Motherly Instinct

Being almost thirty years old means most of my southern friends are married and working on their second or third child.  Play dates at the park, mother-daughter shopping sprees, little league baseball games, and homework is all a part of their daily lives. My motherly instinct hasn't exactly kicked in; however, my own mother says my maternal clock will start ticking soon enough.  Perhaps my clock is broken because I can't think of a time it was ever ticking or tocking.  I was never the neighborhood babysitter, newborns frighten me, and there is a definite awkwardness when trying to communicate with a child.  Based on my age, marital status, and being a resident of the south means I never manage to escape the dreaded question "when are you having children?" From family, friends,co-workers, the mailman---you name it and they have asked.  With my vague answer, the conversation usually ends up with a side eye which I suppose is understandable.  The reason for my lack of wanting a child is unknown to me.  I can only speculate that it's because I'm completely happy with our life the way it is, raising a child is a huge commitment, there is no pressure from the other half in this marriage, and parenthood would change everything.

With all that said, what has surprisingly escalated is an unconditional, motherly affection for our dog, Salvador.  Obviously he's not a child but it's a baby step for now.  We can leave him at home alone while running errands or going to dinner, a treat works like magic, and he won't be asking for a car in sixteen years.  If someone would have told me a couple of years ago that we would have an indoor puppy that sheds fierce fur I would have laughed hysterically.   Times have changed and Salvador is an equal part of our family.  I've caught myself throwing him birthday parties complete with gifts and a trip to the bakery for a special biscuit.  Most weekends we find ourselves attending dog-friendly events in Chattanooga and dining on a chilly back porch just so Salvador can tag along. As crazy as it sounds, we even enrolled him in doggie day care four days out of the week because we both work long hours and the thought of him being alone all day is heartbreaking.  Taking care of a pet has taught me to be patient, understanding, and responsible.  Some days this dog allows me to envision a different side of myself and how raising a child would be extremely rewarding and other days, he's the best form of birth control on the market.  I can't predict the future and only time will tell if Salvador will be an older brother.  For now we remain content as a uniquely southern trio.

Facetime vs Real Face to Face

When I lived in the US, I would call my mom and dad while I was walking around New York.  “Okay,” I would say, when either answered the phone.  “I have roughly four and a half minutes to catch up before going underground on the subway.”  This was our main form of communication: in those four and a half minutes, we talked (quickly) about the highlight reel of our lives to the background music of ambulances wailing, cashiers expectantly demanding money from me, and various homeless people proffering marriage proposals (needless to say, I lived in a great neighborhood).  Peppering these primary conversations were the little moments when, despite Google and Facebook iPad apps and the myriad ways we can acquire information in the modern world, I just wanted parental input.  “How long can you keep leftovers in the fridge?” I’d ask my dad, staring at spaghetti that seemed to have self-generated a green and fuzzy pesto like topping (self-generating sauces: the food of the future!).  “What day is the cheapest to buy flights again?” I’d ask my mom, squinting at my computer screen.  While Bing may have had a more accurate answer, my mom’s was the most trusted one. Since moving to London, my parental conversations have moved to the land of Skype, a world where calls are announced by a strange symphony of beeps and dials; where faces pixelate in and out of the picture; where half the time spent talking to my parents, complete Skype neophytes, is spent saying, “Click the video button.  The one with the camera.  If you can’t see yourself, I can’t see you. Hold the camera higher – higher – dear Lord, please don’t show me your chest again.”

Several things have happened in the switch to Skype; the most perhaps obvious of which is that parents, surprise surprise, love seeing their children’s faces.  All conversations open and close with, “You’re looking so healthy!” and “What shirt are you wearing?” and “How did you cheeks get so pink?” and other variations of: keep on keepin’ on, my DNA-totin’ progeny.

Below the rosy skin and the same shirt I’m always wearing (come on, Mom!) there’s a different, more fundamental shift in the nature of the conversations.  We talk less often, certainly, but when we do, the conversation has an unprecedented level of focus.  You choose a time and date and make a plan, rather than a slapdash time filler.  You are, quite literally, staring into each other’s eyes (save for the moments when – and you know who are – you’re looking deeply into the eyes of yourself).  You’re freed from distraction, less the person on the other end catch a glimpse of what you’re doing and squawk, their annoyance transcending thousands of miles, “Are you doing something else?”

It makes for some of the most focused conversations I’ve ever had.  Conversations that quickly blow past the day-to-day trivialities that fill a quickie check in; conversations that move into the realm of history (personal and otherwise), of the world, of what you really mean when you tell this story or that one.  The truth is, after all, written all over your face.

On the flip side, the absence of those gap filling phone calls has had another effect entirely: once afraid, in any moment, to walk by myself, to wait for a bus by myself, to simply be, I am now forced to confront my boredom and live with the worlds both around me and coursing through my own mind.  At home, without my trusty text message parental net, I figure out on my own whether my leftovers will kill me, or if it’s reasonable to spend half my life savings on a flight to New York (hint: it’s not).  I get to spend more real time with both myself and my parents.

While it should be noted that it’s not real real time, as I’m gearing up for the holiday season (I’m writing this article eight hours into a plane ride, somewhere over the Great Lakes) I feel more connected to my parents than ever, despite being further, physically, than I’ve ever been.  And, as much as I’ve enjoyed the Picasso-esque, pixelated versions of their faces, I’m excited to see their real ones.

XVII. états-unis

One Christmas, Clémence sends me a thin paperback collection of stories called Lettres de mon moulin. Letters from my windmill. I love French books, not just for reading but for the sake of the object itself---the spines are upside-down, the words going from top to bottom, which makes bookstore browsing feel simultaneously awkward and fun.

I read the stories not knowing anything about where they come from. Provence, as it turns out. The author, Alphonse Daudet, is one of the more known provençal writers. He had a windmill where he wrote these stories, a collection of tales about his life and experiences in the south of France. The mill is still tucked away in the countryside somewhere to the east of Avignon. But I don’t learn any of this until years later.

My favorite story, then and now, is “L’Arlésienne,” about a young man in love with a woman from Arles. He finds out that she’s married to someone else and he kills himself.

Il s’était dit, le pauvre enfant: “Je l’aime trop . . . Je m’en vais . . .” Ah! misérables coeurs que nous sommes!

It sounds melancholy, wistful, and it is. But the language is sparse and lovely and the ending always makes me cry. Just like this France of mine.

Making Sense of the World

As mothers, and as human beings, we are heartbroken by the tragic events that took place at Sandy Hook Elementary School on Friday. Words seem insignificant in the wake of such pain and yet words connect us and help us make sense of the world. Shannon wrote about her experience of finding her way through the sadness and anger as a mother. We hope others will contribute their perspectives---whether on dealing with the events personally, talking to their children about them, or grappling with topics of political and social significance.

