This has been a tough year. Today is one year since my mom had her stroke. Thank Gd she has recovered well and is going strong at 90. But she no longer drives, (shh…don’t tell her, it’s a secret…) and I’ve been taking her pretty much everywhere. Doctors, hair salon, library, whatever. I pay her bills, I make appointments, I arrange grocery deliveries. Don’t get me wrong. I am honored to do it for her. She’s my mom. And if you’d checked in with me 6 months ago, I would have puffed out my sizable chest and pooh-poohed any ideas of spreading myself too thin. Camp, school, teaching kids art classes after school, co- president of my sisterhood, the theater company, my jewelry company, my mom! Piece of cake. I. Am. Killing. It. I am killing it, right? Suddenly I am unsure. Due to staff changes, I am no longer sure I will be asked back to camp. I’m unsure whether I’m the right person to be teaching first and second graders art, I am unsure what possessed me to think I had the smarts or the skill set to lead our sisterhood, I’m unsure of my skill as a jeweler, and the one place I always shined, the stage, has become a bit of an unknown. Now I am the first one to admit I am known to spiral. I have embraced many a rabbit hole in my day. Might this be just another one? A brisk, winter doomscrolling through the windmills of my mind? Might an innocent comment from a trusted friend be just that? And not a clear sign that I’m not as good at anything as I once was, and everyone knows it. Could be, I’m unsure. I know that the only person who matters ultimately is me. My value, my worth, my strength, my kindness, my opinions, just me. But me is completely unreliable. Me stays up to late, me is lazy, me is impulsive. Did you know that me just bought an electric guitar? Me cannot make a decision to save her life and me has the attention span of a three year old. Me needs constant validation. Me is basically a big, fat baby. I wish I had more confidence, thicker skin, more certainty of my place in the world, especially after all the years I’ve been on this earth. I’m sure that self-confident, wise woman is in there somewhere. She’s just being held hostage by a gigantic baby.

Works in Progress

http://www.carynjune

This past Yom Kippur, I found myself, at one point looking out at the congregation from the choir, and my eyes landed on a young girl with her parents, maybe 7 or 8, and she had her head down, occupied with something. She was beautiful, which is so not the point, or…maybe it is. What struck me most was that her hair was hella messy, like she just woke up and could not be bothered to deal with it. It did not make her less beautiful in the least, mostly cause she could Not. Care. Less. And I suddenly had this clear memory of me, 12 or 13, in the back of the synagogue on Saturday mornings, head down, sporting a ponytail that hadn’t seen a brush or comb since Gd wore diapers. I’m pretty sure I hated every second of those services, (a whole ‘nother story), I know I didn’t feel pretty. And I cared. A lot. It has taken me decades to figure out 1) I am infinitely more wonderful then I ever believed, especially at 13, 2) I am surprised every day by how wonderful I actually am, and 3) I am very much like a dolphin. Fact. Dolphins have two stomachs. I have two asses. They sleep with half a brain, and one eye open. I sleep with half a brain and one eye open. Dolphins are not fish. I am not a fish. Dolphins are very chatty. I never shut up. Dolphins don’t chew their food. Well, you see where I’m going with this? No. I’m asking. Where the hell am I going with this? Oh, right!

The Dolphin pendant I’ve been wearing. Shameless self-promotion. The blog writes itself, folks. Anyhoo, where was I? Wonderful, wonderful, Dolphins. The point is, if there is one, and really, that is a big if…, that I have found myself in a state of appreciation for all of the things that are mine. Creativity. Empathy. Commitment. Talents. Chins. Asses. Stomachs. Hair that still rarely sees a comb or a brush. And that little girl with her hella messy hair? She ran up to the bima for the children’s blessing, smiling, her step light, already aware of how wonderful she is.

