Coffee Cup

 I bought myself a fancy, over-priced, expensive Miir mug on Tuesday at Peets. I had gotten up early and gone to get blood drawn for my supposed-to-be-monthly-don't-always-make-it-happen labs. Years ago I started treating myself to coffee and a pastry after morning labs, as a reward for waking up early, fasting and getting poked with a needle. I felt scattered, mind floating, jittery. I had just had a conversation with two white yoga pracitioners who are part of my sangha--people I met in a powerful, challenging yoga teacher training taught by the badass, wonderful, beloved Susana Barkataki. Susanna Barkataki

Some of us meet weekly via Zoom to check in and get support in our learning process. On Tuesday we spoke about one person's commitment to not travelling by plane. When I asked them if that was due to the ecological impact of air travel, they confirmed that yes, that was the reason. I felt uncomfortable because I am nowhere near ready to give up air travel. Climate change is not one of the areas I focus my attention. I recycle. I named my discomfort as part of our discussion about social justice work, liberation work, and how to show up consistently and imperfectly. We talked about how we can push each other and step into more discomfort. We talked about honoring our nervous systems and not choosing suffering 100% of the time. We talked about adrienne maree brown's book Pleasure Activism and finding time to read it together adrienne maree brown

From there, I walked into Peets even though I knew my budget could not truthfully support this treat. In line, I looked on the shelves and saw a short metal cup with a handle and a hard plastic top. I have looked at the resuable cups at Peets many times over the years and never bought one because they always cost so much money. Instead, I have bought disposable cups over and over again, as if the true cost of that was somehow cheaper. This one was $25, an absurd amount to spend on one cup, especially when one already knows one cannot truthfully afford it. 

I bought it anyway. I pushed down the discomfort I felt in my body for not honoring my own self-care, my own limits. I bantered with the coffee seller. I left with my new mug filled with an almond milk latte, a scone in my other hand, no bag. Because, the earth.

I vowed that I would keep this cup in my van. My van that is currently, and most of the time, filled with stuff. Clothes, masks, dog treats, pens, papers, books, trash, food. It embarrasses me each time I get in and yet I have not found or made time to clean it. Because here we acnowledge that human capacity is not limitless as Krystal Collins, one of the Administrators in the Done for DiDi- -White Labor Collective said so generously and wisely last month during book club. I got ready to drive home and then turned the car off, remembering that I had no dog food and that the dog had not eaten since the day before. Walked into Petfood Express, spent $90 on a big bag of food and two heavy-duty bones. Cringed inwardly at the expense and at the awareness of all of the other things that money could do.  Drove home.

This morning I dropped the kids off, staying in the car in the drop off line as they trundled out of the messy van. I saw what I thought was a sign on the mini Jumbotron thing that lives in front of school saying that at 8:15 this morning they would be hosting Cafe with the Principal and the Superintendent. It was 7:55. I was wearing dirty sweats and my slippers, an actual shit with a bra underneath. I was half-accptable to myself for a public outing. I sighed inwardly and then drove home. Changed my clothes. Grabbed my mug. Loaded the dog in the car so I could take him out after coffee. Drove back to school. Got out. Re-read the sign. Realized I had the wrong date. It's on the 14th, today is the 11th.

I got back into the messy van and almost drove home when I remembered the coffee I had at home was decaf. I am going on a one-night overnight camping trip with Lily and her Brownie troop tomorrow night. I am bringing coffee, even though it was not on the list. Because self care is a cup of hot coffee after a cold night of sleeping on the ground outside. Headed back to Peets. Bought a bag of beans, ordered an almond milk latte and sat down to read an article about Lowell High School in San Francisco. What Happens When an Elite Public School Becomes Open to All? 

I was engrossed, the coffee shop was full and I waited, not hearing my name. I got up once to see if my cup was up there. It was not. I got up again and asked the baristas whether mine was coming soon.

"Oh. A woman took that cup and left. She said it was hers."

I held the divorced hard plastic cup in my hand. I felt. . .sad and confused and mad and dumb. My voice was a little quavery when I asked "What should I do?" hoping someone would fix it for me. 

The baristas apologized. They made me a new latte, served in a single-use cup with a single-use soft plastic top. I held up the reusable plastic top and asked "Should I leave this here in case she comes back?" I wasn't just disappointed and sad about the loss of the cup for myself, I was also agitated at the thought that it now made no sense. What was I going to do, throw out the plastic top? Try to get a cup that needed and fit the top? Wouldn't she rather have the top too?

"Leave it for the thief?" a white woman next to me asked in indignation. I didn't respond. In fact, this is where the tears come up for me now.

I have taken things that weren't mine, because I wanted them or needed them or felt in that moment that I needed them. No one has called me a thief, at least not to my face. My young daughter took something that wasn't hers two weeks ago. I didn't call her a thief. Are the three of us thieves, me, my daughter and this stranger who has the cup I bought? I guess so. But what is the point of that word, that story? To separate the good people from the bad? The hurt people from the ones who cause harm? Do we have the sense that every single person falls entirely into any one of these categories?

