Don't say it out loud

I still work from home, part-time, so why am I so exhausted?  Yes, it's the holiday season.  Yes, I have kids.  But I have 1.5 - my daughter, and my step-daughter, the latter of the two only here half-time.  It's not like have 19 Kids and Counting.  And I have a husband who often works from home, and is therefore around to help with This and That.

And yet, at the end of the day, I 'flop' on the sofa and watch TV and think, "Thank GOD that's over.  Soon I'll be sleeping, but only after I lounge here and see if these idiots pick house #3."  I feel like I made it through  something, but.... Why will tomorrow be any different?  And what really did I get through, except being alive?

KP posted on Facebook a cocktail conversation question - if you could take a pill that would allow you to live forever, would you?  Some answered, 'If it was a gelcap,' or 'If I could keep my 29-year-old body.'  I replied something goofy, like, 'Are you crazy?  Who wants to be here the day the sun explodes?  Not this gal.'

When we went out to dinner, I asked her what her answer would be, and she replied, 'No WAY.  Death is the point.  You only get one shot and you have to be able to say you either did something with your time or you didn't.'  Good point.  I just can't imagine being here forever, but didn't elaborate.  She didn't ask.

I look forward to sleeping.

An unenviable place

There are numerous rites of passage in life.  When I was younger, I thought such rites were limited to the very small, but first steps and first words leap with lightening speed across time to the first lost tooth and first 2-wheel bike, and then even more dramatically to events like your first kiss and first car.  The universe of common experiences is vast.

As my college career waned, I realized there were other milestones my peers were beginning to experience.  Landing the first grown-up job.  Getting one's own place.  Having enough money to invest, or maybe go on vacation.  But none were so inspiring and influential among the fairer sex than that of getting engaged.  Now, as an awkward and introverted teenager, I had struggled to keep up with social norms.  While some girls had new cars waiting for them on their 16th birthdays, I waited tables at Friendly's till I could scrape together enough money to buy my own car - a 1981 Toyota Celica.  (My treat to myself: a wood bead seat-cover.)  And while other girls had boyfriends throughout high school and college, my one high-school crush went nowhere, and my first boyfriend in college was a creep who alienated me from my family and  pushed me around.

Once I left my polyester waitress uniform behind, I took up retail sales as I looked for my future direction (changing my major 4 times in under-grad).  I sold bridal gowns.  The girls who came in the store - from the overweight and pimple-covered to the pregnant and tattooed to the sorority sparklers - all seemed Together.  Confident and Complete.  Oh how I envied their places in life.  After all, who else gets engaged but women who have a defined sense of style, know who they are enough to be loved by someone else, and have enough intelligence to take care of themselves?

No one was more surprised than me to find myself among their ranks a few years later, engaged to a very nice man who would have been happy to take care of me for the rest of my life.  The trouble was, I realized you can get engaged without being confident or self-sufficient, and through a further series of missteps, I found myself at yet another milestone, and waaaaaay earlier than any of my so-called peers.  At 26, I was divorced.

As I spent the rest of my twenties as something of a sad celebrity, my dating exploits gossiped about 'round many a corporate water cooler, I watched colleagues and friends move on to other happy places.  While I went back for my graduate degree and found a one-bedroom apartment so I could finally be alone, the Married Ones were moving into great starter homes and getting pregnant.  When I could finally afford my own townhouse, the Career Ones were finding their mates and buying big houses to match their big salaries.  And when I realized I had finally found the Big Love with (appropriately for me) tragically poor timing, Those With Small Families were up-sizing their homes.  At that point, my life became so rocky I mentally checked out of the Keeping Up game.

Fast-forward ten years, and I am now in an unusual place.  While I think (hope, pray) that JBL and I have come safely through the worst part of our journey together, I am witnessing the fallout of unhappy marriages all around.  I've seen the gamut, and it is far from pretty: the ones without kids who chose an open marriage to keep their Couple Identity, the ones who are Staying Together For The Kids, the ones who Muscled Through divorce to find peace after years of struggling while managing the mental health of their children, and those who Just Snapped.  Each road taken has fundamentally changed all parties involved, and some are slowly killing the so-called survivors.

That last group is the most shocking because, in my world anyway, the ones who snapped are Those People you never thought would do such a thing.  Queue the trite cliches: They seemed so happy.  How could she walk away from her children?  I never thought he'd do that to her.  One of these Snappers is someone very, very close to me, and I've gotta tell you, it's taking a lot to quiet the cliches playing through my own mind and support this person.  Me, of all people.

