Earlier this year, I did a heart-centered program by Danielle LaPorte that required me to dig deep into my core desires, after an arduous process of looking at the stories I’ve been telling myself for far too long, stories that come not only from my history and my experiences but, often, from other people’s histories and experiences and views of who I should be. Little by little I could feel the masks dropping away, and I could feel deep love and compassion for the parts of me I’ve always held at a distance or hid or hated. Fascinating and fulfilling.

In the end, my core desires weren’t about money or success or anything you can achieve or buy in a worldly way. They were contentment, connection, creativity, and love. Tall order, and yet most mornings when I wake up and assess where I am I, I smile to myself as I realize I am there at the moment, and I am grateful. And sometimes, when I’m especially aware, I say a little prayer that when things are not so rosy and a particularly rough challenge surfaces, I can somehow find the courage to stay in the moment and find the lessons and the gifts and the divinity — or Spirit, if you prefer — that is always swirling in and around me, and you and everything and everyone else.

When I peer into the coming decade, there are some fears, to be sure, because it’s undeniable that I’m on the downward slide of life, not in a bad way, just in the circle-of-life way. And that’s okay, even if it’s tinged with a little trepidation. Because if I can learn to be present — really present — and grateful, even when things are not going exactly as I want them to go, I can hold onto contentment and inner joy no matter what. I have no illusions that this will be easy, nothing good in life is, but I do believe that I am finally willing to do the work required. Daily work. Hour-by-hour work.

I grabbed a Mary Oliver book, Devotions, off my bookshelf before I taught yoga class yesterday, and it fell open to her poem “Snow Geese.” I knew as soon as I read it that it was the heart of the dharma talk I would give that day and completely fitting for this time of year and time of life.

“Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!
What a task
to ask
of anything, or anyone,
yet it is ours,
and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.” — Mary Oliver

I hope you’ll join me on this journey through the next decade. Who knows where it will take us? Let’s keep each other company because, after all, to quote Ram Dass yet again: “We are all just walking each other home.”

P.S. If you’d like to read my final Life in My 50s post, you can find that HERE.

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Ah, what I didn’t know at 50. I had no idea at that time that I’d end up leaving my full-time office in the basement of my house to take on a full-time job at the Diocese of Albany as Director of Communications for more than six years. I had no idea I would train to become a yoga teacher at 58, fulfilling a 30-year dream that I’d started and put off multiple times, and that I’d end up teaching at an amazing studio multiple times per week every week. I had no idea I would end up leading large retreats that draw 40+ people in various places and that I would develop a growing community of people who now make up my NSS Tribe. I had no idea I would sign up for Holy Ground, a spiritual director training program, from which I will graduate in the spring. I had no idea I’d walk away from my full-time office job at 59 to pursue my true professional love again: writing spiritual columns and books, leading retreats, teaching yoga. I had no idea how my body would begin to age in obvious ways that would, at many times, hamper my ability to do things I always took for granted, like bending down to unload the dishwasher or carry a laundry basket or do the work in the yard I love so much. I had no idea that the hair I stopped coloring almost ten years ago would not just go gray immediately, and now I wait — no, I anxiously anticipate — finally going fully gray, although my stylist tells me that it’s a long way off since I was a natural-born red head and apparently we gray slower/differently. Check back with me in another ten years.

At the time I wrote: “I don’t want the rest of my life — however long I get — to be only a time of fading, even though part of me welcomes that idea…I think whatever comes next should be a time of growing in the important areas of my life, as a spiritual seeker, as a wife and mother, as a human being, and maybe in some of the less serious and more fun areas as well, things I haven’t yet had a chance to try but have always wanted to tackle.”

I smile as I read that now, because it was all true. Was it true because I just got lucky, or was it true because I worked to make it happen? Both, I would say, without question. Last night, when I couldn’t fall asleep, I lay there with my hands on my heart, my trusty rosary beads there for comfort (as they are every night — my version of a favorite stuffed animal), and I smiled and felt so incredibly grateful and content, peaceful and in harmony with everything around me and with God. And I thanked God for all of it — for the blessings I am so grateful for today and for a full life that has had its share of sorrows and challenges and hardships but that remains a complete gift. Everything has led me to this place, and I have no doubt that whatever is coming next will lead me where I still need to go, to what I still need to learn — however much I might want to avoid some of it.

