When I say the tears are streaming down my face, I am not exaggerating for effect. For nearly three months now, I’ve learned to live with a constant low level of wetness in my eyes. Because, as we all know, things have been hard. I wipe my eyes quite a bit. But at this exact moment, a week after Minnesota became a focal point, I’m sitting on my front porch, after an emotional zoom call for work, just quietly allowing these tears to tumble out. 

Because writing is my way of knowing and listening and thinking, I just started typing, despite the tears. And here is what came out, no editing, no sleeping on it, no deep consideration, just trying to capture a real moment in real life.

Yesterday was my birthday and I am so blessed to be able to have pressed pause on the news feeds and just focus on my little world of three children, husband, puppy, garden, ice cream and rhubarb crisp and a dear handful of friends and family. It was sweet, simple and perfect. It was a much needed respite.

And yet….

All the things that we thought were normal are now seen with a new and very raw perspective. And as I look around, and listen, I’m pretty impressed with humans actually. Obviously not the few humans who suffer from a chronic and insidious source of misleading and misdirected energy. No. Not those poor souls. I’m talking about the regular humans. 

The mothers who have had to somehow keep the ship afloat. The fathers who have had to dig deep into their emotional wells. The employers who have had to broaden their understanding of how to manage. The employees who have had to change everything about their jobs, if they’re lucky enough to still have jobs. The people of color who have had their scabs ripped off yet another time and who are now just bleeding out. The police officers who feel deeply called to protect and care for their towns but are stained by severe mistrust. The community leaders and politicians who have had to shift into a level of functioning they didn’t even know they had available. The kids who have had to change almost everything about their lives, including their hopes and dreams. The faith leaders who have had to literally fall to their knees with desperate cries for how to shepherd their flock. 

The sheer strength of humanity is just oozing out from everywhere. Because when things are pushed to extremes we’ve never seen, and then pushed again, and then pushed again, we are reduced to the deep depths of who we are. And we are strong and beautiful, and capable of deep love and transformation.

Household windows are covered in cut-out colored hearts. People are buying groceries and gift cards for strangers, even when their own jobs are insecure. Truth is coming from unexpected and refreshing voices. Books on antiracism are sold out on every bookstore website. The lines between politics, social justice and spirituality are converging for people who have resisted allowing their coexistence. It is not overly dramatic to say that people are moaning and clawing at their hearts in exhaustion and agony. 

Me included.

And I have chosen to not say or do anything publicly. Which is unusual. For me. High Energy Gretchen is usually jumping in to be a part of it all. But I am so shaken, and humbled, and shredded to my core. I don’t need to explain why. Everyone knows what’s going on. I don’t need to explain what I think. This isn’t about me and my limited life experience. I don’t need to move, or act, or proclaim anything. I only feel the need to sit.

I need to sit. And cry. And let my kids see me cry. And pray. And let my kids see me pray. And try to do the meaningful, yet subtle exercise of absorption. 

Before George Floyd was murdered, some of you knew I was working on an essay called “Itchy Invitations.” It was another set of ponderings about the uncomfortable world we live in now that the global pandemic has torn the scales from our eyes. I see things I didn’t see before…and most of it isn’t pleasant, but it IS real. And thus, the time of inadvertent numbing to our reality has ended. And we see a darker, yet more authentic world. And therein lies some very Itchy Invitations for us all. 

It was a pretty decent essay, but, now “Itchy Invitations” sounds cute and trite and as much as I wish it wasn’t true, we are in yet another New World. Or more accurately, we see our actual world with New Eyes. Now I feel like my Itchy Invitation is to sit and cry. Not only for myself and my ignorance, but for those that I’ve been ignoring, the system I’ve been ignoring, the reality I’ve been ignoring. Now it seems like the Itchy Invitation is more of an Incredibly Important (and still Itchy) Invitation. 

This Invitation is also going to include action. I realize that I sit here and cry while I’m soaking in privilege. I don’t even understand the depth and width of my privilege. And I’ve had to stop myself from just wanting to drive into Minneapolis and to post pictures of my kids’ Black Lives Matter t-shirts and my Ta-Nehisi Coates book, because I humbly admit I do not understand and will never understand. So I acknowledge my ability to choose to sit here and cry. I also commit to the actions required as a result of doing the emotional transforming heart-work that I feel I need to do, SO THAT my actions that come next can make more profound change in our world. 

We have work to do. And my first task is inside of my heart…and for me, right now, that just requires a quiet sitting down, listening, reading, absorbing, with these hot tears streaming down my face. If we can’t accept this Incredibly Important (and Still Itchy) Invitation to find the strength to sit and cry, to see reality…then the destruction, the death and the devastation around us, and inside of us, will be futile. The movement for authentic change will sputter out, again. 

Sending you all the love and peace that my heavy heart can muster, as I sit on my porch, and cry.

“Who will we be in the face of this crisis” is probably a question you’ve heard recently. Or some version of it. It’s a question that dives deep into the core of humanity. It’s a question that is being asked by tons of different voices out there. Who will we be socially, nationally, financially, spiritually, emotionally, politically, geographically and ethically. 

Yeah. I gotta be honest. The simple intensity of that question is scaring the shit out of me. It’s raw and strikes at a very tender part of my soul. “Who will we be?” Not your run of the mill small talk topic.

Some of you know about the personal journey I’ve been on the last couple of years…typical mid-life-peri-menopausal-order-disorder-reorder-transformation type stuff. There are a few crossroads in life where a major shift must happen and that bothersome question arises: “who am I now?” Remember that time, two years ago when I got a head full of dreadlocks? Ya think I mighta been “going through something?”

So there I was, with my spiritual director and my therapist and my husband and my dear friends, working on my sense of self, my childhood trauma, my attachment wounds, my shadow and my freaking enneagram and along comes a very inconvenient global pandemic throwing the whole universe into chaos. Not that I’m being narcissistic or anything…I’m just saying, I was already working on a bunch of personal existential stuff! Now I gotta deal with this collective catastrophe?!

You may have guessed I’m a control freak. And maybe I am and maybe I’m not. I’m merely putting it out there, that I was beginning to have a very good handle on my personal New World situation, but I wasn’t interested in an ACTUAL New World. 

So, to answer the question “who will WE be in the face of this crisis,” perhaps we should start with “who will *I* be in the face of this crisis.” That question alone is frightening enough if you really start to think about it. It’s super scary, primarily because in order to truly consider it, you need to accept a very uncertain reality. And in order to accept a very uncertain reality, you need to admit a few unsavory things. It’s incredibly humbling to realize I’ve lived 47 years on this planet and have been sort of numb to the reality of the world, including the reality that I do not control anything here, except myself. I seriously thought I was running the show. 

Ouch you guys. 

Last week in “On Containers,” I wrote about being Gentle. This week my focus is on being Humble. Another extremely unsettling word. I’m not so hot at humility. I think I’m pretty great. I think my family is pretty great. I think my house is pretty great. I think my life is pretty great. But here we are. And I’m actually not so great. I’m angry. I’m scared. I’m sad. I haven’t worn anything with a zipper since March 4, I’m 800 pounds heavier and my hair looks like shit.  

Remember in “On Writing,” I mentioned that I read a book about the Holocaust? You know, to try to make me feel better because it can always be worse, right? Which is sort of a backwards way to lighten the mood. Anyway, the author crystallized the human response to adversity by separating “victimization” from “being a victim.” 

In life, every single one of us will be victimized in some way: accidents, death, abuse, war, illness, tragedy, poverty, failure, hurricanes, divorce, violence, or any other type of external event. It’s the human condition, no one is immune. And in that way, we are all victimized, no matter what. However, in the face of certain victimization, it is our choice on whether or not we become a victim in our identity. That choice is our own internal choice. Clearly, the author survived the Holocaust and she credits it to this advice from her mother, “we don’t know what’s going to happen, just remember, no one can take away from you what you’ve put in your mind.” That simple internal shift to choosing what was in her mind every single day, saved her life.

So here we are in a global lockdown and it is a type of victimization. We are in a world of a new mysterious virus, severe sickness, death, financial disaster, social isolation, lack of resources and supplies, fear and some amount of evil is out there too. None of this is anyone’s fault. And none of us can fix it. It’s a New World. And I need to look at ME to see how I’M going to respond. What choice will I make given all the voices and choices in this mess. And in order to know what choice I’m going to make, I really need to look deeper inside of me. 

At the moment, I don’t like what I see. No, I’m not depressed. No, I’m not self-loathing or giving myself a hard time. I’m really being brutally honest about what I see when I look at me and how I am handling this victimization.