We believe we understand each other better as human beings when we're exposed to different viewpoints and we take the time to consider them from a place of mutual respect. In the rush to say something, to make sense of tragedy, and to find our power following a situation that made us all feel helpless, it's all too easy to channel our anger into grand pronouncements that further alienate us from each other. Together, we can be thoughtful and purposeful about finding ways to make this world safer and kinder. Let's treat each other gently while we do that---we're united in our fragility; it's what makes this lifetime so special.

To help, you can make a donation to the Sandy Hook School Support Fund, which is providing support services to the families and community. If you're looking for guidance on how to speak with your children, check out Save the Children's 10 Tips to Help Your Child Cope With a Crisis and the National Mental Health and Education Center's tips for Talking to Children about Violence (both contain suggestions that can also be applied to ourselves as adults).

A Life Without My Mother

Eliza Deacon is a photographer living in northern Tanzania, and is also our latest contributor. Here, she writes beautifully about living the majority of her life without  her mother. Living, loving, traveling---it seems she is never really without her mother, something I can relate to in my own way. Thank you, Eliza, for sharing this beautiful and honest glimpse through yours and your mother's eyes.

By Eliza Deacon

When I reached the age of 33, it was something of a milestone: my mother had now not been present for more of my life than she had ever been in it. She died when I was 16, had been ill from when I was 13.  At 13 I remember her sitting down with my twin sister and I. I can remember the room we were in and where we were sitting, I even remember how I was sitting, legs tucked up beneath me in a brown armchair. She told us that she had this thing called cancer and that she was going to be away in hospital but that we shouldn’t worry. With the innocence, and ignorance, of a 13-year-old I remember thinking ‘wow, I wonder what that word means, but I can’t wait to tell my friends at school’.

I didn’t think then of how I would cope without a mother, I was too young. But how did I negotiate my way through the rest of my adolescence, my tricky teens, my 20s, 30s and into my 40s?  I did of course, admittedly with what seemed like more than my fair share of crash and burn disasters, but it’s a loss I’ve always felt. You get over it, you learn to live with it, but it’s always with you isn’t it. Your mother, any parent really, isn’t meant to die when you are 16 and your mother especially not.

Aren’t mothers meant to guide you, be something of a blueprint to show and teach you how to be the woman you’re going to become: a girlfriend, wife, lover, friend, mother, adult . . . all those things that we intrinsically are, but somehow also need to be shown. And whilst you do find your own way, you rather stumble through the complexities when oh lord, how on earth do you know who you are meant to be when you really have no real idea where to start!

My mother was the most amazing woman I will ever know. She was born and grew up a barefoot “jungle child” in India, she rode horses as a cowboy on the Colorado plains, she became a top model in the swinging London 60s scene, and she was a Bond girl in the original Casino Royale (the one without Daniel Craig!). I know now what I didn’t see then, that she often had a far-off look; she gave up many of her dreams when she---not unhappily, I hasten to add---met my father and settled down. But I don’t think she ever stopped yearning for distant horizons.

As soon as I could, I started to travel with an ignorance is bliss attitude, a sort of ‘I want to do this because I want to know how it feels’ attitude. I discovered it very quickly, in war zones and far-flung places. I wanted to be able to look back and say what an incredible time it all was. And yes it was, I was very lucky. I think my life, whilst not the same as hers, was set on a pre-charted course to somehow follow hers, but yet on a different parallel. Exploring, finding new horizons, new adventures, and in the process learning more about myself and the person I would become. Knowing the synergy of our lives makes me very happy. It’s also the knowledge that she would love my African life, this wild and wonderful continent I’ve lived on for the past 18 years.

At times I have felt her gentle presence and steadying hand in my life. How I waited patiently and, at times, not so patiently to find this beautiful man who now shares my life; my coffee farmer, my life-partner who walks his own parallel path in his quiet way and whose feet stand squarely next to mine. I rather think  that she had something to do with that.

I don’t have children and am unlikely to now. It could be an overwhelming thought, if I let it, to know that I won’t share that mother-daughter bond that I experienced so briefly. But I don’t dwell, I figure that things have turned out the way they were meant and I don’t wish to live with regrets. Life sends you on strange tangents and I can’t imagine any other than this one; one that I know she will always be very much a part of.

How to Talk About a National Tragedy

I spent Saturday night Christmas shopping, but it was with a heavy heart after the tragic event’s of Friday morning in Connecticut. I had thought about writing my column this week on holiday traditions and recognizing my joy as a parent, but it seemed somehow out of place. As I meandered Target on a date night with myself, so many aspects of the holiday felt contrived. I couldn’t get excited about fake plastic trees knowing that so many parents and families were grieving. Our good friends live a town away from the tragedy and have a son in elementary school. I worry about them. I worry about my own son, who isn’t even in school at the moment. I worry about the son inside of me waiting patiently to come out. Mostly, I worry about all of us. It’s so often the case after something like this happens to retreat to your strongest viewpoints. To make alienating statements starting with ‘I always’ or ‘I would never’. Instead, maybe we should try approaching this discussion from a place of love and rationality. The problem is, those things don’t often go hand in hand. As a firm feminist liberal, I want to cry out, “Ban all guns! Let’s move to Europe!” Neither of those is a realistic option, and both are just my fear talking. One of the best pieces of writing about this whole situation that I have read so far came from one woman’s blog, entitled “I Am Adam Lanza’s Mother”. My favorite line in her essay was:

“In the wake of another horrific national tragedy, it’s easy to talk about guns. But it’s time to talk about mental illness.”

She is 100% correct. Guns are an easy, heated debate that so many of us are talking about, but its not the complete story. Although if you want a fair, unbiased account of how gun laws contribute to these types of massacres, I suggest you read the comprehensive reporting done by Mother Jones. It is a straight facts, cause and effect article that sets religion and politics aside. The New York Times also ran a fantastic editorial about limiting the types of guns sold and how that has helped other countries (Australia's numbers were shocking).

Mostly  I want to tell you that I am grieving. I am grieving and frustrated and angry. I wonder how we all got so removed from each other. Even in the depths of my depression, I never considered harming another person. It is inconceivable to me the extreme mental anguish that must have contributed to Adam Lanza’s mentality. I mourn for him, for his family, but most of all for the kids and the bright futures they could have had. But in between the sadness there is anger. And maybe we should get angry. Maybe we should get angry and channel that rage into change. Instead of wasting time getting angry with each other, on Facebook and Twitter, we need to get mad at people who can make a difference. Write to your legislators, law-makers, senators. And most importantly, vote. Want to know how to talk about a national tragedy? Get angry from a place of love and respect. But most of all, support change. Because, regardless of your specific viewpoint, I think we can all agree that something is wrong here and it needs to change.

