Four Years

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.

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.

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.

I re-watched an episode of Elementary 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.

I highly recommend that the monologue be watched: it’s on Hulu: 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.

Here’s the monologue:

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.

Here’s what I heard/felt:

I've been feeling a little bit down of late. It's the process of maintaining my life without Ed. It's repetitive. And it's relentless. And above all, it's tedious. When Ed died, I committed to continuing our life. And now, four years in, I find myself asking, 'is this it?' My grief is simply a grind. It's just this leaky faucet that requires constant maintenance, and in return offers only not to drip.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Fall In

This Saturday morning, in an attempt to wake up energized, I listened to a TED talk by Lean In’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.”

I went back to sleep.

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.

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.

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!!?!

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.

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?!)

The parent left and I was a mess. I cried. At work. I shut the door and sobbed. At work.

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.

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.

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.

2014 to 2015

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.

Jack: There are extra DUI patrols out this time of year.

Me: Yup.

Silence as I wonder why he pointed that out….

Me: 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.

Jack: Uh huh.

Me: Drinking can be celebratory or used it to escape or numb emotions.

Jack: Looking directly at me: But, we’re mostly celebratory, right?

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.

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.

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).

Another friend, who juggles running her own business with her home/wife/mother/friend realities, gave me this amazing paragraph:

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.

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 and hilarious.

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 acceptance rather than should.

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, thank you.

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.  

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.

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 after feeling to combat the lethargic before feeling.

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.

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 after joy despite the before blues. 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.

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 mostly 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.

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 most the familiar bitter bile of the holiday season’s emotional complexity: I wish you a happy, happy 2015.

Thankful *and* Wanting... Ugh.

Ed's doctorate was in psychology. The branch of psychology he subscribed to was cognitive 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.

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. 

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. 

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.

I read too much about "simple steps" to a living a full life and then counter that with articles on being realistic 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. 

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. 

Heaven

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.

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 when I was alive 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 waiting for a reward, particularly when that reward was death, and even worse, the unknown.  

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 probably 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 trust me.” 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.

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 Amelie 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: burning 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.

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.

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.

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 felt Non-Stop as if fact 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.

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.

Repeat the Sounding Joy

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.

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 Elf, 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.

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.

One of my favorite movies is French Kiss 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-hunting- 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.

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?

Anticipating Two Years

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.  

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Father's Day

Dear Ed,

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.

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.

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?

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.

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 knew your impact on us was and is timeless.

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.

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.

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.

Happy Father's Day.

xoxo,
Laura

Memorial Day

Memorial 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.

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 heavily 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.

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.

I'm reading Jeanette Walls' Half Broke Horses.  I finished Cheryl Stayed's Wild a few weeks ago and mentioned to Sarah that I was inhaling the story of rugged survival. She brought me Half Broke Horses, a  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:

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.

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.

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 like I always have (there are miracles), I thought of Lily's quote. It is up to us. And, we're doing it.