My daughter, her father and I had a painful conversation about her actions, about how hard it is to regain trust after your actions have fractured it. I don't remember having conversations like that when I was younger. I remember feeling that sometimes I was Good. Sometimes I was Bad. Not my actions but Me, my actual self. I felt a lot of shame, trying to be Good, internally beating myself up when I was Bad. Trying to excorcise the Bad so I could only be Good. Because Good meant Worthy. I keep learning that systems of oppression aim to separate us with this black and white thinking. Shame keeps us quiet. Fear of losing people's love, our community, if we show our needs or our wants or our shadows. I don't want to live like that.

I do not know why that person took a cup that wasn't hers. Maybe she was distracted. Maybe she was in a rush. Maybe she wanted the cup. Maybe she too had a top that needed a cup to fit it. I do not know. It upset me though. I was upset because I couldn't afford that cup and I won't let myself buy a new one now. I was upset because I wasn't paying attention and it was hard not to blame myself. I was upset because it didn't feel fair and I was on the losing end in that instance. And I was upset because I am learning to take up space. That part of liberation work is that I also matter, that I also get to be free. That skipping over my feelings does not serve me or the movement. Skipping over my own anger or hurt or disappointment means that it keeps living in me, pouring out in moments when my tears or hurt might take away from important moments or spaces when I can no longer hold it in and someone says or does something that punctures that valve.

What I know for sure is that this person must be many things, not just a Thief. It somehow hurt just as much to hear that other woman call her that name, in anger that couldn't have been just about my cup. The cup, since it's no longer mine. I wish somehow she could have asked so that I could have given her the whole thing. And truthfully, I might not have given it up. But I might have. And now I just have this top.

I got back into the car and started driving to the park with the dog. Tears came and I wept for a minute. Those tears were not just about the cup. And even though I had a voice in my ear saying "It's just a cup. You shouldn't have spent so much on a cup anyway" I let myself be sad and mad and disappointed. And I let myself weep because it's been a long week of carrying a lot of emotional loads that I have had a hard time putting down.

What we do matters. When I was younger I thought it mostly mattered if I got caught. I was more concerned about what people thought about me than I was about how I acted. I did not know what my values were or what it meant or felt like to be accountable. I did not know what it meant or what it felt like to not beat myself up over mistakes, to not try to hide the parts that seemed Bad but to actually step up and repair harm that I caused. I am learning those things. I am grateful for generous teachers.  

Giorgio

 I have a friend named Giorgio. He didn't start out as my friend--he was my third childhood soccer coach and the father of my new best friend when I was eight. Our team was called the Dolphin and I do not remember how I linked up with that team. He is Italian and loud and smart and passionate in his opinions and values. He drove a brown Cadillac, fast. He used to yell, with vigor, "Acchuge Fumigante!" as our girl team ran the ball down the field. It sounded like he was yelling "Charge!" He said it meant "roasted mushrooms" although now when I tried looking it up for the proper spelling the internet told it could find no such thing. He once said being nervous gave one 70% more power and I still carry that wisdom around with me, leaning into it when I need to.

He showed up big time for me twenty years ago when I was sick with liver failure. I don't know how he decided to come or what message he received that pushed him to get into his car and drive to see me. When I was in the ICU, refusing the placement of the feeding tube the medical team insisted I needed, I had to drink thick, chalky milkshakes full of protein. He was visiting me as I attempted to eat the anemic shrimp salad the hospital had provided me. He scornfully assessed the tiny, tasteless shrimp. My friend Giorgio is a foodie and an excellent cook. Some of the best and weirdest food I ever ate as a child was prepared by him as I spent many a night and day with his daughter at their house. The first time I ever ate sushi or went to a taqueria was with their family.

In the hospital, I don't know if it was the day of the shrimp salad or another day, he went to Mollie Stone's down the street from the hospital and came back with fat, juicy jumbo shrimp for me. And a bunch of round, perfect grapes. It turned out the grapes had seeds in them so as he sat by my bed, he took each grape and cut it in half so he could take the seed out before handing me the grape. I don't remember him asking but my mom tells me that while visiting me in the hospital he leaned in and asked me "Are you going to fight?"  Yes. I am going to fight. I got transplanted a couple days after that.

A week after my transplant I found out I needed another surgery. My surgeon told me an errant ligament was constricting the blood flow to my liver and he needed to open me back up again and cut the arcuate ligament. I went numb for about twelve hours and then completely lost it, terrified to have surgery again. At some point during that twenty four hours between being informed of and then having the surgery I talked to Giorgio. "I'm pissed!" I said. "I want to go smash some widows, break some glass."

He came to visit, holding a small brown paper lunch bag. He smiled as he shook it, as we both heard the tinkling of broken glass he had smashed on my behalf. I'm still not sure where that came from or what he did to get it.

In my 20's and 30's he and I would meet for lunch and he would mentor me, professionally. He gave wise counsel and pushed me to think about things I hadn't considered before. We always ate delicious food.

