Tag life

Letters from my former self

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It’s that time of year again. When hubby brings up the holiday decorations and we all reach into our stockings for THE LETTER. The one we wrote to our future self back in January with goals and dreams for the upcoming year.

My youngest wrote all about roller coasters and getting 100’s on his math and spelling tests. He seemed pleased at his accomplishments and proceeded to turn his letter into an airplane and fly it all over the room. Which, by the way, is his personality in a nutshell.

Oldest refused to read his letter out loud and moped on the couch saying he didn’t accomplish anything. Which of course is a total lie – he’s done a lot of great things this past year. Later I found the letter and learned the cause of his disappointment – he had written about things he was obsessed with last year, and trends being trends, they were no longer important. Oh, and he wanted to grow six inches. Genetics can be so, so cruel.

Hubby read his letter, which talked about a bathroom remodel that hasn’t happened yet, and a handful of other things he didn’t accomplish. I read mine. More of the same. Wow, we really stank this year, oldest remarked.

No, we didn’t, actually. We set out on one path and life took us a different way. We didn’t accomplish our goals from January, but instead entirely different experiences and opportunities came our way. And that’s okay.

Although… I would like to publicly say I am disappointed in myself in a few areas. My writing goals included querying my YA Historical Fiction project, which I didn’t do because I am somewhat terrified to put it out into the world. And my butt was not nearly in the chair as much as I had promised myself it would be – despite various mind tricks such as elaborate daily schedules, trips to cafes, and secret candy stashes. But it’s here now, right at this very moment. Let’s celebrate the small victories, shall we?

I think the area in which I have been most victorious is pushing out of my comfort zone. My new job has forced that to some degree; I’m required to go into the community and talk to strangers, so I’ve been working hard on my ice breaking and small talk skills. (Not to worry, there have been PLENTY of awkward moments this past year, during which I stared blankly and lost all ability to make normal conversation.) If something scares me, my immediate reaction might be to give up or walk away, but I’m trying to push past that and embrace new experiences.

And then come home and bury myself in a book next to my trusty feline companion.

We can’t change who we truly are at the core, and I’ve learned that after many, many years of stocking letters. But we can work to become better versions of ourselves, whether that means being more adventurous, working harder to achieve a goal, or being a kinder human being. (More to come on that last one.)

Don’t be afraid to set goals, both realistic and star-reaching. But be prepared for the universe to have other plans. That’s part of the fun.

 

 

 

Momiversary and other thoughts

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Today is my anniversary of motherhood. Eleven years ago I drove through a torrential rainstorm, waited for hours in the JFK airport, and at around 11:30 pm I met my son. A happy moment (and also slightly terrifying) and one that we regularly reminisce.

But the moments leading up to it were painful. And this morning, as I sat in the waiting room of my gynecologist, I was reminded of that pain as pregnant women made a seemingly endless trek toward the exam rooms. Today happened to be the office’s outreach to at-risk expectant mothers. Not great timing.

I used to spend a lot of time in waiting rooms, back in the days of fertility treatments. Waiting rooms that overflowed with pregnant women, many of whom were young, alone, and frustrated about their situation. You could see it in their eyes, and I used to wonder if they could read mine. Read the unhappiness and desperation. I would sit in the waiting room and keep myself together – keep my emotions steady – until I crossed the threshold into the exam room. Then I would break down and sob.

Thankfully, I am not in that place anymore. I have two amazing sons and have made peace with my path to motherhood. But there are moments when I can’t escape the rush of sadness that refuses to let go of my heart. Moments like this morning, as I watched each belly full of life and rested a hand on my own, full of scar tissue.

A few months ago we were guests at a church, and a couple had filmed their testimony. When the story began, I knew what would come next: Struggling to conceive, praying to God for a miracle – I spotted the trajectory right away, knew the meteor would land right in my gut. I left the room in time before tears came, and thankfully they never did. But I realized that I would never be able to fully let this go. The tears may no longer flow, but the ache creeps in, when I’m reminded of the painful journey that ended eleven years ago.

That’s the thing. Our pain never fully ends. Because no matter how much we heal, the scars remain a part of who we are. And that’s okay. The scars remind us of where we’ve been, of who we struggled to become, and the amazing things that came out on the other side.

Like my boy. I can’t believe it’s been eleven years. It feels like yesterday I carried him in his little green sling and sang endless rounds of “This Little Light of Mine.”

Let somebody blow it out?

No way.  I’m gonna let it shine.

Oh, Fall

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How I love and hate thee.

Fall is my favorite season. I love the cooler temperatures, the abundance of vegetables in our farm share box, and most of all – the smell of decaying leaves. Yes, you read that right. Several years ago my husband and I were wandering around on a fall day when I inhaled deeply and remarked on how much I love the smell. So you like the smell of death and decay? Of rot? He said to me, in his way of bursting my bubble that he sometimes does. Yes, I guess I do. The leaves turn their most brilliant, and then they fall off and die, creating a wonderful aroma.

