Hollyhouse Studio

New Spaces

2011-03-23T08:05:00.002-05:00

Hi, guys!

I have some big news to announce on Monday, March 28. I want to make sure you get the word, so follow me on over to a new (can you hear the trumpet fanfare?) website.

My blog will continue over there as well as a few other super fun goodies. If you are a subscriber, and you know your day would be incomplete without a daily dose of Jen, then update your RSS feed or your subscriber sitch. Whatevs.

Just go to:

www.jenniferluitwieler.com

and we'll reunite over there.

xoxo

Jen

Pink and Blue and In Between

2011-03-16T12:49:00.004-05:00

As part of Celebrate Women and Women's History Month, today I'm taking up a common theme among other blogging women: feminist parenting.

My husband and I said we were done having babies when our daughters were 5 and 3. I sat at a table in a South Tulsa restaurant, out with some girlfriends, telling them that no way would I have any more kids. Why would I? Life was cruising along. The girls were nearly school aged. My work as a doula had become a tic more regular.

As I sat there extolling the virtues of our two child home, I was pregnant. Proof that God has a sense of humor.

Our son was born nine months later and enriched my life in ways that I could not have dreamed, especially since I spent the first trimester in tears. Yeah. I said it. I was pregnant when I didn't want to be. He's seven now and he tickles me heart every single day. Just today he was telling me about his "thumb toes," which the uneducated would refer to as the big toes.

There are no two ways about it, though. The girls and the boy are different. Of course, physically. Duh. But also in their temperaments, their social awareness, their interests.

My daughters and I share a subtext in language that I don't have with my son. If one of the girls says her day at school was "okay," that could mean pretty much anything. It could mean that her day was okay. Or, it could mean it was the worst day of her life and uncovering the truth would require hours, maybe days of questions, glances, and comments to finally hear that someone was a jerk in the lunchroom. The truth is usually revealed at the most inconvenient time, but always makes the mama heart sit still and listen. This is often draining, and it is always mysterious. If I ask my son about his day, well, usually, he says, "Awesome," and it involves something about a soccer ball, a swing, some dirt and something one of his many friends said.

Thing is, I want my kids to have equal respect for each other, and all of humanity. My eldest daughter is a natural scientist. She always has been. She could identify all the different types of butterflies at the zoo exhibit when she was barely toddling. She could tell you the difference between an arachnid and an insect whether or not you wanted to know. The dentist asked her in kindergarten what she wanted to be when she grew up. She announced: "An archaeologist. What's your favorite dinosaur? Mine's the parasaurolophus." He didn't know about that dinosaur; she gave him a short lesson and he returned to counting her little baby teeth. She still bemoans the fact that exactly none of her interests are represented in the girls department of any store. We make a lot of tshirts with bugs and stuff on them.

On the other hand, when we were expecting our son, someone said to my soccer coaching husband, "you'll finally have your boy who can play soccer." My husband is a much calmer and nicer person than I will ever hope to be. He just replied that his second daughter was already playing, don't need a boy to do that. Our son loves to dance and sing. He says he knows how to break dance. (He doesn't really.) He is at once sweet and wild. He is not "all boy." He is himself.

I know that I can be over the top about gender roles and labels with my children, but it comes from a place that wants them to use their noggins. I want them to think through what the world says and determine for themselves if they can rely on that, or if they want to challenge the status quo. My kids shake their heads that their classmates think there are boy colors and girl colors. They laugh when their friends say girls can't have certain jobs. That's because I've told them that. Just as my parents told me; don't let the world limit you.

Like I wrote last week, a feminist is not just a woman. A feminist is someone who can see value and strength in the other. I want that as much for my son as I want that for my daughters.

Love Me

2011-03-11T12:47:00.003-06:00

Oooh. This is a tough one today. In the tradition of Five Minute Fridays, courtesy of The Gypsy Mama, I bring you this....

This topic makes my heart flutter with nerves. I don't really want to write about when I feel most loved, because it seems incredibly introspective and highly personal. As opposed to writing about my 40 year old self in lycra running pants, which isn't personal at all.

I feel most loved when it is clear someone else has thought of me. Not the me they want me to be or wish me to be but the me I am. The full fledged, fully formed, fully flawed woman, wife, mom, believer, thinker, slacker, runner, wackadoo.

Having celebrated my birthday a week ago, and having been surrounded with women of every stripe at a dinner out, I was reminded of the beauty of diversity and the fullness in my heart at being known. I didn't want gifts; I just wanted to have a beer with some cool girls. The gifts they brought, besides their smiles, reflected the me I am to them, and that me ain't too shabby.

A few pieces of custom jewelry picked with me in mind, a gift card for a more "literary" cafe, and a new personal addition, itunes bucks. These women know me because they know that I like funky, mismatched jewelry. They know i like to get my groove on. They know I am working on my literary masterpiece and could use some time away from my desk in order to pound out the magic.

I feel loved when what is reflected back to be is an accurate representation of what I think I'm putting out there.

Rabble Rousers

2011-03-09T12:41:00.004-06:00

As part of the Celebrate Women blogging celebration, I'm adding my voice to the mix with today's theme, Strong Women and Feminism.

My life as a feminist was carved out for me even before I was in utero. I have strong rabble-rousing, foul-mouthed, revolutionistas in my history. My great-grandmother led the Pennsylvania parent's association for years and talked openly about desegregating schools long before that was a hot button issue. She stormed the capital once to demand better fireworks polices for Fourth of July celebrations because a young African American child had been blinded by an uncontrolled pyrotechnique. My grandmother attended college in the late 1920s and went on to write for newspapers at a time when women just weren't doing those things.

My mother offended her own father, first by being born a girl and then going on to college, to teach, and then to work in the big city while my dad did afterschool duty at home. My grandfather was so mad that my mother was not a boy that he called her Mike, instead of her name, Helen. She is, to this day, Aunt Mike, to my cousins. That's not always easy to explain.

Furthermore, my own father acted as homemaker for a much of my childhood. He taught me to perfectly steam broccoli, how to cook rice, trim the chicken, start the crockpot and the gas grill. Mom got home after he did; he made dinner most nights. He also was the expert floor cleaner. Mom did other jobs, like cutting the grass. My parents gave all jobs to all children. Boys and girls cut the grass, took out the trash, washed the car, checked the oil, unloaded the dishwasher.

I attended a college for women. On the first day of the first year, the indoctrination began; we were challenged daily to use our words precisely. I was no longer a girl. They referred to us as women. The transition still strikes me as funny; one day I'm a girl and the next a woman. (Not a lady. I don't want to be a lady. I'll tell you about that some other day.)

In fact, from all of these people I learned what a real feminist is. The world and I might have varying ideas of what a feminist is. And because I'm a *true* feminist, I'm totally cool with that. Being a feminist is not limited to being female. My dad was just my first example of this. My husband is also a great forward thinking man (even though I think it's stupid that I have to say he's forward thinking when in reality he's just him, with smarts). When he was ready to ask me to marry him, my husband did not ask my father for my hand. My dad had long ago told me that I am no one's property and I was not his to give. My husband understood this, both about my dad and me.

When we married, my father did not give me away. Instead, my parents both gave our union their blessing. I know that may seem semantic, a mere nod to untraditional, but it was important to me; I wanted to continue to establish my wholeness as a person.

Feminists believe that women are people. A feminist understands that for some women, staying at home with babies is imperative, while for others, returning to work holds the same import. A feminist decides for herself if she doesn't want babies at all. A feminist is a person who knows what she wants, knows how to get it, and will not compromise her character or other's to obtain it. A feminist can be strong, smart, emotive, funny, complex. Feminists exist as whole people whether in a significant relationship or not. A feminist understands that women have brains to make their own choices, about everything from which college to attend, to whom to marry and when, to when and how they give birth.

To me a feminist embraces choice. All choice. The right of every person to make his or her own choices. Of course, a wise person makes use of every resource available to her and will not make those decisions lightly or in a vacuum. I hope that I have even an ounce of my ancestor's rabble-rousing blood in me.

Identity: Continuing to tear labels at the door

2011-03-07T09:44:00.002-06:00

This morning's post comes to you from my dear twitter friend Julie, or as I know her @mojojules. We had an interesting exchange a few weeks ago about identity, how it shifts, what it means, and where we find it. I asked Julie to write a post about it for my blog. In the coming weeks, I'll be featuring other voices from the stable of totally cool people I know. Say, "hi," to Julie and leave her your comments. Thanks, ya'll.

I admit this post has more questions than answers. I do not want to come off as though I have some great pearl of wisdom here. I am just another person a long a journey that seems to have more questions than answers. I hope that those who are reading this are there with me. If you want answers, you may want to bypass my post here. However, I welcome those to push back and help me think a long this journey. Therefore, as I always do on guest posts on another’s blog, pull up something comfy, grab a coffee, tea, or something that brings you a nice thoughtful spirit, and let us dive into the mystery of identity and labels.

So. to give those who do not know me a background here is a brief little thing about me. I was raised a preacher’s kid, third generation (probably more than that) church of Christ, and for all who knew I was as normal as could be. I married “later” in life, in my 30’s and then four years later I secret I had kept well hidden came rippling up. I came out as lesbian (queer) and my life took a new journey. I share this because it has to do with identity. I think as much of us do, once we come out we feel so free that we take our LGBTQ (rest of the ABC’s) identity with the abandonment of a child on Christmas day opening all the presents. As I have gone on this journey and as I have matured in whom I am this thing of identity haunts me. Not who I think I am to myself, but what others have decided my identity is.

As a woman that is queer I find that it puts me in an odd spot. That label puts me at odds in some circles. Honestly, I have been open to that controversy. It has been a part of being proud of coming out and tackling fears I kept inside myself. However, in the last several months I have wanted to tear it all down. I am tired of what separates me from others and I’m tired of seeing others by their label. I know for many this goes against what they think I should say. I should stand in arms against the “anti” people out there. I just keep looking at Jesus and his example and although I see him standing against injustice I also see him saying, “come to me…” He does not say, “come to me all you liberals…” or “come to me all you conservatives…” and the list could go on, but he just says “come to me….” It is not that hard to read and it is not that hard to say, but the practice of it all. How do I bridge myself to community when for the most part community wants me to come in fully labeled so that we are in our place, all neat and tidy. However, none of us is neat and tidy and none of us ever keeps the rules of how to be hold to our picked labels. Yet, I am still trying to push that boundary. I am trying to be in the place that I feel Christ wants me to be and that is with his messy followers. I just want to be fully stitched in the beautiful quilt of Christ’s followers. I do not want to be in another quilt because it only represents me, but I want to be in the horrific, beautifully messy quilt that is all of us.

I once asked on twitter, what label would you drop to have full community? I asked it in all seriousness and with people wanting to think. Even right now, the war rages on. People are flocking to wage war against those who label themselves Universalist and those who support this view are fighting back. It seems that labels here even have gotten the best of us. I so want to find safety beyond labels, I want to find the truth in which my tribe preaches, which is we are ready to accept anyone how they are, no matter how they come. So which label are you willing to let go of for the sake of community and for the sake of bettering our lives together? Right now, I am in the battle of it. Today I want to think I’m ready to let them all go so that I can see people. To see people who are honestly ready to live out a true faith, not just one to dream about and put in a glass case.

When I Look in the Mirror

2011-03-04T08:11:00.004-06:00

Today, I'm joining others in a five minute writing exercise called Five Minute Fridays. I hope you play along, too.

When I look in the mirror, I see layers of me. I see the surface, skin and its attendant mid-life acne. What is up with that? I see a sassy new do and a slightly misshapen nose. I see a body that has birthed the babies and nourished the life into them with milk. I see a long gone youth of scars from playing in the woods behind the house in Pittsburgh. I see new scars from new journeys into running and play. I see the crazy mess of a bathroom shared by 5 people who have little respect for boundaries in a crazy and triumphantly loving way.

When I look in the mirror, I see the me who is and the me I was and I find that they can exist together, peacefully in one newly 40 year old body. I see a woman who craves the desire of her husband and the strong limbs of a mother who carried those babies, who carries them still in the limbs of her heart.

Looking in the mirror feels at once arrogant and practical. I balance vanity with plain hygiene.

Of Buckets Lists and Details

2011-02-26T09:41:00.003-06:00

My friend Cheryl began adding to her Bucket List this week and wondered what others had added to theirs. I told her in my very worst snot-nosed-brat voice that I don't have a Bucket List and don't plan to have a Bucket List. I simply must do a better job of keeping my mouth shut. Or at least moderating my tone.

I don't want to start a Bucket List for a few reasons. The first being, I'm not a huge fan of thinking about my mortality. Not that I think I'll live forever in this body on earth. Thank God that's not the case. It's just too sentimental for this mama's heart. So there's that.

While I do like the idea of planning adventures to do before we die, I get lost in the grandiose and forget to focus on the smallest details. And that's really the main reason why I don't have a compilation of hopes and aspirations. I've been to England, France, Italy and Switzerland. I've visited the islands of the Caribbean. I have ziplined, parasailed, water skied, tubed and jetskied.I've had babies at home and in the hospital. I have driven crazy long distances. I have laughed and cried and have done once-in-a-lifetime. And they were all fantastic.

When I dream of taking my husband to Japan for a month so he can enjoy first hand what he finds endlessly intersting, I forget to look at him and love him right now. When I wonder what it would be like to take my daughters away for significant birthdays, the years have mentally passed and I overlook the joy in their play and thoughts today. When I imagine my son graduating high school, the last child to fly the coop, I forget that my home will be empty of all their beautiful faces.

Sure, I want to travel and play and try and do more with my family. Yes, I want to learn to paint and how to edit photos. I'd love to be able to take my mom to Venice and go fly fishing with my dad. But what I really want is to love them all right now, in the miniscule details of everyday life, amidst the clutter of homework and dishes and parties and practices.

My bucket list is, instead of being large and wild, a hope to shine a microscope of attention of each of the important people in my life. Right now. Today.

Whooo Are You?

2011-02-21T11:54:00.005-06:00

My daughter B turned 11 this month. She is an amazing kid (aren't they all?); she is confident and funny and shy and serious. She likes to read but then again, she doesn't. She loves to play soccer but she gives me fits when it's time for practice. She's tall and strong and her heart is as big as the sky; it breaks over injustice and small differences. She's a lover and a giver. Unless we're talking siblings.

She received a gift card to spend at a department store. Unlike her mother, this child loves to shop. She still loves to play dress up, and she thinks it's even more fun when you get to bring those things home and wear them around and then leave them on the floor of her room, but whatever. The day we went to use her gift card, she was abuzz. The excitement of spending money on whatever she wanted was just too much to bear.

We wandered the aisles, her siblings and me making suggestions, offering opinions. She told us to buzz off. We did. She made her selections and tried them on. We left with a bagful of new garments, a mother approving of her choices, a child thrilled with new goodies.

She waited a week for an opportunity to wear her new garments: a brown and olive print skirt with a wide brown belt, a brown embellished tee with a square neck and a soft white cardigan. Oh, and bronze sandals from the women's department. Girl's feet are bigger than mine. Yesterday she put on her clothes for church and we oohed and aahhed about how pretty and grown up she looked. Her face grew dark and she followed me into the bathroom while I finished my own morning toilette. You know, hair, makeup, shoes...

"Mama." She said. She looked sad in her pretty spring clothes. "Do you think I still look like myself?"

Of course she looked like herself. "What's wrong?"

"I'm afraid," she told me, after hemming and hawing, "that putting these different kinds of clothes on will change me."

Her question, of course, spoke to me, her mother, on so many levels: the child beginning to wrestle with identity, groups and styles, plus the insecurity that comes with it; the growing young person balanced between kid and woman, unsure how to walk this balance beam. Her question digs to a deeper level about who we are and how we present our selves to the world.

Are we the clothes we wear? Are we our glasses or the music we listen to or the car we drive? Is it true that "the clothes make the man?"

Many of these things do send off certain vibes: hipster, fashionista, athlete, academic. But these are just the first glimpse others get of us, and sometimes our clothes just mean: I'm working out or I'm going out or I'm staying in. And we can alter our attitudes, I think, a bit by how we choose to dress. When I dress in sweats and a tee, I'm a bit lazier. When I put on shoes and an actual outfit, I'm ready to work.

But the ME putting on those clothes has not changed. I am the same person, despite not having showered yet today.

My daughter hit on something big and I know we'll be talking about it for some time. How do we reveal ourselves as complex creatures under the limits of a superficial world? By superficial I mean that we all make snap judgements largely predicated on how something or someone appears. So, who are you? Just a pile of cotton and wool or a crazy mixed up salad bowl of traits and characteristics? How do you shine through?

Can I Ask You a Question?

2011-02-17T10:17:00.002-06:00

Today's post is written by my great friend, Cyndi. She is an incredibly talented photographer with an artistic, funky eye. Her graphic designs are amazing. Check her out. She taught herself to crochet and now she whips up sweaters for her dog, Betty. She is a Steelers fan, a loyal friend, a careful reader and a woman carving out her life, just like the rest of us. Say hi to Cyndi and hear what's on her mind.

I've spent a lot of time deep in thought lately about the meaningfulness of me. Yeah. Trying to find who I am and what "I" mean to those I love and care about. Much of this search for meaning is anchored in my never ending search of figuring out who I am. I've become entangled with a crisis of identity that never seems to get resolved.

Sometimes I am convinced it has passed. But like those missing pairs of socks that turn up after you used its mate to dust and polish furniture? Or the flip flop you thought went to that black hole where all unmated flip flops go until you discover it vacationing in the back of your closet? I realize it is there. Waiting. Ready to zap the badda from my bing. The ying from my yang. The hunky from my dorry.

The other day I had a conversation with a friend about the worth of our friendship, all the while trying to find out the answer to that question I think we are often afraid to ask of those we care about---'What, if anything, do I mean to you?' Hard question to come straight out and ask, so we hide it in 'safe' prompts and take the easy way.

At least I do...

When was the last time you had the guts to just come out and ask a friend or someone you love 'do I mean anything at all to you?' Because sometimes, especially when friendships and relationships of significance start depleting you emotionally, isn't that the question we really want to ask?

I think so...

Don't we sometimes just want to know if our emotional energy is worth it for a friend?

I think so...

Or do we shy away from asking because the answer might not be what we want to hear?

I think so...

Is this fear of truth in the answer holding us back?

I think so...

So in a round-about-beating-around-the-bush way, I asked my friend. And this is how it turned out:

Me: "If you had never met me & I wasn't in your life would you be better, more happy?"

Friend: "That's an odd question. I would be the same as I am now."

Obviously that wasn't the answer I wanted. But then again, I didn't ask the tough question. I asked the safe question.

I'm such a wimp...

Affirmation of my meaning in relation to those I love is what makes me get out of bed on days when all I want to do is sleep away the pain & sadness of not knowing who I am & what I mean to be here on this earth at all.

My identity is sadly defined in many ways by what others think of me and feel for me.

I'm such a loser....

I don't think I'm alone in this thinking. I know many women who define themselves via their husbands & how he treats them, their children & how they treat them & in their friends & how they engage & relate with them.

I'm one of those women...

Asking my friend that question made me have a "Come to Jesus" moment with myself.

I'm such a cliché...

If I invest myself emotionally in a friend I want to know that I meant enough to make some kind of difference to help make their life happy & rich because they knew me and for my having genuinely cared about them. Why? Because friendships and relationships are so wrapped up in how I view myself.

I'm so needy...

But the next time, if there ever is a next time, I see this friend in person? I'm gonna ask the tough question. In person. So I can't hide behind the text in a message. So I can see face to face what I mean, if anything at all.

I'm so gonna be brave...

Love Day Diatribe

2011-02-14T11:40:00.004-06:00

Maybe today isn't the best day for me to write this post. I woke up with a raging sinus headache that has literally left me speechless. If you know me personally, this is the kiss of death; I sure like to talk. My precious children are on a scheduled break from school despite having had only 3 full days of school so far THIS MONTH. And we're all about to go bonkers. In other words, I didn't just wake up on the wrong side of the bed. I dug a hole in the mattress and started growing roots.

I opened the dreaded facebook page to a smattering of Happy Valentine's Day wishes. Twitter was rife with the same well meaning drivel. All I could do was sneer. Bah! A pox on all these red hearts and "one of kind" corporately manufactured "sentimental" gold charms. Gag me.

To be clear, I have no problem with people expressing their love for one another. Fantastic. My problem with Valentine's Day stems from an early predilection for romance that has since been replaced with a deep and abiding love for myself and the people in my life.

Sure, sure. Romance is amazing. Who doesn't love the scene in "Pride and Prejudice" where Mr. Darcy confesses, clumsily, that the opinionated Miss Bennett has "bewitched [him]. Body and soul." Sigh. Sure, I loved the early days dating my now-husband of nearly 16 years. We couldn't wait to talk on the phone (people used to do that), we would pedal bikes through Pittsburgh snow storms just to be together. Delightful days, all. And yet, there is something so transient about those days. While now I can see, almost touch, something so adhesive about having come through the last 16 years together. And more.

But my abhorrence for Valentine's Day is more than just being content in my marriage. I can't help it; I'm disgusted with a culture that elevates couples and relegates singles to the sad little corner with their sad little single selves. It is not unlike the grotesque ideals of beauty women confront every day: thinner waists, bigger boobs, and a man on your arm. There is always someone telling us we are not good enough, pretty enough, or worth enough. The suggestion is that you're loser if you are alone today. And I will not abide that.

So, it comes to this. Women and men have value because they are inbued with it. Not because they've earned it. Second, people are of value, whether single, married, dating, divorcing, etc. Just simple fact. Finally, I love my husband every single day. I know he loves me every single day. I don't need card companies and jewelry makers to mandate my love.

I know some of you love this day and that's great. I will even smile if you tell me to have a nice Valentine's Day. As much as you can celebrate it, I can choose not to. So there.

I told you I was in a snit.

You Can't Make Me

2011-02-13T08:17:00.005-06:00

Tulsa is just beginning to dig out, or melt out, of our biggest snow storm in decades. My precious angels have been home going buggy with me for two weeks straight. It's taking a toll.

And I don't mean on the kids. They're having the time of their lives.

I mean this girl. I haven't been able to get outside for a nice long run in those two weeks. Sure, I've bounded through snow banks with The Dog, in the snow, in the cold, like a reluctant pioneer who forgot to bring her woolens. The roads have been covered with layer upon layer of packed snow and ice. The sidewalks were worse.

Eleven weeks from today I plan to run my first half marathon. The massive snow had me all wigged out that I would have to totally restart my training. A few things are funny about this. First, I never wanted to train in the first place. It just sort of happened. Second, the fact that I'm now referring to training in somewhat serious terms shows some level of self awareness on my part that this effort will require...effort. Finally, this will mean the adoption of some kind of plan.

Perish the thought. I'm decidedly anti-plan. Plans suck all the joy out of running. Plans make official the voluntary and fun. Plans mean some outside authority is asserting its will upon mine. I really dislike plans. Truth is, one doesn't just wake up one day and run a half marathon. Or, if one does, one will surely endure injury, pain, frustation or failure. I try to avoid those things.

I worry that adopting a plan will crush the spirit of joy I like to engage while running. At the same time, I recognize that anything worth doing, like our mothers always told us, is worth doing well. My personal coaches (I have a bunch of them) have made suggestions about distance and timing. They urge some kind of consistency. The best advice they've each given, though, remains the same: enjoy the run, have fun, do what comes naturally.

I will resist the plan even while I try to find one that doesn't cramp my carefree style. I will embrace the joy. So, maybe you can make me.

Asking to be Loved

2011-02-09T12:50:00.003-06:00

My day started with a lurch. I went to bed angry that something I had planned and looked forward to wasn't going to happen. At least not in any way remotely like I had imagined it. I woke up with the tang of resentment and bitterness coating my tongue. This sensation crept into my abdomen and built a small hut. It stoked a fire of pity and whining that smoked up and filled my body with loathing and lethargy.

I trudged from room to room, gulping scalding hot mouthfuls of coffee, restless but unmotivated to make a change. I stood pointlessly in the office and allowed the bitterness, the resentment, the frustration and anger to send its permanent address card to the postmaster.

Yuck. If there's anything worse than feeling sorry for oneself, it's standing resolutely knee deep in the stinking pit of it and declaring, "Come on in! The water's fine!"

