Yesterday, in the paper goods aisle of Market Basket, my five year-old was shooting rolls of paper towels and toilet paper into our grocery cart.  It wasn’t the most predictable place to break out into a game, but he was courteous of the other shoppers, and even invited a few of them to join in.

They happily accepted.

When the shots were made and it was time to exit the aisle, he hopped back on the end of the cart and declared, “Best vacation ever.”

It was all I could do to keep from crying.

He loves being the kid who gets the adults to play grocery story basketball.

And I love being the Mom who lets him be.

A year ago – almost to the day – I wrote a post about singing.

How I had always believed I couldn’t sing.  Scarred by a music teacher in third grade who yanked me out of the chorus and sent me into tears when she demanded that I just, “lip it.”

I’m going to my Kindergartener’s very first holiday recital this morning, and woke up energized and excited for his big day – and thinking about that post – and remembering that I got it wrong.

I hadn’t always believed I couldn’t sing.

Just the year before, when I was in second grade, I had been selected as a soloist in the school wide pageant.  While hundreds of other elementary students filled the stage dressed as Christmas trees, I was put on an apple box right up front.  Dressed as one of three elves next to Mr. & Mrs. Clause.

I even made the paper.  My mom even saved the clipping.  But, somehow I couldn’t hang on to it.  I let go of that sweet, fun, loving and even powerful memory with ease, and replaced it with one that would hurt and hold me back for far too long.

The first time I confided in someone outside of my immediate family about being diagnosed with depression, I was with a dear friend in a bookstore.

“You know the Dalai Lama’s brother has depression,” she said.  “And, when someone asked him, ‘Why do you think that is – what do you think is the cause of his depression?’ – he answered, ‘Faulty thinking.'”

I instinctively responded, “I totally have that.”

“You’re in good company,” she said.

And we smiled.  Real smiles.  And hugged.

The faulty thinking trips me up.  The pull to the bad shit.  The hanging on to what hurts.  The distraction of the spots on the glass, taking away from the clean water that patiently awaits to relieve my thirst.

And while I don’t have a cure for faulty thinking, I may have a treatment:

Memories.

My surface memories have a tendency to play tricks on me.  They’re mostly of the Mrs. Music Teacher brand.  Constantly reminding me that I’m off, wrong, ugly, stupid, and certainly, not enough.  I don’t particularly enjoy them, but yet pay them an awful amount of attention.

But, when I’m brave enough to finally stop placating them and fully invite them in, they stop playing tricks.  And start teaching me to sing.

I hold a lot of stress in my hands.

I always have, but I wasn’t aware of it until about a year ago.

My hands are my tell:

If they’re dry, and raw, and my fingers are calloused, it’s for sure that I’ve been biting, stressing, and somehow forgetting to take care of myself in the simplest of ways…like drinking water or using the very lovely lotion under my bathroom sink.

About a week ago, I noticed a blood blister on my left ring finger.

I don’t remember pinching, or burning, or hurting it – but still it came.

For a moment, I considered taking care of it.  But, I didn’t actually know how to take care of it.  Was I suppose to pop it?  Cover it?  Leave it alone?  I could, of course, just turn to Google, but even that felt like too much work.  So, I did, what I often do when my body is begging for my attention: I ignored it.

Until this morning.

When I came back to work on a post about a friendship I thought I could never go back to, because of the degrees that we hurt each other when we were young and feeling (and not feeling) our way through.

I was nearly finished the piece, when my blister popped and blood shed over three letters on my keyboard.

W-A-S.

I stopped typing.  Mended my finger.  Treated the rest of my hands to that lovely lotion, and started again.

For me the story about the friendship was my attempt to answer the question: “can you go home again?”  Can you return, go back, make it how it was…and I think my answer is yes, and of course not.

Yes, you can always go back.  It is never too late.  You can return to what WAS.  But, going back, and going deep, will almost certainly bring some brutiful stuff to the surface, open up ignored wounds, and possibly draw blood.

And all that messy WAS is good.  I think it may be the only way to a clean start.

So, of course, we can always go home.  To our family.  Our friends.  Our hands.  Our stories.  Our art.  But it’s sure to be different on each return, and maybe that’s how it should be.

