Hibernation: Winter is here

bookends new year 1

I am in full hibernation mode. Winter does this to me. It’s a time to retreat, reflect and restore. A time to sleep in and draw the covers tighter to your chin, linger over cups of coffee and tea, read a book on the couch by the warmth of a fire.

I’ve grown fonder of winter over the last few years. I loved it as a kid. Hot chocolate with pillows of whipped cream, scarves and boots, sledding and snowsuits, mom’s creamy casserole, snowflakes and blankets, hours of movies and mid-afternoon naps, early dismissal and snow days.

Winter makes me feel alive—its crisp, cold air fills my lungs and wakes up my body. I like walking in the woods this time of year, where it’s quieter than other seasons. Just me, my dog, the creak of the pine trees and the crunch of layers of frozen leaves under my boots.

bookends new year 3

Since December 1, my last official day of the semester, I have pretty much done nothing, at least it feels like nothing. This “doing nothing” is difficult for me to do. I struggle with being still, not producing, not in motion. Doing. Doing. Doing. Before December, I spent four months just “doing”, more accurately, overdoing. I stretched and squeezed in as many tasks, errands, emails, pages in a book, dinners, and coffee dates. This is what grad school looks like: eat, sleep, read, study, go to class, go to work, repeat. (Notice how showering wasn’t part of that cycle.) This is what grad school looks like in a counseling program: eat, sleep, read, study, go to work, go to class, cry, reflect, cry some more, feel, feel, feel, cry some more, think, think, think, cry, grow, grow, grow, cry, reflect, repeat.

December 1 arrived and I slipped into my December coma. I haven’t felt like writing. I haven’t felt much like doing anything really. My counselor says I am in recovery from this year. This is human. … This year and all of its challenges, surprises, turbulence, and layer upon layer of traumas. On my first official day of my semester break, I stayed in bed and watched movies. All. Day. Long. Flannel jammies, tea, muffins, naps, white twinkle string lights. Repeat.

bookends new year 2

Day of Nothing. Otherwise known as best day ever.

 

I have been out of it since the middle of December and don’t feel like going back to work.

I overhear someone say this to a friend in the tea shop where I often come to write. I haven’t written here since August, but this place still feels like home and it’s where I tend to do my best writing. I warm my hands wrapped around my cup of spiced orange tea. It was five degrees earlier. I think it’s 15 now. Progress. The South cannot cope with cold. Me? I am leaning into it. Wool socks, boots, plaid scarf layered around my neck, my favorite grey, bulky, wool sweater. In the afternoon I’ll go for a walk in the woods with my four-legged companion and then we’ll take a nap on the couch. This is what you’re supposed to do in winter. Isn’t it?

It doesn’t feel like a new year. On Sunday, I lit every candle in the house, made a special dinner of lobster tail and clam chowder for my husband and me, and we watched movies until midnight approached. I held my flute of Prosecco in my hands as my husband and I cuddled under blankets and watched the ball drop in Times Square. As the countdown to 2018 began, I felt nothing. No excitement. No pang of hope. No giddiness of anticipation. It just was. We clinked glasses, kissed, and I took a sip of my bubbles. I poured the rest down the drain and stumbled sleepy-eyed into bed.

Have no expectations and you won’t be disappointed, I keep telling myself.

bookends new year 5

A book of Jane Kenyon poems and Rumi are near me today. Before you know kindness, you must lose things. Isn’t that what Jane Kenyon said? I keep re-reading Rumi’s “The Guest House.”

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

As an unexpected visitor.

2017 was a year of unexpected visitors—literally and figuratively. Chronic illness, a diagnosis, and then another and another. A car accident that almost took my life. Trips to the ER. A fatigue that entered my body and settled there for months. A fall and back surgery. And then there were the visitors I welcomed. My acceptance letter to grad school. My job working with assault survivors. Claiming and declaring my identity as a survivor. Marching with my best friend and 5 million others around the world. The summer, the beach, the bliss before I knew what fall would bring. My mother flying 2,000 miles and showing up at my door to take care of me. Our late-night talk, the tears, the understanding, the forgiveness, and the ice cream sundaes we made after. A home-cooked meal from a dear friend, hand-delivered with gooey, fudge brownies. The community I found among my classmates, a balm during the toughest months of this year. My family. My husband. My village. My sweet, comforting dog. And love, love, love. … Always love. This is the joy. This is the pain.

