Self

Surviving the Second Day and Making it into the Third

By / September 26, 2012

The stated purpose of this writing retreat is to travel outside my usual round of responsibilities so that I could focus on just writing. The first day I spent on travel, which is to be expected. I traveled both physically and mentally, arriving tired. I then suffered the common traveler’s lament of spending all the energy arriving only to desire to rest by being at home. I expected that. I also expected to spend some time grounding myself, becoming familiar with the house and surroundings. I did this at DeepSouthCon when I spent a good portion of the first day photographing and noticing the design choices of the hotel, much to the amusement of the hotel staff. They humored the odd lady taking pictures of the wall sconces and carpet. I’d planned to write up a post using those pictures, but the post never happened. It didn’t need to. I’d situated my brain and was ready to focus on the convention instead.

Except I arrived at the house and it felt familiar. I used to dream about my grandma’s tiny house. In the dreams I went upstairs and through a door to discover that her house had extra rooms and floors. Stepping into Woodthrush Woods was like stepping into one of those dreams, my grandma’s house–only different and bigger. I did not need to wander the house and get to know it. But I was tired from traveling, and despite feeling welcome I was not at home. There were other writers who had just finished dinner. I was introduced and we had a pleasant conversation and then everyone scattered to go write. I was left to myself. Which is the point. It is what is supposed to happen. Yet I did not write. Not really. There is a different feel when I am writing a blog post where I’m saying stuff and where I’m deep in the words. I was saying stuff that evening.

Surely the next day would be better. I would be settled and would begin to accomplish the purpose for which I had come.

Except I did not sleep well and the second day turned out to be hard. It was hard on me. It was hard on Howard and the kids back at home. Their struggles reached out to me across all those miles via internet and innate instinct. Instead of being here and now, my heart felt stretched across half a continent. I wondered why I had come. I was afraid that the logical and spiritual impulses which had guided me to take this trip were about growing through hard experience rather than reward. I really wanted something happy to result, but it was hard to believe that such a thing could happen.

On the second day of the retreat that I learned I bring my emotional baggage with me even when I leave the trappings of my regular life. I could suddenly see the baggage for what it was, but I couldn’t see how to re-pack it, get rid of it, or ship it back home. It was a day of bright and dark. I loved the woods. I needed to be there in the woods. But I wrote no words that were strong enough to convince me that they could not have been better written from home. I cried on the second day. Not all day, but sometimes when I was away from everyone else. I did not want to make any of the other writers responsible for making me feel better. I didn’t know if they could. I felt awful for being away from my family when they needed me at home to provide structure. I knew that they were competent and would find ways to muddle through. I worried about the comic work Howard was not getting done because he was shouldering my work at home as well as his own. I looked at my paltry words. I felt the even greater space of words I didn’t feel like I would ever be able to write. I felt awkward and odd with the people around me because I come from a social and religious context which often requires explanation. When all the worries got too much, I would walk in the woods or watch the birds. It helped, but I spent the day tangled in my own head.

Howard and I shared a phone call where we commiserated about how hard this trip was being for us both and how we weren’t sure what would come of it. I considered paying the extra fees to change my flight and go home early. Except I could tell I was not supposed to. My wise Kiki sent me an email acknowledging that the day had been hard without me there, but ending with “the second day is always hard. It’ll get better.” I marveled at her wisdom and clung to her words, wondering where she had learned it. Oh. She learned it from me. I tell her that at the beginning of a new school year.

The morning was brighter. Howard called and told me things were better at home. I went running up and down the long driveway, because running is better than crying. I walked in the woods. I wrote a blog post about it. Then I opened the file for my magical realism book and story spilled from my brain out through my fingers. I finally felt the deep word focus that I saw in the others when they stared at their screens. 1000 words later I have the bare beginning of characters and a problem. I’m going to have to discovery write this one, but it feels like the right beginning. I have written. I just might survive this experience after all.


My preferred writing bench.

