Sick Day Energy

 I have been home with a bug (norovirus?) for days now, and I'm really frustrated by it. Every time I think I'm better my body lets me know - nope, not there yet. Yesterday a friend brought dinner, a delicious looking home made soup, and my whole being recoiled at the idea of real food. I've been surviving on bread and bananas. Yesterday I had a sandwich (cheese on bread equals sandwich, right?) and so I thought I was on the mend, but anything with even a hint of flavor just turns my stomach upside down. The things that usually give me comfort - spices like cinnamon, or curry, or garlic - sound repulsive, and my energy levels are trash. I'm sitting here now with a rolling stomach, sipping on ginger tea (which I do not enjoy but is supposed to help).

So here I am, feeling guilty about missing work, but also glad that I'm not spreading it to my students and colleagues.

Last night I had therapy (online), a habit I picked up a few years back and gratefully rely upon now. I told my therapist (who is really quite amazing) that I feel like my sickness is more than just a bug, that it's a general dis-ease with the world, a weariness about how things are going. I can't look away from the wildfires in LA, or the state of US politics, or the school funding crisis, or climate change, or microplastics in the water, or, well, you get the idea. It often seems like the world is quite literally on fire, and I am exhausted by it all, and I feel like my body has joined the pain party.

Now, don't get me wrong. I still find delight in the world, and in my life. This isn't depression, and sickness aside, I'm still functioning. Work, friends, home, Tessa... there is a lot to be grateful for.

But I'm not right. The world isn't right. There is sickness in the air, and I don't like it.

I told my therapist all of this. I told her that the compliment I get the most is "you have such great energy!" (from strangers and friends alike - they do not compliment my wit, beauty, or sense of humor - ha! - but instead it's the same thing every time, about energy) but right now, my energy feels off, missing, broken in some way. My therapist asked me if I could feel it in my body, and I said... wait, yes! It's in the middle of my chest, and it's the size of an apple, and it's tight and really cold.

This is true, though strange. I feel like a surgeon could open me up and see it there, all my dis-ease, discomfort of the world, a ball of dark discomfort that is round and hard and taut. I can point to it, describe the size and shape of it, somewhere between my "breasts" (thanks, cancer) and under my sternum.

My therapist smiled, and said, "ahhh, somatics" and told me to place my hands over the spot, and to sit with it like it was a crying child, murmering "there there" and "I'm here" and "I see you."

My therapist and I go back eight years on and off, and I trust her, so though this made no sense to me whatsoever, I tried, I put my hands on top of one another over the spot, and thought the words. "Shhhh... I am here...." as if the thing inside me was a fussy baby in need of comforting.

Since I've been sick, I've been freezing cold, wearing way too many layers and covering myself with blankets and turning up the heat in the house but not able to shake the chill. My cold hands on top of the cold knot first felt... cold. But as my therapist talked me through the exercise, I felt a warm glow in my palms, shining into my chest, heat building. My eyes snapped open - what WAS that? - not in concern, but in surprise. My fingertips were still cold to the touch, but my palms were suddenly hot! Like, glowing with heat hot, like the kind of heat from holding a hot mug of tea.

"Ahh, that's the energy exchange, she said, smiling and nodding. 

"I feel like I'm getting reiki..." I responded uncertainly, looking at my hot hands, turning them over to see what had changed, and she said, "Yes, that's what it is."

Self-reiki? I didn't even know that was a thing. (Cue up the Googling.)

We talked more about the things I'm struggling with an how they all seem to gather in this knot in my chest, and how I feel like something's missing, and how I just feel like something is broken and I WANT TO FIX IT.

She smiled at me, and said, "No, you are in your mind. Be patient, and just sit with it. This is not a time of action, this is a time of rest. Just... be. Let the energy move. Hold it."

Just as a crying child cannot be logically convinced to calm down, we cannot intellectualize our dis-ease all the way. We need to sit with it, and give it a chance to speak its truth, and to let it gently fade, a child crying itself to sleep in our arms. As she said, "Let it shrink, and soften."

Not disappear. Soften.

I don't know if my stomach bug is related to my feelings of dis-ease lately - norovirus is not, of course, directly related to Donald Trump or wildfires - but I do feel strongly that when I'm in a state of dis-ease I'm more susceptible to illness, my immune system worn down.

I want to use action to get out of this feeling, to do some magic exercise that will make me feel better. "Give me homework!" I pleaded of my therapist when we first started working together. "I know what's wrong and I'm willing to do the work to fix it!" and sometimes she gives me exercises to try that have, as it turns out, been incredibly helpful.

