Dear Friends,
Perhaps it’s like this for everyone, but this September has brought a total routine overhaul for my family. Last week my daughter (FINALLY!) went back to preschool, so I tried to clear the week as best I could to account for “after school restraint collapse,” this year’s back-to-school buzzy headliner.
Turns out I shouldn’t have worried much about her. After a few drop-off tears, she reported directly to the craft table and was all smiles the rest of the day, even once she was back home in her safe meltdown space. No big.
But I’m still experiencing panic that there is so much work to do and not enough time in which to do it.
Last week brought the start of my apprenticeship for Music Together. I also had multiple marketing meetings for my choir, since I’ll be helping out with our social media this year.
Despite keeping up with practice management tasks for Alexandria Art Therapy, I have about five ideas for art prompts I need to make time to do–time when the aforementioned Captain of the Craft Table isn’t present to get oil pastels all over my white walls.
On top of these different directions in which I feel pulled, my husband has just begun Russian language school in preparation for our move next year. While before he worked from home four days a week, he now has to go to in-person class each day. He arrives home in the afternoons with total zombie-brain and several hours of homework to do.
So that’s what I’m thinking of as the physical situation. The drop-offs and pick-ups. The choreography to “She’ll be Comin’ Round the Mountain.” Bedtime and toddler entertainment and bike commutes and meetings.
And then there are the new emotions that have appeared in this season. Showing up sweaty at the pickup line and feeling gross next to all the beautiful yoga moms. The silent but steady countdown of time we have left in this beloved neighborhood. And the things we never expect.
A few weeks ago, Athens Carter, a friend of mine from when I was a teenager, died unexpectedly. I hadn’t seen him in over a decade, and we didn’t really keep up, but he meant something to me and to so many people I love. He was a brilliant musician and a true original. I met him when I was still figuring out who I was. So much of what I still like today I can trace to him. Certain styles of glasses or sweaters. “Come on Eileen” and “Rockin’ the Suburbs.” He was one of the first people I ever met who was quirky, but fully himself, and fully loved for it. I admired him. He made me reconsider who I was allowed to be.
There’s a part of me that questions my stake in mourning Athens. We were friends so long ago, and not best friends even then. But people are important, and one person’s impact can act like a root system. Even the smallest tendrils trace back. Small connections, loose connections, distant connections–they count and matter. There is no fence that can contain who gets to grieve.
This emotional landscape is a different kind of grief than I’ve experienced in a while. There’s sadness, of course, but also a kind of nostalgic haunting. The double-take when I spot a green VW Golf in my neighborhood, like the one he drove in high school. The memories and photos and stories friends are sharing on Facebook. Mostly, the moments in the bustle of these busy weeks in which I stop slicing fruit or folding Nora’s tiny clothes or answering an email and think Athens Carter is gone.
On Thursday last week, after just three days of preschool, Nora came down with a cold. Thankfully, it was one of those 36-hour specials where she felt energetic the whole time and was back to normal by Saturday. But on that first day of sniffles, I didn’t know quite what would play out.
“So there’s work, and then there’s choir work, and then there’s the music apprenticeship, and there’s Russian school, and Nora starting school, and being supportive for friends around this loss, and now Nora is sick,” I told my therapist. “And all my childcare hours are used up for the week and I still have work to do. It all sometimes feels like continued…suffering.”
“I was thinking adapting,” Greta said, surprised to have mis-anticipated the rest of my sentence.
I laughed.
“Now, there’s the call-out we’re looking for,” I said.
In the physical and emotional too-muchness of September, are we suffering, or are we adapting?
Adapting to new routines, new workloads, new expectations. New shocks, new losses.
I’ve been thinking of adaptation and suffering as two separate experiences, but now I realize they’re not mutually exclusive.
Adaptation seems to require some suffering, or at least some discomfort. Some of the suffering we endure leads us down the path towards adaptation, and isn’t for nothing. But the mindset isn’t always easy to keep front-of-mind.
