Literal Kinship

I am not a self help book person. At. All. They make me pretty crazy actually. But I’ve had several friends either recommend or outright give me several books on death and grieving since my dad’s diagnosis. And they’ve all ended up on my bedside table with me having little to no intention to actually read them. But one of them was written by a friend of mine who lost her mother to cancer several years ago. The book she wrote is more about her journey through the process than a guide on how to do the process, so because I know and adore this woman, I picked it up the other night. I also picked it up because I was at my wit’s end and entirely willing to get my hands on some answers in whatever way I could find them.

Her journey has been so completely different than mine that I lost hope quickly that I’d find anything to relate to. She’s a gorgeous writer and she tells a good story, so I decided to finish it for those reasons alone. But as I got more into the meat of her journey I started to recognize huge chunks. I started to recognize the emotions that go with watching a parent get diagnosed with a terminal illness and then having to watch that illness suck their bodies dry of everything that made them strong. I started to recognize her dedication to being the caretaker above her own wants and needs. I started to recognize her coming to grips with the fact that her parent was going to die and that would have ripple effects for the rest of her life. I found myself crying while reading pieces of her story. I found myself nodding and laughing at other parts. Those pieces held a kinship for me that I’ve yet to find anywhere else since this whole journey began. And that in and of itself was such a tremendous relief that I wanted to write her immediately to say thank you.

I have no idea what I’m doing on this journey. But at least I know now that I am not alone and not crazy.

Motherhood Discovery

I went to a baby shower today for a dear friend. She’s one that I’ve known since 7th grade. As with most friends you’ve had for 20 years or more, there have been so many ups and downs through our friendship that I stopped counting. All I know is that we’ve reconnected and it’s as if we just talked yesterday. There are just some people out there that you have a soul connection with, you know?

This is her first baby. And I’m so excited for her I can hardly stand it. She is 8 months pregnant and looks completely fucking gorgeous (which does make me a wee bit miffed) and she is obviously adored by a huge community of support. They’re having a boy and even though they refuse to tell anyone the names they’ve chosen, I already know. Hee-hee…I just had to throw that out there. And it’s a lovely name. I can’t wait to meet this sweet boy and call him by his secret name.

It’s interesting for me to be around new moms and moms-to-be. I spend so much of my time being a mother and feeling completely inept. Feeling like the days pass in such a blur, how could I possibly know which way is up, let alone how to respond in a proper (whatever the hell that means) fashion with my children. But when I am around new moms and those who are anxiously anticipating the arrival of their first baby, I find that I often know more than I think I do. And I have a quiet (and not so quiet) confidence about this whole motherhood job.

I can talk your ears off about breastfeeding, baby wearing and cloth diapers. I can tell countless troublemaker stories and tales of sleepless nights making me bleary and silly. I can recount both of my deliveries with awesome clarity. But I can also just sit back and watch and listen as these women find their own way. And relish in simply being invited along on their journey. I’ve packed my road map, and they’re welcome to look at it, but mostly I just love being a part of their own motherhood discovery.

Whiplash

I have been feeling really weird and out of it lately. And as I was trying to explain the whole thing to my mom this morning, something dawned on me. I think that mother guilt is almost easier to deal with than the simple not knowing when or if something will strike.

I’ve had several instances that should definitely be nominated for the “Worst Mother of the Year” award. Like when me opening The Boy’s door to his room caused his first tooth to be knocked out. Or when I let The Girl swallow a quarter last year which then got stuck in her esophagus and had to be surgically removed. Or when I let The Boy fall down an entire flight of stairs when he was just starting to crawl.

But this whole seizure thing with The Girl came out of nowhere and I didn’t do anything wrong, nor should I have done anything different. So there really is not any guilt surrounding it for me. At least when there’s guilt then I can learn from my fuck up and do something different in the future. With this, I just have to wait and see. She may have another seizure tomorrow or she may never have another one again.

And this not knowing; this inability to change anything in my mothering to prevent this, in addition to the suddenness of it all has caused some fairly severe whiplash. I was plugging along really well. Applying for jobs, kicking ass on the pro bono projects I had taken on, starting to build on the late night idea for a pretty cool foundation, remembering all the stuff I needed to do for both kids’ schools. All the everyday sort of stuff as well as the ongoing work needed for this journey was coming along pretty well. I was focused and alert and completely in the moment. It was good.

Now? Now I’m all achy and weirded out and fuzzy. And I feel like I’m floundering trying to find my bearings again. It is a very strange feeling to know that you did everything right and still ended up smacking into that brick wall going 80 mph.

Treehouse

I am apparently working on living a life of leisure. I’m leaving today for a girl’s getaway weekend that I’ve been planning with a group of some of my favorite ladies for the last couple of months. The group of people and the place has morphed several times, even as late as just a couple of weeks ago. But we’re all set now. We’ve all agreed on what food we’re each bringing, what movies we want to see and what cocktails we’re set to sip by the fire.

We found this amazing house not too far from here that has its own private hot spring in the back yard. The owners named the house “The Treehouse.” It’s got to be one of the coolest mountain getaways that I’ve ever seen outside of the glitz and glam of HGTV. We’ve all been looking forward to this for weeks now.

