The Here, Up There, and Everywhere

How did I get here?, I asked myself.

I was standing outside, dressed in jeans and a down jacket- appropriate enough for the weather- yet wrapped from head-to-toe in a wool Pendleton blanket. I was smoking a cigarette and staring alternately at my cocktail on the deck post and the falling snow. My only light came from the streetlight half a block away, and the end of my cigarette.

 I don't smoke, mind you.

And I didn't mean "here," as in a physical place; I meant Here, this place in my life where I feel like some change is about to take place, but I can't put my finger on it. And where I'm fed up with the waiting, where I'd like to catch a break for once, but where I'm scared to force anything. That Here.

Since my last post  where I told an entirely true story and called everyone on Facebook assholes (Which, at the time, I said I didn't mean it, that people were assholes. That was a lie- I totally meant it.), I've had time to stop and try to identify what has brought me Here. I look back for clues and see these vignettes:

I.

I am multitasking: laundry, dishes, making soup and the bed. I pull a stray hair caught in the pillow case, and let it fall to the floor. The vacuum will meet it later, I think, noting where the line of jet black has rested near my feet.

II.

Question posted via Facebook: Remember your first day of something you now love? What was it like? Answer: It was literally a summer evening, and it seemed like the sun would stay up forever, and then an instant later I was under a blanket of sparkling stars. Questioner's response: Poetic...

III.

I am looking out at the horizon, the Great Lake freezing over a bit more every minute. I can't even begin to comprehend the vastness of this, I think. I turn around and raise my arms up, celebrating the awesomeness all around; a photo gets snapped. I glance back at the lake for just a moment before I hear splashing behind me, to the side of me. Suddenly I am flat on my belly right there on the ice, reaching for the puppy's harness and baby-talking words of encouragement to him that intellectually I know he doesn't understand. Once safe on shore, he shakes the cold cold water from his coat and carries on as if it were a summer day.

IV.

I am laying in my bed, staring out the window; I had forgotten to close the blinds last night. The window faces due west, and I'm trying to discern if the sunrise that's about to happen (it is 7:18 now, and the sunrise is scheduled-scheduled!-to happen at 7:43) is going to be spectacular or cloud-covered and sunless. The blankets are pulled up around me; I'm in the same position I was when I last looked at the clock, when I blew out the candle on my bedside table, when I last glanced at my phone. Trying to figure out if getting out of bed is worthwhile is arduous. The bed says, Your pillow is still waiting for you to come and rest your head. Let me take care of You.

V.

I am sitting on the stool pulled up to my makeshift kitchen bar. I am curled up on the couch, fading in and out of sleep to the conversational tones coming from the television. I am walking through the woods in snow that is still hip-high in places, listening for the light jingling of the bell newly attached to the puppy's collar. I am laying on my back, covered with too many layers and bargaining with whomever for sleep. I am tapping out syllables on my pillow for another haiku, the words I can only say in my head (not ever out loud), or only put in print on social media at two-thirty or three-thirty or even four a.m.

VI.

I am in the car, the radio is off, and the heat is on high. I've a chill that won't leave. The hum of the gears and tires on the road hypnotize me, and as I put the car in park in front of my work building, I have no recollection of what's transpired over the last 21 minutes/miles. Some days are like that, a small voice in my head says.

VII.

I am walking in the street, the sidewalks still covered with the snow and ice from a different day, and the puppy is on his leash. I keep looking up at the sky, more stars punctuating that plane with each glance. I try to make out constellations without slipping on black ice. Stargazing is better when you're not alone, I think. 



And now, I wonder how I got to this space in time, sitting here in a sunbeam that's streaming through my bedroom window, and me on the floor, back against the bed. Those things are all in the past, I tell myself, learn something from them and move on. Memories are the architecture of our identity, as the saying goes. What are you going to do next?

What does the next chapter in this story look like? What words will come out of my pen? Which characters will have a reoccurring role, and which will fade like those sunset colors I love so? And I guess that's the thing that keeps us going day after day, isn't it? The curiosity fueled by our innate human need for love and companionship, for mattering to someone, for validation that we are significant somehow. We look back on moments or memories for indicators, for the last piece of the puzzle, for a glimpse of our legacy. 

I tell myself, You can't create your life story by living in the past. Focus on now. Focus on up there, on the road ahead. Your story will write itself if you'd just throw back the covers and let it breathe.

And with those words, I'm off to write the next chapter, one adventure at a time. Live your story, friends. 

Being Thankful

Photo by the author taken November 3, 2013: I-43 North, somewhere in Wisconsin, and I'm

thankful for the road that goes through the storm clouds and leads me back home.

First, hello. And also, don't look at me like that; I know I've been slackin'.

Second, it's November, and as the title of this post suggests, it's time to share what we're thankful for. *groooaaannnnn*  I KNOOOOWWW!!!!

This November, my friends played a game on Facebook wherein they posted a random number of facts about themselves; if you "liked" the status, they would in turn give YOU a number, and you would then post that many random facts about yourself. Get it? 

Okay, so: I played along and posted my ten facts (thanks, Theo). Done. And then I "liked" someone else's list. And this is what happened:

Mrs. Hansen: 

I know you've already been given a number. Instead of sharing more secrets, post your favorite memory of a time in November.

Me:

ANY November? I mean, this November (so far) and last November have been crappy. And the memories I do have of Novembers past are not "favorites," I mean it's just me anticipating the end of the year. Every. Day. Lemme think on that...

Mrs. Hansen:

Any November.

Me:

I'll work on this. It is brewing right now as a blog post.

So I'm going to tell you a story about Being Thankful.

It was mid-November, some 15 years ago. I was married, I was living here in the U.P., and I was commuting weekly to Chicago for school. (Side note: I know a 300 mile one-way commute is extreme; however, I am a stubborn, stubborn woman and would not have had things any other way.) This was before cell phones were appendages, and so communication with my family in Michigan relied on land lines. At this point in the semester, they knew my schedule, knew when to expect check-in phone calls, knew when to expect me home.

