40 in thirty-eight: Find Your Soil

And the days keep flying by, and one week from tomorrow, my baby turns 7 and I'm that much closer to 40 and we leave for Rome. That's another story for another day, not least because it's overwhelming to think of packing. Which, as you likely know, I loathe doing.

Today was breathtakingly beautiful- sunny, warm, breezy, not humid. It was perfect, really; the sort of spring day for which we've all been pining with increasing intensity as of late. 

I worked in the yard for as many spare minutes as I had, ripping out the insidious ivy that looks nice until you realize it's suffocating all your other plants and threatening to take over your yard a la The Blob. 

Despite my awareness that we're not yet past the possibility of a temperature dip into the frostly region, I went to the nursery for some herbs, arugula and flowers. Just a few things, just enough to keep the work needed to plant them in a reasonable realm, just enough to brighten the yard and start making it feel like ours. Just enough to sate my appetite.

Yards and gardens are like blank canvasses. They'll happily remain bare, colored in only by what occurs naturally be it ivy, weeds, or dust. But they'll also provide a thrilling slate on which to paint, if you're so inclined. 

I can tell this yard has been treated with chemicals and wasn't ever loved in the way I loved my last yard and gardens. I haven't yet found an earthworm, and Jack got a blazing rash after rolling in the grass yesterday; his sensitive skin has always been a bellwether for what is tender and what is not. 

So, there is work to be done, and that thrills me, for where do I lose myself so amnesiacally as I do in the soil? Nowhere really except perhaps in words. 

This is my bit of wisdom for you today, three days into the 40 in forty countdown: Find your soil. 

Putz and dally, look under and in, try and come up short, dip your toes in and find the grail. Do whatever you can to find your soil, the loamy black goulash into which you can pour your feelings, worries, hopes and frustrations. Into which you can knead your anger, sadness, joy and secrets. 

Find the soil in which you lose track of time and place and need to set an alarm so you don't forget to pick your kids up from school. Find the bit of earth in which you literally do not care how hot, sweaty, smelly and dirty you are because you're so deeply lost in the happy trance that plot fosters.

When I was little, I hated being dirty. I did not enjoy sweating, and I loathed bugs. In short, yard work was most definitely not my cup of tea. But I've always loved flowers (Nanny and Mom always had/have fresh flowers in their homes, mostly those they grew/grow themselves) and I've always seen how much satisfaction my parents and Nanny derived from working in their gardens.

When Tom and I moved into our first non-apartment home, we had a small backyard. Maybe it was nesting, maybe I was avoiding something, maybe I just wanted it to be pretty. I don't know but I planted flowers, and they grew and made me happy every day. I've been gardening like a fool since.

My thumb isn't totally green yet: inexplicably I am incapable of growing basil and rosemary which for most people are akin to weeds that require zero thought or tending. But I'm coming along, and I am telling you that when we moved, we left approximately 9 zillion fat and happy earthworms wriggling through the organic yard I'd turned it into. I enjoyed every bit of the process. 

I found my soil. Find yours!

Happy International Women's Day: Our Voices

As y'all might know, today the world celebrates International Women's Day. It is a day focused on honoring "the social, economic, cultural and political achievements of women. The day also marks a call to action for accelerating gender parity."

In 2014, the World Economic Forum predicted that worldwide gender parity would be reached in 2095. Yet just a year later, due to a slowed movement towards equality, the horizon was pushed to 2133.

This is disheartening, to say the least. And so today, I'd like my Forty to 40 tidbit of wisdom to focus on us ladies and one of our most powerful assets: our voices.

Countless studies as well as skeins of anecdotal evidence show that while many girls are bold in their early years, they become more meek and less confident during middle and high school. They report worrying about seeming smart, fitting in, feeling pretty. Hormones are ramping up, bodies are developing, friendships change with the winds. It's a lot to manage cliques and sexuality, popularity and grades, body image and a sense of self. I know it was awfully hard for me and caused enormous amounts of stress. My mom used to say we should have invested in Pepto Bismol stock before I entered high school because we'd have raked in profits during those years.

Somewhere in this maelstrom of development, too many of us girls lose sight of the inner roars with which we were born. Too many of those roars are stifled or even snuffed by a host of factors such as peer pressure, expectations of "feminine" or "ladylike" behavior, external messaging about what girls are good at and what they aren't, what they should be doing and what they most definitely shouldn't. 

Bitch in its pejorative connotation hangs like a scarlet cloud, threatening to mark us for being bossy or too strong or something that if we were boys would likely be considered a positive but for us, isn't.

It took me years to learn to stand up for myself, and while I can now handle confrontation in respectful, adult ways, arguments or push-backs, especially when they involve me asserting my opinions and beliefs against others, stay with me for days. They literally ache to process. They make me question myself, my beliefs, whether I should have said anything at all.

That ache? That's residual baggage from years of feeling hesitant and scared to use MY voice. To not only use that voice but also to be proud to do so. To recognize and believe that I am entitled to do so. To throw my shoulders back and say, "This is who I am. Like me or don't, but I'm me."

I adore men. The slope from their neck into their shoulders, their deep voices, their chest hair. I love the way so many of them move about in the world- as if it's theirs for the taking. They can argue and that's that. It's done, no lingering shit or undercurrent of resentment. Many women will stew for days, weeks, could be even longer. Men are, in some ways, so very basic. The general example of males doesn't read too much into anything. What bliss all that must be.

And yet, I've learned that what I take from those men as well as what I take from the women in the world I most admire is that what they are, most basically, is themselves. They are confident in who they are and because of that don't hesitate to use their voices. 

This is not to say that I like brash assholes. I don't. I prefer considerate people and considered opinions. Myopia and close-mindedness are bad, bad characteristics.

