Breathing Underwater

Last week, two of my high school classmates died. Yesterday, I found out another friend is seriously ill. Someone else I know recently lost a pregnancy. Another person was diagnosed with cancer. There is so much pain in the world... even in my little corner of it. And so much loss. And myself? Well, I've spent a lot of time lately feeling tired and frustrated - pulled in a million different directions. I'm not sleeping well. I hurt all the time. I'm trying to just get on with things but I'm down. Really down. I want a month (or 6) to do absolutely nothing but read books and take my dog for walks. I want to go to the beach. And stay there. Forever. I want time. I want a break. I want a new president. I want Life to be good and happy and easy for EVERYONE for just a little while. I want... I want... I want... I read something the other day that made me think... it went something like this:  There are people who are, right this moment, wishing for what

During my Facebook scroll the other day, I noted that someone I dated briefly had gotten married. The pictures were lovely... the bride was beautiful... my former date (he wasn't an actual boyfriend) was handsome. It was nice. I was happy for him. Mostly. No, I was. Really. I swear. But I realized that barring one person, every single guy I dated during the period of my post-divorce existence called ' When Diane Actually Had a Social Life ' is now married. And that one? In a serious relationship. Even my ex-husband remarried. And redivorced. And HIS ex-wife remarried! And here I am. Lalalalalalalalalala... just sittin' here, lalalala-ing. To myself. By myself. My marriage ended nearly 15 years ago. Fifteen. And of those fifteen years, I probably dated for a solid two of them. Maybe two-and-a-half. And I don't even remember the last date. Really. I honestly don't remember it... not when or with whom I went out (that sounds pretentious, I know, but I

A few weeks ago, I started a pottery class at our city parks and rec department. It's something I've wanted to do for years, but I could never fit it into my schedule or budget. Then, a few weeks ago, there was a class listed in the spring activity guide, on the one night I don't have to struggle to make time, for a price I could afford. Squee! I signed up right away and got the last slot (whew!). We've had three classes so far and it's been so much fun! The teacher is great, the other people in the class are kind and encouraging and funny, and learning something new - especially something creative - has been much a much-needed respite from the same-old, same-old. But it's not easy.  I realized tonight that making pottery - or attempting to make pottery - is a lot like Life .  1. It's messy. Lord have mercy, it's messy.  2. If you don't prepare well, all the flaws in the clay will show... and weaken it. 3. It requires an am

"I have come to believe that caring for myself is not self-indulgent. Caring for myself is an act of survival." Audre Lorde First thing Friday morning, my boss opened our staff meeting by asking all of us for our ' self care plans .' I love that she's concerned with our overall well-being and not just how we're managing at work. We're a small non-profit that does social work and our jobs are demanding and stressful. When you work for and with clients who need so much from you, it can be really easy to get caught up in them... and forget about you. And when you empty all your reserves, you have nothing left for anyone else. Our boss knows this (she's a keeper, really).   A few people looked like deer caught in headlights. Our office is primarily made up of women - women who have to take care of other people besides themselves. Several have little ones at home and, from experience, I know it can be really difficult to focus on yourself when y

In 1975, I was 10-years-old. That year, a new show came on television - One Day at a Time . It starred Bonnie Franklin as Ann Romano - a single mother of two teenage girls, just trying to to make it through Life, quite literally, one day at a time. My mother wouldn't let me watch it. It was "too liberal" (which was a word I heard later, when I was a bit older and asked her again why she didn't like the show). What I knew at the time was that being a single mother was bad (but I didn't know why). And I knew that talking openly about (anything) topics like sex and drugs was really bad (but I didn't know why). Regardless, we only had one channel and choices were limited, so I watched the show anyway... very, very quietly (my mother might have been a little woman, but she could be scary). I liked Ann Romano. A lot. She was tough. She was pretty cool. Her kids talked to her in an open, honest way - a way I never talked to my own mother (not then, and not a

Yesterday, during an email conversation with an old friend, I commented that my life has not turned out the way I meant it to; that (although I didn't have an actual plan [which might be a big part of my problem]) I feel I've squandered my potential and have missed out on some pretty significant milestones (like finding true love and a real home ). He (gently) yelled at me. He told me that was ridiculous. He pointed out the many things I have accomplished and said I should be proud of my life and myself. His words were not new to me. And though they shifted my perspective and perception in that moment, I had to admit that they are words I've heard before - words that others who love me have uttered (or yelled... gently... or not). But my perspective and perception always shift back. I replied that I know my deep, dark secrets. I know the ugly things I think/have said/ have done. I know the shortcuts I've taken, the plans I've abandoned, and the many, ma

During my scroll on Facebook the other day, I noticed that a friend of mine is planning a different sort of Lenten challenge... instead of giving up chocolate or booze or crappy television, she's giving up clutter. She's doing this  40 Bags in 40 Days  challenge.  Cool.  So, here I'm sitting, thinking: I've got clutter. I've got bags. I've got 40 days (god, I hope I've got 40 days!). OK, so I'm an Atheist and I don't do Lent... but Christians don't have the market cornered on reformation, right? Well, not this sort of reformation, right?  Right.  OK! It's on like Donkey Kong, man! I'mma declutter the hell out of Lent!  (Pretty sure there's a religious joke in there somewhere...) Between now and Easter (with one day per week off [if the Christians can take Sundays off, I can surely take Friday nights]), I'm going to remove 40 bags of crap from my house.  Bam! Apparently, there are no rules regarding what t

I started blogging eleven years ago (on my  old blog ). Back then my daughter Ryan was 8-years-old. She was brilliant and beautiful, gregarious, precocious and wise beyond her years, willful, stubborn, talented, creative, quick-witted, and hilarious. She loved to swim and read and write stories and go camping. She had just given up her belief in Santa and the Easter Bunny, but she was holding (if tenuously) onto the certainty that fairies were real and existed in our garden. She was perfect - to me - in that way that parents see perfection in their children; not in their behavior (lord knows!) or in their physicality, but in the pieces of them that come from the purest parts of ourselves - those parts formed of deep and abiding love, untainted by pain and loss. Perfect. Today, she is 19 and a sophomore at one of the best universities in the country.  She is still all of the things she was when she was 8 - brilliant, beautiful, gregarious, wise, willful, stubborn, talent