Goodbye, old friend

 Today I went to the memorial service for a friend of 18 years - he was a neighbor, but more importantly, he was my daughter's dear friend's father. Since our girls were toddlers they've shuffled back and forth between our two houses, with countless sleepovers and playdates. They've shared every single birthday, one quincenera, two graduations. The parents drove them to roller skating, birthday parties, pools, ice skating. There were more shared meals than I could possibly count - because at the end of the playdate, wouldn't it be nice if you just stayed over? There were Halloween parties annually, and one memorable snowy Christmas where we got snowed in but since we could walk to each others' homes we shared our celebrations. It wasn't just the girls going back and forth - it was their parents, too, mothers and fathers meeting at the rink, or in the living room, or the trailhead, and enjoying our daughters but enjoying each others' company, too.

It's hard to believe that this loving, warm, funny, and crazy-smart father is gone.

He gave me a gift before he left.

The last time he was in my house, it was for a dinner party. I was in the kitchen, and he followed me there, and gave me a small speech about how much it meant to him that I had been such a big part of his daughter's life, and how much he appreciated my support of her, and my presence in his own parenting journey. He told me how much I meant to him.

It was the last time we ever spoke - I had no idea (and nor did he) that these would be his parting words to me.

His daughter is in my home right now, after a day of attending his memorial - our two girls are snuggled under fuzzy blankets on the sofa, eating the snacks of their childhoods, laughing at a movie they're watching together. The movies have changed, but their friendship and connection hasn't changed, and having them here together feels as natural as breathing, even though my daughter's just finished her sophomore year of college and his daughter is a dancer in NYC, even though they sold their home near ours a year ago, even though there have been life struggles and changes that those little sparkly toddlers couldn't have imagined.

But I keep thinking about that conversation, and how he pulled me aside and looked me in the eye and told me how important I was in his daughter's life, and how much she needed that, and how much he appreciated me. In hindsight, it seems like foreshadowing of a request. He loved his daughter deeply and well, and while there are many people in her life who love her, he passed some part of that torch to me. His final words were about the importance of my presence in her life... and I am thinking about them.

20 is still far too young to lose a parent. Isn't 20 really just a kid? 

I'm committed to helping that kid navigate life without her father. I'm committed to being a loving a solid presence in her life.

Old friend, I miss you. I fear I took you for granted, never fully understanding your brilliance, athleticism, depth. I admired you, but I think there was so much more to know, and in that way, I feel the failure of missing out. But this I will not fail in: I will love your daughter, be part of her circle of wellness, safety, refuge. I will never be her parent, but I will take your words as a reminder of where I am needed and show up every time. Thank you for the parting gift of your great kindness, of your acknowledgement of all that we have shared in our parenting journey. I'm so grateful that I knew you, and I'll keep doing the joyful work of being in your daughter's life. I promise.

In loving memory of JS - gone too soon.

Becoming

 Michelle Obama titled her book Becoming, and perhaps one of the reasons that it was so popular is that most of us can relate: we're all becoming.

I am no different. I've been on a journey, but that journey is a process that I can't entirely predict, except to say that I'm determined to get a happy ending, whatever that may mean.

Lately, I'm working on my process more. It's the end of the school year - two weeks left! - and I'm barely holding on, fighting what Urgent Care says is likely walking pneumonia, and definitely under the weather physically. But the end of this school year is so close, and it is such a relief to think that I've made it this far, and that I will likely make it across the finish line (even if I am stumbling, I'll make it). Summer opens up a world of possibilities, and a chance to set the reset button, as well as to have adventures, and I'm SO ready for that. It's a time of year when I process what's working in my life, and what I want to do more or less of. 

I have things I'm looking forward to - a long list. I can't wait to sit on a beach and read in the sunshine (and every day of my life I'm so grateful that a lovely park with a beach is a mere mile - walking distance - from my home). I can't wait to have the neighbors over for BBQ or Aperol Spritzes. I can't wait for summer concerts (I have a number of tickets, including the much coveted Taylor Swift concert), for long hikes, for camping. And I've got a long list of projects: painting my bedroom, fixing a leaning fence, gardening.

But the biggest project of all is myself.

I'm back in therapy, and we've only had one session so far, but she's my favorite therapist from long ago, and I was able to return to her because now she takes my insurance. Even though our one session so far (the next one is next week) could only cover a tiny amount of ground, it set the wheels in motion for me to think about who am I, who I am not, who I long to be, and all of the patterns - good, bad, and neutral - in my life. This is a wonderful time for me to start therapy, because I'm not dealing with anything 'big' - my life is, for the most part, really good. I just want to make it better, move on to the next plane of my existence, fulfilling some of my potential that is yet untapped.

I do think it's working.

Recently (and the details really aren't important) someone at work crossed a boundary in their behavior to me. I calmly asked them to stop; they continued. I asked again, slightly more firmly. They were clearly offended that I asked for this (entirely reasonable) boundary, and stomped off, stuck in their own feelings. Usually, in this type of situation, I would have gone to that person to try to fix, solve, explain, and engage. Usually I would have carried the weight of it inside me, processing how I could have made it go better, whether or not I was in the wrong, how I could help them see my side.

But not this time, and not because of my relationship with this person, but because of my relationship with myself. This time, somehow I knew with certainty that I was "allowed" to have boundaries, that my boundaries are reasonable, and that "hurt people hurt people" and that this person's behavior was about them, not me. I shook my head and thought "what the actual ***!" but then I moved on. Not unsurprisingly, after a few weeks, this person contacted me, still not understanding that their behavior was inappropriate (because hurt people hurt people, I keep reminding myself), and wanted to engage further. Again, I set my boundaries - clearly stating that I did not appreciate being yelled at or talked over, and that I could not sign up on a project with them knowing that such behavior was likely to be repeated (this was not the first time I've had difficult interactions with this individual).

