The Fig Tree

The fig tree, and the delectable fruit that accompanies it, are symbolic in many ancient traditions. In Judeo-Christianity, the fig is referenced from the very beginning of time, a staple in the Garden of Eden; a symbol of prosperity and abundance used in parables to show how tending to ones faith produces bounty and beauty. And let's not forget the barren fig tree, able to be fully restored with a little TLC, a reminder to us all that what we see on the outside is not the full story.   

In Eastern traditions like Buddhism, the fig tree symbolizes enlightenment and is highly revered, if not fully sacred. The fig teaches about looking inward to find spiritual truths and awakening. And also, don't judge the fruit by its color...just wait until you experience what's on the inside.  

In ancient Egypt, it was seen as the tree of life, literally the intersection of life and death, helping souls into the afterlife. In Rome, abundance and fertility. In the Middle East, purity and knowledge. In America, well, we dumbed it down to produce a yummy fruit cookie/bar. 

***

Personally, I have had a love-hate relationship with Fig Trees. One of the traditions of my former Italian family was for each "branch" of the family to care for a fig tree that had been carefully propagated from the original tree brought over from Italy by the first generation. A lovely tradition in theory, for years we dutifully cared for our tree, bringing it in during the harsher winter months and back outside once spring had sprung, watering it with reckless abandon (seriously, how much water does a plant really need?!), and ironically, the only person who actually ate the fruit was little ol' me (I am sure there must be some symbolism there...) And after a while, wanting to take the tradition one step further, thousands of dollars were spent on farm equipment that would be used exactly one time to help dig a gigantic grave so that the fig tree could be buried at the end of fall, winter underground and then dug back up and replanted each spring, just like they used to do in the old days. 

For anyone whose eyes just widened at the excavation visual, or who perhaps had the letters WTF float through their consciousness, yes, it IS coo coo for cocoa nuts....a BONKERS idea at best. And yes, it really does work. 

So, for a couple years, the fig tree was buried and unburied and buried and unburied. And then, one fine day, I realized I had been left with a buried tree in the ground. And yet another decision to make.

Well-meaning friends had all sorts of things to say with the overwhelming majority telling me to let by-gones be gone: Let it die its natural death, they suggested. But, let's be honest: I haven't purposely killed a living creature (minus flies and mosquitos) in so long I cannot recall it. I have literally attempted to save each and every life form that comes to pass my way, going as far as trapping wasps and RELEASING THEM BACK OUTSIDE and I wasn't about to let an innocent tree just die on my watch. It was not at fault for the falling apart of my life and subsequent leaving of the person responsible for its yearly excavation. And now, the baton of insanity had been passed.....

So, one day, the builder/landscaper friend of mine came by, with an ax to grind of his own, and offered to dig up the tree for me since he had some angry energy to unleash. Who am I to get in the way of another human's need to dig? So that year, the tree was dug up and planted once again and when the time came, I had planned to simply put it in a VERY large pot and pull it inside but alas, Solomon, in all his sentimental glory said: But we HAVE to bury it....it's tradition. (Oh, for the love of God already!)

Yet, because I am a sucker (and my friends and I couldn't actually lift it to put in the planter) I hired a lad to bury it back up. And once again, it wintered underground. 

This spring, I had a brilliant idea: Why not put Solomon in charge of the digging-up and burying of this soon-to-be gigantic tree? It's an Italian tradition afterall, and I am clearly NOT Italian (so I was told many times). I pulled him aside and said, "Hey, it's time to dig up the fig tree and you are now responsible for helping." He groaned and complained as we lifted the board from the hole and dug the tree out. And then the most incredible question was uttered: 

"Why are we doing this again?" Solomon asked.  

An eerie silence took over the entire land. A death stare shot into his face: A diabolical look that slowly went deep down into the bottom of the burial ground from which we had just brought forth the ancient fig tree.....and back up at the boy whose words were still hanging in the hollow air.

I resisted every evil urge that passed and simply reminded him of his desire to stick with tradition. 

"Oh, I'm fine if we just want to plant it in the pot," he stated, nonchalantly. 

HALLE-FRICKING-LUJAH!

I ran into the barn, grabbed the gigantic planter and we used every ounce of strength to plant that tree in its new, mobile home. 

(Don't worry, it grows leaves eventually. How else will we sew loin cloths later?)

So, I started the slow process of filling the large hole in the back yard. This took several weeks as I cleaned out chicken coops and yard waste and whatever else might fill the space. And then one day, I was at the garden store and saw they had a particular variety of fig trees for sale (Chicago Hardy) that CAN BE PLANTED IN OUR ZONE! I am pretty sure the marketing material said: NO NEED TO BURY. 

