I’m sitting here instead of forcing things to move along more quickly in the day, but it’s conditioned response.  My reasonably gentle prodding requires being within earshot of him to make sure he’s doing what he needs to do to get ready.  It takes more time in the long run, but it’s good for me on the patience practicing front, and it’s good for him because let’s face it:  he’ll be doing all of it on his own after tomorrow without the up close and personal variety of  insistent prodding or reminders.  They’ll be relegated to email and Skype instead.

Have you washed your hair?  Done your laundry?  How are your classes?  Is your roommate a nice guy?  Are you brushing your teeth, flossing your teeth, staying on top of your organization?

The contents of his day-to-day existence have steadily begun to fill my office —  stacks of jeans, shorts, and tee shirts lining up against the bookcases.  We stand looking at them as if they were something remarkable.

Me:  Are three pair of jeans enough?

Him:  I probably need a couple more.

Me:  (holding up a dingy yellow tee) This one’s seen better days.  If it’s a favorite, leave it here, otherwise, throw it in the discard pile.

Him:  What’s wrong with it?

And then another laundry lesson begins about light colors being separated from dark when the weekly wash is completed.  He’s been doing his laundry for a couple of years now, but I have to make sure, telling him something he knows already.

Economy sized bottle of detergent.  Check. Even larger economy sized toilet paper package.  Check. Body wash, shaving cream, toothpaste, dental floss…check.  I wandered through the book section at Target last week after sending him off to get his personal supplies, the image a doting mother leading her 18-year-old son around to choose his deodorant not appealing to me even though I know he wouldn’t mind.

The sounds of hustle bustle next door have stopped again and a quick look around me reveals a few more items lying in wait — guitar, art supplies, a few of his favorite books — but I can tell he’s once again parked in front of his computer.  The computer that’s staying here.  The new laptop arrives today, just in time to be experimented with and the Wacom tablet hooked up to make sure everything works.  Are 24 hours really enough for a day like this?

It’s 10am and things are finally going into the soft duffle bag with rollers we purchased a few years ago with this very moment in mind.  Thankfully, there’s a second for the bits of this and that he’ll need — things that feel semi-familiar.

Will you have your own desk?  Is there a lamp?  Are there hangers in the closet? I’ve asked all these questions before and have been patiently told, yes.  Yes, they’re all there.  But what about something for your desk?  Something to keep pencils in, or folders for important papers? He and the MoH were there on a dorm tour recently, so I’ve been assured that everything is just fine.  But no mini fridges, no microwaves, and no used furniture is allowed.  And definitely no pets, which is sad for Lizzie who clearly loves him more than anyone else here.  He’s had to push her aside more than once as he filled the large duffle bag, trying to keep her out of it.  For now, she’s content to make a nest on the clothes he’s put aside to wear tomorrow,  her paws kneading the worn fleece before settling down to bathe, confirming that he’ll have cat hair on his clothes when he leaves just like any other day.

By this time tomorrow, we will have dropped him off at his dorm and helped him carry everything to his room.  If we’re lucky, we’ll get to meet his roommate, but I’ve been told he thinks he can handle making his bed himself.  Of course this is something I’ve always known, but he’s yet to make his bed once in his life, so the experience should be interesting.  Bear in mind I’ve not made his bed many times, either, but I can think of many things I’d rather do than to make up a bunk bed.  I wonder if he’ll have the top bunk or the bottom?

He’s semi-packed now and in the shower.  We’re off to get his bi-annual haircut, pick up some new earphones and maybe assemble a junkfood stash for his dorm.  It would be perfect to be able to put him in my car so he could take care of these last minute things himself, leaving me to fuss over the details, but after all the hassle of getting his driving permit, lessons, practice, and a last second driver’s test, he doesn’t like driving.   Go figure.  At least he’ll have some ID, right?

I wonder how he’ll feel about being in a big city away from just about everything he’s always known and depended upon?

Oh, my.

Better said, I’ve been spending my time processing the fact that I not longer work doing something I’ve done for more than 20 years, but this time for good.  I’ve also been processing that after mothering three boys, my youngest is headed off to school, leaving the MoH and I with a seriously empty nest.  I think that, more than anything, with all of its unknowns, has caught us completely by surprise.

It’s a bit of a choking sensation for me, felt when I least expect it.  It overwhelms me with its intensity, and I unrealistically imagine bears and woods, sinking boats, and other disasters I can’t help my son from.  How ridiculous is that?  Seriously.

But we still need to find our corners occasionally to weep silently in the middle of an unrelated conversation until one of us notices that the other has stopped his or her side of the conversation.  And then one of us knows.  We know that the empty nest syndrome has enveloped one of us and so the other quietly excuses him or herself to allow the sorrow to pass.

