Holiday Treasures and a Family-Infused New Year!

Part of our New Year's Eve involved packing up the holiday decorations. As we only had a very small artificial tree this year due to location, I had to be highly selective about which decorations I brought. I didn't go for fancy or beautiful or the most expensive, I chose the photo ornaments the kids painted each year when they were little and the ones they selected each year that hold memories (like the monkey ornament that's missing a foot because my youngest, who selected it while shopping at Cost Plus Market, thought the foot of said monkey tasted great!). 

I also brought the Star of David tree topper that I made out of cardboard, tinfoil, a chopstick and some ribbon the first year in our new home to honor my traditions and as well as my husband's. It was meant to be a temporary fix until we could find or make a better one, but now, 18 years later, we tenderly keep this homemade tree topper alive for another year...and hopefully another after that. When I asked my boys if we should bring the tree topper this year due to its fragile state, they exclaimed, "Of course!" As if the idea of NOT having it was blasphemy! This is how ordinary stuff becomes treasure. And the treasures are the only things that made the journey with us this year. 

Our year abroad taught us a lot about treasures and meaning and the insignificance of stuff. I'm deeply grateful on this New Year's morning for the lessons we gained that year and which continue to inform our family life. Spending NYE last night with our boys, talking, reflecting, and collectively as well as personally looking to our new year, set my heart and my family on firm ground for this new year. I'm not sure we would have done it, nor that our teenagers would have complied if not for the year we spent somewhat trapped together and learning that organic and forced family time nourishes all our souls. 

May the new year bring your family nourishing time together as well as nourishing time for each individual independently. At least for me, the two feed one another and make the other richer as a result of the pairing. And may you find and make treasures--from stuff embedded with meaning and treasured moments captured in memories forever. 

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Happy New Year! 

I Never Really Learned How To Be a Grown Up Woman

I don't think I ever really learned how to be a grown up woman...you know, like those women who know how to dress, how to do their hair and makeup, how to do small talk, that sort of thing. No matter what sort of business-like gathering of women I attend I seem to stick out as the unrefined one as if I have a sticker on my head that reads, "grew up swearing, lived in Hawaii where dressing up means fancy flip flops, and currently lives in a cabin in Topanga." You know what I mean?

Makes me think of the time I went to the Holiday Party of a business group my husband was a part of where the theme was "Sex in the City" and the instruction was "come as your favorite character." I took that to heart and channeling my inner Carrie, showed up in a bright pink tutu skirt and a blonde wig. Nearly everyone else heard the same instruction and understood it to mean, wear a sophisticated cocktail dress!

Where were these instructions taught? How come I missed them? How did I miss "Sex in the City--come as your favorite character" meant sophisticated (and mostly black) cocktail dress?! Is this what one learns reading Vogue, Cosmo, and I don't even know what other magazines? 

Maybe I was supposed to learn refinement in high school or college. Sure, I was a high school cheerleader and, not only was I in a sorority during my college years, I was the president. But let's take a look at these because I was not selected for either due to my refinement! 

I went to high school in Hawaii, so right there the definition of refinement has completely different meaning and tends to involve a surfboard, a bikini, and the ability to pronounce Hawaiian words with ease. I was skilled in only one of the three. But as to cheerleading...If there was something I could be involved in, I was. I joined the squad because I was joiner and rather LOUD. I could lead call and response chants without needing the aid of a megaphone. I wasn't a particularly coordinated dancer and I'm still rather klutzy, but LOUD? I had that down and still do. This might be a side effect of having seven siblings. 

And the sorority president...well, I rushed as a freshman in college at a rather conservatively leaning university and did not get on-campus housing. How was I going to find my people? Fortunately for me, I went into rush without many preconceived ideas about which sorority was the "best" or "coolest." I was pretty open to following my instinct. A friend told me the best method for figuring out which one would be right for you was to ask yourself while at a rush party, "would I be comfortable waking up around these women with no makeup and be completely yourself?" Since I didn't wear much makeup and didn't know how to be anyone else, this was rather important not just upon waking in the morning, but all the time. I was lucky and had my pick of sorority. I found women with whom I felt comfortable being silly, odd, and irreverent. In other words, I found my people and they were not one of THE sororities on campus. I guess because they were my people and equally comfortable in their own oddity, they made me president. I didn't run for office, I was slated, which is sort of where a committee picks who they think should be in each position and the chapter votes on the whole thing. No one got to complain that the newly slated president didn't shave her legs and was a "professional clown" on weekends, among other missing refinements!

