anxious gratitude

I have this overwhelming sense of gratitude for my husband this evening. He’s not home. I’m home alone, in fact. I was supposed to be with him this evening, and his family, and was looking forward to the outing. For the first time ever I was going to watch the Boston fireworks. But then the day came.

Some holidays are still pretty rough for me, even though it’s been almost 3 full years since we lost Mom, and nearly 5 since Dad died. I did think it would be easier now.

This holiday was always a big gathering at the house with almost everyone making the time to get together, so it’s a time when I really do miss the way things used to be. And that meant anxiety. The panic attack started at around 11am and worsened when I found out that the trip to Boston planned for the evening had turned into a major adventure involving several stops. My stomach is lurching with the memory.

I made it through a quick visit to my niece’s house to see her new baby and didn’t come anywhere close to crying until we were in the car headed home. But I couldn’t cry because my daughter was in the back seat and I knew the visit had inspired her own emotions and did not want her to worry about me. But at that point I knew for sure I could not continue on with the Boston adventure.

And Greg knew before I even told him. And he made it easier for me though I know he wished I could share the family fun with him.

Anxiety is not easy, and it’s not getting easier with age. But I recently feel more comfortable with this part of me. I think I owe a lot of that to sharing more with Greg and some of my friends. The relief of being honest is near joy. Just accepting that anxiety is a part of me makes me a little less anxious. The best part is feeling like I don’t have to be ashamed or to try to “toughen up” and do things that I just don’t feel up to doing. It’s not that I want to be left alone to hide away in safety, never challenging myself, but by allowing myself to say no to some I am better equipped to take on those I choose. 

And I could not do this without a husband who loves even my crazy because it is a part of me.

This sign was up in the yard weeks ago, but seems to fit today.

word collector

I was walking out of my sister’s office this morning past several quotes printed in bright ink and mounted on matching cardstock. My nieces, who work there also, have scattered inspirational words all over the office and I thought, “We are a family of quoters”. And for the first time, and it’s weird that this was the first time (is it really the first time?), I thought of how it all started with our Dad.

I was at my parents’ house about once a week throughout my adult life, and more often as they got older. Several times a month there would be a clipping of a social commentary cartoon from the newspaper or some inspirational words from the church bulletin posted on the refrigerator or laid out on the table. He cut out things that made him laugh or seemed especially relevant to something going on in the family. A lot of times his clippings were personal, cut out specifically for me or one of my siblings. Given that there were so many of us, it was always amazing that he knew which words would speak to which child. When it came time to create photo boards for his funeral several of us naturally, without even talking about it, collected quotes that made us think of him and helped us to show our love and gratitude for his life.

I’ve been writing words I collect from my reading on the White Board outside my house for 5 years now and today was the first time I really connected that work to my Dad. He was the reason I started the board in the first place (the first word was simply “Hope” after his cancer diagnosis) but I didn’t give him the credit he really deserves. My Dad wasn’t a big reader (well, he did read 2 newspapers every day) but his word collection showed me the value, the power, of words strung thoughtfully together and shared.

And now that I’ve thought about it, I realize the tradition in strong all over my family. My sister has words to inspire relaxation posted around her beach house. My brother peppers his conversation with  poignant quotes remembered from his reading. 

And here is the wall of my daughter’s bedroom. Her grandfather would be proud.

So, here’s a clipping for you, Dad. I don’t need scissors to collect my words, but I’ll share them just like you.

moving on

At the end of this school year there were suddenly two high school students in my house. Anya finished middle school and in September will be a freshman in high school.

Middle school can be tough. Kids do a lot of growing up and changing and that can mean that friendships that were once important become, well, less so. As they mature and explore new interests and begin to lose passion for others, friends in 8^th grade can suddenly find that they have little in common. And that doesn’t have to mean the end of a friendship but sometimes it is anyway. Trouble is, your average 14 year old does not approach this situation with calm reflection. (Really, do we at any age?) Friendship is emotion, and so is adolescence.

When I went to high school I held on to my middle school friends for a little while, but I was quickly preoccupied with new people and new interests. I never had a fight with my friends, never called them names or passed them “break-up” notes, but one day looked up and they weren’t there and it didn’t upset me. When I ran into them later it was always pleasant, and I even enjoy catching up with them now on Facebook. I grew in different ways than they did.

This phenomenon has happened a few times in my life. When I went to graduate school I lost touch with a few of my working friends. When I became a Mom I felt some of my single friends fall away. Even my relationship with my siblings has morphed over time, depending on where we each were in our pursuit of happiness.

So, my 8^th grader, now 9^th grader, is exploring new friendships, strengthening the bond with some, loosening the bond with others. And though there have been some painful moments and some mis-steps, I think its all good.

I was thinking of this change in her life as we held our annual school work burning last night. We mark the end of the year with hope for the next. This year’s fire burned off some hard feelings and sadness and hopefully cleared the way for a joyous high school experience.

burning stories

Burning Stories - Two Writing Teachers blog

I saw the above headline in the email newsfeed and my mind went immediately to the annual bonfire . . . not the image the writer here had intended.

A few years ago, my girls and I decided to burn the school year. I can’t now remember the inspiration. Did we all have a difficult year? Was it the year Thea had that horrible teacher who tore her homework up in front of her because it had no name on it? Was it the year I was laid off? I don’t know exactly why we started it, but we continue it because it has felt like the right thing to do. We gather all the notebooks and folders and scattered papers from the year and slowly add them to the fire. And as we do, stories are passed around. “Oh, I loved this project. I got to work with my friends and we laughed all through Science class. Best week of science all year.” trailing into a series of silly anecdotes. “I HATE Skill Drills. I’m going to save these for when the flames are really big so it kills off all the yuck.” followed by a recount of the painful evenings spent completing this dread weekly homework. The girls and I slowly rehash the year, laughing at ourselves and at the absurdity of homework. Thea remembers when she completed the same assignments as her sister and they compare notes on how it went. And as she shares the work of her year she prepares Anya for what is to come.

As they go through the pile, the girls inevitably find some pieces they want to keep – the short story written in response to reading about the Holocaust, the poem that earned high praise from her peers, the history paper that took hours of research and writing, the doodles on the edge of the agenda book that are now turning into a scene in her latest story.  

There are two reasons I love the annual Burning.

First, the ritual feels like clearing out the old and preparing for the new. It’s the Ash Wednesday to our Lenten summer; the ceremonial start of the season of cleansing and renewal.

But also, I love this ritual for the stories released by the flames. Instead of just stamping “The End” on the school year, we write an epilogue that wraps up the storylines and brings meaning to the chaotic action, connecting the otherwise random work.