Well, it is now December. the last month of 2020.
Eleven months into the global pandemic.
Eight months into economic and social disaster.
Five months after the neighborhood caught fire with anger and grief at inhumane murder of George Floyd.
A month and a half into the public rejection of democratic election results by the President, his legal team, his followers, including hilarious parking garage lady in Michigan. Rudy Giuliani's Star Witness in MI
Joe Biden was elected president on November 3rd, publicly declared president by all major news outlets on November 7th, and he will take the oath of office on January 20, 2021.
It is just over a year since we moved back into our renovated South Minneapolis home.
But, more importantly it is nearly 16 months into the life of my second child.
Devon, Devon, Devon - you make this loop around the sun worthwhile. Your growth from sweetest little gurgler to sitter-upper to crawler to stander-upper to walker to runner-to-the-door so you can go outside with shoes and socks and a jacket is the most special commemoration of this time.
And your big brother, who taught you how to fight with power sticks and swords, readies himself for Santa and his birthday soon after. He proclaims he will grow bigger and stronger at virtually every meal, as long as we dress it in ketchup and promise to turn his movie back on.
That Callan - he will turn 4 years old on Martin Luther King Jr weekend.
Warriors for justice, may you ever be.
Four years since Father Robert died. Three years since Dad died.
Warriors for kindness, may we remember your best moments.
Callan believes he can carry a baby in his tummy someday when he gets “mucho bigger”. Which indicates a growing maturity. Back when I was pregnant with you, little D, Callan would pull up his shirt and declare, “I got a baby in my tummy, too!”
I am in no hurry to disavow him of that belief, enamored as I am with his confidence in his own body, his exuberance and trust in a future of his own choosing.
Today (October) was a lovely snowy day in MN. And I will pause. To sit near a window. To watch the tall spruce tree’s lower branches bow beneath rounded cloak sleeves of snow.
Sometimes I feel like I am a warrior for grieving. And it is not simply my own grieving.
I started this post (August) to celebrate letting go of caring what I look like.
Because in this year of measuring immeasurable time, does it matter if I still wear maternity pants??? Today I believe I will always wear maternity pants.
Does it matter if I wear XL t-shirts for MN sports teams I don’t care about? Today most of the social justice/feminist power tshirts I order arrive too small to feel acceptable…. even for me in this great shake-it-off of caring. [Insert “piggies dancing” from “dancing show”]
Momala Harris [Momala on Mothers' Day] and RBG and Creator Goddess Warrior Queen tributes in blended cotton will dress the slimmer trunk of a friend. But, we are all in this fight together. Our time is coming. Our time is upon us. And the fight is exhausting. Essential, but exhausting.
My body has been riding roughshod in 2020 over any hope of living without pain.
I have not lived a normal-for-me physical existence in eight years. Today, the third surgery is scheduled. For the week before Christmas.
Because my body hurts. Almost all the time. It overreacts to most exercise and normal activities. Pilates and non-weight-bearing yoga are exceptions.
Stairs, laundry, standing, moving through the house unnecessarily for something forgotten or needed - these small acts of daily living cause pain in my back, neck, shoulders, but especially my left ankle. For two days after Thanksgiving I had to rest with my foot elevated because I had been cooking the whole day before. My right hip, right knee, and right ankle have begun to limp from their compensation efforts.
It is time to accept help. To invite risk. To scrape and paste the inside of my left ankle. To recuperate. To stand up. Perhaps to run with my 16 month old by the time he turns two.
My point is this: there is too much faulty debris on the inside of my body, to try and cover it up on the outside with less embarrassing pants. It is not my job right now to try and shine for others. I’d like to make room for whatever deep down shine I still possess.
I know I light up my children’s worlds as they light mine. I know there is more to see, more to feel, even on days when I feel empty, broke down, alone.
Alone together. Together together. Alone alone. Together alone.
Oh 2020, you do what you must do.
And I will do what I must. For me. For my boys.
To protect the shine that remains.
To strengthen the shine that matters.
To grow the light.