15 posts tagged “just a little blip”
October was a busy, almost manic month here at our house. There was lots of activity. Camping to pack for, parties to prepare for, festivals to travel to, house guests to host, weddings to attend. I am exhausted just thinking about all that we did in October.
October used to be my favorite month. Its the month when the weather actually starts to turn, when sweaters come out. Of Sunday with golden light and bright blue skies. Its the month when soups are appealing again. When the days grow shorter and we stay in with our loved ones, cuddling up against the coming cold.
Now I struggle with October. It is the lonliest of months for me.
Juan and I were married in October. We have so many memories of years of wonderful Octobers, of being new parents, of traveling to Mexico, of carving pumpkins and hosting parties, of decorating for the fall holidays. I loved rushing home in the darkening October days to rake leaves with him, or sit down to a spicy stew cooked just for me. October reminds me of all the things I cherished about being his wife, that I appreciated about our partnership in better days. And so now, even years later, even with all the water under our bridge, October without Juan feels a bit empty and hollow to me.
Its true that I still really miss him.
So I spent the month distracting myself. I did it on purpose--making sure that every weekend we had something to look forward to, an event that would allow me to build new memories of October, new associations with the beautiful life Max and I have built in the last few years. I surrounded myself with events and people that would allow me to hold October with happiness again. And it mostly worked. Each year that we pass through this month I feel a little less melancholy. This month I mostly felt blessed and happy. My focus was on my present not my past. I felt that I was exactly where I needed to be, for better or for worse.
But in the letting go of October I need to admit that I still feel the loss of him--need to face it so it doesn't haunt me like a ghost left over from Halloween.
My dear friend Stephen likes to remind me that the mark of a truly intelligent human being is that she can hold two completely contradictory ideas in her mind and know them both to be true.
I have said over and over again (and meant it every time) that the loss of my marriage was one of the most important events in my life, that it was a test of fire that shaped me in a truly positive way, that it provided the kick in the pants I needed to wrestle with some really mean demons and that as a result I am a much healthier and happier person. This was a journey I had to take and I am so glad to be on the other side of the mountain,
But tonight I acknowledge that even as I am blissfully happy in my new life, I am also terribly sad to have lost the old one. That while I am so happy to be on the road I am on, I sometimes wish I never had to go here. That I love where I am, but hate how I got here. That I wish I could share this magical place where I reside right now with him.
A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon this post by Kyran over at Notes to Self on marriage. At the time that I first read it I was stunned by the beauty of her writing and the honesty with which she told her story. I appreciated it for the literature it is.
Today I went back to it. I had meant to send it on to a couple of friends who themselves are struggling with their less than perfect partnership. I thought the empathy in her piece would be good for them, that the happy ending would give them hope. Just to be sure, I read the piece again, along with the long string of comments from readers who agreed that Kyran had just captured the beautiful essence of marriage.
Again, this piece of writing moved me, but in a way that surprised the hell out of me.
I wanted to throw up. For what I felt was not hopefulness, empathy or joy. No, what bubbled up inside of me today was raw, unadulterated, spitting envy, cynicism and derision.
Unlike Kyran and so many of those who left comments there at Notes to Self, my experience was not one of finding my way back to each other--I did not have that if you sit down and work hard and focus and negotiate it will all be beautiful fairy tale ending. Like them we worked hard at saving our marriage but ours was a journey of great pain, heartache and profound disappointment with no sunrise on the other end. A love that didn't exactly die but just in a fit of desperation gave up.
And I realized a few things about myself. I am completely comfortable in the company of couples that have healthy strong relationships, who dwell in a place of love and respect for each other. They give me great hope. I also have tremendous empathy for those whose true loves fell apart or who are struggling and not sure where it will all end up. But those people--the ones who were terribly unhappy but then figure out how to make it work and find their love again--the ones who are able to say they went to the edge of breakup and made it back--sometimes multiple times over--those couples make me want to spit with envy and call them things like smug. They make me a bit uncomfortable not because of anything else other than that they succeed where I failed. Because they have what I wanted. Because they won and I lost.
