New Ideas

 I love the rituals of the seasons. I throw myself into pumpkins and cinnamon and knee high brown boots and orange scarves in the fall; the day after Thanksgiving I wrap my rooms in garlands and lights and ornaments and nutcrackers. In the summer I love to wear big floppy hats and gauzy swim cover ups and flip flops while I picnic on a beach.

And in the week after Christmas, I dream, I vision, I plot, I ponder.

This year, the heavy emphasis is on plot. I'm writing 1000 words a day. I've already started, because the stories that were inside me when I was born have been developing my whole life, and at long last, I'm not afraid to tell them. I'm not afraid of the critics, I'm not afraid that I'm stupid, I'm not afraid that what I say won't be read by anyone.

I'm not afraid.

This year, I'm writing my book. I'm on my way, sure of it, grateful. The words are spilling out of me. I love my characters, even my antagonist, who I once thought only filled with hate.

I am becoming (thanks, Michelle Obama) the person I was always supposed to be. At 51, it's better late than never, but I feel a young woman's excitement. I'm standing up a little taller, telling my friends, giggling and giddy. I'm a writer. Now I'm a writer for real, because I'm writing. I cannot control the future and I cannot force a publisher to like what I say, but I know this: I'm writing it anyway. I am convinced that I have something to say that the world needs to hear, and that the world will want to share. That is enough.

***

One thing that I am not doing this year is plotting my weight, my wardrobe, my clothing size. I have no plans to tone my arms, to reduce my belly fat, or to eat ten fruits and vegetables daily. I am not re-joining Weight Watchers (though I'd be lying if I said I hadn't considered it). I am not stepping on the scale and measuring my worth by what that number tells me.

Is this because I've achieved perfection? Is this because my waist is trim, my buttocks and thighs smooth, my arms strong?

No.

This is because I have spent too much time in my life worrying about how I looked, and feeling like I wasn't good enough. I've hidden behind drab clothing when I was bigger, and I've strutted like a peacock (but not a peahen) when I was smaller, but I have felt judged, for better or for worse, by my weight, and I'm done with that.

I like who I am becoming, and my body has carried me this far. It has carried me over mountains, and into lakes and oceans; it has birthed a child, it has held lovers. It has stood up to a grizzly, and to an abuser who was threatening his wife and children with a gun and his rage. It has fought cancer, and cancer treatment, and anaphylaxis, and surgeries gone wrong. It is covered with scars that are ugly yet beautiful. Ugly because they replaced something smooth and clean with ragged and jagged; insanely beautiful because they are marks of my survival.

So this year, for new year's, I vow to love my body. I will continue trying to take care of it - I just got back from a wonderful four mile walk with Chance - because I really do feel better when I eat fruits and veggies, and because when I get outside my soul breathes easier, and because I want to live a long life. But I am not convinced that trying to twist my body into a shape that doesn't quite work, and requires constant vigilance, is right for me.

My energy is going to be spent on loving myself, not chastising myself. This is new.

I am not conventionally beautiful. I was not granted supermodel looks through the genetic lottery; I suppose in that way I am quite ordinary.

But I know how to be beautiful.

I am beautiful when I shriek as I jump into an alpine lake, eyes lit up with excitement and the thrill. I'm beautiful when I help a student to work through a problem, to see themself as whole and good. I'm beautiful when I tell the truth. And sometimes, I'm beautiful when I'm paddle boarding, or when I wear a particular dress and heels.

When I'm living my best life, my eyes light up and shine, and some see me as beautiful because they long for the light.

When I'm tugging at my sweater, holding my belly in, and marking down every bite, I'm not beautiful, and I'm not whole, and it takes so much damn energy that I forget how to focus on the things that matter.

***

This year, I am writing a book, and I am focusing all my energy on the ideas I'm trying to express, and on being the writer that I have always been. I accept my body, and I will treat it well, but this is not a year to focus on a marathon or a goal weight. I will walk, or run. I will do yoga, or paddle board, or hike, or snowshoe. I will eat salads, but also pasta.

This is my way of saying that I'm worth it.

This is my declaration to myself that I do not have to change in order to be worthy. I do not have to become something new, or turn everything upside down or inside out in order to be good.

I'm good.

My sheets are in the wash, the fridge is full of good vegetarian food (because we've been playing at vegetarian for a few months, having meat only rarely, and it actually feels great). I have a stack of books to read. I canceled the Hallmark Movies Now subscription, because it was a good way to rest at the beginning of break, but I'm done with it now.

2020 was hard, but it wasn't all bad for me. I slowed down enough to remember some things I really care about. I fell in love with my home all over again. I got unexpected time with Tessa. I missed my friends, but I also connected with them. I wrote.

I have been hoping to fall in love for years now, and it hasn't happened at all the way I'd hoped it would: I am quite, quite single. But now it seems right that it should be so. There is a thing I haven't done, because I told myself I wasn't good enough, and "not good enough" is not good partner material (how I would loathe a relationship with a man who walked through the world believing that about himself).

This year, I'm falling back in love with myself. Not with caveats, but with tenderness.

I'm a writer. I have something to say. I'm not afraid of putting my stories out there, because I know they have worth. I know I have worth. I'm not afraid to pursue my dreams, and when success comes, I won't be afraid of it. When someone says that I am a late bloomer, I will smile at them and shake my head "no" because I've blossomed many times before; this is just a new kind of bloom. Some will think that this is sudden, but not those who have really known me. I've been working on this my whole life, in one way or another, turning the words over in my head, on scraps of paper, on pixels. The only difference now is that I'm ready.

Welcome, 2021. I've been waiting for you, and I'm ready. Happy new year!

A season for reinvention

It is Christmas Eve morning, and I'm writing from my cozy bed on a frosty morning. I've already had my two cups of coffee - in a Christmas mug, of course! - and I've been thinking about my personal universe in the quiet of the house. The gifts are wrapped, the tree is decorated, the lights are on, the groceries tucked away and awaiting transformation. Today I'll spend a big portion of the day baking, and then tonight we'll indulge in our Christmas Eve tradition of cheese fondue followed by a movie (this year, Tessa picked "Love Actually" which, though problematic, still has its charms).

Not much about this year feels traditional, and so many traditions have been lost: no Greenlake Luminaria Walk (the Pathway of Lights), no Christmas Ships at Lowman Beach or Alki, no holiday carousel or downtown gingerbread houses, no holiday parties. But other traditions endure: friends have dropped off festive cookies, we've watched holiday movies, we sent and received cards. We've driven around looking at lights. We wrapped gifts, and placed them under our tree (and setting that up is a tradition I love). I found a copy of Bing Crosby's Christmas album in a thrift store bin, and we've been listening to the wonderful crackle of a vinyl White Christmas.

I know how lucky I am. Others have it much worse.

This year of online school - as a student for Tessa, and as a teacher for me - has been challenging, painful, difficult, frustrating, limiting. But at the same time, it's been wonderful. We've had a chance to slow down, to hit the reset button.

I love the reset button.

I try to reset twice a year: once at New Year's, when everyone is doing it, and once in late August, as I prepare for the school year (the "real" new year in a teacher's life). I love vision boards (note: my vision board last year said "More Snow Days" and I am quite amused that the entire year turned into a snow day...!), journal writing, and putting the house in order (out with the old!) in preparation for new visions. (I'm not sure what it is about cleaning a closet and taking a trip to Goodwill that is so satisfying, but it is, and the empty spaces make me feel refreshed and focused.)

I've hit reset a few times in life, too. When I went to college despite my parents' ambivalence, when I left Microsoft to get my masters and become a teacher, when I became a stay at home mom, when I got divorced and re-entered the workforce, and when I became a teacher again... all of these were resets. And I'm due for another reset, I think, and I'm relishing it, planning it, savoring the prospect.

So here we are, on the cusp of a new year, and on the cusp of getting vaccinated against covid, and on the cusp of re-entry to the world of work, school, and more. The whole world will reset - in a few months, or in a year, the reset is inevitable. But what will it look like? Will it be an attempted return to normal, or will it look utterly different? Can we even plan for it, or will life surprise us (again)?

I can't predict the world, and my ability to predict my own life is limited (so much happens that is outside of the plan!), but I am so grateful for the times I hit reset in the past, and I'm excited that I get another opportunity to do so. Each time I've hit reset I've moved closer to my truth, and this will be no exception. I can't control it all, but I can control some things, and create the life that I crave.

I only have two ideas this year. Oh, I have lots of ideas really - travel, love, museums and plays, concerts, camping, hiking, snow shoeing, cabins - but I've boiled it down to two things I really care about:

1) Buy nothing new.

2) Write the book.

The details:

I have been self-medicating through online shopping. (There, I said it.) I'm not proud of this - I feel sheepish and wasteful. I haven't bought anything too expensive, but I've bought unnecessary things. I've purchased too many sundresses, too many sweaters, too many shoes. While making jewelry is a wonderful new hobby, we have so many charms that we'll never use them all - it's a bit over the top. There have been kitchen gadgets (did I really need butter warmers and a six pack of crab crackers AND seafood scissors? - don't answer, I already know!), books I still haven't read. I have enough throw blankets to cover the neighborhood. I have so many picnic things that I could host the neighborhood at the park. It's too much.

I don't need anything. My home is filled with all of the comforts: there are comfortable chairs, soft sheets, cupboards full of dishes. When I cook, I use wooden cutting boards in a variety of sizes, with just the right knife: I place things in just the right size bowls for mis en place, and enough dishes to entertain a crowd. I have the right coat for the right event. I have camping equipment, ski gear, paddle boards, and (new!) snowshoes. I work at a stand-sit desk, in an office with a good little printer, cups full of pens. The refrigerator is always stuffed. Their is a bin filled with manicure supplies - polish and emery boards, cotton pads and remover. There is a games cupboard filled with board games. There are so many books, everywhere. My closet is so stuffed that it overflows into the guest room closet.

