Reinventing Middle Age

 Dear Reader,

I'm trying to figure out what middle age looks like.

Do you know what it looks like? If so, can you please tell me? Because I can't find a roadmap that makes sense to me.

I think twenty or thirty years ago if you'd asked me what it looked like I would have made a snarky joke about buying a sports car, or about saggy boobs, but the truth is I didn't have a clue then, and I don't have a clue now. (Joke's on me: I have no desire nor funds for an impractical sports car, and thanks to breast cancer reconstruction my girls will be perky forever thanks to the silicone blobs that have replaced my feminine flesh.) I certainly wouldn't have predicted the permanent changes brought by cancer treatment, but I REALLY wouldn't have predicted a decade old divorce and living alone. I think my twenty-something self would have been horrified, and would have cried herself to sleep at the thought.

There-there, twenty-something self. It's really not that bad. Actually... it's really good. No, really, I'm not just saying that!

My twenty-something self was a people pleaser. She knew some very important things - like that she was strong and capable, and that her friendships would be her salvation, and that she wanted a life that was meaningful. She was filled with fire, but she bit her tongue too often around men, and played the part that she was told to play. She really, truly believed that she was unworthy of love, and so when people behaved badly she knew that this was just how it went for her. She looked at people who seemed to have it figured out and she took notes: how did they get like that? She couldn't figure it out, but she kept trying, determined and hopeful even when she was scared. (She was pretty scared.) She was aware of her people pleasing and starting to work on it.

My twenty-something self had a roadmap. There was a list of things to accomplish before marriage: college degree, career, financial independence, world travel, multiple boyfriends, live alone without roommates. The minute she ticked off those boxes, she got engaged to a nice guy, and got married a week before her 30th birthday, right on time. She knew what the future looked like: career. House. Dog. Baby. Motherhood.

And then...? I don't know. It stopped with motherhood. I could imagine PTA meetings (note: I find them colossally boring and I am a horrible PTA member, as it turns out), field trips (I loved going on Tessa's field trips!), dinner parties, sleepovers. I carved out little slivers for myself: a girls' weekend once a year if I was lucky, the occasional happy hour.

But I had no idea what came next. Anything past 40 just looked - well, it didn't look like anything. Maybe that's because I was lacking in imagination, or maybe that's because my mother's life was so different than my own (at 40, I had a 7 year old and was deep into parenting; at 40 my own mother had a daughter a couple years into college).

My twenty-something self had no idea. But honestly? My forty-something self didn't, either. Aside from noticing some crinkles around my eyes or how my knees hurt more with running, my forty-something self wasn't that different than my thirty-something self.

But here I am, fifty-something (53, if you care), and it only now occurs to me that THERE IS NO ROADMAP. Nobody wrote it. There are certainly women out there, ahead of me, forging their best lives, but I am not privy to their experiences, and often I just don't know who they are. Hollywood certainly doesn't help (Emma Thompson is a favorite actress, but I still can't get over her middle aged depiction in Love, Actually - her character is so utterly lost in her own life, so lacking spark and vitality...).

Now, before some helpful person tells me about the books that are available on middle age, and that there is a road map RIGHT HERE, let me tell you that Mrs. Clarissa Dalloway might be a brilliant character, but in no way do I desire her particular map of life. Nor do I desire to follow Maggie in Breathing Lessons.

I read every book I could find about pregnancy, parenting, marriage. But I haven't read many books about middle age. I tried recently to read a bestseller book about finding joy "in the second half of life" but I could not find myself in it - the people it was writing for are miserable, I think, and I am not miserable. Maybe I read the wrong book. I quit partway through, because it really wasn't written for me. I couldn't relate at all.

So I'm writing my own roadmap.

I have this metaphor I've been thinking about: we are often told to give our children roots and wings. When they're little we're constantly trying to make sure that they don't fly off and get lost so we clip their wings with hand holding and curfews and other sensible restraints, but now that they are launching into adulthood we are to let them fly. But I also read something that said that a child will only come into adulthood as emotionally mature as their parent(s), and so this made me think of my family's history and how in many ways I feel that I started in a dark place, and as Tessa has grown I asked her to climb onto my back, and I've been climbing the walls of this dark place, heading toward the light, carrying us both. As I've climbed, I've shown her how to climb, how to keep looking toward the life, how to continue even when exhausted, how to find footholds and places to grasp even when they aren't immediately apparent. But now she's an adult, and in moving to college, she needs to let go of my shoulders, flutter her new wings, and continue climbing and flying on her own.

The day we dropped her off at college last year, I watched her new wings unfold, and with happy tears in my eyes, hugged her and promised her that she was ready to fly. I watched her as she fluttered her wings, rose off the ground, circled above me. "Look up, Mom! I'm flying! I can fly!" I heard her spirit exclaim as we put the finishing touches on her dorm room, as I walked to the car alone.

