Dear Nigel,
Routines are important.
If I don’t see the blind man in the bucket hat walking with his dog down Laurel Canyon Boulevard on my morning commute, the day is ruined.
Similarly, if I don’t see tanned Mr. Whitsett ambling down the middle of a street and smoking a morning cig, his absence ironically casts a dark shadow on my day.
The quality of my life is determined by my willingness to accept and share my own experiences and vulnerabilities. I try to be as transparent as possible to match the amount of energy and information I’m being given by others, consciously or subconsciously. People are transparent and easily readable. I know it’s a bad idea, but I want to be like regular people.
Take your age and half it. Imagine you’ve been a parent since that age. Since that age, you’ve been Parent #1 with your children. That’s how long I’ve been a mother. Half my age. I’ve raised three children into young adults. I know too much about too many things, Nigel. I’ve been a traditional housewife, the breadwinner, a single mother, a plumber, a baker, I’ve been a candlestick maker.
You have witnessed my guilt if I am out and allow thirty minutes to pass without checking the kids locations on GPS. But that isn’t really parenting. That’s just me being Columbo, with a longer neck and an iPhone.
Here is a note within a letter: Writing the larger truths that I’d like to tell you here would devalue what they mean to me; instead, I am dedicating this paragraph note within the letter as a placeholder for things I’d like to say in person. If you could please, Nigel, remind me of this placeholder paragraph; I haven’t slept well this week, and I’m forgetful.
While we were on the porch yesterday, I silently played with the words I could use to express the way I feel, and even in the gaps between thought and expression, there were none.
I’ll see you later. Here’s to routine.
Wait. I’ve thought of one feeling that is similar, but it won’t help describe anything to you. I was going to say, it’s the feeling of believing Santa Claus was actually in your house.
Mazel,
Jean