The Truth Behind the Pictures

This week I shared a couple of super cute pictures of my daughter on social media. Which isn't noteworthy in and of itself, because every living, breathing creature in the Milky Way Galaxy does that. I think there are strange extraterrestrial beings living on the sixth moon of Jupiter who have Instagram feeds.

But I'm starting to digress.

The pictures this week are noteworthy because my beautiful, photogenic little princess also had double ear infections and a mean case of pink eye. Which means that this week consisted of more than a few tears, tantrums, and instances of me having to force feed her vials of Amoxicillin.

And as I was in the throes of a mommy meltdown last night after way too many long days cooped up inside the house with said princess, I was suddenly struck by the irony of my own actions.

I recently watched a video about the correlation between Facebook use and depression. I've been thinking about it a lot lately, particularly the significance of social comparison in the equation. It's something I think we're all aware of. We go on Facebook, we compare our reality to our friends' "reality," and wake up three and a half hours later with a raging headache, a cramping hand, and an unquenchable need to binge on tortilla chips and Game of Thrones. For the next five days.

Maybe it's not Facebook's fault. Maybe it's our own. But it still sucks the big one.

And last night it occurred to me how very in cahoots I am with my own dysfunction.

The truth is that real life is not always very pretty. It's certainly not as pretty as an Aviary-edited, Lark-filtered version of the original. At least it doesn't appear to be at first glance.

I suppose I'm writing all of this because I want to out myself. I want to call my own bullshit and tell the truth behind my pictures. This week I've been doing a lot of pretending, and I want you, dear reader, to know that.

The truth is that sometimes being a mom exacts a heavy toll. It's one I pay willingly and with great joy. And yet every caretaker knows that, at times, you are often required to give far beyond the reserves of an empty storehouse. It wouldn't make for a pretty photo, but it's the truth.

Sometimes life is hard, even when it's good. And sometimes it can feel like you've lost your way, even when you're exactly where you're meant to be.

The truth is that, no matter how doctored up a photo might be, nothing can compare to the brilliant technicolor madness of real life. My pictures might have been cute, but nothing can convey the scent of my daughter's hair or the heat of her head resting against my chest. Nothing can capture my heart-breaking love for her as I watch her breathe and cut her toast and pray for all the days of her youth.

These are things that the computer misses, in all of its infinite wisdom. And we might miss them too, if we fail to look with wisdom and discernment.

So just in case I've been overly contributing to the monster-machine of social comparison this week, I just want to say that I am a real-life, tempestuous human being with a beautiful, untidy mess of a life.

There is a real life behind our photos. It is imperfect, but it is real. And that's something I hope none of us will ever forget.

Cheers!

Healing From A Tough Year

I had a crazy revelation the other day, and the revelation was this- if things had turned out differently in 2016, I'd be two weeks away from having a brand new baby.

I haven't thought about my miscarriage in a while. Life has been moving so fast lately that there doesn't seem to be much space for retrospection. And the honest truth is that I've come to an unexpected place of peace about the whole thing.

But this realization hit me like a punch in the gut. It's given me pause to consider, and has left me in an unexpected deluge of grief.

2016 was a tough year. I don't want to minimize or overlook all the good that came along with it, because the good was there in abundance. Yet I'm still left with a pointed need to take stock and grieve.

I don't know why bad things happen, just like I don't know why good people get cancer and refugee babies wash up on the shore like broken seashells. We live in a strange world, and some years are strange and challenging and marked by grief.

If there's anything I know about grief, it's that she moves with indiscriminate freedom. Like a whimsical decorator, she flits from here to there, adjusting a photo here, fluffing a throw pillow there, beating the area rugs, and then adorning a new corner in layers of knickknacks and lace. Her touch lingers and her aroma seeps into the corners of the hallways, leaving behind what seems like an indiscernible path of chaos.

But when she's done, the residual effect is a room more well lived in. It's a space of casual elegance and grace, one that knows itself well and that welcomes guests in with warmth and unexpected beauty.

I'm trying to give her room to move, and I'm practicing the humble discipline of choosing hope despite the lingering traces of darkness. It takes work, and here are a few things I'm learning along the way, in case you too are engaging in this deep soul work of healing and hope.

