Vice

Dear internet,

I wish I could pour out all of my demons into your boundless bytes of infinite wisdom and webbery, but I'm afraid that I cannot. You've been there for me through moments of tremendous excitement and deep back-stabby pains, and while I'd love to express gratitude for the gifts you've given me, instead I'm writing for another reason.

I'm breaking up with you.

This isn't one of those, "it isn't you, it's me" things. No, this is you.

This breakup is for the times you showed me the false lives of friends and families… the pretty side... the promise of strong connection has fallen short with the ever-invasive nature of what you've had for breakfast, how much your babies have grown, and who else is pregnant.

This is for the times you lured me with incessant ads and programs aimed at fixing what ails me, only to prey on my vulnerability as someone who wants - needs - to find the mystery cure somewhere in your deepest, darkest folds of 1s and 0s.

This is for the friends and loved ones who have fallen victim to your tangly, snarled rabbit hole that starts with something innocent and lands somewhere just shy of criminal. Or just beyond.

This is for the nights you've stolen with mindless watching, chatting, playing, and vicarious living.

I have 500 Facebook followers, 768 Facebook friends, seven websites and more passwords than can fit in my head any longer. And I'm either too old or too young for this.

I appreciate your boundless knowledge, your ability to connect me with obscure morsels of entertainment and trivia, and I'm here to say I've had enough.

I'm taking the next two months as a time-out from you and all your blessings. Because for me, each blessing comes with a shadowy underside that is too tempting to resist. In all other relationships I've maintained some semblance of boundaries… but here? I've let you into my home, my purse, my driving, my bedroom. And what do you give to me? The Kansas state bird. Medical "advice" that always ends up with me having cancer. 62 likes.

This time, I'm taking my life back. Maybe I'll start churning butter or wonder a bit more how long a construction project will take? I don't know what I'll do with my time. That's why I'm taking a time out.

My word in class tonight was honesty. And this is as honest as I get.

That's why, it's over.

Phoenix

It has come to my attention that my blog posts are making a few of you a bit weepy. To be sure, I didn't really think anyone was reading this little ol' blog-o, but now I know for real and for certain that many of you are.

It means a lot to me.

I've hesitated to write this episode for some time now, thinking that I would jinx the very person or the very process, but in an effort to keep myself from being committed by various friends who think I might just benefit from an extended vacation giving myself an involuntary hug, here goes nothing.

When I worked in college admission (and therefore inadvertently counseled numerous eager and brilliant young minds), I used to describe the butterfly process. You've probably heard it before, and the dear Martha describes it well in Steering by Starlight. College graduation is very much like hatching from a cocoon with a whole new set of expectations and abilities. I think we go through many of these such processes in our lives: get tired of crawling along, hibernate, disintegrate into goo, put ourselves back together again, and then POW! WINGS.

A few years ago, as I prepared to retire, I had a sense that what I was experiencing was not the lego-esque butterfly moment, but something entirely different. More than a metamorphosis, but I couldn't really put my finger on it. I didn't feel as though I was about to sprout wings and fly gracefully, I felt like I might spew fire and be ready to take names (as they say). I called it my dragon moment, and it just happened to occur during the transition to the year of the dragon. It was dragons all around as I launched my business, leapt from the safety and security of the 401(k) and wrapped myself in the fragile threads of faith that I had carefully kept hidden from the world. I jumped from reality into fantasy.

Wild dreams came true. Pretty much everything that I set in motion either took off or very quickly disintegrated, and I breathed a sigh of relief that I would never have to do something that scary again.

(Hilarious, I know).

This transition… this transition isn't like a game of legos, where you build your tower and then take all the pieces apart and start over again. This time I've started by tossing my beliefs into the fire.

Security? Illusion.

Forever? A myth.

Future? Not guaranteed.

Expectations? Worthless.

In some ways, this makes breathing easier, because the enormous backpack full of crap I've been toting around is losing weight as the crap inside starts to burn... And then there's the smoke.

I'd love to tell you that I've done this entirely on my own, like Pippi Longstocking or She-Ra (or any other strong female with gorgeous hair and long socks). But the reality is that even in this very intimate and personal moment, I've done this and am doing this with the support of many, many friends.

Like you.

Your words and thoughts and intentions give me the strength that it takes to weather the flames.

But that's not the end of this story.

I have to be careful here. I'm walking dangerously close to the line of the knight in shining armor, and I don't want you (or the alleged knight) to think I'm a damsel, or that I'm in distress that someone else can save me from. The truth is that I have been inspired by someone who has already experienced this rebirth-by-fire. That he is willing to watch patiently from the sidelines, to push gently when I get stuck, and to hold on when I think I'm about to burn up and die? This has been a gift I couldn't have asked for. I didn't know it was possible.

