with Karli Larson
The transition from stay-at-home mom to divorced-and-working-full-time mom can be challenging, and sometimes very lonely. Throw in a few cats, an ancient dog and one very brave boyfriend, and life gets downright crazy. Join me as I talk through my thoughts and struggles, my miscalculations and my triumphs. We're in this together, you and I.
When I'm not writing here you can find me over at work on the TisBest Philanthropy blog.
Tectonic plates of past, present and future do the bump-and-grind, and I have to laugh. There is movement, suddenly, beautifully. And in spite of the churning, as my life redefines itself, I feel more anchored, more grounded to my own earth, than I have in a very, very long time.
I just returned from San Diego, a place I’d never felt compelled to visit. But I have friends and family there. I imagined a 40th birthday bonfire on a beach, right by the surf. Did such things exist? Even wondering if I could make such an event happen was forward motion.
One week in San Diego.
More weeks in San Diego?
Three words: I met someone.
I don’t know what to make of this. This is not something I saw coming, not like this.
My birthday week was full of amazing beauty. New experiences. Just when I thought life had finished serving up surprises: a hot-air balloon ride at sunrise on my actual birthday, wine-tasting, parasailing, a tattoo (”forward,” in Icelandic), and—yes—a birthday bonfire, right by the surf, at Ocean Beach. A bouquet of pink and silver balloons tied to a beach volleyball pole alerted guests to our location. Blogger pals old and new, old friends from graduate school, and new friends gathered until 2:30 a.m., to help ring in the second half of my life. Worlds collided. I let them collide, stopped trying to compartmentalize this life of mine, trying to steer it, hard.
I let it steer itself. I let go.
It was beautiful. Faces warmer than the bonfire, smiling through flickering flames, happy for my happiness. S’mores. Burritos. Champagne. Fireworks in the distance, at Sea World. Fantastical. Magic.
I am humbled by this funny life, so full of loss and almost-loss, so full of pain and promise at the same time. I am still grieving what (and the beautiful whom) that came before.
I don’t know what will happen. I won’t guess. Not yet, not here.
But something is happening. Of that, I am certain.
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