#relationships

The Same Body Carries It All

Note: I’ve narrated and recorded an audio version of this post, waiting for you at the bottom of the page. Listen on its own, or press play while you read along—your choice.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the strange, beautiful way our bodies carry us through life. This one body. Yes, I know we only get one body, obviously. And maybe that is the point?

But have you ever really, really thought about it for yourself? For your body?

What started this is that recently I looked at some photos from when I was in my 20s—the same age my son is now—and it struck me that this is the same body I’ve carried my whole life, from infancy, childhood, my teens, my 20s, 30s, 40s, and now my 50s. This body has seen me through so much, constantly regenerating, carrying me forward.

These are the same hands that once held my dad’s when I was a little girl and scared. The same hands that later held his hand when he was dying. The same hands that learned piano and picked up a guitar at 14—and still play today.

They’ve changed, of course—some deeper lines, age spots—but they’re still mine, moving with different energies through the years.

These are the same eyes too—the ones my mother gazed into when I was a baby, wondering who I’d be. The same blue of my eyes that has held my every joy, every loss, every moment of my life.

Have you ever thought about that with yours? It’s wild to realize this one body carries you through every experience.

Sometimes looking at an old photo feels like stepping into another lifetime, right? Back then I didn’t know what I know now. The smells, the sensations, the way I moved through the world back then—different. But still, the same body carried me. And yours has carried you too.

Maybe it’s like a car: you buy it new, it has that shine and “new” smell, but after you’ve driven it coast to coast it’s different. It smells like drive-through food, its seats worn, paint scratched, changed—but still the same car. And now it tells a story. That’s how the body feels. Have you ever really thought about what your body has carried you through and what stories it tells? That makes me think of aging.

Aging is something we need to embrace, because it’s proof that we’ve made it this far. We are winning!

As I get older, I see more lines in my face, more gray hairs, and sometimes instead of embracing them as proof of a well-lived life, I want my youthful appearance back—because I still have youthful aspirations I’d like to tackle. Quite honestly, they’re never going to happen. And that’s okay, because I have other opportunities that are better embraced with my current age.

So instead of thinking I need to look younger, I actually need to look exactly the way I am. But maybe I also hold onto youth because we live in a society—and I work in an industry—that is defined by it. I live in LA. I work in entertainment. And we do obsess over youth too much. I wish we didn’t—and I didn’t.

What we need to do is celebrate our elders, because they keep us in line. Our elders carry the knowledge that help us not repeat the same mistakes. My dad used to say, “The first moment we forget our history or mistakes, we repeat them.”

My body will carry me until it can’t anymore. And then it will be time for a new transition, one I believe will be extraordinarily beautiful.

Until then, I’m honoring this body for all it has done—survived, created life, endured, celebrated—and for how it still carries me through the lifelong journey of parenting and everything else.

This IS the same body that thrashed around on stage singing heavy metal music in my 20s. The same vocal cords that later in life would cry in grief, laugh in joy, and sing lullabies to my son—with the same heart that keeps beating for all of it.

These are the same feet that ran track in high school, skated on ice, walked in high heels and still do today! And the same lungs that took my first breath, sang every song, and have carried me through every moment up to today. When you think about yourself, I’m sure you have the same thoughts, now, right?

Aging is beautiful, but it’s also hard, complicated. My mind still feels youthful—curious, hopeful—and I want my body to match that energy, to never fail me. Pre-arthritic fingers crossed.

I’ve worked hard to keep my body strong, and still, bodies do exactly what they’re meant to do: survive, endure, change. They carry us through heartbreak and healing, love and loss, beginnings and endings. And they deserve to be honored in their aging—celebrated for the stories each year adds to them.

Because when you drive a car coast to coast, you can’t expect it to act like it’s on its first miles. But you give it extra care, extra love when it reaches milestones. Our bodies are no different. They deserve the same gratitude. And maybe, just maybe, this reminder is for you as much as it is for me.

