Scrabble squabbles

I was making soup Saturday afternoon when my phone dinged with a text from the depths of the basement. 

My soon-to-be 16 year old asked anyone want to play pitch?

Yes! I responded, psyched for the invitation from the handsome basement troll, ready in 15 minutes!

We played cards, followed by family dinner, community dishes (our dishwasher broke), a prohibition-style game of beer pong and then scrabble, said teenager still in the mix, still upstairs away from his lair. 

About 30 minutes into the game, he declared he’d had enough. He said he was not having fun anymore and began to put his tiles back in the bag. 

No! I screamed. Can’t quit. Only 15 more minutes -you can do it!

I’m done he responded. 

You can’t quit, I told him. Or no phone tonight. Or i-pad. (I’d show him who had the power.) 

His pleasant demeanor transformed before my eyes. His self-awareness and sovereignty (interpreted by me in that moment as defiance and perhaps if I’d dug a bit deeper- rejection) lit my fuse. 

He grew big. I grew bigger. We finished the game. 

Was it the same as before he declared he was done? 

No. 

Was it fun? 

No. 

Did I go to bed proud of myself? 

No.

If I could press redo, would I?

Yes.

I’d say: 

I get it honey, family time in teenage time is triple what it is in tender mom time. Thanks so much for the card game invitation, doing the dishes and playing two more games. I realize that is a lot of time and energy.  

I also know that your little brother and I are having a blast right now. You hanging out with us means so much. You’ll be able to drive next week, which will provide you more opportunity to be away from the house (post Covid-19 of course), and I feel sad knowing our opportunity for time together diminishes every day, despite it being a normal, natural and vital part of your growing up. 

Could you possibly take a little break, grab a snack and come back so we can finish? I’d love for you to demonstrate to your little brother that even if you’re losing or bored you can still finish a commitment you started, especially when quitting affects others. That said, I trust you to know what’s best for you, and if you’re at the end of your rope, I honor that. 

——————————————————————————————

This morning I scrolled through my audible library looking for someone to read to me while I vacuumed. I knew exactly what I needed. In Nonviolent Communication, Marshall Rosenberg reminded me of the following:

Punishment is costly in terms of goodwill. The more we are seen as agents of punishment, the harder it is for others to respond compassionately to our needs. The following questions help us to see why we are unlikely to get what we need using punishment to change people’s behavior. 

  1. What do I want this person to do that is different from what he or she is doing? (And why do I want them to do it? What are my needs?)
  2. What do I want this person’s reasons to be for doing what I am requesting?

When I address this second question, I see that my use of punishment and reward (access to electronics) interferes with Max’s ability to do things motivated by a desire to enrich his life or that of his family. I see that I am acting out of alignment with everything I am trying to reteach myself about living my truest life. 

I personally don’t want to act out of fear of punishment or rejection, nor do I want any of the humans I am guiding to either. In my haste (and hurt?) I robbed both of us of an opportunity to speak to our needs and our feelings and to practice acting in alignment with them. 

Luckily (?), I think we’ll get plenty more opportunities to practice in the next few weeks. Luckily, he’s turning 16 and not 18. Luckily, I am well versed in the art of apology.

for this I pray

One evening last week, at the end of the sixth day of family quarantine, I let myself go all the way in. 

I followed the thread of fear all the way to the end. I let myself explore the worst case imaginable as opposed to damming all negative or scary thoughts. Gratefully, my husband held good space, not turning away from my trembling, my tears, nor the doomsday scenarios I played with, and the next day I awoke with less tension in my jaw, neck, and shoulders than I’d felt all week. 

Moving emotions and physical tension wasn’t the only benefit of my purging tear-fest and exercise in imaginative exploration. Once I allowed myself to picture it all, I got really clear on my fears. I realized I am not as scared of physical illness and death by natural causes as I am my community feeling hungry, unsafe, and desperate. I am scared of civil unrest.