But what I didn't know is that when I left her to fly, my own load was lighter. For better or for worse, I've taken her as high as I can go, given her my best, but what she does now is her path, not mine. I can worry, but my worry will not change things. I can advise, but she can take my advice or not. It is her life, not mine, and when she let go of me to find that life... I lightened. It is not my responsibility to find her path anymore, it is hers. My job is to cheer and support, but not to lead.

And the lightness of this is extraordinary. I didn't realize how much effort it took to carry us both out of that dark place and to the light. But when I looked up and saw the sky, I saw her circling overhead, and my heart was filled with joy. With that joy, I felt my own wings fluttering. I'd forgotten them! But they've been there all along. I can fly, too! I am lighter, and my wings can carry me now. The climbing was arduous, but the flying has such joy! I am aloft, feeling wonder, looking down at the world, my life, the path I've taken, and I'm in awe that I'm here at all.

What I want now - my roadmap - is to fly up into the sky, to experiment with floating on the currents, making lazy circles of delight, and then zooming here and there to places I want to explore. When Tessa and I find ourselves floating the same current, it's a delight: look at us flying! Hello! Helllooooo! But we also go our own ways, on our own paths. We can meet in the air, and we can meet at home (my home will always be her home, even when it's not), and we can tell each other about the adventures we've had. Sometimes we can share adventures. We can float apart, and then come back together. The nest is always here for our rest. She will undoubtedly go higher and faster and farther than I'm comfortable with. I hope she does. I'll hold my breath until she comes back, but when she does, I know that when I hear her stories I'll think, "Wait, I want to try these new things, too!" and I will fly farther and faster, too. She's teaching me, and I'm teaching her. I try to stay a few steps ahead, but when she passes me it's okay. Isn't that what I always wanted for her?

This is my map. I want to float in the currents, resume my explorations. I want to fly so that my daughter will know that she can fly, too. I want to soar so that my heart can soar.

I worked hard to get out of the dark place. My parents were young when they had me, and their parents didn't give them a model of what it's like to grow or to become who they were meant to be: some parenting manuals might have come in handy, and some support around trauma would have changed everything. I had to figure out a lot on my own; this isn't even their fault (their trauma was inherited, too), but I think it's the truth. But I've been working on it my whole life, and I hope that I brought my daughter much closer to the sky than they were able to bring me, and that I showed her a way to find her own path, and that I told the truth. I hope her journey was easier because of how far I carried her, and I hope that we never clip our wings again, never again forget that we were born to fly.

And now it's time for me to keep going, to stay a step ahead of her, to forge a beautiful life at every age and circumstance.

Middle age is learning new things.

Middle age is knowing what I love.

Middle age is keeping my close relationship to my daughter AND letting her fly.

Middle age is being honest with myself.

Middle age is having friendships that have spanned decades, and treasuring them.

Middle age is knowing that terrible things happen, but that beautiful and amazing things happen too, so I just need to ride out the former to get to the latter.

Middle age is a chance to get closer to my truth.

Middle age is a chance to let go of old lies - that I'm too fat, not good enough, not loveable, not worthy - and embrace new truths: that my body is strong, that I'm filled with love and light, that I have beautiful community, that I'm still discovering my gifts.

There is going to be loss: bodies do not always age gracefully. But I already knew that! At 35, my body got me through cancer, and there was loss, but I am still here, and in that there is so much beauty. At 42 I lost my marriage, but maybe what I lost is not as big as what I gained.

Middle age is what I make of it.

I don't have more than a glass of wine every few weeks because it makes me feel sluggish. I drink gallons of herbal tea.

I am delighted that sneakers are fashionable, because my days of shoving my feet into pointy heels that are hard to walk in are done. 

I still like a plunging neckline when I'm feeling sassy.

A bikini body is a body wearing a bikini, and since I like swimming at the beach I have a bikini body. Not a supermodel body, a bikini body. A body in a bikini.

I'm rescheduling the dinner party that got canceled due to Covid. I have a hike on the calendar for next weekend. I'm determined to write. I love my job. I still believe in love in my future, despite it all. My turn will come.

It's not pointless, and it's not sad, and it's not lonely. It's my job to find the point, to navigate sadness and find joy where it exists, and to remember the community that I have spent decades building and to feel their love.

Tessa will come home for Thanksgiving, and I will pick her up at the bus stop at the airport, and I will squeeze her so tight. She will find the silly matching sweatshirts that I bought for us with a Taylor Swift lyric we both like, and she can wear it or not but it gives me pleasure to give it to her. The house will be stocked with her favorite treats. We will follow our tradition of getting our Christmas tree up on Black Friday, reminiscing about each ornament, drinking hot cocoa, playing carols. And then afterwards I'll lean back and let her go out with her boyfriend or friends, and she'll fly far from me for a bit. I'll fly too, hiking or going to a movie or writing, safe in the knowledge that when she needs me again, she'll find me. By the time I drop her off at the bus stop at the airport, we'll both be ready for her to go. Me to do my routines - yoga class, meeting a friend for happy hour, working late, enjoying a clean sink without her dishes in it! - and her to do hers.

