Author: mykitchentable2017

  • Suddenly . . . .

    Suddenly . . . .

    I have written before about the passage of time and of how at times it is so quick, that it almost makes you doubt that anything has happened. And sometimes you just can’t believe that it is still the same day, minutes seem to take hours to pass. Time is such a confusing idea and a mystery that people have struggled to wrap their head around for centuries.

    Of course the way you perceive time often depends on what you are experiencing at the moment. Waiting for someone you love to come home can take forever. Like the old adage a watched pot never boils. On the other hand, driving to the dentist can take exactly 2 seconds, landing you immediately in the chair, watching the novocaine needle coming at you.

    Today as I sit in my house, I can’t help but stare at the many – and I mean many – photos of my children taken over the years. My middle child is about to graduate from college – an event that I often thought would never happen. After all they seem to be 2 for about 6 years. Then suddenly, in the middle of a day, you turn around and see a young woman standing before you when you are sure that you heard her say “babba juicky?” just 5 minutes ago.

    And the real twist is that, as they magically transform into adults, you easily forget to see yourself changing. Your own transformation goes unnoticed and forgotten . . . . until it’s not.

    Until that moment when you head to the bathroom to brush your teeth, look in the mirror and see a person you don’t recognize. Someone who has eyes that mirror your daughter’s but who has much lighter hair, parched skin, and lines where just yesterday there were none. Suddenly you realize that ‘Oh my God, I have lived for a long time’. Enough time to have raised children, had a career, lost parents and maybe others, seen the change of seasons so often that you wonder how it could possibly be time to shovel snow. Again.

    About 2 or so years ago, I experienced the last Christmas that my family would have in our family home. For the last time we gathered, as we had for many years, and celebrated the holiday season in the space that has seen our family grow.

    We had an unusual but not unheard of situation. As divorced parents, we made it our mission to keep our children in their home until they were ready to head to college. We have come and gone weekly and they have stayed in their home. I am proud of this. It would be a lie to say that it has been easy. It most certainly has not. But I would do it all again. We spared them the constant moving to another house, another bedroom, and did it ourselves, for them.

    That year as the holiday approached, I arrived on my “transition day” and found a Christmas Tree in the usual spot. This was not necessarily an issue. But as I looked at it I saw that it, without doubt, was the smallest, skinniest, saddest tree I had ever seen. I stood in the living room and felt all the years of our lives flash before me – ending with this tiny sad tree. And I cried. I stood in front of that tree remembering all the years spent together in that house. The celebrations, the heartache, the first dates, the new driver’s licenses, the break-ups, the fevers, the first look at perfectly aligned teeth, all the simple day to day humdrum and all the bigger more momentous feats.

    When I pulled myself together, I left the room and could not return. I told my children that we would be getting another tree. This would NOT be the last Christmas tree the Webb Family decorated, fed with warm sugar water, carefully placed the misfit toys around, and watched as the family dog tried to nip the heels of the abominable snowman, dragging him from his perch to her bed.

    It was at that moment that it hit me. All the time that seemed to take an eternity to pass, was suddenly, with a snap of my fingers, gone. Over. Done. Everyone was grown and on their way. Us included.

    It is a strange feeling to know that as you have watched your children grow, you have grown up beside them. In so many ways you all grew up together. And, of course, that means that once grown, you move on and begin your “real life” as I used to think of it.

    I suppose I should feel gratitude for having had so much ~ that house, my wonderful children, a full beautiful family raised, in a nest filled and wrapped in love. And I do – feel grateful that is. But on that day, during the last holiday season in our family house, I felt the sadness and melancholy that only comes with major transition. With a letting go of a piece of your personal history so that you can begin your next phase. One that with any luck will be at least as full as the last.

  • You Create Your Own Reality. Or do you?

    Ramblings about choice or destiny . . . or both.

    Who is actually in charge here?  This is a question that I have struggled with forever.  Is it me or am I being shoved along some path that lies before me and has been previously defined – not by me.

    My natural predisposition has always been that the progression of our lives is largely fated.  Many things are just meant to be and have little to do with our actions.  The map has been defined and we are just rolling along with it.  Some would say this is quite the cop-out and a perfect way to take no responsibility for your life.  Maybe so. The idea of fate driving the bus is certainly a great excuse when things don’t work out quite as I had hoped.

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    Many years ago I started chanting to myself

    “You Create Your Own Reality”

    This meant “Get your shit together Karen. Make a decision and stumble forward”.  In other words, work with what you have, or what you think you have, and make your life what you want it to be. I chanted this even while I was operating within the limits of a “things happening TO me rather than those things that I might MAKE happen” frame of mind. It became a way for me to feel in control of my future.  And I figured if I said it enough maybe it would stick.

    One of my theories about why this persistent chant is a legit one arises from something someone said to me long ago.  It was “Why wouldn’t you believe that you guide your own future?  Even if it’s not true, what’s the downside?”.  Of course!  What a no brainer!  There is NO downside.  And the upside is that you feel in control of your destiny.  Who doesn’t want that??

    So along I go, chanting away.  But under it all remains my nagging predisposition: Fate.  Surely I haven’t been the source of all this good stuff.  Because truly I have experienced a pretty sweet life with a lot of genuine good in it. “I sure have been lucky”.  And there it is. Luck is the factor.  Fate is my friend and has been very kind to me.  It certainly has nothing to do with my own choices.

    Every time this surfaces I hit reset and restart my mantra.  At least I’m persistent. Exhaustingly so.

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    The Lens

    What I have realized is that to make my chant stick, I need a way to really define Creating my own reality.  Seriously, what the actual fuck does that REALLY mean.  I have to pin it to something of substance – to make it bigger than “Fate” and “Luck”.  And I have come to this.  Life presents itself to you and you get to see it through your own personal lens. A lens that belongs solely to you and is based on EVERYTHING you are, EVERYTHING you have experienced, EVERYTHING you know.  You get to experience life in ways that “fit” your lens at that moment. The lens is fluid and may change moment by moment.  Sometimes it even reflects the belief that Fate has brought you here and would have under any circumstance.  So what?  It’s YOUR lens – YOUR reality.  So, you interpret the things that happen – what you see – and turn right or left at a fork  – Creating your reality – in ways that suit your lens at that time.

    Make sense?  If not, I’m going with it anyway . . . . .