We lack for nothing important. We are so, so lucky to have these comforts, but it strikes me that I have too many comforts, and that managing them is a slight burden, and that my guilt that I am not living my values (I really do believe in simplicity, ethically sourced items, and avoiding excess) is greater than my joy in the items themselves.

So the new idea for 2021 is to buy nothing new. The only things we will buy will be consumables (food, of course, but also batteries, light bulbs, cleaning supplies, etc.) and thrifted items. If something wears out, we'll try to replace it with something used. (I did inventory of socks and underwear, and we're all set. Not all things are better used!) Tessa and I love thrifting, so we can find fun novelty items there: I love finding some cool old vinyl, a great serving platter, a wonderful basket, or some other small treasure. My favorite bookstore (Pegasus) has used books. I get a thrill finding the perfect cashmere sweater for $10 - there is no way I'm going to spend $200 on a sweater! - and I love the idea that I'm not contributing to workers in terrible conditions making clothes for pittance wages. 

I get no such thrills from Amazon, and the items are never quite right. (Realizing that the red dress was a hideous shade of semi-neon red, not a warm rich red, I was suitably punished by standing in line for a very long time at the UPS store so that I could return it. Had I been in the store, I never would have bought it - the fabric was cheap, the color was wrong. I had plenty of time to reflect upon my foolishness while in that line.)

Some of this is a wise financial decision - I've been wasteful, and my bank balance hurts when I do that. Some of this is a wise environmental decision - over consumption hurts our planet. Some of this is a wise soul decision - I am not my purchases, and when I focus my attention on Amazon.com then I'm not paying attention to what matters in my life. I can do better. I must do better!

Mostly, it's a soul decision. If I'm going to sit in front of my computer, it should be to compose a warm email to a friend. or to write my stories.

So: in 2021, I buy nothing new. Fun money can be spent on travel, or concerts, or entertaining, or plays and movies. It is a reminder to myself: I have enough. I am enough. I am focused elsewhere.

And speaking of focused elsewhere: I am focused on writing.

2) I am writing my book.

I am so sure of this. I know what I want to say, and I know why. This is the story that has been bubbling in me my whole life. This is a thing I must say. I know who the characters are, I know what they must endure, and I know the subtleties of their mistakes and their joys. It is time to bring them to life. I hope - dare I say, I believe! - that the world will want to read my story, that there is something beautiful and pure in it that will resonate with others. I hope that this will launch my writing career. (Fantasy: I work part time as a teacher. I still love teaching, but wouldn't it be extraordinary if I could do a 0.6 and get benefits and have connection, but still have time to write?!)

But it's okay if that's not what happens. I'm not writing this so I will get fame or fortune. I'm writing this because it is my soul's work to write this, so I have to do it. It is my truth, told in fiction, and I'm excited by it more than I'm nervous.

2021 is sure to be filled with surprises, some of them wonderful, some of them tragic. My beloved daughter is so unsure of her next steps, I worry for her. I don't know what the future holds for my own health, or if I will ever find the kind of love that I know exists for some people but not yet for me. I do not know if the world will reopen so that I can see Shakespeare in the Park or get on a plane or see Alicia Keys live in concert. There is a lot that I do not know.

But I know that I can write, so I'm going to write. And I know that I can focus on things bigger and better than trying to buy my happiness. I know that I'm filled with adventure, and hope, and possibility.

This year when the ball drops, I won't be there to see it, and I'm pretty sure that the fireworks will be from some other year gone by, and that my evening will be solo or with one slightly cranky teenage girl. That's okay. Next year is filled with promise, and I'm ready to keep my promises to myself and see how it changes everything.

I've hit reset before and reaped the rewards, so I know that it is within me to do it again. I can't wait for 2021!

Quarantine: The New Normal

 It's 2:31pm on a Friday. After showering this morning, I dressed in sweatpants, a t-shirt, a hoodie, and slippers. I put on earrings - one of the many pairs that I have made since quarantine started - and padded downstairs, coffee in hand.

Another day, similar to so many that came before it over the last seven months.

I try not to dress in sweats that often - something about "dress for success!" lessons of the 1980s apparently stuck with me. When I wear sweats, I know I've given up, and that all hope is lost of any sense of normalcy: I wouldn't teach in sweats on a regular school day - the idea wouldn't occur to me. (Not that I dress up a lot, but cotton dresses, jeans and sweaters, the occasional blouse and skirt with boots, are all regular items in my teaching wardrobe.

But I digress, as I do.

Every day bleeds into the next, a mad blur of staring at the computer and sleeping and cooking and dimly watching the news scroll past my phone, terrible idea after horrible happening after tragedy after hideous unkindnesses. The details of racial injustice, disease, missing children and/or parents at the border,death, lies fly by, one outrageous idea after the next, each one in turn both shocking and, in this strange version of reality, expected.

I watch television, look at books, my mind unfocused. I make soup, or bread, or bake. I move the broom or the lawn mower. I walk the dog (not nearly as frequently as I should). I promise myself to do yoga.

I teach pixels, not people. Most of my students appear only as dots, much less often as voices, and far less often as images.

The picnics of summer have slipped away. Paddle boarding is in the past.

Time feels flexible, dragging on endlessly, then speeding up until suddenly a month has whipped past.

***

The hardest part is not knowing when things will change. The hardest part is realizing that it's out of my control. The hardest part is feeling lonely. The hardest part is helping Tessa to manage her feelings, just about being a teenager, but also her own uncertainty in quarantine.

There are a lot of hard parts.

*** 

The good parts exist. I love my home, and I am comfortable and safe here. I have a real office, and so does Tessa, so we're not too underfoot for each other. Our pets make us laugh. There is unlimited food, books, music, movies. There are cozy clothes, warm blankets, enough tea for an army. Tessa and I sometimes laugh. Making jewelry is fun, and I'm writing again. I have many who love me, even if I can't see them face to face.

***

It is a small life, right now. 

It will be small for a while longer.

It's time to learn how to make the best of it.

Women's Suffrage, Women's Rights, and Election 2020

 We are just days away from election day in the US, and our national anxiety is spiraling out of control. I am trying to remember, to remind myself, that in Dr. Martin Luther King's words, "the moral arc of the universe is long, but it bends toward justice" and that we are in the long part right now. That doesn't mean we won't get there, but right now, we're in the struggle part, not the justice part. It would be easy to lose sight of hope because when in the midst of the struggle, justice seems so far removed... but now is not the time to give up.

Ever since I've been old enough to form opinions, I have a political perspective. I started off by just parroting my parents' views, by asking questions about what "we" thought, and accepting what I was told at face value. This is a somewhat peaceful way to exist: there was no angst, no worry, no doubt. I had faith that my parents knew what was best, and so I would agree with them always.

It will come as no shock to anyone who has ever been a teenager that this fell apart.

One time (for it was a process), it fell apart in English class in high school. My teacher assigned Judy Brady's "I want a wife" essay, and I thought, "MY MOTHER NEEDS A WIFE!" I grew up in a household where my father spent his mornings moaning "How can I get dressed if I don't have socks? (MOM'S NAME) WHERE ARE MY SOCKS?" because she laid out his clothes every day for him to get dressed; never mind that his drawer was full of socks only two feet away from the bed, and he was a grown man perfectly capable of opening that drawer. I grew up in a household where, to the best of my recollection, my father only cooked one meal in my entire childhood (it was horrible: the recipe called for a tablespoon of capers, but he used the whole bottle of them plus their juice; my mother told us that we were grounded if we said one negative thing about it).

When I read Brady's essay and we explored the ideas in class, my world burst open. My peers found it funny and silly, because their families weren't so backwards thinking. It dawned on me that not every marriage was like my parents' marriage, and that there were other ways for me, a woman, to live. 

I ran home, excitedly pulled the essay out of my backpack, and said, "MOM! Look! You need a wife!" I was one hundred percent convinced that when she read it, she would have an epiphany about her sexist marriage (I was pretty sure she didn't like the "WHERE ARE MY SOCKS?!" conversation every day either, and convinced as well that she didn't put out the socks as she was supposed to because it was her small rebellion). I thought about my mother rising up to face my father, saying "You're a grown man. Open the drawer yourself!" and I thought "My mother is free to become a writer, as she dreamed!" and that, her mind blown by Brady, everything would be different.

Ahhh, youth. I was a fool.

My mother was offended, not amused or inspired. She defended her marriage; she defended her life. She told me how lucky she was to have my father, how they took care of each other. (She sometimes cried at his treatment of her, and she often complained about him to me, but at the sight of the Brady essay she forgot those things.)

***

Being raised by people who think that "feminist" is a dirty word has certainly informed me that not everyone will agree with my politics, and it has also informed me about how much work we have to do to get to womens equality. (Where, oh where, is the E.R.A.?!) I can hardly believe that I'm 51 years old in modern America, and women are still grasping at "firsts" and at full admission to society. When Brock Turner is let off with a scolding, when Brett Kavanagh is believed over Christine Blasey Ford, when women represent so few at the highest levels of government and business, when "the canon" is filled with white men, and when the gender pay gap prevails... I know why I must be feminist. And when my parents scoff at such "stupid" and "illogical" viewpoints, I know that we've got a long way to go.

It's wearying.

I'm weary.

How can it be that I'm 51 years old, that I read Brady's essay in when I was still sweet 16, and that so much of it is still true? In the COVID pandemic, women have started falling apart as they work their full time jobs from home, yet somehow are expected to continue with childcare, cooking, and cleaning so their husbands can work?

When presidential nominee Trump was recorded with the infamous "grab 'em by the pussy" talk, I thought, "Okay, that's it - he's done. Every woman in America will be as disgusted as I am."

Wrong again, but this time I can't blame youth. And it's women just like me who have supported him: white, middle aged women are one of his strongest demographics. Don't they realize that what he said wasn't funny, it was dangerous? Don't they realize that rape culture isn't just a phrase, it is the reality for 1 in 4 women? Aren't they...disgusted?