Here are some options in front of me:

1. Become a Super-Christian and keep saying over and over and over and over that God is in control. Which isn’t gonna work seeing as I’m a control freak. (You were right.)
2. Channel my cynicism, throw up my arms, say “fuck it!” with my super cute sneer and let hope and optimism die.
3. Panic.
4. Numb.
5. Move to Mars.

None of those are going to work for me for a variety of reasons. Here’s my current front-running option: to Humbly Accept and Surrender to Reality. Some of my most-hated words on earth. So I’m confident that therein lies my path. 

What actions are associated with Humbly Accept and Surrender to Reality? (I need an acronym for this to really take social media by storm…HASR? Sounds like “hazard” which is appropriate!) Anyway, what to do, what to do…

I need to accept that there are a trillion voices out there in the world right now and somewhere in the midst of the static, a middle truth, a middle ground will eventually emerge. Stay up-to-date for sure, but I gotta be careful, because the reality is that no one really knows exactly what’s going on. And that is a super scary thing to admit…hence the surrender. It just is. It just IS scary right now. 

I need to humbly accept that something terrible could happen to me and to the people I love. Serious sickness. Job loss. Death. Bankruptcy. Mental illness. It could happen to ME. Ughhhhh I don’t like those words you guys! We’ve already lost so much in the last weeks, to have to stare down an unknown amount of months of an unknown amount of losses is agonizing. 

It literally hurts. It is really hard to endure this type of wait-and-see.

Here’s what makes it a tiny bit more tolerable for me. Choosing good and simple things. Petting my dog. FaceTime dates. New recipes. White wine. TexasHold’Em. Books. Slowly chopping vegetables. Meditating. Star Wars movies. Red wine. Long walks. Watching the hosta come up out of the dirt. Taking time to comfort and care for my family. 

And I’m working on some good and not-so-simple but very internal things, like self-awareness, self-compassion, self-forgiveness and self-trust.

It helps to remind myself that I do have a choice here. Even though all this shit is really horrifying and the voices are all sounding absolutely insane and I’m sick of the words “aerosols” and “herd immunity,” sadly, this isn’t just a bad dream that we’ll wake up from, all disoriented, like “what the hell was that?!” And even though this New World is not what we saw coming…we have a lot of choices. It’s just not what we had in mind in our ever-so-brilliant brains. 

Authenticity is hard. And coming out of this crisis better than we were going into it involves pain. Two movie quotes immediately come to mind. One is the obvious “life is pain, Princess,” from The Princess Bride and the other is from The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. Remember how that obnoxious Eustace Scrubb gets turned into a dragon and then laments his selfishness and desperately wants the dragon skin off his body? The process of peeling the scales away is very dramatic and involves true suffering:

“The very first tear [Aslan] made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off.”  (Lewis)

Growth, little by little, is called evolution, and that’s what we want, right? So I’ll cook my little meals and write my little essays and torment my little family and tend my little garden. I’ll be my little me and you be your little you. And may we all find a little power in becoming a little humble.

Raise your hand if you’re sorta in a fog and you don’t really know what the fuck is going on around here lately. I don’t mind a bit of chaos and like most of us, I think I’ve become accustomed to a mild to moderate amount of general insanity. But you guys, this is just a lot right now. 

Am I complaining? I’m not even sure. I don’t think I’m whining, but I am most definitely upset. 

A quick caveat here, so that I can sleep at night knowing I’ve acknowledged my privilege. Let me rephrase: my IMMENSE privilege. You may remember me writing about Gratitude Pushers before, and yeah, they still piss me off because it’s all too easy to flippantly say “Count Your Blessings,” using gratitude like a toddler using a bandaid. It’s a much deeper exercise to existentially understand the vast and varied ways that we are, indeed, OK. Truly transformative gratitude takes practice. That being said, recently, I’ve relaxed my previous stance on Gratitude Pushers. My gratitude is enhanced and enriched as a result of the global pandemic. 

So now that that’s out of the way, let me get back to my bitching. 

Where should I begin?

Oh fuck it. We all know what’s going on, I’m so not interested in repeating what’s already been repeated about 9 trillion times. The whole world is in big trouble. Got it. But here’s the issue for me right now: I just have a ton of feelings and the people in my house (who I now see way more than I’ve ever thought humanly possible) have a ton of feelings too. We also have a ton of time. Feelings and time. Too much of both. 

As the mom, I try to remember that my job is not to control and direct but rather to model and support. And I don’t lie to my kids. AND I’m one thousand percent committed to being the most authentic me I can be, here on earth. So honestly, that puts me in a super shitty situation, especially because life continues to get more and more nuanced and there aren’t a lot of black-and-white topics anymore. It’s become a world of Both/And, and that puts the mom in a Paradoxical Pickle.

Here’s an example of a Pre-Pandemic Paradoxical Pickle: grades. We have teenagers, so it’s a common topic in our lives. I don’t really care about my kids’ grades. I know. I KNOW! I’m nuts. But I don’t. I don’t think they matter. Yes, getting A’s is awesome. I got a bunch of A’s. But I also purposefully failed a class on principle alone and the world did not end and I’m almost more proud of that grade than all my A’s. Having a GPA above 4.0 is great and super impressive…but bonkers-high GPAs also worry me. The adult world isn’t such a simple equation of brains + hard work = A’s. So I tell my kids that I expect them to do their best, ask for help, stay well-rounded and all that other stuff will fall into place eventually. If they wanna get good grades, then get good grades. If not, that’s totally your call. One kid literally has D’s and F’s most of the year until the last week of the semester and then somehow gets B’s and C’s. One kid has a GPA higher than 4.0 and beams with pride for all her hard work. And one kid is merely trying to survive Middle School (aka I have no idea what her grades are because Last Child Syndrome). Anyway, yes, I understand so many awesome things come to kids with great grades, but in this house, I’ve declared that I’m actually more concerned about their mental health, and I let them know it, all the time. Remember the blank stares I get when it’s time to analyze our feelings?!

Ok, so my point is, right now, in our current, very complicated, non-black-and-white reality, how can I do all of the things? Be honest, but don’t scare the kids. Be attuned to your feelings, but don’t lose your shit. Be kind to yourself, but don’t become a 400 pound alcoholic. Be hopeful and optimistic, but don’t be a fool. Be a good role model, but don’t be too hard on yourself. Be a responsible global and local citizen, but don’t drown in the statistics and media. Be flexible and cut your kids some slack, but don’t allow a fucking-free-for-all. 

Raise your hand if you feel like you’re on this teeter-totter with me!

My current strategy? Containers. 

No. Do not put your kids in containers.

I’m using containers to help manage the overwhelming emotions and unending number of hours in the day. Maybe it’s basic for some people, but for me, it’s taken some time to get my sea legs here. I’ve had my days of over-functioning and meticulous planning. I’ve had my days where there was vodka in my orange juice. Yes. At breakfast. Yes. On a Wednesday. I’ve had my days of sobbing on the floor after another scary news conference. I’ve had my days where my soul was light and full of hope. I’ve had my days of omg everyone in this house sucks!! I’ve had my days of sunshine, healthy food and meditation. I’ve had my days where I’d rather dive into my work and not talk to anyone for 8 hours straight. I’ve had my days of pure bliss, having profound conversations with my precious family, over leisurely dinners of homemade pasta, followed by hours of teaching them poker, while listening to good music.  

But it’s just been too volatile. It’s not sustainable. I need a little bit of all of that in each day. So. How can I do that? Here come the containers! Every feeling is gonna get a moment. Nothing is going to be ignored. It just has to have a time limit, or container. 

It’s sort of like recalibrating after a life-altering event, good or bad, throws it all into a jumbled mess and you find that as you come out of the fog, you need to relearn how to do laundry and talk to people and grocery shop. The whole world looks new and is totally unfamiliar. I get it. I’ve been there. A few times actually. Simple fundamental skills like remembering to brush your teeth take a lot of effort and that is where you begin. 

I remember right after David was born, about 4 months before my dad died, before we even knew he was sick, dad said to me, “it’s gonna get rough with having a new baby in your life, promise me, that no matter what, every day, you’ll do two things: shower and get out of the house.” How brilliant is that?? And 18 years later, during lockdown, I’m militant about a few things like that. I haven’t had a bra-less day yet. I wear big fancy earrings, even if I’m not even going on Zoom. I step out of my house in some intentional way, even if it’s just onto my porch. And I still spritz perfume on my neck every morning.