So here I am, vindicated.  I've now been told, "I don't know how you did it," and, "that took a lot of strength."  It does feel somewhat better to know I'm not the only one, and to be able to say I understand when someone needs to hear it most, but I wish it didn't happen so damned often.  And to so many wonderful people.  Is it the right decision sometimes?  Absolutely.  But.  Divorce is a tragedy like death, causing a hush to fall over the room, and making strong couples to look at each other and wonder.  Watching people I love reach this place?  It's not where I ever wanted to be.

Things Posed

On the run today, I noticed that the leaves are just at the point of turning. It seemed odd that the day should be so warm when the leaden sky hung over trees beginning to slowly exhale their chlorophyll. The air should have had a hint of crisp to it. But I'll never complain about warm temperatures, even on an otherwise stereo-typically perfect October day.

I ran past a very orange ball sitting against a curb, nestled among newly fallen leaves under a maple tree. Looking at it, I suddenly remembered that there was a time during my childhood when I longed to be an inanimate object. I thought there would be nothing more perfect than to be a picture hanging on my own wall. I could watch the breeze push at my curtains all day when the real me should have been at school. I could watch the sunlight slowly move across the floor and feel the room change and warm throughout the day. I could see the dust collect on my turntable in the nook, and on the pink cushion in my hanging wicker chair over by the closet. The calm and peace of being perfectly still, absorbing stillness around me is a compelling prospect. And today, something made me want to be that silent, unmoving orange ball. Yes, that would be perfect.

Up on the road, I passed an abandoned gate flanked by crumbling stone columns, beyond which lay a small open area filled with overgrown stumps, dead trees and weeds. The dead trees were populated with at least a dozen turkey vultures, hunched with heads hanging low, contemplative. I can't even make that up. The scene was of things posed with a Halloween feel.

I pushed on, neither inanimate or posed, and but still wishing for stillness.

Emotion

I have wanted to write so much. There is so much to say. I only have time for one thing at the moment: I shared this last night with J, as an example of how music can evoke emotions, and I think she got it. And I was happy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cYCmUSDnxb4

(I have no time, but if I did, I'd figure out how to imbed this video. Maybe I'll come back to it.)

A Journey of a Thousand Miles

The running feels so easy, even on the hills, I am delighted to the point of ambitious optimism. I will do this every day, I predict (without pressure). The neighbors will see me and wave and smile. They will know me.

The mixture of emotions threatens to drown me, swirling, stinging. As I head down into the first valley where the stream is, I welcome the green cool, the humid gathering. The memories of J on her bike here just last month cause my heart to constrict. It's OK, though, right? As soon as the house is gutted and the rebuilding starts, we can bring her here with her bike all the time. It may be cold by then, but I want her to think of this as her neighborhood. I don't want her to get attached to the townhouse circle, packed with possible playmates though-it-may-be. To have her miss another house a year from now will be too much for me, for all of us.

Leaving behind the bramble and ferns, I crest the second hill on the loop and take in the smell of pines. I scoot under their shade and enjoy the crunch of dead needles under my slapping shoes. I gaze up the next hill, looking for the familiar giant poplars on my left. I memorize their gray trunks, wanting the feeling of belonging to greet me. I think of the discomfort of mosquitos, the disquiet of a house dreamed up by a couple who exploded their lives apart, and I pray I can find home in the remains of a tragedy - a tragedy on the end of which God stuck an exclamation point by introducing a lightening strike to a gas line with a pinhole leak.

I look up into the trees that hug the houses along the road. Gypsy moths have set up their tents in boughs that now droop heavily overhead. Their population is sparse compared to the parasitic bag worms I used to see in Woodbine, the interlopers who killed their hosts, and ruined their homes by living there. While I note that, in contrast, the gypsy moths simply mar the lush landscape, and only for a time, I refuse the impulse to dismiss them as unseemly. After all, who am I to disdain a creature who can only survive by opportunistic means?

I turn down 'my' lane. I stop at the turnaround point, bending to pull up delicate weeds protruding from among the wet mulch and shards of glass. The generator prods me to check on the fish pond before I turn and resume my run back....home.

Realization

"Mommy, when are they going to call us up?"

"What?"

"The band! When will they call the little kids up?"

J is barefoot on the basement floor. Her socks are balled up between the cushions of the leather couch in the corner, now occupied by a 40-something couple. The naked black lights have replaced the incandescent bulbs normally scattered over the ceiling of the 1500 square-foot unfinished area. Some of the card tables set out for dinner have been folded up and put away to make room for additional chairs and a dance floor. Christmas lights are strung around the ceiling where the band is playing, behind a row of microphones. Extra guitars are lying in wait against the wall, and against the drum set. A projector sends alternating psychedelic images against a wall as the strains of Iko Iko float through the room.

