Jump for Joy: Morning Dance Party

Twirly skirts for bonus points.

When I was a stay-at-home mama, my eldest and I began a tradition we call "morning dance party", which is precisely what it says on the box:  we take a few minutes out of an often hectic morning to pump up the jam and kick up our heels.  We sometimes take turns teaching each other dance moves, and inevitably we end up holding hands and twirling in a circle until mama is nauseous and announces it's time to freestyle. 

In recent years, with an early start to my work day, our dance parties were relegated to the weekend, but now that I'm home (hurrah!), we're back up and moving!  My girls have to be out the door for school at 8:30 am, and I'm making it my goal to have us all set for 8:00 am, when possible, so we have plenty of time to jump, jive, and generally have an awesome time together before we head off to our busy days (sorry, downstairs neighbours, but we're having too much fun).

If you have a few minutes, or can make a few minutes, I highly recommend that you turn up the beat and dance yourself into an amazing morning.  It's a great way to start the day in a positive way, get active, and introduce the small people to the music of your youth.  Might I suggest some Motown Philly? 

And listen, this is not just a family thing.  On your own?  Dance like nobody's watching, because they aren't.  (P.S. Morning Dance Party's equally vivacious cousin is Saturday Night Try On All Your Fancy Clothes And Dance Around Your Bedroom Party).

Jump for Joy is a new series on JTTG about small, simple ways to boost the joy in your life. 

The Loss or the Lesson

On my way home from work today, I stopped at Portsmouth Olympic Harbour.  It was a beautiful day and I had my camera with me, intent on getting a photo to accompany the post I planned to write tonight.  I walked along the sun-soaked pier, snapping photos aimlessly with no clear subject in mind, marveling at the sparkling lake that had been ice up until much too recently for my liking.  The spring was a long time coming this year, and I think many of us around these parts are greeting it with arms flung wide with adoration and enthusiasm, although not without a gentle, exasperated "Where have you been?!!!" reproach.  But you can't stay mad too long, not on a day like this.

I had stopped on the pier to admire the view, thinking for about the millionth time that I live in a tremendously beautiful city, when suddenly there seemed to appear out of nowhere a flock of birds flying in my direction, about to be perfectly positioned for a gorgeous shot as they emerged as if from the sun.  I quickly tilted my camera in their direction and pressed the shutter button, and then again and again, feverishly and futilely, as it turns out.  My camera wouldn't take the shot.  And then they were gone. 

I watched them fly off and laughed, because I immediately got the message.  My camera was set on automatic and couldn't focus.  Which exactly describes the last few years of my life.

The location of my photo shoot was deliberately chosen, although I couldn't have predicted my experience with the un-photographable flock and the moment's echo of another visit.  It's been a long few years since this other morning at the harbour when, as it happens, I managed to get a very similar shot to the one I attempted today.  It's been a long few years of trying to keep it together and figure out a new life, putting one foot in front of the other to move forward.  And, doing so, I've come a long way.  But I've also been dancing on the edge of burning out, and feeling an acute lack of focus and self-connection as I've been going through the motions, living my life on automatic.  Not unhappy, not all the time, but not truly living.

Over the last year, I've noticed a growing gut feeling that it is time to stop, a feeling that whispered quietly at first but recently it has been singing in every cell in my body, which sounds dramatic (even for me) but I have been slowly filled up by this feeling and now feel truly saturated in the knowledge that I need to flip the switch from automatic to manual and take control of my life.  I need to shake things up a bit.  I need to live.

Five weeks ago, I gave notice at my job.  Tomorrow is my last day.  I don't have another job to go to.  I was saying to a friend the other day that I haven't quite perfected my sound bite, the abstract of my decision, to offer when responding to the natural question, "What will you be doing?"  Thankfully, I came to the most beautiful and freeing realization very quickly that I don't have to fully explain this to anyone, but I have found that in my attempts to do so, I have come to a clearer understanding of it for myself.  So here's the best I've come to, for what it's worth:  I'm taking some time off to take care of three priorities: my health, my daughters, and my dreams.

I have a body that is strong and able and capable of most anything.  That might not always be the case.  My rheumatologist reminds me on a regular basis that my rheumatoid arthritis, which, to date, has been fairly manageable, could get bad at the turn of a dime.  I read a statistic once that said that 50% of those diagnosed with RA are unable to work ten years post-diagnosis.  I was diagnosed nine years ago.  Of course, there's every chance I'm in the lucky 50%, but I can't sit in front of a computer with my able body, doing a job I don't love, any longer.  There's a chance I'm going to have plenty of time to sit around all day soon enough.