I was so excited I almost bought two....almost.

It's not that I don't appreciate the nostalgia/tradition of the off-the boat fig tree but COME ON! They literally make them so that you DON'T have to be absurd twice a year! So now, while I will still wheel the first generation plant in and out of the barn (for tradition's sake, you're welcome Solomon!), I will also watch my hardier Chicago variety take up its space and dig in some roots where they actually belong and shoot, grow freely like the earth meant it to. 

 

And, this little guy has already started bearing fruit. 

I'll take the WIN!

You can literally take a leafless branch that has broken off the tree, and stick it in the ground and lovingly tend to it and one day you get this. Have faith, the fruit is coming. 

 

Forgiveness, Part 2

At the moment, we live in the gap between the way things are and the way things should be, and in the meantime, all we can do is try to make that space as lovely as we can.

-From the show Trying

I spent some time this week talking to my 21 year old self. I apologized to her. And forgave her. She didn’t know what I know. She didn’t know the pain she would walk through, the decades spent haunted by imposter feelings, the numbing that prevented her from breaking and the eventual shattering that would come anyway. And I... I didn't trust her to figure it out; didn't believe she was brave enough or strong enough to handle the necessary struggle.

Her craving for something that felt like stability and security impatiently insisted she force love, grab hold of what was present instead of guarding her heart and waiting for something safe. She did not understand it then: Love cannot be forced. It is forged, quietly, subtly, organically. She did not understand the implications of her decisions. She quietly neglected her inmost desire to be accepted for who she was, to be given space for who she might become, in order to be the right person for the one in front of her. She saw drive and ambition, excitement and adventure, and the hints of eventual financial security. She thought she could help heal the rest, those rough edges, and unhealed trauma that would later cut her so deeply she could not recover while still inside that construct. She believed love as a verb was far more important than love as a noun: That through her sacrificial actions and dutiful repetition, love would grow and love would heal and love would win. She did not know that it might only win for one while irreparably damaging the other. She insisted that the idea of “the love of her life” was simply a romanticized Hollywood concept, ignoring dozens of older couples who were still incredibly and deeply “in love” with their partners, whose eyes still sparkled at the very topic of their beloved, and whose voice softened as they recalled a memory or simply mentioned their name. She accepted the nagging numbness that was slowly taking over; the self-preservation that became her inner existence, and impatiently pushed forward, insisting she could make anything work, so stubborn and strong and scared. 

I forgave her for rushing in….for her impetuousness, the recklessness which brought us here. I forgave her for ignoring the signs that felt like danger, for packing away her doubts and fears and what her gut already knew. I forgave her for only seeing two paths instead of the world full of possibilities. And I apologized for failing her: For being unable to meet her whimsical expectations, for walling up to save what was left of us, for refusing to accept the notion that it all fell on us to fix and for digging in my heels when I realized we had thrown away dreams and clung to irrational hope for something terribly unhinged. 

And, then, quietly, I thanked her. Within the immense heartache, she gave me experience and joy and incredible, beautiful offspring. 

We sat silent and still. So raw. So much wiser. Together, we gather what remains and are making lovely this space in-between. And, in the end, love is all that is left and love will always win. If it didn’t win, then it was not really love anyway. 

Forgiveness, Part 1

 As a step in healing from the trauma of divorce and the years leading up to it, I have spent an inordinate amount of time working on my own character development, clinging to strengths like they were life rafts and becoming more curious about my weaknesses (real, perceived or otherwise) while figuring out what is worth devoting more time to (most of it) and what is not. And of course, I have been learning to forgive myself for all sorts of things in an effort to more fully forgive the acts of others as well. It's been quite a journey. 

One of my character flaws that pops up on repeat is a total lack of time perception, namely, how long it will take me to finish something so that I can move on to the next thing. This creates all sorts of unfavorable moments from being chronically late to certain standing appointments to telling friends I will "call them right back" only to never be heard from again (at least not in that hour...or day). One of the places this creeps out most frequently is when I am traveling to tournament weekends and I plan to leave at a certain time. No one, not even myself, believes I will get out of the house anywhere close to the designated time. Something about traveling (or simply leaving the house) makes my ADHD brain want to use the time pressure to do ALL the things I have been putting off BEFORE I go. So I might find myself cleaning out kitchen drawers or the chicken coops or changing all the sheets in the house which leads to a whole lot of laundry or maybe selecting new paint for the next house project I have no intention of starting in the near future. I have found I am better off not setting a time frame on my departure as it takes the pressure off and I no longer feel compelled to finish all the things: I just go when I go, end of story. (I still arrive VERY late to the hotel sometimes but let's be honest, this is not a huge issue.)

