Hindsight and then some
Posted on | January 16, 2010 | 31 Comments
Where have I been? To be honest, I’ve been busy taking myself too seriously, with an enormous cold sore on my lip, that’s where I’ve been. I’ve discovered that I’m quite prone to becoming rather preoccupied with the outcome of my life and days. It’s foolishly easy to sit in the dark in a rocking chair with my baby attached to my breast, wondering, is this the sum of now? Is this what I intended when I was twenty-one, more sleek, more plump, more inflamed with ideals?
The truth is also that the cold sore on my lip caused quite a rash of vanity. I didn’t want to go out of the house, stupid as it is. I could feel it prickling up on my face last Friday night, the irritation starting at the thin pale line between pink and cheek. It bristled, as cold sores are wont to do, into an enormous festering thing and quickly I felt felled by my lot. Seriously. All week I’ve had this thing on my face and I had to go about my life driving Bean to and from school, attending meetings, meeting deadlines. A friend said, unthinking, “Oh my god what happened to you?” and I wanted at once to weep with self pity and also to laugh hysterically because dear lord, it’s just a fucking cold sore and I should get over myself. I almost have.
And also: how seriously we take ourselves in our small lives. And still there is a wild striped stampede in my heart rocketing towards whatever is still out there to be mine.
Even in the dark I feel it as I am rocking my second baby, my last one, who is nursing with gusto, his little hands moving about, clutching at my skin, my shirt, my hair, my lips. There is something utterly elemental and mammalian about these moments that we share. He’s drinking me in, his hands memorizing my soul, my teeth, the slack skin at the backs of my elbows, my hair which has grown long now, down below shoulders. I need to remember to sink into this, to let go, to let things be more. The imperfect has never been something I sought after; now it is always mine. Each day bridled with the bittersweet of knowing all that my heart knows.
Life is the wild startling flight of chickadees, the softness of my boy’s cheeks, the salty smell of my husband’s skin against my lips, the dishes in the sink, bread dough soft and punchy in a bowl rising by the wood stove, icicles, each one sharp and glittering, dripping as the temperature warms. And life is also knowing that I have this while someone else is hungry; and also that I long for things I do not have; and also that each day is short, too short, and sleep still consist of fragments torn from the blurry cloth of night.
Someone said in the comments awhile back that I don’t seem to be happy, and when I read this I was struck by how narrow the perimeter of that word is. Happy. It feels neither big enough, or small enough to contain all that is in my heart.
Still, its true that it’s been one of those weeks, and in fact it’s been one of those years—and by that I mean that I’ve been preoccupied a great deal here with the day to day, and also with a pervasive feeling of not getting as far as I need to with my life; not doing as much as I should or whatever. The thing I kind of keep forgetting and then bumping into again and again is the fact that I had a baby this year, and really, that is a big fucking deal even though its something that happens all the time to nearly every woman, and most of them are not nearly as lucky as I am with their lot, if you think of all the women in Iraq or in the Indian slums or in China or Sudan. Having a baby is derailing in the best and worst ways. It splinters your heart and your objectives. It makes you become, and also destroys small (and possibly shallow) parts of who you once were. (Who was I at twenty-one anyway? What did I want?)
How we measure our lives is so strangely, imperfectly, foolishly, relative. My life this year has seemed particularly small to me some days, and sometimes I want to sob because of its smallness. On these days my dreams become thunderous and sharp against my ribs inside my heart. But who am I, really, to feel anything beyond the gift of this life? So I have a fucking cold sore and spent a year raising young boys under significant financial stress. So. Fucking. What. It all seems small when you think of Haiti. Or Afghanistan. Or what life must look like behind the crazy political and literal barbed wire curtain of North Korea.
So that’s where I’ve been: feeling kind of sorry for myself because I’m turning thirty-two in another week and I’m not sure about the whole success bit—what it means, or if I’ve achieved it, or if it even matters.
I know I get caught up in this a lot—even with just simply posting here. I trick myself into this mindset that I always have to write something relevant, and this year has been one of many quiet moments and a lot of angst about making ends meet, and so without meaning to I’ve stopped noticing the small things, stopped writing about how the world makes me feel full to the brim with it’s beauty, always, nearly every day.
