Only you

Our college-aged daughter has been home for just a spell before she heads back out.  With a  sporadic and flexible work schedule, she took the opportunity to go skiing for the day.  The other kids were in school, dad had work, I don’t ski, all her friends have moved away… it was just a day on her own.  Turned out that while she had a pleasant enough time, she returned home a bit early.  “It got a little lonely.”

As a young mom, I remember packing up the van, loading in the kids, and prepping with snacks and rain gear for all kinds of sporting events.  But we’re down to our last two kids in school and there are only a handful of times they have meets here in town each season.  When I go watch my son pole vault, all the families are kind of squished together in their chairs near the pit, so it feels like we’re all there together.  And same thing when I’ve watched cross country at the river.  But last season we were at a park half an hour from home with the race wide open, the course strewn all across the acreage.  Families weren’t all huddled near the finish line because in this scenario it was easy to move about the park and catch your child from different angles.  And also in this scenario it was easy to feel alone.  Most moms and dads had either each other or several kids with them.  Some parents had fellow mom friends from school or the team.  I felt exposed in the wide-open fields, noticeably on my own. Which was fine. But unsettling.  I wondered who I knew, who I would feel comfortable enough with, who wouldn’t mind me tagging along.  I found one friend with her daughter, but she left to follow her son.  I didn’t feel comfortable following her; surely she would’ve indicated if she had wanted that.  I felt excused and isolated in the middle of a crowded park.

It was a late summer evening last year.  A weekend night.  A time when others would have each other.  I’m used to my kids and husband flitting around on weeknights with their activities and meetings, but this felt different.  I imagined families gathered, friends over, people I knew celebrating the lingering summer light.  And almost always, that’s us. We love having friends with us, eating together on the back deck under our twinkly lights, a dreamy and familiar scene.  And if not friends, at least I almost always have Todd to be with.  On this night I was just puttering in the yard and even though I knew the night was arranged, a late work meeting, kids off with their friends, I anticipated their arrival, hoping it would be sooner than expected.  As the light began to fade, I remember noticing how alone in the world I felt.  We have a bit of land around our property, a couple of pastures, large gardens; I felt both cocooned within my fence and swallowed up in the expansiveness of it all: lonely and decidedly longing for company.

These experiences turn out to be so fleeting.  We can take ourselves home off the ski hill.  The race eventually ends and everyone goes back to their houses.  At some point, the family members return and we’re reunited.

Except when we can’t or they don’t.  When it’s more of an everyday reality.

The night in the garden turned my thoughts to my single friends.  I contemplated what it might feel like to always be the one to turn on the outside lights as dusk approaches, to entertain myself day after day, to cook for one, to wonder what everyone else is doing, to want to be invited but to not feel fun enough to be the host, to hear the sounds of the road and neighboring yards but only quiet within my head.  I wondered if they were used to it to the point it had become no big deal.

And yet I know there’s nothing wrong with being alone.  Most of the world might be.  But it’s only been very recently that I’ve started experiencing it firsthand.  I always lived with my growing up family, then roommates, then a husband, and shortly thereafter we started bringing kids in.  It’s only been in the last year or so that I’ve spent the majority of my days and weeks all on my own, many times 12 or 13 hours a day.  Which really is fine.  I lean introvert and can’t fathom being bored.  I love puttering and having my days to myself.  But every now and then I feel it more poignantly, not just the aloneness, but the loneliness.  While the more I’m alone, the more normal it feels, and at the same time, the more I long for association.  “I realize, for the first time, how very lonely I've been in the arena. How comforting the presence of another human being can be” (Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games).

These tiny experiences have stayed with me over the past several months, I believe, in an attempt to remind me to not take my people and joys for granted.  They continue to inspire me to reach out beyond myself and the contrived plans I make for my days to notice those on their own.  While I’m only vaguely aware of how many of my friends live, I find myself wanting to make more of an effort to both honor their independence and to join with them. I feel myself awakening to the idea that many around us, even those in the center of the arena, might feel as I have on occasion.  I’ve come to a new understanding of what that might be like and how simply extending myself as a companion can soothe and aid a lonely heart.

You too?

