I read contracts every single day. My eyes scan them like a hawk surveys the landscape searching for food. Previewing the horizon, swooping in at times, always on guard. I can zone in on a small thing and go after it.  It’s a core part of my job to spot areas of high risk to my clients and find out a way to lessen that risk.  Can this provision come back and hurt you later? Are you protecting yourself well enough?  If something bad happens, will you be covered? Basically I’m the what-if person of any large major business transaction. Then I write and edit ways to lessen this risk.  Day in and day out I do this.  It is my income and my livelihood. But unlike a hawk I have terrible vision and can only fly in my dreams.

That’s a funny concept, being well protected. It’s a fiction, really, since life is full of sharp edges and corners and elbows. You can have life insurance but it doesn’t make death easier on your family.  Or the insurance doesn’t cover what you think, or you leave everything to your husband but he dies in a car wreck. You can have a retirement account but it doesn’t guarantee financial security.  You can have a husband and two kids but it doesn’t necessarily equal happiness. You can try to do everything right as a wife but find out your husband wasn’t faithful, or as a mother but your kid tries drugs anyway.  You quickly realize that you don’t own or control other people’s states of mind or their decisions, and you simply can’t mitigate all the things all the time.

And that’s annoying as hell. Where are life’s redlines when you need them? Where are the exit clauses and penalties?

It’s a hard lesson for me.  I wish I could place in a lot more protections. We do this in a way by exercising, going to therapy, creating positive networks and friendships, creating wills and trusts, setting up bank accounts, forming mental contingency plans, and buying expensive face creams. But in the end, it’s meaningless.  We lose out on living life because we are so worried the risks will overtake us and we’ll be left unprepared and unready and unkempt.  I drove my kids to school in pajamas the other day, so I suppose I’m living out my fears.

This weekend I was almost crushed by anxiety.  To the point where I was unable to speak at times, just focusing on the task immediately in front of me.  Decorating a Christmas package, eating a cookie, buying a new sweater, getting up from a chair, pushing the button on the remote control, drinking water. If you asked me if I was okay, I was not.  But I knew that there was no choice but to push through to the other side of that fear, because this is what life is, a field of distracting and competing forces. You are a hawk flying over an entire field of mice, and the amount of things you can zone in on are exhausting and overwhelming. Which mouse to kill, which one to leave alone, which one to follow to a hole, which are diseased, which are not really mice but something you can’t even eat.  Maybe there are just rocks that are not even moving and you feel like you’re losing your mind. Your eyes dance wildly over the field, scanning and swooping and all you’re doing is tiring yourself out.

Sometimes you just have to sit for a while and catch your breath. Tuck in your wings and close your eyes. Imagine that for today, you’re taken care of.  You have what you need.  You don’t need to plan for every single contingency.  Take stock in the fact that it’s not yours to control, and your worry changes nothing.  You don’t have to know the truth of what others think. Perhaps you just need to not care or know anything at all. Except that right now you’re walking down the street and feeling the warmth of the sun or feeling the hot tea in your mouth with the sweet touch of honey.  You let it roll down your throat and you use your legs to sit in a chair with cushions, and you close your eyes and simply feel breath fueling your body, love of God the Father inside of your bones, the love you don’t deserve beating inside of you, the way clothes rest on your body to provide a trap for the heat to stay close, the dog curled up at your feet.

We can’t catch all the mice. We can’t edit our lives. We have to sometimes just fly, soaring over the waterfalls and the canyons and catching the light of the sun before it escapes beyond the ridge.  We feel the air under our wings as it carries us and lifts us higher, and we breathe in deep the world around us  – the Garden of Eden we have been given. And we can be at peace.  You can catch a mouse tomorrow, because today you’re eating a hamburger with bacon.

And that’s okay for now.  It’s more than okay.  It’s wonderful.  Because after all, who doesn’t love bacon?  You’re a human, not a hawk.  With a soul and a sense of compassion.  A heart filled with curiosity and wonder.  And the ability to stop yourself when things get too much.  Letting go is a great gift, taking the weights off and setting the editing pen down. Sometimes you just have to taste the salt on your tongue and relish in it for a while.

Then swallow. Tomorrow is another day. Just keep on flying.

—

photo credit  

I decided to take a writing class.

So on a Wednesday night in the balmy city of Austin, I ditched the family and traversed to the bowels of Congress Avenue among all the hipsters to find a little room where this writing class was to be held.  You had to walk through an eyeglass store, out the back door, and then take a left back into the eyeglass store to get there. No one said anything about this odd arrangement, as if they wanted you to think you were actually in a different room, not in a room of an eyeglass store separated by a curtain. This is clearly Oz, and I’m Dorothy. Except I don’t have on Ruby slippers.  I just brought a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and managed to forget my laptop.

