Years that ask Questions

…and years that answer.

“Ebbry day is Chrissmas, Catty!” Elmer yelled, a wild grin on his sweet face, shining with the sweat of a long shift in a hot kitchen.  He was singing “Feliz Navidad!”  at the top of his lungs in the back of the Flemington Family Restaurant, where I started working at 16 and stayed to save money into my college years.  I was sweating, it was August, my feet were starting to hurt, and the kitchen was torture.  I marveled at Elmer, fully drenched in his American flag t-shirt, a bandana keeping his curly hair out of his face while he threw pasta into the boiling vat, plated and garnished fettuccine Alfredo, spun around and flipped the burgers on the grill.  He glanced at the dozen dups hanging from the line in front of him, checked the pizza oven for the Athenian pie’s crust, and scooped some mashed potatoes onto a plate of fried chicken, smiling all the while.  I had asked, “porque?” When I came in to the back to get salads for my new table and heard the holiday tune at top volume on the radio.  And the answer was, “Ebbry day is Chrissmas!”  

I knew that Elmer’s days were not all gifts and garland.  He worked seven days a week three weeks in a row, 12-14 hours a day, and he shared a three-bedroom house with about 12 other workers in that kitchen.  I had been there once, saw the small foam mattresses they had, three to a room, with worn sheets and pillows.  I knew he sent most of the money he made home to his mother and brothers in Guatemala, and he spent half of his occasional day off at church or running errands.  He cooked on the line with Lionel, who was a certifiable bastard in every way and made Elmer’s life a living hell….baiting him, putting him and the others down, making sleazy comments to us waitresses that made Elmer’s good blood boil.  But Elmer was half Lionel’s size, and he would never push back hard enough to risk a fight…Lionel had last night’s booze in his red, watery eyes and seemed one snarl away from losing his shit at all times.  Or maybe Elmer was just morally above physical violence.  In any case, there he was, dancing a little on feet that had to ache after working with one ten-minute break since 8 am, and probably getting paid a mere fraction of what he was due and worth.  With a wink for me, he sang, and did a little extra spin, a ladle twirling above his head, “Próspero año y felicidad!” 

It didn’t occur to me that to speak English as well as he did as a second language that he learned on the job was really impressive.  Or that he had also picked up a good bit of Greek to talk to the owners, Gus and Tony, and a passable set of Arabic phrases to communicate with Mahmoud, the Egyptian lawyer who was bussing tables to send money back to his own family.  My school-book Spanish was so stiff and limited…but I thought myself smart for being able to understand some of what was said back in that kitchen…and at times it was enough to keep myself safer than I might have been without it.  At least I could hear when Elmer or one of the other kind cooks was getting off, so I could time my walk out to my car with their departure, anything not to be alone with Lionel in the pitch black night with nothing but the stink of the dumpsters to guide my way. 

What did strike me was Elmer’s unbelievable cool in the middle of so much heat.  His good nature was a deep well of personal refreshment.  Where did that come from, and how did he guard that?  Why wasn’t he broken by the monotony, the physical labor, the brutal expectations?  I knew he needed to keep on the down low as an undocumented worker in my town. I saw how some of the patrons didn’t return his warm greetings from the barrel where he peeled potatoes in the parking lot. And I saw how hard he worked.  I could relate to that work ethic, but I never put in even half of his hours, and for the first time I was conscious of my own privilege.  I understood that against odds I never faced, Elmer held joy in some chamber of his own private heart.  He found some way to believe in goodness, to make everyday some kind of Christmas.

