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17322
I have a million things in my head but my mind is fuzzy and I’m tired. And all I want is to feel better and be able to do yoga or just get sweaty but I can barely function and I’m so frustrated and so effing tired.
Starting again.
I’m super type A. I’m a competitor. One time, in middle school, I went on a bible study trip with a friend of mine. (I was not in bible study – our family did not go to church. But I was drawn to it, fascinated by it. Constantly curious). The trip consisted of biking and then rafting. I’d tell you where or the distance … or any of those things. But I can’t remember them. I remember biking, but mostly I remember the rafting. For a couple reasons. First, I was crazily competitive and our raft was often far ahead of the other rafts. (To me, this was excellent. To those who wanted camaraderie and friendship and shared memories and who understood that life is not always a race … not so much). Second, we ended up getting pinned between the raft and a large boulder and it took every ounce of strength not to get sucked under the water. It came about because we were so far in the lead we headed to the shore before the landing point and then had to navigate back out onto the river. Anyway. I learned lessons that day. And it has forever stayed burned in my memory. Because one of the camp counselors (bible study group leaders?) lectured me about competitiveness and reading the situation. That winning was not always the thing … sometimes, winning was actually the opposite of the thing. That we missed out on a lot of fun because we were so focused on ‘winning.’ And we (ironically) went on to learn that lesson very painfully when fighting powerful currents and trying to stay above water.
Anyway, I tell this story because it comes up a lot in my steam of conscious thought. Because I am super competitive. And sometimes I lose sight of the fact that life isn’t actually a race or a checklist. That life is a journey and every moment should be savored.
Perhaps not specifically this moment of being sick on the couch, still fighting a fever with poison ivy blisters dotting my forehead in a snake-like line from my eyebrows to my hair line. But that’s not exactly the point.
There are things to be learned in this moment. And there is so much to be appreciated in all the other moments. Friendships and discussions and learning and growing. We are all gifted this one precious life — what will each of us do with it?
I worry that I am not doing enough, I am not reaching my potential. But what is potential exactly? A societal ladder that we are all encouraged to climb as high as we can? Could potential equate to more than momentary gain and professional accomplishments?
I don’t know. I’m just one human. Perhaps I don’t have the power to change the script for everyone. Perhaps I only have the power to recognize that I need to change the script for me. That my potential doesn’t have to fit into a neat box of societally accepted achievements. But it’s hard to remember that. It’s hard to get up and look around at the world and remember that this one life, MY one life, should only be lived for me. Not anyone else. Not any other approval.
So if I don’t win awards or publish books or sit on Oprah’s couch discussing philosophy … it’s still okay. I’ve still understood the assignment.
Xox, g
14222
One of my favorite pictures of J+me. Early days of our relationship.
My forever Valentine.
Such a funny day anyway. Can’t I just love him and show that love any old day of the year? For no reason at all?
Xox, g
02222
It’s funny – you can feel it when the bad energy is pumping even before you realize that’s what you’re feeling.
Today is Groundhog Day. Which is great … except that two years ago tomorrow, John’s brother died. And tonight, when my Dad came over for dinner, he shared that his dad, my grandfather, died on Groundhog Day.
Bubski died in 1979 – the same year I was born. We just missed each other. I used to think I could physically feel that sadness of missing him by just this much. The stories I heard about Bubski (his nickname) were legendary. I was sure that he would have loved me and spoiled me and been the best granddad ever. But we just missed each other. And that closeness – that near miss -haunted me as a child.
Now I wonder how much I’m like him – if his spirit is within me. I dearly hope I am like him -even if just a little bit – because he sounded wonderful and what a gift that would be. I’m less sad and just grateful that his memory lives on with such love and vibrancy.
Life is funny like that. How our perspectives change as we get older, as we gather more information. I’m sad I never knew my grandfather. I’m sad that I lost my mother when I was thirty-nine. I’m sad about all the tough hits I’ve taken — MS, my first marriage, blah blah blah. It all sucks. Life isn’t fair. And it certainly isn’t kind. But my choice is how to react to that, how to frame it and sit with it. How to hold the energy and then release it.
It can’t change the losses we’ve suffered. But perhaps it can help us carry them.
Xox, g
29jan22
As of today, I haven’t had an alcoholic drink in 775 days.
There’s a time in my life when I would find that absolutely insane. I worked in the restaurant industry, I was of Italian descent — wine was in my blood.
But the older I got, and the more disenchanted I became with how alcohol made me feel (honestly, this was a journey with John, so how it made us feel) the less I wanted to drink it. We’d do sober months, give up drinking for Lent … all kinds of things that allowed us to not drink, but also didn’t make anyone else feel uncomfortable about our non-drinking.
I don’t remember exactly what the final straw was, but we both gave up drinking one September. And then a few months later I broke and had a glass of wine while out at dinner with my Dad on a football weekend. I didn’t like that it seemed to make him uncomfortable that we weren’t drinking and I’m nothing if not a Daddy’s girl. Besides, I loved wine.
I had one glass and felt awful. Not mentally, but physically awful. After one glass. One harmless glass of wine.
It was about six weeks later that I once again hung up my drinking glasses (or whatever the appropriate object would be in this metaphor) for good. I stopped drinking full stop four days after my fortieth birthday.
It’s funny to walk through life as a non-drinker but not an alcoholic. It triggers people, leads to some awkward and uncomfortable conversations and forever changes relationships. I had girlfriends who made wild and hilarious proclamations about their drinking – to illustrate their superiority to me? To justify their clearly unhealthy relationship to alcohol? I don’t know.