September 1, 2025 0

Poetic Musings – 2025

You and Me

I’m in the wings,
But I need center stage.
I want the light,
But there’s comfort in the rage.

I could never tell,
Where I’d land.
But then came me,
Fading somewhere in you, convincedly.

I must fall back into me,
To get the love from you.
But I’ll leave you, maybe I’m gone,
Don’t shelve me, forget me; damn that’s another song.

A touch, a whisper,
No complaint.
A never-ending answer,
To my restraint.

January 6, 2025 0

Poetic Musings

It Was All You

I constantly think of you.
Obsessed.
Like a bear after a fish,
A bird after a worm,
A song in search of a voice.

The first sight of you,
My intuition was so full I thought I’d faint.
It told me everything that trapped my heart.
In one second, it was all you.

I am sure of your importance to me,
This good fortune.
My spirit knows the story,
Perhaps it knows its end.

I’ll go on, not knowing now or ever.
But to trust is a course for truth.
I must leave it all to fate,
Just like the first and last time we met,
Now, only to wonder of my importance to you.

July 1, 2024 0

Memories in Boxes of Love in Storage Locker #39

I stumbled on a journal entry about my mom that I wrote in 2017, a year after she passed. I’m glad I kept it. And that I found it, stuffed between my other journals and books in a box labeled “stuff” at the back of my closet.

The journal entry now gives me insight into an agonizing time when memories were not formed but discarded.

When Mom passed, I was with her, an agreement we had previously made, and the experience hypnotized me. We were very close. Those memories of her departing are beautiful and crystal clear. But I have shreds of anxious, heartbreaking memories in the weeks, months, and year after her death, the year I refused to return to Wisconsin and sort out her belongings. No one was pressuring me to return. My brother and his family were dealing with their grief and were in no rush to sort through Mom’s stuff. Who wanted to go through a storage locker of someone else’s memories? Or was it our memories too?

A week after Mom’s death, I returned home to Los Angeles and back to an entertainment job I thought I could handle while processing grief. But was I processing? I sure put on a happy face and dove back into a job I was satisfied with, but it was not enough to distract me. Her memory infiltrated almost every hour of the day, and the idea of returning to her storage locker gave me an ache that meant I’d have to admit she was gone. So, I had no problem writing a monthly check for $119 to the storage unit in Wisconsin to hold her possessions, and apparently, my grief.

I was numb. I was a robot to my job, boyfriend, music, and my teenage son. That worried me the most. But her loss plagued me, and I thought, who was I, without the woman who made me?

Within two months of her passing, my son and I took a trip to Hawaii, in which I thought beaches, a Luau, and a rented Corvette convertible would uplift me; and provide my son and me time to regroup. But I discovered a Corvette or even Hawaii couldn’t fix a broken heart.

In the months after Hawaii, I fantasized what Mom would tell me about returning to Wisconsin to sort out her things. About getting my life back in order. How would she tell me to grieve her? I did feel an instinctive push to get back to music, writing and I’d find the answer on how to move on.

Six months after her passing, I quit my entertainment job and returned to writing a memoir I started in 2011. A memoir I thought was about me, but it became just as much about her, which in turn, is me. Unknowingly, writing the memoir became an outlet for me to process her death. As I continued writing through guttural tears, moments of laughter, and some anguishing and joyful memories, I knew I could handle the trip back to Wisconsin.

Finally, 15 months after her passing, in September of 2017, I returned home, and my brother and I opened her storage locker. The monthly payments kept her items safe from thieves but not from the ravaging season of Midwest summer humidity and frozen winter. Mold had grown up the legs of furniture and into boxes, papers, journals, and photos we didn’t think we cared about until we did. There was an odor to that storage locker that was part mold, mothballs, and dashes of her (which meant the smell of cigarettes and Fendi). It smelled like home. Which meant the woman I ached for over the past 15 months was now all around me. To sort through her belongings, notes, and writings, I knew I was getting the chance to know her again. And a chance to know the new me.