When I was preparing to get married, I asked him if he would officiate our wedding. He said yes. He asked my ex and me to come meet him for dinner once a month or so. During those dinners, he asked us many questions about our future marriage and what mattered to us. I can't remember a single question he asked but I know those dinners were wonderful and invigorating for me, very challenging for my ex and me as a couple. I felt grateful to both of those men, my ex for being willing to let one of my people play such a big role in our wedding, Giorgio for being so thoughtful and loving to us during that time, despite what I imagine now were possibly some significant questions or concerns about the match. He stepped into those unexplored spaces with us and led us into some important conversations.

He gave us a list of restaurants to seek out on our honeymoon in Italy. We walked many miles in attempts to try at least one of them and I don't think we ever had success.

When the honeymoon was over and I was knee deep in having babies and everything that came along with that period of my life, I was not good at keeping in touch. He kept trying and I kept. . .hiding. He could see me so clearly and he asked for accountability from me. I was afraid of both of those things at that time.

The last meal we shared was at Nola Po'Boy and Gumbo Kitchen in Concord where I live. The food was good. I was divorced or almost divorced. I was working on my recovery, learning how to take care of myself in new ways. I told him during that meal that I was recently discovering that I had some control issues, which surprised me as I had always thought I was very go-with-the flow. He burst out laughing. He told me a story about working at a soccer camp when me when I was a young teenager and how apparent it was to him that I had a serious need for things to be done a certain way. I looked at him in wonder, surprised to have been seen so long before I could see myself.

In the years when I was blogging regularly he often told me that he couldn't read my blog because it scared him. It was too raw and he didn't know how to read those details about my life, how to be connected with information but not close contact. I felt shame when he said that, afraid that my words were too much, too painful. Afraid to be scary. Those exchanges were also part of my questioning how I wanted to show up in my writing, in my life. How to stand in my own truth, even when it brought up feelings in others that made me or them feel bad.

Last Friday as I was walking through my living room, I got a Giorgio hit. This is how I describe the feeling that comes up when someone important to me pops into my consciousness seemingly out of the blue. Oh hello, Giorgio, I thought. I see you there. You're right, it's been a long time. I will reach out.

You are in my heart today, my friend. 

Morning hour

 It's quiet in the house. All the kids are asleep. I peel myself out of bed, careful not to disturb the long limbs of my two seven-year-olds who have made their way in to sleeping with me. My son stretches horizontally across the foot of the bed, leaving my own legs with no clear lane. I'm awake. 

My heart feels so full and happy. I love when my kids are with me. 

A couple weeks ago a new friend of mine asked to interview me for her podcast. It's called First, The Worst and it's about the worst time in your life. Sure, I said. I'd love to. Then I spent a little time wondering what I would choose as the worst time of my life. Do you know what you would choose?

The feeling that rose up in me was the way it felt the year I was getting divorced--the way I felt about losing my kids. For more than a full year I could not think about it or talk about it without feeling short of breath and full of pure heartache. Agony. Fear. Dread. My mind would not actually let me imagine it. Something like a black hole of nothingness would descend and I would want to curl up in a ball. Not have my kids with me for 50% of their lives? What? I can't. I can't do it. I sobbed my way through many a therapy session, trying to get ready for it. When it came, the time to go fully 50/50, I hated it. I was hardly ever home because I could not bear to be in the quiet house. When I finally did start spending time at home, I spent a lot of hours paralyzed on the couch, numbing myself with TV and food.

Do I live for my kids? No. I wouldn't describe it like that.

Do I feel more whole when I'm with my kids? Not exactly.

Do I prefer to be with my kids over being alone? Not always.

What is this feeling?

I have felt it at different times since becoming a mom. Often when they're asleep. My nervous system breathes a sigh of relief and I can sit in the golden silence that only exists in these moments. My babies are with me. My babies are safe. My babies can rest because they know I am here. I am at peace. I am so grateful to be their mama.

Aguantar

 Aguantar. I first learned this word in Madrid, my Junior year in college, when I was twenty years old. Despite my plans to somehow live in an apartment during my year abroad, I had agreed to live with a home-stay family. Nela, my Spanish mama, had jet black hair and bedroom eyes with a raspy voice. She smoked a lot. It was 1997 and grunge was still in. My dyed, platinum-blond hair hung like a curtain down my back, I was tall, thin and twenty. I got a lot of attention in the streets. Some days I would put on my size XL overalls to head out into the city. "Odio esos pantalones" she would say to me. "I hate those pants." She had a flare for hyperbole. 

"No lo aguanto," she would say, about many things. "I can't stand it."

To bear it. To endure. Agauntar.

I don't remember when I started to understand that I lived my life like that. Enduring things. Putting my head down and gutting things out. When I started claiming that word as the way to describe my approach to life, I had already been enduring things for a long, long time.

At 11, you have colitis. You can't eat any of these foods or drink milk anymore. You have to deal with all sorts of medical stuff. I will bear it.

At 13, your parents are getting divorced. That feels so sad and hard. Do you want to talk about it? I will bear it.

