Married to myself
I went back to the mountains alone
It’s shedding season. As I write this (Friday the 13th), we are in the last few days of the Year of the Snake, and every wooey or astrological account I follow on social media has been going on and on about this final phase of the year of the snake and the massively uncomfortable shedding that is taking place. No shit—it feels more like molting or maybe leprosy. I guess this particular snakeskin is ready to be shed. Bring on the Fire Horse energy. (Also, fuck the patriarchy. And the administration. Carry on.)
It’s Eclipse Season, the Lunar New Year is upon us, and our government is a legit forest fire—shit is indeed burning. And as cycles are wrapping up, I have been doing some recalibration of my own, some serious housecleaning by way of integration. Last week I sent out a newsletter sharing my rebrand, for lack of a better word. It’s kind of like a merger, except the companies are me, me, me, and, oh yeah, me. For the past few years (or maybe forever), I have been juggling too damn many projects—three Substacks, my writing community and workshops, Listen To Your Mother, the podcast, my memoir—and I finally realized that there is just no reason for me to be splitting myself into a million pieces. So, inspired by myriad changes over the past year, I am uniting the different aspects of my work into a new brand: The Pause.
Yep, based on my “word of the year,” the mantra I landed on to remind me to slow down and pause before rushing into new things. Which is ironic, because I have felt anything but calm while frantically putting the finishing touches on the rebrand while also on a book deadline, beginning the Listen To Your Mother show season, solo parenting my teenage daughter, and did I mention the world sucks? Maybe that’s what the snakeskin shedding looks like for me—absolute chaos before I settle into a new, more sustainable rhythm. At any rate, that is what The Pause is all about—finding a space to rediscover your own voice, set your own tempo, burn down what needs to be destroyed, and remember your creativity. Also, it’s a clever nod to peri- and menopause (hey, there, fellow sweaty, ragey ladies!).
Amidst my not-so-mindfully wrapping up all these loose ends and juggling looming deadlines, I had a beautiful light at the end of the tunnel: I was going to get the fuck out of dodge. As of now, I am there: the fuck out of dodge, by way of the mountains, for a DIY writer’s retreat, party of one. I am holed up in one of my favorite places on earth to finish my book revisions in peace.
My car was nearly as full as when my children were little and we lugged bed rails and portable toilets and pillow pets everywhere we went. I brought a rose gold Minnie Mouse suitcase that was only half full of clothes: the other half had my planner, journal, three books, a portable speaker, my Tarot cards, my manuscript, pens, highlighters, and the heating pad I refuse to travel without. Then of course, there were the things that didn’t fit in my suitcase: my laptop, my “husband” pillow, my weighted sloth stuffie, my milk frother (shut up, I’ll explain later), a cooler with the oatmeal I brought from home and milk for my aforementioned frother, a few lemons (duh), and my giant fluffy bathrobe.
Every single item was essential. This is my place, and I’m not fucking around. By “my place,” I mean my beloved Estes Park, where I have been traveling every February since I was in my mid-twenties. Estes has seen me through two husbands and two babies. Estes has seen me through every incarnation of myself, and despite it being the kid-free getaway place of my marriage, it was always also just mine. I will not relinquish it; I left pieces of myself in every riverside vacation spot over nearly 25 years.
And today, I drove up here by myself, to spend three full days in my favorite place all alone. And it isn’t sad; not even a little.
There is something poetic about returning to my former Valentine’s Day getaway spot solo to finish up revisions on my memoir. 25-year-old me staying in the Romantic Riversong Inn with her first husband would never believe that, 22 years later, I would be twice divorced and editing a book that had an actual publication date. It’s wild. I could say, “This isn’t what I signed up for,” but you know what? I think it probably was.
It was calm and warm as I drove up, very unusual for Estes, which is generally quite windy and snowy in February. It was perfect; no white-knuckle driving up the mountain for me as I listened to the latest We Can Do Hard Things podcast episode. I stopped at one of my favorite spots, Inkwell & Brew, and bought two journals, a fountain pen, two stickers for my teenager, a Provençal latte, and a croissant.
TANGENT INCOMING—>(You guys, I have the craziest story. In early December, while traveling, I was “glutened” when a waiter brought me the wrong pizza. I had already eaten half of it. I had been gluten free for eight years, and I braced myself to potentially ruin the Lemonheads show with a digestive disaster. But no! Nothing happened. At all. Or the next day, or the day after that. Slowly, I began to reintroduce gluten. So far so good! But just in case my gluten grace period is up soon, I’m eating croissants like they are going out of style, and I have no regrets.)
