Memory mining at the bottom of a drawer

When I began 2019 with a renewed daily writing practice, I didn't have a particular outcome in mind. I simply wanted to show up to write every day. The daily practice has ebbed and flowed this year, but I feel good about what has come forth. The next few months will be chaotic at best, so to ease the stress of posting a blog per week, I'm working ahead. I've re-read through the 72 pages of writing I have amassed this year, and am mining a few pieces as stand alone essays to post when my schedule or energy levels don't allow something brand new. Today's piece was my daily writing on January 21.

Mighty Girl and I watched our first episode of the new Tidying Up with Marie Kondo, a reality show on Netflix that highlights the Japanese woman's approach to decluttering and sparking joy in one's life. I liked that she comes into the home, talks to homeowners about her approach, and offers them a vision for how to process through the mess without doing the work for them. Unlike most other shows, there is not a team who swoops in, cleans it up, and reveals the Tada! moment. This show documents the family doing the work, and I am convinced this show has the building blocks of making lasting change because the people have to do the hard work of digging themselves out of the mess of stuff they made. In both episodes I've watched, the couples say something to the effect of, I don't want to live the way I did anymore. I'm not going to make these same mistakes and messes again.

After the first episode, I was inspired to tackle one of the drawers in my kitchen that is often hard to open because it's holding too many things. I was pretty sure that I had a few things in there that I am not using and could let go of. In true KonMari style, I emptied out the entire drawer and started sifting through it. A few things went straight in the trash, and then I started a pile of other things I was sure I could let go of.

I also removed the organizers, washed them, and washed out the crumbs in the drawer. I have two ice cream scoops. We don't eat enough ice cream to necessitate two scoops. As I stood at the sink and washed the organizers I had a flash of dejà vu. I thought back to the early days of living in this house as a young newlywed and homeowner. I would come home, turn on the TV and watch reality shows on BBCAmerica. I remember how bright the living room looked at that time of day when the sun poured in the front windows. They had not yet been covered with a film to block the sun because the tree in the front yard hadn't yet been struck by lightning. I used to scoop strawberry ice cream onto a cone with the older of the two ice cream scoops now on my kitchen island waiting to be decluttered.

This memory was almost visceral. It's been so long since I've thought of that time of life. I had a momentary sense of grief. Such a long time ago, and so much pain had yet to occur. I was no longer living in an apartment. I was married and in a house. Ticking my way through a list that connoted adulthood.

The early pains of my particular marriage hadn't registered as the problem it already was or how difficult it was to become. I still lived in the hopes that these things were changeable. That I had not actually made a major mistake. It was remarkable that all of this memory and emotion could be ushered in by simply deciding to declutter a drawer in my kitchen.

I am living proof why this exercise can be so difficult for people. I have had a lot of practice, so I'm undaunted by the memory resurfacing. I am grateful for it. Those strawberry ice cream cones and watching BBC America alone after work are happy memories for me. They felt indulgent and self-caring in a way that was still very new and foreign to me. They were the stepping stones of what I would need a whole lot more of in the years to come.

I feel grateful that my mess is contained in a drawer here and there, not in a pile of clothes stacked higher than I am tall in my spare bedroom as was the case for one couple on the show. I am grateful that some memories surfacing no longer shut me down or impede my progress. I am grateful for the opportunity to test the waters of minimalism and know that for me, it is the best way to live. Lighter, unencumbered with arms and heart and head wide open to experience the world without having to gather the stuff along with it. When something new comes in, I find it so helpful to look for something to let go of as a natural part of the stuff equation.

Seeds and stuff

I've documented for the past few weeks that the going has been tough.

I'm pleased to write that I feel the tiniest bit of reprieve this week. This is the first moment I've had in nearly a week to catch my breath, to have a few moments to myself, and to take stock. I talked myself out of going to the grocery after work. It was drizzly and cold, and I'd forgotten my reusable bags. Those were reasons enough to drive straight home. I made chicken and noodles for dinner and enough for two leftover meals. While that was happening, I did dishes and laundry.

My daughter had asked if we could roast the pumpkin seeds from the pumpkin she carved last night. I told her I would do it later. Doing these domestic tasks had an unwinding effect on me, and though I was tired, I was determined to get more done including cleaning the gunk off the seeds and roasting them.

