“Why is it that as we grow older and stronger/The road signs point us adrift and make us afraid?/
Saying you never can win, watch your back, where’s your husband?/Oh, I don’t like the signs that the sign makers made/
So I’m gonna steal out with my paint and my brushes/
I’ll change the directions, I’ll hit every street/It’s the Tinseltown scandal, the Robin Hood Vandal/
She goes out and steals the King’s English/And in the morning you wake up and the signs point to you/They say, “I’m so glad that you finally made it here/
You thought nobody cared, but I did, I could tell/And this is your year, and it always starts here/
And oh, you’re aging well” — You’re Aging Well, Dar Williams

I am 32 days out from my 60th birthday. It’s not surprising that approaching a landmark number like this brings up a lot of feelings and reflection. In some ways, I don’t feel any differently than I did when I was 14 and Kathy Schinner and I would call each other every night to plan out our outfits for the next day. I’m still that giggly girl. And in other ways, I’m not. I’ve seen how life, relationships, and the world can harden you, make you cynical, even jaded. I am often too serious.

Recently I had the opportunity to travel to Alaska for a writers retreat led by Cheryl Strayed (someone who has certainly seen more than her fair share of life’s hardships). I’d signed up on a whim, wanting badly to honor this big birthday year somehow special, but finding all my initial ideas falling through. My kids were too busy to travel, I didn’t want to throw my own concert/party, like I’d done for my 50th. (That night was magical, one of the best of my life, and didn’t need to be repeated.) So when the advertisement for this 5 day retreat in Cordova came across my feed, I said yes. I didn’t know anything about Alaska, much less really consider myself a writer, but something about it just felt right. 

Upon arrival in Anchorage, there had been plans for a large pre-retreat gathering at one of the airport bars, but two other retreaters and I found only one another. I am so glad. This little intimate group was the baby step I needed before launching into a sorority of 40+ women all searching for their own truth, their own voice. 

What happened in Alaska was exactly what the doctor (Dr. Maura, it turns out) ordered. The misty mountain air provided a hit of oxygen my soul starved for. There, I found my 14 year old self, as well as my “wise inner sage.” I contemplated my past as I wrote, and I discovered my curiosity and dare I say, excitement, about my future. I am done looking back. I am calmly and confidently stepping into whatever comes next. 

(Title and lyrics used without permission by Dar. I hope she doesn't mind.)

When we got to Alaska 

We carried with us the burdens of our homes

Will there be hairdryers?

Do I need gloves?

We were scared and unsure 

Am I even a writer, we each asked, of ourselves. 

As the week unfolded, 

Into this uber casual time/space continuum

Where the Sound and the Rain dictate over 

Bus schedules and pre-determined plans

We learned 

Just sipping coffee,

Just chatting with a friend,

Just watching otters and seals give absolutely zero shits

Is what matters

Here, walking beneath rainforest canopies, we traveled back in time.

Found younger, more easily amused versions of our selves

Forgot all about our frizzy hair, our laugh lines, and just, well, laughed.

“…the great relief of having you to talk to.” (“Darling Be Home Soon,” John Sebastian)

I couldn’t imagine what a week in Alaska would do — the ways in which it would hold my soul, shake me up, place me back on the ground in some new alchemy.

I was younger there.

At a week long writing retreat, lead by the formidable and courageous Cheryl Strayed, I was introduced to 40+ women who’ve decided it’s time to tell their stories.

We shared our pain and so much laughter, we walked in the rain, searched for salmon and moose, stood in awe of fog and light.

The scenery and the stories and the permission to write were the key ingredients, but what made the experience complete were the friendships. There is nothing more affirming than a circle of women who listen to one another, nod, and say, “Yes! Exactly!”

Back home in my suburban townhouse, I am feeling somewhat unmoored, but I am hopeful that I can hold onto some of the magic that I found in that wild and peaceful place, where I had the great relief of having so many brave women to talk to.

“Everywhere you go, you are your own home” –Sarah Barelilles

My youngest daughter is in Africa. She boarded a plane on Saturday night that was intended to fly her directly to Accra. She was even more excited for this trip than she’d been the first time she’d gone, two summers ago. This time, she knew in advance how kind the people would be, how mesmerizing the music is, how strange and wonderful the meals are. Being an experienced traveler, she’d packed her bag with precision – her one small bag for her entire three week stay. She had her textbooks for her 3-hour online class she’d log into on Thursday nights. She had her brand new scrubs for her shifts assisting on the labor and delivery ward. She had her special hair gel, to keep her naturally curly hair in check. That night, the plane sat on the tarmac for 5 hours before the flight was officially cancelled. Fortunately, she was automatically rebooked onto a new flight for the following morning. Her bag, she was promised, would also be transferred. It was not. 7,000 miles from home since Monday, with no creature comforts familiar to her. She’s been sad. So sad. But she has tried to stay on the brightside, acknowledging the kindness of strangers and recognizing that things could be much worse. She is grateful to be healthy. She is grateful for this experience. She is grateful for the difficult lesson brought on by losing something (albeit temporarily) has taught her.

The missing luggage has been found. Tomorrow it will be delivered to her. 

How much can change in a day!

And how much impact can the little things–clean socks, your own shampoo, have toward making you feel better? Feel safe? Feel at home,  even when you’re thousands of miles away. 

