How much do you love me?

Growing up, I learned that the way to survive was to praise my father.

But it wasn't enough.

I could say the right words, but he wanted me to believe them. He wanted me not only to walk the party line, to show respect, to do as I was told, but most of all he wanted me to BELIEVE.

He didn't just want me to believe in him - a common enough occurrence, I'm a parent and I certainly like it when my daughter agrees with me or approve of me - he wanted me to truly like the things he liked, approve of the things he approved of, hate the things he hated. Anything less sent him into a rage, or a cold shoulder, or otherwise made my life difficult. He wanted full agreement and adoration.

When I was young, if I wanted something - clothing, toys, activities - that he didn't like, he told me I was stupid. Simple enough. Because of his German upbringing, some of his insults were in German - dummkopf and schweinhund were the two most popular ones. (They translate to "dumb head" and "pig dog" for those not versed in German insults.) It wasn't enough to do more chores, I was supposed to be grateful to do them. If he wanted something, I needed to be happy about it.

There were other insults, too, mostly about intelligence. When I disagreed, protested, or simply said something that he didn't agree with, he told me I was stupid, a cretin, a moron. "Idiot" was common, and I don't remember him telling me that he loved me, but I do recall his shouted "What's the matter with you?" or "What the hell is wrong with you?" as the most common refrain. Disagreement was a sign of lack of intelligence - choosing the wrong item on a menu, or dressing wrong, or liking the wrong movies were all cause for insult.

When I grew up, I got away. Not far away, just across town, but enough. I fought for an education, a career, a life. I carved out a little space for myself in the world, and demonstrated responsibility. I paid my bills, volunteered, held good jobs. I found community. It made me braver. I started to see that other families weren't like mine, and that I wasn't bad for wanting my own opinions, I was normal. My mind was blown. When I watched a friend tease a parent, I cringed, thinking "oh no here we go" and bracing for shouting or worse; when the parent merely laughed I was stunned. I started to learn that it was their version, not mine, that was normal.

(On one occasion when I was eight or nine, my father really gave me a take-down and called me names, and I cried. Perhaps feeling some remorse, he told me that he was just teasing, and I should know the joke. Days thereafter, with this new understanding, he dropped something and I teased him. I can still feel the sensation of his large hand impacting with my face, furious with me. "Teasing" was one directional. Message received.)

Distance made me bolder, and safer. I was a grown women, not beholden to my family. I tried to be a good daughter, but to live my own life. I didn't push back against my family, I just tried not to engage.

Not engaging is not possible.

My father can bear no disagreement, no difference. Every time I chose something different than him - the kind of car I drive (foreign, not domestic), the kind of food I eat (organic, from a wide variety of cultures), the kind of books I read (I read!)...all of it was, to him, not a choice made by a grown woman, but an indictment of his choices.

Sometimes I argued. Of course, that didn't go well. I learned to mostly keep it to myself, to mute myself. But I stepped on landmines anyway.

One Christmas a few years ago, I checked in cheerfully - despite the stress of being in my parents' home - to see which dishes I should bring for the meal. I cook a lot, and enjoy holiday cooking (as do many people). My father said, "We're getting everything pre-made at Costco this year. Don't bring anything, it's all taken care of." I told him I was looking forward to the meal, but that I also enjoyed home cooked food, so I'd supplement with a couple ideas (a home made pie, etc.). He said "No! I told you, we will have it all!" I calmly explained that I liked preparing home made food at the holidays, that it was important to me, and that I prefer home made food, but he didn't need to eat it of course." That wasn't good enough. Not only did he forbid me from bringing anything for myself or to share, he was incredibly angry that I wanted to do so. There was shouting, and actual rage, and demeaning, and questioning my integrity...because I wanted to bake a pie to eat at Christmas. I sucked it up and gave up my hope for good food.