It’s four in the morning and I’ve exhausted every technique for falling asleep. So let me keep you all up too. I recently started seeing a new cardiologist just to have one in my ever-growing arsenal of doctors. I heard her speak at an event about menopause and she recommended I do all the usual tests since it had been some years since my last results. This week I found out that my echocardiogram showed some plaque in my aorta. So she wants me to have a cardiac cat scan. Whaaaat? So immediately I’m googling this s*#t and freaking out and she’s a little concerned cause an echo doesn’t usually show plaque, and it could just be a shadow or maybe it’s a f*^%ing river of plaque waiting to kill me. And so I’m finally scared into eating healthy and getting regular exercise. ‘Course it’s only been like 5 minutes so how regular has it really been? But I stoically pass up ice cream at our sisterhood meeting at a local ice cream place and have an iced coffee instead. But it’s 8:00 at night and why the actual hell do I think that’s a good idea? Spoiler alert. It is not. So, here I am at 4:18 in the morning. Waiting to die. Now the irony of this whole situation is not lost on me. For decades I’ve been eating like I have 2 asses, (TY, Mama Rocco), and wondering what it would take to get me to stop. Possible heart disease? Har har. That’ll do it. And yes, stress and poor sleep are two of the things that affect cholesterol so, heh heh…K, it’s obvious that I have not been taking this aging thing seriously at all. So, yes, things are gonna have to change. And to all my friends and loved ones, I apologize in advance, because at least for a little while, it’s gonna be all about me and my s*#t. I will spill the tea to anyone who’ll listen. But I’m also going to try and not be scared. I mean, for the next hour and twenty-five minutes until I have to get up? Imma be scared. But after that? I’ll still be scared, but that’s ok. As long as the fear spurs strength and maybe a good choice or two? I think my heart will be ok.

Open Heart Pendant

http://www.carynjune.com

Every year of my life, as long as I can remember, I’ve had dinner on Erev Yom Kippur and broken the fast with family or friends or both. This year, my brother was under the weather, my mom doesn’t like to drive at night, my husband works, my sister, cousins, nieces and nephew, far flung, some physically, some by choice. So, for the first time, I think ever, I had dinner on Erev Yom Kippur alone. Not lonely, just alone. I broke the fast alone. Not lonely, just alone. I spent the entire day in between at the synagogue, sitting in on services I had never been in the building for before. I ended up in a healing service I didn’t know I needed. I spent a joyous hour in the children’s service, I got to know, through her parents’ courage, Adi, a young woman who died defending her children on October 7th. Let me just note I had offers for dinner, for the break between services, for breaking the fast. My heart appreciated every offer, knowing I didn’t ever need to be lonely. I declined them all. There was something healing about spending the day with myself. But not lonely, never lonely. Fellow congregants, choir colleagues, cherished clergy, little ones from my ECC class, calling “Ms. Caryn!”, texts from my brother and sister-in-law popping up on my iPad, making me giggle just a little. All around me a community I have come to love. There was a moment in the afternoon, where Rabbi Z gave out group Aliyot according to age and the first group was 65 and older. And as I stood, I got that same small gut punch I get when I check the 64+ box on surveys or questionnaires. How is that possible when just yesterday, my mommy was coming to get us at shul after the morning service before Yizkor? We were kids. We had no need for Yizkor. Just yesterday, my sister and I were sitting up in the balcony during the last few endless moments before sundown, sniffing the gum we had snuck into the synagogue. I had many opportunities to reflect and remember and grieve and sing and to say I’m sorry. There were moments I laughed out loud. Moments I cried. Even a moment I got my feelings hurt, which made me a little mad. And I felt like lashing out. In temple! And then I remembered the offending party is five. And telling them I’m rubber and they’re glue wasn’t the best way to handle things. Healing. It comes from so many directions, so many people, so many places. Ultimately, it comes from within. From a day spent alone. But not lonely.

http://www.carynjune.com

A while back, I made the decision to give up one of my jobs. This was an amazing opportunity to do something wonderful and special and was a perfect fit for me. Except it wasn’t. There is more than one reason at play here and I won’t burden you with any of them. I know I did the right thing for me, and I truly thought I would feel a sense of relief. Not so much. Here’s what I feel: Disappointment, in myself that I wasn’t immediately perfect. Guilt, in letting down my boss who invested a lot in me and my training, Inadequacy, how could I not have been great at this? I should have been f***ing great at this! Sadness, there were times when this truly was a complete and utter joy. So as I’m sitting with all these feelings, searching for the relief that I was hoping for, I see a speck of light here and there. I see the time Y came over after class and sat in my lap. I see the faces of C and O and S as they watch me being silly. I hear a clap, or a la la in the perfect place. I see a smile on a face that for the first couple of days, was covered in tears. And I know that this might have been the perfect fit at the perfect time in my life. That I might have been amazing with a few years of experience. And I also realized that I’m not at that perfect time anymore. I truly believe it is never too late to start something new, and I am living proof of that. I started three new endeavors within the last two years. I’m crushing this stage in my life. But maybe four jobs is one too many. Maybe I am spread a wee bit thin. Maybe I am getting fatter as I spread myself thinner…wait. What were we talking about? Ah, right. So, what’s the point? It’s ok to not be great at everything. It’s ok to step back from something because it’s just not right, right now. It feels crappy, like I failed, like I’m a quitter, blah, blah, blah. Those feelings live rent free in my head at any given time anyway, they just decided to have a little party. And left me to clean up. Why do I always have to clean up? Oh, right, it’s my house.

