Jane Roper's Blog

I haven’t written in a while. My sincere apologies. I’m sure you’ve been suffering greatly, perhaps to the point of despair, without my words of hilarity and wisdom gracing your inbox.

Why the drought? Well, the truth is I’ve been feeling rather…meh.

If you’re a clinical depression sufferer, as I am, you know that it can be tough at times to tease apart “real” sadness/stress/existential dread and the kind that is a result of your brain chemistry starting to go on the fritz. Add in perimenopausal hormone fluctuations, and who knows what the hell is biological vs. situational?

So, yeah, maybe my low-ish mood is a bit chemically enhanced. But also: I genuinely am feeling sad and discombobulated, adjusting to this empty nest thing. Life just doesn’t feel like a “new normal” yet. I’m sure that having the kids home for the summer in a few weeks will be another whole mindf*ck. That rogue lake, carrying me out and in, out and in.

And it’s not just the kids’ actual physical absence that is throwing me off. It’s the whole fact of no longer being in the parenting children phase of life. Now, I’m in the phase I always thought of as, well, old. I’m my parents now! I make cultural references The Youth of Today don’t get! I put up a bird feeder a couple of weeks ago! A BIRD FEEDER.

So, yeah, I’m kind of….not great.

Therefore I can’t adequately express what a relief and reprieve it was to experience a few days of actual, unadulterated joy this past weekend. Like, blissed out, soul-deep, umami-level-satisfying joy. The kind of joy where you feel a little high even when you’re not.

How did this happen? Well. I went to a reunion of a my college a capella group. Yes, I was an a capella nerd. I sang in the Ephlats—the oldest mixed-gender a capella group at Williams College—my freshman through junior years. It was probably the most treasured aspects of my time in college. (OK, fine, that and meeting my husband.)

Last weekend, a mass quantity of Ephlats—from the octogenarian men of the 1960s who founded the group when the school was men-only, to the collagen-rich current undergrad cohort—descended upon the Purple Valley to sing our throats out. Not sure about the other cohorts, but by Sunday, our 90s gang all sounded like we smoked a pack a day.

In the lead-up to the weekend, I worried that given my iffy emotional state, being back on campus would unleash a flood of unbearable nostalgia and maybe even outright grief. (My youth! Gone forevermore! Alack!)

But no. To my utter delight, all I felt was gratitude for having had the chance to spend four years in such a beautiful place, singing with my fellow nerds. And joy—such total joy to be laughing and singing together with old friends, most of whom I’m not regularly in touch with. Being all together, it was like hardly any time had passed. As long as you didn’t look too closely at our waistlines or hairlines.

We sang a bunch of the old songs we used to sing together (including “Softly,” which had me tearing up on stage), and also learned a new one: The most illustrious member of our squad, Kristen Anderson-Lopez, wrote a little ditty you may have heard of called Let it Go. We sang the crap out of that song.

There’s actually a (social)-scientific explanation for why it all felt so good.

I was an anthropology/sociology major in college, and one of my favorite concepts I encountered was that of “collective effervescence.” The term, coined by Émile Durkheim, refers to that intense, unified, almost euphoric feeling you get when you gather with lots of other people for a shared purpose. You may have experienced it at a concert (I certainly did when I was 15! #BillyJoel4Eva) or a sporting event or a protest.

I definitely got that effervescent feeling when I sang with my fellow ‘phlats this weekend. And I’m pretty sure a lot of them did, too.

I also always feel the effervescence when I watch the Boston Marathon—which happened to take place on Monday, the day after I got back from the reunion.

For the second year in a row, we watched at a gathering hotsted by some friends whose house is right on the marathon route, just before the ten-mile mark. In addition to general cheering and clapping, the sillier attendees among us shout out whatever individual identification people have on their bibs or shirts—their name, their state, their college, their nationality. Canadians get a sung “Oh Canada!” and the French get “Vive La France!” If there’s no visible name or identifying mark, there’s always “Go hot pink shorts person!” or “You got this, tie-dye wig guy!” Sometimes we chant someone’s name (Brett! Brett! Brett! Brett!). Occasionally when we call out someone’s name with extra enthusiam, they slow down, confused, and try to figure out if we’re someone they know. (We’re not. Sorry! Off you go!)

One of the great things about watching the race from these particular friends’ house is that their neighbor sits out on his porch and plays the drums—like, a full-on drum kit—for the entire time. This time, for whatever reason—maybe my leftover effervescence from all the a capella communing—I felt inspired to dance and Rockette-kick to the beat for much of the time we were there. (My poor embarrassed husband. Not only is his wife an a capella freak, but a marathon sidelines dancing weirdo.)

I danced for so long and hard that I racked up more than 8,000 steps. My legs and feet were actually sore the next day, and kind of still are? (I didn’t have the appropriate footwear.) It was great cardio. A few runners suggested I join them. Lots gave me thumbs-ups and claps. A couple stopped briefly to dance with me. Effervescence off the charts, baby!

I wish I could say that the effect of all this joy was permanent; that I am now cured of my lowkey malaise. Alas, sadly, most of the fizz has all fizzled out. BUT! I have the memory of it, which is nice. And I know that there will be other opportunities to experience it again.

It would probably be good for me to seek out those opportunities more actively. It would probably be good for all of us.

Here’s to you, Monsieur Durkheim. (And to Scott, Tom, Andy, Emily, Patty, Jon, Anne Marie, Kristen, Sarah, Sara, Anne, Liz, Nifer, Bob, Marc, Rachel, Phoebe, Nat, Chris, MJ, and Mike.)

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, I’d be deeply grateful if you would consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription. Or, hey, buy my book! Thank you as always for reading. xoxo

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Visit my author website and/or learn about my copywriting, brand strategy, and book coaching services. A gal’s gotta eat.

Back in November, I likened my new, empty-nest phase of life to a lake—a place to stay and explore and enjoy, in contrast to the river I’d been zipping along for the previous decades of my life, always looking forward to the next thing around the bend.

At the time, I was thinking of that metaphorical lake as being something tranquil and beautiful and calm. Not boring, mind you; why, there was talk a of a pontoon party boat! But, you know, steady.

This is not, however, how being on the lake of my life is feeling right now—at least not when it comes to how my kids, both college freshmen, fit into the metaphor.

In fact, it’s more like being on Lake Winnipesaukee the August afternoon years ago when I took my kiddo Elm, who was about six at the time, out in a canoe. Journey back there with me for a moment….

The sky was starting to cloud over as we left the island (we were at the YMCA family camp we attend every summer) and I knew that thunderstorms were predicted later in the day. But this was just going to be a quick, 15-20-minute ride from the waterfront to the north dock and back. Easy peasy.