So I walked into this eyeglass store that is separated into a writing room with a curtain. Because this is Austin and musicians are everywhere, there was some sort of singer present in the store making strange high-pitched noises while we introduced ourselves. I felt bad for the people in the eyeglass store that had to hear a bunch of writers talk about point of view and perspective.

I was late, of course.  As I walked in, everyone was in the midst of introducing themselves. One  gal was explaining she had a podcast dedicated to toilet paper. “It is hard to calculate how many sheets to use,” one lady says, attempting to be supportive.  Because what do you say about a toilet paper podcast?  “Oh, I have spreadsheets,” the toilet paper woman says.  Everyone nods, like that’s not at all insane.

After me, another man stumbles in late.  He’s very apologetic and even brought a cake, which I found odd, but he told the group the woman sitting next to me had a birthday.  “How did he know?” I wondered.  He sat behind me and began to cough in a way that only people with tuberculosis cough.  It sounded like he was in prison rattling chains as he moved around the mucus in his own chest.  “Don’t eat that cake!” I wanted to yell to my classmates.  Always the mother.

The class was taught by Karen Russell, an author that I really love.  She writes strange and dark things that are very different from what I write, but the language that comes out of her mouth sounds like poetry.  I found myself writing down random statements she made as if I was going to go home and put them in little pewter frames. What a lovely way with words, some people have.  What a beautiful way they put them together.

The class was all centered around “metamorphosis,” meaning we were going to write and study stories of where one thing turns into another. The first story we read was about a man who visits an aquarium, becomes obsessed with the axolotls, which is basically the larval stage of a salamander, and becomes one.  Everyone remarked how beautiful and elegant the story was, but I said it just felt like one slow drug trip toward inevitable death. Can’t they hear the music that keeps this tale moving forward at an eerie pace? Maybe that was just the woman singing in the eyeglass store.  Then later we read a story of how a woman turns into a deer.  Everyone seemed to nod their head like they have all read these stories before.  I’m feeling a little out of place in this writing class.

Later we spent time writing our own stories of metamorphosis, and one woman wrote a story about how sea turtles, crawling through the sand, end up changing into pregnant women.  Another lady talked about a woman turning into a bed, her long hair winding into the headboard. “They sell that bed at Anthropology,” Karen Russell, says, which is why I love her.

But things took a darker turn when Tuberculosis Man began spreading his virus into the very fibers of my hair, which meant I ended up cozying up to the woman next to me with very straight bangs.  The discussion kept getting stranger and a woman told a story about how her legs are bare and spread open like chicken breast, dotted with sweat, in a plastic container from the grocery store.  The birthday girl turned to me with a little look on her face, like “this is uncomfortable.”  I shared a nod with her.  We have a connection now.  She told me that the very ill man behind me is her boyfriend, but she said it like it’s a fact I should know, like she’s telling me the time or that her doctor’s appointment is next Thursday.  I think of how cute she is and how she shouldn’t be dating a dying person.

We talked some about writing in general and that even strange stories still have to be somewhat rooted in reality, but with heightened senses.  “You can’t go around sticking voices inside of a wolf suit,” Karen says.  I wrote that down, naturally.  It’s going in a frame.   Everyone nods at her wisdom and we keep talking about theme and tone while I pull out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  Does no one eat in this place?  It’s 7 pm for goodness sakes.  I also stand up and stretch from time to time and nod at everyone when they speak.  I realize I am one of the strange writing people I am so adept at making fun of.

I wrote a piece on a monarch butterfly who just dreams of walking so he ends up turning into a farmer in Nebraska.  There were no sweating thighs.  I tried to crack a joke once but my voice was muffled by the people in the eyeglass store ordering bifocals so it went unnoticed.  I pulled a cheese stick out of my bag and ate it.  The woman with straight bangs just looked at me funny like it was a strange thing I had so much food stuffed in there.

Finally, nearing the end of class, Karen pointed to a young man with a clean-cut beard and asked if he would read.  He sat stoically and said “No thank you” and “I write slow.”  I expected to lean over his computer and see only an intro sentence.  “The day began,” it would say, with nothing else.  But I didn’t have the nerve.  A woman who sat there the entire class saying nothing finally read and impressed the group with her story of a disappearing woman who turned into a ghost. I looked down at my page of scribbles of how I wrote about a man looking out the window and ended up turning into the window.

