Category: Reflections

When I was in middle school, I was obsessed with Billy Joel and determined to learn all the words to We Didn’t Start the Fire. I sat down on my bedroom floor with the CD insert in my hand.  I’d read a line over and over again.  Close my eyes.  Repeat it.  Sing it with the CD.  Repeat ad infinitum.  I managed it.  I learned all the words.  But it was like learning a foreign language.  I didn’t know these names.  I didn’t understand these references.  As a pre-teen, I didn’t realize how much meaning I was missing. I just liked the way the words felt rolling off my tongue. 

Now I’m in my 40s, observing world events and personal tragedies that press into my chest and leave me searching for, well… something.  Answers? Peace? Breath?  My friends and I sometimes ask each other, Has it always been this awful?  Were we just unaware in our youth? Maybe this is just middle age.  Maybe the torch is finally being passed and we weren’t anticipating the weight of it.  

I remember being excited to drive.  To vote.  To teach.  To worship.  To become a parent.  Now each of these privileges has become a responsibility with substantial heft and urgency.  I feel burdened in a way that is new to me.  I am heavy with the weight of adulthood.  

We’re all still steeped in this pandemic.  We’re trying to find some joy and normalcy and negotiate new rules and norms and expectations.  If that were all of it, it would be stressful.  But lately, it seems like there’s so much more.  

There are personal tragedies.  Too many of them … and they just keep coming.   A friend was in crisis recently.  I called her mother.  Even though I knew it was unreasonable, I wanted this mom to give me the answers. I wanted to be a child again, leaning on an adult who would just tell me what to do.  

But that’s a silly dream. Because nobody really knows how to do any of it.   

I don’t know how to comfort a friend who has lost a child.  

I don’t know how to counsel a friend through her mania. 

I don’t know how to parent during a pandemic. 

I don’t know how to teach remotely.  

I don’t know how to fight systemic racism. 

I don’t know how to protect LGBTQ kids. 

I don’t know how to fix the foster care system.  

Or the government. 

Or the church.

Or the schools.  

I don’t know.  

I don’t know.  

I. 

Don’t. 

Know.  

I don’t know how to do any of this.

I’m looking around for the adults.  There is only my reflection.  There is no one to tell me the answers.  There is no one to carry this burden for me.  

********

I wrote all of that yesterday.  Shortly thereafter, my foster daughter told me that she’s moving out when she turns 18 next week. There’s so much trauma there.  A lot of mistrust.  Some ‘shopping’ for the perfect family that doesn’t exist. I asked her some pointed questions about her plans.  Where would she live?  How would she pay her bills?  How would she handle all of that change during her Senior year? When she first told me, it felt like one more thing I didn’t know how to handle.  But I didn’t overreact.  I didn’t panic.  We talked.  For hours.  And ultimately, she decided to stay.  I handled it.

This morning, as I walked the dog, I noticed she was stopping a lot.  I took a closer look and realized that she wasn’t peeing.  She was bleeding.  Not a little blood in her urine.  Like, pure blood.  I called the vet.  We’re heading there today.  I don’t know what will happen.  She could need antibiotics or she could need chemo.  It will be expensive.  It might be scary.  It might be sad.  But I know I will handle it. 

And then I think about my friend who lost her child.  I mailed a card.  I prayed.  I sent money.  And I will be there for her as she slowly climbs up out of this hellish grief.  She will handle it, too.  She will get through, moment by moment.  She will love her daughter and cry for her loss and she will handle it.  

And maybe being an adult isn’t about knowing the solutions.  Maybe it’s not about fixing everything.  Maybe it’s about understanding that we can’t fix it all. 

But we can handle it.  We can handle our shit.  One challenge at a time. One child.  One lesson.  One moment.  One tragedy.  One reform.  One foot in front of the other.  Together.  Holding each other through the celebrations and the grief. 

It’s been three days like this.  That’s unusual for me.  Of course I have bad days, like everyone does.  But not usually three in a row.  And not when it’s sunny out.  That’s when I can typically rally.  

Signs that I’m not okay:

– I can’t find my motivation.  I don’t want to tackle a project or play a family game or cook a fancy meal.  

–  I tell myself to stop the mindless scrolling.  And before I know it, I’m looking at the same memes again. 

–  Netflix asks if I’m still watching.  

–  I’m eating another meal… and I’m not sure which one it is. 

–  The zoom happy hours and family board games and good books… they can’t touch this.  They don’t help. 

– Tears.  Happy tears.  Sad tears.  Tired tears.  Overwhelmed tears.  