Disappointed, I came to the meal anyway. It was all processed food from boxes and plastic containers; the gravy came in a can. I found it unpalatable and disappointing, but I didn't say so. My father was not satisfied with my cheerful company, or with the fact that he'd won (the food on the table was of his choosing). He wanted me to say that I was wrong, that I loved the Costco food, that it was better than what I would have brought, that it was preferable, that he was right all along. He wanted me to apologize for offering to bring food. My attempts at diplomacy ("I'm just glad to be here with my family" and "it's so generous of you to provide everything") were not enough. He needed me to recant on my wishes, to deny them, to tell him that I should have known better, that his food was the best in the whole world. He brought it up over, and over, and over, souring the holiday. I had to choose between placating him and being honest. (I was distant, honest...until I declared a headache that made me need to leave.)

I have dozens of examples like this. It is crazy making. It isn't enough to say "We can agree to disagree" or to say "thank you" or to say "this tastes good" he needs to know that he was right, that I was wrong, and that even the idea of disagreement was a mistake.

It wasn't about the food. It was all about his insatiable desire to be The Best, to be Right, to be Adored. His version of adoration leaves no room for difference. 

I have all kinds of theories about why it is that way. I think that when I disagreed, it triggered all of his senses of not being enough, of not being loved, of not being appreciated or understood. It triggered his own power dynamics with his own parents. It made him feel insecure, and small, and scared.

And so, like narcissists everywhere, he responded with anger, attempts to control.

And worst of all? I couldn't use logic, truth, or reason. I couldn't change the conversation, flatter about something else, set a boundary, use counter-facts, or point out that arguing about mashed potatoes was silly and we could just let it go.

"Let it go" is not in his vocabulary.

Living like that for my entire life changed me. I became an expert at dodging, both in and out of conversation. I became an expert at finding the compliment and amplifying it. I became an expert at anticipating needs and meeting them. I became an expert at smoothing things over.

But it was never enough.

Imagine, if you can, what it's like to invoke someone's rage over a disagreement over home made vs. store bought mashed potatoes. Imagine what it's like when more important topics come up. I hope you can't imagine it. I hope this feels a little other-worldly to you. If you can understand, empathize, then I'm sorry. Sorry for both of us.

Right now, our nation is arguing with Donald Trump, not about mashed potatoes at the holiday table, but about democracy. He cannot hear anything other than what he wants to hear. Any pleading, any attempts at logic, will fall on deaf ears. Worse, like gremlins, the truth is like water, and when wet with truth, Trump will double down, over and over, exponentially, his rage increasing.

I'm sure it's because his father was an asshole and that he doesn't feel loved, and that he has a giant gaping hole inside that makes him feel like he's dying and that only pure loyalty, respect, love, and adoration can make him survive. I'm sure of these things, because I grew up with them. If you don't believe me, just look at his behavior, just listen to what he says, how he behaves. He cannot abide anything but reverence - anything less than being treated as a god causes him to lash out. I almost feel sorry for him.

But I know that we're in such a dangerous time that even my sympathy for his unmet needs is dangerous, and that if he could, he'd manipulate that sympathy, too, which he sees as a sign of weakness. Incapable of understanding another viewpoint, because it would mean possibly understanding that he did not know everything, that he was fallible. He can't be fallible, he has to be perfect, or his whole world view crumbles. He will fight with any means possible to make sure that doesn't happen. If a narcissist sees sympathy, compassion, or kindness, they see it as proof of another's weakness.

The most dangerous time in an abused woman's life is the time that she decides to leave her abuser.

I escaped my family in degrees - by going to college, by moving across town, by choosing my own path, and creating a series of boundaries every time. But in the end, my parents rejected me. I crossed the line by saying something they didn't like, and unlike in healthy families, they couldn't talk about it, negotiate, ask questions, or let it go. Instead, my father screamed at me, and told me he was ashamed of me, and that was that.

It is one of the hardest things I've ever gone through, and it still impacts me. But mostly, it was a gift. Holding my breath all the time, trying to please someone unpleasable while still remaining true to myself, was impossible, and it hurt. I don't do that anymore. I still hurt, but so much less. Who knew that the amputation could save my life? I miss the limb - how is it that I do not have a family, though they live? - but I value my life more than the limb.

