Free Fall

Nearly two months after the date, remnants still showcase the many events that marked the 250^th birthday of the United States of America. Banners still wave at the tops of telephone poles, stickers still stick to the backs of pick-up trucks, and the Trump administration continues to host never-done-before events near the White House grounds.

The 250^th celebration of the United States as we know it came and went without any fanfare for my family or for me. It was a hot weekend, with a heat advisory in effect until 8 pm on the holiday. There was a parade in Sturbridge that was adequately advertised on the flashing police department roadside signage for several weeks before the event. It might have been written about in the local paper. I have fallen behind on my reading, and most of those papers go into the recycling bin after only a cursory glance at the article titles. I saw a weekly mention of a project by third graders at Burgess Elementary School, but I don't recall an article about the parade. I am not saying it wasn’t in there, only that it didn’t jump out at me. The parade, held exactly one week before the big holiday, only became a reality to me through a group text with friends. Two were in attendance.

I don’t hate The 4^th of July. I also can’t say I love The 4^th of July. I recognize it as the ironic beginning and end of summer. When my kids were all still in school, the 4^th was the unofficial start of summer, especially when school got out late because of snow days. In the years when we had a vacation planned, the 4^th also felt like the beginning, setting off a series of hot, sunny days that were counted down until the day to pack the car. In the years with no vacation planned, the holiday felt like a mild taunt. It marked summer activities, barbecues, and revelry. It meant beach trips, getting together with friends, late nights on the patio, and swimming in the pool. (Or floating for me.) And as the sun set and the boom of fireworks could be felt on all sides of the house, with the occasional spark somewhere off in the sky, it also signaled the end of summer. It was “here,” but if you weren’t careful and made plans to actually get out and do any of the summer things you thought you would do when the air was cold and frosty three months earlier, you were going to miss summer. It would be over, laments filling your head, and you’d plan for next year to be better.

I have only seen fireworks on the 4^th of July maybe ten times in my whole life! The hassle of driving somewhere, parking, walking to where you could see them, and setting up a blanket or standing for the designated time has usually beaten out my desire to mark the holiday in that explosive way.

And then there is the actual meaning of the holiday to contend with:  Freedom. Independence.

Whose freedom and independence?

“Not mine,” my friend Dwayne told me in college. As a Black man, he was not inclined to celebrate a holiday that earmarked a time in history when our people were not free. 250 years later, there are too many facts, situations, events, and deaths that conclude our freedom has not yet been fully gained.

And yet, I am also aware that the very day and its meaning are not lost as a concept or an actual precipitation of those rights for all men and women. Have we come a phenomenally long way since 1776? Yes. As a country, are we still far from the equality that most of us equate to freedom? Many more Brown people believe than white people would say:   Absolutely. Do we need to continue working hard to bring about a universal celebration of freedom and independence? YES.

So, the dominoes must fall. In a long domino run, there is a trigger, a first step, that sets the fall in motion. There is anticipation and excitement as the run flows. It creates an energy that builds and consumes all who watch its progress.

Every step, leap, change, and tragedy is another domino. Sometimes a domino is placed back up in its standing position, blocking the domino run's progress. And so again, the toppling of dominoes begins.

For People of Color in the United States, July 4^th understandably may not hold the honor, pride, and gratitude that it does for many white people. I am not against celebrating the day because I see it as a domino in our history. We couldn’t be here today without that first domino falling. I could not be sitting here today, writing this, if not for that domino. I am a woman of color. I can vote. I own property. I can run for public office. I pay taxes. All because dominoes fell.

Next year, instead of wondering if I’ll see fireworks, maybe I’ll set up a domino line in my home, and have fun with the analogy, letting the domino effect play out visually. There is extraordinary hope built into the tension of the precarious and precise placement of each tile. It is delightful to watch. It is a belief in allegiance. It is honorable to work towards.

So, we work. We stay committed. We celebrate when we achieve.

I am confident that the United States of America can continue its history of toppling dominoes…One century, one decade, one year, one month, one week, one day, one moment, at a time.

