“Blessed are the high in agency for they have done enough already.” ~taken from The Book of the Firstborn, probably
Three weeks ago, my sister sent me this video about finding the high agency people in your life. In the video, one gentleman asks another whom he would call for help if he were trapped in a South American jail and were to be transferred in 24 hours to an undisclosed location. He explained a high-agency person is someone who can think on their own, without instructions, and solve problems at a very high level under pressure very quickly. My sister added this comment to the video: “You are this person. You should know that most of your friends would feel the same way. This is a high compliment and you should feel really good about yourself.” I watched the video, read her comment, and realized it didn’t sit with me the way I knew she intended it to. I responded with a laugh and then said, “I think that most of the people who would be chosen for this job would be first-born daughters.” Perhaps taking my comment as self-effacing and dismissive of my skills, she replied the “only response necessary is yep. I’m awesome.” I decided to let it go at that.
The exchange has been lodged in my mind ever since, though, due to my visceral, real-time reaction to that video. It was an emphatic inner voice saying, “Yes. I could be that person but no thank you.” There was a time in my not-too-distant past when I might have received that video and corresponding accolades and felt quite honored to be someone else’s chosen savior in a tough situation. I don’t feel that way anymore, though. Thousands of hours of therapy have helped me understand I have some deep-seated issues around constantly being called on to be the adult in the room, to be the one who makes things run smoothly, the one who steps back from her own tasks to ensure everyone else is taken care of and not inconvenienced. This is not to imply that I have never been selfish because I certainly have. Who hasn’t? But my reaction was inner me finally standing up and saying, “I’m finished looking out for others at my own expense.” I would most certainly help my sister if she called me from a South American jail. I’m simply now, more than ever, finding myself capable of telling others to be accountable for their choices and figure out their own shit. It’s a small measure of heretofore unimaginable success for me.
Some people who are high agency might be so because they were required at a young age to be the adult they were not. Some people who are high agency might be so because they were taught they had no intrinsic value outside of service to others. Not everyone who is high agency loves being called on to help in every situation. Some of us are struggling trying to deal with our own crap but aren’t skilled at saying no just yet. We may not yet have learned to channel Melville’s Bartleby-the-Scrivener-level attitude of “I would prefer not to.” It’s admirable to be high agency, but being high agency for others without being high agency for yourself first will lead to burn out, regret, and bitterness. Every mother who has survived a holiday season knows this.
So this holiday season, if you have high agency people in your life upon whom you call regularly, maybe consider giving them a break and not contacting them for assistance. Yes. The holidays are stressful and you could probably use their help, but maybe give them the gift of unburdening instead. And, all you high agency people, you know who you are. Please also know it’s okay for you not to respond to someone else’s emergency, especially when you are overwhelmed yourself. It’s not only acceptable but advisable to tell the relative who is flying out to see you for the holidays and asking a gazillion unnecessary questions of you to check tsa.gov for airport security information and weather.com for updated forecasts. You don’t have to take it all on. And if someone calls you from a South American prison, maybe you choose to help them or maybe you tell them perhaps they shouldn’t have ended up in one in the first place and wish them the best.
Two days until Mother’s Day. The days leading up to the second Sunday in May have left with me with different feels over the years. As a child, for Mother’s Day we’d do a school art project to give to her and then participate in a family activity together after church, like a trip to a zoo. Once I was out of the house, Mother’s Day became a day I had to make sure not to forget. I’d buy a card and a small gift and make sure I was available for whatever my mother wanted to do that day. This was compulsory. When I had my own children, Mother’s Day became something different again. My husband would try to find some way for us to celebrate with our young sons as a family, but we were already previously committed to doing something with my mother too. As I was the only daughter with children, my sisters could always be free for my mom and I knew there would be consequences for me in my relationship with my mother if i couldn’t make myself available. I was low-key angry about Mother’s Day back then. I wondered when Mother’s Day would honestly get to be about me and my sons. I didn’t know how to stand up for myself and say, “It’s my turn to be feted.” So, I learned that the best way to get my day was to be out of town or otherwise engaged on Mother’s Day. I would escape. Then family drama changed things yet again, and I came to dread Mother’s Day. I mean, how do you celebrate the varied emotions that come with having children and being so grateful for the family you created and yet knowing that your relationship with your own mother is non-existent? Now my sons are in college and not around on Mother’s Day. I’m finding Mother’s Day feels different again. I guess Mother’s Day and I have never been in sync.
I will avoid social media this weekend. While I don’t begrudge anyone their happiness or their positive brunch experiences with their loving mother, I don’t really need to witness it as a reminder of a relationship I never honestly had. I also don’t need to be reminded that my sons can’t be here. I miss them every single day and I don’t need a Hallmark holiday to point out to me how much I love them or how their births changed me forever. I live that every single day.
I’m writing this not as some sad-sack whine fest, but as a note to all those who have healthy, loving, close relationships with their mothers. Mother’s Day is a mixed bag for many people. Some have lost their mother and will spend Sunday mourning her. Some women wanted to become mothers more than anything in the world but were unable. Some mothers are experiencing the day alone because their children have died. Some are mothers of children who live with adoptive families. Some have mothers who have forgotten them because of dementia. Some have mothers who are ill and will be spending their last Mother’s Day with their mom. Some have difficult relationships with their offspring and will spend the day living in that pain. Some women had abortions for heartbreaking reasons and will be reminded again what might have been. And some, like me, are sandwiched between two experiences and aren’t able to find mental peace on this holiday.
