Right, so. I’m a 5 on the enneagram. Let’s dive in.

I was thinking today about my enneagram number as I was listening to podcasts to better understand my type, my wing and my subtype … I’m a 5W4 (sexual) for those of you who might know what that means and yes, I’m as bothered by the subtype name as you are. I don’t think I’ll ever shake someones hand and admit that I’m a Sexual Type 5 on the enneagram with a 4 wing. That sounds … off.

I digress, because the reason I was even listening to hours and hours of conversation about this is because tomorrow I’m being interviewed about being a type 5. Which of course means I need to know everything there is to know about it so I can do it justice when asked.

Here’s what I learned and loved: I am very shotgun-shy in conversation because I need more time than most to respond thoughtfully. A Type 5 will often look up or away (or up and away) when asked questions because we’re going through all our mental files, or tabs, to best formulate our response. I do this all.the.time in conversation, and I’m aware of it and very self conscious about it. I do much better with long hand communication. Writing (emails and messages – not over text) because I don’t have expectancy or social pressure to perform.

(Aaron is an 8W7 on the enneagram and one of the things I am constantly impressed with his how fast he is. In response, in conversation, in mental capacity. He’s like the roadrunner. When I’m in a healthy mental space and have habits of rest in my life – I operate like an 8, I can be very quick in all the same ways, but this is something I’m always in awe of about Aaron.)

I’m almost 50/50 with my Type 5 and Type 4 but I dominate in the 5 space because of the beliefs as a child (fear of being incompetent, called stupid etc.) which I live with to this day. This is my biggest fear and her cousin is abandonment (which is the 4 fear).

I’m a very private person, so this space on the internet has always confounded people. However, I’m always alone when I’m writing. It’s just me and my keyboard – this is the most free place for me. It’s how I process, how I feel, how I know my emotions are real.

Like most Type 5’s; I don’t ask for help because being self sufficient is a core value of mine. I do not need anyone else, I will carry myself and I will be autonomous.

I’m not a negative person, by nature, I’m a cautious one who has learned how to say yes and wants adventure. But I always start with the negative. You want a memory of mine? Here are the bad ones … we have to unearth this before I can understand the good ones. There is such a ying and yang in me that I don’t know how else to put this: I do not experience joy without knowing true sorrow.

It’s not a rule I was taught, not something that was modeled for me. It’s not a belief I developed, it just is. This is just the process for me. I will get to the joy – and there is so much joy – but first I have to see the underbelly. I have to know WHY there’s joy. I have to see her receipts.

I’ve really struggled with the enneagram, am I a 4? Am I a seven? I wouldn’t describe myself as anxious, but thats only because I’ve been this way my entire life – I don’t know another way. So, am I a 6? I’m well prepared for almost everything. But I don’t do the avarice with information like all the material talks about for a 5. I have areas of interest that I understand many facets of, but I want to share those things, not keep them to myself.

If I do hoard – it’s resources, mainly my time. I am very, very picky with how I spend my time, with few exceptions. My family (Aaron and my kids) have full access to me, all the time. They are where I spend my energy first, even if I’m already on reserve. They get to bankrupt me (and, honestly, they often do) but this is my gift to them. I will give them all of me, even when nothing is left. They get me first.

I hoard ideas and secrets, but not the ones you trust me with. More like – the end of this street is the most peaceful view of Lake Michigan. I won’t advertise this (or I’ll delete it soon after if I do) because those nuggets are mine.

Because I’m so comfortable being alone, being silent, being with myself … I don’t waste a lot of time thinking about what other people think of me. Do I want to be liked? Yes. Do I want to be invited? Of course I do. But without invitation, I’m already happy with myself.

Like most 5’s, I’m different in that I am social, or when I am comfortable with you – I share easily. I WANT to be known but I will not advertise this. I’ve shared very sacred parts of my story with a lot of people – but the ticket is that I was the one sharing it. If you hear my story second hand and then come to me for confirmation, fuck off.

I am not here to serve as your ATM of information on my life nor will I be the access you desire to your own thoughts and feelings. I have exercised my capacity in this way for many relationships and they always end. Some end badly, others just end. Either way, they end. Because I can’t see my way out of being someone else’s access to themselves, or myself … and I don’t have the capacity to carry anyone but myself. (Exception is my own family, who again, breaks all the rules and is allowed to.)