I’m most looking forward to just letting myself retract a bit after the gigantic sized expansion of the silent retreat last week. Just being, relating to some lovely friends, laughing over tasty beverages and seriously good food and existing in this new skin that has been forming. Shifting it around a bit, filling out the edges, settling into seeing a new shadow by my side.

And I just can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to some good old fashioned girl time. It’s been too long since I’ve hung with my people.

Anyway, the cabin may or may not have Wi-Fi. So I’m bringing my laptop with me in the hopes that I’ll get to post every day, but there are no promises. I’m still going to be writing every day, but I can’t promise that I’ll be able to post every day. This time I’ll only be gone until Monday, so the three of you who read my blog over the weekend will be able to catch up on Monday or Tuesday on all of my treehouse exploits. Or lack thereof, get your minds out of the gutter people.

Hang in there; I’ll be back with all sorts of creative and fun stuff to write about in the coming weeks. My creative juices are percolating.

Walking the Talk and Talking the Walk

“Now we understand that the blanket really does protect Linus and that Schroeder really does play lovely music on a toy piano, because both of them keep at it. They believe.” – Anne Lamott

Here I am, back again at the subject of faith. Belief. It’s a recurring theme in my life. Always has been. Ever since my mom put me in Catholic school for first grade and I was suddenly submerged in this vast culture I knew nothing about, but was rooted in this thing called faith. Where we went to church every day and all the other kids bowed their heads when the priest told them it was time to pray. They knew when to sit and stand and kneel and I just followed along, trying to figure it out as I went along.

I remember in second grade when the rest of the class was gearing up to start the first communion classes (which I was allowed to watch, but not partake in as I had never been baptized). I struggled with watching my classmates learn and take on this tradition, walking in the well-worn footsteps of their families before them, to figure out what the tradition had to do with the concept of faith. There seemed to me, to be a great disconnect between the two. The tradition was walking the walk, but I didn’t understand how that walking translated into talking the talk.

I like to think that I’ve learned a bit more about faith since then. Although I have to admit that I’d be hard pressed to put it into words right about now. Right now I am simply focusing on being present in the moment. Being grateful for being able to breathe in and out and put one foot in front of the other every day. I think the role faith plays for me right now is trusting that I am exactly where I am supposed to be. My walking right now is paying attention to where I am and what there is for me to learn here. My talking right now is believing that the walking will eventually get me to where I want and need to be.

Stunners

“Listen young stunners, winter is over.” – Head like a Kite

I heard this song on the radio this morning and even though it’s a day early, I really loved the image of “young stunners.” Ever since I heard it I’ve had all sorts of lines and thoughts running through my head about all the things that have me stunned as of late.

The Boy pulling on his favorite and stunningly orange shorts for the first time this season. Shorts that he’s been waiting to be able to wear again since the temperatures dropped several months ago. And after being so worried about his reticence to learn to read, I find myself absolutely stunned at the progress he is making in such a short time. He is truly a young stunner in every sense of the words.

The Girl’s stunning love of going to school. Her absolute adoration of the everything having to do with school and how sweet she is when she says thank you for letting her go to school. And the fact that she stuns me every single day with her kindness, creativity and imagination.

My own apparent endless inspiration by so many things around me, and yet having my creative juices stunned into silence whenever I attempt to put those inspirations into words. And the massive pity party I’ve been immersed in this week with being sick and taking stock and finding so very many things lacking. My own stunningly bad aim when trying to hit what I’ve set my sights upon.

The absolute stunningly gorgeous weather we’ve been having and the knowledge that follows that we are certainly in for a very hot and dry summer which does not bode well for much of anything except for banishing the winter blues and making the ski resorts cry.

And the people around me who stun me daily with the depth of their compassion and willingness to walk by my side through the briar patch in which I currently find myself. Their courage that I borrow to face each day knowing exactly nothing about how it’s all going to go down.

I find myself stunned into gratitude by the landscape of my life.

Mantra Revision

I spent quite a bit of time not talking to much of anyone. Not relaying much of anything about what was going on with me. About this journey that I’ve been on. But that’s all changed lately. I’ve come out, guns blazing, unabashedly willing to show off my newly found self and strength in all of its Mojo Boots glory.

And the last few days I’ve had some worry about how people in my life were reacting to that. Worrying because the comments on this blog have fallen off. Worrying because I saw my friends writing and talking about my decisions. Worrying because of the general reaction in my immediate vicinity.

So I turned to H of course, because he is my friendly port in the storm. And he said, in his most loving and unfriendly of tones, that he’s going to have “Fuck That” tattooed across my fingers. So that every time I ball up my fist in shame or silliness I can see those words and remember that none of that bullshit matters.

And it dawned on me that those who are closest to me, those who have loved me long time, have been waiting for this journey to begin for quite some time. They have been waiting for me to wake up and start living again. And now that I have, they refuse to let my own fear drive me back into the shadows.

