Genius? Cliche'? Who Cares. I'm going for it.

 Dear Reader,

Me again! Erratic but pretty much weekly, so it's an improvement and I'm giving myself the win for keeping up with the blog. Hi there! Good to see you again.

I am - in fits and starts, like an erratic dance (there's that word again) making progress on figuring out life in this phase of my life.

Progress: I went out with a friend for happy hour at a funky new bar yesterday and actually had a cocktail with dinner. (It was called a Hairy Woodsman, and, well, I just had to order it. It contains Aperol, my favorite flavor since visiting Italy this summer, and it was surprisingly delish given that it contained tequila, which I usually avoid.)

Where was I? Oh, yes, drinking a Hairy Woodsman at a new place with an old friend on a Wednesday night. And tonight I met another friend to walk along the water at sunset and get exercise and catch up. And tomorrow I'm getting together with another friend. So, that's all good - and about three times more than I went out in 2020, so it's a win.

(2021 wasn't much busier than 2020, if I'm being honest, but 2022 has been making up for lost time.)

Work is going well: I love my kids, and we're doing some interesting things in AP Lang, and I'm happy with my colleagues, bosses, and the curriculum. Pause to reflect on this - so cool, right? I love teaching.

Steps backwards: on Monday and Tuesday I was exhausted, and ate stupid food in front of stupid television shows. That's not who I want to be, but sometimes it's who I am.

My goal? To live intentionally. To live my values, to meet my goals, to have joy, to be connected in community. Isn't that what we all want? What does it look like for you? Really - what DOES it look like? How much introvert time? How much social time? How many hours a week at work? How much exercise? How many books, and how many TV shows? How do you balance cooking and eating healthy food with working, commuting, playing?

And what about reaching life goals? How does one make progress on one's dreams? When WILL I write that book? It's languishing, both calling to me and repelling me...

So: here's what I'm doing. I'm TRYING.

Yup. That's it, that's my genius. I'm trying to carve out time in my days, weeks, months, to focus on the questions.

My new yoga practice and studio class is giving me joy, and the weekly commitment is something I look forward to. (If it was cheaper I'd go more than once a week!) My time out with friends is delightful, seeing music or art shows or checking out a new restaurant. I've been writing pages and pages in my journal. And all of these things are part of my answers.

I'm trying to figure out what I love, and how to be the person I love. I'm trying to embrace my life, in all of its imperfections and messiness, and get giddy.

I just signed up for volunteer training at the food bank. Such a cliché', right, to begin volunteering in the community in one's 50s? (It is a cliché. Just look at the average age of volunteers at such places to know that I'm right.) But - it's the right time. I don't have to have dinner on the table at a certain time, I don't have to get Tessa to gymnastics or rock climbing or cross country or homework: she's at college, either doing what she should or not (as is right: this is her life, and she needs to choose her path, too). I'm not establishing my career, I'm deep in it.

I don't need new friends because I have a wonderful community already with close friends... but I'm enjoying making new friends, at work or in my neighborhood... and if I make new friends at the food bank, I'll invite that into my life, because it sounds lovely.

This weekend I went to a wonderful local coffee shop and ran into an acquaintance who is someone I admire. She's in her early 80s and a model of who I'd like to be at her age: creative, active, vibrant, engaged in her life and her community. We exchanged emails, and then we exchanged poetry. I'm so glad to have a new friend who wants to exchange poetry!

This is not a mid-life crisis: far from it. This is mid-life awakening. It's a bit of a cliché and I don't mind at all. There's genius in this cliché, and I'm chasing that genius. Every step gets me closer to the life I dream of, this life that I'm creating.

It's still messy. Sometimes literally (why do I put of vacuuming so often?!), and sometimes its friends who are having health crises or job crises or marriage crises; sometimes it's that I just can't seem to find the energy to do all the things I long to do and then I backslide into letting months slip by without opening my book documents on my computer.

But I'm trying. And every time I try, I feel better about the world I'm making, and that's enough for today.

Genius.

I think that my next step is re-building volunteer time at the food bank.

Following the seasons

 I've been thinking a lot about what makes me feel good - and what doesn't. And this made me think of tomatoes.

In the summer, a tomato from the farmers market or from my small garden is heaven in a bite: the sweetness and depth of flavor is remarkable, the kind of thing that makes you want to call a friend and say "YOU HAVE GOT TO TRY THIS!"

And a winter tomato tastes like wet cardboard and sadness. It has just enough almost-tomato flavor to make me try again, but every bite is the same, and none of it is good.

In a modern life, it seem that we've totally lost touch with our fresh tomatoes, and everything surrounding them. City folks like me don't follow the seasons with our food, and often not even with our behavior: we spend time in air conditioning and heated homes (both of which have huge up-sides, of course!) and we eat strawberries in winter and apples in summer, and it seems to me that when we live like this everything feels just a bit flatter. Winter tomatoes are flat.

I'm trying to change this in my life.

I have a farmers market just blocks from my home (I know, how lucky am I?!) and I try to go every Sunday. Strolling the stalls, I see old and new friends, get to pet lots of random dogs, and listen to buskers playing quite a selection of music. There are food trucks and food tents, I really think that it's quite lovely, and part of the ritual of my week. But most of all right now, I'm noticing how when I shop that way, I find myself so much more in tune with the seasons.

This week the dahlias were wilted and had some spots; dried statice and cabbage flowers had taken their places. (I'm not going to lie: I mourned that!) I picked up bunches of leeks, carrots, and lacinto kale (I finally figured out one kind of kale that I don't despise). Potatoes, parsnips, radishes, apples filled the stands. Onions, garlic, and mushrooms were in abundance. And jarred items - kiwi jam, kombucha, and apple cider - were all there for the taking. I'm trying to map my eating to this kind of seasonality this year, and I don't know if it's my imagination but I really do think that the potatoes taste better, the carrots sweeter and crunchier.

But it's not just food, it's all of it.

As a teacher, I find that my work year is much more in tune with the seasons, even though we're indoors. "New Year" is autumn, just as in the pagan calendar. I love the ritual of freshening up office supplies, setting my classroom in order, and making plans to have creative, interesting lessons that will make the year sweeter for me and for my kids. September is the mad rush of trying to get to know the students, rolling out new curricula; October is all about finding our groove and getting work done; November is all about applying lessons and really getting down to business. December is about diving in - but then it's about raising our heads to catch our breath, sprinting out of the building, and enjoying a two week break.

January may be New Year's again. Refreshed, we're ready to dive back in, to close out the semester strong. And then, just when we're feeling tired, we get two things: a new quarter with a fresh start, and then a week of break. The we power through March and April to the AP exams, and then in late May and June we wind down with our college essay and the dreams of a new life.

And then? And then we get summer. Travel, oceans, suntans, festivals, concerts, picnics.

Having an arc to my year in this way is useful to me, and I find it soothing. Just like the tomatoes, when I try to rush in the wrong season - in September if I dive in too fast, we don't build community, and then they don't learn as well! - then I don't do well; in winter we really go deep into the material, and that feels right, too.

But I want my whole life to be like this, and more.

I want to really live each minute of the seasons, taking the gifts each season - month, week, day - can offer, and enjoying the gifts quite thoroughly.

It's mid-November and daylight savings is in effect, and suddenly it really is quite dark. Instead of complaining about this (there is so much complaining about this!), I don't want to fight it, I want to embrace it. In this season of darkness, I want:

- candles

- reading

- warm stews and soups (vegetarian for me, please!); butternut squash lasagna; roasted Brussels sprouts; lentil stew; vegetable soup with kale and carrots and potatoes; mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy

- oodles of hot drinks

Today I had fun grabbing my bright puffy coat, my waterproof (but cute!) lace up boots, and putting on my wool hat with a pompom and my matching thin gloves, and walking around the farmers market with my bag in the cold air, perfectly content because of my clothing. The cool air felt good in my lungs; my legs appreciated the stretch. Earlier, I walked through Lincoln Park and found myself enjoying a walk on the actual beach, admiring the shells and different seaweeds washed up in the strong autumn tides. (I saw a particularly beautiful chiton, bright blue inside; and a perfect snail shell; and so many lovely stones mixed in with the kelp and sea lettuce and other seaweeds I can't yet name.) When at home, I read for a while; I journaled for a while. I put my laundry away, and washed my sheets (and what is yummier than fresh clean sheets and a feather comforter on a cold night?). Back in the park, I found pinecones and bright leaves and a couple small cedar branches, and I brought them home and arranged candles in tin around them, and took satisfaction in bringing their autumn color and scents into my home.

On Friday night I had some friends over, and I made a vegetarian chili that included green chilies that I purchased at last week's farmers market and then roasted; it also had pumpkin in it. Lighting candles and setting the table in an autumn color palette was soothing to me; nurturing my friends on a cold night with warm food and a cozy home felt blissful.

This season I am nesting by journaling, spending more time at home being an introvert than I do in summer. I'm reading more. Writing more. Observing more. I'm taking a yoga class at a studio and enjoying doing it in community, instead of in my basement, glad to exercise my body without fighting the elements. It's a perfect fall activity, I think.

Instead of cursing the early dark, when I noticed the sky turning pink tonight I grabbed my puffy coat etc. and added a travel mug of hot tea ("Yogi Tea for Immune Support" felt right!) and hurried back to Lowman Beach to sit on a log and watch the sun setting. Bundled up, I felt no complaints, and the rich pink of the sky and the sound of the waves was no less beautiful than when I swam there this summer or lounged there with a book in a sundress or a bathing suit on a hot day. I felt fully present, so grateful that the November air was clean and fresh, and that the beach offered its gifts.

I'm already preparing for the winter season right around the corner, though I'm trying not to get too far ahead of myself. I'm reading pie recipes for Thanksgiving, and looking up all of the festivals and activities that I enjoy in winter. I don't want to miss the Christmas Ships, or the Pathway of Lights, or our local Night Markets. I've got tickets for a play in hand, and hope to find another. One friend's annual party in December is already on the calendar, and I've already invited friends to a "Sparkle" party and included "the kids" (who are mostly turning 20 this year!) because they'll enjoy gathering, too.

