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They cut down all the rose bushes in the backyards. Our townhouse shares a long and narrow backyard with all the houses on our block, which backs up to a major road. A few weeks ago they boarded up all of our front doors and fenced off the front of our houses to do some major reconstruction, so we have to use the back door and walk around the block to get to our cars. They built scaffolding so the people in the houses upstairs from ours can climb in through their balconies. I moved all my pots of flowers and herbs to our back patio, so at least there’s a little beauty there. And until last week we had rosebushes lining the brick wall separating our yards from the sidewalk. But they chopped them all down. Maybe this was in an effort to make it easier to walk back there, especially when you are pulling a wagon full of groceries in or recycling out. I would rather enjoy the roses and have to squeeze around them, but no one asked me.
In the seven weeks since Randy died I have had to inform numerous strangers about this so they can help me with various accounts and transactions. I’ve said it so many times to customer service representatives and the next agent available that sometimes it sounds like a flimsy excuse even to me. Of course, this situation is covered in their protocols, and they express their condolences and I have to say thank you. Transitioning and reconciling all of Randy’s subscriptions and accounts and the shared bills that he’s been paying for 22 years has been vastly more complicated than I ever would have anticipated. Even though we both knew the life expectancy with glioblastoma is not good, we thought we had more time. We thought sitting down too soon to share the passwords and add my name to everything would be acknowledging that he was about to die and it would somehow come sooner. This was clearly foolish on our part.
We buried Randy, in a green cemetery, under shady trees and overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains, 10 days after he died. Walking from the car to the burial plot and seeing the shroud containing his body was one of the few times I’ve cried in front of anyone else. I’ve done a lot of crying in my car. We wore his soccer jerseys and tossed flowers into the grave after we shared stories about him.
The days between then and the celebration of life were a blur of processing, preparation, and people coming in and out. And we adopted a cat. A few days after Randy died, the kids and I were sitting around staring at each other, or into space, or maybe we were talking about something that I don’t remember. I asked, “should we get a cat?” The kids pounced on the idea. We spent several hours at the animal shelters near us, and now a friendly and feisty tuxedo we call Tina Fey lives in our house. I wish Randy were here to play with her.
For some reason I thought that things would get easier after the service. The days that followed might have been quieter, but they were harder. The celebration of life was extraordinary. The church was packed. The music, which was immensely important to me because it was so important to Randy, was perfect. Everyone’s remarks were exactly what needed to be said about Randy’s life. At the reception I stood and talked with people for two or three hours straight. My friends took care of everything so I didn’t have to worry about it. People were so kind. I met friends of Randy’s for the first time. Friends of mine who I hadn’t seen in more than a decade came out. And every word that everyone said reminded me of exactly how much I had lost and all of those joyful, silly, and special moments I would never experience again.
Grief never goes away, they say, it just gets more manageable, or maybe less overwhelming. I’ll have to report back to you on that in the next 20 or 30 or 40 years. One day recently I received two separate packages in the mail, both unexpected. One was from a friend of Randy’s who lost her first husband many years ago, soon after they were married. The other was from a friend’s mom, who lost her husband a couple years ago. Both packages contained small, thick paperback books, the exact same size and with covers in similar color palettes, offering 365 days of guidance, wisdom, and affirmations on grief and loss. So far I’ve read one page from one of the books, which was a quote by Mister Rogers, whose words are always gentle, thoughtful truths. Some day I will read more. The books will stay on my nightstand.
I talked a lot with a counselor from the Smith Center for Healing and the Arts about anticipatory grief. The Smith Center is an excellent organization in DC that provides support and services for people living with cancer and their loved ones. Before I started meeting with the therapist there and joined the online group that she facilitated, I didn’t know there was such a specialty as psycho-oncology. Now that I’ve worked with her, I feel like everyone whose life is impacted by cancer should have a psycho-oncologist. It turns out, of course, that when you have cancer or you’re taking care of someone with cancer, there is such an enormous list of things you have to think about and figure out and deal with that you don’t even realize what else you need or understand how to find it. But if you find yourself in this situation, first, I’m sorry, and second, ask a friend to do some research for you into these kinds of services.
Anyway, anticipatory grief. Knowing what’s coming even though you don’t want to think about it. Wondering (obsessively?) what exactly it’s all going to look like and how it’s going to happen even though there’s no way to know for certain. Trying to prepare for a worst-case scenario while hoping for something better and while everyone around you seems to be hoping for a miracle. Trying to figure out what your journey is and what your person’s journey is and where they differ and where they intersect. Trying to figure out who needs to know what and when, as if you can protect other people from their own grief. I always imagined that it would be easier for those left behind by someone who died after a long illness because they were expecting the death and it wasn’t a shock. I don’t know what gave me that idea, because it is stupid. There is no easier or harder–it’s all terrible. Maybe it’s less surprising or shocking in the moment, but that doesn’t make it feel any less sad. Part of that anticipation is also the day-to-day grief for the person you once knew–in my case the person I fell in love with 23 years ago–because that person has left the building, never to return. Some part of me kept thinking, as Randy got sicker and sicker and became less and less like himself as I knew him, that I had already mourned for him. Not so much. Feeling frustrated by the changes in his behavior and personality and feeling the anguish of watching him suffer didn’t reduce the sum total of my grief by knocking off some points in advance. Apparently it doesn’t work that way.
