Coming Up for Air. Making Lists.

So many folks out there can narrate their journey on every portal that social media has to offer.  I wish I could.  I can't even put my earphones in while on my morning walk anymore; it interrupts my "thoughts".  (Insert eye-rolling here.)  Where have I been?  Working.  Claywork.  Wordwork.  A new gig as a real estate copywriter. Mommy-ing.  I find that the quieter I am out here, the louder my work.  Anyone else find that?  Head down, lost in the process?  Working begetting working?  Anyone?

I came up for air over Thanksgiving.  Spent my birthday in my favorite place, Martha's Vineyard.  I brought my laptop and didn't log in once. I read a book with pages.  Ate lemon rosemary shoestring fries at a food truck and dark chocolate at Chilmark Chocolates. Hiked the Moshup Trail in Aquinnah.

Went to bed before 10 every night.  Walked and walked.  And it was like coming up to the surface after being underwater for too long. You know that feeling?  When you've held your breath for so long that it's as if your lungs will explode?  And that sweet air at the surface - been waiting there all this time.

Now there is clean laundry in the drawer and eggs in the fridge. I'm back to my lists. All my boys hate them.  Post-its everywhere, spiral notebooks piled on bedside table.  But it makes me feel as if I can see all four corners of my "room".  Here's a little look in my brain/notebook.

1) Mommy/Home (truncated for time's sake :)

submit doctor bill
make appointment for orthodontist
new outdoor table and grill cover
store umbrellas
clean baseboards
bday card for Mom
mail nephew's bday gift
baby gift
return blouse
indoor soccer shoes
organize holiday party

2) Mudstar Ceramics:

replace 365 Grolleg
glaze: aqua, opal and sapphire
roll out cheese boards
make angel template
two dozen bluebirds large
3 dozen bluebirds small
poinsettia ornaments
3 dozen tweets
deliver owl
start hydrangea lamp

3) Copywriting list:

submit bill (yay!)
find American Architecture book
ideas for agent bios
filing system

4) Manuscript list:

check out Booktrope
six word stories
find list of Cape towns
write chapter about faith.

xo love, rae

Every Problem Is Just Fear.

Every problem is just fear.  I heard this sentence this morning and it sort of lit up the room.  I started doing that mental test you do when you hear something that rings true but rattles you at the same time. "It can't be that simple," you think. You start running scenarios through your head to prove it's not the real deal.

But guess what?  I might be making a case of t-shirts. Get ready.

Why can't I finish this book?  Because I'm afraid I'm not a good enough writer.  Because I'm a perfectionist. (As Elizabeth Gilbert says: "Perfectionism is just fear in really good shoes.") Because I'm afraid of putting myself out there for all the world to see (and judge.)

Why can't I lose weight?  Because I'm afraid of how hard it will be.  Because I'm afraid I'll miss cookies and cheese. (Duh.) Because I'm afraid of attention, which I hate.  Because if I'm afraid that, if I'm not this size, which I've been my whole life, then what am I?

What do I want to be when I grow up?  I don't know, and I'm afraid that I don't know.  Not knowing at 24 was scary.  Not knowing at 44 is terrifying.  I'm afraid the thing I want to do isn't big enough.  I'm afraid I'm running out of time.  I'm afraid of leaving this earth having not made a dent.

You get the picture. See if this isn't true.  Think about a problem you have in your life.  And then think
about what that problem looks like if the fear surrounding it were removed.  I'm gonna guess…

So how to conquer the fear?  Gilbert suggests we don't tell it to go away, because it will never go away.  Instead, mother it.  Crazy?  I don't think so.  We mother everything and everyone else. So we acknowledge its presence.  We acknowledge it for the wicked little tyrant it is.  I envision fear as a cranky toddler.  Then we tell it: shhhhh.  It's okay.  I hear you.  You've been so busy today; it's time to rest.

Here you go: here's your milk; here's your teddy.  Let me tuck you in.  Close your eyes.  I've already checked under the bed for monsters; it's all clear.  Quiet now.  Sleep as long as you like.  Mama has things to do.

For When You Feel Like You're Filling an Ocean with a Teacup.

A Mild Antidote to September's Melee.

There's an over-scheduling melee that happens in September.  It can be not so swell for ideas.  I'm trying to let the summer exploration and noticing still lap at the toes.

Crushing on the band Isbells.
Try the song "Reunite".

Writing things.

Making things.

Finding broken, perfect things on my walks….