On Thanksgiving morning, the yoga studio is offering a "gratitude" practice. While I will no doubt be running around like mad in my kitchen, wishing I'd done more the night before, I'm going. Reveling in gratitude is a part of Thanksgiving, and I can't wait. And speaking of gratitude: I've already pulled out the Thanksgiving Journal. When Tessa was little I read about this practice of keeping a book where all of one's Thanksgiving guests write in it when they gather on Thanksgiving and I started it at least 15 years ago. The book has now watched cousins fall in love, get married; have children; it's weathered my divorce and the new life that came afterwards. It's seen grandparents pass, and it's seen babies being born. It's seen big Thanksgiving parties of 22, and a tiny one of just 3 for Covid. My regular Thanksgiving crew reminds me about it - they not only want to write in it, but going back and reading years gone by is a treasured tradition.

***

I know I'm rambling, so let me try to say what I came to say.

I want a good life, where I relish the gifts put before me. I don't want to curse the darkness, because cursing it will not bring the light. I want to embrace it all: the light, the darkness; the tomatoes, the butternut squash. I want to remember to get cozy in my home with fuzzy socks and favorite sweaters and a journal or a book, and I want to remember to strip down to only the lightest clothes and walk along the edges of the waves in the sunshine. I want to sleep under starry skies in summer, looking up and gasping at their beauty through tired eyes; and I want to light candles and smile at the warm light in my home in winter as warm scents come from my kitchen and friends come to the door. I want to look for signs of spring - those bright crocuses bring such joy! - but I also want to marvel at the lacy patterns of the trees, the beauty of hoarfrost, the steadfast water fowl who spend the winter without apparent regret, swimming in the Sound. I want to participate in the lighting of lights - candles, Christmas trees - and I want to be filled with gratitude that I am here to see them.

I don't want to fight the darkness, I want to find the beauty in it. I don't want to long for tomatoes, strawberries, and peaches, I want to savor pumpkin curry and pomegranate kale and cranberry bread.

I want to embrace the seasons of the year, and of my life.

Right now, my hair is thinner and grayer than it was. My belly is a different shape. My eyes have crinkles in the corners. I am not a young woman; this is not the spring of my life. But it seems to me, there is so much beauty at this phase of life, too.

Instead of taut skin, I have a stronger sense of self worth.

Instead of glossy, dark hair, I have the knowledge that I can overcome.

Instead of a sad marriage, I have freedom.

Instead of a baby in my arms, I have a daughter who is exploring her dreams at college and comes home to me at breaks.

Instead of learning a path, I have a steady career that feels solid.

Instead of building a home, I have a home that is safe, warm, and filled with comforts.

Much like in my youth, I'm still filled with dreams, hopes, and desires. But unlike in my youth, I'm not panicking that I haven't fulfilled them yet. I know that some will happen, and some might not, but that I am okay - no, better than okay! - either way.

Just as the day has light and dark, and the light and dark return right on schedule; just as the seasons surely rotate, the leaves bursting forth, shimmying in the breeze, bursting with color, then dropping to reveal the trees' architecture... my life has these patterns, too. I refuse to say that one season is worse, or better; they're just all so different, and each relies on the other. It's autumn, and I am in autumn, too. But this is the season for gratitude, and I am grateful.

I have had summers that hurt; I have had springs that birthed disease and divorce. Yes, some winters are weary (the Covid isolation of winter 2021 was ROUGH); but not all of them are. Some are filled with Christmas parties and solstice celebrations and snowshoeing and skiing and dinner parties and game nights and weekend getaways and such good books. Some are filled with success at work, and joyful breaks. I became a mother in winter - what is more lovely than that?

I'm a little slower this late autumn than I was in summer - no rushing about from train to train in Italy; no jumping from festival to festival or concert to concert. But the slowness suits me, too. It's the season for it. I spent an hour in a bookstore yesterday, a gift to myself.

I am skipping the fresh tomatoes for now, because I don't like soggy cardboard. And I'm embracing the dark, because I love lighting candles in the dark, and because a starry winter night is so gorgeous, and because I do love to see the Christmas lights against a dark sky. And I'm embracing every kind of potato, and all of the pies (but especially pumpkin).

And here I am, writing again, when all summer I struggled to do so, and that feels right, too. (Maybe I'll even go back and edit this, because boy it took me a long time to get to my point! :-) ).

I want to leave by the seasons, all of their light and dark, all of their sweet and savory. I refuse to dread the darkness, when I know that the darkness also brings the gift of snow days and apple cider and the smell of a Christmas tree in my house. There is so much to look forward to - and I'm looking forward to it! And I refuse to dread the autumn of my life, because it has gifts, too, and because the brightness of the leaves is no less knowing that they will fall, and because the winter around the corner has gifts to reveal, too.

And now: off to make a late dinner. Tonight it's mashed potatoes, mushroom gravy, and roasted broccoli. Yum. Nothing to be sad about there - comfort food at it's finest!

Selfless, Selfish, Myself

 As a woman and a mother, I have received many commands to be selfless.

Selfless mothers put their children's needs before their own. Selfless women give to community, to their jobs, to their families, to their friends. As a society, we revere them in their selflessness: we hold them up as paragons of virtue, as role models.

Selfish women, on the other hand, are at best chastised and at worst shamed and belittled. The woman at the park who was staring at her phone as her child yelled, "Watch me!" from the monkey bars got stares and eye rolls. The woman who dared to say "No," without explanation or apology, shocked the room into silence.

I was taught to be selfless. I was taught to give of myself until there was nothing left to give. I was taught to not only turn the other cheek but to say "sorry" and then "thank you" when I received the slaps. My family and society at large gave me loud messages about how giving up myself, sacrificing for others, and emptying myself of want or desire was the end goal, the proof that I had followed the script that had been handed to me.

Don't believe me? Read The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein. The beloved children's classic is about a boy and a tree, and the tree gives of itself until it is literally just a stump, and the boy - absolutely unaware that he has sapped the tree of everything by taking its apples, branches, and then even the trunk - then sits on that stump and the tree is still glad that (she?) has something left to give.

I hate this book. A child should not take until all that is left of the giver is a stump. It is, indeed, selfless love on the part of the tree... but isn't it also co-dependent garbage where the tree gets its self worth from how many limbs it is willing to chop off in the name of love? Isn't that abusive and ugly? And yet, the book is revered by many. Is this the model of motherhood that I am supposed to adore?

The messages aren't just in children's books, and I don't think I have to tell you where to find them. If you look, they're everywhere. "We" admire people, especially mothers, who give until it hurts. Such women are lauded as examples of womanhood, motherhood, and wife-dom.

And the reverse? We have names for women who are selfish. Names that rhyme with witch.

And I'm sick of it. Why would I choose to be a stump or a bitch? Surely there is more to life than putting my own needs dead last, or disregarding everyone around me without offering nurture or care?

I don't want to be selfless, and I don't want to be selfish. I just want to be myself.

***

Lately I've been taking a yoga class. It's a real gift to myself: I've carved out time and money to make it happen. I haven't done yoga in a class for several years (thanks, Covid) and I've never been particularly good at it; I've done yoga on and off for thirty years (what?!) but I've never had a truly regular practice. But this year, as Tessa is at school and I'm trying to remake my life into the shape that fits the time and place, I decided that yoga would benefit mind, body, and soul, so I went to a couple different studios until I found one that works for me. It's only a couple miles from home, and I only go once a week for now... but I'm finding it transformative.

First, there is the act of organizing my life around this thing that I want to do. I have to get off work on time, leaving a meeting even if it runs late. Then I bought myself a few items to wear, because my workout gear was getting a little shabby (or, in some cases, just too tight - oops). And I needed to pay money to do take the classes, even though I could do free videos in my basement. And then... I needed to show up for myself.

There is something about being in community during yoga. Something wonderfully unpolished about the humanity of the instructor ("take your right foot - oh, sorry, I mean your left foot!"); about being in a room with people younger than me and older than me, in better shape than me or worse shape than me; about the way the studio puts small vases of flowers around the edges of the room. There is magic in a small group of people sitting in stillness and quietly setting their intentions. And there is such release in savasana at the end of the practice. When it's all over and we softly call out "namaste" (the light in me sees the light in you) to the instructor, my whole body feels the gratitude of the words. It helps my body for sure, but it releases my mind and frees my soul even more than it tightens my muscles or improves my balance.

And it is... selfish? To take this time just for myself, not for fitness, but simply because I want to.

I don't think it's selfish. I was taught to believe that it's selfish. But I think it is just me being fully myself.

***

I have become friends with two "new" sets of neighbors who moved in close to my house. Both families have babies as well as older kids, and both families are positively lovely people who are exactly the kind of neighbors one hopes for. There are borrowed groceries, shared bottles of wine, invitations to visit. Babies get passed around, and younger children that tell me wild stories about worms in the garden ("It was six feet long - really!") with sparkling eyes. Both of these women have gone to yoga with me, and I am absolutely blown away by it, the way that they are creating space in their lives for themselves. When Tessa was little, I wasn't good at that... at all. I envy them this.

***

This post isn't about yoga. This post is about figuring out how to be myself, without apology or explanation. This is about me refusing to give of myself until I am only a stump, while still living as a nurturing, generous, loving person. Because I do believe that I am generous, and nurturing, and that I have love to give. But I also believe that it is not my job to solve everyone else's problems and emergencies of their own making, and that if I leave work on time the world will not fall apart, and that if I create space to do the things I love - even when they cost money, or take me away from things other people might wish me to do - it's okay.

I don't want selfish, and I don't want selfless. I want to fully inhabit my own life, my own body, my own dreams.

With Tessa living her own life, following her dreams, I see the importance of following my own dreams even more. If not now, when? I'm 53 years old and I feel so strongly that the best is yet to come, and that I'm not done giving or receiving gifts in life. In this second half of my life, though, I don't want to be selfless anymore. I want to take care of my own wants, desires, longings, and needs... knowing that I can do so without selfishness. I want to, at long last, be in a relationship where not only do I know how to ask for what I need, but also to - without apology - create space for what I need within myself.

No excuses. No explanations. Just yes when I mean yes, and no when I mean no.

I took a workshop once where the instructor gave an analogy about filling our cups. He said that we should picture our lives like a teacup being filled by a waterfall. We could imagine the waterfall filling the cup... and then overflowing into the saucer. He said that when we allowed ourselves to fill up, we could help others with the overflow, and be glad to do so - we would be able to give generously without depleting our own resources. I really like this analogy, but even though I heard it over a decade ago, I think I'm just now starting to get what it might look like in my own life.

