Tag: sons

Posted on

An INFJ’s Take on Trust and Optimism

How about those holidays? Raise your hand if you’re glad they are over. Reminds me of a quote I ran across a couple years ago: Tradition is our ancestors’ way of controlling us. Then I think of all the traditions I’ve created that my kids will probably feel like they have to perpetuate – the Advent Calendar for one. What was I thinking?

Anyway, I’d gotten Will a nice shirt for Christmas. After opening it, he held it up and Jen and I both said, “Oh! A date shirt!” He didn’t respond. Never mentioned it at all until a couple nights ago. (Often our best chats happen in a text stream.) While he was out with friends, he sent me a text saying that he wasn’t ignoring our comment about it being a date shirt, but that he doesn’t want to disappoint me by not dating.

We back-and-forth texted for quite a while. At one point I told him that I didn’t care if he dated or not but that I wanted him to be happy. If dating is part of what makes him happy, then I’d be thrilled for him. More importantly, I’m not disappointed either way! He explained that he’s still hesitant after his last attempt – 3 years ago. (I wonder where he gets it.)

Then I texted something about how trust is certainly an issue, but that I really think the bigger issue is trusting yourself. “Trust yourself to not get in too deep with a wrong person. If you can trust yourself, you can navigate anything. By now you’ve certainly learned that you can recuperate from a broken heart.”

I reminded Will (myself?) that all “the experts” say that the real learning happens within a relationship. (Excuse me?! Have I not been learning a ton about how to be a happy, functioning, fulfilled, capable single person? How many of these so-called experts are in happy, committed relationships?)

I talk a big game.

I sound pretty optimistic for someone who is still hesitant to get out there after not having tried for almost 7 years.

I laugh at myself for developing this side story with Hank. Where do I think this could go, knowing all my reservations and my lack of trust? Still, my inner optimist wants to think there could be someone out there, even if he’s fictitious and I’m the one who made him up! Hell, maybe that’s the best kind of partner. He’d be there when I need him, but there wouldn’t be any of the messy stuff like schedule conflicts, lack of alone time or having to sleep together. Ick. Hank is the guy to go out to dinner with, have the deep conversations with, go for walks with and catch a movie with. He’s also the guy who doesn’t get bent out of shape if I don’t want him to spend the night, or move in, or co-mingle bank accounts. He’s a travel partner and ski partner who is like-minded when it comes to politics and open-minded about philosophy, reading and art.

Yeah. He’s definitely a unicorn, but he’s my unicorn.

But, wait?! Aren’t I also describing a best girlfriend? Wouldn’t she check all the boxes?

As I write this, I realize that there’s this tiny part of me that still wants to be attracted to – and attractive to – a guy. Is it my age (mortality?) telling me I’m running out of time? Is this a Crone’s Relationship Biological Clock? Hell, no! The little I’ve read about Crones tells me they wouldn’t give a shit about whether they are attractive to anyone. They are too busy inhabiting their skin and being glorious in their own Crone-y way to worry about whether a relationship would fulfill them or not!

Unicorn Hank isn’t going to expect me to pick up his socks, cook his dinner (and complain about the food), demand back rubs and be too busy to go to a movie with me. But history tells me (at least my history) that an IRL Hank comes with expectations. Thoughts of those expectations start the stress and the physical manifestations of that stress. That’s when I know I can’t really be an optimist, that I do have trust issues (even with myself), and that relationships are fine for other people, and I’m fine NOT being in one.

When Will asks me why I don’t take my own advice and trust myself, or why I don’t get back out there and try again, I’ll explain that I’m really busy with projects. I’ve got to finish recovering the couch because Pansy “loved” it up too much. (Clearly, I’m an optimist if I’m taking the time to recover the couch without attempting to discourage Pansy’s fondness for scratching.) Oh, and I’ve got to get the shelves up in the new bathroom. I’m sure Jen will be coming home soon, so I better plan menus and bake her favorite things. I should really get some seeds ordered and figure out what I’ll be planting where, come May. I’ve got some blog housekeeping to do, and I’m still ruminating on that novel I pretend to be writing. Doesn’t the popcorn on the ceiling in the hallway need to come down? There’s always work and meetings and classes.

Oh! I have to finish those slacks I found at Goodwill. I let the hem out and now there’s a faded line where the old hem used to be. I found a Prismacolor – Light Umber. It’s a close match. (Luckily, Jen didn’t take all her art supplies with her.) After applying the Light Umber, I’ll sketch over top a bit with a black Sharpie to blend it and … Who am I kidding? I don’t let anyone close enough to see a faded hemline on my slacks.

Anyway, I’m entirely too busy. Besides, why would I want to mess up this good thing I’ve got going.

p.s. Will says the couch looks like the 70s – in a good way. Pansy won’t go near it. Yet.

