Average White Woman

“Average white woman (AWW) desperately seeking life she used to know: Clean house. Ultra-organized. Clear skin. Bright eyes. Flat stomach. Spare time for soul searching. Relaxing meals. Passionate sex life. Intact circle of friends. Intellectual conversation. If you recognize this life and would be willing to return it to its rightful owner, please contact AWW at 615.482.0264.  Bless you.”

Who knew?  On the turn of a dime, at the drop of a hat, your life takes off in ways you had always dreamed, hoped would come true, and then and there, all of a sudden, you are not you anymore. You are a different version, not necessarily better or worse, simply trying to make sense of your life and world.

Was it getting a dog? Getting married?  Having kids?  Turning 40? Losing my father? The older I get, the less I seem to know.  Because I thought I really knew myself  but I couldn’t have dreamed of this woman I have become. Some days I really like her, other days I question her sound judgment and unenviably impatience. And on the very best days, I pat her on the back for loving herself despite her many chinks and imperfections.

Because that’s what this all really boils down to: I’m a recovering perfectionist who has learned the hard way that I cannot control every detail in my life. Keeping a clean house was easy. Keeping a lean body was a lot of work but do-able.  Keeping an open heart was the ultimate challenge.  We pick partners who we unconsciously know (they are emotionally just like our mothers or fathers, surprise-surprise) and we try to make the relationship meet all of our unmet childhood needs. When the relationship ends we are devastated and our control issues are on fire.

What to do? You clean, you exercise, you write, you plan, you talk to your friends, you get a massage, you get a facial and a pedicure, and you organize your closet.  And then you precariously tip-toe out again to open that heart.  To find love.  For yourself and then another.

That’s exactly where I was in February of 2000 as I stumbled out of my bed at 6 a.m. to take my rambunctious eight-month-old Yellow Lab for a walk on the nearby public golf course.  I was barely awake, let alone presentable, when the cutest Golden Retriever puppy came bumbling over the hill by the 16th hole a mile into our walk. And with that Golden Retriever, a tall guy with a coffee mug and a baseball hat.  Hmmmm.  At the time I thought nothing of it.  We regularly met other dogs and their people.  But this puppy, whose name we learned was Holly, was the cutest, wiggly little puff of blonde fluff we’d ever seen.  And my puppy Hunter and I, we were smitten.

We never planned it but somehow Hunter and I bumped into Holly and Jeff around the same time and same place – everyday. We simply walked and talked every morning for two weeks as our friendships unfolded. Jeff and I talked about any- and everything.  None of it particularly remarkable.  But what I do remember was thinking and telling my friends about my new friend from the golf course. “I met the nicest guy on the golf course,” I’d tell them.  “He is SO normal.  AND, he has the most adorable puppy named Holly . . .”  And so it began.

Six months after we met, we moved in together.  Two years later we got married.  That same year I gave birth to our son Taggart. And four and a half years after that, our daughter Sage arrived.  Who knew what our bumping into one another on the golf course would mean? I’m not sure I even brushed my teeth that morning but fresh breath or not, I met my future husband. Now, I’ll be the first to admit that it has not all been a fairy tale “happily ever after”.  Because, in real life – at least with kids – you might just get a colicky baby and sleep deprivation and if you are really unlucky, a bout of post-partum depression.

I think this is where the letting go began. I have not figured out how you can be a perfectionist and an emotionally present, well-adjusted, happy mom. And giving my kids a good me on most days is much better than having a perfectly spotless house (though I still long for that!). Because in the long run, I can have a clean house again but I can never get back these formative years and magical days of my kids’ youth.  (Dust bunnies be damned, you’ll just have to wait!)

But the letting go has happened in other places too – places that need to be gathered in and welcomed back into the fold.  Friendships have felt the tug of too little time and too many other demands.  So has self-care and the need for time just to be alone and hear ourselves think. Because without vigilance, these things are the first to go. And without them, we are quick to find ourselves swallowed whole by the details of our busy lives.

Herein lies the secret. We all need to know when to say when and what to let go of.  To know ourselves well enough and to be able to stand up for what we know we truly need to be our fullest, best selves.  The letting go that needs to transpire is of the old life and ways that no longer serve us. Clinging to those old ideas may make us feel inadequate (read: average) when in reality, we need to embrace those things in our current lives that open us up and affirm who we want to be.

