I am running late...

"Depressions Awareness Month" has come and gone. Which is ironic as we head into the colder and darker months of the year. Some begin their slip into depression at this time. 

That was me, with seasonal depression. 

Then, I realized that though the name for it gave those around me some understanding and timelines, that it wasn't really true. I just continued being the animal I am- going to bed earlier as it was dark earlier. 

My depression just was. 

Just is. 

And it comes and goes. 

And it is okay. 

Because though it comes, 

it goes.

(the hardest part to remember when in it)

And I wrote about it because

it became

really big.

Failing

There are mornings when

Upon waking in my thoughts

I realize I’m failing

I’m a failure

That I am failing at

What I know I shouldn’t

That I am letting everyone

And myself

Down.

On those mornings when

I am a failure

I can’t stand to see or 

Be seen.

I need to be alone and fail

I need to stare off and fail

I need to not be needed

Or I will fail

More.

I can’t be witnessed

Or my failure will be real

And I will shatter

And never be together

again.

Hard Day

I just need to lie down 

I’m going to feel better 

I’m going to do better 

Just now I have to lie down 

I just need to not think

I can’t regard it all

I can’t accept it all 

Right now I need to not think

I just need you to understand 

I’m going to make sense soon

I am making sense to myself 

If you could just try to understand. 

I Know

I know that the sun comes out

no matter how grey the days

I know that children are happy when

love comes first

I know that being reactive 

doesn’t work and I need to figure out the fix

I know that someone unkind lives in my brain

and takes up too much room

when what I need is that room to be open

I know I get very overwhelmed and

that if I wait

I will not feel overwhelmed

I know that having a to do list that is just mine

feels lonely and feels doable

I know that the to do list doesn’t have to be just mine

all the time

I know that I feel too much sometimes

and that I mainly feel the right amount most of the time

which is the right amount for me

and can seems like too much to others

I know that I have work to do

I know that I have a job to do

I know that kindness matters and 

even t-shirts say so now

I know that words need to be in your chest,

and not just on your chest,

for them to have meaning

Quietly Writing

 The pandemic. Amiright???

For the last year and a half, people were going through what they were going through. Lives were changed. Loved ones were missed. For many, it happened quietly, as it was behind closed doors.

I am no different of course.

And all along I was quietly writing. 

I thought I might share again.

I mean, I have been getting out and hugging my mom and kissing her sweet lil cheek. Walking in hallways teeming with children. In Target, no mask. 

Why not?

This is what started my journey into the pandemic. The moment I knew that I may need to become a mother of four.

Missnested

I don’t know

at all

how to write 

what I want to say

about you

about what should be

about what is unfamiliar

and what, maybe,

no one else 

understands 

feels

gets.

What I know is

I found you and 

there was a quiet dawning.

I could see and 

I could feel

that there you were

in the wrong nest

falling and flapping.

And so, at first,

I caught you as you fell.

Then, when that wasn’t enough,

I brought you to my tree. 

Finally, because I knew,

I put you in my nest 

and hoped

every day,

and worried

every day,

and loved

every day, 

my sweet blue bird. 

And this is what I wrote the night my eldest daughter and I waited for the little bird to land after a day fraught with emotion.

Waiting

We paced the driveway

Waiting for him to arrive

Phone calls explaining delays

Messages left running hot

Making my insides cold

Just wanting him here

He arrived in a nondescript car

Driven by an apologetic man

And assisted by a forgettable someone

He arrived with ripped garbage bags

And a torn old hamper

And exhaustion

And shame

And sadness

And illness

And loss

And confusion

Without a word

Down the stairs

Everything dropped around his feet

Down on the bed

Every feeling dropped upon him

He fell asleep for a very, very long time.

And then he woke.

Listening

The past 3 months, I have been listening for you, Da.
Sitting on the Zen porch when the weather allows
Walking long, quiet roads
Swinging on a porch swing and watching birds.

I have been having a lot of hard conversations with you and with myself.
I have been having them with my family.
I have been in a struggle and not sure how to fit together so many pieces
Some missing
Some misshapen
Some stuck in my hand
Some lodged in my heart.











What would you say to me?
Other than ask me more questions
When I am seeking answers
Because the answers are mine.
I know.
I know.
I remember.

And what would you ask me?