Posted on

My Second Saturn Return

I’m smack dab in the middle of my Second Saturn Return.

While I may read about astrology and refer to it to try to make sense of things, I don’t know a lot about it. I discovered this second return business a few months ago and it was a light-bulb moment. I had been blaming a lot on the pandemic, but the pandemic ended up being the framework for me to become more myself, which, it turns out, is very much a part of this Saturn Return thing.

As a person who has spent her life wondering why she doesn’t fit in, when she’ll be in the right place, or why she can’t comfortably do things like others or feel the way others do, I’ve finally gotten to the point where I can quit wondering about that. At least that’s what Saturn says.

Don’t all of us struggle with wondering where we fit in, if we fit in, and why it’s so difficult to feel a sense of belonging? I know it’s the hallmark of an INFJ to feel that, but would we (those lucky enough to live long enough) even have a Second Saturn Return if it wasn’t necessary (for all of us) to come to a point where the stars shout out, “It’s okay to be you and it’s about damn time!”

The stars aren’t up there for only those who believe in Saturn Returns. They are up there for all of us.

Perhaps you are thinking that I’ve lost it during my second return. I’ve turned into a recluse who is angry at white men and politicians and laziness and entitlement and apathy. Maybe you’ve noticed that I’m over here screaming that we need to care more, when clearly I have work to do on caring for established white men. Yes! I am a conflicted, complicated, messy, contradictory woman in her Second Saturn Return. I am all of those things and more.

I GET TO BE ALL THOSE THINGS BECAUSE THE STARS SAY SO!

I’m turning 60 next month and when my kids ask me what I want (and what I want to do) for my birthday, I wince.

I Googled “60th birthday present” and promptly told them NOT to get me some commemorative bauble that will sit in a box in my sock drawer. I Googled vacation spots and remembered that we would most likely be in the middle of a BA.2 (or whatever variant we’ll be on by then) cloud wherever we landed. I decided I’d rather put money toward the new bathroom we’ve been needing for 5 years.

In lieu of a shiny trinket or a trip to a place I can’t afford, I requested that Jen draw something that commemorates this auspicious (?) day, and Will take a picture of the three of us on the day. That way they can both use their talents creating something I’ll cherish, and it’s crossed off their lists.

Here’s what else I want from them:

I want them to try to circumvent the astrological system and see if they can learn to be okay with who they are, long before I did. Just because the stars give permission when you turn 58, couldn’t my kids be mavericks and get there a little sooner?

Being okay with who they are requires that they make their mental health a priority. (Being okay with who they are doesn’t mean they just sit back and say, “This is it. Take me as I am.”)

I want them to pay attention to how they feel. For years, I’ve wanted to see a therapist, but either I didn’t have the money, or something else was more important. The library provided therapy for me – that and the internet. I want them to know they have options. We live in a time when there is much less stigma about getting help. Because of all the resources available, there is no excuse for not seeking help. Yes, money is a factor, insurance is a thing, and trying to get an actual appointment during a time when absolutely everyone is faced with challenges may make getting help seem impossible, but help is out there. Reading (and writing) can fill the gap until money, insurance and an appointment can be worked out. For many of us, reading and writing are all we have.

Attention to mental health paves the way for us to accept ourselves.

It’s hard. Many days it just plain sucks. It requires work. I want them to understand that mental health is something they will work on their whole lives. As they grow and change, new issues will come up, and other issues will fade or be resolved. Mental health is not a project that gets crossed off the list, but an ongoing journey that could culminate in them being the best possible versions of who they can be. We’re all works in progress. (Putting in the effort also prepares us for whatever is in store in the next go-round.)

Also, I want them to take a good hard look at who they let into their lives. Are they surrounded by people who lift them up, or are they surrounded by those who want to bring them down? One of my aunt’s favorite quotes was from William Gibson: “Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, first make sure that you are not, in fact, just surrounded by assholes.” Are they surrounded by assholes? Or worse, are they assholes? Some days we all are. That’s when we have extra work to do.

I want them to find their tribe. Tribe is a big word. There can be two in a tribe – you and one other, but that person has your back, just as you have theirs. You most likely won’t find your tribe in your family or on Facebook. You might find your tribe on Twitter or at the library or in the produce section at Whole Foods. It can happen. Trust in the possibility.

The last thing I want for my 60th birthday is for them (and me) to lighten up a little. I want Jen to stop insisting that every grade has to be an A. I want Will to stop beating himself up for some of the choices he made in the last couple of years. (I plan to forgive myself for some of my choices, too.) I have to wonder, if we all lightened up on ourselves a bit, would we find it easier to be kinder and more caring of others?

I plan to continue to accept myself, while working on myself, up to (and beyond) my Third Saturn Return.