I am reminded that although this fear is new for me, it is ancient and prolific for so many in the world, both near and far. I have always stayed relatively aware of traumatic world news— civil wars, disease, famine and starvation, terrorism, gang violence, asylum-seekers jailed and separated from their families— but I can normally keep fear, concern, and empathy for those suffering at bay by creating excuses, distractions and imaginary distance between me and them. If I didn’t create these boundaries, how could I ever make it through a day? 

But now these boundaries are gone, as this virus affects us all. And now that I know in my body a hint of the fear that so many across the globe feel day in and day out, some for endless generations, I pray I can’t un-know it, even when this pandemic is under control. I pray that every human experiencing this type of communal fear for the first time can also realize that it is the same physical sensation of fear that so many of our brothers and sisters experience on a daily basis, not knowing if they are safe or where they will get their next meal.

I pray we take this new knowing handed us by COVID-19 and work with it to change the way we live as a global society. I pray we change the way we consume, the way we vote and the way we practice diplomacy. I pray we begin to grow and spread the peace, generosity and resources that the world begs us to grow and spread. I pray we use our imaginations to create new ways of being in community that we’ve not yet experienced. 

I pray we start now. 

By not hoarding, by not believing we are exempt or above, by staying aware, by sharing our best practices, talents and resources, by practicing non-violent communication and amazing self-care—so that we can rescue ourselves when we need to and reach out a hand to those needing rescue. 

We imagine, we practice, and we ripple.

For this I pray. 

What is

My husband and babe #1 travelled to NYC for a basketball tournament that was graciously cancelled mid-game. Thank you NBA and NCAA for being the first leaders of our nation. For saying, we will stop the March madness and we will respond to what is. Thank you for setting a precedent for our president.

My people are back from this hot-zone, and now we are stuck at home together. We made this decision before the CDC advised it. 

Some call it social distancing. Some call it physical distancing. I call it a dream come true. 

How long has my soul begged for this kind of closeness with my family? The kind not required by a logistically complicated scheduled trip away from all of our duties and distractions, but rather a settling in, a sinking down, a surrender to our humanness. A call to close loops and finish discussions, to not escape to school or work mid-complicated sentence. To not try to fit in familial relationships among all the external obligations. And the world is asking us to do it.

I feel an ancient itch being scratched, an echoey yearning for tribe time, a longing for community collaboration and solidarity, as we relearn together how to work with the natural elements. 

Yes, I feel fear. And panic has reached the surface of my body a time or two. But truthfully the undercurrent of fear has been here inside me for so many years. Fear for the earth, fear for the polar bears, fear for the people in poverty living near the sea. Fear for the glaciers and the grandkids, the forests and the furry ones. Fear for all the things we know and don’t address. 

I can feel Mother Earth sighing in relief for the little break we’re giving her, and now I don’t feel quite so alone in my fear. 

Now maybe we all look at the invisible elephant in the room. Now maybe we talk about the necessity of universal healthcare, of community gardens and converting our tidy blue-grass yards into life-giving earth. Maybe we address how every action we take as individuals ripples through the community, affecting all. 

Maybe we embrace our interconnectedness as demonstrated by the constantly-updating live outbreak maps. Maybe we acknowledge as a culture the inevitable end we all face. Maybe with this acknowledgment we choose to live in more life-conscious ways.  

I pray and I choose to believe that this virus can raise our consciousness and our health as a vibrant community. All of us have unique ways of contributing and growing, all of us have work to do at home— both inner work and work with our closest people. For all those who continue to do important and life-saving work out in the community: providing food and medicine, caring for the sick and assisting the compromised and the elderly, —thank you. From the bottom of my heart. 

Heart ball and boundaries

I awoke Sunday morning to a Facebook scroll full of images of elegant couples captured from Saturday night’s big formal fundraiser, of which I was pleasantly unaware. This blissful ignorance made me quickly flashback to a not-so-blissful conversation with my sister three years ago, regarding said fundraiser. 