It was the week of Thanksgiving, and my last class ended at noon on Wednesday. I drove home, walked in the back door of the house, and no one was there. There was a note: At my parents' house. I dropped my bags and drove the 1/2 mile to my in-laws' home. Everyone was there, save for my father-in-law, who was out at hunting camp. As I walked into the great room off the kitchen, my Wasband turned around from facing the fireplace and looked at me with a sheepish smile. My jaw dropped.

He had 1) cut his hair so close with the clippers that his head looked shaved; 2) his face was so swollen he could not wear his glasses; 3) his right eye was a gorgeous melange of blues and purples and blacks.

What the fuck happened? Well, I rode your bike to Gussie's last night to get a beer. Aaaannndd...? Well, you know how there are those cables tethered to the ground? And they're attached to the power poles? Yes... Well, I was biking home and was carrying my stuff in one arm, and was trying to balance things so I wouldn't drop anything...Aaaannndd...? Well, I kinda fumbled the bag and looked down and the front tire of the bike hit the tether in the ground. (Anticipatory silence.) And I flipped over the handlebars and landed with my eye on the end of the handle. (Stunned silence.) The bike is banged up some, like the front wheel rim is bent a little, but I didn't break anything. The ER doctor thought I might have fractured my eye socket, but the x-ray didn't show anything, so. And none of the beer bottles broke, either.

My children at this point in time were not-yet 7 and 3 years old. They were left home alone while their father- already drunk- rode a bicycle two-and-a-half blocks to the neighborhood store to get more beer. And a pint of whiskey.

I can't make this shit up, people.

How thankful was I to have in-laws so close to help with ER transport, childcare, and knowing glances? Very thankful. I cannot imagine what was going through my daughters' heads when they saw their father, stumbling drunk and disoriented and battered and bruised and pushing a bicycle towards the house. How thankful am I to have this experience under my belt, to have survived that relationship and learned from it? Very, very thankful. Is this something that I've felt compelled to share before today? No. That lifetime, thankfully, is over. I send up thanks every single day that my life is what it is now instead of what it used to be.

So right now, this 2013 edition of November? When my Facebook feed is littered with people posting daily "thankful" posts? Where they're rattling off thanks for things they have literally taken for granted the rest of the year (or perhaps only been lax in publicly acknowledging the rest of the year)? Those of you being effusive about your spouses, partners, children, parents, mentors, friends? Your good jobs, health insurance, warm homes, reliable cars? Your faith?

You're assholes. You make me angry for only now making public and highlighting those feelings that should always be acknowledged, no matter the month, no matter the other circumstances of your life, no matter what social media prompts you to do, no matter what your actions are the other eleven months of the year. 

(Side note: I don't really think you're assholes. Not all of you, anyway.)

I get it, really. I know that you need to make yourself feel better, that you need to start somewhere, and maybe more importantly, you need to receive validation for your efforts. You shouldn't have to participate in those games if you're living your life with gratitude; calling attention to yourself this way just highlights your weakness as a human- be thankful for that instead, for the recognition that you are a work in progress. Be thankful for the strength to carry on when you realize it's going to be a long time before things are okay. 

November, then, should be a month-long wake up call for your life. You hear that ringing sound? It's for you.

Until next time, friends.

Stay Soft

You know, I haven't been updating this blog as often as I had hoped in 2013, but I've struggled this past fall and winter with a variety of things that have made being creative and positive and (hopefully) helpful kinda difficult: the past showing up uninvited, the present weighing me down like too many layers, the immediate future hiding, not even a square on the calendar yet. So much unsettled and up in the air can bring a girl down, and the stress of these types of everyday moments has caused me to batten down the hatches, as it were.

My primary struggle has always been to be open; my life has always been focused on simple survival, the barest of exchanges employed to move forward from point A to B. I am blessed to have cultivated a support system that allows me a great deal of latitude, that understands and recognizes my need to pull away and refocus from time to time. My secondary struggle is with patience. I have it in spades, my Co-dependent Brethren, except for when I finally figure out what I want, and then whatever that is becomes my singular cause, my whole life. And sometimes I build really tall walls to keep out interlopers, no matter how well intentioned they may be.

In short, I allow myself to be hardened.

It is not intentional, really, I just don't actively try to stop it from happening.

Every morning after I drop Blonde Daughter off at school, I drive to the lake with a big cup of coffee and I walk out on the sandbars (although these past few weeks, it's been more of a wade than a walk). I love taking note of the minutiae of changes along my path, snapping photos with my iPhone, sharing them on Instagram or Facebook. Or not. It is a routine that helps keep me centered. Every day, however, on my way back to the FJ, I recite a mantra. Sometimes out loud for the birds and clouds to hear, sometimes just to myself. And I send out intentions to the Universe- requests, I guess, or prayers. What I say to the Universe out there on the sandbars, in the middle of the lake each morning? What I ask for, hope for, what I must believe will be granted me? What propels me forward despite the overwhelming sense some days that staying put would be so much easier?

Those words are none of your fucking business.

Anyway, sometimes I'll get back to my Dollhouse and waste time on Pinterest, creating my Fantasy Life through design and fashion and food inspiration, pinning quotes that make me think or laugh or cry. A few weeks ago, I came across this quote:

Be soft.

Do not let the world make you hard.

Do not let the pain make you hate.

Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness.

Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree,

you still believe it to be a beautiful place.

- Kurt Vonnegut

Well.

I'm a big believer in Fate, in things coming to us exactly when we need them to. I was in a bit of a funk, and so I sat with this quote for a few days after I found it. It made me pause and recognize that my walls were being built up again.

And sometimes when I need to clear my head and just not think so much, I go shopping.

TOTAL GIRL COPING MECHANISM. Ha!

So, I'm at the grocery store (honestly, you don't think this single parent has disposable income, do you?), walking around kinda dazed and lost, and as I moved from produce to meat departments, I saw a man standing in front of the meat cooler, studying the different cuts of pork. From the back- all long legs, bad posture, stocking cap, bad shoes, rough hands- I thought it was my Wasband. I didn't want to deal with him right there in the grocery store. Or at all, frankly. It wasn't him, despite the fact that this man had on the same windbreaker I had bought years ago. It wasn't him; as I moved over towards the poultry and then beef, he moved toward the lunchmeat and pickles. I moved to the eggs, he to the sliced cheese.