When you catch a glimpse of your wounded self in the mirror of your soul it is never pretty.
Every once in awhile something happens that causes me to shine a spotlight around the dark corners of my heart. The places where the air is stale and the cobwebs are thick. Today Kyran's piece surfaced in me the small jealous ugly self, the part of myself I rarely see anymore but who hasn't (much to my chagrin) disappeared completely.
More upsetting that the discomfort of the envy was actually realizing that this ugly part of myself still exists. Between my recent brush with insecurity and now this I am having some real quality time with the parts of myself I had hoped I'd outgrown.
Now the question is what to do with them now that they show up.
There was a time, not too too long ago when I would have given voice to my ugly self--when I would have given her permission to just go to town. I would have ranted and raved about the stupid smug people who actually believe in love and who think that kind of struggle is beautiful. I would have thought unkind thoughts. I might have even spoken them aloud.
Over the last few years, however, when the uglies have shown up I have been on a mission to lock them out. Their kind are just not accepted here in MY heart. I give them a good talking to and tell them why they are not welcome here anymore. I tell them exactly what I think about them and smack 'em around a bit too. I remind them that they are no longer part of me--thank you very much.
But tonight, driving home in my car, (the place where this drama all played out) I was too damn tired. I didn't have it in me to buzz with anger. I didn't have the energy to beat myself up either. So instead, I just stood on the edge of my emotions and put my arm around my ugly self and sat in silence--uncomfortable silence mind you--but silence. There was nothing else to do but sit with her and listen to Bob Dylan.
I am told that it is here, in moments like these, when we can actually feel grace. I'd like to say that something, someone came down and touched me and I cried tears of joy for finally loving my hurt and icky self. Or that my ugly, mean self kissed me goodbye and left.
None of that happened. Instead I drove to Target and bought some nylons for a wedding I will attend this weekend. But by the time I got there, the tears that had welled up in my eyes had dried. And when I got home, I had room in my heart to greet my ex who was playing with Max. I also had room in my heart to feel empathy for those who have been to hell and back. Empathy and envy mixed together in a murky muddy shade of gray.
And right now, that kind of a shift is enough. Its really just fine with me.
Today I signed the divorce agreement papers.
I was off to one of my favorite gardens to do a version of this ritual, a ritual I thought would be perfect for the fall season, a ritual I so desperately needed. The sky was a brilliant clear blue, the air felt neither too hot nor too cold, a light breeze was blowing. Everything was at peace in my little world and in my little heart and I knew that this day was the day to get it done.
It was really simple--too simple. All I had to do was go to the notary public down the street and sign three copies. People all around me were busy making plans for vacations to India and sending money back home to family in Russia. Laughing, living. The notary asked me what kind of document I would be signing. I whispered, a little choked up: "A divorce agreement". I half expected her to kick me out--to tell me to take my somber business elsewhere. She simple shrugged, wrote it down in her log and asked me for my ID. She didn't notice that my hand shook as I signed. She was busy chatting with her partner.
When it was all over I drove immediately to Brookside Gardens, one of my favorite places. It was hard at first to find a quiet place, a place with enough solitude for me to do what I needed to do. It was the perfect day for wandering the gardens and so the place was packed with families. I told myself that if it didn't feel right I would leave. I stopped worrying about it and let my heart lead.
I walked along the path looking for fallen leaves, gathering a bag. As I walked over the crest of a hill, this tree called out to me. Her roots were like two arms, offering an embrace, a safe place for me to do my work, her weeping boughs offering shelter and privacy. I surprised myself when I said outloud--"This tree is for me". I walked over, touched her bark and settled in her arms.
I took from my bag a few smooth stones and wrote the names of things that weighed me down. I had intended to only write one word but thoughts, phrases, memories all came tumbling out. My stone was full. I had one stone covered in images of Loss, one in images of Want, another in Shame and so on.
And then when I was done, I began to write my fears on the leaves, one by one.
