tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-131682282024-03-12T18:57:39.033-07:00One PlaceAn ongoing quest to be content where we are, despite all the challenges and changes.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.comBlogger211125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-31210950997618142852016-10-07T11:34:00.001-07:002016-10-07T17:35:12.592-07:005 Years: Onward <div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.656; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Why do multiples of 5 get so much attention? The silver anniversary is 25 years; the golden, 50. Pins are given for 5, 10, 15 years of service. Multiples of 5 feel more like a milestone. A beginning runner may feel good about running 2 miles, though finishing a 5K is that first big accomplishment.</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-7d18258e-a06f-6243-0133-cf7b7e8f478b" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.656; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tomorrow is the 5 year anniversary of Ed's death. And, it’s on a Saturday: the same day of the week he died. So, this October 8 is particularly poignant. This is the first year I feel like we're starting to come out the other side, like we've crossed a threshold. I have more fortitude and bandwidth to carve a new life: skills five years in the making. This is the first year I actually remembered more than a week out to take time off from work in the days leading up to the 8th, to have the conversation with Jack about which day he should take off from school to sleep and recover. Sometimes I think I am a slow learner that it has taken this long to see ahead and plan for this time. Other times, I am amazed that it has only taken five years to better see and plan for what’s ahead of us.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Gretchen Schmelzer, whose blog posts more often than not resonate deeply on trauma, posted earlier this week</span><a href="http://gretchenschmelzer.com/blog-1/2016/10/5/finding-a-way-forward-when-the-path-isnt-clear" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finding a Way Forward When the Path isn’t Clear.</span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She wrote about cairns when hiking foggy paths:</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.656; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I saw my first cairns hiking in the White Mountains when I was a teenager. On the first day, in the bright sunlight of a summer day the cairns looked totally unnecessary—the trail ahead was obvious; it looked like there was no need of a giant pile of stones every 20 yards to mark the way. But when I woke up the next day to fog and rain—and I couldn’t see more than 25 feet in front of me—then the purpose of the cairns shines bright and clear—they are beacons. The cairns were the only possible way forward. Our group traveled for two whole days above the tree line on that trip only ever seeing the way to the next cairn. And that summer I learned this amazing lesson that you don’t have to be able to see the whole trail ahead of you in order to keep going—you just need to be able to see to the next cairn.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.656; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Until my husband and father of my children died, I didn’t realize how much of my/our life’s path had been carved for me and us. When were creating our life, we were working really hard to create what we thought was a new path, chopping down the forest growth, stomping the plants beneath us, inch by inch by inch. We had long talks about what values we wanted to adopt (and decline) from our families, friends and movies, books: the values of facing challenges head on; being honest and genuine with one another, allowing for what felt genuine to change and evolve; education and critical thinking; taking risks; being true to self. The tough decisions we made were based on those talks and values, challenging choices that felt unique to us. More and more, though, I am acutely aware of how much assistance we had on that path: our privilege, the fact that we were partners in the task, and all the examples readily available to observe and learn from. Even though it was scarry at the time, we weren't the first to choose advanced education over immediate security. I realize how much easier it was to have </span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">multiple </span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">examples that worked within the framework of our own relatively familiar and traditional lifestyle.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.656; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I understand that creating and navigating the path of a single working widow with children is nothing new. I know I’m not alone on this path nor entirely creating it myself. And, I am profoundly aware of how lucky I am to have the resources, support and circumstances to move forward, even if there are still times when I feel cheated that those have been cut in half. It is also harder to find examples; the most I can usually do is look for examples and say “nope, that’s not me, that’s not us.” I’m 42 years old, and defining relationships I couldn’t have ever imagined, approaching work in ways I never thought I would, parenting differently than I could have seen-- all the result of adapting to this new framework. The tough work in creating this new path is in striking away the noise, the overgrown expectations, the implicit and often inaccurate desires without a clear goal or destination. In so many ways, the world has opened up; the possibilities are limitless because I don't have as many ready examples; often, though, I am untethered and uncertain, anxious to find my footing, realizing the need to create my own example.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.656; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Remember in the movie, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Inside Out, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">when Riley’s sad and happy emotions finally allowed themselves to blend together into something new: something nostalgic, nuanced and rich? That was the brilliance of the film, right? It made a complexity simple without losing the truth of the complexity. The film’s popularity is in how much that moment resonated with people everywhere. Part of this new path is recognizing, accepting and finding value in the strange, new concoction of emotions that comes with grief, highlighted this time of year. There’s mix of resentment and possibility, of rage and gratefulness -- a formerly unfamiliar blend of beautifully nuanced emotions. For example, I quickly and easily recognize couples who have a true bond because I am lucky enough to have known it. I want to get inside their souls and show them how much they have to cherish… and many of them do know, they get a hint of the miracle of intimacy in between the slog of daily life; though, I so want to infuse a sense of that into every minute of their lives: particularly in those mundane, repetitive, seemingly routine moments. At the same time, I feel wordless rage for some of those bonds. Because we were four days short of our 15 year anniversary when Ed collapased, I can celebrate all wedding anniversaries except for 15. Good luck to you all, but fuck the universe for taking 15 years away from me and Ed. This year would have been 20. Damn multiples of 5.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.656; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The accomplishment of five years is recognizing the new ground beneath our feet. It’s a small patch of the path, but it’s all ours. The destination isn’t clear: that’s the main difference from before when Ed & I could more clearly paint a picture of what we wanted our life to look like. These days, I am feeling my way through: paying closer attention to moving towards what resonates, and away from what doesn’t. I am more comfortable waiting to figure out what is right for us even if it isn't clear, and I have more courage to step away from what isn't quite right even though I don't always know which way to go once I step back.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.656; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For example, for a while--about three and a half years, I was blindly focused on finding someone to fill Ed's void. At the same time I knew no one could take his place, I also wanted someone to share and create a life with, to be another adult presence in my kids' lives. It took four years to realize that in redefining the love and security of our family of three, and leaning on people around us in ways I never had to before, I no longer have a void to fill. Sounds positive, right? I guess so, but it also means that my life will never, ever look like it did. Which would be fine, I guess, if I didn't really love that life. By focusing on the value Ed & I cherished of creating an authentic life, I have to let go of that traditional, fabulous and fulfilling life we had. I don't know if I will find that fulfillment again-- whatever form it takes. And, I don't have the same need to find it; it's more that I'll be pleansantly surprised if I do, like coming upon a clearing of wildflowers. After five years of forging a new path, step by step, there's no urgent need to know what it looks like. There's also an awareness I may not find it. Laura of 2010 would find that incredibly depressing. I'm now indifferent. Go figure.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.656; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tomorrow we: me, Jack, Reese, family, and friends will celebrate Ed, we will celebrate surviving without him, we will cherish the richness he brought to our lives. I don’t think about Ed, the person, much. It’s still way too painful. But, I think all the time about living intentionally. That’s all Ed. I think about the people in his life, what their faces look like when they talk about Ed or how their faces lit up when talking with him. I recognize the genetic markers in his incredible children. These are my cairns.</span></div>
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Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-2379810997758064772015-11-20T19:26:00.000-08:002015-11-21T12:57:18.309-08:00Max <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IJNR2EpS0jw" target="_blank">Dumb Ways to Die </a>was one of the summer hits for my kids. If you didn't know the lyrics, you would think it was a lovely tune, one perfect for whistling. The tune was only one of the reasons they loved the song; they preferred singing lyrics that explained less than ideal ways to cash in one's chips, including: "use your private parts as piranha bate" and "scratch a drug dealer's brand new ride." I enjoyed their thorough enjoyment of the contrast of tune and message.<br />
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This week Reese had her cast removed. She broke her arm at the end of September falling from the monkey bars. At one point in the emergency room, Jack turned to me and voiced what I'd been thinking: that it was only a matter of time before the monkey broke a bone. Much like when she cut her own hair or when she takes my car without asking not too long from now, my initial response was a "check that one off the list."<br />
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The same day Reese got her cast off, I took our cat, Max, to the vet. Since we returned from a trip away last weekend with friends, he hasn't been himself. He's wobbly, not eating and not getting to his cat box. He would only sleep in the bathroom on the heated floors.<br />
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Max is fabulous. Everyone who meets him who has any sort of pet or cat appreciation comments on his markings, or his big, amazing eyes. Ed and I got Max about a year into our marriage, in 1997 (or 1998, not sure). The first winter we had Max he got a virus. I was working in North Seattle, a two hour drive from home. We were both working in jobs just out of college and not making much money. Ed was so worried, he told the vet to do whatever was needed to figure out what was wrong. He called me at work to let me know he spent $300 on tests, about 2/3 of our monthly grocery budget, and later told me it was totally worth it to make sure he was okay. It was one of our first parenting conversations.<br />
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Since then, Max moved everywhere with us, including a road trip across the country. At one point, Max thought it would be a good idea to escape the car onto the Chicago streets. Ed played frogger to get him back safely. When we were looking for a place to live in Bellingham for graduate school, we couldn't find anywhere that took cats. Ed was so annoyed, he started listing folks who could take Max for us. I said no way. I am pretty sure I had a similar conversation when Reese wouldn't stop crying for six weeks when a baby. That time, it was Ed who convinced me to keep the kid.<br />
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Max is a neat cat, doesn't put up with any shit, is friendly with everyone (often a little pushy for attention), enjoys the outdoors, was pretty crazy in his youth (climbing the screen door and meowing to get outside before we gave in and let him be an outdoor cat), and knows how to settle in for a good snuggle purr; his presence melts away all the other crazy and there's just solid love there. In some ways, I think Max prepared me for Reese. <br />
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In the last few years, Max has become Jack's cat. He sleeps under the blankets, right next to him. Max greets Jack after school, and looks to him for attention and food. In the morning, no matter how much I'm yelling about how late we are getting out the door, Jack will take at least two minutes to sit next to Max, snuggle, say goodbye and tell him he'll see him after school.<br />
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One the way home from cast removal, we landed on a discussion about the day Ed died. Every now and then we talk about the details of that unforgettable Saturday. I think Jack does it to remember and Reese does it to have the memory. We don't get sad when we talk about it; there is a kind of bonding in talking about the day, or a kind of "wow that happened, and look, we're still standing." After discussing the details, Jack reminded us that Ed died surrounded by people who loved him. At the same moment I remembered how lucky Ed was to have died quickly, unlikely to have felt any pain, Reese said, matter of factly, "Well, that's definitely NOT a dumb way to die." Indeed.<br />
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The vet let us know that Max's body is shutting down. His kidneys are failing and it is impacting the rest of his functions. His body temperature was pretty low when I first took him in and he was dehydrated. We brought him back to the vet for a day of fluids to see if that would make a difference. They were able to warm him up. The vet said Max might perk up, though it's pretty clear his days are limited.<br />
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We've been holding vigil the last two days. I am so grateful that I had planned to work from home this morning to wait for the heater maintenance person because it meant I could work near Max. Now that the weekend is here, we can be with him every minute.<br />
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I'm surprised at how hard this is for me. I am normally somewhat insensitive about pets. In fact, I can be downright judgmental about how much effort some people will go to for their pets. I've always been clear: people first, then pets. It doesn't help that one of the guys I dated after Ed died, who was flying out of town to visit his dying dog at his ex's house, expressed that I wouldn't understand how hard the trip was, because, he said, and I quote, "you don't know what it's like to lose a dog." We broke up shortly after.<br />
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I don't know what it is: maybe it's because Max is one of the only things in my day to day life that connects me to those early days with Ed, and with my emerging adulthood. Maybe it's because I know how hard this will be for Jack, who has never not had Max in his life. Maybe it's because Max has lived through everything, spent way more than his nine lives, and was still trucking along just great. Maybe I just really love him and hate that he's about to leave us.<br />
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The three of us sat down around Max tonight and made the decision to take him in to be put to sleep this weekend. Jack doesn't want Max to be in any pain. I am continually amazed at Jack's selflessness. Tonight, we're going hold him close in a blanket to keep him warm because he's starting to feel cold again.<br />