Life in my 50s has been a ride and a half, and I can tell you that as I stand on the cusp of life in my 60s, I’m excited by and grateful for the freedom, wisdom and growth that is still waiting for me, if I dare (and I do). When I turned 50, I remember thinking that if I lived as long as my grandmother, I would get to do my entire life over again. Now, at almost-60, I am past that possibility, making it very clear that I am on the downward slope of a beautiful life, a slope that I hope will be long and gradual. And I could still get 40 years if I duplicate my E-ma’s arc!

So I’m going to live this last week in my 50s full of gratitude and joy, reflecting on this life of abundance that has been mine for six full decades. That is no small thing, and I am grateful to the point of bursting — either into laughter or tears or both. I’ll be back next week as I herald in my 60s with more thoughts on all of this, and maybe some fun goals and hopes and dreams. Because dreaming is free, and it is definitely not just for the young.

When I wrote a birthday post last year at this time, when I was turning 59, I said: “As I round out this decade and prepare for the next — if I’m given that opportunity — I hope to become even more Mary than I’ve ever been. You’ve been warned. More writing, more meditation, more yoga, more retreats, more spiritual direction, more speaking truth to power, more travel, more learning, more cooking, more dancing, more singing, more creating, more exploring, more dreaming, more, more, more. To paraphrase Mary Oliver, I have no intention of “breathing just a little and calling it a life.” Full breaths until my full stop.”

Amen to all of it. I’m going to take that plan and kick it up a notch. I’m hoping life in my 60s will go to 11. (IYKYK, and if you do, you’re probably old like me.) 😉 Peace out, 50s.

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Bishop Edward B. Scharfenberger has accepted the resignation of Mary DeTurris Poust, diocesan director of communications, effective Jan. 28, 2022. Ms. DeTurris Poust has served in the role since September 2015, after initially being brought on six months earlier to create and maintain a social media presence for the bishop and the 14-county diocese. A search is underway for her replacement.

“Mary brought a unique blend of journalistic skills, spiritual insights, and social media savvy to the position, not to mention a lifelong Catholic faith that informed everything she did,” Bishop Scharfenberger said. “While we are sorry to lose her, we are grateful for her tireless efforts on behalf of the diocese and the larger Church, and we wish her all the best as she continues to spread the Gospel through the written and spoken word.”

Bishop Scharfenberger brought Ms. DeTurris Poust to the diocese in an effort to transform the Office of Communications from a traditional press office to a responsive and pro-active communications team that would use technology to further the mission of the Church. Ms. DeTurris Poust also serves as associate publisher of The Evangelist, the weekly newspaper of the diocese, and as vice president of its board. Her monthly column, Life Lines, will continue to run in The Evangelist.

“I am honored to have had the opportunity to serve the Diocese of Albany for close to seven years, and I’m proud of all we accomplished with the help of a great communications team. Now it is time for me to return to what has always been the heart of my ministry and professional life: writing, retreat work, and public speaking,” said Ms. DeTurris Poust. “I am so grateful to Bishop Scharfenberger for his commitment to transparency and truth, for his support of Catholic communications as the premier way to evangelize, educate and inspire, and, most importantly, for his unflagging efforts to bring healing to the survivors of sexual abuse.”

Prior to joining the diocese, Ms. DeTurris Poust spoke nationally about the need for the Church to use social media as way to reach Catholics and non-Catholics alike, telling the U.S. Bishops at their General Assembly in Baltimore in 2012 that “like it or not, Facebook is the new parish hall.” Bishop Scharfenberger also recognized that need and initially hired Ms. DeTurris Poust to establish a diocesan presence on various social media platforms. When she was appointed Communications Director five months later, that role was expanded to include media relations, redesign and maintenance of the diocesan website, video production and promotion, and more. Since then, the Communications Office has grown its digital presence year by year and has won numerous national Catholic Media Association awards for its social media campaigns and graphics, website design and content, press releases and breaking news.