And does all suffering lead to adaptation? I don’t think so. When we’re suffering, it’s common to feel stuck. Humans are wired to resist change, and yet we’re also wired to adapt.
It’s helpful to have a therapist to call you out when you’re locked in the wrong narrative, but what else may help? One idea might be to take some time to define what adaptation looks like in a given situation.
What would adaptation to this year actually look like? And is a lack of vision keeping me from attaining it?
When we’re grieving a significant personal loss, adaptation is not a goal for a long time. Adaptation feels wrong, if not impossible.
And yet, with enough time and processing grief, it happens. We adapt to a life, not really without that person, but without their physical presence.
In the five years since my father’s death, his memory has begun to feel like a force field I carry with me. I feel him delighting in my successes. He never got to meet my daughter, but I believe he loves her. There are the parts of myself that are so like him, it’s almost as if I’m becoming him. Our shared love of writing, especially early in the morning. Of biking. Of meeting new people. He’s gone, but not really. I’m still here, so he is, too.
Right now, in the major roots around the tree that was my friend Athens, there is much suffering. We can only adapt to life after loss once the suffering dilutes–once it spreads out into the universe a bit. I always liked the idea that grief doesn’t get smaller with time, but our lives and worlds get bigger. Some of the suffering just diffuses into this widening world, and some of it we release.
In Georgia where I grew up, it’s common to find people who believe that their deceased loved ones watch over them in the form of the natural world. A cardinal or a yellow butterfly or a particular flower blooming might be a “visit” from a lost relative, just checking to see if you’re doing okay. The smell of pine will always be my father. Knowing Athens, he’ll show up to those who loved him most in the form of something unexpected and brilliant.
In contrast with grief, the chaotic feeling of adapting to new routines feels like a privilege. And perhaps I will adapt to all of these new routines in the same way as I’ve adapted to losses before. Give it time. Let go. And keep an eye out for a sign that I’m doing okay.
Take good care,
Dot
News & Updates
New Openings! Katie Gaynor now has openings available for new clients ages 6-adult looking for help processing grief, stress, anxiety and depression, trauma, or life transitions.
Afternoon and evening openings available on Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays.
Reach out today to schedule your free 15-minute consultation with Katie.
We’re hiring! Alexandria Art Therapy, LLC has ongoing openings for qualified candidates for Art Therapy Associates to provide art therapy and counseling virtually and in-person, as space permits.
Clinicians credentialed as Art Therapists (ATR or ATR-BC) and licensed for independent practice in Virginia (LPC, LMFT, LCSW, PhD, PsyD) are preferred. Supervision is provided for ATR-Ps and Virginia Residents in Counseling.
Candidates must be available to provide evening and/or weekend sessions.
AAT is currently seeking trauma-informed clinicians who work with adults for any of the following specializations: ADHD, Autism, LGBTQ+ community, Eating Disorders, cPTSD, or Perinatal Mental Health.
Associates may work virtually if located within Virginia or in-person at the Alexandria office, space permitting.
Blog Posts
From the blog archives: If you’re experiencing infertility, it can feel heavy and all-consuming. Your calendar is turned over to tracking and appointments. Your brain may be able to think of little else. When it comes to self care and infertility, “just relax” is no diagnosis. Self care through infertility requires a combination of mindset shifts, support, and good boundaries. In this two-part blog series, we offer some self-care strategies for infertility (and a great response for anyone who tells you you’re not getting pregnant because “you’re too stressed.”)
Links We Like
It’s official: the perfect tattoo is here.
Your present mood is heavily influenced by your immediate future.
An antidote to loneliness: start a club.
For my friends who love the cards–this new affirmation deck looks good!
And a nice reminder: the cards are paper. The magic is you.
“What’s missing today isn’t just the thrill of climbing trees or playing flashlight tag. It’s that when an adult is always present — in person or electronically — kids never really get to see what they’re made of.” (NYT)
When the internet is overrun with AI, I like the art to be real.
Deep roots. Painting by Laura Dannenberg after Sarah Cray: