Grief: Mapping Your Online Community

I learned the phrase “Community mapping” at age sixteen while volunteering in a small community in rural Paraguay. At the time, the notion of mapping the resources in a community seemed clear. Quickly drawn on a piece of paper---the community school, church, homes, the dirt roads connecting the dots, and the fields that spread in the spaces between houses. The stick-figure buildings my host family drew to mark the previously listed sites represented the physical locations of where community manifests. They leapt off the page as a visible sign of the strength and resources held within this community.  At sixteen, I transferred this model to my life in Colorado---my school, my home, my family’s cabin, and the places where I spent time with my friends.  My map made sense, I didn’t question my places of support and where my community came together. The intervening twelve years of moving and creating new communities---including online---threw a wrench in my map. It no longer fits on one page or within a single community. I access much of the pieces of different communities in online spaces, including gchats from friends who still inhabit past homes on other continents, Facebook messages from childhood friends, and following twitter feeds of friends-I-haven’t-actually-met, who share a common journey.

Grief and loss often throw the individual into an unknown emotional space, where the “community map” becomes increasingly important. It creates a sense of one’s resources and places of support; showing the individual the strength of their community(ies). For many, the communities of support blend between in-person, phone, and online communication.

Admittedly, the online space trends towards the more positive aspects of life, as Jenna Wortham notes in her article, Talking about Death Online, “This is more than trying to decide how carefully polished you want your online image to be. . . . It’s about the way social software is slyly engineered to get us to participate---we are encouraged to brag about our lives, and present ourselves as living our best lives each day and year.” Between updates about babies, engagements, jobs, and school---loss becomes just another post that slides by not really resonating.

Engaging with more difficult, heart-wrenching topics, such as grief and loss via social media opens the individual up to vulnerability. For many, loss creates moments of intense need to reach out to one’s community. The online platform is not necessarily designed for in depth sharing or support, as posts and tweets have character limits. The feeds stream by, not allowing the adequate time or ability to respond to a friend’s post. As Jena Wortham writes, “However, when it comes to talking about death and grief in a non-abstract way---that is, when dealing with the loss of a family member, a partner or close friend---it gets much, much trickier. It doesn’t have an appropriate reaction face, a photo that you can reblog, a hashtag.” I often wonder as I see friends hesitantly posting memories of their lost parent how our ability to comfort each other spills into this medium?  How much of our ability to empathize in person actively translates with each “like” we give to their posts?

As a firm believer in allowing each individual to chart their own path for grieving and healing, online spaces may become mechanisms for both. In my own process, I try to push the boundaries of what feels comfortable to share on Facebook, twitter, etc. I don’t shy away from posting pictures of my father, marking what would-have-been his sixtieth birthday, the sixth year since his death, or my travels to places he would have loved. However, the accompanying text is often positive, such as “missing your adventures” rather than engaging with the harder, empty feelings of loss. While I can’t express my “full self” in this online space, I trend towards sharing what I can with this online world. As my community is spread throughout many places, online becomes the place that I receive (and provide) support from so many communities at once. Online, I am reminded of the people beyond the Facebook photos who love and care about me---through likes, comments, and quick emails after they see the post.

Beyond our individual experiences with grief and healing---Facebook has become a community in itself, creating a way to memorialize those who have died. Two of my “current” Facebook friends are people who have passed away. Their profiles remain places where friends and family leave notes---sharing life updates, memories, or simply typing “I miss you.” In a world where visiting gravesites may not be practical, the online memorial space may bring us closer together.  In her blog post, Online Mourning and The Unexpected Refuge of Facebook, Cheri Lucas (another Equals Record writer) discusses her experience with a friend’s death;

“A few hours after receiving the news, I wrote something and shared it as a Facebook note. I posted scanned photos from college—precious moments of youth, debauchery, and experiences I had never shared publicly—from nearly 15 years ago: onto his profile, our friends’ profiles, and my timeline. I sat in front of my computer, clicking on photos people tagged of him: images that conjured memories, that stunned and confused me, that made me feel grateful for knowing him, that devastated me because I realized I didn’t know the man he had become.

Alone, I sobbed. Yet I sobbed with Facebook open—his life revealed and exposed in bits on my screen, his friends spilling tears on his profile. I sobbed at home, by myself, but also with everyone else. I had never given in to the community of Facebook until that moment. For the first time, its communal space had comforted me.”

The possibilities of online spaces to bring us together are endless, we can share memories of those who have died, sharing our own healing processes, and of course, share our joys. Yet, as Wortham also notes, we don’t yet know the outcomes of creating online communities that don’t support the whole breadth of human emotions. However, we should trend towards sharing our authentic selves, our whole journeys---and in return, we should support others who do just that---comment on posts people share about those they have lost, about their difficult moments---engaging with the full spectrum of emotions, will only make the blissful moments stronger.

Much of my community is online, thus my grieving and healing cannot be completely separate. However, as with all pieces of grieving, this is personal---and we will each have to carve out how we interact with our online spaces. Yet, striving to make these spaces open to deeper human interaction, will only bring us closer to each other, and as a community---closer to healing.

Lessons from a North Dakota Winter...

Dear Clara,

Remember your trip to North Dakota this summer? With long summer days, green grass and your discovery of dandelions? The wintertime paints a different picture---in the place of the green and gold fields is a blanket of thick, quiet white.  There is something about the air when you step outside---when the temperature is so low, I like to think that the air can’t be anything but completely pure and clean.  I love that kind of winter in its own right, but like everything else, it is only when you spend some time away that you really appreciate the peculiarities of a place like this.  Over many winters growing up in North Dakota, this is what I've learned:

• Don’t leave the house without a hat, scarf and gloves: You might think you are just heading out to the car but you never know.  The car will break down, there might be a storm, you might get locked out . . . Always, always, always have winter layers with you.  Remember, it is always much more important to be warm in conditions of that kind, than fashionable.
• Brake slowly, allow time and give yourself space: Nothing good ever comes of being in a rush in the winter time.  Things will always somehow not go the way that you planned.  Don’t rush when you’re driving so that you don’t put yourself or others in dangerous situations.  If you start slipping, brake slowly---no knee jerk reactions.
• Don’t spin your wheels, you’ll only end up deeper:  If you get stuck in the snow while driving, don’t keep trying to accelerate your way out of the problem.  Stop, figure things out, move wheels around, take a deep breath, get traction from other materials . . . Catch yourself while you can still do something about it.
• Take care of your hands: Your hands are one of the first things to betray your age.  You won’t appreciate this when you’re younger, when you think that young skin will last forever.  But a harsh, dry winter won’t be kind to that skin.  Use lotion regularly, wear gloves, keep your nails short so that they do not break.  You hands will always make an impression on others.
• Never take the last flight out:  The chances are high that you won’t be going anywhere.
• Accept that sometimes the weather will be stronger than you: When the snowstorm comes, or the wind chill sets in, or the gusts of wind blow snow up your door, realize that there are some elements of nature you just won’t beat.  And that’s okay.  Know your own limitations.  Be prepared to change plans, to enjoy the quiet, and admire the elements from the inside looking out.  Sometimes those changes that we can’t control end up being their own gift.