Just a simple interchange, I was getting my feet done for the upcoming wedding. I actually love and hate pedicures with equal strength. Love it all because of the warm water, the gentle scrubbing, getting rid of the hard parts, knowing that things are being handled, sort of the choosing a color part even though it’s kind of stressful, the leg and toes massage, being wrapped up in little plastic wrap shields, the smells, the chair that gently pokes at parts of me I didn’t know needed a little nod, a professional paint job that doesn’t end up all over my cuticles, one that lasts over a week, the Vietnamese decor reminding me of my best friend from 4th grade… what’s not to love? I guess the only things I really hate are the money—I have a problem paying for things I can do myself—and the part where it looks like I’m a princess and someone is serving me like I’m some pampered fancy upscale lady who does this every week, although I guess they can tell by looking at me that I’m not. I just like being on equal footing with people, I want them to know I know how to get my hands dirty (well they’d know that too if I ever went over to the manicure section), that I don’t see myself as “above” them, that this is such a highlight of my life, one of like 4 times I’ve ever had it done and it’s only because my daughter begged for us both to go and I love her and want to respect the quality-time people in my family that I’m here. I want them to know how much I appreciate their art, their travels to a new country, their work ethic, the quality and efficiency they exhibit. I am inspired by them. But a lot of that is lost in translation. And in my throat. I don’t know how to say all that. So I just make small talk and ask how long they’ve been here, what their family is like (even though I can see them all around us), what their aspirations are; I try for a bit until even I run out of things to ask. In preparation for the big day, I remember hearing that we shouldn’t shave our legs right before because there’s a chance of bacteria getting into the tiny cuts. As a result, even though I shave almost every day of my life, I held off today. And so I told my helper I was embarrassed because my legs were poky.

And this is the part that made me love the experience even more and that totally leveled the playing field, “Mine too.”

Isn’t that the truth? She was somewhere around my age, I’m sure she’s like most women and doesn’t always get around to shaving; she’s likely got a million things swimming around in her head and has a full schedule. I always choose to believe we have so much more in common than not, and here it was. This has stayed with me for weeks, I’m still thinking about it.

While I’m not legitimate in the way it was meant, back when we were supposed to write Me too in our feed, and I’ll admit I haven’t experienced the devastation that prompted the movement, I feel the power behind the expression and celebrate the ensuing validation and sisterhood. I felt that connection in this everyday woman’s simple words.

“Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: What! You too? I thought I was the only one” (CS Lewis).

I was at lunch with two girlfriends earlier this week, and they were talking about their older kids. We always seem to end up at the part where we get wistful and nostalgic over it all. At one point one of them mentioned how they’re not into journaling/recording things. I, on the other hand, feel like journaling has saved me and mentioned how I’m regularly getting out my old ones as I share some little anecdotes with my kids in a weekly email. I admitted how fun it is to remember all the cute things they said and all the adventures we had, but I hate it because it reminds me of how mean I was. The one mom brushed it off, “We all were.” No, I told her, I was really mean. Like especially mean. She refused to accept it as anything out of the ordinary. “We all were,” she repeated. “We didn’t know what we were doing, we were so tired, we were overwhelmed, we had no idea how to be moms.”

I was skeptical. She didn’t know me then. The mean me. But the thought of it lingered. Could that possibly be the case?

I had never considered that maybe others felt the same way I did as a young mom. Everyone I was around seemed completely competent and composed. Never did I suspect that these women I hold in such high esteem could ever have had the same rocky start I did. And yet here were two of my most honest, say-it-like-it-is friends; I knew she was telling me the truth.

I know we know this. But here’s me. I easily assume we’re all just doing our best. But from my vantage point, it feels like some have a much higher best than I do. I sometimes wonder if I’m the only one in a world of frenetic, productive energy who feels the way I do.

Are other women my age struggling to know what their purpose is, what’s next? Everyone around me seems to have direction, their something figured out.

Do other women feel lonely and wonder what everyone else is flitting about doing?

Do other women wonder what God would say if they could just figure out how he talks to them? I feel like I’m the only 50 year old still trying to learn his language.  But I'd jump at any suggestion he'd give me... if only I could hear it.

Does anyone else feel she’s done irreparable damage to her kids, wondering how she can ever make amends, begging for a do-over while at the same time wanting to sweep all the ugly parts completely away and forget about it all?

Do they wonder what the balance is between self-care and selflessness, between serving our families and serving out there? Should we be doing more with our days or continue to be intentional with the quiet we carve out for ourselves? Are we using our resources in productive ways or are we just coasting? Does anyone ever have conversations like these with themselves or is it just me?

And while of course, the specifics vary a bit, the more time I spend engaging with women, the deeper my awareness is that we’re all struggling with and sorting through very similar questions and issues. All the lunches and visits, the walks and the talks, the quieter times one-on-one or within tiny intimate groups, they’ve all reminded me that I’m not alone in any of this. I feel myself calmly exhaling the second someone affirms that she’s felt the same, validated the minute she utters the magic words, Me too.