My House

     It's a snow day in my city... something that hasn't happened in 25 years. This means many things, but one thing is that all of the schools are shut down today and tomorrow because of the "worst spring blizzard in decades". After living through the worst winter also in decades, trudging through the snow in subarctic temperatures daily to my car to drive to work on icy roads, I feel like I've been given a surreal gift -- two days of living outside of normal. My educator self can abandon her routine for the next few days and do whatever she wants. Although I like my job, I welcome this mandate thrust upon us all by the city: Stay Home.

    At the moment, the snow is falling only lightly, teasing us, making us wonder what it's going to do next. It was raging earlier in the day though, rapidly covering everything that had only recently melted. I watch the thin wispy flakes playing around outside my window and have a little chuckle, followed by a zen moment of sorts. I am reminded of the power of weather, of snow, wind, and rain, and of all of the other things that nature has in store for us, things that we can't stop from happening. My zen reflection involves an aspect of surrender for sure, and I am well aware that I sit from a position of privilege to ponder this all from my cozy house. But ponder I will. Because I am good at that sort of thing. 

    Just like I've been at the mercy of the weather, so too have I been at the mercy of my house this past winter, and I don't think this is going to end anytime soon. My house is 113 years old and although is still going strong and is blessed with an amazing bone structure and overall good health, her age is no longer a well-kept secret. There have been too many signs in the last while, too many giveaways that can't be ignored. They pile inside and upon her centenarian frame, screaming,  "Notice me, you idiot. Tend to what needs fixing, and tend to it now... or else!" 

    The signs are numerous and varied. Cracks of all sizes, shapes and depths run along ceilings and walls. Most are small, thin, almost imperceptible and require my reading glasses to fully see them. But some are not small. Some are strangely large and filled with a meaning I struggle to know. They require no reading glasses. They are the ones yelling at me as I pass, gliding innocently along in a room. I say innocent because that is how I feel. Because I am not the one who did this. It is being done to me. This aging house is doing it, despite all of the caregiving I've done. She invites the mice in through the basement, and the squirrels in through the roof. She creates water stains on a patch in the kitchen. She makes paint buckle in odd places, nothing extreme, but just enough to notice. She lifts shingles off the roof and lets the water in. She causes faucets to drip. She creaks and makes bizarre noises when I'm trying to enjoy the quiet. She basically does her own thing lately and doesn't seem to give a damn about me. 

    So, recently, I was ready to abandon her. I emailed my realtor (the one who found this ancient beauty for me) in the midst of yet another domestic crisis and told her I might be ready to sell. That day, my house had decided she couldn't take the extreme wind chill anymore and the pipes in the upstairs bathroom froze. Although this was nothing new since I had experienced it off and on over the past decade and knew from experience that it would likely be brief, I felt something inside of me snapping. It didn't help that the pipes in the downstairs bathroom had also been frozen at this point for well over 2 months (worst winter in decades remember), or that a part in my new dishwasher had also frozen and burst, and I was waiting for it to be repaired as well. It didn't help that things just kept happening, breaking, cracking, and freezing. It didn't help that she was 113 fucking years old I guess.

    So in a moment of weakness and frustration, mostly for having to take care of all things house related alone, being a single woman, I reached out to my realtor. I was ready to take the plunge, to get rid of all homeowner responsibilities for good. I was ready for modern, clean, and slick rooms, and walls with no cracks. I wanted contemporary, and wanted to join the times. I was looking forward to a future of no longer worrying about what my 113 year old house would be up to next, and what I would have to do to handle it. I was ready for apartment or condo living. So I arranged a time for the realtor to come and assess my house, and I told my son. I said that the house had served us well for the past 11 years but that it was time to move on now as we were entering a new phase of our lives. I felt emotional but spoke rationally, plainly, surprising myself with my logical arguments. Maybe this wouldn't be so hard after all. 

    Then something happened to change the tangent I was on. I think I started to fall in love with my house all over again. Looking through the condo listings that my realtor sent, I felt uneasy inside. The same thing happened when I scrolled through current apartments for rent on the internet. It just didn't feel right. Try as I might, I couldn't see myself or my son in those spaces, even in their sparkling perfectness. And when I did see us, it was all of the things I knew would annoy me-- like balconies overlooking parking lots, or hearing the neighbours' footsteps overhead as I tried to sleep, or smelling someone else's cooking as it wafted under my door-- basically all of the things I'd experienced a long time ago when I did my share of apartment living. Things that were part of another era and that I didn't want to revisit. So I decided to stay in this house and to keep looking after her as I'd looked after her for almost 12 years. For awhile longer anyway.