This time, she said, "No homework. Just sit with it. Put your hands over the place where you are carrying it, and just be." I told her about all of my worries, about the things flying around in my brain - things we've talked about in the past, mostly - and she reminded me of the voices of internal family systems (IFS) and how they are there to protect me, but sometimes they don't know how to do that and their voices do not help, so she said, "Get out of your mind this time. Sit with the root of it. Just listen, and acknowledge. No responding, no fixing, just being."

So here I am, in my pajamas and bathrobe, sitting with it.

I struggle with the idea that everything happens for a reason - there are too many terrible things that happen to good people for me to feel even remotely happy about that idea. (Starving children? War? How can these things be for good reasons?) And yet... I can't entirely let it go.

One of the worst things to ever happen to me was cancer. But I am 100% convinced that if I hadn't had cancer, I would have stayed in my really bad marriage, and I never would have become the person I am meant to be. (I'm still working on it, but I've made progress.) The thing that nearly killed me is also the thing that gave me new life. I would REALLY like to figure out how to get the lessons without the near death experiences... but in my life it hasn't worked that way. And also divorce is one of the worst things that happened to me, but if I hadn't had my marriage, I wouldn't have Tessa, and I wouldn't be who I am now. If I hadn't married the person I married, I would not be in West Seattle (it was his dream location, not mine, although I fell in love with it and made it my home, and ironically he left as soon as Tessa graduated from high school). Many of my friends grew out of my location in West Seattle, and my love of this house - like it is a person, a true friend, and not an inanimate structure - only happened the way they did because I married someone not good for me, and because I got cancer I learned that I had the strength to leave him and create this new life. Out of the things that hurt the most, the most incredible healing of things beyond those things.

I have no idea why I had cancer and it turned out okay, and friends with cancer died. I have no words for that. I don't understand, because they wanted to live, too, and they deserved to live. Where is their lesson, after death? It's grossly unfair and so confusing.

But... I can't let it go, that my life is unfolding mostly as it is meant to, that all this pain is for some purpose, and that my dis-ease is actually my body just waking me up, and that if I listen carefully enough my sick day energy can teach me something, can heal something before it dissipates and my belly returns to normal.

Maybe I needed to rest, and this is my body's way of forcing that.

Maybe there is a lesson, still uncovered, that this will teach me.

Maybe this is a warning that I need to heed (about what?).

Maybe it's connected.

(Side note, I have a phone addiction like everyone else. Writing these words, I felt stuck... unsure of myself and what I was trying to say, so I picked up my phone out of habit, a distraction and soothing device. I opened the lock screen to the NY Times app I'd last been using, and found it blank. I got a blank screen: "There has been a problem. Close and try again later." Uhhhh... okay?! Maybe, um, it is all connected? I know there is no ACTUAL soothing to be found in my phone.)

So: I'm trying to figure out my own energy, to sit with it, and not try to hide it. I'm drinking gallons of tea (even though I don't like ginger tea's taste, it does seem to help), I'm turning to the page, and I'm going to bed early (like 8pm early....what?!) while I let this pass through me.

Sometimes, pausing, and sitting, and just being, is all we can do.

I feel like our nation is sick. LA is burning, beautiful Malibu and all those Barbie Dream Homes turned to ash. Men who are abusers - well documented as such - are rising in power, mostly unchecked. Somehow, "diversity" seems like a bad word to a lot of people.

And I know I'm not quite living my best life, either, neither my body nor my mind as healthy as I want them to be. I want to do better, to be better.

But I'm having a sick day, demanded by my belly, impossible to ignore.

I'm sitting here in my pajamas, bathrobe, and slippers, covered in a crochet blanket and sipping ginger tea, trying to figure it out through these words, ready to put my hands on my chest to feel the heat in my palms, and just... be. Listen. Sit.

No answers. I feel the energy of it, the warming tingle of understanding that there is something to be learned.

And I'm sitting now, with my hand over the center of my heart, trying to still my mind, feeling that hard, dark, tight knot responding to the heat that comes from nowhere and everywhere through my hands.

I don't understand, but I'm opening to the idea that there is something worth understanding that will reveal itself in time.

What about you? Does this make one single iota of sense to you? If so, you're my people. And if not? That's okay too, because... life is strange, and this is strange, and it's okay to feel strange together.

"Buy Now," Buy Nothing Year, LA Fires, and Me

There's no way around it - the world is on fire and we're all responsible for it.

Now, don't get me wrong - some are more responsible than others, and I'm pretty sure that corporate greed is at the top off that list, because it drives so much of what happens in the world. But I don't think that's going to let us - me - off the hook.

