“Kids don’t stay with you if you do it right. It’s the one job where, the better you are, the more surely you won’t be needed in the long run.” – Barbara Kingsolver

“I realized when you look at your mother, you are looking at the purest love you will ever know.” – Mitch Albom

“Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world, a mother’s love is not.” – James Joyce

I have been a mom for about eighteen and a half years now. That time has been bumpy and beautiful. It has been filled with suffering and bliss.

Like Life.

I am pretty sure I have said at least 1,000 times in the past eighteenish years of mothering,

“this is the hardest part.”

I remember sitting on one of those exercise balls with my infant daughter, bouncing up and down while she screamed non-stop for hours and I thought to myself that nothing had prepared me for this experience. And when she finally stopped, nothing was more joyful.

I remember having a two year old and a newborn when the two year old came down with one of those horrific childhood illnesses (hand, foot, and mouth disease…who the fuck knew there was such a thing?). Her mouth was filled with bleeding sores, she ate nothing for days, and the pediatrician told me to keep her away from the baby because it could be really ugly if he got it too. My husband was out of town, I was all alone and I thought for sure I would never survive that very long week.

I did.

I survived many more illnesses after that. The colds, the flus, the stomach viruses, the appendix rupturing, the stitches, and the broken bones. I survived the first day of school, middle school and high school. I made it through long, mind numbing days as a stay at home mom where I wondered if I could possibly play polly pockets or tea party or hot wheels one more time without screaming. I made it through angry teen years made more difficult by a divorce. I crawled through months where my children barely spoke to me and when they did speak, they said hateful and cruel things. And recently, I got to do the senior in high school party phase with alcohol experimentation and boyfriends who “accidentally slept over”.

I am the proud mother of an adult now. I survived it all.

And with the hardest parts, it was, is…the most important and wonderful thing I have ever done. I am filled with pride, and love, and gratitude for the gift of being my children’s mother.

But today, as I lay in a hotel room bed, typing on my computer in the middle of the night because I can’t seem to fall asleep…I think I might be doing the hardest part.

Letting go.

Tomorrow I have to let go.

Of my sweet little baby girl. The one who made me a mom. The one who is now taller than I am.

The one in the bed next to me, wearing our matching pajamas we got today…so we could call each other and wear our matching “owl jammies” (her idea).

She is sleeping soundly, silently beside me.

Somewhere along the line she became an amazingly good sleeper. Even though she never slept at all her first seven or eight years. Yep. She can sleep through anything now.

She slept the whole plane ride here.

Today we shopped like only the women in my family can shop. From store to store to store. We got all the things for her college apartment. We spent at least an hour in TJ Maxx trying to decide which throw pillows would match her bed spread the best. We went with her choice and it turned out she was right. She’s got style, that kid.

And tomorrow we will finish the apartment. We will spend some time pouring over maps with her dad, trying to understand how she will navigate the campus bus system to get to class and to practice. We will stock her kitchen with groceries. We will probably have dinner with her room mates and their parents.

And then, at some point, we will say goodbye.

My GOD, what is the big deal…she will be home for Thanksgiving? It’s not like I am never going to see her again. She has barely been home for the past year, she has been so busy.

But I am laying here, with water falling out of my eyes and I can honestly say that this is the hardest part.

so far anyway.

The cool part about being a mom this long is that I have the perspective of knowing that there will always be hard parts and that they will always be worth it and that I will always survive them. I see women my age with their moms and I sometimes want to ask them if it gets any easier..but I suspect I already know the answer.

It changes but there are always hard parts…worry, stress, fear.

I am holding onto her childhood. I am struggling to let it go, to let her go.

Daily life without my lily…yuck.

Yuck.

I like her so much.

The beautiful, sassy, sweet, funny, curious, shy, quiet, loving, and intelligent woman she has become.

She is nothing like I thought she would be.

She is so much more.

A piece of me, but not me at all.

Aspects of me, but completely and absolutely different than me.

My excitement for her journey toward the next phase of her life will outweigh my own sadness tomorrow and I will hug her and kiss her and I will try really hard not to weep when I walk away. But I probably will. Sorry Lily, that’s who I am, a crier. Like my mother was.

