Internet Grapes

It's true.

I am sitting in the office, as we call it. It's a tiny room at the top of the stairs. It has no door. It has an insane racist-seeming unfinished mural on one wall (it's this, except the previous owners were painting it right on the wall, and significant portions of the person are only outlined in pencil) that I have yet to paint over. I have plans, though, for this room. I want to paint the ceiling white and the walls a bright summery day blue. The room has no door, and I think I will like walking up the stairs and seeing that bright happy blue as I come up.

It's cloudy outside, so I have the lamp on. Geoff is in our bedroom taking his regular Sunday afternoon nap. The girls are both in their bedroom (they share a room) watching tv. They are both due for some serious cleaning today, whether that's a bath or a shower. After I get up from the desk, and/or after their show is over, I will go run a bath for one or both of them. They fight so often about so much - and so little - that I expect them to balk at doing things like this together, but the truth is that for as much as they irritate each other, they both seem to want to get along, and so if I do run a bath for only one of them, for instance, it is usually only a minute or two before the other one comes along, says she's changed her mind, and starts stripping off her clothes to get in. 

I love both of those girls very much. 

There are so many things about this house that I would change if I could. We closed on the house at the end of May, and then in June (thanks to funds from Geoff's family) we had the hardwood floors uncarpeted & refinished, and then at the end of June we actually moved in. As we house hunted, this house was one of my favorites, but there were at least 2 others available at the same time that I liked so much more. We ended up here, though, for financial reasons, and I struggle with how to feel about it: we have a house that's mostly quite nice; no, it's not ideal or even my own personal ideal (which is not the same as ideal for everyone - at least one of the other houses I liked was just about ideal as far as I'm concerned); but there is much about it we like a lot, and as time goes by, we will have time to make changes, and money to make changes or add things, and so anyway, the point of this ridiculous sentence is that I struggle to be content, not only in general, but also about this specific house which is our home now. It will still take an hour or two (at least) to clear out the rest of what's in the garage enough to allow us to park at least one (but prefereably two) cars in there. The living room is 95% painted, the entryway probably 50%, and the stairwell maybe 66.667%. Or so. The den is probably 85% painted. The primer for the office that I'll need to use to make sure to completely cover up this hideous and slightly offensive mural has been purchased. 

This weekend I finally sewed a cafe curtain for the kitchen with fabric that I bought online months ago. I hung them up yesterday, and every time I walk into the kitchen since then, I can't help but notice them and the change they make in the room, and every time it makes me happy. I have decided that it is ok to be happy - and to show it! - about little things OR big things, even when other little things OR big things are not okay. Feeling the whole entire gamut of emotions on any given day, that's me. 

I will take that, though. I spent a good amount of recent time quashing the extreme emotions on either end, working to numb myself so that I'd be able to keep putting one foot in front of the other without tripping and falling down or collapsing from exhaustion. It is better, now. (On occasion, I read about someone who has committed suicide, and while I was not close to that, I admit that I feel a sense of recognition now that I never felt before, and a renewed sense of amazement that no, I really did feel as bad as I felt - so bad that part of me has a hard time believing that that person was me.) 

I'd like to knock out the wall between the living room and the den. Geoff has a grand piano, and with that in the living room, there is so little room left over. It's a small room. The den (intended as a first floor bedroom) is similarly small; without buying furniture that we mean to use specifically in that room (like a sectional, perhaps), neither room offers comfortable seating for all four of us in the family at once. The basement is "partially" finished, which really translates into mostly unfinished; a few months ago, over half of the "finished" drop ceiling fell down because it was only held up with little wires twisted around each other. (I don't believe the previous owners should have been doing-it-themselves quite as much as they did.) The girls have to share a bedroom which is not tiny but is weirdly shaped, and with a slanted ceiling. For now, Annabel sleeps on a mattress on the floor underneath Katie's loft bed. It seems to work for them, but it is not ideal. The dining room is fine but plain, and we don't have enough storage in it; there are always piles of stuff on chairs or on the table or even on the floor. We haven't yet found furniture that we'd like to have in there that we can afford to buy. 