This week, we're watching LA burn. I keep checking in with my cousin who lives there, and flashing back to the beautiful day spent at her parents' pool, laughing and catching up and drinking sparkling water and telling family stories... because right now her dad has been evacuated from that home, and while if I'm looking at the maps properly his home is still safe, his community is burned to rubble.

It's one disaster in a long string of disasters, from Delhi's heatwave to the wildfire smoke that hit Seattle a couple of years back (nobody I knew had air conditioning or air purifiers, and now they are becoming the norm). Hurricanes are getting more intense, and sea levels are rising, and just today we learned that we have exceeded the 1.5 degree limit set by the Paris Climate Accords, making last year the hottest year on record. The LA fires are shocking and unprecedented... but are they really surprising, at this point? Should anything surprise us at this point?

I don't know how to solve these problems: I'm not a scientist, and my undergraduate degree in economics is pretty dusty these days. But as LA burns, and I wonder if this August I will be locked inside with air purifiers as my state burns... I can't quite let myself off the hook. This seems personal, and immediate, not distant and unrelated.

***

Last week, I watched the documentary "Buy Now" on Netflix. Check it out - it's worth seeing, even though I didn't love the Alexa-ish voice that narrates it. The film made me cringe, and I bet it will make you cringe, too - because the way we run the world is cringe-worthy. It's about our consumerist "buy buy buy" culture, and how we have cheap goods delivered almost at the snap of our fingers, and how much this is impacting the planet AND the people, and the data and images were slightly shocking.

Oceans full of microplastics. Clothing made of plastics. Recycling that isn't really recycling. And the earth getting hotter and hotter as we buy things we don't need and have them shipped directly to our doors.

We're all part of the problem.

I am part of the problem because I love the little dopamine hit I get from ordering a package and then having it show up on my doorstep - a new gizmo to make my life easier, or maybe finally a pair of pants that won't make my butt look fat, or a gift for someone I love. I'm part of the problem because buying pomegranate arils in a plastic tub is easier than buying a whole pomegranate with no packaging; I'm part of the problem because the me who goes grocery shopping is often an optimist who thinks I will love cooking heathy food that week and then some of that food spoils in the refrigerator. I'm part of the problem because I have far more than I need in this house of mine - more towels, more dishes, more chairs, more pens, more clothes... more, more, more. (I don't have too many books. I refuse to believe such a thing exists.)

I'm part of the problem. Maybe a smaller problem than some people, sure, but also a bigger problem than I need to be. I decided before LA started burning that I was going to do a Buy Nothing Year, where I only buy consumables like food and toilet paper and replacement items for things that break or wear out, as an effort to do better for the planet and my life.

Watching LA burn, I'm doubling down on my commitment to do better for the environment. I can't save LA, or Seattle, or even West Seattle, or even my own tiny plot of land... but I can do better.

I'm going to do better.

This year, I'm going to try to greatly limit my impact on the planet and reduce what I consume, and I'm going to try to move closer to being a part of the solution than being a part of the problem. Maybe a more reasonable goal is to just try not to be such a big problem... but whatever the scale, I'm going to do better. 

Anyone want to join me? I know I'm not alone in this: I see folks talking about this a lot, and making conscious decisions about what and how they consume. I'm behind some of you, I'm sure.

But I'm not going to compete with anyone, I'm just going to try.

The first thing I'm going to try to do is to stop buying stuff I don't need, whether that's the bag of greens that goes icky at the back of the refrigerator, or a pair of pants that I really don't need. Those are both pretty good examples for me, actually, because both are problems.

I go grocery shopping with my list, and then I come home after work on a Wednesday and I am WIPED OUT and I can't fathom cooking, and so then I do an alternate plan - take out or something microwavable or cheese and crackers - and the bag of greens, once planned for, has no plan.

I look at social media or just go out in the world, and I decide that my pants aren't right: they are too skinny or too wide, the waist too high or too low (kidding, I LOVE A HIGH WAIST!), the wrong shade, the length too short or too long, and that I would feel so much better about my changing (oh, middle age/aging ...!) body if I just had a pair that was... different. I shop the sales, and presto, something shows up at my house, in a bunch of packaging that I throw away or recycle (but so much packaging, and I'm half convinced that my efforts to recycle are foolish pretending, because reducing is where it's at).

And so it goes.

I can do better. It won't save LA, but it won't hurt, either, and I'm tired of this merry-go-round that leads nowhere. The calliope music of the Amazon truck pulling up at my house is charming for a moment but... that's not my kind of music.

