Lately, I’ve been picturing life as an hourglass, with middle age as the skinny part. (And yes, I get the irony of being a menopausal woman in the skinny section of life.)

Just for anyhow (and the leftovers): January turkey dinner.

Lemme ‘splain. 

While I was raising kids, each kid served as a contact point with the broader world. Four kids, four connection points, via their activities, relationships, work, emotions. My life was fat with connection and activity. There was a lot to manage, and I spent much of that period of life craving solitude and quiet. (Case in point: see the quote under my name at the top of this blog page.) But then the kids peeled off one by one, and my world diminished accordingly. Now I am my own main connection point to the broader world — and if I don’t make the connection, it doesn’t happen.

The irony here is that parenting often feels like an isolating experience, especially at the start, but then when it’s over, it’s isolating once again, but this time by the absence of parenting. It’s disorienting. 

And while we’re pointing out ironies, here’s another. Now that I have all the freedom in the world to dedicate to my art, I feel trapped.

Back to what I said about being in the skinny part of the hourglass. I have a theory. Based on the people ten, twenty, even thirty years ahead of me, I do believe my connection points will expand again — if I play it right. 

Take my parents, for instance. For a number of years after my brothers and I left home, my parents’ world grew quiet. They lived their lives and we lived ours. (I don’t know if that’s how it felt to them, but that’s how it seems to me, looking back.) 

Woodsplitting December 2025: my parents’ place.
^{(photo credit: my nephew and younger son — they stole my phone)}

Fast forward 25 years, and now they’re in the midst of the hubbub: community involvements, artistic endeavors, grandchildren, making and creating and building and doing. Looking at all their points of connection, at all the people who need them, it’s kinda overwhelming. 

Also, it’s exactly the full sort of life I want to build next.

So here’s what I expect. The kids will continue to find their way apart from me — they’ll form relationships, find meaningful work, put down roots, and make new humans — and I will do the same. (Minus making new humans. Been there, done that.) 

In many ways, it’s like I’m starting over again, though this time with a house and history. If I’m lucky, one day I’ll look up and realize that I am, yet again, in the fat part of the hourglass.

Handmade favor from this weekend’s mother’s blessing: babe’s a-coming!

In the meantime, here I sit in the skinny phase. It feels predictably narrow and constricting. Boring. A bit bewildering and lonely. I’m stuck with myself, bouncing off the walls, doing my work, feeling trapped by my freedom, rolling my eyes at myself.

But I won’t be in The Skinny forever. This squeeze is normal. I’m just passing through, and then eventually I’ll pass over and that will be that.

Amen and the end.

This same time, years previous: cold plunge, fermented lemon honey, two worlds in one week, the quotidian (1.24.22), four fun things, pozole, overnight baked oatmeal, doing stupid safely, women’s march on washington, the quotidian (1.15.16), just do it, hobo beans.

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;
everyday; ordinary; commonplace

Egg sammy.

Cute crimps.

Pan dulce: still searching for a keeper recipe.

Handiwork.

Crunching.

Milk gear.

Leather and tin.

Decking halls.

This same time, years previous: good news bad news, wedding weekend: the pinning, the coronavirus diaries: week forty-two, 2018 book list, sex for all creation, old-fashioned sour cream cake doughnuts, the quotidian (12.22.14), flat.

I’ve discovered the meaning of life!

Now before you start wondering if I’m a genius — no. A girlfriend sent me a video titled The Meaning of Life, I watched it, and now I know. 

The video is of brothers John and Hank Green having a conversation. John, who leans religious and theological, says the meaning of life is to be in relationship with people and pay attention — and we pay attention to the things that interest us.

Hank, who leans more sciencey, says that when complex systems interact with each other, they become more interesting. His example: an ant is interesting, but a colony of ants is more interesting. A cell is interesting, but a colony of cells is more interesting. A person is interesting, but the community they are a part of makes them more interesting. 

(Sidebar: Perhaps this explains why children leaving home creates such an emotional dip for the parents. For 20 years, my children broadened my community. I interacted with the world with and through my children — their interests, needs, and relationships. And then they moved out and my community shrank, which meant I am now less connected and therefore less interesting. Isn’t that interesting?) 

According to Hank, the things that arise from complexity — both the energy that creates that complexity and being part of that complexity — is what’s good about life and makes it meaningful.

Furthermore, people tend to equate “interesting” with “easy to pay attention to.” But ask yourself this: Who is the most interesting person you know?

If you’re like me, you’ll start running through a list of famously interesting people in your head, like Gandhi, Helen Keller, college professors, activists, etc. But here’s the twist: things become more interesting (i.e. better) when you look at them closely. So this means that the most interesting people to me — and to you, probably — are the people we’re closest with. 

So how does all this help when I’m in an existential spiral? 

Well, as John and Hank point out, the opposite of depression is not happiness — it’s “interested.” So when I’m struggling to find meaning, this means (ha) I need to look closer. Dig deeper. Engage more. Connect. Feel. 

Here’s an example. I often get down in the dumps about the self-inspired tedium I’m pushing myself through day in and day out (i.e. my work). I get simultaneously worn down by the drudgery and find myself despairing of the value. Why am I trying so hard? This is pointless. No one actually needs my work — or worse, me. Blah-blah-blah. 

But the fix is always the same: zoom in tight for some up-close concentrated work. Make a new cheese. Set up a photoshoot. Have a zoom call with a client. Most times, attending to the details distracts me long enough to reboot my spiraling brain, and sometimes, if I’m lucky, the work turns delightful and I get an honest-to-goodness dopamine hit. 

In other words, the more often I can dip beneath the surface of Just Existing and actually muck around in the intricacies (like I’m doing right now by writing this post), the richer my life.

That’s it.

In conclusion, John says that because life is worthy of attention, then subjectively speaking, that makes it meaningful. Hank takes it one step further. Since something is always better than nothing, then, objectively speaking, something — and then attending to that something by being connected and curious — is where the meaning’s found. 

This same time, years previous: 2024 garden stats and notes, all is well, the quotidian (12.21.20), rock on, mama!, ludicrous mashed potatoes, 2016 book list, the quotidian (12.21.15), on my to-do list, fa-la-la-la-la.