The first day, I sat with it.  It was Friday.  I still did my work and I sat outside a little and I went for a walk.  But I was sad.  And I let myself feel it. I ordered pizza for dinner instead of cooking.  I read my book and watched TV and I didn’t force any family fun.  I met with my friends on zoom, and I even rallied for a little bit. 

But on the next day, when I woke up in a foul mood again, I decided to fight it.  Another sad day felt self-indulgent.  And unhealthy.  Plus, the sun was shining and there were jobs to be done.  I rallied the family.  We filled an entire dumpster with crap from the garage and the shed.  There was an impromptu water fight with the hose.  But once we were all sweaty and tired, I let our little group disband without a fight.  They went back to their rooms for some peace and screen time.  I set up for an online cooking class with some friends.  My brother in law taught us to make soufflé, and it was a really good time.  I drank wine and cooked and then called each of my friends to de-brief and drink more wine.  It was actually quite lovely. 

So why was I still sad the next morning?  I cried through virtual church.  I had a couple of online meetings and then I forced myself to go to buy dog food.  And that was all I could do.  I watched some inspiring videos and cried.  I watched some bad TV and cried.  I read a little bit and cried.  I found out some sad news and cried some more.  Bea got me to rally.  She started making a full-on meal and needed my help.  We made spring rolls and fried wontons and wonton soup and rice and sautéed broccoli for dinner.  She pulled me out of my funk for a little while, and I’m grateful for that. 

But today had a similar, melancholy feel.  I had work to do, so I did it.  But I was lethargic about the whole thing.  I saw my colleagues online at a staff meeting, and it just made me sad.  I dropped the recycling off and I picked up a prescription.   The things that have brought a sense of normalcy didn’t help. They just made me sadder. 

I’m sitting at my desk, noticing the buds and the flowers that have begun to appear on the tree outside my window.  I have two thoughts.  “How beautiful.”  And “I don’t want this to be my Spring.”  

I’m not sure how to spend this evening.  I could melt into this lethargy.  I could have the kids make their own sandwiches for dinner and binge the rest of Schitt’s Creek and maybe read a little.  

I could rise to the occasion and help Bea with her history homework and actually check Cal’s reading log and look over Lee’s Social Studies project.  I could vacuum (again) and finally clean the bathroom and cook a real dinner.  

But maybe I’ll opt for something in-between.  Maybe I’ll call my mom back and toss a salad and grill some paninis.  Maybe I’ll settle into a Scrabble game with my husband and have one of the kids run the vacuum.  

I’ve lost my balance.  I had it for a little while.  I was juggling work and homeschooling and long walks.  I was painting and cleaning and cooking and reading.  I was resting by the fire pit and laughing on zoom with my family and friends.  

Now that I wrote that, it doesn’t look like balance.  It looks like perpetual motion.  Maybe that’s what feels good to me when I’m overwhelmed.  It feels good to be DOING.  That’s my default.  Maybe I have to get better at SITTING.  And FEELING. 

That’s why I write.  It slows me down.  It helps me notice.  It helps me to process and reflect.  So tonight, I’m going to slow it down a notch without slamming the brakes.  I’m going to try to sit and feel and notice a little more.  I’m going to try to breathe and pray.  

I’m going to play some Scrabble and ignore the dirty bathroom.  Wish me luck.  

Lessons I’ve learned during quarantine:

1.  I don’t hate walking.  I hate walking unruly dogs.  These are two entirely different endeavors.  Walking alone, listening to a podcast or chatting with a friend, is entirely enjoyable.  Walking with my husband or my son is equally pleasant.  Walking with my entire family or any combination of dogs is distinctly unenjoyable.  Having learned this lesson, I now look forward to frequent, low-intensity exercise. 

2.  Trying on clothes is highly overrated.  Browsing Amazon and trusting the reviews of hundreds of other people who are approximately my size yields tremendous results.  Also, returns are not as difficult as I always told myself. Having learned this lesson, I now own three of the exact same pair of flattering yoga pants and four comfy, cute tunic tops that also cover my butt.  Win-Win.  

3.  Birds are significantly more interesting than I originally thought.

4.  I have underestimated my ability to grow things.  In the past, I always thought I had a black thumb.  In actuality, I just had a high failure to attempt ratio.  Having increased the sheer number of attempts, I have thus increased my confidence.  This has led to recently planted herbs and tomatoes.  I will be sure to report the results.  

