Liam's Ash Wednesday

Picture this: You are sitting in church on Ash Wednesday, listening to the words of the minister telling you that the idea of fasting during the season of Lent is to remove anything that is a stumbling block in your relationship with God, not necessarily the snickers bar you had intended to give up. It was never about the food but about the obstacle preventing you from walking fully with God. He then begins to give better examples of things one might remove (and it isn't the snickers bar): adulterous thoughts, laziness, screen distractions. And he starts to say: "Like that neighbor, you know, the one who built the fence that blocks your view....." and before he can go on to explain we need to remove the resentment in our heart, I leaned over and whispered to Liam, "Wait, we can remove our neighbor?" To which, Liam, in his full abundantly joyful glory, bursts into hysterical laughter. RECORD SCREECH. 

The entire church, (all 8 parishioners), and the now very silent minister, turn to look over at him, still so tickled he cannot contain himself. So I explained what was said, everyone laughs, the minister is left speechless and Solomon, face in palm, sits mortified, hoping maybe he can give US up for Lent.  

I am pretty sure I won Ash Wednesday. 

Changing Infrastructure

As I was stopped at the intersection near my kids' high school this morning, I found myself praying a prayer of gratitude. I was acutely aware of the changed infrastructure: the new turn lanes, the big lights giving plenty of time for cars to pass through, the convenient gas stations, the gentle traffic flow. It just struck me in that moment that, while I am certain this intersection had originally been just fine, as the community started growing it became downright horrid: Cars waiting forever to turn, preventing more than a single car or two to get through the light, lines gridlocked because of a backed up drop off lane, people frustrated as they tried to get to work and school, complaints being posted daily on social media. It was insanity. And don't even get me started about what happened if we left the house just a little late. We were toast. 

Then one day, things started to change, rather abruptly. And in the murky middle was so much stress and anxiety and irritation: construction seemed to last forever, everything was messy and inefficient, people seemed to drive with even less patience and mercy. It was an absolute miracle we, as a community, survived it (if you believed everyone's vicious internet comments.) No doubt, the transition was rough. 

But today, the same road was calm and smooth and met the rhythm of the people with what felt like generosity and joy. And I found myself so very thankful. And hopeful. Because just like that intersection, I spent years acutely aware that our infrastructure was a mess and nothing ran efficiently and oh, the complaints. And even though I am still in the murky middle and all the unknowns are destabilizing and scary, I know there will be "the other side", when the rhythm of my life will feel authentic and will be met with peace and joy. 

This Lent, I choose to continue my daily gratitude practice and to see the hope in all things, even the very hard ones. And while I need to give up the late night doom scrolling (why do those reels have to be so darn funny?), intentionally claiming back joy, one little light at a time, speaks to my heart, and feels like love. 

In My End is My Beginning

In T.S. Eliot's "Four Quarters" he writes: 

What we call the beginning is often the end, and to make an end is to make a beginning.

****

I don't know who decided that there was anything special about the clock rolling over into a new year; why, as humans, we celebrate the passage of time in this way, as if getting one step closer to the inevitable end of life as we know it was something to be excited about. But, as far as rituals go, this shedding off of the old and invitation to the new seems to surpass all things: religion, language, culture, location, there is no barrier really. Around the world, humans inhale this fresh start, this beginning again, and exhale the year they want to leave behind in one huge collective sigh. We send that which we want to forget and/or celebrate up into the air, in bursts of light and color and crackling thunder, and we enthusiastically toast to the hope for something better on the horizon. It is as beautiful as it is bonkers. 

Personally, today is a very mixed bag. It marks the end of a very difficult year, inviting the hopefulness and excitement (and if we are perfectly honest, anxiety) that comes with the opportunity to begin again, albeit unsought. It also marks the day that I met my former life: 27 years of knowing the person I thought would be my forever. I come to this place with the same heart and soul and even slight dose of skeptical optimism as I did 27 years ago. Outside of the five kids, the biggest difference is the intermittent joint pain and oh, the wrinkles. (My grandma called them her trophies of a life well lived. I am not ready to concede that just yet but I do hold out hope that I will end with laugh lines that outweigh the sorrow.) 

****

In my beginning is my end. In succession

Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.

Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires, 

Old fires to ashes, and ashes to earth

Which is already flesh, fur and faeces. 

Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.