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

Unexpected visitors are just that: visitors, temporary passersby. All things must pass.  The good, the bad, the bittersweet, I am thankful for it all. They cannot exist without each other. They are both needed, necessary for living. There lie the lessons.

This year I learned I am resilient. I learned I am a workaholic and what stress can do to the mind, body and spirit. I learned that a mother’s love is like no other—unconditional, unwavering, steady, reliable, constant, whole. I learned to ask for help, to stop trying to prove to myself and to others that I can do this alone. This. What is the this? All of it. I learned that community can be cultivated in the most unexpected places, and how that community will help hold you up when you collapse into tears in the public restroom, deliver homemade meals to your door, send you loving texts and snippets of videos declaring how much they miss you.

bookends new year 6

 

Equipped by pain.

I heard someone say this recently and how they feel their painful experiences have equipped them to step into the New Year, maybe like wearing their pain like a suit of armor or a scarlet letter, as if to say, I’ve been through some shit. Approach carefully. Tread lightly.

I used to look forward to each New Year, but now there is a part of me that fears it, the unknown, whatever is lurking around the corner, the next unexpected visitor. But I am equipped by pain, this pain, like a familiar highway. I know each way it bends and curves, where it ends, where it begins, the stops in between. It’s taught me how to navigate this life. I remember my counselor asking me in 2016: How will you carry your grief? It took me a year before I learned that to carry it, I needed to accept it.

Why do you stay in prison when the door is so wide open?

Rumi, again.

On New Year’s Eve, I read aloud the moments I scribbled on slips of paper and kept in a jar marked “Good Things.” The idea was to capture the bright spots throughout the year, the simple moments of daily gratitude. I vowed to fill up the jar, but only made it halfway. Maybe this year.

Always look for the beauty; that’s me. But I slipped up quite a few times this year and lost sight of it. Pain can do that. Still, when I look back on 2017, love outshines the pain. During this difficult year, love was present; I felt it in my chest, expanding and stretching, taking up space. It never left me. It was there the whole time. And it’s love that what will carry me into the new year. Steady, unconditional, constant.

bookends new year 7

***

 

Advertisements

Be the light in the darkness

bookends-blog-pics-candle

Photos by Carla Kucinski

It’s 3:30 on a Wednesday. Three days before Christmas. I am sitting in my favorite tea shop, sipping a cup of hot cocoa that tastes like a melted milk chocolate bar. I feel its warmth as it travels down my throat and warms my insides. These next two weeks are all about comfort and self-care. Pause. Rest. Reflect.

My eyes burn from the lack of sleep I had last night. I painted my eyelids with grey eyeliner and combed my lashes with thick black mascara to make myself look and feel more awake than I am. I stayed up most of the night with my dog Molly who had a tumor removed from her chest the previous day. It was a fatty tumor about the size of golf ball near her shoulder, with a smaller bump that had appeared last month. When we picked her up after her surgery, our vet was certain the smaller tumor was cancer and sent it out for further testing.

That night, I slept with Molly on the couch with our tower of pillows and piles of blankets and stroked her head as she whined through the night. Every time she whimpered I Googled: Dog, pain, surgery, whining—trying to find ways to soothe her. There’s nothing worse than hearing an animal suffer and knowing there’s not much you can do but be there—be her comfort, her security for all the times she has been yours. As I sat beside her on the couch, I propped my head up with the palm of my hand to keep myself from nodding off while I stroked her silky ears. I started thinking about earlier this year when she didn’t leave my side the entire time I was recovering from my miscarriage. She camped out on the couch with me, nuzzled her muzzle into the crook of my arm and slept with me for days. When I cried, she licked the tears on my face. Now it was my turn to take care of her.

Molly recuperating after surgery. (All photos by Carla Kucinski.)

Molly recuperating after surgery. 

Fucking cancer. This year it already invaded the lives of three people I love, and now my dog. Eight days later, good news arrived. Lab results were in and it was in fact a mast cell tumor, grade II, but our vet was able to get the entire tumor, which meant no follow-up treatment with chemo drugs. “This is all good, good, good, good, news,” Dr. Fuller sang into the phone. I threw my arms around Molly’s big neck and wept. She celebrated with a Kong bone filled with peanut butter.