But America will have to fight harder than I did. My father is not in the public eye: for him, having the last word and declaring me persona non grata is enough for him. But Trump will not stop there. He will go to any length - and based on the attempted coup in our Capitol, "anything" could be ANYTHING. Based on chants of "Hang Pence" and the President encouraging an angry mob... I shudder to think of what could come next. I couldn't imagine a coup in our halls of democracy, and yet here we are.

America is trying to leave her abuser. and she's in grave danger. With pursuit of facts, we might win. I fear we will lose a limb, too, and I'm scared about what that looks like.

But if an abuser says "How much do you love me?"  and demands 100% fealty, there is no room for anything other than godlike adoration, and we will fall short. Trump needs perfect love, and we will never be able to give it to him.

Some women are killed by their abusers as they try to leave. It seems to me that is happening to us now. It's really, really easy to back down, to try to soothe it, to hope for peace. But women DO leave without dying. Not all of them, but some of them. He might try to kill - but he won't always succeed.

But my experience, with 51 years of trying to figure out how to please someone who can't be pleased because he's hurting too much to see past his own nose, I have this advice.

Pack your bags. Have a plan. Gather your friends. Practice self care. Get a therapist. Be prepared for shouting, rage, and horrible, horrible, horrible words that will wound you in places that you did not know that you could be wounded. But - take the leap.

Being with an abusive person, whether that is a boss, a spouse, or a partner, infiltrates every minute of your life, when you're with that person or far away. But you need to get out. At first, it hurts all over, but once you realize that you're out, the relief is indescribable.

America is in an abusive relationship, and that relationship is ending. Hang in there, grit your teeth, cry, and scream at the unfairness of it all.

But when the abuser asks, "How much do you love me?" no answer will ever be good enough. You can't be good enough, you can't say the right thing, you can't make them feel good about themselves to help them to see reason and behave.

So you get out.

Surviving

 As a former breast cancer patient, I'm often referred to as a survivor. When I tell people that I've been through cancer, their first words are often "I'm sorry" (what - were you responsible?) or "Congratulations." I recognize that the former is a polite way of saying "I wish that didn't happen to you" but the latter is said as - as what? Acknowledgment that I am not dead? Proof of something about me, maybe that my cancer wasn't that bad after all, or that I fought valiantly, or something else? Other occasions where we say "congratulations" include graduations, promotions, bringing new life into the world, summiting the mountain, writing the book, winning the lottery. Perhaps people are right to say "congratulations" not for any of the former reasons except the last. I know plenty of extraordinary women (I'm thinking of Lisa and Casey right now, more than any other, but there are so many more) who fought valiantly, had an incredible attitude, did whatever it took, and died anyway. It is not because they were less deserving of life than me - to the contrary, I feel the weight of knowing that I lived, while they did not, and I wonder if I'm doing what it takes to live up to their lost legacies - it is because I had the strange and extraordinary luck to win the lottery of life over death (so far).

Surviving, I can tell you, is a mystery.

I fought harder than just about anyone to stay alive, it's true. I took all the drugs, refused to give up when the side effects crippled me (this is not an exaggeration - thanks Femara and Aromasin).When I got third degree burns in radiation that made my radiation oncologist literally gasp at the sight and say "we're done!" I begged to continue through the pain, the ooze, the skin falling off. (Sorry not sorry. You probably didn't expect to read such a ghastly vision when you started reading this, but the truth is that those pink ribbons hide an awful lots of hideous horror.)

I survived.

But I know women who shrugged off their treatments - one who said "I don't like how the pills make me not care about sex; life is too short, so I want to enjoy sex with my husband" and despite her dire prognosis (much worse than mine) she stopped treatment, and, to the best of my knowledge, is still alive and well today. I know women (including ones I only know as an online celelbrity, like Kris Carr) who decided that conventional medicine was Bad with a capital B and went all juices and clean mountain air, and remain alive. I know many more women who made those choices and died. And yet - so many of us live, and we are declared "victors" in the "fight" who have "won" the "battle" and we gain respect and admiration from friends and strangers who applaud us for this accomplishment.

