It’s been quite a hiatus, between the holidays, traveling and eating myself into an early grave.  I swear I don’t do it on purpose but Running Boy is right:  writing when I’m happy is a lot harder than writing when I’m sad. 

Work has kept me busy, as well as the myriad of commitments and fun things that happen every December.  My kids had a great Christmas, and Arden lost both of her two front teeth just late enough where I couldn’t sing “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth”.  She has an adorable lisp now and a huge gap to accommodate her incoming fangs.  I spent most of their winter break trying to live in the moment and not think too much about the various uncertainties of my near-future.  I did well at that for a time, but am now back into planning mode.  It’s my nature to examine situations from all angles and attempt to have a game plan for any outcome.  Perhaps I should have been a lawyer, since that’s what most of them do for a living – figure out worst-case scenarios and ways to avoid them. 

I still love my job, but I occasionally mourn the loss of my mom-life where I could set my hours and spend time in the afternoons with the girls.  I don’t miss not having money and the times work would happen inevitably right after the girls got home, and I’d end up telling them to quiet down so I could get some stuff done or take a phone call.  My life is much more compartmentalized now than it was, and that’s been good for me. I thrive on routine and I love being able to come home from work and for the most part, shelve any feelings or ideas about it until the next morning at 8 am. 

Running Boy got me an iPad for Christmas, which was really unexpected and over the top but I am in love with that thing like whoa.  I think my recent bout of insomnia and sleep deprivation is directly related to the amount of time I spend glued to it, and Netflix is probably going to go bankrupt because of how many movies I have already downloaded.  I’ll get my $7.99/month worth, dammit. 

For our one year anniversary, we headed to Grottoes, VA for New Year’s weekend.  Two of our close friends joined us.  We stayed at a placed called the High Laurel Inn and it was amazing.  Perched on the side of a mountain overlooking the Shenandoah Valley, we had our own side of a converted barn complete with fireplace and private balcony.  Our friends had the other side of the barn.  Their big selling point to us was an outdoor 6 person hot tub sharing the same view with the rest of the property.  Much champagne and wine was consumed from that perch.  I slept a lot – more than I probably should have.  It had been awhile since I’d been able to unwind enough where I felt lazy and slothlike.  After a day of that, we spent New Year’s Day hiking.  Prior to that hike, I had run once and worked out on an elliptical machine once since being released back to normal life activity after a month off post-surgery.  Feeling cocky, lazy and slothlike,  we chose a “strenuous” 10 mile hike because our inn host offered to drop us at the trailhead.  Another selling point of the inn was the proximity to trails in the Shenandoah National Park.  We could hike the trail, then hop off when we passed by the inn. 
Although I’d looked at the trail map before we attempted the hike, I hadn’t really grasped the fact that the first 5 ½ miles were uphill.  And I mean straight uphill. Additionally, the idea was to hike the first half and run the trail the second half.  Anytime the ground began to “flatten out”, we started running.  By the time we got to the actual flattish part of the terrain, my quads were shot from going downhill and my calves were screaming up the uphill bits.  Run that trail once or twice a week and you’d be in great shape. 

The scenery was gorgeous, and would have made an excellent natural headstone for my dead body.  However, Running Boy kept pushing me onward and cheerfully pestering me with comments and questions.  Then he figured out the key to getting me through the hike: promising me dinner and another soak in the hot tub. 

After the immediate feeling of death passed, we talked about doing another hike soon since we did have a good time and it’s a pretty inexpensive (and healthy) way to spend a day.  I don’t want to make the same mistake I made while living in Northern Michigan.  Growing up around the beauty we had at our doorstep made me nearly immune to it.  As much as I gripe about Virginia, there are some amazing places to visit and things to do.  So as we save our money this winter and spring, we’ll probably be doing quite a bit of mountainous exploring and trail running. 

My lease is up in May – big decisions about what to do and how.  The only thing I know for certain is that I want to stay in the same school district.  I finally feel 100% happy with where they go, and I don’t want to rock that particular boat quite yet.  It makes my living options very limited as it’s a small area that feeds into their school.  Half of it is $500k and up homes; the other half is tiny brick ranchers that are still overpriced because of the school district.  I’m not really into either option.  That’s one of those areas I’m avoiding thinking about. 