Surprise Packages

Taking a cue from R, on the idea that emotions can come in surprise packages, often at untimely moments. I hesitantly consider surprise loneliness. Not that I have ever claimed to be able to wrap my emotions up and tie them off with beautiful shiny bows. However, their ability to catch me off guard, especially during the holidays, never ceases to amaze me. To contextualize this, somewhat public, account of emotions, I must preface it with my nature as a community-centered person, who attempts to stay close to friends that at this point in life scatter the globe. In a typical extrovert fashion, I draw my energy from engaging with the incredible people in my life. However, the flip side of this is what a close [introverted] friend refers to as “the extrovert’s dilemma.” At times, I find loneliness lurking in the corners when I am physically alone. While most of us don’t fit neatly into the categories described by these buzz words---the bottom line is that since I was a little girl I have attempted to develop my introverted side. Goal lists spot my travel mole-skins; “become comfortable with spending time alone” is scribbled on the top of each one. I long to not wage battle against the lurking loneliness.

Loneliness: the creeping sensation in my gut---throwing me off kilter in a simple moment, invoking memories---both joyful and sad; nostalgia for distant places and faraway people, people I will never see again, moments that cannot be reproduced. It zaps my [fairly] romanticized view of the world---the snowy, almost timeless, afternoon, drinking a picture-perfect latte in a café, lazily reading, and it drags me back to a different form of reality, where I am huddled in a corner pouring over my text book, sucking down coffee in a manner that is far from relaxed. Its creeping nature takes the color out of every day moments and the tranquility from the serene present.

Off-center. The word that encompasses my general attitude towards the holidays, especially in the current version of my current life where it feels increasingly important to cement one’s notion of home and family based on where you spend the holidays and who you spend them with. Latent in these often gleeful conversations, loneliness plans its sneak-attack, filling me with unease. Last week it snuck in. At the end of a night of guitar-filled singing, surrounded by incredible friends, warmth, and love, I found myself cleaning up wine classes, the sign of a thoroughly enjoyed celebration. I felt the creeping sensation, tears welling behind my eyes, as my mind struggled to stay in the present---searching for past moments of contentment as well as loss. Where did this sneak attack come from?

Today a new friend remarked, he already felt nostalgic for today. The day, or rather the moment, had not yet ended---how can that happen? Perhaps, it is a cue from loneliness, itself, that the moment is good, hold on to it.

It consists of its own category: loneliness, with an element of surprise. It’s not grief, nor loss---it’s not fear, nor anxiety---it is a reminder of the present, anchoring me to the feeling of being alive, on a continual search for a sense of home, community, and place. And yet, even when I have found these, for me, being completely un-lonely, means situating myself in the present, letting go of the other places, peoples, and moments I am nostalgic for. So for this holiday season, with a sense of unease, I am retreating to a café, ordering what I hope is a perfect latte, to watch the snowfall and sit with a sense of loneliness, knowing that it anchors me to my present life.

I'm Sexy and I'm Over It

Dear Sibyl, I am a former sex worker (exotic dancer & some fetish work) who has left that phase of my life for fairer pastures. Since dropping out of that world, my perspective on my experiences has evolved, and as of now, I have scant positive feelings about it all.

A fun and fascinating lady has entered my life recently, and we are involved in a creative project together. She is a current sex worker (erotic massage provider/dominatrix). Our project entails one-on-one time and I'm sure our relationship will take on an intimate aspect (of the non-romantic variety) in the near future. The thing is, I am nervous and in fact afraid of this, due to her profession. I understand why she does it—to support herself while in school, as I did—and I don't judge her at all. But I'm scared that in getting close to her, somehow her present—my past—will affect me. I don't want to go back to that place emotionally, but I fear it's only around the corner, although my rational mind knows that's ridiculous.

We have a considerable age difference (7 years), and I should be able to be the bigger person and not convey insecurity. Of course, I don't want to be the older, wiser one who knows better, even as part of me wants to tell her to get out of the business ASAP. How can I stop projecting my fear of my own past onto her? And how can I be a good friend to her when I have such close-to-home issues about her job?

Thanks, Sibyl!

Sincerely,

Shipwrecked Stripper Swimming to Shore

Dearest Shipwrecked,

Have you considered that this woman has been placed in your life like a gift, one that, if you choose to open it, could be a Pandora’s box of healing experiences for you?  I have a friend who complains a lot, but then follows up all those complaints with, “Well, I guess it’s just AFGE.”  “What’s affguh?”, I finally asked one day.  “Another Fucking Growth Experience!”, she cried.

I advise you to dive right into this lovely AFGE that has landed in your sexy little lap.  In order to do that, you must first shed your clothes once more, not your actual garments, but rather this suit of need to be “The Bigger Person”.  I don’t know who laid that outfit for you on your bed before school one morning, but it’s time to throw that uniform into the Goodwill pile. Don’t be the Wise Old Owl, telling her exactly how many licks it takes to get to the center of the Tootsie roll pop.  I think you should definitely just go ahead and convey your insecurity.  What could be more charming?

In order for this friendship to get off the loading dock and into the deep waters of a real relationship, you've got to come clean with her about your feelings.  First, you'll have to figure out what those feelings are.  Obviously, fear.  You mentioned you don't want your past to affect you, but I wonder if what you really meant was "infect" you, for your past to bubble up and poison your life with your feeling state from that time. So, let me speak this to you now: You are not the person you once were.  If you were to find yourself in exactly the same position that you were in when you were doing sex work, I am positive you would act differently, feel differently, and there would be different outcomes.  So, even if your worst fear materializes and this girl’s profession somehow lures you back in, you’ll treat it differently.

You obviously care about this friend, and I wonder, when you were in her place, did you have any doubts about it?  Would it have been helpful to have real conversations with people who had been there, not just having to put on a brave face with your fellow sex workers, ("This is great, right?  We are making so much money, we are redefining feminism!") or hiding your job from people who wouldn't understand because they haven't been there?  Does your friend even know that you are a former sex worker?  It could put her at ease, and it could give you a chance to work through some of your sticky emotions with that time in your life.  I have this sneaking suspicion that you are not meant to teach/save her at all.  She has been placed in your life in order to teach/save you.

