Stop all the clocks

The most surreal part about the whole thing - other than that Emma is dead at the age of 17 - is that both times I got the news in the same manner, in the same place, at the same time of day, from the same person.

When Emma had her accident four years ago, I was sitting at my desk at work at about 4:30 in the afternoon, Denver time, when the phone rang.  It was my dad, who told me that Emma, my niece, had been hit by a car and that nobody knew if she would live or die.

But she did live.  She survived, and she worked incredibly hard to recover and regain her strength and to get on with her life.

She had dodged the bullet.  Her card was supposed to have been pulled from the deck.

But it wasn't, apparently.

Because there I was, four and a half years later, sitting at my desk at work at about 4:30 in the afternoon, Denver time, when the phone rang.  It was my dad, who told me that Emma had been killed in a car accident.

No, I thought to myself.  I've gotten this call before, and I know how it ends.  She doesn't die.  It turns out OK.  He's got it all wrong.

But the other part of my brain, the powerful part that remains firmly rooted in reality, understood. Somehow, in the cruelest twist imaginable, she had survived only to be taken again, for good.  

It feels ridiculous to even try to explain anything.  It's all the same platitudes you've heard a million times about the death of a young woman at that thrilling time of her life when everything is starting to happen.  It's the worst thing imaginable for a family.  My brother Josh and his wife are devastated beyond anything I can comprehend.  My mother and father are crushed by the loss of their first grandchild, and by the pain that their wonderful son is enduring, and will continue to endure for the rest of his life.  My brother Sam and I are heartbroken by the pain that our brother and our parents, whom we love with everything we are, are going through.  And for Josh's wife, Lori, whose grief is so intense and bottomless. And for Emma's sisters, who, after barely getting over the trauma of her accident four years ago, have been blindsided by another trauma even more unspeakably awful.

For our beautiful, wonderful, precious Emma, who was, quite simply, one of the best people I ever knew.  For the life she was so excited to embark on, but now will never experience.

I know everyone is a great person when they die.

But in Emma's case, it's really true.

From the day she was born, she was a bubbly, funny, sassy ray of sunshine.  She was the first grandchild for my parents, the first baby born among my brothers and me, and she was a shining star for us.  A happy, spectacularly gorgeous baby and toddler.  A sweet, affectionate, smart little girl who took care of her younger sisters.  The preteen who was atypically agreeable at a point when most kids are surly and pushing at boundaries.

5-year-old Emma hanging with her baby sister, Lydia.

Dancing with her at my wedding.

In Detroit for our Grandpa Leo's 90th birthday.

With the cousins and sisters who loved and looked up to her, at Sam and Camille's wedding.

Even her response to her accident was remarkable, but so very her.  She recovered, and then she worked.  She worked and worked and worked to get stronger, to succeed in school, to be a good friend and daughter and sister, to be a great athlete.  College lacrosse coaches were interested in having her play for them.  She decided she wanted to go to the Naval Academy, and she survived the first grueling cut of applicants after taking their initial entrance exam.

 And she was growing into such a fantastic young woman.  In meeting with the people who have been congregating at Josh's house since she died, I keep hearing these stories about how she would see someone at school who was shy and eating lunch by herself, and Emma would go and sit and eat with her.  She befriended a classmate who was timid and self-conscious, and encouraged her to not be afraid to be herself.  Her coaches and teammates loved her for her attitude, her work ethic, and her effervescence.

I think the accident imbued her with a preternatural gratitude for life, and a level of maturity about the tenuousness of our existence on Earth that most 17-year-olds can't begin to approach.  She knew how lucky she was to be alive and healthy, and she was determined to live every moment to the fullest, appreciate the beauty around her, be kind and open to all, and give and receive love without reservation.

She was truly a good, sweet person,  growing more overtly comfortable in her own skin, more overtly kind and generous with each passing day.  She was loved by all of us, and by her friends and teachers and coaches and employers and teammates and everyone else she encountered.

Emma's last instagram:  "Loved the sunset last night #sunset #beautiful"
I loved that girl so much.

To say that it's all so grossly unfair is the goddamned understatement of all time.

We went to the funeral home to see her today.  She is going to be cremated, so this was it.  The last time we would ever see her again.

She looked so peaceful.  We all took turns talking to her, stroking her hair.  I kissed her goodbye.

She was cold and her skin was waxen, but I needed to see her and touch her.  As awful as it was, I needed to see her like that to help hammer home the truth.  It's too unfathomable otherwise.  I needed the punch in the gut.  And I got it.

She is gone.

Leavin' on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be back again

The trip to my parents' house last Thursday provided yet another example of why I'm either the luckiest or unluckiest bitch on the planet.

It's been a while since I've had a good travel snafu (or near mishap).  I guess I was due.

Our flight out of Denver was at 4:40 in the afternoon. I picked the kids up early from school and headed to the airport.  We got to the satellite parking by 3:20 and were at the Frontier check-in counter by 3:35.  Earlier in the day I had checked in online and paid for my checked bag, so all I needed to do was enter my information in one of their kiosk thingies, hand my bag over, and we'd be on our way.

Easy peasy, plenty of time.

Except that when it was my turn to go to the kiosk thing-y, it didn't work, and I got an error message telling me to find an agent to help me.  Problem was, a number of other people had had the same issue, so all of the available human helpers were occupied with other customers.  By the time someone was available to help me, it was 3:55.

The lady was grumpy.  She entered my information into her system, gave me a look like I was a complete moron and said, "you missed the 45 minute cut-off for checking a bag.  I can't check your bag."

I mustered all of my calm and said, "well, I've been trying to get someone to help me for 20 minutes. I was here with plenty of time, but the kiosk didn't work.  Can I gate-check my suitcase?"

"No, we don't allow gate-checking."  This statement was made with huffing and eye-rolls.

Game on.

"Then you're going to have to figure something out.  I was here in time, I've already paid for the checked bag, and the only reason there's a problem is because your system is incredibly inefficient.  Make a call or do what you have to do, but my bag is getting on the plane."

She huffed and puffed and generally acted like a brat, but she made a call and found out that there was still time for my bag to make the plane.  She checked me in and gave me my boarding passes, but not without a parting shot.

"They're not going to hold the flight, you know," she sneered.

I gave her the stink-eye, took Josie and Zeke (who was wearing a red Ninja Turtles eye mask) by the hand, and said, "come on, kids.  We need to rush if we're going to make the plane."

Josie got really nervous and was half-crying as we trotted toward the security line.  "I want to go to Mimi and Papa's!  I don't want the plane to take off without us!"

"Honey, we're going to make it, but we need to hurry.  Don't cry, sweetheart, just walk fast!"

