Joy

When did you last feel it?

Not happiness. That comes daily, in fleeting moments or chunks of time.  Something causes us to smile, laugh, feel content.

Joy wells up from some hidden place, allowing us to forget worries, responsibilities, fears -- everything pressing us down. We are kids again, unfettered with the grind of adult life and all that was lost in the years since childhood. Our hearts are light, uncluttered -- free.

March. Three years ago.

The kids were two and four months.  That morning, I had found out I might need to have surgery on my thumbs to relieve an odd, post-partum swelling causing pain and limited range of motion in everyday tasks.

But a friend was watching my children. It was a beautiful, early-spring day. I had four hours to myself. To be me, alone inside my head. To do what I wanted to do.

I had the car windows down. I blasted Celine Dion. I sang at the top of my lungs. And there it was.

Lightness and deepness. Intertwined. So intense it was breath-taking in its simplicity and sweetness.

It had been awhile since I felt it. I was overwhelmed with the responsibilities of two small children and running a business that seemed completely pointless. I was tired, worried, scared for the future, and full of doubts about my abilities as a mother.

But that moment, I gave in. I drifted above my ever-present worries and -- briefly -- was a child again.

Ten minutes later, I was looking at my ruined car and trading insurance information. No one was hurt, seemingly. We had good coverage. The girls hadn't been with me.

I picked up the kids to find my oldest holding her arm strangely. The next few hours were spent at urgent care to repair her dislocated elbow, a simple injury occurring when a child tugged on her arm.

As you may imagine, I've not allowed myself a similar experience since. At the first sign of movement, something flashes a warning...Don't do it! You'll regret it. Life will slap you down if you do.


This week arrived. Three days in a row spent playing outside with the kids and working in the yard. I began the month of February eating lunch on my coffee patio as the girls chortled in wonder over the sparrows eyeing our bird condo. I was enjoying the hard work, fresh air, sunshine, and ridiculously mild temperatures.

So when that feeling started to peek out, I cautiously allowed it out of its hiding spot for a quick look around. No commitment -- just a hello. Eyeballing it before trying it on to see if it might still fit me.

And then, Friday. A sudden doctor visit for my precious father. A minor emergency quickly turning into dread as a possible return of cancer is discovered and biopsied. My husband, who worked the evening shift that day, gets up close and personal with a deer on his way home. Thankfully, he was spared injury. The car...not so much.

Just another day in paradise.

Reluctantly, I fold up my old friend and return it to its hiding spot, closing the door and turning the key. I guess it doesn't fit after all. At least, not now.

- Lori Sandys Lapierre

January

Midwestern winters.

Those who have experienced one knows the beginning of the year in Ohio is gray, bleak, freezing, snowy.

We've come to expect it. Surviving January is a rite of passage -- February may be difficult, but it's only one month away from the spring we've earned.

By the time March rolls around, we're as tired of sledding, hot cocoa and warm fires as we are piles of dirty slush, wearing five layers and falling on our keester in the icy driveway.

How we looked forward to all the charm that winter had to offer just a short time ago.

Such a fickle people we are.

What we once viewed as new and exciting becomes mundane and challenging. What we once looked forward to has become dull and expected. Charm dissipates into daily drudge. Joy only occasionally lifts its head, afraid of what might happen if it shows itself.

Before we know it, life has turned into a midwestern winter.

January in Ohio.

Winter has raged a little too long in my soul of late. What should have just been a cold snap has, at times, exhibited blizzard-like whiteouts that had me pulling over to the side of the road, unable to see a foot in front of me. Dumped piles of wet, heavy snow on my plans. Hidden the sun behind gray clouds for months on end.

Iced over my heart.

But like all good midwesterners, I plod on through the unwelcome winter. I work. Raise the children. Tackle the chores and errands. Feed the cat. Go to church. Pay the bills.

Do it all again tomorrow. And the day after that.

And dream of spring.

So this January has surprised me.

Instead of piles of snow, we are waterlogged. It may rain all morning, only to erupt into sunshine and bizarrely mild temperatures by lunch. The girls and I slightly bundle up to venture out into this odd winter that seems displaced, somehow lost from our southern neighbors. They are delighted to ride bikes, chalk the driveway, dig in the dirt. I am equally delighted to rake the yard, make leaf compost, and dig in the dirt.

Flowerbeds have been expanded. Neatened. Straightened. A new one planned and begun.

The weather is confusing my yard. Trees and bushes are budding. Bulbs are peeking out of their cold beds.

I worry -- we could have a hard freeze. I hate to see them go to so much effort to share beauty and live  life...only to be ruined by forces beyond their control.

Yet it doesn't seem to deter them. They remain stubbornly in place, ignoring the cold winds, reaching for whatever sunshine they are offered -- convinced they will bloom brilliantly when spring returns.

Perhaps....like me.

If I can just get through January.

Different

I do not fit in.

At 43, I still feel -- scarily often -- that I am gazing inside at the party from the outside stoop...and wondering if I have time to leave before anyone sees me.

In my teens, this was a disaster. While I didn't "have" to have a boyfriend, I felt more lovable when I did. I rode the waves of daily change -- who was mad at who, dating who, not speaking to who, broken up with who -- within my group of friends to remain secure on shaky, teenage-angst-riddled ground. I cut my long hair to look like Princess Diana (admit it -- your eyes rolled on that pronouncement) because it was "in". I kissed boys I didn't even like during "Spin The Bottle" to not be different.

Better to fit in than admit discomfort.

In my twenties, I was busy building a life. A country girl on the city campus. The thought of living with a stranger in a teeny dorm room was appalling, so I worked full-time and attended night classes instead. I preferred discussing books to partying and lunching with older co-workers to my peers. I married someone not from my hometown. I relocated to a new city for a new job and started all over with new people. I put off having children -- for fifteen years -- when everyone else didn't.

Different, different, different.

In my thirties, I was settled into my life, my job, my friends...many of whom I assumed would be sitting around a table with me when we were old and gray, laughing about our youthful antics and commiserating about our husbands of a hundred years.

Not one, but two of those friends sharply pulled away -- a small offense in their mind turning into something so monumental that no amount of sincere, apologetic words on my part could whittle away.

Then I suffered a traumatic miscarriage after an unexpected pregnancy. The silence was deafening. Nearly all of the friendships I perceived as forged on solid ground came undone in a heap of no calls, no cards -- no discussion.

In seeking depth and substance, I was once again different.

And alone.

I guess I can't blame anyone else for my odd-duck ways. I'm still dealing with temper tantrums and diapers when many my age are sending kids to college. I'd rather read a good book than watch much on TV. I prefer thrift stores and yards sales to Macy's or Nordstrom's -- even (gasp!) Kohl's. I devour gardening books and secretly plot to encourage my neighbors to grow less grass. In a suburb. I enjoy talking to complete strangers in bathrooms over attending a party. I eschew sleeping in for quiet, childless mornings to stare at this stupid computer screen and wonder how I can transfer the jumble of thoughts in my head to something ...some coherent or even witty intellectualism....that will make someone else sit up and think, "Eureka! That's me! I'm not...alone."

As different as I am -- and I've been told by a friend of nearly 40 years that I do march to the beat of a different drum -- I suspect I am not alone.

The good news for my younger friends is, that as you enter your fourth decade, you care less what others think. Who you are is more important than what someone else wants you to be. Your quirks are yours. You can bravely admit to and own them.

Or to hold them, along with your cautious heart, as you stand on that stoop looking in; before taking a deep breath, opening the door, and once again sharing the quirky, different, real  -- you.

Conundrums

I am a conundrum.

Or perhaps my life is. Frankly, I'm not sure which perpetrator to blame.

To quote an old Abba song, "I'm nothing special...in fact, I'm a bit of a bore."

My life is ordinary: Wife of twenty years. Mother of five (years, that is!). Sister. Daughter. Neighbor.

My hobbies include music, reading, and tearing up anything that resembles grass in my yard.

I make sure my children are educated, bathed, fed, polite (mostly) and wear clean underwear. Just in case.

I eat fairly healthy. I work out (occasionally). I go to church. I pay my taxes.

See? B-O-R-I-N-G. 

Further proof is that a former childhood classmate sent me a scathing email upon friending me. Apparently, my Facebook posts needed drama, dirt or devilment. Preferably all three.

My life was -- in that individual's opinion -- too normal.

There are definite advantages to normal. Schedules are kept. Bills are paid. The house is neat...somewhat. Responsibilities are met.

And perhaps, for me, that's the real conundrum.

I do all that is asked of me in my normal life. Most of the time, I do it fairly well. I cook dinner, keep up with laundry, get the oil changed. I read to my kids, call my parents, play piano at church. I recycle, vacuum, moisturize.

Normal, normal, normal.

But who I really am is buried under layers of the dreaded...responsibility.

Who I am, and who I secretly wish to be, are hidden away -- at war with each other and my normal life.

I am:
     - the seventh child in a mixed family of Depression-era parents.
     - a kindergartener crying over a kitten crushed by a school bus.
     - an unsure eighth grader who disjointedly fits in...just.
     - the freshman who eschews competition after a teacher wields it for entertainment.
    - the junior who breaks off from her safety net to make new friends. 
     - the non-traditional college student who cannot fathom the allure of campus life. 
     - the newlywed looking out over the Smokies with so much hope
     - the dutiful employee working my way up the promotional payscale
     - a mother at thirty-eight and forty

I secretly wish to be:
     - a travel writer, criscrossing the globe with only deadlines and flight schedules as rulers
     - a daredevil who is unafraid to try anything...excluding skydiving
     - known deeply by the people that matter
     - a writer whose words matter beyond the words
     - financially independent so I could travel with my children 
     - the best friend my true friends could ever have
     - alone

That last one shocks me at times, too. The pull of solitude is strong, battling with everything my seemingly-normal life demands. Am I drawn to writing because I am a solitary figure? Or do I seek solitude because I so desperately need to write?

A mystery. An enigma.

The conundrum that is me.