There's some discomfort - now they won't like me! Maybe they can't see it my way! Maybe they will say things about me to other coworkers! - but there is also... peace.

I know who I am, and I know that people don't always do or say what I wish they would - and that's okay. I also know that when someone crosses my boundaries, I am allowed to state my needs and hold the boundary.

Honestly, reading this, it seems like a giant, "duh!" and like the most obvious statement ever... but if it was so obvious, it wouldn't be so hard. I grew up in a family where boundaries were not encouraged or respected, and sometimes they were even mocked. I was taught to place my parents' (and brother's) needs before my own, and that if I didn't do so it was because I was selfish, or lazy, or stupid, or unloving. 

Case in point: sometime around the time I was ten, my mom was crossing boundaries (yelling at me, not respecting my clothing choices if they were different than hers, keeping me close to her and saying that if I loved her I wouldn't go with my friends, I'd want to be with her...) and I got mad and told her to stop, and that she was being unfair. Her response was to cry, and to say, "Well, since I'm such a terrible mother, I guess I'll just put you up for adoption so that you can get the family you deserve..." and her ploy worked. I was SO frightened that she would follow through, that I begged for her forgiveness and told her she was the best mom ever and that I'd do better.

I learned my lesson: setting boundaries leads to withdrawal of love and support. Is it any wonder I had difficulty setting boundaries after learning such lessons so young? The lesson was repeated over and over. I've been out of contact with my parents for several years (my father shouting "I'm ashamed to be your father! I'm ashamed you are my daughter!" in response to something political I put on Facebook was my final straw...!) but a couple summers ago my mom was sick with Covid and I feared she would die, so I called her. The call was horrible. She said she missed me, and I said "I would love to have a relationship with you. If you can agree to no name calling, yelling, or belittling, I can be in relationship with you..." and she said, huffily, "Oh? So you've got boundaries now?!" and basically ended the call.

So no, I haven't done the best with boundaries in all parts of my life. But - and this is the key part - what has happened in my past doesn't define me, and I CAN learn. I've set boundaries in a number of places in my life, and the more I do it, the easier it gets somehow.

So, telling this coworker that I had a boundary and that I was holding it, well, it was a big deal to me. And knowing that I can't control their reaction, and that they might be mad at me (oh how I have struggled to "let" people be mad at me!) is ground breaking. They might not like me, respect me, or understand me. They might be mad.

But I like me. I respect me. And I understand that I AM allowed to put reasonable boundaries in my life. And it's okay if someone's mad at me. People get mad. *I* get mad. And we all muddle through.

It feels pretty liberating to know that I can manage this, that I don't need to replay conversations in my head.

Although my experience is much less dramatic, it makes me think of how Kanye stole Taylor Swift's moment at the MTV awards - a very upsetting and public display - and how years later she wrote "and then it happened one beautiful night: I forgot that you existed!" Kanye is allowed to be mad, to be protective of Beyonce'. And Taylor was right to say, "But you don't get space in my life."

*I* get space in my life. And I get to say what works for me, and take the consequences of my decisions. This feels like brand new territory, because while I've set boundaries before (isn't divorce the biggest boundary, really?) I've also tossed and turned over the minutia of my decisions, longing to explain myself, trying to make everyone happy. And now:

I know what my boundaries are. I hold them. If they need adjusting I will adjust, but if they're working and I feel that they're reasonable, I won't adjust.

It's that simple, and that complicated.

53 years old and this old dog is definitely learning new tricks. I hope that I can help my beloved daughter to learn this if she hasn't already, because my life would have been significantly better if I'd figured this out approximately 50 years ago, and I want her life to exceed mine even as I reach for my own stars.

Celebrating this small/huge success! (By going to bed early. Walking pneumonia sucks. G'night!)

Am, am not

 I write today from beautiful Orcas Island, my last day of a little visit here that has been incredibly restorative. For the past two days the sunshine has been abundant, the skies blue - I even hiked in a tank top, enjoying the warmth on my shoulders (but with my puffy coat in my pack, because at this time of year it can change in an instant). I've seen countless bald eagles, one river otter, one deer. There is a heron who resides in the bay in front of me, and I've watched him fishing. I walked out to the little island in a pair of rubber boots purchased from the drugstore just for that purpose, marveling at the enormous oysters growing all over its surrounding rocks, but avoiding going up onto the island as it's a nesting area for gulls and geese. In the evening, the Canadian geese traipse all over the verdant grass of the park below me. I've eaten wonderful food (the halibut tacos at Buck Bay are likely to inhabit my dreams), including some things I brought with me from home. Dinner last night was smoked salmon, rosemary raisin crackers, cheese, eggplant dip, and grapes (along with a lovely glass of wine - Readers Cabernet). I've dropped some money into local shops, picking up soap, lotion, books, oracle cards, a mug. I've done a 40 minute yoga session (thanks, Yoga with Adriene) two days in a row. I've sat on beaches. I've journaled dozens of pages.

Looking up, my heron friend is nearby, flying low and slow over the water, landing on a little rocky outcrop. Have I mentioned how much I love it here?!

But as I was saying... I've had deep and meaningful (still processing) conversations with random folks, and I've pet many strangers dogs. I've read. And then I actually wrote - really writing - the opening chapter for my new book idea. The words are just flowing out of me, and I have a plan to keep going.

