I saw my nearly 18 year-old nephew, TJ in a cheer competition for the first time this weekend.

His team took home first place, but honestly, it was difficult for me to focus on the precision of the team’s routine, because I was so locked in on his joy.

I’ve loved TJ since he was five.  Since the first day his Uncle Kenny brought me to his sister’s house to meet his immediate family, and TJ made his way up on the couch, snuggled in and with full confidence informed his uncle that:

“I like her.  A lot.”

Watching him and his brother Justin grow-up continues to be one of the great rewards of discovering my place in our family.

Now seeing him flip and toss and jump and land – and lead – with such ease and confidence made me well up for all of the game changing plays his parents, and grandparents, uncles and aunts, and cousins and neighbors and close friends have been making for him since his much loved and anticipated arrival.

This is what winning feels like.  Watching a teenager you adore willfully get up in front of everyone, and leap.

I think the leaping might be where the living happens – and the loving to leap is key to letting go of the fear – and the letting go becomes possible when you accept that you will (despite anything and everything) be caught and held and carried even, if that’s what is needed to find your joy.

Leap on.

Our five year-old’s favorite restaurant is Bickford’s.  Mostly because they serve breakfast all day, and all of us are big fans of breakfast for dinner.

We typically go once or twice a month, and this week I remembered why we stopped going on Friday nights.

Every Friday there are two older gentlemen that sit in the main dining room.  One talks very loudly – the other says very little.  I get the impression that this weekly outting may be the only chance that either of them have to regularly share a meal with someone.

The loud one mostly complains.  He’s crass and mean.  He treats the waitstaff poorly and his language indicates that he either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care about the children sitting within earshot.

The men leave before our food arrives, and as I watch them struggle for the exit – both using the backs of nearly every chair for assistance, and the quiet one with a spine so mangled his head looks to be permanently down, like a child perpetually shamed – I try to forgive myself for not speaking up and wish them peace.

How do you know when getting involved will help instead of hurt? Did I just make it worse by sitting here?

Then, out of nowhere Briggs did speak up.

“Hey, I have an idea!  Mom or Dad, one of you can be President.”  It was clear from his voice that this idea was in fact new, and to him, a complete and sound solve.

Ken and I both smiled and laughed, just a little.

“Buddy, I don’t want that job,” Ken said.

“And, I don’t have the heart for it,” I added.

Briggs sank in his seat just for a moment, and then popped back up.

“Then, how about me?  I could be President!”

Now Ken and I shared his enthusiasm.

“If I were President,” he promised, “I’d make sure it was law forever that no matter the color of your skin, or your hair, or your eyes, or your shirt, you could always go anywhere you wanted to go.”

“That’s called freedom, Bud, and it’s what we’re all about.”

Ken kissed him and then our breakfast arrived.  And all of the complicated and conflicted feelings surrounding this dinner out started to clear up:

Be who your five year-old believes you are (I silently heard myself say) and stay connected to those good beliefs of all of us going anywhere and doing anything.

Amen.

I went to bed last night at eight o’clock.

When I went upstairs to tuck in our five year-old son, I found him in our bed.

“Mom, can we lay in here, instead?”

I was full from Sunday supper.  My teeth were brushed, my pajamas were on and how many nights do I have left when he wants to fall asleep in our bed?

I snuggled in with the intention of moving him to his own bed once he was out…then I woke up at 4:15 when I heard the alarm on my phone going off in the living room.

While the rest of my family lay a-snooze, I came downstairs to stop the noise and decide what to do.

I’d just spent a little more than eight hours in a complete state of solid, safe sleep – no dreams or disruptions to remember.  Just rejuventating stillness next to my favorite people on the planet – and still, moments after rising my thoughts were off:

I should go to the gym.  I’ll never lose this weight if I don’t.  I’m tired.  I made it there six days last week.  I’m still sore from that intense yoga class yesterday.  I’m tired.  I can do a workout later today.  I’m not swimming this morning.  I could start working.  I’ll never get through what I have to do today.  I’m so behind.  Before six might be too early to start firing off emails.  I could write.  I want to write about how good it was to fall asleep next to Briggs.  There’s something there.  Is he coughing again?  Did I bring my power cord home?  Fuck it.

I stayed on the couch, pulled my favorite super soft blanket over my head and bullied myself back to sleep.

In the span of two hours I woke up in three seperate panics.

The first from losing my job in the most shameful and public way.  Completely unbelievable, and yet it still felt real.

The second from our neighborhood being under siege and our neighbors being dragged from their home.

And finally, from finding a very put together woman in her seventies peering into our windows because she said that our home was hers.  It was stolen from her family years ago and wrongly sold to us.