And just like I made it through the hand, foot, and mouth disease…I will make it through the college drop off because that’s moms do.

A few months ago one of my pets died. On the day that it happened I screamed and wept and then the next day I buried my sweet pet, digging in the hot Texas soil until my palms bled and sobbing. Over the next couple of days,  I moved on.

I am not a “move on” quickly kinda person and I knew it was weird that I was taking it so well. I tend to hold onto things forever. FOREVER. So the simple release was uncharacteristic of me. It was a relief.

Then 50 people were killed in a nightclub in Orlando.

And then more shootings.

Cops killing unarmed black men.

Snipers going after cops and killing them in Dallas.

And then the terrorist attack in Paris.

The entire period I turned off the news.

I stopped reading the paper or my favorite news magazine.

I only clicked on cute animal videos on social media.

I picked up a People magazine to read the stories of the people who had died and I put it down again. I couldn’t read it.

And then it became clear that Donald Trump had a real chance of being president.

And everyone on social media was screaming and yelling at each other.

“Only ignorant white people want Trump for president.”

“Hillary is a lying, cheating, sneaky, evil barely human being who will destroy America. I will vote for anyone besides her.”

And then PokeMon Go arrived and all I wanted to do is play it with my sons. Driving around and walking through parks and parking lots trying to capture all the Pokemon…pulling over to collect poke balls, spending time talking about our Pokedek and what this or that can evolve into.

It’s been awesome. It hasn’t even been hard to pretend none of this other stuff has been happening in the world. I have been happy in my self inflicted state of numbness. It has been very nice.

Then some minor incident happened a week or so ago.

And suddenly I am not numb anymore.

Suddenly, I can’t stop feeling all the things.

Anger, and sadness, and rage.

I cannot open facebook and see another political rant. I cannot stand it if another person walks into a public place and starts shooting random people. Please stop doing that, people. Stop it.

This negatively, this ugliness, this anger that surrounds us…I can’t take it. It’s like a dark cloud that surrounds us.

It’s got me.

I tell people who love me that I am in a funk I can’t snap out of.

Since I admitted it I have had at least six people tell me they are in it too.

Maybe it’s a case of noticing it when I am enveloped in it.

Or maybe it’s just going around.

I wonder if our choices are Pokemon go or being completely devastated by the state of our world?

I know there is a third choice, of course there is but I can’t find it right now.

“Be the change you want to see in the world.”

mmm…hmmm…be the change.

It’s easy to feel like the world is in turmoil.

It seems easy to keep contributing to it.

And I am.

I know I am.

Snapping off, road rage, shortness, edge.

How about a blog that ends without any solutions?

Without any words of wisdom.

I wonder if there are any Pokemon around my house right now?

I came across a blog today posted on Facebook that was directed toward those who are experiencing the impending dread of Mother’s Day when their own mother has died. Of course it’s been weighing on me, the coming holiday that I cannot participate in from the daughter perspective. I can certainly experience it from the Mother perspective. My kids will be sweet to me and it will be a lovely day. The blog was pretty simple and offered advice for surviving the day well. Give the gift of your time to other people you love, practice some self care like doing yoga or taking a long walk, allowing yourself some time to honor your memory of your mom, and finally, choose to be grateful. It’s good advice but I have to admit that my first thought was of all of the children out there who have or had crappy moms. In my work I see the effects of really bad parenting everyday. I felt a twinge of regret that I was feeling so sad when there are too many people out there who cannot remember their moms fondly. I felt sorrow for those people who must avoid social media during Mother’s Day for an entirely different reason. I AM grateful to have had a mom that was wonderful beyond belief. Sure she was flawed, made tons of mistakes and didn’t always know what she was doing when it came to being a mom (who does?). But I miss her imperfect self.  I do feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for having been lucky enough to have a mother I adored. Cross gratitude off the list, I have that in spades.

