Call me sentimental or nostalgic or whatever, but listening to Kamala Harris’s recent speech and how she was talking about women’s power and freedom and agency, it just made me feel so badass. Like back when we were pre-teens in the 1970s.

In those days, my twin sisters and me were still playing with dolls and Barbies, we hadn’t formed our Charley’s Angels Detective Agency just yet. But we had all the makings of a smart, sassy, unbeatable trio.

Because it was clear that 3 was always going to be a tricky number. Three young girls – negotiating consensus, avoiding gossip, rooting out jealousy – even then we knew that those things could undermine sisterhood.

But it wasn’t until five or six years ago, as adults, that we forged an alliance and we made it happen. We became a kick-ass team. And now we check in daily, have each other’s backs, and come to one another’s defense in any situation.

Meet me, Jill (Farrah Fawcett), and my sister Kelly (Jackie Smith) and the youngest, Bree (Kate Jackson). We formed this trio during a tough time in our family’s life, and we’ve been action-packed ever since.

It started with the dolls.

Someone sent them to us recently and we just went crazy with the storylines and the outfits. Inside jokes that were definitely only hysterical to us.

To us the three sisters.

We ordered extra clothes, posed them in various locales – you name it, they went on many adventures. At one point Farrah broke her hip (torn at the upper femur) after a nasty encounter with the dog.

But anyway, over time – no more familial triangulation for us, no gossipy back-biting, and no more not showing up for the gritty emotional stuff.

Now we’re a tough trio, and we pack guns.

Yes, I was a little taken aback by the fact that Kamala Harris owns a gun and even that she would shoot it if her life was in danger.

But we get this.

In fact, we’d love to take her out for a ladies lunch at the firing range – so we can all put bullets in those men’s silhouettes. What a rush. And a mimosa afterwards (no martini, James).

We’re there, call us Madame VP.

But guns aren’t the main thing really, it’s mostly about strategy and timing and physical prowess (gymnastics helps). Kelly can instantly snap a perp’s wrist with a well placed kick to dislodge a gun. And Bree can cold-cock any guy around, or lay them down with a swift, well-placed kick to the cajones.

And another thing, we don’t need or want any Charley or Bosley as a boss, we do just fine without those orders to dress in skimpy evening dresses.

And no more spending all of those hours in the makeup chair. These days we prefer a good moisturizer, and our Hanes 100-per cent cotton briefs. And our Skechers slip-ons actually serve us pretty well.

Make no mistake we are still pure glamour – it’s just all in the attitude.

The natural glow that Kelly gets when she knees a crotch, or when Bree goes undercover as a man – well, the fact of being 60 just disappears. And for me, Jill, there is a certain gravitas in sporting a grey lion’s mane that instantly radiates respect.

And that’s what our dolls give us.

They remind us of why we played with them and how much joy and possibility they gave us. The freedom of choice (lame’ or stretch one-piece) was right there in our grubby hands.

What goes around comes around – and be careful what you joke about (Bree’s hairdo) because the power always rises. The little hand that patiently brushed that hair out, grew to understand that beauty is less in the hairdo and more in the flexibility of the the hip flexors.

Oh, and the accessories.

Jill treasures that skateboard and it saved her ass in Malibu on several occasions. Kelly’s ever changing scarf is simply a revelation on tough spy cases. And while there’s not much you can do with Bree, her smug smirk is a perfect match to those no-fuss stretch jeans.

Seriously, I love my Angels and I highly recommend that you find a Mattel (or whatever brand) character to pretend with, too. It’s a stress buster – and so fun to pose them in precarious cliff-hangers for Instagram.

It’s just a campy nod to the past, it’s retro-restorative, it’s simple girl-power fun.

It’s all of that.

It’s sisterhood.

Just about now, you can almost hear the collective sighs of the residents of Minneapolis, Minnesota. It’s kind of a dark joke where my sister lives.

Yes, the mums have come out.

Summer’s on the way out – cue the long Winter of cold and snow.