I posted a little blurb on Facebook, a pitiful request for someone to say something nice to me. You know what? You staggered with your responses. I feel like Sally Field. You like me! You really like me!

What surprised me about the comments was how divergent and representative they were. Of course, I mean my friends made comments that truly represent me, or aspects of me. But more than that, the comments they made represented them. And what an amazing display of unique and wonderful people I saw! I saw the beautiful face of each person who replied: earnest, funny, quietly witty, brilliant and simple.

I am heartened. In light of my recent posts about identity, I find the diversity of my friends illuminating. In fact, I do "belong." Because I know you and you know me. Thank you, every one. You make me blush.

Who are You? Dance Remix

2011-02-08T06:17:00.007-06:00

Maintaining this identity theme I've been chewing on, I wonder about the self, or how we behave, in certain groups. I think of all the times I flitted from one Christian group to another, making the necessary adjustments along the way, attempting to assimilate.

In other words, in the simplest terms, that most Christians can agree with, I am a Christian.

However. We Christians can be like a world of middle school girls: clique-alicious.

I have theologically conservative Christian friends and theologically liberal Christian friends. Unsurprisingly, these folks tend to be polar on politics as well. I know moderately knowledgeable Christians and incredibly academic Christians. I know Calvinists, Anabaptists, Catholics and some others whose names I forget. I move among the groups that denounce gays and lesbians, and I move about the devout gays and lesbians. I have Christian friends who are all about the love. I have others who are all about the law. Some of my Christian friends have the wisdom of the ages, and others have this gorgeous simplicity that astounds me.

There are times I'm in groups where I must bite my tongue to the point of bleeding in order to maintain a modicum of decorum and peace. There are other times when I'm popping off like Papa Bear O'Reilly, loose and loud with the opinions.

So. You see where I'm going. How does a woman, finding her identity in Jesus and full of passion, talents, gifts and questions navigate her way through these crowds, crowds of alleged "sameness," and still remain herself? And by "herself," I mean the "she" God made and mandated. The "she" God crafted with his intense attention to detail, with all her conflicting humanity boiling over inside.

And the larger question would be, how do we, as believers, navigate "the other?" The challenge is to be a group of believers willing to explore, to expand, and to find the smallest common denominator and work from there. Moreover, how do we love "the other" in the mess, in the polarization of politics, in the heat of theological debate? Do we honor the uniqueness of God in our treatment of "the other?"

Again: I don't know. Do you?

Who Are You?

2011-02-07T13:05:00.004-06:00

Last week I felt overwhelmed by the number of blogs I read about depression. This is at once disheartening and encouraging. Paul was right when he admonished the early church to "carry each other's burdens." He knew that this life we walk through contains a lifetime of scrapes, bruises and bone crushing agony. He knew because he lived it, in prison, being beaten, living on the generosity of others. Paul knew a world of hurt. Paul was not too big for his britches. He knew humility and he practiced it when first meeting the disciples, when speaking to crowds, when giving thanks for the many gifts he'd received. Paul knew that when we share burdens, it makes them lighter. Duh.

Seems like another burden I'm hearing about is this question of who we are. I recently spent about an hour with some wise women on twitter talking through identities, categories (boxes), and busting them down. Jules offered this: "I just don't know where I fit in all this."

Isn't that a question of the ages. Where do I fit in? Do I want to fit in? Am I compromising some other aspect of my identity in fitting in? Does the act of fitting in over here shortchange me or my peers over there?

Kristin reminded us of the dreaded "twitter bio," wherein one boils the self down to a few well-chosen descriptors. Or not. I've long had a knee jerk reaction to personality tests and other methods whereby we ascribe certain characteristics to another. They feel so limiting and prescribed: answer these questions this way, then we'll draw a perfect little box around you, and there YOU are. Forever and always. Just so reductive and far too simple.

Except, not really. Read the chapters in Exodus where God through Moses tells the Israelites exactly how to construct the ark of the covenant. He doesn't simply say, "Hey. You know what would be totally rad? What if we had, like, a pretty box, or something, and you could all carry it around?" Nope. He goes on for CHAPTERS about the kind of wood, the types of workers, which sides the angels heads should face. He describes in detail what kind of fabric to use for curtains, how far apart to space the clasps, which are to be made from specified metals. From start to finish he is intimately involved in the design and execution of production.

As I read, on and on and on about the ark and all these seemingly senseless directions, knowing full well that they each, I'm sure, have their reasons, I couldn't help but think in much smaller terms. The twitter convo reminded me of that. If God spent that much time giving explicit mandates for the ark, if he cared that much about this piece of wood and metal and fabric, how much more time does he spend being the ultimate artist, calling us to a glorious, messy, fantastic identity.

If he cared so much about something that he'd blast apart with the birth of his son, then what does that say about how he views his people?

I don't have the answers, and I know it's trite, but really, isn't this the beginning and the end of the identity question? Where do we begin? Where do we end? Can we live in a world without descriptors? If not, then how can we engage them to work for us rather than against us?

I don't know. What do you think?

Is Virtual Community Still Community?

2011-02-04T11:46:00.002-06:00

I'm going with, "Yes." Yes it is.

In Tulsa, we're on our fourth in a row snow day. More of the dreaded-by-moms, hoped-for-by-children white stuff is flying through the air as I type. I'm kind of enjoying the snow days with the kids because they are so relaxed and chill. I'm also resisting the urge to curl up in a corner and weep silently for the lost time of the work week and what little shred of sanity I thought I had left.

But it has given me some time to catch up on my favorite blogs. January and February seem to hit us hard, and that truth has never been more real than this year. As I click through links posted by different and amazing, clever and thoughtful, lovely and illuminating bloggers, I'm seeing a trend. That trend makes me sad but also hopeful.

I seem to keep reading posts about depression in its various ugly forms; what it feels like, what to do about it, how to talk about it, feel about it. Of course it's troubling that so many of my online friends grapple with the pain of the dark beast. What I like about these posts, though, is that these people are talking about it. They are telling their stories about it. They are kicking back at the many-headed monster through words and the sensitive touch of virtual community.

When I talk about my "twitter friends" I get a few different responses, but the most common is a sort of understated eye roll. And I get that. I know it seems empty and virtual and what possible good can that be?

Well, I'll tell you: it's community. And it is real and organic. I'm sure that's not what everyone finds there, and it sure doesn't apply to every single person whose updates I read. But, the sense of caring and compassion I've found online is as real and true as what I experience in so-called "real life."

Keep talking, people. About the mess of life, the pain of loss, depression, divorce and infidelity. Keep talking because when you tell your story, it gives others courage to share theirs. And when they do that, trust forms and healing begins.

Okay, enough of the love-in. Back to my black and gold updates. Have a great weekend.

Mixed Emotions

2011-02-02T13:20:00.005-06:00

You guys. You know it's Super Bowl Week, right? You know that all my favorite sports talkers (Dan Patrick and the Danettes) are in Dallas talking up the celebrities, attending Media Day, getting ready for the big game. You better know it. You know I bleed black and gold, just like all my fellow yinzers who are goin' dahntahn to watch the game and celebrate after the win, n'at.

As a kid, the paper printed a centerfold caricature of one Steelers player each Sunday. My brother and sister and I would carefully plaster this inimitable artwork to the walls of the staircase leading to our basement. By the end of the season, the stairwell was our own holy shrine to the Steel Curtain, our very own Pittsburgh-only Hall of Fame. Franco Harris, Rocky Bleier, Terry Bradshaw, Jack Lambert...we had them all. Now I've got Terrible Towels strewn about my house as if it's a known decorating scheme much praised in the world of design. My car scurries through town emblazoned with Steelers statements. You get the point. I'm tried and true.

This year I've been sitting on a very uncomfortable fence, stemming from allegations made against Steelers starting QB Ben Roethlisberger. His alleged sexual assault and/or rape, on more than one occasion, does not sit well with this feminist mother rabble-rousing Steelers fan. How can I stand behind a team that allows a suspected predator act as their strong armed savior? How does that square with what I want to teach my children about respecting oneself, that no always means no, that there is never a reason for such actions. How can I cheer when, by his height and strength and footwork, scrambles out of the pocket and finds my friend Heath Miller or Hines Ward downfield for a huge gain to win the game?

I'm torn between rooting for my team and throwing in the Terrible Towel in disgust. Allegations like these are hard to prove and even harder to talk about because of the celebrity status and money involved. It is easy to believe both sides of this story: that Roethlisberger is a total pig who needs to serve some time, or that these are women looking for easy paydays. These types of things boil down to he said/she said and carry the assumption of guilt for all involved. Public sports pundits want to wag fingers, cultural leaders want to advocate for tougher victim's rights laws. Spectators just want the game to go on.

In listening to sports radio, I've been disgusted at the willingness of men and women fans. We are all complicit, willing to keep watching the sport, to keep blaming the woman, proclaiming that "boys will be boys." All because we're uncomfortable talking about it.

But we need to talk about it. In light of recent proposed legislation to redefine rape, in light of a culture that's growing increasingly desensitized to aggressive sexuality, in light of our responsibility as adults, spectators, humans, to demand better treatment of our fellow humans. I applaud Terry Bradshaw for excoriating Roethlisberger and calling him to task for his inappropriate, possibly illegal, behavior. And if it's true, that Roethlisberger is indeed a changed man, when he gives praise to God on the winner's dias, I hope it's true.

But don't tell me you're a changed man. Show me.

Raising the Bar

2011-01-27T14:32:00.002-06:00

My friend Kristin has written about the bleak blah that is the month of January. While many people have never had a glimpse of the beast that is depression, many of us know its long and strong tentacles can gasp at any moment, sucking us down into a pit of miry clay, if I may be so bold.

I seem to live according the rhythm of the students' calendar. With three school-aged kids and one teacher man living with me, my life is set by the school. In the 16 years that he's been a teacher, and in the years prior to that when I was a real live student, I've experienced the roller coaster that is the school year. And I will tell you that January can bite it. (Along with August, December and May.)

Usually in January, I'd be wrapped up in layers and layers of soft, elastic-waisted clothes going face down in yet another pint of Ben and Jerry's Americone Dream. But you know, I've been running. And I have these goals! And it's so pretty outside right now. And I as much as I adore Americone Dream, I just can't eat another pint. Well... maybe just a bite.

My running routine was a precise and secure process in my day, leaving the house for a run right after the troops left for school. I was faithful to my routine all the way up to the day Christmas break started. It's been downhill since, rather deliciously I might add. I took time off for a trip to Pennsylvania. Then it was icy and cold. So I lost about 4 weeks of regular running. But this week my cabin fever reached critical mass. I had to find, gasp, a new routine! Golly I hate change. It's so...changey.

It occurred to me that I did not have to run in the mornings, when it was so blasted cold. Duh. What took me so long? I don't know. And I won't bore you with the logistical craziness running in the middle of the day causes. I will just say that it's not the most convenient. Silver lining: I still get outside to do the thing I love. And this is good.

So?

Well, a few things. One, the minor inconvenience is worth it to get something I want. A simple shift in perspective opened up a way for me to carve out the time I wanted. I know it's temporary and I can deal with that.

I also realized that I didn't have to be a martyr about running. I had run in 28 degrees and that was not fun, yet I had this misplaced idea that cowing to weather was copping out. But then, I posted to Facebook this morning "I deserve higher standards," about running when it's below freezing. Heck yeah, I do. I found a way to keep running without torturing my digits in sub-freezing breezes.

And then I realized something I'd thought before. I am often disappointed in what an easy teacher running is and how thick I am that I need pictures to grasp the bigger truth. I long for running to be this largely contemplative exercise from which I emerge an enlightened, empowered voice of untaught wisdom. Truth is, running is a pretty simple stand in for much of life.

What I mean is, we do deserve higher standards and I'm not just talking about the thermometer. And I'm not talking about keeping our houses and children perfect. I'm talking about what we allow ourselves the time to participate in. I wanted, I needed to get moving outside; there were a few obstacles and I kicked them in the teeth to get them out of my way.

I'm worth a run outside. I'm worth one hour to think and move, to pace, pray and vanish.

What are you worth? How will you raise the bar?

There is No Jen in "Steelers." Or is there...?

2011-01-24T10:37:00.004-06:00

My love for the black and gold has been well documented. And lest you think this black and gold of which I speak is the "little black dress" and gold earrings, you'd be wise to shift your gaze to that photo up there. Yeah, that one. The one of the Terrible Towel, marked with evidence of the Steelers' victories in an unprecedented 6, count em, SIX Super Bowls.

Yes. My ardor for the Steelers does not wane. And you most likely know this already. I can't help it. I love me some Steelers.

Last night, when the Steelers reached the Super Bowl for the eighth time by soundly defeating Rex Ryan and his wily, too-little-too late Jets, the texts and voice mails poured in to my very busy phone. You guys know me so well, and I know I'm not obnoxious about it. At. All.

"Congrats!" "Well done." "That was a close one!" "See you in Dallas!" "We're going to the Super Bowl!!!!!!"

This is what I refer to as the "royal we" of sport, wherein one's entire fan base takes credit for all a teams' successes and rues all of their shortcomings. When we say "We're going to the Super Bowl," we mean it. Our passion has carried our team to the crest of perfection and we ride the wave of their muscle-bound glory.

When someone says, "Congrats," that my team has advanced, and lived to play another game, another rival vanquished, I smile and say, "Thanks," because it is through my efforts that my team has a stout defense and scrambling giant of a QB.

"See you in Dallas!" They crow. "Heck to the yeah!" I cry back. Now, I'm not really, physically going to Dallas, but MY team is. And vicariously I am. And I will make my virtual presence known. You will hear the cheer in my tweets and status updates. You hopefully will not have to experience my anguish.

It's funny how invested we get in mere sport. I get loud, chatty and a bundle of nerves. I pace and hold my Terrible Towel over my eyes on 3rd and long or, worse on 4th and 1 when we choose to go for it. My husband sits quietly remote from the crowd. He doesn't talk. He barely eats. He is a stoic stone of passivity. Occasionally, though, he will mutter and grumble like the old man in the corner. "We need to tackle," he'll say. Or, "Why are we passing. We need to force the run." As if he's right there, on the sidelines, with some kind of authority to make these adjustments.

I know nay-sayers exist. There are those in the crowd who disdain the use of the sporting royal we, rightly claiming it simply isn't so. WE are not on the team. OUR cheering makes little to no impact on the game, especially those of us watching at home. We do not need to run the ball because WE do not get to touch the ball.

Sure sure. That's TECHNICALLY true. But isn't community and team spirit the point of teams? Aren't they groups of players and spectators for a reason? Sports wouldn't exist today if not for the fan dumping his cold hard cash nto the system.
Without her passion to show up early and stay there late if that's what her team needs. If no crowd arrives, there's not much of a point, is there? They play for us and we cheer for them.

So yes, thank you for the many congrats. I'm excited we made it and I'll see you all in Dallas. Look for me. I'll be the nervous nelly pacing with a yellow towel on her head.

The Mystery

2011-01-21T11:23:00.002-06:00

I can't choose! Your theories on the lost cards astound and frankly, they frighten. I promise never to cross any of you. You are a diabolical bunch.

I got a lot of "missing persons" stuff, one Rapture (interesting) and one with a failed skydiving excursion.

My rational self leans toward the "dropped it at the bus stop" variety, which is so blase. I put myself to sleep with that meager offering.

I fear it is what you've suggested. Poor guy. In the wrong place at the wrong time, car jacking, takes a swing at his abductor, grabs his wallet and flings all three out the window to leave a trail of identity breadcrumbs.

Of course, because I didn't run enough days last week, and didn't find it til Tuesday, my efforts to return to the documents are futile. The police will uncover the ugly truth, and I'll never know what became of the two. It's all my fault for not running even though is was, like, really cold out and stuff.

Have a good weekend.

The Perils of a Good Samaritan

2011-01-19T10:01:00.004-06:00

After the events from yesterday's run, I threw the challenge flag and went to the booth for replay. I viewed the mental video of the goofiest things that have happened to me when I'm out running. Not too many, but enough to give pause. Surely there's significance in this?

I'll start with yesterday. I was almost done with my run. It was cold, colder than my phone app told me it was (*shaking fist and exlaiming "curses technology"). I turned the penultimate corner when in my periphery I noticed an ID badge and a notebook on the sidewalk near a bus stop. You know how your mind sometimes takes a second to balance vision with reality? By the time I had figured out that someone had dropped important cards, I was 50 yards down the way. My stupid conscience made me go back. My plan was to move it off the path, put it in the grass, so that if the person who dropped it came back, his stuff would be right there. And that's what I did.

I ran on and my stupid conscience would not shut up. Cripes. Fine. I turned around and went back. Again. This time I was about 150 yards away. I hemmed and hawed the whole time. Should I take it to a local business? Why make it their problem? And what if they didn't do their civic duty? Could I trust them to do the important work of researching and finding the poor sod who lost his badge? Oh, and his credit card? An errand of this import could not be left to mere amateurs.

By the time I got back to the lost items, the dog was thoroughly confused and a tiny bit reluctant to keep running. I grabbed the badge, the lanyard, the credit card and the wet notebook (I refuse to think about what liquid put it in that condition). I ran home. Now the conscience pushed me on. Well, that and the cold. A shift in my day. Now I had a project on my plate I didn't really want or care to carve out the time for.

Then it got interesting.

In the lanyard were two cards, one an ID badge and one a certification from some kind of training. Neither card had a phone number. The credit card that was with the lanyard but not inside it appeared to belong to another person altogether. In other words, the names did not match. Hmm. I put my citizen's officer cap on and got to work. The only identifier was the name of the training company so I called them up. Eliza answered the phone and was very kind. She told me the man's number. I asked Eliza what state I was calling; Washington. I told her I was in Oklahoma, and she said, "My word," told her colleagues and asked my number.

I called the number she gave me for my lost person, but all I got was a weird beeping. Couldn't leave a voice mail. Then I tried to call the bank of the credit card. Yeah. Have you tried to call a bank lately? Apparently, no people work at banks anymore. You simply push buttons until you either hang up or get an answer that will have to do. I was unable to speak to an actual person. In fact, I could not get past the first set of menu options. By now my good samaritan vibe had long been replaced by irritated nice person.

But! But! My twitter friends came through for me! (Thanks, guys.) In addition to offering possible story lines for the three cards and the notebook, suggeting all manner of crimes and even the possible demise of the owner, I also got advice. One friend told me to call the police.

The police? Whatever. They don't care about that stuff. I should just put it in the mail and have done with it. But again, do I really want to trust the post office to get this stuff where it needs to be? Moreover, no mere citizen can handle this kind of sensitive issue with national implications. I have never in my life called the police, and for this I am grateful. I was kind of nervous. I called, I told them the story, rushing through it to get to the important parts. The friendly officer asked me to bring it by whenever I had a chance and that they'd try to return it.

Because I didn't want some guy's stuff in my house all week, I took it in yesterday. Two new experiences in one day. It's almost too much. Called and visited the police. Yep. I'm that girl. I told the story again, and the silver crew-cut, barrel-chested, baritoned officer called me ma'am. And he said I could come to work for them. As if.

Okay. So long story. Who cares? If you're still reading, you do. If you're gone, then you'll miss these little gems. Your loss.

Being a good samaritan is a pain in the butt. It is inconvenient. It is inviting yourself into a situation and then not getting to see the resolution. It's also a good way to have a little adventure. And, even if the dudes never get their cards back, I would have wanted someone to do the same thing for me.

The other interesting part is the story of the three cards and the notebook. How did they all come to be at a bus stop a half a world away from where they originated? How did two guys drop three cards in one place? Is it identity theft? Missing persons? I'm so curious and I'll never know, and I'm worried about them both. I want to know your theories. Leave a comment telling the story of the lost cards. I'll post the best story on Friday.

The Comparison Game

2011-01-17T10:57:00.002-06:00

I just spent the better part of an hour g-chatting with my cousin. She lives in England, had her first baby at the end of last year and is struggling to feel competent at breastfeeding. My heart aches for her because this is a vulnerable time for any new mom, least of all one who is an ocean away from her mama and other support systems. Her troubles seem to universal, but in her little three-person family, she's not feeling very normal.

Every chance I get I tell her this: "You are a good mom. This is all normal. You are doing all the right things. It is very, very hard." I tell her this because some very wise mamas told me the same thing when my babies were young and I sweated through public nursing, public bouts of tears (from both the baby and me) and public I-don't-know-what-the-hell-I'm-doings. Those words go a long, long way toward nurturing new mamas.

The truth is, we mamas can be sensitive and we need to hear those words. And not just when the babies are babies. We need to hear it when the toddler stares us down and does what we just demanded he not do. We need to hear it when the 9 year old walks away from us when we're talking. We need to hear it as we take another deep breath, counting to 10 (or 100) when the once sweet teen pops off some sass that makes us blush.

But the truth is, we don't hear it and we don't tell it to ourselves. Instead, many of us buy the lie that what's-her-face over there at play group has it all pulled together. After all, just look at her, with her impeccable mommy uniform of designer jeans, sweater set and expertly highlighted, swept-up ponytail. With her toddler who is perfectly behaved, reading already, in her designer get up that is always clean. Damn her, we say to ourselves. We hate her. We make a half-hearted attempt to push it aside, telling ourselves that she may look great, but she's probably not very smart.

And this is only the beginning. We moms face a life time of the comparison game. When is the kid reading, what school does he attend, what toys does he have. It moves on to comparing which extracurriculars and how many. Then it's grades, clothes, romantic interests, colleges, jobs...it's grotesquely unending.

I told my cousin today that if she sees another mom who has it all pulled together at the play group, that woman either is a very good actress or a liar. I want to tell her to admit to someone else, someone she respects, that she's struggling. After all, that's the only way to stop playing the game. To admit her days as a new mom sometimes kind of suck will liberate her from a lifetime of second guessing herself. She will find allies. She will discover she is, in fact, the epitome of normal. She will embrace her skills as a mom who knows her baby and she will in turn be able to give the same lessons to another new mom.

It took me far too long to learn this lesson. And it took many of those wise mamas' words to teach me to look deeper. They told me of their struggles and I realized that, in fact, they are not the ideal image of mother. Only then was I able to look beyond my own desire to keep my crap private that I learned we're all doing that. I learned to look past the perfect picture. What I saw was a bunch of moms, trying to make good choices, trying to keep it all together and trying to make it look like we know what we're doing.

I now know that there is a group of women I can call on for advice and expertise. I can ask for help. I can let myself be the mother I am, the mother my kids need, not the mother I think the world wants me to be.

Skies

2011-01-10T09:52:00.003-06:00

My friend asked me to read the manuscript of her novel. The Oklahoma sky plays a major role in the book, and while it didn't really affect me at first read, the longer the book stews in my head, the more I'm reminded of the power of the sky.

Before you accuse me of having had too much coffee or cough syrup, let me 'splain.

I'm not from "here." I'm from there, where the sky is not an unbroken line of horizon, but a silhouette of mountains and skyscrapers. Where a deep breath fills my mind with memories of cold walks to school across frozen earth. The fight for forward progress recalls steel mills and coal. Where a sniff of summer grass hearkens back to softball games and cool summer rainstorms. Where the sense of home resonates even as it no longer exists for me as "home." There is not the wide open expanse but it does not feel crushed.

Here, in Oklahoma, the sky is a vast extremity, extending from earth to air without interruption. (Of course there are buildings and skyscrapers in Oklahoma. Just go with me, mkay?). Breathing in the Oklahoma air, my memories extend, but not as far back as childhood. This smell of home is of a fresh new marriage, birthing babies and thick summers.

Running last week, I paid particular attention to the grey clouds breaking apart, the sun fighting its way through. I thought of how the hills here would not be classified as such in Pennsylvania. It seems I have one leg firmly planted in the literal here and now of Oklahoma. And one reluctant to leave the past, literal and figurative home, of Pennsylvania.

Do others exist in such a divided mind? Do you live looking forward and backward simultaneously? Can my mind coexist in memories and hopes? Is there another way? Just wondering.

Bring It

2011-01-05T13:09:00.003-06:00

Fifty-six days until I turn forty. Can I get a woot woot?

I am not dreading this turn of events. I mean, it is inevitable, after all, right? The never ending ticking tocking sliding of the clock, thrusting us forward on our own little patch of earth. In fact, I say, bring it. Forty is the new black.