Rather than expounding to her about all the ways being a sex worker has had detrimental effects on your life to come, what if you took this opportunity to write a letter to your past self? You can put in it all the advice you are tempted to share with your new friend.  Here, I’ll start it for you:

Dear Younger Version of Me, I forgive you.  Dang, sometimes I really wish you hadn’t started me on certain paths that I am still trying to rid myself of.  I realize now that you did that because of _______ and _______ and though that was really fucked up, I have compassion for you now.  I do not see you as broken or wrong, just human. I love your humanity, I cherish your imperfections, and I want to accept you fully, so that I can feel like a whole person, rather than this self with a shadow I’m trying to shake.  Currently, I’m a little afraid of you.  I’ve worked hard not to let the choices you made back then dictate the rest of my life.  However, I’m scared that by befriending you, you’ll force yourself into the driver’s seat once again, and my life will be taken over by a ghost of Christmas past. So, as I seek to befriend you so that I can be friends with a woman who reminds me of you, go easy, okay?  Tell me when it’s time to take breaks, stop thinking about this stuff for awhile, and come back to it later.  I’m trusting you, don’t let me down!  We’re in this together. Love, Current Me.

Add your own touches to that primer, Shipwrecked, and stop swimming away.  Find your own shore, within.

Love, Sibyl

Do you have a quandary that you'd like Sibyl to help you with? Submit it here!

Mom, Interrupted

Dear Sibyl,

I have a friend that can sometimes be lovely and sometimes very self-centered.  We know each other through a playgroup.  What turns some people off is that after one person shares something (story, anecdote, etc), she immediately whips it back to her and her life.  A few of us have brought up how we often don't feel included in the conversation, but we don't have the courage, or words to bring this up to her.  Any advice?

Sincerely, Interrupted

Dear Interrupted,

It is ironic that your narcissistic friend is part of your playgroup, as she somehow managed to get through toddlerhood without learning how to share, or play the game of catch.  I hate that this bully has taken over your playgroup.  You've got to do what mamas do with bullies on the playground: confront them, directly, kindly, firmly, and if they can't mind the rules of the game, don't play with them anymore.

Teaching adults how to communicate is really irritating.  However, it sounds like you have some love for this woman, and it is that love that you need to tap into to give her the business.  Listen, right now, no one is enjoying playgroup, with her being the equivalent of a Hungry Hungry Hippo, gobbling up all the conversation balls as fast as she can.  If you turn her off by telling her how much her behavior is bothering everyone, you may upset one person but save the experience of all the others. So, I would suggest speaking to her, even though narcissists detest being confronted.  Don't beat around the bush, just tell her straight out, "Honey, sometimes you make everything about you.  And it's a major turn-off.  You've got to learn about reflective listening.  Let's try it now.  What are you hearing me say?"  Then have her say back to you the gist of what you're telling her.

It is not our job to save our friends from themselves.  I know it is daunting to confront her, but isn't it worse that everyone secretly hates her?  In protecting her from that truth, you are denying her the chance to have real relationships with all of you.

When I was a child, there was so much that was out of my control.  I grew up in a home of a recovering alcoholic with a recovering co-dependent by his side.  I understood almost nothing about their communication, but I knew it was filled with both acrimony and love, which was terrifying and confusing for me to behold.  I learned to accept my circumstances and the reality that I had no say in how things went down.

Unfortunately, I did this unconsciously, so it led me to go completely off the rails in the areas that I did have control over, like the drugs I put into my body and the people I allowed to touch it.

Then I grew up, and it wasn’t until I was about 28 and living with a housemate who the rest of the house despised that I realized, “Holy shit.  I have control over my own life.  I can just ask this bitch to leave!”  So, we did.  We sat her down, and told her it wasn’t working out.  We didn’t make it “a teaching moment”, we didn’t tell her we hated when she would eat her bagel really loudly and pretend that none of us existed, her passive aggressive notes or her creepy boyfriend with oracular issues.  It was a huge sigh of relief to realize I could shape my own experiences, and take care of myself in this way.

All of this is to say, if your friend can’t learn to play well with others, aka take time actually listening rather than just waiting for her turn to talk, let her know you want to be her friend on a one-on-one basis, rather than in a group.  Schedule her for short chunks of time, when you have the energy to listen to a monologue.  It’s your life.  Don’t look back.

Love, Sibyl

Do you have a quandary that you'd like Sibyl to help you with? Submit it here!

An optimist's perspective on resolutions

December is always a bit of a surprise, and then it rushes by (at least for me) faster than any other month. For many, it’s a month that hurtles toward Christmas and is propelled by shopping and parties and decking the halls. For me, that target date, bright and imminent, is New Year’s Eve. Despite the floundering public perception of New Year’s resolutions (Empty promises! So cliché! You’ll never keep them!), I can’t help myself. Somehow, January 1st always feels like a fresh start, and I can’t miss the opportunity to reflect on the past and set new goals and intentions for the future. In high school, I was almost always babysitting on New Year’s Eve, and I would bask in the quiet moments edging toward midnight after I put the kids to bed. I’d take the opportunity to record important themes from the year, gathering up the threads and carefully noting significant challenges and turning points. I would set goals for the future, and yes, some of them would fall by the wayside within the week. The first to disintegrate were the daily life goals, habits I wanted to create, like getting a certain amount of exercise each day or writing for a certain amount of time. It’s so hard to wrestle your day or your week into a new shape when the rest of your environment stays the same.

And then there are the goals that seem to work themselves out on their own, without my having to try so hard, or the goals that are completely displaced by new ones. What’s most important is not necessarily whether I accomplish each goal within its allotted time frame, but rather what I can learn from the changes and consistencies between my intentions from year to year.

In the past few years, I’ve recorded my intentions for each year in a wiki. I don’t look at it often, but when I need a time capsule or a snapshot of my priorities and intentions, I know where to find it. I’ve also started a habit, which I’m sure I culled from somewhere in the blogosphere, to give each year a theme, so that even if the specific goals change, I can easily keep the intentions behind them in mind. One year, it was mindfulness, the next was wellbeing.

I think the coming year may be the year for depth. It’s the first time I can look out onto the year and know that it will not be shaped by semesters. It feels less temporary, and I am so very thankful for it. I am comforted by the fact that my routines won’t be overturned at the end of each semester, and I don’t have to live in constant tug-of-war with the breakneck pace of the school year. It will be interesting to see how time unfolds on the other side of all that. I am excited about putting down some roots in my new life. I hope to spend less time worrying about what I should be doing and more time just doing things well.