It looks like boundaries around work. (I don't work on weekends, I decided. I work late two nights a week, and the other nights are for me. This feels - miraculous. And I should point out that I still put in plenty of unpaid overtime, but it's more on a schedule that works for me.)

It looks like investing in myself. A yoga class, a trip, a pair of lovely yoga tights that don't rise up or show my underwear when I bend over. There is a financial element that I still need to be careful with, but there needs to be space for me, too.

It looks like guarding my time, giving it to people whose energy fuels me rather than depletes me, and it looks like learning that my time alone is worth protecting, too. "I'm sorry, I have plans" is perfectly appropriate if I have scheduled time for myself to write, to read, or to have a quiet evening.

Not a stump.

Not a bitch.

Just - myself, at the center of my own life, surrounded by community, working hard, but giving myself space to breathe.

It's not rocket science, but it still feels new to me. New, and beautiful, and miraculous, and magic. I love it, and I'll take all the magic I can get.

Reinventing Middle Age

 Dear Reader,

I'm trying to figure out what middle age looks like.

Do you know what it looks like? If so, can you please tell me? Because I can't find a roadmap that makes sense to me.

I think twenty or thirty years ago if you'd asked me what it looked like I would have made a snarky joke about buying a sports car, or about saggy boobs, but the truth is I didn't have a clue then, and I don't have a clue now. (Joke's on me: I have no desire nor funds for an impractical sports car, and thanks to breast cancer reconstruction my girls will be perky forever thanks to the silicone blobs that have replaced my feminine flesh.) I certainly wouldn't have predicted the permanent changes brought by cancer treatment, but I REALLY wouldn't have predicted a decade old divorce and living alone. I think my twenty-something self would have been horrified, and would have cried herself to sleep at the thought.

There-there, twenty-something self. It's really not that bad. Actually... it's really good. No, really, I'm not just saying that!

My twenty-something self was a people pleaser. She knew some very important things - like that she was strong and capable, and that her friendships would be her salvation, and that she wanted a life that was meaningful. She was filled with fire, but she bit her tongue too often around men, and played the part that she was told to play. She really, truly believed that she was unworthy of love, and so when people behaved badly she knew that this was just how it went for her. She looked at people who seemed to have it figured out and she took notes: how did they get like that? She couldn't figure it out, but she kept trying, determined and hopeful even when she was scared. (She was pretty scared.) She was aware of her people pleasing and starting to work on it.

My twenty-something self had a roadmap. There was a list of things to accomplish before marriage: college degree, career, financial independence, world travel, multiple boyfriends, live alone without roommates. The minute she ticked off those boxes, she got engaged to a nice guy, and got married a week before her 30th birthday, right on time. She knew what the future looked like: career. House. Dog. Baby. Motherhood.

And then...? I don't know. It stopped with motherhood. I could imagine PTA meetings (note: I find them colossally boring and I am a horrible PTA member, as it turns out), field trips (I loved going on Tessa's field trips!), dinner parties, sleepovers. I carved out little slivers for myself: a girls' weekend once a year if I was lucky, the occasional happy hour.

But I had no idea what came next. Anything past 40 just looked - well, it didn't look like anything. Maybe that's because I was lacking in imagination, or maybe that's because my mother's life was so different than my own (at 40, I had a 7 year old and was deep into parenting; at 40 my own mother had a daughter a couple years into college).

My twenty-something self had no idea. But honestly? My forty-something self didn't, either. Aside from noticing some crinkles around my eyes or how my knees hurt more with running, my forty-something self wasn't that different than my thirty-something self.

But here I am, fifty-something (53, if you care), and it only now occurs to me that THERE IS NO ROADMAP. Nobody wrote it. There are certainly women out there, ahead of me, forging their best lives, but I am not privy to their experiences, and often I just don't know who they are. Hollywood certainly doesn't help (Emma Thompson is a favorite actress, but I still can't get over her middle aged depiction in Love, Actually - her character is so utterly lost in her own life, so lacking spark and vitality...).

Now, before some helpful person tells me about the books that are available on middle age, and that there is a road map RIGHT HERE, let me tell you that Mrs. Clarissa Dalloway might be a brilliant character, but in no way do I desire her particular map of life. Nor do I desire to follow Maggie in Breathing Lessons.

I read every book I could find about pregnancy, parenting, marriage. But I haven't read many books about middle age. I tried recently to read a bestseller book about finding joy "in the second half of life" but I could not find myself in it - the people it was writing for are miserable, I think, and I am not miserable. Maybe I read the wrong book. I quit partway through, because it really wasn't written for me. I couldn't relate at all.

So I'm writing my own roadmap.

I have this metaphor I've been thinking about: we are often told to give our children roots and wings. When they're little we're constantly trying to make sure that they don't fly off and get lost so we clip their wings with hand holding and curfews and other sensible restraints, but now that they are launching into adulthood we are to let them fly. But I also read something that said that a child will only come into adulthood as emotionally mature as their parent(s), and so this made me think of my family's history and how in many ways I feel that I started in a dark place, and as Tessa has grown I asked her to climb onto my back, and I've been climbing the walls of this dark place, heading toward the light, carrying us both. As I've climbed, I've shown her how to climb, how to keep looking toward the life, how to continue even when exhausted, how to find footholds and places to grasp even when they aren't immediately apparent. But now she's an adult, and in moving to college, she needs to let go of my shoulders, flutter her new wings, and continue climbing and flying on her own.

The day we dropped her off at college last year, I watched her new wings unfold, and with happy tears in my eyes, hugged her and promised her that she was ready to fly. I watched her as she fluttered her wings, rose off the ground, circled above me. "Look up, Mom! I'm flying! I can fly!" I heard her spirit exclaim as we put the finishing touches on her dorm room, as I walked to the car alone.

But what I didn't know is that when I left her to fly, my own load was lighter. For better or for worse, I've taken her as high as I can go, given her my best, but what she does now is her path, not mine. I can worry, but my worry will not change things. I can advise, but she can take my advice or not. It is her life, not mine, and when she let go of me to find that life... I lightened. It is not my responsibility to find her path anymore, it is hers. My job is to cheer and support, but not to lead.

And the lightness of this is extraordinary. I didn't realize how much effort it took to carry us both out of that dark place and to the light. But when I looked up and saw the sky, I saw her circling overhead, and my heart was filled with joy. With that joy, I felt my own wings fluttering. I'd forgotten them! But they've been there all along. I can fly, too! I am lighter, and my wings can carry me now. The climbing was arduous, but the flying has such joy! I am aloft, feeling wonder, looking down at the world, my life, the path I've taken, and I'm in awe that I'm here at all.

What I want now - my roadmap - is to fly up into the sky, to experiment with floating on the currents, making lazy circles of delight, and then zooming here and there to places I want to explore. When Tessa and I find ourselves floating the same current, it's a delight: look at us flying! Hello! Helllooooo! But we also go our own ways, on our own paths. We can meet in the air, and we can meet at home (my home will always be her home, even when it's not), and we can tell each other about the adventures we've had. Sometimes we can share adventures. We can float apart, and then come back together. The nest is always here for our rest. She will undoubtedly go higher and faster and farther than I'm comfortable with. I hope she does. I'll hold my breath until she comes back, but when she does, I know that when I hear her stories I'll think, "Wait, I want to try these new things, too!" and I will fly farther and faster, too. She's teaching me, and I'm teaching her. I try to stay a few steps ahead, but when she passes me it's okay. Isn't that what I always wanted for her?

This is my map. I want to float in the currents, resume my explorations. I want to fly so that my daughter will know that she can fly, too. I want to soar so that my heart can soar.

I worked hard to get out of the dark place. My parents were young when they had me, and their parents didn't give them a model of what it's like to grow or to become who they were meant to be: some parenting manuals might have come in handy, and some support around trauma would have changed everything. I had to figure out a lot on my own; this isn't even their fault (their trauma was inherited, too), but I think it's the truth. But I've been working on it my whole life, and I hope that I brought my daughter much closer to the sky than they were able to bring me, and that I showed her a way to find her own path, and that I told the truth. I hope her journey was easier because of how far I carried her, and I hope that we never clip our wings again, never again forget that we were born to fly.

And now it's time for me to keep going, to stay a step ahead of her, to forge a beautiful life at every age and circumstance.

Middle age is learning new things.

Middle age is knowing what I love.

Middle age is keeping my close relationship to my daughter AND letting her fly.

Middle age is being honest with myself.

Middle age is having friendships that have spanned decades, and treasuring them.

Middle age is knowing that terrible things happen, but that beautiful and amazing things happen too, so I just need to ride out the former to get to the latter.

Middle age is a chance to get closer to my truth.

Middle age is a chance to let go of old lies - that I'm too fat, not good enough, not loveable, not worthy - and embrace new truths: that my body is strong, that I'm filled with love and light, that I have beautiful community, that I'm still discovering my gifts.

There is going to be loss: bodies do not always age gracefully. But I already knew that! At 35, my body got me through cancer, and there was loss, but I am still here, and in that there is so much beauty. At 42 I lost my marriage, but maybe what I lost is not as big as what I gained.

Middle age is what I make of it.

I don't have more than a glass of wine every few weeks because it makes me feel sluggish. I drink gallons of herbal tea.

I am delighted that sneakers are fashionable, because my days of shoving my feet into pointy heels that are hard to walk in are done. 

I still like a plunging neckline when I'm feeling sassy.

A bikini body is a body wearing a bikini, and since I like swimming at the beach I have a bikini body. Not a supermodel body, a bikini body. A body in a bikini.

I'm rescheduling the dinner party that got canceled due to Covid. I have a hike on the calendar for next weekend. I'm determined to write. I love my job. I still believe in love in my future, despite it all. My turn will come.

It's not pointless, and it's not sad, and it's not lonely. It's my job to find the point, to navigate sadness and find joy where it exists, and to remember the community that I have spent decades building and to feel their love.