I have a friend who plans to get her first, maybe her only, tattoo when she turns forty. She's planning forty days of adventure leading up to it, trying something new every day until her fortieth. Love this idea. It banishes the black balloons and fake tombstones. It says "talk to the hand" to the adult diaper givers. It denies the denture cream. It says, "Yeah? So?"

Last year, when the eye doctor ever so gently reminded me that I was holding on to my thirties by a thread (yes, he so did), I got a little snippety. C'mon, dude. Like I don't know how old I am. And then, over the holidays, my husband said something that completely shocked me. I KNOW how old my parents are, and I am fully aware of what the forward march of time does to us as we march forward with it. But he said, "They're almost 70," referring to my parents. My mouth gaped. I about fell out of my chair.

Thinking about a number in the mid sixties is entirely different from "almost 70" because 70 is, like, a really big number. It takes a lot of years to get to 70 (about 70 if you want to put a fine point on it). If my parents are almost 70, well, hell. That means I'm, like, an adult! (Because even talking about them, it's totally about me.) If I'm an adult, well then I guess I better get some stuff sorted out.

And I am. Forget new year's resolutions. I've got daily resolutions, just like my friend who's having an adventure a day to celebrate.

I will no longer attempt to fit into other people's ideas of who I am.
I will stop whispering jokes to my husband and let him say them out loud.
I just might get me that tattoo I've always wanted.
I'm running a half marathon, so there!
I will plan a trip that is just me and my besties. On a beach.
I will stand confident and proud of what is past and square my shoulders to what's coming.

So, forty, bring it. I'm an adult, after all. I can take what you throw at me.*

*This is in no way intended as a dare, forty. Please, still feel free to be kind and to not throw too much at me. Okay? Thanks.

Resolving to Rant

2011-01-03T12:19:00.003-06:00

After being out of town for ten days, our cupboards were bare. I wrote out the mother of all grocery lists and trudged off to the store. I wandered about, picking and choosing and finally finished this hated chore. Then I shoved my laden cart to the check out whereupon I was confronted with skinny models with their gaunt faces and bony chests. Where I saw "normal" sized women heralding the good news of how they dropped hundreds of pounds, posing gleefully with their super-sized pants beside them. I read the headlines. They were all the same, just spread across ten or so different titles, a loud cacophony of disapproval and shame.

"Get Skinny Now" yelled one.

"Get Skinny Fast" chastised another.

"How to tone your Tummy in 4 days" or whatever, barked yet another. They blended together.

I stood there, flummoxed, mad and really, just tired of the crap.

For one fleeting moment the huge words bombarded my self-esteem. I muttered to myself, "Well, but, it was just Christmas. I ate okay, and I run, and I'm busy and and and...." Then my woman-roar rose up strong in me and I mustered the courage to roll my eyes, instead of throwing every single one of them into my cart. I might have grabbed a candy bar just to thumb my nose in their general direction, if my cart weren't already so full.

I'm not saying, you know, don't lose weight or whatever. Do what you want. But don't do it because the lastest starlet has a new "cleanse" to push at you. Don't do it because you have that wedding coming up, or that reunion, or that...whatever. Do it because you want to.

But more than that. Don't let some stranger in a cold cubicle photoshopping images of deathly skinny girls be the arbiter of health and beauty for you. Stand back and assess who you are. You are more than a number on the scale, more than the sum of calories you put in your face everyday. You are gorgeous and you are amazing and you are you.

A friend of mine is going on a cruise and she wanted to lose some weight before she left. She did lose some weight and she looks amazing. Thing is, she looked amazing already. She looked amazing because she is amazing. She does more in one day than most of us could ever hope to manage. Her kids are awesome, her husband loves her, she always looks hip and pulled together. Is there really any more to life than that?

I'm not a huge fan of resolutions for a lot of reasons, and I can tell you about that another time. I do, however, realize that many people try to adopt change in the new year. New and good habits are to be encouraged. I understand a new year can mean a new job or lifestyle or a clean slate upon which to scrawl and dance your vivid next chapter. Go for it. Go big and go strong and go bold. Just... do it because it's you. Not because some stupid magazine disapproves of you. Because you are awesome. Just the way you are.

Finding Success in Failure

2010-12-10T10:14:00.005-06:00

Oh man, did my run this morning suck. I mean, it sucked.

Let me count the ways. I hurt my shoulder running last week (yes, I know you're supposed to hurt your leg or foot or ankle when running, but let's just leave that for now, shall we?). So, I'm already hurting. And when I run with the dog, I keep him on a leash on which he tugs. Which hurts my shoulder.

And it was cold, so my nose was running all over the place. When I attempted a "farmer" blow of my nose, snot smeared all down my face, which I promptly wiped on my sleeves.

And I had to switch to regular running shoes because the vibrams I LOVE don't keep my feet warm. And the running shoes hurt my knee.

And my pace was off because of my knee and the dog and the shoes.

And the gps on my phone got all jacked. It had me going 4 minute miles which would make me either a Kenyan or bionic and I'm neither of those things.

Yesterday one of my runner friends posted that her run was awful, and I fell over myself to encourage her to keep going, and to try again, and to find her success. But then I "failed."

We have a tendency to oversell our failures, don't you think? What I mean is that I had kind of a bad run. Does a bad run equal failure? Um...no. It equals one bad run in a mass of days and runs.

My friend, Dr. Julie Bell, makes her living teaching people to define their successes in ways that work, to find What's Important Now. (W.I.N). I like this approach for a lot of reasons. First, it allows each person to find the things that are important to them and to pursue them. This may sound basic, but how many of us pursue things or ideas that other people foist on us? Second, it shifts our focus from what went wrong to what went right. Finally, this idea is not exclusive to runners or athletes. It applies to anyone.

Here's what was right on my run today. Let me count the ways.

I got out of bed and put on my running clothes. That right there is success.
I ran.
I figured out that I reallyreallyreallyreallyreally dislike running with the dog.
I realized I need new shoes.
I learned that I want to download some new music.
I liked running in the cold.
I kept going even though everything felt wrong.
I will run again.

The title of this post is misleading because there was no failure today. I wanted to use the word in the title, though, because the word is jarring in its harshness. It has an ugly edge to it and using it brings into relief how silly it is for me to perceive a "bad" run in such dramatic light.

What's going on with you? How are you defining your actions, your successes, your failures. What do you do when you're beating yourself up mentally?

OMG! Are You Your Mother?

2010-12-06T15:47:00.004-06:00

Someone handed me a picture of myself. Well, of me standing with one of my delightful offspring. Are you like me? When someone shows you photos, does your laser-gaze hone in on your 2D simulacrum with excruciating perception? "Oh!" You groan. "My eyes are all wonky. And has my nose always been that crooked? What in the world am I looking at? What am I eating?"

(There exists, in my family, a modern day Ansel Adams whose life work seems to be capturing his family eating on film for posterity. If one were to find his cache of photos in 100 years, it will seem to that anthropologist that we are always eating. And...maybe we are....Anyway...)

Someone gave me a picture. And I honed in on that film version of myself. I did not, for once, gasp in horror about my weight or my weird nose. No. This time, I gasped because staring at that camera was not me but...my mother!

Can you hear the Hitchcockian scream emanating from the earth? That's me, recognizing, not for the first time, that I am, slowly and surely, becoming my mother. Hands on hips, feet splayed, eyebrows cocked in coming disapproval or something.

I'm fairly sure every woman has this moment of maternal cloning horror. All the things that drove us crazy about our mothers have somehow seeped into our DNA, turning us from the hip, intellectual young women we once were (because we were, okay?) into the woman who nagged us to clean our rooms, who pondered our outfit choices with, um, let's call it diplomacy, who reprimanded, scolded and chided.

But.

There's always a but.

That's not all my mother was, and I'd make a bet that yours wasn't either. Sure, we had our moments, when my teen self, rife with hormones and the glittering brilliance of youth and she, the wise and thoughtful woman, argued about curfew and boys and phone calls. But, my mom also was my biggest fan. She still is. My mom told me I could do anything I wanted. She said to try everything I get a chance to do. She let me stumble and she let me fall. Hard. She also picked me up and dusted me off. She put the armor of security on my shoulders and locked it tight. My mom has a knack for saying what I need to hear, not just what I want to hear. And? She was right about almost everything. There are days when I hate that still, but mostly it makes me laugh.

When a word my mother used to say slips out of mouth, when I find myself in a familiar posture or using a certain idiom, I no longer grimace. I give thanks.

What kind of life did you have with your mom? Do you rue the days you know you are turning into her or do you welcome them because she was more kick-ass than your teen self realized?

This I Know

2010-12-03T09:04:00.004-06:00

You know how you go through your day and think things you wish you could share with someone and then you forget until the next time you're thinking it and you're all alone and you wish you could share it with someone? Well, that's me on my morning runs. This little list is purely for entertainment purposes only. A lighthearted Friday post, just because.

This I Know:
(Or: I know I think this)

It is always hard to get out the door
The minute I put on my headphones dumbdog is ready to go
He will always pee on the bush at the playground
The cars will never stop for me in the crosswalk
The squirrels in the park have a death wish
They are kamikaze squirrels
Every day, the dog awakes with hope that this is the day he will catch one
He will never catch one
I do not like the smell of freshly baking donuts (are they baked?)
They smell like sweetened fat
That does not mean I will not ingest said sweetened fat. Just smells bad when I'm running
I do not know what Latino Tires are, but I know where you can get some
My barefoot shoes do not abide acorns
The older man who runs and walks on my route is kind
I like to pass him
This makes me a bad person with a cruel heart
When I get to the David Bowie part of the mix, I like to sing and bob my head
I know how this makes me look
I tell myself I am amazing when I am running
I laugh when I say this
The dog does not have near my endurance
I do not have his speed.
Then again, I don't run on four legs.
I sometimes say things out loud. To myself. On a run.
I know how this makes me look.

I love my runs. I love these thoughts shaking loose in my brain. I love sharing them with you. I hope they make you smile. Do something nice for yourself today.

Can You Do Hard Things?

2010-11-30T10:02:00.006-06:00

When I started working as a doula, 9 years ago, I had a whole duffel bag of goodies I took with me to labors. As I grew in security, ability and confidence, I found I needed less and less. Two weeks ago, I attended a birth and took in nothing with me but a piece of paper and a cup of coffee. All I really needed were my hands and my voice. It helps that I have clients who are educated and confident about their birth choices. But even the most confident, educated, determined women face a moment or two of doubt during labor.

In my work as a doula, I regularly try to convince women that they are capable of hard things. I'm not just talking about unmedicated birth. I believe that if we are serious about women making choices, then it must apply to all aspects of pregnancy and labor. (For that matter, it applies to where and how women choose to work, for those women who have the luxury of choice in the matter). From when and how conceived to where and how delivered. But this is not about how you decide to give birth.

Sometimes, a hard thing is asking the doctor a question that might sound stupid. For others, it's coming to grips with a loss of modesty during labor. For some, it's overcoming a negative birth experience. Some women have to face birth without a partner or an unexpected, unfortunate birth outcome. Most of the time, though, the hard thing is finding that place in themselves to conquer the one hard part of labor that knocks them off the confidence horse.

It's that little voice that says, "I can't." It's just the barest hint of a voice, but it seems like the echo of planets crashing against one another as it bounces through a brain. I've written about the voice of fear before, but I don't mean that one. I mean the voice of discouragement that tries to take your educated choices and slam them to the ground. Sometimes we can swat it away like a fly. Sometimes that fly grows into a swarm.

When my clients say, "I can't" (and they almost all say something like that at one point), here is what I say: "You can do it. I know that because you ARE doing it. And you will continue to do it."

When I hear that voice in my own head, telling me I can't do something, all it does is flick a switch of action. I say right back to it: "Oh, yeah? Watch me."

You can do hard things.

Thinking through the list of amazing women I know, here is a mere sampling of the hard things they have done, just in the past few months:
survived an ugly divorce, raised children alone with very little resources, ended unhealthy relationships, kicked the crap out of cancer, let go of children in an effort to help them, run marathons, confronted depression, put loved ones in nursing care, worked more than two jobs simultaneously, quit jobs to start businesses, started running, Lived with an unemployed spouse, tried IVF, with varied success, been in chemo, or been through chemo with children, watched family members die.

Can you do hard things? Heck yeah. You ARE doing them—right now. What is the hard thing you face? How do you handle the voice of discouragement? What does the voice of reason sound like to you?

TMI* (*for a good reason)

2010-11-17T10:57:00.003-06:00

Recently I joked with a newly menstruating 12 year old girl that she could now be married off and start popping out babies. She was appalled. I thought I was hilarious.

Until I found out through many amazing women in my web of amazing women about The Girl Effect.

It started yesterday with a tweet from @tarasophia who was pulling together (and rather well) a blogging extravaganza about The Girl Effect. Then, my friend @kt_writes tweeted that she thought I might be interested. Thanks to both of them, because while we can joke about marrying off our barely pubescent daughters, that is a very real, very stark reality for millions of girls around the world.

According to the website, over 50 million girls live in poverty. When a girl lives in poverty she is likely to be married at 12, and a mother by 14. FOURTEEN. While this was considered normal in the Dark Ages, the times are achangin'. Those teenage mothers turn to prostitution to support their babies. This makes them susceptible to AIDS and we all know how that goes. See the cycle there? Pretty icky.

I have girls. I am a girl. I know girls. This simultaneously breaks my heart and fills me with indignation. The problem isn't theirs alone, and the solution isn't either. The cool thing about The Girl Effect is that its aim is to harness the power of each of these girls; the website calls them solutions.

Can you be a solution, too? Why, yes. Yes, you can. First, head over to the website. Then, tell everyone you know. Blog about it and post it all over the place. Then, think about how you can make a real contribution. I'm not just talking about dollars, although dollars are always nice. There are plenty of efforts you can participate in to help a girl become a solution. That solution becomes a strong, thoughtful, educated woman, who raises thoughtful, educated girls to be women.

I can't wait for my own daughters (and my son) to get home from school so I can show them the video. I want them to help us decide how we will, as a family, be a part of solving this problem. What will you do?

Bows for Babes with Pictures

2010-11-16T13:22:00.004-06:00

I've had requests for holiday bows and instead of filling your inbox with photos, I thought this slide show would help. See my contact info for email address. See one you like? These are all $4 with free shipping. I'm ready to send today. Just let me know.

Don't see your favorite color? Just let me know and we'll make one just for you.

How you Thinking?

2010-11-02T14:18:00.003-05:00

Ever feel like you don't belong?

I have.

The day before the Tulsa Run I had to pick up my race packet. I drove to OU Tulsa and entered the "Fitness Fair." The name alone gave me a mild panic attack: "will they let me in? I'm not wearing my fitness clothes, I don't have a cute ponytail or blonde highlights. Someone will know I'm an impostor. But, I have to get that packet if I want my official time." I really want my official time. (Pretty good, by the way.)

If I thought the name of the fair was bad, inside was waiting a veritable gauntlet of gorgeous: someone cloned Denise Austin, dressed the many of her all up in running gear and made a human tunnel for me to run through. I did not belong here. My mouth went dry. My throat closed up. I looked about anxiously, trying to pretend like I was totally supposed to be here and I know what I'm doing, okay? I found the letter where my packet would be and, because my name has many letters that are unpronounced, the helpful fitness guy couldn't find my name. It took him forever. I started to sweat. "Oh, crap. They can't find it. I didn't register right. They know I can't finish the race so they pulled my name. Someone alerted them. Would it be bad if I started crying, right here, right now?" By now, I was so upset I almost didn't want to get in line for my t-shirt.

But I wanted that t-shirt, because, I told myself, if by some act of God I was able to cross the finish line, I planned to wear that t-shirt to every single public event I could get myself invited to. I did get my t-shirt (in a size smaller, thankyouverymuch), I booked it out there to find a glass of water and the privacy of my car.

That's when the "I-don't-belong-heres" kicked into overdrive. I started thinking about the race the next day. If there were Denise Austins all over the "Fitness Fair," what in the world would I find at the starting line? I swallowed hard and tried to calm my racing heart.

And here's what I did. I told myself the facts. I trained for this race. I trained well and hard. I ran that distance and farther and did not die from it. I knew a good pace. I knew how I would find it. And I told myself the biggest truth: I can do this. I needed just a bit more, though, so I talked to my runner friends, who repeated faithfully back to me what I'd already told myself. I called my husband who repeated faithfully, lovingly back to me what I'd already told myself. I looked at the cloud of witnesses: I'm not crazy. People I love and people I trust and people who know things think I can do this. Time to face the truth. I can do this. I will do this. I did do this.

It creeps up on us like a ghost, whispers its ugly lies in our ears and we swallow the whole thing in one gulp, choking it down like bad medicine when it's really poison. "You don't belong here," it hisses. "You might be running, but you're not a real runner." Quietly, the sound winds into our heads and we think, "I'm kind of sucking it up here today. I can't do it. I should stop.It says all the things the wicked witch would tell you.

But guess what? The wicked witch was undone with a bucket of water. Just a little bit of H2O and she melted away. Know what else? The wicked witch is fiction! Doesn't exist. Never did, never will. I've come to think of those lies the same way, because really, that's what they are. Lies are fictions that keep us from trying the challenges we want to face, from stepping up to something new, from embracing the uniqueness we each have.

I shook my head. I refused to listen to the voice that said "But, honey," so sweetly and earestly, "honey, it's nine miles. That's craziness." I spoke back to that lie and told it to bug off. Because yes, nine miles is far, it ain't no big thang. "But," I said, "I've run that distance before and farther. I can do it again.You think I can't run nine miles? Watch me." And I did. I ran the entire race, without music, in a crowd of fat, skinny, ugly, pretty, tall, short, weird, weirder, slightly less weird people who all had to talk themselves into that challenge. Maybe it was easier for some. But we all got our booties out of bed, refused to listen to that lie and ran our race. I changed my thinking. Finishing that race would not be by an act of God (although He did run with me; we had a great time). It would be the result of training.

It's not easy, especially if you're used to obeying the voice, trusting the lie. It can feel as if the world is askew, or even just wrong or arrogant to say, "I can do this one thing, and well." When I first started running, I would say I "run" using air quotes, "I'm not a runner." So people would know I'm not high on my own ability. Some people would say, "I'm impressed" and I would want to shun that, to reject it. Oh, how times have changed. You wanna be impressed with me? You go right ahead, because the truth is, I'm impressed with me. I set my eyes on a challenge and I completed it. I rock.

I no longer choose to believe the lie. In fact, I reject everything that says that I'm not good enough, not smart enough, not thin enough, not whatever enough. I am me. I do what I do. And that is what is required of me. No one is asking me to be anything other than what I am. Any restrictions on me I've either placed there myself, or allowed them to be placed on me.

Know what else? I'm as impressed with myself as I am impressed by the women around me. You all are amazing bunch. You run businesses and homes. You build companies, you build children, you create great art. You run, you walk, you listen, you cheer. You take photos, you write, you climb mountians, you wipe dirty bums and change yet another diaper. You are you and you do what you do. I want you to be as impressed with your self as you are with someone else. Look in that mirror and be your own Jack Handy.

How? At first you may not believe yourself when you say, "Look at me! I'm so awesome." You might even giggle, looking around to see if you were overheard. You may roll your eyes. "This is stupid." Might be stupid, but feels good, doesn't it? There is no rule that says valuing yourself equals arrogance or pride. But, it does equal a lesson for our daughters and sons and a way to live in the world as we were created. Do it. Tell yourself you're awesome. Find one awesome thing about you. Not about what you do, but about you.

Again, I'm not saying talk yourself into running nine miles, or summiting Everest. I'm just saying say no to the lie and believe the truth. You may not know the truth, or you disregarded it for so long you have to dig for it. Then dig for it. You can do hard things. You can do big things, amazing things, astounding things.

When did it become okay for us to demure, to demean, to devalue ourselves? I don't know, but I've decided it's not okay for me and it's not okay for my daughters (or my son). Who's with me?

Banning the Shoulds

2010-10-21T10:43:00.005-05:00

Or: In Which I Become a Bossy Shrew

The word "should" should be stricken from our language. I despise that word, and I'll tell you why. Think about it. What are the things you tell yourself you should do, be, think, or say?

I should:

work out
go on a diet
get up earlier
read more
spend more time in prayer
serve my spouse
serve my kids
shop less
rake the leaves
clean the toilet
make a calendar
watch my mouth

Do you hear that? That's the sound of guilt smearing itself all over your good intentions. The guilt implied by the word "should" takes a simple task that probably has merit and makes it ugly and hard. It smears a thick layer of "idon'twanna" right on top of your perfectly normal thought sandwich.

When I hear the word "should" I feel like I'm getting in trouble. Like I've colored outside the lines, again, and now they have to call my parents.

Should says you are not good enough, thin enough, kind enough, tall enough. Should says you're wrong. You'll always be wrong. There is something about you that's just...off. Should spits on you and kicks you when you're down. Should causes sighs and lowered heads and discouragement.

I hate should. Should sucks.

Although.

I think sometimes should comes from a good place. It comes from a place that desires change. That wants to be better, that wants a challenge, that craves something new. It comes from that place inside us that says, "You know, life is pretty good. I'm clicking along. And, if I (did x) my life would be better because of y." And this is not wrong, per se. It is not wrong to want to grow, or change, or learn something.

Yeah, maybe a diet isn't a bad idea. Maybe showing a servant heart to your family wouldn't kill you. Maybe getting up earlier would make your morning less hectic. See? Those are good things. Should takes that good intention, that good desire and makes it a task rather than a act. A chore rather than a mere action.

Therefore I made the following change.

When I hear "should" in my head, I change it to "need." If it makes sense that way, I consider making the change. The shoulds become less about guilt and more about simple imperatives.

Listen to the difference:

"I should call the doctor and schedule my yearly." Blah. That says I've been remiss in taking care of my health.
"I need to call the doctor and schedule my yearly." Yes. Yes, I do. No judgment. Just fact.

But wait! There's more. The intent matters, too. "I need to serve my spouse so he'll serve me in return and I could really use a servant right now." Vastly different from "I need to serve my spouse so he can see how much I care for him."

I know two young mothers with wee ones at home. Both feel discouraged that they don't have more time to devote to working out. As one who was once a young mother, I get that. I get that having a moment or two alone makes a huge difference in your day. I worry, though, that regretting the time you don't get to yourself shifts focus. Because not only are the wee one days short, but not working out does not equal a bad mom or an unfit mother. Should they run more? Or do they need to run more? Or something else entirely?

We make a habit of telling ourselves that if we don't do what we should, then we are not good enough. Not a good enough mom, wife, woman, boss, employee, student, teacher, person. And our ideas of what we should be doing come from crazy external forces, like other people, who do not live our lives, who do not have our needs, who do not have our schedules. See that? Everyone is different and this is amazing and needs to be embraced, not copied. You do not have to be Suzy Homemaker the tennis playing wunderhousekeeper PhD student whose children are so well behaved people think they're zombies. You need to be you.

Whew. I got worked up there. (stepping off soapbox). See, what I want to say is you found your reason, right? Now get rid of your shoulds. We are not going to do shoulds anymore. They waste our time and energy. We are only going to do needs. If you NEED to do what you have a reason to do, then do it with all your heart. If you find yourself shoulding yourself, gently remind yourself. (Do not berate yourself for being stupidstupidstupidhowcouldiforgetthatagain?) Gently. Gently. We are learning here.

So, you want to run. You have your reason to run. Do you need to run? Is it important to you? Do you have the time, energy and effort to devote to it. Then get out there and do it.

Next time, more on gently correcting ourselves.

The WHYs

2010-10-21T09:11:00.006-05:00

I have a friend who trained for and finished a half marathon. Awesome, right? But when I hear her talk about it, she uses terms like "that stupid half marathon," and "I hate long run days."

When I started posting my runs to facebook, friends asked if I was training for something. Nope. (Remember, keeping the dog poo at bay.) I hated it. HATED IT. It hurt. It was hard. It was boring. I couldn't find the right music. It was too early. It took forever. I couldn't see any results (except for less dog poo in the house). I'm very good at complaining and justifying. But the power of the poo was strong, and I had to keep running. I was like my half marathon friend.

Over time, the power of the poo paled in comparison to what I had discovered. I discovered that I loved feeling like a total rock star at how many miles I'd logged. I smiled to hear my kids tell their friends how far their mom can run. I blushed to read so many nice comments from my completely cool friends. Rejoiced that my running clothes were TOO BIG! (Can I get a woot woot?) What I found was that my reason for running had changed.