Clearly, I didn't learn refinement from either my high school nor my college experiences. I didn't learn it in my years as a yoga instructor or yoga studio manager either; I worked barefooted and in yoga clothes! 

Working in birth hasn't really upped my finesse game either. We're a rather casual and crunchy bunch in general, but even there I have a tendency to find myself breaking established norms. I was the one at the annual awards banquet who dropped to the floor in her "prom dress" and did a mock labor contraction! Yep...so refined!

How does one learn the language of refinement in the middle of life?

Or, do we really need to? Yes, I was the first to dance on the tables at that Sex in the City party, but I was not the last. In the end, I think others had a pretty good time with my pink tutu and blonde wig, even though I was so out of my skin for the first hour or two and felt deeply relieved when we left.

Clearly, refinement isn't my superpower! Edgy, courageous, goofy, and a willingness to break out of the norms of completely respectable behavior--that's a bit closer.

The clash between my introvert (who just wants to blend in) and my extrovert (who loves to be the life of the party and to be seen) is horribly strong!

AND...There are times I have to play at the "Business Woman Table." If my career moves in the direction I desire, that will happen more and more. So what's an oddball like me to do?At those times, I will ask my energetic extrovert to show up and play, regardless of the looks, questions, or discomfort of my introverted side. I pledge to focus on connection with others and with my own authenticity in the midst of the discomfort. I will make it a practice. Personal growth shows up in so many ways.

That...and I'm going to go shopping with a friend who knows how to dress the part! Don't worry, I will always add something funky or a quirky piece of jewelry; something will always not quite work.  

I don't think fitting in will ever be my strength. 

Maybe that's my superpower. Maybe that's meant to be everyone's superpower.

And maybe each woman has her own unique flavor. My particular flavor is a bit irreverent: I swear, I wear my hair in a messy bun all. the. time. I wear lots of color when others wear black, I drop to the floor in mock contractions whenever I feel called, and I have a panache for reading "costume" into almost any dress code! Maybe it isn't that I need to learn how to be more refined. Maybe, I need to work on my definition of what it means to be an adult woman. For some that includes a flavor of refinement. For others, like me, not so much. 

Maybe being an adult woman means stocking our pantry boldly with all sorts of spices and flavoring our lives in exactly the way we feel called to do so! Time to get cooking!

The Myth of Self-Care

I often hear new parents, especially new mothers, talk about the importance of self-care. Birth professionals also drive home the need for new mothers to take care of themselves. And while I agree it is important to take care of oneself even while caring for a child, we can also use it against ourselves as one more way we aren't measuring up.

When our first child was born, my husband and I lived in a studio guest house.  We cooked, ate, slept, worked and socialized all in the same one room. For the first several days after Kaden was born even my mom shared that living space with us. Privacy wasn’t just a privilege; it was an unattainable illusion! Even though that baby is now driving, I remember those early days well. Each day was a process of going from diaper change to feeding and back again. In some ways, that one room made things simpler if not easier. The world my little family and I created was contained within one set of walls. The act of going from bed to kitchen involved not much more than a roll out of bed followed by a few steps or stumbles.

Not long after Kaden was born, we moved into our home. Suddenly, we had closing doors, the possibility of privacy, our baby had a room of his own, and we finally had a closet! And while the space brought breathing room for all of us, it also added to my list of things to “get done.” When wrapped in the womb of that small one room studio, we stumbled around those precious and difficult postpartum days. Nothing beyond caring for our new amazing family member held much importance. The rub really started after we moved, after our baby was less freshly born, and after I had a sense that I “got this.”

It was at that point where I began believing I could get shit done—dishes, the laundry, the toilets, the yard, the garbage, the in-laws, and my work. The to-do list grew along with my competence, keeping relaxation forever slightly out of reach. Around this time, I began hearing the mantra of self-care. Now, in addition to everything else on my to-do list, I also had to make sure I "took care of myself." 