I stand behind her so she won't feel self-conscious if she wants to dance. Other children are pouring into the room from locations in and around the house. The dozens of adults milling about smile and let them through as they spin and swing blankets and stuffed animals around them. It is J's first house party with a band, and she has assumed that the kids will be called forth for an activity, as with all other parties she has ever attended. She has no context. I shake my head and smile.

Just a few hours before, I'd met Kevin. At that point J was in the moon bounce, and Kevin and his 11 year-old stood outside it with me, chatting. Eventually Sarah could resist no longer, and tumbled into the moon bounce with the smaller children. Kevin and I chatted on.

He has four kids, and Sarah is his youngest. She is a direct (and unusually tall) girl with earrings and a first attempt at makeup. Blue eye shadow. Her hair is cropped short, even in length all over her head, as though it had been shaved some time ago. None of the kids in the moon bounce comment on the anomalous style. She lunges over to the net facing us from time to time to connect with her dad. "I see you!" she grins. "I see you!" he laughs back.

Kevin lives - as many northern Virginians do - a substantial distance from his work, and laments the lost hours he has spent commuting on top of long work days. "Not anymore," he says, "I've cut way back." I nodded appreciatively, volunteering how happy I am to work from home most of the time. We discuss being 'done' with early childhood years. I complain un-seriously about K's teenage tendencies. We compare and contrast home schooling, public schools and private. We bond over other shared experiences, and I am surprisingly comfortable considering he is practically a stranger. I divulge insecurities and challenges surrounding my job as a stepmother. His voice is gentle and his eyes are kind, encouraging me. A smile barely leaves his face as we speak.

He even half-smiles as he lets on about Emily. His now-13 year-old was 11 when she was diagnosed with brain cancer.

Brain cancer.

The phrase punches me in the stomach. How could I have set aspects of my circumstances out for pity or appreciation when this man experienced such a thing with one of his children? My face crumples into concern as I listen to the story of months spent at Kennedy Krieger. Of relief now that the cancer has been conquered for the time being. He expresses through his easy demeanor that the hard emotions have been processed, and he is grateful that he and his family have come out on The Other Side. Blithely he changes the subject just as the party's hostess grabs me to make introductions to other friends. I wave to Kevin as I walk away.

A short time later Kevin and his wife pass. "I'd introduce you," he says with a conspiratorial smile, "but she'll talk your ear off, and we have to get going for Sarah's sleepover party!" Kevin's wife is talking to someone else as he disappears into the house one last time. I note that she has the same short-cropped haircut as her youngest, and is wearing a hoodie with cargo capris and Berkenstocks. A circular dragon tattoo adorns the outside of her right ankle. I shrug as the whole look assimilates in my mind. Then I turn to see Kevin coming down the deck steps with Emily.

She is frail and still nearly bald, and immediately it occurs to me that her sister and mother shaved their heads to match hers. My heart constricts as I absorb her effort to get down to the walkway, even as her dad gently guides her shoulders from behind. They approach me, along with Jon who is now at my side. I hope that my face registers the same normal, congenial smile as his.

"This is Emily," Kevin says. I quickly take in her earrings - studs like her sister's - and green eye shadow. I glance over her stylish skinny jeans and Converse Chuck Taylors. Uneasy with the yawning silence, I do what I always do. I talk to fill the void.

"Bon Jovi!" I remark, indicating her concert shirt.

"Not only did we see Bon Jovi," pipes up Kevin, "he actually signed her shirt!" He pauses to let us express the appropriate approval and appreciation. "Emily has actually been to lots of concerts. It's sort of her thing." For her part, Emily continued to look down and into the distance, holding her head still with an obvious effort.

All smiles now, I did what I always do with kids. I asked about something I hoped would make her happy.

"What's been your favorite concert so far?"

"Well," she replied slowly with a voice like that of the elderly Katherine Hepburn, "I wouuuuuullllld havvvvvvvvvve to sssssaaaaaayyy (long pause) alllllllllllll of themmmmmmm." She lifted her eyes almost to meet mine and let them drop again. Jon and I made murmurings of approvals, letting our smiles drift over her and up to Kevin. His look was almost apologetic, but strong. He then began walking Emily slowly down the long gravel driveway. His wife broke off her conversation to gather up Sarah and follow her husband down to the car. As they walked away, I noted a scar snaking up the back of Emily's head, from her nape to almost level with the top of her ears, and thicker than my thumb.

And I shook my head, realizing I have no context. I have experienced loss, and I have struggled to be a better person for both my girls. But I have no way to understand the depth of strength required to love a child through and after dealing with such trauma. Every day for the rest of their lives, Emily's cancer will be there like another person in the room, and will have to be dealt with whether or not it ever re-inhabits her body. Sometimes it may fade enough to be ignored, and clearly the family has done everything in their power to minimize its importance. But it will always be there.