Tessa will come home for Thanksgiving, and I will pick her up at the bus stop at the airport, and I will squeeze her so tight. She will find the silly matching sweatshirts that I bought for us with a Taylor Swift lyric we both like, and she can wear it or not but it gives me pleasure to give it to her. The house will be stocked with her favorite treats. We will follow our tradition of getting our Christmas tree up on Black Friday, reminiscing about each ornament, drinking hot cocoa, playing carols. And then afterwards I'll lean back and let her go out with her boyfriend or friends, and she'll fly far from me for a bit. I'll fly too, hiking or going to a movie or writing, safe in the knowledge that when she needs me again, she'll find me. By the time I drop her off at the bus stop at the airport, we'll both be ready for her to go. Me to do my routines - yoga class, meeting a friend for happy hour, working late, enjoying a clean sink without her dishes in it! - and her to do hers.

There is joy in this. So much joy. Anything is possible, just like it was when I was 22. I can reinvent myself over and over again, and build community along the way, and lose and discover myself over and over again. Though there has been pain on the journey, it got me to where I am now, and I like where I am now.

I'm strengthening my wings, getting better at flying. I'm discovering new things, new people, new places, new plans. When Tessa and I meet in the currents, I've got a huge smile on my face. We can fly! Look at us, isn't it crazy? Marvelous? Miraculous?

I'm watching my own progress, writing it down, so that one day when my daughter notices that she's got strands of silver in her hair will smile and think, "I've got this!" and she'll see the color of starlight and whitecaps and waterfalls, not decay. No, decay isn't silver.

I have a gray stripe that I thought of dying; my hairdresser was horrified. "People pay to make a stripe like that!" she told me. I don't know if she was lying, but I don't mind. I have grown to like it - my flash of silver in one swoop that frames one side of my face. I don't look 20-something, but I don't think I look "old" either. I just look like myself. Still learning, still hoping, still exploring. Still loving. Still trying. Still believing in the silver light of the stars. Still flying in their light.

And that's enough roadmap for me.

Writers Gotta Write

 Oh dear Reader. How I have missed you.

At this point, I'd be surprised if I had a single reader, because what would they read?! I have been amiss, a bit lost, a bit in transition. But over, and over, and over, the same truth rises us: for better or for worse, I am supposed to write.

Hopefully for better, of course.

So my new plan? To write. Anything. No matter how crappy - or how wonderful, it's time to show up for myself. And - if I'm very lucky - for you.

I am in a wonderful, strange new part of my life. The empty nest is filled with surprises, actually, and nobody told me it would feel like this. I read Grown and Flown online, and I can't tell you how many articles say how hard it is to let go, how senior year is a countdown horror to loneliness, how letting go is a tearful process.

Anybody who knows me knows that I love my daughter as much as I love my own life, and that there is nothing I wouldn't do for her. We made it through my cancer and divorce together, and my love for her is matched by my respect for her. Tessa means the world to me, and my love for her is infinite. So please don't judge me for saying this:

But Grown and Flown didn't tell my story.

I love my empty nest.

First of all, it's not really that empty. She went to school in September, visited in October, and is coming home for Thanksgiving in November. Then, she'll be back for almost a month in December/January. But even when she's gone, we're connected. I send her little packages (note: I don't think my home made cookies were worth the $23 UPS shipping fee - I need a better method!), postcards, letters, and endless texts. She's part of my life on a daily basis, and I carry her with me where ever I go. I don't think she carries me in the same way - that's not her job - but I am secure in her love. So, between frequent communication and visits, I don't feel too empty.

Secondly, it's not only Tessa who is learning to fly.

For her whole life, my life was organized around hers, as it should be. I signed up for motherhood, and I don't resent it at all. I put her needs first because I wanted to, and because it was the right thing to do. I wouldn't trade those sleepless nights, or infinite attempts to get her to eat her broccoli, or sleepovers, or story time, or hiking at her pace, or driving her to endless playdates and after school activities. I wouldn't miss a minute if I could do it again. But now? Oh - there is liberation!

For her, liberation looks like a sink full of dishes and a roommate who doesn't care (and adds her own dishes), with no mom around to scold and demand and passive-aggressively clean the sink (hey, I never said I was perfect). It looks like sleeping in late and staying up even later. It looks like finding her own way, her own people, her own way of moving through the world. It's study groups, finding a favorite coffee shop, having her own language with her boyfriend. It's learning how to write A+ papers, and managing procrastination. It looks like managing the rent on time, and grocery shopping, and eating only the food she likes best.

And for me, liberation looks like remembering who I was when I was in my 20s.

I had a small period of my time after I graduated and got a "real" job and before Ryan and I were dating and eventually married where my life was truly my own, restricted only by my budget or my imagination. In that time, I went to concerts with friends, library talks by myself, and I hiked almost every weekend whether I could find a friend to join me or not. I took my first yoga class, and a writing class. I hosted dinner parties, went to plays and movies. I took great joy in buying grocery store flowers for myself. I did volunteer work. I wrote pages and pages in my journal.

And here I am again.

A month ago I signed up for a yoga class, and while I've only been four times so far, it feels a bit like coming home. I have the time, the money, the health, and the inclination. My Warrior 3 is really quite bad - wobbly and oh-so-crooked - but I can tell it's a bit better. My Dancer is broken, but that's okay. My Tree is steadier, my Warrior 1 and 2 are powerful, and my Standing Fold is deeper every time. Bridge feels incredible, and my Dancing Warrior (flowing from one to another) lets me know I am alive, and well.

I bought tickets to go to plays with a dear friend. We went to the first one: filled with feminist ideas, laughter, social commentary. Next up is a Jane Austen play, and I'm giddy with nerdy delight at the prospect.

I went to Mount Rainier for the first time in years, and climbed a path that had me gasping for breath before I slowed down (and realized that I was still passing everyone, just not at the speed of my 20-something self). A watched a hungry marmot filling his belly, and as I climbed above the treeline I felt strong and steady.

A recent repeat of COVID (I am so utterly sick of this!) had me at home for a week. Horrors! But a half dozen friends repeatedly volunteered to bring me supplies, and little gifts showed up at my door. I was finally able to sit down to write letters, and I sat on the sofa staring out the window, comfortable with my cup of tea even when I didn't feel well.

The dinner party I had scheduled will still happen, just on a different day.

I know I haven't found my way yet. I'm still working on dating (what DO I want?!), getting my finances and savings where I want them. (This was the year of a new mattress - it was 22 years old, good grief - and a new fridge and a new washing machine because they broke, and then new car tires and a $6000 repair, all on the heels of my beautiful trip to Italy. My savings has taken a hit!) I'm never caught up on grading (I have a plan!) and I'm really not a very good gardener and my yard is a silly wreck. I keep saying I'm going to run but I don't run. I spend too much time on my screens.

But.

I'm finding my way.

So, here is my promise to myself: I will end this year better than I started it. And for me, writing is a part of that, so I will show up, and write drivel or gold, but I will write. I will stop waiting for the right time, for the right motivation, for the right idea. I will write the book, or I will write here, but I will write.

I owe it to myself. It's time to fly!

Empty Nest

 My daughter is winding down her first year at college, and it feels like a huge milestone in my life, not just in hers.

The past year has been full of surprises.

First, let's be clear: it's nothing like I imagined... except when it is.

I thought she'd be social and spend too much time with new friends instead of studying. I thought I'd be worried all the time. I thought the house would feel empty and strange. I thought it would be the end of something. I thought she wouldn't commit to her studies and she might come home to find a different path. I thought she'd never come home on weekends.

I was wrong.

She's found her academic groove and she remains connected to her beloved childhood and high school friends (including her high school boyfriend), but she hasn't found community at school. I did worry a lot - a LOT - at first, but now I feel relatively peaceful. The house started by feeling empty, but now it just feels like home. She has found academic success and motivation, and she's committed to earning her degree. And she comes home frequently.

So: I was wrong about that.

But some of it is just as I hoped.

Moving her into the dorm was a magical experience that I found healing. As a non-traditional student without a lot of family support, I never got to live on campus (I barely spent any time on campus except classes, because mostly I worked). Going shopping for Tessa's supplies - the perfect chambray blue duvet cover; towels that were soft and fluffy; a mattress topper because it was on the list of "must haves"; throw pillows that I'm pretty sure never get used but made her eyes light up when we bought them - was so much fun. When I had my first apartment nothing was new, or pretty, or special. My first Christmas after leaving my parents' house I asked for a blanket as a gift because I was perpetually cold and I didn't have enough bedding. That memory - and the fact that my mother gave me a hand me down blanket that was in the color scheme and size of her king sized bed, despite the fact that I had a double bed, means that I got her cast-offs, despite my parents' ability to afford more - made me patient as we shopped the aisles of Target, Bed Bath and Beyond, and IKEA, debating each item extensively before finding just the right ones or sighing and searching again on Amazon.

Loading up the back of the Subaru with blue zippered IKEA bags, driving over the mountains, and having the usual comedy of building an IKEA side table and unpacking everything together was just as I'd dreamed. I made up her bed with the topper, the blush sheets, the pretty duvet, the piles of throw pillows (which she arranged and rearranged until they looked just right). We probably looked like caricatures of a college day mom and daughter: she in her Central crop top, me in my baggy CWU Mom sweatshirt, smiling and sweaty and sometimes on the edge of tears, with lots of hugs. When I left that night she gave me a carved jade heart and some heartfelt words, and our hug was extra long. When I got in the car to drive home alone, I played Taylor Swift and sang loudly, waiting for my tears to come... but they didn't. I was happy. My girl was where she needed to be, and she knew how deeply I love her, and the future awaited both of us.

I know I sent too much. Her first aid supplies alone could probably cover the entire floor of her dorm for a year. She could have holed up and lived on the snacks she got started with without ever leaving to get food. I'm pretty sure she never read any of the novels she brought with her, but as a fellow book nerd I knew how important it was to have them tucked onto her bedside table shelves.

No regrets. 

We send each other cards and letters at least weekly. I display mine on top of our piano (displaying cards is its only use since Tessa decided, a decade ago, that piano wasn't her thing).

When she's gone I collect little things for her and place them in her room: a new pack of masks, snacks, a sundress for our summer trip, new bottles of shampoo and conditioner. I send her texts every day without expectation that I'll get a response because I know she needs her independence, but I also know she needs my love notes, and I often get a response anyway.

This is better than I expected.

The house isn't empty, because she comes home every few weeks to visit (make no mistake - her local boyfriend is more of a draw than I am - but that's okay, because I get the benefit of her visit anyway).