Asking for It, with Sibyl: An Introduction

Who is Sibyl?  Sibyl is the witchy woman you meet at a party and figure you'll avoid because she looks bizarre, but somehow end up sitting near all night, telling her about your roommate troubles and your theories about your family secrets.  Sibyl is the older sister you always thought you'd have, who'd sit you down and help you do your hair in just the way that suits you, and sticks up for you on the playground when everyone else is calling you "Brace Face."  Sibyl is the friend who shows up just to be with you, not talk, when you're facing the deepest grief of your life---when your partner has run off with a lover, when your baby is dead in your hands, when you're scandalized and have been pushed out of a job you love.  Sibyl is your queertacular friend who takes you by the hand and pulls you to the dance floor, spinning until you both dissolve into fits of laughter, forgetting your fears.  Sibyl is a ruined woman. Sibyl is married with children. Sibyl was on the Honor Roll, then cut class to go out to the soccer field to take a tab of acid and stare at the sky.  Sibyl may spend most of her time with her head in books about the nature of the soul, but she totally cares that Duchess Catherine is pregnant.

Who should write in to Sibyl?   Sibyl is for the ladies.  Sibyl is for the ladies who used to be dudes.  Sibyl is for the ladies who want to be dudes, who are dudes within.  Sibyl is for the ladies who love ladies, Sibyl is for the hopelessly straight.  Sibyl is for the wallflowers, who think no one is ever going to listen or care.  Sibyl is for the Mamas and the Papas.  Sibyl is for those of you putting a brave face on being alone.

What should you ask Sibyl? Whatever is twisting in your gut, those issues that make it hard to breathe, that you know are mysteriously killing you, even though they should not be a big deal.  They are are a big deal.  You are a big deal.  Ask away.

And to All a Good Night

What happens when you put your Jewish friend in charge of stringing the lights on the tree, is that you get to the bottom and have no way to plug them in.  “What I have here in my hand is two female parts, but it seems like I need two male parts,” I called out to my oldest friend.  She looked perplexed, herself, having never been the one to do the lights on the tree.  The tree endeavor (both selection and installation) had always been the province of her husband, who made a big production out of it with her kids.  He had been gone just three months and the whole operation carried a pall of sadness.  I was determined to establish a fresh tradition, help her feel confident in her new role and win the day with enthusiasm.  The kids had been good sports at the tree lot that morning, although it must have been terribly disorienting to be there without their father.  I felt the least we could do was to get the tree going before nightfall.  Ultimately, we had to call up our reserves---two effective and creative friends (with four children between them), both Mommies who were responsible for all things tree-related in their homes.  Within the space of twenty minutes, those two had stripped the tree, restrung the lights and carefully dotted the whole situation with ornaments.  That day, my status as “other” when it comes to celebrating Christmas and participating in the “Holiday Season” took a back seat to being present for a loved one. I returned home feeling decidedly less sorry for myself.  Even considering my pattern (like so many American Jews) of feeling a bit left out at this time of year, I had to consider the heartache of my friend and so many others who have lost a spouse or someone close to them, knowing the pain of a loss like that is much more acute during Holidays, birthdays, anniversaries and the assorted benchmarks of life.

As much as I have my own issues with the Christmas behemoth, its value as a touchstone for many families in this country is undeniable.  It is a marker around which people create important memories with one another.  Children experience Christmas as an expression of familial love and have the opportunity to be showered with special attention by parents and extended family.  Adults take time away from work to be with their families and reflect.  Sometimes people even use the Holiday as a way to process wounds that haunt them from childhood.  The corrective experience of making your own Christmas for your own family as an adult must be incredibly powerful on a number of levels.

There still resides inside me, the smart-ass fourth grader who wrote an essay about how the White House Christmas tree lighting ceremony was a violation of church and state.  This represented my desperate attempt to communicate the plight of the American, Jewish 8-year-old during the Holidays.  Back in the 80s, they didn’t really show much of Reagan lighting an obligatory Menorah somewhere or sitting down with his staff for a game of Dreidl.  And I likely would have argued that, to be fair, he shouldn’t be publicly participating in any religious celebration.  They also didn’t give Chanukah much air-time in the media in general back then, which made it even more critical that I drag my Mom into my elementary classrooms so that she could fry up Latkes on an electric griddle.  There is almost nothing more tragic than a bunch of disinterested school children carting floppy paper plates of greasy potato pancakes and dollops of applesauce to their desks to “enjoy.”  “Also, we get chocolate coins!” I asserted to anyone who would listen.

While I feel certain that I will be confronted with many uncomfortable conversations with my own children about why we don’t adorn our home or really do anything amazing at this time of year, I also trust that they will find ways to turn their outsider status into something interesting.  They might end up with a fantastic sense of humor about it.  It might increase their empathy for people that experience actual “other” status (people of color, immigrants, gay families) and who live permanently outside the mainstream.

I will always feel a little twinge at Christmas time.  I will try and remind myself that I can appreciate someone else’s traditions and how profound they are without needing to participate myself.  We have our own traditions on December 25th– Dim Sum!  Blockbuster movies!---and I remain grateful that I won’t need to cling to them like a life-raft, girding against loss.

Lessons from Copenhagen...

Dear Clara, Believe it or not, our time in Washington is coming to a close.  When we arrived last summer, two years seemed like decades away, but in less than half a year, we’ll be on the move again.  We know where now, and that always lifts burden off my shoulders.  I never really mind where the home is, but I do like knowing what I should plan for.  Your father and I did a little scouting mission to our new home-to-be this past month, and here’s what we noticed so far about Copenhagen, Denmark:

• Candles are cozy and lighting matters: In a place that gets dark by the time most of us are finishing up lunch, light and atmosphere matter a lot.  We had heard a lot about Danish “hygge”, which can only be loosely translated as a feeling of coziness or warmth, but we didn’t really understand to what extent those principles of creating a welcoming environment really matter.  Even the Laundromat had candelabras and everyone took their job of creating an environment you want to be in very seriously.
• There is no such thing as bad weather: . . . only bad clothes for the weather---many a Dane seems to say that with pride.  And it’s true---weather conditions, again in a place with a long and cold winter, don’t seem to stop people from doing much.  Whether it was dark or cold or rainy, people had on the appropriate footwear or layers or hats or gloves, and everyone was out, on their bikes no less.   It was a reminder for us that if you’re prepared, you can still be up for anything.
• Fresh air is good for you: In a similar vein to the above, people seemed to be ready and willing to be outside and partake in fresh air.  We saw baby carriages on the outside of coffee shops---with babies still in them---and children out at recess.  Fresh, clean air is a luxury that refreshes the body instantly.  If we’re lucky enough to be surrounded by fresh, clean air, we should take advantage of it.
• Early to bed, early to rise: We arrived just past ten o’clock in the evening our first night, and already all the restaurants were closing up, including in the hotel.  Everything seems to be happening earlier here: people get out of work earlier, they eat earlier and they go to bed earlier.  Yet somehow, I bet their day is still longer.
• Maybe things are supposed to be more expensive sometimes: You notice instantly that life in Copenhagen doesn’t come cheap.  Even the small things, such as a simple coffees in a café, are easily three times the price we’re use to paying.  I know we will be quick to complain about the cost of living---it’s an adjustment after all, and paying more for one thing, means having less for another.  Yet, life in Copenhagen seems to be pretty good; people seem to be taken care of.  I’m sure we’ll get a better sense of how everything works once we’re living there day in and day out, but the thought occurred to me, maybe it’s not a bad thing to pay more for the smaller things in life if it guarantees that some of the bigger things will be provided for.

