Clearing Space and Cutting Hair: Letting Go of Stuff in the New Year

I’ve never been fond of having too much stuff—stuff on the walls, on shelves, stored away, in the brain. Traveling and changing residences a lot in my twenties helped to facilitate my love of periodically paring down, because I could not possibly carry that much on my back, transport that much in my car, or find the space to store everything in whatever new space I was about to call home. But when you start living somewhere for a long time, with no plans to move for years or even decades, you have to grab the reins and take charge of this process a bit more, force it to happen, or readily give in if you feel a sudden urge to create change.

Unlike some, I enjoy the process of periodically going through my papers, my clothes, my boxes full of ‘special things’—and now my son’s clothes, books, and toys too-- and figuring out what no longer needs to be kept. Ideally, this kind of organizing can be done while alone, playing music, and at a leisurely pace, with plenty of time to allow the mind to pause and linger over old memories as you make choices about what you can let go of. Otherwise, if you don’t have the right time or space to do this, you might be tempted to just re-stuff jumbled piles into new boxes, afraid that you will make a hasty decision that you will regret.

In any case, I’ve been on a de-cluttering kick this holiday season. I took one of my 2.5 hour breaks one day and attacked my overflowing pile of papers and files on my bookshelf. I three-hole punched and stuck in a folder many pages of writing from the last couple years, and I threw away old drafts of grant applications, outdated insurance forms, and old writing magazines.

I also decided to finally throw away a folder full of rejection slips that I’ve collected for almost fifteen years. You might wonder why I hung onto these slips at all, and I assure you it’s not because I enjoy reinforcing my failures (at least not on a conscious level). No, I’ve kept these slips precisely because I’ve been so convinced of the opposite—that someday I would have such success that I would be able to look back on this folder, perhaps even show it to some of my students pining for instant publication and fame, and say, this is what it takes. You can’t be hurt by rejection, you’ve got to keep writing and learning and getting better. You’ve got to trust deeply in your intrinsic love of the process, in your intrinsic knowledge that this is what you want and need to do with your life—amongst other things, of course. Even writers can’t be writers all the time.

But you know what? That folder was taking up space that I could otherwise give to something else. I’ve barely submitted a piece in the last few years due to a lack of time, but also because I’ve transported my “publishing energy” to this blog. And I’ve said this before-- although my audience from this blog may be relatively small, I still am interacting way more with people who are reading my words than I was before. I have not given up on traditional publishing modes, but I’ve taken a sabbatical from pining for such goals because, a.) Like I said, I don’t have the time right now, and b.) refreshingly, the blog format allows me to let go of my perfectionist tendencies, and instead to just keep writing, as much as I can, and put stuff out there even before my ideas may be fully formed or paragraphs fully edited. Is it my best, most polished or lyrical writing? No. But is this process just as satisfying, albeit different, as it was to labor over essays for months, even years, putting them through rounds of feedback and revision? Yes.

There’s just as much of an ego-tripping danger in holding on to something to prove your worth as there is to holding on to something to prove your lack of worth. It’s really just the inverse of the same impulse. In my stubborn clinging to my own outdated notions of what it means “make it” as a writer, I devalue other crucial layers of my creative self that are evolving every day.  I persist in clinging to notions of "making it" (book contract, career in academia, recognized in literary circles) that I don’t even fully strive for anymore, for the longer certain beliefs have been established within me, the longer they take to dispel. On many levels, I still value more what the outward, linear trajectory of my life story “says about me” versus the inward, cyclical trajectory that I have come to know as the true reflection of the way I learn, grow, and live.

It’s important to say goodbye to things—to people, to homes, to outdated lifestyles, goals, and beliefs—on symbolic outward levels, on levels that we can recognize, in order to help move the stubborn clinging old stuff inside that persists, despite our best intentions. This, to me, is what this season of solstice and darkness and hibernation and reckoning has come to symbolize: saying goodbye and letting go. Shedding old skins, pledging to new ways, marking time with ritual so that our deepest desires and wisdom can sink into our conscious psyche and manifest in our actions that much more.