But they forgave. They have been so soaked in the world of misogyny that they don't even realize their own pain, they accept it as just the way things are.

And so here we are.

Some days, it seems unmanageable, unbearable, untenable, and un****ingbelievable.

But then I remember.

I remember that when my grandmother was born, she couldn't vote because of her gender...and now she can vote.

I remember that when I was born, I couldn't get my own mortgage because of my gender.

I remember that when I was born, there were different job listings for men and women in the classifieds.

I remember that we've had progress with the gender pay gap, though it's nowhere near where I want it to be (equal - the goal is to be equal).

And then I remember Abigail Adams.

***

As her husband helped to form The Declaration of Indpendence, declaring that "all men are created equal," she wrote to him to "remember the ladies" - and we know, of course, that he did not.

That letter was written in 1776, and it is a reasonable and cogent argument as to why women's rights mattered, too, but despite their loving relationship, and despite the anger at tyrants who stole natural rights from people, Abigail Adams died without seeing progress.

Women's suffrage is said to have begun in earnest in 1840, with Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Lucretia Mott. Stanton died in 1902, 18 years before women received the right to vote; Mott died in 1880, a full 40 years before women received the right to vote. The women who laid the foundation for women's rights in America were dead and gone before they ever saw the benefit of those rights.

I know that I'm just a baby in the women's rights journey. I know that the women before me fought harder, against worse odds. Shirley Chisholm argued for the Equal Rights Amendment in 1970, when I was still a baby; she died without seeing it ratified, and still we wait.

***

I'm frustrated, and weary, and disappointed. At about 51% of the population, women are considered a minority interest, and in the workplace and in our own homes, we have to fight to be heard, to not have to work twice as hard. For women of color, it's significantly worse: the gender pay gap is worse, employment statistics are worse; discrimination is worse. Much worse.

It is cause for anger, fear, and frustration.

But it's not cause to give up.

***

My grandma had no control over her own life, because she had no access to education as a girl, and because society told her that she had to do what her husband told her to do. She gained the right to vote, but she never saw people who looked like her hold public office.

It's different for me. I had to fight hard (against my parents' wishes for me) to get an education, but I did get that education, and as a result I have a rewarding career. Both of my congressmen are women; my representative is a woman. I have voted for a female U.S. President, and I've voted for a female U.S. Vice President. My name is the only name on the deed to my car, and on my mortgage, and on my credit card. When I went to college, my granny was proud of me. She saw how different my life was from hers, and she cheered for me. I missed her funeral because I had to take a final exam (I was able to show up for the gathering afterwards), and I know she understood, even though it broke my heart. I had to fight to get the life never offered to her.

***

As election 2020 nears, and we find out who holds the fate of not just our nation but of our day to day lives, it's hard for me not to spin out of control with fear and nausea. Will my daughter be granted autonomy over her own body? Will my rights ever be declared? Will men feel authorized to grab 'em by the pussy, or will they know that they will be held accountable?

Women's rights are far from the only thing on the ballot, and far from the only thing I care about, but they're what I'm thinking of today.

I'm thinking of Abigail Adams, and how she knew that she deserved more, but she never lived to see her rights come to fruition. I'm thinking about Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Lucretia Mott, and how they never got to cast a vote. I'm thinking how hopeless they must have felt on their deathbeds, wondering why all of their hard work had not paid off, why their dreams did not come true.

And yet, their work was not fruitless.

Here I am, centuries later, and I have the right to demand more than the rights that I am given, even when I have so many more rights than they did. I have the right to be angry that I am not declared and equal, and I have the right to vote for a woman as Vice President.

Progress is so slow that it hurts, but it is progress.

Today, as I wonder if America will vote to encourage racial, gender, and sexual equality, or to deny rights to others, I take comfort in knowing that even when we can't see progress happening, even when it seems like progress is impossibly slow, it is inevitable that progress WILL happen.

We will make it. I hope it's soon - on Tuesday - that the next steps of progress are made, but today I comfort myself with the knowledge that progress WILL happen, sooner or later.

I voted for "sooner."

A hard week

 I'm having a hard week.

I hate to admit that, because I like to think that I am the very model of a role model for optimism, a badass with a smile.

Not today.

Quarantine is getting really, really old - but more than that, it's getting lonely.

I'm behind at work.

I'm sick, and so is Tessa. We got COVID testing today. I expect it to be negative, but negative or positive, we don't feel well, and it sucks.

Last week I had identity theft (and the accompanying police reports, bank account changes, and more - who knew how time consuming identity theft was!).

And my fear over the election feels overwhelming in a way that I've never experienced before.

There is too much in the world right now that feels uncertain, strange, and deeply troubling. There is economic uncertainty - a phrase that sounds academic more than the reality, because the reality is that little phrase means some kids are going hungry, some mothers are looking at piles of pink envelopes that they are afraid to open, some fathers are pretending that they're okay even though they're trying not to vomit, some seniors are sitting in the cold. Businesses that were once vibrant are now gone, or holding on by a thread.

And this is contrasted by incredible financial gains from Microsoft, Amazon, and a handful of others. I cannot wrap my head around the wealth of someone like Jeff Bezos in a world where a few miles from him (or, likely, much closer than that) people are hardly holding on.

It's so hard for me to wrap my head around the president of the USA saying that it's all under control, that we've turned the corner with coronavirus when over 225,000 have died and we are experiencing record numbers of new diagnoses every day. (Waiting to see if my number will be added to the 8.8+ million doesn't help.)

I can't wrap my head around it.

As I wait to find out if our country values compassion over belligerence, integrity over bluster, facts over lies, leadership over rage, I wonder how I will make it through the next week. As I wait to hear if Americans care more about protecting people of color, or believing some lie that anti-racism is anti-American, I feel panicked. As I wait to see if Americans still believe that a man with a host of credible rape allegations is fit to be President, I tremble at the thought of what that means for myself, and my daughter. I think about my LGBTQ friends, and how they wonder if their marriages will be honored.

It's all on the line.

Personally, I'm not at my best. I'm getting lonely, because pixels aren't people, even though I know I'm surrounded by people who care about me as much as I care about them. Everything seems harder lately. I take some small comfort in knowing that I'm not alone, that I'm not the only one struggling, that so many of us feel like that - but then I think "how on earth can we all go around feeling like THIS?!" because it seems too much, too hard to be true. Personally, I have a sore throat, muscle aches, and I woke up coughing in the night, and I think it's just some random fall crud, but there's always the possibility that somehow I have managed to pick up COVID at the grocery store or some-such. 

I'm tired. I'm weary of so much struggle, and then I feel guilty because I have it so much easier than so many other people: my work is stable, I have a wonderful comfortable home, I have friends who love me. I have hope that one day it will get better.

I hope that my test result is negative for covid, and that as I start to feel better, I feel my old energy and optimism return. I hope that next Tuesday we'll watch the returns come in, and I will cry tears of happiness at the hope that this nation can rebuild, and cement in stone the inalienable rights which belong to all of us, not just some of us. I hope that I can catch up, hit my deadlines, and do right by all of my students.

I hope.

If I have covid, I hope that it's not a bad case.

If this country's blood runs red, not blue, I hope that I have misunderstood what that means, and that justice will prevail in the end.

I hope that I am using my life wisely to help others through a hard time.

I hope.

***

Too often, when things are rough, we tell ourselves that we're doing it wrong, that we have to work harder at feeling better. Well, that's not what I'm telling myself right now.

I feel terrible right now because in this moment things feel pretty terrible.

Yes, they're worse for some, but they're nowhere as good as they can be, and that's disappointing.

I'm not doing it wrong. I'm human, and sometimes humans struggle, and I'm struggling. There is no shame in struggle.

It's a hard week. I am miserable with how hard it is, and I also feel hope. This is what it is to be human: it's a mixture of the good and the painful, the wonder and the confusion. I'm a hot mess, and I've got it all together, depending on the minute, the day, the year.

There is nothing to do, but keep going. I won't figure it all out, but I'll figure out bits of it. Much of it is out of my control but I will control what I can (for example, I did vote, but I can't control the outcome). Some of the news will be great, some of it will be troubling, and some of it I will misinterpret.

***

Yesterday the dog needed a walk, and so after work I dragged myself out of the house to get us both some exercise. The sky was blue, the leaves on the trees were filled with golden light, and it was beautiful. It made me think about the seasons, and how grateful I am to have seasons to remind me that even though soon the skies will be leaden, the branches bare and dark, the days short. It will rain, and rain, and rain, and it will feel like it's dark most of the time (because it is)...even though all that is true, and predictable, I can also predict cherry blossoms, and daffodils, and summer days with picnics and ocean swims and paddle boarding. It's not supposed to be clear and dry in Seattle all the time, and I love having seasons, even though some are easier than others. The hard days make the lovely days all the lovelier, and I appreciate the goodness in my life because I know what hard days are like.

Cancer. Divorce. Some really dark, hard days, when I didn't think I had what it took to get to the other side, and when I wondered if the other side actually contained any happiness. I know hard days, intimately. They are old friends.

And I know joy. I'm better at joy than most people: the joy I take in the small joys is exponential because I can compare them to my lows. I know how it could be, and when it's better than that, I'm overwhelmed with gratitude. When I am picnicking with a friend, I know I could be in a chemo chair. When I'm walking in the woods, I know I could be talking to a divorce mediator. When I'm coaching a student through an English paper, I know that I could be wondering how to find my career path (which is much worse than it sounds - I was adrift for a while).

So - right now it's bad. It's not as bad as cancer and divorce, although it does feel lonelier due to quarantine. There is too much that is wrong, but there is right, too.

It's just a bad day, a bad week, a bad month. And this too shall pass. It won't stay like this forever.

Just a bad week.

***

Here's a song that got me through chemo; I listened on repeat. Maybe it'll help me (or you) again today.

https://youtu.be/QuR6ACrbC70

Bad Day, Daniel Powter.

