I woke up around 240 am. I got up to pee and thought how greAt it is that I will be able to fall back asleep without too much trouble.

For many recent years, that was not the case.

But I got back into my warm cozy bed. I heard murmurs from Veronica’s room. I thought she was being cute. But then I heard her talking. I had to go check. It was 300

Her night light was out. We hadn’t charged it. I found the cable and plugged it in. She was full of solutions for how to avoid this problem in the future.

Was it scary in the dark?

Well mommy it kind of is!

And then she had a headache. Which escalated. And she had to throw up her dinner

Not good.

I think she’s asleep now. after ginger ale, an episode of teen titans go and some green eggs and ham

I can tell I’m cold and it will be hard to get back to sleep

And still. I am grateful that I can set my alarm for later and work will survive.my boss will totally understand.

Things are better than they have been for a long time

I’ve been finding out about King Arthur. He’s a very big deal in European culture, you know.

His knights of the round table and their quest for the Holy Grail gave a new model for how kings and warriors should handle themselves in times of peace. Impossible quests have their purpose, it seems.

And he is very associated with chivalry. The knights were all male, and that left a whole bunch of women who had to be dealt with.

Chivalry, as it happened, has very specific roles for men and women.

All of which was a very very very very very long time ago. Right?

What does any of this have to do with our lives?

As I was hearing how the chivalric thought leaders had lined out the roles for men and women, I was staggered at how modern these roles are—as modern as the pages of Modern Bride.

One of the things that surprised me was how women were expected to love men.

They weren’t.

The men were the lovers. The women were the beloved—a wretchedly passive role. The women were supposed to verbally and rhetorically parry the advances of the male lovers.

Once again, the passive role. Acquiesce, not definitively. A lot of “maybe” and “Maybe later.”

How familiar I am with this dance! To be trilly and silly. To always appear to be fond of the man who is pressing his attentions on me, to say, “I like you as a friend.”

I had thought this kind of absurd femininity came from the Victorian period, but it seems to come from much deeper in the past.

There was a special hell for women who would not permit themselves to be loved. They had to sit on a chair of thorns, and the earth beneath their feet was red hot. Also, men were assigned to rotate the chairs of thorns so that the uncooperative women would be scratched and never rest.

What a strange role assigned to women! Never ever say no. Never assert yourself.

For the sake of what? To be called the fairest in the land?

Chivalry is not dead. But I wish it were. A better partnership between men and women is certainly desirable.

Since my daughter was born we’ve been planning to go to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. Chris and I had one of our very first dates there and enjoyed it a lot. So, the romantic memory and the joy we expected to see when we showed our little girl all the fished and let her pet the Manta Rays was something to look forward to.

We made some plans and invited my parents. Some grandparent time along with the octopus. It felt very complicated, but all the more of an adventure to pull all the people together to make this excursion.

Naturally, the day of the visit, I was therefore exhausted and spread out. Different people had different ideas of where to go, and the place was dark and where was everyone and when would I get a chance to see the things I wanted.

In one big room, while all the other people were pressed against the glass, I sat against the wall. This tank was huge, and I could see all the sea life above the heads of the gawkers.

There were big fish, one enormous turtle, and a swirling school of silver fish. The motion of the silver fish, so many individual fish swimming so gracefully in a curved circle.

Sometimes one of those fish would swim a different direction. At any given time, a few of the fish would be swimming totally against all the others. And some were stragglers to one side or another.

But taken on the whole, the wiggling sparking fish swam in a beautiful cohesion. They made patterns, shifting slightly and waving the broken circle into an oval, or the beginning of a spiral.

Mesmerizingly beautiful, they made an undulating fabric of individuals.

I had just because to believe I must move on and look for the rest of my family, to tear myself away from the peaceful blue fish

when

The flow was disturbed. I couldn’t see why but all the fish changed direction, leaping in one direction all together.

What happened? How jarring! and how synchronized even still.

The murmur said, Oh, the predator fish swam towards them.

Whatever it was, these fish all jumped away from that enemy fish. What told them to jump? One fish must have decided to get away and all the others followed, not even know why, just having a sense of danger and unease.

These fish were swimming peacefully, like quiet thoughts, round and round. The fish like thoughts, followed one another, next to each other, understanding the mood and the dance. This energy of together and safety was so evident.

Then, like an alarming thought, ONE fish leapt away and all the fish followed without even understanding.

ALERT! ALARM! DANGER! GO GO GO!

The fish resumed their circle quickly. They settled into peace and grace so fast.

My thoughts don’t have that skill. If I start down a path, my fear thoughts could take a long time to settle down. And if I don’t remember the peace again, I could start a whole new pattern of fear and danger.

So fast. Without even thinking. Like the fish I could just away and start a habit of alarm.

The peace of the fabric of the graceful fish haunts me. It could be that easy. I could ride in harmony. I would love to learn.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Los Vegas. It’s not very far away and some people drive there all the time. It’s called the playpen in the desert, full of fun for grownups.

The first time I went with a friend, and saw a show. The second time I went, I went with the man who is now my husband. We hadn’t known each other very long, and his idea was to go spend the day hiking nearby in the desert and then have a nice dinner.