Although the actual day of winter solstice passed by in our home without even a lit candle or nod of ritual (what can I say? we are tired; the days blend), this season of letting go and inviting change has not escaped me. Not only have I been purging files, but I’ve also been rearranging items on shelves, re-hanging pictures on walls, moving furniture and plants, and getting rid of bags full of old blankets and clothes. My motivation may be practical and aesthetic (our tiny home’s clutter has reached an all-time high, and we are debating how to either create a little zone for Cedar or, more drastically, move our bed into the living room so we can give him the bedroom), but my underlying impulse to clear space and get rid of things has a more primordial drive. As I continue to move furniture and plants, I cannot help but also dust and clean long-neglected corners of the home, corners which I might not see or notice in my every day, but which are there, collecting physical and psychological weight all the same.

I love how small acts like rearranging pictures on the walls and repositioning things on shelves can make a space feel so different. It’s so easy to get stuck in thinking that this one way of arranging things is the best or only way, when in truth there are a multitude of ways in which we can inhabit our space. I have this fantasy of someday taking our family to live abroad for a year and packing up all our stuff in storage—but ironically, a big part of this fantasy involves the process of then coming home again; of how our home will feel new to us, and by extension how we will be freed to recreate our space, and our lives, in a vital way.

The other unexpected change that my husband and I have embarked on this holiday has come in the form of hair. My husband took the biggest leap and cut off his long locks that he has grown out since high school. He’s been considering doing this for some time, but he’s also known that once he does, he may not have long hair again for a long time—or ever. (Who wants to go through the awkward growing out phases at this age?) It helped that his sister, Sarah, is a hair stylist who brought her shears to our Christmas gathering and gave cuts and highlights to just about everyone in the room.

As for me, I got my bangs trimmed and a shorter cut. Then when Sarah asked if I wanted some color, I confessed to my long-harbored desire to do something even more playful. I just am so low-maintenance and frugal that I can’t really justify spending the money nor time involved in re-coloring roots and what not, but now that she was offering, why not, what did I have to lose?

So here I am, feeling trendier than I have in years with my amber-streaked hair that has loads more “dimension” that I never knew was lacking. Change is fun, and even if it’s “just” on the surface, the surface too is a valid part of the equation that helps us stir up our crusty interiors. It’s probably no coincidence that my new haircut is coinciding with a period in my life in which I am gearing up to lead some workshops and be more “out in the world” than I have been since before I got pregnant. And the fact that my husband and I are working to help clear up our living space is no doubt conspiring to make room for new, more conscious ways of being alive together in our home.

Our homes may be the place where we chill out and relax, but they are also the places from which our habits our born. If we live (and work, for some of us) in a space that has not been “updated” in a long time, it follows that it might be that much harder to break into new modes of thinking and seeing. And similarly, if we slouch within messy clothes or stagnant haircuts for too long, this too can affect the way in which we carry ourselves in the world.  

So here’s to clearing space, cutting hair, and letting go. Here’s to asking ourselves not just what we want to do or acquire in the New Year, but also what we want to say goodbye to. After all, if we want to invite something new into our lives, first we need to make the room for it.

The Idea of A Dog

Today, I am sad. We made the decision last week that we cannot keep Fergie. I hesitate to even write these words because it still feels like too sensitive a situation, too new a decision to share with the world. But when it comes down to it, this is what I need to write about-- blog or no blog to report to.

Fergie nipped Cedar. I wasn’t home at the time; my friend was watching Cedar, and I guess he turned away for just a few seconds when it happened. I’m quite certain Cedar must have grabbed at Fergie’s face probably, because he’s done this before. Twice now, Cedar got to Fergie before we had a chance to intervene, and Fergie jumped up and barked which alerted me to the fact that there are limits to her tolerance. Ever since those instances, I’ve been extra vigilant in my supervision of the two of them, but inevitably there are going to be instances where I turn my head or step out of the room-- and in a matter of seconds, something unfortunate can happen.

Cedar is fine—he has a faint small bruise on his forehead, along with two tiny scrapes that you wouldn’t even notice if I didn’t point them out. He cried a bit when it happened, but otherwise doesn’t now seem afraid of Fergie or anything. But Fergie is now, clearly, wary of Cedar. She often gets up and goes elsewhere now when Cedar starts heading towards her. She is nervous around him, and that makes me nervous.