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I keep thinking about Reese's observation. Definitely not a dumb way to die, to be surrounded by those who love you.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_27sFcGUyjlF5lwdjmtTqZvS2JfFJoRdPcr_vaQQbhV_YJM8fNm4FRmRPT7KctQU64D8SviuwnpFxJ26U5ghpsl8leA90Ob334iHbMAS_1gNjisUwW9i0dJ2yr2XH4H5kE5WC/s1600/Max.Parkland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_27sFcGUyjlF5lwdjmtTqZvS2JfFJoRdPcr_vaQQbhV_YJM8fNm4FRmRPT7KctQU64D8SviuwnpFxJ26U5ghpsl8leA90Ob334iHbMAS_1gNjisUwW9i0dJ2yr2XH4H5kE5WC/s320/Max.Parkland.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-13140015690466519812015-11-09T23:42:00.004-08:002015-11-09T23:42:40.344-08:00Holiday Grab Bag<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Every year I start my Christmas cards a little earlier. It’s part of giving in completely to that roller coaster ride that is the holidays: the waves of joy and despair ridden the last two months of the year. This year, I have two designs ready to choose from; all set to order before the coupon code expires. I’m more prepared this year. I have a grab bag of tricks to pull from to make sure we all come out unscathed. Or, with fewer bandages anyway. </span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-714e07b7-f04e-18ff-6e45-10baa32a4212" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Trick one: Get out. The kids and I find our groove with retreat and adventure in equal measure. Adventure means getting lost in the city and letting the day unfold, to return home late and sleep in the next day. A few weeks ago, we ended up at the bowling alley, unplanned, on a Friday night. They still talk about how much fun that was. I'm pretty sure the spontaneity was as much if not more fun than the actual bowling. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Trick two: Borrow <a href="http://momastery.com/blog/2015/11/04/2015-holiday-gift-guide/" target="_blank">Momastery’s goal</a> to complete the shopping by December 1st. I LOVE LOVE LOVE this idea. We’re also adapting the approach to presents: one need, one want, one read, one wear, one give. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Trick three: Make it a game. <a href="http://marthabeck.com/2015/11/make-the-madness-a-game/" target="_blank">This comes from Martha Beck.</a> As adept as I can be at stepping outside a situation to observe so as to avoid losing my shit, I have yet to turn observations into a game. Beck’s game is a Holiday Bingo. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The other day, on the way home from the second soccer game of the day, I asked Jack (for the fifth time in a day) if he had found his toothbrush. The Sonicare toothbrush that is less than a few months old. He said he hadn’t. I asked Reese if she was ready for a bath. She wasn’t. They both hollered at me; I hollered at them. Then we were silent. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A moment later, I noted, from an outsider’s point of view, how goofy it was that I was getting yelled at for trying to parent --to help the kids take care of themselves---and how I’d really rather not have to deal with that anyway. Jack thought that was hysterical. He chuckled the rest of the way home, mumbling to himself “getting in trouble for having to parent stuff you don’t want to…”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Moments that highlight the ridiculous” for 200….</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Holiday Jeopardy. </span></div>
<br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://giphy.com/gifs/scared-despicable-me-roller-coaster-nDVsr46wHobGU" target="_blank">Arms up!</a></span><br />
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<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-17344675095657324762015-10-05T21:17:00.000-07:002015-10-05T22:11:26.461-07:00Four Years<b style="font-weight: normal;"></b><br />
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<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">At 5:30 AM this morning, I went for a walk in the neighborhood. The stars and moon were as bright as they could be for city dwelling. I came back and other than a minor pain fest trying to change Reese’s earrings (“hold still, babe, I just need to poke through to the back of your ear..”) we were able to eat breakfast together and get out the door on time. Work was mix of getting things done, moving things forward, answering emails and feeling productive. I came home by 5:30 PM to receive a “no issues” report from the nanny while I was polishing off side dishes for the roast I had started in the crock pot this morning. The kids and I sat together at the dinner table, everyone ate (nearly) everything on their plate and I connected with each kid about their day, and then homework after dinner. Aside from the fruit flies that landed in my Pinot at dinner, I’d give the day a solid A. Even traffic home from downtown was a breeze with the Seahawks playing at home for Monday night football. Somehow the stars, moods, emotional resources and planning rendered a full and good day.</span></b><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I am not bragging. I didn’t post a picture of my dinner plate on social media (though I thought about it). This “no issues” day, one that borders on good where all aspects not only run smoothly, but in many cases, are somewhat enjoyable---happens approximately once a season, if that. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">For the last four years, the kids and I have put in our 10,000 hours (or more) redefining what defines a good day. And, if recent days were any prediction of what this Monday would look like three days before the fourth anniversary of Ed’s death, I would have expected October 5th to be a full on shit show. I have been showing all the familiar signs of seasonal grief: irritability, exhaustion, impatience, cravings for alone time only to crave company when I’m finally alone. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I re-watched an episode of </span><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt4165846/combined" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">Elementary</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> this weekend while working on a fundraising project for the kids’ school. “The Eternity Injection” was one of those episodes that sneak up, particularly one scene where Sherlock (the wonderful Jonny Lee Miller) articulates the tedium of maintaining sobriety. The first time I watched the episode, I was in the thick of a many month long battle just to get through each day. Sherlock’s monologue was a salve on my unnamed reality, one so familiar I couldn’t see it anymore. It gave me language to tell a chapter of my story. Not much helps more than the ability to tell one’s story. It’s my best therapy.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I highly recommend that the monologue be watched: it’s on </span><a href="http://www.hulu.com/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">Hulu</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">: Episode 3, Season 9, around 27 minutes. Miller executes the words perfectly, so much so, that I hesitate re-typing them here because they lose their impact in printed form. It captures well the reality of grinding out a new life being sober; for me, it's a new life in the wake of the death of my spouse and children’s father. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Here’s the monologue:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">If you must know, Watson, I've been feeling a little bit down of late. It's the process of maintaining my sobriety. It's repetitive. And it's relentless. And above all, it's tedious. When I left rehab, I... I accepted your influence, I committed to my recovery. And now, two years in, I find myself asking, 'is this it?' My sobriety is simply a grind. It's just this leaky faucet that requires constant maintenance, and in return offers only not to drip.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Here’s what I heard/felt: </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I've been feeling a little bit down of late. It's the process of maintaining my</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> life without Ed</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">. It's repetitive. And it's relentless. And above all, it's tedious. When </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Ed died,</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> I committed to </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">continuing our life.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> And now, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">four</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> years in, I find myself asking, 'is this it?' My </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">grief</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> is simply a grind. It's just this leaky faucet that requires constant maintenance, and in return offers only not to drip.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My “leaky faucet” is figuring out how to take care of basics; and by basics, I mean keeping the house running, doing a good enough job at work and as a parent to avoid despair, reading most of the school emails, putting basics on hold to be the “fun” parent even when I am in no mood. I have long since given up on my previous life’s notion of more than a few minutes of time to myself each day or being able to ask the question “what should we do today” because the to-do list is relentless. I no longer have expectations for any sort of social life that I used to strive for after having children. Working out is akin to dessert: a rare treat. What makes the fourth year different than the third? Last year, this list would have been a list of complaints. This year, it’s a list of acceptance. With acceptance, good days are being redefined. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">A good day is when I don’t notice there’s a fixed faucet. Like today. A “normal” day that, when good, doesn’t automatically remind me of what once was. Or when the daily grind doesn’t feel like a grind. Don’t get me wrong, I have tremendous gratitude for all that I have, mostly for my kids and the people we care about and who clearly care about us. I am acutely aware that I am in a stable social and financial situation; I can't imagine being a widow in the majority of the places on earth, including some in this country. But, it’s not like a pie of emotion: a big fat slice of gratitude doesn’t take up the grief pieces; they coexist. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I am grateful that the outward toll of grief shows itself less regularly, more so with each passing year (which could mean I’m learning to manage it all better): I notice it when it appears, which means, thank God, that it disappears for longer periods of time. I am grateful that I’ve learned what usually works for me and the kids around critical days and times. For example, I have discovered that vacations are like relationships: they should not be used to make one feel better; they are much better enjoyed when you’re in a good place (I will save a LOT of money not traveling at Christmas). I’m grateful that one of my strengths has gotten stronger: the ability to adapt and improvise in almost any situation. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And, I am grateful for this day. It was a good day. I have no idea what tomorrow will be like, or the day before the fourth anniversary of Ed’s death. And, that's okay. My kids and I are slowly learning that nothing is permanent, for good or bad. And, the good days return. </span></div>
</b>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-82213658861203217552015-09-13T21:01:00.000-07:002015-09-13T21:01:25.770-07:00Fall In<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This Saturday morning, in an attempt to wake up energized, I listened to a TED talk by </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lean In</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">’s Sheryl Sandberg, given before her husband died. She talked about how she was once offered a promotion, but turned it down because she didn’t think she could do it. She thought more about it, decided to take the promotion, went home, and, in her words, “gave her husband the grocery list.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I went back to sleep. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Earlier this year, about six months ago, I asked for more help at work. My boss, who was new, had been working 12 hour days to stay on top of the work needed to be done. Because I am the only parent of my two children, 12 hour paid work days are not possible- mostly because I’m working at least that (and not being paid) for the other waking hours. I got to the point where I was tired of feeling bad about what couldn’t get done; I finally figured out that it wasn’t that I was an ineffective worker; the job was nuts. This was a significant hurdle in my career and life: to distinguish a situation from my capabilities. I am still learning this. I continued to work even when the additional position I requested was not approved. I eventually hit a wall of exhaustion, walked into the Vice President’s office and said I needed to leave my position. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The night before I knew I was going to resign, I had the thought that what I was about to do was incredibly brave or stupid. As the sole breadwinner of our family, it was easy to see my decision as foolish: I was going to put my family, my children, in financial risk. Yes, I did have a full time, tenured teaching job to “fall back” on, but one that would lower my annual salary by 20%. I knew I’d be facing big decisions about where we lived, where the kids went to school, how we lived our life. I didn’t know exactly how I would make it work, or what exactly would change. Despite the risk and potential stupidity, I only knew something needed to change and it started with work. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sheryl Sandberg reflected in her TED talk about how she never talked about being a woman in business. Implicit in her discussion is what I suspect all women still wrestle with professionally and personally, consciously or subconsciously: that by stating our gender difference we are in a vulnerable position to be seen as less than. HOW DOES THIS STILL HAPPEN!!?!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Six months later, I have accepted a promotion. My boss ended up giving his three week notice, left on my tentative last day, and the college responded by giving the division what it needed: another position. I took my boss’s job, and waited for the hiring of my replacement and the new position, and I have been doing pretty much all three for six weeks, with a few weeks more before the new people start. This is not what I pictured when I walked into the Vice President’s office in late spring. I thought by now I would be re-grouping, preparing for classes, picking up my kids from school, coupon clipping and breathing out regularly. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Just this week I had the thought, maybe it’s not possible that a widow with two children could be head of division. Maybe it’s silly for me to group myself into the women who can take a promotion because they have a partner to share the load. I STILL REFUSE TO ACCEPT THIS. And, yet, after a particularly rough week, I lost it. A parent of a student came in to let me know how unfair a situation was. The father said some particularly cruel things to me. I didn’t have the resources to step outside his words. I fell back into the mindset that it was me failing the situation, not the situation failing me. In an attempt to appeal to his humanity, I explained the challenge in our division, the transition we were in, that things aren’t able to be attended to in the timely matter they should. I acknowledged that it was an excuse, but it was also the reality. As I was I saying it, I realized the excuse didn’t matter. It sounded weak. Which must mean that I am weak (HOW DOES THAT THINKING STILL HAPPEN?!)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The parent left and I was a mess. I cried. At work. I shut the door and sobbed. At work. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I talked to a colleague and friend and relayed my biggest fear and frustration: because I am the only parent, it is that much more critical that I do what I can do make the amount of two parents, but it is because I am the only parent that I am less likely to be able to do the work required of the jobs given to men and women who have a partner at home to do the grocery shopping. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Of course, grocery shopping is just the logistics. What I miss most about not having my partner is the processing and support. When I walk in the door at home, I am still “on” -- I am holding it together for my kids. I go from boss to mom, employing an adjusted version of what happens at work: setting the tone, being calm, facilitating, negotiating, doing by best to be reliable, consistent and responsible. And, as much as I still crave it, I can barely remember what it’s like to come home after a particularly rough day to a familiar face who reads my exhaustion, or me his, and turn it up a notch: kick in the unconditional love, listen fully without judgment and with support, and let the other fall in and crumble a bit. More likely, neither of us would get to that complete state of exhaustion because there would be just enough give and take each day between us to adjust either emotionally or domestically to the other, to lean on one another just enough to get our footing back again. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fall quarter at my school starts in two weeks. The kids are two weeks into their school year. The leaves are starting to change and the air is getting crisp. We are less than one month away from the fourth anniversary of my husband’s death. I am reminded of how far we’ve come. I am also wondering what it means for us to be whole, what it means for me to be whole. Most days I go back and forth between absolute gratitude and grumpiness. And so it (this life) goes. </span></div>
