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There comes a time in every woman's life when she realizes she's turning into her mother. Or, in my case, a time when your mother up and tells you just that.

When I was in my 30's, Mom and I were sitting at an outdoor table near the beach. Mom, who was wry and beautiful in a Jackie O. kind of way, looked down and gathered herself like she was going to tell me someone had been diagnosed with a very bad thing.

Instead, she said: "I'm sorry, honey." Long pause. "But I'm afraid these are your future." And with that, she slid her tiny, ropy Irish hands across the table toward me.

I could see that she was right. My hands were exactly like hers, and there would be a day when they'd have the same bony contours and tendency to turn a disturbing grey color when cold. But I was young and drunk on oxytocin after the birth of my first baby. I wasn't sure I'd ever wear pants without elastic again, so hands, who cared about hands?

It was hard to imagine being any other age than I was then.

Our present-day bias is fierce and our brains have a hard time getting past how we feel right this minute. Statistically, most people don't even buy new winter coats or pumpkin spice lattes till the temperature drops by a certain amount.

And even when the future is mapped on your hand, imagining how you’ll feel in 20 years is almost impossible. So I just laughed at Mom’s deadpan quips. She’d say, "I'm leaving you these hands in my will. One day after I’m gone, they’ll reappear so you can’t forget about me. *Evil laugh.*

Well, that day has arrived. It was 22 degrees this morning, and when I took off my gloves, there were Mom's hands. They are kind of like our family version of The Picture of Dorian Gray, always looking 20 years older than the rest of us. So disconcerting in photos. Like, whose crypty hand is that? Oh, mine. Right.

Thanks to my mom hands, I can easily picture a very old lady me. Or, as I like to call her, The Epic Crone. I hope I make it to an age older than Mom was when she died. Think of it! In 30 years, my hands will look like the speckled roots of some wily old sycamore. Or sailing ropes. Either way, they'll be something my kids can hang on to as these wild years unfurl.

We're hunkered down again in Brooklyn. But the January sun is cutting through the curtains, lemony and sharp. One of my youngs has taken up weaving on a little wooden loom in the living room. Watching her, I remember how Mom would make doll furniture and decor at the dining table, gluing silly photos into half-inch frames and cutting out bits of velvet to upholster doll dining chairs.

For a second, I can imagine them working side by side: My tall girl with her long, elegant hands holding a skein of blue yarn, and petit Mom with her thin fingers around a paintbrush, leaning down to detail a minuscule plate with dancing flowers.

The two of them, born in different centuries, more than 60 years apart, don’t look alike at all. But the way they focus and the deftness of their movements as they put color and texture together is so similar, so heart-achingly lovely and familiar. My hands might look like Mom's, but they don't have the same ability to make something beautiful in that intense way. Those skills are my kids' inheritance.

I'm not sure there's much divine logic in the way the talents and charms of our parents are sprinkled among our children. One kid seems to get every ounce of talent, and the other seems left out. We’re all sure we didn’t get the best bits in that lottery. But, turns out, my most precious inheritance was to see Mom's crafty, funny ways reappear here in this house, in my child.

My role is usually to watch and to write. So I'll settle in with the dog who is snoring and snuffling like a piglet on the sofa. My neighbor's toddlers have just clambered loudly down the street trailing bits of blue doll hair and various knitted things. Soon they'll be skittering along the icy hills of Prospect Park like rainbow M&Ms. They'll cling to the edges of their flying saucers, keening with delight and terror at the sight of the broad, glinting world below them. Their parents will try and keep up. Just like we did.

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THE BEST OF MY WEEK

“Sunrise, Prospect Park” Photograph by Susanna Schrobsdorff, January 6, 2022

A BOOK DELIGHT

A few years back, I wrote a column for TIME called "My Life As a 'None' and Other Tales from the Ranks of the Unaffiliated and the Agnostic." In it, I took myself to task for becoming one of those annoying "spiritual but not religious" people who mostly attend the church of self-improvement. I admitted to longing for faith sometimes, and of course, I got a zillion letters of advice. But where to begin if you've never prayed or been part of any religion? I thanked them one and all and went back to my yoga ways.

But when I got a copy of Speaking With Spirit: 52 Prayers to Guide, Inspire, and Uplift You by bestselling author Agapi Stassinopoulos, that little frisson of yearning came back. This warm and generous book welcomes people like me, one of a growing number of unaffiliated and agnostic Americans. Stassinopoulos gives us wary seekers lots of room to draw our own heart map to a more awakened self. And in a social media and comparison-driven era, her insights into why so many people have drifted from religion make so much sense. She writes: "It takes a sense of worthiness to believe you are deserving of this awesome connection."

This non-denominational collection of prayers has guidance for every situation, from moments of indecision to job interviews, parenting a teenager, and cultivating your creativity.

“We pray to the deeper, wiser, higher, and more intelligent part of ourselves that is connected to the whole,” writes Stassinopoulos. And that sure sounds like a balm for what ails us as individuals and a nation.

SCIENCE DELIGHTS

God and the Brain: Spiritual acceptance can be localized to a specific brain circuit centered in the brainstem region where pain modulation, fear conditioning, altruistic behaviors, and unconditional love reside, according to new research. And there’s evidence that damage to the brain can result in loss of spirituality.

"I'm interested in the degree to which our understanding of brain circuits could help craft scientifically grounded, clinically-translatable questions about how healing and spirituality can co-inform each other," explains Michael Ferguson, Ph.D., a principal investigator in the Brigham and Women's Center for Brain Circuit Therapeutics.

New Hope for Depression: Researchers are one step closer to developing a blood test that provides a simple biochemical hallmark for depression and reveals the efficacy of drug therapy in individual patients.

TV DELIGHTS

Love, Loss, and What We Watched: The case for tracking your film and TV consumption Eliza Smith on how streaming marks time in a timeless pandemic.

Zombie Movies and Psychological Resilience: Researchers suggest that those who enjoy post-apocalyptic stories may think of them as nothing but a guilty pleasure and not realize that immersing themselves in fiction has prepared them for the reality of 2020.

Send your Slightly Wicked Advice questions to me here. (This monthly advice column in which I’ll answer queries about almost anything launches in January.)

ART DELIGHT

"Bleu" by @lovemadcollage is available as an art print.

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P.S. 🧡

Find more about It’s Not Just You, my favorite TIME.com columns and Washington Post pieces, and the benefits of a paid subscription here.

Send your Slightly Wicked Advice questions to me here. (This monthly advice column in which I’ll answer queries about almost anything launches in January.)

Reply to this email to reach me, or post your thoughts in the comments. And you can also find me on Instagram here: @susannaschrobs

Thank you for reading, for your kind notes, and for your support of this wild endeavor. Yours, Susanna

It’s Not Just You by Susanna Schrobsdorff is essays, recommendations, advice, weekly delights, and, most importantly, a community of thousands of readers around the world. So please consider supporting it with a paid subscription.

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