When I was done I said goodbye and one by one thew the rocks into the lake. Then I took each fear one by one. I thanked it for doing its best to protect me but I told it why I didn't need it anymore. I asked it to leave and threw the the leaf into the water and watched the water carry it away.
Some of my fears were old acquaintances. We once were fast friends these fears and me, but now they only popped over every once and awhile. It was time to say goodbye for good, although it really felt more like a formality. We had outgrown each other. But it lightened my load to let them go.
But then, as I sat writing, I discovered there were some fears that really were important to me. These were the fears that most recently did a pretty good job protecting my heart from the threat of more grief and loss and lonliness. These were the ones I most needed to get rid of but saying goodbye to them was like ripping a bandaid off my heart, exposing her to the wide wide world. Walking back to my car I felt lighter yes, more centered, more present in reality but oh did I feel vulnerable too. Truly truly exposed. Like a lobster who had just molted, naked and without armor. But growing...
I drove back to meet Max. We spent the day in the quiet comfort of our neighborhood family. Then I took Max and we drove. I felt the need to just hang out with him but to be out of the house. To be us against the world again. We drove until we found a place to eat and played games and drew pictures while we ordered.
I know that this vulnerability is good. It means that my heart is growing. That letting go of fear makes room for new love, new experiences and new joy. And I am grateful that I have places to go to tend to my heart--my writing, creativity, space with Max, walks in the autumn sunshine.
Tonight it rained. I sat in wonder and listened to the sound of the rain against my windows. I stood out on the front steps and let me feet get damp. It has been such a dry summer. The rain smelled miraculous and hopeful, the harbinger of good things. Life giving and cleansing. Just what we needed.
I have thought alot about my trip to Rio --the one I took two Octobers ago. We took this photo our first night there. Eddie's friend, an ex-pat who had settled in this magical city, had taken us for a walking tour and showed us his favorite spot, a park across a lake from the hustle and bustle of this city. A rainstorm rolled in suddenly, unexpectedly, catching us on the wrong side of the park. It fell in sheets soaking us all as we ran for cover under some trees, laughing. I laughed harder than I had in months. At that moment, laughter bubbled up unexpectedly, as unstoppable as the rain. It was so absurd and silly and joyful. We were dressed to the nines for a night out on the town, with water running down our noses, with my chic outfit dripping and misshapen, my "oh-so-Rio" sandals squishing and making ridiculous noises. It was the funniest thing ever to be in Rio in the warm rain. I jumped in a puddle and lost my shoe. Pretty soon we were all laughing because I couldn't stop laughing
I had felt so heavy and stressed when I got to Brazil. I was at the height of my financial panic and I had just started to wrap my heart around the idea that Juan was not coming back. I arrived at the airport after flying all night with only $20 American and a three day training to run in Spanish. I went to the cash machine at the airport to take out money for taxi fare and found my account was overdrawn. My cell phone was out of batteries. I had forgotten my credit card at home. I had no idea what I would do next. I went up to the money exchange counter and cashed in my $20. I hoped it would be enough to get me to the hotel where I could regroup and figure out my next move. I thought I had hit rock bottom. I felt so alone, like such a failure. To keep myself from breaking down in this strange city, I repeated a mantra "It is going to work out all right" and then I added a fervent "please" and threw in a prayer for good measure.
The taxi fare was exactly what I had in my wallet.
I got to the hotel and they told me my room was already paid for. I slept a heavy deep dreamless sleep. I woke up to find lunch. A a friend of a friend living in Sao Paolo who had come to meet me. A fully charged cell phone and a Dad on the other end able to wire some cash to get me through the week. And best of all when Eddie arrived that evening he had two airplane tickets to Rio.
Four days later I was standing in the rain in Rio, laughing as the water poured over my toes and ran down my fingers. I remember thinking that the rain washed some of my grief away that night, just let it slip right away and run into this lake, leaving me feeling a tiny bit lighter and ready to start healing.
