Internet Grapes

Some days I am full of hope about so many things that might become reality. A new home to live in, one we can make our own and love and settle down in. A move going smoothly. A new type of job training - in fact, TWO new types of job training! New friendships growing closer. Old friendships continuing, being revitalized. New habits about eating and exercising, not just for me, but for the whole family. A new sense of self-worth & self-esteem. More financial stability. Continued closeness and time with family. 

And oh, when I reach the end of these days? I realize that it is exhausting to be so hopeful. It is exhausting! I had temporarily gotten used to being quietly sad, resigned to lack of fulfillment. (This is much less draining.)

Broken, Breaking, Breakdown. Better?

Here are some things I have been thinking about lately.

1) Why Lying Broken in a Pile on Your Bedroom Floor Is a Good Idea.

"You know that feeling when you have just gone through a breakup, or lost your job, and everything is terrible and terrifying and you don’t know what to do, and you find yourself crying in a pile on your bedroom floor, barely able to remember how to use the phone, desperately looking for some sign of God in old letters, or your Facebook newsfeed or on Glee, finding nothing there to comfort you? Come on, yes you do. We all do. And there is a goddess from Hindu mythology [Akhilanda, the Goddess of Never Not Broken] that teaches us that, in this moment, in this pile on the floor, you are more powerful than you’ve ever been.

"But this isn’t the kind of broken that indicates weakness and terror. It’s the kind of broken that tears apart all the stuff that gets us stuck in toxic routines, repeating the same relationships and habits over and over, rather than diving into the scary process of trying something new and unfathomable. Akhilanda derives her power from being broken: in flux, pulling herself apart, living in different, constant selves at the same time, from never becoming a whole that has limitations.

"The diamond is whole and complete and BECAUSE it’s fractured, it creates more diverse beauty. Its form is a spectrum of whirling color....That means that this feeling of confusion and brokenness that every human has felt at some time or another in our lives is a source of beauty and colour and new reflections and possibilities....All the places where you’ve shattered can now reflect light and colour where there was none. Now is the time to become something new, to choose a new whole. But remember Akhilanda’s lesson: even that new whole, that new, colourful, amazing groove that we create, is an illusion. It means nothing unless we can keep on breaking apart and putting ourselves together again as many times as we need to. We are already “never not broken.” We were never a consistent, limited whole. In our brokenness, we are unlimited. And that means we are amazing."

(How long do you need to be broken? How many times? After you've been broken repeatedly, do you get to feel amazing? Or do you just have the knowledge that whether you feel like it or not, you are?)

2) This Story Corps story of Jennifer & Grant Coursey, mother and son. Son Grant was diagnosed with cancer when he was a toddler, went through multiple surgeries, and is now cancer-free. Grant says: "I've got big scars all over my back from getting cut open, and whenever that kinda starts to twinge a little bit, like if I touch it wrong or something like that, it just kinda reminds me I'm lucky. Life is really good." 

3) Adventures in Depression. "While crying helplessly into my pillow for no good reason, I would often fantasize that maybe someday I could be one of those stoic badasses whose emotions are mostly comprised of rock music and not being afraid of things. And finally - finally - after a lifetime of feelings and anxiety and more feelings, I didn't have any feelings left.... And that's how my depression got so horrible that it actually broke through to the other side and became a sort of fear-proof exoskeleton."

(Have I told you about how, for awhile, I felt like the girls and Geoff would do better with a complex Robot-Mom/Wife than with me? I do not, however, have a fear-proof exoskeleton.)

4) Leonard Cohen's Anthem: 

"Ring the bells that still can ring 
Forget your perfect offering 
There is a crack in everything 
That's how the light gets in."

5) At the end of February, I took Katie ice skating for the first time. The first two times around the rink, she clung to the railing the whole way, moved very slowly, and didn't fall at all. The third time around she started falling. She wasn't hurt, but she was upset to be falling when she hadn't fallen before. I told her that falling was a good sign, really, because it meant that she wasn't being so cautious. She was taking risks. She was getting confident enough to let go of the railing and stand on her own two blades. 

Well. Huh. 

6) The last time I was in Chicago, last fall, I had a few hours before I was scheduled to meet some friends for dinner. I decided to go to the lake shore, to the Rogers Park Beach, where I had gone so many times before. When I got close to the water, I took off my flip flops, and as I stepped into the water, I was overwhelmed with longing and loss and emotion of all kinds. Tears sprung to my eyes. (Chicago feels like my home, but is not my home. My home is in another city that does not feel like my  home.)

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I understand that a person who has never suffered (if such a person could possibly exist), would likely be a person less interesting, less complex, less compassionate, less appreciative, less [insert good quality here] than a person who has not. I know that breaks and falls and suffering and doubt are part of the human existence. To err is human, after all. I know that a greater amount of suffering, sadness, or depression can not be interpreted as a judgment against the person who is suffering or sad or depressed, just as a great amount of joy, ease, and contentedness can not (or should not) be interpreted as approval of the person experiencing those things. It rains on the just and the unjust, after all. 

