When you are a little kid and get to decide what you want your lucky number to be. Number four (4). A bright and shiny number. Has a small glow of positivity and joy radiating from it. A solid and confident, yet soft “f” sound at the beginning and a rolling, yet satisfying “r” sound at the end. And well, it is my mother’s lucky number too, so it must be a good choice. Yes, this will be my lucky number. The pride I feel when sharing with the world that 4 is MY number. I’m not totally sure what it means to have a lucky number, but I do take satisfaction in knowing that it’s mine and binds me like an invisible string to my mom. There is a sense of safety and warmth just in the declaration.
Fast forward umpteenth years and I’m now turning 44. A world behind me and a world yet ahead of me. I’m somewhere in the middle I suppose. And I can’t help but feel a small, yet satisfying feeling knowing that I’m stepping into a portal cloaked in good luck and small surprises this year.
I breathe a sigh of relief. I can feel the exhale in my chest. I survived a challenging year, professionally, personally and mental health wise. I stepped onto a roller coaster last year that I never signed up for and rode it anyways. In fits and starts, I protested for someone to stop the ride. To let me off, so I could fall asleep on the bench, parked alongside the moving colors and sounds of the carnival, and sleep while the world whisked by. But that did not happen. The roller coaster never did stop. It kept moving, amidst old bands’ music, the crashing sounds of children’s voices and the smell of cotton candy.
The carnival did come to a close eventually. The rides did slow down and I have been able to step off and catch my breath. I still find my chest and belly saturated with pressure at times, but the pace has quieted and I’m less afraid to open my eyes while going downhill or taking those unexpected turns.
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A birthday wish or two for myself in this new year. To embrace the joys already in front of me. To let go of the genetic wiring of my “if only” mindset that has followed me around for so many years. “If only” I follow the right nutrition labels will I fall back in love with my body. “If only” I sign my daughter up for the “right” activity will she be on track to live her life more authentically. “If only” I take a class in x, y, or z, will I feel more fulfilled spiritually or intellectually, etc., etc., etc.
In this 45th year on earth, may I take more steps backwards to open my eyes to the bigger picture that is my life, and gain perspective. To be able to take in the full lot of what I’ve been given, and explore how I can be of service to others. For without this perspective, I’m at risk of being whisked away on another roller coaster. And goodness knows, at 44, my body will protest!
“Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.”
– Carl Sandburg
When you wake up and question where the last 5 years have gone. July 11, 2020. It is the height of the Pandemic. My labor is taking a long time to kick into gear. We are not allowed to leave our hospital room, let alone the hospital. A windowless room with no guests allowed. I remember a glowing landscape and a meditation type melody playing on the TV in the room. I was in and out of a foggy haze over those next 36-72 hours, in what ultimately culminated in a complex and complicated birth.
If I’m being honest though, that was the easy part. One’s birth is supposed to be wrenching and hard. The mother is allowed to reel with fear and pain. For me though, postpartum turned out to be the bigger challenge. Over those next 12 months or so, I was scared to admit what I felt and what I didn’t feel. How was I supposed to get support from other women and moms over a screen? There were no in person “mommy and me” gatherings or classes that I could find in those days. I relied on some virtual support groups and online lactation coaching. But I pretty much felt I was on my own to process the traumatic birth and the ensuing circus.
We had a newborn. She was perfect in every way, but it would take time to find my path forward. The wee hours of the morning were sometimes the most peaceful part of the day. If I listened carefully, I could hear a buzz from the crickets outside and I had my baby in my arms, cooing and nursing. I used one (sort of) free hand to read Pachinko and sunk deeply into the present moment.
Fast forward five years and there are days now I don’t want to jinx how lucky I feel. To have this little human that our daughter has grown into. She is a blessing and a beacon of light. She laughs the biggest and boldest laugh I’ve ever heard; her giggle is contagious. I want to bottle up her desire and endless energy to sing, act, dance and make trouble all at once. Yes, I want to bottle it all up like its a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade, in hopes that it will run through my veins and come pouring out like a sweet salve on my skin.
At the same time, the last 5 years have been a bit of a blur. There are times I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it… afraid that I wasn’t cut out for this journey, this role, this excruciatingly challenging task of mothering a child into the world, as well as mothering myself, for what has often felt like the first time. No script, no one book to follow, and certainly no self-help guru could solve this new life puzzle for me. How, for example, do I soothe her tantrums and soothe the inner child within me that is scared too, scared I can’t tolerate her big feelings without exploding into a ball of nerves.
As I now look towards the next five years, I find myself reflecting on this reoccurring theme in my writing of “time and space,” and specifically “time scarcity.”
I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t an issue before my daughter was born. I can remember waking up on a Saturday in my early thirties, with the entire day ahead of me. On one hand it felt like waves coming in and out of the ocean, the day is full of possibilities. And yet through my time scarcity lens, all I could often see were a series of competing choices, all of which I wanted to try on before time ran out. And yet I remember feeling so fretful that I would either pick the “wrong choice” or that I wouldn’t have time to do all of them.