One of these canoes, on that lake.

We made it to the north dock, but just after we turned back, the wind picked up abruptly. The lake got choppy, and I suddenly found myself fighting against it with every paddle stroke. We were being pulled farther and farther from the shore by the growing swells, and try as I might, I could not get the damned boat to move in the direction I wanted it to. (To Elm’s credit, they never freaked out. In fact, they were fully bought into my “WOW! WHAT AN ADVENTURE, HUH??!! THIS IS FUN!! WOOHOOO!” shtick.)

It had started raining, and I was just starting to feel quite, well, concerned about this getting-pulled-out-into-the-middle-of-the-ginormous-lake-in-a-storm-predicament when suddenly, miraculously, we started getting pulled in the other direction, back toward the shore. Maybe the wind shifted? Maybe I’d managed to paddle us into a different current? (Do lakes have currents?)

I was delighted by our new circumstances—until it became clear that the lake was now determined to trap our canoe against the rocky shoreline and beat it senseless. So, once again, we were stuck, unable to make any progress in the direction of the waterfront. (I think by this point I was almost laughing at the absurdity of the scenario, because at least now we weren’t at risk of drowning. Also, we saw a pair of flip-flops floating in the water, which Elm thought was HILARIOUS.)

I was about to give up, haul the canoe onto the shore, and walk to the waterfront, dragging the thing behind me, when suddenly something shifted again: Now we were getting pulled back out into the lake, though fortunately not with quite the same force as before. Ultimately, with some concerted paddling, I was able to return us to the waterfront, safe and sound and soaked.

What does this have to do with my life in the here and now?

Well. I have discovered over the past few months that having kids away at college—and, more specifically, having them periodically come home on their breaks—feels rather like being in that canoe. I get pulled back and forth, paddling against the current (I’m going with “yes lakes have currents”), trying to keep a brave face throughout it all, but never quite succeeding.

The kids come home, one or both of them, depending on their schools’ respective schedules, and the house feels full again—especially of shoes and coats—and when I wake up in the morning and go out into the hall and see the closed doors of their rooms, I know they are sleeping behind them, and it feels solid and right.

We fall back into our family banter over dinners and haggle over who gets to use the cars. I watch the special shows I have with each kid: Gilmore Girls with Clio (we are both firmly on Team Jess) and House with Elm. (It’s so bad! I mean, it’s fun to watch, but it’s ridiculous!) I buy the yogurt and the fruit the kids like. I make waffles. Sometimes we do special outings. For example, here’s Clio and me at the Museum of Illusions, where we went last week while she was home on break.

It is all so lovely. And yet I can’t quite fully enjoy it. I’m a little wistful all the while because I’m aware that it’s no longer the norm. It’s a little visit from the ghost of a time that I’m grieving.

Then they go back to school, and I am briefly bereft. It’s funny; I didn’t cry when we first dropped them off at their respective schools back in September. But after I brought Clio back to school after winter break, I sobbed in the car. And when I said goodbye to Elm yesterday as they headed back to school post-spring break, I hugged them so hard I’m surprised their spleen didn’t pop out onto the pavement.

This morning, seeing both of the kids’ rooms empty, doors ajar, felt like a little kick in the shins. But I got my coffee and ate my English muffin with peanut butter and came up to my office and here I am. They’ll be back home in late May, for weeks and weeks. It’s nice to have something to look forward to. And then they’ll leave again.

I hear from friends a few years ahead of me in their empty nest-dom that the back and forth gets easier. It becomes the new normal. You don’t feel like you’re at the mercy of the lake, getting pushed and pulled this way and that. Or maybe you still do, but you don’t mind it as much.

OK, I think this whole lake / canoe metaphor has run its course. In fact, I probably need to lay off the aquatic metaphors in general. So I’ll just close with a boat-free hope that what my older and wiser friends say is true. And, hey, if you’ve been here—or are here currently (ha ha current)—I’d love to hear about it. Feel free to use the metaphor of your choice.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, I’d be deeply grateful if you would consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription. Or, hey, buy my book! Thank you as always for reading. xoxo

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P.S. This Saturday, March 28, there will be No Kings protests across the country. If you’re scared / sad / furious about the actions of the Trump regime, find an event near you and show up for a few minutes or a few hours. It feels good to be around people who feel the same way, and it does make a difference. Timothy Snyder lays it out here.

Ask any writer to open the proverbial desk drawer, and chances are you’ll see a lot of abandoned carcasses. Of books, that is.

All of us have projects we’ve started but never finished. In some cases, this could mean just a few pages, in other cases, a few hundred. We lose steam, we get stuck, we decide to pivot and work on a different project, we see a squirrel. Sometimes we return to abandoned works later, but more often than not, we don’t.

It’s not easy to give up on something that you resolved with great courage and enthusiasm to do. For me, it can come with feelings of self-recrimination (I’m just being lazy; I could push through and do it), regret (I can’t believe I wasted all that time and effort on the wrong thing) and even embarrassment (I told a lot of people I was working on this thing, and now if they ask, I have to tell them I gave up on it).

But there is a Maya Angelou quote—of course there is; there always is!—that I come back to often, which I find helpful in the case of aborted projects or plans whenever those feelings creep in. (And when I cut and pasted from elsewhere just now, Substack decided to make it GINORMOUS, but I’m going to just go with it.)

“Each of us has the right and the responsibility to assess the roads which lie ahead, and those over which we have traveled, and if the future road looms ominous or unpromising, and the roads back uninviting, then we need to gather our resolve and, carrying only the necessary baggage, step off that road into another direction. If the new choice is also unpalatable, without embarrassment, we must be ready to change that as well.”

―Maya Angelou,Wouldn’t Take Nothing for My Journey Now

It’s the “without embarrassment” part that I really love. The new road isn’t always the right road, and sometimes you have to change course again. And that’s OK. Even if there’s that one tactless friend who says something like, “Jeez, you keep changing your mind. Maybe you should just choose someone and stick with it?” Just ignore her.

So now, in the spirit of not being embarrassed, I present to you a few of the many, MANY projects I’ve enthusiastically begun but ultimately abandoned over the years:

— The one about the alien invasion where humans are offered the chance to go back with the aliens to their planet (where who knows what awaits…), or stay on earth which, the aliens claim, is going to be destroyed by an asteroid in 5 years. Or something like that? I don’t fucking know. The idea that I was even considering writing something involving SPACE is hilarious to me. What the fuck?? I hate space!! And aliens! I think I only got like 10 pages into this one before I came to my senses.