It's inspiring (and scary) to transition from the lego-world of reality to the dragon world of fantasy to the other world-li-ness that comes with starting from scratch with a whole new batch of beliefs. I'm not sure I would have said that it happens outside of the epic poems like the Odyssey or Siddhartha, except that I've seen it. And every time I think about jumping back into lego-land or closing myself off to the pain (and subsequent beauty), I see this mythical creature soaring in front of me.

Waiting for me.

Edging me along, encouraging me. Loving me.

And so I sit on the pyre, knee-deep in ashes, waiting to grow wings.

Recalculating

The last few days have been particularly educational for me. I've felt like a jerk no fewer than three separate times, for things I'm so ashamed about that I will not publish them on the internets.

No matter where I go, the Shame Monster lurks.

I've been exceptionally lucky thus far in this life, or at least I think that's what Oprah would say, as would 99% of the population of Earth. The pain I've experienced has been almost entirely self-inflicted, perhaps because I've had it so easy and would otherwise be bored, or possibly because I have some sort of internal defect or flaw, or indeed because I've got a bad case of self-directed sociopathic tendencies.

I love Martha Beck. She says that when you're on the right path, the Universe conspires to assist you, and when you're not… well, it keeps sending reminders. Like my GPS, Shirley T, who never says, "WRONG! WRONG!" she just says, "Recalculating."

I'm recalculating.

And recalculating.

On Friday I went to Divorce Court with my husband. We sat next to one another while the other couples sat across the aisles, spewing silent hate-balls and shooting eye-daggers. We thought we were attending something personal where a judge would give us dirty looks and ask us with puppy dog eyes, "why couldn't you just make it work?" I was prepared for the judge to ask me if I was pregnant, and when I said no, ask me again if I was sure. But I wasn't ready for what actually happened.

Two things broke my spirit on Friday. One, the unfortunate man whose job was to interpret an exceptionally boring flow chart for the masses did his darndest to keep us entertained as he essentially told us five minutes worth of information in two hours. He did this using a narrative style, which I appreciate from the days of working in college admission. Keeping an audience when the subject matter is bleak isn't easy, but his narrative was horrendous. Humbling. Humiliating.

We were a mixed crowd, the 20 other couples and I. Some had children, others did not. As such, our flow charts contained different information. In order to describe the importance of a childcare agreement, Mr. Not Judge described the process of having and raising a child in excruciating detail. "You loved each other, so you decided to have a baby. You wanted the best for your baby and talked about what you would feed it, where it would go to school, how you would teach it values, whether or not it would participate in a religion..."

And there I was, my head pounding. The wailing banshee inside screaming WE DID THAT PART. WE DID ALL OF IT. WE HAD EVERYTHING IN PLACE. AND WE HAVE NO BABY. My eyes started to water, then pour as all of the dreams and goals and plans that I had made washed back into the sea. The reality of the tide receding as I close this chapter was as shocking as Shirley T telling me to take a left turn into a lake.

And so sitting there, in the face of all the never-will-be, in a sea of animosity, my husband took my hand. He said nothing, and he didn't have to, because he knows me better than anyone else. Sure, I've spent months slowly chipping away at the frozen or calcified grief in my belly, but any progress I've made has quickly patched over to preserve or survive. What possibly remains of spirit once the grief begins to thaw? I think it sets itself on fire, transmuting its energy by self-immolation. Grief, I suppose, cannot thaw itself.

It strikes me, haunts me, that in the moment we were supposed to be the farthest, we were the closest.

My wedding video shows my relative insanity as I try to look the blushing bride. Among the things I blame (and thank) my mother for is my lack of Barbie doll preparation for a world that has still quite a few Barbie-esque expectations. There was no deep spiritual transition as I committed myself to a partnership, just a hare-brained attempt to look pretty and keep smiling.

But divorce? That's where the magic happened. The moment I realized that the most loving thing another human could do was to see, to acknowledge, and to hold my hand in the swampy thickness of thawed grief.

We each go our separate ways shortly… him to the East and I to the… well, East, but different easts.

No Shirley this time, just me.

Recalculating.

Tyrannical Monday

Today is the anniversary of a lesson (and it has nothing to do with a man named Christopher).

I think most people would say it's the anniversary of a very bad day, and they wouldn't be entirely wrong about that, but I haven't thought about it as a bad day for the last ten years or so. For certain a date when I allowed myself to be pulled down the road less traveled when standing my ground and taking the brightly-lit path might have been a significantly better choice.

Regardless, one more set of footprints on that dark road.