Fergie is not an aggressive dog by any means. But she is a sensitive dog, which can more easily bleed into that territory of fearful. I cringe to think what might happen now that this association with Cedar and pain has been established in her, what might happen if Cedar manages to grab at her face again or even just takes her by surprise. Because of this, Matthew and I feel that we have no choice but to give up Fergie. We can’t afford to take the risk of something like this happening again, or possibly worse. Cedar is so young that he still has another year probably before he can learn to not grab at impulse. And as he learns to walk and run around, his “reign of potential terror” will only get worse before it gets better.

I don’t want Fergie to get a bad rap. She is such an awesome dog, so affectionate and intuitive. She is great with Miles, our cat, and has grown up with a young child in the past, although not as young as Cedar. She definitely needs her exercise, but she is also quite calm and mellow. She likes to go after squirrels, as most dogs do, but relatively speaking she is good about not dashing off after distractions, about sticking close to you when off leash, and about coming back when called. She does pull on the leash, but not terribly bad, and these tendencies certainly could be corrected with a committed dose of training. She is not a barker, although she will bark at other dogs passing by when she is tied up outside. And like I said, she is not aggressive. At the dog park, she will mostly run away from other big dogs and try to play with the little ones, who are often afraid of her, at least initially. And, of course, other people are often afraid of her because she is a big, intimidating Doberman with a metal prong collar. Anyone who takes the time to observe her, however, can see that she is a sweetheart.

But like I said, she is sensitive. And throughout the 4^th of July holiday, Fergie was especially nervous. People started setting off fireworks on Friday, and even a week later, I heard an explosion or two. Of course, Fergie hears them all. And on what level of her being we can only speculate. Like many dogs, she gets shaky and wants to burrow into some dark, enclosed space. In our house, that meant the bedroom, where we temporarily moved her bed and let her lie on our bed when she insisted she wanted to be there. Ever since the 4^th, Fergie has still been a bit nervous. Even the sound of a carboy of beer bubbling in the corner sent her headed to the bedroom. And, perhaps, this made her more jumpy around Cedar, too. I can only speculate.

After Fergie nipped Cedar, my friend put her outside and Fergie’s hunched body and flattened ears showed that she knew she’d done wrong. That night and the next day, she seemed depressed to me, staying on her bed and not coming up to greet me and Cedar in the morning in the way she normally does. I think she has picked up on our feelings. How could she not? Animals are not like humans in the way that we overvalue our eyesight and rational powers at the expense of our intuition, hearing, or ability to pick up on energy. So Fergie undoubtedly has picked up on our sadness, and perhaps the sense that it has something to do with her.

Immediately following the nipping incident I felt a little cold towards her and kept my distance as my instinct to protect and nurture my son above all else surged into the foreground. But I never faulted Fergie, and as I’ve had time to process this whole incident, I’ve felt great surges of love and sadness for her. In a short time (two months), she has bonded with us, and us with her. I know it must be hard to be suddenly moved into a new home, and I feel awful to have to make her go through this process, especially so soon, again. I know it was up to us to make sure that Cedar only touched her gently, no matter how tolerant Fergie may have seemed. I know that many dogs would not tolerate a fraction of what she does. I feel bad that we weren’t more vigilant initially in our supervision of their interactions, but I thought that the little bit of pulling or crawling over her legs or back that slipped through the cracks of supervision would be okay. I do not blame myself, however, for I know I am an observant mother. It’s just unrealistic—not to mention extremely tiring—to stay at Cedar’s side every single second. It defies the point of all the care we take in child-proofing, when the one most important thing to supervise with your child is un-childproofable—short of putting Fergie outside.