The bright annuals are perched and ready in the doorways, like a shield of defiance from the cold.

It’s a wistful goodbye to summer with a last bright spot of yellow.

We mark our weather and the seasons like we mark our moods. The routine and flow of this keeps us on track, and reminds us of where we are in nature, and in our bodies.

Being over 60 is a bit like this. I know this next season of my life is here, but I can’t resist a parting shot of color. It is born of pride and a bit of stubborness, maybe.

I still keep trying to run, like always, but it’s been downgraded to running/walking and is now morphing into brisk walking. With a strained hamstring and other ailments, I wonder what this next stage will be like.

Old age.

Today I thought that maybe I’m looking at it wrong. It’s not, Oh no, not another long Winter.

Instead it crossed my mind – how many more times will I buy these flowers?

We seem to think we have infinite time, perennial seasons.

But we don’t.

I do know that I want to be able to get down on the floor and play with my grandson. I’d also like to scamper across the sand at the beach and swing him around.

Okay, maybe that’s a little ambitious.

It’s funny, whenever I sit and read with my grandson, he grabs the saggy skin on my forearm and squishes it and he pinches it throughout the entire story.

The first time he did it, I reflexively started to comment or explain – for being old, I guess. Seriously.

But I didn’t. I treasured the moment.

As Robert Frost wrote, Nothing gold can stay.

So today, I’m trying not to fixate on the state of my body next to the young runners on the trail, or going crazy with free weights in the bedroom.

I’m simply trying to slow the steps down and appreciate the sno-cone like mums, popping up so joyfully, and so briefly, all over the neighborhood porches.

The hottest of afternoons, and just too damn humid to go outside with a toddler.

Wet, sticky hair on the back of my neck. A brain prickling with thoughts about climate change.

The dog pants on a continuous loop, cicadas scream. A young hawk perches limply at the birdbath.

Another hurricane, another election, another crop of young high school athletes running their hearts out on a blistering track.

Still today, bright music streams out from my stereo speakers, and my 18 month-old grandson is poised like a young disco star, ready to dance.

One chubby arm extended above his head, he waits for the beat. Red-faced, he stomps and sways and twirls through the songs.

And when he moves on to his toy train set, I stay and listen to the last song, and I tear up thinking about the wasted planet.

One light, one sun
One sun lighting everyone
One world turning
One world turning everyone

One world, one home /One world home for everyone /One dream, one song/ One song heard by everyone

One love, one heart
One heart warming everyone
One hope, one joy
One love filling everyone

Today, Raffi is what I need.

Old Raffi – from a childhood 30 years ago – the same innocent melodies of hope, the same reassuring voice.

A reminder of how much has changed, and how much is exactly the same.

Last weekend, I was babysitting my grandson, and, as I was sitting on the couch, he laid his little head down on my thigh, and sighed, and said “my Gigi”.

Oh, to be claimed liked that.

It was one of those sweet grandparenting moments. One of those times where you feel special, you are singled out, receiving love that is neither asked for nor expected – it is just a gift.

This whole grandparent trip has been like this. I never expected to love him like this, to delight in his every expression and mood.

Or to have him reciprocate.

He sometimes cries when I have to leave him, and my heart just aches.

I get it, I am just as sad to say goodbye.

Grandchildren are not ours to train up, or spoil, they are here to teach us the lesson of time:

That we only have these brief moments to experience what they have to offer us.

My grandson will only be 18 months old for a short time. And he won’t want to rest his cheek on mine for much longer.

He won’t light up when he spots me across the room.

He will eventually reach an age where I am mostly irrelevent, even an embarassment, and that is how it is.

Our years of striving to be perfect parents are over, now we can rest in the ease of acceptance and know: we are enough.

And for now, I am a hand to hold while navigating the sidewalk curb, a push of the little trike over the grass.

I am the reader of the book with all of the animal sounds, over and over again.

I am a witness to his first sentences, like “high up in the sky” as he points to the airplane above our heads.

And I think to myself, how, like the plane, he too will travel, far away from me, as the years pass.

