Moon Magic

I've decided that whenever I can summon the energy to do so, I'm going to head to my local beach in the dark hours before I go to work, stand at the shore, and let the saltwater heal me.

My beach on Puget Sound is covered with driftwood and pebbles, and faces west. Today I went there at 6:15am, expecting rain but determined to go anyway, and I was rewarded with dry skies.

And the moon.

It was a full moon last night, and the moon was hanging low over the Olympic mountains, playing peekaboo with clouds passing over it. I stood at the edge of the shore, moving away from the killdeer shore birds, who screeched at me in the dark, scolding me when I walked near them.

The sea was gentle today, just the breath-rhythm of the waves - in, out, in, out - until I felt my own breath synching. When the water reaches the pebbles on the beach, the pebbles tumble against each other gently, a sound of stone and sea that soothes.

I stood under the moon, tried to capture it in photos, but my phone failed in the attempt.

Probably for the best that I stopped trying - put away my phone, so I can dip my fingers into the water, so that I can pick up various pebbles and feel their texture between my fingers, so that I can see the moon with my eyes and not through a screen.

In, out. In, out.

Full moons are a time of magic: there are those who practice spells to harness that magic.

My spell is to immerse myself at the edge of the sea, in line with the reflection of the full moon, and breathe. I could feel my heartrate slow, I could feel my shoulders release, and I could feel all of the potential and beauty of the world. If that's not magic, then I don't know what is.

My new ritual is to pick up a stone at the water's edge, and carry it in my pocket all day, a reminder of stone and sea, moon and magic. At work - sitting at my plasticky desk under fluorescent lights, a million demands upon my time, it's a touchstone to remember who I am. Moonlight and stardust, cedars and meadows, mountains and magic. Love and light are in that small stone that I picked up in the darkness.

Tomorrow I'll return the stone, and choose another, refreshing my intentions and giving myself the gift of the sea again.

In, out. In, out.

If I keep doing this, I feel more sure somehow that I will be okay, and that I will have the strength to do what needs to be done... and maybe that's the biggest magic of all.

Itty bitty tiny steps

Powerlessness is my least favorite feeling, and lately I feel powerless. I do not know how to be the change I wish to see in the world; I do not know how to feel about my future, seeking joy, or a lot of other things that I felt a bit more certain of a week ago.

So I'm focusing on the tiniest of steps.

I've decided to try to lower my personal carbon footprint in baby steps.

I was running out of shampoo and conditioner, and using a drugstore brand that has who-knows-what in it, so I decided that I'd do some research on what a more environmentally responsible choice would be. (I landed on Avalon Organics products, which don't break the bank, are widely available, and have the highest rating from The Environmental Working Group.) When I got into the shower this morning to wash my hair, I thought "I can't change the world, but I can change this..." as I lathered and rinsed.

My shampoo choice will, sadly, not save the planet. But... it's something. It's teeny tiny, so small as to be miniscule.

But it's something.

Right now, I don't know what to think of the world and my country, and I don't know how to make meaningful change.

So I'm going to focus on the smallest things.

Making conscious choices about products - maybe imperfectly (the contents of that bottle get a gold star, but what about the plastic container?), but better than before. 

I'm thinking that I really could buy less on mail order, and patronize my local stores more when I need something.

I'm thinking about how cold it's becoming, and going through my house to find blankets to donate to the local shelter.

I'm thinking about making something delicious to put in the break room at work, just because.

I sent a dozen Thanksgiving cards to people in my life, telling them how much I appreciate them.

It's not enough, clearly. It doesn't end racism and misogyny, for starters, and it doesn't improve the wealth gap. It doesn't end wars, or help starving children.

But it's something, and something is better than nothing.

Today I vow to find more tiny steps to do just a little bit better.

Blood, tears, and the sea

 Like a lot of Americans (although, apparently not the majority of Americans), I have been licking my wounds this week. I have gone inward most of the week: doing what had to be done at work, and then coming home and collapsing. I watched my first (and second) Christmas movies of the season - cheesy romances with no plots, but lots of pretty people and wonderful scenery and a guaranteed happy ending. 