The biggest risk I regularly take is letting go of those old ideas. And what is surprising is that I have to keep on taking that leap of faith if I want to grow and evolve into the woman I aspire to become.   Since my tendency as a recovering perfectionist is to cling to those things I know (because I like to think I have more control – wink, wink), letting go of what no longer serves me is a must.  Because if I don’t, I will miss out on all those wonderful, crazy, heart-breaking, endearing details along the way.
Life is what happens as we are living in the details. It is the white space all around the long list of those major milestones in our lives. I never-in-a-million-years thought I’d embrace the idea of being “average” and a recovering perfectionist to boot.  But if by average we simply mean less than perfect, then that is a risk I am willing to take over and over again.  Staying on the wagon isn’t easy but the pay-offs are huge: healthy, happy kids; a vibrant, working marriage; a warm, inviting home; and a renewed commitment to my own growth and well-being.
Who could ask for anything more?

Editor’s Note:  Average White Woman found her life.  It is more beautiful than she could have ever imagined.

What Good May Come

 

When Taggart was little and would say something that made me laugh, he’d look up with a twinkle in his eyes and say, “Mama, is God laughing right now too?” And I’d reply, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he is!” Taggart’s smile would broaden, happy in the knowledge that he was doin' God proud and that God might indeed be chuckling at him. 

I think God may do that a lot – chuckle at us.  Put lessons in our path so we can grow.  Put opportunities for laughter in our days so we don’t take ourselves too seriously.  Give us children to keep us honest, humble, joyous, forgiving, grateful . . . (and the list of emotions our children elicit could go on and on!).

God’s subtle and profound lessons in parenting started for me twelve years ago today.  Taggart Boyd Patterson was two weeks overdue and my labor was 24 very long hours with four of those spent pushing (sorry guys!).  And the icing on the cake of all that excitement? He was colicky (read: cried inconsolably, non-stop for almost a year). And on top of that: a bout with post-partum depression for me! I’m not sure if God was chuckling or not, but I can assure you I had not one little bit of chuckle in me. (As I am sure you can surmise, I was an absolute mess!!!)

The joke really was on me as I had all these expectations about what I’d be like as a mom and what having kids would look like. I thought once I had kids – and I’d waited until I was 32! – I’d be like a Mother Earth goddess: natural, patient, organic, free-spirited, flowing, beautiful.  What proceeded was more like Blue Moon on Prozac: medicated, impatient, frustrated, stressed out, tired-tired-tired, and not exactly loving what life with baby was like – at least not in the ways I thought I should be.

And the worst part – I’d gotten myself into this, the kid was mine FOREVER, and I had to figure out how to make sense of this because there was no easy way out. It was one of those life situations you just have to muddle through and figure out as you go.  And it was hard those first few months (O.K., if I’m being completely honest, the first couple years were hard!).

But like I so often tell the kids when they are not up for trying something new, “You never know what good may come. Try and stay open to the good that may be waiting for you right around the next corner.”  And that sweet boy of mine, well, we worked out most of the kinks.  He finally quit crying and began to smile and talk, I finally got my hormones under control and found my center again, my husband continued to be our foundation of consistency and resolve, and we had an amazing support network of family and friends – a net both deep and wide that carried me when I wasn't sure I could carry myself.

And though Taggart did not start sleeping through the night until he was 8 (no, not eight months . . . eight years!!!), now that he is 12, I think I’ve almost recovered from the sleep deprivation.  But more than that (and I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to say there was more to life than sleep when I wasn’t getting any!), Taggart has brought a fullness to our lives that is the exact opposite of deprivation.  He and his sister both (yes, I was brave enough to have another but it took a while!) fill our days and lives to over-brimming with love, light, energy, hope, innocence, inspiration, and yes, laughter.

By far, kids are the best lesson God has ever given me. I have learned more about patience, compassion, responsibility, commitment, modeling, serving, balancing, affirming and gratitude in this role than in any other in my life. The task at hand is not easy as we try to impart enduring values; a deep appreciation for what truly matters; good manners (manners Mona Lillian Taggart would commend!); a thoughtful disposition; a grateful heart; a love for animals and nature; an athletic drive; dedication and commitment to family; respect for elders; a questioning take on the world; an openness to differences; responsibility for choices and consequences . . . the list goes on and on and this parenting gig certainly isn't easy, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

So yeah, on the night of Taggart’s 12^th birthday I am looking back and looking ahead. I think back to a time when Taggart was about three years old and we were in line at a restaurant waiting to order our lunches.  He looked up at me and said, “Mama, there’s no Taggart like this Taggart!”  How right he is, how right he is. And I’d have it no other way.  I love my high-maintenance, funny, perfectionistic, athletic, handsome, kind, non-meat eating kid to the moon and back.

