Until I Am Jane Again

Until I Am Jane Again

It’s morning. Smoke from distant fires turns the sunrise red. Standing quietly in the doorway, I can hear the donkeys’ soft, rhythmic breathing: hum on the inhale, puff on the exhale.

Even though I've been up for an hour my eyelids are heavy and if I’m not careful I may topple over.

The flock inside the Duck Hall has registered my presence. I’m listening so intently to their sounds that I’m startled when my eyes close.

Moving into the new day requires much more effort than listening to the rise and fall of Diego and Carlos’s breath, or the shuffle of feathers and low squawks from the ducks and geese. I feel uninspired—as hazy and thick as the morning air.

Making tea, I try to understand: Did I start to feel like this after my granddaughter’s sudden death in June? Or earlier, while helping Dane get back on his feet after life-threatening heart issues? Was it the positive Lyme diagnosis? Or the sudden shift from being Dane’s everyday caregiver once he was able to live on his own again?

Doesn’t matter. Bottom line, I’m not feeling like myself. Normally I’d hit the ground running the minute my eyes open. Often Dane used to have to gently ask me to rein myself in. If I felt him turn during the night, I took it as an invitation to start a conversation, with either a philosophical question or an enthusiastic stream of what the next day might bring: “Let’s eat breakfast out, then take the dogs on a long walk. We could check out Nelson’s afterward and get what we need for the fence, then go to Festival in La Crosse and load up on our weekly groceries. Would you want to eat dinner on the bistro, then head into town for the music?”

Dane would twitch in frustration, longing to just go back to sleep. Eventually, I learned to control my active mind—and mouth—until he’d at least had a cup of coffee. But nowadays I seem out of control in a different way.

I move like a sloth. Instead of taking joy in healthy meals, I’ve snacked on convenience foods—think fried chicken followed by chugging a bottle of chocolate milk—on the way to my daughter’s in Milwaukee and back home again.

I no longer feel like socializing, a stark contrast from days when I’ve been asked to move up in line after holding back the flow because I was busy sharing a story. And while I’d never be accused of being Little Ms. Organizer, these days it seems impossible for me to put things away properly. Only yesterday, the birdseed for Benny and Jo-Jo turned up in the freezer, and the scissors were lying on top of the back stove burner. I felt a rush of relief when I realized the stove was turned off.

I’ll have a test in December for my ACE (American Council of Exercise) recertification, but I’m not studying the way know I should be. Worse, I’m not even reading for fun.

This is me out of control. I can’t seem to gather together (or find where I put) my life.

So I asked myself, What’s up, Jane? What’s really going on for you? Then I listened without interrupting, reflected on what I said—and decided to give myself grace.

I replied to grieving Jane: It’s okay not to feel like yourself. It’s okay to eat crappy food, to not be in the woods as often as usual, and to leave your desk a mess. It’s okay to skip that party, and even to go down a different aisle at the store to avoid a conversation. It’s okay to take a break from reading the books you once enjoyed, and it’s going to have to be okay that you’re not studying.

I’ve decided to relax my expectations of myself.

Maybe this is my way of regaining control: by deciding what I can and can’t handle—by not doing, not going, not achieving, and instead just sitting. And thinking. And writing. And wishing.

Maybe that’s enough for now.

What are you doing today, Jane?

Practicing grace.

What are you doing tomorrow?

Same thing. Practicing grace, taking long naps, snuggling with the cats…

But what about your life, your projects, your intentions, Jane?

They can wait until I’m feeling like Jane again.

Meanwhile, what I can do is reach out to my daughter, her husband, my grandson. I can let Dane know how much his presence in my life means to me. I can quietly check in on friends and neighbors.

I’ll keep saying my simple prayer of Thank you. Thank you for this life. Thank you for each breath. Thank you for making me aware that nothing can be taken for granted.

And thank you for letting me hurt and feel pain. Thank you for letting me be human. Otherwise, I’d never have known love.