The rhythm of our life is slowing down now. Its the way of autumn. With the birthday celebrations and the hullaballoo of the start of the new school year behind us, we are settling into the quiet of fall. Tonight I kissed Max goodnight and went through the rituals that he needs to let go of his fears and drift off to sleep. A book, a cuddle, an extra check of the doors. "Yes they are locked my dear. You can sleep now." He is frightened of being alone. I assure him that while I will get up I will be back soon and I will be here when morning comes. He holds my hand as he drifts into sleep.
I find that the days between the Fall Equinox and the Winter Solstice are a time of introspection for me. I find myself turning inward, pulling away into myself a bit. Its a time of reflection and soul repair. I actually feel myself slowing down, becoming less social. I call less, email less, talk less. I am still more. I sit and listen to the noise of the outside, to the house breathing.
And frankly, sometimes I am a bit uncomfortable in this place. I prefer the energy of loud dinner parties, of boisterous giggling, of passing the wine and sharing food. Because it is here in this quiet solitary place I hear my fears speaking to me. And nothing scares me more than fear.
But I am at peace knowing that I am not alone here. While spring seems to be the universal season of renewal, autumn seems to be the time to struggle with fear. As the darkness lengthens we face our demons at Halloween, mark our grief and mourning on el dia de los muertos or All Souls Day, look inward and repent on Yom Kippur. I take comfort in knowing that many souls before me have walked this path and created rituals that allow us to face our fears and then let them go. I am not out of sorts as I drift into myself, no I am just following the anciet rhythms of the season.
Two years ago late in October, I went to Rio de Janiero with my friend Eddie. We had spent the week running a training in Sao Paolo and he convinced me we deserved a trip to the beach. It rained the whole time we were there. One day we both felt the need for some alone time. He hiked along the mountains and the beach while I wandered down the streets of Ipanema, in and out of coffeehouses, bookstores and music shops along the stormy shore. After awhile I realized that my mind had grown completely quiet. I was alone, as alone as absolutely possible--wandering in a foreign country where I didn't speak the language on a rainy day in a city known for its beaches on the opposite side of the globe from almost everyone I loved. I had spent the whole season creating so much noise and activity around me, fearful of being alone, fearful of my fears. But when I sat with them quietly on the streets of Ipanema they became the consistency of mist, and I was able to let them go.
Jen Lemen recently posted about this beautiful ritual to let go of fear and things that weigh you down. I am dying to try it myself. It is all that I can do not to abandon my loved ones and work to drive to the countryside tomorrow. Short of returning to Rio, I think it is the perfect ritual to mark the inward turning season of fall and to face those fears that lurk in the shadows. Because I have a bunch I need to face and then I need to let them go I need to let them slip away like mist so I can rest peacefully in the quiet darkness of the winter.
We've got two lives
One we're given and the other one we make
And the world won't stop & actions speak louder
Listen to your heart and your heart might say
Everything we got we got the hard way...
--Mary Chapin Carpenter
Staring at my computer, in an office in downtown DC today I had an "A-ha" moment. Its one I have had before, but then I conveniently forget. Its so easy to forget it.
Life is hard.
Once upon a time, when I was just a youngster I truly believed it when my father said "The difference between a hard life and an easy one is all about choices." I interpreted this to mean that if only I made the right choice I would be rewarded with a life of bliss, ease and good times. I interpreted the struggle I faced as a young person in the world as a result of bad life choices.
And there was some truth to that. I made a lot of bad choices over my years. But I have also made some good ones too. But many times over I have been amazed to learn that good choices or bad, life has been no less hard. Good choices led me down some pretty difficult paths but ultimately took me in a direction I wanted to go. Bad choices sometimes were exhilerating but took me away from my true north. Both of those paths were filled with hard work and difficulty.
