In it Paul captured the calm before a tumultuous storm. The moment quickly unraveled into my family at its worst. Frustration, misaligned expectations, and indifference made way for teasing and taunting that led to colorful gestures and name calling that exploded into childish reactions and fighting words that commanded the attention of families, dog walkers, and onlookers on the beach below us. A day later—even though our gigantic Christmas tree now twinkles with anticipation of the season—the tension in my home still feels gravid and thick.
Maya (14) is a few months into high school, more passionate than ever about volleyball, and is in her room either sleeping, on her phone, pining for her next big adventure, or some combination of all three. Cole (13), nearing the end of middle school, remains fiery and fiercely loyal to his friends and teammates. When Fridays roll around, he can be found (heard) playing Fortnite. Paul (44) is laser focused on buying, selling, and making connections. Several times each day he drops to the floor to do push ups. And on most days, I (42) sit, run, work, read, clean, rinse, and repeat.
Twenty eighteen was full. I remember sequential Sunday afternoons last January, when Paul and I covered a 4 ft x 8 ft whiteboard with our goals and intentions for the New Year; we left it up in our bedroom until spring. Seventeen years after we exchanged our own vows, we watched the first of our friends’ children get married, and we reconnected with old friends. This summer I finished my editing program at UW, we spent afternoons in a boat on a lake, the kiddos went to camp, we ventured down and back up the Pacific Coast in our RV, Bruce, and we spent quality time with more family and friends throughout the summer and well into the fall. Last month we grieved news of tragedy and disaster that struck close to home, and we returned to the Dominican Republic to give thanks with friends we love like family.
In my journal, I keep a gratitude list filled with pages of the little things: coconut water with lime, showtunes, yoga, a blue sky, an audiobook, a rice pillow named Kevin, a two-hour conversation on a park bench with a stranger... After a weekend when it felt easier to disengage and stay busy—during a season when screens and streaks are far more compelling than family and when loved ones are at the center of headlines—the little things feel monumental. A 24-hour midweek adventure to Portland with Cole, a midday phone call from PT just because, eleven years of Nutcracker with Maya, another day, another letter…
The truth—I miss the years when we had fewer screens and walls between us, and we spent more time in the same room. My kiddos sometimes say (and text) tacky and hurtful things, and my husband and I both love and disappoint one another. Arguably one of the top three conversations I had this year was with that perfect stranger. And meditation and prayer have become lifelines. I’m unsure how to live the best version of this life, but we’re here, and our tale continues.
Most writers would agree that every story worth telling needs color and a little tension. So—yeah.
With love and best wishes for lots of the little things in the New Year,
Abi, Paul, Maya, and Cole
