Flab funk

Thursday, my favorite day of the week.  Todd was off, we had a whole day to look forward to. I didn’t care what we did, I was just happy to have him home.  I figured he’d work on the laundry room and I’d get going on my quilt, we’d go out for lunch, perfect.  But checking my phone, I saw that our friend had sent us our family pictures we’d done last fall.  Yay! I couldn’t wait to see them because it was the last time when all of us were together and I had no idea when that would happen again.  She had been asking me for years to let her take our family pictures, and I was curious what she had been able to do with our group.

And at first glance, I loved them.  They are just beautiful.  The field, the colors, the lighting, the way she captured the personalities of the kids, our dog, just so well done; she is an expert for sure, and I was impressed.

And then I felt like crumbling.  I thought maybe it was just a bad angle, but in every single one there was a problem with me.  I loved the color of the shirt I chose—blue is my favorite, but I don’t wear this shirt very often and I remembered when I put it on that the fabric was an issue.  But I have so few clothes I feel good in that I just went with a color I liked and tried to not worry about how it fit.  When I saw the pictures, I couldn’t get over how pretty they were, just so bright and yet so natural, and then I just cringed when I saw the fat rolls around my middle with my pretty-colored top clinging to them.  

I'm not ashamed of my body, I'm usually very accepting and try to just do my best and move on. I am a pretty realistic, upbeat, and laid-back person; most things don’t ruffle me, least of all superficial things like clothes and looks.  I am also not one to obsess about my body or weight; we don’t even own a scale and I refuse to buy one.  I would define myself as a totally average mom with 5 kids.  I haven’t worked out at a gym since college, I didn’t even own a pair of regular exercise pants till this fall.  I never ever count calories or steps, I don’t want to be tied to or defined by numbers.  Even so, this picture—and my ensuing reaction—both surprised and saddened me.

This is one reason I hate getting my picture taken.  I don’t feel like a photo captures the essence of a person, we’re only getting part of the story when we look at a picture.  And who’s to say it’s accurate or an honest portrait?

But here it was in living color.  I know.  I shouldn’t care, it’s not a big deal, no one’s looking at me, plus I’m older and it’s just life to have gained a few pounds by now.  I could make excuses, maybe even legitimate ones like my pants were low-rise and there’s no where for excess to go but up to my middle in situations like that, or maybe it’s the tamoxifen I’ve been on for six years that has caused me to gain these ten extra pounds I can’t seem to shake, or maybe it’s that my metabolism is slowing down, I’m going on 50, my body isn’t as efficient as it used to be.  I know I would never fault anyone else for having a little (or lot) extra, I couldn’t care less what people look like, I just want to be friends.

But I spiraled.  I felt the smallest of tears.  I was so embarrassed.  By both my reflection as well as my reaction.  I wanted to hide these pictures even as I was obsessed, wondering if with clear eyes I would have a new thought if I looked again.  I couldn’t get over it.  It was utter nonsense and so out of character for me.  There are very, very few pictures I feel confident in, but I believe it’s important for moms to be in them, and so I allow them and even post some.  I was ashamed that I cared and ashamed that I’d not thought my outfit through for something that would be front and center in my home. At the same I also felt perplexed because as much as I try not to worry about appearances, I also try so hard to be healthy.

At this time I was in the middle of a book called Hunger, a memoir of a woman who feels trapped inside her “fortress” of a body; she is what they call super morbidly obese.  She knowingly created a means of protection as she simultaneously and wistfully wonders who she would’ve been if she hadn’t endured the trauma she continues to harbor.  Here are some of her words,

“I’ve been thinking a lot about feeling comfortable in one’s body and what a luxury that must be.  Does anyone feel comfortable in their bodies?  Glossy magazines lead me to believe that this is a rare experience, indeed.  The way my friends talk about their bodies also leads me to that same conclusion.  Every woman I know is on a perpetual diet.  I know I don’t feel comfortable in my body, but I want to and that’s what I am working toward.  I am working toward abandoning the damaging cultural messages that tell me my worth is strictly tied up in my body.  I am trying to undo all the hateful things I tell myself.  I am trying to find ways to hold my head high when I walk into a room.  I know that it isn’t merely weight loss that will help me feel comfortable in my body.  Intellectually I do not equate thinness with happiness” (Roxanne Gay).