I can’t wait to explore our new home with you –

All my love,

Mom

Welcome, Mattia!

“For what it’s worth: it’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the courage to start all over again.” ― Eric Roth, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button - screenplay

Dear Mattia,

You came into this world in a warm afternoon at the end of September.

I first saw you when you were a few days old and I couldn’t help but thinking how perfect you were–resting and smiling peacefully in your mom’s arms, ten tiny toes, ten tiny fingers. You won’t remember the day you were born, and you won’t remember the few years that will follow, but trust me, you changed a lot of lives with your arrival.

You may look like a lot of other babies to the rest of the world, but to your parents you are an angel who came here to bring great hope and happiness, to be loved and to give love in return. You made me an aunt, and my husband an uncle. From this day forth, you will be our wish for better days.

You have a chance to make the world a better place, but please don’t feel under pressure. You don’t have to save the world---just follow your path knowing that we are all close to you and ready to hold your hands through the most difficult times. For now, just keep in mind you are a lucky baby---you have been born into a wonderful family.

My dearest Mattia, this world is not an easy one. You will learn a lot, and it won’t ever get simpler. But keep in mind that this world is an amazing place, a place you will discover day by day, through other people’s eyes, through your travels. Try not to focus on shadows and darkness, and find joy in the hardest times because, believe it or not, small or big issues happen, but there’s a chance you will be laughing about them later. I can’t promise you won’t ever experience adversity, but the most important part is to be comfortable in your own skin, and never apologize for who you are.

Growing up can be painful at times, and we all tend to close little doors around our hearts to protect ourselves from sorrow and disappointment. Find the strength inside yourself, do not expect people around you to be perfect, because they are just human beings like you. Some people will be good to share a deep friendship with, some others will be good for laughter and a beer, others will disappoint you, and some will make you sad. Not everyone knows how to give love in return, for some hearts are simply frozen or unsophisticated or plain, but you will learn to take from people only what they can give you. Do not expect too much from everyone. Only, remember that you are a boy, a boy who will soon become a man, and when your heart is broken don’t feel ashamed if you want to cry. Just try to always love what you see in the mirror, and allow that person to smile back at you at least once a day.

Feel confident you will know when to open your heart to others. There are thousands of people you will meet, and all of them can teach you something---good or bad. But you will learn small lessons from everyone, so keep your eyes and mind open to them. Always carry an imaginary pen with you, and before the end of the day list who taught you something precious, or something you simply don’t want to forget. In a while, you will find an entire book of stories in your hands, and realize that the most incredible lessons come from unexpected people, whom you’ll meet in the most unexpected places.

You don’t know this yet, so let me tell you, just in case you need me in the future---your Auntie lives pretty much in an imaginary world, made of dreams, stories written by others, and small gems, each one symbolizing a good friend, or a faraway place, or flashes of images belonging to other times and places. Whenever you feel curious to jump into the rabbit hole with me, please raise your hand and I’ll hold it through the small path. I guarantee we will make it back.

Thank you for being with us, and thank you for making me an aunt.

With love,

Your Auntie,

Alice

Christine de Pisan: Widow. Writer. Anachronistic Feminist.

A few weeks ago, on a lazy Sunday, my boyfriend and I were watching the History Channel. This is not something we tend to do, and as a self-dubbed historian I can tell you that us historians have our problems with the so-called “history” of the History Channel (often fondly referred to as “the Hitler Channel”). Nevertheless—on that Sunday, it was on. Specifically, a show about ancient Rome, and its marvels and its Caesars and its rise and its fall and all that stuff.

Through historical reenactment and cheesy voiceovers, we were introduced to Emperor Claudius and his wife Agrippina, a conniving seductress if ever there was one. We’re told that one day, poor Claudius took violently ill and died. Cheesy voiceover: “Claudius was poisoned by a mushroom flower . . . and his wife’s ambition.”

“Do they have any evidence to substantiate the claim?” I asked (the History Channel doesn’t do footnotes, after all).

“Yeah,” my boyfriend replied. “She’s a woman.”

Before you virtually slap him, note that this was said tongue-in-cheek. This is how our cynical senses of humor work.

I bring this up because, while the woman-as-seductress trope remains alive and well in many contexts—particularly in political thriller and historical biography—there was a lady who, way back in 1399, was also sick and tired of such tired and misogynist characterizations, and like me, she decided to write about it. This lady was Christine de Pisan.

Christine was born in 1364 in Venice, but grew up in the French court—her father was the court astrologer to Charles V of France. (Yes, that was a thing.) She was married at 15 to a court secretary named Etienne, had three children, and then was abruptly widowed at 25. None of this was particularly remarkable. What was remarkable was what she chose to do after that.

Most medieval women of her class would have remarried, or, if they were feeling particularly pious, gotten themselves to a nunnery. Christine did neither. To ensure the financial well-being of herself and her children, she decided to work for a living by utilizing her special talent at writing.

Here I must exclaim with delight. (Yay!) As Virginia Woolf once famously noted, there were very few women writers prior to the nineteenth century; so Christine was trailblazing a path that literally did not exist. In her career, she was patronized by the rich and powerful and produced many well-received works of poetry, practically creating what it meant to be a “woman writer” in Western Europe, and was able to provide for a family without a man to help her.

What’s more, her works are considered to be some of the earliest written examples of feminism. Now, it’s a bit anachronistic to ascribe the word “feminist” to anyone living in the Middle Ages. That said, Christine’s work impressively promoted women’s value to society and combated the “misogyny” of her male writer counterparts.

For one thing, she practically invented the whole "Your Historical Woman of the Day" concept (though I will retain all rights and privileges to said concept, thankyouverymuch): In Le Livre de la cité des dames (“The Book of the City of Ladies," also the best book title ever), written in 1405, Christine recorded examples of historical women who were known for heroism and virtue, who could serve as inspiration for women in her own time.  And in Le Livre des trios vertus (“The Book of the Three Virtues”), she discussed women’s role in medieval society and provided moral instruction for women from all walks of life.