Now. Please. I beg of you. Do not get the idea that I’m running a tight ship over here. There have been plenty of slammed doors, foot stomping, tears and “fuck-you’s.” We will single-handedly be keeping Xbox, Netflix, Snapchat and Twitch in business. But here are some containers I’ve made non-negotiable:

1. We eat meals together, three times a day at 8:00, 12:00 and 7:00, which serves as a daily structure and a good time to check-in with each other, also, it discourages buffet-style mayhem
2. We established a time container for work/homework and we all begin by 8:30 or so each morning, so that everyone can separate their work time and down time
3. I limit my exposure to social media and the news reports, and I set the timer on my phone when I sense an oh-my-god-the-sky-is-falling-freak-out moment coming, a good 10-minute hit of grief, death, racism, poverty, injustice, envy, loss, bankruptcy, evil and sheer terror, and then I need to move on
4. We do something together as a family at 8:00 pm on most days, but some days it’s probably best that everyone goes to their respective corners of the house with headphones, screens and candy of some kind
5. I really try not to have any wine until after I’ve done a workout, which is smart on a bunch of different levels
6. And as an extroverted extrovert, I make sure to reach out to someone who doesn’t live in this house, at least once a day

Maybe I’m just trying to control what I can control…

Maybe I’m just trying to re-parent myself while I teach my kids what I wish I had known… 

Maybe I’m just trying to build basic boundaries to protect myself from all of the unknown…

I don’t know. I think I’m just trying to be Gentle. I need some gentleness amongst all of this volatility.

Gentle is not really a word I’d use to describe myself. I’m a bit of a high energy bossy type. Super loud. Domineering even? ew. But hey, I’m working on recognizing the lesser awesome parts of me. I would like to learn how to gently hold all of these containers, inside of myself and allow them to all be. Pain, joy, memories, numbing, sadness, dancing, discipline, denial, worries, sinkholes, boredom, hope and rest. I wonder if the balance is found in the wholeness of the containers. Incorporating all of it, even if it’s ugly or sad. 

I’m gently contemplating my containers, reorganizing them a bit, making sure nothing completely takes over the day, not throwing anything out, but holding them and reevaluating their importance in my life. Especially in our new reality, maybe this is an opportunity, maybe even a freedom, to put some containers on the back shelf while resurrecting other containers that have been accidentally discarded.

I know, everyone is talking about the New Normal and for me that can feel stressful and terrifying and almost claustrophobic, because who am I to rescue an entire global economy and recreate a more compassionate and just society?

Sooooooo…..I’m gonna be over here, working on my containers, hoping and praying that lots of other people across the world are also hanging out, working on their containers and we’ll somehow, inadvertently, create a beautiful new hybrid version of normal life. And perhaps we won’t soon forget how it felt when the world was in big trouble and we simply worked on being Gentle. 

 

After months and months of avoiding it, after months and months of internal conflict, after too many veils have been lifted…I’m re-launching my blog. Today’s essay isn’t fancy or long. It probably won’t help you or teach you or make you laugh. It’s actually about my favorite thing and my most dreaded thing on earth.

It’s about writing.

It’s about doing the one thing I can’t not do.  

I repeat, I do NOT want to write. And I do NOT want to share. And I do NOT want to publish. However, fear and raw need were clashing around so loudly that I needed extra wine (or tequila) to shut them up. Not cool. Seriously, never-ending daily noise in my head.

You guys…I write every single day of my life. And I have since I was 12 years old. I’m drowning in it and I can’t not put it out into the world anymore. But I also hate it. It takes so much time, it saps my soul’s energy, it’s boring and tedious. But it’s also really fucking hard because it is how I’m wired. I only know what I know and feel what I feel after I have written.

Plus, I really do love sharing things with people. I just wish I was gifted with something else, like making cupcakes. I’d rather be sharing cupcakes with people. But no. It’s writing. 

And now, there’s a whole new world for all of us and a lot of time to think and loads of time to write and not a lot to lose because so much has already been lost…so I’m choosing to do the one thing I can’t not do, even though I’m afraid. 

How afraid, you ask? ha. omg. you guys. I don’t want to brag or anything, but I’m pretty awesome at being scared. In fact, if I wanted to, I could drop a few thousand specific fears on you right this second. They rumble. all. day. long. But in an effort to try not to impress you right off the bat here, I’ll just give you my current Top Five Fears:

1. Fear that I’m wrong about all of the things I say and think and do
2. Fear that I’m motivated by ego and operating from my false self
3. Fear of being seen, criticized, judged, laughed at or ignored
4. Fear of stupid typos and hideous grammar
5. Fear of hurting someone

Not easy to rank my fears, but omg I’m so sick of being afraid…because now I can see REAL fear, all around me, everywhere I look. 

I feel like I got some of my melodramatic and uber-emotional volatility from my dad. I used to hate it when we’d have to talk about and analyze our feelings…and you should SEE the way my kids look at me when I start down the hey-sweetie-all-feelings-are-welcome-here-so-please-don’t-suppress-your-emotions-you-are-totally-free-to-express-yourself road. Eyes glaze over. Faces sorta droop. Mouths hang open slightly. It’s like they’re looking at me, but also wishing I didn’t exist.

So, when the global pandemic phase of life started to really dig in around here, I decided to read a memoir about….wait for it….yeah…the Holocaust. Super uplifting. Right?! And this is exactly what my dad would do…someone would mention something about Vietnam or war in general and he’d binge watch Platoon, Saving Private Ryan, The Deer Hunter and Full Metal Jacket…and just bawl his eyes out. Whyyyyyyyyyyy? I’d love to ask him, “Dad, why did I go for the Holocaust memoirs when we went into lockdown?” I wonder what he’d say to me…

I think he’d probably say something like, “I don’t know honey, it’s just something I can’t not do.”

There are just these things in life that you can’t not do. No one can explain it. You can try to ignore it, displace it, judge it or suppress it. But when the rawness of NEED becomes more basic, like in a war, or a global pandemic, facing those things you don’t want to face becomes less scary, somehow. It sort of clears the deck, resets the clock and certain truths emerge. And whether you like what you see or don’t like what you see, it’s hard to deny the clarity. 

For me, this lockdown has lifted a veil, revealing that I cannot ignore my need to write my life and share my essays. For you, it might be feeling the need to uncover your talent or reevaluate your career or adjust how your immediate family relates or perhaps your physical or spiritual or emotional health has taken a back seat for too long. I don’t know, the list is probably endless. But my guess is that if you think about it honestly, there is probably something that you know you can’t not do anymore. I’d love for you to join me, in fear and raw need, to step into the pain and beauty of transformation. We literally have nothing better to do. 

 

Oh my goodness, people….the promises I made in that MRI machine! You have no idea. Pain had consumed me and I begged the Universe, or God, or my dad, or the nurse, or my mystical divine Goddess or anyone or anything that would listen. The tube just clanked and sputtered and rattled and buzzed while my tears fell, silently. I remember hearing the nurse through those ridiculous headphones, “Gretchen, are you doing alright?” What could I even say to her?

About two months ago, at the beginning of September, eager to get back into a fitness routine at the club, I hurt myself. So typical of me and all my energy and determination. Honestly, I always miss my kids when they go back to school, but it’s also a wonderful transition back to a normal schedule, so I was psyched to get back into shape. I’m not exactly sure how it happened, perhaps the rigorous elliptical session or the intervals on the treadmill or the weight lifting, but the next morning I was pretty sure I pulled my left glute muscle. It felt like I tore it into pieces. My poor butt! Then, being the tough mother fucker that I am, I walked about 3 miles the very next morning, “to try to work it all out.” And then I was in agony. Plus, super pissed off. So I rested for a few days, but it just kept getting worse.

The doctor said it wasn’t my butt that was injured, it was my back. And that’s how I ended up in the MRI tube, bawling my eyes out, writhing in pain and making some elaborate promises.

“I’ll lose 30 pounds!” “I’ll finish my book now!” “I’ll treat my body kindly!” “I’ll dedicate myself to solving homelessness!” “I’ll learn self-love!” “I’ll be a better wife!” “I’ll never ever forget to work out again, plus, I’ll eliminate all sugar, dairy, legumes, gluten, meat, chocolate, grains, alcohol and nightshades (whatever those are) immediately, no biggie, I’ll eat buckets of berries and bok choy!”

“I PROMISE I’LL LIVE A PERFECT LIFE FROM NOW ON! …just please, please, let my back be ok and make this pain go away.”