Donna Jean

You were barely 18 when you got pregnant the first time. You were a senior in high school, an honor student, the apple of your father’s eye and head cheerleader. I hear stories that my grandfather didn’t speak to you for years after you got pregnant. I know how it broke your heart and that a piece of you never recovered. I have also heard the story of how your parents forced you to drive to West Virginia  the day after they learned of the pregnancy because your boyfriend wasn’t old enough to get married in Ohio. I know it’s not what you wanted. I suspect it’s the root cause of your inability to connect with your son, my brother. Three years later, at the age of 21, I arrived. From the stories I have heard, everyone adored me. You liked to tell me that my brother would sit for hours next to my crib watching me and talking to me, he loved me so much. That’s sweet and perhaps a little creepy. As a child I remember the day I realized that your name wasn’t Mom, that you had a different name: Donna. I remember the day you tried to explain to me that checks weren’t money and that having a checkbook didn’t mean you could buy things. I had a hard time grasping it and I was pretty sure you were lying to me about it. Why would checks exist if you couldn’t use them? You used to come into my room at bedtime and scratch my back softly or play with my hair and talk. I don’t remember what we talked about but I know that, to this day, nothing is more comforting to me than having my back scratched softly or my hair played with.

I remember the day  you told us we would be going to live with our dad because you needed some time to get your life in order. I knew something wasn’t right with you. I knew. But I didn’t care and I wanted to stay with you no matter what. But he took us and it was the hardest few years of my life without you. I know it was for you too.

My teen years, when I hated you, were tough. I am sorry for the way I treated you and for my anger. I understand now that you did the best you could with what you had. But some of your choices impacted me even more than I understood at the time. Most of your relationships with men  were not good experiences for either of us. You were often a mess and a daughter shouldn’t have to take care of a parent. I know you regretted those choices and I forgive you completely. But during that teenage period, I let you have it. And you took it and you loved me anyway.

Sometime in my late teens, early 20’s we became friends again. Real friends. Adult friends. I got to know your insides. I got to understand you. I saw how you struggled to feel worthy of love. I began to understand why you so desperately needed the attention of men to feel alive. I saw how powerful you were as a business woman, how respected and admired. I realized that you had built a career from nothing, without a degree. You simply worked your way up the corporate ladder from an operator at the phone company to senior management in the business world. I saw you win awards. I saw your confidence in that realm. In those years we got to know each other, really, really well. We talked about a lot of things and my anger over the negative experiences I had as a child became layered under an authentic and intense connection. And so many good memories. When my babies started coming you were there for me every step of the way. You traveled and stayed for weeks at a time and patiently helped me as I navigated motherhood, a much more difficult journey than I had imagined it would be. You adored my children and I loved watching you love them. Even when it drove me crazy that you were too lenient with them or when you spoiled them, I loved how deeply you loved them. When I would drop you off at the airport after one of your visits you would get weepy in the car and try to hug me repeatedly. I found it a little annoying. I knew I would see you again a few months. You were such a sap. I get it now.

As I got deeper into the motherhood experience, the complexity of my love for my kids mixed with the desire to continue being who I was before they arrived was harder than I ever knew it would be. I began to see you through another filter, the mother filter. I began to comprehend what it meant to become a wife and mother at 18. And my forgiveness grew, my respect for you grew, my understanding of you grew.

And then the wonderful Texas year, before the cancer. The year when we both lived in Texas, just miles from each other. That was the year that I suddenly had a family to lean on.You were my family. You offered to pick up the kids sometimes. You had them over so I could do an exercise class. We went to lunch. We saw movies. We did lots and lots of shopping and traveling and sharing meals. I leaned on you hard and you were there, you were always there, anytime of day or night. I needed you so much. Thank you.

And then the sickness and the clinging to each other and the fear and the death. I won’t talk about that. Not here. Not now.

This post is about honoring you.

Tonight, I stood next to my daughter for her senior cheerleading presentation. I felt such overwhelming depth of love for that child that I birthed and raised and is turning 18 in just a few weeks, leaving for college in a few months. My god, the love for my children just keeps on growing, it gets deeper  as I get to know them as individuals, separate from me.  As I learn more about who they are, my love just keeps growing. I know that’s how it was for you too. I feel it in my bones, how much you loved me. It’s in each of my cells, that love.