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-36538948315942442942015-01-01T18:39:00.000-08:002015-01-01T20:20:09.922-08:002014 to 2015 <div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Like many others who are fortunate to enjoy a low-key new year's day, I am reflecting a bit on the transition from 2014 to 2015. I remember a short, yet wonderful conversation I had with Jack on a Christmas Eve drive into the city.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Jack:</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> There are extra DUI patrols out this time of year.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Me: </b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yup.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Silence as I wonder why he pointed that out….</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Me: </b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You know, people often drink more during the holidays. As good a time it is for some, it can be just that bad for others.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Jack:</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Uh huh.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Me: </b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Drinking can be celebratory or used it to escape or numb emotions.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Jack: </b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Looking directly at me: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">we’re </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">mostly</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">celebratory, right?</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This moment, by far, was the best part of a somewhat challenging Christmas. I’ll do my best to explain what made the conversation so meaningful.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It all started on Ed’s birthday, which is the week before Christmas. As much as I try to tell myself to be strong and not feel like crap, there are days where all the mental toughness in the world is worthless. The grief barrels through like a globally warmed hurricane. Tears fall down my face no matter what I’m doing (taking notes at a meeting or talking on the phone to an upset student who has no idea how grateful I am to have the details of the injustice of her math grade to focus on). I have to decide between allowing bitter burbs to erupt throughout the day or save it all for one loud resentful belch all over my kids at the end of the day. Instead of giving into such a depressing dichotomy, I emailed a few friends to express how bad I was feeling. The response-- as is always the case when I reach out honestly, openly and without expectation-- was full throttle support, empathy and love.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nicole, from Portland, gave me permission to give Reese a mop and tell her to clean the bathroom the next time she called me Miss Hannigan (which she did that morning).</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Another friend, who juggles running her own business with her home/wife/mother/friend realities, gave me this amazing paragraph:</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There is something about this time of year that just invites commercial grade stress into the mix on top of an already stressful life and I feel like throwing my hands up and waving a white flag. Then going offline and smashing my phone and speaking to no one. But then we still have to deal with our kids. "When are we going to make gingerbread houses mom?" (in my head: never, we don't have time for that shit this year) in real life: Maybe over Christmas break! "The advent calendar is broken mom!" (me: in my head: Who the hell cares, we don't have time for that shit). "I don't have any clean underwear mom!" (me in my head: go do the goddamn laundry yourself then. Or grab your brother’s underwear or the ones on the floor from last night, that you NEVER put in the dirty laundry bin 2 feet from your face. I don't have time for this shit. I have a company to run.) " I don't want to go to church today at school today mom!" ( the hell you don’t. You are going because I have 3 meetings today and can't cancel and someone has to go and talk to God and represent this family because I sure as hell am not her, and I don't have time for this shit!) oh, but I do love you; you are just making my life insanely hard right now. I am a Hannigan too, much more often than I like to admit.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have read this paragraph multiple times, comforted by how much it mirrored my own sentiments. And, the line about someone representing the family at church, well that is just brilliant </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">and</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> hilarious.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This Christmas was harder than any other mostly because it was my “no” Christmas. 2014 focused on establishing boundaries, which meant saying no to activities, traditions, feelings and anything else that I simply no longer have the energy for. Maybe I’m finally growing up, or maybe this what happens after 40, but the last year was all about recognizing where the line is, being comfortable about where it is and not worrying so much about what others might think and/or how our lines may overlap or contradict. To both recognize the line AND be fine with where it is has been a slow epiphany. The world looks different and the emotional refrain is now mostly </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">acceptance</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> rather than </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">should</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Over the last six months, I paid careful attention to cutting out unnecessary mental or emotional work. I determined what was necessary and when I found myself overwhelmed or overstepping what I knew was too much, I pulled back, damn the consequences. This meant not living up to all those family, friend and work expectations: both real and perceived. I gave them up as best I could. For example, I was invited to a handful of holiday parties. My cup overflowed with just how lovely it felt to be invited. In the past, I would have spent a lot of time figuring out child care, outfits, and giving up other holiday chores so I didn't have to say no and explain why I seemed to be refusing kindness. I really wish I could go to every party. The truth is it's not possible. For lots of reasons, reasons everyone has for not attending parties- the ones they write in the RSVP and the reasons they may not say. One of the reasons I don’t explain is financial. One Christmas party costs between $60-$80 just for babysitting alone. That adds up quickly after the mini mortgage that is my monthly childcare bill. Not to mention the time it takes to find coverage this time of year. Also, this ugly Christmas sweater trend is getting a little out of hand. As a middle-aged single parent who looks haggard at best on most days during the week, the last thing I want to do is look purposely ugly or ridiculous. But, I don’t explain this. I just trust the invitation for what it is: an open invitation without expectation. I mean it when I say, no, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>thank you. </i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Drawing the line and holding it takes discipline and practice, particularly when not explaining my reasons. Reasons are easily heard as excuses and excuses blur authenticity. The shifts are subtle, if significant. In accepting my own parameters, I better accept everyone else’s. Interactions are more authentic. I know, without a doubt, that I was able to reach out to my friends as honestly as I did on Ed’s birthday in part because I wasn’t spending time explaining myself everywhere else. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Extra time, normally a welcome gift, was challenging, too. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when I landed upon Christmas week, having established boundaries for how much I could drive or deck the halls, that without work, school and ALL the extra stuff, that I was alone, with my kids. Alone to feel the familiar absence. Alone to realize I was moving towards living Anne Lamott’s quote that "what you are looking for is already inside you." Apparently, I had to empty my life a bit, live the blank canvas of "no's" to begin to see what might be inside and worth exploring. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Of course, no one said charting your own course is easy. I mostly wanted to curl up in a ball, toss my phone next to my friend's broken advent calendar and speak to no one, including my kids. I would lie in bed in the mornings, wondering how long I could wallow before I’d be swallowed up by depression. But, then, I’d remember that awful, wonderful, sobering truth that I tell my kids: you have the power to determine what happens. I always remind Jack, before a soccer or basketball practice he doesn’t want to go to, how better he feels -- how much more energized he is - after he goes. He just needs to get moving, and for inspiration, remember the </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">after </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">feeling to combat the lethargic </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">before </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">feeling.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We had no plans Christmas Eve. I didn’t know exactly what we were going to do; the only parameters were that it was important for me that we go to our church for Mass and that it was important to Jack that we went to the service where his friends were altar serving.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To honor both our parameters, we stayed in town on Christmas Eve. No plans with friends or family. I could have easily moped around all day. Instead, I got us moving, having faith in the </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">after joy </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">despite the </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">before blues. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I suggested to the kids that we head downtown and soak up the festivities. We could soak in the energy of the city and the people in it. I had no idea if the outing would help or make it all feel emptier.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jack’s "mostly celebratory" comment about drinking during the holidays was a sobering reminder of the privilege and burden of free will. The magic of the moment in our short conversation was in his declaration that we are </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">mostly </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">celebratory. It hinted at a reality his ten-year old soul is coming to understand: that there are days where the expectation of celebration on birthdays or holidays can actually make those times feel worse. But, we do have some room to choose what to celebrate. Like Christmas Eve, driving to the city with no pretense or plan, just getting moving. When he said “we,” I pictured the people in our lives that I can reach out to on a shitty day, not worried that I sound like a whiny broken record. And “mostly” -- well that’s just beautiful. It reveals that nothing is absolute: not loneliness, happiness, life or death. “Mostly” allow us to fully accept those real deep down lonely blues AND the ability to brush them off like crumbs because the weight of them is near nothing when they are honestly shared. In that one exchange, I knew we were slowly building an authentic family, despite all the grief, stress, and confusion of the last few years.Best gift of the season. And this, my friends, is one of the hardest aspects of moving on in life -- from whatever transition we happen to encounter: the letting go has to happen before the new can fill in the space. And that transition is often lonely, painful, but necessary. It is often easier to fill time explaining ourselves or just saying yes to everything than it is to inhabit the empty space crucial for building on the ever-evolving, if authentic life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ironically enough, the miracle of Christmas came in the midst of feeling like there was no miracle. Damn. And, so, I can say this without </span><span style="font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">most </span><span style="font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">the familiar bitter bile of the holiday season’s emotional complexity: I wish you a happy, happy 2015.</span></div>
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Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-42771930916529359992014-11-28T11:19:00.001-08:002014-11-28T11:35:04.176-08:00Thankful *and* Wanting... Ugh. Ed's doctorate was in psychology. The branch of psychology he subscribed to was <a href="http://www.simplypsychology.org/cognitive.html" target="_blank">cognitive</a> psychology, which basically means paying attention to how we think about things. Ed used this approach to fuel his philosophy that we get to choose how we feel about everything, that the brain is a mental muscle and the more you choose good, the more you see good. Yeah, sure. I get it. It's all about the "it's not what happens to you, it's how you react" approach to life. In theory, this makes sense. And most days I convince myself that mental will is what will keep things moving forward. But, I'll tell ya, when the winter holiday season settles in, I have all but used up my mental resources. Usually, it's all I can do to write the bills or finish the laundry, let alone be a model for being positive. The last few years at this time of the year, I've fought my negative tendencies and pushed through, gritting my teeth, forcing a positive outlook. I can only imagine how confusing that must be for Jack and Reese: seeing mom clearly frustrated with tears in her eyes saying "We'll have fun today!" This year, I'm not forcing anything. Which means, veneer pulled back and honesty revealed, I am a grumpy goose.<br />
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I blame Ed. He set the bar way too high. He couldn't just be happy with the basic American dream: steady job, family, friends, house. Nope, he wanted more. He wanted to be fulfilled, find meaning and richness in all of these. It's why he decided he needed to move us across the country and take on more debt right when we started our family, a year after Jack was born, to pursue his dream job by getting a doctorate to practice sports psychology. He was almost careless in the risks he took to find richness. Or knew what most mattered and was worth the risk. </div>
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Of course, Ed's drive is one of the reasons I wanted to make a life with him. I have a similar affliction: this need to secure meaning and connection to work, family, friends.... daily life. I call it an affliction because it's incredibly easy to fall short of the high expectations. Lately, I've been thinking if I had lower expectations, I could be content with what I have, appreciate all the goodness around me and my kids. To my dismay, I'm realizing, though, that there's a difference between being content with what I have and being true to myself. I wrestle with the tension between these abstract realities so much I'm exhausted. It's why my liquor cabinet needs stocking. </div>
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Concretely, the wrestling manifests itself in everything: how I view relationships (current and pursuing new ones), parenting and work. On paper, I have a great job for someone in my circumstances. I work close to home which means I can maximize all the hours I need in the day to get things done. It pays well enough, so I can pay my West Seattle mortgage and send my kids to private Catholic school. I am fairly autonomous, which means I get to decide -- for the most part- what I focus on each day. On the other hand, the job is remarkably taxing and overwhelming; it is sucking my soul and pulling me away from all the reasons I thought I wanted to move into college administration. Of course, if I didn't have the expectation that my job should be fulfilling and have meaning, I wouldn't be so miserable.</div>
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I read too much about "simple steps" to a <a href="http://www.mindbodygreen.com/0-15998/how-to-create-real-freedom-in-your-life.html" target="_blank">living a full life</a> and then counter that with articles on <a href="http://www.mindbodygreen.com/0-15998/how-to-create-real-freedom-in-your-life.html" target="_blank">being realistic</a> about what that really takes to make the life happen. Ultimately, I often don't have the energy to sustain the expectations Ed and I set for life before he died. Of course, I also don't have the constitution -- based on my nature and the nurturing of a marriage and life that pushed for greatness- to accept a mediocre life. In short, I'm trapped by what I have trained my gut and self to know is fulfillment and what I can physically accomplish as a single working mom of two grade school children. </div>
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I am pretty sure there are many people who have their basic needs met who have similar mental struggles. I'm also sure that it doesn't consume them the way it seems to consume me, or maybe they don't say anything because they will feel like I do now (self-centered and ungrateful). So, I write. I write to figure it out. I write to articulate what are the core challenges. I write to more contently walk the tight rope of gratefulness and seeking what truly resonates. I write to not make a martini before noon the day after the start of the holiday season. </div>
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-49768691574376260482014-10-13T20:47:00.000-07:002014-10-13T21:50:13.265-07:00Heaven<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I figured out how to get into Heaven. I figured it out during Mass the other night, which is funny because the kids and I have made it to Mass all of five or six times in the last year and it’s October. Either God is rewarding us for showing up or letting me know it’s okay to show up when it makes the most sense for our lives. Or, more like one of the parables, the details that I think are important for the message are actually somewhat meaningless.