It wasn't him, and yet it was him, the future him. This man's face was etched with the weather of hundreds of days working outside. His beard was scraggly and only there because he didn't have any razors to make it go away. His eyes were blue. His eyes were defeated and half-closed. His eyes looked right at me, then past me, not hesitating to move on.

We played hide-and-seek among the aisles. Toilet paper, frozen berries, bread. I stopped to check my phone, and have lost him, I think. Iced tea, trail mix. Gone.

I got home and it was dark. I was in my own world, still a bit disturbed by this blast from the past/glimpse of the future. There was so much brought up in my mind when I thought the Grocery Store Guy was my Wasband; all of the issues and emotions (and the confusion that comes with them) made me a bit numb. And then I got sad. And angry. And onward through the stages, wall getting higher bit by bit, until I heard a voice in my head say: "Stay Soft."

I listened again: Stay. Soft. Stay soft. Some things cannot be undone. Some emotions will keep at you until you acknowledge them fully. Stay soft. Instead of looking at your Life So Far and shaking your head, wondering why you put up with what you did or how you managed to make it to this day, be thankful for that life and the lessons you've lived through and for the ability to apply those lessons in a way that will help you become who you've always meant to be, who you've been destined to be. Sit with that.

I felt incredibly calmed then, there on my couch in the lamplight glow.

Seeing the past and the future at the same time, presently, is most surreal. And the emotions that can bubble up can't be ignored. Those walls you've built up? Your suppressed emotions are going to overflow them, and then you'll have to mop that shit up. Ain't nobody got time for that. But-

But if you stay soft, if you recognize a bit sooner what you're doing to yourself? That emotional overflow can be soaked up, and like a sponge, you can choose to hold on to only what's necessary. It doesn't matter what triggers this emotionality- what's important is the validation and release of those feelings. At least, that's what I took from the quote and that voice in my head.

The next day, I went for my morning sandbar walk like always. But on my way back to the FJ, I stopped myself from reciting my usual mantra, and instead repeated to myself with every footfall: Stay, soft. Right, left. Splash, splash. Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat.

Since then, I've gone back and forth between this mantra and the other, always on the way back to the truck, always using the words to signal to the Universe that I'm ready to start the day, that I'm ready to leave my intentions out there for Fate to find and answer. Or not.

Either way, I've taken this discovery to heart. I'm more prone to think about a situation or person or possibility through a different field of vision, one blurred around the edges, only the most important things in focus. I'm getting more comfortable with being open, with being okay with embellishing the path from point A to B, with living a bit more and not just surviving. I'm not saying its easy, or that I don't still catch myself building walls; I'm saying that I'm not allowing the hardening to be complete every time.

Until next time, friends.

Pack and Go

Right now, as I type this out, I am supposed to be excitedly zipping up my suitcase. I'm leaving my little rental dollhouse in a few hours for a vacation. To a tropical island location with beachside cabana. Alone.

Aaaaaaaand I can't focus.

This has been my life the past ten months or so; my inability to focus and the ensuing feelings of unsettledness and dissatisfaction with everything have rendered me a wreck. I can't make sense of anything, I have no Clarity. And this Winter, especially, I've been dealing with that stale feeling that comes with too many snowcloud-covered days, the days that tarnish the shiny bits that normally give glint when the Winter sun decides to come out. What's a girl to do? 

Go on another retreat? YES. In the Winter of Her Discontent? YES. Someplace warm, with myriad distractions, but also with myriad stretches of sand and sea for solitude and serenity? YES. Mission: Tropical Retreat? YES.

So it was back in the late Fall when I started planning. This retreat, though, required a bit more planning than a summer camping retreat: there were airlines and car rentals and accommodations to figure out. And it cost more than a tank of gas, campsite fees, and a cooler full of food. Way more. Like, more than I probably should have spent. But hey, there are worse things that could happen besides the cable getting shut off while I'm gone, right? 

These past few weeks have been spent avoiding responsibilities in favor of coming to terms with leaving everyone and everything I know to go away. Far, far away. Alone. 

Yes, Alone. 
Necessarily so.
Again. 
Every time. 

As my departure date has approached, I've had to think about what I'd actually be doing during this sojourn: What would I need? What would I pack? How much could I fit in that small carry on suitcase? Well for starters, I'd need some distractions for the travelling portions, so books (special thanks to Magheen for a particularly poignant selection) were packed and music was downloaded to the ol' iPhone. I knew I'd be spending some time reflecting and writing, so I packed a journal (a beautiful one from my friend, Winga). I'd also be spending ample time on the beach, and in went not one, not two, but five bikinis. (Yes, bikinis. Yes, I'm *gulp* over 40. I'm not that awful to look at, I don't think.) And then some warm weather clothes were rolled up and smooshed in. Flip flops. The smallest bottle of sunscreen. A fleece top to soothe my sure-to-be-sunburned shoulders during the evening hours. Jewelry (girls love jewelry, right?) consisted of some important things: a collection of bracelets- of freshwater pearls, of garnet beads, of prayer beads ("they're the color of your eyes," a friend told me); and of favorite necklaces, reminders of love in silver pendant form. And then the business of everyday life went in, all the soaps and potions that keep me feeling ready for the daily grind, let me feel pretty, sometimes, even. So much stuff for one person!

I stopped packing to switch the laundry around, and during this pause, I consulted my checklist, answered a few text messages, scanned Facebook, and then realized I haven't eaten anything today except trail mix, had nothing to drink except coffee. I'm leaving in only 6 hours now, and it is finally hitting me that I'm embarking on my first real vacation in over 18 years. Eight. Teen. Years. And I can't move from my spot on the couch, can't finish folding the laundry, can't stop whatever the fuck that feeling is that gets caught in my throat and produces tears. Eyes closed, eighteen years of another lifetime gets compressed and moved along behind my eyelids, complete with PowerPoint slide transitions and sloppily edited soundtrack. And again, so much stuff for one person!

