In my forty-ninth October I learned my first name is an acronym of my grandmother’s full name. Something I probably knew but forgot I knew. Something about someone I don’t remember, but whose DNA I carried and passed on.

What would we have in common?
What lived experiences did we share?
What else have I forgotten I know?

I quit navel gazing a few years ago in October. Didn’t stop having thoughts, didn’t stop reflecting, didn’t stop evolving. But I lifted my gaze to the horizon when I saw a tiny heartbeat on an ultrasound screen. Looked all the way up when they gently placed eight pounds of pure joy in my arms. Four of my own kids + one grandkid for me to figure out that the joke was on me. It’s all just magic. Pure fucking magic. All of it.

It took forty seven Octobers to stop asking why and start asking how and what if. “Why am I like this,” exchanged for “how can I find peace,” and “how do I want to show up for the people I love,” and “what if I don’t have to figure it out.” I wore myself all the way out and finally gave up. Turns out life brings enough turmoil and chaos all by itself, and I don’t have to lean into it. It’s quieter over here. Calmer. More peaceful.

In forty nine Octobers I’ve made questionable decisions - some objectively bad, some objectively good, some that don’t make sense to anyone but me and some that don’t make sense even to me. What a wild fucking ride. This is a pattern that will likely continue because….well…I don’t really know why. Sometimes I just want to fuck around and find out and you only live once and I like to take the most interesting path. But I am learning to trust my truest, highest self, and when I grow all the way up I want to be that wise old lady who is unpredictable and spontaneous in a safe, healthy, inspiring way - not a destructive one.

Random sad thought: I wonder how many Octobers I neglected to notice the aliveness that accompanies the sting of cold air in my nostrils and lungs. How long I walked around not in my body. How many times I wasn’t captivated by the light reflecting off a wet, freshly fallen leaf. How many Octobers I clenched my fists, complained about the cold, and started resisting everything in anticipation of winter. What a gift it is to feel so alive in a season of death. I want to be largely unbothered by most things - but I especially want to be unbothered by the weather. (I also don’t endure the bitter cold winters of Northwest Indiana anymore, which makes it a little easier to stroll slowly and notice random shit in a very unbothered fashion. And I don't ever want to be unbothered by human suffering or the things that truly matter.)

Language, music, art, energy - these are the only tools we have to try to clobber together some form of a meaningful connection with other people, which is a shame because the human experience is so collaborative and universal. You’d think it would be easier to understand each other. And while I can never truly know what it’s like to be anyone else, and no one can ever know what it’s like to be me, I can hit publish and surrender my random thoughts and ramblings to the universe like a humble and crumpled-up peace offering.

(I don’t know why I stopped writing, but I suspect it has something to do with looking up and living and also life was really crazy for a very long while - like, pretty much the entirety of my adult life. It’s also a really difficult time to be a human living in America, but we’re all in it together and we’ll come out the other side one way or another. But I’ve missed this space and I’ve missed letting words out and maybe it’s not good for me to keep them caged up in my brain. Plus now it’s very quiet and I can spend my evenings and weekends doing whatever I want which is a mixed bag - the grief of it is crushing and it’s also amazing and that’s fine. It can all be true at the same time.)