everyday life

Busy

I am cruising headfirst into a very busy few weeks, mostly because of my real job.  This week alone has involves a trip to California (round-trip in one day) and a long day in New York (6am shuttle down, 9pm shuttle back) on Friday.  The days I’m in town are crammed too.  I am missing a few kids’ school things here and there, but I am mostly comfortable with it.  This is important.  And I do like the people I work with a lot.

Still, I worry.  I often feel anxious in this anticipatory way, sense that familiar old preemptive emotion coming in to swamp me.  When I graduated from business school I worried constantly about finding a job that would allow me to pursue my new but passionate yoga practice.  There’s no question this helped shape my choice.  Was this wise, or was this a capitulation to the immature fear of something that had not happened yet (the consumption of my life by my job)?

People always tell me that I am busy.  And yes, absolutely, I do have lots of things going on every day.  I rarely have long stretches of uninterrupted time without claims on it.  For a long time I definitely bought into this – I was busy, busy, busy.  But at some point over the last few years I started resisting that ever-offered excuse for why someone didn’t do something/didn’t call/didn’t show up/was late … “I’m so busy!”  Come on.  Everybody is busy, tired, fighting their own battles.

I realized I wanted to stop making this excuse.  Busy is a state of mind, and a relative term, quite uncorrelated with the subjective truth of how crowded one’s hours are.  Furthermore, “busy” as an excuse asserts a lack of choice and control that I think is inaccurate.  Somehow, we all find time to do the things we really care about.  As Anne Lamott asserts, the time is there: just find it.  Choose it over something else.  Remember what Annie Dillard says: how you spend your days is, in fact, how you spend your life.

So, mostly, since then I have stopped claiming busy-ness, and what I found is I – delightfully! – mostly didn’t inhabit that space anymore.  Still it remains true that there are undeniably times when the demands on me feel heavier than usual.  There are times when I feel at risk of being frenzied and out of control, when I worry about not having time for the things I love most: reading, writing, sleep, running, yoga.  I feel that way now: I am concerned that the next month won’t allow for as much of these things as I’ve grown accustomed to.  I’m worried about time to write this blog: how can I expect you all to be here if I am not?  And this community has come to mean so much to me.  I also worry about what it says about my priorities if I find myself unable to come here.  Am I failing to prioritize my writing and nascent creative life or am I simply being realistic about short-term unavoidable realities?

Overall, what I wonder, nervously, is this: am I falling back into the patterns where things felt busy, busy, busy?  Does this creeping slipperiness under my feet, this slight but noticeable tightening of every minute of my day represent a backslide into old habits? Part of me thinks yes – the faint shadow of panic is so familiar – but another part of me thinks no.  I am so keenly aware, now, of how much I prize quiet.  Of how much I value time alone.  Of how much certain practices mean to me.  I never knew those things before, and the reason I feel anxious about the encroaching busy-ness is because I know now what I need.  This knowledge and this reason are new, and I hope that they can be a bulwark against the encroachment of busy-ness.

I read Jena’s (always, always, always) stunning blog and learned that the Chinese characters for “busy” also mean “heart-killing.” It has been a long road for me to realize that there was part of my heart that was dying in all the busy-ness.  Actually, I think a better way of saying it is that part of my heart was never allowed to live.  I still fear a return to that, when I launch into a period of intensive commitments.  But I return again to the same word, circling to the same place, a needle tugging north: I have to trust that I’ll come through this phase and return to what I now know I prize.  I have to trust that I won’t lose my heart in the busy-ness.   And, most of the time, I do.

