The Ghost of Christmas Past... and Christmas yet to come...

Christmas is over.  Well, not completely over.  The day is over but the feeling lingers...   For me,  Christmas happens more fully once the day itself has passed.  Once the pressure has lifted and the work is done.  Then comes the real holiday -- a time to reflect and relax and enjoy the fruits of all the planning and hard work.  If only we could do more of that ahead of the holiday so that the anticipation could be more joyful and holy and sweet.  I have been working on that for a while now, and try to remember each year to savor the pre-Christmas as much as the post.

When the kids were little, I struggled so with this holiday which consists largely of mercantile madness.  I felt so underneath all the lists and the self-imposed intensity and the need to buy for everyone the perfect gift.

The bitter irony is that we women have taken a beautiful time of year and turned it into a frenzy.  We women created this insanity. I mean, really, do you see men freaking out about lists and home-made jam and what to buy nieces and nephews they never see and whose names they don't even remember?  I confess that in years past, I secretly strove for a picture perfect Edwardian Christmas with the smell of delicious foods and mulled cider wafting through the house, my children dressed in lovely clothes, stringing garlands of popcorn and cranberries for the tree (we actually did that one year), delivering hand-made gifts to neighbors and friends (yes - we've made homemade marmalade and cookies), our gingerbread house made from scratch sitting proudly on the dining table (done it -- more than once).  But, unlike the Edwardian days, we don't have servants to help, we work part- or full-time jobs and we are blinking exhausted from just the normal wear and tear of our lives.  However, most women I know push Christmas and push it hard and we drive our men and everyone else crazy with it all.


What if we didn't do it?  What if we just let it happen and unfold on its own?

The Last Day of School

I talked briefly with my daughter, Sarah, today.  "I can't talk long, Mom," she explained.  She was working away on her final paper and studying for exams, and making arrangements for graduation on Saturday.  Just before we said goodbye she said, "Mom...  this is my last day of my undergraduate education."   I was stopped in my verbal tracks, took it in for a moment, and then felt hot tears welling in my eyes.  "Wow," I said so very eloquently.  And then my throat closed up and I started to cry - just a little, and silently - with the realization of how momentous this is.  Her LAST DAY of school.  We've been at this since Kindergarten and here it is her last day.  I have written much about the first day of school, but never really thought about what the last day would feel like. This time tomorrow, she will be finished with classes and papers and books and deadlines and presentations and exams and homework.  17 years of school.  I am so proud and so happy and so amazed that this moment has arrived.  Wow.

What will it be like to have a child FINISHED with school?  At least for now.  (She plans to go on to graduate studies.)  I imagine much the same in terms of finding out how things are going at work, trials and triumphs of life in the world, relationship ups and down.  It will all continue.  But, tonight, I am standing on a threshold, and when I step across that line, I will have one child out of school, independent of me, on her way to the adult world.

Julia had her last soccer game this week.  Her last!  She's been playing with this team since they were too small to fit into the shirts and we had to wash them in very hot water so that they would sort of fit.  And now that they are 18, this is it.  They are officially too old to play next year - not to mention that they will all be off to college.  We all got a little misty at the end of the game.  One last "Hey!  Whose water bottle is this?"  "Pick up your orange peels!"  But largely missing was the "See you at practice."  Or, "Have a great winter - see you next fall!"  It felt final - but right.  It's time.  The girls are ready to be finished.  But then again, not...  you know how it goes.

We are all walking through this door together.  Our family is growing up.

Wow.

Thanksgiving Sunrise and Rutabagas

Thanksgiving has come and gone.  Again.  Our second since moving out of the house and on board our sailboat.

One of the challenges of moving onto the boat was how to do the holidays.  Our oven doesn't hold the usual 20 lb turkey and I'm not ready to "just get a small turkey breast" as my mother suggested.  Someday, yes, someday.  But not yet.  Last year we borrowed a friend's beach cabin on Anderson Island and went there with my sister and her new Brazilian husband.  Sarah was in France so it was Dan, Julia and I.  It was nice, yes, but it felt really odd to me.  Not my house, not my stuff, nothing familiar, nothing that felt ritualistic.  My sister was happy because she was back in the states after nearly 3 years in Brazil.  And she had spent quite a bit of time at this cabin in years past and had many memories of happy gatherings.  So for her it was a homecoming of sorts - but for me it was baffling.  I missed Sarah and kept tripping over myself trying not to run the show, as I am wont to do, or complain, as I am also known to do on occasion...   C'mon, Irene - positive attitude!  It's not the place, it's not even the food, it's the gathering, the people, the attitude of gratitude.

