If we can agree on nothing else, can we all agree that we are happy to be done with campaign season? As a rookie politician (who never imagined my name would appear on a ballot. Ever. Anywhere.) I am certainly glad to have this season behind me. I have a new appreciation for everyone who steps into the political arena with hopeful and ethical intentions. Here are some random nuggets of wisdom that I picked up along the way....
1. Politics is 100% rigged in favor of people who have money.
Filing paperwork to get your name on the ballot is actually free. That is about the ONLY thing that will be free during the life of your campaign. Want to have a candidate statement published in the voters guide? $750. Yes, you heard that right. $750 to sell yourself for what is essentially a volunteer position. Lawn signs? $20 each, and significantly more for bigger sizes. Post cards? Buttons? Brochures? Stickers? Those all cost money. Radio, print, or web ads add up even faster. If you've got generous friends and family, this might not be a huge hurdle. For my very small, local campaign, I raised around $1,000 from small donors. Nearly all of my donors were people that I know personally.
Throughout the process I couldn't help but think about highly qualified candidates who might not have friends who can easily pitch in $50, or those who can't afford to donate their own personal funds for campaign efforts. How do they manage? They have to work a lot harder. Or, they just opt out.
This is a very small example on a very small scale of how money impacts politics. When you start to look at state or federal races....the money pouring into those campaigns is staggering. It is no wonder why or how the rich stay in power at all levels of government.
2. The environmental impact of campaigning is staggering.
Oh man, Mother Earth. I'm really sorry. Millions of postcards, t-shirts, plastic yard signs, magnets, etc are heading to the landfill today. Ugh.
3. Your voter data is easily accessible by people you would NOT want to know where you live.
In our county, it costs $40 for any candidate on the ballot to get a list of every registered voter in their jurisdiction. This list includes name, email, phone number, mailing address, physical address and political party affiliation. You can even request voting history to see which people have actually showed up at the polls to cast a ballot during the past few years. I don't know about you, but there are plenty of people in politics who I would prefer NOT have access to my personal information. In the state of CA, there is currently no opt out provision. If you are a registered voter, your information is for sale to any candidate that requests it.
4. It takes a village.
When I decided to run for re-election on the County School Board, I didn't anticipate doing much more beyond filing my papers and getting my name on the ballot. When the pool of candidates grew deep with convicted felons and people openly advocating for the destruction systems of support for students, I rolled up my sleeves a bit and put some energy into campaigning. This is not a race that I ran alone. Friends, family, acquaintances, colleagues and total strangers showed up for me in ways that kept optimistic and determined throughout election season. I have deep gratitude for everyone who donated, put up a lawn sign, drove around town with my car magnet on their vehicle, wrote postcards, wore buttons, offered pep talks, designed campaign materials, delivered swag to various locations, talked me up to friends and family, shared social media posts, offered campaign strategy wisdom, and hosted candidate events. Every bit of this support was appreciated and makes me more determined to be a stronger champion for others when they step into the ring to run for public office.
While the final results are still being tallied, it doesn't look like I will be continuing on the Board of Education past November. I don't view this as a loss. It is a reallocation of my energy to other spaces. There is plenty of good work to be done, maybe after some processing of all the emotions and a long nap.
If you need me, I'll be working on my campaign swag recycled art project, until I spot the next Bat Signal.
This tired, but happy kiddo helped his soccer team earn a first place title in their league tonight. To say this win was hard-fought is an understatement. The game was a nail-biter from the beginning, and ended with a tense shoot-out. Our kids came in hungry. After a few lackluster years of games that mostly ended with pep talks instead of victory celebrations, this season of winning was a long-awaited change of scenery.
After the thrill of winning subsides, what I'll really remember about this night is....
1. A kid who wanted to quit midway through the season, but powered through various frustrations, found his stride, and became one of the celebrated heroes as goalie in the final game.
2. Seeing 8th grade boys (and girls!) cry tears of joy with zero embarrassment or shaming.
3. A sideline full of parents who know nearly every kid by name, because this school IS community.
4. Players falling over each other to compliment the performance of their teammates after the game, recognizing the team effort and value of each player.
5. Socks, cleats and shin guards that miraculously made their way into my son's backpack on game day, without a single reminder. (Soccer moms know....this is celebration-worthy)
6. Pride, joy and excitement in abundance. Parents, coaches, players, and even salty older siblings, all caught up in the celebration.