But the colors in the kitchen make me happy. The girls don't seem to care at all about their bed situation. I like the way the house looks so much more than I did when we moved in. It does not have everything I want, but it does have everything we need, plus some things that we don't. We have 3 toilets, our own washer & dryer, a good sized yard and a back deck where we ate supper in the warm weather.

My therapist, Ruth, who I have been seeing since last February, listens to me talk and watches me cry, and at the end of one recent session, she got up, pulled out a mirror, spent a good solid minute cleaning it off, and then brought it over to me. She held it up in front of me, and I looked in it, and half-smiled, and didn't know what she wanted to show me. She asked me if I saw what she saw, because what she saw was a beautiful woman, and she had a feeling that what she saw might not reflect (see what she did there?!) my own reality, and didn't want to say anything that discounted the truth of my own experience, but, she said, that whole session she had been sitting there, listening to me, watching me, and thinking, over and over, how beautiful I was - the sparkle in my eyes and the shape of my face and even the arch of my brows, and finally she just thought that even if I wasn't able to see it for myself, that I should know how she felt and what she saw. 

She is often amazingly good at knowing what to say. 

***(It reminded me of this entry, from 10 years ago:

"You're beautiful," Geoff said to me.

And I didn't argue with him, even though I normally do, because right then I was happy about the way I looked, and we smiled at our reflections and the reflections of each other, and then he started to walk toward the door.

"Wait," I said. "Look at me! I look cute right now, but it's going to go away."

"No, it won't," he said. "You just won't see it."

I don't know why those words rang so clearly in my head, but they did then, and they do now. I don't know why those words, and that memory, seem related to the memories of Thursday night, but they do. I guess it's just such a sweet relief to believe that the person I'm going to marry can see beauty when he looks at me, even on those days when the only things I see are red spots or red eyes or gray hair or dark roots.  Even when I can't see it in myself.)

If I've come to peace with anything, it's that I will always be doing this - this trying to find peace, trying to find contentment, trying to value what's good and ignore what's not ideal, taking time to love my loved ones - and trying to make sure that one of those loved ones is me. I will never be done. I do hope for more than we have right now - mostly I hope for more financial stability and a satisfying career for me, but I admit that I'd also like to get a few more nice pieces of furniture and to drop more than a few pounds. But I am working hard to be patient, because I do feel so much better, so much better than before. It's true. 

 

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.

 

joy in my heart

Originally posted elsewhere back in April of this year, but I find myself re-reading this and trying to take it to heart especially now, in the holiday season.

Dear me,

Not very often, but sometimes, as you are busy remembering what's gone wrong before or predicting what will go wrong later, it is all you can do to keep going, but you must. Do not stop. Continue: to put one foot in front of the other, to give your loved ones hugs, to help your children get dressed in the morning, to do the grocery shopping and the laundry, to think about what you want to do with your life (to believe that you have a choice about that), to pick up your camera and leave the house, to clean the toilet and the litter box, to stay in contact with your friends, to go to choir rehearsal and sing your heart out.  Keep going through the motions, and fake it until you make it, whether that only takes the next five minutes, or the next hour, or the next day, or the next week. There will come a point when real pleasure and ease return. There will come a day when you feel real joy.

Let this stand as a reminder to yourself. The real pleasure and ease and joy: they will always return. 

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A week or so ago, I had an argument with Geoff (or rather, the argument had us). I was talking to him, thinking that he was listening even though he was sitting in front of his computer, because he was making occasional reassuring type listening noises ("uh huh" and "yeah" and "oh"). There came a point when I discovered that he wasn't listening at all, had possibly not heard a word I'd said, and I felt so stupid for talking to myself, for not being able to tell whether he was actually listening or not. I stopped mid-sentence and walked out of the room and upstairs to bed, but then I wasn't sleepy, and so what followed was one of those fights that's about nothing and everything at the same time. Unlike most of those types of arguments we've had, though, this one ended with both of us calm and comforting each other. Geoff admitted he was worried about the music at church for Easter Sunday, and had been trying to finish with a piece he was working on when I was talking to him. I sympathized and comforted and told him he's a brilliantly talented musician (because he is).  It was better, but still exhausting. Sometimes it still feels like we have a lot to worry about.