Mother’s Day is not all flowers, heartfelt cards, and Sunday brunches or family picnics. Mother’s Day is as complicated as motherhood. So while many are genuinely excited about this Sunday, others of us cannot wait for Monday.
Our oldest was not the easiest of infants. He didn’t sleep well from day one. He was impossible to keep on a schedule. While he was the sweetest little boy 95 percent of the time, that other 5 percent of the time was rough. When experts discuss the “terribles twos,” there is an expectation that around 3 years of age those episodes should be waning. We were not having that experience with our oldest. At nearly 4, while the tantrums were not a daily occurrence, when he did launch into one there was nothing we could do but let him rage until he ran out of steam. My mother regularly chided me for being too lenient, and we would feel so helpless when these tantrums reared in public. One time my son was acting up in a restaurant and a friend I was dining with reminded me of the biblical notion of, “Spare the rod, spoil the child.” While I had no plans of hitting my child, having been subject to multiple “spankings” with a belt, a wooden spoon, and a hairbrush myself, I knew physical punishment could work to quell outbursts. I began reading parenting books and attending seminars, convinced something I was doing wrong was allowing these tantrums to persist and worsen. A book called Parenting with Love and Logic was suggested. One fix I had heard was, when the child is having a tantrum, put them in their room, close them in there, and let them tantrum without you. If necessary to make this happen, you could install a lock on the outside of the door so the child could not escape during these time outs. This seemed rather extreme to me, but nothing else we had tried had worked. I was fresh out of ideas.
One afternoon, for a reason I cannot recall, Joe launched into one of his screaming fits. I picked up my flailing child, told him that he was going in time out until he could calm down, and deposited him on his bedroom floor. I shut the door swiftly and stood there holding the handle firmly as he struggled to open it. I knew there was nothing in his room that could hurt him, so I was determined to win this battle and show him his poor behavior would get no audience from me. As I held the door, resolute this was the right thing to do, my son’s cries escalated. He pounded and he kicked the door. He screamed, “Mommy” repeatedly as I stood outside holding the door knob. His cries grew ever more frantic. An epic battle began between my well-meaning head and my momma’s heart. My head kept repeating comments my mother and others had said to me about how I was too lax and gave in too easily, which was why my child was ill-behaved. I repeated to myself that letting children “cry it out” was a time-honored practice. Meanwhile, my heart was bursting at the sound of my precious Joe so clearly sad and scared alone in his room. He was still calling my name through broken sobs when I looked down and saw his little fingers reaching under the door. My heart shattered.
I’d like to say I opened the door, picked him up, hugged him, and told him I was sorry for being cruel. I’d like to say I cradled him until he was calm and gave him the security he needed to know he was heard and understood. I can’t, though. I held on to the knob, quietly crying on the other side of that shitty, hollow-core, builder’s grade door until he was silent. Only then did I let go of the handle and nudge the door open to find him asleep, with a tear-stained, flushed face, on the floor where I had left him. I closed the door, sat down in the hallway and sobbed, afraid I had broken my child. Whether this event would cease the tantrums, I was not sure. What I was sure of, though, was that my son might not ever feel I was safe place for his emotions again.
Not long after that miserable afternoon, someone suggested that perhaps Joe wasn’t an ill-behaved child but a highly sensitive one. His tantrums might be growing worse not because he was becoming more intractable but because he was becoming more fearful. Perhaps Joe needed to be held tightly, reassured he was being heard, and given an opportunity to calm down while feeling secure. Once we started helping him to better handle his wild emotions, the tantrums ceased. I became a different mother than the one I grew up with. I stopped yelling at my sons when they acted unfavorably and started talking to them about why their behavior was not the best. We regularly discussed how you can be a good person and have bad moments. My husband and I pointed out times when we had meant well but acted poorly, and we apologized for them because we wanted the boys to know all human beings struggle emotionally on occasion and make less than optimal choices. And while I’m sure I did a dozen other things horribly wrong as a parent, one thing I did right was making it a point to talk with our children, not at them. I’ve apologized to Joe about a dozen times for that sobering afternoon when my actions were more cruel than my heart. He tells me he doesn’t remember it and it’s okay. I’ve forgiven myself for doing what I thought at the time might be the right thing, but I still can’t speak (or write) about it without the tears flowing.
Yesterday, Joe Facetimed us out of the blue. He’s a college senior and had been invited to a school banquet where he unexpectedly received an award for excellence in student leadership. And you know what? As proud of him as I am for being a kind and open-hearted person who sets a good example, I’m more proud that he’s the kind of person whose first action after winning an award is reaching out to his parents so we can share it with him. I mean, how cool was that?
Maybe it’s time to let go of the memory of those fingers reaching out to me under the door because he knows that door has never been closed once since.
I am a bartender’s granddaughter. My maternal grandparents, now deceased, owned and operated a tavern called the Hop Inn in Buffalo, New York. When my grandfather died in 1990, the establishment closed and the Hop Inn ceased to exist outside the memories of those who had once stepped inside. I don’t often think about these beer-scented roots of mine, but when I do it is with the utmost fondness. It wasn’t much, but it was magic for me back when I hadn’t a clue that having a baby (or 7 year old) in a bar might be frowned upon.