There is joy in this. So much joy. Anything is possible, just like it was when I was 22. I can reinvent myself over and over again, and build community along the way, and lose and discover myself over and over again. Though there has been pain on the journey, it got me to where I am now, and I like where I am now.

I'm strengthening my wings, getting better at flying. I'm discovering new things, new people, new places, new plans. When Tessa and I meet in the currents, I've got a huge smile on my face. We can fly! Look at us, isn't it crazy? Marvelous? Miraculous?

I'm watching my own progress, writing it down, so that one day when my daughter notices that she's got strands of silver in her hair will smile and think, "I've got this!" and she'll see the color of starlight and whitecaps and waterfalls, not decay. No, decay isn't silver.

I have a gray stripe that I thought of dying; my hairdresser was horrified. "People pay to make a stripe like that!" she told me. I don't know if she was lying, but I don't mind. I have grown to like it - my flash of silver in one swoop that frames one side of my face. I don't look 20-something, but I don't think I look "old" either. I just look like myself. Still learning, still hoping, still exploring. Still loving. Still trying. Still believing in the silver light of the stars. Still flying in their light.

And that's enough roadmap for me.

Writers Gotta Write

 Oh dear Reader. How I have missed you.

At this point, I'd be surprised if I had a single reader, because what would they read?! I have been amiss, a bit lost, a bit in transition. But over, and over, and over, the same truth rises us: for better or for worse, I am supposed to write.

Hopefully for better, of course.

So my new plan? To write. Anything. No matter how crappy - or how wonderful, it's time to show up for myself. And - if I'm very lucky - for you.

I am in a wonderful, strange new part of my life. The empty nest is filled with surprises, actually, and nobody told me it would feel like this. I read Grown and Flown online, and I can't tell you how many articles say how hard it is to let go, how senior year is a countdown horror to loneliness, how letting go is a tearful process.

Anybody who knows me knows that I love my daughter as much as I love my own life, and that there is nothing I wouldn't do for her. We made it through my cancer and divorce together, and my love for her is matched by my respect for her. Tessa means the world to me, and my love for her is infinite. So please don't judge me for saying this:

But Grown and Flown didn't tell my story.

I love my empty nest.

First of all, it's not really that empty. She went to school in September, visited in October, and is coming home for Thanksgiving in November. Then, she'll be back for almost a month in December/January. But even when she's gone, we're connected. I send her little packages (note: I don't think my home made cookies were worth the $23 UPS shipping fee - I need a better method!), postcards, letters, and endless texts. She's part of my life on a daily basis, and I carry her with me where ever I go. I don't think she carries me in the same way - that's not her job - but I am secure in her love. So, between frequent communication and visits, I don't feel too empty.

Secondly, it's not only Tessa who is learning to fly.

For her whole life, my life was organized around hers, as it should be. I signed up for motherhood, and I don't resent it at all. I put her needs first because I wanted to, and because it was the right thing to do. I wouldn't trade those sleepless nights, or infinite attempts to get her to eat her broccoli, or sleepovers, or story time, or hiking at her pace, or driving her to endless playdates and after school activities. I wouldn't miss a minute if I could do it again. But now? Oh - there is liberation!

For her, liberation looks like a sink full of dishes and a roommate who doesn't care (and adds her own dishes), with no mom around to scold and demand and passive-aggressively clean the sink (hey, I never said I was perfect). It looks like sleeping in late and staying up even later. It looks like finding her own way, her own people, her own way of moving through the world. It's study groups, finding a favorite coffee shop, having her own language with her boyfriend. It's learning how to write A+ papers, and managing procrastination. It looks like managing the rent on time, and grocery shopping, and eating only the food she likes best.

And for me, liberation looks like remembering who I was when I was in my 20s.

I had a small period of my time after I graduated and got a "real" job and before Ryan and I were dating and eventually married where my life was truly my own, restricted only by my budget or my imagination. In that time, I went to concerts with friends, library talks by myself, and I hiked almost every weekend whether I could find a friend to join me or not. I took my first yoga class, and a writing class. I hosted dinner parties, went to plays and movies. I took great joy in buying grocery store flowers for myself. I did volunteer work. I wrote pages and pages in my journal.

And here I am again.

A month ago I signed up for a yoga class, and while I've only been four times so far, it feels a bit like coming home. I have the time, the money, the health, and the inclination. My Warrior 3 is really quite bad - wobbly and oh-so-crooked - but I can tell it's a bit better. My Dancer is broken, but that's okay. My Tree is steadier, my Warrior 1 and 2 are powerful, and my Standing Fold is deeper every time. Bridge feels incredible, and my Dancing Warrior (flowing from one to another) lets me know I am alive, and well.

