God Comes to You

Posted on March 3, 2014 by bonnevivantelife

Holy Cross Abbey

Silence. Monks. Two words that don’t automatically come to mind when you think of me. Safe to say I’ve never been known to be religious, or quiet. At the end of my three-day silent monastic retreat, Father Vincent said to me, “God comes to you. You don’t come to God.”

Those monks, they’re on to something. Sure enough, God came to me. For about 15 years, I’ve wanted to attend one of these retreats, but had not found one that fit my schedule or budget. The last few years I assumed my meditation practice would be as close to a monastic retreat as I’d ever get, and honestly stopped searching. About three weeks ago, this opportunity literally fell in my lap. A style magazine which I never read and never subscribed to, came in the mail and for some reason I flipped through it. There was an article about this monastery tucked in between make-up tips and home decorating ideas. I knew immediately. This was the time to go. Because God comes to you.

Guests are welcome to pray the hours of the Divine Office with the monks, which are 3:30am Vigils, 7am Lauds and Mass, 2pm Mid-day prayer, 5:30pm Vespers, and 7:30pm Compline. Let me tell you, 3:30am is early to walk a third of a mile under the cover of darkness in the dead of winter when you’re not walking home from the bar.

But I attended all the services the first day–witnessing the monks chanting is mystical and breathtaking. I was grateful to have experienced such beauty. The second morning as I walked outside for 7am Lauds, I debated whether I ought to attend service or meditate by the pond as the sun rose. I was literally at a crossroads–the path diverged–when a cat walked right up to me. There are a lot of cats on the property. But I had not seen this cat before. And all the other cats were, well, cats. Stand-offish and skittish with humans. This cat meowed loudly and purred up against me. And literally led me down the path and up the stairs directly to the door of the Abbey. She stopped to wait for me, and would loop back to get me every time I stopped. I’m a big believer in signs. The only other time I saw this cat the entire weekend was when it waited for me by the Abbey before Mass. God comes to you.

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My feline escort

I’ve felt a great deal of tension the last few years about religion and spirituality. Even though this was a monastic retreat, I hadn’t expected anything revelatory about the weekend because it was entirely self-guided. I was just looking forward to a weekend of meditating in silence and re-centering myself, away from the pressures and daily grind. To that end, I was successful. I realized this was the first time in a really long time where no one needed me. Even when I go on vacation, it’s with someone. The kids, or friends, someone. I need to care for someone, or make a decision, or something. But this time, no one needed me. It was so freeing.

And I’m having trouble remembering what I did for three days. This isn’t about my brain injury this time. But it is about my brain, and how it finally stopped churning and processing and planning and thinking. It was empty. Not in a Barbie doll way. But in a Being in the Moment way for most of the weekend. Even aside from the sitting and walking meditations–it was so joyous to slowly and mindfully and deliberately eat, and walk, and sit, and soak everything in with gratitude. Letting the moments flow as they came, and the peace that came with each moment. And noticing: Clouds! Bird! Cow! Stars! Cookies! Wind! More wind! Stronger wind! River! More cows! Staring contests with cows–OMG I think I’m a vegetarian now, I can’t eat something that’s just stared me down with such big gentle eyes!

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I hadn’t realized how much meditation is involved in prayer, and how meditation opens one up to prayer. I think this peaceful, meditative state (the moments not waking to cows in front of my bedroom window, cows chasing me through the pasture, and cows engaging me in staring contests) allowed me to feel when God did come. God tucked me into bed at night. I swear to you. The first time I’d ever heard the monks chanting during Compline–it felt like a father serenading me to sleep with a lullaby. It brought me back to the comfort of rocking my son to sleep, singing lullabies to him. I felt the warmth and love blanketing me. I hadn’t expected that.

I also didn’t expect that the room doors didn’t have keys–you could only lock the doors from the inside. For a woman who’s grown up in big cities and believes anything that’s not locked down will be stolen, this would have been a big deal. I don’t ever leave my front door unlocked at home, ever. But somehow this didn’t faze me. I even forgot to lock it from the inside when I was sleeping or showering. I had my wallet and keys in my room the entire time. I had to trust that no one would go in and steal anything. And I did trust. It felt safe there. And I realized trust, faith, and hope are all about the same thing–risking your self and ego, opening oneself to loss and disappointment, allowing for opportunities of the unexpected. Funny how I’m struggling with each of those in different realms of my life. When it’s really all about the same thing (yes, everyone else already knows this–once again demonstrating I’m a slow learner).

