Ode to 43

Today, I turn 43.

I remember when we moved into our house, I heard that the sellers were in their 40's and I thought, "God, that's old.  I can't even imagine who I'll be in my 40's."

Now, with the benefit of a few decades of hard knocks, I feel like I'm just getting started.

And to that end, I'm learning to:

Make peace with the risings and the fallings.  

It never fails that when I'm on the mountain top--a string of good parenting days, meaningful time with friends and family, a welcome change in weather, forward movement in my mediation practice, an engaged class of students--the other shoe drops--my kid tells me (not verbatim, but I get the drift) that I suck, I get insanely overwhelmed by my work load, someone gets sick, a financial set back occurs, bad news arrives-- uncertainty kicks in, and I find myself remembering that this is what it means to be human.  There is no such thing as living infinitely in a place of joy or pain.  It's an extraordinary mixture of both, that is largely unpredictable and many times unexplainable.

Never underestimate the power of the hustle.

I used to think that giving up my career made me a fool.  How would I ever dive back into my field?  What would the loss of a double income mean for our family?  What was the point in amassing all of that education?  A decade later, after spending all of my 30's at home, and now teaching at a university and being back at the mediation table, I can wholeheartedly say that the best people I know are the scrappy ones.  They don't measure their worth in one long continuous line.  They take chances.  They trust their gut.  They believe in their value and they morph and shape their skill sets to prioritize the people and experiences that matter most.  They're the most interesting story tellers and the truest companions.  And for my own experience, I have to say that they bring a level of empathy, adaptability and resiliency to the table that is second to none.

Relish the paradox of living.

There was a time when I believed that having the answers defined a good life.  Now, I know differently.  Living in the uncertainty of the questions, with a willingness to course correct when your heart and intuition tell you otherwise is what it means to be present.  Non-judgemental, operating out of a space of love, not fear means that faith and trust are guiding, not a false sense of control.  Trusting that it's okay not to know...and that someday, this time of wonderment, fork in the road, will pass and eventually, you'll understand why you are, where you are, is the only way to do this life thing.

Gratitude makes life purposeful.

I used to stress over ensuring that I mailed a thank-you card within a proper window of time when someone had given a gift or done something kind.  Three kids later, I know that what matters isn't overt gestures...it's the little things...sending a text when someone comes to mind, telling them that you're thinking about the upcoming thing and that you're rooting for them and that you love them.  It's noticing the unbelievable abundance of blessings that show up in buds on the trees now that it's spring time, a really strong cup of coffee before the house wakes up, the fact that your legs take you places and somehow, your heart decided to beat for you all night long while you were sleeping and that God gave you another shot at today.  Saying thank you, nearly every moment, keeps you appreciating the bounty that surrounds you.

Comparison steals joy.

I've always yearned to be someone else.  When I was younger, it was the girls who were cheerleaders or the ones who were Merit scholars.  In my twenties, it was the girls who were married.  In my thirties, it was the ones who bounced back to their pre-baby weight and lived on certain tree-lined streets and vacationed at all the right places.  Now, in my forties, I'm too tired for that.  I have a really good life.  People who love me that I get to love back.  A body that moves.  A brain that thinks interesting stuff and friends who I can lean on and laugh with.  On most days, that's enough.  On the days when I look in the mirror and see extra jiggle, I have to remind myself that it's okay and this is the price of admission to the beauty of mid-life.

Change is the only constant.

God do I hate the devil I don't know.  If it were up to me, we'd main line coffee all day, only stopping to eat sushi, drink stout, read the NY Times, listen to podcasts while we did yoga and solved the problems of the world.  I get very antsy when it comes to doing new things...but the truth is, the birthplace of creativity, hope, opportunity and true engagement happen in the spaces where we are vulnerable, with hands outstretched saying, "I don't know, but I'm willing to try." 

So, as I approach this new space...this 43rd year...I say...

Ode to 

laughter and pain

hope and despair

worry and belief

adventure and momentum.

Ode to me

and the bounty of  life,

and the change that will bring me to forks in the road.

