Anyone who has little people in their lives, whether their own children, children of friends, or nieces and nephews has heard the phrase uttered “What should I do? There’s nnoooottthhhiiinnnggg to do!” I don’t think anyone on the planet could understand them better than women in the long wait for motherhood.

We often face the question of what to do with ourselves while we wait, and wait, and wait. Sure, there is a world full of stuff to do, mountains to climb (proverbial and real), and checklists to tackle. Yet even so, it can feel like there is nothing to do, because in some sense there isn’t.

When children verbalize that feeling we tell them that there are a million things to do; go play with your friend, go read a book, go ride your bike, and on and on and on. Yet those of us living in the endless wait know just how those children feel; bored out of our unimaginative minds.

People will tell us that we just have to keep living our lives. Plan your vacations! Climb the ladder at work! Spend time with friends and family! Enjoy this time without children because you will miss it when they arrive!

Yet just as those children do with the advice of well meaning elders, we throw our hands up in disgust and say, “No you don’t understand, there is nothing to do!”

We can’t move forward into parenthood. We can’t move backwards into the bliss of ignorance. And we can’t stay here because time won’t let us stop moving.

So what do we do when there’s nothing to do?

We become the teachers of patience. We become the teachers of perseverance. And we become the keepers of endless disappointments.

People who love us will tell us that it makes us stronger, that it makes us wiser, that it makes us into the great parents we will one day be. Perhaps it does, perhaps it doesn’t. And all of these things we have time, so much time, to contemplate.

Even so, at some point for many of us it will come to the point where there truly is nothing more to do. No more paperwork, no more tests, no more procedures, no more home visits or adoption profiles. No more. There will be nothing more to do.

 And when we reach that point, though not the answer any of us wants to hear, all that we can do is sit in the uncomfortable Twister-like position of our lives and hold onto that contortion for as long as our hearts will take it. Because we know, we all know, that if we give into the shaking of our muscles, if we give into the fatigue, if we give into the sweat dripping down our brows, we will fall, and when we do we will lose the most important game of our lives.

I walked out the door in the morning greeted by its falling. Somehow it seemed so sad lying there, broken.

Seeing its grandeur forever removed from its reach to the heavens, and now saddled dying to the earth, got me thinking; how many times in our lives, in our path to motherhood, do things fall and break, unexpectedly, in the middle of the dark night?

How many times do dreams fall from their soar to the realm of magic only to crash to the reality of the solid earth? And what do we do when that happens?

In life there are the big, bold, daring drops; the ones that we see coming; the ones that usher in when the hurricane force winds blow in our lives. They are the tests results that tell us more of what we already know, the negative HPTs, the familiar emotions of loss.

However there are also big trees that come crashing down, quite unexpectedly, in the quiet monotony of life. What do we do when they fall to the earth?

Do we cut them up to make firewood, fueling a different future? Or do we turn them into secret forts for others to explore. Or do we just leave them to disintegrate back from whence they came while traveling deeper into the forest in order to plant a new seedling–one that will take the place of the fallen?

What do we do when trees crash, when our life paths change unexpectedly, in the quiet of a night? What do we do when big trees fall, even without a raging storm?

Some of us will plant again. Some of us will start over hoping that this next tree won’t fall. And some of us will get out our chainsaws and cut the dream to pieces with our anger, or with our determination to make room for something else in its place. And others will leave the dream, untouched, as a permanent reminder of the loss.

There is no “right” answer; each of us must plant our forest so that the vista soothes our soul. Yet what there is is the inevitability of the fallen tree, and the beautiful freedom to choose its fate in the garden of our dreams.

Rarely, very rarely, can a question be summed up in a definitive color palette of black and white.

And so too it goes with infertility and adoption. When we would like to simply shake up the Magic 8 Ball and have the correct answer revealed, we are left stuck forever looking at the edge – two answers teetering back and forth.

