THANKFUL FRIDAY

When Chris and I moved into our house, it came with a large brush pile in the back corner of our backyard. After Chris died, I decided I was going to garden and put in some raised beds. Then I built a compost bin from wood pallets. Don’t ever do that, by the way. It was a terrible compost bin and eventually the wood pallets started to fall apart and collapsed in on each other. The brush pile from the corner got moved next to and into the compost bin. My gardening attempts were unsatisfying and I abandoned the beds. Eventually I broke them down and evened out the yard where they had been sitting, with the exception of one spot. It looks like we buried a body there. Meanwhile, the brush pile continued to grow. Michael and I built the firepit with the intention of burning off the brush pile and sometimes it looked like we were actually going to do that. The pile would dwindle a bit, but a tree limb would fall or we’d clear off the fence line and the pile would just grow.

Recently, over the summer, Michael and I cleaned out the garage and piled all the unwanted big trash items into the backyard. That pile has been sitting there mocking me for weeks. Every time Michael and I had the discussion about what to do with it all, the discussion would just be a great big circle of words without actions. It was too little to fill up a Bagster dumpster, but too big for regular garbage. So now, every time I looked into the backyard I saw two large piles of garbage and hate would fill up inside my heart. Finally we just decided to see how much garbage we could put into the back of Michael’s truck and pay to dump it someplace. Turns out, you can put a lot of garbage in the back of Michael’s truck and for fifty dollars, a place not far from us will let you throw it all into a compacter hole. I don’t know what this says about my life, but throwing stuff into that hole is the most fun I’ve had in a really long time.

After throwing away the big garbage, we came home and started burning up the brush pile. And for the first time since ever, when I look out into my backyard there is not a pile of brush or garbage out there making me scowl. We burned up all of the brush plus a pile of brush from our next door neighbor. If we want to have another firepit night, we will have to buy wood to burn. There’s nothing left to burn. This makes me want to twirl around with my arms open wide while singing The Sound of Music. I can see the potential of a backyard that is inviting and lovely to sit in, a place were we could entertain friends and just relax. Maybe we’ll eventually build a patio and buy real patio furniture and a grill that didn’t come to us free from Facebook market place.

At some point during our firepit night, I could see that this was going to be it for that brush pile and I was giddy. Michael said something like “So getting rid of stuff brings you joy, huh?” and it does. It is beyond pleasing to me. I love throwing things away. Sometimes a little too much. I threw away my power cord for an external harddrive during one cleaning frenzy. I do not believe I threw out Michael’s passports (yes, multiple) even though he has torn the house apart looking for them. I do think they are probably in the garbage, but I was not the one who put them there. But still…it could have been me. I just don’t see a need to hang onto a lamp that broke two years ago and is hanging out in the basement waiting to be repaired. I’m not going to repair a lamp. I am also not going to have a garage sale. Garage sales are their own special kind of Hell and I want no part in it. I don’t have the mental or physical energy for that. Park a dumpster in my driveway and I could cart stuff out to it all day.

It is a little disturbing how the act of throwing things in a dumpster can make me so gleeful. Maybe disturbing is not the right word choice. I’ve lived amongst the hoarding type my whole life and it has given me a great appreciation for less. I think there’s a bout of Swedish Death Cleaning in my future. I think this would be a great uplifting activity for those winter months when I have the winter blues. Today, I am grateful for the view from my kitchen window into the backyard and how it is no longer marred with a giant pile garbage.

THE LITTLE FORTUNE COOKIE BOOK

Saturday morning, I climbed on to my usual chair at the counter in Heirloom and opened the Fortune Cookie journal to the very last page. Then I proceeded to write my very last tiny story based off of a fortune. By the time I had filled the page, I had emptied my plate and I sat there looking from the empty plate to full page and back. Empty plate. Full page. Full book. I put the date at the top of the page so I would have a record of when I finished. I did not think to put a starting date at the beginning. I had to go searching through my old photos to find the start date. September 29th, 2015. For nine years, I have been taking a Saturday here and there and writing a story based on a prompt from a fortune cookie.

Nine years.

I closed the little journal and walked out to my car and immediately started sobbing. Heck, I just started crying while typing this. When Michael asked me how I felt about it, I told him that I couldn’t talk about it. Now, I’m not even sure I can write about it. First of all….NINE FUCKING YEARS! I can’t believe that I have been doing this for that long. Sure the practice was inconsistent. I only wrote in the journal on the Saturday mornings I was alone and taking care of the grocery shopping. There were long stretches of summer months when this didn’t happen or weekends when I was out of town. There were limits to my writing ritual. I almost treated the ritual like I do a really good chocolate bar, eating one square at time savoring the rich chocolate for days. It’s almost as if I anticipated the ending before even beginning.

I completed a journal of incomplete stories.

Well…of course I did. That’s my modus operandi. My Google Docs folder is filled with stories yet to be finished. I am nothing but stories yet to be finished and to finish anything at all feels momentous. I thought I was on the verge of turning into Chris with a stock pile of journals each containing a sentence or list here or there, never filling one up. When Michael placed that little journal into my Christmas stocking all those years ago, he had no idea it would grow into a thing or a thing I might even finish. He started looking for a replacement journal and then started to panic because he knew I was reaching the end of this journal and he had yet to find a worthy replacement. I had four pages left in the Fortune Cookie journal and in haste, he bought a blank notebook and then carefully wrote down various well known quotes on every other page. This notebook is bigger with wide spacing, room for a story to grow. It is probably the most thoughtful gift he has ever given me.

On Saturday morning, I will climb up into the chair in what I now consider to be my spot at the counter at Heirloom. I will open a brand new journal and I will weave together a new story.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I feel like it has been over a year since one of our graduate students gave me a Brazilian wish ribbon with instructions to tie it onto my Vespa. The ribbon (and wish) is tied with three knots around a wrist. The wish is said to come true once the ribbon falls off on it’s own accord. I tried looking back through old pictures to see if I could determine when I placed this ribbon on Valarie and found a picture of it on Valarie back in November 2022. One side of the ribbon was already a bit frayed. So, it has been more like two years since I made a wish and tied my ribbon to Valerie.

I don’t remember what I wished for, but I feel certain that the wish wasn’t something entirely for myself. Wishing on birthday candles or stars, it doesn’t matter. I never seem to be able to come up with a wish for myself. I make my wishes for things I have no control over. World peace. Affordable healthcare for all. Body autonomy. I wish for all young women the rights to make choices for their own bodies. I wish for the US to stop providing weapons to Israel and aiding in genocide. My wishes are complicated things that I want for this planet, my community, my immediate circle of loved humans. They are not always complicated. I often make a wish for friend in their times of struggle and need. Some would say that my wishes are prayers. I might say that prayers are often wishes.

I have read too many stories about wishes for me to feel comfortable wishing for something just for myself. There are so many cautionary fables of wishing for money and the person making the wish receives a fortune but it’s because a loved one died, leaving behind an inheritance. Someone may wish to be famous and then they become so famous, they have zero privacy. A person may wish for the return of a loved one and wake up next to a corpse. Selfish wishes come with a price. These are the fables we have used to condition us into thinking that we cannot ask for something we want, especially if you are a woman. I have heard it so many times all the ways in which I can’t have it all. I wouldn’t even know how to start a wish for myself.