What the hell is happening here. This isn’t going to get my humor articles published.

The eyeglass store closed and it finally got quiet, except for Tuberculosis Man’s hacking.  When class was over, the cake was brought out and set on the table.  The woman next to me, who is his matter-of-fact girlfriend, told me this is the first time she’s ever had a birthday cake. “THIS IS THE FIRST TIME YOU’VE EVER HAD A BIRTHDAY CAKE?” I shrieked with my eyes.  I’m sure I misunderstood her.  Maybe this was the first time she’s ever had a birthday cake at a writing class in Austin on a Wednesday brought to her by someone with a communicable disease.  That, I get.

So the cake was cut and I milled around talking to people.  The lady who wrote about the woman-morphed-into-a-bed told me she had a boring day job.  “Because of the dental insurance,” she said.  I find that a strangely specific thing to mention, but I didn’t ask about it.  She clicked her teeth together, as if to reiterate dental hygiene is of the upmost importance.  Someone offered me a slice of cake, which I naturally refused because I value life.  I noticed a woman with a low-cut blouse who inserted her slice of cake on a plate directly in front of her breasts and then made a loud comment about how tasty the cake was, which made everyone stare at her cleavage.  She wrote a great story about how a person turned into an owl.  But then she started to resemble an owl to me, which meant it was time for me to leave this class.

I’m not sure if I learned much about writing in this class, but I did learn that there is a secret room off an eyeglass store separated by a curtain.  If I went back, it might not be there.  This entire night might have been born and bred simply in my imagination.   Except for the fact that I now have a cough, and a signed Karen Russell book, and a very clear understanding of what it may feel like to turn into the larval stage of a salamander.

(1) Get your hair and makeup done.  A good photographer can simulate a summer breeze by installing a solid fan out of camera range so your hair is slightly blowing in the wind. Even if you have to say “for heavens sakes, McKenzie- just smile for like five minutes and then you can have your phone back to take a selfie for Instagram,” you will pull off that “I just threw this look together” façade with ease. No one can see contempt through a good matte concealer.

a really good make-up artist can make you look emaciated and jaundiced! Winning!

(2) Buy clothes in the same color palette, but not matchy-matchy. This isn’t a trip to Disneyland. This is just a normal day standing around in a wheat field holding hands wearing various shades of denim.  Just look to the left and pretend to laugh at something imaginary and supposedly hilarious the photographer said, even though little Reagan will cry and say “I miss Nadia.”  She is not in the photo because she’s the nanny and doesn’t have the skin tone for wheat fields.  Also, she’s an immigrant and may offend your Republican neighbors

(3) Find a photographer who is very talented with filters. If one particular family member (HELLO MICHAEL) decides to not wear the flannel picked out by his loving mother who spent seven total hours selecting perfectly matching outfits for all family members including the satin ribbon that goes in McKenzie’s side pony tail, the photographer can put a color fade and stain on the shirt and blend it in with the other clothing choices so that it isn’t obvious Michael never follows any rules and is basically a total disappointment to the family.

We said “simple country look,” not “take me to the back room,” McKenzie

(4) Invest in really nice shoes. Sure, your husband has been secretly banging a client and your son is vaping and your daughter said she needed you to travel up to her school and hand deliver a grilled chicken breast to her for lunch between two pieces of tin foil because the food is “rank and despicable in this forsaken public school.”  Who doesn’t have issues?  For this reason, you should buy their compliance if you have to. Spare no expense on buying your daughter those super cute strappy sandals. And by all means buy yourself the Prada boots you bought one night when you were drunk and out with girlfriends at the Neiman Marcus happy hour. Maybe it wasn’t technically a happy hour but more of a shopping trip after a happy hour.  Or maybe not happy hour, but just drinking from your flask in the parking lot and talking on the phone with a friend. You were crying, so it wasn’t technically happy, but close enough. #greatboots

(5) Make sure someone sits on a couch. It’s a fun trend to haul a large Victorian couch – preferably in a shade of dark crimson red, in the middle of a field where it does not belong and have various family members sit on it and sort-of lean back as if it’s not the strangest thing anyone has ever seen to have a red couch just randomly sitting in a hay field being shit upon by birds.  Make sure the woman sits so that it continues the storyline that women are feeble and need a fainting couch and men are hunters who can stand for long periods of time. Maybe the man can hold a rifle.

you can’t even see the blood stains! Wait until it sits in a wheat field!  #stunning

(6) Pretend this photo shoot is a really big deal. I know Michael has ADHD and your father has prostate cancer, but let’s pretend just for a moment that this photo shoot is the key piece of evidence that matters in this trial that is your life.  You may actually convince the neighbors when they receive their Christmas card that you have a good solid family.  A family that sticks together.  A family who laughs and who doesn’t have a drug-addicted step-son who is “attending college up East.” A family worthy of the cost of the shoes you put on your credit card. You birthed these little angels, damnit.  Show the world how beautiful you all are in a light shade of blue.

