Preschool is a Chaotic Kind of Poetry

A little over a week ago my son turned three. THREE. This morning that three year old, my husband and myself all piled in the car, after snapping a few pictures, and drove to the next town over for a certain someone's first day of preschool.

 No one cried. It was calm. There was excitement and nervousness and nostalgia certainly, but they were wrapped up in this unnerving sense of normalcy.  

 Each moment though monumental in some ways, was just a moment and we were all just people. That feeling of seriousness, importance... gravity, it never stretches out through a whole event like you expect it to. Not weddings or births or even deaths.

 It moves in and out of you like the tide. Ebbing when it's time to wash hands or for reminders to walk, not run. Flowing when you catch glances with your kid in the sea of kids doing something that shows their newly acquired age. You beam with pride in the same instant as you experience an invisible punch to the gut. The punch of three years full of minutes missed to minutia.

But over it all danced the quietness of time. The silencing effect a ticking clock has over all other sounds once noticed by ears that want nothing more to linger on the laughter of their children.

 It is this knowledge of the unceasing nature of time that makes the magical things in life seem mundane and the mundane things seem magical.

Signing in for the first time, hanging up his backpack, his introduction to his classmates and ours to their parents. It all seemed too airy and fleeting. Nothing concrete in them. Nothing that felt like the making of a memory.

 But the tug in my heart between jumping in to assist and instruct or holding back on purpose in order to let him learn to look to his teacher for those things. That felt big. 

Knowing he was once this precious pressure in my belly as I watched him learn the terrain of this new environment as I sat silently on the sidelines? That felt deafeningly big.

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On Character, Desire and Actions

   There are seasons in our lives when we repeatedly have our noses rubbed in the horrors that lie in our own hearts, and it aches us to know that we can feel and think such disturbingly selfish things. It's easy during these times to discount our efforts to make the right decisions and act in honorable ways because we know that our in our heart we really, REALLY don't want to... and the fact that we don't want to hurts almost as much as the painful circumstances that call us to act in the first place.

   I put together this quote/image thing for all of you going through such times right now, and for those who have in the past or will in the future. I want to remind everyone in such a situation first and foremost that you are a good person for even caring about the state of your heart. For desperately wanting your motivations to come from absolute kindness and not obligation. That is worth a mirror high five in and off itself.

   Now, take a deep breath and do the thing you already know in that conflicted heart of yours to be right. The corresponding feelings will come along when they are good and ready. Sometimes all it takes for your emotions to change is an inciting action, and sometimes it takes being able to look back knowing you did the right thing anyway. Either way? You've got this!

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20,000 Words

Photo edit by Jason Frega

 
   About a month ago something magical happened... and I have held off writing about it specifically, and in a lot of cases even talking about it, because truth be told I am superstitious and suspicious and  fearful that by nature things don't tend to last. Most things don't, but there are plenty of things that do. Important things. Good things. Being fearful that acknowledging good changes in our lives will somehow change their status as a permanent thing, or speed the process bringing about an almost immediate departure time if those things were meant to be temporary, doesn't really do much in the way of allowing us the freedom to enjoy those things whatever they may be.

   So here's my good thing: writing healed the brokenness in my mind. Not all my problems and not just any kind of writing... but another big shift took place, this time in a really good direction, and I am damn grateful for it. If you were here back in April you most likely read my post in which I admitted that I had fallen back into a state of depression. I sought help like I said I would, I am still seeing a therapist (although less frequently now) and I am still experiencing anxiety attacks (something I actually didn't mention in that post) from time to time, but... BUT! Things are so much better lately. So. Much. Better.

    So, how did writing "heal my head problems"? Well, I received a very helpful recommendation that at the time felt akin to being backed into a corner, but when I responded in trust and stepped in a direction I thought to be backwards, on faith, I found a freedom I haven't known for a long, long time. I was told to funnel my writing efforts in a different direction. A direction that didn't involve direct self introspection or digging into seriously triggering topics anymore, at least for a time. Those things weren't bringing the joy and release that writing had always been for me. Sure it helped me work out my thoughts and crystallize my beliefs on many different topics. But it ceased helping me process my emotions. And that felt like a great big gaping loss.

   In the discussion which this recommendation stemmed from the word fiction was mentioned, and it scared me. It scared me because I had always held fiction up on a pedestal. I didn't trust my mind to formulate ideas worthy of weaving into a story. I had spent years adding more and more constraints to my writing, newer higher standards (that didn't fit my purpose) and ultimately I tried to force my idea of what I would do with this gift that I cherish, into a box that it didn't belong in. A box that allowed me very little room to breathe.

   I did the same thing in many other areas of my life as well, and together all those pieces, those misplaced principles, thoughts and beliefs, built a wall that when fully formed began to cut off my air supply. The good news is that the wall has come down and although a little damage was done in the process it made rebuilding a possibility.

   I am reading fiction again after a long self-imposed, guilt-ridden hiatus. I am also writing fiction for the first time since maybe Middle School. In fact if you follow me on Twitter or are a fan of my Facebook page then you may have already seen the news that I have officially broken the 20,000 word mark on my very first fiction novel. Will it be worthy of publishing when it's done? When I've done all the editing, re-writes, more editing, revisions, and even more editing necessary to turn a draft into an actual book? I don't know for sure. But I'm finally doing the right work. The work that I feel like I was always meant to be doing. I am writing 5 days a week, a minimum of 350 words a day, usually quite a lot more. Eventually that will all add up to a finished first draft, which I know to be only the beginning of a long journey. A journey that I am now officially on. That knowledge alone is enough for me in this moment.