    Since I made my decision, I've felt a lightness that I haven't felt in awhile. I know there are things that need doing around here and that my 113 year old host won't be happy until I do them. The difference is that I no longer feel like I need to go into battle with my house every time something needs tending to. So I made a few preliminary phone calls to get the ball rolling. I'm not deluded, I know there will be more phone calls, decisions and projects to tackle as long as I choose to remain in this house. But the lightness means I'm okay to do those things for the time being. More than okay really. I look forward to sinking my body into my old comfy couch in my front porch this summer with a good book, as I do every summer. The porch might be my favourite room in the house with its old windows and doors draped in character and cradling me in a warm embrace. I'm just not ready to give that up. 

    

    

My Son Turned 18 The Other Day

     My son turned 18 two days ago, and I've been walking around in a bit of a surreal state ever since, which is kind've baffling to me. I mean, I knew this day was coming. Things crept deliberately and consistently towards it, like they always do. Life happened, as it always does, and here we are... he is now 18, and I am now 53. It all makes sense because it happened the way it's supposed to happen. But I'm baffled nonetheless. The boy grew up. It wasn't an instantaneous process. So why does it feel like it was? Why does it feel like it was just last week that I was cuddling his 4 year old self, cozy in his bed, reading a story to cap off the day? I blame my memory. It's playing tricks on me.

    Lately, my memory won't quit. Thoughts, images and feelings have been weaving themselves through me, at random hours of the day and night. A few nights ago, I got up at 3am for a routine trip to the bathroom, crawled back into bed and thought I'd just drift off to sleep again as I usually do, but no go. My memory decided to do it's magic, rendering me wide-eyed in the dark. Suddenly, we were both about 10 years younger, my son and I, and I had a full-on memory of a ritual we had back then, one that I now see as a beautiful thing because of its simplicity.     

    In this particular snapshot, we are both in the living room in our house, on a pull-out sofa. The snow is fiercely blowing outside and we can see its frantic dance through the windows as we look out from our cozy refuge within. The sofa bed is the focal point of the room, and my son and I (and our dog Licorice) are tucked under blankets, propped up on pillows, and having one of our favourite kinds of days: A Stay-At-Home-Day. His 7 or 8 year old hands are holding a DS device, or an xbox controller. I sit beside him, teacup in hand, reading. We are each doing our own thing in this snapshot, but we are doing our own thing together. The feelings this image generates in me are lovely ones- calmness, coziness, contentment- and the act of being together in this space is precious to me. 

    I created this ritual shortly after we moved into the house, so my son would have been 7 years old then. It was something that happened every few Sundays in the winter months. I'd either decide it would be a stay-at-home day, or he would request one. We would pull out the sofa together, set it up with blankets and pillows and proceed to hang out there together for the afternoon and into the early evening. We ate snacks and dinner there, watched movies there, read, played board games, or sat side by side doing our own thing separately. The activities varied, but they all happened nestled under blankets on the sofa bed. Our homebody selves loved it.

    When I asked my son what he wanted to do on his actual birthday (apart from the family celebrations we already had, and the birthday friend outing), his request was simple. He wanted me to order sushi and watch 4 episodes of Game of Thrones with him. I've been watching the series with him for the past few weeks even though my sensitive self doesn't deal well with violence, gore and brutality, partly because he asked me repeatedly to do it and I caved to stop the harassment. But deep down, I know the main reason I'm doing it is to spend time with him, to have him nearby, to be with him in the cozy space of our living room, like we used to do when he was younger. The real reason is because time is doing that train racing thing again lately and I sometimes feel instant surges of panic as I realize my son is one day going to jump on that train and leave my house, likely for good. Although I want him to be able to leave and thrive out there in the world, and will encourage it, part of me also wants to cling and hold him tightly, inhaling the scent of him and not letting go.

    So, sitting there together eating sushi and watching the show the other night, my memory jumped back again to our stay-at-home days together when he was a child, and I was filled with intense love and sadness all at once. My eyes lingered for a moment on his almost-fully grown adult self, while my memory played its tricks, morphing him into that precious 7 year old boy. I asked him if he remembered our stay-at-home days and he answered, "Of course". My hope is that one day, his memories of our ritual will fill him with the same sense of peace, contentment and love that fill my heart whenever I look back to that time in our lives. I hope that the coziness, predictability and togetherness of our stay-at-home days will always remain in his adult self, and that he can turn to it in his memory whenever he needs to. I hope too that he never loses his child self as he ventures out into the world independently, as the beautiful young adult that he has become. 