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These days, a specter of myself and (of what I see as) my failed career haunts me, telling me that I've brought shame upon myself and my family (all that debt; all that effort; all of this selfishness, wanting to leave that behind). Most of the time, I see right through her. I wave her away, I tell her she has no power over me, I tell her that a life pursuing what I love doing is better and more important than following through on something I don't love just because I started it. (And I remind her that I tried so hard, so unsuccessfully, for so long, to get a legal job despite the fact that I didn't love it.) I tell her she's a jerk and a liar, and sometimes I think that she is really, truly gone. But she is preternaturally patient, and so far she always returns. She waits as long as she needs to wait, until my guard is down, until I am vulnerable, until she can hurt me again. I am determined to outlast her. (I am taking an online class with Brene Brown & Jen Lemen called ordinary courage, on love, shame resilience, and worthiness. I hope for further healing.) 

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Our trip to London, which I will write about in more detail soon, was wonderful. I love London, and I loved being there. The trees were blooming, the weather was pretty much perfect, and the company (my mom and Katie) was excellent. There was this thing, though, that at first I had some trouble identifying. For awhile, in London, I felt one step removed from myself, and wondered whether I might be losing touch with my emotions - whether I had lost the ability to just feel, without worry, without doubt, without a sense of level-headed temperance. No matter how much beauty surrounded us or how intrigued I was by anything, a part of me stayed detached. So I did have a marvelous time. I did love the experience. But because of the circumstances (most notably, my beautiful and sweet but devilish seven year old companion), I was mostly unable to truly relax or to be completely wide open to what I was experiencing. This is ok, I think, but I am glad I have recognized it and named it. It is not a flaw in me.

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A week and a half ago our cat Lucy (the mother of the eight kittens who were born at the end of April 2010) was hit by a car in the middle of a street a few blocks away from our house. She was killed. Geoff and Katie and I have shed many tears over her. We buried her body in the back yard, between the fence and the back alley, and marked the spot with daffodils that we picked from our back yard. Lucy's life, and the birth of those eight kittens, was a joyful blessing to our family at a time when we desperately needed it. Her fur was the softest. Her eyes seemed the wisest. When we'd drive up to our house after having been gone for awhile, if Lucy was outside she'd be on the front porch waiting for us, and she'd stand up and pad over to greet us as we got out of the car. When I sat on the couch and watched tv before going to bed, she'd come over and lay on my legs, purring. I miss her. It's been almost two weeks, and Katie cries about her death almost every night, and apologizes when she cries. "You don't have to be sorry," I say, and most nights, I will stay there in Katie's bed next to her, petting her hair or rubbing her back or just letting one part of my body touch hers so that as she drifts off to sleep she will know that I'm there with her. Lucy is gone, but I'm not. I'm right here, sweetheart. I'm right here.

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A few nights ago, all of us were tired and grumpy, and Annabel kept saying "uh uh" in her whiniest voice, incessantly, over and over (as she does every day lately; a few days ago she said it so many times, and refused to even explain what she was saying it about, that I lost my temper and yelled at her, which made her cry so hard there was no way I could feel anything but regret and shame), and after Annabel was in bed, Katie was whining about everything, too. As Geoff and Katie and I stood in Katie's room, getting ready to tuck her in, I said something about the drawing Katie had done on her whiteboard, and she misinterpreted what I'd said as a criticism, which in turn hurt my feelings. As we stood there, frustrated and full of hurt feelings and disconnect, Geoff reached out to pull us both closer, but instead of feeling comforted, I suddenly had a flash of insight into the future between Katie and me. I was suddenly sure that when she is older, we will not get along, but instead the air will be charged between us, full of miscommunication and missed chances to reach out to each other. (I thought of Angela and her mother on My So Called Life, actually.) I cried about it a little bit then, and I cried about it later, about how much I will miss Katie when we aren't able to get along with each other anymore. Geoff says it won't be like that, but he doesn't know. Of course, I don't, either. But the possibility of losing Katie's friendly, easy companionship during her adolescent years has never felt real to me before, and now it does. 