Now I am watching my mom suffer. She turned 81 the day of Randy’s burial. I was supposed to join the rest of my family in celebrating her with dinner at the assisted living place where she and my dad have been for a few months. Not surprisingly, I had a migraine and I couldn’t go. Not long after that, she was admitted to the hospital with an infection. And weeks later, she is still hospitalized. She is not dying, but she is not living in any meaningful sense of the word. She’s had some good days and enjoyed visits from family and friends. She was especially happy when her brother and sister-in-law and nieces and nephews came up for Randy’s service and were able to spend many hours in her hospital room. But lately she has not been eating or drinking and she is confused and upset most of the time. When I went to visit her today, I stood in the hallway outside her room and heard her crying and yelling at the nurse because she wanted to get out of bed to use the bathroom, but she hasn’t been able to get out of bed since she’s been in the hospital.
My mom has had so many and so many kinds of health challenges throughout her life that it’s kind of astounding that she’s survived all this time. The way that major illnesses and chronic conditions have impacted her ability to function and severely limited her independence and autonomy has been heartbreaking. Her world has shrunk and her anger has grown. In particular, since her stroke in summer 2024, she hasn’t been the same. I have tried so hard for so many years to do everything I can think of to support her and my dad. Things have been so rough for both of them in the past few years. Today after I stood in the hallway outside my mom’s room, I had to go out of the unit and into the waiting area and cry. I texted my dad that I didn’t know how he manages to sit with her every day. He told me that being with her is an act of love, even if she doesn’t or can’t recognize it. I finally went back to her room and sat with her and held her hand while she talked like someone talking in their sleep. She said words and phrases that I caught, but I couldn’t follow an overall thread. When she seemed upset I tried to comfort her, but I didn’t know quite what she was upset about. Often she would stop talking and close her eyes and her mouth would be open and her brow furrowed. Everything about her face looked tense and uncomfortable. I moistened one of the little foam swabs on a stick and put it on her lips and in her mouth so she could moisten them. I listened to her. I tried to make affirming noises or responses to her rambling. I was reminded of Randy’s final weeks when he would talk about things that made absolutely no sense or were completely out of context and I just said things like, “right, I understand, that makes sense. I get it” over and over again.
You know how when you’re in the middle of a specific life experience, that circumstance suddenly seems to surround you? As in, every book I pick up or movie I watch now seems to involve someone who is very sick or dying or someone who is experiencing huge grief and loss. Even in the real world, I’ve heard so many stories from people who say it was such a privilege for them to be with their parent or spouse or best friend in that person’s final months or weeks or days or hours. How there were laughter and tears and wonderful stories shared and boundless love affirmed and angels and unicorns and rainbows. I guess I don’t hear or read as many stories of watching this person–who brought you into the world and loved you unconditionally and gave you everything she could–grow weaker and more fragile and lose the larger than life personality and warmth and wit she was known for. It doesn’t feel sacred to see her suffer.
I should have known something was really wrong with my mom a few weeks ago when we told her we were getting a cat and she was excited for us, because she does not like cats. She has never liked cats. She is 100% a dog person. And truthfully, deep down I am not a dog or a cat person. I am a baby person. I make friends with every baby or toddler I encounter and I would love to have more babies and toddlers in my life in some other way than raising them myself. But I understand what animals can do for people, and Tina Fey has been therapeutic for the kids and me, even if she can be a little bitey at times. She must have intuited that I was writing about her because she literally just jumped on the bed and onto the keyboard and when I pushed her off she tried to eat my toes. Otherwise, she’s very soothing like I said.
At the suggestion of a friend, I got a bird feeder for the backyard, so Tina Fey can look outside at the birds. My friend said it’s like cat TV. There is also a bunny that lives in the backyards that hasn’t been scared away by the construction. Niki took a picture of it yesterday. Maybe tomorrow I’ll buy some colored chalk and we’ll draw flowers or self-portraits on the bricks. If I knew how to knit I could yarn bomb the scaffolding. If I can make myself get out of bed tomorrow and create something, it might be a good day.
More about Randy and his life
Blog post about Randy by Tiffany Tagbo
Order of service from the celebration of life
Randy’s celebration of life
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© Christopher Mueller
Here’s a short story of love and liberation for your Sunday enjoyment.
Chapter 1) For Christmas, my sister and her family gave us tickets to Hedwig and the Angry Inch at Signature Theatre (Arlington’s answer to Broadway). Hedwig is about gender identity and exploration, and liberation, and relationships, and figuring out how to love who you are and encourage that freedom in others. It’s funny and aggressive and profane and tender. It blew us all away.
Chapter 2) Hedwig is a two-person show with the energy of a rock concert (the kickass band is on stage and integrated into the production) combined with the pathos of a tragedy. The stars have to be on and radiant 100%. Hedwig, played by Sawyer Smith (they/she), in particular, does most of the talking, teasing the audience, singing (think diva with spectacular range), and dancing, all while wearing fabulously creative costumes and gravity-defying wigs. Yitzhak, played by V Sterling (they/she/he), is Hedwig’s partner/assistant/foil depending on the moment, and also sings like an angel or a demon, depending on the scene.
Chapter 3) Anyway, this is not actually a theater review. The important bit about this show is that it affected Niki in a way that I have never before seen them react to or connect with a piece of theater. They were profoundly moved by seeing Hedwig. It meant a lot to them. That night after the show we waited around for a while to see if we could meet Sawyer and V, but eventually we had to go home before they appeared.