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yes, I’m working from the assumption that there is a heaven. I concede that there may not be a heaven, that our time and space on earth could very well be a random coincidence of atoms and when we die, our physical selves and souls are absorbed into the unexplained dark matter of the universe. In fact, if gun to my head on the witness stand, I might say there isn’t a heaven. Might. A few years before Ed died, on a walk in the trails near our house in West Roxbury, Massachusetts, I let him know that I had decided there wasn’t a heaven, that I was going to live like the only happiness to be found could only be found on earth </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">when I was alive </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">and it was up to me to find it here, now, and by golly, if there was a heaven, it would just a be a bonus. Because I have never liked the idea of going through life just sucking it up, showing up, gritting my teeth and </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">waiting </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">for a reward, particularly when that reward was death, and even worse, the unknown.
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Promising heaven without evidence is unethical teaching. When I taught writing, I couldn't imagine walking into the classroom and saying, “Okay, class, I want you to write a paper. Do your best. Then turn it in. I’ll put it in a box, or maybe I’ll burn it. But know that all that work you did, all that time you spent has </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">probably</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> earned you a pretty sweet grade, though I can’t guarantee it. The rubric is this Book, well two books in one, of which there are countless contradictions. I can’t tell you what the grade will actually be or what the grade even means exactly. But it’ll be something and it will be worth all your time and effort. Though, I can’t exactly tell you what that something is. Just </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">trust me.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">” I get why God and religion are seen as ridiculous. I get it, and yet I still keep showing up now and then to church. Life, too.
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I think heaven is two places: the first are those moments when you are acutely aware of absolute grace and love. These tend to be fleeting moments. Moments that make the 23 hours and 50 minutes of the rest of the day suddenly all *okay.* For example, the other night, I was watching </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Amelie</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> with my five year old. Reese was just two when her dad died, so she doesn’t remember much, or if she does, didn't have language to be able to articulate the memory. We were watching the scene where one of the Bretodeaus's come down the stairs in a coffin. Reese asked about the coffin and I explained it’s where dead bodies are put before they are buried.; Reese asked if we buried daddy. I said no, we burned him. She turned and looked at me like I was nuts. “YOU BURNED HIM?!” She turned back to the movie, shook her head and claimed that “People are CRAZY: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">burning</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> people.” It is crazy. Like the notion of 10 minutes making up for 23 hours. But in that moment, I laughed full and hard, loving that she could express the hilarity of death's practicalities while snuggling up to me and stroking my knuckles the way she does when she gets sleepy.
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I'm finding heaven in another place, one that takes a LOT of practice (and failure) to discover: the state of being that easily assumes love’s presence, the decision to see that love is there, perhaps hidden in the actions of our friends and neighbors even (especially) when our insecurities and fears fog over the love. And, by contrast, sinning is assuming the absence of love. I attended a Lutheran church during college; Pastor Swenson wrote incredible sermons. In one sermon, he wrote that the definition of sinning was simply “missing the mark” and somehow we’ve turned it into this “gotcha” game of doing something wrong. I think about missing the mark all the time-though not as much as I actually miss the mark. I think about how long it takes to shoot an arrow and actually hit a bulls eye -- one has to miss the mark a million times to know how to hit the mark (I do, at least). My whole Iife, I’ve been trying to even hit the freaking cardboard that the target is painted on. Mostly, my arrows land on the grass or hit innocent bystanders, far from the mark. We tell our athletes that practice and messing up leads to better performance. In school, the good assessments are ones that give students the space to explore and get it wrong without consequence so they can learn without their grade being impacted (too much). So, it seems to me that sinning, or trying to hit the mark and missing, is actually a necessary part of discovering heaven. Of course, I still worry that messing up might actually cost me more than I am comfortable with. Probably because sinning and mistakes all got a bad rap early on.
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And this is the lesson that will take me years to explain and show my children (and one that will likely be fully revealed more through the other people in their lives than me): that heaven is an individual discovery, a blend of really hard work, serendipity, trial and error. It’s the decision to assume love is there and ACT in a way that reveals that assumption without losing a sense of self. I wish this “taking action in a way that reveals the assumption of love, and doing so authentically and with self-respect” was a class offered at various times through life. Where, of course, we could fail, over and over and the only consequence would be an abstract grade. Instead I rely on life and death, and all their teachers to slowly reveal that it’s more likely we have to create our own life rubric and discover the criteria for heaven in the context of our individual perspective and temperaments. Mostly, for those 23 hours and 50 minutes, it’s hard work, heart break, disappointment and let-downs. It's failed relationships, over-reacting to my kids because I couldn't overact at work, spending the grocery money on fancy boots that fall apart, the inability to discern what really matters; it's not speaking up about what my gut tells me needs to be said even at the risk of being misunderstood. Free will sucks.
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Seeking heaven on earth is not hard. It’s damn near impossible. By Thursday, I am fighting back tears of exhaustion and feeling overwhelmed. I fight back the tears walking from my office to the printer, my super-sensitive emotional response to an attempt to push off with all my mental might the weight of emails unanswered, the dozens of tasks that need completing, my shortcomings and growing resentment for not having time to find heaven, that place I told my best friend likely only existed on earth. By Thursday, I just want to stop looking. I call uncle. I want to fall into the line of thinking that says, just give up, stop thinking and feeling so much. I want to be lazy and just wait and see if when I die, there just might be more. More than what feels like 10 minutes a week. But then I think about the shield of security I have</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b> </b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">felt Non-Stop as </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>if fact </i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">since the night after my husband died. How I’m so used to feeling fully and absolutely safe, despite our house being broken into twice and escaping, unharmed, two car accidents-both in the last two years. How that security is so common I take it for granted. And, gun to head, I would have to admit, I am given a healthy, even gluttonous, dose of heaven on earth.
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I think about the people in our lives that act heavenly. They amaze and remind me how short I fall from that target. They appear to be hitting the mark consistently and seemingly without effort. I’m pretty sure that that they have this heaven on earth thing all figured out. But, then, I think, I may be missing the mark yet again. Assuming they have it figured out separates me from them. And separating myself from those who model love is missing the mark completely. Maybe they struggle with assuming love. Maybe they encounter a daily barrage of confusing situations and guarded, mean people and piles of dust and unfolded laundry that have them questioning if they have the stamina to assume love’s presence. Because, in those brief conversations between talks about the kitchen remodel or who is going to the Mother Son glow bowl, someone shares honestly how hard it is for them to see how those 23 hours and 10 minutes are worth the 10 minutes. And, in that authentic moment when we can be honest about who we are because the other(s) person assumes acceptance and love, we are seeking heaven together. And it's not so hard. And, I think, maybe heaven is seeking us. </span></div>
<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-39649788864840976622013-12-07T10:39:00.001-08:002013-12-08T07:51:17.442-08:00Repeat the Sounding Joy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last night the kids and I got our Christmas tree. Earlier this week, I decorated the fireplace mantle, putting up our stockings. Last year, I remember having to stop, sit down and try not to fall over from the physical shock of not putting up four stockings for the first time. This year, I hung three stockings and stood in front of them, my feet steady.<br />
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It is the third Christmas season without Ed. It's the first year I haven't asked friends for help with the tree. Jack was my helper once we got the tree set up, cutting the netting that was wrapped around the tree that made it easier to secure to the top of my car. The tree was tied by Greg, the dad of one our babysitters. She attends Seattle Prep where one our dearest family friends and one of Ed's closest friends, Meza, teaches science. Greg's wife, Sheila, was working at the cash register of Jack's school's tree lot fundraiser. Eric, another dad at the school and president of West Seattle baseball-- a league Jack played on in some capacity for the last five years- worked with Greg to tie our tree to the car. Before we got the tree, we visited the school gym, the same place where an abundance of family and friends gathered to remember Ed after his memorial. While Reese watched <i>Elf, </i>said hi to new kids, Jack ran around playing tag with friends he's known since kindergarten. I talked for a bit with a dear friend, Amanda, about how it's okay that we aren't getting all the decorations up-just the essentials.<br />
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Jack and I got the tree up and set in less than ten minutes. I am acutely aware of the ease in which we are getting ready for Christmas. I can't help but feel like me and my family are that tree: we have been wrapped and insulated by friends and family and community. Our Christmas miracle is this: we are emerging from the need for the net of love and support; we are, in so many ways, being set free from our grief. And yet, we are not set free from our connections. It's the best bonus in the whole wide world.<br />
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One of my favorite movies is <i>French Kiss</i> with Kevin Kline and Meg Ryan, a charming and insignificant flick good for Saturday afternoon. Ed & I would recite lines from the movie. Our favorite was Luc's (Kline) line, "Happy people make my ass twitch." Ed & I tended to scoff at happiness. I think it was because we didn't trust happiness-- it felt fleeting and insecure. The term invokes a surface emotion that hasn't been fought for. We spent the majority of our marriage (which was also the majority of our early adult life), searching-<i>hunting- </i>for fulfillment through our relationship, connections with others, education, career. We taught ourselves that IT HAD TO BE HARD to be happy and if it wasn't hard, it wasn't real. Those who knew Ed also knew his particular blend of charm and intelligence, which could infuse a only few words with lightness and meaning. Whenever we encountered simple happiness, Ed would say that line to me with a tint of irony and humor, mimicking Luc's french accent. It was his way of reminding us who we were. How lucky was I to share this private joke with him? When he would say it, I was reminded of the richness of our challenges and life goals-- particularly the one that said, let's dig in, babe, and find the more sustainable emotion: joy.<br />
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This morning, this December 7th, the day before the 8th, as I look at the tree ready to be decorated, I told Ed I was happy. And I can hear him laughing, telling me that I make his ass twitch. I picture him sitting at a table, leaning back, comfortable in his own skin. He says it in loving jest, knowing I am reaping the emotional rewards of all that we worked for and all that me and the kids have worked for these last few years. The happiness may be fleeting, which is fine. The joy is clearly there. How lucky am I to know both on this crisp, cold, sunny December morning?<br />
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<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-82548666443337802582013-09-30T06:01:00.000-07:002013-10-02T22:04:05.348-07:00Anticipating Two Years<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m approaching the two year anniversary of my husband’s death. I’ve had people ask how I’m doing, which I appreciate, particularly given the fact that as a culture, grief is brief and the expectation to return to “normal” is, like most unnamed and powerful forces: difficult to resist. Giving into cultural norms means we forget about grief anniversaries. Or, perhaps, we are, simply, like life, moving forward. </span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid--11bb13b-6eed-88bd-be3a-e47b1f840cc7" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There is an all too familiar emotional edge to the “how are you doing” question. When asked, I want to pry into the inquirer’s head see what they are referencing. I suspect that it’s focused on the sadness me or my children feel because we miss their dad. Do they picture the three of us huddled together, watching old videos of our family, holding one another as tears roll down our face? To be fair, that does happen, but it’s rare. If we do watch videos these days, it’s more nostalgic than raw. That, or we’ve acquired emotional calluses. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Where grief rears its head for me is in an inability to deal with balancing the day to dayness of life-- which, up until only a week or so ago--felt mostly manageable. And, the anxiety is palpable. I forget to breathe, I snap quickly and I spend a lot of energy (I don’t have) keeping my face from turning into the bitter scowl of a single working mother who is bothered too much by children who can’t remember to put their shoes in the shoe bin near the front door. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When the anxiety builds, I would like to hear something like, “you know, everyone understands you can’t get to every email” or “kids can sleep in their clothes a few nights a week” rather than “how are you doing?” - a question I don’t have an answer for. A few months into my single parent voyage, I texted a friend attempting to articulate the insurmountable obstacle of dirty dishes. She suggested I name Tuesdays and Wednesdays paper plate days. The suggestion was a much needed salve on an open, festering domestic wound. So simple and yet so brilliant. The truth is, the kids and I are fine on a macro level. But, day to day we are still starting fresh and the moment to moment energy it takes to recreate new lives and new identities is remarkably exhausting. Yet, it’s so common, I forget the toll it takes until the stress forces me to face it and make adjustments. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A while ago, a friend emailed me asking me what she could do to help a friend who recently lost her husband. She felt helpless and uncertain. My suggestion was to share those feelings because chances were her friend was feeling the same way. One of the things I resent most about losing a spouse (other than losing a spouse) is the ongoing tension between working to still relate to my friends and knowing I’ll always be a little different. For example, I have attempted to relate to my married, mom friends by sharing how nice it is that I don’t have anyone to blame but myself when things don’t get done- that there’s only three of us to clean up after rather than four. There is some truth to that; Ed would allow piles of papers to stack up and it would drive me crazy. There are still piles, but they are smaller and the only person to nag is me. He also did all the grocery shopping and the cooking and the kitchen clean up. And he could kick the soccer ball in the backyard with our son while I painted with our daughter at the kitchen table. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wonder if the women I talk with are trying to relate to me the way I am trying to relate to them: they express frustration over husbands who work all the time or take months to address one item on the honey-do list as a way to say it’s just as hard to have a husband as it is to not have one. It’s our feminine attempt to say, “look, me too” in the midst of knowing only one of us could really understand what it’s like to not have a husband. I wonder if they return to their private lives, like I do mine, reflecting that the stories we shared are half-truths. I like to think that while I am thinking about how lucky I was to have a husband who was a domestic God-send, they are soaking in the cherished presence of masculine energy still in their lives. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The times I feel genuinely comforted and not isolated are rare - but they come in moments when they are most needed and when the other person is honest about their own grief and the confusion that comes with grief. Or even in revealing-explicitly or implicitly--that things have in fact changed between us but there’s still a commitment to the friendship, whatever path it may take. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Reese has been drawing pictures of me lately. For the last week, she has brought home a picture a day and they have the same look: me on the left, a door on the right. Being the metaphor chasing, English major, mystic, I immediately began thinking about what the door symbolized. Was it open? Was it closed? What does that mean? Why was she equating me with the door? Our front door was recently fixed by the guys working on the upstairs (transforming it into my bedroom suite/sanctuary). Maybe she just appreciates that the door opens and closes easily and that I’m not wrestling with the deadbolt for an extra five seconds in the morning when we’re trying to get out the door. Turns out her drawing is as simple and comforting as the recent fix. The other day, the new nanny mentioned to me that Reese told her that her favorite time of the day was when I walk through the door. Jack apparently overheard this, because when I was in the middle of questioning the true meaning of the door he looked at me and said plainly, “it’s a picture of Reese’s favorite time of day.” Duh. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, anticipating two years is full of questions and complications; it’s about negotiating old and new relationships and cultivating new identities. But, also, thank God, it’s about just being and shutting the brain off, seeing plainly what’s right in front of us--without judgment or worry--and sometimes, being pleasantly enraptured by what’s there. </span></div>
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-70364044532983895602013-06-15T20:17:00.001-07:002013-06-15T20:18:59.041-07:00Father's DayDear Ed,<br />
<br />
Normally I will write to you only through rare posts on Facebook. A few sentence post is just about all I can deal with when actually imagining talking with you But, being that's it's father's day and that your son just discovered our blog, I'm braving the full on letter.<br />
<br />
A little over a week ago, I posted something on your Facebook wall; Jack happened to be sitting by me and saw that I wrote to you. He told me twice- once when I wrote to you and then again when I tucked him in bed - that he liked that I posted on your wall. I had written about another one of Jack's uncanny DNA trait of yours. You already saw it, so I won't repeat it here.<br />
<br />
Instead, I'll tell you about a moment I had on a recent Sunday morning. You probably saw it, but just in case you were chatting over rum and cokes with Adam Yauch or Mike Wallace at the Rocksport (because pubs go to heaven too), let me summarize. Jack skipped baseball this year; back in February he let me know he wanted to focus on soccer. By the end of April, he missed baseball. He knew he didn't want the commitment of a summer All Star Team, but when he found out about the pick up teams being assembled for a Tues/Thur night league over the summer, he wanted in. I emailed Keith just in time Saturday night to find out all the kids were meeting at the pee wee fields Sunday morning to have their skills assessed so even teams could be made. Jack had an upset stomach Saturday night and I could feel a familiar dread - didn't realize what that was until we drove to the pee wee fields Sunday morning. How did we forget they were below Riverview where you died?<br />
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ANYWAY. On the way there, I channeled my best impression of you: I was positive and lighthearted, trying to keep the mood upbeat in the car. I casually mentioned that it would feel like P.E. - just a few groups of kids doing a baseball unit: taking turns hitting, throwing, fielding. Neither Jack nor I breathed a word about the fact that he would likely be the only kid who hadn't been playing baseball for the last four months. (Later, we admitted to one another just how nervous we both were about the fact that Jack hadn't played baseball for about a year). As we neared the field, there was a twinge of regret in my gut: why hadn't we gone early to practice and warm up? As it was, we were a few minutes late- but it didn't give Jack anytime to think and to just get started.<br />
<br />
Reese and I sat in the outfield bleachers and Jack was put in a group focused on hitting. Amazingly, I was calm and patient with Reese and not worried about how she would fair in two hours of baseball followed by a soccer game. I think it was because I was already *so proud* that Jack was playing with all these kids even though I knew he was absolutely nervous inside. My parenting self-esteem got a big hit when I realized that my pride for our kid was in his attempt--not the outcome. So, when that surge of support, love and pride for Jack washed over me before he even started to play, I <b>knew </b>your impact on us was and is timeless.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing: I am a better parent because I was able to watch you with our children for seven years. I do feel bad that I don't kick the soccer ball around as much as you would have with Jack, or give Reese those amazing Daddy snuggles that I know she craves in her very soul, but every moment I respond with kindness, perspective or patience- particularly the times I don't have to work hard at it - I know it's you working through me. I was fortunate to be around your natural warmth and affection. Maybe when you left the world, when I last touched your wrist, you sent some of your father love into my fingers and it pulses its way through my body. Or maybe that last touch was some kind of seal- that, by the grace of God, I was given a little father to go with my mothering, or more accurately, a little Ed to go with Laura in raising our children.<br />
<br />
Jack did great, by the way. He had a fair amount of good hits, laughed at himself when he missed a few pop flies, and fielded decently. I could sense his focus and engagement in playing - even as Reese & I played soccer and she started to complain about the heat and her "burnsun" (sunburn). There was one split second, in the middle of pop fly drills when I looked out - the sky was brilliant blue and the trees strikingly green, surrounding us securely and protectively in the basin of the field -- Jack had missed the pop fly before and was up again. I watched the coach throw up a ball and I stood there, focusing on Jack, willing him to catch the ball even as I was strangely not invested in whether he did or not. Because, you know, simple wishes and happy endings aren't real. But, he caught it. Like it was nothing. It was a nothing of a moment that felt like everything.<br />
<br />
I picked the kids up today from a slumber party at the Mezas. At one point, Reese climbed up on Meza's lap and snuggled in like it was the most natural thing in the world. I really wished I had my phone to take a picture, but had left it in the car. I remembered that quote from your college camping trip with the Sticks: "Memory don't fail me now." You can never, ever be replaced, Ed, but your fathering influence is everywhere- in the people you loved and respected. It was so much love that it can't be contained by simple absence. Your kids know your love through all of us.<br />
<br />
Happy Father's Day. <br />
<br />
xoxo,<br />
Laura<br />
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<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-28897893471272710482013-05-27T19:41:00.001-07:002013-05-27T19:41:34.179-07:00Memorial DayMemorial Day means a three day weekend. Normally I would dread three days with the kids- partly because I am still learning how to sustain single-parenting energy for that long. I'm usually exhausted and beating myself up at the end of the weekend for not entertaining the kids enough.<br />
<br />
But, there's been a slight shift, even though you wouldn't know it if you walked by the house Saturday. Jack was working on his photo board since he's "special person of the week" this coming week at school (each student gets the spotlight for a week). After a particularly challenging Saturday morning, when I was trying to just accept that fact that we are a family that yells at one another from time to time (and by time to time, I mean every other day and double on Saturdays), I tried to distract us by talking about what makes the week "special." Part of the special person gig is to answer some questions. Among them is "what do you like to do as a family?" When Jack told me about that question, the refrain in my head was an automatic, "crap, we don't do anything fun." I asked Jack what he was going to write, hoping he had a better answer. His initial response was "hang out with friends." True enough. I have <i>heavily </i>relied- probably too much-- on our family and friends to carry the entertainment load. Ed was the fun one, he was the one that would make light of things if they got too serious or make a party out of an ordinary day. Me? I make sure the kitchen is clean and the beds are made and, then--*maybe*-- turn on the music for an impromptu dance party.<br />
<br />
Jack looked at me and said, "I could write that we yell and fight." Yes, we do. But, we have a wicked sense of humor about it.<br />
<br />
I'm reading Jeanette Walls' <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Half-Broke-Horses-True-Life-Novel/dp/1416586296" target="_blank">Half Broke Horses</a></i>. I finished Cheryl Stayed's <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wild-Journey-Found-Oprahs-ebook/dp/B005CRQ4XI/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1369707038&sr=1-1&keywords=cheryl+strayed+wild" target="_blank">Wild</a> </i>a few weeks ago and mentioned to <a href="http://1place.blogspot.com/2013/02/insert-eds-favorite-john-lennon-quote.html" target="_blank">Sarah</a> that I was inhaling the story of rugged survival. She brought me <i>Half Broke Horses, </i>a<i> </i> hard core Laura Ingalls Wilder "true-life novel" about Walls' amazing no-bullshit, resourceful, remarkable teacher-rancher-pilot grandmother, Lily (the narrator). Lily spends one page dealing with the death of a family member. The last paragraph reads:<br />
<br />
<i>I realized that in the months since [my sister] had died, I hadn't been paying much attention to things like the sunrise, but that the old sun had been coming up anyway. It didn't really care how I felt, it was going to rise and set regardless of whether I noticed it, and if I was going to enjoy it, that was up to me.</i><br />
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Marrying Ed - who was naturally a fun loving, energetic, humorous person- made me lazy- in terms of holding my own court of enjoyment. So, obviously, without him, I not only don't know how to make things fun, I've also been slightly terrified of trying. Anything I knew that would be fun would also mean facing an attempt of fun without the very person who helped to create the fun memories (bleh).YET- also, obviously, I am not about to give into some not-entirely-accurate identity of the "unfun" parent.<br />
<br />
This weekend, instead of expecting exhaustion or worrying about whether or not we could have fun, I took the kids on two outings. Two. Without anyone else. Today, we went to the Seattle Mariner's game, our first as just a family of three. (They won 9-0.) And, Jack danced just like Ed, Uncle Steve and Aunt Lisa (and, I like to think, our living room dance parties) taught him- without abandon or self-consciousness in the hopes of getting on diamond vision. Reese danced like she would have no matter what: also without abandon. As I was sitting there, enjoying baseball <i>like I always have</i> (there are miracles), I thought of Lily's quote. It is up to us. And, we're doing it.<br />
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<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-20785052363234532512013-05-11T10:17:00.001-07:002013-05-11T22:50:49.927-07:00So far, so good. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Earlier this week, Jack
and I were sitting on the couch reading a book about 9/11 for one of his book
reports. He’s been obsessed with September 11 - it’s an eerie reminder of Ed,
who would spend hours reading about the attacks. Sarah (my nanny/landscaper extraordinaire)
said Jack mentioned to her that he watched the 10 year anniversary with me
and his dad. I had forgotten. That was September 2011, a few weeks before Ed died. So, I guess
this new interest makes sense. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">One of the people in the
book is a firefighter with tattoos. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Last year I liked the idea of getting a four leaf clover tattoo with our names woven in-- to represent each person in our family. Ed was Irish, so it seemed fitting. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Jack asked me if I was still planning on
getting the tattoo. I don’t want that four leaf clover anymore. These days, I want a three
leaf clover- for the three of us. When I told Jack, he seemed stung by this; he said “what
about Daddy?” I said it would be too hard for me to see a reminder of our
family of four. We are a family of three now. Besides, 2013 has reinforced --
after burglary, surgery and a car accident (no major injuries other than the
car) -- that living in the moment is my best option. I won’t look back and have
no idea what will happen next. So, here we are. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I am steadily rising to the
reality that We. Are. It. The three of us. There’s no Ed, there’s no husband,
no partner. There’s no dad. Before now, I could see that it was just us, but I
saw it from afar, like watching the news or a movie- it was me looking in. Now,
I stand in my backyard and look at this house that I pay the mortgage on. I realize that I’m making a life for us, that I am
creating a *home* and making all the decisions for my children and their well-being.
All on my own. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">The thing is: I got
this.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I recognize the woman
in the middle of the picture Jack drew last fall that’s still on the fridge.