I feel like this sadness is going to keep sinking in, in layers, and it will be a while, perhaps not until Fergie has been gone for many days, until I will be able to name what those layers are. Yes, I did go through a period during the first month of adopting her where I seriously questioned the decision, but ever since I got over that particularly tiring couple of weeks, I have committed myself to her and thought of her as a part of our family. Yes, there were still days when I resented my responsibility of making sure that she got enough exercise, but mostly I enjoyed our walks with the three of us, our own little unit. Yes, there were moments where I got frustrated at how she pulled on the leash or got in the way of the stroller, and vowed that I would take her to a training course, but mostly, we walked together fine. She waited patiently when I tied her up outside the store or at the park while Cedar swung, and then she’d happily get up and we’d be on our way again, sometimes with her giving Cedar a jovial lick on the face. I have been grateful to be forced to walk so much more, and I think that this added exercise is what has finally helped my ongoing back strain to get better. And in those rare moments when I have a chance to give Fergie some extra affection without Cedar’s needs trumping hers, I’ve felt only love towards this animal, love for her receptive presence, love for her love of us.

Unfortunately, those moments where I’d get to enjoy Fergie and bond with her one on one were all too rare. Cedar was always number one, and she would get whatever I had left over. I admit, it has been tiring caring for a big, sensitive dog, and a mobile, energetic baby/toddler at the same time. Those who cautioned that this might be the case were right. Although I’d committed myself to Fergie and gotten over my thoughts about giving her back, in the back of my mind I still sometimes wondered if it’d been the best decision right now. But never mind that. Matthew loved her, Cedar delighted in her presence, and I grew more attached to her every day. I knew that she would continue to bring our family joy, not to mention that she’d continue to get older and thus need less exercise, and the idea of how bonded we’d all be by the time she got old and grey warmed my heart—the idea of the ever-loyal, ever-happy, family dog.

It was the idea that seduced me in the beginning, and the idea that kept me committed (not to mention a sense of duty). Even within the blur of new parenthood, I was drawn to the knowledge held dormant inside of me ever since I was a child, that it was a joyful experience to bond with a dog. But here it is, one more confession: I know that once I get past this sadness, there will be a small part of me that is also relieved. My life will become simpler, easier again. We will no doubt try again with another dog, maybe a puppy, but not for a couple years at least. I will know better what the responsibility entails and I will make sure then that I am ready, and not acting out of some impulse for change.

I’m not saying that our decision to adopt Fergie was pure impulse. We’d talked about wanting a dog for some time. But we hadn’t talked about it recently, in the midst of raising Cedar. Yet in the end, the idea of getting an adult, yet still youthful, dog in which we knew her history, in which we knew—or thought we knew—how good she was with kids, and in which we knew that she’d been cared for by great people was too tempting. It seemed like the ideal situation. Not a puppy that would require boundless energy, and not a dog from the pound with an unknown past, but a big, gentle, smart, and completely vouched for dog. She sounded perfect. Too good to pass up. A gift from the Universe. A leap of faith.

It is always so disappointing when these leaps don’t turn out the way you hoped for. You want to trust in your decisions, your instincts, your impulses. But you can’t control the outcome, only your reaction to it.

In this case, it’s a no-brainer what we have to do. And I am sad. The good news is that there was another couple (also friends of Fergie’s previous owner) who was interested in adopting her, and they are excited to now give it a try. I really hope that Fergie won’t get shuttled around any more after her next stop. She needs a home where she can get lots affection, lots of exercise and ideally, not have to be tied up when outside (we don’t have a fence, so we kept her on a long lead when we let her out, but she was used to being able to roam freely at her old place). She also needs a home with children who have learned not to grab and pull. And she needs a home where someone needs her as much as she needs them.

Fergie is a dog you can quickly fall in love with-- especially if you don’t have a small child who is competing for every ounce of that love himself. She is the kind of dog who feels deeply present, keenly receptive to every noise, smell, word, or emotion. It is a huge gift to be able to share your life with other animals, not human. But it takes work, and the timing has to be right, and sometimes even when you want it to be right, it isn’t.

On Turning One, Developmental Milestones, Being Proactive and Letting Go

Cedar turned one on Friday, and is on the cusp of so much change. He’s been a bit of a “late bloomer” on a lot of fronts—the most obvious one being the fact that he still has not figured out how to crawl. I didn’t worry about it much for many months since I knew that crawling was not an essential milestone and some babies skip it all together and go straight to walking. But as more time went by and I watched my friends’ babies who were the same age scramble across floors and furniture, I began to worry-- just a little. It wasn’t just that he wasn’t crawling, but he wasn’t moving around much—rolling, lunging, or dragging his body in ways that other non-crawlers nevertheless learn to get around. He abhorred tummy time, and within seconds would usually just sink his face into the carpet, complaining. Mostly, he seemed fairly content to just sit there and stretch his body as far as he could for the toys that were within reach--developing an impressive ability to do the splits. You could see him looking at something and calculating whether it was worth going for, and in many cases he’d decide, nope, too far.