Woodthrush Woods

By / September 25, 2012 / 5 Comments

Mary Robinette’s parent’s house has a name: Woodthrush Woods. I love the idea of naming a house. It gives the place an identity separate from a container inside which people live. It is obvious that this particular house has been beloved for multiple generations. People care for their houses differently when they expect their grandchildren to live in it. It makes me want to be more conscious of the choices I make for my own home, even though it is extremely unlikely that my children or grandchildren will settle there. When my house passes out of my hands, I want it to feel like a place where people were happy. Because that is true. I’d just like that happiness to manifest in more careful repairs and fewer broken drawers and dinged plaster.

Around Woodthrush Woods is a forest, which I presume is how the name came to be. I arrived in the dark last night and I knew that one of my first tasks this morning would be to go wandering in the woods. I wanted to get a feel for this place where I’ve landed. I wanted to see what the trees and birds had to say to me.

For the most part they were unconsciously beautiful, not really having much to tell. These trees have stood here a long time. The birds are more ephemeral, but they have still been here longer than I have. I was very interested in the birds since I’ve lived my whole life in the west and many of these are exclusively eastern birds. I immediately regretted leaving my bird field guides at home. I was trying to save luggage space and weight. I looked up the birds on the internet, but there is a satisfaction to flipping through pages and finding the winged creature who just flew by. The woodthrushes were the first I saw. Then I was delighted by an eastern blue jay. Eastern jays, cardinals, and eastern bluebirds are the iconic backyard birds, along with american robins. I’d only ever seen robins. When I came back east one of my big hopes was to see a cardinal.

I wandered through the trees until I chanced on a trail. It led me to a creek.

I knew there was a creek somewhere nearby and I was pleased to find it. I even hopped my way out onto some rocks, nearly dunking a foot so that I could photograph what would have been an ideal spot for pretend games or a fort.

My children would love these woods.

As usual I was fascinated by some of the tiny details of the forest.

There is a bush which has these berries. I’m fairly certain they are not good for human consumption, but the song birds do seem to like them. Walnuts cracked under my feet from the wild trees. It explained why blue jays like it here. Also under my feet was moss. We don’t get moss in Utah, not enough water in the air. This tiny growth feels magical to me and has me considering placing the house for my magical realism book in an eastern forest instead of a western one.

More thought is required, because I’m far more familiar with the feel of a western forest. Except this one feels more alive and magical to me. I wonder if it is or if unfamiliarity just makes it seem so.

I wandered my way back to the house and saw a flash of red in a tree next to the lawn. A cardinal had stopped by, like a wish of good luck for my week-long visit. I hope I see him again before I leave, but once is enough. I love being able to look up from my computer and see birds swooping from tree to tree. This is a lovely place.

My Travel Day

By / September 24, 2012

I began the morning with an intense focus on last minute things. This was because I required the intensity, not because the things needed it. If I did not train my brain into focus, it wanted to wander around the house thinking maudlin thoughts about each and every thing I touched. I really don’t need to contemplate that this is the last time I’ll touch my regular hairbrush for a week. (I have a smaller brush I use for travel.) I made sure to hug my kids and tell them I loved them. I left enough cookies behind for a week’s worth of lunches. Then I got in the car and focused all my thoughts toward getting myself onto the right plane.

As the plane launched into the sky, I wanted a distraction, something to turn my brain off for the next four hours. Instead I began my writer’s retreat. I pulled out my laptop, I read my study materials, I let these things swirl in my brain and made notes on the mixtures and combinations that resulted. I had thoughts about how my 90% complete SWH draft was aimed in the wrong direction, so I knocked it back to 65% to try again. I observed some of the story techniques that I want to use in my magical realism book and some that I did not. I wrote a letter to one of my kids (remaining letters to be written before the mail comes tomorrow) and noted how the slow and contemplative nature of a handwritten letter changed the way I was thinking about that child and my relationship with him. These may be the first of many letters over the next years. On the ground in Atlanta I noted how empowering it is to be able to find my own way through an airport and onward to my destination without anyone there shepherd me. While waiting at the shuttle drop off point for my ride I contemplated how far I was away from home, and noted how that distance was affecting a portion of my emotional landscape. Then I arrived at a house that has been lived in and loved for three generations, you can see it in all the details. I want to wander everywhere and look at everything. Instead I made the acquaintance of some of the other writers over a late dinner. And now I am here, on my computer, in the familiar little piece of internet home that I brought with me.