All my love,

Mom

XIX. Savoie

When I go to the Chambéry train station to pick up Clémence for her weeklong visit, I have a panicked moment where I think I won’t recognize her. We were practically kids when we were together before, strangely privy to witnessing each other’s lives for a handful of weeks that summer. We’re still in that part of life where six months can turn you into a completely different person. Who knows if we’ll still know each other after two and a half years?

This is what I’m thinking about, shivering in my red coat on the platform as the snow falls on my shoulders. I keep peering down the tracks, first left and then right, not knowing which direction her train is coming from. I tell myself that in these last couple months alone in Chambéry I’ve just become unaccustomed to having friends around---that’s why I’m nervous. But still.

Each time that Clémence and I see each other, one of us is always speaking in a language that we don’t entirely understand, fumbling through unfamiliar verb conjugations and fast-spoken idioms. One of us is the leader, and the other is the follower. The follower must do and say as the leader does and says. Since that first time that she spent a month with me in Ohio, Clémence has not been back to the U.S. We are always in her country and her language. And for that, I constantly feel like a child around her, stumbling along in her footsteps.

But the second she steps off the train, I spot her strawberry blond hair and her funny white eyebrow that changed color after she went to college. We catch each other’s eyes and beam.

In that moment I remember that even though we don’t actually know that much about each other, we love each other in a way that feels unconditional. I rush toward her and she rushes toward me and we collide in a hug like in a scene from a movie.

T’es voilà! I say, tears streaming down both our faces. You’re finally here.

On Flying

Over the holidays we took a short trip up to Pennsylvania to visit my husband’s family. We decided against moving after all and it would be our last trip for awhile with the baby coming in just 7 (!) short weeks. It was a quick weekend trip, but the timing was perfect to see some snow, only Charley’s second time seeing it. He was thrilled; watching it float down through the air was just as magical as I remember. I was glad that at the last minute Charley and I decided to accompany Matt on the trip. Originally I was going to stay home, I’m just getting too big and am exhausted all the time. But seeing his face in the snow made it all worth it. He and Matt spent all day Saturday before New Year’s sledding and building a snow fort as close to six inches blanketed central P.A. I sat by the big picture window in my sister-in-law’s house and watched them from afar, it was almost as much fun. Charley is getting so big, and everyday I have to let him go a little bit more. I read Catherine Newman’s “Bringing up Birdy” on the flight and it was the perfect companion to the trip. In the memoir she is expecting her second just as her son is about to turn three, almost my exact situation. She writes first about the pregnancy and then towards the end about juggling two kids. I was taking notes for that part! After February feels like this scary unknown, but one that I’ve maybe navigated before. Much like driving a well-traveled road through the snowfall. You know the road is there and you know where you are going, but the journey is still frightening.

We had a layover with our flight both ways, and since we booked so last minute (the morning of) our seats were all over the place. The first leg of the trip I managed to sit across the aisle from Matt and Charley. I could kind of lean over and see Charley, but mostly Matt entertained him. The second leg the plane was very small and we switched so that I could sit with Charley on one side and Matt was across the aisle squished next to a larger gentleman. It felt comforting to be near my baby again. I’ve noticed I’m a more nervous flier now as a mom. I grip the seat tightly and for the first time in my life, I watch my son instead of the runway during takeoff and landing. I want to make sure he’s okay, and he always is.

On the way home I ended up several rows behind Matt and Charley and it was nerve-wracking. I wanted to see my little guy and know what he was doing. I had to trust that he was ok with daddy. The very last leg of the trip Matt gave me his first class ticket (he had been bumped before we booked our tickets) and they sat some twenty rows back in coach. At first I was a wreck! It was fun to be in first class, but I kept thinking how much Charley would like the mini water bottle they gave me and the cookies and blanket. I worried about him and it struck me, this is what being a mom of two will be. I have to let go of my firstborn just a little bit and focus on the baby. I have to trust that I’ve taught him well in three years and let dad take over a bit. It was hard, and as soon as the plane landed and people were departing, my eyes scanned the crowd for them. And there was Matt with a sound asleep Charley in his little yellow striped leggings thrown over his shoulder. He told me that he had slept the whole flight.

How to See in the Dark

Sibyl, In the past few months, my family has suffered two major tragedies, and a few minor ones.  Now every time my husband leaves the house and doesn't answer his cell phone I think he's dead.  Most of me knows this is irrational, but until he gets home or contacts me, I'm a bit of a mess.  I can't afford the $170/hr to see a shrink, but sometimes I don't know how I'll move through the world without feeling at any moment someone I love could die or be hurt.  How can I move past this?

Sincerely,

Irrational

Dearest Irrational,

I have good news and bad news.  Since I know it would calm your anxiety to get it out of the way, let's start with the bad news.

You are not going to get past this.  It is going to become part of who you are.  These traumas, whatever they are, are changing and shaping you.  Who you become in the face of them is up to you.

We'll get to that.  Before you can worry about who you're going to be, you have to survive these first traumatized months.  First of all, explain to your husband that for right now, you need him to answer the phone every time you call.  He doesn't have to talk, he can answer with a text that just says "I'm here".  But for right now, that is what you need -- to know that he is alive.

It is perfectly okay to be Irrational right now, when life makes so little sense.  It’s okay to be a mess.  It’s okay to put your hands on his face every time he returns to you, and say, “I thought I lost you.  You’re back.  We’re home.”

If he really objects to this imposition, put a time limit on it, "I just need this for the next 2-4 weeks.  Then we can reassess."  Trauma is a huge relationship litmus test, so if he can be there for you in this, you will only get closer.

Now for some good news: you don’t have to go it alone.   Of course you can't afford $170/hour for a therapist.  Who can?  That fee is absurd.  I don't know where you live, but I bet there's a clinic or a graduate school nearby that has therapy interns that could see you for as little as $25/session.  If you live in California, and any of your recent tragedies are from violent crimes, you can get therapy through a program called Victims of Crime.

So, with a little bit of research about clinics, schools, and resources in your area, you can see a therapist that you can afford to help you through this time.  You'll have to go through this dark period of your life no matter what, but you shouldn't have to go through it without a guide.  Therapists are trained to walk alongside folks who have experienced tragedies while holding the lantern to help them see the way.

So, with your supports in place, you'll be able to dive in to the crux of the matter.  These recent tragedies have pulled the veil off of your life and you are seeing humans for what we really are: ephemeral.  Our lives, no matter how bright and beautiful, will one day pass away.  It is a horrible panic attack-inducing truth.  But it is also what makes our lives have a sense of urgency, what propels us to ever do anything of consequence, what gives us something worth fighting for.

When my beloved father died, I spent a grief-stricken winter laying face up on my bed, immobile, staring at the one lonely snowflake I had hung from my ceiling, reciting my favorite poems and feeling the chill of a world in which my anchor had been pulled up.  I was adrift.  And terrified.

So, when it came time to register for classes at my university, I signed up for an intense course in Death and Dying, in which we read 12 books about death; theological, philosophical, and personal texts.  The professor's father was dying as he taught the class.  He and I spent several afternoons in his office, laughing at the absurdity of death and sitting in silence at the horror of it.  It was insane to immerse myself so fully in my grief, but I had a therapist I trusted and my fiancee by my side, so I dove in.  I needed to make sense of the world before I could commit myself fully to living in it.