As a matter of fact, I've created a plan to write every day, and I am determined to complete a draft of this book this summer. I am tired of playing small, tired of telling myself that I am not enough. I'm enough, I have something to say, and I trust myself.

Pause. I noticed a funny feeling in my legs, and looked down, surprised at myself. I was so drawn to write that I am still on my yoga mat, feet tucked under my bottom. I had just completed the practice ("Awaken the Artist Within") and went to pause the video, and then these words flowed out of me before I even noticed what I was doing.

I have a new plan for my life, and I understand it better now. This year, my words were "love" and "write" and I thought maybe that I would seek love and that I would write, but now it doesn't feel like that. I'm not seeking, I am being. I am in love with writing, and I love myself enough to commit to it. My daily practice will be from 7-9pm, and it is not a burden or an obligation, it is a gift to myself. Sometimes I might show up here to say something on my mind, but mostly what I'm doing is writing my book and some stories. In order to do this, I need to move my body more - the mind body connection is so real, and if kneeling on a yoga mat to type on a computer placed on a chair after completing "Awaken the Artist Within" isn't a sign, then I don't know what is.

(Other signs: an elderly by vibrant woman kissed my cheek and called me 'little girl', a river otter ran in front of me and paused for a long time, eagles keep flying back and forth in front of me, I found a cluster of wild orchids in the woods...)

So, I am rearranging things. The focus is my book, and by the time I go to Maine I want to have a copy of it ready to be proofed. Sunday-Thursday I will write between 7-9pm; on Friday and Saturday I will find the time that works best.

Embarrassed confession: if I turned off the television and looked away from my phone, I'd find that I absolutely have enough space in my life to do this.

I am all of this. I am not less than this. It's been true since childhood, and when I ignore it I feel the ache in every cell. I came to the island to remember this, and on this, my last day, I am sure that I remember.

Move my body every day. Write every day. Nothing more, nothing less. I am certain that this is my magic formula, and that if I do these two things, it's a kind of love like never before. 

(And I look up, and a juvenile eagle floats by my line of vision. I look left, and its parent is patrolling the bay, majestic but giving it space. Signs everywhere. Does everyone see these signs? Are these signs always there? I have been surrounded by eagles lately - they fly by the window during yoga class. It is not a coincidence.)

The weather changed today; the sea is a stormy dark gray, and the sky is a flat, pale gray. Yesterday's bright blues and smooth water have been replaced by a choppiness; the wind is constant. Yet - and this is key - the sunshine within me hasn't faded at all. It's burning inside me, a warm fire that makes me feel lit from within, full of power and energy.

Love. Write.

Let it be so.

One thing a day

Updated 4/15, 9:48am:

No. This wasn't right. Yes, I have lots of joy. Yes, I seek joy. But the trick isn't to find a circus act filled with joyful tricks, or at least that's not right for me. This is a time for focused joy. Love. Write. Nothing more, nothing less. The joy will come through the love of writing, and my writing is a love letter to the world. Not scattered joy, but focused joy. I see it more clearly now.

***

 T.S. Eliot told us that it was April, but he was wrong.

March is when I wonder if I will make it to the school year, if the leaves will ever return to the trees, if I will ever catch my breath properly. March is when I question all of my life's decisions, sure that somehow I'm getting it all wrong.

But it isn't me. It's March.

Teaching is a joy for me: I know I'm good at it, and I love my kids, and (mostly) they love me back. My test scores are good (or even great). I love creating curriculum (currently, we're completing a ChatGPT unit - the skill we're working towards is a synthesis essay, and I'm working hard at creating conteporary, relevant, meaningful connections for the kids). But so many of my kids have horrific mental health struggles, and they seem to have lost their joy and zest for living. Some are just apathetic - they've given up even at their tender ages. They simply do not see the point of trying anymore, so they go through the motions, eager to get back to their bedrooms where they can zone out with screens. Some of them are rats on treadmills in some awful social experiment to see how much they can fit into their lives to be successful, striving ever harder, faster, longer to reach a life that they cannot see.

On Friday some students hung out in my room after doing some make up work, and as we were all packing up for the weekend I asked them their plans. Their affect didn't alter - no brightening, no lifting - as they told me, "Nothing." They had homework, SAT practice. I pushed them for more: the weather forecast was for sun! In Seattle! On a weekend! In MARCH! Still nothing. I said, "But you could meet a friend for coffee at an outdoor café, or have a picnic at a park, or go to the lake... and don't teenagers do things like go to the movies, or roller skating (I knew that last one was a stretch but I said it anyway), or have friends over for a sleepover?"

They looked at me with sad eyes. "That was for middle school," they told me.

They are 16-17 years old and they are bone weary, and they don't see any way out.

Now, I know it isn't every kid, but it's a LOT of kids. And it hits me in the gut. There they are, so filled with potential for things I probably can't even imagine... and they are deep in a societal malaise for which they see no end.

And me. Where do I fit in to that vision of society, of teaching, of my own life?
***

Luckily. something in me has always been determined to find the joy in my life, even when it seemed invisible. It's what made me know - deep in my bones - that I wanted an education for myself, even when my parents didn't see the value in it. It's what kept me fighting through cancer, believing that if I could just make it one more day, that somehow I'd connect to joy again. It's what gave me the courage to divorce, knowing that this was not how I was meant to live, and that a better life awaited if I'd just have the courage to reach for it.

Lately, that joy has seemed dimmer for me, too. Work has unending demands, and I am so damned tired at the end of the day. I'm still adjusting to the emptiness of an empty nest, and the newfound quiet of my evenings at home. (Dinner for one has no ceremony to it, no shared pleasures.) I'm a decade past divorce, no partner possibilities at the moment, wondering if it's time to admit that this is how it will remain for me.

