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.