Victory on the field is awesome. But the wins of character, growth, responsibility and teamwork are the ones that I will savor the most.
Christmas has arrived, and along with it my annual debate over Christmas cards. Do I send cards? Do I write a standard Christmas letter? Or just scribble a note on each one before sticking in the mail? Should photos be included? If so, which of the 600 photos on my phone will be deemed "Christmas card appropriate" by my children?
It's been a hot minute (years...) since I've written a real Christmas letter, so I decided to jump back on the bandwagon. Here is the Cavalleri highlight reel for 2023...
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| Halloween! |
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| Baseball and food 💟 |
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| RIP Mittens 😕 |
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| My pilgrimage to Portland Leather 💗 |
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| Fern Canyon adventures. |
I hope this letter finds each of you well. The news of the world weighs heavy each day, but we continue to find peace in the promises of the Holy, immigrant child that we celebrate this season. 🌟
Merry Christmas! 🎄
Amy, Clara & Thomas Cavalleri
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| Fun with Uncle Mark in San Diego |
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| 50th birthday trip with high school friends. |
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| Harry & David Factory Tour. Free Treats! |
I know I'm not alone when I say that parenting is a tricky journey. It's part roller-coaster ride, part introspective journey, part blindly plodding through vast stretches of the unknown. I became a step-mom in 2006 and a bio mom in 2009....which means I've been doing this mom gig for about 17 years.
Parenting is 1,000 different decisions that you second-guess all day long, and again when you wake up at 2am. To raise humans is to become one with uncertainty. What is right for one kid might be completely wrong for the next one. One day you're supposed to put your baby to sleep on his tummy, and the next he must be on his back. The crib your baby has been sleeping in for 6 months was recalled a year ago. You go out of your way to make hearty, healthy breakfasts for your kids, only to discover (after 2.5 years) that your kid is allergic to eggs. You enroll your child in a performing arts school where they grow into their introverted personality and despise the spotlight. You pull your hair out over your child who moves at the pace of a sloth ALL THE TIME only to learn that he actually has a legit processing delay which makes it impossible for him to do nearly anything at a speed that you would consider to be reasonable.
That is just a very small sampling of things I *didn't* get quite right in this parenting game.
For all the mis-steps along the way, there are some beautiful and important parenting decisions that we got 100% right. One of those was choosing Cozy Kids Childcare.
My daughter was born in the middle of the 2008 recession, which turned out to be fantastic timing because it allowed me to cut back my hours to part time so I could be more available for mom duties. The process of selecting someone to care for my newborn while I was at work was gut wrenching. I was conflicted about returning to work at all. I was unsure I could trust a stranger to properly care for my tiny, helpless human.
When I first met Carol during a site visit at Cozy Kids Childcare, I remember vividly the moment she said to me, "Your daughter will not get the level of attention here that she would get at home with you. It's just not possible in a group daycare setting."
Uh. What?
I was stunned. I was shopping for daycare and this did not strike me as the most convincing sales pitch. But as I thought about her words later that afternoon, I realized she wasn't trying to scare me away. She was setting me up for reasonable expectations. Being at home with mom and dad is different than being at a daycare with a bunch of other babies and toddlers. There are perks like socialization with other humans (big and small) but there is also the reality that no child is going to be the center of attention at daycare like they are at home. And maybe that's a good thing. Or at least, that's what I convinced myself of in that moment.
So, we enrolled my daughter at Cozy Kids Childcare and hoped for the best. Three years later, we enrolled our son. Little did we know, our hopes would be realized and exceeded tenfold.
The first day Clara spent at Carol's house, I raced there as quickly as I could after work, anxious to see my little 6-month old baby. I found her contentedly rocking on John's lap (Carol's husband) in the backyard. When I approached, he looked up and said to me, "I almost feel guilty for taking your money for this one. Almost."
My mild-mannered, low maintenance baby had won his heart. And Carol and John won ours over and over as the years passed.
Carol's house became my kids' home away from home. They made friends, learned how to be gentle with animals, experienced extremes of hot and cold with the seasons because at Carol's house, there is no such thing as "inclement weather". The kids got dirty. SO dirty. Every day. They picked cucumbers from the garden to gnaw on as they rode around the tricycle track. Hours upon hours were spent swinging, climbing, painting, playing in the sand box, or creating elaborate make-believe stories in the reading loft. At Carol's house my kids lived out the seasons of learning to sit up, roll over, hold a fork, eat independently, and potty training.