Back in the basement, I watch J dance with her peers happily in front of the band (even without being called up). Occasionally she stops to catch my eye, making sure I am watching, that I haven't left. I soak in her healthy, shining joy. And I pray.

Lessons learned, the professional version

Boy, when I think about my plans to be done this government agency contract in February, I laugh and laugh. As of now, the first week of May, they have just told me they are pulling the plug, and I am not within sight of the finish line. I'm more like at mile 11 of this half-marathon, and the finish shoot is way over the hill behind a bunch of buildings (plus, those idiots on the sidelines screaming, "Keep going! You're almost done!" are liars of the highest order... but I digress).

It should be noted that only during the month of April did I begin to exceed the estimated number of hours expended on the analysis. That just tells you how much less I have worked on this than I planned. That said, I should have done a better job separating the forest from the trees.

I think mainly what I have learned is that I am not terribly good at just plowing ahead without planning, and really, no good consultant should be able to work that way. So it's no surprise.

I sincerely hope I can continue to work on on (smaller, finite) analysis projects because they stretch my brain in ways that make me happy. I have to say anonymously though that this particular agency has by far the most toxic, negative atmosphere of any organization I have ever worked with (8+). I will not miss that.

Anyway, I have '10 hours' to spend, though I will likely double that and eat the overage, to get my document to some presentable state. In all likelihood I will have to be done by next week at this time.

I wonder what it will feel like to not be frantic every morning when I wake up...

Irritating Things

Today I am irritated. I woke up exhausted, and struggled through the morning before succumbing to a power nap of insufficient duration. I think the smell of fabric softener kept me awake last night.

You see, since our house has sold, things have been breaking. First it was the hot water heater (confusingly named, as a friend pointed out, as hot water should not need to be heated). Then it was our RO system. There are probably several other things that went awry, but the most notable was the dryer. So what? Hang the clothes out on a clothes line, like they did in days of old. No big deal. But clothes that haven't been through the dryer with its accompanying dryer sheets are not soft and fluffy. No. They are coarse and crinkly.

But I, being a woman of vast and varied experiences, recalled my mother using liquid fabric softener, so requested that JBL procure some at the Ace where he also picked up the clothes line and pins. Following the directions on the Downy bottle, I put half of a cap-full in the washer's dispenser. The first time. This load smelled vaguely of fabric softener. For the second load, I was feeling emboldened and followed the instructions more closely, 'topping off' the softener in the dispenser with water. I basically took the softener cap and ran it under the water filling the basin and dumped it into the dispenser. This rinsing-out effect of the cap somehow quadrupled the amount of softener, or somehow magically enhanced the strength of its perfumes. The shirt I slept in (and am still wearing, because that's how I roll on days when I work from home) smells so powerfully of softener that I want to pass out. I want to, but I can't because the scent is so strong. See my conundrum?

At least the shirt is incredibly soft.

(And don't get me started about the crackers I ate for lunch - from a box that apparently was dropped several times - that broke into crumby shards every time I tried to schmear them with peanut butter. Or the fact that I have this for an earworm today.)

What I didn't miss

What I didn't miss by running outside today:

PERFECT SPRINGTIME

Last week in D.C. they celebrated the cherry blossoms, but it was still fairly cold and gray just a few towns north, up here. Today we caught up. Pear and cherry trees were in full bloom. I could barely comprehend the color of the spring grass on the fields around me, electrified by the sunlight. The air was balmy with the slightest of breezes. On the roadside there were bright yellow forsythia and unintended patches of grape hyacinth. Small white butterflies meandered with great intent but without great efficiency toward some goal just over the hill.

At the bottom of the road lay, of course, a river, and it moved thick and slow in the afternoon sunshine, its banks strained though happily containing the bounty after the recent rains. In fact everything around me appeared grateful.

A HILL TO QUELL THE INNER CRITIC

Though my overall pace was less than impressive, my run downhill on Gillis Road truly felt like flying. The return trip was more challenging, to be sure, but gave me time to appreciate the quiet and placid day. Above my heavy breathing I observed a Canadian goose staring motionless at a small pond bordered by cattails - still brown from the winter - but with reed shoots fresh and green enough to - maybe - protect a small nest of hatchlings.

On the south side of the hill there was a large swath of tall pines, under which grew the first of the may apples, unfurling their leaves like little beach umbrellas. Closer to the stream were the beginnings of tiger lily leaves, bright and hopeful.

As the minutes dragged on and my legs began to burn with my lungs, I observed the cornfield on the north side of the road. Its trimmed dead stalks from last year were softened by the grass and weeds filling in the lanes between the rows. What just a week or two ago appeared like a graveyard of sorts now looked like a renewal, or a burst of something about to happen. I pictured pulling on those stalks to get me to the top of the hill.