May I rise to meet them, even in the falling.

May I live in the present, without the guarantees,

embracing the dichotomies and uncertainty.

And may I know, deep within that being me,

the real me

the 43 me

is  enough.

Up Gravel Roads

Last weekend marked my fourth year running the Market 2 Market relay--a 78-mile race from the city of Omaha to the city of Lincoln.

It's a hell of a day.

You get up early, grab your running shoes, lots of water, toilet paper (for the porta-potties), the best and worst carbs available--i.e. gazads of peanut M+Ms, kettle chips, mint Milanos, good tunes, a change of clothes and if you're in a car with me, well, your strong constitution--I like to curse and tell stories that involve the word vagina and basically, how much I smell like one post my portions of the race.

Over the course of 12 hours, 8 people jump in and out of a vehicle as they take turns running their hearts out for 3, 4, and 5 mile staged legs, while their counter parts feverishly drive to the next exchange point to tag out a new runner.

I ran three legs.

It was the second one that nearly broke me.

I only had to run 4 miles...not a big deal.

But something happened as it got closer to my time to grab the baton.  I thought I was going to throw up.  I started to sweat and make stupid jokes.  I told my teammates that they could stay in the car...I'd be okay to see myself off.  It was as though my intuition knew that this run was going to be a bitch and I, its baby.

The sun was beating down and as my partner tagged me in, I rounded the bend onto a gravel road and four miles of fucking mental discipline ensued.

Let me begin by saying that I hate back, gravel roads.  They're uneven.  Cars drive on them and relentlessly kick dust into your eyes, face, mouth and lungs.  That's when they're flat.

I was on a never-ending up hill battle with a gravel road that was winning.

Even though I meticulously customize my playlist, my songs were even letting me down.  To top it off, a mile and half in, I saw the kiss of death...fellow runners started slowing down and then walking...while phenomenal athletes were passing me by with a cavalier thumbs up and a "way to go!" cheer.  Fuck me.

Just as I began to lose faith, I turned to see a giant cornfield butted up against a crystal blue sky, and a group of cows hanging out in the distance enjoying a lazy Saturday afternoon.  And it dawned on me.

Within the same day, hour, minute, moment, we're all here.  The sun, the sky, the cow, the walker, the sprinter, the grass, the trees, the corn, me...we all get to occupy the same space in the same plane simultaneously.  And while we take up room and experience all of it....we can endure it as a battle or we can sit in it and take it in for what it is, or we can transcend it and find the beauty in the blue, the cool air, the brilliant sun, the sweat, the strong legs, the gorgeousness and moment of a Saturday.

And so, I slowed down--way down.

And I looked around and gave thanks.

It was Saturday.  And I was blessed to spend the whole day seeing lots of countryside, small towns and people focused on their fitness, running with friends for lots of causes and many reasons.

This was a time of celebration and joy, even if it hurt.

In my final leg, I was running as the sun went down, watching the leaves fall from the trees, realizing that change is on the horizon and that in each moment, I have a choice as to how I receive it.

I can bemoan it, or I can accept it and find the places where it enhances me instead of threatens me.

And I can recognize that I am not alone.

We are all tagging each other on this journey...sharing a baton, encouraging through words, humor, hope, forgiveness and love....promising that even if we're scared to go on our portion, that there will be a cow or two along the path, the sun in the sky, the guy who tells you to "keep up the good work," and the belief that even if it's painful, it will end.  And you will be better for heading up the gravel road.

Moments after my leg, my fellow teammate, took this photo of me as I was scarfing down food, re-reading a note I wrote to myself as a reminder that I can do it one moment, one mile, one breath at a time.  It's one of my favorite memories from the day.  Along with the pics of the best partners a girl could ask for.  Here's to baton passing along the journey...

June Cleaver

Two weeks from tomorrow, summer ends.

It's a bittersweet feeling for certain.

Our summer has been chock-full of traveling, swimming, garden tending, free library making,  ice cream inhaling, Lego building, sleeping way lating, sibling fighting, mama yelling, friend laughing, beautiful, chaotic, good times.