I feel that she’s onto us, she’s inside our heads, she gets it.  Of course we know that being a certain size could never determine our sense of happiness, we’re smarter than that, we’re well aware of the industries and their tactics.  But hearing her thoughts expressed so honestly, so accurately, so genuinely… I feel like none of us is immune.

Regardless of the shape or size we’re in, we’re at the mercy of expectations.  We think they’re self-imposed, that we are above all that, that we’re not the kind to buy into it all, we’re aware, we’ve got our eyes wide open, we are in control.  I consciously try to push all that aside, I try to be healthy but still live and enjoy life and our culture that embraces celebrating with food.  I refuse to diet just as I refuse to give up treats.  I try to not stress, to not worry about a few extra pounds, to teach my kids healthy habits rather than to achieve a certain look.  Even as I silently wonder what’s wrong with me, why I can’t be svelte and slim through my middle, why I hang on to a little extra when I try to be so conscientious, why others have more will power, dedication, or luck.  Even as I try to sidestep the culture, apparently I am still affected.  I can’t decide what my melancholy was, shame that I had a little extra or shame that I cared.

It’s too soon to know what my final reaction will be.  As for that day, I had an anemic salad and water when we went out to lunch, usually one of my favorite pastimes, now shrouded with fear of eating, of adding to the problem even as I was aware of the incongruity of what I was doing.  I was hungry even as we cleared our dishes, and with every meal I’ve prepared since I’ve wondered if this is where I’m going wrong, if this is why.  I hate that our world has this kind of influence and hold on me, that even though we know better we still can’t help but get sucked in.

My take-home message from the day is not one I’m exactly proud of, yet it’s where I am. I hope to continue to embrace a moderately healthy lifestyle, and yet I refuse to give my traditions away just to fit into smaller clothes. I will most likely just keep working out at home as I have for decades and will probably never join a gym.  I love food and gathering around it, and I’m not about to give up sugar or bread.  I will continue to focus on teaching my kids to eat well, to move, to get outside, to ignore the number on the tags in their clothes, and to just embrace the bodies they have.  I love the rest of the picture so much, but I cropped the bottom half off when I posted it, maybe out of self-preservation, maybe because I’m still processing that this is where I am these days.  And I will probably also steer clear of clingy material from here on out. :)

Willingly

A faraway friend and I were texting the other day, as we often do, about our lives and our families. She asked how our daughter on a mission is doing and I told her the sad news that she most likely will not be able to go to her original assignment due to travel and visa restrictions. Her daughter is in a similar situation.

So I just posed the question, not mad at all, just so curious. Why do you think God assigned them to these distant missions if He knew from the beginning they might never make it there, that they would end up serving in the states? Why didn’t he just say that from the start and not get their hopes up only to be smashed? Really not upset, honestly just wondering.

I loved our ensuing conversation. She said if her daughter had just been called to where she is serving right now, that would’ve been just fine. I just think it’s so disappointing to anticipate something that is now unlikely to work out, why even suggest it in the first place? But maybe there’s a lesson in this for us and our kids that we will need desperately moving forward.

She offered that maybe they and we need to learn to simply surrender our will to God. Maybe we need to tell him we will live and serve wherever and however he wants us to.

She shared a tender story that changed her forever, in which she told God from that point on she was all in, that he had her will. And she is rock solid on that promise.

I told her I don’t know that I’m there yet.

I told her I’m scared. As we all are I imagine. What will he do with me if I let him have full charge over my life and my future? What will happen if I let him take the reins? I’ve seen what he’s done with others, and I don’t feel strong or courageous enough for any of that. It’s easier and safer to just keep things as temperate as possible and to stay at the helm to avert potential threats. As if.

Do I trust him? I dug deep, desperate to know. Of course I do, I told myself. Mostly.

I’ve been reading about a group of people in Biblical times setting “forth into the sea, commending themselves unto the Lord their God.” When they were buried in the deep there was no water that could hurt them, their vessels being “tight like unto a dish….The wind did never cease,…and thus they were driven forth; and no monster of the sea could break them, neither whale could mar them; and they did have light continually, whether it was above the water or under the water.”