A new mother is often already giving every ounce of her life force to care for her infant. New parenting alone takes a LOT out of us. Add to that the idea that a parent has to take a bath, or get to the gym, or "take some time for herself" and intensity only goes up. Instead of helping a mother actually tend to herself, the rally cry for self-care can make mothers weary, increasing the list of things they can't seem to get done!

Many of us want to adopt new self-care practices and rituals--meditation, yoga, journaling--and when we don't keep it going, or find that the job of parenting always seems to get in the way, we collapse upon our own best intentions. A teacher of mine once said to me, "We cannot force ourselves into a new spiritual or self-care practice. We must be called to it from joy rather than obligation." 

What calls to you from joy? What calls you to tend to it, not because you should, but because the whispering voice in your belly yearns to be heard? Follow that longing with small movements toward it. Move not as another thing to check off your to-do list, rather as a momentary gift to your soul. It may be as simple as a few present moments in the shower while you feel the warm water roll down your skin and the aroma of a favorite soap fills your senses.

Self-care can be made up of small moments rather than grand gestures. Think of self-care as a moment of remembering to be in your own body. Notice what you are feeling, breathe a deeper breath, and inhale a smell you enjoy--one that reminds you that being human isn’t all about baby poop and spit-up. 

Self-care doesn’t necessarily require a babysitter or even time alone. It can simply be opening yourself to your own bodily experience and turning toward a moment of enjoyment.

Self-care as a practice, is the act of remembering to turn toward yourself in any moment. Post-it notes are a favorite tool in this regard. What one word will help you remember to practice self-care? I put my Post-it notes on my bathroom mirror, refrigerator, above my desk, and on the dashboard of my car.

I invite you to make a ritual of turning toward yourself as a regular practice beyond the to-do list activities of self-care adorning social media. This form of self-care can even be practiced while living in a single room studio with your newborn, husband, and mother. 

Candles are not required.

When the Tentacles are Gone and I am Left with Myself

It hit me while we were in Tuscany this summer, that now with my graduate course work done, I would no longer have three day school trips to mark my month and give me two nights a month in a hotel room, ALONE. That obligatory time away was over even if the amount of work will still be high all the way through the dissertation labyrinth. Could it be possible that part of my joy and certainly part of the stamina that got me through all three years of grad school was the image on my Google Calendar of a band of color stretching across three days? The image yes, but more likely what it represented. For me, as a mother of two school age boys who highly values her alone time, getting away for two nights every month was not only self-satisfying, it was necessary.

It was also in Tuscany where it became strikingly clear to me that the Upperworld was calling me to re-enter and deepen my focus on career. Enough time spent frolicking in the Underworld of child rearing...time to come up and share what I have learned! Brent got it too. Together we would inch my career up on the priorities list of our lives. It would require both of us.

Unlike some couples, we rarely are able to go out of town at the same time. If Brent goes away for business or pleasure, I'm home with the kids and he does the same for me. One of the two of us has to be home to tend to nighttime diabetes management for our eldest. Planning our travel calendars is a complicated business. Last year was easy! With the exception of Brent's one trip to Africa (while the boys and I roughed it on a beach in Thailand) we were always together. We've been home almost 2 months now, and that has already changed.  We knew it would and planned for it as best we could.

One change we made was to make this year no different than my years doing course work. I would go away every month for three days, even stretching it to three nights. We put two such "writing retreats" on the calendar a few weeks ago and I crossed my fingers that they would actually happen.

Yesterday, I was due to leave at noon. Brent was having a rough day, the boys were cranky, the house was overwhelmingly in need of more focus and I was due to leave at noon. It would be my first of what would hopefully become monthly excursions. I'd like to say that at 2pm when I was debating the sanity of leaving, it was because of the external forces nagging at me to stay, but mostly, it was my own resistance. I would have thought I would dive headlong into the car and send a wave out the window as I sped off down the driveway into "my time." That's not what happened. Instead, I deliberated. I asked if I should go. I looked at all the reasons to stay including the fact that I'm not even ready to start typing words and writing my dissertation! What would I even DO on this "writing retreat?"