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Saturday morning, there was coffee and playing in the backyard. We rehearsed beautiful music for the next day's Easter service, and we visited with friends from out of town. Later, the ingredients for lemon curd (for lemon cake, for Easter dessert) simmered on the stovetop, and the smell of lemons wafted all through the house. The very first spring tulip opened that afternoon in our backyard. Annabel & Geoff were napping. Katie & a friend were upstairs laughing. There was sunshine everywhere, after so many days of rain. And this is what sprang into my head: Joy in my heart today.

Despite everything! Despite everything I can think of that is sad and heartbreaking, still. Joy crashes into me, overwhelming me, drowning me, and I'm so grateful and amazed. 

I posted about this joy on Facebook, and then went back to making the lemon cake, and I started having second thoughts about posting about joy right there out in the open, for those 500 plus friends (or "friends," in some cases) to see. Should I delete it? Should I have written it? Am I ridiculous to think that my joy matters to anyone else, or is even real? 

I knew the right response to these doubts, as clearly as if I heard a voice telling me: it would be a waste, a great sadness, a tragedy, a huge loss, to ignore this joy. These moments of overwhelming joy don't come along that often for any of us, or at least not for me. If I had one of these moments a week, I'd say I was living a pretty joyful life. How wrong it would be to let any one of those moments pass by without recognizing that it is here!

Katie and her friend had gone to her friend's backyard to play, and while they were gone, I started working on the cake batter. They burst back into the house when I was almost done, just mixing in the last ingredient, and Katie asked if she could play in Chyanne's house, because Chyanne had Just Dance, and they could play it. I said yes, she could, and then she asked if she could have dinner at Chyanne's house, and I said yes to that, too, as long as she was invited, as long as it was ok with Chyanne's mom.  Chyanne said it was, and so I said it was ok with me, and the two of them shrieked with their own joy, bursting into huge grins, running from the house. I followed them to the door and watched them leaping down the sidewalk happily. "Bye!" I called, feeling bemused, and Katie called back a goodbye. "I love you," I said. She kept running alongside her friend, didn't turn her head, didn't look at me. But I heard her call, loud enough for me to hear, "I love you, too," and I was both comforted and devastated by the easy casualness of her declaration of love, by the way she is growing up and forming her own friendships that have nothing to do with me. Amazingly, joy continued to run through me as I watched them running down the block. I cried a little bit more, and then I went back into the house. A huge shaft of sunlight streamed through the dining room window and lit up the dust motes and pet hairs. Only the sunlight mattered to me.

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Dear you,

You don't remember exactly when it was, the last time you felt this kind of joy. You don't know when it will come again; do we ever? When it comes - when it is here - you owe to it yourself to grab hold of it, to hold it close to you, to let it overwhelm every other emotion that's going on inside you. (I am holding this joy. I am holding it tight.)

When joy comes, let it take your breath away. Let it drive its lightning bolt through the core of your heart (at least as deep as the moments of pain and despair have traveled). Let it make a mark on you that will last for hours, for days, or for weeks. If you are lucky, you will still be reeling in its wake, rocked slightly off balance, the next time that it finds you. If you are lucky, the joy of this moment will be your lifejacket in future times of grief, when the heaviness of loss threatens to drag you so far down that you will be lost forever.

If you are lucky, your joy will shock you, and make you cry real tears, and you will stand there open-mouthed for a second, and then you will laugh. 

You may be tempted to feel embarrassed about feeling your joy so deeply, especially on a day that looks so ordinary on the outside, but ignore that; this is not silly. This is not shameful. This is what life is all about. (Isn't it?  And if not this, then what?)

just how lucky you are

Sometimes it only takes a few words to bring home just how lucky you are.

After all, you have some new clothes that you just got at Target last month, and your kids do, too. You have been eating well: eating out occasionally, buying ingredients for pretty much whatever recipe looks good to you, even sometimes buying organic versions of produce or eggs or milk. You have meat when you want to, and sometimes you buy hunks of aged cheese just to eat with crackers when you feel like it. You watch movies & tv show episodes with your husband on Netflix, and your daughters watch tons of stuff, too. You & your husband have cell phones and laptops. You had enough to pay the bill for air conditioning in the summer, and you have enough to pay for heat now that it's approaching winter. You live in a whole entire house, just for your family of four, with separate bedrooms for everyone who wants one, and two bathrooms. You have had enough money to pay for gas for your car, even when you have traveled a little bit to visit friends or family. You have a semi-fancy camera & a couple of very nice lenses that work quite well. You have a very fine piano in your home.