***

How do you get through bad days? Are you struggling right now, too?

New-old-new body

My body has been through the wringer.

Cancer treatment was brutal. Not only did I need double mastectomies, a node dissection, a port (and its removal) to do some incredibly nasty chemo (and I was allergic to chemo so went into anaphylactic shock!), some pretty intense surgical biopsies, and a salpingo oopharectomy, I also had countless reconstruction surgeries. When I did radiation, I got third degree burns and had to go into intensive wound management. I took drugs that nearly crippled me; in the morning when I attempted to stand, my legs would buckle until I caught myself; I couldn't chop a carrot or sign my name because my hands hurt so much.

Ugly.

But along with the ugliness, there was another ugly: from a combination of the chemo steroids and the carb cravings, I gained weight. By the time chemo was done, I needed to lose 40 pounds - and I did! I joined Weight Watchers fresh out of chemo, and by the time I was done with radiation and a few more surgeries, I had gone down to my lowest adult weight. I was wearing size 4 clothes for the first (only!) time in my life, and people actually said "you're too skinny!" In hindsight, they might have been right, but not by too much.

From about 2006-2015 I kept up my good habits of diet and exercise. I did yoga sometimes, and I ran and hiked and walked a lot. From 2015-2017 my weight crept up a bit, but still in my comfort range.

But when I started teaching, I was so tired and overwhelmed that I let my good habits completely fall to the wayside. I started eating all of the staff room treats, sharing the treats that I brought for the students, and eating too much take-out because I was too tired to cook. I stopped exercising.

This January, I went in for my annual blood work, and I was shocked when I stood on the scale: it registered a number that I hadn't witnessed since my third trimester of pregnancy! As if that wasn't shock enough, my blood work came back with high cholesterol. It stung: I fought so hard to get my health back from cancer, and now I had to worry about heart attacks or strokes?!

I should have known. When I looked in the mirror, I didn't recognize what I saw. I saw pictures of myself and thought "SURELY I'm not that big?" even though I was buying larger clothes and my old clothes didn't fit. Even though my knees creaked on stairs, even though I had no energy, even though my face had changed shape. I should have known.

I knew what I had to do, so I immediately re-joined Weight Watchers the same day I got the results. I told my doctor that is what I was doing, and she was pleased: it's a program known for its health benefits, relying on balance and reason rather than trends and deprivation.

I joined on 2/2, and today, almost three months later, I'm down exactly 21 pounds.

21 pounds in just under three months is two things:
1. Not that remarkable. People can lose weight a LOT faster: if you look at The Biggest Loser, they might lose that much in a week or two.
2. Extraordinary. My body is transformed...is transforming still.

I lost on average less than two pounds per week this whole time, and I couldn't be happier about that. Why? Well, while I'd clearly like to be my ideal weight (I'm not there yet) as fast as possible, what I really want is to be healthy, and to pick up a plan to be healthy for the rest of my (hopefully long) life. Last time I lost weight, I did so quickly, and I did it by obsessing over every bite, and by being hungry all the time. Well, I like food, and I hate being hungry, so I wasn't going to do that again. At the pace I'm going now, I'm still eating contraband like brownies, bread with butter, and coq au vin. I've had take out, burgers, and pizza. I can eat like this for the rest of my life because NO food is off limits, and I'm thrilled about that.

How am I losing weight, then? Well, though I have eaten all of the fattening foods on that list, I don't eat them all the time, and I eat them in moderation. What an unsexy thing! No "get skinny fast!" and no "instant results!" There is no pill that is doing the work for me, no magic food that melts the pounds away. There is, instead, a constant series of choices: if I have this now, I can't have that later. If I want that really fattening food, I'll have to pare back on this meal, and that one. I'm eating far more fruits and veggies, and I've switched from white rice to brown, from plain pasta to brown rice or whole wheat pasta. I've switched from chicken thighs to chicken breasts, from ground beef to ground chicken or turkey, from pork sausage to chicken sausage. I'm eating a lot of fruit for snacks. I eat a lot less cheese.

And I'm happy.

21 pounds is a LOT of weight. Picture a pound of butter, those four sticks in a box: I've lost 21 boxes worth. That's crazy! Every part of me is different: my face has changed feet, and (much to my surprise) I've lost a half size in my shoes! (My slip on shoes no longer fit. My lace up or buckle shoes have gone to tighter settings.) I pulled clothes out of the back of the closet that I haven't worn in years - and they fit again! Clothes that I wore all year to school are now in the donation bin. And the shorts from last summer that barely buttoned because they were so tight? I've had to give them away because they're too big! (Craziest yet, I'm not done. While my BMI is back in healthy range, my squishy stomach is letting me know there is still work to be done, and that's okay. I'm on it!)

My knees don't creak as much. I'm sleeping better.

I don't know if my cholesterol is falling, but statistically, just losing 5% of one's weight is enough to lower cholesterol, and I've lost 12% so far. I was supposed to go back to the doctor next month to have my bloodwork re-done, but since I fear the doctor's office due to sick patients, I cancelled until further notice. I already know it's going to be better: how could it not? I look forward to seeing the results.

But the thing that surprised me, although I don't know that it should have, is that I am enjoying feeling attractive again. I pride myself on not being too vain, valuing substance over style, and I'll be like that until my dying day....but it's not all or nothing. I walk with a little more bounce in my step now. I enjoy getting dressed (even though there's nowhere to go!). I feel - dare I say it? - pretty.

I like it.

I deserve to feel good, and I am SO TIRED OF FEELING BAD.

Life is messy and complicated. My father is ashamed of me, my mother incapable of speaking up for me, and I've recognized how much that is a part of me. I think I was beginning to accept that feeling bad was just part of the deal, and my weight might have been my way of embracing it. Just typing that sentence makes me feel so sad for myself, and for what I've lost, and for what could have been and isn't.

And then there is the world gone mad that is coronavirus, and working from home, and social isolating, and the uncertainty of it all.

But I am more excited for what is ahead than I am sad for what is behind.

My new body is still my old body: it is the one I was born with, and the one that has been through transformation after transformation. It is the body that grew a human and then, impossibly, gave birth on Pitocin and through pre-eclampsia without meds, and that body discovered the super-human strength within. It is the body that was maimed, poisoned, burned during chemo, but then rose up again to run half marathons. It is a body that has grown, and shrunk, and grown again - but it is still elastic, still capable of shrinking to a size more becoming.

I am not done becoming who I am meant to be.

I am fifty years old, but I feel that I learn lessons every five minutes, and often it strikes me that everyone else learned these lessons years before and that I'm the last one to arrive to them... but then I realize that no, we're all learning lessons, and I'm ahead on some and behind on others, and that is how it is for 99% of us.

Right now, I'm learning that I crave a beautiful body that is filled with strength, and that having such a body makes me feel confident and beautiful, and I deserve that. I'm learning that my appearance matters to me more than I thought it did. I'm learning that I can reshape myself, not only emotionally but also physically, again and again, and that sometimes my physical and emotional states are tied to one another. My layers of fat were not protective, as I'd hoped: they were a trap that held me still, prevented me from becoming who I want to be.

Now, for those fat-acceptance folks out there: you go, girls! I'm glad you're happy. But this isn't about that. This is about me not being healthy, and embracing health, and finding the joy that comes with that health.

And it's about feeling beautiful. Maybe others feel good at a high BMI, but here's the truth: I don't.

I am thrilled to get this body back, to re-inhabit my skin in this way.

I bought a bikini, and a paddle board. I intend to spend as much of the summer as humanly possible out on the water, gently gliding over the waves. Maybe sometimes I'll even picnic out there, or read a book out there. I'll explore the coastline of West Seattle, free and strong. I hope to backpack too - and anyone who has backpacked knows that you'd go to a great deal of trouble to avoid carrying an extra five pounds, so losing 21 pounds not out of my pack but off my body will make all the difference in the world. There is no feeling in the world like climbing to a beautiful place with an alpine lake, setting up a tent, and then diving into icy cold waters on a hot day. The water washes away the trail's dust, reinvigorates the soul, and fills me with a joy that is hard to come by on an ordinary day.

I want that again.

And, despite the fact that it's coronavirus quarantines and so I deleted my dating app (I'm not risking my life to meet a stranger!), I think I'm just that much closer to being ready for love. Having some confidence about my appearance is certainly helpful, but I honestly believe that there are changes happening within that are bigger than the changes on the outside.

I deserve to feel great. I'm willing to put in the work. I believe in myself and my ability to make progress, to change, to become a new person.

I believe that I'm still the little girl who was once filled with possibility and promise, before the world gave her messages about being enough, or being someone who would cause shame in a father.

I am going back to who I am, old and new, all at once. I believe in do-overs, I believe in fresh starts, and I believe in learning and growth. As my body continues to shrink to the size it is meant to be, I feel myself growing.

The best is yet to come.

Longing

Today is day 46 (?) of quarantine in our house.

And I am filled with longing.

I long to hear my daughter and her friends in our basement, laughing and talking as they eat pizza and popcorn and home made brownies, watching a movie but really just being together.

I long to go on a long walk with a friend, winding up at my house for a healthy lunch.

I long to hop on a bus downtown to go to a movie, a museum, a lunch date.

I long to go on a date, to dress up just a little (sundress season is nearly here!) and to feel that little spark of excitement as I think, "oh - maybe?"

I long to take my market basket on a Sunday to the farmer's market. I stop at Bakery Nouveau for a treat (their raspberry croissants are otherworldly, perhaps my all time favorite food), pick up my market goodies (greens and fruits, particularly June strawberries), then pop in to Pegasus Books to find a treasure to read. My final stop is Easy Street, where I go upstairs to flip through their "just arrived" used records, finding funny or wonderful treasures like John Denver, Ella Fitzgerald, Linda Rondstadt, or Queen. Sometimes I do this activity solo, but I'm never alone, because I run into neighbors and friends, and we stop and visit and share tips about what the farmers are selling, and maybe we grab a coffee together.