And I can’t wait to see what the next twelve years bring - junior high, high school, college . . . I don't know exactly what the future will look like, what good it will hold, what challenges it may bring. But whatever the lessons, I'm ready. 

Open for the good that is waiting. 

Ready to laugh with God. 

Loving the lessons my children embody. And loving the children my lessons embody.

The Introvert's Dilemma

If you knew me at all, you’d know that I am a person who needs time by myself to recharge; that, true to any good introvert, I am energized by spending time by myself and in solitude.  From there, I am better equipped to go out and face the world – happy, centered, restored.

So imagine my surprise when, upon telling my husband I had a sitter coming to watch the kids so I could go get my hair cut (not to mention to have the first few hours to myself since summer break had started 14 days prior), he replied: “Haven’t you just taken them with you to your haircut before?”

I had several options here, several ways to respond. Some mightily better than others. I could have said: “Oh, great idea! I wish I’d thought of that. We can save $30 and I won’t get to actually settle in and enjoy the hour of pampering my haircut could be, but yeah, let me take them!”  Or maybe I should have said this: “Oh, that’s so smart. I can use the money we save on the sitter to pay for the therapy I’m going to need after two full weeks of 24/7 kids with no end in sight. Yeah, let me call and cancel the sitter right after I locate the name of a good therapist.”

Or I could have gone fore the “have-you-ever-just-once-tried-to-walk-in-my-shoes” tack and snapped: “When is the last time you took the kids with you for a haircut???” Which is exactly what I said. And all he could do was feel the sting of my bite as I effectively shut down any real communication around the issue - my snap warning enough that this territory might not be any he wanted to tread.

What I should have said (after taking a couple inconspicuous grounding deep breaths and silently counting to ten, repeating to myself the affirmations “You are worthy. You are deserving. You are compassionate and kind.”) is this: “I love our kids and I feel so blessed to have so much time with them in the summer.  I appreciate that your job allows me to have the summers off to be with them. But I have some needs too. And the one that most often takes a back seat is some quality down time by myself. And as an introvert who gets her energy and recharges by being alone and being able to hear herself think, this isn’t a want, it’s a need. So yeah, I’m going to have the sitter come for a few hours, and I’m going to go get my haircut, run a couple errands, and maybe even go to a coffee shop and write.  I desperately need a couple hours and my sanity is worth the price we’ll pay . . . I hope you understand where I’m coming from and can support me in this.”

But no, I didn’t take the healthy, proactive, effective communicator position. I went for the resentful “if-you-knew-me-at-all-you’d-know-I-need ______________” position (I’m sure you can fill in the blank too, because haven’t we all felt this way at one point or another??).  Needless to say, that position is ineffective and doesn’t work.  It’s divisive and combative.  No win-win there, just take-no-prisoners, I’ll-do-what-I-need-to-do-to-survive lizard brain antics.

Marriage is hard. Effective communication is critical. And as a trained counselor, I wish I was better at applying what I know and did a lot less reacting and a lot more thoughtful, productive, responding when I’m in a tight spot. It would help my husband understand my needs better and I wouldn’t feel so wicked and guilty for snapping at him.

Twelve years in and still perfecting the marriage dance, it’s not as easy as Dancing With The Stars makes it look! But I’m confident we’ll continue to hone our communication skills and attempt to meet each other’s needs – and that I’ll try harder to ask for what I need in ways my husband can hear. Perhaps he’ll think twice before asking if I can take the kids with me to my next haircut. Hopefully, I’ll be able bite my tongue before a sharp remark leaps from my lips, shutting down any hopes of understanding.

Somewhere between those extremes - and with as big a helping of alone time as I can muster amidst the swirl of summer and full-time kids! - we’ll find our best selves. As I navigate these ends, I am reminded of a line in a poem by Rumi:

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there. 