A two-inch scar remains where Molly’s tumor was removed. We called her Frankenpup for the first few days. We needed to find some humor in all of this as we waited to find out whether our dog had cancer. Over the last 10 days, the scar has changed from a jagged, angry red line to a faded pink scar. The fur where they shaved her is started to grow back in as if nothing ever happened. It made me think of a passage I read recently in “Tiny Buddha’s Guide to Loving Yourself 40 Ways” about finding beauty in your scars. “I see scars and I see stories. I see a being who has lived, who has depth, who is a survivor. Living is beautiful. … We may hurt, but we will heal … ”

My pup is a survivor. I suppose I am, too.

I can’t help but think of my own scars that I earned this year. 2016 has been challenging and exhausting. I am tired. So tired. I feel like I’ve been on a treadmill all year, and now I can finally get off and rest. I’ve been off from work since Dec. 18, which leaves lots of open days to just drift. It’s one of the rare times of the year where I let myself be lazy and quiet. My muscles ache. Even my bones feel tired. I thought maybe it was because of this sinus infection I’ve been battling on and off for the past few weeks, but honestly, I think it’s the weight of this year, still trying to hang on and drag me down. It’s like I’ve been carrying fistfuls of stones in my pockets this past year. But it’s time to finally let it all go. That phrase, “let it go,” has been a thread in this journey of ups and downs. I’m still not sure I’ve mastered the act, or even know how to begin. I’m learning.

Earlier this year my therapist, told me that I needed to decide how I wanted to carry this grief. What did I want it to look like? How did I want to feel carrying it? I think I started out holding this weight of grief, heavy like wet clay, in my heart and my stomach for months. Eventually the weight shifted and I carried it on my side, like I was holding a basketball that I could put down or pick up at any time. Some days my grief still feels like a boulder, other days it feels like a single stone. I want to pick it up and launch it into a lake, hear it kurplunk in the water, sink to the bottom, never to be found again. But it’s a part of me now, and always will be. I just need to learn how to carry it, live in harmony with it. I’m learning.

bookends-dec_beach2

Every year on the evening of winter solstice, my yoga studio hosts a ceremony that involves reflection and meditation with a few yoga poses thrown in. I went for the first time last year and found the experience cathartic and moving. The practice involves a “letting go” segment (there’s that phrase again) where we each hold in our hand a smooth, charcoal grey stone and breathe, meditate, and do a few gentle yoga poses while focusing on the things that no longer serve you and that you want to let go of. As I laid on my mat, the stone cold in the palm of my right hand, I thought about the past year and what I wanted to rid myself of. My cheeks became wet with tears. There was still so much pain weighing me down. All the “what ifs” and “what would have been” or “could have been” circled in my mind.

I found out on Christmas Eve that I was pregnant. I remember my heart racing as I looked at the two pink lines in disbelief. I flung open the bathroom door and yelled to Andrew, “I’m pregnant!” It was 5:30 in the morning. We had to wake up early for the 10-hour drive to his parents’ house in New Jersey. Andrew was half-sitting up in bed with a pillow propped up behind him, bleary-eyed but awake. I’ll never forget his smile that morning. I jumped on top of him and then Molly tried jumping in the bed with us. It feels like it was all a dream, but my heart says otherwise.

bookends-dec_heart

I poured into that stone my sadness, pain, fears, uncertainties, worries and all of the hurt so many of my close friends have endured this year. I was one of the first people to drop my stone in the middle of a circle of flickering tea lights. I couldn’t wait to get rid of it. As soon as it left my hand, my heart felt lighter hearing the weight of it hit the floor. It was a release from this chaotic year; even if it was temporary, it felt freeing.

A few days after Thanksgiving, a tarot card reader told me I was in my Wheel of Fortune Year, which is characterized by upheaval and change that will be painful, traumatic and shocking. She described it as having no control as life spun out of control. And there’s no time to adjust to each change. That’s certainly how this year has gone so far—a series of traumas, losses and heartache. But she also said it was a year of tremendous growth and advised me not to stay stagnant, to shake things up, take risks and be open to creating new opportunities. I definitely haven’t been sitting idle.

“You’re lucky you’re alive,” a friend said to me the other day, looking me square in the eyes. She is Vietnamese and follows Chinese astrology. I’m a monkey, and this past year was the Year of the Monkey. I thought that meant it was my year. My friend told me it was the opposite: when it’s your year, it’s the worst year. The Chinese new year began on Feb. 8. That same day I found out we lost our baby. My year of bad luck had begun.