The upside, however, is I often find myself driving on the turnpike during the glory of the golden hour, watching the dance of light drenching the land in front of me as the sun sets behind, illuminating my path as if I were destined to go the very direction I am headed. It is breathtaking. 

That is where I found myself mesmerized on Friday. My path lit up, my brain spinning with the stunning beauty of it all and I was left contemplating something that had happened that day. You see, I had a smudge on my sunglasses and from what I could tell, it was on my left lens. I took off the glasses and cleaned them up, but still the smudge remained. I tried again with no better result. Because I was driving at the time, I couldn't look closely at the glasses so instead, I put them on, closed my right eye and realized that my left (non-dominant) eye could see clearly, no smudges. I switched to keeping only my right eye open and found that, in fact, the right lens was the issue. My dominant eye was so convincing in its resolve that the issue was on the other side that I just bought it, hook, line and sinker. It wasn't until I shut that dominant eye off that I could see clearly what was really going on. 

With the sun's warm glow still hugging my soul, I realized that in so much of my life I have let the dominant voice around me tell me what the problem was when the reality may have been something very different. When we shut off those outside voices, quiet the noise and pay closer attention, sometimes the solutions look very different, because the problem was misplaced in the first place. Sometimes, there isn't even a real problem at all. 

At any rate, I am learning to forgive my younger self for making the decisions she did; afterall, they seemed right at the time and she had no idea she needed to quiet all that external and internal chatter. I am forgiving her, knowing she made the best decisions she could with the experience and knowledge she had.  And at the same time, the path in front seems to be full of golden hours as if this was simply how it was always supposed to be. And for that, I am truly grateful. 

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!!!)

The House

One of the big decisions to be made in the middle of unentangling spouses is who gets the house. I'll save you the train-wreck of ruminating thoughts, how many times I have gone back and forth about keeping the house, the decade of history latched on to it like a barnacle, and the fears around letting it go, but, essentially, I staked my claim early, and ever since, I have found myself wandering from room to room, trying to envision what I might want it to look like if it is solely mine (well, mine and the kids... and the animals...and the stuff....and the memories and....) The tough part is this: I have never truly loved the house. Not to sound spoiled, but I actually don't think any of us have really loved the actual house. While it is certainly more than big enough, and quite nice, the compartmentalized floor plan, the 20 year old colors, even the furnishings and ornamental details, make it feel stuffy and cold. It has never felt comfy, cozy or warm. There is nothing airy and open and free about it. It has actually been the antithesis of how I want my home to feel. But the property....oh, the land, the beauty....it is incredible. The grass, the rolling field, the view, the space. 

 

It is almost as lovely as living on an ocean or lake. (This is a distant almost.) And it is where my kids have mostly grown up and where they keep coming back to when they come home. So, I am slowly working on making this house a home that feels safe and nurturing and authentic to our new family unit; one that surrounds us with love and acceptance and peace; a place where everyone feels valued and knows their worth; a space that feels like a big hug from an adoring mom....where they will all come back to again and again. 

And apparently the process is going to require a boat load of paint. And as you know, I have a love-hate relationship with paint....and because of that, a first name basis with the guys at Sherwin Williams. 

So, one of the first projects I worked on in the initial days without kids in the house was the entryway. I needed to create the feeling I wanted in a reasonable space that wouldn't cost too much (money, anxiety or otherwise). Originally, I was hoping for a modern farmhouse vibe (at least on the inside) but somehow as the project ran its course, it ended up quite beachy.....apparently, you can take the girl away from the beach but you can't take the beach away from the girl....

Deborah's interior designer friend suggested I look at the color Argos. On a 2" tile, it looked nothing like what I wanted and so I bought 13 sample sizes of paint before giving Argos a whirl and realized, oh, she really does know what she is talking about. (Which you would think I would have remembered  from last time....maybe I am just a little slow.) Here is the end result:

And with that came the bug to start the next project: getting rid of the split pea soup green booger color in the kitchen. And as anyone with any experience whatsoever will tell you, once you start down this path, it is nearly impossible to come back. I asked Deborah's friend once again for more color ideas and this time, I went to pick up those two colors......and 10 more, because, what if she is wrong THIS TIME??? (Also, they have started to give me a contractor's discount.)  Sure enough, the first color up had a little too much yellow (although it maybe just needed 8 coats to cover up the pea green) and so I started painting different color splotches all over the kitchen. My new goal was not to get it just right the first time (that's WAY too much pressure!) but to just get an acceptable fresh slate painted to see where to go next on the project. Eventually, I ended up choosing the second color she suggested (because, well, she is better at this than I am, clearly!) 

And with that, the painter got going and the more he painted, the more I requested until, instead of just doing one side of the space, he had done three. (And I am still kicking myself for not just finishing the last wall but there's more to that one, like two stories more.) 

