Forty

She studied her face in the mirror.

Forty.

There were a few more wrinkles, a couple of sunspots and some deep laugh lines in her cheeks, but the rest ...

Same hazel green eyes, deep black eyelashes, same wide smile and round cheeks.

Forty.

It seems monumental. It seems she should feel different, or older or something. The other day, she did notice a younger woman who kept on listing her credentials during a meeting, as if trying to convince herself, more than anyone else, that she was qualified. At days before forty, it  didn’t even occur to her to list the hours and hours and hours of work that set her up perfectly for this gig. She offered help, take it or leave it, no questions asked.

Forty.

She studied her face in the mirror. Freckles still dot her cheeks and she can still feel the hot New Mexican sun turning her face golden brown summer after summer after summer. Each one of those sun spots now dotting her face has it’s own story to tell. The year she hiked up Kitchen Mesa with a  wooden block taped under one foot and leading a blindfolded friend. The summers of friday night camp outs and cooking hamburgers for breakfast under the shadow of Pedernal. The summer of fancy new clothes, new boots and learning how to swing dance in the barn. Riding horses after school and on weekends, just for fun. Getting frustrated with Poco, who wouldn’t, no matter how hard she tried, go through the gates by Chuck & Ginny’s house. Two summers of leading guests through the winding trails of the San Juan Mountains, looking at the old gold mining town of Golconda and watching the string of 8 year olds behind her hit a patch of ground bees and fall like dominoes.

Forty.

The creases next to her eyes echo with laughter as she and her sister and Andy run from the table to the kitchen to snag the last boiled potato from the pot. Laughter around her childhood kitchen table was long and hard and often. Laughter continued through snowshoeing adventures, mountain bike crashes, extra long hikes and long runs toward the coast. Painting a first home and biking through the Tuscan countryside. Playing with friends and a husband and now their two girls. Screaming as a yeti almost grabbed her in Florida and laughing, hysterically, as she whirled around corners and down splash mountain.

The two heavy lines that now crease her furrowed brow started with years of silent protest of hospital tests and recovering from surgery and grew deeper as anxiety and worry crept into her life as a new mother.

Forty.

She studied her face in the mirror. Life, a reel of experiences, dances behind those eyes. Her journey has felt like a slow and steady, uphill climb. But the views keep getting better, so she keeps on climbing. Plus, she’s always up for a challenge.

The twinkle in her eye comes from the boys she loved, the man she chose to share her future with. And from walking into Diagon Alley with the two girls she walks to school every morning.

Forty.

She may have the same eyes, smile and cheekbones, but as she looks a little deeper, she can see life and growth and change in her face. She likes this forty year old version of herself.

October

A cacophony of color surrounds me. Shades of red, yellow, orange fall softly into my eyes. Everything gilded in beautiful October light. It drips from every leaf, every corn stalk, every blade of still green grass. Pumpkins polka dot my vision.

October lives in my bones and runs through my veins.

The air is soft. Soft with the remnant of summer and filled with a steady stream of yellow honey locust leaves. The next breath will float one into my afternoon coffee.

The world is screaming to be noticed, yearning to be smelled, to be touched, to be tasted.

Light blue sky with cotton ball clouds.

Sweet drops of juice from a crisp apple.

Leaves rattling as they tumble down the street.

Warm, soft sunshine caresses my face.

Damp earth, ready to receive this year’s leaf crop.  

Oh October, how you demand attention.

Hay tractors drive down my street, but their gait is slow and steady now, much less urgent than the driving of early, summer mornings.

Now they rumble by in mid afternoon, as if they too have a little time.

The harvest is over and winter is still out on the horizon.

October is a pause.

A breath.

A chance to look around and gather up warmth and color and the fullness that is right now. Reflection on lives lived and people who have passed on.

Masquerading as witches and pumpkins to try and trick the inevitable. Pretending in a moment of joy as we wait for the sharp cold and the white snow and the inward turn of winter.

But for now, October.

Stop Running

My unease continues to grow. I am uneasy and getting restless but I feel as if I'm boxed in.  After a few weeks of stewing over everything I think I have a thought.

Stop Running.