Grief

 It has only been twenty-five days since my mother died. I have not had my primal scream yet, but I already know that it is there, waiting its turn to come out and be heard. It isn’t something I stuff down, afraid of how it will affect me, my family, or the other customers in the grocery store. It isn’t something I fear being unable to handle because of its pure rawness. I am not afraid of this primal emotion that I know will be full of anger, sadness, frustration, guilt, and the pain of feeling lost as an adult. I welcome the instinct that my body has to react to the situations and events that happen to me. That primal scream is a direct result of living with someone who dramatically impacted my life and has left within me a legacy of wisdom and how to love. That primal scream is evidence that my mom lived her life well, and I was one of the lucky people to be nurtured and guided by her.

Loss is governed by various emotions that show up wildly, stay intermittently, settle in late at night, or completely elude us. Many people find comfort in understanding the basic elements of psychology associated with grief and loss. Ticked off, as if on a list of calculated mind control, people sit and absorb the five stages of loss into the everyday of their post-lost routines. We tell ourselves that if we know what’s coming, we can better handle it.

I expect to stay with the depression stage for some time, occasionally finding my way off its path, only to be snatched back onto the lane to walk in the darkness some more. I know from talking to other people who have lost a parent that depression lasts. It gets better. But it takes a while.

Anger was brief and showed itself during my mother's fourth day on Comfort Measures Only. The hospice coordinator who visited me, my aunt, and my mom on the Monday after my mom left the ICU received the frustration that I felt over floundering through the weekend without anyone from hospice checking in with us. I dealt him the brunt of my anger at the Universe for calling my mother’s number.

I didn’t care that “things take longer to process” over the weekend. I didn’t want to hear about the patient load or any other patient's acute situation that required the hospice team’s attention before getting to us.

“I’m not going to take it out on her,” I said firmly, pointing to my mother “asleep” in her hospital bed. “I’m not going to take it out on my husband because I have to sleep with him tonight. I’m not going to take it out on my kids, and I’m not going to take it out on my aunt.” Again, I pointed, this time to the woman beside me, my mother’s sister, who had flown in from Arizona to be there for her sister’s last few days of life.

“So you’re going to get it. You’re just going to have to suck it up and take it.”

He was gracious with my directive and silenced his excuses. I then found grace for him, letting the anger slip away. It was replaced with denial and guilt. As my mother’s proxy, I would revisit the decision to turn to CMO many times before accepting and understanding that it was the only resolve for a woman full of energy and excitement who had been unfairly and swiftly cheated out of her vibrant life by a massive stroke on the left side of her brain.

I assume bargaining came at the very beginning while in the car by myself on the way to the hospital. After getting the text message from my sisters that our mom was once again in the hospital following a stroke, I began my deluge of out-loud pleas. At the time, I didn’t recognize the imploring I did in the car for her to “just be OK” and the scream to her father in heaven that it was too soon, and he couldn’t have her yet as my way of bargaining for her to survive the tragedy of another stroke. At that point, I was far from the final stage of acceptance.

There may be five stages of grief, but there are innumerable ways in which we each experience those stages. As we morph in and out of any one stage and into another, we find that our grief is upended by the strongest and wildest of emotions:  joy.

The problem with grief is not understanding when it’s “OK” to feel happy. It hasn’t even been a month, and my sister struggles and feels guilty when she has a “good” day. She feels like she is supposed to be feeling poorly all the time and that she dare not feel any joy when her mother is dead. I also know that she is struggling to handle the bad days by trying to talk herself into a good day because it sucks to feel so sad. And then comes guilt again to remind her that she’s being a bad daughter. Pushing past her bad feelings in search of a good day surely are the actions of a heartless daughter, are they not? Let sarcasm sing in that sentiment.

I listened to my sister and wondered why we put our emotions into separate areas of our lives and assume they always live there. Our wedding day:  happy. Birth of a child:  happy. Fired from a job:  angry. Fight with a friend:  sad. Stub your toe on the foot of the bed:  frustration. Sweat through your dress at a business meeting:  embarrassment. Lose a parent:  grief. We assign these emotions to these events and presume that they will stay within the neat borders of the occasion. We also assume that no other emotion can be a part of that occasion, lest we feel guilty for trumping the expected emotion.

