How to Become a Rockstar

I have a pile of partially written posts that never made it to the main page. This is one from before Covid. Maybe someone out there needs it now more than before. 

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I replaced a GFI outlet the other day.  I know that's not a big deal for most.  It wouldn't really be for me either (except for a slight fear of death by electrocution), but I have had to really lower my expectations lately, and I'm (trying to be) okay with that.  

Not long ago, I responded to a woman's post on the Hashimoto's Facebook page.  She was so sad, was just barely diagnosed, and feeling guilty about not being enough for her children, not being well enough to take her daughter to the doctor when she got sick, etc.  After I read my response back to myself, I decided I should keep my own copy to read on some future day when I need to hear the same words.  Here they are...

“Sweet, sweet, darling mama. You’re going to be OK. This is hard, no doubt about it. But you can do it.  Don’t  feel guilty for putting yourself first, and taking care of yourself. Try not to use the words like “failure”, or “terrible mom” when describing yourself, because your heart is listening. 

If your sweetest, dearest friend was going through this right now, how would you talk to her? What words would you use? Would you give her permission to be sad? Would you tell her she just got this diagnosis, and it will take time to adjust? Would you tell her that she has to give the medicine time to work, the information time to sink in?  Would you tell her that she is strong, and good, and capable, and that she will get through this?

I promise you will have better days. You will have bad ones too, but not all of them will be bad. One of the things that Hashimoto’s has given me that is really a gift, is to tell me to slow down, bring my babies up onto my lap and snuggle with them.  On days when I feel bad, we read. If I don’t feel up to reading, we watch a nature show together and talk about it. We play little games, sometimes with me laying down and the game resting on my tummy. My daughter has officially labeled me, “the best pony mom in the world” because I play ponies with her. A world title... not so shabby for a sick lady.

Here are my new rules:

If I’m tired I sit down.

If I am sleepy, I cancel plans and take a nap.

I don’t schedule more than one "outside" activity a day if I can help it.

As far as housework goes, if I get ONE thing done a day, I am a rockstar! And if I don’t, I have grace for myself for taking the day to rest.

Three months ago, I spent every waking minute on the couch or in bed. Unless I was absolutely forced to go get groceries or to take a child somewhere, I was on the couch laying down.  I now take two naps a week, instead of two a day. I’m getting my house tidied up little by little. I’m doing more things with my kids outside of the house. I’m starting to work on projects again. I am more cheerful and my anxiety is decreasing. My Hashimoto’s symptoms are less intense, and I’m feeling more hopeful. 

You’re going to be okay.  It’s going to be hard, 

but you’re good at doing hard things!"

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I can't think of anyone to whom this simple note does not apply.  We all need to take better care of ourselves.  This world we live in, with it's schedules and expectations, is so hard on us.  We are all suffering from being overbooked, undernourished, sleep-deprived, toxicified and spiritually drained.  If we don't care for ourselves, who will?

So, I am proud of the day I put in the GFI.  It took a long time, in an awkward spot in the hot garage.  I have about twenty more outlets to change out, but hey, one down!

That makes me a Rockstar, baby.

July 2019

A Weekend Away - Act II

During Day Two of our splendid “Pretend-we-are-empty-nesters-even-though-we-have-a-seven-year-old” weekend away, we tootled around (which my spellcheck does not recognize as: "verb; the act of cheerful and mindless wandering, sampling of ice cream from 150 year old mercantiles, and reading of ALL novelty mugs, with complete disregard to schedules, time constraints or dinner times".  Whatever, Spellcheck).  We had the novel experience of finding a dish in an antique shop that was 1. Not "one my grandma had", 2. Not "one my mom had', but, 3. "One we got for our wedding"... and still use.  Big ol' bite of reality sandwich with that one.  Our dishes are getting old.

We talked and teased and held hands, bought ridiculously over-priced toffee, and remembered why we thought it might be swell to spend our lives together. Kids have a way of beating all of that out of ya', what with their constant need of love and guidance, clothing and shelter, and something to eat besides Fruit Loops. I don't care how often I delude myself into thinking that we haven't been wedged apart a little by life, all it takes is one night away for me to see that we have. It's good to floss your marriage once in a while. We did what any married couple of 25 years would do when they are at last alone at an Inn... nap. Before dinner. There is the possibility that other shenanigans were had, but I can neither confirm, nor deny the rumors. The rumors that I just started. Shhhh.

On our last morning, Guy and I planned for breakfast in a quirky cafe off of the touristy main street in old town, that was covid-style-packed with locals, cow print, and a funny old hostess who called herself Cha Cha (who talked to me in Spanish using curse words I didn't understand... 'cuz missionaries don't tend to learn curse words).  While we waited for a table, we chatted with a couple across the foyer, whose company we enjoyed so well that when our table was ready, and because the wait was so long, we invited to join us (it’s okay.  It’s been 14 days and we didn’t die).  We talked all through ordering, waiting and eating, shared stories of hard times, pictures of our kids at arm's length, and the best food I never should have eaten (you know, Hashimoto's.  Bleh.  It gave me hives).  We parted with warm and simple goodbyes.