    

The Truth About Hallmark Movies

     Well it's that time of year again... Hallmark Movie time. For me anyway. I've decided to explore my relationship with this curious thing- the hallmark movie- one that I think falls into the love/hate camp and that I can't seem to give up just yet. 

    To date, I have seen dozens, and then more dozens, of hallmark movies. This has happened over the past five years or so. I was never into these shows in the past, didn't even really know they existed, but for some reason, discovered them later in life. It probably started innocently enough one day with a lazy perusal through the Women's Network channel. I likely clicked on a hallmark movie one holiday season, and I'm not sure I've been the same since. 

    I don't mean this in a cosmically huge way though. It's not like these movies have transformed me, or enriched my life for the better really. I haven't changed fundamentally as a person as a result of watching single people turn into cozy couples over the span of two hours, over and over again. I haven't been the same because my initial hallmark movie experience then turned into a ritual that I haven't been able to ditch, even though I sometimes think it is in my best interest to do so. Which brings me to this idea that I have come to believe I am in some sort of dysfunctional relationship with the Hallmark Movie, one that teeters on that line between love and hate, every time I watch one, or even think of one. 

    Let's start first with the hatred part, shall we, so that I can then end this exploration on a positive note? I hate the sappiness, the cheesy lines, the fake acting, the predictability, the stunning good luck that always seems to land in the main characters' laps, the Christmas cheer, the Mr Rogers neighborhood feel. I hate the syrupy sweetness of it all, in essence the unreality of it all. I hate immersing myself in that sweet bubble of happiness because I know that real life doesn't usually work out the way it does in hallmark movies. I hate it because part of me resents it maybe, resents that it's not real, feels cheated because I want what they have... or I think I do... have been told I'm supposed to want that anyway by the world I inhabit. I'm supposed to want someone to suddenly appear before me and fill me up in all the right places with a wholesome kind of love, one that never ever includes sex (or even kisses for that matter) on a first, second or third date, one that is just simply quite nice. I think that sarcastic, biting, critical me might hate the niceness of it most of all.

    But then... the love... Enter the me who loves these movies, can't get enough of them, apparently. She sits down, on the sofa under her warm fuzzy blankets, in her pjs, with her fake fireplace glowing in the room while she watches. There she is- that me- tuning in for the zillionth time, waiting for the magic to fill her. Is it the magic of the predictable? Is there magic in the predictable? I begin to think there just might be. It dawns on me that this is why I love hallmark movies... I love the predictable endings. I love their fluffy, pretty wrappings and bows, how in the end, everything- and I mean everything- is perfectly wrapped up. I love the final kiss-- which is usually the first kiss incidentally (what is up with that?), and the fake snow falling around the soon to be lovers (because as I said earlier, they haven't been lovers up to this point and may well end up being sexually incompatible, but I digress...)... I love that things always work out in the end, and that everyone is nice and happy and filled with good cheer. Nice, sentimental, passionate and sweet me loves all of that. She exists as much as the previously mentioned critical me does. 

    So there is is, the truth about Hallmark Movies: They are both awful and beautiful all at once. They are gratingly annoying and a balm to my world-weary soul, at the same time. They are the relationship I can't get out of because as much as it irks me, it also fills me to the brim with sweetness. I guess the sweetness overrides the sharp cynicism within, most of the time. This is probably what it's all about for me in the end-- I watch the movies because I need to keep in touch with my syrupy sweet side, for fear that she'll disappear forever if I'm not careful. And I guess that's why I'll no doubt be sitting on my couch tonight, or some other night this week, tv remote in hand and wondering who is going to fall in love with whom this time. And I'll click on the movie, sit back and relax in the delicious sugar of it all.

    

    

Letting Things Be As They Are

     I'm reading "Awakening the Buddha Within" right now and I came across a part in the book the other day that resonated with me, "In Buddhism, there is a rather unique word that translates as 'suchness'. It means vital, living truth itself, here and now, right before our very eyes-- the 'isness' of things exactly as they are" (69). The author goes on to talk about finding the place within ourselves that is "the ultimate refuge, the ultimate practice of letting go-- the art of allowing things to be as they are" (70). Such a simple idea, to allow things to be as they are, and yet so hard to do, really. Such a short and nifty new word-- isness-- and yet heavy with meaning.

