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A tale of two best friends and the shadow mermaid
I finished writing my first novel on Tuesday, September 26, 2023. I’ll always remember the date because it is the birthday eve of my very best friend. As a birthday present, I send her my novel. I want her to be the first one in the world to read it. She’s everything to me. I trust her more than anyone.
What I don’t know about that evening is that she will finish the entire book start to finish, causing her to miss her morning workout the next day. Around 9:25 p.m. she tells me she’s gonna stop reading, but she doesn’t want to.
I wake up with a text from her saying she’s read the entire thing in one sitting.
I am beyond honored. Truly, I don’t yet have the words to express my gratitude to her. One day I will.
For now, I can rest a little. The writing of this novel took me five years total and probably took a full five years off my life. Now I can take a break.
Last night I slept more hours than I have in the past 7 weeks. At 4.5 hours total, I feel awake for the first time.
I wake up around 4:30 a.m. and stare at my ceiling, my favorite pastime these days.
I’ve rearranged the furniture in room and so now the shadows appear different. It is a curious contiguous shape. At first I thought it was a pirate ship. Early this morning I realize it is a warrior mermaid.
She faces the door of my room, her tail is the shape of an arrow. Her wild hair sticks up straight then beautifully falls and flows down my wall. She’s wielding a bat in her hand, watching my door and waiting for a battle. I’ve found my shadow protector and now I’ll finally begin to sleep.
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Miss Manners
When I received the Miss Manners award in fourth grade, it felt like the highest honor. The proud look on my parents’ faces for having raised me to win such an award made me feel as if I’d brought home a gold medal. There’s no doubt they had raised me to be a good person.
In my home growing up, I don’t remember us ever having a saying we lived by, like, “if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say it at all”, but the expectations were crystal clear. I noticed what parts of myself received praise, and what didn’t, and began to shape my personality accordingly.
I needed to be kind, polite and quiet. No disruptions. Be as small as you can. Above all, make others comfortable.
I’ve only just realized how much I’ve carried this with me into adulthood. On the surface there’s nothing wrong with being kind or polite or quiet. It has really become part of my identity because I’ve always wanted everyone to like me. And, truthfully, that’s been so easy when you are those three things. I can make friends with anyone.
But now I feel myself shifting. Kind above all else is not kind to me. When everyone else comes first, where does that leave me?
When I’m polite above all else, where is there room to speak the truth?
When I’m quiet above all else, I live inside myself and can’t share my life with anyone.
These questions keep bubbling up to the surface. I feel lately that I’m stepping away from how I once was and stepping into my power. It feels so freeing.
For example, this may sound nuts, but I’m finally letting my face rest. My entire life, my mouth has been permanently turned up into a smile because I needed everyone to feel comfortable around me. I needed to look the part of that kind person. It is only over the past year that I have allowed myself to look neutral. My face doesn’t have to be pleasant all the damn time.
I’m also finding my voice. I’m learning that I can be straightforward and that’s doing a service to people around me when I tell the truth.
I don’t really know what it is about being in your 30s, but I’m enjoying the great unlearning and undoing of parts of me that no longer serve me.
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Joanna, Morrie, and Henry
I’m equal parts in shock and proud of myself. My first essay has been published in the Boston Globe. It is a highly personal piece describing in detail just how mean I’ve been to myself over the years and my plan for slowly changing my inner dialogue.
My essay is included in a weekly column following a beautiful piece by the son of Morrie, who inspired the book Tuesdays with Morrie. Thinking about how my essay rises to the level of this article and all others before it, gives me the inspiration to keep going.
My goal has always been to write a book about my sister, but until I’m able to dedicate myself fully to the writing process, I continue to write, even if, on the surface, the topic is completely unrelated, because underneath lies the purpose: to stay active and inspired for when the time is right to write about her.
With the payment I’ll receive from this essay, I will carry my dream forward. My plan is to use the money to pay for renting the room in Concord where Henry David Thoreau was born. I’ll spend a day there to give myself space and time to think about my book, or whatever else comes to mind. The room holds a replica of the desk Thoreau wrote on during his time at Walden Pond. What could be more inspiring?
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The girl in the yard
I’m too far away from nature these days and perhaps that is why I’m feeling so unbelievably off. I’ve reached a point where my kids’ voices sound like noise. I don’t hear them. I haven’t felt like myself today, yesterday or the day before. I started crying in my boss’s office yesterday over something that I could normally figure out on my own.
