Trash and Magic
I'll have a little of each, please.
I have this folder on my computer called “Work to Finish” that I love to mine for little gems every so often, especially when I’m feeling stuck for something to write about. Sometimes there is actually a good piece in there—often one that I dust off and finish, because it didn’t know what it wanted to be when it grew up when I started it years ago, but now it does! And sometimes I come across a much rougher diamond, really just a snapshot of my life in that moment. And I love finding those just as much as a true story in need of finishing.
Because I read through it, and instantly, I can remember. I can locate myself in a different time and place, recall feelings I had long since forgotten, moments I had soundly misplaced. This weekend I found a snapshot from three years ago—the first pandemic holiday season—and realized I had nearly forgotten the visceral pain, isolation, and grief of that year:
November, 2020
Flipping the calendar page to November unexpectedly gutted me. Why it was unexpected is beyond me—shouldn’t I be used to regular emotional gutting at this point? And yet, seeing the collage of images from the highlight reel of 2019—the happiest, prettiest moments of the year—was just too much. The girls sitting together in the front boat of Splash Mountain in Orlando, the sky in front of them almost cartoon-like in its perfection. The bright blue sky, perfect fluffy clouds, and Disney craftsmanship of the ride’s scenery seemed too beautiful to be real. Standing with friends outside the movie theater last November for opening weekend of Frozen 2; we had just had brunch before going to the movie together. We reserved seats together at the “snuggle theater” where we reclined and wrapped ourselves in soft blankets we brought from home. We are at a restaurant with my parents, our annual day after Thanksgiving trip to the mall for stocking stuffers, a photo with Santa, and lunch at a favorite restaurant. My mom and I smiling in our aprons on Thanksgiving Day—I am clearly 15 pounds lighter.
But what struck me most was my face in every picture. Smiling—beaming, really—teeth showing, eyes sparkling. When was the last time I smiled like that, and meant it?
One sentence danced around in my brain. I miss me.
That evening, I had scrambled to record a brief snippet of myself singing for a virtual choir. Singing classically remains one of the original vestiges of “Who I Am As A Person.” I am a singer. Not just a music therapist, but a vocalist, former member of an acclaimed choir, classically trained soprano. I needed to get this 60-second recording right. I put on a dress, frowned at myself, stripped it off and left it pooled on the floor in my closet. My hair is a disaster; I look nearly as feral as my youngest child. I pull it up, take it down again, shake dry shampoo into it, shudder, than pull it back up. I move the camera, change the angle, run from room to room to find lighting that will make me recognize myself, that will make me feel proud.
I spent years wondering if I thought too little or too highly of myself; some days it was a toss-up. But for at leasts a fraction of my adult life, I’ve grappled more with vanity than low self-esteem. It doesn’t feel normal for me to flinch at photos, rejecting 80% of them until I find one with the right tilt of my chin, the light that falls just so on my good side, my lashes looking long and my eye wrinkles unnoticeable.
I need it to be perfect, or at least adequate. Singing is who I was, who I think I still am, who I need to be again someday. I finally get a good vantage point with my iPhone and record the goddamn track, but not before snapping at virtually every member of my family in my irritation with the process, which is clearly a projection of my internal state. It can’t be self-loathing, for surely this isn’t my self. It’s self- missing. I miss me.
“I think I might be depressed.” I try the words on, let them tumble around without spilling out of my mouth. How could I be, though? I’ve been on an SSRI for anxiety, more of a jittery irritability, really, for over a year. My dose is adequate. I’ve never been the type to experience the pull of not wanting to get out of bed. I can barely tolerate the soundtrack of my own thoughts, I am sick of the sound of my own voice inside my head, lamenting my inability to focus, begging for a retreat from my family (“Mommy, listen to this part of my book!” my eager child requests as I place my own book in my lap and clench my teeth, clearly a monster of a mother for not being on the edge of my seat over this graphic novel), weeping over the chronic pain I am so fucking tired of.
