Rox and Roll

Nine Words

On Good Friday, I started writing a very dark blog post. How fitting that on the day we Christians mark crucifixion, I felt that I’d hit rock bottom and wanted to cry to the world “Eli Eli, lama sabacthani” – “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” Those nine words resonated so strongly with me as Holy Week unfolded. Nothing has been going right. Instability has become my middle name. Uncertainty lingers around each corner. Among an expiring lease, the very nature of my limited work by contract, “temporary” divorce support orders that pay bills but don’t give a sense for long-term financial planning, a tax bill bigger than any income I’ve ever made for reasons that I can’t even begin to understand, an unfulfilling job search after 13 years “at home,” and hoards of other matters, well, suffice it to say, I feel like I did while driving a Vermont backroad during “mud season” last week: everything is slipping, and so little is in my control – and one wrong turn, and I’m sunk. I started contemplating what utter defeat looks like and why, oh why, I can’t find a lifeline. So about this “forsaken” business that Christ yelled from the cross? Well, yeah, I totally get it, maybe for the first time ever at such a visceral level. What good, I wondered, is living a positive life when you can end up in a negative space anyway, mired in mud with no clear way back onto steady ground?

An answer came to me today in the message that is Easter. Even for those who do not share my faith, the story of death and rebirth – of renewal and of the hope borne from that – transcends faith. There’s something magical about the idea that one day, one can be out of options and completely screwed, as forsaken as can be – and then, mere days later, realize that there is, actually, more to the story. Perhaps what matters is not our suffering, but, rather, what we do with it. It’s choosing to stay on that hard, muddy path to reach our destination. It’s in the confidence that salvation is not a myth but is tangible. It's knowing that the path to get there involves those things that a good partnership involves: love and trust and acceptance, most especially of imperfections. In my case, I have always viewed those things as so very important when it comes to interpersonal relationships. Until today, I had thought little about applying them to me.

It's true that I’m not at all where I want to be -- yet. I could have made a host of different choices than might have yielded different results. I allowed my self-esteem to erode a bit too much when I didn’t get an interview for the 300^th job to which I applied (and, unfortunately, that is no exaggeration). I don’t trust my plan B (or C, or D, or the many I always have after that), because I haven’t trusted myself much at all.  At some point, I stopped believing that I was able to make good choices – and, on some level, I actually stopped making them. I’ve been upset with myself on so many levels that, of course, I’ve felt forsaken -- because I forsook myself.

I’m still nowhere near out of the mud, and I still have no answer for how to navigate the road ahead. It’s going to be messy, and it’s going to be hard, and the choices and compromises that I have to make are going to be less than ideal. That said, I feel better equipped to do it today when I admit that I don’t know what I’m doing – that I’m flawed, and that I’m going to make more mistakes, though I’m as committed to learning from them as ever. Trusting my ability to do my very best by my living, working, mothering, and moving-on circumstances has to be good enough for now. That, perhaps, is the very essence of faith. I have it in something bigger than me, but it's misplaced if I don't have it in me, too.

After this holiday season, my “nine words” are no longer “my God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” They are, instead, “Move forward with love, trust, acceptance, courage, and hope.” It's a Resurrection indeed, not only of the God in whom I believe, but also of a strength of spirit that I'd lost for a bit. There is so much to celebrate in that. Happy Easter, everyone.

Thankful in ways I never imagined

A year ago, our family of four celebrated our last Thanksgiving as a together family.  I remember it so vividly.  With no extended family in town, we decided to splurge on the local Four Seasons, enjoying most especially a dessert buffet that filled an entire room.  We never took the kids to places like that, and the impression lasted.  Huge smiles, thanks shared, especially for one another... It was one of the happiest holidays I'd experienced with our family.  Yet it was a mere three days later that life as I knew it changed forever.  Especially post-9-11, I should have known that life could change in an instant, but, in my naivete, I never thought it would happen to me -- not to this happy family, captured in an iPhone snapshot, standing by the chocolate fountain with smiles exuding love and gratitude.

Approaching Thanksgiving this year, my emotions are high, knowing that I want to make it an extra-special day for Petunia and Dash, who wanted to return to the Four Seasons; but I knew such a thing would exceed my emotional capacity.  Then, blessedly, the invitations started pouring in.  A friend who has become like a bonus sister is hosting her first-ever Thanksgiving at her home, in honor of her late mother who always hosted the big day.  "We're bringing together those we love and hold dear," she wrote. "Join us."  I accepted, offering to bring a tray of let's-pretend-it's-traditional mac-n-cheese -- the only Thanksgiving food that I'm sure Dash will eat -- and a pumpkin custard, and some special surprise appetizer that I hope to have figured out by the time this post is published.

Context is everything, really.  Spending Thanksgiving with a friend who's experienced multiple losses in the past couple of years seems appropriate.  I know I am not alone in my pain, just as I know we will all share in the joy that a houseful of kids and friends and family always breeds.  Somehow, we'll get through the day with what I'm sure will be loads of laughs, and then, somehow, we'll get through Christmas, and next year, and the year after that.  I know that.  It's just hard to forget that our reality has changed when I still have the picture in my head of something completely different.  New pictures will be taken, new memories will be forged, and someday, it'll get easier.  But this Thanksgiving, I'm not going to pretend like everything is swell.  It's weird, and it hurts, and it's all wrong, and God, it's not even Christmas -- and yet, it's my new normal.