I love this visual of a journey similar to ours, where we are dashed upon the seas of life, trials seemingly as big as whales, winds of troubles never ceasing, duration unknown. And yet I love the idea of what being “tight” could mean for me, confident, prepared, trusting. That “they did have light continually, whether it was above the water or under the water” helps me retain hope that even when it feels like we’re drowning in our sadness, our overwhelm, our confusion, our adversities, there is never any water so black or heavy that it can sink us if we stay focused on the light that is consistently available and accessible and always more powerful than dark.

As I read and think about the strength these and so many other faithful people have had over the years, I can’t help but love my friend even more. She is these people personified, someone like us in today’s world but who is fiercely loyal to her God and trusting of his plan for her life.

There have been times when I’ve let go, when I’ve acquiesced to doing it his way. Rarely do his ideas make sense, but so far they’ve been easy enough to agree with: marry young, have kids, move around the country, buy a farm, say yes to uncomfortable opportunities, be ok with a diagnosis whatever it means. But what about the rest? I haven’t been able to get the phrase, “commending themselves unto the Lord their God,” out of my head. Am I there, am I ready to immerse myself in his will? I feel like I’m a little kid who, after splashing around in the shallow waters, now hesitantly stands teetering on the edge of the deep end while my dad patiently waits to catch me.

I pleaded silently in my heart and admitted the absolute truth of it, “I’m scared. What will happen if I let go, if if I do give my will to You? Where will I be then, will I be able to handle what You have in mind? I’m not that kind of person. I’m so weak.”

A peaceful, loving thought immediately warmed my heart. I wouldn’t be left alone. Phrases I’d heard—even taught—so many times flooded into my mind. “I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you. I will go before you and be your rearward; and I will be in your midst. I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up.” So many, I was overwhelmed with the rush of them all. I had forgotten to remember that I have and will never be left alone no matter what storms beset me.

“When they were encompassed about by many waters they did cry unto the Lord, and he did bring them forth again upon the top of the waters.” There were and always will be waters. That’s just the nature of our journey. But when our barges are tight, when our trust is secure, when we let him steer our journeys, we will be able to withstand the waves and the whales and the monsters of the seas and be assured that we will come “upon the top of the waters.”

Sleeplessness

Todd doesn’t usually do emergency call overnight these days, but he’s had more the past year, with a few the past couple of weeks.  Which I hate.  I stay up and read until I’m solidly tired, ever hopeful that I will just sail into morning without a break in sleep waves.  But almost never does that happen.  I usually find myself awake somewhere in the middle.  I’ve stopped looking at my phone to ascertain where we are because I already know.  It’s too early, it’s sleeping time, I would know if it were the right time to wake up.

And so there I am.  As I’m sure many of you my age and older are.  Then what?  I’ve tried a million different ways to trick myself into going back to sleep.  I’ve tried doing a monk-hypnotist-like chant, “Sleep, sleeeeep, sleeeeeep…”  I’ve tried praying for everyone I know.  I’ve tried just admitting I’m awake.  I’ve tried playing my quiet music on Pandora but all that does is tell me how many songs I’ve been awake through.

Finally I decided to write out the question in my journal.  “What can I do to go back to sleep?”  And I prayed.  Not really expecting an answer, but I figured why not, I pray about all sorts of specifically weird things.  It wasn’t at that exact time, but it wasn’t too many days later when the thought came to me as the answer: Breathe.  I considered that and remembered lying on my brown leather couch six years ago after my mastectomy recovering.  I was so desperate for some sort of pain relief that I did some deep breathing.  I’ve heard and read many variations, but the one I remember best is to breathe in for four counts, hold for four and release for four.  I know it’s deep if it involves my belly.  So I’ve tried focusing when I find myself awake, I quiet the clatter and chatter in my head and just breathe. In for four and so on.  I think if nothing else it relaxes me and helps me clear away my thoughts because it takes concentrated effort.  I don’t know how long before it works because at some point in the morning I wake up, unaware of my last breath, a lot like the surgery, where one moment I was counting and meeting the surgeons and the next I was awake with tubes coming out of my torso.  Surreal.

It occurred to me as I listened to at least an hour’s worth of instrumental music last night (because I was not breathing and focused), that this idea would be useful in so many scenarios, situations, and struggles we’re faced with in our awake times of the day.  Breathe.