We were taking off from the A Terminal, which is attached to the main terminal and has its own security line.  So we wouldn't need to take the train to a terminal or wait in the big huge security line that serves the B through E terminals.  That was a good thing.

Except that the TSA people working the A Terminal security line must have all needed naps, because while the line wasn't long, it moved slower than molassas in January.  I started watching the minutes tick by on the clock on the wall.  I was tapping my foot and imploring the agents that I was going to miss my flight, but they ignored me.  When we got into the security line, I had 15 minutes before the gate would be closing.  By the time we got through it, after I had to reach my arm all the way into the little covered area that the bags pass through after running through the scanner (but before they're easily grab-able - I was surprised nobody yelled at me), we had 4 minutes before the 10 minute cutoff when they close the gate.

I gathered up my tote bag, the kids' backpacks, and all of our shoes, and said, "kids, we're not going to put our shoes on.  We have to run.  RUN!  RUN!!"

We must have looked like lunatics.  I was barefoot and the kids were in their socks, and all three of us were sprinting over the moving sidewalks (those things HURT without shoes) and trying to get to the gate.  At one point someone yelled, "YOU DROPPED A SHOE!"  I ran back and picked it up.  We were all getting winded and feeling somewhat panicky.  "Zeke!  Go left!  GO LEFT!  It's A38!  Hurry!"

We finally got to the gate.  There was nobody there and the door to the jetway was shut.

At this point, all three of us lost our fucking minds.

The kids started hurling themselves around, practically rending their garments and gnashing their teeth, screaming and crying that they wanted to go to Mimi and Papa's.

Josie wailed, "NOOOO!  Don't let them take off without us!  I don't want to miss the plane!"

Zeke cried, "It's not fair!  IT'S NOT FAAAAAAIIR!  I want to see Mimi and Papa!!!"

I threw everything on the ground, yelled "GODDAMMIT GODDAMMIT GODDAMIT!" and proceeded to pound on the jetway door with both fists.

This went on for a minute or two.  BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.  Crying children.  More banging.  More crying.  More banging.

A guy passing by said, "there's a customer service desk on the other side of that wall, maybe they can help you."

I rushed over to the desk and loudly said, "IS THERE ANYONE WHO CAN HELP ME GET ON THIS FLIGHT?"  I'm sure I sounded like a complete asshole.

The kids were still going nuts.

"HEY!" the guy yelled.  "They opened the door!  COME BACK!!"

We ran back to the gate and the door was open and an agent was standing at the counter.  I gathered up all of our stuff (we still weren't wearing shoes) and we went over to her.

Continuing the trend of utterly unhelpful and extremely snotty Frontier agents, she made a face at me and said, "I don't know if you'll get on the flight.  Your seats might be gone."

I figured that they wouldn't have opened the door if there were no seats left, so I held my tongue.  She picked up her phone and called back to the plane and asked if there were three seats.  I guess the answer was "yes," because she took my boarding passes, but not before giving me another lecture about being late.  I yeah-yeah-ed her and we ran down the jetway and onto the plane.

They had given away our seats together, but in the very back row there were 3 seats, 2 on one side of the aisle and one on the other, that they hustled us into.  The kids settled in next to each other and got out their coloring books and crayons.  I collapsed into my seat across the aisle from them.

I bought everyone DirecTV access and they watched cartoons and I watched the US Open.  The flight attendants were lovely, and when I thanked them, they thanked me for being so nice.  I gave them a confused look.  One of them said, "you could have pitched a fit when you got on the plane and saw that we had given your seats away."

I laughed.  "I pitched the fit to get on the plane.  Once I was on, I was happy to sit wherever you told me to."

They gave us free drinks and snacks.  Given that I was relieved not to have been arrested and/or missed the flight entirely, I was gratified by the turn of events.

When my parents picked us up at the airport, everyone was smiling and hugging and kissing each other.  Josie told my mom, "Mama threw a fit and got us on the plane!"  She sounded very proud.

Damn right, baby girl.

Fermé au mois d'août

Remember when I said that I was going to take the month of August to really get organized and take charge of my life etcetera etcetera?

Interesting how that turned out.

I started the Chalene Johnson Push program, and one of the first thing she has you do is list the 10 major areas of your life and give each one a ranking from 1 to 10 - work, finances, relationships, health, personal development, spirituality, stuff like that.

I am very happy with my family and relationships, I love my job, I'm not rich but I have enough money, I'm healthy and I'm pretty fit.  The areas that I felt were suffering were more in the personal fulfillment/spirituality realms.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the last thing I needed was to put more pressure on myself to work harder at my coaching business or to clean out my house or go nuts trying to be super-organized.

What I really needed was to chill the fuck out and NOT put so much pressure on myself, at least for a little while.

So I decided to take the month of August off.

Not from work or life or anything like that, but from worrying about whether I'm productive enough or achieving enough or fit enough or successful enough.*

I've spent the month doing what I want and not worrying about it.  I eat what I feel like, I work out or don't, depending on my mood, I've spent a lot of time relaxing and reading.  On the weekends when J has the kids, I go on walks and watch whatever I want on TV and take naps.   I've thought about blogging, but I didn't really feel like it, so I didn't.

This is obviously not my natural, comfortable state of existence.  It's been great, but I'm starting to feel antsy.  Which is good - I'm itching to start running health and fitness challenge groups and organizing everything and sticking to a workout schedule and getting back to my Type-A self, but it's because I want to and I'll enjoy it.  I've had a nice break and I feel refreshed and rejuvenated.

Today I'm taking the kids to my parents' house in Virginia for the weekend, to hang out with family (my brother Sam and his wife will also be there) and friends and enjoy the last bit of summer.  I'm excited to see people I love and to have some fun.

Then in September, I'll be ready to go.


________________________________________
*The irony of this decision, based upon a questionnaire from a "get organized and achieve your goals" program, is not lost on me.

Thumbs down

Almost exactly 21 years ago, I was vacationing on the Outer Banks with my family during the summer between my second and third years of law school.  My roommate came out with me, and she had a friend who was working as a hand on a charter fishing boat.  I had never been out deep sea fishing, so she arranged for me to hitch a ride on the boat one day.

Unfortunately, there was a nor'easter that day.  The water was extremely rough and choppy, and the boat did nothing but shoot up a crest and then free-fall 10 feet into a trough, over and over, for the entire 12 hours I was on it.  I started vomiting about an hour and a half in, and pretty much didn't stop for the rest of the day.  It was truly the sickest, most horrible feeling I've ever had in my life - worse than childbirth with Zeke, worse than when I separated my shoulder (both of which hurt like a motherfucker).