I also didn’t expect: The Shenandoah River is very green and lazy there. Twin beds are very small. Chocolate covered fruitcake is actually quite tasty. Everyone is very nice and friendly when silent–head nods, hand gestures and smiles go a long way. Cows–I really didn’t expect vegetarian monks to live in the middle of a cattle farm. And there’s a lot of cows on cattle farms.

The big thing I didn’t expect to walk away with was a renewed exploration of faith. I received spiritual counseling from Father James, who I swear can read my mind. I was reading a book (Thank you, Devin Marks) that is transformative for me. And Father James had no idea I was reading this, yet echoed many of the same sentiments. This has helped me reconcile some of my internal religious struggles as I now have a lot to think about. More importantly though, is how I feel. For the first time since I was a child, I was not self-conscious or feeling Not Enough during Mass. I felt at home, like I belonged. I have been searching most of my adult life for a church and religious experience where I would feel at home with a loving God. I felt like my heart and my soul belonged there in that Abbey. And I want to call this my spiritual home, and look forward to going back often. I realize though that more importantly, I need to figure out how to bring this home. Wherever I go, there I am. And God comes to me, I don’t come to God.

Father James suggested I find a rock on the grounds and bring it home to remind me of the peace and stillness and gratitude I felt. Because I don’t do moderation well, I have five. And a picture of this tree. I don’t know why, but this tree means something to me. Maybe God will let me know later. I am still working through my spiritual journey, still finding my religion. I look forward to returning to this monastery, this tree, those cows, and that cat as I figure it out.

Holy Cross Abbey

Posted in Meditation, Mindfulness, religion, spirituality | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Vigils and Lauds And Complines, Oh My!

Posted on March 2, 2014 by bonnevivantelife

Holy Cross Abbey

I just spent three days with Trappist monks on a silent, self-guided monastic retreat. It’s taken about 15 years for the stars to align for me to finally experience one of these. I’m grateful it’s taken so long–I realized a 15-years-younger Me would not have appreciated it as much. It was three days of no cell phone, no laptop, no talking. Nothing but me, myself, and some monks (and not even beer–they only made honey and fruitcake. Boo. Hiss.) I know, how on earth do you shut me up? This is how my silent retreat went:

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Silence, only more breathtaking than the white space above. This is the silence I heard:

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Holy Cross Abbey

Cool Springs Natural Cemetery

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Shenandoah River Holy Cross Abbey

Shenandoah River

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How did the rest of the retreat go? I’m still processing–more to come. Until then, peace be with you.

Posted in Meditation, Mindfulness, religion, spirituality | Tagged , , , | 6 Comments

My Greatest Fear

Posted on February 28, 2014 by bonnevivantelife
Glennon Doyle Melton Sacred Scared

Our Sacred Scared–Glennon Doyle Melton: http://www.momastery.com

Glennon Doyle Melton’s Our Sacred Scared series inspired me to really examine my greatest fears. What’s my greatest fear? I don’t know. I’ve had many. They were all great (and not in a good-great way, but a big-great way). They were all debilitating. They all created layers of Not Me. Through the years I’ve worked really hard at peeling those layers off. As a kid and young adult, I used to feel really, deeply inadequate about everything about me. It was paralyzing. I was afraid I wasn’t smart enough–it’s a bitch to suck at math and science, and be Asian. There’s a lot of explaining to do. I was afraid I wasn’t funny enough. I was afraid I wasn’t pretty enough. Wealthy enough. Socially appropriate enough. Cool enough. Fast enough. Obedient enough. Fun enough. Laid-back enough. Capable enough. Skinny enough. Likeable enough. I have always been afraid people just wouldn’t like me in a general sense. As in, I was simply a bad person, and people would figure that out and just not like me. I would be rejected.