My pet peeves are incompetence or people who waste my time. I know this is starting to sound very 5-ish and I own this part of me. I am not down with surprises, the worst thing you could do to me is invite me to do something and then hours before said event surprise me with new details or other people. I need (and I’m serious) all the information first. Who’s going to be there? Is this a group thing, just you and I? Will I be expected to perform?

I prefer one on one conversations or very small, previously agreed upon gatherings. I can, and have, stepped in to leadership roles but I much prefer pulling the strings behind the curtain. I will prop you up to do your best and if you could just whisper how much you appreciate me, that’ll do.

I read all the time. I consume a shitton of information but I have access to my feelings about it. I’m generally being an anthropologist on my own experience and welcome conversation about it. I’m constantly confused about people who don’t choose authenticity.

Watching movies and listening to music are the number one ways to get me to unleash the emotions I’m working hard to avoid, this is why I prefer documentaries or, unless I’m well rested, cannot handle live shows of any kind. Dance, especially. I am 100% emotional and all it takes to unlock me is someone on a stage doing what they were made to do. I am undone at this. This is the ultimate beauty for me.

I’m not divorced from my body, like most 5’s. In fact, being Type 1 Diabetic doesn’t lend me this escape, I am constantly thinking about my body. But if I could see her through another lens, maybe? Ask her what she needs or how she wants to move, instead of performing the task of taking care of her? I could move from my head to my heart about her … and this is the work I’m currently doing.

Are you new to the enneagram? Do you know your number?? I’d love to hear from fellow 5’s! Are you out there?

Here’s to life

Today marks the 15th year since my dad died. He had lung cancer, diagnosed about 17 months before the cancer took his life. In those 17 months of knowing he was going to die, he really lived.

Number ONE!

And so did I. I got engaged just before his diagnosis, then married, and when he died, I was pregnant with our first child, a daughter. We had just found out she was a girl, it was one of the last lucid conversations I had with him. Told him I was having a baby girl, what we planned to name her (at the time, which isn’t her name now). He was in his hospital bed in the living room next to the windows and all this natural light was flooding the house. Everything was brighter those last few months. I, of course, didn’t live at home anymore, so I was visiting sitting on his bed next to him and we watched the ultrasound video together. We both cried. I knew the hardest ending of my life was coming and in the midst of it, the very best beginning was already on her way.

Four and half months after he died, I gave birth in the middle of the night. There was almost no light in the room. I wore my dad’s watch and my mom was in the room with us. She came out perfect and I later learned the cord was wrapped around her neck. In those moments I didn’t know how serious it was that she get out NOW, my doctors were patient and careful with me. Everyone in the room knew why it felt heavy … and then all of a sudden she cried. My mom was crying, Aaron was crying, my breath was taken away, she was here! She was here. She was finally here, with me.

Jessica meets Pappy

Those first few months and years are really blurry in love and pain. Grief is a weird salve, life is often a great distraction. But I can’t help but wonder if in those four and half months after he died and my daughter was still in the womb, did they know each other? I know how that sounds, and it’s ok. I’ve made peace with where my grief goes sometimes. But she’s always known who Pappy is. She has always known her grandpa. As a very little girl, she would have dreams about him. I used to think it was because we kept him alive for so long, in memory. We would talk about him and tell her stories and remember what it was like when he was with us. But then, 3 1/2 years later our son came and he did the same thing.

Some of the most important men in my life

Life hasn’t turned out how I thought it would when he was still walking the earth with us to listen to my hopes and dreams. In a lot of ways, it’s better, in other ways, it’s just different. New, undiscovered. Things I hadn’t even known I could hope or dream for are now my life and I credit most of that awareness to the time spent with him. To being a student of his life. Watching him love, and hunger for living.

He was well enough to walk me down the aisle on my wedding day, with my birth-father. I had both of my dad’s flank me as I walked towards Aaron on a beautiful August afternoon.

Given away

364 days later he died.

That was 5,478 days ago.

I’ve missed him every single one.

But here’s to life: to learning how to live with no regrets, how to be generous in our love, time and efforts and to always picking up the check. To letting the people you love know, often, how much they mean to you. To chasing every dead end road we can find. To doing the weird thing, like packing it in to a motor home or camper for 6 weeks and traveling the country. Why? The answer is always, always: Why not?