I was helping that graduate student troubleshoot some problems with their lab’s microscope this week. They have graduated and will be moving on to their Postdoc position in California. While I was crawling around under the microscope table, they said “Hold on. I have something for you.” Then they came back with three new wish ribbons. I had mentioned to them months ago that mine was getting frayed and I hated to loose it, even though I know that’s point. They told me that they found the ribbons while cleaning out, preparing for their move. This is one of the things I do not like about my job. I watch these young people come in, help train them, watch them get excited about science and microscopy. I get attached. Then they graduate or their postdoc time is up and they are off to build their scientific careers. I hate seeing some of them go, but also proud because I know they’re going to be successful.

So now I have three new wishes that I can make.

I know two of those wishes will go towards better things for my community and world, like an education free from violence and fear for our children and the end of genocide. The third wish is one I’m saving for myself. If it was not for the job I do, I would not have ever met this graduate student or have learned about wish ribbons. My path has led me to a diverse crowd of interesting and wonderful people and not just at work. My life is filled with color and light and texture. If I have one wish for myself it would be for more. More color and light and texture. More love. More of the good stuff.

More gratitude for that good stuff.

ROASTED VEGETABLES

This isn't a recipe post. I just didn’t really know how to title this one. Depending on your general philosophy, the title can express negative and positive feelings. Are you a glass half full kind of person? Then you might find this post to be mildly pleasant. Who knows? And since I will not be advertising this one in my Facebook timeline, very few of you will end up reading any of it any way. I guess I could have titled this “The Things I’m Not Prepared For” but that’s such a big list of things. Or it’s a short list.

Things I’m not prepared for: everything.

We are preparing for my mother to go to assisted living. Now, I have been a huge advocate for assisted living. In fact, I urged my mother to consider moving into a retirement village when she sold the old house. Unfortunately, retirement communities had already taken up negative mental space in my mother’s brain and she flat out refused. Instead she bought the house next door to my sister, which further isolated her from her usual activities. Bit by bit, since moving into that space, my mother has become less active. We are now at the point where she doesn’t leave her house unless my sister takes her somewhere and the toll it is taking on her mental and physical well being is very obvious. Her doctor recommends we make the move by December.

I want to believe that my mother’s mental health is going to drastically improve once she is in her new little studio apartment. It is the time between now and when she is actually settled is the part that is making my stomach hurt. My mother took almost everything from the old house. Boxes of things I know I personally put into the dumpster while cleaning out the old home will randomly appear when I arrive for a visit. “Oh I found this stuff of yours. Do you want it?” I have stopped arguing or trying to make sense of it. Instead I enthusiastically say “yes!” while putting the box in my car. Then I drive it away and dispose of it properly, saying goodbye once again to things from my past. And I honestly do not think I have the energy to do this for a whole house again.

Every time I have visited my mother this year, she has been almost frantic with what she was going to do with all of these things. My sister and I have both told her that she only needs to think about the stuff she’s taking to the new place. A love seat. A full size bed. A dresser and nightstand. Clothes. She won’t need fifty bath towels or twenty sheet sets. She won’t need her pots and pans even. My sister and I both have told her this and that we will find someone to help us take care of the contents of what’s left. I have a number for an estate sale company, but these are all things we can not do until my mother is settled in her new space. We are at this uncomfortable holding pattern.

I was not prepared my mother to age so quickly. I was not prepared for her confusion or how soft her body feels now. I was not prepared for the boulder of guilt that I am now carrying around with me because I feel like I am not doing enough or I’m using my distance as an excuse to not do more. Some of that guilt boulder is made from apathy. I just don’t care about all of the stuff in my mother’s house. I don’t value it the way she does. I have never valued the things as much she does. This has always led to contention. She sees it all as her memories and I am inconsiderate for not placing the same values on these memories as she does. I will be taking her car and I feel guilty for that even though I have the blessing from both siblings. I don’t like asking for things, even when it will make my life easier.

Today, while trying to figure out a visit for Thanksgiving, I was looking at Airbnbs and it just felt so expensive. This is when it hit me. I no longer have a home in Tulsa, at least not one that accommodates all of us, Michael, the Cabbage and Josephine. I know I am always welcome at my brother’s. They have a spare bedroom or at least I think they do. But all four of us visiting is cramped and I hate doing that my brother. And all of these feelings and anxieties have been festering inside of me for weeks now. I don’t dare write about it all because my mother doesn’t react well to anything I’ve written about her in this space. I’ve been considerate of her feelings for oh so long, but I’m filled up to the max. I’m not sharing this to Facebook with the idea that this is the only way she knows how to get here.

The things I wasn’t prepared for was the hard stuff. Yet every time I am presented with the impossible, I have moved forward in some way….hopefully healthy. I may not be prepared for it, but I seem to be pretty good at improvising. Macguyvering my way through life, one sheet pan full of roasted veggies at a time.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Early in the week, Talaura asked if she could come to my house for a rest stop as she drove from Oklahoma to Pennsylvania. She’s been in Oklahoma, sorting and packing up her parent’s home so that it can be sold. It has been grueling work and during the hottest time of the year. She arrived late Wednesday evening with Sarge and her car packed to the gills. Michael and I made sure both Talaura and Sarge were fed and comfortable before he headed off to bed. Then I stayed up past my bedtime to sit and listen to all of Talaura’s stories of the ridiculousness that is Facebook Market Place. The next morning, I left Talaura sleeping and quietly went into to work to get some things started. Then I went home to help her with her laundry and spend more time with her. Mostly, I wanted her feel slightly better leaving my house than when she arrived and I wanted be there to make sure that happened. Also, I don’t like the idea of anyone having to make the trek down my basement stairs where the washing machine lives. Eventually I was able to send a clean Talaura on her way along with a bag of clean clothes and lots of love.

Recently, I was having a conversation with someone about the skill of listening with an empathetic ear to someone complaining or venting about a problem they are having. The inclination for many us is to want to fix their problem for them. I mentioned to the person I was in conversation with that I had been ‘cured’ of this sort of inclination. When Chris was sick and the doctors determined that there was nothing else we could do, I had to come to terms with the knowledge that I could not fix this. It’s was a real shitty way to be ‘cured’ and now that I’m thinking about, I may not be completely cured. My gut instinct is to say “How can I fix this for you?” I just don’t ever let those words leave my mouth. I’m really good at fixing microscopes but not at fixing peoples’ lives.

So instead of asking how I can fix the problem, I ask “How can I provide you with some comfort?” I still haven’t stopped feeling the want to fix things and this is why I say that I’m only partially cured. Because I do want to fix all of the problems, yours and the worlds’. And sometimes I might still try to fix someone else’s problem before reminding myself that I do I have limitations.

Do what you can, with what you have where you are. -Theadore Roosevelt

I can provide comfort. Comfort comes in many many forms. It’s can be the simple act of opening your home and couch to a dear friend in need. It’s clean clothes or a home cooked meal. But a lot of comfort comes from just being that empathetic ear. What I have come to realize is that I am grateful to be able to provide comfort to my friends. It gives me purpose. My couch will always be available, my doors and arms open. Maybe I need a cross stitch of those words hanging somewhere in my house, not just as a welcome to others but as a reminder to myself.

