Let's.

Let's fall in love quickly and let's let it dissolve the callouses we've collected from other lovers.

Let's not be late for things because it makes me anxious and because it's rude. Let's try to be early. Let's claim the worm.

Let's drive modest cars so we can travel to places our grandparents never heard about. Let's have the craziest adventures. Let's be the ones about whom people say, "Where are they off to now?" Let's eat like the locals and let's hike as high as we can.

Let's have sex. A lot of it, and not just on vacation.

Let's not worry until there is something to worry about, and when that proves impossible for me, despite all the yoga and tea in the world, let's pitch a tent in the living room and sing old country songs at the top of our lungs. Let's drink vodka and light candles and watch our worries go up in smoke.

Let's share secrets, and scars, and scary dreams. Let's go dizzy with desire, feel special, feel sacred, feel safe.

Let's strive, baby. Let's be the people that always tried and sometimes achieved. Let's let go of things that aren't meant for us, be they babies or houses or frequent diner credits that went unpunched.

Let's fight. Just enough to feel alive and be heard. Let's go to bed angry, and pass the toothpaste without talking, and wake up regretful. Let's know we're in it together but be willing to stand firm in our convictions. Let's move on.

Let's have a dog, always, and let's ignore the tumbleweeds of hair and vet bills and chewed up electronics, and let's just appreciate the tail wag. And when the inevitable happens, let's pet their sweet faces while they go. Let's say, "He was a good boy, a really good boy" as we tearfully pull onto the highway from the vet's office, holding hands.

Let's talk a lot. That's why we fell in love, right? Because I thought you were cute and you thought I was cute and we liked to talk to each other. Let's discuss philosophy and morality, at 3am, eating spoonfuls of almond butter on the kitchen counter. Let's discuss football, if you want to. After all, I fell in love with you because you make everything interesting. Let's never stop talking.

Let's never stop kissing.

Let's hang out and for the love of god let's never call it 'date night'. Let's hang out because we make each other laugh and we think one another is super cool. Let's schedule it if life gets busy and let's spice it up if we get in a rut, but let's never make it just-one-more-thing.

Let's hang out with other people. Let's have boy-friends and girl-friends and old-friends and new-friends. My-friends and your-friends and our-friends and those-friends. Let's go to yoga and to boxing or basketball or taxidermy or whatever the hell you're into, separately. Let's you go your way, I go mine, and meet up over sushi to tell the tales. Let's listen and hear and leave with our arms entangled.

Let's live as if life is long, and let's not do things just because we're supposed to have done them by now. Let's choose good people and let's make plans.

Let's live as if life is short, and let's call our parents to tell them we love them. Let's hug people goodbye and let's use the special dishes until they show their wear.

Let's be a united front against anyone who dares utter the words "geriatric pregnancy" or "finally" or "it's about time" about any of our milestones. Let's live as if everything is right on time, because it is. 

Let's teach our kids to play cards and talk about their feelings and make conversation with strangers. Let's watch them become who they are. Let's catch them being kind and tell them how good they are at growing up. Let's be a landing pad, and a lamp, and a ladder.

 

Let's be stricken when our parents die, and let's know that there is never the right thing to say. Let's let it make us gentler, kinder, and more in love.

Let's be super fucking cute old people. Let's be the people who swim laps and stay trim and dress up nicely for each other. Let's take up underwater basketweaving at 60 or jujitsu at 75 and let's laugh our heads off at how horrible we are. Let's swear and tell jokes and make our grandkids blush.

Let's never stop dancing.

Let's have a really good life.

Let's.

Forward Fold

Oh, January.

Sorry to you Capricorns and Aquariuses (Aquariai?) out there, but for me, January is a throw-away month.

One reason is that I live in Chicago and, well:

Yep, I changed my social media names, you smarties.

Big changes to come once my soul unfreezes.

But there are other factors, too. The holidays knock me off kilter: I stop exercising, I binge on gluten. I've also had a few blows to my system in the last few months; this Aries saw the words "tension between two planets" in her monthly horoscope email and knowingly deleted it without needing to read the rest. So I was feeling pretty low by the time the New Years Eve countdown started. There was no resolution this year, unless you count just hanging in there.