And then we celebrated Lily's 19th birthday, complete with a cake she made herself and freshly painted walls (see behind her). 

And after all that, Deborah had to go out of town and suggested maybe waiting a little while before we started a new project.....but all that extra paint was beckoning us and so, I gave the girls freedom to do whatever they wanted on one wall (which became the entire room) and the girls mixed and matched and got creative and now we have a  hang out space with so much character and light I smile every time I enter. (Just don't look too closely to the details as we learned our painting skills by watching Mr. Miyagi teach Daniel in Karate Kid....)

Before getting rid of all the red

It's like taking in a big breath of freedom and exhaling nothing but love and light and a little laughter. 

And it is also a gigantic reminder: We can do this.

Great Awakenings

Great Awakening: a religious revival in the British American colonies mainly between about 1720 and the 1740s..... The Great Awakening represented a reaction against the increasing secularization of society and against the corporate and materialistic nature of the principal churches of American society. -Britannica

If you are keeping up (with the whopping one post that I have written in the last three years), the sudden change in life story has made quite an impact, to say the least. Going from partnered to suddenly soon-to-be single has left countless pieces to pick up; lessons to learn, things to figure out. (Why is rethreading a weed whacker basically rocket science????) Apparently, I had been partially asleep, living on autopilot, and then suddenly the plane dropped several thousand feet, turning stomachs, throwing unsuspecting passengers about, scaring the bejeezus out of everyone so that going forward, even the slightest bump was now served alongside a platter of anxiety and panic. Enter "medication as needed" and a whole team of experts to help with the transition. Welcome to the current Great Awakening: a religious revival born of heartache, grief and an overdose of insecurity and uncertainty. Thank you, Life.

After my brother died back in 2021, I was counseled that you should not make any major life decisions the first year after a major loss. And so, I have tried to keep that in mind while my team of experts, who clearly did NOT get that memo, are asking me to make EVERY MAJOR (and not so major) life decision as if I had ever had to actually decide on anything important since becoming a Mrs. (I might plow down the barn if anyone asks me again where I see myself in 10 years....please people, I am focused on making it through the week here, 5-, 10- and 20- year plans are gonna have to wait.) It isn't that I have never made a decision or anything. It's just that for the past 25 years, there has been another voice, another opinion, a higher ranking alpha who knew decisively what they wanted and so that is what we typically did. (Family what color shutters should we get for the house? White you say? Green it is.) Decisions were easy. A question would be posed, I'd go round and round in my head until I could think no longer, and more often than not realize the simple answer was: I don't care as much as you do, so do what will make you happy. Sure, I would weigh in here or there on things that seemed to matter more (which often lead to some tense moments) but really, life is so fleeting and temporary that many things just didn't seem that important to me. 

Now I am learning I was wrong: IT IS ALL TREMENDOUSLY AND UTTERLY IMPORTANT...EVERY LAST THING! (At least, that is what my primitive brain is telling me when faced with the decisions lurking around every corner...don't worry, I have a different "team" of experts to help me sort through the intrusive, panicky feelings that come from living in survival mode.) 

All I know is that I can no longer live on autopilot. Don't get me wrong, there are days I still unintentionally try to, because inside the body of this 40-something year old woman is a young child who just wants to run and play and create and do her own thing and not think about actions and inactions and reactions and all of the adulting things. 

But then, as the child inside is going about her skipping and singing and merry-making, I am rudely brought to the present in random moments like at the luncheon I attended last week: You see, I was invited to go to an awards luncheon to support one of our high school athletes. In the buffet line, I grabbed a salad, added some balsamic vinaigrette dressing to it and sat down to eat like a normal human being. (So I thought.) As I was enjoying both the conversation and my salad, somewhere between fork, plate and mouth, a drop of the vinaigrette dressing decided to add some excitement to the day by launching itself off the springboard of my utensil and cannonballing directly onto my eyeball which instantly caught on fire, awakening every. cell. in. my. body. Immediately, that eyelid sealed shut, but seeing (poorly) that no one around me had noticed my horrific plight, I quietly stood up, head down, hand inconspicuously over half my face, and made my way into the bathroom where about four women (or maybe two but I was now seeing double through the liquid gushing from my eyes) were clearly just waiting to laugh "with" me. By this time, the tears were rolling down my face and the unsuspecting women were horribly concerned with my apparent emotional turmoil. After explaining my situation, they suggested that "maybe I should wash it out with some water" (yes, I would have rolled my eyes too had I been able) and I went to work flushing out the inferno and stopping the unfortunate, teary-eyed, snotty-nosed chain reaction. Insert my revival....maybe not so religious but it was certainly a revival of sorts.  