I used to spend at least an hour a day working on and establishing our permaculture garden. Our front yard used to be all weeds. The sun had scorched all of the grass away, making a perfect home for tall weeds to grow which my husband and I would pull out by hand every day. I’ll reiterate that we were visible from the street during this process and received many comments from neighbors about using weed killer instead.
After a while we looked around at all the other yards and realized that we didn’t want to fix this problem by seeding more non-native grass that would just die down again and leave us permanently weeding. During this time I read a statistic that half of all water usage in the United States goes to watering the lawn to keep it green and better than your neighbor’s. That is truly insane. We simply are not those people.
And, without knowing it, we embarked on a year and a half long journey to kill our lawn and establish a permaculture yard with local, native plants that don’t need daily watering because they can survive just fine in the area where we live. They are from here.
Through trial and error and a failed solarization attempt, we eventually covered the entire front lawn with cardboard leftover from people who had recently moved to the area and were all too happy for us to swing by and take their boxes away. We layered the cardboard over the weeds and topped it with compost to smother what was below. We learned that this process is called sheet mulching. It took us forever, but I was happier when I was outside digging and getting my hands dirty every day. I think a little part inside of me withers when I’m stuck inside.
Now when I look outside my front window while I’m working I see bees buzzing around the catmint, I notice butterflies flying in the breeze, I see the changing colors of the flowers and even saw a snake one day slithering around by the new rock path. It makes me so much happier than looking at a lifeless lawn.
But now that it is established, the yard doesn’t need my constant tending. And, believe me, that’s what we wanted, but I don’t have an excuse to go outside because there are no more weeds to pull.
I truly am overworked and exhausted at the moment. Both of those things are true, but I’m wondering if I can come back to center a bit by having that dedicated outside time like I used to. I’ll try that today and see if it helps me return to….me.
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My representative
My real self lives at home and I send a representative to work.
My real self wanders around the front yard in dirty green puddle boots, eccentrically pulling out weeds by hand and day dreaming about its future as a grass-free zone, inviting in local pollinators and animals.
My representative shoves her feet into uncomfortable heeled shoes, business casual attire and gives off a I-have-it-together vibe.
She’s organized, thoughtful, careful about each and every interaction, motivated and kind. She is quite impressive when I see her. That’s why she’s my representative, she’s great with people.
My real self appears at the front door after my commute home, she’s exhausted from every interaction, the bright lights, the dumb shoes, the carefully crafted persona.
She sits in the bath in the dark where no one is popping in “just say hello”… for the most part. She has room in her heart for two beautiful babies, a perfect boy and a girl (in that order), curious about what’s behind the shower curtain. In that bath she reappears. Calmer and centered. And, I like her.
She’s sort of naturally gloomy on the inside, but that doesn’t stop her from experiencing the beauty that she’s collected and curated over the years.
She’s not sure her work and authentic self will ever truly mix together harmoniously as one, but for now, that’s ok. Maybe they just weren’t meant to be.
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Into the lion’s den
If no one is talking about pandemic fatigue anymore, I will.
Because if left unspoken it will take me down.
It is the first Monday of 2022 and there’s not enough coffee brewing in the entire world to keep me awake.
It feels like 2020 all over again, except instead of being able to look at the situation with a set of fresh eyes like I could the first time, I’m wandering through it, very confused, with two years of trauma on my back.
My house is quiet for the first time since before Christmas, but my mind is loud.
It screams at me to read more news, to be afraid, and to hone in on that the small, barely detectable, possible figment of my imagination scratch in my throat.
But the loudest, shreikiest scream is the one that yells at me, saying “how the hell could you send your kids to school this week?”
After everyone has been at holiday gatherings during the surge of the most transmissible variant to date, it feels like sending them into the lion’s den while I get to work safely from home.
It feels really bad.
There’s no other way to describe it.
But the system seems set up against me, in many ways, to make an impossible choice.
Yes, I know, they will “probably be OK”, but when we say that, we’re really saying is that our kids will “probably not die”. And I don’t think my mind will ever be OK with that reality. -
Almost Grinch
My heart is not three sizes too small
But three sizes too big
You wouldn’t be able to tell, though, because I have dreams about ruining Christmas
Before Christmas I do think about stealing all of the presents worldwide to see what would really happen on Christmas day
How would Christmas day shift, how would the lead up to Christmas change if we weren’t seeking and giving trinkets to our most cherished family and friends?
How could the gradual slow down, grinding to a peaceful halt, give us more space to focus on each other?