Why not live this messy life wild? Why not capture each emotion on a mountain top? Why not take hundreds of photographs that maybe only ever take your own breath away, but make you remember what it’s like to be breathless? Why not say yes? Why not say no? Why not?

In the fifteen years of time passed since Wayne walked here with us – my grief rounded her edges, my writing found a rhythm, my heart softened towards love, and my regrets and mistakes that held me hostage have lost their teeth.

Now instead of being sad that he isn’t here, I am so, so thankful that he WAS at all. Whatever he was for me, I started to wonder what I was, we were, for him. And I have so much happiness in knowing that we were actually everything.

We sure were lucky to have him, but he left totally fulfilled. Maybe early, but ready.

And damn it, if there was ever a way to go. That’s it.

My dad and I

How to feel softer

The amount of posts I’ve started writing during a storm are probably outnumbered by any other criteria for this space. We are experiencing a good ol’ fashion cleanse from the Winter here in West Michigan, right now. This minute. The skies opened with a crack and she has been pouring it on us for minutes. Which, when you’re still enough, feels like hours.

And. It. Is. Glorious.

I have my “Hallelujah” playlist on Spotify playing in the background. Ok, the foreground. Because it’s LOUD. The rain is the staccato behind everything else.

I can’t tell you why I love the rain so much. I always have. I remember the smell of the rain in Nigeria and the dust rising as it pounded the earth right outside of our screened porch. Everything got dirty, which was funny, because rain usually cleans things off. But in Africa – everything is dirt and dry and still. Until it rains. And then everything is sprayed in the evidence that the earth can still give birth.

So, hi. It’s been awhile since I’ve ripped off a bandaid and bled here. Not that this is what I do here, on the regular. But I miss having a space to chronicle parts of my life I want to remember. The gritty, the dirty, the salvation of it all. I want to see pools of blood to recognize where the healing came from.

Parenting is a constant in my life. We’re raising kids and we went from the Easter-Basket phase to the Barf-On-The-Side-Of-The-Road phase. We are constantly hungover from parenting.

It’s still sublime, I’m obsessed with my kids. I love them so much, it actually hurts. But also? I lose my religion on the daily. I wonder if we’ve done everything wrong, often. I fret over things that are not actually connected to me, but because my kid(s) are experiencing it – I do too. I continue to have weird correlations with their ages, although less and less with such a force of personal reconciliation and more, now, with a reckoning of understanding that I was not ever, nor was I ever going to be, prepared for this.

Sometimes Aaron and I will think back to when we were first married and we just laugh. I had nieces and nephews, I was an avid babysitter and caregiver. We had our shit together, or so we thought. And then we had our own kids – and it’s adorable, really. I’m so glad we were so blind about it, to be completely honest. How pure and unfretted and rare it was to walk into being a mother without fear. It was everything I ever wanted. To be pregnant and have babies and raise a family. God. Yes.

Still is.

Is it harder now because it’s almost over? Because I don’t know who I am, without them, any more? Because I can see down the road and the next exit is college? I know where this is going. They are going to grow up and our of my house. Out of my immediate care. She is going to fall in love and he is going to run so fast towards his goals we won’t know he left until he’s already out the door. They’re going to leave.

I want them to. They need to. This is healthy. This is what we want, what we’re working towards. And they can always come back, oh I hope they come back. But they’re going to leave. They will outgrow this house and our traditions and memories and they’ll brave a new trail and make their own paths and I’ll be the first one on the sidelines to cheer my fool-head off at them. I can’t wait.

It’s going to be so good.

It is.

But it’s going to be so soon. And I’m a mess about it. It’s not over yet and I’m mourning the end. It has been the most delight I’ve ever experienced in all of my life, to be a mother. Their mother.

I wonder if we’ll remember the smell of this rain. How it baptized me from everything still and dry and dirty and left the evidence all over my life that I gave birth …

to them.

Mothers Day 2008

As I end this post the song ‘I Get To Love You‘ by Ruelle is playing, and it’s everything.

xoxo

When the leaves start to turn

Here’s how I want to talk about things from now on:

Like we mean it.

Like there’s something bubbling on the stove, resting in the oven, growing in the garden. Like we have purpose and patience. I want to hear you cry after you’ve burst yourself wide open in laughter, I want to see you savor what it feels like to hear the waves.