As I left downtown Estes and drove towards my riverside home for the weekend, I turned off the podcast, put my 11-hour writing playlist on shuffle and silently willed the universe to give me “the song I needed to hear right now.” Hold on, I’m about to head down a rabbit hole—you with me?
Synchronicity time
So right now, I’m halfway through another session of my favorite workshop of all time, The Artist’s Way for the Midlife Woman. One of the key tenets of TAW by Julia Cameron is taking yourself on a weekly Artist Date. There are rules: You are supposed to be by yourself, it is not supposed to be “something you were going to do anyway,” and it cannot be crossing something useful off your to-do list. It is supposed to be truly indulgent, designed to nurture and delight YOU as a creative being. I know, I know. This sounds like a ridiculous idea, because, have you even met real life, Julia Cameron? That might have worked in the 90s, but we are far too busy for Artist Dates now, and also, not sure if you heard, but the whole world is coming apart at the seams and wandering a museum is wasteful.
I hope you’re noting a bit of sarcasm, because truly, if you are “too busy” to find delight, play, pleasure, or creativity, that is a problem, not a bragging point. I digress. So, essentially, I’ve taken myself on a three-day Artist Date, and I am pretty freaking pleased about it.
So, back to my playlist. Another hallmark of TAW is “synchronicities,” and in particular, opening yourself up to actually notice and receive these little cosmic nudges. One of my workshop participants mentioned last week that she has been noticing synchronicities a lot—the same message showing up from completely different sources, hearing the perfect song at the perfect moment, etc.
So, when I “asked” my playlist, aka, the universe, to give me the perfect song from my 11-hour playlist to guide me into my weekend home, it delivered this: Isobel, by Bjork. So, two things. First, I named my oldest daughter after this song. Second, here are the lyrics:
In a forest pitch-dark
Glowed the tiniest spark
It burst into a flame
Like me, like me
My name Isobel
Married to myself
My love Isobel
Living by herself
So the fact that my daughter’s song played was pretty great, but after that sunk in, I realized how much more there was to this synchronicity. There I was, driving into the mountain town where I spent this weekend of every year having a marital kid-free getaway, and now I was back. Alone. Married to myself. Living by myself. A tiny spark that burst into a flame.
You can’t make this shit up, folks.
After I unpacked ALL THE THINGS I BROUGHT BECAUSE NO MAN CAN COMPLAIN ABOUT ME TRAVELING WITH A HEATING PAD AND WEIGHTED SLOTH AND TWO CARDIGANS, A BATHROBE, AND A HOODIE, I sat on the back porch with my latte and croissant. It was so, so still. I listened to the magpies calling to each other; I heard the river’s song. I realized I would need to go back to town to buy ground coffee, as my morning coffee on the deck while the river flows is an essential part of my Estes morning ritual (hence the milk frother), and my kitchen was stocked with only FOLGERS (I’m sorry, but no).
I considered putting the grocery store into my navigation before I got in the car, but stopped myself. It was a long-standing joke that, despite coming to Estes every single year for ever and ever, I could never navigate my way around it and truly had no idea where we were going whenever we came. I wasn’t the driver, after all, and I have a terrible sense of direction—ask anyone! Also, it’s common knowledge that I always use navigation as I frequently stop paying attention while I’m driving (apologies that you guys have to share the road with me). But I didn’t put the directions in. For the first time, I realized I knew exactly where I was.
The magpies hollered as I climbed into my car, and I counted them. One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl. I stopped there. Three for a girl; just me, *a girl.
Just a girl, married to herself, living by herself, my love.
XO,
Steph
*I won’t do the “standing in front of a boy” bit; full disclosure, I have seen that meme eight million times and have no fucking idea what movie it is from.
More to come from me when my new website is ready for public viewing, but for now, if you are a midlife woman looking for a creative community—the kind where you can prioritize your craft and writing practice while also coming home to yourself—consider joining us at The Pause Writers. Our doors are officially open. Start with a free week so see if you feel at home here!
You are a fucking badass creative mamma queen!! Thank you for the real talk and for all of the inspiration <3
I’ve spent many summers at the YMCA cabins at Estes Park. Good memories.