There is something about a new year that feels “blank slate” and offers up a chance to set lofty goals—at least that’s how I approached 2023 in choosing integrate as my word of the year. Reflecting on it, I have actually made some progress…but have a lifetime of practicing to go.
This year’s word is an intimate glimpse into that practicing, and since vulnerability is a part of the practice, too, here goes…
Everybody has their issues, challenges, and history of hurts, and my personal story includes having a clinically diagnosed narcissist with borderline personality disorder for a mother. She passed a few years ago, and this is by no means an attempt to “disparage the dead” but—let’s just say it didn’t make for a lot of easy laughs and unconditional love. My mom was privately explosive and unkind, which created a hypervigilance in me to do my best not to trip her trigger.
You’re probably thinking, “Good Lord, Lisa…where is this going? It’s a word of the year, for crimony’s sake!” I know, I know. I’m getting there.
My mom lived to a ripe old age, and I was a seasoned professional at walking on eggshells and trying to manage circumstances to appease her. Eventually, I got into therapy and started learning, among other things, that it wasn’t my job to try and make her happy. But intellectually learning something and internally letting go of practices that kept me safe as a kid (but are no longer needed) are two very different things. One is easy…the other…not so much.
I noticed many years ago that I am almost always clenching a muscle somewhere in my body. Subconsciously, I create a physical tension—perhaps part of my hypervigilance to always be ready. It’s exhausting. When I recognize that I’m doing it, I literally make myself stop and let go. And I am now understanding more clearly how I do the same internally, as well. I am coiled and ready to spring into action at any moment to make sure landmines are averted. It, too, is exhausting. But guess what? The landmines are gone—and even if they aren’t—they are not my responsibility.
Which finally brings me to my word of the year…
I see 2024 as a year to add to my practice of trying to be a better human being the discipline of release. The release of actions that no longer serve me or the people I love. I’m not fully sure what that means or how to do it, but I know that when I find myself walking on eggshells or managing landmines, I need to stop and recognize I’ve retired from that job. And I need to let go of the resentment that comes along as part of the package at no extra charge. Just like I do when I tell myself to relax a clenched muscle, I need to release myself from the constraints of well-worn patterns and emotionally “relax.”
As I’ve shared before, my word of the year often falls right into my lap, but this year, as I was reflecting on what my word might be, other synonyms came and went before release settled in…unravel, uncoil, unwind, and unfold all spoke to me in different ways. When “unfold” was speaking up, it of course made me think of Steven Curtis Chapman’s song that has touched me deeply at other times of my life.
No matter what shape your faith life is in or where it falls on the “spiritual spectrum,” I think you will appreciate this video. While it is about a “Glorious Unfolding,” it is also the beautiful gift of a father releasing his daughter from grief and encouraging her to live her life to the fullest. It is just the kind of release I am striving for.
It’s a good thing I love learning because it seems there is always homework to do. But I am grateful to have this life to keep working on all of it.
May your 2024 be a year of practicing release of what isn’t helping, embracing what is, and being able to know the difference between the two.
For twelve years I’ve been putting out a post around Christmas Eve that speaks to the fragile nature of this season…and life. When I first started writing my annual “frageelay” piece, I was busy juggling being the parent of a young kid, the daughter of a (very demanding) older parent, work that led up to a major crescendo on Christmas Eve, and hosting a decent-sized gathering on the 25th. Add in parties, in-person gift shopping, cookie exchanges, playdates, Christmas cards, school concerts…you get the idea.
And now? Well, let’s just say I have arrived at a different season of life. The kid is no longer young, the parent has passed, work still has a ton going on but it’s different and healthier, and the family gathering has shrunk and moved up on the calendar. Covid did in many of the traditional parties (though thankfully not all!), and my shopping is nearly all online. There are no formal cookie exchanges, my kid takes care of his own “playdates,” and I—like so many of us—have ceased writing Christmas cards.
Some might think this different season sounds sad. The truth is…I love it. Of course, there are some things I miss in the crazy of the earlier years—my little drummer boy banging away in concert, his wobbly but wholehearted voice singing of Jesus’ birth, and of course his delight at seeing what Santa left under the tree. I am grateful for those memories. As I am the laughs and good times shared with family and friends under the glow of Christmas lights.
I love having those memories. But I love making the new memories that come with this different time of life. Our new tradition of a smaller family get-together earlier in the season means that I get to exhale and enjoy so much of what I missed scurrying along trying to get everything done in previous years. I get to be a little.
