As a parent, there have been two lessons I’ve tried to impress upon my kids: 1) learn to go to sleep on your own, and 2) life isn’t fair. As a grown up, that second one still is a bitter pill.

Yes, I’ve been very fortunate to have always had a roof over my head, food in the fridge, decent health insurance, though the relationship that gave me these things came at a cost, too: Loneliness, lack of emotional support, lack of intimate connection. I’ve walked away from that safe but lonely life for a second chance to get to know and love myself, nurture and heal myself, provide and care for myself. It’s not easy, but most of the time I feel confirmed that I’ve done the right thing.

But then there are days where real life smacks you in the face and you realize that life is just unfair.

For the past 14 years I’ve driven a minivan. I was thrilled to finally get it–my first new car–while I was pregnant with my second daughter. My old car, a Ford Explorer, had taken to suddenly turning off, regardless of where I was, or how fast I was driving. I’d begun feeling unsafe driving it, and had been asking my husband to replace it for several months during my pregnancy before, finally, he did. That was in ’04. In the past few years, I’ve been asking for an upgrade. The van was a Honda. It would last forever. In that same time frame, he’d bought an elegant sedan and more recently had begun eyeballing Teslas. In the past two years, as the van, like our marriage, began showing more wear and tear, I began petitioning a bit louder for a new(er) car.

Now we’re separated. In mediation for divorce. And as I fight to fairly divide the pennies, the dollars of the past quarter century of our lives, his responsibility to share the cost of summer camp for his kids, he’s gone out and bought a Tesla.

Two weeks ago I took in an older foster dog. She’s sweet, but has gut issues, is obedient, but has arthritis. I will love her well for as long as I can, but she’s not a brand new, bright and shiny dog.

A dear friend said this morning that she is practicing radical acceptance. Me, too. I am practicing. But growth is hard. This move out of my home, divorce from my marriage, reckoning with my personal skeletons is changing me, but I’m not yet fully evolved. So, while I’ll go walk my new, creaky, sweet dog and I’ll drive my old, scratched, dented van, I’ll keep breathing. Even if those breaths come out with a sigh of injustice.

The Salins brothers didn’t know from calling ahead. Sunday afternoons, when there was nothing else to do, they’d jump into their cars and drive around the beltway, dropping in on one another. You never knew when Eph, or Joe, likely not Calvin, who was probably still sleeping, or Charlie, who was at the track, or Mark or Jerry, who sadly had passed away too soon. Maybe not Sid, who was out selling cars or cheering on the Redskins, but otherwise, on any given weekend, if the weather was right, you’d hear a knock at the door and open it to find Joe, or Donny, or Ephraim standing there.

They’d bring food from Katz’, they’d knock together sandwiches, they’d loudly discuss some issue of the day, the war in Vietnam, gas prices, how in the heck it was that a peanut farmer from Georgia was in the White House, and how none of it mattered, really, because, God-forbid, we were all going to die one day anyway.

Sid, Mark, Calvin, Charlie, Jerry, and now Ephraim. All gone. Only Joe (90) and Donny (86) are left to circle the beltway. (And their little sisters, Gladys and Lilly, of course, but the women always had the decency to call first. Or invite you over. You’d never find an aunt at the door, only an uncle.)

My uncle Ephraim passed away last Saturday. He was diagnosed with a brain tumor after driving the wrong way on the highway last New Year’s Eve. With characteristic self-acceptance and grace, he declined treatment, and instead opted to live out his numbered days surrounded by his kids, grand kids, large extended family, numerous colleagues and friends, and his two beloved dogs, Arlo and Benji.

One of the last times I saw Eph, on Jan 30th at Uncle Joe’s 90th birthday celebration, (where Eph emceed the day, telling stories and jokes about their quirky and impoverished upbringing in the produce biz) he greeted me at the door with a hearty, “I love you so much!” No “Hello,” no “Hi, it’s nice to see you,” just that: A great big statement of unconditional love. (Uncle Joe, too, greeted me this way). What good men the Salins brothers are and were. What good story tellers, great senses of humor they possessed, what quick minds.