                                                                                                                                          In my own childhood, I worked to be seen.  I behaved, I listened, I got good grades and I Did Good Things so I would be noticed and loved and could feel valid.  And it often worked.  But there was always the next level of working, doing, being good, being better.  Qualify for the award, then win the award.  Get the grades, volunteer for the service clubs.  Be kind, be generous, be thoughtful, be clean.  Leave it nicer than you found it.  And then, “Get over yourself, it’s not about you!”  And so when I was a kid, Christmas was a day when it WAS about me, at least to some degree.  Big presents, sometimes special ones like handmade art desks from our dad or new bikes, sparkled with a big red bow near the tree.  Small things piled up underneath the of lights, guaranteed to please because they were my favorite things: sure, there were a few practical gifts (new socks?), but mostly I got art supplies, new books, puzzles, and toys.  Christmas was a day for lazing around on the rug with our new loot, eating whipped cream right from the squirt can (we got our own whole cans in our stockings, cold from the fridge where they spent the night in their cheerful Santa wrapping paper!) and rolling from one new project to another.  The next day maybe there would be visiting to do or a book report to work on, but Christmas Day was beautiful and fun.

This overachieving kid grew up to be an overachieving adult, to nobody’s surprise. Instead of making excellent grades, for ten years I made excellent lesson plans.  Instead of being a really good girl for my parents, I became a really good parent for my girl.  And seamlessly, the holidays became something to do right as an adult.  Christmas for an overworking, overdoing, go-go-goer who celebrates Christmas is the apex of Annual Doing.  It comes at the very end of the calendar year; it’s the top of the last mountain of achievement, the final hurrah of the list-keeper before tearing the calendar off the wall and hanging up a new and improved one.  Christmas Day.  I’ve made the lists and the sub-lists, bought the presents, wrapped and tagged, and handed them out.  I did the research and contributed to the annual Causes Worth Supporting.  I decked the tree, cooked the ham, lit the million candles, sparkled the porch, put carrots out for the reindeer, and remembered to go chew up the carrots into telltale nubs to leave on porch as Evidence of Magic.  I mailed out the cards, bought the new PJ’s, hung the stockings and stuffed them with each person’s favorite treats.  Finished the fall’s buzzing about. Prepped the financials for January’s tallies and taxes.  Bought the diapers for the neighbor girl's diaper drive, sent the food pantry meals, wrote out the Special Cards.  And finally, Christmas Day has arrived, the family gifts have been given, and there’s Nothing on the Agenda for an entire afternoon. 

So for me, for most of my adult life, being at home on Christmas looks like this: I am surrounded by the color and coziness of my family, and I’ve once again been shocked by the every-year surprise: I don’t just buy and wrap gifts….I Also Receive Gifts!  In all my life of doing and giving and planning and trying, I forget every year that the abundance comes back to me in manifold ways as well. Without fail, each year my husband has given me new books by authors or poets I love, new puzzles to play with, some earrings, some chocolate.  My daughter picked out a ring she knows I will love (I do; it’s turquoise!), my dearest friends have brought me treats and made time to be with me.  I can’t believe my good fortune.  And in the afternoon after all the presents are unwrapped and the ribbons have fallen to the floor, I REST.  I situate myself on the chaise lounge in my favorite green room with a super soft blanket, a book, and a cup of tea.  Or I set myself up with whatever new art supplies or puzzle I feel like noodling with.  And I just…play.  If I get sleepy, I nod off in the afternoon light streaming in a winter window.  It’s important to note that I am wearing my comfiest clothes (for years, the Christmas outfit included bright red velour sweatpants that were so baggy they felt like nothing on at all but a layer of soft warmth), my softest rag cotton socks, my Cape May hoodie (the one I’m wearing it now as I type).  I am coziness personified, and there is nothing I have to do.  There is something delicious cooking in the oven, and I follow my own curiosity, my own slightest inklings and urges, through the day.  Nobody expects anything of me, and I expect nothing of myself.  But tomorrow… back to work!  Back to the lists!  

This magical day, this restful Christmas afternoon used to be, quite literally, a once-a-year indulgence, matched only perhaps by an afternoon or two in a family beach week in its total decadence. It’s not that I never took ANY breaks, but it had to be Christmas, with seemingly the whole world closed down as well, for me to Really Relax. The calendar was only ever empty for that one small break, and when it was over, I’d go back to the buzz-buzz-buzz that felt so familiar and made me so happy, that gave my life purpose.  Or so I used to think.

