Expectant

 21 years ago, I lay in this same room, facing the television, on my left side because it was better for the baby during doctor ordered bedrest due to pre-eclampsia. I flipped channels, watched old DVDs, and saw whatever was on our limited cable. I held my breath with the expectation of how soon things would change - the induction date was on the calendar, a result of the pre-eclampsia. My excitement was matched only by the boredom of staying so still, my blood pressure skyrocketing and literal stars in my eyes (which might have been beautiful if they weren't so terrifying).

We called the baby TessaBenjamin, because we didn't want to know the gender. What I never would have admitted, not under pain of torture and death, was that I longed for a girl, with a depth of certainty that I couldn't describe even to myself. I understand now that I wanted to have a daughter that I could raise in the belief that she was worthy, loved, capable, interesting, and important. And I understand now that I was afraid of being run over by a son (and I also understand that given that I would raise a son so differently than my own experiences, that wouldn't have been a problem... and it was a risk worth taking, and I knew that, but I understand it better now).

But there I was, expectant. Waiting. My love for the child inside me was fierce in a way I had never experienced before. I didn't know them, but I'd be willing to die for them, and I waited to see their face, to get to know them.

I lay on my left side, uncomfortable, but taken by the miracle of all of it, incredulous that my body could produce a real, live, person. She (because it was her, even though I only guessed it) gave me persistent kicks and turns, reassuring me of her wellness, astounding me with every movement.

The night before she was born, she was particularly active, and I closed my eyes and soaked it all in. I knew she would be my only child, and I wanted to soak up the crazy, marvelous, beloved wonder of all of it. The expectation was delicious, and I rested my hands on my taught, round belly and soaked it up, vowing to never forget it.

I kept my promise to myself. The sofa is different, the walls are different, the floors are different, but the house is the same. My body is different, too. My breasts are filled with silicone, not collostrum; my belly softer and though less rounded than pregnancy still more rounded than it once was. My hair has a wild gray streak, my eyes have more crinkles around them, and my body is covered with scars that once would have terrified me but now are just part of me. But this different body - not pregnant, and no longer containing a uterus - is still the same body. The hands that rested on my belly - my belly, my hands - still remember. I think the house remembers, too. It has cradled that baby and I for every year of her life.

We were so expectant for the life that would come. I was wrong about a lot of it - I didn't predict cancer; I didn't predict divorce - and I'm glad I had no idea what was coming or I would have been too scared and sad to keep going. But instead, I had the optimism that it would all be okay, that somehow it would work out. I didn't know how, or why, it would all work out, but I had a stubborn determination that I would love this baby so fiercely that we could weather any storm, and that she would feel my love deeply in her bones, never questioning it for even a second. It was my expectation, my hope, my dream.

In the pause that came before my daughter transitioned from life in my body to life, I held my breath. I paused, soaking it all up, knowing with certainty that it would never be like this again, and that I needed to hold the moment in time, to will the sensations to never leave my body even when the sensations were far in the past. I held the moment, yet remained expectant for all to come, trying to balance how any of it was possible at all.

She was born eight hours after the induction started, gentle at first and then with an intensity that was too hard to feel real. It all fell apart towards the end, the room palpable with panic. The doctor - kind and warm in every other instance - shouted orders, and a red button was pushed, and then the room filled with people and crash carts - a large one for me, a smaller one for her - and the doctor demanded that I push with all my might so that we could both live. I remember the details like they were yesterday, though some of these moments would be happier if forgotten, and in my first seconds of motherhood I learned that I would do anything, anything at all, to save this baby that I hadn't even met yet. I pushed through the pain, knowing that I would tear and feeling it as it happened, not sure if I could survive it but certain that I would give my life to protect hers, well aware of the terrifying numbers appearing on her monitors.

And then... "it's a girl." My first words were "are you sure?" because it sounded to me, even through tears, like winning the lottery and encountering a magical unicorn and falling in love and summiting a mountain and diving into the ocean and ... and I had never loved like that before.

They placed her in my arms, Susan beside me murmuring with happy tears, her father stepping back to wipe his own tears, and I looked into that face and felt promises and love and hope and more promises and more love rising within me. I had never seen anything so beautiful, and her startled blinking, her starfish hands (the line from the Plath poem became so clear and obvious when I saw them), the small, wet weight of her against my body was balm against the craziness of the world, and even enough that I could try to tune out the needle going in and out of my most tender parts, trying to piece me together again.

There is nothing like that moment, which I have only experienced once in my life, and will never experience again.

And then the expectant pregnancy seems like nothing, nothing at all compared to this, and the expectation of the lives that would follow. I looked into her face and imagined first steps, first words, first days of school, first time on a two wheeler, first sleepovers, first returned "I love you."

She came home to the home that she was conceived in. She snuggled with me on the sofa where I had waited for her. She met all of the firsts that I'd hoped for.

As she got older, we had other firsts, too - her slammed doors, eye rolls, cringes when I tried to hug her or offer comfort. There were tears of broken promises - I did not stay married to her dad. There was the cancer, but also the scares that followed it, and the day that she said, "Mom, are you dying? How do I know if you're telling the truth?" and I promised I would never lie to her.

I kept that promise, even when it was harder than I'd imagined.

And she was a flexible gymnast, a wonderful friend, a story teller with a marvelous sense of humor. She developed an impressive integrity. She was my backpacking partner, my adventurous eater, my dreamer. And she was more than that: a true crime junkie (she didn't get that from me!), an introvert, a superhero when someone was in need (that time with the kids who got dropped off at the wrong bus stop; donating her hair to kids with cancer; volunteering for all kinds of causes...). She was - is - extraordinary.

And more than two years ago, we took the trip in the Subaru, loaded up with blue IKEA bags and a new laptop, and moved into a new phase, so that now there was "our house" and "your dorm" and she had more than one address, and she spent more nights there than in her old room down the hall. This was an expectant time, too, of all the firsts to come. I feared that I would be lonely - that the child whose breathing was as familiar to me as my own - and I feared that I hadn't prepared her adequately, and I feared that she'd be filled with fear, and I feared her fear... I held my breath, waiting, prepared to scoop her up at a moment's notice, to rescue her if rescuing was called for.

She didn't need rescuing. Slowly, I released my breath (though admittedly I think I held it for a year). She found her way, and though she was far away (not so far as colleges go, but farther than we'd ever spent time apart nonetheless) I felt our connection as if she was still in the room down the hall.

