Merry Christmas

When I sing in my head, I sound just like Shawn Colvin. Or maybe Emmylou Harris. Or Lucinda Williams. Some strong female lyricist who cuts straight to the point with a clear, bluesy twang. Where the heart is palpable. The pain not so far away. The solution perhaps still unclear. But the power and strength of her voice is undeniable. Unshakable. And it’s been a while since I’ve shared my thoughts with you, my big bad intraweb world. And mainly because I haven’t been sounding right in my head. The words I type, the songs I sing, it all comes out wrong. Flat.  Missing something.  And definitely nothing like Shawn. Or Emmylou. Or Lucinda. Because I haven’t really had the time to just stop. To sit. To absorb.

It’s Christmas Eve and I can’t get over how un-Christmasy I feel. The glow of the tree is sparkling in the reflection of the computer, the shiny presents stuffed under the boughs and stockings bulging with fun, secret little packages and bundles. These are the moments I wait for all year. The only time of year I love turning off all the lights but the Christmas tree, and just sitting. Watching. Thinking. Being thankful. And it’s all so beautiful, pain-stakingly so, that it makes me feel even less connected to it. Excited by it. Moved.

At the risk of sounding down-right depressing, this has been a pretty rough year.  Among my worst, I'd argue.  This has been one of those years that has tested my faith, stretched my skin, and challenged my assumptions. My faith that it all works out. My belief that everything happens for a reason. Which I still believe, but perhaps now with greater suspicion; without the same reckless abandon I once had for my silly not-so-serious life.

At the start of the summer, by best friend was diagnosed with a serious medical condition. We spent weeks processing what it meant for her. I went to her doctor’s appointments with her. We cried together. I got scared for her, taking on some of her burden, which is what we do for the people we love. We share more than just the good times. Not too soon after, I ended a relationship with a man I loved deeply. I spent weeks crying. Not eating. Feeling like the whole world had been taken away from me.  And I've spent months trying to convince myself I'm better off without him, something I'm maybe just now starting to believe.

Then in July, my father was diagnosed with cancer. CANCER. A scary, mean, dirty word. A word that makes the hair on your arms stand up. And no matter what they tell you, no matter how small or big the diagnosis, positive or negative the prognosis, you can’t help it. You cry. You freeze. You curl up in a ball and decide he’s dying. Or, rather, assume he is. You decide it’s over. (And considering this came on the heels of probably the most significant break-up of your adulthood, you double-time fall the fuck apart.)

And then after you’ve had a good ugly cry (underline that), and about 3 bottles of wine, and half a pack of cigarettes, you sort of sit up and ask yourself: What am I doing? You wonder why you’re laying on the deck at midnight and wearing sunglasses in the dark (which I was) and where the time went. You immediately feel guilty for being so self-absorbed and so unbelievably fragile. He has the cancer. Not me. And break-ups can't kill me.  Then a few days later, after thoroughly beating yourself up, you ease up on yourself and decide maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing after all to get stupid drunk and cry and hate the world. Or to worry yourself sick. And it goes on, thus and so, until you have more concrete answers. Until you know more. Until a treatment begins. A surgery happens. A test comes back from the lab.

And when the answers come back, “bad but not deadly”, “significant but not life-shattering”, “advanced but treatable”, you take a deep breath and pray to any and all gods you find available. You have one of those deep cleansing breaths. And you wait. And you pray. And you think happy thoughts and you dig yourself deep into your work and your schoolwork and you do everything you can to keep from going back to that place you were in just a few weeks ago, drunk, on the deck, wearing sunglasses at night.  But you never really release that worry; that anxiety that something could go wrong at any minute. Something could change everything in a matter of minutes. And in order to survive, you just tunnel. And become so heavily immersed that you actually lose yourself. Like legitimately. Because its all you can do.

And such has been my life for the last six months. And my best friend has all but been cured. My heart has all but mended. And my dad has survived. And he’s living, perhaps more now than ever before. Because that’s what surviving cancer makes you do. And the tests are coming back clear; those dumb-ass cancer cells unrecognizable. And you don’t realize how much you’ve been carrying it in between your shoulder blades and underneath your belly and behind your heart until all of the sudden it’s gone. And you feel a strange sense of relief. A spiritual release you didn’t anticipate. And you look in the mirror and you hardly see yourself anymore.

And then, because it’s just the way the world works, you start it all over again. And a million times in between. Because when you’re in this space, everything takes twice as much work. Each breath takes twice as much oxygen. And bad things never happen in isolation. One after another the bad luck trickles in, partially because you’re not exactly feeling so optimistic to begin with, which is like an open invitation to the dark side of life, but partially because I think this is just the way it’s meant to happen. It. Life. Cascading. Spinning. Rushing.

