I’m not writing about that black hole kids go into when they become teenagers. The black hole called music and ear buds and video games. That black hole called a closed bedroom door.

My oldest stayed what I called pre-eye roll for a long time, long after many of his friends were openly expressing distain for the adults in their lives and other things teenagers snarl at. So I took it as a good sign and I let myself believe that it wouldn’t happen to us.

And then one night, very shortly before turning 14, we asked him to leave the table over some sort of rudeness. He walked across the living room, stopped in the middle, did that offhand  shoulder shrug only teenagers can do, sighed, muttered under his breath, turned around and rolled his eyes.

Oh, shit. We have a teenager.

I’m not writing about how painful it is to have this happen. To have this person who was once a little body I could pick up and hold, who would sit on my hip like a monkey, legs gripping my waist, become distant. Who would climb into my lap for reading or eating. Who would squinch close on the couch while watching TV or any old time.

I’m not writing about how badly I want to knock on his door during the hours he’s home holed up in his room, not to check on what he’s doing but just to re-establish contact; about how my heart  feels cleaved in two when he’s dismissive, surly, blaming. How afraid I am, telling myself this is life with teenagers. Or about the vast confusion I feel as to how to approach him, wondering which direction each interaction will turn. Some moments he wants to hug me, tells me he loves me, other moments he snarls and dismisses me with “I need time alone.” No one told me how much the unpredictability of teenage moods would throw me off.

I’m not saying how hard it is to love during these times, how badly I want to lash back out at him, how hard it is not to take it personally, how hard it is to remain rational, how hard it is not to say mean things out of my own anger and sorrow.

I’m not discussing how badly my faith in my parenting has been shaken. How badly I second guess myself in each interaction with him. Did I give in too easily? Should I have compromised on that?

I’m not writing about how often I agree to pick him up from school instead of having him take the bus because it’s time when we get to talk, free of other distractions, free of others. Or how much I love being in the car with him at night on the way home from martial arts when he waxes poetic about how much the practice inspires him. Or talks about songs he loves and what he finds important in them.

I’m not talking about the delicate dance required to step back and let him grow, let him become himself; about the constant internal turnings I go through as I decide which things to take a stand on and which to leave up to him.

I’m not writing about the struggle to see my child for who he is and not who I want him to be. About the challenge of allowing his uniqueness to unfold instead of trying to make him into me, into my husband.

I am not writing about trying to trust his unfolding instead of forcing him into some predetermined vision of him I’ve developed. I am not writing about the vast amount of uncertainty I feel about what’s “right,” about how much control to relinquish.

I am not writing about how pure and sweet the early days of parenting are. And the seeping sadness as it gets tainted by conflict and uncertainty and frustration. About the longing for the purity of those early days before I made mistakes and yelled. Before he said “No!” before I said, “Yes!” Before he said “Yes” and I said “No.”

I am not writing about the time he and my husband had an argument and he stomped out the door at 10 pm. About how he didn’t come back for an hour. How my husband said, “Don’t go after him, that’s what he wants.” And how I said, “I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t look for him and something happens.” How I found him walking down the highway in the pitch black dark. About how terrified I felt.

I am not writing about the vast vulnerability I feel at the knowledge that I must let go of my kids, that I cannot protect them entirely, that I have to let them make mistakes and then help them learn from their choices.

I am not writing about the absolute ache in my heart over how much I love them, how much I want the best for them, and how hard it sometimes seems to do what I think is right. How I can only do the best I can, with what I know at the time. About how there are no guarantees, about how this journey is always unfolding for all of us. About how I have to trust myself and my kids as we walk this path of becoming.

A few nights ago when we saw our friend’s newly redone home, I immediately developed remodeled house envy which included no-carpets-and-therefore-no-spots-on-the-carpet envy, new-window-covering envy, non-moldy-shower envy, and new-and-clean-kitchen cabinet envy.

The next morning I took Sugarplum hiking with me. She’s the happiest of the three dogs. She skips along, thrilled at the world, loving other people and dogs though skeptical of horses.

She’s a dream to hike with because she just trots happily alongside, ears bouncing, tail wagging, not too many stops for sniffing, the occasional break for a joyful roll in the grass.

The sun was warm on my back. The breeze and the occasional patches of shade were cool.

As my legs pulled uphill, I listened to the crunch of the trail under my feet and the call of the first spring birds, stopped to gaze at meadows or turned to look behind me out over the valley and across the plains to the east.