But I don't know how I lived, only that I did. How does a lottery winner win? They play the losing game, but then they get lucky. There are no magic numbers, no systems for bucking the rules - there are just some lucky winners.

But make no mistake: my confusion over the way survivors are lauded in no way negates the way that I feel about having made it fifteen years past the diagnosis that I feared would kill me. I shake my head in wonder sometimes that I get to do magical things like get mad at my teenager for not completing an assignment; or mowing the lawn; or reading a book. When I stand at the edge of the ocean and smell the waves, eyes closed to take in the sounds, scents, sensations - I still think "I nearly missed all of this, and I'm here" and it is so overwhelmingly beautiful that I think about doing a little Sound of Music twirling. (Sometimes, if nobody is around, maybe I do.)

Surviving is confusing, but it's the most beautiful thing there is. I can't explain to you what it feels like, but maybe you know: most of us have had near misses in car accidents, or fevers, or cancer, or appendicitis, or any of a thousand things that nearly kill us. But if you are one of the Really Really Lucky Ones who never had it all go upside down and then had to fight to keep your breath, what I will say is this:

I'm convinced that the depth of my sorrow and loss is only matched by the new heights of my joy.

I feel things more now. Ordinary things aren't ordinary when you think that you might have never seen them again. I understand why people sometimes kiss the ground when they arrive at their destinations, why they burst into tears upon hearing the good news.

It took me years and years to understand it myself, but as awful, painful, and impacting the cancer diagnosis and treatment was on my life, and as much I never ever want to go back and relive it, or, even worse, experience it again in the future (oh please God no, please), I am strangely grateful that it shaped me the way it did, and I like myself more for having handled it to the best of my ability.

My life changed for the better because of the combination of getting cancer and surviving it. I feel more joy, I know what matters to me, and I'm less afraid. (I've done things that would make a lot of people weep. I found my way, often with weeping, but often without. I might be the strongest person you know. Knowing that strength makes me less afraid.)

Which leads us - so much rambling, congratulations if you've made it this far - to the present.

If you're reading this, you and I both survived 2021.

***

First, let's talk about the 350,000 or so Americans who have died from COVID19, and because we know that the world is made up of many places and not just America, let's talk about the over 1.4 million people worldwide (as of November 27) who have died, and the millions and millions of people who are still fighting to regain their lives as a result of the virus. I cannot fathom numbers like that, and when I try to do so it makes my chest squeeze in an alarming way. As they keep saying, "all those empty chairs at the table" and I'm thinking of mothers mourning children, and children mourning grandparents, and new brides made new widows, and it's all unbearable.

I've been careful, and I'm not in a high risk category if I do get it, but we all know that some of it comes down to luck, good or bad. I am healthy, and I do not take that for granted for one second. Perhaps you are lucky, too. So here we are, alive. I know very few people who have actually been diagnosed with COVID, and since I'm white, educated, middle class, and in a state (and on the side of the state) that values wearing masks and distancing and has closed restaurant dining and gyms and theaters so that even those who wish to cannot go indoors and breathe on someone else... so I'm lucky. (In case you've been living under a rock or avoiding the news, I'll explain my white comment. Black and Brown people are much more likely to die of COVID. They are much more likely to get deeply ill. They are much more likely to receive subpar care. This is fact, not opinion, and if you disagree with me please do your research. It is tied to income, but not a result of income: low income folks in general do worse with everything, but low income people of color do MUCH worse. This is horrible, and not the point of this post, but needs saying as often as possible so that people do something about it.)

So, I'm lucky again.

I'm also lucky that my job moved online and I was able to work from home. Teaching online is SO DAMN HARD: the tricks up my sleeve don't work half as well online, and while my students assure me that my class is doing better than some and as well as can be hoped, we all know that people just don't learn as well online, and it makes my job frustrating and confusing. My eyes ache from staring at a screen, I feel ineffective a great deal of the time, and I fear that I'm not giving my students what they need, and my motivation is lower than ever because of all of these difficulties. But I'm grateful every minute, because my difficulties are NOTHING compared to some. I have a warm, safe, comfortable home with a quiet space to work. I didn't lose income (well, except child support, because my daughter's father is unemployed in the pandemic). I have medical benefits in case I do get sick.