Deep breath in, exhale. Hands cover eyes and wipe cheeks dry. Hands push me up off the couch, feet move me towards the kitchen. Coffee maker is set, another handful of trail mix, a gulp of water. Back to the task at hand.

As I finished packing all of my things, I thought about how this layering of tangible daily assets into a bag is directly mirrored with our internal assets: the layers we put on our bodies- clothing, jewelry, perfumes? These are the visible marks of Our Memories, the way they are interconnected and layered upon each other; they are Our People, the layers of connections they represent, from the food we've eaten together, the music we've listened to together, the books we've read and discussed- all of it. What is here now and what we've collected on our journeys, what we've kept up in front of our minds for a short while, and what we've branded on our hearts...the symbolism of all of these layers? These things get packed up and get to come along on our adventures whether we like it or not, and so we are really never alone. And my suitcase is filled, and my alarm clock is set for 2:30 am, and I am ready to go on an adventure Alone, but not.

Not Alone.
Not this time.
Not next time.
Not ever.

There is a smile on my face as I cover up with down comforter and quilt, and for the knowledge that all the Loves of My Life are just as excited and anxious as I am for morning to get here. They're packed and ready to go. They've got the big bottle of sunscreen, they've got the FJ fueled up and ready to go. They are wringing their hands. They are reflecting and putting pen to page, they are waiting for me at my cabana, lounging in the hammock, waiting for their turn to use the outdoor shower after sand and surf get all up in their business. They are collecting my mail, eating the perishable food left in the fridge, keeping the sidewalk clear of snowcloud tears. Too much stuff for only one person- thank goodness there are so many of them to help!

Mission: Tropical Retreat is nearing Go Time. The Clarity I've been looking for is maybe the acceptance of Right Now; of going Alone, but Not; of figuring out that I get to choose which memories only stay for a little while as opposed to getting branded on my heart; of falling through the ice and only getting bruised and chilled; of being grateful for so much stuff for only one person; of all the Loves of My Life, no matter if they believe me when or how I say I love them; and of allowing myself to Give Love without promise of anything in return. 

That's my theory, anyway. I'm going to pack and go- I'll let you know what I find. 
Until next time, friends.

Re-View and Reflect

I was browsing through some of my favorite sites the other day, blogs and informational sites and the like, and one of the women I follow published her top three favorite posts from 2012. I liked this idea immediately; however, 2012 was not a banner year for me, and I was kinda glad to see it go.

I commented on her post that I was going to steal the idea for my own blog. And I am going to link to my favorite three posts, but they will be from ALLLLLLLL of my posts, ever. Five years' worth. Go big or go away, right?

I'm working on a new post, too, so don't think of this as a shirking of my regular musings; rather, think of it as being introduced to a side of me you might not know about, or maybe forgot about, or maybe you will see and you will fall in love with me all over again.  A celebration of sorts. 

*fingers crossed*

In no particular order, for your re-viewing (oh, and Happy New Year):

This one.

This one.

And this one.

Until next time, friends.

A Scavenger's Plateau

Little Bay de Noc, Lake Michigan

 8:14 am, December 6, 2012: sunless sunrise

I wrote the start of this post on my birthday, down at the lakefront where I go every weekday to walk and meditate, however I could not bring myself to get out of the car. It was raining, and the wind was blowing blowing blowing; the car was rocking from some of the gusts. The fact that it was my birthday didn't bother me so much in that I don't think too much about getting older; it was just another day to find the Good, to count my blessings despite all I was feeling, to keep up the daily routine I'd created for myself.

In the twelve months since my last birthday, I have gained more than another tally mark on the wall. The bits and pieces of my experiences this year have come to rest right in the front of my brain where I can cull from them lessons on life and on living. I take them on my morning meditation walks, on my solo camping trips, when shopping for steel-cut oats and toilet paper. I even take them with me for odd errands, like when I had to go to the laundromat to wash my bed's comforter and the quilt I had just taken camping. (Side note: the laundromat is a very lonely place to be, especially when one is laundering things that should be shared.) I took those lessons with me down to the beach after spending $4.75 in quarters and watched a wind surfer move through the water, at times becoming airborne. It was mesmerizing and unsettling at once, mostly due to the lack of rhythm: there are times when he would get stuck in one spot, unable to turn or glide away, and then another burst of air would lift him up off the surface of the lake.

Isn't that how life is? How birthdays are? Such a confluence of emotions? So grateful for so much, yet a heavy, desolate sadness for what's gone or lacking? I wish sometimes that the Universe would hand me my lessons in school primer form, composition book along side: Read the following passage. What did you learn? Explain.

I feel like I'm on a plateau. It sounds so much more gentle than being "stalled" or "stunted," and life in the past year has found me heavily relying on my network of friends to sustain my ego, to help allay my general funk. I wanted sunshine and clear skies on my birthday, yet I can't deny the beauty in the overcast-ness of the morning here by the lake: the greys and blues of the water and sky, the sand and marsh grass browns, the regularity of the waves, spots of white on the water's surface, Nature reminding me I'm not in charge. This soothes me, in a way: I am tired of being in charge.

And this brings me to the idea of self-care. I had someone tell me recently that I did a good job of taking care of myself, that even though I'm a single/un-partnered parent, it looked like I was still balanced, that my life was busy and full and complete. I'm not sure if this was a compliment or not. While I've always maintained an independent life, doing what I want to do pretty much when I want to do it, I don't ever feel like I'm taking care of my self purposefully; I'm busy tending to others, trying to keep them happy and healthy, distracted, comfortable. My talent lies in scrounging what's left from the care of others and making it fit into the care of myself, in making it seem like whatever was left over was exactly what I've wanted and needed all along: Scavenger. Giver. 