In my ideal world and summer, that’s where I’ll be hangin’ out. Some by myself. Some with my family and friends. Beyond right and wrong, balancing somewhere in between. Doing what I need to to become more of the kind, loving, supportive, centered person and partner I need and want to be.

I’ll meet you there.

A Father's Gifts

One of the things I miss most about my dad’s early passing is the fact that Taggart and Sage will never have the chance to really know him.  To experience his love and inimitable presence.  Yes, I can and do share his values and ideas. Yes, I carry part of my dad within me so they too carry him . . . but still . . . it’s not the same as him coming for a visit.  One that’s much anticipated and looked forward to – a countdown of weeks and days. Having toast and coffee in the early morning with us.  Him reading with Sage. Playing catch or HORSE with Taggart in the driveway.

I like to imagine us going to visit him on the 40 acres of off-the-grid land he lived on in Northern Michigan.  My kids getting to see his tee-pee or open-air outhouse.  Looking for morel mushrooms with him in the forest.  Talking about books or music they like (and believe me, for all the pop my kids love, my dad would know the music and artists and likely turn Taggart and Sage onto something new in the process).

As the kids and I make cards for Jeff and his dad this week-end, I imagine the Father’s Day card Taggart and Sage might craft for my dad. I’d encourage them to think about what is special about him and to tell him so he knows what he means to them.

It might go something like this:

Grampa Gerry – we love you because you play catch in the yard with us.  You listen to me (Sage!) sing and we like the three chords you strum on the guitar. We think it’s really funny how you can tick our mom off – and you don’t even get sent to your room! We love you because you share your potato chips with us (and mom never buys us those)! We love you because you have long hair and we don’t know any other old guys with long hair! Are you an Indian or something? Grampa Gerry, we wish you would quit smoking.  Don’t you know smoking’s bad for you.  Grampa Gerry, please don’t smoke anymore, OK?  Because we love you. BTW, we think it’s really cool that you know about Ed Sheeran and Kanye West (our dad pronounced it like Kane – we know you wouldn’t do that!).  Happy Father’s Day to a loved Grampa.  Love you from there to here and here to there! (as Sage recently wrote in a card . . . she has her grandfather’s way with words, which makes my heart smile!) 

My dad wrote me a number of cards and letters and I think I have almost every one of them tucked in various places.  I stumble upon them periodically, almost as if called to that message on any given day.  Yesterday, it was a letter he had written me almost twenty years ago after I asked him about our ancestry and family traditions.  His response was this:

You’ve got me thinking about what traditions your ancestors have passed along to you . . . Spirituality and music are at the top of the list. Athletics and an intellectual strain would be included. What else – the love of singing, a poignant lyric, a tendency toward poetry – the perfect word in the right place – the appropriate description of anything. The priority and love of children – our real future – our only future. The wonder of a country scene or city street, rain or shine. Snow on the hills – the love of rivers, hills, and lakes – Michigan means “turtle” in Ojibwa – what does Tennessee mean?

The beauty of a kid waiting for a school bus – a person on a bench – at our best, the wonder of the day . . . toast and coffee – lunch with a friend – I haven’t mentioned DANCING in the dining room or wherever to a song we love, remember. Horses in the pasture – Alice Walker’s Horses Make a Landscape More Beautiful – the curiosity about how things work and the things we see and hear when our eyes and ear are open . . . everything is beautiful when we pay attention.

 . . . We have tried to give you a common sense approach to right and wrong. You don’t need a law degree to figure it out or a master’s degree or a Ph.D. I read recently in a Sufi book that the only sin is waste . . . I’ll lighten up, Meg. Solar is good. Windmills are nice. Log cabins. Teepees. Organic gardens, orchards, vineyards, pastures, forests. Bicycles, baseball, soccer, a good book, a water-color, a swift, clear creek or stream, horses, cows . . . a hug, a swim, a sweat lodge, friends, work you love and believe in, the respect of those you respect, love, a warm shirt on a chilly day, moccasins, good socks, a Navajo rug – is that enough to keep your generation occupied? – A guitar, piano, banjo, clogging. Nurturing the kids around us to the best of our ability. That’s the weight you’ve been given and it’s not always easy but mostly you’ll sleep well at night. It’s all always for the kids, right?