1. Wear the pretty sweater. In times of grief, it's easy to grab the ugliest old sweatshirt and wallow in unrelenting self-pity. But one day I looked in my closet and saw this one sweater that I reserve for "outside." It's a pretty, oversized, cable-knit number, and when I slipped it on, it felt like a warm hug. In this small act, I felt the tension releasing from my body.
2. Make your throne and lie in it. If you must be sick- if you must be sad and tired and grieving- then choose your space with care. Prepare the sunny spot by the window, lie out the best blankets and softest pillows, and give yourself the dignity of a beautiful place to rest your head. 
3. Break out the bodice rippers. I say this rather tongue-in-cheek, but the meaning is sincere. I love a good romance novel, but these days it's a frivolous indulgence for which I have difficulty justifying the time. Yet grief is often hard enough without the added pressure of self-improvement or other serious endeavors. So delve into your guilty pleasures. Allow yourself to get lost in fanciful, imaginative places. Let the mystery and awe of otherworldliness soothe your soul and bring you back to life.
4. Let the river flow. Once you have clothed yourself in kindness and given yourself a safe and beautiful space to rest, by all means, let the tears come unabated. Tear down the dams, clear the roads, and give in to the release. Emotion needs flow, and flow it must have. So for just a little while, give yourself permission to let go.

I believe that good things are ahead, and that greatness lies just around the bend. And I want to send this hope and healing to you today.

But before we get there, let's give ourselves time to wrap things up, to feel the big feels, cry the big cries, and say the necessary goodbyes. It's going to hurt, but it's also going to feel a lot better on the other side.

Grief is a wayward mistress, but she knows her way around. She'll tidy things up and leave something fresh and new in her wake. She'll also leave the door open on her way out, and she may even offer her hand to help you step outside into the beauty of a brand new day.

Cheers to you and yours, and Happy Holidays.

Captive- First Pages

For a little change of pace, this week I'm sharing the first few pages of the novel I've been working on for the last few years. Happy Holidays everyone, and I hope the week brings some relaxation your way!

Molly never gets used to the dark eyes staring at her from inside the enclosures.

She’s heard strange stories of a time not long ago when men had power and roamed free. Stories of women marrying those men and having their babies. Stories of a past Molly can’t even imagine.

But not here. Not in her world.

The furtive eyes of the males follow Molly as she and her friends pass by in a flurry, as if the captives have been lying awake all night in expectation of the wild, unruly pack of naked girls running past them in the dark hours of morning. Molly is unnerved by the males’ unbridled appetite and desire, by the volatility and vacancy in their faces.

Her instructors told her that males are naturally nocturnal and predatory creatures, so Molly is not surprised to see them waiting, though it does little to ease her discomfort. The girls shouldn’t be here, and she knows it.

One after another, she passes the enclosures. Each confined space is artificially designed to mimic the native habitat of the geographical area, and is closed in by walls of glass. A long time ago, the humans used the space to contain precious animals now long extinct. But now this land belongs to the Advocates. Now things are different.

Each of the many enclosures now house males captured from the surrounding areas, and though they are fed and clothed and kept safe from the perils of male endangeredness, Molly can feel their agitation and angst pressing through the glass.

While her friends laugh and taunt the shadowy male faces, Molly tries to ignore them. Instead she urges her lungs to expand and suck in as much air as possible, trying to store extra oxygen in every cell of her body before she has to return to the life behind her.

But the eyes make it hard, as if the males are inhaling her as they watch her body move and breathe. The smothering pressure of their aggression and desire creeps into the underbelly of her skin, pushing against the backs of her eyes, and crawling like electric currents through the veins in her arms and legs. Like they’re sucking all of that precious oxygen out of her body. And maybe they are.

It’s not like she hasn’t been here a hundred times before, walking along the path observing the marvels of conservation at work and admiring the beauty of the captive specimens. But, to be fair, it’s always been during the day, as a student, with her instructors and classmates. And fully clothed.

Only yesterday, the girls were here in this very spot for their last Advocate History class of the school year. Their professor had them standing in the sun for what felt like hours as she droned on about the Advocates’ marvelous advances in male conservation.

Molly remembers how the male in the enclosure behind her professor kept pacing the perimeter of his cage. Back and forth he went, carving a well-worn path in the dirt along the walls. All the while, his dark, vacant eyes stared straight ahead, beyond the crowd of young girls standing before him. It gave Molly the creeps, and made her glad of the thick glass walls containing him.