Don't misunderstand. It was more than the weight, more than impressing my kids, more than getting my ego stroked. My reason had morphed from an external impetus (poo) to an internal one.

That's a long way of asking, "what are your reasons for running (or doing the thing you are doing)?" I asked my half-marathon-hating-friend to define hers. I don't know if she did but it occurred to me that maybe her reasons were like mine, outwardly impressed upon her.

When I act at the prompting of others, I can do the job, but I can't sustain motivation for it. I might lose the desire (if I ever had it) to complete it well. I could not keep running to prevent the poo because there would be a day when picking it up would be more appealing than running in the rain or cold.

When I act for a reason that I can firmly stand behind come rain, cold or fatigue, then I can get my running clothes on and get out the door like I'm headed to a party.

But here's the thing. Your reason will be different from mine. That's okay. You may start like I did, hating every single minute of it. That's okay. You may not really want to define it. That's okay, too. You may start with one and move on to another. Again, it's okay.

What I've learned is that when you have a reason that is strictly and solely yours, you will act with abandon and joy. You will own the track, or the class, or the whatever. You will be a total rock star.

A word of caution: Don't think it has to be a pretty reason, an altruistic reason, a glamorous reason. It just has to be yours and you have to believe it. It can even be as simple as "I want to."

Find your why, and write it down. Somewhere. Anywhere. You can tell it to someone if you want, but you don't have to. Just find it and know it.

Next time I'll tell you why I refuse to say the word, "should."

I'm No Expert, But That Won't Stop Me

2010-10-12T18:41:00.004-05:00

If you have been here before, you know I've been a running fool lately. You can read all about the whys and wheretofores if you don't know that running has become something of a favorite hobby for me. Suffice it to say, if you're here and not at all interested in this running nonsense, I run. A lot. And I like to run. A lot.

"Who cares?" you ask, maybe glibly while rolling your eyes, scrolling down quickly to get to the good stuff, assuming, again rather glibly, that there is, in fact, good stuff. And I shall raise my eyebrows at you and tell you just exactly who cares.

You do.

And I know this because some of you have been asking me questions about my training.

You flatter me. I like this also. A lot. I've been emailing a bunch of you lovelies with my thoughts, and some of it seemed to make a rather cohesive whole on running, physical and mental training, and, if I may be so bold, some lessons I've learned along the way.

Now, let this be my legally binding (eye rolling) disclaimer that I am in NO WAY an expert. You saw that in the title. If you even try to suggest the old bait and switch, I will refer you heretofore, forthwith, ergo and nonesuch to the top of this little page, wherein ye shall find, for your reading pleasure, the title of my merry script, in which I declare my utter lack of expertise.

Okay, then, now that we have the legal mumbo jumbo out of the way... *slaps hands together in relief*

Here's what I want to say to everyone who has said or written that my running has been inspiring.

That's great! I love that you are inspired. But. It's not a big butt, because, you know, I've been running. But don't just be inspired in thought. Be inspired in action. I'm not saying go run a marathon tomorrow, you silly. That's crazy talk. I'm saying do something you didn't know you could do and see what happens.

I did not set out to run the Tulsa Run that would be a 15k, I don't mind telling ya. I did not set out to get super sexy calves (but I will show them to you, just ask). When I started, I've said before, running three miles was the most taxing thing in my day. I hated it. I hated that I was the one who had to go with the dog because I'm the one with flexible schedule. I hated it that sometimes it was too hot. Sometimes it was raining. Sometimes too many cosmos on date night...well you get the idea. It took forever it seems. If you cannot hear me whining, just thank your lucky stars, because I so am whining.

And again, I am in no way some kind of freakishly fast, super trim "athlete." When I registered on Dailymile to get cyber credit for every.single. stinkin'. mile, I didn't want to pick a category. They were so binding and scary and none of them applied to me. "Choose one: runner, athlete, cyclist, swimmer" and some other crazy things like tree climber, mountain maker...I don't even know. I sat and stared at that screen, cursor blinking like an annoying little sister, trying to decide. Finally, I clicked "athlete." For months, I ran in fear; I just knew Dailymile staff would track me down for the lying liar that I am. Athlete? Yeah, if eating, knitting and sewing are sports then heck to the yeah.

The point is, I love that some people find my running inspirational. I won't lie: I signed up for Dailymile just so I could brag about my incredibly amateur results. I'm a sucker for kind words so I went reaching for some. You people are putty in my hands. But here's what I'm trying to say, in a longwinded, friendly, conversational tone. If I can do it, you can do it. Promise. And in the coming days and weeks, I'm going to tell you exactly how I know that. Notice I did not say, HOW TO DO THAT.

And because I'm too excited, I'll whet your appetite for my un-expertise. I know. You might want to sit down. Some topics I want to cover: your reason to run (or take that class, or climb a mountain, or join a new church, or leave a bad relationship), mental training, self talk that works, and getting over the bad days.

Is there something you want to hear about that's NOT technical? Let me know. Let me stress just one more time, this is not a fitness plan, a guru lesson, or a technique forum. It's just one woman's thoughts on how to do something you never thought you could do.

Who's with me?

Friends in Good Places

2010-10-01T18:11:00.004-05:00

Say what you will about social networking, social media, or wasting time online. Me? I freaking love it. I cannot get enough of it. Through Twitter and Facebook, I have reconnected with dear but long-lost friends. I have grown my business. I have become an avid runner with online encouragement. I have "met" some fine folks all around the world, and even in my own town. I love it. Is love too strong a word?

My brother says he doesn't have time for Facebook. I laugh in the face of his busy-ness. My sister never comments on my blog, so I in turn make mocking statements on her Facebook wall. It's what any good sibling would do. My parents will not go near that social network stuff. Of course, I have to give my mom an ipod syncing tutorial every time I see her. That poor woman only gets to sync her new music twice a year.

Recently, I needed some love from some good peeps. I wrote an email to five of my closest, bestest, most favorite women, explaining in gory detail all the ups and downs and important asides, asking for an extra measure of their goodness. They all replied, and each in her own way. One wrote me, a week later, a super long email with loads of questions, thoughts, potential problems with my reasoning. Very detailed and thorough. Just like her. Another wrote a quick concise email about how this was common among her friends and that she loved me. One wrote that I had included a ton of info and that she'd reply in detail soon. That was a few months ago. She will. Eventually. It's okay.

So I have these awesome women who care for me, but what I didn't expect was to get support from two Facebook friends I didn't have strong relationships with. They both reached out to me when they noticed some cues. And to be honest? I was really hoping for that.

I knew Beth in college. We went to different schools but ran in overlapping circles. We had one mutual friend who really tied us together. I think we were both in her wedding. A surface friendship. I never really knew her. Beth noticed that I'd been absent from Facebook and wrote me an email, tentative and very sweet. She wondered if I was okay. Would if it too forward to ask what was going on? She wondered how she could pray for me, and if I needed to talk. Beth has been the most faithful friend, including my five most faithful friends, to lend me emotional support. She prompts me, responds to me, and challenges me. Beth and I now text, and have a date for coffee next time I'm in her town. At Christmas. I'm too excited.

I have never met Aubrey. We had a few mutual friends who were busting our chops about being strong women (if you have to say you are a strong woman, are you a strong woman?) After speaking through other's Facebook walls for months, we finally friended each other, because we are both intelligent, thoughtful, gorgeous reading women. Her favorite book list is almost identical to mine. She is a runner. She works hard as a mom pursuing a professional life she is proud of and passionate about. Aubrey and I connected on one of those cosmic levels that makes you feel like you're not alone in the world. Aubrey listened to my ranting and replied with logic, reason and care. Because Aubrey doesn't really "know" me, she could have turned on her heels and walked away. She doesn't need my drama. Her life's got enough of its own.

I have come to realize that I like online socializing for the same reason I like "in real life" socializing. I am intrigued by people and I am energized by learning about others. We used to tease my sister about interviewing every one she met. Pot? This is the kettle calling. Making connections with people lights my fire. Finding cool new friends who really care? Bonus.

Running on Full

2010-10-01T16:09:00.006-05:00

This is the dog, Cooper, sitting in a puddle in the last mile of our run. He is so hot, the water's rippling. He is the bane of my existence.

I started running in late April, my only goal being to prevent the dog from laying pipe under my sewing machine. Really. That was my only reason. I could have walked but walking is terribly inefficient and mind-numbingly tedious. If I was going to do this, it would be on my terms: fast, easy and relatively painless.

I had no goals. No desire to compete in races. No need for special gear or garments. I just wanted to stop the poop. (It did not, in fact, stop the poop, and we're still working on that. I'm bitter about it, yes, but that's not the point.)

A few tools became available to me that made the runs more fun. Running without my ipod is a big no-no. I must have music, cranked up as loud as my old eardrums can tolerate. Without the music I can not only feel myself sucking wind, but hear it also. One or the other. That's all I can take. Podrunner totally rocks for this.

Dailymile.com also added a social component to my runs, making my solo runs more communal. As I ran, I'd try out different statements in my head to summarize each day's adventures. And while readers may not have been impressed at my comedic attempts, it entertained me and kept my mind off how many more miles.

At first, I was happy with two miles. A quick, easy route, past the neighborhood school, up to the big stoplight and back to my door. Enough time for dog business, and enough time for me to work up a mild sweat. After a few weeks of this, I was bored. I thought I'd see if I could go three miles. Then it was four, then five. I didn't really have a plan or a regimen, although I do like that word, regimen. Sounds so official. At this point, it was still about the poo. The running got easier and more fun. My podrunner repertoire grew as did my dailymile circle.

I found as I ran that I rather liked the feeling of accomplishment. I felt proud that I could run 3 or 4 or 5 miles. I stopped making jokes about my running ineptitude and started basking in the glow of finishing something I started. And let me tell you, that feeling is unbeatable.

Then the inevitable happened. I wanted to go father than I knew the dog could handle. I *gasp* left the dog at home (in the backyard, again, pooping). Now this was liberating. I was faster, lighter, freer. I was like the wind! Excuse me while I wax hyperbolic. I discovered something I did not know.
I. Enjoy. Running.

In fact, I love it. I look forward to it as I'd look forward to a date with my husband. I crave it like I crave air.

It occurred to me that the reason for this new-found passion was that it was, essentially, all for me. I realize that sounds selfish. Hear me out. My past running attempts were prompted by outward impetus. I would "train" to run a race with a friend or to lose weight or to avoid poop.

But now, I was unfettered. I was running to challenge myself, and only myself. I ran to shake loose the crumbs of half-decent thought in my brain, or to clear out the cobwebs of doubt or frustration or anger or whatever. I ran to push myself, mind and body. And in the running, I found that I love the running.

So I am going to do some races, but now because I want to, and because I am no longer crippled by fear of the length of those races. I can do anything for three miles, or five miles, or ten. I'm stronger than I thought I was, deeper than I realized and more capable than I imagined.

And I keep plastic poop bags in the studio now.

More Webby Goodness

2010-09-23T11:09:00.003-05:00

In college I heard a speaker talk about the differences in how males and females communicate. While I tend to shy away from generalizations, this one struck me so deeply as gospel truth that it's stuck with me all these post college years.

The speaker said that men tend to think linearly. That B follows A and C comes after that. Their points line up in a logical succession. If a man is explaining how to fix a bike tire, he will tell you, from beginning to end, how to fix that tire.

She then said that women tend to think and communicate in a way that resembles a spider web. A spider web takes time to construct and follows a pattern that is decidedly not linear. A rough outline forms and then the web gets structure from supporting strands. In other words, if a woman were to explain how to fix a bike tire, she might start with the bike tire, but may branch off to tell you about her first bike, what color it was. You might hear why the bike was that color and how that color was her favorite from the ages six to twelve but not after that. You will, in the end, hear about how to fix the tire, but you might learn more than that.

Which is why I love running with my friend Ellen. (See what I did there? A spider web moment). We run together once a week; a highlight of the week for me. It's not about the run. It's about the talking. Our conversations have a flow to them that resembles the spider web pattern above. An issue we discussed last week weaves itself into this week's talk. There's no need for explanation. I can say, "And you know what else?" And Ellen will know exactly where it's coming from and often where it's going.

Sometimes, we might not even finish the discussion about how fifth grade math is going for our kids when we've moved on to the new restaurant or car repairs or why we like shoes that have white laces. It's okay. We'll get back to it. Eventually.

I find this true at Thursday coffees, though I haven't been in a while. A group of super cool, hip moms gathers at a local cafe every Thursday. The group is fluid, open and friendly. Depending on when I arrive, there might be three or fifteen women huddled around three or four tables, bubbling over with coffee and food and sometimes projects. If I sit still and watch, I see the same thing happening here. Smaller groups discuss a topic, someone from across the table jumps in to add a relevant bit and soon the entire table is discussing exchange students. Then a side issue arises and the smaller groups huddle off again. It tumbles along like a girl in a long dress rolling down a hillside. Pure joy.

Our minds and voices cause a stir in the air, create an aura of intellectual activity. We are seeking the right words to explain our feelings, ideas, thoughts, and giving the space to think out loud, challenge assumptions, arrive at new conclusions. Sometimes I don't know I'm worried or angry about something until it comes up in a free-flowing, thought-and-speech -for-all.

Working from home as I do, I tend to isolate myself. I get comfortable writing and sewing in my little spaces. But when I do venture out for these visits, I find myself renewed, excited, full. I don't know if all women are like this, and I don't know if all women need this kind of interaction.

But I need my spider web moments.

Ode to Late Summer

2010-09-21T15:14:00.005-05:00

Walked down to the dock through a gauntlet of spider webs. After the kids stop running the path between water and house, when the sun blinks closed the day, and the motors stop their incessant churning — then the spiders get to work.

A duck breaks my still reverie, calling to his mate. I pause from the delicate, frustrating task of removing fine silver homes from my shirt.

From where I sit I can see across one tiny portion of the great expanse of Grand Lake. Two peninsulas frame our inlet and, rather symmetrically, one egret sits on each, facing each other. One I can see in perfect silhouette, he's in the shade of the rising sun. The other, his white feathered body catches the full glinty glory of the sunrise. I wonder if they are siblings—the Mary and Martha of the avian world. Two disparate souls connected by a body. Or is that carrying things too far?

The one in shadow appears to be lengthening; maybe he's aware of my gaze.

Fish flip up, breaking the surface, taunting the anglers who've jut left the inlet in disappointment. This always make me giggle, if if I'm in on the joke.

It's always quiet at Grand on Sunday mornings, but this morning there seems to be a late summer melancholy kicking about. The promise of summer boat rides, the plans with friends, the ease of days spent in swimsuits, eating the fat, juicy fruit of summer - it's all gone. It happened, for sure. And it was good. So good.

Now homework awaits our return home. Piles of paper demand attention. Kids have needs in so many different areas I feel I can't summon enough of the right responses at the right times to meet all their inner unspoken but totally obvious needs.

Push it back. Scrape off the worry like so many webs clinging to me. I'm here. I'm at the lake. I'm on the dock. Alone. I can breathe, and sit, and think. This is where I can see these children, my children, for who they really are. When they don't know I'm studying them as they play.

I woke with a pall of melancholy myself. So strong I felt I could have burst into tears. I still have a sense of the ending. That's inevitable, normal even. Walking a line between pleasant memories and the bitterness of walking away from them.

And there's today. All of it. I see a spiderweb I managed not to destroy. A giant fish jumps next to me, reminding me to smile. My daughter's feet slap on the wood of the dock, then she settles into the hammock, quiet for a short time. I'm alone. I'm not alone.

Just Take a Bath

2010-09-16T14:32:00.004-05:00

I drove home from soccer practice last night listening to the shrieks and cries and horrid moans of an unhappy little boy. Yes, my sweet precious angel hollered the whole way home (a thankfully short commute) because I decided he would bathe instead of shower.

While not normally cause for such alarm, precious angel was tired. And hungry. And hot. And doggone it that boy wanted a shower. In my best stern mommy voice I also asked him to bring in his shoes from the car. The horror. Waterworks all up in here.

One daughter covered her ears. One daughter made funny faces hoping to cheer him up. Both actions caused equal and utterly opposite reactions in their brother. That's the trouble with physics.

We made it home with him wailing to his heart's content. I stopped trying to reason with him when his words became unintelligible. The line between reason and hysteria had been crossed miles ago. Finally home, the girls scattered, probably thankful they could escape to the relative quiet of their rooms and their homework. He went to his room, covered himself with blankets and continued that post-cry whimpering, short-breathing things kids do when they know they're not going to get their way, not fully committed to trying anymore but still kind of aggravated. In lighter moments, it's kind of funny.

I started a bath, thinking of my mother. I dropped in gobs and gobs of bubble bath, another unusual event at our house. We're usually cycling through too many bodies to luxuriate in bubbles of aromatic ambiance. My mother's prescription for everything when we were growing up was a bath. I'd say, "I have a headache." She'd say, "Take a bath." My sister would be stressed over tests: "Take a bath." Even our brother was advised to take a bath when under duress or illness.

My son had the same reaction we did. Dude was pissed. Our mother's one-stop, cure-all works-every-time solution seemed to mock our displeasure. "Just take a bath," we teased her, had become her code for: "Tell someone who gives a crap." She wasn't really belittling our emotions, reducing our stress to a simple action, confining our unhappiness to the bathroom (Freud would for sure have something to say about that.)

In our angst, we overlooked her genuine care. We wanted her to wallow in our drama. We wanted her to stomp her feet with us. We wanted tears, balled fists, reaction. Anything that indicated she was on our side.

The way she did that, though, was to offer a quiet space where no body could pour salt in our emotional gashes. Where we could be alone to sift out the thoughts, shake loose the dross and soak away the metaphoric and physical dirt. She's a smart one, my mom.

I plopped the sobbing boy in the tub, tears streaking down his dirty soccer field face. I wish I could say instantly his troubles were over. No. It wasn't as fast as that. But, he did sit for a while. Then he began to play with his action heroes. He finally tried the new shampoo I'd bought for him. In the end, he climbed out of the tub quieter, calmer, happier, and ready for bed.

Sometimes, I want to throw the same kind of fit my son did. I want to shout and scream and tell people they're all stupid. Of course, as an adult, that's just not done. However, the prescription remains the same at our house. Just take a bath.

Almost Ready for the Shop

2010-09-13T16:26:00.005-05:00

I need to finish the edges of the bows, but many of you have been asking for these so I wanted to whet your appetite. Let me know what you think. And as always, thanks.

Here's how I think I'll list them. WITH a band, in color of choice, and three bows with alligator clips. Clips can attach to the band or into the hair. Three bows and one band for $21.00.

For one bow, all with clippies attached, no band, $7. Three bows, no band, $20. These are light, so I'm doing shipping free.

Still waiting for my white, brown and black grosgrain. It's coming, people.

Ripping Seams

2010-09-08T16:37:00.006-05:00

Of Weddings and Dresses

I have a friend who is planning her second wedding (and marriage). This is all very exciting and fun and we are all atwitter with plans and ideas. She asked me, to my great honor, to make a dress for her daughter, who is in second grade. Now, if you know me, this type of project sits firmly in my wheelhouse (which is a phrase people are throwing about like pennies these days but we can talk about that some other time). In fact, it might BE my wheelhouse.

Since the friend lives far away, we designed the dress through text and IM. I sent images of fabric, dress patterns, sashes... and she replied yay or nay. We recognize this kind of seat-of-the-pants decision making may not pay dividends; the color may be all wrong (it's not), the size may be ghastly (it won't be. I know how to measure). But it's kinda too late, because that picture up there is the dress.

It's not completely finished. I need to handstitch the lining to the zipper, which I'll probably rip out and resew, possibly using a T-square so I can get the edges perfect. The hem can't be done until I'm in the presence of the wearer of the gown and she'll most likely, as kids are wont to do, grow in the intervening weeks. But, you can see it's rather a lovely gown, perfectly respectable for any 8 year old attending a wedding.

I took every single instruction to heart when constructing this dress. I took no shortcuts. I ironed the fabric before I cut. Made every pattern mark I could see, double checked the dart placement, even ironed every seam. If the pattern asked me to trim to 3/8" then by golly that's what I did. I wanted the dress to be spectacular. I ripped out the seams attaching the bodice to the skirt three separate times, each time growing more frustrated that the gathers were hanging wonkily. I cursed myself. I cursed the dress. But darnit, in the end, that skirt hangs like liquid silk flowing from a...oh, it's just perfect, okay? Take my word for it.

In Which I Attempt the Ill Advised

On Sunday, I decided to make myself a sweet little knit tunic top before church. I'm not sure exactly what spirit possessed me on that fateful day, but I guess I was feeling adventurous. Or dumb. I threw the fabric out on the floor, didn't iron the pattern, let alone bother pinning it in place. I didn't check measurements, didn't even fold the fabric as suggested because I wanted that dress and I wanted it now. I figured, three seams, unfinished edges and I'm out the door. What could be easier?

Ha. Using a hastily cut mess of fabric and unmatched thread, I sewed that sucker together in under an hour. It's fine, passable. But it's ENORMOUS. I like roomy clothes but my husband asked with fear and trembling: "Is it a moo moo?" There I go taking things too far again. I would not wear it like that to bed. Essentially, I had to take it apart, cut it down and sew it back together again. Not only that but the thrill is gone. I knew I was taking short cuts, and I knew I would pay for it. I didn't care as long as I got that dress.

But now, when I look at it, I ask myself a remarkable question. Why is this friend and her little girl worth so much trouble when I'm not willing to give myself the same effort?

Oof. Are we worth the effort we give to others? I'd like to reply resoundingly, "YES!" But this anecdote reveals that what I want to believe and how I behave are utterly opposed. Sure, I wanted to make a beautiful gift for my friend, and I was confident in my sewing skills. It still leaves me wondering. Should others get more from us than we get from ourselves? Do we bend over backwards to please others to our own detriment? I'm not suggesting I'm a used up rag with no value. I'm just kicking around some ideas about worth, time and effort.

What do you think?

For Those Without Walls

2010-08-28T09:55:00.004-05:00

Photo credit: The Art of Helping Others

I started a summer running challenge on Memorial Day. A twitter friend suggested running 150 miles from the beginning of summer to Labor Day. At the time, I was looking for a little motivation to run with the dog who lives at my house. (If you know me, you know he poops under my sewing machine when I don't take him. Jerk.) I don't accept any running challenge without assessing the feasibility. I figured even if I only ran a mile or two a day, I could easily squeeze in 150 miles, as staggering as the number seemed on May 30.

As I ran my regular short path near my neighborhood, I grew stronger and more capable of running longer distances, so I started exploring the trail to see where it would lead and how long it extended. I ran over a bridge one day, looked underneath as I did so, and noticed two figures in repose under a light blanket. A bucket and a box lined up against the concrete abutment of the bridge. In a flash, I made my decision to run in the opposite direction.

I ran in the opposite direction from the homeless people all summer. Never ventured under or beyond the bridge. Each day in passing, thoughts flooded through me; conflicting ideas, emotions and questions. Should I help? What would I do? Why are they there? How awful! How infuriating! How gross! (I should say here that it never ceases to amaze me the vast expanse and complexity of human emotions that so much can run through me so quickly.)

Finally, my running endurance was such that I needed to run under that bridge, and I'm embarrassed to say that I felt nervous. I didn't want to disturb them or, worse, interact with them. I didn't want my dog rummaging around in their business. I just wanted to run by and get on with it. Running above them on the bridge was entirely different from running past them. My awareness of them as humans came into disturbing relief.

It seemed like I invaded their space, that I had just trampled through their bedroom. That thought made me angry on two levels, and they are not pretty. To be perfectly honest, my first thought was an incredibly selfish, "This is NOT your living room. It is a running trail." My second was to kick myself for my ignorance. "How can I possibly run by these people every day and not act?"

All summer, I tried to think of what I would do about it, but I never did anything. Two days ago, I ran under the bridge on my way home and I beheld the most grim vision that has spurred me. The woman crouched over an old bucket to relieve herself. As gross as that might seem, the reality is there is no dignity for a person without walls. I don't know her story, I don't know why she's there but I do know that every person deserves food, clothing and shelter.