And ever since then, I have been extremely susceptible to motion sickness.  Before that trip, I loved roller coasters and didn't have much issue with motion sickness (except that I've never been able to read in a moving car).  After that trip, I feel nauseated every time my plane lands, or if I'm driving over particularly hilly, twisty roads.  Roller coasters are no longer my friend.

This was the backdrop against my decision to take the kids to an amusement park this morning.  But it's more of a county fair-type deal, rather than a Six Flags type deal - the rides are small, and I didn't think it would be a problem.

The first ride was one of those spinning teacup type rides, with the seat both going up and down small hills but also spinning on an axis.  I had to go in order for Josie to be able to go, because she's too short to go on it without an adult.

Some of the spins were OK, and some of them were super severe.  My stomach wasn't thrilled.  But I made it.

The next ride was one of those giant boats that swings back and forth.  Again, I needed to go on in order for Josie to be able to go.  Again, I didn't love it, but I survived.  It was certainly better than the spinning teacup ride.

The next couple of hours were uneventful.  The ferris wheel, bumper boats, little roller coasters, all very innocuous.  There were even little pony rides.  The kids had a blast and were being very cute.  We were having a nice time hanging out.

Ferris wheel selfie.  And yes, that's a sticker of a rose on my chest.  Josie gave it to me and it would have offended her if I had taken it off.

This ride involved flying bananas.  Yeah, I don't know either.

Then the kids wanted to go on the spinning teacup ride again.  I was wary, but I agreed because I didn't want Josie to feel left out.

Now, at the beginning of these rides, the operators instruct everyone on staying seated, keeping your hands in the ride, that sort of thing.  They also tell you that if at any point you feel like you need to stop and get off, all you need to do is stick out your hand with your thumb down.

The ride started and our cup started spinning fast and hard.  I felt my stomach contract and the nausea beginning to build.

"Mama, are you OK?"  Zeke asked, a concerned look on his face.

We started another hard spin.  I shut my eyes tight and tried to breathe.  "I don't feel so great," I said.

"Are you going to throw up?"  His eyes grew very big and worried.

"I don't think so.  I'll be OK.  The ride will be over soon."

Another hard spin.  I felt myself almost trying to curl into the fetal position.  My eyes were squeezed shut, my chin was tucked down, I brought my knees up, and I broke into a cold sweat.  I put my hand over my mouth, just in case.

The kids were freaking out at this point.  "DON'T THROW UP MAMA PUT YOUR THUMB DOWN STICK OUT YOUR THUMB AND PUT IT DOWN MAMA!!!"

Finally the ride ended.  I felt really shaky and weak.  Josie said, "Mama, you need to drink some water right now.  Go drink some water and no more rides for you!"

I nodded and took a drink from my hydration pack.  There's a reason they call her "Mama Jo" at her school.

The kids went on some more rides that they were tall enough to go on without me.  I sat in the shade watching them, drinking water and trying to shake the nausea.

Then they wanted to go on the swinging boat ride again.  I said, "I really can't go on that ride.  I don't think I can do it without getting sick."

Luckily, there were enough people on the ride that there was a stray teenager without someone next to him.  "Do you mind if she sits with you?" I asked, regarding Josie.  "I'm not feeling well."  The kid agreed and was very sweet to her.

They got off and immediately said, "again!"

So I found another adult for Josie to sit with for another ride.

"Again!"

There were no more stray adults, this time.  I looked at the ride, figured I'd be able to make it (there was no spinning, after all), and got on.

I knew after the first swing that I had made a terrible mistake.

Once more, I tried to focus on breathing.  Josie distracted me for a couple of seconds by giggling about the fact that my boobs were bouncing with the movement of the ride (my 4-year-old daughter is actually a 13-year-old boy.  Or a 45-year-old man.  It never changes, amirite, ladies?)  "Mama!  Look at your boobies!  They're bouncing!"

But soon I knew I wasn't going to make it.  I felt the contents of my stomach rising.  I stuck out my thumb and yelled to the poor attendant, "I have to get off."

He stopped the ride as quickly as he could.  I bolted over to the fencing around the ride and threw up over the side, away from where people would be walking or standing.

"Guys, we gotta go home."

Thankfully, J has the kids at his place tonight.  So I'm able to lie on my couch, watching soccer on TV, nibbling on hot dog buns and drinking soda water with lemon to settle my stomach.  I don't have to take care of anyone or entertain anyone.

No more rides for Mama.

Welcome to the beaver show

I am always astounded by my children's intense love of being out in the wilderness when we are camping.

Not because there is anything about being out in the wilderness that isn't great, but because these are children who definitely enjoy their creature comforts, particularly when it comes to electronic entertainment.  Nooks, Wii, DVDs, Netflix, TV-on-demand -- they're down with it all.  Ours is a household in which I try to carefully monitor screen time, and when the ease of letting them be entertained by electronics wins out so that I can do the dishes or the laundry to even read my own book, I feel like a bad mother.

But then I see how happy they are splashing in a lake or looking for bugs or sitting by the fire, and I realize that I'm doing OK by them.

We went back up to Steamboat Lake State Park this weekend. The drive up through north-central Colorado was, as ever, breathtakingly beautiful.

We set up camp in the dark and in the rain. (I want to give a shout-out to the mountain dwellers of Colorado: if you are having issues with precipitation or drought, invite me to come pitch a tent on your land.  You will be deluged with water in no time.)  We woke up, once again, in a field of wildflowers, next to a lake.

The kids busied themselves finding little pieces of wood and throwing them in the fire.

When the morning clouds burned off and it warmed up, we made friends with our camp neighbors and swam.

In the background is Hahn's Peak, which last year we dubbed "Boob Mountain."  The name stuck.

Consistent with our camping history, the trip was not without its share of drama and adventure.  The people at the next campsite over had their dogs with them - two very sweet, slobbery, friendly Bernese mountain dogs.  Josie loves dogs, but these dogs were big and she's very little and when they started chasing her and jumping around and barking, wanting to play, she misunderstood their intentions and lost her shit.  J scooped her up and brought her to me, and it took about 10 minutes of holding her tightly and soothing her to get her to stop shaking.

Then we headed into town to go tubing on the Yampa River.  We went last year, and it's a fun, mellow float in shallow water, but at one point Zeke went down some very gentle rapids, leaned forward in his tube to get a better look at the water, and fell out.  The water was deeper than normal at that point, and a little bit churn-y, and he got pushed under water and had to grab his tube and make his way out of the churn.  He got himself over to the shallow water on the side of the river, but not without swallowing a bunch of water and being terrified by the experience.

But everyone survived their ordeals.  After tubing, we headed back to camp to chill out.  There was a presentation by one of the rangers about beavers, so we sat in on that and learned about the differences between muskrats and beavers, the way beavers build their dams and lodges, the benefits they provide to riparian systems, and all kinds of other interesting facts.  Of course, because I am twelve, the entire time I was thinking about this:

After the seminar, we went for a drive at dusk to look for wildlife - we saw two moose, sixteen deer, and one beaver lodge.  We then headed back to eat, build a fire, roast marshmallows, and gaze in wonder at the Milky Way.

At one point, I took Josie over to the campsite toilet so she could go potty.  While we were waiting to use it, she saw a family that had also been at the ranger's presentation.

She yelled, loudly, "Mama!!  I know that kid!  We saw him at the beaver show!"

I got some weird looks and raised eyebrows from some of the other people in line.

I just shrugged, smiled at them and said, "that's right, sweetie.  We sure did."

About face

At first, when everything was happening so fast and I realized it was really and truly over, I was sad.  Weepy, even.

But then I wept in front of him, and let him know that even though it was what we both wanted, I still mourned the loss of the relationship - the life - I thought we were going to have.

And his reaction was to shrug.

The familiar behaviors and tendencies resurface, and I remember that this is what I want.  I look up at the sky and remind myself that life is wide open to me now.

The lease is signed, and boxes are filled and moved to the place across the street.

My closet has so much room!  The piles of clutter -- tools, little bits of paper that are his organizing system, worn down pencil stubs that are apparently de rigeur in the construction industry, books about the electrical code -- are replaced with clean spaces.

I look around the house and everything looks like a blank slate.  I can get rid of the enormous bed that takes up too much room in the bedroom alcove, so that I have to squeeze between it and the wall to get into bed.  I can paint the walls in the bright colors that remind me of India.  With the refinancing money, I can fix the 120-year-old brick work, and repaint, and recarpet, and update the kitchen.

I'm filling out forms and making arrangements and it's all happening.

Suddenly it feels really, really good.

Goodbye sunshine, take care of yourself

Since deciding to separate, J and I have settled into a relatively comfortable, peaceful co-existence of living in the house (in separate bedrooms) and sharing the duties of the household and the children.  Outwardly, it wasn't much different from the way we had been living before, but emotionally, it was somewhat easier because we knew where we stood with each other instead of just feeling shitty about being in an unhappy marriage.

Life went on.  We go to the pool with the kids together.  He came with for my family's annual July beach vacation.  We're going to a birthday party tomorrow and camping in Steamboat (the real one) next weekend.

Still, I've felt like I'm in limbo.

Well, it's amazing how quickly things happen.

A few weeks ago I was walking to the bus stop to go to work and I noticed an "apartment for rent" sign in front of a house.  The house is maybe 100 yards from my house, catty-cornered across the street.  I took a picture of the sign (with the phone number) and texted it to J.  Turns out it's a large 1-bedroom, with room for a bunk bed for the kids, in a layout that's similar to the upstairs of our house.  J went to look at it and then submitted an application for the apartment.

He was worried about being able to afford the rent, because the company he worked for were a bunch of cheap assholes who didn't pay him anything close to what he's worth.  But it was looking like a viable option - I'll be buying J out of his share of our house, so he'll have a little bit of money to get himself set up, and he had been studying for his journeyman electrician licensing exam, in the hopes that if he passed, he'd be able to command a higher income.

But he was super-nervous about passing.  He knows the stuff cold, but has awful, horrible test taking anxiety, and has failed three times before.  He's been studying his ass off for months and months, but still had no confidence in himself, notwithstanding my efforts to reassure him.

In the meantime, the beach vacation was coming up, and the plane tickets were paid for.  He notified the boss months in advance that he was going to be taking that week off.  The boss said nothing...

...until a few weeks ago, when he told J that he couldn't go on vacation and that if he did, he'd be fired.

J took a look at Craigslist and found an enormous number of employers looking for electricians.  He figured that if he were canned, it would take him about a day and a half to secure another job, especially if he passed the exam, which he was taking two days before coming to the beach.  So he decided to (figuratively) tell the boss to go piss up a rope.

He took the exam and passed with flying colors (he got 100%, actually).  The next day, he dropped the company van and phone at his employer's building, and the day after that he joined us in North Carolina.  The day after that he went on Craigslist and submitted his updated resume to four different companies that were looking for licensed journeymen.  He got call-backs from all four, interviewed with all four when he returned to Denver, and got four job offers, including one from an established, highly reputable company that offers great pay and benefits - the guy that offered the job told him that if he got a better offer, he'd match it.

So he took the great offer.  He'll be making approximately 60% more than his previous company was paying him, plus amazing benefits.  Between his new salary, the money from the house, and the money he'll eventually get from his dad's estate, he'll be comfortable and able to buy a place of his own.

And he got the apartment across the street for the time being.  He signed a lease today and will have the place on Sunday.

Gulp.

On one hand, it's what we've both been working towards.  It provides the actual separation that will lead the way to us getting on with our lives and finalizing a divorce.

On the other, it still makes me sad.  It's really over.  I mourn the loss of the marriage I thought I was going to have. I'm a statistic.  I failed.

Even though the marriage is done, and we both agree it's done, and I want it to be done ... I feel like my heart is breaking all over again.

I will be fine, I know.  But for now, I'm sad.

Wendy from the block. But which block?

I often miss my family.

I had what felt to me like an idyllic childhood.  Many people I know give me a confused look at the idea of a life spent moving around the world - with the requisite changes of schools every three or four years - as idyllic, but it really was amazing.  I have an extremely close relationship with my parents and my brothers, and with so many of the friends I made growing up, including college and law school.

The problem is, most of them are on the East Coast, and I'm in Colorado.

I have soooo many close friends, from all of my various stages of life, who live in either the DC area, Charlottesville, Virginia, or Richmond, Virginia.  My parents are in northern Virginia, as are a number of my closest high school and college friends.  Plus my brothers are just up the coast, in New York and New Hampshire.  Easy train or plane rides.

I would love to live closer to my parents.  I would love for my children to live closer to my parents, who adore my kids and spoil them beyond all sense, in the wonderful way that grandparents do.  It would be amazing to have my close high school and college friends - people who are incredibly important to me and whom I really adore -- be a real presence in my life, instead of seeing them once a year when I go home for Thanksgiving, or at infrequent reunions, which leave me an emotional mess.

I think about moving back there.  I've thought about it for years.

But increasingly, I have a hard time with the idea of leaving Colorado.  I really, really love it here.

I love the climate, the intense beauty of the physical setting (and the ease with which we can take advantage of it), the proximity to the mountains and the abundance of activities like hiking, skiing, biking, and camping. The culture and the vibe of Denver.  My neighborhood.  My job.

This past weekend my neighbors arranged a block party.  There was amazing barbecue, kegs of beer, a bouncy house that the kids jumped in for seven hours, games of cornhole.  Music that takes me back to college and law school - the Grateful Dead, Widespread Panic, bluegrass, older stuff like The Band.

It kind of made me feel like I was back in Charlottesville.  We used to hang out like that during second semester of my 4th year - we'd go to Chris Greene Lake and sunbathe, listen to music, play music, toss a frisbee.  There was no bouncy house because there were no kids, but other than that, the vibe was remarkably similar.  People of different ages and backgrounds, all just happy to be together.

It felt so incredible, and incredibly familiar.

But do I keep that feeling by staying here, or by going back to what still feels like home?

The one negative byproduct of my upbringing, and one that I think a lot of "third culture kids" feel, is a difficulty with ever putting down roots anywhere.  We always feel the need to move on.  We're always looking forward to that new place, that new adventure.  Even places that we like -- there's a sense of, "yeah, this place is great, but there's new stuff to see and do!  Time to move on."

So is this my natural wanderlust talking, always seeking out change?

As well as I can usually read myself, I'm having a hell of a time figuring it out.

Technological and scientific advances will continue apace, professional soccer will be THE big money-making sport, Michael Jackson will still be popular, and there will be no fire

Zeke had his kindergarten "continuation" ceremony.  It's the term the school uses instead of "graduation," because I guess even they recognize how absurd the notion of "graduating" from kindergarten is.

And when I think about it, I really do find it ridiculous.  I mean, Colorado doesn't even have compulsory school attendance for kids in kindergarten.  You get to go to first grade solely by virtue of being 6 years old by October 1.

But, I have to admit it's really cute.  Zeke was SO excited about it.  The kids learned poems and dances and songs (including one set to Taio Cruz's Dynamite) and all week he's been asking me, "Mama, do you want to see the dance moves?  Do you want to hear me sing?"

"Of course!" I respond every time.

He even wanted Josie in on it.  I had planned to drop Josie at her school before heading over to Zeke's, but this morning he said, "Josie, do you want to come see my continuation ceremony?"

"Of course!"

So she came along as well.

My favorite part was when each kid gets to walk across the stage, get a "diploma" from the school principal, and then tell the audience what they want to be when they grow up.

I didn't take a specific count, but here's the general breakdown:

• Fully one third of the kids want to be scientists;
• About one fifth want to be teachers (including a couple who said they want to be science teachers);
• A smattering want to be moms or dads;
• Five boys want to be professional soccer players.  By contrast, only one wants to be a pro basketball player, and nobody wants to play pro football or baseball.  One girl wants to be a swimmer, and another wants to be a swim teacher;
• There were a couple of doctors and vets, including a kid who wants to be an army medic;
• There were at least 10 firefighters, plus one boy who wants to be both a firefighter and a policeman;
• Three boys want to be "Michael Jackson dancers," about five want to be ninjas, one wants to be Batman, and another wants to be a spy.

As for Zeke, he walked up to the microphone and announced his intention to become a "shark doctor."  So he can help sharks out when they get hurt.

Ok, then.

Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof

I woke up this morning feeling inexplicably happy.  "Inexplicably" not because my life sucks and I have nothing to be happy about, but because I've been really agitated and vibrate-y the past few days, and the change in how I felt this morning was marked.  And as with depression, which manifests itself physically as a feeling of cold, heavy tension in my chest and gut, the feeling of happiness is physical as well - kind of a zingy lightness that makes it difficult to stop smiling.

It's kind of pathetic that I'm so used to being stressed out and nervous and worried about what's coming next that when I'm actually in the moment and feeling good, I don't quite know what to do with myself. I kept trying to analyze what was going on - why am I feeling this way?  What's going on?

I kept waiting for the feeling to abate.

But it didn't.  So I decided to just acknowledge the things I should be happy about.

I slept well and had good dreams, including one in which I was kissing a hot guy.  Sleep is good, and I've been sleeping better lately than I have in years.  And kissing hot guys doesn't suck either.

I had a great workout - lifted really heavy weights and felt energized afterwards.  Physically, I'm healthy and I feel fantastic.  I've been back on the slow carb eating plan, which I should really do all the time because it makes me feel so good - I have energy and I'm losing my layer of winter chub. And it's so clearly what my body needs - when I'm not eating starchy carbs and sugar, I don't feel lethargic or bloated and I don't crave junk.

It was a spectacularly beautiful, bluebird Colorado day.  I sat outside and enjoyed lunch with a friend from work whom I really like.  I've been reconnecting with old friends and making new ones, and it has made me appreciate how many smart, interesting, funny, wonderful people I am privileged to know.

My kids woke up chirpy and behaved themselves perfectly as we got dressed and got out the door -- no fights, no dawdling, no complaints.  I almost wanted to pinch myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming that part as well.

I spent some time playing the banjo and singing, which always makes life a little better.

I enjoy my job and the people I work with.  It's interesting and it makes a real difference in people's lives.

I have a family who adores me and whom I will see at the beach in 4 weeks.  Ten days of sun and sand and swimming and reading and being with people with whom I can be myself and who love me for it.

There is so much to be happy about every day.

Of course, I can't compete with the utter joy that my ghetto children get to experience when their daddy takes them to Cheesman Park after school and lets them prance around in the fountains in their underwear.

But I'll take what I can get.

I want you to love me like my dog does, baby

Occasionally, the children's interactions with each other sound like this:

"ZEKE! Give it back!"

"You weren't using it."

"It's MINE!"

"I don't care."

"You're stupid."

"No, you're stupid."

"Mama, Zeke called me 'stupid!'"

"MAMAAAAAA!!!"

It's annoying as hell.

But most of the time, I hear a lot of giggling and sounds of things crashing followed by "don't tell Mama!" and happy chatter.

I grew up with two younger brothers, and the age difference between Josh and me is the same as that between Zeke and Josie, but I don't remember playing with him as much as Josie and Zeke play together. I remember being more solitary in my playtime pursuits as a kid, though I could be totally misremembering some of the earlier years.

In any event, I love that they get to go through these years together, entertaining each other endlessly.  They even still want to marry each other.

Reading a book together (naked, of course)

Here are some of their favorite activities:

• playing "mamas and babies."  Zeke is usually the baby.
• bouncing on my bed, which for some reason also involves pulling all of the blankets and pillows from elsewhere in the house into my room.  They work flips in when they jump from the arm of the sofa in my bedroom onto the bed, and then have enough momentum to flip over or go crashing into the headboard (which is padded, thank goodness).  Lately they've added the stability ball into the mix, so they're bouncing on the stability ball on the bed.  Sometimes I feel like I should put a stop to this on the grounds that someone could get hurt, but I guess they'll figure it out.
• throwing things off the second floor balcony into the front yard (they get in trouble for this, but they do it anyway). 
• pushing each other around the house in laundry baskets
• playing "roly poly," a game in which they sit on opposite ends of the hallway, set up obstacles between them, and roll a little blue ball back and forth between them
• going outside to look for worms and slugs in the garden
• going around the block, either walking or on their bikes (they're allowed to do this by themselves)
• playing hide and go seek, or as Josie now calls it, "hide and go Zeke"

They're getting more creative.  The other night I was reading and they came into the room, naked from the waist down, holding ice packs (the kind you stick in a cooler) on their butts.  

"Hi, Mama."

"Hi.  What are you doing?" I asked.

"We're putting ice packs on our butts," Zeke explained.

"Yes, I can see that.  Why?"

"We want to see whose butt gets redder."

"Ah."

"Do you want me to get you an ice pack, Mama?"

"No, thanks.  I'm good."

I went back to my book.

Recently I heard Zeke say, "hey, Josie, want to play 'dog?'"

"Sure!"

Turns out the game consists of Josie pretending to be a dog while Zeke throws things down the hallway for her to fetch.

"Aw, girl," I thought to myself.  "Grow some self respect."

"Josie, don't act like a dog.  You don't want to be treated like a dog," I implored.

"I like dogs, Mama!"  she responded.

OK, then.

Too many thoughts at the top of my head

A friend of mine who recently went through a divorce told me that when she was first separated, her therapist told her she needed to do three things.  She needed to spend time outside, looking up at the sky. She needed to take a two week vacation by herself.  And she needed skin-on-skin contact.

I've thought about that a lot lately.  When I'm outside, I make a point of looking up.  I see beauty, or turbulent weather, or birds.  Stars and clouds.  Possibilities.  I like it.

The two week vacation thing struck me as excessive, partly because the idea of being able to get away for two weeks feels impossible.  But lately I think I get why that was the recommendation.  

Because when you're going through all of these major changes in your relationship and your life, it's incredibly difficult to process it all when you're mired down in the day-to-day of regular existence.

It's so weird right now, because we made the decision to separate 5 months ago, and we're totally fine with it and taking steps to make the physical separation happen.  But we're still living in the same house, the same way we have for years.  And living this way was what made us want to split up in the first place, so sometimes I'll come home from work and everything feels exactly like it always has, and it makes me want to scream because all I want is for everything to be different RIGHTNOW.

Even as I'm having these feelings, I'm saying to myself, "Wendy, what the fuck is your problem?  Things are moving along and J is looking for a place and it's all going on the schedule we agreed to and everything is FINE.  Calm down."  

But I can't help it.

I'm impatient with the kids, even though they generally have done nothing to annoy me except to act their ages.

Or I'll alternately feel incredibly hopeful and then a minute later incredibly despondent, because who the hell am I to think that I can start over at 44 and I'm old and ugly and no one will ever want me and waaaaaaah. 

I know that's not rational. But it's still taking up space in my head and my heart.

I'm like a tuning fork.  I'm vibrating.  My senses are heightened.  My emotions are incredibly close to the surface.  I overanalyze every interaction with everyone.  

It's like that scene towards the end of Thelma and Louise when the women are driving through the southwest, and Thelma says that she's never felt so awake. That everything looks different.

I'm assuming this is a normal aspect of trying to process the end of a marriage, and the start of a new, potentially exciting, but also somewhat scary, phase of life.  But feeling all of the feels while also trying to maintain a household and transition everyone from the school-year to the summer activities and lawyer and do fitness coaching and everything else is really, really difficult.  

The vast majority of my waking time is spent taking care of other people.  My children, and even my husband, still -- I'm the one who's finding apartments on Craigslist, and figuring out the financial stuff.  I'm still making dinner for everyone every night.  And as much as J is a great dad, the kids are still at ages when they attach themselves to me at virtually every opportunity.  There's no let-up.

Wine helps, though I rarely drink more than three-quarters of a glass. Exercise and eating well helps.  

But I definitely have a much better understanding of, and appreciation for, the "two weeks alone" recommendation.  I don't even have two weeks' worth of leave right now (especially after going to the beach for 10 days with my family next month).  But after J sets up his own household, I am going to try to take at least a 3-day weekend away sometime later this summer so I can just think, and be, and not take care of anyone but myself.

As for the skin-on-skin contact...

Hmm.  That would be nice, too.

Fitness Friday - It's not (just) about losing weight. It's about feeling better.

Sometimes I'll speak to groups of people (mostly women) about fitness, and I always start off by asking questions.  I usually bypass questions/discussion about whether people want to lose weight or if there is something about their body they could change if they could.  The answer to that one is usually "yes," and yet even with that powerful motivator, large portions of the population have a hard time adopting the habits that will bring about those results.

Instead, I'll ask people if they ever feel like they're too tired to do the things they want to do in life.  If they ever feel like they need more energy.  If they have a hard time getting motivated.  If they feel like they need an easy, no-brainer of a way to get a solid dose of really powerful nutrition every day.

And that's where people start to respond and ask me about how to join one of my challenges, or if I can help them.  Because as much as everyone wants to look good in that little black dress, what they want even more is to feel good.

I'm constantly astounded at how many people go through life feeling tired and crappy.  And far beyond my ability to help people look like swimsuit models, what I really can do through my fitness coaching is to help people feel better.

I saw this e-card on my Facebook feed the other day.  I follow a lot of trainers and fitness types, so my feed can be chock-full of stuff like this, but this one really spoke to me.

I make no secret of the fact that I struggle with clinical depression, and that I have ever since I was about 28.  And as much as I still work out to have a better body (let's be honest, right?), a huge reason that I work out and am so disciplined about it is because has virtually eliminated my depression symptoms and made it possible for me to go on the lowest possible dose of medication.*

It makes me feel good, and feeling good is everything.  It makes everything in life better and easier.  A friend of mine and I were talking about this, and she said something that really resonated -- that if you're not taking care of your health, then you can't be fully present in your life, whether it's for your job or your family or whatever.  

You can't plan your country's 500th anniversary and your wedding and then murder your wife and frame Guilder for it.

So for this Fitness Friday, think about how you feel.  Are you tired all the time?  Do you feel sluggish and unmotivated?  Do you crave crappy food that you know you shouldn't eat?  Are you unsure about how to eat properly?