Chapter 4) I knew the Hedwig was closing tonight and I had hoped to take Niki to see it again, but tickets were almost all sold out and quite expensive, as the show was extremely popular. Apparently it was a record-breaking run, but I’m not sure what record it broke. Last week I stopped by the theater, sat in the lobby, and wrote a letter to Sawyer and V. I told the actors about Niki and our experience at the show and how we hoped to come again, or, if we couldn’t get tickets, to at least meet Sawyer and V. I gave them my email address and phone number. I asked the people at the box office for an envelope and to please deliver the letter. They promised to leave it in the dressing room.
Chapter 5) Last night I got a text from Sawyer, saying they thought the show was sold out but they’d definitely be happy to meet us after today’s matinee. I looked on Signature’s website and discovered two seats left for the matinee. They were pretty pricy, however, so I figured I would buy them in person so I could try to get the student price ($25) for one of the tickets. When I got the message, Niki and Randy and I were in the middle of watching an especially intense episode of Andor, so I waited until it ended and I ran out of the house, yelling behind me that I had to run an errand immediately (and unintentionally freaking Niki out). I sped to the theater only to discover the box office was already closed. I explained the situation to another employee, who suggested I email the box office right away with my request and call them as soon as they opened this morning. I had wanted to keep my errand a secret so that if it didn’t work out to see the show, Niki wouldn’t be disappointed. But after I got home we went out for ice cream and I had to explain to them what I had been doing because they were alarmed at my sudden, unexplained departure. They promised that even if we couldn’t get tickets, they appreciated me making the effort.
© Christopher Mueller
Chapter 6) I called the box office this morning at 10 (from church, as I was helping lead today’s service) and left a message. I called again at 11, when my part of the service was over, and left a message. Shortly thereafter I got an email from the box office saying that unfortunately those tickets had been sold, but that we could come for the rush period before the show in case someone turned in their tickets or didn’t come. The matinee was at 2, and the rush period starts at 12:30, so the email suggested we bring things to do.
Chapter 7) With water bottles, books, playing cards, my laptop, and a phone charger all in my backpack, we arrived at Signature at 12:30, identified ourselves, and settled into a pair of purple armchairs to wait. Niki read a novel. I wrote an article. We watched people walk through the lobby doors. At 1:45, one of the box office staff came over to where we were sitting. I felt certain she was going to say that everyone had shown up with their tickets and we would have to go home. Instead she said, you’re in luck, there are two tickets in the front row center that opened up. Niki and I leapt out of our seats, our hearts racing. We followed her to the counter to pay, and even more fortunately, the tickets cost only $30 each because that’s the rush price. I hadn’t even known that was a thing at Signature. Everyone at the box office seemed genuinely happy for us.
Chapter 8) We took our seats. If you’ve never been to Signature Theatre, you should know that there’s no bad seat in the house—actually there are two theaters there and they’re both pretty intimate and the way the stage and seats are arranged, you can always see what’s happening. But when you’re in the front row (which we’ve been privileged to be for Into the Woods and In the Heights), you can see everything, like every expression and teardrop and bead of sweat on the actors’ faces and every stitch and sequin in the costumes, and every clever detail of the set. So in the front row for Hedwig, we were approximately a foot or two away from the actors at any given time. We were close enough that Sawyer took Niki’s hat and placed it on top of their voluminous blond wig for a moment. We were close enough that Sawyer made eye contact with Niki and winked during another song. We were close enough that Sawyer reached out and clasped the hands of everyone in the front row, and for an instant held Niki’s face in their hands. The whole performance was even more phenomenal the second time, and left Niki in a puddle once again.
Chapter 9) Afterward we made our way to the lobby, still feeling the emotional aftershocks of the show. A little while later, once most of the audience had left, Sawyer and V (and Marika Countouris (she/her), the awesome keyboard player in the band and the show’s musical director) emerged through the stage doors. Sawyer and V came out with arms wide open to give us hugs. They were so kind and sweet and posed for pictures and signed Niki’s program. Sawyer told Niki to keep being themselves and called them angel. Then they gave us more hugs.
Chapter 10) Niki gave ME a lot of hugs in gratitude for making all that happen. I couldn’t have made it happen without the pro tips from the box office staff and the generosity of the actors, who were willing to connect with Niki, during and after the performance, and show them some love. Niki is 12 and I don’t know what’s going on in their head a lot of the time, but I know they take in a lot of what’s going on in the world. Right now, there’s a lot of hate and cruelty swirling around in the atmosphere. As much as we tell Niki we love them and we have their back and we’ll do whatever it takes to support and protect them, I suspect they know there may be battles ahead they will have to fight on their own. In the first song in the musical, Hedwig sings
Enemies and adversaries
they try and tear me down
You want me, baby, I dare you
Try and tear me down
Niki won’t forget seeing Hedwig sing that just for them.
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From where I’m sitting on the balcony of our Airbnb, I can see into the houses or yards of at least seven other apartments. Surprisingly, it’s quite quiet for a Saturday morning. The only activity I can observe right now is a guy in the yard below and to the right who is digging up some kind of slate tiles or chunks of flagstone that were haphazardly leading from the alley behind the building to the wooden patio of the house. I don’t know if this space is supposed to be a garden or a place to park your car (it’s big enough) but right now it’s dirt and plants (weeds?) and a large and lovely tree. I wish we could stay to see the “after” picture.