Our tradition for over 20 years was that Dan would wake early, make the stuffing, stuff the turkey and put it in the oven.  At some point, one or both girls would wake and make their way down to the kitchen to keep him company and comfort the poor turkey who Dan would make dance and talk back to them as they assured him that it was okay that we were eating him today.  They called it "turkey psychology" and they did it every Thanksgiving.  At least that's what they told me because I wasn't there.  Thanksgiving morning was my turn to sleep late - a well-earned sleep - my reward for nights on end cooking cranberry sauce, rutabaga, pies, extra stuffing...  after shopping and cleaning and inviting and planning.   I would wake up to the smell of turkey just starting to brown, smile, roll over, and go back to sleep until it was seared to perfection.

Feast on the Silence

Friday evening.  I'm on the boat alone -- a rare treat that I am savoring like my last piece of chocolate.

One of the downsides to boat life is that alone time is a rare commodity.  For me, time alone is as essential to my health as food and water.  If I don't have time to myself -- time to think, write, reflect, create -- then I start to lose emotional weight.  I cannot function in the way that I want to be in the world because a part of me is literally starving.  I become cranky, impatient, critical and everything but loving and kind.  It's ugly.  And it feeds on itself.

Saving Starfish

It's been raining hard in Seattle for several days now.  The gusts of wind at night are intense - I'd guess last night's blow to be at times in the 50's (knots per hour, that is).  During the night, while we slept, the boat strained on its lines and the rain beat down hard, waking me up repeatedly.  I was okay with it because a) I knew we were perfectly safe and b) because it is the most delicious feeling in the world to snuggle deeper under the covers, safe and sound, while a storm is raging just inches away from my bed.  The boat is warm and dry and we are completely protected - but we are as close to the weather as we could be and still be unaffected.

Last night, before turning in for the night, I realized that Lovey (my 10 year old dog and the love of my life)  still needed to be walked.  Mind you, on a boat, way out on the end of the dock, this is no small feat - not even close to opening the front door and letting the dog out for a quick pee, shivering on the front porch while waiting.  We chose our slip out at the end of E-dock, intentionally - it's quiet, it's private, and we have easy access to an unobstructed view of the sunset over the Olympics.  But it's about a quarter mile down the dock, a sharp right on the last finger pier and then a hairpin left to the ramp.  Then up the ramp to the parking lot and then a little ways to a place where Lovey can do her business.  So - last night when I realized that I still had this considerable chore before pj's and book time, I groaned, but then suited up and suited Lovey up (yes, she has a raincoat, too) and began the process of helping her off the boat and then starting our snail's pace walk (she's kind of a creaky old thing) down the dock.   The temperature was on the warmer side, the rain had slowed to a fine mist and it was actually pretty in a rainy sort of way.

As I turned right at the end of the dock, heading towards the ramp, I saw two oddly-shaped things on the dock.  At first I thought someone had dropped a couple of banana peels.

But as I got closer, I saw that they were starfish. Both were upside down and therefore unable to move on their own to safety.  The light shining on them illuminated their many little "legs," wriggling, waving, seemingly frantically, but making contact only with the air above them.  I wondered if the extreme low tide had caused them to fall off a pier pole, but then surmised that a seagull had dropped its snack, unable to carry it and fly in the rain. (I have watched a seagull swallow a starfish - hard to believe if you've never seen it.  The starfish ended up lodged in the gull's neck, protruding at odd angles, rendering the gull more of a cartoon character and a comical one at that.)   Lying on the dock, these two creatures could easily become a midnight snack for an otter or a more determined sea gull.

I picked one up and tossed it gently back in the water.  Lovey and I watched it float slowly down to the bottom of the clear night water.  I nudged the other with my foot until it plopped over the side of the dock.  I forgot about the rain for a few moments and looked into the water thinking about the life down below and the starfish finding their way to safety, snuggling under their covers while the storm raged overhead.  It was lovely and something that would never have happened except for my old dog who needed a walk.  We saved a couple of starfish tonight, Lovey and I.

Goodbye and Hello/A New Job Description

This time that is described as "change of life" is so much more than hot flashes and changing bodies.  Our lives are truly changing. My mother-in-law is declining as a result of congestive heart failure.  My father is suffering from Parkinsons.  A friend just died of cancer.  My children are flapping their wings harder and harder and getting ready to leave the nest for good.  It's as though my job description is being rewritten, but no one has shown it to me yet and I'm not sure what to do.  How do I function in a world where I am no longer a daughter?  Where I no longer buy my mother-in-law a Christmas present? Where I am no longer a mother in the way I have been for 22 years?  How will it be in the office without our friend and co-worker?

