This is the Life We've Chosen

I miss you.

Really, I do.

I miss writing for fun or for conducting cerebral acrobatics or for just having a spot to relegate my thoughts when it all gets too bunched up and cluttered on the inside.

I miss the freedom of listening to random nothingness.

I thought that life was busy before.  And I suppose that everyone was right when they said, "It's not so bad when your kids are really little.  Sure, you miss the sleep and the quiet.  But when they get older, well, that's when the bigger worries come."

My kids aren't old.  Sam is turning 12 in two days.  Kate is 9.  And, Claire is 6.  But they're not babies or toddlers or preschoolers.  They can pour their own bowl of cereal and make their own bed.  Kate is becoming quite the master laundry expert of the house and Sam is pretty good about doing anything you want him to, if given a list.  Claire, well, she's a work in progress.

Two days a week, I have thirty-one 7 and 8 year-olds in a classroom.  One night a week, I have graduate students.  And luckily, I have another graduate class to teach on the docket as well.

But between the shuttling of piano, ballet, speech, Boy Scouts, Daisies, school, and soon to be football, soccer and gymnastics...I'm often tired. 

And so, I don't run like I did before.  I don't write like I did before.  I don't often post on Facebook or share my opinions about the fucking debacle that has become our political reality.  I've often wondered if the reason that my life has shifted so much in the last few months is that I'm officially living in the Zombie Apocalypse and no one asked me whether I wanted to be here.  The only thing that seems to make me laugh are really good SNL episodes and sometimes, humoring myself with the ridiculous banter that ensues between people who will intrinsically never change the "other's" mind.

That said, I feel badly....that I don't do more to demonstrate my opposition to the current political climate...that I don't write articles highlighting the very real catastrophic calamities that are on the horizon, if we keep heading down this undeniably, unGodly, fucked up path.

I feel badly that my house is often a wreck and that many times, I squeeze everything that needs to get done in the 11.5th hour.  And that I'm not meditating or talking to my children about the ills of the kind or lack there of leadership that we're witnessing. 

But in the very quiet moments when there is a second to breathe and no expectation of me, except for my thoughts, here is what I know to be true.

This is the life we have chosen.

We are married.  We are parents.  We have jobs with responsibilities.  We have bills.  We have people getting test results back that scream of uncertain futures.  We have science projects that are due and oil that needs to be changed in the car.  Groceries that need to be bought.  People that we need to text and meet for coffee because it's been too long.  We need to say I'm sorry and have sex, even when we're tired.  We need to review English assignments and time speeches and get lunches ready.  We have presentations for clients on a short turnaround.  And, tax appointments.  And pain.  And hope.  And anger.  And love.

And in these ways, we are all simply living the lives that we have chosen.  Trying to do our best with where we are and what we know to be true or palatable today, until tomorrow brings a different chapter in the story.

So, if it's okay, I'll keep writing and sharing my mundane stories.  They're not necessary or even helpful.  They're just a slice of life that maybe you can relate to. 

Because I miss you.

And all of the ugliness that I feel surrounded by particularly in the early morning hours when I check my phone and view a new executive order.

I like sharing my kids with you and hearing about yours.

I like knowing that you are there and that as people, we are not so far apart, all just trying to live the lives we have chosen.

Eavesdropping at the Coffee Shop

I hit a milestone this week...all three of my kiddos are participating in Vacation Bible School.

Which means that from 9am-12pm, I am a free woman.

It's sort of revolutionary to experience particularly, in the summertime.

So, each morning, I've scheduled coffee with a friend and then, powered through a run basking in the amazing weather that we're experiencing in late July.

Pulling up to my new favorite cafe, I snagged an outdoor table and an extra half an hour before my friend arrived.  Grabbing my journal, pen and steaming Americano, I started to write.  Feeling a cool breeze and savoring the strong smell of my java, I heard, "I hate him. I really do."  And I looked up.

It was a drop-dead beautiful girl talking on the phone to someone who she was clearly confiding in.  Fuck, fuck, fuck.  I hate these situations.  I never want someone to feel like they're being listened to, but what am supposed to do...I'm not going inside...the weather is too stunning.  Okay, keep writing.

"What is he thinking?  Why does he always find a way to humiliate me?  I'm done...done."

Oh my God...this is getting good.  Who is he?  What did he do?  What has he been doing?  What was the last straw?  Does he know what a beautiful woman he has?  Why am I wrapped up in this?

"No, no, no.  I'm not talking to him.  We've said all there is to say.  He can fuck himself."

Oh shit...not good.  Not good at all.

"I know.  I'll talk to you later."

