The mother of invention

 The world is passing by in a blur, and I finally have time to sit and just observe it.

Tessa graduated high school, and got to end the horrible COVID year with a lovely round of proms, graduation ceremony and parties, a healthy new relationship with a boy who seems to appreciate her as much as she appreciates him. Much to both of our surprise, in late May she decided that community college wasn't her path after all, and she applied to and was admitted to CWU.

My head is still spinning, but it's a good spin.

There is so much I want to say here, and perhaps I'll come back to it, but the sum of it is this: she is reinventing herself, and I am reinventing myself, and I see with such clarity that we are at some new tipping point where nothing will ever be the same (this is old news) but that we both get to shape ourselves with intentionality and joy; we both get to decide who we will be.

I'm giddy, fearful, contemplative, confused, and certain.

Mostly, certain.

When I completed the most heinous parts of cancer treatment, shortly after the big rounds of surgery, chemo, and radiation were finished, I was assigned a new doctor (Dr. Zucker at Swedish) whose job it was to oversee my return to wellness. He wasn't there to help me cure cancer; he was there to help my body and mind to overcome the treatment and find a new way to health. I was so on fire with being alive - was it possible that I had truly made it through? - that I was filled with energy, hope, and intentionality for my life. Dr. Zucker noticed this, and gave me some of the best advice I've ever received. He told me that my energy could inspire me to do great things, but that over time, that energy would fade as life resumed some new normal and the day to day took over again. He told me that the most important thing I could do was to, with great intention, create new habits that would last long after the surge of good intentions and energy had passed.

I know that I'm in another place like that again. Tessa has crossed the line from childhood into young adulthood, and I have crossed from centering my day to day life around her needs into...

What? Something new, somethin unknown, something exciting and terrifying in equal measure.

It's time to reinvent myself. I have no choice in this, really: whether I am intentional and make new choices about my life that please me and give me new purpose or not, there is no way my life can stay the same. I will no longer come home to a daughter needing a ride somewhere, or making messes in the kitchen, or sitting on the other end of the sofa to laugh at a movie with me. My house will not be filled with a handful of hungry teenagers excited for my snacks. Game nights will no longer be teens versus adults. Dinner will not be a negotiation. It is not my job to coach her to do her homework, or to stay awake until she gets home, or to insist that she put away her laundry so I can get the baskets back.

What is passed is in the past, and if I were to long for it to stay I would have no hope of forcing it... but I don't want to go backwards at all. I want to find the joy and excitement and energy of this moment, for her as well as for myself.

I have no role models for this. My parents did not show me this path: they fought my leaving tooth and nail, going so far as to say "so you think you're too good for us?" when I went to college, and again when I moved out. They demanded that I call them every day for extended conversations, and that I visit multiple times a week. They told me that if I moved far away I'd be unhappy and unsuccessful; they kept the tether short, and when I chewed on it, desperate to release myself, they found new ways to tether me. Until, of course, they couldn't tether me anymore at all, and I broke free with a vengeance, vowing to never be tethered to them again. No, that's not what I want in my parenting, not at all, and so I can't look to my past to determine how to behave in my future.

***

I re-read The Alchemist by Paolo Coehlo yesterday. I'm on my personal journey, and I am so, so sure that I must do what I must do. I am equally sure that Tessa is on her personal journey, and that the fates are conspiring to help us.

I've been moving my body more (as a matter of fact, today it's sore from moving so much!), bonding with Chance and feeling at peace in my skin as I regain my strength and clarity.

I've been reading.

I've been outdoors, on beaches and lakes and paddle boards and trails.

I've been doing projects around the house.

I've been cooking (and eaten more vegetables in a couple of weeks than I did in the last six months).

And now, it's time to write.

My personal journey is to write, to tell the stories that have been welling up inside me and long to splash over the edges like a joyful waterfall. I was put on this planet to write, and I've been writing my whole life, and now is the time.

My personal journey is also to find the love I've been missing, and to heal the old wounds. I need to do the work... but even more than that, I need to believe that I am worthy, and that the Universe wants this for me.

It's that simple. It's time to live the life I've imagined, and to hold nothing back.

***

My daughter is learning to fly, and now that I am focused more on myself as she is out of my reach at college this fall, it's time for me to soar, too.

***

I think it's called the mother of invention because it is, indeed, a mother's necessity to reinvent herself, over and over. Our bodies reinvent first; then our lives are upended with our tiny babies; then we grow into our roles as they shift through different phases of our children's growth; and then, perhaps the biggest change of all, our children launch and we get to reinvent ourselves again. 

Not everyone does this well - some live in the past; some chase their children into the future. I love my daughter with my whole being, so I can understand these responses. But what I want for her is to be free to soar, knowing that no amount of time or space can separate us, and that I am always her soft place to land. What I want for myself is to live the life that is meant for me. And what I want for both of us is for me to model to her a true, authentic life so that she doesn't have to find her way on her own. I want to offer her a magical combination of support and freedom; I want to show her what I am made of so that she will know that she is made of that stuff, too.

What a time to be alive. Never, ever do I forget that I nearly lost it all, and that 16 years ago when I got that cancer diagnosis I had many reasons to believe that I'd never get the chance to experience a daughter going to college. Never, ever do I forget how hopeless and lost and uncertain of my future I felt when I got divorced, and how uncertain of my financial future and my ability to support myself I was.

But here I am. Alive. Independent. Filled with hope.

To reinvent myself again is a gift and a joy, despite my frequent anxiety, and somehow I know that this is a part of my personal journey, and that the best is right around the corner, if I will only do what my heart tells me to do.

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!