“None of this could have happened without the talented and dedicated staff that has supported and executed our campaigns so expertly,” said Ms. DeTurris Poust. “I am so grateful to those who have worked alongside me to translate the bishop’s vision and the Gospel message into digital, video and print products.”

The author of six books on Catholic spirituality and six books of seasonal reflections, Ms. DeTurris Poust is the former managing editor of Catholic New York, the newspaper of the Archdiocese of New York, and contributing editor of Our Sunday Visitor newsweekly, and has also served the dioceses of Metuchen, N.J., and Austin, Texas. She is a nationally known retreat leader, and her writing appears regularly in various publications and on her blog at www.notstrictlyspiritual.com.

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We tend to hear the word “surrender” and imagine failure or weakness, but, in reality, surrender is often the most challenging but ultimately satisfying path. We are taught to strive, to achieve, to keep on keeping on until we just can’t physically do it anymore. But our faith asks us to take a different path, to loosen our grip, to let go of the reins, and let God be God. It’s not easy. Okay, sometimes it feels downright impossible, and yet, if we keep coming back to this idea, this teaching, we find that, over time, it begins to feel more natural, more comfortable, a little bit like home.

A few months ago, when I was giving a retreat in Maryland, I opened the Bible to Psalm 46, since my focus would be on the famous line: “Be still and know that I am God.” But when I placed the book on my table, I noticed that this translation said: “Stop fighting and know that I am God.” I stopped in my tracks and did a little groan out loud. This was not what I wanted. I started searching for the “right” translation, aka, the one I like. Instead, I came upon the translation from the New American Standard Bible and suddenly everything I thought I knew about this Scripture verse fell into place:

“Cease striving and know that I am God…,” it said.

Wait. What? This is very different from just being still. It’s a whole other reality, one that doesn’t fit into our modern mindset. What would it mean to stop striving? Who would I be if I didn’t strive to maintain control, trying to bend God to my will instead of the other way around? As it turns out, I’d be much closer to the person God meant me to be if I just released the need to control. Surrender doesn’t lead to defeat; it leads to freedom.

When I shared this news with the folks on two different retreats in recent months, I could see the light bulbs go off. It was an Aha! moment for them, just as it was for me. “Be still and know…” sounds so calm, so passive, but “Stop striving…” is a whole different ball of wax. We don’t just sit and wait for something to come to us; we actively stop doing the things that are getting between us and God.

“Only when I surrender myself completely to God’s love can I expect to be free from endless distractions, ready to hear the voice of love, and able to recognize my own unique call,” wrote theologian Henri J.M. Nouwen in The Road to Daybreak.

“It’s going to be a very long road. Every time I pray, I feel the struggle. It is the struggle of letting God be the God of my whole being. It is the struggle to trust that true freedom lies hidden in total surrender to God’s love.”

What would happen if you didn’t just choose to be still but chose to stop striving? Would the earth stop spinning? Would your world turn upside down? Or maybe, just maybe, would everything finally be exactly as it was meant to be? Stop striving, and let God do what only God can do.

This column originally appeared in the Oct. 7, 2021, issue of Catholic New York.

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Back when I was in my 40s, I remember waiting for, longing for some magic moment when wisdom would descend upon me as if in a visible way from above. I don’t know if I expected a dove to alight upon my head à la the disciples at Pentecost, but I was definitely expecting something monumental and obvious. Turns out wisdom is a slow burn, and when we’re not looking — if we’re paying attention to our inner life — it is there beneath the surface doing the difficult and critical work of chiseling away at the world’s expectations and demands to reveal the True Self sculpture that may have been locked in marble our entire lives. Like Michelangelo freeing David from the confines of stone, we eventually find ourselves standing there, naked before the world (in a figurative way, of course) and completely at ease with it. No, not just at ease with it. More than that. There is awe and joy, celebration and freedom all wrapped up in the revelation of who we really are once we are ready to be unleashed, untethered.