(7) Make sure to post it all over social media. You can include phrases like “I am #blessed and #grateful” or “look, we just had a free afternoon and ran into this red couch whilst all wearing linen” or “No teenagers were on drugs the moment this photo was taken / I cannot vouch for after.”  Highlight the positive and be sure you also change your profile photo, your tag line, your profile reel, your phone background, all the pictures on your dresser, and your twitter handle to reflect that this photo shoot happened and that you all look fabulous, darling.

sunlight streaming in from behind creates an angelic look so that no one knows this little kid just ate a booger

(8) Plan Next Year’s Photo Shoot. Try an overstuffed chair on the sandy seashore where you are flung on it in a wispy sundress while a flock of trained birds are released.  Or a mountain-top scene with snowfall.  Make sure it’s casual and fun.  You don’t need to go to that much trouble, really.  It’s just to document the blessings of family.  HINT: PURPLE GOES WELL IN SNOW OR SAND PHOTOS SO START SHOPPING NOW.

This is unacceptable behavior.  Calm down and wait for the couch to arrive. 

—

Photo Credit 

Photo Credit 

Photo Credit 

Photo Credit 

Photo Credit 

“It used to be a big craze with mothers to hide pureed fruits and vegetables into the evening meal. A bit of strained carrots in the marinara, butternut squash in meatloaf. But then it went too far with the spinach. Kids started to notice and across America told their parents to “stop screwing up the brownies.” Now, mothers just add extra chocolate chips and embrace their children’s impending obesity.”

I’m over at Medium today discussing our biggest failures as parents.  Check it out!

https://medium.com/@amandabethhill/top-7-parenting-failures-5e09c18211b0

View at Medium.com

me, living in the moment, by central park

I would like to introduce you to a character in my life. He’s a jerk, really. His name is Anticipation. He has a mustache and wears acid-washed jeans.  He has big yellowish eyeglass frames that balance precariously on his nose. I don’t trust him, but I’ve found you can never really trust people with mustaches except for Tom Selleck, which is a rare exception.

At first, he presents himself sometimes as a happy sort.  He wears Christmas sweaters and tells you how wonderful everything will be when you make a rum cake and everyone is gathered by the fire telling stories.  Sometimes he says your future is bright, that a trip is something to look forward to, that life will work out.  But he’s a wee bit too happy about it, and you know deep down he’s lying, creating unrealistic expectations that will leave you feeling nothing but flat and empty. Other times he tells you how terrible things will be.  He grabs your throat and tightens it, creating little waves of terror at bad things that may or may not happen at a time that is beyond the now.

I tell Anticipation that I won’t fear what’s coming, that he needs to grow the hell up and stop spreading lies.  We have to jump into life without fearing the worst, because even if the worst happens there’s a story to be told, a life to be lived, a change in direction that is oftentimes worthwhile and life-giving.  Sure it’s 78 degrees in December. But that’s just fine because you can go on long walks and bicycle around in shorts.  Your trip to Yellowstone may be tainted with children complaining about a low iPad battery, but there are also moments that are unexpectedly beautiful where they gasp at the beauty of the earth.  Your daughter may vomit on the frocked dress, but it will create a good story when she’s wearing a t-shirt in the family photo shoot.

Another character that always comes behind Anticipation is Follow-up, which is an asinine woman that follows an uncomfortable event, like a family dinner that went poorly or the time you saw the ex-husband’s mistress at a soccer game or the time another mom says something hateful about your kid.  All those times you stood blankly while another person told you off, or failed to act when you should have, and you’re left kicking yourself.  Right then, Follow-up is there, with her obnoxious nasally voice, cackling about how you got schooled and telling you that you are a fool and should have handled yourself better.

I mean, what the hell does she know?  She’s five foot two for crying out loud.  You could crush her.

Of course Follow-up always shakes her head like she knows, and has the perfect lines, but has she birthed children or faced death or cooked a perfect meringue?  No.  Follow-up judges you and points at your heart and tells you how much more clever you could be, but are not.  If you had thought quicker, were smarter, or had a larger vocabulary, imagine how much better that situation would have been.