5. Zoom is an app that exists.  It is both a lifesaver and a burden.

6. Two glasses of wine is exactly the right number. Unless the circumstances call for five.  It’s entirely your call.  

7.  Crocs are underrated.  For my whole life, I have resided distinctly in the “You-will-never-see-me-with-those-ugly-things-on-my-feet” camp.  Plantar fasciitis, flimsy slippers, and rare chances to leave the house combined with my daughter’s commitment to this ugly footwear spurred me to give them a shot.  I will never wear slippers again. I haven’t converted so much that plan to leave the house in them, though. 

8.  Too much work makes everyone miserable.  

9.  Too much forced fun makes everyone miserable. 

10.  Each member of my family has a natural rhythm.  I am slowly learning to trust their rhythms and listen to my own.  For sure, we sometimes spend too much time watching Netflix or playing video games.  But each and every one of us tires of inactivity.  This threshold is different for every one of us.  But even left to their own devices, each child will emerge from his or her bedroom, seeking connection, or nature, or activity in their own way.  My daughter bakes and calls friends and washes her car.  My eldest son draws and plays with his pets and curls up next to me for a late night movie marathon.  The youngest builds and destroys and pulls out the board games.  Perhaps this has been the hardest lesson of all.  I don’t need to exert control nearly as much as I thought.  I don’t need to manufacture family fun or constantly cajole in order for my family to make healthy choices.  The relief in this realization is palpable.  

That’s the short list, for now.  What lessons have you learned (or re-learned) during this quarantine? I’d love to hear from you!  

I’m sitting in my office, watching the sunrise at a desk that looks out over a wooded area in the backyard.  The leaves haven’t yet appeared; spring is just beginning to show herself in the tiny buds on the branches.  But the birds are active.  I don’t know birds, really.  I can identify a Robin and a Bluebird, and maybe a Chickadee.  But I find myself drawn to the peacefulness of watching the birds flit about on a spring morning.  I never would have taken the time to notice before. 

**********

We have settled in to a strange new normal.  It mostly looks like this: 

6-8 am, wake up, go for a walk, shower, coffee, news

8-9 am breakfast, check schedules, wake kids

9-12 pm – work and school, on separate devices in separate rooms

12-1 pm – lunch & connect

1-3 pm – do something.  Go outside, bake, build legos, play games, clean. 

3-5 pm- check school work, email, prepare lessons

5-7 pm- prepare and eat dinner

7-9 pm- watch tv, read, write

9-10 pm- say goodnights

10 pm – sleep

Some days are better than others.  Some days, we feel more connected.  Some days, we’re in our own little worlds.  Some days are filled with too much screen time, and some days we stay outside all day.  Some days feel manageable.  Some days are full of tears.  

Today, I went to the grocery store.  I’ve done this a few times since we began our isolation, but this time was different.  This time, this strange, dystopian reality took my breath away.  I had heard that they were limiting the number of people in the stores.  I had heard that we were advised to wear masks and gloves.  I knew about the plexiglass barriers and the tape on the floor.  I knew about it…. But I hadn’t FELT it yet.  

People waited outside the store, 15 feet apart, waiting to be admitted.  Everyone wore masks.  Nearly everyone wore gloves, too.  It was eerily silent.  

More so than all of these visible differences, the intangibles weighed on me.  Our faces covered, we could no longer offer a reassuring smile to a stranger.  Our gloves and our masks only amplified the palpable fear in the air.  People waited awkwardly for others to pass, allowing the maximum radius of personal space.  People flinched as workers passed by with their carts to restock; perhaps they were too close?  

I usually enjoy my grocery shopping.  Today I couldn’t wait to get out of there.  The tightness in my chest didn’t go away until I was safely back in my car.  And logically, I know that even that is unreasonable.  I had already exposed myself.  I had already exposed others to me.  If damage had been done, none of us would know it for weeks.  

This whole experience is such a strange roller-coaster.  On Tuesday, I spoke with my therapist on the phone.  I sat in my car (the only place I could get a little privacy) and I sipped my coffee and I told her about how GREAT things have been.  The kids have been creative.  I’ve been working on my personal goals.  I’m re-evaluating what is most important and prioritizing and creating and all kinds of cool things.  I explained that there’s something empowering about deciding what I WANT to do, instead of checking off the list of things I am SUPPOSED to do.  On Tuesday, I was feeling good.  

And there are a lot of days when I actually feel pretty good.  I’m noticing some positive changes within my family.  Our time together is less forced.  There’s more room to explore our interests.  I enjoy that the days have a sort of natural rhythm, unencumbered by arbitrary times on the clock.  With so many fewer priorities, I don’t feel as guilty when I take time to do things just for me.  