Years ago, I got hit with a 24-hour stomach bug on Christmas Eve. Because of how Christmas fell on a Saturday that year, I was able to push it to Sunday with everyone still able to attend. Due to my barely having my legs back under me, I was not interested in eating the traditional Italian spread that I make, but I was so glad it could work out and everyone could still be together.
“You, know, Lis…I’m sorry you were sick and all, but yesterday was awesome,” my sister said. “Because it was a last-minute cancelation, all we did was stay in our PJs and order Chinese. It was wonderful.” I think I responded with a sarcastic, “I’m so glad that my sickness worked out for you…,” but the truth was that I wanted that, too. I wanted my PJs and Chinese food Christmas Day, and…flash forward to now…if we choose it, we get it. Last year, we ordered sushi on Christmas Day—wonderful indeed.
Perhaps this season of life will evolve into something different someday. If a grandkid or two or five enters the picture, it will all be a new and wonderful kind of crazy that I will welcome with anticipatory delight. What a blessed season that will be.
But who knows what the future will bring? Life is fragile—and decidedly unfair. My son is only six months younger than I was when I lost my dad. That is crazy for me to think about when I look at him and know how I hope for many more decades for the three of us to have each other in our lives.
I pray for a long and healthy season in this regard.
What I have learned through the years, though, is that there is a way to see to it that the people you love feel loved during this holiday season (and pretty much every day) without killing yourself in the process—in fact they prefer it! And…they would also like you to be able to feel the love right back.
I certainly don’t have a lock on all this, but I am learning. And this is what I hope for you—that you stay on (or find!) the path that’s paved with love that goes both ways—with occasional moments of joy and peace (as much as you can possibly swing!) added in for good measure.
Because life is frageelay…so it’s best if we handle with care.
I am both happy and sad when people ask me why The Juggle Struggle rarely sees a new post these days. Happy that anyone cares…sad that I am not writing like I used to. The truth is that I have a lot that I want to write, but my focus and discipline have hitched a ride out of town. I haven’t completely given up, though, and I am compelled to write a little now to mark the ninth anniversary of this blog.
On October 18, 2012, I wrote my first post. The ol’ girl’s been around for a while and seen many changes over the years…the blog, me…the world. So much is so very different. But one thing is always constant: There are 24 hours in a day, and the days just keep getting logged into the book of life.
My church is currently studying No Cure for Being Human, by Kate Bowler, and today we discussed the idea of “spending” time–as the currency that it truly is–and what it means about the choices we make. This perspective of time as a finite entity makes me think of something I came across a few years ago via Tim Urban’s Wait But Why site. He does some wonderful things with numbers, and one spin of his really drives home the point about our time on this planet. Below is what a 90-year lifespan looks like in weeks…and the blue line is where I am…
…well past the half-way mark…IF I make it to 90. That’s a lot to take in.
And in taking a peek back on this anniversary at some of my previous posts, I remembered the one that I am sharing below. I wrote it when my son was 10–and it speaks to how much time we had left before he turned 18. Well, guess what? That milestone was reached earlier this year. Reading what I wrote then is obviously poignant to me now.
It happened in a mere blink.
What will the next blink bring? How many blinks do I have left?
Time marches on…
So…happy anniversary, The Juggle Struggle! I am grateful to have the words to string together that can sometimes matter to people. And I am grateful for every reader who gives me a few minutes of their precious time to read those words–I appreciate you more than you know!
And now, if you care to read on, I offer you the post that I wrote eight years ago…thinking about the time that I am actually facing now. A blink indeed.
936 and Counting
Originally posted September 30, 2013
Time flies. We all know this. The only case where time does NOT fly is instances like when you’re stuck in a boring workshop where they have the thermostat set so cold it just may crack off a body part and all you can think about is lunch. Then it’s slow. But typically, another week comes and goes and it feels like a blip on the radar.
Recently, I had a 1-2 punch that was the kind of coincidence that makes me stop and think. I saw a framed graphic at a family member’s house that said something along the lines of “940. The number of Saturdays until your child reaches 18.” Me being me, I checked the math (52×18=936) and wondered why they added the extra month. Googling it, 940 is the number used again and again, but I like the number 936 better than 940 anyway, so I’m sticking with that. (Why the extra four? Can you guess?)
The very next day I was speaking to a friend, and she said her pastor’s message that Sunday was on pretty much the exact same thing. He had a jar of marbles that visually represented how many weeks were left before his daughter turned 18. The emphasis being, of course, that we use our time together wisely. It is fleeting.
So there I was, with two totally different avenues leading me to the same wakeup call: we only have so much time with our children before they are off and running in the world.
Of course, I know this. But when you put a finite number around it, it drives it home even further. Tick…tock…and another week is gone. Another marble leaves the jar.