This makes me sad: I’ve recorded less about Sprout by a long shot than I did about Bean, and I wish that it weren’t the case since I’ve loved his babyhood so entirely—even more, in a way than I did Bean’s because it wasn’t fraught with the same angst about each phase of babyhood. I want to get back to writing down the simple things because for one, my short-term memory is shot, and also, because it locates me in my life in a simple and wholesome way that I love. Writing down the day is like finding myself on a You Are Here map, even if the map is small and crumpled and only consists of a few shaky lines delineating the floor plan of my kitchen.
When the decade started I was twenty-one and eager and I didn’t actually put much thought towards concrete goals. What did I expect? If I were really honest, I’d have to say that I didn’t have a fucking clue what I to expect from my twenties. And in the end, maybe it doesn’t matter much at all, because as Kurt Vonnegut says, “Be patient. Your future will soon come to you and lie down at your feet like a dog who knows and loves you no matter what you are.”
And also, even if I did have expectations, they wouldn’t have included heartbreak or shock (expectations never do account for such things.)
I couldn’t have imagined how aching and pell-mell and urgent my twenties would be. How life would hit hard and fast, with loss and surprise, each event following closely upon the heels of the last. I became a teacher. My father died (as I sat with him.) I had a baby boy (unplanned.) I got married. I helped to gut and rebuild a house in a unfamiliar city in an unfamiliar state. I was in a school related shooting. I began working with an author I admire immensely. I was nominated for a pushcart prize. I was accepted to graduate school twice and derailed both times because of topsy-turvy life events. I had another baby boy (unplanned.) I quit teaching. I couldn’t have put my finger on any of it, really, which leaves me reeling. Bracing. Shit. Tomorrow I’ll wake up and be forty-two and what will I be saying then?
Now I feel wide-eyed and tenuous. This is my life. These moments, fragrant and tender with my baby’s soft head against my breast. He slips into sleep, and I look into the dark towards the pale outline of the window where snow falls outside.
+++
PS: I’m having fun painting the zebras. (This painting is for sale, by the way…)
PPS: What did you expect? How has your life measured up?
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31 Responses to “Hindsight and then some”
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January 16th, 2010 @ 6:38 pm
Oh, Christina. Where should I start? When I read your words here, I don’t see an unhappy person. I know that you struggle with all that you want to be and with what your life is now, but WHO DOESN’T? When I come here in between the tasks of taking care of three young children, I am always reminded (by you) to appreciate all the small things. I always leave this space you have created and breathe each moment in, and savor what I live with–and how I live. You have an amazing talent to capture the moments that pass me by, and bring meaning to them. I wrote about you in my New Year’s Eve post to this point. And, I believe that in order to live, there has to be a drive within us. A drive to be more and do more. A drive to become the best self that is possible. And you are doing that. Look at your life. You are becoming the writer that you have always dreamed about. And, your art? Wow.
My expectations for my own life have been muted all of my life. Right now I am trying to figure out how to live my life to the fullest, what do I strive for? I am not sure. I know that I have a lot of work to do to figure it out, but I know I will. And, I love the quote by Kurt Vonnegut. There is truth there. Hugs to you. xoxo
January 16th, 2010 @ 9:09 pm
Thank you for this entry… it makes me realize how shallow I have become, how I measure my life according to whether I will find a permanent position in the academic world (and I’m failing, so far) and I’m so absorbed by this anxiety that I forget to notice what is happening around me.
January 16th, 2010 @ 9:12 pm
I am typing this while nursing my second child at 32. I hear you. We are in this together.
January 16th, 2010 @ 10:54 pm
I think you seem to struggle with all the same things we all go through at one time or another, it’s just you are a whole lot better at writing beautifully about it! And you seemed to really live in the moment alot with your 2nd child as you are more relaxed, that’s a good thing!!
enjoy it! it goes by too fast! love the painting! and your writing. it hits home as I try to figure out daily what I want to do with my life!
hugs!
tara
January 16th, 2010 @ 10:55 pm
how thankful i am for your honest words. yes. so very thankful.
and i just want you to know that. in this moment. i just want you to know how much i appreciate you sharing each word here.
and ah the zebras. holy shit fantastic.
and i have counted so many poems hidden in this post. so many.
sending blessings to you on this day…
January 16th, 2010 @ 11:55 pm
to me your life is happy.
within your words lies beauty.
simplicity of life and all it’s shadows.
it’s so wavy, the roads are dimly lit and at times we do not know how we got to where we are. but we are there.