I've been thinking about walls on my runs this summer and I've written about them before. Here is another kind of wall. Or to be more precise, a lack of walls that builds a distinct barrier. I know, with absolute clarity, that I need to do something about this. I still don't know what it is. I'm thinking, I'm praying, and now I'm asking you, my friends. I want to help. I want to say that I acknowledge them as humans. I want to show compassion to my brothers and sisters. Will anything I do make a real difference? Will it house the multitudes? I don't know but I have to stop running by and start doing. What should I do?

I made my goal and then some, by the way. When I accepted the challenge to run 150 miles, I didn't know that it would potentially take me, and my community even farther than that.

And the Walls Came Down

2010-08-26T15:22:00.005-05:00

Been thinking about walls lately. Not just structural walls like the ones around me right now as I type, although I'm glad they're here. No. I've been thinking about the ones we humans make to navigate the world, to hide the darkest parts of ourselves, to keep out the darkest parts of others.

Just like house walls, they serve a purpose. I want walls in my house. They tell me when the kitchen becomes the family room. They separate my room from my children's rooms. They let me use the bathroom in peace. (My kids don't but that's not their job, right?) They keep the hot summer "air" out, the cold winter wind knocks at the door but can't get through. Walls are good.

Walls also shut people out. And while I don't want my house crowded full of people all the time, there's a time and a place for hospitality. Right?

I had a few emotional hiccoughs this summer, which spun me into a mild summer funk. A sort of sadness turned me inward. I locked up my personal doors and windows. I put extra insulation around my virtual interior windows, drew the blinds and shut off for a while. I was hurt. I was confused. I didn't want to write because writing would make me feel and I didn't want to feel. I wanted to float. To simply exist without thought or notion.

I kept living my life, of course. I mean there are these people at my house who rely on me, things to do, people to see and all that. So while I tuned out emotionally for a bit, I kept running. Usually when I run my brain works on overdrive on creative ideas I can use either in my studio or in my writing. Running opens part of my brain that helps me see the shadow of possibility, a glinty piece of silver on the path. During this emotional wall building thing, I concentrated on step after step. That was it. That was all I had. I had nary a decent idea or thought. My train of thought went something like: "step, breathe, step, breathe...."

If there are routines in your life you depend on for some semblance of regularity and those systems go on the fritz, it can feel like trying to catch a speck out of a glass of water. You see it. You know the solution but you can't make it happen. I felt frustrated. Stupid, even. Creatively dry.

Until two days ago. I put new music on the old ipod, music that had no emotional connotations for me. Music I had never before heard, music that drummed into my head and feet a rhythm that breathed and stepped for me and suddenly, the cobwebs of doubt and confusion disintegrated. In my head, I composed a sentence. Not just any sentence. One that was more than two complete thoughts, related to each other, with interesting word choice and a funny point (if I do say so myself).

In my attempt to keep myself from feeling the hurt, I also closed my eyes to the re-creative potential of the hurt. I'm not saying running is a magic potion. I'm not saying that feeling hurt is amazing because it leads to great art. I'm not saying music is the great salve to the weary soul. Far from it. Maybe it was time, or perspective or simply being tired from the effort of suppressing it. I don't know. But the wall started to crumble, and I'm thankful.

In feeling it, in pulling it out of myself and writing about it, I could polish the stone and reflect on it from different angles. I found that the hurt held good truth in it that I needed to see. We don't always see the good that comes out of pain. Sometimes it just hurts. This time, this one time, the truth is flooding into my head and heart and I'm thankful for that.

Put the Play Dough Down

2010-08-24T12:55:00.005-05:00

It rained on my run this morning which made my normally full hands slippery. I had the dog leash in one hand and my phone and ipod in the other. Normally I clip my ipod to my shorts but not today. Today, because SOMEONE had left my ipod in SOMEONE'S car, I had to use SOMEONE else's ipod which doesn't clip to anything Before you give me a thousand different ways I could have solved this problem, of the holding of gear, know that it's a story for another day, personal preference being what it is and all that.

The point is, my hands were full and slippery. Every few paces, I'd notice my hands were clutching the life out of my technology. It reminded me of something a very wise and gentle friend told me this summer. (Not my husband). He told me that I need to let go of the idea that I'm in control.

If you know me, you know I hate when people (my husband) tell me to "relax." My instant and strong reaction is rather the opposite of relaxation. My hackles raise up like a thousand little poisonous snakes ready to strike. I guess that makes me the middle(ish) aged version of a rebellious teenager. I'll relax when I'm darn good and ready to relax, thankyouverymuch. I like control. I enjoy control. When I know what to expect and who's going to be where and exactly when, I feel calm and reasonable. I feel, well, I feel in control.

Trouble is, life is uncontainable. It is largely ungovernable, especially by one as meek and lowly as I. When my friend told me I needed to let go, he was asking me to rethink how I viewed the world, asking me to see that my constant control-seeking kept me from relishing the peace of letting go.

So I'm running along this morning, cursing the dog as usual, and I get this image in my head: a brand new lump of play-dough, right out of the jar. It's all smooth and clean. It smells like salt and kindergarten. But, you notice...see, right there? There's a spot on the top that isn't quite blended in with the rest; it's sort of clumpy. So you reach out to smooth it, and in so doing, you make an impression with your thumb. Now you have to fix that, but you'll have to pick it up to do so, and before you know it, the cylindrical goodness that dumped out of the little tub is now a blob. With fingerprints on it. And some of it is on the floor and the table and under your fingernails. So you roll it up into an inexact spherical representation and put it down. Moments later, you're back to smoothing the edges, ready to get out the compass so you can verify it's symmetry.

That's how I approach life. And that's how approached the first week of school. I worry about my kids. What that tells you is that I'm a good mom. I worry and I pack lunches. Right there's your evidence. So, my eldest gets most of my social anxiety, because she prefers her own company, and her three best friends have all moved away. First week of school, I didn't care about classes, or homework or teachers. I wanted to know who was talking to her, to whom she was talking. Were there new kids who seemed nice? I made myself a tiny, annoying fly of repetition. She tolerated my anxiety. For a while.

Finally, kiddo told me to step off. "Mom. It's fine. I'm happy. Please stop bugging me about it." I knew it was coming. The increase in visible and verbal eye rolling? Off the charts.

But there's that lump of play-dough. I want to grab it and shape it and coax it and make it perfect. Or close. Or closer. And I'm running along, and I realize my shoulders have hunched a bit higher, my hands strangling the ipod. I hear my gentle friend's voice. "Let go."

I suspect this will be a lifelong journey of small steps. I hope the steps get farther and farther apart before I need reminding. I'm thankful for people who tell me the truth and help me to uncover it on my own. I suspect that image will stick in my head and help me to remember there is only One in control. And I'm not it.

Honeymoon Wonderland

2010-07-30T13:02:00.005-05:00

Our first "home," (using the term in its loosest possible way) was an old, delapidated, nearly discarded double wide on a hill in the glory of the Ozarks. And it was beautiful.

We married on a Saturday, the mister graduated college on Sunday, we left for our honeymoon on Monday. A week in a tropical paradise, and then the move: the smallest Uhaul laden with our decorator style; we called it "early college." We drove from Pittsburgh to Tulsa, stopping on the way at a lavishly maintained Knight's Inn (yes), blinded by the purple wall paper and carpeting.

We stored our worldly possessions into a corner of my newly minted in-laws' garage and drove to Branson to work for the summer at a camp in the mountains. We were married staff, so we proudly assumed the entitlement of "married staff housing." This is a huge step up from regular staff housing, in that we had windows AND air conditioning. Living the dream.

I cop to a certain amount of "gross out" when I rested my gaze upon the brown and white, off kilter little gem that was to be our home for three months. The gag reflex promptly gave way to the beautiful haze that is newly married life. I had gifts to be thankful for, and pictures to sort. I had a new home in Tulsa to find. I had my life partner, the apple of my eye with me. And we were blessed.

And then it rained. Oh, how it can rain in those mountains. Turns out, the windows acted more like large, transparent colanders. We used our brand new towels to staunch the flow pouring into our cozy little love nest.

Then there was the matter of living quarters. The double wide belonged to resident staff who were at another camp for the summer. All of their worldly possessions occupied every bedroom. We had access to the living room/kitchen/dining room. And the bathroom. We stored our clothes in the kitchen cabinets. We kept coffee in the space where the dishwasher was to go. Socks went in the top drawers. Shorts and tees in the upper cabinets.

When I think about it now, 15 years later, I have to laugh. We laughed then, too, but for different reasons. We were young. We were happy. We were on an adventure, just beginning our journey together. I laugh now because that was simply crazy. We loved every minute of it. But, man, what a summer.

I took that photo up there in the fall when our home needed some ghastly repairs. This reminds me that along with our changing lives, we have changing perspectives, changing needs, changing attitudes. Sometimes we get to live like wild bohemians, in the eye of chaos. And sometimes we get to move out of that and live in peace.

Tweenage Word Police

2010-07-28T12:58:00.006-05:00

image via yourdictionary.com

One of the problems stemming from my stern grammatical upbringing is friendly chats are rendered neigh impossible. My parents both spoke, and speak, with a precision and depth few can match. They choose their words carefully and for maximum effect. Mom and Dad could rip steel to shreds with their words or plant flowers of prose.

As a family, we were, and are, vigilant about grammatical and pronunciation mistakes. We pounce on every misspoken word, every improperly used pronoun. No one is immune. Nothing passes our ears. We hear every little thing. And we will correct you. Yes. We will mock you unceasingly. It gives us great pleasure. In fact, many of our mistakes have entered the family lexicon; newcomers to our little grammar party may indeed not understand a word we say.

This admittedly annoying familial habit has made its way into my own family, our children being proud, card-carrying members of the word police. If you think your kids aren't listening to you, try making a mistake in speaking. I personally guarantee you will be corrected. By them. In an unfriendly tone. Children correcting their parents makes for uncomfortable family dinners.

I confess to the deadly sin of pride about my childrens' vocabulary. Except. For the past year, we've had a recurring language debate with our eldest, who can, in fact, word us under the table. (She once told me she would explain something to me using small words. She's 12).When we ask her to do something, or to NOT do something, or have a conversation and want some signal from our angsty tween, we expect, and rightly so, some kind of acknowledgment. We get this, "Okay." Or "Okay!" Or "OKAY." Parents, I know you hear the difference.

When one is used to precise language, "okay," as a reply means very little. Does she mean she understands, or that she's walking away, or that she hates our parental guts? IDK. (She is constantly surprised that I am hip to text lingo.) So then we say, "No. It's not okay." To which she replies, "You know what I mean." And then we say, "No. We don't know what you mean." Then she rolls her eyes and stalks, storms or saunters away and we throw up our flummoxed hands with heavy sighs.

We find ourselves walking this line like drunken sailors; as parents we are unsure of ourselves with this nearly teen-aged girl, but we know her and love her and want the best for her. As a nearly teen-aged girl, I'm sure she's feeling many things of which she is not sure. She is aware at least of her verbal double standard that allows her the luxury of correcting mistakes but not being called on her own.

We wonder how much do we push back, how much slack do we let out, how long do we let the eye rolling make our skin itch? We wonder if she can smell our fear: our fear of her growing up and walking her path and becoming who more of who she is every day. It's not an unreasonable fear, tempered as it is with confidence in her ability to make good choices, good friends, and certainly good sentences.

What does "okay" mean? No idea.

Regrets and Reconciliation

2010-07-27T16:56:00.004-05:00

Once upon a time, I had two friends. Well, once upon a time, I had more than two friends, still do, in fact, have slightly more than 2 friends, but that's neither here nor there, as this little story concerns just these two aforementioned friends I had, once upon a time, and my grandmother, which is weird, considering the three have never met.

So I had these two friends. And they were funny and silly and I enjoyed their company. And they were my friends. And then we had a very dramatic, sad, ugly falling out.

I'll spare you the drama of our sad and ugly falling out. Suffice it to say, as is usually the case in these matters, all three of us can hoist some of the blame onto our humanly puny shoulders, burdened as we are already with pride, anger and selfishness.

In thinking about my role in this little tragedy, the Greek chorus in my head reminds me of a recent revelation, a reconciliation of sorts with my paternal grandmother, who has been dead for over a decade. Crazy Greek chorus, just like them to bring up some long ago turmoil, buried securely in my mind, to teach me a lesson.

Of Grandmas and Grace

Grandma and I had a monumental tiff during her later years. The kind that overshadowed family holidays and jubilant occasions, like my wedding. That lady was a spitfire on her best days. She was a mountain-mover, a hell-raiser, and woe be to thee if you raised her ire.

We had a minor miscommunication that grew and festered. I can blame my dad for this, because he invited Grandma to something I did not want her to attend. When she called for details, instead of being gracious and insisting she come, I blurted out that she was, in reality, not invited. I know. I'm embarrassed. This classy move led to the Thanksgiving Tumult of 1991. Neighbors still talk about it.

For the rest of her life, we were at odds, which pains me to this day. Tradition says that this is where I remind readers to cherish their loved ones, to seize every opportunity to express their devotion. Not gonna happen.

Here is where I tell you that if I'm at all like my hell-raising granny, I share her sense of justice, her stubborn pride, and her ability to hold a grudge like a precious gem.

Freedom through Tea Sets?

Standing at the tiny stainless sink at the decrepit family cottage, my mother and I shared the job of washing and drying the dishes. Offhand, she tossed out a bomb that shifted my perspective of my grandmother, veritably shattering the angry image and reminding me of her gentle thoughtfulness. My mother said that Grandma had packed a box with an antique tea service. She labeled the box: FOR JEN AND ABBY. Abby, my daughter, was 18 months old when my grandmother died. Moreover, my grandmother was suffering at the hands of a cruel enemy, Alzheimer's, that stole much of who she was and confused her memories.

I stood at that sink totally bewildered. My grandmother remembered my daughter? She cared enough about me—or her descendants—to leave a special gift just for us. In her darkness, in her deterioration, she remembered me with love.

What's with the Greek Tragedy, Again?

So, back to my fractured friendship. A solid decade after her death, my cranky, unforgiving, hardened grandmother, my kind, giving, talented grandmother taught me a lesson in humility, grace and forgiveness.

Platitudes don't work for me, they're too easy. But. If I don't look at this situation in a spirit of growth, I will continue to cherish regret, fatigue and bitterness. Maybe life's not too short for regrets. Maybe in the poor choices we make, in our betrayals, our deceptions and our minor infractions, there is a future wrapped up just for us, specially marked and ready to be opened. Maybe a future of redemption and reconciliation comes with regret as its cost.

For reconciliation, I can handle a little regret.

Anticipation and Melancholy

2010-07-06T08:39:00.004-05:00

See that? Right there? Those are two of my favorite people relaxing in one of my most favorite places in the whole wide world. My family has owned this little slice of happy for 110 years. Yes, one hundred ten years. It may not be easy on the eyes, but I assure you, it's easy on the spirit.

Living 1000 miles away from this little beauty we call "the cottage," definitely puts a limit on how often we get there. Once a year to be exact. Being there means shutting down literally and figuratively. No TV, no internet, spotty cell service. Until a few years ago, there was no shower and no phone. The lack of current technology means a turning to others, creating a space where conversations ebb and flow with the shadows cast by the sun on the ferns. It means using your head to make sure there's enough water to do dishes and get the kids' grimy feet clean. It means not dumping food in the sink because there's no disposal. It means a calmer life, for a few days. Rising with the birds and sun, resting our heads in the heat of the afternoon, hitting the hay with the moon.

We all, my siblings and I, try yearly to make the trek to the cottage for the fourth of July, it being our mother's birthday. Knowing I get to see my brother and sister and all of our nieces and nephews fills me with tangible anticipation. In my mind, I play out our visit, the arrivals, the stories, the swimming, the food. I'm like a kid on Christmas Eve, completely wound up waiting for the presents to arrive. When everyone has finally assembled, it is largely as I had envisioned. We laugh, and cook, swim and canoe, drink cold beer, sit on the porch, tell stories, remember, catch up, look ahead. This trip is one big gift just for me to savor my family.

And then it's over, just as Christmas Eve passes to Christmas Day which passes to the ho hum day after Christmas of bloat of indulgence and crankiness from all that togetherness. I found myself in that doldrum yesterday as we drove out of the gravel drive, casting one last furtive glance at Sugar Lake, the place that defines my past as much as the house where I grew up. Leaving it, leaving the family, brought my anticipation to a screeching halt and left a gaping hole of sad.

I know I'll be back. I know I'll see my family again. There is something reassuring about having something to look forward to. It makes the minutiae seem to click by faster, to make it more meaningful or worthwhile. And there is also something about a return to "real" life that resonates, too. I wouldn't want to stay with my siblings at the cottage forever. Going home, my home, with my children, and our daily responsibilities, creates the possibility of something new to anticipate. What I'm trying to say is that we need the flow of time; we need to look forward, and we need to grasp our present with joy and purpose.

But, I still miss my brother, my sister and my nieces and nephews. Can't wait til next year.

How to Road Trip without Losing Your (Entire) Mind

2010-07-02T09:04:00.005-05:00

Every year my family of five drives the 1000 odd miles from our door in Oklahoma to my parents' door in Pennsylvania. Because Pennsylvania is my hometown, this trip feels like one big treat planned just for me. Of course, it also has to do with reuniting grandparents and grandchildren, nieces and nephews, old friends, old places. But of course we all see the world through our own filters. I'm sure my kids think it's a big ole party for them and their cousins. My mom loves having all her babies around her. My dad likes seeing us use the family cottage. Everyone has their own reason to look forward to the trip.

And every year, on the drive, we experience the same emotional arc or cycle. It starts with eager anticipation and ends, well, it ends with a tired but happy family.

On day one of our trip this year, the first kid awoke at 5:45: ready to go. Everyone scrambled about, grabbing last minute items, talking about what they were looking forward to doing. We piled in, smiles on our faces, pictures taken, legs rested.

Two hours in, the electronics lost power, the boredom kicked in, the munchies arrived. (Roadtrip snacks are huge deal; I hide them as long as possible, not wanting tip my hand before necessary.) For the rest of the day, we rode out the moods. From excitement to boredom, to cranky, to tired, to chatty, to silent, to boredom, to cranky to tired to chatty to silent. We contended with the "arewethereyets." We played silly games. We looked quietly out the window, watching for the farthest away license plates. We are not above bribery. We are not above a few words hastily spoken. The closer we got to our destination the farther away it seemed and the more restless everyone grew.

We stopped half-way to visit a dear friend of mine. Reuniting with friends, stretching our legs in a wide open back yard, enjoying an adult beverage and adult conversation renewed us all. The kids caught fireflies and made new friends. The parents sat and talked. And talked. And talked.

Waking to gourmet breakfast made by our foodie friends was a treat like no other. It was hard to tear myself away from the luxury of being served breakfast, but PA will not wait. We loaded up the car and headed East, young man. And the cycle began. The second day the kids were much more mellow. They spent a lot of the time quietly gazing out the window. I kept looking back, concerned; my kids are not the quiet types. We still played some games. Everyone still had their choice of playlist. Snacks were replenished. But there was a resignation. The forward looking we had awoken with the day before succumbed to the miles of green, changing hilly to flat to hilly to mountainous. It all flowed under us as we took each mile.

Again, the closer we got the more restless we became. I prayed that no one would need a potty stop once we crossed the PA border. That's just the kind of thing that takes whatever wind you've got going right out of your sails. We pulled into Mom's and Dad's drive, happy, spent, and with a quiet anticipation. What had started as giddy physical excitment has transformed into a rested, inherent peace. Knowing we have ten days to soak up this beautiful place, these gorgeous friends, we are happy to have arrived.

Striking a Blow to Depression

2010-06-22T10:03:00.004-05:00

Recently I discovered what other people were born knowing. The joy of waking, of getting out of bed, of laughing, or being together, of speaking without fear or anxiety. Of deciding firmly and strongly and not looking back.

Two months ago, I wandered into my doctor’s office. I knew I was hurting. I’d been hurting for some time. I’ve been treated for depression on and off for most of my life. I’m okay with that. I accept that taking pills is part of my reality. This is fine with me. I realize that if I were diabetic or had heart disease I would take the same steps.

So, I walk into my doctor’s office and I want to try something new. I have my little speech prepared. I’m ready, because I don’t want to cry. I simply want to ask for what I need and get the hell out of there.

He asks me a simple question. It’s always the simple questions that unravel us. “How’re you doing?” But he doesn’t just ask. He’s not just making conversation. He looks at my face, into my eyes. He knows why I’m there and he waits patiently for an answer. He watches my face contort as I try to control the coming tears. I am powerless. I begin to weep, unabashedly, uncontrollably.

“I feel like crap.” I confess. He listens. He nods. I pour it out. All the symptoms, all the hurt, all the torment. And in the confession comes a release. There is constantly a tight, grey fist curled around my heart, at the very center of my person. I can feel it squeezing me, bruising me, crushing the good to a pulp. What’s left is fear and anger and insecurity. It oozes out between the stone fingers and pours into my life, into the lives of the people I love.

But in the confession, I conquer just a little bit of that fist. I shove back against the constant arm wrestling happening inside me. I tell that fist I don’t want to live like this. Without sleep. Without joy. Without love. There has to be another way.

My doctor is amazing. He spent an hour with me that day. We talked through the many answers, including ones that are not strictly medical, but spiritual, physical and relational. Those are the ones I control. The chemical stuff? Yeah, I got nothing on that.

So he prescribes a new medicine. I’m skeptical but relieved. At least I’m doing something. Moving. Trying. Talking.

Two weeks go by. I start waking at 5 or 6 am. Not tired. Not anxious. Not worried about jobs or kids or the organization of the day, or whether the spoons are put away in the right places. I wake up feeling rested. I think, “Okay. That’s...weird.”

Then, I start wanting to run. WANTING to run. Again weird. And the more I want to run, the more I run, and the more I run the better I feel. And the better I feel the more I want to be with my kids and talk to them and hear them and love them and be their mom. And the more I respond to them the more they respond to me. This is quite lovely.

Other delights happen, too. I asked my husband, “Is this how you feel all the time?” I’m shocked. Amazed. Humbled, thankful and overjoyed. I have never, in my life, felt as good as I feel now.

I keep trying to put my finger on it. I feel like if I can’t explain it it will change, or worse, stop. Or if I don’t put words to it those closest to me don’t know exactly how much better I feel. And I want them to know. I want them see who I am. That tight fist clamping my chest was actually just one part of the crushing pain I lived with. A hard shell surrounded me, feeding me lies about my worth, coaxing insecurity and embarrassment into my heart, like a plume of foul fragrance. Leading me to think I had to fit into a certain ideal in order to be of value. That shell got shot to pieces. I feel, if not invincible, then definitely like I could kick some ass.

I’m not saying I’m cured or healed or perfect. I’m saying there are always options and choices and another avenue to try. I’m saying if you’re hurting tell someone, tell me, tell your mom, tell anyone. That dark grasp can crumble.

Sisters

2010-06-11T20:48:00.003-05:00

My sister and I shared a room most of our teen years. We had a Cold War kind of relationship. Each day we danced through a series of minor concessions and major conflicts, poorly hiding them under a seemingly placid surface of standoff. Our mutually agreed upon peace went unspoken; for myriad reasons, it was essential we endure our hellish prison of room-sharing to keep our parents happy. We erected quite literally a wall in the center of our room by placing our dressers back to back, clearly demarcating HERS and MINE. Even the one closet was separated permanently; those foolish enough to try to alter this arrangement did so at their own risk. This was serious.

I was reminded of one of our most memorable arguments today. In our early teens, I used a yellow highlighter to stain the perfectly white teeth of Tom Selleck in all his Magnum P.I. glory. I hit her where it hurt, right in her favorite poster. She walked into the room as I walked out, a smug, self-righteous smile flickering on my young face. I was a few steps down the hall before I heard the gasping and stammering.

Retaliation was in order. Moments later, our room took on an eerie silence, her mental wheels locked in overdrive searching for the perfect revenge. She found it. She emptied the entire contents of my beautiful bottle of Bonne Belle perfume onto my bed, soaking the quilt, sheet and mattress. Now I liked the smell of that pink liquid when it was dabbed on my wrists. In full potency that stuff could down an elephant.

Happily the Cold War is over for my sister and me. Somewhere along my freshman year of college the thaw began and now we talk nearly every day. She's one of my best friends. I am thankful for our tenuous beginnings and our fierce love.