I have two incredible daughters who have been through a hell of a lot in the last few years and have come through so remarkably, but even still there's a palpable, mutual longing between us for more time together, for a deeper reconnection.  This is a critical time in their lives, and I can afford to invest in more time for the three of us to be together.  I may not always be able to pick them up from school every day, I may not always be able to afford to have the whole summer with them, but I can do it now.  So I'm going to.

I have been told by others all my life that I should be a writer and, most importantly, I have agreed with the assessment.  I have a lifetime's worth of notebooks and Word files and backs-of-envelopes full of half-finished writing and ideas that, if they haven't yet in my nearly 37 years here, are never going to see the light of day unless I throw myself at them and shake off the dust.  I'm a few sentences away from completing a children's book.  I have been a few sentences away for nearly two years.  Attempting to summon creativity at 10:00 at night after a full day at work and putting two kids to bed and trying to keep my house (and myself) from collapsing into shambles...well, that's working about as well as you might expect.  I can't fit these dreams into the margins of my life.  I have to take a run at them full-throttle. (And yes, sit my able body in front of a computer from time to time to do so, but it's a different kind of sitting.  An energized sitting with intent.)

All signs have been pointing in this direction and, other than some initial nausea when I first spoke the words "I am leaving", all I've felt in these last few weeks is joy and relief.  I don't know what will happen, but I have set myself no metrics for success.  If I need to head back to a desk job six months from now, so be it.  But right now, each one of those singing cells knows this is the right decision, and each one of those cells was in the moment on that pier, with the birds flying out of shot, feeling nothing but amusement and gratitude.

Had I missed a shot like that a few years back, I would have been upset.  I would have lost sight of the beauty around me, wrapped up in my disappointment.  I would have only seen the loss, just as, on that July morning at the harbour a few years ago, I only saw the loss of the life I once knew.  But today I saw the lesson.  That's really what it seems to be about.  Choosing whether you're going to see the loss or the lesson.

So there you go.  There's the best shot I got today, above.  If we're looking for relevance to subject matter, let's say it represents my new, clear direction toward the light.  Or I suppose you could say it's the path to a drop-off into an abyss, if you want to be all Negative Nelly about it.  This is either going to be one of the best decisions of my life or one of the worst.  I expect it will be the former but I'm prepared for the latter (I've been to hell and back a few times now so I know the route).  Frankly though, I'm just ready to find out. 

There was much more I planned to say about my new-life launch - about the array of interesting reactions experienced when you tell people you're opting out of the working world for awhile, for example - but those words can wait for another day (I'm about to have a lot of time on my hands, after all).  My life didn't go to plan either, and I'd say both post and life have ended up better because of it. 

The Path of Most Uncle Phil

Classic Uncle Phil

I'm not ashamed to admit that I spent a good and worthwhile portion of the early '90s watching the amazing television program that was The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.  I'm not sure I can fully explain its appeal to me, but it was a show with a lot of heart that offered both laugh-out-loud entertainment and occasional heartfelt, real issue storylines (remember this?).  I distinctly remember killing it with my Hilary Banks impression, doing the Carlton, and rapping my teenaged, white girl heart out about chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all cool.  In fact, I'm pretty sure that the biggest argument that my sister and I have ever had was about the theme song lyrics.  She insisted that the line "My life got flipped, turned upside down" was "My life got twistered upside down."  I know!  That's not even a word!  (What's the point of having your own website if not to publicly shame your totally-wrong sibling?)

So flash forward to 2005.  Somehow my ex-husband and I found ourselves invited to an Oscars viewing gala in Beverly Hills.  Excuse me, what?  Fly to L.A. and watch the Oscars with a bunch of celebrities?  Um, okay!  So away we went and the big event came.  We pulled up to the Beverly Hills Hotel in our fancy, um, taxi and walked the red carpet.  Shockingly, the paparazzi could not care less about who I was or what I was wearing, but I'm not going to pretend that it wasn't awesome to walk those few steps past the flashing cameras (although it's possible the thought, "Screw you, Thora Birch, you're no better than me!" passed through my brain). 

Lest you think this was all going to my head, however, not ten minutes into the party someone spilled an entire glass of wine down the back of my dress.  I just laughed and thought, "Yep, that's about right."

