Coloring outside the lines

It’s funny how as you grow older, the things you notice about your life are different than when you were young. The moments that give you peace come from a different place, and it’s little things that take on huge meaning. As I take each day through this pandemic, not only do I notice the isolation, but the inconvenience of all the handwashing, and how I’ve stopped wearing lipstick behind my mask. While old habits die hard, my new norm has focused my attention on the strange aches and pains, the coughing and wheezing that isn’t prompted by pollen, and just plain getting older. My new norm now includes supporting my midlife mentality with the grace of aging. I have tried to embrace the process, but it has been difficult. Nevertheless, my experience is showing more on my visage these days than I’d like.

I take great pride in knowing I don’t fall into making any fashion mistakes mentioned in the latest “Five Fashion Faux Pas after Fifty” TikTok videos and am learning to abide by the expectations we all have of women of a certain age. But the fine lines in my smile, on my hands, and in my daydreams are here to stay. These lines are connecting my dots – and my spots – and charting a course through my midlife in ways that dampen my spirit. How can I remain young at heart while living old in my skin?

So recently, I finally reached down deep to find the little girl who dreamt of that 64-color crayon box complete with sharpener. I needed that imagination to start boldly coloring outside of my lines to make something even more beautiful and alive and ready to set my midlife world ablaze. I’m fighting to hang onto her as she argues for the need to make that zebra with purple stripes and not listen to what is appropriate for a zebra in the world today. You tell them, little girl. Paint the sky red and that zebra with purple stripes. Those dots and lines don’t need to define us…define me. Aging like a fine line should only guide us to color outside those lines to paint our world with who we are, not show the world who they think we must become. You tell them.

One lone Santa…

This year, I took down the holiday decorations right after Christmas. This is unusual for me, as I revel in the coziness that is created by the festive trees and bows and glitter – even though all the presents have been opened and the cannisters of holiday treats are still out for all to enjoy. Fueled by my trente-sized coffee, I tackled this work, driven by an unseen force to clean the space, sweep the holiday aside, and move on to the new year. In a combination of zeal and precision and sadness, I was mentally saying goodbye to what was and preparing for the year to come.

There is a sadness to stripping my tall Christmas tree of all the beaded branches, bedazzled birds and shiny balls with their misshapen hooks. I normally go through a process of removing branches first, then fragile glass and crystal pieces, etc. until I have only the basic ornaments and ribbon left. The remaining ribbon, drooping and scattered around the base, having been pried off the top and pulled towards the bottom, rests in a mess I can wrangle as I attempt to roll it in a manageable spiral. As I tread in circles around the tree, I feel like the frustrated person banging their head against the wall….round and round I go – where I stop, no one knows. It mirrors my mood of the deflating balloon, and when the tree is completely empty, it is as lifeless as I feel.

This empty tree parallels my mood. Not more than a month or so ago, I fluffed and hung every bit of sparkle and ornamental memory of days gone by to display for all to see. The tiny lights added a glow to every moment, making me feel optimistic about my life and humbly grateful that year for what seemed like life worth living. In the glow of my evening tree, I would often whisper to the universe my grateful Thank Yous. Joy was truly in these moments. But now, the halls are no longer decked, and my twinkling reminders to be grateful are gone.

The emptiness between the bustle of Christmas and the ringing in of the New Year is often a time I feel lonely. Who gathers and where during this time can define one’s core family and home base. And those who turn to social media to connect with friends across the miles, this forum can often distort the nature of true friendship, teaching us that because someone sees the details of our life automatically creates a bond with them. It does not. What I have learned, in my midlife, is that friendship requires people reaching out to the other, across the divide, to be a part of each other’s lives, not just be a witness to it. During the holidays, when I make extra effort to strengthen my ties to those I hold dear, I lean too far to reach across this divide. And when I fall, I don’t feel brave, but defeated.

It was in this moment that my bare tree found me, only to share a message I needed to hear. In my melancholy self-reflection, I had found a lone Santa ornament, tucked away among the center branches. Hiding in plain sight, it had blended in with the brown and green twigs that had lost their shiny adornments. Unknowingly, I had regarded my work as done, my tree was bare, and my holiday over. What I found is that it was not necessary to shine a light on the spirit of the season. Finding him only reminded me that even when we cannot see what may be right in front of us, we are never truly alone.