Eventually, I made my way back to the table, where the conversation was still going and the eating had come to a halt. Disaster averted. 

There are awakenings and then there are Great Awakenings. Most of life flounders around in between. And ever so often, we experience revival. I'm just hoping that the next one comes sans vinegar. 

The Day the Blues Broke Me (almost)

 

THEOLOGY IS THE STUDY OF GOD and God's ways. For all we know, dung beetles may study us and our ways and call it humanology. If so, we would probably be more touched and amused than irritated. One hopes that God feels likewise. -Fredrick Buechner, from his book Wishful Thinking For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:38-39 Don't freak out. It's just paint..... Blues are hard.  -Deborah                                                                             ***

For many humans, when crisis rears its ugly head, there is this sudden pause, like the screeching halt of a trainwreck occurring in both real time and slow motion; we are forced to make a sudden, often unexpected, soul-searching stop and reevaluate everything we know, or thought we knew, to be true. The moment can be subtle, or catastrophic, gradual or sudden, often both, but when it occurs, there is a pause.  

And this is where a new chapter begins. 

And like a dung beetle, studying human behavior, we wade through the excrement, the wreckage and chaos, looking for answers. Eventually though, we have to make a choice on how to respond, on how to show up, and maybe fight for our lives to remain whole and unbroken.....or at least, strong enough to carefully pick up all the shattered pieces, or perhaps only the most essential ones, and create something new and extraordinary. 

Friends, life has derailed a little over here. (Forgive me for my understatement.) We have found ourselves at this new juncture and as I stand at the crossroads and look, I have had to pause. To gather my wits. To breathe. 

To be sure, our marriage will go down as one of my life's greatest blessings. I have been so blessed with being able to give 25 years of my life to a man who has been an amazing provider and has loved his family immensely. His hard work has not gone unnoticed. The five incredible humans we have brought into this world are my life's most remarkable gifts and I am forever grateful for the opportunity to be their mom. The joy I feel inside, even in the midst of so much heartache, is indescribable. 

At the same time, these last six months have been harder than any I have ever faced. The turmoil of grief I cannot even begin to describe, the slow and then sudden loss of a 25 year blessing, has been a game changer (hey sometimes game changers don't change the game how we had hoped!) The new insecurities, fears, unknowns....they pop up everywhere. Like a horrible carnival game, me bopping one down and the next four appearing....The many nights of weeping, the darkness creeping through my very soul, the sorrow, anger, (insert every emotion ever felt here) as I cannot breathe, cannot fathom how this is right, or how it is even a part of the plan.... I have been brought to my knees, no words to utter, no solutions, no answers. Just the pause of unspoken prayers, tears shed, words I have yet to find. And I have recognized in those standstill moments, how important to me are the stories from our shared history. I didn't realize as I wrote post after post in this blog, how essential these memories would be for my very survival. I do not believe in clinging to the past, but it can be life affirming, saving really, to know and remember where you came from, where you have been, who you are and hopefully, it helps to one day point me and my family in a new, life sustaining direction. 

For none of this can separate us from the love of God and in God, all of this will be used for good one day. I have to believe that.... even if it feels like total nonsense presently.  

                                                                            ****

So, how does the second novel of the series begin? The one where we throw off our old selves and create something new? 

I believe this is where I would insert a wide-eyed emoji face and say, for the love of God, where does one even begin? Where is the proper emoji for having only had to learn half of the adulting for a quarter of a century and now being thrown into uncharted waters so deep you go into panic over the depths of the unknown lurking beneath and around you....not knowing what you don't know or even what you need to know that you don't know, is a horrifying moment in time. Where is the emoji for THAT, Siri??? Sheesh, she is so limited sometimes. 

For me, I think it begins with the blues. You see, when faced with extremes, we often look to something we can control, to hold onto and just do. So, what's the first thing anyone seeks to do when faced with life-altering circumstances? Bedroom makeovers, right? Hello? Anyone? So, I wanted to update Solomon's bedroom to be new and fresh and teenager-ish. And because our original bathroom remodel we had discussed prior to Christmas had to take a pause, we decided to throw on some new paint and potentially get some new carpet and, one day, furniture so that he has a space all his own. Of course, all 14 year old Solly cared about was that the room was blue. So, Lily and I looked through paint colors and we picked out what seemed like perfectly good blues. Now, I have very little experience with paint color and for those of you who DO have experience, I am sure you know where this is headed because just because something looks great on a one inch square, does NOT mean it will look anything remotely close to that on an entire wall. It's like looking at color through a distorted lens....as if it were in one of those "fun" houses where everything is too big, or small or squished or....I might has well have picked the color by allowing our dog to pull a number out of a hat. 

