Catching the Small Joys--a weekly round up

Even the worst days have moments of joy.  They do. I promise you they do.  Here are some of the joys that blessed my socks off this week:

• Watching my stepfather and NotAunt Donna dancing together at my mama's annual March Madness Birthday Extravaganza. Really.
• Being invited to the March Madness Birthday Extravaganza. (I'm so totally at the Adult Table now!)

• Sitting in on a music clinic with the Evil Genius and his 8th grade peers after they put forth a terrific performance. Bonus joy for catching the shout out the New England Conservatory professor made to the tubas. 

photo courtesy of Christine Bolduc

• Spending an uninterrupted hour at the library.
• Spending an uninterrupted afternoon READING books I brought home from the library.

photo courtesy of Johnson-Roberts Architects

• Taking the dogs for the first long walk they've been on since January. There is joy in both the fact that enough snow has melted off to make the walk possible, and the unbridled glee the dogs displayed at heading out of the neighborhood. The cocker spaniel running a serpentine to sniff all the good smells everywhere, ears flapping and nub of a tail wagging, the chocolate lab barking his regards to every dog in the town... fantastic stuff.

• Visits with three different women I love and never seem to get to see enough of them.
• Warm Clean Sheet Night.  (The only thing better is Clothesline Clean Sheet Night.)
• Writing an essay with My Personal Chef in the hopes of winning ourselves an inn in Maine. It was worth the entry fee just to spend the time together making castle-in-the-cloud plans together.

photo courtesy of Center Lovell Inn

What filled your heart this week?

How Are You? Me? I'm Good Enough.

It's coming on seven months since I've published a blog post.  I've drafted dozens of posts, but just could not finish them. The autumn and winter were very rough for me this year.  I felt like a shrub being hard pruned and left dormant for the cold season. I'm looking forward to the new growth of spring.

See, this fall I got sick.  For years I have lived with fibromyalgia.  It has been managed extremely well--I know I am among the lucky ones. At the end of the summer, though, the symptoms began to reappear and by the start of school I was laid out.  Exhausted, in pain, and worst of all, to me, completely fogged in--I had no recall ability, I couldn't connect thoughts.  It was dreadful. I spent four months going from the bed to the couch to the doctors'.  Finally, in January, I was cleared by my team of specialists to return to "normal activity." I'm still not back to where I was before this flare-up, though, and it troubles me that this may be as good as it gets.

In the middle of this, I lost my job. I saw it coming, but nothing prepared me for how devastating it was going to be. The shame, the humiliation, the bitterness has shaken me to my core. I'd like to say that I have gotten over it, but I haven't. I just haven't.

Because I've been in a wretched place, I lashed out at the people I love most. I damaged some of my relationships. I'm deeply remorseful.  I believe I'm forgiven. It still hurts, and all I can do it wait for the healing to work in its own time.

     Through it all, there have been some authentically wonderful moments in this dark season. 

 I learned to accept, really accept, the gifts of true friendship. Those closest to me got to see me at my absolute worst and the world didn't come to an end. That may sound ridiculous, but I have spent my entire life keeping up appearances, refusing offers of help, and otherwise hiding myself in fear of...in fear of...what exactly I don't entirely know. I've lived in fear of being too weak, of being not good enough, of being found out--all those things and more. I've been a fool. I know.

 I learned to appreciate a slower pace.  Nothing like being forced into a complete stop to realize that full speed ahead is no way to travel through life. There is a place and time for going full tilt, but it has been truly delightful to have time for a leisurely cup of coffee--or even an entire breakfast--with a girlfriend, and to be home after school with my youngest who is going to be off on his own in the blink of an eye. I discovered that I actually love cooking.  For years, getting dinner on the table was just a stressful, nonnegotiable item on my daily To Do list. It's amazing what having a bit of time can do.  Planning and executing a meal has once again become an enjoyable creative endeavor.

I still couldn't bring myself to write.

No question that a lot of that stems from my insistence on keeping up appearances. I'm a hot mess and just don't want to be seen like this.  There's also the nagging feeling that I'm just not good enough. What can I possibly have to say that would be worth reading?  Certainly none of the drafts in my documents folder measure up. 

Then I got in a fight with the Almighty. Again.

     I have been wrestling with God for as long as I can remember. This time it was serious, though. I put into question pretty much everything I have known about everything.  Turns out, I don't know much. Sigh. I have been alternately hurt and furious that the God of grace and mercy and everlasting love, blah, blah, blah, would  let me suffer so much. In response, I've been flattened by the realization that most of my wounds are self-inflicted. The rest of them are just "common to man."  Aging and illness and living with the consequences of one's actions are just a part of this life business. Instead of railing against God, perhaps I should lean against him, so that my limping along goes a bit easier?  I'm a slow learner. God is a patient teacher. So I have that going for me.