It didn’t go away. I tried to withstand it for another week or so, determined to meditate and pelvic tilt the pain away. To no avail. Eventually I found myself, at a surgery center, face down on a table, two valiums in me, getting an injection into my spine. The nurses were lovely, but I got a little panicky in the recovery room. They kept coming in to check on me and my pain and numbness, etc, but each time it was a different nurse. I was getting a little paranoid that maybe I was just one of like 700 other patients they needed to check on. And perhaps it was the valium speaking, but to every single nurse I said, “this injection just has to work because I’m a very important person, I can’t be sidelined like this, I have very important things to do.” omg. I need a prescription for valium. It was delightful.

The good news is that those nurses did take care of their very important patient and the injection did provide some relief.

In the meantime though, I was reduced to the bare minimum of existence. My kids saw me scream in pain. The looks on their faces as they helped me get dressed and go to the bathroom won’t leave my mind soon. John had to help me put my tampons in…because obviously, I got my period in the middle of all of this. Which is just plain cruel. I had to eat off of a plate on the floor, sort of shoveling food messily to my mouth. Speaking of the floor, that’s where I slept. John treated me and my vicious temper with sweetness and even set up a cocoon on our bedroom floor to try to make me somewhat comfortable. Sometimes I couldn’t make it up the stairs and he set up his camping pad and sleeping bag on the floor next to me in the living room. But there was very little sleep and clearly, there was absolutely no sex.

Pain.

So many different types of pain in life.

I recently ordered tickets to David’s orchestra concert and felt such heaviness in my heart that this was just one more beautiful concert that my dad would be missing. That’s Sad Pain.

Some days I feel a pang in my heart that I really wish I had at least worked part-time while raising our kids. I might find it easier to find a career path at this point in my life. That’s Regret Pain.

Occasionally it will hit me smack in the face that John is still looking for that perfect job, six months later, and our nest egg is running on empty. That’s Uncertainty Pain.

When the snow started to fly, and David and Annika were still 20 minutes from home, in the dark, on icy roads, including a gigantic bridge that I could just see them careening off into the deep cold river hundreds of feet below, omg that’s Anxiety Pain.

When I read about the Big Wide World Worries of gun violence…white supremacists…hate crimes, I get shaky in my brain and ragged in my breathing. That’s Fear Pain.

And then there’s Body Pain. I’ve been blessed to be essentially physically pain-free my entire life. Some people live with chronic back pain and I cannot imagine how horribly grueling that must be, day in and day out. I’ve definitely hurt myself over the years and given birth three times and had back surgery about 20 years ago. But in general, I’ve been spared from so much suffering.

How we deal with pain varies wildly. I really wish I was better at it. “Life is Pain, Princess,” rings in my head from one of my favorite movies, The Princess Bride. And yeah, suffering is universal. And truthfully, if someone tells you differently, they really are probably trying to sell you something. Many people, often most glaringly on social media, for sure sell the idea that they’ve successfully figured out a way to prevent discomfort, frustration, agony, hurt and I’m all for problem solving, but pain is a fact of life.

I feel like if I were better at dealing with pain, it might be less, um, painful? …but I’m not sure that’s true. Pain is pain. I don’t think you can get around it and I’m pretty sure you can’t avoid it.

So I accepted it. What choice did I have?

And after some time resting and recovering, I went to the bathroom on my own. And then I got up the stairs on my own. And then I was driving Lydia to swim. And then I slept in my own bed.  And then John and I had sex (gently). And I was literally the luckiest person in the world!

Except. Time out. I have to be honest. Let’s go back to my crazy workout at the club. If I truly contemplate the sequence of events, I have to admit that I worked out like a maniac because I had just come from a very frustrating hour of marriage counseling. Talk about pain. That’s Relationship Pain. And I guess I was so furious, that I took it out on my body, by accident. I don’t know. Anger has a physical component in more ways than one, apparently.

I don’t remember exactly what happened in therapy that particular day, except I’m sure I was predictably self-righteous and obnoxiously obstinate. Our marriage is 27 years old and it’s been through four miscarriages, the untimely death of both my father and John’s mother, a gigantic move from Massachusetts to Minnesota, a fallen brick house, our daughter’s bone disease and, to date, at least eight marriage counselors have helped our marriage survive. A marriage needs as much emotional attention as a member of a family. Often we refer to it as a separate person, “The Marriage.” As in, “The Marriage has to go talk to Dr. K. today.”

Anyway, I think I need to accept that I hurt myself. Not on purpose, but really, numerous decisions led me to be in that wild state at the club that day. What does it mean to “own it.” “You gotta own it.” People say that all the time. (insert eye roll) “Own it.” Yeah, shit definitely happens, but what led me to marriage counseling in general and then a punishing workout more specifically is really mine to own. sigh.

So. What would it look like if I “owned it?” That’s a good question. I don’t really know. If I were talking to my teenagers, we’d be discussing how to maturely take responsibility for our decisions. And I’d harp on how it’s an older human’s job to teach a younger human that each decision leads to an outcome. another sigh.  Decision→ Outcome. Why is this so challenging to apply to myself? I’m not exempt from this rule of logic, just because I’m cute and smart and grown up. It just seems like I was so hell-bent on teaching this to my kids that I forgot that I too live in the same goddamned world. Sadly, there isn’t a different rule of humanity for moms. We’re people too.

Own it, Gretchen. Show your kids! You try, you fall, you try again, you fall, you adjust, you learn and most of the time, the consequences match the decision that you made. So in my case, the mishandling of marital stress over the course of a few busy years, will eventually lead to massive efforts to untangle the mess in a therapist’s office. And, the chronic forgetting to go work out over the course of a few busy years, will eventually lead to a massive effort to get back into shape. And I think those to realities collided for me, in me, on September 6.  And I broke once again.

Breathe. Practice Acceptance. Try Again. Continue to appreciate this Cosmic Paradox we’re in…what we control and what we do not control. And we could all use an extra dash of grace and pinch of whimsy. NO, not whiskey, whimsy.

I’m not saying that pain isn’t serious; emotional and physical pain is heavy. But suffering is here to stay, I’m afraid. In the meantime, grace and whimsy are available to us as well. For me, grace must come first, to let my shoulders down out of my ears so that I can hear humor and my hands off of my eyes so that I can see joy. Until that happens, whimsy will allude me.

So as I work on what it means for me to “own it” the way I ask my kids to own their shit, I will — at the exact same time — work on what it means to give myself grace and look for the whimsy in my life.

“I promise, that even in the face of pain, I will remember that I am OK.”

xo

 

Yup. I’m angry. I’m angry that I’m angry. I’m angry that I don’t know how to be angry. I’m angry that I don’t know if it’s ok for me to be angry. I’m angry that it feels ugly to be angry. I’m angry that I feel like I missed the lesson on constructive anger. I’m angry that I wasn’t taught that anger is just another basic human emotion. I’m angry that I don’t know what to do with my anger at the moment.

Now, it’s ok, my sweet friends. I’m not Raging Angry. I’m not Bitter Angry. And I’m not Violent Angry. I’m just Calm Angry. Just like my daily emotions cycle between happiness, sadness, anxiousness and hopefulness, I’m ready to throw some anger into that messy mix.  

John gets angry. He’s pretty good at it. But I’m not his type of angry. Lydia can have some anger issues occasionally, but mostly I think she’s pretty cute when she feels angry (plus she’s 13 years old). My sister can get super pissed, but my anger isn’t like hers either. My dad used to fume! But I don’t feel like I’m seething the way he could. I’m like a low-level, quiet angry person. Yeah. Calm Angry.

Let’s explore.

Anger is different than being annoyed. For instance, I’m annoyed that my kids still don’t pick up their shit around the house. I’m annoyed that when John offers to cook dinner he doesn’t really do it right (aka My Way). I’m annoyed that the Sunday New York Times will sit in it’s bright blue condom bag all week long and I’ll just have to recycle it before the next one comes and mocks me. I’m annoyed that twenty-below days are right around the corner and I’ll have to decide whether to breathe through my nose and have my nose hairs freeze or breathe through my mouth and have my teeth freeze. I’m annoyed that, yes, I will happily enjoy that third glass of wine, thank you, and completely forget about red wine headaches. I’m annoyed that even though I have diligently taught my three children to never kill a living thing, even bugs in the house, that I just had to kill a spider, BECAUSE IT WAS ON MY BED! So annoying.

Anger is different. It is deeper, broader and more bewildering. It’s less of a roll-your-eyes sort of thing and more of a pry your fingernails out of your palms and try to breathe sort of thing. Anger has an unsettling and serious vibe and being annoyed is fickle and fleeting.