I feel self-conscious even letting it out during weekly FaceTime therapy. Same shit, different week, I think, as I drone on about my incomplete kitchen renovation, my persistent back pain, my children’s meltdowns and bottomless needs, the lack of vacation or really anything to look forward to. A quote from Elizabeth Gilbert’s TED talk evokes a primal wail as I replay it while crying in the shower: “The posture that you take is you hit your knees in absolute humility and you let it rock you until it is done with you.”
I do not wish to be rocked any longer. I am tired of grieving. Everyone else’s life is upside down, too; I realize I am not special.
As I find myself in another era where I am once again rocked with emotions that bring me to my knees, I had forgotten what it felt like to feel as though I had lost myself. Reading that little excerpt, I marveled at how far I’ve come since then.
I lost a lot of productivity time last week to a stomach bug that tore through our house, and anything that wasn’t an absolute priority didn’t make the cut. Tuesday morning found me cleaning up first broken glass (goddamn Tigger) and then vomit; Thursday night it came for me, my youngest the next day. We spent Friday together semi-comatose, in misery, and I inexplicably moved through the day, tending to our most basic needs: “I am doing this. How am I doing this?” The entire day was clearly a write-off, and I felt no guilt about it. We were sick enough that nothing but survival mode would do.
When The HerStories Project published our 4th essay collection, So Glad They Told Me: Women Get Real About Motherhood, one of my favorite essays was written by Sharon Holbrook. She wrote about how part of her sort of loved those sick days, because they were a departure from all the other regular routines, tedious tasks, and constant decision-making. Everything came into sharp focus: You cared for your sick child, and that was it.
I think about her essay so often, when that little “relieved part” of me exhales when a minor crisis hits, clearing the table and the calendar, taking the reins of control: No. You’re not working on that. That doesn’t matter anymore today.
We were sick enough that I did NOT appreciate that sentiment until the next day, the Recovery Day, the one where you can be semi-upright for part of the day, perhaps complete a few household care tasks, but mostly you’re just lying around and nurturing your system, desperately in need of soothing.
And so I found myself in a day of snuggling, beige-food ingesting, and Christmas movie bingeing with my youngest child. We ran one errand—to the pet store for chew toys to deflect the naughty antics of the aforementioned bumbling, glass shattering canine—and then settled back onto the couch. At the end of the day, after inside jokes and movies (4.5!) and laughter and constant togetherness, a thought rang clearly in my head: “I hope I remember this day forever.” My oldest came home from a late evening of babysitting, and it was one of those rare, mostly harmonious evenings where we all talked earnestly, laughed hard, and genuinely enjoyed each other.
In the last moments of the day, I was free of worry and stress, out of touch with our problems and messy house and to-do list and neglected tasks that got lost during the garbage week of sickness. All I could feel was the goddamn magic of it all, magic that I had not planned for or created or expected. I fell asleep thinking, “Yes. I will remember this day forever.”
I know there will be many more trash days and weeks ahead, times when I’ll feel untethered and like I’ve lost myself like I did during those pandemic months of worry and isolation. The lows are such an important part of the whole experience, aren’t they? But maybe I’ll remember how grounding and peaceful it feels to give yourself permission to change your priorities sometimes, even if you don’t have the stomach flu. Sometimes you can choose connection and joy and comfort just because you want to. I don’t have the energy to make magic all the time, but that’s the beautiful thing: most of the time, magic just happens.
XOXO,
Steph
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More joyful things!
Speaking of Pandemic Christmas 2020 and my feelings of lostness, that was the December the girls and I decided to start 25 Days of Carols, in which we recorded and shared a video of us performing a Christmas song every day until Christmas. It was one of the few ways we felt like we could feel connected to other people, to actually spread joy. We’ve done it every year since, even when we didn’t want to. And damned if I don’t absolutely love it. We pre-recorded a batch of songs over break, resulting in some ridiculous outtakes. You can follow our series on Instagram @stephsprenger or look for #25DaysOfCarols on FB.
My comedy class is performing in our big show this Sunday!! Eek! Tickets are approaching sold out, so if you want to join us Sunday at 7:00 at Junkyard Social in Boulder, grab yours here.