Perhaps you are not about to take such an undeniably intellectual pursuit.  However, do something to make sense of your world, or you will find yourself trying to control it in odd ways.  Pulling out bits of your hair and lining them up in straight rows, restricting certain foods to cheat death's knocking, calling your loved ones obsessively -- I've been there, I know this behavior.  But how you face these tragedies will direct a good portion of your life.  Don't judge yourself for however you experience grief, but strive to get the better of it.  Just the fact that you wrote in to this column shows you are ready to face these fears.

Finally, do something that makes you feel really alive.  Take up boxing, write a poem every day, hike the hills behind your house, sing at a monthly open mic night.  Whatever it is, choose something that brings you close to the core of life, but does not throw you over.  Grind your feet into the earth, finding your shoring beneath you.

Remind yourself why you want to remain a citizen of this world.  Give yourself visceral experiences of the beauty of this life, despite the pain we inevitably incur.  Love so fiercely that death has no lasting sting, just a dull ache that reminds you that what you’ve lost lives on in you, propelling you to further bravery in loving.

Love,

Sibyl

Lessons from a Birthday...

Dear Clara, Birthday season has come upon us! In our little family of three, there is yours, then mine, then the holidays, then your father’s, and then the new year, all in a row.  And our extended family is pretty close to our timeframe too–I guess we were all fated to be together.  But the rapid succession of all our celebrations made me think of what I’d always like you to keep in mind on your own birthdays in years to come:

• Wear something new: Even if it’s a little thing . . . there’s something about bringing something new out of the package, cutting the tags and having that new, shiny, or crisp feeling.  It just adds the right start to the day, and going forward you’ll always associate that item with the day you celebrated another year.
• Call you parents: I never really thought of this growing up, but your birthday is actually more emotional for a parent than for the person celebrating.  It is the day, after all, that their life changed forever when you came into their world.  Don’t forget the fact that they are celebrating in their own way too.
• Don’t forget to celebrate in your own way: When you’re younger, celebrations come easily.  There are parties, there are friends, and there are always much-ado’s about birthdays.  But as you get older, and work schedules set in, and bills need to get paid, and hundreds of other things crowd our mind, not the least of which is our uncertainty about being yet another year older, it’s easy to say that we don’t want to celebrate.  That’s bogus.  You don’t always need a big party, but do something to mark the occasion---you will be more likely to embrace the year ahead and the gifts it brings.
• Don’t be upset if people forget your birthday: It happens.  Some people are excellent about remembering birthdays, but some people slip, despite all of their best intentions.  If someone calls late, don’t hold it against them.  Accept their good wishes for you, that’s what counts.  Someday it might be you that forgets . . . despite all of your best intentions.
• But remember how nice it feels when people do remember: Try to be the person that remembers.  Take notes of important days, keep a calendar, set up reminders.  You might not always get it right but if you try, it’s much easier.  Think of how special it makes you feel when someone goes out of their way to call or write a card or do a surprise for your birthday, and try to be the person that does that for other people.  They will remember you for it, even if they don’t always thank you.

I wish you only the happiest of birthdays over many long years, and remember that I will be with you, in some way, for all of them.

All my love,

Mom

34

My mom didn’t call me on my birthday each year at the exact time of day I was born, and tell me the story of my birth. She didn’t sing the Happy Birthday song to me over the phone, and she certainly did not send me to elementary school with little love notes tucked into my lunch bag on my birthday. She used to say that my father was a baby about his birthday, by which she meant that he liked for all of us to make a bit of a fuss over him each year. For her own birthdays, she told us not to bother, to save our money, that she didn’t need anything, and that she would cook her own dinner. We never listened, of course. For her 70^th, she was particularly adamant, but we planned a fancy private dinner anyway.  We ended up celebrating in the hospital, as she lay next to us in a coma. We joked --- because what else was there to do at such a time --- that she would go to any length not to celebrate her birthday. But, then, she baked the most amazing birthday cakes when we were little. There was Big Bird, Oscar the Grouch, a guitar, baby blocks –-- all homemade and elaborately decorated by hand. Most recently, she broke out her cake decorating tools for my nephew's first birthday, creating the perfect Elmo cake for him. Generous gifts turned into generous checks as we grew up and preferred to pick out our own things. I celebrated my 21^st birthday in London, during my semester abroad. On my mom’s urging, I took my five roommates out to dinner, courtesy of my parents. I remember shrimp and sake, wine and great friends. The only low point of the evening was the bill, reflecting an exchange rate grossly in favor of the pound, and the fact that Benihana in London was a bit fancier than its American counterpart.

I celebrated my 34^th birthday a few weeks ago, the first without my mom.  It was a quiet day spent working from home, with frequent interruptions from friends and family via phone, text, and of course, social media. In the quiet spaces between each birthday message, I thought of my mom. Part of me waited for her phone call all day, because how could it be possible that my mom, the person who gave me life, who more than anyone else should celebrate my birthday, would never do so again? A silly thought, perhaps, after ten months of grieving and learning to live without her, but the knowledge that she couldn’t find a way to wish me a happy birthday made her death so much more real.

I have a Polaroid picture, taken shortly after my birth, of me and my parents. They look so young –-- only a few years older than I am now –--- and as I look at it, I realize I have so many more questions for my mom. At three and four years younger than my sisters, and arriving as my parents neared 37, my sisters have teased me forever that I was a mistake. My mom always reversed the negative, telling me that I was a pleasant surprise. Always petite, she gained 50 pounds while pregnant with me, and used to say that she never lost it. In short, she joked that I ruined her. But I also know that I was an easy baby, happy and content to sit in my high chair, while the older kids ran in circles around me. I know that as the baby of the family, and perhaps because of my striking resemblance to my mom –-- both physical and in temperament --– I got away with more than my sisters sometimes did. But there is so much more I want to ask, especially now as my husband and I navigate the start of our own family. I want to know about her own losses, and whether she worried about having kids later in life. I want to know if she compared herself to her peers, most of whom started their own families years before my parents did, as I find myself doing at times. I want to know what my birth was like, and how she felt having a new baby while trying to celebrate Christmas for my older sisters. And, of course, I want to know how she managed to raise three kids under the age of four, without losing her mind.

I sat with my mother-in-law this past week, fascinated as she told stories about the adoption process they undertook, in bringing my sister-in-law home from Korea, close to 30 years ago. The birth story she told is so different than many, as Kendra didn’t arrive until close to her first birthday, but the gist of the story was the same. Regardless of age, of skin color, of biology, Susan knew immediately that Kendra was hers. And that was it.

We’re connected to our mothers –-- whether by nature or by nurture –-- in the most intimate of ways. As babies, we're soothed by their touch, their smell, their voice. As adults, that connection runs even deeper, and I daresay, the loss even more overwhelming. It's a daily work, this loss, continuing to humble me with each passing month. As I enter a new year, in more ways than one, I thank you again for traveling this road with me. Here's to light and love in 2013.

Lessons from a New Year...

