It is really hard right now.

Yesterday was my 44th birthday. This one felt different and included a mixture of sadness, gratitude and an unfamiliar longing to stop being shy about it being my birthday. I wanted someone, or many someones, to provide some salve for my broken heart. A heart that I hope keeps pumping for at least 44 more years.

Since mid-March, when we had to close our school, our restaurant and our kombucha business, I have not had more than a moment to let my broken heart heal. Instead, our lives have been a marathon of trying to figure out what to do with our finances, with our way of life, and with our way of being together during these times. Or, rather, of my not being together because of the 60 plus hours a week of work for weeks on end to just to keep my school barely above water.

We are the fortunate ones. We haven’t gotten sick. We haven’t gone bankrupt. We haven’t had to rely on unemployment, and two out of three of our businesses are now open. At least for now.

I awoke early on my 44th birthday morning and went to bed fairly late (okay, like 9:00 PM). My daughter also woke up early and handed me a card that said:

Dear Mom,

I love you so much. I wrote a saying for you:

“No matter how hard you [worked], no matter what it’s for, forever we will always be thankful for what you [accomplished].”

I wrote that for you cause you’ve done so much work to keep the spark of One Tree.

- Mary

My son provided the best medicine of laughter with his card saying he’s enjoyed “sum” of 2020 (we’re still working on spelling) and a picture of a snake strangling a skunk–an expression of how much I hate snakes and the skunks that my dog seems to think are the best play things that exist, despite officially being sprayed 6 times over the last couple of years. The day continued with back-to-back zoom parent-teacher conferences. These filled me with gratitude for the community of people who trusted me enough to stick with us through this nightmare pandemic.  

I finally got to go home to dinner, a blueberry pie and a family movie. It was a great day.

Yet as soon as my kids went to bed, I felt an emotional thud I wasn’t expecting. I realized I only had one more day of work until I’d have my first full week off since those pre-March pre-chaotic pandemic days. The tears came as a part of a grieving process that I’ve put on hold for 9 plus months. They are continuing now as I write.

The pandemic has upended our lives, as it has many others. Most of our friends and family don’t know that back in July, we almost moved to Omaha, Nebraska: the land of all snow and no mountains.

I had a job offer, and we realized we could sell our house and the school, which would allow us to get rid of our financial liabilities with the restaurant, and have money leftover in the bank. We got so close. I had written an email to my teachers and families, called my own family to let them know our plans, and just like the president can, at any moment, hit the nuclear button, I was fully prepared to hit send on that email.

But the morning after we made what we thought was our final decision, my husband and I both woke up and simultaneously realized we’d always look back and wonder what would have happened if we had not at least tried to make it work. Our life is here. Our community is here. Our children have grown up here. Plus, I am always cold. A Nebraska winter might kill me before Covid ever could.

We might still lose the restaurant and the school. We may still have to sell our home. We could get sick, and/or experience a loved one getting sick and, dare I say it?, pass on. We may still end up in a land of winter hell. All of this and more could happen, pandemic or not. We only have so much control.

Yet, even with the lack of control, it doesn’t negate my responsibility to walk with kindness, compassion and integrity. It is harder for me, these days, to have compassion. It is harder for me to be kind. And as a leader of of a tiny but mighty (school) community, it is harder for me to maintain integrity. Sometimes I want to run and hide in a place like Omaha, but warmer, where no one can find me, including my kids. It is really hard right now. This is the reality we are living in and one I sometimes wish would magically go away.

Until last night, I hadn’t had time to feel how hard it has been, how hard it is now, and how much harder the next several months could be. I also haven’t had time to write either. This is the first post I’ve written since May. I’ve only had time to ensure our family’s world didn’t completely fall apart. But, as I’ve learned over the past 20 years of expensive therapy, there is no way around, only through. As painful as it is to walk through this process, I (mostly) welcome it wholeheartedly.

Now that our personal world is finally and loosely taped back together, the time to allow the grief to show up has arrived. Yet, I don’t see it only as grieving. I see it as a building up of strength to continue to walk with the compassion, kindness and integrity I believe is key to this life. We all say we want World Peace, but we also wonder if it is possible. I say it is, but it’s not about fixing and taping and re-taping our broken worlds. It’s about healing. It’s not about being right, but about being real. And we can’t be real if we don’t allow ourselves to feel the grief and the pain. And we can’t heal without recognizing the pain present within us.

For those of you who forgot or never knew about my birthday: Don’t worry, it’s not too late to give me a gift. Here is the best gift I could ever receive: allow yourself some time to grieve too. Allow yourself the space to walk through and not around so you, too, can not only live in compassion, kindness and integrity but also feel those things for yourself. If we can’t feel them for ourselves, we’ll never be able to offer them to others, including for the medical professionals who are really struggling right now ( see article here: No One Is Listening to Us). Or the immigrants who don’t know whether they will be granted permission to stay here with the possibility of opportunity or if they’ll be forced to return to a place where opportunities have run out (see article here: Immigrants Must First Claim Asylum). Or, for those who are hungry, without a job or a home.

In order to see their pain, we must recognize our own. And in order to heal the pain, we must allow healing within ourselves. This takes time, space, and the willingness to feel it all.

What do I really, really want for my birthday? The aforementioned World Peace. We can’t and won’t get there if we don’t allow ourselves to heal and then offer that same healing to all, even to those we don’t particularly like, whether it’s our next-door neighbor or a current or future administration official. Life has reminded me, yet again, that it’s not fair. It’s not fair that we have to have compassion for everyone, including for those whom from the bottom of our souls we may feel some (or a lot of) hate, but it’s the only path to the world we all deserve.

The second to last gift request? Wear a mask. Please. And stay home or 6 feet away, because what I don’t want for my birthday is to have to find time to grieve the preventable loss of someone I love.

And finally, Dear Mr. President, a belated birthday request from you: For the love, concede already. Please and thank you.

And thanks to all of you for reading. Until the next day like this.