And I knew, this was all I needed. I didn’t need a remodeled house or the latest fashion (okay, maybe a cute pair of shoes every now and then), I didn’t need a fancy new car or a second home in the mountains.

No—all I needed was this. One foot in front of the other, moving in time with my breath. All I needed was the outcropping of rock under the pine trees; the big flat slab of stone that had broken away from the rest; the crumbling log by the edge of the trail. All I needed was a happy dog as my companion and our combined joy in the movement of our bodies. All I needed was the breeze swaying the tall grass, the tiny yellow and purple flowers of spring and the sound of the trail under my feet.

I was standing in a changing room trying on a dress. Under it I was wearing a seamless bra, the one the dog had chewed a little chunk out of but which was, I thought, still serviceable. But in the cute, slightly clingy dress, I had that smashed uni-boob look, and it wasn’t appealing. I thought I looked like a blob.

I was reminded of the sales clerk in the bra shop recently who had said to me, when I said I couldn’t take underwires anymore, that she thought all middle-aged women and older should wear underwires. And I thought, I’ll be damned if I’ll package my breasts so they’re acceptable to her or anyone. 

But now I stand in the dressing room wondering if she’s right. And I hate it that I’m even considering it. 

Is this what it’s come to at age fifty-six? Boob management? 

It’s true—they’re sagging. When I lie in bed at night on my back, they fall to the sides, and I’m thankful they aren’t ample enough to puddle in my armpits. When I turn onto my side, they flatten out against one another like pancakes. I understand a bit more my friend who says she’s more comfortable sleeping in a sports bra. 

What to do? Go for smashed-flat comfort or perky discomfort? 

And there are other things. The way I feel about the extra flesh around my middle, the added bulk on my thighs. The general lack of tautness, smoothness and elasticity of skin that left along with my estrogen. I don’t want to dislike my body, to fight against it, but I have to admit I struggle against what aging is doing to my body and my view of it. 

When I complain about bras my fifteen-year-old son says, Wearing bras is a social construct. And I think, yeah, he’s right. Along with all sorts of other ideas of beauty that are handed to women. So there’s that. 

But there’s also the part of me that likes to look nice, to be reasonably attractive and put together in the world. When my body is in good shape, I feel better, sleep better, am happier with myself.

Having lived in a body that was mostly pleasing to me until now, the changes are hard to take. It’s downhill from here purely due to the effects of aging. I can stay healthy, maintain a reasonable weight, take good care of my skin and all that jazz, but the reality is, none of me will ever be thirty again. In some respects, that’s okay. I’m relatively wiser and I like that. But the outsides are beginning to show the wear of the years. 

Sometimes I look at the anniversary announcements in the paper and see wedding photos of couples next to their photos now—forty, fifty, sixty years later. They all, of course, look older. And sometimes they just look old. Weight has been gained, hair has grayed, skin has wrinkled. And every time, I think, wow, it’s inevitable, isn’t it? We’re all walking down that road. We’re all going to get old. There’s no stopping it.

I don’t feel fifty-six inside. I still feel twenty. So when I look in the mirror and see a fifty-six-year-old face looking at me or a fifty-six year old body, I am taken aback. When and how did that happen?  

I’m trying to learn to go gracefully into the realities of aging. I’m trying to learn to love my wrinkles, my no-longer-flat-stomach, the general softening, the way my skin doesn’t cling tightly to the muscle anymore, the increasingly gray hair. To accept the losses that come with the passage of time—some parts of me aren’t as pretty or as strong or as fast or as smooth.

But some parts of me are better. I learn more, every day, about being a person in this world. About being a better spouse and mother and human. I let go of things more easily, am less easily offended or provoked, am more flexible. I’ve got more wisdom and perspective. Is that worth sagging skin and a rounder middle?

I wish I could answer that with a resounding yes and tell you I’ve arrived at some tidy conclusions to this conundrum but I can’t. My acceptance of these changes is a work in progress. I suppose that’s true for most of us.

Here’s what I do know: I want to continue to let go of the concerns of what’s on the outside and pursue the satisfaction of inner gains; to start letting the vanities of youth slide away and let who I am shine from within. Honestly, it would be a relief to stop caring so much about how I look to the world and spend my energy on how I am in the world.

So some days you will find me in a sports or seamless bra that smashes everything flat. Some days it’ll still be an underwire that lifts things up.