You would ask me:
What is my true goal
Are the choices I have to make to attain that goal sound
Is there a chance it could fall apart
Is there a chance it could be a very good thing
Are you helping to make the world a better place
What is your gut telling you













And by the fourth question, I would be crying
I would be waiting for you to let me know if my answers were right
And you might let me know.
You might.
It would be in your eyes
And the set of your mouth
The way you exhale
And how your fingers touched as your hands came together.

I have made so many decisions
So many hard choices since you have been gone.
And this time of my life feels so uncertain
The world so fraught with change
So still and so ever evolving
I just feel I need you again
Nodding.
Listening.
Asking.

I know I can hear you
By listening to what you placed in my heart.
And when I listen
I become emotional.
I know I can hear you
By listening to what you placed in my character.
And when I listen
I become so certain.
I know I can hear you
By listening to what you placed in my mind.
And when I listen
I become my most reasonable.




My Dear Ol' Da.
I hear you.

Beauty in 5 minutes

I was just drying off from my shower. Naked. Glancing at myself in the mirror. Hearing the familiar voice start up in my head about what I am not doing or what I am over doing. Or it may have been the lament of "Time" this go round. How years, gravity, and wear and tear...

Ev, my 8 year old, walks in. 
I was surprised and caught in the headlights. 
White blinding light of: Now what? Cover up? Stand, revealed? A mix of the two maybe with a dangled towel here and there? 
She was just looking in my eyes at first, talking to me. Then her eyes started roving. She stared at my belly button region that raged a war, time and again. Her hand went to her own extremely tight and etched gymnast abdomen. My hand went to mine.
"This is where you guys lived, nice and cozy."
She giggled.
"You are soft." was her reply.
"In some ways. But that is good for a hug. In other ways I am hard." and I mocked yelled at her, reminding her of how tough I can be. Breaking the intensity with a laugh as always.
Unabashedly she kept looking and I went about my getting ready.
"If you are too muscley- your hugs wouldn't be good." she decided.
"Well, a hug has all that love to help keep it soft, too."
"Yeah".
My thighs were wiggling into pants. She watched.
I gathered all the back flesh I could into the front of my bra with what remains of my breasts. She watched.
"Why do you even wear that?"
"It gives me some shape up top. Most people wear them to support their breasts."
"Why bother wearing it at all? For you? I wouldn't bother."
"Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I do."
She kept standing there. I was basically clothed, but my openness and vulnerability, even with my own child, had reached it's max. 
I asked why she didn't run along and play. 
She shrugged. 
I didn't know how to end the scene. I don't know why I thought it needed an ending other than my discomfort and feeling of being on a very vulnerable limb of exposure, openness, and responsibility to show myself as a real body with no shame or disparaging remarks, all the while not putting down a body toned, tight, and different than my own. No doubt the body she will have.
So, I just said, "And that is me getting dressed."
And she said, "You are beautiful."
She left happy. 
I was left winded.

What's Isn't Wrong?

I glanced in a mirror yesterday and made a face unintentionally, unkindly, at my reflection. I then fixed my hair.
My middle child, catching this, barked at me,
"You always do that when you look in a mirror. Stop fixing stuff. You're fine. Just see that you're fine!"
(She has always been my mentor.)
I made a promise to myself that I would do just that... which lasted until the next mirror/facetime/snapchat/surprise selfie mode when opening my camera.

This morning I was listening to my first dharma talk of the new year which fell in line with my struggle in some capacity. It certainly gave me a mantra that is useful for many with whom I work and love:

What
Isn't
Wrong

So simple and so arresting.
I shared it with my mindful co-workers as they share the job of guiding a group of children who mainly see what is stacked against them every day.

My middle child was on the floor in the tame throes of some tame injustice this morning when I asked her,
"Evie, what's not wrong?"
Her body became still and her head whipped around towards me. She responded,
"What's NOT wrong?"
"Yes."
"Ummmm...I know where the cats are now and my blanket is very fluffy."
"Hm. Nice."

She lay there a few minutes more, and then got up and made herself comfy on her favorite couch.

I can't promise myself that I won't stop fixing things when caught in a mirror. I can only ask myself to be kind to myself. I am not naive enough to think that this question will always be helpful.

I can only remind myself that, for the most part, when one asks the question, What Isn't Wrong, the list will run longer than that of What Is Wrong. And, if you are one for lists, it is one that will bring lightness into the self, rather than the dread and dragging down of a list of things that aren't right and aren't good.