I felt the loss of my livelihood, my community, and my home all in a fraction of the blissful sleep I’d experienced just hours before.

I’m sitting at my kitchen island now grateful for the feels.

There are too many mothers huddled with their babies trying to get in a few precious moments of sleep, not because they are trying to savor the times when their children want them close, but because they are using every inch of their beings to quell the constant threat of being ripped apart.

We all deserve the peace of being held together.

And now (more than ever) is the time to be reaching out and holding on – not building walls, or banning contact, or denying our privilege and abandoning our humanity.

I saw a video on Facebook a few weeks back about a penny.

A short story about some super rich dude who picked up a penny, and when asked why (because he clearly didn’t need it), said something like:

It says right there on it, ‘In God We Trust.”  I would never pass up a chance to connect with such an important and meaningful reminder.  It’s a gift.

Again, I’m paraphrasing and too lazy to Google the video – but you get the gist.

Since then, pennies keep appearing on my path.

Now, the video wasn’t well produced and I’m certain that the story is a fable cobbled together from decades of anecdotes…and still, as someone who believes that God is above, below and within each of us, I’ve been stuck on the “trust” part.

My belief that we’re all carrying our own perfect, unique, beautiful, brilliant God part – and that this part is constant and trustworthy, suggests that I also believe that we can (must?) trust ourselves, and then, each other.

But my human part tends to be very loud, messy, afraid and flappable – which can sometimes trump and too often override that peaceful, patient, purposeful divine guide. That’s when disruption (and in the most severe cases disaster) ensues.

Here I am though, still walking, catching copper glimmers, and even if just for a moment, connecting with that ever-present power of trust…in me, and us, and the parts that provide the strength to do hard things and bring about more positive change.

Best Christmas gift this year = Yahtzee.

Ever since Santa made an early touchdown at a family Christmas party in mid-December, the Goodwins have been rolling at least one game a day.

We all love it.

Briggs is learning math and practicing his writing, and Ken and I have reunited with a game that has long, deep, good roots in both of our families.

While this game of five dice and a score sheet is a fair amount of luck (how the dice roll), there’s still a fair amount of strategy involved in deciding which combination to go for and where to put your points.

Though, during our nightly game last night, I tried something I struggle with: not trying.

There are no consequences here.  Worst case scenario, Briggs crushes you, which actually might be the best case scenario.

And so, each time as the dice revealed their destiny, I tried not to think so much.  If going for fours felt right, I went for fours (despite those sixes).  If rolling for the Large Straight felt like a stretch but still felt like the right move, I rolled for it.

I learned this from watching Briggs.

Our five year-old totally has a handle on this game.  He understands the objectives and point structure. Recognizes the value in top-loading his best scores to unlock the 35 bonus points.  He’s got this.  And still, many times, he defies the rules of probability – goes for something that looks like a total long shot – and gets what he wants.

Whenever he’s faced with a tough roll, I typically ask:

“What are you gonna do?”

He looks at the dice, takes a breath and reports back with full confidence:

“I’m going for threes / Full Boat (Full House) / The big 20 (4 fives) / Time for YAHTZEE.”

He doesn’t always get exactly what he’s after, but more times than not, when he just goes with what feels right to him, it works out.

He’s got this knowing of what he wants, that I want more of for myself.

The “not trying so hard,” experiment was fairly successful.  I noticed that when I just went with what I felt, I nearly always came away with at least a good (and in a few instances, even a great) score.

I also noticed that I don’t always know how I feel.  There were turns when I talked myself into feeling one way or another, but it was mostly just talk.  Those rolls rarely panned out.

The game ended with a win for Briggs, and for me, a renewed trust in feelings and a pledge to keep rolling until I really know how I really feel.

Today is a loaded day for me, so I want to keep it simple.

Yesterday, I had a lunch meeting in Chinatown.  It ran long (actually a good thing) and I was racing back to the office on foot.

When I arrived at South Station a man in dirty clothes and one foot (apparently permanently) turned in, called out to me.

“Hey, hey.”

I let out a rushed “hi,” and “good afternoon,” but didn’t actually stop.

“Wait,” he said.  “Wait!”

Now a good twelve feet away from him,  I stopped, turned, and gave him a look like, ‘what?’

Then he asked, “Why are you going so fast?”

I chuckled. “It’s pretty much how I move.”

“Don’t you know, you’re only supposed to do that when you have to?”

I smiled for real.  Told him he was smart.  Then he smiled for real, too.

I intentionally enjoyed the rest of my walk back to the office.

Anxiety tends to speed things up for me.  Sometimes, it’s helpful – makes me hyper productive.  Sometimes, it contributes to 15 days of flu.