The day the painters threw on two layers, I was sick and emotional and finishing my monthly reminder that yes, I am still in fact most likely ovulating each month, (at least my body thinks so) and it was grey outside and freezing inside and the cold meds weren't even close to touching the symptoms: The perfect storm. I went upstairs on their break and my heart sank. Uncontrollable tears ran. Deborah was called in as this required reinforcements that a box of kleenex simply couldn't provide. Thank God for best friends who live next door and can drop everything to come over, tell you kindly but frankly not to freak out...and reassure you it is only paint and can be redone and does not mean you are going to suck at every decision you will ever make for all of eternity! (Way to catastrophize the moment, Karen!)

As I sat there, the incredibly kind painter frantically searching through the color wheel while also reminding me he doesn't usual help pick out the colors, my friend counseling me back to calm, the world crashing in, I felt like these blues, the decisions, the weight of everything, was breaking me. I told the painter to just finish what we had started. And I was thankful. Thankful for my friend, for the tools I have that remind me to breathe through the emotions, for that one rational brain cell that assured me it was actually ok to make mistakes (you know, that thing I coach over and over again), it could be fixed, it was only paint after all. 

I was even more thankful when, on second thought, I decided I needed to scratch the entire color scheme and have him restart the next day with new colors, and my friend called in backup and we spent an evening on the phone with an excellent teacher (interior designer) learning how paint colors actually work, how light changes them, and basically why the average person struggles to pick the "just right color" the first time. With new found confidence, we chose the right colors, and lived to see another day. 

"The blues are hard," Deborah reassured me. And isn't that the truth? The blues are hard. But, they will not break me. Bend me a little more than I might like? Yes. But break? No. 

****

In Jeremiah 6:16, we are told to "Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls." 

I am learning to ask for help. I am learning to seek out the "good way" and trusting that as I walk that path, I will find rest for my tattered soul. And somewhere in that rest, there is hope and there is peace. And this is where the story begins again. 

Wesley

 "Jesus, Tender shepherd Hear me, Bless this little child tonight. Through the darkness, be down near me, keep me safe 'til morning's light...."

"God bless: Mommy and Daddy, Andrew and Wesley, Eileen and Karen, all my friends and loved ones, help me be a good little girl, praise in Jesus's name, Amen."

***

I don't know how old I was when I memorized this prayer. I don't know when my mom spoke it to me first, but I don't recall ever going to bed during my childhood without it prayed over me and with me. As I got older, I learned it was a family prayer because when saying bedtime prayers with my cousin on one of our many sleepovers, she held the same prayer in her little heart as well. And she shared how she added to it, to make it more inclusive of everyone she loved, which I immediately copied because I, too, wanted to pray for everyone I loved. 

As I had kids of my own, the prayer changed to speak over my children as part of their bedtime ritual. While I don't know if my older kids still say it, I hope that one day, when words fail them, when they don't know what else to pray, that they have it to fall back on as I did this last year. 

It has been a full year since my oldest brother, Wes, passed away. He was 49. I had just dropped my first born off at college and was a week in to a new coaching job at one of the most competitive high schools in our area when he passed unexpectedly. It was crushing. Actually, when I stop and let myself feel it, it still crushes me. In that first few weeks, I had no words to describe the grief, no words that I could think to pray, except for the childhood prayer I started my prayer time with every night before bed. Night after night, I prayed the familiar prayer and just ended with 'please hold us' as I quietly wept. It's all I had. 

These last few years, the passing of so many loved ones, Andrew (14), Elliana (9), my dear friend Mary, and now my own brother, topped off with a pandemic and other personal struggles, has been rough. But as my big brother, a staple of my life, Wes's departure was so deeply shocking. I was not ready for the decisions that come with closing out someone's life. It was a level of adulting so unfamiliar, I found myself googling things such as: 'where to buy custom sports urns' and 'the first 10 things to do when someone dies'. Thank God for the internet. Whoever you are who put together such thorough lists to help guide others on a path that no one wants to have to take, thank you. Truly.

And, "through the darkness, be down near me," we got through it.

***

I knew the anniversary of Wes's death was coming. I had filled the schedule with distractions that err on the side of insanity ("You need me to host 43 teenage girls for a High School Soccer Team sleep over? I'm in!") and had done an inventory of my life and started purging the unnecessary junk, with a special emphasis on the "started" part because holy smokes, Batman! We have collected a lot of junk! There were a few choice words as I sifted through our stuff, a few terse things said to a couple less than excited kids....(sorry you guys!)...and a few moments that stopped me in my tracks as something would trigger a memory that I had not anticipated. (That tiger blanket that Wes used to throw over himself for us to try to fight him....that stuffed animal he gave me when I was like 8....the pictures....heart tugging reminders....)