She loans me books she recommends. She taught me to crochet. She corrects me when my language is outdated or harmful (glad for that). She believes in me when I long to write. She's become her own woman, so much more than that blinking little bundle in my arms; so much more than the giggling sleepovers; so much more than homework battles or high school graduation.

I'm still expectant, though, still catching my breath and wondering at the miracle of it all. She's extraordinary, and so much more than I was at her age. She's finding her way in her own way, inviting me to the parts of her journey that are appropriate for a mom to join.

As Tessa approaches her 21st birthday, it occurs to me that - sitting here in this room, on a sofa in the same room where I once waited for her - I'm just as expectant as I was 21 years ago. And it's just as miraculous, and just as unknown, and just as scary.

Scary because scary things happen - unmentionable things that I cannot mention. But it's still just as much of a miracle as it was back then, her tiny body swimming inside my larger one.

It's her perfectly formed body in the great big world, filled with questions and wonderment and the dream of firsts. First words are replaced with big ideas about the world that she is developing and sharing with me. One day the trip to college will be replaced with a trip home with those bags in tow (more of them now), but she'll move out one day and never move back, too. That's scary but exciting, too - I never raised her to live at my hip like a child, and she will live a woman's life, not a child's life. She will have jobs, relationships, adventures. She will create. She will be brought to her knees, and she will rise up again. 

And there will be shared trips, holidays, meals. We'll keep sharing book recommendations, and a love of Gilmore girls, and all the milestones.

This week she's coming home, and we're going bar hopping. This sounds much more adventurous than it really is - we're going to have appetizers and sometimes drinks at the 21+ places in the neighborhood that we can walk to. Neither of us is a big drinker, but it's a rite of passage, and I can't wait to share it with her. (And I bought her a silly Miss America style sash that says "Tessa's 21st Birthday" and I'm not sure she'll agree to wear it but at least I can get a picture of her in it!)

If anything, there are more things to look forward to than I could imagine 21 years ago.

I never dreamed I'd get so lucky as to have a daughter who wanted to celebrate her 21st birthday with me, mother-daughter style.

Sometimes I still forget to breathe, holding my breath in this expectant state, worried and hopeful. That hasn't changed. And I still don't want to forget a minute of it - her long, silky hair (will I be lucky enough to see it go gray one day?), her new ideas of the world and how much she teaches me. I don't know if there will be a marriage, a child, or graduations - these things are not promised. Most certainly there will be new jobs, new homes, new friends, new adventures, new books, new creative endeavors, new travels. There were will be a career or careers.

I'm delighted, in love with the woman that I haven't even met yet, the version of Tessa that is still to come. It's a miracle that she's in my life, that she exists, that she is the extraordinary, beautiful, smart, capable, compassionate woman that she is.

There have been rough moments, some of them mine, some of them hers, and there will be more. But mostly, overwhelmingly, it's just been a miracle. I can't believe I got so lucky.

So here we are, she and I, the first 21 years behind us. Undoubtedly, we will watch more movies in this room where I once lay on my left side, expectant, watching her create ripples across my belly, trying to hold the moment so I'd never forget it. I sit here today, writing this, trying to hold this moment, the completion of the first 21 years, the expectation and wonder about the decades to follow. Who will she be? What is our path together, and apart? What choices will she make? What will life throw at her? What will it be like to live in different homes permanently? Will our relationship stay close? Will we maintain our closeness? Who will she invite into our lives? Will I know how to be a loving and wonderful mother to a grown woman? What is it like to mother a full grown woman, not a child? Who will she be, and who will I be, in this new life?

I'm still holding my breath, expectant, and blown away by the miracle of it all.

Happy 21st birthday to the daughter of my dreams. I love you, Tessa, and I hope that all of your dreams come true. And I hope to be there to bear witness to you achieving those dreams, loving you, cheering for you, a steady presence in your life that you can count on whether things are wonderful or terrible. You'll always be my baby, but I'm so grateful that I get to know you as a woman.

***

Of all the girls, in all the world, I'm so glad that you belong to me, and I belong to you. I love you sooooo much! Snuggle, kiss, BITE!*

*The first words were my nightly ritual with Tessa as I tucked her in after stories. She thought it was so funny to add "bite!" and pretend to bite my nose, giggling wildly with silliness after the sweetness. We don't exchange those words anymore... but every time she goes to bed, I say them to myself. They're as true now as they were then.... but I'm relieved she grew out of the idea that biting was funny!

Enough

 I've been pondering the word "enough" for a while now.

There's the question "enough?" which means: am I enough? do I have enough? is there enough to go around?" and resides in fear that the answers are no, no, NO.

There's the yelp "enough!" which means: for the love of all that is holy it must STOP! and resides in frustration and more fear that it will never end.

And then there is the declaration: "Enough." It means that I'm done grasping for answers, that equilibrium has been reached, that I am sated. It means that I'm not hungry, it means that I have what I need, it means that I can be still.

Enough.

It seems to me that most of my life has been lived in "enough?" which is a question asked of people who weren't capable of telling me the truth. It means looking outside myself for answers, going to people to beg permission to exist; going to the world with a beggar's cup in hand to plead for survival.

After a few decades of that I screamed "ENOUGH!" at the top of my lungs: at my marriage, at my parents, at the world. It was filled with rage rooted in fear that the world wasn't safe, that only through the power of my force could I possibly stop disaster and keep myself alive and afloat, not asunder and askew. It was rooted in the exhaustion of "enough?" but not removed from it. It was about adding fire to the dark, and the light was helpful, and I lived.

But I still lived with "enough?" and the fear that I'd have to keep shouting just to keep the whole thing going.

And I think, maybe, yes, for sure, that it's time for enough.

What if I know that I am enough? That I can do what I need to do, what I want to do? What if I am not good or bad, perfect or hideous, right or wrong, but I am simply enough? What if there is space for me to be imperfect yet lovely, sometimes wrong but still good, making mistakes but still making progress?

What if the world has space in it for me, and my life is filled with enough? Enough love, enough friendship, enough security, enough joy? What if I am a good enough teacher, my body is good enough, my home good enough, my life... enough?

And what if, in the material world, I already have enough? What if this gnawing feeling that I've carried for so long that I am close to the edge and I'd better grasp what I can before it all slips away... what if that feeling isn't true? What if my life has stability and even abundance?