And my body is a stranger. My shape has shifted, my proportions changing not only in my waist and hips but also in my face, my hair. Some of it is size - this thickening I feel in my middle is harder and harder to fight - but some of it is that older women and younger women are simply not meant to inhabit the same shapes, and there is no confusing me as youthful. If I am not youthful, and I'm not partnered, but I'm also not a retiree or a grandmother, then... who am I? What is my role?

Interesting questions. If think about them in the right way, they're filled with possibility and redefinition and the possibility of new powers. But if I see them in the shadows, they might swallow me up, embracing me in a darkness that is cold and clammy, feverish yet chilling.

***

Lately, I find myself just holding on, falling into worn grooves of patterns, plodding one foot after the other, too tired to be innovative, excited, or powerful.

But just as my lilac tree has tight buds of green leaves at the ends of bare branches outside my living room window - the potential utterly obvious, annual, and guaranteed - and just as daylight savings has forced a shift in our waking hours the brings daylight to evenings, I'm ready to shake myself up a little. I'm tired of winter. I'm bored of my boredom. And I just refuse - refuse - to gray out.

Make no mistake, my hair is not the dark glossy waves of my 20s and 30s. Those days are behind me. But nor do submit to a flat gray. I have a bolt of silver - my stripe - streaking through my hair on one side. What if I call it silver, not gray? What if it's not a fading out, but a lightening strike?

Stubborn gladness (Jack Gilbert's line, not my own, but the words ring true in my life). Even when it's not called for. Especially when it's not called for.

***

It seems to me that the smallest, simplest things are usually the most life altering.

Sleep.

Food.

Exercise.

Nature.

Books.

Deciding.

*** 

I won't bore you - or myself - by listing how I can do a better job with most of that list. We all know the drill about the importance of sleep hygiene and healthy food, blah blah blah. I need to work on all of the above, putting my phone away.

But today I'm thinking about deciding.

What if I built one thing into my life each day for the sake of joy?

What if I intentionally planned out something daily with the purpose of purpose in my life? What would that look like?

I'm not a fool. I can't cure cancer, end climate change, or head to the Eiffel Tower just because I want some fun and meaning. I'm thinking much, much smaller than that.

What if, at the end of a long day, I used Grandpa's tea pot (the one he gifted me in my early 20s because "every young lady needs a bone china tea pot"), and re-read a few pages of Jane Austen, because I love it?

What if I stopped at the beach on my way home from work to sit on a log and see if my seal was nearby?

What if I wrote real letters to friends, pulling down the lid to the secretary, grabbing a favorite pen, and planning the words of caring and connection?

What if I plugged my phone in and walked away - what would I do with that time?

What if I forgot to watch TV for a month? What would I do instead?

What if I planned picnics, day trips, museum visits?

What if I - once again - became a hiker, my pack in a constant state of updating, filled with sandwiches and trail mix, my boots pulled out of hiding and put to use?

What if I explored different parks around the city, taking advantage of longer days?

What if I made more room for these things, which give me joy? And what if that joy bubbled out of me in other ways, into work, and relationships?

***

March is halfway done, but this is my plan:

Once a day, I'm going to do something joyful. I'm going to find a moment that is filled with beauty for beauty's sake. Deep relaxation that contains true rest. A burst of energy that reminds me of bolts of silver, not gray. Meaningful connection with those I care about, and solitude that is the opposite of loneliness.

I'll tell you about it here. And let's see if it makes a difference.

Because I am not meant to plod along in a worn out groove, walking in circles and feeling weary. Sure, life is filled with chores and problems and long hours at work and health struggles and... well, you know. But I insist - INSIST! - that there is room for joy. For daily doses of peace and fulfillment, for wonder at the beauty of life and the possibilities it contains.

***

Day 1: Yesterday. I grabbed the French market basket that Tessa gave me a few years ago (still such a favorite, so perfectly designed), and filled it with a thermos of herbal tea and the two little enamel mugs from Cinque Terre, the sandwiches Tessa purchased at Bakery Nouveau, books, and a picnic blanket (cheery blue and white fleece stripes on one side, and a waterproof backing on the other). We went to Lowman Beach, just a mile from home, and laid it out in the grass. The park was full of people, mostly families with little kids, because the sky was blue and the air was warm and - bliss of bliss - we didn't even need to wear coats. Tessa chatted about her life and we watched our seal (the one who hangs out there year round) swimming in the sunlight, her wet fur gleaming as if reflective. We read, the sun on our skin. We ate the good food. We lingered for two or more hours on a Saturday afternoon, not needing to go anywhere, not needing to do anything else.

It was glorious.

A Saturday afternoon needs to have room for two hours like this. Books from the used bookstore, sandwiches, herbal tea, a blanket, a place near home. This is not too much to ask for.

Everyone deserves that. And I'm better for having done it.

Today I am looking forward to the farmer's market, brunch, maybe some more reading. I need to work, too. And I need to prep for the week. I did my laundry on Thursday so that when I picked up Tessa from school she'd be able to take over the laundry room (and take over she did - wowza that kid hasn't done laundry in ages, and the machines will be busy for some time!). Today will have less leisure than yesterday, and Monday even less.

But the sadness in my students reminded me that I've got my own sadness, and I just absolutely refuse to embrace that sadness. I am raging against the dying of the light, sure that if I do so the light will not die. It's not time for that (and it's certainly not time for 17 year olds to let the light die!).

