Tuesday, October 3, 2017

Gone Beige

 We are becoming more beige every day it seems.  We bought a beige house with tasteful, neutral trim, and now we’ve even replaced the red car out front with one of those silvery-beige half-assed SUV numbers.  Not quite a sedan, not quite an SUV: a boxy beige number that just blends into the pavement and looks like what everyone else on the street drives.

Open the door of that beige facade, and you’ll find the entire house has been painted with the same warm and modern beige shade with grey undertones.  What can I say, the color matches everything.  Looks very mature and cohesive.  Great for the resale value. 

 On one hand, I don’t want to think the transition to beige is telling, that it speaks of an overall descent into the tedium of middle age.  But at the same time I can’t deny it was pretty much the highlight of my month buying that new beige not-quite-station-wagon that is now parked in front of my suburban beige two-story house.   Even though it meant sitting in a car dealership for five hours to buy that car, still it felt so much more exciting than my usual lazy Saturday afternoon routine.  I mean, it was the fruition of six months of online car shopping and price comparison, the result of a carefully cultivated list of car options, safety ratings, miles per gallon considerations, and a heated competition between features available on the base models of all the cars I’d been reviewing.  Finally, a winner was chosen, and I was going in for the kill.  In the end, I chose beige because the only other option they had on hand in my price range was black, and black just didn’t seem a wise choice.  Too hot.  Shows dirt too easily. 

But certainly our thematic transition to beige is not indicative of a slow descent into boring-ness.  Or at least it doesn’t have to be, right?  Last night, looking at that beige car on our beige driveway in front of our beige house, I was filled with the urge to run inside and paint something neon.  Well, not neon.  Let’s not get carried away.  But to paint something a bright and bold color, to splash a wall or two with emerald green or sapphire blue.  Or maybe, at least, get a few more throw pillows for the couch with some vibrant embroidery; that’s so popular these days.

This morning I drove my new beige car down a congested freeway with a few thousand of my closest friends, most of whom were also driving beige cars, wound my way into a grey parking garage, parked the car in an open spot, stepped out and jumped when the beep of the door locking reverberated off the garage walls, and then joined the walking throng on the way into the office.  The sky was grey, too, as rain was on the way.  It was Tuesday, but one of those Tuesdays with a Monday vibe to it.  Too early in the morning, too early in the week.

But last night, before I inwardly rebelled at the sight of the beige descent on our house, I had a few moments when I remembered what it was like to be bright and vibrant and lit up from within.  See, about a year ago, I started to feel the impending whitewashing of this beige season of life.  I started to feel bored and tired and maybe a little bit trapped in the drifting ennui of middle life.  I started to feel like I was suffocating beneath the weight of parenting and work and bills and the pressure of every moment of every day belonging to someone other than me.   I began to think that if I could not carve out a space and a time of my own, a place where I could be fully myself on my own terms, I would shrivel up and die inside; the beige would take over and coat everything that had once been remarkable about me.  Like a caged animal, I paced and watched, and when the tension of confinement rose to panic level, I threw myself at the strictures of my life, shoulder to the bars, head tucked and braced for impact.  I made one desperate attempt, one quick thrust, with the hope that it would be enough to gain purchase, to wedge open the encroaching closeness and give me enough room that I could breathe again.

In that moment of panic, I sent out a nervous and somewhat meager call on social media, inviting anyone I knew who felt like the beige was eating them up, too, to join with me in rediscovering the pursuit of creativity.  I asked all my digital friends who had any interest in making creative endeavors a larger focus in their lives to start a group with me, to come together and fight the beige as a team.  I envisioned a subdued group of thirty- and forty-somethings who used to make things, who weren’t ready to give that part of themselves up though they didn’t know how to restart those old engines, and also I dreamed that we would grow into an eccentric troupe of makers and doers, people invested in living above the level of survival, giving themselves to art and music and poetry in every spare second they scrape together.

