Saying goodbye to winter

This winter has been unsettling for me. Each year, my attempts to brave the snow and ice that come with the holiday season are met with a fuzzy blanket wrapped around me and a steaming mug of tea. While my hot flashes have settled down for the foreseeable future, the new need for warmth was even more significant this year with the bitter sting of personal loss: Loss of friends, loss of family, and the absence of things I thought I’d have or hold by now. However, as the days are short and the darkness prevails this time of year, I find myself feeling lost in the chill of winter – as though something on my journey through midlife had been left unfinished. I had successfully cleared the shelves of my belongings, shared my stories with loved ones, and unburdened my soul of emotional anchors to my past. I had focused on what was within my control, but I remained restless and unsettled, and I could not understand why.

Thus far, my journey into midlife had been about loving and letting go of so many things: the hope and expectations I once held for myself and others, the role of sacrificing mother and wife, as well as listening to my heart in the perspective of age and beauty. Over the years, I have done the work necessary to move on. It was only until the loss experienced by a close friend that it came to me. In letting go of what I was leaving behind, I had forgotten to say goodbye.

Living a mindful life involves acknowledging each step on one’s journey. The value of each moment can only truly be savored by the attentive traveler. Unfortunately, so many of us focus on the road ahead that we forget to turn around, survey the distance we had covered, and embrace the experience that brought us to where we are today. I had lived a life with meaning. Letting go of my past, I still needed to say goodbye to my former self, and all that I had accomplished.

So, as I do most every New Year’s Eve, I took quiet account of my prior year. I reluctantly accepted the evolution of friendships that ended. My heart recognized the slow disappearance of family traditions as the ties that bound us all together were breaking. I wept, feeling the frosty cloak of intolerance of a country whose diversity and richness was disappearing. I wrote down my thoughts, my commitments for the coming year, and said farewell. Sending my wishes into the unsettled world, I committed to move forward, following my new course that lied somewhere between that which I could control and that which I could not.

No matter what, I begin the new year with an open heart. I will say goodbye to this winter of my discontent and keep an eye toward adventure. And I say hello the woman I am ready to become.

Playing the hand we’re dealt

Earlier in my midlife journey, I explored my past by climbing my family tree. Having researched my roots and explored the branches that extended well beyond my personal family memories, I was able to piece together a colorful past from the public records and pictures permanently etched into our history. So when an aunt asked me how she could learn more about her family’s ancestry, I was quick to offer my assistance. However, I also shared with her that in my search, I found evidence not only of the heartwarming reunions and pictures of significant life moments, but of harsh times and likely social drama that altered how I viewed my ancestors and their lives. As my aunt had been raised in difficult times, she assured me that anything she learned would be better than not knowing more about from where she came.

This search took me on a journey of self-reflection to evaluate how I’d learned to forge ahead in spite of difficult, trying times. My early years were filled with photo albums, but life can never truly be captured in a perfect photo. When I was sorting memorabilia from my great-grandparents, I found wedding announcements, baby pictures, and records to match my shared family stories. What I had not expected to piece together was a timeline of events very different than what I’d come to learn over the years. A shotgun “pretend” wedding, a journey to another state, a documented, “official” wedding, and a baby born two months later. The story of hardship and misfortune of another set of grandparents was evident amidst census records and letters about heading west during the Great Depression. Stories like these, the ones that were not shared but left in the records for those who needed to find them, depicted real life and all that went with it. Dealing with the hands they were dealt, our family fought against the forces that would keep them down and keep them apart. Lessons in strength and faith, for sure.

The ugly, uncomfortable history and the lessons we learn from our past have to be available, documented, and shared. We need to see not only the weddings and the funerals, but also the violence, the discrimination and the justice, so we may all understand how we overcame challenges like poverty, oppression, and hate. Seeing it all doesn’t expose our hand in this card game of life. What it does is strengthen the odds of winning with each deal of the cards. For me, looking at my past filled with lessons is what allows me to live my present.

I will eventually share my findings with my aunt. The struggle to stay rooted in hope for better times is how I am playing this hand I am dealt. Lately, seeing the world around me being disassembled to reshape the lessons I learned from my ancestors is scary. I remain playing the game, but I have NO KINGS in the hand I was dealt and I’m ok with that.