Of course, there are things that are hard.  Online teaching and learning are super stressful.  I cried twice last week about work.  I want to do a good job and connect with my students, but sometimes the obstacles seem insurmountable. I want to help my own kids and keep them on track, but sometimes the days don’t feel long enough or the battle doesn’t seem worth it.  I worry about my family and friends who are struggling.  Sometimes the thought of another load of laundry is enough to put me over the edge.  Sometimes the filth in the bathroom prompts a banshee scream that frightens my family. 

**********

I’m sitting in my office, looking out into the dreary, gray, dimness of a rainy afternoon.  But the branch just outside my window is gathering tiny droplets of rain.  They pool in the valleys of the tiny branches, glittering a little, despite the dreary weather.  I sit and watch a particular droplet.  I watch it slowly grow as the moisture accumulates.  I stay focused on the droplet until it swells just enough to let go and fall into the yard below.  I never would have taken the time to notice before.  

I went back to work today.  Correction: Today I went back to the building I USED to work in, before we embarked on this crazy ‘teaching from home’ experiment. 

When we first found out about the closure, many of us struggled to answer the question, “How will we move our classrooms online?”  Inevitably, the answer was, “We’re not sure… but we’ll make it work.”  

Teachers began to gather resources and collaborate virtually and create shared documents for ideas.  We were slightly comforted by the direction that we weren’t required to present new material; only review to keep kids connected and engaged.  

When our district made the choice to move from optional, flexible online review to something more permanent and structured, the panic set in a little. How would we manage teaching with our own small kids at home?  What would the schedule look like?  What about kids without access?  Struggling learners?  We had so many questions, and not enough answers.  Once again, most conversations ended with some version of, “We’re going to have to make it work.” 

 Administration offered us the chance to come in and gather our materials.  Teachers signed up for time slots.  No more than ten of us could be in the building at once, and we had 15 minutes to gather what we needed and head back home.  We were asked to respect social distancing and not to gather and chat.  

I joked with some friends that this time would feel like the game show, “Supermarket Sweep.”  I expected it to feel a little frantic and silly. 

It did not.  

I had prepared myself with a list of materials to gather.  I had brought along milk crates and bags to load up.  I reminded myself to grab my hand sanitizer (purchased with my own money, for those who are concerned).  I thought I was ready for the task. 

But what I had not prepared for was the wall of emotion that hit me when I walked into my classroom.  The date and a graphic organizer were still written on the board.  Completed work sat in the bins to be corrected.  My planbook was on my desk, filled with notes and ‘to-do’ lists that were no longer relevant.  This space got frozen in such an optimistic time.  We had all expected to come back the next day and continue learning and working in this little community we had built.  

As I gathered materials, I came across lessons and projects that are a part of our classroom traditions.  The popsicle sticks to build a Trojan Horse- a project the kids look forward to each year that won’t happen for this particular class.  The poetry library that I won’t be able to share with them.  The Holocaust Unit that is too intense and emotional to teach virtually.  

I hadn’t fully considered these losses until that moment, and the ache moved from my heart to my throat.  I cried.  

The empty hallways and empty classrooms were further reminders of what we’ve lost.  A few teachers exchanged awkward greetings in the halls, staying a full 15 feet apart and pretending that everything is okay.  

As much as virtual teaching and learning is a struggle, thinking about what we’ve lost is even harder.  Today, I’m going to let myself mourn a little.  And tomorrow, I’ll unpack all those materials and do my best to figure out how to do amazing things with my students in a totally different format.  Because that’s what we do.  

We’re teachers.  We make it work.  

In recent years, the “Self-Help” section of bookstores and libraries has changed to “Self-Improvement.”  I know this because it’s one of my favorite sections to browse.  I’m a lover of books in all forms, but I especially love ones that weave together psychology and science and personal stories, exploring the myriad ways that humans have endeavored to become better humans.  I love learning about how our brains and our environments work together to motivate our actions; I’m fascinated by all of the ways that we can change our own habits and personalities; I’m amazed by all of the factors that work together in our conscious and our unconscious to make us who we are.  

And I like the name change.  Self-help implies brokenness, and I don’t believe I am broken.  I do, however, believe that all things can be improved.  Myself included. 

In fact, I believe that it is our obligation, while we’re here on Earth, to become the best possible versions of ourselves.  I believe we owe it to the world and to our creator and to our families and friends and neighbors and to OURSELVES to keep learning and growing and improving.  