I loved my Uncle Eph. He was funny and smart. When I was little, he’d speak to me in silly voices. He always made me feel valid, and welcomed and loved. To quote the songwriter, Richard Shindell, “He was always faithful, he was always kind, and he walked off with this heart of mine.”

I’ll miss you, Uncle Eph.

You never know why it is that people come into your life. Sometimes it takes years, to see what pattern the threads weave into. Many years ago, I’d walk my little girl to school, get her situated in her first grade classroom. Once, upon leaving, I was asked by another teacher if I had a minute to come in and help out with her kids, all special-needs. Could I maybe do a few math problems with them just until the morning bell rang? I was a stay-at-home mom. The dishes in the sink could wait. So I said, “Sure.”

Nearly 10 years later, I ran into that teacher in the Marshall’s parking lot. “How are you,” she asked? I’d just started my massage practice and so I told her about it and she asked for a business card. Now, how many people actually hang on to a business card? But she did. And she shared it with her ex-daughter-in-law who called me and became a regular client.

A year ago life got complicated for both me and my client.  She found a new husband and was kick-starting her new life. I was walking away from my marriage of 25 years and settling in, living solo, plus visitation, in an apartment miles away from the neighborhood.

Over Christmas she texted, “Can I come in for a massage? Today?” I was in no shape emotionally to see a client, even a good one. Besides, I was feeling a bit shy about having her come to the apartment vs. my beautiful studio in the old house. I said no.

This week, she texted again. “Can I come in for a massage? This week?” It’s been a minute. I’m more grounded. I’m more confident. I’m growing more comfortable with sharing my vulnerabilities. I said yes.

Had I not been married to a wonderful provider, disconnected emotionally has we may have been, I’d not been a stay-at-home mom. I’d not been able to walk my daughter into first grade. I’d not met the kind teacher across the hall. I’d not met my client.

After her massage today, we chatted a bit about where our lives are and the amazing pathways that have gotten us here. She asked if we could pray together. I said yes.

She took my hands into hers and she asked the heavenly father (her image, but I’m being open…I don’t quite know what my Higher Power looks like, though I doubt he’s a dude) for strength and guidance and love for me as I walk this journey into the unknown. As I learn to love myself and to accept what is possible. As I begin to believe that I am favored and I am blessed.

It’s not easy. But I’m willing to try. Each day I listen for the strength simply to put one foot in front of the other. Each day it’s as hard as it was the day before. But on those hard, hard days, I might just meet someone who will offer a thread, become part of my tapestry. And along the way, I will know myself. She is good. She is kind. She is important.

[Blog title used without permission by Dar Williams. Though I think she won’t mind].

Yesterday was the memorial for my soon-to-be-ex-husband’s mom, who died on Christmas eve. All day yesterday and the evening prior, I was surrounded by him, my kids, his large extended family. There were stories and slide shows of the years passed. It was a lovely tribute to a woman who was larger than life, outspoken, colorful, brash, and, yet, nurturing. Her four children are all beautiful, successful people with careers, families and friends of their own. The mood was light and the tributes were littered with funny stories and perspectives. Her second son, my husband, shared his that he has always been his mom’s favorite and now that she’s gone no one can confirm or deny it. He meant it teasingly, in jest, but the thing is, it’s truly how he feels. And everyone in the room knows how special he is. He has always been the darling of the family, held in extremely high regard and anointed. And his grandmother was the same way with him. As his wife of 25 years, I have always known this.

Now that our marriage is ending, I am the pariah in the room. How could *I* be such a fool/bitch/idiot/disrespectful/critical/stupid woman to let this prince go?

And, I confess that I fall prey to that notion. How could I? How is it that after 25 years together I couldn’t feel how much he loved me when he would sleep while I drove, rather than speak to me? Or, converse with the kids before bed, but slip back down the stairs to his basement office without looking in on me, also going to bed? Or, never hold me in the kitchen, or the shower, or the bedroom? How could I walk away from this golden man? How dare I want more.