I'm not here to convince anyone, and I'm not going to give the long string of statistics about waste, carbon footprints, and unintended consequences of manufacturing. I bet you know as much about that as I do, anyway. The information is everywhere: the environmental cost of shipping everything, the unnatural products that we create and how they off-gas or create various forms of toxicity released to the air, water, and soil. It's depressing, isn't it?

So instead of getting a dopamine hit off the new pants that will not, in actuality, make my butt look smaller... I'm going to try the thrill of saying "No." No has power, too.

My buy nothing year is harder than it sounds, though, and I've already struggled. At the end of December I made the decision to do it, and decided to buy myself a pair of black jeans that I had been coveting for a long while. I ordered them, they showed up after new year's, I tried them on, and I LOVE them. They really are flattering, and go with everything. I decided I should buy the same kind in denim, too, because I really don't like any of my jeans, and I could call these a replacement item that fits my buy nothing year (replacements are fine!)... except... except, I'm pretty sure, I'm just justifying my purchases.

I put them in my cart, but I took them out. I put them back in, took them back out. So far, I'm winning, and I hope that by recording it here I won't actually put them back in the card or pull the trigger on buying them, because despite all the justifications in the world, I have plenty of pants. PLENTY.

I'm at home today because I'm sick (a stomach bug, which I DO NOT RECOMMEND) and so I thought, "Okay, I'll shop online for groceries because I'm home sick," and then I filled my cart with $58 worth of groceries, and then I saw that shipping was free if I did $100, and so I filled my cart some more...

And then I realized that I didn't need one damned thing. I can make due with what I have, without suffering. I didn't have bread, but I had an extra bag of Rhodes Rolls left over in the freezer (uncooked because, ironically, some of our Christmas Eve guests canceled due to stomach flu), and though it wasn't the potato bread I was craving, really, wasn't it enough? And wasn't I just saying I had no idea what do do with a bag of dinner rolls I was never going to cook? I managed to delete my order before placing it, and five minutes of effort (plus four hours of proofing time) yielded the white bread that my upset stomach was craving. If I didn't have freezer rolls I do have a no-knead recipe that is super simple and, again, only takes five minutes plus proofing/cooking time, and uses ingredients that I have on hand. And I also had a friend call to offer to deliver groceries, and since all I really needed was that loaf of bread... why on earth was I considering using this time to stock up on things that, mostly, I didn't need, and would just sit in my cupboards for months? 

Judge me. I know I'm not alone. Maybe my habits are different than yours, but we as a society have some bad habits and I know I'm not alone.

And so it goes. I'm part of the problem, and I want to do better. I have this crazy theory that if we all just tried to do better, maybe, just maybe, the earth could heal a little. I know, call me a crazy optimist, and I know how big the problem is, and how small my solutions are... but really, can't we do better? Can't I? 

I'm trying.

Here are some things that I'm working on to do a better job with the planet. None of them are revolutionary. In theory, all of them are ridiculously simple. In practice, I find them hard in the moment (see examples above). Even if I do them imperfectly, I'm thinking it's worth trying, failing, and getting back up again. But also... I can do better, and the only thing that could make me fail is not trying, so I'm going for it.

- It's a Buy Nothing 2025. Which isn't true at all, of course - I need things to survive. But I'm going to use things up, and use 'good enough' things instead of new shiny things. I can finish the shampoo bottle before switching brands, I can wear the good enough jeans, and only when the shampoo is gone should I buy more. I will buy consumables - food being the most obvious. New newly manufactured stuff except consumables and replacement items (if my running shoes start hurting my feet, for example, I will get new ones).

- When I do need to buy something, I will buy used when possible. Tessa is really into thrifting, and we went thrifting multiple times over break, heading to our local Value Village. I couldn't believe it - I found the EXACT candle holders that I had in my Amazon cart, at a fraction of the price! And then I found two sweaters that I had on Pinterest boards. Keeping these items out of a landfill is good for the planet, and allowing myself a pick me up is okay with me when it's not contributing to the manufacture of packaging and waste.

- Use things up. This is particularly true for food: instead of asking myself "what do I crave?" I need to do better at saying, "What do I need to use up?" While I'm not a huge fan of microwaved food, I make sure to keep some Trader Joe's premade meals in the freezer for days when I can't bear to cook, because those days are going to happen despite my best intentions, and I don't need to do take-out or eat out. I can use up the body products, the food in my fridge and cupboards (even menu planning around them - last time I cleaned out my condiments shelf in the fridge I was embarrassed at how many items had only a bit missing before expiring). I'm pretty good at making big batches of soup and then freezing portions for later use... and I need to do more like this. No more slimy greens in a big. Not craving a salad? Too bad - you bought salad ingredients! Plus, I never in my life have felt bad after eating a salad. It's time to do a better job of remembering this.