Me: I am dreading Saturday night. So much about the event makes me pissy. The face painting, the stilts donning, the leaving the house barely dressed in the middle of winter. It’s not fair men get to be warm in their tuxes, while women freeze in their gowns. Then there are the 10-top tables, the booze and the massive amount of food waste. Who needs steak AND salmon? I’m sick to my stomach thinking about it. Why can’t we just send a check?

My sister: If you dread the event so much, why on earth are you going? 

Me: Because saying no would lead to divorce. 

My sister: If that is truly the case, Katie, you’ve got much bigger issues.

Time stopped, searing the scene into memory. My gut clenched and we ended the call. Her words hung over me all day. I did have undeniable issues if I could neither muster the strength to choose me, which would mean disappointing my spouse, nor call in the peace and acceptance I needed in order to attend with him lovingly and willingly.

I’d been beating myself up pretty badly, both about about my big group social anxiety -always exacerbated by the pressure of dressing up, doing hair and make-up and worrying about tripping in high heels- and my inability to go with the flow. I know my husband wanted me to be easy, but more than that, he wanted to feel supported. He believed that attendance at these events was part of his job, and me being at his side was important. So important that he’d neglected to ask me if I wanted to attend, despite his knowledge of the apprehension I felt at this type of event. 

He couldn’t wrap his mind around what the big deal was for me, it was only a handful of hours. I couldn’t understand what the big deal was for him. I was happy to meet in a smaller group with any man, woman or couple he wanted me to meet or get to know better, but these giant events didn’t seem the place for relationship building. 

I believe it was my sister’s reflection of my sorry situation combined with Trump’s recent inauguration and the solidarity I felt with all women for whom men in suits make decisions that finally gave me the strength to say, 

Honey, I honor you and your work. 

I happily offer emotional support

and my presence in small gatherings.

But for this event, to which you RSVP’d without consulting me, 

I refuse to attend. 

I am sorry. I know that stings. 

I bless you going alone or inviting another in my place. 

This voicing of my desire, my will and my boundaries (me choosing me) caused some painful ripples in our household. It was disorienting and confusing for us both, as it often is when one partner decides she’s going to change the dance steps.

But this past Sunday morning— waking up early after a full night’s rest with a clear head, a happy belly and a memories of family moments from the night before— was SO worth the growing pains endured three years ago. And to realize that the event wasn’t even on my radar made the Facebook scroll all the more sweet. I felt empathetic joy in my heart for all those happy ball-goers raising money for a good cause, and I felt personal joy in my heart for me for my husband, continuing our growth as sovereign individuals while celebrating the beautiful partnership of support we are becoming. 

Self-sovereignty

I started binging and purging right about the time I started high school. Right about the time my world was expanding and the rules to keep me safe were getting more restrictive. As a child, I’d had very few rules about where I could go exploring solo on my bike. The world was my oyster and my curfew an empty belly, but when I started bleeding and growing breasts, the rules got much more confining. Looking back, I interpret this change in structure to the disappearance of trust, both my parents’ trust that the world was a safe place for me and my own trust that I had the skills I needed to navigate it. Freedom was pulled out from under me, and I’m pretty sure I simply handed my sovereignty away. There were new unnameable threats of which to be wary and new ways of operating to be learned. My parents’ fear was not unfounded. This was decades before #metoo, long before sex was talked about.

No matter, I knew that it was dirty. The message I got at home, from church and from Midwestern culture in general was that sex was a big no-no. Bad girls wanted it, and I so very much wanted to be a good girl. I was already a good student, so just like I picked up chemistry formulas, Spanish verb conjugations and algebraic equations, I also picked up social rules. 

Good girls are asexual, thin and co-dependent. 

I took it upon myself to stuff my budding sexuality, to strive toward thinness and to find myself a boyfriend. Before long, I’d gained twenty pounds, a nutritionist telling me what to eat, a therapist with whom I shared codified bits and pieces, and boyfriends with whom I played damsel in distress. Somehow, between all the binging and high-mileage running purges, I managed to be both class president and homecoming queen, a sure result of my strict adherence to aforementioned good girl rules. 