    I began to think of my own "isness", and how I deal with it... weekly, daily, by the minute. Do I notice things as they are? Or do I try to cover them up? Or run from them? Pretend they aren't happening? Do I push back against those things? Or do I just let them be? Is there joy in the noticing, when I do notice? I began then to think about all of the people in my life, family members, friends, coworkers... and how they deal with their own "isness". The next thing I knew, I found myself on a tangent of wondering about other people on the planet, entire countries and continents and whether or not they've mastered "the art of allowing things to be as they are". As I thought more about this idea, I realized that often, for many people, we are ok with things as they are as long as those things make us feel good and comfortable. It is only when the things that are cause us pain, suffering and discomfort that we begin to have problems with them.

    One of the reasons I started this blog was to explore the state of life without wine, having come to the conclusion that one of my main default ways of dealing with things as they are was to meet friends in a lounge and order a crisp white, or two, or three. Some days more. The wine blurred the edges of things as they are, and this was especially welcome when those things resulted in uncomfortable feelings. When I didn't like things as they were, I had a ready solution. I could blot out my own isness. I definitely wasn't allowing things to be as they are- not without reacting to them anyway. Because it is one thing to notice things exactly as they are, and to not dress them up or down to suit your whims, but it is quite another to accept those things and to choose not to react to them. 

    A lot of this seems to be about acceptance and nonreaction, and I think this is the hardest part. This is all within reason of course. I'm not advocating that we accept and refuse to react to mistreatment, abuse or other unhealthy situations. What I'm talking about here is the grey, that place between the black and white, between the highs and lows, that place where most of life and living takes place... maybe this is  the "isness". There is a quiet power and groundedness in both accepting things as they are as well as choosing to not react to them in that moment, in just letting things be, and in noticing. I guess if you can do this, then you may well be on the road to inner peace. Enlightened beings have known this for thousands of years, and it's not like they have kept this a secret from the rest of us. But at the end of the day, allowing things to be as they are, without reacting to them is just plain hard. Often. For many people.

    I'm a ways away from achieving this on a regular basis, but I am trying, and I believe I'm making progress. It gets easier as I get older, for many reasons. One of my main tools is meditation, and I definitely wouldn't be where I am in terms of my own personal growth if I didn't have that. So I will continue to sit still, in the dark, breathing in and out, sitting with my "isness" and trying my best to accept it and not to react, because I know deep down that there is wisdom in all of that. I just know.

Bruises

        I had a disturbing thing happen to me recently. My heart was pulled from my chest, toyed with, lightly bruised and then put back in its place to go on with life as usual. I was a willing participant in this, I will admit, in the sense that I opened the door to my heart after keeping it shut for a few years, allowing entry to the eventual bruiser. I let him in, so I guess that was a risk I took. That's the thing about risks-- they're risky. You really have no guarantees when you take a risk how things will turn out in the end. One possibility is the end result won't be pretty. Knowing this, we sometimes choose to quit while we're ahead, protecting ourselves, and our fragile hearts. But sometimes, we decide to jump in anyway, to push aside the cautionary warnings because we feel that maybe the risk will be worth it in the end. That's what I did.

    I made a decision in the last few months to actively start looking for a romantic partner so I signed up for a dating site. This is not a new thing for me. Over the past 10 years, since my split with my ex, I've been on several dating sites at various times. I've even had a few relationships that came from these sites, but none lasted longer than a year. For most of the last decade, I've actually been off dating sites, doing my own thing. The past 3 years, I wasn't involved with anyone, by choice. I had decided I needed to work on myself, tackle some of my demons and work through my yucky baggage. I had a deep-seated inkling that if I really wanted to ever find a healthy relationship with a man, that I needed to heal some of my own crap first. So I did that. Fast forward 3 years, mission accomplished and I now felt ready to look for the love of my life again, so there I was, once again on a dating site. 

    I wasn't surprised when the usual clientele began presenting themselves to me. Typical of my experiences on there (and especially since turning 50), most of the attention directed my way was either from men quite a few years older than I, or from men in my age group who I didn't find physically attractive. The few men I found intriguing enough to message never messaged me back. Until one day, that changed. I received a message from a man not quite 5 years older (so better than the usual 8-15+ year range), and the bonus was that he was articulate, attractive, and seemed to have much of his stuff together. He was also incredibly charming so that didn't hurt. We agreed to meet so we could assess the situation in person and were both pleasantly surprised and thrilled when we discovered mutual attraction on multiple levels. This led to of course more texting, now of the regular kind, and plans to meet again of course, which we did, a few times. 