Dear Clara, One year rolls out, and a new one rolls in . . . I love the fresh feeling of possibility that the New Year brings, the crispness of winter, and the sense that there is a blank canvas of achievements just waiting for us.  Here is always what I think about for the year ahead:

• Reflect on the year past: I think it’s only fair that before you leave the old year with abandon, that you reflect on everything you accomplished.  And be generous.  We so often focus on what we didn’t get to on our lists that we forget what we were able to do.  Sit down with your calendar and think about all the good things that came your way, and you’ll have a new appreciation of what you’ve been given and what you were able to do with it, even in the tough years.
• Buy a new calendar: Nothing says possibility to me like the crisp, white, blank pages of a new calendar (except for maybe the crisp, white, blank pages of a new notebook!) This is where your plans will take place.  And this will be your record for looking back on everything that you will still accomplish in your new year.  Find a calendar that organizes you, but also inspires you.  They’re out there.
• List out your resolutions: I see more and more that people make fun of New Year’s resolutions, they say we should be doing these things all the time.  That’s probably true, but in all reality, this is a time of year where we have a bit of time to slowdown to think about the direction that we’d like to go in, whether it be personally or professionally.  Writing things down makes them more real.  Keep the list short, but mix a few tangible things with a few dreams, and I guarantee you’ll get to both faster.
• Do something for your wealth: Think about where you are financially and where you want to be eventually.  Are you moving in the right direction? Do you need to save a little more? Do you need to invest in your education a little more? Think about what makes you feel more secure and plan a few steps on that path.
• Do something for your health:  Remember that your health is a gift, but it can easily go away when we don’t take care of it.  Maybe it’s eating a bit smarter, maybe it’s moving a bit more, but think about one think that you can focus on to take care of your body in the way that it deserves.
• And do something for your happiness:  Try to think of what you don’t make time for but that you know would make you truly happy.  For me, these tend to be creative things.  I don’t have what most people would consider a creative job during the day, although for me it’s still rewarding.  But I look for other opportunities to get the creativity that I crave, and because it doesn’t become part of my work, I do it just for me and it makes me happy.  Look for just those one or two things that you know you should make time for, because it would help you find happiness in the other things that you do all day.
• Think hard about the changes that others would like to see in you: For the most part, our resolutions are about ourselves, for ourselves.  But I also try to think of a quality that I know others would like to see more of in me.  Patience comes to mind often . . . so does mindfulness regarding things like phone calls and correspondence.  These simply aren't always my strong suit.  Your job isn’t to turn yourself into the perfect picture of what everyone else would like to see in you.  But chances are, we all have a few things that could use a bit of improvement on, and that little bit of improvement could translate into a whole lot of happiness to those that matter most to us.  This isn’t a time to be defensive, it’s a time to be reflective.

In this new year, and in all of your new and many years ahead, may I be the first to wish you all the health, happiness, success, mindfulness and joy in the world.

All my love,

Mom

Lessons from a Christmas Holiday...

Dear Clara, So many people think that once December 25^th passes, that the Christmas holiday has come and gone.  But remember that Christmas is not just a holiday, but a season.  It’s both a time for us to celebrate spiritually but it’s also a time to celebrate on a very human scale, when our families and friends take first place, and our work and worldly obligations move to second.

• Prepare yourself for the holiday season:  There is a reason why in many calendars there is an Advent season, in the sense of a time of preparation.  From the outside world, you’ll be tempted to leap right into things, but trust me, it becomes overwhelming.  Pace yourself, make lists, consider what you can get done, and carve of pockets of time for yourself so that you don’t lose the spirit of the season while barreling forward towards the holidays and the end of the year.  It’s an investment worth making.
• Write on your holiday cards: There are a panoply of technology options that make sending cards easier.  And they’re wonderful, and many have their place.  Take advantage of the things that make sense---addressing envelopes, for example.  But keep in mind that while technology can replace process, it can’t replace you.  It’s better for your cards to come a little later, and have your own personal writing on them that shows people that you took the time for them.  It’s only once a year.
• Make every effort to be at home: Remember, this is the time of year when those closest to us come first.  It won’t always be possible---sometimes practical things like money and geography get in our way.  But if you can make it happen, be in your home any way that you can for the holidays.  Eventually you’ll have your own home, and your own family, and you’ll have to figure out what works best for all of you.  But deep down, you’ll always know where exactly you should be.
• Set an extra place at the table: It’s our Polish tradition to say that there will always be room for one more, especially on the holidays, and many visitors feel that you could knock on nearly any door on Christmas Eve in Poland and have a meal waiting for you.  It’s pretty much true.  If you have an extra place (or two) at your table, an extra guest is a welcome addition and not anything else.  You never know when you just might need to reach out to someone else and welcome them to your table.
• Be on the lookout those sad and the struggling: We should always be on the lookout, I know, but pay extra attention during the holidays.  Different people struggle with different things around this time of year and they’re not always willing to talk about it openly.  Maybe they lost a loved one, maybe they had a falling out in their own family, maybe they are too far away from home, maybe they’re struggling to keep up with all the financial demands of the holidays . . . Watch for people, even those close to you, that might need a bit of additional love and care during this time of year.
• Make room for your soul: I guess this relates a bit to the very first part, but again, it’s easy to get caught up in all of the activities and trappings that come along with the holidays, even if we do them because of our good intentions.  But regardless of what you believe in, just remember that the winter holidays carry a sense of spirit with them; don’t let that spirit pass you by.  Prepare a little room in your heart.

Wishing you all my love this Christmas and holiday season,

Mom

A Wedding Wish

This week my brother-in-law got married in Bangladesh.  His new wife is a lovely girl and I couldn’t be happier for the both of them.  Before the wedding, I tried to think of something wise or profound to say, having experience with happy marriage myself.  Of course I couldn’t come up with anything more unique then ‘Congratulations’.  Further pondering has led me to this list of wishes: I wish for you a lifetime of laughter.  I hope you laugh every day, I hope you take particular joy in making your spouse laugh. I hope you prize each other’s individuality. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses, some you already know clearly, some you may anticipate, and some will catch you completely off guard.  May you celebrate and embrace each other’s strengths and protect each other’s weaknesses.  You both have unique life experiences, histories, and backgrounds, you have different opinions, beliefs, and personalities- and that’s wonderful.  Don’t ever try to agree all the time or be clones of one another.  Being married doesn’t mean you have to share a single brain.

I wish for you a lifetime of patience and understanding. There will be disagreements, heated discussions, and yes, even arguments, and that’s ok- each of you is as important as the other both of your voices should be heard.  Life isn’t supposed to be a boring walk through the park or a sale on a placid lake. It’s the jungle that you navigate and the storms that you ride out that prove your strength, both individually and as a couple.  Arguing isn’t the end of the world, or the end of a relationship, I wish for you to know that. I wish for you to always fight fair and never try to hurt the other’s feelings. And while we’re on the subject, don’t ever be too proud to say you’re sorry. In fact, be proud of recognizing a wrong and apologizing for it.

I wish for you a lifetime of hugs. Take care of each other and never take the other for granted.  Say I love you Every Day. It’s the most important phrase in your vocabulary.  Never take it for granted.  I wish thousands of date nights and coffee dates. I wish you breakfast in bed and dinner at midnight. I wish for you romance. I wish for you hours of sitting next to each other, enjoying the silent companionship. Even champagne and roses lose its appeal day-after-day.  Celebrate the everyday, enjoy the little moments you spend together. I wish you movie nights curled up on the couch and trips to the grocery store. Your entire life is now a celebration of your love, I wish for you to remember that.

I wish for you a lifetime of dreams, whatever they may be, wherever they may take you.  I wish you adventure. I wish you stories that you’ll tell again and again, interrupting each other as you retell a shared memory.  I wish you quiet smiles and loud laughs. I wish you joy that takes your breath away and love that brings a happy ache to your heart.  I wish you a beautifully blessed marriage full of tenderness, excitement, and the proverbial spark. I wish for you, everything my marriage has given to me.  As my husband said, go ahead and ‘Write Your Own Story’

With heartfelt congratulations,

Renee

Since You Brought It Up: Good, Grief

By Rhea St. Julien In the first five minutes of the 1965 classic A Charlie Brown Christmas, the main character pronounces himself "depressed", "let down" by Christmas, and lonely.  He dislikes the tradition of card giving, because it reminds him that no one likes him when he doesn't receive any.  He rails at the over-commercialization of Christmas, and despairs that no one seems to take it, and him, seriously.

Watching it with my toddler on Hulu, I realized that if it were made today, A Charlie Brown Christmas would be deemed too glum for mass consumption.  Characters on TV today have bizarrely huge smiles even in the worst of situations---Diego's grin at having to find the lost maned wolf reassures kids that "Sure, the mom lost her pup, but don't worry!  Everything is okay!  Al rescate!"  The expressions of the Peanuts gang look more like they have chili-induced indigestion, over things as small as decorations, unhelpful advice, and ill-thought-out letters to Santa.

I love that the Charlie Brown special depicts the big emotions of kids at this time of the year, because children are totally overwhelmed by all the bustle, no matter how tinseled it may be.  They act up, get scared more easily, need to be held during nap times and have melt downs in the middle of Target.  They are hopped up on sugar (when did Advent calendars start having chocolates for each day?!) stay up late for parties, and the stress of their parents is passed down to them.  It's a never-ending cycle, as parents get more stressed by their kids' behavior, and disappointed when special holiday-themed outings turn disastrous.  "I'm just trying to give you a good Christmas!" I saw a mom say thru gritted teeth, outside a store where other families were bopping around to carols, enjoying the discounts at the annual holiday party, happy it wasn't their kid that had filled their fists with cookies and ran out onto the street.

I felt her pain.  Just last week I took our toddler to a showing of The Velveteen Rabbit, a dance performance for children based on the Margery Williams book.  She had never been to anything like that, and though she overall enjoyed the experience, I did not.  She sat on my lap and asked questions throughout the entire show, at times scared, at other times just trying to make sense of what she was viewing.  All the kids in the audience were talking, laughing, and shouting, but mine seemed to be the very loudest.

The grandmother in front of us concurred with my estimation.  She turned around every five seconds, sneering, sighing, and shushing us.  I tried to explain to her that it was a children's performance and kids are allowed to make noise, but she proclaimed I had "ruined it for her" and I bowed out of the discussion before I got really angry.  What that lady thought she was getting when she bought a ticket to the 11am matinee is beyond me, but her shaming of my daughter while I was working really hard to parent her through the performance was horrible.  I left feeling defeated.  I had tried to do something special with my daughter for the holiday season, and had only managed to totally overwhelm her, myself, and the people sitting near us.

This week, at a winter-themed Story/Song/Dance time I was leading at my friend's store, I took homemade paper snowflakes out of my bag and let them drift down onto the children while I sang "Let It Snow", the closest those California kids would get to a snowstorm.  My daughter stood right in the middle and screamed, "Mama, I'm done!  Mama, no singing!"  I just sighed and asked my friend to take her for a walk so I could continue being all magical for the tots who were actually enjoying it.

Are we really so different from my easily-overwhelmed little one? I think not.  Everyone I know seems to be already over the holiday season, and we have at least two weeks more of it.  As adults, we dull our feelings with cocktails and present-buying, but they are still there.  That's why tonight, instead of heading out onto the wreath-lined streets to hit up a friend's pop up art show, I'm going to stay in with a book and a journal.  I'm going to write about how I miss my sister and my mother, who I am not seeing this year, and my father, whom I will never be able to spend another Christmas with on this earth again.  I'm going to take some deep breaths, and make some Charlie Brown faces.  I'm going to feel that good grief he keeps talking about, and create some space and patience for my daughter's feelings, as well.

***

We believe we can find more joy in the holidays by squashing the little voice that tells us bright spirits and good cheer are only possible when we’re perfect.  The magic of this time of year comes from connecting with loved ones near and far, reminding ourselves of all we have to be thankful for, and . . . covering everything in twinkling white lights. 

We’re embracing our present lives—foibles and all—so we can spend more time drinking egg nog and less time worrying we’re not good enough. Imperfect is the new black; wear it with pride.

Want to lighten your load? Read the post that kicked off the series, Ashely Schneider's Down, Not Out. Add your story to the “Since You Brought It Up” series by submitting it here. 

XVII. états-unis

One Christmas, Clémence sends me a thin paperback collection of stories called Lettres de mon moulin. Letters from my windmill. I love French books, not just for reading but for the sake of the object itself---the spines are upside-down, the words going from top to bottom, which makes bookstore browsing feel simultaneously awkward and fun.

I read the stories not knowing anything about where they come from. Provence, as it turns out. The author, Alphonse Daudet, is one of the more known provençal writers. He had a windmill where he wrote these stories, a collection of tales about his life and experiences in the south of France. The mill is still tucked away in the countryside somewhere to the east of Avignon. But I don’t learn any of this until years later.

My favorite story, then and now, is “L’Arlésienne,” about a young man in love with a woman from Arles. He finds out that she’s married to someone else and he kills himself.

Il s’était dit, le pauvre enfant: “Je l’aime trop . . . Je m’en vais . . .” Ah! misérables coeurs que nous sommes!

It sounds melancholy, wistful, and it is. But the language is sparse and lovely and the ending always makes me cry. Just like this France of mine.

A Life Without My Mother

Eliza Deacon is a photographer living in northern Tanzania, and is also our latest contributor. Here, she writes beautifully about living the majority of her life without  her mother. Living, loving, traveling---it seems she is never really without her mother, something I can relate to in my own way. Thank you, Eliza, for sharing this beautiful and honest glimpse through yours and your mother's eyes.

By Eliza Deacon

When I reached the age of 33, it was something of a milestone: my mother had now not been present for more of my life than she had ever been in it. She died when I was 16, had been ill from when I was 13.  At 13 I remember her sitting down with my twin sister and I. I can remember the room we were in and where we were sitting, I even remember how I was sitting, legs tucked up beneath me in a brown armchair. She told us that she had this thing called cancer and that she was going to be away in hospital but that we shouldn’t worry. With the innocence, and ignorance, of a 13-year-old I remember thinking ‘wow, I wonder what that word means, but I can’t wait to tell my friends at school’.