At 15, you will never have kids. I am shattered. I will bear it.

At 23, your liver has failed. You need a transplant. I will bear it.

For as long as I can remember people have praised me. For being strong. Amazing. Superwoman. I both fed off it and scoffed at it, shrugged it off. What choice do I have, I wondered to myself. 

Somewhere along the line I claimed the identity that I could make almost anything happen, with sheer force of will. I did not feel like I was making many decisions, I felt like I was shrugging and putting my head down, enduring.

When my ex and I got pregnant by surprise the second time around, we were shocked. We sat up one night talking about our options. I am pro-choice to my core and never could have imagined myself having the kind of conversation we had because, after a lifetime of infertility and hoping for babies, I could not imagine a circumstance under which I would not be grateful to be pregnant. We decided to go forward with the pregnancy, both of us truly paralyzed when it came to imagining the actual details of our future. I do not think I told him at the time, the certainty I felt in my heart when we made that decision. The deep knowing that told me "This will break you," I knew it was the right decision and I knew somehow we could not actually do it. And that we would somehow do it. Because aguantar. My muscles and brain grooves were long-established. Head down, teeth clenched, gutting it out. I can't do it and I will do it because what else is there to be done?

I kept doing it. I felt strongly about sending my kids to a co-op nursery school. It felt essential to me, something I was not willing to give up. My ex did not want to do it. So I put my head down and gutted it out, volunteering in two classrooms and working until my health failed and I stopped working for a while. I kept ending up in the hospital, for one reason or another. People around me were worried. I blew the worry off, still hooked into my way of living and achieving. Did I think I was thriving? I can't answer that now because I hardly have any memory of those years of my life. When I think about it now, and when I notice how I feel these days when people say I'm amazing or shake their heads in disbelief when I describe aspects of my life, I think I probably equated being praised and admired for thriving. 

In the weeks leading up to this week I have been in what I would  describe as a dream-like state. Such extreme overwhelm, looking ahead to a schedule and a way of life that I could logically see were not doable, that I started to shut down. Except in me, shutting down is mostly an internal process that on the outside looks like calm. Even blase. I could feel myself falling into old patterns, steeling myself, preparing for battle. I felt the panic and the anxiety sitting near me, waving flags, as I made plans and had conversations about how to somehow work and go to grad school and start my field placement and handle distance-learning with my four kids and somehow also feed them and myself and occasional clean the house and water the trees and mow the lawn and. . . Aguantar. Bear it. That is how we do.

Except after motherhood broke me, I started learning and claiming a new way. The tears come as I get to this part because my Self is so grateful that I am learning. I am a Self. I am not infinite. Enduring is not the way I choose to life my life anymore. I am not willing to discount my body, my health, my serenity, my life. I choose myself. I choose my life. I choose rest. 

But how?

Last weekend I dreamed of tidal waves. I have had scary tidal wave dreams since I was a kid, but rarely. Last week a chip of my molar crumbed off as I chewed on some cold pizza, hustling to get some work down. A couple days later another piece of the same tooth broke off. Hmmm. I am not thriving here. My body is showing me that my well-being is not in tact. 

On Monday we had our first day of distance learning. I went into it with very, very low expectations and still, by 5pm I sat on the porch with my dad and burst into tears. I wept for several minutes, feeling the weight of the world crushing me. I don't see a way out! I can't do this! What do I do? Quit grad school? Find some kind of daycare place to take the kids and somehow figure out how to afford it? Take a leave from work? I can see that all of this is impossible for one person to handle and I can see myself walking forward on this terrible, painful path again. Tears, tears, tears. I need help.

The day before, I woke up early to the crash of thunder and a bright orange sky. As though in a dream, I wandered barefoot out into the rain, gazing wonderingly at the sky. Lightening? I sat down in awe, feeling and enjoying the power of this bizarre weather. I watched a fire start on the hills and hoped it would get put out quickly and easily. Four days later, much of the state of California is on fire. It is devastating and scary and overwhelming. I keep getting the image of swimming in the ocean, getting pushed down by the waves. Just when we get our heads up to catch a breath of fresh air, to somehow grab on to something to hold on to, another wave crashes down on our heads, pummeling us. We are in aguantar mode. Bearing it. Gritting our teeth. Doing all the things each of us do to somehow keep going, when it feels impossible.

My tears helped me. Reaching out to people in my life and being honest about how I'm struggling and what I'm worried about helped me. And most of all, remembering that I must keep choosing to ease up on myself as the key to everything else is helping me. I thrash and fight and tighten and hunch my shoulders, going into battle-mode. Bearing it. Refusing to be broken by it and falling precipitously close to those old grooves where fighting through suffering feels like the only way forward.

No.

I will give myself a break. I will remember I am not infinite. I will ask for help. I will rest. I will look for ways to fill myself up, even when and especially when it feels most impossible. And I will come here to write some words as a reminder to anyone who wants or needs to hear it. When we find ourselves in aguantar-mode, can we see it as an invitation to look for ways to let go somewhere and somehow? I believe we can. I believe that we must. 