— The one set in the 1980s, about a possibly haunted theater, a caustic, failed-actress-turned-director who let the place burn to the ground, an aging actor dying of AIDS, an overbearing mother with dementia, and general urban decay. What a crowd-pleaser! I ran out of steam about 50 pages in, luckily for everyone.

— The one about a beach town in Massachusetts that gets destroyed by a record-breaking hurricane, and the estranged sisters—a high-strung perfectionist who’s the head of the chamber of commerce, and a jaded, failed artist who’s perpetually stoned—who join forces to try to attract tourists back the following summer. This one, I was actually quite excited about. (There was a restaurant called ‘The Clam and Dairy Shack’! How delightfully gross is that?) But it petered out when I fell in love with another idea.

—The collection of “Mysterious Mystery Plays”—one of dozens of books I started but never completed when I was between the ages of seven and ten, written in a little booklets of stapled-together paper. I got six pages into the first play, ‘The Phonograph Ghost,’ before I gave up, perhaps realizing that drama was not my medium. Here, see for yourself. (Trigger warnings: Ghosts, misspellings)

There are three more pages, but let’s not go overboard now, shall we?

As of a couple of weeks ago, I can add one more abandoned book to the pile.

For a long time, I’ve mulled the possibility of writing a memoir about my relationship with my father, who had a narcissistic personality disorder. He was as playful, charming, and generous as he was self-absorbed, explosive, and disdainful. I worshipped the ground he walked on when I was a child and was barely speaking to him by the time he died. It was….complicated.

I thought maybe I could figure out how to spin this story in all its ups and downs into something honest and sad and funny and relatable; something that might resonate with other people who have navigated relationships with narcissists. I even had thoughts on how to make it fun to write.

Note that by “fun” I don’t mean a laugh a minute; obviously this book would cover some heavy material. What I mean is that I had a structure and framework in mind that I thought would make it interesting and creatively satisfying to work on.

So. A couple of weeks ago, I finally took some time to explore the idea in earnest. I headed for the little cabin in the woods where I’ve done DIY writing retreats a few times, and got a bunch of words down on paper. Computer. Whatever.

But here’s the thing: Writing it felt like a grind. Not that writing is ever a walk in the park, mind you. But there’s effort and then there’s….ugh. And I don’t think it was because I was writing about difficult things; I’ve written about a lot of painful personal stuff over the years—depression, rejection, grief, my daughter’s cancer, etc.—and in most cases found the writing process rewarding, even when it wasn’t always comfortable.

I think in this case, the issue was that I didn’t feel like there was a Big Question I was trying to answer, and nothing to imagine or discover along the way. It’s all stuff I’ve processed and pondered many times over.

This isn’t to say that I couldn’t (or won’t) still write a good book along these lines; I think I could. But I could also probably write a decent gay hockey romance if I wanted to. And I don’t. (Did I want to watch one? Oh hell yes. #TeamIlya)

So, on my third and final day of my retreat, I put my nascent memoir aside, opened up a new blank document, and started playing around with something else: an idea for a novel that had popped into my brain a few days earlier following a text exchange with a friend about terrible tech billionaires and their awesome ex-wives.

I don’t know if his idea will go anywhere, or if I’ll stick with it for the long haul. I may need to, without embarrassment, step off this road onto another. But I do know that I had a lot more fun in the three hours I spent working on the novel I idea than I did in the ten-plus hours I spent on the memoir.

So. In the end, it ended up being an incredibly productive little retreat. Not in terms of pages racked up, but in clarity gained. I left feeling satsified. It’s almost as if the little saying I keep on my bulletin board—which I came up with—has really embossed iself upon my little brain:

“Process is progress.”

―Jane Roper, author of The Phonograph Ghost (unfinished)

When it comes to writing (or, dare I say, life?) working your way through one idea is often the way you get to the next one. The pages you throw away pave the path to the ones you keep. And, yes, fine, sometimes you get into a rut where you really are just spinning your wheels. (Books involving aliens, anyone?) But hey. That’s life.

On that supremely eloquent note, I shall leave you to your (barf) respective journeys.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, I’d be deeply grateful if you would consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription. Or, hey, buy my book! Thank you as always for reading. xoxo

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P.S. I’m going to be teaching a few (online) writing classes in April and May, on writing with humor, novel beginnings, and memoir writing. Check out my events page to learn more and register!

P.P. S. I agonized over whether to also share an excerpt from another childhood unfinished work, All My Fun—a Gen-X childhood horror novel about a fourth grader named Lisa who is constantly terrified that she will be kidnapped. She does, indeed, get snatched from her home (after a brief sailing trip on the Mississippi River), put into the back of a van, along with several other children. Does she escape? We will never know.

Visit my author website and/or learn about my copywriting, brand strategy, and book coaching services. A gal’s gotta eat.

Dear friend,

I hope this missive finds you well.

I write to you from the frozen depths of the Boston suburbs, where snow and relentless, bitter cold have tormented us for the past several weeks, with no sign of abating. As I write, the wind is howling through the barren trees, and I think I just heard our recycling bin fall over.

Our patio furniture has been nearly consumed by the snows, and the solar-powered lights along our front walk are long since buried, and are likely crushed. We probably should have brought them inside when the first storm was imminent, but whatever. One can’t think of everything.

Neither our Subaru nor our Toyota have escaped the ravages of Old Man Winter, their flanks being now streaked and scoured with the residue of rock salt. The side door of our garage seems to have been warped by the frigid air, and won’t close completely, leaving the bicycles, the grill, the cornhole boards, and other warm-weather sundries exposed to winter’s wrath—a cruel metaphor for…something.

There is a certain beauty in the snow, I grant you: the alabaster undulations across the lawns, the play of light upon the crystalline surfaces, the artful, shovel-carved trenches that define our front walks and driveways. But patches of yellow left by neighborhood dogs have begun to proliferate and it’s gross.

Also: There are some people in our neighborhood who seem to think they don’t have to shovel the entire sidewalk in front of their house—just a little path between their driveway and front door, such that pedestrians, including our long-suffering postman, José, must risk death by walking in streets narrowed by the great white banks. I am not inclined to wish misfortune upon anyone, striving as I do to be a merciful woman of strong moral fiber. But I would not be ill-disposed to see the neighborhood dogs totally go to town on the snow outside the homes of those jerks.

Perhaps the most irksome aspect of these harsh conditions, however, is the difficulty they impose upon our daily travails. Having to don boots and all manner of winter garments before taking out the trash is but a minor inconvenience. However greater ones plague us: Just last week, our dishwasher failed to function for several hours as a result of its being positioned against a poorly-insulated exterior wall of our house, which caused the hoses to freeze. There was much lamenting and despair.