My interpretation of being in “flow,” is knowing when I get to really turn it up and on, and when I get to rest, relax, and recharge.

Maybe that’s how we build strength and stamina to do the hard things that we’re here to do.

Yesterday, I got in the pool for the second time in three days.

Lap swim – something I haven’t attempted in nearly six years.

On Monday, I (miraculously) was the only one in the pool.  After, I called my sister to celebrate the doing of the thing.

“I went SO slow,” I confessed.  “And, I was still so tired.  Everything kind of hurts, but at least no one was there to see me .  I got to exercise without embarressment.”

“Oh, I’m not embarressed,” my sister, said.  “I don’t care if I’m slow, or whatever.  I’m proud I’m doing it.”

Then I remembered how I started swimming.

In high school, I got cut from the softball team, which ended up landing me a spot on the track team.  I lost every race, but the conditioning kept me in shape for field hockey (the sport I’d eventually go on to play in college at a Division I school).  Being so bad at track (and then so good at field hockey), made it okay to be bad at swimming, too.

So, I swam and (mostly) lost in the winter.  Ran and (always) lost in the spring.  Then, not only played, but started and (mostly) won in the fall.

While the winning felt amazing, and being a part of that field hockey team made me feel accepted by groups I otherwise felt were “out of my league,” the lasting love came from those many losses.

For whatever reason, those swimmers and runners never gave up (on themselves or me).

They always believed we could do better.

They always cheered, even when my race was done for.

They never allowed me to hide from my horrible (horrible) times, but they never make me feel like I didn’t belong, either.

They accepted all of it, and me, and I thrived because of it.

On Wednesday, after doing just a few laps a lean, experienced swimmer dove into the lane next to me.

She lapped me.  Multiple times.  And as I felt the embarressment begin to creep in, I told myself something different:

“She’s happy you’re trying.  She’s rooting for you as much as you’re in awe of her.”

We both kept swimming.

Later in the locker room, I asked her if the pool was typically empty in the mornings.

“Typically,” she said.  “But it was nice to be in there with someone else.  Keep going.  You should get a cap.”

I smiled.

She was a swimmer – still not pretending – and still encouraging.

And, I was proud to have found my way back to the pool.

When I was 12 years-old, a 16 year-old boy pinned me down, raised an eyebrow and said:

“Ever heard of rape?”

He laughed as I quickly broke free.

“C’mon, it was funny.”

A few years later, I confided in another boy about the incident.

He apologized and then got really quiet.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” I told him. “It wasn’t you.  I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have told you.”

“No, no, it’s not that,” he started. “It’s just…”

He took another long while.

“I just wonder if I’ve ever done anything, just messing around, that scared a girl.”

This felt real – which is to say it felt awkward and confusing.  I couldn’t handle it.  I wanted him to be perfect…because, if he was perfect and he liked me, then that would prove I wasn’t so messy or messed up.  So, I shut him down the best way I knew how:

“I’m sure you didn’t.  It’s no big deal.  Just forget it.”

I don’t remember the rest of the conversation.

I’ve always had strong (like really strong) females in my life.  My mother.  My aunts.  Cousins.  Neighbors.  Teachers.  I’ve always known that I’m loved, and that there are good women and men who would help me change the course of our planet’s rotation if need be…but still somehow, even early on, I learned to tolerate, accept, ignore (and in my weakest moments, normalize) boys and men actually and figuratively pinning us down.

Somehow, I even taught myself how to do the pinning.

That’s learned behavior derived from something much bigger than my own experiences.

This Saturday I’ll be marching in solidarity with millions of women all across the globe.

At the  Boston Women’s March for America, I’ll be walking in peace, love, and courage all in hope that as my son and his friends (of every race, creed, gender, and ability) continue to grow up, they collectively learn something different.

That WE are all here.

That WE are all equal.

That WE can – and will – and must now rise…TOGETHER.

15 Truths from 15 Days of Flu

15) Listen.  Our bodies are communicating with each of us all of the time – and they’re smart.  They’re real, living, breathing things.  Let’s try and give them what they’re really asking for.

14) Barreling through rarely (if ever?) works.  Through is through.  There is no rushing through pain, illness, disease. You can’t speed up the misery by denying or ignoring it.  The only way through, is through.

13) It’s okay to send our loved ones away.  It doesn’t mean we don’t love them, just sometimes complete concentration on our loved, sad, sick, selves requires our full attention.

12) It’s okay to call for help.  Always.  Being alone can deliver clarity.  Being together can deliver connection.  Both are critical to healing.

11) The Affair, Man in the High Castle, and This is Us are incredible television.

10) Sleep.  A lot more.  That whole “you can sleep when you’re dead thing,” – yeah, spot on.  Let’s not die early.  Let’s love our time.  Sleep is for the living.