Online one day, I ran across a link to a free developmental screening offered by the local nonprofit Parent Trust. Why not? I thought. Even though people like my mom told me not to worry, Cedar would crawl when he was ready, I knew I would feel better if I was being more proactive. I wanted an expert to tell me not to worry, or to suggest exercises I should do with him. I’d tried for months placing tantalizing objects like the remote control or other things he wanted but wasn’t allowed to have just out of his reach, then putting him on his tummy and encouraging him to come get it. This occasionally motivated him sufficiently to inch forward a tiny bit, but almost always ended in cries of frustration.

I’m really glad I went to the screening. We sat on the floor in a room full of toys with a woman for an hour and I answered questions about what Cedar could and couldn’t do, while we observed him play. The screening confirmed what I suspected—Cedar was right on target with everything, with the exception of gross motor skills. It wasn’t so much the actual not crawling that was significant, but more that he figure out how to move his body around and get places and things by himself. Cedar had rolled over more or less “on time,” but he rarely did it. Cedar had also not figured out to sit up from a lying down position. He could hold his weight just fine when I helped him stand on his legs, and he was getting more and more balanced while standing against a couch, but he was still pretty far from being able to scoot himself around by himself while holding on to furniture. He was probably most active when he was pulling himself up onto my body, but he still often favored his tiptoes instead of standing flat-footed.

The woman didn’t raise any alarm bells with me, but she did encourage me to start giving him more tummy time—perhaps more often, but for shorter periods. We needed to see how much of his not crawling had to do with the fact that he didn’t have enough practice and motivation, or, if he still didn’t progress in the next month (he was eleven months when I brought him in), then I might want to look into whether he had weak muscle tone. Also, she encouraged me to give him plenty of opportunities to practice standing, for instance by putting toys on the couch for him to reach for and play with while standing up.  

I’d done this before, but now I was definitely more motivated because I had concrete suggestions, perspective, and accountability to someone whom I trusted and liked. It just was that much more on my radar to make sure Cedar got more than just one token attempt at tummy time a day.

It’s been amazing to watch how much he has now learned and explored in just a few short weeks. I don’t know how much of this had to do with my efforts, and how much coincided with the timing and the fact that he was just ready, but it didn’t take long for him to get more tolerant of hanging out on his tummy (reading to him in that position worked well since he loves books), even if he still was far from crawling. And then one day he figured out how to push himself up back onto his knees and then awkwardly get his legs out from under him back into his favored triangle-leg sitting position. This was huge! Once he practiced this a few more times and mastered it, then being put on his tummy was no longer a big deal since he could easily push himself back up. Granted, this means he is still not increasing his tummy time, but what he has been doing is lunging for things, falling onto his tummy, then sitting back up. Or else he’ll use one leg to scoot himself around on his bottom. I can still get away with plopping him down with some books on the floor and going into the other room for a minute (max), but on the contrary, I am getting more cautious about leaving him in the middle of our king-sized bed for even a few seconds (especially if our cat, Miles, is lying there, for Miles is one “forbidden to grab object” that Cedar will not hesitate to lunge towards). While it’s been kind of nice to have been able to delay worrying about childproofing (especially our bed, which we all sleep on and which we’ll have to change to just a mattress on the floor really soon), this is not something that I have wanted to brag about.

Although Cedar still lags behind many of his peers who mastered crawling long ago and are well on their way to walking, I know that there is a big range in which babies hit their milestones and now that he’s made so much progress in just a few weeks, I feel reaffirmed not to worry. I also know better than to blame myself or worry that I created his lack of motivation to move because I “carry him too much” or bring toys to his side. Surely giving him more tummy time helped, but I also think that the main factor in how kids develop has to do with their innate personalities and bodies. Cedar has never liked to be laid down for long (perhaps partly due to his frequent early discomfort from gas?), and so I’ve held him all the more. Cedar has also always been a watchful baby, content to sit back and take things in as opposed to a baby who impulsively lunges and grabs for things. He loves books and is content to sit there flipping through one after another on his own. He alternates between being quiet and serious, and being loud and talkative. I continue to be astounded by how fast he recognizes new songs and words.