LETTERS

Before we parted ways for different colleges, a friend and I agreed to stay in touch by writing each other letters. We had known each other since well before pre-school, our lives entwined through church and then school. A friendship born from just living in a small rural community. We joked that we had neighboring cribs in bed-babies class. This is how our Southern Baptist Church separated children out by age. It was a place to leave us while parents attended or led Sunday school classes. We were unavoidably tossed together and it was either be mortal enemies or just be friends. While I was chomping at the bit to escape for college, I was also a little nervous about leaving people behind and he was like a security blanket. So we agreed to write each other as often as possible.

The letters lasted for maybe two or three months, long enough for each of us to settle into new lives. I caught a recent episode of This American Life and the theme for the episode was about writing letters. It started with Ira interviewing some expert on letter writing and brain function. The expert letter writing person talked about the importance of hand written letters, how they convey emotion to the reader but also how the act of letter writing benefits the brain. This is what reminded me about those short few months my friend and I wrote to each other. Every letter I received from him was hand typed while I sent messy scrawling nonsense. Of course our letter writing didn’t last, nor did the friendship. I mean, we’re acquaintances. We both just sorted of faded off into separate worlds. I think he’s doing well, living the white man suburban dream with a wife and two kids, a job in finance. We haven’t seen or spoken in probably twenty years. Our worlds do not align.

That episode on letter writing sparked an urge to maybe write some letters, but then I couldn’t imagine what to tell people. The weather seems to always be a topic for letters. The weather here has been a week of pleasant followed with a week of being boiled and steamed alive. It just swings back and forth like that. In my visions, I picture myself writing in neat loopy letters, not my usual scratch. I think of telling someone in a letter about my tiny garden in the back that has grown wild and messy. There’s swallow tail caterpillars on the fennel and I’ve left them there unharmed in hopes of seeing them transform into butterflies. I think of writing to someone that I feel slightly hopeful for the future, seeing those letters neatly looping across a piece of paper, but the thing that keeps me from writing is the idea that I do not have enough words to fill a page.

Yesterday, I pulled the mail from the mailbox and sifted through the junk and the bills to find a postcard from Amani. It felt like she must have been reading my mind from two thousand miles away. I smiled back the picture of her smiling and flipped the card over to read the short message of love. Then it dawned on me that I did not have to fill pages with handwriting about sweltering temperatures and the next prediction of rain. A couple of sentences will suffice. So then I wasted an hour of time ordering a new set of postcards of some of my photos.

Maybe I’ll practice loopy cursive letters while I wait for the postcards to arrive.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

My friend Sarah introduced me to Chappell Roan back in July and I’m obsessed. I am always a sucker for a female artist who is not afraid to sing explicitly saucy lyrics. This artist does not disappoint. I had her playing on Alexa while I made Michael and I breakfast a few weekends ago. Michael was in the shower and at one point he came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. He was looking at his phone while clutching an imaginary strand of pearls and then said “Have you been listening to these lyrics?!?” I replied “Yes!” and then continued to sing along. He obviously has never been paying attention when I’m playing Missy Elliot or Liz Phair or Wet Leg. I could go on. I want to erase the primitive ideas suggesting that women artists are or should be demure and at the most, PG-13 rated.

I’d like to make the argument that Pink Pony Club is the Girls’ Just Wanna Have Fun of this generation. But more inclusive.

And I heard that there's a special place,
Where boys and girls can all be queens every single day. -Chappell Roan

I am excited and energized by the new artists that have been introduced to me over the past several years. I think it’s easy to settle into the old songs and musicians we know and never open ourselves up to something new. I mean, I still listen to the bands who were my favorites as a teen and young adult. I had The Sundays playing while we got ready for work just the other morning. Even though it’s been a hot minute since the last time I listened to the Flaming Lips, I may have gotten a little jealous about a friend who got free tickets to a concert recently. The Flaming Lips put on a religious experience of a show. But I love it even more when I have a friend ask “Have you heard of…?” and it is someone new to me. Then I listen to this new to me artist and most of the time I fall in love and their music plays on a loop for weeks.

Because there’s more to it than just the joy of experiencing a new artist.

It’s about the joy in sharing. To have a friend who discovers a new artist and then likes that artist so much, they think you will also like them is a gift. It’s like they have found something that makes them feel joy and they want to share that joy with you. This is not limited to music. There is a reason suggested posts about cute animals and hunky firemen show up in my Insta feed. I liked one reel from my friend Wilson ages ago, hence hunky firemen. I’m not mad about it. To share something that brings you joy with others is an act of vulnerability. There’s a certain amount of trust involved with an underlying fear of judgment. “Please don’t make fun of me but I really liked this thing.” I am grateful to be trusted by so many people.

I will never make fun of you.

THE THINGS WE DO NOT KNOW

I spent the weekend in Oklahoma not seeing everyone I wanted to see, but spending quality time with those I needed to see. I was able to see for myself that Talaura’s Sarge was alive and well. I was able to squeeze Talaura and hopefully give her a tiny break and an empathetic ear. Most of the rest of my time was spent with Robin, Traci and Chris. I dragged them all to the First Americans Museum, a museum Chris and I watched being built but never got to see its completion. The front of the building looks like the sun and for years, we watched as this sun rose because we passed the construction site on our daily commute to work. It was lovely to finally step inside this sun and see the tragic beauty of our first Americans.

Then Traci, Robin and I spent the rest of the day floating in Traci’s pool. As we floated about, rotating with the shade, we talked about all things and no things. This was the first time Traci and Robin had really gotten a chance to talk to each other and I watched a friendship begin as they learned the stories of each other. At one point, when our fingers were pruney from our time in the water, I told Traci about the hand written note I had found in Chris’s office while cleaning it out. The note contained half a date, a date I couldn’t account for and the thought of it has haunted me all this time. I asked Traci “Is it possible he knew he was sick before we moved?” and without blinking an eye she said “I would not be surprised.” She told me that he would have done anything for my happiness.

This is when I learned something about Chris that I didn’t know.

Traci told me that Chris had not always been the kind, empathetically generous person that most of us knew. She told me about him telling her he had met a girl and all his fears that this girl wouldn’t love him. She told me how I had changed him. I rolled my eyes at this thinking that it couldn’t possibly be true. All the years. All the time. My core belief is, has been, that Chris was the one who made me a better person. Definitely not the other way around. He’s the one who built a place for me to write, to put the camera in my hand, to put my career first. This is how I learned that support is not words but actions and I have spent lifetimes worried that I didn’t act enough in return. Turns out that was not necessarily true.

We made each other better.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I have this asparagus fern that I bought two years ago. Every year, I buy some kind of hanging plant for the front stoop that ends up dying from neglect, but I thought I’d try something different when I bought this fern. I thought I would try to keep it alive, like bring it inside during the winter. The problem is that inside my house equals instant death for any house plant except for the ivy I’ve had in a pot on top of the fridge for thirteen years. I just don’t have the window lighting space for inside plants. My olive tree is barely surviving and I moved it outside for the summer. I predict that it will not take kindly to being brought back inside in the Fall. So I decided to take my fern to work.