Two women answered my call, and from the moment we met together for the first time, I felt like I could breathe again.  It’s hard to describe how reassuring it is to meet with other people also mired in this exhausting stage of life who are willing to stand alongside you and commit to not letting the necessary drown out the beautiful.  What’s more, every time we meet, I become more and more convinced that the urge to create, to seek beauty and to engage in the act of making it, is itself so very necessary.  In an often sad and twisted world, heeding that inner call to make something beautiful, poignant, delicate, or revealing feels like the ultimate act of survival.  It’s the loveliest embodiment of our fledgling hope climbing out of the chrysalis, bursting from the corners of over scheduled and overstimulated lives, and emerging into the beige world like a burst of color that lights up everything.  Nothing is more necessary to me at this stage of life than the ability to remember there is more to my existence than beige.  I need not create a masterpiece to find a place of blessed margin; I need only to engage in the act of creation itself.  Pen to paper, brush to canvas, fingers to strings: the method matters just as little as the mastery of the skill.  To make, to create, to be involved in the endless tradition of putting something good out into the world, that is the thing.  That is the end unto itself.  To find the creative voice inside and listen to it, to shake off the apathy and fear and just begin, that is the goal.

And so I am not afraid of going beige.  Not now that I am part of this little tribe of women willing to fight the apathy right along with me.  Our group has grown from three to four; perhaps one day we will be a proper tribe of old eccentric artists making the rounds of each other’s art openings and book signings. But for now, it is enough to carve out time to meet with each other, share a drink or a meal, tell each other what we are making or doing these days, and remind each other (and ourselves) that the perfect is the enemy of the good and that the trying is the thing.  Just start, we tell each other, and you’ve already succeeded.  And we toast our progress, and it burns right through the wash of beige, and then we go forth lit up and alive.

Tuesday, February 28, 2017


I am in countdown mode now, just two days until I go under the knife and fall silent.  After years of fighting with my voice, complaining about the unpredictability and asking doctor after doctor why my voice had lost its power, why I lost it so easily, why I sounded hoarse and raspy even on a good day, I finally got an answer.  A cyst had formed on my vocal cords and, although not cancerous, the little growth is something that must be cut out by someone with a steady hand and a lot of letters after their name.

The doctor said that he couldn’t tell me how long the cyst had been there, but I feel I can almost pinpoint the year as I remember when I realized I could no longer produce a yell with any reasonable volume.  I still felt like I was raising my voice, but the sound was muted, strident.  The problem has been building over time, but there was one particular day when I realized that no matter how much force I put behind it, my voice simply wouldn’t project across a crowded room.  Suddenly, I noticed how my words got swallowed by the space and the noise, and I bristled internally at the inability to make myself heard even as I admitted to myself that I had no idea why this was happening or what could be done to fix it.

For years, I mentioned the struggles with my voice at doctor’s visits, and I got a variety of answers and possible solutions over the years, all of which sounded reasonable at the time and even seemed to improve the issue for a while.  But the problem would always come back, and at some point I suppose I just became resigned to being someone whose voice was, and possibly would always be, muted.
~    ~    ~

I didn’t realize how soon I would start feeling resigned, how early in life I would decide to accept my current situation as the hand I’d been dealt, or how easy it would be to slip into complacency.  When I contemplate my near forty-ness, I generally think (as I often hear others say) that I don’t feel any different than I felt when I was nineteen.  That quintessential, internal me feels static and fixed, familiar and recognizable.  That which I consider my true nature does not seem to be fundamentally different than it did two decades ago.

And yet, I must admit that I have begun to see how the fire of youth has burned out of me in many ways.  At nineteen, I had endless hope for my path and my future.  Everything was as yet undecided, undone, the days ahead cloudy and unknown but perceived as ripe with shimmering possibility.  Who I was to become and what my life would look like were forms not yet chiseled from the rough stone of my young existence. 

And now I feel in some unspoken way that I have landed in the role that I once could only wait for and imagine.  My spouse, my children, my career: these things have all materialized.  I sense somehow that my interesting plot points have all already transpired, and I am simply in some extended dénouement that I will live out for my remaining years.  In the day to day existence, I don’t perceive my life as having lost the sense of possibility, but many times the way I behave belies a de facto surrender to the inevitability of my days.  It’s not that I believe my upcoming decades will be devoid of interest or excitement, but more that the formative period is over and my life has now gelled into its permanent shape.