Just last week, my step-father had triple bypass surgery. Another quick, scary diagnosis that knocked the breath out from under me.  How quickly a little chest pain translated to a majorly invasive surgery.  Last Friday they split open his chest, drained his blood, stopped his heart and repaired it. They warmed him back up, gave him back his blood, and sewed him up. Put him back together again. Like Humpty. Or Dumpty. And two days ago he met me in the driveway at the end of a long drive south, made even longer by a temperamental rain storm and holiday traffic. Standing. Breathing. Smiling. Walking. Alive.  Slower.  With greater caution.  And with wounds yet to heal, but alive.  Perhaps more now than ever before. Because that’s what procedures like that make you do.

And somehow here I am on Christmas Eve. Nearly six months since my last post, feeling some mixture of happiness and content, depression and fear.  Sitting in the living room with my mother and stepfather. Listening to Nick Drake. Watching the lights twinkle. Napping with the dogs. Writing this. Wondering how it all works. Feeling so lucky to have life. To have health. To have the great blessings we have. And questioning what it has to do with Christmas. And wondering if my lack of Christmas spirit is actually a real, honest Christmas spirit that has little to do with the materialism and the false sense of joviality, but more to do with the magic and the miracle. Less about what I’ve spent and what I’ve bought and more about who I’ll see in the coming days. The boiled-down nitty-gritty parts of Christmas we rarely take the time to see, or acknowledge. The parts where we sometimes have a broken heart that isn‘t easily mended. The parts where we get scared. The parts where we don’t always know what happens next.

Wondering how these cells in our bodies are connected to our bones and our muscles and our hearts. Our spirits. Our families. Our friends. How one little cell can create such a ripple. One blockage. One group of clots. One tiny virus in our bloodstream. And thousands of tears. Nights of sleepless angst. Days of worry. Countless reactions.  One small moment.  And boom, it all changes.

How small things really do matter when you’re scared and feeling helpless. That friend who called. That card that was sent. That hand squeeze under the table that let you know you were loved. Supported. Protected.

How it’s great to love what you do, and to find solace in your work, but that you have to love yourself, too. And you can’t lose yourself so much that you can’t find yourself again when it’s time.

How much it matters to just be present. To take time to sit. To listen to music together. To hear each other breath and know it’s the most important noise on earth. The noise of being alive. Of sharing space.  Because our time together is limited. 

And maybe my Christmas take-home message is that none of us have all of the answers.  And that life is never easy.  Maybe I’ll never quite understand the year I just survived, or the one my father, my step-dad, and my best friend survived, too.  Maybe years from now I’ll look back at this moment, these collections of moments, with a clarity that helps me understand. Helps me grow. Helps me heal.  But maybe I won't, also.  And maybe that's okay.

And maybe we can’t control what happens to us, but rather we only really control how we react to what happens to us.  And how gracefully we allow ourselves to fall apart.  And come back together again.  Like Humpty.  Or Dumpty.  How long we leave the cracks in before we fill them with new stories and new ideas.  How much we allow ourselves the capacity to be alive.  How often we ask our loved ones to stand a little bit closer.  To hold hands.  And to love each other harder.

So this Christmas, which doesn’t really feel so much like Christmas at all, I wish for all of you (and myself) the great gift of compassion. Of understanding. Of time for healing.  And family.  Of great friends.  And good health.  And good food and wine.  Of life.   

May we all have grace, humility and strength.  And most of all, love. 
Merry Christmas.

Snow Day

On Thursday afternoon I was making so much fun of my beloved state of Maryland. Everyone and their mother was frantically rushing about town, grabbing at the picked over shelves of bread, peanut butter, and eggs. I myself found my way to Target in the middle of this apocalyptic trial run; I joined my fellow Americans and bought bread, butter, milk, and eggs. I also bought 3 liters of wine, but that probably goes without saying. I stood in line at Target watching families pile on weeks worth of food, toys, and cleaning supplies wondering to myself if we’d even get this snow storm that we’d been threatened with. How many times do we panic for nothing? And why on earth is the person in front of me buying two jugs of Clorox, borax, laundry detergent, AND fabric softener. Apparently she had BIG plans for the snow storm. Made me feel almost guilty buying only butter, eggs, dog food, birthday cards, and my weakness: USWeekly. I clearly had plans for a much less clean and more shallow snow day.