I would have preferred not to watch you die at the young age of 58 but I learned a lot about who you were during that process. I learned how fucking amazing you were. With your years of chemo, and illness, and fighting. We went to Disney World at the end of your life and you were determined not to miss it, you drove that motorized cart around the parks and you watched your grandchildren have fun. You were dying and what you wanted most was just more time with them, more time with me. I knew you were in pain and yet you suffered for the opportunity to just watch the joy of your grandchildren unfold.

I loved the way you listened to me with complete attention. By my thirties I came to recognize that in your eyes, there was nothing more important then me.

I loved going shopping with you. No one shops the way I do except for you. Oh, wait, turns out your granddaughter Lily can shop like us too…hours in a store without buying a single thing.

I loved the way you sang to the radio, loudly, even when you were off key.

I loved how independent you were, how you weren’t afraid to travel alone. You were incredibly competent and in control by the time you hit 50 years old. You were impressive.

I loved how you color coordinated everything you wore, right down to your eyeliner. (even though I teased you relentlessly about it)  It was so weird and you didn’t give a shit. I loved your bling,  your obsession with toe nail polish and your 15 pairs of different colored crocs.

I loved how much you loved the beach even though you refused to get in the water. I loved your huge seashell collection. I loved the fact that you had about 50 bikinis when you died. That’s a lot of bikinis, mom. When I go to the beach, that’s where I feel your presence the most. I love the beach so much.

I could go on and on and on. Honoring my mother’s memory. That’s saying a lot.

If I could see you again I would tell that it’s really unfair that you left so young, that I need you still, that I love you and miss you. I would probably just want to hold your bony ass hand for a little while. And I would want to tell you about my kids, every detail. Because who wants to hear someone go on and on about their kids besides grandma? I miss having that with you, maybe more than anything else.

So Donna Jean, my mother, my friend, Happy Mother’s Day.

“that which has been your delight”

I went to watch a friend last night do a pole dancing performance. This is not a strip club thing, it’s a real, empowering, amazing group of hella strong and sexy women showing their hard work and dedication to a very difficult art form. Don’t judge the pole dancers, people. These women will and can kick your ass.

I had a brief life as a pole dancer. I did a play where one of the three characters I played was a pole dancer. I took classes (at the studio where my friend was performing last night) and bought a pole to practice with at home. I learned to do a short routine for the play and I was strong, stronger than I have ever been. Pole builds a lot of core strength.  It also helped me come out of my shell sexually. It began a process for me that was about accepting my sexual self. A journey I am still on and still discovering. But that’s another story and another blog post.

Anyway, back to pole dancing.  I sat next to my friends husband for the performance and we chatted before it began. When I had been in the pole dancing play my X-husband was very uncomfortable with the whole thing, he didn’t want to see the play. He was uncomfortable with theatre in general, although I can tell you with certainty that he did try to understand it and support my love of theatre. He tried but he was incapable of truly supporting me. He would ask me when we argued about it, “What do you want from me, I am home watching the kids, you are off doing theatre…I am supporting you. It’s hard having you gone so much. But you are doing it and I am helping you do it. What about me isn’t supporting you and theatre?” I heard many times from well meaning friends and family that it was nice of him to let me do theatre. Let. Me. Do. Theatre. It was difficult for me to express to him or anyone else what I needed and wasn’t getting. (I did two plays a year, that was our agreement. I was not doing theatre everyday of our marriage…look at me, still justifying my passion for theatre.)

I wondered how my friends husband felt about the pole dancing and about the impending public performance of pole dancing in front of a large audience, many of them men. He told me he didn’t think of pole dancing as a sexual thing and that he saw it the way his wife saw it. He saw it as hard work (hours and hours of practice at home) and a passion of hers to learn and perfect. He went on to say that he hopes she does really, really good and that she is happy with her performance. I probed him a little deeper about his feelings because it triggered in me an unexpected emotional reaction from my own marital experience. I explained that many men might try to be supportive but that the experience of watching their wives be sexual in front of an audience would make it impossible for them to be supportive even if they genuinely wanted to be. He went on to tell me that pole makes her happy and being successful at it makes her feel good and he just wants her to feel good. When she feels good about herself he is happy and they are happy together.