Underneath all of this angst are two competing life fears that I still grapple with most days: a fear of making a mistake and a fear of missing out. I believe deep down I have this genuine love for and curiosity for life…but it rides alongside, perhaps an existential deep knowing that we are only on this earth for so long and we must make the most of it. I see this play out in my life now, both as a forty something human and as a working mom. With even less time (ostensibly) at my disposal, I find myself asking quiet questions most mornings about how I can exercise after work and have silly 1-1 time before bed with my daughter. Do I have space to finally take a French class this year, join a book club AND take my daughter on an after school play date? I’m playing out the same scenario I did in my early 30’s, except now I’m adding in another human’s needs to the matrix. I sometimes have to remind myself to literally stop cleaning the kitchen and vacuuming so that I can pause and look at my daughter sitting in her small, black, wooden arts and crafts chair, quietly drawing a picture of Elsa and Olaf while singing a made up song to herself.
You blink an eye and you miss it.
Alas, as I look towards these next 5 years, I know we will see new challenges and hurdles arise. With the Jewish High Holidays upon us, I often see this time of year as an opportunity to reflect on what I want for myself and my family in the coming year. How can I be more intentional about the way I’m living each day, giving and receiving, breathing and believing in myself, as a mom, as a daughter, as a friend, and as a citizen on this earth? As I referenced in a recent blog, I want to lean into my mid-life years with a little more freedom, ease, and forgiveness for myself. And yet, I also want to be realistic that the way I’ve been leaning into “mid-life” up till now is and has caught up with me. I can’t “do it all.” And I certainly can’t do it “perfectly,” or as well as the “the mom across the street” is doing it.
Let it be known that in these next five years, I want to emphasize quality over quantity. I want to choose less and live into those choices more fully. I want to judge myself and my family, not against any other family’s framework or lifestyle, but against my own gut instincts about what feels right.
The scariest part of this realization is that it means I must finally come to accept that there is no “right” choice for our endless daily (and more nuanced) decisions. But if I slow down, even just 1%, and feel into the safety of my body and breath, there is a window of freedom and opportunity to leap into the matrix of it all and simply make a choice.
So as a gift to myself on this 5 year anniversary of the beginning of my birthing and mothering rollercoaster, I am choosing to step off the pressure-filled looped path that I’ve been living. The new path may be a little quieter and perhaps a little boring at times, but if I can catch a murmur of those cricket sounds along the way, then I know I’m here and I’m living. One wild and precious, messy moment at a time. Blessings for the journey dear readers. And a happy, quiet end to summer.
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Aruba at sunset
“I pray for the change in perception that will let me see bigger and sweeter realities.”
“Midlife is not a crisis. Midlife is an unraveling.” ~Brené Brown
I recently read this brilliant post by Brené Brown about what she describes as a “mid-life unraveling” and something struck me. Just as Brené shares that her “mid-life unraveling” hit her during her forty-first year, for me, my forty-third year has been a sort of unraveling. In fact, I think I’m still in it. I’m not sure how long it’s supposed to last or if there is a prescription for how an “unraveling” is experienced, but Brené Brown nails it with this essay. She describes her own battling it out with the Universe. Her resistance and her armor, which she’s built up over decades, is fierce and it has served her well. But at 41, she surrenders and accepts (eventually) that it’s time to let go… to let the layers shed. The layers of insanely strong and professionally manicured armor that she didn’t even realize she was wearing began to burst at the seams and prevent her from living.
I don’t think anyone has ever described this concept of a “mid-life/mid-love” chapter that I now find myself in so beautifully and yet so adjacent to fear at the same time.
In my experience, I learned at a young age, probably around 12 or 13 years old that I couldn’t share my fears. Not all of them anyways. I became astute around this time at playing into other’s vision of “cool,” what I would later look back at and see as a straight, white, cis-gendered femininity and popular girl culture that I needed to blend into in order to survive. I remember masterfully doing a sort of “code-switching,” acting one way when I was with one group of friends and then another way when I ebbed and flowed into other social spaces. For example, I remember starting 8th grade and laughing along with the “popular” kids on the bus, even when their use of the term “gay” was directed at others in a derogatory way. I just wanted to be liked. I wanted to play into the image of cool that I instinctively knew was my best shot at “survival of the fittest” and so that year I began pushing down, really far down, my own doubts, insecurities and vulnerabilities around my own sense of self and identity. My superb skills at “fitting in,” being likable and even becoming known as a sort of “peacemaker/negotiator” among friends have carried me through decades of living and growing and wandering.
I believe on many levels that I am brave and courageous and am worthy of being loved, which Brené professes so beautifully, are all of our birthrights. But until very recently I didn’t know how to shed the armor that has been covering up my ability to see that I don’t need to keep pretending and performing in order to be liked or likable.
The coping mechanisms that so many of us have developed to protect ourselves from getting hurt are keeping us small and stuck in the mud, even when we reach mid-life.
Mid-life is a scary thought. I fight like hell most days to control my surroundings so as to be able to put my feet up at the end of the day and smoke a proverbial cigar and say, “great job,” “bravo,” “you deserve to rest now…” Only to realize as I put my head on my pillow that I never actually put my feet up that day. In fact, I never stopped. Most days I am fighting an uphill battle with the Universe and I don’t think I’m winning. Instead, I am often working myself into a state of burnout, only to get up and keep fighting the same fight the next day.
For those of us who are caregivers (for children or parents, pets or neighbors, for the planet,) how do we wake up each morning and live into our most sacred truths while still making a living and playing this critical care-taker role?How do we allow ourselves to shed our armor and bask in what we really want to be doing without turning our backs on responsibility?
If I could, I would retire now and enroll in a creative writing program. Wake up and write, paint, take photos and live in nature. But alas, I can’t. I must take my dog out, feed my daughter, take her to school, rush to work and make sure bills are paid in order to wake up and do it all over again the next day. All this in a world that feels very, very fragile and chaotic and frankly scary these days.
