Pure Luck

I'm aggravated with my oldest daughter right now. She is generally doing well on her own: managing her time handling a full class load, keeping her grades up; living in an apartment that she has to keep clean and safe, cooking for herself. But she still has a lot to learn about managing money. The child runs through money like water; she always has. And this week, yet again, she incurred overdraft fees in her account because she simply didn't keep track of what was coming in and what was going out. Those fees sure make her trips to Target much more expensive than they need to be.

Her inattention to this kind of thing irritates me no end. And yet...

She came home a few weeks ago to visit a girlfriend she's known since middle school. Maggie has been fighting various forms of cancer for the past five years and has shown remarkable spirit and strength. Mags got through her first year of college while living at home, undergoing chemotherapy for several months to eradicate cancerous lesions in her brain. In August, a scan showed everything was clear and Maggie flew to Portland, Oregon, to go to school in the same city as her older brother and to have a "real" college experience for the first time.

In September, another scan revealed that the cancer had staged a dramatic return: seven tumors in her brain.

Hannah called me, sobbing, with the news, and said, "Mom, I have to see her." I agreed, and bit the financial bullet to fly her home on short notice for a long weekend. She drove four hours with her other close high school girlfriends to see Maggie and offer what feeble support anyone can in such a circumstance.

I think Hannah was heartened by Maggie's strength, her optimism, her total lack of self-pity. But that doesn't change the fact that the likelihood of Maggie's survival isn't good. By the time Hannah comes home for Christmas break, who knows what condition Maggie will be in? The tumors were beginning to put pressure on the areas of Maggie's brain that support short-term memory. What happens if a tumor grows just so and affects Maggie's ability to see or speak? To breathe? The ability to make her heart beat? Who can say what will happen next in a situation like this?

And so I look at Hannah's bank account balance (currently in the minus $100 range) and feel irritation at her lack of money management skills. What a gift! My God, my daughter is healthy and well enough to go into small-time debt! Her father is anxious about it, calling her (and me) several times a day to find out if she's spent any more or called to bank to try to reverse any fees....and I'm finding I simply cannot share his angst. It just doesn't feel like an issue that needs to eat up my time and energy.

It's not that I have extra money to burn -- I don't. After all, I'm still paying off that airline ticket from last month. And it's not that I don't think about all the adolescent and teenage crap I've dealt with over the past five years -- out later than agreed, partying in ways and with people I frowned upon, depression and its accompanying issues, too-full schedules to juggle, disagreements and fights and irritations and tears.

But when I think about what Maggie's parents are facing, what I've been through is child's play compared to the weight of their trials. How can I get worked up about a piddling amount of money when I have so many gifts to celebrate in both of my daughters? No, they're not perfect -- neither am I. But even having the opportunity to make mistakes is a gift. (When is the last time I thought of a screw-up from that perspective?)

It is only pure luck that has allowed us to avoid (escape?) the weight of what Maggie and her family are facing right now. It could just as easily be me or one of my daughters facing a cancerous tumor or crippling accident or some other crisis. It could happen as soon as tomorrow. No guarantees. We say that again and again; we know it in our heads but not in our guts. We don't allow that knowledge to change us or the way we live.

All I can say is I'm trying. I'm trying to maintain an awareness, an appreciation for the fragility of our everyday lives. If that's what it takes to preserve our luck, it seems a small price to pay. I wish I could say this was the answer to avoiding life's tragedies. I wish I knew how to do that so I could pass the answer along to everyone else I love.

A flying leap

I've been remiss: three months since I've posted a word. But it's been an interesting three months, and I want to document some of this so I can look back (in another three months?) and see if the momentum I've sensed is continuing to move me toward the goals I've defined.

So I'll start back at the second week of January, when my employer announced that significant layoffs would take place in mid-February. I wasn't shocked; layoff rumors had been circulating for months. When they then announced that my work group would be affected, I could genuinely say I knew that was coming. I was surprised -- pleasantly! -- when information about the severance package began to circulate. (It was more generous than any package I've ever heard of.) I was convinced, based on several comments, circumstances and incidents, that I would be laid off.

I was more than just prepared: I was positively thrilled at the prospect of walking out the door with months and months of pay and benefits handed to me. I had visions of how I would spend my time and energy: spruce up and clean out the house; work in the yard once spring arrived; write; cook; exercise; learn a new instrument; dig up some freelance work... The prospect of having control over the way I spend my time and energy, of following my own schedule instead of some corporate 8 - 5 mandate, of taking an afternoon off to take care of myself or my daughter -- or the dog, if need be -- was deeply appealing.