Although I do feel old thanks to some physical decline that just can’t be helped once you get to a certain age, I fully expect — God willing — that there is an entire new chapter waiting around the bend. I can sense it, taste it, see it just beyond my grasp. It may take me a little bit to get the current me into the the spot I can see up ahead, but it’s there, beckoning me to spread my wings a little wider, take the leap, learn the things, go to the next place I am called to go into to become more fully the person I was meant to be.

As I round out this decade and prepare for the next — if I’m given that opportunity — I hope to become even more Mary than I’ve ever been. You’ve been warned. More writing, more meditation, more yoga, more retreats, more spiritual direction, more speaking truth to power, more travel, more learning, more cooking, more dancing, more singing, more creating, more exploring, more dreaming, more, more, more. To paraphrase Mary Oliver, I have no intention of “breathing just a little and calling it a life.” Full breaths until my full stop.

I found this song today, when I was creating the playlist for the Birthday Gentle yoga class I taught this morning. It spoke to me, so I thought I’d share. If you’d like to listen to my full Spotify playlist, you can find it at Another Trip Around the Sun #59. Onward!

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The couple ahead of me looked at one another, and I saw the young woman put her hand to her face and double over. I wondered if she found the whole scene too upsetting, or maybe she was sick. When we entered the parking garage, the woman in the wheelchair and her aide headed to the elevator, while the couple and I moved toward the stairs. As they rounded the top stair and turned on the landing, we were facing each other. It was at the point I realized the woman wasn’t upset; she was laughing so hard she could not contain herself. She was laughing at the woman in the wheelchair.

I felt anger rising and debated saying something but held back, not wanting to get into a contentious conversation with strangers in a stairwell. I could see that her partner was not laughing and looked uncomfortable. They exited at the second floor, the woman still laughing uncontrollably, while I continued to the roof level. When I arrived at the top of the stairs, the woman in the wheelchair was being escorted toward a van. She was still crying out, and as I watched them move across the lot, I felt tears coming. Tears for the cruelty of our world today. Tears for the woman in the wheelchair, whose suffering is greater than anything I can understand. Tears for the woman pushing the wheelchair, smiling and talking so gently. Tears for the laughing woman, who perhaps didn’t know how to respond to a such a difficult situation and so opted for something terribly inhumane out of her own fear.

For as long as I can remember, when people saw others suffering, they would say to themselves, “There but for the grace of God go I.” There was a recognition that none of us do anything to earn our place or condition in this world and should, therefore, look with kindness on—and in solidarity with—those who have been asked to shoulder a heavier burden. Have we forgotten that, or is it buried under the avalanche of ridicule and bullying and intolerance that make up social interaction today?

When we close off our hearts and minds to those whose situations scare us or make us uncomfortable, the only ones we cheat are ourselves. I have to remind myself that this truth applies to all the women in the parking garage that day.

It is not enough to feel compassion toward the woman in the wheelchair and the woman who cared for her. Despite everything inside me that wants to fight against it, the Gospel calls me to have compassion for the woman who laughed as well. She has a condition that doesn’t require a wheelchair but is clearly much more debilitating. And I can only hope that those women looked at me with compassion for whatever fault or flaw they might have spotted but to which I am oblivious.

We move through this world viewing everything and everyone through the prism of our own experience, but Jesus tells us to throw away the prism and see everyone in the same light, the light of love. These days, that can feel nearly impossible, but it just might be true that only love can save the world.

This column originally appeared in the Nov. 4, 2020, issue of Catholic New York.

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So, I’m patting myself on the back right now for mere fact that I was able to connect all the wires, find the right buttons, and record anything at all. And that dovetails nicely with my topic: age and expectations, but even more than that expanding our boundaries beyond our self- (or society-) imposed limits. You can take a listen at the link below. I’d love to hear your feedback, including topics you might like me to address in the future.

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I was lucky enough to be seated at meals—due to Covid our movements were restricted in the dining hall—with a lovely woman named Margie, who left a deep imprint on my heart and soul. A retired occupational therapist, she practically glowed with peace and grace, holiness and joy. When I asked about her life, she leaned in as if sharing a secret and said, “Ever since I retired, I’m like a kid in a candy store. I wake up every morning and say, ‘What am I going to do today?!?’” At that moment I leaned in and said to her, “I want to be you when I grow up.” And I do.