I'm praising the people who simply go about their lives, following their own inner lights and in doing so often make this world a better place. They don't spend too much time thinking and worrying about what others think of them or whether or not what they said sounded just right.

The closer I've gotten to 40, the louder and clearer I've heard my own voice, my sense of self burbling up from deep within. I attribute a great deal of that to writing, and for that I am ever grateful.

Because I write my way through most days, I have gotten to know so intimately, myself, my rhythms, my moods, my triggers. What makes me happy and calm. What doesn't. When I'm stepping beyond my limits. When I can push a bit more. What makes a real and true friend. What doesn't. 

I have found this trajectory of self-awareness to track incredibly neatly with my concurrent rise in self-confidence and, more importantly I believe, my concurrent rise in self-like. I like myself. I really do. I'm not faultless, not perfect. I can be emotional and I have high standards. I cannot tolerate injustice or laziness, and I know that sometimes makes me appear thorny. As a friend said to me recently, "We are half-bitch."

Not the Scarlet B bitch, no. But not a damn doormat either. I accept half-bitch with a smile and a pat on my back because what I take it to mean is that I know myself and am proud of that self. That I will stand up for that self and against injustice. Sassiness isn't always a bad thing.

I accept it for all the Gloria Steinems and Denise Vivaldos and Ruth Bader Ginsburgs and Hillary Clintons and Ava Duvernays and Shirin Ebadis and Bette Midlers and Sarah Silvermans and Gabrielle Hamiltons and Nora Ephrons and Brene Browns and innumerable other Voiced women who speak up and speak out and make us laugh and move us to tears and are changing the world simply by living so honestly. They inspire me every day and have helped me grow so much.

Feminism has nothing to do with throwing men under the bus. It's about women finding and honoring their voices and abilities and being cheered for having done so. Parity. Equality. Truth. Find your voice and use it, if only to know yourself better. It's a worthwhile venture. I promise.

40 in forty

I remember when my parents left their thirties behind. There were black and white paper plates and napkins, festooned with tombstones and screaming “Lordy, Lordy, look who’s 40!!” First was the party for my dad and then, six months later on his half-birthday, one for my mom. The celebrations were happy, full of laughter and clinking flutes of bubbly. Everyone still looked young.

But I also remember the distinct sense that forty marked the pinnacle of life, the top of the mountain that, once reached, meant there was nowhere to go next but down. Wasn’t that why all the decorations were black and marked with graves? Essentially, forty was a milestone but also one that steered all who reached it toward a single, one-lane path to decline.

That’s a pretty grim birthday present, really. Celebrate the big one and then start marching toward the horizon. If you’re a woman, cut your hair; short, like a practical teacher. And pick a highlight color; you’ll need it soon as the grays grow in. Reading glasses will become necessary, and one-piece bathing suits and longer shorts will replace their skimpier kin. Menopause is nigh.

As you might imagine, I thought the big 4-0 sounded old and not particularly fun.

Fast forward twenty-five years, and I’m forty days shy of 40. I did recently find my first frizzy, wiry grays, and although I know it's not recommended, I plucked them immediately and went to get highlights.

My vision isn’t as strong as it once was, and several glasses of wine really wreck my sleep, but minus the physical declines –that which I already notice and those I anticipate- I haven’t a single qualm about my quickly approaching birthday.

You see, I clearly remember many years of feeling out of place. Between the seams. As if I sat precariously on a fault line.

I haven’t forgotten how we middle school girls had to dress out for PE in the middle of the school day (those horrible, awful, poly-blend maroon shorts!), get sweaty during dodge ball and THEN try to prettify ourselves again. All in fifty minutes. We discovered portable curling irons and it was as if we’d discovered Atlantis; our tri-layer bangs were saved from the destructive forces of Louisiana heat and gym humidity.

Because I had my Units outfit (who remembers Units?) and matching bows, I managed to recover. At least I think I did. Those bangs defied gravity. What was the name of the hairspray we all used? It was like shellac.

I haven’t forgotten how much I disliked high school. How my deluge periods made me feel anxious and tubby and hormonal. Do you know how mortifying it is to be playing tennis with your boyfriend, you in a cute crop top and floral-print shorts, and for him to say, “Um, I think you have something on your bottom.” Blood. Everywhere. We didn’t have cell phones then. I had to wait for my mom to come at the appointed time. When she drove up and I stood up from the hot pavement, I’d left my mark. Was my face as red?

Was it worse to stand out or feel invisible? I wasn’t comfortable with either, so who really knows? And now? Oh, thank god for the passage of time, for the gauntlet of one’s twenties in which you learn what’s important and who you are, whether you want to or not. What a challenging, painful, exciting time of enormous growth.

I love everything about getting older except the physical losses. Those can go to hell. But I haven’t forgotten feeling itchy in my own skin, and I’ll take a frozen shoulder or plantar fasciitis or the inability to enjoy more than two cocktails without paying for it sorely the next day. I’ll take glasses and knees that no longer allow me to sit cross-legged on the floor for more than ten minutes without getting stuck there for knowing and using my voice.

I’ll take it for finally feeling comfortable enough. For having grown out my bangs and refusing the presence of poly-blend shorts in my life. For having surgery to deal with my overactive uterus and finding enough peace in myself to feel what I think must be happy. For standing up for my beliefs and for others. This is worth a hell of a celebration, and I intend to do just that.

***

In honor of the forty-to-40 countdown, I've decided to post daily, a tidbit of wisdom or knowledge I've come across in my decades.

Day 1 (T minus 40): Always wash your feet before getting into bed at night. Who wants grit, odor or dirt in their sheets? Not I! Use a sweet-smelling soap and warm water and then climb into the sack happy.

happy feet