Happy birthday to complicated, caring, messy Me.

Posted on

It Always Works Out

I last posted in July. While many words have since tried to coalesce into post ideas, not a one of those potential posts seemed to matter, when looking at the state of the world.

Since my last post, Jen has gone off to college, and Will has left one job and found another. While that doesn’t even make a ripple for all of you, my boat was rocked.

Also, in the months since my last writing, we celebrated an anniversary, of sorts. It’s been 15 years since the kids and I moved out of their dad’s house.

Speaking of rocking boats and the state of the world …

How Do I Know It Works Out?

Recently, with an abundance of time on my hands, I found myself going through digital photos. (Take it from me, if you don’t have a system for organizing digital photos, STOP reading this post and make a system for organizing all your photos. Do it now.)

. . .

I’m assuming you are much more organized than I am, and that you are still reading because you created files on your laptop for years and months and birthdays and Halloween carvings and dying of Easter eggs and first lost tooth. I’m envious of your organizational skills and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you are more disciplined than I, and that makes me worried that we can’t be friends because I’ll always feel that my lack of discipline is disappointing you in some way. (Wait. I think that only applied to my romantic relationships. Never mind.)

Anyway, as I was scrolling through a hard drive full of unorganized digital photos, I noticed a common theme: kinks or bumps along the way always tended to work themselves out.

The pics of Jen before braces present a case in point. I loved that face so much that I didn’t want it to change with braces. Besides, I didn’t know where we would get the money for them. She wanted them so badly, even though she knew it would be tough to find the money. I would tell her, “Don’t worry, honey. It always works out.” Scroll forward a few years, and I love her new face just as much as I loved her before-braces face. It worked out.

More scrolling, and I see a set of photos from Will’s first vehicle. “Mom, where will I get the money to buy a truck? Can we even do something like that?” He and I made lists of lawns he could mow and walks he could shovel. I looked at him and said, “It always works out.” It did. After many lawn mowings and a small loan from his sister, he bought a truck. That was a couple trucks ago.

Then there are the pictures of the kitchen with the old appliances. The old range had quit working right before one of Jen’s birthdays. She wondered how we’d be able to make her cake. “It always works out, honey.” That year we baked her cake at grandma’s house, and found the funds to purchase a new range a few weeks later.

When Jen went off to school, those first few weeks were rough for both of us. We would count down the number of “sleeps” until her next trip home. We both put Post-its on our bathroom mirrors that said, “One day at a time,” because it was clear to both of us that even though this was going to work out, we were going to be muddling through one day at a time, at first.

. . .

I’ve learned that I have to time the delivery of, “It always works out.” In the depths of stress and worry, that can sound trite. No one wants to hear that expression when they are venting about how the Universe seemingly created a roadblock out of thin air. I wait to say it until after we’ve bumped over the roadblock, found the new route, and cruised a bit. Then, it’s safe to remind them that it does always work out. Sometimes I’m met with an eye roll, but they will begrudgingly admit that it does work out.

Back when they were little folk, I could have said, “It always works out, but it might end up looking different than you thought it would.” Or I might have said, “It always works out, and one day you’ll be glad that it looks different from what you were hoping for.” Or, “It always works out but it might beat you up a bit before it does.” My goal, then, was to encourage them, not dash their hopes with realism.

I didn’t consult a crystal ball to know it would work out, and I don’t know how to read tea leaves. Even if the coffee sediment in the bottom of the saucer looks like it means something, I can’t tell you what it means. But the three of us learned to have faith and trust that with a little effort and “some leaving alone” things would always work out, even if sometimes we had to remind each other.

What About in Today’s World?

Now, given the threats on women’s rights, voters’ rights, the climate, and our very democracy, can I truly tell my kids, “It always works out?”

Can we put Post-its on our mirrors and hope for the best? Who has the crystal ball that will reveal the future? Will this be a future with women’s rights, opportunities for all to vote, a climate that isn’t taking its last breath and our democracy still intact?

Will it work out for women if we lose bodily autonomy? (Untold numbers of women around the world have never even tasted that freedom, and we could very well lose it.) How do you reassure your daughter, while there are those who want to take away her rights? Will it work out for all those who lose their right to vote? Will it work out if we ignore all the signs telling us that climate change is not just a political talking point, but an inevitability? Has it been able to work out (albeit only for a lucky few), up to this point, because we’ve been navigating the bumps and roadblocks within the framework of this democracy?

More importantly, while it has often worked out for my little family, does that even matter if it doesn’t work out for everyone?

In another 10, 20 or 50 years, when this country looks in the mirror, will it like what it sees? Who will it work out for then?