Angry on your wedding day because it was pouring rain? Scared to death at the prospect of actually having to care for another human being and guide it to adulthood? Relieved when let go from that job? Not bothered by the fight as much as your friend is? Angry at your dog for being in the way when you stub your toe? Excited to buy a new dress because you deserve a new one after that banner meeting? Happy at finding an Easter egg of love from your mom after she died? Are any of these emotions wrong in the moment and not allowed because the primary emotion should be something else?

My therapist once told me, “To ‘should’ is to shame.” I don’t think there is any emotion we are supposed to feel at any one time. We may be able to physically express only one emotion at a time, but that doesn’t mean that other emotions are not an integral part of the life experiences through which we travel. The mistake is believing that any one emotion is expected to carry us through the ups and downs of life. As I have always told my children, “God gave you many emotions, and you have every right to feel all of them. No one can tell you what to feel or when to feel it. They are yours alone to experience. You just don’t have a right to express those emotions however you want.”

Feeling guilty for having a “good” day or believing it’s wrong even to want a good day is shaming ourselves into experiencing the sadness we think we are supposed to feel. The sadness is there. It will always be there. It isn’t being pushed aside to make way for anything else.

Grief and happiness exist within the same realm; one does not negate the other. The sadness and joy of life will forever be intertwined. In some moments, one will be louder than the other and showier. It isn’t taking the place of the other or, in any way, saying that the other one doesn’t have a right to be there. They are there as partners, guiding us forward to the next moment. They share the responsibility of navigating the terrain of our worlds, one as the pilot and the other as the copilot. And at any moment, one gives up the wheel and allows the other to drive.

I am still at the very beginning of this next stage of my life, where I must learn to put one foot in front of the other without my mom in my life. She is not there for me to call and ask a cooking question. She isn’t there to answer the trivia question or swap movie quotes with me. And she will not call or text me on my birthday with the play-by-play of the birthing events of fifty-six years ago. For the first time, I will not hear my mother tell me about the errands my dad ran on the way to the hospital and how she sat on a towel in the front seat of the car after her water broke. I will not be reminded that she went home from the hospital without me because I had a touch of infant jaundice and a belly button infection. I have forever lost the genuine birthday connection of a mother, reliving the moments when her child came into the world. That grief is something that I cannot accurately write about at this moment, less than sixty days away from my next birthday.

I do not know the roads that I will travel to find acceptance. I anticipate that I will claw my way up simple inclines to find a moment to catch my breath. I am sure that I will find myself reeling and be unable to stop myself from spiraling into a depression that no amount of dark chocolate or bourbon will ease. I also know I will laugh and smile at something that reminds me of her. I will say out loud, “Thank you, Mom!” when I remember a recipe by heart. I will be grateful for what she gave to my children in the form of unconditional love and acceptance, even when I, their mother, struggled to find patience and clarity in parenting them. There will be profound sadness. There will be hope for lighter days. And there will be the joyful reminder that I ever had her in my life.

We have a misconception that we are supposed to be happy and that happiness is the default emotion for living a well-lived life. We only consider the “negative” emotions of anger, sadness, guilt, and fear as the occasional feelings we must contend with to return to happiness. We have wrongfully assumed that the pain of life is meant to be lived in short spurts, chronicled, and filed away as a memory, not to be relived. Grief shows us the glaring lie of that assumption and makes way for the uncomfortable truth that happiness not only must give way to grief for substantial parts of our lives but that the happiness we feel is only possible because the grief is so tenable. There would be no “loss” if the happiness had not grown so large within us because of the person now gone.

Moving forward, it will be vital for me to remember and remind my sisters that, like all emotions, we were born with grief. The seed was always there, waiting for the event to bring it to life. With the loss of our mother, it took root and grew inside. It can’t be dug out, exterminated, or planted over. Grief joins joy, forever a part of us, forever a part of our memories. Grief lives with us now.