If the answer to any of these questions is "yes," I would love to help.  Join one of my challenge groups and get healthier in a positive, supportive attitude.  Whatever your level of fitness, whatever type of exercise you like to do, I've got something for you.  I can be there every step of the way.

All you have to do is decide to make a change.  

Are you ready to feel good?  Contact me and let me know what's going on, and we'll figure out a way to get you where you want to go.

________________________

*Yes, I still get upset or depressed about stuff -- this past winter was rough because I was unhappy and dealing with stuff in my personal life -- but I don't have a problem with being depressed about shit that's depressing.  The problem is when the chemicals in my brain make me feel hopeless and worthless when there isn't depressing shit going on.  

The lows and the highs

The worst times are when they're tired and constantly bickering, or, for some reason, on weekday mornings, right when I announce that it's time to put on socks and shoes and get in the car so I can take them to school.

Without fail, even on days when they have woken up in good moods and have fully cooperated in the eating-breakfast-getting-dressed process -- which is not a given -- as soon as I announce it's time to get in the car, all hell breaks loose.  Josie will announce that the outfit she has been cheerfully wearing for half an hour is no longer acceptable, or she will insist on putting on the one pair of shoes that I can't find.  Zeke will hem and haw and dawdle, or demand that we wait until he can find a particular book or stuffed animal, which no one has seen in months, to take with him in his backpack. I will explain, with a vocal level that rises along with that of my annoyance, that we don't have time and you're not allowed to bring toys to school anyway and you can't wear sandals when it's snowing and we need to get moving and we're going to be late and GET IN THE CAR THIS INSTANT!  RIGHT NOW!!  MOVE IT!

It is so. fucking. frustrating.

And the messes.  The endless, unyielding messes that always seem to grow no matter how much time J and I spend cleaning.  Going upstairs and finding little spots of baby powder at various places along the hallway carpet.  Or "I love momma" written in black sharpie on the bright glossy white door to the kids' bedroom.  Or the entire contents of the linen closet piled at the foot of my bed, which they use as cushioning when they're jumping.  An entire box of colored drinking straws inexplicably emptied into the bathtub.  Toilets constantly full of little turds because they never remember to flush.

And I'm not a particularly neat person.  I try to be, but it doesn't come to me naturally.  I am naturally cluttery (but clean).  But even my tolerance for clutter is tested by the constant chaotic state of my house.  When the kids are bickering (and lately, it's pretty often - a function of their ages, I guess) and the piles of dishes and laundry feel endless and I'm discovering yet another stick figure drawn in pen on the wall of the dining room, my level of agita gets to the point that all I want to do is go check into a hotel (anywhere - it could be in the middle of nowhere and I'd be happy if there was free wi-fi) and be by myself and not talk to anyone.

But then there are the moments when Zeke and I are up late on a weekend watching a movie after everyone has gone to sleep.  He's standing there naked, coloring a picture for me while telling me about all the words he can spell.  Every once in a while, he'll look at me and smile and say, "I love you, Mama."

And he's such a beautiful kid - twinkly blue eyes, spray of freckles across his nose, the same funky point at the base of his hairline that I have. That dimple.  His muscle-y little body.

He's got a hilarious sense of humor, and loves to tell me jokes to try to make me laugh.  He's sweet to his friends and to his sister (some of the time).  He's interested in the world.  He's incredibly social - much more so than I am - and is friendly and open with everyone.

And Josie is similarly delightful.  Impossibly cute, with a penchant for knock-knock jokes that make no sense but are nonetheless hysterical.  She has my bizarre memory for all things aural - she can remember songs, movie lines, books that she has heard only once, and recite them back.  I'll take her in my arms like a baby and tell her about the day she was born, and talk about how when she was born, I made a wish that she would be smart and funny and brave and beautiful and sweet, and that she has surpassed my wildest dreams.

They both have.

I was thinking about our upcoming beach trip with my family, and about how much they both love those vacations, when they spend all day running and playing the sand and swimming, and we go every night to get ice cream after dinner, and do puzzles and read books and watch movies.  And then they collapse, happy and tan and exhausted.

Beautiful children, made more beautiful by being asleep after a long, fun day at the beach.

Those times sustain me.  Because right now, I could use a hotel room to myself.  But I can wait for the beach.

Now I need to reread Catch-22

I read Catch-22 on a glorious boondoggle of a high school senior trip to Mahabalipuram, India, on the southern east coast near Chennai.  I remember our faculty chaperones being utterly uninterested in doing anything more than hanging out on the beach or relaxing with a cigarette and a drink at the hotel bar, and they were happy to leave us to do the same.  We might have had an "educational" excursion or two just to save face, but for the most part we partied and hung out on the beach and hooked up with our significant others.

And I read Catch-22, which I adored, from the very first line ("It was love at first sight.").

I only mention this because I was thinking about what Catch-22 means -- a paradoxical situation from which a person cannot escape because of contradictory rules.  In the book, the Catch-22 was the fact that the only way to get out of flying more missions was to claim insanity, but the very act of doing so was evidence of sanity.

This is all a very long and pretentious segue into telling you about how I was finally given medication, but only after being sick for 11 days first.

A little over a week and a half ago, I woke up with a sore throat.  Later that day, I realized it was nasal drip from my sinuses down to the top of my trachea.  Then my trachea would become irritated and I would start to cough.  Soon I had constant runny nose, runny back-of-the-throat, rasping cough, and resulting sore windpipe.  It was painful and seriously fucking annoying.

I called in to my doctor and talked to one of the nurse practitioners to see if I needed to come in.  I described my symptoms and the nurse said, "well, it sounds like a viral cold, and those can take up to 10 days to clear up.  So I would wait a little more [at that point it had only been 7 days] and if it's not clearing up, then give us a call back."

It didn't get better.  The cough persisted, the congestion in my head increased, I was exhausted the time, and I had a low grade fever that wasn't enough to send me to the hospital, but enough to leave me feeling like crap.

Finally, this morning, I had had enough.  I went to my doctor's after care place and was told that what had started as a viral cold had been festering long enough that it had become a bacterial infection.

"That tends to happen if it hasn't gotten better after 7 days."

So there's the rub.  They won't give out antibiotics if they think it's viral, but the time it takes to wait it out virtually guarantees it will become bacterial, so you eventually get the meds, but not until you've already been coughing up a lung for 11 days.

In any event, I now have super-strong antibiotics (for which they also gave me yeast infection medication, "because it's bound to happen with the strength of this medication" -- whee!!), prescription nasal spray, and prescription cough drops (which I didn't even know existed).