happiness is between it all!
to see it is to see the wonder…
you always have such beautiful chewy words.
thank you for them~
January 17th, 2010 @ 1:49 am
Christina, at the ripe, old age of 45, I surprisingly remember my 30s vividly. I remember feeling as you do. Where was my life headed, what had I achieved? I felt insignificant and wondered what had happened. I am happy to report, that like all things, this too passes. I have achieved. No, I’m not making millions, a mother, president of a company or even remotely doing the career I thought I would when I graduated. I am wondrously happy though. I have achieved. I am successful. Those feelings have very little to do with much in my life changing and I think more to do with getting older.
In the same way that you have acknowledged all that has happened to you in the last decade, I imagine you will begin to feel a peacefulness in your life as you grow older with all that has passed in your 20s and 30s. At least that is what happened to my friends and myself.
You are a wonderful writer and so eloquently put in words what I struggled to say in my 20s and 30s. I look forward to the day when you describe your 40s and I will remember those years and find some familiarity to my 40s from your writing.
Looking forward to your first book!
January 17th, 2010 @ 6:45 am
Nursing my second and final at 38, I can hear what you’re saying while wishing I was only 32! Actually, all is as it should be. For me, and for you, love.
Those moments of entrancement gazing out dark windows are full of thoughts, thoughts of tremendous blessings, pains, to-do’s. Just thoughts.
Whatever you do or say, by whatever age, I will enjoy because you are always, reliably, so beautifully, you.
January 17th, 2010 @ 9:40 am
Everyone has said it for me. I had my first (planned, but still…a baby! My god! I didn’t even WANT kids for most of my life) at 33 and my second at 1 month shy of 35. Now, 10 years after that, I think things are pretty good, but I remember the topsy-turvy tumbling TERROR of those first several years. I don’t think you sound unhappy. I think you sould HUMAN.
January 17th, 2010 @ 10:19 am
Thank you for this aching honesty. Your words seem so much more than words, somehow, when you put them together. They help me feel less alone so much of the time.
January 17th, 2010 @ 5:48 pm
Like so many other times when I get to read your writing again in this space you share with all of us, I take in my breath at the end, and think how much you’re giving the world by writing. Yet writing is an entirely solo activity, and a career in writing all depends on one person making it happen….
A bit more perspective: I’ve known quite a bit of that last decade and am always amazed by what you do and have done. Your children, family, writing, art… Yes, success is relative, this crazy equation of where we are and where we want to be and how we think others see us. But as successful goes, you’re up there in my book! Would that I created as wonder-filled a world for my children, raised them in such a healthy beautiful way, all while keeping my own career going.
Keep at it beautiful one, questioning and wondering and living as you do. And come visit us sometime soon, I’m crossing my fingers that we have a house where we can fit all of you for a visit, or just you. Maybe when our own little one comes…
January 17th, 2010 @ 5:51 pm
you have just inspired to me to keep a journal again, thank you!
January 17th, 2010 @ 8:13 pm
Thank you for your eloquence and honesty and sharing. @ 48 with 5 children (none planned) ages 17 – 27 all incredible human beings… I still ask myself “WHat is happiness?” I carry the questions the doubts the resignation the hope the questions and more questions around in my head sometimes heavy on my heart other times giving it wings. One thing I know is that each moment is fleeting, temporary … and this life is a weird, awe-inspiring, sometimes “an i don’t know if I can stand it beautiful or I con’t know if I can make it” journey. Be where you are. Thanks again for sharing
January 17th, 2010 @ 11:14 pm
I have read your blog for years. Why? Because I could tell immediately that you are a happy person who lives deliberately. I admire that very much. I am going to be 44 years old this year, and I’m just starting to figure out how I want to live. My children are grown and as much as I love my husband and kids, I have almost completely evaporated. I have turned into a vapor that has been absorbed by the lives of my husband and children. It has been my own doing, but I married so young that I didn’t know that this could happen to me. Happiness isn’t about perfection, it’s about contentment. You’re doing a great job! Thank you for sharing some of the moments of your life. You have really helped me to contemplate my own life and look for the best in it.
January 17th, 2010 @ 11:19 pm
I’m there with you. I turn thirty this year and my non-accomplishments are haunting me. I am trying to turn that into a kick start, but it’s hard. I totally agree with Tara’s comment. These feelings seem to be pretty universal with mothers.