The whole running naked thing was Harlow’s idea. Molly wonders how she ever let her best friend talk her into this. When Harlow knocked on her window an hour ago, this was not what Molly had in mind. But the sight of all of her closest friends waiting for her on her lawn, ready for an adventure, had her out of bed and joining them before Harlow even finished her sentence.

After running through the vacant city, the girls had shed their clothes at the top of the hill, before running full speed down the Observation Path into the gorge of the Preserve, knowing full well their route would be in direct sight of the captive males.

The city at night is a hollow, haunted place, and Molly is glad to be out of it, though their path still has its fair share of eerie sights.

Maybe it was Harlow’s characteristic charm and masterful persuasion that convinced Molly to plunge ahead in naked abandon, or the collective pressure of being surrounded by her friends. Maybe it was the time of day- the alluring moment between night and day, when the world is dangerously quiet and dark just before the sun rises.

Or maybe it was that it happens to be this day, of all days. When everyone in her city stops to mourn the day the Zarrists set their world on fire.

It’s still dark, and the path is lined with solar lights that are beginning to fade with the imminent rise of the sun. They emit a pale, hazy light that makes freakish shadows of the walls of foliage around her. Molly lets her body surrender to the rhythmic motion of her feet, falling into a controlled fall of a run as her arms fly loosely at her sides. She revels in the novel sensation of the humid air hitting her naked skin.

They hit the bottom of the gorge, then press up the other side of the climb without pause. Molly runs harder, pushing against the steep incline. She ignores the protests of her quads and hamstrings as each foot slams into the pavement with a monkey grip propelling her forward.

She looks over at her friends in their ridiculous nakedness and beauty. The girls still laugh and shove each other playfully, making little effort to stifle their noise. Molly supposes they look all grown up now, but she can’t help but think they look just like they did when she met them in grade school.

Harlow has always been beautiful, the kind of person who draws attention. As she watches Harlow run, Molly feels the familiar pang of envy for her dark beauty. Harlow is the bravest person Molly knows. Every crazy thing Molly has ever done has been because of her. It’s what Molly loves most about Harlow, her infectious thirst for adventure.

That, and the fact that Harlow is as strong as she is beautiful. Harlow speaks, and people listen. And she could probably kill a bear with her bare hands. If bears still existed, that is.

Mackenzie, her other best friend, is shorter than her, and wears glasses when she reads or does anything academic, which is pretty much all the time. She doesn’t wear them on adventures like these, which means she can never see as good as she needs to. But Mackenzie is the smartest person Molly knows, which often comes in handy when the girls are in a jam. Mackenzie is studying to be a scientist. Like her mother, who is a brilliant scientist herself, Mackenzie will be one of the many responsible for developing a cure for male endangeredness.

Behind Harlow and Mackenzie, Molly sees the bright faces of her other friends. Ashlynn, another dark-haired beauty with pale skin and an alarming knack for hand-to-hand combat. Mariah, a tall, willowy girl with flaming red hair, freckles everywhere, and a sweet smile that hides an encyclopedia of knowledge on all the different ways to skin a wild dog and survive in the wilderness. And a handful of other girls Molly has known all her life.

All of them are bright, beautiful, and amazingly talented in their own rite. And all of them look forward to a brilliant future using their gifts to save humanity.

Molly, on the other hand, still does not know or understand her own calling. Molly has always known she is supposed to be destined for leadership. She is the granddaughter of Vivica Sinclair, the Advocate leader and governor of the Western Provinces, and Molly has been groomed to follow in her grandmother’s footsteps.

It makes sense in theory, but there’s just one problem. Molly’s not a leader. She’s never felt like one. Even after that fateful day two years ago, just months after the Zarrist attack, when Molly acted and everything changed for her.

 Just the thought of being like her grandmother makes her stomach churn with anxiety. She always thought Harlow was more of a natural leader, but everyone says the assessments don’t lie, so Molly doesn’t see any way around it.

The girls reach the crest of the hill, revealing a view of the entire valley reaching out to the vast, glowing darkness of the ocean. The buildings of the city speckle the landscape below, surrounded by the massive wall that encircles and protects the city from the Deadlands beyond.