My grandparents, Henry and Charlotte Rzeszutek, operated the Hop Inn for forty years. The tavern sat on an unassuming corner at the intersection of Koons and Empire, a mile east of Buffalo’s Broadway Market, in a then predominantly Polish neighborhood. The tavern was fully wood-paneled and had a long bar with deep red, vinyl-covered, spinning barstools that my sisters and I would twirl on with glee. Beyond the main tavern room was another larger room that contained a coin-operated pool table and additional seating that was never filled and beyond that room was a narrow commercial kitchen that also was rarely used but still smelled of french-fry grease. Behind the bar where my grandparents worked there was a large white refrigerator, myriad bottles of whiskey and other spirits, an ancient cash register, several beer taps, and an assortment of snacks. There were a half-dozen tables in the main bar area as well, and my grandparents kept us amused wiping tables, emptying ashtrays, and washing the barware while soap operas or the evening news played on the high-mounted television in the corner. We were well rewarded for our service with bottles of orange and cherry soda, which we would combine in highball glasses to create orange-cherry sludges, bags of Troyer Farms puffcorn, and red pistachios that would leave our fingers dyed for days. The tavern’s regulars, treated us like queens of the castle while we played at working. When the familiar sound of the ice-cream truck began to grow louder as it cruised down the street from Broadway, they would hand my sisters and I a couple dollars so we could buy swirl cones. As an adult, I suppose I might have judged these men for frequenting a bar in the middle of an ordinary Wednesday and perhaps I might have questioned their relative level of sobriety, but as a 7 year old I saw them only as kind, thirsty men who found us beguiling.
My grandparents lived and raised two daughters in a small apartment above the tavern. During the day, they took turns working the bar. My grandmother opened it at 10 a.m. and my grandfather closed it at 2 a.m. They were always together and yet not. Their flat consisted of a small, eat-in kitchen, two minuscule bedrooms, one bathroom, and a living area with a sofa and my grandfather’s coveted recliner where he would sit and do word search puzzles. Their laundry was done in an attic accessed via the bathroom. The attic smelled of laundry soap, clothes drying on lines, and old wooden beams. It was laden with all manner of past family treasures waiting to be discovered. My mother and her sister shared a bedroom barely big enough for the full size bed they slept in. Their room was off the living area and was made private only via a flimsy, accordian-style vinyl curtain that closed with the distinct click of magnets. Although there was a side entrance to their upstairs apartment, there was also a “secret” entrance, which my grandparents used. This was the most enchanted thing of all. In the room with the pool table, there was one wall that hid the same stairwell you could reach from the outside entrance. To gain access, you pushed hard on one side of an unmarked wall panel. It would swing in to reveal the metal-edged stairs leading up and the door leading out to the side yard. When the door swung shut again, you would be concealed from the outside world and heading into my grandparent’s secret lair. Tell me what child would not be bewitched by that spy-novel-level sorcery.
Henry and Charlotte pre Me
Although the Hop Inn was torn down decades ago and now only a grassy plot of land remains where it once stood, I am grateful for my time spent there when visiting with my parents or spending an overnight with my sisters in the tiny room where my mother used to sleep. My grandparents worked hard and weren’t wealthy but, oh, how they spoiled us in any and every way they could. If orange chocolate and Slim Jims were currency, I’d have quite the investment portfolio now. I may not have gone away to summer camps or family cabins or taken any holiday trips to Disney or the ocean, but most of my happiest early memories originated among the lingering cigarette smoke and spinning barstools at the Hop Inn, where I was both an indispensable, part-time, pretend employee and an adorable and cherished granddaughter.
**As an aside, perhaps it isn’t surprising my favorite television show of all time was Cheers.
Woody: “How would a beer feel, Mr. Peterson?” Norm: “Pretty nervous if I was in the room.”
We got into F1 racing the way the most Americans have and in the most American way possible. We watched the Netflix series, F1: Drive to Survive. We began watching in January of 2022. I became way more entrenched in the sport than I ever imagined. I chose a favorite team. It’s Scuderia Ferrari. (I am a fan of the Buffalo Bills, so I am accustomed to cheering for an underdog.) I zeroed in on a couple favorite drivers, Charles LeClerc and Carlos Sainz. I didn’t choose them because they were the current leaders. I chose them because they seemed like good, solid guys, not unlike Josh Allen and Jim Kelly. We got an F1 TV membership and began watching the races on race day. I have followed along with live updates of qualifying sessions and have watched races on my phone when I wasn’t near a television. I have woken up multiple times at 5 a.m. to watch a race happening across the globe in real time. I may have issues. There is so much more I have yet to learn about the sport, but I’m hooked.
Qualifying Day
Years ago, my youngest sister told us for her 50th she wanted to experience the Monaco Grand Prix, and it was her wish we would join her in this adventure. We started researching and saving. Last fall, I got online an snatched up grandstand seats for us. Then I secured lodging in Nice because, well, we aren’t A-list celebrities with A-list bank accounts who can stay in Monaco. I bought some Ferrari merch. We were really going to do this. On May 25th, two days before my 55th birthday, we landed in France, F1 tickets in hand.
