BEING Stuck

Sometimes being stuck is a good thing. Just humor me for a minute.

Sometimes I hit that place in life (again and again and again) where I don’t just hit one wall, I hit four, and there are no windows, no doors, no openings…and all I can do is just sit there, in the dark, wondering what to do next. My impulse in those moments is not to sit quietly in the dark and be thankful for the stillness and immobility, but to thrash about like an angry, cornered beast. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. I often find myself in that dark room. Stuck, with no idea where to go or what to do next. I fight it and I fight it hard. I bang on the walls, draw diagrams and calculations about how to break through the walls or strategize as to how to make the entire room move with me in it, therefor creating the illusion of movement. All this, I believe, can be classified as insanity. From the outside, this can look like someone with a maddening drive to succeed and problem solve, or someone is just maniacally busy and accomplished. To those who know me deeply, it looks exactly as it is. Me, trying to push through concrete walls, screaming and yelling and pounding, exhausting myself and trying in vain to change the entire course of the universe. This, my friends, is the opposite of surrender. And sanity.

A few months ago, I was dealt a rather devastating blow in my work life. A job that would have been on-going and financially viable fell through. It floored me. All of a sudden, I was faced with a financial crisis and myriad issues of value, self-worth and frustration. I spent a day or two being completely angry and manic and then attempted to retreat into problem-solving mode.  I didn’t feel better, no doors opened and most of all, I was faced with the possibility of not being able to take care of my family financially. There is very little that is more devastating for someone like me than to not be able to take care of myself and my children. If you’ve never been truly broke or poor in your life, or broke and poor and responsible for children/dependents on your own, this isn’t something that will make any sense to you. (If that’s the case, you have much to be grateful for!) This feeling of impending doom, which takes on rather dramatic affect in these moments, can color everything.

Several months have passed, and I’ve worn myself out in that 4-walled room. It’s been dark and lonely and crazy-making. I’ve spent a lot of time running in circles, searching craigslist every day, making cold calls and applying for a few jobs, but here I am. In the dark. Yesterday I hit my limit with the pounding and gnashing and flailing. I decided to just surrender to the dark and quiet and stillness and just be. I’ve exhausted my attempts at changing the current state of things, and in doing so have realized that maybe in this moment, when it’s dark and quiet and there’s nothing to be done, that maybe the sane thing to do would be to sit down, tuck myself in for a moment and see what it feels like just to stop forcing and fighting the immobility, stop trying to make things move and shift when it’s simply not time. Perhaps the thing to do is to just wait a moment (as miserable at that makes me feel) and trust that the next move will be obvious, that the work will come and the support will come and the projects will come and if there’s nothing to be done in this moment, then inaction is the action. No judging, no controlling, no forcing. Just stillness.

I’ve spent my whole life working hard. I’ll spend the rest of it working hard too. This morning when I woke up, I decided that I was going to let go, at least for today. I wasn’t going to flail around and force and fight it. I was going to move through the day without an agenda, without goals and without the long list of attempts at solving the things I tend to screw up every day. I was going to ignore the lists of things that I am struggling with and the big blame list of “why I’m in this predicament to begin with” and all the ways I expect the impossible from myself as a woman and mother and provider for my little family. I decided to stop thinking about the dead ends and strategies for plowing those dead ends into new roads (which I can do, by the way). But not today. I’m tired, and nothing is budging. So, it’s time to be still. Let go.

I'm not evolved enough to see this as acceptance or feel this as surrender yet. I still see it as being stuck. But at least I’ve had the where-with-all to stop and see what the day holds. A beautiful day well-spent, accomplishing very little except just being here with lots of gratitude, joy and even some rest. For someone like me, that in itself, is a massive accomplishment.

BEING An Average Parent

photo credit: Chris Oughton

There are thousands of parenting articles out there floating around, so many articles sharing infinite wisdom about gentle parenting, parenting so your kids don’t end up with “afflueza” or become total jerks or pansies or addicts or feel entitled to everything in the universe just because they’re alive. There are thousands of articles telling us about how to make our kids feel loved and respected, how to avoid emotional abuse and save our children from low self-esteem and inferiority complexes. There are articles about how to parent in order to make sure your kids aren’t addicted to media or video games or porn. There are articles about how to raise compassionate children or spiritual children or mindful children. I can safely say that this isn’t one of those articles.