“It’s like theatre. It’s a performance. It’s not about sex. When she preforms well I just feel so proud of her and happy for her. I love seeing her hard work pay off.”

And then my eyes got wet and I figured it out.

I finally understood the unmet need from my married life. The desire for acceptance he could never give me.

I understood what it means to love someone in that moment. My friends husband doesn’t love pole dancing. He doesn’t care one bit about pole dancing. He cares about her. He wants her to be happy, fulfilled, and empowered.

When you are happy, I am happy.

That’s love.

Anything less than that isn’t enough.

Anything less than that isn’t enough.

At the end of the night  we greeted her after an absolutely incredible performance and hugged and congratulated her. Her eyes were sparkling with pride and joy. She knew she had achieved her goal. She was happy.

I watched as her husband greeted her.

“You were incredible. You were so good. I am so proud of you.” His enthusiasm was heartfelt.

And a kiss.

Yes to that love.

Ah yes.

Lately I have been feeling that life is a mystery. I can’t figure it out and I have reached an age or a part of my life where I just don’t give a shit. I find myself pondering something deeply and then thinking, oh well, that’s impossible to understand, and then simply letting that unfigure outable shit go. I am pretty sure that the older we are, the more we realize how very little we know. I see my teens with their certainty and I can’t help but laugh at how sweet it is, that confidence in knowing the truth. Adorable teenagers with all of their knowledge. It’s so cute.

There is one thing I know for sure. I don’t have the answer. I have lots of questions. But very few answers. So in an effort to feel certain about something, I would like to blog a list of things I feel like I know.

