Buckle Up

Today was Kendra’s first day of school back after summer vacation. It was her last first, and the first of many lasts that will be ticked off over the next 180 days.

Today was the first day of Kendra’s senior year in high school.

She came to me at 6am to tell me she was leaving at 6:30am to meet up with her friends so that they could get a “good parking space.” If I had known that getting good parking was motivation enough to get her to leave the house fifty minutes earlier than I dragged her out of the house last year, I would have pushed her harder to get her learner’s permit and license.

In 2014, Jakob decided he wanted to transfer out of Tantasqua Regional High School and attend Worcester Academy, a private school in Worcester, MA. He reclassed to get all four years of high school on one transcript and assure that he completed important foundational classes that WA required of all freshmen. We literally bought ourselves another year with Jakob.

Kendra was sixteen in January 2022 and if she had completed all requirements on a strict timeline, she could have earned her license in July 2022. Therefore, she could have driven herself to school for her entire junior year. For some reason, Kendra showed no serious interest in getting her permit. She took the test once, and like many teenagers, she didn’t pass it the first time. She would put off re-applying and re-taking the test for over a year. She never seemed unhappy about not having her license when many of her friends were driving into the lane of independence around her.

When Kendra was four years old, Ed used a bunch of his American Express points to buy her a navy blue, battery-operated Jeep. She mastered driving that Jeep in the vein of Vin Diesel in any one of the Fast and Furious movies. She circled the cul-de-sac in front of our old house, doing her best to keep up with her brother and sister and some of the neighborhood kids who were on bikes. The day I saw her slam on the brakes and let the Jeep fishtail to a stop, before slamming it into reverse, I knew that she was going to command being behind the wheel of a real car. Even as a tiny preschooler, she was confident in her skills. She looked over shoulder and turned the wheel of the Jeep, put it back in forward and resumed her chase. Kendra could drive!

As a baby and toddler, I carried Kendra around the house a lot, and held her on my hip every day at the bus stop when Jakob and Miranda headed off to elementary school and then came home in the afternoon. I like to believe that Kendra purposely procrastinated herself into another year of being carted around. There was no rush to gain too much independence. She would be ready when she was ready.

I have often tried not to look in the rearview mirror of my life and be sad about the world I have left behind. I was all too eager to leave diapers and tiny baby food jars on the side of the road. Through most of my children’s development I was perfectly satisfied to move on to the next stage. When Jakob got his license, I was ecstatic. I didn’t see my little boy driving away from me down the road. I saw a responsible driver who could pick his sisters up from practice and run to MickNuck’s for a last-minute dinner ingredient. So, I am trying to look at Kendra’s senior year as something other than, “How did I get here?!”

Rather, it is the Surreal Senior Year!

My baby girl is a baby no more. I am proud and overjoyed at the amazingly smart, and beautiful young lady she is today.

I may no longer be driving Miss Daisy, because now she’s driving, and not making me crazy.

She is growing and going…going to school, going places, and going towards her goals.

It will assuredly kill me a little bit each day with each Last that senior year has to offer. She is my youngest and represents the onset of the empty nest, regardless of whether her older siblings are still at home. With that comes sadness. I may not languish in the loss of my children’s childhoods, but I am also not devoid of feelings and deep connections with them, either. This year, I hope that I can keep my reflection and bittersweet joy for this phase in her life contained at a level that doesn’t make her feel bad for the steps she’s taking to move on and away.

This senior year, Kendra will be killing it!

Feeding My Soul

I didn’t write yesterday. I had a 9-day streak that I hadn’t rivaled since last November. I am happy with the progress I have made lately, so I forgave myself when I didn’t have the energy to sit down here and get some words on the page.

I can honestly say the biggest reason I have been able to get “arse in chair, words on page” in the last nine days was because Ed was cooking dinner. He prepared a new home-cooked meal every night for eight days straight. No takeout, no repeaters, no sandwiches. It was real food, and there was a variety:  chicken, steak, fish, pasta. We had it all! He was proud to say that he used all the major appliances, as well:  oven, stove, microwave, air fryer, Insta-Pot, and slow cooker. The man was on a roll! This run as head chef has never happened in our twenty-five plus years together.