By Saturday, I knew I couldn't do that long term, and I invited some of my dearest friends to come by for tea and conversation (and blue bracelet making, but since that whole thing blew up and was declared performative, not a sign of solidarity, we didn't do that after all...). My friends, true to form, showed up with beautiful food, arranged it on platters, and it ended up being a feast. At the last minute I put together a cheese board with fruit, nuts, olives, smoked salmon and three kinds of cheese, but I needn't have bothered, as we could have fed the neighborhood.

And so the healing began.

I printed out some of my favorite poems to gift, rolling them in scrolls tied with ribbon so that each person could take one. Perhaps someone else will find comfort in Maya Angelou, Wendall Berry, Naomi Shihab Nye, Mary Oliver. Just gathering the poems certainly helped me.

We looked each other in the eyes and talked about how wrong we felt, how wrong we were, how confused we were by America's choices. We hoped that there was something we were missing. We talked about understanding our neighbors near and fear. We talked about not feeling safe.

We talked about our children and those we love.

We ate. We drank herbal tea. We listened. Quiet women were unusually talkative, and noisy women were unusually silent. Everything felt turned upside down.

We talked about news fasts through the day; we talked about changing our news sources to get out of our blue bubbles. (I downloaded the Associated Press/AP app, as it's top and center of the Media Bias Chart by ad Fonte, factual and non-biased; I removed the NYT and Seattle Times from my phone, because checking them over, and over, and over is not good for my health.)

Most of all we talked about loving people: each other, our families, our neighbors, our communities. The weariness is palpable as we face whatever lies ahead: how will we find the energy to fight this, to help the world become a more just place?

Last time, I marched practically every weekend, I wrote postcards and called senators and hosted an ACLU meeting and donated to causes I believe in. (Those donations still come out of my bank account monthly, like clockwork.) I really tried hard to be a part of the solution. The mere thought of it makes me weary now, especially because last time I felt sure it was a four year problem, and this time the problem feels indefinite. I have no faith in the systems designed to protect us, their guardrails worn down by someone in charge who is methodically removing those guardrails.

I feel it in my blood, and in the tears that refuse to come, that refuse to give me relief.

So instead, I gathered up my people, checked in on text far too many times on those farther away... and spent a lot of time solo.

I've vowed to write every day, and I've upheld that vow to myself. I'm working on my book, I'm doing my morning pages like they are morning prayers that will save my soul (thank you, Julia Cameron and The Artist's Way." 

I've made a giant pot of lentil vegetable soup - good for the environment and good for my body and such good comfort food. I've got two quiches cooling on the counter, to eat and to share this week, with leeks and mushrooms as the base, the warm cream complimenting the eggs, thyme and parsley and sea salt seasoning them (and, served with a side salad, hopefully not too bad for me).

I'm regrouping.

This morning it was absolutely pouring down rain, the branches moving in the wind, the windows being pelted with large drops, the streets with small rivers running downhill to the drains, but I kept my promise to myself and laced up my shoes and headed in the car to the park - because I knew for this plan I'd need the car. I walked two and a half miles (shorter than usual, but still something) along the sea and through the forest, and found some small fallen cedar and fir branches to carry home so that I could remember the incredible, rich, soothing smell of the forest. I got back to my car...

And stripped down to my bikini, the old lady one with a sporty top and giant bottoms that come practically to my rib cage. I pulled on my Chaco sandals, and my old blue terrycloth bathrobe, grabbed my towel, and went into the sea. I walked without pausing, the gentle slope of the beach meaning that I had to get a good ways out in order to have the water meet my bra line. I took all of that grief, confusion, and fear, and I walked into the ocean and asked it to carry some of it for me. I dove under the water, seal like, and swam a few strokes fully submerged, eyes open and astounded at how bright the pebbles looked, how clear and green at good the water was. I felt my blood pressure fall, and if I cried I do not know because my face was covered in salt water, but suddenly I didn't feel like I was holding back tears anymore.

I felt victorious over some small part of myself, and truly cleansed by the sea. Not "everything is better now" (oh, if only there were such simple solutions!) but... like I had what it took to manage it.

Righting myself, I stood again, my hair streaming down water, my body strong in the water, my shoulders in the cold air. I looked up, and a bald eagle was riding the currents just north of me, above cedars and houses on the other side of the park. I smiled all the way back to my car, the short drive home, the immediate hot shower that awaited. A bit of that smile has stayed with me, and will get me through tomorrow.