I'm pretty sure that if I do this right, not only will my lives shift, but theirs will, too. Are the adults in their lives showing them how to have joy?

Daily joy. Real, meaningful joy. Not "should" but because I choose it. Stubbornly, and despite the odds.

Let's see what today brings.

What do you do for joy? Do you embrace joy daily? How? What are your ideas for me, for practical (I don't want to spend money, and nor do I have time for hours daily) yet wonderful ways to reconnect with the meaning of life?

Genius? Cliche'? Who Cares. I'm going for it.

 Dear Reader,

Me again! Erratic but pretty much weekly, so it's an improvement and I'm giving myself the win for keeping up with the blog. Hi there! Good to see you again.

I am - in fits and starts, like an erratic dance (there's that word again) making progress on figuring out life in this phase of my life.

Progress: I went out with a friend for happy hour at a funky new bar yesterday and actually had a cocktail with dinner. (It was called a Hairy Woodsman, and, well, I just had to order it. It contains Aperol, my favorite flavor since visiting Italy this summer, and it was surprisingly delish given that it contained tequila, which I usually avoid.)

Where was I? Oh, yes, drinking a Hairy Woodsman at a new place with an old friend on a Wednesday night. And tonight I met another friend to walk along the water at sunset and get exercise and catch up. And tomorrow I'm getting together with another friend. So, that's all good - and about three times more than I went out in 2020, so it's a win.

(2021 wasn't much busier than 2020, if I'm being honest, but 2022 has been making up for lost time.)

Work is going well: I love my kids, and we're doing some interesting things in AP Lang, and I'm happy with my colleagues, bosses, and the curriculum. Pause to reflect on this - so cool, right? I love teaching.

Steps backwards: on Monday and Tuesday I was exhausted, and ate stupid food in front of stupid television shows. That's not who I want to be, but sometimes it's who I am.

My goal? To live intentionally. To live my values, to meet my goals, to have joy, to be connected in community. Isn't that what we all want? What does it look like for you? Really - what DOES it look like? How much introvert time? How much social time? How many hours a week at work? How much exercise? How many books, and how many TV shows? How do you balance cooking and eating healthy food with working, commuting, playing?

And what about reaching life goals? How does one make progress on one's dreams? When WILL I write that book? It's languishing, both calling to me and repelling me...

So: here's what I'm doing. I'm TRYING.

Yup. That's it, that's my genius. I'm trying to carve out time in my days, weeks, months, to focus on the questions.

My new yoga practice and studio class is giving me joy, and the weekly commitment is something I look forward to. (If it was cheaper I'd go more than once a week!) My time out with friends is delightful, seeing music or art shows or checking out a new restaurant. I've been writing pages and pages in my journal. And all of these things are part of my answers.

I'm trying to figure out what I love, and how to be the person I love. I'm trying to embrace my life, in all of its imperfections and messiness, and get giddy.

I just signed up for volunteer training at the food bank. Such a cliché', right, to begin volunteering in the community in one's 50s? (It is a cliché. Just look at the average age of volunteers at such places to know that I'm right.) But - it's the right time. I don't have to have dinner on the table at a certain time, I don't have to get Tessa to gymnastics or rock climbing or cross country or homework: she's at college, either doing what she should or not (as is right: this is her life, and she needs to choose her path, too). I'm not establishing my career, I'm deep in it.

I don't need new friends because I have a wonderful community already with close friends... but I'm enjoying making new friends, at work or in my neighborhood... and if I make new friends at the food bank, I'll invite that into my life, because it sounds lovely.

This weekend I went to a wonderful local coffee shop and ran into an acquaintance who is someone I admire. She's in her early 80s and a model of who I'd like to be at her age: creative, active, vibrant, engaged in her life and her community. We exchanged emails, and then we exchanged poetry. I'm so glad to have a new friend who wants to exchange poetry!

This is not a mid-life crisis: far from it. This is mid-life awakening. It's a bit of a cliché and I don't mind at all. There's genius in this cliché, and I'm chasing that genius. Every step gets me closer to the life I dream of, this life that I'm creating.

It's still messy. Sometimes literally (why do I put of vacuuming so often?!), and sometimes its friends who are having health crises or job crises or marriage crises; sometimes it's that I just can't seem to find the energy to do all the things I long to do and then I backslide into letting months slip by without opening my book documents on my computer.

But I'm trying. And every time I try, I feel better about the world I'm making, and that's enough for today.

Genius.

I think that my next step is re-building volunteer time at the food bank.

Following the seasons

 I've been thinking a lot about what makes me feel good - and what doesn't. And this made me think of tomatoes.

In the summer, a tomato from the farmers market or from my small garden is heaven in a bite: the sweetness and depth of flavor is remarkable, the kind of thing that makes you want to call a friend and say "YOU HAVE GOT TO TRY THIS!"

And a winter tomato tastes like wet cardboard and sadness. It has just enough almost-tomato flavor to make me try again, but every bite is the same, and none of it is good.

In a modern life, it seem that we've totally lost touch with our fresh tomatoes, and everything surrounding them. City folks like me don't follow the seasons with our food, and often not even with our behavior: we spend time in air conditioning and heated homes (both of which have huge up-sides, of course!) and we eat strawberries in winter and apples in summer, and it seems to me that when we live like this everything feels just a bit flatter. Winter tomatoes are flat.

I'm trying to change this in my life.

I have a farmers market just blocks from my home (I know, how lucky am I?!) and I try to go every Sunday. Strolling the stalls, I see old and new friends, get to pet lots of random dogs, and listen to buskers playing quite a selection of music. There are food trucks and food tents, I really think that it's quite lovely, and part of the ritual of my week. But most of all right now, I'm noticing how when I shop that way, I find myself so much more in tune with the seasons.