What the hell.

This should be a time of celebration.  It should be a time for looking forward to all that lies ahead.  The future.  Opportunity.  Yadda yadda yadda.

I try.  Honestly, I do.  And it works most of the time on most days.

I busy myself with planning a trip to the UK in the fall.  As someone who lived her professional life married to a school calendar, trust me.  I want to travel in the fall when everyone else is at work or in school.   It’s just that one moment on that one day on that one afternoon.  All it takes is a look, and then I’m toast.

We’ve purchased bedding for his dorm room.  We’ve paid for the housing and food.  We’ve reviewed books and supply lists and have made plans to purchase them here then drive them up.  But time is dwindling.  More than 30 years raising boys.  More than 20 years teaching other people’s children.

It will take a bit of time to adjust.

No, today is important.  Today is the day that I can, after a bit more than a year, actually see the light at the end of the tunnel, and although I’m not quite there, know it will come.  All the students are finished and have gone home, but the finishing touches of yet another school year are left to be completed, so I’ll busy myself with those in much the same way one fits the remnants of a 5,000-piece jigsaw puzzle together, glad to be done with it.

I’ve missed quite a few things in the last year if you consider that the several before it I was able to write down my reactions to events in the world, to note the often quiet passing of time, or not so quiet family milestones.  My writing stopped here, and although I tried to jot a few things down on a calendar kept next to my bed, with the exception of a few desperate bursts of anxiety, that stopped as well.  I funneled what little energy I had into my food writing, but even that has slowed to a trickle.  Not so surprisingly, the 365 project has saved me, allowing me to “say” something — anything — each day since the first of the year with a photograph.

Salvation.

365 project

When I scan through the shots in my iPhoto library taken in the past year, much of what I’ve taken has been of food, and if you know me, that isn’t a surprise.  What you may not realize is that each of those photographs tells me so much more than what I was learning about a particular recipe I’d tried, or a meal we might have enjoyed.  They help me remember where our lives were at a particular moment that no one else would understand when looking at them, like the bagels I made last June when our old doggo Jones could barely move.  That was when we took her to the vet for some pain-killers and bought the non-skid treads for the stairs so she could follow me around like she always has.  Or the Bittman salads I made through the summer and into the fall thinking, surely I can keep this going and stay healthy, keep my food writing going, and divert my attention from what I was doing all day to something sustaining in the evenings.  There was the bakewell tart around the time of my son’s first shave, and the amazing peanut butter banana mallow mars I made about the time we got Lizzie to brighten up our lives, making us laugh when we most needed it.

In a year’s time we’ve had a family wedding, succumbed to a brief, but nasty run in with H1N1, watched another niece enter college, wished my mother and her Romeo bon voyage as they set out to travel around the country, and sadly, mourned the loss of our dear, sweet Jones who passed on to doggy heaven the day after Thanksgiving.

This year has also been my son’s last year of high school, and one marked with the added surprise of his having to ride a bike to and from school each day — a ride that is downhill all the way, and of course uphill all the way back.  If you know the hill we live on, then you might understand his feeling of accomplishment the first time he made it all the way to the top without having to get off and push his bike the remainder of the trip.  You’ve missed what could have been my raging at the injustice of having that bike stolen the very first day of school, and then my response of simple acceptance and the purchase of yet another bike.

I traveled to participate in my first food conference in San Francisco, we made our annual trek to Las Vegas, and then pathetically, I dragged myself into the holidays and right up to January 1st when I decided to join so many others in taking a photo a day.  I can look at each one now and say that pictures do paint a thousand words — words that I’ll most likely never write.  My husband has heard them all and it has been far less than easy.  Poor man.

Going back to work for a year has added 25 pounds to my already padded body, has challenged me to keep up with any kind of routine diet or exercise, and has caused me to think critically about my health and life in general more differently than I ever have.  However, I can be thankful for construction bills now paid off, and tuition for my son’s first year of college.  I am happy for new friends and interesting people I’ve met and worked with.  But I’m especially grateful for the opportunity to know that when I left my profession the first time, it was the best decision I ever made.

This time, it’s for good, and for all the right reasons.

I rarely write anything any more.  I write about food, and to be honest, I’ve begun to take more time with that, but I believe it’s because it’s the only writing I do.  It’s writing, so it has to count for something.  I mull over it in the same way I would any kind of writing I do, because mulling over it is what I do best.  It’s ridiculous on most days, but it is what it is.

To some extent, photographs have taken the place of my writing.  They seem to capture my thoughts and express what I would say, or write, if given time.  Sure, I have time, but I’m not very good at using it if it’s at the end of a day instead of the beginning.