I suppose this is why we worship the culture of youth in our books and movies and music: because youth has that glow of endless possibility that we believe expires once we decide on a path and begin to follow it.  At nineteen, a person believes she can be anything; but at forty, if she is a married banker living in suburbia, we all generally accept that it’s rather unlikely she will ever become a traveling poet writing her way across Europe.  Likewise, if we are short-tempered, we don’t expect to become suddenly patient; if we are slap-dash and sloppy, we don’t expect to become meticulous; if we are bookish, we don’t expect to emerge one morning as a flitting social butterfly.

Maybe we don’t stop making New Year’s Resolutions or trying to fit into last year’s pants, but in how many ways to do we quietly give up?  In how many small and seemingly insignificant ways do we decide to stay the path we’ve chosen instead of asking ourselves, or going after, the path we always wished we’d taken instead?  How many ways, through clinging to routine or the safety of inaction, do we let ourselves get stuck or become muted or decide we are less than we once thought we might become?  In big ways, but also in small, incremental ways that add up so slowly that we feel as if we wake up one day having decided to accept things we never consciously meant to accept.

~    ~    ~

I have always had a somewhat irrational fear of surgery (I say somewhat because they wouldn’t make you sign all those scary forms if there wasn’t at least some remote reason to fear going under the knife), but as I approach this procedure, I am wary in a new way.  The issue is fraught, I realize as the date approaches, with the weight of so much unexpected meaning.

You see, to get my voice back, I have to fall silent.  Once the doctor removes the growth from my vocal folds, in order to let the wound heal, I have to refrain from making any noise for one week, then I will be cleared to speak for just a few minutes a day for the following weeks.  Finally, I’ll be allowed to return to a mostly normal vocal schedule, but with a heavy cautionary warning not to overdo it for several months: don’t be too loud, don’t talk too long, don’t push your voice, don’t try and talk over a crowd.

So I watch the days tick down now, trying to plan how I will be a mother, an employee, a wife without the ability to communicate verbally.  And as that big X moves closer on the calendar, I cannot help but overthink the whole thing.  I mean, I can’t be the only who sees the symbolic existential dilemma inherent in being silenced, or who sees the isn’t-it-ironic twist of being silenced in order to get my voice back.

The silence looms ahead like a monster that will swallow my autonomy, my identity.  It lurks in my thoughts, approaching slowly and steadily, making me grateful for every word I can speak now, every peal of laughter I don’t have to try choke down, and every lullaby I can sing for my children.  I see my verbal communication suddenly as the gift it is, the intensely valuable tool I have been blessed with and also as the embodiment of my voice-writ-large.  I see the value of my voice as it relates to my capital-V Voice that is, in essence, my unique contribution to this world.

And this newfound appreciation makes wonder how I let myself grow so complacent that I simply became resigned to the loss of my voice.  How could that have become acceptable, something that I just explained with a shrug when someone asked why I was so hoarse all the time?  Why did it seem more natural to constantly apologize for being hard to hear than to launch a mission to find and remedy the problem in the first place?  Did I value my own voice so little that I was unwilling to fight for the chance to nurture it, to protect and amplify it? 

In fact, it wasn’t until the knowledge that I would have to become completely silent during the recovery that I realized how unsettling it has been for me to feel like I have been slowly losing my voice for years now.  It’s not a new story, I know, just another twist on absence making the heart grow fonder. But for me, the recognition of my own complacence was a barbed one, painful and entrenched, snagging other stinging realizations as it was raised into the light.  It has made clear for me that there are too many things that I have stopped fighting for, too many broken things I have stopped believing can be fixed. 

I think about it this way: there are some floorboards in my little existence that have been creaking for some time now, and instead of getting out the tools and settling in to fix them, I have simply learned to walk a jagged and circuitous route around the damaged areas.  Or I have turned their creaking into a song in my head and decided to think of that melody as the imperfect theme song of my days.  But what I have stopped doing is believing that the creaking can be remedied.  I have decided that my life is full enough of love and joy, that I have a lovely family and a nice life all-in-all, but anything more is out of my reach. 

Now that I have an answer about my tumultuous voice, and a plan of action to fix this one threadbare part, to soothe this one creaky floorboard, I am looking at this old house with a new eye.  What else have I been overlooking?  What other areas of my life have become muted? 