A REMINDER OF THE SOCIO-ECONOMIC CONDITION OF MY ZIP CODE

As I neared the crest of Gillis, I heard a chain saw making short work of trees felled by recent storms. Its smoky, oily scent carried me quickly back to my childhood, and I could see my dad, sweaty and dirty in his t-shirt and shorts, cutting through large chunks of poplar, queuing them up for chopping on their inevitable journey to becoming firewood.

Further on I noticed a teenager pushing a lawnmower for perhaps the first time this year. He was fish-belly white and shirtless, and his capri-length baggy denim shorts covered the front of his privates (though precariously low) while allowing his entire ass to be exposed. Lucky for his boxers. But the effort to keep his pants from falling off entirely made his gate bow-legged and awkward. In front of his trailer, his progress was slow.

Closer to 94, I noticed a young woman emptying out a storage shed behind a squat and square cement house. Next to a mangled bike of unknown vintage, in place long enough to have grass growing tangled through its bent spokes, she set a poorly framed airbrushed rendition of a lion's head, tinged lavender. An older woman (her mother?) sat bra-less inside her red car, door open so her feet could rest on the ground. They spoke in animated tones.

GIFTS UNCLASSIFIED

As I approached my neighborhood, the sun's angle became low enough that its rays illuminated long spider webs, recently laid then liberated from the grass and floating like baby's hair in the afternoon air.

All the houses in my development sat prim and clean, nestled in their freshly-mowed lawns and landscapes trimmed with willows and knockout roses. Their cookie-cutter visages seemed excited for the weather like three-year-olds at a princess birthday party. They welcomed me.

Days like today make me want to name crayons and hug strangers and kiss the sun. Runs like today make me deliriously happy and thankful for my strong legs and lungs and heart. What a treat that I didn't miss any of it by taking myself for granted. Amen.

Losing it

Ah, yes. Real focus happened (so far) today, and I feel great. Now if only I had the whole day to start again so I could work on my *other* job before I start my mom gig. And exercise. Wait a minute, now I'm starting to feel overwhelmed again. AGH! AGH! AGGGHHH! (picture me running away, waving my arms)

Early Spring

I figured it all out on the run today. Bear with me while I babble crazy stuff.

Don't be confused about God and winter and destruction. God isn't about keeping you from being hurt, or giving you what you want, or punishing people for doing the wrong things. Easter may still be about eliminating the fear of death. But God is certainly about volcanoes and floods and forest fires. Lightening strikes and dying stars. What happens after these tragedies? Everything.

Everything keeps happening and moving and growing. Plants push up through ashes. Beautiful canyons are carved out where millenia before there were great oceans. New planets form out of the combined molecules that comprise metals and dust kicked off by the spent star that used to be the center of a solar system. Those molecules that were once simple hydrogen.

There's no remorse for the loss of what came before - only the continual opportunity for new somethings to exist. God is about endless second chances.

+

On the 27th of February, 2011, I noticed my tulips are coming up. I noticed lettuce - not known for being self-sowing - bursting to life in my garden. And again I am surprised by spring. Hopefully I earned it this year.

I am a sap for my girl

Yesterday was your surprise party, and it was perfect. It was perfect because I felt like I was giving you exactly what would make you happy - truly. Friends. Delight. Ice cream in the middle of the day. Freedom to celebrate Messy and Silly and Pretend. You were the pretty and popular one at the dance, and all the boys wanted to be on your card. Ok, so there were no boys, but that's not the point.

The point is that I love you with such a force that it is humbling. When I am with you I have no other desire than to surround you and absorb you and make the world exist for you, and if I were to never think of myself again it would be too soon. What parent doesn't feel this way?

But no one has a Juliet like I do. No one knows your soft cheeks, your humming, your frenetic productivity, your sunny-side-up-since-you-were-trying-to-be-born nature. How could anyone else understand the pleasure in carrying your weight up the steps at bed time, or the feel of your little hands around my neck? Surely no other parent becomes drunk like I do when you wrap yourself around me and sway and chant, 'My momma is so wonnnnnnnderful...'

It's you that is wonderful in every way. Full of wonder, brimming over with sparkling joy and wonder, rolling around every waking minute of every day in wonder. And your birthday party yesterday was a tribute to you - to give back a little of that wonder that you serve to me on a silver platter every second of your life just by existing. I love you.

Spiraling

I am clamping down and working today, but find the anxiety brewing to the point of being distracting. I realize that the pattern of my thinking is contributing to the level of stress I am feeling right now, and I see the spiraling Dr. Hopkins identified for me last year.