I will recuperate by digging up my copy of one of my favorite books.

Put your pitchforks down.

When I got home today, J informed me that his phone had been lighting up with text messages and calls from various people who have read my recent blog posts. I'm not sure why today was the day everyone chose to get in touch - what I've been writing about the past few days is recurring dreams and me going back to my family's last name, neither of which really have any bearing on him.

In any event, everyone is very concerned that my posts are an indication that things have gone south and that our amicable separation has hit the skids.  People want to make sure he's OK, and have suggested he tell me to stop writing.

We both had a good chuckle.

Because everything is fine.  Really and truly.  All is well.  We hang out when we're home, we take care of the kids, we do things with them on the weekend.  He'll be coming to the Outer Banks when the kids and I are there with my family.  We have a camping trip planned for the end of July.  We're working out the terms of the separation amicably, making sure that the kids will be OK and that we will be OK.

Seriously.  It's all good.

A couple of points:

• J knows I write this blog, and can read it any time he wishes.  He doesn't usually, but any time I write about him, I always write it as if he were going to read it.  Additionally, whenever I write about anything that might be sensitive, I tell him about it, just so he has a heads up.  I did that with both the Out of the Darkness and the Gonna Build a Mountain posts.  He trusts me to be fair and to protect his interests.

• Though some may feel like I am "airing dirty laundry" or violating J's privacy, I have to point out that I've been writing this blog for 8 years, and I've written extensively about our marriage.  I have never revealed anything through this space that he hasn't revealed to our friends.  He does not hide the fact that his childhood sucked and that he suffered abuse, and he doesn't have a problem with me mentioning it here. I have never gone into the details, as those are not my details to tell, where he doesn't share them with others. But in terms of the fact that it happened, he knows that I have written about it.  He doesn't have a problem with it.

• When I write, I choose my words carefully and deliberately.  If you have read my recent posts and interpreted them as either a denigration of J or a sign that our separation has become hateful and contentious, then you're ignoring the actual words I wrote.  I repeatedly and unequivocally stated that my posts were expressions and explanations of my emotional state and my thoughts about what was going on, but not a criticism of J, and that I have nothing but high regard for him as a friend and a father to my children.  I have stated that we were so different in so many ways that it made it impossible to find common ground to build a life, but I have never said that his differences make him somehow inferior (and I didn't say that because I don't believe it).  Nowhere have I written, hinted, or suggested that we aren't getting along or that there is any acrimony between us, because there isn't.  

• Don't ask me to take down my posts.  I won't.

J is heartened by the expressions of concern for him.  It's always nice to know that people care about you and worry about you.  But truly, everything's fine.

Say my name, say my name

In response to my dream post, a friend of mine with whom I went to school in Israel offered the following interpretation:

The first dream was that you, in real life, needed to get past something you felt unprepared to move past.  The realization in the dream that you have your degrees and don't need to take the test is your subconscious realizing you are ready to take that step, or have taken it and now need to reassure yourself you can do it.

The second dream is connected and I wonder if it started after the first dream changed [It did.]  The rooms and hallways going on and on IS a representation of limitless possibilities in reality and the fact that you find it delightful rather than daunting is another sign you are read to take the steps you realized you are ready for in the first dream. 

Gee, I wonder what steps I'm ready to take that I previously felt unprepared for?  Duh.

J and I have been maintaining the status quo, living together while we wait to refinance the house (so I can buy him out) and have a little extra cash to make the separation easier, but this feeling of being in limbo is beginning to bug. We've taken the initial step - the decision to split up - but I want to keep going, and there are steps I can take to keep the momentum going:  start separating our finances to make the eventual total separation easier, start drafting a separation agreement setting out custody, division of property, etc., and go back to using my own name.

The truth is, before we got married, I had no intention of taking J's last name - I like the last name I was born with, I identified with my family roots, and I was already practicing law and a number of the federal court cases I had litigated were published with that name.  Most of my married friends didn't take their husbands' names, and I just didn't see the point.

But then after we were married, I changed my mind, for reasons I don't really remember now.

And it's a good, strong name with a solid "all American" feel to it (even though J's an Aussie).  There's nothing wrong with his name.

Except that it isn't mine.  It isn't me.

It's much easier to do the name change in conjunction with a divorce decree, so I'm going to wait until we make it official.  But in any unofficial capacity, I'm going to go back to my given family name (I hate the expression "maiden" name - it sounds antiquated and stupid to me).  I already changed it on Facebook (and if it's on Facebook, it's really real, amirite?), I'm going to change my email and my Beachbody coaching profile and everything else that doesn't require a court order or a social security card.

I'm going to keep walking through those hallways and those doors, taking all the steps I'm ready to take.

I've got dreams, dreams to remember...

I've noticed people talking or writing lately about their recurring dreams, which is something that has always fascinated me.  There's a great old movie with Gregory Peck and Ingrid Bergman called "Spellbound," which I think I saw when I was at summer camp, about an amnesiac accused of murder (Peck) who is protected by a psychiatrist (Bergman) - the mystery of the murder and the guy's identity is unraveled by psychoanalysis of the guy's dreams.  It's been 30 years and I only saw it that one time, but I still remember the movie vividly because I was so fascinated by the dream analysis part.

Image from the movie Spellbound - the dream sequences depicted in the film
were designed by Salvador Dali.  Image from Selznick/United Artists/The Kobal Collection

For whatever reason, notwithstanding all the therapy I've had, no one has ever asked me about my dreams.  And maybe dream analysis is bullshit, who knows?  Plus any therapist probably would have considered my recurring dreams to be utterly prosaic - standard anxiety dreams (taking a test when you didn't realize you were enrolled in the class and haven't studied; realizing you're in public and not wearing any pants) that everybody has.

But lately they've gotten more interesting, at least to me.  Now I'll have the dream that I'm in high school or college and taking tests that I haven't studied for/didn't realize I was enrolled in, but during the dream I realize that I've actually finished school and don't have to be there at all if I don't want to.  I'll think, "for god's sake, I don't have to take this shit.  Not only do I already have my high school and college diplomas, but I have a juris doctor degree as well."  So I start out anxious, but then within the body of the dream, make myself realize that I have no reason to be.

Another one that I have ALL THE TIME now, and cannot figure out at all, is what I call the space dream (physical space, not outer space).  In the dream, I'm in a house - sometimes it's mine, sometimes it belongs to someone else - that just goes on and on.  Every hallway leads to another room, another space, and it's kind of delightful - I'm filled with a sense of limitless possibilities.

Or maybe it's my brain's way of telling me I should take out a home equity loan and build out my attic.

What are your recurring dreams?  What do you think they mean?