The Star Was Placed

The star made it to the top. 

It flopped over, 

lacking perfection, 

lacking precision. 

Just right.

I had begun to address the elephant in the room 

when my son took the star from my hands, 

as if waiting to hear the starting bell,

and began his haphazard placement. 

And when he was stopped by the others, 

reminding him to trim a bough 

and to place it more centered, 

(all good ideas)

all of that happened, too. 

It just remained off kilter 

and eventually tipped itself way back, 

exhausted.

Now a new year begins

with easy,

with awkward,

with tricky,

and with health.

We are here for it all.

We are here.

The Star

 The star is not at the top of the tree, yet, this year. 

And though there are other significant differences this Christmas, it kind of comes down to the fact that the star is not in its usual place.

At first it was because nothing was on the tree except the lights I strung while the kids were away with their dad. 

(This is something that happens now.) 

Then the tree was decorated without one of the children because she was at school. 

(Because this is something new this year, too.) 

The star remained on the floor next to the tree after we finished decorating. Soon, when my daughter returned, the star moved to a shelf which, I guess, is a little closer to its typical place.

Once upon a time, when I was in my 20s, I was walking through Union Square's artists' craft fair on a cold and dark December night. 

NYC at Christmas time. 

There I saw a star that I found to be so beautiful. I paid the steep $20 dollars and brought it home. Such a stark contrast from the antique, porcelin angel I grew up with in my home. 

I came back to our small apartment and placed it on top of the Kate sized tree my fiancé had surprised me with one afternoon. 

In the future, my husband would place the star on top, tall enough to reach it whether it was short for apartment living or tall and well chosen (and personally cut) for our home. 

Then, one day, he lifted a toddler to place the star on the top bough. 

Eventually, he lifted three children to place the star on top, taking it back off between each child so everyone could have their chance (and photo) to place the tree topper.

He can't lift the children anymore at 18, 16, and 14.

We also don't all share this house like we once did.

There is now someone who lives here who was never a part of the star to begin with.

The star is not on top of the tree.

I am curious what will happen by Christmas day. 

Will it be placed? 

Will I just do it myself one day? 

What reaction will that bring? 

Relief? 

Disbelief? 

Indifference?

Questions are a very central part of this year for us

And there is a tree. 

A very beautiful tree.

And the star is not at the top of that tree, yet, this year. 

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?