Everyone knows I hate cooking. I have not kept it a secret, faked it or denied it. For years I longed for Ed to find the time to take the lead in the kitchen and prepare the evening meals. He is, after all, a lot better at it than I am. He is more creative in the kitchen, as well as more daring. He is willing to try new things and if it doesn’t come out the way he hoped, then he orders take-out and commits to making appropriate changes for the next attempt. We approach cooking in two completely different ways. I address it the same way that a Black Ops team approaches an extraction:  move in, clean sweep, accomplish the objective and get out. Ed arrives in the kitchen with the spirit of Jula Child on his shoulder and the bravissimo of Emeril in everything he touches. “Bam!” Yes, he just did that.

Not having to cook gave me HOURS back into my day. Even on the nights I cleaned up after dinner, I was still able to get more done than I have achieved in the last six months of evenings. Jake jumped in on Monday and prepared the entire meal for the family and I had yet another night of personal accomplishments. Not having to prepare dinner is the heftiest task off my To Do List, and it rarely actually makes its way onto the list because it’s usually just a given. For the last nine days I had mental clarity, focus for me, and an opportunity to feel less burdened by what I needed to provide for other people. That doesn’t mean that I didn’t take care of my family. Instead, I managed to clean the entire house, order groceries, and continue to take Miranda to work and pick her back up. Jax and I got our outside time, I got my work done for Matt and I got my writing done. The mental anguish of what to prepare each night is enough time out of my day that it interferes with the rest of the housework I must finish. Cooking dinner on a nightly basis really has been the bane of my existence.

In the last few years, I have stopped beating myself up for not liking to cook, and for not being able to do it seven nights a week. I was much better when the kids were little, but as they got older and everyone’s schedules shifted away from the family unit because of sports and jobs, I found satisfaction and a sense of accomplishment in cooking four nights a week. One night was leftovers, one night was take out, and one night was “You’re on your own. Figure it out for yourselves.” It wasn’t a perfect system, but it worked for me. I hoped it worked for my family.

So, I didn’t write last night. Why? Because I cooked dinner and I cleaned up the kitchen afterwards by myself, like I’ve done most nights of the last two decades. This was after doing the housework and work for Matt. After picking Miranda up from work. It’s that simple. I cannot do it all. Something’s always gotta give.

That is why it is 10:15AM and I am sitting here to get the thoughts in my head out now. It’s about priorities. I wish that Ed would cook dinner for the rest of our lives, but I am not sure that he has that long of a run in him. I am delirious with appreciation over the last nine days! I will keep my fingers crossed and hope for more. But in case the duty does fall primarily back to me, I will have already gotten my writing in for the day. It just means that maybe the dusting doesn’t get done today.

Hot In Here

 

“It’s getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes!”

-Nelly:  “Hot in Here”

Anxiety Sweat and Hot Flashes:  Why I always stand with my hands on my hips.

The Secret brand deodorant commercial references the difference between anxiety sweat and regular sweat. Anxiety sweat is wetter and quicker to flow than the sweat of a hot day, a Tabata workout or great sex. Fortunately, anxiety sweat doesn’t smell like the rest of them, at least not initially. The body, heated up by physical exertion and performing manual labor, produces sweat that exudes from the pores and combines with the air, the atmosphere, and the fibers of our clothes to create a scent that is usually not very appealing. Anxiety sweat on the other hand is 80% water and 20% fat and proteins, forced through the pores of our skin in a rush of “Holy shit! This sucks! I must get out of here!” Sweat is literally escaping our bodies like the body and the mind would like to do in an anxious situation. Anxiety sweat leaves your shirt – and underwear – full of sweat. The sweat itself is largely odorless. The smell arrives when the sweat meets bacteria. Anxiety sweat, because of those fats and proteins, is thicker than regular sweat, so it takes longer to evaporate, giving it more time to mingle with any local bacteria.

I suffered through so many anxiety sweats in my life I could never attempt to catalog them, chronologically or alphabetically. They appeared when I presented oral reports in class and again when I interviewed for prospective jobs. I was sweating on my wedding day in a sleeveless gown on a bright, January afternoon the day after an ice storm, with snow on the ground. Anxiety and its salty shadow forced me to wear a long sleeve shirt with cotton sweat catchers in the armpits when I attended my first in-person writing group, and any home-sales parties hosted by a neighbor.