To the point: my daughters' own little mini Cold War reminded me of that today. We decided to take an after dinner boat ride. Elder brings two towels, both for herself. Younger decides she wants a towel as soon as we leave the dock. Elder doesn't want to share because if she wanted one she should have thought to bring one. Younger makes frustrated noises. This mildly annoying bickering goes on until it's about to come to blows. We stop the boat, separated the perpetrators, talk to each one; if you are a parent, you know the drill.

Eventually the two reunite in the bow of the boat, each one sprawled on one of the two towels. Their heads bowed close to each other, they laugh and sing and tease and tell jokes. I can see their faces in profile as their words tumble over each others. I shake my head and wonder why we couldn't have skipped that little drama. But I also smile.

I have hope for my girls that they will enjoy what I share with my own sister. Not because it's a given, because it so isn't. I have this hope because they have fierce love, fierce hearts and fierce thoughts. I know they'll fight again, probably before I finish writing this. And I know it will be loud and hard and it will hurt to grow up.

I also know that they are secure, strong and content with who they are as people, these two oil and vinegar girls. For now I will happily take the short clips of beautiful peace and wait in hope to see how they grow together and apart over the next years.

Fluff Friday

2010-06-04T09:01:00.004-05:00

I made a blanket for my daughter to use at her sister's soccer games. She hates grass and hates wet and hates soccer. So I thought making her a water and grass resistant blanket would alleviate some of the discomforts she finds in the great outdoors.

I used tablecloth vinyl because it's pliable and also the design was pretty. A black and white damask. Lovely. On the other side, I used pink fleece. I bound the edges with black quilt binding, which I suck at applying but whatever.

Trial, and error, revealed that this blanket, while super cute, does not do well in the wash. Still. It folds well and keeps most of the yuck off. I've sold a few and had good reviews.

A customer wondered if she could get a larger blanket, 68x82", and instead of fleece she wanted a plain cotton, in a masculine color. Working together over email, we designed the above blanket. I like it way way more than the fleece version.

I used tablecloth vinyl again, but this time brown with blue dots. I had to seam 2 pieces together to get the width she wanted. Hancock Fabric sells 100% cotton sheeting which is the perfect width at 120" for this project. Placing the two fabrics back to back and using the cotton as binding, I seamed the edges using a basic zig zag stitch.

My customer plans to have her kids decorate the plain side and present it to their dad for Father's Day. I think that's sweet.

Another Reason to Run

2010-05-30T20:16:00.005-05:00

My children are Philistines to my cultured 80s musical ears. They care little for my playlists when they see the album covers that include really high hair, men wearing lipstick and strange arm dancing.

Philistines.

I don't really listen to what they listen to. I do monitor it, and I know it's not "bootylicious." There's no bumping and grinding going on. I mean I hear it and I know they like it but it all sounds the same to this old lady. Autotune and really obnoxious harmony and a lot of fluff. But whatever. They can like what they like. I remember teasing my parents for their out of the closet love for Roberta Flack. Yeah.

So, when I run, I celebrate, because I can listen to whatever I want. If I want to play one song on loop gosh darnit, I will. Sometimes, when I run, I sing a few words. Out loud. Imagine!

Saturday I went for a nice long run and I had it all set up.The perfect running playlist. All my favorites, hand pecked to cheer me on and distract my mind. Started out with a little Adele, because her voice is smooth and rich and makes me feel invincible. Next up, "Desire" by U2. This is the perfect song. For anything.

I won't bore you with the entire playlist but in my little head, I connect with these songs. They make the miles pass by unimpeded by thoughts of how flipping hard it is. My head goes into the music and Freddie Mercury is suddenly reminding me that I'm the champion. The champion! Bono, in his gorgeous rasp of a voice tells me we're one. He says we have to carry each other. This alone is enough for my mind to focus not on running.

Matt and Kim, well, they kind of get on my nerves because they come on at the end of the run, and they tell me "don't slow down." This causes two reactions. One, it pumps me up. Two it makes me want to slow down. I don't like people telling me what to do. Then, and I'm a tiny bit embarrassed to admit this, I simply must hear Christina' Aguilerra's "Fighter." Talk about invincible. That song is like a kick in the teeth to all the junk we carry around. Listening to that song at the end of my run makes me feel faster, lighter, and stronger.

When I arrive back at my front step, stretching out the old calves, I've done something important. Something good for myself. Something no one can take from me. Something I gave myself, and will give again. And the music I take with me is like another part of that treat. Isn't that what art is supposed to do? To call us out of ourselves and into the world. To be enjoyed once and again. To be plumbed for depths, to skate along the surface.

At some point I will need to make a new playlist. For now, I'm rocking and running with this one and loving every mile.

Like Attracts Like

2010-05-30T19:23:00.004-05:00

This year for Memorial Day we told our daughters, ages 12 and 10, they could each invite a friend to come with us to the lake. I admit, I may have had an ulterior motive besides just being the coolest mom ever; I knew they'd bicker less if they were preoccupied with their own selection of people to hang with. Which meant the odds of me being able to read, alone and quietly, on a sun-drenched deck on the shore of a glorious lake, would increase.

This is to be encouraged.

Today we took four giggly girls and the 6-year-old brother on the lake for some boating and tubing. The perfect plan: the boy doesn't really like to tube and the girls each prefer to tube a different way. As each set of girls boarded the tube and held on, I was struck by the types of friends my kids make. They have chosen well and wisely and in sync with who they are, inwardly, on their deepest levels.

The eldest is a talker and thinker. When not tubing, she peered through binoculars identifying birds and explaining to anyone in earshot what they were, what they eat, why they live in Oklahoma. She says things like, "That would be preferable," when asked if she wants to go slower. When we tell her we can go faster she says, "Be that as it may..." the ellipses meaning, "Don't you dare." Her friend's preferred method of tubing aligned directly with hers. They wanted moderate speed, few bumps and really just a pleasant ride. Kind of like two 12-year-old Miss Daisies.

Younger daughter is a straight up thrill seeker. Girl loves to run, jump and play. There is little intellectualizing about her life. She just loves to be. She is almost always happy, she gathers friends like fallen leaves. Her heart is open and alert to everyone. And the friend she brought with her? Same. They giggle and tease, they kick the soccer ball, and they can't go fast enough or high enough on the tube. They wanted to hit the biggest waves, hurl around the most severe corners, jump and flip and finally to fly off into the water.

What parent doesn't love to watch her kids enjoy life? Sometimes, I think that when we get to the lake, leaving "real life" behind, we see a distillation of our kids. I caught a tiny glimpse of this today as they navigated their way through the waves. I am thankful for their differences, for their emotional capacity to befriend and to love, and the vigor of their lives.

Hate to Love: My Dubious Relationship with Running

2010-05-24T09:00:00.002-05:00

First let's be clear. I'm not sure what I do is actually running. It's more like a mildly paced shuffling kind of jog thing. I have "run" off and on for the better part of the last 12 years, starting just after I married my husband, the former cross country coach.

Those early days were heady. We were young. We were fit. We had energy and drive and time. We had one kid who sat happily in the jogger pointing at butterflies and flowers. We'd go for miles and chat. He'd give me pointers on technique, like hold to hold my arms to I don't waste energy.

These days, energy is in short supply. I will do anything to conserve it. Like sleep. However, we also have three very active children and a dog who poops under my sewing machine if he doesn't go out. I'm fairly sure this is a not-so-passive-aggressive retaliation. What I wonder is, "Why me? Why am I the one he punishes for not going on a run. There are other runners and walkers and poop picker uppers in this house."

But I digress.

The point is for a while I really hated running. The dog is like a manic toddler scooting from one pile of detritus to the next. I'm pretty sure he had the 52 ounce bladder installed by QT because he sure stops a lot. Which means I stop a lot. Which means 3 miles takes quite a time investment.
I try. I really try to give him the first mile to do his business. This, I think, is a reasonable compromise, but one I'm not sure he got the memo. So sometimes on mile 2 and 3 I get a little testy with him.

Again, digression.

If I can stop thinking about him, I like where my mind goes. It goes to that place we all have, where ideas pump like blood, where pieces of troubles shift into place like puzzles suddenly closer to solving. It's the place where the vigilant censor takes a vacation and I think all the things I don't say out loud, things that might not be for public consumption in polite society.
It also feels really, really good to hang up the leash and get on with my day.

In short, I love that the dog needs to go for a run because I like where the run takes me. Of course it liberates me from poop under my sewing machine. But it's more than that. It's one time segment devoted to thought. Wild, free thought.

But don't tell the dog.

Same Difference

2010-05-20T08:05:00.004-05:00

In fourth grade, my all time, no holds barred BFF forever and ever was Cindy Taylor. I mean, I'm sure we were in 3rd and 5th and probably 6th, my memory functions half-heartedly some days.

We were so close that we planned our outfits nearly every single day. If we couldn't match at school we made sure to match at church on Sundays. I remember poring over the J.C. Penney's catalog and my mother oh-so-obliging placing the order at Thrift Drug. (Weird, right? They don't do that anymore.) I remember a pink polo shirt and grey shorts. I remember culottes. Yikes!

Some of my happiest childhood days were spent with Cindy, at her house or mine. At camp, at church, at school.

And life intervened.

I hadn't seen or talked to Cindy in over 20 years when through the magic of the internet we met up again. Cindy and I are now busy married moms with lots to do and different lives. But we might still share similar taste.

Cindy checked out gallery of handmade goodies and she asked about one of my bags, and the one she liked best is the one I carry nearly every day. She requested an exact replica, except for one minor change. She asked me to label it somehow that it was from me. How sweet is that?

During my fabric selection, prep and assembly I reminisced. I laughed, all alone in my sewing room, remembering things we did, boys we liked, places we went. I think that's the reason why I like making custom items so much. It's fun to think of a new design and play, but it's way more fun for me to make something very specific for someone just as specific. It gives me time to think through who that person is to me, what the item will mean to them. I feel connected by more than memories.

Yesterday I shipped off Cindy's handmade, custom, exact replica tote bag. I hope she gets as much joy out of using it as I had making it.

The Most Fun Project

2010-05-14T08:22:00.003-05:00

I am not a sentimental person.

But.

When my husband graduated High School, long before I knew him, he was given a quilt. His friend's mom made it for him to thank him for something particularly kind he had done for her son. She wrote a sweet note on the back. He carried that blanket to school, to summer jobs, and into our married life. Twenty years later, we still have that quilt; it's kind of a family favorite. The fabric is worn, parts of the edges frayed in spots. And yet, it's something every one of us loves.

So when my friend asked me for creative ways to memorialize her graduating son's theatrical achievements, it was short jump to memory quilt.

Pictures were scanned, paged were printed and handed over to me. I used the school's colors to trim the squares. In the center, I embroidered his name, his graduating class and his years in Repertory Theater. His acting chops are such that he's been active on stage for all four years of High School and was this year awarded Mr. Theater. Which I think is kinda cool. His friends can sign the blank space around his name.

When I delivered them yesterday (we made two, one for a friend), smiles all around. Like I said, I'm not particularly sentimental but I enjoyed putting this piece together. I thought of how proud my friends are of their son. I thought of his hard work and his passionate pursuit of something he loves. And I thought of his bright future, continuing that pursuit.

Too Busy for Guilt

2010-05-08T08:50:00.003-05:00

Soccer practice. It's one of my favorite times. I love watching the girls run and play and have fun and learn and compete. I love seeing the community they build through a shared love for sport. I love the talk time with the other mommies. Always gives me something to think about.

This week a wiry thread of something ugly ran through every conversation. One mom was headed to a Girl's Night Out and needed someone to give her daughter a ride home. She took her time leaving; "guilt," she said.

Another mom had a coupon for a major discount at her favorite store. She wanted to run over and gift herself something. She weighed the pros and cons and worked out her justification for the purchase, wondering if she would hide it from her husband.

I myself didn't want to leave until my husband showed up. I was the drop off driver, he was the pick up driver. I knew he was on the way, I knew practice lasted another hour, I knew he knew. Still, I resisted leaving, worried, feeling guilty that I wasn't standing there, watching her warm-up, shoot, run, drill.

But the word "guilt" spoken by both of these moms resonated through my head, bouncing around like an uninvited guest overstaying its welcome in my head. I walked away confident my daughter would indeed have a ride home, that my husband would show up. Guilt had no place in this situation.

Sure. There are times when a healthy dose of real, true conviction prompts one to confess, or apologize, or change. But this? This was just silly mom insecurity. And I'm too busy for that.

Make a Room Sign

2010-05-03T11:24:00.003-05:00

I'm not sure what I've been working on lately, maybe being a wife and mom, but my poor little Cricut has become dusty. So I scanned the message boards, piddled around and started playing again.

I am reminded that I LOVE THIS MACHINE. Today I plan to try making magnets but in the meantime, look what I made for a friend's new niece.
To complete this project you need:
an unfinished sign/plaque/board
at least 2 colors coordinating pain
clear coat acrylic
sponge brushes
a cricut or stencils or stickers...whatever you nee to embellish
brads, stickles, stamp pads

Coat the board with at least 2 coats of acrylic in good heavy strokes. Allow to dry completely.

Using the Home Accents cartridge I cut out stencils with clear contact paper for the swirls in the corners. then I used Plantin Schoolbook with italic letters and cut a stencil for her name.

Place the stencils on the painted, dry plaque and rub vigorously to prevent seepage. No one wants to see that.

Using pink, go over the stencils in nice thick coats, at least twice, drying completely between coats. It is important to leave the stencils on until the paint is dry. Trust me on this. Okay?

Finally, using tall ball setting on Plantin Schoolbook cart I cut out 2 flowers in each color. I stickled the brown leaves and distressed the pink ones with Distress Ink in Burlap Brown. Secure them together with a bronze brad.

Apply two coats of a clear acrylic coating (I like glossy but whatevs). Set aside to dry.

Finally using a good strong glue of your preference, attach the flowers.

Mail it to your friend's new neice. Oh wait, that's me.

Begin at the Beginning

2010-04-13T11:41:00.002-05:00

In trying to find a balance between participating in pop culture and staying true to the call of God in our lives, it's helpful to refer to the start.

When God created the world, and its inhabitants, he used every bit of divine creativity he had. Whatever idea of the beginning of time you ascribe to, know that He who created it created you. And not just as another show off move he had up his sleeve. He could simply have kept on with the various derivations of monkey, giraffe and aardvark, but he went big with humans.

Really big.

For one thing, he created us last. I like to think of this as leaving room for dessert. He created us in his image and likeness. He created us to have authority over the earth. And he created us to be in relationship with him.

No other creature on Earth can boast those claims. But what does it mean to be created in his image and likeness? It means, according to my research, that humans are gifted with some characteristics of God, although we do not possess them perfectly, or use them flawlessly.

The character trait that pertains to a discussion on faith and art is creativity. Perceiving his world and responding by creating ourselves is one of the most natural things. Experiencing life and expressing our attitudes about it through music, writing, theater, painting or other media seems like just the reaction God, the Creator, would expect.

What do you think? Is creativity an aspect of the Creator? If so, how do you use yours?

Does Christian Art Exist

2010-04-12T10:00:00.004-05:00

Our church has embarked on a study of Christians and pop culture. As you can probably guess, I have some strong opinions on this, and I'm sure some in our study group will have strongly held but disparate opinions about how people of faith participate in and consume popular culture. I look forward to lively debates about what music, TV, and movies mean to believers.

I'm interested in what defines "good" art, what kind of work represents God's glory, and if it can only do so if the artist intended it. I want to know what "Christian music," means and if it's important.

Over the next few weeks, I'll be posting about books I've read, music I've heard, movies I've seen that I think pinpoint what critically thinking believers can find about God in works created without that express intent.

In the meantime, what do you think? Is there such a thing as Christian art? What makes art good? How as Christians should we participate in the world around us? And if so, how?

Bleak Saturday

2010-04-03T07:28:00.002-05:00

I woke up worried. Worried about something that happened 2ooo years ago when I could do little about it. I woke up worried about the disciples.

Anyone who has ever buried a loved one knows the agony of loss. Those first few days are a blur of emotions and activities. Shock, anger, sadness, you name it. A veritable carousel of hurt.

So imagine the disciples. They had a few short years with a charismatic leader. They had been heralded and questioned. They'd seen miraculous healing and feeding and teaching. From the humble shores of Galilee they left everything and wandered around with this guy. And just days ago, they watched as Jerusalem erupted in praise to welcome this same guy into the city.

They watched, some ran, as their leader was arrested and marched to a dubious trial under shady leadership. They witnessed the whipping, the berating, the execution. And now? Now he was gone. Maybe some of his words began to itch at the back of their heads, beginning to make sense, words about going away, and coming back or something?

That bleak Saturday when nothing made sense and everything was gone, that was the beginning of their ministry. They didn't know it yet, but many of them would rise from their hurt to do amazing things, like start The Church, spread the news, even die, for what they'd seen.

But, on this Saturday, they were still on the carousel of hurt. Their hearts shattered, their leader gone. We can press Fast Forward and skip over the hollowness of that Saturday because we know the ending, we know what the women found on Sunday, we know the victory. They did not have that luxury.

So I woke up worried. Worried about their hearts. Thankful for access to the end of the story, but urged to remember that what makes Sunday's events more powerful is that empty trudge through loss.

From Victor to Accused

2010-03-29T13:50:00.003-05:00

I love Palm Sunday. As a child, I loved to bring home as many palm fronds as I could scavenge from the pews after church. My uncle had this cool way of making them into crosses. And, of course I love Easter. It's the days between celebrating Jesus' triumphal entry and his miraculous resurrection that give us problems.

We like to skip over the icky parts. Those sad, uncomfortable, soul-reckoning parts. We want the glory and the hallelujahs without the groaning and gnashing. And yet....

Reading Matthew 21 can be a good way to start your Holy Week meditations. Yes, you get the spontaneous crowd eruptions and Hosannas! But you also see the beginning of the end. Those leaders simply did not like what Jesus was proclaiming. How dare he give people joy and hope? The audacity. What we see here is the quest for power that ultimately will bring about a horrific execution.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

When I read scripture, I like to put myself in the participants' shoes. I think about what the crowd was feeling to make them respond that way. What was different about this man that made them put their cloaks on the ground? What about the disciples? Maybe they were befuddled by all this attention. Maybe a little proud? And then there's the chief priests. As much as we'd like to disassociate from them, they represent a human element here, too. The yucky side of us that likes to be right, to be in control, to have final say. Here's this guy, refusing to answer "yes and no" questions and giving them these backhanded "oh, snap" parables.

Jesus rode a short wave of glory into Jerusalem whereupon he immediately began his defense. Dare we put ourselves in his shoes? His poise, his attitude, his words, all speak to a knowledge beyond us. This week, as I prepare for the ultimate celebration, I want to remember what the party's for. He rode in on a donkey and walked out with a cross.

"Oh, yes!"

2010-03-28T16:45:00.003-05:00

As the good doctor would say himself, "Ohhhh, yes!" Here it is in all its time traveling goodness. My daughter's finished Dr. Who T.A.R.D.I.S. bag perfect for overnights with the girls or cruising the Caribe with her fam.

I used heavy cotton webbing for the straps instead of jute webbing which I'm using on the next two, 'cause that stuff is a bear to stitch.

Also, I curse that blasted bias strap. When will I get good at that technique? Practice, practice.

She loves it. Now I just need to ship her off somewhere so she can try it out. Considering a K9 or Dalek covered toiletry bag for inside.

You like?

T.A.R.D.I.S. Time Travel Bag

2010-03-26T19:24:00.003-05:00

Trust me; this all ties together.

Our family is big into Dr. Who right now. I mean really big into the show and all its miscellany.

Our family is also planning a giant ball of fun cruise in the summer with the grandparents.

Our kids all need new travel gear.

I stumbled upon this amazing travel duffel pattern on etsy and decided each kid could choose their own fabric to design their very own duffel for our trip.

I took the eldest to the fabric shop first, knowing she would have the toughest time choosing. She has interests in so many areas and her decision making skills verge on crazy making. I knew she would need lots of time. Turns out her favorite fabric existed only in her head.

Being the rockin' mama that I am, we struck upon a plan to make the fabric of her dreams and the T.A.R.D.I.S. bag was born.

Above see the fabric in its infancy. Tomorrow see the finished bag in all it's glory.

A word about the pattern. It is one of my all time favorites. Cherie writes amazingly well thought out instructions. The bag could be completed by a new sewer with a little help. Pockets, handles and opportunities to customize make this a new go-to pattern for me. Check her out on etsy. She's got some great ideas.

Love List Project

2010-03-16T19:00:00.004-05:00

So I'm in the middle of making dinner, and I see this color on my cutting board. The inside flesh of a sweet potato. It strikes me: I love this color. I mean, I reallyreally love this color.

Then I think of my friend Kristin, and how over at her blog, she is working on something called The Love List project.

I promise to write more about this later. But....

I immediately tried to distill my love for this color into 140 characters so I could post it to her via Twitter. This is what I came up with, but instead of Twitter, I'm writing it here, because I want you to go look at her site and answer her questions about what you love and tell me, too.

I love the flesh of the inside of a sweet potato and a simply meal lovingly prepared.

Now, I must run because that lovingly prepared meal awaits.

One Step Foward, A Sweet One Back

2010-03-10T11:45:00.003-06:00

My youngest child has started reading. This marks a milestone for me, because I literally did nothing to help him. Well, okay, sure. I buy books and make them available and talk about letters and why books are good and normal parent stuff like that. But, nothing compared to what his eldest sister, my first child, got from me.

I was on her like flies on...well, let's just say I worked with her on her letters and numbers and her learning. A lot. I wasn't crazy, just a stay-at-home mom with only one kid, and nothing but time on my hands. I was of course, as a new parent, surrounded by the requisite parenting books extolling the virtues of reading to your child. Who was I to break with tradition? I read to my kid. My kid liked being read to.

Years passed, two more great kids joined our family and suffice it to say by the time little man arrived, I was so over those parenting books. We spent all our time in the car getting from one sister's thing to the other sister's thing. We did not have that time on our hands. We got in our reading at night, snuggling.

So it is through time, patience and the blessing of fantastic teachers, that my son is reading. Yay! Someday I will climb atop my never-far-from-me soapbox to tell you why reading to your kids is a good practice. But for now, allow me this indulgence.

Reading and snuggling with my new reader delights me like little else. The light bulb of awareness, excitement and joy is intoxicating. We gather up a huge pile of "just right for me" books and settle in. Since he started reading, he has a new habit. He located two of his oldest baby blankets and spreads them ceremoniously over us before we read. I ask him, "Why do you want those blankets?"

He says, "Because they remind me of when I was a baby." Which is just plain sweet. (See also: how to melt mama's heart.)

I wonder if what he's doing is holding on to his baby self. The one who needs mama nearby, the one who can't do things for himself like big readers do. His blanket ritual has him straddling two worlds. I can't help but think his blankets and his books help him make a smooth leap into moving farther and farther away from me. It's part of life, but I'll hold onto his books and blankets and him for as long as he'll let me.

Serendipity

2010-03-07T09:02:00.002-06:00

I ran into one of my favorite people on Thursday afternoon at a middle school track meet. I hadn't seen her all school year; our kids don't seem to be in the same circles. Doesn't it stink when your social life is dictated by the hormonal whims of your kids?

I was standing alone, not in the bleachers, watching the track meet and my other two kids run wild in the early spring glory. Other parents milled nearby, but none I knew. Then, my friend walked past. I was so happy to see her I blurted out her name, knowing she was on her way to watch her own daughter at the opposite end of the field.

She patiently stopped to talk to me. I think we chatted so long she missed her daughter throwing the shot put, farther than the boys. You go, girl.

My friend has been through a few rocky years but seeing her, she looked poised, confident, happy, and just settled. She's buying a house. She loves her job. She enjoys every moment with her kids. She used to come to a Bible study I taught. Now she was teaching me.

I shared some struggles we'd been having this year and she listened. She gave me a challenge, she told me it works out. She said all the right things.

I have many acquaintances. I know lots of people. She is the one who had this just-what-I-needed message for me.

Lean on Me

2010-03-03T09:46:00.006-06:00

Last night a group of women gathered at a new wine and tapas bar in Tulsa. (LXi for those of you playing along at home). The reason we grouped together there, aside from the fantastic food, gorgeous cocktails and spare, child-free decor was to celebrate a friend who is moving from Oklahoma to Wales.