My journal entry from the day after opening Mom’s storage locker:

September 5, 2017, Wisconsin

I’m not sure how to connect my thoughts. I’ve come home. This is where she lived; I once lived. We all lived, and some still live. I’m here to clean out her belongings. To create space. To recoup costs. To close her physical life. To open mine. I look at her storage unit, and it just looks like stuff, shit. Before she died, all this stuff, this shit was vital to her. And I get it! We humans consume, create and collect stuff. Either physically or emotionally. I’m overwhelmed by her shit because I care about it. Much of her shit was about me, my brother, and our family. I care. Now, how do I separate her shit from mine? From protecting it to throwing or selling?

Today was travel from CA to WI. But it’s the first time I’ve come back home, and she’s not here. Tonight I rest. Tomorrow, I know there’s a lot of work. But also a lot of love. All documented in boxes. Boxes in storage unit #39, to be exact, of her.

February 14, 2022 0

WHITE-KNUCKLING SPRING BREAK: Life Lessons While Four-Wheeling with My Teenager

I’ve always been an adrenaline junkie, and I’ve been chasing the jolt for so long there is probably a new term for it. My fearless fifteen-year-old son possibly knows it, but he skimps sharing hip terms with his mom. As he should. But wait, who’s the mom who skydived, drove a Ferrari at high speed on a race track, zip lined, sang the National Anthem before a pro hockey game? Oh, and she also plays ice hockey? Yup, my kid’s mom. But, my teenager still prefers not to be seen with me (typical), but he likes to hang out occasionally. But only if our activity involves fast cars, a hint of danger, and no one sees us together. So, I figured our “bonding” time over spring break should suit us both: adrenaline filled, memorable, and helmets (you know so we won’t be identified).

We’re heading sixty miles north out of Los Angeles to a four-wheel rental destination in the high desert. I’m excited. It’s a bright, sunny Saturday morning. It’s a long drive, so, I’m thinking: I have my son alone, and I can’t wait to catch up! But, after he slams the passenger door shut, he says, “Mom, I’m kicking back. I need sleep.” He fully reclines the seat, and he’s OUT. Like, BAM…out! So, I let him sleep. But naturally, I glance at him every chance I can. Moms always watch our kids sleep. I don’t know if its because they’re finally quiet, NOT arguing with us, or we’re so in love with them, we stare when we know they’re not looking. Right now, I’m all that as well as amazed this almost full-grown human with facial hair and size thirteen shoes, is no longer my little boy.

After navigating freeways in silence and perfecting mom glances to the passenger seat, I wake my son with a pat on his leg and the announcement, “Time to wake up.” Blurry eyed he inclines his seat and asks, “Where are we?” I want to answer, “We’re here,” but instead I’m forced to say, “Crap, I’m lost.” We end up at a park ranger station at the entrance of Apple Canyon Park and Hard Luck Road. I’m sure there’s a good story for the naming of this road, but I don’t ask. The park ranger reassures me I’m not the first to get lost and advises me to turn around and go back to Hungry Valley Road and take a left. My son rolls his eyes and declares, “Come on Mom, I even saw that road.” I raise an eyebrow. I may leave him here and let him figure out why Hard Luck Road has its name.

After we navigate two miles down the gritty and bumpy Hungry Valley Road, we know we’ve reached our destination by the significant number of dirt bikes, four-wheels, and dune-buggies zooming about. The aroma of gasoline and the sandy haze also confirm we’ve arrived. I park my dusty car and find our guide. The twenty-something gal in braids double checks my ID and asks if I want insurance on the ATV. “You know, one of you may run into a tree, get stuck in a dry creek, or flip over,” she says nonchalantly while pointing at insurance options on her iPhone. My shoulders tense and my eyes squint. I usually don’t fall for these insurance ploys. Then I look at my yawning teen. I buy the insurance.