Brené Brown shares that, “courage and daring are coursing through your veins.* You were made to live and love with your whole heart. It’s time to show up and be seen.”
*I want to know how to do this and make sure I’m not late for my 10am meeting.
I guess for now, I will just keep writing, keep asking questions and try not to be afraid of this unraveling that I find myself wanting to speak more truth to. Perhaps as Brené illustrates so well, this unraveling is a sort of re-awakening/re-birth that will hopefully allow all of us to build a new type of armor (regardless of where we are in life), an armor of courage, bravery and risk-taking that we didn’t ingest enough when we were young…When I was that 12 year old girl hiding behind myself. Instead, I will try to live into these questions and be less afraid of not being liked. I think I’ll still always be apeacemakerat heart, but I will also try to stay open to some natural conflict and internal dissent along the way. After all, humanity is imperfection. Humanity is messy.
So as we kick off the summer and celebrate Pride month, may we all wake up a bit and concoct a medicine that gets infused into the water of our young. A medicine that allows bravery, vulnerability and courage to become seeped into our bones. Perhaps armor will eventually become a thing of the past, both physical and virtual. And perhaps we will realize that love and kindness, freedom and truth are ours for the taking.
Meig’s Point at Hammonasset Beach State Park in Madison, CT
Excerpt from “The Midlife Unraveling“: “I’m not screwing around. All of this pretending and performing—these coping mechanisms that you’ve developed to protect yourself from feeling inadequate and getting hurt—has to go. Your armor is preventing you from growing into your gifts. I understand that you needed these protections when you were small. I understand that you believed your armor could help you secure all of the things you needed to feel worthy and lovable, but you’re still searching and you’re more lost than ever. Time is growing short. There are unexplored adventures ahead of you. You can’t live the rest of your life worried about what other people think. You were born worthy of love and belonging. Courage and daring are coursing through your veins. You were made to live and love with your whole heart. It’s time to show up and be seen.”
“Open your eyes, look within. Are you satisfied with the life you’re living?”
~ Bob Marley
There is a book that will forever bring me back to the memory of feeding my newborn daughter… in the darkest hours of the morning, when you could hear a pin drop, but for the suckling of her lips, nourishing herself and then falling back asleep. During this time I lost myself in the novel Pachinko (Min Jin Lee, 2017), a historical fiction novel following a Korean family over several generations and their epic and at times harrowing 20th century experience in Japan. Almost 500 pages, I would read it in the wee hours of the morning and get lost in the characters’ lives. It was as if soaking up poetry was my nourishment and it gave me solace and the perspective that I wasn’t alone. I knew I was going to be okay and would get through that lonely and isolating period, wracked with postpartum anxiety and depression.
Fast forward almost 5 years later and I have found myself gravitating back to Pachinko as a form of solace and comfort. When I found myself recently navigating a new period of depression and anxiety, not dissimilar from the feelings I had during those postpartum months, my sister recommended I find an audiobook to get lost in when I needed an outlet. I’ve never been one for re-reading books or re-watching movies. Once I’m done, I’m done. But in this instance, I instantly thought of Pachinko. Could it provide that similar sense of refuge, a secret knowing that I was going to be okay? 17 hours and 48 minutes long, it seemed daunting at first, but I’ve moved through it and have but an hour remaining.
It’s fascinating to me that a book or a piece of music that provided such comfort during a challenging time can soothe the nervous system in similar ways years later as new challenges arise.
I’m still piecing together what contributed to this episode or chapter of depression. I have some ideas and think I will save them for a future blog piece. Instead, I want to reflect briefly on the theme of healing and hope that can come from unlikely places. Like the characters in Pachinko, I have found that connecting with other people’s stories has been the true remedy.
Over the last 8 weeks as a piece of my healing, I participated in a group therapy based intensive program. It was one of the scariest things I’ve ever done. Reporting to “group” (as we called it) most days of the week, I sit alongside those who, at first, are complete strangers. Facilitated by trained clinicians, the sessions provide each of us with the opportunity to “check in” about how we fared the night before, how we are feeling that day and what topics we would like to chew on during our “process session.” Everyone comes in with very different challenges and experiences. And yet, what we all have in common is that we are not coping as well as we would like with our mental health (presenting for most folks as anxiety and depression).
What is unique about the group I’ve joined is that everyone is coming from the professional world–doctors, lawyers, data analysts, investment bankers, sports coaches, nurses, teachers, higher ed professionals, the list goes on. Folks are all starting and “graduating” from the program at different times so the group rarely looks the same. And yet, you seem to travel with a few of the same core folks throughout your journey. Reflecting back now, what fascinates me the most from this whole experience is simply the human validation I didn’t realize I needed that I am not alone in experiencing the bumps and dips of one’s mental health landscape.
I come to realize that depression and anxiety (and other mental health conditions) that so many of us experience but often don’t feel safe enough to talk about widely, are endemic to our society and probably have been for centuries.
Whether it’s navigating a brutal divorce, managing a toxic workplace or not having processed childhood traumas, we are each stacked with challenges and don’t often talk about how they impact us– physically, emotionally, spiritually or mentally. We hold them in and rationalize them away. Our lifetime of baggage compounds and then one day, something just bursts… the blood vessel we call life. This process is not sustainable.