So I coped by posturing and pretended to be someone everyone would like. I lived the first two-thirds of my life feeling like a life-size cardboard cutout–a shell of a person afraid of people looking behind the cardboard to see what was really there. And I added distractions so people couldn’t look too closely. I didn’t eat a lot so the cardboard cutout would look skinny and pretty. Thank God I eventually got hungry enough to eat. I drank a lot because it turns out people like drunks. Until they get older and messier and haggard. Thank God I knew when to rein the drinking in. Mostly. And I made fun of others a lot because it turns out people think sarcasm and cutting people down is funny. Thank God I’ve since learned it’s just mean, and I can be funny in other ways.

The other Not Enoughs–I’ve learned to accept each of these issues as non-issues. I’ve learned there’s never Enough, and I’ve come to peace with most of them, most of the time. There are certain triggers still (like thin women, or people coming to my house, or reading other bloggers), but I’m usually able to breathe through those moments and regain perspective. I’ve learned these Not Enoughs aren’t about me personally if I choose to stop comparing myself.

But the one I haven’t really stared down yet is the general Likeable Enough one. I think I’m afraid that if I end up dying without a long-term, committed relationship, then it’s proof to the world, and to me, that I wasn’t in fact Enough. That it’s Life’s way of saying, “See? I told you, you just weren’t Enough. Sure, you were kind, and you recycled, and you contributed to both society and the economy. Sure, you inspired people and made some folks happy. But see? I told you all along, you just weren’t Enough. No one loved you enough because you weren’t Enough. You were sufficient, subthreshold, fine. But not Enough. We liked you enough, but we didn’t love you Enough. Thank you for playing the game. You can go home now.”

I’ve never put words to this fear. But I think it’s lived inside me since the day I was born. It drove me to try to be perfect in everything I cooked and baked and crafted and decorated and touched. It drove me to get married. It drove me to destructive and unhealthy relationships. It drove me to work 60-hour weeks. It drove me to be early for everything and judge others for their tardiness and imperfections. It drove most decisions in my life until about 10 years ago. I don’t act on that fear most of the time now, and when I do, I can usually recognize it fairly quickly and put a stop to it. But I’m not sure what else to do with it.

This General Likeable Enoughness that I lack–I realize, as I am writing this, it blankets me through the interactions of daily living. I’ve put to rest many of the demons. But it’s the collection of them all that create this general sense of not being liked or accepted. I have always wanted membership. I’ve always felt like the kid on the outside looking in–sororities, religions, cultures, communities. I’ve never felt like I fit in. I feel like I’m not good Enough to be offered membership. Take writing as an example–I feel like I’m not a real writer, because I “just” blog. But I also feel like I’m not a real, bona fide blogger. I feel like when I show up where ever it is I want to be in life, I’m still a fraud. Even when I get my foot in the door, I don’t really belong there–I don’t really deserve it. 

I’ve forged my own path and done things in life my own way, telling people I ignore convention and don’t jump on bandwagons. This has served me well for the most part. But I am still haunted by feeling inadequate because of my zip code, or my salary, or my running pace, or my religious convictions or lackthereof, or…

So I talk to myself. A lot. I try to breathe and remind myself that I am Enough for myself, and I try to practice being scared and brave, and practice doing hard things. I try to silence the other voices in my head–most of the time they’re merely whispers. And each day I do feel a little more Enough. But I wonder if there will ever come a time where I can confidently, and truthfully, own my Enoughness.

I think the key to owning my Enoughness is to own and love my fears. I think the ones that are still issues are the ones I continue to fight, to try to banish. I already know intellectually there’s never Enough, it will always be something. But I think I need to embrace the fears. Feel the fears, feel through the fears. Hold them gently, acknowledge they are parts of me. And because they are, I need to love all parts of me. I need to love these fears gently and give them space to be inside me and in my life. I need to be kind and forgiving to myself for having such fears, much as I would be kind and forgiving to my loved ones when they express their uncertainties.

And it is in this allowance and honoring the fears’ very real presence in my life that permits them to leave when they’re ready. Resisting them creates a tight hold and struggle, whereas loving them gently allows Grace to escort them to another space when it’s time. And it’s time to own the Truth of my Enoughness–that there will always be times of not feeling Enough, and that’s OK.