Posted on

They Grow Up So Fast

I see you, Momma Bird.  You flit across the yard with a blade of dried grass in your beak.  The first nest you made still lays in a heap on the patio.  Perhaps a wind gust swept it off the beam? The winds in that recent cold snap were brutal.  I admire your tenacity.  Not even Mother Nature’s mood swings could hamper your determination.  Instead of giving up, you started over in the same spot.  The cover of the metal roof must have come in handy.  Good thinking, to decide to build there with that bit of protection from the elements and the critters.

That day with the endless rain, I peeked out the window to see you hopping from branch to grass.  It must have been difficult to find any building materials that weren’t soggy.  Do you build at night?  How did you get that done so fast?  When do you rest?

I see you, Momma Bird.  I’ve been that kind of tired.

 

When the sun finally came out after those grey days of rain, I sat on the patio with coffee, making sure my lawn chair wasn’t too close to your new home.  I was bundled in a fleece jacket and socks, with a blanket over my lap.  How do you stay warm?  Or is that why you move so fast?  I felt a bit guilty for sitting and sipping coffee instead of working, like you.

You’ve been so patient with us intruding into your space.  We’ve tried to remember to keep a distance.  The taller one is a bit louder.  Sorry about that.  His voice fills the backyard, but he doesn’t mean you any harm.  He did remember to move his chair into the grass.

I watch you watching us.  You keep an eye on us.  I see that you are torn between protecting your nest and keeping yourself out of harms way.  Your instincts tell you to keep your distance.  Your instincts tell you not to trust us, but your obligations need to be fulfilled.

I see you, Momma Bird.  Many times my instincts have been louder than my plans.  Unlike you, though, I often refused to listen to my instincts.

 

The one with the long hair was the first to notice your baby.  She’s the quietest of the three of us, and she tends to be a bit more observant.  She tiptoed around your nest and came into the house to tell me of the new arrival.  When did that happen?  We should have showered you with gifts!  Congratulations!  Nice work, Momma Bird.  Your baby is adorable.  She looks just like you!

Now you are consumed with a new kind of busy.  Does that baby eat all day long?  (I know how that feels, too!)  I hear the little one has found her voice.  I’m impressed that you can hear her above the voices of all the other birds in the yard.  I have heard how excited she gets in anticipation of a feeding.

Yesterday, I saw her head poke up high enough above the nest so that she could stretch her wings.  She’s getting so strong.  You are feeding her well!  Her head was up for quite a spell.  She’s very insistent about getting those worms.  You are keeping up as best you can.  Her little beak is always open and ready to receive.  (Sounds like a human I know.)  I saw when you hopped over into the garden.  I had the sprinkler going and that must have made it easier for you to get the worms.  Look at you!  You are hard at work, sopping wet and keeping that baby alive and healthy!  I’m so proud of you, Momma!

 

I’m waiting for the temperature to get closer to 60 before heading out with my coffee this morning.  I’ll tiptoe.  I promise.  You can trust us, Momma.  There is room for all of us in this backyard.  We want your baby to thrive as much as you do.

But Momma, try to enjoy this time.  I know it often feels like you are too busy or too tired to stop and appreciate it all, but this time is fleeting.

They do grow up so fast.

 

Best wishes to all those with graduating baby birds.  Job well done!

Posted on

The Boat

That humming sound you hear is coming from the bilge pump on my boat.  The pump has been running a lot lately.

When Jen and I watch TV while eating dinner (go ahead and judge – this is a crucial part of our Pandemic Survival Plan), I will often ask Jen to turn up the volume to drown out the sound of my bilge pump working in overdrive.  For the length of an episode of our current favorite series, I blissfully forget that the pump is running.

 

I once Googled what that humming sound was – the (real, not metaphorical) sound I hear in the middle of the night when sleep is a stranger.  They call it the earth’s hum or the world’s hum.  It’s a thing.  Look it up.

Anyway, last night I noticed the hum.  It’s had a different pitch to it for about a year now.  I’m convinced it was an octave created by all the bilge pumps in all the boats of the world.  They are pumping as fast as they can, as all the boats try to steer through this pandemic.

Can you hear it?

Every single boat must be taking on more water than usual.

 

I’ve charted some rough seas.  I’ve even had to replace the pump.  But lately, I find myself fantasizing about calm waters.  I crave the sound of gentle waves lapping a deserted shoreline.  I see the waves go out and leave a trail of foam.  Maybe a seagull can be heard off in the distance.  There isn’t another “boat” for miles.

Jen likes calm waters, too.

Will?  He likes the rapids.  The rougher the better.  He gets crabby in the calm waters.  Oh, he’ll tell me that he likes things to settle down, but about the time he says that, something in his life creates a tidal wave that inevitably sends a wall of water right for my boat.

Jen and I used to say that things would be too boring without Will’s tidal waves but, with the pandemic and the economic and political strains of late, my boat can’t take on any more water.