I miss the dog park almost as much as Chance does. When the world isn't gone mad, we go weekly. He swims in the lake, and I stand around talking to other dog owners, and generally soaking up the good will of those joyful dogs running at mad speeds and splashing and stealing one another's balls.

I want to go on a ferry to a nearby destination. I want to sit out on the deck, sun on my face, chatting with a friend, admiring the views, wind in my hair. I want to wander through a small town.

I long to visit my favorite bookstores, picking up books and putting them down again, getting recommendations from staff, chatting quietly with the people who say, "oh that's a good one!"

I long to meet my friends at an outdoor concert - at Hiawatha park, where I never know if I'll like the music but I always love the vibe; or a ZooTunes or Chateau Ste. Michelle concert, where we pack gourmet picnics and spend an hour or two before the concert chatting and laughing and drinking wine before the concert begins, and we dance and clap and laugh.

I long to go to the Seattle Art Museum, taking in the beauty and the strangeness.

And most of all, I long to fill my house with friends. I long to host a game night: we do potluck, and the teenagers come too and they love it as much as the adults do. I long to host a special dinner, the kind where I cook all day, and get the house shining and tidy, and put flowers on the table, and light candles. I long to have backyard hangouts where we laugh and talk and share food and come in and out of the house.

I want to have a murder mystery party.

I want to sit in a restaurant and take my time, ordering new dishes, chatting with a friend.

I want to go to plays, movies, Broadway shows. I want to get dressed up, and go with a friend or a date or Tessa.

This weekend, I'm going to two birthday parties where we drive by in cars, and I'm going to a wedding on Zoom. I'm going to a baby shower next week on Zoom. I don't want to drive by parties, I long to go inside. I don't want to look at my computer, I want to hug my friends and sit with them.

I want to go to my yoga class. I want to listen to the music, and the gentle breaths of other students, and be in the dim lighting. At the end, after savasana, I want to sit in lotus and chant "om" with the other students, filled with the beauty of the practice.

I want to go to Alki for so many things. I want to sit in a chair and read, I want to swim and stand up paddle board, to meet my friends for happy hour at Cactus, to have a bonfire on the beach and sit on the logs under the stars.

I want to try an escape room.

I want to visit neighborhoods - Wallingford, Fremont, Ballard, Columbia City, Beacon Hill, Capital Hill, the I.D. - and poke around little shops, try out new restaurants.

I want to spend hours browsing at Elliott Bay or Pegasus or Paper Boat or a bookstore I've never heard of.

I want to rent a cabin in the San Juans.

I want to go camping, and sit in on ranger talks, and around campfires with other folks.

I want to go whale watching from kayaks with friends.

I want to get my hair cut, a pedicure, and (ahem) ready for bikini season with waxing.

I want to bring my friends birthday cakes and hugs.

I long to visit someone dear to me who was recently in the hospital.

I want to teach my students IN PERSON AT SCHOOL. Oh, how I long for that!

***

So much longing. It will happen again. But right now - just longing.

I do see the half full part of the glass. I'm comfortable and safe at home. We're eating better than ever. I'm exercising midday. I have time to do hobbies like jewelry making.

But I still long for more.

Quarantine Day 41ish. So sad.

I got off work on March 13th, so I'm using that as my "start of quarantine day" but really, for two weeks before then we canceled everything. It feels like we've been quarantining forever, but I know we're just getting started.

And I'm sad.

My favorite parts of my job are gone and I find myself sitting in front of my computer staring blankly, unmotivated and unhappy.

My daughter is crabby. I don't blame her, but still, crabby roommates/children are not the best company.

I feel lonely. Not alone, lonely. I HATE THIS FEELING.

I am at a loss as to how to "fix" myself, but I'm trying. I've been appreciating some of the down time - bread baking, reading cookbooks, making jewelry. But it's not enough.

Next up: I need to dream again. I'm living day to day, but it feels like the future is just one big confusion, a murky muddiness that makes me want to burst into tears. So, I'm trying to look ahead to things that I *can* do, things that I want to do, things that aren't a compromise.

With this in mind, I just ordered a pair of stand up paddle boards and accessories for Tessa and I. I ordered a bikini - optimistic, perhaps, but I did it! - and board shorts and a rash guard for myself, and told Tessa to pick out her own. I got a couple of inexpensive dry bags, and some personal flotation devices: two of the more expensive inflatable waist belt ones, and two of the "normal" and less expensive padded vest ones. My thought is that when it's cold out, the vests will keep us warm, and when it's hot and sunny we'll be delighted to have the less cumbersome waist belts on.

I'm fantasizing about them.

They should arrive before Memorial Day Weekend, and I'm envisioning packing lunches and water bottles, and heading to Lowman Beach or Mee Kwa Mooks and having our inaugural rides. I'm picturing looking cute, and I'm picturing selfies with my beautiful daughter. I'm picturing tipping and trying not to fall in, laughing until our stomachs hurt. I'm picturing paddling together, getting the hang of it, and then Tessa pulling ahead of me, lost in her own thoughts, enjoying being on the water and getting swept up into the athleticism of it, the peace of it, the joy of being on the sea.

I'm also picturing going out by myself, lost in my own thoughts, feeling strong and confident.

I've wanted to get kayaks or paddle boards for years, and I've always found reasons not to do it, mostly financial (I don't need to spend hundreds of dollars on frivolous items). But right now? Basically, I decided to say "screw it!" Our world is so small, inside our house, with furtive trips to the grocery store and little more. I was talking to Tessa about our sadness, and how we needed to find things to dream about, and ways to do more than simply pass the time and wait this out.

I decided that SUP was my answer.

I picked SUP because I love, love, love being out on the water, and I'm certainly not about to buy a yacht (or even a smaller boat). I debated about kayaking, but kayaks are heavier, and I would need a car rack, and I'd need to be able to get it on and off my car; additionally, they're more expensive.

I found SUPs that are inflatable, for a relatively good price, with lots of great reviews. They come in a backpack, so that I can even walk to Lowman Beach carrying it if I choose to, and then inflate at the water's edge. (This would be an issue if they closed the parking at Lowman as they have for Lincoln Park, although I don't think they'll do that at such a small park.) In buying two, I can go with Tessa, or I can invite a friend to join me. The boards can fit an extra person sitting on the front, and I figured with two kinds of PFDs Tessa can even have a SUP party if she chooses.

I've been working on my health, and my body is changing. I'm envisioning a summer where I'm out on the water in a bathing suit as often as I please, and my abs get shaped by my activities. I'm envisioning standing tall on the board, comfortable in my skin. The boards came with waterproof phone cases; sometimes I'll just listen to the water, but sometimes I'll listen to music that suits my mood.

It's a peaceful image, and one I'm clinging to. I need peaceful images, and I need something to look forward to.

***

Another reason to get an SUP is because I want it, and I'm worth it. I struggle to buy things beyond necessities for myself, as my parents accused me of being frivolous, of wanting the wrong activities or items. I have no idea if they would enjoy SUP, but I do know this: *I* enjoy it. It's a tough workout, but it's also so peaceful. I can lay on the board and just drift if I like. I can go fast if I like. I can get up at dawn and watch the world awaken, or I can go midday in the traffic of other paddle boarders.

Maybe I'll meet a cute man from six feet away.

Maybe I'll bring Chance and he'll learn how to sit on the front of the board. (He is so bouncy, I don't know how this would work! But he's a great swimmer, so if he falls in maybe that's okay?!

Maybe I'll pack a picnic and beach myself to rest.

I just know this: this summer, I intend to SUP, and to enjoy every second of it. Imagining it is bringing me light in this darkness.

It's lonely to be single in a quarantine. I'm tired of being lonely. I'm going to find joyful ways to occupy myself, things that I've wanted to do before but I couldn't.

Slow

When I was a little girl, my parents taught me that it was bad to be slow. I needed to be the best, the first, the smartest, the fastest. I was never the best, the first, the smartest, the fastest, and the shame burned deep and hot. Shame wasn't a thing I understood as a child - I didn't have a word for it, except that I knew that if I misbehaved my parents were ashamed of my behavior, or that I "ought to be ashamed" of myself. I associated the feeling of not being the best with a feeling of discomfort, fear, and a quick promise to myself to do better, to be the best next time.

But mostly I learned to hide how slow, slovenly, and mistaken I was. I pretended to feel like all was well, even when it wasn't. This was wise: mistakes were not tolerated, and were a sign of poor character.

It felt breathless and spinning and confusing and faint, and not in a good way.

So, I tried to go faster, do better, be better. I tried to be a Good Girl and rid myself of the breathless, faint feelings by living up to the standard. Sometimes I was successful: I put myself through college, working overtime to pay for it. I would read economics textbooks on the Stairmaster after work (a gym membership provided by my employer), maxing out the level for 45 minutes (the maximum amount of time), highlighter in my hand as I tried to study and go as fast as I could. Even just thinking of that, I'm exhausted. I felt proud of myself - not ashamed - and so I kept going, but it was so utterly exhausting.

***

When I go fast, people smile and encourage me. I used to run half marathons, and I was so proud of my sub-two time; it wasn't any kind of record at all, but I felt like I'd arrived when I hit that time. When I keep so busy that I'm half falling down as I go, I get so much praise about my energy and my accomplishments. My entire life, I have fed upon that praise, with each laudatory phrase filling up the empty parts of me that were rotted away from the shame.

Some of that's good. I've accomplished a few things.

But it's exhausting, and unsatisfying.

***

Yesterday on my walk, I listened to the Brene' Brown podcast interview with Alicia Keys, and was blown away when Alicia Keys said that she'd spent her whole life trying to be a good girl, and that despite her success, she felt like she was doing things someone else's way, and she was unsatisfied and unhappy.