So how do we decide? How do we know with certainty whether Door A is where we’ll find our luxury ride through life and Door B the donkey?

That answer is a simple one; we don’t.

I know, not very comforting nor encouraging, yet in some ways it actually is welcome news.

You see no one knows. Not one single person, despite what may seem like stellar choice making, ever truly knows what lies on the other side.

People who conceive naturally and with ease have the illusion of a perfect, healthy, well behaved, brilliant, beautiful child. Yet the reality is often far different from the illusion.

So too it goes for those of us who form our families in different ways. The difference is that our illusion was shattered long before we shook the Magic 8 Ball. When we looked into the clear plastic cover we knew that so very much was out of our control; we knew that we would make the best choices possible, yet no concrete outcome is ever guaranteed to anyone.

And so we chose, and so we choose. Yes, no, maybe so.

Because at the end of the day, we are not so different from our unconsciously conceiving friends, every single one of us closes our eyes, shakes our hearts searching for the answer, and then when we feel its reply, we leap into the unknown.

Years ago, yes it’s been years now, I wrote a post about Myrtle the turtle (a pet from my youth who took flying leaps off the second floor balcony). I wrote about the hard shells that we carry around as infertility takes it’s painful blows against a once pliable and soft heart.

The last nine months of my life have shown me that if infertility will harden a shell, adoption will give a woman a steel encased cover.

It’s tough; I’m tough.

And so this week when, after nine months of paperwork and interviews, plus 3 1/2 years of unfulfilled dreams of motherhood, we became “officially” approved and available as adoptive parents, I cringe to say that I really didn’t feel much of anything.

It’s official; the battle is not over, is it ever really over?

It’s official; more peaks and valleys will follow as we wait for the phone to ring, pray that she won’t change her mind, try to figure out how to change our life overnight in a world that doesn’t really get how this all works (and admittedly neither do we).

It’s official; the shell is so hard that the only way to survive the threat of skyscraper falls is to spend more time tucked inside that shell than basking in the sun.

And so I must admit what I hate to admit, it’s official that I’m more terrified than perhaps I have ever been on this journey.

Why?

Because now the fall truly could crush me. Because now for the first time in 3 1/2 years it really could be official. And now, for the first time in 3 1/2 years , someone could come and take it all away an instant after it arrives.

Yet life must go on; I must go on. Because deep down inside I really do believe that when our child, the one who is meant to be with us forever, cuddles into the crevice of my arms and makes a home forever in the crevices of my heart, the shell will crack and the steel case will fall away.

And that is the magic that heals us all. That is the magic that makes a broken heart whole. And that is the magic that keeps me going until the day when that magic is officially mine forever.

No matter where you are on your fertility journey this one prayer is the one silently uttered in the hearts of each person, and so eloquently expressed by my friend. The difficult part however is the relative nature of it all. When is soon, and how will I know it’s forever?

And so for me, and for all of the “we” who make up those journeying through IF, seeking what’s on the other side, whether motherhood or a content life with a key role in the “Auntie Tribe,” I share one thought, just one simple thought, from one of my favorite songs by Ray LaMontagne:

“Be here now, be here now
Be, be here now, be here now”

Don’t let this day pass you by. Don’t let this moment slip from your grips without you savoring its sweetness. Don’t let tomorrow steal one glance, one smile, one hug. Be here now.

Trip over joy because you do not have a thousand more serious moves, you only have to surrender to today, and to trust that all the rest will be here soon, and forever.

“Tripping Over Joy”

What is the difference
Between your Existence
And that of a Saint?

The Saint knows
That the spiritual path
Is a sublime chess game with God
And that the Beloved
Has just made such a Fantastic Move
That the Saint is now continually
Tripping over joy
And Bursting out in Laughter
And saying, “I Surrender!”

Whereas, my dear,
I am afraid you still think
You have a thousand serious moves.

-Hafiz-

There are stages of shock, stages of grief, stages of hope, stages of despair, stages of defeat, stages of acceptance, and in the end, there is a stage of joy and moving on.