I love how mornings begin slowly.  The light creeps into the day and the air is fresh, begging me to step out to walk and stretch my bones and mind; encouraging me to exercise my thinking — priming my ideas and memories.

Writing at night is not something I enjoy.  It often mirrors my energy, or the lack thereof.  I sit in front of my Mac and a different kind of quiet than I’m familiar with, the shush of the dishwasher pulsing in the room, and not much else.  It doesn’t exactly add up to anything I can be thoughtful about.

But that’s another excuse, isn’t it.

Yes.

But I’ve written, haven’t I?

Not quite 30 minutes.  In fact, not a respectable 10.

But still.

In the last many months, I think perhaps that I’ve managed to do that.  I’ve found things to do that matter to me, have forgiven myself for others I don’t spend quite as much time on, and have given myself time each day to look around and appreciate a few things.  If you twisted my arm, I’d say that I’ve appreciated more than just a few things.

It does get more and more challenging, however, to recognize whether my life has taken yet another direction, or that I’m caught up in all the things one does when one’s trying to avoid doing what is supposed to be done.  It’s convoluted, but it makes sense to me, and that’s enough for now.

Someone today said to embrace the here and now.  It’s not new information, and I’ve cringed when I’ve heard others say it before.  But today, the message was being delivered to those much younger than myself by someone not much older than they.  Ironically, I guess that’s what I’ve been trying to do for nearly a year now.  It’s hard if you’re like me and life is about planning.

I know I’m supposed to have learned something in this experience, and I’m sure I have, but it’s late and my alarm wakes me earlier than I’d like so I won’t wander down the path of that explanation right now.

What I miss most about this detour is my barely new found self:  the one that laughed and had seemingly endless energy and curiousity.  I’d like to find her again because I was just getting to know her.  She was a bit odd, but I think I liked her.

If you see her, will you let me know?

I may have seen her this evening when it was pouring outside and she grabbed a huge umbrella and camera to run out in the rain and take a photo.

She’s still in there somewhere.

At some point, whatever book that lies open on the floor next to my bed begins to call my name and often reluctantly, I give in to the fact that my day is over.  As much as I look forward to bedtime after a busy day, I know that sleep just brings the next day more quickly, and so I give in to that as well.

I don’t like looking forward to the weekends.  Time passes too quickly when that happens, and so I’ve begun to pay attention to what I appreciate about each of my days in a much different way than what I have in the past few years.  It takes some practice considering that the effort admiring a drop of condensation on the leaf of a honeysuckle vine is much different than appreciating that the red message light on my phone isn’t lit when I arrive at 7 am.

But I have much to look forward to, and I don’t plan on missing any of it.

Happy Wednesday — even if it’s not quite wordless.

What are you looking forward to?

So here I sit.  It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

It’s taken me almost five months to adjust to going back to something I thought I’d never do again — something that, at one point in time, caused me physical discomfort whenever I saw something that reminded me of the experience I’d had.  That fear was so palpable, it has caused me and my family quite a bit of angst as I’ve worked through it over the summer, each day having to revisit it and wonder why it is we allow ourselves to get to that point with anything.

I’ve gone from intense anxiety, to choosing flight over fight, strange sensations of loss and grieving that were the most confounding of all I’ve experienced, anger so sharp I wanted to throw things and strike out, reluctant giving in, and finally, acceptance.  It’s been quite the ride, and I’m not sure exactly what sustains me right now, but am thankful that I’m no longer terrified.  In the long run, I made a promise, and I believe that is what is keeping me on track.  I’ve chosen to throw in the towel a few times in my life in circumstances when many people would have stayed.  I’ve rationalized it because I tell myself I’m worth it and that I shouldn’t have to do anything I am intensely opposed to.

And then the mental litany of comparisons begins:  men and women are fighting in foreign countries and have had to leave their families behind; children are born into poverty and dependent on adults who shouldn’t have children because they can’t take care of themselves; lovely people discover they have incurable diseases and make the most of their lives in spite of that…

Who am I to say that I don’t appreciate what I have when I compare myself to them?

But I’m learning that it’s okay.  I’m learning that I can be very thankful for what I have and that I can want more — that my wanting isn’t connected to tangible objects (regardless of how pleasant some of them are) like a new car or a piece of beautiful furniture.  It’s more connected to who I believe I am, and what I want to become.

I crave it.  It’s there just beyond my reach and has been for such a long time.  It’s infuriating that others making choices for themselves give the impression that it’s so easy and I plod along wondering and questioning, requiring a complete standstill to even begin to see a fuzzy version of who I imagine is me out there in the distance.

This all sounds corny, doesn’t it?

