Up and coming . . .

I have 4 rather lengthy posts started. They've been started for weeks and yet they are still unfinished.

It is Memorial Day and there is a lovely breeze through the kitchen. I sit here typing, thinking that I am long overdue to post something and I mess around with those 4 other posts but still, they are just rambling half sentences and connections that float only in my mind.

I thought that maybe I would sit and write, check some things off the list, create a few spreadsheets, send a few emails, update the blog, reeeallly get some stuff done, ya know?

Sitting here in the breeze though. . . .I think maybe not so much.

I think maybe I'll go for a walk instead and take a few deep breaths and squeeze my babies and laugh just a little too loud at nothing in particular. And try to live fully for today. Its a rinse and repeat kind of deal. Each morning I start over. Each day calls for a new kind of peace. A new kind of presence. One intended, created, insisted upon for that very day. This morning. . . .this morning draws me away from the computer, away from the lists and into my children's arms and the freedom of the breeze.

with a nod to Ghandi

Be the change we wish to see.
Live lives that change the world.
Seek out words that change our lives.

Words shape us, create us, uncover us. The right words put voice to things we've felt and seen but have been unable to express. They inspire, educate, destroy, and rebuild.

"speak only words that make souls stronger"

"And the time came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."

"No problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it."

"There are no wrong roads to Anywhere"

"Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world."

"It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."

"I don't really know what kind of girl I am."

"Don't let the ceiling fall on your head"

"Well-behaved women rarely make history"

"You should probably sign up for the vocational training program."

"I filed for divorce today."

"Grace is sufficient for today"

"I'm enough."

"Grant me the serenity"

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

"This is holy ground."

"I love you."

"Today, courage says Stand there and tremble. You will not fall."

"You are the deepest wisdom and the highest truth; the greatest peace and the grandest love. You are these things. And in moments of your life you have known yourself as these things. Choose now to know yourself as these things always."

"There will be feasting and dancing in Jerusalem next year."

and it goes on and on and on. I'm reminded of thirsty horses, a longing for the sea, and the many many other words that have so deeply affected me.

And I wander around the ways that I carry those words with me still. The marks they've left on my life, my soul, my world. Words just marked on a page. And then there is the way that ink impresses a page, impresses my heart. And then there is the way that ink and stitches and staples and scars impress my flesh. And then it all starts to come together.

And I remember this website.

There isn't enough flesh to capture all the words that matter. I'm anxious trying to distill the richest experiences into a handful of magic syllables. They write our stories, shape and create the spaces we inhabit, the changes that we seek. Maybe it is just the letters. The building blocks. The simple and sublime that gives us the eyes and hearts to imagine change.

"Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded" or so says Virginia Woolf. We are changing. The beauty, the magic, the pain, the fear, the urgency, the passion, the complacency. It is happening.

How will you record it?

Project-ion

Ok well, just a project, really. But adding -ion makes it so much smarter somehow. Imagine all the fun we could have here with notions of projection. But we won't because this is just a project, really.

A happiness project.

If you aren't familiar with Gretchen Rubin's book might I suggest that you hurry to the bookstore RIGHT now and buy it?

I'll wait.









Now that you've got the book, please proceed to her website. Bask. Browse. Dig in.

In addition to great quotes and tips and even Gretchen's 12 personal commandments (which I love) you'll find a lot of talk about these Happiness Project Groups. Sounds delightful doesn't it?

The trouble is . . . there isn't one in Missouri and that is where I currently reside. As if I weren't already stretched wafer thin - I am actually considering what it might be like to start a happiness project group here.

It might be something that my souls needs.

It might be something others need.

What if we met on Monday nights during my Connect group at CtS? What if this were a way to bring inspired, lovely people together in a new way?

Other communities and relationships that I've sought to build over the years have failed and failed again. Maybe because I was joining something and I'm not a joiner. Maybe because our intentions were fundamentally different. Maybe because they served a very specific, short-term purpose.

But this might be just the thing.

I have to tell you - there was a moment a few paragraphs back when my stomach started to feel a bit odd and I started smiling at the computer screen. I think I have to do this.

I think I may have already sent an email requesting the starter kit.

I think I might already feel a little glowy and squirmy.

This might be just what I need.

Blog Berserk

So this blog is apparently going berserk. There was a post sent by feedburner the other day that was more than a year old. This morning the post about girls is gone without a trace. I've reposted it but all the comments were lost. If you would like to repost your comments I'd love it!

I will likely be moving to a new service since we've lost access to that feedburner account. Can't remember the password or the answer to the secret question. Believe me. . . we've tried everything. I'll post again in a few days after we've sorted out the confusion and I'll let you know how to proceed.

Thanks for reading!

The psychology of our girls

At the end of The Breakfast Club, Molly Ringwald kisses Judd Nelsen. Why? Because he's a complete dick to her the entire day. And she's a girl. And that, apparently, is what we do.

After all, The Game sat comfortably at #1 on Amazon after its release and enjoyed a spot on the New York Times bestseller list. Strauss provides sage advice how to pick up women, including tips such as: pretend you don't notice her, insult her, and alternate between attraction and disinterest. A recent article in Psychology Today cites research that points at girls' intelligence as liability and almost deterrent to courage, perseverance, and self confidence. It asks "What makes smart girls more vulnerable, and less confident, when they should be the most confident kids in the room?"

My question exactly. In fact, this post started before I'd read that article and started something like this:

Why would a 6 year old be afraid to say NO to an unwanted kiss? Why would she be reticent to let mom say anything to the offender? Why does she throw up her hands and cry because she can't do something? And why does she run to her bed and collapse when she isn't able to force something into the shape she had planned?