I didn’t think then of how I would cope without a mother, I was too young. But how did I negotiate my way through the rest of my adolescence, my tricky teens, my 20s, 30s and into my 40s?  I did of course, admittedly with what seemed like more than my fair share of crash and burn disasters, but it’s a loss I’ve always felt. You get over it, you learn to live with it, but it’s always with you isn’t it. Your mother, any parent really, isn’t meant to die when you are 16 and your mother especially not.

Aren’t mothers meant to guide you, be something of a blueprint to show and teach you how to be the woman you’re going to become: a girlfriend, wife, lover, friend, mother, adult . . . all those things that we intrinsically are, but somehow also need to be shown. And whilst you do find your own way, you rather stumble through the complexities when oh lord, how on earth do you know who you are meant to be when you really have no real idea where to start!

My mother was the most amazing woman I will ever know. She was born and grew up a barefoot “jungle child” in India, she rode horses as a cowboy on the Colorado plains, she became a top model in the swinging London 60s scene, and she was a Bond girl in the original Casino Royale (the one without Daniel Craig!). I know now what I didn’t see then, that she often had a far-off look; she gave up many of her dreams when she---not unhappily, I hasten to add---met my father and settled down. But I don’t think she ever stopped yearning for distant horizons.

As soon as I could, I started to travel with an ignorance is bliss attitude, a sort of ‘I want to do this because I want to know how it feels’ attitude. I discovered it very quickly, in war zones and far-flung places. I wanted to be able to look back and say what an incredible time it all was. And yes it was, I was very lucky. I think my life, whilst not the same as hers, was set on a pre-charted course to somehow follow hers, but yet on a different parallel. Exploring, finding new horizons, new adventures, and in the process learning more about myself and the person I would become. Knowing the synergy of our lives makes me very happy. It’s also the knowledge that she would love my African life, this wild and wonderful continent I’ve lived on for the past 18 years.

At times I have felt her gentle presence and steadying hand in my life. How I waited patiently and, at times, not so patiently to find this beautiful man who now shares my life; my coffee farmer, my life-partner who walks his own parallel path in his quiet way and whose feet stand squarely next to mine. I rather think  that she had something to do with that.

I don’t have children and am unlikely to now. It could be an overwhelming thought, if I let it, to know that I won’t share that mother-daughter bond that I experienced so briefly. But I don’t dwell, I figure that things have turned out the way they were meant and I don’t wish to live with regrets. Life sends you on strange tangents and I can’t imagine any other than this one; one that I know she will always be very much a part of.

Asking for It, with Sibyl: An Introduction

Who is Sibyl?  Sibyl is the witchy woman you meet at a party and figure you'll avoid because she looks bizarre, but somehow end up sitting near all night, telling her about your roommate troubles and your theories about your family secrets.  Sibyl is the older sister you always thought you'd have, who'd sit you down and help you do your hair in just the way that suits you, and sticks up for you on the playground when everyone else is calling you "Brace Face."  Sibyl is the friend who shows up just to be with you, not talk, when you're facing the deepest grief of your life---when your partner has run off with a lover, when your baby is dead in your hands, when you're scandalized and have been pushed out of a job you love.  Sibyl is your queertacular friend who takes you by the hand and pulls you to the dance floor, spinning until you both dissolve into fits of laughter, forgetting your fears.  Sibyl is a ruined woman. Sibyl is married with children. Sibyl was on the Honor Roll, then cut class to go out to the soccer field to take a tab of acid and stare at the sky.  Sibyl may spend most of her time with her head in books about the nature of the soul, but she totally cares that Duchess Catherine is pregnant.

Who should write in to Sibyl?   Sibyl is for the ladies.  Sibyl is for the ladies who used to be dudes.  Sibyl is for the ladies who want to be dudes, who are dudes within.  Sibyl is for the ladies who love ladies, Sibyl is for the hopelessly straight.  Sibyl is for the wallflowers, who think no one is ever going to listen or care.  Sibyl is for the Mamas and the Papas.  Sibyl is for those of you putting a brave face on being alone.

What should you ask Sibyl? Whatever is twisting in your gut, those issues that make it hard to breathe, that you know are mysteriously killing you, even though they should not be a big deal.  They are are a big deal.  You are a big deal.  Ask away.

And to All a Good Night

What happens when you put your Jewish friend in charge of stringing the lights on the tree, is that you get to the bottom and have no way to plug them in.  “What I have here in my hand is two female parts, but it seems like I need two male parts,” I called out to my oldest friend.  She looked perplexed, herself, having never been the one to do the lights on the tree.  The tree endeavor (both selection and installation) had always been the province of her husband, who made a big production out of it with her kids.  He had been gone just three months and the whole operation carried a pall of sadness.  I was determined to establish a fresh tradition, help her feel confident in her new role and win the day with enthusiasm.  The kids had been good sports at the tree lot that morning, although it must have been terribly disorienting to be there without their father.  I felt the least we could do was to get the tree going before nightfall.  Ultimately, we had to call up our reserves---two effective and creative friends (with four children between them), both Mommies who were responsible for all things tree-related in their homes.  Within the space of twenty minutes, those two had stripped the tree, restrung the lights and carefully dotted the whole situation with ornaments.  That day, my status as “other” when it comes to celebrating Christmas and participating in the “Holiday Season” took a back seat to being present for a loved one. I returned home feeling decidedly less sorry for myself.  Even considering my pattern (like so many American Jews) of feeling a bit left out at this time of year, I had to consider the heartache of my friend and so many others who have lost a spouse or someone close to them, knowing the pain of a loss like that is much more acute during Holidays, birthdays, anniversaries and the assorted benchmarks of life.

As much as I have my own issues with the Christmas behemoth, its value as a touchstone for many families in this country is undeniable.  It is a marker around which people create important memories with one another.  Children experience Christmas as an expression of familial love and have the opportunity to be showered with special attention by parents and extended family.  Adults take time away from work to be with their families and reflect.  Sometimes people even use the Holiday as a way to process wounds that haunt them from childhood.  The corrective experience of making your own Christmas for your own family as an adult must be incredibly powerful on a number of levels.

There still resides inside me, the smart-ass fourth grader who wrote an essay about how the White House Christmas tree lighting ceremony was a violation of church and state.  This represented my desperate attempt to communicate the plight of the American, Jewish 8-year-old during the Holidays.  Back in the 80s, they didn’t really show much of Reagan lighting an obligatory Menorah somewhere or sitting down with his staff for a game of Dreidl.  And I likely would have argued that, to be fair, he shouldn’t be publicly participating in any religious celebration.  They also didn’t give Chanukah much air-time in the media in general back then, which made it even more critical that I drag my Mom into my elementary classrooms so that she could fry up Latkes on an electric griddle.  There is almost nothing more tragic than a bunch of disinterested school children carting floppy paper plates of greasy potato pancakes and dollops of applesauce to their desks to “enjoy.”  “Also, we get chocolate coins!” I asserted to anyone who would listen.

While I feel certain that I will be confronted with many uncomfortable conversations with my own children about why we don’t adorn our home or really do anything amazing at this time of year, I also trust that they will find ways to turn their outsider status into something interesting.  They might end up with a fantastic sense of humor about it.  It might increase their empathy for people that experience actual “other” status (people of color, immigrants, gay families) and who live permanently outside the mainstream.

