the tide

I am going to be 40 in 23 days.

Am I okay with this? Absolutely. Am I grateful to be alive and healthy at 39.9? For sure.

Growing old is a privilege denied to many, as they say.

Yet...there is something.

I have had a very big year. It has been a year full of saying goodbye: to a house, to people, to outdated ways of thinking and being. It has been a year of letting go, of digging deep, of shedding skin, of cleaning house. To call it a mid-life crisis would be both inaccurate and unfair. It is something so much larger, so much deeper. So much better.

The image that comes to me again and again is the tide. The water comes in and the water goes out, carefully orchestrated by celestial phenomena but seemingly, almost magically.

On the ebb tide, as the water leaves the shore, pulled by the moon into the sea, there is a vast emptiness across the landscape. The underbelly of the ocean, dark seaweed and salt-stained rock, is exposed. Low water can be everything all at once: peaceful, vacant, lonely, expansive, barren, majestic, promising, a playground teaming with sea life.

There is a pause when the tide is all the way out and has yet to begin its return. This rest, known as slack water, can last only a handful of minutes or more than half an hour, depending on the phase of the moon, before the water reverses course and floods back to the shore. Slack water is akin to the brief moment between inhale and exhale when all is gone but about to be restored.

I am at in slack water right now. My tide has gone out and I am sitting in the empty. My mantra to myself is that the tide always comes in. It is guaranteed so long as the moon doesn't fall out of the sky. My tide will also come in.  Perhaps it is one of the more brave acts a human heart can perform: to stand in the space between the old and the new, between what was and what has yet to be, to dwell in the pause between the exhale and the inhale.

There is an old fishing adage that says, "When the tide rests, so should the fisherman."

This fisherman is trying to work that out.

If I can surrender to the slack, to the pause, an alchemy occurs.  Vacancy becomes possibility. Emptiness becomes expectation. Sadness becomes anticipation.

I am on the verge of the next chapter of my life. I can feel it coming. I have cleared everything I don't need out and I have the capacity for the new. I can fill it with anything. Like someone reintroducing food after a fast, I have been very mindful of what I am filling myself with. I have sought out play, adventure and challenge, to shake myself free of my own confinement. I am seeking a lighter heart and a more liberated existence.  I am doing things that frighten me, that exhilarate me, that unchain me.

In that spirit, I decided I would make space for myself to fulfill a long held goal to complete a 100 mile bike ride (a century). I signed up for the Lobster Ride in Camden which offered a century perfect for the overachiever in me: a 103 mile coastal hilly route.

Then I tried to talk myself out of it 20 different times when I saw how it fit into our busy schedule and worried about how hot it would in July riding all day long. But I made myself do it anyway.

The ride was everything I needed it to be: quiet, difficult, long, beautiful. My bike computer stopped working at the start line so I had to let go of mileage and pace and all the things I use to define my success. The route took us along stunning back country roads through the woods and along lakes with heavy canopies of shade and then down a peninsula to a lighthouse.

As midday approached, the sun pounded on my back and the heat rose up from the pavement and I felt like I was in a fire sandwich. I don't exert myself well in the heat and I could feel the toll it was taking. The course was only marked with turns, not mile markers or distance notification or even arrows saying, "You are on the right road!" and I found myself out of water on a blistering road with no other cyclists around (100 miles is a lot of space for a group of cyclists to spread out on) wondering if I had made a wrong turn.

I considered going into some stranger's house and asking for lemonade with lots of ice and I began to fantasize about the air conditioning in the cars that passed me. Low mental moment.

When I finally made it to rest stop 3 (which was almost 10 miles farther than I thought it was), I sat in the shade and gulped water. I looked around at my fellow cyclists and they also looked beat up by the heat which was oddly comforting. I asked the volunteer how far to the next rest stop and he answered, "Sixteen miles down the peninsula to the lighthouse. But you will have an ocean breeze and it will all be downhill."

I would have paid good money for an ocean breeze and downhill.

I got back on my bike and peddled along in the steamy air that couldn't exactly be called a breeze. The little air that was moving was not coming off the ocean, but from the land.  I realized I should have rested longer because I felt like a wilting flower in the heat.  My body didn't even feel like my own.  I didn't know if I was riding 16 mph or 11. I wasn't sure I cared.

I quickly realized the volunteer, in an attempt to boost my morale, had committed the cardinal sin. He had lied. To be clear, when you are riding 103 miles in sweltering heat you don't need that shit. You don't need to be cheered up. You need someone to give it to you straight. Eventually, I got to the lighthouse, dumped water over my head and took refuge in some shade as I prepared for what seemed to be a manageable 34 miles left to ride.