There are large east facing windows on one whole side of my work cubical. I already had two plants that were thriving in that space, plus an inherited aloe that should absolutely not be thriving because it has basically outgrown it’s container and that was before it was ‘gifted’ to me. As we all learned from Jurassic Park, life finds a way. I named my asparagus fern Sideshow Bob, loaded him up along with the thousands of roly-polies that had taken up inhabitance in the few days I had allowed the pot to sit on the ground, and I took him to work. During the first month, I swept up a lot of roly-polies, but now we are poly free and thriving. Sideshow Bob is a mess. Every time I pick him up to carry him to the sink for watering, he sheds needle like leaves in a trail. Every six months or so, half of him turns brown and brittle. I think he’s dying and pluck out as much of the brown parts as I can. Then he sprouts new limbs and everything is okay.

Sideshow Bob needs parts of himself to die before growing.

Humans do this too. We shed dead skins cells and intestinal cells every day. I mean, women basically build nests in their wombs every month that are torn down and removed from the body. Parts of our bodies die off and get replaced with new cells. Of course our ability to do this gets less and less the older we get and it doesn’t look as visually dramatic as Sideshow Bob, but we still do it. Life, finding it’s way again. All of this started me thinking about how parts of our not physical selves need to die before we can begin to start something new. I know I have a habit of clinging to a routine even when it no longer serves me. I just keep doing the same thing over and over with the idea that it will reset itself into a routine that is useful and healthy again. Then I eventually reach a point were I wonder why nothing is working or feels right and I remember that I never actually made any changes that would lead to useful and healthy.

It’s time to start cutting off some brown crunchy dead parts, in this case an old way of thinking and doing, but not in an attempt to just rush forward into something new. I think I’d like to clear out some of those dead thoughts and ideas and just sit with that cleared space for a minute or two. Maybe take some time to grieve those thoughts and ideas and then wait for new thoughts and ideas to grow flourish. And I get that personal growth can happen on top of old thoughts and ideas. New growth happens like this in the wild all the time. Mushrooms can sprout on living trees. Every year my hostas come up out of the ground with extra hostas. But I have also driven through the Flint Hills after a controlled burn and have seen the softest greenest layer of grass as the prairie replenishes.

When there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire. -Douglas Campbell, father to Torquil Campbell, lead singer of the band Stars.

Burn off the dead and no longer useful parts and then sit back and watch the new growth come in.

THE STATE OF THE BODY

Right now, the ads in my Instagram feed are either for needle work kits or curing plantar fasciatus. Occasionally the algorithm throws in an ad for somatic yoga for women over fifty because the internet thinks I’m eighty. I’m cool with that. I’ve stopped getting the ads for magic elixirs that cure perimenopause, though that may change after today’s post. I stopped taking the progesterone/DHEA stuff that I had ordered from the internet about a month and a half ago. It was time to renew my three-month supply and I put a big pause on that order for some reasons. The biggest reason was because of cost and I could not get my insurance to cover any of it. So I figured I would pause treatment, make notes on how I was feeling, and then take all of this to my doctor.

And I did that today.

I am going to start by saying that I really like my gynecologist. She is the same age as I am and doesn’t think I’m crazy. She walked into the room with a smile and a “Welcome to Perimenopause!” because the nurse had already given her a briefing on my erratic periods and my weight gain. To be fair, I did step onto the scale with my keys and wallet in my pockets, plus my Nikes. I’d like to think that added about five pounds to the number, but really I have no idea. The only time I step on a scale is at the doctors office because if I start doing this at home, I start obsessing and stressing out about numbers which leads me down a very unhealthy rabbit hole. My doctor only barely mentioned the weight and I said that I think I’ve reached a place where I’m okay with it and this is just my body. She nodded her head in agreement and said “Yes! I completely agree with you!” Then she told me that her favorite lubricant is olive oil and we swapped friendship bracelets. We didn’t really swap friendship bracelets, but olive oil is her favorite lube choice second to coconut oil.

I explained to my doctor how I felt taking the online stuff and how I was feeling now that I’m not, which isn’t great. I’m back to not sleeping for more than two hours at a time and my body has gone back to barrel shaped. My right foot hurts all the dang time, but I’m still doing all of the things. 10,000 or more steps a day. Yoga. I’ve added weights to my yoga practice. Standing all day at my desk. I’ve swapped out my tofu scramble with plain greek yogurt to get more protein. I told her that I basically have one of two stages: rage or sobbing. I’m either going to punch someone in the throat or melt into tears. Then she said “I’m here to support you and let’s talk about ways to do that.” So of course, I burst into tears. We talked about options in relation to the current state of my ovaries, which are still doing something even if they’re only spitting out low quality eggs. Then she prescribed a very low dose birth control pill with instructions to give this a good three month try. The idea is that this will even out and regulate things.

We’ll see.

It is turning out that three truly is the magic number. I was on the other stuff for three months. Now I am to give the new stuff a three month chance. At least this treatment is fully covered by my insurance and familiar. I took a birth control pill every day for twenty five year. I am excellent at remembering to take this pill. I have hopes that this will work but not high hopes. Just like my weight, I think I’ve finally started to come to terms with this is just how my body is right now. I make sure to not walk around carrying knives and always have a package of Kleenex in my pocket, which is probably just a good habit for any stage of life. Sort of like Hitchhiker’s Guide To the Galaxy and always carrying a towel. Except a woman would most likely never hitchhike because bears don’t drive cars or if they do, don’t pick up hitchhikers.

This is more of The Transportationally Responsible’s Guide to Perimenopause.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I almost skipped this today. I have plenty to be grateful for this week. This morning, I locked my house from the inside. Then I stepped out into the now very clean garage, pushed a button and watched the garage door open. Then I got on my scooter, rolled it outside and pressed another button, closing the garage behind me. Then I just rode away. And I know that seems like a normal everyday thing to be able to do if you live in a house with a garage, but this is the first time in my life that I have had an automatic garage door opener. This feels like getting an A++ in adulting. It is also the reason that while I may be forty eight years old, I still feel like I’m in my early twenties trying to figure out life. Which is probably why some of my adulting tasks this week made me cry big fat stupid tears.

But I’ve talked enough about my new garage door.

The Cabbage asked to go see the musical Come From Away and if the kid is going to ask to see any form of a stage production, I think it is important to make it happen. So we took them to the Starlight Theater last night and sat outside watching the North American Tour of Come From Away. The musical is based on the true story of when 42 planes were ordered to land at the Gander International Airport in Newfoundland during the attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon on September 11, 2001. The tiny town of Gander rallied to take in about 7,000 stranded people. It is a beautiful example of the human capacity for caring and kindness during times of great tragedies, but I found the beginning of the musical to be pretty hard to sit through. It starts with how we all started on that day, how we all got up and started doing our normal daily routines until the news interrupted everything. There was a moment when the performers’ reactions to the horror was so familiar and heavy that I almost got up and left.

Later, when we were on our way back home, the Cabbage asked us what our favorite parts were and when it was my turn, I said “That’s going to be a hard moment for me to pin down.” Then I confessed to finding the beginning to be very difficult for me to watch. Michael piped up and agreed. He told the Cabbage that they needed to understand the opening put us in a very different headspace than them. Chris and I used to joke about how that day changed everything, but it truly did. That day in, some ways, brought out the worst in people with lasting consequences for our Muslim Americans (or any brown skinned person). But that day also brought out the best in us. We can really pull together and do good things for one another in times of crisis. This is great and all and there are some beautiful stories out there from those sorts of good deeds, but what about those times when we are not in a crisis?

