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.