40 Shades of Green

My husband and I recently returned from a long awaited vacation to the British Isles. It was time to take a break from our jobs, our family stress, and we left the heat and humidity of a midwestern summer behind to discover places like Ireland, and its breathtaking green hills and rolling landscape. It was just the two of us this trip, cruising our way to a new port of call each day, content with letting others take us on adventures to castles, misty overlooks, and an occasional pub. It was good to get away from the obligation of regular life, and the day-to-day rut in which we’d found ourselves at home. While serving as our vacation photographer, I captured every nook and cranny of palace walls, gardens, and local “color”. I wondered what life would be like living amongst the sheep, the gardens, and felt a little jealous of what seemed a simpler life. Everything was different than home. Somehow, back home was no longer the haven I needed it to be – and I felt a longing for the change the “greener” grass could provide.

Life sneaks up on you when you aren’t looking. Growing older is something for which you’re never truly prepared. I sought the emotional contentment that mindfulness could provide me as I transitioned from working full-time mom and wife, to working empty nester. My search for a new “norm” led my friends and I to ponder, “Is this all there is?” Why does the grass always seem greener on the other side of midlife? Where was the freedom and fulfillment I sought at the end of the proverbial rainbow?

The older I get, the more I long for the days when I was younger, in better physical shape, and more tolerant of change. I hadn’t expected the breathtaking view of green pastures to push me into such uncomfortable emotional territory. Looking at my family, my marriage, and my life driven by my societal obligations, I used to ask myself, “Am I enough?” But now, amongst sheep and dairy cows, I found myself asking, “Is this enough?”

After a day abundantly filled with Irish splendor, our tour group returned to the bus. As if our day had come full circle, we sat back in the same seat as when we set out, ready for our tour to be done. On our drive back, we were told a story of an American on vacation in Ireland. Overcome by the beauty of the lush green and the variations of shade with every turn, this man took to his guitar to write a love song. It’s hard to say if Johnny Cash felt more for what he discovered but left behind or the future that lied ahead.

Again I want to see and do
The things we’ve done and seen
Where the breeze is sweet as Shalimar
And there’s forty shades of green

It may take me a while to decide how felt about Ireland. However, knowing that forty shades of “what could have been” will continue to remind me that each day is filled with possibility I cannot ignore. And for that, I am grateful.

The road from Christmas Past

When I started this blog, I needed time in my life to reflect on lessons I was encountering in my midlife. These unsettled feelings posed questions for which I had no answers. My personal journey prompted an unpacking of my emotional baggage to understand the heaviness I felt and brought with me everywhere I went. Since then, I’ve cleared out my closets, shared family pictures, and passed on heirlooms with the stories behind them. As for the pages of the person I was and who I had become, they were moved from my bookshelves to those readers in my circles. Letting go of these things was difficult, but I found it easier than letting go of my long-held expectations of myself and others. While my mind was free, it was not until this past Christmas that my heart became lighter after learning a painful lesson of love.

I am the oldest sibling and I considered myself to be my family’s “kinkeeper”, the family member who (often unconsciously) takes on the role of keeping the family connected to our traditions and to each other. I felt a sense of responsibility to share the memories and traditions of my past with my children as they grew, as well as create new, meaningful traditions. Birthdays and holidays and family trips were documented through pictures and mementoes and these were often revisited with fondness. Hosting our family Christmas was a time where our blended family came together, weaving our traditions of Santa and stockings and multiple households into a cherished memory for years to come. However, this Christmas holiday would be different. After much thought about what it might mean to us and to our feeling of family, my husband and I concluded that we were no longer able to host this event. It weighed heavily in our hearts, knowing that to me it meant letting go of the cycle of tradition that came with this time of year.

The reality of being an empty nester is that family grows up and leaves home. As kinkeeper, I felt the pressure to carry on our traditions in spite of these changes. Wanting everyone to remain connected, my expectations intensified – and with it, my frustration. It’s the frustration you feel when someone doesn’t show up in the way you want, and it affects the mood of the group. Nevertheless, as children grow and become adults and maybe have children of their own, the family dynamic changes. I saw less of my kids, and felt more distant. I experienced a sense of loss, like no longer being able to see who they had become without me. But, if I could just hold on to Christmas, I would be ok.