I met a woman on the beach last week -- both of us walking our dogs on a fresh, sunny fall morning --  and, remarkably for the fact that we were strangers to one another, we had this very conversation.  She lost her husband when she was in her mid-40's, raised their two children and for 30 years carved out a life of her own.  She has lived in France, California and lots of places in between. She teaches yoga to seniors.  She is a landlady of a property she bought recently.  When we met, she was recovering from a broken back, suffered on a bike trip in Italy.   When I told her what was going on in my life, she said, "Wonderful, Irene!" Without minimizing or dismissing what I was experiencing, she said, "Irene, life is changing for you and you are heading in a new direction - -and it is wonderful.  I promise you, it will be okay."

It's hard to see it that way at this moment, but I think she is right.  I am going to make sure that she is.

Janet

Janet, my co-worker and friend, died 3 hours after we left her yesterday.  The overwhelming feeling is relief.  The slow-building grief has not yet surfaced.  But it will - oh yes it will.  I spent the day the day telling people the news - our staff, others around the hospital, administrators, Human Resources.  It was exhausting but real and gave me something to focus on - a way to help.  The conversations were rich, the loss is deep.  It's raw.

Falling in Love with the Sun

One of our staff members at work is dying.  Her cancer was in remission when she was hired 10 years ago.  Last year in early fall, it reared its ugly head again and this time it was tenacious, vicious, aggressive -- and bullied her until it became clear that it would win its evil battle.  Today, a few of us from the office went to visit her - to say goodbye.  This woman with whom we have shared work, staff meetings, lunches, coffee breaks, and plenty of laughter....  this woman with a heart of gold who always had a positive word and a compliment for everyone...  this woman for whom work and co-workers gave her life purpose, second only to her daughter and grandchildren...  this woman who does not want to die....  is dying.  Four of us stood around her bed in her condo, with her daughter nearby, as she gasped for breath, and became alternately agitated and then so quiet that at one point I thought she was gone.  We held her hands and rubbed her legs and arms, and spoke to her.  She knew we were there.  She tried to speak.  But it was unintelligible -- kind of like she was reciting the vowels.  I think she was saying I love you.  We told her we loved her and that we would miss her.  We cried.  We said goodbye.  And when we left we knew we had seen her for the last time.

On the way back to the office, from my vantage point in the back seat of my co-worker's car, I looked at the orange and red leaves starting to fall from the trees.  I watched children playing at recess in a school yard.  I felt the warmth of the sun through the window and everything was vivid and clear and I thought about Janet who would never see the sun again, never feel its warmth, never see the sights I was taking in as we drove.   I looked up at the sky and remembered the way it felt to be in the back seat as a kid when my parents were driving and tried to remember what it felt like to not even know how to drive and to just be lost in my own thoughts, watching the world go past, totally at the mercy of my parents' wishes and schedule.  Not in charge, not in control, no responsibility, just following.  That seems like a long time ago - it was a long time ago.  Then again, how in heaven's name, I wondered, has it come to this?  To be a woman in her early 50's saying goodbye to a dying friend in her early 60's, and feeling like it is just too darn soon.  I fell in love with the sun at that moment which was shining brilliantly on a perfect fall day. 


When we got back to the parking lot at work we hugged each other goodbye, knowing we had just shared a profound moment.  As I jumped into my car, I felt my phone buzzing in my pocket.  I reached in, flipped it open and saw a text from my daughter, Julia.  "Mom - do u want 2 meet for sushi at 2?  My treat?"  "U bet!" I texted back immediately.  We sat together in a warm, Japanese restaurant, sun streaming in through the window,  drank green tea, talked about her boyfriend and school and  - you know, stuff - and ate sushi.  She picked up the tab and we walked arm in arm back to our cars.  I fell in love with the sun for the second time that day.

The Laundromat gave me Hope

For a year and a half, I have resided at Shilshole Bay Marina in Seattle.  On a boat.  A sailboat.   Some people, upon hearing what we have done, say "Cool!" or "I've always wanted to do that!"  Others say, "Sooooo...   are you homeschooling your daughter?  Do you have heat?  Do you have running water? Does the boat rock at night?" (No, Yes, Yes, No.)  All legitimate questions.   But, living on a boat is really not as primitive as it may sound.  It is merely an alternative lifestyle and one that we share with about 30 others on our dock.  10% of the boats at this huge marina are "liveaboards."  So it's not as strange as it may seem.