I wasn’t sure if I would ever be back writing here, but now I wonder if this space has gone the way of this same kind of gradual resignation.  I liked having a space to work out my ideas in writing, but somewhere along the way I let myself overthink the purpose of having a personal blog.  I got caught up in thoughts of performance, monetization, appeal and forgot the simple release of cranking out words and sending them out into the wild unknown.  There is fear there, and a certain rush, as your humble little creation is sent out into the world, and you feel as if a piece of yourself has been released and now sits waiting to be seen in all its earnest imperfection.

The oncoming sentence of silence has reminded me of my Voice, of the ways I once used it that have since grown muted, and of the value I almost forgot could be found in using it.  And it’s a value that is found in the doing, in the speaking and sharing and writing and singing, not in what accolades might come from the doing.  The magic is in those little everyday acts of rebellion where you refuse to let the monotony of life mute your existence, where you push against the apathy and the entropy to move upward, always steadily and intentionally towards something higher.  So here I take one step towards that goal, release one small part of me into the wild unknown, a humble and imperfect offering that feels in its own way like an act of reclamation.  I’m getting louder already.

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

May I Abide

The light is coming in slant-ways though my window now, a sure and telltale sign that we are deep into October these days.  It's that funny angle of light that has always bothered Sam about fall, but I love it precisely because it is such a visual indicator of the change of the seasons.  October just looks different, finally, from the relentlessness summer sun beating down on us.

Our youngest, the baby we spent so much time waiting and dreaming and praying for, is hardly a baby anymore.  She has amassed a growing vocabulary of charming, high-pitched demands, most of which center on where she wants to go or what she wants to be fed.  She's a pragmatic little thing, it seems, and as pretty a tiny terrorist as you will ever meet.  She stands in the kitchen, all ruffles and honey-colored curls and doe eyes, saying, "Up! Up!" It seems like a suggestion, but make no mistake, if you ignore that suggestion, she will arch her back and throw herself headfirst onto the hard tile floor.  Every dainty, bird-like chirp she makes seems like a sweet song until you realize that each one is an ultimatum: give me what I want or I will obliterate your plans for a peaceful evening.

It's funny how quickly you forget that chasing after a toddler is exhausting.  And time consuming.  And frustrating.  Every night it feels like I go to bed having accomplished half of what I intended to get done that evening.  Weekends, I have spent so much of the week missing her, I just sit on the floor and read her books one after another.  Monday comes, and I am back to the workday grind wondering how those two days just seemed to evaporate right out from under me.

I keep wondering why I thought it would get easier after the newborn days had passed.  I keep wondering why I thought I would get to actually sleep after the first year.  Why I ever thought adding a third child wouldn't really be that much of a transition because it was just one more set of teeth to brush, one more pair of shoes to go searching for every time we need to leave the house, one more jacket to stuff little arms into.  We were already doing all of those things, after all; it wasn't going to change the dynamics much to add one more little person to the daily food/clothe/clean/keep alive assembly line.

I keep telling Sam I don't have time to get everything done.  Not even the superwoman kind of everything Pinterest thinks we should all be getting done.  I mean, just anything more than staying afloat kind of get everything done.  See, the sweetest little comet has just smashed into our lives and laid waste to our sleep and our schedules and our plans.

- - - - 

I've always been a sap for before and after pictures: makeovers, weight loss, home renovations, you name it.  For years it was because I pinned my hopes on that particularly fractured way of thinking that says when this-certain-thing-I-want happens, then I'll be happy.  When I weigh less or when I make more.  When I get a bigger place or earn my degree or run a marathon or get published.  There was never a sense that I could be happy right there, where I was, but only that happiness would come rushing in once I fixed the parts of my life that felt sub-par.  I couldn't wait to get to the after part of my own before and after transformation.

It took reaching a lot of goals and still feeling dissatisfied to realize happiness wasn't waiting over the next hill.  And the more I thought it was, the more I was missing the happiness I was already smack dab in the middle of.

- - - -

Three years ago, I was pregnant and then I wasn't, and though the ordeal itself only lasted a few months from start to finish, it infected me with a sickness that would not leave me until the moment I finally met the baby girl I had so desperately wanted. Looking back, I can say that I was depressed and anxious for at least two years following our first miscarriage.  But putting it in those clinical terms doesn't quite explain what I was really experiencing on a daily basis.  It was as if I lost myself.  All of the parts were still there, and I kept putting one foot in front of another, but I wasn't in there anymore.