    While I have bought into this for the most part, the fluidity of the lens is tricky.  It inherently means that Creating your own reality is inconsistent.  Maybe contrary.  I have heard myself say: “Well, that was the best decision I’ve ever made – look where it got me” at the same time as “Isn’t it great that I got so lucky to have _____ show up now”.   Now there’s a contradiction. And a perfect example of not really knowing whether my reality is created by me or a predefined moment.  But I remind myself that the lens may have shifted and confused my perception in that moment.  And I resume the chant.

    Sabatoge

    As I slog along dragging my not quite so convincing strategy behind me, Karen 5, the Bitch, shows up.

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    She rises and fully buys into the notion that there are certain things that we DO make happen.  Or more accurately, certain things that we purposely PREVENT from happening. Whether subconscious or with conviction.  Either way, we have set the stage and directed the parties to move and shape the scene with intention.  This goes hand in hand with what I now have adopted as chant #2 . . . . “You create your own storm“.  And by storm, I mean gaping holes and giant boulders appearing in front of you that make you stumble around. These roadblocks can make any progress toward what you want, or think you want, almost impossible. More importantly, I’m pretty sure I often place these boulders in my way – not with overt intention but something more undefined, more obtuse.  Engaging in behavior that will destroy even the most pleasant of moments on a regular basis.  It’s almost as if at the first glimpse of a choice that might lead to pure happiness, Karen 5 will rear her ugly head and smack down any potential joy. I now lovingly refer to this as Subconscious Sabotage.  

    And here, there most certainly is an assertion of control – the making of a choice – despite the fact that it might be a choice that causes me to trip.  And maybe that is the point – here I am creating my reality – trippy though it may be.

    ‘Fear’, the Bus Driver

    I cannot count the number of times that I have felt frustrated with my inability to get to where I’m going.  Rather than take responsibility for not being able to shove the boulder out of my way, I will blame fate or the “Gods” for putting things just out of reach or making them much more difficult to achieve. While this is surely a cop-out in Creating your own reality, if I’m honest with myself I know that fear is really driving that bus. The fear that if I move the boulder or step over it, the other side will be less than what I thought or expected, or I will realize that I didn’t really want it after all and then what?  Or maybe even fear of actually getting what I want.  Actually letting myself be happy.  How devastating would THAT be?

    (Pink eloquently shares this tidbit. Click the photo to take a listen.)

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    In fact, as I ponder this weird cycle of sabotage I realize that fear of being happy is a real thing. At least for me. Truthfully this fear underlies the character of all of the Karens sitting at the Table.  Fear of failure, fear of success, fear of real happiness, fear of making the wrong choice, fear of letting go. I mean honestly. What would I do if I let happiness in and had to stop whining about the inadequacies of life. The boulders that I cannot move around. My lack of decision making prowess. What would I do if I let go and just allowed myself to be happy and satisfied in this moment. Forget about whether events arise out of my actions, lack of action or some bigger picture.

    Maybe that’s why I have obsessed about Fate vs. Creating my own reality.  Fate relieves the pressure to actually choose happiness.  Creating a reality of happiness is risky, it is too fragile and potentially fleeting. Just avoid the beautiful so if, or when, we lose it we won’t miss it. I know of course, in my smart head, that this is foolish and a waste of time.  Time that is short enough without wasting the opportunity for beauty and happiness.

    And so the chant goes on.  Take a step, make a decision, move the boulder, Create your reality.

    All of that and still I return to the stubborn question:  Am I in control or not?  I think that the likelihood is that there is a little bit of both in the mix of life – hence the lens. The lens allows these two very contradictory philosophies to co-exist.  Its fluidity permits Creating our own reality while believing that the step we are about to take might have been THE step all along.

  • Betrayal

    Betrayal

    There are times in all our lives when we experience something messy in a relationship – any kind of relationship. “Messy” can mean many things and can be the result of many different circumstances. Like . . . . .

    Basic disagreement. I want A and you want B.

    Strong opinions. I believe in democracy and you are a socialist.

    Issue conflict. I think we should have another baby and you think NO WAY.

    Money. I don’t think we have enough and you think we are just fine.

    Loss, Gain, Moving . . .  

    This list could go on for days. Each potentially present in every relationship you have. Whether it’s with a partner, an employer, a friend, or family member.

    Messy is personal and defined differently by everyone. Some rare people just go with the flow, no matter the direction of the tide. Some relish conflict and disagreement. They thrive on it. It fuels them. Some immediately run away at the first sign of disagreement. And others, probably most and definitely me, fall somewhere in between. I know that for me, the significance and status of the relationship involved will often define how I react to the conflict. And also, how much it hurts.

    And that is really the crux of this post. How much the mess hurts. Over the past year I have watched as some of my most important people have been smacked upside the head with a mess or as I prefer to call it, a shitshow. The kind of shitshow that you just don’t see coming. It blindsides you and at first you can’t do anything but stumble around to get the ground back beneath your feet. These circumstances involve friendships – good ones. In fact I might even say best ones. And that is in many ways the most baffling part of the shitshow. 

    Friendships between woman vary widely. From acquaintance status to going out buddies to “best friends forever” and a whole bunch in between. It’s a spectrum and along the spectrum there are assumptions you make about your relationship. For me, if you are on the best friend end of the line, the “Sister” end, you assume trust, honesty and loyalty. Even if you are far from each other, busy with “life” and don’t see much of each other, these are basic expectations. They exist in your heart. And when a certain kind of mess shows up – the shitshow – you are thrown. It is devastating. And it is fair to say that it is an outright betrayal. A betrayal of what is, for many of us, our closest and most precious connection. 

    For many woman, having “Sisters” who have not been provided by blood but who you have chosen, with whom you share life’s best and worst moments, your deepest thoughts, fears, hopes and dreams are in a category all their own. Of course there are variations of this kind of friendship just like any other. Some would throw the word Sister around without any real meaning. But the ones I am talking about are more than friends, they are your lifeline. They are the anchor that holds you when you are lost and floundering. They are the one to whom you go running when disaster, a jackpot, or hilarity, strikes. There is an invisible thread that binds you to each other and believe me, any woman who is lucky enough to have this, will throw herself on a sword to keep it.

    So, when a betrayal comes from that person, it is beyond destructive. 