I ate and folded laundry while the seeds roasted in the oven. I added more time for the seeds to roast and tidied up around my house more. I checked on the seeds and finally decided they had achieved what the recipe called golden.

As I pulled the two baking dishes from the oven, I felt a surge of pride. How far I have come! Simple tasks used to feel like too much. For years I have lived in various vice grips of stress and complicated dynamics, which utterly exhausted me. These scenarios became normalized to such a degree that I didn't register the exhaustion. On some level, I knew I was climbing uphill both ways. But from day-to-day, I simply kept one foot in front of another and hoped that one day it wouldn't be so hard.

Today, I am able to see that what seemed impossible or improbable is finally happening. In working hard to heal and to create healthier spaces for myself, I find that daily living is no longer the slog it has been in the past. I am delighted that something like roasting pumpkin seeds for my daughter would gift me with this flash of insight.

My daughter and I have been lamenting the difficult situations we find ourselves simultaneously in lately. One evening I told her, “We're both struggling. How about each day we look for one good thing that we see, do, or have done to us that is a bit of sunshine?” I wasn't sure how this would go over, but so far we've discussed our good things each evening—always prompted by her. I hate that she's struggling. I hate that I'm distracted by my stresses and that's dulled my ability to support her. But that's life. What I am happy about is that in the midst of all of this, I've been able to demonstrate in real time how to navigate tricky situations. I'm even more grateful that she's so receptive to what I have to offer.

I'm excited to surprise her with these roasted seeds when I go trick or treating with her. It really is true that what we look for, we will find. Tricks or treats. I choose to look for the treats. Happy Halloween!

Recovery Mode

Friday night I came home wiped out from another challenging week. I put myself in total self-care mode. I made a list of things to do that would feel productive and nurturing. There was planting the spring bulbs I bought a few weeks ago at ALDI. I needed to email someone about an upcoming church thing. Rest repeatedly was item number three. Format Astrid and write three pages was code for stop talking about my novel and put some work into it. Soccer game, bake (zucchini bread?), and read a chapter of the widow's book rounded out the list. The widow's book is for research as I delve deeper into what it means for my character Astrid to have lost her husband in an accident.

Writing, baking, and gardening are the current ways I signal to my brain that it's safe to relax, to recharge, to recover from the stressers of life. There is a ribbon of creativity woven into each and my creative, active brain responds.

On Sunday, I came home from church, preheated the oven, and got to work. I made my stand-by favorite raspberry muffins with coconut added for extra sweetness. I'd recently had to send a zucchini to the compost pile because I hadn't used it up soon enough, and didn't want to do that again. I looked up a recipe that called for zucchini, and found Garden Muffins in a Bed and Breakfast cookbook I owned long before I loved to bake.

I cleaned up in between recipes, brewed hot tea, and changed out the laundry. I also thought about how Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest, but for this working woman, sometimes work has to get done on the Sabbath. I have also found that doing these things can become a form of meditation if I enter them in the right spirit, and  today was definitely meditative.

I tasted a sample of the new recipe still warm from the oven. I planned to take some to my neighbors who do so many things to ease the burden of solo homeownership. Thank goodness the muffins were tasty enough to share. Plus the recipe makes 24 muffins. I need help eating them!

I'm minutes from needing to leave for the soccer game, but I am happy that I can cross off baking from my list. When I get home soccer will come off the list, and I'll only have working on my novel and more resting to do.

I had made every effort to get enough work done during the week that making a trip into the office wouldn't be necessary. I had reached my limits. My nerves were shot, and I really needed to find ways to chill out. Weekends are never long enough, but I have enjoyed the way I've spent this one, and will be ready to tackle another week when Monday rolls around.

Cultivating Friendship and a Garden

Two summers ago, I sat with Gus and Manda amidst my untamed backyard. We talked about life as we yanked at weeds that came up to our shoulders. In the time we sat and worked, Gus surveyed the space and drafted a plan: we'd divide the work of taming the hill into three phases. The first phase would address the uneven ground, smooth it out, and lay down mulch. The next phase would be to install raised beds a little further up the incline, and the third phase would be a repeat of the second.

I felt a deep exhale. Someone had a plan to curtail this mess and bring some order to it. But it was a lot of work, and I could not do it alone.

Since that Sunday evening two summers ago, I have marveled at how these friends, and others, have so willingly shown up to do back-breaking work to transform my backyard—and with only pizza and my love and admiration for payment.