We sat on sofas around a huge table, playing musical chairs every so often in order to chat with all the others. Laura, the guest of honor, spoke about the home they are returning to, the village school, the commute. Of course, we talked about friends. Laura said when they first moved here, they knew it was a three to five year commitment; she thought she could grit her teeth and knuckle through without putting down deep roots.

Her experience mimicked my first few years in Oklahoma. I thought our stint here would be three years, five max. Fifteen years have passed.

Even if we had only been here for one year, I could not have made it through without friends. Friends like Beth, and Suzi. Laura, Julie, Krista and Lucy. Work friends, church friends and playground friends.

I railed against making new friendships and yet they cropped up unbidden and joyful, like the sprouts of seeds I'd forgotten I planted. A luminous surprise on a gray day. At once I didn't want to sow the seeds, knowing I needed them desperately.

Even though Laura's moving back to her home across the sea, it is a place where she doesn't know anyone. And she will have to begin again, with those first awkward chats at the park or school. Of course she'll be fine. She's amazing. But the older we get the harder it is. I think we avoid trying because it's uncomfortable. It takes energy. It takes tearing down the intimacy walls that we had already left exposed to those old friends.

And? It's worth it.

Mountains and Miles

2010-03-01T17:22:00.005-06:00

This weekend, I drove from Tulsa, OK to Urbana, Illinois to celebrate the 40th birthday of my dear friend Kristin, whom I met 20 years ago. We met at the Jersey shore in the summer of 1990. We were hippie Christian college kids with our worlds before us. During that intense summer living in community with a dozen or so other students, studying our faith in an academic but delightfully fun environment, it was only natural that enduring friendships would spring up. One like ours.

Our friendship continued while she finished school in Michigan and I finished school in Pennsylvania. Our lives crisscrossed the Eastern side of the country as we married and birthed babies and moved to where the jobs were. In a conversation, back in the day, we talked about how we were always connected, over mountains and miles.

We are still separated by miles and mountains. But when her sweet husband asked me to come in for the party, I knew I wouldn't miss it. I met so many fantastic people: Lorna, Dorie, Rebecca, Jubal, Renee, Havah, Rachel, Becca, Paige, Lawrence...the list goes on. Kristin and I did exactly what we needed to do. We talked. Over gorgeous meals, in the car, in the dining room, in two cafes and one bakery, in the mall, at the door, in the kitchen, on the stairs... a blur of voices tripping over each other, urgent at times to get it all out, slow and pensive at others, reaching for understanding.

I have so many thoughts to process from this trip it can't all be summarized here. We talked a lot about friendship, real, true, fast adult friendship. The kind that happens organically and strikes deep roots. Kristin explained how some deep friendships had met rocky, unsatisfying ends. She talked about a few relationships whose fragile buds were still getting used to the idea of spring. There was a sense of the inevitability of shifting lives and friendships that can leave us feeling unmoored.

But at her party, looking around the room full of diverse, truly interesting people, I saw how deeply she is loved.

Here is a woman who knows how to connect, to choose her friends wisely and well, to find what she needs and be what others need. She laughed, and hugged, and talked some more. Through all the curves our lives have taken, this could have been one of those disposable friendships of youth. It isn't. We still connect, are still connected, across mountains and miles. I am honored to have celebrated a big day with my dear, "old" friend.

W.I.N.

2010-02-25T07:31:00.005-06:00

We humans are pretty good at filling our days with activities we think are important. Of course, we need to exercise, take care of the kids, make the spouse feel loved and appreciated. Then there's that whole work thing that takes a good chunk of the day. Some of us get involved in hobbies or church or community events. Because, heck, they're IMPORTANT.

I've been wondering lately if the stuff of our days is really all that important. What makes a thing important? Is going to church important because you did it growing up? Is shuttling kids all over tarnation important because it's fun? Work? Is that only important because it pays for the kids to run over tarnation? What if something that once was vital no longer barks at us from the top of the never-ending list? Are we just modern day images of Sisyphus rolling that rock up the mountain? 'Cause I kinda want more than that.

Could it be that there an underlying thread, woven expertly through our lives, giving import and meaning to our seemingly aimless strivings.

I've written before about my friend Julie and her work as a sport psychologist. I attended her Define and Align Workshop and her Winning Game Plan workshop just a few weeks ago. I have been mulling over what I learned, chewing on some pretty big thoughts. Some of them are so unwieldy I have barely the courage to commit them to paper, much less say them out loud.

She asks: What's Important Now?

In asking this, she doesn't mean we are to address the largest fire and then scurry to the next like the world will end if we don't get to the bottom of the list. And she doesn't mean only do what's important to us as if we live in a vacuum and only our needs matter. She means are we focused on doing what is important. And if not, why not?

There is much freedom in identifying What's Important Now. It gives us the ability to say, "No." How many people wish they said that more often? And there's this sort of heirarchy of needs; once the overall major What's Important Now is identified, it breaks down into every area. If my W.I.N. is to feel fulfilled, and my roles in life are work, family and spiritual life, then how does what I'm doing each of those reflect my desire to feel fulfilled?

The more I think about it, the more my brain spins in circles. I'm not finished writing my Winning Game Plan, but I will say it involves a lot of change. I hate change. Even when it's for my own good. The one thing I have been able to practice in the weeks since attending the conference is asking myself regularly: What's Important Now?

When I can see the bigger picture, I can move with freedom. Now that is something I could use more of.

Notes on a Tire Trauma

2010-02-04T17:07:00.000-06:00

I’ve had some bad luck with the tires on my car. It started in July, droned on into the fall and twanged my very last trying-to-care-and-can’t nerve when I struck a pothole the size of Montana driving the mean streets of Tulsa. (The absurdity of a Montana sized pothole in a city the size of Tulsa is not lost on me. Just go with it.) Today, I replaced this tired to the tune of $177. Yeah.

When I struck the pothole, I knew it was bad. I saw it, I could not get around it. I slowed down before impact. I knew immediately that this would cost me. There may have been some terse words, maybe some “cussing.”

I came home and vented on Twitter. I tweeted:
Dear City of Tulsa: Any way you can throw some money at our potholes? Or maybe just at the tire on my car that was just killed.
Then:
Pothole that killed my tire was as big as the entire lane of traffic. I slowed down but there was no way around the crater. So steamed.

Two people who do not follow my updates replied to my tweets. One guy told me too bad, I bought cheap tires and to buy better ones next time. Another guy tried to get me to link to Lord-knows-what. If I was mad about the tires, these tweets sent me caroming over the edge.

That’s the thing about men and women. And yes, I know I’m about to throw down the generalizations here. Tough. Men want to find a solution and fix it. There is no room for emotional venting. There is just problem: solve it. They assumed that in tweeting, poor little girl was begging for answers. Nope. I was simply mad and verbalizing my anger. Twitter is a place for that, right?

What’s funny is my twitter friends, men and women, responded with sympathies and virtual pats on the back. Warmed the cockles, it did. But I was still on my soapbox. How dare those men assume I didn’t know about tires and ... the rant went on for quite some time in my head. I’ll spare you.

Fast forward to today. I needed to get the car to the tire shop. AAA said they could either come tow me or put the flat on. It took me a good 2 minutes on the phone to decide. Two solid minutes of silence, during which time my brain spun in overdrive. The conversation went something like this: “I am so not having some guy come over here and put my spare on and think I’m some helpless thang.”

But then, “Yeah, but it’d be easier, and then I can go when I am ready and want to.”

“Sure, but that guy, he’s gonna think you’re dumb. What kind of liberated woman calls a guy for tire help?”

Finally, “You know what? I don’t care. I’m secure enough in my feminist feminism that I can get something done without worrying about how some guy I’ll never see again feels about it.”

Poor lady on the other end of the phone must have wondered if I’d ever decide.

Turns out, it had to be towed anyway, and I learned some interesting “facts” from the tow truck driver, always fun.

The thoughts I have about this entire episode are slippery. I’m at once mad at those twitter jerks for their lectures, happy with my twitter friends for their kind words, feeling stupid for hitting the pothole and asking for help, and glad it’s all over.

I started out mad about gender roles and thought I could clearly peg men and women as right and wrong. In the end, it’s just a tire. Right?

Should Have Bailed

2010-02-01T10:17:00.004-06:00

www.artsjournal.com/.../Home_Photo_books.jpg

My eldest daughter learned in third grade if you start a book and don't like it, it's okay to "abandon it." Most adults I know have a really hard time with this concept. We feel like once we start, we have to finish, regardless of how we feel about the book. Like there's some karmic literary retribution or fail for letting go of a book that just isn't doing it for us.

So, I'm in this book club, and I'm open to reading lots of different genres and usually agree to whatever the ladies present. Not this past month. The selection was a Pen-Faulkner winner, written by an author who's won accolades for her work, work which has appeared in many well-respected publications. Her writing was short listed for other prestigious awards. The ladies in the group who had read the book gave it high praise.

Hated it. Hated it. Visceral reaction, dread in the pit of my stomach, joy when I realized a conflict would prevent me attending the discussion. I did not want my disdain for the book to outweigh those who had a much different reading.

Two chapters in, I told my daughters I didn't like the book I was reading. Eldest said, "Abandon it." And laughed when I told her I would not. My reasons were sound. I wanted to give the book a shot. I had agreed to read it along with the other club members. It was important to try different things. She's twelve; I wanted to show her how to finish something unpleasant. The literary equivalent to holding my nose to swallow the over-boiled spinach.

I read the last pages of the book last night. The ending was as improbable as the rest of it. Big surprise. The characters remained hollow, without human depth or strength of character.

I could have stopped reading. I could have abandoned it. It would cost me nothing to quit in the middle. I mean, it's a voluntary book club and I'd be letting down exactly no one.

Except.

I wanted to finish the book. I wanted, so much wanted, the writer to finally give the characters some emotion, some real thought, some reason for their odd decisions. I kept thinking, "okay, surely now she's going to tell us why this diva is in love with the man who doesn't talk." But even her "in love" was ashes in my mouth.

I wanted to finish because I thought, "I must be missing something." I'd refer to the front of the book to verify I hadn't imagined the little sticker announcing it a winner of the Pen-Faulkner. Yep. Still there. I'd look at the soft focus author photo and think "well, she's a pretty enough woman. She looks like a nice person." I felt connected to her, like I didn't want her to fail. Clearly the awards committee connected with the book and the author because she won the praise. I was rooting for the book.

And yet. Hated it. Maybe that's okay. Maybe there's no bigger lesson here. It's okay that I do not agree with the critics. It's okay that others liked, even loved, the book. I could have let it go, but I chose to stick it out. I'm glad I did. It was not wasted time. It was time I learned what doesn't work for me in a book, how I responded to the content and the writer, how I thought of the book in terms of communal response. Even though every single page made me cringe, I'm glad I held my nose and choked it down.

Do You Have a Winning Game Plan

2010-01-13T10:39:00.006-06:00

My friend Julie is a sport psychologist who works with world class athletes and top business managers to improve their performance. Her book Performance Intelligence At Work gives readers tools that promise to increase their performance by defining their wins and following a winning game plan.

Julie's always being asked to speak to this group and travel to that state and meet with these athletes. She is, in short, in demand. Being a wife, mom and successful business owner has its downside. She constantly juggles her roles, and over coffee a few months ago, she explained to me how she makes decisions about how she spends her time. She defines and aligns.

I know. I like rhymes, too. And at first glance, I know what you think, "Uh-huh. Fine. Sounds good." Because she is important, and busy, and in demand, and after all, that's kind of her job. And you move on. But. But.

She asked me to try this exercise wherein I separated my life into all the main areas that were important to me. Then, under each category, I wrote down all the tasks or characteristics that applied to that area. After doing this, I would, in theory be able to define the main "purpose" or strength in my life and thereby align all my activities with that purpose.

Sounds easy, right? Well, that was about four months ago, and I just figured out the overriding character, or strength, and was finally willing to commit this to paper. (To me putting something on paper is the equivalent of swearing a blood oath.)

I'm one of those people who rebels against categories, and types, and personality quizzes. My mind fights the idea that people can be quantified and qualified by their parts, rather than the sum. I change my mind a lot, and I like to have my hands busy with numerous and varied projects.

It took me a few days to even start the assignment. Even doing it, I kept thinking of other things I needed to do. I designed a cute little chart on which to do the job. I abandoned that to pen and paper. I got a fresh cup of coffee. After completing the breakdown, I was paralyzed. I DID NOT want to claim that character, or quality. In fact, I set it aside for months.

I wanted to do all the things I was doing, and I was afraid. I was afraid that I would discover I need to abandon all of those completely rewarding activities and become, like, a banker or something.

I told Julie this and she said, "Finish the assignment. You will gain more than you will give up."

And because even though I hate being told what to do I also like rules, I did finish. I've defined. Now, I'm on to the next step, aligning all my activities with this definition. If it doesn't fall under this then I walk away from it, guilt-free. How cool is that? After that, I'm going to work on my winning game plan.

There is a certain freedom in categories and pigeonholes. You know where you belong. You know where home is. There is rest in knowledge, there is rest at home. And I can always change my mind.

If you want to define and align, Julie is coming to Tulsa February 12 and 13 for a two day workshop. She is a fun speaker with tons of energy and a great sense of humor. You will leave with a plan of action. Moms, teachers, small business owners, dads, coaches, her work applies to all areas. You can be my guest by leaving a comment or sending an email. I'd love you to join me.

What I leared from Twitter (and Jesus)

2010-01-05T11:26:00.006-06:00

Bah. Kids returned to school today after the two week holiday hiatus. I made a strict, concerted effort to not think about school over those two weeks. It had been a rough semester for one of our precious angels and I just wanted to give her (and us, her parents) a break. So then, I thought we were all set to return yesterday. We had some preparatory conversations about how we planned to approach this semester and I thought we were set.

You know how a dog with a bone will take the bone to a special place in the house and gnaw on it? When he's done, he'll tuck the bone away for later. He'll return to the bone, find a quiet spot and gnaw some more. He'll smack his lips. He'll drop the bone and grasp a better spot and worry that one a little bit. He'll carry it into a patch of sun and gnaw some more. Yeah. That was me, last night. I clicked off my reading lamp after lulling my mind into submission with a book (Bel Canto if you're wondering). I had, oh, maybe five minutes of sort of sleep and then, my mind awoke with a furious and probably neurotic frenzy of worry.

I started writing mental letters to the school, listing all the ways they'd fallen short. I thought of different tools we could implement to help her get and stay organized. I berated myself for not making some helpful phone calls over break, and for being a goofy mom who was out of touch. My mind raced with anxiety. I could feel my pulse quickening under my skin, and all I really wanted, what I knew I really needed, was sleep.

So, I resorted to techniques I used when pregnant. Deep breathing, mental imagery, praying, reciting Scripture. Nothing helped. My mind circled back again and again to what was wrong and how we'd fix it. I started counting out my breaths. Then I started counting backward from 100. Finally, I turned to my only source of solace at 3:33 am; twitter. Well, first I went to si.com, but as the Steelers had just missed out on the playoffs, that did little to help. I opened my twitter feed.

What I saw there in those wee-hours tweets was sadness. And longing. And a reaching out, a begging for help. None of the tweets were obviously desperate, but there was an aching in them. Many of the tweets were basic calls for more business, or to lose some pounds, or for a spouse to get home, or other mundane every day worries. Some were deep cries for friendship or help or advice.

What I did then taught me something I already knew and forgot. I started praying for these people and their hearts and their hurts. I know some of them personally, some I'll never, ever meet. Turning my heart outward changed my situation and how I approached it. It also let me flex my compassion muscle and do something real for strangers. In shifting my focus outward, I came to realize that all this junk I was gnawing on could be handled in the bright light of day. I hid the bone and started to pray. Hope I don't forget next time.

Be Kind to Yourself

2010-01-01T12:34:00.003-06:00

Hello, my lovelies,

In lieu of writing about my soul-searching holidays, my new leaf resolutions or any other navel gazing, I present three tools to help you reconnect, play and learn this year.

Try joining a flock to learn about spirituality, relationships, and ritual.

This e-course, called Inside Out looks fun for us creative types who still like to play with crayons and glue.

This blog is pure delight: Kind over Matter.

Be well.

Origins of a Studio

2009-12-28T11:04:00.002-06:00

The snow in Oklahoma postponed our 18 member strong family Christmas dinner until Sunday night. I think I can safely say that each of us had a strong case of cabin fever and were ready to be around some fresh faces. In a way, this was a great way to have Christmas. There was no stress, no running around, no where else to rush off to.

Of course, you may know that I took the handmade pledge, one I make every year, to give gifts that I made, (duh). Around October, I start brainstorming ideas. I pore over magazines and websites, I look through the piles of supplies stuffed into my studio. In short, I throw myself into this project.

I had already made DS cases for my nieces and nephew when I stumbled upon this super cute little Monster Chunk pattern. The crafty mania that plagues me rose up and I simply had to make these for said nieces and nephews.

Fast forward to the dinner. I wore a coat I sewed and fingerless mitts I knitted, I gave etched glasses to the adult couples, handmade DS cases and monster chunks. I cooked up a delicious and gorgeous chocolate caramel tart. When I handed the monster chunks out, and my father in law asked if I made them, and when I admitted I had, he called me into the other room.

In fact, he called me to the garage. Oh crap, I though. I'm in trouble again. He pulled out a white banner with HollyHouse Handcrafts emblazoned on it. My mother-in-law had this banner when she ran her at-home craft business. He also gave me a wooden sign of the same, that had also been hers. I asked if he was sure. I started to cry. He got a little misty. We hugged. It was touching, really.

Of course, Hollyhouse Studio is my incarnation of her Handcrafts, and really an extension of my precious time with her. While my parents are creative and thoughtful and fun and interested in beautiful design, it was my mother-in-law who gave me the tools to make the things I make. And I don't just mean hardware. She showed me that you don't have to specialize. She tried every single craft and technique she wanted to, and excelled at all of them. She showed me that you can forge a life of what you love, even if it looks different to others. She taught me, as my parents did, that mistakes are part of art and that is how one learns. She was always thinking of a better way to do things, from reupholstering a chair to painting a ceiling.

My father-in-law did not just give me a banner. He gave me a vote of confidence. In giving me that sign, he gave me a blessing. It was as if he said, "You will do this, you can do this. Keep going." As much as adult children don't like to admit this, we still crave the respect of our parents. His gift to me will outlast the cloth and wood on which it was represented.

and now for something completely different

2009-12-24T10:50:00.008-06:00

Wrist cuffs for attendees at 12 year old's birthday party. Tutorial can be found here.
If your last name is the same as mine, you can expect something like this under the tree. Glasses in a variety of sizes and styles etched with different themes. This is the easiest project. Slap a stencil on a glass, slap some glass etching cream on that, let it work according to package directions, rinse and give.

My sister in law hosted Thanksgiving for the first time this year. I made her this cheery cherry apron as a thank you.

O Come, O Come or "Yeah, yeah, patience. How long's that gonna take?"

2009-12-23T00:35:00.007-06:00

My husband and our three wild ones enjoy a CD from Dr. Demento, (crazy, right?) which has on it a little spoken word ditty about a sensei teaching a new student how to fight. The student is ready to start "hitting people" and the sensei says the student must learn patience. The student responds "yeah, yeah, patience. How long's that gonna take?" My wild ones find this hilarious.

They sense the irony without knowing what irony is. They know that as they wait for Christmas and the promise of presents, patience is hard. Waiting sucks.

At the start of Advent, I had a plan. A glorious plan indeed. We were going to be deliberate this year. We would read our Advent readings nightly, and light the candles in our wreath and pray and think and be still. We would avoid consumerism, the holiday rush, the frenzy of parties and activities.

Trouble is, I'm not in charge of assigning homework, scheduling basketball and soccer games, friends' birthday parties, choir concerts, church and work activities. And my plan fell to scattered pieces. Christmas morning is almost here and I've barely cracked open the devotional a friend gave us. The kids, though diligent in their attentions to the Advent Calendar, still have dreams of what's under the tree. And I, I am filled with a sense of failure.
I did not stay true. I let it get away from me. I did not sit still and wait. I bowed to the almighty calendar instead of the Almighty King. That is, after all, what Advent is. Preparing our hearts to celebrate the coming King.

The truth is, I'm not all the good at waiting. I don't like it. It's not fun if I can't be in control. Usually, when I'm waiting, I want to make a decision, or a plan, or find a solution. I want to do anything to make the waiting stop. Some of you are rather adept at this whole waiting thing. I asked you via Twitter and Facebook, what you do while waiting. Your answers inspired me. Many of you read, tinker, knit, or write. Most of your answers had this delightful sense of peace about them, as if you took the waiting as part of the journey and settled in for it.

I must have missed the memo on this, because when I wait I whine, I cajole, I text, I call, I facebook, I twitter, I email, I search for new projects despite the unfinished ones. All of my answers point to a restlessness, an inability to sit still, to let if flow, to enjoy the wait. Essentially, I make the wait one big drama with me in the center. Who knew?

Which brings me back to how I failed at Advent. I'm not really talking about daily countdown, a simple ticking off of hours and minutes until the next big thing. I'm talking about the kind of waiting that takes as long as it takes and looks a lot like living life on purpose, for a purpose, with an eye to the real Next Big Thing.

Good news, though. It's not too late for me to prepare this wayward heart for Christmas morning, and all the mornings after it. It starts now, with a clearing of space in my head for what matters, and a decided shoving aside of all the stuff that doesn't. I imagine my diligence will falter; I am, after all, easily distracted by the loud alarm of life and its demands. And again I will find my way back to a quiet, waiting space.

Download Mnemosyne Project from SourceForge.net

2009-12-13T08:57:00.000-06:00

Download Mnemosyne Project from SourceForge.net

My daughter's peer put this together to help them study for their Latin final.

Practicing Gratitude

2009-11-29T19:07:00.005-06:00

*photo credit: yellow goat designs

In my post Thanksgiving stupor, I found it difficult to sleep. Turkey and stuffing and sweet potatoes collided with champagne cocktails and the regular family tensions. I was awakened at four by my niece who was hitting the WalMart for deals on Black Friday. She kept flicking the light on and off trying to find her jeans, a nightmare of disco strobe lights. When I finally told her leave the light on until she found them I realized I'd be awake the rest of the night.

My mind turned to my worries. Darkness has a way of making our troubles crawl out of the crack in the closet door, turning them into to veritable bogeymen of the adult life. I felt restless and thankless, despite the family exercise earlier of sharing what we were most thankful for.

When it was my turn, I chose to give a glib reply to keep the cycle moving and get the focus off me. But as I blinked into the darkness (after the kid left the room, having shut off the light), I felt disappointed in my answer, and in myself. I preach to my kids the importance of being thankful but I had not walked the walk as they say. I won't let any Christmas stuff into the house until December. I rail against the marketers who push their purchasing agendas on us. I don't want us to shuffle past this day of thanks without pause, especially since truly considering Thanksgiving should turn our minds to a proper attitude for Advent.

Advent, in case you're wondering, has nothing to do with Christmas shopping, or Black Friday, but that's a soap box for another day.

One can only toss and turn for so long before one must confront the reasons for worry, the darkness that frightens. I started ticking off my concerns, and challenged myself to find its converse and found that indeed, there is much to be thankful for.

Worry about money turns to thanks for a warm bed and a full belly.
One kid struggling with a tough school year turns to praise for a great school and active teachers who love her and care for her.
Blended family newness and all it's awkwardness becomes a bigger, more joyful family with more stories, more life, more experiences, more to love.
One family members' struggle with depression gives rise the thanks for doctors, medicines, therapists, and relationships that potentially heal the hurt.

My list went on and on and for every half empty glass, my mind found a fresh source to fill it. I found that as I ticked the yuck off my list, I fell into a sense of peace. I remember reading a devotional years ago that asked readers to practice an attitude of gratitude. This kind of thanks is so much more than the pop-culture, Oprahology that some practice. It is an intentional remembering of the source. It is a reminder of the words of the apostle Paul who exhorted Christians to "be thankful in all situations." He did not say be thankful FOR all situations but in all.

This is why I can find the silver lining, the half full cup. This is why when I practice an attitude of gratitude, it does more than illuminate the half fullness. It in fact, brings it to overflowing.

*I LOVE these earrings. Just in case you're wondering what I'd like under the tree...just saying.