So when the day arrived and I found out that I wasn't laid off, I took it hard -- not as hard as one person I work with who went into her cube and literally wailed -- but it was a shock, a disappointment. I did cry after I got home. It felt like mourning: I had summoned this beautiful vision of what I wanted my life to look like and then had it snatched away.

At least that was how it felt those first few days of disappointment. But it finally occurred to me that the time spent re-visioning my life wasn't wasted. In the process of daydreaming about my life after layoff, I actually had laid out a good path for myself, a pretty solid identification of the parts of my life that I feel aren't working and the changes I need to make. The difference is that these changes will have to happen in small, gradual steps instead of one big, sweeping change.

Many of those small steps are defined, and a few are even accomplished or scheduled: invest in a new computer so I have a key tool necessary to pursue freelance work; take a cooking class; schedule writing time -- and honor that commitment. I've set some deadlines for myself that aren't harsh but will help keep me accountable and moving in the right direction. I still have some big steps to take, but I feel like I'm gathering momentum, like a long-jumper who starts out one stride at a time and gradually gains speed before taking the giant leap. I'm only just beginning the run-up to the big leap -- and I don't know how long that run-up may take -- but I do feel that I'm finally on my way to something that feels more authentic, more balanced and more satisfying than the corporate grind.

Bookends

"Time it was and what a time it was
it was a time of innocence
a time of confidences."

I 'd been having trouble sleeping earlier this week and went to bed relatively early Tuesday night. My almost-15-year-old daughter had her best friend over to spend the night, to patch up a quarrel and just be girls together, with no boys or siblings around for a change.

I slept fitfully and had to get up to let the dog out around 1 am. While waiting for the dog, I discovered the girls asleep in the living room: one stretched out on the couch, and one in the big reading chair with the ottoman pushed against it for the extra length, curled up with comforters, pillows -- and stuffed animals.

Now, I knew my daughter still slept with her bear -- Fuzzy has been part of her bedtime ritual for at least a decade. I thought Hillary's attachment to a "cuddle object" was rooted in the divorce and in missing her dad, looking for some source of comfort. And maybe that's true, despite the disconnect I've sensed for a while now: the "I'm old enough to make my own decisions" but "I need comfort and security to fall asleep" dichotomy.

So I was surprised to see Kayla with a stuffed animal clutched close, too: a fluffy, soft puppy.

Kayla seems to have it all: Her parents are together, she's beautiful (you should see this girl's eyes), smart, popular -- maybe not rich, but certainly not poor, either. Why would she, this girl who seems so "together," need a cuddle object?

In retrospect, I think I may have found the answer before the question.

The fight the girls needed to patch up hinged on taking a stand about what they each believe, what they were ready to stand up for instead of just "going with it." Hillary decided to draw the line in this instance; Kayla went with the group.

What makes me angry is that these girls -- these kids! -- were forced to make a very hard decision. I don't blame Kayla. I understand that she wanted to take the path of least resistance, to not rock the boat. I don't agree with her decision, but I understand it: that was me, at her age. Although I didn't face a decision to hang out with kids getting high, God knows I didn't want to stand out in any way or cause any problems.

I know our kids are supposed to be educated to be "strong," to "just say no" and all the other platitudes that have been peddled by people who are disconnected from the reality that is teenagerhood in this day and age. I know parents are supposed to "keep the lines of communication open," a line that makes me want to scream. (What -- do the "experts" think we tell our kids to only talk about their great grades and nothing else? Do they have a freaking CLUE how secretive these teenagers are, despite our best efforts?)

I didn't sleep with a teddy bear when I was 15, ready to start drivers' ed... but I didn't have to call my sister to come pick me up because some friends were getting high, either. What is the answer here? Or maybe the question should be, what is the problem?

"Long ago it must be
I have a photograph
Preserve your memories
They're all that's left you."

Transitions

Forseeing a change, I've learned, isn't the same as handling it.

My oldest daughter has been "out of the nest," so to speak, for three weeks now. I prepared for this all summer -- or maybe longer. Even so, it feels strange and surreal, like trying to write with my left hand after writing with my right hand since I was 5. It's not that one hand is better than the other; it's a matter of adjustment and ease. Of comfort.

She's doing fine, as I knew she would. She was an independent, fearless child from early on, and I saw nothing that led me to believe that would change now. So why am I wondering why she hasn't called? Why am I feeling disconcerted at not having visibility into the day-to-day detail of her life?

Letting go, apparently, is a skill that has to be learned over time. She knows I'm here if she needs me; why doesn't she need me more?

