Friday, April 21, 2017

Just write

Right now, my house is empty except for me. BG just got on the bus for kindergarten, and little sister went out shopping with her dad. There are a million things I haven't done (just you wait), but I am instead sitting here and typing. 

Because it matters.

I want to eat healthy, I want to exercise every day, I want to finish reading a book, I want to start   acutally follow through on a meditation practice, I want to have a clean house, I want to play with my kids more.  But when push comes to shove, whenever I get quiet and actually listen to the sweetheart voice deep in my head (the one I like to claim doesn't exist the rest of the time), it says simply, Write.

There are other voices that are louder. There's the voice that tells me I don't have anything to say that matters, there's the voice that tells me I am letting down my family and friends and being selfish when I focus on something so "silly," there's the voice that tells me everyone will laugh at me and no one will like me anymore if I put myself out there. Those voices yell in my ears and in my head, and instead of writing - or actually doing any of the other perfectly important things I said above that I want to do - I end up scrolling facebook. I eat. I shop. I mindlessly click on things or watch TV shows I don't even really like. I'm so busy NOT writing that I don't do anything else.

On days when I write something, everything else goes better. I know this. I've known this for a long time. But fear keeps me quiet, guilt keeps me busy, shame keeps me small. Those voices, those feelings, they're real and they're mine and I don't want to judge or be ashamed of them. 

But that quiet voice, the one that tells me to just write, that's me. That's who I am at my core. That's who I want to nurture. 

And so I am. Little by little. I will forget. I will slip backwards. But that's okay. I'll still be here.

Friday, April 7, 2017

All the hot mess mamas say heeey

Right now, my children are running in circles around my house, yelling through megaphones I (for some reason that surpasses my understanding) helped them make out of old cereal boxes and washi tape. My oldest is supposed to put a mystery item in a plastic egg and bring it in to school on Monday and since she has summarily rejected all my suggestions, she's now carrying it around with her and picking things up. There are paper shreds on the floor of every room because I didn't tell my youngest soon enough that she could only use scissors at the table. My oven is preheating for the frozen chicken nuggets I plan to feed my children for dinner.

You guys. I'm tired. All the way to my soul I'm tired.

I feel like I should somehow be parenting differently, that things would be less crazy and chaotic if I had my kids better trained, better disciplined, on a more structured routine. I know that my house would be less of a mess if I occasionally cleaned it. I know there are things I could do differently.

But, y'know, my kids think I'm a good mom. They like the way things are. And inasmuch as I would rather live in a state of less chaos, I want to find ways to do some of this differently.  But it doesn't mean I'm a bad mom. And now my kids are yelling "I love you and want to be with you allllll daaaaay" to each other so maybe I really don't my life to be different at all.

Except maybe without the paper on the floor.

Thursday, April 6, 2017

In which I quietly show up again

Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing life wrong.

It's been a busy year. BG started half day kindergarten. Little Sister started preschool. I became a Girl Scout leader.

I feel like I just run in circles, putting out fires, rearranging deck chairs.

I remember a time when my life felt like I was moving forward, like I was accomplishing something, like I was driving the bus and not just struggling to not fall down because there weren't enough seats.

Maybe I don't remember. I don't remember much these days.

When I'm scared, when I'm overwhelmed, I tend to be funny. Snark is my shield. If we're not laughing we're crying, amirite?

And I am. I am right. Laughing at ourselves is a crucial life skill. But it isn't the only life skill.

I want to get back to a place where I can go deep. Where I'm afraid but I do things anyway. I want to put my gifts out in the world because they matter and because I matter. I want to do more than just stare at the wall and try to make it to bed time.

Hi. I missed you.

Thursday, November 5, 2015

The Messy Middle

Yesterday, I was reading Buddha's Brain by Rick Hanssen, and I was struck by his description of the stages of learning. He defined them as unconscious incompetence, conscious incompetence, conscious competence, and unconscious competence.

It reminded me of Harry Wong's stages of classroom management that I wrote about in my posts on surviving and experiencing mastery as a parent. But, as usually happens with ideas, I spiralled deeper into it this time.

Unconscious incompetence. It's the worst. It's when we're most likely to quit something, including mindful meditation, because we realize we suck, and IT SUCKS to suck.  I get it. With my deepest core.

Then, today, i was reading Rising Strong by Brene Brown (Yes, I'm reading both at the same time. Shut up. I'm also reading Rick Riordan's The Red Pyramid, but so far that one is less relevant to the story).

