checking in {9.23}

It’s time! We’re checking in with our words. The link party’s up and stays open through Sunday. 

Join here. Let’s catch up!

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Heads up: This post will make a little more sense if you’ve read this recent post and this one-word prompt.

September’s prompt was hard to articulate.

It came after an Arduous August, and I was ready to…lighten up! Have a little fun. By which I meant time on a favorite trail; lazy lake time looking for birds + beach glass; garden daydreams; trying something new with my hands.

Don’t get me wrong – I do do all sorts of things like that. In fact, I share many here from my seasonal lists.

I make those lists, as I’ve said, to keep joy and delight on my radar.  Regularly. And? I need them. Something about writing them gives me…permission…to pursue what’s on them.

Therein lies the issue.

In September’s prompt, I asked Why is that so hard for me?

Permission, for lack of a better word.

Permission. Deserving of. Worthy. Value.

I know… This is gonna be a fun one.

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{Part I}

Simply put,

there was a big shift in my self-worth when I chose to raise children full-time and stop earning a traditional paycheck.

I’m not unaware of all the ways I work hard and add value and make a difference in the life of our family. (I, too, have seen those figures totaling ‘services rendered’ by an at-home parent. It’s an annual salary range of $37K to $184K. )

And I’m not unaware that this was a choice…my choice…our choice…and it was both sacrifice and privilege.

But it doesn’t change the way I feel.

There’s an underlying…unrest…that drives me to earn any part of my day that’s fun or fulfilling and not some form of work.

I don’t know why. It’s not how I was raised. Not a message I consciously hear. And not one that comes from Troy. But whatever it is, wherever it comes from, it’s judgy and harsh, at worst; an ever-present murmur, at best. In response, I rationalize. Rehash. Remind myself.

Here’s the tricky thing to find words for, in a 4-minute read:

This is not about regrets. I’d make most of the same choices again! It’s more like a version of ‘survivor’s guilt.’

Twenty years ago I was pregnant with our first child. I cut my hours on campus to 60% time, Troy took a 40% pay cut to move from conventional giant to an organic dairy startup, and we’d soon be on our tightest budget ever. Three years later, we had two children and shared one vehicle: a 1986 Honda Accord that cost $1,000. By the time our last baby came along, we’d bought our cottage on Lake Erie and (much to my dad’s relief) were driving a safe new minivan — that’s still going strong!

Our kids are now 19, 16, and 12, and Troy is starting an exciting new chapter in his career. The work is hardly over — but the kind of work is different. In some ways easier; others, harder. Life is a little…different in some ways; a lot different in others. Time has shifted for me — in that I’m able to manage mine more freely these days. More than I have in a long time.

And instead of having a heyday with that, I’m left with a strange mix of feels: of not working hard enough in the right ways…not achieving enough…not knowing what my professional potential might have been…and being okay with letting that go! There’s also that ever-present tsk’ing that I must ‘earn’ time just to be me in the ways I most love to be me.

I wonder if this sounds strange.

Or…maybe not at all.

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{Part II}

Then, one day on retreat last week, I stood naked in the bathroom of our Air B’nB. Climbing into the shower, I glimpsed myself in the mirror and turned back around.

Hello.

It was me there in the mirror, but it was like…I’d somehow become two. In my head, above, looking at my body standing on the bathmat.

Maybe it was my own vulnerability? Naked and achy and focused. Asking how can I participate…contribute to positive change at this first real challenging point in my body’s aging process?

Maybe. Not sure. But in that moment, that glimpse, I was struck.

By a body that I owed a big apology. A capable body that has plugged away…even when I’ve treated it terribly.

I felt self-compassion, for the first time ever, I think. I felt sorry for ten abusive years of bulimia. Cruel, I was so cruel to myself from the time I was 15. Just…deeply unkind and ungrateful. I did so much harm. And my body? It kept up, kept serving me, like a mistreated workhorse no matter my message – Never-ever good enough, whatever you do.

Seeing myself, appreciating myself, I got it. I finally got how much I took for granted then – and how much I take for granted now.

My body was and is imperfectly perfect. Just like everyone else’s. My life is imperfectly perfect. And? It’s made me me; it’s made us us. Are there moments I’d like to forget? Um, yes. Are there details I might…switch up? Sure. Would I make a trade? Probably not.

When I finished my shower I walked out to the kitchen, still in a towel, because I heard the coffee pot. My dear D. was rinsing her cup and I told her:

I just realized. I just realized what I can do.

I can be kind.

My eyes welled without spilling over.

I’ve never actually been kind to myself. To my body.

Surely that ought to make a difference.

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{Part III}

I like that idea. Kindness. Not permission.

In a talk Pema Chödrön gave to retreatants in 2014, she offered this:

Death is certain. Time of death is uncertain. So what is the most important thing?

I leave you with that.

xo

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If you made it this far, thanks for sticking with me! It’s been some heavy word work lately, but I can feel — literally feel in my body — that it’s making a difference. And that’s huge to me.

I can promise you October’s prompt will usher in more fun. In fact, I’m getting a head start on it Thursday night! Maybe I’ll have some pictures to share by the first of the month. See you soon.