I would very much like to be taken care of, if only to have the experience and see if I like it. I think I could learn to like it, I don't know. I know the importance of being true to yourself and what makes you, but doesn't everyone need a respite from that? At least now and again, anyway. A permanent check-out isn't what I'm advocating- that's the dangerous part of our relationships and commitments, isn't it? That we unmindfully relinquish "Self" in favor of "We," the collective?

So.

I've written about my propensity for crying, and how it seems to be useful. It is cathartic, yes, but the problem for me is that this catharsis never seems complete. It seems like, rather, the cycle of my emotions and issues doesn't get moved aside with the tears, there is no denouement, it just gets moved back to the bottom of the hill. Sisyphus ain't got nothin' on me. Your facade is built thusly: the scraps from the lives of others are swept up and mixed with an epoxy, pressed together and pressurized to resemble something like Real Happiness. And you continue to hope that one day soon you will be able to move in from the periphery of your own life, towards the center where you can be fully appreciative for Self. And you cling to this belief, this idea of Happiness in the collective sense and its ability to keep you. And so that's where this Scavenging comes in: What is left when the initial stark rawness of your independence subsides? What is left when everyone else's needs are met, Giver? Who is there to attend to your needs? What are those lessons stuck in your frontal lobe trying to teach you?

I feel like a fool, often, for believing that hoping for happiness is enough, that I'll be able to sustain _________. I struggle very much with the feeling that the joke is always going to be on me; that I shouldn't allow myself to relax and be cared for because I should be prepared for the worst- or at least the opposite of what I'd like- to come my way (history has taught me as much); that I shouldn't be focused on my wants and needs because those will take care of themselves. Eventually. After the others. When I finish the task at hand. When there is a pause, when the brain is resting, perhaps. 

This brings me to the title of this post, to the very particular sadness that comes with recognizing your constant hope for personal happiness has yet to be fulfilled. The plateau you're stuck on is the acceptance of not being where you'd like to be, despite your work on Self, despite that new awareness, despite the quality or quantity of the scraps you Scavenge. On your birthday, even. 

I needed to physically have my feet touch the ground, to allow myself the gift of my visceral energy connecting to my limbs, to experience the calm that comes from hearing the water and feeling the wind on my cheeks, eyelashes and -lids fluttering with the gusts. And yet the wind was howling outside my door, and it is still constantly in my thoughts no matter where I go or what I do; I could not get out of the car, I was too tired and chilled to even attempt it. My routine was broken.

And yet I feel obligated to find One Good Thing about this place, about this broken routine, about this expanse. What have I learned? 

At least there's no regression. Until next time, friends.

Crybaby

As I was driving home from work the other night and reflecting on the events of the day, I did two things I don't normally do: I smiled, and then I cried. Usually I just sigh heavily, and more than once. But that day? That day made me think about the movie "Armageddon." 

Yep. The one with Bruce Willis and Ben Affleck. Where the guys all sing "Leaving on a Jet Plane" before they go up into space to save the Earth? That movie marks the point in my life when I started to go soft.  I didn't know it at that time, of course, but a change was underway.  Up until I saw that movie (reluctantly, I might add), I was probably best describes as...a hard ass. Pure sarcasm. Bitchy. Cold. Detached. Indifferent. Unemotional.

I am not any of those things. 

I'm not saying I didn't behave that way for a good chunk of my (adult, married) life, I'm saying that I wasn't being authentic. Big difference.

Anyhoo, I had noticed that more than a few of my Facebook friends were posting daily "I'm grateful/thankful for..." statements in anticipation of Thanksgiving, and I was thinking about what I was grateful for, what I should give thanks for. As I thought about the myriad people and events in my life I was thankful for, my mind wandered to how lives are seen by others- in books, movies- which led me to the aforementioned movie. I know, my focus needs work some days. And that I'm thankful for becoming a Crybaby.

That movie was the impetus for me earning my Crybaby Badge. And like I said, I didn't know it at the time (we never know the importance of events as they are happening, do we? That's why reflection is so important. Again, I digress...), but there was a shift which led me to who I am today: I cry at everything.

Really. And not because I'm sad. Not all the time anyway. Although I am struggling with how much I'm struggling with a few things (Um, Yogi Berra much?), its more related to the thankfulness for second chances, for renewal. And so I cry.

I cry when I'm hit with the smell of dish soap and garlic and whiskey and cigarettes and a wood fire. I cry at the unique papery musty smell of a deck of cards used over and again. I cry when I see the brightness and feel the warmth of the sunshine on a sliver of my bare skin during these Autumn days. 

Sometimes the crying is triggered by a word or phrase, or the memory of the word or phrase being spoken: Where you going, Jim? He reminds her of her father. Did he make it? You abandoned us. You're so self righteous. For always and all ways. Anytime. This is true. Are you sure?

Sometimes it's a song or a scene from a movie- or even a television commercial!- that sets me off, something in the deep recesses of my psyche is given a little nudge (or a big ol' push). Sometimes it'll be when I'm reading to the kids at school that I turn into a giant mush ball (see: Where The Red Fern Grows and Charlotte's Web and James and the Giant Peach).

Most of the time (and especially in my Old Life) I respond to emotions like these by suppressing them. My modus operandi for dealing with emotions or with hearing something uncomfortable/not what I want to hear is to immediately get busy stopping it from being fully realized: one hand gets busy building a wall to protect myself from further exposure to those feelings, and the other hand gets busy filling sand bags to keep those emotions under water. Reactionary rather than rational. Of course, it's a direct response to other people's problems: codependency behaviors die hard.

Fucking other people.

I realized that I had recently employed that behavior, and now having given myself the space to reflect on the situation and my response to it, I feel sadness that I allowed myself to revert, at how I might have made the other person feel. No one deserves to be ignored, especially not those we love. It's not fair for them to be adversely affected because of our vulnerabilities. *sigh*

And so first I cry. A lot. My next step after behaving badly is to move everything- the emotions, the situation that precipitated them, the people hurt by my actions, the aftermath- to the periphery. Avoidance! At some point, though, we need to deal with those emotions- those bastards!- otherwise we lose sleep, we are irritable, we are listless, we walk around in a fog and are unable to explain our way out of it. Still crying, too.