Writing is a practice. Because most writing is solitary, we rarely see the hours writers spend getting words onto the page and we think good writing flows effortlessly out of the naturally talented. But no. Just like becoming a better quilter, a more skilled guitar player or progressing with your tennis game, getting better at writing requires doing it. Over and over and over again.

Just like a tennis player will hit thousands of shots out, the quilter will sew crooked seams, and the guitarist will labor to find the right rhythm and notes, as writers, we have to put words on the page. Lots and lots of words. Many of them will not be stellar or notable or something we want others to see. That’s okay. Much of our work is to simply write and worry about the rest later.

A writing practice is like mining for precious metals or gems. When mining, the result is a lot of mud and muck and rock and dirt. It’s rare to hit the vein immediately. And yet it’s all there, deep under the earth—and deep in our minds—the bright, shiny beautiful stuff we’re after. Miners know digging through the muck is simply part of the process. They don’t judge themselves or feel angry at the ore. No, they dig and dig, knowing mining of the ore is the path to what’s precious.

A writing practice is the same. The words we put on the page in our practice are the raw materials. Mining for the ore of our words is an essential part of the process. We want the dirt, the muck and the mud for it contains our own precious truths. The path is muddy and messy, indirect and uncertain. We don’t know what it will turn up or when.

Putting pen to page and writing, whether we think the writing is good or bad, this is the work. We come to the page over and over again, trusting in the practice itself to deliver us to the rich vein of what we want to say. By consistently putting pen to page, whether we feel inspired or not, is how we mine our own minds for the thoughts, memories and ideas that move us.

Don’t have a consistent practice? Start one now.

One of the most effective ways I’ve found to do this is with timed writing to a prompt. The prompt serves as a spark to jumpstart your writing and keeps you from staring at the blank page wondering where to start. There are no rules with the prompt—you don’t have to stay on the topic or wind up back there. The only rules are to put your pen on the page, keep your hand and moving, and try to catch your “first thoughts,” the ones that are the truest. They’re the thoughts we have before we judge, correct or edit. Go with those in all their honesty, political incorrectness and messiness. What you are writing at this point isn’t necessarily what you’ll put out into the world.

At this starting point, we are trying to come home to ourselves, to hear our truest, most authentic voice. We are granting ourselves the freedom of discovery, inviting ourselves onto the page with kindness and lack of judgement. Crafting and editing is for later. This point in the process is for delving deep, seeing what’s on our minds, what’s important, what rises to the surface. This sort of regular practice allows us to find the themes and ideas we want to write about, to cozy up to ourselves, to befriend our minds and let our words flow.

You can do this on your own or through a class at Writing Unleashed. Gather around the writing circle with your stories, memories, dreams.

Angel. That’s what my great aunt always calls me. I think sometimes about calling her and recording her voice saying that to me so I can always hear it. The same thing I wish I had done with my grandmother, May, calling me Shug.

One of the times I miss my grandmother most is when I’m cooking dinner and sipping wine. I often used to call her then for a short visit, just to be held by her voice, to hear her endearments, to hear her say “stay sweet” when we said goodbye.

We were at the Great Sand Dunes in southern Colorado when things really started going wrong for her in Georgia, when she had that first broken hip and then small stroke.

And now she and the Sand Dunes are always connected for me. They give me a lump in my throat. The beauty and miracle of that place and their bigness paired with the bigness of beginning to lose her and the miracle of her unconditional love.

Adam was riding his motorcycle down to the Dunes the day I learned she wasn’t doing well.  He was supposed to text when he left and again when he got to Buena Vista.

I didn’t hear from him and my mind started doing that thing I try not to let it do—run down the road of doom, of him somewhere by the side of the road on a mangled motorcycle. When I finally heard from him, all was fine and he had just forgotten.

But all wasn’t fine inside of me. My heart was breaking as my grandmother, my greatest love and life’s cheerleader was breaking down.

She left a ring to me. On days I want her by my side I wear it as a way to bring her along on my day’s adventures. That’s the value of it to me—this thing I can attach to myself, this little piece of her that lived close to her skin, on her hands and fingers that I loved.

I look at my hands today and see the same crepey skin I used to love on the backs of her hands and her mother’s hands and on my own mom’s. I remember rubbing my fingers lightly over it, gently pushing on the blue veins that stood out.

When I first see my own wrinkly blue-veined skin, I recoil and think it looks like old people skin. But then I remember hands looking just like this, hands I loved more than anything on earth. I vow to love  and honor my own aging hands for the people who will love my hands the same way I loved hers.