As mentioned earlier, Christine was perturbed by certain depictions of the archetypal Woman in medieval (male) writings, particularly one satirical Roman de la Rose by Jean de Meun, which portrayed all women as conniving seductresses. So she directly engaged ol’ Jean in her critique L’Epistre au Dieu d’Amours (“Letter to the God of Loves”) and defended women against such misleading attacks. Her view was that, contrary to popular belief, women were not simply temptresses designed to lead men astray; rather, they  were valuable members of society who, if allowed to receive the same education as men, had the potential to be just as accomplished and successful.

Many feminist scholars have cautioned against holding up Christine as some kind of Light of Early Feminism. Obviously, her thinking was still constrained by medieval understandings of society and the world, and she later in part recanted her more “radical” early attacks of misogyny. And, in the end, she did get herself to a nunnery, where she remained until her death around 1430. However, her accomplishments make her quite the iconoclastic figure—a woman who made her own career in writing, who earned widespread acclaim from kings and nobles (including Henry IV of England), who promoted the place of women in a society far more rigidly patriarchal than the one we know today, whose books continue to be remembered. She even wrote an account of Joan of Arc’s early victories; and it was written during Joan’s lifetime, the only such account in existence.

Not to get cheesy, but I’m pretty sure Christine and I are sisters across the ages.

The Call to Prayer

Any traveler will tell you that every place has a distinct essence to it, part smell, part sound, part people---it all wraps up into a ball of experience and existence unlike any other location.  Years after you've left a place, a particular sight or scent will immediately transport you back to the previous time and place.  Although its heard all over the world, The Call to Prayer will always bring me back to Bangladesh.

Muslims, as you may know, pray five times a day.  They are alerted to the times of prayer by a call being sung out from the mosque.  This was the original purpose of minarets. A man would climb to the top of the Minaret and alert the faithful that it was time to pray.  Today speakers and microphones are used and walking to the top of the tower is no longer required.

There must  be a mosque just around the corner from our apartment, although I’m not sure I’ve ever actually seen it.  There was a neighborhood mosque just around the corner from our apartment in Dhaka. While I was rarely ever up at the first call to prayer, I doubt a day went by when I didn't hear at least one of the calls, more often than not, the last three.

If there is one thing that I loved most about living in Bangladesh---besides the experience or the adventure, or trying new things, but one tangible thing that I can point to, it would probably be the call to prayer.  I love hearing it---broadcasting out from the speakers, the static and what I imagine to be rudimentary wiring making the noise crackle and sound distant-like an antique radio.

I’m not sure I can fully describe the sound, or the feeling that accompanies it.  It’s one of those things you just have to experience, that defies words.  The closest comparison I can think of is Gregorian Chant---it is undeniably mystic, there is an inner peace to the foreign words so that even without fully understanding their meaning, the spirit is clear. The voice carries over the neighborhood rooftops, hauntingly melodic, intoning a request.

For me, its a reminder to be zen, to pause and be in the moment, to listen, and to be grateful.

Looking Forward: Girls.

“This might have been a mistake,” I said. My friend Lily, head cocked in sympathy, nodded. “Definitely a mistake.”

It was a cold night, and we’d just met friends at a favorite bar in our neighborhood. Short on cash, I’d ordered the $4 well whiskey, neat. Its smell alone made my eyes water. And I’d been given a generous pour.

“Brave girl,” someone remarked as I held the tumbler to my lips.

“Would you like me to tell you a story, to distract you while you drink that?” said Lily.

“Yes,” I replied. “Please.”

“Okay,” she said. “This is a story about unicorns.”

And she began.

---

People say that when you find true love, you know. Though I’ve experienced this with the opposite sex before, the same phenomenon has occurred---delightfully, consistently, and much more often---in many of my friendships with girls, as well.

For instance, Kimiko, one of my closest childhood friends, shared a bus seat with me on a field trip in the third grade. We debated afterschool snacks, discussed the size and cuteness of our respective pet rabbits, played MASH---and subsequently spent the next seven years together, so close that we considered ourselves one unit (our combined name was Shimiko). When I moved to LA at fifteen, we traded photo albums, and put together a dictionary of terms we’d created over the course of our friendship---code names for crushes, words only the two of us understood.

And that was just it---there was much about the two of us that only we understood. In so many ways, we spoke the same language.

I knew the same was true of Maya, a high school friend and future Brooklyn roommate, when we spent an afternoon in the parking lot at our school, seated on the roof of her car. We were navigating what I remember to be a very complicated situation involving prom dates. My angst about the situation was almost certainly disproportionate to the circumstances at hand; still, she understood.

And when Linda, my roommate all four years of college, spent countless nights in with me while all of our friends went out, I knew I’d made a special kind of friend---one you know you never have to work to impress, one who understands your history as well as they do their own. Already a sister to six, she’s filled that role for me, as well. She’s family, a touchstone. She feels like home.

I met Lily only months ago, late in the summer, in East River Park. She and another college roommate of mine, Megan, were spending an afternoon sitting in the grass, talking, getting sunburns. We’d all recently been through break-ups; we were heavy-hearted. But that gave us something to talk about. And in the weeks and months that followed, I found so much of the happiness I needed in meeting Megan to do work at coffee shops, in going on late-night adventures with Lily. (When she told me the story about unicorns at the bar, I knew she was someone whose quirkiness I understood.)

Though I’m loathe to make a Sex and the City reference here (much internal deliberation happened before I wrote this paragraph), I can’t help but think of a scene that occurs toward series’ end---it’s one that always makes me feel like weeping. In it, Carrie, set to embark on her ill-fated journey to Paris, says to her friends, “What if I never met you?”

---

Megan and I had dinner together just last weekend and reflected on the past few months over steaming bowls of soup. “My year took a turn the day I came to see you in the park,” I said. “You were lonely in the same way I was. You understood.”

You understood.

What a staggering gift, to have friends who say, “I know what you mean.” Who make you laugh. Who appreciate, and relate to, and love  your eccentricities.

This is what it means to know someone.

It’s what it means to understand.

Doing it Yourself

This past weekend I infused honey in my tiny Brooklyn apartment. Before you get the wrong idea: infusing honey is no great feat of urban homesteading. The process itself is not much more difficult than than steeping a bag of tea. Avoiding a sticky mess is the real challenge but barring any honey disasters, it’s a simple task: add spices to honey, heat honey, strain honey, pour honey into sterilized jars and seal them up. Before the holidays I’ll wrap my amber jars of cinnamon and cardamom-infused honey in a piece of burlap and tie them up with ribbon. They’ll serve as tiny gifts to family members who we’ve traveled far to see: a little treat from my kitchen to theirs.