Posted in Empowerment, Meditation, Mindfulness | Tagged , , , , , | 11 Comments

On My Honor I Will Do My Best…

Posted on February 26, 2014 by bonnevivantelife

cub scout patches

I love our Cub Scout Pack. I had reservations before we joined years ago, but it’s turned into a source of great friendships and experiences. I will admit the one thing I hate about my son’s involvement in Cub Scouts though is sewing his patches on to his uniform.  A few years ago, my friend gave me her collection of dozens of different color threads to match the various patches–a changing of the guard of Scout Moms, if you will. I was so grateful, because I was getting really pissed off at the various shades of purple, gold and blue. I hate sewing those patches on so much that I save them all up to do once a year. So yes, in case you’re wondering, my son’s uniform is totally not up to regulation 10 months out of the year.

I don’t really care. Because I hate how tiny some of those damned arrows are. I hate how each patch has a very precise placement on the shirt. And “upside-down” or “missing” are never options. Those Scouts are not minimalists with their patches either. So I grumble with my needle and thread and thimble twice a year, and I curse while I’m sewing. (Because I would grumble more if I hauled out the sewing machine.)

I know, I know. There are adhesives for this to make my life easier. I’m old-school though and for some weird reason, I want these patches sewn on. I know, I know. There’s a lovely local tailor who only charges $1 per patch, and she is very fast and good. She actually sews them on straight and properly and promptly.

People ask me why I don’t just drop the shirt and patches off to her instead of whining and griping. Part of it is that I’m cheap, and if it’s something I could technically do, I won’t outsource it. But more importantly, I see no reason why my son ought to look polished and put together, AND pay for that privilege when we’re a little mis-matched, askew, and late anyway (with some brief moments of being upside-down and/or missing).

Let’s not be pretentious and pretend to be what we’re not. Let’s show up and salute that flag and plant trees and collect food donations just the way we are. A little messy and sloppy, but mostly all there–at least the important parts that matter. With good intentions. On my honor, we’re doing our best.

Posted in Parenting | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

Put the Armor Down, Be Vulnerable, & Marinate

Posted on February 23, 2014 by bonnevivantelife

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An old, trusted friend asked about details of how my last relationship ended. We talked about it, and it was clear that I was still having difficulty with it, and the loss; I was still hurting. And I admitted that I still really missed him. She asked me why I didn’t just tell him that. I laughed. Now, why on earth would I do that? It’s over. I was working on letting go. These are the rules of life–this is how life works. And now, she’s gone and stuck this thought in my head. She said he may feel the same way, why not just tell him and see what happens? I said absolutely not. She called me stubborn.

I seriously wondered who she is. This wasn’t a juvenile high school conversation about boys and crushes and “Oh just call him.” She’s known me through most of my relationships. She’s known me through all the iterations of Me. She’s known me through my heartbreaks and losses and trust issues. So why on earth would she suggest this to me, of all people? Oh, because she is a hopeful, courageous person. She understands there are disappointments in life, and she is resilient and can weather painful circumstances while still holding on to hope. I’d like to be like that. Our outlooks on life are so different, and I want to be hopeful and resilient like her. I want her confidence and conviction that we can survive hurts. But see, I can. I can do hard things, I can practice being brave and hopeful. If I choose to.

So I went back and told her I didn’t want to tell him I missed him because I didn’t want to look stupid or desperate. And I wasn’t being stubborn, I just didn’t want to get hurt again because chances are good he will reject me again. She asked me simply, what did I have to lose? I said my ego, my pride, my dignity, my heart.

And I realized that by protecting those things–I was armoring up. I wasn’t being authentic and vulnerable. Those are values I hold dear, and I need to get back to honoring those. Instead, I was posturing; pretending that I was fine and had moved on. So I inched closer to entertaining the idea of telling this person who meant so much to me how I felt. But what on earth do I say to him? (Because some days I am still 12 years old)

She said, “Just tell him how you feel. You miss him. You care about him a lot. You want to try to work things out.” Huh. I told her I vomited a little in my mouth at the thought of such honesty and vulnerability, and that it’s a bit more Brave than I could muster up at 2:30pm on a Tuesday. But I’d sit in it.