“And also: how seriously we take ourselves in our small lives. And still there is a wild striped stampede in my heart rocketing towards w whatever is still out there to be mine.”
I hope to take myself a lot less seriously this year.
January 18th, 2010 @ 2:58 am
Divorced with two kids at 29 with a great job but pretty financially bereft because raising two kids without financial help from their dad in the city is tough. Nope. Not where I expected to be at all. I’ll be 30 this year. Amazing how lost I can feel at 29- because when I was 22 I had it all figured out. Married, baby, job, house, white picket fence, all of it. I like the Vonnegut quote. Hope it’s true for me.
I don’t ever think you sound unhappy, even in your raw aching posts. I think you sound real and beautiful.
I’m not much of a commenter Christina, but I’ve been reading your blog for years, and I love it, and am grateful you write.
January 18th, 2010 @ 12:00 pm
At 47 I am exactly where I always dreamed I’d be with children and their own families now so full of joy and life and plans for their future, it brings such a joy to my soul to know they are content in their lives. Yet, my marriage disolved at 40 and so this decade has been laced with many ups and downs and through it I am finding that I am at a crossroads and while I’m able to take any direction I would like, I find that some days my feet just don’t want to move, while others they run for the goal. I guess life is just this way for all of us…our circumstances are perhaps different, but we’re still all the same.
You have achieved MUCH in this decade Christina. Your writing, your photography, and your painting amaze me.
January 18th, 2010 @ 2:19 pm
As someone who is 42, I can tell you that I remember feeling exactly the way you do at 32. I was always looking at my life and worrying that I was or wasn’t doing something that I would regret when I was older. I was worried about time and not doing everything I wanted to do and expected of myself. Have you ever read Gail Sheehy’s Passages? Not to trivialize what you’re feeling, but it is part of being in your thirties. By 42 you will gain confidence and security and be content in a different way, and you won’t be fighting your own brain as much. You’re an amazing writer and artist, and we can all see that, but from inside the head of a 32-year-old it’s hard to look at your own life from the outside and not see how significant it is. When you’re 42 you will.
January 18th, 2010 @ 2:56 pm
Oh dear, I don’t know sweetie, but I have to disagree with the last post-er….I think there is some universal truth to the things people tend to feel/go thru in their 20′s, 30′s and such, but there is no template for that really. “When you’re 42 you will”. Really? If it could be that simple! I am 42, and the last 5 years of my life have been the biggest upheaval of all, and getting into my 40s during that period didn’t change any of that. I am still looking at my life and trying to figure out what’s going on. I think that’s a universal trait and not limited to one’s 30′s.
My dearest oldest friend (who turns 69 this week) once said something similar to me when I was angsting along in my 20′s. We had a mutual friend in her 30s (also struggling along) and then my dear friend was in her 40′s and she said “Neither of you will feel settled til you reach 40. It’s all about 40″. Over Christmas break, I said to her, okay now what are you going to tell me? It’s 50? Or your 60′s….?! Because I didn’t feel it all settle in my 40′s. Far from….
So….I just had to put that out there. I hope I don’t sound too negative, but when I read that last line about you will at 42, I laughed bitterly and I would hate for people who are struggling to read that and pin their hopes on 42 (or 40 or whatever, you know what I mean) because that really isn’t what it’s about, at least in my experience. It’s not chronology at all. I have to hope what it is is coming to a sense of peace in oneself, and keeping arms and mind open for what is to come.
If I can get that even a little at 43, I’d be grateful. But it may not come then either. I feel more unsettled than I ever did at 23. And at 33 I was in love and settled and looking forward to the future. You never know when those things will happen.
Thanks for the Kurt Vonnegut quote. I love it. And love your writing!
January 18th, 2010 @ 3:51 pm
I will be 42 and am still lost. Still full of questions, guilt and unknown. I live in the past alot – because of pain. Your words are a buoy for me. This is my favorite post…thank you for putting on paper what swirls in my mind daily.