In Their Eyes Were Watching God, one of my favorite books, Zora Neale Hurston wrote, “There are years that ask questions and years that answer.”  Had you asked me years ago, I might have guessed that living with a new, chronic illness for two years would be a tremendous time of questioning… but I’m happy to share that I’m getting some answers from this uncertain time as well.

2022 was a year that has taken a lot from me.  It’s the year my Long Covid developed from a frightening lack of mojo into what just might be full-blown Chronic Fatigue Syndrome/Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (I shudder even to type it, lest I lend energy to the possibility).  It was a year I could not do much of the work I love at all: traveling to conferences, teaching in person, working as a henna artist at long hot festivals, dancing in the streets between clients, packing up the dusty tents at 10 pm with my weary staff and then going out to eat or home to eat and laugh and count our riches and recount the day, offering multiple long appointment days each week in my office, merging with my fellow humans in rapid-fire succession, making spontaneous art with this transformative leaf mud, holding hands with strangers, having brief but profound conversations, making connections that often become friendships I treasure for years. 

2022 was the first year of my adult life that I was fully unable to MOVE, unable to exercise in the ways I most love: no long walks up hills and down into creek-threaded valleys, no vistas, no deep full-lung breaths on empty stretches between farms, spinning slowly in the middle of an empty road, looking up at the big blue sky…no long talks with dearest friends while walking the rhythm of our conversation on remote dirt roads, no squatting down deep in the woods behind the creek to inspect a little trout lily or bloodroot or Dutchman’s Britches.  No long yoga sessions ending with five-minute headstands or neck-opening shoulder stands, no dozens of sun salutations. No jogging along the Delaware River until my body hums, becoming one with my own breath, the wind, and the kingfisher swooping down and up just ahead of me. 

The fact is, I spent much of 2022 in bed.  What fresh air I got was often on a short, slow walk to the pharmacy two blocks away, or to the post office on a really good day, or to the hammock in the back yard on a bad day (but not so bad I skip outdoor time altogether).  What exercise I could manage was mostly 5-15 minutes of stretching, cautious, remembering that the few times I did 25 minutes, I was completely wiped out the next day.  In 2022, I learned how to nap, how to succumb to what my fellow Long Covid sufferer Judi calls “a sleep emergency.”  I learned how to cancel everything, how to expect nothing from myself, how to call someone I had made plans with (for afternoon tea, most likely) and say, “I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

For the first time in my adult life, the two-month calendar on my studio wall remains largely blank, month after month.  I may have a few appointments, but so few they are easy to remember, and I use my phone alarms to remind me of them lest they get lost in the every-day’s-the-sameness. I wake up late and very slowly, unrefreshed even after 10 hours of sleep, often needing more than an hour of consciousness just to sit up and take my first pill.  For the last six months, the dreams from the nighttime medication have been WILD, and in the haze of the groggy morning I lie in bed and consider the madness of them, the circuitous routes they take me, the random companions they choose for me, the urgency and complexity of the problems they present.  My doctor at Mt. Sinai said there was a possibility of “vivid dreaming” on this medication, but she has NO idea.  It’s all I can do not to write to her once a week with a summary.  It’s like Alice in Wonderland, engineered by Escher and illustrated by Hieronymus Bosch.  And once I’m up…it’s another hour before I can have tea or coffee and my next pill, and I’m glad for the relief of the no-expectations hour in which I’ll do a long meditation on my attitude toward the day, an artful dodging of Certain Types of News (unless I’m feeling emotionally strong or a headline indicates Justice Might Just Prevail), and a series of gentle stretches to loosen up the stiffness of All This Lying Around.  If it’s a rough day, my ears are ringing already, my back really hurts, and I feel a little nauseous. If it’s a good day, none of those symptoms show up until after 3 pm. 

