Eleven hours and ten minutes ago, O came in from the garage.
"Mom, do you think you're going to live 55 more years?" he called.
"I don't know. That'd make me 100," I replied.
"I know," he answered.
"I'm going for 40 more," I went on, secretly thrilled that he'd done the math. "85 is probably good. Anything more than that would be great, but 85 is my goal," I smiled.
Delaney interjected her six year old logic, "Do you think you'll live to 85?"
"I hope so!" I laughed, making "muscles". I was not laughing inside though, because daughters watch their mothers. and Delaney has watched me consistently fighting 2-3 migraines per month by curling up in bed and trying to sleep it off, limping around with my new friend plantar fasciitis, and also consistently not going to the gym D. and I joined last December. She has watched me hack and sniffle for the past six weeks, too stubborn to remember the allergy meds that helped so much at the end of last Spring. At the same time, I watched myself not employing healthy habits, from sleep to caffeine to nutrition to general housecleaning. I reserved all my energy for my job, and a sense of general malaise permeated the rest of my existence, meaning my home and family. It was as if I was a glass jar with the lid screwed too tightly from Sunday afternoon to Friday mid-morning, and the contents of the jar growing rancid inside. And a sense of resentment and anger brewing within.
I speak in the past tense because at the exact moment that Owen spoke those words I felt a shift. I had been viewing the world from my own spot in "early middle age", the part of life where you are more than half done living. My various ailments providing "reasons" if you will against me being able to properly adult. (Good on you, twentysomethings, for finding one verb that encompasses everything adults need to do to function adequately. It is a lot.) The shift I felt was that holding all my tension in my jaw (or shoulders or tummy or wherever the masseuse feels it that day) was not serving me, my anger and resentment was not serving me or anyone in my path, and that it was time to release it. Time to genuinely try though. Each New Year I pick a word as a focus for that year. Here are my words for the past 9 years:
2008 sparkle . 2009 bounce . 2010 twinkle . 2011 breathe . 2012 unplug .
2013 meditate
2014 love wins (Glennon, right?)
2015 service (first noun)
2016 {wordless pause}
2017 release (first half)
2017 nourish (second half)
so it's not like letting go hasn't been on my mind. it just hasn't been on my heart.
It's like Owen put it on my heart. Because I don't have half a chance to get to 85 without letting some of the (*#&^ go. So, here's to the final three months of the year. (Okay, 2 1/2) Here's to releasing some of the pain, some of the blame, some of the anger. And here's to 45!