And I feel ok right now. I feel like I am healing, actually. I do not feel like Robot Mom. I am silly and care-free on a daily basis. I have started making to-do lists again, a sure sign that a part of me is focused on the future and on my own power to create the future that I want to experience. But I am also realizing that as I heal, I am more vulnerable to my emotions than I was when I was at my lowest.

When I was running on empty, unhopeful, in despair, I had what was not an exo-skeleton, but something like a cushion that protected me from the force of the blows of normal disappointments. Lately I feel that I have stripped away the cushion, leaving myself bare and exposed to the elements. And oh, the warm sunshine feels so much better than it did when I was wrapped up in that cushion. So much more light getting in! But I'm also exposed to cold rain, to hail, to sharp thorns (not to mention sunburn; I do not want to be the goddess of never not broken; I would like to remain healed upon occasion). I am stronger, I think, and yet right now, with this fresh new delicate skin, the end of each day leaves me exhausted. Trying to be my most authentic me takes all the energy I have.

After the girls are in bed, I will sit and think to myself: what happened today to make me feel like I have survived some devastating ordeal? Oh, yeah. I made it all the way through the day. From beginning to end.

 

Slices of life

I have started volunteering at Annabel's preschool most Monday mornings.

It gets me out of the house and among other people on a regular basis. This is the kind of interaction that I used to get at work that I haven't gotten much of since we moved: with people who can be classified as friends/acquaintances/co-workers, who you see regularly and get to know better as you share the experience of working toward a common goal. They're not family. You don't have years of shared history full of mutual obligations, joys, and sadness. But they're not strangers. You are building a relationship that might stay arms' length but which also might grow and develop into something more. You can talk about your own lives if you have to, if you have time, but that is not why you're together. (The other place where I get this kind of interaction is through participating in the choirs at church.)

For at few hours, it gets me away from constant checking of email/instagram/text message/Facebook/Scramble or Words with Friends. Every time, without fail, it demonstrates these things: 1) I really like little kids, generally speaking; 2) little kids are weird, somewhat crazy, very trusting (they call me "teacher" even if they only saw me for the first time two minutes ago), endearing, often hilarious, and sometimes sneaky; 3) out of all of the kids, many of whom I like very much, Annabel is my favorite.

She's not my favorite during every single minute - like this morning when she was almost weeping and literally clinging to my pants while following me around the school - and of course I know her better than any other child there. So it's not really a shock that she's my favorite, and maybe that's the wrong thing to say, anyway - maybe what is really satisfying is just to see her in contrast & comparison to other little girls and boys, and to confirm that that personality that I like so much is uniquely hers. She is funny and silly and she is mostly cooperative. She is quick-witted and quick-minded and good at figuring things out. She interacts with other kids in a relatively gentle way (most of the time). She is curious about new things and eager to participate in new activities or old favorite activities.

Also, she really likes having me there, and will come up to me every so often just to tell me something nice, like today, when she came up to me, patted my cheek, and said, "You're my favorite mommy, and you're cute."

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A few months ago, inspired by a woman I sing in choir with who does this with her 3 older children (she also has an infant), our family has started a new once-a-week tradition. Right now I think we're doing it on Tuesdays, but when we first started it was on Monday, and then we had several weeks in a row where Monday didn't work, so we did it on Sundays. But it doesn't matter - it just matters that we do it at all, and do it regularly. Once a week I take one of the girls out to dinner at her choice of place, and afterward we go grocery shopping. The following week, I take the other girl out to dinner and then to the store. (I say "grocery shopping," but sometimes it's a trip to Target that happens to include a few groceries.)

They both like it a lot, but Katie especially loves it. Katie loves choosing a place to eat, loves helping to pick out groceries, loves her time with Mommy. But it turns out that she also loves another aspect of the routine that I had not expected: as much as she loves the nights that she goes out with me, she loves the nights when she stays home with Geoff just as much. She loves having my/his undivided attention to do something together. With me it's dinner and conversation, then shopping and more conversation, and with Daddy it's talking and playing video games together, and in either case, she looks forward to it with great anticipation. She'll tell me, "I like going with you, but I like staying home with Daddy too just as much. Does that make you sad?" And I tell her no; in fact, it makes me happy.

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Geoff got me an iPhone for Christmas, and I love it. I love everything about it, just about, from listening to music to checking my email (it's actually easier to check my two gmail accounts from my iPhone than from my computer) to looking up stuff on the internet to using the calendar and the timer to taking photos.

The impact my iPhone has had on my photo-taking is rewarding and wonderful, and though I can't say that that's surprised me (one of the reasons I really wanted an iPhone was to take pictures), I think it's been even more fun and easy than I anticipated it would be. Can I set my big DSLR on the steering wheel while I'm at a stoplight and take a quick photo? No. Do I sometimes feel awkward carrying my big DSLR into a restaurant or other public place to take photos? Yes. (And with good reason - sometimes people will hassle you about taking photos if you're using a big black camera, but if you're using your iPhone, they don't ever seem to care.) Can I stick my camera in my jeans pocket or coat pocket to carry it easily? No. On many days, do I just want to take photos to share them with family & friends and to document my life, rather than to create more formal art that can be printed out or included in my portfolio? Yes. Yes, many days I just want to take photos of the sign about aggressive geese because it makes me laugh, and because I've never seen anything like it before, rather than because I think it will make a beautiful or even significantly interesting photograph.