I believe in signs, and on this gray, wet, salty day, I needed that. Just a bird, doing what I have seen birds do a thousand or more times in that location. But this time I was in the sea, and it felt bigger, better. By the time I walked back to shore, toweled off, and wrapped myself in that ugly but warm bathrobe, I could breathe a little easier. I can still remember that I need to breathe.

Today I've been writing for much of the day, listening to music, cooking, doing the chores that make the week go easier. I'm on my walking treadmill now, moving at a slow enough pace to keep typing and not sweat, but it's something, better than being in the fetal position.

I have been thinking about cold plunging for at least a month, called to do it, and I am a slow learner so I resisted and resisted, but today I remembered how it makes me feel alive, connected, strong.

I need to write. To walk in the forest. To plunge into the sea. To look for eagles (and whales, and sea lions, and kindred spirits, and good books). To touch the rough bark of big, old trees; to hold pebbles in my hand and feel their texture and weight. To feel salt on my face, whether it be tears or ocean water.

I am down, not out, and I'm starting to think of how I will live out my days again... not in the fetal position anymore, and so that's a start.

For the millionth time, I'm so grateful that my life placed me near the Salish Sea. That's not a small thing, and I'm going to hold onto it as fast as I can.

It's a start.

Grief Season: Might and Right

 To everything there is a season, and right now, a lot of us are finding ourselves in a season of grief.

Grief that the American people voted for a rapist, felon, liar. Grief that America fell for an angry man's taunts and lies, siding with power plays instead of truth. Grief that women and people of color and LGBTQIA+ are losing ground. Grief that a man who threatens to end democracy (this is not hyperbole, and the receipts are there) is now in charge of democracy.

He says he can "grab them by the pussy" (I will NEVER get over that) and that immigrants are "eating the dogs, eating the cats" and that if "beautiful Christians" vote for him, they'll "never need to vote again."

And that's old news, and so over the top that it feels unbelievable, and yet America chose this version of our future. When he won the first time, I thought "surely this is a mistake, a fluke of the electoral college, because most Americans do NOT want this!" But now, people voted this in, fair and square, and my grief is fourfold. America knows who he is, and they voted for him anyway.

***

When I was a girl, my parents disciplined* me through spankings. I remember one spanking in particular: the humiliation of being told to lay myself over my father's legs as he sat on the edge of the bed, and him pulling down my pants to hit my exposed bottom. I remember sobbing, more from the humiliation and rage of it than the pain, and saying "It's not fair! You're big, and I'm little, and it's not fair!" as one large hand repeatedly smacked me and the other held me down.

What was also unfair is that some of my spankings were for things I did not do: I was innocent of the crimes of which I was accused. But justice, fairness, and size didn't matter. In my house, might made right.

And that, to this day, is my biggest fear: that it is someone's power, not their truth or justice, that determines outcomes. It's my fear that those in charge get to distort natural laws of truth in their own favor, and redefine what is fair.

* "To discipline" is "to teach." What those spankings taught me was that the world was unfair, and that I could not trust the adults in my life. Those spanking did not make me want to be a better person, so I don't think that they were "discipline" at all. I never learned the intended lessons.

I feel like that again right now: the humiliation of being a part of a system designed not to make me grow into my own power of integrity, but a system designed to make me obey. I feel vulnerable and angry, humiliated and powerless.

And before someone says so: of course I know that I'm one of the lucky ones. I'm "just" a woman, but I am white, middle class, straight, in a blue bubble. I know that I'm lucky, just as I knew that I was lucky as a girl that my father didn't break my bones when he spanked me... but that it was still wrong. Not as wrong as some other things, but still wrong.

I feel grief and rage and pain, and still know how it could be worse.

***

When I was in cancer treatment I went to an online support group at YSC (Young Survival Coalition, for breast cancer survivors under the age of 40). One day a verbal fight broke out amongst the members, because a stage 1 woman was deeply grieving her diagnosis, and other people jumped in to say "you're so lucky! there are stage IV women here, you have nothing to complain about!" and I will never forget what happened next. One of those stage IV women chimed in; she was someone I admired, and her journey was awful (and she later died of the disease). 