I would trade your gift for a heartfelt walk or a cup of coffee any day of the week
That’s not to say that I do not appreciate your time and effort in thinking about me, but I also know that time and effort is mixed up in a giant snow globe of holiday stress
I’d like to take that off your plate, and, guess what, you don’t even have to hang with me, if you don’t want to
For the first time in my life this week, I baked bread and sent it overnight in a red bubble wrapped box
I showed up at the post office and was the person buying bubble wrap, tape and boxes on the floor figuring it all out like an unprepared teenager before a big presentation
When it was finally together, I paid for all the things and turned around to find another woman sitting on the floor, in the same, exact predicament.
I looked at her and handed her the tape and bubble wrap
She smiled at me behind her mask, I saw it in the crinkle of her eyes
And I was reminded of the true Christmas spirit, what I am yearning for this time of year
Giving one another what we really need: Kindness, generosity, love
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Be kind and stand up
Tonight at bedtime you looked at me sweetly with your perfect face and asked me if I could stay for a minute longer.
Sometimes I’m so tired that I say I can’t because I just want to make it to the couch without answering one more question.
But tonight, you asked. And I stayed.
You finally had me alone, your mama, without little sister wailing or vying for my attention, to be fully present. You took the opportunity to bravely share what’s not kind in your world, what you’re experiencing, and what perplexes you.
While you speak I’m reminded and honored that you trust me enough to share your feelings. And I want you to know that I don’t take that lightly.
I listen deeply and hear you, and what you need to know about me is that I’ll always show up for you. You were born wise and deeply kind, and are completely and so genuinely shocked with people you meet in the world who would not choose to exude kindness at every moment.
How can I tell you that it’s not you who needs to change? How do I explain that people are complex and come with their own uncontrollable baggage?
What I’ve never needed to tell you is to continue to be kind when others aren’t. You just show up that way. Every day.
I can’t change the world around you, but I’m starting to give you the tools to bravely move through it. I want you to know this: You can be kind and stand up for yourself.
No one ever taught me that, but since I’m practicing this myself, will you practice right along with me?
And, I promise I’ll be better at staying “just a minute longer”.
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Poseidon’s rage
One day when you are both teenagers I think I’ll miss the days when I could break you out of a bad mood in no time at all. Your moods change as often as waves upon the sand. One moment we’re living the perfect beach day and the next you are embodying Poseidon’s unpredictable rage upon our home.
And when what happens, I can swoop you up into my arms while all hell is breaking loose at dinner and twirl you around to Let it go until you forget that you were screaming ferociously seconds ago at the offensive chicken on your plate.
What will happen when our go-to fart jokes are no longer funny? The joy of an 8 year old laughing harder than I’ve ever seen in my life when we call him out for letting one rip is irreplaceable. And when you sulk because you’re bored, a simple hair mustache makes it all disappear.
You’ll change one day. And we’ll adapt with more refined tools, twirls replaced with walks and fart jokes switched out for late night talks. And, when it comes, I vow to always try to help you and never make you feel like having emotions means you are unstable or that something is wrong with you. I’ll sit with you in any emotion, just like your incredibly wise papá does for me, every day. -
The creativity trap
There’s a dangerous creativity trap that nobody told me about and I fell into it. For years. And it goes like this: You do not have time to write, so you’ll never be a real writer.
So, naturally, I began seeking innovative ways to carve out time for creativity because how the hell would I ever find time amidst the beautiful mess that is raising children.
I spent months writing and applying for a writer-in-residence program and found blissful writing retreats located in a log cabin on the side of a mountain that you must hike barefoot and blindfolded to in order to prove you really want it. Now, on the surface, these ideas are wonderful, but have one thing in common: they are far-fetched, one-off avenues to creativity. Even if I had landed the writer-in-residence program (which, I clearly did not, and have the rejection letter to prove it), there would have been a finite start and ending date.
What I’m just now beginning to tell myself, and believe, is that a real writer is a person who writes. Every day. And, it can be different every single day. Some days I’ll barely find the will to scribble a few sentences down on a sticky note in between removing candy cane sludge from my toddler’s hair and remembering to respond to that text from ten days ago. Yet, there will be other days where I’ll add a few paragraphs to my book or write a little poem that’s been swirling around in my brain. But most importantly, my writing doesn’t even have to be GOOD or GREAT. I can and will become a better writer by the simple act of writing regularly and reminding myself to not fall back into the creativity trap.