And so, for the first time in my life, every day is like Christmas.  

“What?!” you say, “Every day sounds like some kind of hell!”  But… here’s the thing.  Like Elmer dancing in the hot diner kitchen, I’ve got my own secret heart’s truth.  Now that I’m ill, I CAN’T overwork.  I can’t even underwork!  I have to rest, constantly…so there’s no waiting twelve months for a single break.  And the surprising answer to a question I never asked was, being sick is like those treasured Christmas afternoons… every day.  And other than the feeling lousy part, and the occasional fear part, and the fatigue part, it’s pretty darn sweet.

Comfy clothes?  Around the clock.  Lounging and day-napping?  Absolutely.  Puzzles and books and new art supplies waiting to be played with?  Of course.  The silver linings are actually blinding.  No, I don’t feel well much of the time.  But I have TIME,  I have SPACE, and thank goodness I have SUPPORT.  I am prioritizing my own wellness for the first time ever, and I thank the universe for this really hard lesson I never would have asked to learn. 

It’s here that I need to acknowledge how extremely fortunate I am to be able to afford this reality.  We living squarely in the bottom half of the middle class, not remotely  the most financially stable folks you’ve ever met, but thanks to owning our home after 25 years (and a life of not prioritizing money), I’m not worried about it (even though you could make a case that I should be, ha ha!). I can work less than I have in years, and we don’t fear for our next meal. Thank goodness, thank luck, thank a system that always made it fairly easy for us to survive.  Our 20-year-old works full time and pays rent…that helps.  The teacher pension and John’s social security give us reliable income. My Etsy shop and henna kits keep a little cash coming in, and I figured out in 2022 that having a best friend work with me is an excellent way to meet the need of getting kits made and stocked WHILE staying connected to Melody.  We have coffee, she works a few hours, we have lunch (sometimes with our friend Celeste), she works a few more hours…win win win!  I work 2-3 private events or appointment days a month, or I teach an online course, and we’re fine.  My house is completely cozy, the fire in our kitchen is ablaze, and our seven-month old grandson is stopping by almost every day for giggles and snuggles and dancing and play.  And how about this?  Because I’m sick, I have time to play with him.  That would not be the case if I were fully well and working full time…or at least, it wouldn’t have been the case before.  Now, it occurs to me that if I get my full health back, I’ll never work like such a maniac again.  I’ll make time for the babies, for the friends, for staring into the fire. I know now in my bones that time and health are treasures no amount of money can match. 

If I don’t heal next month or the month after, if the money gets tight, I suppose I could file for disability as many of my friends have suggested.  In thinking about why I haven’t done that in the 21 months I’ve been incapacitated, I realize a few things.  Part of me is strictly in denial that this sickness HAS disabled me, but the fact is, I can only work about 20% of my old workload, and that much takes its toll.  Part of me believes every month or so that THIS is the month where my energy will be coming back, so why start that long and arduous process of paperwork?  Part of me irrationally thinks that getting disability support would somehow cement this reality into place, and then I surely would never heal… as if  the application is “giving in” to Long Covid, like my health is somehow up to me, as if I’m ill because of some lack of the proper attitude.  You recognize that bullshit thinking, don’t you?  Why, that’s the indoctrination of our Capitalist-Individualist-Ableist-Bootstraps culture, thank you very much.  And it does nothing but heap a bunch of guilt and pressure onto people to make us feel that if we just took the right supplements, read the right books, followed the right nutrition and exercise plan, or found the right fringe doctor, we’d be healthier than ever, younger than we used to be, and never need any support at all…from anyone, let alone the government.  Because support is for the weak.  And needing is needy.  And so forth.