I bought tickets to go to plays with a dear friend. We went to the first one: filled with feminist ideas, laughter, social commentary. Next up is a Jane Austen play, and I'm giddy with nerdy delight at the prospect.

I went to Mount Rainier for the first time in years, and climbed a path that had me gasping for breath before I slowed down (and realized that I was still passing everyone, just not at the speed of my 20-something self). A watched a hungry marmot filling his belly, and as I climbed above the treeline I felt strong and steady.

A recent repeat of COVID (I am so utterly sick of this!) had me at home for a week. Horrors! But a half dozen friends repeatedly volunteered to bring me supplies, and little gifts showed up at my door. I was finally able to sit down to write letters, and I sat on the sofa staring out the window, comfortable with my cup of tea even when I didn't feel well.

The dinner party I had scheduled will still happen, just on a different day.

I know I haven't found my way yet. I'm still working on dating (what DO I want?!), getting my finances and savings where I want them. (This was the year of a new mattress - it was 22 years old, good grief - and a new fridge and a new washing machine because they broke, and then new car tires and a $6000 repair, all on the heels of my beautiful trip to Italy. My savings has taken a hit!) I'm never caught up on grading (I have a plan!) and I'm really not a very good gardener and my yard is a silly wreck. I keep saying I'm going to run but I don't run. I spend too much time on my screens.

But.

I'm finding my way.

So, here is my promise to myself: I will end this year better than I started it. And for me, writing is a part of that, so I will show up, and write drivel or gold, but I will write. I will stop waiting for the right time, for the right motivation, for the right idea. I will write the book, or I will write here, but I will write.

I owe it to myself. It's time to fly!

Empty Nest

 My daughter is winding down her first year at college, and it feels like a huge milestone in my life, not just in hers.

The past year has been full of surprises.

First, let's be clear: it's nothing like I imagined... except when it is.

I thought she'd be social and spend too much time with new friends instead of studying. I thought I'd be worried all the time. I thought the house would feel empty and strange. I thought it would be the end of something. I thought she wouldn't commit to her studies and she might come home to find a different path. I thought she'd never come home on weekends.

I was wrong.

She's found her academic groove and she remains connected to her beloved childhood and high school friends (including her high school boyfriend), but she hasn't found community at school. I did worry a lot - a LOT - at first, but now I feel relatively peaceful. The house started by feeling empty, but now it just feels like home. She has found academic success and motivation, and she's committed to earning her degree. And she comes home frequently.

So: I was wrong about that.

But some of it is just as I hoped.

Moving her into the dorm was a magical experience that I found healing. As a non-traditional student without a lot of family support, I never got to live on campus (I barely spent any time on campus except classes, because mostly I worked). Going shopping for Tessa's supplies - the perfect chambray blue duvet cover; towels that were soft and fluffy; a mattress topper because it was on the list of "must haves"; throw pillows that I'm pretty sure never get used but made her eyes light up when we bought them - was so much fun. When I had my first apartment nothing was new, or pretty, or special. My first Christmas after leaving my parents' house I asked for a blanket as a gift because I was perpetually cold and I didn't have enough bedding. That memory - and the fact that my mother gave me a hand me down blanket that was in the color scheme and size of her king sized bed, despite the fact that I had a double bed, means that I got her cast-offs, despite my parents' ability to afford more - made me patient as we shopped the aisles of Target, Bed Bath and Beyond, and IKEA, debating each item extensively before finding just the right ones or sighing and searching again on Amazon.

Loading up the back of the Subaru with blue zippered IKEA bags, driving over the mountains, and having the usual comedy of building an IKEA side table and unpacking everything together was just as I'd dreamed. I made up her bed with the topper, the blush sheets, the pretty duvet, the piles of throw pillows (which she arranged and rearranged until they looked just right). We probably looked like caricatures of a college day mom and daughter: she in her Central crop top, me in my baggy CWU Mom sweatshirt, smiling and sweaty and sometimes on the edge of tears, with lots of hugs. When I left that night she gave me a carved jade heart and some heartfelt words, and our hug was extra long. When I got in the car to drive home alone, I played Taylor Swift and sang loudly, waiting for my tears to come... but they didn't. I was happy. My girl was where she needed to be, and she knew how deeply I love her, and the future awaited both of us.

I know I sent too much. Her first aid supplies alone could probably cover the entire floor of her dorm for a year. She could have holed up and lived on the snacks she got started with without ever leaving to get food. I'm pretty sure she never read any of the novels she brought with her, but as a fellow book nerd I knew how important it was to have them tucked onto her bedside table shelves.

No regrets. 

We send each other cards and letters at least weekly. I display mine on top of our piano (displaying cards is its only use since Tessa decided, a decade ago, that piano wasn't her thing).