I am not sad the way that some of the parenting websites told me I'd be. I do not sleep in her bed, wrapped around her pillow. I do not long for crumbs on the counter or dishes on the sink. I long for this: I long for what I've got. I long for her to know that she's got my full support. I long for her to feel safe, protected, but also capable of handling what life throws at her. I long to be her safe space to return to. But I also long for witnessing her as she grows wings. She's thinking of a semester abroad. She might move to California when she graduates. She doesn't think she wants to be a mom even when she's older. She has her own ideas of life, some of which I find exhilarating, and some of which make me worry, but all of which belong to her. 

One of my parents' angry threats to me when I was a teen was "you'll see when you're older!" and "just you wait!" I did wait. I got older. And what I learned was that my feelings of craving wings to fly were completely normal and natural, and that what every kid wants most in the world is the encouragement to fly and the certainty that a loving nest awaits them if they want to visit. I wasn't being selfish, or mean, or unloving, or ungrateful when I wanted a different life than the one my parents envisioned for me, I was just - living. Being myself, not them. Finding my own way. Every time they told me that my way of living was wrong, I yearned to fly farther away. Every time they clipped my wings, I flapped them harder, trying to make up for my lost feathers by expending more energy.

Parenting my daughter through each stage of her life has been healing and eye opening. 

My nest is empty-ish. But I'm happy, because I didn't raise my daughter to stay home with me until she was old, I raised her to go out and seek out her own dreams, and that is what she's doing. When I buy her little necessitates, or send her love notes, or encourage her to follow her dreams even when they're not mine, I'm really parenting myself too, reminding myself that this is what I deserved, too.

The more freedom I give her, the more I support her dreams, the closer we become. I honestly didn't see that one coming, even though it should have been obvious. My parents held me tight to a vision I didn't share, and I suffocated and struggled to break free of the confines of their vision; I gave my daughter space to figure out her own path and called out my support, and she has opened up to me in return. So obvious once I see it, but such a journey to get to this place.

My nest doesn't feel empty, even though it is. It feels like home. It feels like a soft place to land. It feels full of possibility.

Right now it's time for me to work on developing my own wings. Sometimes I feel jealous of my daughter - not for her youth and beauty, but for the possibilities that lie ahead of her. And then I remember that it's not too late for me, and that I can still recreate myself a hundred times over, and that just as she's got me cheering her on and believing in her with all my heart, she's cheering for me and believing in me, too. I can hear her shouting "Fly, Mom! You can do it!"

I didn't expect that. 

I'm still working on finding my way. I haven't got it all figured out AT ALL.

But watching my daughter spread her wings gives me strength to remember how to fly. I see her circling our nest, riding the currents on her wings, and I hear her call to come join her in the sky. We won't always fly together, or in the same direction, and I need to make sure not to crowd her up there - the sky is big enough to give her space - but after years of sitting on my nest, tending to my little baby bird, it's clear that we're both ready to soar.

It's terrifying and exhilarating. But I'm ready.

This, not that. Manifesting and other oddities.

 I have come to the unfortunate realization that my little project was not the right project.

I know this because:

1) I started to procrastinate on it; and

2) I started to be bored - deeply bored - by my own words.

Never a good sign.

Yes, I want to nourish and notice. Yes, it's important to chase joy down, to grab joy by the hand and run straight into a field of wildflowers; to look joy in the eye and - full of anticipation and fear - leap from the end of the dock into the cold water below. Those things are immensely important.

But the truth is messier, and the messy truth is that my life isn't quite full of joy these days. It's joy-adjacent, through no fault of my own.

Self care does not mean deluding yourself that the shit sandwich handed to you is delicious. It might be on the finest bread, served on a china plate, with a lovely array of beautifully cut fruit arranged beside it, but the whole thing is tainted because, well, it's a shit sandwich.

Covid life is like that shit sandwich. I KNOW how lucky I am to have that plate of fruit, to have alternatives to choose from. But I also know that a shit sandwich is not something to celebrate, and I don't need to feel guilty for acknowledging that I am angry at even the suggestion of a shit sandwich. I know that there are those who have it worse, that I've had it worse, that it won't last forever, to count my blessings, to notice the good all around me, yada yada yada.

But this isn't a love and rainbows time of my life. I'm trapped in the house (or so it feels) because of Covid. I'm having a hard time feeling inspired by work. The house feels empty with Tessa gone. I worry about my weight, the end of democracy, the fact that I'm overdue for the dentist, and whether my daughter is on the right path and how I can help her to find her path. I haven't been inside a theater in over two years; I haven't traveled. I'm weary from all of the sitting, and angry with myself for not doing more to utilize this "precious down time" that is "an opportunity to reflect." I have not written the great American novel, or even a crappy first draft that nobody will ever want to read. I didn't get national boards certification, develop abs of steel, or master the Sunday crossword puzzle. I've done well enough - I haven't fallen apart, I've served my students, I've helped my daughter enter and transition to college, and I've gone on lots of walks even if I haven't run a marathon (or a half marathon, or a 5k). I've done coloring pages, made dozens of pairs of jewelry, and started a little embroidery project. I've tried blogging, journaling, and working on the book (I believe it will be great). I've done tiny house projects. I've saved some money, tucked into my savings account where sometimes I open my banking app just to see the number, to reassure myself that at this point in time, I'm safe enough.

Is it good enough?

None of your business.

No, I'm opening myself up here, so I don't mean to be rude, but what I mean is: you can judge me, one way or the other, but whatever you (dear Reader) think as you read this, I am trying.

And that is all anyone can do.

So I'm not going to write about unicorns and rainbows, because pretty fast it got monotonous. There aren't that many changes in my day to day right now; there aren't grand adventures and the tiny adventures are repetitive. Plus, if I was having grand adventures, could I write them in a way that didn't sound like an awful Christmas letter, half truths and grandiose claims designed to prove to someone - maybe me? - that my life was worthwhile?

This is a fallow time. I feel myself in the waiting time, not the exciting boundless energy time. So, I'm going to acknowledge this, and not focus on that.

***

Instead, I'm going to share my thoughts as they come, without one whit of care about whether they're the right thoughts for the right audience.

And right now my thoughts are about manifesting.

***

I do not believe in The Secret, because I think it's cruel. All over the world there are people who can barely take a breath because they are so busy with the painfully awful work of existing: because they are bedridden with disease, because they are managing intergenerational trauma, because they are fleeing war or famine, because their drinking water is unclean and the fires and tornadoes and floods are coming. You get my point. Telling people to manifest despite these odds just seems like a strange, unkind joke. People all over the world are whispering "please make my baby well" with every cell of their bodies vibrating with urgency, love, hope, pain, fear, and sometimes those babies die despite those vibrations. I know that, and to minimize it would be unkind of me.

So take this with a grain of salt.

Somehow, I've been able to manifest some very important things in my life.

When I got divorced, I had been out of the workforce for more than a decade, struggling with cancer most of that time, and I had an elementary school child. I still don't entirely know how it happened, but I was able to find a job that - while not the right job for me long term - was exactly the right thing for me at the right time. Not only did it pay my bills - just barely, but it did cover them - but it reminded me of who I could be, and helped me to return to myself as I exited that unhealthy marriage.

And I kept the house. When Tessa begged me, in tears after learning of the impending divorce, to keep the house, I made her a promise. It was rash of me: I knew I couldn't afford this big old house that not only has more space than we need, but also is nearly a century old and constantly in need of some new repair. (In December the dryer went out and needed replacing. In January, it was the hot water tank. Who knows what February will reveal.) But somehow, I held tight, and despite every bit of logic or reason, I was able to keep it, and even to sometimes make some improvements.

And I wanted a new sofa - something neutral and classic - and voila, a friend gifted me one. I wanted a bike, and it came up on Buy Nothing. I'm still not sure if I manifested Tessa's college acceptance and the whole experience of moving into a dorm (shopping and packing and unloading and setting up), but the whole thing is such a miracle that I refer to it as The Miracle.

And I shouldn't forget that when I decided to return to teaching, that very month (unbeknownst to me) they changed all the rules so that all I had to do to get recertificated was to fill out my name and address and pay less than $100, and that one month after making the decision to return to teaching I had my own classroom, 14 years after leaving teaching, and I got to teach at the same school with the same preps as when I had left. It was extraordinary.

Sometimes I've manifested free things: something I absolutely need and can't afford, or something I long for but can't justify - and it just appears. (Airpods - twice. A living room set. Patio furniture that is exactly what I had in mind. A bicycle. So many things!) I feel like I'm still manifesting my ability to pay my share of Tessa's college expenses. (Extraordinary. I still don't know how it happened. I got a raise at the right time, I was able to refinance with record low interest rates... I got so lucky.)

I'm ready to manifest some new miracles in my life, and I'm feeling optimistic and hopeful and like the light is coming. Some of it is work I must do to lay the foundation of my life, and some of it is going to come down to blind, dumb luck - a blessing from the Universe that I ask for but probably have no claim to; something I long for even though it's out of reach.

I don't know how to teach someone to do it. I can't do it with 100% accuracy all the time, and there's one miracle in particular that feels really late in arriving. But I also know, somehow, that this is a thing.

It's time for me to manifest some more things in my life. To dream big, to make space in my heart for what I really want, and not just for what life hands me. I acknowledge that while I'm going to work really hard for it, it's also going to come down to luck - which is another way of saying The Universe that some people call God.

Mary Oliver says, "I don't know what a prayer is," and I feel that with all my being, despite my prayers, belief, faith, refusal to categorize God into some box called religion (sacrilege to some, I think God would agree with me). She continues by saying "I do know how to pay attention," and that is how I feel. I'm watching, listening, waiting. Somehow I feel sure, despite the uncertainty. And that feels like what I think a prayer might be, even though I don't know.

I'm grateful for the gifts of my life, for the extraordinary surprise of being able to walk away from my family with the knowledge that it was time to break an inter-generational trauma cycle and survive to tell the tale; for this big old house that houses my heart as well as my body; for a daughter who, despite missteps, is finding her way to her dreams; for work that is meaningful and that I'm good at; for being able to make this life of mine into something. 

Sometimes I can turn nothing into something, and it's a miracle to witness.

I don't know what a prayer is, but I'm praying.