TEN things Renee is certain about

1. It makes no sense at all that gas stations leave cases of water, firewood, soda, etc…outside for people to steal. People will steal them, gas station owners. Why do you leave them outside?  Stop doing that. I don’t steal and I don’t drink soda and I am opposed to small plastic bottles of water when you can fill your own bottle so no worries about me stealing your stuff. But other people will steal it. It almost seems like you are inviting people to steal it. Esp. teenagers and drunk people. Oh and drunk teenagers, they will be the first to steal them.
2. If you meet someone once for a few hours and have a nice chat, don’t send them a love note and flowers the next day. I mean if the few hours included some bedroom time, and it was real good, that’s cool, send the flowers. But if all you did was chat a bit, flowers are overkill. And creepy. Save flowers for later. Way later.
3. If you once sent an angry email to an x-girlfriend that included such gems as “your face looks like leather”, “the only thing good about you is sex” and “I feel sorry for your children having to grow up with a mom like you”…you can certainly say you are sorry and mean it and they can accept your apology, peaceful resolution can exist. But if they say, please don’t contact me again. DON’T CONTACT THEM AGAIN. GO AWAY. STOP CONTACTING THEM. It’s weird. And it makes you look like an asshole. Relationships end sometimes. Sometimes we do stupid shit and we have to live with our bad choices. It sucks. But every so often, the price of the mistakes we make is the loss of someone we once loved, the forever loss. And accepting that truth, well that’s called growing up.
4. Raising children is hard. I have three. I have no advice for how to raise them. Well except fucking get ready cause it is the coolest, most ridiculously hard thing you will ever have to do. And it’s joyful and scary and I am still not sure if I have completely screwed it up. I suppose you won’t ever know until your adult children are in therapy and telling you that you really screwed them up. But here’s the thing, if you don’t actually have children THEN SHUT UP ABOUT GIVING PEOPLE ADVICE ON HOW TO RAISE THEM. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. You non parents bitching on social media about how other people are doing it. Stop it right now. Don’t say I used to babysit so I understand. Don’t say I used to work at day care or my sister has kids or I practically raised my siblings. You DO NOT understand. You CANNOT understand. So shut up. Give advice about how to do something you actually have done. That’s an excellent use of your time. Otherwise, just offer love and support and bitch about how badly behaved everyone’s children are quietly in your own home where no one can hear you. And pray that if you ever do have children no one remembers your soap box speeches while your little beast is destroying something or being to loud or acting like a jerk in public.
5. On a lighter note, Donald Trump won’t be a good president. I feel certain of this.
6. If you want to be a “thin” body type,  there is a secret to it. It’s a very important secret and I am certain that I know that secret and I am going to share the secret with you now. Are you ready? You must burn as many calories as you take in to stay the same weight you are right now. You must burn MORE calories than you take in to lose weight. It’s called science. It’s very scientific. All the games we play with diets and exercise and formulas for success…they are just different ways of working with the secret. Lately I have been unhappy with my belly fat. It’s there because I eat too much bullshit food (high in calories) and not enough good for me food (low in calories). I am choosing to change my diet quite aggressively in order to lose the belly fat and tone my body because I want to do it. It makes me happy to do it. I find that as I explain the changes in my diet to people who ask me about it that it seems like I am selling something other than this very well kept secret. I just need to say out loud to people, there are many ways to get to the secret but it’s based on a very simple thing: burn more than you consume. That’s it.
7. Making the choice to eat food that is good for your body and not high in empty calories like delicious and wonderful thin mint girl scout cookies kept in the freezer and french fries  with that yummy pink spicy ranch type dressing that tastes so good and pasta with thick cream sauce is very difficult. Anyone who says it is not difficult is full of shit. Maybe someday you could reach a point where the thought of putting those ranch dipped french fries in your mouth disgusts you. Maybe you can if you are like a Hindu Yogi or some such nonsense. But normal people, it’s hard. That’s a truth I know.
8. Tired children are assholes. Tired people in general are assholes. But kids, they really need good sleep. Unless you want kids who are assholes, It’s a good idea to try to get kids on a decent bed schedule. I don’t always do it but I know I should.
9. Running is awesome. I will be very sad when I can’t run anymore. I know it will happen someday. I am 45, the knees hurt a bit. I have a couple of amazing, beautiful, smart, cool, interesting women that I run with. It’s my favorite. I love it so much. Running isn’t for everyone. Some people bike, or walk, or hike or dance. But i feel confident in saying that everyone needs a form of physical activity that brings them joy.
10. We only have this moment. Every other moment is not guaranteed. I think knowing this makes it a bit easier to get through life, even the hard parts. Because dammit, if this is my last moment, I want it to be a decent one. They can’t all be happy, some will even be really, really crappy. But focusing on the moment you are in, well, we have to do that more. As much as we possibly can.

That’s all I’ve got. Not a bad list. See, I know some stuff.

These 45 years have not been wasted on me.

“People have a hard time letting go of their suffering. Out of a fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar. “ Thich Nhat Hannh

I have been in this place before, this exact spot. Sitting in the backyard of a friend I have known many years. I am visiting her now, returning to a place I know well, although it has faded in my memory. It’s Oakland, California where I spent the early years of my marriage, where two of my children were born, where my daughter learned to walk and run, where Isabelle the crazy Weimaraner chewed up twenty or thirty shoes. (And a couch once.)The air is perfectly still, the weather ridiculously perfect as only Northern California can be. It’s a non-temperature, slightly cold to a southerner but absolutely lovely to a normal person.

I thought I had lost my connection to this place. I have lost so much in the past few years. But I was wrong about that. I haven’t lost this. Definitely not.

My thoughts are quiet. They are as still as the Oakland air.

As if on queue, beside me Soo says out loud, “God the air is perfectly still.”

“It is”, I respond quietly.

I take a mental photograph of this moment. This exact moment is one I want to keep. This woman next to me who I have spent countless hours with over the years, who knows me, all my light and all of my darkness.

The stillness of the air almost feels like a sign.

It matches the quietness of my thoughts.

The feeling of being settled. The feeling of belonging.

The opposite of loss.

I am present in this moment. Nothing is on my mind.

My heart is open.

Inside I feel perfectly still.

I knew I needed to make this trip. I needed to remember how connected I am here and how much love I find when I visit.

I needed to remind myself that I am someone who likes travelling alone.

I am happy in the little Airbnb I rented in San Francisco. I have slept well, I haven’t been scared or lonely.