    There may be explanation. Um, sorry there really is none.

    There may be lack of forethought or consideration of what else might be happening. Again, um, not so much.

    There may be excuse. Really? I don’t think so.

    There may be forgiveness. Easier for some than others.

    To be clear, I am not talking about minor events of stupidity or word vomiting. We all say and do stupid things without thinking about the receiver’s feelings or in a heated moment. And very often those who are closest to us bear the brunt of it. I am surely guilty of that. But a purely messy encounter? A shitshow, that has clearly been motivated by meanness, selfishness, lack of thought and a blatant disregard for one of your Sisters. This is a betrayal of the deepest kind.

    I have seen this happen this past year to some of my closest people. And I can say, it is truly baffling and 100% unacceptable. I know that some can and will forgive and move on, but even in those circumstances, the relationship will never be the same. How can it? Trust has been breached. Breached in the most precious of friendships.

    And, in all honesty, these circumstances have impacted me. Someone who is not the target but is on the periphery. I have seen the fallout. I have seen the hurt, the disbelief, the attempt at providing an excuse and then the resignation that “Wow that wasn’t expected, wasn’t what I signed up for or ever thought I’d have to hear “. And I have witnessed the immediate disintegration of trust. 

    All of that has made me much more conscious of my own actions and words. I know how precious my Sisters are to me. They are irreplaceable. I know how, in many ways, I could not go through much of my life without them. They have been my constant, my anchor, the hand that drags me back to the surface and shoves me into life. With just a little more strength and clarity and with a lot of gratitude. And to lose that is tragic and unthinkable. 

  • Confidence . . . .

    Confidence . . . .

    I have struggled with a lack of self-confidence for centuries it seems. I have always chalked it up to my upbringing, my own personal “demons”, never considering that it might be a gender issue. Now, I’m not so sure. I while ago I read Knowing Your Value, by Mika Brzezinski and found that my self-diagnosed lack of confidence might really be something else. It might be, at least in part, because I am a woman operating in – yes, let’s face it, it still is – a man’s world.

    I started reading Knowing Your Value because I wanted to see if my insecurities could be mended by looking at how women operate in the workplace. I thought that maybe I could translate the ideas expressed from these women in business to all aspects of my life. The book is intended to empower women so they can effectively compete with men…….as men do. It examines how women assume that they have reached their position because of luck and are grateful to have it. This idea of being grateful is not based on self-worth, talent, skill or brilliance. It is based on luck. Luck. An idea that really has no basis in fact – just a pendulum swinging randomly. As I thought about this, I realized that it aligns exactly with how I have always felt. Skill? Whatever. It’s chance and luck that has brought me here. And this realization really pissed me off.

    We all know that women are taught – whether it’s conscious or not – to be a peace-keeper, the one who holds it all together so we can move forward without discord. We massage egos, calm people down, make excuses, distract, give confidence, explain why everyone is right on some level, and differences in opinion are not fatal. But we are not taught to argue for our own different opinion, to stand up and be counted in our own right. Instead we are taught to support everyone else so THEY can be counted.

    As we try to establish ourselves these things only work against us. They make us cynical, unconfident, defensive, quick to take the blame. Most importantly, we immediately think that our opinions are really not worth voicing. They are irrelevant or unimportant and certainly won’t make a difference. Another consequence of this is that we often take down our own allies. Why would we do this – to them? They are our real support system and the only ones who REALLY understand this divisiveness. And yet those are the ones we punish. How easy to blame and take down those who are most like you – after all you know how to reach their deepest vulnerability since it’s yours as well.

    As a professional, I am a head down, tune everything out, zero-in scribe. A ‘make an outline, follow it through, check it 5 times, edit 5 more, then close your eyes and hold your breath while hitting send’, kind of person. These are not all bad qualities especially for a lawyer. In fact, they are important skills that have been carefully cultivated by my education. Edit, fact check, cite and re-cite everything you do ad nauseam to ensure that you are right. images-1Or as right as you can be. Don’t make a move or speak until you know what you are talking about. These are most certainly not bad traits.

    { And next I should say that this is what makes me a good lawyer.  But even writing those words is hard for me . . . .}

    These skills can certainly be bricks in the road to success. But they are also paralyzing and self-defeating. While I am a strong supporter of others, when it comes to advocating for myself I fall far, far short of a penny. I am doubtful to a fault. Praise is taken lightly. Silence is deafening. Asking for compensation is like a walk to the guillotine. I am a ‘thank you for letting me be here – no need to pay me’ – kind of person. And make no mistake these traits seep into your personal life. They become your instinctual first move in every game, including the relationship game.

    Considering all this and how it has likely been encouraged by the influence of our wider society, has me angry. And it’s no wonder. I’ve accepted all this as part of who I am, how I was raised, a flaw in my character that I have and will accommodate. What a misconception. This is not a personal flaw that I have to accommodate – it is an imposed belief that I can choose to fight. It might not be easy but it is a choice that I can make. That in itself is empowering enough to feel a little more confident and recognize that there has been a slight shift in the balance of skill vs. luck.

    So what’s the upshot. However this idea landed, wherever it came from, it landed on me.  It certainly seeps in around the edges of a lot of thought and action. But it does not define who I am and recognizing that immediately trims it down. Despite all that I carry around that is hard or at times self defeating, I have done pretty well. I have found the right space and the right people in all aspects of my life. And guess what? It hasn’t been just luck. I may never be able to say “Hey. You know what? I’m a smart Mother Fucker and deserve to be treated as such so step it up and deliver.” But I am learning to say that I am skilled, smart, careful and committed and deserve to be treated that way.

    Of course right now I can only say these things to myself. But hearing it in my own head? Well, that’s a start.

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  • The Chair

    The Chair

    I think most women will agree that there are few things in life as uplifting as having your hair done.  There is a special excitement that goes along with having someone play with your hair for a few hours.  You walk in with a bedhead, greasy mess, and walk out with soft, shiny locks and a new attitude.  That moment when you exit the salon and swing your head left to right in slow motion, at least it’s slow-motion inside your head, is like no other.   I often find myself singing, again inside my head, “I feel pretty, oh so pretty….” as I strut to the car. slim-european-woman-glamorous-sunglasses-260nw-1067114738 Some days there is nothing better.