How cool! And I particularly liked the crunched M&Ms in the foreground of this picture.

 I felt decent when I got back on my bike. Until the muscle cramps hit. Despite chugging electrolyte drinks and chomping on salt pills, my body was revolting against the heat. Every few down peddles would make my left hamstring seize and every few up peddles would do the same to my right quadricep. I carried on this way for a few miles. It became impossible to stand to climb hills and I feared for the first time that I might not be able to finish if I couldn't peddle.

The ride was a microcosm of my life. It was damn hard. I needed to just keep peddling. I felt I had lost my way but I just needed to stay the course. I needed to call on my mental fortitude to preserve. Newt Gingrich couldn't have been more correct when he said: "Perseverance is the hard work you do after you get tired of doing he hard work you already did."

And here was my reward:

Ironically, my pace was decent- only slightly slower than my typical riding pace for much shorter rides. It only mattered in that is made me laugh a bit at myself because even when things are difficult, I usually do a better job than I give myself credit for.

Sometimes a song is given to you like a gift, putting into words an experience that is hard to nail down. I'm very grateful the song "Lucky Now" by Ryan Adams found its way to me.

The lights will draw you in
And the dark will take you down
And the night will break your heart
Only if you’re lucky now

If the lights draw you in

And the dark can take you down

Then love can mend your heart

But only if you’re lucky now

I am lucky enough to have a heart that will break and open, open and break. I have lived long enough to know how to embrace the challenge and seek the beauty, both at low tide and at high. It doesn't mean it is easy. It means that I might just be okay with it being hard because without the ebb and the flow my life would be bland and anemic. The contrasting pairs that comprise a life- struggle and growth, dark and light, pain and joy- is what gives it texture, depth and meaning. I consider myself lucky to know these fully. I have enough love around me and within me to sustain me. I can rest as slack water with full trust in the flood tide.

where the *&$% have we been?

It has been an excusably long time since I have written a blog post. I don't exactly have a good reason except to say that, while I like to think of this as an authentic space, I try not to use it as my own personal therapy office. 

Also, I have actually been writing. I have nearly 100 pages written in my book. I have crossed over to the point where I feel the need to write, like the story and the characters are taking on a life of their own. It is indescribably exciting and entirely intimidating to me. 

The theme of the winter has been gymnastics competition and skiing. This means a lot of early mornings and later nights, car rides, a great deal of hair braiding, the packing of clothes, gear, snacks and a piles of hand wash only clothes. No weekend has been unspoken for and we constantly say to each other: sure we can pull it off, but will it still be fun? 

We are not the kind of parents that care about our children's scores (to the point where they will what they scored on their floor routine and we have to shrug and apologize for not having paid more attention). We are more wowed that they have the guts to get up in a massive gym full of watching eyes and display the skills they have worked tirelessly to master. When I watch our girls traverse the narrow balance beam, watch them waver and lose their balance only to find it, correct and resume, I have all I can do not to shout my triumph. 

I don't need my kids to do all the cool flips or to win first place. I want them to find their strength, to wobble and then find their center, to fall off that tricky beam, get back up and finish their routines with pride, to use their strong arms to swing around the bar. I want them to work hard and see their own improvement, to cheer for their teammates, to respect the adults that coach them, to have fun.  (I also really want them to invite me down on the floor while the scores are being calculated to do the Cotton-Eyed Joe with them but we can't have everything.) 

 The girls are so lucky to have their family come and watch them compete.

In February we spent our vacation at NEVI Fest again this year  (The New England Blind and Visually Impaired Ski Festival) at Sugarloaf with Noah, who skis double black diamonds blind, and his amazing parents.

Noah, with his amazing parents (Buzz and Suzanne). I feel like that could be, should be, the title of a book.

 We were so deeply impacted by our experience at NEVI Fest last year that we were so excited to return and be a part of such an amazing event.  The main goal of the festival is to help blind skiers be able to ski and Maine Adaptive volunteers help them with whatever adaptation they need to do so. Close your eyes and think of skiing blind down a mountain and you will have a sense of how inspiring this week is.  Close your eyes and imagine just trying to get to the bathroom in an unknown place. These participants, their bravery and determination, are incredible.

At the closing banquet the keynote speaker, Randy Pierce, spoke beautifully about the difference between sight and vision. Lots of people have vision without sight and lots of people have sight without vision, he says. How very true. He is the first blind hiker to summit all 48 New Hampshire peaks over 4,000 feet. He has run the Boston Marathon and climbed Mount Kilimanjaro.  Check him out here.

Noah and his guide.