The evening progressed and essentially involved a bunch of B-list celebrities (those not famous enough to be invited to attend the actual Oscars) sitting in a ballroom, inexplicably interspersed with nobodies like me, eating dinner and watching the 77th Annual Academy Awards on huge screens as it was broadcast live from just a few blocks away at the Kodak Theatre.  While I find celebrity culture kind of fascinating, I'm not really someone to get particularly star-struck (they're just like you and me!), but at one point I did find myself thinking, "I'm in the same room as Jennie Garth.  I'm in the same room as Kelly Taylor from Beverly Hills 90210!  I'm IN Beverly Hills 90210!!!"

And then, there he was.  I was navigating my way back to our table after a visit to the ladies room and I looked ahead to see that there were two possible paths I could take.  One was free and clear.  One was being blocked by James Avery.  A.k.a. Uncle Phil from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.  Uncle Phil was 20 feet away from me.  And, without even a single moment's hesitation, I thought, "Well clearly I'm going to go past Uncle Phil" and I proceeded accordingly, wobbling in my high heels and my wine-soaked no-name dress, winding my way through the tables until I came to a mid-conversation James Avery, offered a polite "Excuse me" as I squeezed myself past him, and continued onward into a new and improved life in which I could proudly proclaim that I touched Uncle Phil.  It's possible this is now my go-to random fact about myself.  It's possible that's why some men don't call me for a second date (Who needs you?  I touched Uncle Phil!).

If you've read any of my previous posts, you'll know that I've never met a metaphor I didn't want to bring home to meet my parents, so it should come as no surprise to you to hear me extol this experience as a metaphor for life.  I've often thought back to that experience, that very moment of deciding whether I was going to take the easy path or the memorable path, and considered it a reminder to have fun and choose the path to the better story.  Listen, this particular example was a no-brainer, but there are lots of times in life when we choose safety over adventure, the path of least resistance that is known to us over the path that offers a new experience.  And I'd like to urge you to choose the latter, to choose the path that brings you both the heartfelt and the laugh-out-loud moments and allows you to tell a story all about how your own life got FLIPPED TURNED upside down.  Simply put, when (metaphorically speaking) two paths diverge in the Beverly Hills Hotel, choose the path of most Uncle Phil.  It will make all the difference.

Wear the Purple Shoes

Pop these puppies on your feet and get a move on. Because depression? Ain't nobody got time for that.

The episode recap for the last two weeks of my life would read something like this: Last straw meets camel's back.  Shit meets fan.  Much flailing and sorrow and angst.  Fade to garbled mess where a somewhat put-together woman once stood.

I joke, as always (and I think it's a good thing that I've not lost my sense of humour), but the fact of the matter is that the combination of a long, cold winter and some unexpected and less-than-favourable events dredged up a once-dormant darkness in me that I had been struggling to keep at bay, unloving thoughts that had been coming in whispers I could swiftly silence.  

Then one morning last week I woke to a full choral ensemble, The Unkindnesses, performing a playlist of self-hatred at deafening levels.  They sang some of the old standards.  You are Alone and Always Will Be.  Nobody Loves You.  This Pain Will Never End. 

And then, just as they launched into a rousing rendition of They'd Be Better Off Without You, a strong voice gently commanded:

"Get.  Up." 

I got up out of bed, pain settling like dust in my wake.  I walked to the closet to get dressed, scanned the hangers and selected the softest of all grey sweaters.

"It feels like a hug," the voice noted, pleased, as I pulled the sweater over my head. 

"Surround yourself in love," it continued.  I reached for my favourite scarf, an expanse of rich purple dotted with small white hearts, and wrapped its warmth around my shoulders.  "And wear the purple shoes."

We all know the Golden Rule:  Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.  I hereby propose the Silver Rule, no less important:  Do unto yourself as you would do unto others.  As kind as you are to others, be kind to yourself.  As forgiving as you are of others, be forgiving of yourself.  And listen for the voice in you, the voice of self-love, when it speaks.  Fight to hear that loyal voice amidst the cacophony of contempt.  The more you listen, the more it will talk.  The more it talks, the more it will shout.  Give it a megaphone and drown out that dismal choir.

I got through that day, and the ones since, and will get up and get through many more, with purple shoes on my feet helping to move me forward, with soft, grey hugs and the arms of my dear ones encircling me, surrounded by love.  And you can too.