An attempt at humor

About halfway through this day, at home with a not-very-sick Whit, I realized it was my half birthday.  36 1/2.  Gulp.  I remembered my attempt at being funny, exactly a year ago.  For some reason, humor makes me feel MUCH more exposed than writing my regular, self-revealing posts.  I don’t know why this is, but I am trying to face the fear (a sign by the trapeze said this) so here it is again … a letter to my body:

Tuesday was my half birthday. Nobody remembered. Why should they? They shouldn’t. I realize my attachment to my half birthday is irrational, and I trace it to the fact that my actual, mid-August birthday was often a bit … well, lacking in celebration. This is not my parents’ fault – they were always wonderful in marking my birthdays. But, say, a party? Not really, on August 16th. This has resulted in some specific tendencies in my adult self:

  • I am totally obsessed with my kids’ birthdays, and their parties
  • I remember people’s birthdays, often send cards, and usually remind others of these key dates (this reached a pinnacle a few years ago when one friend actually got annoyed at me for forgetting to remind her of another friend’s birthday … this was now my official responsibility?)
  • My half birthday is more important to me than it should be

So I decided to mark the occasion of my 35 1/2 birthday with a letter to my middle-aged body. I’m inspired in this by two of my favorite writers out here in the blog wilderness. The Kitchen Witch‘s letter to her her 40 year old self and Momalom‘s letter to herself in her 31st year both made me writhe on the floor in laughter. I also like how I am midway between these two wonderful, funny (not to mention, as far as I can tell from their photographs, beautiful, which is relevant only because we are talking about their physical selves) women. Despite the fact that I seem to have birthed a five year old stand-up comedian, I am not myself funny. But these letters were so wise and poignant in their humor, too, that I wanted to give it a go.

Dear Body, as you turn 35 1/2,

First of all, I’ve finally come around to agreeing with my wise-ass middle school self about the fact that I am actually midway through my 36th year. I don’t much like it, but I can’t see a way around it. Yikes. Crap.

There’s a lot I’m really grateful for, Body. And I think – I hope! – I’m a little better at appreciating what you are able to do now than I used to be. Of course, this is pretty bittersweet, seeing as I’m finally appreciating you just as you seem to be falling apart. But maybe that’s by your design, to show me how ungrateful and horrible I was to you for so many years? I’m sorry.

I’m definitely pretty unhappy about certain things you are doing to me, now, as I glide (saunter? skip? am dragged, kicking and screaming, heels dug in until kingdom come?) into middle age. But I’m also aware of some bad behavior on my part, and I want to conclude by apologizing for some of the abuse I’ve forced you to take.

First, things I really am thankful for, dear Body:

  • I still have 20/20 vision. I don’t wear glasses or lenses. As the daughter of a woman who is practically blind, I really appreciate that.
  • I hope that I share the hair fate of the aforementioned almost-blind woman (hi Mum!), because at 62 she doesn’t have a single gray hair. Please, please, please, genetics, show me your power!
  • Thank you for still letting me run. It is vital to my staying sane, so I’m really glad you haven’t taken it away from me yet. Thanks for letting me finish that half marathon in under 2 hours. I still wonder about a marathon, but I don’t know if you would let me get away with that. I’m sure we’ll talk it over.
  • I am immensely grateful for the fact that you were able to conceive, carry, and deliver two healthy children. I am aware of what a blessing this is and I am sorry if it ever seems that I take it for granted. In fact, it is more than a blessing: it is an outright miracle. Thank you, thank you, thank you. (PS: the no stretch marks and easy return to pre-baby weight were a double bonus, don’t think I didn’t notice those. Thanks.)

There are, however, some things I am pretty pissed off at you about:

