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This Is The Work

This past January, I made a different sort of resolution. Or maybe not a resolution; Maybe it was more of a goal: Start and finish all the major house projects and updates that have been lagging around here for years.

Oy. Vey.

The list is long and daunting: Refinishing the hardwood floors downstairs, new carpeting upstairs, a new driveway, replace the deck, a new stamped concrete sidewalk, a new hot water tank, new toilets. And don’t forget the landscaping issues! And light fixtures!

Whew. This is a lot. You’re probably thinking, “Jules. Have you not done ANY work on your house in the last 75 years?” And the answer is, I have. But I was also raising kids solo and working and just couldn’t make it happen. Whether it was a function of time, money or resistance, it was easy to keep letting it slide.

But now I can get it done. So this is the year. I mean, I definitely decided THIS is the year. And in order to get the first projects done (the floors and the carpeting) there was a lot that had to come first. A lot as in, every ceiling, wall, woodwork, baseboard, door and door frame had to be painted. Did I hire a painter? No I did not. Should I have hired a painter? Maybe. But with such a long list of projects, I knew anything I could do myself, I should. And if there’s one thing ya girl can do herself, it’s paint.

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When I tell you the last few months I’ve spent every weekend painting and working on the house, WHERE IS THE LIE? Every. Weekend. I was eating, sleeping and breathing paint.(Seriously not recommended.)

In the midst of it all, as you might imagine, a person could start to get a little weary. Me. I am the person. In an effort to keep myself mentally strong and motivated to reach my goals, my mantra has become,

“This is the work.”

I learned this phrase from a long-time friend for situations just like this: In the trenches of hard, tedious work. The weeds. The deep water. When there are 10,000 other things you’d rather be doing. To be honest, you’d like to quit. Or not start at all. And actually, the goal becomes hazy and a little out of reach, suddenly feeling less important.

But I had made a resolution. I want the space around me to be beautiful and I want this to be my forever home. To get there, I was going to have to do the work. On a particularly tiresome and overwhelming day, another friend reminded me, I didn’t have to like it, I just had to do it.

But here’s the secret sauce: The work happening inside you while you’re doing the work is where the magic happens.

Yes, I was painting for hours on end. Yes, my arms and shoulders ached with fatigue. There was paint in my hair and splatters of paint where I missed the drop cloth. But it’s all of the chatter inside, the resistance, the gritty self-talk, the pushing through and perseverance. The deeper resilience to learn. The misconceptions to unlearn. Peeling back the layers of what’s happening inside and uncovering spaces that still have room for growth.

We all have a mental broken record that gets stuck in a groove, and when things feel hard, our brains press play. ”I can’t do this. I’m alone. It’s too much work. It’s too hard. I’m in over my head. How did I get here, doing this alone? I don’t want to do all of this.”

You get the point. And I bet you know the groove your brain plays, too.

None of those things are actually true for me. I can do it. I’m not alone. If I wanted help or support I could ask for it. But I’m stubbornly independent, so I don’t. It IS a lot of work, but if I want to reach my goal and get these projects done, This. Is. The. Work.

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Ten years ago, I was approaching 40 and in one of the toughest seasons of my life. I decided to train for a half marathon and ended up running two that year. Although running all 13.1 miles to the finish line was its own reward and glory, it was the work happening inside me along the way that made the difference. My brain wanted to quit long before my body did. I would start out every long training run thinking, “There’s no way I can run 8 miles…” And then whaddyaknow, 8 miles later, I’m almost home with tears running down my face. I could, in fact run 8 miles. And then I ran 13. Twice.

So here I am, approaching 50, still growing and learning and digging in. Even when I hate it, something about it feels good. It means I’m alive. It means I’m IN this. I’m engaged with my life. It’s not about the painting or the rest of the work I have to do. (There’s SO. MUCH.) It’s about the resilience I’ve developed over the years that’s serving me so well. The mental toughness so important to me? It’s solid, even if it wobbles from time to time. I don’t want to run from hard work or challenges. And I don’t want to run from the work inside the work, either. It’s what makes us who we are. It’s the fire that keeps forging us. Hard, challenging work helps us become our best selves. The hard is what makes us great. And my forever home is looking more beautiful than ever, inside and out.