And of course there are the blessings that are not material, like your health & the health of your family & friends, who you love very much (and who love you back), as well as your talents & abilities & interests, and enough time to indulge in them. There are so many of these kinds of blessings, too.

But you want more. Some wants are a little more serious (emergency savings, retirement savings, college savings, savings to buy a new car when the 13 year old car and/or 8 year old car need to be replaced, savings to visit your husband's family more than every 3 or so years) and some are not (an iPad, an iPhone, a newer & better camera, an external flash for your camera now that your old one broke, an XBox Kinect, a house just a bit bigger and nicer, savings for a real vacation one of these days). You suppose, when it comes down to it, that you will always want a little more.

You also fear that what you have now may not last. Who knows when that part-time job you have will end? It could be any time, really, or not for months, or maybe even not for years, but there's no telling. You suppose, really, that that's kind of always the way it is.

It's getting close to Christmas time now, and you worry a little bit about how you will afford to buy Christmas presents for your loved ones, but you know that you'll at least be able to buy a few things. You know that Santa will bring your little girls some presents, and you've already bought them each a gorgeous, fancy dress to wear on Christmas Eve (and the rest of the year, when they feel like being dressy), as well as a few other small things. You know you will have to be careful with what you buy, but you know that no one will go without. It will be ok. You will have a warm, lovely, happy Christmas, you are certain.

The church you attend, where your husband is employed, is sponsoring two families through a "giving tree," where each member of each family has put together a wish list of items that they'd like to receive. You know that these families don't have much; without the presents from you and the other members of the congregation, it is possible that these families wouldn't have much for Christmas at all. In mid-November, you approach the tree and read the labels on the tags. The tags specify not only the item the person wants, but also the age & sex of each person, as well as their clothing and/or shoe size if the item requested is clothing or shoes. Some of the kids want toys. Several people want clothing or warm winter outerwear. You see several requests for gift cards.

But the one that really gets you - the one that brings tears to your eyes immediately, is the tag for a 50 year old female whose Christmas wish is for panties, size 10. So you cry a little, and you pull the tag off the tree (along with one of the ones requesting a toy), and in your mind & heart you send heartfelt sympathy to this woman, and you hope her life has been filled with not only trials and difficulties, but also joy and love. And you go to the store and you buy her some of the prettiest, most comfortable looking pairs of underwear you can find, and you hope that she likes them very much.

this is the one for my Belly bee baby

She talks up a storm, and you can't grin at her without getting a smile back.

She's very bossy ("stand up! or I won't sing to you!"), is constantly singing or talking, and will repeat the same things over and over. (Every time she puts on her shoes, she'll say, "Is this the wrong feet?" I'm not sure what the answer is supposed to be, because when I say no, it's the right feet, she'll often switch them, but she also usually switches them if I say yes, it's the wrong feet.)

She lets us (and we do) call her Belly and Bel all the time, but if someone refers to her that way, she'll protest, "No, my name is Annabel."

She has a terrific, always-at-the-ready sense of humor, but is intensely serious if she's focused on something.

She loves going to school, which until recently she called "sook" and then "soolk," because it took her until a few months ago to conquer any dipthongs involving s's (i.e., she used a "foon" to eat her cereal, worried about whether food would be "ficy," and wanted me to push her on the "fing").

When I first started writing this (back in the summer, months ago now), I wrote that I didn't know how we would get her weaned from her beloved binky. I wrote:

Last night she had one in her mouth while she was taking a bath, and later it disappeared. I couldn't find it right away, so I pulled a second one off of our bedroom dresser and gave it to her. Then we brushed her teeth, and suddenly she was binky-less again, so I told her - frustrated - that was it, that was all the binkies, she had had two of them and now there were none, so she was just going to have to sleep without a binky. She sighed sadly, whined that no, she wanted a binky, and when I said that it was too bad, but she was going to have to do without, she started to sob in earnest. I asked her why she was so upset, and she said, "I'm crying because I'm sad because I want to sleep with my binky!"