The ghost in the machine

The holiday season always evokes that feeling of sparkle and adventure in me. While my household no longer holds the children who come and go, I look forward to the time when I can host my friends and families in my home or within the festiveness of the city. Being an empty nester has allowed me to grow as an explorer, becoming brave enough to leave my cozy home base during the darker season to engage the world around me with those whom I hold dear. Mindfulness for me during this season of sentimentality is about really seeing the people I’m with, relishing the moment, and helping to create that joy in all we are during this time.

So it was my holiday endeavor to share with my children my memories of days gone past in a way that conveyed the stories they were too young to remember. Photographs presented still life moments of special times, but on video I captured first words, first steps, and first missing teeth. Holidays and birthdays were recorded in documentarian style, knowing even back then that these days would become self-evident in the journey my children were taking. Giddy in my excitement of receiving the final product of this Christmas endeavor, I also expected a trip down memory lane with the extra features of this conversion. Among the multitude of recordings I had provided were mystery cartons and boxes I had never viewed. It was unclear how far back this digital journey would take me.

My goal was to share our family story with the next generations. Would these cannisters of celluloid give my family a sense of history like old Polaroids never could? I clicked on the first icon, seeing a 1951 parade and then the Rose Bowl football game. Numerous captured moments of Central California history, of which John Steinbeck might even be proud. Grainy, silent moments in the time of my family’s past filled my screen. As I watched, I saw the entrance of a young California rancher and his wife, who was dressed in a starched blouse and full skirt. As the camera set on a tall, slim, dark haired beauty of a girl, maybe 14 years old, I stopped because I was looking at a reflection of myself. My mother had appeared in frame, in a setting that took me back to my childhood. The setting of my favorite Christmas memories. This was my mother, smiling, walking, and laughing in her childhood home.

Because my daughters would grow up not seeing my side of the family very often, I wove the fondest of my childhood memories into their daily course of living. Tales of the ranch, the sprawling patio on which my sister and I rollerskated, along the midcentury splendour of Christmas in California with Grammy and Granddad likely fell short on the ears of little girls. But now, there was video to back every story I’d told them.

This shift in my personal timeline stopped me in my tracks. It was like seeing myself, but not myself, filmed in a family story I knew little about. It was like seeing a ghost – the ghost in this machine was forcing me to rewrite everything I knew about my early life. How could there be so much I did not know about my mother and who would eventually become my father?

Seeing my young mother with her grandparents and cousins and little brother camping among the 1950s Sequoias expanded my family story in a way nothing else could. Like bellows on a fire, this richness of my ancestry had blown life into my identity in a way only personal history could. Like that grandfather telling that same story over and over at the dinner table, I now had added depth of who I was and from whence I came to the mother…to the person I’d become for my children. The life I had crafted from the experiences as I remembered them became more layered, more vibrant with each roll of film I viewed. Mindful of my past but remembering to live in my moments, I realized that these digital ghosts did not haunt my present, but made it richer. I now approach the new year with a confidence that is grounded, like the roots of those Sequoias, in the foundation of our generations reaching for the skies as I grow.

The box of my remains

I had pulled out the storage containers of my childhood belongings. My scrapbooks were filled with greeting cards and family photos, my yearbooks and other items all documented the history of how I came to be. With my divorced parents both now gone, all these things contained significance for me, because it told the world how I lived to become who I now am. When my mother was young, a house fire destroyed many of her baby and childhood things, about which I would later feel such sorrow. As I married and became a parent, I felt the necessity to store the artifacts of both my life and the lives of my children. Even a house fire of my own, in which I was fortunate enough not to lose all of my mementos, could not deter my personal mission of becoming my family historian. I learned how precious a past can be when the world is filled with many things that can rob you of proof that you once lived an incredible life.

Now that my children had grown up and moved out, the mantle of responsibility lightened for me. I was able to share more of myself as a person, and not just as a mother. The more books and boxes I gave to my children, the freer I became. Unbound by the ties that kept me in the role of motherhood, I now tethered myself to my passions – who I loved, what I cherished, and what I did for the others in my life. Clear shelves, empty containers – but one box remained. Filled with random trinkets and buttons and poems, it was what was left of the past. No captioned photos or evidence of a life – just stories that spilled out like someone who’d just been cured of amnesia. I could run my fingers gently over these buttons, coins and ribbons immediately recalling who had done what, the smell of her perfume, or the fear in their eyes. No one but me could appreciate the sentiment each of the tokens could evoke.