This past Saturday Gus and I worked to install the remaining piece of the second raised bed. We were bundled up against the new chill of the season. Gus dug the trench, and I raked the rocks away from his progress. Here, we talked about the things that were keeping us up at night. We moved from topic to topic. At one point, I rehearsed my outline for the talk I would give at church the next morning. Gus and Manda would not be there, so it was good to get his feedback in advance.

There in my garden, we experienced something holy. Gus called it church, and it felt like peace to me. We unburdened ourselves to each other. We felt heard and seen. Lighter in the midst of hard work. I thought of the toil of our ancestors and commented on how much healthier they were compared to us sedentary lot.

The sun moved up higher. We felt its warmth mingled with our exertions. At some point, I couldn't physically help Gus with the work of the raised bed, so I moved on to other maintenance things in my yard. Trimming back the salvia, cutting down random tree starters, and pulling more weeds. We listened to music on his phone and kept working on our individual tasks.

Manda and our girls came to check on us periodically, giving us a time check. There were other things that Saturday required of them.

Again I thought about how wonderful it is to have friends who devote mornings of their weekend to the work of my backyard when their household has a list of its own.

The raised bed was finally in place, and Gus worked with gravity to pull down the rock and move it within the confines of the raised bed to create a level foundation for where I will later spread top soil. We all looked at this summer's progress with delight, relief, and satisfaction.

They gathered up tools and headed home with my daughter, their budding babysitter in tow. I was left to keep working feeling a surge of motivation and momentum.

The photo below shows this portion of my backyard clearer than it has been in years. I have plans to plant a variety of bulbs this weekend and to eventually transplant decorative grasses to help fill in the space and keep back the weed growth. Clearing physical spaces is a good exercise for a cluttered mind, and Saturday's work helped to manage my tangled thoughts. 

“A garden is never complete,” Gus reminded me that morning. “If you're okay with just chipping away at this project by project, then we'll continue to make progress.” I am grateful to Gus for not only his manual labor, but for the way he considers my budget and respects my desire to do as much of the work on my own as possible.

Don't tell this woman what she can't do. She'll end up harnessing her resources, and get to work transforming a backyard with the help of her friends. True story.

Comfort Measures

Another week has passed and things are still rough. I'm anxious. I'm not sleeping well. I'm cranky. I can't seem to dislodge the boulder sitting on my chest, or at least not for very long, before it rolls right back on me.

The image that's come to mind is the labor and delivery room. There's the nervous excitement that soon there will be a brand new baby to hold and fall in love with, but first, the searing pain and contractions that wash over a mother with no end in sight. I'm in the stage of labor known as transition. It's intense and frightening. I must remember to keep breathing, to relax where I can, and to trust that this terrible time will pass.

There's no baby at the end of this labor, but rather a stronger, more assertive version of myself. The gestation period has been long, but unlike other dark periods, I can feel the promise of brighter days. I also believe that I have the skills necessary to render such a future for myself.

In the mean time, I am working hard to stay present and to find pockets of joy and peace. Panic attacks are exhausting and no way to live day to day.

Here's a list of the things that are comforting me these days: 

Avett Brothers' newest album, Closer Than Together. I have listened to it on repeat since it dropped last Friday. I love the entire album, but have a few favorites: Long Story Short, Better Here, and It's Raining Today. They were also guests on a recent episode of Dax Shephard's Armchair Expert podcast, and I've listened to it twice! Those voices and hearts and minds are soothing to a weary soul.

A comfort read of mine for years has been the At Home in Mitford series by Jan Karon. For Christmas I received her latest compilation with snippets from each of the books called Bathed in Prayer. I love the characters so much, and getting to revisit them for a few pages in the morning before work or before I fall asleep has helped me breathe easier.

Each Sunday, I'm the one who emcees the caring and sharing portion of church before the service. I love being able to stand before the congregation and see all their faces. No one can hide. I see people's joys and the burdens they're carrying. I love them all so much, and on Sunday mornings, if I feel so inclined, I can tell them. There's a beautiful exchange that happens in those few minutes that fills me up and helps me start a new week a little more refreshed.

I've been baking muffins almost every weekend. Our house guest and I discuss each batch. Until this past weekend, we didn't have much to dissect, but this Saturday, I poured the melted butter in all at once rather than slowly mixing the batter and then adding some more. Whew! Lesson learned I will not do that again. The muffins were so bad, I finally threw out the last half. I am undeterred, and will bake more this weekend.