Thank You Mirror Trainers!

Jakob asked me earlier this week when in my life I had reached the point where I liked working out. He has jumped back on the fitness wagon and is not spurred on by a desire to work out. Instead, he is driven by a “need.” He feels he needs to lose weight and that doesn’t happen just by wishing it would happen. So he started a four-week routine this week and each morning he goes downstairs to work out before he gets ready for school.

I was honest with Jakob about my attitude towards working out. It was only four years ago that I fell in love with working out. I have been an active person my whole life and I have been fortunate that my weight has never been a concern for me. I haven’t always liked the way I felt or looked in my clothes (or out of them, for that matter) but I have never had to worry about being overweight. I spent my teen and college years working out as part of team athletics and staying conditioned for those teams. As an adult I have worked out 3-4 days a week and I made that work for me. And then Ed gifted me a Mirror for Christmas 2019. The Pandemic began three months later, and it was a perfect storm of opportunity.

I can honestly say that I now love working out! It is as much a part of my daily schedule as my mug of coffee, and as important to my overall health routine as brushing and flossing. I so some sort of workout or movement class seven days a week. I am a nicer, more patient mother and wife when I have worked out. I work out to release stress and anxiety, and I work out to gain focus. Yes, I love working out!

As I continue to mourn the loss of the #MirrorLiveCrew, I am grateful for the progress that I have made in the last four years. My fitness journey has been one marked by change throughout my varied attempts at body transformation. And the one thing I know is this:  learning to embrace a fitness routine takes time, patience and an understanding of your own body. Most importantly, it takes acceptance. Accept that movement and strength training are necessary for the body as we age. Accept that it will get harder the older we get. And accept that the same things don’t always work. Muscle memory leads to plateaus and plateaus lead to boredom and frustration. Accepting that workouts need to be changed up periodically goes a long way in keeping one on the fitness treadmill. (Pun intended.)

In addition to the strength, cardio, barre, Pilates, and boxing classes I started taking on the Mirror, I also found yoga and dance and added them to my weekly repertoire. Last year I added a 15-minute stretch class to the end of every workout. Four years ago, I could not do a standing figure four to put my socks on without severe lower back pain. It usually ended up with me losing my balance and tipping over. Sitting down to put my socks on was a safer way to go. Today, I can not only do a standing figure four with excellent balance, but I can also lift my leg up onto the bathroom counter, in a near standing pigeon pose. It didn’t happen overnight. It took time. It took patience.

Where I once worked out to transform my body, I now work out largely to maintain. I no longer workout in an unrealistic attempt to regain my body of yesteryear. I work out for the benefit of future me. The transformations I am after are now the subtle ones that I believe are more of a test of my longevity. As I watch the Seniors around me struggle with the challenges of age, I am committed to not end up in a hospital bed with a broken hip, ready to die. At my age and moving forward, flexibility is more important than whether I can bench press any amount of weight.

So, although I may not see new classes being added to the library of my Lululemon Studio app anymore, I am happy to still be discovering the benefits of all that I have found there and continue to find there. (As long as Peloton doesn’t decide to completely get rid of us Mirror/Lululemon subscribers as they did with our trainers.) And I am grateful to those trainers that helped get me here.

Thank you:

@lanceaparker – You made me actually LIKE stretching!

@ gerrenliles – for the philosophy that will keep me going:  (paraphrase) It takes a lot longer to notice progress in your stretch routine than it will to notice progress in your strength routine.

@theamandabaxter – “If we don’t bend, we break.”

@alexsilverfagan – “Take care of your hips and you take care of everything else.”

If you don’t stretch on a regular basis, start. TODAY. Future you will thank you.

