer irked my daughter who had just completed college with a minor in music. It niggles in the back of my mind this Christmas season as I contemplate gifts and all I want for Christmas. 

A Gift takes you nowhere unless you receive it, open it up, and use it. The drill I bought myself in October? If I leave it in the tool bag on the shelf in the laundry room, it does nothing. I have to get it out, insert a drill bit or driver tip, practice, actually apply it to the antique furniture it was bought to bolster. The genetic gift of a good ear and predisposition for music is nothing without application and practice. The unquenchable urge to write – to be heard – is nothing but a constant emotional battle for me if I attempt to squelch it due to fear or embarrassment. 

This year I gave myself permission to be about my bucket list with full confidence. My time on earth grows short. The ghosts of Christmas past may try to haunt me, yet I will align myself with Christmas present! I will climb every mountain. I will paddle every lake and stream. I will sing and make music on eighty-eight keys and six strings and four strings. I will write the books that have simmered on the back burner for three decades. I will find my voice and be heard. How about you? What do you want for Christmas?

The Cemetery Wives, by Cherry Odelberg. Full cover art for The Cemetery Wives, created by Courtney V. Harris – available as an ebook on Amazon
The Pancake Cat by Cherry Odelberg, Cover art by Andrea Shellabarger, Available to order wherever books are sold
Character, Emotional Health, Goals and Dreams, Health and Long Life, Hiking and outdoor beauty, Metaphor, River, Spiritual Well Being

River Reprise

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When the Universe speaks, I try to listen. Winter cometh. I offer this reprise:

A Trickle or a Flood, June 7, 2016 She sat on the banks of the muddy San Juan, in the shadow of a bighorn sculpture and watched the river roll away lazily to the Southwest. It made her long for the beach. That is where the river was headed, after all – to join the mighty Colorado at Lake Powell and finally empty into the Pacific Ocean.

But she knew something the river did not yet know; it would never make it to the ocean. It was headed for the beach, but along the way destined to recreate, irrigate, hydrate, relax and refresh millions of people. Somewhere, 50 miles or so short of the Gulf of California, the river would trickle to a stop.

So she pondered this truncation, this travesty, this unavoidable change of plans people foisted on the river and she asked herself, “How are you doing on your own bucket list? Are you headed for the beach? And whether you ever make it to the beach, will you restore and refresh and recreate and relax? How much of you will be absorbed and diverted into the schemes and needs of others? How much of the landscape of your life will you beautify along the way?”

Live. Love. Laugh. Learn. You do not know if your end will be part of a cataclysmic flood or simply trickle away.

San Juan River, Bluff Utah, May 2016

Emotional Health, Health and Long Life

Paddle Your own canoe

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Paddle your own canoe

Goodness knows, the saying and phrase paddle your own canoe has been around a long time. Probably ever since man first hollowed out a log to float upon the water. We are each responsible for our own journey although it is nice to share the load with a partner, a team, a family. Another important thing to remember is not to put your oar in other people’s business. So yes, paddle your own canoe, chart your own course; row, row, row, your boat gently up the stream.

And that is exactly what she did. She launched her kayak for the grand finale float of the season and she paddled upstream. Upstream – even when the river has dwindled to the breadth of a creek – requires that you paddle constantly. No need to paddle frantically, power paddle, or exercise a stoic focus. A gentle stroke is all you need, but you must be consistent and regular. The moment you rest your paddle to fish for your phone, camera or water bottle you will begin a lazy 180 degree turn, a drift toward the riverbank, or a sideways bob down the river.

She moved gently, consistently, without urgency and without pause up the river. An hour took her through four miles of lazy river meanders that equaled 2 miles of straight roadway. Not another soul was on the water. She passed by a preserve trail peopled only by a toddler who pointed and a dad that waved. The Oxbow Preserve Park sported a new boat ramp and a beach empty but for the socially distanced middle-aged couple and their bandanaed dog. The canine seemed eager to be an uninvited passenger so she moved farther toward the other side of the river to appear less attractive. She did not hello them. Bounded on both sides by private property riverbanks she saw two swaybacked horses out to pasture, seven geese a laying that followed her from sand bar to the next sandbar, heckling. From somewhere in the lingering golden leaves of fall she heard the piercing call of a hawk.  Even in a state of near relaxation she learned things. Mesmerized by the autumn beauty, she yet absorbed what the river had to teach.