She offers top of the line helmets, but my son declares he brought his own from his extreme down-hill mountain biking days at Mammoth a few years back with his dad. This was an adventure I did not attend, but I heard a lot about it, and I helped nurse my son’s scrapes and bruises upon his return. The guide agrees his helmet meets safety standards, but it’s too small. It’s an adult medium. She puts him in an adult extra-large. My eyes widen when it fits him perfectly.

She begins the debriefing as we sit on our ATV. The vehicles are the same size except his has only one handbrake, and mine has brakes on both handles. Shouldn’t he have the ATV with two brakes? A more pressing reality draws me back in that my son is not listening to her (he’s not making eye contact) as he’s checking out his machine, touching this, touching that. I’m diligently heeding all the darn details. She yells, “There will be other riders out there. There will be animals that could cross your path like coyotes, snakes. There is a lot of brush, deep sand, so pay attention!” Now my son is softly pressing his right thumb on the throttle and smiling with each little pop of exhaust. Until I knock my fist on his helmet and shout, “You listening?” He gives thumbs up. I snicker. My stomach sinks. Maybe we should’ve gone to a movie.

Our guide says she’ll lead us, my son will follow her, and I’ll bring up the back. “And stay five seconds behind each other. And watch my hand signals,” she shouts. And she’s off dust and gravel whooshing out from her tires. And then he’s off without a look back for me, kicking up even more gravel and dust. I literally have been left in the dust. Untypical for me, I gingerly ease into the thumb throttle and then pick up enough speed to join them.

The three of us are moving along suitably no more than 20 mph over gravel bumps, through dips, around high grass and sand covered corners. We go faster on straight stretches of flat dirt. My son doesn’t take long into our scheduled one hour adventure to take curves tighter or go higher on embankments. While I’m driving conservatively, he’s standing up on moguls, gunning it trying to catch air. When we come to deep, loose sand, he doesn’t see it as a time to slow down but as the best time to spin the wheels, skid sideways and spray sand. Of course, this is all out of our guide’s sight but I see everything, and I’m white-knuckling my handlebars. I’m not sure if I’m pissed at him for his stunts or impressed he’s at that beautiful age when adrenaline flies through your veins with no worry of consequence. He’s seizing the moment, but he looks back often. One time he does the universal arm wave of “come on!” He’s right. I need to step this up and go faster. And I want to! But all my adrenaline is in my tensed shoulders and eagle eye focus on him. But, this is the same kid who ruthlessly battled me on a paintball course, leaving me welted. You know what, this kid can handle himself out here. But can I handle myself? I’m terrified following him. I think it’s better not to watch your teen’s every move.

Rain begins to lightly come down, enough to speckle my goggles and ruin visibility. Our guide stops and tells us to remove our goggles if needed. My son genuinely asks, “You alright, Mom?” Shouldn’t I be asking him that question? “Yes, I’m fine. Let’s keep going,” I say, swallowing my anxiety.

As we continue, I relax a bit with each stretch. On a straight away, my son takes one hand off the handle and rests it on his thigh as he looks around calmly, apparently taking in the scenery. I realize then that watching my son navigate the ups and downs of the hills, the abrupt changes in path and traversing around small boulders, that today’s exploration is just like everyday life. I daily observe him dealing with unexpected complications, frustrations, and joys of being a teen.

I ease my ATV back to ten seconds behind and give him more space. He again waves me to him, but I shake my head and wave him on. Just like in life, I need to let him move forward a bit, without me.

When we finish, and helmets come off, he quizzes me. “Why’d you fall back so far? Were you scared?” I chuckle, shake my head, “No, I was giving you space.” “But, did you see what I was doing? Did you see how I took that last curve?” he says as he mimics the action with his hands and body as if he’s still on the ATV. “Yup, I never took my eyes off you.” He smiles. I wasn’t sincere though. A few times I looked away to take in the beauty of the desert trees, flowers, and the jagged mountains, and to try my mini adrenaline tricks, knowing no one was watching. But most the time I was all eyes on the young man in front of me.