In the end, I had to let go of the cycle of expectation that came with Christmas. I had to be ok with my family creating their own traditions, some of which I was no longer a part. The family Christmas celebrations that were to come would not look the same, but it was time for me to be content, knowing that our family would carry on in ways meaningful to them. Could I continue to create new memories and new traditions with my loved ones? Of course! But on my journey to mindfulness, my suitcases are now lighter. I’m leaving behind the worry that I’ve not made a difference in their lives and am looking to the road ahead. I’m also excited for next Christmas, whatever it looks like, where each moment will be a present for the holidays to come.

Garden of my discontent

Now that the spring weather is warming my botanical soul, I have returned to the outdoors. The final touches of installing our new sprinkler system here at home whisper promises of a more luxurious yard filled with flowers and plants that will not wither and die before summer hits. We live in a woodsy community, and the suburban custom of manicured lawns and exquisite edging along the landscaped beds is not a part of our plan. It seems that bulbs have been my “go to”, as I know I will lose the regular battle with the weeds and clay and tree nuts that cover our yard. So, I continue to work and plant bulbs like they were plastic eggs at an Easter egg hunt. Each one presenting a pop of color, the iris and tulips and hyacinth present a surprise for the one who discovers them. Every spring, I embrace these flowers as moments of happiness each victorious year they appear.

After the contemplation and self-reflection of the new year, spring inspired in my family the desire for our renewed sense of well-being. This Easter, we hosted a small brunch and while catching up with my girls, I found that both of them had independently discovered a trending perspective of how to let go of pinning your happiness on the actions of others. I too had found this nugget of Mel Robbins’ “Let Them” theory, which espouses the practice of letting others do what they will do and not taking these things personally. Being lovers of life but givers of too much, my daughters and I all found ourselves impeding our happiness by internalizing the feelings and actions of others, the result of which was that things never seemed to occur the way we expected them to. Taking things personally and allowing our happiness to hinge on something other than our own actions resonated with each of us. This needed to stop for our own mental health. It was a simple, yet profound truth. But while my girls were finding their way to a more peaceful state of mind, I was stuck.

It wasn’t until later, after this had weighed heavy in my heart, that I realized how much my own mid-life could benefit from this decision to “let them” – Where I had taken on the mantle of family memory-keeper, I could let go of the expectation that others carry on my work…and accept when they did not. While I worked to mend broken family fences, I could let them remain, understanding that family dynamic changes and with that the purpose of these fences. It dawned on me that in many areas of my life, my expectations for a happy life carried with them a belief I had failed in some way. I was taking things out of my control personally, and my peace of mind was leaking through my emotional sieve. And Mel Robbins was telling me I had to be ok with it. But was I?

I ended up working out this frustration in my garden, wrestling with my feelings of unease about letting go of what was making me unhappy. Still believing that I could fix just about anything with hard work and tender care, I pulled each weed from my yard like it was another personal obstacle to my happiness. Just digging out one more stone, breaking up another clod of clay, I was making the landscape of my life beautiful, right? Wasn’t everything I was doing demanding a successful outcome? A beautiful garden, blossoming with family and love in the way I wanted?

It was in the middle of my sweaty tears that I came to understand that while some flowers might bloom as a result of my efforts, others might not. My hard work might be for naught… but I wouldn’t know it until it happened. I had to be ok with what I did in the moment, and not hinge my happiness on how other people responded. In the end, I had to love my garden, weeds and all, and be ok with my time there. Be good with the improvement to my home. Find the happiness that came from sharing it with others.

So was I going to be happy if my flowers bloomed? Yes! But if they didn’t? Well, let them. I already played in the dirt and breathed in the moments of my mindful midlife. And during these spring Saturday mornings, with a trowel in one gloved hand and a brunch cocktail in the other, I’m ready for anything.