I would never share details of the stories I heard. I hold them close and preciously so. But I will say that whether it was a 23 year old navigating her first full time job after college or a brilliant 70 something retiree who is questioning his purpose and meaning in the world, I sit in a simple circle each day alongside some of the kindest and most caring souls. Their vulnerability is contagious and before I know it, I find myself connecting the dots and sharing deep wounds from my own life.
None of these wounds are completely new revelations, but shared in the context of a group, I’m able to relate to others in new ways and experience reciprocal healing.
By supporting others on their journeys, I find that I begin to heal pieces of my own as well.
About one week after I complete the program I find myself driving to meet some of the group members who, along the way, become dear friends. We decide to meet for coffee at a local diner. I walk in tepidly. It’s almost surreal seeing them sitting at a booth, with a plate of curly fries and cups of tea. We proceed to share how we are all doing, each of us on different and new roller coasters. We talk about the hard and the silly moments we had together, poking fun at each other and sounding a bit more sarcastic and light hearted than we did a couple weeks back. Are we transformed and in completely different places? No, not at all. We are still walking the roads of our lives with (to most outsiders) an invisible backpack of symptoms we are managing. But the difference, at least for me, is that I now have comrades with whom I can share more openly about my mental health, and without any taboo or judgement. I feel significantly less alone and that is worth the price of gold.
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It’s now been about four weeks since completing the program. I’ve since finished listening to Pachinko. And despite my being light-years away from the characters that lie within, I feel a renewed sense of grounding and comfort through bearing witness to their stories. I suppose this experience could be had through reading any good novel. However for me, Min Jin Lee’s vivid storytelling provides a deep knowing and visceral reminder that none of us are alone on our respective journeys. Moreover, the paths we cross with others and the relationships we build along the way are the beating heart that allows us to keep going.
This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all! Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still, treat each guest honorably. He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.
~By Jalaluddin Rumi
A poem for a difficult season. When the light feels hard to find. And I don’t want to dance as much.
How can I slowly crawl back to my younger self who danced with the wind, who didn’t notice who was looking when she sprawled out in all her richness, creating a world of fantasy as she moved?
I’ve somehow lost that vision lately, or maybe lost it years and years ago. I have felt so burdened and even crushed by all the self-imposed “to do’s” that I’ve forgotten about the moments of life in between.
I started this blog a little over 3 years ago (fall 2021), in another season of my life when I needed to soak up the wisdom contained in slowing down. That was the whole premise of the blog, in fact, to journal and reflect on the benefits of slowing down, even if by 1%. In some ways I feel like I’m right back where I started, at another critical inflection point, unsure of which turn to take next. The growing demands and intensity of work and motherhood continue to push many of us to our limits. Too fast, too much, too packed. And not feeling in control. How do we get that control back?
Lately it’s felt like I’ve been swimming upstream and I know I need to start a slightly different dance.
In this new year, can I stop long enough to find others who will dance with me, alongside me and even mirror me? Can I slow down enough to see all the music and the movements that nature holds in its own dance? Can I slow down long enough to make space for those I love, not for us to accomplish anything, but for us to just be still together?
To sit around a table and enjoy the company, without worrying about who is cleaning up. To do a puzzle together. To play the Bluey Jenga game we gave our daughter for Hanukkah. To sit long enough to watch the PBS New Year’s Eve Countdown 2024 with DJ Walrus and Friends (instead of cleaning the kitchen). Guess what? I watched 95% of it this year alongside her, without my phone in my hand. DJ Walrus needs to get another day job though in my humble opinion. Sorry, Mr. Walrus.
In this new year, can I join my daughter in HER dance and learn more about the true art of slowing down? While she moves a mile a minute, she does focus her attention on just one thing at a time. In the quiet (or not so quiet moments) when she’s playing by herself, may I try once in a while to not fill the time with another chore, but instead to just breathe, soak up the energy of her play and even join in. I know my kid, competitive and playful nature is in there somewhere!
This year, Hanukkah coincided with Christmas and New Years, the holiday trifecta. For the first time in what felt like years, my family sat around the table on the 6th night of Hanukkah (the night before New Year’s Eve) and played dreidel by candlelight. We took turns spinning our own miniature dreidels and laughed out loud as the Hebrew letters were called out. My daughter was the most excited of all and belted with pride as she landed on a gimel (which stands for “gantz” or “everything.” The player gets everything in the pot.)
Wishing us all a quiet and peaceful turn of the new year. May we all find some light and abundance amidst the darkness.
I’ve been struck recently with how fast time seems to move. My last blog entry was in June 2024 and somehow now we are in fall. The leaves have turned and we are getting ready for Halloween. I wish I could say I feel wiser and more grounded and settled since I last wrote, but I don’t think that would be true. I’m just as confused and overwhelmed with life as ever. (And not to mention, I’ve discovered a few more grey hairs).
One area I’m continuing to reconcile, in which I am perhaps making some progress, is catching a hold of and accepting the contradictions of life, the “both/and” mindset if you will. Just a few examples that come to mind in this particular moment…
Life is scary AND beautiful at the same time. I sit, for example, before this breathtaking fall landscape in Cromwell, CT AND brace for a world that feels more polarized and full of spite than ever before, particularly in the run up to our elections.
Raising my daughter is getting harder and easier at the same time. She is becoming more and more independent AND has the energy of a jaguar on steroids, which seems to rope us in constantly. She resists us whenever possible to proclaim her burgeoning truths. I can remember myself at this age (4 going on 14) and I don’t want to squash her light. (Mine is still coming back on!)