I thought of a specific trial that had low-key (and occasionally intensely) plagued me for several years.  I had journaled about it copiously, and I’d prayed incessantly for resolution, understanding, and knowledge about how to deal with it.  I finally quit praying about it ever changing and decided instead to simply pray for the person involved.  For love.  I felt like I settled down and chose to just breathe through it, not knowing what the outcome would ever look like or expecting to ever feel peace.  

And I thought about how interesting it is that breathing slowly, mindfully, and deeply can have such a powerful resolute effect, a transformative power almost, carrying us from a state of worry and upset to a place of calm restfulness.

I realized just last night during my bout of wakefulness that this struggle, the turmoil, I’d been experiencing for all these years had somehow dissipated.  I was shocked actually.  But not in a jolting or even surprising way.  All my angst had faded and I realized I wasn’t bothered or concerned about it even a little bit anymore.  Something that had paralyzed me many times, that I had cried to Todd and God about even more, something that had caused me deep internal analysis and soul-searching, wasn’t even a problem at all anymore.  Bizarre, given the grief I’d felt for so long.

But just as our worries lead to restless nights where we toss and turn and fight sleep and wakefulness both, this struggle kept me from relaxing into my own restfulness of soul.  It was only when I let it go, when I tuned into what I could control and focused on my “breathing,” which to me meant loving and trusting, that I felt peace.  Just like my night sleep that transcends the issues of the day and the anxieties in my head, calm came once I finally gave up the fight and just trusted my breath.

Having her home

Cliche to say it’s not what any one of us expected the past few months to look like, who could’ve guessed schools would close followed by nearly everything else, and that there would be no definitive end in the foreseeable future. As likely as we were to make predictions, no one has a glass ball and very few among us are seers.

I have felt most tender toward the students in all of this, particularly graduating seniors who, in so many instances, were left to grieve events and milestones that traditionally helped with the transition from and closure of high school.  I have felt the want for my own kids, desiring to attend school more than they ever were aware, but especially my daughter whose freshman year of college came to an abrupt and unceremonial end.

She stayed on campus for awhile just to ride out what would surely be a temporary hiccup in her young adult plans.  But as the students began to clear out, as more and more amenities became unavailable, as classrooms and campus facilities emptied out, she felt increasingly isolated and alone.  She asked if she could come home for awhile.  Of course! But she was set on returning to her new summer apartment to be with other young students in a vibrant setting rather than hang out with her family in Montana indefinitely. We weren’t offended in the least, we know about her wiggles and what it takes for her to thrive. But how we loved having her with us for those three weeks.

We took a family road trip from Montana to Illinois to see our oldest son get married.  Some of the best memories of the summer were staying at hotels, eating out, late nights with the kids playing games and eating ice cream.  Day trips to Chicago and Lake Geneva were eye-opening highlights, soothing our anxious and somewhat emotional souls. We rented a charming house by the water, a picturesque and renewing cocoon as we officially transitioned to our supportive roles as parents.  All seven of us (plus my two sisters) spent those memorable days together, and they will forever be etched in my mind. As anyone who’s had children leave the nuclear family structure—the nest—can attest, there is nothing like having everyone together again.

But life is more than a vacation home, and so we returned to our various posts, she and her brother to their college life. Until she decided there was no point in staying in her new apartment.  She was alone most of the time in an unfamiliar environment without means to make new acquaintances.  We talked all the time, but still feeling unsettled, she surprised us by coming back one day.

The details of her travels are less important than what’s transpired in our home.  Although she’s been in and out all summer, making her way through Washington and Utah, she’s begun preparing for her pending church mission for the past several weeks, requiring someone (mostly me) to be with her as much as possible as a “companion.”  And this has been a delightful time for our family.

You know what most kids are like in high school, especially once they can drive, and especially toward the end.  A tender mercy God grants parents is the gradual way our children begin to detach from the family, compassionately allowing us to become familiar with their absence.  When she was in school we were competing with friends, activities, homework, job, and volunteer work, which means we rarely saw her except on Sundays. Without these diversions, we have her much more.