This past weekend, a chance comment from a total stranger from somewhere in eastern Europe (isn't the internet a marvelous thing?) made me decide that it is really time that I should just get over myself. It seems that part of my charm is that I don't actually have it all together.(Who knew?)  It still has taken me the better part of a week to write anything. The impulse to hide my broken bits of a life is overwhelming. I still question whether my story of  floundering to recover  has any merit. It feels self-indulgent to share it. I'm outgoing, but I am not a fan of the spotlight. At all.

Still, something has always compelled me to write. If I was made in the Creator's image, then I guess I am meant to create, yes? So today I will write, and I will try not to obsess over the reader--what she thinks, or if she even exists at all. And I'll go ahead and believe for today that I am good enough.  Spring is coming, after all.

photo courtesy of kidsgardening.com

   
   

     

Things That Happen When You Dare God to Move

     So a few weeks ago, I announced my Personal Mid-Summer Festival and my commitment to live in joy, not escape to joy.  Almost instantly, things got weird.

     For starters, everyday during that first week, something (or several somethings) happened to throw me off of my usual routine.  One day, my usual drive to work had an unexpected detour.  One day, the facilities director had a ladder in my cubicle, replacing the light fixture up above my desk, keeping me from starting my work day according to schedule. Every day it was something just a little odd that knocked me out of my rutted patterns.

   In that same week, I heard from three different people who once upon a time meant a great deal to me, but who I let fade out of my life.  Out of the blue, one after another reached out to me, after years--YEARS--without any contact at all.  It is all a bit disconcerting, but really, really amazing, too.  Despite my reputation for extreme Pollyanna-ness, I am rooted pretty firmly in the Real World.  Reconnecting for us is not going to be like the plot line of a Hallmark Channel family movie. At this point, I'm looking at these contacts as opportunities to complete some unfinished business and perhaps recognize some things that pushed me from inhabiting joy.  It seems as if now is a good time to do that.

  The world around me got a little more troubling--genocide in Iraq, a tentative ceasefire after weeks of bombings in Gaza, a string of young, black men being shot and killed by the police sworn to serve and protect, Robin Williams' suicide...  It's more than a little overwhelming.  If I were Supreme Empress of the Universe, this certainly would not be how I'd go about this joyful living business.

    It has left me speechless--clearly, as I haven't posted in over three weeks--and feeling extraordinarily unsettled.

     In the midst of this shaking, I've certainly experienced moments of great joy.  I returned to my old summer camp for a staff reunion 30 years in the making.

Our FabFam hosted the second graduation celebration for my daughter.  My Personal Chef outdid himself with the feast, the weather was perfect, and we spent the day surrounded by folks who overwhelmed me with their love for my family.

The tiny community garden plot I tend has provided the families in the local homeless shelter with over 20 lbs. of tomatoes and basil so far.

The Evil Genius just worked his was through his first grueling week of band camp. I know this sounds so nerdy and ridiculous, but I am absolutely tickled to be a Band Mom again. That my youngest child is so excited to be a part of the marching band fills my heart to overflowing.

And yesterday, three generations of my family kicked off a week of upcoming joys together by cheering on the two Cool Cousins (and three of their amazing friends) as they ran the 7.1 mile Falmouth Road Race, raising over $2,500.00 for Compassionate Care for ALS.  I cannot describe for you what it was like to be sitting at the 5 mile mark watching the 12,000 runners pass by.  There were men, women, and children of all abilities--wheelchair racers, world-class elite runners, frat boys, high school track stars, marathon runners, middle aged mothers, girls dressed like lobsters, teams of friends and family supporting a variety of great causes.  It was awe-inspiring. Equally moving was the company of spectators I found myself amongst--dozens of folks involved with CCALS who all are somehow affected by the cruelty of ALS and still find joy in the race, the beautiful location, and each other's company.

     It is becoming clear to me that I'm being taught a lesson or two about living right now.  I'm struggling with it, but I'm, as always, relentlessly optimistic. After all, I'm about to head back to the beach with my FabFam.




     

Mid-Summer Festival

     A dear friend thoughtfully mused this week that we have reached the mid-point of the summer.  We first met thirty years ago (Wait?!  WHAT?!!!!)  when we worked together at summer camp. Camp people understand the fleeting magic that is summer.  They gather from all over the place each year for about ten weeks to create an entire vibrant community that dissolves on Labor Day, almost as if it never existed, until the next summer returns.  At the camp we worked at, this midway point of the season was actually celebrated annually with the "Mid-Summer Festival."