When We Look Back

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Years ago when the ink was barely dry on my heart wrenching divorce, I was in the very necessary stage of moping around the house and crying. A friend who had apparently grown weary of my lament, sent me a picture of a quadriplegic wounded warrior, lying in the crib with his new baby.

Ouch. Okay. I got it. I got the point. I understood the whole “I felt bad because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.”

Dry your tears. Count your blessings. It could be worse. It could always be worse.

But the thing is, I needed that time. I needed to feel sad and grieve my loss. I needed to putter around and feel the heartbreak of everything I had lost. I wasn’t going to live in that space forever, but I needed to pass through it to get to the other side.

The other side is where I would find the gift of perspective. Perspective would show me how much better and beautiful life could still turn out to be– something I couldn’t see just yet.

Perspective is the gift of time and experience. 

Last week my daughter, along with thousands of other high school seniors across the country, found out that school is officially canceled for the rest of the year. While we suspected this might be the case, we were just barely holding onto the tiniest thread of hope that maybe… just maybe… things would end differently.

We weren’t ready for it to be over. She wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready.

I intentionally keep saying “we” and “us”, because it has occured to me over and over again that while this is primarily her loss, it’s my loss too.  She is my youngest. The baby.  I’ve championed her (and two other kids) through these years and dreamed of her success and accomplishments right alongside her. It’s the end of an era for her, but it’s the end of an era for me, too.

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One day she woke up and went to school, like it was any other day, never realizing it was actually her last day of high school forever.  It has left everything so unfinshed. Undone. Wanting. It feels like we’ve been reading this fantastic adventure about her life and suddenly the pages go blank. What happens? Where’s the rest of the story? Where are the pictures of Prom? The senior picnic? Signing yearbooks? What about hearing her name called and watching as she walks across the stage at graduation…the victorious culmination of all these years? Parts of the story are missing now and we’re trying to figure out how to write the ending. Somehow, a closing chapter needs to be written.

 

 

If it sounds dramatic, I’m okay with that.

It feels dramatic. 

For my daughter and others like her, the depth of time is much shallower in youth.  Each day, week, and month carry a lot more weight when there’s only been 17 or 18 years of living. There’s a post going around social media reminding us that boys barely out of high school left to go off to the Vietnam war and that’s how their senior year ended. It feels as though it’s meant to shame some sense into our modern-day seniors. And while I understand what’s trying to be said, I have to imagine those boys did not march off to war galantly that very day. Only perspective years later could show them the honor and value in their sacrifice.

So for today, as we navigate these tricky waters together, I steer clear talking of silver linings. She knows things could be worse.  And we’re all beyond grateful we have our health. But also, we are sad. There is loss. It is hard.

Someday, when we look back, when she looks back, I already have so much anticipation to hear what gifts time and experience will deliver. I think about her sitting in job interviews or talking to her own kids about perseverance, optimism, and making the best of a bad situation. After all, she’s part of the Class of 2020. The Year of the Quarantine.

Missing out on the second half of senior year will always sting a little, of course, and not yet, but someday it’s going to make her life richer in ways she can’t know today. It’s going to make her stronger in ways she won’t see tomorrow. It’s going to make her wiser in ways she can’t understand right now.

It’s also going to make for one hell of a story for the rest of her life. Take it from me, kid. I’ve got the time and experience and someday, you will too.

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Post Script for Emery Patricia~ You have been the best quarantine buddy a girl could ever ask for. You have braved these weird, scary, uncertain times with courage, stability, and humor that has us laughing every single day. You already knew how to do hard things, but now you can add “Canceled and Quarantined Senior Year” to the list.

“At the end of the day, we can endure much more than we think we can”~

You have. And you will. And now you’re off to go finish writing the rest of your story! Congratulations, Emery!

 

An Extra Box of Kleenex

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I thought I was going to run out of Kleenex. Not really Corona Virus-related. Just your typical, “I think we need more Kleenex and we don’t have any.”