A Vivid Dream

It's Tuesday March 24, 2020 and we are sheltering in place due to COVID-19 aka the Corona Virus. My kids are with their dad until tomorrow morning when I get them back for five days.

I have been working from home since Friday March 13. My work consists of calling people to check in on them and offer grief support a month after someone they love has died. I also call people at various intervals after the death--around six months and a year after. I am also translating a children's book about donation in Spanish and processing correspondence sent to us as the intermediary between the donor families and the transplant recipients.

I am in my first semester of graduate school, working towards earning my Masters in Social Work from Tulane University online. I am taking three classes which add up to seven credits. My classes are:

Diversity and Social Justice

Social Welfare History and Policy

Theories of Human Behavior, Part 1

We got last week off as the university worked to bring all the rest of the students online during this quarantine.

The kids' school closed after Friday March 13 so they have been doing a variety of learning activities here and with their dad since then. I feel grateful that there are four of them and that they are around the same age. Grateful for them to have the company and interaction; grateful for me because it is easier for me not to feel the need to engage or entertain one child.

I am writing my book. So far this looks like going through my old blog posts, journal entries, emails and voice memos to capture the details that I already have. For the first couple weeks of this year I woke up at 5 am every morning to write for an hour. I stopped doing that when I started school, got a bad cold and started staying up too late. Waking up early in the cold and dark seemed too hard. Since then I have written here and there but nothing consistent.

I am participating in my friend Isabelle's powerful, empowering online women's personal growth experience--Mom-Me Circle. She invited me to be a part of it on November 9, 2019 and I immediately felt a huge resistance come up in me. I am too busy! I do not have a big dream I am working towards! I am starting school! I can not take in any more input. I did not respond.

On December 2, 2019 I wrote her back:

Hello my sweet friend, It occurred to me yesterday that you asked me about this virtual circle and for whatever reason I balked at it the day your offer arrived. Fear of something but I couldn't really explore it at the time. Still haven't! I think the fear of "What specific dream would I even pick and do I have the bandwidth to work on? ack" So i'm circling back. I feel scared of this offer. Overwhelmed. Also, I was thinking of you yesterday with so much love and gratitude and wanted to check in. xoxo

We met for coffee on College Avenue in Berkeley a few days later and shone our friendship lights on one another. We caught up and brainstormed and heart-stormed and soaked up the gratitude of being seen and known and valued. I signed up for her course. We just finished our Week 9 Zoom group call last night. I want everyone I know to take part in it.

It occurs to me that part of me would want to journal daily for hours, just to capture a portion of the thoughts, observations, feelings, reactions, triggers, exchanges and moments that make-up a day. In this moment I want to stop here and do a juicy write-up of everything I am learning in her circle. I also want to write up some of the thoughts that flitted into my brain as I cooked lunch--about my privilege and the gratitude and shame it brings up in me, about how busy and overwhelmed I feel sometimes when I look at all there is to be done around here and how even taking away the kids, their school, my school, my commute, any in-person errands and any in-person communication I still have moments of feeling like there is not enough time and not a clear place to start. This awareness startles me and soothes the part of me that wants to rest almost all of the time.

In Mom-Me Circle we worked towards finding and declaring a Vivid Dream. At the beginning of the year I thought mine was to write this book. Last week, in Week 8 of our circle and Week 1 of our quarantine I felt tears come to my eyes as my Vivid Dream settled over me.

I write this book and while I do it I will fall in love with writing. I will embrace that this love pushes me and stretches me to grow. I will acknowledge that the kind of love I want means showing up consistently and resting regularly. I will fall in love knowing that I am scared of lots of parts of love and when I get scared I throw up all sorts of defense mechanisms to keep me from feeling vulnerable, to keep me safe. In this new kind of love I know to ask for help when I feel that fear come up instead of running away. In this new kind of love I know that running away will still happen sometimes and I will forgive myself for that. In this new kind of love I will look for the small, daily celebrations and acknowledgements that we need and want to hear.

Please tell me more about your Loves and what they look like and feel like.

First Day

We went to Yosemite the weekend before last. It was magical to be with the kids as they explored. They kept turning around to asking, "Can I go here? Can I go over there?" Wild with possibility. I asked my dad to take a picture of my crew up in the tree, me standing below them rocking my new sweatshirt. Can you read it?

Tulane.

I start graduate school today.

Wild with possibility.

Last week I got flooded with overwhelm. I don't remember at what point in the cycle we were in. Had the kids just left me? I think so. Was the house a mess? Almost certainly. I felt broke and tired and alone, head racing racing racing like it does when my sweet, hard-working mind gets the message that things are out of control. How will I do this? I am adding a huge thing and I am not taking anything away. What was I thinking?

I could feel myself gathering the troops of my perseverance, my determination, my push-through-it-ness to make something happen when I've decided I want or need it to happen, consequences be damned. Like sending my four kids to a co-op when they were younger, requiring two mornings a week of volunteering even knowing I would be doing it all alone. Even though I was sick and exhausted. I had decided long ago that a co-op was the best foundation they would have and I resolved to make it happen, even though the circumstances of my life at the time clearly flashed "This is too much!" as neon-brightly into my face as they could. Outta my way, I told those warnings, pushing them aside. This is happening.