Sometimes, I get very grouchy when I am stuck in a hard-work kind of place. I want it all to be so SIMPLE so very clear cut and easy. I want to breeze through life the way I breezed through elementary school, without a care in the world and three steps ahead, and someone to solve it all for me when it got to sticky. I just want to do the one thing that will make it all fall into place. I revert to my childish notions that good choices lead to easy-peasy paths to joy all around. And then, when I realize that there is nothing that you can do to assure an easy journey I get mopey and disappointed,
Lately, I have made lots of good choices and I have to say the path I have taken has been laced with much joy. There are these moments I have, when life seems perfect. I am surrounded by a community I love, my job is exciting and we are healthy and well and then--BAM it hits me. My amazing and beautiful loved ones are human, imperfect people, just like me, and we sometimes struggle to see eye-to-eye. Or I make a mistake that needs to be fixed and fixing it takes everything I have got and more. Or sometimes life just throws a curve ball. And it takes hard work to set it all right. Or doing something fun turns into a ton of really tedious work and I want to give up.
Its hard to be a single mom and do it all alone. But I know its also really really hard to make a healthy relationship work and to keep it fresh, open and moving in the right direction. Doing a job I hate can be really hard. But as I am learning, sometimes, doing a job I love can be miserably hard too.
And sometimes when I realize all this I feel cheated. I am pissed off that there is no way around the difficult. But then, sometimes with a bit of grace,I have one of these aha moments.
LIFE IS HARD. Trying to avoid (or believing I can avoid) the difficult is what leads me to disappointment and sorrow. Picking up and slogging through the hard work with optimism, eyes on the lovely scenery and a sense of humor can make it all so much more pleasant--and joyful-- and fun.
Dad was right in some way. Life IS all about choices. Following your true north, making choices that ring true in your heart can lead to joy. But I have found I can also choose to rob myself of joy by mucking around disappointed and grouchy that I have to work through some hard stuff.
So, whats a girl who just had an aha moment to do? Crank up Mary Chapin Carpenter, slip on some boots, and dance dance dance...
Caught up in our little lives, there's not a lot left over
I see what's missing in your eyes; you're searching for that field of clover
So show a little inspiration, show a little spark
Show the world a little light when you show it your heart
We've got two lives, one we're given and the other one we make
And the world won't stop, & actions speak louder
Listen to your heart, and your heart might say
Everything we got, we got the hard way...
Last month, Karen over at Chookooloonks sponsored a postcard swap. The idea was simple but lovely. Sign up and get a list of 12 others who had also signed up. Make homemade postcards for each person on your list and then mail them all out on the same day. The theme of this swap was beginnings, a perfect theme considering that September is hailed by mothers, teachers, and students alike as the real start of the new year.
September has always been a month of beginnings for me. As we bid farewell to summer's last lazy days and buckle down anew at school or work its a time of renewal. Its also always been a time of symbolic rebirth for me. Earlier this week I turned 38. September is always the start of my new year.
September also marks for me the beginning of the inwards turning season. While spring and summer are flamboyant and extroverted, fall and winter are times for introspection, contraction, looking within. While spring and summer call for huge neighborhood picnics in the park, fall and winter call for intimate gatherings around a cozy table lit with candles.
I love the extroverted season--the explosions of green, the lengthening light, the spontaneous neighborhood get togethers. But usually about this time I start to crave some space and time for myself. I welcome the fall and the beginning of looking inward, of nesting and waiting for spring.
But to be honest, this week I have not been feeling it. Or rather I have been feeling it too much. I am mopey and sad. I have been focused on endings--the ending of a fabulous summer, the ending of my marriage, the fact that I am not where I imagined I would be at 38. And given that this is where I am currently standing, the thought of turning inward makes me edgey and nervous. The end of the social season makes me feel just a little bit lonely. The thought of this cool dark season gives me a case of the shivers.
I was feeling sorry for myself earlier today, sharing with a friend that Juan had handed me the signed papers of our separation the day before my birthday. She empathized with me, commenting that he had rained on my September "beginnings parade" with one hell of an endings thunderstorm.
But later it dawned on me that he gave me the best beginnings birthday present he could have. Because now at 38, I will NEVER have to ask him to sign these papers. I can get past at least this big hurdle and make this whole year not about getting to a conclusion but about beginning again. I turned 38 with one less burden to bear...one less package to slow me down on my new journey.