I continued playing out a pattern of physical and mental self-abuse, self-mistrust and deep shame throughout high school. And though I’m still shaking off its remnants today, I share here the story that sparked my healing journey, the story that sowed the seeds of self-trust, self-care and sovereignty that I tend to so mindfully today. 

 ________________

Freshman year of college I attended a women’s retreat. There, a woman came to share with us her story of escaping an abusive marriage. She told of making the decision to stop waiting for her husband to get better and instead choosing to take care of herself— right then and there. She sneaked out of the house with her children in the middle of the night to take refuge in a shelter and save her life. 

I was 19, and her story of rising up and owning her role in that story, of leaving behind everything she knew in order to choose herself sparked in me for the first time the thought that I too could choose to take care of myself. I could choose to choose me, instead of choosing to succumb to whatever force was trying to confine me, keep me stuffed and sedated, constantly eating and running. I could choose myself when making the decision to eat or not to eat an entire pizza, loaf of banana bread or batch of cookie dough. I could choose to leave behind patterns that were slowly killing me from the inside, one bite at a time. I could choose to let go of behaviors keeping me from addressing the issues behind the incessant consuming..

Typing I can choose me today seems so silly. So obvious. But at the time, the idea of choosing myself and acting in my own best interest was completely novel. Completely rebellious. And completely empowering. It was one of those time-seems-to-stop moments when I was able to watch my thinking shift in a way that allowed healing to begin. The journey certainly hasn’t been linear, but the insight that I could step out of victimhood and into agency was the impetus toward a new paradigm, one that I am continuing to grow and one that I hope for every human on the planet. 

I have agency. I have choice. I can choose me. 

I hope for the feeling of sovereignty and freedom for all humans, and I celebrate the micro-moments and micro-choices that lead us there. I celebrate that earlier this week, in the midst of severe anxiety and the deep and ancient eating-disorder urge to stuff, control and numb, I chose me. I tended to myself carefully and with love: asking for what I needed, applying boundaries and nourishing and resting the body. The issues that were behind the anxiety didn’t disappear or transform with my nap or the chopping of vegetables, but instead of compounding the issues, I brag that I minimized collateral damage, leaving more energy for examination of those issues.

In these weeks of Mercury moving in retrograde, of communication being compromised, of old patterns being brought to light and of campaigns bringing deep emotion to the surface, I celebrate the thread of learning that begins in adolescence and continues throughout a lifetime. I celebrate the self-awareness and self-reflection happening at the individual level that lead to life-promoting cultural shifts at the global level. I celebrate expanding trust and appreciation for the wisdom and autonomy of every human body.

We are each other’s destiny

I was lucky enough to lead yoga at a wilderness retreat yesterday. There, a friend read these words of poet Mary Oliver:

I would say that there exist a thousand unbreakable links between each of us and everything else, and that our dignity and our chances are one. The farthest star and the mud at our feet are a family, and there is no decency or sense honoring one thing, or a few things, and then closing the lest. The pine tree, the leopard, the Platte River, and ourselves – we are at risk together, or we are on our way to a sustainable world together. We are each other’s destiny. 

As we find ourselves in week three (and one) of the primary races, and are perhaps enjoying some extra leisure time this president’s day, it seems a perfect time 

-to pause 

-to contemplate our connectedness

-to familiarize or deepen our knowledge of the politics surrounding us

-to wise-mind our way into choosing a candidate that best represents our values

-to envision a new way of operating, one that celebrates both our connection and our sovereignty

Happy third Monday of the month, and first day of Mercury appearing to move backwards. 

May the force be with you!

Growing pains

My reactions to the Super bowl halftime experience.

First thoughts:
Holy cow, what amazing bodies! 
What amazing moves! 
What amazing skills! Damn!