I don’t remember when anxiety sweat became a thing for me. I have had anxiety my entire life, so I presume that sweat was a part of that life, as well. I know that I have never been an overly smelly person, so that has been a saving grace. My older sister Candice had to deal with heavy sweats as frequently as my younger sister Kelli had to deal with heavy periods. I was fortunate enough to have four and a half day periods before children, and three and a half day periods post child-rearing. In my later years, I finally traded an easy menstrual cycle for the hot and heavy drenching of profuse sweating.

I remember being at a book club meeting one night in the early fall and had to ask my hostess for a clean t-shirt to replace the shirt I was wearing. She asked me if I was having hot flashes. I was in my early forties, so I replied, “No, they’re not hot flashes. I just get sweaty, very quickly.”

With a firm and honest tone, she replied, “Honey, that’s a hot flash.”

It took me a few more years to admit that I was having hot flashes. I suppose that is a pattern with me. It took me several years to admit that I had anxiety. Imagine that…it took me a long reflection to admit to the two different things that left me feeling hot, flushed, tired and wanting to run away from whatever I was encountering in the current moment.

Like understanding that I fall asleep easily in a moving car, or recognizing that patience is not my virtue, I finally accepted sweating as a fact of everyday life. Menopause has elevated not only the frequency, but the annoyance of sweat in my everyday life. If hot flashes are the result of hormonal changes in our bodies, and we don’t take hormone replacements, then it would stand to reason that the hot flashes are here to stay with me. At least until the hormones decide to stop dancing about in my system with abandon.

A few years ago, my therapist recommended that I adopt a “stance” for when Ed and I get into uncomfortable conversations. She explained that if I had a go-to stance, I could relax into it, despite the challenging environment, and find comfort in the stance, as well as not appearing antagonistic to Ed. At first, I thought the casual “hands-held-loosely, clasped behind the back” was the most inobtrusive, yet assertive. One casual disagreement and I found myself having to change my shirt because clasping my hands behind my back kept my arms close to my body. That meant no air to the pits. The same happened when I clasped my hands down low in front of my body. For obvious aggressive-appearing reasons as well, crossing my arms across my chest was not an option.

I settled on standing with my feet just a little wider than hips-width, with my hands on my hips. I felt it offered an air or confidence, but not superiority; casual, but not unconcerned. And yes, it gave my body air. BINGO! I had my stance!

The irony that a hand on the hip is also the best way to avoid looking like you have a side of beef for an arm in a photograph, makes this stance my go-to in just about any situation. I have prided myself on the tone and firmness of my biceps and triceps for most of my adult life. What I lack in height and boobs I make up for in arms and shoulders. But the older I get, the harder it is to keep them looking muscular and lean, not just big. When the camera clicks, a breezy hand on the hip camouflages the breadth of the muscles.

So, if you see me standing with my hands on my hips, you can discern where I am emotionally and psychologically with just a subtle distinction. Both hands on my hips? I’m probably feeling anxious, and you might want to keep your distance until the moment passes. Once hand on my hip and I’m ready for some pictures. No hands on my hips but I look like I’m ready to pass out? Then please hand me one of my pink fans. Sometimes it gets too hot in here too quickly, and no one really wants me to take off all my clothes.

Stand Up

I have been under-tall my whole life. No matter what stage of development I was in, I was always a little shorter than my peers. There is a picture of me at fourteen months old, sitting on the couch in my great-grandmother’s house in Philadelphia. My older sister, Candice, is seated next to me. My younger sister, Kelli, was only a month old at the time. She is draped across my lap, looking up at me. I appear to be struggling slightly to hold the baby. Even at just over a year old, I look smaller than the infant that is perched on top of me. My younger sister would grow into the sister that was always taller than I was, even though I was the older sibling.

Maybe that is why I have always been fascinated with tall people. They draw my attention and I find myself staring at them. I know it’s rude, but I’m hoping that as a shorter person, I’m somehow also regarded as “cute” and certain social indignities are forgiven. Probably not, but I’ll keep rolling with it. Ignorance is bliss, after all.

The problem with being fascinated with tall people goes beyond my impolite lack of a quality poker face. My boorishness is evident when I sidle up to tall people, with or without their permission, to measure myself against them. And in case you’re wondering, my fascination with the height-advantaged in our society is not gender-specific. I am in just as much wonderment with tall men as I am with tall women. It’s about the height, not the person carrying it.