And the chapter that I turned to was about how you can't skip Day 2.

Day 2, the point of no return, it sucks. It's when you feel the most vulnerable because you know you can't go back to how things were, but you don't have the skills yet to do things right.

Damn it, universe.

I want to quit writing.  I have for a while. I had a taste of success, a taste of being seen, of saying things that were important and mattered. Of creating something which made me feel proud.

But now, here I am in the middle. The doubt that Brene talks about when she discusses her meeting at Pixar, it's so real and so universal. What if the NEXT thing I write isn't good? What if I never write anything good again? I don't want to be here, I don't want to be vulnerable. I don't want to suck at this, to feel helpless and incompetent.

Guys. I could spend years in the middle, knowing that I needed to do something and not knowing how to do it. I don't want to be here anymore.

So maybe the only way out is forward.

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

"Why isn't radical acceptance fixing me?" and other silly thoughts about self care

So lately, the universe seems to be throwing mindfulness in my face from all directions. And I am doing my best to catch it, but sometimes I instead get hit in the face.

I've been watching the free online mindfulness summit this month and it's fantastic. In one of the talks, though- okay, in a lot of them - the speaker said, But you can't be mindful of a thought and be trying to get rid of it. That won't work.

Dammit. Why not?

I know this. What we resist persists. The point is to see and acknowledge the thoughts, but see them as separate. Watch them travel by. Wave at them.

And beat them with a bloody stick and then stomp my foot when they haven't gone away yet.

Wait. No. That's not right.

I want to take better care of myself. I've been in shut down mode lately. My skin is breaking out in a rash. My shoulders constantly ache. My mind is constantly running and jumping and screaming in my face. I''m snapping at my kids. I'm not getting my work done. I'm a disappointment.

So. I need to take better care of myself.

So I get out that stick again and start beating myself until I feel better.

Great plan.

I love to write. I love to learn. I love to meditate. I love to run. I love to do yoga. I love to read. I love to sleep.

But for goodness sakes, if I try to do it all in one day I'm just going to melt down more.

So here's my message for all my sisters out there who are beating themselves with the same stick.

It's enough. Take a breath. It's enough. You're enough. You are loved. Thanks for sitting with me and taking that breath.

It's enough.

Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Socks

I'm not a huge fan of socks. Or shoes for that matter. If I could go straight from flip flop season to Ugg season, I would be content.

But fall insists on happening every year.

Since I am an adult, I can suck it up and put on some socks and shoes every day for a few months each year. My children have not yet reached that point.

"My Crocs!" They cry every day when it's time to leave the house.

"It's fifty degrees out."

"MYYYYY CROOOOOCS."

After much sweet talking, finagling, bribing, and wrestling, I can usually get their feet covered and get them out the door.  But as soon as we get home again, the shoes come off (which is encouraged) and so do the socks.

And they disappear into the abyss.

We bought BG a 12 pack of socks a month ago. Two nights ago, we were headed out to a dinner party, and the socks she had worn that morning were gone, so I ran upstairs to grab a new pair.

No socks in her drawer. 20 different socks in the clean laundry basket, but no matches. No dirty socks on the hamper.

I let out a blood curdling roar. My husband called up the stairs, asking if I was okay and pointing out that perhaps my reaction was a bit irrational.

I exhaled. Grabbed two almost matching socks. Added kid socks to my shopping list.

Fist bump, Sisyphus. I'll trade you that rock for some socks.

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Anne Lamott told me to write about school lunches and this is what happened.

The lunches my mom packed always had a treat along with the sandwich and fruit. At school, I liked different things from time to time, but that one summer at YMCA daycamp, it had to be chips.

We sat in a circle. We ate outside, in the grass, under a tree.  We must have been the older kids because we sat outside the fence of the playground.

Someone would empty out a paper lunch bag and we would pass it around, everyone emptying the contents of whatever snack our parents had packed into the bag. Chips, popcorn, crackers, pretzels. Even broken pieces of chocolate chip cookies.  Then the bag would go in the middle and we'd all help ourselves to snack mix that tasted like belonging.

Except that one day, my mom skipped the chips and gave me Tastykakes instead. I don't know if she'd run out or just thought I might like a change, but there it was, cream filled chocolate cupcakes. A twin pack. Utterly snack mix able.

I was mortified. I had nothing to add to the bag. I still sat in the circle, but that day I was outside and went home and yelled at my mother. She was so confused. The bag wasn't the kind of thing you told your mother about.