So, while my children can now share their past with their children, I have become the storyteller for my grandchildren, pulling tales from what I’ve saved of myself – the small box of my remains. I can appreciate what I have become, so that I can give what I now am to my family: A bigger dreamer, a better mother and wife, and an empowered woman unafraid of what lies ahead.

The words we live by

When I was young, my father always repeated this saying our family: Words are what we live by. It was one of those sayings that could be used to reinforce a lesson of childhood, explain the good fortune in a negotiation, or win a family argument. Whenever he dusted off that phrase, you knew he was going to a make the final point in whatever conversation that was being held. As though an artifact of the time, I believe he meant to teach my sister and me that despite your circumstances, your word was your bond – and what you said mattered, even when the situation worked against you. The logic we learned was that what you said led to what you did and what you did became who you were.

Once I became a young adult, with the new weight of responsibility as a member of society, I learned that what people said and what they did were often two different things. I learned the subtle nuances between the politics of language and humanity of intent. It became clearer that unless you walked the talk, your words didn’t carry as much weight. Excuses for behavior became more commonplace. So I lived my life understanding the importance of words, but that my actions would do the talking for me. They would exemplify my character, despite my circumstances, in what would grow to be my complex life.

These days, the people in my circles are using words and phrases to talk about the world around them in ways that cause me to rethink the words of my father. The words I use are becoming more important as I talk about issues so much greater than myself and my community. Words like power, equity, color, they/their take on new meaning as I find a way to navigate the lessons I’m learning about how to walk the talk in this new age. People seem to take the words literally, rather than for the idea they represent or for the direction we need to take. Instead of understanding what the lessons of one’s holy book are hoping to teach, there are those who underline the quote to justify pushing away the very people who should be served. To find some reprieve during the violence of racism, there are those who resort to labels and name calling as ways to draw an insular line between “us and them”. When the phrase, “Black Lives Matter” initiates such discourse about the meaning of the words rather than the plea for perspective and tolerance, it becomes clear to me that we are now in an age where words must again be the focus of our attention.

In order to represent the structure of the society we need to become, all of us will need to address why our words matter. While he and she were the pronouns we understood, using “they” means more than just a plural – it represents the desire to include those who fall outside the labels of the past. The reference to people of color is not just the shade of one’s skin, but the acknowledgement that color is in the eyes of the beholder – as well as the power that goes with it. At what point will we realize that leading with our words towards an evolution of change will be critical for us all? In an era of the shrinking attention span and prolific sound bites, we must begin to use this new vocabulary in order to see the change we want to be. While he was not perfect, my father was right in this: we must not fear the words we use, but be brave enough to ensure they are used to understand each other better. These new words must be what we live by so that we can travel this road together and not leave anyone behind.

The weight of personal choice

This week has had some of the hottest, most uncomfortable temperatures this year. The humidity and the high temperature are often combined to produce a “comfort index”, so when the weather forecast starts sharing this indicator, you know the day ahead will be a long, hot one. Today was one of my “dedicated” work days in the office, so the heat made the morning rush hour commute even less appealing. Nevertheless, I remain grateful to still have a job and try not to focus on the pandemic chaos around me. In a time where many are still suffering, I have tried to make my midlife simple, streamlined, and supported with moments of self care.

My job has been one of the constants in my life these past 18 months, and in uncertain times, feeling like I have control over something worthwhile each week gives me a fortunate touchstone some have lost. What I find confusing is that while 2020 seemed filled with worry about our very health and safety, 2021 is filled with debate on how to safeguard it. The ongoing, online arguments about personal choice and the feeling of “can’t we all just get along” have divided my family and friends like politics never could. The deep seated resentment against the call to vaccinate brings to the surface perspectives on basic personal truths that have shaped how my loved ones choose to live their lives. I struggle to keep the ugly debate at bay. In 2020, where I went to bed each night hoping for a solution to Covid19, I now slumber in 2021 with the worry that my family will be affected by the myriad of Covid variants. I want to remain grounded and mindful in my midlife, focused on the “now”, but I worry I may survive my children. I fear the potential sickness of my grandchildren and others who are still learning about both personal and social responsibility. But with the silently running undercurrent of dread, my mental health has almost reached DefCon One.