I've learned some since then. A new awareness has seeped through me that reminds me I need rest. The old way--the dealing with it, making it work, finding a way to work harder, the digging deeper, doesn't work anymore. My body says no. I am one being with finite resources and I can only do so much. I could feel that as I looked out at the looming horizon, knowing something had to give, that I would need to put something down or let something go in order to be a student again. But what?

Some tears and deep rest curled under blankets in the womb-space corner of my couch, binging Netflix and doing what I could to make my mind take a goddamn break I felt better enough to get up and face the world. Nothing was fixed and I still felt overwhelmed but I wasn't drowning in it anymore.

My mom and I chatted on the phone a day or two later. I called to check in, heart full of tenderness, knowing she hadn't been feeling well for a while. She asked how I was. I launched into story. At some point she made a comment that I interpreted as unsolicited advice and my ten-foot brick walls came up at warp speed, palm out to push it away from me "I know! If I want advice I'll ask for it!", shutting it all down. I was flooded, shoulders up at my shoulders, jaw clenched. We hung up, both upset.

I huffed and puffed through some breaths. Did some rage journaling. Texted with my homegirl in one of the many back and forth notes we send to one another throughout the week. Argh! I'm triggered! Invasion! If I want help I'll ask! Grr.

After all of that and some time passing I felt it move through me. Oh yeah. That's ok. Nothing personal. We're both doing our best. For some reason, long ago, that became a tender spot for me. For some reason, long ago, I taught myself or learned from observation that I immediately feel like someone is questioning my competence, taking away my autonomy, if they try to help me problem-solve a problem I haven't asked for help in solving. If I want help, I'll ask for it!

Somewhere quiet inside I heard a little voice say "But will you?" I turned my back on that little voice. Mostly.

I got back into the swing of things with work and kids and school drop offs and scrounging up dinner to feed us. I felt a little better. Well, I felt a little less obsessed with how freaked out and overwhelmed I was. But I knew nothing had been fixed yet. I did not have a new plan.

As the first week full week of kids back to school and me back to regular, non-holiday time work came to a close I reached out to my friend Tara to check in. She'd been popping up in my heart for a couple days. I knew she was hosting a retreat, her first, and I felt so full of admiration and love for her. We did The Practice leadership training together in 2017-2018, when my life was straight up falling apart and she was building herself back up. I knew how far she had traveled to get to this place. I had known about her upcoming retreat for weeks but was too deep in my darkness, surviving the holiday and wallowing in grief, to be able to imagine doing it.

I sent her a text "I wish I could come be a part of your retreat this weekend. I am so amazed and grateful for you! xoxo" I did not say Help me! I'm struggling! I don't know what to do!

"You too friend! You too!" she replied.

and

"You are welcome to come. Are you busy?"

I felt a mix of light dread come over me, imagining going into a vulnerable place of sharing and being quiet. I also felt a little hand at my hand, gently pushing me, whispering "This will help you. You know it will. What a perfect thing to do just before starting school. Do it."

I was really tempted to let the dread win and stay home.

"Come" she said.

"Wow. I am stunned. Thank you. I'll be there" I replied.

She gifted it to me. Because she loves me and she values having me in a circle and she knows me. I decided not to stay overnight so I could save money on lodging. That felt like a good decision. I felt lighter as the weekend approached, especially as Friday dawned and I could move through the day knowing I wouldn't be coming home to a quiet, kid-free house after work. Sometimes the spectre of that is so heavy. But I had somewhere to be.

I drove through the streets of Danville and then up and up the rising slope of a long, steep hill. It was dark. As I rounded a turn I looked to the left and the bright, glowing beauty of the full Wolf Moon shone so clearly I felt tears spring to my eyes. The moon pulled them out, unbidden. I feel so grateful for tears when they come because it means my heart is soft enough to be open to joy. I knew I was in the right place.

I met the others as they sat down for dinner. We chatted and sat quietly and got to know one another a bit. They finished and we walked across the darkened courtyard, past the fountain, on our way to our special retreat room. We came to a small flight of stairs, five or six steps, and the woman in front of me slowly eased down, cup of hot tea in her hand, favoring the leg she hurt that is slowly healing.

"Here, let me hold that tea for you," I offered.

"I got it," she said.

"No," I said. "I'm taking it."

And then I reached out and took the tea cup right out of her hand. I knew she could manage and I also knew I could manage more easily and let her focus on getting down the stairs safely. Part of me cringed on the inside, feeling appalled. Who was I to take something right out of her hand? But I saw her, working so hard, and I didn't want her to work so hard when I was right there to help her find some ease.

The retreat was wonderful. I will write once more about it soon. To sit in a space set with intention, wreathed in beauty, with other women who chose to show up and make something together that none of us could do on our own. The community. The music. The movement. The art. I felt myself getting filled up.