She used to overwhelm me a bit- how could I live up to that expectation-
bearing the weight of responsibility of being the only parent? How could Jack
see me like this -- in the middle, keeping him and his sister near me,
SMILING-- when I was flailing and failing all the time? I keep the picture on
the fridge to remind me of what we could be, what we are going to be and what
I hope we already are: a connected family of three. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I told Jack he could get
a four leaf clover tattoo when he was older. His response was a classic “I
don’t break <i>the rules” </i>response of the eldest. He said he wasn’t going
to get a tattoo and was shocked at my suggestion. I told him he could get a
tattoo of the fighting Irish guy. Jack paused and said, “Good idea” and hit me
with a chill high five. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">When I was going through
Jack’s papers from school, I found a printout of a list of prayers to practice.
At the top of the paper was a line to fill in: “Today I pray for”
_____________. He wrote in “my mom.” I asked him why he was praying for
me and he said it was to give me good luck. I thought of one of Ed’s favorite
movies, <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1pHJklAF0y8" target="_blank">Rounders</a></i> - how Matt Damon’s
character, when told good luck before heading to Vegas, narrated “People insist on calling it luck." The movie explores the idea of being true to your calling and the risks/potential rewards in reaching for dreams that seem absolutely unreachable. From the outside, it may seem like luck, but anyone who has pursued their goals knows the unavoidable reality of grinding it out, digging down and doing the work. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I know Jack just wants me to feel good. He hasn’t
had the burden/privilege of realizing that luck is often more in our control
than we realize: in how we decide to adapt and react to life, in how we choose
to steer life. I don’t have to look very hard to see just how lucky we are. I've had a lot of practice in looking for the good around us and helping my children see it, too. For awhile, it was some of the hardest work we've done. I
am eternally grateful that not only do I see the good more often than not, I also
feel it, wholeheartedly, in my bones. And, when I don’t sense it, when the
moments or days are overwhelming, or when I’m anticipating the layer of
emotional smog that will no doubt bring in Mother’s day, I have enough evidence
to know that we’ll sense the goodness soon enough. Luck and <b>good</b> are all
around: as common and abundant as a field of clover.</span></div>
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-30142905558179625562013-04-08T10:40:00.001-07:002013-04-10T19:57:06.117-07:0018 Months<b id="internal-source-marker_0.8940265823621303" style="font-weight: normal;"></b><br />
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.8940265823621303" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today (April 8) marks the eighteenth month anniversary of Ed’s death. A while ago, I swore off writing about the “things by which I resist to be defined by” - among them, my widowhood, being the friend that always asks for help, and recently, foot surgery, which has me rolling around on one of the greatest inventions *ever* - the </span><a href="https://www.rentakneewalker.com/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">knee scooter. </span></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> (My favorite picture is the guy on the grassy hill: </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Larry went to wine country!</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> The brakes on the knee walker are terrible; whenever I head down even the smallest hill I am sure I’m going to crash; I picture “Larry” tumbling into a nearby vineyard).</span></b><b id="internal-source-marker_0.8940265823621303" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.15;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.15;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I step back from my pledge to not speak of what I call the “self-centered, boring and pitiful” on this day because eighteen months feels like a big deal and I want to call it out. At the end of Joyce Carol Oates’s “</span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/?ie=UTF8&keywords=a+widow%27s+story&tag=googhydr-20&index=stripbooks&hvadid=17362799499&hvpos=1t1&hvexid=&hvnetw=g&hvrand=6173028671505460203&hvpone=&hvptwo=&hvqmt=e&ref=pd_sl_1i3gr6u9cw_e" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A Widow’s Story</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">” she writes, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Of the widow’s countless death-duties there is really just one that matters: on the first anniversary of her husband’s death the widow should think ‘I kept myself alive.’ </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I would only amend that should she have children, that she kept them growing. </span></b><b id="internal-source-marker_0.8940265823621303" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.15;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.15;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For me, eighteen months is almost as significant as twelve months. Yes, I felt triumphant the day after the one year anniversary. I woke up October ninth with a sense of accomplishment. I had energy to move forward in a way I honestly wasn’t sure I ever would. Yet, the six months following last October rang with the familiar melody of exhaustion and challenge. Mostly because I had to learn, and relearn (sometimes many moments a day), how to balance being real about how I felt with choosing to be positive. I guess I thought I was “done” with that after the first year. This mental work is the equivalent of training for a marathon, except it’s for a marathon that never ends.</span></b><b id="internal-source-marker_0.8940265823621303" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.15;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.15;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The winter after Ed died, the kids and I vacationed in Roslyn with Ed’s brother, Steve, and his family. We were all still pretty grief raw. Steve and I confessed to one another that we felt like there would be a reward for getting through the pain- that there was something on the other end of the awful emotional tunnel. At the time, even though we both knew it was impossible, it </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">seemed </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">like the reward would be that Ed would come back in our lives. It was illogical that we would have to go through the hell of grief and NOT be given a fabulous gift in exchange --and the only gift for accepting Ed’s death would be, well, Ed alive again. </span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.8940265823621303" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Facing the foreverness of death is the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. The only thing that is harder is realizing that there are no rewards for accepting that reality, there is no “reason” it happened, no lottery of life on the other side; actually, accepting death creates the opposite of a reward: it can give day to dayness of life a dull smudge. The trade off is a life that doesn’t make sense anymore. And, unless someone has gone through a similar major life change there’s no way to truly reveal that reality, so the isolation is palpable because few intimately know what the ongoing process is like. I certainly don’t wish for anyone to have this knowledge. That said, it’s a lonely reality. So, while the fact that I survived the first year is an accomplishment, that I’m still able to navigate the ongoingness of our reality another six months when the “newness” of death has worn off for us and those around us, is also notable.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.8940265823621303" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On the phone with a good friend the other day, I admitted how frustrated I am at having to slow down. Foot surgery has caused me to drastically scale back any momentum that started in October. Even though I woke up most of fall with the thought, “oh, yeah, I’m still here without a mate and my kids without a father,” I sought ways to enjoy life again. By the start of the new year, I lined up weekends for the kids to be away so I could slough off “mom” and “work” Laura and turn my attention to figuring out whoever I was without those titles; I discovered new music on my own (that used to be Ed’s job); I started making a lists of things I *wanted* (not had) to do and began meeting new people. Nothing like a knee scooter and the haze of Percocet to halt everything but the basics. I whined to my friend how much energy there is involved in just taking a shower--I wanted to put that energy into going out or a new hobby. She said, “taking a shower is the first step to getting a life.” I have brilliant friends. </span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.8940265823621303" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I can’t help but gravitate towards the metaphor of foot surgery. How much the effort that goes into getting from the front porch to the car is like building a life and identity from scratch; if I am not careful, the process can be glossed over and I will miss opportunities. At least two times a day, I have to stop and engage in painful exercises that will keep my toe joints limber. I would rather not, just like I would rather not have to make breakfast and then clean up the mess after the kids have eaten maybe half of what I made--something that annoyed me in my “past” life, but now feels like a colossal waste of time as I wheel back and forth between my narrow kitchen and the dining room. Instead, I shift perspective and chuckle at how Reese works hard to avoid the bread and only licks the jelly off her toast or notice how patient Jack is when he helps his sister brush her teeth. There is something in this rebuilding process akin to learning to walk again. Here, I thought I was learning to live this new life. Apparently not because I was still running to get “stuff done.” It’s easier for me to just start running, but now I have to wait for my bones to heal and *then* I can start the simple process of putting one foot in front of the other. It forces me to take in a lot more, including longer showers.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.8940265823621303" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Slowing down has other perks. I thought why not include in all my requests for help with the kids and house, asking a good friend, who is also a chef, to come make a steak dinner. He knocked the meal out of the park, of course. Last year, I would have thought such a request was indulgent and selfish- when actually it is *those* kinds of things I need more than having someone wash Reese’s hair when I can’t. I’m not sure I would have understood this unless I had surgery (Clean hair is *always* the priority, right? Maybe not...). I inhaled the steak and the company. Normally, I would have organized such an event for a weekend- when I could have many friends over and I would do the cooking. Though, I would probably put it off for when the yard was weeded and the house spotless. But, last week, I knew that I needed to do something I enjoyed to balance the exhaustion of recovery. I had to do something that meant ignoring the crumbs under the table. So, instead of putting off “fun” for the weekend, I have to find a way to enjoy life during the week. Before surgery, there was too much to do for such frivolous activities. But, now, if I don’t make space for something that fills me up on a daily basis-despite the chaos, I am completely depleted. </span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.8940265823621303" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Of course, figuring out where and when to do this as a mother of two who works full time and is running a household is challenging, to say the least (it was hard enough when I had partner helping and could walk around on two feet). But, lately, it’s from necessity that I don’t see the messy toy room downstairs (mostly because I can’t go down the stairs) or worry about what my kids miss without a father. I take more time to go through Jack’s school papers and watch Reese’s “nymnastics” dance routines. I tackle projects I’m passionate about at work first-- before the mundane ones (well, at least one day a week). All this time, it’s been about duty, about getting things done, making sure the kids were okay. Slowly, I am realizing I also need to model the value of finding-- or, rather, seizing-- joy in life: and not just “weekend” or “vacation” joy but the kind that is as necessary to each day as teeth brushing. </span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.8940265823621303" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Strangely, I wake up in a good mood. Just when I got used to the idea that good moods weren’t the norm, there they are. How is this possible? I think it’s alchemy: without explanation, instead of paying attention to the pain in the 23rd mile and wish for it to be over, I look up and notice the scenery or wonder at something simple or silly. I catch myself thinking about how absolutely in love I am with my children: I am struck daily by their tenacity, their emotional intelligence, their empathy, their energy, their ability to assume a hopeful outlook. Don’t get me wrong, I am still grumpy about the piles of paper on the console table and the three year old who won’t answer any of my questions (Do you want more toast? Do you? DO YOU?!). I feel guilty that I have yet to take Jack to the orthodontist as instructed by his dentist three months ago. I’m still uncertain about which building blocks to use to rebuild my life and grow weary sifting through the options. But, I’m not looking for the finish line and, miraculously, it’s okay. Mentally, I’m getting quite tough. Ed--the mental toughness guru-- would be proud. </span><span style="background-color: yellow; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b></div>
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<b style="font-weight: normal;">Songs for post </b><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;">Miike Snow <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wBh-UBnGy0s" target="_blank">"Cult Logic"</a></b><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;">Of Monsters and Men <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hAluYNId8JQ" target="_blank">"Slow and Steady"</a></b><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-12285406102172949482013-03-08T20:01:00.001-08:002013-04-08T16:52:38.466-07:00March 8, 2013<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwnfND4SJ2MRjt1w-zKowMsDsP1RoYWeoO7mugF61MDYp2IxWdqYgKZq8r9TnnyCAWiL7IdaOg50-f7iKnW77LTpa05jid0XlYbAa9CBq5NPBOnbVVsOmy4unFGvXMbKmdmycM/s1600/IMG_20130303_104628.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwnfND4SJ2MRjt1w-zKowMsDsP1RoYWeoO7mugF61MDYp2IxWdqYgKZq8r9TnnyCAWiL7IdaOg50-f7iKnW77LTpa05jid0XlYbAa9CBq5NPBOnbVVsOmy4unFGvXMbKmdmycM/s200/IMG_20130303_104628.jpg" width="200" /></a>Last weekend the kids and I started our garden. We inherited two raised garden beds on the south end side of our lot next to our two apple trees. As Jack and I were planting the kale seeds, he commented: "isn't it amazing how tiny the seeds are for what they grow into?" Yes, it was the perfect opportunity to speak in metaphor, but I just let the moment soak in for both of us.<br />
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If I was on Facebook, I would have posted the pictures below and written something like "spring time is near." This comment, of course, belies the full reality of gardening with a three year old. Jack and I essentially worked around Reese, planting the pepper, pumpkin, cucumber and squash seeds for growing inside AND planting our lettuce, peas, carrots, kale, arugula and lettuce in the raised gardens. If it wasn't for a handful of wormy distractions, the planting would have been even more challenging. As it was, when someone walked by -- AND many people did as our sidewalk is a main thoroughfare of pedestrians walking up to the junction -- this is part of what they heard:<br />