It’s not easy to encapsulate what happens in Monaco on Grand Prix weekend. The city state of Monaco, encompassing an area of land roughly 60% the size of New York’s Central Park, swells from 37k residents to roughly 200k people. DJs pump club tunes through speakers. It’s not a place for agoraphobics or claustrophobics. Myriad fans in all their team paraphernalia follow signs through winding, fenced passageway and, in some cases, over recently constructed bridges over the race track, to reach the grandstands. Each grandstand offers a unique vantage point of the race. Ear plugs are a wise choice. I got the chills the first time I heard the cars in the midst of their first practice. I could not believe I was actually there. None of us could. The race is iconic. The location is beautiful. The yachts are plentiful. The mix of languages being spoken is mind boggling. The excitement is palpable everywhere you walk.
Our seats were near the Tabac CornerBridge constructed over race trackMy watch telling me to put in ear plugs
My husband and I attended two practices and qualification to prepare ourselves for race day.
Video from Free Practice 2 on May 26th (Grandstand L)
Between the driver’s parade and the race, Steve and I decided the Monaco Grand Prix experience would not be complete without some libations. We noticed you could purchase an entire bottle of champagne. Done, thank you very much. With paper cups and straws in hand, we texted our group our shaded location and told them to hurry. We started pouring and when everyone had a cup we tried to made a toast to commemorate our day. A woman who was standing nearby offered to take our group photo. Okay. That happens all the time, right? Well, this particular woman wasn’t just a kind onlooker. She was a gem, the kind of person my sisters and I would love to be friends with in real life back home, bold, hysterical, and smart as a whip. We stood conversing with her for a while after she took the photo, learning she was at the race with her daughter and husband. She’s from Virginia. We gabbed and giggled with her like we were long-lost friends. We gave her a cup and asked her name. She told us we would never forget it. She was right. Blythe was fabulous. Before she went back to her husband and daughter, I asked if she’d be willing to be in a photo with us. Of course she would. Sometimes I really do love Americans. We promised we would toast to her for the remainder of our trip and we did. Each night we raised our glasses and toasted Blythe, the kind stranger who became an instant friend.
As for the race itself, F1 fans will tell you Monaco is not the most exciting race on the calendar. It is a narrow road circuit and passing is risky in the few places where it is possible. Two-time World Champion and current 2023 championship leader, Max Verstappen, started on pole position and with the fastest car on the grid was basically assured a victory. I watched Carlos and Charles, hoping one of them would make it onto the podium at the end of the race. A little more than halfway through the race, Max was well ahead of his closest competition. We’re talking like 17 seconds ahead. Max would whiz by and what felt like an eternity would pass until the next driver appeared. Max was stomping the competition like they were buildings in Tokyo and he was was Godzilla. We began to pray for rain to make things more interesting. About ten laps later, the sky opened up. Boy-Scout-level-prepared, I had ponchos for all six of us. We donned them, sat in the stands while the rain fell steadily, and watched driver’s slip around the Tabac Corner. Despite a few incidents among other drivers, Max won again to the delight of many fans in the crowd.
When the race was over and the cars were taking their final lap, the yachts in the harbor began sounding their horns. It was something else. While the race had not gone the way I hoped, the experience of the Monaco Grand Prix was everything I’d hoped for.
Celebration at the end of the race
It’s never lost on me how fortunate I am to have “once-in-a-lifetime” experiences filling my memories. Swimming through the Green Grotto at Capri, hiking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, being close enough to an elephant in Tanzania to see her eyelashes, watching a blue-footed booby interact with my sons in the Galapagos Islands, witnessing a sunrise on Haleakala. The older I get, the more I am able to be present in these experiences and the more I understand how precious they are. I see so many people today in amazing locations and at impressive events, not noticing and experiencing, but preening and posing for photos they will share to prove they were there. I saw tons of them in Monaco, with an entourage filming an experience they were not really having, only documenting. We’ve become so obsessed with creating FOMO with our myriad selfies and our constant filming and posting that we don’t often recognize we may be the ones missing out.
“Everything is made up. It’s all just whatever, and we’re allowed to make up new better stuff. You can be whoever you want to be and you can change your mind every single day. There’s no rules against it. Don’t forget your brain doesn’t even have arms so stop letting it push you into stuff or hold you back.” ~Anna Przy
Last weekend I went shopping with my sister. I loathe shopping in person because it involves dealing with too many people, but I asked her to go to the mall with me so she could select her birthday present.
Maybe if I close my eyes I will wake up back home?
After browsing in Athleta for her gift, we moved next door to Nordstrom to look. I also needed some clothing for an upcoming trip. Shopping is a challenge for me because, being a rule follower, I am well aware there are established fashion guidelines for people of a certain age and, being raised a people pleaser, I must uphold them. And yet it’s impossible for me to follow all the rules. Where do I find flattering, age-appropriate clothing? I need something not too short, too matronly, too pricey, too tight, too baggy, too sparkly, too young, or too revealing, that will also disguise my belly and still make me appear svelte when I inadvertently ingest something my body chooses to reject, rendering me as plump as blueberry Violet Beauregard. I have no Oompa Loompas to fix that.