I have issues with time management. I just do. I aspire to knock the hell out of each day, and before I know it, I’m brushing my teeth before bed.
But the clock of life is wound but once…
My son had his feet resting on my lap the other day, and…they were huge. What happened to the teeny ones that I nibbled on and made him giggle?
He was just sharing with me his fascination with the circulatory system that he’s learning about in science class. Only yesterday he was learning the alphabet.
I tell him—like my dad always told me—there will always be room on my lap for him. But the last time he tried it, we laughed together at how comical we must have looked.
936.
If my math is right, we’ve had 541 Saturdays together…and only 395 left before he turns 18.
395. 3-9-5. Holy crimony.
Thankfully, I am wise enough to know that these days do not need to be chock full and supercharged to be meaningful. I think back to my own childhood, and I realize that while there are some “big” memories of trips and special events—the real things that stick are the small things. The moments. It didn’t have to be anything special—just a time where I felt that I mattered. I don’t even think those thoughts typically cross our minds when they are happening—it’s like they just go into a special reservoir of love, where for some reason, we feel it and cherish it.
So, before I “lose my marbles” with my son, I need to remind myself that the moments count. That just because we may not be able to carve out the better part of a day to do something significant, I can still get out and play touch football with him and his dad.
I can genuinely listen to him catch me up on the first part of the “Full House” episode that I am sitting down to watch the rest of with him.
I can make time for a bike ride on a beautiful fall day, even if deadlines are looming.
I can share in his joy at the occasional 49¢ McDonald’s ice cream cone.
While we still do need to hit the “big” things and make those memories, it’s important to remind myself in the swirl of the day that not all is lost as long as we remember the moments, too.
Because that is what he will remember. The moments.
936 down to 395.
It’s not about us putting more stress on ourselves because who needs more of that? What it is about is keeping the perspective that we do have a finite time with our children, and it does matter—to them and to us—and it is all a blessing of unknown impact and meaning.
So amidst the flurry and chaos of everyday life, I’m going to strive to remember to jump in the leaves. Even if it means we have to rake them all over again.
I’ve come to think of every day as Blursday, Marchtember Oneteenth during this pandemic. For most all of us, there is life BC (Before Covid) and then this haze of “the new normal.” It has most definitely been a struggle. So much loss, fear, pain, and uncertainty. Maybe all those things apply directly to you or maybe some only to those around you or beyond, but we are all going through a metamorphosis of sorts.
I thought a not-so-brief chronicle of some of the lessons I am learning (so far) through this time might resonate with you. I kind of got on a roll, so feel free to scroll to the ones that pique your interest. Of course, who am I kidding? You can stop reading altogether, too…I never assume I’ve won your time to read my words!
Lessons learned…in no particular order…
I knew marking lasts was important to me, but I never knew just how much. I missed the last couple days of work in March because I had a cold and feared that my symptoms would be off-putting to those I would come in contact with. Those two days were Thursday and Friday. By Monday, the doors were closed. No goodbye to coworkers or taking a moment to pause and consider. Of course, no one knew it would be this long, but I wish I would have had a chance to mark that moment—and others, too.
With word filtering out that schools would probably close soon, my son came home from school that Friday with hopes of being able to record a rehearsal of the play he was lead in that Monday after school to at least have a version of it. But there was no school that Monday, and there was no rehearsal to record. The seniors didn’t know that Friday that it would be the last time they walked those halls that signified so much during this chapter of their lives. It all happened so fast.
My heart aches for them and all that they missed.
I took to keeping a list of “Covid Castaways”—those things canceled and missed due to the pandemic. It’s a long—and growing—list. My son tells me, “Mom, you don’t get to be more upset than me. It’s fine. I’m fine.” I don’t believe that totally, but I do believe that these kids are going to come through this experience stronger and more resilient. But being able to note a last, to take it in before the tide turns, truly means something to me—and now I realize it so much more.