So. I know that businesses have closed left and right, that so many are unemployed, that so many are sick, that so many have died. I know these things, feel them until my body tightens with the pain of it all, the immensity, the powerlessness.

But I want to talk to you about survival.

If you are reading this, whether you are ill, or you are unemployed, or you are as lucky as I am, you are reading this. You have survived 2020, for better or worse.

With survival comes joy - who among us wasn't relieved to see the clock hit midnight, hoping that the worst was behind us?

But now comes the business of making it all mean something.

Most people who win the lottery squander it. By the time they're done, they've lost friends and family, spent great quantities of money, and seem no happier than when they started it.

So - surviving cancer is like winning the lottery. I got a rush of love and gratitude that was intoxicating every time I got an "all clear" scan, and on every birthday, every life event, every holiday, and watching my daughter turn from a tiny toddler (she was two when I was diagnosed) to a beautiful woman makes me well up with wonder and thankfulness. One of my many doctors - this one was supposed to put me together physically after cancer - saw how I was embracing life so thoroughly and with such joy and gratitude after I was done with the worst surgeries, chemo, and radiation, and he sat me down and said, "This phase you are in will pass. These wonderful feelings you have now will one day be replaced with more ordinary feelings; the initial rush of being alive will fade. My advice to you is to find new habits, new ways of living, while you have the energy and focus to do so."

It was the best advice that I received about surviving.

With surviving, comes some responsibility, to ourselves and to others. To ourselves, to make good of the life that we did not earn - we won the life lottery, and we're alive, when the disease that tried to kill us allowed us to escape, but some of our friends are dead from that same disease. We owe it to ourselves to live our best life, because if this isn't a wakeup call, then what is? We owe it to ourselves to care for our health: as I like to say, I didn't survive cancer to be taken down by a heart attack. It is a time to add vegetables and fruits, to go for daily walks, to meditate or do yoga. We owe it to ourselves to heed the call of our bodies to stay alive, and to do what it takes.

And, knowing how close we came to nearly losing it all, we owe it to ourselves to not merely stay alive but to really live. I'm not kidding when I talk about that Sound of Music moment that I have, with some regularity, at the edge of the small beach closest to my house. I walk the dog there, and I stand on a log, and I wonder how I ever got so lucky. I never, ever walk by without taking a moment to really take it in, to feel deep in my bones how fortunate I am. This translates to a lot of things: to time visiting with a dear friend, to camping trips, to a really good song on the radio on the commute, to shared jokes, to good food. It means stooping to look at a flower or to hunt for four leaf clovers, delighting in a favorite coffee mug. Little stuff adds up.

And there is the big stuff, too. If I had died, I would have missed so much that I long to do. I wouldn't have been there to tuck my daughter into bed at night, so for years afterwards I felt such tenderness in our nighttime ritual that I felt like I was floating. And I realized that my marriage, the shape and size of it, did not fit me at all, that I couldn't breathe within it, and so I found the courage to leave. I found meaningful work. Little things, and big things.

And with every breath I remember how lucky I am to be here at all, that some of my cancer friends weren't so lucky, and that I could have been them.

Dr. Zucker gave me a poem that I treasure to this day, Kindness by Naomi Shihab Nye.

Before you know what kindness really is,

you must lose things, 

feel the future dissolve in a moment

like salt in a weakened broth...

So here we are, at the end of 2020 and the beginning of 2021, and we survived. We have lost things. We've been stuck inside, and we've missed celebrations and hugs and the small joys of visiting in coffee shops and popping our heads into a colleague's office. We've lived with fear, and moist masks, and isolation, and economic worry. We've lost a lot of the joy of our jobs, missing handshakes and genuine laughter and bagels for everyone in the break room. We've missed game nights, dinner parties, concerts, and plays. We've been cooped up, alone or with those we love, crabby at our confinement.