And my heart breaks a little.

I think of this time in my life like the transition from afternoon to sunset – the gloaming – that tiny, magical moment when the sky casts a shimmery, otherworldly aspect.

I think of this time in my life like the transition from afternoon to sunset – the gloaming – that brief, magical moment when the sky casts a shimmery aspect.

So breathtaking, so transformative, so brief.

And while our daughter and son-in-law are doing the everyday hard stuff, we can glory in the joy of this special view.

And tonight, I think about his little sticky fingers grabbing at my shirt, willing me not to go.

How his tiny grip is surprisingly strong.

And how lucky I am.

I am necessary, I am loved, I am claimed, even for just a moment.

There is the term “third space” that’s been circulating around for awhile.

The definition describes home as the first place and work as the second.

And the third is a place where we find a loose community, or a kind of neutral territory – it could be a coffeeshop, or a library, or a church.

It’s a place where we might come and go as we please, to participate at any level we choose, or a place where we can simply observe.

It is not purpose driven, or too highly structured and it could be intimate or remote.

A third space might be a place to seek out inspiration.

But mostly it houses a feeling of connection and belonging.

Anyway, I kind of see this place, this blog, as a third space, for me.

And you, you are in this third space with me(if you choose).

And when I write, I open myself up in ways I wouldn’t in a workplace.

And in this forum, I try to be honest.

And yes, lately it has been pretty depressing. (Obviously, you don’t have to go there with me – skip it, please).

But these writings have helped pass the time, and helped with the healing.

This has just been a helpful spot where I’ve been working out my mental health.

And it’s been a space to vent.

It’s been the physical process that has allowed me to listen to my brain.

It’s been a creative space.

A place to try not to judge myself.

We writers always want to tackle something new. We want to advance the plot in some way.

But life doesn’t work that way, and the lessons I’ve learned have been re-learned many times over.

But the good thing is, that when I’m scrolling back through my blogs, and I think it’s all been the same old shit, I run across a stunning photograph of say, the Swiss Alps.

And then I remember that day, and my son’s smile after his first run down the mountain.

And I remember just how peaceful I felt. How I watched him grow smaller and smaller as he traversed away from me.

And in that moment, I saw his 5 year-old self magically overlaid on his adult body.

And, up high, with the sun’s bright reflection, and my tears, making me dizzy – it felt like time was inverted that way.

And I just needed to get it down on paper.

Yes, there were the good days – many, many good days.

Still, depression will tell you they don’t exist, that they never existed, but it is a lie.

The truth is that there have been many, many more great moments than bad ones.

So, I’m grateful for this space we inhabit – this spot where the lousy and the picturesque can co-exist.

Sharing it has been such an unexpected joy.

A few years ago, my husband, son and I went to France for a vacation, to the beautiful French Riviera.

And I got lost.

Well and truly lost.

Lost in the way that I just knew I would never be found, and that I might even die.

Hours and hours alone, not knowing how to find my way back home.

Dehydration and irrational thinking and the existential feeling that maybe only those who are near death face.

Well, I thought I was near death anyway.

Basically, my son and husband had taken a day trip to Monaco and I’d stayed back to spend the day at the beach.

And then, late afternoon, I headed back to the villa, and I couldn’t find my bearings.

I had no cell phone, no key, no ID even.

The streets of the village were serpentine and every doorway looked identical to the all the others along the cobblestone street.

So I backtracked and retraced my steps at each turn, over and over – for several hours

By early evening, my irritation grew into apprehension. And then nervousness. And the temperature was slipping fast, I was getting cold.

Does this look right? Is this familiar?

I tried to tamp down the panic. I thought I was sensible; I’d found where our rental car was parked, figuring that the guys would eventually make their way to it.

Or so I reasoned.

Finally, still in my damp bathing suit, I sat with my legs stretched out under the car’s wheel well, to catch the residue of the engine’s warmth.

My teeth were chattering.

This wasn’t looking good.