Anticipation and Follow-up are my worst enemies.  They are nails on a chalkboard, lego’s that I walk on, a ringing in my ears.  And yet I allow them in my life on an almost weekly basis.  I’m dreading something, it happens, and I go through the play-by-play afterward of what could or should have been.

You know what, Anticipation & Follow-up?  I hate the both of you.

The ironic part is that the actual bad thing is very small.  One night out of many.  One conversation that goes wrong preceded and followed by many wonderful ones.  But these two characters stretch out the bad thing into a very tragic event and it ruins days instead of minutes.

I’m done with the both of them. In fact, they should marry each other, the annoying Anticipation telling Follow-up that the visit with the in-laws will probably not go well, then Follow-up telling Anticipation that if only you would have made roast instead of chicken, or that it was due to the Republicans. Maybe they will fall madly in love and create a black hole and just cancel each other out.

But until they dissolve completely from my life, I’m going to continue to name them, and put a face to them, and tell myself they aren’t real, and if they were real they’re outright obnoxious. God does not desire for us to live in fear.  He has freed us from fear so that we can live in peace, not worrying about the future or regretting the past.  And yet despite knowing this in my heart, I still allow these things to happen.

Life is fun.  It is good.  It is hopeful and full of joy.  But other times, it’s miserable and muggy and full of mosquitos and hangovers.  Don’t let the anticipation of what is to come and the regret that follows ruin the now.  Tell Anticipation and Follow-up to go jump into rivers, lakes, ponds, streams.  Let them go anywhere but inside your heart, where they do not belong.

Life is the part in the middle that happens between the anticipation and follow-up.  Stretch that part out and make it last, the actual living and not the thinking and regretting.

After all, this is where the good stories reside.

• Something other than fruit. Maybe a hamburger, a Target gift card, a bottle of gin, or the same pay as a man. You went on a wine tasting and gourmet food tour in Italy over the summer.  All you can think of is produce? It’s not the thought that counts when you bring them something that can rot on their desk and/or may contain worms.

• For your child to wear a belt. They don’t want to see Graydon’s boxer shorts. There’s nothing in the pants of a 7^th grader that warrants such a large crotch anyway, unless they are stuffing dollar bills down there. If so, they need to share the wealth with their teacher or belt it up and tuck it in.

• Baked goods are nice. But don’t let your kid bake anything, smashed together in napkins at the bottom of their backpack. That’s gross. There is a lovely brownie from a small bakery in Colorado called “the chill-out” that has green flakes in it (ignore those/they are fine). They ship for free.

• Candy. But not the leftover Halloween candy your child didn’t want. Do you think this is the days of Laura Ingles Wilder, where candy canes and oranges count for something? This person is teaching your child fractions, for crying out loud.  She shouldn’t have to fake a nut allergy to get away from Mr. Goodbar. The gym coach is creepy enough.

• Everyone loves scented candles.  But not the cheap ones.  Step up your game and splurge on candles from anthropology that come in a blue orb-like container and smell like a mixture of hydrangeas and a really high paying job unlike the one your child’s teacher actually has.

• Let’s discuss the lunch situation. The poor teachers only have fifteen minutes, and in that time they have to herd a bunch of monkeys into the lunchroom, through the line, and back out the door.  If you can only think of a compact snack that they could throw into their bag.  Something that fits neatly into their hand that doesn’t leave a lot of crumbs.  Maybe something sweet and easy to toss with no fussy wrapper? This is a tough one.  You’ll come up with something.

• School supplies for their room. They tell us every year – Bring scissors! Don’t forget the school glue! Be sure and provide a box of tissues!  It never fails. By April our precious children are ripping paper with their fingers and using their own snot to make storybooks stick together.

• A gift certificate for a nice dinner. They work so hard teaching your children and making sure they go home enriched and enlightened. But not from Applebee’s, which is only rich in calories and regret. And so cliché with the #apples

• Cold, hard cash.  Please don’t assume that means a frozen-yogurt gift card, or that they would rather go to a bookstore and sip a latte.  That’s incorrect.  They want a nice bottle of wine or maybe a short weekend getaway.  Your secretary probably makes more money than Mr. Stevens and he has a PhD in physics.  So please hand him nothing short of twenties.

• Your admiration and respect. Do you want to see these punk-ass kids all day long, trying to make sure they can recite Shakespeare?   No.  That’s why you send them to school.   So shower them with kindness, bring them the good pastries, buy them all the coffee they want, and beg them to not quit mid-year because of the alleged drug-dealing-situation happening in the high school.  It’s just a phase and everything is fine just fine.  If all else fails, buy them an apple [watch]. After all, it’s the thought that counts.

Photo:

Creative Commons link here

One of the reasons I went to law school is because I have a voracious appetite for a well-crafted argument.  I will spend hours upon weeks researching and writing and editing.  I will tweak and realign and practice.  My record of winning cases is impressive.

I used to represent the government in employment law and labor cases, and I lost all track of time preparing trial notebooks and working on cross examination and creating dramatic opening statements.  I wore power suits and swept my hair back in a formidable bun. My boss thought it was fantastic.  The opposing side was annoyed, arriving in shorts, armed with a crumpled up piece of paper with some bullet points on it, and had a lawyer who was slightly hungover, usually named Joe, who would say “Oh, it’s you.”

The judge always rolled her eyes at me.  Often I’d object so much she’d have to stop and say “the rules of evidence in this hearing, Ms. Hill, are only loosely applied.”

I’ve grown up since then.  I don’t always have a need to dive so deep, I recognize the value of efficiency, I speak less, and my compassion has grown for people.  But there is still the satisfaction I get from winning.  And winning, as a professor once told me, is reserved not for the best, but for the one who practices the most.

Boy, am I good at practicing (except for the piano. sorry mom).

But this desire to win has some negative consequences in one’s personal life.  Spousal disputes become opportunities to prevail, through research, well-crafted storytelling, emotion, and persistence.  Often if I’m trying to prove a point, I’ll have multiple angles as to why my point is superior, not only through my own words, but through the words of an expert, an article, real-life examples, a metaphor.  If I could create a one-act play to illustrate my point, along with a song or jingle and perhaps a video, I would.  This is why I write, to get feelings out through characters and imaginary angst that is a thinly veiled version of my own anxiety.

The thing is, I can’t help myself.  I’m not trying to be obnoxious.  I was trained to be this way. And in certain situations, it has worked out very well for me.

But often in a relationship, the best thing you can do is to simply let things go. Even if you’re right.  Even if the research points to something else.  Even if it goes against your training and personality. Because peace is often more important than the satisfaction of winning.

One thing I am still learning about step-parenting is that you sometimes have to take a back seat.  A back seat to child-rearing, discipline, being the Expert on Things. Which is obviously hard for a person like me.  I’m a front row, front seat, I-have-a-thing-to-say-about-that type of person.   But when you are in the moment, and faced with a discussion about the hard thing that starts a fight or a simple back rub, you just have to push back your desires to win and do the thing that soothes.

I have not yet mastered this. My husband is exceedingly patient, and is logical enough to know my background and see how hard this struggle is for me.  My therapist is fantastic, helping me form boundaries and give myself the permission to let things go.

I am one year into this Step Parenting Adventure.  To those children whom I’ve become closer to, I’ve woven in some wisdom (“please don’t drink those energy drinks, guard your heart, protect yourself, always wear a seatbelt on road trips, don’t drink that trash-can punch at parties, I love you, kiddo.”) But with others I can simply smile, stir up the brownie mix, and keep my thoughts to myself.

But letting go doesn’t mean holding in your thoughts and slowly developing a case in your mind so you can vomit it out at a later time. That’s the opposite of letting go. Letting go means truly saying to yourself:

This is not your argument to craft.

This is not yours to solve.

This is not your fight.

That is so hard for a person, especially a person like me. But I trust that God is merciful with my failings, my lack of humility, my selfishness.  I trust that my husband loves me enough to see through to my heart.  And I trust that kids grow, life moves forward, and we all have the capacity to change.

Letting go is hard on all fronts.  But there is joy to be found in letting go.  Spiritually, it’s the only true pathway to freedom. It’s a lesson I’ve had to learn over and over again, and it’s still a challenge for me.  But one that’s worth facing, worth re-learning, worth pondering.

This life is short and meaningful.  Spend your energy on what matters, what is appreciated, and what counts.  If it’s a drain on your soul, peel it off and drop it, focus your eyes on the positive beautiful things, and march forward with your power suit on, your hair in a formidable bun, this time with a few more wrinkles and a squishier midsection, and say to yourself,

It’s a wonderful thing to be alive. I don’t have to be in control to relish what is all around me.

That’s when you know you’ve really won.

—

photo:

(threew’s).flickr.com/photos/alexisnyalphotography/4687625012/in/photolist-89eiAU-Sd3jiv-Tdad4o-Tomecs-Sd8STk-TrSGF6-Td63sC-SRSX5L-TrSfi6-SRZchm-Tom7md-TfusGR-Tooovo-TokvDC-SapQsf-Sd1HQV-TrWQAX-SRZkUw-SaqF6N-TfxhNr-Tohnzh-SRQNqA-ToinQA-TohLGQ-TrWpez-TrSDFt-TfvMJB-Sajwfy-26GyiXA-SRP7kC-Tfy7J6-TfvUh6-TrUrzk-TrWnLV-TcZn9h-Sai3PU-TrSFTV-6wKNxR-TrWyeZ-ScXxWn-TrZ7QX-TonGWJ-SasSyJ-SarWs7-SRNKRb-TcWPsq-Sd73np-TcY6BC-6Ghe5-TrUpST

There was a red elmo doll on the back of a trailer today.  I sat at a red light and stared at it with a curious gaze.  I wondered how it was secured.  Little zip ties? A thin metal wire? Perhaps it was just whimsy for the sake of whimsy. One day a construction worker found it in the pile to give away to goodwill, his kid having long since grown tired of it, and affixed it to the metal bars. Like a joke or a trick.  Perhaps he was drunk and someone dared him to do it.  Or maybe he thought it would bring joy to the people behind him in traffic who, like me, sat in stoic stillness waiting for the light to turn, staring at the sad face of a stuffed doll who spoke with an eerie baby voice on television.

What it brought was a wave of curiosity and a tinge of sadness, a toy strapped to the back of a trailer, struggling to breathe. It looked harnessed and tortured, strapped to the metal under the intense Texas sun.  Poor little thing.  But it’s fine, little doll. Don’t worry.  You are not alive and have no beating heart and you’ll be okay in the end.

Today Kate Spade killed herself.  She apparently tied a scarf around her neck and ended it all. I find that a few degrees worse that she used a beautiful thing like a scarf that was meant to be delicate and soft and wrapped it around her pretty little neck to be used for harm.  I am sad for her family and her daughter.  I’m sad that people are so ready to stop the pain that they take it upon themselves to do so.

Sometimes sadness is a part of life, the same as laughter and hunger and sexual desire. One day we eat chocolate cookies with the chunks large and half-melted and sticking out of the top and we think “how delightful.” And yet other days, we weep. We all experience feelings that flow through us whether we want them or not, carrying with them some unintended consequences for the people we love and the relationships we hold dear.  I want to go around smoothing out all the rough edges, saying it’s fine it’s all going to be fine don’t worry.  And yet I cannot do this, soothe the world.  It’s too broken and it has too many sharp edges. I have to protect my fingers from being shredded.  Who will roll out the cinnamon dough?  Who will tap the keys and form all the thoughts into sentences? Who will write the notes to my children that I love them so?

I thought of Kate Spade and this limp carcass of a doll strapped to a trailer in front of me as the light changed. People stepped on the accelerator and we all just kept on going.  That’s what you do.  You just keep moving. It reminded me, yet again, of the frailty of life.   I watched bicyclists weave next to me on the busy roadway, their bodies so dangerously close to our big cars, their heads so perilously close to the pavement.

Maybe it’s because I’ve faced death so many times that I have become more attentive to it.  The time I woke to the anesthesiologist’s white pasty face, sweat beading up on his forehead like drops of dew on a morning leaf. When I heard the words “toxic” and “septic” and “there’s nothing left we can do but open her up and clean out her abdomen” like my insides were nothing but a vessel of poisonous snakes.  And that time I heard the dreaded word –  malignant.  I have always felt the edge, at times running my finger on it, feeling its sting.  This edge does not appear only when one is old or feeble or has a heart condition.  It’s today and in a few moments from now and next Thursday and when things are going well and the day you hear news you didn’t expect to hear. Sometimes you teeter on it, hang on the precipice of it, or walk alongside of it for a while.  I do not derive joy from this line.  I don’t get an adrenaline high from dancing beside it. I only know of its existence, like the fact I’m breathing or have a beating heart.

I’ve never been afraid of death.  You can be keenly aware of something without fearing it.  I have always had a knowing feeling that I would someday cross over this line and be at peace, warm, safe.  My only sadness comes from those left behind, the inability to reach back and whisper into the ears of my children.  I am fine, just fine, don’t worry. This is why I write them little notes and tuck them away in drawers and boxes.  Why I give them gifts on Wednesdays. This is why I spend time baking and hours writing and nights snuggling.  I hold them so tight and say the same things over and over as their little eyes close so it will somehow imprint upon them like a tattoo upon their brains.  And maybe when I’m gone, they will hear it like a refrain, or a song in a distant wind, or something they recognized but can’t quite place.  And it will make them feel safe.

And yet I am not God.  I don’t have the power to give them peace, even if I wanted to.  I am only a woman who can see the line between life and death beside me, in the grocery store and on the highway, in the hospital room and on a bicycle.