Unfortunately, there is one aspect of my gender-neutral fixation that may be a problem for the human monolith in front of me:  boobs. My petite stature puts me chest level with anyone over the height of five feet six inches. I can’t help but stare at a woman’s boobs! I know I’m supposed to cast my gaze upwards, but it’s hard when those things are right in front of me. Again, maybe it’s based in an “I-don’t-have” fixation.

What I lack in height and mammary glands, I certainly make up for in vocal ability. No, I don’t sing. Ask my husband. About six months into dating, we were riding in his car, headed somewhere, and I was singing along to the radio. While we were stopped at a traffic light, he looked over at me with a small smile on his face. I shifted in my seat to face him a little better for the serenade. When I finished, he simply said, “Geez, when I met you, I thought you sang like a lark.” And so ended my own personal car-karaoke when we were together.

So that thing about me that is larger than most, and not easily contained is my voice. I am loud! I have a voice that bellows and begs to be heard. I don’t need a megaphone for people to listen to me and I probably don’t need this microphone. I’m pretty sure if I wanted to, we could seat people in the parking lot, and if the doors are open, they’ll be able to hear me just fine.

For some people it’s a curse. Ask anyone that has sat next to me at one of my girls’ basketball games over the last eleven years. I choose to see it as a blessing. No one strained to hear me say, “I do!” at my wedding. People don’t sit at parties and question, “What did she say?” No one has ever said, “Can you please speak up?”

I like to think that these characteristics, among other things, make me someone that is a bit of an anomaly. Like a mullet that is all play in the front and all business in the back, I am understated on the outside and stentorian from within!

With that sort of skill, I could be my own MC, introducing myself wherever I go. But it would be nicer to hear other people welcome me into a group or a room.  Particularly any of those tall people that I encounter. I can hear it now. They would take a firm, assertive stance, and channeling their best inner Tony Montana, they would exclaim, “Say Hello, to my Little Friend!”

 

This piece is not called “Stand Up” because of the obvious subject matter about height. Instead, it is inspired by a variety of thoughts. Last weekend I learned there is Open Mic every Sunday night at The Stomping Ground in Putnam, CT. Since then, I have been considering doing an open reading from the novel I completed last year and am currently still editing. But I also wondered what it would be like to do stand-up comedy. I thought back to Cindy from Worcester Academy who was pursuing her comedic side by participating in Open Mic nights around Worcester. I thought of Kelsie’s boyfriend who is doing the same out in San Francisco. And before I thought about what I could even say that is funny, this concept came into my head. I pictured myself on stage, and I heard myself deliver it, and I thought it actually had some funny components to it. I cannot imagine ever doing stand up with this piece, or any other, but I am glad that I tried it out, at least from a theoretical point of view.

So, thank you very much! I will NOT be here all week. Good night!

Timeline

Today Miranda found out that the school she would like to attend in the fall, New England Institute of Technology in Rhode Island, has granted her accommodations to bring her cat, Autumn, to school with her. It was a surreal moment as I congratulated her on the success of her appeal to the school to address her needs. She made progress on the path she has been carving out for herself for the last several months.

If all goes as planned, Miranda will move into NEIT on September 29^th, 2023, and begin classes on October 2, 2023. The school operates its academic programs year-round, with intense eight-week terms that run nearly back-to-back-back. Miranda will begin in the Allied Health Sciences program to address the preliminary math and science courses she needs to be eligible for the program she is gunning for. A successful first semester in some core courses will mean she can transfer into the Veterinary Technician program for the winter term. She can complete the Vet. Tech. program in a year and a half if she successfully passes all her courses and attends school in their year-round offerings.

That’s not bad for a kid that didn’t have a high school (3) years ago; not much hope of graduating on time (2) years ago; and who felt lost and like a “loser” (1) year ago when she decided to take a gap year.

Three years ago…Miranda left Worcester Academy at the end of her sophomore year, at the beginning of the pandemic and in the middle of her high school career. We spent the summer searching for schools for her to attend. Her search into other private high schools was fruitless, as we all decided it didn’t make sense to pay for any school that was still doing any remote learning. School Choice options were limited due to transportation challenges. At the suggestion of a friend, we investigated Dual Enrollment. As a private school, Worcester Academy could not recommend her, so it diverted back to her home district school, Tantasqua Regional High School. They refused to recommend her for the program because their analysis of her WA credits still placed her as a sophomore, not a rising junior. I appealed to the director of the DE program at Quinsigamond Community College and my sixteen-year-old daughter who did not want to be a drop-out was allowed to enroll.