Knowing that I am an abysmal shopper who avoids malls, browses catalogs, then guesses at sizing and purchases only off the internet so I can avoid asking for help, I told Kathy I needed a personal shopper. She said she could be that for me and set about finding items she thought might be fun and cute.
Bonus:This one has pockets!
We brought everything into a huge dressing room, and she served as wardrobe assistant, shuffling clothes from hangers, handing them to me, and then assessing them for their relative cuteness. I tried on a couple things that were not quite right. Then I tried on a loose-fitting white dress I would never have picked for myself because I imagined I would get lost in it. We took photos of the outfits, and Kathy insisted I try to look like I was having fun and owning it. She had also selected one complete renegade I would have strolled right past as quickly as possible, a Barbie-pink, mini-skirt short, off-the-shoulder romper. My parameter-violation meter exploded. Still, I was honor bound to try on whatever she picked out. I put it on, looked in the mirror, and cringed. She thought it was adorable. Unconvinced, I sought backup opinions, but those reviewers came back positive as well.
Choosing not to listen to all my inner critics, I purchased the pink romper, solely because I’m working toward being okay with being seen. Scientists on the Space Station could see me in that romper. Still, the tags have not been removed. The receipt is in a safe place, in case I chicken out.
The socks really add something special and the face says it all
Yesterday, I told my therapist about my shopping experience. We started discussing when I came to understand I was only acceptable under specific conditions. Truth is I don’t remember a time when I didn’t live under the weight of other’s expectations of me. There has been a narrow limit of what is appropriate for me to do and be and say versus a broad spectrum of what is perfectly acceptable for other people. We spent most of the session deconstructing this mindset.
In the end, I understood I didn’t ask for the baggage I’ve carried all these years, nor did I choose it. It was handed to me when I was too young to understand what I was picking up. I carried it around out of habit and grew to believe it was mine. It was not. But I didn’t know how to set it down without becoming unacceptable and unlovable. I do now. I visualized dropping those bags right where I was standing and telling the universe I’m finished carrying other people’s shit. I’m not a dung beetle. I then imagined picking up a new bag, an empty one with plenty of room for what I want to carry. I can put anything in it I want. Anything that makes sense to me and feels authentic. Anything that brings me joy. Anything that will become part of the individual I want to foster, accept, and love. And if someone attempts to empty their bag by tossing some of their items into mine, I will recognize it and remove them. The space in that bag is mine alone, and I have a choices, not rules or parameters assigned by anyone else. So I’ll be returning the expectations, negative opinions, judgments, and stress I didn’t request and don’t need. You can keep your junk, thank you very much.
Now I need to find cute shoes to wear with that romper when we are in Europe. I wonder if my sister wants to go back to Nordstrom this weekend for Round Two?
In mid-January, I seized upon an opportunity to plan a quick spring break trip to Spain with my son. With two months to prepare, I cashed in my United reward miles and booked hotels, train trips, and tours. Then I began the arduous task of determining how to fit 9-days worth of clothing into a backpack, and I learned packing for a trip is the quickest way to figure out you hate all your clothes. Still, I made it work. The bag was not light and I am not the fittest, but I was going to Spain and I could suffer for 9 days. As it turns out, I didn’t suffer much.
Granada
Our first stop was Granada, a city of about 115k people in the Andalucía region of Spain, where Joe planned to spend as much time as possible with his girlfriend who is studying there this semester. I planned to take some tours and relax. The one thing Joe and I had scheduled to do together in Granada was tour the Alhambra, the most visited site in Spain and a masterpiece of Muslim art in Europe. This is where things went awry on our very first day. Not a good sign. I had a tour booked for us, but when we got to the meeting place there were so many other groups of tourists we could not find our specific group. There were no signs to aid us in our search, so Joe wandered from group to group asking if we belonged there. But the guides kept pointing us in different directions toward other groups. In the end, by the time the tours had begun, no one had claimed us. That was strike one. Undeterred, I went to the ticket window figuring at least we could do our own viewing, and I purchased two tickets. Sadly, they were not the right tickets, as tickets to the palaces we most wanted to see were sold out. I didn’t catch that with my measly Spanish. That was strike two. Joe was devastated. He tried not to be too upset and to play positive because he knew how miserable I felt for twice messing up the the ONE thing he wanted to do. Still, he was visibly disappointed, and I was disconsolate for failing my son. We did the sightseeing we could at the Generalife (the gardens and vacation home for the inhabitants of the palace) and the Alcazaba (the fortress that is the symbol of the Alhambra complex) and went our separate ways for the evening.
I lost it as soon as I got to the rental flat and cried for a while. Then I did what I always do. I got determined to find a way to make it happen. Searching online for at least an hour, I discovered there were zero tickets available for the Nasrid palaces for the next few days, either from the site itself or as part of any regular tour with any tour company I could find. Then, finally, some light crept in. Around 9 pm, I discovered there might be a possible opportunity via a private tour. It was not inexpensive, and after my two previous ticket foibles I had already exhausted too much money in this quest. But it made zero sense to have traveled all the way to Spain not to see the one site Joe, a religion and middle east studies major, most wanted to see. So, I booked it.