    The intimate time spent sitting in your stylist’s chair, sharing secrets and giggling creates a certain kind of bond.  It is like being in a special cone of silence – just you and your stylist – where no one can hear anything you say and once the cone rises, all the stories go up with it.  Secrets are kept, sly comments are sealed and gossip stays right where it belongs – burned up inside each peroxide filled foil.

    However, after all the intimate details of your life have been shared there undoubtedly comes the inevitable day that you decide that it’s time to break up.  This is tragic.  I sometimes think I’d rather have all my teeth pulled out one by one rather than change stylists.  It can be so heartbreaking.  After all, you’ve shared so much together.  You’ve spent so much time in “the chair” spinning around and around staring at each other, making life-altering decisions about all kinds of stuff, including your hair color.

    Some people can be very direct about the break-up.  Like:  “Sorry Vidal, I think I need a change.  It’s not you, you’re fantastic.  The best.  It’s me.  I just need to move on.  I need someone who will support me while my bangs grow out.”  And then there are those who slink away.  They just happen to “forget” to make the next appointment.  Those people will worry about the decision for months.  They might hide for a while so the old stylist will think they’ve moved away.  They won’t post any pictures of their great new style on Facebook for fear of being found out.  Honestly, breaking up can be so hard to do.

    After the breakup, there is the inevitable first consult you have with your new stylist.  Who, by the way, is in a neighboring town so your old one won’t recognize your car parked for 3 hours in his lot.  This first consultation can be very stressful.   Especially if you are a buffoon like me.  You really don’t know each other yet.  In fact, you’ve probably never met.  You are shy about explaining what you want and why you left your old stylist.  Your discomfort is increased because you feel so small in his oversized chair.  Plus it’s so high off the ground.  He must have pumped the pedal 50 times to get you up there.  You feel guilty about your betrayal so the first half-hour is all about how wonderful the old stylist was but you just needed something “new” and, naturally, you’ve heard about how extraordinary the new stylist is.  Flattery is a large part of this first meeting.  I’ve actually heard myself say “Oh wow, you really are a master at work.  A true artist.”  And “I can always tell when I see someone with one of your cuts.  They are GORGEOUS”.  And then throw up in my mouth.

    Recently I had a consultation with a new stylist.  His chair is in a pretty small, sunny and very chic salon.  It is also very quiet.  Only two clients at a time.  No receptionist, each stylist checks you out themselves.  It is a very personal experience.  So, when I walked up the stairs and finally found the door, which by the way was right in front of me but unseen because I was in such a “hyper-first-hair-date” state, here’s what happened.   I walked in looking for something to latch on to, you know so I wouldn’t feel so awkward.  Something like a front desk, which was vacant.  Or a greeter, no one was around.  Or even a sign-in sheet or pretty poster of a great hairstyle, nope.  Everyone, that means both stylists – all 2 of them – and their clients, looked up and watched me turn left, right, look up and down, move backward and forwards.  Finally, head down I meandered over to the couch trying my best to look like I knew where I was.  Having no idea what my highly recommended new stylist looked like, I just sat and waited until someone asked if I had an appointment.  “Oh, just my first consultation.  I’m so excited!” I proudly shouted into the silent room.  There was a short “Oh” followed by the lowering of all 4 heads.

    My stylist was working on someone and I was to be scanned for acceptance while her hair was baking.  So I sat, legs crossed, sipping my coffee and trying to look like I belonged there.  I am not kidding when I say that this place is quiet.  There was very hip, soft music playing in the background and, of course, the sound of a blow dryer but that was it.  Maybe some quiet words exchanged but not much.  Finally, my stylist moved his client to another chair and whispered, “Hi.  Come on over.” and I screamed, “Oh, you’re Brian!”  Everyone then watched me trip my way to his chair.  It took me a couple of minutes to put my coffee and bag down, pick them up, move them over, put them down, pick them up, move them over, put them down ….you get it…. until I figured I’d better put my butt down or just leave.

    As I sat in his chair I just had to say “I don’t want you to think I’m a stalker or anything but where do you live?  I think you might live in my neighborhood.  Someone told me that a hair dude moved in and I thought maybe it was you”.  Then I rambled on “Your house looks great and I’ve seen your kids in the yard.  They’re so cute.”  Really?  Really Karen?  This is how an adult acts in public?  No.  This is how awkward stalkers act in public.

    After I stuttered through an explanation of how I had been trying to change my hair for a couple of years and just couldn’t seem to get what I wanted, he spent half an hour circling my head, moving my hair up, down and around and then testing some colors on a few pieces in the back.  Each time blowing the one newly colored piece dry to see the result.  He was incredible and clearly very thorough.  During this magic-making, the three other people in the room were doing their own thing, barely.  The woman I replaced in the chair was angrily stabbing her phone as she conversed with someone over the internet.  I was surprised she could see her phone screen through her furrowed brow and squinted eyes.  She did not look happy, which naturally made me uncomfortable since it was obviously my fault.  The other stylist was engrossed in the masterpiece she was creating and her client was smiling and shrugging her shoulders as she watched what was going on at the back of my head.  I admit I was a little scared but more than that I was busy wondering if I should offer to pay for his time examining and determining if he could do what I wanted.  Or was this a free consultation.  There was no sign to indicate a price for anything.  I certainly didn’t want to insult him.  I thought maybe I should just offer to pay the other client that I had so clearly pissed off.

    In the end, I bought a product, hugged my new stylist, said I’d see him in the “hood” and stumbled my way out.  Turns out he was the best stylist I ever had.  He really knew his trade.  And if I hadn’t subsequently felt the need to once again change it up – I’d still have that beautiful head of hair.  Instead you can find me and my broken bob stumbling my way through a plethora of new hairdressers, trying to find my way back to that perfect chair.

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  • The Tapestry of Being

    The Tapestry of Being

    I have previously written about envisioning life as a tapestry, full of color – mine mostly muted reds, greens, hangergolds and black. It is a series of threads, some as thin as silk and others as heavy as a super bulky length612A4MW4rML._AC_SL1001_
    of wool.

    The threads weave together creating an illustration of your life.  Sometimes there are gaps or holes that you see and stitch together or miss completely and remain empty.  Other times there are giant knots of thread that have to be, often painfully, unwound in order to keep weaving the tapestry.  If not, they will clog up the process making it almost impossible to weave another thread into the mix without first ramming the needle through with a sledge hammer.