In the meantime, I am still waiting for some finality in other areas of my life.  One of my big Christmas gifts came early when Running Boy got some closure.  The second half of that is right around the corner, and I will be so very happy when one less thing is hanging over both of our heads. 

A month or so ago, I posted the annual holiday letter my boss sends every year to family and friends. This year’s is fabulous, too, and with his permission, I’m posting it here.  I’ve removed any identifying details and edited it for content, but I’ve left his primary message intact.  Enjoy. 

I always admired the late Reverend Peter Gomes, whose messages from the pulpit in Harvard’s Memorial Church stirred a lot of souls – especially the memorial services he offered at each of the reunions we attended. Years ago I got to introduce Peter at a church fundraising dinner.  (When he referred to me as “Brother” during his remarks, this mid-western hayseed felt like he had made it to the big time!) Recently, we received a flyer announcing an auction of the contents of Peter’s homes. This flyer did what death usually does – reminded me of the value of life. On page 283 of The Good Life, Reverend Gomes wrote: “The good life is not to be found wrapped up and waiting for us like the Dead Sea Scrolls or some ancient artifacts from a culture that once flourished but is now long gone. Not at all. The good life, whose object, like that of hope, is a future good….enables us to live now that which we seek.” Living now that which we seek makes so much sense. Why do we think that real joy is the goal, rather than a daily choice? I am sure Peter left behind some wonderful items for auction, but the beauty of those antiques can’t compete with the messages of love and good-heartedness he left behind.

Peter also wrote and spoke about gratitude – which has been mentioned in numerous Holiday Letters over the years. Those of us who write these annual missives predictably express gratitude for our family and friends, and for the many blessings we have been given. For some reason, though, I have resisted practicing gratitude formally by following the recommended rituals. That may seem a little odd in the face of overwhelming evidence that keeping a so-called ‘Gratitude Journal’ makes us happier. Yet, I have not been able to discipline myself to do that, or anything else that is recommended by those who have studied the phenomenon.

One writer suggested that we should cultivate gratitude by taking a moment during each meal to tell those gathered what we are thankful for – not just during the Thanksgiving meal, but always. (It could lead to surprises, as I remember one Thanksgiving dinner at which a young Reid said he was thankful for Oprah and Wheel of Fortune.)  Maybe we will try this one in ’12.

Specifically, this year we are grateful that Paige is actually a fabulous teenager—the kind you can only hope for. (Can you believe she is driving?) We are thankful that Craig continues to pursue his passion of broadcasting baseball, and that he is enjoying all that Florida has to offer. We are grateful that Reid has continued to advance in his development; and we are grateful for the way Karen and I still have fun in all that we do together.

As some of you know from years of reading about Reid, he lives ‘in the moment’ with great joy. “Live now that which we seek…”  So, I thought I would share with you a poem I wrote about Reid several years ago:

There is something about Reid
that makes us smile
when he finds joy in the simplest things.

There is something about Reid
that makes him giggle,
seeing a moon, a sun, or a mouse.

There is something about Reid
that makes us happy
in the way his sweet heart sings.

There is something about Reid
that is so sincere when he invites
strangers for “supper me house?”

There is something about Reid
that gives us joy
as he asks for his favorite shows.

There is something about Reid
that touches souls
with the merriment our lives don’t allow.

There is something about Reid
that impresses us all
when we discover what he really knows.

There is something about Reid
that changes our hearts
when he says “me happy now.”