But I've been here before. Last winter when the skies went grey and the city got pounded with sleet and wind, I experienced the same quiet panic, the same dimness in spirit.

So I knew just what to do. Lots of quiet time. Ginger tea with honey before bed, lots of exercise for a happy Henley, clean sheets, and...you know where this is going.

Back to yoga I went.

--

I can always tell how long it's been since I've been on the mat by how tight my hamstrings are in forward fold.

Source

And you guys, it was bad. Really bad. Basically like I was starting from scratch, post-back injury.

In a vinyasa class, where you "flow" or move quickly and repetitively from pose to pose, you come to forward fold over and over again. I normally love the vinyasa style because it both challenges your endurance and creates a rhythm that's easy to lose yourself in. Vinyasa yoga usually helps you forget, but coming to forward fold 20 or 30 times in an hour was reminder after reminder of how far I'd let myself slip.

At first I tried to force it by making my legs poker straight and lunging my chest at the floor. Ouch, no bueno. When that didn't work, I bent my knees a lot and touched the floor...but missed out on the hammy stretch. I just didn't feel right, no matter how I contorted myself or how much I strained.

--

This weekend, I was one of two people who showed up for a hot vinyasa class during the blizzard and the Super Bowl. Without dozens of other people in the room (enjoy your guacamole, people), I was more aware of my body--I wanted to have good form so the teacher wouldn't correct me too much--and also hyper-aware of my thoughts. And a funny thing happened. I got sick of myself. The repetition eventually became my friend, because every time I found myself in forward fold, I couldn't bear any more contorting or flinging. I couldn't bear any more wallowing or disappointment. I choose, instead, to look at it as an opportunity to be looser, to let go, to quite literally hang in there. Each time I found myself in forward fold, I thought, I've been here before. I know just what to do.

"Hanging in there" became my intention during each class this week, and tonight I touched the floor with both hands firmly planted on the mat. The hamstring gods sung a sweet hymn.

I don't know if it's the happy hammies or if maybe mercury is going into retrograde (ha), but tonight I feel light. Like maybe it's going to be alright after all. Like maybe I believe spring is actually coming. Like maybe I can remember what it's like on the other side of heartbreak.

I still have February to go, yes, but I've been here before.




P.S. This is exactly how I feel about winter.

Just Be

In middle school, you wanted to be the girl with blond curls and slender hips. You wanted to be the girl to whom Ross Liberty wrote notes, who had a doctor father and lived in the cool subdivision.

Instead, you became the girl who learned empathy by way of being teased for something you couldn't control, you learned to be thoughtful by way of tripping over words you already said, and you earned "class gossip" with not your first and not your last male best friend. You paved your own trail, and you were better for it, brunette locks and all.

In high school, you wanted to be the girl who already knew everything, who couldn't possibly mess up, who was in control of her life.

Instead, you became the girl who learned about friendship by making monumental mistakes and being forgiven. You learned how to fail and how to gift yourself grace. You learned that the trick was not in the not fucking up, it was in the damage control, the crow eating, the picking up the phone. That the flare was not in the wobble but in the dismount.

By college, you had wisened up a bit. You wanted to be the girl who said hi first, the girl who rose her hand in class, and you became her. You wanted to be a writer, and you wanted to be respected for your point of view, and you found the right people, and you did and you were.

In New York, you wanted to be the girl who looked fear in the face, who didn't take no for an answer, who discovered every possible thing that was out there. And you did. You stared it down and you found your 'yes'.

When you left your hometown, you wanted to be the girl with a firm handshake, who showed up on first dates with the perfect balance of humility and optimism. You wanted to be the girl who listened more than she talked, who learned from whoever would teach her, and you did.

You perfected the first date tightrope. You mastered the dismount and you sold your house. You were thoughtful and you found friends who made you a better writer, a better thinker, with a more evolved point of view. You sought out more yesses, and you learned the lessons waiting for you, however ugly, however hard.

Now you want to be the girl who doesn't stop even when she feels like she's asked for and received too many blessings. Who leans in, so to speak. You want to be the girl who gives and gives but doesn't take any "guff", as your dad would say. You want to be the girl who keeps not settling. You want to be the girl who knows a secret: that life is at once really, really beautiful and really, really painful, and it doesn't take the perfect job or the perfect husband or the perfect ________ to enjoy and survive it; it just takes an open heart.

