Taking the leap, part 2: The Catalyst

By the time we're forty

The plan was to step out as soon as we could realistically afford it, but we didn't have any urgent timing. We were content to give ourselves seven, eight, nine years of saving money and living as natural a life as we could along the way.

We were living simply, below our means, and saving. We were learning to be self-sufficient. We thrived on old things that could be repaired. We learned old-timey skills, and practiced them every chance we got.

We drank a lot of cider. We read a lot of books and websites from other dreamers.

Or sooner. Pregnancy changed the timing.

We were almost five years into that plan when I became pregnant. I thought we had three or four years to go. With a baby on the way, we shifted our perspective. It was remarkably easy. The plan didn't change, the timeline was just accelerated.

By the time the baby is one, or two...

After our sweet Maria was born, all wide-eyed and curious, we began to accept this new timing as truth. A given.

Maternity leave passed so quickly, and I was not ready to return to a demanding, challenging job. In the nine months since I went back to work, I really have tried to make everything fit, even knowing it is a temporary fit.

My over-engaged, over-commited, uber-responsible, unbalanced self has always been unable to juggle job and life, really. And now, more divided mentally and emotionally than ever before, I know in my heart I can't keep doing this. I can never be as present or as ready or as patient or as organized or as energized or as thoughtful as I wish I could. It has become abundantly clear that being a professional, and being the human I want to be, just don't work together.

Life is too short to live like this.

On the heels of the hardest winter in recent memory (snow days and sick days have already used up the vacation time I usually hoard for the precious months of summer), it is time to make a decision. I am no longer willing to make the compromises I face every day, unlatching my snoobing baby so that I can go into the office and write marketing copy and help solve client problems. The world of commerce and industry mean little to me these days.

I admire and respect those people out there who do it all with grace. I no longer want to be one of them.

I want a life, not a livelihood.

I am ready to take the risk of leaving this all behind to try my hand (heart) at something different. I am ready to hold hands, hold my breath, and jump. I think we can create something that doesn't rely on commerce and layers of removal from the real business of life. I think we can dig in and come out self-sufficient on the other side.

And so, right at the end of Maria's spring break, I broke the news to my colleagues and friends. There is no going back now. (It's exhilarating, and a bit unsettling).

Taking the leap: The Prequel

Pre-leap

I daydream. I yearn, I scheme, I wonder. I make a lot of lists. (I'm not kidding, my journal has been a series of lists, schedules and budgets for almost 10 years now. That's kind of sad.)

Listmaking is the best therapy I've had. 

It's a way to make my dreams tangible. A sort of promise that I am actually going to do something. For some reason, writing it down makes it more real.

I've thoroughly explored all the options, created endless scenarios, put income and debt and everything in between up to the light. I've imagined thousands of lives that I'll never try out for real.

All this time, I've led a satisfying, but divided, life. 

Weekends and vacations spent gardening, cooking, living up north, or on the water, and then late on Sunday night, pulling in the driveway, rushing through some chores, and the next morning scrambling to get to work on time. Drawing deep to find a way to connect, to care, to be present for my colleagues, my clients, my work. If it was a less divided life... if I were a different person than I am... it would have been a fine life.

Premonition

I have a photo of myself that Kevin took, the very first time we were on the farm. We didn't own the property. I wasn't even sure we were walking the property we'd seen for sale online. I didn't know that I was really, seriously looking.

When I saw that photo, I saw it through the filter of time. As if I was elderly, looking back, and remembering the first time I walked that path. It was a powerful and emotional sensation. It was the moment the land chose me.

Unexpected

I wrote this in August, three days before my sister and brother-in-law had their son Levi. In my first visit with them after Levi's birth, my head whirled through a thousand thoughts as I held the newborn. I marveled at his perfection, and all nine pounds of it. It's the first time a newborn didn't look all that tiny.

I found out two days ago that I am pregnant. I figured out yesterday that I am about 8 weeks pregnant. The baby-to-be already has some nervous system, some circulatory system, and is starting to develop a face. 

What? I think I just fainted a little bit.

On Monday, it started to move, which is (maybe?) what caused me to feel nauseous, and finally go do a pregnancy test. Let me say that again. It started to move. 

Fainting again.

By the time I publish this, I'll be at the end of the first trimester, sharing this unexpected news with the world.

We didn't intend to become parents. In fact, we were well on our way to having decided to forego that whole realm. 

This is all very unlikely. 

I never had a strong desire to be a parent. I never even felt a twinge of biological clock. And now that this is happening, I have an unperturbed sense of peace. We will live out this adventure, with as much love and learning as any other.

I thought it would be more complicated. 

I am not afraid. I am not torn with a desire to know what might have been. I believe that so much of what I have planned for my life will still come to be--just with an unpredicted twist.

It couldn't really be any other way.

To have made a decision to have a child, this would have been so much planning and pressure, we would have struggled to define our own experience. Having already set our course, this becomes simply a part of the journey.

It happens really fast.

I finally called my doctor, and went in for an official test. Yup, still pregnant. Prenatal appointments and a baby-industrial-complex span out in front of me. I find myself browsing sites about home birth, the things I should and shouldn't eat, and the week-by-week development of a pregnancy.

I smile a lot, especially at Kevin. It's a strange little secret we have between us.

I am waiting. My little sister goes before me in this, ready to deliver her baby at any moment. I will hold my news until I know we're past the largest risks, and until after she has had some time in the light.