***

I've been seeing my life through new eyes recently.

In before times, finances were such a struggle just to stay afloat. Not even going into childhood or my marriage (not for public consumption here), when I got divorced all I could do was hold on. It took a series of miracles to keep my home - interest rates that dropped at just the right time, promotions or new jobs that came exactly when I most needed them. I laid in bed at night running through the numbers, the backup plans, certain from all of the years of being told so that I did not have what it took to survive this, and that any minute the sky would fall.

I look up. It's gray and raining outside today, but the fact that rain is falling means that there is, actually, a sky. It's still up there, doing the work it was made for, life giving water falling on my emerald green part of the world. I was wrong for sure. I'm here, and the sky has not fallen.

And it seems to me, actually, that in my own life, the sky has been doing exactly what skies are supposed to do. Months of rain lead to sunshine. Snowy hikes in the mountains in one season, paddle boarding on the sea the season opposite, and rain in between, with occasional glimpses of blue just to remind me that it still exists. Beautiful cold nights where the stars startle with the reminder that they've been there all along. A moon that waxes and wanes, shines bright and disappears, slivers and globes and light and darkness, playing peekaboo with the clouds but - just like the baby behind the blanket - there all along.

In my life, this looks like surprise bills (the fence needs mending! the dishwasher broke! the car costs HOW MUCH to repair?!) scattered amongst blue sky moments like a concert with friends or a trip on an airplane to do something exciting; days when the commute and the long hours and the rain bring me down balanced by days when I'm walking in Lincoln Park and a porpoise peeks out of the sea or I have a day to light candles and read all day as the rain falls (I can vacuum later and it turns out that this will not make my house fall down).

It means that when I go to get dressed, I have stacks of warm sweaters to choose from in winter, and a row of bright sundresses to choose from in summer. It means a selection of coats of just the right thickness for whatever the sky brings. It means sharp knives in the drawer, a basket overflowing with teas to choose from, a liquor cabinet made for entertaining different palates. It means tools of all shapes and sizes in the garage, the kitchen, the craft cupboard. It means stacks of books in all the right places. It means a fridge overflowing with food, a printer full of ink with backup in supply, dozens of mugs to choose from when I make my coffee. It means that I write this at the desk I try to reserve for writing because I don't like bringing other energy into the space, on the treadmill that means that I can get the creative juices flowing at the same time I try to care for my body, and it means that I don't have to go outside for a run when it's cold or wet or hot or smoky. It means a little jungle of houseplants, and throw blankets at the foot of every sofa and bed and cozy chair. It means a daughter living in her apartment in college, partway through her junior year, and a little stack of gifts to show her that she's seen and loved and special for when she comes home to celebrate her birthday.

The list goes on for miles. The things I need are all there. I don't have to be hot, or cold. There's enough to share - a spare coat, plenty of food, a guest room. When a letter needs sending, or a gift needs wrapping, or the yard needs tending, it's all there. When there is a fancy party, there are outfits to choose from; when there's a picnic, there is a choice of baskets.

A choice of baskets? Yes. The contemporary sleek canvas one with the metal handle; the old fashioned one with the built in dishes and wine glasses; the Little Red Riding Hood ones. There was a backpack one too that I gave away. There were plastic picnic dishes I gave away, too, preferring my enamelware metal ones. And all the paper plates for just in case - I gave those away too. The baskets are representative of something else - too much. Not enough is not the problem. I own two red coats; four colors of puffy coats. Multiple wool dress coats. Just to be clear, most of these were bargain prices, or gifts, or thrifted. I haven't totally lost my mind and started buying whatever I want, but I've been good at the local Buy Nothing and Tessa and I like thrifting and I watch the online sales and friends give handmedowns and the one coat I regretted not buying in the store was available for only $20 on Poshmark and....

And if you haven't become exhausted from all that already, then you have good endurance, but let me save us all here.

Not enough has tipped into something else.

Enough. I have enough. I do not need to worry about running out of underwear (painful memories of the ones I wore as a child cutting into my legs because they were too small, and my mother's voice saying "but nobody can see them anyway" when I complained about the stretched out elastic and holes, missing the point entirely). No more embarrassment when a friend invites me to an event and I truly don't have the right things to wear. 

I still remember going to a charity event with a ticket gifted by my lovely, generous friend Sandra. I showed up at her house in my new Marshall's simple black dress and out of style shoes, and she took apparent delight in putting the rest of my outfit together, declaring "I know just the bracelet" and such, loaning me from her supply... and I looked at her jewelry, pretty costume pieces that were just right, and in abundance... and I felt my own lack, despite the generous loan. The press showed up at our event, and our picture together was published in a local magazine, the three of us looking playful and fabulous, and I realize now that nobody could see how small I felt, how unsure of myself; nobody realized that my costume jewelry was borrowed and the ticket was gifted and I couldn't afford to raise my paddle. They only saw a smiling woman in a black dress with her friends, wearing just the right jewelry.

Even when I was barely scraping by, there was enough. There was a friend to help, a free ticket, a fun night.

And now I could loan a friend what she needed from my own ample supply. Silver? Gold? Classic? Playful? Witchy? Delicate? Chunky? Tell me what you like, I'm sure I have something... I could take the whole town out for a picnic. I could wear a different coat each day of the week.

And I am done. It's enough.

Recognizing that Amazon isn't great for our planet or our local businesses, I decided to go cold turkey on January 1st. Mostly, I bought household stuff: office supplies, cleaning supplies, big boxes of tissues. But I also bought random kitchen things, or inexpensive sweaters, or party supplies (I have a set of twelve plaid cloth napkins that I purchased for my plaid party; was that really necessary?!).

It feels good to remove the app, to stop scrolling for things I "need." It's moving into other parts of my life, too.

I tried on four outfits before we went to The Nutcracker this year, and I hated the first three. This one too tight, this one the sleeves aren't quite long enough, this one what was I thinking? This time, instead of putting them back in the closet for another occasion, I put them in the donation bin. This made me look at my closet - bursting at the seams - and wondering what else was there. This sweater is cheap acrylic, this one not the right color for my skin tone, this one in the style a friend wears and looks great in but really isn't great for me. These pants are too tight, these ones unflattering. Gone, gone, gone!

And the spices: expired - gone. Faded herbs - gone. And the condiment shelf in the fridge, same.

I have a lot of work to pare things down. The house is tidy and organized, but this is a trick because the house has lots of storage and carefully stored things I don't use are still clutter. I have a lot of work to do on all those closets, the attic, the garage, the laundry room.

But what is interesting (oh finally I get to my point!) is that the best part of this process isn't going to a closet and seeing only clothes I enjoy that actually fit me; the best part isn't saving money (even a $20 Poshmark coat is $20); the best part isn't lowering my ecological footprint by stopping bringing things into my house.

The best part is how it's seeping into my real self.

I'm safe. I have enough. I don't need to worry about others judging me as I felt they did when I was a child who never fit in and never had the right things (getting yelled at in PE because my shoes were too slippery and not safe, and telling my parents, and they shrugged it off and ignored the request whether because of money or inclination or both, and returning to school each day to hear the same humiliating lecture, afraid of running as I knew I'd fall again); I don't have to worry that Tessa's feet will grow too fast and I'll have to find a new corner to cut so that she will get new shoes when she needs them. I have things to share, and I needn't rely on charity.

(But I love my hand me down house. The living room and family room sofas, dressers, side tables, dining room chairs... this house is filled with gifts from friends, their castoffs which I like perfectly well. Craigslist and Buy Nothing and Value Village filled in most of the rest, and what they couldn't provide I proudly purchased at IKEA, choosing painted white wood that feels fresh and clean and functional and natural if not stylishly luxurious.)

Instead of feeling the not-enoughness of my hand me downs, I feel the love of the friends who shared them, and the universe which made sure I had enough. The universe even flooded my basement with sewage - so gross! - which means that half my house was completely redone, fresh and clean, even a bit stylish. What I thought would end my time in my home actually improved it.

So what if this went beyond stuff? Beyond feeling comfortable and confident in my clothes, beyond having the right supplies when I reach for them in the cupboard? What if this seeped into my soul?

I have enough.

I am safe.

I do not need to spend my energy "getting and spending" (and there are plenty of people on the planet who do - it is the utmost luxury to not have to spend one's life trying to get by).

It's time to switch gears.

Instead of spending energy just trying to hold on - a sofa to sit on, a jacket to stay warm, a book to read, food to eat - I'm trying to remind myself that just as I have enough, I am enough.

I have enough in my life.

Enough friendship. Enough love. Enough safety. Enough hope. Enough creativity. Enough peace.

I don't need to look for new things to remind me that I'm enough.

I don't need to fret about my friendships, or worry that some new person doesn't like me.

I don't need to wait for some magical moment that it all comes together because...

Because this is the magical moment.

I'm clearing clutter so that I can figure out all of it.

I'm trying to lead my creative life, getting rid of the messages that say I'm not good enough or smart enough and the odds are against me so there is no point in trying. The new book is right - I feel it in my bones. It's meant to be written, and it's meant to be read.

I can let go some of my pain of worrying about Tessa. She is nearly 21, and she is becoming the woman she is meant to be. She has ups and downs, but I see her strengths, and she's extraordinary. She doesn't need my anxiety or worry on top of her own, and so I'm setting that down. She is enough. Our relationship is enough. It's unfolding just as it should.

I can stop trying to hold on so tight to what I fought for. I fought so hard to keep this house that I can't imagine living anywhere else... but maybe I can. I fought so hard to regain my teaching career that I can't imagine anything else... but maybe I can. I fought so hard to find my peace that I've been afraid to change anything that might disturb it... but maybe I can.

Maybe I can. Because I have enough. This is enough.

If I am not good or bad, but enough, then I can write my book without worrying about perfection or the voices that shout at me to "mend their life". I can just do what I am called to do.

I can let go of my career if other opportunities arise. It is not my only path to peace and safety. It is here for me when I need it. But it's enough to worry about whether my writing will ever amount to anything; I don't need to worry that it WILL be successful, because I can handle that, too.

I fought so hard to fill up my closet with clothes that symbolized safety and security, but I can let many of them go, too... and maybe I can even open my heart to sharing some of that space with someone one day. Or maybe I can find a new closet one day, a his-and-hers, and move my clothes to a new bar that is abundant and safe even though it's new.

It's time to let go. If I unclench my fist, I can see what it is that I've been holding onto so tightly; I can let it see sunshine and rain so it can grow and flourish instead of hiding in the dark of my fingers and palm.

Enough? Yes.

Enough! It's time to move on.

Enough. I am.

I'm letting go of what doesn't fit, of spices that have lost their zing, of books I actually don't want to read no matter what the reviews say.

I am holding on to what serves me, to what feels right and true, to enough. 

I trust that I will know the difference, when to let go and when to hold on, like the old serenity prayer. I trust that I have all the tools I need, and I don't need to be perfect, and I will find my way despite imperfections or sometimes because of them.

Enough.

We can leave the Christmas lights up 'til January...

 ... or February. Because "this is our house, we make the rules..." and because I love their gentle light. I have a covered front porch and I only put lights up around the perimeter of that little porch, softly embracing the porch swing with blue pillows, the little mosaic table, the old wooden chair, the old door with stained glass, the mailbox with the wreath still hanging above it. I can wrap myself in blankets and feel so cozy there with a cup of tea, gazing at the trees and the blooming rhododendrons. (They should not be blooming right now, but they are. Not a full bloom, but there are big, vibrant pink blossoms on them and I am choosing to enjoy them.)

And this is how my new year begins, with an appreciation for the old friend that is my home, and for deciding that I'm going to do it my way, and shrugging my shoulders at whatever I'm supposed to do and doing what my gut tells me is right.

I'd planned to get up early and plunge into Puget Sound this morning, but last night it became clear that I'm coming down with a cold. I've decided that next weekend is my polar plunge, and my big beginning to the year. This makes sense to me: I have a houseguest coming this week (she arrives tonight) and my plan for this year is to be more solitary so that I can focus on my writing... and houseguests aren't exactly what I meant. Plus, Katherine was home until 9pm yesterday, and with my head buzzing and my eyes itching and my throat scratching, it was not the beautifully calm evening I had planned to bring in my new year.

But I get to make the rules. I'm leaving the lights up, and I'm ushering the rest of my year in next weekend. Ish. Because I'm doing it now, too.

No rules.

My rules.

Both.

