PJ’s & Netflix

What to do when your life no longer has a road map?  In my case, Google maps or Rand McNally are useless. 

I’m a 58-year-old mother and widow.  Don’t feel sorry for me. I am incredibly blessed and lucky.  So what is the problem? Depressed?  Maybe.  Rudderless?  Absolutely.

I’m a list maker. So let me list my blessings. My husband had a pretty good life insurance plan so I haven’t struggled much financially. He used to sarcastically say I’d be better off with him dead.  That was before he was diagnosed with a rare and brutal form of cancer. He died when my youngest son was 14 years old.  The first couple of years all my energy was on pushing forward.  I made a pact with myself after my husband died, I would say yes to every invitation. I could write a book on some of those adventures. My motto, out of character for the introvert who hid behind her role as a wife and a mother, never sit still or the shit will hit the fan. I held the homestead together until my youngest graduated. Then I sold all of my worthy possessions and moved into the big bad city. I purchased a fabulous condominium. Even in my current state of dissatisfaction, my heart skips a beat when I walk out my door and see the Chicago skyline. I can almost touch the Sears Tower. 

But I don’t need to push anymore. I’m not even spinning my tires.  I am perpetually in neutral.

Here is my reality. Lately, my best friends are my PJ’s and Netflix.  I could stay in my pajamas all day and watch Netflix and no one would be the wiser.  I can hear you saying to yourself, if only I could spend my day in my jammies watching T.V.  Watch out what you wish for, it might come true.

What does someone do when they are not who they use to be?  I was a wife.  I was a mother.  But that is not who I AM.  In this recent journey I’ve learned I am passionate about so much more.  For the first couple of years of widowhood I uncharacteristically took chances.  If something made my heart go pitter-patter and my stomach do a flip-flop, I was all in.  I volunteered with a homeless outreach group. I sang in a choir, I even participated in a cabaret class. I planned retreats. I took a year long course to become a spiritual director.  I learned to be a circle keeper, honor space and listen with intention.  I threw myself into understanding, on a visceral level, my white privilege, attending copious seminars.  I have a million certificates but no purpose.  I need to DO SOMETHING.  But what?

I feel like I am a personal ad that goes… Single white female.  Master multitasker.  Have held the hands of people bringing life into the world as well as those leaving this world.  Partially responsible for guiding 3 amazing human beings into adulthood.  Passionate about social justice as well as injustice.  Understand the challenge and the beauty of listening and being heard. Ready, willing and able to work tirelessly towards…something.  If this were a TV show this is where the sad saxophone would enter, wah, wah, wah.

I know some might say you should volunteer.  Can I be so bold as to say, I have been there and done that.  I have volunteered my way through so many life stages.  I was a PTA room mom, Women’s Club Vice President, made spaghetti dinners for the high school football team, handed out hygiene kits to homeless and escorted clients through the doors of Planned Parenthood.  Losing your titles in middle age, while you are in that liminal space, means I’m too young to pack it in and too old to change the world…or am I.  Sitting with that idea for a moment leaves me running for my jammies and my iPad.

Starting this blog was my newest risky adventures.  I need to write, but ironically I abhor journaling.  I decided that I’d take a risk.  Maybe there are others who understand the complexity of grief and the double edge sword of a spending your days in your jammies watching Netflix.

Timing is everything.  A dear friend sent me this poem this afternoon, and I hear it calling my name.