I see this line, yes.  But I do not run from it.  I take all the feelings and hold them for a little while through a long deep exhale. And then I push on the accelerator.  I open my eyes in the morning toward the direction of a new day, and I simply keep going. This is what life is on this side of heaven. We just have to keep moving.

It’s fine, just fine. Don’t worry.

The carving of an angry god, carved into a desk. Who wants to look at this? His eyes are all wonky

Free Desk

This desk belonged to my asshole first husband before he humped his secretary on it without my knowledge. If it’s not picked up in three days I’m going to light it on fire on the front lawn. We’ll roast marshmallows. But it is a lovely mahogany and was hand carved in India. It would be a shame to burn it but I can’t stand the memories.  Every time I sit down to pay bills I think “Mandy was sitting on this thing naked” which is why I haven’t paid the electric bill in months.

ISO Dresser for Girls Room

I am searching for the perfect dresser for my daughter’s room in a shade of rose gold. I am going for a “independent and yet beautiful princess in France” look, so please don’t show me photos of some hand-me-down garbage that you slapped a coat of paint on.  I can tell if something has been hand painted or if it’s been professionally done.  No barfy Pepto-bismol pink. My daughter speaks French and I don’t want to be cursed out by a seven-year old.  I want the hand pulls to be made of crushed glass, silver, or precious gems.  Thanks, neighbors!

Kids Shoes $20

These are old, smelly, have a hole in the side, and were worn every Saturday at soccer games.  Not sure why you’d want these pieces of crap but they are yours for a great price. Pick-up on my front porch because they make my house smell like nasty feet. 

Futon $50

My 30-year-old son finally moved out! Praise the Lord. Please buy this so he doesn’t come back.

Dining Table $500

This is an heirloom piece handed down from my great grandmother. Sure, it came from a regular department store, and okay it has a small gash on one leg, but this should not deter you from buying a table rich with memories.  So many casseroles have been served on this table.  So many arguments at holiday dinners!  My grandmother voted for Carter in a sea of Ronald Reagan supporters! It’s not really wood but particle board, and it folds up easily since two leg has been replaced with PVP pipes, but you can just throw a tablecloth on it and no one will ever know.

Classic Tulle Bed Canopy $50

This is a very beautiful canopy that drapes over a child’s bed and makes them feel safe, secure, and creates a barrier from mosquitoes.  I realize we live in the suburbs where malaria isn’t a big thing but your precious little one can pretend they are on an African adventure.  Not great for kids with claustrophobia or if they don’t like waking up shrouded in fabric that they may get all tangled up in.  There is a vomit stain but it’s machine washable.  We discovered our daughter does in fact have claustrophobia. Wasn’t there some neighbor looking for French-themed decor?

Duvet Cover for Twin Bed $75

This is a great Pottery Barn cover with footballs on it used in my son’s room.  He’s now seventeen and has decided he’s gay and into theatre and is “sick to death of having sports pushed down his throat by the misogynistic masses and is going to move to New York.” Also available is a matching football mural, plastic football plates, a recommendation for a therapist for my husband (who is a high school football coach), and advice on boarding schools in the New York City area.

ISO New Desk

I am looking for a new desk.  I had one that was hand-carved from India but lost it in a divorce.  Little does my ex know that it’s worth ten thousand dollars and taped inside the top drawer is an envelope of cash. You think I’m going to tell her? By the way, what was that smoke I saw this morning coming to work?  It looks like it’s in the area of my old house. Did someone have a bonfire?  Also, why is there some young man waving his hands wildly running down the street yelling about football?

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Photo:

(three w’s).flickr.com/photos/andrewtimmis/10380457723/in/photolist-gPhyr2-oNSUjZ-21f3Vrc-21f3B4a-21f3LUx-bG67U4-8QN496-ijAyWp-8QMVtV-8QR5dE-24LuQPX-8QMGZa-HDf6EP-7cBXeT-4xmaEq-nTPLyN-eGNjYm-nuj74y-dut7wy-ebEb4E-oA6kxN-ooG31B-8QMUG6-6kt1kZ-gS2PHt-bG5Zmr-8QRcHN-8QQJ8C-pZcL7W-8QMWa2-VeEyG9-8QRbHS-8QQEyL-5V5Gbo-eeFE9P-pKMFe7-8QMXot-8QQTuC-22xccz5-bG5Zmz-7BRB8H-pWZgKw-7BVrsY-21f3XaT-p515C4-nZwdtN-9H7WQs-nx5gYw-kH27JX-8QQP1m