We all live for that last stage in one way or another. I live for that last stage.

Over the last three years I have sat captive on this roller coaster ride. I have experienced the ups and the downs and held close a flickering flame waiting to ignite a future where someone calls me “mama.”

And over the last six months I have had my life dissected, my privacy invaded, and every major decision I ever made questioned, during the process of being approved for adoption. For those who believe that physical labor is the most excruciating experience a woman can go through, give this experience a shot.

So here I am, in 2013, maybe just maybe the year my child is born.

Am I excited? Yes. Am I terrified? Yes. Am I scared to believe that it’s even possible. Oh yes. Yet am I ready for all of these years of labor pains to end. YES!

When I am at work I am there, but I am not. When I am with friends, I am there, but I am not. When I am enjoying date night with my husband, I am there but I am not.

Where I am is with my child. I suppose where a part of every woman who desires to mother always resides is with her child, it’s just that for those of us who labor for years and years to bring our child into our world, as the years move on the contractions of the heart get stronger and stronger, and closer and closer, drowning out the rest of the world.

I am not sure if I was ready before. I mean I thought I was ready, I could have convinced any single person, close friend or stranger, that I was ready, yet I’m not sure that I really was strong enough to push through these contractions. But now, I am ready.

The unfortunate part for women who labor in this way, in my way, is that there is no epidural to numb the pain, there is no room full of supportive professionals coaching us through the pain, telling us what to expect at every turn, and holding our hand. And there is no definitive marker of just when the contractions will usher forth our child.

And so, for me, these days feel the most difficult.

In a week or two we will be “fully approved” and then the waiting does not begin, it continues: the waiting for the call, the waiting for the meeting, the waiting for the words “she picked you,” and the waiting to hear our child’s first self righteous cry.

And so until that moment, I am here, but really I am not.

So  if the world ended yesterday, why am I still here?

Perhaps December 21st was an opportunity not to end our existence, but rather to end the selfish ways that we live our existence.

How would the world change if each person did just one selfless act every day, or every week, or every month? Leave sticky pad love notes on the computer screen of a spouse from whom they have drifted. Call an elderly relative once a week just to say “I want you to know how much you matter to my life.” Buy one toy a month for a local shelter.

There are so many small acts that could put an end to suffering.

Infertility can also feel like the end of the world. It can leave us feeling like no day will ever be quite as bright again, nor any rainbow quite as magnificent. We can find ourselves hating Santa Claus because he reminds us of what we do not have–children. And we can resign ourselves to an unhappy existence while we place all of our cards on the table in hopes of winning the jackpot; even though the odds are stacked against us.

So too perhaps 12-21-12 can remind us infertiles to end our suffering by looking outside of ourselves. In the words of Pema Chodron “It isn’t what happens to us that causes us to suffer; it’s what we say to ourselves about what happens.”

The world did not end yesterday, and infertility is not the end of the world. Yet perhaps it could be the end to suffering, our own and others, one small act of service to loved ones, acquaintances, and strangers at a time.

I’m not speaking about traffic signs, but rather those signs that come to every one of us on this journey called life. The signs that point us in one direction, or another, and that frankly can sometimes leave us a little confused.

I have written before about the signs that can come to us through nature; lady bugs, porcupines, and hawks. And today I am reminded once again that for every question, if I am quiet, aware, and receptive, comes an answer.

No, it is not always immediate, and no I don’t usually even realize that it’s there. Yet every once in awhile it keeps coming at me so many times that I just can’t avoid taking notice.

First it started with the hawk perched in the tree right above my patio who screeched over and over again at me until I looked up, and then proceeded to stare and screech (seemingly at me) for a minute or so; weird, but ok.

And then it was the hawk that flew back and forth across the street in front of me when I was walking my dogs, prey clutched in its tightly clasped claws. Hmm, that seems strange.