Houses live and die: there is a time for building

And a time for living and for generation

And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane

And to shake the wainscot where the field mouse trots

And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

    In my beginning is my end. 

****

As our house has crumbled and we work to rebuild from the ashes once disguised as hope and promise, I have come to see the intersection of beginning and end, end and beginning, as one. They are merged into unity and I begin to understand that this turning over of the new year is simply part of that union. As the wind shakes loose all the broken dreams and we continue to show up, sweep up, build back up, perhaps a bit more tattered and worn than before, I understand T.S. Eliot:

To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not, 
You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstacy. 
In order to arrive at what you do not know
You must go by the way which is the way of ignorance. 
In order to possess which you do not possess, 
You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not

You must go through the way in which you are not

****

Today is so simple. And painful. And hopeful. And sad and exciting and every other big feeling rolled up into an enormous emotional sushi roll. And instead of dissecting it into its individual parts, I am embracing the way they mingle and mix to create this crazy, nuanced, lively existence. In order to arrive at what I am not, I MUST go through a way in which I am not. 2025 has been very much that 'way'.  

Like it or not, this year was a year for learning. I learned about cognitive dissonance. I learned to reside there, to sit with the discomfort, to lean into it. I learned to ride a zero-turn (super fun), to paint walls (albeit poorly), to painstakingly choose my own colors, and furniture and decor. I learned to fix things and ask for help and accept the loving support of those close to me; to make choices and mistakes and financial decisions, and more mistakes, and I learned to bounce back up each time ready for the next best thing. I learned that what I had once considered to be a character flaw - my sometimes loosy goosy lack of clear hard fast opinions or feelings on so many things, the seemingly chameleon-like quality of seeing things as "both/and" or "it depends" (not some rigid black/white) - was actually healthy and that this dialectical thinking and acceptance of the coexistence of opposites operating around and within us simultaneously, could be exactly the balm to heal my tender wounded heart:

I can delight in the freedom to be my full self while also mourn the loss of my former life. I can both genuinely long for the comfort of the life I was formerly living and appreciate the dissolution of the life that is no longer mine to live. I can miss the person I chose to spend my life with, even find myself wishing for things to turn back around, and still be thankful for a home free of anger, rage, trauma and fear. I can rejoice in my freedom and awakening and weep over the excruciating loss. I can experience love, so much love, and still be alone. I can be alone and also relieved. 

This paradox of life has always stood out to me: highs and lows happening in tandem. In the depths of the harsh darkness, the light has been with me as well: Grief and joy walking hand in hand. 

****

A friend asked me this week what would make me happy this coming year. I didn't think too long. The thing is, I have always been happy. It is my default. Like others, the full range of emotions is readily available to me; fleeting moments of frustration, anger, disappointment, fear, anxiety (oh how she sometimes makes herself too comfy) and all the others we don't like to linger too long with as well as all those we celebrate and crave. Through it all, the access to joy has never been extinguished. My natural state leans toward happiness. The lowest moments this year, the days I could barely catch my breath through the weeping, were met by gentleness and eventually made way for calm and peace and suddenly, as if it had been watching and waiting, joy. 

This year I learned that I can be both sad and happy. At the EXACT. SAME. TIME. (Seriously. What the actual....) I found that I can delight in all that I am grateful for while holding space for all that hurts. It can all be true. All at the same time. True. And freeing. And utterly exhausting. 

****

I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre, 
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away ---

The lights are out. 2025 has rumbled its wings. And just like that, the scene is changed and the facade has been rolled away. Enter 2026. 

****

I am here, or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning. 

Becoming

I dream of peace
Above all else
To share a world where we could be ourselves
We must learn to rise above the past
Before we can at last 

Begin again 

-Dream Theater

When I was 21 years old, I wrote this excerpt about becoming:

"I was not born a woman, as you were not born a man. These qualities of life have been granted us after long hours and experiences spent developing who we are, inside and out. And now, by being alone, we find that we are our "better half". It is so often assumed that a significant other fills that role in our make up. Now we know it is right there within ourselves and a lot closer than we ever imagined. We come to realize that not only are we worthy of being loved and cherished, but that this treatment must begin within us. We must first love ourselves and hold onto what is good about our own lives before we can step out and allow others to love us; before we can really love in return...."  