Occasionally an "alumni mom" would show up and share a cup of coffee with Carol in the mornings. I remember being envious of those moms who had 30 minutes to spare on a weekday morning, as I was quickly dropping off kids, wiping drool off my shirt and calculating how/when/where I would pump breastmilk that day.
"This will be you one day!" Carol told me.
From the depths of the baby/toddler years, I couldn't fathom having the time or energy for a leisurely cup of coffee with another adult.
There were annual traditions like a field trip to the pumpkin patch, a Christmas party (complete with a visit from Santa and gifts for every child) and Easter egg hunts. Carol visited me in the hospital when my son was born, attended Baptisms and birthday parties and hugged me as I cried when I was laid off from my job.
We were never "customers" at Carol's house. We were family.
Fast forward 13 years to the summer of 2022 and my daughter returned to Carol's house as a helper. She was so proud to be the "big kid" and also just happy to return to this space that was her cozy home away from home as a little person. Every time I would drop Clara off for work in the morning, I thought to myself...I should stop today and have a cup of coffee with Carol.
And every morning, I pushed it off for another day.
Unfortunately, this summer gig was cut short when Carol and John's home was destroyed by fire in July, 2022. It almost seems like a cliche in these parts. How many dreams and plans have been dashed by fire? At this point, everyone has a story.
Carol and John ultimately opted not to rebuild, but instead decided to retire and move to Washington to be closer to kids and grandkids. The loss of their childcare business is a bummer for our community, and a heartache for so many families that had the privilege of trusting our kids to them over the years.
This is not the ending I would have written for Cozy Kids Childcare but sometimes the choices are not ours to make. But for every decision that I've second-guessed as a parent, Cozy Kids is not one of them.
My only regret is that I never got that leisurely cup of coffee.
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| Carol with my kiddos at the pumpkin patch, circa 2013 |
For as long as I can remember, I've been a lover of books. One of the first books that I remember falling in love with was Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb. This rhythmic, repetitive ditty of a book featured prancing monkeys drumming on drums. What's not to love?!
As I got older my literary interests wandered to the Sweet Valley High series (mindless pre-teen lit that I could devour in a day or two), to classics like Island of the Blue Dolphins and The Princess Bride.
For the past 14 years, I've been participating in a book club that has kept me actively reading through the parenting years when it's tricky to make time for anything not kid-related. In the early book club years, I would occasionally get annoyed with the book choices. Being obligated to read a book chosen by someone else that didn't spark my interest occasionally seemed like a special kind of torture. But over the years I have learned to approach each book choice with a more open mind. Mostly I'm able to appreciate the book choices even if they aren't books I would have necessarily chosen to read on my own. Occasionally there was a flop....but not often.
This past year a book club friend recommended the book Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer. At the time we had a long lineup of books already chosen for book club, but this book had made such an impression on her that she strongly encouraged all of us to read it immediately. Her review was enthusiastic enough for met to borrow the book from a friend and read it in between "official" book club books.
When I first picked up the book, I honestly wasn't super intrigued. A nature book, over 400 pages long, written by a scientist. I dunno. Didn't strike me as a real page turner.
But I forged ahead, encouraged by the rave review of my book club friend.
And as I read, I was drawn in.
The writing is intelligent and beautiful. Thoughtful and lyrical. Educational and soothing. Kimmerer somehow combines the smarts and attention to detail of a scientist, with the creativity and intrigue of a master storyteller.
It was one of the last books that my mom read. I don't think she actually finished it, because when she died, her bookmark was still planted somewhere near the middle. (Ironically, a bookmark with a quote from PJ O'Rourke: "Always read something that will make you look good if you die in the middle of it.")
After my mom died, her copy of Braiding Sweetgrass became mine. Having an actual hard copy of this book that I fell in love with was a bit of a novelty since the majority of my reading these days is on my kindle. And when I opened it up to see that my mom had underlined and made sporadic notes in the book, it became even more of a treasure for me.
I started re-reading the book again a few months ago, this time using the copy that had belonged to my mom. As I worked through the book for the second time, the stories that Kimmerer shared became not only a bridge of understanding between me and the natural world, but also between me and my mom. This book, both its physical form and its literary content, brought me a beautiful feeling of connection, months after my mom had left this earth.