Brent and I had a great talk that afternoon, connecting and sharing as we haven't had the opportunity to in some time. During our talk, it became clear to me that I had to go on my "writing retreat" just to communicate to my system that I am worth it! This particular few days away have little to nothing to do with tangible results in research or writing. This retreat, was about carving out the time for myself and making that a priority even when it is not a good time (doesn't every mother know there is no such thing anyway?!). I had to pick my butt up, pack some stuff (yes, I did load a bunch of books for good measure), and get myself on the road for no reason other than it was scheduled time for me to devote to ME.

I drove to Mammoth, a far longer drive than the ones I use to take to Carpinteria for school. I listened to a wonderful travel memoir as I drove and hung out with myself. My co-pilot, Nanna and I made good time as she never wanted to get out of the car and I was able to just drive. It was maybe three or so hours into the drive when I suddenly felt truly alone. I was grateful for Nanna's company as I was surprised by the sensations rising within me as the distance between me and my family grew.

It's been well over a year, closer likely to 18 months since I have truly been alone. Being alone was once like a vitamin that needed to be taken regularly, but since traveling, I must have recalibrated my system. I found as I drove and the night fell more vast in front of me that I was off kilter, anxious almost. The sky was dark, not Los Angeles dark, but dark like the inky shadow that falls to the east of the Sierra on a moonless night...kind of dark.

The road was familiar enough, but I was not. Who is this woman that lives in my body now? What is she like when the tentacles that move outward from her body and masquerade around as her family have come dissociated from her? What is she doing all the way out on the 395 in the middle of the darkness with only her dog and a suitcase full of books?

The condo was cold and comforting, welcoming me as a place that truly is my other home now. Nanna bounded up the stairs, happy to be here. As I pulled out heaters and lit a fire attempting to warm the space, I had to watch my thoughts. Every strong wind set me on edge, I was careful to lock the doors, and decided that heavy set of books could wait 'til morning to make the journey from the car.

This nervous woman was unfamiliar to me. I love being alone, remember! In the still energy of the night, I was vibrating like electricity... not the good kind! My entire system was reacting to being alone and so far from family. I remember a similar feeling after KK was born and I left him for the first time. This was not very different.

Part of it was being away from my loved ones, but a bigger part was being alone with myself. What would I do? How do I make the most of this time? Could I just open a bottle of wine and watch period pieces? Do I need to have something to show in order to justify this time away?

I've now been here almost a full 24 hours. The darkness has fallen again and I'm far more settled. I did watch a period piece last night and the wine is waiting for me on the counter now. I've spent much of the day on this computer doing what I could for my dissertation, the sort of stuff that has to do with emails and formalities rather than writing and research. I worked on my website,  while not related to my dissertation, is part of focusing on my career. Inanna and I took a walk to the Village for happy hour, only to learn that my favorite place for sangria outside of Spain was closed (note to self, Sidedoor is closed Mondays through Wednesdays whether that means future "writing retreats" should or should not happen on those days is yet to be determined).

Tomorrow is set for a full day devoted to re-entering my dissertation: book exploration, quote extraction and re-reading my concept paper. I don't know if I'll get it all done or even if it really matters. For this trip was mostly about re-entering what it means to be by myself.  In that area, it has been wildly successful already.

Audiobooks, Routines, and What it Means to be Home

Audiobooks are a part of our life--before, while traveling and again now that we've returned. While traveling, we listened to audiobooks (most often referred to as "books on tape" proving the age of the parents carefully selecting books for our family's education and entertainment). We listened to many while in Europe as that was where we most frequently rented a car and therefore could share in an audio experience collectively. We attempted to choose books that through the use of history and fiction could bring a place to life in an historic way for our story-devouring children.