My daughter and I can get really silly together. Our latest absurdity is laying together on the couch, picking some nonsense words to sing and then having the other person “lip sync” trying to guess how long the singer will hold the notes or where she will add syncopation or what not. It's not something we'd want an audience to witness, but man do we love the giggles this game evokes.

ALDI sells sea salt caramel chocolates for $2.99 and they are so decadent. I love the affordable luxury and buy them regularly.

I've been attending a monthly writing group and it's helped me identify some writing goals and helped me stick with them. Last night's meeting was an especially wonderful antidote for a long, miserable day. 

As I was putting away a load of summer laundry, I decided that the temperatures had fallen enough for me to swap out my seasonal closets. I can't tell you how much I love that it's time to put on boots and layers again.

My gardening day dreams really seemed to boost my spirits. I marvel at how far I have come from that sad, heartbroken woman I was a year ago last May when I couldn't figure out what to do to conquer my bad feelings and unsightly yard. I can barely remember those sentiments now. Gardening has fueled my creativity and resourcefulness and reminded me that anything is possible. Particularly when I break the goal down into smaller tasks. Over the winter I'm going to research planting raspberry bushes and other roses.

These things are like the ice chips a laboring woman she snacks on as she waits for the pain of labor to pass. None of these things can "fix" what I'm working through, but they offer refreshment and a distraction as I labor on.

I'm grateful that I have the ability to pick myself up out of my wallowing and to keep putting one foot in front of the other. The wonderful thing about the change of seasons is the physical reminder that No Season Lasts Forever. I am holding that thought close and doing best to keep my chin up. Hope you do too.

A Lady Bug and Some Good Conversation

In the past two weeks, stresses on the day job and home front piled on. In the past two days, my ability to take things in stride fractured. Anxiety soared, and I felt like I was going to crack. I couldn't dislodge the boulder on my chest.

I have been in this territory MANY times, but I haven't been for a long time, and that felt like progress. I also knew that it was time to reach out to someone and seek some perspective. So I dialed a dear friend's number on the drive to work. When she picked up, words and sobs tumbled out. 

“I'm so stressed and I need a pep talk.” As I knew she would, this friend delivered. She reminded me of the things I usually am able to tell myself to steer clear of the melting effects of anxiety. I've historically been a crier, but for much of my adulthood, I've not had an easy time of initiating tears on my own,so I was grateful when her comforting words brought me to tears.

As the conversation ended, she told me she'd be the little bug on the wall thinking of me and cheering me on all day. As I settled into a difficult day at work, I took a moment to find lady bug clip art and printed it out as a physical reminder that this friend was present for me, even one thousand miles away. 

I tackled what needed to be wrestled and by the end of the day, I had a better handle on how to proceed. I had forgotten my migraine medicine that morning, and so a wicked headache plagued me all day. I was exhausted and spent, but had dinner plans with another friend to look forward to. We curled up under blankets on her sofa and talked about all the things that come to mind for two forty-somethings. I left her home feeling relieved and grateful for having carved out time in our schedules to connect over food and our longtime friendship. 

I fell asleep shortly after.

Today was another tiring day. I felt the exhaustion that leaves its imprint on me after the pain of a migraine recedes. But I had a productive day at work and had formulated my next few steps for modulating the pressing stresses. I left work and headed to the library where Brene Brown's latest title was waiting for me on the reserve shelf. 

I saw a library staff member I'd struck up conversations with in the past and made my way over to her. Her face lit up when I approached and reintroduced myself. She asked about my writing and I summarized the past year. I mentioned my new blog schedule and she said, “Tell me the name of your blog again. I forgot it, and I've been trying to find it.”

One of my favorite attributes is my ability to have meaningful conversation with nearly anyone I encounter. I have met the most wonderful people on planes, trains, and among library shelves. Reconnecting with this friend reminded me of the little connections that can make a big difference in my day. For the past week, I have allowed the stress to seem insurmountable, and that cycle is problematic.

Being open to the kindness of people around me fills me up. It's the reason I used to go to ALDI on lonely Sunday afternoons when the effects of my divorce were new, and I didn't quite know what to do with myself. I'd grocery shop and make eye contact with each shopper and cashier. It worked every time. Those brief connections filled me up and reminded me that whatever was making me sad was temporary or at least bearable.