They finally stop running and Molly doubles over to catch her breath. To her surprise Harlow’s older sister, Addison, is waiting for them, along with a few of her friends, all girls older than Molly. A pile of slim, black backpacks lie at Addison’s feet. The sun is just rising, and there’s a soft orange glow hanging in the air. Her muscles ache and there’s a slick layer of perspiration on her body.

“So did you wake us up just for a morning jog?” Molly asks Harlow though panting breaths.

“The probability of that being the case is zero to none,” Mackenzie says.

“You know we shouldn’t be here,” Molly says.

“It’s going to be fine,” Harlow assures with her usual confidence. “We won’t get caught. But even if we do, lucky for you, you’re the governor’s granddaughter. And lucky for us, we’re your friends.”

Molly considers all of their adventures over the years, all of the times she and her friends stood in front of her grandmother, after getting caught doing something they shouldn’t, and she knows Harlow is right.

“Believe it or not, I have a good reason for bringing us up here. Besides, I thought you could use some fun after the beating Ashlynn gave you in training yesterday,” Harlow continues, nodding at Ashlynn as she wipes the sweat from her forehead.

“Hey, what was I was supposed to do? I can’t help it if I’m so talented,” Ashlynn teases, tossing her long, black hair over her shoulder. “But seriously, sorry Molly.”

Molly rubs the bruises on her ribs that Ashlynn gave her during the sparring match yesterday. “It’s okay, I just wish I could take you with me into the enclosure tomorrow when I start Male Care duty,” she says, trying not to think about starting her next round of community service.

Though school is out for the summer, Community Service Duty is not, and for this next rotation, Molly and Harlow will be spending all summer working in the Preserve. She’d rather be working in the Animal Preservation Unit like Mackenzie, but she didn’t have a choice. At least she and Harlow will be together.

“Don’t worry, just remember, with males, a swift kick in the crotch always does the trick,” Harlow says.

Now that Molly has had a chance to catch her breath, she realizes that they are standing on the edge of an enormous cliff in the shade of one of the old observation towers, which stands another twenty feet above them. The structures aren’t used anymore, and the deck can only be reached by climbing a series of short, metal pegs sticking out of one of the support posts. Far below, she can see the web of transparent tubes that make up the Express transport system in and out of the city, connecting Willow Glenn to the other Advocate townships.

Without any explanation from Harlow or Addison, Molly takes in the size of the cliff and the backpacks at Addison’s feet, and knows exactly what’s going to happen. She looks down at the sheer drop below her, picturing her body flying through the air toward the bottom of the canyon, and her stomach catches in her throat with a momentary thrill.

“Alright ladies,” Addison begins, “as Mackenzie pointed out, we’re obviously not here for a morning jog- though it looks you guys could use the exercise.”

Everyone laughs at this as one of Addison’s friends gives her a playful push on the shoulder. They’re all accustomed to Addison’s wry sense of humor.

Addison continues, “Besides the fact that I have a new invention that needs testing-“ she gestures at the packs at her feet- “today is an important day. Two years ago, something bad happened in our city. A Zarrist terrorist decided to bomb one of our schools and kill a bunch of people. Good people.”

Addison swallows hard, and despite her tough exterior, Molly can see that she’s fighting back tears. “We’re here to honor the dead,” she says, pulling a silver flask out of her pocket. Raising it up into the air, she says one name, “Reece,” then takes a drink, crinkling her face as she swallows.

Molly knows the name. Addison’s and Harlow’s younger sister, who died in the attack.

She was eight.

Addison passes the flask to her right, and every girl takes her turn. Each one has a name to share. And each one fights back tears as she drinks.

When the flask reaches Molly, she feels the knot swelling in the back of her throat as she says the name.

“Sara.” My mother. She drinks and the liquid burns all the way down to her stomach.

When everyone is done and the flask makes it back to Addison, she finishes by saying, “This morning we jump for them. And we refuse to live in fear.”

The girls pump their fists in the air and holler in response.

Addison looks at Molly, then adds, “If it wasn’t for you, that terrorist bastard would still be running around killing people.”

Molly, as usual, feels hot with embarrassment at her friends’ praise, but she doesn’t protest.

“Let’s do this!” Addison says with excitement, then reaches down and picks up the packs, tossing on to each girl. Molly catches hers and opens it, with a good idea of what is inside.

Sure enough, she pulls out the silky bundle and shakes out the folds, revealing a brand new, silver fly suit.