Bear with me here, as it may take a moment to see this through. Let's start at the end. What if Trump sent out a tweet and nothing happened. What if he said something ridiculous and it was not re-tweeted? What if there was no outrage? It doesn't really matter if we respond to every single thing anyone ever says, right? We all let comments go during normal conversation within our normal lives. This isn't normal, you say? Well, let's make it normal then! What is the only thing a narcissist cares about? What feeds that egotistical hunger? Being the center of attention is all they need, right? He doesn't care whether the chatter is good, bad, ugly, clean or morally upstanding, it only matters that it exists. What if we didn't share every crazy article from obscure websites just because the headline causes outrage? What if there was one day on social media that contained no mention of anything Washington related? We are all so caught up in the wave of outrage that I think we are starting to loose sight of the shore. Listen, I'm not saying we should all ignore everything that is happening around us and live in a bubble and say it doesn't matter anyway. But, I am saying that we should take a step back and honestly look at what does matter and what we can actually affect. Does what Trump says on twitter really matter? I think it may not matter as much as it feels like it matters. It is mostly offensive and hair-brained, for sure, but does it matter? Does sharing a crazy headline make a difference to anyone? I think it may help provide fodder for people to back themselves further into their own corners, but that's about all. Is that where we want to be? So far into our own camps we can't make out features on our opponents' faces? It certainly is easier to lump 'them' all together then, isn't it. To make broad, sweeping claims about how ignorant they are and how they're 'only hurting themselves." Feels better too, to have an enemy.

My girls used to hate being chased at the park and on the playground and would scream and yell and carry on while they ran away from their sister or friend or random kid who happened to be chasing them at the time. My advice was simple. If you hate being chased, you must stop running away! Being chased doesn't exist if you don't move, right? Now, don't pull this scenario out and apply it to every situation in life; it's not the same. But in a simple game of chase on the playground, it works beautifully. What if we treat Trump's tweeting like a simple game of childhood chase. He tweets, we run as far away as possible and scream, 'outrage,' cry, 'unfair,' and he does it again and again and again.

Stop running.

Leave him alone to wither on his own and I bet he stops too. What fun is it to chase if no one is running away? Here is where everyone says, "But it's my duty as an American to make sure he doesn't speak for me,' or, 'He is just distracting us with tweets while he dismantles another institution,' or 'He is ruining our position in the world and I need to stop him,' or 'I can't stand by and watch this go down.' Fine! Don't stand by! Get up off the couch, put down your phone or tablet and for pete's sake turn off Facebook! Go talk to a real live human and see what they're up to. See how life is going, take a walk and stop the internal chatter. Then, write a letter to a Senator, call up your state Representative and see what you can actually do. Contrary to current, popular opinion, Trump is actually not capable of ruining the world in a day. That is giving him way too much credit. And neither are you capable of stopping him. That's giving yourself way too much credit (or responsibility, let's be real here!) Be civic minded, for sure! But the last few weeks have shown me that real, honest work has got to come from us but it isn't actually even in DC. We have to start in our communities, with other breathing humans. Ask questions and really listen to the answer. We need to stop giving in to all of the click-bait provided by online social media and listen to Aaron Rogers. R-e-l-a-x! Take a step back from outrage and see where and if you can actually make a difference. If not, then let it go! Keep looking until you find somewhere you can help.

The minute you think you are going to fix this, you're as deluded as the 'other' side ... they think exactly the same thing.

Unintentional Tunnel Vision

If you want to get/stay in shape, there are a million ways you can go about it. Download an app to take you from 'Couch to 5K,' join a gym and meet a friend there every morning, add a bullet point to your day's to do list and check it off when you're done, sign up for an intensive program with a diet plan and work out schedule, hire a personal trainer or just make fitness a part of your every day life. There are different reasons why each one of these would work better for one person over another, but in the end it only matters for that person. Every person is so unique in their being, there is no 'one way' for getting and staying fit. And as long as we're on the subject, there is no 'one way' for anything else either. Each person's situation in the world is so specific to their circumstances, we shouldn't be able to prescribe any blanket solutions for any situation, ever. But, as we are humans who have evolved to need neat and tidy answers, those are what we cling to. 'If it works for me, it has got to work for everyone else.' We've all heard that 'Diversity is the spice of life,' right, well, I beg to differ, as I find spice to imply optional. Diversity is a requirement of life at it's very foundation, which is why we are now legally prevented from marrying our brothers, cousins and mothers. Strength comes with diversity, and right now, I'm not talking about race, religion or food (although I believe it applies there as well). I'm talking about ideas. We need a diversity of ideas and opinions and ways of being within our own lives, but in today's world it is an every diminishing commodity. Diversity exists, possible more than ever before, but we are not privy to it. In his book Messy: The Power of Disorder to Transform Our Lives, Tim Hartford talks about how we have self segregated our towns and cities and studies show that even in large universities, we only befriend people who are similar to us. Our Facebook feeds are ruled by algorithms that just show us more of what is like what we like. Pandora and Goodreads gives you more of what they think you want based on what you've already heard or read. This is not diversity. This is not expanding our horizons, but shrinking them. This creates tunnel vision under the illusion of broadness. We are tricked, albeit unintentionally, with the possibility of the World Wide Web and all it has to offer. In reality, we live in a current day version of The Truman Show. Our world ends with our likes, but it's painted to appear as if we're part of the wider world.