Now she’s home nearly all the time.  She’ll occasionally go to the stores with one of the kids, but mostly she’s just here. And it has been the most exquisite blessing in the world for us, to have so much uninterrupted, undistracted time with one of our children.  I cherish casual conversation, the slow minutes of just wrapping her in my arms, the long, long talks and cries about what she’s doing, what she’s missing out on, how she’s feeling, what she’s painting.  I love having her with me as we run errands and shop for groceries; and it warms my heart to hear the sewing machine, or to see her at the easel in the backyard, or to just stop and watch her curled up with the dogs on the couch for a mid-day nap.   We love hearing her laugh with her district, her new far-away but close friends, and we’re especially thrilled with her companion who has to have been heaven-sent; I honestly don’t know if there could’ve been a more perfect friend for Avery at this junction of her life and I’m beyond grateful.  I love the quiet days together, her on the computer wrapped up in blankets on the couch or at the kitchen table, me making her cookies or puttering in the kitchen or folding laundry nearby. It feels cozy, homey, comfortable, peaceful, perfect.

Our weekends are different these days as well.  Whereas before she’d have work and plans with friends till late at night, now we spend so much time together as a family hiking, eating out, going for ice cream, checking out thrift stores and garage sales, playing games, listening to music, going on walks, watching documentaries, lounging about just talking, and making fun treats.  She is our glue, our anchor, and it’s been such a blessing to have this time with our teenagers and her.  We love watching them dancing and laughing together and listening to the three of them up late talking or making a whole new dinner or starting a Disney movie as we’re heading to bed.  We love it so much that our kids are best friends and that they love being together.  These few months have drawn them even closer, and there is a palpable love and joy in our home because of these tight bonds.  The only times that are better are when our other kids come home.  There really is nothing better in the universe than having our whole family together, it really is heaven on earth.

Just as our weekend visits with college kids are always too short, our days with Avery are fading quickly.  We all realize the inevitable, that it’s time for her to move to the next phase of her mission and life.  We’re all getting a bit antsy, so thankful for this unexpected luxury of togetherness, but recognizing it as a temporary pause from what we all need to be doing.  She will serve her mission and return to college and work and friends, just as our others will continue to become increasingly independent and spend less and less time with us and the family.  It’s what we want, for sure.  We want our children to feel free to leave, to move on, to be their own people and to create lives of their own, of course.

But we also want to soak up the moments like these.  Because we know how fleeting they are.  I’ve sat on her bed, I’ve cuddled with her under the covers, I’ve listened and I’ve held her.  In my mind I know we can always recreate scenarios like these, but it just might never really be the same. We love having her all to ourselves.  I love that she’s been able to be present, here with us entirely, not distracted and running about. I love hearing her thoughts and opinions and plans, so different now that we aren’t “parenting” as much as just appreciating the person she has grown into and is still becoming.  I love the heart to heart nearness we’ve had, the sweet everyday memories of doing nothing and everything together.  I’ll miss this all so much, as we all do when someone close to us, someone we have loved so intensely, leaves us.  But I choose to be grateful for this unexpected detour in our lives, for this uncommon but blessed experience of having our daughter with us for just a little longer than planned.  It has truly been a gift from God that we will cherish forever.

Lawn lesson

It’s been this way for years now once school goes back, but especially the past couple.  Callum and Bronwyn have mowed lawns together for several years, but with B having cross country, and Callum having two other after-school jobs, it’s after 7 before he can get to the lawns he’s committed to.  Most days he goes from one job to the next; leaving at 6:20 a.m. and getting home past dark, those 14 hour days get pretty long, with homework on top of it all.

As a mom, I play my role intentionally even as it looks like I’m just hanging out in the background.  More than anything, I want the kids to feel loved.  But also to be competent, independent, and confident in their own abilities. And so I stay out of most of their business.

Before they could drive, I would take them to do their lawns and we would finish up in the fading autumn evenings.  I actually enjoy mowing and weeding; I grew up in an apartment and never learned to mow a lawn until after I started having kids.  But it quickly became my household job since I was the one home all day, and I came to relish the satisfaction of it all.

The past couple of years I’ve been helping the kids weed at one of Todd’s clinics; it’s large and always needs some care, something they don’t always have time for when they have several lawn jobs in a day.  Since I don’t mind weeding, it’s a tiny way to help them out.  So this past Friday I ran over early while they were at school and just tidied up a bit.  Which led to tree trimming, which obviously resulted in a huge mess of leaves and debris.  So I texted Callum and asked him if he would just blow all of it off the sidewalks and clean things up for me when he came later that night.  To which he replied, “Yeah.”  Pause.  Then a little later, “If you could mow a lil that would be so helpful.”