Let go of that which doesn't serve you.
Drop the hot rocks that burn.
Don't hold them to hurl or use at another time as only you continue to burn.

What's not wrong on this New Year Day?

Sweatshirt Tears

I was on my yoga mat, following along with my yoga channel.
I was directed to go in a child's pose (gladly) and breathe deeply.
My face became lost in my sweatshirt, many sizes too big, as I curled in on myself.
Of course it was a Mount Holyoke sweatshirt.
And it was my father's Mount Holyoke Sweatshirt.

He wore it in the chilly months whenever he exercised. And as I was in this tunnel of grey, breathing deeply, resting shaking muscles, I had a flash.

Spring sky, dappled light, as he walked down the Esplanade.

Standing at the toaster, waiting for his breakfast, and tapping the butter knife in a song.

Sitting on the porch, watching the birds, with the newspaper folded on his knee.

Trying to give my mother a hug, sweat still pouring down his face, her batting him away.

Rocking in his rocker, a few minutes more before going to take his shower.

Sleeve rolled up for his post-stroke, weekly blood draws.

Standing in the kitchen, face beaming, asking me,
"Do you love me, or what?"
"I love you, Dear Ol' Dad."
"OK. I will take my walk now, Kitty Kat."

As I saw him perfectly, as if yesterday, walking down the driveway, I was afraid to inhale knowing it would only give me the air to cry.

And there I cried, in the privacy of his sweatshirt, in the joy of all I remember, and the sadness of why his sweatshirt is now mine.

What is 100%?

Help me with this... (because I have learned to ask for help)
What is 100%?
When it comes to giving 100% or being at 100% or doing it 100%, is that just a saying?
Does it exist?

I have written before about not being able to give 100% as a teacher once I attempted to be a 100% parent. Now, though, I wonder what this 100% business is and if it even exists.

In my children's lives, I never expect 100% on tests or first place in an event.
I do root for at least a 90% in their happiness.
Because can you be 100% happy?
And is it that 100% the ultimate?
The outlying goal?
A beacon in the long swim of it all?
Is it something of value that we need to even think about?

I was talking to a wonderful friend about being at 100% a while ago, and it has floated around and around in my mind needing a complete think through.

To be honest, we weren't even talking about 100%, probably, but about something maybe just as out of reach for a human- we were talking about being as good as "before".
As I listened to her concerns, I began to think inside of myself about whatever "before" could be for me. (And you could think about what "before" may be for you, as she knew what it was for her...)

My before is gone.
It left with entering my 40s.
It left with a prescription.
It left with a flux of chemicals and juices and what have you in the human body.

Then I thought...wait...do I want my before back?
Because even though it came with tighter thighs, it did not come with the deeper breaths I take now.
Before came with the ability to see a menu in any light and at any distance from my face, and it didn't come with the clarity I like to think I have now.
It came with lightning quick reflexes and reactions, and it didn't come with walking away and steeping in thoughts until ready.

Stepping away from the idea of 100%, I ask the question: What is good enough? And what could be the answer since we all have to answer that individually and for ourselves?

In China, I heard at different times from English speaking Chinese, "Is good enough". It made me smile remembering a Buddhist Monk say it once in a talk. It was the theme of his talk about letting go of assumed perfection. It has since become a refrain of my family. As I took in the different cities in China, the words took on a deeper meaning to me.
There is, where I am, an American tendency for the perfect home, the perfect body, the perfect lifestyle. What that looked like, in the China I saw, was completely different. The outside of a home might have looked run down, but the inside was polished wood and meaningful furniture and art. Restaurants might have been too hot and the plates and bowls mismatched, but the food was expertly cooked and delicious.

So what mattered more?
The outside or the inside?
The look or the feel?

I wonder if giving our best selves, almost all the time, can be agreed upon.
And seeing as I just smartened up the outside of my house, I wonder if my inside of the house can remain a bit disheveled as long as it is still a comfy place to enter.

I would like to think that entering a classroom, open to learning and open to the struggle of learning, might be the enough for both student and teacher.
Might be the better?
Maybe it is the honesty of saying, "I am going to get in here, have at it, and see what comes out from the passion to try this thing."
Maybe that can be translated into some value we can all embrace.
We don't have to be like before.
We have to be like now, and we have to be all in with the now and the who we are at this point in our lives.

And, we have to give everyone a break.