So it is at this stage where I began the day, on my commute to work. As the traffic signs indicated that stand still traffic was ahead, I expected a delay. What I did not plan was this: a frantic, mama dog running along the shoulder of the highway, tongue out and panting heavy. White with an occasional black patch of fur, this dog was attempting run out into multilane, rush hour traffic, trying to get to some place safe. Only focused on her survival, she ignored me and the multiple commuters who were driving at a crawl next to her, trying to keep her from darting into an oncoming car. We all soon stopped on the shoulder, bribing her with treats and opening our car doors to entice her to safety. Our attempts were met with frenzied barking as our group of would be rescuers wondered what more they could do. We’d offered her treats, the authorities were asked to help, and we’d been struggling within our ability to keep her safe. In the end, driven by her fear, she continued running forward – as though with blinders on – hoping to get to some place ahead where she could rest. In the end, I could do no more and drove away, surprisingly filled with anger at the dog for where she’d chosen to run and put her life in danger.

I’d no more turned off my flashers when I started to cry. My anger had turned to anguish, in that I saw what the likely outcome would be but helpless to do anything about it. The weight of my choice to withdraw did not change my feeling of responsibility. The weight of one’s personal choice on others does not lighten the feeling of desperation in times of danger. For many, onset of the pandemic brought families closer together, highlighting the personal choice to value family and safety above all else. Now, the choice to vaccinate is highlighting the personal choice to be an individual, separate from the weight of responsibility that is placed on others. I hope it is soon that we all stop running out of fear and stop to see the others who are carrying the load who might be there to help.

Climbing our family tree

Just recently, I became a grandmother again. The joy of seeing my daughter give birth to what would be the next generation of our clan filled me with pride. As a mother of a blended family, I have learned that the significance of family doesn’t always come with blood, but the love you cultivate in the relationship of family. During this past year, relationships and connection to kin has taken on new significance for me. Even friendships looked different this year, as we retreated to our homes and safe spaces. Our focus was on the tight circles that surrounded our loved ones and our lives. We placed our arms around our little world and unintentionally disengaged from those who fell outside of it, if only by a little. It was a time when I felt more alone than I had in a long time. I longed for my missing family and social connection and the meaning these relationships brought to my life.

As many likely did, my family explored the boundaries of our ancestry to research our origins. We wanted to know more about from where we came, and learn about the distant relatives mentioned by our aging parents each holiday and family reunion. Surprisingly, as we began to climb our family tree, we discovered branches we had never seen. As leaves on our tree, each photograph and census report hinted at stories and a history we had yet to uncover. Not only did we match our genetic leaves with others in our past, but we learned about our ethnic heritage and those ancestors who had a knack for business. We became detectives and uncovered the hidden stories about those who suffered loss and married again. School photographs shared confirmation of an education, and the births, deaths, and marriages told stories of hardship and the baby who didn’t survive. Most of all, we climbed our tree high enough to reach a branch we’d never seen before, living family we could meet and with whom we could share the love that would eventually deepen our roots and strengthen our family tree. We found new family who, with a phone call or an email, became our daughter, our sister, our grandmother, and aunt.

Discovering new family was scary, but exciting in a way we had not expected. In my midlife, I have often looked back at how much my tiny family before motherhood has grown from the sapling of my childhood to a craggy oak tree of motherhood and beyond. Whether by blood or by bond, this seasoned oak continues to be enriched by each family member who sprouted roots in this fertile ground. I hope that as we grow the shade we provide continues as well.

One step forward, two steps…

In a time where movement is restricted and crowds are the new social evil, these days are filled with work and family. I keep busy and tend to the here and now but once the day is done I try to find quiet time that calms my mind. Being at home this much is not normal for me, and I’ve become restless. I’ve become sedentary and still and I don’t like it.

As I approached my midlife, I developed a new found appreciation of household freedom. Things were more in order. I didn’t feel obligated to maintain the same meal schedule as when my kids were home. I enthusiastically dispelled the sense of responsibility I overcultivated as a young mother and enjoyed the ability to stay up late, see friends on a whim, and not cook to please everyone in the house. These BP times (Before Pandemic) supported a more “free to be me” exploration. But not any more. As we have shut our doors, wear our masks and stay close to home, everyone has had to make changes. I now have family who have returned to the nest, as the struggle continues to adapt to our new normal.