http://www.carynjune

Hi. How are ya? Been a while, hmmm? Me? Oh, fine. Fine. Living the life. Roof over my head. Friends. Family. Can’t complain. You? Good. Good. Back to me. Lemme preface this with a little backstory. So ya know how I lost like 30 pounds during the pandemic? And kept most of it off for almost three years? Well, last October, my niece, Molly got married. Amazing time in LA. We ate. We drank. We got our hair done. We just fit into the dress we bought in January. We ate some more. And when we got home, I was pleased to see that I hadn’t gained much weight. That is until, for some reason known only to the monkey goblins that live in my head, I decided that the reason that I didn’t gain any weight was because I must be dying. So just to make sure I was not, in fact, dying, I decided to eat whatever I wanted to see if I gained weight. A well-thought out and beautifully executed plan. So successful that I’ve been carrying it out for 10 months and have gained back every pound I ever lost. Good Times. And go ahead, ask me if I’m convinced I’m not dying. Meh. Jury’s still out. And all of a sudden, I’m not just fat. I’m fat with bad knees. I mean, trouble stepping off the curb, “oy, those stairs are a killer”, might need a cane soon, knees. I have managed for all of my over 40 life, to cheat old age. I dress like an overgrown child, I play, I dance, I carry on like a three-year old. And then, wham! Old Age gets pissed and accuses me of hiding cards in my bra! And just like that, I feel old. I waddle just a little due to pain and excess weight, my bunions have bunions, my bathing suit is more a bathing costume my grandma might have worn and the only pictures that hide the ravages of time are of the top of my head. And I’m a little sad. No matter how many funky pairs of overalls and sundresses covered in chickens I buy, I’m getting older. There are things I can do. Lose weight. Physical Therapy. There are still a few Queen of Hearts cards left to play. I just have to distract the monkey goblins long enough to stuff them in my bra.

Ascending Hearts, Sterling Silver and Brass

http://www.carynjune

Somebody said that getting old is not for sissies. They were not lyin’. The creaky joints. The bad knees. The lack of sleep. The gas. Every time someone asks if my mom and I are sisters. I mean WTF? But for me? There is a deeper fear that is really all of my own creating. My mom’s been under the weather for weeks. She’s had a “fever of unknown origin” that no one can seem to figure out, and it’s hard seeing her miserable and frustrated. I’ve tried to be there for her when she needs me. And sometimes that means sacrificing something else. Plans. Commitments. Work. Time with friends. Let me preface all this by saying I am honored to be there for my mom. She’s my mom! But. I have been internalizing the moods, the health, the happiness or despair, the emotional baggage of my loved ones for as long as I can remember. My late ex-husband was an emotional powder keg. He once bit into a bay leaf I accidentally left in a lasagna and didn’t talk to me for three days. Three days of dread and despair. I become unable to compartmentalize the tough times and still live my life. I’m frozen. And not in a “Let it go, let it go…” kinda way. I walk around with a knot in my stomach all the time. I have a ton of amazing things I’m part of right now and I feel like I’m not doing any of them justice. And underneath it all is that little selfish voice whispering, questioning…”How does this affect me!? What about me?” A better person than me might answer back, “it’s only about you in how you can impact someone else, someone who needs you” And I try to be that person. But sometimes I just don’t want to. I want to run away, to hide from all the hard things my loved ones are going through. To only let the good stuff in. I remember when I was little, my mom at some point told me I wasn’t a very nice person. I have long since forgotten what I did or said to warrant that but I haven’t forgotten the feeling it evoked. I hope my mom has changed her mind. I hope I can be the person who will do whatever it takes to make her less sad, less scared even though I’m sad and scared. And I hope I can keep showing up. For my work. For my friends. For my synagogue community. For the loved ones that need me. For myself. Life is always gonna have rough patches. The secret is living that life fully during the whole bumpy, lovely mess.