Turning the page

While in the throws of cleaning out my home library of books, I lost an afternoon wandering through the pages of my past. Although a house fire years ago robbed me of much of my literary collection, I was able to bring the paper survivors with me into my midlife. I found so many good memories of my times as an avid reader. My shelves had become a home to all the parts of my past including my academic required reading, including Advanced French text and beginning Russian – complete with little floppy records reminiscent of those 1970s cereal boxes that affixed the promotional pop hit on the back. My early sci-fi reading adventures of Arthur C. Clarke, Roger Zelazny, Orson Scott Card and others filled out the empty spaces, along with other childhood favorites like Anne of Green Gables. With each page I perused, I was taken back to yesteryear. I relished those days when I found a quiet spot to read on the backyard patio, or when I remained tucked into bed staying up past midnight because I JUST couldn’t put that book down. I often found myself jetting to some foreign land on some historical adventure. I was a literary explorer and these books, like family photographs, represented treasured pieces of my life I could not release from their place in my home and in my heart.

I had developed my life around being a reader and the books I collected. Like the Nancy Drew series I cherished as a child, my books were a testament to the adventures I’d lived. As a college student, I often frequented the used book stores for wartime paper back novels like Ellery Queen, Mike Shayne, and Agatha Christie. Perusing one shelved book, I found a hidden a note made by a store manager…”Save for Lauren”. My life as a reader evolved to not just reading but collecting these treasurers, hoping that one day my future generations would cherish these as much as I did as they discovered the world beyond their backyards. But alas, as my children grew to leave the nest, and their children grew…the world would change so much that my paper adventures had been replaced by digital voyages. I wanted my love of books and these stories to be just as special for my family as it was for me. But it had not come to pass. I paused to wallow in a bit of grief, seeing the meaning behind these books slowly fade.

What was I to do? I knew I had to make room for midlife on these shelves. There was no more need for things to collect dust and crumble into disrepair. However, between these pages were memories to share about me, my life, and where I wanted to go next. But, I had to ask myself, what was it about these books that I dearly wanted to share? Did I care if my grandchildren would want to read about nuclear war? Or 1940s war-time detective stories? Or meditation tips from the Dalai Lama? Rather, would these be the memories I transformed into my so-called life as the mother and grandmother I wanted to be for my future generations? After much reflection, I needed to lift the burden I carried of being the memory-keeper for my family and live the midlife I was meant to enjoy. Filled with fun and the very adventure my young reader days had built.

I finally took a dust rag and wiped down an emptied shelf. Saying goodbye to family was hard, but turning the page to my next mid-life adventure was what I was meant to do. Was my library empty? No. I just said goodbye to one shelf for now. I’m making room for the next edition of my midlife.

The mantle of motherhood…

While the responsibilities of motherhood are never easy, the lesson most women have learned on this journey is that there is no rule book in raising children. Each circumstance of parenthood is different, whether it comes in the form of a non-traditional family unit, or arriving at “motherhood” – whatever that may mean – mid-stream. My children have come and gone, growing into their sense of adulthood, most of whom have had to figure out what to write in their own guidebook of parental strategies and pitfalls. Being a mother seems to take on new meaning with each generation, and the responsibility of guiding and protecting another life remains unwavering in the love and growth that results.

My midlife journey has given me permission to reexamine my youth, re-evaluate my own mother and how what I learned was passed on to my children. With my daughter and her children having returned to the nest, I get to witness this sometimes rocky road, reminded of the constant juggling of my children’s needs along with my need for sanity. I often wonder how I was able to do it – the dance lessons and discipline, the hugs and the humor, my job and their joy. The desire to share the best traditions of my youth and my maternal values with my girls came wrapped up in a blanket of both love and forgiveness for all that wasn’t perfect in my childhood – as well as my children’s own lives. Doing my best required strong values and a system of support, two things I was very lucky to have.

Now, I am the support for my daughter, and I feel the weight of the mantle of motherhood all over again. With every choice to balance child with self, strengthens the values we teach our children. Sometimes, it’s either go or no go, today or tomorrow, read or sleep. Hearing the requests made to me by my grandchildren and responding as a mother is automatic – Being a mother doesn’t ever stop. But now, my heart is quickly filled by the moments of my love crossing the generational boundary. I see my daughter read to my grandchildren the way I did for her. I hear songs before bedtime that also were sung to my girls. Eventually, as life goes on and the struggle only serves to strengthen this mama’s resolve, the heartache will fall away and the good memories of skating, ice cream and Monday night football will remain. On these strong shoulders, the mantle of motherhood can lift her children into a better future.