I want to be a people who gather when there’s a harvest and sit when there’s a wake. Fall does this to me, so does rain. When my little charges scatter and it’s down to me and the pantry and the bruised pages of my favorite cookbooks, and coffee. I want so much more for you and me, for us. To be together, but like, really together. I want to get drunk on knowing this will never end.

Weekend up north with Penelope

Homemade donuts

Night 1, Day 2 of Summer Road Trip West

Randomly stopping on the side of the road to photograph fields of kale 👌#jodiandpenroadtrip

Pan-fried Polenta with runny eggs and tomato jam.

Deep Lake Campground

Weekend up north with Penelope

Platte River Campground, Fall 2016

In the middle of Target

I have vivid dreams at night and almost daily I end up telling Aaron, at one point or another, “I had the weirdest dream last night.”

It’s kind of expected at this point, it happens so often. Yesterday my dream was that I finally put my foot down and we had 3 more kids. He waited about 12 hours before he gingerly asked me, so … is that what you’re doing? Putting your foot down?

I howled. But then for a hot second I wavered. And then quickly rounded out to: um, no. It took me a long time to be ok with being done having kids. You might remember the vasectomy story I told here years ago, but what I didn’t tell you is that in the middle of all of that, I was being diagnosed with type 1 diabetes and my endocrinologist told me not to have any more babies. I needed to be done, it wasn’t safe for me any more. Being on the way to that decision on your own is one thing, being told to finalize it and it was over, period, is a much different thing.

Mourning the motherhood stage of newborns was a weird and awfully long season for me. As friends continued to have babies we would go back to the drawing board and ask ourselves (and my doctors, repeatedly) if it was ok, now? Could we do this, again, now? We had some hopeful answers along the way but they all ended with “high risk pregnancy” no matter what.

Clearly, we haven’t gone that route. When our youngest went to school my ovaries were white hot with wonder, I wasn’t ready to be done. I wanted more. When our oldest entered middle school, I freaked out and prayed for a miracle. Maybe I could just get better?

Each stage has brought it’s own bittersweet beginning and a very definite ending. And the white hot need is gone, the fever has passed. We now own furniture that will last beyond spit up, walkers, crayons and food stains. We’ve leaped to the other side, which has never been more apparent than on my trips to Target this week.

I can walk into a store and tell my children to meet me somewhere in 15 minutes. They are earning their own money, making (laborious) decisions about how and what to spend it on, and they are stewarding their small wages on their own. Learning. I don’t need to hover. If they spend $6 on something that breaks, they learn that waiting for something is always more satisfying than impulse buying, and they’re out their hard-earned cash. Which we talk about in terms of how long it takes to earn it. So a remote control toy might cost $50 but to our son, that’s mowing the lawn 7 times.

But that’s not the point here, while I was walking around Target giving my kids the time it takes to ponder and decide over something magnificent … all I heard was crying.

Other peoples children were throwing fits, mothers were often just deaf to it – because, sanity, but I had a flashback to being in their shoes. I hated going to stores when my kids were little like that, especially if we were primed for a meltdown. Around lunch or nap time or just before dinner. I don’t have to think about those things anymore. We go to the store whenever we need to, no big deal.

And it got me thinking about allllllll of this. Mourning the stages, but also being so grateful to be over some of those insurmountable humps. My kids throw tantrums still, don’t get me wrong, just not in public. And when they’re being unreasonable I can actually reason with them and tell them to knock it off or we can have a conversation and decide together.

I walked around Target listening to all the complaining of other kids, the crying from the toddlers, the whining from the not-quite-big kids and I listened to the moms, out of their minds. They just needed a shower curtain, or a birthday gift, or the happiness of Target to get them through their day. They just needed a break. To put their kid in cart and wander the aisles of a place they don’t have to clean, where problems don’t pop out of the leaky faucet and you can stand still in a row of pretty lamps.

The standing still, you guys. The not being needed because your kid is otherwise engaged (trapped in a cart) possibly with a small screen and you can use your brain to look at something other than the wall at home.

I remembered.

I remember.

Summer is a weird time no matter the age of your kids, I’m learning. Or is it just different as they get older? But still heavy handed on the needs? I’m still deciding.

What really hit me was realizing I had moved passed something.

And being ok with knowing it was over, and excited for the next part.