After Craig’s terrific writing last year, many of you are probably a little disappointed to see me back in the game. And I had truly thought I was retired. But when your brother comes through major brain surgery safely and successfully, you feel compelled to write a little bit more about gratitude—and miracles.  Those of you who have read The Secret know that there is great power in our thoughts. When it was discovered that Rick had a tumor, hundreds of people openly offered “thoughts and prayers.” Relatives, friends, contacts on Facebook and Linkedin, co-workers at my firm, and the parishioners at our church all offered “thoughts and prayers.” (Even a stranger I chatted with in Denver added Rick to his prayer list…) Don’t ever doubt the power of thoughts and prayers. There is no doubt in my mind that the team of surgeons had an extra pair of divine hands in the operating room. The joy we feel knowing that Rick will be fine is indescribable. I look forward to playing lots of golf with him in the years to come.

Amidst all of this, I continue to be moved by remarks made by the Headmaster of (children’s school) at a Thanksgiving assembly over a year ago.  Loosely interpreted, he reminded us that we should be thankful for sadness, because it magnifies our happiness. We should be thankful for loneliness, as it gives us a greater appreciation for connection. And we can celebrate failure, for without it we would know less success. Reverend Gomes said we could only know true joy, if we knew suffering. Indeed, life is rich in joy and sorrow, in achievement and disappointment, in gain and loss. We are so very thankful to be on this journey with such supportive friends and family, as well as those unnamed Angels that move in and out of our lives. May each of us be an Angel for someone every day.

I would like to share a quote from The Power (sequel to The Secret): “So how do you fall in love with life? The same way you fall in love with another person—you adore everything about them! You fall in love with another person by seeing only love, hearing only love, speaking only love, and by feeling love with all your heart!  And that is exactly how you use the ultimate power of love in love with life.”  Now, combine this thinking with a quote from Albert Einstein: “Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life’s coming attractions.” We have unlimited potential. Turn your imagination loose. Decide what you want….believe you can have it, believe you deserve it, believe it’s possible for you, and have an extraordinary holiday season.

A note from the daughter: 

Even though Dad is “out of retirement” from writing the holiday letter, he asked mom and me (Paige) to add our thoughts this year. Dad has asked me several times to write the holiday letter, saying it would be a great opportunity, but I never took him up on the offer. I was always a little nervous about jumping into something that he has done for so many years, and for a piece of writing about which a lot of people openly express joy upon reading. I certainly didn’t feel prepared to step into those shoes. My other issue was that I never felt like I had anything truly inspiring to share. This is probably the first year that I have actually been able to somewhat connect myself to the things Dad has to say in the letter.

After reading The Secret, Dad did not want to keep the things he had learned to himself. Mom and I listened to him describe the messages and different ways he thought it could really change a person’s life. However, keep in mind that I live under the same roof as him, so our whole family is subject to these eye-opening things Dad has to say throughout the whole year—not just in this letter. And I do admit that I didn’t give it much thought the first time Dad talked about it. Then one day during wellness week, which is my school’s version of drug and alcohol awareness and prevention, the guest speaker suddenly asked if we had ever learned about the power of thought. Many in the room were clueless to the idea, but I knew what he was talking about. He went on to describe a time when he was so nervous about a public speaking event, that he envisioned himself doing the presentation and having it be a huge success, and by the time he got up on stage, he wasn’t a bit nervous and did a great job.

So maybe this crazy idea that Dad had shared with us was something bigger then I realized; maybe it was really possible too. All I know is if a 16 year old daughter can be inspired by an idea so grand and unimaginable, it could truly be life changing after all.

I know my boss has his cranky times or when he feel less than stellar (or feels not in the slightest bit like being politically correct or stroking yet another ego), but in general he exudes joy and confidence and happiness.  I’ve never worked for someone like him, which in a way makes me nervous because I don’t know how to deal with someone who appears to open and truly interested in helping his team members succeed.  I enjoyed his letter this year as it personally spoke to me (again!).  I myself have experienced first-hand the healing and inspiring power that love has over us, and I know that the love I’ve given out this year has made a difference to many different people (including one in particular). 

A week or so ago, someone I work with was telling me about a major life decision she’d made.  She had been a single mother for almost 2 decades and had a rough time going from staying home with her daughters to being able to find a job, learning new skills, crawling her way up, one step at a time.  She shared that she was often frightened of taking unnecessary risks because she felt her footing was always so unstable, and her time always so limited.  There were a number of major decisions she’d made, but she was telling me how she knew she’d made the right ones and when to run from others.