This week the dahlias were wilted and had some spots; dried statice and cabbage flowers had taken their places. (I'm not going to lie: I mourned that!) I picked up bunches of leeks, carrots, and lacinto kale (I finally figured out one kind of kale that I don't despise). Potatoes, parsnips, radishes, apples filled the stands. Onions, garlic, and mushrooms were in abundance. And jarred items - kiwi jam, kombucha, and apple cider - were all there for the taking. I'm trying to map my eating to this kind of seasonality this year, and I don't know if it's my imagination but I really do think that the potatoes taste better, the carrots sweeter and crunchier.

But it's not just food, it's all of it.

As a teacher, I find that my work year is much more in tune with the seasons, even though we're indoors. "New Year" is autumn, just as in the pagan calendar. I love the ritual of freshening up office supplies, setting my classroom in order, and making plans to have creative, interesting lessons that will make the year sweeter for me and for my kids. September is the mad rush of trying to get to know the students, rolling out new curricula; October is all about finding our groove and getting work done; November is all about applying lessons and really getting down to business. December is about diving in - but then it's about raising our heads to catch our breath, sprinting out of the building, and enjoying a two week break.

January may be New Year's again. Refreshed, we're ready to dive back in, to close out the semester strong. And then, just when we're feeling tired, we get two things: a new quarter with a fresh start, and then a week of break. The we power through March and April to the AP exams, and then in late May and June we wind down with our college essay and the dreams of a new life.

And then? And then we get summer. Travel, oceans, suntans, festivals, concerts, picnics.

Having an arc to my year in this way is useful to me, and I find it soothing. Just like the tomatoes, when I try to rush in the wrong season - in September if I dive in too fast, we don't build community, and then they don't learn as well! - then I don't do well; in winter we really go deep into the material, and that feels right, too.

But I want my whole life to be like this, and more.

I want to really live each minute of the seasons, taking the gifts each season - month, week, day - can offer, and enjoying the gifts quite thoroughly.

It's mid-November and daylight savings is in effect, and suddenly it really is quite dark. Instead of complaining about this (there is so much complaining about this!), I don't want to fight it, I want to embrace it. In this season of darkness, I want:

- candles

- reading

- warm stews and soups (vegetarian for me, please!); butternut squash lasagna; roasted Brussels sprouts; lentil stew; vegetable soup with kale and carrots and potatoes; mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy

- oodles of hot drinks

Today I had fun grabbing my bright puffy coat, my waterproof (but cute!) lace up boots, and putting on my wool hat with a pompom and my matching thin gloves, and walking around the farmers market with my bag in the cold air, perfectly content because of my clothing. The cool air felt good in my lungs; my legs appreciated the stretch. Earlier, I walked through Lincoln Park and found myself enjoying a walk on the actual beach, admiring the shells and different seaweeds washed up in the strong autumn tides. (I saw a particularly beautiful chiton, bright blue inside; and a perfect snail shell; and so many lovely stones mixed in with the kelp and sea lettuce and other seaweeds I can't yet name.) When at home, I read for a while; I journaled for a while. I put my laundry away, and washed my sheets (and what is yummier than fresh clean sheets and a feather comforter on a cold night?). Back in the park, I found pinecones and bright leaves and a couple small cedar branches, and I brought them home and arranged candles in tin around them, and took satisfaction in bringing their autumn color and scents into my home.

On Friday night I had some friends over, and I made a vegetarian chili that included green chilies that I purchased at last week's farmers market and then roasted; it also had pumpkin in it. Lighting candles and setting the table in an autumn color palette was soothing to me; nurturing my friends on a cold night with warm food and a cozy home felt blissful.

This season I am nesting by journaling, spending more time at home being an introvert than I do in summer. I'm reading more. Writing more. Observing more. I'm taking a yoga class at a studio and enjoying doing it in community, instead of in my basement, glad to exercise my body without fighting the elements. It's a perfect fall activity, I think.

Instead of cursing the early dark, when I noticed the sky turning pink tonight I grabbed my puffy coat etc. and added a travel mug of hot tea ("Yogi Tea for Immune Support" felt right!) and hurried back to Lowman Beach to sit on a log and watch the sun setting. Bundled up, I felt no complaints, and the rich pink of the sky and the sound of the waves was no less beautiful than when I swam there this summer or lounged there with a book in a sundress or a bathing suit on a hot day. I felt fully present, so grateful that the November air was clean and fresh, and that the beach offered its gifts.

I'm already preparing for the winter season right around the corner, though I'm trying not to get too far ahead of myself. I'm reading pie recipes for Thanksgiving, and looking up all of the festivals and activities that I enjoy in winter. I don't want to miss the Christmas Ships, or the Pathway of Lights, or our local Night Markets. I've got tickets for a play in hand, and hope to find another. One friend's annual party in December is already on the calendar, and I've already invited friends to a "Sparkle" party and included "the kids" (who are mostly turning 20 this year!) because they'll enjoy gathering, too.

On Thanksgiving morning, the yoga studio is offering a "gratitude" practice. While I will no doubt be running around like mad in my kitchen, wishing I'd done more the night before, I'm going. Reveling in gratitude is a part of Thanksgiving, and I can't wait. And speaking of gratitude: I've already pulled out the Thanksgiving Journal. When Tessa was little I read about this practice of keeping a book where all of one's Thanksgiving guests write in it when they gather on Thanksgiving and I started it at least 15 years ago. The book has now watched cousins fall in love, get married; have children; it's weathered my divorce and the new life that came afterwards. It's seen grandparents pass, and it's seen babies being born. It's seen big Thanksgiving parties of 22, and a tiny one of just 3 for Covid. My regular Thanksgiving crew reminds me about it - they not only want to write in it, but going back and reading years gone by is a treasured tradition.