- Speaking of bags: I'm trying to reduce my packaging when I buy things. I've been working on this for a long time, so I'm ahead of the curve here. Years ago I stopped taking bags from stores, bringing my own instead (at the grocery store I bring them in from my car; I also carry a cute Loqi bag in my purse all the time that has been used more times than I could possibly count and is good for gift shopping, not just groceries). I drink water and coffee or tea from my Hydroflask and rarely if ever buy a drink in a disposable cup when I'm out and about. But I have a long way to go: I'm still very tempted by the plastic tub of pomegranates, or the pre-cut and bagged squash, and if I bought my spinach at the farmers market I would use my own bag (and it would taste better). Next up I'm going to try to reduce packaging for shampoos, conditioners, and cleaning products, maybe by switching to bars and tablets. I already use powdered dishwashing and laundry detergent (I like Seventh Generation but I will need to research even better options) because they come in less waste packaging than their liquid counterparts, and they take up less space/weight when being shipped. I would like to do a review for every product I buy, from hand soap to toilet bowl cleaner, to make more eco-friendly choices. I have no idea what to do about food packaging... am I really saying that I should never buy a granola bar because of its packaging? Maybe. I know. Maybe. But... baby steps.

- When I do need to buy something new, I am going to shop local. Amazon employs some of my favorite people (here in Seattle, they ARE a local company) ... but I don't think they are the kind of company I want running the world, and they ARE running the world. By shopping locally at mom and pop places, I keep my community vibrant, and that counts for something. (A lot. It counts for a lot.) And I have to think that these small businesses are doing a better job with the environment than that big corporation....? 

- This merits its own post, but I'm also going to try to rewild my yard in an intentional way, removing the grass and adding native species that may be drought resistant. I read a book about rewilding recently, and it fits what I'm trying to do with my life... and what I could do with my yard. I'd like to add snowberry, elderberry, salmonberry, and some more huckleberry; I could add salal and swordfern and bracken, bleeding heart and trillium, and some kind of evergreens that won't engulf the whole space (because my yard won't fit a big cedar, hemlock, or Douglas fir). I want native birds and butterflies and worms and bugs to feel at home here, and to require minimal care, creating their own pretty ecosystem.

- I'm going to try to reconnect with nature. I used to be such a nature girl, and Tessa and I hiked and backpacked and camped through her childhood... and somewhere along the way it has fallen away. I want to do more. Maybe by reveling in nature I will be reminded to take better care of her.

LA is on fire, and this summer the fires could easily be in the Cascades and Olympics, and I'm mad about it. I can't save them, but I can work on my life, so that is what I'm going to do.

What are you going to do? If you have ideas, please let me know! I'm eager to connect with others who are trying, as well.

Solstice Season

 Today I'm at home, awaiting a new dishwasher that needs to be delivered and installed during working hours, deeply enjoying the quiet of the house and finding that the time to reflect is the best gift of all.

Normally, my alarm goes off around 5am and I take half hour to encourage my body to wake up (which it is loathe to do - I have to build in a half hour of quiet because I am NOT a "bound out of bed" person), then a half hour to write my morning pages (thank you, Julia Cameron and The Artist's Way) before REALLY rushing to pack my lunch, shower and dress, and get out the door so that I can arrive to work by 7am. I hit the ground running when I get to school, and I don't even take a breath until 7th period - my only prep period - because I work through lunch, answering Teams chats and email as I eat my soup or salad at my desk. There is a brief reprieve in 7th period to try to get a couple of tasks done, and then the kids show up again at 3pm for tutorial, often not clearing out the classroom until 4pm. Only then can I do my "real" work of grading, planning, etc... and I am so exhausted that my brain does not want to comply.

On my good days, I work until 5:30 or 6:30, or I am able to take some work home and do it for an hour or two. On my bad days I practically whimper as I walk to my car, and feel incredibly grateful to live alone so that nobody will see me fall into the sofa with something probably-not-healthy for dinner before going to bed.

It's not sustainable, and I do not approve of this way of living. I'm constantly trying to do better, and it's hit and miss.

But it's Winter Solstice season, the darkest part of the year, and as the days get shorter and the nights get deeper, I'm asking myself to go deeper, too.

Deep breaths.

Deep thoughts.

Deeper well (thanks, Kacey Musgraves).

