World Spinning

I read a quote that the world has changed more in the past 12 years ago than in the previous 100 years. I believe it.

When Annika was born over 15 years ago, original episodes of "Friends" were still on the air. We watched network TV. Will and I did not own a cell phone. We did not own a laptop; if we wanted access to the Internet, we went upstairs to our desktop computer in the spare bedroom and logged in. I worked long hours in my job as a CPA, but there was no expectation that people would reach me when I was not working. To keep in touch, I called people on the telephone, on a landline, cognizant of the hours that long-distance was cheapest. If I went for a walk or a run, I would later retrace my steps with the car to approximate the distance of my route. I used an old-fashioned alarm clock to awaken. Any recipes that we cooked were from a cookbook or clipped from the newspaper.

It is natural to be mindful of changes and feel that the world is spinning out of control. But I think of the time when Annika was a baby and it truly feels like a different dimension. And I think this is why parenting and living and breathing feel so difficult now - because we are all engaged in a Brave New World with no precedent and no guidance.

I love all the advancements in technology and social networking and online availability and interconnection that have occurred in the last decade and a half. But I think sometimes the ability to be mindful, present, living in the moment has diminished. So this week, my challenge is not to renounce progress and change, but to live deeper, slow, more intentionally. To keep moving forward - but cognizant of all we have lost in the process. To party like it is 2004. Be well, friends.

Perspective

When I was pregnant with Annika, I had a pregnancy scare around the six-month mark. All turned out well, but it shook me during the periods of waiting and I vowed I would do anything if my child were born alive. Preferably healthy, but alive was my goal.

My child is alive. And healthy. And yet I found that having a thriving, healthy child was not the end of my worries, but the beginning. Instead of diminishing, my worries have grown narrower and more specific with time. I have moved from worrying about whether my children would survive, to whether they would speak or walk, to worries that are increasingly mundane but every bit as real.

Last year, the beginning of my daughter's freshman year was rough. Very rough. The start of her sophomore year has been so much smoother. But I am grateful for the rough times last year because it gave me a better sense of perspective.

- Is my daughter doing "enough" extracurricular activities? I don't know, but no teacher has contacted us with concerns this year!

- Is my daughter achieving up to her full potential? I don't know, but her mental health is in a much better place!

- Will my daughter thrive in college? I don't know, but she is thriving much more this year than last year!

- Is it okay my daughter dropped art and is taking a pastry-making class as an elective instead? I don't know, but she bubbles with excitement over learning those new skills!

No one wants to see any of their children struggle. But sometimes when they do, the greatest gift they can give us is one of perspective. Perspective over what matters. Perspective over what is all noise. Perspective over all we learn together on this amazing journey.

Don't Abandon the Core

One of my largest job responsibilities is research. Research takes an inordinate amount of time from conception to ultimate publication, and I often seem to take even longer than the average. But daily, this activity is the easiest to ignore. Other job responsibilities are more pressing - lecturing, meeting with students, writing reviews, editorial responsibilities, committee work. Research is the currency of academia but the most challenging to squeeze in.

Similarly, the most important relationship in my life is my family. My husband and two kids are the moon and sun in my world. I would take a bullet for them. But my family often sees the worst side of me. Around others, I am usually pleasant, compassionate, reasonable. Around my family, I can be ill-tempered, judgmental, emotional. My family is who will be with me in times of crisis, but I often put less work in investing in our relationships. Family is the most important part of my life but where I am the most complacent.

This has me thinking of helpful advice I heard years ago: Don't abandon the core. At work, at home, in the community, figure out core values and activities and structure your life around those. This advice is simple and powerful - and also difficult to carry out amid chaos. When I have many deadlines, I will easily put aside a research task that would move a project forward but has no immediate due date. When I need to manage household logistics, focusing on bigger-picture concerns is easy for me to push aside.

Chaos will not disappear. Life will continue at a breathtaking space. But I hope I can focus more on identifying the core and building a life around that.

Self-Care

Many behaviors are touted as promoting self-care: Bubble baths. Chocolate. Massages. I have recently discovered an additional one: Curating media consumption.

I love to read and am often drawn to books about societal problems - rape culture, the death penalty, discrimination, sexual assault, homelessness, poverty, immigration. I learn a great deal by immersing myself in these works. But I often feel fatigued, weary, and burned out when I am finished.