Not too long ago,  woman I barely knew died.  Although she wasn’t well and hadn’t been in a long time, she had a resilient spirit and her big personality conveyed something otherwise about her intent to live even knowing that her life could end at any moment.  And that’s what happened.

I’m sure that experience has bolstered me to some extent.  I’ve found myself saying that if she could live the life she did considering all of her medical problems, then I should be able to get out of bed, get dressed, and use the knowledge and experience I spent 25 years developing.  I can be purposeful about it.  Pleasant.  Constructive.  Respectful.

And I can promise myself there will be an end to it because I truly believe that my life depends on it.

On the last day I saw the woman I mentioned, she thanked me and we embraced.  Although she was struggling to even be there because she had just spent a difficult week in the hospital, her gaze was unwavering as she told me she was leaving and I knew she was going to die.  Standing in front of her I realized she had finally given in and was leaving something behind that was very important to her while I — the recipient of what she was leaving — had given in and accepted that I would not be able to leave.  It was my birthday.

So here I am.  Relatively adjusted and thinking about the second half of my life.  The half that will grow while I’m finishing what I promised to do.  In the meantime, I’ll read and think about what James Hollis, Ph.D. has to say about it all — that I “will still need to pass through all the trials of life, that [I] am surrounded by distractions, and that [I am] undermined by fear and by powerfully repetitious history” but that like the knights who searched for the medieval Grail, “[my] journey is [my] journey, not someone else’s.”

And he expects me to respect myself.

So that’s the hard part.

Write

It’s not Wednesday, and I’m rarely wordless, but I thought this pretty much summed up where my head is these days.  The sad thing is, it isn’t like it wasn’t watered or didn’t have light.  It just never really got any attention.  Oh well, huh?

Oh well.

Imagine:  The “I wish I’d been more diligent about writing something of substance in the last two years” thoughts sitting alongside those having to do with, “Get to work at 6:15 today so I can make sure everyone has everything for the planned session today” robotic reminders.  Or consider the awkwardness of the “Oh my $#&* goodness, she really needs to get a grip” thoughts and the “Goodness, I didn’t realize her husband’s boss’s wife served on that committee” thoughts being in close proximity.  Shameful.

Like I said: coherent.

Last night I sat on the couch after I got home and begrudgingly embraced the old familiar YOU’VE JUST BEEN RUN OVER BY A TRUCK feeling I became accustomed to after 20 years of the opening of school.  You plan for it, it happens, you’re exhausted.  Period.  You get to the point of being able to look past the tread marks that run up and down your body and learn to admire your new physique, tempted to ask others if you look good like this;  more slender.

Remember the part about coherence?

In my flattened state, I sat on the couch in front of the television — something I never do before eight at night.  With a glass of wine in hand, I flipped channels until I found a show that required no effort on my part to stare at other than tolerating the commercials.  It was one of those shows where pack rats are reformed by cheerful home organization/decorator types, and thinking about it now makes complete sense:  A mess is transformed into something blissfully organized; there’s a beginning, a middle, and an end; the sun comes up and everybody’s happy when it’s over.

Coherence?

If I wasn’t so flat, I’d apply to be a guinea pig on one of those shows because it seems like cheap therapy.  But I could also build myself a nifty exercise program that would get all my endorphins coursing through my veins (arteries?) and then I’d be able to fit more into my day.

I’ll make a note of that.

Well, at least right now I am.  I’m supposed to be doing my work and I’m doing this instead.  It’s because I don’t want to do my work.  I figure I did work at home for 20 years and that was enough.  I want to enjoy my life, my home and my family.  I don’t want anything else to interfere with those things after working hours.  And yes, I deserve that.

At what point in life is one satisfied?  At what point do we accept who and what we are?  That we’ve done what we’re supposed to have done and be over it.

I’d love to say I’m satisfied.  But life is like being in a candy store.  There’s always a brightly colored new sweet dangling in front of me and it’s distracting.  Isn’t that the point?  Are we really supposed to waste time convincing ourselves that THIS is all there is?  Of course I know everything’s relative, but my satisfaction has nothing to do with having more in a tangible sense.  It’s more about having an opportunity to (insert a dissertation here).

I don’t know which end is up.  I don’t know who I am any more, nor what I’m supposed to do.

I’m sure someone out there can tell me this is really all randomness.  That all this energy put into trying to figure things out is just a waste of time.  In fact, I’m sure there are hundreds who have written books about it.  They end up on Oprah and are famous for a minute or two.  And then they end up like the rest of us.

It’s pathetic.

It’s really not pathetic.  I just feel like I’m supposed to think that because I want to beat others to the punch.

Nothing makes sense.

Actually, everything always makes sense, and I’m tired of it.