“You’ve been busy,” Molly says to Addison with a wide grin, excitement already growing in her stomach.

Addison smiles back and responds, “You have no idea,” as she pulls on her suit.

The rest of the girls follow suit, and when they are all set, Addison leads them on a climb up the legs of the observation tower, onto the deck, then up the siding to the top.

Molly pulls herself over the side onto the roof, and stands as a stiff gust of wind catches her suit. She wobbles a little as Harlow catches her arm. The world spins below her as she feels the flood of anticipatory adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Addison steps to the edge as she cheers, “For Molly! And for the ones that bastard took from us. Never forget!”

Then she jumps off the edge into the abyss.

9/11: In Remembrance

When I was a senior in college, I went to India for the second time. This time as a student, and not alone, but with my soon-to-be-husband. We were studying Tibetan culture, and traveled through Tibet and Nepal before settling in the tiny mountain town of McLeod Ganj in Dharamsala, Northern India, in the foothills of the Himalayas.

Throughout the months of our stay, I lived with a young Tibetan mother and her five-year-old son. They had a tiny, one-room apartment with a cement floor, three beds, one clothes bureau, a television, and a bathroom down the hall we shared with the neighbors.

There were house spiders as big as my hand, and instead of stray cats meowing at the door, we had wild gangs of rambunctious monkeys playing on the balcony outside our windows. It was intense, to say the least.

One day, I returned to this little home after teaching English down the road to Tibetan refugees, and found my new family and a few of their friends sitting with eyes transfixed on the television. They were all watching the BBC news, and the images on the screen were alarming.

When my host mother told me that someone had attacked America, I fell to the floor criss-cross applesauce in front of the screen, and didn’t move for the rest of the night.

I’ll never, ever, in all my life, forget that first image of the wings of a plane sticking out the side of the World Trade Center.

Never. Ever.

It was a strange experience, and an unusual place to experience it in. But here’s what I remember most. Two of our Kashmiri Muslim friends buying us tea, comforting our sorrow, and sitting with us in compassionate silence.

And then the whole town coming together in an evening of prayer, walking through the streets holding candles in silent vigil as we all prayed for world peace and solace for the dead.

In response to the violence, the community around us acted in love.

This past weekend my husband and I got to spend a couple of days in New York City. We didn’t have a ton of time for sight-seeing, but I convinced him to go to the 9/11 Memorial with me. I’m not sure why, but it felt like something I needed to do. And I’m glad we went.

It’s a hard place to describe, but New York City itself is hard to describe, something that needs to be experienced to be understood. A city so alive that it’s like its own living organism, offering an intoxicating journey of the senses accompanied by a constant cacophony of sounds.

But when you reach the Memorial, there’s an unusual sense of quiet and stillness, with the urban symphony dulled by the humming rush of eternal waterfalls. Millions of gallons of water rushing over cold, gray stone, into a deep, dark abyss. Two giant graves for the dead.

I know it sounds strange, but when I looked down into the massive holes, I could hear them and feel them all around me. And it made me weep.

We moved on to other beautiful sights, and still ended up having an amazing weekend. But New York is like that. Stubbornly, tenaciously optimistic and fabulous in its own right.

New York is a fascinating picture of the vastness of human potential- how humans can build to the heavens and also dig massive graves- and how we each hold the choice in our own hands.

Some people experience pain and allow it to burrow deep inside them, where the seeds of hatred and fear sprout invasive roots that poison their souls. These are the people who cause the greatest hurt. They’re the ones creating big black graves in the world around them, leaving cavernous paths of destruction in their wake.

But what I love about New York is that it keeps growing. It keeps building. And it never sleeps. It makes memorials out of the holes and plants groves of trees around them. It says, These wounds might not ever heal. But we will keep building. And we’ll never stop growing.

I think that’s the real beauty of humanity. Not just that humans can create, but they can continue creating after they have been hurt. We always have a choice, and our ability to choose love in the face of evil is what gives me hope.

We never forget. But more importantly still, we never give in to hate. And we never, ever stop growing.

Love is our greatest revenge. And love will always prevail.

To Mother Teresa, With Love

When I graduated from high school, I did this crazy thing. I went to India. Calcutta, India to be exact.

My reason for going on the trip was this. I had this dream of following Mother Teresa’s tiny footprints across the globe and serving in one of her homes for the dying. And I did.