Feltalicious Holiday Garland

2009-11-17T09:30:00.004-06:00

I bought a great applique letter pattern from designsbyjuju.com to use on t-shirts. I love the cute curvy puffiness of this pattern. But my kids are a trifle too old for cutesy tees. I didn't want to waste the pattern, so I stitched out the letters for Merry Christmas and suspended them from ribbon. This little holiday spice will hang by the chimney the day after Thanksgiving.

In the meantime, I realized, of course that a Give Thanks garland would keep us focused on giving thanks until the thunderous hordes hit the stores.

Another use for this sweet pattern would be hair clippies. I used a few other patterns on colorful felt to make these sweet little pony decorations. On the back, a hair clip is inserted through a slit in the felt and secured with craft glue. Slip it above your pony tail or (as the girls are doing at our middle school) wear a huge clip right at the forehead. I don't totally get the look, but I'm not in 6th grade, so there's that.

To do it, simply stitch out your applique on felt using tear away stabilizer, trim away excess fabric. To make a clip, snip a little opening, slide a clip in, and dab a bit of glue. To make a pony tail holder, simply cut another smaller piece of felt, glue down the holder, then stitch the felt down, without going through to the front.

Five Smooth Stones

2009-11-09T12:36:00.005-06:00

Is it an arrogant assumption that everyone knows the story of David and Goliath? The idea finds uses in our contemporary vernacular from the playground to the sports broadcast. It is the classic tale of the underdog prevailing. And really, who doesn't love to root for the underdog?

I read this biblical story a few weeks ago and despite my previous knowledge of how it all went down, some new details, or old details I hadn't caught before, stuck themselves to my brain. I can't stop thinking about this little shepherd going up against a nine foot tall giant covered in iron. The little guy's ammunition? Five smooth stones.

David goes to the battle because his dad, Jesse, sent him to check on his brothers, who had been sitting at in impasse with the other army for forty days. He's basically a courier, taking cheese to the big boys. When the army tells David that no one will fight the giant, Goliath, David flips. His understanding is that anyone should be willing because they are the army of God.

He tries on the king's armor, but it's enormous and he's not used to it. So, he takes his sling shot, grabs five smooth stones and goes out to the battle. Of course, the giant thinks this is hilarious, and if you were the giant you probably would, too. Then David does the unimaginable: he fires up the slingshot with one of his five stones and lets it rip. It sinks into the giant's forehead, whereupon he falls to the ground. David rushes over and cuts off his head. I imagine a hushed crowd on all sides, here. Maybe some crickets chirping...

The point is, five smooth stones. David of course had training. He was a shepherd and his job was to protect the sheep at all costs. He knew how to fight bears and lions. But, he did not go to the army looking for a fight. He was simply carrying out his dad's orders. He had his weapon, but I noticed he had to find stones.

There's a lot to say and think about this passage, like most Scripture. I find myself now thinking through each day, wondering what my five smooth stones are. I ask myself if I am on that path of obedience, am I confident in the outcome? Do I know where to find ammunition if I am called to battle? We all have giants to face; life can be challenging. New stresses often seem to pop up in droves, like a crowd of unwelcome vultures, pecking at us until we're mad.

But there's the promise, the one David was so sure of, that the battle's been decided. The promise wasn't that life would be perfect, or that he would never be asked to do anything hard. In fact, it's pretty much guaranteed that action will be required on our part. And when it is, will you be able to find five smooth stones?

goodies

2009-11-08T10:27:00.001-06:00

The big ol' purse up there is for Becky who is from the 'burgh (City of Champions) but lives in MI. She saw a FB post about a pattern I found and she and her mom both chose lovely fabrics to have custom built bags just for them. Her mom uses hers for her knitting. Becky says hers is for Bible Study materials. I hope she has a big Bible, since this bag is nigh upon enormous.

There seems to be a proliferation of babies in our circle of friends lately. I do enjoy looking at the baby items in stores, but more than that I enjoy making one of a kind goodies for these nuggets o' joy. I had ordered some fold over elastic for shorts for my girls to wear under the unis. Then, I learned how it works wonders for edge finishing knits, so I decided to give it a whirl. I got to learn a new sewing skill and make a cutie pie dress for a new baby! Two good things in one.

The purse was en route to Becky's this week. The dress was delivered via backpacks at school. Hope the new baby likes it. I know the mama did.

Plug a Blog Day

2009-11-06T07:59:00.001-06:00

Found this trolling my various favorite spots. Please go have a look. It will make you smile.

http://kindovermatter.blogspot.com/

All This Remembering Makes My Teeth Hurt

2009-11-04T10:31:00.000-06:00

Dad and my son 6 years ago. The crazy kid on Hilarious Hair Day in Kindergarten. Note the purple hair.

Our son turns 6 years old today. I remember discovering my pregnancy a week after dinner with "the girls" during which I said, "I'm not having any more kids. Why would I? I have two great daughters. We are all set." A week later, I started doing the math, wondering how many times I could have counted the days wrong and blushing that I was describing my decision to have no more children while pregnant.

The idea of a third child took some getting used to. And then of course this sweet and funny little boy entered our lives on November 4, 2003 at 10:10 pm, at home, while his sisters slept upstairs and our two dear friends cooked and cleaned and tended. I would never want it any other way.

Yesterday, to celebrate his birthday, I painted his room in colors he chose himself (limeade and bayou blue, FYI), to surprise him after school with his new cool room. Painting rooms always makes me think of my dad, and birthdays always bring out the nostalgic old lady in me.

I remembered, as I painted, my dad taking me to the hardware store, age 12, when purple was my pride and passion, to choose colors for my own room. I remember Dad explaining about Spackle, and brushes and rollers. I remember his patience and feeling special, grown up, proud.

Once home, I wanted to start slapping paint on the walls right away. Instead he showed me how to fill the holes I made with thumb tacks in my posters. Then sanding it away, wiping down the baseboards, moving the furniture, taping off the ceilings...the prep work seemed unending. Until, finally, we got to start rolling on the glorious color. Dad and I also made a set of deep purple shelves for my walls. He showed me how to cut the lumber, sand the edges, find the studs, the whole bit. My dad wouldn't let me do anything half way.

My childhood was not idyllic. Neither was it horrendous. These memories are like freeze frames in my brain. They flash up, abrupt and earnest, calling to mind the best things about their grandparents I want my kids to know. My sense of gender inequity comes as much from my working mom as from my liberated dad. I cut grass, took out trash, weeded the garden, set the table. I learned how to check and change the oil in my car, change a flat, and to be and do anything I want to be. So did my brother.

That's where memories of my dad and my son's unexpected (but joyful) birth intersect. Painting his room, I remembered all the great things I learned from my dad. And I felt so pleased that my son and my daughters get to know him. I remembered feeling lost and scared when I was first pregnant with my son. I was unsure I would be able to handle three kids.

Painting my room with my dad clearly made an impression on me. He cared about me, he allowed me to choose the colors, as gross as they were, and he showed me the right way to do something. Remembering while I painted was fun, and it reminded me of how I want my kids to remember me. I want my kid to remember he picked the paint and painted on the polka dots. I want him to learn to do it the right way, and I want him to remember the gift of time we had together.

6th Grade Lessons

2009-09-22T08:41:00.000-05:00

Last spring, I sat in my car in the pick up line at school, happily minding my own business. I was probably listening to sports radio, maybe leafing through a catalog, waiting for the urchins to be released to the sunny possibilities of longer days. I saw her coming and I should have known better. Another mom approached the car, smiling. Nothing unusual about that; I'm a friendly gal, I like to chat. Then she dropped the bomb.

"Wanna be sixth grade parent coordinator with me next year?"

"Well...." I stumbled, unsure. "What's involved?"

"Nothing big. Just organizing the parents." She said. She may have mentioned something about camping, but I was lulled by her confidence, her surety that it was a small job, the blossoms swaying in the breeze.

Many people have wondered how I got "roped" into this job, and I wonder myself, but I have to say, the trip to the camp for one little overnight happened at the exact right time for me and my parental neuroses.

We all have a little garbage we drag around about our kids: Is she friendly, does he get in trouble, who are her friends, what do others think of her...It's all brushed under the smooth rug of our perfect smiles. But it's there.

My friend and I drove to the camp to cook meals for 80 people and witnessed the glory that is 6th grade. I'm not sure what the kids learned, but, let me tell you, I gleaned so many important tidbits, it was the perfect antidote to my parental worries. I will say here that I noticed they were writing poems about nature, drawing what they saw, orienteering, canoeing and team building. Yeah, whatever. Back to me.

I watched the kids pour off the bus and run into a wide field carpeted with tiny yellow flowers. They scrambled for a snack and gathered into small pockets of friendship. The groups ebbed and flowed, at first separating into boys and girls, then flowing into focused groups of activity. Explorers, athletes, chatters, resters. They rambled about the field, completely happy. Everyone had time to be alone or with a group, whichever they preferred.

Tent pitching also showed me that though I'm a mom who likes to help out, my kid, our kids, are totally capable of things I never knew. Each group of three kids pitched their own tent. The knew how to spread the tarp, build the poles, pound the stakes. They organized their gear in their tents, then stood proud and beaming. My kid pitched a tent. Cool.

I watched at meals as they filed through the line, some greedy, some reticent, all hungry and ready to step up. They piled food onto their plates, filled their cups, and swallowed their food. (Note to next year's group, bring more chicken nuggets; those kids can eat.)

I had thought I was a helicopter parent, hovering about my child, helping her with every decision, big or small, lending a hand whether necessary or not. I learned at this trip that I am no where near being a helicopter mom. If I was, my helicopter's been grounded for a long time. And marveled.

These children are comfortable with who they are, in love with life, and skilled in many ways. I don't know if I ever felt that comfortable as a child, but they took my breath away with their confidence and ability. I allowed myself a small pat on the back, and a mental one to the other mamas who manage to let loose the strings and watch our babies fly.

Sweet New Bag

2009-09-08T11:25:00.001-05:00

Huge new bag for my friend Sheila. I posted a pattern I wanted to buy on Facebook and Sheila asked extra nice. We designed it together and she plans to use it for knitting projects. Because I like her I used extra fabric to make a knitting needle roll up and a key fob. I tucked those inside the bag before I sent it off.

She reports that she loves her bag and will take it with her the Rhinebeck for the wool festival. Wish I were going, too. Now I'm working on one for Sheila's daughter. I wonder what freebie goodies I'll put in hers? Maybe a wet diaper/clothes bag for her sweet little one.

Thoughts?

Crafting for Sanity

2009-08-27T13:43:00.000-05:00

Lots of impending changes coming up for this family . Crafting keeps my hands busy and my head from exploding. So, today's installment keeping me sane involves a tweet.

A silly, winding story for your Thursday pleasure. My friend @kt_writes, whom I've mentioned before and previously, wrote about why people feel the need to impose rules on tweeting. Generally speaking, I am a rule abider, but if they are dumb rules or imposed by someone I feel has no authority to be telling me what's what, I kind of ignore them.

My friend does this, too. Apparently there are some folks who don't want to read tweets about what people eat. But my friend is a foodie and rather a good cook. She tweets frequently about good grub she's enjoying. I like this because it gives me ideas to make for my family, who will soon tire of breakfast for dinner, I fear. (I can't drive to her house every night for dinner because the drive is longer than I thought it was, but that's for another day.)

She then tweeted her need for a shirt that proclaimed her affinity for eat-tweets. My friend breaks rules, too. We're so dangerous.

Ergo, today's creation. I'm sending this little number to KT knowing it is simply too enormous for her, and that she may never leave the house in a goofy, shapeless tee. I hope she keeps eat-tweeting.

Letting Go All Over

2009-08-20T10:16:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, I dropped off my eldest child at 6th grade. Amid the usual back-to-school excitement, supplies, and other emotions there was a hard stone of fear sitting on my heart, and I was completely caught off guard by this.

I thought I would be consumed with anxiety for her brother, our youngest, who started full day everyday Kindergarten (Praise the Lord). He barely got a second thought for thoughts of my eldest.

She's been at this school since she was three. She knows almost every single kid in her class. Her dad works on the same campus for goodness sake.

But.

It's sixth grade. She has a locker. A locker, people! She changes classes, every day, with a different schedule every day. She has lots of books. And a sport. And band. She will be expected to know where to be and how to get there. She has to pack her sports clothes every night. She has a mouth guard.

Yesterday she got herself from school to lunch to a field hockey meeting, to the field, to her dad's office. I cannot describe how worried I was during that period of time. I mentally paced through all the steps she would take. Get bag, eat lunch, change clothes, get to meeting, learn new stuff, meet new people, remember to go to Dad's office. CALL MOM!

I am embarrassed to admit this because of what it says about me as a parent and person. I had to wonder why I was so worried. Is it possible that I have so little confidence in her upbringing and abilities that I think she can't get across a campus by herself? That thought makes my heart stop and my eyes bug out.

Deep breath.

There might be a kernel of truth in that; I have, in the past, been known to smooth things over, make excuses, pamper and otherwise fly around her micromanaging her life. (How did I become THAT woman?). I think it's the knowledge that the next few years fly before my eyes as I watch her grow and change and become more of who she is every day, and she'll be beyond my reach. I felt an urge to bring her back to me, to hold her, to tell her things she might need to know, as if I was sending her out into the wide world unarmed.

So I promise not to pack her bag, not to bring her things she forgets, not to make excuses when she fails. I promise to listen and love and fiercely protect. I promise today to untie the apron strings and let my girl grow into the world and to be there when she stumbles.

Linen Lovelies

2009-08-12T11:18:00.001-05:00

Made some cute little linen lovelies yesterday. Set of three lunch bags, unlined. The big one fits a sammich and has a cotton floss around 2 button closure. Then, two littler velcro closed bags for your crunchy snacks and your .... something chocolatey. This linen is machine washable, btw.

Then, this completely adorable boxy pouch. Lined with same linen and zippered closed. Tiny little pouch can be thrown in your purse or attached to your backpack. Fits lipstick, or you know, whatever.

Messenger Bag

2009-08-07T14:59:00.000-05:00

Bag for B:

Resurrection

2009-08-05T19:52:00.000-05:00

I'm a notorious plant murderer. I can't help it. No plant is safe in my vicinity. My mother in law had a grass green thumb and my dad is a master at coaxing tomatoes and basil from the earth. I imagine a wanted poster hanging in every greenhouse from here to Pennsylvania, warning all gardeners to be on the look out for the nefarious plant killer.

For Mother's Day I asked for (yes, I asked for), two hanging pots of flowers to put in front of the house. My children and husband looked apprehensive. Their eyes searched my face for clues that I was joking. I told you I had a reputation. But they acquiesced and bought the plants. I can't even tell you what they are, but they are fairly common little flowers, in purple and white, my favorite colors. They went right outside onto my little flower stand that I hadn't used since I brought a geranium to its knees in 2004.

I watered them, and the kids enjoyed helping. We bought a little watering can. We left it outside right by the flowers. We watched them and watered them. And the pretty purple flowers began to shrivel. They turned brown. Their stems looked dried up and puny. I watched them die a slow and painful death. When we poured water into the pot, it streamed right out the bottom, its soil was so hard. But I couldn't throw it away. The poor dead Mother's Day plant smacked of failure. Putting that mass of sad leaves in the trash would signal my complete ineptitude.

The pot sat on the picnic table in the backyard, taunting me all summer long with its brown limbs and cracked earth. Every time I looked at it, a part of my gasped with despair.

But.

Last week, as I sat at the kitchen table, drinking my coffee and surveying the scene of the backyard, I caught a glimpse of purple in my peripheral vision. Wha? I'm used to brown out there, not purple. A closer inspection revealed that in fact, my dead plant had resurrected itself. There were new shoots and blooms springing crazily out of the dead dry soil. As if the plant did not accept dying. As if it didn't understand dead plants don't regrow.

Lately, I've been feeling a little like that "dead" plant. My roots can't get enough water and my blossoms have faded. I haven't had the energy to turn my face toward the sun and I'm waving the white flag. Just this morning, I was shaking my fist at God and all His people whose lives seem to be falling right into perfect place while I seemingly spin my wheels looking for a way out that won't reveal itself. The house is falling apart, school fees are overwhelming and it just seems too much.

After my little pity party ended, I marched that plant back out front, to the flower hanger, with it's blossoming white friend. They looked so cheery and purposeful. So resolute in their return to life. That plant reminded me to hope. That plant wasn't dead. Some old dead bits needed to be removed and the new growth isn't all big and showy. But it's brave, and new, and tender, and...there. And I will rise again and there will be a solution and my roots will be refreshed and I will be ready for the next heat wave.

New Goodies

2009-08-05T16:39:00.001-05:00

Here is my fashion model, modeling a new embroidery design. I love this design for all kinds of reasons, and on all kinds of embroiderables. If you've invited one of my kids to a party this summer, most likely this was the gift. Pick your letter, pick your colors. I love dots.

This is a piece of vinyl that I cut Abby's name out of. The vinyl is lightly adhesive and sticks to the wall in the kitchen, showing through my fun new pain color. Also? You can see that I have written with chalk on this little speech bubble. It's her new weekly home calendar.

Cool, right?

Accident Residue

2009-08-01T17:23:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, our 11 year old suffered a minor injury in a very unminor way. She fell from the slide at the pool and passed out in the water, in the arms of her friend. I have not written about this event because, frankly, it scared the crap out of me. You will forgive the crude phraseology since it truly is one of those scenes that unfolds horrifically in slo-mo every time it comes to mind. To top it off, every single emotion that was crammed into that incredibly short interval from fear to comfort overwhelms me on an annoyingly regular basis.

Cut to today...weeks after her fall, and surely over a span that would allow her newly inhibited mother to have healed. Right?

Tubing on the lake always makes me nervous. It reminds me of learning to drive with my dad; the most important lesson he taught me his favorite and most oft-repeated lesson was that he was less concerned with what I was doing and more concerned with what "the idiots" around me were doing. On special occasions, those idiots made the transition to even lower life forms than I feel it's appropriate to admit here. I will say I learned some colorful language from Pops.

Back to tubing...so on the lake I watch all around us, cutting a wide swath with my mama bear eyes, trying to ensure no other boat comes within a football field of my precious cargo. And the kids know their cues: how to signal faster, slower, okay and stop. The girls, 9 and 11, were cruising along happily today while their father, my husband, sped about trying to create wakes for them. And then he flipped them, much to their delight. And my subsequent horror.

The boat dropped from under me, my heart thumped inside me, desperate to make sure they were fine.

They were fine. They loved it. They were laughing. I felt stupid. Although I did notice a look on the face of the 9 year old. She felt what I felt; I am certain. She looked about for her sister in a panic, wanting the same confirmation I wanted. I needed to know, and so did little sister, that the big girl landed safely in the water, did not hurt her head, had not passed out, was not bleeding from anywhere....

And in that moment I knew we, my middle child and I, were still not free from the trauma of that day. The one who was injured remembers little of her accident. The rest of us will not soon forget what we felt on that day. I suppose time is the only eraser for the erratic and consuming emotions, and my desire, my goal, is to make it okay for the sister, and for me, to talk about it as much as possible.

Which is why I finally wrote about the day my girl was hurt.

Up and Coming

2009-07-31T20:22:00.000-05:00

Last night, as the 5 YO could not sleep from inexplicable ear pain, and we fruitlessly tried to comfort him, I wrote a gorgeous post. I mean. Gorgeous.

Then, sleep came to all of us and with it went my lovely little vignette. I wish I could remember what it was to be about. I got nothing. Not even a clue...could have been community, Bible Study, self-talk, finding my niche...who the heck knows.

Since I want to keep my writing mojo going (or to get it started....) here is a little list of goodies I've been working on. Pictures forthcoming...someday.

Totally cool vinyl wall speech bubbles with a cutout of my kids' names. The coolest part is? I can write on them with chalk. Chalk. I know! So each kid has a bubble on the wall in the kitchen and their weekly schedules are posted and updated. And? And? The wall color shows through where the names are cut out. Totally.

Next up I have the cutest oilcloth monogrammed mini yard/garden flag. Is there no end to the cute? Pray tell me no! The one I made for our yard is a big background of black gingham, with a smaller cut of hot pink lace on top of which sits an even smaller slice of black dots boldly emblazoned with a hot pink L...you know for our last name.

Putting the Sweet in Sugar Lake

2009-07-29T21:34:00.001-05:00

The Lake. Sugar Lake. A tiny little patch of happy in Pennsylvania where our family has had a cottage, this cottage, for 109 years. I can still see my bare feet, blackened from the hot tar from the road, running up those stairs, a stinky hot mess of a kid loving her summer.

When I'm there, when I think of it, images float into my mind. This is what I see.

Playing Trivial Pursuit on the screened porch
Tin cups in bright colors
Fighting over who would get the turquoise towel
Carving our names into mushrooms Grandma found with us.
Wearing my first bikini
Swimming in the lake, standing on old inner tubes, playing king
Eating all my favorite foods, nary a thought to my waist line

Makes me smile.

Now I live 1000 miles from this childhood idyll and being there is worth ever hard earned mile. My joy comes from two sources. The first is simple remembrance. Some people who have enjoyed the cottage are no longer living, some I haven't seen in over 20 years. The whole family doesn't always get there every summer but no matter who is there, we still, ALWAYS play Trivial Pursuit. Walking in the slamming back door into the kitchen is entering a family museum. My dad's high school art work, my aunt's books, old fishing rods. Even the curtains, made by hand by my great grandmother, still hang.

I'm awash and downright glowy with nostalgia. I've smeared vaseline on the lens of history and only the beautiful remains. But whatever.

Because the second source of joy in being there is watching my kids. Five of the seven cousins scrambled around the yard all day and well into the night on July 4th. The ambled from one activity to the next; from art on the porch to swinging, races in the yard, smoke bombs, fishing, bug catching. The whole bit. They wake up and play. All. Day. Long. And they go to bed tired.

It may sound like I'm romanticizing a pile of wood and glass and nails. Maybe I have. Nothing wrong with a little childhood idyll.

Make New Friends and Keep the Old?

2009-07-02T21:14:00.000-05:00

photo credit: Simon Howden

Remember that song? My kids learned it in kindergarten. The song asks us to make new friends and keep the old, one is silver and the other gold. What if the old friends are also the new friends?

I found myself asking this question all day Tuesday and into Wednesday. My family loaded up the car and hurtled from Tulsa toward Pittsburgh, PA (City of Champions). Since this trip is over 1000 miles, we stop on the way to presevere parental sanity and some semblance of routine; usually we stay at a hotel with a pool. But this year, after reconnecting on Facebook with a long lost friend whose home was almost a midway point, we planned to stay with her.

My emotions jiggled inside me; I was nervous, excited, anxious, giggly, happy and curious. I met Kristin when I was 19 years old, almost 20 years ago. We had an intense friendship over several years of college and wrote and spoke regularly. Then we graduated, married, had babies and lost touch. I wondered during our drive to her house what seeing her again would be like.

I knew the big chunks: kids, marriage, struggles, the usual. But did she still love music? What was her husband like? How about her kids? Would we have anything to talk about? Would my husband feel totally out of place?

Turns out, Kristin, like me, is different than she was all those years ago. And strikingly the same. Thoughtful, intelligent, deliberate and kind. I honestly can't remember what drew me to her in the first place, but I do know what draws me to her now. So I find myself with a brand new old friendship. One that I hope will grow.

Happiness in a Mug

2009-06-24T09:13:00.000-05:00

We all have it; that terribly incessant inward groan. Must. Have. Chocolate.

BUT.

It's summer. It's hot. You don't want an ENTIRE cake, just a bite. A nibble really. Microwave cake in a mug to the rescue. Ready in five minutes and guaranteed to meet that chocolate need.

My mother sent me this recipe. I have no idea of its origin. If you do, then do tell. Thanks.

Microwave Chocolate Cake in a Mug

In a large, microwave safe mug, mix
4 Tablespoons flour
4 Tablespoons sugar
2 Tablespoons cocoa

Mix well
and add
1 egg

Mix well again

Now add
3 Tablespoons milk
3 Tablespoons oil
3 Tablespoons chocolate chips (optional)
and a splash of vanilla

Mix well and place in microwave. Cook on 1000 watts for 3 minutes. It will rise up in your mug. It's all good, no worries.

Remove from oven and allow to cool for a few minutes (yeah, right!) It will slide right out of the mug and you can start placing it in your face. hothothothotswallow.

You can even share it. Again, yeah, right!

Made one this morning. Kids loved the idea. I love the taste. Let me know if you try it or have variations.