In Peru, we listened to Turn Right at Machu Picchu which beautifully brought to life the story of the controversial Hiram Bigham III as well as the landscape of the area we personally explored on our own trek. In England we listened to The Constant Princess a quite fictionalized story of Catherine of Aragon and her life both in Spain and England. This one was our first big stretch of inappropriateness as the narrator discussed details of her wedding night as well as other less child-friendly forays. I quickly learned that my quick-twitch action to turn the volume down as adult scenes arrived only served to bring attention more fully to them. I soon gave up my meager attempts at censorship and let the story expand young minds beyond the bounds of history. After that, we got looser rather than more restrictive and launched into two Dan Brown novels while in Italy, Inferno and The Da Vinci Code. We followed those up with the heart-wrenching and beautiful one two punch of The Book Thief (set during the Holocaust) and Angela's Ashes (set in Ireland during the Great Depression). What we listened to wasn't easy stuff. It made us talk. It was too much at times for not just our kids, but for all of us. AND our books brought to life through story some of the intangibles of history in a way that facts, figures and even photos have a difficult time doing. Our connection to people (fictional or factual) gave more heart and context to otherwise somewhat distant experiences. All our stories were just that, stories...based in some historical time and place, but stories.  We were enthralled and connected to history and to each other. 

Here in this ordinary life, audiobooks join us on long road trips, carpool and for me as I tootle around town running errands or returning from carpool without the car-load of kids. Currently, my carpool is devouring one book and I'm listening to a few others, one story one, one more of a self-help type, two to work with different audiobook moods.  Today, while listening to "The Gift of an Ordinary Day" by Katrina Kenison (recommended by a dear friend as a memoir she thought I'd like in both style and content) I found myself drifting off while she spoke about what home really means to her and drifting into what it means for me. For her, home was the routines and structure that defines a life being lived wherever it is rather than a house. Home, she says, can be created anywhere. This last part of her musings I agree with, home can be created anywhere, but for me I am bristling with the whole concept of routine especially as a cornerstone of home.

It has been over a month now since returning to L.A....five and a half weeks since we collected our suitcases at LAX for the last time on our nearly year-long journey. The first few weeks I was floating on the joy and fulfillment wake left by the experience of so long away, away and together with family. My first real break, the first real moments of slipping away from that current that allowed all to be well with the world even when it wasn't, happened when the kids started school. It was the routine associated with home that splashed water into my mouth while I floated and sent me thrashing around sputtering and flailing.

I have fantasized about the boys going back to school, of languid hours of "me time" awaiting after school drop off, opportunities to attend yoga classes I love and the simple routines I have adored in the past like making my tea or coffee and making my way back to my desk to immerse myself in the project of the day. These mental fabrications and travel-rough-spot-salves are based on a way of life that use to exist in some form in a time before. Like the author I'm listening to, I found solace and joy in regularity, routine, and an organized calendar. Today, these things seem to make my skin bristle and I ponder the change.

While it use to be that routine and rhythm gave me and I know my kids comfort, a predictability to life. Things around could get cacophonous and we could all grab hold of the side-railing called routine. Our lives were busy, crazy, overly-filled, but we had our routines and they steadied us as the rest of our busyness dodged us this way and that.

Craziness has met us here...much of it self-inflicted. We rented out our house for a year and came home to the challenges that follow leaving our quirky Topanga home of 15 years in the less than caring hands of others. Knowing we needed a car for our trips to Mammoth, we sold mine requiring a new car purchase within a few weeks of our return. And, we gave away most of our living room furniture along with the Sharpie on the pillows and food stains on the cushions, ready to make the break from the sofas of our children's childhoods to ones their more grown-up selves could maybe, just maybe appreciate and enjoy without the love that requires personalization of a juvenile type. Without anywhere to sit and the acquisition of first a rug and then a highly unique, albeit beautiful, coffee table in Morocco sent us to hiring an old friend who is also a designer to aid with what we thought would be refinishing the floors, painting the walls and buying a few pieces of furniture, but grew into far more. Yes, the craziness of life here met us full on!

What surprised me though, was that the routine of regular life back here didn't offer the comfort it usually use to. When I could look on my calendar and see YOGA on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays I knew I had "me time" carved out and scheduled. That use to give me a sense of joy.

Today is Wednesday. My calendar reminded me this morning that I had yoga at 9:30 with one of my favorite instructors. It is the most organized of my days; I drive carpool, do yoga, shower, run a few errands including grabbing much needed groceries and head back to drive the other side of carpool. Organized, reliable, steady, and today...rather than refreshing me I felt parched as I unconsciously drove to my awaiting appointment with myself. My energy started to drop, a dark mood cloud flowed overhead, and Katrina Kenison read on and on about home and everyday life. Unlike last Wednesday when I felt this same response to a similar day, today, I caught myself. I got off the freeway early, found a Starbucks bathroom in which to change out of my yoga clothes, got back into my car and sat.