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You Can Do Better

   I've spent a lot of time on YouTube these past few months and I have found some favorite artists and creators among this medium. One of those favorites is a hilarious guy by the name of Mike Falzone, and while digging through his extensive archives one day I happened to find myself listening to a cover he made of a song called Do Better by Say Anything. I'm not even going to attempt to lie here and pretend like I had heard the song before... but I will say that I couldn't bring myself to close the tab after listening to it that first time. And I haven't. For weeks. (sorry Jason, I know, too many tabs... always, way WAY too many tabs)

   I can't get it out of my head. Something about the lyrics and the mood of the song is entrancing... and I STILL cannot tell if it makes me feel incredibly better or incredibly worse. But either way it's strangely comforting.

Have a listen for yourself:

   After listening to it on repeat for way too long I finally decided to think through why this phrase "you can do better" is so disconcerting to me. Why I can't let it go. Why it is both soothing and painful in the way that hydrogen peroxide works on an open wound (which apparently you're not supposed to do anymore?)  I haven't figured it out entirely yet but I did write this the other night as I was trying to fall asleep:

For those who can't read my messy handwritting:

You can do better is quite a dichotomy of a sentence, especially for one so short. 
It's a perfectly fine thing to say to someone going through a rough breakup. 
In that context it obviously means 'you deserve better'... 'they're not good enough for you'. 

But when someone says 'you can do better' to you in regards to just about anything else, 
or worse when you say it to yourself 
it reverberates a double meaning through your cerebral cortex 
and you're left wondering which one is more true. 

Am I capable of immeasurably great things
or am I being compared against a standard to which I can never measure up? 

Should I feel inspired or ashamed?

What do you think? Has anyone ever told you that you can do better? Did it help or hurt? Encourage or Belittle? Perhaps both... share your thoughts and/or experiences in the comment section below.

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Caution: Detour Ahead

   To me she seemed mostly like her same old self, even as she kept talking about how different she had become. Pointing back to some switch that flipped. If it had, I couldn't tell. At least not until a moment when unimaginable hurt appeared out of nowhere on her face where patience and a slightly unamused smirk would have normally sat.

   What the hell was happening? 

   She was just talking about some characters she was working on and suddenly her face shattered as her arms flew up and came back down, hands in fists. Her knees popped up as her feet pushed off the floor. All  of it seemingly in one motion. In one moment... it's as if she forgot she was buckled into the seat of our car and instead thought she was slamming her elbows down on a dining table, for emphasis while violently standing up to storm away after a heated argument.

   In the very next breath she was sobbing and blubbering incessant apologies for having yelled... Then insisting through tears that she was fine, please keep driving. Telling me to calm down.

   Where did my wife go? Maybe she really was as crazy as she claimed.

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Writers Block in the Real World

     Words have the power to build up and to destroy. Spoken or thought. Everything about our world... or at least mine, boils down to words. And I have hundreds of thousands of them, but so often I'm left feeling like I have none at all. Because part of my obsession with words materializes itself in my compulsion to judge words. The deem them worthy or unworthy. Sincere or shallow. Intelligent or immature. The problem however is not so much in the judgement of the individual words themselves, or even in their structure and sound when combined with others... but in the snap assessments of the meaning intended by the one who wields them. Including myself. Oh Lord how I judge myself.

   That is precisely why I struggle to use words in the real world. At least articulate, deep and meaningful ones. Because I fumble when I don't have the space to judge each one as it comes out. I find myself analyzing the beginning of my sentences as the rest left to be said falls out without what I would deem to be the proper amount of thought. I backtrack in the same moment as I'm attempting to conversationally move forward and as a result I wind up getting overwhelmed and lost. So I hide behind my keyboard and my pen... fearing that if someday enough people were to read and enjoy my written words that they may want to hear my spoken ones. Particularly the kind that don't have the opportunity to be rehearsed in advance. And that scares the crap out of me.

   It's true that sometimes... many, many times actually, success scares us far more than failure. Success scares us because we don't believe we have the capacity to maintain it. Or don't believe we deserve it. Or that if we achieve and then lose it we will never recover from the wound it leaves behind. Success leaves scars we tell ourselves. Subconsciously or otherwise... and that notion holds us captive whether we realize it or not. And captivity breeds hostility. At least in me it does.

   It's a good thing then, that every once in a while I am reminded that I hold the key.

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My Not-So-Terrible Two Year Old

   I haven't been blogging lately. At least not much. I haven't been working on my book lately either. At all. But I have been writing lately. More than in a long, long time. I lost it for a couple of months there, and in the process I kind of lost myself as well. But I've recently reacquainted myself with the lost (to me) art of journaling. And in that journal I've begun documenting the parts of my life I usually forgot to write about. Moments. The fleeting kind. I am far more accustomed to writing about ideas and opinions. Stories are somewhat new territory to me. But it is the area in which I feel most compelled to improve. Because it scares me and thrills me the most. It has less concrete parameters. In stories I feel as though my safety vest has been removed and I must rely solely on myself to keep the narrative afloat. Myself and that finicky little thing called memory... a trait, if you will, that I have, but not not the most trustworthy among them.

