A Departure

Unearthing a piece of my mother's legacy in a work trip.

Before I packed my bags to leave for California, a last minute trip for a chance opportunity to run into someone interested in my book, there was work to do. In the week leading up to my departure I found that it took all of me to believe in the choice that I had made, which was to book a flight to Santa Barbara for the opening weekend events at Godmothers book store, despite the plethora of obstacles that nagged at me to do the easy thing and stay home. 

Aaron hardly ever travels for work, except on this one day that I’d have to spend on a plane to make the trip. His work team had already planned to be in Chicago together, and I’m all about what feels fair — why should he have to dismantle his schedule for mine? To go, I’d have to line up childcare on a Monday from dawn until dusk, just after the kids started back at school - two in Elementary and our youngest at a separate Pre-school, all before anyone has fully adjusted to their schedules. Not to mention drop off and pick up at gymnastics. 

Flight costs were high, and only getting higher. And in between the time when I started scouting for childcare and when it was actually confirmed, I sat silently with myself, then bought non-refundable tickets and hoped it would all come together.

The next day I discovered that I forgot to add Sierra’s Girl Scout Bridging Ceremony to our family calendar, and with my departure on Saturday, I would now miss the Sunday event. Everyone in the troop had RSVPed. And I, a troop leader, hadn’t put it on my calendar. Tears welled in my eyes as I tried to continue note-taking during the planning meeting with my co-leaders, who also happen to be dear friends. There was a strong part of me that felt that if this trip was meant to be it would feel more fluid. The pieces would come together nicely like a puzzle destined to fit. The cost, both tangible and within, was high and only rising. “Dreams are stupid,” I said aloud, part joking, part not. And at that, my girlfriends stood from the table, scooting their chairs along the hardwood floor, and held me in a hug. 

What I meant to say is that dreams are hard, and even when they are destined they don’t always fit neatly. They have edges that hurt and their odd shape bumps up against all the things that already fill your life. You have to act, moving things around to make space for them, and in some cases, remove items altogether that no longer fit the dreamscape. Things like screen time and regular glasses of wine and unfiltered music and garbage food and a schedule that works for everyone (so long as you don’t shake things up).

I cared for myself intentionally as the days ticked by — deep breaths, empowering music and laying down to rest when I felt too exhausted to hold any more conversations with myself about the array of options and best path forward for myself and my family and my nonprofit. I thought about my mom often. She had big dreams too and always believed in herself, despite her MS and its toll on her mobility and cognitive functions. She was a singer song-writer, a poet, and even well into the progression of her disease she urged my Dad to set up a massive computer on our dining room table so she could type her words when her hands could no longer hold a pen. Then she’d ask us to email her work to Oprah. As her child, I viewed this effort as silly. Clouded by the effects of her disease and the ways it limited her, coupled with my immaturity, I saw her as weak. Lovely and loved, but weak. And I wanted nothing to do with that kind of vulnerability. 

Now I see better: the years, and her death, and the community that rises at my nonprofit, and my family and friends have hammered at the fortress I built in my youth: to be self-reliant, to limit exposure, to need no one. It falters, and I place my hands on the bricks and painfully tear them apart. It aches. The kind of ache that comes from a workout – an intentional ripping of structure for it to rebuild stronger; to become more efficient and hold greater load. 

Now I feel: I do not only need myself. Those around me can hold me as well. Their embrace doesn’t lessen my power, it re-enforces it.

And now I understand: To deeply believe in oneself even when much of what is dreamed of isn’t practical, even if others think it is silly – my mom was not weak…she is the strongest person I know. Learning this means it doesn’t matter if I meet someone in California that buys my book or not. What matters is that I believe in myself enough to go. 

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