I’m exhausted at the end of most days AND have the yearning to run a marathon, swim a mile or climb Mount Kilimanjaro. It’s a constant push and pull of contradicting and perhaps complementary desires.
Our family recently returned from an epic adventure overseas, celebrating my parent’s 50th wedding anniversary. It was the first time I traveled this far in well over a decade and I was reminded of my 20 something self who only saw adventure and travel in her future. I admittedly feel most myself when traveling. The further I go, the more connected I feel to myself and the universe. To break free from the monotony of daily routines, packing lunches, cleaning, being online from 9am to what feels like bedtime, etc. Travel is the epitome of perspective building for me.
While on our trip, we start in a small seaside European town and I receive a lesson along these lines that I’m still digesting. On our first evening in France, straight off the airplane, my mom and I go into town to try and purchase a new stroller after we leave ours mistakenly somewhere between the gate and baggage claim (the first of several things lost on this trip). The highlight, for me, during the excursion is dappling in my broken, very rusty, once fluent French. Once we successfully secure a new stroller, we find ourselves unsuccessfully trying to wave down a taxi. So we get on a public bus back to the hotel, jet lagged and overstimulated.
However the next day, just as we are about to board the ship, I realize my wallet is missing. We search everywhere. I assume I have been pickpocketed and proceed to ride the waves of resentment off and on throughout the trip. To my utter surprise and amazement, while scanning my emails on the plane back home I find out that the wallet has been discovered! It was a good Samaritan from the local French bus company on that very first night who found the wallet, sorted through it, found a business card and emailed me to come retrieve it! While I unfortunately can’t get back there in person (yet), I’m hedging my bets that it gets returned safely to me in the US. What are the chances! And how can I reframe when I next start to feel that victim mentality/resentment start to build up about what feels hard?
The world is so big AND yet so small at the same time. We are but small microbes and photons floating in the universe and yet, when we choose to, more often than not, we find some commonality with the strangers we encounter.
My challenge upon returning home (and perhaps for all of us), is to live into each moment with even 1% more of the energy I have when traveling. To see people and places around me, with all their hues and personalities. To not give up on my potential to keep growing and stretching when life feels hard, and to keep looking for where the water meets the shore…to see the waves, as we did on our “boat trip” (as my daughter calls it) and to know that we are all part of a vast ocean of life. We must keep moving, because we have no choice AND because we have the privilege and ability to do so. Blessings for the journey. Shabbat Shalom. And may I be with you all again soon.
“Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver, the other is gold.
A circle is round, it has no end. That’s how long, I will be your friend.
A fire burns bright, it warms the heart. We’ve been friends, from the very start.
You have one hand, I have the other. Put them together, we have each other.
Silver is precious, gold is too. I am precious, and so are you.
You help me and I’ll help you and together we will see it through… Girl Scouts of the USA
Friday, June 14, 2024. What would have been a typical Friday. Dropping my daughter off at school. Staying for an Early Childhood (EC) Shabbat morning gathering at her preschool. But today, in a mere moment, I’m catapulted into a time machine. I drop my daughter off at her “old” school for the summer. (It is a family run daycare that has a preschool within it). She will attend from mid-June to mid-August, just barely two months. No big deal, right? It was a logistical decision really, to bridge us from one school year to the next at our new Jewish community day school, where our daughter has thrived this past school year. She’s grown by leaps and bounds. There have of course been some bumps but we have ridden the waves of transition and she has settled into a new “home.”
Finding ourselves back at the doorstep of our “old” school is like putting a mirror in front of us where I’m unexpectedly reflecting back on myself and this past year. Am I proud of what we have accomplished? Can everyone see my wrinkled forehead now? Why does it feel like we continue to ride the waves of a new family? The transitions just keep coming…
And this “old school” is the school where we first dropped our daughter off when she had barely started walking, at about 14 months old. She was known for her “babbling,” going on and on and on with gibberish before she learned to put her words together. Before she started singing Moanna lyrics and dancing to her new beats. This is where her teachers picked her up to change a diaper on the large wooden changing table and slobbered sunscreen on her before going outside. Where she had her first skinned knees. Where we learned she was a “jokester,” egging on the other students to join her in a mischievous rebellion. Where we learned from her teachers that she was incredibly bright and hard-willed. Standing in the center of the room, refusing to leave when the rest of the group was transitioning from one activity to the next. “I don’t want to X, Y, Z!” she would exclaim. Transitions have always been hard for her (and now I know where she gets that from).
Last summer when we said goodbye to her old school, she had just turned three. She was so brave and went with the flow as we moved her in July for her birthday to a new preschool room within the school and then again at the end of August to a whole new school. She looks around the room this morning, following my eyes looking nervously around the room too. Wondering perhaps, where do I put my lunchbox here? I hang my backpack on a hook and not in a cubby? My parents come inside for drop off instead of saying goodbye outside? All seemingly innocuous, trivial concerns, but in the head of a toddler, not insignificant at all.
Our daughter’s time at the “old” school last summer was a fog. A blurry haze. On June 15, 2023 I broke my ankle in a freak accident. One week later I had major surgery and two weeks later I started a new full time job. I stumbled into this school on my crutches most of the summer to do drop off.
And today I find myself asking, what have I been present for in the last year? What has changed? What has stayed the same?