The cool breeze through the trees is a peaceful contrast with our adventure from last night, when we walked down Mont-Royal Avenue and Saint Denis Street looking for a place to eat a late dinner. This neighborhood is apparently the place to be on a Friday night if you’re young and cool in Montreal. And we were there anyway. There are infinite bars and restaurants, many with wooden, lighted outside seating areas. There are tons of benches out in the streets–closed off to traffic–seemingly for the sole purpose of people hanging out. There were chairs set up in an area where you could watch street performers. It was all thoughtfully designed with people enjoying themselves in mind. After walking up and down both streets to see what was on offer to eat, we decided to try a dumpling place, only to discover their kitchen was about to close. Then we decided to try a tapas place, only to discover that their kitchen was about to close. Finally we settled on a bar full of people (so we decided it must be decent) that was named after the Catholic church across the street. They were blasting American rock music from the 80s, but everyone was speaking French so it seemed authentic enough. We attempted to order in French and they quickly caught onto the fact that our French is terrible and switched to speaking to us in English, but in a friendly way. We ordered a cider and a beer and a half kilo of chicken wings (which seemed like a lot, and it was) and poutine, and relaxed after two long days of driving.
So far we’ve covered more than 700 miles on this trip, and gone back and forth through several states before reaching Canada. We delivered Niki to camp in Western New York on Thursday afternoon and stayed in a hotel in Pennsylvania, just a couple miles from the New York border. We planned to leave for Montreal first thing on Friday, but then things happened and we didn’t. But while Randy was on a call, I found a cool coffee shop that also had antique axes and knives on display and a vast array of tinned fish for sale. Sardines have never appealed to me, but these looked so cool!
We finally started heading north and stopped to use a bathroom in Catskill, New York. We happened to park in front of a used bookstore. This was not planned, I promise. So we bought some books! And there was an art gallery. So I bought some art! Then we drove north some more and decided to have lunch in Saratoga Springs, where I once lost $20 at the racetrack and decided never to gamble again because there’s so much other stuff I’d rather do with $20. Saratoga Springs is a lovely little city. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on the way you look at it, there’s a phenomenal bookstore there. We swore to each other we would only stay for five minutes…
So…by the time we got to Montreal it was after 8pm. But we found our cute little apartment and rallied to go eat. Now we get to explore Montreal in the daytime.
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I am a pitcher pouring cool water into your cup
I am a clock taking its own time
I am a spiral staircase stepping up to the stars
I am the stitching of the quilt that you snuggle underneath
I am a match determined to ignite
I am a curl standing out from the crowd
I am a bear defending every cub
I am the opalescent wings fastened on
so I can fly
I am a rivulet of strawberry ice cream dripping pinkly down the side of a waffle cone
I am a pair of dice rolling the
wrong combinations
I am a broken heart that’s tender to the touch
I am a puddle showing you your reflection
I
I am a pitcher pouring cool water into your cup
I am a clock taking its own time
I am a spiral staircase stepping up to the stars
I am the stitching of the quilt you snuggle underneath
I am a match determined to ignite
I am a curl standing out from the crowd
I am a bear defending every cub
I am the opalescent wings fastened on
so I can fly
I am a rivulet of strawberry ice cream dripping pinkly
down the side of a waffle cone
I am a pair of dice rolling the wrong combinations
I am a broken heart too tender to touch
I am a puddle showing your reflection
I am a third door opening to a different world
I am the sunlit clearing when you emerge from the woods
I am buttery words spilling off the page like tight kernels bursting into hot popcorn
I am sometimes the salt
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I’m molting
Shedding haphazardly and with
intention
depending on the day
I’m curious
wondering what
will grow in next
Feathers jewel toned or silvered
Shiny scales smooth or gently textured,
inviting you to brush your fingertips
lightly across them
I’m musing on which
spells or incantations
learned or improvised
I might whisper or chant
to shape
my new incarnation
plain and bejeweled
soft and fluffy
lined and spotted
strong and supple
until I molt again
This metamorphosis is not for you
© 2024 by Betsy Rosenblatt Rosso
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If we want to support each other’s inner lives, we must remember a simple truth: the human soul does not want to be fixed, it wants simply to be seen and heard. If we want to see and hear a person’s soul, there is another truth we must remember: the swoul is like a wild animal — tough, resilient, and yet shy. When we go crashing through the woods shouting for it to come out so we can help it, the soul will stay in hiding. But if we are willing to sit quietly and wait for a while, the soul may show itself.
~Parker Palmer
This is a talk I shared during a Sunday service at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Arlington as part of the church’s series on the six sources of Unitarian Universalism. My writing was inspired by this source: direct experience of that transcending mystery and wonder, affirmed in all cultures, which moves us to a renewal of the spirit and an openness to the forces which create and uphold life.
For two years I spent a good chunk of my waking hours talking and writing about this church. As a member of the ministerial search committee, I met with my fellow committee members weekly, and we worked doggedly to discern what the congregation needed in a new minister. Surprise–Unitarian Universalists have a lot of opinions! Our committee had to digest, synthesize, and transform what we learned into UUCA’s church profile, an incredibly elaborate version of a job announcement. Then we spent months reviewing applications and sermons of prospective ministers. This role and its attendant responsibilities were heady–and hard–and ultimately richly rewarding. It was a privilege to serve UUCA in this capacity, and if I’m being honest, it made me feel kind of important. It’s easy for me to make the mistake that what I do for a community is more valuable than who I am.
Now, raise your hand if you were part of UUCA in any way in the spring of 2020. You may recall that, just as our committee was preparing to recommend Rev. Amanda as the candidate for our senior minister, the pandemic shut everything down. All of our plans to introduce her to the congregation, celebrate a new beginning, and enjoy the fruits of our committee’s labor were funneled online or simply forgotten in the crush of a worldwide crisis.