As I sit here now, tears stream down my face. Rather than feeling empowered by this truth of the loneliness of living with him, of always feeling 3rd, 4th, 5th down the line to everyone else he encountered, family, friends, football games, customer service reps on the phone, I do not feel comforted. I feel like there must be something wrong with me. Why was this man, this life, not enough for me?

I loved him. I still do. And I am breaking my own heart by leaving this marriage. But my heart also knows how abandoned it has felt these past years. How disconnected, unheard, unfelt. But I am not a bottomless pit incapable of receiving love. I am a woman who deserves to be loved in a way that feels like love to me. More than a nice house, good insurance. More than words of commitment, followed by acts of abandonment.

Somehow, I have to gather the strength to continue. To take care of my heart. Even thought that means leaving this prince behind.

When my kids were little, I used to tell them that the two most important lessons I could teach them were, 1) how to go to sleep on their own, and 2) that life isn’t fair. Here, in the 6th month of my marital separation, I am finding those two lessons incredibly vital.

My husband and I only overlapped in our bed for about 5 or 6 hours a night, due to our dissonant schedules. So, for the past 25 years, falling asleep has been a time of sadness and loneliness. To combat it, I will turn one of my extra pillows long-wise, so at least I can hug it while I fall asleep. 

Even though I believe that somehow, someday, karma will come around to those who’ve wronged me, that knowledge doesn’t ease the sting of the injustice of being on the inequitable distribution side of the table. Sure as shit, life isn’t fair. But, if I can keep my head held high and keep on walking through the drama, the muck, the unfairness, I know that on the opposite side there is–at the very least–growth and acceptance.

I have a safe and quiet place to live. My girls are happy. I am happy. We all can breathe. I can write. I can work. I can set up my massage table and offer healing. It will be ok.

When it feels like life’s tidal waves are crashing against me, I can remember: I am not the boat at the mercy of the current. I am the ocean. I can ebb and flow; withdraw or swell. I am mighty and powerful and peaceful. And tomorrow, after the storms pass, I may be an entirely different environment than I am today. But I will still be here. I will still be here. 

And the ones that can know you so well are the ones that can swallow you whole. I have a good and I have an evil, I thought the ocean, the ocean thought nothing. You are the welcoming back from the ocean. “The Ocean” by Dar Williams.

(Blog post title and lyrics used without permission from Dar, but I think she’d say it’s ok.) 

It’s been said that the decision to have a child is to agree to having your heart walk go walking around outside your body.

And you want them to leave you. You do. Isn’t that the ultimate goal of parenting? To teach them to fly?

But that doesn’t quell the ache that settles deep in your heart, behind your eyes, at the base of your throat, as they pack up their bags and pillows, backpacks and guitars,

Until the next time they descend upon you.

Four days here, three days there, and in-between, the shared and the missed laughter, stories, songs. How I love those two independent pieces of my heart!

But, standing in the parking lot, watching them, the pieces still left in my chest tear and pull and break, as the yellow car and the red tail lights disappear through the snow.

“Making the decision to have a child – it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. ”
― Elizabeth Stone

It’s Wednesday morning, 8am. The shoes that have lined the hallway for the past 4 days are making their way back home. To their father’s house. Since last July, they’ve been with me Sundays thru Wednesdays, and the alternating Saturday night.

Over Christmas, my eldest hosted her annual Hanukkah party for her friends. A diverse group of American kids whose parents were born in China, India, Pakistan, Maryland, Afghanistan, Poland, Iran. When they arrive, for latkes and matzo ball soup, they bring with them Biryani, Curries, Pierogies. What I enjoy, nearly as much as the delicious food, is the giant pile of shoes by the front door. Dozens of shoes from these kids, who’ve brought so many colors and flavors from their home into ours. The pile means they’re here for awhile, to get comfortable, to feel at home.