***

I know I'm rambling, so let me try to say what I came to say.

I want a good life, where I relish the gifts put before me. I don't want to curse the darkness, because cursing it will not bring the light. I want to embrace it all: the light, the darkness; the tomatoes, the butternut squash. I want to remember to get cozy in my home with fuzzy socks and favorite sweaters and a journal or a book, and I want to remember to strip down to only the lightest clothes and walk along the edges of the waves in the sunshine. I want to sleep under starry skies in summer, looking up and gasping at their beauty through tired eyes; and I want to light candles and smile at the warm light in my home in winter as warm scents come from my kitchen and friends come to the door. I want to look for signs of spring - those bright crocuses bring such joy! - but I also want to marvel at the lacy patterns of the trees, the beauty of hoarfrost, the steadfast water fowl who spend the winter without apparent regret, swimming in the Sound. I want to participate in the lighting of lights - candles, Christmas trees - and I want to be filled with gratitude that I am here to see them.

I don't want to fight the darkness, I want to find the beauty in it. I don't want to long for tomatoes, strawberries, and peaches, I want to savor pumpkin curry and pomegranate kale and cranberry bread.

I want to embrace the seasons of the year, and of my life.

Right now, my hair is thinner and grayer than it was. My belly is a different shape. My eyes have crinkles in the corners. I am not a young woman; this is not the spring of my life. But it seems to me, there is so much beauty at this phase of life, too.

Instead of taut skin, I have a stronger sense of self worth.

Instead of glossy, dark hair, I have the knowledge that I can overcome.

Instead of a sad marriage, I have freedom.

Instead of a baby in my arms, I have a daughter who is exploring her dreams at college and comes home to me at breaks.

Instead of learning a path, I have a steady career that feels solid.

Instead of building a home, I have a home that is safe, warm, and filled with comforts.

Much like in my youth, I'm still filled with dreams, hopes, and desires. But unlike in my youth, I'm not panicking that I haven't fulfilled them yet. I know that some will happen, and some might not, but that I am okay - no, better than okay! - either way.

Just as the day has light and dark, and the light and dark return right on schedule; just as the seasons surely rotate, the leaves bursting forth, shimmying in the breeze, bursting with color, then dropping to reveal the trees' architecture... my life has these patterns, too. I refuse to say that one season is worse, or better; they're just all so different, and each relies on the other. It's autumn, and I am in autumn, too. But this is the season for gratitude, and I am grateful.

I have had summers that hurt; I have had springs that birthed disease and divorce. Yes, some winters are weary (the Covid isolation of winter 2021 was ROUGH); but not all of them are. Some are filled with Christmas parties and solstice celebrations and snowshoeing and skiing and dinner parties and game nights and weekend getaways and such good books. Some are filled with success at work, and joyful breaks. I became a mother in winter - what is more lovely than that?

I'm a little slower this late autumn than I was in summer - no rushing about from train to train in Italy; no jumping from festival to festival or concert to concert. But the slowness suits me, too. It's the season for it. I spent an hour in a bookstore yesterday, a gift to myself.

I am skipping the fresh tomatoes for now, because I don't like soggy cardboard. And I'm embracing the dark, because I love lighting candles in the dark, and because a starry winter night is so gorgeous, and because I do love to see the Christmas lights against a dark sky. And I'm embracing every kind of potato, and all of the pies (but especially pumpkin).

And here I am, writing again, when all summer I struggled to do so, and that feels right, too. (Maybe I'll even go back and edit this, because boy it took me a long time to get to my point! :-) ).

I want to leave by the seasons, all of their light and dark, all of their sweet and savory. I refuse to dread the darkness, when I know that the darkness also brings the gift of snow days and apple cider and the smell of a Christmas tree in my house. There is so much to look forward to - and I'm looking forward to it! And I refuse to dread the autumn of my life, because it has gifts, too, and because the brightness of the leaves is no less knowing that they will fall, and because the winter around the corner has gifts to reveal, too.

And now: off to make a late dinner. Tonight it's mashed potatoes, mushroom gravy, and roasted broccoli. Yum. Nothing to be sad about there - comfort food at it's finest!

Selfless, Selfish, Myself

 As a woman and a mother, I have received many commands to be selfless.

Selfless mothers put their children's needs before their own. Selfless women give to community, to their jobs, to their families, to their friends. As a society, we revere them in their selflessness: we hold them up as paragons of virtue, as role models.

Selfish women, on the other hand, are at best chastised and at worst shamed and belittled. The woman at the park who was staring at her phone as her child yelled, "Watch me!" from the monkey bars got stares and eye rolls. The woman who dared to say "No," without explanation or apology, shocked the room into silence.

I was taught to be selfless. I was taught to give of myself until there was nothing left to give. I was taught to not only turn the other cheek but to say "sorry" and then "thank you" when I received the slaps. My family and society at large gave me loud messages about how giving up myself, sacrificing for others, and emptying myself of want or desire was the end goal, the proof that I had followed the script that had been handed to me.

Don't believe me? Read The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein. The beloved children's classic is about a boy and a tree, and the tree gives of itself until it is literally just a stump, and the boy - absolutely unaware that he has sapped the tree of everything by taking its apples, branches, and then even the trunk - then sits on that stump and the tree is still glad that (she?) has something left to give.