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<b>Jack: </b>REESE! Don't walk there!! I just raked the soil.<br />
<b>Reese: </b><i>Ignores Jack and stomps harder on the other end of the soil bed.</i><br />
<b>Laura: </b>Reese, sweetie, please don't walk in the beds; here, help us get the dirt ready.<br />
<b>Reese: </b>WORMY!!<br />
<b>Jack:</b> "REESE!! Don't walk there!! You're pushing the dirt together<br />
<b>Laura:</b> Reese, love, please get out of the garden and see if wormy wants to play in the grass.<br />
<b>Reese: </b><i>Ignores me. </i><br />
<b>Laura:</b> Reese, get out of the garden.<br />
<b>Reese:</b> AH! Where did wormy go?!! <i>(throws handfuls of dirt out of the garden, looking for a worm desperate to escape)</i><br />
<b>Laura:</b> REESE! Get out of the garden!! NOW!<br />
<b>Laura</b> (<i>suddenly calm, to passerby</i>): Hello, good afternoon.<br />
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Only two worms died on the sidewalk that morning due to exposure. I am grateful for their sacrifice.<br />
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Today had as much, if not more, sun than the pictures from planting last weekend. I walked through the rock garden on the north side of campus this afternoon, trying to figure out why I wasn't enjoying the weather more. I just began to recognize the impending, somewhat crushing darkness when I remembered that today is the 17th month anniversary of Ed's death. The other night, Jack sat on his bed staring at the October 4, 2011 Sounders US Open Cup soccer poster (the game he went to with his Uncle and his dad four days before Ed died). I didn't realize what he was doing until the tears were streaming down his face when I tucked him in. He said he was missing daddy. I chalked it up to random grief. But, this afternoon--I realized-- the whole week has been leading us to this anniversary. It's still remarkable to me that the body remembers before the mind. It's been a while since I've had such a visceral reminder, but, that is mostly because the last few months have had plenty of distractions. Still, I thought the monthly reminders were over- I'm ready to move to six months or year. Maybe that happens at 18 months. In the meantime, we'll marvel at those tiny seeds and see what they grown into. </div>
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Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-26637839641256370942013-02-24T23:19:00.002-08:002013-02-24T23:23:30.138-08:00Insert Ed's favorite John Lennon Quote HereEd was a master of mixed tapes and CDs. The last summer he was alive he included Death Cab for Cutie's <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NQuVudn1-RE" target="_blank">What Sarah Said</a> </i>on our Seaside 2011 mix. I listened to the song a few times before I realized what it was about. And, then, after Ed died, I would listen to the lyric <i>Love is watching someone die</i> and be *amazed* that I could feel absolute grief and gratefulness at the same time.<br />
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Oh, but, wait, <a href="http://1place.blogspot.com/2013/02/reboot-2013.html" target="_blank">I'm over feeling bad</a>, so that's not what this post is about...<br />
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Things are moving forward at the house. Not quite in the way I had planned, OF COURSE. That's why I bring up the song- I had the first line in my head today:<br />
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<i>And it came to me then that every plan is a tiny prayer to father time...</i><br />
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Just when I was ready to call the contractor to get started on my <a href="http://1place.blogspot.com/2013/01/the-art-of-quitting.html" target="_blank">new plans for my master bedroom suite</a> upstairs, the doctor informed me that the foot surgery I was planning for two years from now- this summer at the earliest, actually should happen, um, yesterday. Somewhere, father time was chuckling at my plans. Silly me. Looks like that project will start a few months later than I had anticipated.<br />
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So, while I was gearing up to post some before shots of the upstairs in anticipation of the beautiful after shots (because that's why we watch an entire show on any DIY or HGTV station- for those three minutes at the end of before and after shots, right?!), I barely had time to steal some shots of my backyard before my incredibly amazing nanny/landscape specialist, Sarah, headed over this weekend to tackle some of the outdoor projects we've talked about.<br />
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After wrestling with a particularly gnarly grassy stump thing, even calling on the aid of her boyfriend with his pickax, we were discussing what to do with the now spacious pile of dirt next to my backyard deck. We talked about how living with the lack of something-- the blank canvas--is crucial for discovering what to create. That's how I often decorate or re-decorate a room: I have to remove everything but the basics before my imagination can fill in the space. Same thing with my career: at one point, both Ed & I had to say no to our jobs before knowing what jobs we would say yes to. That space in between the "no" and the "yes" is absolutely terrifying, but it's a crucial place for transition. I relish that I know both the place of no and yes, and particularly, of the value of the in-between. It's what Ed would call the "being comfortable in the uncomfortable."<br />
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Anyway, I continue this path of the in-between, where life, I suspect (or hope), is fertilized for more richness. And, I too, can chuckle at the plans. Though, I do find some sweet satisfaction in the "before and after" photos of the backyard:<br />
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The last picture is the blank canvas of dirt- I'm thinking this year we'll plant pumpkins.<br />
<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-18041860908960748642013-02-19T21:12:00.001-08:002013-02-23T21:37:01.737-08:00OMG I'm 39Walking into the kitchen to make coffee yesterday, it hit me: I'm 39. But, rather than dwell on what that means (or doesn't mean), I started to think about the last decade. Here's a snapshot:<br />
<ul>
<li>2003 (Age 29): Graduate with Masters Degree in English, move to West Seattle, begin new career as part-time English instructor, miscarry, get pregnant</li>
<li>2004 (Age 30): Have first child (Jack)</li>
<li>2005 (Age 31): Move to Boston, become freelance textbook editor</li>
<li>2006 (Age 32): Secure full-time, tenure track English Instructor position </li>
<li>2007 (Age 33): Move back to West Seattle for second full-time, tenure track English Instructor position</li>
<li>2008 (Age 34): Become Writing Center Coordinator, get pregnant (a year earlier than planned)</li>
<li>2009 (Age 35): Have second child (Reese), create new position at work as a mentor to online instructors (which gives me a lighter teaching load), Jack starts kindergarten</li>
<li>2010 (Age 36): Adjust to life with two children (clearly, a lazy year)</li>
<li>2011 (Age 37): Witness death of husband (with children and close friends)</li>
<li>2012 (Age 38): Face grieving process head on, move from teaching into administration as Associate Dean, buy first home and move</li>
<li>2013 (Age 39): C'mon, it's only February </li>
</ul>
I was reading over the few posts from the last year, noticing how often I said that I was exhausted or tired or some version of extremely sleepy. Honestly, it sounded a little whiny. But, I read this list and wonder how I didn't take more naps.<br />
<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-1127315774066385872013-02-17T17:50:00.001-08:002013-02-20T22:02:01.501-08:00Rent versus Own (from September 2005)<i>I found a draft of a post from fall 2005- just a few months after we moved to Boston. Can't tell if it's me or Ed writing, though I assume it's Ed because it's both concise and witty. I can't help but hear Alanis Morrisette's "Ironic" in my head as I read this...</i><br />
<br />
They should have confessionals for married couples in their thirties who don't own a home. I can only imagine:<br />
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Real Estate Priest: "So, how old are you?"<br />
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Laura & Ed (shifting uncomfortably on the lone kneeling bench): "31." "32."<br />
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Real Estate Priest: "And, how long have you been married?"<br />
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Laura: "Nearly nine years."<br />
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R.E. Priest: "Children?"<br />
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Ed: "One. Jack. He's fourteen months."<br />
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R.E. Priest: "Sounds good. You both are keeping in tune with the great American dream of getting married and having children. I assume you both have established, well-paying jobs, being that you both have master's degrees, and that you're diligently saving for your very own home."<br />
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Ed: "Um, well, that's why we are here. You see, we're still searching for that perfect job and in order to do that, we've accumulated a fair amount of debt...."<br />
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Laura: "Basically, it will be a long time before we can buy a home. We don't tell our friends how long it will be, but we needed to tell someone. That's why we came here."<br />
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R.E. Priest: "I see. It's good you've told me. My best recommendation is to push yourselves to near-breaking point so that you can buy that home as soon as possible."<br />
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Ed: "That's what we're doing."<br />
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R.E. Priest. "Good. Keep it up. Go to your current residence, say four 'hail mortgages,' and have a good night sleep."<br />
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Yeah, right. Lately I've been trying to figure out why owning a home is so important. Why it is just expected that buying a house is the logical next step in our lives. Why have I bought into the "dream" of a mortgage?Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-57769600730361184072013-02-17T17:45:00.002-08:002013-03-08T20:01:54.881-08:00Reboot: 2013Lent started earlier this week: one day before Valentine's Day, actually. Jack made a point to NOT give up candy because he knew Valentine's Day would be that much harder. I reminded him that we get Sundays off - a loophole we discovered last year. Since Lent is technically 40 days, those six weeks before Easter include 7 extra (Sun)days. We count those as freebies to indulge in whatever we gave up. He decided to give up his new Xbox instead (which, by the way, he hardly plays with).<br />
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I gave up Facebook for Lent. I think it's brilliant- and, I can say that because it wasn't my idea (came from a friend also giving it up). I gave it a trial run a few days before Ash Wednesday; I turned off my chat and hid the notifications page. I then uninstalled the app on my phone. I must admit, there was a strange relief. I lurked for a day or two, but by Friday, hadn't really missed it. It was becoming more distraction than connection with others. I am not disparaging the social media; in fact, it was my lifeblood of connection with the support of so many people those first few months after Ed died. Then, it became an opportunity to find my way into a new normal- fewer of my posts were a reminder of our tragedy and more about plain ol' everyday life.<br />
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But, then, plain ol' everyday life just can't stay put. We were robbed Friday and among the stolen were the new Xbox (which was hardly played), my wedding ring (which was broken) and Ed's wedding ring. I'm sad, of course, but I am mostly upset about the loss of my Ipod nanos, one of which had a ton of pictures from Boston and when Reese was a baby that I couldn't figure out how to download after the computer crashed with the old Itunes. All my jewelry is gone, save my necklaces and one pair of earrings I was wearing (part of a necklace/earring set Ed had given me, so that's something). The worst part, of course, is that Jack's security has been rocked- again.<br />
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I posted about the robbery on Facebook. I used my "free Sunday" on a Friday. It was an automatic reflex. Immediately, I received a ton of response and remembered the value of my Facebook community. The West Seattle Blog picked up the story which was picked up by the local media. I was interviewed Saturday and on the news that night (thank goodness for anonymity; those garden clogs could have been a story by themselves).<br />
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By Saturday night, though, I was done. I am ready to no longer be the standard by which others might compare their own tragedy. Not that folks are doing that, but to read a sampling of my Facebook posts over the last year and a half is just plain pitiful.<br />
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So, I'm declaring a reboot of 2013. I'm just plain bored with all the crap: from sickness to surgery (more later) and sadness to stealing. I'm declaring enough. Don't get me wrong- I'm not expecting it all to come up roses and easy living- I just don't have time to react anymore. And, honestly, the extent of "tragedy" is misrepresented for how much it actually impacts our daily life. Roughly 80-85% of our life is good, secure, and positive (aka those boring Facebook posts). I've reached my limit for grief. It's actually nice; I woke up this morning well rested. What a lovely surprise to realize that I only have so much capacity to feel bad.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-30540915307165066152013-01-31T13:30:00.003-08:002013-02-17T20:33:39.255-08:00The Art of QuittingThere is a plague upon our house. I'm not kidding. Since mid-December, Jack, Reese or I have been sick. I had strep throat at one point. Reese ran a fever of 103 for a few days. This week, Jack has been home sick with a high fever and the flu.. I can't count how many sick days I've taken at work (the guilt over that is solidifying my Catholic status).<br />
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Driving home after dropping Reese off at daycare this morning, I recognized a familiar angst. It was a messy mix of fear, excitement, and anxiety. I think it stems mostly from my decision to update/remodel my upstairs. I should say that this is a response to three weeks of sickness, exhaustion and life curve balls.<br />
<br />
Illogical to add more chaos? Maybe. Habit? Definitely. I think of all those times Ed & I stopped our life mid-track and pushed in a different (more fulfilling) direction.<br />
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I haven't felt this since Ed & <a href="http://1place.blogspot.com/2012/01/one-place-new-reality.html" target="_blank">I began planning to save for a down payment on a home</a> - a twisted mix of excitement, fear, and hope prompted by setting a goal that felt unattainable. I stepped outside myself and called out the angst: Drive. Ambition. It's that feeling of pushing forward, barreling through, getting to the next level. I also realized that my drive is a response to feeling trapped, trapped in a life I often can't make sense of.<br />
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I have moments where it's all too much (as any parent-particularly single parent--knows). Balancing work, family, house, finances, doctor appointments, childcare, oil changes, blah, blah, blah takes its toll. Every now and then, I need a break when breaks aren't possible. Two weeks ago, when I was scrambling to figure out last minute changes in childcare, Reese decided that was the night she would throw a fit about going to sleep. Of course, these two things in and of themselves aren't much- but when they come at the end of a crazy day, sleepless week, and sickness, the world closes around me. The only thing I can do is deal with the current moment, then the next, then the next. That night, I went in Reese's room and focused on holding her hand, breathing, looking in her eyes and setting a calm tone.<br />