Except it’s not that easy right now to just run out and buy more. And it’s possible we’ve been crying a little extra around here because things have just been a little sad and scary and unknown. I’ve got a high school senior who’s really missing her friends and teachers and the finale of her high school career, so that’s upped the ante for sure.

A little later in the day, I opened the cabinet in the downstairs bathroom, and whadyaknow? There was a box of Kleenex! Totally unexpected! I forgot I had put an extra box under there a few weeks ago. I literally cheered and fist pumped. Over the Kleenex. With a huge smile on my face.

My gratitude over a box of Kleenex stopped me in my tracks. I stood there for a minute and thought to myself, I hope I can sustain this. I hope WE can sustain this. I know, I know, it sounds a little dumb, but when was the last time I was this genuinely grateful for something so seemingly insignificant? (And I KNOW a lot of you are thinking the same thing about toilet paper these days.)

After 9/11, I remember having all of the same thoughts and feelings. (I wrote about it here) We all wanted to stay in that sacred space of gratitude. Patriotism. Coming together, One Nation under God and all that jazz. Nineteen years later, I’m not so sure how we’re doing. Shitty. Very, very Shitty.  I can’t speak for everyone, but I feel like a lot of us could use a little fine-tuning.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I know so many people have died from this awful virus or have suffered through the illness of it. That’s not “fine-tuning”. That’s tragic and terrible. But for many of us, it’s mostly been massively inconvenient.

The thing about times like this– an unprecedented world pandemic– is that even though we hate it, it really does bring out the best in us, if we’ll let it. It feels like we’re suddenly jolted back into paying attention. Like someone shook us awake again.  We’re suddenly back to checking on our neighbors. Reaching out to friends more than usual. Going the extra mile to make someone’s day.  Showing genuine appreciation to those around us. Sharing our stuff with those who need it more than we do. Calling and FaceTiming our parents and family members just to say hi and see how everyone’s managing.

I am a better me right now. (Despite my current diet, which can best be described as “Unsupervised Toddler. With Alcohol”) I want to be this grateful all the time. This attentive. This thoughtful. This connected. I really want to. I know I won’t always be. But I want to.

The last paragraph from “Bedtime, Wet Towels, and 9/11“, still fits today. I can’t imagine a day it won’t.

“For whatever reason, we just can’t sustain that level of awareness long enough. Oh sure, some of us can, for some things. But not most of us. And not for everything. And so it seems we somehow always just ease back into being ourselves. Doing the best we know how and hoping it’s enough. Making tiny strides out of the ruts when we can. When we remember. Let it be enough, I think to myself. Please, let it be enough.”

Stay well, my friends. And let the fine-tuning carry on. xo

Moving Out and Moving On

We stood there awkwardly while a little boy danced around in the doorway, waiting for his parents to come solve the mystery of who these strangers were, standing on his new front porch.

My daughter and I looked at each other sheepishly as we heard faint commotion coming from inside the house and footsteps finally approaching.

“Hi!” I said as brightly as possible, with a jug of cider and box of donuts extended outward. “We’re your new neighbors from right next door!”

My higher-than-normal pitched voice and shiny demeanor were completely betraying my real feelings in this moment, but it wouldn’t be the first time, right? Here I was, trying to do the right thing.

You see, one of my dearest and best friends used to live in that house. She moved out a few months earlier, taking the next step in her life to join lives and households with her longtime boyfriend. And while I can only be happy for her and want every last single good thing for her in this world, let me be clear: I did not want her to move.

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As weird fate would have it, she moved in 7 years ago on the exact day my ex-husband was moving out. And as the world inside my beloved home was crashing and burning down around me, I could not have known a whole new world was about to open up right next door to me.