And then, close to midnight, my son emerged from the dark.

And when I saw him across the road, I starting crying uncontrollably; I was so ashamed.

I felt pitiful: I was a clueless, middle-aged tourist with no sense of direction.

The shame filled my frigid body, down to my frozen feet.

In the end, my body eclipsed all reason. Everything felt disconnected.

It’s been years since that event happened, but occasionally the memory pricks at me.

This past February, I got Covid (finally) and the virus triggered a haze of depression that I am just now coming out of.

I am surfacing from the dark.

I’ve started taking short walks in our new neighborhood, but I feel like an invalid with little endurance. I lift my heavy legs and try to feel my muscles.

I try to connect my body to my brain. Both are sluggish and out of sync.

But I have started to feel stonger.

Even so, when I look down at my shoes, there is the worn, near colorless grey of the sidewalk. It is like the grey that swirls in my mind.

At times I am dull and numb and I can’t remember my sense of humor, or any particularly positive thing about myself.

And lately I’ve thought about being lost, both in France, and at home.

And the memory comes back to me, of shivering on that cold night, how alone I felt.

It occurred to me how disappointed I was that my family couldn’t somehow read my mind to locate me. Like a mental GPS.

But not many people know us well enough to always offer a lifesaving rope when we’re clinging on the precipice.

And no one ever completely understands what we are going through, what is swirling around in our brains.

And that brings me back to today, and the fact that I have struggled to write about the past few months.

I have given up and given in to the idea that none of this is worth writing about.

But then I think about the fact that at the end of the story, it was okay.

So I’m holding out some hope that what I say and how I try to describe myself will resonate with you.

And I hope to keep on writing even in these grey spaces.

It feels dull and boring, but it makes the healing time go faster.

And it makes me feel a little bit better as I go.

We lie in bed, settle our legs, and yank the blankets back and forth between us.

We are making a perfect sarcophagus-like bed on which to lay our tired bodies.

We sigh and take deep breaths.

We release the day.

This is our time to cast out a line and wait.

And after a while, stray thoughts and worries bubble up to the surface, through the stillness.

At first, the thoughts are loose and willy-nilly.

Little niggling things, small grievances with a co-worker, updates on the kids. The cute thing our grandson did.

But eventually we sift down and go a little deeper.

A few months ago, with my depression, the focus became solely on that, night after night, and it got really tiresome.

I’m sure my husband was so frustrated, hearing my stuff, over and over.

I know I was.

But I was scared, and needed reassurance.

Because often I felt guilty that I wasn’t concerned enough with politics – Israel and Palestine, the election, and global warming.

Believe me, I care about these issues.

It’s just impossible to tackle the wider world when your personal perspective is like a pinhole in a sheet of paper.

And then there is the additional, built-in guilt of this condition that says: I’m letting people down, I’m not doing/being enough.

These thoughts were on a continuous scroll.

Poisonous.

But, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that guilt and shame can take me down faster than you can imagine.

And it never helps.

And now, looking back, I’m just grateful to have had a partner to bear witness on the other side of the bed.

I’m sure that many nights he just wanted to roll over and drift off.

But I’m grateful he was there to repeat the tedious words that are our litany:

It’s going to be okay.

You’re getting better.

We just have to be patient.

I knew these things, but I had to repeat them, to soothe my brain, like counting over old rosary beads.

That was my bedtime prayer – to simply come back to myself, to heal.

And every night when I turned out the light, I almost believed.

Early January and last year’s holiday is weighing in my body.

More clothing layers and a few extra pounds make me want to slow down, quit my brisk exercise, just stop fighting inertia.

I want to curl up, snack and read.

The colder winter weather whips at my morale.

The daily news, the state of the world, feels like another layer to bear.

Some days I want a break from holding my shoulders back, pushing through and toughing it out.

Instead, I head to the local pool.

Getting undressed at the locker, arms folded over shivering chest, there is an elderly woman next to me, talking to herself, or maybe to me.