In the years since then, I have become more apt to notice the good we can do for one another when there is not a crisis. I’m talking about those times we give money to a GoFundMe need or buy something on an Amazon wishlist to help a teacher. Maybe it is just the simple act of saying ‘good morning’ and pausing for short chat with that old man waiting at the bus stop you pass on your morning dog walks. There is joy in being kind to others and I am grateful for those moments when I experience that kind of joy. So my answer to the Cabbage’s question about my favorite part of this musical is this. My favorite part of this musical is the global overall message of kindness.

The practice of daily kindness is what makes us ready for those often bigger acts of kindness required during a crisis.

FAIR

Last minute and on a whim, Michael and I decided to check out the Leavenworth County Fair on Saturday. We didn’t really have much going on that day to begin with. We’re still in limbo with the garage clean out while we wait for the new garage door. That’s happening on Wednesday this week and I’m still trying to muster excitement and happiness over this purchase. I’m sure once I have a remote in my hand and a functional door, I will be thrilled and wondering why I hadn’t pushed for a new garage door sooner. Maybe it will be part of Friday’s gratitude post. Any way, Saturday seemed like an ideal time to visit a county fair.

When Michael pulled into the pasture parking lot, I looked over at the small fairgrounds and for a minute thought that we had traveled to my hometown county fair. I guess I was expecting something bigger for some reason, but this county fair was just like the county fair I attended every year while growing up in Collinsville. We walked into the one building of the fairgrounds that had been divided into a handful of exhibitor booths. The other half was filled up with fair entries and I found myself having to explain to Michael why there were tables of jams and pickles and ziplock baggies of half eaten cookies. He was floored by the whole process, that people enter baked goods or crafts and receive ribbon prizes. I was floored that I had to explain it all. Had he never been to a fair before?!? When we got to the photography entries, Michael paused and then said “Wait. Why don’t you ever enter anything?” I just shrugged. Eventually we made it to a display of participants in the 4-H dog show. Among all the smiling faces there was a picture of a girl with her beagle. I smiled and pointed it out saying “look! It me!”

And in a way, it was.

The first time we cleaned out my childhood home, I came across two large boxes filled with ribbons and trophies all from entering crafts and sewing projects into the fairs. The trophies and plaques were from the years I showed my beagle, Odie. We were good, grand champion good. It may be a surprise to some that I trained a beagle in obedience considering how little obedience training I’ve done with Josephine. I taught Josephine the bare minimum of manners and a number of tricks. Her down stays are pretty good, but she leads when we’re on walks. I threw those boxes of ribbons and trophies into the dumpster with no regrets. It’s not that I am not proud of those accomplishments. On our first day in obedience training classes, the teacher told me that I would never be able to train a beagle for obedience shows. Turns out I am as stubborn as a beagle and will never let anyone tell me what I can’t do. Odie was off lead by the time we won our third grand championship. Odie was the best dog and my first broken heart. I went years without a dog after he passed, just unable to open my life to another dog.

That’s not why I threw those ribbons and trophies away though. I tossed them because they reminded me of how hard I worked to contort myself into the kind of shape that would win medals. I didn’t make anything without asking myself “how would someone judge this? Is this good enough for a blue ribbon?” And it wasn’t even really about winning a blue ribbon. It was about winning many blue ribbons. The more ribbons, the bigger the potential scholarship. See? It wasn’t even for fun. My 4-H career was a long game for a bigger payout, college tuition. But it was also years of scrutiny and judging and aiming for an impossible perfection. So when Michael asks me why I don’t enter things in the fair now, I can only shrug because the actual answer is too complicated. It is hard enough putting my words and art out there knowing that there are some who judge the content. The only thing that makes it easy is that I don’t ever receive a written score card attached to ‘place’ ribbon. My art gets out there because I say it’s worthy of notice, I think the picture is good, I think the words fit together nicely. The big payout now is the joy I feel at seeing my stuff out there.

I sighed with relief as we left that building. I looked at Michael and said “let’s go see the pigs!” Then we wandered through the barns and Michael finally understands why we should get a goat. Michael ate a corndog while I ate a caramel apple and contemplated how much skin I would burn if I went down the giant slide. Michael asked if I wanted to ride the slide, but I looked at the sun reflecting off it and turned back to him and said “I’m good.” That was that. The county fairs in Kansas are about the same as the ones in Oklahoma and they haven’t changed much.

But I have.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I don’t consider myself to be a true sports fan. I own one KC Royals T-shirt that ended up as a pj top because it’s really soft. There is not a single red item in my wardrobe for representing the Chiefs. I do have a KC Current sticker on my scooter. I know nothing about the sport of soccer, but I am one hundred percent supportive of this team and what it means to have the first women’s soccer arena in the country. I will listen to updates of the games on our local Bridge radio station. Other than that, most everything is grouped together as ‘sports ball’. That being said, I do get into watching the Summer Olympics.

Most evenings since the opening ceremony of this year’s Summer Olympics, we have just had the TV on with the games playing as background. Sometimes we’re paying attention. The surfing competition has been riveting and watching Snoop-dog and Flavor Flav interacting with the US athletes has been a thoroughly joyful thing to watch. I have always watched the gymnastics. Many many years ago when I was tiny, I was in gymnastics and even competed. I was terrible at the uneven bars, okay with the floor routine, and pretty good on the vault, but the balance beam was my jam. That is the place where I excelled and I really enjoyed it until I got taller. The taller you are, the harder it is to flip yourself off the end of a balance beam. Once scary fall was all it took for me to move on from gymnastics. But it didn’t stop me from watching the sport and watching the US Women’s gymnastic team gives me all of the feels.

My experience with coaches and work-out instructors have all included a ‘no pain, no gain’ mindset. My gymnastic coach was one of the nicest people, but even he had his moments. One of the reasons why I was so terrible at the uneven bars was because I could not pull myself up and often, my coach would leave me hanging on the top bar until I would eventually lose my grip and fall. I learned to hang for a really long time. After gymnastics, came dance coaches who would force a dancer to bend in ways the joints should not bend. There were aerobic coaches that yelled at you to keep moving. I have even been in a yoga class where the instructor encouraged a student to keep forcing their handstand despite the obvious shoulder pain this person was in. Many of us were taught that pain comes with fitness, that in order for you to have a fit and trim body, you must hurt. Muscle tears. Joint pain. Just the price you pay.

Pain is weakness leaving the body.

Tokyo, Summer Olympics 2020, Simone Biles had a wobbly twist as she came off the vault. If you were watching and are not a gymnast you probably didn’t think anything was off. She had flipped around in the air and landed mostly on her feet, not her face, something you or and I could not do. But to a trained gymnasts and Simone Biles, that wobbly twist was evidence that something was off with Simone. Then Simone Biles did something that shocked the country. She quit the olympic trials, taking herself completely out of the competition. She cited mental health concerns as her reason. Her head wasn’t in it or in the right place and that disconnect can lead to serious injuries. Simone Biles made her mental health, as well as her physical health, more important than medals and it was something many people had never seen happen before. Many thought that this was it for her, that she would never again compete in gymnastics.

Now, if you’ve been watching this year’s olympics, you know that we had not seen the last of what Simone Biles has to offer. She came back and showed the world that she’s better than ever, but she also showed the world the benefits of making your own health a priority. Simone Biles is an athlete that little girls across this nation have looked up to for years. She is an inspiration, but in that moment she decided to step out of the 2020 Olympics, she became an advocate and an inspiration. I’ve been following Simone Biles for years and I am grateful to see her return to the mat. The joy on her face as she has expertly completed her routines is blinding and beautiful. I am grateful that she has been able to compete with a safe and healthy mindset. But more than anything, I am grateful for the reminder that it is more than possible to step away from something you love in order to heal your mind and or body so that you can come back and be better at that thing you love.