Turns out it was the best money I have spent in a long time. Our tour guide, Isa, was a delight. She’s an architect who literally grew up at the Alhambra because her mother, also an architect, had worked on restoring the site when Isa was a young girl. We couldn’t have lucked into a better situation. While we toured, Isa told us the history of the location, pointed out small details she knew about that others might not, and spoke Spanish with Joe’s girlfriend who wanted the practice. We spent three hours touring with Isa, talking with her about the site and about Granada, and we learned so much more than we ever would have learned in a 25-person tour. But my biggest takeaway from the series of events in those 24 hours is that sometimes when the lights fade on your vision in one way, they illuminate elsewhere and lead you to much better opportunities you might never have encountered otherwise. And yes, the third time’s a charm.
The Nasrid Palaces, built between 1238 and 1492, are awe inspiring. Although my photos miss much of what you see in person, let me use them demonstrate the beauty of the architecture and design.
First room we enteredSecond room…zoom in on the wallsOriginal tileworkThat ceiling is carved woodThe water reflects a palace façadeStunning patterned wallLion fountain, recently restoredThe last bit of original stained glass in the palaces
Most of the color on the walls has faded with time, but if you look carefully you can see remnants of what once was there. Can you imagine how beautiful the interiors here were seven hundred years ago? You were meant to feel small here, humbled by the wealth and power of the Nasrid dynasty. I wish I could have spent days wandering and taking it all in but, alas, all good tours must come to an end. And so we said goodbye to Isa, and I went back to the flat feeling so much better than I had the night before.
Once solo, I toured the Granada Cathedral. I love visiting cathedrals. Some are so ornate and overwhelming they border on gaudy, but the Granada Cathedral is gorgeous. The first part of the church, built by Queen Isabella after the Reconquista in 1492, was completed in Gothic style and is now the Royal Chapel. This is where King Ferdinand and Queen Isabel are interred. We viewed their simple caskets on display underneath the chapel floor. The cathedral was built later in Spanish Renaissance style. If you want to feel small and insignificant, step inside a building meant to portray the greatness of God.
Renaissance cathedralGothic Royal ChapelThose pillars, thoughOne altarThe detailThe gothic Royal Chapel entrance
I also toured the Albaicín and Sacromonte areas of the city. These sections are located across the Darro River on the hillside opposite of the Alhambra. The Albaicín settlement is where the original palace workers lived back in the day after they were forced into conversion by Ferdinand and Isabella. In the Sacromonte neighborhood, Roma people (called gypsies) settled into cave houses built into the hills. You could spend days wandering the narrow, often car free, streets here. Joe and I visited the courtyard of the St. Nicolas church, located on a hill directly opposite the Alhambra, multiple times at differing hours of the day to take photos. One morning, Joe pulled out a flag he had brought from home, the Andalucían one his brother bought for him in Granada four years ago, and asked to be photographed with it. He usually only buys flags from places he has been, and prior to our trip he said he felt like a fraud for having this flag. At last, he could legitimately claim ownership for it.
Narrow pedestrian streetMuslim-influence doorwaySmall shopping streetOne of the few selfies we tookEarly spring in GranadaJoe with his flag and the AlhambraSt. Nicolas ChurchLoved the stonework everywhereView towards the Muslim world from the Catholic one
Segways lined up for our group
I like to try new things. On this trip, I determined that would be taking a Segway for a spin. There was a tour of the Albaicín and Sacromonte offered via Segway. Joe did not want to participate, so I went with seven people I just met at the tour office. Operating a Segway is fairly straight forward with some practice. I had about 1 minute to practice before we took off. I didn’t feel fully confident, but everyone else in the tour had already ridden one and I was holding up the group.
Acting confident
As I previously mentioned several times, this area of Granada is hilly. Some of these hills are rather steep. With my uninformed mind, I imagined this would make the Segway an ideal mode to get around. At least I would not struggle. That was a miscalculation for a first-time rider. When I booked the trip, I didn’t understand just how narrow, windy, and treacherous these hills were in places. At our first steep incline, the tour leader dismounted and said he personally would coach each one of us up and over the first curve in the hill. Yikes. I could go into gory details about how the rest of this tour went for me but, suffice it to say, the next time I book Segway tour, I will make sure it is in a flat area so I don’t endanger anyone else. I enjoyed the experience, but I’m not so sure the tour leaders and the woman from England who fell off her ride when she ran into cautious me on my slow-going machine felt the same about their trip .
Of the places we toured on our brief sojourn in Spain, Granada was at the top of our list. It’s small, easily walkable, and beautiful with its position at the foot of the Sierra Nevadas. I will definitely return. Next time, I will bring my husband. And I will know the correct way to visit the Alhambra so we only have to pay for our visit one time.
The Sierra NevadasThe Albaicín (left) from the AlcazabaAwesome view down into townWalkway next to the cathedralThe reasons I went to SpainPalm treesThe Albaicín from across the DarroWhat I mean when I say the area is hilly
I’ve reached an important but difficult stage in my journey to reclaim my life story, the one where you start living your truth. When you’re used to a life where you make decisions based on what others want or what will keep you out of “trouble” with them, it’s a scary step. And when you decide you no longer want to be a people pleaser, the people who have benefitted by your remaining in your role and doing what they would prefer aren’t fans. While I am not 100% clear what I want from my life, I am resolute regarding things I do not want. I’m finished living someone else’s playbook.