It's all so unexpected. 

***
Announcements have been made, and the news has begun to sink in for all. My own reaction is still defined by peace and trust. Fourteen weeks have passed by, and the baby growing inside me is getting bigger and stronger every day. I am still amazed, grateful, hopeful. By now, I'm getting over the surprise. 

Building bridges

In the last week and a half, I have been involved in deep reflection, and hard conversations, about diversity and community. The essay that I write here is one ephemeral moment of thinking and processing what I have learned up until this moment. I'm feeling my way through this, not knowing where I'll come out. As I write it, I am continuing to learn and find my next step forward.

Here's the setup

This all started in a conversation through TEDxGrandRapids, where I volunteer on the core team. We have been aware that we can do more to ensure great minds from every corner of our community--every discipline, every race, every industry, every social scene--are at least aware of the event, so that those who might benefit from it can choose to apply. We are trying to remove at least the barrier of awareness and invitation. So we've been meeting with many people, and entering into hard conversations about diversity.  Some people are really glad we're starting the conversation. Some people think we need to do a lot more before they're willing to trust us. Some people think both things. And I believe they are all right.

Here's where it gets complicated

Diversity and community mean a lot of things, to a lot of different people. Cultural context and personal experience create a layer of meaning, and that meaning may or may not be shared. Sometimes, it's not even clear what that meaning is, because it's a visceral, emotional thing buried deep inside us, and wrapped up in our identity.

I was sharply reminded that our contexts have emerged separately, divided by history and the experiences of our ancestors. I became keenly aware, again, that our personal experiences are informed by day after day of living in this world and interacting with each other. Those interactions are sometimes damaging. And the more we hurt each other, the more we undermine our ability to find common ground and create a better community, better society.

We lose sight of the compassion and good intention that is there. We become fearful. We hesitate to extend ourselves and build bridges, because, frankly, it hurts. It's a lonely and vulnerable place. Building bridges means not belonging to either side. It means residing in the murky, volatile mess of it all, and attempting to navigate by love anyway. It is no easy task.

It is personal

I love people. I love our human potential, and I am patient with our flaws. I place high value on broad perspectives and diverse experiences. Welcoming everyone is really important to me.

I start from trust and love, and a knowledge that I am imperfect, but that I will keep trying, and each time I try, I'll learn something that broadens my view, challenges and improves what I know about the world, and makes me a better person. I can't see any other way of existing in this world.

As I have struggled with defining my experience of the last week, and the reality of the pain that has surfaced through misunderstandings and missed opportunities, I was reminded by my friend Luisa that I am abnormal. I know she's right. My unique experiences span languages, religions, continents, art, science and literature. Poverty and wealth. Rural and urban. I am privileged to have shared in a huge portion of human experiences. I suppose this uniquely equips me to build bridges across many divides. Perhaps this is the gift I am meant to give the world.

My wish

That we can all embrace our abnormality, and love each other for it. I want to sit at a table with people from every corner of experience, and I want to share with them. I want to share responsibility, learning, perception, experience. I want us to find reconciliation, patience and goodwill.  I want a community that is willing to care for each other, hold each other accountable, trust each other, forgive each other. I can't help but believe this is possible.

I guess I have started to codify my work. And now I need to start thinking about how to bring it about.

Thanks for listening. This post isn't a defined body of articulate thought. It's a reflection at this single moment in time, my effort to learn and grow. If you have suggestions about bringing people together, and creating community, I'd love to hear them. I think we'll do this work in an unusual, unexpected way, but I don't know where the path leads, or even really how to recognize it. 

New Year's Resolutions

I love it that we live in a culture that celebrates the fresh start, a new beginning. I love it that we resolve to be better somehow in the next 12 months than we were before.

I have shared this ritual of annual optimism since childhood, when my mom invited us all to write resolutions for the new year in our notebooks. A whole family, making wishes. Bockie and Grandpa. Grandma Schaus. My little sister. Mom and Dad. The dog and cats. My uncle Tom and aunt Diane, in from Washington State. I don't remember the promises we made ourselves. But I do remember the camaraderie. Giggles induced by late nights, sweets and brandied eggnog. A perfectly fitting end to my tenth year, and to the indulgence of the holiday season.

Now, as I turn 35, I sit at my own kitchen table, the last of the holiday ham simmering into split pea soup on the stove. Sipping cider (a Murphy-Tandem blend of Crabster and Smackintosh, heavier on the crabby tartness) from a glass I bought in Dublin 15 years ago. Outside, the fresh snow is blanketed by the dark, and only occasional lights sweep by from the street.

Like many of the past several years, my hopes for the next are simple. Perhaps hard to attain, but ultimately, quite simple: Health, love, friendship, family, spirit, courage, thought, art. Integrity. Beauty. Compassion.

Four promises

I promise to live slower. Organize around the things that matter. Plant a garden, cook at home. Cultivate friends.

I promise to live healthier. Long walks and meditations. Simple food. Whole food. Laughter and companionship.

I promise to live with purpose. Making time for people. Connecting good work to good ends. Gaining and maintaining perspective. Letting go, and making peace. Living with low impact. Less consumption, more production.

I promise to live with love. To say the unsaid. To share in lives. To consider. To become explicitly thoughtful. To inquire, and listen. To celebrate.

Luke and Murphy get a new year's treat from Kevin.