On the last day, Sunday, we gathered for one more time. Tara gave us each a piece of white paper and a charcoal pencil, asked us to draw a picture of ourselves. When we were done, she asked us to pass our portrait to the woman on the left and invited us to write one word that described the woman whose image we were holding. After we finished, we passed to the left again, so that by the time my picture made it back to me it had five words written on it.

Tara passed out water colors and invited us to look at our pictures, take in the words, and paint the pictures if we wanted to. We all wanted to.

Three of my words were:

Strong
Courageous
Warrior

I felt what those words brought up in me. I painted my picture.

When we finished, Tara invited us to share with the group anything that had come up for us. One woman talked about how much she liked and appreciated her words. We listened. She finished talking.

I sat in the silence, wondering if I would say what I was feeling. Not really wanting to, because my feelings felt. . .bad. I knew the words had been written with admiration. I wanted to be able to receive them in the way they were given. I almost didn't share but because I have sat in many women's circle and deepened my practice with them and trust myself more within a circle of women than I do in most other places, I opened my mouth knowing that the words that were sticking in my throat were meant to be said. Knowing that we don't discover the mystery hidden behind the words that are sometimes hardest to say unless we speak the truth out loud for others to hear.

"I am sick of these words! I feel no connection to them. Everyone tells me these things. I'm strong. Who cares? What good does that do me?"

That sat and listened as I talked.

"These words are so isolating. Someone I love very much told me recently that he looks at my life and he can't comprehend how I do it, how I manage. The cognitive dissonance that requires! I am not different than you. I am not stronger. I am drowning. I am so lonely. I'm sick of everyone admiring me from afar and telling me how brave I am. I need help."

They received me so graciously and with so much tenderness. They reflected me back to myself with kindness and open-hearts. They did not run away. They did not get mad. They did not get offended. "I can see how that would be isolating. Thank you for sharing. That would never have occurred to me."

I turned to the woman with the sore knee and said "I don't know if I owe you an apology."

"For what?" she asked.

"For taking that tea cup right out of your hand! Even after you said no. If someone had done that to me I probably would have gotten pissed."

"I loved that you did that" she said.

"Oh good," I said. "Thanks. I knew you could do it and I saw you working so hard. I wanted to help you not work so hard."

Something settled into place inside me.

Oh.

I felt the shift. I don't want these to be the words people use to describe me anymore. These are old words. They are not serving me anymore. It has felt good to be admired. My ego likes that. I must be doing a good job, I must be doing it right if people think I am inspiring. But my Self is saying loud and clear that it would feel better to have ease. To be supported. To be held. To not have to push so very hard so much of the time. That not asking for help, not letting people help me, in no way serves the soft, real me who sits alone on the couch bearing up under the pressure in the moments where my strength is nowhere to be found.

I start graduate school today. I am working towards a Masters in Social work so that I can be a therapist who helps others build resilience, learn how to take care of themselves, recover from trauma. Ever since deciding to do this I have felt excitement bubbling up inside me. I am thrilled!

And I set a new intention this weekend--I will ask for help twice a week. I will try to pay attention and notice when people offer to help me with something, even the small things like carrying something for me when I feel like I've got it all under control. I will try to say yes.

I ask for your help with this. If you offer to do something for me and I say "No thanks, I'm good!' please remind me gently of my intention.

I need help.

New Shoes

Written last Monday:

Tomorrow is my day off, Tuesday. The one day I don't go into the office these days. It's been a change, getting used to commuting back and forth, seeing my kids less. Last Tuesday after picking them up from their fourth day of school I made the mistake of taking them to the mall to get shoes. I'd been picturing taking them to the Vans store--even though I couldn't afford it with any kind of money other than the pretend kind on my credit card. I imagined they'd love the cool shoes and it would be a fun adventure, yet another way to mark the transition into a new year.

I usually love the start of the school year, have ever since I was a kid. Finding out who my teachers were going to be, feeling myself get geared up to a new level of functioning, getting both excited and nervous about diving back into the bizarre soup of social confusion and thrill, wondering if I would feel like enough. Hmmm. Did I love it? Those words all together paint a different picture. It could be hard and scary at school. A lot of times I felt like I didn't know what other kids were talking about and I learned pretty quickly that to feel safe, to not feel dumb or not enough, I better pretend that I knew what everything meant. Pretending to be cooler than I felt on the inside started young.

The past few weeks I have been stressed. Obsessing actually. That's new awareness for me--that when I feel out of control my mind makes plans, revises them, imagines scripts, revises them, has conversations with itself, tries to look at something from all angles. Spinning, spinning, spinning, trying to soothe myself by naming what is happening, making sure there are no surprises, and finding a way to make it turn out the way I want or need it to.

My ex and I had made an agreement to try a particular after school program for the kids and I did not want to. I knew I did not want to and I agreed to try it anyway, because my values got confused like they sometimes do, and I put getting along and being liked and being a team player above what was best for the kids. I tried to make space for my co-parent because I know that I am not always right and I know that I see things through the lens of what I know or believe to be true. And because it's hard for me to make space for my own self. To allow myself to need something for my kids for my sake too.