On the night before Thanksgiving, my Mom gave me a pair of slippers.

They weren’t new.  In fact as soon as I saw them, I knew I’d seen them before.  A very long time ago.

“Do you know who made these?” She asked.

“Meme,” I said.

She smiled and lovingly passed me the pair.

Meme was my great-grandmother on my father’s side.  The way I know the story is that she immigrated to the US (from Canada) to work as a nanny – working first for a family in Boston, and later in textiles in Fitchburg.

I only have fond, loving, and quirky memories of Meme.  Talking in broken English – leaning on French mostly when she wanted to swear in front of us kids.  Stuffing my chubby hands with quarters, dollars, and candy fruit slices.  Sharing her yellow blocks of government issued  cheese.  Being dismissed early from Kindergarten every other Thursday to go to E.J. Maroni’s for lunches made up entirely of side salads with blue cheese dressing, mozerella sticks, and crocks of French onion soup.

The majority of my Meme’s life was not half as charming as the treats and trips described above.

Her childhood was spent scarcely above poverty.  She married an abuser.  She worked too much, too hard, and for too long.

But, despite (and in some ways, perhaps because of) her challenges, Meme was a maker.

She made chewing gum out of beef fat.  Baby formula out of oatmeal.  She made blankets, and doll clothes, and slippers.  She made ends meet and people sit.  She made meals that invited family to stay a little longer, and she made mistakes that her descendants would learn more quickly how not to repeat.

She made her way – Her Way.

And those slippers, likely older than me, reminded me of the lasting power of making.

It took me the better part of four days to try them on.  And now that I have, I’ve lovingly resolved to slip into the gentle reminder each and every night, that I too, can make things.

About a month ago I wrote a post about my father’s second wedding, and stealing my sister, Lindsey’s tights for the ceremony.

Lindsey doesn’t often read this blog, but that entry caught her attention.  After she read it she called me to say that she didn’t even remember the incident, and that there was nothing to apologize for, so nothing to forgive.

I asked for her forgiveness anyway, and she graciously gave it right away.

Whether a misdemeanor or federal offense – crimes against family feel the most punishing.  And the sentences we impose on ourselves and each other can keep us locked up for far longer than we ever intended.

On Tuesday, I sat in a church listening to my friend and colleague eulogize his first born son and namesake.  I heard him offer forgiveness to the man who took his own son’s life, and preach the depths and lengths of Love and Forgiveness.

On any day this message and raw display of openness, compassion, and courage would’ve stayed with me – but it just happened that I would be in this church with my grieving friend and his family the day after I visited with my own father after a five-year silence.

The distance between my first father (I have two others, the one who primarily raised me and the one I lovingly received in marriage) and me, was necessary.  And there are many people who love me, who will read that I saw him, and be nervous.  Just as there were many people who love him, who called when he saw me, because they were nervous.

For me, the brave thing was to see him.  To say my truths, to acknowledge my pain, and to sit with how I feel.  To finally (and fully) forgive myself for taking on what does not belong to me.

It was a full-on Good Will Hunting experience.  The divorce was not my fault.  The addictions and afflictions were not my fault.  The distance and awkwardness were not (are not) my fault.

I believe my Dad, and I, and you are already at our core, forgiven.  Not necessarily by one another, or the law, but by that deep and perfect force that forever and always connects us. That deep and perfect and powerful everlasting: LOVE.

During his eulogy, my friend was clear that the man who took his son’s life, got tricked. He didn’t, he couldn’t see his son.  His beauty, his grace, his God, his Love.  He couldn’t see it. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there, that it still isn’t there.

Love and Forgiveness may be infinite.  But, time isn’t.  And so, I’m just feeling that even when it’s difficult and awkward and painful, I want to spend my time doing more of the brave things – and live as presently as I can with the Love and Forgiveness that I can give and receive.

For more than a week now, Leonard Cohen has been on repeat in heart and my mind.  His time here has ended too, but his truths continue to echo.

Love is not a victory march.  It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah.

Hallelujah.

When you work for an organization that has a newsroom, you come across lots of reminders about NOT making campaign contributions.

It’s interpreted as bias.