I like this kind of gift-giving. It’s simple and the act of making the gifts serves as a quiet moment in what can be a hectic season. To be totally honest, it’s more about the joy that it brings me than anything else. Instead of the anxiety of spending hours looking for an affordable gift in crowded stores, making the honey was peaceful, even soothing. For the hour or two that I spent gathering my supplies and preparing my gifts, I had nothing to do but remember to stir the honey and make sure that I didn’t spill anything. There was no whiny Christmas music, no pushy shoppers, just me and my glass jars in a comically small kitchen.

As I strained honey into cup-sized jars I thought about the different ways that our hosts might use their gift. One will stir hers into into cups of tea, another will drizzle it over buttered toast, still one more will pass it along to an unsuspecting neighbor, never to be seen again. There’s no perfect solution when it comes to giving holiday gifts, but in my view, making a little something in your own kitchen comes pretty close. Even if the finished product languishes in someone's cupboard, you've gained yourself a few quiet moments of holiday cheer. For me, that's reason enough to roll up my sleeves and get to work.

Slowing the Season Down

I love the holiday season. I love the air of festivity, the sense of wonderment that seems to slip into the world as we polish off our Thanksgiving leftovers. I love catching glimpses of my neighbors’ Christmas trees through unshaded windows in the dark of early evening. I love the happiness, the large-heartedness, that seems to linger in the atmosphere as days tick on toward December’s end. But I won’t lie: Sometimes I hate the holiday season, too.

In the days leading up to Thanksgiving, my husband—whose inner ten-year-old makes an appearance as soon as Christmas is on the horizon—asked me almost every day, with great enthusiasm in his voice, “Are you excited for Christmas?”

“I’m not ready for Christmas,” I said every time. I meant that I wasn’t ready for the rush and bustle, the overcrowded calendar that seems to be part and parcel of the modern December experience. I was looking forward to all of the things we had planned for the season—family parties, Advent Sunday celebrations, tickets to see a live performance of A Christmas Carol—but I was dreading them, too. I’d struggled enough during November with a relentless schedule and the toll it took on my pregnant, chronically-ill body.

As November waned, my husband and I returned from a Thanksgiving trip to visit family with me in not-so-great condition. A few days later, we bundled into coats and scarves and walked two blocks to a nearby tree stand to purchase this year’s Christmas beauty, which my husband proceeded to carry (yes, carry) home in a cinema-esque show of manliness. We tumbled back into our house with our prize, laughing and red-cheeked.

Within hours, I was in the grip of an unpleasant bout of pleurisy, a usually-not-serious-but-very-painful lung condition. Afraid to take the narcotic in my kitchen cupboard—saved for just these attacks of pleurisy—in my gravid state, I suffered through the pain all night, unable to get a deep enough breath to drop off to sleep.

I watched the clock slowly tick on through the night, and I thought, I have to re-think my December.

The next morning, after I’d managed a few hours of restless sleep, I sat down and looked at what we had planned for the month. I sent e-mails bowing out of family events that were too far away or too much to handle. I bought airline tickets to Portland so that our post-Christmas visit to my parents could be made without a thirteen-hour drive each way. I prioritized the list of errands I needed to run and decided to ignore the ones that weren’t urgent.

And in the two weeks that followed, I slowed down. I listened to my body, letting it tell me what it needed. I put off those errands until they became necessities. I didn’t worry so much if the dishes stayed in the sink until evening.

As I sit here writing this now, in the twinkling glow of my Christmas tree lights, I am glad for that forced slowing-down. I wouldn’t have chosen to spend the beginning of my December couch-bound and sick, but it was, I think, what I needed.

Because, in the stepping back, the conscious choice to let go of things that weren’t urgent (and even some things that seemed urgent), I found my way back into the love of the holiday season. I played Christmas music on Pandora and drank peppermint hot chocolate. I let the warmth and the joy of the season seep in, without letting the guilt come with it.

I am far from perfect—but, I am reminding myself, I am enough.

Maybe next time I’ll be able to remember the importance of slowing the season down without being forced into it.

How do you deal with the holiday season madness? Do you find yourself slowing down or speeding up as Christmas draws closer?

Since You Brought It Up: Downshifting

By Lauren Kodiak It’s been six months since I finished school. From kindergarten to graduate studies, I never stopped—never took a moment to breathe, reflect or reassess. You see, after four years of college, you’re supposed to have it all figured out. During my senior year, I began to dread the impending doom that post-grads feel when searching for jobs. I needed a goal, something to keep working towards, so I applied to graduate schools to study Higher Education (because, hey, that sounds promising). A few short months after graduation, I boarded a plane to Portland, Oregon, leaving my family and friends behind in Connecticut, where I’d lived my first 22 years.

Throughout my two-year grad program, I noticed an internal shift. I took things a little less seriously, slowed down and appreciated quiet moments alone where I could be with my thoughts. I even started a personal blog, something I never thought I’d do, and each post felt more therapeutic than the last. This, of course, made room for pesky feelings to bubble up, feelings that confirmed I wasn’t as passionate about this field as I had originally hoped. Still, I made an effort to savor my last years as a student, and trudged on to graduation.

And here I am, six months out, and though I’ve felt pangs of that post-grad doom, I’m surprisingly calm. I work two part-time jobs—one (that uses my degree) to pay the bills, another (a writing gig for a local publication) that doesn’t feel like a job at all. I've become quite taken with stringing words together, fitting each one in its exact place to complete a puzzle of sorts. I don’t have it all figured out, by any means, but I am energized and hopeful about following this creative outlet to see where it leads.

But as I’m getting ready to head home for the holidays, self-doubt has started to creep in. Will others judge me for “wasting my degree” if I abandon Higher Education for a little while, or altogether? Am I a fool to go for the less lucrative or stable career? I realize that most of this pressure is self-imposed. I'm working on being at peace with my decision, reframing it in a positive way. When people ask why I don’t have a full-time job at a university, I’ll pass on saying “Because the job market is so dismal,” in favor of saying “Because I decided to pursue another path.” I want to finally give myself the time to explore what I’m truly passionate about—but first, I need to own it, embrace it and carry it with confidence.

***

We believe we can find more joy in the holidays by squashing the little voice that tells us bright spirits and good cheer are only possible when we’re perfect.  The magic of this time of year comes from connecting with loved ones near and far, reminding ourselves of all we have to be thankful for, and . . . covering everything in twinkling white lights. 

We’re embracing our present lives—foibles and all—so we can spend more time drinking egg nog and less time worrying we’re not good enough. Imperfect is the new black; wear it with pride.

Want to lighten your load? Read the post that kicked off the series, Ashely Schneider's Down, Not Out. Add your story to the “Since You Brought It Up” series by submitting it here.