Hot cocoa at Bullwinkles, the ski in, ski out restaurant we all love.

Maya couldn't wait to get home and play Connect Four (one of her favorite games) "blind" like she had seen Noah do. Half of the chips are modified with aluminum foil in order to "feel" the game. I'm not sure why Maya had to look like she was robbing a bank in order to play, but knowing her, it just added to the fun. 

 Sometimes skiing is really fun for Maya. Sometimes it is a power struggle. She has been reluctant to ski with Maine Adaptive (the guides use assistive technology to overcome her hearing loss and teach her to ski) yet she always ends up having fun and listening to them in ways she won't listen to us.  As a result, she can now execute clean parallel turns. No more snowplow for her. Unless she gets angry at us. Then she points her skis in a standard snowplow which is akin to giving us the finger.

Photo juxtaposition: (on the left) she and her guide highlighting all the trails they skied and basking in the glory of success versus (on the right) laying on my lap in the lodge.

Maya with her guide, Eric. These people are amazing, I tell you.

Four days of skiing at NEVI Fest equaled victory for both girls. Ella skied every advanced trail she was allowed on, including the elusive double black diamond Gondi Line (Sandi took her. My feeling about those trails is that I really have no business on them and I am just very relieved to see my girls when they come down still on two legs.). Maya tackled a challenging intermediate slope, Sluice, with the help of the very patient and encouraging Alissa, a Maine Adaptive guide I liken to a Sugarloaf superhero. She has an uncanny way of showing up when things are falling apart on the side of the mountain (for both the child and her two mothers) and coaxing Maya's determination and grit back out of her.  We are pretty sure Alissa wears a cape under her ski jacket. 

Ski glory, of course, doesn't come without at least a few double ejections. 

Also, this happened. Note the bottom of the sign: "Warning! Serious injuries or death possible. 

You assume all risks."

 Ella took Sandi and I down this terrain trail and I can tell you it had all the same emotional components of riding a roller coaster. I want to do this. I shouldn't do this. What if I die? I'm doing this. Oh dear god, I'm going to die. But I will die having fun! What if I don't die but just get maimed and lose limbs? This is beyond thrilling! I have never felt so alive! And so terrified! When will it end? I hope it is almost over! I hope it never ends! It's over...I did it. I'm alive. All my body parts are intact! I want to do it again...sort of.  

I am of the belief that I need to be terrified of something and do it every now and then in order to have a fulfilling life. I just would like to keep all my knee ligaments. And my brain, too. 

In truth, our family is sort of in love with Sugarloaf. 

Perhaps my most exciting news is that we are drafting plans for our new house. Anyone who knows us can imagine how this is going. Sandi is using her brilliant math mind to draw things to scale on graph paper and calculating square footage in her head while I sit next to her compulsively pinning ideas on Pinterest to ensure that our house falls outside our budget.  (Who doesn't need a hidden door that looks like a bookcase? Or a book nook that you can only get to by ladder?)

Because we are not stupid, we know we have lots of research to do as we make the 50,000 decisions that go into building a house. Because we are actually smart, we know how to make it fun. Our friends Kate and Paul, who have a lot of experience designing the insides of houses, invited us to visit their house (and peek in their cupboards and ask them personal questions like, "Do you actually use your front porch?" and "Where do you store all your towels?"). It was a such a treat to hang out with them and pick their brains.

Maya knew we were on MDI and kept saying, "I want to go to the beach!" to which I kept replying, "We aren't going to the beach. We are here to visit and it is March!" Then Paul and Kate said they wanted to take us on a walk so we could see how beautiful the nearby ocean was and, whaddayankow...BAM, Maya is on a beach. That girl is the captain of her own destiny. Parenting her is often an exercise of just getting out of the way.

Paul and Kate and their adorable child. 

 The girls are growing so much right now. It is somewhere between really cool and a total betray of my deluded parent/child contract.

 Alas, Ella is not too old for Sandi to pick her up. (However, she is close approaching my height and so I don't attempt this.)

On a hike with their surrogate sister from upstairs, Jax.

And, lastly, Maya has a new favorite face. Just to keep you in the loop. 

If any of you out there have any house building advice, I am open to all of it. Unless you want to say "Don't do it." We have thought long and hard about this decision and we have bought our tickets for the train. But I would love to hear about any things you would love to have known before you built or things you would do differently if you did it again. There are so many things to choose and decide on and many of them I don't even know I should be thinking about. 

Happy almost spring to all of you!

just do it.

It's January. I am sitting 12 inches from a light therapy box and wondering if I move 6 inches closer if  I will be achieve euphoria.