So, during the past few weeks, I've been all over the map. Hesitantly hopeful, cringing, hysterical, sobbing, broken hearted, inspired, motivated and despondent. I've tried to laugh, run it off, talk it out, rationalize and yelled at the radio a lot. Nothing has helped this overwhelming powerlessness that I feel. I've always been an active citizen to this country and have always felt like 'we the people' have power. But since November, I have just been confused. I thought we were mostly on the same page! I thought we were all meandering in the same direction and all was well. Sigh. We all know the rest of that story. BUT, here is where I have finally come to my own conclusion. I need to talk to people, I need to hear their stories (I have said this before, I know. It's still true!!) and know their lives. All of our homogeneousness has left me on the outside, but I have the keys. I can fix this.

Growing up in a small town, I knew everyone and everyone knew me. I was friends with my teacher's children, knew them as parents and teachers and saw them grocery shopping, just like everyone else. The mayor was another friend's uncle and a different friend's older brother was a cop. The janitor at my high school was also the basketball coach and on and on. We all knew everyone as a whole person, not just their likes on Facebook and we never thought our teachers slept at school! Point is, people are more than their photos on Instagram or their twitter feed. Sure, it all comes together in one, unique being, but no one piece of us represents us completely. I have come to think that maybe if we started to talk to our neighbors about real things instead of just seeing what they think is funny online, we might remember that we are a whole lot more alike than we are different. You can take that out as far as you want and I feel strongly that it applies. To religion, just trying to be the best version of ourselves and bring more good into the world, does it matter if you wear a headscarf or pray the rosary? I don't think so, but only if you understand where they're trying to go. To politics, wanting our nation to be a safe place to raise a family and follow our dreams, does it matter if you pin an elephant or a donkey on your tie? Maybe if I understood what someone was afraid of, it would be easier to fix than issuing a blanket ban. To living a healthy lifestyle, does it matter if you flip tractor tires, take a family walk or run a marathon? To dieting, does it matter if you eat egg whites, oatmeal,  or salad for breakfast? You see my point. If we can focus on intent instead of the details, we might be more willing to see each other as humans instead of just Crossfit, Whole30 or Democrat. We are all people with more nuance than could ever be contained in a label.

Here is where I would ask, so, who's up? Who wants to talk? Alas, I'm in the same boat as everyone else and know very few people who are very different from me. I've got to figure out a way to go to the 'other' and make them part of my world. That will make a bigger difference than banging my head against the wall after I call 10 Senators and get only full voicemail boxes (kudos, though, to all those folks who are getting there before me!)

2017: VOICE

After the girls were born and I left my corporate job to be home with them, my "self" got flipped on it's head and I found myself in a position I'd never been before. I was insecure about parenting (cloth vs disposable diapers, when to start solids, to let them cry or not), physically unfit and exhausted all. the. time. I ran on auto-pilot, with no end in sight. It was hard and I was tired. I wasn't reading or running or thinking about anything except for who needed to eat what, and when. Once the dust began to settle and I started sleeping a lot more, I realized that not only had my confidence left me but so had my voice. I wondered if I even had anything to say anymore. Slowly people started to nudge me into participation with the world again and it began to dawn on me that I was going to have to work hard to get back to my old ways. It has now been about 3 years since this realization and I'm tired of being patient and slowly "leaning in" to what I might have to say.  I have got to take back my voice and find a way to get it out. At this point, I don't even honestly care where it goes, it just needs to get out. I know I have something to say and I firmly believe that our stories are what makes us human and what makes us individual. What we say is how we leave a mark on humanity to say, 'I was here."  That just may all we're all after anyway. I, along with millions, are inspired by people who tell their stories. Brene Brown, Hope Jahren, and Trevor Noah all spoke to me this last year and pushed me to see that stories are all worth hearing. Their stories are the kind of stories that all of us can identify with. Their stories are 'just' stories of a life, but because they are released into the world, it's like they're given wings and set to music, appearing shiny and different. But scratch off the surface and they're all just like your story and just like mine.