I had planned in my day to help a friend pack, I’d been washing rugs and bedding, cleaning three bathrooms and tidying the house getting things ready for our college kids to come. I’d just made dinner, I was in the middle of grating zucchini, and I had a mess and a pile of dishes on my hands.  But then she canceled and I found an extra bit of time.  I had the thought that I could totally fit in a little service for my son.  It was only 5, no one else would be home for hours. Wouldn’t it be so nice if Callum could come home a little earlier tonight and just be with us, wouldn’t that be such a fun surprise to see some of his work done like the shoemaker and the elves?

And so I hopped in my van and headed over to Todd’s clinic for the second time that day and went to work.  I had showered only a handful of hours before and here I was in the hottest part of the day.  But it felt good in a hard sort of way to move around and to be outside in nature.

I didn’t do all of it; I left him the back section.  But I felt like I had acknowledged his load. I felt glad I could help in the smallest way.  It made me smile to think of what his reaction would be.  Later on he sent me the text, “Thank you mom.  Ur the best.  Did you get some soda?” I didn’t know what he meant by that until later; he likes to treat himself to a soda after work and hoped I had done the same.  So cute.

But as I was finishing up under the pine trees, the final stretch, I thought about the simple gesture of a mom helping a son in really such a tiny way and wondered what I would say if he wanted to thank me.  I’ve never taken money; I just tell them to divide it up between them.  I dug deep and thought hard about what kind of token of appreciation a mom like me would even want.

And it occurred to me that the best gift he could ever give me would be to simply live what we’ve taught him.  That surprised me, and I challenged it because I hate manipulation and passive-aggressiveness.  Was that what this was? Was I just wanting to live worry-free and easy during this last little stretch with my teenagers? But no, I admitted that wasn’t where this was stemming from at all.  As I examined my final answer from all angles and asked myself why this was my conclusion, I realized it had nothing to do with my comfort or pleasure or how I would look as a parent. All I want as a mom is for my kids to be full of love, for themselves and others.  And I easily recognized that this is exactly how true happiness is achieved: by being kind and hard-working, honest and generous, just basic goodness.  I decided in that moment that is all the gratitude I’d ever want.

And I immediately thought of Heavenly Father and Christ and where this idea had originated, “If ye love me, keep my commandments.” I smiled.  How interesting.  It wasn’t until this moment when I was suggesting the same in my mind to my own son that I finally understood.  I realized they were invested in my happiness and success and confidence just as I wanted those same things for my children.  It wasn’t so they could play the part of an accomplished leader or parent, it was because they understand that when we are following their loving advice, we will be truly happy because we will be filled with and radiate love.  As a parent, I can’t think of anything I’d want more for my children than for them to know who they are and to live in peace and joy.  I considered this as I hauled the bulging plastic yard bags full of grass clippings and pushed the mower back to the truck.  How often do we dismiss the simple yet straightforward counsel of our parents because we erroneously believe they just want to control us? It has taken me stepping into this role, so many years into my parenting, that I recognized the admonition to follow Him, to keep His commandments, has nothing to do with our Father in Heaven or our Savior needing strokes from us. Their kind, wise pleas are based entirely in love for us, knowing that if our hearts are directed toward them, if we are living as they’ve taught, we will be filled with joy and love, which is exactly what I want for my own children.  How grateful I am for the quiet prompting to do a little mowing on an early summer evening.  Not only did my love for my son grow as I served in a small way, but my love and gratitude swelled for my Heavenly Parents and their Son who are so generous and patient as I’m slowly learning to love as they do.