That was the moment of truly gifting to myself "me time." What did I want to do? What would truly be self nurturing? Most often the answer to that question is yoga, hence the reason it lands on my calendar as a place holder for personal time. Today, however, the effort of yoga felt like too much. In yoga there is a lot of surrender, but there is also quite a bit of effort, the two the ha and tha. Life is offering plenty of opportunities to exert effort. What I needed today was surrender, care, attention and a chance to express myself.

I drove my nurture-needing-self to the salon. I got my eyebrows done and picked the more expensive "spa-pedicure" complete with massaging chair and surrendered. Letting go into the moment, I closed my eyes and felt into the care being offered to my body by the mechanical hands at my back and the four hands touching my body--two on my feet and two on my hands. In the past I might have been busy with my phone or my thoughts while such luxury was bestowed, but not today. Today I practiced the yoga one of my primary teachers assigned to me years ago, but that I doubt she meant it for a spa day, I "presenced" each moment. This meant no judging, no good/bad, no preferences, just being and receiving the gifts offered exactly as they were being given, fully. The yoga of spa day and routine breaking. My mat stayed rolled up in my trunk and my yoga practice so far today has been deep.

Now, I sit waiting for my lunch, finding expression in words to an audience of ether. I reflect down at my toes, unfamiliar now "done" as they haven't been in over a year in their previously customary silver polish and I question what it means to have a "home." No, for me, now in this new incarnation of myself, home is not found in routines or rhythm, schedules or well organized calendars nor in complete itemized to-do-lists.  Home is a feeling within my body. I found it last night as the boys and I played "Mille Borne"while eating a far too simple meal for my previous self of bagel pizzas and frozen peas. Home is the moment shared with a friend in a yoga studio on Tuesday while she hugged me and communicated her understanding of my altered state of being. Home is the moment this morning in the bathroom of the Starbucks where I changed clothes and didn't buy coffee. And home is now, in these moments while I explore the landscape inside me, when I slow down enough in the craziness and busyness that has been a hallmark of my life here, to reflect and listen to the voice and silence inside. Home is not in the routine, but the moments of truly living that routines often mask rather than bring fully to life. Home is this moment, this feeling in my body right now.

I like home...wherever and whenever I can find my way there. Location is not necessary.

While some places are easier than others, home can be with me anywhere. In fact, home was often easier to find while traveling, than it has been since I've been back. Too often I've responded to my day out of habit and routine and in so doing killing my sense of home. It has been the ways I've broken those and acted most differently to situations and people that have brought me closest to home here. So while I am still surrounded by boxes I plan to allow myself to unpack them slowly, impulsively when called for rather than adding them to a to-do-list. We'll see. I may not be able to hang like this for long...practicing responding rather than giving everything structure, but right now that sounds like good medicine.



 

Coming Back...Still living out of suitcases

Back.

Yes, we are back. It is a strange sensation really to be here and at the same point so very normal. We are altered and changed in ways we know and have yet to discover. We came home to an empty home, our master closet covered in cat pee, roots growing into our septic line that needed to be replaced, and more and more and more.

Somehow, I flowed with it all last week. I paused many moments in every day to reflect, look around or rest in the chaos. As the inevitability of living in the guest house with all our stuff for several weeks turned into a reality, we did our best to make it an adventure, just another one along the path of others we've walked before. I was feeling somehow incomplete that our trip was only 11+ months rather than the well rounded year, but now, I think we'll be doing great if our lives are more or less settled by the time we pass the year mark.

We are still living out of suitcases!

We're making it work. Yesterday, after no longer being able to take it, I broke out the cleaning supplies and went to town on the kitchenette and the bathroom back here hoping to make it all just a little more tolerable and a little less India-like. But who am I kidding! In India we had daily housekeeping that came with the apartment we rented so cleanliness was not an issue...here however, it just needed some strong elbow grease and with no housekeeper in sight, I tackled it myself!