So, I find myself here, in the New Year, thinking about resolutions, which have become little more than the butt of a joke.  On January 3^rd, people ask, “Have you broken your resolution yet?”  Most of us will violate these promises to ourselves in the first few weeks of the year.  Resolutions work for some people as a form of self-improvement.  But a resolution is so rigid.  It’s a vow.  And it’s usually a vow to make some sort of large change which we have previously been unable to sustain, despite multiple attempts.  

Does the date make a resolution somehow more attainable?  Perhaps there’s something about starting on the first of a new year that appeals to our sense of order, but my most sustainable changes have started on, oh, say…. a random Wednesday in October. 

And, really, about 90% of my resolutions have been some form of ‘lose weight’ over the years.  

I’m hesitant to write about this, for fear of messing it up.  You see, I have been learning a lot about health and body positivity and self-acceptance, and much of that is fundamentally at odds with my inner desire to be thinner.  

And my inner desire to be thinner is fundamentally at odds with all I believe about human variation and the inherent value of people and our shallow cultural assessment of beauty. 

I’m not going to write about those things, because lots of educated, intelligent people have written about those things.  If you’re interested, you can read personal stories and scientific research and cautionary tales.  

If you’re fascinated by the brain, you should read, “Thinking, Fast and Slow” by Daniel Kahneman.  If you’re into self-improvement, you should read “Atomic Habits” by James Clear.  If you want to learn more about being healthy and fat, you should read about ‘Health at Every Size.’ 

And what I’m going to write about is how I’ve taken all of those things and squished them together into a vague plan of how to be a better human in 2020.  

I’m trying to find a better balance.  I’m building habits that make me feel better about myself, instead of playing into all the ways that the world wants me to think that I’m not good enough.  Does that even make sense?  

Because, the truth is, I do think it’s possible to believe that you are ENOUGH, and still know that you can be better.  But the only way to do it is to find YOUR version of better.  What will make you a better YOU?  

A better ME would write more.  Writing makes me feel more myself.  I know I’m doing something I’m meant to do when I write. 

A better ME would spend more time in nature.  Being outdoors brings me peace. 

A better ME would spend more time enjoying my children. My kids remind me what joy looks like, if I only take the time to see it.  

The list goes on and on.  It’s too much to tackle all at once.  But I’ve learned a little about habits and since October, I’ve started “habit stacking.”  What this means is… I take a habit I want to develop and I attach it or ‘stack’ it on top of a habit I already have. 

For example; I’m terrible at flossing.  I hate it and avoid it and then feel like a petulant child at my dental check ups when they tell me that I need to floss more.  But I do brush my teeth every day.  So I stacked flossing on top of that.  Every time I brushed my teeth, I was reminded of my commitment to floss.  It was yucky and irritating at first.  But that was months ago.  Now it’s just part of my routine.  And once I added the flossing, I stacked ‘take a multivitamin’ on top of that.  So with very little effort, I managed to add two small habits that, cumulatively, will likely have a positive impact on my health.  

I did the same to make a shift in my breakfast routine.  A few months ago, I generally ate nothing or some sort of egg sandwich; neither option was healthy.  But I ALWAYS had coffee.  So I stacked ‘eat fruit’ on top of the coffee.  Every morning with my java, I also had an apple or a banana or a handful of raspberries.  On weekend mornings, I might still have a bigger breakfast with my family, but fruit first gets me off to a better start.  

I don’t like myself when I’m dieting.  I become compulsive and obsessive.  I have an all-or-nothing attitude and I become self-deprecating and cranky.  The numbers on the scale dictate my mood and I ride a roller coaster of self-congratulating and self-loathing that totally sucks.  Newer evolutions of weight-loss programs are beginning to acknowledge this unhealthy cycle through things like “non-scale victories” and ‘small changes.’  But those programs still make their money by making us feel like we’re somehow broken and in need of fixing.  

I’m not buying into it anymore.  I’m not broken.  In fact, I’m pretty amazing in a lot of ways.  And the ways that I can improve aren’t about the way I LOOK at all.  Here are my goals for 2020:

– Walk the dogs more.  Get outside.

– Do more yoga. 

– Spend 1:1 time with at least one kid every week.

– Find and cook new, delicious recipes.  

– Be more present. 

– Write.  Write a lot.  

I’m not going to do this all at once.  I’m going to stack my habits and make small changes and enjoy feeling like I’m becoming the best possible version of myself.  

Whether you made a resolution or not; whether you’ve stuck to it or given up or changed it, know that you are enough, right now, in this moment.  Make sure anything you vow to change takes you on the road toward being MORE you.  

And the rest of us will be abundantly blessed just to know you.