You Are the Star Tonight

At the Starbucks drive-thru yesterday, the barista told me about how she has no responsibilities, except a job and a cat. So I laughed because I had just told her that I have almost four kids, two other dogs, other than the one she was giving a pup cup to, a cat, a mortgage, and more than one job. She said, “Look at you! All here and doing stuff.” And I said, “And look at you! Smiling and showing up for a job that involves cheerfully seeing people.” Handling money, masks, and morons. Loving a cat, and maybe more. We’re all doing things that may seem big to others, and they are doing things that seem big to us. Sometimes I wake up and I can walk three miles, with a toddler, and being seven months pregnant. And this is before and after all the work. At night, daily, I sink into the couch with the literal and figurative weights of insanity and stress and noise.

So it’s no wonder that my hips ache, at my age, and being seven+ months pregnant, and hefting a 16-month-old on my left hip, all day, every day. Up and down stairs, and maneuvering hallways, doorways, and the ups and downs of our emotions and moods. There are so many of us, lately, and always. I grew up with so much noise and activity. Too much, so that I wanted nothing to do with it for years, and now I’m back to craving it. It’s my destiny, I think. Noise and weight. I’m very used to being limber, and yes, even at my age, and being seven+ months pregnant, and hefting a very adorable and mischievous toddler on my left hip, all day, every day. He’s the kind of kid who snuggles and reasons and feels. He might also grin at us while sticking his fingers into the electric socket. No, not a difficult child. Healthy and bright and mellow and whiny. Not difficult, but not easy. No one is easy, when you’re lifting up their literal and figurative weights.

So I maneuver through in this weird way. Sometimes my brain is quiet and sometimes so loud. Sometimes the news is quiet, as if it has no idea what to say or do. As is the case for these past two years or so. Sometimes I’m full of whims and work and inspiration, and other times I can barely do the dishes. Yet, the inspiration circles back around, and then I find myself back in the spotlight, creating content, liking that content, getting engagement, saying the right things at the right times, and just getting a lot right. You know how it is to be on fire, and also to be cold.

I’m learning to be ok with that. I don’t know that I’d want full control on having these “on” and “off” periods, because then wouldn’t I always want to be on, 24/7? And the off periods help me appreciate the warmth and vigor even more, and as I age, I have the new stability of realizing that they always do come back. And, I think, they always will. I was trying to explain to Scarlet why I’m more spiritual in my older age, than even when I was younger, because I have built up a strong supply of stories, of love and light and music and timing. And ultimately, a strong supply of stories about myself and my loved ones showing up and doing the work and leaving hearts and arms and minds open to amazing possibilities. I don’t know where this magic comes from, but we can give the credit to ourselves, to the wind in the trees, and to all kinds of human/earth milestones and missions. Mediations and meditations. I don’t need any explanations anymore.

I wanted kids for many reasons, but one was to tell the stories, the made up ones and real life ones, and the wonderful and twisted ways they all meet in the middle. They’re darker than I ever imagined, and that’s the reality of mental illness and trauma and aching. They’re also lighter than I ever imagined, as we age gracefully, we hope, into more acceptance, peace, and maybe understanding. The fairy tale stories of doors in floors, a breeze through the trees, and so many happily ever afters. And the real life stories of open doors, a breeze through the trees, and the happiness in any given moment, without looking too far ahead, or too far behind. It’s darkness, and the shadows, and the spotlights. The chances we get to shine, and shine our light onto ours.