Quicksand

You think I don’t care because that’s what I would have you believe. I want to believe it myself because it would be so much easier that way. The truth is, I cling to every conversation we don’t have; every phone call you won’t make and every email you won’t send. It keeps the pain fresh,  so I can attempt to hate you for moving on and leaving the dust behind to settle upon me.

After all this time, why can’t I just accept the absence of what was? I ask myself that question relentlessly while I wish for different thoughts to have been possessed; for different words to have been spoken. I wish for different circumstances altogether. But wishing doesn’t make it so. Wishing only serves to make the loss wash over anything good that has happened since you faded away. It only serves to hide any Light that could be revealed.

But I’m stuck. Mired in anger and judgement; emptiness and self-pity.  Ambivalence has entangled me, and left me without the ability to choose otherwise.

Sometimes I Forget I Have A Blog

As much as I don’t want to make this a post about how incredibly busy I am, and that I can’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve blogged, I guess I’m about to. I was thinking of something funny that happened over the weekend but when I sat down to write about it, I couldn’t help marveling for 5 full minutes over the fact that my last post was dated September 28th.

It’s not that I haven’t been writing. In fact, I’ve been writing more than ever. I have 2 more articles coming out in print before the end of the year and I’ve written 3 times that number to send out into the land of magazine queries. Now I just patiently wait for responses while I work on my term papers, research papers, essay exams, and pieces for my creative nonfiction class. And in between all of that, I try to bang out a page here and there of the manuscript I started over the summer.

The truth is, I literally forget I have a blog sometimes. And by sometimes, I mean MOST days. And then when I do get on here to share something, I forget how to use the fucking blog platform I so cleverly switched to right before I figured that starting a new business and moving half way across the country wasn’t nearly enough to keep myself entertained, and decided become a full time college student and start freelancing simultaneously.

I’ve actually found that being so busy has made me far more productive than I ever was when I had more time on my hands. I take advantage of the time I have because I know it’s limited. I don’t procrastinate as much and I’m mentally present in the things I do because I feel so much more fulfilled. I guess having more leisure time somehow gave me an excuse to be lazy.

The other thing is, I absolutely love what I’m doing–all of it. I feel completely in my element at school. I love listening to the lectures and critiquing what we read in class; I love all the writing I’m doing and the opportunity for feedback so I can get better at it. I even love sending a query letter off to an editor somewhere in cyberspace not knowing if they’re going to like what I’ve written or not. For the first time in my life, I get completely lost in what I’m doing that I don’t even mind the hectic pace I’m speeding at most of the time. I always hoped I would find that one thing that I could become completely and deliciously submersed in, and I truly feel like I have.

I Guess You Could Say I’m Overwhelmed

I’m in the downstairs bathroom sorting laundry. I grab what I quickly realize is one of my daughter’s soccer socks, rank and still moist with sweat from Monday’s game. As I toss it aside, the mounting piles of dirty clothes catch my eye. I lose it. Laundry day has somehow reduced me to a heaving, slobbery mess.

As I lay on the floor sniffling, I understand the comedy of the situation. There’s any number of things I could be crying about. I could be crying because my husband started his own business so that we could move back to New Hampshire. Although we’ve been here seven months, our house in Ohio still hasn’t sold and isn’t worth what we paid for it. I have no certainty about our financial future. Those would be some terrific reasons for crying.

I could be crying because having class three nights a week has caused me to miss my kids’ first field hockey game, first soccer practice, first dance class, and open house night—all within a span of two weeks. That’s definitely worthy of ‘the ugly cry’.

I could even be crying about the fact that the deadline for my first feature article is looming, and I have no interest in the subject matter, and no idea how to write about it. I’m fairly certain that the whole project will be a complete disaster, and my writing career will be over before it started. That, right there, is perfect meltdown material.

But no, I choose to sob over the laundry. I just spent my entire Sunday washing and drying upwards of 8 loads of my family’s soiled belongings, and here I am facing the task again. Peaks of dirty clothes are easy to cry over though. Easier than anything else I can think of. They’re tangible and overwhelming, but I can do something about them. I can’t say the same for the rest.