Over the past year I've been returning to my pagan roots - the ancient traditions that are still in my bones, the ones that have space for a divine feminine; the ones that encourage me to embrace what I know is true and to listen to my own heart rather than some prescribed path that was never made for me. To write this down, in a public space, and to claim it as my own, well, it feels bold and new and exciting and a little scary.

But mostly, exciting.

This year I'm leaning into the magic, embracing it more fully than ever. I'm burning orange candles for creativity; I'm simmering little pots of cinnamon (protection) and oranges (positivity); I'm bathing in lavender (silence and calm). I'm lighting a million white candles; I'm doing meditation and yoga; I'm moon bathing. I'm tending plants inside and outside my house, but particularly outside those plants are wilder and wilder. From where I sit, I see a foxglove, planted there by a bird or the wind, and it feels like a blessing and a gift.

And I'm soaking it all up: the porch lights, the cozy blankets, the scents, the plants, the moon. I'm seeing signs everywhere I go, and though they were always there for me and anyone else who wants to see them, the fact that I can see them more clearly than ever feels magical. My life is imbued with magic.

This year will be extraordinary, and I feel it in my bones. Change is bubbling inside my bones like champagne bubbles (or is it prosecco?), like the Ligurian Sea by Monterosso, like the shock and joy of a cold plunge that reminds every bone in my body that I am alive.

My word for the year is Creativity. I'm off to a good start, as by accident (Tessa's bestie, Anna, came over before Christmas and brought a crochet project she's been working on; Tessa immediately picked up the hobby for herself, and then a few days later I joined her) I've been crocheting. Now I know what a hank is; now I know how to chain stitch and granny square, and I've finally mastered how to count off and where to change to make a corner. I'm making a soft, sky colored blanket in a delicate shade. I like that the yarn contains real wool, and as I move it through my fingers I wonder about the wooly sheep that brought it to me. The wool is imported from Peru, so I picture ancient mossy stones, rolling green hills, shepherds and shepherdesses in thick sweaters in traditional patterns (or maybe in Patagonia fleece?) tending the flock so that it could reach someone like me, far across the world. The repetitive motion is incredibly soothing, and I swear that there is a bit of magic in each knot, untangling my mind.

But crochet is a hobby, and writing is my life's work. This blog is my little warmup, my meditation, my settling into myself, but I'm working on a book and... oh, I think the feeling that I have is pride! Pride! In my writing! I am throwing myself into the project this year. I'm making space in my life for it, and it feels quite extraordinary.

My office, where I am writing to you now, has gone from being a neglected corner of the house (it actually flooded in the corner every year for the first few years we lived here) that was unfinished and dismal; to a place of serenity and peace (and a fix that means it hasn't flooded in a dozen or more years, despite record rainfall). The warm bamboo floors, "hinting blue" walls, crisp white trim, and simple white desk and bookcase feel like an invitation... but even more than that, they feel like abundance. How is it possible that I have such a space that I can dedicate just to writing?! In the corner there is a cozy chair and ottoman with a woven print of blue and cream dahlias (Dahl-ias!) in the fabric, sitting on a soft blue and white wool rug (wool again!), with a little wooden table beside it. There are shelves full of books and photographs. My vision board is on the wall; across from it hang my three diplomas. Added this year is a desk treadmill, so that I may move my body and get my blood flowing (an idea I got from Ann Patchett when I went to her book talk in Seattle last fall); I alternate between writing at the treadmill and writing in the cozy chair. Every bit of it is a gift to myself, from the plants in the windows to the candles to the art (a favorite piece came from Etsy, and contains the reminder "We are the granddaughters of the witches you couldn't burn)".

The telling of all of this is a magical chant, and the message of the chant is this:

You have everything you need.

You are ready.

You are safe.

You are a creator.

You have abundance.

The time is now.

Just as I was able to turn corner of my home from alternating dusty and damp into a refuge and beauty, I am able to turn the dusty and damp places inside myself into something beautiful.

I am meant to be a writer. I have always been a writer, actually, from the earliest memories of knowing how to form words on a page. It's what I've been doing all this time, in fits and starts, but now it's what I'm meant to do with depth and consistency. And the magic is this: I can do it, and I'm already halfway there.

I've always been a writer, and now I'm going to be an author.

It's 2024, and I have spent so much time laying down the foundation for this very moment. This is our house, we make the rules. This is my witchy, spiritual life, filled with comforting soups and candles and laughing girlfriends and a daughter who is made of light and love and magic and goodness, in a home that radiates warmth and joy. This is the place where I can turn dust and damp into meaning and beauty. 

I couldn't have afforded this house if it didn't have dust and damp; they were gifts to me so that I could secure it. And I have it in my to build something from nothing: love and light from dark and cold. I spent years working on it, clearing the spaces to let the light in.

And now it's more ready than ever, and I'm more ready than ever.

2024 is going to be extraordinary. Creativity and light, saying no to what doesn't serve me so that I can say yes to what does.

Happy new year. Let it be so!

Anybody out there?

 I heard that Google was shutting down unused accounts... and so I decided that I'd better check in here so it's not unused anymore! I've been thinking about picking up blogging again...

Is anybody still out there? Hello? It's been an age!

Let me know if you want to catch up! <3

Love, PollyAnna

Warm up

Sometimes I feel like my entire life up until now has just been a warmup.

A 54 year warmup.

The early years were spent just trying to figure things out - up from down, right from wrong. I got conflicting messages in those early years: I thought I knew right from wrong, and I was trying to do right, but I kept hearing how wrong I was. I don't have the clearest memories of that time: it was a time of confusion, and my confusion colors the memories, swirling and fading and glowing with bright light and sudden darkness and misty gray and the discordant sensation of spinning upside down without gravity to tell me which way to go.

Somewhere in my teen years I started to figure a few things out. I keep swirling and tipping over but sometimes I could glimpse sky or ground and think "ah so that's up and down" but then darkness and light and noise and flashing and silence, and so I kept holding on to those glimpses of stars and earth and trying to remember them so that I could affix myself into my space.

This looked like noticing when people were making things up. This looked like identifying my own desires, and stubbornly adhering to my longings, even when people in my life told me that my longings were strange and not for the likes of me. This looked like deciding that I was someone who wanted an education, that I wanted freedom - wings to fly the world, filled with ideas and dreams and possibilities. This looked like seeking independence. Sometimes it sounded like me telling my parents that I couldn't be them; sometimes it looked like refusing to take help. It looked like sex, and saying no, and experimenting with my power as a young woman. It also looked like shrinking from that power, so untested and strange, and hearing voices tell me that I would be burned by it, that it was imaginary, doomed.