When I read these articles, which i do often (and more often when I’m feeling like a shitty parent), I usually close the little “x” in the corner at the end and sigh very deeply and fall immediately in a state of despair about how I am simply never going to be able to pull off any of those fabulous, wonderful things other parents seem to be doing so proficiently for their children because a.) I will never remember that 26 point list of ways to be nice to my kids (b.) I don’t have enough time in the day to find creative ways to remind my children I love them (c.) I consider it an achievement just getting dinner on the table and the kids in beds with their teeth brushed most days.

My kids get the basics from me, and then some on good days. The “then some” is a conversation or a game played together or a walk where I just listen or there’s extra snuggle time before sleep, or maybe an impromptu trip to the frozen yogurt place. There are very few bells and whistles in their life. They don’t have charts with smiley faces or special dates to the opera or the ballet or fancy vacations. They don’t get allowances and they don’t have much by way of fancy toys or accessories either. At this point in my life, I don’t have much to give them other than the basics. They get 3 meals a day, lots of hugs and I never forget to say that I love them. Out loud. Looking in their eyes so I know they’re listening to me.

Being a single mom is a solitary journey, and the load is often much bigger than the shoulders that carry that load. Being a parent at all is way bigger than most people can hold…but being a single parent, well, that somehow stretches the limits of capacity. Every day and sometimes every hour. There’s no one to balance you out or remind you to be gentle with yourself, that you’re doing the best you can. There’s no one to tell you to ease up on your little one’s when you’re expecting too much of them or you’re being wishy-washy with your boundaries and the poor kids are confused because they don’t know what you mean or what you’re actually mad about. There’s no one there to tell you that you’re doing a great job, that you’re a great mom and that they can see how much work you put in that day to make sure you’ve covered everyone’s needs and then some and man, aren’t you amazing! It’s a big job. It’s an impossible job, really, but I suppose that is the sheer miracle of it. Doing the impossible every day.

I don’t have a clue about whether I’m being a good parent or a bad parent. I feel badly that I can’t afford karate lessons and music lessons and tennis lessons at this stage of the game. I hate that the kids don’t have more stuff sometimes, especially when it’s stuff they probably really need. I lose my temper about stupid things sometimes and I’m impatient. I am tired a lot and probably miss really important conversations with my kids. I work random hours so sometimes they have to occupy themselves for long periods of time because I’m finishing a project so I can get paid and buy food or pay a bill. We don’t always sit down at the table and eat together. I make food and we sit on the floor in their room and watch a movie or listen to music. Most of the time, I’m too tired to turn every chore into a teaching opportunity, and damn if it’s not easier to just clean up the mess myself instead of spending two hours turning “clean up the room” into a Mary Poppins experience. That’s our life. I do the best I can.

At the end of the day, most every day, I go up and check on the kids when they’re asleep and I look at them, totally separate from me and think, Man, these little guys came here to be with me. I got so lucky. What amazing humans! How can I be such a shit bag? How could I have said this or done that? Why didn’t I take more time when my daughter asked about this or why didn’t I stay on the floor with my son and his pile of plastic animals and books and his brilliants stories just a bit longer? Why didn’t I hug them one more time or listen for just another 5 minutes? Why did I snap at them when it wasn’t really that big of a deal to begin with? Shit, did I tell my daughter how awesome she is and how beautiful she is and how lucky I am she’s in my life?

Yes, all those things and more can run through my head and inflate my heart with sadness and when I’m lucky, joy and gratitude can rise up after the sadness dissipates. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t want more for my kids, and more importantly, want to be a better, more loving and present parent for them. My little toddler of a son is so profoundly brilliant that when i’m struggling, he comes up to me and climbs on me and sniffs my ear and says, “I’m sniffing you Mommy because I love you!” and then he laughs and I laugh and the world lightens up a bit.  My daughter is more complicated. I’m really hard on her sometimes. I have this absurd need to protect her from everything that she might be challenged by, knowing I really can’t and by trying, I limit her growth. I tell my daughter sometimes how I know I miss the mark on being a great mom. I tell her that there are a million reasons why, but really the excuses don’t matter. I tell her that at the end of the day that I love her and want so much for her in her life and that she’s the best thing that ever happened to me. She tears up and looks me straight in the face ands says, “Mom, you know William and I know how much you love us, right? Because we know you love us more than anything on this earth. And we love you more than anything. So, we’ve all got what we need.” Straight to my heart, this kid!! She also has no problem telling me when I’m really screwing up or reminding of ways that I’ve hurt her or screwed up in the past. She keeps me on my toes. Sometimes it’s hard to listen to, but most times, the best thing I can give her is my full attention and acceptance of her grievances. Humility is a hard lesson learned in parenting. Start there, and everything else seems to fall into place.