I’ll never forget your basketball-track days. It will take you awhile to truly comprehend how beautiful the Suttons Bay relays really were – whether you won or lost – but of course, your team set a record. But aside from the setting on Lake Michigan, it was just you healthy kids running with the wind in bright colors. Nothing could be simpler or better. I think of you everyday.
                                                     Peace and Love, Dad

As a tribute to my dad on Father’s Day, I am sharing this for all the loved dads and loved grandfathers who have passed. And for those whose fathers and grandfathers are still here: please, pick up the phone, give them a call, have your kids make them a card . . . spend a day with them if you can.  If there is distance, reach out. Build a bridge. Find a connection again.

One way or another, let them know they are SO loved (from there to here and here to there). Wherever they may be (Amen).

A Hundred Different Ways

In bed, late at night when I can’t sleep, I go over situations and decisions and work them a hundred different ways.  I twist them and turn them and come out with better responses, more effective solutions, another possibility I hadn’t even considered. When I do this I call it “Rubik’s Cubing” my life. And I do this a lot. Twisting and turning those hundred possibilities until there is a perfect alignment. Symmetry.  I remember once reading that humans are drawn to the most symmetrical faces – that they find them the most beautiful.  Well, I’m thinking same goes for life.  We are drawn to symmetry in its many forms. The Rubik’s Cube, if you’re good, can be one quick, symmetrical, albeit short-lived fix (especially if you are just shooting for one side!).

Most of us had one, or at least tried to solve one, as kids. And though I was in the “gifted” program, I was never one of those kid geniuses who patiently and methodically worked challenging math problems or the cube for days on end, and then knew the solution was theirs to be had as they arrived at all sides matching up, once again.

I will say I remember one time, ONE, where I was working it and my parents were encouraging me,  “You can do it honey! We know you can.”  (I wonder how much time was freed up for parents while their kids worked ever-so-diligently on the ole Rubik’s Cube??? Now I know why my parents were so encouraging! We parents will do anything for a couple minutes of quiet . . . can I get an Amen??). So there I was focused and having fun, and all of a sudden, voile! Like magic, all the sides were aligned.  And the craziest thing, I wasn’t even really trying. I was just playing with it and having fun.

It wasn’t like I plotted and strategized and knew exactly what I was doing so that I could get those six sides all matched up. I would like to believe (and have you believe!) I’m that smart and able. But as a kid, I just wasn’t that patient. Nor am I the type of learner to visualize twelve steps ahead. Now, I can come up with twelve options for a good meal in Nashville or twelve inconsequential worries in about 5.2 seconds.  But, visualizing the cube, with its twists and turns, so that I might see how each side would transform eight steps later, well, let’s suffice it to say I leave that to others with mad “skillz” way beyond my unique “gifts”.

No, I was the type of kid who wanted to feel my way into or out of any give situation.  Who relied more on my instincts and gut.  Maybe I was led to solve that Rubik’s Cube the one time in my life I remember it happening.  And I’m sure we were all excited when I finally solved it.  But there was no great fanfare.  My mom didn’t bake a cake. We didn’t document the moment and put the Rubik’s Cube in one of those glass terrariums to gather dust on the shelf.

Yes, to look at all six smooth sides, all matching colors - blue, red, white, yellow, green, orange – and take in their sameness, it was a sight to behold. Long journey to same. To matching. To perfection. That feeling as you see it all coming together – self-assured, triumphant, and in my case, surprised! A sense of accomplishment and pride.  But I don’t remember those feelings lasting more than about five minutes.  And then I went on with my life. Onto the next big thing.

Maybe it’s because I solved it on accident. I couldn’t have explained it, had I wanted to.  MIT Admissions was not knocking down our door.  But, the process of working the cube, and my belief that I could solve it: priceless. The work, the twisting, the turning, the hope: that’s what I loved. What fed me and kept me going. I even liked the non-matching patterns that emerged.  The mix of colors. The ease of solving one side, and then four, and perhaps all six (be it on accident or on purpose!).
Not to sound all Forrest Gumpish, but it seems like life is one big Rubik’s Cube.  We twist it and we turn it and sometimes it’s a picture of perfect symmetry. Other days not so much. Some days: well behaved kids, a completed project, a good work-out – all color blocks matched up and giving a happy six color rainbow salute. Others: a mish mash mix-up of unmade beds, dirty dishes, hormonal surges, and bickering kids that leave you frustrated and done.