Back at the apartment, when the girls stay with me, my quiet, solo existence gets turned on its head. The uncluttered coffee table becomes covered in papers, pens, dishes, puzzles, cds, laptops. There’s music and song and hot chocolate and “Party of Five” on Netflix. I look up, along the entry way wall, and see them: Granny boots, black suede booties, running shoes, Uggs. Confirmation that the girls live here, too.

After 5 months, we’ve got the routine down. Everyone is feeling their own space, breath. It’s good. It’s just those damned shoes that get to me. Or, rather, the absence of them. On Wednesdays.

The first Christmas after my father moved out, when I was five, my mother decided she’d get herself a Christmas tree. She’d always wanted one, always thought they were pretty. But, growing up in a religious Jewish home, having one had always been forbidden. Even during the thirteen years that she and my dad were married, though they weren’t especially observant, they’d never put up a tree.

So, here it was December of ‘71 and she, newly single, decided what she wanted: A 3’ artificial tree that stood on top of two large boxes in the living room, putting the top of it at about 6’. Nearly a real tree height.

My mom wrapped the tree in garland, hung ornaments, and carefully hung tinsel strands. She was very proud of her Christmas project. Her Christian Projection. We were given one warning, while it was ok to admire the tree, we must not under any circumstance, show it to Grandma.

I was 5. I was excited. I couldn’t help myself.

My grandparents arrived that evening, winter wind blowing in the door with them. I took all of 3 seconds before I shouted, “Grandma! Grandma! Come see our tree!” My grandmother looked confused. My mother looked aghast. I was filled with shame. Why bother having a tree if you weren’t going to revel in it and show it off? More importantly, if we were Jewish, why the heck were we bothering with a tree at all? I couldn’t comprehend it.

Years later, after my mom remarried, our house was taken over by the nearly 25 foot tree my stepdad would saw down from the forest. But decorating it was not a family affair. It was something he and she would do together, in grand isolation from the rest of us. Or, that’s how it felt to me. But I did love the tree, ostentatious as it was. I loved the scent, the colors.

When I married–a Jew–he, like my father, established a “No Tree” Xmas. It was simpler, less work. But I missed the pine, the debate of white vs. colors, steady vs. blinky, all of the rituals that other families across the world were having at once.

This year, like my mom in ’71, I am on my own. If I want to get a tree, I totally could. In fact, the other day, I noticed on Facebook that someone was giving away a box of ornaments. Cool, I thought! Maybe that’s the nudge I need to get started on my holiday decorating. I answered the ad and set out to retrieve them. On my way, I received a snippy reply from their owner. Did I understand fully that these ornaments were to go to someone *in need*? Realizing that they were advertised in the Cascades/Lowes Island/Ashburn section of FB, surely the woman giving them away wouldn’t be shocked that I wasn’t exactly homeless. I wrote back, “Yes. I do. I am in need.” And I drove towards the meeting spot.

Her husband brought the fabric box down and I opened my tailgate. Ooops, I’d forgotten to take out my recent grocery/Christmas gift purchases, as well as the baskets of bottles of Ranch dressing, olive oil, and vinegars I’d brought back from my soon-to-be-ex kitchen pantry the day before. I guess the sight of the bottles tripped a trigger. After I got in the car to drive home, I received a text from the woman, “My husband said there was quite a lot of alcohol in your trunk!!?? Money for beer???? But no money for ornaments????!!!!!”

Could she have been any less filled with the Christmas spirit? I wrote back, “I’ve just come from the grocery. The beer was $5 and is a gift. This is mine and my daughter’s first Christmas on our own. Your generosity is not in vain.” Can you say, “Holy-self-righteous-donator-of-ornaments?”

There it was. Immediately, the shame of being a 5-year-old-Christmas-loving-Jew came flooding back, as did the intensity of unfairness in being unjustly judged. How dare she spew venom on me and my new Christmas ornaments? I so wanted to turn the car around and bring her back her now-tainted Christmas baubles! But I decided no. I’d keep them. Or maybe give them to a friend. But at any rate, I’d allow them to be a symbol of my serenity, rather than my shame. I could not control her need to be harsh, judgmental and critical, but I could decide to not to let her petty heart get to mine.