Second thoughts:
Wow, that’s a lot of crotch shots. 
I am feeling uncomfortable. 
I wish I were watching alone. 
I wonder if my boys are watching. 
Why do I hope they are not? 
What’s the issue? 
Is it my own issue?
Am I jealous of these women? 
-a prude?
-turned on? 
-nervous about others’ reactions? 

Third thoughts:
That Puerto Rican flag looks so cozy.  
Right ON with these African and Middle Eastern beats. 
This feels so PRIMAL.
This feels like HOME.
Holy shit this is sexy.
And powerful. 
I want to DO that. 
I want to BE them.

Then the show ended, we collected the kids we brought and headed home. Along the way I heard my youngest say he heard the show was inappropriate. I heard echoes of someone in the car saying “it was.”

I said nothing. 

I awoke the following morning with the Super Bowl heavy on my mind.

A) because one of my gut reactions to the whole display of feminine power, grace and sex was discomfort.

And

B) because I had stayed quiet when questions about its “appropriateness” arose.

Me, who likes to think of herself as a feminist, open-minded and sex positive, was uncomfortable.

Me, who likes to think of herself as an activist stayed quiet.

Me who has sitting dog-eared and underlined on her bookshelf Pussy: A Reclamation and Me and White Supremacy still saw this powerful and awe-inspiring display of feminine voice, power and collaboration and had a reaction of “uh-oh”.

WTF? 

Today I am owning my disappointment in myself with compassion. I am acknowledging where I am in my evolution. I am seeing my discomfort for what it is— remnants of the worldview I inherited living where I live in the time I live. I am re-affirming my desire to remove the lens placed upon my vision by a thousands-year-old patriarchal culture suppressing women’s sexuality, desire and power.

I am also talking with my boys about discomfort I felt (and where it comes from) regarding seeing two minority and middle-aged women own that stage with their undeniable talent and sexual energy. 

Shakira and J-Lo, I am channeling your strength, discipline and bravery. I will do better. 

Imbolc

In a time when we are receiving news of one environmental protection after another being repealed by the current administration, connecting with the Earth and the ancient traditions surrounding her are becoming more and more important. Celebrating the Earth and our integral relationship to her seems the most natural way to create connection and encourage care. If we see planet Earth as sacred and celebrate her seasons (I’m not talking the Hallmark ones), how can we possibly allow her to be raped, pillaged and abused? How can we disregard the migratory patterns of her birds, the thirst quenching water of her rivers and the life-giving nutrients of her soil– all in favor of cheap oil?  

Only when we feel little to no connection with her can we think it’s okay to favor big business over land and water. Only when we don’t honor the native people who cared for this land for millennia can we think it’s okay to desecrate their sacred sites with bulldozers and pipelines (as is currently happening in Utah). For many, relating to the native people of the Americas and their land is difficult because we come from a lineage of immigrants who view the Native people and their relationship to Earth as “other”. But those of us with European backgrounds can dig into our ancestral roots for rituals that celebrate connection to the natural world too. 

February 1 marks Imbolc, an ancient Celtic holiday celebrating the midpoint between Winter Solstice (the shortest day of the year) and the Spring Equinox (one of two days a year when night and day are equal). Imbolc is the Celtic word for sheep’s milk, as this is the traditional time of year for birthing lambs. This is a time of celebration, as the Winter food supply can be supplemented with milk after many months of rationing and scarcity. By its very nature, Imbolc celebrates the relationship between humans and animals and acknowledges human dependence upon beastly gifts.

Imbolc is a time of assessment as well. Will the provisions put away for the non-growing season last until the plants provide? If not, how else can we find nourishment? How can we work with our neighbors and to make sure there is enough for all? How can we collaborate? Share? What community needs aren’t being met? How and with whom can we meet those needs? 

Imbolc is also a time of planting seeds, both literally and metaphorically. It is a time to review our plans for Spring and Summer crops and Autumn harvest. It is a time to to be deliberate with our actions, acknowledging that what we sew now we will reap later. It is a time for new beginnings, with vision for the future.