I will always feel a little twinge at Christmas time.  I will try and remind myself that I can appreciate someone else’s traditions and how profound they are without needing to participate myself.  We have our own traditions on December 25th– Dim Sum!  Blockbuster movies!---and I remain grateful that I won’t need to cling to them like a life-raft, girding against loss.

Lessons from Copenhagen...

Dear Clara, Believe it or not, our time in Washington is coming to a close.  When we arrived last summer, two years seemed like decades away, but in less than half a year, we’ll be on the move again.  We know where now, and that always lifts burden off my shoulders.  I never really mind where the home is, but I do like knowing what I should plan for.  Your father and I did a little scouting mission to our new home-to-be this past month, and here’s what we noticed so far about Copenhagen, Denmark:

• Candles are cozy and lighting matters: In a place that gets dark by the time most of us are finishing up lunch, light and atmosphere matter a lot.  We had heard a lot about Danish “hygge”, which can only be loosely translated as a feeling of coziness or warmth, but we didn’t really understand to what extent those principles of creating a welcoming environment really matter.  Even the Laundromat had candelabras and everyone took their job of creating an environment you want to be in very seriously.
• There is no such thing as bad weather: . . . only bad clothes for the weather---many a Dane seems to say that with pride.  And it’s true---weather conditions, again in a place with a long and cold winter, don’t seem to stop people from doing much.  Whether it was dark or cold or rainy, people had on the appropriate footwear or layers or hats or gloves, and everyone was out, on their bikes no less.   It was a reminder for us that if you’re prepared, you can still be up for anything.
• Fresh air is good for you: In a similar vein to the above, people seemed to be ready and willing to be outside and partake in fresh air.  We saw baby carriages on the outside of coffee shops---with babies still in them---and children out at recess.  Fresh, clean air is a luxury that refreshes the body instantly.  If we’re lucky enough to be surrounded by fresh, clean air, we should take advantage of it.
• Early to bed, early to rise: We arrived just past ten o’clock in the evening our first night, and already all the restaurants were closing up, including in the hotel.  Everything seems to be happening earlier here: people get out of work earlier, they eat earlier and they go to bed earlier.  Yet somehow, I bet their day is still longer.
• Maybe things are supposed to be more expensive sometimes: You notice instantly that life in Copenhagen doesn’t come cheap.  Even the small things, such as a simple coffees in a café, are easily three times the price we’re use to paying.  I know we will be quick to complain about the cost of living---it’s an adjustment after all, and paying more for one thing, means having less for another.  Yet, life in Copenhagen seems to be pretty good; people seem to be taken care of.  I’m sure we’ll get a better sense of how everything works once we’re living there day in and day out, but the thought occurred to me, maybe it’s not a bad thing to pay more for the smaller things in life if it guarantees that some of the bigger things will be provided for.

I can’t wait to explore our new home with you –

All my love,

Mom

Welcome, Mattia!

“For what it’s worth: it’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the courage to start all over again.” ― Eric Roth, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button - screenplay

Dear Mattia,

You came into this world in a warm afternoon at the end of September.

I first saw you when you were a few days old and I couldn’t help but thinking how perfect you were–resting and smiling peacefully in your mom’s arms, ten tiny toes, ten tiny fingers. You won’t remember the day you were born, and you won’t remember the few years that will follow, but trust me, you changed a lot of lives with your arrival.

You may look like a lot of other babies to the rest of the world, but to your parents you are an angel who came here to bring great hope and happiness, to be loved and to give love in return. You made me an aunt, and my husband an uncle. From this day forth, you will be our wish for better days.

You have a chance to make the world a better place, but please don’t feel under pressure. You don’t have to save the world---just follow your path knowing that we are all close to you and ready to hold your hands through the most difficult times. For now, just keep in mind you are a lucky baby---you have been born into a wonderful family.

My dearest Mattia, this world is not an easy one. You will learn a lot, and it won’t ever get simpler. But keep in mind that this world is an amazing place, a place you will discover day by day, through other people’s eyes, through your travels. Try not to focus on shadows and darkness, and find joy in the hardest times because, believe it or not, small or big issues happen, but there’s a chance you will be laughing about them later. I can’t promise you won’t ever experience adversity, but the most important part is to be comfortable in your own skin, and never apologize for who you are.

Growing up can be painful at times, and we all tend to close little doors around our hearts to protect ourselves from sorrow and disappointment. Find the strength inside yourself, do not expect people around you to be perfect, because they are just human beings like you. Some people will be good to share a deep friendship with, some others will be good for laughter and a beer, others will disappoint you, and some will make you sad. Not everyone knows how to give love in return, for some hearts are simply frozen or unsophisticated or plain, but you will learn to take from people only what they can give you. Do not expect too much from everyone. Only, remember that you are a boy, a boy who will soon become a man, and when your heart is broken don’t feel ashamed if you want to cry. Just try to always love what you see in the mirror, and allow that person to smile back at you at least once a day.

Feel confident you will know when to open your heart to others. There are thousands of people you will meet, and all of them can teach you something---good or bad. But you will learn small lessons from everyone, so keep your eyes and mind open to them. Always carry an imaginary pen with you, and before the end of the day list who taught you something precious, or something you simply don’t want to forget. In a while, you will find an entire book of stories in your hands, and realize that the most incredible lessons come from unexpected people, whom you’ll meet in the most unexpected places.

You don’t know this yet, so let me tell you, just in case you need me in the future---your Auntie lives pretty much in an imaginary world, made of dreams, stories written by others, and small gems, each one symbolizing a good friend, or a faraway place, or flashes of images belonging to other times and places. Whenever you feel curious to jump into the rabbit hole with me, please raise your hand and I’ll hold it through the small path. I guarantee we will make it back.

Thank you for being with us, and thank you for making me an aunt.

With love,

Your Auntie,

Alice

Looking Forward: Girls.

“This might have been a mistake,” I said. My friend Lily, head cocked in sympathy, nodded. “Definitely a mistake.”

It was a cold night, and we’d just met friends at a favorite bar in our neighborhood. Short on cash, I’d ordered the $4 well whiskey, neat. Its smell alone made my eyes water. And I’d been given a generous pour.

“Brave girl,” someone remarked as I held the tumbler to my lips.

“Would you like me to tell you a story, to distract you while you drink that?” said Lily.

“Yes,” I replied. “Please.”

“Okay,” she said. “This is a story about unicorns.”

And she began.

---

People say that when you find true love, you know. Though I’ve experienced this with the opposite sex before, the same phenomenon has occurred---delightfully, consistently, and much more often---in many of my friendships with girls, as well.

For instance, Kimiko, one of my closest childhood friends, shared a bus seat with me on a field trip in the third grade. We debated afterschool snacks, discussed the size and cuteness of our respective pet rabbits, played MASH---and subsequently spent the next seven years together, so close that we considered ourselves one unit (our combined name was Shimiko). When I moved to LA at fifteen, we traded photo albums, and put together a dictionary of terms we’d created over the course of our friendship---code names for crushes, words only the two of us understood.

And that was just it---there was much about the two of us that only we understood. In so many ways, we spoke the same language.

