Jackie Madden Haugh - 75 Beats to a Happy Heart

75 Beats to a Happy Heart

2014 Jackie Madden Haugh. All rights reserved.

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This eBook published in the United States by WriteLife Publishing

(An imprint ofBoutique of Quality Books Publishing Company)

www.writelife.com

Printed in the United States of America

978-1-60808-142-4 (e)

Cover design by Janet Heuer

I had the privilege of being raised by parents who believed that there were two typesof heartbeats: one that served as the life force within the physical frame, sendingblood and oxygen to all parts of the body, and another that resided in the spirit,a mystical pulse that nourished the soul. In their opinion, tending to emotions withgenuine care and attention was equally as important as leading a healthy lifestyle.They trusted the golden path to fulfilling our divine purpose here on earth was revealedthrough listening to our soul.

My mother, Lassie Pearce Madden was a vibrant woman with a deep moral conviction,full of energy, humor, and class. Highly spiritual, she believed we come to thisearth with lessons to learn. If we worked hard enough wed figured them out in thislifetime (with a little help from above, of course) so we wouldnt have to come backand do it all over again. It was clear shed find her way to heaven by living generously,devoted to her faith, and loving unconditionally.

My father, Jack Madden, wasnt as concerned with getting additional instruction fromthe universe. He had enough education in the school of hard knocks. Unlike my mother,the driving force that propelled him came from an optimistic heart. No matter whatadversity was shoved in his face, Dad trusted the outcome would eventually be good.

For the ten years after my mother passed, I held Power of Attorney over my fathershealth and managed his daily home care with visits from women in the local Tongancommunity. He was cleaned, changed, fed, and then plopped into a chair where he remainedthe rest of the day. There was no mental stimulation, no discussion. Ultimately,the care we were providing began to feel uncaring. At ninety-five, it was clear thatmy father could no longer live in my childhood home. That is when I moved him tolive with me.

One day, early in our new living arrangement together, I watched the hours evaporateone into another, and felt dismayed that wed accomplished nothing that day. I satby his wheelchair, and asked, Dad, how are you able to sit here all day, and stillremain pleasant to live with?

You dont know what youll do until youre faced with it, his age-learned wisdomsaid.

Yes, I do, I replied, terrified that one-day Id be faced with the same plight.Ill be very crabby.

Taking my hand, he paused for a moment a habit hed fallen into whenever he searchedfor the right words to make the perfect point.

Jackie, learn now to be grateful for everything. Thats where youll find happiness.

I was surprised. After every shred of independence was stripped from his world, whatdid Dad have to be grateful for? He could do nothing for himself and relied on hisdaughter to be his eyes, ears, and nurse. The home he once loved had been sold andnow belonged to a new family. His wife, family, and friends were all gone. In myopinion, he was living in pure hell as he waited to die.

As I continued to mull over the situation, it dawned on me that my dad had alwaysbeen a truly happy man. Maybe he never expressed it in a boisterous manner, but hewas evidently content and grateful just to be alive.

Its been said that we all have an energy field, which becomes a magnet for likewiseenergy. If youre a negative person, then you attract adverse situations. My fatherchose to conduct his field in endless appreciation.

With his souls vibration constantly humming a joyful tune, he managed to find thebright side, even in the most disappointing moments. Perhaps that was his final lesson.He certainly learned it well.

Every little girl wants to grow up to be just like their mommy, especially if theyrebeautiful, adoring, funny, and magnetic. But as the years passed, I began to seethat despite the fact I carried several of my mothers wonderful attributes, I wastruly my fathers daughter. Not only do I resemble him physically, but I also havethe same vision and commitment to find the positive to every situation I face. Sure,my rose-colored glasses have been shattered from time-to-time, and Ive been leftwith shards of crystals in my eyes, but I carry an unshakeable faith that we wereput on this earth to live in a state of joy. Sometimes, we just have to search alittle harder to find it!

When I became a writer, I decided the best place to find that joy would be in theminutia of my days; those little things that make a heart pause and reflect. As Iplace my right hand on my chest, I count 75 beats per minute, hence 75 musings.

The stories youre about to read come mainly from my column in the Los Altos TownCrier with a few extra thrown in for good measure. They are placed in chronologicalorder as my life unfolded from childhood, single parent, caregiver, and beyond, andreflect that rhythmic, spiritual tapping that constantly nurtures and nourishes mysoul.

While Im still searching for my own life purpose (it may take me forever to findit), Im confident that if I can hang onto Dads attitude of gratitude, that oneday I too will travel my path as it leads back to where I came from. Back to home.

Contents

As I had my acrylic nails painted in candy apple red for the holiday season in December2008, my mind wandered to all the unnecessary, frivolous shopping ahead of me thatday. My concentration was abruptly broken as I heard the words, I know you, comefrom the woman sitting next to me.

I turned to the strangers dark chocolate colored eyes and found the porcelain faceof a lovey British woman. I panicked. Whenever I hear I know you, Im immediatelypulled back to the 1970s, where I spent far too many nights disco dancing on thetable at our local bar. Of course, as a mature woman of fifty-seven, I no longerdo such crazy things. But when those words are thrown in my direction, my first instinctis to fear that Ill be forced to relive some embarrassing moment Ive tried to expungefrom my mind.

You taught my daughter dance ten years ago, she said with a smile.

Whew!

Instantly, the tension in my gut subsided as we chatted about her child, the thenand the now, and the issues with growing older as our children leave the family nest.We found one more life experience in common: becoming a single parent. Where my divorcehad happened seven years prior, hers was just beginning.

Im so sorry youre going through all that, I responded, sympathetically. Dissolvinga union that began with a heart full of hope and love was a difficult journey.

As she touched on issues with their attorneys, her childrens feelings, and divisionof assets, she stopped and asked, How did you get through it?

When it comes to lifes painful processes, the healing can come in a variety of forms.Some people respond best to talk therapy. Others may need distraction, like pouringthemselves more heavily into their work or taking constant trips to remove themselvesfrom the day-to-day environment.

Alcohol can become a form of self-medication, while others might spend money madly.For me, healing came through writing.

Verbal dialogue was always a challenge for me whenever I tried to explain how I feltin my highly articulate family. I knew what I wanted to say, but could never seemto spit the words out fast enough. Consequently, I learned the best way to expressmyself was in the confines of my journals. Beginning at age ten, I could say whateverI wanted, get it all out and never deal with the agony of scrutiny. My thoughts becamemy secrets, and I would spend nearly the rest of my life living in my head.