Who knows why this loss hit me so hard.  Pregnancy loss is so widespread that I know there are many women who navigate it with much more resilience and maturity than I did.  For me, though, it was the proverbial straw-on-camel's-back in a long stream of disappointments that were teaching me ever so slowly to stop looking over the next hill for my newest fix of feel-good.  I had already been in the process of letting go of my obsession with before and after thinking.  I had already been stripped of (or so it felt) the strangely comforting idea that once I lost weight, everything else in my life would all come together.  Likewise, I had been let down by so many other magical milestones that I'd spent years believing would cure me of some portion of my sadness and angst: getting married, becoming a mother, buying a house, getting a degree, writing a book, getting a "real" job.

All of those milestones arrived, one by one over the course of several years, without the confetti spray of insta-happiness.  But this thing of wanting one more baby, it felt different than all those other things that didn't cure me.  This one, I knew, would actually do the trick.  If I could only hold a baby in my arms one more time, I would finally feel whole.  I was sure of it.

Except that I was left wanting it for so long, growing more and more sure that it would never happen, grieving and wishing and fretting, until I finally had to admit to myself that a baby wasn't going to save me any more than all of the other things I tried over the years.  Finally, I had to admit to my silly, stubborn self that this pattern was a problem, this before and after thinking, this habit of tying my sense of well-being to a vision of myself or my life that was constantly, consistently better than I was at the moment.

And in one of those moments of supreme irony, the moment I admitted to myself that the problem was not that I needed another baby but that I always needed something, the moment I swallowed that particular jagged little pill, I found out I was expecting.

- - - -

So here we are raising this beautiful little monster, who gobbles up our time and our flexibility and our ability to function without three cups of coffee in the morning.  And when I look at her, ordering me to lift her up or read her a book, I can see already how quickly she is becoming not the baby I dreamed of but the toddler who will become the girl who will become the woman who will move out and leave me one day.  If I'm not careful, if I fall right back into that habit of constantly looking for the next round of thing-that-I-don't-have-but-will-make-me-super-happy-when-I-get-it, all I will see of her is how fast she's speeding away from the newborn I craved.  All I will see is how long her legs are getting and how much she's losing her baby fat and how far we are getting from the moment when we rejoiced at her arrival.  All I will see is that having another baby didn't fix everything after all, and instead of learning to rejoice in the strange newness that is already inherent in every day we've got together, I will turn my gaze to the horizon, looking for the next thing to make me feel better.

Here we are raising this beautiful little monster, and her two amazing and confounding older brothers, facing down the methodical tick-tock progression of these busy days, days where we never get enough done.  And at the end of those days, when it has taken three tries to get this daughter of ours to fall asleep, when it's only Tuesday and I'm dead on my feet, when the bills are piled up on the counter and the dishes are piled up in the sink, may I stop and look at the mess of a life I am lucky enough to live.  May I take it all in, just as it is, and may that be enough.  May I learn the meditation of letting right now be exactly where I'm supposed to be.  May I breathe in this season of raising young children, and tomorrow, may I breathe in that season as my rightful moment in time, too.

May I abide the relentless summer sun, and may I abide the slanty fall sun, each in their turn.  May I be here, now, today.  Everyday.  For all of the days that I am a mother to little ones, to teenagers, to adults who are parents themselves.  May I let enough be enough, because most people looking in at my life would think, I have no doubt, that I have enough wonderful things to make any reasonable person happy many times over.  May I be a reasonable person happy with her own wonderful lot as much and as often as I can. May I live the days of my life with careful attention for as long as I have days to live, and may I grow to love the journey as much as I have always longed for the destination.

Friday, September 4, 2015

In the Shadow of the Tower

Outside my office window, an army of cranes is constructing a slowly expanding hull of concrete and iron.  Their long arms swing and dip like gawky birds, a set of angular skeletons building another angular skeleton.  Behind them, giant downy puffs of clouds soften the cranes' starkly geometric presence.

One day that building will be a medical school, and people will stream through its halls learning how to cut open bodies to save them, how to use poison to save people from cancer, how to re-break legs to allow them to heal properly.  One day, in rooms that today I can look straight through and see the clouds behind, men and women in white coats will work themselves until they can hardly stand, until they are sick and exhausted and probably second-guessing their stupid choice to become a doctor in the first place.  One day lives will be saved, and lives will be lost, in the building being pieced together by robotic arms on the horizon just outside my office window.