A brief flash of time in my 20s that looked like travel. Graduation. Living alone - with houseplants and a cat and easy access to city amenities on the weekdays - delicious dinners and funny movies and on the really good days a play or a concert - and weekends spent in the woods, calling out "on your left!" and passing people the entire way before lounging at the lake, occassionally slapping a mosquito or diving in to glacial melt, feeling alive deep in my bones.

And then: marriage. A house. The deep call within myself to have a child - a girl, please let it be a girl, because if it is a boy how can I worship him and still love myself? A daughter, my very own, delivered into my arms. to teach me what love should look like and how much it hurts and all that is possible. To teach me all of my failures, to build my strength, to help me to dream again - first for her, then for me.

The failures, fast and furious. Mistakes were made. The wrong partner, the wrong life, the old messages creeping in and creating a swamp around my brain telling me that my dreams were too big, too free, too much. Staying small to make a small person feel better. Watching my own tiny small person become bigger and bigger, fighting to keep pace with her, always one step ahead, so that I wouldn't be too small to love her in the big ways she needed.

The failing of body. Of hope. Of my day to day routines, once taken up with playdates and grocery stores and Target runs and an infinite number of snacks and bedtime stories about princesses and elephants and cowboys and dinosaurs and orphaned girls who found their bliss and a girl on a prairie and a mouse who could dance but didn't understand that you're supposed to let the boys catch you (and wondering why not). My days now doctor's appointments and reading "Sammy's Mommy Has Cancer" so much we memorized it, finding strange comfort that it was not only us.

Years of this. Years of lonely and pretending. And then... the hope that the old dreams weren't wrong. Saying no to all of it, yes to career (faltering, failing, flying). Back to alpine lakes. Watching my girl child struggle, deep in her own sorrows, the childhood of cancer and divorce permeating her bones in a way I could not reach.

Grief, that old companion, whispering that it would never get better.

A year trapped in our homes, doors slammed, our deepest experience a trip to the grocery store to restock. Missed opportunities: there were no creative outbursts, no new fitness peaks, no home projects completed. Only holding on, the sensation of loss of gravity returning with force, nausea returning.

Sudden leaps. The daughter departs, finding her own wings, looking back over her shoulder and calling "I'll be back... sometime." Spinning, flailing, wondering. Grasping straws - pouring love into my students, grateful when they give it back. Finding my own way. Books, paddling, countless picnics with a basket near a tree by the sea and falling into someone else's stories. Imagining the fairy princess ending, spinning in a blue -then pink- then blue - dress in the arms of a prince.

No prince.

A trip to Italy better than a prince. Standing on an ancient bridge with my beloved child, swimming in a champagne prosecco sea, bathwater warm, effervescent. Astounded. This is - still possible? Are we really here?

Setbacks. Disneyland is an imaginary place, the rough and interesting edges smoothed off, dollars flying out of my pockets in return for - what ? For pretend experiences with pretend characters in a pretend town. Effervescent sliding back, the water gone still.

Out of stillness, something new again.

What if... what if, there is still more? If it was always Italy and a warm sea and my daughter's laughter in her blue bikini, healthy and strong and uncaring about anything except what we care about?

What if, right here, right now, on my walking treadmill, facing my backyard with the small brown rabbit who lives under a bush and the pink dogwood that is in stick season and teh grass that always needs mowing and the foxglove that plants itself whereever it pleases and the moss on the garage roof; what if here, with birds on the wires and houseplants everywhere and pictures of the women who believed I could and a pocket thesauras (so old fashioined) and candles and crystals and a notebook with a fox and a tin of pens and soft music playing from my phone and sweat on my skin and my mind seeing stars above and earth below, what if... what then?

The story writes itself. The girl inside me could not imagine the house with space for a treadmill ordered impulsively, hopefully, or the candles or the plants or the music. The young woman dreamed of it, determined. The young mother had it, but lost it, over and over in succession. The middle aged divorcee survivor begged for it, spinning again.

And here I am. The witchy woman with infinite power not yet controlled, the gifts unfurling at their own pace - the intuition that doesn't lie, the figures of speech that spring to mind, the glimpses of stars, the gripping of ground to try not to fall. All the rest has just been a warmup what is next.

My skin is warm, the treadmill still unfamiliar. The words are the right words but not there yet, not at all.

I didn't choose the childhood, the adulthood, the fall, or the rise. They revealed themselves to me in the ordinary ways, but I grabbed them by the shoulders, calling, "Why? Why? WHY?" until, on the good days, they gave the answers.

I know the answers. I know the hopes. I know that I have a path in front of me, if I'll only take it. That there are grizzlies, and treatment centers, and Gilmore girls, and houseplants, and a bunny, and a girl who is hours away trying to find her stars and earth. I know which path will lead me to where I want to be, and which will not.

Sweat on my skin, plastic keys at my fingertips. If I just keep walking, the stories reveal themselves. 

I've been on a round the world trip that has always looped back to this spot, and the exhaustion is real. And now I'm in the right place to do my real warm up, for the new training regimen. I know where the stars are, and I know how to hug the forest to ground myself, and that I am made of saltwater. I know. So I am warming up my body, steadying myself, and deciding to go.

For real this time. Because one day it will be too late, but it isn't too late yet.

54 years is long enough for a warmup. Actually, it's the right amount of time, of this I am sure. I've been looking for signs, and the signs are getting tired of showing up for me, their frequent visits wearying them. My pocket is full of four leaf clovers, magic mushrooms, dorsal fins and seal faces and eclipses and foxglove that plants itself and visions that come true and knowing that knows.

Yes. Now then. Now. Yes.

"Bad Day" on a Good Day

 Yesterday Tessa and I went on a spontaneous day trip to Vancouver to play tourist and have a good day together. We started on Granville Island (and I bought a delightfully witchy home made broom from an artisan shop there - I've been coveting it for years and finally splurged), walked up and down Robson Street, had dinner at a location overlooking the water at English Bay. It was lovely. Tessa and I wore sundresses, chatted, saw the city, ate good food, bought books. Tessa even had her first cocktail in a North American bar - the drinking age in Canada is lower, so we had pre-dinner Aperol Spritzes. It was lighthearted, relaxing, and fun. My heart felt joyful.