I went in 1998, and I didn’t ever get to meet her. By that time, she had passed away. The closest I got to her was her tomb, but I felt her presence everywhere.

In my mind, Mother Teresa and India are inextricably connected. I once heard Deepak Chopra say that India is the kind of place that makes you believe in God. Because only God could keep a place like India together. And I think he was right.

During the trip, I stayed in an ancient YMCA infested with cockroaches so big that I swear they were carrying passports. It was like the whole place was full of these Kafka-esque travelers who got waylaid in a strange, existential purgatory, unable to find their way home.

And I felt a little bit of that myself.

I could write for days about the magic of India, but I’ll save it for a different time and just say this. I don’t know that I have ever, in all my life, felt so very alive. So completely aware and comprehending of the miraculous mystery of life. I felt it every second, in every cell of my entire body.

I could also write for days about the magic of Mother Teresa, because her life was, well, saintly. How she loved Jesus and saw him in the least of us. How she held out the cup to quench his thirst. How she washed his feet and gave him rest. A million times over. Then did it again the next day. And the day after that.

But when I was younger, on that trip, the part I liked the most about her was not all of this. It was the story of her as a young girl, on a train to Darjeeling, when she heard her calling from God. The calling that ultimately led to the Missionaries of Charity.

I like to imagine her in that moment the best. The moment just before the magic, when her greatness was still a tiny kernel of inspiration and desire, waiting for the chance to explode into life.

And maybe that’s also what I love most about India. It’s like compost, all mixed with garbage and decomposing matter, churning and teaming with life as the worms eat tunnels of air through the soggy mass.

It’s magic, sparking to life. The moment of inception.

It’s anticipation. The beauty of almost and not yet. Swirling in phantasmal, colorful beauty.

I’ll carry India inside me forever. And I’ll feel its pulse of life as long as I live. I like to think that I’m still following those tiny footprints around in my own way. Emulating something greater than myself in the best ways I know how. Waiting for my own little spark of greatness to ignite.

And in the meantime, I’ll raise my proverbial glass to the tiny saint, and to India.

Signposts of Joy

Last night I found myself crying. Like a lot. I’m not exactly sure why, but it might have had something to do with all the darling pregnant mamas and newborn babies in the park yesterday.

As I cried and then tried not to cry, at one point, I sat down on my daughter's bed with her. She looked up at me, put her hand on my shoulder, and said, “Mama, I know how you feel.”

Which made me cry even more, touched as I was by the sweet tenderness of her gesture.

Of course, she doesn’t know how I feel, but the meaning was there. She saw my pain, and reached across the void to make it better.

Just so, so sweet.

Growing up in a very dysfunctional home, parenting is a bit of an emotional minefield for me. Not the least of which because I have ridiculously high expectations of myself.

I don’t want to cry. I want to be happy and strong- all the time. I don’t want to be sad and wounded. I want to be positive and resilient- all the time.

And little kids often remind us of our own innocence, how we come out of the womb whole and kind and pure, untainted by the marks of what’s to come.

I once heard a quote that went something like this- you spend the first half of your life hiding the real you, and then you spend the second half getting the real you back. And sometimes that feels true.

The real me, that sweet, tender innocence, feels buried under the weight of a way of being that doesn’t fit for me anymore. I’m a grown-up, and the scary people of my childhood no longer pose a threat. But the hyper-arousal and vigilance persist.

Sometimes those scary people seem like wraiths, somewhere out there pacing the perimeter of my life. Waiting for an opening, to come in and feed on the health and positivity I’ve created.

This summer I planted a bunch of sunflowers in my garden. And not your average, run-of-the-mill flowers, but the giants. I got the biggest ones I could find, and watered those suckers like crazy.

I planted them along the perimeter of our little yard, so that they grew like sentinels. Providing a barrier of sunshine. Holding the line. Guarding the gate. With all the fierceness and beauty they could muster.

I loved those flowers. They attracted birds and squirrels and bees, and tilted their large, open faces towards the sun with all the openness of children.

They’re gone now. They didn’t last long. Their bright, shiny heads became so heavy that they drooped from the weight and faded away. And then they became giant dead trees that had to be chopped down and torn out of the ground.

Their roots came out in mammoth clumps, taking nearly the whole bed with them. Almost as if they still couldn’t let go. They were still trying to protect me.