Oh, you thought I meant physical travel. That part was pretty boring. It involved sitting in a too small space on a crowded airplane and a too small space in a shared airport shuttle. But the enforced stillness gave time for my thoughts to slow down, expand, pay attention to longer thoughts. It is like the difference between watching the ocean and watching a stream. Both are lovely in their own ways, but different.

For tonight, I finish my trip by settling in to sleep. In the morning I’ll have daylight to look around the woods.

Preparing for Departure

By / September 23, 2012

Who will bring in the mail while I am gone? I don’t know. I know I mentioned to Howard that he could stack it in the bin at the end of the counter, but that was just one of a dozen small conversations where I gave Howard details of little household tasks that I track and he does not. Some of these small things will be forgotten. Some already have been, since I forgot to even think of them–tasks so invisible that I do them without conscious thought. Awareness of all these little tasks makes me feel that everything will fall apart if I go away. It won’t of course. All of the important tasks will get done. Howard and the kids will see what needs to be done and they will do it.

Yet I worry, not for the tasks themselves, but for the additional stress that my loved ones will feel as they perform last-minute scrambles to accomplish necessary tasks. They’ll scramble themselves over obstacles that I am usually here to make smooth. I’m doing as much smoothing as I can before I leave. Meal plans are in place. Everyone has a week’s worth of clean laundry. The van has a full tank of gas. These small preparations appease my guilt, help me feel like it is okay for me to go and that disaster will not result. It is not as if I’m the first mother to head out for a week-long business trip. I’m not even the first one to feel guilty about it.

Last week I felt very tense about all these little tasks, with the same sort of tension which spurred me to put together a binder full of instructions and supplies for my mother when she came to watch my baby and toddler for a week. These days I can trust my kids to know their own schedules and requirements. No binders required. Yet I still feel the pull of writing notes and plastering the walls with them. Trash on Tuesday! Monday is a minimal day! Youth meeting on Wednesday! Instead of writing a dozen notes, I’ll just write one or two really important reminders. The rest I have to let go. The closer I get to departure, the easier it is for me to let go. I begin to accept that things will be run differently in my absence and that this is fine. My ways are not the only good ways. They may even find better options than the ones I’ve been using for so long.

I went away for four days in April and again in May. I returned from both trips to discover that all my people had grown. They were smarter and more capable because they had figured things out for themselves. They were also glad to have me back. I was glad to be back. I know this will be the same despite the extended length of time. Believing that it will be good for them is the only way I can get myself to let go of the responsibility. I am excited, afraid, curious, looking forward, feeling guilty, hoping for rewards, and counting costs. Tomorrow I fly.

Spaces and Boredom

By / September 22, 2012

I have been pondering focus and space. These are frequent subjects for pondering and this particular round was triggered by something Sara Zarr wrote on her blog.

Technically there is the time to do [social media and internet browsing], but it leaves my mind fragmented. Also, and this is the main thing: I think creative people need to feel “bored” or lonely. I think you have to endure that rather than immediately soothing it because after the initial agitation is over, the funnel unclogs and you can actually get some stuff into the well, and out of it.

Since reading that, I’ve been paying attention to how often I wander down to my computer to check one thing. I’ve also been noting how I feel before reading through my regular internet stops and after. The truth is that while I feel like I want to check my sites and get them taken care of before settling in to work, I actually find myself less able to prioritize after I’ve read snippets of a dozen things. I have to step away from my computer, sometimes all the way out of the house into my yard. Sometimes it only takes a few minutes of sitting, others thirty minutes or more, but it will suddenly become obvious to me what my next priority should be. Quiet space gives my thoughts a chance to settle and I can see what is important.

It occurs to me that the impulse to check the internet, or read a book, or watch a show, are my brain telling me that I am bored. If I force myself to accept the boredom and live in it, then my brain begins to dredge through thoughts and memories. I start to tell myself stories. This is where fiction and blog posts come from. Boredom is my friend.