You want to be the girl who does not curate her life, but lives it.

But you'll soon wisen up. You'll realize you already are her.

Brain Crush: Dear Sugar

When I read Wild, I was annoyed. I now know this says more about me than it does about Cheryl Strayed, but I was mad at her for being so...lost. I wanted her to get her act together, to know things that would prevent her from making so many damn mistakes.

I came across a quote on Facebook this morning that perfectly summarizes why I was so wrong, care of another teller-of-lost-and-found-stories, Elizabeth Gilbert:

I wanted Cheryl to know things before she learned them. Does that sound familiar at all? If not, please pause and take a gander to your right at the "themes" section of this blog. Do you see the biggest word there? Lessons. More lessons than not. That's my life.

But I learned from Wild something I should have already known (#irony): It's your life, too.

It's my boss's life, and my boss's boss's life, and Barack Obama's life. It's Cheryl's life, and Elizabeth's life, and thank god that they are writers who can and are willing to share their story. Who put themselves out there and make us feel not so alone, not so damaged.

Something in me wanted to give Cheryl another try, even before I realized this. Or, maybe, more likely, I was drawn to the title of another book of hers that I found on Amazon: Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar. That sounded like what I needed in my life, yep. Add to cart.

And, you guys, it was so, so good. Like, read-it-in-one-afternoon, didn't-look-at-my-phone, devoured-it good.

Some samples:

"There are so many things to be tortured about, sweet pea. So many torturous things in this life. Don't let the man who doesn't love you be one of them."

“Don't surrender all your joy for an idea you used to have about yourself that isn't true anymore.”    

“I'll never know, and neither will you, of the life you don't choose. We'll only know that whatever that sister life was, it was important and beautiful and not ours. It was the ghost ship that didn't carry us. There's nothing to do but salute it from the shore.”    

“So release yourself from that. Don't be strategic or coy. Strategic and coy are for jackasses. Be brave. Be authentic. Practice saying the word 'love' to the people you love so when it matters the most to say it, you will.”    

“You have to say I am forgiven again and again until it becomes the story you believe about yourself.”    

“It’s hard to go. It’s scary and lonely…and half the time you’ll be wondering why the hell you’re in Cincinnati or Austin or North Dakota or Mongolia or wherever your melodious little finger-plucking heinie takes you. There will be boondoggles and discombobulated days, freaked-out nights and metaphorical flat tires.

But it will be soul-smashingly beautiful… It will open up your life.”  

Guys, I could copy and paste for days. I want to drink up all the wisdom, the things she learned when it was the right time for her to learn them. She makes me want to learn all my things at the right time, too.

I admit that part of my interest in the book was of the 9th-grade-snark variety: How did she go from drugs and dysfunction to writing an advice column? The answer was clear by the time I read her first answer: She did that by making all the mistakes and learning all the lessons. She did that by being imperfect and then forgiving herself, and then she went a step further and she bared her story to whoever needed a little bit of love. She did that by telling the truth.

What I love about the columns is that Cheryl doesn't just nurture. She doesn't say, "There, there, darling, all will be right with the world." No. She says, "The world is terrifying and hurtful, people are flawed and selfish, you're imperfect and you always will be. But. Tomorrow is another day, and life can be more beautiful than you can ever imagine. But. You'll need to pick yourself up, you'll need to dust yourself off, and you'll need to do the hard work. But. It will be worth it."

So the really wonderful news that I bring you is that Cheryl is partnering up with another former Dear Sugar columnist, Steve Almond, to create a podcast called... Dear Sugar. The first episode is up, and it is so, so good. Cheryl says the show is about "what's really on the inside." Um, subscribe.

"We could boil down all the questions I received as Sugar down to one: Is it okay for me to be me? And I think people are shocked to find out that other people feel that way."

Hearing her on the podcast made me realize that the real reason I was mad at Cheryl while reading Wild is that I saw myself in her. And the real lesson I learned from her is that by forgiving others, it's a lot easier to forgive myself, and vice versa. She just says it a lot more eloquently than I ever will:

"Forgiveness is not one act at one time. It's not one decision. It's not one day where you have an epiphany... It's years. It's decades. Of saying, "Here I am, and you might have been a dark teacher, but you were a teacher. And thank you."