You will move faster if you launch into the deep. Caution may keep you in shallow water. Nevertheless, choose the deep waters. It is tough going in shallow water. You make less progress in the shallow – even paddling upstream. And it is not one bit safer.

In a meandering river, the laminar will take you only a few yards. No matter where you catch the downward current you cannot rely long term on the energy of someone else. 

If you should get stuck on a sandbar, don’t hesitate to rock the boat – a little or a lot – to get back out where you need to go. 

Have a plan for loading and unloading your vessel. If you look like you know what you are doing, you will attract less outside advice and interference. 

So yes, paddle your own canoe through life. And when it is time to cease paddling for the winter and put the vessel away – keep putting one foot in front of the other, and remember the lessons learned from the last kayak trip of the season.

Emotional Health, Goals and Dreams, Music and Theatre, Spiritual Well Being

The covert bassist

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The Covert Bassist

So. I’ve been learning to pay the bass – for about eight months. No amp. No teacher. Just reading the books and the notes and learning. She is home now. Home from six months of backpacking and back country rangering and so the dance of living in a music house begins again.

I wait until she goes off to noontime martial arts class before I practice my vocal exercises because I don’t want to scream her ears off and I am trying to break through that barrier, to give it more, to be a better, stronger vocalist than I have ever been before. I play piano in the evenings. Often with the door ajar. Piano I have under my belt so it is a good thing to share with the neighbors; not so my siren wailing. Once the door is closed, I woodshed on the guitar. Anytime of day I can play the bass because I don’t have an amp. So really, I can’t play the bass when someone else – like the off-season ranger – is playing mandolin and singing at performance pitch. Actually, who would want to practice bass anyway when you can listen to such heartfelt and talented protest folk tunes coming from the other room. 

Let’s rethink that. Who wouldn’t want to play along to such anthems? Mandolin. Voice. The only logical complement to the sound is bass. Preferably upright bass. But here I am – the mom in the other room with a horizontal bass and no amp. An aspiring bassist who can’t help but move toward the music. So, I head to the kitchen. Two walls and the thickness of a closet between us. 

When she plays, I play. When she falls silent, I fall silent. But I am cloistered around the corner in the kitchen and she doesn’t even know I am there. When she stops to ferret out the next gem of a lyric, I hold my peace. I look around the kitchen to see what is at hand to occupy my time. Sadly, what is at hand is carob chips, a cask of peanut butter, bags of corn chips, a plethora of natural snacks. I’m going to have to move to the other room and confess before I gain 20 pounds. While there’s not too much unusual or interesting about a mom hiding in the pantry and eating herself into obesity; and there may be a little something romantic about a covert bassist; it’s probably time to come out of the closet. I’ve ordered an amp. That way I can plug in the headphones and no one will ever know.

Emotional Health, Health and Long Life, Hiking and outdoor beauty, Spiritual Well Being

Turning gray with dust

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You see, I tried washing my hair this morning to no avail.

October 18, 2020: Andrea and I traveled two hours up a dirt road yesterday – to a ridge dense with lodgepole along the Colorado Trail behind and beyond Purgatory Ski Area – almost to Rico. We hiked for a couple hours and then returned via the same dusty road, coughing and sputtering and sneezing whist reminding ourselves to keep sipping from hydration packs. Arriving home, we exited her trusty 4-wheel drive truck, stomped our feet at the door and entered our apartment. We smelled like dust. In our wake, the kitchen smelled like dust.  My hair, freshly washed before setting out, was grey and smelled like dust. As I brushed out my hair – billows of dust scattered everywhere. I thought of my Mom and her stories of traveling the Alcan Highway in 1953. Her hair turned so gray from the dust – she said – that the inn keeper thought she was Dad’s mother when they found a room and stopped for the evening. She remedied this by washing her hair in water dipped from the nearby stream. Her hair returned to dark brunette. I tried washing my hair this morning to no avail. I’m still sporting long shimmering gray over light brown locks. Maybe I need to fetch water from a stream?