Time does not facilitate creativity in and of itself. When I learned that I was going to be paid for several weeks even though I could only do minimal work from home, I thought, Girl, you are going to kick some serious writing ass…I mean, come on—no excuses, right? My stalled book project would find new life with all the time I could dedicate to it, except…time does not equal creativity or the ability to focus. Discipline, might, but…yeah. Not my strong suit on most things. Especially when…
I recognize just how many layers of anxiety I have. I have dealt with anxiety all my life, but these last few years have piled additional layers almost like sedimentary rock. And just like rock, it is hard to climb out from under. The divisiveness of our country has weighed on my heart in direct correlation with its growth—or at least its “outing,” where things like social media gave hate and vitriol megaphones to use and abuse. But in 2016, that layer hardened into heavy stone. Another layer may be added in November of this year. I’m trying to fight against it but brace for it in hopes that it won’t crush me if it solidifies. Other layers include the pandemic, of course, as well as social injustice, job limbo, financial security, what the future will look like…
Realizing who is truly an “essential” worker has exemplified the reality and unfairness of income inequality. In many ways, this pandemic has highlighted how the disparity of income levels has a reverse correlation to the essential value of the work done. Want to be wealthy? Help the rich get richer. Want to worry about whether or not you can take a vacation, send your kid to college, qualify for a mortgage, or have health insurance? Serve others. That may be what some people call capitalism, but it’s what I call fucked up.
It doesn’t take long for our polarized society to even see something like a pandemic as a divisive issue. One word: masks. Seriously? As I shared on Facebook, here’s the deal with the whole “you can’t legislate my face” mask issue that I just don’t freaking understand…I have claustrophobia and would really love not to wear a mask when I go out in public. But if I did that, it’s not myself I put at risk but YOU. And that makes me slam dunk choose to make myself uncomfortable because it’s worth it. But unless and until that choice is a collective American choice, we are simply prolonging the agony and suffering for everyone. The message that non-mask wearers make is very clear: I care about me more than you…or your elderly mom…or your diabetic kid…or the economy that will continue to suffer as places deal with ongoing sickness and death…or this country I allegedly love so much. And that really pisses me off.
The importance of face-to-face visits, even for this introvert. When I was a kid, Zoom was a TV show. Now it’s how I interact with almost everyone who is not in my house. Optometrists must be making a good buck through all of this. But screens—while better than nothing—do not come close to truly being with others. I pray for a vaccine for many reasons—and one of them is because I’ve got some serious hugging to do when it is safe to do so again.
In the absence of structure, routine is all the more critical. Oh, routine, where art thou? Apparently, one of the best routines I keep is the search for the perfect routine. Seriously—I have scads of notes on attempted routines that will allow me to be at my best…and then never followed. And now? When many life anchors have been lifted? Yeesh. It is so needed. And so glaringly missing. I think I’ll hammer out a new and improved routine tomorrow. That should do the trick.
The mundane matters. BC, I appreciated that my commute was short. If we ever get to AC (After Covid, not air conditioning), I will appreciate that I have a commute. I appreciate running errands now…because I can. Those everyday mundane things matter, and I hope to remember that in the future when I am stuck in traffic on my commute. But Covid has also reminded me of the value of the sun (holy crimony was it a gray Spring!), long walks, quiet time, and just being with one another.
Covid-19 isn’t our country’s only pandemic. The murder of George Floyd has incited not only protests but conversations…and helped bring to the forefront an ongoing fight—a long, arduous battle—for justice and equality. There is much work to be done. No one is “immune” from racism. There is no vaccine. And the more we can have the necessary, tough “come to Jesus” (literally…in terms of how he treated all people) conversations, the closer we’ll come to curing this cancer that is crippling our country.
Saturation and emotional exhaustion are the enemy of empathy. We can only take so much, right? But what if it just keeps coming? There is so much to worry about and be angry about… and to feel. It’s overwhelming. And sometimes that can result in shutting down for a bit. Sometimes we need to step away for our own mental health and catch our breath. The danger comes when we shut out. Empathy is one of our greatest tools in bridging divides, and if we lose that…well, let’s just not find out, okay? Let’s recharge and not retreat.
We are in this together…but very differently. My family has been blessed with the ability to stay home and work. But I know people who have continued to go to work every day because of what they do. And then there are the multitudes of people who lost their jobs. All such different experiences.
My family has been blessed with health. I know others who have had Covid, though I know no one personally who has died or lost a loved one from it. But as of today, over 143,000 American families unfortunately know exactly what that is like.
Yes, this is a collective experience, and some of the stories we will tell one day will share those common threads. So many more, though, will be stories that only we can share. What will the moral of those stories be? Only time will tell…but I pray that they show what we have learned from this…and from one another.
“…in the long run there is no more liberating, no more exhilarating experience than to determine one’s position, state it bravely, and then act boldly.” ~Eleanor Roosevelt
I didn’t intend on being one of those “word of the year” people. They can be annoying, can’t they? But dammit if another another new year has come and another new word to help guide the year’s goals has found me. It started a few years ago with ripples, and every year since a word comes to me that makes complete sense…as it does on the dawn of this new year.
For many reasons, I want 2019 to be a year to create like never before.