  • The chest. My God. I did not know what I had. When I saw one of my college roommates lately, and she saw me shirtless, she did a double take and remarked on the sad state of affairs in my bosom region. Remember, this is from a woman who was seeing said bosom daily during its (arguable) heyday. Alas. I think the best way to describe the situation is that I never really realized you could be both tiny and saggy. That’s just plain cruel. I’d lift – ahem – things up, but I’m told you have to have something to lift first. And while I’m cool with plastic surgery, something about artificial sacks of fluid inside my body scares me. I think Michael Scott, that sage, that cornerstone of today’s women’s studies, described the situation best: shrunken chesticles.
  • The skin.  I hate my skim-milk skin. I hate its pallor, its translucency, its propensity for cold sores, its wrinkles. I’ve been called Casper more than once. Is it a surprise that I chose to run in the Nude Olympics flanked by two dear friends, both of whom have similar coloring to me? I figured we might as well all glow in the dark together. Most days I can see my veins through my skin, not just faintly but in glorious detail: I am aware of my blood throbbing through my arms a little more vividly than I want to be (ironically, it has always been really hard for phlebotomists [great word] to find my veins). And the cold sores? Oh, the horror. So ugly. So painful. Such a physical manifestation of my anxious, nervous personality. Yuck, yuck, yuck. My cold sores have caused me so much embarassment, Body … really, are you not done shaming me with them yet? But maybe most of all, I dislike my skin’s thinness. Everything gets to me. I had hoped that living more years would result in thicker skin but, no, sadly it seems to be going in the opposite direction.
  • The hair. Why do I have so damned much of it?  It takes forever to dry. Blow-dry? Only when my life depends on it. Also, that ever since I had pregnancies, it curls in the back in weird, strange ways (which makes the aversion to blow-drying ever more tragic). I pull my own hair out, specifically feeling around for the really curly pieces. I’m told by people who aced Psych 101 in college that this, trichotillomannia, is the gateway behavior to more awful compulsions. Actually, I think I’m just subconsciously trying to thin my own hair.
  • The joints. You seem to have granted me this odd, free-floating joint pain. Some days it is my ankle, others my wrist, for a while last summer, most painfully, my knee. This week my elbow is bothering me. What is this about? Are you asking me to take some kind of vitamin? Speak English! I don’t think I make major demands of my joints: fine, yes, I run, but come on. 4 miles 3 times a week? Seriously?
  • The back. Holy hell does this make me feel old. A long airplane or car ride makes my lower back, on the left hand side, hurt. I understood the back pain in pregnancy. I did, I really did, and I tried not to complain too much. Both of the children were carried basically against my back and I don’t blame you, Body, for finding that hideously painful (it is the downside of the perk of not getting super big when pregnant, I know, I know). But now? Hello, there are no small bodies curled up against my spine anymore. What are you doing to me? You’ve driven me back to yoga lately with this pain. I hope that’s what you were getting at. If not I’m kind of at a loss for what to do next.
  • My teeth. First of all, how could you let me not get any cavities for 28 years, let me develop such an enormous superiority complex about that, and then crush me with four cavities six months after having Grace? That was just plain mean. And in four different corners of my mouth? Thanks. That was an awesome appointment at the dentist, that one (and yes, don’t remind me that I insisted on doing them all at once against the dentist’s advice [ADA?] – you have to agree it was more efficient that way). And the receding gums? I realize that this is my fault for the grinding and clicking as I count off by 8. But come on. I’m just trying to deal with my crazy brain while getting  dental hygiene services at the same time. When I had to have a gum graft, and I had to pick between using skin from the top of my mouth or from a cadaver, that was a nadir. Please just let me have my teeth and gums as they are. Please? Also, you can check out this ongoing research for more info on the latest dental trends.

I will, Body, take responsibility for some bad stuff I did to you. Some of the things I am sorry about:

  • The Diet Coke. I know. It’s a really bad habit. But damn I like the stuff. I’ve really cut down; I don’t know if you have noticed, but I used to drink 3 or 4 20 ounce bottles a day and now I’m down to one most days. I hope this is making a difference. When you get annoyed and nauseous on me, please remember I never smoked or did a single illegal drug of any kind! Do I get any credit for that?
  • The conspicuous lack of calcium consumption. I have read in more than one SELF magazine article that this is especially awful in combination with the Diet Coke. I am hoping that my daily venti lattes help with this a little bit, because I really don’t want to start shrinking. I’m not tall enough as it is.
  • My diet. Dear God, Body, I am sorry! I know better. I really do. I eat mostly bread, cheese (see! calcium!), and gummy candy. Occasionally a hamburger or some pizza. I am so sorry. It is truly a wonder that I don’t have scurvy. I keep swearing to do better, and I will recommit to that effort.
  • The sunshine. I cringe when I think of all of the summers that I sunbathed. Wow. That seems amazing now, doesn’t it? I accept that my penance for that is bi-annual dermatologist appointments and a whole lot of small moles being dug out of my skin with scalpels. That’s my fault and I am really sorry. Did you have to retaliate so aggressively with the wrinkles, though?
  • The high heels. I know. I’m not supposed to wear high heels all the time. But I don’t! I really don’t. Just a few days a week. And the rest of the time? Flip flops or sneakers. Haven’t you noticed? I am trying to make up for it, I really am.
  • The broken bones. Maybe more than my share. An ankle, an arm (both bones, both compound fractures through the skin – that one really rocked), some ribs, and a toe. And I guess you thought I was kind of a brat for saying that having broken fingers and toes didn’t count … when I broke my toe sweet Jesus did I realize it counted. Yes, that hurt. Lesson learned. Thanks for healing all of those breaks, as good as new.