Similarly, I love following current events. I subscribe to a local and national newspaper and browse the websites of other news sources. But reading the daily barrage of news often leaves me fatigued, weary, and burned out.

I have found I am happier, saner, and more functional when I am more selective about what media I am viewing. I have quit following news organizations on Facebook so my feed can be more peaceful. I have become more selective about what books I read. I have tried to carefully weigh the value of information versus my mental health.

Many would argue that to make this choice is an act of privilege. They are correct. I am insanely lucky my daily life is relatively isolated from much of the intensity of the world.

So I may not be as informed going forward. But I may be a little more mentally stable.

Simplifying

I stalk real estate listings online in our town. Previously, I coveted houses that were newer. Fancier. Bigger. Better. In the past year, though, my preferences have changed. I now lust after houses that are smaller. Less maintenance. No pool. Less than an acre of land to mange. Simpler.

This change in preferences reflects a small voice in my soul that has grown louder with time: Simplify. I have been so focused on accumulating resources, experiences, accolades, that additional accumulations bring me less joy than they once did.

I am tired. Tired of reaching higher and higher, only to find that the bar always shifts and it is never enough. Tired of chasing new experiences that are wonderful but come at a high cost of less time for rejuvenation and rest at home. Tired of trying to maintain all that we have built, which means so much more time for maintenance and less space for enjoyment. Tired.

This shift is part of the natural cycle of life, a shift in priorities I am sure is common. I did not expect it to hit me so hard, so suddenly, so overwhelmingly. So perhaps I will quit my job, sell my possessions, and move to a tiny cabin in the middle of the woods. Most likely not. But I want to simplify - our resources, our time, our commitments. And focus on what truly brings me joy.

The Years Start Coming

Today is my husband's 43rd birthday. We met and started dating on his 21st birthday, meaning we have been together now for more than half of his lifetime. I am younger and have already reached this milestone, but it feels somewhat surreal we both have been together longer than we have been apart.

Being together for 22 years makes our early years seem like another lifetime, and yet still like yesterday. Some emotions and flashes of memories are so visceral, so fresh, so poignant, that it seems like no time has passed at all. Walking across the K-State campus in the crisp air in the dead of night as a few stray flurries began to fall. Sitting out on the fire escape at my scholarship house, feeling the thick rise of humidity and the circling mosquitoes as dusk. Viewing the Manhattan community from the top of the Manhattan letters, hearing the buzzing cicadas and the echos of drunken laughter in the distance.

In other ways, though, our time when we were first dating feels distant. I have to squint my eyes and look back at the person I was and wonder if we are the same entity now. I was so overly confident, so insecure, so sure of my opinions and yet so hesitant of my worth. The town of Manhattan has transformed, and it is an odd feeling to live and work again in the same place where we once began our lives together, young and naïve and in love. Even the K-State campus feels entirely different now as a working professional than as a young undergraduate.

Twenty-two years is a long time to be together. Sometimes, I realize that I am holding on to patterns of behavior that I started in those days, some healthy, some not. Other times, I wonder in amazement that our lives have been through as many changes and upheavals and this person beside me is still my best friend. But always, I am forever grateful that we are in this life together. Happy Birthday, Will.

The Middle Place

A good before and after story is satisfying. Weight loss photos. Home improvement projects. Rags to riches. Sickness to health. Problems to solutions.

What makes these before and after stories so powerful, though, is often omitted: The middle place. The place where you put in the hard work, unsure if your effort will reap results. The place where you keep showing up, even when it is hard. The place where the problem is solved, your body is changed, your home is renovated, your incremental movements tilt your life in a new direction.

I am in the middle of trying to resolve a stressful situation, one in which I feel somewhat isolated, where the distance between where I am in and where I need to be feels monumental. I am in the "before" and can visualize the "after." I am struggling with what the middle place looks like. How long will I be in the middle? What small steps should I take now? How do I move forward when I feel overwhelmed?

We do ourselves a disservice when we present the transition between a before and after as seamless, effortless, instantaneous. The middle place is hard, ugly, jagged, long, uncomfortable. But no change happens without the time in the middle. And it is so worth it.