At the time, we lived in northern California, near the coast and definitely not in the desert. I grew up in very wet country, with a very green forest and swamps everywhere I turned.

He drove me out to Red Rocks, which is a nice place for a hike. He kept talking about how important it was to hydrate. Every time he talked about how important it was to drink water I felt very thirsty.

It wasn’t even summer. This was early spring, and not very hot at all. But I looked around and saw all the desert plants and knew I was far from home.

“Look at these plants. Look at how they have to struggle to life here. There is no water here. These plants aren’t doing well. I don’t think people would do well here either.”
He laughed at me, and said it was fine because he had a lot of water and would make sure everything was ok.

That only reminded me that things were NOT ok.

The desert is stark and beautiful. I live on the edges of the desert now. I’m more used to it now, and I trust it more.

Then, I was sure that this was not a safe place.

The plants in the desert learned exactly how to live there. The way the handle water, and how they defend themselves is a thing to behold.

Realistically, I never thought about how hard the plants in my Alaskan home had to deal with the long months of cold.

We can adapt. I understand now how to live in the desert. And I pack a lot of water with me all the time.

We are all so much stronger than we think we are. The day I hiked the desert canyon I was so worried that I would dry out like a Skeleton and never return, that we didn’t go as far as we might have.

What a beautiful memory, of Chris taking care of me, and sharing the beautiful desert!
I still feel shame that I wimped out and didn’t keep going. He didn’t push me, and we had a lovely fancy dinner that night.

As I drove to Los Vegas this week, I watched the desert fly past the windows of my car and I remembered that time. I remembered all the ways that beauty and adventure can show up, and how the plants and animals and people can adapt.

We are all so much stronger than we realize.

The year starts, and the workday starts. There is a ton of stuff to do, and by all means do not let it get ahead of you. There’s the urgent, the less urgent but still vital and the emergencies.

I got some books on how to work hard and how to work smarter. I can think about them and the systems of efficiency and order and accomplishments they preach. And yet I can barely get past my emergencies.

There is so much to do! How on earth am I supposed to find time to do it better?

I’m so sick of it all. I want to just stop.

Sit on something soft, and pet a cat.

Cats know.

Take your ease. And if a toy bounces by, wap at it. Life’s a game!

Cats play it well. A string does not get past them. Quick paw darts and pins the string. No opportunity to play is missed.

Don’t stress. Stay loose and flexible. Those chances for playing should not be missed.

Cats know.

It’s all about playing. Because for a cat, the difference between playing and work is invisible. It is a string…maybe. Or maybe it’s a mouse. Which is work? The string? The mouse?

All of it is fun. And all of it is work.

There is a better way. Not my best-selling books for getting it right and keeping it that way.

Cats know.

If I play it right, I’m working. And if I’m working right, I’m playing. All the elegance of a perfectly timed attack is in the joy. And all the inconsequence of a failed pounce is in the play.

All of it is practice. All of it can be as hard as I can make it, which is the fun of it. The fun of knowing this one is not so tight and stressful.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cat get frustrated.

Cats know.

Who doesn’t love getting something new?

New seems so full of promise. Here comes a new year! It’s never been here before. What will it contain?

I know I love to think about new things and what possibilities could be created.

Many many times I’ve looked and new years and said “THIS year I will be different and change..”

Reminds me of that old joke

How many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb?

One

But it really has to want to change

I’m sick of feeling shame and regret. I don’t care anymore. I don’t want to be motivated by self-disgust or a feeling that there is something wrong with me.

I’m just who I am, and pretty much who I always have been.

I want to fill this year with stuff that is fun and even more me than I’ve ever  been before.

Which things on my ‘bucket list’ will get crossed off this year?

Which will get added?

That’s probably the best part, I think. Coming up with new ideas of things I’d love to do.

A friend of mine went on a rant about how some people annoy him, giving little biting indightments of their flawed behavior. I said “You have so many things you could make with your brains. Why use them to be irritated? Especially since I know you can work up an irritated annoyance to last weeks, with a half life of years.”

He laughed at himself.

We are all like that. I know I can hold on to a slight or an annoyance and polish it, bringing out in my mind facets of how WRONG this or that person was.

What a ridiculous use of my thoughts.

I would rather thing of good ideas than rehash bad ones.

Next week comes Christmas. It’s a big deal where I live. We set aside this time to appreciate and delight each other.

Somehow, my attention is focused on all the other things that need to be DONE. FINE, I’ll give you a list of presents I would like to receive. Oh NO, I need to create a list of presents my daughter wants. Look at the calendar! I am SO BEHIND.

All this for the Christmas morning. The morning of preparation and delight and surprising each other and being surprised.

I caught myself thinking that kids have the best of it. That I have to lose sleep and work to remember all the things.

Last weekend I found myself crawling away from things every chance I got, burying myself in a new book.

It was a really good book.

And I would read as far as I could, then pop up when I had to (usually a bit late) and rush to do the next MANDATORY thing.

By Sunday night I felt impossibly behind and resentful. Kids have the best of Christmas I thought. I’d heard this sentiment before. I sat down to eat dinner, since I’d barely eaten all day. Of all the innumerable things I had NOT done and still had to do, how was I going to finish my weekend?