    We lived 2 hours away from each other and were both aware at the outset that the long distance factor was a bit of a barrier, but we both felt we had quite the connection on several levels- physical, mental, emotional- that we were willing to go with it, knowing that such connections are rare. Because of the distance factor, and because it was summer, our next meetings were lengthier than they might have been had we lived in the same city... dates that went on for 24 hours instead of the usual evening out for example. And those epic dates were pretty amazing. But it wasn't just the physical time together that was fabulous, it was all the texting in between that was off the charts incredible, as this man spread on the charm so thick I couldn't see straight. Truth be told, I didn't want to see straight. I wanted to be enveloped in that plush blanket of  lovey goodness. And tightly. There was, however, a very tiny voice inside my gut somewhere deep that said, "Hmmm this guy seems just a little too perfect. Be careful, because you know perfection isn't a real thing, not in the realm of humans anyway, so...". But that little voice wasn't strong enough for me to hear it fully, and that was when I decided "Fuck it, I'm just going to let him grab my heart if he wants to".

    In retrospect, it was easy for me to make that decision because of the things he was saying to me, both via text and in person. He appeared as into me as I was into him, in fact more so.  Analyzing his words and actions (as we analyzers are wont to do), I came to the conclusion that there was no doubt that this man was moving full steam ahead, and pulling my heart along with him. At times, it was hard for me to keep up with it all, mostly because I couldn't believe this was happening to me. I walked around in a daze, unable to believe my good luck. There was though, through it all, a bit of a sense that things were moving a little too quickly, that this guy had seemed to catapult into my life, and that I had taken on too-perfect dimensions in his eyes. I would sometimes say to myself, "If he can fall this quickly into you, he can probably fall quickly out of interest as well", using the laws of physics as my guide. I kept those thoughts to myself though, and allowed myself to be wrapped in a delicious cocoon of budding love.

    And then there was no cocoon. Just like that, it vanished, only to be replaced by some casual, distant text interchanges in a matter of hours. The temperature emanating from my newfound love interest went from hot to lukewarm to cool without warning. I was suddenly freefalling and not sure where I was going to land but I knew it wasn't going to feel good, wherever that was. When I questioned this new behavior, he denied it was occurring. At first. When I pressed the issue, he then began to give various reasons for the change, but none that made sense to me. The one that he grabbed onto and elaborated on was that we had the fact of a long-distance relationship on our hands, and that this was likely to be a barrier, not to mention that I wasn't yet retired and would not be moving to his neck of the woods anytime soon. Both of these things were true, but they had been true all along. They didn't suddenly become true. The fact of the matter is he was okay with those things before and then- poof- he wasn't. He became, as he said, "Mr Reality" overnight, ripping off the veil of loveliness that we had both covered over ourselves with one logical argument after another. When he tired of the discussion (which occurred by text and which is another issue itself but will leave that one for another time), he simply told me that I needed to think about the distance thing, that we needed to "sleep on it", and that he was exhausted and signing off.

    The next few days were blurry as I carried my now heavy body, complete with bruised heart, wherever it needed to go. My dominant mode was confusion as I had no understanding of what had just happened to me. Every morning, around the time he would usually text me, I waited. But nothing happened. No good morning text, no effusive messages, no kissy or heart or other fluffy emojis. Nothing. The nothingness that happens at the end of things. I was stunned, not only because he was now giving me nothing, but because he had given me so much before. The overthinker in me came up with hundreds of reasons why he had changed, and was saddened to discover that many of my hypotheses centered around some flaw of my own. Maybe it was this, that or the other thing about me, my essence, my being, that pushed him away, turned him off, made him flip the switch from a definite something to a solid nothing. It was me, because it couldn't possibly be him, right? 