http://www.carynjune.com

We stir. We wake. We fret. We play. We write. We mourn the things we didn’t do. We envy the things we do not have. We fear the things we cannot see coming. We dry up. We grow up. We move out. We move on. We win. We lose. We laugh. We cry. We give up. We give back. We fight back. We take another step. We eat too much. We walk the extra mile. We make up. We cover up. We open up. We bleed out. We shut down. We open up. We let in. We take another step. We sing. We cherish the breath next to ours. We grieve the empty side of the bed. We take another step. We drink. We medicate. We reach out. We hide out. We make ourselves heard. We listen for clues. We witness. We take someone’s hand. We hold tight. We let go. We take another step. We bear each other’s burdens. We let each other down. We lift each other up. We make mistakes. We make amends. We lose sleep. We waste time. We take turns. We destroy. We create. We win. We lose. We live. We die. We take another step.

http://www.carynjune.com

My hubby and I managed to get through two years without catching Covid-19. Until now. He’s fine, but somewhere in the last couple of days, my luck ran out. Let me just interject here, I’m fine. Feels like a cold, a low grade fever. Thank Goodness, nothing serious. Obviously, I’m quarantined for the next week or so, so I’m pretty much living in the bedroom. It’s day one, and I’m already bored silly. There’s a big difference between having a well-deserved break for vacation or winter break, and being forced to stay home. No. Being forced to stay in one room of your home. It’s a little startling how emotionally icky it feels. Your head knows the fact that people aren’t going to be comfortable around you for a while is nothing personal, but your heart. Totally taking it personally. And me being me, well…do I really need to explain? What if I’m sick for weeks? What if I never get better? What if no one ever feels comfortable around me again? What if I ruin a cast mate’s trip to Disney World? What if everyone is mad at me for getting COVID? Maybe COVID is all my fault! Hey, you don’t have to tell me this is nonsense. I’m not stupid. I’m just a little nuts. And now I’m crazy and contagious. It’s all I can do not to apologize to anyone I’ve ever met for…something. I don’t know! Just hang on a minute, something will come to me! Ok. Deep Breath. It’s all fine. Breathe in. Breathe out. Just not in the direction of anyone else.

http://www.carynjune.com

Life is full of slings and arrows. Today, I found out, quite by accident, that my colleague at work, who was also let go at the start of the pandemic, was hired back in August. Six months. And I had no idea. Let me start by saying, she had been there far longer than me, and had seniority, and I always knew that if and when they hired us back, she would be the first. And let me also add, if I never go back to an office setting, yippee skippy! And my head understands all that, but if I told you my feelings weren’t hurt, I’d be lying. And I’m not sure why. Is it because I’ve spoken with her and my ex-boss, both of whom are good friends, in those six months, and no one said a thing? Is it a personal sling? Is it a “this was a great excuse to let you go” arrow? Or is it simply because it’s become obvious that she wasn’t just the first, she was the only. That there is just no room there for me anymore. And after 10 years no one thought a simple “we’re so sorry, but the business can’t support two of you”, might have been nice. All the secrecy, whether intentional or not, feels a little…crappy. So. I’ve wallowed a little, vented a bit, and shed a few tears, and now it’s time to move on. It feels like I’ve been moving on for two years now and I’m still in the same place. I’m a firm believer in fate and the universe and being in the place your supposed to be, but sometimes that place sucks. I’m 64. I should be thinking about retirement and travel, and freedom. But nope. I’m pondering failure, and struggle and fear. And I wallow, and vent, and cry a little. And I pray. And I thank the universe for all that I do have. And I tell myself that my circumstances don’t dictate my worth. And once in a while, I believe it. There is a reason I am here. There is a purpose I have yet to uncover. And maybe that’s what this time I’ve been blessed with is for, even with the struggle and the fear. My journey continues. It might be like climbing a mountain in high heels, so I guess I’ll kick my shoes off, straighten the lampshade on my head, and keep climbing.