I admit, this opportunity to focus on the present and remain healthy and happy has been a blessing. I am working to be more attentive to my relationships. I attend to my self care. I try (but not as successfully) to be more active. The fact that I now assess the quality of my day by the readout of my sleep and steps has shifted me into a new paradigm. For most of us, this pandemic has introduced too many plates to juggle. The perspective I hold on my daily living is now rooted from my home base and how I must pivot to adjust to each new challenge. Pivot has become the new word for me. The discovery of my ability to pivot has strengthened me. It is not just the steps forward I take each day but how I respond to the daily events of the world.

Strangely enough, I find a renewed sense of purpose in this perspective on life. Maybe I’ve been too focused on moving forward, moving fast, moving ahead and beyond this craziness. It’s not sufficient to keep up. Maybe my athletic prowess needs work, as I “dodge, duck, dip, dive and dodge”. In fact, demonstrating the best possible pivot might better be served from my preteen fashion modeling class. Each step forward gets you the end of the runway, but your pivot is what shows you off to the most people in the room. So as 2020 has brought me to the edge of my personal runway, here’s to the pivot showing off my best possible self to 2021.

Cracks in the ceiling

During this time of COVID-19 and the importance of limiting exposure to the outside world, I believe we have all spent a little more time focused on home. More of my friends and family put up holiday decorations earlier than normal. Wanting that feeling of coziness and safety among dear ones was key to supporting one’s emotional health. I was sent plenty of images showing Hallmark movie holiday décor and families in festive attire. Social media blurred its lens to display pictures that others in our community wanted us to see – that they were making it. They were surviving. That they were ok and looking ahead to healthier and happier times. But this season, not all families wore matching Christmas pajamas.

In many families, like mine, there is discord at home. Fractures in our faith in what is right and what is wrong have made me uncomfortable with those who tell me my mask makes me someone who doesn’t value freedom. I am afraid of the growing violence and hate disguised as support for our leadership. And most of all, I am concerned that friendships are being torn apart. At a time when my world is small, and restricted, my relationships with family and friends are what I have left to connect me with the outside. While my midlife self is decluttering my home of memories and emotional baggage from the past in order to live in the present, it means that I am more closely examining the four walls of my world. And right now, my world is my home. My door keeps sickness out and lets family in. My friendships help me sort out what to keep and what to throw away. However, in these desperate times, I am not feeling as safe in my community. The overly attentive mother is examining her midlife with scrutinizing detail, and what she is finding is not pretty.

The complexity and challenge of remaining healthy and compassionate when the world around you is crumbling can be overwhelming. The discourse of the day about vaccines, masks, and even safe holidays at home put me at odds with what normally makes me healthy and happy this holiday season. While I should have been decking the halls and making merry, I was fortifying my structure and engaging in debate that weakened my faith in my community. This new year, I have found cracks in my ceiling. I just hope that my roof, and the roof over us all, doesn’t come tumbling down.

The power of letting go

It was receiving some unexpected news from one of my children that tore me from my comfy spot in midlife to shove me into the real world of motherhood again. Apparently, I had become too complacent; or rather, I’d become too comfortable in my unchallenged life. I was planning, I was achieving, I was thriving in the mindfulness of the mundane. I had found a moment of peace as all my family seemed to be working their plans and coming to family Christmas. I was happy. I could deal with the extra few pounds from the quarantined routine. I could cope with the change of wearing a mask and the new grocery store layout. But every once and again, like now, something reminds me that I am no longer a mother managing her matriarchy. I am, for moments like these, a supportive sideliner of the family tree.

Times like this are becoming more frequent. Fearing for what might happen to those I love. Somehow, if they had just listened to me the world would be right. If I had just said the right thing, moved the right way, spoke in the quiet voice that screamed the answer, life would be different. The outcome would have been for the best. The world would have been perfect. It is so hard to be rooted in the moment, yet respectful of my children’s lives to leave the past where it belonged, and walk along side them rather than lead. My heart cries mama tears when I land in this spot. How can I be strong for the both of us? How can I fix this? How can I love you enough to make this go away?

This may sound foolish to some who have not lived this motherhood. My children are wonderful and unique and at times perfect and sometimes broken and I know this. What I am learning is that with my midlife I carry a new kind of strength. I love a new kind of love – one that is tough and resilient in ways I never knew. I no longer carry my babies in my arms, or shelter them in my shadow. I now have to watch them as the walk ahead of me, breathing life into their own world. Trembling in my heart, my mama tears soon cease as I find the strength to release my fear. I am finding the power to let go and it terrifies me. I will not be the same, but different. And my children will be better because I did so.