    And then, in a split second, in a moment when meditating, I realized that it wasn't me at all. It was him. He was the one who changed, within hours actually, into a seemingly different person. He was the one who was able to act one way and then another towards me with barely any time lapsing in between. He was the one who couldn't communicate honestly about what was going on. He was highly changeable, not constant, not predictable. He was hot then cold. He was disturbing. And he was not for me. Not for this woman who I had worked so hard to become, the one who had finally become her own advocate and friend in midlife. I realized that I wouldn't be waiting for texts from him anymore, and that if a text did come, that it wouldn't change what I had decided: He would no longer have a place in my life nor access to my heart. As blissful as I had felt around this person previously, my bruised heart had other plans. Has other plans. Plans that don't involve rough handling, manipulation, half-truths or getting ones needs met at the expense of others. 

    It hasn't been long since this incident happened and so my heart is still sore. It's hanging out in my chest cavity where it always was but it isn't the same. I've noticed a few changes. It has visible bruises from this recent activity, but it's intact. And there is something else... I hesitate to declare it, but I think it's a wiser heart. It sits there beating regularly and hopefully, refusing to give up, refusing to let this define it or predict future disasters. It knows it is capable of great love, and so it sits steadily and patiently in my body, waiting...

    

    

    

    

Aging Gracefully in Tight Jeans

    I turned fifty-three two days ago and have been "adjusting" to this, like I've adjusted to my new age every year for the past few years. It's like putting on a pair of jeans that don't quite fit right, struggling to pull them over my hips and noticing a resistance. Noticing the tugging that is required to make it happen. Noticing the tightness as I pull up the zipper. Noticing the discomfort. I stand there in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom looking at the me in too-tight jeans and wondering, "How did this happen?" and, "What can I do to make it go away?" 

    I know how it happened: I got older. There's no mystery in that. I got older like everyone else gets older. Why I thought I would somehow be immune to this process is strangely comical. Why I thought everyone around me might start to wrinkle, sag and bulge in odd places while I would not is baffling and bizarre. Or is it? Isn't clinging to that desire just another way of resisting the inevitable? Maybe the belief that I would retain my youth past middle age is a normal reaction. I don't know. What I do know now, now that I'm smack in the middle of it and suited up in my new jeans, is that I was wrong. I was wrong about this just as I've been wrong about many other things in life. This new me isn't going anywhere anytime soon. She is here to stay, and stay she will, even though I've been trying to kick her out for awhile now. Even though I tell her she isn't beautiful enough to be a member of the club. 

    Yes I've been trying to make her go away, that woman in the jeans clinging a little too snugly to her bottom. I've done this in various ways. Most have been attempts to preserve my youthful physical appearance or alter any visible signs of aging as quickly as I can. This is evident on the shelf in my bedroom that contains multiple vials, bottles and pots of various creams, lotions and potions designed to slow down the passage of time. There has sometimes been a franticness to it that I'm not proud of (looking at my aging neck pushes the panic button every time for example). Because everyone knows we're not supposed to feel frantic about aging, or we're not supposed to show that we're frantic anyway. We're never supposed to show our fear, panic or distress about the whole thing. We're either supposed to do something about it OR we're supposed to age gracefully. Those seem to be the only two choices. We can pay someone to try and change us back to who were were, or to somehow stop time from running all over our faces and bodies, just freeze it somehow... for a bit anyway. Or we can invite that new person in to stay, for good, and with open arms. 

    Although the second option is much less invasive and cheaper, it isn't easy, the main reason being that we live in a world that values youth, equates youth with beauty and places a premium on it. Looking young is the ideal. A face free of lines and jowls, and a body free of lumps and saggy parts is a good thing indeed. In our world, we are basically made to feel inadequate with the inevitable. This sucks. Because how can you fight that? How can you beat it? How can you emerge unscathed? How can you traipse through middle age and old age unaffected by the standards and scripts that the world has written for you when you're bombarded by it at every turn? I told someone the other day that it seems like a cruel joke indeed as we go through life, especially as women, that we spend our youth often not feeling attractive enough, and just when we start to feel ok in the skin we're in, age comes storming in and boom-- we're not good-looking enough again! When does it end?

    It probably ends when we say "Fuck it" or "Enough" or "No more" to societal standards and expectations and begin to live our own scripts, not the ones that have been laid out in front of us forever. It probably ends when we can redefine beauty, and look at beauty from multiple perspectives, perspectives that can look at a highly wrinkled face with twinkling eyes and find pure beauty in that. It probably ends when we can go within and make peace with ourselves, explore the depths of our hearts and minds, and see the never-ending treasures inside of us. It probably ends when we realize with certainty that the inside is more important than the outside, that the outside is just a shell that houses the gifts within, and that that shell is beautiful and valuable no matter what age it is.

