The first time “pockets” occurred to me was when I was in the energizing, soul-filling deep, dark throes of being home full-time with tiny twin babies, neither of whom were good sleepers, and one of whom didn’t eat. #PreciousMemories (Think I’m exaggerating? Here’s a glimpse.)
I remember being struck with the thought of being on a plane in a pocket of turbulence. As I’m a nervous flyer, when my plane hits a pocket of turbulence, my entire being is brought into that moment – my body becomes a rock of tension, my heart rate doubles, my brain goes to rapidly review all of the emergency protocols that I knew I should have listened to this time, and I start imagining my demise in gory details. It’s all-consuming.
So what happens when you are struck with the realization that your whole life is one giant ride of turbulence? You find your pockets. Your other pockets.
Pockets of Peace were my first pockets, and they may have saved my sanity in those aforementioned days. They started as being as short as 30 seconds – like on the extremely rare occasion when the stars would align, they would both nap at the same time, and I would manage to get a sip of tea* and I’d realize – ooooh, this is a Pocket of Peace! And just by noticing it, I would lean dive right into it – cherish it, revel in it, and it was so soothing. From then, I started to try to cultivate them – the hot showers washing away a sleepless night before starting the marathon day when I would take 30 extra seconds at the end to just stand there in the white noise and warm water; the enjoyment of a well-put together sandwich with all my favourite pieces rather than the more efficient barely-reheated leftovers; sitting in a chair in the sun for a minute (literally) with my eyes closed before I could hear the sounds of a toddler falling and crying out for a rescue. The point was to notice them, and whenever possible, cultivate them. Know they’re going to end – and soon – so completely surrender to them.
And then things got easier. WAY easier. Note: I didn’t say “easy,” because that would be dumb AF.
The easier things got, the more space I had to notice, revel in, and cultivate, other types of pockets: Pockets of joy, pockets of thrill, pockets of nature. You get the point. It’s not complicated.
Over the years, I’ve shared my love of pockets with people who I knew were going through turbulent times (read: new parents, especially breastfeeding moms as well as friends who were completely overwhelmed with work or illness). Sometimes, I get pictures from new moms sharing with me their pockets of peace in a photo and it’s *the best* – they are sharing with me their awareness of the rare moment of pure, unfiltered tranquility that is so replenishing, and I get a little vicarious hit of peace. #AllAboutMe
Alas, here we are, a year into (I’m rounding up, ok?) a pandemic and indeed, the turbulence has become the default. The stress, the anxiety, the uncertainty, the rage, the frustration, and helplessness – these are turbulent emotional times, my friends.
While I know we are all doing the noble work of being grateful for what we can, can we just talk about the fact that sometimes the pressure to force yourself to be grateful can be a whole other layer of turbulence (which we then don’t talk about because then the gratitude doesn’t seem genuine but really it’s just that we’re complicated humans and capable of feeling many things simultaneously, and often they conflict. MORE HARD!). The gratitude I have for the way my family gets to endure a pandemic sometimes literally overwhelms me, and my breath is taken away (and then I make another donation and order more take-out from local restaurants). And yet, that genuine gratitude does not protect me from other waves – of depression, anxiety, frustration, boredom, hopelessness, deep concern for those who have it so hard right now. No matter how much gratitude logging and perspective taking I do (spoiler alert: It’s a lot), the default has become, once again, turbulence (this time, with sleep!).
And so, while I have never let go of my love of my pockets, they have come back to play a truly precious role in my life. They are those moments when I can become completely consumed in a therapeutic, soul-nourishing experience and I feel my body relax, my heart lighten, and my brain slow down. If only for a moment.
I hope for you all to find pockets of whatever will give you some peace and ease, and that you may find the energy to revel in those pockets, and that those pockets soothe your soul and mind, if only for a moment.
*Honestly, I think that specific instance happened one time – and I still cherish that memory!
Filed under: events, general, The big picture | Tags: New Years Resolutions
The annual reflex to set a personal improvement goal to mark the new year passed right by me this year.