I hate this book. A child should not take until all that is left of the giver is a stump. It is, indeed, selfless love on the part of the tree... but isn't it also co-dependent garbage where the tree gets its self worth from how many limbs it is willing to chop off in the name of love? Isn't that abusive and ugly? And yet, the book is revered by many. Is this the model of motherhood that I am supposed to adore?

The messages aren't just in children's books, and I don't think I have to tell you where to find them. If you look, they're everywhere. "We" admire people, especially mothers, who give until it hurts. Such women are lauded as examples of womanhood, motherhood, and wife-dom.

And the reverse? We have names for women who are selfish. Names that rhyme with witch.

And I'm sick of it. Why would I choose to be a stump or a bitch? Surely there is more to life than putting my own needs dead last, or disregarding everyone around me without offering nurture or care?

I don't want to be selfless, and I don't want to be selfish. I just want to be myself.

***

Lately I've been taking a yoga class. It's a real gift to myself: I've carved out time and money to make it happen. I haven't done yoga in a class for several years (thanks, Covid) and I've never been particularly good at it; I've done yoga on and off for thirty years (what?!) but I've never had a truly regular practice. But this year, as Tessa is at school and I'm trying to remake my life into the shape that fits the time and place, I decided that yoga would benefit mind, body, and soul, so I went to a couple different studios until I found one that works for me. It's only a couple miles from home, and I only go once a week for now... but I'm finding it transformative.

First, there is the act of organizing my life around this thing that I want to do. I have to get off work on time, leaving a meeting even if it runs late. Then I bought myself a few items to wear, because my workout gear was getting a little shabby (or, in some cases, just too tight - oops). And I needed to pay money to do take the classes, even though I could do free videos in my basement. And then... I needed to show up for myself.

There is something about being in community during yoga. Something wonderfully unpolished about the humanity of the instructor ("take your right foot - oh, sorry, I mean your left foot!"); about being in a room with people younger than me and older than me, in better shape than me or worse shape than me; about the way the studio puts small vases of flowers around the edges of the room. There is magic in a small group of people sitting in stillness and quietly setting their intentions. And there is such release in savasana at the end of the practice. When it's all over and we softly call out "namaste" (the light in me sees the light in you) to the instructor, my whole body feels the gratitude of the words. It helps my body for sure, but it releases my mind and frees my soul even more than it tightens my muscles or improves my balance.

And it is... selfish? To take this time just for myself, not for fitness, but simply because I want to.

I don't think it's selfish. I was taught to believe that it's selfish. But I think it is just me being fully myself.

***

I have become friends with two "new" sets of neighbors who moved in close to my house. Both families have babies as well as older kids, and both families are positively lovely people who are exactly the kind of neighbors one hopes for. There are borrowed groceries, shared bottles of wine, invitations to visit. Babies get passed around, and younger children that tell me wild stories about worms in the garden ("It was six feet long - really!") with sparkling eyes. Both of these women have gone to yoga with me, and I am absolutely blown away by it, the way that they are creating space in their lives for themselves. When Tessa was little, I wasn't good at that... at all. I envy them this.

***

This post isn't about yoga. This post is about figuring out how to be myself, without apology or explanation. This is about me refusing to give of myself until I am only a stump, while still living as a nurturing, generous, loving person. Because I do believe that I am generous, and nurturing, and that I have love to give. But I also believe that it is not my job to solve everyone else's problems and emergencies of their own making, and that if I leave work on time the world will not fall apart, and that if I create space to do the things I love - even when they cost money, or take me away from things other people might wish me to do - it's okay.

I don't want selfish, and I don't want selfless. I want to fully inhabit my own life, my own body, my own dreams.

With Tessa living her own life, following her dreams, I see the importance of following my own dreams even more. If not now, when? I'm 53 years old and I feel so strongly that the best is yet to come, and that I'm not done giving or receiving gifts in life. In this second half of my life, though, I don't want to be selfless anymore. I want to take care of my own wants, desires, longings, and needs... knowing that I can do so without selfishness. I want to, at long last, be in a relationship where not only do I know how to ask for what I need, but also to - without apology - create space for what I need within myself.

No excuses. No explanations. Just yes when I mean yes, and no when I mean no.

I took a workshop once where the instructor gave an analogy about filling our cups. He said that we should picture our lives like a teacup being filled by a waterfall. We could imagine the waterfall filling the cup... and then overflowing into the saucer. He said that when we allowed ourselves to fill up, we could help others with the overflow, and be glad to do so - we would be able to give generously without depleting our own resources. I really like this analogy, but even though I heard it over a decade ago, I think I'm just now starting to get what it might look like in my own life.

It looks like boundaries around work. (I don't work on weekends, I decided. I work late two nights a week, and the other nights are for me. This feels - miraculous. And I should point out that I still put in plenty of unpaid overtime, but it's more on a schedule that works for me.)

It looks like investing in myself. A yoga class, a trip, a pair of lovely yoga tights that don't rise up or show my underwear when I bend over. There is a financial element that I still need to be careful with, but there needs to be space for me, too.

It looks like guarding my time, giving it to people whose energy fuels me rather than depletes me, and it looks like learning that my time alone is worth protecting, too. "I'm sorry, I have plans" is perfectly appropriate if I have scheduled time for myself to write, to read, or to have a quiet evening.

Not a stump.

Not a bitch.

Just - myself, at the center of my own life, surrounded by community, working hard, but giving myself space to breathe.

It's not rocket science, but it still feels new to me. New, and beautiful, and miraculous, and magic. I love it, and I'll take all the magic I can get.