I wish I could hug the sweet child (dressed like an adult, kind of) that I was then. Apparently and unbeknownst to me, I was writing to my future broken self and entirely unaware that using the phrase "qualities of life" to describe becoming gendered would cause 48 year old me to face palm a bit too hard. Little did I know that the act of becoming isn't some linear journey with a beginning brimming with enthusiasm, a structured, electrified middle and a glorious final destination of pure delight and wholeness. You don't just grow up and magically stop "becoming" as if you've arrived at some static place of self where you live happily ever after for all the rest of your days exactly the same person forever and ever, amen. (I think I just barfed a little.) No, no. The thing is, we are continually becoming who we are. And every twist and turn in the road leads us to new understandings of our authentic selves, of who we want to be and how we want to show up in the world. And, news flash, sometimes we suck at this. We fail to be our best selves, we show up poorly, we act out of character, we judge, we condemn, we fight growth (it's not comfortable), we fight change (it's hard), we complain, we check out, we become dismayed or scornful, pointing fingers because why isn't everyone a little better than they are today and for the love of God, we cannot believe that other driver just cut us off ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING ME "USE YOUR TURN SIGNAL BUDDY"....we try and try and try but we are just, so, damn, human. 

And sometimes, it's downright exhausting. We are repeatedly challenged by the curve balls, bricks and boulders thrown our way; and just when we are swathed in a dulling cozy comfort that leads us into the temptation of believing we have arrived and have nothing left to do on the subject, we are pushed to our limits, brought to our knees, praying for a strength we wish we didn't need all while being shattered into a kaleidoscopic version of ourselves we hardly recognize through the blinding pain.  

And then, life, ooooh life, has the audacity of throwing us a bone, flashing a glimmer of joy and beauty and grace, giving us hope, a tiny ray of light, like maybe we stand a chance....

And that was just yesterday. Today we rise again. Our own personal phoenix tale. Round and round the circle she goes, where she stops, nobody knows....(but she's likely tired and maybe a little cranky so tread lightly.) 

****

As we find ourselves in this season of advent, may we let go of the past year, of who we thought we were and who we tried to be and maybe even who we imagine we are becoming, (you know, all that mushy middle stuff), in order to make room for beginning again. 

On Love

"After everything you have gone through, do you still believe in love?" she asked, so softly and gently my heart nearly melted.

I paused only enough to exhale into the stillness of the space. 

"Absolutely," I replied. "What else is there if not that? All I have to do is look around me. This moment, this chance meeting, you two sitting here sharing, opening up about our lives, our joys and heartbreak; the five incredible kids I was blessed to raise, the community surrounding me, holding me when I can't seem to catch my breath, even in the excitement of my dogs when I enter my house. Think about your adult children, your utter delight in taking care of your new grandson together. Love surrounds you, it surrounds all of us. Love enabled me to create a family and home, as it did you. I know love exists in all its various forms. I feel it in the beauty I see all around me, in the joy I experience over so many little things, even in the very depths of loss and pain and sorrow. Love held my family when my brother died, as it did you when you lost your son. Without love, could we have survived it all? Perhaps, without love, none of those other raw experiences could even exist. Love is all around us. This is God's gift."

She and her husband sat quietly. He leaned in, "It's just that....we have been struggling. We are not sure if our marriage can make it. We don't know what to do."

The bartender turned off the lights. Last call was long gone. The three of us remained, cradled by our stools, by the intimacy of this moment. 

"What do you think?" he asked. 

I looked at them both. Tenderness filled me and a longing to take away the pain and hesitation between them stirred within me. Yet I knew it was not mine to carry. 

Slowly, words came back to me and I offered them this. "I am not an expert. I don't have all the answers, I wish I did. I can only say this: the thing that shatters me, the thing that fills me with such aching sorrow and dread that I have wanted to simply crawl under a boulder and let the weight of it crush me, is the recognition that later on, I won't have the opportunity to sit with my spouse, the one I have vowed to love and whom I have walked this life with, the one who was with me in the very creation of our family, and share in the storytelling of memories that we alone have together. There is no replicating or replacing that shared history with someone new. I will never have what you have: the shared joy of entertaining our grandkids together, of retelling our past together with the next generation, of enjoying each other's company with the satisfaction of knowing we did our job together well. The splitting of time with the people I love the most, my kids, and hopefully, one day, grandkids, is gutting."

"But you will be okay," they said, half reassuring, half questioning. 