All in all, Body, I’m really thankful for all the ways you keep me in one piece (where on earth would this crazy mind of mine be if not contained in you? Now that is a scary thought). Now, I know I’m just plain not psyched about aging, and I’m sure I’m taking some of this discomfort out on you. I’m sorry about that. There are some ways you could cooperate more, though, and I hope my descriptions above inspire you to maybe do that.

Here’s to many more years together, as a team, and by the way thanks for putting up with all the ways I’m a total pain in the ass. I know, you’re as stuck with me as I am with you.

Love,

Lindsey

Images from the last few weeks

I have these little note cards that I occasionally write a message on and slip into the kids’ lunchboxes.  The other morning Grace and Whit decided they wanted to write notes to each other for their lunches.  I just about melted.

My kitchen island with some slightly-tired roses.

Whit’s fierce bedhead one morning at school.  Reminded me of one of my shining mothering moments, last year’s Picture Day.

On Saturday Grace, Whit, and I drove with my cousin Allison to visit our grandfather, Pops.  The kids adore being with Allison and we all loved seeing Pops.  After lunch and a swim we drove to have an early dinner with Allison’s mother, my aunt Dianne.  It was a really wonderful day.

This is what Whit wore to watch the Super Bowl (a shirt of mine).  He’s always been sartorially opinionated, this one.

During the last blizzard, Grace and Whit started sledding down our front steps.  No, don’t worry, I am not such a bad mother as to let them sled into the street.  They slammed into the side of the Volvo instead.  See?  I told you I kept them safe.  Oh, my poor city children!

Our postage-stamp back yard has never been so much fun, though.  Note: I cannot see over that fence normally.

Every morning these days I am awestruck by the light on the bare branches of the tree across the street.  I can’t capture it on film but I keep trying, every single day.  I swear in that light I can see the earth turning.

The alphabet of right now

The Alphabet of Right Now

About a year and a half ago I wrote an “alphabet of right now.”  I was thinking about it all day today and decided it was worth a revisit.

A -Allison.  My dear cousin who has recently moved to Boston.  She is without question Grace and Whit’s favorite person in the whole world, and having her nearby has brought me back in touch with the profound comfort and companionship, not to mention connection with the web of heritage, that extended family can provide.

B -Blogging.  I could never have imagined the things that this blog has brought to me, the relationships I’ve formed here, the way this place has allowed me to dream of myself writing for real someday.

C -Cape Cod Sea Camps.  Grace goes this summer, 25 years after I first went, and time folds back on itself.

D – Diet Coke.  A terrible addiction.

E – Exeter.  A place whose influence over me grows as I move further away from it, something I never anticipated.

F -Friends.  How fortunate I am, and how increasingly aware I am of this good fortune, to be blessed with a handful of deeply loyal, brilliant, and funny native speakers.

G – Grace, grace, grace, grace, grace.  Funnily enough, I was not obsessed with grace when I named my daughter that.  I am now.

H – Hilary.  My beloved sister, my only sibling.  Though I wish I saw more of her, HWM remains an intensely important and significant part of my life.  And for this I am so, so, so thankful.

I -Insomnia.  Bane of my life.

J – Just be here now.  The Colin Hay lyric that runs through my head every single day.

K – Kripalu.  I am so excited for Dani Shapiro‘s memoir workshop at Kripalu in May.  I’m particularly thrilled that Grace is coming with me, to attend a childrens’ yoga workshop at the same time.