9) More mistakes will happen.  Work will creep in.  Priorities will get confused.  Balls will be dropped.  Health will erode.  Though, maybe if we’re more mindful of the whens and hows, we can self-correct more quickly.  Practice = Progress.

8) Soup is good.

7) Juice is good (like the real stuff extracted from actual fruit).

6) Water is essential – tea is warm water with herbs and spices and roots.  Have more of the good, essential stuff.

5) Going outside helps.  When sickness has us down and out, it’s okay (even recommended to stay down), but when we start to come upright, get outside.  Even just for a minute.  Find some clear air.  Try and let it in.

4) Breathing – even clogged, snotty, mucus, blocked breathing – sounds like the ocean.  That has to mean something.  That we make the same sounds of the powerful waves that rock and feed our world. There are tides to life.  Let’s stop fighting and start riding them.

3) My body needs a place…to go and move, and stretch, and be happy, and find it’s own beauty.  Every gym, yoga studio, or at-home fitness program I’ve ever subscribed to, has been done so only after considering convenience and economics.  Both important, but now I’m ready to get real.  If it doesn’t FEEL amazing to go, I ultimately stop going. Time to find a place that my whole body craves.

2) Drugs help.

1) Love heals – not always necessarily what’s ailing us – but definitely what’s plaguing us.  Those fears of being being less than, or out-of-sight-out-of-mind, or valued only when actively doing.  Not true.  The calls from Mom, flowers from friends, attention from those most willing to risk infection just to be near, tell us otherwise.

Here’s to a happy and healthy New Year, which according to the Chinese Zodiac kicks of on January 28.  2017 is the the year of the Rooster my friends, which I (and all my fellow 1981 babies) happen to be.  So cock-a-doodle-do.

I lost my first pregnancy on July 4, 2010.

We were devastated.

I couldn’t wait to share the news initially, so, we didn’t – which then made it impossible to avoid dozens of painful conversations.  Maybe being so open and inclusive of our pain did help us move through our grief, but at the time, it just felt like living in pain.

My father in-law was kind enough to let our neighbors know.

Tom and Gracie.  Gracie had lived on the street longer than nearly anyone else, and she and Tom were thrilled when they saw Ken and me touring the cottage next to their colonial.

“It’s good to have little ones running around,” Tom said the first time we met him.  Planning for babies long before Ken and I were.

Tom and Gracie were each other’s second marriage.  Both proud members of the Greatest Generation, who were equally proud of their Irish heritage, service to America, there many (many) kids and grandkids, and this place on Pines Road that they were committed to call home together – despite the upheaval of their love.

I found out that they knew about our loss, one day when Tom came over as I was headed to my car.  He didn’t say much.  Just gave me a hug, told me it would be okay, and I was too exhausted not to believe him.

Months passed.  Labor Day, Halloween, and Thanksgiving all came and went.  And then, the first big snow.

I had been working from home, but Ken decided to battle the commute before the snow really got going, and now the driveway needed shoveling.  I bundled up and started digging.

Not too many shovel loads in, Tom came out.

“Amanda, ah, are you supposed to be doing that?”

I smiled politely.  “Tom, I’m fine.  I don’t even know if…and anyway, there aren’t any restrictions.”

He nodded and put his hand on my shovel.

“That’s probably all good and true, but just the same, no shoveling.  Not this winter.  I’m sure you have plenty of work, and I’ve got plenty of time and a couple of these.”  He proudly displayed a few nips of Jameson.  “Now, go inside.  Be warm.  I’ll make sure Kenny has a clear spot.”

I didn’t argue.  Truth was, while we hadn’t told Tom or anyone else, I was four weeks pregnant, and all that up and down of shoveling was making me dizzy.

Yesterday, after this year’s first real good heap of the white stuff, we got bundled up for a Goodwin Family shovel.  The snow was light and fluffy, and it felt good being outside, together.

When our driveway was done, I looked next door.  Thought about the winter I didn’t shovel and then looked back at Briggs.

Tom and Gracie sold just a few weeks before he was born.  They hadn’t wanted to, but when they met Peter and Lynn and heard their plans for the backyard, and the deck, and that she was a master gardener…well, everyone was sold.

“Peter and Lynn, must be away,” I said to Briggs.  “Their driveway is always done before ours and it hasn’t been touched at all.”

“Yeah, and I don’t hear the dogs,” he said.

“Do you think we should shovel them out, so they can pull in when they get home?”

“That’d be nice.  I’ll get Dad.”

So, that’s what we did.

Because maybe it’s as simple as taking turns.  Doing what you can, when you can.

Maybe that’s how we take care of each other.