This summer, I have stepped away from doing some things that I love. My personal yoga practice has been garbage. I’ve rarely made it on to my mat for anything other than teaching in well over a month. The same is true for my photography practice. My camera has not left the camera bag since we left Minnesota back in June. These things that I love to do have hit a lull or more likely, I’ve been experience some burnout. I finally made it back to my mat this week for me and I have felt stronger on my mat this week then I have felt in a long time. Breaks are necessary for healing, but also for missing the act of doing. I’ve missed my yoga time and grateful to have it back. Today, I realized that I miss my photography practice too. I miss taking the time to look around me to find beauty in the simplest things. It’s back to school time for many next week. Maybe back to school for me means getting back to my photography practice.

Sometimes I need a break and reminder to ask myself “Why do I do those things that I love?” So far, I have always been able come up with solid answers for why. I am thankful for those reasons of why.

WHEN YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT TO SAY

Yes. I still have a cough and it is just part of who I am now. So let us all just accept the way we are in this moment and move on with our lives. That’s really all I have to say. My brain is on a creativity strike and quite possibly all of the creative brain cells are forming a list of concerns and needs to be negotiated with management as we speak (figuratively). I’ve been doing work stuff. I’ve been doing stuff around the house. Yesterday, I spent the whole morning working in the garage, throwing way stuff and organizing some other things. I made sure to leave a giant pile of tools for Michael to deal with. I told him ages ago that if he cleaned out the garage, I would get him a bike stand for working on the bicycles. So far, I am the one earning the bike stand.

I guess I should add ‘learn to fix bicycles’ to my list of things to do.

I have been doing a little bit of learning these days. Maybe that’s why the creativity brain cells aren’t working. They’re not on strike; they’re just taking a vacation so I can learn some stuff while they sip cocktails from pineapples or coconuts. Michael and I started our Duolingo accounts back up and have been learning Spanish. We discussed a number of languages, but felt Spanish was the was most practical. When our new washer was delivered, the guy doing the actual install did not speak much English. He had to call in his helper to translate some issues with the connections. This happened many months ago, but I still feel embarrassed by the whole thing, because I felt like I should know more Spanish than I actually do. Okay, maybe it’s been twenty years since I took Spanish 101 and I never really used what I learned. I still felt inadequate in the moment. At least now I can say “Yo hablo Spanish, un poquito. Ve despacio, por favor.”

I also spent some time looking over the primaries ballot for Kansas City, which is happening next Tuesday. Because the ballot contains a list of a bunch of different people running for a bunch of different things, I needed know who was who and what was what. I have sort of been hyper fixated on getting rid of our current Attorney General because he is garbage. He refuses to let innocent people out of prison, but instead spends his time filing frivolous lawsuits against Planned Parenthood. I’ve emailed him so many times that the staff has just put me on their mailing list. I constantly get a newsletter detailing his weekly activities to which I usually respond “Stop waisting my tax dollars on lawsuits and free Christopher Dunn!” Anyhoo…I spent a good amount of time reading about who is on my primary ballot and deciding who and how I was voting. I even printed out a ballot and circled things.

Yes. I am that person who studies for voting.

So…that’s some stuff I’ve been doing in between work and illness and watching way too much TV. I’m learning stuff, but mostly I’m learning to lower my own expectations for myself. This is always the lesson. I will never be the valedictorian of self kindness and I will always be taking You’re Doing Enough 101.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I’ve been struggling with today’s gratitude post, something I tend to do when I’ve been sick. I’ve spent the week dealing with an upper respiratory infection. There were two days where I barely left my bed and one day of not moving far from the couch. As per usual, I still have a cough that is not dainty and discreet. It very much sounds like demons are trying to make their way out of my body even though I feel loads better. Which is the thing I should be grateful for this week.

Feeling better.

It’s rather an easy one.

I spent a lot of time away from the internet this week. I didn’t read the news or watch the news on TV. I didn’t post or take any pictures. I tuned the noise of the world out and I’ve been thinking a lot about division. How many times in a day do we hear the phrase “deeply divided country”? It has to be in the hundreds, this constant reminder that we should be at odds with one another. On one hand I see it clearly. During Trump’s presidency, he stacked the Supreme Court to his favor. The results of this has been to take away women’s rights to body autonomy and take away our rights to a clean environment. The list of the removal of rights is even larger if Trump is re-elected. He has plans to remove civil rights such as the same-sex marriage act, reduce the disabilities act and reduce federal employees like my friend Sarah who works for affordable housing. He plans to unfund basic scientific research that leads to life saving medicine. Technically, my job could be in danger. His list of removal of basic human rights is a long one. Those things are scary enough, but it is his ability to rile and incite hate and violence in his followers that truly terrifies me. He has found a way to, without addressing the specific needs of this mostly white group of people, turn their frustrations from being disenfranchised into rage. In a sense, he has created a new batch of terrorists. This rage has blinded these people from questioning his rhetoric and any possibility of civil discourse. [Side note: when’s the last time you checked on how your senators and representatives are voting? You can do that here: https://www.senate.gov/ I like to read the Daily Digest, like a newsletter of the day’s activities.]

They have fully drunk the Kool-Aid flavor of Us vs Them.

Yet, I can’t shake the idea of ‘deeply divided’ as being anything but a social construct, a 1984 tactic to keep all of us at odds with one another so we don’t ever question the rhetoric (or read that Daily Digest), nor do we make an attempt to work together. For a while now, all of that noise of constructed division has had me depressed. A week of isolation from the diatribe has me feeling less depressed and quite hopeful. I still believe that things can be better, but I also know that I do not have to engage with anyone so blinded with rage. It is a waste of my time to point out that allowing others to have those civil rights takes nothing away from them. My time is better spent reading that Daily Digest and staying in communication with my representatives and senators. My money is better spent supporting candidates who support equal rights and legislation that supports affordable health care and housing, and legislation that supports a cyclic economy for its benefits to the environment. My time is better spent breaking down the construct of ‘deeply divided’ with basic acts of kindness within my own community.

All that being said, I’m really grateful that Kamala Harris is going to be our first Black female President of the United States.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

We’ve made it to the middle of summer and Michael pointed out that he has about three weeks of summer vacation before it is time to go back to the classroom. Every time we see something about back-to-school reminders, the Cabbage groans. They are not ready to start their last year of middle school, particularly since a number of their friends are starting high school in the Fall. Michael and the Cabbage have managed to fill their summer vacation up with equal portions of summer time fun and chores.

It’s the chores part that I am grateful for.

The two of them spent two days last week, moving furniture and rugs to clean baseboards and the floor. The rug in the dining area even got washed. Then they turned their focus to the vehicles, washing the inside and out of Michael’s truck and my car. Michael re-caulked the bathtub and it looks like a professional did the job. This week, while the Cabbage is on vacation with their mom, Michael started cleaning out trash in the basement and took our sparky defunct microwave to a recycling center. All of those things were chores that I did not ask them to do and are not specifically on my list. I have dusting on my usual chore list and that includes baseboards, but Michael doesn’t know that. The only thing I asked of the Cabbage this summer was for them to clean out their clothes, getting rid of things they can no longer wear and their ‘toy’ bins. They completed this early in the summer because they were motivated with the prospect of new clothes.