Photos courtesty of G'Wood Old School

     I haven't thought about the Mid-Summer Festival in years, but from the vantage point of mid-summer in my middle-age,  I'm thinking that maybe it is exactly what I need.  I need a week of old-fashioned summer fun that celebrates the glories of the season.  I need barbecue and horseshoes and watersports and campfires and music and night skies and the company of the folks that bring me joy. I need to take the time to be amazed by the wonders of the natural world, and appreciative of the abundant blessings that have been poured over my life.

    Now, don't get me wrong.  My summer has been absolutely lovely.  I've logged lots of miles on my bike.  The kayaks and canoe have hardly had the chance to dry off before I'm paddling off again.  I've eaten well, spent quality time with folks I love, and celebrated successes.  I have plans for more hijinks in the coming weeks. I've been  acting like a kid.

It's not my activity that has been lacking.  It is my attitude.

     Back in my summer camp days, I could inhabit the magic that is summer vacation even when doing the less than delightful tasks of  bringing the overfilled slop bucket of food waste out to the pig  farmer's bin, or comforting a vomiting 8-year-old, or helping a special needs adult get her false teeth set in her mouth.  Maybe it was the ignorance of my youth, but I could carry on with the work without losing sight of the joys that come from playing in the woods all summer.  In hindsight, I realize that it is the only way I could have done the job at all, let alone for summer after summer.  The work was hard, often gross, and paid very little. 

And I loved every minute of it.

     These days, I find myself caught up in the fine print of life.  I'm fussing over dog fur tumbleweeds that seem to be taking over the house.  The unfolded laundry on my arm chair is driving me to distraction.  The looming deadlines at work are making me anxious. There are all those back-to-school appointments to schedule. Not to mention, there are actual difficulties with the folks I love facing financial problems, health care issues, unexpected loss, ongoing grief... 

Instead of living in that place of joy, I find that I escape to that place as a reprieve from my life. 

     I need to find a way to get back to my summer camp mode.  I'm declaring this coming week as my own personal Mid-Summer Festival, where I will see if I can intentionally move back into that joyful place to live.  I know it is not going to be anything at all like the Mid-Summer Festival of my youth.  I don't want it to be. (I'm way too out-of-shape to do backflips off of the dock into the lake, for starters.)  I do want to become more mindful of how I am moving through my days, though.  

     

     

Charting a Different Course

Thing 2 is on a roll.

     He's been at his job for a full month now.  He's learning the ropes.  He's earning the praises of his supervisors.  He's getting paid. It's all good stuff.  He's also overcome a paralyzing amount of fear to even walk through the doors as the New Guy those first few days.  He's figured out how to get himself home every day. He's reconfigured his social life to make sure he gets to bed early enough. (He starts work at 4 AM daily.)  He's adjusted his medication schedule. 

He's really doing it.

     I don't think my son believed he actually could. If I'm being honest, I'm not sure I believed he actually could.  I'm am so very delighted to be proven wrong.  

And that's not all.

     On his own, he went to the bank with his first paychecks and opened a checking account.  He went to HR to complete the paperwork to have his future paychecks directly deposited into that new checking account. He went to the Registry of Motor Vehicles and got his learner's permit.   Did I mention he did this on his own? 

     Maybe you aren't impressed.  He is nearly 22-years-old after all. None of these accomplishments are earth shattering.  All of his classmates are way beyond this. Hell, his own sister, Thing 1, managed all this as a teenager.  I get it.  I do. See, I had a gut-punched moment a few weeks ago, when a neighbor boy from my son's class in high school came by to show off his new sports car that he paid for with the money he earned from his prestigious internship.  He starts his senior year at business college on top of the world. I've known this boy since he was in middle school. He's a dope, the way that all young men are at that age. Yet, here he is succeeding all over the place.  And for a few days after that, I was wrecked, absolutely wrecked, because they weren't my boy's successes, too.

     Here's the thing, though.  I cannot compare my son to the other boys from his class. There is no getting around the fact that my son has significant mental health issues that make a traditional trajectory into adulthood impossible. That's just how it is.  I am blessed to have friends who also have kids who need to take different routes through their lives who remind me that I'm not alone. When one makes a tuna sandwich for his mother, when another plays baseball in between visits to his cardiologist, when one makes eye contact and initiates conversation with someone, it's the equivalent of that paid internship. We have shared plenty of rough days when there were medical crises and academic set backs. So it is only right that together we rejoice in our children's victories. They may not be a big deal to other parents, but given what we know our kids have overcome to earn them, they are a huge deal to us.