In addition, Imbolc asks us to double check that we’ve released the past year. There is too much work in our future to be burdened by carrying around the left-overs of the past. What are we still clinging to that can be composted as nutrients for the new year’s crops? What can be fuel for new growth? 

Imbolc acknowledges that the darkest days of winter have passed and it’s time to think about stretching our limbs as well as our minds. It’s time to crawl out of the darkness and back into the light. It’s time to consider our relationship with earthly time and our earthly space. 

This particular February it may also be time to call our representatives and check into the practices and promised policies of our favorite presidential candidates.

a solstice celebration

I was listening to a friend this morning as she tried to find the word to describe how she felt about my family’s willingness to participate in our annual Winter Solstice celebration. It wasn’t jealousy, she said, because she was really happy for us, but maybe there was a bit of envy there because she couldn’t imagine even asking her husband to play in such present, reflective and non-traditional ways. 

I realize I’m really lucky. I also realize and celebrate how hard I’ve worked to create this reality, as my family’s openness and my willingness to ask for what I wanted wasn’t always the case.

I travel back in time, not to a prior Solstice, but closer to Spring Equinox, to Easter morning a big handful of years back. We had plans with extended family that afternoon, but I was really craving some quality nuclear family time before we headed out. I did my typical thing, polling each member of the family as to what they’d like to do. Answers varied from play with my Easter Bunny toys to watch TV. If we’d have been a more religious family, we’d at least had time sitting together in the pew of a church, but we didn’t have that glue. I tried to rally my husband for support. I tried cajoling my kids with the promise of maple syrup if we could all just dress and get to a restaurant for brunch. I was met with resistance from every side. 

I resigned myself to a typical Sunday morning routine with everyone doing their own thing at home. Bitterly, and full of self-pity I transferred the clean clothes from the washer to the dryer pushed the door shut. The latch didn’t catch, and it swung open. Not even aware of my mounting loneliness, hurt and rage, I kicked the door with my foot. It felt so good. I kicked it again, this time harder. It felt even better. One more time I stretched my bent knee back to get ample torque and let my bare foot fly. With all the commotion I was making, I’d roused curiosity and the stomping and pitter-patter of nearing footsteps could be heard. I was bawling at this point. The dryer was left in a V-shape and could only later be closed with three big strands of duck tape. The kids were staring at me in horror. 

What was WRONG with me my husband asked?

At the time, I hadn’t a clue, but with a whole lot of reflection (and paid therapeutic support) my situation became clearer to me. Nothing was wrong with me, but I wasn’t living a life in alignment with my values of connection, spirituality and quality family time, and I didn’t yet have the vision or skills to create it. I didn’t believe I deserved or had the power to create the rich family-life I wanted. And perhaps most crucially, I hadn’t the voice and confidence to express to my life-partner what I wanted to create.

My therapist helped me to see that if I wanted my life to be different than the one in which I was currently experiencing, then I needed to behave differently, either by creating powerful moments for connection on my own or by sharing explicitly with my husband what I wanted for our family and clearly making requests for us to do it together. It wasn’t fair to anyone if I was being ambiguous or passive-aggressive. She was my cheerleader, encouraging me in good ol’ Mary Oliver fashion to fight for the precious life I wanted to live, encouraging me to live boldly and deliberately. I was scared out of my mind. What if I asked in no uncertain terms for the kind of quality time and support I wanted and got denied?  What if I shared with my spouse the life I wanted to build and he wasn’t on board? 

Then you have very valuable information, she explained. 

Gulp. 

Flash forward through piles of journals.
Flash forward through loads of e-mailed attempts at conversation.
Flash forward through the awkward and jerky starts and stops of novice face-to-face, all-masks-off conversation.
Flash forward to participation in a Mindful Communications course and role playing with a classmate over the phone.
Flash forward to prayer and practice and failures and start-overs and redos and apologies and self-inflicted time-outs.
Flash forward to the important learning that I will be just fine should I have to create the life I want to live on my own.
Flash forward through the tearful and snot-filled vulnerability of meaningful, transparent and difficult heart-to-heart conversation.
Flash forward to now.