Difficult endings make for new beginnings. I may not look needy enough for your free bulbs, Lady, but I am. I need Christmas this year. We all do. With all of it’s joy. And, maybe, just maybe, a little bit of Christ-like faith in humanity. And unconditional love.

Earlier in the day, I’d parallel parked on the crowded neighborhood street. Now, I was running late to pick up my kids. As I approached the car, I saw that not only had someone double parked, blocking me in, but also, the driver parked in front of me was struggling to maneuver out of his too-tight space. I could feel myself begin to fume.

Come on! I thought, drive your car, get out of my way! I quickly realized that the double parked car was his, too. He was trying to jockey the cars. But he was inept, inefficient. In my rush, my frustration levels rose.  

I don’t have time for this! But, I took a deep breath and outstretched my arms, indicating just how much space he had available to reverse before smashing into my minivan. It took him six or so passes to get the right angle, but once he did, he pulled forward and was free. I almost was able to exhale.

Before I could rejoice, a second driver suddenly came swooping in, blatantly stealing the newly opened space.

Whatever patience I had mustered was gone. Oh, no, no, no, you don’t! I need to get my car out of here! I marched up to the driver’s side window and knocked on the glass. But, instead of cursing him out (what I desperately wanted to do) I explained: the driver who had just pulled out, was freeing the space for his other vehicle that was double parked next to mine. And I needed to leave. Yesterday.

The driver indignantly said, “No. I’m here. It’s fine.” But it wasn’t fine. He didn’t get it. I wasn’t letting him get away with stealing the space, keeping me trapped.  

So for the second time in 10 minutes, with my temper screaming at me to let loose, I took a deep breath instead. I used my words. Practiced kindness. “Listen. He needs to move his car into this space. As soon as he does, I’ll leave, and you can have my space.” 23 words. That’s all. Tensions dropped. Smiles broke out. The formerly grabby driver relented, nodded, and pulled out of the stolen space. The parallel-parking-challenged man appreciatively touched my arm. “Thank you,” he said.

I got into my car. Gave a breath of gratitude for composure, empathy, patience. Turned the ignition and drove off to get my girls.

What does it take to be happy?

When I was a little girl, the hints that my grandmother dropped made me believe that, certainly, love wasn’t enough. If you were savvy, she’d say, you’d also find a way to have money. And intellect, too. If you were smart, you’d marry a man who was educated,  because that would less you to a higher station. And elevating your station, that was the ultimate goal.

For my immigrant grandmother, who never went to college, but who could finish the daily Washington Post crossword in under 10 minutes, happiness was something that you were granted by another person. Others were the sources. Find the right other, and boom! You’d be all set. And if that other also happened to make a good living? Well, then. Even better!

I internalized this message. So, as a girl, I developed crushes instead of skills, pursued boys instead of interests. I understood the endgame was to marry well. I wasn’t sure my chances, but I knew the charge.

So when I met my husband, a lovely, educated, stable man, I convinced myself that he was the right choice, for my grandmother. I dismissed my own desires to be seen and heard, not to be judged for being my silly, goofy self. I convinced myself that my need to be social, affectionate, warm did not matter as much a paid off mortgage, nice vacations, good credit. But here’s the thing: I was lonely. And loneliness does not bode well for boosting one’s happiness.

So, the pursuit of happiness. What does it really mean? It means being true to yourself, practicing self-kindness, granting yourself the freedom to pursue the activities and ideals that you want: Not someone else’s idea of what’s right for you.

I have decided to leave my marriage. A gut wrenching decision. And one that makes zero financial sense. But, I can feel my spirit begin to peek out from the shadows, to look toward the light, and to begin to dream about what possibilities, what internal happiness may be waiting for me.