   So I have been here and there writing down seemingly minor observances of and interactions with my son. The type of things that I always tell myself I will remember, for their sweetness or humor, but never do. For above all I am forgetful. I am that mother who always answers the "How's your kid?" questions with "awesome! He's growing so fast and he's hilarious..." followed quickly by an awkward pause and a blank stare as I try to think up recent examples. Because I can't, and I feel so awful about it. These moments are worth remembering... and so I'm taking it into my hands, literally, with pen and paper, to lock them into permanence of the only kind I know:

 Photo C/O Josh Rogerson | Photography

Tuesday February 28th 2013:

   I knew I shouldn't have let him play with that darned thing! What kind of mother let's her kid run around with an uninflated balloon between his teeth? A teeny tiny water balloon no less? The nurse at the doctors office said she'd call back after consulting him... Oh that must be her right now! "Yes? Ok... yes, I understand. I just wanted to be on the safe side. Yes, he's eating, drinking and breathing just fine. The coughing stopped. Honestly I don't even know if he swallowed it, I just know I turned around for a second and he was gagging. He said he swallowed something but wouldn't tell me what and I can't find the balloon anywhere! ....Oh MY GOODNESS, I feel like such an idiot for even calling! He just walked up to me now... balloon in hand. He must have gagged on something else. I'm so sorry!"

Friday March 1st 2013:

   Bastian is across from me at the kitchen table as I write this. Sitting in a bar-height chair without restraints, eating his turkey and Muenster grilled sandwich (and sweet potato fries) in strips... because Daddy discovered the other day that he prefers it over the smaller squares.
   He picks up a particularly long fry in his hand that is shaped, at least the way he is holding it, like an upside down "U". He gives me a sly smile and says "it's eensy weensy spider; mom." ...he already says Mom in the way of a teenager. The way that elicits a silent "Duh" on the end... only from him it bears a bit more excitement and wonder. Thank God. I don't think I could bear the sound without it.

Tuesday March 5th 2013:

   My heart soared and burst into a billion tiny pieces just now. Bastian, on the couch next to me, trying his best to keep his balance as he half jumps, half stands tip toed, each leg doing it's own thing... "I can Fly Mommy! .... Bastian not flying" the facial expression synonymous to a motherhood punch to the gut forming on his adorable little face. It's only the beginning I think to myself as I try to figure out whether to smile or cry... and I hug him to hide the bewilderment on my own face.

Wenesday March 6th 2013:

   The first thing Bastian said to me this morning was "Spatula!" As I walked down the stairs he held it up and repeated the word Daddy had just said as if it was some great treasure. Just now, maybe, I don't know, a half hour later, this interchange took place:
Bastian (holding spatula pinched between shoulder and ear): "I'm making a phone call!"
"Bastian making phone call!"
Me: Smile and what I believe to be a look of encouragement.
Bastian: "I making a phone call"
"Bastian making a phone call Mom!"
Me: "Cool"

The above was repeated in similar variations a few more times until I realized that "Cool" wasn't cutting it for him

Bastian: "I'm making a phone call!"
Me: "Who are you calling Bastian?"
Bastian: "It's not a phone Mom!!"

Duh...

photo C/O Josh Rogerson | Photography

   So... I am definitely a little late to the game when it comes to recording milestones, but I've got to say that for all the mental resistance I gave the idea, it feels pretty incredible to be mother/record-keeper now that I am doing it.  

Doing it my own way.

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The Value in Nothing Left to Give

   This is a story about a girl who one day woke up to find out that she was suddenly twenty six years old with and husband and a son living in an unfamiliar home full of boxes because they (her and her family that appeared overnight) had just moved in... and truth be told this little girl had always been rather lazy. Looking around her new quarters she quickly realized that not much had changed. Not in regards to her natural tendencies and abilities anyway.

   The night before this shock to the system she had been scrolling endlessly through her ridiculous number of open tabs on her two different browser windows that were simultaneously buzzing out the faint "Choose me! Look at me!" song she had grown so familiar with... when something caught her eye and made her heart sink. A post on some strange social media site or another by an artist she had admired for quite some time. Someone who not just created art but lived it... who had made mention of her upcoming birthday. Her twenty. fifth. birthday. The one that the girl doing the scrolling and browsing and reading had experienced already, the year before. Only one year before. Not two or ten or five... but one felt like more than enough. Because the girl was in fact reading, not writing. On writing she waited. Waited for the right topic or inspiration or input... that same damn trap. Again. A. Gain. How? Why?

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   This is another story. A story about a guy who gives and gives and gives. And gets frustrated. And sometimes says hurtful things without thinking about it... because he cares so much that his heart has to put up barriers to keep itself from exploding in his chest. Who woke up yet another morning to an unsatisfied wife. A sorrowful woman who had in her this radiant light but instead chose to mourn every moment as it passed by. He wondered why she didn't notice that everything they have between the two of them, all the things that she now seemed to despise... he bought because at one point she said she wanted it. Maybe not with words. But with her eyes or a hint of the smile she withheld from him much of the time.