She tells the room that she has to do re-hab and this is her first day, she will need to come all the way to the gym four days a week, take a cab.

She has a cane with 3 prongs at the base; she has propped it against the bench and I reach out to pick it up when it slides to the tiled floor.

It is hard to start up a new exercise routine. It’s hard to move our bodies at all some days.

I pull on my suit and head to the showers, then into the pool area.

Two small kids are screaming and splashing at eachother with water noodles and I shy away to the other side.

Silence, quiet, moving inward, trying to shed the cold air on my skin, to submerge.

The water is a little cool, but still it’s shimmery blue reflection with bright flags, is cheerful.

There is something about immersion, about going down deep, letting myself sink, that invites.

Through cloudy goggles all is hazy blue, and the world goes quiet.

All except for the exhalation of bubbles, the air coming from deep in my lungs, even deeper.

There’s almost a panic at the thought that all of this activity is happening all the time without thought.

The heartbeat and breath play in my ears. A hyper-awarenss. How full my and then how empty my lungs can be.

My shoulders pull the thick water, stroke after stroke. Suddenly I am lighter.

A pool’s lessons are so easy.

I glide in my lane, the ropes help rein in my self-consciousness.

Keep the head down, but not too far, sip the air, control the thrash of the lower body.

Stay in the lane. Focus.

Let the water hold me. Don’t fight it, ease into the cradling support.

Slice the water any which way, the water always calms, evens out.

The grace comes in finding my pace without trying.

Because today I want the least resistence – to let the stream of motion from my kicking legs propel my torso without much fight.

Who says we need to strive?

Life can be a buoyancy without any control at all.

Today, swimming doesn’t feel like giving up or giving in, it feels like rising.

I rise and shuffle stiffly from my bed to the new bathroom.

My fingers graze the soft plaster on the wall where there is nothing at all – no light switch, just my muscle memory. In the dark, I grope towards the little sink.

In the newly painted kitchen, I smell the beans, fill the coffee carafe and punch the soft button; there is such comfort there.

I am a spirit, floating through our new place, noting, testing things out, treading lightly across the unfamiliar hall.

Later, I drift across the kitchen with fresh laundry and move into the bedroom that smells yeasty like bread, or like old homes.

It is not a new house.

Tiny cracks in the the fireplace mortar, I imagine mice droppings in the walls. A paint drip that I know I didn’t make.

I run the vacuum across soft oak floorboards where I uncover tiny dinks and protruding nails that snag at my socks.

But always the dishes; warm water is the same anywhere.

The dry, cracked skin of my hands feel tight and sore as they press into the yellow sponge that catches the crumbs as it moves across the pitted, ceramic countertop.

The water runs through my fingers at the tap, like the thin, slippery beads of a rosary.

I flip the lid of the same blue pan, to rinse it once again, watching the foam run clear in the shiny sink.

Each task, done a thousand times, but now in a new old place.

It is a new year.

I clip the doggie calendar onto the magnetic fridge and write a few notes on the clean January page.

It seems to me that the challenge is keeping it all new.

These jobs we do, the mornings we putter and the days we structure, and the nights, when we cycle though the tv listings, again and again, looking for a fresh stream.

This year, my birthday, 61, and mostly the numbers mean nothing.

Until they do, and I wake at 2 am and wonder how they add up.

I read somewhere that our negative thoughts and events carve sharp pathways in the brain, while positive ones are harder to recall.

With this, I call up the mountains from a few years ago, and soothe myself back to sleep.

It can’t always be an option, I know this, but when it works, I take it.

I think I am trying out the Danish expression of putting the spoon in the other hand – to switch up the tiniest of tired movements just a tad.

So today, I escape the bungalow and find a second space, the public library, to try to write. (Instead of staring at the same surroundings, I’ll write about them!)

Attempting a pivot, to grasp a new sensation in the old.

Yes, happy old new year it is.

So, spoon in hand, I move forward (or not).

Anyway, I feel the shift – subtly awkward but a teeny bit exciting, too; it is fresh.