It’s now summer 2024…I’m jogging (albeit slowly) again. I’m more confident working full time again since having my daughter. I have colleagues I respect. We’ve weathered (and continue to weather) deep, deep trauma from upheaval in Israel and Gaza…the existential threats and panic it’s brought to our bodies and our people. It has been all-consuming. And yet, after a year attending a Jewish day school, our daughter can now recite the prayers on Shabbat. She hums and mumbles tunes in Hebrew, without being aware that I’m listening. My heart warms for the community she’s created and the safety and comfort of her “new” school.
AND I can be grateful that she will be held in safety this summer too. She will step back and forward at the same time. She will continue to stretch and grow, even with the time machine we’ve placed before her.
I stand back in awe as she points out letters on the carpet she knows and peers through the window at the gaping playground she just barely remembers climbing on as a 3 year old. “I remember that playground. I love that playground,” she says. My heart constricts and then releases. And I remember, we are okay. We have been through a lot this year, AND we are okay.
We can take two steps forward and two steps back at the same time. This is not a contradiction. Or perhaps it is and then life is a moving target of contradictions.
And rather than resist and make sense of all the waves intellectually, we can exhale and let go of the resistance and the constriction. I will accept that this summer will bring with it a new journey for her and for us. A new plethora of trail heads. All pointing in different directions. And our daughter will bravely explore them all. With gratitude for new beginnings and old memories all seeped into one. I’m still a bit hesitant but grateful to be welcomed back.
Perhaps our reflections and “time travel” do not need to be projected on our children. Our waves of emotions and dizziness at times do not have to dictate their journeys.
May we lean into each day at this “new/old school,” making new memories, built upon layers and layers of old ones, that form a foundation on which we keep moving forward.
“Time is relative; its only worth depends upon what we do as it is passing.”
Albert Einstein
When you become immobilized in making a decision about how to spend your 1.5 hours of “free” time while your child is napping.
When it feels impossible to transition between the seemingly endless “to do’s” and resting because a voice deep inside you is screaming that you may not have “enough” time to get your “to do’s” accomplished later.
When you call the doctors office at the last minute to apologize that you’ll be running 10-15 minutes late due to traffic, but really you just couldn’t stop cleaning up the kitchen or getting in one last load of laundry before you left (referencing back to scenario 2).
The daily fight with time has been something I’ve reckoned with for what feels like forever. But when I was recently asked by a coach to think about when I first became aware of time as an oppressive phenomenon, I froze. I couldn’t remember when the plague of “time scarcity” began. Perhaps it was in college, when I found myself for the first time, living on my own and making decisions apart from my parents about how to structure and manage large blocks of time. I do remember feeling uptight about assignment deadlines and the like but when I look back on those years, it feels like time was never-ending. The days would last well into the evening, going to sleep for 2am was not uncommon and sleeping to 10am for an 11am class was the norm. No, it wasn’t then. Time flowed like honey and there was always more to be found.
I do have a distinct and sticky memory of becoming aware that time was a construct when I studied abroad in Senegal my junior year of college. I remember when one of my Senegalese professors with whom I became close, shared that in Senegal (and across Africa) there was a completely different rationalization given when people were “running late.” He explained that when a friend or colleague was “late,” it was natural to assume they were intercepted by something that was important and necessitated them taking more time. If a person was late, for example, for a rendez-vous with friends, you might assume that a sick family member needed them. In other words, you naturally gave people grace and a built in buffer. NOTHING started on time and everyone gave one another the benefit of the doubt.
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More than 20 years later and with the advent of smart phones, I can’t help but wonder if the oppressiveness of “white supremacy culture” in our country has seeped in and made it that much harder to let go of a constant sense of urgency.
People have been working and raising families for millennium. How has technology become so all-encompassing and resulted in us being more tethered to time than ever before?
An irony is that I stopped wearing a watch years ago. I rely on my cell phone to monitor the day and time for me now. We have and own more things than ever before, and yet time feels scarcer than ever before.
As a “newer” parent, I’ve noticed just how many references to time fall into our vernacular when talking to our children…
“Running late,” “must be on time,” “wasting time,” “time is ticking,” “we can’t be late,” “on time is late,” “respect my time,” “time is precious.” When I catch myself using time vernacular in these contexts I try to divert myself and say something different. “It looks like you need some help before we go, let’s keep moving, or we need you to participate.” It’s fascinating and sad in a way that we superimpose our construct of time on children, who are blessed (we hope) with not needing to be fully aware of it (yet).
I remember picking up the book, Einstein’s Dreams (Alan Lightman) in my early 20’s and my mind being blown away. Lightman imagines dreams that Einstein might have had in 1905 when he was dreaming up his theory of relativity. Each dream portrays a world in which time works differently. In one world, for example, time is circular and people repeat their highs and lows over and over (not too dissimilar from the concept presented in the movie Groundhog Day, which also fascinated me at the time). In other worlds, time moves backwards and people’s journeys unfold in reverse order. This journey is also fleshed out in movie form in the film, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I was equally fascinated by this story and have found my mind wandering back to it over the years.
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In the end, I wonder if the way we relate to time is relative to our human complex with mortality. After all, time is finite. Our days are numbered, and even if we are Benjamin Button, getting younger with time, we eventually become absorbed back into the universe. The material things we surround ourselves with, the busyness we become immersed in…might all of this be an illusion and a distraction from our fear of the inevitable?
The many colloquial expressions about time are steeped in truth. Time does move faster as we get older. Not literally, but relative to our spirits. We are more consumed with responsibility, and our bodies forget or become disillusioned with the present, even to the point of becoming disembodied. How can we fight back against this, so that we don’t blink and find ourselves looking back at years of “wasted time?”