   She began to tell him one night how she was broken, after he had carefully, with every last word he had in him, told her all the things she made clear that she was longing to hear. And instead of rightful disappointment or hurt he reached out and healed her. He forgot for a moment about his walls and he chanced explosion... it was the perfect amount of electricity to jump-start her hardened heart. And though it depleted him for the moment it was a good exhaustion... to finally see her exhilarated over words he didn't think he had. For they had been hiding cleverly behind those heart walls of his. 

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Creating Characters in a World Worth Saving

   Sometimes I think that it's necessary to live with a certain amount of sadness in order to be a creator. Other times I get indignant over that line of thought asserting loudly within the confines of my own mind that it's a fallacy that one must be tortured to be an artist. Things being mutually exclusive is actually quite rare if you think about it. You can hear thunder and not see lightning but if you are close enough to lighting to see it, you will hear the resulting thunder at some point however faint it may be. Unless of course you are deaf.

   Or something like that anyways... I am no expert on weather. In fact I am far less intelligent that I'd like to think that I am... and have others think that I am. But I am also far more intelligent than I feel many people give me credit for. And this is where much of my sadness comes in. It comes in regards to peoples perception of me and my abilities. It comes in the dissonance between what I know lies within me and what I gather of peoples impression of me... because of my lack of action. They don't know because I don't share. They don't see because I don't do. I just think. Think far too much, and spill far to little.  And due to my lack of practice in the making external what is internal, when I do, it isn't eloquent enough to be fully comprehended. Not like when I write. Although that could use some work too... but this thing called talking, it is my biggest downfall... if we're not counting connecting, because I'm far worse at that. At least I think I am...

   And so there it is. All still about what I think versus what others perceive. Too much time spent analyzing my own introspection. Too much thought focused on myself.

   I'm feeling pushed again, as a writer to go a new direction. At the same time as traveling the original one that I did not stick closely enough to, I confess... I need to get out of my head and write about others for a bit. Create characters. Maybe explore the people in my story that aren't me. Because while mine is the story I'm telling, it's really for the benefit of the supporting characters. Isn't that what life is about? What fun is being the hero of your story if you don't develop the characters that make up the world you are supposed to save?

   The time in my life finally came when I felt honest in identifying myself as a writer. But now it is time to shift from a journalist (in the sense of a personal journal or diary) to a novelist. Someone who sees others as stories as well. Not just herself. This worldview I've been looking through is feeling a bit narrow. And as it turns out the hand restricting my air supply is my own.

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Do All The Packing!!!

   It's true! We're moving! Again... The house we've been living our lives in this past year and a half in has sold, and so us renters must find another place to rent. We just might have done that depending on what we hear back over these next few days. But packing waits for no one. Because new residence affirmed or not we have to be out of here soon, soon, soon! And so I spend days picking up the things we own in my hands, feeling their weight and their awkward shape as I attempt to judge their true value, whether or not they deserve the required box space, set them down to decide later, after I've accomplished some more straightforward packing, only to repeat the process with the next item. It's cathartic and heartbreaking at the same time. Heartbreaking because it's time to let go and I don't feel ready but I don't think I can bear the added weight either. Or because I'm ashamed for having allowed it through my door, my filters in the first place and that I've allowed it to weigh me... us, down all this time. Allowed myself to become so burdened by and tethered to things. Plastic and metal and glass... things that break and warp and gather cobwebs in their hidden corners where they stay until some big up-heaving life change. Some things I want to keep but can't. They refuse to come with me and I am saddened by their refusal to fit logically into our new space. Hurt by their lack of desire to evolve into something that can stay with me in this codependent existence we at one point or another entered into. Those silly self-righteous things. With their lack of awareness. They mock me. And yet it makes me care for them all the more.

   Then I remember that it's all just stuff. All of it. Even the best of it. That what really matters is the people I share my home with... and I feel silly for getting so stressed over the minutia of it all. I realize that I have far more than I deserve and even if half of this mysteriously disappeared or was otherwise ruined, I would still have more than I need. That I am incredibly blessed.

   And after all of that I realize that I've been sitting on the floor for 40 minutes trying to untie a really stubborn knot a pair of nylons, that I've worn once, made of themselves (a weird long story as to how that is even possible) and OH NO! I forgot that I have to pack for our trip this weekend too, and I haven't done laundry in well over a week!

Oh the joys of moving...

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Sing Me Something That I Know...

   As far back as I can remember I have been plagued by this feeling that I just don't quite fit in with my peers. In some ways this has been a great blessing and in others it has felt like a curse. It has fueled some really poor decision making, especially during my teen years. But who can't say they've experienced that to some extent? We all feel like the odd man out at least every once in a while. The problem is how we respond to that feeling when it becomes a looming overtone in our lives. For me I went through various stages of trying to fit in and then trying to rebel in my pre-adulthood years. Looking back what is most funny to me is how much more I "fit in" when I was trying my hardest not to. The way in which all of us high school rebels rebelled in such similar fashion that we wound up just being another group of separate sameness. We all bought our "uncool" clothes at the same stores, listened to the same too-heavy-for-mainstream bands (that were for the most part pretty widely accepted among the mainstream) and smoked the same cigarettes on the same corner every morning before school.