I could finish off this blog post with a commitment to do better or a new set of rules for myself. I think I’ve got enough shake-up-my-life challenges for the coming week without adding another one. Instead I’ll trust that observation impacts the observed. The fact that I am paying attention means that I’ve changed my behavior and will probably continue to do so. Perhaps I’ll set a specific goal in this area once I’ve returned from the retreat and cleared the returning home tasks.

Preparing to Unfold

By / September 20, 2012

Next Monday I’ll board a plane to attend a week-long writer’s retreat. This week has been one of preparation. I’m working to help Patch finish his book report early so that Howard is not stuck with a last minute homework scramble. We’re practicing with Gleek and Patch so that they know how to do bedtime on their own. We’re helping Link and Kiki meet deadlines ahead of time. I’m doing laundry, cleaning house, and stocking the larder. At the same time I’m letting some of these tasks be incomplete, because one of the points of this trip is for me to learn that Howard and the kids do not always require my help, and for them to learn how to step up and help themselves. This learning is necessary since I do things for my family without even thinking about it. I am always performing small invisible tasks which make life go more smoothly, even when I should let the kids struggle with doing these things for themselves. I’m working on it, but truly the only way to convince myself that disaster will not result if I stop doing is for me to step away completely and see that disaster does not occur.

The other reason for the trip is writing. I am quite curious to see what happens when I fold away all the parent thoughts, house care thoughts, and business thoughts simultaneously. What will emerge in the space thus created? I’m hopeful that it will be lovely words and stories. I realized today that I’ve been feeling the same reluctance about writing fiction that I do when contemplating starting a new book or TV show. I know that the story is going to take up residence in my brain and use space until it is complete. I have so many ongoing projects that it is hard to want to sign up for another one. Yet I’m going to. During this retreat I’m going to unfold four writing projects which have been waiting for me.

1. The Strength of Wild Horses. This is the follow up picture book to Hold on to Your Horses. I’m going to attempt to focus on this one first because I want to emerge from the retreat with a completed text.

2. My middle grade fantasy book about a video game playing Tomte (think house elf or brownie) who befriends a young boy. I’ve got the first bit of the book written, but it needs to be restructured and expanded.

3. A magical realism book for which I only have fragments and pieces. I know where it is set, I have a couple of characters with attached emotional issues. The book wants to have themes of dealing with mental illnesses and the fairy tale Tam Lin will be referenced in relation to those. This one feels important, but I really need to collect more pieces before true drafting can begin.

4. Somewhere Before the Blinding Light. This is a short story/novelette/novella which I’ve already drafted once, but needs significant revision. I want to set it on a colony world which was primarily settled by people from India. This means that I need to do some research into Indian history and culture in order to get the social structures right. The story deals with themes of memory and choice because there is a technology which allows selective memory erasure.

Those are the projects I intend to work on. It is entirely possible that some other project will materialize and demand attention instead. This is the danger of turning over so much brain space to my writer self. I am certain that I will also end up with ideas for essays and blog entries, some of which will be completed and posted as the week progresses. Next week is definitely going to be interesting.

Take Two Doses of the Gym and Call Me Next Week

By / April 21, 2014

I went to the gym today, for the second day in a row. I feel quite grouchy about it, because the gym trips were not the result of some reasoned decision to be more healthy. They did not spring out of self control or determined change. My choices were either to run until I was sweaty and endorphinated or to sit down and cry. Howard persuaded me that the running option was better. It was a near thing, I’ve resisted this sort of “go to the gym” suggestion for months, like a child faced with vegetables she didn’t want to eat. I don’t know why. I used to love going to the gym. It represented freedom and self mastery. I guess it has just gotten hard to want to leave my house, which should probably have clued me in. I last went to the gym…a year ago? Longer? Howard has been convinced that regular exercise is part of the solution to my anxiety troubles. I know he’s right, yet it took an attack of depression to get me actually moving.