Why I Listen @ 1.5+

My husband, Ed, has a Type A personality. He is not a procrastinator; he is a planner. He is not a fly by the seat of his pants kind of guy and he is not the guy that’s going to tell you that he hasn’t considered the inevitable, the probable or the fantastical, because he’s considered it all. His To Do List is created each night before he goes to bed and edited and rearranged each morning that he sits down at his desk or outside by the fire pit with his coffee to start his day. He is currently running his second automotive dealer development company, maintains all of the exterior maintenance of our home, cooks gourmet meals several times a month for our family, including the shopping for the ingredients, and he takes his responsibility for planning date night two times a month seriously. He is present and available for all four of his children when they need him. He recently started a new business venture in real estate and can now add “Landlord” to his many titles and accomplishments. Ed gets shit done.

My friend Michele also has a Type A personality. She has at least three full time jobs at any given time, devoting her attention to school systems in need, covering ground from Sturbridge to the Bronx and back, and then out to Great Barrington and back again. She somehow manages to also get her youngest son to hockey practice and games in Connecticut, a “short” forty-minute drive to UCONN, and until just this past August was driving her middle son to and from work at two different jobs, as well as his sports commitments. None of those responsibilities includes the time she spends parenting a new college student away down south and being a wife and companion to her husband and many friend groups. Michele gets shit done.

I have two part-time jobs. One of those jobs is seasonal and I am only “on the payroll” from May to October each year. I usually work one day per weekend, from six to nine hours per shift. My other job has me glued to my desk, work laptop and large monitor two to four days per week, usually for two to three hours each day. Sometimes it’s more. Sometimes it’s a lot less. Scattered around these responsibilities I clean my house, shop online for my groceries from Shaw’s and household necessities from Walmart. I paid for the yearly “Shaw’s for You” program, so I get my groceries delivered on many days. The other days I am pulling up to the “Drive Up and Go” spaces and someone else is putting my preordered groceries into the back of my car. Pick up at Walmart is the same, with me simply punching in my space number and the color of my vehicle before someone brings my items out to me in a tiny blue open hand-truck type of cart. This is my idea of getting shit done.

During the pandemic I reconnected with a cousin that I hadn’t been in contact with since I was in my early twenties. As we developed a relationship through Instagram, we shared many things about ourselves that we hadn’t known from living on opposite sides of the country and only getting together during mini family reunions fashioned as a result of another cousin getting married. We shared our mutual joy over finally getting over the personal stigma of listening to books on audio. As an avid reader my whole life, and a “struggling” author in the making, I resisted switching over to audio and listening to books. It felt like cheating. It didn’t seem fair to call it “reading.” And I worried most that it meant that I was lazy.

But the first time I finished an audio book and realized that it allowed me to finally take in a story that had been a daunting task in print, I was sold on the benefits of audio books. Add in that I listened to this book while cleaning the kitchen after dinner, doing the dishes, folding many loads of laundry, and vacuuming, there was really no reason not to love audio books! I was still getting shit done and I was “reading”?! It really was a win-win-win-win-win all around.

So, when my cousin asked me if I thought it was cheating further, or some kind of ridiculous execution by Type A’s to be more Type A by listening to podcasts and books on anything greater than 1.0, I had to take pause and really consider the “why.”

Michele listens to audio books on 2.0 and I have always laughed at her and figured it was just her Type A in overdrive and that she was trying to prove something to herself, or to book club. I wasn’t sure which demographic was her intended audience.

When I am not sure what I should be thinking about a particular subject, I do what most people do:  I Google it. (When in doubt, Google. When you’ve considered both sides of an issue and still don’t know what side to stand on? Google.)

And what I discovered was a video that questioned the very benefits, stereotypes and judgments that were boggled up in my mind about listening to books and podcasts at any speed faster than 1.0.

What I remembered is that I love to read. What I acknowledged is that I often fall asleep while reading. What I connected to was that I have always been a fast talker. (When I was a kid, my grandfather lovingly called me “Shotgun” and would instruct me to slow down so he could take in my story better.) What I realized is that we all want to get shit done. What resonated is that most of us feel short on time to get any of it done, let alone all of it. Even the leisurely stuff; the fun stuff; the relaxing, recharging rejuvenating stuff – it all takes time and usually gets shoved to the bottom of the To Do List and finally off the list altogether, being replaced by things we prioritize at the moment.