Alone

I have never spent a night alone.  Ever.  Not in college, not as a grown-up, not ever. But this past summer I’ve been forced into aloneness more than ever before—as we all have been.  It struck me poignantly one warm evening as I sat against the light all by myself on our deck overlooking our spacious yard.  My family members were away on a three-day hike and my other daughter was sick.  I’m used to hours and hours by myself as a mom, it’s become my norm.  But because any hint of illness in a family is suspicious these days, I kept to myself. Self-isolation being the new buzzword, I reached out to no one.  And thus felt my aloneness heavily sink in.  Normally I have my people, my plans, my to-dos, even if I have to create them.  But on a calm summer night with only myself, I had none of that.  As I sat with it all, I felt weighted down by the unexpected sadness and melancholy, almost despondency, that crept over me.  I looked over my large home, the gardens, the lawn, the flower beds, our labors of love, and I was unimpressed.  None of it meant a thing to me without my people beside me.

My overarching sense was how normal this was for so many of my friends.  This emptiness, this longing for company, this desire for someone to notice that I was on my own, was manageable and endurable.  But only, I think, because I knew it wasn’t my normal.  Ordinarily this would not be my life.  But, I considered, it could be.  And it probably will be at some point.  I contemplated how distressing that would—will—feel.  And I vowed in that moment to be a more aware friend, grateful for the peek into an existence other what I’m accustomed to.

Over the years I’ve had bouts of aloneness, as everyone has.  I think what this moment did for me was awaken me to the fact that it could very well become my reality sooner than I might think.  And it hit home that I’m at a place in my life where I can make a difference to those who are living this way every day.  I don’t know why it never occurred me this solidly before; I think maybe because up until recently my life has been so full that any downtime was a relief, not something to mourn.  These days every day is downtime and instead of looking for solitude, I’m looking for company. My current life already feels slow and independent and detached as my family goes about its activities for hours and hours and hours without needing me; I felt appreciation for what others endure every day.

Of course, this reflection caused me to recall flashes, times as a younger adult when I’d been completely on my own: moving into the dorms without parents or siblings for hundreds of miles, knowing no one on campus, my roommate not showing up for days later, feeling completely overwhelmed by my independence.  Later as I’d move into each new apartment I’d feel the same trepidation.  As I did when I had my first baby and was packing to move across the country. I was on my own during those long hushed days, such a transition from busy college student and full-time employee, so much quiet and solitude with hours stretched out before me without concrete plans or duties except to keep my son alive.  Arriving in the midwest without connection, again, for hundreds of miles, we knew absolutely no one.  Todd began vet school right away, leaving me on my own to meander through hours that yawned into days and months and years.

But a person forgets all that as soon as the intensity lessens.  In every scenario, details changed, roommates showed up, I met the people around me, I began classes and work and had more kids.  My life flipped upside down and all I dreamed of was alone time; loneliness, isolation, that quiet desperation for connection all a distant and rarely recalled memory.

Fast-forward twenty years and I’ve come full circle, kids all but gone, few friends in my phase of life with as much discretionary time.  “You’re so busy, you have so many friends,” others knowingly but erroneously tell me.  I try to call them out on it, to tell them they have no idea.  Obviously, everyone’s surrounded by people, it looks like we all have a full schedule and a lovely social life, but no one knows for real what my days are like.  It’s actually amusing, and unfortunate, that we might not know how life really feels like in another’s shoes. 

Of course—of course—I make an effort.  As we all do. Obviously, it’s all been a little strained lately as we tentatively extend ourselves, constantly trying to guess another’s comfort level of intimacy.  I had the virus in mind, but that’s always the game we play, isn’t it?  I’m like you, I text, I find excuses to see people, I check-in, I call, I write.  It’s not that I don’t have projects, a yard, a house, kids, and a stack of books to busy myself with, I could be more proactive and productive for sure.  But despite all the distractions, I still feel alone much of the time.

I have keyed in to this hot topic, the pandemic of loneliness, more keenly recently.  As we all know, the ramifications are brutal. “Social disconnection turn[s] out to be worse for health than big-name problems like obesity, alcoholism, and pollution.  ‘The medical community had never considered that social factors could be even more important than biological factors like high blood pressure, obesity, or high cholesterol levels.  Our findings showed that it had more of an impact.’  In other words, people who don’t have a strong social support mechanism—think trusted friends and family members—persistently experience poorer outcomes, including inflammation, cognitive decline, depression, reduced immune function, and earlier death.  Epidemiological proof of innate value of human relationships… revealed—that [relationships] are not just good for us spiritually or emotionally; they’re good for us physically” (BYU Today, Summer 2020).  I don’t think any of this is a surprise as we innately feel the heaviness and pull loneliness has on us; it’s not a stretch to see the connection between it and diminished health.