    There is obvious symbolism in this tapestry image.  A particularly gaping hole might mean, you’d better back it up a bit and remember where you are going because you surely must have missed a step.  Or a giant knot might mean, ‘holy shit what load of crap have I stumbled into that I cannot shove out of the way no matter how huge my shovel’.

    Then there is my personal favorite – the thread that never seems to end up attached to anything.  It just flies around frantically circling the tapestry with no apparent source or destination. 200wWhen I imagine this thread all I can see is this guy.

    In some ways I can almost see every thread as a person. Someone who has stepped into my life and left a mark on the path of it. So, maybe this guy isn’t me at all but someone who keeps waving and jumping up and down until I see them, maybe let them in, and receive the message they are trying to deliver.

    That might be true and I can certainly say that I am pretty damn good at ignoring even the most obvious of signs.  Even so, I’m pretty sure I actually look like this guy some days as I jump around from kitchen sink to desk to mailbox to laundry to workout to shower, back to desk to whatever else is next in line – it’s endless really.  Anyone who is a mom knows what I’m talking about. We can do a minimum of 5 things at once.  Make the bed while brushing your teeth and quizzing your son for his pending driving test, then running to turn the stove off so the scrambled eggs you started 5 minutes ago won’t burn the house down. But I digress….

    I think any way I slice it, these holes, knots and loose ends are signs of my inability to move forward – to get the message placed squarely in front of my face and move on down the road.

    So many people talk about how important it is to just “live in the moment” – to just be still and not endlessly brood over your past blunders or anticipate the next moment, day, year, event . . . .  Well, this unhinged thread is the epitome of NOT living in the moment.  Or at least of having a damn hard time latching onto it.  I long for those rare times that I actually DO stop, look around, look within and just “be exactly where I am”.  These are moments of pure peace and stillness and they are magic.  Few and far between but magic nonetheless.

    The flip side to living in the moment, and where you can usually find me, is waiting. woman-waiting-looking-out-window-lonely-156627786Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for something to stop happening. Waiting for the next day to begin. Waiting for my real life to begin – for something to happen that will explain everything.  In this magic moment that eludes me, all the puzzle pieces will find their match and create a near perfect mural. The frenzied thread will stop its flippant spinning and settle down.  My tapestry will smooth at the edges, all the threads will align and it will look like a beautiful landscape.

    Hmmmmmmm. Maybe. Or maybe not.

    I think that in times of frenzy or conversely in times of immobility, it is human nature to search for the one thread that is within reach in order to create order out of chaos.  While I feel like I am almost ALWAYS in one or another of those places, I recently found myself grabbing on and yanking one out.  As is typical, yanking on one means all those attached come with it.  And then what you have is an unravelled mess of thread at your feet.  And while the disorder of that mess makes me crazy and become like the flailing guy above, it also forces me to take stock of each thread and try to put them in an order that fits – that makes sense at least in that moment.  Last week I had an ” I think I have to actually pull that one little thread out.  RIGHT NOW.”  This just happened to be in the middle of an early morning ride at my cycling studio – a place where these moments often occur. (@cyclefierce).  It must have something to do with endorphins and sweat. 

    This was a special ride with a special playlist.  One that I LOVE and could listen to over and over.  It was during a particular song, a song that my daughter and I have always loved, when I noticed the tangled mess of thread on the floor beside my bike.  I tried to look away, but it seemed to grow until I almost couldn’t see the instructor.  So, I picked up a particularly large piece of wool (in my mind of course) and while I wound it around and around my finger I started thinking about this post and the idea of waiting.  Maybe that’s what that particular fat strand of wool represents.  My giant waiting room.

    While sitting in that room – on my bike – with my massive pile of thread beside me, I thought that the idea of waiting for the perfect answer, event or moment really is a mind fuck.  Because the truth is there is NOTHING to wait for.  There is no magic explanation or idea that will put everything into the perfect position or the wheels in motion.  There is no one thing that will magically create peace out of disorder.  There is no one person who will suddenly toss the fundamental answer to the mystery of your life into your waiting hands.  The mystery IS the answer and we are living it all day – every day – every moment.  And let’s face it we don’t know how many moments we actually have.  Why on earth am I wasting them waiting for the next one that will “mean more, be more significant, be perfect”.  Now is what matters.  This moment and this thread.

    My imperfect tapestry is perfect just as it is, crazy flying threads and all.  Life is made of all these threads – we add them, knot them, cut them out, scramble the order of them with every person we let in, every thought we acknowledge and action we take.  Maybe the holes and knots are meaningful in and of themselves. They are the moments of my life that – for good or maybe not so good – have brought me to the next thread – even if I’ve had to jump over some to get there.

    I imagine that this theme is just a repetition of my earlier Tapestry post. And how perfect is that?  Here it is.  Another thread in my tapestry that looks like a frighteningly similar version of one that is 25 rows above.  Or more likely several that are scattered throughout.  Maybe what didn’t stick in my sometimes thick mind from the other threads, is here again to bring home the message.  Maybe this time it will sink in and my waiting room will become my party room instead.

    tapestry-backside

  • Options . . . .

    Guilt.  “Guilt is optional”, once said my very best friend after I had initiated a particularly unexpected breakup.  Unexpected for the boyfriend anyway.  Given the situation at the time, I felt bad for a while and then moved on leaving my guilt on the floor with the knowledge that my actions had not been completely unexpected and were necessary – for both of us.   Ever since, I have proudly spouted this same edict many times to anyone who needed to hear it.  Most people just nod and thank me for giving them permission to let it go.  

    Now, after floundering around for a long time feeling unbalanced and restless, I find myself thinking a lot about the concept of guilt being optional. Actually, the thought dropped in on me one day when I heard my friend’s beautiful voice in my head loud and clear say, “Oh for God’s sake Karen, why can’t you remember –  “Guilt is optional. OPTIONAL. Let it gooooooo.”  

    The thing is, the uneasiness that has been nipping at my heels follows what was supposed to be a very liberating life change. All I can really think about is:

    “Wtf? Why, after all this seemingly forward movement, am I suddenly stuck in a pile of goo, slogging around getting more restless by the day?”