There are so many things I can't control right now, but maybe I can wrestle this one to the floor. To myself: step back when you notice you're thinking the same thought multiple times. Picture that one thought in your mind as separate from you. Is it something that can be addressed? If so, do immediately what is needed to alleviate the worry inherent in the thought. Otherwise, picture the thought moving past you. Let it go.

Example thought: My scalp is itching very distinctly again. I wonder if the lice are back.

What can be done?

A) Ask JBL to check my scalp (not really possible)

B) Do yet another Rid treatment (this will be my 5th in as many weeks)

C) Wait and see

Make a decision: Though my Rid treatment last week made the itching stop for several days entirely, now that it's back the itching may imply some nits have hatched. Then again, it could just be dry scalp. I will wait one more day before assessing if another treatment is warranted. Done. Move on.

This seems like a silly exercise, but I find that when I have too many worrying thoughts swirling in my brain, I break down functionally. Nothing overly dramatic happens. No hospital visits are required. I simply stop doing things I need to do, beginning slowly with tasks like laundry, and building up to work and family-related requirements. After a while I return to normal, but not until I have (usually) reached some painful point of depression. I cannot afford this cycle of behavior at this point. Maybe by writing this all down, I can keep the cycle from beginning today. It's all one day at a time, after all.

Leather

Look at me writing! Ok, this *technically* is not my work writing assignment, but think of it like a warm-up jog before a half-marathon. And besides, I decided I can't actually start work until after the conference call because I need to hit the grocery for both of this week's parties. Yeah. Anyway.

I just wanted to note before I forget - and I already told JBL about it this weekend, but we both forget things all the time - that J calls all fabric and material 'leather'. I don't know how this started, and at 7 she certainly has the vocabulary and mental acumen to determine to appropriate word in context, but...it's just so cute I can't correct her.

(In the bathroom at a local bistro, drying her hands with very soft, thick paper towels...) "Mommy, isn't this leather so soft? It must be very expensive!"

True, honey. Very true.

Block

I have the attention span of a gnat today. I know what the problem is - I am my own road block. I have amassed 55 files filled with untold amounts of information for my analysis project. Other than confirming some details with my client, I am ready to begin writing my final document.

And yet, as much as I love writing, I find it to be incredibly painful. Always have. As I mentioned to K the other day - this exact situation - where I have a brain-full of stuff that needs to be manipulated, organized and formatted into a communication of information for the benefit of others - is the most difficult thing I do. (Well almost - losing daily in a battle of wills to a 7 year old can be tougher, but I manage.)

It's a shame it's what people pay me to do. I'm sure it's not obvious given my blatherings here, but some folks think I'm actually good at analytical writing, and are willing to fund my retirement account in order to be on the receiving end of it. They are expecting some good, concise information about their current organizational state any day now, and it will likely take me the rest of February and all of March to deliver. It would probably be a good idea for me to get started.

But then I remember I want to post this on Twitter for a bunch of people who could care less about me:

Then I see some offending dirt that needs to be vacuumed up. I grab the Dyson, spending another 15 minutes looking for stray stinkbugs. Then I check Facebook because someone commented on my post regarding comfort foods. And THEN I return to my document, containing still only one sad introductory paragraph. I review a supporting document to get my direction and momentum going, then JBL comes in to ask a question about something not related to work.

Next thing I know, it's 4:45 - time to sign off for the day. Tomorrow morning, however, I will return. I have until 11am (conference call) to get some words on paper. And I will tell myself what I told K last week as she struggled with a school writing assignment: the hardest part is getting started. Just get started, and it will all flow out onto the page.

Here's hoping....

Passing

JBL's grandfather is dying. There's not much more I can say than that. Well, maybe I can say a bit more.

Grandy was a playmate for Jon, spending hours creating memories to last a lifetime. Then he was a father when Jon's parents couldn't do their job, taking care of Jon for months at a time. He was a self-made man who inspired Jon to try his best as an adult. He taught his great-granddaughter to play checkers. He made sure he had toys for both girls every time we visited. He talked gardening with me, and asked about my family, listening intently as I shared stories of my own life and childhood.

Grandy is - was - a good man. Humble. Big-hearted. Watching him die, just as I watched both my parents go, is terrible. Mouth gaping wide, shriveled body twitching in a hospice bed. It's all so harsh, not something you can soften in any way.

Grandy, I bid you peace tonight. Go to Mary Evelyn. She's waiting for you. My dad will be delighted to meet you. And once you're there, you can be with us any time you want. We'll think of you with love and joy in our hearts. Thank you for everything.

Tazmanian Devil

If I could draw a picture of JBL leaving for work in the morning, well. It would not just be one picture. It would be a stack of pictures that you flip through to mimic a movie. In each picture he would be a grinding, swirling ball of frustration, kicking off stars and dirt as he first flies down the stairs, then stomps into the kitchen to put his shoes on, storms down to his basement office for God-knows-what, thundering back - finally - through the kitchen (cussing all the while) to collect his things.