I believe that most of us know instinctively that the little things in life, the small pleasures, are what we hold most dear and what really should stay at the top of the To Do List. Perhaps they are most treasured because they are the relished joys that are dismissed because we view jobs, money, status and outward success as the ultimate reward. At the end of our days, most of us will admit that our interpersonal relationships and the acts outside of work and what we do for the world held more importance and should have had more of our time. Yet we still prioritize the extrinsic acknowledgments and achievements over our personal successes and internal acceptance.

I am not a Type A personality. I have dreams and goals and I am also a true procrastinator. I am the dog distracted by the squirrel. I reorganize a drawer in my kitchen while putting away a pen and lose an hour on a day that I swore I had no wiggle room to mess with. My To Do List never gets shorter. It gets longer as I cross one thing off and add three more that popped up while I was chastising myself about deviating from the list when I rearranged the drawer. I get shit done. It’s just not always the shit that I thought I was going to get done.

So, I currently listen to my stories on Audible at 1.5. I toggle back and forth on my podcasts from 1.5 to 1.75. It took me much longer to elevate the podcast listening speed that high, than it did for the reading speed. I am not sure why it was harder to listen to conversational talk at a faster pace than to listen to a story told at a faster pace, but I challenged myself until I could listen to both at an enjoyable 1.5. It feels painfully slow and sounds weird when I roll the speed down to 1.0 when there is the occasional statement that doesn’t make sense and I have to listen to it slower to understand it. It does amaze me that the faster speed has become a normal sound for me, and not an insane hyped-up, cocaine-addicted voice yelling in my ear.

I listen at 1.5 because it lets me take in more of what I love and what helps me get through the day. I listen at 1.5 because there are so many stories in the world, and I want to enjoy as many of them as possible. I listen at 1.5 because when I find a podcast I really enjoy I want to take it in and keep it with me. “Dear Sugars” and “We Can Do Hard Things” have gotten me through the housework week after week, walking the dog in the rain, pulling weeds, shoveling snow and making spaghetti. (I can’t listen to a story or a podcast while I follow a recipe because that requires too many brain cells to pay attention to very different things, but I can multi-task during a rote activity like boiling pasta and making a meat sauce.) I listen at 1.5 because I want to pack as much of what I like doing into my day as I can, and on some days, the only thing that makes it onto the joy list is listening while I get a chore done.

Listening at 1.5 is my way of having a Type A personality.

Passport

My new passport came in the mail yesterday. The picture that I decided to submit was not the first photo that was taken. It was the second from a second retailer. I wasn’t happy with the photo that Staples took so I went to CVS. When I got home and compared the two pictures, I actually liked the way I looked in the Staples photo, but it was too dark. So, I went with the brighter light of the CVS photo, even though my mouth has a smile that belongs on a Muppet.

I hate this passport.

Despite the challenges of my photo submission, the picture is not the reason for my dissatisfaction with my United States passport.

I am horribly offended.

Other than me, there are no women depicted on any of the twenty-six pages, nor on the inside front or back cover. The images that have humans all display men – white men. The drawings and representations are probably supposed to characterize our history and our origin, our beginning. There is a prominent bald eagle, mountain ranges, steamboats and steam ships, and a glimpse of the top of the page of the Declaration of Independence. There are a colonial ship, buffalo and cattle, and men working the land.

When does anything “new” ever make it onto a government document? How about anything from the last 100 years? Mount Rushmore was completed in 1941, less than 100 years ago, but:  MORE MEN. This country honestly was built upon – and sustained – by more than that. We have a total of twenty-eight pages of old American images showcasing a pathetic and insulting reality:  the United States government still does not want to reflect upon, nor give credence nor validation to the other people that have helped build this country.

History has its place in the manuscript of our certificates, buildings and monuments. We gain insight into where we need to go by remembering where we came from. The past was not just a step towards the current time, it was the blueprint for moving forward, and more importantly, it was the lesson of what not to do again. Our story has come a long way. The pages of a book that afford us the freedom to enter a new land rich with its own history, and then return home to our present roots, should represent more than just the beginnings of our growth.