Two weeks ago, I took my brood along with my niece and nephew on an epic 1500+mile road trip by my lonesome, and so this weekend, my better half returned the favor and took the crazies on a dad's and kids camping trip.

I was elated to have the space and coveted breathing room.  I ran, cranked up the music, shaved my legs, drank too much wine and coffee, stayed in my pajamas until I felt compelled to change into yoga pants, spent time with friends and then made my way into my office.

Above my desk...I have these three mantras:

And while I was organizing Sam, Kate and Claire's school supplies into neatly arranged bags and bags within bags and labeling them with a sharpie marker and making notes to not forget socks for Claire's uniform or a ruler for Sam's pencil bag or Kate's rosary, I started to cry.

This is it.

Nine years of this full-time, stay-at-home thing is winding down.

And really, how did I get here?

My undergraduate degree is in philosophy from a liberal arts institution, my graduate degree is in conflict resolution from an even more liberal arts entity, I practically make my children wear tattoos on their arms that say, "Love is love is love is love."  I was hoping against all hope that Bernie would rise with the collective and have a fighting chance to earn the nomination.  I am incessantly advocating for the underdog.  My heart is alive and happy when inclusion and love are present for all and I'd give nothing more than to live in a world without guns (even the Nerf ones).

And so, the idea that I left my career as a mediator nearly a decade ago to make macaroni and cheese and read "Good Night Moon" and then Junie B Jones and then Harry Potter and sent my kiddos to Catholic school and carved smiles into the peanut butter sandwiches and cried at every preschool recital and religiously asked them at the breakfast table about their dreams and if they were happy in their hearts...feels like a far cry from my mantra, "Take the Risk."

As I look back, I guess I'm more like June Cleaver than Gloria Steinem...which I can promise you, I never thought would be the case.

But as the tears were flowing down my face looking at the Crayola markers lined up and the composition notebooks in a row, this was sticking out of a stack of papers wobbling on a book shelf.

It's a haiku that my son, Sam wrote many a moon ago:

It's hard to read but it says:

A Haiku for you

Mom you are so great

You get me through

Ups and downs

I love you so much!

And in that moment, I knew.  I did take a risk.  Even though I wasn't aware year over year of exactly what I was doing, I was hopeful that my 'why' mattered enough to keep trying.  And after countless tears and I'm sorry's and prayers and girl chats over wine and half marathons, I realized that I was living by design and indeed, via osmosis, I was choosing joy of a different kind.  It's the kind of joy that emerges slowly, steadily, ordinarily, quietly and now, nearly a decade later, I can say enduringly.

But it's still hard, there are days when I want to be entrenched in a protest that has nothing to do with battling my five-year old to brush her teeth or go the fuck to bed.  There are moments, when I see movements or career paths that seem exhillarating and I think, yes, I'll get my PhD in THAT and then, I quickly realize that for now, tuition dollars belong to my children.  And, that's okay.

I have a feeling that life is going to crack wide-open very soon and with it, I will too.  Finally, able to breathe and process where I am, which is a strange amalgamation of June Cleaver and Gloria Steinem wrapped in one woman, who takes unconventional risks, seeks to live by design and in spite of herself, chooses joy.

Fish out of Water

I always know when I'm on the precipice of change.

Why?  Because I feel like a child learning to ride a bike....a novice practicing a language in a foreign land...a fish out of water.

I can't really describe it except to say that everything in my life is impacted and my vulnerability shines through...I feel raw, exposed and open for the world to see.

And in some respects, I bubble up with joy, because really this is the best place to be...a place filled with energy, excitement, stamina...and ultimately, I know, that I'm alive.

I'm not a huge fan of New Year's resolutions, but this year, I'm working on a few key areas of growth in my life.  I'll post some thoughts on that in the next few days.

Until then, I'll focus on sitting with my vulnerability and clinging to the hope that this life can be molded for positive change. 

Because, "Change is the only constant. Hanging on is the only sin." (Denise McCluggage)