This shook me a little. I've often felt like that, and put those feelings into the "you should be ashamed" box inside myself. But if the glorious, inspirational, talented, successful, and wildly empowering Ms. Keys felt like that, maybe, just maybe, those feelings were crazy. Because I may not know much, but I know for sure that I find inspiration in Alicia Keys, and that there is no way she deserves to feel like that. And, of course, it occurs to me that if Alicia Keys has to fight to shake off those feelings, that maybe I can fight off those feelings, too.

***

During the coronavirus quarantine, we are all forced to slow down. We do not need to climb out of bed before dawn to make the lunches and get into the commute. Heck - we don't even need to wear real pants, as all of the sweatpants/yoga attire/sleepwear memes attest. We cannot go to the exciting events, we cannot try out the new restaurant, we cannot host fabulous parties. We cannot shop, except to go to the grocery store (and we do that somewhat furtively, masked and darting around other shoppers).

There is nobody to see, and the hectic pace of daily life has suddenly slowed.

At first, this felt shocking, equal parts terrifying and decadent. But now it has been over a month - 38 days since work in the building ended, if I'm counting properly - and time has changed, and I've changed. Everything is slower, and I love it.

I love the way that I sleep in later than I used to; my body thanks me.
I love the way that we're cooking real food every day, with green things and whole grains, and from scratch; my body thanks me.
I love the way I go for walks or runs in the middle of the day, standing on the edge of the shore, carelessly letting time slip away.
I love that I have resumed baking bread, trying new recipes.
I love that I have picked up a new creative hobby, and have started making jewelry.
I love that my daughter and I are playing board games again. (We like Mancala.)
I love that I am not using nearly as much gas, and that I'm being kinder to the environment.

On Easter, we spent a couple of days baking cookies, and then spent most of a day delivering different plates of them to our friends. We had some social distancing visits - we brought camping chairs, and set up at the edges of our friends' yards, and just sat and talked for a while, perhaps 15 feet away. They didn't wait on us - no food or drink, no passing of dishes, no preparing - and it was surprisingly delightful. It filled me with gratitude, and the hope that I could make it through quarantine, no matter how long it lasts.

I would not have taken two days to make and deliver cookies in a normal world. I would have been too busy, too concerned about chores, activities, rest. I couldn't have done it without really psyching myself into it.

But now, I can.

***

The longer this quarantine lasts - and we know that our city will be shut down until May 4th, and that school isn't returning this year (so my quarantine goes on that long, at least) - the more I'm starting to... I fear I'm about to commit blasphemy by saying this... the more I'm starting to enjoy being home only with Tessa and our pets.

I like the quiet.
I love being slow.

I do not want to be the fastest. I do not want to be the best (who is the judge of "best" anyway?).

I want to be me.
I want to be authentic.
I want to live wisely and well.
I want to be peaceful.

I don't want to run around like a crazy person. I don't want to be so tired that the simplest tasks feel like they take too much energy. I don't want to paste a smile on my face as I keep goinggoinggoing.

I want to stare out the window and watch the rain. I want to wander on the beach looking for shells. I want to write my thoughts down, and have time to finish them. I want to read books until my eyes are weary, fighting sleep because I'm too interested to stop. I want to move my body every day. I want to live in a house that smells like baking bread. I want to laugh with my daughter.

Simple things.

***

The world told me to go fast, and my parents sent me the message that the things I love, the way I am, was unacceptable, and that I would have to conform in order to satisfy. (I forgive them. They were passing along the messages given to them; they had no idea of their impact.)

What I want, now, is to go at my own pace. Sometimes my pace is so quiet and slow that I can't even recognize myself, I've lived in this costume of myself for so long.

I'm breathing at my own pace.
I'm reading at my own pace.
I'm running and walking at my own pace.

And right now, that pace is slow, and the slowness is a gift.

***

The world tells us to hurry up, to rush to go-go-go. We love go-getters. We love up-and-at-ems. We admire pulling-up-by-the-bootstraps.

But what *I* admire is Mary Oliver's idea that perhaps all we should be doing is wandering in the fields. What if the answers are actually in the fields? What if all of this rushing and going and scurrying about doesn't make us wiser and stronger, but instead it makes us just rats on the treadmill, miserable?

I think, somehow, that I've stumbled on a secret (my secret, anyway - yours might be different). My whole life I thought that more and faster was the way to go (20 credits a quarter plus working while in grad school, what was I thinking?!).

I was wrong.

I want to wander in the forest, picking up pinecones and examining them.

I want to spend enough time with my daughter that her thoughts come tumbling out, on her own pace.

I want to cook, and eat, healthy food.

I want to be creative.

I want to settle my brain down enough to think.

***

I am one of the lucky ones. I'm still working from home, I live in a comfortable place big enough for my daughter and I to find our own spaces when we need them, and I live in a beautiful part of the world where I can walk to a forest or the ocean when my soul needs reprieve (and I can socially distance there, too). These days I'm pretty healthy, and so is Tessa, so I'm not as worried about getting sick. I know that my life is filled with luxuries - fresh food, comfortable clothes, books, music - that others only dream of. I'm safe in my little bubble, and that is why I can slow down and find the good in a global pandemic, but make no mistake, I do not take my fortune for granted and I ache for those who are suffering.

If you are suffering, I send you my love. May you find prosperity and health, so that you too may have my fortune.

***

I am slowing down. After years of trying to prove that I wasn't, as my father put it, a "moron", and trying to prove that I am smart and there for worthy, fast and therefore worthy, I've decided that I'm probably a slow learner. I am content with that, because I am learning, and because the lessons are better when I get them (because some people never get their lessons).

I'm living slowly. I'm being slow. I'm a slow learner, and I'm at peace with that.

Isolation, day 26

Since the world is going through this with me, I suspect that my blog will serve mostly as my own reminders of my experiences of 2020, but if you're reading this, I hope it makes you feel less alone - or I hope you'll respond, and make ME feel less alone!

Because alone is getting lonely.

I am a PollyAnna. I have turned my lemons into lemonade more times than I can count. When my family didn't support my post high school education, I found a way to feel like a badass by putting myself through school, proving to myself and the world that I could do it. When I got cancer, I fought long and hard and never gave up, making huge sacrifices in my health to do years of treatment so that I could have a future, and once again, I felt like a badass. When I got divorced, the same thing: I decided that no matter what my feelings about the marriage, I would treat my daughter's father with dignity and I would include him in our lives, and I would set aside my fear and reclaim my career to create an independent and lovely life. Once again, doing so made me feel like a badass.

The difference between then and now is that I have always found a tribe of people to go through hard times with. I'm famous in my circle of friends for inviting people over and feeding them: in the summer, after a day of hiking or hanging out on a beach or just doing chores, I'll text friends to pop in and bring something to share (or not). I have a little table and chairs positioned in a shady spot in my back yard, and I'll cover it with delicious selections (cheese and crackers, fruit, a home made eggplant dip, a tomato tarte, smoked salmon, hummus and veggies, heated Trader Joe's items like spanokopita) and cucumber mint water, sparkling water, and lots of wine. Or I'll host an impromptu BBQ with grilled veggies and chicken, and my friends will bring salads and desserts. Sometimes it's just one friend who drops in, and I'll make a pot of coffee or tea, or open a bottle of wine. We'll sit on the front porch, or in my living room, or at the kitchen table (the cozy little one by the window where the light streams in) and talk about everything and nothing. On summer evenings, my porch swing is in the shade. On spring days, my porch swing is almost touched by the lilac tree that grows in the side yard, and when we sit out there the motion of the swing releases sweet scents.

Sometimes I'll sit on the porch swing alone, but neighbors passing by will wave as they pass by, exchanging a few words, or sometimes they'll join me.

On the weekends, my friend Michele and I often do the five mile Lincoln Park loop, chatting merrily about our lives, solving the world's problems, playing with ideas, and just enjoying the bits of nature we encounter. Sometimes she'll come in afterwards and we'll have a coffee or a snack or lunch, and we'll sit on my sofas, caught up in the moment of discussion until the minutes or hours slip away.

On weekdays, my colleague-friend Mai will invite me to walk the track at lunch with her. How I regret every time I said "not today, I need to get something done at lunch" now! My colleague-friend Jeannette has the classroom across the hall from me, and we talk about our kids (the ones that belong to us, as well as the kids at school) and funny stories about our days and our struggles, and we support each other. How I miss those snippets of conversations!

Those simple memories are the ones I ache for now. When will I get to sit in a room with another adult?

Reminiscing about it is wonderful and heartbreaking. These are my simple pleasures, and I miss them more than I can say. There are bigger things, too - hiking in national forests an hour or two from here, going to work with my wonderful colleagues, going downtown for a variety of activities, shopping the farmer's market (which I usually do alone, but I always run into people I know for great conversations) and so much more.

I miss the sounds of a basement with a handful of teenagers laughing and teasing one another and watching movies and eating what I tease is "disgusting" food (Hot Cheetos, Dominoes Pizza, chicken nuggets, sour gummy worms, etc.) but which I buy them anyway because I think it's awesome that they want to hang out at my house, where I know they're safe and having fun.

So, this is what isolation is like. I'm noticing all of the simplest things, feeling their absence with grief, loss, and some fear. When will we be able to indulge in the simple pleasure of walking to Husky Deli at 7pm on a summer evening, stretching our legs and bringing our dog, to stand on the sidewalk out front of the deli, enjoying their ice cream and chatting with friends and neighbors?

Here are other observations about self isolation:

Wearing sweatpants all the time - I ordered two new pairs from Amazon because I only had one pair - actually doesn't make me feel better. It makes me feel like I must be sick, indoors and wearing sweats. Today I put on a sundress with a light cardigan, just to feel less blah. I'll wear them sometimes, but wearing them all the time doesn't help.