I watched as she headed out on challenging hikes, often leading the way for others, or hauled her lightweight kayak to the lake at all hours to paddle through mist and fog, at sunrise and sunset, capturing photos of lilies and spiderwebs, shimmering water and deep green mosses to share with our community. She recounted tales of a week spent in an Italian village north of Venice last year and showed us the beautiful hand-painted necklace made by a Benedictine nun she met there. This is a woman who draws you to her, and you never want to let go.

How easy it would have been for me to miss out on the joy and beauty that is Margie. Had we not been seated together at meals—the Spirit at work, for sure—or had we been too busy to connect at different times that weekend, we might have walked away not knowing what we missed, but, oh, what a loss that would have been.

What does all of this have to do with anyone other than me and Margie? Everything. When we take the time to notice, to listen, to share, we discover kindred spirits who lift us up and help carry us forward, especially during these challenging times. So many of the people on my retreat—some of whom I’ve known for a long time—taught me beautiful lessons, leaving me in laughter one minute and tears (the good kind) the next. We were a group of mostly strangers at the start but a beloved family by the end. We don’t have to go on retreat to find that; it is always right there for the taking. We just have to open our eyes—and our hearts—to what’s around us every single day.

Are you willing to embrace the life you’re given, looking for every last opportunity to learn, to experience, to give? Can you step beyond your fear and worry to see the beauty and joy that is just below the surface, maybe outside in God’s great creation, maybe sitting next to you at a lunch table, maybe in the next cubicle at work? Can you wake up tomorrow, clap your hands together with joy and anticipation and say, “What will I do today?”

This column originally appeared in the Oct. 7, 2020, issue of Catholic New York.

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I’m guessing what many of us are feeling these days runs somewhat parallel to what the early disciples were feeling in the days after Jesus’ crucifixion and even after resurrection, when enemies were lurking around every corner, and believers locked themselves away, afraid that they might meet a similar end on a cross. The joy of the resurrection was tinged with the fear of “What if…” What if I’m next? What if the voices of fear are right? What if I’m not brave enough?

The reality is that none of us will get through this life on a wave of joy. Pain works its way into our lives again and again, often when we least expect it. How many of us had big events on the horizon as the coronavirus hit — weddings and graduations, anniversary trips and study abroad, new homes and new babies? Suddenly those lifetime highlights were plunged into shadowy uncertainty. To be sure, the babies would arrive just the same and the graduations would happen sans pomp and circumstance, but none of it was as planned or expected.

The crux of all of this is not that there is pain, but what do we do with the pain. Even as I write this column—pain-free compared to the many who are suffering—I feel myself sinking and there is a certain comfort there. To feel sorry for myself, to allow myself to follow the paths of doom my mind creates, has a certain attraction. It gives me an excuse to wallow, to skip the walk or prayer time, to eat comfort food that’s not good for me, to scroll mindlessly through social media. Because, poor me, poor us.

In his book “Man’s Search for Meaning,” Viktor Frankl, writing about the loss and trauma inflicted on him in the concentration camp, said: “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”

It is a reminder that there is power in the way we choose to respond to the pains — and the joys — that come into our lives. If we are swept away with every happiness or plunged into the depths with every sorrow, then we will live a life of seesawing suffering and bliss. As a result, we will never know true joy, because true joy lies in being with whatever is in front of us at the moment and staying true to our center. That doesn’t mean we don’t hurt or get afraid or miss people or want to hide ourselves away and eat Doritos and watch mindless TV every once in a while when things get bad. What it does mean is that we don’t stay there long.

If we make sure we retreat to prayer every single day without fail, even for just a few minutes, we can stop the seesawing. What if we turned to God every time we turned to our phone or to that unhealthy snack? What if we allowed God to fill the void? I’m going to take my own advice, and I hope you’ll join me. I have a feeling if we both stick with this plan, the fear will dissipate even if the pain does not. Choose joy.

This column originally appeared in the April 22, 2020, issue of Catholic New York.

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