I know she's not supposed to need me as much now. I know I could even take her lack of "neediness" as a positive sign that I did something right these last 10 years, preparing her for independence. I'm trying to give her the space she needs to figure out who she is right now, to determine the shape these next four years will take for her. Of course, more than anything, I want that shape to be a responsible, healthy, sustainable one, a shape that's rooted in her intellect, her independence, her long-range goals for her life. But I also know that I have to let her make her own mistakes and define those goals, that shape. I may not agree with each decision she makes, but she has to learn to fly solo, even through the bumps and turbulence. I know there will be rough spots. I need to determine how I should manage -- or NOT manage -- those spots.

And then there's my younger daughter, left behind to look at the dust settling after her sister's departure. It's been a difficult transition for her, I think. She feels that she's lost a shoulder, a sympathetic ear. I do my best to be available and listen, but I know it's not the same. How could it be?

There are parts of the high school world I'm no longer privvy to by virtue of being an adult, a parent. There are things I can't understand because they really have changed. And there are things I honestly don't want to hear, because I'm the mom. I want -- I need -- to believe the best about my daughters. But they need a place to be uncensored and honest, too. But that place is no longer totally with me. And that is another transition to deal with.

Lake Lessons

I'm sitting here at the place that inspired the name of this blog, the outer manifestation of my inner deck. I've had three days to disconnect from the day-to-day: to listen to the wind in the aspens, smell the pines, feel the rocks and roots as I hiked, watch the magnificent lake heave and sigh.

The irony is that the permanence of all this -- forest, rocks, lake -- makes me more committed to change in my own life. The steadfastness of this place makes clear how inconsequential most of my daily struggles and decisions really are. This little cottage on the big lake, surrounded by beauty, filled with hand-made art (prints and wood cuts, hand-thrown mugs and plates, custom metalwork on the countertops, a hand-painted table by the window), reminds me that the work I'm doing right now -- nose-to-the-grindstone in a corporate setting -- doesn't feel authentic to me. It feels unnatural and forced, rigid and impersonal.

I'm tired of feeling that the "work me" and the "real me" are two separate entities vying for my time and energy. But what to do with these feelings? I don't have the answers yet, but I need to be realistic. Any changes I make will have to be gradual; I have to think in baby steps. But I need to commit to some small steps and then take them. I need to stop complaining and wringing my hands and actually take some action. The obvious baby step is to commit more of my free time to writing, whether it's these essays, poems, a novel, even recipes. I need to find ways to fuel and exercise my creativity, and I need to put off soul-killing chores and obligations.

And I need to remember that I don't need a perfectly clear vision of where this leads. All I need to see is the next baby step. And when I have trouble focusing or prioritizing where I should spend my time and energy, I can remember the steadfastness of this place, the serenity, the silence -- and be reminded of what is lasting and authentic, as opposed to what is merely noise.

So, as I sit out here on the deck one more time before we leave, it hits me. I'm sad -- crying, in fact -- but it's not because I can't come back here. I can. I did. So why do I feel sad and empty?

The lake, the whole north shore, reminds me that I can be bigger, better than the life I'm going back to. Every year I come back and haven't really changed, haven't taken the steps I need to live life more slowly, more peacefully. Each year I come back and this place reminds me, yet again, that I'm not doing it right. But it keeps taking me back, ever patient, quiet and tranquil, showing me through its steadiness how I can be more like it, the lake itself. Take the long view; don't sweat every little detail. And still I don't learn. I get sucked back in and forget the bigger me this place calls me to. No wonder I'm so deeply sad every time I have to leave.

All the more reason to take those small steps toward authenticity, with the lake and the rocks as my constant reminder. I leave a little lighter this time, with a clearer vision of the task at hand: to take the lake and its lessons home with me.

Life Cycles

I finally connected with a long-time friend this morning, after several weeks of phone tag and e-mails. I had so much to tell her: things shifting at the job we used to share, milestones with my daughters, updates on plans and, hey, when can we get together for lunch or dinner to really get caught up?

She suprised me by answering her phone on the first ring -- I'd expected voice mail. Before I could even say, "Hey, it's me!" she asked me to hang on, I heard her close her office door, and she said: "I'm dead tired. Are you sitting down?"

Turns out, at the age of 41, after nearly 10 years of trying, giving up, trying again, considering adoption, trying once more and finally resigning themselves to being childless -- she's pregnant. I wanted to ask her two questions that blurred into one: "Are you OK?" by which I meant both "Are you feeling all right?" and "Are you happy about this?" She understood and answered both questions at once: "Yes!"