The two of them did all those extra things along with the general day to day chore list. They made dinner and cleaned the kitchen. The cleaned the bathroom once a week and did the grocery shopping. They started the laundry. They took time each day to pick up their daily clutter. And I’ve pretty much done nothing except finish up the laundry and make sure a weekly meal plan gets made. Well…mostly. I still clean out Rosie (vacuum robot) four times a week and do a round with the broom and vacuum on Sundays. I’m not great at doing nothing. I need to keep some chores of my own. Me having no chores during the summer months has been Michael’s plan for a few years now, but this feels like the first summer the two of them have accomplished so much more than the usual chores.

I am truly grateful for all of the hard work they’ve put in this summer.

Next week the two of them are taking the train to St.Louis. They’ll stay two nights before taking the train home. I’m excited for them. I’m always talking about how I’d love to take the train some place. I could have tagged along, but I thought it was more important for them to do this one without me. Some of my favorite memories come from the times Dad and I traveled together, just the two of us. I desperately miss my dad’s enthusiasm for adventures great and small. Where ever we went, I was just as much in charge as he was. He allowed me to have freedom and to make choices for the both of us. But also it was an opportunity to spend time with my dad when he was at his most relaxed. I believe in those moments I saw his true self and he was goofy but thoughtful. I am a better traveler simple because of Dad.

I’d like that for Michael and the Cabbage, but I also hope they enjoy their well deserved trip.

THE ESCAPE INTO ROOM

Or the reason I’m not getting a new driveway. There’s a number of titles here. Getting into my garage from the outside is very much like an escape room situation. It’s probably why I avoid invitations to go to an actual escape room. My whole day is solving puzzles. My life is an escape room. First, I have to unlock two different locks on the front door. Once inside, the next thing to do is turn the alarm system off. If I delay on this or just tune out the beeping, the alarm company calls me. I’ve done it twice. Once the alarm is off, I have to unlock the two locks on the door from the kitchen into the garage. Then I slide my homemade bar lock aside and lift the garage door. I do all of this so that my scooter can be safely stored inside the garage and if I’m lucky, Michael gets home before me and has the door open when I get home.

I was not lucky on Monday.

Except this time, when I lifted up on the garage door handle, nothing happened. The door refused to move. I stood for a moment in my sweltering garage, studying the contraptions that aids in lifting a garage door. I couldn’t see anything missing or wrong, so I attempted to lift the door with more force this time. Nothing. I went inside and got Michael. He replaced one of the springy pulley things years ago. He still remembers it as his worst case of handyman’s Tourettes ever. He inspected all the things involved with lifting the garage door and noticed that one wheel of one of the pulley thingies (the newer one) refused to move. It did not take him long to declare that this was beyond his expertise. Which is fine. I’d rather he throw in the towel before seriously injuring himself. Also it was probably 110 degrees in the garage. The problem was that my scooter was still on the wrong side of that garage door.

We managed to wrestled my scooter in through the backdoor, finally using the ramp we bought eight years ago. It wasn’t easy and I nearly amputated one of Michael’s arms by smashing it between my scooter and the door jam, but we did it. My scooter is now safe inside the garage. And stuck there. While I made dinner, Michael got on the phone with a company and the end result is that we will be replacing the garage door with a brand new one. Really, this is the smartest option. I’ve lived in this house for thirteen years. The garage door was janky as F when Chris and I moved into the house. It is honestly a testament to my stubbornness that it has survived so long. The new door will not be janky at all. It will have a real locking system and an automatic door opener.

I should be over the moon about all of it.

It will be at least three weeks before anyone can come out for the installation of the new garage door. My scooter is now safe, but also trapped in the garage. And this is honestly not how I wanted to be spending money this year. It feels like we’re starting to hemorrhage and barely have everything under control. I was hoping to be in a tightening the budget mode by the end of this month so we could start socking money away for a new driveway. I totally heard sad trombones while typing that last sentence. Why would anyone want to sock money away for a new driveway?!?! One might sock away money for a new car or a vacation to Italy. Not for a concrete road that leads from the garage to the actual road. It is a sad, boring and very expensive purchase.

Home ownership is an albatross.

The list of wants that I have for my house just keeps growing, like an upgraded electrical system so we can install solar panels and a charging station for the EV will we own one day. I’d really like to gut my kitchen, add some outlets (I have two and if they are all in use at the same time, the circuit blows), and make it a more efficient tiny house space. While we’re at it, it would be nice to turn the current pantry into a staircase to the basement, maybe replace the giant dining room window with French doors that lead out to a back patio and possibly add a porch to the front of the house with an easier entrance. Once that’s all done, we could see about really getting the basement leak proof and converted it into a proper living space. And then….

The list is never ending.

And I guess…the garage door is also on that list. In three weeks, I can take it off the list of wants for the house and I will no longer have to escape room my way into my garage.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Niki de Saint Phalle

A week ago, we had a family movie night and the three of us went to the theater for Inside Out 2. This was the same day I broke my necklace and was already experiencing some feelings. So I made sure to stash a brand new pack of travel tissues into my pocket. It’s Pixar. I knew there would be tears, but I also knew that there might also be sobs given the day I was having. It turned out to not be that bad. I mean, the movie is great. The puns are hilarious. The storyline is well thought out and maybe a little too relatable for the Cabbage right now, but we all enjoyed it. When I say it wasn’t that bad, I mean that it wasn’t the usual stabby stab of a Pixar movie. There was even a moment when I thought “Oh my gosh! I might make it through without crying!”

I don't know how to stop Anxiety. Maybe we can't. Maybe this is what happens when you grow up. You feel less joy. -Joy, Inside Out 2

And then I started crying.

This takes me back to thoughts and ideas I heard recently on Hidden Brain and which I talked about here before. Neuroscientists know that forming new synaptic connections is a link to feeling joy. Think about firsts. Your first taste of ice cream made your little head explode, but over time that feeling lessened. With that first bite we formed a neural connection that said ice cream equals joy. As we age, that connection we made becomes a known thing. So eventually, ice cream goes from “OH MY GOD THIS IS AMAZING!!!!!!” to “This is nice.” This example doesn’t have anything to do with anxiety, but more to do with habituation. Unless you’re lactose intolerant and then anxiety plays a part in your ability to enjoy ice cream. We feel less joy not just because we are growing older, but because the things that bring us joy have become habits.

The other day, I Mission Impossible moved myself from the front passenger seat of my car (while in motion) to the very back of my car where I grabbed a small block of cheese. Then made my way back to my seat with said cheese so that Michael and I could have a snack while we were out running errands. I ended up doing it again to grab a Coke that had been mistakingly placed in the bag (and not in Michael’s hand). I did this with ease and was pretty impressed with my curent state of agility. In that moment, I felt a large amount of joy. You see, like most women, I am often frustrated with this body. If I sit for more than five minutes, my body hurts when I get up. All of my fat cells have migrated from all other parts of my body to set up camp in my midsection. But I still have the ability to climb around in my car like a toddler who figured how to escape from their carseat.

So what made this a joyful moment?