Day 12: Nourish and Notice, showing up

 Dear reader,

Today I'm crabby. I feel off my game, tired from a restless night last night, and entirely out of sorts.

But I showed up for myself anyway.

I showed up by getting up early and going to work, lunch packed. I showed up by giving the kids my all, all day long (including extra time after school to help them with their papers). I showed up for myself by going to therapy, even though I thought "I don't have anything to talk about!" (I did, as it turns out.)

Today's joy is that when I felt like crawling under the covers, I showed up in my life and did the best I could, and I'm proud of that. It won't win me a Nobel prize, but it took effort, and I'm not going to beat myself up over not doing more, I'm going to tell the truth: today I did the best I could.

And noticing?

My funny dog who sticks his nose under my arms when I'm typing, being silly to get my attention. A therapist who knows what she's doing to help me.

And a warm bed awaiting me, an early bedtime in the works, because I'm beat.

Tomorrow is another day.

Day 11: Nourish and Notice ,and a happy birth-day

 Today is Tessa's birthday. 19 years old is a strange number for me: it's the age my mother was when she gave birth to me; it's the age for legal alcohol consumption in Canada where I was born, and it's an age I recall oh-so-clearly from my own life. The older Tessa gets, the more clear my memories of myself at that age are.

How can my daughter and I be the same age?!

But of course, we are not, and I'm grateful for every one of my 52 years, even if on the inside I still feel like a 19 year old.

At 19, I was working close to full time to put myself through school. My boyfriend was 27, and he had a world class education, experience, and a "real" job for a big corporation. I thought I was so sophisticated to attract someone of his intellectual prowess, and that I must be a very mature person, but in hindsight, he was a lost person who had trouble connecting with women and probably found a much more youthful girlfriend easier to handle. At 19 I was filled with ambition for my life, to become the person I wanted to be, and I was filled with fire and yearning for more. I hadn't yet traveled, or experienced much of life, but I knew with absolute certainty that I would do so.

Tessa is not me, and her path is different (including an age-appropriate boyfriend). Unlike me, she is living at college - financed by her father and I, at some personal sacrifice we both find well worthwhile - experiencing a dorm, a roommate, and all of the other parts of college like interesting professors and boring ones, new ideas, staying up way too late, eating at all hours of the day. (I lived with my parents, who did not support my college dreams nor provide financially, and who told me I was disloyal and ungrateful when I wanted to move out.) So her path is joyously different than mine... and I love that. I love that she's finding her way, and that she has opportunities to experience these different parts of coming into adulthood. I get so much joy out of being able to provide her with those experiences.

Last summer she and I went to far too many stores, shopping for just the right dorm items. She likes to cook, so we got her the basics of a kitchen, including the pale pink dishes and bright blue glasses she picked out. Her bedding is blush sheets in just the right softness, with a cloud-like feather comforter in a chambray color. She has pictures of her friends on the wall, a soft fluffy robe and cute flip flops for walking down the hall to her communal showers, and the cute bathroom organizer that came with a waterproof phone case. She has a new laptop for school, school logo sweatshirts and t-shirts and stickers.

I imagine her at the end of the day, climbing into the bed with the just-right pillows and the cute throw pillows and the bedding that she picked out, and remembering that her mom loved her and made sure she got just the right things to be comfortable at college. The reality is that she probably falls into bed every night thinking of her boyfriend, or a paper that's due, or something she saw on TV, but that's okay, because even if she doesn't think about it, *I* know that the she's getting a hug from me every time she slips into those sheets.

And it gives me joy.

Today I reflected a little bit about her birth, and we went back and forth sharing stories about it - Tessa knows the stories as well as I do, teasing, "And you thought of dolphins!" because with every contraction I did, indeed, visualize myself as a dolphin climbing to the top of the wave, then flying down. (When I shared this anecdote with my PEPS group for new mothers, they all stared at me as if I was insane. Apparently most people go the epidural route, not the dolphin route!) Tessa knows she was born into love, from before she was born; she knows how wanted she was and is, and this gives me joy.

About a week or two ago, when I wasn't feeling well, I watched Tessa's favorite Disney movie, "Tangled." In that show, on the princess's birthday, they release paper lanterns into the sky and make wishes for her. Well, last night, Tessa, Noah and I did just that. We wrote on them, and then drove to Lowman Beach to light them and send them into the night sky. I packed blankets and a thermos of hot tea, and we helped each other to set up each lantern and send it into the sky, and it was lovely. They drifted up over the water, and Orion was bright in the sky, and the waves were lapping, and their lights carried our wishes for Tessa into the world, and I thought - yes. Yes. It was beautiful, peaceful, hopeful, and Tessa loved it too. Yes, so much joy.

I notice that my daughter chose to spend the weekend at home, that she's doing well in school right now, that her eyes seem bright and clear.

I notice that I've been a mom for 19 years, and that I'm proud of the way I've mothered her. I'm so joyful that we're close, and that we're finding our way through new ways to be in relationship with one another as she grows up.

I notice that she heard me when I told her that I wasn't going to be her maid service when she visits, and the she should not leave me another big mess - and she cleaned up after herself.

And I notice that she's busy living her life, and she is well, and so I should work on myself, too. I can stop worrying so much right now, and let her be.

Days 6-10: Nourish and Notice, Letting Go of Expectations

 Well. Good intentions and all that. Here I am, day 10, and rather behind! Well, one thing I'm going to notice today is that I'm tired of beating myself up, because then I'm beaten up and the original problem is still a problem.

So, a little catch up!

Day 5: Hit the sofa. I really felt crummy, and though I was better than before, I was more fatigued than before. Instead of fighting it, I curled up in my sweatpants, drank gallons of hot tea, napped, read. It was what I needed! Nourishing my body was good for me, and instead of pushing through and making myself worse, I relaxed. There is quiet joy in that.

Day 7: Back to work. At last! And the kids sent me nice notes saying they'd missed me, and they worked hard, and I felt like I was where I belonged. It was quite a shift to work 9 hours after days of nothingness, but I managed, and I was proud of myself. I really didn't want to walk Chance after work - all I wanted was sleep - but I managed, and his gratitude (jumping up and down over and over - his glee and anticipation at the walk was truly joyful, and I shared in his joy).

Day 8: Gettin' her done. I put in a hard day's work, helped a ton of kids, had an after work meeting, and made it through. Proud of that again! I got into the car exhausted, but refused to give in to it, and managed to run a number of errands after work, before coming home and making sure Chance got another good walk. His joy was unfettered again, and truly made me giggle.

Day 9: Getting my girl. I got to work by 6:30, managed a meeting before work, and busted my butt until the last kid left at 4pm, and then I went to get Tessa from CWU. The ride there was surprisingly beautiful - the sunset was gorgeous, pink, clear skies, sparkling snow, and the tips of the mountains were bathed in golden light. I listened to music as I drove, and felt in the moment, glad to be on my way. When I got there, I finally met Tessa's roommate in person (a lovely person), then Tessa and I drove home and she was full of warmth, chatty, excited about her classes. She's finding her way at last and I am so happy for her - so grateful that she is choosing to try, choosing to commit to the process, finding her happiness again.

Day 10: Ticking off my list. Today I did a bunch of chores - things I didn't want to do, like vacuuming and cleaning the toilet and folding laundry - and ran errands around the Junction. I love my little village on the edge of my big city: the bakery is amazing, the lady at the post office is kind and thoughtful, and the park where I walk Chance is so wonderful (and I got to see a seal pup, fat and gray, once again today). Now I'm having a couple of quiet hours, and then Tessa and Noah will come back with the takeout I paid for, we'll eat, and then we'll bring our dessert down to the beach. I bought paper lanterns to light and send out over the water, just like in Tessa's favorite Disney movie ("Tangled"). We already wrote our wishes for Tessa on their paper sides, and I look forward to munching on a cupcake, sipping hot tea, as they float high above us. Tessa liked the idea, too, and it's nice to be able to give her a little surprise, to see her get excited even in the time of coronavirus when we are so cautious at home.

Tomorrow I'll write again, but today I'm catching up. letting go of the hope that I'd ponder brilliantly, and instead, I'm just taking a little time to notice those things in my life that bring joy. It's imperfect, but it's still good.

And now? I'm tired, resting up with a little Gilmore Girls before Tessa and Noah return. Best show ever! <3

Day 4: Nourish & Notice - Healing

 Dear Reader,

I have been fighting something like omicron (but maybe not omicron - my home tests were negative) for a week as of today. But this morning...I feel it lifting, and I feel so much better! 

To nourish joy today I finally left the house (to do a PCR test, but still!). I went for a walk in the forest near my home, taken the lesser-traveled paths, and veering onto a new path each time a person might come by, and I kept my KF94 on. But I got outside, and felt the soft loam of the forest floor underneath my sneakers, and it felt so good to leave the house.

I spend a lot of time loving my house and feeling grateful for it, but this house and I have been spending too much time together, and it's hard to have a joyful reunion if we're always together. Leaving for a bit makes me remember the world awaiting me. I've been curled in on myself during this pandemic, my world shrinking to such a small space, and today I'm dreaming of adventures yet to come. I can't wait to go backpacking this summer, to dive into alpine lakes, to stretch my legs long despite a heavy pack, to sleep under stars inhaling the deep scent of pine, fir, cedar. Today's little walk was a reminder that those things will come back, that it won't be like this - inside, sick, frustrated - forever.

I also nourished joy by making a crock pot full of garbanzo bean curry to enjoy for dinner tonight. I added to the spices in the recipe - bright red chili peppers, a curled stick of cinnamon, a little cumin - and took joy in the bright colors of the vegetables (golden peppers, bright carrots, purple onion, yellow potatoes, white garlic) on the bamboo cutting board; the bright blue enameled pot sitting on the stove (soaking the beans) never fails to cheer me up.

And then I wrote a half dozen cards for friends: a letter to Tessa reflecting on this stage of our lives; little notes for a couple of her friends (living far from home this year for the first time, and they are part of my community, too), a friend experiencing illness, a friend with a new job, a friend who did me a favor. I have a little secretary with a fold out desk and bins at the back where I store the accoutrements of letter writing: a tin of pens, a stack of stamps, and a wide selection of cards just waiting for the perfect occasion. When a person in my life has an event, large or small, it's so fun for me to flip through cards to find the one right for them, and to have a sort of mis en place for letter writing. I write these notes and letters in order to nourish my friends, but it is not lost on me that it nourishes me just as much (or more) to sit and reflect upon the good people in my life, the passage of time with them, the ways in which they have been there for me and the ways in which I aspire to be there for them.