Near the end, a picture will show him standing abruptly still as he realizes he cannot leave the house without that one critical, last-minute item. The cloud of dust around him settles briefly as his eyes - still wild - scan the room desperately. Is he searching for me? Heck no. He needs that one last gulp of water (because the water bottle waiting in his car just isn't the same). Flip-flip-flip the motion begins again and he fairly lunges across the room, cursing the gods because that cup is further away than it has any right to be, swigs down an enormous mouthful of water with a huge groan and sigh, and turns to leave.

The door to the garage is yanked open and wavy lines would indicate the blast of cold air rolling into the kitchen, muting his depressed farewell that usually goes something like, "I have no idea when I'll be home," or "I'll call you but I can't tell you when that will be..." The last pictures will show the closed door having just slammed behind him, clouds puffing out from the corners, followed by a faded depiction of the quiet left behind.

Home

I don't believe in fate or the concept of destiny. I don't believe in paranormal activity. I can't wrap my mind around life after death or the idea of Heaven. Yet I can say with heart-felt honesty and conviction that I am SUPPOSED to be with JBL. It is an absolute like F=MA. I also admit that I have visited a medium and may - just a tiny bit - believe what he said about my dad. I am a dichotomy. I don't know who the hell I am. But I know some things are true at a level that is deeper than bone-deep. My certainty goes down deeper than my molecules. My certainty is at the sub-quark level, where there is more light than mass.

Things happen to me that are....what, serendipitous? Let me give some examples. Is it any surprise that my grandfather was there to give me money for the down-payment on my first house? Or that a friend-of-a-friend offered me a part-time, work-from-home job almost the instant J was ready for preschool? Good timing is all, you might say. But wait. Is it odd that JBL and I had the fight that permanently redefined our relationship in an establishment called the Crossroads Pub? Or that, when I was truly beginning to question my sanity, J brought home a stuffed animal wood thrush (complete with an accurate song that plays when you squeeze it)? Or that at the end of 2009 JBL fractured a rib that caused him intense pain in the region of his heart for months? Ok so that last one did not happen to me, but go with me on this.

It is no shock that last winter included a case of the shingles, back-to-back blizzards and a visit from the stomach flu fairy. Then things stabilized. Over the summer I had more work than I could handle (read: $$$) and possibly the most relaxing family vacation I have ever experienced. Then, based on practicality rather than knee-jerk emotion, JBL and I decided we would sell Sleepy Hollow. Everything about the decision felt good and right, perhaps because it coincided with the consideration of a house that was new (and pretty and filled with things we can't afford - a house that ultimately fell out of the running...but anyway).

I know we are going to move. In more ways than one, we have to move. I am looking forward to all the opportunity will afford us. Yet, I am painfully aware of what we will lose. As I struggle to reassure myself about the decision, I begin to see heavy-handed hints all around. What does home mean, really? The concept of place has always held a great deal of weight for me. So am I surprised to stumble upon this passage in my bedtime book Cutting for Stone? No. "...that loamy soil that nurtured Matron's roses was in my flesh. I said Ethyo-pya like a native.... The Entoto Mountains disappearing in darkness framed my horizon; if I left, those mountains would sink back to the ground, descend into nothingness; the mountains needed me to gaze at their tree-filled slopes, just as I needed them to be certain I was alive.... Light and dark. The General and the Emperor. Good and evil. All possibilities resided within me, and they required me to be here. If I left, what would be left of me?"

My answer to that question came quickly. I find peace and connection with place in many areas - take the Outer Banks for instance. It is easy to love a beach town in summer, but what makes it feel like home is also the easy rhythmic quality of our days regardless of the house we rent. JBL and I move around each other the same way in any kitchen, and enjoy wine together under the stars from any deck. Music is always with us, and the girls sleep peacefully as long as we are all together. Should I be taken aback, then, to come upon BHJ's recent post (dedicated to his mom), reflecting in part on this topic? Not at all. As usual, his words resonate intensely for me. He writes, "Imagine being home - how being home is an abundance of answers to questions you can't remember." Yes.

Home for us here is undoubtedly tied to the row of trees at the bottom of our hill, all of the little things we've put into this house to make it uniquely ours, and the love of our friends Sarah, Thor, and their kids. But I picture us in a home, any home, and the walls and land around can fall away like theater props. I may feel like this grass and this street is home to me now. But what is true and right, something I know deep deep in my soul, is that home will be wherever these three other people are. JBL, J and K are my answers and my place, and are more of a safe haven than any structure or location could ever be. Amen.

