Category — Uncategorized

Erin McKeown recently told the story of a breakup that ended without a final conversation, a lot of music created out of the experience, a book written by the other person that didn’t mention Erin McKeown at all, and a final touch point that closed the door firmly.

It’s an interesting story.

But there was a paragraph that I kept returning to because it held a really important question:

i never heard from my person again. i believe the children call this “ghosting” but that term has some slippage too. i certainly tried a few times to finish the conversation by reaching out. but there was only silence, digital and otherwise. i think ultimately my person made the right choice for them, obviously, but in the end also for me. the thing was just better off left alone.

When you make a decision, you, of course, make the best decision for yourself. That’s the way it works: we think about what we need, and then we make that happen. And sometimes the best choice for you is also the best choice for the other person, too. Then it’s easy. But sometimes, the best choice for you ends up being the worst choice for someone else. Then it’s hard. Because do you make the choice that works for you, full stop? Or do you compromise your choice to try to meet the other person partway?

Do you have any obligation to take some middle road if what is right for you is wrong for someone else?

It changes from situation to situation, and when safety is concerned, there really isn’t a choice: A person needs to protect themselves. But in all other circumstances, what do we owe each other?

I kind of feel (only knowing what is in the newsletter) that a final, tiny conversation — maybe whatever could be asked and answered during a walk with the dog — or even one or two emails back and forth would have been a kind middle ground. Or maybe it would have just prolonged the pain. But it’s still an interesting question.

Last weekend, Josh met the Wolvog in Philadelphia for a concert. They got a hotel room because the concert would get out late, but all in all, the whole thing was going to be a 24-hour trip.

It was my first time sleeping alone at home since the twins were born.

I know that sounds impossible, but there have been times when Josh has been away but the kids have been here, and times when the kids have been away but Josh has been here, and times when I have been away at a conference and sleeping in a hotel alone, but never everyone away and Melissa at home.

It would have been a normal weekend if I hadn’t realized that fact before Josh left. A lot of reading. A little exercise. A little television. I got takeaway for dinner. Spoke to the ChickieNob. But knowing that fact made me notice the quiet.

I read a story in a newsletter and then tried to explain it to Josh as we drove home one night from a concert. The writer talks about a dog scared of people entering the house.

Instead of shutting the dog off in a room, a trainer worked with the dog, and he now has a place to go when he gets stressed out. The owner says, “Place,” and the dog walks to their bed.

It doesn’t stop them from getting stressed out, but as they get stressed out, they take breaks until they can release the stress and stay where they are comfortable. Their “place.”

You can read the technique here.

The writer goes on to explain how she uses the same concept on herself when she’s getting anxious. She allows herself to get anxious, acknowledges that she’s getting anxious, and then steps into a mentally calming place. Repeat until you can stay in the mentally calming place and leave the stressor somewhere else.

I think it comes down to acknowledging the thought instead of trying not to think the thought, which is a core practice within meditation. But it helped me to envision myself creeping up to the thought, feeling scared, retreating from the thought to a safe space to take a break, creeping up again, and repeating until I can leave the thought behind and gaze at it neutrally from a safe space.

Things feel hard right now. For everyone. On the personal, local, and world level.

And I thought this post about how everything will be okay and how our reaction to a situation is a secondary (not primary) source of pain; one that we can work with even if we can’t stop the first type of pain (the situation) from happening.

After going through some possible what ifs that stem from the fear response, he points out that those worst fears are not how life works. He writes,

If you were to think back on all the moments where you thought everything collapsed, how do you explain the fact that you’re still here standing today? … There’s a great irony to thinking that your life is unbearable because your very existence means that you are already bearing it. The very fact that you’re here right now is proof that you have what it takes to endure and overcome your hardships.

It’s a great read to bookmark and return to the next time you look at life and think, “How are we going to get through this?”

I found as I was writing about Beorn last week that I struggled with what to call him.

Not his name, obviously, but “pet” felt a little too… owner-ish. He lived in my house. I paid for all of his care and upkeep, but in the end, I didn’t own him. I couldn’t force him to interact with me or give affection back. He wasn’t an object. Calling him a pet felt wrong.

I’m not really a “fur baby” sort of person, though he was definitely my baby. I would swaddle him and carry him around the house like a baby and tell him he was my baby. He was an enormous priority, though there was a difference between Beorn and the twins. Calling him my fur baby felt wrong, too.

His big personality transcended the impersonal “animal,” and he was so much more than your run-of-the-mill “guinea pig.” I wish there was a better term out there to describe our relationship or how he fit into our family and what I lost. Because that’s the sentence I’ve had trouble completing, “I’ve lost my…” My heart? My comfort? My emotional support? My soft, sweet boy?