Perhaps one helpful concept which flips time on its head is Shabbat, the Jewish day of rest. It occurs each week from sunset on Friday through sunset on Saturday, and is celebrated by Jewish communities around the world. I remember starting to incorporate it into my life spiritually and therapeutically as a graduate student. Living in Washington, DC, and swimming in a culture of political and professional networking mania, time became all-consuming. I remember finding it particularly challenging to “turn off.” I felt pressure to always be “on” or working. As part of my therapy, I began instituting certain boundaries for myself on Shabbat. Over the years, this concept has become trendy. The idea of a “technology shabbat” has been coined, but for me, it has been a lifeline to sanity.
I’ve experimented over the years with observing a form of Shabbat, from shutting down my phone to not allowing myself to check email or be on any screen. I find it is a welcome respite from the noise of the week. In fact the only day I often give myself permission to slow down enough to write creatively has been Shabbat.
How can I give myself permission to incorporate a “tech Shabbat” on other days and in other moments of the week? In the hybrid world of work we now live in, it has become even harder to create these boundaries. Access to “work” can literally be in your pocket or in your ear bud at any point in the day or night. We must reset our own priorities as no one else will do it for us.
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I’d like to close with the concept of “Ataya” or the three-cup ceremonial tea drinking tradition I learned about in Senegal. Ataya, which in Wolof translates to the “preparation of tea,” is an integral part of Senegalese culture. “Each cup represents the growth of friendships or the stages of life. The longer you wait for your Ataya, the stronger and sweeter friendships grow.” Whether it’s the start of a family visit or a business meeting, or even rounding a street corner on your way to the market, you can always find someone making Ataya.
Slowly, over the course of the six months I lived in Senegal, my body and spirit acclimated to slowing down and engaging in this ritual. Often sitting on cushions, friends and peers gather around a tray of small glass cups and boiling water, waiting for the tea leaves, mint and sugar to simmer. The act of pouring the tea back and forth, from cup to cup, slowly building and creating a foam lather, is a form of meditation in and of itself. You finish your tea when…you finish. Time isn’t in control. Instead, it is the tea and sweet moments of connection that call the shots.
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My eyes flutter open after taking a short nap while my daughter sleeps. I take a deep breath and sigh. It is Shabbat again and I’ve given myself permission to rest and write. A sweet gift that I don’t think I will ever take for granted again since becoming a parent. I know the laundry waits. Emails are likely piling up. And I’ve got a list of errands to run and people to call back. But for right now, I will practice surrendering my time to the universe and being grateful for the early spring trees outside my window, slowly swaying in the cool wind.
The highest version of myself comes out in these moments. Her voice is quiet but I can feel her trying to speak. She’s saying, “shhh, quiet down now, just be sweet girl, resist the urge to move and do and accomplish. Your life awaits in the present moment. You have my permission to play.”
“The world has our hands, but our soul belongs to Someone Else. Six days a week we seek to dominate the world, on the seventh day we try to dominate the self.”
Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel
Dakar, Senegal, 2002Attaya Ritual with Host FamilyHomemade Shabbat Challah
“In the cradle of the circle. All the ones who came before you. Their strength is yours now. You’re not alone.”
Allison Russell
Barcelo Maya Beach, Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico
Would you believe me if I told you thousands of people, mostly women, converge on a resort in Mexico for a long weekend every January to compete for the chance to sing karaoke (coined Brandi-oke) with Brandi Carlile and her band?
…The resort is coined Brandi Land, just for the weekend and my wife and I attended this year for the first time. (This is year five of the event.) We really had no idea what to expect and were just happy to escape to a warmer climate and pretend everything was simple for a few days.
What makes this trip truly unique though, is the priceless opportunity to exist for a moment in a time and space where LGBTQ+ folks and families are the norm and not the exception. Everyone is welcome, but given the nature of Brandi’s fan base and the branding of the weekend, it feels as though I am surrounded by a sea of queer women and families. There are two moms to my right, in line for the buffet and two moms to my left, walking back to their rooms… some with toddlers, others with teenagers. There are older lesbians, laughing and hanging out with their friends at the pool. And there are queer 20 somethings, enjoying the safety of walking freely hand in hand. I honestly forgot what that felt like. I know this is not the same reality I live in back home, but it is a reminder, and one that I really needed of late, that I’m not alone.
I attended a workshop during the trip entitled, “Writing in Community with Vulnerability and Strength.” It was facilitated by Lindsay Wheeler, a queer, neurodivergent social worker who guided us in several exercises and writing prompts about the power of vulnerability. One prompt we were asked to respond to was, “Write a short letter to a younger version of yourself in which you tell them about the community you’ve discovered here and what life can look like for them in the future.”
I would like to lean into that vulnerability and share the letter I drafted to my middle school self, circa 1996:
Dear Stephie,
First, hi. I’m sorry I haven’t written in a long, long time. I miss talking to you!
I’m here to tell you that you can let go a little of your worries, dear one. Life is hard and bumpy and messy. But it’s also grey. I know that’s hard to see right now. You’re feeling so many things. Fear, doubt, shame, embarrassment, joy, curiosity, confusion. And I want you to give yourself permission to feel them all. The feelings are big and scary, but I promise they won’t swallow you up.
...and you’re not alone.