Two years ago…It was a tense and precarious start to a new academic year. She had been tested each semester the previous year as a Dual Enrollment student with the trials of remote learning. Mental health issues compounded the pressures of the pandemic and Miranda struggled to stay focused and engaged. She started her second year at QCC in a different division of the DE program. She had strict expectations and pressures to pass all her classes for two semesters to meet the requirements for finishing both her junior year and her senior year of high school in one academic year.

One year ago…Miranda was accepted as a Psychology major at Lesley College in Boston. She was also accepted into the Journalism department at Salem State College. Neither option felt like the right move for her. She couldn’t imagine starting a new school and a new program after such a rigorous previous year to complete her high school program. (Miranda got a 3.78 in her fall semester and graduated with three classes of college credit on her transcript.) Like most high school graduates, she found a summer job. Sturbridge Veterinary Hospital offered her the job as a part time receptionist during the time they interviewed her. At the end of the summer, she finally made the difficult decision to take a gap year and continue to work at the vet, despite feeling like she was missing out on the most important transition of her life. All her old friends from Tantasqua and WA were heading off to college and Miranda would still be living at home, in Sturbridge.

The veterinary field was never anything Miranda considered as a part of her path in life. She has always loved animals and makes a very special connection with them. She has owned two guinea pigs, connected immediately with our dog Jax, a half-Burnese Mountain, half-Black Lab mix, and her connection to Autumn is palpable. Working in the vet has offered her an insight into a field that is in desperate need of caregivers from all levels. There are not enough vets in this area to care for all the animals that need to be seen. The techs are constantly busy, and the wards are not far behind. As a receptionist, Miranda does not have down time where she can play on her phone or do a crossword. The office is busy and in constant motion. She has seen dogs have seizures in the waiting area, and she has had to steel herself to the sadness and pain that comes with the difficult choice clients must make to euthanize their pets. Firm as she must be about payment and pick up, her concern and compassion has never waned. Every day she has worked, Miranda has regaled us with stories of procedures, amazing animals, sweet and friendly owners, and of course, the annoying sides of any job. With each day she became more involved in her position she was finding her path.

It was late winter of 2023 when she decided that becoming a Vet. Tech. was what she wanted to do. She researched the schools, wrote her essays, completed the applications, and waited patiently to see if The Universe was working with her. NEIT conditionally accepted her into Vet. Tech. in the early summer and she has not stopped beaming ever since.

Five weeks to say goodbye…It will take every day of the next month for me to prepare to live without another one of my children while she is off growing, living, exploring, and developing into the independent person I know she can be and wants to be. I will need to not only say goodbye to Miranda when she moves into school, I will also have to learn to live without her literal shadow and companion. It is comforting that Miranda has listed me as Autumn’s emergency contact.

Nineteen years, seven months…We have travelled almost fifteen hundred miles from Plantation, FL where Miranda was born to this time in her life. I know I should be ready. I am not.

Routine Maintenance Is Essential for the Life of...

As our children continue into their later teenage years and into their mid-twenties, I am finding the hardest lesson to teach all of them is something that my Mother-In-Law used to tell my husband when he was a teen:  “People do not plan to fail. They fail to plan.”

People plan for vacations, and they plan when they will pay their bills. They plan for their deaths, and they plan Labor Day weekend bar-b-ques. Some plan out every detail of their wardrobe weeks before a big event. There are business plans, floor plans and health insurance plans, all designed to map out a set of parameters and guidelines that the user can expect to experience.

Teaching my younger humans to get in the habit of planning has been difficult and frustrating at best, costly and infuriating at worst. I did not plan on experiencing such resistance when it came to encouraging my kids to think ahead.

Maybe it is because I am not the greatest of planners. I would be described by most as a procrastinator. I put off many things until I have no other option than to address what I know I should have attended to in a prior moment. I have wasted coupons that would have saved me money, lost out on seats to a show I wanted to see, and I’ve watched items become unavailable as they sold out before I checked out my cart. I have paid late fees on registrations that I had more than enough time to submit by the due date.