Why has her mom lived much of her life saying and doing these very same things? Why do women across America compare their insides with other people's outsides? An interminable comparison happening behind mascara and lip gloss, sunglasses and sweat pants. Why are we so taken with what everyone else is saying and doing?

Through some magic combination of forces seen and unseen, we become fearful and small. We rely on Judd Nelsen to tell us that we really exist. And then we insist on proving to him just how special we are even though we are sure he is right to mistreat us. Our self abuse far outweighs that of the pick up artist and the jerk.

But why?

Because we fear that what is inherent in us isn't quite enough.

Because we fear that our brilliance is happened upon and in short supply.

Because we fear that we forgot to get in line for our share of courage.

Because we fear.

The walls that we build to protect us become our most certain cages. We are isolated and stuck. We are afraid to be uncovered, to stretch, to be ourselves.

And as we learn to extend a hand, to find our voice, we tremble and wobble and fall back into our silence because it is all just too much. And after all - we aren't really enough. Are we?

What power lies in the truth? What liberation might be just a few feet further? What if today, courage says "Stand there and tremble. You won't fall." What if today you act "as if" and can close your eyes and feel full and whole and worthy?

The truth is that we are powerful beyond measure. The truth is that we are enough. Say it over and over again, whisper it to the wind, scream into the sunlight and mumble it to yourself as you fall asleep each night.

You are enough.
I am enough.

So how do we teach our girls these lessons before they are crippled by self-doubt, self-loathing, insecurity and fear? Is it simply to change the praise that we offer? I doubt it. Do we have to descend into the dark to find the strength to step fully into ourselves, to discover our own courage? Does the realization of that rich, full brand of freedom have to be a phoenix process, a death and rebirth? Or can we become girls early on that do not thrive on the mistreatment of others to define, challenge, inspire or dishearten us?

How do we create a new kind of Molly Ringwald and let go, finally, of our self-deprecating romanticism and allegiance to the John Hughes and Neil Strauss manipulations of our time?

I can't say that I have the answer. I am definitely asking the questions though. Join me?

Leftovers

This, apparently, is what it means to put away the leftovers in my house.

And yes, I am aware that I am the parent and thereby responsible for teaching the smaller people these skills, but seriously. After 12 years of watching separate items go into separate Tupperware containers, receive lids and then get stacked neatly in the fridge wouldn't you think he'd have a pretty good idea of the expectation?

In case you are wondering, that is a hard boiled egg, some chicken fries and a few pizza rolls.

You may now criticize the quality of the dinner that the child was served and question the nutritional value that was provided while judging me, quietly, a lousy parent. You may suggest that if his body were fed more nutritional items his mind would be stronger and healthier, he'd be able to think clearly and reason things out. He'd know not to dump all leftover items in a single container before slinging it, uncovered, into the fridge.

You may be right. But probably aren't.

A post in which I do reference Danzig

Okay, so maybe Danzig is the whole post.

Mother (in which I do not reference Danzig)

I watched Juno again Saturday evening and it struck me as poignant and wonderful as the first time I watched it. Many would agree that it is a great film that treats a sensitive subject with an element of humor and respect that is often hard to find. It is more than that for me, though. This movie has a profound impact on me each time I watch it. I experience some strange combination of every known emotion and I'm exhausted as the end credits roll. I need a few minutes to myself.

I too was a cautionary whale. A swollen, sassy, quirky but wonderful pregnant teenager.

Juno tells a part of my story that many of you do not know. You may know some of the facts of my teenage pregnancy. You may be able to do the math and, knowing that my 30th birthday is upon us and Jordan is already 12, put 17 and 12 together. But the moments that none of you could have experienced with us, the moments that shaped me, as a woman and as a mother were often too private, too lonely, too fleeting to have shared.

My story is admittedly a bit different from Juno's. I didn't consider abortion. I didn't give my baby up for adoption. I didn't return to a normal teenage life at the end of the show.

Jordan watched part of the movie with me Saturday and at one point as Juno shoves her belly down the crowded high school hallway he said, "Wow. It must be really scary to be a teenager and pregnant and like still have to go to school and have everyone look at you". I just looked at him and said, "Yeah. It is really is."

And I am reminded that only certain people know that particular fear. That particular trauma. That particular courage. The mark that that long walk down the hallway leaves deep within you. The mother that you become in those moments and the hundreds that follow.

I once read an essay called "You're Just Not the Type" about a young, lesbian, feminist, rocker who became a teenage mother. She wasn't the type to become that most dreaded statistic - teenage mother. Maybe she wasn't.

Neither was I.

And yet, here I sit, typing away as my twelfth Mother's Day draws to a close. And I carefully examine just how far we've come.

There is a beauty in the life I chose that others cannot see. There is a heartbreak and ache in remembering the fear, the uncertainty, the shame, and the determination to make it.

We've more than made it. My boy has just 20 days of 6th grade left. I am no longer a teenager. Though I will always be a mother. And I watch from the kitchen window, scrubbing dinner dishes, responding to texts from clients, and smiling at that baby boy, riding his bike, laughing and growing, just this very moment, into an incredible young man.

Even those who love us most cannot know what it was like to walk through those days. To sit behind the steering wheel crying and screaming and then soothing that giant belly that thumped and flipped and ached. Whispering "you and me, kid" long into the darkest nights.

And so Mother's Day is a strange day for me. I listen to my babies snore, I kiss their aging cheeks and I can't not reflect on what this motherhood means. There is a carefully carved place, a rich, private history of my becoming. This love of mine, this story of ours.

As it turns out, I am just the type.