Now, I was never a journalist, but I wrote, produced, and oversaw content that had a direct impact on raising the necessary funds to provide the tools, the time, and the talent for many journalists to do their best work.

So, I decided I wouldn’t contribute either.

I never gave money, and while I would (often) in private and personal conversations express my political views, I was careful not to post or publicly share anything that could be read, seen, or heard as side-taking.

But, I do not work in media anymore – and if I think it’ll prevent me from contributing – I never will again.

Because here’s the side of not-contributing that I’m not proud of.  For years I used the “rules” against contributing as a way to avoid really engaging in the quest for equality.

I once let a man much older and bigger than me physically push me at a place of business. When it happened, I didn’t report it to HR.  I was afraid that something would happen to him, and worried what that would mean for me.

Long before I ever entered the workforce, I developed an avoidance tolerance of cruel jokes, undressing stares, degrading name-calling, and belittling behavior.  It happened time and time again all around me, and I rarely found the courage to call it out for what it was – what it is: Hate and Fear.

At night, I almost always, no matter where I am, walk with my keys between my fingers in one hand, and the phone with half of 9-1-1- ready to go in the other.

I’ve accepted these things, and yet, still tricked myself into believing we had equality.

I see the irony now – and I am ready to take sides.

I am on the side of Love.  Compassion.  Openness.  Gratitude.

My energy is now devoted to safety and healing.  For myself, for others, and for our country.

For this is the land of the free.  Home of the brave.

P.S – The story behind the safety pin.

I turned out of the cafeteria, down the hall toward the gym, when suddenly, there he was.

My five year-old.  All ready to go with jacket already on, as he was just making his way in from the playground.

“Mumma!”

“Briggsy!”

We were genuinely happy to see each other.

I scooped him up and smothered him with kisses (none of the other kiddos were around), and we made a plan to “pop this popcorn stand.”

On the way way home from Fun Club (after-care at his school) we rocked out to a little Uptown Funk, swapped stories of our day, and mused on dinner.

I turned into our driveway.  Parked to get the mail – he let himself out and ran to the front porch, and that’s when I saw it.

He’d unzipped his jacket and there across his little chest, colored in red and blue crayon was an “I Voted” sticker.

The fear took hold almost immediately.

“Did you have an election at school today?” I asked.

“Yup.”

“Who’d you vote for?”

“I voted for Fiction,” he said – with authority.

I exhaled.

“For Fiction, huh?”

“Yeah, we didn’t do a real election, like for the President.  Instead we voted on what kind of stories we like.  Fiction or Non-Fiction.”

This lead to a lengthy discussion on my position.  I gave an overview on how, for a very longtime I was strictly Fiction, but within the last few years, as my needs have changed and ideas have broadened, I’ve aligned more closely with Non-Fiction.

By this point, Briggs was no longer interested.  And my fear had subsided, and instantly replaced with sadness.

Growing up, I loved mock-elections.  I have clear (and wonderful) memories of casting my Presidential votes from elementary through high school.  I always enjoyed Social Studies, History, and Current Affairs – but during an election season – I LOVED them.

The issues.  The candidates.  The debates and policies.  It was all so fascinating.  Inspiring. Fueling my innate desire to participate.

I’ve participated in nearly every election (national, state, and local) since I was of legal age – and regardless of the outcome – I’ve always felt good (so very good) about taking part in the process.

It’s a primary reason why, since he’s been on this planet, Briggs has accompanied his father and/or me to the voting booth.  We want him to see democracy in action.  Know that our roles matter – and that we are voting (each and every time) with our hearts, and his future in mind.

But that doesn’t mean I’m above getting scared.

Because, while it hurts to write, the thought of my Kindergartener being over-exposed to this election terrified me.

I saw that sticker on his chest, and I went right to worry.

Worried he’d been exposed to name calling, or sexism, or racism, or homophobia.  Or all of it.  All of the painful, hurtful, lasting trauma of this cycle.  I worried he’d been picked on, or bullied, or silenced for repeating or sharing his parents’ views.

The anxiety flooded in – then, the truth of the actual “Fiction vs. Non-Fiction” vote let it out – and then, the sadness – and then, then the gratitude.

