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.