She too, was a divorced single mom. She was strong and hilarious. Irreverent. Brave. Smart and spicy in all the best ways. Lots of PG-13 lingo and zero fucks to give. We loved her outrageously and she loved us back the exact same way. We became fast friends, and there was soon a well-worn path between our two homes. We laughed like crazy with our single-girl shenanigans. And we cried a lot, too. Broken marriages. Broken homes. Broken dreams. Some broken kids along the way. We battled mice and snakes and birds and flooded basements. And new boyfriends. Together. We would mow our lawns and have a beer after, with a continuous flow of never-ending girl chat.  You don’t make a lot of new “best” friends in your forties, and I had struck gold. I was living the grown up version of “when we get older we’ll live next door to each other…”

So the day she tenderly broke the news that she and her love were looking at houses, I fell apart. As time passed and they eventually found their new home, I struggled desperately to be happy for her, but one night, at the end of a very emotionally charged conversation, I finally blurted out through sobs, “I’m mad at you for leaving me.” (Cue abandonment issues!) And that was the truth. I was mad. I was sad. And I was grieving what would be the end of two soul friends living next door to each other. Her life was moving on in a way that mine was not. And I didn’t want it to be true.

Several weeks passed in a sad silence until one night, neither of us could take it anymore. We talked. We cried. We wept. For what we had. For what we would lose. And then we made plans for how we would adjust. And we have.

For a few months, her house sat empty, which was fine by me. If it was empty, I could almost pretend nothing had changed. I was dreading the day I would see unfamiliar new cars in the driveway and hear strange new voices echoing in the back yard. But now the day was here, which is how I ended up standing bravely on her old front porch with cider and donuts. I had cried in my car on the way home from work that day. I didn’t want new neighbors. I wanted her. And so going over there wasn’t even about them. It was about closure for me. Turning the page. Starting a new chapter.

It honestly wasn’t a great introduction. The husband was overly friendly and the wife, not so much. I texted my friend that night to let her know that my new neighbors were not going to be my new best friends. That much was clear.

But as I walked back across the lawn between our two houses, toward the home I love so much, I couldn’t help but exhale and smile to myself. I hadn’t really fixed anything and there was nothing I could change, but I figure you can stay sad and stuck or you can decide to show up with cider and donuts and move on.

Rerouting… Please Wait

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I’ve often said that when God was handing out internal compasses, I was either talking to my neighbor or fluffing my hair. As in, I missed out. I didn’t get one. I’ve always had a less than accurate sense of direction, and that’s being nice. Since the advent of GPS, this has mattered far less. I actually don’t know what I would do without it.

Or where I would be.

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But even with GPS, there are plenty of times I take a wrong turn. Miss the right turn. Accidentally head in the opposite direction. And as you know, when this happens, my GPS girl (that’s right- my GPS voice is a girl. I don’t need another man telling me what to do {wink})–very calmly tells me she’s rerouting me– Making an allowance for my mistake and course correcting so I can still reach my destination.

This happens to me so often that I’m totally unphased by it and so are my kids and anyone else who rides with me. Gotta turn around? No big deal. Need to make a U-Turn? No problem. Tra la la…

Side Story: Many years ago before GPS, I was on my first long, solo road trip with my kids. You know, back when you had to use a map (what am I Lewis and Clark???) to find your way. At some point I made a very wrong turn, became very lost and very off course. So off course, in fact, we had to spend the night in a hotel and start for home again the next day. Because my kids were watching me, I pretended to be TOTALLY BREEZY about it. NO BIG DEAL! Slumber party in a hotel! WHAT AN ADVENTURE! We’re making memories! GAH. But it was a good lesson for me AND them: It really wasn’t a big deal and we really were okay. Delayed? Yes. Safe and sound though? Also yes. My dad always says if you carry money in your pocket and speak the English language, you’ll be fine, which has always felt sorta true. Not for everything, but a lot of things…like getting lost.

In the past few years, we’ve started using the phrase “Course Correcting” a lot in our home. I’ve got pretty much adult children facing a lot of serious decisions all the time. Decisions that could potentially start to chart the course of their lives or at least the next few chapters. And sometimes, they find these decisions scary. And paralyzing. Of course they do– they’re a big deal! But what I want them to understand is the ability to course correct. The ability to change direction mid-stream. The understanding that there are very rarely massive mistakes that can’t be undone. Turns out it takes a lot to ruin your life, and things like choosing a college, or a career path, a boyfriend or girlfriend, or a paint color don’t fall into that bucket.