Because while I still feel sad, that I had initially feared what Briggs could have encountered this political season – while I had to work through the shame in wanting to deny him initial exposure to a system and a process I not only respect, but admire – all of it has brought me (and our family) where I am right now, tonight…on the eve of this historic and heartening and hardening election…

Filled with promise, and love, and purpose.  Proud to participate.  Ready to share the sign of compassion that my son shared with me this afternoon.

That little sticker, that will bring peace to my part and declare once again that, I Voted.

After a frustrating Friday, I made my way home through a brief but powerful storm.

I was racing a bit to get to Briggs.

I gave myself enough time to get to him before after-care closed, but not enough time to actually enjoy the ride.

Speeding down Rte. 3 South, as the rain began to clear, I caught the tail end of a rainbow.

It was gorgeous.  All of ROY G BIV so brilliantly and clearly defined.

I kept driving.

A few moments later, I looked up again.  Some fog had cleared, revealing now, not only the end of the rainbow, but the start of its arch as well.

Wow.  Maybe there is something to seeing even just a little bit of good,  that helps it grow.

I kept driving.

Crossed into my town.  Looked up once more, and there it was:

A full arch – end to end – a colorful embrace stretched across the entire corner I call home.

I kept driving.

I thought about pulling over.  This felt big and poignant.  I wondered if I diminished it, by not stopping for it.

But, my baby was waiting, and stopping didn’t feel right.

So, I kept driving.

And as I pulled off the highway, and left that beautiful light in my rearview, I let myself believe that peace (like love) is unconditional.  No ceremony or situation required.  No invitations.  No proclamations.

Peace is there.  When I can feel it and when I can’t.  When I am called to stop, and when I know that it’s best to just keep driving.

Since winning the Nobel Prize for Literature, Bob Dylan’s been showing up a lot more.

In my social feeds.  On the radio.  And, this past weekend I ended up watching a documentary on his Basement Tapes.

I like Dylan, but I’ve never studied him or dug too deep into his music, so I didn’t know about the Basement Tapes.  A collection of songs he and his band recorded in the basement of “Big Pink.”  A pink house Dylan rented in Woodstock, NY in 1967.

The band apparently came to Big Pink with no plans.  No drafts.  They just showed up.  Read the newspaper.  Walked in the woods.  Threw the football in the yard.  Drank.  Smoked.  And played.  And whatever they played, they recorded.

Eight years  later what came out of that basement ended up being released by Columbia Records.  The Basement Tapes gained major critical and commercial success, and apparently musicians, labels, and producers have been attempting to recreate the genius that was born out of that musty underground in upstate New York ever since.

The latest attempt, The New Basement Tapes was the focus of the documentary I was watching, and one of the featured artists, Rhiannon Middens said something that’s been haunting me:

“It’s supposed to be the Basement Tapes, but it’s not.  When those guys went in, they never expected anyone to hear what came out.  They were just free.  To create.”

Expectations are tricky.  At least for me.  I tent to expect a lot.

I expect for my work to support my family, my health, and my home.  I expect my creativity to support my work.  I expect those closest to me to tolerate the stress manifested from the relationship between my many expectations.  And, I expect to keep trying…harder.

But, maybe what makes it at least feel a bit easier, is to simply play (write, work, share) like no one is listening…even when they are.

In terms of self-care, I’m crawling right now.

An hour of yoga feels like too much.

A complete cleanse feels punishing.

Writing everyday feels like a chore.

So, I’m crawling.  I can’t seem to find my way to the mat, but I can light a candle and try to just breathe for 10 minutes.

Which is what I did at 6:30 this morning.  Sitting on a pillow in my hallway, watching the flame aggressively flicker, when suddenly…

The fire alarm went off.

My husband jumped out of bed, still half asleep and cut his foot.

My son shouted, “Mom, what is happening?”

“I’m trying to mediate!” I barked back, over the blaring alarm.

“Well, it’s really loud and it’s really early.”

I laughed.

My husband found his way back to bed.  My son stopped asking questions.  I opened a window and went back to my pillow.

The alarm stopped.

The flicker calmed.

The birds sang.

The distant traffic sounded like the ocean gently rolling off, and then back on the shore.

And then, just mere moments after the great commotion, I felt it.

The invitation to begin again.

PS – The view out the back window I opened to let the commotion out.