I have talked to lots of people about how they got rid of the pacifier, and they include: 1) simply saying that they are now too old for a pacifier, and that is that; 2) purposely breaking the pacifier (usually by cutting the end off so it can't really be sucked, at least not enjoyably, I guess) and then explaining that it was broken - this seems to often culminate in throwing the broken binky in the trash; 3) creating an elaborate scenario about sending the old pacifiers to needy babies in other parts of the world and/or about having them taken by some sort of Binky Fairy who leaves a present in exchange. No one has so far admitted that they or their child has had a difficult time giving it up, so maybe it won't be as hard as I think it will. But Annabel is committed to what she wants, has a memory like an elephant, and is very matter-of-fact about what she knows. For instance, I am 100% confident that if her binky is broken, she will simply instruct us to go to the store to buy a replacement, and that will most definitely not be the end of that.

But now I think that one of these days she will just decide to give it up when she is good and ready. Shortly after writing the above, I told her that we had a new rule: the binky was only allowed in the car and in the crib - nowhere else. I expected her to protest, if not initially, then later, but nope. Surprisingly, she has never once challenged that rule, not until last week, when she suddenly announced, "I'm a mom now, so I don't need my binky in the car. Just for sleeping." (She's a mom to her doll Sally, which is actually Katie's doll, and on a regular basis Katie will say, "Ok, Annabel, tomorrow I am going to play with Sally, ok?" And Annabel will say ok, but then when tomorrow comes, she refuses to hand it over, and since Katie gives in, she gets it for another day.) She hasn't asked for a binky for anything but sleeping since then.

Katie is so often my reflection, for good and for ill. She looks a lot like me. She goes through somewhat wild and obvious roller coasters of emotions, all worn on her sleeve - so much like me. She is also eager to please, and would try almost anything if she thought it would make you laugh or would make you like her. She wants everyone in the world to like her, and she is deeply hurt if she knows that someone doesn't. Her speech is rarely matter-of-fact, but is more likely full of hyperbole - again, for good or for bad.  She'll swing from "you never want to play that with me" to "you're the best mommy in the world" within seconds. Katie is so much like me that usually, even when I don't like how she's acting (especially when I don't like how she's acting?), I understand it. This doesn't necessarily mean I'm more patient with her, though; often I think I'm less patient with those flaws of her that I'm already so tired of and frustrated with in myself.

If Katie is my treasured not-exactly-doppelganger, Annabel is my cherished mystery, so often surprising and delighting me.  She is different. She is straightforward, and she will not be manipulated into doing something just because we'd like her to; she'll do it if she wants to, thank you, and not otherwise. I am not too worried about Annabel succumbing to peer pressure when she is older (Katie, on the other hand, I can easily imagine going along with something that she doesn't really want to do if she thinks it might make people like her). Annabel is even keel, especially for a 3 year old: when she's at her most upset, she'll scream and fuss and protest loudly, but two minutes later, she'll be calm again. Well, that didn't work, I imagine her thinking. Might as well move on to the next thing.

She will hardly ever be persuaded to agree with you, though, if she started out disagreeing, or if you believe something that directly oppposes what she wants to do. My mom was here for Thanksgiving, and at one point she went into the bathroom and started to shut the door. "I don't want you to shut the door," Annabel said. "I want to see you when you're in there." My mom told her that she'd rather have privacy and be alone in the bathroom, but Annabel insisted on coming in, and my mom relented. "Ok, but at least come in and shut the door," she told Annabel. Annabel went in the (tiny) bathroom and shut the door behind her, and I heard my mom say, "I like to have privacy when I'm in the bathroom." I could picture Annabel nodding in a placating way as she said, "Yeah, sometimes you do." (I laughed out loud when I heard that.)

She can be very sweet when she feels like it, and she has a very definite sense of her own strength and value. The other day she told me that when I am sad and she talks to me that it makes me feel better, and today when I was whining & actually crying in frustration over a stupid computer issue I was unable to solve, she came over to me, said "I love you," and gave me a hug.