The fourth quarter is always the most stressful for me at work, and each year there's something different that adds to the crush. I work hard to stay ahead of it, but sometimes it simply piles up. I've been wondering what I can do to unload the crushing weight. Standing at the library's information counter reminded me what works best for me. Seeking meaningful connections with people—strangers and beloveds alike.

I walked away from our conversation with a smile on my face and a bounce in my step. I checked out my book and thought, Oh yeah, this is what I've been missing. For the first time in days, I felt light and the weight of work stress shrunk to an appropriate size.

I don't like migraines or work stress, but I do appreciate the way they remind me just how good pain-free, low-stress days are and to not take them for granted. Each day I have the opportunity to leave the previous day in the past and to accept today with fresh perspective and a new attitude. Here's to a good Thursday. May you feel your own lady bug cheering you on!

I Don't Know What to Tell You

This is my fifth week of posting on my blog, and I'll be honest, I don't know what to tell you. I started working on an essay about the lasting lesson yoga has taught me that has enriched life off the mat, but the words came out clunky. So then I bounced over to the idea of telling you about my summer garden surprise, but I wasn't sure what deeper thing there was to tell in that story.

So, I'm opting to tell the truth. I am certain something of meaning will come of this stream of consciousness if I stick at it long enough. I'm feeling fatigued in a way that doesn't feel like it will be remedied with one night's rest. And I can tell that fatigue is weighing down my creative impulses. I am entering the busiest season of my work calendar, and if I'm not careful, it has the potency to knock me flat. I spend a lot of energy working to keep that from happening, but either way, I'm tired.

What I want to say is that I am learning how to pace myself better. I am choosing to write through exhaustion when it would be easier to take a nap in the hour before I pick up a twelve-year-old from youth group. My showing up at this laptop is a declaration of how important my creative life is to me. I know that when I am finished I will feel a rush of mental endorphins for having made the effort.

Which leads me conveniently back to what I wanted to tell you in the first place. Showing up on my mat eight years ago started an internal revolution and revelation. I moved my body in ways I'd never moved before. I might ask my arms to hold all my weight in side plank. Some days my arms felt so shaky, I thought I might collapse. Other days I was solid as steel. What I learned slowly was that any particular day's performance or lack thereof was not a static announcement of my yoga ability. It simply told me where I was that day. It held far less meaning than I was used to applying to it.

In those early years of yoga, not only was I facing new physical challenges, but I was also confronting a lot of inaccuracies about who I was. That I was weak. Indecisive. Too talkative. A bad cook. Wounded beyond repair. Returning to my mat over and over created new mental pathways and opened possibilities I had yet to consider. Maybe I could touch my toes some days, but on the days I couldn't, my practice wasn't “less than” for achieving a straight back with my hands resting on my shins. I heard a lot of judgments. But with practice on the mat, those indictments got quieter. The volume was getting turned down.

And then came the days when I applied that mentality to myself in the workplace, in my motherhood, as a daughter and as a friend. “This is where I am today” felt a lot gentler than “My hamstrings are permanently tight” and more productive than “I always set off the fire alarm when I cook.”

There's a reason yoga is called a practice. We never arrive. We simply get stretchier and stronger, stretchier still and stronger than we thought possible. We show up. We practice over and over and over again. It reminds us that where we are is not where we'll stay for any amount of time. 

I am in a different mood now than I was 30 minutes ago when I started writing. Those few clunky sentences a few days ago weren't false starts. They were simply part of the requisite crappy first draft that Anne Lamott reminds all writers about in more colorful language. Those words helped clear the path for more lucid thoughts to follow. I know this. I trust this. It's why I keep showing up.

Yesterday as I was drifting to sleep another creative burst came to me. I've been working on this idea for months. I opened the drawer in the nightstand, pulled out some paper, and jotted notes convinced that if I didn't capture it then, the seeds of a new thing might get scattered by sleep. 

With this writer's block behind me, I have the space and the energy to get a few more ideas on paper and ready to share with my creative collaborator.

I feel better than I did an hour ago, and I will be a better mama for having spent some time writing. Where you are today is a statement about the present only. It's not a permanent state. Namaste. 

The aforementioned summer garden surprise: mini pumpkins that grew out of my compost.