someone else's story

Today thousands and thousands of kids took the NYC specialized high school test.

Mine was one of them. After a morning of anime (emotional comfort food) followed by chocolate chip pancakes paired with a chocolate egg cream (actual comfort food), Iz and I headed downtown in a rare October storm. Sleeting as we headed down into the subway, hail pelting us on the other end, we slogged through slushy streets, past countless black umbrellas towards the test site. Shivering, she agreed to wear my purple scarf, soaking wet, she walked behind me as I tried to shelter her from the driving rain. We slowly walked up the slick steps to the footpath across the west side highway and that was it.

No adults allowed any further.

It was chaos, crowded, steamy and freezing at the same time. She moved ahead, quickly getting lost in the crush and suddenly she wasn't mine anymore. I couldn't help her,support her, protect her. She was heading into the most challenging test of her life completely on her own.

For specialized high schools this test is everything. These scores are the only entrance into these esteemed establishments. One test. 100 questions. 2 and a half hours on a snowy afternoon. GPA's don't count. There are no teacher recommendations, or extra curricular extra credit. Colds or hormones or broken bones don't matter either. Just this one score.

That's what I watched my child dive into, having no idea what to expect on the other side.

The crowd after the test was brutal. Parents crushed together in the freezing rain,umbrellas painfully poking into and backs shoulders as we waited. And waited.

And waited.

As the first couple of kids came out it was like watching celebrities navigating unexpected packs of paparazzi. They looked shell shocked, dazed, after having their brains stretched for hours, suddenly finding themselves thrust into a sea of anxious parents.

Finally, I saw her at the top of the stairs, looking pale and shaken.

I pushed through the crowd, shouting until she saw me. She'd forgotten her umbrella, her favorite black and white houndstooth, and was upset they wouldn't let her back in to get it.

It didn't matter. We could get another. And it didn't matter how she thought she did on the test. It didn't cross my mind to even ask. I was so proud of her, her strength, her poise, her self confidence. Her independence.

It doesn't matter where she goes to school. What does matter is the kind of person she is.

And she is remarkable.

She blew me away today.

But that's nothing new.

getting back

It's been almost 5 months since I donated a kidney. Almost 2 weeks since my final dose of Lexapro. Almost 2 years since my last book was published. And more time than I can remember since I've felt creativity wanting, or rather needing in my case, to take a front seat.

Even writing here isn't the walk in the park it had been for so long. Writing my kidney journey had purpose, meaning, a chronology—events to summarize and feelings to explore. Before that, it had been FLOW, and before that, fears of being a writer, or finding out I was just playing one on TV. I was almost never at a loss of what to say and every day, for almost two and a half years, I wrote here.

It's not that I'm empty. Maybe I'm not as willing to share as I'd been in the past. Maybe, for me, it's an event that spurs the exploration and baring of my soul in writing. Maybe it's because right now life is about everyone else and while there's plenty of stress and angst and unknowns, they're not really mine. I'm just herding others along their own burgeoning paths.

But, I want a path of mine own. Again. I know it's there. I'm just not sure which direction it will go in. I've never had a linear one. No clear direction, no clean cut next steps. I'm at a loss as to what to even think about doing next.

I started The Artist's Way this week - a 12 week book/course/set of exercises about discovering creativity. I'd done the program once before. 15 years ago. I did morning pages (writing 3 pages long hand as soon as you wake up in the morning) for more than 2 years. It was amazing, as I cracked open my new copy last Sunday night, at how much I've accomplished since then. I last read it before I'd written a book, before I had kids, as I was just beginning to be a designer. I was someone else back then. Scared. Timid. Fearful. Terrified I'd never amount to anything. That I'd never make an impact. That I'd never make things happen.

Years later, I have. I know how. I've created far more than I'd ever dreamed of. Had experiences that back then I never would have even contemplated.

I know how to get things done. Make things happen. Put ideas and projects out into the world.

But for me it's not ever about what I've done. Or what I'm going to do.

It's about what I'm doing. Now.

And I think I'm finally ready to start figuring that out.

a drama filled yet delicious mother's day

"He broke my glasses!"

That was the scream that startled me awake at 7:20 this morning, by a child, not my own, as he burst into my bedroom. 

That wasn't the first time I was woken up, abruptly, this Mother's Day. At 1:30am three boys came storming into my room, again with no knocks, all sopping wet from a very full glass of water inadvertently tipped over. That accident required a stack of towels and a batch of dry blankets to cover the spillage. 