I have been taking photos every day (except one day), mostly without having to focus any real effort toward doing so. I'm on Instagram (go here to see the photos below in larger sizes) and Flickr if you'd like to follow along, and I am going to make an effort to include more photos here, too.

Here are my most recent 40 Instagrams. I look at them, and I don't think they are anything amazing, but I do look at them and think, hmm, a slice of life. A slice of my life. And not a bad life at that.

 

 

Lists

She asked me to tell her what my strengths are, and I started to cry, not because I don't think I have any, but because - I don't know - the exercise of listing my strengths provides such a juxtaposition to the way I've felt so often that I am overwhelmed with emotion. But I collected myself, and I said something like this:

I am compassionate. I have a good sense of humor. I am emotional, which I usually think is a good thing (as I thought about this later, I think that my strength is actually more the fact that I'm emotionally open). I am intelligent. I am fairly articulate. I am creative. I am loving and nurturing. I am kind.

And then, after a pause and a quick laugh: And I'm a good driver.

And what, she asked, did I want or need help me with? I want to be less fragile (more elastic). I want to believe, more often, that everything will be ok. I want to be confident about my own value, about my strengths. I want to feel good enough to have the motivation to do the things that I know will make me feel better but which I can't seem to get the energy (or caring) to do when I am feeling bad. I want to feel more in control of my daily schedule, to create more weekly/daily routines. I want to figure out what I want to do with my life.

We talked about the move to Fort Wayne, and what I miss most about Chicago: the variety, the amazing vast differences, the ability to explore my own city (especially with my camera) because there is always something to see, taste, listen to or experience that I've never experienced before.

She asked me what has brought me joy since moving to Fort Wayne, and I said that I had gotten a lot of joy from living in this house, with its fenced in back yard and blooming flowers and central air and two toilets and three bedrooms and the fact that I can go down to the basement to do laundry even when I'm in my nightgown, because I won't run into any neighbors. "And the girls," I said, "and Geoff."

I have been thinking more about what has brought me joy in the past few years. Joy is a tall order, I feel. It's not contentment or a quick laugh: it's those moments when life stands still and you are overwhelmed with how blessed & lucky you are, right at that moment. Your heart runneth over. 

Here is a longer list of the causes of my joy:

• Katie doing well in school; Annabel loving school; the funny things they say;
• The way the girls are with their dad, with their grandparents, with their cousins, with their aunt & uncles; the way they are with each other, when they are good with each other, which is more often than it used to be;
• All four of us sledding on the hill near our house last month;
• Singing in the choir (both choirs); singing a solo this summer; singing in the car; listening to certain music; Geoff playing music, especially when he is improvising; Geoff helping Katie play the piano; Katie playing a piece on the piano that she's worked hard to get right; Annabel singing along with a song I didn't know she knew
• Certain photographs I’ve taken; taking photographs in a place I find particularly evocative/inspiring; photo walks; photo sessions with clients & editing photos from those sessions;
• The kittens/cats; Molly dog;
• The show Parenthood;
• My new iPhone;
• Our Trip to England;
• Reading certain books, when I do it, which is not often enough (Little Bee, Poisonwood Bible, Room);
• Learning more about photography – going to Imaging USA;
• Writing, sometimes, when I do it, which is not often enough;
• Sitting in the back yard while the girls play in the pool or with each other;
• Days when things seem to fall into place - the house is clean, dinner is planned & ready on time, bedtime happens without any major snafu, I am able to be patient and understanding and gentle even in the face of whining and irritation.

I have realized that one reason I don't write much here is because I don't have confidence that what I have to say matters to anyone, not even me. But you know what? To hell with that.

Sunny day. I stopped and got out of the car on the way back home.

Is it winter, or the fact that we recently returned home from a long-anticipated vacation (which followed closely on the heels of much-anticipated Christmas), or just the usual ups & downs of my mood? Or is it the particular circumstance of spending so much of so many days alone? The fact that my face is bloated and when I look in the mirror I don't recognize (or don't want to) the face looking back? Is it that I have so many goals but am not sure how to achieve them? Or is it that I just can't, after all this time, make peace with past goals and achievements and what came after (unfocused, adrift, despair, perceived failure)? It is time to move on, to stop thinking "what if" in terms of past events that cannot be undone, to find my hopeful mojo about my own future. I used to think that I could do anything I wanted if I put my mind to it, and I find that these days I no longer believe that. But surely there are still some aspirations that I can turn into realities. There was a man in my law school class who turned 40 during our first year of law school, and I did not think that his starting a brand new career at his age was foolish. "Big deal," I thought. And yet this year I will be 42, and so often I think, "there is no time for that." I want to find a way to appreciate the okayness of the present while also being able to cherish the beloved moments of the past and look forward to the challenges and triumphs of the future. There will be triumphs, I tell myself, and I hope that I'm right. I try to think of a word for the year, but it doesn't come.

But now I think: Go. (Maybe this is my word.) Go. Or possibly: Do. Or maybe even just: Be.