Some seasons are for frolicking in the fields, or planting, or harvesting... but in my mind, winter's darkness is a place for quiet. It's a chance to sit in those long nights, enjoying candlelight (which will have to suffice for a fireplace, which my 1923 house does not have... how do I not have a fireplace?!) and hot tea, reading and writing, crochet or other crafty endeavors. It's a season of soups and roasted vegetables... quiet, unfussy food that still has deep nourishment.

(Tonight's soup: curried butternut squash, made with coconut milk and finished with chili crisp. Simple doesn't mean boring.)

This year I'm really embracing the solstice: looking to nature's rhythms to guide me through the darkness. Usually I decorate my house in traditional (Dickensian?) themes, lots of red bows and red and green tartan, bringing out the "good" dishes with the gold rims, pretending I'm in Downton Abbey or something.

Not this year. This year I gathered fallen branches of cedar and fir in the park, and hung them around the dining room light. I laid out white crystals - druzy, lots of selenite, and one lovely and large quartz agate. I put the cheery red pillowcase covers on the family room sofas downstairs, and I put the snow globe and nutcrackers down there too, because upstairs I wanted to think about snow, forests, ice, the night sky. We have our traditional tree with all of the memory ornaments - souvenirs from vacations, ornaments received as gifts, ornaments purchased to commemorate important events like births, graduations, and such... but this year, I gently put away the angel and replaced it with a star. I'm looking to nature.

How does one live in the modern world, with corrupt politicians and starving children in Gaza and 5am alarms and broken dishwashers and aging bodies... and find joy, peace, rest, nourishment? And how dare I put "broken dishwashers" on the same line as children in war zones?

I'm taking my cues from nature.

The sky is dark, but it's filled with stars, even when we can't see them behind the clouds.

It's okay to slow down, like the trees do, bare branches quiet against a gray sky.

It's a good idea to have a few extra pounds to make it through the cold season.

And the waves go in, and out; in, and out ... just as they do all year. The crows still gather, and the squirrels still scamper, but the chickens aren't laying like they did in summer, and the grass isn't growing, and everything is gently fluttering but not surging.

I had a professor who talked about the fallow field: a time when a writer needed to let things sit, just like a field in winter, because that time is not wasted, it is a replenishing of the soil, a preparation for planting and harvest, not wasted time.

It's okay to go inside, to curl up with a book, to snuggle into the sofa cushions with a handmade blanket keeping one cozy. There is value in that, too. 

Somehow, I need to figure out how to be cozy and still, while still living in the modern world. There is a big difference between the quiet of a good book and a cup of tea, and the quiet of convenience foods in front of the television. The glow of a candle nourishes in the way that the phone screen cannot. And bodies need to move in order to be well, even if they don't want to move at full pace. And the students must be taught, and the papers graded, and the laundry done... despite that natural pull towards stillness.

I think I might need to seek stillness in other places. Farther away from the city, more time under the night sky. Less time on pavement, more time on the soft trails of the park. Fewer large gatherings, and more small cozy ones.

I may not want to rush around at a madcap pace, but I can still my mind and get words on paper; I can gently tend to my home on indoor projects, small things that improve my life. I am certainly enjoying the decor that Tessa and I set up on the day after Thanksgiving. I'm trying to live with the season, embracing soft sweaters and warm coats, wool hats and socks, and leather gloves.

As it turns out, I don't have any of the answers. I think if I pay enough attention, nature might tell me some things... but that's all I know.

It's almost solstice, and the days are getting darker and darker. We decorate the house with lights to remind us of the return of the light; we bring in evergreen to remind us of that evergreen's life. We humans don't hibernate, but it's a chance to remember to slow down, to soak up the quiet air.

My desk faces a window into the backyard, plants on the windowsill between me and outside. The dogwood is completely bare of leaves; the styrax bare of leaves but covered in dangling seeds (fruit? nuts? what are those?); the maple is still a blaze of burnt yellow-orange and brown leaves. The sky is thick, low, and gray, ever so still, and I don't see birds. I'm grateful for the stillness, letting my mind sink into stillness, too, no music playing, no buzz of activity today. Fallow.

Tomorrow the alarm will go off far too early, and the day will be filled with the joyful chaos of students, but somehow I'm going to try to keep this stillness within me, to embrace the fallow season, even as I look foward to the return of the light. There is deep beauty in the solstice season, deep rich evergreen hues; crisp white frost; blue and white mountains over the Sound. I'll keep looking for the light, within and without, taking comfort in knowing that it will return.

It feels good to pause.

Wrong side of bed

 For the past two days I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, as the saying goes.