When she's gone I collect little things for her and place them in her room: a new pack of masks, snacks, a sundress for our summer trip, new bottles of shampoo and conditioner. I send her texts every day without expectation that I'll get a response because I know she needs her independence, but I also know she needs my love notes, and I often get a response anyway.

This is better than I expected.

The house isn't empty, because she comes home every few weeks to visit (make no mistake - her local boyfriend is more of a draw than I am - but that's okay, because I get the benefit of her visit anyway).

I am not sad the way that some of the parenting websites told me I'd be. I do not sleep in her bed, wrapped around her pillow. I do not long for crumbs on the counter or dishes on the sink. I long for this: I long for what I've got. I long for her to know that she's got my full support. I long for her to feel safe, protected, but also capable of handling what life throws at her. I long to be her safe space to return to. But I also long for witnessing her as she grows wings. She's thinking of a semester abroad. She might move to California when she graduates. She doesn't think she wants to be a mom even when she's older. She has her own ideas of life, some of which I find exhilarating, and some of which make me worry, but all of which belong to her. 

One of my parents' angry threats to me when I was a teen was "you'll see when you're older!" and "just you wait!" I did wait. I got older. And what I learned was that my feelings of craving wings to fly were completely normal and natural, and that what every kid wants most in the world is the encouragement to fly and the certainty that a loving nest awaits them if they want to visit. I wasn't being selfish, or mean, or unloving, or ungrateful when I wanted a different life than the one my parents envisioned for me, I was just - living. Being myself, not them. Finding my own way. Every time they told me that my way of living was wrong, I yearned to fly farther away. Every time they clipped my wings, I flapped them harder, trying to make up for my lost feathers by expending more energy.

Parenting my daughter through each stage of her life has been healing and eye opening. 

My nest is empty-ish. But I'm happy, because I didn't raise my daughter to stay home with me until she was old, I raised her to go out and seek out her own dreams, and that is what she's doing. When I buy her little necessitates, or send her love notes, or encourage her to follow her dreams even when they're not mine, I'm really parenting myself too, reminding myself that this is what I deserved, too.

The more freedom I give her, the more I support her dreams, the closer we become. I honestly didn't see that one coming, even though it should have been obvious. My parents held me tight to a vision I didn't share, and I suffocated and struggled to break free of the confines of their vision; I gave my daughter space to figure out her own path and called out my support, and she has opened up to me in return. So obvious once I see it, but such a journey to get to this place.

My nest doesn't feel empty, even though it is. It feels like home. It feels like a soft place to land. It feels full of possibility.

Right now it's time for me to work on developing my own wings. Sometimes I feel jealous of my daughter - not for her youth and beauty, but for the possibilities that lie ahead of her. And then I remember that it's not too late for me, and that I can still recreate myself a hundred times over, and that just as she's got me cheering her on and believing in her with all my heart, she's cheering for me and believing in me, too. I can hear her shouting "Fly, Mom! You can do it!"

I didn't expect that. 

I'm still working on finding my way. I haven't got it all figured out AT ALL.

But watching my daughter spread her wings gives me strength to remember how to fly. I see her circling our nest, riding the currents on her wings, and I hear her call to come join her in the sky. We won't always fly together, or in the same direction, and I need to make sure not to crowd her up there - the sky is big enough to give her space - but after years of sitting on my nest, tending to my little baby bird, it's clear that we're both ready to soar.

It's terrifying and exhilarating. But I'm ready.

This, not that. Manifesting and other oddities.

 I have come to the unfortunate realization that my little project was not the right project.

I know this because:

1) I started to procrastinate on it; and

2) I started to be bored - deeply bored - by my own words.

Never a good sign.

Yes, I want to nourish and notice. Yes, it's important to chase joy down, to grab joy by the hand and run straight into a field of wildflowers; to look joy in the eye and - full of anticipation and fear - leap from the end of the dock into the cold water below. Those things are immensely important.

But the truth is messier, and the messy truth is that my life isn't quite full of joy these days. It's joy-adjacent, through no fault of my own.

Self care does not mean deluding yourself that the shit sandwich handed to you is delicious. It might be on the finest bread, served on a china plate, with a lovely array of beautifully cut fruit arranged beside it, but the whole thing is tainted because, well, it's a shit sandwich.

Covid life is like that shit sandwich. I KNOW how lucky I am to have that plate of fruit, to have alternatives to choose from. But I also know that a shit sandwich is not something to celebrate, and I don't need to feel guilty for acknowledging that I am angry at even the suggestion of a shit sandwich. I know that there are those who have it worse, that I've had it worse, that it won't last forever, to count my blessings, to notice the good all around me, yada yada yada.