The story this passport tells excludes women. It negates all people of color, whether they were forced to come here or decided to arrive of their own volition. The current passport story blatantly and disgustingly ignores the native people of this country from whom the land was stolen, stripped, and marginally reallocated, before dismissing them once again as unworthy humans. Most of the people that toiled and taught, created and invented, or envisioned and prophesied are not represented in these pages. The book is not a document that reflects all or some. Instead, it focuses on the most of our culture and heritage and those that are clearly still in power.

From the plains to the mountains, the United States is also home to beautiful cities ripe with culture. From saguaro to palm tree the land bears greenery, flora, and fruit. Our National Parks preserve and showcase caverns, canyons, rivers, lakes, and wildlife, far more than just the bison. Over three and half million square miles of earth is claimed as the United States of America. Within that expanse is the equal number of images, milestones, constructions, progressions, and peoples, from which to choose defining symbols of our life as Americans. The Statue of Liberty can stay. The Liberty Bell can stay. The Declaration of Independence can remain. The saguaros, the palm trees, one mountain range, and the last image from space can stay. Everything else needs to go.

Men brought their families here and women worked hard alongside them. People of all colors have poured their souls, as well as their literal blood, sweat and tears, into the folds of the American batter. A mixture of old and new, the past blended into the present, should grace the pages of a legal document designed to take you home again. That home should be adequately represented for the person entitled to bear it.

What Do I Know? Part II

When I started my blog over 12 and half years ago, I didn’t even understand what a blog was. My friend Erin kept telling me I needed a blog. Like Glennon Doyle’s response when her sister Amanda told her the same thing, I was forced to Google the word blog…multiple times. It finally started to sink in…but not really. I took a huge leap of technology faith and prayed that I was doing it right. I put all my x’s and o’s into Google’s BlogSpot platform and hit publish.

It was exhilarating! I was literally sweating, nervous about having my words out there on the web. At the time I did not have any social media. I was not, and still am not, on Facebook. I hadn’t even signed up for Instagram yet. And today I have only added Twitter to that forum of interaction. (I almost never check it, so it kind of doesn’t count.) For me, that day was a jump into the shallow end of the pool of reality. Only, picture me carefully stepping onto the first step, s-l-o-w-l-y. It was one small step for mankind and one giant leap for Heather.

What I knew then and what I know now are drastically different or exactly the same, depending upon the subject matter. I first shared some of those thoughts almost exactly twelve years ago, on September 16, 2011. I still show up to share what is on my mind and what makes me grab my journal and pen. This is where I tell you what I know.

I know that the world changed three years ago when the 2019 Novel Coronavirus began sweeping across the world. How to treat it, stay protected from it, and whether to fear it, is all largely dependent upon what political party you align yourself with. The treatment of the virus was handled publicly as a political issue and remains to be viewed as such.

I know that my marriage is not a stable, secure environment for love and trust. It is a foundation in our lives that has been shaken with a severe magnitude of pain, dishonesty, blame and denial.

I know that I have tried everything possible to save my marriage. Whether Ed ever wants to admit it or not, I will always know that we have lasted this long because I refused to give up, because I asked for another chance every single time Ed brought up divorce, and because I kept looking for ways to bring faith in each other back to our marriage.

I know that even though I have already had to do one of the hardest things in my life - say goodbye to Jakob when he went off to college at St. John’s - I will not know how to deal with the pain of saying goodbye to Miranda when she moves into the New England Institute of Technology on September 29, 2023.

I didn’t know that I could enjoy a 7:05AM goodbye hug from Kendra as she leaves for her senior year of high school on her own. I knew that the autonomy she would have after getting her driver’s license would also afford me some independence, but I never imagined it would give me a feeling of relaxation and freedom as I start my day. I never realized how anxious I was in the morning to have to get up and get dressed and drive her to school.