We fill the ride home with energized conversation recalling the adventure, small talk, and his begging of when I’ll let him get a motorcycle. I nervously giggle and reply, “You know I’m not comfortable with that but how about I sleep on it. By the way, I need a nap.” “Dang, you’re getting old, Mom. Four-wheeling made you tired?” he says. I scoff thinking of him comatose on our departure. I gently pat his leg and reply, “No, I’m not tired. I’m just a mom.”

April 17, 2018 0

“HOW” Lyrics for Lovers and Those Who Are Done

Laurie Markvart - Martin guitar head, tuner, Capo. Creativity.

Hello Friends,

Here are lyrics to a new song I’ll post to Youtube within the coming weeks. If the words resonate with you then embrace them. You’re not alone.

X,
L

HOW

How do I say I’m sorry
When I’m not sure I’m wrong
How do I fix broken glass
With shards that are gone.

How do I relapse into a love
That has been drunk dry
How do I care about a story
When a sigh become a lie.

How is it here, we became this
Broken in two, no longer fit
How many times did we try to make it right?
Not enough, not enough
’cause we’re here.

How the hell does ambition
Turn to regret
And trust to lust
For another to get.

How does intention
Become a memory
And purity to anger
It’s all I see.

November 2, 2017 0

Life Lessons from Joshua Tree, CA

Laurie Markvart, writing about kids, family, and life from Joshua Tree, CA

You know when you go on vacation to a really great place, like a really great place, where Instagram or Facebook can’t do it justice. And how you swear the sun sets differently and the stars sparkle in an unlike way and even the morning sun, you ponder, looks altered when it rises. Well, I’m hardly up for a sunrise, but you get my drift. The place that makes you pause and go, “Whoa.”

As I’m writing this, my teenage son and I are staying in a calming, beautifully renovated 1970s ranch style Airbnb in Joshua Tree, CA. The home sits high on a mountain vista against the north side of the Joshua Tree National Park where two different deserts come together, the Mojave and Colorado. Just like my teenage son and me: different.

Tonight, from the comfortable outdoor patio, the panoramic majestic views and sunset make me pause and think, “Wow, I could live here.” Until, my teenage son interrupts my lavish thoughts with, “Mom, this is soooooo boring out here. When do we go home?” “Son, we just got here.” He mumbles something and goes inside to the converted garage game room. Yes, this Airbnb has a game room: Pool table and TV for his PS4. So, please…stop the complaining, son. But, see, he’s just graduated 8^th grade, and his head is figuratively back in L.A. with his friends who will be off to different high schools in the fall, and it’s hitting him hard he’s not hanging with them now. He’s known these guys for nine years. Basically, most his life so I can’t deny his feelings of loss and fear even though I am aware he’ll recover.

See, I thought, before he embarks into a tight summer schedule of high school sports and academic camps, I’d take him away for a 3-night mini vacay. I’ll get him out of the intensity of Los Angeles, so we can experience some down time, play tourist, get to know each other again: outside of yelling and scrambling to make school deadlines, and maybe (hopefully?) we’ll get some sleep. But before we had hit I-10 East out of L.A. he was asking:

1) Did you pack my PS4?

2) Is there WIFI?

3) What about my friends?

4) Is there a pool?

5) Did you bring my soccer ball?

6) When do we come back?