My mom was my first teacher. The one who taught me the basics of reading as a child, and nurtured my love of books as an adult by inviting me to join her book club. I never expected her to live forever. But that knowledge is sorry preparation for the void of her absence.
For me, one of the more poignant chapters in Braiding Sweetgrass is "The Consolation of Water Lilies" in which Kimmerer reflects on the journey of parenting and describes the bittersweet experience of dropping her daughter off at college. I remember saying goodbye to my own mother at SFSU 30 years ago, oblivious to the wave of emotion she undoubtedly navigated as she drove away from my dorm. Kimmerer reminds us of the eternal truth of parenting "...if we do our jobs well, the deepest bond we are given will walk out the door."
The presence of children, mothers, and so many other gifts of living this imperfect, human existence, is temporary. These words by Kimmerer, underlined by my mom, bring some solace for this truth:
"We are showered every day with gifts, but they are not meant for us to keep. Their life is in their movement, the inhale and the exhale of our shared breath. Our work and our joy is to pass along the gift and to trust that what we put out into the universe will always come back."
-Braiding Sweetgrass, by Robin Wall Kimmerer
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And escape I did. I left this little town and landed at San Francisco State, a campus with 30,000 students. For four years I lived the dream of big city life.
And when I graduated from SFSU, something funny happened. Somehow in the midst of all that urban living I learned about the value of small town life. The city began to feel claustrophobic to me. The noise, busyness, lack of open spaces and need to plan your life around rush-hour traffic patterns had lost its luster. And my life began to meander back toward the place I had come from...the very place I had happily dismissed a few years before.
I didn't land back in Redding immediately. It took me another 8 years after college graduation to make my way home. And when I did arrive, everything felt a little different. The vast majority of my friends had moved to other places. This small town was growing and changing in ways I wouldn't have imagined a decade earlier. And I came to appreciate the incredible collection of natural beauty that I didn't really notice during my surly teenage years.
In the years since I've moved back home, I've also had the good fortune to return to some old and neglected friendships that got lost in the shuffle after high school graduation. (Easy to do in the pre-Facebook era.) Through class reunions and some google detective work, I've reconnected with a collection of high school girls that has grown into a tight-knit circle of deep and connected friends. We get together for our own private reunions every year. We nag at each other so we don't forget to do our mammograms. We laugh until we can't breathe and tears stream down our faces. We check in on each other when life gets hard and celebrate when life calls for a party.
High school was not exactly a bed of roses for all of us. We had our share of carefree, youthful fun, but also we had our fair share of heartbreak, disappointment, teen drama and some life experiences that we wouldn't wish on our enemies. I wasn't the only one who graduated from high school determined to never look back.
And yet, I'm so glad that we did.
Looking back, with the wisdom that only comes from the passage of time, has allowed me to bring forward the best part of my high school experience....the friendships.
Over the years since we have all reconnected and rekindled our friendships, I've been trying to pinpoint the "thing" that makes this circle of friends so precious. As we gather each year and soak in each other's company for 2-3 days, I wonder about the secret sauce that seems to exist among the six of us.
Part of it is our history. When you know someone for 30+ years there is a level of understanding that tends to make things easier. You don't have to explain where you're coming from because they witnessed first hand where you've been. But that's not the whole story. Maybe the more important piece is not just knowing the history, but appreciating and respecting the way that history has shaped us individually and collectively. Perhaps it's the ability to see in each other the more confident adults we have become, and also being sensitive to the small pieces of those vulnerable young teenagers that still live inside all of us.
Back in 1991, when we gathered with our classmates for our senior panoramic picture, one of us wore a shirt emblazoned with the words "So Be It" in huge, black letters. I didn't really get it at the time. She was (is) a little edgy and rebellious, and I just figured maybe that was the point of the shirt....we weren't supposed to understand it.
This past weekend when we gathered for our annual girls reunion, we looked back on that panoramic photo and I wondered once again about that shirt. I didn't get a chance to ask her what exactly that shirt meant to her in 1991. But for me, in 2021, the meaning suddenly became clear. An expression of acceptance. Resignation. Clarity. We don't need to have the answers or a rationale for why "it" works. If it works, we go with it.
So be it.
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| Enterprise High School Class of 1991 |
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| 30 years later 💛 |
My firstborn is turning 13 this week. Seems hard to believe. Wasn't it just yesterday we were struggling through the sleepless nights?