What I can do that's positive is to focus deeply on my own thankfulness, and I'm thankful now in ways I never imagined.  My "sisters," they have been lifesavers in ways I cannot bring myself to write.  There are a few "brothers" in there, too, who have shown up in some pretty magnificent ways.  There's my family, especially my parents, who have taken a lot of trips West just to be here with us, to help fill the void a little and to offer some relief and some extra love.  There's my dog -- my sweet, ever-loving, furry third child -- who is just so ... herself.  So Lola.  So hysterically funny, and affectionate, and wildly entertaining.  There are friends all around the world who check in, who distract, who pray.  There are two jobs, a huge church family, food and shelter and a working fireplace ... stories to read, hot chocolate to share, snickerdoodles and giggles and so very much love.

And there are the two most important people in the world for whom I am thankful: two kids who came into this world from a place of great love and, each day, make me want to be a better person.  They are my reason for getting out of bed, for doing good work, for being my best self, for living with integrity and purpose.  They make me want to make the world a better place not for them, but with them.  They are so fundamentally good.  They are grace at work before my very eyes -- their glistening, happy, hopeful eyes in which I see a reflection of God in His heaven declaring that all is right with the world.  Even when it doesn't feel like it.  Even when the Thanksgivings I envisioned are FUBAR.  Even when I don't know when I'll say that I'm okay and really mean it.

Friends, readers, hold your loved ones a little tighter this holiday season.  I don't encourage everyone to treat every holiday like it might be the last -- but what if we did?  Would we worry less about menus and decorations and the ideal of perfection and perhaps laugh a little louder, delve a little deeper into sharing that gratitude, create some memories that'll be the stories we tell our grandkids one day?  Would we care a little less about the condition of the house and more about the condition of the people in it? 

I'm not ever going to be thankful for this blind turn my life has taken, but I sure am thankful for the belief in myself that has been borne from it.  I'm thankful that I get to live a healthy, happy, fulfilling life in spite of it all.  And yes, I'm still thankful for chocolate fountains, mountains of happy memories, and many more to come -- well, perhaps minus the chocolate fountain, though I'm pretty sure that made it onto someone's Santa list.  And that there is what I'm increasingly most thankful for: perspective.  For the kids, it's all about the sweets, whether it be chocolate or kisses, as well it should be for all of us.  Have a blessedly fulfilling Thanksgiving, all.

That Reset Button

Recently, I returned home to NorCal from home in Vermont.  The states are almost as far away from each other as one can get in these United States and, though the politics are similar, the attitudes are about as distinct as the weather.  There's an ethos to mountain people that runs in my blood.  There's a collective conciousness in Vermont, a belief in the common good that imbues every social interaction I have there.  In Vermont, and throughout those mountains in which I grew up (a bit further south in Wild and Wonderful West Virginia), I feel a total absence of self-absorption, self-importance, self-aggrandizement, self-anything.  People just are, simply, but they are far from simple people.  They don't change the landscape of the tech world with the next next thing in the Cloud, but they can tell you which clouds are which and what it might mean for the weather, which will affect their crops, their snow, ski tourism, and, therefore, the economy.  Same endgame -- way, way different strategy.

I'm not saying that Silicon Valley is full of narcissistic assholes; though it has its share, it has a huge share of wonderful people, too.  I'm just saying that Vermont is absent any arrogance, and that is so refreshing and restorative to my spirit that I return to the Valley having truly "reset" each summer, prepared for the onslaught of self-everything. 

This year, though, that reset took a different turn, for, while away, I made a life-altering decision to end my relationship of 22 years, 15 of those spent married.  It is unlikely that I'll ever write about the reasons for this decision, for, ultimately, it is a private matter.  That said, I don't want to be the subject of gossip and rumour, so I'd rather declare it up front: I've filed for divorce from The Guv.  It is a decision made without hesitation or regret after seven months of marriage counseling that I entered with an open heart, trying to save our union.  I loved the Guv for 22 years and likely always will.  But some pretty awful things happened that irreparably broke our marriage, and I reached the day when I couldn't look myself in the eye anymore and stick in there, not for the kids, not out of fear, not for anything.  I finally decided that my "self" mattered a lot more than I thought it did.

My focus these days is on my kids, and, when they sleep, it's on me, trying to figure out who I'm going to be.  I've been someone's Better Half for over half my life -- since I was 16 years old -- and I'm not even sure I know who I am without my best friend at my side.  Sometimes I forget the depth of my pain, and then, in those dozen moments each day, I want to call him to ask a question, to share a story, just to hear his voice -- and I can't do that anymore.  I reach for him in the night, and the bed is empty and significantly colder.  It's like a habit that I have to break, and it's a pain worse than death.  I once read that when you love someone so much it hurts, the only way to stop it is to love yourself enough to stop the pain.  I'm working on that now, and I know that I'll get there on the wings of my children's smiles and on the backs of a host of Silicon Valley girlfriends who somehow always know just when I need them -- and on my own strength, which I am only now realizing I had in store.

There are a lot of negative things about divorce on which I could focus, but I'm going to remember my lifelong mantra: I choose to be happy.  Of our 22 years together, 21 (by my count) were outstanding.  I know what it's like to be richly loved and to give the same in return.  Good memories made cannot be taken away or revised, even in the worst of battles, and I cherish them all -- every love letter, every photograph, every recollection.  Two beautiful children came from our union, and they truly are the best of both of us.  And if I had it to do all over again, knowing even that it'd end this way, I'd sign right back up (well, save the worst of the past year).  I have few regrets about the life I've lived to date.  I walk away from my marriage knowing that I gave it my all, and that my all was enough even though it didn't work.  I walk away with a heart full of love for a family that exists in a different form now.  And I walk away knowing that I'm young enough to start over when I'm ready, and I will.