Life is both the puzzle and the solution. The twisting, turning, strategizing and planning. The intuition of following a nudge to take a different turn, to step into the unknown and trust something bigger that’s guiding you. And soaking in the relief and pride at getting it right once in a while.  Or feeling surprised when the “answer” wasn’t exactly what you planned (but maybe even better??).

The secret of life?  Go live it. Solve your puzzle. Embrace the process. Revel in your end result. Be right some. Happy a lot. Live into your moments. Love your whole life. Like Rilke says, love the questions themselves.  Then, by some twist or turn, or patiently waiting, you will live into your answers.

No Rubik’s Cube required.

An Inside Job

Who is your enemy? Your scapegoat? Who (or what) do you blame when all doesn’t go as planned?  Is it your mother? Your father? Your spouse or kids? Your job or boss?  How about your God? Is he or she to blame for all that is not well in your world? Is it always someone or something else making you angry, tired, fat, sick, unhappy or unfulfilled?

We’ve all been there.  Ranting and raving at this or that that’s wreaking havoc in our lives.  Ticked off at the lack of balance and simply mad at the world. It may seem overly simplistic but what if, when we are in this blaming, frustrated, disheartened frame of mind, we just STOP. Stop for a moment. Stop the ranting. Stop the raving. And just breathe. Try this. Close your eyes. Focus on your breath – in and out. Be in the moment for as long as you can (even a minute or two of this can be centering).  Keep breathing . . . And then ask yourself: What do I need that I can give myself right now?  And then get ready to really listen (and honor your intuition’s request!).

Maybe it’s a walk outside. Or a healthy snack (Honeycrisp apple with organic peanut butter - yum!). Or listening to some soul-centering music. Maybe it’s a nap to recharge.  Calling a friend may be just what the doctor ordered. Or pulling a paper and pen out to write stream of consciousness for 15 minutes (a great parking lot for all the junk swirling around in our heads on any given day!). Perhaps it’s reading a book of daily affirmations and using those words when we get stuck on our external angst causers. The simple act of a hot bath or shower can literally wash away all kinds of extraneous dust (mental and physical!).

It happens to the best of us: getting lost in the busy distraction of looking outside of ourselves for answers we inherently possess . . . One of my favorite Ralph Waldo Emerson quotes I always return to echoes this truth: “That which we are searching for is what we’re searching with”. It’s inside of us – any answer, any key, any solution we have the courage within us to bravely forge.  We are invited daily to delve deep and to answer our own call. Because the answers are within: IF we stop and listen – really listen – and allow ourselves to lead.

The catch is this: if we don’t listen, trust ourselves, seek for ourselves the answers which only we can source, then we get to keep using the same old sad excuses and lines for our life’s overcast gloom.

“If only my boss wasn't such a control freak, I’d be much effective in my job.” 

“If only he would just know what I need, I’d be a lot more fulfilled in this relationship.”

“If only God had given me thinner thighs, I'd be able to embrace this one and only body of mine.”

“If only my kids didn’t drive me so crazy, I wouldn’t need three glasses of wine to blur the edges . . .”  

We’ve all done this at one point or another. Because it’s so much easier to make “it” about something outside ourselves rather than take a look at ourselves. It always boils back down to being about us. Given that truth, we need to take the bull by the horns and figure out what it is we need. Quit defining our reality by things outside of ourselves and go within. And if we can’t change our circumstances, we need to change our perspective. Because our happiness depends on it.

All of life is trying to wake each and every one of us up to our spiritual magnificence. Our reason for being. Maybe we’re not ready to embrace it and looking outside still seems easier than dealing with what’s within . . . So be it. But at some point, we’ll have to own it. Or it will eat us alive. Be it through addiction, loneliness, or any other emotional black hole of need we desperately try to fill from the outside in.

The deal is this: filling up from the outside in NEVER works. True fulfillment comes from the inside - from becoming quiet and still, figuring out what we really need, and then giving ourselves that (to the best of our ability).  When I’m in that place of not knowing and railing against everything and anything outside myself, there are two sure things that right my equilibrium: a walk outside in the fresh air and putting pen to paper.  Neither is hard or takes a huge amount of time. But it does go back to prioritizing myself in my daily to-do list and being committed to meeting my own needs (because if I don’t, who in the heck will???). For me, those two things feed my internal balance so I can adequately navigate all those external would-be potholes. Potholes that could wreck a day.  A week. Or even a life . . . if I let them.