I know every one of you here in the sanctuary or watching online has a story like this–or a very different one. There are likely a million variations on the theme of how things changed in 2020. Now, four years later, I am still feeling the effects of those changes, for better or worse. Maybe you are too. Who knows how long the ripples will expand throughout our lives?
Church has always meant community for me. Throughout my life, community often outweighed theology in my choice of a congregation. I feel lucky to have found in UUCA a place where I feel both a sense of belonging and alignment with the tenets of the faith. From the moment I arrived at UUCA, I felt seen. I felt valued. I understood that my being here mattered.
Unfortunately, for a good portion of the years since 2020, I lost that sense of belonging, not just here, but really anywhere. Does that sound at all familiar to you? The isolation of the pandemic was soul crushing. And I am a big believer in silver linings. I love my family so much, and I am so thankful for the hours we spent playing board games, watching movies, making art, and going on hikes. But the four of us did not a whole community make. I need different kinds of people and multiple communities to nurture various aspects of my personality and my identity. All of us do.
There’s a wonderful graphic novel series called Heartstopper, which is now an amazing Netflix show, that my kids adore and introduced me to and which I love now as well. First of all, Heartstopper creator Alice Oseman does a masterful job portraying the pain and beauty of making your way as a teenager, particularly as you come into your gender identity and sexual orientation. Secondly, in book four of the series, Charlie–one of the main characters–comes face to face with what feels like an insurmountable struggle. His boyfriend, Nick, wants so badly, as all of us do when we love someone, to be able to fix Charlie’s problem, but of course he can’t. And Nick realizes that, no matter how much he loves Charlie, he can’t and shouldn’t be everything to Charlie. Charlie needs a community to help him. As do we all.
I took baby steps to return to UUCA. I co-facilitated a covenant group for parents of gender-expansive kids. That was an easy one–a way to test the waters by creating a small community. Coming back to church on Sunday mornings, however, was a challenge. The first few times I tried, I felt confused and out of sorts. When we were all masked, I felt embarrassed because I didn’t recognize people who I had known for years. That kept me home for a while longer. When I came back again, I felt like I had somehow forgotten how to interact with other humans. Once after the service ended, I just sat in the back and cried. Holly saw me and sat with me. She didn’t ask me to explain myself. She just kept me company.
When I heard about the LEAD program that Greg and LeeAnn were running, I knew I had found a path back to community. I wasn’t sure what my role was supposed to be in the congregation, but this was an opportunity to meet new people and reconnect with old friends, so I took it.
The irony–or perhaps the true intention–of joining LEAD was being reminded that I didn’t need to have a leadership position or a particular responsibility in the congregation to belong. When I arrived for that first workshop, I was so warmly welcomed back. Wendy and Kristen, among other folks, let me know that they were genuinely delighted to see me again, without asking why I hadn’t come back sooner, or what I was going to be doing for the church now that I was back, or without any other expectations of me whatsoever. After the session, I gave Kristen a ride home and we sat in my car, parked outside her house, for an hour catching up. It was such a relief to renew that connection. I know I’m name dropping a lot this morning. I intentionally want to recognize the people who have shown me so much grace and love in building and rebuilding community here.
One of my favorite activities during the LEAD workshops was using the World of Experience as a tool to examine where I’ve been and where I want to go. If you’ve never seen it before, you can check out the World of Experience at the LEAD table in the fellowship hall after the service. In the meantime, picture this in your mind. A map that, at first glance, looks like it could be a two-dimensional representation of the Earth. On closer inspection, however, the familiar continents and oceans are replaced by other geographies, named for elements of the human experience. For example, the sea of possibilities, mountains of work, and plains of solitude.
On several occasions we used the World of Experience as a way to articulate the challenges or adventures in our past and present, and where we hoped to navigate in the future. In all of my conversations, my partners shared their journeys with unapologetic honesty, and invited the same vulnerability from me. The guiding principles practiced during the LEAD series were touchstones created by Parker Palmer and the Center for Courage and Renewal. One of these is “no fixing, saving, advising, or correcting each other.” In our type A problem solving culture, that’s a particularly tough one for many of us to follow, but it’s so important. Participating in the LEAD workshops reminded me that this congregation is a safe place for me, where my wild animal soul can show itself. That’s how I experience moments of mystery and wonder–when I feel truly seen and understood.
This year I attended General Assembly, the Unitarian Universalist Association’s annual gathering, for the first time. I had long wanted to experience GA, but to be honest I was also super anxious about it. When I arrived in Pittsburgh and checked into my airbnb, I texted Gay and Elizabeth. What am I doing here? I asked them. Of course, they were both kind and reassuring. I felt their hugs from 250 miles away. Then I arrived at the convention center, and I found Diane and Bruce and I knew everything would be ok. I had tacos with LeeAnn, and reconnected with folks who I first met at UUCA but who have moved on to other churches, and I made new friends. Knowing I was among so many people who share my UU values and commitment to repairing the world was exactly what I needed and hoped to experience at GA.
Of course, church is far from the only community that can nurture the soul. Some communities are intimate and some are vast but both can offer sustenance. My 16-year-old is a member of the seemingly infinite community of Swifties–devotees of pop star Taylor Swift. While her knowledge of Taylor Swift’s catalog and every minute detail of every concert on the Eras Tour may verge on obsessive, it is clear that she and other Swifties find joy and meaning in listening to the music, experiencing the music, and talking about the music with each other.