   Don't get me wrong, I actually liked the aesthetic (still do... sorry) and some of the music. But in trying to be different and proud I wound up eschewing the things which actually made me different. I narrowed my focus and my tastes to only those things that were cool within the uncool crowd. If anyone hinted that they knew of my secret love of mellow music with tight harmonies, or my preference of tense thriller movies over the gruesome shock factor movies everyone seemed to be boasting, I would swear up and down that it wasn't true. I was scared that my interest in or love of some things would negate the validity of my status in others. That I would get the dreadful label of "poser" if I didn't preemptively inform everyone that "No, really, I was wearing my Dad's ties before Avril did it in that cheesy video" (that I secretly loved). And even though it was true I stopped wearing them when she started because she was making a mockery of our subculture with her badly written lyrics and bubblegum infused style. I didn't want to be associated with it... at least not publicly.

   I also wouldn't admit to knowing all the lyrics to my parents Simon & Garfunkel albums, or the songs on the country radio station we always had playing in the family home and cars... If you asked whether I enjoyed playing board games or putting together puzzles with my parents I would definitively tell you no. Mission trips and family vacations? I did those because I had to! Totally sucked. I basically didn't like anything... liking things, being enthusiastic wasn't cool, unless of course it was stuff that creeped "normal" people out. In fact I went so far as to pretend I liked spiders for something like two years... in which I actually picked them up with my bare hands to carry them outside and save them from being squished, all while my stomach was tying itself in knots and I was desperately attempting to not hurl the thing at the nearest hard surface and run the other way! All to prove what a bad ass I was. Seriously. What could be more lame?

   Things started to change as I began to heal from some of the bad decisions alluded to earlier... in the midst of the healing process, while I was just vulnerable enough to be open to it, I was introduced to a band I would likely never have listened to during my rebel stage. To this day I am not one to loudly endorse a particular musical group, mostly out of fear that they won't stand the test of time and I will look back on my enthusiastic writings about them and feel the same way I do when I crack open one of my high school diaries. Embarrassed. Because I really don't know that much about music, except for the way it makes me feel and the impact it has on my life as a result.... but Bleed American by Jimmy Eat World was a saving grace to me at that time in my life. I think most people found themselves uplifted and comforted by the single The Middle. I was no exception. And I still feel that way when it comes on, but I hadn't yet heard that song (if I remember correctly) when the album made it's way into my hands and then made it's home in my car stereo, where it for the most part stayed on repeat for years. It was energetic and mellow, challenging and comforting. Something about it felt like home. I could listen for hours, days, weeks on end without growing tired. I would change the CD only because I felt like at some point I should, only to return to it shortly thereafter. It was cathartic. I fell for it. And for once I wasn't afraid of what the rest of the rebels might say. They were already talking about me in much worse ways so what did I have to loose? I wore Jimmy Eat World Tshirts to school and sang along at the top of my lungs with the windows rolled down regardless of who I might pull up next to at the next stop light. I cried through Hear You Me more times than I can count. And I resolved over and over to not spend my life wondering, standing in the back just looking around...

   A Praise Chorus is what I think of immediately when I think of that album, that band, but most importantly that time in my life. A time when I freed myself up to like what I like because I liked it, and that's it. A time when I decided to re-inhabit my own body and do everything I could to be the person that I wanted to be. It's no surprise it felt like home... the chorus of it with things, snippets, of songs I didn't even know that I knew. A reminder of a childhood spent listening to and learning things about other people's lifetimes... not just mine. Not just my high school bubble of black clothing ripped apart and put back together with safety pins while Korn songs played in the background as I snuck another cigarette hanging out my parents bathroom window. It subtly reminded me that I was more than the stage I was in. I was a whole person, not just an image of one.

   And so all that being said, I did something I've always been a little leery of... something that felt like giving too much importance to a fleeting thing. A lyric. I tattooed a lyric on my skin.... well technically I didn't do it, a very talented artist did ... but still. I got a lyric tattooed on me in permanent ink. But if there was ever any lyric it was this one... because it is the opposite of fleeting. It has already lasted the test of time. And while it reminds me of the feeling a particular album gives me first and foremost, it also reminds me that there is more to me than one genre. I can and do love Tommy James and the Shondells, Joan Jett and Jimmy Eat World. And that is more than ok in my book.

Over and over... and over... and...

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A Previously Discarded Poem

(Sort of) - Originally written 25 July 2012

   What does my music sound like? What is the tune that seeps from my every orifice regardless of the words I am intentionally forming with my teeth and lips and tongue. What do people know of my soul from the melody filling the air, just below audible range, but subconsciously recognized… what are the words and notes, tones and rhythms of my song. Is is harmonious or chaotic discord? Is it truly music or merely noise? If I could detect it myself would I choose to play it on repeat through the computer speakers for days on end? Would I dance, or laugh or cry? Or maybe just plug my ears and wait for it to end. Click “Next”. Is my song catchy in that annoying ‘wish-I-had-never-heard-it’ sort of way, or does it tell a story with it’s sudden changes and lack of refrain… Am I a ballad, dance or mellow elevator jam? Do I go on too long or end too soon? Are there other voices singing along, intermingling themselves with my song. Harmonies? People so intertwined with my identity that their essence can be heard as a subtle subtext to the song… perhaps as a haunting bridge or a captivating guitar rift.

What do I sound like to those who aren’t really listening?