Fuck ALL that noise!  I am loving my own neediness right now.  I’m learning to lean toward what I need, to say what I want, how I feel, and what works for me. I’m asking for help every day.  I’m collaborating.  In my teaching, in my community work, in my own approach to my own art. I’m not actually ABLE to do anything my Old Way, and that has been a tremendous (if unwelcome) gift.  Turns out you have to have superhuman resources to give and give and give until you collapse into a tinsel-strewn pile of glitter dust on a holiday at the end of 12 months of achieving and giving.  And I just CAN’T right now.  Thank GOD. 

So everyday is Christmas.  Throughout this year, this 2022 full of trials and challenges, I took really beautiful care of myself.  I slept nearly every single day until I woke up naturally, with no alarm.  I stayed in my pajamas all day if getting dressed would take more energy than I had to spare.  I let my dear husband bring me lunches and coffees and shop for the things my body craved. I went to bed earlier than I ever have in my life.  I even watched some TV during the DAY! (I know, insane).  I read books and listened to books and let my creative mind pick the next thing I made…I let my playful side drive my business and my integrity drive what volunteering I had the bandwidth to do.  I did nearly nothing from the shitty place of “should” and nearly everything from the beautiful place of “what would feel good and right and true… and be EASY?”  Not easy as in “takes no effort,” but easy as in “full of ease.”  What’s the smoothest, sweetest, most welcome thing for me right now?  

And you know what?  It’s been a phenomenal year.  I’ve honed my business and seen growth in my sales.  I’ve built healthy culture with my fellow henna artists in a global community, healed some old riffs, let go of some dead ends, and built new bridges across space and perspectives. I’ve gained depth in my relationships, clarity about where NOT to put my energy, and I’ve even gained some weight!  I weigh more right now that I weighed when I gave birth to my daughter, and strange as it is, I’m grateful for every beautiful pound.  This is the body I will depend on to take me into 2023…thank goodness it’s an abundant resource.  Without exercise, I’ve lost range of motion, of course, but I’m grateful for the focused way I now move within my smaller new circle of possibility.  I’d like to open up my realm of agency, but I also realize I may not ever do that…so I’ll be damn sure to appreciate what freedom and choice I have right now.  Because right now is all I have.  It’s all any of us every really have.  

Heading into 2023, I am not making a typical resolution list, making promises I won’t keep so I can feel like crap about myself mid year.  I’m chanting mantras:

May we learn to hear each other, and stop projecting What WeThink onto other people….we know so little

May we share the abundance we have without hesitation.

May we spend time like the treasure it is, and may we remember the good fortune we’ve received every day that we are fed, and warm, and supported.

May I, in my newly limited state, know the difference between energy and the desire for energy, between ability and my old macho mindset.

May I have fewer followers and more colleagues and friends.

May I show my colleague how I appreciate them and my friends how I love them regularly, with humor and joy.

May I remember to love myself in a First Fortitude Ritual every day.

Every day is Christmas, because I give myself the best gifts. Not just time and space, but I buy myself new art supplies and new clothes that are colorful and fit my new shape with style and fun.  Honestly?  I give myself whatever I realize I want, without hesitation… and most of what I want isn’t much, just things that make my reality a little easier to live.  And I’m grateful, TRULY grateful in a way I’ve never been, for every single function of this body that is working well…for every day my stomach is settled, for every night’s solid sleep (even if I wake up tired), for every scrap of juice I DO have to work or think or create.  I appreciate my partner, my family, and my friends more than I ever have.  And because I’m not giving one smidgen of energy to people who do not see me (no more one-way street relationships!), I have PLENTY of time and energy to be with and there for those people who are there for me.  All of my energy is poured into places that nourish myself, my family, my work, my community, or my world.  It suddenly seems so simple.  

I don’t wish you a chronic illness, dear reader.  I imagine you already have had plenty of challenges that parallel this story.  Entering 2023, whether it be a year of questions or answers or both, I wish you joy in your unique situation, clarity about what’s next, support for the hard parts, and plenty of new art supplies and all the books.  Everyone needs those.