What next? Actually dealing with our stuff is often uncomfortable or even more painful. This (I think) can be due to our innate Fear of the Unknown. What will those apologies sound like? How will those we've hurt respond to those words? How will we respond their reactions? How can we aptly express gratitude for ____? We don't know what we don't know (Yogi Berra dies hard, too.). Of course we want to believe everything will be okay (and it will be, eventually): believing takes practice. Give thanks for the opportunity to try again. And cry s'more.

And so we come back to my Crybaby status and those Facebook posts. All of these things I've mentioned- the books, words, songs, movies, memories- those human experiences in another format, those everyday moments and all of our actions that make up our biographies, we can see them there on the pages, hear and read the pain, confusion, sadness, joy, contentment- all of it. It is there in our voices and in our every action as we tell the story of Self. Status Update What's on your mind? I am grateful for tears of pain, confusion, sadness, joy, contentment; for memories, for potential, for dreams. Tears of thanks. 

Cry, baby.

Until next time, friends.

A Recipe For Reconstruction

"None of us knows what might happen even the next minute, yet we still go forward. 

Because we Trust. Because we have Faith."

-Paulo Coelho, "Brida"

Part III of III

In the time since my retreat last month, I've struggled to get back into the swing of things. I've felt unsettled, out of sorts, frustrated, impatient...honestly, what did I expect? Instant enlightenment and an easy transformation/reintegration? Impossible. One thing I turn to when I'm feeling this way is the practice of structured creativity; another thing is to take care of others. 

I know, right?! So strong is the lure of the comfort of old habits! 

I've tried reallyreallyreally hard to break that habit (the care of others) and take care of my Self. I've used up all of my vacation time at work as of this writing (never fear- a new bank of time starts October 1st), and have enjoyed it so much. What's surprised me is that I've had to continue working on identifying my wants and needs more than I expected. I mean, I get that it's a process, this work on Identity, but let me tell you: there is so much more I want to do now, and I'm finally- FINALLY- grasping the full importance of Self first. Yes, I've always subscribed to taking care of yourself first in order to help others (by being an example or through hands-on actions). But post-retreat? I'm able to delve into the why of it being important to me.

Gather some food and some basic supplies- a place to sleep, something to write on, something to write with, something to move you. Take as much time as is available to you and add Introspection liberally.

Part of knowing who you are is knowing how you'll react to certain road blocks or life situations. I know, for instance, that I need to have some sort of schedule to my day in order for me to play. Yep. It helps me to know that I need to get ABC done before I can indulge in LMNO. And one thing I've really been lamenting is my job and how the current lack of structure is paralyzing me and my thought process. I know, right?! You would think that no parameters would make it so easy to be creative; alas, it is a big road block. 

Next, take the Blank Page as the Opportunity to truly present your wants and needs; be sure to check these often, as time may alter their shape. Review, reflect, and edit with prudence.

And the rest of my life? Well, there have been some challenges with Blonde Daughter this year, and those have had me questioning my abilities and intuition when it comes to parenting. Single parenting is never anything I would recommend, especially if you've had a partner at one point to help you and now don't. Not having that confidant to discuss matters of child-rearing with is frustratingly sad, especially when your child is dealing with her own internal battles. Knowing yourself first helps ease this pain, gives you material to tell stories that, whether asked for or not, can help your child come to an understanding about their challenges, can maybe guide them to a place they always thought wasn't really meant for them. 

After a time, share what you have created with those around you, friends and not-yet-friends alike. Learn to trust others, even if it leaves you feeling uncomfortable and unguarded and small and broken. 

My friends have, of course, been supportive and wonderful and encouraging throughout this process. Do they get it, do they understand the importance of this work for me? For what it means to how I'll live out my days? Maybe some of them do, I don't know. I know that I've been able to re-connect with friends on a level that is deeper and more genuine, and that the girl I used to be is lurking around, ready to make a move on those last pieces of the social construct that has been in my mirror for the past 20 years. 

Look around your feet for the sturdy bits, for the supporting bits, for the structural bits, for the shiny bits. Use these to build up not walls, but ladders, maybe, for others to climb onto. Be a Giver of _______. Anything, everything, yourself.

In short, what have I learned from my retreat? More than I could ever put into words, is what I think most days. And then other days I'll draw a picture or write a short story or take a photograph and think, This is what I have in my head when I think about _______ from my retreat. I need to share this before I explode with excitement over this discovery, this tangible and tiny flake. And then other days I'll think I've got it down, and during a three-hour conversation with a Buddhist Hippie Sage discover that, no, I have more work to do, that my pain runs deep and the wisdom at my core is just dying to get out. 

And that, friends, can only mean that the old saying must be true: the Journey is the Destination. And I'm so glad you're all here. 

The Secrets We Keep

I love how that one curved branch is gathering the others in- a protective gesture of sorts.

Part I of III 

There are times throughout a person's life where everything gets to be too much; the confluence of work, family, partners, friends, and the Rest of Our Lives all seem to vie for the bulk of our attention, and we scramble to keep up and maintain. I'm sure that we've all experienced this in some form at least once, no?

Well, what happens to me when these stresses hammer down is that I take what's bothering me, what's going wrong, the words spoken and then winced at later, and hide them. And maybe these Secrets stay hidden forever, or maybe they get purged, but often they are just there and start to act like crabs in a bucket: crawling up on each other's backs to escape, but then pulling each other right back in at the last second: Oh, no. If I'M not getting out, neither are YOU. You stay right here and help make her miserable.

This summer has been less than stellar for me in terms of emptying my bucket. I've felt a constant low-level stress for quite some time, even having a mini breakdown not too long ago. That episode really made me step back and ask some hard questions of myself: What is true about you, Self? What makes you whole? What makes you happy? What do you need to Be Rachel everyday?

Heavy stuff. What's a girl to do?

Get away from it all? YES. A retreat of sorts? YES. A re-connection to the creative Self I once loved and nurtured? YES. 

