Both/and now.
Today in lake, strength training in the apocalpyse edition.
Dear Fluxlandish Friends,
It’s been a while. I’d apologize for not writing, but I’ve been busy gathering my shards. Substack felt like an “extra,” and I didn’t feel like it was a choice. But I’m here now.
In July, I accepted a new job serving as Director of Community Engagement for a community that’s close to my heart. The details feel less important to share than the fact that I’m there. It feels like yet another career reinvention for me in some ways, yet it also feels like the place I’ve been meant to land at all along.
Earlier this year, my former speaking agent gifted me a book by her current client, psychologist Maria Sirios, titled A Short Course in Happiness After Loss (and Other Dark, Difficult Times). Between reading that and The Amen Effect: Ancient Wisdom to Mend Our Broken Hearts and World by Sharon Brous, and writing two new essays that have helped me process hard things I’ve lived through, I’m beginning to re-emerge.
Of course, I don’t want to say that too loud, for fear of jinxing things. I have cosmic PTSD, and the world is on fire. But I’m starting to strengthen that muscle that allows you to say: both and.
The world sucks, and it is beautiful.
I am terrified, and I am fortified.
My twins started their sophomore year of high school this week. They are driving (talk about terrified) and it’s exhilarating to watch their independence unfold.
My father turns 86 next month. Though frailer, he is thriving inside.
My husband and I just celebrated our 17th anniversary. We decided there would be an 18th.
My manuscript is out on submission, thanks to my brilliant agent, who has bravely partnered with me to bring it out into the light. It’s the story of a midlife woman, daughter, wife, mother, and Jew who processes the personal and cultural seismic shifts that break and remake her as she muddles through.
It’s a story of both and.
I’m excited for you to read it . . . someday.
In the meantime, please send good juju. Hold your loved ones close. My husband is carrying his “papers” (his birth certificate). I work at a synagogue and I wear a panic button all day long, on a ribbon around my neck.
I take nothing for granted. I take everything for granted. I know life is precious. I have no idea how precious life is.
I am here. I am here. I am alive.
With so much love,
Deborah