Through a mother’s eyes…

As my daughter prepares to become a mother again, I am adjusting to having her and her little girls back living at home. It’s not easy, being a single parent. Seeing her on her parental journey returns me to the place of my own young motherhood, struggling to coordinate care, parenting, and career. Just when I’d moved out of immediate motherhood into reflective empty nester – I am now looking at my day-to-day routine through a mother’s eyes once again.

After my daughter’s first baby, besides seeking opportunities for guidance, I was also filled with judgement and frustration. I’m not saying things were perfect; they weren’t. Our children, now adults, need more than ever to learn from their experiences. All that comes with this is often difficult for loving parents of adult children to watch, as they sit on the sidelines. However, with her expected August arrival, I plan to show her what I’d learned from being a grandparent on the sidelines. More encouragement. Less judgement. Learning the lessons that were obscured by us wanting to swoop in to the rescue. I was anxious to create a plan that we could undertake together to help navigate this stage in her journey. After all, hadn’t I navigated more than my share of struggles with my family? Wasn’t I the best resource? Even as I followed this path of motherhood, I needed someone who would be there for me, mentoring me in the ways of baby wisdom, defiance, and daily power struggles. Now, I could be there for her. Hopefully, no restrictions imposed by COVID or it’s aftermath, just “life”.

Living through the pandemic as we quarantined and adjusted to close quarters living, many of us saw the boundaries of our lives redrawn. Where we could and could not go. What we sought and let go of in the name of grace. All of us who survived had to find a new way of living with family, living next to friends, and coping with the regularly occurring unplanned events which threw our routine into upheaval. Transforming what I learned during a scary time, I am making a new midlife plan. One that includes new responsibilities, new patience, and renewed love.

I am not a different person in midlife than I was in new motherhood. I’m simply wiser, healthier, and focused on finding my balance. My daughter and her little family will be supported as best as I am able, but will encounter my midlife mettle. “Yes” will come with an effort. “Of course” will come with an expectation. But “no” will come with a boundary. It won’t be easy, but it will be filled with new hope and lots of love as we venture down this road together.

The people in my village

A colleague of mine recently shared a fascinating article about the impact one’s family structure might have on their overall health, well-being, and access to opportunity. Having grown up in a traditional, nuclear family, the possibility of other family models seemed unusual to me. Women who have volunteered to be a new “mother” to gay children who have been cast out by their own parents offer support where there was little. Blended families with children from shared parents and different sibling dynamics inspire discussion about how to use yesterday’s terminology with today’s new social norms. The times where the questions we ask ourselves and our children about relationships, romantic choices and identities have evolved into a new understanding of what family means to each one of us. Sometimes, it really does take a village to raise a child. In my midlife, I have questions about this I struggle to find the answers to.

Relationships that are built on love often result in children. In my family, I have children and stepchildren and siblings to those children who are from other facets of their families. I have people I consider family, but whose details require complicated explanations to those who are new to me. Establishing the relationship terms for these people is often difficult. Child of my grandchild’s father who is not my grandchild. Parent of my stepdaughter’s son-in-law. My traditional brain tries to put each of these individuals into a category, so they can be easily defined. But the new norm tells me that there may be no new name for them. It worries me that I will not be with them, be to them, the way our society expects me to. In the seating chart of my wedding life, I don’t know who sits that the main table anymore. I don’t know who gets the reserved seating because the etiquette has all changed. I am trying to follow the rules that aren’t meaningful anymore. What I am finding is that there is no easy answer to the questions I ask.

As with many new situations, I wonder if the way I love those dear to me has changed, if I don’t know their family role. I don’t think it has, but I’m finding I need to let go of the way I used to view my family, and simply look at them as my tribe. My tribe: the people who connect to me in a network of love and support. Shifting this paradigm has required mental midlife work, as I am a list maker, plan implementer, and rule follower. Planning the new way to navigate through my growing family life is not easy. I will have a new grandchild soon, and I’ve decided that it is ok to chart a new path through my village, as long as it takes me to my tribe – where I am home.

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.