I read something recently that equated Labor Day Weekend with New Year. A time when we all collectively re-start. I like that. Today was a shite re-start for me, but I’ll take it. My Dad once said that I stumble and fall often, but I always get back up. I hope that remains true for the remainder of my days. I didn’t want to go to yoga this morning – it was satisfyingly gray and rainy. Bed was wonderfully comfortable. But I dragged myself up, did the requisite getting ready and morning chores (which includes washing all the towels in the house for Towel Tuesday) and managed to get into Husby’s truck just in time to make it to class.

Which I did not do.

I messaged the instructor, I hydro-planed (not related to the message), nearly rear-ended a sedan, got to the studio, grabbed all required accessories (still damp from getting into the truck) and trudged through the rain. It was three minutes past start time, and even though I knocked and waved and tried valiantly to get someone’s attention, I was left outside.

Huge bummer. Because I certainly needed some yoga after a hellish drive.

Got home. Successfully backed the truck into the driveway (not something I either do frequently or enjoy) and got even more soaked as I shlepped my yoga gear back inside with the groceries I’d picked up and two hot drinks from Starbucks.

I was pretty sure I could use the day before me to get things done, but I am an expert at wasting time and getting side-tracked (perhaps my best skill is procrastination haha!). I forced myself onto the bike, lifted (who am I?!?) and went for a walk. And here I am, about an hour from when I want to start making dinner, having accomplished all of NONE of the things I need to get done. I can’t even get a photo to upload properly to this blog. Which is driving me batty.

When I was younger I had a very interesting interaction/communication exchange with my mother’s oldest sister. Thoughts were exchanged. I was shamed. For existing, I believe. If I can recall. I don’t remember all the details (I’m sure she still has the emails so if I truly wanted to know, I guess I could ask … but why I would do that, I certainly don’t know). Anyway. One of the things I do remember was a bit about how I hadn’t earned anything in my life and didn’t understand hard work. I’m not sure how she knew because I’d grown up across an ocean in a country she’d never lived in, but hey ho, at eighteen I didn’t think that rationally. What I heard, and remembered, was that my suffering was not nearly worth giving any time to or recognition of. My suffering was dismissed because of apparent privilege (being American I guess?). Anyway. I never forgot that, that there was a scale of hardship and my life and struggles didn’t rank on it. I bring this up because I am sensitive about ever complaining about how hard things are because in the grand scheme of life, my troubles are not nearly comparable to many, many people in this country and around the world. So being snarky about not understanding website formatting shouldn’t even be mentioned.

On the flip side, does that mean that anything and everything that is hard for me, within the parameters of my life, should be discounted as difficult? I’m not sure. I am certain that my problems are first world, white upper middle class problems — which aren’t usually life-threatening. But sometimes my problems are very real, and very difficult because within the framework of my existence, I am struggling.

MS taught me that.

But this isn’t about MS (despite essentially my entire life being about MS in one way or another). Today was a challenge for me even though that might not actually equate to being hard. And I find myself frustrated, exhausted and overwhelmed with sadness as the minutes slowly click by on this random first Tuesday of September.

I also have to remember that I’m that girl – you know the one. The one in her early forties without kids, in a happy marriage with three cars, two houses and a travel problem. The girl who spends her weekends going on coffeeshop dates in a zippy red sports car convertible and doing home renovations (because she can). It doesn’t really matter that I worked hard to get here; I learned some hard life lessons along the way as well as the painful struggle of an incurable autoimmune disease. The point, I guess, is that even though today was a tough one (for me, which -I think we’ve established- is relative) I still have a husband who loves me, food in the fridge, clothes in the closet, a roof over my head, air-conditioning, heat and health insurance that covers my catheters and my infusions and my migraine meds and my plethora of doctor appts. Sure, I lost my mother and my grandmother (the women who most specifically made me me) and my baby girl earlier this year. But I can still walk. I can buy shoes and jeans and skincare and get my hair done.

I don’t know. I think comparison IS the thief of joy. But how do we stop comparing? How does the cycle end?

A question for another day.

xox, g

There are so many things no one tells you.

As though it’s a rite of passage to learn difficult lessons.  As though we all should feel lost, afraid, angry and alone at multiple times in life for multiple reasons, and no one is compelled to help us out.

Like how life can feel happy and settled and you can feel blessed and lucky and so overwhelmingly content and then a wrecking ball blasts through your whole world, taking no prisoners, leaving havoc in its wake.

Like how you think you’ve worked out all the kinks, done all the growing and learning and accepting but then still be knocked over by a feather.  A tiny, inconsequential  moment that would otherwise be forgotten before it’s even acknowledged ….  But this particular feather dismantles your carefully built life with a swirl.

I’m having a day and I’m feeling painfully alone.

And I know I will survive.  I will move through this as I’ve moved through all the obstacles I’ve faced to this point.  But I know it will hurt.  And I know things will be irreparably changed.  And that knowledge hurts almost as much as the obstacle.

Xox, g

At dinner this evening I stated to husband that I was no longer going to make any New Years Eve resolutions.  I’m not sure where it came from but it came tumbling out of my mouth confidently and assuredly.  Somewhere, during the course of this day – this random, not totally inconsequential day— I finally knew.

I knew that I needed until February to understand what my goals for the year were.  Too much happens in December — my birthday, lots of other birthdays (Jesus, for the believers!).  The anniversary of the loss of my mother.  Too many things to have any additional time to contemplate changes for the new year.  If I wanted to do that in a timely fashion, I’d have to make the decisions in October or November.  And I certainly couldn’t make those kinds of new year, new you decisions months in advance.  Too much changes.

I decided – and then articulated – that I needed January to get my bearings for the new year.  I needed January to decompress and get back into a rhythm.  Get a feeling for where the next twelve months were leading me.  I decided that January will serve as my ‘pause’ moving forward.  January will be the moment when I catch my breath.

And so, as February dawns and we get into 2022 in earnest, I can more clearly see what I want to focus on, and what my goals are.  Some things I try to do every year – read more, watch less TV (this resolution has taken years to make an impact, but I do actually read more and watch much less TV so I guess… worth it? 🤷🏻‍♀️).  I usually hope I meditate more and practice the piano.  Still working on consistency there.

But February brings with it clarity.  It allows me to take stock of how far I’ve come, and how far I still have to go.

I’m not saying that husby and I are going to start Cross Fit tomorrow (or ever really; husby is deeply skeptical).  And I’m not saying that my grand idea of a letter writing campaign will ever take flight.  But I do want to lift more instead of only doing cardio.  And I want to give my friendships the focus and attention and time they deserve.  Life is short, and I want the people who matter to me to know they matter.

Anyway.  Small goals.  We’ll see how I’m feeling at the start of March.

Xox, g