She said, "Cut it out. This is not the Suffering Olympics, and there are no gold medals. We all take it differently, and who are we to judge each others' pain?! You have no idea what someone's mental health is, and the fear is real for all of us - we've seen stage IV women survive, and stage 0 women die. So cut it out! Suffering is suffering, and we ALL deserve our tears. Support each other!"

I have never forgotten her lesson. It doesn't mean that you get to have a pity party at the expense of someone else, but there is enough space for all of our grief. Sometimes I am one of the lucky ones with fewer problems; sometimes I am one of the unlucky ones who seem at greatest risk.

But every time, I think we are all allowed our grief, and in our grief, we can connect with each other.

Black and Brown women have it worse. LGBTQIA+ women have it worse. Women with poor mental health have it worse. Women in red states have it worse. Low income women have it worse. I know that, and I am trying to think of new ways to support those groups. I'm grieving, but I don't forget those women. I've been trying to support those groups in tangible ways for a long time, try to let my life serve to live these values that I hold so dear, about loving my neighbors and standing up for oppressed people and never, ever being a bystander.

All of those things are true, and also, I feel so wounded right now that I am breathless, the wind knocked out of me. I'm trying to catch my breath, gather my strength, and figure out what I need to do next.

And I don't want to participate in the Suffering Olympics. I want to give whatever I have to support other women, to acknowledge my privilege but allow my grief, and the grief of every person I meet. I want to give space to help people to be seen. If someone is hurting deeply, I want to stand up for them, even in my grief. There is space for all of us, and if we work together, we can hold each other up despite our injuries and pain.

***

I went to a workshop more than a dozen years ago where the facilitator gave the attendees an analogy. He said that it wasn't enough to be glass half full, that we needed to imagine that we were a teacup under a waterfall, and that the waterfall would keep our teacup so full that it would overflow into the saucer. He said to make sure we stayed under the waterfall enough to keep our teacup full, so that we would have a never ending supply of water in the saucer to give to anyone who needed it. I love this image: when we are filled, we have SO MUCH MORE TO GIVE.

Right now, I feel like there is a dirty puddle at the bottom of my teacup. I try to share that muddy water with my students, with the people in my pathway, but I am aware of how low my reserves are, and how close to breaking I have felt this week, and how my gifts are smaller than usual because I am so drained. When I feel like that, I am crabby, and I don't give the best of myself - I'm at danger of inflicting damage on others, rather than healing. I'm quicker to take offense, more likely to misinterpret, less likely to think before responding. I'm weary, and like every tired toddler, I'm more prone to tantrums when I need a nap.

My plan is to take that nap. Not a hibernation, but a true nap. I will try to refuel myself with the things that give me strength: gathering with my closest friends, reading poetry, listening to music, being in nature, eating soothing food, gentle exercise, more introvert time to read, crochet, make jewelry. I am gathering my strength. I will use this time to summon strength for myself, and for others.

***

Soon, I hope, I will feel strong enough to take more initiative, to help in new ways, to be a light in the world that is bright enough to share my light with others. Because one thing I know for sure is this: power gives the power to tell lies without penalty, but might does NOT make right. What is right, good, and true is a natural law, not manmade, and no amount of justifying or rule-changing can make it any other way.

Might is power, but it is not right.

I'm thinking about women who have come before me and made change in the world. I'm thinking of the influence of great authors like Mary Oliver or Maya Angelou who inspired us to be better; I'm thinking of activists like Angela Davis and Gloria Steinem who showed us new ways to gain our power; I'm thinking of trailblazers like Marie Curie or Amelia Earhart or Shirley Chisholm.

Shirley Chisholm never got to be President, but she showed us that we could do more than before.

Maya Angelou never got to see a world with racial justice, but she saw improvements.

Gloria Steinem is 90 years old and still fighting to end the gender pay gap and violence against women, but some of her work means that I can be a single divorced mother with my own mortgage, credit cards, and job.

The women who first fought for women's suffrage died before it came into being, (and they did it wrong too, because they left out too many women (people of color) in their efforts, and Black women couldn't vote for far too many years after white women gained that ability). 

Might pushed them down, but it still wasn't right, and the truth continued to break through. Eventually, justice started to catch up.

Sometimes might wins for a while. I got the spanking, Abigail Adams couldn't convince her founding father husband to "remember the ladies," and the gender pay gap continues, and it's much, much worse for Black and Brown women to this day.