But this isn't a love and rainbows time of my life. I'm trapped in the house (or so it feels) because of Covid. I'm having a hard time feeling inspired by work. The house feels empty with Tessa gone. I worry about my weight, the end of democracy, the fact that I'm overdue for the dentist, and whether my daughter is on the right path and how I can help her to find her path. I haven't been inside a theater in over two years; I haven't traveled. I'm weary from all of the sitting, and angry with myself for not doing more to utilize this "precious down time" that is "an opportunity to reflect." I have not written the great American novel, or even a crappy first draft that nobody will ever want to read. I didn't get national boards certification, develop abs of steel, or master the Sunday crossword puzzle. I've done well enough - I haven't fallen apart, I've served my students, I've helped my daughter enter and transition to college, and I've gone on lots of walks even if I haven't run a marathon (or a half marathon, or a 5k). I've done coloring pages, made dozens of pairs of jewelry, and started a little embroidery project. I've tried blogging, journaling, and working on the book (I believe it will be great). I've done tiny house projects. I've saved some money, tucked into my savings account where sometimes I open my banking app just to see the number, to reassure myself that at this point in time, I'm safe enough.

Is it good enough?

None of your business.

No, I'm opening myself up here, so I don't mean to be rude, but what I mean is: you can judge me, one way or the other, but whatever you (dear Reader) think as you read this, I am trying.

And that is all anyone can do.

So I'm not going to write about unicorns and rainbows, because pretty fast it got monotonous. There aren't that many changes in my day to day right now; there aren't grand adventures and the tiny adventures are repetitive. Plus, if I was having grand adventures, could I write them in a way that didn't sound like an awful Christmas letter, half truths and grandiose claims designed to prove to someone - maybe me? - that my life was worthwhile?

This is a fallow time. I feel myself in the waiting time, not the exciting boundless energy time. So, I'm going to acknowledge this, and not focus on that.

***

Instead, I'm going to share my thoughts as they come, without one whit of care about whether they're the right thoughts for the right audience.

And right now my thoughts are about manifesting.

***

I do not believe in The Secret, because I think it's cruel. All over the world there are people who can barely take a breath because they are so busy with the painfully awful work of existing: because they are bedridden with disease, because they are managing intergenerational trauma, because they are fleeing war or famine, because their drinking water is unclean and the fires and tornadoes and floods are coming. You get my point. Telling people to manifest despite these odds just seems like a strange, unkind joke. People all over the world are whispering "please make my baby well" with every cell of their bodies vibrating with urgency, love, hope, pain, fear, and sometimes those babies die despite those vibrations. I know that, and to minimize it would be unkind of me.

So take this with a grain of salt.

Somehow, I've been able to manifest some very important things in my life.

When I got divorced, I had been out of the workforce for more than a decade, struggling with cancer most of that time, and I had an elementary school child. I still don't entirely know how it happened, but I was able to find a job that - while not the right job for me long term - was exactly the right thing for me at the right time. Not only did it pay my bills - just barely, but it did cover them - but it reminded me of who I could be, and helped me to return to myself as I exited that unhealthy marriage.

And I kept the house. When Tessa begged me, in tears after learning of the impending divorce, to keep the house, I made her a promise. It was rash of me: I knew I couldn't afford this big old house that not only has more space than we need, but also is nearly a century old and constantly in need of some new repair. (In December the dryer went out and needed replacing. In January, it was the hot water tank. Who knows what February will reveal.) But somehow, I held tight, and despite every bit of logic or reason, I was able to keep it, and even to sometimes make some improvements.

And I wanted a new sofa - something neutral and classic - and voila, a friend gifted me one. I wanted a bike, and it came up on Buy Nothing. I'm still not sure if I manifested Tessa's college acceptance and the whole experience of moving into a dorm (shopping and packing and unloading and setting up), but the whole thing is such a miracle that I refer to it as The Miracle.

And I shouldn't forget that when I decided to return to teaching, that very month (unbeknownst to me) they changed all the rules so that all I had to do to get recertificated was to fill out my name and address and pay less than $100, and that one month after making the decision to return to teaching I had my own classroom, 14 years after leaving teaching, and I got to teach at the same school with the same preps as when I had left. It was extraordinary.

Sometimes I've manifested free things: something I absolutely need and can't afford, or something I long for but can't justify - and it just appears. (Airpods - twice. A living room set. Patio furniture that is exactly what I had in mind. A bicycle. So many things!) I feel like I'm still manifesting my ability to pay my share of Tessa's college expenses. (Extraordinary. I still don't know how it happened. I got a raise at the right time, I was able to refinance with record low interest rates... I got so lucky.)

I'm ready to manifest some new miracles in my life, and I'm feeling optimistic and hopeful and like the light is coming. Some of it is work I must do to lay the foundation of my life, and some of it is going to come down to blind, dumb luck - a blessing from the Universe that I ask for but probably have no claim to; something I long for even though it's out of reach.