The community my 10-year-old thinks of as their second home is SMYAL, a DC-based organization that provides resources, connections, and activities for LGBTQIA+ young people ages 6 to 24. My kid has found kindred spirits, role models, and unwavering and unconditional support for their whole self. Their wild animal soul feels free to lead a dance party whenever they’re with their SMYAL peeps.
As Parker Palmer wrote, “If we want to support each other’s inner lives, we must remember a simple truth: the human soul does not want to be fixed, it wants simply to be seen and heard.” I am thankful to be a member of this and other communities where my soul can be seen and heard. Cultivating that kind of community–something greater than any of us individually, which can only be created with intention and love–is a sacred act. Sometimes we can build community, and other times we just stumble into it. We don’t always know where we will find community, or where we will experience that sensation of truly belonging, but we surely know it when we feel it. Some may call that providence, or divine intervention. To me, that certainty of belonging is a product of the mystery and wonder of the universe. Whatever you call it, I wish for you the comfort, safety, and nourishment of community, wherever you may find it. May it be so.
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1. Strong pelvic floor muscles
2. A bespoke suit. Or a bespoke dress. Or a bespoke outfit or any sort. The word bespoke is really cool to say and I love the idea of someone taking my measurements and making something that’s just for me.
3. Never having to enter a password or retrieve a password or reset a password ever again. Ever.
4. Migraine meds that always work. Asking for an end to migraines would be too greedy, obviously.
5. Insurance companies that always cover everything without first denying your claim or pretending you don’t have coverage that you know you do or deciding they know more about your health than you and your doctor do. Excellent health insurance for everyone. That includes vision and dental because eyes and teeth are actually parts of your body.
6. One remote that enables you to find and watch all of the shows you have access to through any device or streaming service, which you can operate entirely on your own without asking your kids or husband for help. And the remote never gets lost. If it falls between the sofa cushions, some mechanism ejects it automatically and returns it to the coffee table.
7. 500 more square feet of house. I know it would be too much to ask to have a new house, but I would love just a bit more space so I could have a room of my own in which to work or read or meditate or hide. A room with a door. That no one else claims as their own. Or leaves their crap in. Ha! Even if I had such a room other people’s stuff would inevitably end up there. That is the way of the world.
8. Bras whose hooks never get bent or stab you, and are always easy to take on and off, and that fit well and are flattering. And that you don’t have to shop for! Bespoke bras.
9. Moisturizer that is appropriate for my skin type. That I don’t have to shop for. Bespoke moisturizer!
10. A family pet whose species my family can agree on adopting. And who comes with free food and meds and fully paid vet bills for at least the first year. A pet that everyone will love to snuggle. Although I would prefer to snuggle babies from time to time. But I’m pretty sure the family will not agree to adopt any babies.
People keep asking what I want for Christmas. This is probably too much to ask, especially with Christmas the day after tomorrow. So I’d be happy with some soft, warm socks. Or chocolate chip cookies. Or a hug. I’m easy to please.
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When you tie-dye a t-shirt, they tell you to keep it in the plastic bag for at least 24 hours, or several days more, to allow the dye to soak into the fabric so the colors of your shirt will be vibrant. What they don’t tell you is that after those first several days have come and gone and you’ve more or less forgotten about the tie-dying because you’re home from family camp and fully transitioned into school year mode, your wet shirt, which has been scrunched or twisted up and secured with rubber bands and enclosed in a sealed ziploc bag, will become fertile ground for colonies of mold. Or possibly mildew. I am honestly not sure of the difference, when it comes to gross spots growing on something I was planning to put on my body. Either way, when you remember to take the shirts out of their bags and start the chiropractic appointment-inducing process of rinsing them out in the bathtub, and you see the grayish brownish spots clustered across the shirts, you make a face that indicates an unpleasant mixture of disappointment, frustration, and disgust.
Yuck.
Your research reveals that a possible remedy could be soaking the shirts in vinegar. Although in your gut you feel like they’re too far gone, you have to try. Surprisingly, three different stores you visit are completely out of white vinegar. Finally, you order some online from Target, in one of your midnight shopping sprees where you make other exciting purchases such as frozen burritos, saltines, maxi pads, paper towels, and Cinnamon Toast Crunch. You are living the high life.
Because that’s the way you roll, it takes a few more weeks for you to actually soak the shirts, although they have been rinsed and are dryish and you are pretty sure no longer nurturing the fungus (if it even is fungus?) besmirching them. You’re just feeling kind of defeated by them. The giant jug of vinegar sits in the hallway, mocking your bad decision making and poor time management skills.
As time passes, you think a lot about preschool. One of the many mantras at your kids’ amazing cooperative preschool was “process, not product.” Emphasis on the kids doing whatever they wanted to do with the materials put in front of them — or that they unearthed while playing in the mud garden or tromping through the woods — rather than the ultimate creation of something recognizable or a specific end goal. This is a good rule of thumb for life with little ones, as products rarely–if ever–turn out as expected. Also a good thing for adults to remember, although we are usually held to the standard of producing some kind of acceptable end result. And process is how you learn. Process is the journey. Process is the sensory experience of getting your hands dirty–or stained with dye in the arts and crafts cabin at camp. You recall the peaceful hour spent with your nine-year-old carefully choosing tie-dye patterns, helping them rubber band the shirts, and finding exactly the right color combinations. You each made a shirt or two and a couple bandanas. The bandanas are easy but not quite as satisfying as a result.