Emotional Health, Hiking and outdoor beauty

Stopping for Beauty

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I exited the dusty gravel road that leads to Mineral Campground and merged onto the smooth, paved road that would take me to Silverton and thus back to Durango. No more had I begun to gain speed then I had to slow down. Traffic up ahead. Cars stopped on both sides of the road. Some double-parked. Alertly my eyes scanned in all directions. No police car. No emergency vehicles. No herd of deer crossing the road. No bear scratching in the autumn undergrowth. Yet everyone had cameras in hand. It was the 4:00 pm autumnal glow. The sun perched on a westerly peak before making final descent. The aspen trees in various stages of green to orange and the weather perfect, just perfect. The cars – all thirteen – stopping for beauty. Nothing more. 

How infrequently that happens anymore. Oh, I stop. I slow down. I move over for construction. I pull aside for emergency vehicles. I chose a different route to go around clogged traffic. But do I come to a full stop? Interrupt my headlong rush toward deadline – for beauty?

It was, perhaps, the most beautiful hike I had ever taken – and only four days after the outing previously mentioned where traffic was stalled for beauty.  Maybe it was the season. The colors were at their apex in higher elevations and I was again outside Silverton, ravenously hiking leaf strewn trails before the snow flies. Maybe it was the time of day. I dithered around Durango trying to decide my destination until perilously close to noon. So, I found myself on the trail at midday, oooohing and ahhing and hiking a narrow steep trail. Something called Highland Mary. What a beautiful name. Obviously named for some woman like me a hundred years ago. Someone who loved to go a-wandering along a mountain path, someone who liked to sing. Maybe she sang to the sheep – or the cows. I wanted to bubble into spontaneous song, perhaps Loch Lomond, or Lonely Goatherd. A boulder strewn field demanded all my concentration to preserve my ankles and I ceased to sing. Soon thereafter a lake with a small island took my breath away. I followed the path to the next lake and found a flat rock on which to spread my lunch. I dined in silence and in beauty.

Someone asked a seasoned old-timer to name his favorite trail. “The one just taken,” he said. I couldn’t agree more. Returning home, I logged my distance and time for an outdoor challenge I have chosen to participate in. I am usually a faster hiker so I couldn’t help adding the following comment: This hike would take much less time if you didn’t have to stop for pictures so often.

Warning: Hiking may keep you from other social obligations such as social media. Is your love of beauty keeping you in a constant state of peace and contemplation rather than agonizing over the current societal situation? You may be addicted. 

Addicted. And now I see my future. For the next 20 years I am going to chase beauty and truth. And I also know where I am most likely to find it. Nature. Music. Books.

Emotional Health, Hiking and Outdoor Beauty, Metaphor

Foot washing, a Sunday school lesson

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She hikes. In sandals. She can’t get her hiking boots on anymore and she hasn’t found a suitable new pair. But she does have a new pair of sandals – with fresh tread – in the box on her closet shelf. Waiting for next season. End of summer sale. The wise woman is always prepared. She also bought a couple new pairs of wool socks – smart ones. Until the snow flies, her sandals will do just fine. Besides, with sandals you can walk right in and through the creek and keep moving forward. Well, if it’s a cool morning, you might want to stop and take off your wool socks first before you walk through the water so you can put them on warm and dry later.

With the right kind of sandals, one is always prepared. One can hike or walk or fish or kayak. One can shove a kayak off from the beach or drag a kayak back from the beach, right through the sand or mud or pooling water. When one wears sandals, she can rise in the morning and bathe and do her toenails after she straps on her sandals and go hike while her pedicure is drying. Sandals are so versatile they go with her shorts, her skirt, her tunic or her maxi-dress. 