    So once the idea fell on my head, something inside me cracked just a little, letting in a bit of light and I understood that all this unease might be a product of guilt, pure and simple.  I realized that before I could rinse the goo off and start walking, I needed to figure out exactly what to do with it because it clearly isn’t feeling very optional.

    For starters, I’m not sure I ever really bought into the idea that guilt is actually an optional emotion.  I think it is likely circumstantial and also individual.  Some people have no ability to feel guilt or remorse.  Those people scare me because some things should make you feel guilt.  Most of us, though, feel guilty at one time or another for random actions that cause another person pain.  And when that happens how do we justify it?  How do we live knowing that we really caused pain to someone – maybe more than one someone?  

    The question is even more complicated if the pain was a result of “good”intentions and out of the need to live your “best life”.

    Live your best life . .

    “Oh no not THAT BS again.”

    What if you are compelled to do something that changes the lives of others forever, in order to save yourself.  I know that sounds a bit dramatic.  By “saving yourself” I simply mean action motivated by the knowledge that you can’t keep up the fight anymore – something has to change or you will surely lose your shit.  

    For me, the change was monumental in the moment, but not horrendous or even unusual.  Nonetheless, it caused hurt to the people that I love most in the world.  I knew that this would be the case at the time.  It wasn’t something I had done on a whim.  Quite the opposite.  It was something I had considered for many years.  The idea thrown in and out, over and over again until I knew that I really didn’t have a choice if I wanted to be a little more joyful, live a little lighter and, generally, be a better person.  So, forward I marched.  And now I find myself – all of us – on the other side, having adjusted for the most part, I think.  And me in a pool of emotion still losing some measure of my shit.

    And here is where that lovely loud voice chimed in, tapping her finger on my forehead until I identified the goo as guilt.  And if I’m honest with myself there is some measure of regret thrown into the mix.  But that I will leave for another day.  So, this “guilt is optional” thing has taken a front row seat in my mind.  It is human nature to search for the one thread that is within reach in order to create order out of chaos.  “Guilt is optional” was my thread.  So I yanked it out and started trying to figure out what to do with it.  

    I have concluded that the term “optional” is a relative one.  Extremely relative, in an ‘optional’ sort of way.  Maybe a determination of whether you can choose guilt or not goes something like this.  Yes, you feel guilt for overturning the apple cart and upsetting the “normal” dynamic but were your reasons for doing so honest and valid?  Is anyone better off?    If the answer is yes, then maybe you can choose Option A – let the guilt go. For me, as usual, the answer is not that easy, and I continue to endlessly pick at the scab . . . 


    And just to bring the point home, I find myself crying a lot these days.  Actually, blubbering when alone in the car is a more accurate discription.  This is very unusual because I am most certainly NOT a crier.  Or I wasn’t.  And it’s ugly crying I’m talking about. The occurrence of these random explosive moments while standing in the goo, are what have caused me to consider the guilt “option” in the first place.  I figure they are so atypical that there must be a reason for them.  

    So I consider all the things. Would I have been “ok” without the shift?  Yes, of course I would have been OK.  And maybe that should have been enough.  Maybe I should have tried harder to be “more OK”.  Maybe OK is really all we should ever really expect.  How much does my OK weigh when balanced with everyone’s else’s OK?  How permanent is the upset?  Is anyone besides you – or EVEN you – better off?  These are all questions that have different answers on different days – sometimes minutes.  And, honestly, it is likely that I will never have a firm answer for any of them and, if so, does that mean that my optional guilt will just keep following me around – sometimes letting it go and sometimes not?

    I do realize that other factors probably enter the equation here.  Like the absolutely crazy passage of time at lightning speed, children growing up and leaving home, job uncertainty, money or the lack of it, a pandemic, a seriously frightening threat to our democracy, and the list goes on.  But when push comes to shove it has boiled down to self-doubt about my choices and the impact of them.   I’m not sure the self-doubt is optional once it lands in your head and heart.  And until that is resolved the residue of guilt may also not be optional.

    One thing I DO know is that once certain decisions are made, actions taken, lives impacted, change launched – there is no going back. No matter the guilt, the remorse, the goo. We don’t get to reverse course on certain choices. It simply isn’t fair and not a privilege we can assume. So, maybe that is where the “option” to feel guilt or not is relevant. Maybe that is where you say, OK. what is done was done – with good intentions and without malice or any evil doing. It may not have been a perfect choice – for me or anyone – but it was a choice and with it comes a consequence. So, accept it for all that it is and is not – and move forward – letting any guilt go.

    Maybe.

  • The Beauty and Challenge of Being a Mother

    The Beauty and Challenge of Being a Mother

    Today is Mother’s Day. It’s one of my favorite holidays because it celebrates the core of who I am – of anyone who is a mom. My own Mom has been gone now for a few years. But I will celebrate her today as if she is right here by my side. After all, it’s because of her that I’m here. And I mean that in more than the obvious way.

    My Mom kept me alive and gave me an inner strength that I carry to this day. Through so many of life’s challenges my Mom was beside me and I knew, without having to think about it, that she would be there to pick me up, dust me off and help me limp back to my corner of the ring – only to come out stronger than ever. She never failed to have my back. I will admit that I didn’t always recognize this. In fact, it probably wasn’t until I had my own children that I realized what she had done for me for all the years of my life. Even now I feel like she is behind me looking over my shoulder – just in case. I sure hope so. Because there is never a day when I don’t think about what she might say or suggest about whatever current stumbling block might be thrown in my way.

    Being a mother can be tricky. As a young woman I said I didn’t want children – I never thought it was a role I could capably fill. My status as ‘dog mom’ was plenty. And then I married and had my first son a year later. Through that first pregnancy I still had doubts about my ability to mother anyone walking on 2 rather than 4 feet. And then the doctor put him in my arms, I looked down and it was over. In that second, I finally understood what “love at first sight” meant and I knew with every fiber of my being that I would give my life for him without hesitation. I felt that same thing when my 2d and 3d children were born. There is something in that instant that changes you forever.