January 18th, 2010 @ 7:28 pm
I am 45 and had the roughest year of my life, having survived a lot of issues such as a difficult divorce, financial problems, stress and career changes. I agree with the poster who says that always worry about these dilemmas, no matter our age. Sure, I’m more confident now that I’m in my 40s. I’m starting to rebuild my life again and let a man into my life (slowly and carefully). But the angst is still there; it’s just part of my chemical make-up and my personality. I think we will always worry about these things. Christina, you inspire me daily and reading your blog is like talking to a best friend. Thank you. And I agree with the other posters, you have accomplished much this year – perhaps different items than you thought, but be proud of who you are; a fabulous mother, woman, and artist.
Bethanne
January 18th, 2010 @ 11:49 pm
Hmmm…. I’m turning 40 in a few weeks and I still feel much of what you expressed. So much left to do… figure out. Now I have teenagers and aging parents, though. I love watching my children come into their own… having real conversations and debates. But I think this really is a life-long struggle for mothers. We’re just torn in so many directions. I’ve definitely learned to rethink my definition of success. Success to me at this point is more about authenticity and growth than achievement. I think you’ve done an amazing job balancing young children and creativity. I wish I had documented those years with youngsters as you have done. Your writing brings me back to your blog everyday. I, too, am looking forward to your first book!
January 19th, 2010 @ 12:44 am
Wow…let me just add quickly (because I have to put my babes–4 yrs & 20 months–to bed) that I feel blessed to have read such comments from everyone. I felt at the top of my game in my mid-twenties…until I got divorced at 30. Remarried at 31, stepmom to 2 teens, career change, moved 1300 miles, health issues, financial issues, children at 4
January 19th, 2010 @ 12:45 am
41 & 43. I’m looking forward to getting back on even keel aagin…
January 19th, 2010 @ 3:14 am
You and I are strangers, but tonight you have spoken to my heart. Thank you so much for writing, and for sharing in this space. I’m so glad my friend Kelcey (from over at Sweet Mess) directed me to your blog! Blessings and peace to you!
January 19th, 2010 @ 3:33 pm
Dear Christina,
What if you believed you are in exactly the right place and activities today? What would you feel then?
‘Success’ has roots in ‘succeed’ which means to ‘step next to someone.’ What if we simply felt it is enough if we step into our life as it is, replete with moments of joy, confusion, exasperation, humor, etc?
I just read ‘Seeking Peace’ by Mary Pipher. At 60 she still feels all you expressed, only in different life situations. And outwardly she has it all: husband, home, work she loves, family, friends…. How do we find the gifts of our monkey minds?!!! They dont seem likely to go away!
Love those monkeys!!!
January 19th, 2010 @ 7:25 pm
I love your writing so much. The raw truth of how you’re feeling written down is so powerful. Thank you for sharing. I think it’s all relevant… even the ugly, mundane things. It’s your story! And I for one really appreciate you sharing yourself.
January 20th, 2010 @ 2:15 am
In less than five months, I WILL be waking up 42, and I don’t now what I’ll say then. I’m struggling with the same issues, and they’re not new. I like your phrase “writing the day.” Perhaps that is what we’re all meant to do. Day in, day out.
Thank you for your generosity in sharing the truth of your life. It matters.
January 20th, 2010 @ 3:17 pm
I don’t think we’re meant to ever figure things out – that’s what keeps us growing, stretching, wondering. The trick, I suppose, is to be at peace as best we can with where we are at the moment and to live as fully as possible. And you do seem to live fully, Christina, you take in everything around you – and you have the gift to write it down and share it with us. Thank you.
January 20th, 2010 @ 7:03 pm
Amen, sister.
January 21st, 2010 @ 12:31 am
Just opened “The Sound of Paper” by Julia Cameron to a random page(pg. 112 hardback). From the chapter on Trust:
… “Most of us live with a continual sense of emergency. We have a fear that we are too late and not enough to wrestle a happy destiny from the hands of the gods. What if there is no emergency? What if there is no need to wrestle? What if our only need is receptivity and a gentle openness to guidance? What if, like the Arabian horses grazing outside my window, we are simply able to trust.
When we trust ourselves, we become both more humble and more daring. When we trust ourselves, we move surely. There is no unnecessary strain in our grasp as we reach out to meet life. There is no snatching at people and events, trying to force them to give us what we think we want. We become what we are meant to be. It is that simple. We become what we are, and we do it by being who we are, not who we strive to be.
We are right-sized. We are who and what we are meant to be. All that we need, all that we require, is coming toward us. We need only meet life, not combat it. We need only encounter each day’s questions, not raise a fist at the heavens over the question of tomorrow.” …