The meme that went around about how people could expect the same old, sarcastic-yet-charming jackass that they’ve grown to love (or not) deeply resonated with me. Maybe it’s something in the air. Clearly, I’m not the only one who is incapable of feigning the desire to set out a grand goal that I know will be a future failure. I feel like I’m quite fine just as I am – partly because the quest of self-improvement is a running theme in my life. Always.
If anything, I’m actually hoping to bring to the forefront some of old me rather than reinvent myself. There are parts of younger me that I quite miss and are due for a comeback.
More sass, less sacharine.
More movies, less phone.
More music, less silence.
More fire and feeling, less calm.
More writing. (Uh-oh, that sounds like a resolution. Don’t hold me to it.)
“Balanced” doesn’t look the same in any two people. I’ve been trying to emulate a version of it that I admire in other people, but that isn’t necessarily mine. My balance is a little further along the “energetic” and “sassy” end of the spectrum. It means that I can rub people the wrong way, but that’s something that at #thisis38 has less weight than it did five years ago. Even two years ago, to be honest. (As my dear friend Kelly said just today: “I can’t wait to see how little I care at 50!!”)
And so, if I were to have a new year’s resolution, it would be to find more of my old self, and to let go of turning myself into a new, ideal version that I can’t actually live in.
Old me. As in, I’m old. 😂
Filed under: general | Tags: brothers and sisters, family, mental illness, siblings
My eyes hurt from crying. I imagine if I looked in a mirror, I’d look like a boxer… after the fight.
And as always lately, the trigger was a song.
When it came on a smile built on a two-decades’ old memory washed over my face. As the song went on, it felt like all that time, it had been prophetic.
My brother, until he was forever changed – yes, changed – by an autoimmune disease combined with a mental illness, was my brother, my father, my best friend, my biggest fan, my mentor and ally.
We used to dance around our house and sing. Like, sing. Our two favourites were Lisa Loeb’s “Stay” (he was totally Ethan Hawke in Reality Bites, as an aside) and the one below.
I hadn’t heard it in… forever. So, when it came on today on the way home from visiting him in hospital, where he’s been for almost 3 months, I was instantly overcome. I remember so vividly us yell-singing this song so damn theatrically around our living/dining room, that we would end up doubled over laughing.
But today, as the song progressed and then came to its beautiful ending, the smile evolved into tears. And I continued to bawl for the countless times I then replayed it.
Bring it on back, bro. Keep fighting and come back to us. We love you.
You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling
Filed under: general
Disclaimer: This post is overflowing with privilege. I fully recognize that our family has financial choices available that others simply do not.
Not long ago, I wrote A Parent’s Super Power about how parents become superheroes when they have kids and tap into a previously unharnessed source of energy in order to live their lives. I cringe when I read it now. Here we are, two years on, my children still don’t sleep through the night, one has turned out to be prone to anxiety and highly sensitive and my husband and I have been working very stressful jobs, and… I’m burnt out, officially/medically. I have left my job, my career. Maybe not forever, but certainly for the foreseeable future.
When I went to the doctor about six weeks ago, her series of questions made me realize that while I knew that I had become extremely fragile, I hadn’t fully accept the internal collapse that had happened.
“Do you ever think about hurting people?”
I was surprised to get that question. It was a first. As anyone who has experienced bouts of depression, one knows the “do you think about hurting yourself?” question is standard, and I’ve thankfully always been able to reply in the negative. But this was a new one. By asking it, the doctor was revealing how bad off she thought I was.
If I was surprised by being asked the question, I was even more so with my answer, which came out so reflexively without any filters, that it essentially revealed the root of my current crisis:
“I fantasize about taking better care of people,” I responded in tears.
My children, who I knew needed me more than I was able to give them with how our lives were organized. My husband, with whom, under all the stress and frantic chaos of our lives, I have been dancing a waltz of resentment and bitterness. Myself, to breathe without chest constrictions, to meditate, to do yoga, to run, to paint, to read, to nest, to fulfill that part of me that wants to care for those close to me (seriously, the aforementioned privilege that this post is soaked with makes me nauseous, but there it is).