But I do not believe that it makes right, and I don't believe that it will prevail.

Might is just... might. Strength is not leadership, nor goodness, nor intelligence. It's just power, and it's not right, even when it's pretending to be.

I'm still grieving. I have no idea how I'm going to edge the moral arc of the universe towards justice just yet. I walked in the rain and gray skies today, grateful that the weather reflected my mood, grateful for the damp cold seeping through my clothes and making me feel, even if that feel was an aching in my middle aged bones, because it's better than being numb, and I'm still feeling pretty numb.

But I know that after this season of grief, I will rise again. I will find ways to fight for what I believe in my soul is right. I will speak up for myself, and for anyone in harm's way, and I won't be a bystander.

I'm suffering, and I'm not getting any medals for that suffering. Waves of grief pass over my body, and sometimes I want to go into the fetal position; sometimes I want to scream. I'm trying not to do either.

We're in fight or flight now, but I'm going to tend and befriend, because fight or flight was never my style anyway.

I'm going to look for waterfalls to fill my cup, and I'm going to gather that strength and power and use it to help myself and anyone who I can. Shakespeare's line, "Though she be but little, she is fierce" is resonating. I'm one of the little people, but I am not without my own power, and as soon as I can get off the floor, I'm going to see if I can be a light.

So many mixed metaphors - light and Olympics, teacups and waterfalls and muddy puddles. My brain is a muddy mess like that right now. Let me just catch my breath a bit more, but I'll find a way towards clear water: I'm seeking waterfalls.

Let me know where you find waterfalls, and where you know ways to halt the destruction of those who believe that might makes right.

Synchronicities and Signs

 Lately, I get signs everywhere I go - repeated patterns offered to me by the world, messages from something outside me, often clear as a bell.

I have weeks where I see bald eagles all the time, even over the freeway on the way to work, and one week not one but two of them (on different occasions) swooped down low over my car, making me shrink back in my seat behind the steering wheel, glancing up in amazement and then giggling once the shock had passed. Power. Joy. Possibility.

And then there are weeks when everywhere I go I see feathers. Foot long black and white ones on the beach, coming in with the tide. Sleek crow feathers on every block. A beautiful pure white feather, at least eight inches long. Feathers on the ground, feathers drifting toward me in the wind. A reminder to be light, to keep it light? To let dreams take wings?

For years, I've found more four leaf clovers than just about anyone. I think about a friend who is having a problem, or my own wishes, and I make a wish, then look down... and four leaf clovers appear. When I've said this to friends they have often said, "uh huhhh, suuuuuure" until I've said "give me a minute to show you!" and they they've watched me find them their own four leaf clovers. Surely, this is a sign of my own good fortune.

And then I read a book that had hints of the book I'm working on, and, quite surprised, I thought, "Oh! There IS a market for this!" I don't know why I picked up that book, it wasn't what I was looking for, but then... there it was, a message clear as day.

And then the right person comes at the right time, with the right words.

And just when I thought that I wouldn't know how to pay for Tessa's fifth year of college, a job opportunity.... teaching creative writing! ... on top of my regular contract just dropped into my lap. Presto, college paid for, and now I'm being paid to research and teach creative methods. Fabulous!

I'm getting used to seeing the signs, to noticing the synchronicities. I'm on week 10 of The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron, and she suggests that creatives look for them, look for the signs of the Universe sending messages...

... and the messages keep appearing.

The question is not if they are real. The question is, will I pay attention?

Dear Hugo

 Actually, not so dear Hugo.

This afternoon I was working on the patio at my local coffee shop (shout out to C&P, best coffee shop ever) and someone sat down nearby with a sweet dog, so of course I visited. Said sweet dog was, apparently, named Hugo, and he was quite dear.

But it was also rather synchronous, because for the last week I've been thinking about writing about a different Hugo. Thanks, canine Hugo, for the tail wags and soft fur... and for the reminder to pick up my damn laptop and write some more.

So here it is: not so dear Hugo.