I know other people who have been there and haven't been able to escape the shadows of that more densely-forested lane, but I feel like I did. And I grew from it, and helped lots of people who needed that help, particularly from someone who had the same dust on her shoes.

--

I've been reading a bit about the pesky, thorny people that come into your life and stick on like brambles and exceptionally tired chewing gum. For me, it used to be the glue-eater in elementary school, and then it was the overzealous coworker who always had her nose and toes and ears in my office asking me where I got my shoes. These people had things to teach me, whether or not I learned them the first time or after declining the seventh invitation to the pyramid scheme kitchen gadget party.  I'm reading a Big Girl Book right now, and I feel I must share with you that this idea is not my own. These people are lovingly referred to as Petty Tyrants, and they A) only come to us if we're really, really lucky and B) are here to teach us important lessons about ourselves. If we're incredibly fortunate, we get an egotistical d-bag named Christopher who begets the pillaging of an entire continent (or two) and the countless peoples within.

Now, I'm not America (obviously). Nor am I so "fortunate" as to be pillaged by the Sons of the Spanish Armada. But I am more than navel deep in my own epic narrative down another road less traveled, and I'm starting to wonder if my tyrant is more of an experience than an embodied person. A situation I've gotten myself into.

Sometimes I imagine that God is laughing - hysterically - about my situation. It's actually pretty funny to think about. I know a lot about preparing women for birth, so a lot of them come to my yoga classes or want to hire me as a doula, or just want to message/text/call me with questions. And it is SUCH an honor to be a part of their experiences! (You want to talk about an experience as f-ed over as pre-Colonial America? try birth). I am absolutely thrilled beyond my wildest dreams that people value my opinion, want my support, or hear my voice in their heads repeating something that made sense when they're in the midst of the cyclone of birth or motherhood.

And yet, the bitter sadness that despite doing everything "right," and learning that nothing is "wrong" that I'm still on the wrong side of that zoo glass. The side that sees motherhood as a spectator. A super fan with no way in.

So here I am, on this dark path, again confronting an experience. Eager (desperate?) to learn the lesson. Trying to find grace and gratitude for the opportunity.

The beauty in the ashes.

I don't like Mondays too much.

Afterlife

My life is divided into before and after.

Before I went to college. (after)

Before I got married. (after)

Before I turned 30. (after).

We live in this culture steeped in a heavy time addiction, surrounded by watches and calendars, and Apps for That. Thanks to the wonder of data and (my) time obsession, I can definitively tell you where I had dinner on July 1st, 2007, exactly how many miles I've flown on United, and when my last 78 menstrual cycles started.

Just in case anyone is keeping score at home.

I was raised by scientists. Mathematicians. People who respect when someone attempts the same thing over and over again and gets the same results. This is my latest bridge, I'm afraid, and it's probably going to piss you right off.

Before I fell out of love with science (after).

Before I lost hope in ever getting pregnant (after).

It's a sticky situation, forced by this artificial concept that time is real and that somehow I should kneel before the altar of the great and mighty timepiece. The thing I didn't realize (or that maybe I forgot) is that spirit doesn't stick to a schedule, and she doesn't know the rules of science.

Spirit does her own thing, each time, sans prediction. Sans time.

So this is my afterlife. After I turned 30, got divorced, gave up on Western Medicine. I'm settling into a wild new way of thinking that doesn't necessarily operate by the rules and has no penalty box. My calendar makes me want to scream, and so I'm chucking it into the wind.

In two months, I set sail (in the Biblical sense) for the Bahamas. I'm literally escaping from the drudgery that is December. The constant (wonderful, I swear) news that someone else is pregnant again, or for the first time, or after trying xyz/giving up/adopting a slew of Latvian orphans. I put this off every year in the hopes that I'll be pregnant, and I never am. So I'm going.

I'm going to a place where everything is provided (including the white pants). Classes, lodging, two meals a day, and two outfits. One of my yoga students said to me yesterday, "My, that sure sounds like prison!"

Perhaps it does. Maybe I'm committing myself to a two-month-long prison stay and I've lost my ever loving mind.

But I'll be on a beach, wearing (formerly) white pants, in a space that ignores shorter days and shoveling. A place that skips the "first Christmas (and birthday) AFTER my divorce." A place that celebrates Tuesday the same way it observes Friday: sunrises, two meals, and a distinct lack of social media.

A place between Before and After.

How Far I Got

Seven years ago this minute I was frantically running through the aisles at King Soopers in search of something. I can't remember what it was, but I do remember my friends running along with me as I loaded my cart with all of the wrong things… seven different Annie's dressings (because they were on sale), a few boxes of cereal, and a number of scratch-and-dent items that I'm certain weren't destined for use on the honeymoon.