If you’re being truthful, each of you already has several tie-dye shirts in your drawers, that you made at previous family camps or on summer vacations during the pandemic. So you’ve enjoyed the process many times before, and even managed to make some decent shirts.
Now that you have soaked the shirts (and stunk up the house with the aroma of vinegar) and washed the shirts and dried the shirts, you discover that three of the shirts still have enough remaining mold (or mildew!?) stains to make them unwearable. Somehow one shirt emerged unscathed, as well as two bandanas.
You wonder if there is anything useful to do with the rejected shirts. You already have enough dust rags for a squadron of Cinderellas. You fleetingly imagine cutting up sections of the shirts that aren’t stained and sewing them into something else. But what? A doll-sized blanket? Plus, you can’t sew. You think of your friend who can sew and wonder what she would do. In addition to sewing, she is an expert at tie-dying, and you’re certain she would never have made the mistake of allowing tie-dyed t-shirts to languish in their baggies until they grow things. But her kids attended that same preschool, and you know she would appreciate your “process not product” attempt at consolation.
Lately I’ve made a lot of mistakes. Somehow more than what I expect from myself, as if I am more than human. My new mantra, although I am many decades out of preschool, is process, not product. I am still learning.
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When I pulled up in front of her high school, Zoe ran over to the minivan to collect her backpack and duffel bag, packed the night before and stuffed with everything she thought she might possibly need for the next three days. I offered to carry something for her and she declined. I started to walk with her to the entrance of the school where the rest of the crew team and the coaches and the parent chaperones were gathered. She stopped me.
“I was just going to walk you over there,” I said. “And give you a hug goodbye.”
“Can you just do that here?” she asked. I got it. I gave her a hug. Told her to have fun and not get hurt and do a good job cheering or rowing, whatever she ended up doing. She told me not to cry and walked away toward her friends.
For the record, I didn’t cry.
I don’t think of myself as an embarrassing mom, but I guess no parent ever does. I went home and got a consolation hug from my husband.
Now, several hours later, my favorite app–Find My Friends–indicates that Zoe made it to Philadelphia and actually all the way to the river where the regatta will take place. I think they’re scoping out the course, or maybe even practicing, before the race tomorrow. Zoe was invited to go with the team as an alternate for the women’s freshman eight boat, because if one person in an eight gets ill or injured, the whole boat is sunk (not literally). So Zoe will be as supportive and enthusiastic a cheerleader as anyone could want, unless of course someone wakes up tomorrow with a fever or trips while carrying an oar and breaks their leg. I would never wish this to happen, but it’s hard not to hope just a little bit that my kid would get the chance to row in what’s apparently the largest high school rowing event in the country. She, however, seems perfectly content to go along for the ride–basically taking a field trip to a cool city with people she loves.
This is the last regatta she will participate in this season. Next weekend is the national championship, and although her novice women’s eight boat took silver in the state championships earlier this month, novices don’t get to go to nationals. Don’t ask me why. But truthfully, this fact has saved me some amount of stress, because she’s also a member of the courtship for her good friend’s quinceañera that weekend. If you’re not familiar with the quinceañera, it’s a huge party (maybe somewhere between a bar/bat mitzvah and a wedding?) to celebrate a Latina girl turning 15. And the courtship is like a bridal party. Part of the courtship’s responsibility is doing a choreographed dance at the party with the birthday girl. Zoe is helping choreograph. The morning of the party, the courtship kids are gathering to get hair and makeup done, and then taking a party bus downtown for photos. So this is, you might imagine, a big deal. Also we need to get her a gold, floor-length dress. We haven’t yet found said dress. But we will!
Rowing has been one of the most challenging and exhilarating things Zoe has ever done, on par with earning her black belt in martial arts, or maybe she would say even harder, as martial arts practice was never held at 5:30am. During the spring season, the crew team practices six days a week. Typically, freshmen and novices practiced in the afternoon and varsity in the morning (at 5:30, arriving at the boathouse in the dark). But on several occasions Zoe’s coaches asked her and various combinations of other newer rowers to come in the morning. The first time they asked her to come to morning practice, she was thrilled. I was slightly less so, since I was the one driving her at 5am, but I got used to it. And she did too, although there was definitely a night when she had been at practice in the afternoon and her boat (a double that day, not an eight) had flipped, and she hurt her foot when it got stuck in the shoe of the boat (where you put your feet while you’re rowing) and she was supposed to go to morning practice the next day and I sat with her in her room trying to reassure her because she was worried that she just couldn’t do it. Of course, she didn’t actually do it because when she woke up at 5 she couldn’t put weight on her foot and we had to go to urgent care. But she was back at practice three days later, preparing for the next day’s regatta.
Over the course of three months, the skin on Zoe’s hands was shredded from gripping the oars. She complained that everything hurt. She was exhausted. But she was tough. Every night she made her lunch for the next day, and packed her crew bag. We went to the chiropractor a few times. She took a fair amount of Tylenol. She spent a lot of hours rigging and de-rigging boats. She has learned so many technical and practical things about boats and rowing that are beyond my understanding. It took me months to understand the difference between novice and freshman, which is relevant because Zoe was moved back and forth between the novice and freshman boats throughout the season. A freshman can be a novice but a novice isn’t necessarily a freshman–just someone new to the sport, which can include 8th graders. So the freshman boat is usually just a little bit faster than the novice boat. There are always going to be people who are faster and people who are slower. Such is life. And even when you work really hard, sometimes you’re not going to make it into the fastest boat. But there are many boats to fill, and someone has to row in all of them. In the midst of all this I had a good conversation with a friend of mine whose kid also rows. She reminded me of his similar struggles the year before and how she, like me, was hoping he would make a certain boat and he wisely said to her, “I row where I row.”