And so I planned a solo camping trip for three days and nights. Me, a tent, a kayak, some art supplies, some running gear, a journal. My destination was Pete's Lake, a campground along Federal Forest Highway 13 in the Hiawatha National Forest; a favorite local trail- Bruno's Run- is adjacent, and there are lovely walk-in sites that are secluded enough to feel like you're really nowhere near anyone else. 

Secret #1: I didn't really tell anyone about this plan. Most people were...stunned to hear I was going camping. Alone. In a tent. And not the Public Chicago kind of tent, either. Ain't no Barney's or Nordstrom's where I was heading. 

Secret #2: I love the outdoors much more than I've ever let on. In my former life, the types of outdoor activities I enjoyed were not enjoyed by my wasband, and so my pursuits were few and far between.

Part of what I wanted to explore over those days was the things that made me feel complete, the things I enjoy. Many of these things I resisted for sooooo long, mostly because the identity prescribed to me was based on how I had been introduced to people for the past 15, 20, 40 years: Ed & Susan's daughter, Eric & Lisa's sister, Doug & Ann's daughter-in-law, D's wife, Emily & Sadie's mom. Never only "Rachel." That socially constructed identity was one that I clung to as a defense mechanism, it was a wall I had built up as a silent protest in reaction to my own unhappiness. But what made me happy? What made me ME?

And that's another Secret, isn't it? There's a good chance the person you present might not be who you really are. Those people you socialize with, those activities you participate in, those topics of conversation are really only niceties; you are being Polite. The juxtaposition and/or dichotomy of those things with your Self make day-to-day so much more difficult than need be. If only we could listen to Self without the static! If only the static could turn into our own voice of clarity, if it could turn into the broadcast of our Core! My retreat was my attempt to tune in, to return to Self, whatever- or whomever- that was. 

I did so much thinking. I thought a lot about secrets and how some things you want to remain secret: good news you're not ready to share, bad news you'd rather forget, sad news you don't want to revisit. No matter how happy or angry or sad you are, and no matter how much your friends promise to keep their mouths shut, some things are better kept to yourself. And sometimes you'll be questioned. And sometimes you'll cave. And other times- too many times, in my case- you'll be the Bigger Person, recognizing the subtle differences between privacy and deception when it comes to secrets.

I thought about how we link secrets to memory. Things like the smell of a lover on your skin, not washed off so you can continue to smile; the sadness of witnessing the life leave someone's body, the helplessness of seeing their vibrancy extinguished like that; the anguish of your own heart breaking for what you thought you had, or hoped could become with enough effort and time; and of course, the secret lives led by people you think you know- bruised egos and hurt feelings and "Well, I never thought"-s over and over again, surprising you even after so many years. All of these secrets we have and hold and use to create an identity for ourselves and others. And the shared secrets others use to create an identity for us! 

And so I had to examine my own Secrets and decide which would get dumped out and exposed, and which would be burned in the camp fire. The little wavelets while kayaking rocked a few out of me. My drawings were inspired as much by the natural surroundings as by the frustration and resistance in letting some go. The pine needles underfoot on Bruno's Run cushioned the honest blows to my ego. The camp fire did, indeed, burn a fair share. The rain and my shaken tears washed away many more. And yet some remain.

And so my retreat was underway, my reaffirmation or Return to Self was in motion. Step One was the honest evaluation of what I was holding on to, what secrets were keeping me stuck in limbo despite my best attempts at living in happiness. Do I feel better, closer to knowing and acknowledging my Self, my Core on a daily basis? YES. Do I defer to the need for the walls I've built up to come down? To the truth that keeping certain Secrets will hinder my ability to create intimacy with those I love? YES. 

What was next? Well friends, if Step One was surveying, then Step Two can best be described as demolition. Until that story is ready to share, I'll leave you with this:

I left a bit of my heart on the shores of Pete's Lake, that's no secret. 

Faith and Flow



In my last few posts, I've written about some happy things- my life now, my decision not to flirt with regret- and mostly, my life is Good. I have the love of my family and friends, I have a job I love, I have my health. What I also have is a propensity to behave in one of two ways: 1) as a locked vault, or 2) as an open book.

When my life is going well, when I have Balance, I'm apt to be the book, to have faith that what I'm doing and how I'm behaving and all that is happening around me is all part of a bigger plan. Put another way: I have flow.

flow (noun): the action or fact of moving along in a steady, continuous stream.

More than that definition though, I have flow as defined by Mihaly Csikszentmihaly, flow when you get so involved in something that you forget time, you forget how you feel, where your awareness of your actions fades into action alone. It is an amazing experience.

My day-to-day flow, the one I've been working so diligently on mastering, recently swelled and surged and hit the wall. Slammed right into that fucker, pounding pounding pounding, and me, holding holding holding. And then a break like I haven't experienced in some time. I should have been prepared for this, but I was not.

I was removed from my day-to-day due to work obligations and then the July 4th holiday. I should have seen it coming. Work was stressful enough without having to manage things from across the country. And the holiday? Well, seeing all of the happy families and reunions and couples and young people all around me- oblivious to anything other than their own joy- just crushed me. And then the wasband went further and stomped more, twisting and grinding me down further. The somber rain clouds and quick but violent storm on July 4th was not lost on me, oh! pathetic fallacy!

Look at that photo above. That one rock? Its me, its you. We are solid and stable and here and we exist in this place with all the chaos, with the Holy Mess that is our Life. You are the rock in the river, and every so often, you work yourself loose. You get jostled and pushed and pounded along the river, tumbling, moving to the surface with the current or getting pushed down further to the silty bottom. Eventually you bump into a few things- a fallen tree branch, another rock, a dead animal- and experience some pain before you nestle into a new spot where you once again get used to all that surrounds you, the routine of family, friends, lovers, work, Life. This takes time, of course:

"Experience has taught me how important it is to keep going...Eventually [pain] passes and the flow returns." - Frank Shorter

I took a few days and sat at the beach, meditating on that quote, thought about how it applied to me, and to my life, my current crisis of faith, and how contemplation could repair my flow; I was looking for proof. To maintain flow, it is said that one must seek out increasingly greater challenges; attempting these new challenges stretches our skills, forces us to seek feedback. Lack of feedback blocks flow.