I’ve noticed that I am becoming adept at avoiding anything else that looks like a potential storm.  This avoidance skill is also in our Pandemic Survival Plan.  I’m saving my energy for the storms on my immediate radar.  Apparently, there is only enough room for the three of us (and a cat) in my boat.

 

I recently told Will that if he had two married parental units, he’d know which one to go to with a new drama.  You wrap your truck around a pole?  Go to your dad, and he’ll prepare me for the news.  You get your heart broken?  Come to me.  Poor Will is stuck with only me, so he brings me everything.  And I’m grateful for that, even if it doesn’t sound like it.

My boat is on the plains.  Nothing blocks my view.  I can see when a storm is coming.  But Will’s storms seem to come out of nowhere.  Well, not really.  I know where they come from.  (Because I know where they come from, you’d think I’d be better prepared.)  As long as he likes that kind of choppy sea, there will be more coming from that direction.

After he and I (and often times, Jen) finish bailing the water from the most recent storm, we can laugh about it.  I’ll say, “Geez, you’d think that, by now, I might have learned to not over-react.”  He’ll say, “You’d think by now, I’d figure out a better way to tell you this stuff.”  And then I think to myself, “Or you might figure out that life is so much better without all that stuff.”

 

And so the Universe laughs at me while I search for ways to keep a calm center in the midst of these storms.  The Universe laughs harder when I dare to tell Will that life is better without the rough seas.

Look at that!

The Universe left me a note in the sand on that quiet stretch of beach:  “Let him steer his own boat, Jesse.”

And once again, I am reminded that I learn more from Jen and Will than they will ever learn from me.  In the meantime, I’ll prepare myself to have to replace the pump.

 

There’s a meme that says something about, “You don’t know what someone else is dealing with, so just be kind.”  I like that.  Let’s assume that everyone’s boat has taken on too much water, their pump needs to be replaced, and they are doing their best to stay afloat. 

 

 

 

Posted on

An Ode to Costumes

Here’s to costumes – not just the ones we wear to celebrate Halloween.

From the pink costume someone puts us in to prove to the world that we are, indeed, a baby girl, to the “costume” put on us the day of our funeral, life is full of costume changes.

If we’re lucky, we have a trunk full of costumes when we are a kid.  Even eating a bowl of cereal warrants dressing the part.  A kid in a costume isn’t so much hiding from life, as he is tackling life.  He’s Superman or Spiderman.  She’s Princess Leia or a ballerina.  Life is celebrated, and what better way to do that than by wearing a costume?

The school years start and costumes are mostly relegated to October 31st.  One day out of the year we get to pretend to be someone outrageous.  The rest of the year, we pretend that we have life figured out.

We agonize over the different costumes needed to navigate adulthood.  We need a costume for every reinvention along the way because we are told we must,  “Fake it until we make it.”  A good costume helps with the faking.

Here’s to the costumes we wear to prove we are worthy of coupling.  For some that might be fishnet stockings or thigh-high boots.  (Years ago, the perfect mate wore an apron.)  Later, some of us wore a costume (that he most likely picked out) to prove we were a good enough wife.

Here’s to the costume we wear to show the world – and convince ourselves – that we are a good enough mom.

 

To the heels and business suit we never felt smarter in.

To the running shorts that never made running more enjoyable.

To the yoga pants that became the going-to-the-grocery-store pants.

Here’s to make-up that never makes us look younger, hair-color that never completely hides the gray, and perfume that never adequately disguises our own unique scent of fear.

 

Then, blessedly, we get to the point where we don’t give a damn.  Here’s to the bold costumes we wear to celebrate a certain age and to let everyone else know that we are done faking it in order to fit in.  Whether we proudly wear mom jeans, or leggings underneath billowy skirts, purple hats or black from head to toe, at this age, our costumes say we’ve arrived.  Almost.

These might be my favorite costumes, yet.  Although, I was a witch for Halloween 2 years in a row in junior high.  I wore that well.

 

 

 

Posted on

Love Like That

On the eve of Mother’s Day, I was standing at the kitchen sink finishing the dinner dishes.  (Appropriate?)  I looked out the window, and in the setting sun I could just barely see a small grayish blob on the grass.  When I realized it was a baby bird, I called for Jen.  We immediately went into nurture mode.  “Should we move it to the backyard where it will be safer?”  “Will it need water?”  “Maybe we shouldn’t move it.  We don’t want to startle it.”  “Yeah, and the mom might not find it.”

We brought out a jar lid filled with water.  (Initially, we’d grabbed a small dish, but Jen was afraid the wee bird wouldn’t be big enough to scale the side of the dish.)  We didn’t approach too closely.   We could be heard “oohing” and “ahhing” at the sweet little blob of feathers with the seemingly too large beak.