Or, more accurately, I didn't really sleep at all, so I tossed and turned on the wrong side of bed, or something like that. But whatever you call it, I'm crabby.

It started with feeling behind at work, so overwhelmed that I barely know how to dig myself out of the hole. (Hint: writing this instead of grading might not help with that problem.) It continued with a sequence of irritating small things: tracking in leaves all over the house last night before I realized it, leaving their crunched up bits all over the floor; having to go to three grocery stores in order to find the necessary ingredients; deciding to treat myself at the taco truck (because after two grocery stores I went from hungry to REALLY hungry) only to realize that they didn't have vegetarian options; making myself a cup of tea and having the teabag burst open, leaving me with murky tea leaves in my "soothing" drink. I sent Tessa a package of holiday decor - lovingly chosen and boxed up so that she and her roommate could have a festive Christmas environment - and she didn't even bother to pick up the package or write me back.

None of it is the end of the world, and I know that. Maybe it's the fatigue from not being able to sleep? But whatever it is...

I'm crabby.

I'm fighting it, though.

I cleaned up my desk, recycling unneeded papers, getting my paperwork that needs to be dealt with in order. I went easy on myself for tomorrow's lessons, creating something that isn't too painful. I captured my holiday schedule in a single document (and realized that I HAVE A LOT GOING ON!). I told my morning besties chain (Susan and Carolyn) that I was crabby, and accepted their loving grace. I created a plan to tackle the grading, with goals for end of day that will make me feel better.

I wore a professional blazer over black slacks and blouse, with my witchy boots and earrings (sun/moon combos with quartz crystals, my favorite), and I'm calling it my power outfit. I have a stone from Lowman Beach in my pocket, and I'm going to go there after work before I settle in to baking, to breathe the sea and to return the stone and choose a new one. 

And then two kids sent me nice notes, unsolicited. That was nice.

I put up a poem that inspires me where I can see it near my desk.

I had a snack (dark chocolate covered pistachios).

Today I had no energy to make healthy lunch, but I freeze soup when I make it, and so I defrosted a jar of it, and I have a hot thermos of soup awaiting me for lunch, filled with veggie goodness, made on a day when I had more energy and had my act together. A pink lady apple will round it out.

And I'm being gentle with myself by coming here to breathe, to write it all out so that I can remember that sometimes it's okay to be crabby.

I wonder if some of it is the holidays upon us - my family is a source of pain for me, and it's a family season, so I can't help but notice it. Or maybe it's being single in a time when it's all Hallmark romance and friends with partners they can't wait to hang out with. Or maybe it's my class overage, or maybe it's the being thrown off kilter from the windstorm and all its disruptions, or maybe it's the dark side of menopause, or maybe I just need a nap.

But whatever it is, I'm going to push back... gently.

Power clothes.

Hot soup.

Tea.

Finishing some low hanging fruit at work.

Music.

And after work, I will go to the beach and remember to breathe with the waves. In, out; in, out. I can hear the gentle tumble of the pebbles in my mind now, breathe in the smell of salt and cedar.

I will make the cranberry bread that I love, in preparation to eat but also to share with the people that I love. I will write my daughter a welcome home note to leave on her pillow, in case she gets home tomorrow before I do, and remember how much I love her.

I'll drink lots of water (I don't think I did that yesterday!).

I'll read before bed, and I'll stay off the news.

It's not a REAL bad day - no death or disaster. I know the difference. And maybe it's in my power to change it, or maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and it will just feel different. I know that it will pass, and just thinking about that makes my shoulders fall a little.

In, out. In, out. I can't wait to be by the sea.

Power

I've been thinking about power a lot lately. Power structures, power outages, power dynamics, power plays, power games, power over, power beside, personal power, magical power, nature's power.

But I hid the main idea: I'm thinking about my own power.

Sometime last year I entered my crone phase. I don't know why this is true, only that it is. I've been in menopause since my cancer diagnosis and treatment in 2005, but I feel a shift in my body and wonder if I'm entering my natural menopause now. I feel different in my body, and I'm not talking about the changes that others can see (thickening middle, thinning hair - what strange balance there is there!), but about those I feel.

I feel powerful.

I care a lot less about other people's opinions than I once did, and I allow myself more opinions than I used to. I'm a lot better at saying "no" and meaning it. I care more about some things, and less about others. But through all of it, I feel a surge in my chest and belly and somewhere deeper, a building of energy that I've never felt before.