I miss them, because they acted as a talisman on my journey. They were these giant signposts of joy, saying, "Greatness, just around the corner. Signs of life, just around the bend."

They meant something beautiful, because often in life there are great expanses of road in between, with no markers, and no signs. No indication of direction, one way or another.

In the garden, life changes with the seasons. And each bountiful creature is replaced with another in its time.

This week, we planted tomatoes. And I still don’t know what to put in place of the sunflowers.

But here’s the thing. There are no accidental blooms here. I planted those flowers. I tilled the dirt and sowed the seeds and watered the ground until they popped open and burst into life. I didn’t create the life, but I did have to create the conditions for it to thrive.

And I think sometimes that’s all the assurance we get, on the long stretches of road in between. No signpost. No markers. Just the belief and hope of tilling the earth. Tending the soil. Watering the seeds.

And waiting. For the next blazing talisman to appear.

This Is Love

This passed weekend my husband and I reconnected with some amazing friends we haven’t seen in a while. They have two darling little boys, and we spent a lovely Sunday afternoon relaxing by their pool.

Towards the end of the evening, we adults congregated around the table to chat while the kids played on the lawn. Their boys have this pretty impressive Jeep Power Wheels, and my daughter and their youngest son got in it together.

Among its many amenities, the Jeep had a radio, tuned to the nostalgic sounds of country music, and the littles spent a good half hour sitting together, still in their bathing suits, dancing and listening to tunes while their blonde heads glowed in the setting sunlight.

At one point, they both paused in the middle of it all and looked at each other. Their eyes met in this tender moment, and it was like they were really seeing each other, realizing they were sharing this beautiful moment together. These two tiny, innocent little hearts were bearing witness to all the beauty colliding in that one moment.

Then the moment passed, and they kept on playing.

Nineteen (yikes!) years ago, almost to the day, I went on a date with a quirky, energetic blonde kid I met at church. I think he had all of $10 in his pocket, and barely had enough money to pay for parking and the ice cream I asked for. He was emotionally healthy and stable in a way I didn’t know was possible, especially coming from the instability and chaos of my fragile home life.

We walked around for a while, then sat on one of those benches near the pond in the middle, where the ducks congregate on mounds of plushy, green Korean grass. We talked for hours, probably about our passion for our faith, and our dreams to make a different in the world. We might have made tentative plans, starting to make tiny promises to each other that would turn into big promises later.

I wonder, after seeing the sweet innocence of my daughter with her new friend, if we might have had that same look all those year ago, on that bench in Seaport Village. If someone passing by might have seen the tender innocence on our faces, untainted by the hits and bruises that life would bring our way.

It can be hard to remember that now, when love often seems to get lost in the muck and mire of everyday life, among all the unceasing demands of work and home and family. It’s that sweet innocence that gets lost, and sometimes, the longer the road, the harder it can be to find your way back.

A lot of life has happened since that first date. Most of it has been good, great, amazing. A little bit of it has been hard, and sometimes it’s those little bits that seem to take up the most room.

If I could go back and talk to that young girl sitting on the bench, I’d tell her that it’s going to be hard- harder than she could imagine. That life will make a battle-worn soldier out of her. And that it’ll cultivate a strength in her that will make her proud.

But most of all, I’d tell her to look closely at the face across the table from her, at the hands that are co-creating this life around her. To listen to the voice that returns home with stories of laughter and pain. I’d tell her not to forget that spunky boy she fell in love with. I’d tell her that he’s still right there, and that the journey is just getting started.

Crow's Feet and the Gift of Life

I recently heard that an old acquaintance of mine passed away. She was a few years younger than me, the younger sister of a friend whom I haven’t seen in a while. I didn’t know her well or see her often, but I loved every minute of it when I did.

She was always a lot of fun, and she was also crazy beautiful. Not in your average, girl-next-door kind of way, but in the Disney princess kind of way. She had this fantastic mane of flowing red hair and emerald green eyes that would make Ariel herself swoon with jealousy.

Every time I saw her, I was convinced that she was the prettiest person I’d ever seen. It was only later that I learned hints of a darker side, of struggles and demons hiding beneath her lovely surface.

When I learned of her death, it hit me like a ton of bricks. How could someone so lively and full of life just not exist? And how could someone so beautiful never know it?

My husband recently took a few pictures of me for this blog. When I looked them over, what I saw gave me a bit of a jolt.