As the beginning of the school year got closer, I knew I did not want them to go. I felt it in my bones and throughout my body that I did not want them to go. I tried to talk myself into all the reasons it would be ok. I reached out to trusted friends and heard from them the reasons it would be ok, even if it wasn't ideal. I felt panicky. I knew that feeling panicky did not necessarily mean that the program itself was bad. I was feeling scared and sad and out of control. So knowing it in my bones, that I wanted them home with less structure, more free play, the ability to go find a comfy place to reset or jump on the trampoline or play on the rug with Duplos with no timeline, felt like the one truth. But I know there is never one truth.

My babies going into kindergarten. My kids away from me way more than they're with me. The loss and fear of that. The ache of longing to have more time with them. The belief that what I was asking for was best for them. And also the willingness to fight for myself in the process. To say I need this and I am allowed to need something. I am allowed to keep them close.

Spinning, not sleeping, obsessing. I asked to change the plan. It was difficult and triggering to try to work things out with my co-parent. It affected everything I did. I used every tool I have access to, trying to take care of myself.

Getting divorced was so much more painful and humbling than I expected. So many people get divorced. This happens. They keep going to work and seeing friends and functioning. I didn't expect it to gut me daily. I didn't anticipate how hard it would be to get myself together and keep all the rage and grief and loneliness from spilling over onto my kids. I didn't anticipate how hard and confusing it would be to try to show up as myself, my real self, with these growing young people when my real self was scary and hurt and mad. I didn't anticipate how much strength of will and willingness to reach out and near constant self-regulation it would take in order to be a grown-up when I needed to be the grown-up.

Last Tuesday I picked the kids up and took them to the mall, with all of this back up in my face, swirling around inside me, attempting to shove the feelings down into whatever secret hidden hole unacceptable, uncomfortable, difficult feelings go into when they're not wanted.  The kids were jumping out of their skins. I forget that transitions are still in full effect on day four. I forged ahead. We got to the mall with excitement. Ice cream and the park were promised for after. Together the five of us skipped and ran inside.

It was not fun. No shoes were purchased. They were goofy. There are four of them. It's not a playground. One kid out of four had found satisfactory shoes that fit. I wanted to leave. The kids were wrestling and using loud voices. One of them noticed that the lady at the front of the line in a wheelchair only had one leg and came to tell me about it, loud voiced and full of curiosity and wonder. The young man next to me kept looking at me. If I were a cartoon there would have been steam coming out of my ears.

I hit my breaking point. I can't say what pushed me over the edge but I snapped. Slammed the shoes down. "I'm done. We're going. No ice cream. Let's go"

The shock spread. Tears and disbelief and hurt feelings and disappointment. They trotted after me on their long short legs as I strode with purpose and desperation out of the store, turning around to herd them safely into the van. I felt wretched. They were miserable, promising to be good, so hurt and scared, still asking to make sure they were clearly understanding that there would be no ice cream, the one child who had actually fallen for shoes and was now not getting them broken-hearted. I feel so sad even recounting this story.

We sat at a red light and I started crying. "Are you crying?" one of them asked. "Yeah." And that made them cry even more.

We all cried together in the messy minivan on the way home. I seethed, all walls up trying to hold it together, finding no gentleness for anyone anywhere in me. Help me, help me, help me. This is not what I wanted for today. I feel trapped by myself. By my hardness. By my powerlessness. By everything. I'm only with them for another hour. This is my one spacious day in the whole week to be with them and it's wrecked. What a dumb decision to do this. Help me. My shoulders were hunched up to my ears and I could feel the muscles that have been clenched and spasmed for weeks settling into their twisted up places because there was no where else for them to go.

Lots and lots and lots of deep breaths. Apologizing to them. Taking the blame onto myself, saying I asked too much of them and of myself and that I was sorry.

Transitions are hard for me. Really hard. This has been true for most of my life, as narrated to me by my mother and felt by me with growing layers of awareness as I grow in wisdom and self-knowledge. I know how to take care of myself better, how to make space for the mystery that is packaged within the change. How to notice when I'm gutting it out, pushing through to get to the other side, clenching my fists and the muscles in my face to just be done. And it still surprises me that a transition takes so long. It's not just the day itself--back to school day. It's not just the couple days before and the couple days after. It's a process, a settling in, a shaking off, a whole body, whole spirit experience. And being in relationship with other humans adds seventeen other layers of ACK and WTF and BE QUIET and TOO MUCH and HOLD ME. So many chances to be let down or to let someone else down as we're doing our best to ride the waves.

Be gentle with yourselves. Humaning takes a lot of energy.

Oh and this past Sunday with an unexpected four hours off I went to Nordstrom Rack to buy myself a new suit as I prepared for an interview. While there I picked out and purchased four perfect, comfortable, well-made on sale pairs of sneakers for my kiddos. With joy and gratitude to be alone while being with them in my heart.