52 Card Pickup: Excavating Myself

Growing up, when our families got together, my sisters and I would occasionally play cards with our cousins. We acquired fast card flipping skills and card slapping prowess through combative duels of Spit. My cousins also taught us how to play the card games Rummy and Knuckles. As evidenced by our reddened knuckles, my cousin Laurie was especially good at that game. He reigned supreme at cracking the whole deck of cards against them as we held out our closed fists.

When I was a tween my cousin Laurie was a teenager. I remember thinking he was like the seventies version of The Fonz; he was just that cool. One day amidst playing cards he asked if I wanted to play the card game 52 Card Pickup. Not knowing what it was, and eager to hang with my way cooler cousin, of course I said yes. And before I knew it, that entire deck of cards was shuffled and indiscriminately aloft in the air. My cousin looked at me, told me to pick them up, and swiftly exited the room. I had been played. Stunned, I diligently went to work collecting the deck of cards scattered about.

Turning 52, for me, has been analogous to collecting that slew of cards. Just as I gathered up those cards, I’m looking at the years left behind and I’m trying to make sense of it all. The preceding 52 years, that combination of purposeful and unplanned events, have led me to a happier and healthier place today. But, it wasn’t always that way. That’s called foreshadowing, kids.

Shortly after the new year I decided to book a solo getaway for a few days. I wanted, and quite honestly, needed, something to look forward to. I reserved a little cottage in an artsy town in the Texas Hill Country. The opportunity to work uninterrupted creatively, coupled with taking in the local charm; it seemed like a perfect pairing. It was a birthday gift to myself.

As is my usual practice, I judiciously over packed. I’ve got this trepidation when I travel that I’ll want for something, and when I reach for it, I’ll find it isn’t there. I berate myself with this imagined premonition, “if only I had brought x, y, or z this trip would’ve been perfect”. By the way, it’s a completely unfounded belief, but nevertheless, I persist. For once though, my relentless over packing proved fruitful.

I brought some warm clothing, workout wear, and pretty ensembles complete with accessories. For good measure, a few candles even. I also packed miscellaneous work stuff, a few books, some articles on mindfulness, creative materials, yada, yada. And oh yeah, a dream journal from 1994 I had last written in when I was the tender age of 25.

Somehow that journal, sitting forlorn in my closet, caught my attention as I finished packing. I swear it was looking right at me. I inevitably took that as a sign (of course I did), scooped it up, and threw it in my luggage with the amassed collection of other unnecessary items. When I arrived and unpacked I thumbed through its pages. The notebook was a space to consider what was important to me and to outline a blueprint for my creative ambitions.

As I read its contents I was taken by its optimistic prism. And bemused to find the core of my being today is still pretty much aligned with the belief system of that young, naïve, girl. How is it even possible that I’ve lived so much life between the years of 25 and 52 and end up at the same place? A lot has transpired in all my years on the planet. A lot of it great and some of it not so good.

My first couple of decades were mostly enjoyable. I like to remember I had a happy childhood, and for the most part, it was. I grew up on Lilac Lane in a tight knit community of flower streets. Tulip and Orchid Drives also intersected one another in our small neighborhood. It sounds idyllic, right? We spent our summers running through sprinklers, playing barefoot in the woods, pool hopping between houses, and visiting beaches on both shores. Holidays revolved around food and family. What there was in abundance, always, was love.

When I was twenty my rose colored glasses shattered when my mother died. Her death instructed me in ways that only the profound loss of a parent can. There were times I struggled, but I managed to find solace in my community of work, friends, and family. I got engaged in my early twenties, disengaged the following year, had a relationship or two in between, and was married by the end of that decade. All of it taught me to be grateful and more appreciative in my daily life. I knew in the blink of an eye any of it could be taken away and disappear.

In my thirties I built my family and continued to grow in my career. Looking back, it seems like everything in this time period happened at breakneck speed. The birth of my boys brought me the joys of motherhood. It was an easy and natural role for me. But with it comes a myriad of never ending tasks and worries. Taking care of young children, running to and from work, juggling family and work responsibilities; it never ended. I prioritized all those obligations and put everything ahead of myself. It became a way of life, the way I functioned.

And then, lo and behold, my forties found me divorced and a single working mother, yet continuing on that treadmill of modern life. I hyper focused on my children and career. I had to. There was now even less time to think about myself and what I personally wanted. Where would I fit it in the 24 hours of each day anyway? They were already jam-packed.

That ever increasing list of responsibilities had me racing through days, months, and subsequently years of my life. It left little time to savor any of it. As my fiftieth birthday approached a couple years ago I felt like time had abruptly smacked me in my face. Just like in that card game of Knuckles. Its hard to ignore a blow like that. I acutely recognized there are less years ahead of me than behind me. How would I best use the remaining time?

That realization motivated me to look at how I spent the hours in my days. What I put into them and what I’ve taken away from them. Not what I’ve given to others, but what I’ve done for and given to ME. It’s a much different vantage point, to look at oneself and audit how you’ve been leading your life. I used to view habits and activities that solely resolved around my interests as self-centered. I obviously had to make a paradigm shift. I’ve come to find out those interests are integral to my self-care.

Since then I’ve routinely engaged in pursuits that make my heart sing. I carve out time to visit museums, go to the beach, take day trips, and schedule trips for a few days at a time. Regularly meditating, taking walks, and connecting with friends have also helped buoy my spirit and find joy in the every day.

Somehow that circuitous journey has brought me back full circle. It’s returned me to the philosophy of that young 25 year old girl chronicling her endeavors, hopes, and passions. I am now more aware and present in the past couple of years because of it. It may have taken me 52 years to get here, but I know it is precisely where I am supposed to be.