I really have nothing to complain about. This has been a very mild winter thus far and I have been able to run outside (my go-to mood booster) but that also means the snow is sluggish to hit us which makes it hard for skiing. We got some cold weather after Christmas as the ski mountains have been working hard making snow so the last few weekends we have gotten out on the slopes (my winter go-to mood booster) which makes us all happy.

I don't actually have much of a point to make in this post but I really wanted to write something so I decided I would just write a bunch of random stuff. Don't say you weren't warned.

Me and Ella who is closely approaching my height and shoe size. 

My first big news is that I survived a move and 2 major holidays in a 6 week period. I found myself looking around at the chaos and thinking I am doing this. I have not lost my mind and I laughed twice today and I am making this work. 

I love it when life gives you the opportunity to see how kick-ass you are.

I want to tell you, in case I have not beaten this topic into submission, just how profound the process of decluttering and simplifying has been.  We have spent the past 8 months thinning our belongings and it still isn't complete yet the effects on my life are staggering. (I know you are picturing us on the show hoarders but I promise we were just a regular family with too much stuff.) I know where stuff is. If I someone needs it and I don't have it, I don't care. Cleaning is easier (which is always a good thing for a busy family.)

We are almost entirely unpacked and when I can't find a place for something or I look at an item and think you aren't making my life happier or better, out it goes. It is such a process because I am now able to chuck stuff that 4 months ago I thought I needed. My goal is to have our open spaces feel simple and clear and to have the cupboards and closets feel the same.  And because we are living in a much smaller space, that means much less stuff.

My desire for a clear space now far outweighs my want to hold onto things I think I need. When I put stuff in the trash or drop it at Goodwill or give it to some poor unsuspecting person who has the bad luck to know me, I don't feel regret or loss. Instead I have a reverberating echo of YES in my head.

If you are thinking about doing this I can tell you that it is hard but it is entirely worth it. I feel different inside having less stuff. I feel less stressed. I feel lighter, unencumbered.  Dammit, I feel liberated. I know it may sound nuts but I have even gotten rid of some things inside me that were unwanted. Burdens I've carried for years suddenly left me. True story.

In other news, Ella broke her arm 3 days before Christmas and 2 1/2 weeks before her first gymnastics meet of the season. She was doing a back handspring at gymnastics, of course, which means that she has an awesome story to tell strangers that ask in the grocery store.  We asked the doctor if we could pretty please still take her skiing and he said, "Yes. Just be careful." I love that doctor.

Yup. We are the parents that take their casted child skiing. Feel free to judge.

My three girls ahead of me. I love to be last in the line and watch them ski down the mountain.

Maya is skiing with Maine Adaptive this year which is fantastic. This organization is made of up volunteer skiers who help people with varying disabilities ski.  Maya qualifies because of her hearing loss. She and her guide wear a two radio (a Scala rider) like the kind motorcyclists use to communicate when they are driving. It is hard to express how this device improves everything about skiing with Maya. She can actually be taught because she can hear the instructions. We are working on getting one of our own to minimize frustration for all of us.

You may remember Noah who skis with Maine Adaptive because he is a blind skier. One of our favorite parts of going to Sugarloaf is seeing Noah and his parents. 

Skiing is gear intensive and takes some effort and commitment to do but it truly is the first thing our whole family has been able to enjoy together. It makes it all more than worth it. 

How can this be anything but good for you soul?

Noah, Aunt Suzie, Uncle Buck, Noah's guides and the four of us in the pink and blue. 

Probably the girls' favorite part of living with their aunt and uncle is this black ball of love named Jax. It is the perfect way to have a dog. We can play with her and adore her but she isn't our sole responsibility.

Both our girls are on the competitive gymnastics team this year (for any parents who have their children in the toddler or little kid gymnastics classes you should be forewarned about where you are all headed if you proceed. Gymnastics seems to be equivalent to what I hear parents say about hockey- super expensive and very time intensive. If you aren't into it, turn back now!)   But hey, at least gyms are heated, unlike hockey rinks.

And then there are the smiles that make it all worth it. (Ella couldn't compete but she went to support her team.)

Winter in Maine is as beautiful as ever.

Thanks to the inspiration of a very wise 8-year-old named Annalise who coined the term junk-free January a year ago, our family is going without junk food for the month. In true democratic fashion we have decided on some addendums to the plan. We are allowed to have hot chocolate. We are allowed to eat veggie chips and pretzels.  We are contemplating whether Sun Chips are junk food. We all agree whipped cream is not. Neither is wine. 

Snow day tomorrow! I plan to keep a pot of cocoa on the stove all day long. And I plan to eat it with whipped cream, yes I do.