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When she (finally!) fell asleep, I reflected on those first few months after Ed died when Reese wouldn't sleep: how all I wanted was some space to grieve, alone, in my room instead of sitting there, holding her hand, willing her to give in to sleep. Instead, I had to give in to being trapped. When Reese's recent sleep tantrum interrupted my pending panic attack over finding childcare for the next day, I was surprised at how easily I could transition into the moment. Apparently, my stamina for dealing with entrapment is growing.<br />
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To survive my new life, I gave up on looking too far into the future. For a while, it was moment to moment. About this time last year, I could comfortably look only a day ahead. Recently, I've looked as far as an entire month. And, with the plans to remodel, I'm clearly looking a few months ahead. The remodel idea prompted a three page list of projects to tackle. The pages are sitting on my console table.<br />
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But, Jack is sick. And, I'm trying to work from home. In the mid-day quiet with the windows open and my poor little man sleeping, I am overcome by the bliss of sheer exhaustion. So, I'm paying attention to this re-emerging habit of pushing forward to make positive change. And, I'm giving in, throwing in the towel, quitting anything but right now (at least, right now). I am remembering the strange bliss of being in the moment amid panic attacks and a crying three-year-old. I'm realizing--despite myself--that calm and contentment are a matter of attention, mentally tuning in and letting everything else fall away.<br />
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I read an article this weekend by one of my favorite authors (Martha Beck). In the article, she writes about <a href="http://marthabeck.com/2013/01/knowing-when-to-quit/" target="_blank">"Knowing When to Quit</a>." There is benefit to giving in:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #495755; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 21px;">Recently, psychologists Gregory Miller and Carsten Wrosch set out to investigate the mental and physical health of people who resist quitting, and of those who throw in the towel when facing unattainable goals. The second group—the quitters—were healthier than their persistent peers on almost every variable. They suffered fewer health problems, from digestive trouble to rashes, and showed fewer signs of psychological stress.</span><br />
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I'm not saying that I'm quitting the upstairs upgrades or all those other projects. I appreciate that I am able to plan -- let alone think -- that far in the future. Yet, I'm also grateful for the gift of grief to help me step back and recognize the mental freedom from entrapment. And, to know, in my bones, that there's no real urgency. I give in. And, here I am.<br />
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<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-56082360323162099322012-12-01T07:53:00.001-08:002013-01-31T21:21:38.772-08:00December OneI woke up early, before the kids, this morning. This makes me a little nervous; rarely do I wake up early, wide awake, before the rest of the house. The three other times I remember this happening include the day Jack was born, the day our car was smashed into the neighbor's yard by a drunk driver, and the day that Ed died. I've decided, though, that I am just aware of the first weekend of Advent and am ready for the season of anticipation and hope to begin. <br />
<br />
We pulled out the Christmas decorations last night. Years of looking forward to the holiday season have become habit; I automatically feel an anticipation of wonder and contentment. Of course, now, as soon as I bring up the boxes flooded with memories and dreams of another life, I am forced right back into today's reality: it's now about creating new memories, redefining contentment, and--maybe--*just* maybe--imagining there are new dreams that could be fulfilled (but, shhhh... that's too dangerous yet to think about). <br />
<br />
Despite our new reality, we still use the decorations of another life because, I suppose, we are reminded of a lot of the good from that life. And, for all the work and investment that went into that life-I can't completely let go. Nor should I, for my children's sake.<br />
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Yet, I only hung up three stockings: Jack, Laura, and Reese. Just like the Christmas card I am sending out this year: from the three of us. Just like the picture on the fridge that Jack drew of the three of us and written above the picture: "I am thankful for my family." And, it's a family of three. I am amazed and proud that Jack could face drawing that picture; I was in the middle, holding the hand of each child on either side of me. The three of us fill the entire frame of the paper-as if there isn't anyone missing. So, I'm not sure why it knocked me over to hang up only three stockings. I had to pause, sit on the couch and let the grief wash over. Reese came and sat by me, hugged me, called me sweetie pie and told me that she loved me. Then, we set out the Advent wreath and candles. <br />
<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-70507744019343018422012-10-01T23:29:00.001-07:002012-10-01T23:34:32.675-07:00Comparable DarknessMy front porch light is out. And, it's not as simple as changing the light bulb. Of course. Much like finding childcare. Never simple. Anyway, my front yard is dark. At night, I leave the light on just inside the door; I can see a sliver of its light outside my bedroom window, just beyond the lilac tree. Last year, after Ed died, the back porch light at the old house went out. For weeks, it was dark. Dark, dark. I didn't get it fixed because I was dealing with other pressing issues like not losing my mind. I dreaded that darkness because it seemed to have no soul, no out, like a black hole. I dreaded it because it mirrored what I felt. I will never forget that dark space and my strange, if intimate, connection to it. <br />
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This year, a year later, the porch light is out again. In the new house. But, it's not as dark. I am wrestling with the familiar, exhausting reality of daily frustration, isolation and the slow process of building a new life and identity. But, it's not as dark.<br />
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I've been taking pictures of the house when I think of it. I never took "before" pictures, but do have some after. The first one, below, is the Southwest corner of the living room. Before, this wall was covered with a big slat of paneling painted light, faded mauve. Now, there are new walls with insulation underneath. The paint is "Nimbus Grey," which is the perfect blue.The picture below it shows the front porch with its newer blue door, part of the front yard and the walk to the door. <br />
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The last picture I took yesterday. It shows the blue, blue sky that has been around for the last two months. And, one of my favorite trees (yes, I have at least four favorite trees!): I love the deep red maple leaves. I include this only to document the season, a fall that has been uncommonly sunny and bright (which feels alternately helpful and mocking). There are more pictures. For now, though, it's about light, blue hues, shadows and slivers of hope. </div>
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Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-76797043856015563832012-09-02T21:45:00.000-07:002013-01-31T21:21:23.474-08:00Labor of LoveI am surprised that I am looking forward to fall. Tonight, when tucking Jack in, he told me how sad he was that summer was over. My response was that it must have been a good summer if he was sad it's over. We talked about what a gift that was- that we could have a good summer, our first summer without Ed. I then told Jack how I used to get the summer blues. Even through my twenties, I would depressed at the end of August. In the last few years, though, those blues have given way to a sweet anticipation for fall. I didn't fully realize until tonight that it's been years since I was sad over summer's end. And, last summer, I distinctly remember feeling filled up by summer--that we lived it as fully as we could have--that I didn't need any more of it.<br />
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Maybe it's habit that I'm looking forward to fall; maybe it's that I am just relieved I survived summer-the move, the "vacations" with the kids--who knows. Part of me is also aware of the power of denial and that lurking around the corner is likely a wave of grief so strong I may discover (or re-discover) a fall that isn't so full of the warmth and richness of the changing colors. Or, maybe not. I've learned to wait and see.<br />
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I made pulled pork for Ed's family, who came up today to celebrate Labor Day. I needed to find a bbq meal without a grill (I sold that at the yard sale). I spent too much time at work on Friday looking up recipes for pork rubs and coleslaw. But, it was worth it- the pulled pork turned out great. Jack had three helpings- which made it all worth it for me. There <em>was</em> a fair amount of work involved. Hours before Jack and everyone had their first helping, I stood, breaking apart the tender pork butt with two forks, carefully removing a lot of the fat. My lower back was a little sore from standing in the kitchen. I felt like I was standing in Ed's shoes. I was in his kitchen, his domain, his world, giving time to the meal and enjoying it. Jack was playing downstairs with a friend and Reese was taking a nap on my bed. Unlike so many moments that I attempt to do it all and end up completely frustrated and yelling at the kids, I was given the gift of uninterrupted time to finish the meal: Ed's meal. I am unbelievably grateful for that time- - time that will fold over itself in memories- how I will will remember making pulled pork for the first time in our house and how the making of it blends in the years of Ed's holiday meals.<br />
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October 8th approaches. It's like a far off storm, or hurricane, that may or may not fully hit us. I am aware of its force, so I imagine I'll be that much thankful for any smooth sailing.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-62101582576764004442012-08-05T08:23:00.003-07:002012-08-05T08:28:03.426-07:00A Week and a DayWe've been in the new house a week and a day. The sheet rocking is nearly complete in the living room, so in the meantime, after we wake up, Reese and I sit on the TV room couch that is currently in the dining room next to the kitchen table. The washing machine went out so I bought a new washer and dryer that was delivered yesterday. All I can say about that was at least I'll get a chunk of miles out of it. <br />
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It has been hot in Seattle. This weekend the temperatures are near 90 degrees. Last night, we went to family swim at Coleman Pool. We would go last summer as a family. It used to stress me out, mostly because I resisted the work to get to the pool and then worried about Reese.The stress, preparation and worry overruled any enjoyment in swimming. Being a single parent has forced me to enjoy the times, however small, that are available. So, despite the preparation, the long walk to the pool, the reality that I would be holding Reese the entire time and not able to swim own my own, we went swimming and it was lovely. We went to friends after for dinner, and when we got home, the house was stifling. It was 9:30, but still in the 80s. We watched the Olympics in the cool basement while I caught up on the laundry and even though I was spent, there is a shift in comfort. I like being here, in my house. <br />
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In a lot of ways, the house reminds me of our house in Boston. The hard wood floors (oak?) are old; likely the originals from when the house was built in 1946 and they are unevenly stained. When it's hot, there's a feeling that I can't ever get all the dirt off the floor and my feet are sore, cracked and filthy. I meet the end of the day with a steaming hot wash cloth to wrap my feet and take away some of the day's wear and tear. This single act represents my summers of 2005 and 2006 in our house in Roslindale. I have flashbacks to weighing the costs of my feet with the costs of putting small rugs in the hallways and bedrooms. There is also crown molding around the doors, doorways and windows that is very similar. Boston was an amazing place, an experience that is now out of place and time. I relish that I am able to have some of it here with me, now, in Seattle, without Ed, because it keeps him and that magical time more present in my day to day life. <br />
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Last night, driving home, Reese asked if we could go to the new house. When I tucked him in, Jack said he is liking the back yard more than he thought. This was a good move for us.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13168228.post-43032738063766979922012-07-26T23:42:00.002-07:002013-02-18T20:26:59.207-08:00Time BombA few weeks ago my therapist mentioned that this move would be challenging. My response "you think?" She pointed out that the new house solidifies that our family is what it is: the three of us. Ed won't be there with us. Seems obvious, right? For the kids, that reality is far more powerful than I would have realized and I am glad I have language to understand their behavior. With the move only two days away, the tension is thick. <br />
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Jack is quick to irrational anger, the kind that makes him throw fake punches at his sister for sitting too content on the couch. He teared up (which is rare, when related to Ed), and expressed sadness that Ed isn't moving to the house with us. It must be safer to take the absence in small parts- rather than dad is gone forever, Jack can articulate a sadness in the less abstract reality of daddy not moving with us. <br />
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Reese arouses from sleep -more often from naps- absolutely pissed off. She will scream and yell and demand her dad. I let her work it out- as devastated as I am relieved that she is working through it. <br />
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My reaction is little to no patience. I apologize at least once a day for snapping at little stuff that doesn't really matter, but that feels huge when I am days away from completing the packing that is now hours away. I feel like I should be making this move more special- doing things to commemorate the change, but I haven't. <br />
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I live in the bitter barn or the grateful den. The mood swings for moving in normal circumstances test just about anyone and I'm on an emotional rollercoaster that has me nauseous. I hate that I am doing this by myself- but still amazingly overwhelmed at the folks who are making time to help me out. <br />
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When I worked at a Congregational Church in Bellingham during graduate school, I mentioned to my boss, one of the pastors, that I couldn't wait for life to start once I was finished my Master's degree. He told me that graduate school *was* life. Ed and I spent so much time waiting for life to start; last summer there was a shift and it actually felt like we were learning to live in the moment. Yet, I think of all those years we were waiting for the optimum moment to begin living (and, living, after all, is enjoying the moment). I am working hard not to wait for this move to be over or to get used to the new job before breathing out. These moments of absolute stress and tension,-this time of transition- is life.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09293487738037734315noreply@blogger.com0