After hearing back from so many people in response to my annual letter, it is obvious that my own voice has just as much power. We are all composed of stories and traits and identities of those who came before us. This is how we grow and change and learn as families and societies and eventually as humans. From those first cave drawings, telling of a glorious hunt to the 140 character tweets that now fill our lives with a different kind of story, we have always wanted to use our voice. The stories of my own ancestors who watched the Boston Tea Party from an upstairs window or wrote poems about a hard life off the coast of Scotland assure me of my place in this river of life. The pioneers who crossed the country in covered wagons, while not my own bloodline, are certainly voices that echo off our canyon walls and reveal nuggets of a longer lasting gold. They say we stand on the shoulders of giants, but the only way we know about them is because they told their stories.

If we just sit back and let others do the talking, there will be a time when we look up and realize we're not on the same page anymore. Silence is acceptance. Silence is the belief that someone has our back and will do the hard work for us. Silence is letting other people's stories matter more than our own. Silence is bowing out. In Egyptian culture, a person dies for the last time when their name is gone from the living's memory. A voice is silenced.

Figuring out where and how to use this voice is my challenge this year. I'm not saying I will publish a book of my life story or go on a national speaking tour, but I will keep up this blog and find some other ways to push myself out into the world. Our lives are walled in and colored by what we hear and read on social media. We let others control that to the point that we may not even realize the things on which we differ or in ways that we are all the same. From now on, my voice will be among the fray.

Freedom

I grew up in the high desert of Northern New Mexico. The actual boundaries of 'my' place included 21,000 acres, and it was all National Forest and more land around us. We had miles and miles of nature's playground for as far as we could go. My sister and I thought it would be fun to get lost, so when we were about 7 & 8, we tied up hobo sticks and headed for the hills. We packed some band aids, a snack and maybe a jacket, to make sure we had what we'd need. As soon as we lost sight of our house, we tied the bandannas over our eyes and spun around until we fell down, dizzy. Then, we stood up and look around, just hoping we were lost. Alas, with huge landmarks looming on every horizon, we always knew how to find our way back home.

I was thinking about this story recently when I was talking to my girls about "how it was when I was growing up." The freedom we had to bike/walk/hike/horseback ride was, of course, just what I knew at that point. The ranch I grew up on is a conference center where families vacation together for one week at a time, all summer long. Every Monday a new group of people would show up at the ranch and my sister and I would take stock of our friends for the week. Those kids were usually from the city. They had all sorts of rules about how far they could go and how long they could be gone before they had to check in with their parents. My sister and I would have left the house on June 1 and not come back until school started if we could have managed without a bed or shower for that long. We were always amazed at how scared the other kids were. They always needed flashlights for anything in the dark and carried around extra water and first aid kits with bug spray and extra sunscreen. We walked home over half a mile in the pitch black, every single night but wouldn't have been caught dead with a flashlight (this does include countless nights of sprinting, full speed ahead for the last couple of hundred feet and slamming into the front door consumed with fear of what sort of ghost could be right behind, but hey, we figured that out too!) We knew the ranch inside and out, in daylight and darkness and much better than the backs of our hands.  I know what kind of 'trouble' we worked our selves into and I know we always worked ourselves out of it too. The things we learned while we were on our own are part of what makes us as adults. Knowing that I could figure out how to clean my own scraped up knee or how to figure out where we were and how to get home translates easily into getting through adult life.

My girls just watched 'Home Alone' for the first time and we had a hilarious discussion about what would happen if either of them were home, by themselves for three days. Sure, it's a different world but I struggle with giving them the time and space to figure things out on their own. This freedom is something I wish I could offer without the fear of Child Protective Services knocking at my door. I'm honestly not afraid for them, I am quite satisfied with the relative safety of our neighborhood and surrounding area and with the responsibility and know-how the girls have. It's not them, it's me! A good friend of mine ducked in to run an errand and left her kiddos in the car (on a cool day, with the windows cracked and a dog in the car for heaven's sake!) for less than 5 minutes and came back to a cop waiting for her. No one popped their head in the store to ask where the mom was, no one asked the kids if they were alright or how long they'd been there, they just called the police. Seriously? It seems not to be about the safety and independence of the children at that point, but rather a way to catch 'bad parents.' It is now 'suggested' that we don't leave kids at home alone until they're around 12, when they can, all of a sudden, start babysitting (Thankfully the law is a little more vague, so we do have some wiggle room as parents, but still.) So, we're supposed to assume that overnight they will be comfortable enough to stay in someone else's home, with responsibility for someone else's child when they've not even been alone in their own home?

Where is the balance?
Where is the path I can point the girls down and then let them walk without me?
How are they supposed to figure this stuff out when I am not allowed to let them go?