    I think of it as the “mom switch”. A switch that stays on and glows within you forever. That is not to say that there aren’t times when I would happily turn the switch off. Being a mother is beautiful but it is also painful, anxiety ridden and impossible to feel confident about. There are days when I have doubted every decision I made, from “OMG did I give him the right amount of Tylenol or too much?” or “Should I have let her go on that playdate? That kid might not be the best match for her” to “How can I possibly let her drive away from me, what if she gets lost”. The list is filled with endless doubts – each with a potentially drastic outcome. At least in my mind they are drastic. My fears may not be based in reality but instead on my overriding need to keep them all safe. Forever tucked under my arms. It is an intensely personal and vivid need – the need to protect them. And I doubt that I will ever not feel it.

    There is no doubt that my children are my proudest accomplishments and also in many ways my biggest challenge. It took some time for me to realize that they wouldn’t always do what I wanted or thought was best for them. It sounds ridiculous, even to me, to say that out loud. They have their own independent minds and hearts and will follow them. Just like I did. For better or worse. The challenge for me – every single day – is to accept that fact and let them fly along their own path despite my “certainty” that it might be a wrong turn.

    For me, and this is my most poignant thought for the day, being a mother means wearing my protective armor – my cloak and dagger – every minute of every day since that first moment I saw their sweet little faces. I think the armor ignited when the switch went on. It became my new “birthday suit” and God help the person who necessitates my exposing it.

    No one, of course, can see it. It lies just beneath the visible surface but I feel it every second. It is my shield and my weapon and if any of my children are threatened in any way it lights up like New York City on the blackest of nights. It expands and with it I gain a massive super hero-like strength. Make no mistake, I will not hesitate to use it against anyone who threatens a child of mine. And once the armor is out, it is almost impossible to retract. I am certain that I will wield my dagger at anyone who poses a threat. And I will not regret it.

    My children – no matter their age – are my purpose. My blood. My heart. There is nothing stronger than that bond and I will preserve and protect it forever. Long past my exit from this earth.

    So, on this Mother’s Day while we listen to my favorite “Mother’s Day song”, “Mama”, I will wear my armor with pride and joy and be so grateful that I was smart enough to choose motherhood, challenges and all.

  • Worry Beads

    Worry Beads

    Grandpa’s worry beads. . . . 

    IMG_3148

    Many years ago when I was a teenager my grandfather gave me his “worry beads”.  I can’t remember the exact circumstance – it might have been when my parents were divorcing and my grandparents were worried about my brother and I.  In any event, he passed them along to me.  I have taken them with me throughout my many travels and moves across the East Coast.  Not knowingly.  They just were in my jewelry box, which has always been an appendage of sorts.

    The beads were strung on a red very frayed silk string and were a mixture of gold, brown, and green plastic beads.  I actually have no idea where he got them or why they were “worry beads”.  Now I really, really wish I had asked instead of just taking them, probably rolling my eyes and putting them away.

    About 10 years ago I had a very strange and inexplicable health issue.  Together with this, I experienced extreme panic attacks.  I was basically on high alert all the time. Anyone who has anxiety knows what I mean when I say “high alert”.  This persisted 24/7.  Always a low level of buzzing tension and then, at any given moment, it would rear up whether I was awake, asleep, talking, driving, working – you name it. I was riddled with it.  A sense of disconnection was unleashed and I felt tethered to nothing.   As if I was floating outside myself and couldn’t find a way back in.  Anxiety is truly debilitating and, in my opinion, is very possibly worse than any other feeling you could possibly muster up.  Including physical pain.

    As I have thought about this period of time, I realize that this is very likely the singular event that triggered a “resurgence” of the anxiety disorder that I never knew I had.  Although I had no idea I was doing it, somehow I had been able to keep this at bay my whole life. In my mind, I was just cruising along with my life in the only way I knew.  Often with a nagging “sense of impending doom”.  This is what I called the sensation I had when I was most stressed out. I now know that this was really just anxiety.  But by calling it my “special power’” I pushed through, chalked it up to my “extraordinary 6th sense”, and waited for the disaster to strike.  It rarely did of course but this was the skill I had developed to calm myself down.  Whatever I “sensed” was going to happen would be bad and it was out of my control so I just covered my head, sucked it up, and moved along.

    When you consider it, this is actually a very creative way of dealing, or not dealing, with distress and anxiety.  Maybe I should teach it as a life skill.  Course Name:  “Overcoming Fear with a Practiced Sense of Impending Doom”.  The problem with this is that you aren’t being true to your self or acknowledging who you are.  In fact, you are doing exactly the opposite.  The outside world wants us to assimilate into their expectation of who we should be and what feelings are appropriate.  I was accomodating the world and letting it judge me into suppressing the true sense of who I am.  However dysfunctional it may be.  Probably not a life skill worth teaching.

    But I digress.  When this all cropped up 10 years ago, I began to see a therapist.  She is, without question, the best therapist alive. I’ll call her Athena, as in goddess. The day she retired was truly a day of mourning for me.  She expertly and painstakingly helped me sort through what was making me so anxious. Ultimately, we figured it out and, for a moment it felt great.  But then the moment passed and I was left with this: “OK. So now I know why I am reacting this way to certain “triggers” but really…..so what?  I don’t need to learn about “the why” in a million different ways.  Just one – one really shitty “why” was surely enough.  Instead what I needed was to learn what to do now to help myself cope.  And boy did she have some kick-ass coping skills.

    One of the many, many skills or, to use the cool therapist term “tools”, my therapist gave me was this.  Keep something material to roll around in your fingers and play with.  The movement and focus on what you are touching, how it feels, what it smells like, and so on, can truly help you keep anxiety in check.  As she suggested this as a way to – as my son would say Calm the Fuck Down, Grandpa’s worry beads immediately came to my mind.  Amazingly, after maybe 30 years of forgetting all about them, I managed to find them in a little pouch in my jewelry box. As soon as they dropped into my palm I felt, crazy as it sounds, connected. Tethered.  Grounded.  And I understood what my perfect therapist meant.  Plus there was a little something else about them.

    I never put them down, keeping them with me at all times. In a pocket.  On a chain around my neck or my wrist.  Clenched in my hand.  In my bag.  They were always within reach.

    Then a few very strange things happened.

    It was about this time that we figured that our kids were at an age – all 3 of them – that would work for a Disney visit.  We are not Disney people so early on we decided to wait until the oldest could stomach it and the youngest would recognize the characters for our one and only Disney trip. This was the year. It had been planned for a long time. After the onset of this medical issue, and to call a spade a spade, my fucked up freak out.  I lost my shit.  Could NOT imagine getting on a plane, leaving our home, trying to be “normal”.  There was no way in hell that I was going to be a Disney mommy, greeting every character with a smile who said “Welcome Home” as we passed through the hotel doors. Worry beads or no worry beads. But since my children were so excited I just couldn’t disappoint them.  So after much support and a little push off we went.