Noticing joy - well, I must admit that it's been a little tougher as I've been solo and sick. But the purpose of this blog is to remind myself, so...

I noticed that my crazy dog is calming down, and we walked by several dogs today without him barking and losing his mind. Ahhh - it IS possible!

I noticed that my crazy dog took short work of walking in mud, then all over my new-ish white running shoes, and that now they are imprinted with memories of our many walks together. These are shoes for living, not fashion, so as he dances so near to me to be on me, I will take the reminder of his joy in being outside and exercising as my own.

I noticed that man who checked me in, and the lady who did my PCR test, were kind and patient.

And... I've been avoiding something for too long, and today I feel strong enough to tackle it. I'm anticipating that tomorrow I will be able to write about that, but for today, I'll just hint that I am feeling more determined and capable than I have in a while, and that hopefulness is joyful.

And while I'm just being a bit obscure, I'll add one more hint: I have an instinct that my daughter is going through something big and a bit scary right now, but that she is okay, and that this is a part of who she is becoming and who she is meant to be, and that in addition to the end of something it might be the beginning of something wonderful. Fingers crossed that I am right about the happy ending on this. It's all instinct, but I trust my instincts, so I am sitting this one and waiting for new information and clarity.

I notice that my instincts are good, so when they're loud like this, I listen. I like this about myself, although it's a bit strange. It pops up at random times, and I can't control it, but when my body talks this loudly I listen, and I've learned to trust it. Only time will reveal the truth, but I'm noticing this part of myself and joyful at the message that all is going to be well.

Okay, I've got a job to tackle, and it's time for me to get going. That's all for today - see you tomorrow!

Day 3: Nourish and Notice, Creative Pursuits

Dear Reader,

I'm going to have to get real to begin today: my pursuit of joy is off to a bumpy start. The bug that took me down last Monday night is not going away, and I can hardly believe how frustrating it is! Headache + nausea + sore throat is not something I enjoy, and it does not inspire me towards joy.

However, I figure this is just a chance to double down on my commitment. Nothing like a challenge, right?

So here we go:

Today I nourished joy by being a teensy bit creative. I ordered a cross stitch kit earlier this week, even though I've never done anything like that in my life, and even though I need to put a stitch in my bathrobe (and have needed to do so for about a month), even though "the domestic arts" like sewing, knitting, quilting, scrapbooking are generally not my thing. Even though I have no energy from being sick, and a to-do list that is really kind of extraordinary (and growing as I miss time from work).

But I've been loving it.

I picked a sweet little pattern of cherry blossoms and leaves with a  pair of little songbirds sitting on one branch. It's mostly pinks and soft greens, and the palette is soothing, and it reminds me of Tessa because she loves cherry blossoms even more than I do, and the little avian pair looks loving and happy. I let it sit for a couple days after receiving it, because, frankly, despite the soothing palette, it was intimidating. There are a half dozen or more types of stitches, more than twenty colors of thread, and directions in little tiny font. Who does this for fun?! This is a beginner kit?

But today I decided that if I had to be housebound for another day, I needed to try something creative, and I didn't have the energy to work on my book, so I dove in.

I started small, with the outline stitch. Each leave (more than 50) has a little dash of veins through the middle, in the outline stitch, so I grabbed the deep olive green and learned that each "floss" has six threads, and that different stitches use different numbers of threads. Having figured this out, I started.

My stitches are a bit wobbly and uneven. I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing. I already did one leaf in the wrong shade of green.

And yet... 

I like what I'm creating.

I'm already improving.

It's meditative.

I feel connected with hundreds of years of women who, denied the workplace or "manly" creative pursuits, used needlepoint in order to express themselves.

I keep thinking about Jane Austen and her novels, with women sitting in the corners, biding their time (and how likely Elizabeth Bennett couldn't care less to do such things). I keep thinking that if there was a house full of men in 1800, I could sit quietly and stitch leaves and petals and songbirds into being, and allow my mind to wander, and listen to what they said, and learn about their goings on and the worlds forbidden to women, and I'm glad to feel this connection to my female ancestors, and I'm also glad that soon enough I will leave the house to live in the big world, not trapped into needlework but choosing it as one of many diversions.

I keep thinking about how my mind got quieter as I stitched, and how learning a new skill is kind of fun. I am thinking about how allowing myself to be creatively silly - this will never end up in an art gallery, and perhaps I'm the only one who will ever notice it - is actually really joyful. There is no audience except myself, and there is no mission except to allow myself to get caught up in the moment.

So today I nourished joy quietly, and started a little creative project just for myself. If I ever finish it (I'm telling myself "no pressure" as the journey is more important than the destination) I will hang it up on my wall near my bed so I can look at it and think, "Hey! I did that!" and so I might just see it through.

And as for noticing joy? That one was much easier to grab onto today.

My friend knew that I was sick, and asked if I needed anything - and she meant it. I texted her a little Trader Joe's list along with my gratitude, and a few hours later the necessary supplies showed up on my front porch. (Dear fellow West Seattleites: I love you and I do not plan to get you sick, even if it's not covid, so I'm staying home and away from grocery stores.)

Isn't it lovely to have friends who do things like that? When I first got sick, another friend delivered me soup, bread, salad, dessert, and a magazine with a sweet note. If I need anything, a half dozen people would be willing to help me without blinking, no questions asked. I know this about my life, and I appreciate it more than I can say.

I ventured out for a little walk with Chance (mask on, and far from Lincoln Park because there are always lots of folks there) and he was so joyful to leave the house at last. He is so easy to make happy - such a sweet pup, for all of his bouncing and craziness. I'm so glad he's in my life. We only went a mile when he really needed many miles, but today was an improvement over yesterday so we'll take the win.

I've been alone all week except for Chance, but I'm not lonely. This too shall pass, and my phone beeps with little messages from friends, so I never feel totally alone even when I am.

I just put fresh sheets on the bed (after a week of being sick it was time) and I absolutely love the bliss of a freshly bathed body slipping into fresh sheets. The simplest of pleasures and I get excited every time!

It's time for me to make another cup of tea with lemon and honey (lemon and honey were in that care package, but I have enough tea to make it for months!), so I'll stop here. There will be more joy to notice tomorrow...and my fingers are crossed that such joys include a disappearing headache and a throat that doesn't scratch! 

PS It feels like cheating, but writing this is its own form of joy. I'm glad I decided to do this, even when "Dear Reader" might just be me! I need to remind myself of joy, and how it exists even in my imperfect life. I haven't been seeking it enough lately, and I'm determined to do better at that. This blog is a great accountability partner. Day three and going strong - only 362 days to go!

Day 2, Nourish & Notice: A little late is still showing up

 As I went to bed last night I realized that on Day 2 of my 365 day challenge to notice joy... I hadn't come here to write this down.

There's a metaphor in there that is so blindingly obvious that I want to cross it out and start with something less ridiculous, but instead I'm going to shrug and say, "well, I showed up, so that still counts."

So, here's thoughts from last night:

I'm still fighting the omicron that's not omicron (have those symptoms, feeling fatigued, but testing negative on home tests?) so today I noticed that joy can be quiet. Sometimes joy isn't dancing in the kitchen with wild abandon, but the joy is there none-the-less.

Yesterday's nourishing joy looked like wearing a soft sweater and warm socks, curling up on the sofa with a favorite mug containing a favorite tea with lemon and honey, reading a book, Chance at my feet and ever loyal. It looked like receiving a postcard from my daughter and remembering that though she might be away at college and making her own way, we still have a heart connection and our love is unshakable. 

Yesterday's nourishing joy also looked like nourishment itself. I'd been eating all kinds of random things this past week, unenergetic and uninspired, but yesterday I decided to make veggies bourguignon and mashed potatoes. Pulling the vegetables out of the drawer, and setting up my kitchen island with the cutting board and my favorite chef's knife, mis en place, everything in its place, is a wonderful feeling. About a year or two ago I bought an enameled cast iron braiser in a lovely night-sky blue, and cooking in it is a treat: wonderful brown bits form under the onions, garlic, and mushrooms, and it's so sturdy and made to last for generations that I swear that food cooked in it tastes better. Taking this time to take care of myself - because surely a dish made with onions, mushrooms, carrots, cauliflower, and parsnips must be healing - made me feel much better, even if I do keep sneezing.

And yesterday's noticing joy was so much about my home. My house is like a living, breathing creature that wraps me in its embrace, offers me comfort that I couldn't dream of asking for. The cozy sofa with a blanket close by, a stack of books within reach. Big windows where I could look out and see fog in the big cedar tree outside. A cupboard so stocked with food that I could be sick for a couple more weeks and certainly not starve. Light streaming through the windows, and the sound of foghorns (so soothing) drifting inside. In the past few years I've gotten really into houseplants, and my living and dining rooms are bursting with their green life, and I really do think that they make the space feel different. The art on my walls isn't fancy, but each piece is hand selected and meaningful to me - the landscapes are places I love. There are little silver-toned frames with pictures tucked everywhere, mostly of Tessa, reminding me of shared times. 

My house has been a constant in my life for twenty years now. There are marks on the doorway to the basement where the baby gate was once affixed; there's a scratch on the bottom of a door where Chance once protested being locked in a room. The furniture is mostly hand-me down, and this used to bother me so much, but I'm embracing it now. "Grandpa's bookcase" is my favorite: my beloved grandfather left it to me, and it takes center stage in my home, its carving and glass front doors making it beautiful, but its family connection making it priceless. Other pieces aren't so fancy: the chairs passed down by a college roommate when she upgraded her set, the kitchen table from Buy Nothing, the side table from one neighbor, the sofas from another. Almost everything has a story, and it's a hodge-podge collection that feels rich in history and friendship. I might be biased, but I think it all somehow fits together, a hand curated selection that is interesting, thoughtful, warm. When new friends visit, they always tell me "your home feels great!" and old friends return here over and over again, comfortable in my home's comfort. Many of my friends have fancier things, and I may be biased, but I think the coziness of my home makes it the go-to spot even though it isn't as stylish as some.