As a parent, 13 seems like the top of the incline on the parenting rollercoaster. For years, we change diapers, wipe noses, agonize about the timing of their first steps, how fast they are reading or if they are memorizing math facts on schedule with their peers. And then the teen years hit and the days that seemed to stretch on to infinity suddenly seem finite. The mad dash to the finish line is in sight.
Not that we ever "finish" as parents. Because we don't. That role is ours for life.
But at age 13, there are just a handful of years before it's legally acceptable for your kids to leave the house. Even fewer until they are able to drive and your ability to control their every movement is severely crippled.
At 13, the personality that has been percolating for years starts to take clearer shape. Their thoughts, ideas and opinions are no longer a regurgitation of your own. Of course, if you've got kids like mine....they've always been free thinkers. This daughter of mine was demanding specific diaper colors before she even had words and refused to wear pants for the first 7 years of her life. But at this stage of the game, they gain more confidence in their own place in the world. They learn how to verbalize who they are, even when that reality is different than your vision of who they are or what they might become.
The truth of the parenting experience hits home in a more acute way during the teen years. It's all a process of letting go.
When kids are little, most of the letting go is joyous and welcome. The budding independence of young children is a relief for exhausted parents. Learning to hold a spoon and feed yourself? Great! No more diapers? Thank you, sweet baby Jesus!! Figured out how to tie your shoes? Fantastic!
During the teen years, we let go of other, more complicated things. They no longer rely on us to meet every need or solve every problem. The realization settles in that these precious humans that we created are actually not ours to hold onto forever, but ours to launch out into the world.
I mean, that's the ultimate goal, isn't it? A successful launch?
In our house we still talk about living together forever. The plan is to build a second story onto the house where Thomas can live with his kids and Clara and I can live downstairs (because she has no plans for children of her own, but looks forward to being an auntie for all the kids she assumes Thomas will have). I'm not exactly sure how Thomas' wife will feel about this arrangement. I'm fairly certain the whole plan will lose its appeal in a few years (or maybe sooner....).
As we move into the teen years I'm thankful she still hugs me voluntarily and calls me mommy. I love her kind and generous heart. I admire her ability to push forward when challenges arise, and to push back when she encounters injustice in the world. She's quiet and reserved in social settings and completely ridiculous at home with her family or close friends. She is thoughtful and smart with a splash of sassy.
Bringing her into this world was the hardest and most rewarding thing I've ever done. (Her birth story is a post for another day...) I hear a lot of parents say that they yearn for the old days when their kids were small. It always kind of baffles me, to be honest. Those days were HARD, my friends. Sure, the kids were cute. But I have no desire to go back to diapers, midnight feedings or toddler tantrums. There was a time and place for doing everything for her, and those days are over. This is the time to hold on and scream as the parenting roller coaster goes barreling downhill into the teenage years. I'm not quite sure if it will be thrilling or terrifying...could really go either way.
Regardless of how the teen years go, there's no turning back. The joy of this season is less about marveling at her chubby cheeks or first steps, and more about watching this beautiful young person grow into her own skin and claim her place in the world. It's about growing into a fresh season of parenting that is no less beautiful, but challenging and rewarding in new and different ways. It's as much her evolution as it is mine. Looking forward to the ride. 💙
If you are a parent, at some point you will come to the place in life where your kids want to change the color of their room. For us, this moment has been brewing for about a year. When we moved into this house, the entire interior was painted mint green. And I mean everything. Bedrooms, hallways, bathrooms, CEILINGS, all of it. The kids didn't seem to mind the color as much as I did, so I got busy eradicating the green room by room. For months, weekends and evenings were consumed with brushes, drop cloths, rollers, color choices and long hours wishing I had hired a professional to do the whole house, not just the vaulted ceilings and the living room.
The kids have patiently waited their turn in line as the hallway, bathrooms, laundry room, kitchen and master bedroom all slowly shed their green hue. But finally discussions began about when we would paint their rooms.
And....can they help?
Oy.
I would like to tell you I'm one of those cool moms who is able to easily hand their kid a paint roller and let them go crazy "helping" paint their room. I would love to say I don't care about the paint dripping in the wrong places or the less than perfect cutting-in along the ceiling.