Up until she was 10 months old, she was a pretty terrible sleeper, waking up more than 4 or 5 times a night until well after she was 8 months old, and still waking up at least once every night (and often 2 or 3) until April 2009, at which point I was diagnosed with pneumonia and was prescribed antibiotics that were not breastfeeding friendly. After 2 or 3 nights of Geoff being the one who went to her in the night, she apparently decided that it was simply not worth waking up if she was only going to be offered a bottle, and she started sleeping through the night. She has never stopped, and in fact her sleeping habits are still somewhat miraculous to us. Unless she's sick, she sleeps all night, every night, except for an occasional wake up from a nightmare, between 9 and 10 pm. If she stays up late or misses a nap? She makes up for it by sleeping in.  (This is the opposite of Katie, who routinely gets up before 6 if she's been up past 9 or so the night before.)

Have I written this before? About how before Annabel was born, there was a part of me that was afraid that I would not be able to love her as much as I loved Katie, but that instead, from the day she was born, I loved her just as much, just like that (which in a way seemed unfair, since Katie had already had more than 4 years to work her way into my heart; but I know that love doesn't always - ever? - work in a logical, incremental, rational way), just the way people had said it would be: I loved her as much as Katie (inasmuch as my love for either of them can really be measured), but in a different way.

I have not written nearly as much about Annabel as I have about Katie, and I have felt guilty about that (how motherly of me), as if by not documenting her amazingness, her quirks, her whimsy, her incredible vocabulary & her extreme gregariousness, that I am appreciating her less.  And honestly, in some ways, I think that might even be true: I look back now and read old posts about Katie and am reminded of things about earlier phases of her life that I would have forgotten about if I hadn't written it out. I am sorry that I haven't written more about the specifics of life with baby Annabel, but if Annabel ever reads this, I hope she knows that my not writing about her had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me (and a lot to do with how difficult the past few years have been, which have made it hard for me to write the way I'd like to have written).

If you read this someday, Annabel, I want you to know that I love you now, have loved you since before you were born, and will love you always and forever. I love the way you often greet me in the morning with an excited, "The bedbugs didn't bite me!" and I love how when I knock on your bedroom door, you call out, "Are you home?" I love the way you run so fast & so hard, so often, on your own or alongside your sister or cousins on their scooters or bikes. I love how determined you are and how difficult it is to dissuade you from doing something you've decided you want to do (even though your determination sometimes makes some days more difficult). I love the weight of your little body on mine when I rock you in your bedroom rocker at bedtime, and already I miss that tired, relaxed weight, since most of the time these days you are still wide awake enough at bedtime that instead you sit up away from me. I love how much you love school, how much you love drawing and cutting and pasting and folding, and how you can count to 16 in Spanish (and how today when we watched The Muppets you wouldn't stop repeating "Hola!" after one of the muppets said it). I love that your artwork is, first and foremost, for you: so often you bring home little personal art projects that consist of a piece of paper on which you've drawn, colored, or painted, that have then been folded a few times, glued together, folded more, then taped together on the outside. You won't let me open them up; you insist that the taped-up, folded-up version of the paper is exactly how it's supposed to be seen. I love how you go crazy for particular foods - the other day you ate 6 or 7 clementines in a row; some days you will eat 4 bananas one after the other, and you will never turn down a mashed, salted avocado with a few tortilla chips.

Oh, Annabel, I just love you, almost everything about you, so much. It is my hope and my belief that, regardless of what I write now or have previously written here, that you will already know how I feel about you simply from the history of our relationship with each other, but just in case there is any doubt: you are my sunshine, my entertainer, my stubborn & beloved little Belly girl, who impresses and delights me every single day.

Today you are 3 and a half years old exactly, and already I am so proud of the person you are. I feel joyous and blessed that I get to be around to continue to help you grow and mature as best I can, and to see how you change and develop. I am so very, very thankful that you're my daughter.

engage the world with grace

(This was posted in September 2011 elsewhere, but I'm re-posting again now here; it does fit in with the holiday season, don't you think?)

There was a older woman at the church in Chicago named Eleanor (not really her name, but I'm going to call her that here). For a long time, we didn't know her name; I think she introduced herself to me the first time we talked, probably, and maybe even the second or third time, but it didn't stick in my head. I knew her mainly as "that really nice old lady who walks a little bit hunched over and is always talking about how wonderful the music was in the service." Or something like that. We asked a friend what her name was, and although that person knew exactly who we meant, she didn't know the woman's name, either. Eventually we found someone who knew. Her name was Eleanor. When she was younger, she had sung in the choir. These days, her voice sounded a little like Edith Bunker.