I didn’t know that I could go five months without therapy and not feel like I was losing my mind. I didn’t know that I could be 100% willing and ready to say “goodbye” to Cynthia. For now.

I know that I have acquiesced to my husband’s desire – and need – to give his children the best of everything that he could provide. I know that it is time for me to gently remind him that just because he can, does not mean that he always should. (Thank you, Michele.)

I know that I am discovering a part of me that is an introvert. The me that used to hate being home alone, now looks forward to it and embraces it. I know I am still largely an extrovert, gaining my energy and reboots from time spent with people, my people. I also know that I now find joy in being alone and doing things for me.

What I know now will remain the same and evolve from this day forward. What I know will be able to be stamped in stone and what I know will need to be reevaluated, erased, and washed away. What I know fills a shot glass and what I know overflows the riverbanks of my life. What I know is I am changing, still growing up a little every day, and becoming the person I was meant to be. I am afraid, I am resilient, I am willing.

This much, I know.

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.

LOCK 50: A Review

I have wanted to try this restaurant for over 4 years. I don’t remember where I found it listed, but it was just before the Pandemic, and they were the first restaurant I discovered that offered outdoor dining in an igloo. Ed also found it on his own and reserved a table for us for brunch for Date Day on Saturday, April 29.

The igloos were already down for the season (or for good), so we dined inside. We were the first patrons in for the day at 10AM. We were seated by a window and even with a dreary, chilly morning outside the ambient light was just right for the first meal of the day.

The ambiance pleads for nightlife and a crowd. The décor is simple, with a mild jazz flare. There are three large paintings on one wall in bright red, black and white colors. The bar is small. The tables are spaced far enough apart to allow for free movement and casual conversation that doesn’t overlap with anyone dining nearby.

The menu was not your traditional breakfast or brunch menu. There was no buffet, and the listing was not three pages of sticky, laminated declarations of eggs made every way possible. It was a one-page menu with very specific dishes, some more breakfast than others, and some more lunch than others. This is clearly a casual, but up-scale restaurant that serves brunch, versus a breakfast joint that serves lunch or dinner.

At first, I was a little frustrated, and longed for a more traditional breakfast menu. I decided to try the Croque Madam:  French Toast, Ham, Swiss, Mustard Maple, Fried Egg. I am usually not an all-on-your-plate and all-in-one-place kind of gal when it comes to food. I like my foods separate, even if “they’re all going to the same place,” as my uncle Bobby used to say. Our server explained that it was indeed a layered dish. Ed ordered the steak and eggs.

While we waited for our food, we ordered coffee and mimosas. There was nothing special there except the beautiful, inverted-triangle shaped glasses, instead of the traditional rounded flute. The second round of mimosas livened things up! We opted for the Butterfly Pea that changes the color of the drink, but doesn’t add flavor, so they say. (If you’re going to drink something with the word “pee,” a butterfly seems the most appropriate to stomach!) The pomegranate mimosa that was once cranberry colored became the most beautiful, vivid shade of purple!

When our food arrived, I was a little suspect of the dish I had ordered. The visual of the fried egg on top of ham and cheese, on top of French Toast, with mustard seeds rolling off the whole thing in a maple drizzle, did not look appetizing to me. I know I squinted up my nose as I cut my first bite.

It was literally, the BEST breakfast I have ever had! The savory and the sweet paired perfectly. The bread was soft, yet firm, and not dry. The ham was tender, and the mustard maple was delicious. If I had one complaint, the fried egg was just a little on the rare side for me. I like the yoke runny, but the albumen just a bit firmer than it was. The white of the egg was cooked more like a poached egg.

Ed took one bite of his steak and couldn’t stop raving about its tenderness and flavor! It was a small piece of meat, about the size of his palm, and only about 3/8” thickness, but they had still managed to cook it to perfect medium temperature. He, like I, ate every bite!

We left Lock 50 with full bellies and an earnest desire to return for a meal at another time. The restaurant serves dinner and offers live music on many nights. We are eager to try it for another Date and experience other aspects of the menu and atmosphere.