Are there reckless, poor decisions that ARE massive mistakes, with potential damage that cannot be undone? OF COURSE there are. But even then– maybe ESPECIALLY then, there is space for course correcting. 

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So what if you choose the wrong school? You transfer. Transferring does not mean you failed or made a mistake. Transferring means you figured out what you don’t like and what you might prefer. So what if you choose a career path that no longer feels right? Course correct and pick a new one.  So what if you decide the relationship you’re in is no longer a good fit for you? You’re allowed to change your mind and move on. It’s not indicative of failure. It’s indicative of growth and a well-examined life. Giving yourself permission to course correct as a way of life makes decisions much less scary. Nothing has to be permanent. Choice and change are always an option. You don’t have to be stuck or trapped or scared.

Rerouting is part of life. Changing direction is admirable. And not all who wander are lost- sometimes they’re actually just finding the path they were always meant to be on.

 

 

 

Thank God For the Mice

I’ve got mice. Well, correction I HAD mice. A few weeks ago I could no longer pretend I wasn’t hearing scritch- scratching in the attic. And listen, I know pretending NOT to hear it is NOT exactly the best way to deal, but sometimes this is just what we do. The scritch- scratching would come and go and I sort of just kept hoping it would go and stay gone.

But no. It wouldn’t. And I knew it was time to either burn down my house or call for help.

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Side story: I have woods behind my house. I’m surrounded by wildlife, of which I’ve always fondly said, “I love nature. I just don’t like it near me.” So this isn’t the first time I’ve had mice. And I’ve honestly TRIED to handle the job myself, but I just can’t. I’m a pretty tough chica, but I have literally cried hysterically and talked myself through emptying mousetraps by saying things like, “You’ve been divorced! You’ve broken bones! You’ve been on Match.com! You can do this! You’ve done a lot of scary things! That mouse is dead! This is not scary!” But somehow, this powerful pep talking has not worked.

So I called an exterminator to take care of the problem. Jeff has been great. He’s super brave. Every time he goes up in my attic, I ask him if he’s scared. Or I ask him if he’s grossed out. And he always says things like, “No.”or “This is my job.” So, he’s been great.

But last week, after he was down in my basement catching mice and setting traps and doing his job, he came upstairs and said, “You have a big problem down there.”

Jeff. Don’t leave me cryin’ in the club.

This is not a phrase a homeowner wants to hear. Ever.

It turns out, when he was moving insulation around and doing his thing, he found some wet and rotted wood.

Awesome. So not only did I have mice, I needed to get my handyman in there, STAT.

(There’s nothing super STAT about Handyman Joe. He is EXACTLY like having Joe Pesci at my house doing chores. Every last thing about him. But he calls me Julie Girl, which I secretly love, so we’re basically best friends now.)

Later that night, when Boyfriend Erik, not to be confused with Exterminator Jeff  or Handyman Joe (or Tree-Trimmer Guy who sends flowers after he does a job here) and I were at the gym, I was recounting the nightmare of my day and whining about all of the homeowner issues I was facing. When I was finished, he looked at me and said, “Well thank God for the mice.”

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Thank God for the mice? Wait, what?

Yes. Thank God for the mice.  If it weren’t for the mice, Exterminator Jeff never would’ve moved the insulation and uncovered the rotted wood. The rotted wood is already a big problem– but at least now it can be corrected by Handyman Joe. Had it not been found at all, it could’ve been DISASTROUS.

So in a weird way– a REALLY weird way– thank God for the mice. (It hurts to even write that. I am nuts.)

I keep thinking about what other “mice” I might have in my life–problems and circumstances I’m only seeing from one perspective; things that might actually have value and purpose beyond the surface. I’m trying to view irritating matters as potential mice and use them for growth and change and goodness. I’m looking for silver linings a little more carefully. (Big points for Boyfriend Erik here…)

I know. I know. It’s practically sickening– all of the positivity around this joint. But it’s either that, or burn the place down, and I kinda love it here. Mice and all.