Silver lining thinking? Maybe so. But it works...at least right now. I am feeling like I can stop thinking about endings and turn my thoughts back.
So a few days late, I am proposing for myself a little birthday project. In her zine Beginnings, Jen Lemen presents a couple of fun exercises to help imagine and dream your way into launching new ventures. While I did them less than 7 months ago, I am going to pull them out and revisit them, perhaps make some art around them. If you yourself are at the same place, Beginnings is a good place to start.
Happy new school year! Happy Birthday to me! and Happy Beginnings to all of Us
It feels like ages ago that I started this little blog. Hard to believe its only been months. Time plays funny tricks on me these days, reminding me that it really is all relative.
When I started this blog, I wasn't sure what I wanted to do with it. It was a place for me to write, to experiment, to be newsy and practice being brave. I expected that I would write stories about our life here in Maryland and that maybe through those stories I would reveal something about the journey that Max and I are on, a journey of loss and recovery, of independence and reinvention and grief and grace and that maybe someone would like them. I expected that some of these stories would be deeply personal and that I would need to make decisions about what to share to protect my own heart.
But an interesting thing is happening here in our world. When I started writing Max and I were on the tail end of what had been on a long dark hike through the loss of Juan. It was a lonely journey. Writing was a way to help me connect with my thoughts, beliefs and experiences as we walked into the sunrise of our new life. We are still on the journey of course, but it has changed. While it is true I am still struggling with issues around single parenthood, helping Max cope with not having a full-time dad, and the never ending juggling act of trying to do it all, these relatively lonely struggles are no longer at the center.
Day by day, my band of fellow travelers is growing. I have realized that my struggles are not any different really that so many others. I am lucky to have connected with some really interesting and cool people who are themselves reaching out, struggling, journeying--living really, just living, life to its fullest. Some are the people who have been walking with me silently through the long dark icky time when my marriage was going going gone. Others are new to us. Some have become a regular part of our everyday life while others are just passing through for a short time. But I am struck by how much in the last few months I feel connected to community, to a great body of others all trying to make it, not always succeeding, but willing to stand up and try (just try) to be brave in big and small ways. Each one of them is a teacher, a guru, and a partner (whether they intend to be or not).
I am awed by how much of what I am learning is coming from this interaction with my community. And so therefor I find it difficult to talk about my life without simultaneouosly talking about the lives of others. And so I find myself here struggling wanting so desperately to whisper stories to you that illustrate or punctuate what we are going through here in Maryland and yet desperate to protect the privacy of my loved ones who are my partners on this path. And as I sit to write I find myself dancing around the point a bit.
Some of the boundaries are clear--I would never share anyone's personal story without getting their permission. I wouldn't share something I had written just for them without asking their OK. But then once we move past black and white it starts to get murky... Do I need to get permission to mention their first name in passing? To post a photo? To share something beautiful or lovely they did or said? And how do I go about doing that in a way that doesn't seem self important? Suddenly the public-ness of posting on a blog becomes real to me--very real and apparent and scary and stark. I am embarrased and ashamed to ask them if I can share what I am learning from our friendship together here in this very public forum. Not because I don't think they will be giving or because I fear their judgement for asking but because the very act of asking permission means I need to claim the space of being "a writer"--something that seems scary to me. And it means admitting that I have a blog or that I think the blog is important or that someone might just be reading it. It means owning the fact that I am putting my writing out into the world--that I think it is good enough to put out into the world. And then I ask myself--Do I really? And this is a heavy thing indeed. I have put my writing out there not really sure if anyone is even reading it but now...now I need to assume they are. And this freaks me out as much as it thrills me.
And as I write here I am struck just how scared I am to claim this title so that I can keep going here, how I can keep going with the stories no longer of me--but of us.
I recently read this post over at the wise and funny Notes to Self. I love Kyran's writing - its not unusual for me to leave that site teary eyed. This time however, it wasn't just the deep honesty and beautiful pose that moved me but a deep sense of empathy about living without margins. I read the post with tears dripping off my chin, falling shamelessly into my lap.
