I just talked with an old-new friend about the losing of oneself as you hide who you are. Or bury who you are. Or just plain forget who you are. It's incremental, we agreed. You give bits of yourself away, piece by piece, and you just erode. To keep the peace. To keep the job. To make a relationship work. To get where you want to go. Whatever. You look up and suddenly, you're lost. Like Hansel and Gretel dropping bread crumbs that just get eaten and they lose their way.
Lately, I am back on the path to finding me. Building myself back up. Piece by piece. Granted, it has come at a steep cost. I've faced depression, anxiety and panic. I'm recently divorced. I've lost friends as my social landscape has changed and made new ones. But those weren't what allowed me to find me. What was it? Motherhood. Oddly enough, many woman find motherhood to be the place where they lose themselves. For me... it was the beginning. The beginning of this road I'm on. This time I won't lose pieces of myself and leave them for the birds of depression, negativity and doubt to eat at. I'll set out with eyes straight forward and build a life for my kids and me that I caught a glimpse of when I became a mother.
I remember holding my boy one of the very first nights at home. I was nursing him, dead tired, food packed in a little cooler in his room because he ate so often and woke so often, I hadn't the time to feed myself. I looked down at him and began sobbing. It was huge. This little human had come from me and, at this age, I was all he needed. I was his sustenance, his pillow and his comfort. I understood then, how motherhood changes a woman. Why it makes women do insane things to protect their kids. I told a friend once... in simplest terms motherhood has taken me from the woman who freezes and breaks out in a cold sweat when she thinks someone is breaking into the house to the woman who has grabbed a sword (yes a sword, shut up) off the wall and rushed to the door when she thought someone was breaking in because, fuck it, those bastards were coming through me and this weapon before they got to my kids. That's motherhood. For me.
I had a joyful childhood. Yes, my parents were (gasp) divorced. Yes, we didn't have much for a long time. But I had a lot of joy. In very simple things. I was telling a friend about it recently, who said he wasn't as practiced at joy as I was. And I began to think of what made me "practiced". I'll be honest, I fell out of practice for a while. A long while. Motherhood made me determined to bring it back. I want my kids to get dirty, be silly, laugh, be curious, be adventurous as much as I want them kind, courteous, big-hearted, sensitive and loving. I want them JOYFUL. I cannot MAKE them joyful, each human is responsible for his own happiness. You can exhaust yourself trying to make others joyful, especially when they refuse to be. But I can lead by example and I can give them every opportunity to find it in the little moments by finding it myself and pointing it out.
What made me practiced was not luxury vacations or fine things. It was attitude. I remember a driving vacation with my sister and dad. Dad would plan these trips down to the hour. With how far we'd get and where we'd stay. But one time, life had a different plan. The town we wanted to stay in was COMPLETELY booked by a Shriner's Convention (no joke), so we had to travel to the next little town. The "cabin" (I'll use quotes and you'll see why shortly) we stayed in was ummmm... rustic, to say the least. They had tiny corrugated tin showers and questionable bedding. But that is not what stood out. My dad, exhausted from driving, could have been a grump. Instead, what I remember is he, my sister and I making the best of it and in his exhaustion my dad holding out the Scrabble and Cribbage games and saying "Scribbage or Crabble?" All three of us paused a beat and then... we were on the floor. Rolling, tearing up, laughing hysterically. It has remained a joke to this day. When we're exhausted or when we want to play a game - Scribbage or Crabble. Joy, folks. It is found in the little moments.
And another memory I have is of my mom, my sister and Phil - the man who is now my step-dad but who at the time was my mom's boyfriend. We wanted to go fishing in the Sierras as we had started doing recently with Phil. Mom had this old Toyota Celica hatchback and we were fishing at some place I don't remember well. It was not our typical rocky shored lakes like Gull Lake or Silver Lake. I just remember steep concrete sides and LOTS of rain. It was POURING. But it became an adventure. Mom had some kind of tarp and she opened up the hatchback (like I've done for my own kids in the back of my Ford Escape) and let us take shelter and picnic there. And while we smile at that memory of the driving rain, still trying to fish and that tarp, it isn't even the best part. At one point, Lori and I (quite young, maybe 6 or 7) spotted some kind of bird struggling in the water. I think it was a bird. And we wanted Phil to save it. Now, here is a man who didn't want kids (or so he thought - he and mom had a son together when I was 10). He's not even married to my mom. We're not his kids. But there he goes. Big, strong, Phil... reduced to soaking-wet rescuer because two teary-eyed girls begged him. What I laugh about now, what we all laugh about, is Phil beginning to slide down those steep sides toward that water. Poor man nearly went in the drink himself to save some damn animal that two bleeding-heart tiny girls were worried about. Joy folks. It's there when you look.