Why I'm Crushing on Summer

Don't faint: this week I might be crushing on summer. I don't know what happened. Up is down. Left is Right...

Ten Reasons:

1) Writing on the porch, tucked behind a giant hydrangea bush.  There might be an ice cold Angry Orchard cider involved.

2) Middle of the day hugs from all my boys.

3) Biking in the dappled shade on the Hopewell Valley Trail.

4) No rushing to get to school, to tutoring, to soccer practice.  No rushing period.

5) Reading more because it's just so nice outside.  That's what dvrs are for.  Current obsession is food writing: Blue Plate Special by Kate Christensen, (check out her blog here,) a re-read of Blood, Butter and Bones by Gabrielle Hamilton, and bathroom reading of MFK Fisher.  (Sorry, MFK, you deserve much better than the potty.  I shall move you to the nightstand, posthaste.)

6) Grilled EVERYTHING.

7) No helping with fifth grade math that I am too dumb to do.

8) ICE CREAM.  I'm democratic.  Ben and Jerry's, the locally-sourced small batch gelatos at Bent Spoon, frozen yogurt with rainbow sprinkles.  It's all good.

9) Always being just a few weeks away from my paradise on earth.

10) Evening walks because it's still light out, looking for owls.

Don't Feed the Bear.

Summer is when everything is at its peak: fruits and vegetables, nights filled with friends and gin and tonics and grilled fish and cool swims, trips whose suitcases come back filled with sand, bright clothes and bicycles, long days punctuated with popsicles. Summer is not the time for hibernation. No. Decidedly not. That would make no sense.

And yet, I've had a sleeping bear within me these warm months.  Nestled in a forest den, deep in the cool earth, trees keening in the wind.  A bear with a lot on her subconscious mind, a bear that is doing the sleeping work of dreaming what's next - that strange work that is somehow very easy and very difficult at the same time. And a bear that has chosen sleep over dealing with some things.

Not so long ago, and for not the first time, WHAM, out of nowhere, someone decided to sling an arrow straight to my heart.  I used it as an excuse to hibernate, go dark, and worse, to separate myself from my true people, and avoid doing the work.

I don't know why the people who are supposed to love you the most are able to sling the deadliest arrows, but sometimes they are.  Crack shots. Ouch. And being the walking wounded is not fun. After licking my wounds, feeling sorry for myself, I had a small epiphany: maybe I wasn't shot by this one person?  Maybe I had forgotten why I am here, and instead, it was the Universe who poked the bear.  Though it really, really hurt, today I woke up grateful for that nasty arrow.  And woke up in general.  I realized that making excuses because I keep getting hurt by someone who is too scared to do the right thing, means I am acting out of fear, too.  Unacceptable.

This morning finds the bear out of bed, barefoot, in a flowered skirt, hair tangled, listening to towhees ask her to drink her tea, turning her face to the sun, stringing words together. She's realized that Summer is here. She's awake, ready to start again, though she's a little slow to wake up, so might I offer just one piece of advice?  Until she's fed and healed, and showed you what's what, please don't feed the bear.

Noise.

Noise.  Lots of it. The cute squeals of little boys have been replaced by FIFA games cranked up until the room thrums, a new PA system "for the band, honey", weird Minecraft sounds, Foster the People on a loop, and the incessant pinging of my teenager's phone.  Guitars, a bass, and a keyboard play non-stop.  And have I mentioned the rebounding WHACKS of a soccer ball against the garage door for hours on end?

The noise is problematic as I have pages due to an editor friend, to see if she'll take me on as a client.  In my noisy alcove I write; I re-write, and I can't see that this will ever be finished.  Non-writing friends ask how it's going; writing friends know better.  Almost, I say.  I'm getting there, I say.

Quiet Austin sky.

So, back from some well-spent time at the Writers' League Conference, I return now to the noise in my head, and it's louder than any soccer game or electric guitar. The experience at the conference was overwhelmingly positive: a lot of publishing, public relations and revision questions were answered.  And my pitch session went as well as it could, considering I was a Jell-o mold in teal gladiator sandals.  Send me 100 pages and a synopsis, the agent said, handing me her card.

Here I am, my mind wanting me to cook because it needs to quiet itself.  It's like any artwork I have done.  I vacillate between it's not so bad, hey - chapters 3 through 7 are good, and let's just set fire to the whole thing.

Think I'll go make some gazpacho.  And jack up the Vitamix to 7 so I can't hear my own thoughts.

What do you all do when you can't find "the quiet"?