Kyran was writing about living on the financial edge. This is something I can relate to all too well. When Juan left me with a child and one income it didn't take long for my social justice salary to leave us struggling. I remember nights staying up sorting through Max's beautiful grandma-purchased clothes trying to figure out what we could consign to help pay the babysitter or emptying out the spare change jar that Juan and I had started when we started dating and cashing it all in to pay for food and gas for the week. The rollercoaster of panic (will we make it this week?) and relief--all the effort that went into figuring out how to keep it together left me depleted and a shadow of my best self. I was so scared to ask for help from anyone afraid of what it would say about me (Would it mean I had failed?!?) but bit by bit the universe worked its little chisel on my pride and finally one night I was on the phone with my dad, choking back tears and asking humbly for a little help to get over the hump. Not too much longer, I was on my knees sobbing praying for a little help from anywhere.
I am glad to say that I am writing this from a better place on the financial front. Ask and you shall receive is a truth I can attest to. We are still living paycheck to paycheck over here and savings are a luxury I can barely afford. We don't splurge much on movies or pretty things and when we do I often reeling from it for weeks. My budget has very little margins for excess or comforts. But we are making it and I am no longer sick to my stomach each time I need to visit the cash machine. I am comfortable that as long as I stick to the basics the money is there.
But I wish I could say that about 2 other critical resources: time and energy. I am now in a similar desperate place that feels eerily similar to how I felt about my finances not that long ago.
I feel I don't have enough time for even the basics--like the laundry and cooking dinner or picking up the mess that has become our house. I feel I have cut out all the fat I can (no mindless TV, no relaxing baths) but it is still not enough. My schedule operates with no margin of error. I drop Max at childcare at the earliest possible moment and rush in to the office and maybe make it to work on time but often am late to a meeting. I rush through my work day and need to leave at 5 on the dot. God forbid there is traffic because I need to be home at 5:30, not a minute later. We barely unpack our days before it is far too late for dinner. On too many occassions, I am dragging him out to run errands at the time most children his age are in pjs in bed. The mad dash and the fact that I go to sleep each night with so many loose ends dangling leaves me feeling edgey and like a top spinning out of control.
My energy too is at an all time low and this is making this time crunch thing all the more troubling. I move so much slower these days. I fall into bed too early and wake too late. Precious hours are lost while I hit the snooze button or sleep through my alarm. I cannot multi-task anymore. I need to focus every bit of energy I do have on simply accomplishing one thing at a time. When I do pretend that I can move faster, things start to fall apart at the seams. This past week I had no childcare for Max so I thought I could bring him with me into work. In the effort to get him packed up to spend the day with me I forgot to pack my own purse and ended up with no wallet to pay for our lunch and parking. On good days I laugh light heartedly about the aburdity of this--my turtle pace, the chaos exploding around me, my inability to keep it all together. But at night when all is quiet I shiver a bit thinking about it all and pray that tomorrow it may feel a little bit better and I pray--please don't let it get worse.
Every day is an exercise in pushing the limits of my comfort zone. How much stress and time pressure and "rock and a hard place" choices can I live with today? I laugh thinking about how I was three or four years ago--how little I could take. I simultaneously feel like a champion (what a victory to keep surviving in this climate!) and a loser (why can't I just keep the kitchen clean or feed my son a real dinner?)
The time/energy crunch-its become a noose that I feel tightening around my throat--sometimes I have to remind myself to breathe. There are moments when I feel I am drowning from the stress of it all and I realize--I am holding my breath. Just the other day I thought if my life was a story written on a page I am spilling off the page. There are no margins on my paper. There is no room for errors, no room for scribbled comments--no place to put a forgotten word. I wonder when am I going to lose it living like this? I smile because clearly its not going to be today so if I can just focus on today I can loosen the noose a little. Yes...now I am breathing on my own. Good girl.