Updated 4/14/2011 - And it should be no surprise to anyone that the house we found to move into is 2004 Diane Lane. J's birth year and my mother's name. And it has beech trees in the front yard.

Things that are true (today)

1. Last summer I did a project in MS Access and I hated it. Even after reading 'Access for Dummies' I still couldn't figure out problems I encountered, and finally had to BEG my husband to help. It made me cry. And now the client has come back and asked for enhancements to the database and reports. I want to say, 'No,' but I can't. And it makes me want to cry again.

2. J has something she calls The Process Dance. It's more like a cheer, really, but she does it with panache. She hops, feet apart, arms pointing in opposite directions, and chants, 'Process! Process! Proooocessss!!' And I love her for it. If you knew me, you'd understand.

3. We are preparing to put our house on the market, and I am all conflicted about it. We want to live closer to a town where many of our friends and some of our family live. We want the girls to have a shorter bus ride to school. We want things in our house that would be ridiculous to change here (like have a different kind of hardwood throughout the main floor, or have a different structural configuration for our master bathroom). We can afford a little more now, and the change in lifestyle without so many hours on the road would be huge.... But (and there's always a but), I am feeling pangs of love for my current house lately, and it gives me pause. I can remind myself that we are happy wherever we are because we're all together. I can remind myself that I can plant new roses and new peonies and a new pink dogwood. I can assure myself that we can drive back out here to play with our favorite neighbors any time. That doesn't make it easy though. I really wish I could fast-forward time, and that's not a good thing.

All in all, life is good right now, so I should just shut the frack up.

Snow down

It is a snow day - our first of the year. J has been up since her normal weekend time, which I can only assume is 7-ish since I slept until almost 8 (we assumed schools would be closed, and J now goes right to the basement to play with the Wii rather than waking us up, God bless her).

After an enormous cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows, she rushed out to play with the neighbors in the snow. She has been playing ever since. Though she has been busy, the simplicity of her day reminds me of the beauty of childhood.

Think about the book The Snowy Day, where Peter has an adventure comprised of making tracks in the snow, climbing a small hill, and knowing that he is too young to have a snowball fight with the bigger kids. He returns home to a hot bath and a period of contemplation about his day. It's enough to put him right to sleep, presumably after a nice dinner. This single-strand pace of Peter's story relaxes me.

I see the same in J's own adventure. She takes the time to compare and contrast a dry marshmallow to one moistened by hot chocolate. She slides down our back hill, first on a sled and then just on her knees. She watches the boys and their frenetic activities as the wind swirls sparkling snow around her, kissing her cheeks pink. She and her friend B come inside for lunch, and discuss chicken nuggets and the unique properties of ketchup and honey. After one more round of Mario Kart, it's back out into the snow to experiment with the wagon.

The bracing cold will make the warmth of her bed tonight even more delicious than usual, as will the memories of a fantastic free-play day, far away from the usual tight schedule of school. I can imagine now the peace on her sleeping face when I kiss her goodnight, the slow deep breathing, the silent room warmed by the space heater.

This snow day reminds me to appreciate the intensity with which children experience their world, and how they do so one step at a time. It is yet another gift parenthood provides free of charge.

A new day

I want to express that I am feeling better, but I am afraid to. Do I dare say I have perspective and feel like I can control the ebb and flow? No, that's not exactly right.

What I can say is that I am in an ebb period right now, and that means more energy, more motivation, and a little bit of hope. It means I can more than just remember that the therapist recommended mindfulness therapy, I can employ some of the techniques and find success. I can preempt the spiral of negative thoughts that lead me to near-implosion, at least for now.

I can't, however, say I will never feel that crushing, debilitating feeling again, and that scares me. But I won't be daunted. I will take this day and its gifts - my desire to run, my pleasure at working at home with my husband downstairs in his office, my interest in making dinner and planning the logistical efforts needed to put our house on the market. Each of these things would have been overwhelming to me just two weeks ago. The feeling, this moment, is now light and clear.

For now I am grateful and cognizant. I wait for snow and think about lighting a fire in the fireplace when I finish my long run and my work day. And I am happy.

Fear

"I never feel like smiling!" she wailed, "I just wish I could smile!"

I knew she was exhausted. Lack of schedule, lots of holiday late-nights. It was all crashing down on her.

But still, what a thing to say. I imagined time flashing forward. She is 30 and weeping. She can't find a smile or an honest laugh. She is filled with self-doubt and a nagging negative voice that follows her every move. What does it even feel like to laugh anymore? All too familiar. Maybe it is simply a tired six-year-old talking. And then.

Atypical. The doctor's confident reassurances faded into the distance as the word settled in. Yes, it's OK, we got it all. But what if I hadn't found it? What if I miss the next one? I flash forward and she's not even there. My God...