When I first got divorced, I worked for a small jeweler doing business development. It was the perfect job, and a terrible job. Perfect, because the hours were right and I could (barely) squeak by on the pay; perfect because it was my re-entry to the workforce after a decade of being a stay-at-home mom and (simultaneously) a cancer patient. It wasn't perfect because I have no business working for a retailer, or in jewelry - these are not my passions! - but perfect because I had the skills somehow to grow the small business, so I was successful in this first foray; perfect because I got to dress up and go downtown and remember who I was when I wasn't a mom.

It was also perfect for downtown coffee dates, and when I first started back at work I was also doing my first dating. It was a wild scene: I was in my early 40s, fit, and happier than I'd been in a long, long time and I found lots of people who wanted to go out with me. I'd put on my heels and dress and go to work, but sometimes take my lunch break early for coffee and walk around the corner to meet some internet stranger to see if there was a love match.

Hugo was one of these, and I have not changed his name to protect either of us. Although he didn't give me butterflies and he wasn't a supermodel, this was fine with me because I'm also not a supermodel, and he was attractive enough. He wore Clark Kent glasses - and I'm a sucker for Clark Kent glasses. He seemed to have his life together, and as I was oh-so-eager to be with someone who had it together, I agreed to meet with him when he asked me out.

We went to a donut shop, even though I'm not really into donuts (give me a cupcake over a donut any day of the week!), and I wore a cute skirt and work appropriate heels. We placed our order and he insisted on paying, but my stomach sank when I noticed that he didn't leave a tip on our donuts and coffee order. I quickly said, "I'll pay the tip - no problem!" and the first giant red flag was when he said, "They just gave us donuts. They don't need a tip."

The person I am now would have smiled, said, "It's not a fit," and walked away. The person I was then was mortified, but didn't know how to say so, and even though the date was already doomed, determined to try. I didn't talk about minimum wage or restaurant wages, and I didn't say "if we can afford donuts, we can afford to tip" - I bit back my tongue.

We did the usual small talk, interviewing each other for the basics of our lives. Him: no kids; me, one kid. We both worked downtown. Both of us divorced. He started grilling me on my career, and I explained the Microsoft to teaching to stay-at-home-mom-cancer-patient, and then this recent foray into the jewelry business. He visibly recoiled, and said, "If people haven't figured it out by 40, they're never going to figure it out," and the date was over not that long afterwards. (Almost over. I excused myself to put a $5 bill in the tip jar before we walked out and went our separate ways, never to speak to each other again.)

That was a decade ago, I think. I haven't thought of it much, because it was just another anecdote for dating stories with my girlfriends ("He didn't tip? THE WORST!") but not terribly important in the scheme of things - back then I was going on at least one date per week with someone new, and his was a half hour annoyance, not important.

But something about it stuck with me - I can't remember the other random dates with much clarity, but I still remember the look on his face as he informed me that I was a Loser who would Never Figure It Out or become someone... because it's clear that is what he meant.

A bit of me was sure he was right. Back then I joked that my car was held together 'with duct tape and hope' and even when I was pretending to myself otherwise I knew there was no way I was destined to be part of the jewelry business long term. I was on the razor edge of my budget, barely getting by, one missed check away from losing everything. I was scared most of the time, but I hid the fear under bravery (an effective technique - I recommend it).

And for some reason, I remembered him recently, and I thought...

He's wrong.

He was wrong then, and he is wrong now.

As I recall, he had a career that sounded dull to me, and his entire affect was one of someone going through the drudgery of life - there were no hints of joy, no inside jokes, no hints at passions of his own. He did seem to have stability, and cute glasses... but that is all.

I've spent the last decade without much of a thought of him, but now he's back in my head, and... he's wrong.

A friend of mine escaped a terrible marriage at the same time I did, and now she's doing work that the whole nation is paying attention to. Another friend of mine, divorced at the same time as well, went from having a thin business in a down economy, to being top of her field. Another friend just left her career to go back to grad school, and another friend decided to retire early.

And me? I'm writing for real this time, and I'm so settled into my teaching career that provides the joy and stability that I wanted so much when I first got divorced. I travel sometimes, and when I eat out it doesn't kill my entire budget. I don't wear heels to work... ever. Because I don't want to, and because I'm not dressing for the male gaze anymore, and no longer believe that in order for shoes to be cute they have to hurt like hell and hobble me. (In the zombie apocalypse, women in stilettos will be the first to die, I think.)

