Author: ferylfiles

A while back, I made an appointment with a local orthodontist office. I have had jaw pain and clicking most of my life. I’m a night clencher and have had this pain in varying degrees since high school. Flash forward to today and I have my very first set of Invisalign trays, rubber bands, weird-looking bumps on some of my teeth, and a first-class lisp.

People often talk about mid-life crises in terms of doing wild things or buying expensive, silly things. But I don’t think crisis is an apt term. (Yes, I’m going to play the harp again.) It’s more like mid-life carpe diem. Finally, in mid-life there seems to be time and funds and a realization the exit is coming faster than we ever realized before. So what do we do? Play, because we spent so much time worrying about all the things all the time. We seek adventure and experience. And sometimes we have to parent our younger selves. Here I am at 47 looking for all of that–play, adventure and experience, and to parent my younger self.

When I was a teenager, I was told: “You have a nice smile. You don’t need braces.” As if the only reason to get braces was to resolve a cosmetic issue. Sure, esthetically, my teeth looked fine. But on one side of my mouth, the teeth sit right on top of each other, slowly grinding each other down while the other side sits as it should. When I clench, they’re off-axis and then my jaw hurts like fury. It didn’t look bad back then, so there must not have been a problem, right? I try not to hold anger because it’s not terribly useful at this point and I’m not sure it was within the capacity of either adult in my house growing up to address the underlying cause of why I clenched my teeth at night. That’s okay. I’ve dealt with it because I’m the grown-up now. And I can take care of the structural issues, too.

Here I am today reflecting on my teenage self and my present self. If you heard me speak today, you would think for all the world I was Josie “Grossie” Geller from Never Been Kissed, a cute little rom-com with Drew Barrymore. To be fair, it’s not a direct comparison. I didn’t get egg thrown at me in my prom dress. I had enough teasing and being made fun of to give me character, a sense of humor, and perhaps sand off some of my rougher edges. Hey, I even make sure my pant legs are long enough now. (Laugh with me.) And I have been kissed–thoroughly, exquisitely… Yet, there is this piece of me that will always feel like the awkward kid waiting to blossom, even at 47, and agonize at the prospect of being made fun of.

Well, here’s to owning all of it.

I love words–the right word in the right moment, the perfect turn of phrase, the exact essence of a thing. Maybe this is the biproduct of studying literature, particularly poetry. Maybe this is the consequence of being the youngest in a family of voracious readers with sharp wits and even sharper tongues. Debates turn on the meaning of a single word. Craig and I affectionately refer to this as “playing the semantic harp.” Words matter, and so I play on.

Recently, in conversations with both my bestie and my sissy I realize I have been using a word incorrectly with hurtful ramifications. I have talked about being lonely. But here’s the thing, I’m not. Not really. I am not isolated, unloved, without friendship or companionship. Every day I share life with my friends, family, co-workers, neighbors. “Becci, come over, we’re making pizza on Friday.” Not alone. “Becci, I’m coming to visit.” Or “let’s go for a walk.” Not isolated. “Becci, let’s go grab coffee.” Not without friendship. “I’m on my way.” “I appreciate you.” “You matter to me.” “I love you stupid.” This is a life full of connection and I am so lucky.

The word I’ve been trying to articulate is bereft. The connection of heart, soul, mind, and body that I had with my person is gone in the way that I had grown accustomed. That gnawing absence feels very similar to loneliness. The ache. The longing to be in connection like that is visceral and overwhelming. That I got the privilege to experience something so precious and rare at all makes me incredibly lucky. But knowing in my bones what that is also makes me long for it still…

I haven’t written in a while. I suspect that’s because sometimes digging deep into the head and heart spaces leaves me feeling exhausted, raw, exposed. Sure, the writing process helps me sort those things out and there’s absolute value in that. That’s exactly why I’ve been writing this past year. But I live alone and spend a great deal of my non-working time in solitude. I’m in my head a lot already. A. LOT.

I’m glad I can look inward, feel ALL the feelings, process and analyze. Growth and self-awareness are great. But the downside can be worry, anxiety, depression, self-doubt, a piercing internal critic. I’m really tired of that downside list. Now, more than I have in a long time, I’m interested in reconnecting with movement–getting outside of my head and back into my body. Bryan was excellent at finding that balance with the nature of his work, his inquisitive mind, and his robust physical activity in skiing, cycling, sailing, running, and lifting. I am trying to model that page of the playbook a little better but with the activities that make the most sense for me.

I’ve mentioned morning dance parties and going to my first rave in recent posts. There’s been more of that. There will be more of that. I’m going dancing again tonight. I am taking an adult hip-hop class next Wednesday. The hikes at Mill Creek and Bennington continue. Last Sunday I cleaned out my stream, lugging buckets of weeds and mud up and out. The back garden is nearly planted with a few bits and bobs to complete and the front should be finished by tomorrow evening. There are more plans in the works to help me get out of my head quite so much and find that balance of getting into my body more. The idea is to lay the framework so that once winter hits, I will have a schedule and a plan that will keep the balance in tact.

What does this mean for my writing? Not sure. There are so many nascent, tender things that I’m not eager to make public or share. Tendrils of hope and life and a reminder that it’s okay to be Becci. I’m just trying to figure it out, but in the meantime, I’m going to move it, move it. 🙂