Meanwhile, walking to CVS as I am often wont to do as a means of combining fortifying physical activity and thrift—those ExtraBucks won’t spend themselves!—is perilous and unpleasant on account of the biting cold and the aforementioned unshoveled sidewalks and visible dog pee.

But amidst so much hardship, we take solace in our good fortune. We have not taken ill, nor have we gone hungry. Our firewood is plentiful, as are our streaming service subscriptions. Our new snowblower, which we share with our neighbor, is mighty and effective. And the Olympics are on, which is fun.

I earnestly hope that if you, too, are trapped beneath the weight of winter’s icy thumb, you are endeavoring to perservere in good spirits. And if you are in more temperate climes, I celebrate your good fortune, and hope you are able to profit fully from it. But, seriously, keep it to yourself.

I remain your cold yet obedient servant,

J. Rope

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, I’d be deeply grateful if you would consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription. Or, hey, buy my book! Thank you as always for reading. xoxo

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P.S. I’ve got a few events coming up—including conversations with the magnificent Jenna Blum (Murder Your Darlings) and Kirsten King (A Good Person) and a few online writing classes. Check ‘em out!

P.P.S. After far too long, I’ve updated my copywriting, brand strategy, and editing services website. Take a look if you’re curious about what I do when I’m not writing novels or penning eloquent epistles about the horrors of winter in the ‘burbs.

A few days ago, a friend and I went to a talk at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, about the huge art heist that happened there in 1990—and about art theft in general.

I love learning about heists and escapes (who doesn’t?) and expected it to be just a fun diversion on a cold night—a brief reprieve from the onslaught of miserable news. But it ended up being something more profound than that.

A little background for those of you not familiar with the Gardner: The museum was established in 1903 by a wealthy and somewhat kooky lady named (you guessed it) Isabella Stewart Gardner, to house her private collection. She had it built in the style of a 15th century Venetian palace, because why not, and arranged everything—paintings, drawings, tapestries, furniture, stonework, manuscripts, tchochkes, etc.—herself.

In 1990, thirteen works, worth a combined $500 million (the highest value art theft in history), were stolen from the museum, including paintings and drawings by Rembrandt, Vermeer, Manet, and Degas. The works remain missing to this day. But eventually they will be found and returned to the museum.

At least that’s what the featured speaker of the event we attended, Anthony Amore, Director of Security and Chief Investigator at the museum, believes.

This dude is like the Javert of the Gardner. It’s his actual job to obsessively investigate and solve the crime and get the works back. And his certainty that he will succeed is utter and emphatic.

When we get them back, he kept saying. Not if.

“You have to live in a world of hope,” he said. (And I immediately jotted down in my notebook.)

When his interlocutor for the event, curator Holly Salmon, asked him which of the stolen works was his favorite, (I think?) he said probably the Vermeer; but the one in his office, that he looks at every day, is the most famous of the stolen Rembrandts, Storm on the Sea of Galilee. Why? Because, he said, it depicts a story about faith. And as a person of faith, tasked with his particular mission, he finds it inspiring.

Quick recap of the parable behind the painting: Jesus and the apostles were cruising around on the sea of Galilee (Company retreat? Fishing? I do not know) when a violent storm engulfed them. The apostles freak out (I’m paraphrasing) Jesus calms the waters, and then asks them, “Why are you afraid? Have you no faith?"

Anthony Amore has faith in spades. He believes with every fiber of his being that those priceless works, missing for more than 35 years year now, will be found.

Maybe it would be accurate to say that he chooses to believe.

You have to live in a world of hope.

It was at this point in writing this piece yesterday, during a brief social media break, that I got word that ICE agents had killed a man in Minneapolis. I am not kidding.

I stopped writing. I watched the video. I doomscrolled. I saw the government once again telling us to disbelieve what we can plainly see with our own eyes.

I couldn’t go back to writing this post—I was too keyed up, too distracted. Then there were other things I needed to do, to get ready for this big storm that’s about to hit. The first flakes are falling outside my window right now.

But I knew I would come back and finish writing today; that I had to.

I am so heartsick about what’s happening, and so fucking angry. I know most of you reading this are, too. I don’t know how much worse it’s going to get, or how we’ll ever manage to turn the tide. Our country is broken and (literally) bleeding.

But I want to be like the museum cop. I want to live in a world of hope. You have to, he said. And I think he’s right.

How the hell else will we get through this? How else do humans get through anything?

We have to look for hope wherever we can, and cling to it ferociously.

The bravery and resolve of the people of Minnesota gives me hope. The millions who have been marching and organizing and taking care of their neighbors over the past year give me hope. And people who are hopeful give me hope. (Thank you, Anthony Amore.)

One last thing:

I was actually at the Gardner Museum twice last week, as it happens. The first time was on Martin Luther King Day. We were there to see our daughter (who would go back to college the next day) perform with the Boston City Singers—a group she was a part of from ages seven to eighteen—as part of the museum’s MLK Day events. They sang traditional African American spirituals as well as songs from South Africa, some of which they learned during their three-week tour there last summer.

I don’t think I was the only one who got a little teary watching them—all those gorgeous young people, singing with so much joy, in the exquisite surroundings of the museum courtyard.

Take a look. Feel a little hope. Hang on tight.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, I’d be deeply grateful if you would consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription. Or, hey, buy my book! Thank you as always for reading. xoxo

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As I’ve written in the past, I am not a fan of boats. This must be why, when life feels particularly difficult or uncertain, I find myself using boat metaphors.

When our daughter was in treatment for leukemia when she was little, for example, I called the ordeal—three long years of it—a “crappy little boat trip.” This felt much more apropos than something like (barf) “journey.”

More recently, I likened my new, empty-nested phase of life to a lake, which, I know, is not the same as a boat, but it is boat adjacent.

Lately, my nautical metaphor of choice is that I feel like I’m walking on a boat.

You may be familiar with this feeling if you’ve ever been on a ferry or a whale watch or even one of those pontoon party boats. You get up to get a snack or a brewski, or to change seats for a better view, and you're trying to look all casual and cool, like, hey no big deal, I can walk on this boat even though it’s rocking a bit, because check out my balance and grace. But inside you know you are just one tiny swell away from face-planting into someone’s lap.

My reasons for feeling this way are, in part, personal ones. It’s turning out to be more discombobulating than I expected to have the kids back and forth from college on their breaks. They come home, and the rhythms change, and it’s disorienting and, ironically, sort of haunted feeling: This is but the shadow of a reality that once was!