I knew the same was true of Maya, a high school friend and future Brooklyn roommate, when we spent an afternoon in the parking lot at our school, seated on the roof of her car. We were navigating what I remember to be a very complicated situation involving prom dates. My angst about the situation was almost certainly disproportionate to the circumstances at hand; still, she understood.

And when Linda, my roommate all four years of college, spent countless nights in with me while all of our friends went out, I knew I’d made a special kind of friend---one you know you never have to work to impress, one who understands your history as well as they do their own. Already a sister to six, she’s filled that role for me, as well. She’s family, a touchstone. She feels like home.

I met Lily only months ago, late in the summer, in East River Park. She and another college roommate of mine, Megan, were spending an afternoon sitting in the grass, talking, getting sunburns. We’d all recently been through break-ups; we were heavy-hearted. But that gave us something to talk about. And in the weeks and months that followed, I found so much of the happiness I needed in meeting Megan to do work at coffee shops, in going on late-night adventures with Lily. (When she told me the story about unicorns at the bar, I knew she was someone whose quirkiness I understood.)

Though I’m loathe to make a Sex and the City reference here (much internal deliberation happened before I wrote this paragraph), I can’t help but think of a scene that occurs toward series’ end---it’s one that always makes me feel like weeping. In it, Carrie, set to embark on her ill-fated journey to Paris, says to her friends, “What if I never met you?”

---

Megan and I had dinner together just last weekend and reflected on the past few months over steaming bowls of soup. “My year took a turn the day I came to see you in the park,” I said. “You were lonely in the same way I was. You understood.”

You understood.

What a staggering gift, to have friends who say, “I know what you mean.” Who make you laugh. Who appreciate, and relate to, and love  your eccentricities.

This is what it means to know someone.

It’s what it means to understand.

Dear Mama of Two

Inspired by this article, I’ve decided to write a letter to my future self of two kids (due date less than 12 weeks away!)

Dear Mama of Two:

Can you read this letter okay? Is it blurry and far away? If so, that’s totally normal, it’s just the sleep deprivation. I can imagine that you are probably reading this late at night. It might be ten or even eleven, and you’ve finally found that moment to yourself that you craved all day long. Charley is most likely in bed, and the baby is sleeping (I hope), for at least a few hours. Maybe you have printed this letter out and are reading it in the bath, in which case, I commend you on that excellent choice. I hope there are bubbles.

I’m sure you have already been torn in a million different directions. That you have already had times where the baby has a giant blowout that needs to be changed, and your toddler is determined to fill his own water cup in the kitchen, and you will be standing next to the changer, in your pajamas from yesterday wondering how you got there. And that’s okay too. Although try to wash your hair every once in awhile. If you don’t leave the house Monday thru Friday, at least try to sit on the porch in the sunshine, even if it’s too hot, even if it’s a mess. When they grow up no one will remember all those dishes that didn’t get done and how the floor was covered with a thin layer of dog hair and dust. They won’t remember that at first you hated this house and wanted to change so many things about it, they will only remember that it is home.

Know that you are strong, but know that Charley is strong too. You will need to tell him to wait, for your attention, for a different video, for apples to be cut. And slowly, he will understand. Know that he is an incredible little independent person. He WANTS to do everything himself; he doesn’t need your help mama! So, let him, even if that means you are cleaning up twice the amount of messes, he will grow more independent and so will you.

Be sure to step away from the baby. Actually the best time to step away from the baby isn’t when he is screaming and upset (you will want to run away then) but when he is calm and distracted. Go to yoga, go to Starbucks, try to remember that you are more than just a mama. It doesn’t matter if it’s only for an hour and you think about both of them the entire time, it will help.

It may take awhile to get into your new routine, but it will come. And once you have mastered the juggle you will wonder why you even wanted to work in the first place. For awhile you will forget about moving and finding your dream job, but just remember to write. Write about those first hours, days, weeks; they will never be the same. Know that soon you will have another little person, who blows you kisses and says “Tank you!” all the time unprompted. He won’t be an incapable infant for long, soon you will have two boys to love.

It’s OK if you don’t fall in love right away. It’s OK if you don’t breastfeed. It’s OK if you don’t use cloth diapers. Most of all stop worrying and comparing yourself to other moms. Know that you have done this before, successfully and well I might add looking at the smile on your toddler’s face. Trust yourself, you know what you are doing. I'll see you on the other side, when you feel like yourself, because it will happen once again.

With Love,

Shannon, Mama of One

Lessons from Dallas...

Dear Clara,

It’s funny how some trips can come and go in the blink of an eye.  Modern air transport can take us somewhere new and back in the space of less than 24 hours, which is was my experience on last week’s trip to Dallas, Texas.  These trips can make you feel as though you really haven’t been anywhere: airports start looking the same, hotels start feeling the same, the interminable taxi rides start being the same . . . But you have to fight the temptation of thinking everything is the same. It’s not.  And even on these quick trips, that are more for work than for fun, it’s possible---with some effort---to start to notice differences.  Make a mental note of them before you forget; seeing differences is, after all, a big reason for why we travel.

Here is what I caught on my most recent trip to Dallas:

• Look out for your eyes: I couldn’t get over how bright the Texas sun was, even in a December afternoon sky.  Even in a car, there’s nearly nowhere to hide from the brightness and reflections.  It was a good reminder to have quality sunglasses that protect your eyes, and the skin around them too---it’s your responsibility to take care of them for the long-run.
• Sometimes more is more: Everything seemed somehow bigger in Texas . . . the car . . . the drink I ordered . . . the Christmas tree in the mall.  I wasn’t always used to it but sometimes it’s nice to have more of something.  I was particularly taken by the holiday decorations that were already plentiful,  and it seemed like a nice feeling to have such an outward expression of bows and glitter and lights.  It can be nice to immerse yourself in something more than we would normally allow ourselves.
• But be mindful of space: Just because we can make something bigger doesn’t mean that we should.  Along with more and bigger, I couldn’t help but notice that everything also took up more space.  I was floored when looking out the window on take-off to see just how huge of an area the city covers.  And driving around, I noticed many buildings were just one story, many surrounded by huge parking lots, with lots of space in between.  Space certainly doesn’t seem lacking, so there is something to be said for using what you have.  But sometimes while more space can seem nice, it also means that you need more stuff to fill it, different ways to get around it, and sometimes it makes you feel far away from others.   Think about how much space you need, versus how much space you merely want.
• Take stock of little differences: Sometimes a drive to the airport is just a drive to the airport, but if you’re in a cab, take the opportunity to look out the window and see what there is.  The landscape, the traffic pattern, who’s sitting in other cars . . . . I was surprised to see that there was a $4.00 toll just to come on to airport grounds, the first time I’ve ever seen such a thing, which got me thinking about how public/private infrastructure might work in Dallas, and  it’s not something I would have ever noticed before, but something I’ll ask about when I come back.
• Enjoy the moon just as much as you would the sun: I didn’t get much daylight in Dallas, and what I did was mostly spent in a conference room.  But with such a wide open sky and not much light to distract it, I had a full view of the full bright moon from my hotel room, which I don’t get to enjoy as much in Washington.  Look for little moments that you don’t often get to see.

All my love,

Mom