I am sitting in the Colorado kitchen of dear old college friend. Sipping coffee out of a girl scout mug she must’ve picked up when the kids were small. They’re no longer scouts or band kids or swim teamers. But the light spilling across the worn grain of the oak flooring in this kitchen reflect the many early mornings where my friend poured cereal into bowls and baked birthday cakes. This house, like my friend, is showing some age, but has awakened this morning smiling at the promise of a new day. Zhittya tryvae. Life goes on. 

I remember standing in the kitchen making blueberry pancakes at 4:00 a.m. The gentle glow of the gas stove flame the only light in the room. That was 26 years ago when my eldest was in utero. Today she is a labor and delivery nurse in Rhode Island and my youngest is about to graduate college. I’m standing in my kitchen making blueberry pancakes. Today is the 5th anniversary of owning my little townhouse that backs to the woods that lead to the river. The river that I walked repeatedly while crying in the years leading up to, and through, my divorce. I often say that I don’t move quickly, but I do move. And today I realize standing here at my stove flipping this pancake, that I am proud of myself. I’m proud of this little house. I’m proud of the life that I have built for myself, contented as I am with my own company. I am proud of my daughters who have grown into beautiful women with bright futures. I know that I can do hard things and then I can get through the impossible. Not everyday is progressive. Not every day is measurable. But today is. As I lift and rotate the pan to even out the batter, I can see that everything has a way of working out. No matter where I live or what time it is, I can feed myself. And that sense of agency is worth the price of lawyers and child support and mortgage. I guess what I’m saying is, I’m every bit as grateful for the days that were hard to get through as the days like today when the sun is shining and I am celebrating myself because they all work together to create this beautiful, messy life. Even in my darkest days I can comfort myself, with pancakes made with fresh blueberries topped with a spoonful of Greek yogurt and a hit of maple syrup. 

You ever had that experience where you’re looking right at something and yet you miss what’s right in front of your face? 

Tonight I made a crazy jumble of fresh ingredients into a colorful stir-fry. The main color of which was green from this fresh spinach leaves that I’ve added at the last moment. But when I tried to describe the dish to my children I mentioned everything except for the spinach. But there it was adding life to the quinoa and mushrooms and onion bits in my bowl.

It’s funny how we can just overlook the most apparent of details. Like maybe the fact that your dad is kind of a narcissist, maybe your mom is on the spectrum? Or maybe that your husband of 26 years doesn’t actually love you the way that you want and deserve to be loved. That its all been staring you right in the face your whole life, but you didn’t see it. Not until you were ready to.

I guess that’s the point right? To try to exist everyday in a state where your eyes are open, and your ears are open, and all of the senses that can pass by you don’t go missed.

Walking along the river tonight I noticed a woman staring up into a tree, I couldn’t see what she was seeing, but I could hear it. A bird, a small bird, it sounded like, saying, “Cheery, cheery, cheery.” I didn’t feel compelled to look it up, to learn what species was regaling us down here on earth. I just listened for a second as I walked past, and noted that somewhere 30 or 40 ft above my head, there was a creature reminding me that happiness is where I find it.

And where I find it is where I remember to look and to listen and to smell and to feel. Oh, and definitely to taste. That might be the most important one, for the satisfaction that it brings.  

Umbilical cord around my neck, my first moments were full of fight. Surprising for a girl who relished gentleness, and whose best friend, a Collie dog. As kids, we drank cold hose water in the summertime and dunked our heads for cherries. The one with the most, wins. A lilac bush permeated the front yard with its sweet purple scent, masking the truth of things. Inside, sink dishes waited patiently for soap; the cleansing of their conscience from involuntarily witnessing shouting and unmet needs. From the living room measures of Beethoven boomed, accented by our mother’s curses. Her fingers, frustratingly disobedient to the sheet music. We three grew up, despite the inattention. Aware, and purposeful. Proudly providing our own children blueberry pancakes on Sundays. 

Oh the irony 

Frantically eating a chocolate bar needing the sugar to hit my bloodstream 

While, intensely, I study the left hand of a favorite songwriter

Singing in a red knit cap

During the pandemic 

Have patience 

I need this song in my hands as fast as possible 

I cannot wait

I cannot wait because the same madman who terrified the fuck out of us 6 years ago with a virus that kills, today, holds the entire world hostage as he gleefully types out his desire to end an entire civilization with the push of the button 

I have no more time to learn this song. I need to play it NOW.

And this, as we spin around in circles on this little globe in the dark, a rocket is circling the moon, visualizing the earth from our the window. We’ve all gone out the window and have forgotten just how precious we are…with our little shoes dangling. I need to tune my strings. I need to scream. I need to remember to have patience. Give it just a little more time. Everything will be all, everything will be alright. 

Title borrowed from REM. I hope they don’t mind.

I can’t be the only one 

Who reaches for a mop when the news says that the world is ending

All month my floors have been covered in snowmelt. I’ve had no motivation to clean 

Drop a few bombs and whoosh my house is spotless 

Corners swept, floors shiny.

I’ve been here before, when the smoke rose from where the towers once stood 

All I could do was fold the laundry 

Something about the sorting of the socks

Brought me back to calm

In a world gone mad, it was all that mattered 

Those neat piles of underwear, towels, pj’s, what was mine, his, the baby’s. Knowing how they’d fit into their respective drawers upstairs 

In our house

Where the lights were on, the water clean 

I do not know if today

is the beginning of the end of the world. 

But my floors are clean. 

And I

feel

fine.