But I'm not that mom. I'm not a perfect painter myself, but I'm confident that I'm more skilled than a 10 or 12-year old. I have some basic standards. So when it became clear that my daughter was done being patient about getting her room painted, and she fully expected to participate in the process, I had to do some emotional preparation. I've got Montessori roots so I know all about how important it is to allow children to help in real and tangible ways. And I'm a bit of a control freak.
I wasn't sure how it would all work out, but we did manage to get most of the paint on the walls even with two junior "helpers".
And now I'm pleased to share with you the five emotional stages of painting with your children.
Stage 1. Excitement
Picking a new color, slapping painters tape all over everything, removing all the outlet covers and wall decor is the fun part, Everyone is happy and feeling excited about this new adventure. "It's only a little paint." You think to yourself...tricking your brain into forgetting the reality of every other painting project you've done over the past 30 years.
Stage 2. Confidence
As you finish up the prep and begin applying paint to the walls, you're feeling certain that you are the best, most patient mom on the planet and you will take full advantage of this beautiful opportunity to teach your children a new skill. You offer basic instruction to help them be successful. You gently correct their technique with respect and kindness. You respond quickly and calmly with a wet rag when the paint needs to be wiped away from places it doesn't belong. The kids are doing their very best to keep things neat and clean. You. Got. This.
Stage 3. Fatigue
After a few hours, you are reminded that painting actually isn't a 'quick' project. It always takes two coats, even when you do your very best to lay it on thick and even. It's hot working up on the ladder when it's pushing 108 degrees outside. As soon as you find your groove, you run out of paint and have to go back to the store for another gallon. The kids start to disappear for "breaks" that seem to go on longer than necessary. You face the wall so you can roll your eyes without hurting anyone's feelings. You come to terms with the fact that this is clearly not a one day job.
Stage 4. Chaos
Your son turns around and you realize he has, at some point, leaned his entire body up against the wet wall of paint. The kitten can't resist the liquid jug of goo and insists on dipping a paw into the paint can. Your daughter has somehow convinced you she is capable of cutting in around the ceiling and you don't even care anymore. Because, as she reminds you, it is her room. A word (or two...or ten...) comes out of your mouth that is not PG. The kids spend more time debating about what music to play than actual painting.
Stage 5. Completion
Eventually you manage to finish the job. Paint is mostly in the right places. You remind the kids that the job isn't actually finished when all of the bedroom furniture is still sitting in the living room. Tarps are folded and returned to the garage. Brushes are cleaned. You head out to dinner and toast your rookie painting crew on their first, largely successful, painting job.
Forgetting entirely about stages 3 and 4, everyone gets excited about picking a color and painting the next bedroom....
When I think about my favorite places to be, unplugged really tops the list. In our tech-heavy, over-connected world, setting my phone aside and being still feels like a unique luxury.
I begin each morning by unplugging and hanging out on my back patio with no agenda but to finish my cup of coffee. I listen to the birds, watch the sprinklers, notice the sky and the temperature. Sometimes I think about what I have to get done that day. Sometimes I think about nothing. Mostly I just sink into this little slice of stillness and soak it all in.
During the workday, I'm mostly tethered to a phone and/or a computer. This constant presence of technology allows me the convenience of working from home, or really any place with a good wifi connection. While I appreciate this flexibility and the miracle that is remote work, at the end of the day I find myself craving something (anything) that doesn't involve a screen. Sometimes I scratch this itch by taking a walk, or working on my crocheted blanket that has been in progress since March, or getting lost in the kitchen throwing something together for dinner. I read a book. I work on puzzles.
The irony of typing these words on a computer is not lost on me. 😀
But when I think back on the most meaningful connections and moments of 2020, during the height of COVID quarantine, I'm surprised at the connection that technology facilitated. While we all huddled alone in our houses, our only method to connect was over the computer. These screens that were tools of disconnection suddenly became our lifelines to anyone outside our family or quarantine bubble.
My book club continued to meet online, providing inspiration to keep up with my reading habit and the opportunity to keep connecting with this group of women that has buoyed me for the past 15 years.
My gaggle of high school girlfriends that usually gather only once a year, suddenly found ourselves with time to connect more often. Cancelled soccer games and working from home meant more time in the evenings for biweekly zoom calls to catch up, laugh and share stories.
When a mom friend passed away suddenly, the other mamas didn't quite know what to do. Normally we would be gathering in someone's kitchen to cry and drown our sorrows. So we gathered on Zoom to cry and connect at some basic level.