I'm 55, and there are some things where I'm just getting started. I've had the same house for a long time, and I got rid of the duct-tape car and drive something that's held together with... well, whatever cars are supposed to be held together with! I host dinner parties and I save for retirement and I love the heck out of my kid even when she's hours away at college (bursting with pride that she's getting closer to graduation).

I don't date much at all anymore, because I can't be bothered to spend time with guys like Hugo, and I don't need external validation that I'm a good person and worthy, so the idea of dating a different guy every week in order to find "the one" is exhausting and a hard pass. I'd rather spend time with friends, or down on my favorite beach, or making jewelry (the costume kind, and not for sale, just to be creative), or planning a trip.

Hugo was wrong. I'm my best self, a million times version of the me he met back then. My hair has a streak of silver, my belly is softer, and it's been a long time since I ran a half marathon... but in the ways that count, my life is better. I *did* figure a lot out after that silly date. I went to therapy, I found my career path again, I sent my kid to college. I remodeled my basement.... and I did some important work on managing my relationships with my family of origin, which is its own kind of basement remodel.

I floated on the Ligurian Sea at Cinque Terre, not a care in the world.

There are all kinds of deadlines we set for ourselves, and our lives. Graduate from college in four years. (Research says that it used to take 4-5 years on average, but now it's 6 years on average.) Get married by 30. (I did it a week before my 30th birthday, and I sometimes wonder if I'd been more patient then what would my life have been like, what would  my marriage have been like?) Put a million dollars in the bank (um, I'm still waiting for that). Work at one employer until you die (uh - no). Have a size four body, have 2.1 children, retire by 60. No, no, no.

Nobody I know did all of those things. The deadlines are utterly arbitrary. Sure, it's nice if you can do it (that million dollars in the bank would be very convenient!)... but it's not real.

Hugo didn't know that frequent belly laughter is a better metric.

Chosen family at any age.

Stacks of good books available 24/7.

Tickets to an event that you're excited to attend, always another one coming.

Dancing at a concert under the stars several times a summer.

Picnics near the ocean in all seasons.

Farmers markets every week.

A kid who visits often from college.

And long, long lists of dreams that I'm still chasing.

Hugo was wrong, about all of it. I saw him on a dating app a year ago - I guess he hasn't found anyone who measured up yet. But then - nor have I, and somehow that seems okay, because if I have to choose my own company or the company of someone who doesn't leave a tip for the kids selling donuts...

I'd choose my own company, gleefully, every time.

I'm glad that I still believe in the power of my dreams. I'm working on a bunch of them again, and I think I'll make them happen - after all, I've already made lots of dreams come true, so why not these? I'm just getting started - but now I have a lovely foundation to build upon!

Poor Hugo - our paths will never cross again, and I'm the better for it. I did like dog Hugo a lot, though, and I hope I run into him again.

Again?

 I have Covid. Again.

I'm kind of hoping that third time is the charm. I'm fully vaccinated (what - five, six times now?), and because of my cancer history and age the doctor easily agreed to prescribe Paxlovid, so I'm halfway through that treatment (thank you to telehealth appointments - 25 minutes after signing up, I was talking to a nurse practitioner from the comfort of my home; the next day, a friend delivered my prescription). I last had Covid over a year ago, and given that my immune system took some huge hits with cancer treatment and I work with teenagers (150 kids a day coming in and out of my room, and some of their hygiene is... questionable), it's probably amazing I haven't had it more often, but I'm glad that the drugs appear to be working. Saturday I was pretty miserable with a headache, sore throat, stuffy nose, and general fatigue. Yesterday it was pretty much just leftover fatigue.

Today, my main symptom is cabin fever. It's mid-winter break, and I am supposed to be with my beloved friend Carolyn in California, going on little adventures and having fun together. She had planned some super fun activities, and we always have the best time together, so to say I am disappointed to be at home rather than on that trip is an understatement.

But the real "again" isn't Covid, I think. The real "again?" is my wake up call.

There are some parts of my life that are going swimmingly well. Work is actually pretty good. My friendships are lovely. I adore my West Seattle home and community. Tessa's launching as she should, and I breathe easier knowing that she's a junior in college and well on her way to finding her path.

But there are other parts where I swear I need ... what? A swift blow to the head sounds violent, but that's the first image that came to my mind. Since I don't believe in violence as a solution to anything, let's say instead, I think I'm getting a wake up call.