I was in the Holy Mess stage. I wasn't looking for a place to nestle into- I was too deep in with anger and frustration and jealousy and fear. I was blind to the faith meant to guide me, I had no one person to guide me out of the dark water, back to the lightness at the surface. (That, dear friends- "Be the place I nestle into. Always."- can be added to that list for My Best New Boyfriend.) I was low. I faked being happy wherever I went those few days. Three people could see through my act, and their guidance helped me more than words can express. Feedback, right?

And then I refocused. I went back to work, I got back into a routine. I did my laundry and washed the dishes, I went to the gym. I ignored calls from my wasband. I hugged children and I laughed. I am still wobbly, but I have recommitted to waking up every day to find joy and express gratitude for this, my Holy Mess of a Life. Proof be damned.

"Faith is not belief without proof, but trust without reservations."- Elton Trueblood

My flow has not resumed it's full momentum, but I trust that I'm moving in the right direction. Go with the flow, friends.

The Physics of Water Displacement, or Why I Now Love Swimming

In my last post, I wrote about 2012 being my Year of Trying New Things ; one New Thing I have a love/hate relationship with is swimming. Yep. Since before Christmas, I've been dragging myself out of bed and off to the pool at our local YMCA for what my friend Fast Jessica has dubbed "Master's Swim." Mondays and Wednesdays, I'm in the pool for 5:30 am.


A couple of things here: 1) I hate getting up early, especially during the Winter when my bed is warm, and the pool is...not; 2) Ugly one piece swim suit + pasty Winter skin + jiggly body parts; 3) As a Sagittarius (fire sign), I'm instinctively cautious around water. I like water, but I don't like water, you know? 4) New commitments are scary.


So I'm getting ready to head to the pool the other morning, and I'm really just not feeling it. I'm in the middle of testing students at work (read: 12 hour days), and I've been battling a persistent cold for over a week; both of these factors make ignoring the 5 am alarm pretty tempting. Not. Even. Motivated. One. Bit. UGH.


But I've made a commitment to myself and the other Master Swimmers (bt dubs, "master" just means "adult"- I am quite clearly a novice) to be there. Accountability, right? I follow as much of the posted workout as time allows, swapping things like 4 X 100 breast stroke for kicking, breathing, and pulling drills. Mojo still under the blankets, I go anyway.


I make my way from the locker area to the showers to the pool, grabbing a kick board and pull buoy on my way to my lane, when I notice something new by my fellow swimmers' lanes: swim fins. See #4 on that list above. I try to ignore them, but Captain Andy explains the sizing system and the benefits of incorporating them, and points to the sets he thinks will be my size. Um, thanks? 


I grab the fins, and set them at the pool's edge with my other equipment. I get in the pool and get through the warm up and the first drill of the workout. The second drill involves the fins. Up until this point, I was hardly what you could call "engaged" with this workout. I was putting in the time, padding my workout log, helping heat the pool with my body warmth. Also, I was nervous.


Swim fins? I still have to talk myself through breathing while swimming, and these guys want me to try fins? In my head, I likened "me + fins" to "new driver + Porsche 911": we aren't ready for each other yet. If my palms were sweaty from the anxiety, I'm thankful no one else was the wiser. I put on the fins, and make a remark about how goofy they look. Deep breath in, and...I. Am. Flying.


Really and truly, all of a sudden I was Dara Torres . I stopped at the end of my lane and said, "WOW!" Out loud, even, because there was that much of a difference. Swim fins = Porsche 911. Giant smile. Before I have to leave, I finished what I could of the workout in a totally different state of mind than when I started. All of the anxiety about trying something new was gone. Thank you, Swim Fins! I love swimming!


And isn't that how life is sometimes? Even though we may say we're committed to trying new things- even verbalizing our intentions- we sometimes struggle with follow through. Even when we are presented with an unexpected tool to help us move forward, we still resist. That day at the pool, the swim fins were my helping hands (or feet?) in sticking it out ; my resistance was literally erased by embracing something new rather than pushing it aside and saying, "I'm not ready."


New Year + Trying New Things = New Outlook. New blog post to follow soon.  In the meantime, I'll see you at the pool.

Balance

As I was walking through the airport the other day, I spotted an older couple- maybe mid-to-late-70's- holding hands and talking about the different sights the airport had to offer; I was immediately struck with one thought:

I want that.

I want someone who will hold my hand in the airport when I'm wrinkly. Because they want to hold my hand. Because maybe I need them to hold my hand. As I watched this couple interact, it occurred to me that one of two things could be at play: 1) this couple wanted to hold each other's hands as a sign of affection, or 2) this couple was holding on to each other for balance.

And then this thought struck me: "balance" in more ways than one. Physical balance, yes, like "I'll help you balance so you don't fall and break a hip." But also (and maybe more importantly) balance as in yin to yang, salt to pepper, butter to bread. Balance, Jerry Maguire-style: "You complete me."

So often our struggles are about how we will get from Point A (here and now) to Point B (where we'd like to be, like to have, like to accomplish), and we don't stop to factor in balance. Ignoring the need for balance in our lives can have awful consequences, though. We can lose touch with our friends, children, partners, ourselves. We can forge ahead with our A-to-B plans, and even meet those goals, but at what price? Are we able to maintain balance? Who is holding our hand?

It was my birthday when I wrote this post in my hotel room, and although I'd like to pretend otherwise, I had just realized/recognized the importance of having balance. It's more than finding time to help kids with homework, or having dinner with girlfriends, or going out on a date with someone you like, or squeezing in a workout before bed. It's about all of these, and none of these. It takes a village, right?

It has taken me all forty (!!!) of my years to get this far, and I'd like to extend a sincere thank you to everyone who has helped me find some semblance of balance.

Who is holding your hand? Go say "Thank you. I love you." Hold on, friends.