I don’t know what my kids need all the time. I’m walking in the dark most days. These are two humans who have their own paths, their own ideas about life and their own gifts and their own set of struggles and challenges. I’m lucky if I can even guess what they want for dinner. But I am so curious about them. So freaking curious, and when I start assuming I know much of anything about being a great parent to them, I’ve already started down the road to ruin. My best guess at being the parent I need to be is about maintaining my humility, being exactly who I am as a woman in the world, letting them be who they are, creating as few obstacles as I can to them being the humans they are called to be in this life, and supporting whatever floats their boat at any given time. I can tell them I love them every day, do the best I can for them every day, knowing that it will never be enough for me, and hope that it will be enough for them. My kids won’t get a regular kind of life (whatever that is), but they've got me.

They’ll have to work a little harder at knowing where I end and they begin. They’ll have just the one parent to hold all that space for them. They won’t have a buffer or peacemaker when I’m not seeing things clearly or I’m being too stubborn. They’ll have to learn to be that for themselves and each other. Will it hurt them or be a detriment to future relationships? Maybe, I don’t know. I can’t preemptively protect them from everything I think they’re going to struggle with later in life. All I can do is just be here with them today. Give them what I can, share with them what I can, love them the best that I can and apologize to them when I get it wrong. Believe me, as a parent, learning to say, “hey kid, I’m so sorry. I really got that wrong. I screwed that up. I’m so sorry. I know I hurt your feelings. Can you forgive me?” is probably one of the best things I can give my little humans.

I’ll never be happy with the way I parent. I’ll never think I’m good enough at this or think I’ve gotten it right. I’m always going to feel like I’m missing something, missing the mark, forgetting something important, and if I go to bed every night still caring with my whole heart about who I am for them and how I can serve them in this world, then maybe I’ll be okay and they’ll be okay. Maybe it doesn’t boil down to being a particular kind of parent, but just being yourself and showing up for the myriad moments of insanity and hilarity and chaos and whatever comes down the pike. Maybe it’s okay to be an average parent, because I think parents in general are super heroes, and being an average super hero is still pretty great.

BEING BORN

I have two children. Each child has a different father, neither of whom are involved. This has always been a point of great sadness, guilt, fury and ire for me. Two children, two fathers and neither one of them are around. Not around at all. But I was there. Still am. I'm the lucky one.

I think of this today because one of my dearest friend’s just became a grandmother last night around 3:00am. Her first grandchild, her son’s first child and on New Year’s morning no less. What a way to start the year! We spoke briefly on the phone yesterday as my friend and her husband were on their way to Greensboro where the breach baby was being turned by professional and skilled midwives, but there was bleeding and they had to hospitalize the mother and induce her to get things moving. She was term, so it was a good decision. The entire family (who lives in Asheville) all hopped in their cars and drove to be with the parents to be. Three siblings together and parents all holding the world around that birthing mom and the new little one who was ready to arrive. I was thrilled for their family, yet simultaneously my own heart was slipping down into some deep well of grief. I’ve touched the outside of that grief before, but it’s dark murky waters scare me off and I think if I go into that dark place, the grief will swallow me whole. I don’t have time for that.

Except last night, I decided to make some space for that deep cavern, to just hang out there with it all and not be so afraid of the dark and deep quiet of sadness that was stirring inside me. I find that the birth of children can bring immense healing and the emerging of those new little souls change the world inexplicably and immediately. They even change the ones who aren’t present, but far away and saying prayers for a happy and healthy birth for the mother and father and for the new one. Miraculous stuff, this business of having children.

So, here I am in a place of deep conflict. Feeling guilty and immensely selfish that while my dearest of friends was becoming a grandmother, I was feeling angry, grief-stricken and close to throwing up. It happens, you know. Your untapped grief gets triggered by life. You run into or run away from it. I wanted to run away from it, but I didn’t this time. Not all the way at least. I thought, okay, i’ll dip my toes in it for a minute and see if I really will die if I feel it. Guess what, I didn’t die. I did feel like absolute profound shit for awhile, and even writing this, I feel like my own heart is going to explode, but I’m going to keep writing it. Keep being with it and see where it goes, because emptying the well of grief will take a lifetime, but little by little, i think it gets less heavy, less watery and dark, less scary.