My middle sister called yesterday to invite me to her birthday party. I love my sister. We have our differences and we’ve had our struggles due to the dynamic that was set up for us in our childhood. That said, she is a kind, loving, thoughtful person with many friends and a deep love of her family. When she told me that my parents would be at the party, I winced. I knew that was coming. I wasn’t sure I was ready to deal with this moment now, but it was here. I took a deep breath and told her plainly, while I would love to celebrate with her on her birthday, if our mother and father would be present then I would not be. It was the first time I’ve faced one of these moments with my family of origin. While I haven’t had any direct contact with my parents in well over a year, I’ve accomplished that by having excuses not to see them rather than by directly expressing it was my conscious choice not to see them. I knew she was disappointed, but she respected my boundary, which I appreciated.
When I got off the phone, I realized my pulse was rapid. I was anxious. I felt guilty for letting my sister down. She is collateral damage in this situation. She and I were parented differently. We have different relationships with our parents and different demons as a result. I had to remind myself that, although my sister is likely frustrated about the situation between my parents and I and what that means for the family at large, she is an adult and she will be fine. I had to remind myself that even if people become upset with me for my choices, that doesn’t mean I don’t have the right to make those choices. And I had to tell myself this will take practice. With time, expecting other people to deal with their disappointment rather than disappointing myself to preserve their happiness will become a habit for me and bring me greater peace. I can only imagine how freeing it would be to say to someone, “I won’t be attending,” full stop, rather than concocting some excuse to avoid their judgment.
Many people cannot accept that someone might be so traumatized by their childhood experiences that they need to abandon their parents to heal. When I tell people I don’t communicate with my parents because of childhood wounds, they tell me all parents of that generation were not the best or I will be sorry when they are gone that I didn’t try harder with them. They tell me I should forgive and forget and move on. These comments, well meaning or not, invalidate my experience. But I no longer am triggered when people don’t understand my choice regarding my parents. I’m at the place now where I can hear these comments and let them roll off me. Those people don’t have the full story and, even if they did, they don’t get to tell me what I should do because it is what they would do or what they feel is right.
It’s my life. You don’t have to understand it. You don’t have to approve of it. You don’t have to comment on it without my request. You don’t have to tell me how I can make it better. You don’t have to do or say anything about my life because it’s not your concern. Despite what I was told in my youth, taking care of yourself and your mental health needs is not selfish. It’s imperative to living authentically. While disappointment is part of life’s experience, I’ve mercilessly disappointed myself for too long. Allowing others to manage their disappointment offers them a growth opportunity. And so I begin letting others grow too.
I couldn’t sleep again last night, likely because I drank a couple glasses of wine. What can I say? Sometimes you just want pizza and wine with friends without acting like an old person and worrying about the consequences. Still, when I wake up at 1 am ready to take on the world, it’s not the best. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now, but here we are.
I read if you can’t sleep, it’s a good idea to journal to unload your mind of whatever thoughts might be hindering your return to sleep. So, after an hour of hoping but failing to drift back off, I got up, herded our senior furry friend (the one who had woken me up in the first place) to the bedroom door, and headed to the sofa with a journal and pen in hand. Ruby is 14.5 now, which is towards the older end of a border collies’ general life expectancy. She seems to have her days and nights confused, sleeping all day and wandering aimlessly all night. I never know where she will be at 2 a.m. A couple days ago I found her in the master bathroom staring at the closet door, presumably thinking it was our bedroom door, the place where she stands when she wants to go out. And as I sat writing, she continued her travels around our main floor. Her nightly 5k is recorded through nail clicking, then silence when she hits an area rug, then resumed clicking. She seems unsure of where she was headed or what she was looking for. All I can think is, “Same, girl. Same.”
I find myself in tears when I look at her now for more than a few seconds because I know is waiting down the road, whether I am ready to get there or not. She has cataracts and doesn’t see well; she doesn’t hear well either. Tonight I noticed a small, tumor-like growth on the back of her right leg. Just another sign of where she is in her life’s journey. The medication and CBD treats we give her to ease her discomfort seem to be less help these days. Right now it feels like we’re in a holding pattern, circling the inevitable, but not yet cleared by the tower to land.
As I watched her amble around, I thought of our sons. They were 5 and 7 when she came to us. Joe is her favorite person. The boys have made it clear they aren’t ready to say goodbye to her and they hope they aren’t here to see her last moments because they think it will break them. I feel that in my soul. When Ruby is finally ready to cross the rainbow bridge, her passing won’t simply mean the loss of my constant companion of 14 years. Losing Ruby means I will have to let go of the period of my life I have loved the most thus far, the part where our boys were my day job and my night job, and Ruby was assistant to the assistant manager. It’s a double loss, which probably explains why it’s so heart-wrenching for me to sit with her on those long, silent nights. I’m double grieving. It needs to be done, but that doesn’t make it suck any less.