I look forward to even the smallest amount of social interaction. We're at the height of it in America right now, so we've been advised to limit ALL interaction, including trips to the grocery store. I was able to go about 11 days between grocery trips last time, and this time my plan is to make it 2+ weeks, so on Sunday when I went to Trader Joe's I knew it would be my only foray into the world for two or more weeks. Chatting with the check out clerks was a treat and a privilege, one that I normally wouldn't think twice about. Last night, we drove to Alki to see the pink supermoon over the city, and stopped at Habit Burgers to get take-out, and it felt like a much more luxurious experience than a drive through!

We wear face masks every time we leave the house. I ordered several from Etsy, where they are getting harder to find and more expensive by the minute. At first I thought I only needed one, but I like to go outside every day to get sunshine (or rain, for that matter) and exercise, and every time I wear it the moisture of my breathing makes it disgusting, so they have to be washed regularly. I ordered Tessa and I a few more - if we're going to be wearing these for months, we will have a small selection of styles, but more importantly, we will have no excuse not to wear them. (Not wearing something that is filled with moist air expelled from our noses and mouths is also a bonus.)

When I'm doing errands, a face mask is no big deal. But when I run, it makes me feel like I have no air all - I had to rip it off my face to gasp for breath. I bring it with me to exercise now, but only put it on if I'm too close to others.

When I'm in public, I have a hard time trusting anyone without a face mask now. They say that we can be asymptomatic for somewhere between six and fourteen days (I've seen conflicting information), and that when we breathe, cough, or sneeze the droplets from our breath can stay in the air somewhere between a half hour and two hours; when we cough or sneeze, six feet away isn't nearly far enough. So, anyone without a mask is someone I'm leery of, because maybe they're not paying attention, maybe they don't care, maybe they don't take social distancing seriously. (Or maybe they just can't get their hands on a mask, because of the shortages.)

But mostly I'm not in public.

Mostly, I am at home. I'm working - for which I am ever so grateful - teaching students from my computer, in my home office in the daylight basement. The office itself is a nice space, filled with the plants from my classroom (thank goodness I brought them home!), with windows on two walls, and a stand sit desk and swivel chair. I have a cozy chair and ottoman in the corner, perfect for reading or grading. I have WiFi, a working printer (with ink!), and everything I could use.

I find the time with my students a reprieve and a delight, but sitting at my desk doing the other work - meetings, grading, lesson planning - is twice as difficult as it used to be. It reminds me of my isolation. My lovely office, with no distractions, pretty soft blue walls and the white painted wood furniture that I picked out, the art, the candles, the plants, the necessary supplies, eases my grief but comes nowhere near to erasing it.

It's a struggle.

But not as much as it is for my lovely daughter, who is 17 and so removed from every part of the life she craves: friends, favorite teachers, independence, time away from home so that she can enjoy it when she returns. I ache for her losses. She's taking a class she's been excited about - forensics - since before she started high school, and she feels like she's losing out. She has a favorite teacher or two that she really admires, and she's missing them. I feel her yearning, and her loss. She'll never get to do over her junior year again, and she is missing so much and feeling the pain.

But here we are. We are diligent about our social distancing, determined to do our small part. And make no mistake, for all of my moaning here, I know how lucky I am. As a matter of fact, I feel guilty about having these feelings of loss, because so many others have lost so much more than I have! I have a job, and therefore income, so I'm not worried about paying the mortgage or feeding myself. I am healthy, and not in a high risk group. I do not live in a tiny apartment, but in a home with space for us to have our own spaces, and a yard where we can sit outdoors with no concern about strangers (or friends for that matter) breathing on us. We can work/do school from home, with all the technology we need.

We are the lucky ones. And it's hard if you're lucky, like us, so it's even harder for those who worry about food, have no internet, don't have a job anymore. It's hard for the parents of little kids, who are trying to work while entertaining a toddler. It's hard for people in abusive relationships, trapped with their abusers. It's hard for little kids who simply don't understand what's happening. It's hard for elderly folks who feel even more isolated. It's hard. So hard.

But there are joys, too. I can breathe, because I'm not rushing. Tessa and I have played board games, and made jewelry together. She's sharing funny TikTok's with me. We look forward to watching shows together (our shared favorite: Zoe's Extraordinary Playlist) in the evenings. I'm exercising more (though not nearly enough!) outside, and doing basement yoga. (Well, yoga is on pause, because Chance ate my yoga mat! He shredded it to smithereens. I think he did it because I kept trying to make him go away last time I did yoga and he wanted to "participate" in unhelpful, un-zen-like ways, and so he took out his frustration at being excluded on the mat. Funny dog! The new one was ordered over a week ago, and is set to arrive on Saturday.)

I'm reading. I'm writing. The house is decorated for Easter, and we're planning an Easter brunch in our Easter clothes (sundresses), even though it's just the two of us. Tessa wants bacon, I want blueberry lemon tea bread, and we'll figure out something for the main dish (quiche? fritatta? eggs benedict?). I'm trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy, and enjoying a special meal at Easter is part of that. We bought Easter candy that's tucked away until Sunday, and the table has the funny little Easter Tree that I bought when Tessa was little (she'd redecorate it over and over and over, moving the little eggs around the small branches a hundred times in a row) and the pastel Easter egg dishes. It's a small ritual to bring it out, but it feels like a tiny drop of normalcy in a sea of uncertainty.

There are walks by the sea. There are calls with friends. There's good food. There's Netflix, Hulu, and good books in quantity (including some dropped off on my porch by the local bookstore the same day I ordered them - talk about great service, Pegasus Books!).

I'll get through. This, too, shall pass.

Other strange observations:

We are using soap in incredible quantities, matched only by our use of hand lotion. Tessa's prone to dry skin, and her hands are cracking and bleeding; mine are merely itchy and dry.

The dog has gotten quite used to this. Chance is going to struggle when we go back to work!

I'm still losing weight - down another pound this week on Weight Watchers. Woo hoo! If I hadn't joined WW and committed to losing weight before this, I'm pretty sure I'd be up 10 pounds by now. My weight loss is slower than before isolation because I've enjoyed some brownies and two different burgers, but I don't feel bad about it. I'm still losing, my BMI is back in healthy range, my clothes look and fit better on me, and I'm thrilled by it. I'm really embracing the "it's a lifestyle, not a diet" philosophy of WW, and I think I can do this for the rest of my life.

Tessa and I are getting on better than I could have hoped. I am SO GRATEFUL for that. She's upstairs learning sign language from an online video at the moment, and that makes me happy.

I had to rejoin Amazon - having some new things arrive has been helpful. Tessa and I are making jewelry from supplies we purchased; my new yoga mat is from Amazon; I even ordered new underwear because the first clothing that was too big was my stretched-out underwear!

The world is quiet, and I like that. I can't hear cars, trains, or loud noises in the distance. They say wildlife is creeping back in, and I love that vision.

I have only driven my car a few miles in several weeks; I can't remember the last time I got gas.

It could be a lot worse.

How long?

Day 18 in social isolation/voluntary quarantine/stay at home/ stay-home-stay-safe.

How long is this going to last?

When school shut down, they declared things closed until April 27.

The President is now saying that the social distancing needs to go through April 30.

Arizona schools just closed through the end of the year.

Our superintendent (OSPI's Reykdal) has mentioned "into the fall" several times.

I'm waiting for new news today, as they have announced that Trump is going to release the COVID-19 infection and fatality predictions. With that, I anticipate learning more about when this might stop. But I fear that none of the predictions or shut-downs so far is the truth, and that truth is that this could go on for a very. long. time.

What is a very long time? A year? I don't even know.

What I know is this:

The best way to save live is for me to sit in my house, using WiFi for connection, eating good food, reading, doing crafts, watching movies, and working in my home office. I can go for walks or runs, do yoga (despite the fact that my dog just ate my yoga mat....yes, really). I can have virtual happy hours. I can garden. I can order things I need online (like a new yoga mat). I can go to the grocery store, wearing one of my new face masks from Etsy, once a week (or less).

This is hard. I don't like it. Sometimes I'm lonely, often I'm bored, even though there is plenty to do.

But I am incredibly lucky, and I am not going to squander my good fortune by risking getting sick or making others sick. If this lasts a month or a year, it's my job to take advantage of my good fortune and make the best of it.

But how?

Isolation, day 17

Since I came home from work on March 13, I've gone to the grocery store twice, and that's basically the only time I've had any face to face contact with anyone besides Tessa.

This is surreal.

If you're reading this close to the time I'm writing it, I don't have to tell you what it's like, because everyone around me is living it, too. The streets are relatively empty, as people have gone inside their homes and only come out for necessities. The neighborhood is quiet: children aren't playing together, cars are parked and still. Dogs everywhere are rejoicing because their owners are taking them on countless walks, both for exercise and to relieve boredom. Today it has been intermittantly hailing, and the idea of going outside seems somewhat torturous: even bouncy Chance is asleep on his dog bed, curled up and cozy on a blustery day.

Being trapped in a house with only a 17 year old is not for the faint of heart. Tessa is, like every teen, hard wired to seek independence, to connect with her peers, to need her space from her mother. Instead, she and I have only one another for comfort and companionship. Already the phone is a dull substitute for companionship. All day we meet in Teams and Zoom to get our work done, and though I crave the company of adults, and the phone is a gift for which I'm grateful, I am afraid that its constant buzzing is enough to make me crazy.

But I still feel incredibly lucky, even when I'm stir crazy. I'm healthy, Tessa's healthy. I'm so grateful that we have this house, with two floors so that we can each take over a space without getting in each other's way (some of the time, anyway). I'm forever grateful that I was a Girl Guide, so when I run out of batteries, or shampoo, or sugar, or paper towels, there is a spare waiting for me. I'm grateful that I'm employed, not worrying about the mortgage. I'm grateful for Wifi, Hulu, and Netflix. I'm grateful that I got Tessa a Chromebook for Christmas, so she has all the resources she needs for school. I'm grateful for my home office. I'm grateful for my lovely little community, surrounded by water, so that I can go on a walk with views of mountains, cherry blossoms, waves, and sometimes even marine life like seal pups, sea lions, blue herons, bald eagles.