“I’m at peace when I make the right decision,” she said, “and when I am going in the wrong direction, I feel out of sorts, chaotic.”  She has a very strong faith and talks about God using the types of words I reserve for therapy – asking for help, digging for the truth, relying on faith to get you where you are going, working hard to do the right things. 

I’ve rarely felt pure peace with the decisions I’ve made in the past.  Even going back to work full-time, though very necessary and much appreciated, has not been 100% peaceful.  Just last night Lily turned on the waterworks again over how much she misses me in the afternoons and how she wishes I could go back to being her mom that was at the bus stop and made snacks and hosted play dates. 

(note:  I really think she misses the play dates more than anything having to do with me, but it’s sweet nonetheless)

I think this is fairly normal, feeling bittersweet about things you’ve done in the past.  People often ask if I regret my marriage and the answer is always a solid “hell, no.”  I still care about and respect Mike in many ways.  We made two amazing children, had many good years and developed ourselves and our careers together.  I’m bittersweet about the pain the dissolution caused me and my family, and any potential permanent damage it may have caused.  Sometimes I look back and question all the steps that led me to where I am today.  At the end, though, it doesn’t matter.  I’m here, I’m me, and most of the time I like both of those things. 

One of the things holding me back was the plain old vanilla variety of fear.  Divorced people are the true walking wounded, dragging around dead love and bags full of sadness into their future lives.  Everyone carries their burdens differently.  I have friends who have literally jumped from the marital bed into another marital bed, almost without blinking.  I have other friends who grew intense distrust in their minds, a different kind of poisonous mushroom, and avoid relationships altogether.  Still others seek out destructive patterns almost as if they want to be reminded of everything that went wrong in their marriage.  Many of them have come out of it now, having shaken off the dirt of their interim periods.  For me, I dragged fear out of my marriage.  I dated people that weren’t by any means good enough for me or worth 2 minutes of my time.  I had friends in my life that made me crazier than I already was.  I surrounded myself with liars and cheats and in some cases, thieves – both of my time and the little money I had. 

This just made the fear so much worse. If I couldn’t trust my judgment (because obviously, my judgment is no good:  the person I married is no longer my husband, so that’s Failure – 1, Judgment – 0).  Then I continued to make bad decisions, wrong decisions, and suspect decisions.  I started to do the opposite of what my brain told me to do because there was no way it could be right when so often it had been wrong. 

Even as recently as August, I was struggling with self-doubt and against those things I felt were good.  I couldn’t find a job, my relationships with others seemed either completely disconnected or shallow, and my relationship with Running Boy was complicated by a whole bunch of external factors.  I was tired and at times it seemed like it was easier just to cocoon myself, make sure I didn’t hurt anyone, anything, or myself. 

So this fall, I took it slowly.  I made careful decisions.  I thought through my job decision carefully.  I eased into working; normally I come in with both barrels blazing ready to change the world. This time I let myself adapt to corporate life after all these years, one single toe in the company water at a time.  I stopped worrying about my relationships and what was going to happen and started focusing on the moments in between the worry – the moments where my life actually happened. 

And I realized:  I was happy.  Content.  Satisfied with my life and the direction, with how my children have adapted; hell, I was even pleased with how Thora had finally stopped eating my house or destroying expensive things (this was because I changed my approach to her, and stopped leaving those things where she could reach them). 

I’ve made some seriously major decisions in the past month.  At some point I’ll be able to talk about them, but not right now.  I’m still sitting with them, cautiously enjoying them, poking them to make sure they aren’t suddenly going to turn into monsters with teeth and hair and start biting me.  They haven’t.  When I made the biggest decision, I woke up the next morning expecting to feel dread or despair.  Instead, I felt peace and comfort.  I had the usual niggling worries, but none of the big screaming doubts and insecurities.  It felt right, and not just at that moment. 