My first child was a girl. Her father was a smart, incredibly intelligent, handsome, athletic fellow, but he had no interest in being a father. He bailed the moment he found out and never looked back. I spent an entire pregnancy trying to figure out how in the world I was going to parent a child on my own. Me? For fuck’s sake, that poor kid! This kid would be stuck with just me.

I had the good fortune to have a birth partner who was absolutely divine. She became a quiet grounding force for me as I got closer to birthing. I was two weeks late. So typical of my little girl. It’s her timing or no timing. (She’s still like this, by the way!) I checked into the hospital late one Monday afternoon prepared to be induced and hunkered down for the long haul.

My OBGYN was an absolute nightmare and didn’t believe in medicated births. I spent a good portion of my birth dealing with her passive aggressive compliance with my requests and endured long long hours of no sleep, (wherein my birth partner and i watched Shark Week!) and felt as if I would die. (When you see those women in movies who are screaming that they’ve changed their minds and they quit, well, that's a real thing!) The whole process of birthing is like being in a 3 foot wide tunnel where it’s pretty much just you and the waves of contractions, and your guardian angels barely squeeze in there. If you’re lucky enough to have a loving and brave partner, they can fit their face in and assert themselves in that long tube of time and squished space, but even then, I wonder how much those partners make it in the door of a woman’s consciousness. What I remember is that I have never felt so alone in my life. So incredibly alone, with the awareness of this little human believing in me and asking me not to lose faith in myself. The amazing women who were nurses and doctors who were trying to help me were blurred and grainy and muffled. It was me, that baby girl and the bright light of God. Birthing is women’s work, but in those moments, I could see that a man’s energy could’ve changed the whole dynamic for me. Still, I birthed that beautiful child, and when I had her in my arms, I forgot about all that. Forgot about the immense aloneness of birthing, because in the end, maybe it was just about me and my daughter. That was ours and no one else’s. (excepting my sweet birth partner who is still so dear to me and my daughter).

My son’s birth was significantly more insane. I went into labor at 6am in the morning, and my birthing partner for this one was my earlier mentioned new grandmother friend! My husband at the time was to stay home and care of my daughter, because he didn’t actually want to be with me in the process. So, i prepared for another long, solitary birthing gig. I was already in labor when I arrived at the hospital, so there was no inducing needed. I had requested an epidural because after a long and traumatic pregnancy (which is another story for another day), I was exhausted. About 20 minutes after getting the epidural, my friend looks at me and says. “Your eyes are swelling!” I realized that i was actually itching all over my body so badly that it was unbearable. Turns out I was suddenly allergic to the caine family of drugs. Lydocaine, novocaine, benzocaine, etc. And I’d had a good dose of it. I was shot up with Benadryl and proceed to fall out completely. I kept waking to 6 faces speaking fast and hovering and sounding alarms but I couldn’t pull into the world enough to see or ask what was happening. Then I’d go under again. When I finally woke up, there was my friend looking pale but collected. I asked what had happened. She informed me they lost the baby’s heartbeat twice. Not lost as in couldn’t find with the monitors, but the baby’s heart was stopping. I don’t think I will ever be able to explain the panic, and the difficulty of the subsequent attempts at not losing my mind when there was still concern whether he’d actually make it into the world alive.

My little boy had ideas of his own, living being the main one, and that evening, he was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck three times. The miraculous thing is that he was born in his bag of waters. A mermaid’s purse baby! It saved his life. Because some doctor along the way had the good sense not to break my water bag, and it stayed in tact the entire process of birthing, he entered the world in his own little water cocoon, slightly purple, but completely healthy and thriving. The bag of waters was broken and the cord whisked from his next with haste and then the little baby boy’s wailing began. Hey look! I’m here, he seemed to say. Had my bag of waters broken at any point, little man would’ve strangled from the friction of the cord on his neck.

This birth was not an easy one. I also knew as I held that little baby boy that night and he stared me down and totally freaked me out because he was looking right through me, and I was in that hospital room totally alone with just that baby boy, I knew that this little one wouldn’t have a dad either.  So, he and I had a little chat together, and I saw that when he looked at me, he was along for the ride, no matter what and he was happy to be here, with me and with his big sister. This time, I didn’t forget about being alone during that massive journey of birthing. It settled deep into my heart and stayed there. I’m not sure why it did on this one. Maybe because I had one glimpse at what it might be like to have a different kind of life for the kids with another person. When it wasn’t there, and when it was disappearing, somehow it shook up the grief, because it was big tease to what life could’ve been like. Then, it wasn’t like that at all.