My choice to be a non-drinker doesn’t have anything to do with anyone but myself. I feel better. My life is better. I also don’t judge anyone else. Everyone can and should make their own life choices, and we are taught young and it is reinforced often, that drinking responsibility is an integral part of life. Of adulting.
Right now I’m reading “Quit Like a Woman” by Holly Whitaker. It’s amazingly informative. So perhaps expect blog posts about not drinking until I finish. 😊
xox, g
26jan22
Two years ago on February 3rd, John’s older brother Alan died.
It was sudden and awful and my memories of that time are a blur — aided mostly by my overly sparse Instagram posts. His death was followed far too closely by Covid and the pandemic and quarantine so sometimes, it feels like a lifetime away.
Today would be his forty second birthday. (Yes, that makes him younger than me). I don’t want to diminish that we lost him far too soon, but when I think about Alan now, I mostly feel joy. I feel him with us a lot and I believe that he’s watching over John with a mindful eye.
The thing about Alan was that he had cerebral palsy. And he was non-verbal. And we didn’t see him a lot – something I could kick myself for now, but I also can’t go back and change. I loved seeing him when we did – it was so patently obvious how much he loved his brother. His eyes filled with love and then utter sadness when we inevitably left. We would stand and talk to him – tell him stories about our lives, tease him about childhood memories. He would withhold kisses from John until he felt John had properly paid penance for not being around.
Alan’s kisses were life. His joy was infectious – his laughter, his smile, his waving arms. I know – if he could – he’d have given us an earful. He’d tease and tell embarrassing stories. He’d harass his little brother.
But that was never their relationship.
So I believe that now – he is doing his brotherly duty. He is giving John strength when he doesn’t believe he has any. He is reassuring him when life feels uncertain and overwhelming. He is lifting him up when he can and walking beside him when that’s what John needs. I feel Alan with us. During the day when something funny happens, and at night when I light candles for he and my mother. He makes me feel safe.
I miss him but I also know he is with us.
Happy Birthday, my brother. I love you.
Xox, g
25jan22
January 25th is Rabbie Burns Day. Well, I mean, sort of.
Who?, you ask.
Robert Burns was the poet laureate of Scotland – I believe the only one ever. And his birthday was January 25th. He’s been dead quite a long time but has left a lasting legacy through his poetry. Before my mother died she began a tradition of doing Burns Night Supper. This involved haggis, neeps and tatties, cranachan, poetry recitation and lots of whiskey. The Scottish kind, so I believe it’s spelled whisky but I’m not completely sure. Maybe I got that backwards? (I don’t have my phone to google and check so I apologize, this is staying as it is).
One of the great things about Burns Supper is the poetry. John and I hosted once, years ago now, when my mother was still alive, and every guest was requested to bring a piece of poetry. As we all ate our Scottish grub, one by one we read our pieces to the group. It was sort of magical because everyone’s selection reflected who they were – original works, Rumi, T.S. Eliot, etc.
John and I began our poetry collection because of Burns Supper. This year I bought him a collection by Amanda Gorman. Last year he bought me Rupi Kaur. There’s something other-worldly about poetry. It makes the mundane seem magic somehow. It is the perfect illustration of the power of language.
This wasn’t what I was going to blog about at all. I was going to talk about how Ally Love re-posted one of my Instagram stories, and how incredible it felt to be ‘seen’ by a woman i admire so greatly. But then I typed the date. And all the memories of Burns Supper came flooding back. And my mother felt closer. And that felt soothing.
Anyway. Happy Burns Night America.
Xox, g
22jan22
I’ve always had a love hate relationship with my memory. I can make people uncomfortable with my ability to remember dates or strange, inconsequential details. And other times, it’s as though my brain chose not to remember something at all. Completely gone, as though it never happened at all.
I saw this meme and I saved it as a reminder that my memory, good bad or fickle, is not the gospel. Sometimes it’s better to let it fade. Release all the emotions and move forward.
That’s the only direction time moves, anyway.
Xox, g
18jan22
Sometimes when I’m beyond tired (more tired than normal MS tired… like, can‘t focus, can’t move, have no motivation tired) I wander down memory lane. This is inevitably aided by the socials, and mostly FB, because that’s where I’m connected to all the people I used to know across my life.
Memory lane can be beautiful and nostalgic but it can also be painful. Today I had two polar opposite experiences. I was reminded of the death of a friend – far too young and now, twenty years ago. I remember when it happened. We’d fallen apart as friends because we were young and I’d moved away halfway through high school and boys and girls – in my experience – aren’t that good at keeping in touch when proximity is no longer a factor. He died in a car accident near State College. It was a gut punch. Surreal. Young people dying always is, but a young person that I knew …. Harder to comprehend. And I had no one to talk about it with because our friendship had been in those golden years of middle school. That time before cell phones and hormones and all the complications that came later. When we just played street hockey and had sleepovers and went sledding when it snowed. He was the first person I told about getting tested for MS. I remember that. Anyway. It was another gut punch moment, seeing the old newspaper article from the Daily Collegian re-posted by a mutual friend. My mind wandered and I was back there for a moment, on Heather Hill, trudging through the woods, playing tag. Standing in rollerblades telling him about my tests. Life is crazy and surreal and here I am, twenty years later, married with two houses and a nice car. And he didn’t have the opportunity to do any of that. How is that fair? How is that decided? It shakes the foundations of humanity.
And then later – a simple ‘like’ by an old college roommate. Someone I haven’t seen or spoken to in over a decade …. Memories of college flooding back, smiling at our shared history and how sharply our lives diverged following Penn State. How we are virtual strangers to each other now, our bond that brief period of time we shared at that formative time in life.
Both men I’m glad I knew back then. Such a strange juxtaposition.
Xox, g
D5 Creation