Follow that with the next hawk that flew screeching across the sky above me after the hawk with the prey. Then, as though the cherry on top of a coincidental sundae, another hawk flew above my car screeching loudly as I entered work .

So finally I stopped long enough to see the sign.

“Many of the messages Hawk may bring are about freeing yourself of thoughts and beliefs that are limiting your ability to soar above your life and gain a greater perspective. If one remains earthbound, then the possibilities of life are limited! It is this ability to soar high above to catch a glimpse of the bigger picture that is one of the aspects of Hawk medicine that makes it so valuable: If one is undergoing a difficult passage to know that just over the next hill is freedom and liberation if one keeps going can be a Godsend in supporting the person to keep moving forward!”

My life is a hawk with prey in hand. My child is closer to me than they have ever been. One home study interview, and a complete family portfolio to go and they can finally find their way to me.

And though I feel, deep into my bones, that my life will change soon, very soon, my impatience wants to push me into other new endeavors — a new job, new challenges.

My sign reminds me to step back and see the bigger picture. Now is not the time for career, now is the time for family. And that hawk will keep screeching until I finally listen.

And it’s screetching has got me wondering, what signs might we each have passed today, and just which detour are they guiding us around?

At times on the journey toward conscious conception we may find ourselves having delusions of grandeur, perhaps better known as delusions that we have control.

In those moments we are usually quickly reminded that finally getting the one thing that we want most is totally and completely out of our control, no matter how hard we try to bring it into being.

And so what if we just let go? What if we let it all be?

Not because we have cried all of our tears. Not because we have read books or been through counseling. What if we let it all be because it already is, even if we refuse to acknowledge this truth.

Give up? No. Stop trying? No. Forget our dreams? No.

Just make peace with what is and let go of the how and what will be.

SHE LET GO

Without a thought or a word, she let go.

She let go of fear.

She let go of judgments.

She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head.

She let go of the committee of indecision within her.

She let go of all the ‘right’ reasons.

Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go.

She didn’t ask anyone for advice.

She didn’t read a book on how to let go.

She just let go.

She let go of all the memories that held her back.

She let go of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward.

She let go of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.

She didn’t promise to let go.

She didn’t journal about it.

She didn’t write the projected date in her Day-Timer.

She made no public announcement.

She didn’t check the weather report or read her daily horoscope.

She just let go.

She didn’t analyze whether she should let go.

She didn’t call her friends to discuss the matter.

She didn’t utter one word.

She just let go.

No one was around when it happened.

There was no applause or congratulations.

No one thanked her or praised her.

No one noticed a thing.

Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go.

There was no effort. There was no struggle. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t bad.

It was what it was, and it is just that.

In the space of letting go, she let it all be.

A small smile came over her face.

A light breeze blew through her.

And the sun and the moon shone forevermore.

- Dr. Ernest Homes

It’s that time of year; the time when people get giddy for no real reason; the time when we’re more likely to indulge in sweet treats and sleep late on the weekends. And it’s the time of year when the missing stocking over the fireplace can seem almost larger than life.

So what’s an infertile girl to do when it feels as though the whole world is singing Christmas carols, Black Friday shopping at Toys R Us, and lining up with their children for pictures on Santa’s lap? How do the baby-less survive a holiday that’s sweetest when lived through the eyes of a child?

We take Julie Andrews advice and we find a few of our favorite things.

When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I’m feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don’t feel so bad

Infertility is a bite; infertility is a sting; and infertility can make us feel sad. Yet in the midst of the missing so much remains.

Take time this December to remember your favorite things, and to treat yourself to them. Take time to savor all of the special moments before they pass you by. Because life happens in a collection of seemingly mundane moments that upon second look become extraordinary memories.

And this Christmas, don’t forget to leave space for that extra stocking, over your hearth and in your heart. Because if a fat man named Santa can squeeze down the chimney to deliver toys to all of the boys and girls of the world, your miracle, and mine, can happen too.