I also want to tell you a secret…being gay or what many people now call queer is a gift. You don’t need to have it all figured out, but just know that not being straight is singlehandedly one of the best gifts that you will ever receive.
The prism through which you will be able to see the world will open up in ways you couldn’t imagine. You will see more clearly others who live and float on the margins. You will come to realize that to be queer is not just an identity but it’s also a verb–to queer the lines of art, education, family, etc. It means to rip open the boxes and labels we are told by society we must confine ourselves to. None of this needs to make sense now. But I want you to know you have a superpower, dear one.
Life will not always be easy. And with this superpower comes added responsibility. Most people will not be able to see the world the way you do. You will need to help them. Offer them grace and patience, and help them break down the linear boxes getting in their way. Don’t be afraid to look and feel different. The truth is we all feel this in different ways and for different reasons.
Your queer identity, dear Stephie, is like an invisible bridge into a community of misfits who are all looking to feel seen and heard. You didn’t ask to be this bridge and it is an added weight to carry, but this weight will enrich your world, your children’s world and bring untold meaning to those around you.
And on this one random weekend in the future, at the start of 2024, you and your wife (yes, you will get married!) will stumble upon a rainbow coalition of allies on what feels like a far-away island. They will come from all over the world to listen to music and just be. It will feel a bit like a magical island of unicorns, and it may not feel real, but please know that it is.
…Dear Stephie, don’t be afraid to look for these unicorns wherever you go in life. They are hiding and also in plain sight. Look closely for the grown-up unicorns…the older unicorns who have lived generations before you and can share their wisdom. Tell them what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking. Do NOT push back those scary feelings because they are uncomfortable. Release them into the world.
Most of all, I want you to know that everything is okay.
Love, Me ❤
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I hope we can come back to Brandi Land next year and bring our daughter. I want her to see and feel the magic of this place. I want her to see other children with two moms or two dads as the norm and to start to see and feel how big the world is, even if she doesn’t yet have the language to unpack it.
Perhaps she will be able to tell herself now (and not 40 years from now) that she is free to be herself, truly and authentically. While the world does have cynics and bullies, there is also a band of allies and beautiful people who will unconditionally see and welcome her.
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As we pack our bags to return home, may all of us unicorns at Brandi Land carry a piece of this time and space back with us. May we turn inwards whenever we need to feel the warmth of community (and the palm trees) as we ride out the quiet months of winter.
And may we remember, just as Brandi opened up the whole weekend…
“Healing may not be so much about getting better, as about letting go of everything that isn’t you- all of the expectations, all of the beliefs- and becoming who you are.
Sometimes the best thing we can do in life is to take our hands off the steering wheel and let someone else drive. There is a Yiddish expression, “Der Mensch Tracht, Un Gott Lacht,” which translates to “man plans and God laughs.” I have received a lesson in this wisdom over the last month. Less than two weeks before starting my new job, I had an absurd, freak accident which left me with a fractured ankle and what felt like an impossible situation to maneuver. Instead of planning my commute to work, I was planning a pathway to surgery and renegotiating a start date to allow for recovery. Life stopped. And the millions of little things that one moment had been in my control and seemed so important were suddenly whisked away.
Since surgery to repair my ankle, I’ve had to relearn how to go up and down the stairs. My daughter is now getting a kick out of me descending and ascending on my butt like she used to do when learning to become mobile. We are both learning to put on socks and step into shorts together. It is not straightforward. I can empathize with how tired she gets when trying to do it by herself and just wanting to give up and ask for help. Well, now we can help each other.
There have been countless lessons in this “pause” that have inconveniently inserted themselves into my life. I don’t even know where to start. For one, resisting reality or grasping for something different makes everything harder. When the Physician Assistant (PA) in the ER came in to tell me about the results of the x-ray, I was in disbelief. I started rattling off all the things I had planned for the summer and asking if I could still do them. I had plans to take my sister to NYC the next day for her 40th birthday…could we still take the train? Could I still participate in the sprint triathlon I signed up for in August? I had finally found the time to get my bike tuned up after years of it collecting dust in our garage. The PA looked at me funny and said, “well if you want to show up on the day of the race and see how you do, go for it.” (Instead my training of late has consisted of doing light ankle stretches and circles). Okay, so what about this concert or this trip or this baseball game or this adventure, etc? I immediately looked at what I was losing. Perhaps this is fair. There is a lot of loss. Not to mention, money and time and the incredible burden this places on my loved ones to pick up the slack.
But what of the gain? What do I gain from a setback?
In the last month my mind and body have slowed down, literally and figuratively. I’m not able to think much beyond what is right in front of me. At any moment I need to know where my crutches are, what I need to grab in order to sit down, whether it’s time to ice or elevate, etc. I’ve been forced to slow down in a way I didn’t think was possible, and life has not imploded. It’s gotten a bit more confusing and there are additional puzzle pieces we need to maneuver but I’m able to keep up at a pace that feels more realistic.
So what happens in a couple weeks when I can start bearing weight again, when I can commute into work or go for a walk to the mailbox? Yes even getting the mail is a formidable challenge now. Will I start piling things back on slowly, until I can’t catch my breath? Truthfully, I probably will at first. But perhaps this time I’ll connect with the ease of keeping things a bit simpler. After all, it’s not what I’m accomplishing or checking off that dictates my worth, but instead it’s in the “letting go” that I stand to gain the most. Blessings for a smooth week ahead and may you embrace the bumps and cracks along the way.
Taking a Pause at 40 