Even though Cedar will probably be a late walker too, I am nevertheless beginning to see the toddler in him emerging. This is both exciting and a bit scary (can you say, hello temper tantrums and stubborn will?). Although he has yet to utter his first words beyond mama and dada (and perhaps a few others I can’t be sure of), I can tell he understands so much more than I realize. I ask, “Do you want to read a story?” and his eyes flash up to the bookshelf by the bed. “How about ‘Mud’?” I’ll say, and he’ll smile and pant and wave his arms excitedly. In response to other questions he’ll answer simply by uttering the all-purpose affirmative syllable, “Na.” I feel like I can now have a call and response conversation with him, and I witness more and more of his distinct little person every day. What happened to my baby? He’s still there. But so now is the vision of a growing, opinionated child.

Case in point: just yesterday I registered him for a toddler co-op preschool starting in the fall. It will only be once a week for a couple hours and I will be there with him (unless it’s one of the alternating where I’ll spend an hour in the ‘parent education’ group), yet still, it is a bit mind boggling to already be signing him up for something called school! It’s exciting to think of all the books, animals, songs, games, train tracks, jungle gyms, circle times, dancing, painting, cooking, and sensory projects to introduce him to in the years to come (hello nascent preschool teacher inside!—yes, I’ve worked part-time in preschools since high school, and I probably still would if they didn’t pay so little). At the same time, I also keep reminding myself to imprint the image of him now, as a baby, in my mind. Imprint, imprint, imprint. For it won’t be long before I’ll look back on pictures of today and say, “Look how little he was!” instead of bemoaning how BIG he’s gotten, and how much carrying him around is killing my back.

Other recent changes for Cedar include finally waving bye bye, finally cutting his first tooth at eleven months, and just in the last week or so—rolling around or outright sitting up as I nurse him to sleep in bed (or when he wakes up later on). Part of this has to do with the fact that we finally stopped swaddling him at eleven months (I asked the popular Seattle nurse and educator Anne Kepler what she thought about us still swaddling, and she said if it was still working for us no reason to stop swaddling before he’s a year or so). The transition went just fine, although I fear the day when he outright protests going to sleep AND we can’t just confine him in a crib and walk away since we don’t use a crib. (Cross that bridge when we get there). For now, I am grateful that he goes to sleep mostly without protest and sleeps pretty well at night (without flailing all over the place) by my side.

I’m supposed to schedule another appointment with the developmental screening lady soon to check in, but I don’t feel a pressing need to now that Cedar’s made so much progress. I think I still will however, because I enjoyed having a knowledgeable and concerned woman to talk to at length about my son’s growth, especially when my visits with Cedar’s doctor at Group Health are so hurried and short.  The screening also helped put on the radar for me other developmental skills to look out for in the coming months and gave me ideas for activities to do with Cedar to help encourage them. Any Washington state resident can schedule one if your child is between the ages of one month and five and a half years.

I do not aspire to be the kind of mother who is obsessed with developmental milestones or to be constantly comparing my child to the children of others, but I admit, it’s hard not to enter the comparison game, especially when I know so many parents of children who were born within a month of Cedar since we were all in the same PEPS group. I suspect we all do it, whether we are aware of it or not. It doesn’t just happen when our children can’t do something that others can. It also happens in the natural bubbles of pride that swell when our child does do something new that seems fairly advanced. But it’s so important to keep all of this developmental milestone and comparison business in perspective. Watch, take notice, celebrate, and talk to others about your concerns. Try not to worry or jump to conclusions, but also be proactive and look into it. I know this can sound contradictory, but for me, I worry more if I try to corral off my worries into a little corner of my mind that I don’t want to look too hard at. I feel better if I investigate my small seeds of concern, and take conscious actions. That way I can know that I’ve done what I can do, which makes the more important and difficult act of letting go that much easier.