My sister and brother and I had ordered flowers to send home, planned a zoom call, readied ourselves. I even bought a new watch for myself as if that would settle things up....Wes had a thing for watches after all... Yet, I was not prepared for the onslaught of emotions, the reminders, the sudden need to escape, the tears. Someone once said that grieving is like the ocean.....you will feel big waves of feelings that rush over you and over time, the waves get farther and farther apart. I had assumed, in my arrogance, that I was done with the waves. My grief surfing, as with the longboarding of my youth, was over. I had no more big feelings, just a little hole in my heart that I had learned to live with by pushing to the side and filling my time with everything but hard emotions. Insert face smack emoji here. Where is that surfboard to cling to?

"Keep me safe 'till morning's light...."

***

Today, all is quiet. We made it through. The sleepover, the zoom call, the flowers, the kind gestures of friends who quietly remembered. The waves. And, now I know how big and wide that ocean truly is. Wes loved the ocean. He loved to surf. And he loved his family deeply. He did not always know how to express that but there was never a doubt. It is unreal to me that it has been a year. But here we are. We are left with a silence we were not prepared for, an abyss that extends far beyond the absence of a birthday text this year from the guy who was always first to remember. We are left with the recognition of how important it is to love each other wildly and fiercely while we are able. And the waves ARE farther apart but the ocean, well, it is still so very wide and deep.

Rest in peace big brother. I miss you. 

God bless....and thank you for existing in the first place. Amen.

 

Don't Get Stuck on the Cookie: Part 2

Last April, I wrote part one of this post. In a fashion completely authentic to myself, I don't actually think I had anything planned for part two. I assumed it would come to me, like they all do, in fits and starts and then a sudden burst of inspiration that allowed it all to flow. Instead, I just got busy. 

At any rate, I reread that post this morning and thought, ya know, I could have just stopped there. It pretty much said it all I think. Except, that little voice in my soul keeps hounding me to write again. I just process life better when I can get it into words to share. And wow, is there a lot to process!

A week ago, I had just fallen asleep when I heard a maternal voice, loud and clear, speak to me: 

"Karen, pay more attention to the details." 

I startled awake, sat straight up in bed looking around to see who had been talking. It was pitch black, other than the sliver of moonlight coming in through the shadeless picture window. The house was silent, still, no one was there, yet, where did that voice come from? It was a motherly voice, not familiar to me yet I knew it was one of tough love and gentleness, wisdom and, wait, was that also a little smirk in her voice? Can midnight voices smirk?

I spent the next hour thinking through what details I had missed that day, that week, the last year or two (and let's be honest, it was the middle of the night, I probably wrestled with my entire adulthood). Was I lost in the clouds? Am I the one person who actually overlooks the trees for the forest? Who the heck is this faceless voice to assume I don't pay attention to details anyway?!

Call it my brain screwing with me, a whispering reminder from God, some struggle buried deep in my subconscious, (maybe the wine?) I don't know, but it stuck with me well into the next day and week. What are the details I am overlooking? Have I gone so far the other way that I NEED to get stuck on a cookie or two? My blinders are strong....I can look past a whole lot to stay grounded and sane in the chaotic life that I have created. Is there self-care in that or is it an excuse to let too much go? Am I too hard on myself or have I been too easy? Can it be both? 

And then I realized that this is the juxtaposed life we lead. We have to balance the letting go with the holding on. We have to remind ourselves to go ahead and have that cookie, don't get stuck on it, but know there is a point at which our tummies may ache. We need to pay attention to the trees while also keep a wider view of the forest. Be careful, we tell our children. Stay safe. But.....in order to grow, you have to take risks, be uncomfortable, maybe even throw a little caution to the wind a time or two and yes, make mistakes, sometimes BIG ones. But don't get stuck there either! 

Yin and Yang. 

Marlin and Dory

Tigger and Eeyore

Pooh and Piglet and wait, Owl and (how many characters does it take to define the human condition?)

Paradox is ultimately why black and white thinking and living doesn't work in reality. Life is a whole lot of carefully yet impetuously constructed contradiction with a side of confusion and if you are lucky, an occasion dollop of clarity. We can choose to fight it, or roll with it, sometimes both, all at once. We can choose which cookie to eat, which ones to stay clear of, see the trees individually and collectively, or hell, leave the forest and find ourselves staring out across the ocean, or desert or heck, just go off the grid and find yourself in a space of your own creation. 

So, yeah, don't get stuck on the cookie, and also, maybe catch a few details along the way and while we are at it, throw in a wild splash of color because we only get this one chance to create something beautiful. 