I see her discomfort with her achy joints, her struggle to get to her feet and balance herself before taking a step, and her confusion, but I also see moments of spunk when she goes toe-to-toe with our young corgis and very nearly resembles her 3 year old self. I am one with her in all these moments, facing my own mortality as well, whenever the universe wants its atoms back. Damn, it’s a bitter pill to swallow. “I know what’s ahead for me too, girl,” I tell her each quiet night we alone share. “I know it’s hard to let go of the people you love and the duty to watch over them.” I run my hand down the length of her frail body, weeping and reassuring her. “It’s okay. You’ve done a beautiful job taking care of us, making us laugh, and teaching us how to be present, but you can let go and rest when you’re ready. You’ve earned it. You’ve trained Loki and Goose well. They can take the torch from you and manage us with the same herding-dog spirit you did the whole of your wonderful life.” Last night she looked at me through those cloudy eyes, and I saw again what drew me to her. She is like me. She isn’t good at relaxing or doesn’t want to relinquish her favorite responsibility, either. We are sisters this way. And today she continues to fight for every moment of this precarious life as if she means to live forever, and all I can think is, “Same girl. Same.”
“Maybe I just wanna fly, wanna live, I don’t wanna die, maybe I just wanna breathe, maybe I just don’t believe, maybe you’re the same as me, we see things they’ll never see, you and I are gonna live forever” ~Oasis
“We desperately don’t want to experience shame, and we’re not willing to talk about it. Yet the only way to resolve shame is to talk about it.” ~Brené Brown
Me in sixth grade, 11 years old
Most of my childhood memories are vague and hazy, more of a feeling or a sense about an event than something I remember vividly. They are sad, anxiety inducing, and filled with shame, though, so it’s probably better I don’t remember them distinctly. I’ve spent my life unsure whether the limited number of fuzzy memories I have, reminiscent of a show that keeps bouncing to static on a 1960’s television without an antenna, even occurred. There have been many times when I would mention one of these memories to my mother only to be told it never happened or it happened differently or told it to another family member or friend who would tell me it couldn’t have been as bad as what I was recalling. So I stopped trusting my mind. This might explain why my memories are so few and so unclear I’m only about 50% certain they actually happened, despite there being no reason for me to have invented them.
This morning, I’m assuming because it’s Girl Scout cookie season, a memory popped back into my head. I have spent my life ashamed of this particular memory. I’m not sure I’ve spoken of it to anyone other than my therapists and my husband. But I’ve been thinking a lot about Brené Brown’s work on shame, and how important she says it is to bring shame into the open to neutralize its sting.
“If we can share our story with someone who responds with empathy and understanding, shame can’t survive.” ~Brene Brown
So, I’m hoping my readers will be empathetic here and try to avoid shaming me for not being able to do better for myself that day.
I was around 11 or 12 at the time. I went to bed on a hot, still, summer night, and must not have been able to sleep because we didn’t have air conditioning and the night was not cooling off as they usually did. I am unable to sleep without covers, and it was too hot in my pajamas. So I had undressed and slept naked under the covers, something I rarely did because I didn’t want to risk getting called out by my strict, Catholic parents for doing it. In the morning, my mom burst into my room to wake me up. A troop of older Girl Scouts were kidnapping our troop for a come-as-you-are breakfast. Hiding under the covers, I told my mom I didn’t want to go. She insisted that the girls were downstairs waiting for me and she had told them I would be right down. Risking a berating, I told her I wasn’t wearing pajamas. She handed me a robe. I asked her if I could put my pajamas on instead. She told me to put the robe on and get downstairs because it wasn’t fair to keep the other girls waiting. Dutifully, like the good girl I so wanted to be, I slipped into the robe wearing nothing underneath, put a pair of slippers on my feet, and went downstairs to go to a breakfast I did not want to attend.
I remember nothing about that breakfast. Not one single detail. I don’t know what we ate or who was there. I don’t remember talking to anyone. I don’t remember where I was or whose car I got into or what was said. I don’t know if we played games or if we simply ate and were driven home. I am certain I did not have fun. My only souvenirs from that morning are memories of the fear I had of my robe accidentally opening and revealing no nightgown or even underwear underneath, the horrific awkwardness I felt sitting around in a stranger’s house wearing nothing but my birthday suit and a flimsy shell, and the shame I continue to associate with that event.
I’ve pondered why I have kept this anecdote to myself and why it still holds power for me. There is a lot of shame for me to unpack here. I’m ashamed to admit my mother put me in that position. I’m ashamed to admit as a young girl I went to a party with friends very nearly naked. I’m ashamed to admit I wasn’t brave enough or smart enough to figure out a way to put on some damn pajamas despite my mother’s protests. I’m ashamed to admit this memory still brings me to tears. I’m ashamed I can’t laugh about it yet. Mostly, I’m ashamed I’ve doubted myself that this event was real. And I can’t decide if I feel worse that my mother would put me through what she must have known would be an excruciating, shame-inducing event or that at around eleven years of age I had already learned what I wanted and felt was right didn’t matter. Perhaps now that I’ve exposed my dirty little secret, I can be at peace with it or at least forgive myself for the crime of being human on a hot summer’s night and choosing to sleep au naturel.
I decided to tell this story today to cement for myself that it did happen, that my memory (blurred though it may be) is real and I didn’t make it up to hurt someone else or live with it this long in shame because I am a person who not only invents misery but prefers to wallow in it alone for decades. My memories, sparse though they are, matter to me. My stories matter to me, and I’m finished permitting others (including shame) to control my narrative.
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.” ~Maya Angelou
Live Now and Zen 