And so, moving onward – keep writing, I say – do it any which way you can.

Keep writing, just write.

Our Christmas tree this year will have my mom’s skilled fingers woven all through the lit branches.

There are over fifty handmade, needlepoint Santas to hang.

Each of them whimsical and unique. Santa on a skateboard, Santa holding a long scroll (real paper), his list of names, including my own, curling over his belly.

Santa at the beach.

Santa with a chicken (prescient), and, for my daughter – a complete set of Nutrcracker characters that glitter and dance.

The Mouse King with real beaded eyes and a silver sword.

Sweet Clara in a delicate smocked dress with her matching duck-egg blue bow.

The pirate-eyed Drosselmeier with tiny buckled shoes.

And each of these ornanments is special to me, though I never remember specifics.

Mom came up with a different kit every year. And she dated each one, so I can line them up and count the years.

Even now.

Especially now.

Hanging these things is even more poignant because she is gone.

My mom, always in a tailspin of energy, productive, outgoing and always, always, poised.

I see her at countless meetings, political rallies, bible study classes, and, of course, right after that daily power nap where she was “just resting her eyes.”

I see her pulling the needle and pursing her lips.

She was an ADD swirl before there was a name for it or any sense of it.

She was the detail oriented task master, finisher of projects.

Not like me at all.

And in a funny way, our recent downsizing helps me focus on her today.

Because I’m restrained – only able to pull a limited amount of ephemera from the hundreds of other treasures from our old house’s storage.

No room for more.

No need for me.

But this ever-grieving tree.

My mom is present here.

Bits of her scattered attention, yes. Sometimes a stern hug of reality. Aways a stubborn commitment to perfection that I hated.

And, en masse, the effect is a collective elegance.

And, up close, it is the hyper-focused handiwork of the teeny moments, the counted minutes, the jags between cooking and cleaning and socializing and being a minister’s wife.

The diligent stitches, the tying off of the damn french knots.

These past few months I have been looking closely at my belongings, my stuff, my creature comfort items, all of it.

I’m weighing whether one household item or another is worthy of coming along with us to our new place.

It’s like examining the tedious stitches of my life – the work put into the piece, the sweat, and the sweet, the memories, the sadness, the critical items. You know what I mean.

I’ve never been crafty in the way of my mom or my sisters – they are artists and they make it looks so easy.

I am all fumbles and frustration.

The one decent cross-stitched thing I made, I gave to my grandmother.

It was cute back in those Holly Hobby days.

But turn it over and see the back – it’s one giant knot – a fraying, tangled mess.

Yet Grammy hung it in her kitchen for over 25 years.

Anyway, there is a certain grief to that for me, that I’m not at all like my mother.

But it’s a grief that’s surpassed by the loss of her frenetic body, her charged energy, her way of sitting in the room with half an ear cocked to the room, her ankle bobbing.

Getting so much done.

– how did she do that?

Anyway, this grief I carry is perpetual, it is precious.

It is prompt, in the way I can count on it’s appearing at certain times, like these.

It is painstaking, in it’s remembrance of the tiny, sweated over threads.

It is permanent, it does not leave, it resurfaces now and again, different times, different ways.

But this grief is with me forever, and I am glad of it.

It is present and real.

Like my own hard work this year:

Selling a house of 25 years, locating and buying another that’s 2/3rd the size.

Sizing down, hoarding less, appreciating more.

Looking closely at the fronts and backs of memories from my life.

How I’ve re-connected with a dear friend who helped me adopt a kitten. From A-Z – vetting and naming – litterbox advice and all.

How I’ve savored the online conversations with another old friend who is a writer, too.

How I’ve made a new friend who is an artist.

And, last weekend, I participated in a support group of fellow grievers and made an exciting connection there.

I’m proud of that.

And, all along, it’s like I’m examining that ugly mess at the back of my life’s design, and trying to love and grieve all of the parts of it, and then trying to love it more.

And, as someone I recently met at the grief group says – grieve on.

Happy Holidays, and grieve on.