I can cross a city using public transportation, on a bus, on a train, with uber.

I am connected with many people here and they love me as much as I love them.

It’s funny when you feel shitty about yourself you can sometimes believe everyone you know thinks you are shitty too.

No, these people like me. They miss me. They want to rearrange their entire crazy ass lives to spend time with me.

Why would this feel like such a revelation?

When did I get fooled into believing I am less important than I am and that relationships I have built over a lifetime were lost to me forever?

The snapshots of this weekend adventure pass through my mind, slowly, there are so many moments I want to keep forever.

Watching Lynn drive gymnastics carpool and introduce me to her youngest child. Getting to see her as a mom. I’m not surprised she loves it. She was always the mama of our little group. Of course motherhood comes naturally to her.

She has smile lines around her eyes now. She looks so good, older yes, but so happy. I try to reconcile this mother of three with the girl I met in San Francisco who wasn’t sure she wanted kids and liked to spend Sunday afternoons at the bar drinking cider and reading the New York Times. She still makes sense to me, this mama version of Lynn and I like her just as much.

On Thursday, Lori walked into my room and sat down on the bed and the river of words began to pass between us. It had been years since our last real conversation. Within 15 minutes we sat with tears in our eyes and poured out our hearts as we once did in our office in San Ramon fifteen years earlier. We don’t stop talking until she leaves in a rush, four hours later, trying to get back across the bridge before the commute traffic hits. We don’t bother pretending we will call each other soon. We won’t. We will go back to stalking each other’s Facebook pages. Hopefully so many years won’t have to pass before our hearts connect again.

Jayanthi, the woman who never ages, remains the tiny force of nature. But finally her grey hair is giving away the fact that she may be the oldest one of our little friend group. Could she be 50? Is that possible? Her sweet daughter is growing up, and she can’t stop doing ballet spins around me as she chatters excitedly about her upcoming performance in the Nutcracker. She looks exactly like her mother, beautiful and light. I want to remember the way she spins forever.

They have all moved to suburbs now. They all live near each other, support each other, they have even worked together over the years.

Lynn and Jay walk to each other’s homes daily.

I feel a pang that might be called jealousy. But I don’t think so. No, it’s more a feeling of being happy they have each other. And wishing I could be up the street from these two women that I love.

And Beth, something about her makes me me feel as though I have always known her. She makes people feel instantly comfortable.  We sit next to each other in the bar and chat, like we always do, like it’s been ten minutes and not ten years. I admire her now, as much as I did then.
She seems happy.

They are all such grown-ups now, homeowners and parents and people with 401K’s.

We meet for dinner.

Then we go dancing.

Like 20 year olds, we danced the night away.

Just like we used to.

My feet still hurt from the dancing.

I woke up in Oakland, on Soo’s couch…the same one I used to sleep on when my kids were babies. It may be the best couch in the world.

It is. I am certain of it.

When she drove me to the BART train I pretended I wasn’t crying behind my sunglasses when I said goodbye but she felt it when she hugged me.

So she knows I love her. Stop the presses.

And then I met up with Jason for my last day in the city.

My sassy gay friend, which is a stereotype that doesn’t do his wit and charm the justice it deserves. Or the depth of our friendship.

He teased me again about what a bitch I was when he met me and how much he hated me at first.

He kept saying,

“God you are so mellow now, who are you? You used to be such a fucking bitch.”

“Keep calling me a bitch and you will see just what a bitch I can still be, asshole.” I responded with a laugh.

We walked 8 miles, visited four different neighborhoods, had drinks at ten different bars. My feet really hurt now.

He cancelled his dinner plans so we could keep drinking and talking and walking. Our tongues got looser over the hours and miles. I blush to think of some of the things we talked about. It’s a little fuzzy and for that I am grateful. But the way it made me feel, I won’t forget that…it’s not fuzzy at all.

By 10PM, I was in an Uber heading back to my Airbnb in the Castro to pack my suitcase for the early flight.

Something changed in these four short days. A subtle shift of letting go and connecting and remembering and being still and being grateful. Just being.

I loved it.

“Love is the bridge between you and everything.” –Rumi