She told me to marinate in it. So I’m marinating in it. In the fact that this has thrown me for a loop–that I lost sight of being vulnerable and brave, and of using my words. Initially I was reluctant to reach out to him to tell him how I felt because I was afraid of the rejection, and really didn’t want to feel that pain again. I am still fairly certain he will reject me. But I am fairly certain I will reach out to him–not primarily for an end goal. But for the practice of being hopeful, resilient, vulnerable, and using my words. The practice of doing hard things, and being scared and brave simultaneously. Because he’s important to me. Because I need to feel through feelings instead of pushing them away. Because I need to put my armor down and be me. I need to accept there is no right or wrong to this–I used to have a rule of never groveling, and never going back to an ex. But I need to practice accepting that life is messy and there are no rules.

I want to be hopeful and resilient. I may still be broken-hearted, but I understand now that my friend is right, I don’t have anything to lose. This is an opportunity for growth for me. She literally shakes her head at me, like this isn’t such a big deal. Because she goes through life living her life, authentically and vulnerably and bravely. It’s a big deal for me because I’m still working on living my life in this way, unarmored. You can only let the marinade seep in without the barrier of armor.

Postscript: How does this end, you ask? It doesn’t matter. I decided reaching out and showing my vulnerability–that was for me, and not for an outcome or to ease the sadness. And indeed, it was actually so freeing to stop the Stoic Posturing of pretending that I was fine and over hurts. Something about owning and admitting my vulnerabilities and struggles allowed me to remember the beauty in love and joy even when things don’t work out. I hadn’t even realized I was fighting the sadness and grief. Honoring the negative feelings actually allowed me to let them go. Oh the irony of how I blog about doing all that, and I forget that I need to practicepracticepractice the hard and beautiful work of life too. This process has also reminded me of the journey I decided to embark on a couple years ago–of learning not to be afraid of being the one who loves the most. I do not want to be afraid of love.

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”
― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Posted in Dating, Empowerment, Meditation, Mindfulness, Relationships | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

Sharing But Not Embarrassing

Posted on February 19, 2014 by bonnevivantelife

Arthur Miller

I have had several friends tell me lately they are surprised I share as much of myself as I do through my writing. They know me to be a fiercely private person with firm boundaries and trust issues. So the raw moments of my life that I share so publicly through my writing is a stark contrast to the friend they know. I take great care not to disclose parts of myself and my life without first processing through the events and emotions and implications. I take great care to share only the stories that I believe unite us all and hopefully lift one or two hearts and souls. I do not overshare to be provocative or for attention. I share because storytelling is powerful.

I used to think my thoughts and lessons learned were good and smart and had value, and that others could use my sage wisdom. Now I realize my thoughts and lessons aren’t right, per se, or extraordinarily brilliant and life changing. I understand now my words are powerful because it is my voice that I share. I understand now the power of showing people that one voice matters, and that it takes courage to speak up, and that we can all do this, and we ought to. Because this is how we take care of ourselves and each other, by owning our soft spots, and showing them without shame. I want to show people that if I can be brave, you can be brave too, because I am no different than you.

I am not the only one…the only one who has felt like a failure. The only one who was afraid of looking like a fool. The only one who felt like a fraud in a new job. The only one who was scared he would leave me when he discovered all my flaws and quirks. The only one who didn’t really enjoy reading Goodnight Moon for the 379th night in a row to my son. The only one who believed if I had the right skirt or weight or haircut, then I’d be invited to sit at the cool lunch table. The only one who was insecure or frightened or broken-hearted, or just plain tired and grumpy, or mean or bad-tempered. The only one who has made some very unwise decisions. The only one who has hurt others, both on purpose and inadvertently.

It is in the collective Nodding of Our Heads, and the “Oh Yes, that totally resonates” and “Ah-ha!”s that we realize we have all been a bit scared and feeling not enough and a bit broken and bruised. It is this collection of battered souls sitting together that is powerful. And we can all be brave in showing up to sit in this crate of broken beings. And these pieces of us create a lovely mosaic as we help each other patch up and take turns hopping in and out of the crate. Knowing all the while someone is keeping our space there, and we’ll each be back at some point to rest amongst kindred spirits. Knowing that we can, and have, survived difficult moments, and painful hurts, and long, drawn-out moments of discomfort.

So I share because this is my current contribution to the world at large. I used to give voice to my psychotherapy clients in various ways. I helped them sort through their stories, taught them skills to tell their stories in their own words and craft different endings to their stories, sat with them as they found their courage to face their demons, and sat with still more of them when they decided now was not the time to do so. These days I share my stories using my voice and courage because I know the power of process and connection through honesty and authenticity.

I know the power of telling your truth. And I want to help someone else come out from the dark and isolating Cave of Shame and Not Enoughness so that he or she can own his or her truth. Even if for a few moments at first, and realize we had been sitting together in that crate in the cave. Once you know, you can’t un-know. So I know once you read, and connect, and walk away from the shame, even if for a moment, you’ll do it again later. And each time, you’ll spend more time away from shame.  So I give each of you pieces of me to hold on to, in the hopes you’ll join me out here in the open for longer periods of time. What is your truth?

Posted in Empowerment, Meditation, Mindfulness | Tagged , , , , , , , | 27 Comments

A Year of Living Brain-Injuredly

Posted on February 17, 2014 by bonnevivantelife

flying trapeze

President’s Day marks a year since I landed on my head from a bad trapeze dismount. I have been cleared medically and cognitively. People look at me and don’t remember that I ever had a traumatic brain injury. I am grateful for good medical care, and a good enough pre-concussion baseline that I can compensate now to appear fairly functional. I am thankful that most people don’t know that inside my head I am still struggling with cognitive deficits. Some friends have asked how I’m doing with the brain injury. This is how I’m doing:

I drop words from my sentences when I’m typing/writing. This happens much more frequently when I’m tired. When I start to feel better I swap out words so that my sentences make no sense. Most days my spelling is atrocious, when it used to be one of my strengths. If I forget to proofread everything, I look careless, distracted, or not very intelligent. To appear competent, work takes twice as long now.

I can’t find the words to express myself. I know conceptually what I want to say, but I literally cannot find the words to convey that idea. I can sense what I want to say, but it remains an amorphous blob of a feeling that never throws back the curtain to present itself. For someone who loves using her words, this is remarkably frustrating. I feel very trapped inside my head. It saddens me that I cannot express myself anymore. I have many blogs that will never be written. I sit quietly as friends converse around me and over me because I’ll never be able to add to the conversation.

I can’t plan or organize or execute an idea anymore. I can’t drill down deep into concepts or analyze issues anymore. It’s like I’ve lost depth and dimension to my executive functioning. My brain literally stops. I start to process something, and I feel it stop, and I can’t force it to go one step deeper. I used to be a strong planner. Now, I can’t even pack for a weekend trip. I know I have to. I know how many days I’ll be gone. I know what the weather will be like there. And I literally stand there looking about, unable to make my brain do anything. It becomes a mad dash to throw things into a bag last minute now. Party planning is like this now. Mornings getting everyone out the door to school and work are like this now. Everything that involves more than one or two cognitive levels of thinking is like this now. On the bright side, this all helps with living more mindfully, in the moment. The flip side of that however is that I haven’t been able to balance my checkbook in a year–I literally have no idea how much money I have, or don’t have.

My short-term memory is shot. I recall general ideas and events, but oftentimes the details are lost. I used to have the most amazing memory–so much so that I never went to class and still excelled in school. It has affected my friendships because I can’t follow-up and ask about things we’ve discussed, because I don’t want to get the details wrong or appear as if I wasn’t paying attention. And after one glass of wine, it is impossible to remember details.

I don’t think my personality has changed (you tell me?). But these deficits make me really frustrated and irritable at times. I don’t know if I’ll ever get back to my original baseline. As the months pass though and there’s no improvement, I don’t have any high hopes. I had hoped to get back on the trapeze. I’m not scared of getting back up there. I’m not scared of falling again or failing. I am concerned though that if I fall again, there is a very real possibility that I will lose even more of myself. That scares me.

Why am I sharing all this? Because as there is more research on brain injuries, and the public is more aware of brain injuries, and parents make more informed decisions for their children on what sports they are allowed to play, I want people to understand the hidden residual losses and risks of brain injuries. I’m still by most accounts functional and “normal.” But I’m not entirely Me anymore either. I want people to consider that when they make decisions for themselves and their children.