She described the initial disbelief and then the sheer terror that both she and her husband felt those first few days. I remembered feeling literally weak in the knees the first time I knew I was pregnant (after years of believing that was just a trite expression), and she said she'd felt the same sensation. She said they laughed and cried and prayed and wondered how on earth this could happen after all this time, and shook their heads over how this altered all their "plans" and laughed and cried and prayed some more until all they could do was hold each other in awe and fear and joy.

She and her husband are excited and scared and proud and amazed and realize they've been made party to nothing short of a miracle. But for her, it's tinged with a bit of sadness. Her father will probably not live to see his grandchild.

She hasn't told him yet -- her family will get the baby news over Independence Day weekend -- and she's not sure how he'll take it. She hopes he'll be happy but realizes it could be an emotional blow to his already fragile health to realize what he'll be missing. But she also sees that it could be a beautiful way for him to make peace with his mortality: a legacy in the making, in his daughter's womb. That is my sincere hope. I hope he makes this easy on her when she breaks the news, I hope he celebrates fully and leaves her with no regrets that it didn't or couldn't happen earlier. I hope he is able to be joyful that even as one life ends, another begins. That's the nature of things, for all time. They are all -- father, daughter, and grandchild-to-be -- part of that huge, beautiful, never-ending cycle.

As for me, I've gone around shaking my head and grinning all day at the wonderment of it, trying to picture her at full term, and then with an infant in her arms, or nursing, or toting a baby in and out of a car seat to go to the grocery store for diapers and baby food. I've thought about how their beautiful dog will react (and I have no doubt he will be perfect -- so gentle and protective!), and laughed at how much I know her husband will worry about daycare and school and then little league sports and friends, and what the first job is and college... and I think about how I worried about all those same things. And how I learned that in the end, all that matters is how much you love them and are there -- physically there, looking in their eyes, feeding them, helping with homework, cheering even when they're losing the little league game or don't get accepted to the "perfect" college -- just there for them. They can go to the best schools, eat the best food, read the best books, ride in the best cars and wear the best clothes, but unless the parents are there -- really present in every moment -- it doesn't matter. And it all passes by so incredibly quickly.

I wish I'd known that starting out. There's so much to worry about when a baby is on the way that it feels overwhelming. Learning to pick and choose your worries at this stage is good practice for the next two decades. But since every child and every parenting experience is different, all I can do is listen and offer advice when asked and let these two new parents make their own mistakes -- and their own beautiful discoveries. And if the new child happens to be a boy, a name is waiting, ready-made.

Heat Day

I've thought many times in the years since I returned to the Frozen North that snow days are a gift: a way of forcing everyone affected to stay home and bake cookies with the kids, play cards, put together a puzzle, and if the storm moves off quickly enough, get outside in fresh snow together and walk, shovel, ski or just clear the driveway. A snow day has a wonderful way of shortening a to-do list.

So as the temperatures here today approached 100, why am I thinking of snow days? It seems to me that maybe there's a seasonal opposite, a "heat day" of sorts. And too often, because we have the priviledge of artificially tampering with the temperature via air conditioning, we miss the opportunity to take advantage of these ultra-hot summer days.

I was forced to shorten my list today because of the heat -- and because yesterday my air conditioner decided to go on strike. Apparently I'm in good company, because the repair people can't make it here until Wednesday. As a result I've had to remember how to live the way my family used to when I was a child, the way generations did before air conditioning became ubiquitous.

That means I was up early to open windows and let the house cool down as much as possible. I was done with anything in the kitchen involving heat by 8 am. I was done with yardwork before 10. I had run my only errand by 11. And by 1 pm, I was napping on the couch.

Plans to bike, bake a rhubarb pie, trim tree branches and dig weeds melted. I let myself eat ice cream before dinner to cool off a bit. (Besides, my appetite is lousy when I'm too warm. Maybe warm weather is a natural means of weight control, as well...)

Because my house is too warm to sit in, I've been out in my backyard for a couple hours in the breeze reading, writing and listening to my wind chimes. I started the sprinkler a while ago and have made a pair of cardinals in my apple tree very happy with the free shower. They're lovely to watch, such bright red peeking out from the green leaves, and wonderful to hear, too. Earlier I saw a yellow female oriole -- mostly just because I had time to look.

Yes, I know falling asleep in such a warm house may be difficult -- thank heaven for basements that stay cool. But I have to think there's a purpose in this, a message I'm supposed to hear about slowing down and letting the season do its thing without any artificial contrivances like air conditioning.