Christmas last year was painful. No one invited me anywhere. I wound up finding a place to go, but I was a not great fit and it was almost worse than having nowhere to go at all. (Again, PSA – if you know someone whose life changed in 2018, *please* ask if they have somewhere to go for Christmas. Seriously. I’m begging you on their behalf.)

This year? It’s been less painful and more. Like all big losses, there’s the first terrible year, and then, well, there’s the next year.

This year, without school, with a bit more time behind me, I could make plans. A friend and I are swapping stockings, which takes care of the present issue. I ordered Christmas cards with my grad photo and wrote a Christmas letter. I’ve volunteered to host some international students from the University, so I’ll have company and know that someone is less alone. The minion is coming to help me put up my outdoor Christmas lights.  This year I put up both Christmas trees. 

This year I opened the box I store all my ornaments in.

The ones I’ve collected for most of my life. The ones I collected while married. I took a deep breath and told myself it was time. I paused over the ornaments I bought that say “First Christmas”, “First House”. Vacations. Our honeymoon. Tucked them back in the box. I don’t know what to do with them. Something will present itself. 

And at the very end, I grabbed the step stool, stood on the top, reached up and put the star on the top of my tree. 

I’m not back. Not all the way. 

But it’s better. 

I was tidying up at the end of my Brownie meeting when Miss J arrived, rather flustered. “Woolly Owl, I am missing my boots.” 

Step one is usually to go and look with the girl. In doing this, jackets, scarves, craft projects and water bottles miraculously re-appear from their sojourn in a very hidden parallel universe. It’s my super power, really. 

I exercised my superpower. The boots did not appear. 

Mildly perplexed, I asked Miss J to describe her boots. She thought for a few seconds, screwing up her mouth as her hair fell into her face . . . 

“Well“, she said. “There are two of them and they keep my feet warm.” 

After some more discussion, we determined that they were purple, or maybe pink. Possibly two shades of pink? She thought they were sparkly, but maybe that was her other boots? 

A slight bit of further sleuthing located a pair of brown suede-ish boots left behind. Miss J agreed that these were absolutely, completely and utterly not her boots. Those boots were ugly (in truth, they were) and hers were not ugly.  

Alas, this is a winter climate and I am a sensible Owl. I sent her home in those boots, which mostly fit. There were, after all, two of them and they seemed like they would keep her feet warm. 

That was Tuesday. The remainder of my week has been spent attempting to ferret out who owns a pair of brown-ish suede boots and where a pair of missing boots (which could be pink or not pink) might have gone. 

Less Woolly Owl and more Poirot then. 

A while ago I decided that I would say yes to more things. I set a simple rule. I could say no if it was something I hate (I’m not coming to strip your wallpaper), something I wasn’t available for or something that required me to take my clothes off and/or break the law. 

I’m doing this for two reasons – left to my own devices I would moulder alone at home. I’m not the sort of person who tends to get invited to things (I’m not especially fun or witty, which doesn’t help). I also need to meet new friends (who might not mind that I’m not especially fun and might invite me to do things). 

I’ve said yes to a day session about learning to code, I said yes to the Brownies, a theatre board, the symphony, farmers markets and now I’ve agreed to participate in a Christmas cooky exchange.

I am bringing shortbread. I was going to bring homemade butter tarts, but we are only allowed to bring cookies. Fine. Nana’s shortbread. Someone posted they were bringing chocolate chip cookies. Now, I like chocolate chip cookies. But, not exactly festive. Then there was the person who is bringing gluten free peanut butter cookies. I don’t begrudge the gluten free (and I’ll bring her a batch of gf shortbread – it’s easy), but, uhhh, peanut butter? 

Maybe another rule. I think another rule. One that lets me be a bit more tyrannical. 

I owe you my annual post about what I plan to learn this year, for my birthday. This one is going to be a bit different. 

I have been taking yoga again. My balance isn’t as great as it could be. MS probably doesn’t help, but if you know me, you know it was never great. So yoga. 

There’s a moment now – different teacher, different place, different life. There’s a moment when I settle in. Before the class starts, when I sit on my mat, cross my legs, close my eyes and call my self back into my body. 

I’m a head person. I live in my head, I work in my head. As long as I have my head, I have enough to be getting on with.  It’s what makes me resilient. 

And I am resilient. Not the kind that bounces back with a perky smile after a minor set back, the kind that can’t be knocked over, not really. The kind that understands resilient is not about springing back into shape, it’s about being alive enough to spring back into any shape. I’m not memory foam resilient, I’m cockroach resilient. It’s not pretty, but pretty never really mattered much when the game was survival. 

This summer was bad – bad like it hasn’t been in 20 years. This summer was about knuckles – at turns white or bloody. This summer was about survival. This summer was about discovering when you swim out too far past shore; what happens when you swim alone. 

I thought I learned this in 2014, about saving something for myself. I did learn that. What I didn’t learn is to keep my eye on the shore line. You see, I thought that I would always be able to swim back. I rather foolishly thought that there would be someone to throw me a life preserver. There was neither, and I was too far out to shore, drowning, alone. 

The thing about resilience, the cockroach kind, not the foam kind, is that you are willing to do what ever you need to do to survive. In my case, I had to learn the equivalent of floating. This is a bit terrifying, it’s hard to believe that floating alone is much better than drowning alone, although you aren’t dying. 

I survived, as is obvious. I’m not at the shore, but the shore is closer. There’s still more floating than I’d like (because, let’s face it, I’d like none), but I’ve survived. Last year I learned to watch the shore line, because I swim alone. This year? This year I’m just going to keep watching the shore. I’m not going to learn anything.

That’s enough. 

Twice a week, at yoga. Legs crossed. Eyes closed. I call my body back to myself.  

That’s really enough. 

On the day of my 40th birthday, I got up and drank my coffee, opened my birthday cards. I wore a new dress and red lipstick and a beautiful pair of black heels. (I also forgot to pack a pair of flats, which means my feet and I are not currently on speaking terms.)

I got my birthday pumpkin spice latte. With soy. Large. No whip cream.

I got through my rather frustrating meeting, met with Kuri for a coffee and a chat and a very good almond croissant.

I sold the last two boxes of cookies today, which means I have sold 10 cases of Girl Guide cookies. That’s a lot of cookies and mostly equals the overnight trip to the zoo my Brownies and Sparks are looking forward too.

Iron Man and a cute little girl sang me happy birthday in a video and it was the best thing in the entire universe.

I went to dinner with a friend and her children. I teased them about getting enough sleep – telling that their brains and bodies grew while asleep. I laughed when the younger boy asserted that without sleep you’d be short and dumb.

I came home, did a bit of work on a project I’m enjoying, watched the Flash (I’ve become addicted), drank some very good scotch. Replied to a bunch of texts and facebook messages wishing me happy birthday.

It’s the night of my 40th birthday. I’ll crawl into a bath and then into a warm bed with a pink duvet cover and pink sheets. The cats will cuddle. I might bring a mug of Horlicks with me.

On the night of my 40th birthday, I can tell you there was no big magic, just moments of small goodness and joy. That’s magic all the same.