And the end is in sight.

Soon, in a few months or a year, we will all be vaccinated, and we will slip back into something closer to normal life (albeit possibly with modifications). We will once again have to pretend to pay attention in the meeting instead of turning off our cameras and checking our phones or painting our nails through our boredom. We will be saddled with traffic jams, and slow waiters, and overpriced movies. We have all come through such hard times, and we have survived.

But as we look at our survival, we need to decide now how we're going to shape that survival. We are here, so we are lucky. (Maybe you are luckier than me, with a loving family and spouse and adequate savings. Maybe you are less lucky than me, without a beloved child or a comfortable home or work that is meaningful to you. This is not about ranking our luck: if we are alive, we are in luck.)

What will we do with our fortune? What lessons will we learn? Will we remember forever that to hug a friend is a joy, or will we let it slip away? Will we hold the dinner parties, or will we complain about how much work it is to clean the bathrooms and get the food prepared? Will we spring for the concert tickets? Will we remember the lessons about what we felt like we might lose forever, and live in gratitude moving forward?

I'll be honest. Five years after cancer, it was a lot easier to remember the gratitude, because regular doctor visits were reminders that I was not "normal" and that it could still all vanish in an instant. Fifteen years later, it is my habits - a gift from Dr. Zucker's reminders - that keep my gratitude alive. I have wired my brain to notice the sunsets, the sparkle of the rain, the smile of a friend. This summer, one of my favorite moments was drifting on the waves on a child's floatie (mine was a ring with a mermaid tail) next to my dear friend, who drifted on her own floatie (shaped, according to the package, like a "realistic lobster"). It was hilarious. The water was cold, the day was hot, the waves washed us - inept because were couldn't get our balance on the floaties - onto the sand and then soaked us. We are middle aged women, not playful children or flirty teens, and I laughed until it hurt. My friend - perhaps smarter than me - knew to say "yes" to my crazy idea of floating along the beach on children's toys, just for the fun of it. But for me, it was part of my commitment to simple pleasures available for the taking. The chores were done (enough). My daughter didn't need me (just then). The day was sunny. My friend was willing. I chose life.

So, we have survived. 2020 is gone, and the old calendar recycled, the new one freshly pinned to the wall. We all get to decide who we will be in 2021.

Who will I be? Will I remember, a year from now or twenty years from now, how I longed to go to book talks and art walks and happy hours? Will I take the appreciation of filling my table with my people with me into the future? Or will I fall back into old ways, taking for granted so much of my life?

With surviving comes responsibility. 1.4 million people have died so far, and won't get to make these choices. What, I wonder, do they wish they had done before they died? How many of them died content with their choices? What would they do differently if they had to do it all over again?

If I live my life the way I want to, then I honor those who did not survive.

I'm a survivor. Now I need to figure out what to do with that! I have some ideas - do you?

New Ideas

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

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

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

I'm not afraid.

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

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

***

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

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

But I know how to be beautiful.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

I'm good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A season for reinvention

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

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

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

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

I love the reset button.

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

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

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

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

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

1) Buy nothing new.

2) Write the book.

The details:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2) I am writing my book.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quarantine: The New Normal

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

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

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

But I digress, as I do.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

There are a lot of hard parts.

*** 

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

***

It is a small life, right now. 

It will be small for a while longer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ahhh, youth. I was a fool.

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

***

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

It's wearying.

I'm weary.

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

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

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

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

And so here we are.

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

But then I remember.

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

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

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

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

And then I remember Abigail Adams.

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

It is cause for anger, fear, and frustration.

But it's not cause to give up.

***

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

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

***

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

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

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

And yet, their work was not fruitless.

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

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

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

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

I voted for "sooner."

A hard week

 I'm having a hard week.

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

Not today.

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

I'm behind at work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can't wrap my head around it.

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

It's all on the line.

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

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

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

I hope.

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

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

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

I hope.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

Just a bad week.

***

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

https://youtu.be/QuR6ACrbC70

Bad Day, Daniel Powter.

***

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