Hugs! 

Don't Get Stuck on the Cookie: Part 1

The year was 2014. I was running ridiculous miles as Boston loomed near. I was having doubts about my purpose and worth and wondering whether I was doing what I was actually here for. I struggled with food, had a bit of body dysmorphia and was obsessed with health and performance. I was likely an anxious mess but I wasn't about to let anyone in on that. (I am sure no one noticed, right?)

I had apparently made a Lenten promise to "write one person a little note" every day of Lent. I do not recall this idea. I doubt I made it through two days because although the thought was in the right place, I know the follow through was probably lacking, and I would hope that if I really wrote 40 different people over the course of 40 days that year, that I might remember it. I do not.

At any rate, fast forward six years. As I was cleaning out some things the day before Easter this year, I found an envelope that read (in my handwriting):

To Karen

(Open on Easter)

Intrigued, I held onto it to open the next day, on Easter, like it instructed. And I subsequently forgot about it, again....apparently that is how I roll you guys. 

Anyway, I read the letter the day after Easter. And the next day. And the next day. Not because it was such a great letter but because I guess I still need to hear the wisdom of my 37 year old self. I want to be more like her again one day. (But maybe with a better memory and a better grasp on a few things!)

Here is what I wrote: 

3/5/14

Dear Self, 

There are 40 days in Lent and you are going to write a note every day to someone new. Day 1 is YOU! Of course, you are totally feeling that second glass of wine (it was totally worth it no matter what you think tomorrow!) but you have to know some things so I (you) am going to tell you. (Confused yet self?)

First, you need to fight for your family; for your kids, their needs, for the things that are going to build memories and connect you. The time is NOW. Get movin' Girl!

Secondly, eat the damn cookie already! You are running 50+ miles a week. I am pretty sure it won't be a problem. Stop thinking about it and just do it. Then you will have more time to move on to bigger and more important things. Don't get stuck on the cookie!

Third, people need you. Stop your constant inner struggle with "figuring out your purpose" because you are living it! Start acting like you, your purpose, and path are in front of you because THEY ARE!

Finally, relax a little and remember to love--Love your life, your husband, your kids, your family and friends and the strangers you run into on the street. These are the moments that life is made of; these are the greatest and least and everything in between and you will do well to love as much as you can. Take a deep breath and just relax. You are doing just fine. (So long as you don't get paralyzed by that cookie!)

Much love, 

Your Self

So today, remember: Don't get stuck on the cookie! And honestly, there are a lot of cookies in this lifetime! 

Cheers!

Open Letter to Fellow Parents

 Dear Fellow Parents, 

I know you love your children. I know you want to protect them and keep them safe and all that stuff. I get it. I have kids, too. A lot of them actually. But, we need to have a little chat about Middle School drop off. You see, when your child was 5 and 6, and you insisted on driving up exactly in front of the school door to drop off your precious cargo, we all understood. We were all there, making sure we saw our little angels walk into the building so that we could drive away with emotional ease. Afterall, they were babies then. 

Two years later, we were encouraged by the teachers on Drop-Off duty at the Elementary school to let our kids out earlier; there was even a sign back then: Drop off Kids After this Point (or something like that) letting us know, "It's ok, mom and dad; your kids can safely walk from here. We are here to make sure they get into the building." And many of you understood and readily dropped off your kid at the sidewalk, letting them walk a few extra feet into the building. You did it! They made it! And we all went about our day, happily ever after. 

But now, dear parents, your child is a 7th or 8th grade teenager, and I have to ask, how did you forget all those years of drop-off training? Even my kid living with Autism eagerly jumps out of the car 4 or 5 cars back because he knows he can do hard things.....things like, I don't know, walking an extra 20 yards into the building. I imagine, one day, he may even tell his own children how he quickly jumped out of the vehicle and rapidly walked those extra yards on a slick, salt covered sidewalk, through 14 degree weather, wearing his pandemic mask, just to get into the warm building. It is building his character and who knows, maybe even making him a little more grateful to be able to go to school. And yeah, I know, sometimes the kids are reluctant, and haven't slid over to the drop off side of the car quick enough, or are struggling to get their stuff together or are being, gasp, difficult.....we've all been there. It happens....but not every gosh darned day!

I promise you, it won't kill your kid if they get out BEFORE they are the first car in line. I suspect, it may even make them a wee bit less soft. But really, you've got this. Your kids will survive....if only you would let them! And then one day, they will be able bodied enough to get to High School all by themselves. These are the days we have been working towards, Parents! We've got this! We are in it together! 

All the best, 

That Mom behind you who has been waiting for 4 cars to drop off kids right at the front of the line (my kid has been safely inside for minutes!)