I often wonder how many lovely friends I am missing out on because life is short and I don't live in Scarsdale or Toledo or Tanzania, and also, may or may not speak Swahili. But mostly not.

In the last few hours before we headed home, we wandered the old roads looking for "something special", and found it at the edge of a well loved neighborhood, marked by a simple hand painted sign that read Bonsai Nursery.  The "Wife of the Gardener" as she called herself, Anne, was such a gentle soul.  We strolled her back yard-turned-gallery (for truly, bonsai is an art), and admired the 70 or so magical little (and some, surprisingly, big) trees, each as carefully tended and shaped as the one beside it.  She spoke with such kindness, and we visited about faith and integrity and parenting and hard work.  She openly shared tree-wisdom, something I have found that confident artists do freely, revealing the secret for growing moss, bonsai and succulents happily all in the same pot without a grain of soil.  To my comment on their dedication to their craft, she replied that most of their trees were young-ish, "only ten years old or so", and pointed out the 75 year old tree that stood regally among it's mates. Her husband was it's steward, not it's owner, she explained. It had come to him, and if he did his job well, someday it would move on to another. Hmmm. Has a nice ring to it.

We brought home two gorgeous potted plants for just $5 each (I am not ready for bonsai trees in my life again yet, as they are sweetly needy), and left her waving gracious thank yous at the gate.  It had indeed been "something special".

I always leave the presence of Life Masters feeling a bit changed. A little lost for a moment, at having to walk away from all of that wisdom and life experience, a pilgrim on the return descent from the holy mountain, cup not quite full enough. But then I feel invigorated knowing that amidst the uncertainty and chaos of this life, there are wise ones and sages hidden on quiet lanes, disguised as the Wives of Gardeners.

Continued in Act III

Walking in Smoke

The woods by our house are on fire.  Not by accident.  Cal Fire trucks have been up and down the ancient service road across the creek for months tending the forest, thinning trees and piling up deadfall and branches.  Occasionally, from our windows we see a column of smoke from a distant burn pile, but today our little canyon was awash in grey haze.

With time on our hands these days, the "we should take a walk"-talk has turned into actual, real live, grab-your-shoes-and-water-bottle walks.  At first we strolled around the neighborhood (we can pass almost a dozen houses in a half mile.  I consider that a neighborhood, of sorts).  Today we headed up to the lookout, a steep, mile-each-way hike that leads to the most gorgeous 300+ degree view of four counties.  From up on the mountain you can see two lakes, clear out to Sacramento, and over your shoulder, all the way to the snowy Sierras.  It's a moderate hike, but one I haven't done in months because of a recent Hashimoto's flare up.

As we set out, we saw smoke and figured they must be doing more burn piles up the way.  Burn piles?  No. Burned hillsides, scorched slopes, billows of smoke from smoldering logs and charred earth.  And fires, actual live fires burning along logs which lay against the trunks of living oaks, and flames climbing vertically up the sides of tall pines.  It was eerie, like the set of a scary movie here, in the same place that just six months ago was a terrifying powder keg.  I understand with my logical brain that burning the forest now is safe...er...ish.  I mean, it's supposed to rain tomorrow, and it rained a bunch last week.  But am I the only one that thinks it's totally freaky for someone to set the woods on fire and walk away?  There wasn't a soul in sight.  Standing there, the only comfort I found is knowing that the planet has a godly capacity to heal.  Earth burned to blackened ash redresses herself in glorious green in a season or two.

Walking the old fire road through clouds of white smoke has added to the surreal feeling of the days we are all experiencing.  Much like the preemptive burning of forests, we are seeing the damage and fear around us resulting from the need to shelter in place, but we of course know that the infernos of summer, and those of this pandemic -were it to break loose on an unsheltered population- would be beyond devastating.  We do not err, but stand confidently on the side of caution.  I worry for hourly workers and others whose jobs have evaporated in this crisis, for those left mourning and for communities devastated by trauma.  Our family prayers are long and earnest for our family, friends, neighbors and the world. 

From the view at the top of the lookout I am blown away by the thousands of trees, the hills and valleys that have surrounded me in my over-scheduled oblivion.  I forget that it is all around me when I am puttering through my days, only noticing the nearest branches that frame whatever country road I am traveling on at the moment.  I can't see the literal forest for the trees, and I struggle seeing the people in this disease; the individuals behind the numbers, stats, reports and hopeful bell curves. 

So we walk in the smoke, hoping, trusting this fire won't overcome us, and when the haze clears, bracing for the sight of smoldering hillsides, praying in faith that summer will heal us.