The medical stuff: A year ago a blood test showed that the dosage for my thyroid medication was too high making me mildly hyperthyroid. We lowered the dosage and my anxiety abated. I then employed thyroid dosage as one of my anxiety control rods. Two weeks ago I tested in the Hypothyroid range, which explains the weight gain, and makes the continuing anxiety feel like a mystery. It also showed me that I need different anxiety management methods. We raised my dosage, and now, ten days later, I’ve been beset with depression. This feels so backward. And dumb. Hypothyroid is associated with depression and the medication Maybe it is a coincidence, or maybe it is not. But the depression would have me believe that I am doomed forever and will never figure any of it out. My logic brain says we are going to continue to take our thyroid medicine, let things settle, exercise every (expletive) day as part of the medical treatment, then take all the data to our doctor’s appointment in a couple of weeks. At least this way when my doctor asks if I’ve been exercising, I can answer that, yes I have, and it still has not solved everything. Or maybe it will have solved everything and then I can just have a pleasant chat with my doctor and not see him again for another year.

I saw a commercial for depression medication which used animations for the visuals. It was a woman with a sad blue umbrella over her head that rained on her. Then she started taking medicine and the umbrella rested closed near her instead of looming over her head. I loved how the commercial implied that medicine was not a magical solution. It is a much more realistic expectation than images of happy people running through fields of flowers. My depression experience this week has been like that. It loomed over me making everything wet…until I ran on the treadmill and it all backed off. I can still sense the sadness out on the horizons of my brain. I could go fetch it and wallow in it if I wanted to, but I can also function and get things done. All the important and urgent tasks are easy. I even feel satisfaction and accomplishment for a brief time afterward. But for anything long-term or creative I’m having trouble wanting to get things done. It is the classic “loss of interest” symptom of depression. I’d suspect this of being a hypothyroid depression, except for the stuff in the medical paragraph. Brains are complicated and weird. Last week I was normal for me, which means mostly happy with occasional anxiety. This hit me Monday afternoon.

So once again I’m in a diagnosis cycle. I seem to spend a lot of time in those for either myself or those near and dear to me. I’m a bit cranky at having to deal with it, so I use that crankyness to get me to the gym where I can pound a treadmill and weights for a bit. Hopefully it is a prescription for better health.

Inward and Outward

By / September 11, 2012 / 1 Comment

I have been turning inward, staying home, focusing on family. I have been trying to teach myself that not everything is my responsibility to fix and that when things go wrong it is not necessarily my fault. These are important lessons for me, and harder to learn than perhaps they ought to be. I keep circling around like Rabbit, Pooh, and Piglet in the woods, always ending up back at the very same sand pit. It seems like I should focus, work harder, not get distracted. Yet lately I’m running across articles and sermons speaking about reaching out. They are resonating for me and I’m discovering a desire to be a better friend, neighbor, acquaintance, writer. At the exact same time I feel like I should be drawing in, conserving my energy for the things which really matter instead of spreading myself out thin across too many people, too many communities.

I think about these things as I lay curled up on my couch with a blanket over my head. The blanket creates a warm darkness that feels safe. I carefully unclench my jaw. Again. I know that the clenched jaw is a signifier of stress or anxiety, but I don’t know exactly what the stress is or why it is there. It seems that these things ought to have a source, and that I should be able to follow the flow back to that source and figure it out. Find a way to reconfigure my internal landscape so that I can have interior pools of calmness instead of pressured pockets seeking to geyser. I want caverns and pools forming lovely stalactites and stalagmites, not underground hot springs that bubble with the stench of sulfur. Instead I squeeze my eyes tight, unclench my jaw and try to arrange words in my head so that I can write them down later.

Nothing went wrong with the morning. We got up on time, the kids ate breakfast and did their homework with only the mildest of nudges. I did have the remnants of the migraine which struck me the night before. Perhaps I was a little bit sick. Yet I followed my to do list through the tasks of the morning, even to the point of grabbing a quiet moment alone with Gleek to discuss some of the physical manifestations of her anxiety and how we could perhaps redirect those into more socially acceptable avenues during school hours. It was an important discussion. Gleek was quiet, cooperative, and communicative as we discussed reasons and options. I wore my very best therapist hat, dusted off and spruced up because it has seen a lot of use lately. Putting that hat on takes an effort of will these days. It feels so heavy sometimes. Which could possibly be a source for some of the tension, and one of the major reasons I must chant to myself that not every problem is mine to fix, nor my fault. Yet sometimes wearing the therapist hat feeds energy into me instead of pulling it out. Sometimes extending myself means I end up with more, not less.