Posted in Health Issues | Tagged , , , , , , | 12 Comments

How to Save Your Fort From Attack

Posted on February 15, 2014 by bonnevivantelife

blanket fort

I know all you parents out there can empathize with me when I say that my children suffer from a disorder whereupon they lose the capacity to hear a word I say. There’s something about the tone and cadence of my voice that their teeny little ear drums cannot process. It’s quite remarkable. Occasionally there is a remission in symptoms, when sometimes they can hear me, like when I say words like “ice cream” or “money” or “vacation.” But the medical condition is tragically most acute with words like “hurry up” or “let’s go” or “pick up your room.”

So imagine my surprise at the report of a recent medical miracle. La Chica is 7, and she was playing with her friend S, who is 5, and B, who is 9. The story goes down like this: S and La Chica built a fort. B started throwing balls at and over the fort. S got upset. La Chica asked S what was wrong. S said nothing, but was still upset. S said, “Let’s have a conversation.”

S & La Chica went to another room. La Chica asked S what was wrong. S didn’t want to talk about it, and said, “Only adults can solve problems.”

La Chica said, “No, Children can solve problems too. Your brother can. My brother can. I can. And you can. We can all solve problems. We need to use our words. What is the problem?”

S tells her that she’s afraid the balls will break the fort. The girls go back to the room that houses the fort, and where B is. La Chica walks up to B, and said, “S is upset, and is afraid the balls will break the fort. Can you please stop throwing the balls?”

B says, “Oh sure.”

Everyone is happy and they all stay up way too late. And there is a relapse in the medical condition when parents say, “It’s time to go! Let’s go!”

Moral of the story: We can all solve problems. Just use your words.

And Parents: Use those words to keep talking, even when you feel they’re falling on deaf ears. I almost had a cardiac event realizing that all this time, my kids actually hear, and internalize, the lessons I harp on. Who knew that they really can hear? Now I need to work on a cure for Can’t-Pick-After-Self-itis. That one is particularly contagious.

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On Being Single and Middle-Aged

Posted on February 11, 2014 by bonnevivantelife

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I’ve evolved as I’ve aged. I’ve come to not only be comfortable in my own skin, but to love being me. I know it’s taken each of these 40 years filled with trials and tribulations and successes to get me to this point. For all of that, I am so grateful. So I know with every pore of my being that my relationship status–being single–has nothing to do with me. And by that I mean I don’t think for a second there’s anything wrong with me. In fact, I’m quite the catch. In a modest sort of way, of course.

And I know my friends and family have thoughts on why I’m still single. Perhaps I’m too picky, perhaps I’m too immature and irreverant, perhaps I am not looking at the right kind of guy–perhaps my dates aren’t serious or old enough. Perhaps I am too busy, perhaps I don’t know what I want.

But see, I know what I want. I know when that feeling is missing when I’m sitting across the table from a perfectly respectable man. And I know when it’s not going to work for me. And I’m actually not too picky–I give all sorts of men a fair shake–various ages, occupations, ethnicities. If you’re kind and respectful and can hold a decent conversation and make me laugh, I’m willing to give it a shot. So I know it’s not me. I date. And it’s exhausting. What’s more exhausting though are the continual reminders that I have not stumbled upon someone who makes me feel that way–when yet another evening ends and I get home to text a friend, “Nope. Not this one either.”

I know people take pity on me–they think Poor Girl, one day she’ll find someone. She deserves it, she’s a great person. I don’t argue that I deserve it. I don’t argue that I’m a great person. I don’t argue that having a long-term committed relationship would add another dimension to my life. I try to be grateful for my full and good life. I try to ignore the pity, and focus on all that is positive in my life. I try to remain hopeful that one day…

But I’m starting to think perhaps it’s just not in my cards, this happily ever after. I don’t say that for reassurance or more pity. I don’t say it in a Woe-Is-Me sort of way. I say it because I just don’t think this will happen. I just don’t feel it with people I ought to. And with the few men I’ve felt it with, the relationships have ended after running their courses, and in hindsight I see for good and valid reasons. Some moments I’m sad about it. Because I don’t want the pity and stigma of being middle-aged and single. I don’t want the lack of social invites because Couples hang with Couples. I don’t want the reassurances from people that come with good intentions: “Oh don’t worry, you’ll find someone. When you least expect it.” I don’t want the opportunity of growing old with a Great Love taken off the table.