    We were in Manchester Airport bright and early to catch our plane.  We had time so we went to the restaurant to grab some breakfast.  As always, my worry beads were clasped in my hand.  After we ate we boarded the plane.  As I was belting in my kids and then myself I realized that my beads were gone.  I searched through everything.  Pockets, bags, kids’ pockets, purses, the floor, under seats, etc.  They were nowhere to be found.  As I was freaking out, my husband, God bless him, said maybe they are on the table at the restaurant.  We were about to take off but he told the attendant it was an emergency and ran off to check.  A few minutes later, in he walked carrying the worry beads.  I had left them on the table.  They had cleaned the table but picked them up and still had them when he turned up.  I will always be so grateful to him for risking the plane leaving without him.  So, despite my losing site of them the worry beads came back and helped carry me through the joys of Disney……

    This anxiety kept up for a long, long time.  About 6 months later, I went to visit my best friend, MJ, in West Virginia.  I was still in the midst of this and naturally took my worry beads along.  We stayed at the Greenbrier, a beautiful and vast campus-like resort a couple of hours from her house.  Now first I should say that just being with MJ is like a balm to my soul.   IMG_3146   At any time – not just times of anxiety or worry.  So the trip was perfect just for the simple nearness of her.

    We had a wonderful stay, doing only what we wanted to do.  Which was a lot of nothing but talking and being together.  As we were checking out I, once again, looked for my worry beads and couldn’t find them.  Anywhere.  We retraced our steps.  All of them.  Each one we took over the 3-day weekend.  I was basically crying to the registration desk attendant, begging her to help.  Although she clearly thought I was crazy.  After all, these are plastic beads on a string.  Nonetheless, she tried.  She really did.  Of course, MJ tried. She really did.  She was as scared as I was. They had cleaned our room already and nothing was found.  All of a sudden the attendant said “You know there is a lost and found box that the maids put stuff in.  They are unlikely to be there since it’s rarely used and the cleaners just finished having found nothing. But let me see if I can find it.”  Meanwhile, time was marching on and I had a plane to catch.  About 5 minutes later she came back with a small plastic box.  Deep inside the box was a baggie with the worry beads in it.  MJ and I were both hysterical.  We could NOT believe it.  Again, they came back to me.

    There are a few other examples of this but these are the best ones.  The upshot of course is that I am meant to have the beads when I need them.  Maybe always.  By all odds, they should be long gone.  The string has been changed out several times because of wear and tear.  They have traveled near and far with me.  There are stretches of time when they stay in my jewelry box.  Eventually, though they land in my palm with just the right sense of grounding.

    Some will scoff at this and say that they are a crutch.  And maybe they are.  But I don’t care.  They help me.  They provide me with something indescribable.  Something grounding.  Maybe they are just a distraction.  But maybe not.  All Iknow is that they have always come back to me.  Always.

    Thanks, Grandpa.  For being who you are to me.  For knowing what I would need long before I would figure it out. I love you.

    IMG_3147

     

  • The Drive to Become

    The Drive to Become

    It was a Thursday evening and she was still house and pet sitting for one of her best friends.  Not every night but she at least had to check-in and feed everyone each day.  This Thursday, though, she thought, ‘Today would be a good day to spend the night with the pets and be away. To gain some space.  Some clarity”.

    This girl had a family, kids, a couple of dogs, and a husband.  But it was a tough time in her house.  Things were changing and as much as she didn’t want to be away from her children she felt that it was better to give herself space to let her wings unfold than to foster discomfort and stress.  So, off she went to pet sit after dinner was cleaned up and homework finished.

    It was almost spring.  Well, technically it was spring but the weather was still cold and plenty of snow blanketed the ground. The freeze seemed to seep into her bones. And yet she could most certainly feel the tiny spark of light that comes with the coming sun.

    Driving to her friend’s house was a strange experience.  One that she hadn’t expected.  There was an underlying sadness at what was happening but also a firm certainty that it was right; she felt peaceful.  This drive though elicited feelings that she didn’t anticipate.  She felt strong, powerful and an uneasy sense of joy.

    These more positive feelings were disconcerting.  She almost had a sense of guilt feeling them.  She most assuredly felt undeserving and ashamed.  She had felt all sorts of things through the process so far.  But this drive was different.

    Friends had said be prepared for loneliness sometimes when you are without your babies.  She expected this.  And it felt just about as bad as she thought it would.  It was the other more peaceful feeling that she couldn’t reconcile.

    Her smart brain knew that this uneasy joy likely meant that she was on the right track.  A difficult track with many twists, turns, and roadblocks but with that came a certainty that it was the right track.  She had known this was her way for a long time.  She just hadn’t been able to step into it.  Now she thought she could.  And she had begun.  This, of course, is what her smart brain told her.

    Then there was the other brain, the not-so-smart one.  The one who seemed to hold all the cards and just couldn’t let them drop into place.  It was this emotional, anxiety-ridden, fearful brain who said “Hold up.  What do you think you’re doing?  Turn around, put the cards down, and place them back into their neat little box.  You are incapable of doing this.  You must keep coloring within the lines drawn.”  She was the one who had won the battle time and time again.

    And while it appeared that smart girl was finally holding the cards and dropping them one by one into their proper space, there was no question that her nemesis was not going down without a fight.  It is amazing – the power of fear and wariness. The false certainty that stepping into your truth, a truth that had been painstakingly edging its way forward, will only bring disaster and failure.

    Even as she sat alone in this big house, watching the battle within her, watching not-so-smart skirt the edges and come back swinging, she knew that this time would be different. This time the smart girl would grab those cards, throw them into the air and watch as they floated into a beautiful, random paradigm, the essence of which was her truth.  The sadness and loneliness would hover for sure.  In some strange way, she knew that it should.  Because after all, nothing worth having comes without scars and loss. Those scars remind you of just how hard it was to find your way –  to rise above the obstacles – to become stronger.  Mostly, to remember the rightness of letting go of what doesn’t serve you and, against the odds, allowing yourself to become.