(At least not with their ears…)

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Christmas From A Toddler's Eye View

   This Christmas in our household was quite the whirlwind... as per usual. But not for the usual reasons. We were all on again off again sick and none of us was much in the holiday spirit until we came right up to Christmas Eve itself (That's when things started to become fun). I wasn't even all that enthusiastic about listening to Christmas music this year, and that is saying a lot. But something else was different in a good way... the trappings seemed less appealing than normal this year, but the message felt much more front and center despite my melancholy. I may not have put decorations out until the last minute, but this December I can say I prayed more than I have in the past. When I did skip over a carol on my holiday playlist it wasn't because it wasn't jolly enough... it was to jump ahead to the songs that really captured the purpose of our celebrations.

   Then, as they always do, the actual days of celebration came. We were in the midst of it. And this time around I felt present almost the entire time... I got to step out of the "Mom seeing Christmas through her child's eyes" roll this time and settle back into my own personal point of view.... but, frankly I don't have much of a desire to write out my experience from that perspective. It's mine and I don't feel it needs a recap... but in looking through my pictures I realized that my (new to me) camera lens had it's own agenda separate from mine. It seems to have wanted to make sure that I didn't miss out on Christmas from a toddler's eye view... and if I do say so myself the story it tells is quite compelling. Have a look for yourself:

When you're a toddler, and the first grandkid in the family, you get the distinct pleasure of helping to blow out birthday candles no matter who they are intended for... in this case Umpa. Yes, my Dad was born on Christmas day!

Flashlights, suspenders and ties make Awesome gifts...

And books filled with dinosaurs read by Grandpas bring great joy!

Big boy underwear belongs on the doorknob of our front door... DUH!

Candy canes can be found in every corner of the house...

...and "Batman Car"s can bring hours of entertainment!

Dinos eat gummy snacks

...and every little thing makes you laugh.

There is one thing I got a picture of from my perspective that is worth sharing though... and that would be this:

Yes. That is a red velvet cheese ball. You're welcome.

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Real Time Writing: My Reaction To Senseless Violence

   This has traditionally not been a place for content aggregation. I have lines and dividers in my head as to what I have designated each of my social media outlets for and have been mostly very strict with my blog. Other places I have allowed my own lines to blur quite a bit to suite specific situations and circumstances, but I have tried to remain very ridged in keeping this blog a place for personal creation. My own content. But, while some of the content I will be aggregating in this post is my own, some is not, because I feel it is important enough to warrant a "more serious" platform than a retweet or facebook share.  And frankly, I don't have many more words left on the subject than those I bled out yesterday in the events immediate wake. I still to this moment feel very drained of my biggest natural resource, words. Cohesive thoughts even.

    So here to start are the words I could form, that in haste made their way to Facebook before I could fully fathom the thought of piecing together a full post over here... but now, in hindsight I realize that they were more than enough, if only for the reason that they are, still, all that I have:

   I don't have much to add to that, from my own well of thoughts, feelings, wisdom, etc. But I do have a link or two I would like to share with you from other people and sources that I find to be of value in this overwhelming wake.

   The first is from Kim over at Momma by the Bay in regards to media, children and the dangers of how media coverage efforts negatively effect survivors, specifically children survivors. Her account of her own personal experience with school violence and prodding reporters is absolutely chilling and blood boiling at the same time. To The Media, Regarding Newtown

   The second is this heart wrenching article written by Liza Long over at Gawker with the telling title I Am Adam Lanza's Mother. This particular message hit so incredibly close to home as I spent a decent amount of time myself in and out of mental health facilities as a teenager, observing first hand a wide spectrum of the effect that mental illness can have on a person as well as the endless miles of red tape and paperwork and hoops set ablaze for frightened and bewildered family members to navigate. It's a scary place. Our culture is quick to diagnose and prescribe, but still so incredibly unwilling to acknowledge the extremes of mental illness. The reality of it.... just, read the article, it's so, so very important.

  I thought there was more.... but I seem to have lost track of the "good" stuff I read since yesterday... and I just don't have the heart to be searching for more information on this tragedy. A friend did share this link that, while not directly related, is so very, very related in an indescribable way. For when there is tragedy, somewhere else, in that moment, someone is doing an incredible good on behalf of another human being. Kindness still exists. Let's amplify it: 26 Moments That Restored Our Faith in Humanity.

   I apologize for the lack of editing. On this and other recent posts, while I'm at it. I'm finally beginning to realize that this is what blogging is really about. Real time writing. Not perfection.

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Hands That Feel Like Home

This is a love letter.

But not to a person... only a part of a person. A part of this person. The part of this person that physically embodies all of the qualities that the owner loves as a whole. Her hands.

My hands.

These hands.

Only now am I realizing how much more they mean to mean than even my eyes which I guard fervently as if made of precious gemstones. These hands instead are scarred and yet still sacred. Neglected and yet the most loved body part of all. The only really, for which I have not at one point or another given myself grief. They have never felt inadequate. I have never looked at them and thought that they were too big, too small, too fleshy or round or otherwise wrong.

These hands have never betrayed me. They've always done what's asked of them even when that very thing was self-destructive in nature. Even when I used them to hurt myself... they were still, in those moments, tentative, apologetic... even unexpectedly gentle. I have used them to do bad things that is sure but though they obeyed they always had in them a bit of beautiful defiance.