We went back inside so as not to scare it.  We stood side by side at the kitchen window and kept vigil.  I worried (because that’s what moms do) about neighbor cats and squirrels.  (Would squirrels go after our wee blob?  When did it become ours?)

Just then, we saw a robin (either a mom or a dad, as both feed their babies, and I can’t tell the difference in robins) swoop in and feed the baby.  Jen and I hugged each other and exclaimed at the sweetness.    We stood and watched as it got darker and harder to see.  The baby wobbled across the grass and approached the fence.  Would the mom/dad be able to find it?  Clearly, it had been in a hurry to leave the nest (reminds me of someone I know), as it only seemed able to wobble, not hop or fly.

We were relieved to see that wherever that baby went, the mom or dad could find it and feed it.

The baby was still snuggled next to the fence post when we turned off the lights and went to bed.

 

(The day before, Jen and I had delivered a batch of groceries to the house where Will is living.  There are six of them – young, working, testing their wings, and struggling between paychecks.  They live on mac and cheese and grilled cheese sandwiches and too much coffee.  My momness was in overdrive, and I needed to fill their fridge with other options.)

 

This morning, I found the baby had made it to the other side of the driveway.  I could follow the trail of droppings and see the gray blob from the kitchen window.  I went out, in robe and bare feet (which reminded me that back in February, barefoot season seemed so very far away), to see if it was alive and well.  It’s a wonder that those little hearts can beat so fast.  That tiny thing breathes so quickly.  It was fine.  My mom brain went to, “Oh, you must have been cold last night?  Weren’t you afraid?  Have you eaten?”

I went back inside to assume my position at the sink.  Jen still sleeps and doesn’t know, yet, that the baby is fine.  I can’t wait to tell her.  Just then, I saw one of the parents bring breakfast.

 

Thank you to all who love like that.  You make the world go ’round.

Posted on

Random Thoughts In No Particular Order

I love being here.  I miss being here.  I’m too busy to be here.

I spend as many moments as I can with Jenny because, well …

I’m not going to type that.

 

Will, as some of you know, has moved out.  I don’t hear from him every day, but I do hear from him most days.  I’m trying hard not to intrude.  The other night, Jen and I were watching something on Netflix – most likely, Tidying Up – and he texted.  He asked how we were doing.  Of course I panicked.  “Something must be wrong.  It’s Friday night!  How come he’s texting?”  Turns out he’d just gotten home from a shift and realized he hadn’t heard from us in a couple days, so he texted – just to say hi.

Back when things were bumpier with Will, or I might say, back in 2018, I prayed for those kinds of texts.

And here they are.

Note to self:  This is a good thing.

 

Oh, and the three of us plan to ski together on Friday.  Yay, me!!

 

Where was I?

 

Oh.  So I’m not on this spot as much as I used to be, or as much as I would like to be.  Priorities, you know.

Priorities include spending every available moment with Jen; homeschool; the job; and the ritualistic chores necessary for survival.

And if you haven’t made some of your chores ritualistic, by now, you really ought to.  If we’re going to be spending these many hours folding laundry, doing dishes, sweeping and shoveling snow, we ought to be elevating these duties to the heights reserved for deities.

Say grateful words while hand-grinding coffee beans in the wee hours.  Breathe in the smell let off as you turn the crank.  Hope for all the good things that caffeine allows you to accomplish.

Pay respects to the deciduous trees while shoveling the snow that covers their roots.  Promise you’ll gladly greet their new leaves in the spring.  Think happy thoughts about how many winters you’ve survived, and how shoveling is the best gym membership you never have to pay for.

Acknowledge the washing machine and thank it for making your job easier.  You don’t have to run to the creek to scrape your clothes against a rock.  We’ve got it easy.  You don’t really need all those clothes, anyway.

Appreciate the stacks of clean plates and the many meals they’ve served and the many more to come.  Enjoy moments in the kitchen teaching your kids how to chop onion while laughing at the tears and saving the fingers.

Thank the fire in the wood stove for keeping your little family warm on these cold nights.  Be grateful for the warmth and the work that comes with keeping the fire stoked.

 

I digress.

Again.

 

I started to say something about how I’m not really so busy that I can’t be writing here more.  (I mean, if I’ve got time for Netflix.)

The scribbled notes of post ideas will keep me writing long after Jen has ventured off and (hopefully) circled back around.  Potential post titles include:  In Defense of Cat Ladies, When I Was Mad At The World, and Reflections From a Wallflower.

I’ll get to them.

There will be time to write all those ideas.  For that, I am grateful.