Well, foot meet mouth. The snow started falling on Friday night and by the time I woke up on Saturday I felt like I had accidentally boarded a cruise to Alaska in my sleep. Not so much a snow day—a snow week. As the inches kept piling on, I was quite proud that I’d actually remembered to hit up Target before the storm hit (and really happy I’d picked up those big, fat bottles of vino). So, 30 inches of snow later my only regret was not buying the Charles Wysocki jigsaw puzzle (note: if you don’t know about these puzzles, look them up. I’m obsessed.)

Yesterday, as my roommate was recovering from shoveling our cars out (because lord knows I don't shovel snow), I said: I'm thankful for the snow. This sent her into near hysterics because it was so out of the blue and clearly said from the comfort of my sweatpants and wool socks. While she was aching from head to toe from moving literally 2-3 tons of snow off of our vehicles, I'm sitting there happily contemplating the joys in life in my elastic-waisted post-chardonnay-blasted haze. But I am. I'm thankful for it. I needed the time to relax. I think we got 30” of snow because God knew I needed to stay in bed all weekend, curled up under the blankets, snuggled with the dog (who really only snuggles with me in hopes that I’ll drop a graham cracker…not that I eat graham crackers in bed…or, rather, not that I’m proud that I sometimes eat graham crackers in bed).

And what is it about snow falling that makes me so insatiably hungry? And not hungry for things like brussel sprouts or salad. OH NO. I’m talking about cinnamon rolls and cookies and rice krispy treats. I’m talking about nachos and buffalo chicken and pizza. I want cream sauces and things smothered in cheese. And if the snow means you can’t go to the store to buy these things—you get inventive. You stand in your pantry for thirty minutes trying to figure out how something you have in your cabinet will somehow magically become the one thing you’re craving from your favorite restaurant. You use flour and sugar and eggs to make things from scratch—SHOCK! NOT FROM A BOX! The kind of inventive that means I’ve run the dishwasher twice today because I’ve been using so many pots, pans, dishes, and appliances.

It’s like an evil, cruel, unwritten law that comes with snow. And we got so much snow, that it seems that I have to eat in similar proportions. Last week it snowed and we got 2-3 inches and I made a whole batch of chocolate chip cookies just for me. As in, I was home alone. I ate at least 7 of them before I decided I’d surely die of diet-induced diabetes in my sleep if I didn’t back away slowly and eat a piece of celery. So it seems only natural that I’ve been making all kinds of concoctions this weekend and eating my body weight in sugar and butter. Which, for the record, is a lot of sugar and butter.

Nothing like a snow storm to bring out your inner 1950’s housewife. Don’t hate me yet, feminists. I DO know how amazing it feels to put on those power heels, a high-waisted pencil skirt, a string of pearls and walk down some shiny hallway with authority and that distinctive “click-clack” of a woman in charge, but I can’t help but love the feeling of standing over a stove and making something delicious from plain old ingredients. Like, please forgive me Women’s Movement, but sometimes I think we really got ahead of ourselves with this whole anti-domesticity movement. I’d take a day at home in my slippers with a Le Creuset dutch oven over a high-brow power meeting any day. Hell, I’d even give up being able to vote a time or two if you bought me a new standing Kitchenaid Mixer (but only if it’s the professional series in a stainless steel finish…I’ve got SOME standards, people). Please, don’t tell the suffragists.

So, obviously my favorite part about my snow weekend is the freedom it gives me to do whatever I want. Like right now, I’m sitting in a sea of cookbooks, trying to put to memory the unfailing albeit persnickety rules of Béchamel sauce. This is a beautiful, simple cream sauce. It consists of four ingredients: milk, flour, butter, and salt. There are three rules that ensure a perfect Béchamel. First, never allow the flour to burn (which requires keeping the butter from browning). Second, add the milk to the flour and butter gradually, and off heat to keep it from forming lumps. Third, never stop stirring until the sauce is formed. If only we could discover three basic rules to everything—three basic rules that would ensure happiness and a perfect ending. Maybe that’s why I love cooking so much. With a little thought, and a lot of heart, you can make amazing things happen with the simplest of ingredients. Recipe for life, anyone?

So, friends, enjoy the snow. Take the time to read a good book, bake a batch of cookies, and eat 8,000 extra calories. Unless you're one of those jerks that DOESN'T live in the mid-atlantic and you're lounging in 70 degree weather on a beach somewhere. PS-If this is you, I hate you. Because I hear we’ve got another storm headed our way. Could be another foot or two of snow. I should perhaps make a trek to the grocery store today to ensure my early on-set heart disease. We're down to only 6 sticks of butter.