Though I was dubious about its effectiveness, I led two, 8-week mind-body skills groups via Zoom. The groups offered a place for people to connect, share, learn and grow in meaningful ways that I never imagined possible on a virtual platform.
Now as we begin to emerge from the isolation of COVID it's interesting to see how we have all weathered the storm. Suddenly an in-person meeting is a novelty. Going out for dinner seems like an exotic treat. With everything that managed just fine online during COVID, I'm suddenly re-thinking what really needs to happen in-person.
After decades of being used as a tool to zone out and disconnect from those around us, the internet has proven its ability to be the great connector. But in-person gatherings with friends and family have taken on new meaning as we realize that a life lived behind a screen is actually no life at all. The internet is an incredible tool that created moments of connection when we were most desperate for it. And its ability to be a tool of isolation, endless scrolling and mindless searching is still real.
As I tiptoe back into the real world again, I have profound gratitude for the internet and all that it provided for us during the pandemic. And even greater appreciation for the true connections to nature, ourselves and other humans, that only come when we choose to unplug.
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| Castle Crags, A spectacular place to unplug. During a pandemic, or any other season of life. |
I remember feeling tired. A bit overwhelmed. Beginning to become aware that my marriage was strained. Feeling like I was doing everything half-ass....not the best mother, employee, wife or friend that I should be. I'm sure from the outside it appeared that I had it all together. From the inside it felt like I was madly trying to hold things together with duct tape and Elmers glue.
But in the midst of that, this blog was born, because somewhere inside of me I continued to find small sparks of joy that helped sustain me when so many other big, uncomfortable feelings were trying to take center stage. Watching my kids play peacefully in the sandbox, baking cookies on a random Wednesday afternoon, taking a walk with a friend...all these small things were the oasis's that kept me afloat between toddler temper tantrums, spilled milk, and struggling to define my identity and find my place in the world as I entered middle age.
Through the years, I have come into my own space, come to know and trust myself more, and learned how to cultivate more joy in my life. So much of that process has really been about making space to listen and wonder. I've learned to trust myself more and listen to the "shoulds" less. I have learned to identify, feel and move through emotions (even the though ones) rather than putting them on the back burner to slowly simmer into an angry boil. I've learned to give myself and those around me a bit of grace. I've learned to say yes to the things that are important and no to the things that drain me. I have decided I'd rather be a happy, imperfect human, than a worn out human trying to appear to be perfect.
Thank God I came into 2020 with better clarity about who I am and what I need, because it was a YEAR, full of life lessons big and small. 2021 is shaping up to be another collection of lessons and challenges as we navigate my mom's terminal cancer diagnosis. This is not something I feel prepared for, and yet we don't really have a choice but to continue through this heartbreaking season of life, ready or not. And ironically, after neglecting this blog for months, I'm drawn back to this space again.
Where is the joy now?
The joy is in the depth of my grief, which is actually just a measure of the depth of my love for my mom.
Joy is in my newfound awareness of and empathy for those that grew up without a mom, lost their mom younger in life, or have a relationship with their mom that is life draining rather than life giving.
The joy is in watching my children navigate lessons on mortality and faith and love with sadness and curiosity. As they process the magnitude of this impending loss, their questions and compassion remind me that they are remarkable little humans that I am privileged to call my own.
The joy is in recognizing the strength of my village. Friends offer support in so many ways and receiving their love is comforting. It buoys me and draws me down off my pedestal of self-sufficiency. I've also realized that the beautiful village my mom created for herself will be one of the most precious gifts I will inherit from her. Those that love her are now loving me.
The joy is in sharing jokes about how my mom's body is now "bikini ready" after losing 30+ pounds on her chemo diet plan.
The joy is in this sacred, thin space where we are keenly aware of the truth of all the cliches of life.....it's a gift, every moment is precious, take nothing for granted.
What I'm settling into is a new understanding that seemingly incongruent emotions can exist simultaneously. Joy and grief are not mutually exclusive. Allowing ourselves to laugh while our hearts are breaking is not disingenuous. This dichotomy is the full and authentic expression of our human experience. Finding joy during difficult seasons is a challenge. We have to look a little harder, and pay closer attention. We have to relax into the process of embracing both at the same time, not postponing one for the other. But if we allow ourselves to seek the joy, even in the midst of grief, we will find it is there, in its most raw and precious form.