Jump for Joy: Little Housemates

Oh please don't eat me!

Welcome to Jump for Joy, a new series on JTTG about small, simple ways to boost the joy in your life.  The series was inspired by the topic of this first post, a little idea that was so easy and brought so much bang for next to no buck.  

Last year, on April Fools Eve, I grabbed a black Sharpie and a set of white, circle stickers bought from the dollar store and anthropomorphized objects all over the house (full credit to Pinterest for the idea).  The next morning was greeted by the loveliest laughter as my daughters discovered our curious new housemates.  Bonus:  the "juice" cups in the photo above were filled with Jello, also a well-received surprise.  Nearly a year later, many of these eyes are still up around the house, and they continue to be a source of smiles.  For me, they serve as reminders to lighten up and have fun.  I mean, how can you stay grumpy when the bannister's looking at you like that?

Taking Some Space

Two spaces or bust.

When I was in high school, I took a keyboarding class.  I sort of wish now that it had been a music class that equipped me with the mad skillz to tickle the fake, plastic ivories of a Casio - or better yet a key-tar! - but alas, it was a typing class.  We used what were probably at the time (that time being the early 90s) already slightly outdated electric typewriters.  And I'm going to go ahead and let my geek flag fly and tell you that I kind of liked it.  At home, we had a manual typewriter that I used on occasion and for which I held a certain amount of affection, but those of you who remember these fine, vintage pieces will recall that if you made a mistake, you had to Liquid Paper that sonuvabeech outta there.  Which was a pretty enormous pain in the ass.  Well, I was happy to discover that the fancy schmancy school typewriters had a correction tape in them that would, at the touch of a button, back track and make all your errors disappear in a flash.  To a bookish Northern-Reflections-loon-sweatshirt-wearing half-pint, this was nothing short of awesome.

What I loved most about keyboarding class, though, was learning some of the style rules for correct typing (see above re. being a geek).  The big one was: the post-period double space.  The rule was that, at the end of a sentence, following a period, you were to type TWO spaces before beginning your next sentence.  And I remain, to this day, a hard-and-fast loyal champion of the post-period double space.  TWO SPACES UNTIL I DIE!  

You see, somewhere along the way between the early 90s and now, someone somewhere decided that we should get rid of one of those spaces and just get on with things.  As far as I can tell, this has become the new standard, but two spaces vs. one space remains a hotly debated topic in the writing and publishing world (none of us get out much).  I've noticed that Squarespace, the otherwise wonderful system that serves as the design and content management back-end for this site, has jumped on the one-space bandwagon and as a result, sometimes my two-spaced entries include unintended indents, like the one you see in the paragraph above before "And I remain..." (note to self: The UnIntended Indents...possible key-tar band name?).  I'll admit that it's mildly annoying, but not annoying enough for me to change my ways.

You see, I think the extra space is important.  Having two spaces allows a little more time to pause and consider the words you've just read, a little more white space to separate one sentence from the next, one thought from another.  It allows time to think and breathe.  And if you'll allow me to extrapolate wildly on this for social commentary, I think the death of the second space (or was it the first space?) is reflective of our society's increasing rush to get to the next thing.  We are constantly on the go, multi-tasking and Getting Things Done and pushing for increased productivity and efficiency.  And apparently we JUST CAN'T WAIT that one extra space to get to the next sentence, that five extra minutes to relax with a cup of tea before getting on with our day, that one extra board game with our kids before tackling the never-ending chores.  

I know I for one could use some more space to breathe and some more time to think, and I'm trying to find that space and make that time in all aspects of my life, to varying degrees of success.  Sometimes it's getting up a little earlier so I can have a leisurely breakfast with my girls before getting ready for work.  Sometimes it's letting the dishes wait (they're not going anywhere, sadly) so I can sit with my book for a few minutes.  Sometimes it's stepping away for a second to breathe so that angry, yelling Mommy doesn't make an appearance.  And sometimes it's taking an extra moment to listen, really listen, to what my four-year-old is whining about, because sometimes under the irritating wrapping is a genuine concern she needs me to hear.  

Time is precious and none of us have enough of it, but there are small amounts to be found and collected and turned into moments of peace and joy, if you make a conscious effort to look for them.  You can choose to take that extra time, and let the mad-dash rush-about crowd go on ahead.  Stay behind a moment.  It's peaceful here.  You can choose to savour the space and breathe.  And sometimes, you can even choose to make a full stop.