My feet are cold even curled up under my blanket on the couch. This too is a sign of ambient anxiety. My body pulls warmth toward my core, conserving it for…something. When I am relaxed and centered I am warm to my fingertips and toes. Having the space and time to curl up and contemplate my cold toes is a luxury. Many days I must carry on and get things done without time to contemplate. I can go for quite a long time before I hit a wall, my ability to focus vanishes, and I have to face all the things I’ve not been thinking about. If I can even figure out what they are.

The day before, I watched Gleek in her classroom as the teacher handed out assignments. Unbidden, my brain took note of each one and added it to my task list. I tried to shake them off; they are not my tasks, they’re Gleek’s. Yet it was like getting rid of styrofoam peanuts, they kept drifting and clinging no matter how much I tried to discard them. At homework time, Gleek pulled out her work, and most of it was already complete. She has inherited from me the tendency to work ahead, get things done early, and to fret over assignments before fretting is strictly necessary. This is reassuring to me. I do not have to track her assignments. She will do it. I wonder at what point she will find herself curled under a blanket trying to untangle her thoughts because the same tendencies which make her effective at getting work done also create needless anxieties. All I can do is wear my battered therapist hat and hope to pass on lessons as I learn them.

Eventually enough words line up in my brain that I must record them. I lift the blanket off my head and wrap it around my shoulders. Then I go to my computer and type. Amorphous thoughts are pinned into little black symbols written in pixels, stored as ones and zeros through a mechanism I barely understand. All I really know is that I click and the words are there. My words, trying to wrap themselves around my experiences as a method of conveying those experiences to others. With my words I turn inwards, seeking my thoughts and reasons, trying to figure out why I am the way that I am. My words also reach outward, seeking to connect with others. The seemingly contradictory happens simultaneously through the same action. Perhaps the answer then is to write.

Responsibility Fatigue

By / August 24, 2012

I stayed up too late last night because I ran out of responsibility. All yesterday, indeed all week, I have been the organizer of schedule. In theory, the job should not be onerous because we are merely reinstating a slight variation of a long-familiar schedule. No one is rebelling, everyone is glad to fall into a routine, yet I ended up sitting on the couch at 10:30 pm with tears leaking out of my eyes. None of my responsibilities were hard: nudge kids awake, remind them of homework, check to make sure gym clothes were cleaned, post-convention accounting, pick kids up from school, provide snacks, defend quiet space for work, declare time to make dinner, assist in making dinner, oversee homework. None of it was herculean considered alone, but anyone who has exercised with low weights and high repetitions can attest to the increasing difficulty of each lift. The fatigue builds incrementally, particularly when one is out of practice. Thus I ended a day, which had run very smoothly, feeling like I’d failed and was doomed to fail forever.

When I began remodeling my office, I realized that I wanted to take the process slow. I wanted to change something, like taking out the wall, and then consider how to proceed from there. It was very instructive to notice that making one change would open up new avenues of possibility. Dwelling in the changed space let me see which step was obviously next. I haven’t reached the “obviously next” part of this new schedule. I can see what is working; morning schedule, chores, homework times. I’ve identified what isn’t; something needs to be done to give me time off. Yet, I’m still wandering around in this space waiting for my back brain to mull it all over and show me what needs to be changed.

One of the things that absorbed my thoughts last night was thinking ahead to the writer’s retreat I’m attending at the end of September. I always thought it would fall into the category of dream come true, instead I appear to be approaching it like a fearful chore, something that needs to be done because it will force us all to grow. Truthfully, the primary value of the retreat may be that having it loom in my future is forcing me to be conscious of how I set the family patterns during this transition period. Instead of excusing kids from chores, I’m insisting on them. Instead of solving problems by assigning them to me, I’m stopping to think to whom the problems really belong. Instead of setting up a system that is like spinning thirty plates on sticks and I have to run around to make sure nothing falls down, I’m trying to create a functioning engine that only needs some oversight and a little grease in spots. Even if the retreat produces nothing else, the system it is encouraging will give me more creative space all year long. Hopefully between now and the end of September that increased creative space will allow me to remember why I dreamed of going to a writers retreat in the first place.