But the winter solstice ceremony helped me remember the bright spots in 2016. As my teacher asked us to think about the good memories, I closed my eyes and started to smile as images of this past year flashed in my mind. I thought of all the places I’ve been. Me and Andrew in Maine. Vistas. Walks on a rocky cliff overlooking the ocean. Lobster and warm melted butter. Atlantic Beach and its sparkling ocean. Reading on the deck. Sunsets. Sunrises. Laughing at Molly chasing birds in the water. Roanoke. The bitter cold. The wind chill. February. Valentine’s Day. Dinner and martinis. A rock show. Fire places in the lobby. The sun cutting through the trees. Asheville. Cocktails at a sidewalk café. Mountains. Us. Life returning to normal. Late night heart-to-hearts with my oldest sis on her couch in our pajamas and glasses. Sipping rosé with Gina and Marco. Laughing. Crying. Sharing our life’s stories. The sweet ending of summer. Swimming in the lake at Omega. Napping under the trees and summer sun. Meeting Janie. Meeting Janine. Facing my fears. Reading my work to strangers. Crying in front of strangers. Being vulnerable. The drive home. The Catskills. The Hudson–the magnificent Hudson. Lobster fest under white twinkle lights. Tasting my first oyster, a mix of salt and sea. Being the surprise at your best friend’s birthday party. Pajama parties. Cocoa. Laughing until your face hurts. Old movies. Balloons on my birthday. Snowflakes. Sunshine. The turning of leaves.

bookends-dec_leaves2

Life can be ugly, but also beautiful. The two cannot exist without the other. The good still outweighs the bad, and yet, why is it always the bad stuff that seems to lodge itself in the forefront of my brain and loop on repeat? Why can’t my mind be flooded with the good memories?

Addison texted me the other day and said we were like the phoenix rising from the ashes. This year was an opportunity for me to grow. I came to some realizations about my future, and I’ve been making steps toward fulfilling my plan to create a richer, fuller life. When I look at myself in the mirror, I mean really look at myself, I see someone with scars but also someone who has chosen not to hide them. They are proof of my strength and resilience, a reminder of what I’ve survived and what I’ve lived. I no longer want to honor my pain and sadness and grief. I want to make whole this sutured heart of mine. It’s time I start honoring the joy in my present life and give power to that and not the past. No more looking back.

Kabir says, “Wherever you are is the entry point.” As I walk into 2017, I imagine myself digging my hands into my pockets and pulling out fistfuls of stones and letting them slip out of my hands as I walk forward and leave them in my wake. They are no longer coming with me on this journey. There isn’t any room. There’s only room for joy. I have to believe there is a greater path, destiny for me that I will follow. Grief made me feel trapped. Unmovable. And I think this is what these last few days of 2016 have been about for me. Sitting with my grief. Really sitting with it, embracing it, having a talk with it. I’m done with you. We’re breaking up. I need to come home to myself. This is my entry point into true peace.

The winter solstice ceremony closed with each of us lighting the candle of the person next to us until the entire room was aglow in candle light. I looked around at the faces in the room, glowing in the golden light, and I saw a diversity of expressions: peace, joy, sadness, pain. Me? I felt like my entire body was smiling. “Be the light in the darkness,” my teacher said as she lifted her candle. It made me think of the famous quote by Rumi: “The wound is the place where the light enters you.” In those moments of darkness when it seems no light can get in, I vow to find it and not lose sight of it as I head into the new year with an open heart and open mind. I owe that to myself. 2016, I’m letting you go.

Some of the bright spots …

bookends-dec_pjs

bookends-dec_bellylaughs

bookends-dec_gilmore

bookends-dec_leaves

bookends-dec_snow

bookends-dec_beach

fam

bookends-dec_janine

bookends-dec_family

bookends-dec_lobsterfest

bookends-dec_singingtomolly

IMG_8544

AcadiaSelfieWeb

IMG_7591

IMG_7569

Cadillac2Web

img_8419

img_6807

img_7106

img_5795

img_5818

bookends-dec_kurt

bookends-dec_tattoo

bookends-dec_woodie

bookends-dec_dad

bookends-dec_wilco

bookends-dec_molly2

bookends-dec_hockey

bookends-dec_sunflowers

bookends-dec_bicep

bookends-dec_beach_sun