Not acting in a timely fashion has caused me to miss out on some things that I wanted, but procrastination has never been my go-to when it came to taking care of myself. I see my PCP for my annual physical, and I get my mammogram each year just before that physical. If I feel something is “off” in my body, I get immediately on the phone and schedule an appointment to be seen. I am not one for “waiting it out,” to see if something serious develops. My car is inspected within the month that the sticker says it should happen and my oil changes and tire rotations occur soon after the indicator light goes off in my car. I make sure that the important things do not get pushed to the bottom of the To Do List because the alternative is not an option. The alternative means a greater headache than the one in my head from staring up at the fluorescent lights above the hygienist’s chair. Procrastination curates a greater time suck with hours spent waiting in the dealership addressing the additional problems brought on by old oil and clogged filters.

It is a common direction found in manuals and on the sales floor for everything from bicycles to cars, vacuums to lawn mowers, as well as the Keurig machine to the oven:  Routine maintenance is essential to the life of that product. Proper care of your small and large vehicles, equipment and appliances facilitates the longevity that the manufacturer has determined through trials and tests. Comprehensive care extends the life of that object to an extent that may exceed the warranty and the life of the user behind it. Maintenance is key.

Most recently, Jakob and I got into it about a dentist appointment. He was told at his last cleaning that he needed to schedule a deep-scale appointment and it would probably cost about $1,000.00. When I asked him on Wednesday if he had scheduled the appointment, he told me he didn’t have the money. To be clear, the reason Jakob needs a deep scale of his teeth is because he hadn’t been to the dentist since his senior year of high school. Between being away at college, Covid, being away at college again and finally settling in back at home, the appointment kept getting knocked off his list of things to do.

He tried to get away from me, but I followed him to his room to harangue him on the virtues of taking care of his oral health. The $1,000.00 he doesn’t have now is nothing compared to the teeth he won’t have tomorrow and the $5,000 it costs for an implant. And I didn’t even cover the physical pain that comes along with losing a tooth because of poor care.

Life is about maintaining. Maintain your health, maintain your salary, maintain the relationships in your life. They all require work. The work is necessary to stem the onslaught of degradation brought on not just by age, but by hazardous periods of neglect and dismissal. If we keep up with the maintenance, we can usually avoid the costly and painful fixes and repairs. It doesn’t matter if it’s your car or your body, they both need maintenance, and they will both reel against you if you choose not to take care of them.

Maybe I Am Angelica Schuyler at Heart

In 2021 into 2022, I spent the better part of that academic year listening to the soundtrack of Hamilton. Miranda plugged her phone into my AUX cord each morning she got into my car. As we headed out of Sturbridge and towards Worcester where she attended her senior year at Quinsigamond Community College as a Dual Enrollment student, we settled in for her favorite tunes. The collection included songs from Moana and Lilo & Stitch. There was even an occasional tune from Tangled and Hercules. But the majority of Miranda’s playlist was from Hamilton.

At the time, I had seen Hamilton twice, once in Harford, CT and once in New York City. It struck me then as the phenomenon the world fawned over, and yet my obsessed middle daughter had never seen the show. She came across the music and reveled in the story from her perspective, creating the performance of a lifetime in her own head. The version of the show she listened to was from the original cast. It became such a passion of hers that by Christmas of that school year she was determined never to see the show live! She couldn’t fathom that any other cast could do justice to the story the way she heard it from the original cast. By February I had convinced her to watch the recorded version available on HBO+ that was the original cast, “live” and in person, spittle from Jonathan Groff free of charge.

I discovered two things that year. I realized that I really do miss a lot of the story when I am watching a movie or a play. There is something to be said for viewing a show multiple times to put the entire story together. Additionally, listening to the soundtrack repeatedly allows the story to settle in from each character’s perspective. I finally understand Hamilton from listening to it, not watching it.

The second thing I learned is not as simplistic, positive, or endearing, although it is more important. I learned that I have “never satisfied” tendencies. At first it made me laugh to think about it. Then I progressed to puzzled, into anger, back to puzzled and finally I am left with a mild sense of defeat and pessimism.

Last Sunday my husband and I got into an argument about expectations. He questioned whether I notice all the things he does to bring closeness into our marriage. Of course I notice. I thank him when he unloads the dishwasher. When he asks if I want to watch a movie, I say yes. I accept the offer for him to make me a drink. I notice.