We will be better for the world, and the world better for us, when we can quit blaming everything outside of us and dig deeper. And deeper still. Because happiness is an inside job made tangible by how we look at and define those hard parts in our own world and lives, how we fill in our own missing pieces.  How we meet our own needs.

Facing down our so-called enemies and scapegoats isn't easy. And it's probably not as much fun, as say, a root canal. But it is necessary.  And the pay-off is huge.

Ours to be had, true FULL-lfillment lives there.

A Labor of Love

I’ve spent the past week at our family cottage on Higgins Lake and opening the cottage is more than most family members can fathom or partake in.  Each has their own set of reasons: Busy kids, camps, sports, and activities; physical distance which makes it hard to get here for opening week-end (Memorial Day); perhaps some view it as a vacation home they aren’t inclined to clean and would rather hire done; and then there’s simply the knowledge on most of the family’s part that my mom – as the 71 year old matriarch to our Montague clan – will take good care and have the cottage clean and ready for everyone when camp opens over the 4th of July.

Built in 1928  by my great-grandparents, with eight bedrooms in the main cottage, an apartment on the garage, and a one-bedroom cabin to boot, there’s a lot that goes into getting this cottage ready for its summer guests. Given that it is uninhabited from October to May, give or take a few chipmunks, mice, and spiders, there are a lot of cobwebs to clear away, dust to be swept up, and half-eaten acorns to be shaken out of leftover sweatshirts from summer’s past.  Not to mention the mini mouse droppings to vacuum out of kitchen drawers . . . And that’s before we even get to the mopping, lemon oiling, window cleaning (with 1598 panes of glass I took one look and said to my mom, “We are calling in the professionals!”), and scrubbing of sinks, toilets, bathtubs, and showers. And the leaf blowing, gutter cleaning and pressure washing of sidewalks and porches. 

The beach house comes last – the structure down on the water where we store all our beach chairs and whose pavilion on top has become a favorite spot for all to sit and take in the water and air from the treetops.  The furniture in place, the cushions and pillows plumped, we ate a dinner of salad and pizza there on our last night to celebrate our many accomplishments this week.

It’s been a week.  A busy week. A week in this place we love and are called backed to every year. I’ve broken three nails past the quick, my lower back is iffy (to put it mildly), and I’ve eaten more junk than I normally would in any given week.  But it’s been worth it; we’ve gotten a lot done and, honestly, I’ve enjoyed every minute.  Because there’s something about being immersed in the inner-workings of the cottage and touching every surface and object here that deepens our commitment to it.  Emboldens our responsibility.  More than once, I have felt a presence and wondered which ancestor was joining me as I dusted the mantle, looked hard in the eyes of the pictures there, and made sure I was honoring and remembering those who have come before me.  Who have loved this place like I do.  (I wonder what pictures will remain of me – which future generation will look into my eyes in an old photograph?  Eyes that once saw and loved what they now see and cherish here.)

I’ve felt so often that our cottage is alive.  A living, breathing being that holds us and hears us.  That keeps us.  It has seen the best of us and the worst of us and through it all, it beckons to us year after year.  A part of our foundation, it is woven into the fiber of our beings.  The love and respect for this family cottage we all share, it is a privilege with which we have been bestowed.  It is a place where we were nurtured and given a firm sense of family and tradition.  How some can be called back year after year, while others find reasons to stay away – it’s not something I understand.  Because with every privilege, comes responsibility. Being here each summer, helping my mom open the cottage this past week, it makes me even more cognizant of the fact that the cottage is, and always will be, loved, cared for, fought over. That in our ancestors’ memory and honor, good stewards we strive to be. In their memory and honor, we try and do what is right and good. In their memory and honor, we try to be fair and fight the good fight.

It isn’t easy. It isn’t perfect. But it’s a labor of love. And we are all doing the best we know how.  No ill-intentions. No harsh judgments. Just giving of ourselves to that which has given so much to us and knowing that, perhaps, we have made a difference. Here. In the attention to detail we pay in our own lives. In our kids’.  For future generations to have and to cherish. 

It is a special place. It doesn’t bend to our will. It doesn’t change. It is what it is.

Everything to some. Unquestionably, everything to me.

A labor of love indeed.