At 2, there  was the gasping rasp of, "I can't breathe," coming from the edge of my bed. What I thought was an allergy attack - again, not one of my own kids - turned out to be pure anxiety. As he feared his imminent death, I talked this child down through super hero chatter mixed with deep breathing exercises. His father arrived 20 minutes later. Amazingly, most of the other kids at Jack's first ever sleepover, slept through the melee. 

"He did it on purpose!" and "He's paying for a new pair!" were the second and third lines that pierced my now shattered REM cycle. 

The early morning wrestle had taken a turn for the worst. Of course it was an accident. Of course it was one of those unfortunate things that just happen. Of course it was all worked out and smoothed over, by Izzy no less, but not until after this poor boy's mom was woken up on Mother's Day with a shout-filled ranting phone call. 

I threw on clothes and ran downstairs with the dogs for an early morning walk. And that was my first gift - getting out of that pre-testosterone insanity. My second gift is sitting in the coffee shop across the street and writing this, while Jon went upstairs to deal. 

And here I sit, hair something out of a Flock of Seagulls video, clad in old jeans and the shirt I slept in, drinking Brazilian coffee that borders on heaven, grateful that I am a mother. 

Yesterday, as Jack told me repeatedly, he had the best birthday of his life. On a day that generally has at least one sobfest, he was happy from 6:20am, when he woke up to open gifts, to 12 at night when I shut down the lights. It was 10 years ago yesterday that he arrived on the planet and changed me forever. 

It was a week of moments I was so grateful for my children. Looking back there was not a single fight or meltdown. From either one. I don't know that that's ever happened. I met Iz on her post play rehearsal walks home from school so we could spend extra time together. Jack and I headed to Chinatown one afternoon, on a spontaneous search for a game he wanted. We survived their first week of rigorous testing at school that they handled with maturity and relative ease. 

Man do I love my children. And how I appreciate and enjoy (most of the time) watching them grow into themselves. I bask in the love they lavish on the two puppies who are now a part of our family. And I am proud of their empathy and concern for me and my brother as we go through these months of kidney confusion and unease. They are supportive and understanding and kind. 

I am beyond grateful for the remarkable man I've been married to for more than half my life. Without him this amazing life I have wouldn't be. And the people who call me mom wouldn't exist. 

I am grateful for my own mom, who has so much on her plate but is still here for me to call every day. She is far braver and stronger than she ever gives herself credit for. 

And I am grateful beyond for the people in my life who love and nurture, who support and teach. As one of my wise yoga goddesses Ali said in class the other day - you don't have to have children to be a mother. 

And so, love and blessings and heartfelt thanks to the many mothers in my life. 

creativity versus anxiety

I've been feeling that familiar clench in my jaw lately, that slight skin tingle, that too-much-going-on-in-my-head-at-the-same-time sensation.

I know this.

It's pre-anxiety attack anxiety.

Or, maybe, it's the need to create.

For the past year plus I haven't been immersed in a project. I haven't been compelled, driven, lost in something that's me but separate from my life.

I haven't had that place to go to escape from reality.

I haven't had deadlines and research and photos to search for.

Ideas to sell. Stories to tell.

Instead, that energy's gone to the dark side, mostly banished by medication, but cropping up as something evil, to be avoided at all costs.

Maybe, though, it's quietly shouting from the edges of my mind that it needs to be nurtured, not ignored, celebrated, not censured.

The problem is, I don't know how to dive in again. My last book burned me to a crisp, left me empty and beaten. I lost faith in the system. And faith in myself.

But there are glimmers, now that I'm recognizing them for what they are, that I need to jump back off the cliff.

I'm gasping for air here. No wonder I'm having trouble breathing.

My soul is disintegrating without that part of me being front and center. Or at least present and accounted for.

Part of me is ready to let go again. I feel it simmering.

It's time.

when anxiety is an unwelcome houseguest

Anxiety has moved in. Without an invitation. It showed up yesterday and I'm thinking we'll be together, nonstop, for the next 3 weeks.

I know anxiety well. We've spent much of my life together. But now that I know what life is like without its constant presence, it's more intense when it shows up.

The clenched teeth, pit in my stomach, shaking hands. The jittery feeling that I'm going to crack at any moment.

The hyper-awareness.

The fear.

The dread.

I rationally know these are just feelings. Intellectually I'm sure that they can't destroy me. The realistic part of me is holding on to the fact I've come out on top of just about every anxiety smack down. But facing surgery in 3 weeks, with the host of unknowns this experience comes with, is fuel for anxiety's fire.

It's hard not to plunge deep into the dark side. To worry about freak accidents, about things going wrong. About blood clots, about never seeing my kids again. About kidney failure in my future.