As a writer, I always strive to create, but I’m not just
talking about words here (though they are a huge part of my goals for
creating). No…I mean create in a much
broader sense…
I’ve been “responsible” since as far back as I can remember.
And while being a responsible person is a good thing overall in my book, when
it is the primary thing it can be stifling to other parts of life. And as my
responsibilities in life shift (with my mom’s passing and my son angling toward
maturity), I want to rediscover—or maybe discover for the first time—aspects of
life and embrace opportunities to create.
I want 2019 to be the beginning of a way of being. In too
many ways I’ve been living a “dress rehearsal” existence, but 2018 has really
reinforced for me that there is no such thing.
Now is the time.
A bottle of wine makes a good analogy for this. I love wine, but I don’t have a wine fridge or cellar—just a little ol’ wine rack. On that rack, I’ve kept some bottles of wine for years, thinking they would be used for special occasions.
Over a decade ago, I brought home a bottle of wine from a trip to Hawaii that my mom took us on for her 80th birthday. I held onto it for one of those special occasions. With my mom’s passing this year, Thanksgiving was our first holiday without her, so I thought it made sense to open that bottle of wine and make a remembrance toast to her. There was just one problem. After so many years of fluctuating temperatures on that wine rack, the wine had gone bad.
I waited so long for that “special occasion” that we lost our opportunity to enjoy it.
Waiting too long for life’s special occasions means letting the wine of life turn into vinegar.
Now is the time.
So yes, the CREATE of 2019 means DO the book that I’ve
wanted to for so long.
But it also means…
ENGAGE in more experiences—including having more fun.
EXPERIENCE and SAVOR more of life’s sweet specifics (ala the
Weissmans in Paris, if you watch “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel”).
MAKE our home a soul space for my family and me. That means getting much needed projects going as well as simplifying/purging/minimizing to lighten both our physical and mental loads.
TRAVEL – Waiting for the “someday” doesn’t work. Doing does.
There are too many places to see and already too little time to see them. Better
to work on the list than just pine for that “someday.”
LEARN by making more time to read and discover. Creativity stagnates without a broadening horizon.
And, as all of this is mostly a reaffirmation of the obvious, there is the continuous goal to CREATE more opportunities for positive change…for hope to spark…for hearts to grow…for love to win.
I want 2019 to be a year for all of us that begins (or perhaps for you continues) the creation of a Glorious Unfolding…
It’s true, as Andy says in The Shawshank Redemption, that it’s up to us to “get busy living or get busy dying.”
In many ways, at least for me, creativity = life. And so, in 2019, I aim to create by rolling up my sleeves and getting busy living and doing.
This Christmas will be different for us. Partly because of life’s twists and turns, and partly by design. Life has brought us the first Christmas without my mom. It has also brought us a much smaller gathering around our table. This will most definitely result in a quieter day, and I’ve chosen to embrace these changes as a new way to experience Christmas rather than focusing on the differences as purely loss.
I’ve never had a Christmas where I wasn’t entertaining a group, and so I will cherish the opportunity to stay in my PJs longer and not rush to get things ready. Instead of trying to be the “hostess with the mostess,” I will strive to be less stressed and more relaxed. It’s all in the perspective, right?
And that perspective is also mindful of the fragility of life.
It’s true my mom is gone. But at 92, she had “the opportunity of a lifetime” and many years to experience—and now she is at peace. It is still a loss, but there is a sense of “normalcy” to her passing.
And then there are times when the fragility of life sneaks up on you in an instant and nothing will ever be the same again. Recently a beloved member of our church died at the age of 45…leaving behind her husband, two young boys, and many others who loved her dearly. In the span of less than two weeks, she went from not knowing she was ill to…dying. Just like that, she’s gone.
It may be cliché to say that our days are numbered on this earth, but the reality is that some of us, like my mom, have a number around 36,000…and others have less than one single day…or maybe more near 17,000, as our church friend had. And that may seem like a big number…until you run out of them.
We don’t know our number. At least I don’t know mine. But our days on the earthly side of this life are finite.
Life is fragile. We are fragile.
And so with our days numbered, we ought to be gentler to one another…and ourselves.
We need to choose kindness, grace, and service over hatred, ineptitude, and selfishness.
We need to forge a way, especially in these painfully divisive times, for love to win.
How we choose to use our days is all we have to work with in this fragile life.
My “fraGEElay” run began six years ago with this post. And while I have let this blog slip through the cracks of life, I am moved to once again wish you Christmas blessings…And if life, as it so frequently does, is not treating you gently, I pray you have people in your life who love you and stand alongside you…helping you pick up the pieces and create your own Kintsugi.
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