Also, it’s important that I make the distinction between my Calm Anger and what I’ll call my Crazy Anger. I only bring this up because recently I have been guilty of a few out-of-body experiences where I’m not exactly sure who threw the scrub brush across the kitchen but when the room goes quiet and everyone slowly tiptoes backwards out of the room….yeah, it was me. So weird.

Perhaps my anger is related to my People Pleasing habit.  Am I afraid of disappointing someone? Or offending someone? Is it inconvenient or unattractive? Could I possibly be just a human being with a human feeling and not everyone’s happy hero? If I admit that I’m angry, really angry…what would happen? Shall we find out?

Ok, let’s see, here are just a few things I’m angry about today:

I’m angry about my period. Because of my age or my lining or my cycle or my perimenopause or my whatever, for at least two days a month my period is so heavy I can’t do anything. Like, nothing at all. I bleed so much that at worst, I nearly pass out or at best, I am physically exhausted. For two whole days. Each month. So that means that 24 days a year, almost a MONTH, I am sorta useless. Only because I’m 46 and I have a uterus. All of those wasted days sitting around hemorrhaging…omg, so mad.  

You might not be surprised that I’m angry about Privilege this week. I’ve started to call it the Privilege Paradox and I have a whole essay written on the topic. I’ll hyperlink it here after I publish it. It’s a whopper, but briefly, I discuss that we must acknowledge that Privilege is everywhere. It’s a system. And it’s part of this Cosmic Crapshoot where we have no fucking control over a bunch of stuff. The paradox comes in because I see some people in Privilege Shame and others in Privilege Blindness. Neither are good scenarios. In shame, we are embarrassed that others suffer when we don’t and we are hesitant to use platforms and gifts and talents and money…and that doesn’t help the world at all. On the other hand, people who are blind to their privilege use power irresponsibly and that doesn’t help the world either. You see? The injustice of it all makes me so mad!  

I get angry when I see people on social media announce that they will unfriend or block anyone that feels differently than them, in particular about politics and important issues affecting our country and world. Do they think that more divisiveness is the answer and that we need to retreat even further into our respective echo chambers?! We don’t need additional obstacles to mutual respect and understanding. Omg, people, we need to read other viewpoints and gently try to understand other perspectives. Not to mention that you need to Snopes that shit before you Share that shit! Argh! Anyway, I find people who aren’t critical thinkers extremely vexing.

And, I’m so freaking pissed off that my dad died. For a million reasons. But I’ll just mention three off the top of my head. Number One. He literally would have been the best grandpa in the history of the whole world, you guys. I know, I know, your grandpa was great. Sorry, my dad would have surpassed normal-grandpa-greatness. If you had known him, you’d totally agree with me. So mad.

Secondly, I feel like he only half-parented me and my siblings. There is the dad that you need from birth to adulthood, and then there is the dad that you need from your 20’s and on. You know, the dad you now finally agree with and listen to? I could really use his voice and yes, nine times out of ten, I know what he’d probably say, but that just isn’t the same as talking with your dad about life. I crave his wisdom. So mad.

Anyway, lastly, I’m not sure a lot of you know this, but my dad knew this whole  patriarchal system crisis was coming. Twenty-five years ago, he was researching Men’s Studies and analyzing the backlash of the Feminist Movement from a white male perspective. You see, my dad was the quintessential critical thinker. He was super curious about all this stuff. Plus, he was an emotional dad. He was sort of a “mothering” dad. Dad was proud that he could cook, clean, sing, play piano, garden, comfort, cry and still be A Man. He would boast that we had gender role-reversals in our family and he taught us kids that people aren’t merely one thing or another, masculine or feminine, defined by their careers or habits or hobbies or talents. Rather there is a wide and beautiful spectrum of people and the crucial part is to never judge anyone. So in this hot political and social climate of the #metoo movement, I know he would be a leading thinker, or writer, or teacher or speaker on this topic. He could have guided some really key conversations in an effort to reduce the division we see now. It makes me really REALLY angry that my dad couldn’t be here for this, for us. So mad.

What am I supposed to do with all of this anger now?

Gratitude Pushers might encourage me to be thankful for the many many blessings I have. Super Christians might remind me to “be slow to anger,” as I think it says somewhere in the Bible.

I find these suggestions unhelpful.

Now that I recognize this feeling of anger, I’d prefer to make it useful, rather than push it all back down. And that brings me to Maya Angelou’s quote about Anger that I recently ran across from a Black Lives Matter activist that I follow.

“If you’re not angry, you’re either a stone, or you’re too sick to be angry. You should be angry. You must not be bitter. Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. It doesn’t do anything to the object of its displeasure. So use that anger, yes. You write it. You paint it. You dance it. You march it. You vote it. You do everything about it. You talk it. Never stop talking it.”

So. For now. I’m writing it. Writing is constructive. Storytelling is powerful. And why is that, I wonder. Connection. Empathy. Compassion. Curiosity. Understanding. Aren’t we all just wounded hearts walking around this place anyway? Don’t we all need a truck load of compassion. And honestly, there are only so many Breitbart articles or Native American novels or Southern Poverty Law Center findings or transgender stories or BBC reports or Trump tweets that I can read. And I promise I won’t stop, but I don’t want you guys to stop, either. We’re in this together! Storytelling will lead to compassion. Never stop talking it. “It’s ok, Gretchen, you can be angry.” xo

 

Have you ever been labeled as a People Pleaser? What does that even mean? What kind of person comes to mind when you hear the phrase, “Oh, she’s such a People Pleaser”? It seems like maybe it used to be a compliment? But now it’s more of a criticism. Or at least, that’s how I’ve been experiencing it over the past couple of years.

I was first called a People Pleaser by my dear aunt, like maybe five years ago when I was going through some friendship issues. Even years before that, a good (and extremely honest and authentic) friend said, “Gretchen, you always make the person you’re with feel like they’re your very best friend…how do you do that?” It seems like that was sort of a “You’re a People Pleaser” accusation, disguised as a compliment, right? My therapist mentioned People Pleasing (or more accurately the external validation of self) after knowing me for approximately 35 minutes. Then there was the time last winter when we were at dinner as a family and we were all going around listing our all-time favorite meals on earth…and I didn’t have one. I knew what everyone else’s last meal would be, but when asked about mine? nothing. no idea. don’t even know what my favorite food is. Finally, my husband confirmed, just this summer, that I am, indeed, an actual literal legitimate psychotic People Pleaser. And I had no choice but to accept the label, because I was in the midst of a complete emotional breakdown after disappointing my siblings by cancelling our trip back home to Massachusetts.

But here’s the kicker. I’m skeptical. I don’t feel like a person who likes to please people. Like, I don’t admire People Pleasers, at all, so what in the actual?

Here’s what I don’t do: I don’t fall over myself trying to hand out compliments. I don’t volunteer for three thousand things a week. I don’t say “yes” when I really mean “no.” I don’t slink around all not wanting to be seen and let other people have the spotlight. I don’t often think of other people before I think of myself. I don’t coddle my children and protect them from all of the bad things on earth (just a few of the bad things, like Game of Thrones, omg, broke my heart, that show did and I’ll never be the same). I don’t let all the people in the grocery line go before me, even when they are literally trying to make eye contact with me while holding their toothpaste tube and tub of Tide. You guys, I’m really not that nice!

So you can imagine, in this season of soul-searching and identity-discovering, I was thrown by this People Pleaser label. But because I have a lot of time…because I’m Waiting I decided to dive into this and analyze this conundrum. Am I a People Pleaser? And if so, how can I knock it off? Because it sounds terrible.

Here’s what I think I do do that would fall into the category of People Pleasing. I withhold my opinion often. I adjust my humor level or adorable level depending on the person that I’m talking to. In other words, I’m trying to control the reaction that I get from my audience, so that it is always positive and reflects well on me. I let other people make all the decisions. I literally canNOT make a decision…the stress of disappointing someone is entirely too great. Also, I just naturally assume that when it comes to general life skills, other people know a hell of a lot more than I do, so I find myself comparing and finding that I come up short 99% of the time…so I let other people drive the bus. You know?

Here I am, trying to raise assertive and self-aware humans, that also happen to know how to be extremely kind. Which brings me to my next question. There isn’t anything wrong with being nice, is there? Plus, the desire to be loved and accepted is an innate human emotion, so there can’t be anything wrong with that, right? Well, no. Unless the need to please others becomes an unhealthy habit to the detriment of a person’s own strong sense of self.