They have also been responsible, to a point, for everything I've done of which I am proud. They are the vessel that transfers these words from my my mind into readable text... on paper, on a screen. With a keyboard or with a pen. They at times make music... and at others they caress. They paint detailed intricate designs on faces of women who long to feel beautiful... including the one to which they are by association attached. They change diapers, stroke toddler curls and sometimes with a tinge of reluctance and love they spank. These hands they love the dirt... almost as much as they love running water. One on of these hands is a finger and on that finger resides the most important piece of jewelery I will ever own. The other is connected directly through bone and skin and blood to a stretch of embedded ink that reminds me who I am and to whom I belong. Sometimes these hands are well nourished and aptly decorated... but mostly they are slightly dry and sporting cracked nail polish.

But in spite of what the world may see. In spite of the things they are and are not capable of. I have never seen them as anything less than perfect. And anything less than mine. I may chew my hangnails and I may rip torn fingernails away with my teeth... but there is no part of my body that has ever felt more me.

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A Forest of Fog

   I should be writing about all of the events that I haven't gotten around to posting about yet... Thanksgiving, Christmas Kickoff, my birthday... our first official masquerade event... but, really, right now I am so beyond emotionally drained I wouldn't even know where to begin. So many good things have happened since I last updated the blog, and I am SO grateful for them... but some other really important stuff has fallen apart, and I just can't focus. Have you ever been in one of those weird hazy, this-can't-be-real type dazes? Like you're caught in a fog trying to read road signs in an unfamiliar place? Because that is where I am right now. I feel like I am constantly on the verge of crying but I never quite know whether out of happiness or sadness... because it's as if they are both physical entities literally sitting on my shoulders threatening to duel it out, and I'm simply overwhelmed by their constant bickering. And just when I think to myself "silence would really be better than this", silence comes and I feel so completely bewildered and alone. Silence of course being symbolic of a break from (what feels like) external emotional stimulus... every once in a while a feeling of strange calmness settles in and that sensation scares me most of all. It scares me because my addictive history with the numb sensation. It scares me because "Something big just went down, how can you not care... even if just for a moment?".

   But one can only care so much before something inside them shuts down in need of refueling. And I haven't refueled in quite a while. Someday I will learn to fill up before my tank runs dry, but for now it would seem my gas gauge is either broken or routinely ignored. And although I feel the later is more likely true, and under normal circumstances I would apologize for that (because of how my negligence in taking care of myself adversely affects other people)... I. Just. Can't. Not this time. Because I don't have even that much to give in this moment. I can't think through another apology. I've been doing nothing but, for what feels like a month now. And I don't take any of it back. I have done wrongs and I have made attempts to rectify them, some successful and others not, but either way my regret and guilt is there, and I do want very badly to repair all broken bonds... but right now, at this moment there isn't much of me to bond onto to. If that makes any sense at all.

   Then, just when I get a bit of a grip emotionally some physical ailment pops up and sweeps the rug out from under me. I don't want to dig too deep here on this point because I logically know that fear has a very strong grip on me in this moment... but suffice it to say that a repeat offender is making itself hard to ignore in that physical wellness category of my life and while I have been trying to ignore it, because of what it could mean for me, I am going to have to seek out an answer soon. So, if you are reading this and you happen to have a spare moments worth of emotional energy to say a prayer on my behalf or send some positive vibes this way I would really greatly appreciate it.

This post isn't going to have an eloquent, or even logical end... because this is all I have got. And now you have it to, if you want it. Or whatever.

Merry Christmas.

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How I Revive

   I am an introvert. I can fake otherwise when needed, but really, it's in my bones. In some ways to an extreme. I know I've written on this before, but one of those ways is my core need for alone time. Completely alone. Not just "we'll give you some space" but all the way alone. What I do doesn't change for the most part, during that time, but what a lot of people don't understand is the basic level of mental and emotional work involved for an introvert that comes with knowing that there's a slight chance someone might hear what your listening to or walk through the room your in to get to the bathroom. It is really ridiculous in some ways  but I've found it to be true. The best example I can think of for this is my varying degrees of comfort and rest during my child's nap time. When he is actually all the way in a deep sleep (quick moment of thanks for video monitors), we're at home just the two of us I can do just about anything I feel like doing aside from blasting loud music or movies, but listening/watching is an option. Reading. A relaxing bath. Working out. A lot of great things are options. But I still feel trapped and worried. And let me just say that going up to get him after his nap is one of the best parts of my day, so it's not a bad trapped... just, still ever so slightly draining. If he's restless or taking a long time to fall asleep then my stress level surges almost past the point when we're both awake in the same room together... because, darn it, he's supposed to be sleeping and I can't focus on anything until I know for sure that he is. Save for a few rare exceptions, the only time I feel like I can truly charge my batteries is when I am completely alone.

   In that respect, this has already been the best day I've had in ages. I know I get to go be social, in a way that I am excited about, later.... but this morning? Pure alone fuel. I can blast my music, and I have been, but if I just don't feel like it then I don't feel bad because there's no one here that I feel I have to answer to as to why the option matters if I'm not going to exercise it! And again, 99% of the time I could do the same things I've been doing this morning with no questions, and in fact with the blessing of those people whom I share my life with (and love doing so). But it's just not. the. same. Logical or not.