But I get used to them being there, filling the house with their presence and voices and shoes (everywhere, their shoes!) and it feels good and sweet and right. And then, bam, they’re gone again, and the boat is off balance, listing to one side, and it’s a good thing I’ve got decent core strength, otherwise I’d be on my ass.

» KEEP READING! THERE ARE CAT PICTURES COMING! «

This feeling of constant flux is compounded by the thing that’s making it even harder—much harder—to stay upright, which is the chaos and cruelty of the Trump regime.

Between the horror of our homegrown Gestapo wreaking havoc in Minneapolis and beyond, the fact that POTUS has decided to give Putin a run for his money in the take-over-other-countries-just-cuz game, and a thousand other less flashy instances of awful—like encroachments on academic freedom and retreat from global climate change initiatives—I feel like I’m in a constant state of low-grade dread. What’s going to happen next? (An ICE surge here in Boston? Martial law? War with fucking Denmark?) And is it going to overturn this boat completely?

(At this point in this writing, I’m no longer even sure what the boat represents. My life? The United States? THE WORLD? )

I know I am not the only one who is feeling this way.

But in the midst of all this volatility, I try to remind myself that there are some things that will never change. The sun will rise every morning and set every night. The moon will wax and wane. The trees will sprout leaves in the spring. And my cat Opie will always be a dick.

Look at him. Do you see what’s happening here? He wants to get fed, even though it’s way too early for his second feeding of the day, so he’s just sitting there on the counter, knocking shit off of it, trying to get my attention while I’m working.

That’s a stapler you’re seeing in mid-fall.

Several hours after this picture was taken, while my husband and I were happily watching Mad Men (another constant: Pete Campbell will always be insufferable) Opie started marauding in the kitchen for scraps on post-dinner pots and pans, pushing a sheet pan off the counter so as better to lick it, and knocking a glass to the floor in the process—shards of which we continue to step on in spite of sweeping and vacuuming multiple times.

Once we were settled back onto the couch and Don Draper resumed making out with his secretary, Opie proceeded to walk across the keyboard of my husband’s laptop, which was in the the middle of backing up a bunch of files. Just a little “fuck you” for taking away that delicious, greasy sheet pan, probably.

Ahhh. Normalcy!

Other things the little bastard will continue to do, sure as the earth will continue to turn and J.D. Vance will continue to lie:

Chewing on paper (checks, bills, and important forms are his favorite)—his other signature “feed me” strategy.

Wailing like a wounded rabbit to be let outside and then wailing to be let back in precisely three minutes later.

Jumping onto the table while I’m eating lunch or breakfast and attempting to steal food right off my goddamned plate with his little paw.

I’d barely finished my overnight oats when he tried to get in on the action.

At this point you may be thinking: Is all this bad feline behavior—ordinary though it may be—actually a comfort to you while the United States marches steadily toward fascism?

To which I say: OK, fine, not exactly. But there is something to be said for mundane, relatively manageable problems, like a 12-year-old orange cat.

There is something to be said for the fact that despite the nearly unfathomable amount of change and uncertainty in the world right now, the annoyances of everyday life persist. And more important (but less fun for an entire Substack post): so do the pleasures.

I confess, the little fucker does bring us quite a lot of that second one.

He’s a good cuddler. He loves / tolerates his sister He makes us laugh. (Who sleeps like this?)

It’s almost worth the broken dishes.

I hope there are lots of things that feel stable and steadfast in your life right now—and that they’re mostly good. I hope you’ve got some people (or pets) to make you laugh, some daily rituals that keep you grounded, and some good rocks to cling to if you get tossed off that boat.

On that last note, I’m gonna let Pete sing you out.

Take good care of each other out there.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, I’d be deeply grateful if you would consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription. Or, hey, buy my book! Thank you for being here. xoxo

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P.S. If you want to get involved in solving some bigger-than-cat-sized problems, and push back against the Trump regime, Indivisible is a good place to start. Chances are there’s a chapter near you.

P.P.S. Yes, we have tried many, many techniques to curb our cat’s problematic behaviors, but he appears to be incorrigible.

As all of us who attempt to be Good People know, we’re supposed to support small businesses when it comes to holiday gifts. And I do try my best. (And make some recommendations along those lines as well.) But almost every year, usually at the very last minute, I find myself hitting a mall or shopping center out of sheer desperation.

And you know what? I like it. Oh sure, the corporation-fueled hyper-consumerism is a little gross. But it is undeniably festive—the decorations, the music, the ladies with the perfume samples swarming you with that special yuletide urgency when you walk into Macy’s.

In an age when we humans engage in fewer and fewer communal, IRL activities, it’s nice to feel like hey, here we are, a bunch of strangers, together in one place, looking for gifts for people we care about, in anticipation of celebratory gatherings.

A cynic might say gee, great, the only thing that unites Americans today is that we all worship at the altar of capitalism together. And that cynic would have a point.

But at this juncture, I am choosing to find joy wherever I possibly can, including at the High Church of Stuff, because things feel awfully dark.

Last week, I picked my kiddo up from school at RISD just hours before a gunman opened fire in a building four blocks away. The Bondi Beach mass shooting happened shortly after that, and then there was the horrible murder of Rob Reiner and his wife, followed by a post from the Sociopath in Chief blaming Reiner’s death on his political views—which was somehow the thing that I found most disturbing of all. How are we supposed to hold onto hope in the wake of tragedy when it comes with a reminder that millions of people decided it was a good idea to put the world’s biggest asshole in the highest office in the land?

There are a lot of us who are struggling to find hope right now. (Including my husband, who writes about it with honesty and vulnerability here and here.) But I don’t think it’s Pollyannaish to try to look for it wherever possible—even at the Burlington Mall.

Here are a few things I saw / thought while I was there yesterday that fed the thing with feathers just a little bit. And let me warn you: the bar is low.

Barnes & Noble* was HOPPING. I normally shop at indie bookstores (Look at me! I’m a Good Person!), but there was a particular book I needed that B&N had in stock. Honestly, I’m happy to support any bookseller other than Amazon—and even happier see other people doing it, too. It warms my heart to witness (and stand in) a big long line of people with books in their arms.

I used the Starbucks app to order a coffee ahead of time, and when I went to get it, I was struck, not for the first time, by how nice it is that, in a world where dishonesty is so rampant (including and especially in the halls of power), mobile pick-up works purely on the honor system. Anyone could just walk in and grab my grande non-fat latte from the counter, but they don’t. Or maybe they do sometimes. But not often enough that Starbucks, or zillions of other restaurants and coffee shops, have stopped offering mobile order & pickup. Humans: we’re not all morally bankrupt after all!