I wonder what made me think I could handle going back to school and forging a career path for myself in the midst of everything else we have going on. For the first time since becoming parents, my husband and I have to synchronize Blackberries to compare schedules, make child-care arrangements, and pass each other at the start of each “shift.” Worse than that, is remembering the pile of dishes in the kitchen, the dog hair swirling around on the floors, the homework I have to check and the lunches I have to pack. It makes me want to hide in that bathroom with the laundry indefinitely. Maybe I should’ve waited for a more convenient time to do this.

I wish I could say I experience an Oprah-worthy light bulb moment that makes everything better, but I don’t. I do remember something my Kabbalah teacher once told me. He said, “You have to become uncomfortable—even suffer a little bit to be fulfilled. If you don’t have discomfort to move beyond, you won’t feel as though you’ve accomplished anything.” I guess he has a point; if something is easy it doesn’t tend to leave me feeling satisfied for very long. And I know that as a parent, there’s no such thing as a convenient time to do something for you. There’s always something else that you should be doing first.

I realize that I’ve just let an entire load start without putting the clothes in, and I scramble to fill the washer before the process gets too far along. I dry my eyes with the back of my sleeve and lament that my meltdown of minor proportions was long overdue.

I Hope Gloria Steinem Never Reads This

During each of my pregnancies, the moment I learned that I was carrying a girl, I decided that I really needed to figure out how I should raise her to become an independent woman that would exude self confidence and achieve blissful self reliance. I read all the feminist authors and devoured any parenting book I could find that suggested how I might avoid making my daughters feel devalued in a society that is known to objectify women.

After months of tireless research, I had adopted a parenting charter of sorts based on my findings—a list of dos and don’ts that would make the likes of Gloria Steinem proud:

1)   No Barbie Dolls

2)   No Fairy Tales

3)   No Nail Polish

4)   No Make-Up

5)   No TV

6)   No Magazines

7)  Absolutely No 2-Piece Bathing Suits—at least until the age of consent (at which point I figured each of my daughters would be so strong willed and self assured that they would balk at the idea of wearing something that would essentially reduce them to mere eye candy.)

The only problem with that arbitrary set of rules I had so carefully crafted for the purpose of parenting my future CEOs is that they were just so simply not me.

I loved Barbie–I still do! In fact, I played with dolls until I was 12. And immediately after I’d finish a chapter of The Beauty Myth, I would fantasize about furnishing Barbie’s penthouse and stocking her wardrobe with all the latest fashions along side my daughters (or my gay sons.)

I dreamed of my girls waking up on Christmas morning to find the hairbrushes, miniature pedicure sets, and teeny bottles of nail polish that Santa had left in their stockings (not Whorehouse Red or anything…just the pink, glittery kind.)

And truth be told, Cinderella was always my favorite story. I even bought a video of the Disney version long before I even became pregnant. Needless to say, I broke all my own rules and failed Feminist Parenting 101. Naomi Wolf would not be pleased, but I can’t help it; I love girly things.

I’ve kept to a few of the items on my list: for the most part, my kids aren’t permitted to watch television, and I don’t allow magazines in the house, but I’ve let the majority of my rules slide. I’ve even given up on my ‘no 2 piece bathing suit rule’ recently…somewhat reluctantly I might add. In fact, the jury in my head is still out on that one. But one of the many problems I’ve encountered as my children have grown is that they’ve developed this uncanny ability to use logic, and to point out the flaws in my arguments against things.

In my case, I’ve had to admit that at times, my children are able weave such complicated circles around my words, so that I’m left dazed and confused (as well as convinced that I actually said the complete opposite of what I thought I did.) But such is life as a parent I guess…you win some, you lose several; and your kids will be there to assure you that it’s all going according to plan.

I Think I’ll Save It For A Rainy Day

I woke up this morning and summer was gone. We’d grown accustomed to propping the windows open at night to squeeze in as much cool air as we could through the screen grids once the moon appeared and the blanket of humidity dissipated some,  but the temperature that greeted me as I made my way down the stairs was almost frigid. I even considered that I might see my breath if I looked twice, so I didn’t.

I can’t figure out what happened. How could nearly 3 months go by in the blink of an eye? There are so many things I never got to cross of my ‘To-Do’ list, but now September is on the cusp of taunting me for being too ambitious.