So, I feel pretty conflicted and convicted.

I think I’m addicted to the admiration and approval of others. I think that I suppress my own emotions or opinions because who doesn’t love someone who is always accommodating? The problem is, I’m a chameleon then…completely losing my own sense of self because the need to please is greater than my own sense of worthiness. So, my value, instead, comes from this external person who just thinks I’m super swell! Which really means that I’m sorta proud of myself by being such a charming, flexible, agreeable and generally lovely (but also not genuine) person. Somewhere along the line, I bought into the belief that it is better to not have needs, desires, opinions, requests or demands (or an authentic personality), because that means everyone will always love you!

GROSS!

You guys, this means that I’m actually arrogant! I’m not being selfless by letting my BFF choose the place that we’ll meet even when I was just there yesterday! It means that I’m selfish in requiring her happiness to bolster my own self worth. How great does it feel to come to someone’s rescue?! How awesome is it when you solve someone’s problems!? How wonderful to bend over backwards to make someone else happy, even if it means you’ve possibly compromised your own heart?!

NOT COOL!

And here’s what happens over time. I start to resent people. I feel misunderstood. I feel like no one knows who I really am or what I really think. I have accommodated others to the point where I’ve lost myself. I don’t even know what my favorite food is, you guys! I don’t have an opinion about plans for a weekend with friends. It’s difficult to state an opinion when I’m unsure of the response. If I say something at all in public, I’m usually just trying to get approval in the form or a laugh or a smile or a compliment.

I have become disingenuous in an effort to feel worthy.

It seems innocuous, almost honorable to put others before myself. I think it maybe says that in the Bible somewhere? But I believe it also says to Love Yourself. I want to be a genuinely kind person, without losing myself in the process. I want to be a genuinely kind person for no other reason than out of love, instead of out of a dependence on someone else’s approval. 

So, I guess I’m beginning a Recovery of sorts. Hi. My name is Gretchen and I’m addicted to an unhealthy need to please others in order to boost my self-worth.

Unwittingly, I took a giant first step in my Recovery by getting dreadlocks. For sure not everyone loves them. In fact, I’ve gotten some harsh criticism. I know that my approval rating is higher than Trump’s, but probably not by much. And that is truly difficult for me. I used to have gorgeous, flowing, blonde hair. Thick, shiny and the envy of friends, family and even strangers. It was part of my identity. But I wanted dreadlocks, goddamnit! I don’t know why. I mean, I have reasons, but seriously, dreadlocks are pretty bizarre. What a risk! Especially considering my need to please.

But guess what. Somehow, from deep down, I know what is right for me right now. No one else does. In fact, I’m in the process of uncovering My-Me by looking inward and contemplating these questions. And today I realized that my arrogance has been disguised by my need to People Please. Oof. Not all discoveries are pleasant I guess.  

All I know now is that I can adjust my motivation for People Pleasing from fear that I won’t get external approval to bolster my own self, to instead please people authentically from my own strong sense of self. I can be both genuinely kind and genuinely My-Me, because Love is big enough for both.

Disclaimer: The honest truth is that the old People Pleasing Gretchen wrote this early last week and didn’t publish it because I heard that arrogant voice saying, “Hey, people may not like this little assessment you worked up here and you may not get eight million trillion likes.” But this week, I caught myself in that vicious cycle and instead I said, “I write for My-Me and for the sake of creation…if it resonates with someone out there, wonderful! But I don’t need anyone’s external approval to validate me and make me feel worthy.”  It’s a scary place to be and I’m happy you’re here with me. Much love to you all.

 

I haven’t exactly been sitting around twiddling my thumbs, but I do seem to be doing a lot of waiting recently.

Waiting for our two-week vacation. Waiting for my plantar fasciitis to heal. Waiting to find out if David made the cut for swimming at State Championships. Waiting for the vegetables to ripen in the garden. Waiting for David to come back from Europe, alive, or at least without getting detained at customs for saying something a 16-year-old might say.  Waiting for John to get a job offer. Waiting for the inspiration (or time) to get back to my writing. Waiting for Lydia to finally get a section time in swimming so she can finally get a Varsity Letter (in 8th grade) and calm down about it. Waiting for the kids to go back to school. Waiting for this old house to clean itself. Waiting for someone to invoke the flipping 25th flipping amendment. Waiting to see if my stomach is going to keep getting bigger or if we’re gonna stay around the 7-months-pregnant-look for the time being. Waiting to hear if my application was accepted for an advanced writing course for the Fall. Waiting for my little brother and his wife to have their first baby. Waiting for Annika’s appointments at Mayo to find out if her treatments have improved her bone density. Waiting for swim schedules to be posted. Waiting for a clue about the future. Waiting for something to click. Waiting for things to finally make some fucking sense around here. Waiting for the Reward that people and books and Ted Talks assure me is hanging out for me, right around the corner. Waiting for my dreadlocks to relax. Waiting for me to relax.

I. Hate. Waiting.

And really? So does our society. HUSTLE! JUST DO IT! STOP THINKING AND START DOING! MAKE IT HAPPEN! GO AFTER YOUR DREAMS! DON’T WAIT! omg people. re. lax. Sometimes we just have to wait. It’s painful, yes, but that doesn’t make it any less true. This is where I am: On the Knife Edge of Waiting.

There was the old. There was the realization that things aren’t Right. There was the work. And I used to think that the work was the worst part…all the therapy and talking and crying and hurting and writing and reading and being honest. The worst. And now is the “in-between.” Where we wait. Which now I realize is the worst part. For so long I’ve been fighting it. Trying to embrace our culture’s rules about motivation and determination and stick-to-it-ive-ness and of course, punishing myself for falling short. I’m so tired from the mental energy it takes to control my world. It’s exhausting. I’m done. I’ve come to terms with it: there are seventeen hundred billion things that I do not control.

I’ve tried to rush this time of uncertainty. I’ve tried to control this place. I’ve tried to numb this paused feeling (hello mr pinot noir, my dear friend). I’ve tried to deny that this sort of bizarre space exists in life. I’m a slow learner and I’m impatient at the same time. So I run around like a little toddler, “Let’s try this! Let’s open this! Let’s throw this! Let’s jump on this! Let’s eat this!” and I’m exhausted from all the trying and all the throwing and all the jumping. And still, after all of that, nothing makes sense. So, the other day, I made a list of all the things I DO control during this time of waiting.

Like, 5 things, I think.

It’s a short list.

But.

It’s an important list.

At the bottom of this earth-shatteringly small list is: “I can control the fullness of my gratitude.”

Yeah, I know. Groan. I cannot stand Gratitude-Pushers. So, I’m sorry, from the bottom of my heart. I didn’t do it on purpose. I hate myself for it, trust me.

So, as I sink into this Wait, I find myself a bit calmer knowing that this is the time I need to just Be. Yes, I have to cook all the dinners and pull all the weeds and do all the laundry and pick up all the children. But the big things are on pause. Writing helps. Walking helps. Swearing helps. Reading helps. Cooking helps. And praying.

Here’s the thing about my praying. I’m bossy. I’m obstinate. I’m selfish. And truth be told, I think I might come across as a tad entitled, whiny even. This wait is humbling. Contemplation is boring. And slow. So, now I find that my prayer is shaped by the Waiting. Which I wish I could tell you has helped me relax. But, really all it has done is create a new awkward mindset. More waiting for that to sort itself out, I guess.

What does it all mean? I have no idea. My sweet friend told me about liminal spaces. Never heard of it? Me neither. I need to research it further (but I’m currently choosing a new wall color for our dining room, so it might have to wait). But I think liminal space is the time between something ending and another thing beginning–thank you Wikipedia.

I heard Glennon Doyle Melton recently categorize the phases of transformation as “First the Pain. Then the Waiting. And then the Rising.” Describing this process of life? Growth? Recovery? Change? I guess? The chapters of our life come and go as we Journey through and get to where our soul is nudging and nagging us to go. We have to go through the Pain and the Waiting and pray that eventually there will be a fucking Rising, of some sort.

I’m still skeptical.

It’s hard. The Waiting. It’s almost more work than the Doing and the Achieving and the Becoming and the Creating. But here I am. Hanging out on the Knife Edge of Waiting.

Oh, quick caveat though, just in case you guys are taking me literally about the waiting. I waited too long to register Lydia for the high school swim season a few weeks ago. And then I forgot about it between our summer vacations and David’s state swim meet and David’s trip to Europe. And then all of a sudden, it was the morning of her first 2 1/2 hour swim practice with the team. She got up at 6:00 am (in the summertime, like a weirdo) and was at the pool by 6:30, ready to go.