    I know that is where I need to get to. I know that I need to redefine things and make my priorities reflect where I am at in my life, rather than where the script that is "out there" tells me I should be. I know that I need to take a deep breath and be less frantic about the whole aging thing. I know also though that underneath it all is an intense fear of aging and that I need to confront that probably in order to embrace the new me fully. But for starters, I think I'll just welcome that new woman in the tight jeans into my space instead of pushing her away all the time. I'll let all fifty-three years of her in the door, and we can sit and have some tea together. 

    

    

Being Single on Valentine's Day

     Over the past decade, Valentine's Day has always been a bit of a tricky thing for me. I never really know how to celebrate it, being a single woman, so I usually don't celebrate it. I know I could use this day to focus on all the other kinds of "love" that I have in my life, and celebrate those loving relationships, but I don't do that because to me, Valentine's Day isn't about other kinds of love; it's about romantic love. It's about being grateful for the intimate partner you have, and taking the time to make sure they know somehow, in your own special, meaningful way. Whether that be a carefully crafted private moment with that person or a public post detailing the the reasons that person makes your heart skip a few beats, this day is about a special kind of love. So where do all the single people fit into this?

    Although it often feels like a "couples world", especially seen through the lens of singlehood, the reality is there are many, many single people on the planet. Whether by choice or not, our numbers are growing. Considering that Valentine's Day is supposed to be a day to celebrate coupledom, it would seem logical that us single folks should just ignore it. And many of us do. Or at least we try to. But sometimes this is hard, and sometimes we can't help but think about our own hearts on this day, and on the paths that have led us here, to our single places. This is what I often find myself doing on this day: reflecting on my own love life and how I ended up wherever it is I am at in that moment.

    Today is no different in the reflecting part, but it is radically different in other ways. In past years, a certain chunk of time was devoted to feeling sorry for myself because I didn't feel the piercing of cupid's bow at present, and was convinced it would never happen in the future either, even though I desperately wanted it. This prediction of future loveless states would send me into a downward spiral that wasn't pretty. Another chunk of time was devoted to trying to convince myself that I really didn't want a romantic relationship, or that it was an overrated, commercialized thing best left to hardcore romantic types, of which I thought I wasn't. In retrospect I can see that both of these ways of responding to Valentine's Day were lousy ones, but that was where I was then, and the response seemed fitting.

    This year is different though. Although a small part of me is thinking about the lack of intimacy in my life in the present moment, it is only a tiny part. And even when I think of it, the way I am thinking about it isn't the same as before. I don't think of it in a self-pitying way, rather in a self-acceptance way, a way that sees with truly open eyes how things are in the present moment and is okay with it. I can look at where I am at in my life also with understanding. I can see the choices I have made, choices for the most part that have kept me single, and I am okay with those choices too. I know that it is I alone who has created my reality, and that for many reasons I am meant to be exactly where I am now.

    There is no longer the self-blame or over-analysis of how I came to be where I am, no longer a bemoaning of my single status or a fervent wishing that it were different. Gone is also the desire to be rescued by someone, or to lose myself in another person in order to possibly forget my overthinking self for a moment. I also am not replaying countless tapes of how and where I have screwed up in the love department, tapes that rewrote all of my relationship troubles and made them my own fault, even though I knew that a relationship involves two people. In short, I don't feel yucky about being single today.

    Does this mean I'm doing a dance of joy because I'm not part of a couple thing? No. Do I still want that? Yes. Do I need it? No. And that is the biggest difference of all. I have finally arrived at a place in my life where want trumps need. It took me 52 years to get here but it finally happened. I no longer need a romantic relationship to feel whole, centered, satisfied and at peace. Because, more and more, I feel those things on a daily basis, just being in a relationship with myself. Although it seems to be common wisdom that one of the best ways to a fulfilling, healthy intimate relationship with another person is to start by cultivating a healthy, fulfilling relationship with yourself, for some reason, I found that so hard to do for much of my life. But then slowly, things began to click for me, and slowly that changed. 

    So today, on Valentine's Day, I celebrate personal growth and true self-love, a love that is not born out of ego, but grounded in compassion and acceptance. I celebrate the opening of my heart as I see more and more the ways that it was closed before. I celebrate this moment as it is, and me as I am in my singleness. I know that, in the end, Valentine's Day is about the heart that is full, and I know I have a full heart. Maybe one day again I will share my heart with another, but today, I am okay to sit still with my full heart all by myself.