And below those industrious cranes, between their work and mine, a few dozen people lounge at the pool outside the campus gym.  Professors swim laps with plastic caps over their hair.  Lifeguards sit in tall chairs and stare, all wearing the standard uniform of red swimsuits and bored expressions.  Young women who still have the bodies of teenagers adjust their bikinis, leaning back in reclining chairs and holding their stomachs in.  A group of rowdy undergrads laugh and splash like the children they still seem to me. 

Today, the talk in the office revolves around Texas’ new campus carry law.  What areas are exempt, and do those exemptions make anyone safer?  How do we balance obeying the law and protecting those kids splashing in the pool outside our windows?  And Lord knows we don’t all agree on whether the law will change anything about how safe we all are, or are not, here working in academia.  And Lord knows those us of who work in the shadow of the tower where the first mass campus murder in America was committed come in and out of awareness of the fact that we come to work everyday to the kind of place where people like to bring their rage and their bullets and their desperation.  We know it, we remember it, then we forget it again so we can keep coming here and doing our small part in helping another generation of kids get an education.  We can’t hold both truths at once, not all of the time: the truth that colleges and schools seem to attract the murderous interest of some of the most evil people our society has produced, and the truth that colleges and schools exist to pump learning and art and research into that same society.

I guess it’s the same with any dichotomy; you can’t keep both sides in your head all the time.  You know the inherent dangers of driving your car, yet you climb in it anyway.  You think about the radio station and the traffic, and only when someone veers out of their lane and threatens to crash right into you, do you feel a knot in your stomach as you think how you might have died just then.  If that jerk driver had come one foot closer, or if you’d been distracted and unable slam on your brakes in time, you might have been just another life sacrificed to the rush hour pavement.

It’s the way of survival, I guess.  Because how can we get up in the morning and face a day full of meetings and spreadsheets without driving from our minds the fact that Syrian refugees are erupting from their war-torn homeland only to learn there are more ways to die than becoming a casualty of war?

But sometimes the brush of death comes close enough, the other car just inches from colliding with you, and you wake with a start to the ugly truths you’ve been keeping at bay most of the days of your life. 

Right on the other side of campus, the cranes toil at their everyday art, carrying tiny far-away humans who hang at impossible heights to build something big and strong and useful for the world.  Today, that building looks almost as if its been shot through, itself.  Just a carcass of what it will be. Chances are someday the doctors who study there will have to pull a bullet out of a child, or a not-quite-child, and in that moment it won’t really matter what the law said about the gun used to cut through the body of their young patient.  Registered or unregistered, legally or illegally obtained, it will still have left a hole in the lives of everyone who knows that child.  The details of where the gun was fired will matter much less than where the impact hit, and the doctors will be left to work their everyday magic of trying to save one more life.

The fluffy clouds hang over the work of the cranes, and over the not-quite-kids splashing in the pool.  The sky today is strikingly beautiful, picturesque and playful, urging me to look up and out, away from the list of rooms I’m putting together, rooms that just might qualify as gun-free zones once the campus carry law goes into effect.  It’s probably an exercise in futility, anyway.  It’s likely none of these rooms will qualify as exclusionary zones, and even if they did, who’s to say it would do anything to deter a would-be murderer from just stepping inside, taking aim, and waking up another swathe of the country for one, brief moment.

No one can live in these dark truths all the time, so I put away my list.  Make a run to the water fountain.  Look out the window.  Pray to go back to sleep.

Wednesday, October 22, 2014


I get a feeling of nostalgia so thick it makes my throat constrict every time I drive by the hospital where my kids were born.  I look at that red brick building, where my life has been so completely and irrevocably changed, and I have this nonsensical urge to run inside and climb into one of the beds, as if that could transport me back to those seminal moments of meeting each of my children for the first time.  Some part of me wishes I could live forever in those initial moments of discovery, wrapped in thin hospital sheets and holding the life that has just come out of me.

I can't help but feel like the months after having a baby are this highly unrecognized sacred period, a metamorphosis every bit as haunting as pregnancy itself but one conducted, in our society at least, quietly and unceremoniously by the mother alone.  