I was sitting at my desk when she came home from practice. She giant-stomped into my studio.

“Do you wanna know why my hair is dry?!” she spat at me.

My first thought was that I happened to buy her an amazing magical swim cap on accident, that miraculously kept all the water out. But then I turned to look at her and saw her furious face. She was shaking and had those eyes that at first look evil, but at second glance, are really just deeply hurt.

“Coach benched me for the whole practice because you didn’t sign me up because David is more important because you were more worried about him getting to Spain!” She continued, “Yeah, mom, I had to just sit there, watching all of my friends have a blast in the pool. Coach hates me even more and now I’ll never get my letter because I can’t miss ANY PRACTICES MOM!”

Then her tears came.

Not the Rising I had in mind.

Ugh.

Don’t wait too long, my friends.

PS. I’ve seen those high school girls at swim practice. It’s grueling. So don’t worry, no one is ever having “a blast” in that pool.

Much love to you all. xo

Remember when I said last week that I wouldn’t be commenting on anything political? Well, I will stay true to my word. For now, at least. This week I’m going to talk about something even worse than politics. Something that is perhaps even more divisive than a bunch of charming-trump-chit-chat. This something is riddled with tension, judgement, frustration and sometimes even hopelessness.

Let’s talk about our bodies.

So, all the stories I tell in my blog are True, but this one is particularly difficult to be Honest about. Primarily because I don’t know what in the actual fuck is going on with my body. So it’s kinda hard to be totally transparent. But my promise to myself and to you is to Be Here. And because my body is on my mind a lot lately, and because I’m trying to remind myself that I’m not alone here on planet earth, I’m going to try to untangle some stuff about my body today.

Let’s explore, shall we?

A little background first.

Here is the honest truth: I’m heavier right now than I have been since I was pregnant with Lydia, over 14 years ago. That was my heaviest to date. So let’s face facts: this is absolutely bonkers. And hand across my heart, it happened in, like, a nanosecond. I woke up one morning a few months ago and looked in the mirror after I got dressed and was like, “Oh, this shirt is funny! Why is is all bunchy around my…holy shit, that’s not my shirt! That’s my actual stomach!!!”

No lie. I tiptoed onto the scale for the first time in months and I weighed over 200 pounds. wtf!

Now please, don’t panic. I know that I’m beautiful. I know that my husband loves me and my body. I know that we have incredible sex. I know that physically speaking (blood work, stomach and colon checks, EKG and heart ultrasound, vitamin and hormone levels, etc) I am in good health. I’m completely in love with the Body Positivity Movement and support the notion that no one should ever be able to comment on another person’s body. This comes up in our household quite a bit with teenage swimmers. Each of our kids has had to deal with body judgements themselves. It’s tricky out there in the big wide world.

Oh, and lastly, this is not a plea for tips or tricks or compliments on how “You always look great, Gretchen!” Not my point. When I need your encouragement in the form of “You’re one sexy mama,” or “I’d kill for your hot bod,” you guys will be the first to know.

I swear to God, I gained at least 30 pounds this year. And that is on top of the 30 or so pounds I was up from my low around 145, back in 2015, after Cleansing myself nearly to death. Do the freaking math people! That is a 60+ pound weight gain in less than 3 years. NOT an achievement to brag about.

The reason I know it has been exactly one year and 30 pounds? Because of Lake Superior.

Last July, John and I booked the Honeymoon Suite at a resort way up on the North Shore of Lake Superior. We’ve stayed at this resort many times in the past and we were able to schedule our romantic get-away while our kids were in Duluth, MN on their annual Youth Group trip with our church.

Bonus!!

Except.

At the last minute, John needed to travel for work. (Remember waaaaaay back when…when he was working for IBM?!)

Anyway, I was so sad. John was so, SO sad. And as I went to cancel our reservation, I hesitated. “What’s that thing people, like fancy, self-confident people, do?” I thought. “They go on like personal spiritual quiet meditative retreat things, like….all by themselves, for like, self-care?”

It always sounded wacko to me. But you’ll recall that at that point last year, I was just catching my breath from the previous year where Everything Broke. John and I had been seeing our therapist for about 9 months or so by then, so the Can Of Worms was officially opened. Maybe it was a good idea for me to go up North by myself.

So, I drove four hours up to the Honeymoon Suite, along with Bree, our dog, while John slaved away in Austin. Or maybe it was Raleigh. I can’t remember.

Crazy Dr. K, our therapist, coached me on how to prepare for my retreat so that I didn’t completely freak out when I got there. She knows me. Being Alone is not a happy place for me. The whole thing felt at once indulgent and nuts, and I was taking it pretty seriously. I packed my sketch books, pencils, at least 2 dozen books, my yoga mat, 6 bottles of wine and a pile of paper.

I was determined to connect with myself. With My-Me.

And guess what! I think I did! Bree and I hiked. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. I watched that amazing lake change colors as the waves rolled gently onto the rocky shore. I even saw a freaking black bear saunter by, not 20 feet in front of me. (If you’re wondering, my heart did stop, yes.) And I set some Goals. Setting Goals is not a happy place for me either. But I was really, really committed to this personal spiritual retreat process. I was gonna do it right, goddammit.

One of the many enlightening thoughts I had was that I truly did want to re-connect with my body after our chaotic year. I wanted to lose a little weight and get back into shape. Not the weight and shape I had been in when I saw the 140’s and was able to box jump and bench press and tire throw. Because you know what? I wasn’t at all happy with my body back then either! I was still striving for that arbitrary “ideal weight” and there are always heavier weights and longer runs and higher reps.

That moment was incredibly sad for me. Last July I had to accept that even when I was 30 pounds lighter and demolish a bootcamp workout, I was still unhappy with where I was. So I practiced a little self-compassion and set a goal to just walk every day.

I love walking. It sounds super lame, but it never gets old. And I did walk everyday, for months! My creative self even started to take artsy pictures of awe-inspiring mini-moments on my walks. I had a special photo album for all the beauty I saw on my way. I listened to podcasts, walking meditations, books and music. It felt amazing.

But then…I guess…I forgot to walk one day? And then I didn’t walk the next day, either? And then I forgot that I was walking every day? I’m not even sure what happened. Maybe just winter happened? What most definitely happened was I gained another 30 pounds by this July.

So just this past week was the one-year anniversary of my first ever personal retreat. This July, John was able to join Bree and I in the Honeymoon Suite, because he is still blissfully unemployed.  And Mother Nature was certainly showing off up there this week. But as much fun as we had together, it was difficult for me not to remember the goals I had set last year and how not only had I failed to lose a pound, instead, I collected a bunch more!

It was shocking.

What had happened? I admit, the last day we were up there, yesterday in fact, I went into a deep shame spiral. If you’re not familiar with a shame spiral, here’s just a little taste of what goes on in my head:

“Listen, Gretchen. One year ago, you sat in this exact same spot, supposedly committing to health and wellness and you set a goal to lose a little weight and look at you now! Consider this your bitch-slap, Gretchen, because you’re an absolute failure. How did you not notice that it was getting so bad? How could you have thought you were overweight when you weighed 60 pounds less than you do right now! And so what’s your big fancy plan for this year then, Gretchen? Gain another 30? What is wrong with you!?”

Ouch. It hurts. But for some reason, I think that if I’m harsh with myself, things will get better? Does that ever work? No. Not at all, really.

I tried a new tactic instead, because the truth was, that while the shame stung me, I know that I worked really hard all year. So I decided to make a list of what I had accomplished.

Yes, I gained a thousand pounds, got it, thanks. But! I also took two writing classes and I sketched little pictures and I painted at least 20 large canvases and I read (and finished!) a ton of books and I wrote literally hundreds and hundreds of pages. I continued to go to our therapist, every single week, working hard on that fucking Can Of Worms. And I cooked and cleaned and shoveled and hung out with friends. I meditated and yoga-ed. I mothered our three children with my entire heart and I healed some of my relationship with my mother. I even managed to launch my dream blog and for crying out loud, I got badass dreadlocks. PLUS….I stayed married.

So, why was I being so hard on my heart? It didn’t feel very nice at all.

I sat there yesterday. Peacefully and fitfully. Watching Lake Superior. My face to the sun. Sitting with a new Truth: From July 2017 to July 2018, I made progress, some impressive progress, dare I say, Sacred Progress. And perhaps I forgot to work out or perhaps my physical body is really keeping the score of my emotional body and it’s slowly hashing things out. Maybe this is the process of getting my insides sorted out so that they match my outsides? Is this how this shit works? Who knows!