I suppose what there is to hold onto are the things I did to make the most of the time I had. Simple things, like buying season passes to a nearby water park (that we managed to use more than enough times to get our money’s worth) and taking the girls swimming every day that I could after the monsoon season of June and July ended. There were amazing things too…I saw a couple of great concerts and took a trip to San Diego to spend time with some incredible friends that I will forever be grateful to the Universe for helping me to find.

I’m going to try to keep my attention focused on all there is to look forward to in the fall instead of dwelling in this time gone by. But perhaps I’ll wrap these sunny, summer memories up in wax paper–like my grandmother used to do with the peanut butter & jelly sandwiches she’d pack in my lunch, and tuck them away for the next morning I wake up and could use a little warmth.

Savoring Summer

I recently wrote an article about going back to school and how motivating the start of a new school year is (and always has been) for me. With September 1st on the horizon, I usually have so much drive and ambition. I have goals to attain and plans to fulfill; I make my to-do lists, and I check them twice. This year is no different–in fact, since I’m starting school this fall along with my kids, I’m even more inspired to accomplish.

That said, there is also a part of me that wants to press the pause button and squeeze every last relaxed, slow moving moment out of this summer and savor it to the last. In the last few weeks I’ve been consumed by a feeling that hovers somewhere between excitement and trepidation, but I can’t quite put my finger on it or name it.

I know that practically and logistically my life will change as soon as that first day of classes arrives. I’ll have to figure out schedules, child-care and generally how to get all of the same things done in less time; I’m prepared for that. But in a way I can’t explain, I know that things won’t be the same on many other levels as well…and never will be again. This is a turning point for my family and me, and as much as I am thrilled and raring to go, I feel like I can’t help holding onto what is comfortable for a bit longer.

Spaces In Between

It’s strange to feel as though parts of you exist in two places, but none of you is whole in either of them. But that’s how it is for me right now in the transition that is still taking place  since our recent move  from Ohio back to New Hampshire. There are still pieces of me there…pieces left behind–a house that was a home; a friendship forever changed; dreams that never came to be. Stranger still is that somehow I know I’m better off without those things, but my mind insists on clinging to them. At times, desperately so.

That’s not to say that I’m not happy where I am. I’m certain that I am supposed to be here, and it has been surprisingly comforting to reconnect with this community that I never guessed I would be a part of again. And truth be told, I never felt like we truly belonged in Ohio. But we made a life there nonetheless, and the part of me that clings to it is the same part that allows my emotions to dictate my level of certainty when I feel lost.

This has been a year of sweeping change in my life with my husband ending his business partnership and starting his own company, moving, and me deciding to return to school full time. It’s as though I haven’t been allowed to catch my breath after one change before another one takes place. I guess it’s only natural that I would try to hold on to something familiar; at least emotionally.

Even though we seem to have fit back into this small town life relatively quickly, most people have a history here that I can’t compete with. Their kids have all gone to these schools since day one; their friendships were formed long ago. It feels a bit like everyone shares a private joke that I’m not privy to, but they allow me to laugh along with them (even though they know I don’t really get it.)

I know I’m still finding my feet here in a way, and I’m sure that once the house in Ohio sells it’ll be that much easier to let go. In the meantime, I’ll straddle the space in between and hope that I am able to strike a balance.

Life According To My Husband

I have come to realize that consistency is not my strong suit. I get bored and I like change. Well, to clarify,  I like certain things to change. Continuity is important in husbands, friends, pets; things of that nature. Thankfully I don’t tend to easily cast those things aside, but I have to admit that I’ve gone through an inordinate amount of coffee makers, decorating themes, cars, and even houses.

I have spent an obscene amount of time trying to analyze this character flaw of mine–why am I like this?  Is it because I moved around almost every year of my life as a kid? Is it because my father wasn’t around when I was growing up? Am I just scatter-brained?

Steve came up with a theory to explain my inner most workings, and I was actually quite impressed that he had spent any amount of time contemplating such a thing. He’s more of a technical sort of guy, and doesn’t waste much time philosophizing (unlike me.) So I was complaining one day about needing to figure myself out, and needing to be more balanced, and I said, “I just wonder if I’m ever going to feel like I’ve achieved all I was meant to, and be complete with that.” Before I could even get all the words out, he started nodding his head like he knew what I was going to say, and he already had the answer.