 

In the meantime, Jen and I painted the back bedroom.  It was originally mine when we first moved here.  Then, after the Debacle, Will took it over.  He’s bigger than I am and he needed more space.  I waited to make sure he was really not coming back, before reclaiming it.  I even offered it to Jen.  She’s happy with her cozy room, so we textured and painted my old room, together.  (That reminds me of another blog post I came up with while spreading joint compound on the walls:  How to Texture Walls or How to Love Your Life, which is less about texturing walls and more about loving your life with all its weird, beautiful texture including the occasional debacle.)

 

On another note:  I don’t know how many folks even stop by here anymore.

(Hi, Lynn! Love you!)

I used to check blog stats all the time – to see if anyone was reading.  I think I believed there was no point in writing, if no one was reading.  I remember thinking that I had to write to help others in order to justify the blog.  Now I can’t even remember the password to the site for checking the stats.  That doesn’t mean that I don’t care if others find comfort in these words.

(Thank you for writing to tell me that you’ve found comfort!)

The real issue is that I learned to help myself.

That’s what I want for my kids.  That’s what this journey is all about.  (Gawd, is there another word besides that poor, over-used word?  If I had a dollar for every time I said the word journey, I could have paid to have the bedroom painted!  But I wouldn’t have, because Jen and I have so much fun working on those projects together.)

Anyway, when we help ourselves, we start the ripple effect.  We make the world a better place in our own back yard, and it definitely, without a doubt, positively impacts others, as well.

So, I’m “staying in my lane, bro!” as that annoying but funny tattoo artist in the commercial says.  I’m staying in my lane, working on my own stuff, improving the texture in my tiny corner, and hoping that some of that improves your little corner, too.

Thank you for stopping by.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted on

The Courageous Bartender

Except for one lone stool, the bar was full, most likely due to the fact that Hank was working.  She grabbed the stool and looked around to see if she recognized any faces.

“Jesse!  Welcome!  How are things?”

“Good, Hank!  How are you?  Nice and busy in here!”

“What brings you out on this snowy night?”

“I came for some of your legendary advice.”  Hank laughed as the guy seated next to Jesse said, “That’s why I’m here!”

“Wine or beer tonight, Jesse?”

“Surprise me with something hot, Hank.  My bones are getting too old for this climate.”

Hank slid a mug across the bar and said, “Cider and Fireball – the only thing that’ll do the trick.  As far as advice, I dunno about that, but what’s on your mind?”

Jesse sighed and said, “Of course this is about my kids, particularly the 20 year old.  I want to encourage, not discourage.  I’d like to motivate without pissing him off.  I wrote a little bit about courage, but before I send it to him, I wanted your take.”

“Sure.  Let me see what you’ve got.”

 

Hank held her phone as he read:

I am no expert, but I think one of THE important aspects of a good life is courage.  Have courage to try new things, meet new people, go new places.

That’s what keeps a person moving along their path.

You have courage in spades!!!

I think the saddest lives are lived by folks who are stuck because they don’t have the courage to try something new.

With courage you might try something and hate it, or try something else and mess up.  That’s not failure, that’s experience!  The real important thing is that you have tried, and that you keep trying.  It’s so much better to have a long list of things tried, places seen, foods eaten, people met ….   than a short, boring list of STUCK.

I love you.

 

“What would you add, Hank?  What do you think I should take out?”

“Well, let’s put it up to the group!”  Hank looked to the other end of the bar.  “Sam, how do you define courage?”

A woman at the end of the bar put down her wine glass, looked Hank in the eye and said, “Courage is deciding to be single and staying that way!”

The guy next to Jesse slowly shook his head.

Hank looked at the guy next to Sam and said, “How about you, Ron.  What’s your take on courage?”

Ron didn’t hesitate before saying, “Giving up the great paying job for the job that doesn’t crush my soul!”  He raised his beer glass in salute.  The others clapped in agreement.

Hank looked at the couple seated next to Ron.  “What’s courage to you two?”  She looked at Hank and said, “Ignoring what my dad said about who to date.”  The couple looked at each other and laughed.  He said, “Meeting her dad,” and they all laughed.

Hank said, “It’s your turn, John.  How do you define courage?”

John paused a moment before responding.  He looked at his glass and said, “Getting the diagnosis that changed my life, undergoing chemo and beating cancer.”  Everyone at the bar raised a glass in honor of John.

Hank turned to Tom.  “Good luck beating that one, Tom.”  Tom looked a little nervous before he said, “Making my wife and kids a priority over my job.”  Ron raised his glass in Tom’s direction.

There were two folks left at the bar, Jesse and the guy to her left, who had appeared downtrodden when Sam declared her status.

Hank skipped over Jesse, smiled and said to Jim, “So now that you aren’t going to approach Sam, tell us how you define courage.”  The group laughed.  Jim cleared his throat and looked at Jesse.  “Courage is parenting a 20 year old.”  They all raised their glasses to Jesse.