We had finished playing charades with an apartment full of friends, and I was on a mission. No one seems to be able to remember what it was (which was the name of the game in those days). I was always running. Perpetually frantic.

I was in self-escape mode.

This is not the space in which one should consider getting married, and despite thinking that several times (and sometimes writing it down and saying it out loud), I allowed my body to ride one conveyer belt while my mind rode another. My heart? It was in a blender. Still contained but in no way intact.

We never really celebrated our anniversary. We wrote our vows on the spot. We went separate ways  after the wedding.

We had a different kind of love, and were the best of friends. We "made it" through a year in Iraq, through nursing school and admission office travel and file reading season. We almost made it through two years of night shift.

We almost made it to seven.

Three months after I got married, a friend made a Facebook account for me. I loaded in an album of my wedding pictures, and I titled it, "Let's See How Far I Get." At the time I told myself it was in reference to how long I was willing to sit around and painstakingly upload one photo at a time.

It has new meaning now.

His things are either out or packed up, save for the wedding stuff. My bouquet. The pictures. The empty photo albums we never filled. Where there used to be a pile of his papers there is a small stack of our papers with my signature and a notary stamp, and they're staring at me. The house feels both gargantuan and stifling. And whatever home-ness was once here has blown away. It is simply a space filled with memories, history, and a bunch of things that feel foreign.

A life I used to live.

Tomorrow would be seven years from that inane Seal song, the reception music by Schindler's List, the Time Warp. Nine years from the day I proposed on the top of Pikes Peak. One year from, "oh, well, we don't need to spend every anniversary together."

I've learned a lot over this time, and I don't regret it for a second. In some ways, there's a lot of pride in making it seven years. Wonderful things that might improve your relationship, like walking around the lake each New Years to talk about our upcoming dreams and goals for the year. Like finding a way to manage finances that never involved a moment of fighting, disagreement, or even mild irritation. Never going to bed angry.

There are probably reasons we didn't make it further, and perhaps it isn't appropriate to broadcast those on the internet. And maybe we had simply walked as far as we could hand-in-hand, and now it's time to break stride like we're crossing a bridge. If I figure them out, I'll be sure to let you know.

So now, atop a very tall glass of grief, is a thin layer of gratitude. Thank you, My Ben, for walking in and walking out with me. Thank you for never making me fearful, for listening and trying to keep me calm despite my inner tempest. Thank you for doing your best, always. Nine years ago you said you would call whenever you could, and I would always answer. I get that things will be different now, and that you may not call very often.

But I will always answer.

Indecision Sandwich

I've spent the last few weeks (months?) in an indecision sandwich. You know the kind? Where you've got an equal number of good and bad things on each hand, so you squash them together with some avocado slices?

(It's messy in here)

Before you start to lose your breath or pick up the popcorn and tissues, let me reassure you, this sandwich has nothing to do with men.

(or women)

Romantically speaking.

This is a deeper, more personal question. Do I subject myself to medical tests that I fundamentally disagree with? Even if they are THE only way to answer this one question (and ironically, the only way to treat the bad answer to the question)? Or do I stick to my gut, my heart, the tiny sliver of faith that I've kept tucked away behind my left ear for just these circumstances?

My sense of intuition is very strong. I would say it's stronger than yours, but then I also have no idea. I know that I listen to my intuition far more frequently than most people (tell me they) do AND that it is never wrong. My problem, is that here in the middle of this sandwich, there's too much worry and fear and "WHAT IF" amid the roasted red peppers. Intuition has no space. There's no air, no tiny cracks for light to seep in.

Or faith.

This is so good for me. I hate it, but it is such an excellent reminder of what we subject women to with anything related to their lady parts. My prenatal clients come to me with the look I now see in the mirror, and for the first time I really, truly understand them.

What if something is wrong with me?

What if this horrible test is the only way to know?

What if I don't get it, and then something is wrong?

What if I do, and this worry was for nothing? And I've subjected myself to all sorts of unknowns that my ancestors would never have dreamed of?

What if I just made this worse?

I know two things:

1. Worry is never good for you.
2. I just started five sentences (in a row) with "what if?"

To me, this says I'm in no place to make a decision. Fear is never the right place. The path makes itself known when the time is right, when the moon is in the right place in the sky, when the water is clear.

The answer never comes from outside. That's the trick with the sandwich! You think that the right side or the left side is truth, and you can't shake that something is missing in the middle. I don't know about you, but I've never made a good decision from the perspective of a leaf of spinach.

When neither choice is right, it's because there's a third option. I can literally hear myself saying this to dozens of people in the past year. There's more than one right way. There are more than two options.

Find the third option.

Never settle.

Thanks for the pix, Abby from LoveRoots Photography