Eleanor would often approach me and ask me how I was doing. She was full of compliments, sometimes about something I was wearing, but mostly just about me or the kids. She'd tell me I had such a nice smile, or say how beautiful or wonderful Katie was - at first - and then later, how beautiful or wonderful Annabel was, too. If she got a chance to speak with either of the girls close up, she'd tell me how smart she could tell they were. If she only watched them play from a distance, she'd tell me how big they were getting, how she couldn't believe they were so much bigger and so much more beautiful, and how much I must love them. During the time when we had two children, she seemed to always take time to compliment first one child, and then the other. When I was pregnant, she would ask me how I was feeling in what always seemed to be a very solicitous way, expressing sympathy over how difficult she knew pregnancy could be, and excitement and interest about the baby-to-be.

Eventually I found out that Eleanor was almost 90 years old, and I was surprised. I think I was surprised partly because of the way she talked to me; she talked to me the same way the other mothers of young children talked to me, as if we were cohorts or companions, going through life together, and although I knew that she wasn't actually my age, I guess I'd still thought she was maybe not much older than my parents. She never seemed judgmental or condescending. She always seemed kind. She would frequently reach up to pat my shoulder (she was short to begin with, and with her slight stoop, I am sure she was under 5 feet tall), and would always thank me for taking time out of what she knew was my busy morning to chat with her. I always told her she was welcome, and that I enjoyed it; the truth was, she was (and is) one of my favorite people at the church.

At some point, I realized that I wasn't asking Eleanor many questions about herself. Usually she'd approach me with a question or a comment, I'd respond, we'd go back and forth a few times, and then before the conversation could continue, she would thank me and walk away, saying she'd better let me go. The first few times, at least, I thought she was handling the fact that she had no more to say to me and wanted to go visit with someone else in a very gracious way, and maybe she was. But after this had happened a few times, I realized it was entirely likely that she was just trying not to bug me, and that if I continued the conversation, she probably wouldn't mind.

She attended the church regularly, but she usually came to the first service, and I usually came to the second, so sometimes months would go by without me seeing her. But whenever I did see her, she acted like she had spotted an old friend.

I started talking with Eleanor a little more, whenever I got the chance. I found out that she was the youngest of 8 children, and that all of her siblings had passed away, as well as both of her parents. She especially missed the sister with whom she'd shared a home for years, up until the sister died. She mentioned a relevant year in her life and how old she'd been at the time, leading me to do some quick math in my head - she was at least 89, possibly 90. These days she usually spent Easter and Christmas with her nephew in Wisconsin, and she enjoyed being with him and his family, but it wasn't home. She didn't drive herself anywhere anymore, she said, and she didn't want them to have to drive her home on Christmas Eve or on Christmas Day (since the trains didn't run late on Christmas Eve, and she didn't want to be a burden), so she spent the night there, and she appreciated their kindness, but she kind of wished she could be home for part of Christmas, even though she thought that if she did, she would be lonely.

I remember talking with her one day during a picnic Sunday service.  She looked off as we talked, asking where Katie was.  We spotted Katie over on the lawn playing a game with some other children, and Eleanor commented on how big Katie was getting. "Children are so wonderful," she said. "Your children in particular," and she smiled at me. I thanked her. "I only ever wanted to have 8 children," she said, laughing a little. "Since I was one of 8, I always thought that was the perfect number."

I smiled at her. "How many did you have?" I asked her.

She smiled back without bitterness. "None," she said. "I never got married, and then it was too late. But I love them. I love children."

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I have no specific reason to tell this story right now, or even to tell it at all, except that our conversation has stuck with me. The moment Eleanor said "none," my heart broke for her a little bit. I think of her, how she never showed me any sign of bitterness about her life, how she showed everyone around her such kindness, how she had (has) a quick sense of humor, a curious mind, an eye open to beauty. I think of her and I am inspired to appreciate my blessings, to try to ignore my losses, to be kinder to others, to engage the world with grace.