P.S. My second favorite advice columnist received a letter that reference Cheryl and I love the sentiments behind her answer. She's a future brain crush, to be sure.





How To: Acceptance

Don't wear eyeliner, and for Heaven's sake, don't try to eat a banana. You'll gag. Wearing long sleeves helps in case you need to mop up tears.

Don't look "knowers" in the eye, the type that will wonder if something is wrong and ask. Give kind but shy smiles, but pass people quickly. Keep your head down. Leave right at 5.

Walk down the street and feel numb to the cold. Feel numb in general. It won't last but cling to it while you can. Puff out your chest a little and pretend nothing fazes you. Not the wind, not the cold, not the little burning in your stomach, not the wide open future, nothing. Walk faster.

When the bus comes, sit next to a man that reminds you of your grandpa. Hope that he talks, but in the next moment hope that he doesn't, because an unfamiliar voice would crush you. Check to see if you still have his voicemail from your birthday in 2012. Blink back tears. "Bobbi Baby" was such a great nickname.

Go to yoga. Cry a little in child's pose. Do the most beautiful dancer's pose you've ever done and forget for a second that you have ever doubted anything. Feel capable, brazen, strong, until you try it on the other leg and wobble. Feel surprisingly calm; your outsides match your insides.

Back at your apartment, try to treat yourself in little ways. A bubble bath, a hot apple cider with honey. Spend a lot of time sitting uncomfortably on the floor petting your dog, wondering what to do next.

Cry. Cry so hard you cough. Cry so hard you hiccup and scare your dog. Cry some more. Cry while stretching, because if your mind can't be limber, your body may as well be.

Observe your dog. Notice how she loves without expectation, without hesitation, without fear. Feel sad. Observe that humans will never be capable of such love. Watch as she accepts any kind of love she gets. Feel more human than ever.

Get into bed. Sink into the mound of pillows. Be soft, be malleable. Think about vastness. Think about possibility. Make your mind a string of inspirational posters, a montage of beautiful, if foreign, futures.

Count your blessings. Be grateful, even when your mind goes blank. Even when your mind goes where you don't want it to go. Flip over. Feel empty. Feel more you than ever.

Unknown knowns

I took an impromptu trip home this weekend to see Henley's vet, and while the rental car fee and extra 12+ hours in a car with an incontinent and therefore restless puppy were not ideal, I chose to look at the bright side: Extra time with my family and extra time outside. An unexpected but welcome pit stop, if you will. 

We watched old home movies that I haven't seen in more than a decade, and I still haven't shaken the experience of seeing my memories come to life on the screen. It was exactly how I remembered my family and my childhood, and it was also, at once, so very, very different.

On screen, my mom was nurturing and selfless, my dad was doting and funny, my baby brother was curious and sweet--I expected all of that. I was joyful and moody and sassy and shy, depending on the moment--no surprise there. All of that I know, all of that I carry with me as part of my roots. That was the home and family I know and cherish.

I can't really put a finger on how it was different than I expected. Maybe the word I'm looking for is surreal. Maybe it was just the mind-warp that my mom was three years younger than I am now in some of the tapes. Maybe it was recognizing some of the ways, even then, she was shaping me to be a confident, caring, curious person--the way she was bringing out the Bobbi in me even then--and the ways my life has turned out different from and similar to hers so far. Maybe it was seeing my dad back when lifting my brother above his head was no big thing. Maybe it was seeing loved ones we've lost come back to life with a bear-hug you can almost feel or a familiar laugh that moves you to tears. Maybe it was recognizing a neediness in myself on screen that I still carry with me, even though I've worked so hard to outgrow and shake it.

Maybe what's most surprising is that what was on the screen--the truth--brings into focus my memories, which are subjective, fuzzy, molded by other realities, tainted by ego and hope and growth and...life. Seeing the then right next to the now makes it all so clear that it's almost jarring. And it's disorienting because that's not how life is, all linear and sense-making and clear.