And that was it.  She walked in and clearly must have met someone because her 5-minute phone dialogue was over and I never saw her again.

Instantly, what I was previously scribbling about in my journal shifted and I started to write feverishly about her.  At first, I assumed the culprit was her shit-for-brains, non-committal, hot but worthless boyfriend and that she was tired of playing the fool.  And then, I thought it was her father that left her mother when she was young and was unreliable when it came to celebrating her successes like a photo exhibition that launched the evening before.  And then I thought it was her boss...the man who promised big career opportunities and after long nights and ridiculous numbers of hours never quite came through, always with an excuse.

On my bedside is Stephen King's "On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft."  It's his homage to the writers/story tellers of the world who want to get their voices out but are afraid that without a Master of Fine Arts that they're dead in the water.  One of the first pieces of commentary is on the power of the imagination and the ability to take a basic human observation and catapult it into a living, breathing creature that someone cares about.

For me today, it was her.  The girl at the coffee shop.

After an hour or so, I went back in to use the restroom hoping that I would see who she met.  To no avail, she must have exited through the back door.

All around me there are stories dying to be told.  I just have to be willing to eavesdrop a little.

Stories We Tell Ourselves

I sort of envy people who don't live in their heads.

It's got to be such a beautiful and clean experience not to continually rehash life experiences.

Alas, I've learned that it is what it is, and I've always been a girl who can't help but analyze my world.  I'm rarely good at taking things at face value.  There must be something more.

And so it struck me when I recently attended a workshop for beginner runners.  The focus of the talk was how to enjoy your race experience.  One of the techniques that the speaker suggested was to develop a keen awareness of the stories that we tell ourselves. 

In the case of running, often what flows through the head is far more powerful than what the legs think they can or can not do.  So, if you're constantly visualizing what it will feel like to cross the finish line and telling yourself that you're steady, powerful, capable, and determined...the mantras eventually move into a story that plays out mile by mile until you've achieved the goal.

In the routine and rituals of daily living, we engage in the same story telling behaviors.  We tell ourselves tales about who we are and who we are not.  We feed our mind with messages of hope or doubt based upon who we believe ourselves to be....a contributing member of the team, a failure as a mother, a beautiful friend, a worthless fill in the blank.

As we all know, the best part of story telling is that you can change the direction of the tale at any time.  You can decide what will happen to the characters, how they will be transformed, the lessons learned, and ultimately what happens before you imprint the words, 'The End.'

So, what will your story be?  How do you talk to yourself?  What character are you playing?  Do you believe that you're worthy, capable of the kind of ending you want?

Because in the end, we are a compilation of our thoughts that either motivate us to act or to not.  Instead of staying in your head indefinitely, the power of staying keenly aware of your story is that you are the writer, actor, director, and producer of the outcome.

What will your ending look like?

Feeling a Little Nostalgic

I've always considered myself an old soul.

From the time I was little, I could be found eaves dropping on adult conversation at the "big table," drinking coffee even though it was bound to stunt my growth, and dreaming about travels to far off places. 

To that end, I'd also venture to say that I'm a collector of stories, not so much the ones in books, but more so oral tales.  I'm the person that you meet on a plane and find yourself spilling your guts to...where you're from, where you're going, why you're sad that she broke up with you, why you hate your job, what you're hoping for next in life.  I'm also fascinated by my own family history and remember fondly the memories that my grandparents have shared over the years.

So some days, I find myself smack dab in the past remembering all kinds of memories.  High school, college, my first job, single living, life before parenting, first apartments, relationships, community projects, births, deaths...and I become nostalgic.  Why?

Probably because its easy to romanticize life at 21 prior to mortgage payments and babies...but perhaps it's because sometimes, it's only possible to fully appreciate parts of life when you're able to see them in retrospect.  You understand better why you are where you are given where you've been.  You understand how one event had to lead to another to create the opportunity to place you in the here and now.

And yet, with all of that...I still love hearing stories.  I love listening to people reminisce.  I enjoy the passion that comes out when they reflect on what was or what might have been. 

I especially love the story my grandmother used to tell about dating my grandfather while he was in the navy during WWII.  Apparently, he wrote her every day, but because of the postal system, he numbered each letter, so that she would have a chronology to the letters.  He asked her to do the same.  She quietly confided to me that on her letters to him, she advanced the numbers...sending letter #1, then letter #3....skipping #2.  But as she said, he was none the wiser, simply believing that a letter was lost at sea.  And well, a girl can't be stuck in her room writing all day, can she?

I hope that when the time comes, I can share memories with an "old soul" grandchild and enjoy being nostalgic, just for a bit.