Thank God for that! Because even with my Mojo Boots, there are still days when it’s hard to keep putting one foot in front of the other. And so I thought about taking a sharpie to my knuckles, but The Boy is learning to read and I didn’t think that would be the example his teacher is looking for me to set.

I think I will incorporate it into my daily mantra however. So that when doubt starts to creep, or I take something personally, or I don’t get the job I want, I can say to myself: I am worthy of the life I am creating, I am beautiful, I am strong, I can do hard things, and fuck all the fear. Yep. That’s how I roll.

Breathing Beauty

“…it's fuck everything else, until you have the room to breathe beauty again.” – H, my own personal rock star guru

I sat down to write today’s post and found nothing. Like, literally, nothing. Since I’ve started this project my mind has been a swirl with so many ideas that most days I have to parse them out to find one upon which to focus. But this morning? Nothing. Utterly and completely drained of all creativity and notion. It was disconcerting to say the least.

So, I turned to H of course. Because he always bails me out and sets me back afloat in a better direction than that from which I came. I threw every excuse in the book at him, but the main one was that my husband was home. And I didn’t know how to keep walking in this journey with him here. That I was getting really good at doing it by myself and then he came home and threw me for a loop. It’s always easier to look to my environment and who happens to be coexisting in it with me, than to look at my own ulterior motives.

But in all reality, it’s me that tying my own hands. Veiling my own creativity. It’s only me that is in the way. And bogging myself down with “I don’t knows” and “I don’t think I can write what’s real anymores.” It’s infuriating really. Because I’ve worked my ass off the last month to get as free as I was and then without even realizing, without even thinking about it, I slapped cuffs on both wrists and swallowed the key.

It has always been me. Whether that be convincing myself that I was broken in some way, standing still for some imagined reason or strangling my own creative voice in an effort to fit in.

And so now I have to figure out how to wiggle out of my own self-imposed bondage and just be free. Regardless of who is sharing my bed or my coffee. Regardless of fear, guilt or distraction. I have to put it all down and walk away. Into my own sunrise and sunset. Into my own future.

Blue Sky, Again

I think that I’m starting to understand that as I go along on this journey that every so often my mind pitches full out, throw itself down on the floor, screaming at the top of its lungs, temper tantrums. These fits usually manifest with me being extraordinarily hard on myself and being a wee bit dramatic. I get caught up in the past mostly. Hammering myself up and down for mistakes made, for hearts broken and days ruined.

I’ve been stuck in this particular quagmire for the last few days. One of my teachers told me once that these mental temper tantrums are evidence of growth. Because the mind is trying to hold onto relevancy for all its worth. But in reality it’s already obsolete. And it knows it. Which is why it throws everything and the kitchen sink at me. In an effort to break me again. To make me rely upon its tricks and veils.

I guess there is part of me that has always known this. I managed to figure out that my pattern with panic attacks was that they were always the worst right before I made some big break through or change in my life. And I thought that knowing this, realizing the falsehood of the crap my mind throws at me, would make it easier to just shrug it off. Look at the memories and emotions it dredges up and giggle at the very ridiculousness of the situation.

And sometimes it is. Sometimes I can get the distance to look at it all and know that it’s just a ruse. But occasionally, I get too tired or burned out with the kiddos and I lose all perspective. And I get sucked into the emotional quicksand that is my mind. And before I know it I’m up to my chin with self pity and demonization. And holy cow does that suck.

I’m no fun to be around when that happens. And being a mom becomes even harder. Hell brushing my teeth feels like a monumental feat of triumph. But then the clouds clear and I remember that it’s all illusion. And I can bask, again, in the clear blue sky.

Feel the Real

“Do not fault yourself for how you feel. Accept that you must only fault yourself for ignoring how you feel.” – H aka my own personal Master Yoda

I’m on a bit of a journey right now. Have been for the last several months actually. I think it all started when I decided to take a work sabbatical the beginning of this past summer to just focus on the kids. I found myself really pulling inward, contracting. I went from spread thin between work, friends and kids to pretty much just kids. And me. What I found was that buried beneath the life I had tried to create for myself here, was a lot of unfinished business.

That unfinished business has arisen in a variety of forms. Mostly in me being crazy. But also through starting to write more in the last 6 months than I’ve written in the last 6 years and having far fewer social interactions, but the ones I do have are so much more honest. For better or for worse. At least they’re honest. I’m not such a good chit-chatter anymore and small talk escapes me almost completely. But I’m re-finding my voice. And that is a gift.

It’s been hard. Hard on everyone around me. Hard on my friends to have me disappear and then reappear crazy. Hard on my kids to have me being so inconsistent. Hard on my husband to not know where I am or what I’m working on in my head. Hard on me because I have to just keep walking, feeling and breathing. And when you’re bogged down in guilt or anger or even overwhelming joy, it’s hard to keep moving.

The guilt has been huge. For past, present and foreseen future transgressions. Which is where H’s quote from above comes in. He and a couple of other friends keep reminding me that it is worse to consciously choose to stay in the coma in which I’ve been. That I do indeed already possess the courage it will take for me to choose to be happy. And that, most importantly and hardest for me to believe, that I deserve to be truly, utterly and simply happy.