When someone who checked out one of my purchases said “Merry Christmas” I yelled at them for not being inclusive. JUST KIDDING! At this dystopian moment in our nation’s history, I don’t give a flying fuck whether people say “Happy Holidays” or “Merry Christmas.” No, the fun little thought I had in that moment was how delightful it is that we Americans say “merry” instead of “happy” for this one holiday. As if, for one month out of the year, we are all time travelers from Dickensian England. (Meanwhile, I think most Brits say “Happy Christmas,” right?) Little cultural quirks such as these make me happy. God bless us, every weird one.

The mall Santa, like the majority of “Santas” these days, had a real beard—thick and white and glorious. What I don’t get is why it took so long for this to become the norm. For the entirety of the 1930s (?) through the early 2000s, nobody thought: Hey, how about instead of slapping a shitty fake beard-wig on any guy who comes along, we hire fun-loving, white-haired men of a certain size who are willing to grow their beards out every Fall? In any case, better late than never. See, human progress is possible!

At this particular mall, there is a little area in the middle of the main drag where they sell pianos (interesting / weird). Often times, someone will sit down and start playing. This was the case yesterday—as I passed by, a young man in a red puffer coat was at the baby grand playing some beautiful classical piece. Yes, Virginia, in a time where people waste hours of their wild and precious lives mainlining inane videos on social media, there are also still many, many people who use their time to master skills and put art into the world.

So there you have it. A little bit of light at the local mall. Like I said, the bar is low. But I don’t know how else to get through these soul-trying times except by looking hard for hope and beauty, and trying to put a little of it back into the world when I can. I hope that this holiday season, you’re managing to do both.

Stay fresh, cheese bags. See you in 2026. And thanks as always for reading.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, I’d be deeply grateful if you would consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription. Or, hey, buy my book! Thank you for being here. xoxo

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Here’s our Christmas Tree. Isn’t it pretty?

* Yes, Greater Boston readers, you are correct: Barnes & Noble is actually across the street from the Burlington Mall.

Well, it’s December tenth, and per usual, I’ve done basically no holiday shopping.

I love going to stores and craft fairs and whatnot around the holidays (even when they play holiday songs that drive me crazy) but I find the obligatory nature of the shopping itself stressful. Nobody (including me) really needs anything, and the elders don’t want more crap in their homes, and the kids are harder to buy for now that they’re older, and what they do actually want tends to be incredibly expensive (grumblegrumble).

Every year, our family says we’re going to make it a low-key Christmas—only one gift per person or only experiences / consumables, etc.—but every year, I still find myself scrambling at the last minute, panicking. Because what if we’re all just saying that, and come Christmas day, someone is going to present me with, you know, a Birkin bag or a subscription to the steak of the month club, while all I gave them were a batch of ginger lace cookies and the kids’ school photos?

And what if the kids are heartbroken because it’s bad enough that the the magic of their childhood Christmases is gone and now, goddammit, all they got were some Lindor chocolates, a book they won’t actually ever read, and a vague promise to take them to a play at some point in the next year if a good one comes along and the timing works out?

I’m even having Christmas shopping stress dreams: Last night I dreamt I was on a desperate hunt for a French press for my mother (she is Mr. Coffee all the way, so this makes no sense) and the only ones I could find were made of ceramic in the shape of various types of baroque furniture. My mind is a twisted place.

Anyway, to try to get myself (and maybe you?) into the spirit of giving, I thought I would create the first-ever Jane’s Calamity Gift Guide: five random, affordable-ish gift ideas to get your giving gears spinning. There’s almost definitely not something here for everyone on your list. Enjoy!

A t-shirt from a thrift shop

Anyone who follows me on Instagram or Facebook knows that last month I scored this sweet Golden Girls t-shirt at Savers for $3.79. I had to ask the internet what the labels referenced (although they made sense anyway), because I am old and irrelevant. Turns out it’s the lyrics to a Megan Thee Stallion song. (I’ve heard of her!) I’ve gotten multiple compliments from Young People whilst wearing this t-shirt at the climbing gym, which makes me embarrassingly happy.

Thrift stores abound with T-shirt treasures such as these, and if your gift recipient is not someone who is skeeved out by wearing used clothes (I am not, but I draw the line at shoes), then this is a really fun sort of gift to hunt for and buy. Find one that matches their sense of humor—or doesn’t! Imagine the adorable look of confusion on your brother’s face when you present him with a t-shirt that says (for example) “Wilson Family Disney World Trip 2011” on the front and “Jayden” on the back.

Or this one — especially if he doesn’t play pickleball:

Why is there a cat? We’ll never know.

I wish you luck in your quest.

A sour cream coffee cake (or other baked goods) from Zingerman’s

A couple of weeks ago, a catalog from a bakery / deli in Michigan called Zingerman’s showed up in the mail. I have no idea why. But I was so delighted to get a catalog with hand-drawn illustrations and quirky copy with nary a whiff of AI to it. It took me back to the days of the J. Peterman catalog — safari jackets and cashmere herding capes and urban sombreros and whatnot, beautifully illustrated and pretentiously yet alluringly described. (The Zingerman product descriptions are not at all pretentious; just fun.)

When I shared this moment of catalog bliss over on LinkedIn (where I have become a networking whore), someone recommended Zingerman’s sour cream coffee cake. It can’t possibly be as good as the one my mother makes, but she’s too busy to set up a commercial operation of her own.

In general, food is a solid gift choice. It is consumable, so it doesn’t take up space in homes or landfills, and who doesn’t love food, amiright? The drawback is that then the gift recipient is stuck with delicious treats at exactly the time when they’re thinking: God, I’ve been eating and drinking way too much these past few weeks. I really need to re-set and start eating better.

But the solution to this is simple: They can reset as soon as they’re done eating the food you give them. Follow me for more healthy living tips!

3. The Transcendent Unity Bracelet

I love a good gift for a cause, especially when it’s actually nice. (And not just a donation in my name, which is lovely but, let’s face it, not really a gift.) This one comes via my fabulous friend Randy Susan Meyers. She and other members of The Massachusetts Writers for Democratic Action partnered with Etsy jeweler The Raptor Paddock to create a beautiful bracelet that serves as an emblem of allyship and support for transgender people: The Transcendent Unity Bracelet.

As anyone who’s paying attention knows, transgender people’s safety, dignity, rights, and healthcare needs are being actively threatened by the Trump regime and its enablers. This bracelet is a visible (and very pretty!) way to say that you stand with transgender Americans. Proceeds from sales directly benefit the ACLU. The bracelet is available in three sizes (small/15cm, medium/16cm, and large/17cm), and only costs $20.00, including shipping. Go get it!