I like to think of myself as an attractive person, and in my head I think I’ll always be a vibrant 27 year-old. But when I saw the pictures, the signs of age were there, unmistakable. Nothing crazy, just the crinkle of crow’s feet around my eyes, and smile marks around my mouth- and I swear they weren’t there the day before.

I’m 36, so I know I’m not gonna be pushing a walker any time soon. But the truth is, I do feel it in my body, a certain coming of age that can’t be ignored.

Being a (rather vain) girl, it’s a tough transition, because the only language and cultural lens I have about age tends to be negative. Age is something to resist, ignore, and defy. It’s something to camouflage and hide, a source of sadness and shame.

Sometimes I feel like a desert-dweller encountering snow for the first time, and having no words to describe it. If I had words, would it be so scary? If I had words, would I have a better way to cope?

Because here’s the thing. Age is a privilege. And in the wake of someone’s passing- a death so painfully tragic it takes my breath away- nothing is clearer than this. To be here, on this day, breathing these molecules of air and standing on these particles of earth- it’s a gift.

Not everyone makes it this far. And I’m old enough to know that’s the truth.

So here’s what I know for sure. I’m blessed. To rise each morning and look in the mirror. To experience the physical sensations of a physical body, one that supports me with all the love and loyalty of an old friend.

I don’t want to spend my living moments with that friend chastising and abusing her like a mangy, unwanted stray dog. I want to cherish her. For her gifts and tenacity. For her strength, and yes, even her beauty. She’s given me every good and precious gift, and she’ll do it as long as she is able.

I don’t know how well I’ll be able to circumvent the social conditioning wired into my brain. But I’m determined to give it a try, in tender dedication to the dear ones who didn’t make it this far. And to this faithful body, who has seen me through this far. I’m still alive, thank God. Crow’s feet and all.

Empty Belly: The Lessons of Miscarriage

I’ve always known that miscarriage exists. Kind of like I’ve always known that aliens exist- in some hypothetical universe out there where people wear tinfoil hats and spend their lives staring at the stars. Basically in someone else’s reality- just not in mine.

When I decided to have kids, I thought I could approach it like any other worthwhile endeavor- set a goal, make a plan, and go for it. And to be honest, baby #1 was like that. Awesome pregnancy, standard birth, healthy baby.

I thought #2 would be the same, but I was wrong. I stepped into that alternate universe and got a harsh dose of its alternate reality.

I won’t belabor the point by reliving all the gory details. Suffice it to say, it was pretty tough. I had a dark couple of months, during which time I felt physically empty and demoralized by the heartbreaking setback.

Sometimes it’s hard to comprehend that in life, there will be times when you’ll go all in, you’ll play a brilliant hand, and you’ll lose. You’ll walk away from the table empty handed, defeated and alone.

It’s part of life, but it’s a difficult lesson, and it’s hard to bounce back. But here’s what I’m learning through this experience:

1.     Gratitude. Loss can have the paradoxical effect of magnifying the beauty of everything that remains- the heart that beats, the marriage that persists, the child that thrives. As long as there is life, there can be magic.

2.     Play hostess to grief. This is something my brilliant friend Audi wrote about in her blog post a few months ago, Grief and Gold. Welcome grief in, and give her the space and time she requires. Take what she brings, and give her full range, until she’s done what she came to do.

3.     Let your body heal. Give your body as long as it takes to knit itself back together, no judgments attached. Feed it nectarines and sunsets and copious amounts of any other beauty it desires. It will come back in its own good time.

4.     Be open to love. This was hard for me, but I made an effort to share my experience with the people around me. I discovered I’m not alone, that so many other women have gone through this, and they survived. I became the recipient of countless acts of tender kindness, and I felt incredibly loved.

There’s nothing that can fully remove the scars of adversity. Sometimes the best thing you can do is lie in bed for a while and cry, and that’s okay too. I definitely did a lot of that. Loss becomes an irrevocable part of you.

But I want to believe in healing and renewal, and the potential for life after loss. I want to believe that life can grow out of loss, if I can muster the courage to allow it.

I don’t know if I’ll ever try to have a second child. It may not be in the cards for me. But I will choose to live as gloriously as I can. And I’ll put my cards back on the table, in one way or another. I’ll play that brilliant hand, and let the cards fall where they will.