But here’s what I know today. For the first time in maybe forever, I am beginning to get a glimpse of My-Me. I’m learning to understand my value, and it lies inside my heart. And yeah, my size Larges are fitting me better than my size Mediums right now, and that happens. I’m human. But I promise you this. I would never, ever give up my progress this year, just to see a lower number on the scale.

Although, you should see my Goals for next year. xo

 

 

So, I took a week off from blogging over the Fourth of July holiday. And yes. I am filled with guilt and self-loathing. Isn’t that just the way? Walking the tightrope of self-compassion and self-discipline. Actually, it’s more like walking that tightrope half-drunk in stilettos…you’re completely screwed. I know. I exaggerate. I have no idea what that would be like. But you guys, how do you ever really know if you’re taking care of yourself, or if you’re just being a loser.

Anyway, I hope everyone had a blast over the holiday and got to spend time drinking beer on a boat somewhere, celebrating summer and freedom. It’s a difficult time in the world right now (said just about everyone in every generation in every country since the beginning of time) and I’m not going to say anything political except to acknowledge that while reading the New York Times I really want to put my head through the window and make it all stop. It makes me feel conflicted to be an American, a new and super awkward feeling. So, I try to remain committed to daily positivity, even if that means I’m just nice to my kids for an hour. Let’s get some good vibrations going in this universe, people! Start small. Give your husband a hug. Donate something. Write an encouraging comment on the interwebs. Smile at that person that drives you bananas. And for Christ’s sake, vote.

Living in Minnesota, Land of (At Least) 10,000 Lakes, in a town directly on the St. Croix River, we are around water all the time. So lucky! We can see the mighty river from our house up on the South Hill. A quick 30 minute drive into Minneapolis and we can walk around Lake Calhoun or Lake Harriet. City lakes are pretty cool. One of the largest lakes in the world, Lake Superior, is a few hours north of us and we are heading up there in a couple of days for a marital rescue attempt…should be super-duper-great! If you haven’t been on the North Shore, trust me, it’s magical. And that is coming from someone who grew up in Massachusetts. It’s been said before and it will be said again, but water is Healing. Just looking at a body of water will help my shoulders drop out of my ears a little bit. My breathing will become smoother and deeper. And I’m so grateful. It means that I can very literally explore this concept of Floating in my day-to-day life.

Let’s back up a little and do a recap of the last two stories I wrote, because I have something crazy to tell you this week. You’ll need a bit of background I think.

“To Float or Not To Float” was a terrifying story about whether or not I should stay in the shallow end or if I am brave enough to venture into the deep end. I come to the frightening conclusion that there is absolutely no way I can go backwards and there is absolutely no way I can let go of the certainty of sand below my feet. At the end of that story, I fantasize that the water will actually hold me and carry me to amazing adventures. It’s a story about control and faith, essentially.

The next week, I wrote “Tanks Don’t Float” where I expose my inner childhood identity of The Tank, which was created by my subconscious, or my biological body, to protect me from a mother who struggles with mental illness. It’s where the real conflict of my life is currently happening. I want to Float, but I’m a Tank, so hence I’m having a mini-personal-crisis. And remember, if you will, that John is randomly and surprisingly unemployed, further testing this control and faith dilemma I find myself in.

Another topic that I raised, was all of the Cosmic Clues in my life recently. Here is a little example of what I mean by “Cosmic Clue.” Maybe you’ve heard of Martha Beck (sadly, no relation), or maybe not. She’s an author, a blogger and has a regular column in Oprah’s magazine. She wrote a book called “Finding Your North Star,” or something like that, about 15 years ago. It’s been on my To Read list for some time now. When John resigned from his job, completely out of the blue, back in May (you’ll remember how bonkers that was if you read “But, Money”), he had 500 Blue Bucks to spend as a result of some award he had gotten. He asked me to look at the website and pick something to “buy.” Lots of dumb stuff, but there were a ton of books, yay! I ran across Martha Beck’s book and ordered it, along with a fancy new grill tool set. None of this cost anything, remember? John had Blue Bucks from IBM. Ok? Not weird yet, right?

A week later, I’m getting into bed with my new “free” book by Martha Beck, excited to find my North Star. I open it. First page. First chapter. First LINE, says this: “Melvin worked as a middle manager at IBM, and a miserable middle manager Melvin made.”

Ok, aside from the adorable alliteration, IS THAT WEIRD OR WHAT!? This is a Cosmic Clue, people. John works for IBM for 23 years. He resigns. He has a random stupid bonus to spend. I choose a book I’ve been wanting to read. And the first line in the book is about a guy who’s unhappy at IBM.

By the way, I was so totally freaked out that I haven’t opened the book again since.

Cosmic Clues completely blow my mind.

Back to Floating.

The Tuesday after I published “Tanks Don’t Float,” I was writing in my journal in the morning around 6:00 am. Sometimes I write my prayers because I have such bad ADHD that I can’t stay focused if I just pray like a normal person. I write my prayers to “you guys” because, seriously, who even knows?! Plus, the more the merrier. I was particularly angry that morning and wrote: “OMG really, you guys?! Would someone just PLEASE throw me a round life preserver thingy-thing because don’t you see that I’m desperate here?!”

I get a little bossy in my prayers.

The very next day, Wednesday, John and I were in another “Please Save Our Marriage” appointment with our family therapist. (And when I say “family therapist,” I do mean that all five of us see her, regularly.) That morning I was whining about how on earth I am supposed to deal with all the uncertainty in my life that has recently popped up out of nowhere. And she told me a little story.

She pointed to a small painting on her office wall. It was a simple picture of two little kids in a canoe with an adult at the front, paddling. Her dad had given her the painting to remind her of a time that she and her brother were with him on the lake. On this particular boating trip, a storm started to rage while they were out in the middle of the lake and her dad had to quickly get them to shore. It was dark. It was windy. It was pouring rain. It was choppy. It was hard paddling. It was scary.

“But look,” she said, pointing to the two little lumps in the back of the boat, “my brother and I had our life jackets on, and as terrified as my dad was, he knew we would not die. We were cold, wet and scared, but we had our life jackets on. We would be ok.”

She continued, “Gretchen, writing is your life jacket. Put on your life jacket and you’ll be ok. It might get stormy. You might get hurt. You might be frightened. But you’ll be ok. Just keep writing.”

Ok. I was bawling then and I’m bawling now. I said, “Guess what I wrote in my journal yesterday. I wrote that I needed a round life preserver thingy-thing. You couldn’t have known that.”

Cosmic Clue.

The next day was Thursday and I had coffee with a writer friend that I see twice a month. Let’s call her Melissa. We were catching up on life and I told her about the floating and the water and the life jackets and various Cosmic Clues that keep happening to me.  She has the best laugh in the world and can always add some comfort to my chaos. Towards the end of our coffee date, she received a text from her husband. Let’s call him Max. She wasn’t expecting a text from him, but they have a child with special needs so she looked at it right away, just in case. With her big blue eyes, wide and crazy, she looked at me. I haven’t known Melissa for too long, but I know crazy-eyes when I see them.

“Look what Max just sent me, Gretchen, you’ll never believe it.”

She turned her phone towards me. Guess what it was.

You’ll never guess.

It was life jackets. Pictures of life jackets. A lot of life jackets.

Melissa and Max had just bought kayaks and needed new life jackets. He was at Dicks Sporting Goods because they were buy one and get one half-off (great deal!), and he just wanted to know what color life jacket she wanted. Blue. Or Red?

I’m sorry. The timing? The coincidences? Am I losing my mind, or is that just weird?!?!

Cosmic Clue.

Life jackets.

Life jackets are a comfort. They’ll save your life. It’s a must-have while on an adventure on the water. A life jacket provides protection when there is potential danger. I wish that right now I didn’t need to wear an imaginary life jacket every day, but as I see it, there are two alternatives:

1. No life jacket and drown.
2. No real life and drown anyway.

So, I guess I’m gonna put on my life jacket and swim into the ocean of real life. I don’t know where to go. I don’t know how to proceed. I don’t know what will happen. My kids are growing up. My job as a mom is in major transition. John grew a mountain-man beard and ended his career at IBM. My body is misbehaving and is totally unrecognizable. Our bank account is hemorrhaging. And I have a head full of dreadlocks. This Tank is gonna put on her life jacket and float in the ocean of uncertainty.