Greetings all ye luscious mothers, ye queens of quarantine,

It’s Anna on the mic this week. On Sunday afternoon my husband Mike messaged me to let me know he had safely emerged from his woodsy “Man Adventure” in the White Mountains of NH – backpacking a rugged 17 miles, sleeping on rocks and roots, peeing amidst the poison ivy—and he was on his way home. As this was the longest we’d been apart since February, he found himself missing me, he told me in text that he couldn’t wait to get home. To see me.  

“Save yourself!” I texted back, “Return to the safety of the woods! There is nothing good for you here!”

You see, on Sunday my feelings came to spend the day with me, and we had a very full day, my feelings and I. Our schedule looked something like this:

Visit my pregnant friend who I can’t hug or touch and CRY.
Drive home and CRY.
Ask my son what he wants for lunch and CRY.
Make sandwich and CRY.
Plant flowers in flower box and CRY.
Catch up with my brother on the phone and CRY.

But the best weeping episode of the day, the crying jag to outdo all others, was at Trader Joe’s: 

Grocery shop and CRY.

Mike has been the designated family shopper during these Endtimes, but with him off cavorting in the woods, I became the successor to the shopping throne. I expected the masks and lines and precautions, but what surprised me was how surreal it felt to experience this small foothold of normalcy. To be back in a grocery store looking at products, accompanied by (a few) other people in the flow of their own “to do” lists, wrapping my hands around the cart handle and pushing my way back in to consumerism and socialization.

I happen to love my species and enjoy being out in the wild among them, feeling the edges of their energy fields. Talking to strangers gives me a most potent contact high. So when I couldn’t find my preferred TJ’s moisturizer on the shelves, I did what I always do: I asked one of the cheerful TJ employees. Today’s lucky team member was Marianna. What ensued was a jocular conversation about the importance of hydration and moisturizing and our mutual distaste for strong fragrances. She left me briefly to collect intelligence, and by the time she returned to let me know I would be a far moister person after July 9th, I was weeping openly, all over (and under and around) my mask.

I wasn’t 100% sure why I was sobbing. I felt deeply moved. I felt incredibly grateful. To have had a meaningful exchange with another human being outside of my house. To have had my needs addressed and met by someone who expected nothing from me in return other than civil behavior and friendly conversation. It was extraordinary.

“I’m sorry,” I told her, “This is just all so moving. And weird. I don’t know what’s happening.”

Marianna shared that I wasn’t the first customer to have this kind of experience. This was a variation of adapting to the new normal. People were having their feelings, right there in the store, and the Trader Joe’s staff was ready and equipped for it.

“I want you to know that I wouldn’t feel comfortable crying like this at Whole Foods,” I told her.

“You’re safe here,” she said as she gave me a free box of tissues “to go” and a bouquet of peonies.

Fun sidebar: I told my husband how wonderful my peonies smelled. He thought I said ‘panties and was intrigued. What a strange time this is for all of us.

A lesson that could be gleaned from this experience is: If you ask for what you need (moisturizer) and you’re vulnerable and authentic (cry) you will get what you need (compassion and free flowers).

But instead my takeaway is this: I needed to cry. I needed to grieve. There were ounces–nay, gallons!–of tears that needed to be flushed out. And on that tsunami of sadness rode all the unspoken grief I have been feeling.

And it was Luscious.

I should now reveal that I am a BIG fan of crying. I hold crying as regular detox. An emotional oil change that keeps the gunk from building up inside my engine. Crying can be so SO so good. And it is often my path back to Lusciousness. The tears remind me what I need. They guide me to reconnect to my Luscious touchpoints: reaching out to my mom squad, hugging my son, watching a comedy special with the hubs, hitting the beach barefoot and putting my feet in the ocean–even in Maine in the dead of winter–so I can get back to my truest, highest version of myself.

Everyone’s touchpoints to get back to Luscious are different, but we all have them, and knowing how to tweak my own Luscious Meter, even by just a few degrees, is the secret weapon that coaching—training to be a coach as well as working with a coach of my own—has given me. Now, even when I’m not so Luscious, I have a map and a compass to find my way back. Unlike Mike, I don’t have to trek 17 miles up a mountain to find it. But sometimes it comes after a flood.

How are you getting back to Luscious, mamas? We’d love to know.

Until next week.

Keep your heart Luscious, 
Anna & Sarah