But here’s the problem. It’s also getting darker. And while I have never been diagnosed with seasonal affective disorder or anything, I know what is coming next. The pulling into myself, of not wanting to get up and start the day. In college, my worst episode with depression began in November, and every year since then I can feel the tug of sadness trying to take me under again.

There are things in my life going well right now, and things that are tearing my heart apart. And I stand sometimes at the crossroads and think how easy it would be to let go and get pulled under. But then I think about my family, and my friends, and the people whose lives I might affect someday. About how my co-worker calls me “Smiley” which is funny and ironic because my mother always tells me to “Smile more.” About the time we each get to spend on the planet and how we make the most of it.

So maybe I need to shift focus. Death and decay make room for rebirth. Darkness and isolation allow us to store our energy and recharge. Each trip around the Earth brings wisdom and experience.

Oh, fall. Let’s enjoy each other for another month, shall we?

How’s your book coming?

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Ah, the ever present question in writing circles: How’s the current project coming along? Whether you’re working on an initial draft or revision number (enter ridiculous number here – in my case anyway), fellow writers and basically anyone to whom you’ve mentioned that you’re working on a book want to know how things are going. And that’s great. It helps keep the motivation up when it may be dragging, and can be a supportive part of an often desolate journey.

But when things aren’t going well, it’s a question that makes me want to bury my head in the sand. Or, as my son often does when he gets home from school, turn my thumb sideways and then point it down. Although truth be told, he often turns it back to sideways or up; he’s like the scales on a diet show – was it a good day or bad day? Stay tuned to find out!

Can you tell I’m avoiding the question? Really though, how is the current project going? It’s experiencing long periods of drought with the occasional burst of creative genius, followed abruptly by bouts of frustration and/or hours of staring into space, willing a solution to magically appear out of my fingertips.

Here’s the problem. My book tells two stories. One is mostly true (based on my grandmother’s memoirs) until it becomes completely not true. The other is not true, but loosely based on a real event. I had a million ideas and took this giant bowl, poured them all in, and hoped for the best. Then I spent many, many hours rearranging post-it notes that have long ago lost their stickiness and revising until the two stories more or less came together. They came together, I’m just not entirely happy with things yet. So, following some helpful feedback from my amazing critique group, I went in with a knife and sliced the poor thing up some more.

I have a tendency to start projects and not finish them. It’s kinda my M.O. Back when a popular drink was putting six word memoirs on the inside of its caps, one of my teacher friends decided to do that as a class activity: Write a six word memoir. And could I please write a sample for her to use? Hubs was quick to offer up this one: HAS BIG IDEAS, NO FOLLOW THROUGH

Yup. I’m working really, really hard at changing that, says the girl who stalled on revisions all summer. And I try not to dump the contents of some cabinet or other onto the floor and then decide partway through that I don’t feel like sorting through all of it. I mean, I totally packed up that box of memories after I… only… went… through… half. Crap.

Back to the WIP. When I see my writer friends, especially ones who have read through the story, they say encouraging things like how they thought it was good and that I should query the darn thing already. But then I have moments where I worry that I am not honoring my grandmother’s memory properly and maybe I shouldn’t fictionalize the second half of her life, but honestly she went on to have kids and they had kids and she baked a lot of cookies and pies and they were delicious. Not quite the page turner I’m hoping for.

So where do I go from here? Well, I ignore the curled up, note covered pages of the manuscript on my desk, the notebooks and scraps of paper with random ideas piled on top, the now neatly arranged sticky notes on the back table (after they spent several weeks on the floor, getting occasionally slept on by the cat), and this:

memoirs

A copy of Grandma’s memoirs, the ones she was working on when she died, edited and bound by yours truly in the days leading up to her funeral so that I could pass out copies to everyone in the family. And do you know what I found last month while cleaning out the basement? An original copy of the first section, with a note to me, date November 17, 2001 – right before Buffalo got hit with a terrible snow storm (I was living in South Carolina at the time – Grandma mentions that bad weather was predicted). A note that explains how excited she is to be writing down the story of her life.

And then there’s this:

grandma

That’s me and Grandma, in July 2001, looking over some pages while visiting her cottage. She counted on me to help her with the writing, to teach her how to use word processing. And even though she’s gone, I know she’s counting on me to get this right. But the problem is, I don’t know exactly what that means.

So I stall. Procrastinate. Work on other things. This story is my heart, and maybe part of it is that I don’t want to face the inevitable rejection that comes with querying, but it’s mostly that I am afraid of getting it wrong. Of somehow hurting her memory.

Now you know why, if you ask me how writing is going, I get a faraway look in my eye that is a mix of frustration, determination, and sadness. My grandmother was amazing, and however the story turns out, I want to make her proud.