There are two things in my life that I am really mismanaging: my health, and my writing. And I think that this round of Covid - and I really am hoping that third time's the charm! - is my wake up call, the persistent alarm going off that screams "pay attention! get out of bed! go! go! go!" and I'm going to try my hardest to pay attention.

My commitment to writing is stronger than ever, and my commitment to caring for my body has somehow gotten lost, but these things are connected. When I move my body, I swear I can feel my braincells activating. When I don't move my body, I swear I hear them mumbling "whatever, leave me alone!" and rolling over to zone out, die, shut down, or nap. And I think that Covid is a reminder about two things this round:

1) Health is everything. On Saturday, I was just trying to get by, blowing my nose with disgusting results, counting the hours between ibuprofen doses. I could not be creative, or accomplish anything. I ate leftover takeout, I stayed in my pajamas all day, and I was pretty genuinely miserable. I was glad when it was bedtime, because I hoped sleep would block the discomfort. And... I know this all too well. I know that everything can change in an instant, and that without health everything else stops. I know it because of Covid, I know it because a dear friend had a heart attack and is now on a strict regimen designed to save her life (pills, lifestyle changes, diet), and I know it because I'm a freakin' cancer survivor. 

When I first started recovering from cancer, I took up running, watched my diet, and got into the best shape of my life. I knew how important it was to prioritize health, and I just felt - aglow. I felt energized, and alive. How did I let that go?

Covid is a reminder, again. I can take care of myself, or my body will fall apart.  There is no other option. I am reminded.

2) I think the universe is telling me to stop procrastinating and to write more. Not a half hour here or there, but to really actually get moving and write and write and write. Brainstorm, chart characters, churn out chapters, edit, edit, edit. Covid, in my case, and after the first day, is more about boredom and cabin fever than anything else. I am trapped in my comfortable home, with all the supplies to sustain me. Friends have offered grocery runs, and I am always well stocked anyway. I am forbidden from engaging in person with other humans until Wednesday at earliest (or whenever I test negative for 48 hours), so I'm alone with no demands on my time. It's mid-winter break, and I cannot travel or socialize, so.... what will I do? There are no excuses left. No stack of grading due tomorrow, no social commitments, no errands to run. There's just me, and my choices. How will I use my time?

No lie, I spent two days moping. Saturday I had a pretty good excuse - my head was pounding. Yesterday, maybe I had half an excuse... I made a big batch of soup (which is good for health, and food is a necessary item after all) and then I felt tired. I sat in front of the TV and crocheted, finishing a blanket I have been working on for two months. (Michelle Obama was right - doing this kind of thing - she knits - is so good for my mind, stilling the anxious voices, and creating something lovely in the process.)

Maybe I could have written a bit yesterday, but maybe not. Reading was fatiguing yesterday. Or is that an excuse?

But today I'm out of excuses.

I'm here with you, my little audience of readers, rambling on as a warmup, and my body is warming up as well, the treadmill beneath me set to three miles per hour, the fastest speed at which I can walk but also type. I have a notebook next to me where I jot my thoughts about plot, character, and theme sitting next to me. The document with my first draft is pulled up on another screen.

I think that Covid might have been necessary. It would have been so easy to visit Carolyn, to come home and do chores and grade a bit and visit a few local friends, and never write a word.

But without my health, I have nothing, and I can't think straight. I am reminded.

And if I don't create the time, the habit, the wordcount, this book will not write itself. I am reminded.

So, dear readers, Covid has a silver lining. Now that the worst has passed, I will take it for what it is, and do what I keep saying I should do.

My plan: 1000-2000 words per day for the rest of break, a minimum of 7000 words. And yoga, and walking on the treadmill, and if my body lets me, running on the treadmill too. It would be nice if I could do some walks outdoors, and even try to run to Lowman Beach and back, but I don't need that to happen to hit my goals. I can treadmill walk, do Yoga with Adriene videos, do a little yardwork (always good for a workout), and I can use that energy to fuel my writing.

I'll be back here - I'll let you know tomorrow how it goes, because warming up here is really helpful. And if I'm not here, feel free to call me on it.

Health.

Writing.

After my love for my daughter and my hope for the future, there is nothing more important.

So here I go!