Now I can share confidently with all my men:

Guys, I love you so much. Nothing means more to me than to create really rich and meaningful experiences. This year for our annual Solstice celebration I have invited someone I really respect to do some soul work with us before the sun sets. You need to be home with an open mind and ready for action by 2:00. And because our time sleeping together in one room playing “olden days” means so much to me, I’ll pay anyone who makes it all the way until sunrise $20. Lastly, please come to our gathering with an activity, game or conversation starter to share. 

And guess what. 

When we were tucking ourselves in for the night and one of the boys asked, is it just me or has mom gotten her way all day? my incredibility supportive and very handsome husband replied yes, and that’s okay


Life is hard

This morning at Reading Circle we will conclude our discussion of Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. In this autobiography of her youth, Maya delivers wisdom niblet after wisdom niblet. The kind of wisdom only gleaned by a young mind with keen observation skills. With poetic clarity she reminds readers again and again what it’s like to navigate the world with only so many years’ experience to draw upon. She paints a vivid picture of the world as she interpreted it as a child, and she does so with such brilliance, insight, poetry and humor that I practically have the entire book underlined. 

In the final chapter she describes her mother’s compassionate understanding and ability to allow her baby to struggle and work for what she wants — to become the first black streetcar conductor in San Francisco. Maya explains that Mother understood the perversity of life. 

Mother understood, and more importantly, she allowed Maya to discover it too— in her own time and her own way. The comfort with discomfort that Mother displayed (both her own discomfort and that of others) demonstrates her intimate relationship with struggle and hardship as well as her faith in her daughter’s ability to navigate the complex world. Maya learned not to sugar coat life’s hardships, nor succumb to any victimhood thinking. 

Unlike Maya, I didn’t grow up black in a world made for whites, nor did I grow up in an age pre-civil and pre-women’s rights. Instead, I grew up a member of the majority in the comfortable suburbs of a small town, in the age of Baby Sitters Club books and the Brady Bunch. I grew up with the Huxtables, the Sievers and the Cleavers. I grew up thinking that all of life’s difficulties could be sorted out in a hundred pages or a half an hour. I grew up thinking that the struggling that comes with being human was an option, and I was failing miserably. I spent my time not observing the people and situations around me like Maya, but instead studying the habits and social norms of actors on television or cookie-cutter characters in children’s books. And I tried my damnedest to emulate perfection. Is it any wonder that I thought there was something inherently wrong with me and my family? We were nothing like what I saw on the tube. 

My grown-up attraction to Maya’s tell-it-like-it-is honesty and vulnerability touches the same sweet spot that lit up three years ago at my first appointment with my hairdresser. I can’t remember how I responded to her greeting and “how are you?”, but whatever I said set her off to clucking and repeating, 

Life is hard. Oh, life is hard. Honey, life is hard!

No one had ever said that to me before, and in the matter of a moment I felt like I’d landed in a lap I’d always wanted to inhabit. I felt understood. I felt the presence of a truth speaker. I felt connection and the openness that comes with honesty and accepting struggle. With not pretending to have my shit together. There was no judgement of the “you should just be grateful sort”. There was no advice. There was no rescue. Just solidarity.  I recall this moment as one of the prominent notches in my personal timeline. I see it as a shifting point for how I want to view the world hard and inhabit spaces. 

Like Maya, her mother and my hairdresser, I want to acknowledge that life is hard (maybe the Buddha said something along these lines too?). Like them, I want to offer compassionate empathy while not distracting from or pretending the pain is not there. Most importantly, as Maya demonstrates page after page, no matter how hard life is, it’s also magical and painstakingly beautiful if you’re paying attention, and as humans, we can do hard things.