 Photo by Lindsay Grace Designs - March 2012

   And speaking of exercising options... God, does it feel good to really get into exercising, specifically hooping, again after a semi extended hiatus. As I mentioned in my previous post, I kind of lost motivation for some of my healthy habits when I purged an unhealthy one that had crept up. I didn't trust the actions because my motivations are so capable of, and prone to morphing... into something bad. So I walked on the treadmill here and there, which felt pretty good, but strangely enough I gave up the physical activities that brought the highest level of fun into my  fitness life. I missed my hoop. Today for the first time in months I really let go and got into a rhythm. And it felt like a windows down car ride and great conversation with an old friend in the crispness of early fall... with a spice latte in hand. It was so invigorating and cozy at the same time. I am on a high and can't stop smiling right now. I am so impressed by the marvels of muscle memory... the fact that after spending so much time trying to master a trick going in the opposite direction that comes naturally to me, all it took was a break and a renewed excitement for the activity, the fun of it not the mechanics... and I got it mostly down in under 40 minutes!

   Sorry for gushing. That's not normally me.... but that's what I've got right now. What is fueling you these days? What is your go-to recharge activity? When was the last time you did it?

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Who Likes Leaves?

This kid. That's who...

   Yes indeed. He is in fact my son... not that I was wondering, you know since I gave birth to him and all that jazz. But I do watch a lot of horror movies so you just never know. Except for right now. Right now I know.

   This November I am grateful for actually experiencing Fall this year. For soaking it in much more than the past few. And mostly for watching my kid do it too. Watching him go out of his way to crunch through any leaves in our path (or even remotely close to our path). For his obsession with candy corn and trick or treating. For the enthusiastic way he says "shoes on!" as he points to the back door. How much he loves all things apple and pumpkin related. How the Great Pumpkin sounds like 'Gate Punkin' rolling off his little tongue. And Snoopy like 'Soupy'. 

   Just... all of it. 

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A Scarecrow at The Door

   I'm pretty sure that just about everyone who knows me is well aware of my Halloween obsession... and so my lack of posting this month was probably assumed by many people to be a result of my being caught up doing Halloweeny (Leanne, that wordage is for you) things... and while I did do my fair share of spooky fun things this year, it has not been why I've been away. I have been writing things, stopping midway through, deleting what I've written, starting over and just plain procrastinating a lot... reasons for this may or may not be shared in the very near future. But I did want to hop on briefly and share a bit of our Halloween experience with all of you fine people. This was a milestone year for us in the TW household. It was Bastian's first year of trick or treating, and oh my, have I never seen a more excited child ever in my entire life! For days beforehand he ran around the house shouting "trick or teating!" (r's are still touch and go... candy coRn gets one but treating hasn't quite made the list). He had never done it and we didn't provide much of an explanation in an attempt to avoid even more begging for candy during the days leading up to the big event... so I'm blaming that one on The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. Thanks M. Schulz!

   With Halloween falling on a Wednesday, which the Husband normally has off of work, we had planned to have a casual get together at our house and make his first trick or treating trip in our own neighborhood. Life working the way that it does, things changed and in order to fit in some other crucial things into our schedule, we wound up taking the party to my parents house since just about everyone else was working that day anyways. This played out incredibly well as a good portion of the people who weren't going to make it all the way out to our place then got to see our adorable little scarecrow in action.

   And an adorable scarecrow he did make... thanks to days upon days of battling with my sewing machine. But in the end it was worth it since a) it turned out to be even cuter than I had imagined and b) it only cost me roughly $8 in thrifted supplies and a Walmart roll of yellow yarn that made excellent "hay". My costume was quite as awesome or cost effective but overall I was happy being the crow that my boy scared all day. The skirt was the costly part and once I am in possession of more feather trim (yardage was miscalculated during the supply acquirement phase of costume making) I will have something I love to wear sans homemade wings and black face makeup/paint.

   Daddy wasn't too enthusiastic about any of the options available that would bring him into our costume loop (and I don't blame him, we're both pretty picky when it comes to costuming) and so he went as Dean Winchester from one of our favorite shows, Supernatural.  We made two short rounds trick or treating the first with my sister and the second a while later after we had a chance to warm up and get some food, with my best friend since high school. Grandma took photos and kept him occupied handing out candy to the other ghouls and goblins, which turned out to be the favorite activity of all. All in all it was just too much fun!

    We hope that you had as great of a time as we did, and had some spooky fun this Halloween!

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It's Not Creepy, I'm a Mom

   Yesterday Bastian had his first haircut, and I have been grappling with how to describe that experience in words. Explaining why exactly mothers get SO attached to their little ones hair... and I can't. I just can't. All I know is that they (the ends of hair that were snipped) were the beginning of something  that will be in constant motion for a long, long time forwards. The first pieces to curl and twist... tangle, even become noticeably visible to all those people who loved asking "when is that boy gonna grow some hair?" The very ends of which being the only hair he had when he was born. Probably some of the only cells that haven't much changed since then, aside from the distance from his scalp of course. It's similar (but so very different) to that first haircut post wedding when you realize while staring at the clippings on the floor that "this is the hair I got married in!"

  
   Then there is the whole, he's a boy no longer a baby thing. A boy who needs haircuts. A boy who washes his own hands, brushes his own teeth and as of two days ago, occasionally pees in the potty! I feel like yelling "Why did nobody tell me this was going to happen", but the truth is that they did. There was just no way I could have known just what they meant. And I will continue to not know... until suddenly I do. By force. Because really there is no other way.

   And all I will have to show for it is these blurry pictures and a few curls neatly tucked away in an envelope somewhere. Don't snicker, you know you have one too.

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