I feel like I'm making headway in teaching my kids to look. We've developed a motto called "We'll Make The Best of It" that we particularly use to make us laugh during hard times like when we're all trapped in my place because we're sick or when the day doesn't go as planned. My life has changed financially, so it's forced me into creativity to plan little adventures like hikes and road trips and feeding ducks at the park... but it's during these little adventures that we tend to find our joy. We like to "narrate" the ducks' activities. Giving them voices and conversations. We race around the little docks at the park before we row canoes. We go out in POURING rain on 'worm adventures' or stay holed up inside and do science experiments. We pretend we own a restaurant and all work together to put dinner on the table. We take breaks on our long hikes where the kids start to melt down and "name" the spots to make us laugh. To date we have christened spots on the path to Sweet Creek Falls (which was a long rainy hike) with names like William's Melt Down Rock, Dizzy's Pee Pee Flower, William's Pee Pee Tree, Dizzy's Spider Discovery Hole, Mom's Stumble Spot, etc. so that on the next hike, when we get tired or hot or grumpy or hungry, that we'll remember to laugh and find the joy and just start naming our landmarks. The other night, as I could see them starting to fade, I did my best carnival worker voice and began yelling "GET your hot dogs HERE!" as I slung hot dogs across the bar in my apartment. It worked... silliness always works.
What are you doing, friends? Are you still casting pieces of yourself about to be eaten up so that one day, in your old age, you look up and have no idea where you are? Are you "living" dead inside, drowning in the day-to-day? Are you the one whose first words are a complaint or a sigh or a negative observation about your co-worker or child or home or job? Or are you LIVING? Taking each hill, uncertainty, bend, complication, surprise, etc. as an opportunity? Are you making the hard choices to make sure your heart feels alive, you spread some joy and silliness, and you MAKE yourself? Are you MAKING your first words words of joy or silliness or humor?
Folks, my Opa could make a story about PRISON CAMP funny, because he knew that's where LIVING happened. Living happens when you choose to do it and choose to climb and try and laugh and reach out and not hide in the "what ifs" or "oh wells" or "maybe somedays". He knew, in camp, there might not be a tomorrow. And after liberation, after years of struggle, whenever I listened to my Opa... he reeked of positivity. Funny stories about tricking the guards. Magic tricks even after he was exhausted from a day of work. Laughing at my amazement at his painting. Picking a perfect fruit from a tree and teaching me. Tirelessly teaching my sister and me to swim. He LIVED.
My Dad can make anything joyful. Putting on music and letting his daughters dance in "twirly" dresses before bedtime instead of worrying if it's pumping them up too much. Burning to a crisp at the pool because his little girls can swim all day. Reading fabulous stories like Rikki Tikki Tavi with multiple voices or the same poem (Daddy Fell Into the Pond) over and over and over because it's funny to his girls. My dad taught me joy.
My mom can be joyful even in tough times. She would make goofy faces right in my face to make me laugh after we'd argued. She would dance, flour-covered with us in the kitchen to The Ronnettes or The Supremes because, as usual, we'd waited for the last minute to bake too many Christmas cookies. She can use her sarcasm and humor and just a touch of toughness to deflect a would-be suitor on the slopes in Mammoth or in the Hallmark shop at the mall and let us all laugh about it later.
Live, dear readers. Choose. Your choices, like my recent ones, may earn you pity or anger or disappointment or encouragement or admiration. But it doesn't matter what anyone thinks because now is what you have. You may have to turn your entire world upside down or maybe just make the incremental changes to get your path more in the direction you want. You may merely have to continue on your same path, but just look at it through different glasses so you see (as a friend would put it) the flowers instead of the weeds. It's YOUR choice though. Make no mistake. It's YOURS. No one else is to blame and no one else gets the credit. You are not at the whim of your boss or parents or friends or spouse unless YOU choose to be. Otherwise, pick the boss or friends or partner who brings out the best in you and for whom you do the same or QUIT GRIPING, because you chose.
I could complain about my divorce or my change in finances. I could complain about a hard day or being exhausted or my choices making my kids learn some hard lessons rather young in life. But what good would that do? What would that teach them and what would that do to those around me? I'd rather be thankful I'm good friends with my ex husband. I'd rather be silly when I'm tired and make the kids laugh. I'd rather beat my exhaustion by throwing on a fancy dress and fairy wings and walking the river with my daughter. I'd rather try a hard hike again and name a few more landmarks. I'd rather laugh hysterically with my co-workers about how one of our oldest and most crotchety investors maybe just needs a boyfriend in her old age. I'd rather laugh. I'd rather live.
Don't be the Hansel and Gretel who lost their way. Don't lose you. Instead, be the Hansel and Gretel who, with a bit of ingenuity, cooked the witch and found their way. Your choice, folks, your choice.
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