The reality is, I can’t deny the teenager brain, albeit annoying. I try as any parent to correct and teach him, but until he grows through this period, I acknowledge the obvious: he encompasses all the narcissistic and demanding emotions only a teenager is capable. Well, sometimes, he can be compassionate, engaging, wise, endearing and incredibly loving. A glimpse at the young man he’s becoming. But until that time, EVERYTHING is boring (except his friends, PS4, and soccer). Right now, he has major FOMO, and I have ICGAS. Okay, I’ll spare you googling if you don’t know: FOMO – Fear Of Missing Out. ICGAS: I Can’t Give A Shit. But, I do give a wee bit of a shit ‘cause to him, his requests are very, very important. So, when I found this swank house that took care of his number 1-3 concerns, I was happy. Am I an indulgent parent? ICGAS, I need this vacay too!

As for number 5 – it’s too damn hot during the day for soccer, and for number 4, there is no pool, but there is a very nice outdoor Jacuzzi and on our first night we took a dip and challenged each other to who could stand up from the water in the cool night desert wind the longest. He won. We also had a competitive game of Pool. I won. We also saved a desert mouse from entrapment behind a window screen. We’ve seen lizards, snakes, and many wild rabbits and even examined rabbit droppings during a mini-hike. So, we are bonding over challenges, desert creatures, and rabbit poop. It’s not all PS4 and me staring at sunsets alone. But, getting back to that sunset. Tonight is an orange, red warmth ball peeking through the western mountain range of Juniper and Joshua trees and I sit stunned by the beauty. Alone, yes. My son is inside engaged in a PS4 battle with friends back in L.A. but that’s okay, I need this sunset more than he does. He can’t “see” it yet anyway.

I look around at the other houses in the distance, but I see no one outside. Are other people not looking at this sky? This sunset is spectacular! I assume they’ve stopped what they’re doing to look at this, right? Like, every night? But, maybe this is normal to them, this type of sunset? This is their everyday beauty, and they’re used to it? Maybe they don’t notice anymore?

I see this sunset because it’s new to me, so I’m soaking in every detail. But, when we (collectively including myself) become used to our everyday beauty, maybe we don’t notice anymore? Whether it’s sunsets, quiet rides home from school, or panicked trips TO school, or just the pure beauty of those loved ones in our everyday lives. It’s your partner, your neighbors, your kids, your hobbies, your job, your passions, your whatever. Sometimes we forget the beauty, and we need to step back and go, “Wow, I love living here. In my life.”

So, here I sit on the Airbnb patio, enjoying someone else’s sunset but when I look at the patio doors, I see my sunset in my teenager, having a blast playing PS4 with his friends 150 miles away. He is not at all giving a shit about the outdoor sunset or my awareness of him, and that is okay. Someday he’ll be aware. But for now, he has his sunset, and that’s his buds. For me, I have the knowledge he’s happy, healthy and I’m at the moment in Joshua Tree thinking, “I love living here. In my life.”

Cue: sunset shot.

June 7, 2017 1

“Should I Stay” – Lyrical Poem for the Day

Laurie Markvart blog - music promo photo

Today, I’m sharing poetic lyrics of memory. Not sure when I’ll set the music but when that flows, I will. If it doesn’t, then it’s just a poem.

My muse-in the past. Gone. But I still look for her. The needs of a daughter do not disappear with the departed. Nor do the issues of why she drove me crazy or why I loved her so much.

Today, poetic lyrics. Getting it out, letting it flow and being in THIS moment. Someday, acceptance. Just not today. And that is okay ’cause I can’t go back, and I certainly can’t jump forward. And sorry to say, this applies to all of us. Unless you have a time machine. And if you do, DM me. I’d love to hear about it. xo

#bepresent, #beintheflow, #beinthemoment

Should I stay
 Should I walk away
 Does it pay to know how you feel

Should I stay
 Should I lie down next to you
 Cry for a while

Memories, you and me
 Blanket my mind
 Tell me I should run, hide

But I look at you
 And I see what you do
 And I know for now, I’ll stay

Should I stay
 Give us another day
 I can’t breathe for you

Should I stay
 Give it more time to play
 In my head, broken, astray 
 But today, I’ll stay

©Laurie Markvart

March 14, 2017 0

Laurie Markvart's Diary

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