Words are probably the answer to what comes next. Writing gives me more than it takes from me. I’ve even begun to open up writer thoughts, which is also an effect of the scheduled retreat. I can’t waste the opportunity to focus on writing without doing some preparatory work. I’m slowing reading and processing a book about rhetoric and writing construction. I’m not racing through because I want to absorb and incorporate rather than cause my writing brain to seize up trying to do it all at once. I suppose I’m renovating my writing using the same method as I used for my office. Change a little and wait for it to settle. Unfortunately I keep battling waves of worry that my words are simply not as good as they ought to be. “I can do better than this,” is a frequent thought in my mind while hitting publish on yet another blog post which I know could use more polish if only I were not so tired. Or lazy. It is very human to simultaneously want to create something glorious and at the same time to not want to work too hard at it. I need to take more time to work at writing, trusting that the focused practice will make my work better even if it does not seem any better to me. Even if the words are not better, writing them makes me happier. I need to remember that.

I finally dragged myself off the couch and proceeded to stay up too late. I knew that my responsibility was to go straight to bed so that I could rise on time and launch the next day properly. That last responsible act was too heavy, too depressing. It felt as though all year would be an unrelenting onslaught of “I must be responsible.” Instead I fixed myself a frozen pizza and watched a tv show for an hour. At the end of it I felt much better. I’d taken time to do something just because I felt like it and the process restored my ability to hope again. I’m short on sleep today, but the morning went smoothly anyway, because the patterns don’t all depend on me to keep them running. This morning I’m writing first instead of trying to discipline my brain into doing accounting. I’ll do the accounting next, because it is important, but this morning writing was obviously next. After a work out it is important to rest. A study of weigh training makes clear that rest is when the muscles actually form, making the next lifting session easier. I think that this evening will be better.

Ready or Not. Again.

By / August 21, 2012 / 1 Comment

My sister dropped her oldest son off for college last week. I’ve watched her this summer as she rode emotional arcs related to having her first child leave home. My daughter is only a year younger and I’m afraid I patted myself on the back a little about how sensible I was being about her entering her senior year. I honestly felt no apprehension. I even wrote a post or two in that vein. My smugness was justly rewarded when I waved the last of my kids out the door for their first day of school, turned, and smacked right into a wall of grief. It was actually more subtle than that metaphor implies. I was aware of something filling my head, so Howard and I had one of those conversations where I begin talking with a tiny thread of thought, spooling it out until suddenly I find that I’m holding an emotional tangle instead of a simple thread. All my thoughts unblock and I learn things about how I’m feeling by listening to the words which fall out of my mouth. The key sentences today were:
“I don’t want this part to be over. I’m going to miss this part.”
I meant this part of my life when all my kids are at home. Later I spoke words which I liked even less, because it implies a level of control freak in my psyche with which I am not comfortable.
“I’m going to miss being in charge.”
As much as I complain about it, I like being the organizer of our lives. I have all my people gathered close to me under one roof. I know I have to let them fly free. That is the point. It is what I’ve been aiming toward ever since the first minute I knew I was pregnant. But I grieve because this era of my life is going to end and today felt like the beginning of that end.

Today I was also tired, insomnia and the bio-rhythmic upset of getting up three hours earlier than during the summer, did not help any. I also felt silly to feel grief about something which has not actually happened yet. My daughter has a full year of high school ahead of her. She may well decide to live at home and attend one of the two universities within twenty minutes of our house. I could be years away from the first one flying off. I’m surprised to feel grief over this. I really thought I wouldn’t.

The good news is that the grief will pass. It is probable that any later sadness I feel on the matter will be less because I addressed some of the emotions today. This is why I did not attempt to hide from it. The feeling exists inside me, I acknowledge it and try to incorporate it, even if I feel silly or cliche about it.

My four kids came home from school happy. Kiki had nothing but cheerful words for her classes, even the dreaded physics class. She got a pair of science teachers she really likes. Link has concerns about his yearbook class. I’ll keep an eye on it to see if it needs adjusted. Gleek spent most of the ride home providing a comparative analysis of last year’s teacher and this year’s. Patch just says he liked his teacher.

We’re off and running; happy or sad, ready or not.