Tessa and I have reached a peaceful place in our relationship that I'm loving thoroughly. We've been enjoying each others' time this summer, and a day telling stories and listening to Taylor Swift in the car on the way up, with a stop at Starbucks to fill our commuter mugs (coffee for me, lemonade for her), was almost as fun as the actual trip. Looking at the artisan items at the market - prints, jewelry, pottery, glass, and so much more - and enjoying them together with no intention of buying them was just as wonderful. She bought ketchup potato chips and Smarties and Coffee Crisp at London Drugs: such small pleasures - but such deep pleasures.

While we were in the bookstore Indigo on Robson Street, we separated (me to look at literary fiction and witchy books; her to look at books about female spies in WWII and murder mysteries), each happily browsing and lost in our own thoughts, and the song "Bad Day" by Daniel Powter  came on in the store.

"Bad Day" and I have a long history. It came out when I was newly diagnosed with breast cancer, and I'd sit in my chemo chair as the poison dripped into me, listening to it on repeat on my iPod shuffle. I'd play it over, and over, and over, reminding myself that this was just a bad day - not a life, just a bad day, and that it would pass. I don't even know why it gave me as much comfort as it did, but the idea that I could have a bad day to this degree (more frightened than I knew was possible, often lonely with an intensity that scared me) but still frame it as just a day that would pass, changed me and helped me to cope. I don't hear the song that often, and I don't choose to listen to it on my playlists anymore, but when I do hear it I'm instantly awash in those old feelings and memories.

So there I was, having a really, truly, deeply good day with my daughter, lingering in a bookstore in a beautiful city across the border on a hot sunny day, merely because I wanted to, my heart full and happy, and the song came on and hit me with an intense wave of remembering all of it.

I paused for a moment to take it in. The good days that I dreamed of back then, that seemed like a fantasy on Cinderella or lottery levels, had come to reality. My bad days were, miraculously, good.

It wasn't just the vacation day, it's everything that leads to that day being possible. It's having a job that gives me summers off, having a daughter who chooses to spend time with me, having work that not only pays the bills but is deeply enjoyable. It's about ending the relationships that made me feel lonely - because lonely and alone are NOT the same thing - so that I could pursue a life that made me feel joyful. It's about having a good therapist, and good health, and a million dreams. It's about having a calendar filled with lovely plans, and a phone buzzing with texts from my favorite people, and snapping selfies with Tessa. It's about feeling at home in bookstores, and about enjoying the fact that Tessa feels the same way (we aren't at all the same person, but having some overlaps to what we love is truly a gift).

I let the feelings wash over me, remembering the really truly bad days and reveling in this really truly good one... and then I went back to browsing. I felt peaceful.

Minutes after hearing the song and reflecting on it, my phone pinged, and I checked it, expecting a message from maybe Susan or Carolyn about our upcoming trip. It was my estranged brother, telling me that my mother (from whom I am also estranged) was just diagnosed with breast cancer.

For a moment, the world around me trembled, threatening to crumble. Time shimmered, this wonderful bookstore travel day warping into the old days of being in a family where boundaries are not understood or allowed, where yelling and name calling is commonplace, and where the hopes and dreams that make me who I am are mocked and disparaged. I felt the cool, teal plastic feeling of the chemo chair, the ache of my tender skin around the portacath. I felt the metallic nausea in the back of my teeth, where it always hit me first. I felt the pasted on smile of trying to be kind to the nurses while I longed to rip the tubes away and run to the forest. I felt the indescribable exhaustion of trying to parent a toddler through it all; I felt the brave terror of putting on a swimsuit over my mastectomy and taking my daughter to a pool, watching the whispers of "that poor woman" as the sun reflected off my bald head and I pretended not to care.

I felt the loneliness of my parents saying "you don't mind if we go on a road trip as you start treatment, do you?" and hearing my own voice say "of course not, you take care of yourselves" and realizing that I was entering a deeper loneliness than I knew possible.

And I felt that of course I love my mother, and long for reconciliation and wellness, and that I wish for a world in which she was deeply well in mind and body, and that I'd never wish this upon her, and that part of me wanted to show up with a lasagna and some distracting magazines and attend every doctor's appointment...

And all of those feelings collided together, the joy of today and the pain of yesterday and the wish for my mother and I to be well and the reality that brought us to estrangement and I felt dizzy, as if the world was blurring and shimmering like a mirage, and my legs weren't quite steady.

I found Tessa sitting at a table, engrossed in a book about a Parisian spy, her pink and black sundress a playful tribute to summer; her shiny long hair hanging down her back and draping around her face. I shared my phone with her, and saw her face as she absorbed the news, quickly looking up and examining my face for a response. She murmered, "I hope she's going to be okay..." and then she softly asked, "How are you?"

How am I? Do I know?

I do. I do know.

I am incredibly sad that my mother has to fight this stupid disease, but delighted that her single tumor is quite small, and that if I'm right, it looks like her prognosis is excellent, and that her treatment should be much less invasive than mine. I know for certain that I want her to be well, that I hope that her treatment goes smoothly, and that this will become a blip for her, not a life defining or ending moment. She's in her 70s, and I hope she still has decades to live.

I also know that I cannot change my boundaries because of this new information.

My boundary, at the most basic level, is "No yelling, no name calling, and no belittling." I've repeated that boundary in writing and verbally to my parents, and I'm clear about it. The estrangement started when my father yelled, "I'm ashamed to be your father! I'm ashamed you are my daughter!" and hung up the phone on me because he disagrees with my politics, and I realized in that moment, after many years of struggle and inability to hold boundaries, and his name calling and my placating and my mother excusing, that this was not okay, and that I could never change them, and that I couldn't be true to myself and in relationship with them at the same time.

A few years into estrangement, one of my best friends (who has known my parents since we were in high school), called my mother to try to set things right, believing that my mother could see reason. My mother responded with anger and tears, and told my friend "I gave her a perfect childhood!" and then my friend called me in tears and said, "It's worse than I imagined, and she's in denial, and she made it all about her..." and we agreed that NOBODY has a perfect childhood, but mine was remarkable in many ways that were so far from perfect that it's laughable. My friend said, "I realized in that call that it will never change, and I'm so sorry" and I actually felt relief that she saw what I saw.