For more gifts you can feel good about, check out Randy’s holiday gift guide on her Substack.

4. A walking pad

I know. I just wrote half of a whole post about this, so I won’t rehash it all here, except to say that a walking pad ( = a treadmill with no handles) is an excellent way to help your loved ones get in more exercise while watching TV or reading or working at a standing desk. You can get one for as little as $50 on Facebook marketplace or the like, or a new one for as little as $150ish. I’m averaging 11,000 steps a day since I got one, and while I haven’t lost an ounce of weight, I like to think I’m increasing my life by weeks. Weeks, I tell you! I’m kind of obsessed.

Of course, it’s hard to give someone you love a gift that essentially says “you should get more exercise.” (Remember that weird Peloton commercial?) So maybe just get it for yourself. You can walk on it while you do video calls with your super boring friends in Canada, the UK and Germany.

"“No, Gertrude, I don’t like your crop top.”

BOOKS!

I mean, I had to, right? Books are the best, and not expensive. You may even be able to find them for $2 a piece at the same thrift shop where you get those fun, random t-shirts I told you to buy.

Although if you want to buy The Society of Shame, I humbly request that you buy it new. If you do, I will mail you a signed, personalized bookplate and a bookmark to add to it! Message me at janeroper @ gmail.com with your request.

As for book recommendations: TBH, I didn’t have the greatest reading year. I started but didn’t finish a lot of books, and I can’t tell if it’s because my attention span is shot thanks to the internet, or if I made poor choices, or if it’s just because I’m more willing to not finish books these days.

Nevertheless, there were some that I genuinely enjoyed (and can actually remember that I read) and I offer them up here for your consideration. Or you can click on the fun pic below. When you buy books from my “store” on Bookshop, I get a little kickback AND it benefits independent bookstores.

You can also check out my other book recommendation lists: Five Books to Make You Laugh, this one about the chaos that is my reading life, or my five favorite books in 2023.

I hope this helps.

So, there you have it. The most eclectic holiday gift guide you’ve ever seen, from the world’s most eclectic Substack (tm). May your days be merry and bright, and may your holiday shopping be chill.

Oh, and if you didn’t catch the link above, here’s my gift to you: My recipe (and the story behind it) for the best cookies in the world. You’re welcome! And thank you as always for reading.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, I’d be deeply grateful if you would consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription. Or, hey, buy my book! Thank you for being here. xoxo

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People are always asking me how I maintain my fantastic physique.

Hahaha no they aren’t. And “fantastic” would not be accurate. Like many a middle-aged woman who has borne children (two at once, in my case!), I’m not exactly killing it in the abdominal region. I have a belly, and her name is Sheila. We have fun.

But I am fairly fit and trim overall. I run, I hike, I go to an indoor climbing gym twice a week, I do some yoga. I eat fairly healthily for the most part, though I have a hard time resisting a good dessert or a nice cold glass of white wine. Or fresh bread. God, do I love bread.

Alas, the ole metabolism isn’t getting any faster, and I have no intention of starving myself (been there, done that). Then there’s the whole losing-muscle-mass thing that happens as we age, which I’m not thrilled about. I have mountains to climb, suitcases to carry, and jars to open. Also, strength = balance = not falling and hitting your head on the edge of the sink and bleeding out right there on the cold tile floor of your bathroom, alone.

So, I decided it was time to up my exercise game a bit. But not by suddenly hitting the gym five days a week or taking up triathalons or some such ridiculousness. I’m a busy lady. And I actually find exercise for exercise’s sake really boring. (Thank God for audiobooks and podcasts or I’d never go running.)

Moreover, I believe in making small, manageable changes when it comes to self improvement of any sort, for the optimal chance of success.

Therefore, I have added two very simple things to my exercise routine:

1) I do almost daily ten-minute dumbell workout videos on YouTube.

This is the perfect example of aiming low. If I resolved to do a 30- or even 20-minute workout video every day, there’s no way I’d stick to it. Even 15 minutes might be pushing it. But 10 minutes? I can do anything once a day for ten minutes!

And what’s great for someone like me, who finds pure exercise tedious and craves novelty in all things, is that there are zillions of ten-minute dumbell workouts on YouTube. They range wildly in quality and production value—and this is part of the fun.

Sometimes you get multiple camera angles, excellent sound, quality graphics, a well-lit setting, and a clearly professional-seeming instructor. And then sometimes you get a beefy dude in front of his RV who does a lot of grunting. Or a woman in what may well be her parents’ basement, who starts with weights that are too heavy for her and therefore has to keep stopping in the middle of rounds of reps. (I wish I could re-find this video…it was hilarious, and delightfully human.)

His video is called “The BEST 10 Min Full Body Dumbbell Workout PERIOD.” Not sure I’d agree, but it was entertaining for sure.

A strangely high percentage of the ten-minute workout instructors seem to be from English-speaking countries other than the US. Sometimes I can tell right away what their accent is, but other times I am totally baffled. South African, but has lived in Ireland for 20 years? Australian, but is married to a Frenchman and has a speech impediment? Who knows. I just love all the different ways they say “feel that burn!” Fill thet barn! File thayt beern! Furl thit bine!

“Kip it op! Yure doying GRITE!”

Do I actually do one of these workout videos every single day? No. But most days. Has this made any difference in my overall fitness / strength / tone / etc.? Yes, a little bit, for sure. It has definitely improved my climbing, especially when it comes to core strength. Which is nice.

2 . We got walking pads.

Some couples take up pickleball when their kids leave home. We’ve taken up walking in place.

Also known as desk treadmills, walking pads are the bottom part of a treadmill, without the rails or front console to hold onto. So you have to have decent balance and a little courage to make it work. The upside is, you can move it around and stash it away when you’re not using it, so it doesn’t just become a big, guilt-inducing clothes rack in the corner of your bedroom. There are even some that fold, apparently.

The man in motion. He would like you to know that he averaged 11K steps a day over this past week.

We got the first walking pad on Facebook Marketplace for 75 bucks, and bought a basic standing desk with wheels. So, now we walk in place while working at our computers or even just watching TV. We liked it so much that we got a second one to put upstairs in my office.

It took a little getting used to; there are some things, like writing Substack pieces, I can’t seem to do while walking. But more rote work, absolutely. And I find it way less tiring than just standing.

This walking pad thing was borne of a theory I had, based on a long-time phenomenon: I lose weight almost every time I go on vacation. (Don’t hate me!) Usually it’s just two or three or four pounds. But I’m only 5’3”, so it’s not nothing. I can see the difference even if nobody else can, and I can feel it in the waistbands of my pants. Even Sheila shrinks a tad. Why does this happen? My assumption has always been that it’s all the extra walking that generally comes with travel. (The kind I do, anyway.)