Last week was actually pretty easy, especially all things considering. All around it was mayhem, dust, boxes and very very little space. Every day experienced appointments with workers helping to make the transformation from house to home. In the end, we got the kitchen unpacked and readjusted in the new more efficient way (glasses in a different cupboard!) and relocated to the guest house.

While we were traveling, we envisioned having a pool party this past weekend, thinking 5-6 days of being home and we'd be more or less ready to both host and receive our friends en mass. How wrong were we! The house is hardly ready, but perhaps it is just the outer manifestation of what's going on inside. Perhaps it is the chaos of the physical that can allow the mystical inner change to do what it needs to do.

We almost went to a festival type thing happening in Topanga last Saturday night. It sounded fun in one way, local youth bands playing a concert for local youth and parents in a way that happens seamlessly in Topanga. What's not to like about that type of event, especially with a teen now in the family?

In all frankness, nothing was to like about that for me. It actually, once here, the idea of that sounded like a unique type of hell. I couldn't imagine mingling socially, not yet. Don't get me wrong, I love people, but I haven't really had to be engaged with friends and acquaintances for a year. My "Social I" got a long well-needed rest. That part of me is not my favorite part of Self anyway. Too easily it can become hard or fixated, in Buddhist terms, "reified." If I were to go back into a social situation so quickly upon my return what would happen to that softened un-reified I've so enjoyed getting to know within myself?

Instead, I've been testing her out slowly, tenderly, acknowledging her newly formed skin. The biggest test was going to my family of origin exactly a week after our return. Perhaps because only 2 of my 7 siblings were there, I managed well. The overwhelming energy of the Bushnell Clan might have been my undoing, but instead I flowed, even expressed myself and my needs clearly when the opportunity arose to do so.

Even car shopping worked well enough. The details of that exploration is a blog in itself to come later! Suffice it to say, I went to 16 dealers in 3 days (10 of those on one day!). Finally, I gave up on the car idea, realizing that expecting myself to know which car is right for ME when I'm not sure who ME is, is a bit ridiculous! I'm borrowing for now and if I have to when my friend return wanting their car back, I'll rent. Why build the idea up that it needed to be tackled to drive carpool. Seriously, we've only rented cars all year and it's been great, easy and not a lot more expensive than buying/leasing when you break it all out.

All that said, the wave that I had been riding from the emotionally lovely arrival at LAX through this weekend that made it all seem like just another fun adventure...well, that wave started to go back out to sea and I was left wondering if I would have to tread water while waiting for another wave or if I might find myself a surfboard so that I could hang, in water-meditation-style, for the next wave.

As it became obvious that the fluid-joy-filled-everything-is-so-awesome wave headed out to sea my surfboard needed to be made from deep self-care. I noticed that I hadn't blogged or even journaled once since being back and the only time I stepped on my yoga mat was when I took a miss step and my foot found it all folded up, ignored.

So tonight, I write. I miss it. On our trip, writing became a form of reaching out to others but perhaps more importantly, to myself.

This blog is a purge, but also it is a reconnection. I don't really know how many people have been reading our blogs this year. Very few comment, if ever and they end up in people's inboxes to be filled, archived or deleted, but when that happens, before or after reading, is a mystery to me.

A Topanga friend stopped by unexpectedly the day after we returned home. She told me that as she walked up our driveway she got a flutter like one gets with celebrities when you know all about their life from reading headlines and they know nothing of you nor do they even know you know their stories. She had been following along all year, more or less silently and had become a part of our journey. Really?

And, my father-in-law (one I pretty much knew was watching our every move) said that I needed to keep blogging so that he wouldn't go into withdrawal as each morning, along with his cup of tea, he read our blogs or Facebook posts and view our photos.

So this blog is for me, but it is also for Dana and for Colin and for anyone else who enjoyed reading about our journey and would like to have a peek through the window of our re-entry. It has really just begun and as I realize the power of blogging for my own psychology, perhaps more will come...even after the airline miles ticking upward slow to a crawl and then to a stop altogether, the journey continues.

I continue to ask myself, "who am I now?" and "how have I been altered by this experience?" and more. Perhaps I'll discover threads to some of these here, in the written word with an unnamed audience in the strange community of cyber-space. We'll see.