Days have passed and I still wake up every morning calm and peaceful.  It seems like 3 years of terror’s chaotic reign has decided to pack up and move to more pleasant quarters.  I feel like I’m visiting myself in the past, when I had my shit together and I was a normal person who wasn’t stressed to the gills and ripping myself to pieces internally every day.  It was good to meet my old self, but with a new-found sense of security and conviction.  Do I know I’m 100% right?  Nope, never will.  But I do know this:  I’ve never felt more certain about any decision I’ve made. 

You know all those “how to deal” books they sell parents on dealing with temper tantrums?  They need to sell those same books to adults in general - about how to deal with mature temper tantrums. 

I exaggerate as usual.  I’m not wearing a diaper or throwing myself face down on the floor. Not yet at least. 

I don’t know.  I guess that I thought this summer would finally be the one where I stopped being stressed and magically appeared on the other side of my divorce, smiling and with a sunflower blooming out of my butt.  I was wrong; I need to be flexible and adjust my expectations.  Note:  I’m terrible at adjusting my expectations. 

So looking inside my head, here’s what I thought.

Illusion 1:  Boyfriend and I would take the SAME week off in August.  We would go somewhere fabulous.  He’d be divorced!  His ex-wife would not only have stopped bleeding him dry, she’d be paying HIM!  It would involve an airplane, fruity drinks with umbrellas and possibly some bad Mexican food or an iceberg (either one was okay). 

Reality 1:  Divorce hearing has been postponed to September.  I’m still technically dating a married man.  Dates were not communicated clearly between me and the married man.  We ended up with consecutive weeks off.  In other words, he’s free when I have my kids and I have 8 days off with no kids when he’s with his kids 24/7.  My ex had already booked his trip with the kids; he wasn’t able to change the dates.  Boyfriend had no choice as usual and was given dates by his ex - take it or leave it.  End result:  no mexican food or icebergs. 

Illusion 2:  I could go “home” again.  I talked to some friends in my hometown.  One of my friends - known him for 23 years - offered me a couch and a car.  Camping and hiking and day tripping were mentioned.  I pictured myself practicing yoga at early dawn at the beach.  I pictured myself sleeping at Christmas Cove, feet in hot sand.  There might be a fruity drink; there would be no icebergs.  It sounded heavenly, seeing a few of the people I still love and miss in my home town.

Reality 2:  My friend can’t have me stay at his house for various reasons.  I don’t have access to a car.  I can’t impose on my other friends for that long of a period a time.  I can’t afford to rent a car - the ticket alone up there broke me for the month of July.  I can’t afford to rent a hotel room during peak season.  Basically the entire way and means for my trip went bye-bye.  My reality is a heady combination of severe bummed-outedness about not seeing my other friends there and a deep throbbing sadness because of the choices my couch-sponsoring friend has decided to make.  My vacation is blown, yes, but I’m more upset that my friendship is blown.  Whatever.  No one else seems to get their panties in a wad when things end badly; not sure why I do at this age. 

Illusion 3:  Now desperately seeking any type of Farewell to Summer 2011 that includes getting out of Richmond (even 30 miles out of Richmond), and preferably the Boyfriend, I pitch a one-night get away to a nearby beach.  Turns out that can’t happen either; he’s taking time off the week he has his kids, and unless I want to go home with him (and the kids) for close to 5 days, there isn’t going to be any sort of get away and there definitely will be no fruity drinks with umbrellas. 

I’ll turn back into the cheery person I know I can be, and be happy for all the glorious and wonderful things in my life, but tonight - and really, the last 5 days - has been spent feeling like someone took a poop on my ice cream sundae.  I feel whiny:  I work hard.  This summer, I’ve been working two jobs.  I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t working at night, either on my own business or cleaning my house or doing laundry or packing lunches for camp.  I do not remember the last time I sat in front of a television without my computer or a pile of laundry.  Right now, I should be processing orders or embroidering something, but I’m going to allow myself to sulk.  I can be an adult tomorrow, tell myself to buck up, and move on.  My life is complex right now and involves working with an ex-husband, 2 kids, a Boyfriend, his 2 kids, his job, my job, and my paying job.  Making plans is an act of Congress (well, perhaps easier than an act of Congress, based on the recent past), and sometimes they go awry.  Right now, though, I wish someone else would whisk me away and relieve me of making plans for anyone and anything, and let me sleep 8 hours a night, tell me NOT to run, and tell me that not training for this triathlon that’s three weeks away is no big deal and I can totally do this thing in my sleep. 