One of the dining room chairs has scratches underneath it where Tessa's booster seat used to sit. Those scratches - deep and worn - upset me when I first discovered them (I really love those solid wood chairs, how could I be so foolish as to let this happen?!), but now I'm pretty sure that's my favorite chair of the set. The marks are reminders of sitting at the table, Tessa's soft wispy gold curls framing her big blue eyes, talking endlessly of ponies and horses.

I've been listening to a lot of records lately, and they are bringing me so much joy. Having to stop and turn them over makes me really commit to listening to the music, and there is something so connected with touching the album, noticing the artwork, choosing which side to listen to. Raising the arm to place it softly on the outer groove, and that soft crackle before the music begins, is a meditative moment where the almost-silence is a calm thrill.

The fog is still here today, and the world seems quieter. I've been sick almost a week, and the isolation - on top of nearly two years of Covid - could be awful, but instead I'm trying to root myself deeper into the fallow field, ready to emerge from sickness, a global pandemic, and the ups and downs of life stronger than I went in. I'm not sure that I'm succeeding with that just yet (there is no joy in dishonesty, and I think being truthful with myself is a goodness that has its own hopeful joy), but I'm trying.

I'm looking forward to healthy days when the world and I can embrace again, fearlessly and with abandon. But while I wait for those days, I'm finding the quiet joys of my life, nourishing me. Today I'm a day late, and I don't have a grand adventure to share, and the belly laughs are yet to come, but I'm here, and I'm grateful for that. Quiet joy is still joy.

Nourish & Notice: Joy, Day 1

 Dear Reader,

Do I have readers? Maybe, maybe not. I haven't been here in ages, and I haven't been consistent, and I haven't known what to say, and, well, I've been a bit of a mess.

We're just shy of two years into coronavirus, the global pandemic that has upended all of our lives. It's been a horror show, and everything has changed. I have been to an indoor restaurant one time in that time. I haven't been on a plane, or sat in a theater. I'm careful about getting close to people. I'm in front of my computer far too often.

I'm dissatisfied, a bit unhappy, and more stuck than I've been since I was married. The days have been carrying on in a never changing way, and the monotony is... horrifying.

I've always been good at finding the silver lining, but lately I seem to have lost all sight with the spark within me. I haven't felt inspired, optimistic, or energetic. And you know what? I'm utterly sick of it. I'm somewhat famous for my resilience, my optimism, my ability to make lemonade (the metaphorical kind, although my fresh squeezed lemonade is pretty great, too).

And it's time to do better.

I've had a flash of brilliance, and I'm going to dive right in with it. 

I'm going to create a year of nourishing joy.

My plan: to seek out something deeply joyful every single day for a year, and to notice the joyful things that drop into my lap. Nourish & Notice (sounds like the name of a great self help book, dontcha think?).

My friend Michele said something to me the other day that really stuck. She said that she'd heard about some CEO who asks interview candidates if they are lucky, and he only hires those who say "yes" to that question, because he believes that those are the people who find ways to seek luck, and in doing so, they create it. Well, I've stopped creating my own luck. I haven't been looking for four leaf clovers, and I haven't gone running to the shore when the orcas are there... and so I haven't been finding orcas or four leaf clovers.

It's worth pointing out that I'm a crazy-lucky person when it comes to both of these things. I've found hundreds of four leaf clovers over the years, sometimes many at one time. Once I was camping with another family and casually mentioned this skill as I plucked a four leaf clover out of the grass by my car, and my friend - in amazement - said he'd never seen a four leaf clover before. I gave it to him, and his kids clamoured for him to give it to them. "No problem!" I chimed in, "I'll just get one for each of you!" and within a few minutes, each of them had a lucky clover to press within the pages of their books. And the whales - I know people who have lived here their whole lives, never seen a wild orca... but I have. More times than I can count. It might have something to do with spending as much time as possible near the water, scanning the waves; it might have something to do with following the whales on Orca Network and jumping in my car to drive a couple of miles to wherever they might be at at that moment, standing on the shore with a pair of cheap binoculars in hand, grinning ear to ear in the wind and rain.

But I can't remember the last time I saw orcas, and I seem to have lost my knack for finding lucky clovers.

Or have I?

I've also lost some of my capacity for joy, and I'm positive that these are connected. It's time for me to create my own joy again, for that is its own kind of luck. It's time for me to put in the effort to find what awaits me by seeking it, nourishing it, noticing it.

So here I go.

My plan:

To do something every day whose sole purpose is to nourish joy. This must be something that I dedicate time to - even just a few minutes - and put in some effort - even minimal. This is me taking control of my narrative again (I AM a lucky person, I am optimistic and resilient, and I make great lemonade that sweetens my life as well as those around me). So, here's my plan: Do something just a little out of the ordinary every single day, taking time to feel it in my soul. The idea is that I have to do something to make it happen: I can't just delight in what falls into my lap, but I have to actively participate in it. 

I have to make my own luck, and trust that the universe has my back when I do that.

The other part is that I want to notice. I want to create my own luck, and I want to carve time out of my life for the nourishment of joy, but I also want to just accept the lovely things that DO fall into my lap. So: my plan is to nourish and notice joy.

It's that easy, and it's that simple. And that hard. And I'm going to write about it here, and see how it changes me.

Today's nourish:

I'm sick with something like omicron but testing negative (no, that's not my joy!) so I'm home and not feeling well. But instead of just moping, I decided to:

- Color a page of a mandala coloring book while watching the old movie Chocolat (which is what inspired this - Vivienne grasps at joy).

- Start this blog, which feels creative and hopeful.

Today's notice:

- My loyal pup Chance has just been so gentle with me when I'm not feeling well. He's an exuberant beast, so full of bounces, but instead he has been calm and uncomplaining because he knows I haven't been well.

- I held a boundary that I needed to hold. That felt good, right.

- I really love my home. It's cozy and safe here, and there are lush houseplants and lots of good books and extra candles and a fridge full of food and a closet full of choices, and it's calm and peaceful.

- I've been playing vinyl records, and I just love the ritual of them. I have to get up to turn them over - one side is so few songs! - and it makes me stop and notice the music, re-engage with it rather than letting it take over as background noise. Today I listened to Harry Belafonte and Judy Collins with a little Taylor Swift mixed in.

- Carolyn gave me a Pride & Prejudice mug when I went back to teaching. Drinking tea out of it makes me so happy!

- My text chain with Mai and Jeannette is a source of connection.

-I may be feeling blah but I had the energy to write this post, and that's something. That is something indeed.

***

A list of things that bring me joy, to remind me when I feel stuck:

- Run to the whales (I live one mile from the Sound. This is not a complicated thing to do!)

- Meditate in the forest (there are many forested parks around here, and the mountains aren't too far away

- Swim in the sea (I did this on New Year's Day and it made me feel alive, strong, happy, awake)

- Write a poem

- Write a letter to a friend

- Host an event at my home (girls' weekend, dinner party, tea party, BBQ, snow day hot chocolate)

- Go away for the weekend

- Camping, hiking, backpacking

- Skinny dipping in alpine lakes (harder to do as our mountains are busy and I'm not an exhibitionist... but still possible in the deep woods).

- Meandering the Farmer's Market slowly, savoring (no rushing). Bonus for tipping a busker or chatting with a friend or spending ages picking the right bouquet of flowers.

- Museums and finding my favorite piece of art.

- Browsing in a bookstore just because.

- Petting random dogs.

- Snowshoeing.

- Kitchen dance party to a great song.

- Sitting on the porch with coffee as the sun comes up, wrapped in a blanket.

- Sitting on a log and watching the sunset. Bonus for hot thermos of tea.

- Yoga - specifically, the part at the end where I do savasana, or the part where I close my eyes in the middle and fully inhabit my body without worrying about my body.

- Walking up to the Junction to do errands.

- Taking time for a full pedicure session - foot soak, scrub, polish.

- Movie night with Tessa, in pajamas, with tea, popcorn with real butter, blankets fresh from the wash, laughing at the jokes.

- Getting dressed up to go out. Taking time to choose the right outfit, jewelry, shoes, coat, handbag.

- Going on a run, music thumping, and then coming in the front door gasping and getting a huge drink of water.

- Going downtown to wander around.

- Spending time planning a vacation.

- Making things. Jewelry, a scarf, a painting, a poem, a garden, bread, cake, cookies...

- Walking barefoot on the beach

- Searching for seashells on the beach

- Reading under a shady tree in the summer

- Picnics! Fancy ones, simple ones. Color coordinated with all the things in the perfect basket, or takeout on the car blanket.

- Candles, vinyl, tea, journal

- Walking in the rain with an umbrella, cozy and dry

- Watching Chance careen around the dog park

- Board games

- Coloring a page (this is a quieter joy, good for days when life has made me weary - so calming)

- Making and eating a perfect salad - a home made dressing, a crumble of cheese, some protein, maybe some avocado...

- Resting in a hammock with a book

- Finishing a house project and then sitting back to enjoy it (I painted the living room a year ago and I'm just so glad... and I painted the porch and deck rails this year and they still make me happy).

- Wrapping a gift in pretty paper and sending or bringing it to a friend

- wandering in an art gallery

- Art walks (there's one every month in West Seattle)

- happy hour with a friend

- stand up paddle boarding

- riding on a ferry

- seal spotting (and sea lions, porpoises, and all other wildlife)

- Visit with a friend on my porch

- picking fresh strawberries from my garden

- Bubble bath (candles, soft music, book, cold glass of water)

- Reading poetry (Mary Oliver and Amanda Gorman are favorites, tucked under the coffee table for all the time access)

- Carrying a book with me everywhere and pulling it out instead of my phone (The New Yorker works for this purpose too)

- Making a friend a birthday cake and delivering it

- Stargazing

- Sunbathing on a lounge in the yard (or by a pool or on a beach, of course)

- Campfires, Alki bonfires

- Holding hands

- Sculpture Park

- The deck at Marination

- a long walk with Chance and a good podcast

- Reading a good book

- Sunday night big cook for the week ahead (so satisfying!)

Okay there's more but my headache is back and, well, it can't be all joy, and that's okay. I'm pleased with this - it's progress! See you again tomorrow for Nourish & Notice Day 2.