I don't know how to teach someone to do it. I can't do it with 100% accuracy all the time, and there's one miracle in particular that feels really late in arriving. But I also know, somehow, that this is a thing.

It's time for me to manifest some more things in my life. To dream big, to make space in my heart for what I really want, and not just for what life hands me. I acknowledge that while I'm going to work really hard for it, it's also going to come down to luck - which is another way of saying The Universe that some people call God.

Mary Oliver says, "I don't know what a prayer is," and I feel that with all my being, despite my prayers, belief, faith, refusal to categorize God into some box called religion (sacrilege to some, I think God would agree with me). She continues by saying "I do know how to pay attention," and that is how I feel. I'm watching, listening, waiting. Somehow I feel sure, despite the uncertainty. And that feels like what I think a prayer might be, even though I don't know.

I'm grateful for the gifts of my life, for the extraordinary surprise of being able to walk away from my family with the knowledge that it was time to break an inter-generational trauma cycle and survive to tell the tale; for this big old house that houses my heart as well as my body; for a daughter who, despite missteps, is finding her way to her dreams; for work that is meaningful and that I'm good at; for being able to make this life of mine into something. 

Sometimes I can turn nothing into something, and it's a miracle to witness.

I don't know what a prayer is, but I'm praying.

Day 12: Nourish and Notice, showing up

 Dear reader,

Today I'm crabby. I feel off my game, tired from a restless night last night, and entirely out of sorts.

But I showed up for myself anyway.

I showed up by getting up early and going to work, lunch packed. I showed up by giving the kids my all, all day long (including extra time after school to help them with their papers). I showed up for myself by going to therapy, even though I thought "I don't have anything to talk about!" (I did, as it turns out.)

Today's joy is that when I felt like crawling under the covers, I showed up in my life and did the best I could, and I'm proud of that. It won't win me a Nobel prize, but it took effort, and I'm not going to beat myself up over not doing more, I'm going to tell the truth: today I did the best I could.

And noticing?

My funny dog who sticks his nose under my arms when I'm typing, being silly to get my attention. A therapist who knows what she's doing to help me.

And a warm bed awaiting me, an early bedtime in the works, because I'm beat.

Tomorrow is another day.

Day 11: Nourish and Notice ,and a happy birth-day

 Today is Tessa's birthday. 19 years old is a strange number for me: it's the age my mother was when she gave birth to me; it's the age for legal alcohol consumption in Canada where I was born, and it's an age I recall oh-so-clearly from my own life. The older Tessa gets, the more clear my memories of myself at that age are.

How can my daughter and I be the same age?!

But of course, we are not, and I'm grateful for every one of my 52 years, even if on the inside I still feel like a 19 year old.

At 19, I was working close to full time to put myself through school. My boyfriend was 27, and he had a world class education, experience, and a "real" job for a big corporation. I thought I was so sophisticated to attract someone of his intellectual prowess, and that I must be a very mature person, but in hindsight, he was a lost person who had trouble connecting with women and probably found a much more youthful girlfriend easier to handle. At 19 I was filled with ambition for my life, to become the person I wanted to be, and I was filled with fire and yearning for more. I hadn't yet traveled, or experienced much of life, but I knew with absolute certainty that I would do so.

Tessa is not me, and her path is different (including an age-appropriate boyfriend). Unlike me, she is living at college - financed by her father and I, at some personal sacrifice we both find well worthwhile - experiencing a dorm, a roommate, and all of the other parts of college like interesting professors and boring ones, new ideas, staying up way too late, eating at all hours of the day. (I lived with my parents, who did not support my college dreams nor provide financially, and who told me I was disloyal and ungrateful when I wanted to move out.) So her path is joyously different than mine... and I love that. I love that she's finding her way, and that she has opportunities to experience these different parts of coming into adulthood. I get so much joy out of being able to provide her with those experiences.

Last summer she and I went to far too many stores, shopping for just the right dorm items. She likes to cook, so we got her the basics of a kitchen, including the pale pink dishes and bright blue glasses she picked out. Her bedding is blush sheets in just the right softness, with a cloud-like feather comforter in a chambray color. She has pictures of her friends on the wall, a soft fluffy robe and cute flip flops for walking down the hall to her communal showers, and the cute bathroom organizer that came with a waterproof phone case. She has a new laptop for school, school logo sweatshirts and t-shirts and stickers.

I imagine her at the end of the day, climbing into the bed with the just-right pillows and the cute throw pillows and the bedding that she picked out, and remembering that her mom loved her and made sure she got just the right things to be comfortable at college. The reality is that she probably falls into bed every night thinking of her boyfriend, or a paper that's due, or something she saw on TV, but that's okay, because even if she doesn't think about it, *I* know that the she's getting a hug from me every time she slips into those sheets.

And it gives me joy.