     And I am relentlessly optimistic.  My boy is on his way. He is working really hard to manage his anxiety so that he can move out on his own. He, himself, has discussed an ambitious "at the beginning of the school year" date for having his own apartment.  College is not off of his--or my--list. There is typical young man talk about getting into a band. (Oh how I would love to see him playing music again, truth be told.)  There are so many opportunities available for my son. 

The road doesn't dead end for him.  We just don't have the whole map unfolded yet.

More Experiments in Time Travel

I think this summer is making me younger. 

     I'm serious. When the spring rains finally ended and my yard bloomed, something happened to me.  It was subtle at first--the volume on the car radio slowly got louder. I came home from work and announced that we were going to the ice cream place for dinner. Before you know it, here I am leaving work to drive straight to the lake house, go from there to a party, from there to a campground in Maine and stay on the beach until  all hours carrying on like I'm not a middle-aged mother of three, and THEN get up at 3:00 AM to drive to work. 

     It is all reminiscent of my Summer Tour years, when I'd work a few days then travel from city to city to see a series of concerts, getting home in time to get cleaned up before returning to my classroom full of three-year-olds.  I'd teach all week, waitress a few nights, maybe, then hit the road again.  Niagara Falls, Washington, DC, Philly...Life was a grand adventure  and I had the boundless energy of youth to take it on.

    Time passed and I grew up.  I married My Persoal Chef (bless him, he followed me around the northeast for one summer when he was first chasing me), we had these incredible kids, we bought a beautiful, hundred-year-old Queen Anne Victorian. I started going to bed at a reasonable hour and making sure that everyone had well-balanced meals and clean, folded laundry.  Concert trips became weekly trips to Home Depot and the grocery store. It's the natural order of life and it has been very satisfying.

Until the temperatures rose and the fireflies returned a few weeks ago.

     Suddenly, I'm searching YouTube for videos from Grateful Dead shows from the 80s.  A friend comes to visit and instead of putting on the kettle for tea, I find myself mixing a pitcher of Concoction (a fizzy melon, mint, lime and gin drink that tastes like summer vacation).  I laugh right out loud when my Other Favorite Nieces say something inappropriate instead of scolding them. In fact, I respond with an even more scandalous anecdote.  

I'm acting like a kid.

     No.  It's not a mid-life crisis.  I'm not going to buy a convertible, get a boob job, or run off with my secretary. There's just something about the summer that has loosened my tightly wound bits.

     During the rest of the year, you will never catch me playing air guitar in my Cubicle-of-Doom.  Or sharing a scorpion bowl with a twenty-something colleague at the end of a work day. Or going along with the young--really young--Cool Cousins who think it is an excellent idea to introduce their mothers to Cards Against Humanity.  Any other season and there is no way I'd be explaining to a retired librarian what causes blue balls.  Any other season, I'd be acting my age. Come to think of it, so would the Awesome Aunts. So maybe there's a genetic link to the time-space continuum I should explore. . .

    

Wibbley Wobbley Timey Whimey Stuff

     Once upon a time, when my mother turned 50, she looked up from her birthday dinner and exclaimed, "I just cannot believe that I have grandchildren in school."  Her mother, my Nana Joyce, shot back, "I look in the mirror and I see a two-seater, red convertible.  I look out the window and I'm waiting for the senior van.  I have GREAT-grandchildren in school."

     Until that moment, I had never seen Nana as anything but a grandmother.  To my eye, she was always, well, OLD.  It tickled me to think that she could imagine any other version of herself.  And then this happened:

     This past weekend, three generations of my extended family gathered to celebrate the college graduations of Thing 1 (her BS), my Mama's god daughter (her MSW), and my uncle (his AA--the associates degree, not the 12-step group).  It was everything you could ask for in such a gathering--plenty of incredible food, coolers full of cold drinks, games to play, perfect weather for being on the boat and splashing about in the lake, and so many things to laugh about.

     Late Saturday afternoon, I'm sitting on the front porch next to one of my dearest friends (she was matron of honor in my wedding to my Personal Chef twenty-four years ago).  We are chattering away and just enjoying the day.  I looked up to see our daughters chattering away and just enjoying the day.  And for a second there, I couldn't tell us apart.  I mean aren't we still the 22-year-olds having a blast at the lake? How can we be, if those two beautiful, smart young women are our daughters?

     In that instant, I understood what Nana meant.