About getting my period during surgery.

About death.

Anxiety is throwing everything it has at me. And it has quite the extensive arsenal.

It's even got other forces cooperating with it. The drive home from Vermont in a snowstorm. The news that someone in my family was just in the emergency room. That another one is sick and I'm blood test support.

It's almost impossible to breathe deep, to stay focused, to grasp on to calm as it skitters out of my range.

Anxiety used to be my creative fuel. I used to channel it to accomplish what I couldn't on my own. But I don't want that anymore.

I don't need that anymore.

Anxiety isn't welcome.

Now I just have to figure out how to kick it out.

defining success

Yesterday, as I was telling someone about yogavotion, my newest project, they gave me a half-hearted thumb's up and said, "yeah, but what about WRINKLE?"

Good question. That was my go-to, post-FLOW, no-brainer project. I have hundreds of questionnaires stored on my hard drive. Great art. A substantial table of contents. A proposal would be a breeze to whip out—I used to thrive on that. And I know how to do this book, how to combine text, concepts, art to tell a visual story about a specific aspect of society and culture.

But, it didn't happen. Perhaps if FLOW had been more successful. Perhaps if that experience had been positive instead of fraught with hostility, anxiety, self-doubt.

Or, perhaps, I've moved on.

I had thought FLOW would make me a writer, a writer of a certain genre of books. I'd gain a reputation. I'd tackle new projects in the series with support of a publisher, an agent, an audience. The first part came true:

I am a writer.


I own it. I live it. What used to be close to impossible less than 2 years ago, now feels almost as effortless as design. Words flow now almost as easily as layouts do—they're just a different means of expression and communicating to me.

But the rest?

I'm far more grounded in reality than I've ever been about my path, my story, my success. And, what success really is.

I will never make huge amounts of money. In fact, it might not be likely that I'll even make good money again. The world is changing and what I'm good at isn't valued at the moment. I will never be a best-selling author. I don't see any sort of successful series in my future. I will never be an expert in a field, called on for talk show appearances and quotes in national publications.

I will never be high-powered.

I will never have a corner office, an assistant, a secretary.

I don't see royalty checks in my future. Or guest speaking. Or a summer house bought by the proceeds of the above.

I will never be a household name.

I could keep going here and mention I'll never be a rockstar or a painter or an astronaut, but none of those were ever even under consideration.

But, I have more love in my life than I would have ever imagined possible. There are times, watching my puppies play, my kids  groove together, that there isn't a smile big enough to express all that's in my heart.

At times I am transformed by gratitude. I cannot think of a single thing I want that I don't already have in abundance.

I can be present and am learning to let go of the past and the future. That's something I would have thought impossible but, here I am.

I am comfortable in my skin. Cellulite, wrinkled elbows, slightly drooping eyelids, now more than the rare grey hair, a solid size 8—it's truly fine.

I am healthy. I don't just think it, I've gone through extensive testing and so I know it. I'm physically healthy enough to contemplate elective surgery and give an organ away. And mentally healthy enough to be good with that decision.

I can knit a scarf that stops people in the street. I have friends who are happy to see me. I have family that accepts who I am and loves me for that, and sometimes in spite of that. I can finally do a head stand in the middle of a room.

By society's standards I don't know that people would label me a success. But by mine? I'm not doing too badly.

february slump

Usually I hit the wall in February. The cold has worn me down. My neck is tired of being encased in sweaters. My skin is papery and dry. My poor sinuses have just about had enough.

I generally shut down and have often sunk into that dark tunnel of depression. For me, it's easiest to be pulled under when darkness runs things, when the light is thin and brittle, when it's easier to be home than anywhere else.

This February it's not as bad as usual. I'm not immersed in any major projects which keep me from sinking (that's been an effective way of holding myself together against an inevitable slump).

Could be the meds. Could be the kidney donation. Could be that my new business cards, the first thing I've created in far too long, are stunning and make me super happy. Could be that I started yet another blog that I want to turn into something more.

Could be that I'm not as closed off as I used to be. Writing has changed my life. Having a place to explore, to express, to process has been far more powerful than I ever could have imagined. A little over a year ago, writing was more stressful than just about anything I'd undertake. I did it, but struggled over every idea, every sentence, every phrase.

Now it flows.

Ideas. Words. Concepts. I don't know when I start, where I'll end up but when I get there, I'm there. And I generally feel an ease in my soul that wasn't there before.

What a gift. Today I am grateful for myself—for showing up instead of shutting down.

For living instead of existing.

For making the effort instead of hiding in the tunnel the way I did for far too long.