My parents are products of their own upbringing. They had genuine struggles in their families of origin, then they married each other when they were just babies (19 and 21) because they were pregnant with me. They quite likely did the best they could, using the only tools they had. Unfortunately, though, they didn't have enough tools, and they doubled down and refused to look for more tools. Their relationship with one another is both loving and deeply dysfunctional and painful for me to watch: I knew from an early age that I didn't want what they had, and that my father's yelling and my mother's crying were both manipulative, scary, and unhealthy. Unsurprisingly, though I tried to find something different, my marriage was in too many ways a reflection of theirs.

But it's not what I want for myself, and it's not what I want for my daughter.

I don't want my mom to be sick, or lonely, or scared. I want her to be healthy, happy, and peaceful.

But that's what I want for myself too, and I do not know how to be healthy, happy, or peaceful with people who shame or belittle me, and it is not my job to try.

***

My life is - mostly - a series of really good days these days.

I'm single, but I'm not lonely.

I am proud of my relationship with my daughter, and of the way we talk to one another, and the structure of our relationship. She's not perfect, and I'm not perfect, but my love for her is immense and I feel her love in return. We enjoy each other's company - most of the time! I don't expect her to be like me, to like all the same things I do, and we certainly have our differences, but those differences make things interesting and I love the way we accept each other not despite the differences but often because of them.

I feel connected to my community. I have long term friends, and I make new friends, and I have work friends, and neighborhood friends, and I feel rooted in West Seattle.

I'm healthy. I walk, paddle board, do yoga, hike, and (rarely but I'm trying!) run. I eat pretty well. I do therapy, and I try to grow to be the best me that I can be. I often make changes, trying to find new exercise patterns or to change a way of thinking, and I challenge myself to be my best me. I often fail at this, but when I see a failure I try to make a correction (no blame, no shame, just growth).

I do work that is meaningful and important, and I love it, and I'm good at it. I think my work as a teacher makes the world a better place, and I'm always trying to learn more and to become a better teacher.

I am learning to be a traveler again, and whether it's Italy, Maine, or California, or just up the road to British Columbia, I love finding new ways to adventure.

I'm learning to be a writer, to follow that bliss, even when it's painful.

I'm learning to open my heart to romantic love.

I'm learning to love myself, and to accept that I'm imperfect with a lot of room to grow, but that doesn't stop me from being amazing and worthy of all of the goodness that life has to offer.

***

Yesterday was a very good day, with a memory of bad days, and the fear of more bad days. But while I can't control whether my own cancer returns, or whether I will find true love, or a million other things, I can control what I let into my life, and I can control my own boundary setting.

I hope my mom doesn't have deeply bad days. I wish her love, and health, and peace. I wish it could be different between us. But because I know what good days and bad days look like in my own life, I can't swoop in to help her. I can't make her bad days good again, and I won't unlearn all of my hard lessons about boundaries and their truths. I do not have the power to heal what is between us, and if I sacrifice my health and well being it will not actually make things better - it will only harm the years of growth I've worked so hard to achieve.

My days are mostly good days because I have boundaries. We teach people how to treat us, and we set boundaries over what we will and will not tolerate in our lives. We set boundaries about how we will live: about what time we will get up, about where we choose to work hard, and where we choose to celebrate, and about who joins us in the hard work and the celebrations. We set boundaries around the work we will or will not do. We set boundaries about how we will and will not live, what we will and will not tolerate, and about who gets to see our tender hearts and who doesn't.

***

The song "Bad Day" reminds me that some days really are rotten... but they're just a day. A day passes, and a new day comes to replace it. My life is filled with goodness - some of it gifted, and some of it hard earned. I have to work hard to keep the good days, and to fight off the bad ones. I'm never going back to a place in my life where I give anyone else power over me to dictate my good and bad days.

The boundaries stand, so that the good days can win.

I had a good day.

Summer: Phase Two

 Yesterday I hit the wall a bit. I had a lovely start to the day, got a few chores done, walked to meet a friend for brunch... and then, I just stopped. I didn't plan on stopping - I had a long list of things I could or should do - but, without my deciding to stop, inertia took over.

Welcome, phase two of summer.

Last year was tough at school. I can't quite put my finger on the why: it wasn't traumatic and insane like the quarantine year, or a huge adjustment like hybrid teaching (let's never do that again), or even an adjustment back to "regular" teaching. In some ways, it was a normal year... but it didn't feel normal. I'm still sorting out out, but I saw that my colleagues struggled more than usual, as did I; I saw that the kids were falling apart. And from about March onward, I was just holding on by my fingernails.

The first phase of summer is a joyous gasp - I made it! Delight rises up past the exhaustion, and the world feels hopeful again. There is reconnecting with friends, getting the house back in order, spending time outdoors, making fresh salads for lunch and delighting in the fact that I have the time to do so. There's paddle boarding, long walks and short runs, picnics. There's more gardening in a week than I did in the past ten months.

And now... the second phase, which I didn't plan, but has arrived right on time. Slowing down. Staring into space. Sleeping in a bit. (At 53, I find that 8am feels the way 2pm used to - insanely decadent and surprising and a bit disorienting.) Realizing that summer won't last forever, and feeling it slip away a bit. Starting to ponder what I need to do, what I long to do. It's tinged, strangely, with a bit of boredom and restlessness: my friends aren't available to play with me all the time, and my daughter is doing 20 year old things, and I feel a bit at loose ends. It's not horrible, but it's not that great, either. There is no exhilaration, there's more deflation.

But I wonder if this is where the good stuff starts? If this is where I can get real with myself, and now that I've rested a bit and burned off the frenetic energy of surviving what came before, if I can see if I can turn that boredom into some new creative energy? If instead of running to the sea, I can sit with my thoughts long enough to gently reshape some parts of my life? I think that phase two is about getting real with myself, taking on some chores - housework, yardwork, soul work, financial work - and making some real progress.

I'm working on the book. I get so scared, but I went back and re-read the first chapter of what I'd written, and I got excited. There's something there. And if I can only work past my fear, I will get there.

Phase two gets real. Let's hope that I can use it wisely, and start settling in to the real me - messy and hopeful, still yet productive.

And there's still time for summer. Today is the outdoor theater festival and I can't wait to sit in the sun and listen to Shakespeare. I'm doing this one solo - it's not easy finding Shakespeare friends! - but I don't mind. It's time to go and be myself.

But first... it's time to write. Phase two.