So much of pregnancy is a sort of public exchange, a dialogue between the truths your body cannot hide and all of the eager onlookers who who cannot help but notice.  There is a feeling when you're pregnant that your body belongs to everyone else, that because you are no longer just yourself, you are somehow everyone's to appreciate.  Whether you like it or not, hands will gravitate to you, rubbing the stretched out skin of your belly, and well-meaning fellow moms will ask whether you plan to have a natural birth or one of those (I can only assume) completely unnatural medicated affairs.  At best, it is a time of community that makes you feel you are connected with all women in this ancient rite.  And at worst, it is a prolonged period of physical discomfort leading steadily up to the worst pain you can imagine, punctuated by unsolicited advice and the telling and retelling of all of your friends' worst pregnancy and labor nightmare stories.

Being pregnant is like having a spotlight pointed on you everywhere you go, with strangers often pointing you out in public or just smiling at the very sight of you.  Then the baby arrives, and the spotlight leaves you as abruptly as it arrived.

I think that's why some women struggle so terribly with the aftermath of giving birth.  It can feel like you were full of the light of new life for so many months, and then you gave birth and the light went right out of you.  You wake up a week into the adventure of parenting to find that you are stitched up, perpetually unshowered, feeling like everything you wear just contributes to an all over doughy appearance, leaking milk, emotional, and exhausted.  The stomach that everyone wanted to rub is now deflated like an old balloon.  You have this divide in your closet, as in your life -- pregnancy vs. pre-pregnancy -- and you find yourself straddling the two worlds, no longer cleanly on either side of the line.

Although I hear there are some lucky souls who bounce right back into the clothes and the feelings and the life they had before, for most of us, getting back to ourselves again after pregnancy is a process.  Our bodies, our emotions, our schedules are all somewhat unrecognizable to us for a while.  The dynamics of our lives have changed so drastically, and our very identities seem wrapped around avoiding or soothing this little stranger's mewling cries, a sound as pitiful as the bleating of a baby sheep yet one that can cut right through us like an electric shock.  Time falls away as their day/night confusion becomes ours, too, and the blocks of time we measure are the distance between feedings and diaper changes.  The rest of the world is doing as it's always done, but we are still in yesterday's pajamas on the couch, feeding the baby yet again, burning through shows on Netflix or scrolling through Facebook on our phones.

The daily process of keeping a newborn alive, though the individual acts are tedious, is a thrilling experience.  It is both the smallest and largest thing you have ever done, with moments somehow simultaneously full of the contents of a soiled diaper and a rapturous delight over having created life in your own image. You watch the dried up stump that used to be the spot where an umbilical cord attached you to your child; you watch it shrivel up and fall off, cheering for the fresh skin of the belly button that is revealed beneath it.  You watch that grizzly passage and can only dimly recognize it as evidence of your sudden separation, your own transition from two passengers to one that takes a while for you to fully absorb as you might still be feeling phantom kicks for weeks to come.  It can feel so poignantly happy it reads like sadness, or maybe it just feels that way to me as my postpartum hormones go depositing existential dilemmas along the fault lines of this tectonic shift in my world.

I realized today that I've been back to work for almost a month. But how can that be, when I am quite certain it was just yesterday that I held my baby girl for the first time? How well I know this time around that these moments are fleeting.  Every single time she smiles, I break into a grin with her, as amazed as if it were the first time.  She is a marvel, and in seeing her tiny newness, our older boys are miraculous to me all over again, too.  They were once small enough to be bathed in the kitchen sink, once had those same creases on their wrists from the baby fat on their arms, once smiled for the first time, once slept in my arms with their long eyelashes brushing their round cheeks.

Sap that I am, I can't imagine seeing the postpartum period as anything but a beautiful, humbling, sacred time.  It reminds me of how in yoga they say namaste, which means something akin to "the spirit in me honors the spirit in you."  I think of it as saying "every meaningful thing that I am sees every meaningful thing that you are," and I hum that thought as I kiss our infant daughter goodnight.  The best of me regards the best of her; all of my potential stands in witness to all of hers.  I see both the light in me and the light in her, both of us still glowing like pieces of a meteor that have split apart as they came through the atmosphere, made of the same stuff and still shaped like each other, still hot from impact but cooling and coalescing into forms of our very own.