Today I reflected a little bit about her birth, and we went back and forth sharing stories about it - Tessa knows the stories as well as I do, teasing, "And you thought of dolphins!" because with every contraction I did, indeed, visualize myself as a dolphin climbing to the top of the wave, then flying down. (When I shared this anecdote with my PEPS group for new mothers, they all stared at me as if I was insane. Apparently most people go the epidural route, not the dolphin route!) Tessa knows she was born into love, from before she was born; she knows how wanted she was and is, and this gives me joy.

About a week or two ago, when I wasn't feeling well, I watched Tessa's favorite Disney movie, "Tangled." In that show, on the princess's birthday, they release paper lanterns into the sky and make wishes for her. Well, last night, Tessa, Noah and I did just that. We wrote on them, and then drove to Lowman Beach to light them and send them into the night sky. I packed blankets and a thermos of hot tea, and we helped each other to set up each lantern and send it into the sky, and it was lovely. They drifted up over the water, and Orion was bright in the sky, and the waves were lapping, and their lights carried our wishes for Tessa into the world, and I thought - yes. Yes. It was beautiful, peaceful, hopeful, and Tessa loved it too. Yes, so much joy.

I notice that my daughter chose to spend the weekend at home, that she's doing well in school right now, that her eyes seem bright and clear.

I notice that I've been a mom for 19 years, and that I'm proud of the way I've mothered her. I'm so joyful that we're close, and that we're finding our way through new ways to be in relationship with one another as she grows up.

I notice that she heard me when I told her that I wasn't going to be her maid service when she visits, and the she should not leave me another big mess - and she cleaned up after herself.

And I notice that she's busy living her life, and she is well, and so I should work on myself, too. I can stop worrying so much right now, and let her be.

Days 6-10: Nourish and Notice, Letting Go of Expectations

 Well. Good intentions and all that. Here I am, day 10, and rather behind! Well, one thing I'm going to notice today is that I'm tired of beating myself up, because then I'm beaten up and the original problem is still a problem.

So, a little catch up!

Day 5: Hit the sofa. I really felt crummy, and though I was better than before, I was more fatigued than before. Instead of fighting it, I curled up in my sweatpants, drank gallons of hot tea, napped, read. It was what I needed! Nourishing my body was good for me, and instead of pushing through and making myself worse, I relaxed. There is quiet joy in that.

Day 7: Back to work. At last! And the kids sent me nice notes saying they'd missed me, and they worked hard, and I felt like I was where I belonged. It was quite a shift to work 9 hours after days of nothingness, but I managed, and I was proud of myself. I really didn't want to walk Chance after work - all I wanted was sleep - but I managed, and his gratitude (jumping up and down over and over - his glee and anticipation at the walk was truly joyful, and I shared in his joy).

Day 8: Gettin' her done. I put in a hard day's work, helped a ton of kids, had an after work meeting, and made it through. Proud of that again! I got into the car exhausted, but refused to give in to it, and managed to run a number of errands after work, before coming home and making sure Chance got another good walk. His joy was unfettered again, and truly made me giggle.

Day 9: Getting my girl. I got to work by 6:30, managed a meeting before work, and busted my butt until the last kid left at 4pm, and then I went to get Tessa from CWU. The ride there was surprisingly beautiful - the sunset was gorgeous, pink, clear skies, sparkling snow, and the tips of the mountains were bathed in golden light. I listened to music as I drove, and felt in the moment, glad to be on my way. When I got there, I finally met Tessa's roommate in person (a lovely person), then Tessa and I drove home and she was full of warmth, chatty, excited about her classes. She's finding her way at last and I am so happy for her - so grateful that she is choosing to try, choosing to commit to the process, finding her happiness again.

Day 10: Ticking off my list. Today I did a bunch of chores - things I didn't want to do, like vacuuming and cleaning the toilet and folding laundry - and ran errands around the Junction. I love my little village on the edge of my big city: the bakery is amazing, the lady at the post office is kind and thoughtful, and the park where I walk Chance is so wonderful (and I got to see a seal pup, fat and gray, once again today). Now I'm having a couple of quiet hours, and then Tessa and Noah will come back with the takeout I paid for, we'll eat, and then we'll bring our dessert down to the beach. I bought paper lanterns to light and send out over the water, just like in Tessa's favorite Disney movie ("Tangled"). We already wrote our wishes for Tessa on their paper sides, and I look forward to munching on a cupcake, sipping hot tea, as they float high above us. Tessa liked the idea, too, and it's nice to be able to give her a little surprise, to see her get excited even in the time of coronavirus when we are so cautious at home.

Tomorrow I'll write again, but today I'm catching up. letting go of the hope that I'd ponder brilliantly, and instead, I'm just taking a little time to notice those things in my life that bring joy. It's imperfect, but it's still good.

And now? I'm tired, resting up with a little Gilmore Girls before Tessa and Noah return. Best show ever! <3