And yet, as the researcher pointed out, “I don’t know if there’s anyone who has never felt lonely.”  I hear it all the time actually when I talk to women over the phone, as I receive warm and grateful expressions of love in the mail, as requests for visits petition me to return soon.  I sense the earnest desire for connection.

As I contemplate what my own experience with aloneness felt like on my deck that beautiful but still evening, as I think back to my own alone-times, as I'm drawn to all the friends I love so much who are living their days on their own, I wonder what to do with it all. I don’t believe it’s always necessary or even beneficial to avoid discomfort, so at the time I simply sat with it and allowed it to wash over and through me.  It helps to feel some adversity on occasion; I actually want that for my kids because it’s precisely what propels us to increased compassion and empathy.  I can’t think of a more valuable way to hone into what another person’s struggle might feel like than to taste it ourselves.  And so, moving forward, I’m still thinking about what it felt like to be alone, to have no one to greet me or talk about my day with, to have no expectations and nothing to look forward to.  I’m still wondering how I can be a more mindful and more attentive friend.  In that moment, it would’ve made such a difference to see even a text or to have someone ask me over even if I couldn’t, just knowing that anyone was aware of and thinking of me.  I felt like everyone around me had a purpose, a plan, a vacation, a family, an invitation, a place. I felt the lack of all of it intensely. I vowed then to change, to care more.  And it made me want to provide warmth for others, not because I pity them, but because I know what it feels like.  And I want to love them better.

Early Saturday morning

Too stifling, even at that sleepy hour, so I left the air conditioning to run all night.  I stayed up late watching Father of the Bride 2 and Sleepless in Seattle with my daughter, shows she had somehow missed in her 15 years but that are classics she should have in her back pocket.  After a prayer, just the two of us, I climbed into my darkened bed way past my usual time.  And slept deeply, waking only once, briefly.  And then again at 5, my favorite time in the summer.  The light just creeping out, birds greeting the day, the refreshing coolness of the night invigorating my warm body.  I wasn’t ready to commit to the day, and yet I couldn’t remain in a dark air-conditioned state when the world itself was ready to be awake.  At that early hour I threw open every window in the house, pulled away the blinds, and beckoned the light and the cool air to come join me for just a little more sleep.  Intoxicating, peaceful dreaminess ensued as I rested cocooned by my nature sounds and feels: sprinklers in the distance, an occasional vehicle on a far-off road, the bird songs of course, the crispness caressing my exposed shoulders encouraging me to nestle down just a little further into the covers.  I sighed with contentment and slept just a little while more.

I drifted off without care, it’s Saturday after all, no pressing responsibilities or deadlines or appointments, a day to myself without my family needing me.  I relish driving the streets at this early hour when I must.  Downtown loses its mystery in the early morning as I take my daughter to her Farmer’s Market post at 7:30, its crowds dispersed, its buildings exposed, its quiet halls still. Normally there’s so much cacophony and distraction, I delight in the opportunity of having the streets to myself.  Some mornings I might venture to garage sales or take a walk and maybe even once a year we’ll go to breakfast.  I might spend time in the yard, wet from its bath.  I may feel ambitious enough to tackle a home project or start a load of laundry, although I hate to interrupt the silent sleepiness of the others.  Every now and then, if I’m all alone, I’ll prop my pillows up and read for a spell.  But mostly I write.  Tiptoeing down the narrow staircase, I’ll find my familiar perch and feel an alive and well, albeit drowsy, version of myself here at my desk.  More than nearly any other activity in a day, writing feels like coming home. I luxuriate in moments such as these and look forward to them as few others. I fall back asleep with no expectation and no agenda, just blissful peace and gratitude for a morning such as this.

As I awake only a bit later, I see that 6:30 has arrived, as it always does; and I’m ready.  I can sleep no longer.  I must greet the day with my whole heart and see what it has to offer.  There’s no way to pretend I can’t hear it or smell it or see it or even feel it.  Everything within me chooses to be with it rather than miss it. Sleep can be had at any time of the day, but these early hours are fleeting, rejuvenating, refreshing, and calming, reminding me that our world is a beautiful home, that there is still much good in it, that this morning is a gift to savor.