So, here I am today with a nine year old and an almost 3 year old. Long past the days of their birth, and still the grief of that aloneness still erupts with unexpected force. Triggered by a simultaneously existing joy of new life and the changes that the new little humans brings to the world. You don’t get to go back and redo it, or try to recreate it to heal it, and doesn’t mend the loss.

What I’m left with is this.

1.) Grieve the loss. Really grieve it. Go into the darkness and feel it, swim in it, be held by it and be brave enough to let it flow out of your body and be replaced by something even better. Then Recognize the brilliance of a different story, ask for grace to embody it and really “get” that things happen exactly as they should, to show us exactly who we are and what we’re capable of, for better or worse.

2.) Some of that sadness doesn’t ever really go away because being alone isn’t just about loss of partners and loss of ideas of how you want life to look, how you hoped life would look for your kids (because at the end of the day, that’s the most difficult piece…what you want so much for your kids!) and see that perhaps we don’t know best about how life needs to be for them or for us. Maybe there’s a different way to do it and maybe it won’t destroy them or you because it’s a different story. Maybe they have more than enough of what they need today, and tomorrow or the next day, when they need more, it’ll arrive for them. And for you.

3.) These kids coming into the world are amazing. Absolutely, remarkably amazing. They’re going to change things, or they’ll die trying and they’ll figure out a way to do it better than we did…better than their grandparents did, just by being here. My kids have this deep well of awareness, kindness, love and brilliance that blows my mind every day. I think most days that there’s no way I could’ve deserved them…and no way I’ll ever be able to but, here I am. And here they are. With me. The new “Us."

So you see. I wasn’t actually alone when I birthed those humans. They were right there with me the whole time, and when I think about that, the memory of loneliness ebbs and what I see as one of my greatest gifts is the capacity to find the gift and blessing and wonder in a few place of heartache and loss, and perhaps my idea about how things should’ve been or should be just weren’t meant this time around or not meant to be for now. I don’t feel my life is any less in this moment because of what isn't.

Welcome to world, new baby girl out there! I’m glad your whole clan surrounded you and prayed for you and you arrived in a world full of loving hearts and arms and faces that will watch over you your whole life. I hope that they will remind you on every birthday what a gift it was to them that you were born and they had the privilege to be there when you entered the world. Thank you for giving me this too. Something somewhere inside of me found some new joy today because of you and your wonderful family, and your new little life light brought a lamp of grace to dark well of loss that seems to empty by the minute.

BEING AWAKE ON NEW YEAR'S EVE

New Year’s Eves bum me out. Big Time! For some reason, New year’s eve has always been one of those weird stand-out nights for me. I have historically been overwhelmed with the idea of something new. Doing something new, starting something new, becoming something new, and this particular holiday somehow seems to encapsulate, and by turns, exacerbates and exploits this sentiment. This infuriates me. In my twenties and early thirties, New Year’s eves generally sucked because I had this high expectation that such a night should be filled with a particular kind of revelry and an energizing spirit. What I remember are the ones of my youth. Traipsing around with my brother and friends, laughing at them laughing at themselves, and feeling on the outside of some wonderful story being written in the twilight. I was never really a part of things, just an observer. As a little sister, this was the extent of my involvement. And my brother, being the beautiful, tolerant soul that he is, abided my presence with kindness and patience that extended way beyond what any older brother should be obliged. Over the years as an adult, I made it my mission to find him on New Year’s eve and do exactly what I always did. Observe, be present, and watch that fascinating movie play out. For years, i did this. It was the only highlight of those wretched holidays for me. My dear brother. What would I have ever done without him and his companions, who were a constant source of hilarity, kindness and entertainment.