But do I?

Is there more that he is doing and I’m just not seeing it? Am I going about my day with such dogged determination to cross things off my To Do List that I am not seeing all the efforts that might be swirling around me? Is that why I still feel alone and lonely in bed at night next to the man I love? Am I not noticing, or am I noticing, and I just want more? Am I not satisfied with the effort that Ed is putting forth? And what does it feel like to be satisfied?

There are a lot of questions. I struggle to find the answers. The reality is that I make a concerted effort to both notice the things Ed does for me and to acknowledge them. The reality is also that I am still left feeling like something is missing from our marriage. I believe my own efforts to cultivate intimacy are strong and consistent. Ed notices many of them, acknowledging them with a thank you, an explanation as to why it meant something to him, or a hug. And there are the efforts that he doesn’t acknowledge. Did that mean he didn’t notice it, or he just didn’t think to acknowledge it and express appreciation? If I ask him about the ones he doesn’t acknowledge, is that undoing the good that I was trying to create by doing it in the first place? Am I creating a self-defeating scenario by “calculating” any of our actions in the first place?

So, I am left to wonder if I am being seen, understood, and appreciated. I am left to wonder if my efforts are sinking in or bouncing off him. I question whether I am letting things slide past me unseen, as those efforts from Ed fall flat. Compounding the discomfort of those questions is the reality that he could honestly be doing all the work I think I need, and I am somehow still not feeling it.

Will I ever be satisfied?

Let Your Soul Be in Control

A few years ago, because of some work Ed and I were doing to strengthen our marriage, I decided to write a personal Mission Statement. I have revised that statement once within the last year, and today I decided that it still needs a little tweaking. As the days pass that I find I am reaching inside myself for strength, comfort, and focus, I realize how useful my personal mission statement has become.

Today, while sitting outside by the pool, I was restless. It is not unusual for me to be restless in the calming and beautiful environment of my own backyard. I find it hard on many days to relax into “down time.” My mind races and I am constantly thinking of all the things I am “supposed” to be doing instead of doing the fun and relaxed thing.

A part of my mission statement is to approach life with a yoga mindset, to “remember to be present, to breathe through challenges and to find the connection between my mind, body, heart, and soul.”

As I lay outside today – fidgeting – I was wishing the thirty-minute timer on my phone would go off so I could go inside and get something to eat before flipping over on to my stomach to get some sun on my back. I then thought about my desire to incorporate the mindfulness of yoga into my day.

The first place I started was with my body:  it was already present where I wanted it to be. My heart wanted to be there as well:  I spent the week cleaning, and the house virtually didn’t need anything done today. On the other hand, my brain was not letting my body and heart settle into the moment. My anxious brain was questioning whether I had really done enough housework this week. My anxious brain also wondered if I was a “bad” friend for cancelling time with a friend so that I could stay home alone by my pool. And further, I was contemplating a new venture that presented itself to me today, that could be a great platform for moving forward in my writing and getting exposure. (More on that in a later post!)

Theoretically I knew that I was deserving of  down time. It was a gorgeous Sunday afternoon. The Pool was clean. I also knew that my To Do List was at a place where I could take a break and the universe was not going to implode.

Rejuvenation comes in many forms:  a cold shower, a good sweat, a massage, laughter with friends, or a quiet bath with candles and cello music playing in the background. I feel rejuvenated when I let myself do the things that I normally push off the To Do List because I feel obligated to do something else around our home or be present for other people. So, I finally addressed my soul. What did it want?

It wanted to lay in the sun, bask in the 75+ degree weather of an August afternoon and listen to the waterfall that is the showcase piece of our pool.

So, I listened to my soul, and I settled into my lounge chair. I took a deep cleansing breath, held it for a few seconds, and I exhaled slowly. I told myself, “Let your soul be in control.”

It was at once relaxing, freeing and exhilarating! We often tell other people and ourselves to follow the heart. Additionally, we say to follow your “gut.” But we also tell people to think things through and do the “smart” thing.

I am going to move forward in the next couple of days and see if my soul is a better captain than my mind, my body, or my heart. In the end, who we are at our core always presents itself and pushes us to make the smart move, follow our gut and listen to our heart. It is our soul that truly guides us.