It's funny, but on the drive home all I could think about was the Iraq briefing that Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld gave the year I graduated high school:

Reports that say that something hasn't happened are always interesting to me, because as we know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns--the ones we don't know we don't know. And if one looks throughout the history of our country and other free countries, it is the latter category that tend to be the difficult ones.

--

While I was home, I had two conversations, one with family, one with friends, in which the people I was talking to gently pointed out that what I was feeling wasn't necessarily the truth. Or the whole truth, really. That perhaps I had decided that something was true without considering the other true things that affected or even contradicted it. Both conversations eventually led to this: We do the best with what we know right now, and we learn, and eventually we'll know what the right choice is.

I realize this is very vague and abstract and probably hard to follow, but what I am trying to say is that known knowns--when what we feel matches up perfectly with what is actually happening--are very rare. It happens usually in retrospect and after a lot of reflection. More often we live in a state of known unknowns (the state of acceptance I've been cultivating and sharing on this blog for years--knowing that there are some things we don't yet know), and unknown unknowns--things we can't see about ourselves or our lives when they are happening, things we can only see when we watch them, on video or in our mind, twenty years later. Things we might never know.

But what I think Secretary Rumsfeld forgot, because maybe it can only be true of people and not of an entire country, is that we very often have unknown knowns, things that we feel and don't need to verify with facts, things that don't need validation or context because they make intuitive sense, things that are a reality simply because we feel them so intensely. I think those are the most difficult, because they are hard to articulate, hard to communicate, hard to convince others of.

But even if they don't last, even if they are only part of the picture, even if they are eventually debunked by other truths, unknown knowns have their place, their worth, their weight in our lives. Sometimes unknown knowns are enough. 

I'm sure of it. At least for right now.

A Toast to Emptiness

I've had the kind of week that leaves you scraping the bottom of your barrel. I'm out of creativity. I'm out of capacity to deal with complex emotions. I'm quite literally out of space in my inbox. I'm out of patience for other people's shit. I'm out of laundry soap (and therefore dangerously close to being out of underwear). I'm out of oatmeal. I'm out of time. I'm out of me.

I've spent it all.

And it occurred to me this morning while binging on cinnamon rolls and cracking overtired jokes with my coworkers that maybe what follows is the sweet spot.

Knowing that tonight--after seriously kicking butt at work and contributing to something bigger than I ever thought possible, after a four-hour jam session co-writing something inspiring with three brilliant people, and the subsequent panic that ensues to get every. detail. just. right.--I get to exhale. After managing to fit in a few work outs I still feel in my tush, a few pep talks for others, a lot of cuddles for a needy puppy who just wants to be near her mama--after managing all that, I get to dissolve into the quiet space of my cozy apartment, cook myself whatever meal I dream up, and toast a well-earned cider to myself. A toast to emptiness.

Because emptiness affords you the chance to fill up again. Tonight brings 8 (or, really, let's be real, more like 11) hours of sleep. Tonight brings affection from the aforementioned love monster, who will greet me with a wagging tail and an entire day's worth of anticipation and kisses. Tonight brings clean sheets and tea and a brand new book (thanks, me, good looking out). Tonight brings solitude and centeredness and grace.

Tomorrow brings friendship and shopping for tights and a phenomenon heretofore known as Crockpot Crafternoon. Tomorrow brings laughter and spirit and probably a fair amount of snark. Tomorrow brings gratitude, and encouraging words, and community.

Next week promises more opportunity to use an intricate balance of words and psychology to engage people to give money to shut down a horrible, horrible disease. It brings more opportunity to honor my aunt and my grandpas and everyone else whose suffering amounts to a lot more than just the emotional fatigue resulting from having used all your words. Next week promises drinks with an old coworker and the opportunity to interview an 80-something man who has made substantial contributions to science.

Next weekend promises a little bit of home right in the middle of Chicago. The weekend after that promises comfort on a direct flight in from Colorado. Thanksgiving promises dates with so many of my people, chilly hikes in the Peninsula, and warm soul food cooked by my mama and my crazy aunts. Home promises jokes and hugs from my dad and arm-punches-turned-bearhugs from my brotherbear.

Being empty isn't so bad when you know what will fill you. Cheers, to pit stops and knowing that the inhale is always sweeter after a long, slow exhale.