So it was that she rose on a typical Tuesday morning, made a quick toilette, pulled on her hiking clothes and sandals and took a four-mile hike to the Lion’s Den and back. The trail is well used by walkers, runners and bicyclists. It is quite dusty, though not unbearably hot this time of year. She strode through brush and trees at a good pace, gained 22 floors in elevation, stopped to enjoy the colors of the changing season, and met a masked art class spread out on the trail and sketching. She returned home having passed only a handful of bikers and joggers because it was nearing midday. “Whoof,” she said pulling off her socks and shaking them. She stepped into the bathtub and rinsed off her legs -the final twelve inches from calve down to the dirty feet. She shook her head and smiled wryly to herself.  And they actually had to explain the practice and purpose of foot-washing to us in Sunday School when we were kids? I’m telling you, we must have been a pack of nature deprived and trail starved baby boomers growing up. But look at us now! Bicycles. Kayaks. Running shoes. Tents. Campers. Motorhomes. – and foot washing. We’re making up for lost time. 

Sandaled feet in clear river water
Character, Emotional Health, Health and Long Life, Hiking and Outdoor Beauty, Travel, Uncategorized

What Are You Doing The Rest of Your Life?

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What are you doing the rest of your life?
She was the up-lake, district interpretive ranger and had been a back-country ranger in Bullfrog for many years previous. We had several interactions during the three years I was with Glen Canyon Conservancy. Valerie and I were not close, but I knew her well enough to attend her retirement party last fall. It was there I heard long term officemates sing her praises. What a varied and adventurous life she lived!
Valerie died on September 15 of this year. That knowledge has shaken me and made me reexamine my goals. Why? Valerie would have been 66 in October. She is four months younger than I. Valerie had only ten months of retirement.

Looking at my maternal line, I figure I have roughly 20 more years of life at most. My mother died this spring at the age of 86 outliving her older sister by nearly three years. Their mother died at 65. I’ve already outlived grandma and great grandma before her. So what will I do with that remaining fifteen or twenty years? What would I do if I knew I had only a year? I would retire. I would throw my efforts into the things I love to do and long to do. I would hike every day. I would write. I would make music. I would spend time with those I love and like. I would travel. How about you? What are you doing the rest of your life? Let’s do it!

Character, Emotional Health

Shut up and sing

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She was nine years old; blond-haired, blue-eyed, well-fed and dressed in her Sunday best. At the moment she was hiding under the check-in table and tattling loudly. The music teacher recruited as Sunday kids choir director sighed and surveyed the chaos. Would they accomplish anything that morning? The musical was six weeks away. Obstructing the distance between teacher and the piano, two eight-year-old boys were wrestling on the carpet.

“He’s calling me names!” shouted Goldilocks from beneath her 2 X 4 and Formica hideout. “Make him stop!” she demanded, “He said I always got my own way! He said I was spoiled!” “Well, are you?” Asked the music teacher reasonably. “No!” shouted the girl. “Then I wouldn’t much worry about it,” replied the teacher.

In the shocked silence that emanated from under the table, the teacher strode to the piano and called out, “Okay everybody, let’s sing. Here we go! The Secret of My Success!” She sounded the introductory chords with a good deal of forte and began to sing. Voices joined in. The majority of practice minutes were saved.

An afternoon walk into town reveals a good amount of chaos and tattling at this time in history. Campaign signs sneer from every yard. Paid ads flood Facebook. Mailboxes burst with political literature from every party, addressed to every known resident for the past four years. Placards and cardstock scream sentiments loudly. “He’s a socialist! She’s out of touch! He’ll sell us to the communists! She’ll take away your constitutional rights!” The music teacher, now retired, sighs as she walks by each yard.  The translation is always the same; The entire demise of the world is laid to your blame if you don’t see it my way! Would they accomplish anything this November? The elections were weeks away. She wants to look each of the candidates in the eye and ask, “Well, is it true?” She wishes she could reason with the most vocal of her friends and ask, “Is it the end of the world if you don’t get your own way?” She wants to calm the anger and anxiety. “God only knows, so I wouldn’t much worry about it.” But mostly, she thinks, please people, quit tattling and just sing.

When they lay down the weapons of argument and attack us with musical notes, what can we do? – US elections of 1840; Harnessing Harmony; Election Day; American Heritage History of the Presidents).

It is 2020 – let’s make some music!