 

Jim said, “Wait a darn minute!  What about you, Hank?  It’s your turn.  How do you define courage?”

“Well, it was one thing when I was 20.  Skiing the cliff.  Skiing out of bounds.  Any risk I could take on skis.  As I got older, it was having the courage to end one relationship and start another.  Now that I’m in my 50s, well, courage is knowing when to keep my mouth shut, and doing just that.”  He grinned and winked at Jesse.  “Now what do you think about courage, Jesse?”

“It’s pretty clear that courage is different to everyone.  I ‘spose I need the courage to let him figure it out himself.”  The group nodded their heads in agreement and Jim said, “Great idea, Jesse.”  Jesse stood up from her stool.  “I’ll still send the message, but then I need to have the courage to leave him alone while he figures things out.”

Hank smiled at Jesse, “Good plan, Jesse, and you think I’m the one with good advice!”

 

As Jesse put her coat on she saw Jim gulp the last of his beer.  He shouted, “Here’s to liquid courage!”  Then he got off his stool and walked over to approach Sam.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted on

A Dream of Men

We were on a bus.  The bus was full of males of all ages – men and boys I’ve been acquainted with throughout my life.  There were four women facilitating – myself and three others.  Oddly, while I did know the males in the dream, I did not know the females.

It was a fall afternoon, and the bus was cruising around my hometown.  We weren’t going anywhere in particular.  The men talked of football, bonfires, hunting, leaf-raking, and how glad they were to not be at the office.  The boys talked of the girls at school, football, the apps on their phones and pizza.

The mood on the bus was jovial.  The women were there to serve, and they didn’t seem to mind.   We walked the aisle of the bus filling snack bowls and fetching drinks.

We arrived at a hall with a large grassy area.  Everyone got off the bus and the women made their way to the restroom, while the men and boys staked out their territories.  Some grabbed footballs and headed for the grass.  Some went inside to turn on the TV to catch the game.  The boys looked at the two groups of men, and picked whichever group they felt most comfortable in, depending on what they experienced at home.

Everyone appeared to be having a good time.  Laughing and yelling filled the air.  Someone started a bonfire in the designated fire pit, and several men set up lawn chairs.  Some boys who had been in the hall came out to sit by the fire.  The fire brought them closer together.  Phones were tucked in pockets.  Even the noise level quieted a bit as they all focused on the fire and relished the good mood that comes with having fun.

At one point, I approached the fire to fill bowls with popcorn, and I noticed two 9 year old boys quietly crying.  A man stood in front of them to ask what was wrong.  He spoke in a gentle voice so as not to call attention to them.  When they didn’t answer the man, I knelt down in front of them and asked, “What happened?  I’ve seen you two hanging together all afternoon.  You’ve been having a great time!  Are you okay?”  Through tears, one of the boys said, “I can’t sit by him any more.”  When I asked why not, he said, “Because he’s pro-life and I’m pro-choice.”  I asked, “Do either of you know what that means?”  Each sat staring at his hands folded in his lap, tears rolling down his face. They both shook their heads.  They didn’t know what it meant, but they knew they were supposed to think one way, and not the other. Just then the man standing in front of them said, “Well I’m pro-life, too.  Does that mean I can’t stand here?”  The first boy cried even harder and said, “I don’t know.  I just know what I’ve been told.  How come I like him, but now I can’t sit by him because of something I don’t even understand?”

The man looked down at me and said, “What should I say to them?”

I handed both boys a Kleenex, and I asked the first boy, “Would you still want to sit by him if he liked pepperoni on pizza, and you only love sausage pizza?”  He looked at me dumbfounded.  “That’s stupid.  It doesn’t matter.  He can have whatever pizza he wants.  I don’t care.”   The second boy said, “Who cares about pizza?  We like to hang together!  That’s all that matters!”  The boys wadded up their Kleenexes and threw them in the fire, the way boys often do.

As I stood, the man whispered, “That’s not the same.  Folks don’t get hurt over pizza.  They get hurt over issues like pro-life and pro-choice.”  I said, “I don’t know how to fix this, but I know we have to make room for everyone to accept that others think differently.  We have to get okay with that.  There are many different versions of normal.  Maybe once we get okay with that, we can come to a point where people stop getting hurt.”

 

And then I woke up.

 

I know the same happens with girls and women.  I also know that many times the roles are reversed, and a woman is standing there wondering how to help, and a man addresses the girls with a question that they can relate to. 

This is not about men being inferior. 

This is not about me believing that women are supposed to serve. 

This is about patterns, status quo, versions of normal and how we often don’t see that our version of normal may not be healthy.

This is about looking at our “normal” and educating ourselves about what healthy is.  Are we holding so tightly to our version of normal that we can’t see that there might be other versions of normal?