I'm struggling to find my groove, hearing about others' lists of accomplishments, and how they are merrily hosting online happy hours on Zoom. (I'm actually having my first online happy hour on Zoom today.) I don't feel so organized... but I'm trying. I'm journaling, cooking, exercising (most days), eating healthy food (and losing weight - down 17 pounds!), finding connection with Tessa. I could be doing worse.

It's not normal to live like this. We're hard wired to crave connection, and I feel the losses, large and small. They closed the parks, so I can't do my normal solitary act of hiking. Museums, movie theaters, all closed. The plays and concerts are canceled, the shops are closed, the restaurants closed. We are discouraged from walking Alki on a warm day - too many people. Some beaches are closed.

So here we are, holed up at home. I'm adjusting, but I'm not adjusted.

Staying Home

I have not left my home except to exercise (walking/running) in over a week. I went grocery shopping last Saturday, and since then, I've been homebound. I've worked six days out of my basement office. I've cooked and cooked and cooked. I've obsessed over every news article (and they come fast and furious). I thought I was finally feeling settled, like "okay, I've got this" and then:

1. Stay at home order. Why the governor's new law that people in my state need to do exactly what I'm already doing should make me feel weirdly claustrophobic is beyond me, but, well, it did.

combined with

2. The West Seattle Bridge is, suddenly and with only a few hours notice, closed for the next few weeks. Apparently it is in dire need of repair (I suddenly have visions of it crumbling to the ground), and it is going to take them several weeks to come up with a plan, and several months to fix it. Who cares? Every resident of West Seattle. It is our literal bridge to the rest of the community: I take it to go downtown, to go to work, to go....just about everywhere. Apparently it is the most traveled road in Seattle, and now it's closed indefinitely.

It's all too much.

But: we can do hard things.

I'm reminding myself that it's possible I won't have to commute to work for months (first because of coronavirus, then because of summer vacation), so I might be okay. If the city ever re-opens, I can take the water taxi.

And really, that's the least of anyone's problems right now.

Tessa and I ordered jewelry making supplies from Amazon, and we have a new hobby. I'm getting daily exercise outdoors with my dog. I'm able to continue my work with students - work that is meaningful to me - to discuss literature, prep them for the AP test, and support them through their struggles. I signed up to be a part of a UW study about mental health in this coronavirus craziness, so I'm helping science ever so slightly. I'm still doing Weight Watchers, and although the last week or so has been a plateau, I have faith in the system and I am SO grateful to be down 15+ pounds, and I'm fantasizing about going back to work (or anywhere!) and having people say "WOW you look great." (I did Weight Watchers so that I could get my cholesterol under control, but watching my waist get smaller and my face slim down is really quite fun.)

I'm going a little stir crazy, and yet I have unread books, Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime. Our home is filled with music. (Oh - the record player broke; it no longer turns. Whyyyy?) Our pantry is stocked, and we have enough TP for now. (No, we didn't hoard. And for what it's worth, I bought my extra two weeks before everyone else bought theirs.) I have a paying job working from home. We are healthy. We are not high risk.

So this should be easy, right?

It's not easy.

But here we go, easy or not, and we'll make the most of it.

Surviving Self Isolation

Today is day five of our self imposed self isolation. Tessa and I are staying at home for the foreseeable future, leaving only for groceries (just me, once a week or less), outdoor exercise with continued social distancing (six feet or more away from people). Tessa's still visiting her dad on schedule, but I figure that doesn't really count because if we were still together we'd all be in the same house anyway, and he's part of her nuclear family.

My work is helping to keep me sane. Knowing that my kids are having some of the same experiences that I am, and that they are less well equipped to manage their feelings (after all, teenagers!), I take my responsibility to be a voice of comfort, reason, factual information, and support very seriously. I've been compiling resources to share out in my classes' OneNote - everything from poetry, to where to get factual coronavirus information, to school closure information (I want them to have facts, not Snapchat rumors), and so on.

Tessa, who doesn't love school, actually did some school work yesterday and got into it. Hallelujah!

But work and school work only take part of the day. Here's how we're managing:

1. Scheduled appointments on the phone/Skype/Facetime/Teams with friends and colleagues. We may be socially isolating, but we do not need to be socially isolated.

2. Regular outdoor exercise. Thankfully, this week Seattle is sunny, clear, and gorgeous. Regular trips to the beach are good for body and soul.

3. Great food. Since we're all stocked up, we can eat delicious things, with a focus on health. We're spending more time in the kitchen than usual, taking some pleasure in making interesting food. We're mixing up our flavor profiles, getting our greens. We even did a St. Patrick's day feast of corned beef and cabbage; I baked an apple pie.

4. Journaling. Staying on top of my feelings helps me to process, and I feel so much better when I do that.

5. Creating space for fun activities. I'd love to hear from you how you're handling fun - so strange to only do fun with the people you live with, and only at home!

     a) New workout routines. Tessa is going to share her ab workout today. I know it's going to hurt but I hope it hurts so good!

     b) I resubscribed to Amazon Prime, and my first order was some art supplies. Tessa and I are going to make jewelry together, and we're each going to make a painting to hang in the guest room. (I plan to paint a sunset. I figure that the colors will be pretty even if nobody can tell what it is!)

     c) Board games. Tessa and I have discovered Mancala. I think it might be time to pull out the backgammon, chess, and other games, too.

     d) Sending snail mail to friends. Nobody ever does this anymore, so receiving a card in the mail is such a treat. I have a goal to send one note a day to someone I care about. I picked up a bunch of cards at Trader Joe's - some are pretty, some are silly - and I'll send these throughout.

    e) I think it's time for me to write my book. Stay tuned.

Of course there's always Netflix, stacks of good books, and more.

What are you doing in these strange days? How are you handling your routines, your mental health, your fun, your socialization? What tips do you have for me? I'd love to hear from you!

xoxo
Kristina

More real by the minute

Tessa and I have been socially isolated in a self-imposed quarantine since Sunday.

Saturday seems like it was a million years ago.

We have not yet found the rhythm of our days. My mind is racing with the drumbeat of coronavirus, like a chant that never stops. My computer and phone keep buzzing with the latest news of the latest shutdowns, closures, changed plans, cancellations, warnings, layoffs.

Was it really only two weeks ago that I felt silly buying extra groceries? I don't feel so silly now. I bought extra TP then and tucked it into a cupboard, and now TP is impossible to get. (Amazon Fresh isn't delivering. The grocery stores are always out. The online grocery delivery has no toilet paper available, and they keep delaying my delivery days out.)

I need to do an attitude reset.

I've been obsessing about this, fearful, watching the news non-stop, with updates distracting me from the business of living. No more.

Whatever happens will happen, whether I'm obsessing about it or not. It's time for me to take some deep breaths, and dive into a new routine in my life.

It's time for me to take some control. I left school at about 4pm Friday, five days ago, and five days of spinning is doing me no good at all. RESET!

I want to be a center of positivity in my own life, as well as others. Tessa follows my guidance. I have the opportunity to help others -my students, neighbors, friends - by modeling healthy behaviors.

I'll come back to this; right now I'm going to make a plan.

It's time to get real about this being my new life for a while, and to make it the best life I can.

Here we go!

Settling in

This weekend the news keeps coming: everything is closing. There are rumblings of shutting down travel in and out of our state. The airport is empty. Every few minutes I get an email from another company telling us of their COVID-19 plans; I keep hearing about shut downs. Starbucks, REI...just about everyone. I went out to refresh my supplies (we ate most of our fresh stuff, as we do each week) and the stores were erratically stocked: some aisles were empty, others full.

Seattle has a great deal of the nation's cases. I'm following the numbers on The Seattle Times, as they are doing a daily update:
https://www.seattletimes.com/seattle-news/health/coronavirus-daily-news-updates-march-15-what-to-know-today-about-covid-19-in-the-seattle-area-washington-state-and-the-nation/

Washington State has 769 cases confirmed today, although testing is still only available for medically urgent cases still. There are predictions that there are actually more like 20,000 cases right now in the US.

I am carefully watching what is happening in Italy, Spain, and France, because I think we're tracking them, both in terms of our numbers and in terms of government intervention. This morning I had a conversation with friends about restaurants and bars shutting down, but I thought it was weeks away; just minutes ago I read that the governor is closing all restaurants and bars starting tomorrow. Gatherings of 50 people or more are prohibited; gatherings of fewer than 50 people are also prohibited if they can't

Strange times.

As for my daughter and I, we are hunkering down (as Fauci said). She went out with a friend yesterday to a movie, and I regret it. The theater only sold 50% of tickets to allow for social distancing; I warned her not to share food like popcorn (they had to get their own), and I sent her with hand sanitizer and Clorox wipes so she could wipe down her seat...and right as she left, they announced that movie theaters might get shut down. But perhaps it's good she went, because along with bars and restaurants the article I just read said that "entertainment venues" are being shut down as well. "Fitness clubs" - we belong to the Y - are closing for two weeks.

Hunker down indeed.

I did my last grocery trip for a while; we have groceries to last at least two weeks, and I do not plan to enter a store for a minimum of one week. I had left Amazon behind a few months ago, but I signed up for Prime again: I can get dog food, groceries, and anything else we need delivered to my front door.

Hunkered down.

Tomorrow morning I'll go to work by taking my coffee into my office in the basement, and I'll come up with a list of things I need to accomplish by next Monday, when the kids join us online.

I'll take the dog on long walks. I'll drink gallons of tea, watch Netflix, read books, play Mancala or other games with Tessa. We'll cook good food, we'll bake, we'll listen to music. At some point I'll do yard work. I could stand to do some yoga. Maybe I'll paint a bedroom.

But I think I'm going to really take social distancing seriously.

We're hunkering down.