"Yes, I will be okay. And so will you. Because love comes in many different forms." 

The conversation lasted into the night. She told me about their unmet needs and desires and expectations. He shared of his fears and frustrations. They let down the exterior they had been hiding behind and spilled it all out in front of me, hopeful to find some morsel to hold onto. And it occurred to me that it was the hopefulness itself that was the morsel to hold onto. 

**** 

I have been told that my superpower is that people, even complete strangers, will open up to me, almost immediately, and want to share the intimate details of their lives. This is a blessing and, at times, a curse. Yet in this season of my life, I am so grateful for this gift. I am so grateful for the love and vulnerability and depth of humankind. It is so hopeful and perhaps that hopefulness is a morsel we can all cling to. 

****

"After everything you have gone through, do you still believe in love?"

Absolutely. 

 

A Story in One Sentence

Note to self: Fill the bee hummingbird feeder at night next time.

The Best is Yet to Come

She's nobody's fool so I'm playing it as cool as can be

I'll give it a whirl but I ain't for no girl catching me, 

switch-e-rooney --Johnny Mercer, Satin Doll

Maybe I should have saved those leftover dreams
Funny but here's that rainy day
Here's that rainy day they told me about
And I laughed at the thought
That it might turn out this way
Where is that worn out wish that I threw aside
After it brought my love so near
Funny how love becomes a cold rainy day
Funny that rainy day is here

--Johnny Burke, Here's That Rainy Day

It was our last night in Utah. I had so needed the escape from what was a very emotional week: the 25h anniversary of my wedding and the first 4th of July in which I was no longer invited to participate in the celebration at my in-laws. The boys were with their dad at his family's lake house and so the girls and I made a trip to Utah to stay with Deborah and her family. It was exactly the distraction I needed. In-N-Out, mountains, trail runs, fresh air, In-N-Out, hiking, shopping, all sorts of entertaining moments; not to mention, incredible friends and hospitality, a beautiful home, views to die for, sunny days, cool evenings, did I mention In-N-Out? 

On our last night, they took us to a sushi dinner and we sat at a table right next to the jazz pianist, James. I was thrilled. Immediately, I snuck over to see if James could play me Satin Doll, pretty please. It was one of the songs my dad played when I was but a little girl, now a sentimental favorite. I could nearly hear my dad's voice singing along as James embellished a beautiful improvised arrangement. It was not long until the first glass of wine encouraged me to go chat with James again and see if he might play me another tune. I explained to him simply: I was suffering immense heartbreak and I would sincerely appreciate if he could play Here's That Rainy Day. And pretty soon, the old melody came sweetly singing toward our table. It was a beautiful evening. The best friends, conversation, incredible food, music, laughter, love and dare I say, hope? My heart was full. As we were taking a glance at the dessert menu, James called me back over. He said he wanted to sing me something and I needed to stay close to hear:

"Teach me how to love you," he crooned, as his fingers moved about the keys in the bluesiest of blues. He finished with a smile and, as I hugged him farewell, he said, "Don't you worry darlin', the best is yet to come, the best is yet to come baby."

                                                                        

They say the years you spend with your children growing up in your home are the best years of your life. You don't realize it of course until much later because you are too overwhelmed and exhausted and don't have time to pause for half a millisecond and then you blink and they are grown and gone and what's left? A bunch of achy joints, injuries of unknown origins, and blurry memories...."I laughed at the thought that it might turn out this way".... 

And hopefully, the next stage also comes with a sense of contentment and satisfaction with a job mostly well done as we watch our now fully functional adult children launch into the world on their own.....sigh. 

I would not give those earlier years back for anything, not one darn thing. I loved being with my kids, doing all the things. But, I will admit, I hope James is right. I hope the best is yet to come. I don't see how yet but if he is right, this next chapter is going to be downright amazing. And even if it can't quite top the fun, chaotic bustling and overwhelming yet deeply purposeful and joyful years of having all my offspring near and prancing about, it's always a good day to be happy; a great day to have a great day; and perhaps enough of that personal mantra will lead me to at least the second to best "best years" of my life: forged with intention, overflowing with authenticity, leaning into laughter, and surrounded by love, light and a wee bit of harmony. Switch-e-rooney....

(And so is In-N-Out)

(A sincere thank you to Deborah and her family for hosting such a wonderful week! You're the best!!!)