Steve: (nodding fiercely)”You my friend, are a hunter.”

Me: “I’m a hunter. Am I supposed to know what that means?”

Steve: “You like to go out and find things. You’re always onto the next place, the next thing. You like the excitement of experiencing something new, but you don’t get bogged down with the details. You know, some people are like farmers. They need to cultivate–they’re in it for the long haul. Farmers like to put down roots, and make the best of what the land has to offer–they don’t spend much time thinking about what someone else’s land might be like, and wish they could see it; they just know what they have in front of them, and you know, ‘you get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit’ ” (he was quoting Kaelin’s 1st grade teacher.)

Me: “Well, that makes me sound flighty and dissatisfied with my life. I’m not flighty–I’m contemplative; and I’m not dissatisfied–I’m happy with my life…that doesn’t mean there isn’t room for improvement, but I don’t spend my time pining for something better. And I don’t think I much like being referred to as a hunter.”

Steve: “No! Hunters aren’t unhappy–they don’t go around saying, ‘I wish I hadn’t caught that wild boar; I should’ve caught a buffalo instead.’ They’re grateful for the boar…no, they’re PSYCHED about the boar, but when they’re hungry again, they say, ‘what can I catch next’ that’s all. Think of it as a developer, if you want. Someone in development pitches the ideas and has his hand in lots of things, but he doesn’t do the work to make the idea come to fruition.”

Me: “Well, you know me. I’m always one for passing off the work whenever possible.”

Clean Sheet Night

It would probably be smarter of me not to admit this. While I’m convinced I have everyone almost fooled into believing that my life is one red carpet event after another, complete with flowing champagne and more A-list celebrities than you could shake a free swag bag at, the somewhat embarrassing truth of the matter is that one of the highlights of our week is the night we like to call “Clean Sheet Night.”

Clean Sheet Night is of course, the evening in which we change our bed linens, and for one blissful night, we get to experience the cool crispness of freshly laundered sheets against our skin; we have the opportunity to sleep unencumbered by shedding fur, pet dander, sand from a child’s shoe, (that most certainly should not have been in our bed in the first place) or stray grains of litter from a cat’s feet (I know it’s gross…imagine how we feel.) 

We know that for the rest of the week our bed will not feel as comfortable and uncontaminated as it does on Clean Sheet Night, and we savor it. We bask in it. We inhale the scent of Tide on each pillow case. We run our feet along the bottom of the mattress (in all our glory) and marvel at the lack of debris; we talk about the good old days when our girls were babies without the need for shoes, and when we had only one pet to soil our bed; we fantasize about the cleanliness our lives might entail in the aftermath of children moving on–sans cats, dogs and fish.

Clean Sheet Night is without a doubt one of life’s little pleasures…and we milk it for all it’s worth.

Walls That Talk

The wind howls outside my window, and I imagine it sounds like the voices these rooms have long since forgotten. What would those voices have said? I wonder if the people those voices belonged to would have worn their hearts on their sleeves–sharing their thoughts and dreams with all who would listen, like words spilled across the pages of an open book. Or would they have been more closed and reserved–hiding all that they felt from the world?

I listen to the floors creak as I make my way up the stairs at night, and I think about the feet that padded down these same hallways so many years ago. Were there lots of little feet? Were they joyous? Or were they tentative…or resigned? I wonder if those who made their home here 100 years ago had their own questions about the people that resided here 100 years before them. And I imagine that they did.

I sit here before this computer screen each morning, waiting for the words to come, and I gaze out at the landscape that fills my window; the mountains, the stone walls, the enormous maple that splattered my car with sap day after day just a few short months ago. I try to envision how the scenery has changed over the 250 years since this house was built. Who chose this spot?Was it selected for the peaceful backdrop that first family would wake up to with each new day? I conjure the callused hands that fashioned the stone steps to the flower garden, and painstakingly assembled the wall in front of me, one stone at a time. And I picture the maple as a seedling, just barely pushing its way out of the ground.

I can’t help but wonder about the lives this house has bared witness to–all the delight it has seen; all the devastation; and everything in between. If these walls could talk, there would (without a doubt) be an infinite number of stories to tell, and I would wait with baited breath to hear each and every one of them.