He and his friends played in a band, and somehow they managed the tradition of playing every New Year’s Eve. I drove from wherever I was living (even 13 hours once) to be present for that evening. In 1999, my first husband and I drove down to South Carolina to visit my family for Christmas and then back to Chapel Hill to visit his family. The agreement being that we would stay for NYE to see my brother’s band play, and I could at least honor that one little tradition that I had created for myself. Being the abusive jackass that my first husband was, he changed his mind at the last minute and tried to force me to go back to Asheville where we had recently moved. I wouldn’t go back. It was just one more night. He wouldn’t budge, so he drove me to my brother’s house, threw my shit in the yard and drove off. Happy fucking New Year, yeah?! Totally defeated, but still determined to not have the night ruined, I tried to have a beer and figure out how I would get back to Asheville the next day. My brother’s best friend’s girlfriend dolled me up in leather pants, a tube top and a shit load more make up than I’d ever worn and proceeded to pour liquor down my throat all night. I remember walking around at their show in a daze, feeling lost and bottled up and afraid, but glad to be with my brother. The next day, I got a hold of a friend who had been in chapel hill with her boyfriend at the time and they gave me a ride back. I remember driving back in the dusk, leaning against the window in the backseat of her white Honda Accord in total despair thinking, what the hell was even going back to? I would have to say that those 24 hours set up the tone for the whole next year.

But on the bright side, there was one New Year’s eve that I loved in it’s entirety. That night was glorious. Absolutely glorious. One of my dear friends had a party every year at his house. His house at the time was called Big Blue. It was magnificent two-story home with huge open spaces, hard wood floors and large sloping yard. EVERYONE, and I mean everyone, came to that party. The kitchen was cleared of all furniture, bands played all evening and into the night, the counters were strewn with half empty bottles, cigarette butts and humans dressed in all styles and flavors. It was a delicious spread. We all sang and laughed and lost ourselves in absurd abandon. Friends laughed and recapped the holidays, but mostly just laughed and told stories and fell all over each other all night with raucous joy. That one particular New Year’s, I recall also running around in the grass and ending up on the ground looking at the sky and singing really bad 80s songs for quite some time. I don’t even remember if it was cold or warm or what I was wearing. I just remember being blissfully happy, albeit maddeningly drunk. I also remember traipsing off into the dark with a friend of mine and spending the night with him, only to return to Big Blue the next morning to people sleeping all over the floors, on old mattresses down in the basement and every conceivable soft, horizontal space. The counters were lined haphazardly and in some places quite methodically with bottles of all colors, shapes and sizes. Ash trays piled high and overflowing and random detritus littering the floors. I made coffee, woke up my friend and proceeded to clean up. Several of us spent the better part of the day recovering, smoking cigarettes, making food and drinking coffee until we all felt the absolute lilt of the night before. And so it was. Glorious and wonderful. Friends, love and recovery. That is what a new year’s eve should be like.

Now that I’m in my 40’s, it all looks quite different. This evening was spent chasing children, mending a broken bed so the littlest one could sleep flat and not on a tilt, and feeling rather grumpy and exiled from the festivities afoot in the world. The problem with nights like this is that it’s just another night, but you can feel that the world is ablaze with laughter, music, drunken revelry and joy. Of course it’s not without it’s disgusting and revolting holiday moments out there, but generally speaking, one knows that on nights like this, there’s action happening, and for someone like me, who hates to miss the action and can barely stifle the general disdain of being cooped up when such events are transpiring, it is often mind bending. With a world of responsibility and things to be tended to that allay my capacity for just heading out into the darkness for celebration, I am stuck. At home. What’s worse, I myself know that in the end, there’s little to be missed and this holiday will be repeat itself yet again, and again, and again, if we’re lucky enough to make it another year.

So, this year, as I sit quietly on my bed writing this, I think about all those out there that I love. I wonder what they’re doing and if they’re happy, overjoyed, lost, grumpy, struggling, wishing, yearning, longing or hoping. If they’re celebrating and getting knackered with friends, or if they’re missing someone really deeply. I wonder if they’re out there safe and the evening is giving them loads of sweetness and kindness and reasons to be thankful to be alive for the turn of another year. And i wonder, how many of them might be sitting in their quiet houses with a wood stove going, freshly showered and awake feeling the blues like I do at this moment, but at the same time, so damn thankful that there is food in the fridge, there are loved ones out there that they cherish, good work to be had, children who are miraculous and precious and safe and sound in their own beds and another year of hope and joy ahead of them. After these past few years, I’m tired. My heart is often weary with the journey and struggle of what I hold every day, but as I sit here, I feel, with my whole being that there is an inexplicable grace in just being. Sitting in one’s own presence and feeling the past and imagining the future and setting an intention to be thankful for every little thing that crosses our paths and lifts us up and reminds us that kindness and love and generosity are really the most important things to aspire to. Without those things, we'd just be made-up drunks in leather pants with no ride home.