It's different than the energy of youth, when I pulled all nighters and maxed out the Stairmaster for 45 minutes; it's different than the burning thighs of twelve mile hikes with thousands of feet of elevation gain, or carrying a 45 pound pack (yes I did and yes that's crazy). It's different than working multiple jobs while going to school, and it's different than the drive I felt to put in twelve hour days at work without pain. It's very different than the life makeover that happened when I became a single working parent.

In some ways, it's quieter. I feel more introverted than I used to... because I enjoy my own company more. I've learned to still my mind a bit better, and so a house with no interruptions is a chance to dance with my own mind, to explore ideas, stillness, dreams, wonderment, without the clawing anxiety that I've lived with for most of my life.

I feel enough. Not better or worse, but enough, and this is more than I have ever felt before, and it's a type of quiet that I don't know how to explain but it's beautiful, like nighttime in the woods or being in a rowboat in the middle of a lake or finding a beach with nobody there. When I listen, there are all kinds of sounds (like the breeze through evergreen branches, or the waves on the shore) but most of all there is my own breathing, in, out, in, out.

Yesterday I saw the movie Wicked and walked away thinking about Elphaba's power. I'm sure that I'm not the only person to feel this way - I might be the ten millionth - but I related to her so incredibly deeply. I felt the pain of her family's rejection and their bad behavior; I felt the desire to be deeply good to others; I felt a pull to be sharp and smart to make up for other lacking traits. I felt deeply weird and green, just like her; I felt the humiliation of a "friend" who set me up to be mocked.

But most of all, I felt the relief of letting go of all of it and embracing the weird: of daring to dream of a place where the color of me is everyone's favorite, and, once realizing that such favoritism has limits, deciding that I know my internal compass and right from wrong, and fighting back simply by being my full self.

Defying Gravity, indeed.

The world has all kinds of rules for women like me - neither rich nor poor, neither beautiful nor ugly, neither old nor young. I think the main rules are 1) Be everyone's helper and 2) When not helping, be invisible.

Fuck it.

I've been helping for a long time, and slowly it is dawning on me that the person I need to be helping is MYSELF and that if I ever gave myself the attention that I give to others, maybe I too could defy gravity. It's only when Elphalba stops caring for Nessie and is willing to walk away from Galinda that she figures out how to take care of herself, and that's when the magic happens.

My daughter is ready to defy gravity all on her own - connected by heartstrings forever, I hope, but also ready to fly untethered. She needs to take on her own dreams and responsibilities, to take risks and fly. I'm a place to land until my last breath, and my thrill at watching her become herself is beyond joy, and I hope that my faith in her fuels her faith in herself. She is a main character in my story, beloved and important, teacher and student both. If she needs me, I won't hesitate to fly to her - she is life, love, breath, and there is nothing I wouldn't do for her. But she's got her own power, and she's growing into it, and she doesn't need rescuing most of the time. She needs space to grow, supported by love but not strings.

But anything is possible as I come into my power, and she needs to witness it so she'll know it's awaiting her, too.

I'm ready to create an unconventional life for myself, reinventing myself as a writer in my mid-fifties. Somewhere along the way I noticed that I don't even want to date anymore, and that the men I meet bore me more than they excite me, and so many of them need caring that feels like ropes around my neck and wrists, tethering me to a life that belongs to them, not me. I see people in healthy, happy relationships and I don't think that this is all men or all relationships, but I think, more and more, that it is MY truth.

The liberation of not craving a partner is unexpected and joyful. All that energy is available for other things, now.

Writing stories that matter, allegories and metaphors and dreams, rage and love and hope and disappointment, friendship and mothers and daughters and the occasional lover,  love letters to the world, lanterns to guide the way for those who find themselves on my story roads.

Defying gravity.

My intuition is sharper than I knew was humanly possible - they could study me, I've predicted so many things. Power. This is going to happen, is happening, unfolding as it should.

I've started loving my body more than before, maybe more than ever before. I love how I walk faster than most people, filled with energy. I love that it takes me under the waves, the cold water that deters others drawing me in. I've grown to love the strange white stripe that is such a prominent feature of my hair these days. I love the curve of my hips, and I love that at 55 I do more yoga than ever (I did yoga the past two days - in my "yoga library" downstairs, a lovely clear area of bamboo flooring surrounded by bookcases). I love the painful pull of my chest as I stretch, a reminder of not the cancer but of the strength that got me through it. It's a body filled with power and potential, even after all these decades.

I'm applying that power in new ways, manifesting new versions of my life. I'm ready to defy gravity, to break every rule, to become the unconventional and outspoken old witch in the cottage, the subject of whispers and sought out by just as many as avoid her.

I'm ready to embrace my power.

It's about time.

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.