Then there’s this tension. There’s my core belief that you should do things because you love to do them, and you have fun, and you make friends, and you work hard, whether or not you have any natural talent or skill, and whether or not you’re getting any better, and whether or not you plan to do the thing in the future or just for a season. It’s what I tell myself when I play soccer. It’s what I told myself when I was singing in gospel choirs. It’s what I tell myself when I make art. I’ve done all those things because they bring me joy. I don’t have to prove myself to anyone. I don’t have to win any contests or demonstrate excellence. I can just do it.
And yet. And yet when you see your kid doing a thing, especially a sport, you want them to be great at it. Right? That’s not just me, right? Even if it’s against all odds and you yourself were never good at a sport and none of it matters at all. It’s like this pernicious little voice in your head, that hopes your kid scores, wins, achieves, masters whatever it is. Even though in your heart you know it doesn’t matter. You know all the ways that doing an activity is good for your kid, whether or not they ever win or score.
Niki is on a soccer team. Most kids around here who play soccer start in kindergarten. So Niki is a bit late to the game, and it turns out the boys on his team take soccer a lot more seriously than the girls on Zoe’s elementary school team did. You can tell these kids all watch soccer with their dads from the way they yell on the field and their goal celebrations. To put it diplomatically, not all of Niki’s teammates have been patient with the fact that Niki is more of a beginner than they are. An enthusiastic beginner. A fast runner. Also an anxious player who has been known to crack their knuckles a lot while playing and sometimes hop toward ball instead of running. The main point here is I want Niki to enjoy being on the team. I don’t want the other kids belittling them. And of course if they were a little more skilled, the teammates would probably have less to say. But that’s not the point, right? They’re having fun, they’re exercising, they’re practicing teamwork. And they like watching soccer with their dad too.
So we go to regattas, we go to soccer games, we drive to practices, we wash a lot of gear, we make a lot of snacks and refill a lot of water bottles. And always we tell them how much we loved watching them do their thing, and how proud we are of how hard they’ve worked. And how we’re glad they had fun. That’s all we can do.
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This morning I took the mouse that had been squeaking all night (because it was stuck in a glue trap designed to catch roaches and other insects) and carried it into the backyard and pried its little paws and matted fur off of the glue and left it in the grass. I have no idea if it will survive, but I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t kill it, although we’ve had mousetraps all over our house for months because of a persistent colony. When the mousetraps kill them, I bag the bodies and the traps and put them outside for the trash. The line between active and passive destruction is thin.
The mouse did not ask to be made into a metaphor. And yet.
There is nothing particularly wrong with me, any more than anyone else. I am more sensitive than most. I have a sleep disorder and other minor afflictions. But this world. The conflict. The cruelty. The confusion. The things that smell bad. It’s like layer upon layer of glue traps of injustice and illness and insecurity. No amount of alliteration can save us. Nothing we can do eliminates the suffering.
Today is Easter. Resurrection–to me–is another metaphor. An opportunity to remind ourselves of all the possibilities of life that emerge from the darkest of days.
This week we spent a few days at the beach. For most of our trip, it was cold and windy. Sitting on the sand and watching the waves was lovely but a bit chilly. The boardwalk was deserted at first. We spent time inside, reading and writing and drawing, and then it warmed up. Everyone else noticed too, and there were suddenly plenty of people on the beach, even though it was still too cool to swim. Who knows what all those other people were doing inside while it was cold, but when the sun came out, they did too. Possibilities opening up like the tulips that lined the sidewalks.
Traveling magnifies the intensity of parenting by 1,000. There are even more decisions than usual to make. Calculations become more complex when you factor in everyone’s desires, preferences, and needs–whether they are stated explicitly or you happen to know them or you’re somehow supposed to guess correctly what they are. Traveling reminds me that I cannot make everyone happy, and that no matter how much I might want to, it’s ultimately not my job and not within my power. I do a lot for my kids, but I can’t (and shouldn’t) do everything. The Easter Bunny did not come to our house today. I warned the kids yesterday that the Bunny was just not available this year, and that there were plenty of other celebrations happening, as both of their birthdays and mine are this month. They both said repeatedly that it was fine and they didn’t mind. Easter is much more of a cultural event to them than a religious one. They are both savvy about the nature of middle-of-the-night visiting creatures (our resident mice never bring us any treats). We just splurged on treats during our beach trip, and we still have plenty of candy left over from their Christmas stockings. Niki said, “I get it. The Easter Bunny is stuck in traffic, has bills to pay, calls to make.” They understand. They are not deprived. I had a couple flashes of guilt, but they were fleeting.
This afternoon I stepped outside to see if the sticky mouse was still in the grass where I had left them. I did not see any sign of them. I hoped that they managed to find refuge somewhere (other than back in our house, maybe?) and some way of removing the residue from their paws. I wonder if the mice still in here are missing that little dude. I can’t think too much more about this or I will become very sad. Absolutely there are much larger and more pressing problems in the world, but it comes back once again to my compulsion to bear witness to suffering, and examination of my role in alleviating it. The mouse remains a metaphor.
You Ask a Lot of Questions 