I’m grateful for the Great Loves in my life. I’ve had a couple, and one really Good Love. And many good or decent dates and relationships, with some bad ones sprinkled in between. I’m grateful I’ve gotten to know so many amazing people. It just hasn’t happened for me–this Coupling.

Most of the time it’s a non-issue and I love my life and I don’t think twice about my singleness. Some moments it’s sad. I try not to let societal expectations bother me–some days I’m more successful than others. But some other moments I just miss having a Great Love in my life. I miss the feeling. I miss the built-in person who will drive me home from my colonoscopy, who will take the other key to the safe deposit box, who will come get me when my car breaks down on the Beltway. I am fortunate that I have amazing friends and family in my life who will fill these roles for me when I ask. But there’s comfort in knowing there is someone there who is THAT person for you. It’s not the role of that person I miss–it’s that someone loves me enough to automatically do those things, that’s what I miss. And that I love him enough to do the same.

And there’s a sadness in knowing I don’t have that, and may never have that. I’m not giving up. I’m not bitter about my lot in life. But I’m understanding now that there are all sorts of different outcomes for us in life. Sometimes things happen. Sometimes they do not. And I understand now how people feel when they really wanted to become a parent, and were never afforded the opportunity to become one. I understand the longing that accompanies them through their life, as joyous and wonderful as their life might be.

So this is what being 40 and single is like for me. Being surrounded by a lot of love, a lot of amazing friends and family, a lot of neat and unusual experiences, a lot of comforting rituals. Being in the middle of a really positive, fun, full life. In the center of people and events that move around me, past me, with me. By myself, in the middle of this wonderful, beautiful, glorious life. All the while, knowing there is something to be said about having a person in your life who cares what you ate for lunch. That, I long for.

Posted in Dating, Mindfulness, Relationships | Tagged , , , | 5 Comments

Puberty Makes Me an Old Person

Posted on February 9, 2014 by bonnevivantelife

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I woke up today with a chin pimple. Let me be clear. It was not my pimple. And it was not my chin. The Boy, who is 10 years old, walked up to me this morning with his first pimple on his chin. Being the calm and appropriate parent that I am, I immediately screamed, grabbed my phone, and his chin, and sent a picture of it to my friend asking:

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Because there’s nothing like scaring the bejeezus out of a kid to normalize human development. Fortunately he’s easily distractible and promising him a brunch outing made him forget all about the shrieking suggestion that there was anything wrong with his face.

I have, for the most part, embraced aging. I have no problems with birthdays, grey hair, looser skin, creaky joints and the need for reading glasses. Helpful Hint: the last one is easily addressed by a prescription of denial. But overall, I have really enjoyed getting older.

But I’ll be damned if the prospect of my kid hitting puberty didn’t throw me for a loop. How could I possibly be old enough to have a kid who will be overrun by hormones soon? I know, millions of parents before me have lived through these moments. But there’s nothing quite like puberty to make a middle-aged woman feel old. He and I are already wearing the same shoe and shirt sizes, which hasn’t bothered me.

But the pimple, and everything pimples represent, bother me. The prospect of teenage angst, of teen friendships when kids can be so cruel, of romantic loves and rejection, of figuring out who you are and taking a stand on that–the idea that my child will be going through that all soon is hard for me to stomach. Because I will feel so helpless witnessing him navigate through life, knowing there will be difficult and painful moments. And hoping I’ve done a decent enough job arming him with coping skills and solid values to make good decisions when it counts. And knowing my time is short now to fortify his character much more. I have a feeling going through puberty a second time won’t be any better than the first time.

Yes, I know the teaching moments don’t ever stop. Yes, I know puberty is a long, slow journey and I have more time before the voice drops. Yes, I know it will be a joy to witness him grow into a fine young man. But realize also I’m prone to hysterics, and watching my first-born child begin his march into adulthood makes me feel old. After all, he’s my baby!

My dear friend offered sage advice–deodorant over antiperspirant at this age, gentle facial washes, etc. But the most useful advice is:

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Then I turn around and realize La Chica is wearing a pair of jeans that fit her only last week: 2014-02-09 10.31.44

I give up. Everyone to the attic while I go on a bender–the hydration will be good for my complexion.

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