L –Legoland.  A four day visit with Grace and Whit that none of us will ever forget.  Already it is climbing the charts of Best Childhood Memory, and fast.

M –Mary Oliver.

N – Neatness.  My natural state, which some might call a rigid obsession.  I’m losing the battle against the tide of flotsam that these children bring in with them.

O – Oyster Bay sauvignon blanc.  On the rocks.

P -Princeton.  15th reunion in June.  All four of us are going, and staying in the dorms.  I can’t believe my kids are old enough to do that.  I remember so vividly, in my grandparents’ dusty attic, unearthing costumes that my father wore marching in Pops’ P-Rades as a kid.  The idea that I’m now the parent, and my children are going to walk with me, stuns me almost speechless.

Q – Quiet.  Never enough of it.  As I get older I crave it more and more.

R – Running.  Love, love, love.  I write in my head the whole time.  A little treacherous this winter though (and I can’t stand treadmills and haven’t run on one in years).

S -Shoveling on Snow Days.  Endless.  Matt has skillfully avoided every single blizzard this winter, so I’m a Single Shoveler.

T – Trust.  My word of the year.

U –Universal Child by Annie Lennox.  Over and over and over again.

V -Vedder, Eddie.  Along with Universal Child, I am listening to Just Breathe, Rise, and Guaranteed on repeat.

W -Words With Friends.  Oh, my, how I love this game.  Especially against cmoorecanspell.

X – x-axis.  The one on which you generally display time.  The unavoidable progress of which is the echoing drumbeat at the heart of my life. (okay, a stretch.  work with me.)

Y – Yoga.  Not only am I returning to yoga, gradually but with a glad heart, I’m focusing on making it a real part of Grace’s life these days too.

Z – Zen.  With special thanks to Karen Maezen Miller, something I think about often these days.

Trapeze

Matt was away this weekend, and Grace and Whit and I faced the luxury of an almost entirely empty Sunday.  I knew I wanted to do something adventurous, and a few days ago I signed the three of us up for trapeze school.

Trapeze school.  One of my friends texted and asked if we were skiing on Sunday and I answered that no, we were going to trapeze school.  She responded that wow, she didn’t realize we were a circus family. Okay, fine, it was random.

We showed up on Sunday morning at 10am.  Well, we got there 25 minutes early because of my chronic earliness problem.  But the class started at 10.  With very little preamble, we were strapped into safety harnesses and climbed a seemingly endless set of rickety metal stairs.  We faced a carpeted platform, a smiling helper, and a trapeze.  Grace went first.  I couldn’t believe her courage as she stood on the edge of the platform, grabbed the trapeze, and jumped.  My eyes filled with tears and my hands gripped Whit’s tiny shoulders as we stood and watched her flying through the air.

I was pretty sure Whit would refuse to go.  This child, remember, won’t even go on the spinning teacups, let alone even the slowest of roller coasters.  I was shocked, then, when he gamely stood at the platform edge.  The woman standing there had to hold him off the ground so that he could reach the trapeze.  And then he, too, flew.

The thing I was most afraid of was stepping off the platform.  You hold onto the trapeze, lean way forward into empty space against the weight of the helper who is holding your waist belt.  The ground yawns far, far below.  And then you just have to jump into thin air with only the trapeze bar and your faith to keep you off the ground.  The thing the children were most afraid of was the coming down, which involves letting go of the bar and trusting the belt and safety ropes to help you float down to the net, rather than plummet.

We went over and over again, culminating in being caught by another person on another trapeze.  It was flat-out amazing.  My hands are bleeding and callused and my children are exhausted and smiling.  At one point, after Whit had finally figured out the knee hang and let go, he smiled up at me and said, “Are you proud of me, Mummy?”

Oh, yes, my little man.  I was and I am.  Later Grace told me that she realized how good it felt to do something even when it seemed scary.  I expected an adventure, but I did not realize that once again my children would astound me and that they – and I – would learn yet another lesson about what it is to live this life.

Courage, bravery, trust, and letting go.  Being sure that something will catch you.  Stepping off into thin air with faith that you will fly.