My actions were new. I had never attempted such a thing in this car before. I’ve done something similar in Michael’s truck. I’ve also stood on the center console and through the sunroof of his truck (sometimes while moving) to take pictures. His truck is bigger than my little Kia. There was a slight danger factor (adrenaline rush) in the moment, but I moved with ease, leaving me with a sense of accomplishment. I even took a moment to verbally acknowledge my awesomeness. I am sure that when I was seven, if I had done such a thing, I would not have put the event into any category of feelings, yet it is probably something I did easily (probably often) at that age. What made this situation a joyful experience was the ability to reclaim actions taken for granted of my youth. In this case, I rerouted a joy pathway. So while it is true that as we grow older we might experience less joy, we don’t have to experience less joy. We just need to reroute the old pathways.

I don’t plan on living a life where I experience less joy. If anything, I expect to experience even more joy. Or maybe it’s that the joy I do experience now is more meaningful? There are things that have never lost their wow factor for me. Fireflies and hummingbirds. Seeing wildlife like deer in my neighborhood. Nature still wows me, but there are many other things outside of nature that can still fill me with joy. Just by making that observation, I have rerouted dozens of joy pathways. It is as simple as flipping a switch.

Here’s to flipping switches.

HEAVY

It happened last week. I was lying face down on the chiropractor table and heard a snap that did not come from body. It wasn’t until I was sitting up and about to leave that the source of the not-human snap was discovered. Dr. Fran collected Chris’s ring, my scooter charm and my now broken chain from the table and said “Oh no! I know how much this means to you.” She poured the chain and other items into the palm of my hand and at first I couldn’t register what she was talking about. I exclaimed an “Oh no!” right back at her and then I shrugged as if it was no big deal. I think I even said “no biggie.” My insides did not reflect my outsides. That feeling of cutting open a palm or finger and watching the blood pool up and then that lightheadedness that comes just before passing out, those were the feelings that washed over me. I walked out to my car with shaky legs but with a smile plastered onto my face.

I pulled myself together and then felt silly for having a gut wrenching reaction to a broken chain. This is fixable. I didn’t lose Chris’s ring or my scooter charm. It’s a good excuse to walk into the Tiffany’s store (I thought had closed) and on Friday, after subbing a yoga class, I scooted right on over. My Elsa Peretti olive leaf ring has been sitting in my jewelry box for ages. I caught the ring on my car door and seriously bent it out of shape, lucky to have not ripped my finger off in the process. I plonked the ring down along with my chain so that both could be repaired and polished. While a sales rep filled out all the necessary paperwork to ship my things to the New York store, I thought for a moment about just buying a new chain. I said something about this out loud and the sales rep stopped me. She said “Tiffany’s is no longer making that style of chain. The new chains are much thinner. You’re going to want to keep this thicker chain for it’s sturdiness.” I leaned back in my chair, slightly disappointed but remembering clearly the day I purchased that chain. The sales rep then had been equally attentive, making sure the chain was sturdy, yet elegant.

That happened almost twelve years ago to the day.

Exactly twelve years ago, Talaura and I, along with Kizz and Amber, took the very first boat out to the Statue of Liberty. We were the first people on the island on the 4th of July and our mission was to leave some of Chris’s ashes somewhere. We found our spot, a rock on the other side of the fence that surrounds the island. If I’d taken a picture from the water, it would look like Lady Liberty was looking down at a little pile of Chris. I didn’t get that picture. In fact the picture I did take just looks like some ashes on a rock. There is nothing in that picture to clue you in on the location. The Statue of Liberty was the first pancake of ash dispersals. A few days later, I walked into Tiffany’s and bought the chain that has been holding Chris’s wedding ring ever since.

Now it’s broken and Chris’s ring is sitting on my jewelry box and not resting on my sternum.

I had a fleeting thought that maybe the broken chain was a sign that it was time to stop wearing Chris’s ring. It is a heavy ring, chunky and sometimes painful if it hits me in the face during yoga. I do feel lighter. I picked up the coffee can that holds Chris’s ashes so that I could clean there recently and I noticed that this can feels lighter. It doesn’t have the heft it had at the beginning of all this and I might be able to fit Chris into a smaller coffee can. I took an empty 15 oz Cafe Du Monde can to pick up Chris’s ashes and was kindly told that I’d need a bigger can. Amy and Chad went on a scavenger hunt for a larger coffee can to put Chris in for his Celebration of Life service. I think Chris would now fit in that Cafe Du Monde can. So…things do get lighter and I bet Michael would be thrilled if I stopped wearing Chris’s wedding ring. It is something we do not talk about, but something mentioned years ago leads me to believe he wouldn’t mind the absence.

Except…

I don’t like the way this particular lightness feels. It has been six and half days without the weight and comfort of the ring resting near my heart. I don’t want to get used to the feeling of being without it. There is no relief in this weightlessness. I am a helium balloon that needs that metal ring tied on the end of my string to keep me from simply floating away. And I will be floating for another two to three weeks. What I am realizing is that while some parts of my loss feels heavy, it is a heaviness that feels like a weighted blanket. It is obviously not a struggle to be carting it around with me. I’m more than strong enough. The weight of it all brings me comfort.

So when you see me standing with my hand on my chest, positioned with my palm pressed against my sternum, know that I am just holding this space. This is the temporary metal ring at the end of my string, a very poor place holder for the next weeks.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I was sitting at a bar with a drink when a fairly attractive gentleman sat down beside me. We started up a conversation about this and that. He had a smooth voice with an accent. He was charming. Then he said “Photography is irrelevant.” I gasped and replied “You are absolutely wrong. Photography is evidence of life, the beautiful gut wrenching painful parts of living. All of and everything to do with living.”

Then I woke up.

Later this week, I found myself at a high school graduation taking place at my old high school. I was tasked with photographing the new graduates. I had to fight my way through parents and family to get pictures of smiling nervous faces. Many of those parents happened to be people I had gone to high school with, their children now the ones to repeat history. The whole time I was balancing taking pictures with being polite to some of the people who still look down their noses at me. It was awkward and hard work and I longed for an ultra zoom lens so I could take pictures from the back of the room.

Thank the gods, I woke up.

I rarely remember the exact words spoken while I am in dream land, but I very clearly remember my response to Mr. NotSoCharmer. I also very clearly remember the feelings of inadequacy brought up from that second dream. I’ve been in a photography funk ever since taking my prints down from Westside Local months ago. I cart my camera around to places, but have no umph to pull it out of the bag. I’m just lugging around a heavy backpack. Last weekend, my sister and I took our mother to the Edith Head exhibit at the Oklahoma Museum of Art. I lugged my heavy backpack with us and took a few snapshots of the city. Later on, while I was processing the shots I started cropping the image so that only a bit of the structure was visible in bottom left corner. The rest of the image was open sky. I found the empty space appealing.

It was also expressing a feeling that I might have been feeling.

Now I have a new dream: my dream exhibit. It’s one that takes place in a real gallery and includes extra large prints of empty space. Right now, the idea of it feels just as hazy as regular sleepy time dreams. The only difference is that it has started gears in my head that feel rusted and stiff from sitting still for so long. It makes me want to just sit with this idea while those gears loosen up and form some kind of plan for possibilities. Dreams can come true. The big dreams just take some time and more work than the small dreams, but I’m ready to start rolling up my sleeves.

Today I am thankful for dreams.