While I wait for that, I’m going to fix myself some non-fat sherbet and stick an umbrella in it.  Happy Summer Vacation to me. 

May 3, 1991

Dear Future Self:

I’m sitting here in our semi-dirty apartment on Catherine Street while Tim makes cinnamon rolls from scratch in the kitchen.  There’s a joke in there somewhere but I don’t know what it is.  I’m looking around at this place in all its grungy glory - the pink stove (before breast cancer pink comes into fashion), the avocado green refrigerator.  I spend a lot of time here being smart, feeling sad, writing, experimenting.  Even now I get how geeky it is to spend my Tuesday nights in the Objectivist philosophy group.  Shouldn’t we be out drinking and smoking, like other college kids?  Let’s hope you laugh when you read this, because you’ll remember all the bad decisions we made this year and in the next few to come. 

I know us well.  I know we’re going to have a ton of fun in our 20’s.  The palm reader we’ll go to in 1994 will tell us the truth:  the years between 22 and 30 will be constant chaos, moving, change, loving, leaving, ups and downs.  The 30’s are supposed to be our best, most stable years.  I can see us getting married to some nice boy from Jersey, wearing a pretty white dress, anorexia serving us well.  We’ll pop out some beautiful kids, buy a house, practice being Holly Homemaker in the suburbs.  But knowing us, we’ll get itchy the further away from our roots we get.  And knowing us, we’ll probably blow it because rising from the ashes is what we do best. 

I’d like to think that we’re going to do something spectacular before turning 40.  Write a book.  Climb a mountain.  Become a nun.  Become a patron of the arts (no idea where the money to be a philanthropist is going to come from, but just go with me on this one).  Become Volunteer of the Year, or start a kennel for dogs who need homes.  But if not, I’m still going to try to be proud of us.  Being a mom is an achievement too, and sometimes being a mom means putting the other stuff aside for a few years. 

It’s funny to know that I am hyper-critical of myself right now, and I know that at 40, we’ll look in the mirror and think, “DAMN, I looked good when I was 20.”  I still don’t see what you will see, but I’ll give it to you.  At 40 we will be wrinkled and curmudgeonly, because from way back here in 1991, 40 seems really freakin’ old.  People will probably tell us that we look great for 40.  Right now, looking younger is annoying because I’m constantly carded when buying cigarettes or trying to get into a club.  At 20, I’m sitting here in Ann Arbor at the peak of our beauty and unfortunately, I suck at appreciating my size 6 curvy body.  I’m hopeful that we will be happier in our skin at 40, even though there’s a lot more skin in which to be happy. 

When I think of us married, I get sort of hazy and woozy.  Our friends already plan their weddings - Genevieve even picks up Modern Bride at the drugstore.  I’m not planning our wedding quite yet.  I don’t really get the whole idea of marriage, but that’s probably because I don’t date anyone but men who should have their legs tethered to cement blocks and dropped into Lake Huron.  We’ve made lots of bad decisions, not going with our gut, not trusting our instincts.  I’m fairly certain we’re going to struggle with that a bunch more in the next 20 years, but by 40, let’s hope you get our crap together for us, girlfriend.  Right now I’m allowed to flounder, change my mind, sway in the breeze.  In another 20 years, however, you need to give us some backbone and decide what is right for us.  I’m counting on you, grandma. 

Whatever we’re doing at 40, I think it’s going to be fabulous.  How can I think anything else?  Maybe you’ll even surprise me - take up running, actually beat an eating disorder, find someone worthy to love and be the type of person who is worth enough to be loved as well.  Stranger things have happened.

No matter what, we’re in this together - so make our 40’s spectacular.  I’m counting on you to make this life worth it. 

- Cristina