I could have wrapped myself in my book again. I had stayed up too late the night before because it was so fascinating. It didn’t feel good anymore. I regretted the loss of sleep.

What did I WANT to do?

I ended up putting my headphones on, and closing my door to be alone. Me. Alone. I would wrap presents.

Such a small thing, to ask myself what I wanted. Isn’t that what Christmas is supposed to be about? Wishing? Wanting?

I had told myself that wanting was for other people, and that I didn’t have time to ask myself what I wanted.

I decompressed, and felt really good about wrapping all the presents I had already bought my family. I DID want this Christmas to be a certain way, and I had made most of it happen already.

It was also ok for me to want things for me. Delight and surprise. I surprised myself to discover I just wanted to get something ordinary things done, uninterrupted. It felt good.

I am willing to give thought to what else I might want. Maybe next year I’ll go get them.

The kids all being pushed and pulled into the positions for pageant rehearsal.

“Am I supposed to sit here?”

The director Amanda would say, “I still haven’t decided yet.”

She was molding the story, the action, fitting the people and the play to each other. It took a lot of different people to realize her vision.

I could see her little girl, not quite talking yet, wanting to be the star. Mommy Mommy! Me me me! But mommy had to push all the other big kids into their place, to learn their lines and hit their marks, and the toddler wasn’t the one on stage.

Which drove her over the edge.

And the people on the stage had to share the stage and perform. For this time, it was not enough to just be themselves; the show had to be created.

I sat.

I was a stage mom that day. Not the first time. Not loving it. I would have like a stage. I could sympathize with the toddler.

I could see my unboundedly creative daughter struggling too. She was making nonsense words while Amanda was trying to speak and give direction. It stressed the seams of her being to have someone else being so powerfully creative while she sat.

She knew she had things to say and be, and while she was submitting to the directions she just had to add her own flavor, her own noise to the mix.

Veronica may not have had a vision right then but she had a drive. She was compelled to express herself.

Amanda not only had a vision, she had an imperative. She had taken on this responsibility, and had to put all this jumble together into a performance. It was constantly in motion too, as the little girls went tearing away into the balcony when they had the merest second to themselves.

“Girls! Come back! It’s your line! Don’t you want to be Queen?”

I remembered the chaos and excitement of the pageant rehearsals when I was a girl. Sometimes I would even have the solo.

I was in the seats this time, wishing I had planned better to have something productive to do during the wait.

There was a thickening in the air, excitement and boredom and terror. Creativity and performance sent unfamiliar juices through my little one.

And me. I wished I had a solo.

But the day dragged on, and I had to make sure she could handle it. Stay calm, sorry your head aches, here’s some water.

The recorded song was played again and again, just the one section. What is that chord progression? I wonder if I could find it.

When they were finally done, I went to the piano, and tried to find it.

Not three notes played, and Veronica pushes me aside. “I want to play!”

I just spent ALL DAY watching you, kid. Don’t I get a chance to finish an idea? When is MY moment?

Not today.

I write. Writing is lonely. In writing, I am the sole creator of my universe. In the messy world of collaborative art like theater and music it’s something else altogether.

I’m not sure if I’ve figured out how to share the stage of life comfortably with my daughter. I remember Amanda was figuring out her show as she went along. She had a clear vision, the bones of it. I’ll have to be a little looser with my universe I think, or it will shatter on contact with real life.

I read a Facebook post the other day:

“I woke up this morning thinking ‘I need to charge my laptop!’

Then I woke up and found it was already plugged in.

Thank you, last night me!”

Isn’t it funny how some little thing, or some series of little things, can add up to a very wonderful now?

Every day, every moment we choose what to do and what not to do. The choices seem small and unimportant. Yet over time, they stack up into something substantial.

Good habits, or bad. Small perseverances that shape a whole life.

The version of my life made of diversions, reversion and perversion.

Habits and traditions begin with accidents. The best plans never survive the first encounter with the enemy.

Which is why

I am so grateful to the me of five and a half years ago. The me that started writing this Weekly wonder, and let it be exactly and whatever I wanted it to be.

I doubted and despised what I was doing. I judged it harshly, and appreciated it sometimes. I disregarded and discounted my little essays.

But I still wrote them. I wrote them for me.

And then I wrote them for you.

Thank you me, for writing this for 5 years. Thank you for allowing me to arrive at this moment of appreciation.

And very very thank you all for reading these, whenever you do, whenever you can, and for however long it’s been since you’ve discovered it.

We are all doing something unique. We’re letting thoughts pass through our minds and leave us the better for them.

This is a time of tradition and remembering what happened last year and last time.

It’s been a pretty ugly crazy beautiful year with all the things we each did and didn’t do.

Thank you all. I love how this adventure is turning out.

Should I be learning the recipe for your mom’s Gravy?
He shrugs. I don’t like it as much as the Gravy my grandma made. But she probably filled it with all sorts of things you can’t get anymore.
I smile. Like arsenic.
Chris smiles.
And lead. Delicious lead.
Oh for the good old days.