And yet I feel so silly even worrying about this all. Today my friend told me a story about a friend of hers--a woman who's has struggled with so much more. Her story makes me understand just how wide my margins really are--or rather what its really like to live with no wiggle room. Hearing her story I hang my head in shame and embarrassment that I fret so when my life is really so precious and blessed. For God's sake...I am writing a blog. Its not that bad when I have time to write a blog, is it? But the thought of giving up this newly reclaimed creative time feels like a dealbreaker. My journaling, my creative friendships they are keeping me afloat, they are keeping me sane. The laundry will just have to stay dirty and I will just have to forgive myself--but can I?
But I remember today this week when it has felt so loosey goosey that asking for help is magic and so I get down on my knees and ask the universe to deliver it in whatever way she sees fit. A cure for my energy blues? That would be nice. Someone to help me get organized and together? That would also work. A new way of working smarter not harder? Brilliant! A giant huge serving of perspective? That would do me just fine. Something I haven't even thought of? Yes. Any help--any little bit of help at all. Its hard to ask for help but its the only way I know to expand the margins even just a tiny bit.
The racoon family in my chimney moved out. Its been a week at least , maybe 10 days since my morning was punctuating by their noisy banging. It was the pinesol that drove them out. These racoons appeared to be great fans of Jimmy Buffet and Broadway musicals but the smell of pinesol was apparently too much for them to take. A few nights ago Max and I saw them, a mom with a babe scampering up a big tree where they had apparently made a new home.
But despite their decision to leave, over the last few days the house had really started to smell. I thought it was the 100 degree heat that made the old racoon droppings especially ripe. It was not a gagging, foul make me sick smell--just a ripe barnyard odor, unpleasant and ever present. Like garbage left out on a sunny day somewhere down the block. Nothing I go do would remove the smell. I banged around the house in an increasingly foul mood. Grumpy, angry, agitated. Irritated. Impatient.
Today at work I got a call. It was Juan.
J: I have good news and bad news. What do you want first. The good news is really really good.
M: Give me the bad news.
J: Don't you want the good news first?
M: Just the bad news hon--if you tell me the good news first the bad news will just bring me down...
J: One of the baby racoons is dead. It was left in the chimney. That was the smell.
A sadness washed over me. I had really wanted that little family to make it. I wondered about the mother--the loss she must feel. At the same time my own mother instincts went into high gear. I was revolted thinking about the carcass so close to my son, thinking about the decay. I wondered: What the hell do I do now? How am I going to get a dead racoon out of my chimney? What a mess!
M: The good news?
J: I cleaned out the chimney. Its all done. Poop's gone, hair's gone, nest is gone. It was a huge job. I removed the carcass--had it dealt with. I knew you couldn't do it. It smells better in the house now.
M: Thanks. You're right. I couldn't.
And then it hit me.
M: Juan, Do you think I killed the little guy? With the pinesol and the musicals and everything?
J: Oh, I don't know. Maybe. Probably not. His little foot was caught in the flu. Probably he just got stuck and couldn't get out for food and water. His mom probably left him there when the rest moved on. Its life, you know, survival of the fittest and all...
I remember the last night when I heard the crying--the night I yelled at the chimney--MOVE ON ALREADY! Poor little one was alone and dying and I was screaming at him. He must have felt so scared, so betrayed. My heart broke for him. I started to weap softly. I thought no one would have been able to tell but Juan knows me well enough to hear the tears.
J: This is good news Meg. The racoons are gone. The smell is gone. Its done.
M: I know. Thanks. You are a saint for doing this. Really. I really appreciate it.
And its true. I walked into the house this evening and felt immediately lighter. My patience with my own imperfect life seemed to flood back, hope washing over me. My grounchiness subsided. The relief was palpable.
Was the energy of a death so close so very strong that it hung over the house and colored our moods? I am certain of it. The hopelessness of his struggle was what had drifted in and clung to our clothes, our curtains, our rugs.
I walked over to my altar and lit a candle for a baby abandoned by earthly mothers. I prayed that he had found a home in the furry bosom of the great mama racoon in the sky. I also lit a candle in thanksgiving for such an unexpected kindness from the most unlikely of people.