But it still always kind of blows my mind. Because I do not hold back when it comes to enjoying delicious food and beverage when I’m on vacay. When my husband and I went to Portugal early this fall, it was bread, cheese, meat, and wine up the wazoo. Same thing when I went to France two years ago. FRANCE! Baguette and butter, pastries, crêpes, steak-frites, more cheese, more wine.

Hell, I somehow even managed to lose weight while on a cruise—a cuise that had Cake Night! With like 12 different kinds of cake available! (How could I try any less than three?) But apparently the shore excursions we did and walking back and forth on the ship all day canceled it out—and then some.

So my theory was that if I significantly increased the number of steps I took at home—on top of eating my normal, healthier diet, and my usual exercise routine—I might drop a few pounds.

But has this happened, after three weeks of treadmilling? Absolutely not!! Why, I ask you, WHY? Maybe it’s because I eat food made of better quality ingredients on vacations, especially in Europe, and that helps somehow? Maybe it’s because I’m more relaxed? Maybe it’s a cosmic joke? Who knows. But I’m going to keep walking anyway. And stick to skim milk in my coffee.

SO, there you have it. The lazy gal’s guide to maybe getting in slightly better shape in an attempt to stave off middle-aged spread.

Follow me for more easy, healthy lifestyle hacks!

Actually, no, don’t. But do at least try a 10-minute YouTube workout. If you don’t have weights, you can use a couple of large water bottles or household pets. Here’s the grunting RV guy again to get you started.

Enjoy!

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living—and AI is making it increasingly difficult. If you enjoy my work, I’d be deeply grateful if you would consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription. Or, hey, buy my book! Either way, thank you, as always, for reading. xoxo

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P.S. Happy Thanksgiving. Here’s my favorite funny Thanksgiving video. Watch it as a reward after your workout.

P.P.S. The rest of the year is going to fly by, and a new year is a great time to start that book you keep meaning to write, or get feedback on your draft. I can help.

Well, the Jane’s Calamity kiddos have been in college for two months now, and while I do miss them quite a lot, especially around dinner time (we were big on family dinners), it’s not quite as terrible as I feared. And my husband and I eat dinner in front of the TV a lot now, which I sort of love. (We’re re-watching Mad Men, and it’s so good.)

But I definitely feel…weird. And it occurs to me that it’s because something has shifted in a very significant way. I don’t mean the obvious fact of the kids having left home. I mean that the very nature of how I'm experiencing my life has changed.

Stick with me. Maybe you can relate. And maybe, if you’re in the big middle of your life, it will help.

Up until now, at every age and stage of my existence, from kindergarten to college to my thirties, I had dreams of what was next. While I was fully immersed in one era of my life, I could also see the next phase a comin’, and got excited picturing myself in it.

When I was a little kid, I dreamed of being a bigger one: going on the “you must be this tall” rides, staying up late, maybe even getting braces, like my rad babysitter with the Dorothy Hamill haircut.

When I was in my big kid years, I looked forward to being a teenager: high school, boyfriends, proms, learning to drive, getting the damned braces off. Then, as the end of high school drew near, I started picturing myself at college. And as college progressed, I started looking forward to young-adulting: living in an apartment in a city with Monica and Rachel, traveling, building a career, getting an MFA.

As as all that unfolded, I began looking forward to the next phase(s): getting married, settling down, and raising children. (I know, very conventional.) And then as those years progressed, I started dreaming about—

>> RECORD SCRATCH <<

Nothing.

My friends, in the past eighteen years, I never once dreamed about or looked forward to the next inevitable phase of my life—the one I now find myself in now: middle-aged empty-nester.

I had no visions of myself here. The runway up to this moment was the first time in my life I was like “Nope, not looking forward to that.” All I saw when I thought about the future beyond the kids-at-home parenting phase was a succession of years stretching toward the horizon, and my face gradually succumbing to gravity over the course of them.

Oh, sure, I had vague notions of traveling and hiking more. Spending more time writing and reading. Going to more cultural and social events and whatnot. I looked forward to small things like actually putting the red pepper flakes into the recipes that call for them.

But that’s not the same as excitedly anticipating the next big stage in life’s journey. It’s just feeling mildly pleased at the thought of doing more or different versions of the things I’ve done all along.

I am, indeed, doing more of those things. It’s nice! And yet…I have definitely been feeling a unmoored. Like I’m drifting. Floating. Waiting for something to happen (besides, hopefully, selling my new book), but with no idea what that something might be.

What I’m slowly starting to realize is that now that I’m done with all the growing up and adult life-building I did in the first half of my existence, it’s time to shift gears into a different way of thinking about life—one that’s about being more mindfully in the moment. (This is something I’ve never been terribly good at).

I need to stop thinking about my days and weeks and years as progress toward the next thing. I need to, instead, think about how I’m going to enrich and deepen the now. This isn’t to say that I can’t still change or grow as a person, or achieve new things, or try to contribute to humanity in new ways. Au contraire!

But if my life was a river before, tumbling ever-forward, now it’s a lake.

And I can either spend all my time bobbing here feeling mildly melancholy and nostalgic for the river (which I reserve the right to do from time to time) or I can become a lake-dweller extraordinaire.

I can explore its coves and shores. I can learn how to windsurf, or take up fishing. I can scoop water from it and put it under a microscope to see all the hidden life inside. I can cruise around it on a pontoon boat with my friends. I can pluck the litter and invasive plants out of it. I can marvel at its beauty, and watch it change with the seasons. I can skate on it, swim in it, pee in it. (HAHAHA — just making sure you were paying attention. But, also, I can.)

I am extremely lucky to have such a lake, and I would be an idiot if I didn’t make the most of it. Maybe I should have been thinking about life in more lake-y terms all along. But I don’t think that’s really possible, except for the most enlightened among us. It certainly wasn’t possible for me.

But now that I’m here, I’m gonna run off the dock jump in.

Join me, won’t you?

My second most favorite lake: Winnipesaukee

By the way: I came up with this river vs. lake metaphor in the process of writing this post over the past couple of days. Trying to think about my life in this new shape is actually making me feel a little less off. It’s even given me a new sort of spiritual challenge, if you will: to embrace the lake! This is part of why I love blogging / Substacking so much.

Thank you for being here.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. (And AI is making it increasingly difficult.) If you enjoy my writing, I’d be deeply grateful if you would consider leaving me a one-time tip or upgrading to a paid subscription. Or, hey, buy my book! xoxo

At my most favorite lake: Squam

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