I started with a month off, which was spent basically asleep, building up some basic physical, emotional and mental reserves. It soon became clear that this was a new world order that, for the sake of our family, needed to become more permanent. I was able to breathe again, parent with patience, wife with kindness – all of which was complementing the compassion, kindness and gentleness that my own self was demanding.
Much has been written by people more eloquent, smart and researched (there will be no research happening by this camper right now, needless to say) than I about the debate of whether or not we (implicating women generally, for some reason) can have it all. Some adults have to have it all – be parents and work – because financially that’s what they need to do. What they are teaching and modeling for their children is incredibly valuable and I will call them superheroes until I’m blue in the face. In the case of two parent households who can contemplate one parent staying home, it should go without saying that both parents’ careers should be up for reconsideration. In some households that I know, Dad stays home, takes care of everyone and sits on school council. As it works in our household, mine was the easier to put on hold, primarily because I am so burnt out and when thinking about alternatives to 9 to 5 office life, the only things I want to do are things like walk my kids to school and stay home with them when they’re sick without thinking twice about it (rather than fly my mom in from another city so that le husband I don’t have to take so many sick days, as was the approach last winter).
One of the most surprising revelations that this experience has revealed to me has been the pervasiveness of this level of exhaustion. While certainly everyone is (legitimately!) tired and feeling stretched, it was when I started to tell people what I was going through that their eyes would suddenly change. I can only describe it as an instant recognition of what I was saying and without them even having to say it (though almost invariably they did), I could see that they needed the same break. So many are operating close to this edge that it breaks my heart.
Just to be clear – it’s not that marriages are not partnerships, that men aren’t pulling their weight. My mother constantly stands stunned amongst my friends as she watches the men parent, cook, care in ways that were unheard of two generations ago. Le husband has probably been doing the majority of our house stuff (without complaint) over the last six months as I descended further into my depressive and anxious burnout and generally is a totally present and participatory dad and husband. But, notwithstanding the obvious fact that we are different people with different levels of tolerance for different types of stress, I without doubt spend considerably more emotional and mental energy worrying about the kids’ present and future well-being, not to mention the one who gets up with them every night because OMG HOW DOES HE NOT HEAR HIS CHILDREN CRYING?!?! These two things alone are a mighty significant drain on my energy level, which may have a gendered aspect with which I don’t even know where to start.
I so wish our society could be reorganized. Rather than front-loading child-rearing with career, I want to be able to opt-in to a system where we can be supported for 10 years-ish to parent properly and then work an extra 10 years beyond our current plan (or have to pay it back. Maybe? Would that work? I don’t know! Don’t stress me out!). Same amount of working years, less societal burnout. Maybe this is how people are generally starting to organize themselves anyway and I’m just catching up. But wow, what a toll it has taken to figure this out on my own.
I am unspeakably grateful about having the ability to choose this path. I will miss spending my days with my co-workers immensely – they are a group of incredibly smart, dedicated public servants who also happen to be good, kind, and most importantly, hilarious people who probably kept me working a good year longer than I would have otherwise. We have accomplished some pretty unbelievable feats in the past almost-two years and I will forever be thankful that I was involved in them – truly a life experience for the books. The management in my organization has been supportive beyond even my wildest expectations (which mostly just confirms to me how much people understand how hard this life phase is). But I’m trading them in for two four year olds and two kittens (another post, to be sure) and adventures that I cannot yet predict.
So, as it would turn out, I’m not a superhero. It turns out that I’m just a mere human with some strict limits and hard choices. Giving up my job (and relying on a man?!?) goes against the cardinal rule of my single mother (well, until recently, when she was downright relieved to hear my decision) and gives my feminism a conflict that is even more significant than having birthed two walking gender stereotypes. But when I drop all of the expectations that I’ve set up for myself that I’m allegedly failing, at its root, this decision feels bold and true. And what better feelings to have than those?
So, here I am. Here we are. Starting a new chapter. Wish us luck.
ms. fresh fish 