Change of address

All that writing about a book and then no follow up. Here’s what’s happening:

I wrote the book.

I did the thing.

It’s as done as it can be at this point.

And it will likely live on unpublished for a long time. This gutted me at first, I wanted to release this and let it go but what ended up happening is even better. I got it out of my head and if it’s ever time to release it to the rest of the world, I will readily.

If my kids are my only audience, I’m so glad I wrote this all down for them. As we enter the grey waters of growing up and learning that right and wrong are always colored in grace … I’m glad that if I don’t ever have the opportunity to tell them myself, they’ll still have my story to answer any of their questions.

I was talking to a friend recently about stepping back, being online for the past 16ish years has over-exposed me for a really long time. I’m ready for the mystery to return to my life. I don’t want to depend on the branding of my living room to feel good or the likes on twitter to help me feel worthy. I don’t want to be the person who creates images for consumption without having any real impact on the reality of the lives I can touch.

I worried that stepping away from the daily grind of creating would produce failure, but it’s been a fertile ground instead. A steady climb towards something new, different.

In the past year we’ve quietly changed most of our life. Changing schools, we bought a new house, we’ve been on trips without posting a damn thing about it and these moments that we’ve kept for ourselves, they’re the ones I’m savoring.

Not because the secret is more powerful, but the being present in the quiet moments of living are what I want to remember.

I’m honored to be asked to speak at events, to throw them still, to think-tank projects with some of my favorite people who are going places I’ve wanted to inhabit. And I think the best lesson of less has been this: it’s not that I won’t get to inhabit these spaces, but that I have time to inhabit them.

A few years ago I went to an event in upstate New York with one of my talented writer girlfriends and we sat and listened to authors speak about their careers and how varied their paths were towards the success of a book. The best thing I took away from that weekend was that there’s time. You can be 60 and still write the book. You can be sixty and start over entirely. You can be 80, or twenty-two or thirty-nine or twelve.

You can live all nine lives in the span of your one, amazing lifetime.

Maybe I’m explaining this poorly, I mean to say that I’m a writer. I just am, I always have been, I always will be. I will keep a record of my life and the lessons I’ve learned for as long as I live. I’m also a sharer. I care deeply about connection and information sharing. Of having the conversations and saying the things. I will write poetry for the rest of my life, even if every single one of them gets mistaken for trash on the back of a used envelope. I will keep releasing the prose to paper. Over and over and over again.

And eventually … they’ll live beyond my door.

I’ll let you know when that happens. It will be a really good day.

First snow, 2017

I try not to make myself promises anymore.

Today is the first snow of the season and I’m drinking my coffee next to the window overlooking our backyard while a symphony of beauty whirls outside.

First Snow 2013

I saw a cardinal swoop in front of my car this morning driving my son to school, this burst of red in a blanket of pristine white branches.

I was explaining how peaceful the first snow is to my son and he was trying to grasp the entire idea of weather being quiet. “You mean it’s basically like a bunch of dust in the air and maybe it interrupts the radio waves so you don’t hear anything else?” (This kid, his mind, I swear.)

“No, buddy. Uh … it’s more like, you know how rain makes a lot of noise? Snow doesn’t make noise. It’s quiet, everything feels still, even the air. That’s what I mean by peaceful. It’s just … calm, even though it’s also always changing. It’s beautiful.”

He was quiet for a while, somehow processing what I was saying and making room for this explanation in his brain while still trying understand the abstract. My engineer minded kid, his metaphor loving, dreamer of a mother. Words are more like entities to me, they’re there to be brought to life. Words are a means to an end for him. They’re tools to use to bring his own language alive, full of mathematics and codes.

If I’m not careful, we completely lose each other in translation and both end up frustrated: but still full of ideas we want to share with one another. Me, over here with a paint brush and colors he can’t see – and him, over there, with a graph and instructions I can’t envision.

So complex. People, in general. People in relationships, even more so. So beautifully broken and weaved together in a patchwork of memories, anticipation, and hopes. This is what the first snow does for me: reminds me to be captivated. To be patient, look a little harder. To wait for the burst of color, to listen for the stillness.

I try not to make myself promises anymore. Not because I’ve given up, although that’s a road I know too well, but because I’m learning to trust the unknown. What’s next? What now? What if?

All very interesting, time consuming questions. But maybe … instead … it’s more about; And then what happened? And being totally engrossed and encapsulated in the outcome that you forget the rest. And maybe, for the first time, you don’t need the explanation, you finally just understand that this is what peace feels like.

All the dust in the air interrupting the radio waves so you don’t hear anything else.

How I’m working through the active fear and self-doubt of writing a book.

Morning and hello!

I’ve been doing oh-so-much thinking lately, while I’m editing and writing and reorganizing this mass of work I’ve been collecting it’s time to say here that … I think it’s a book. It is. But I think I’m going to do something with it. I am. But. It’s scarier than I thought it was going to be.

I printed the entire body of work this week and just finished reading it through for the first time. My throat hurts, I don’t usually talk out-loud that much apparently, but it feels like the first mile of a run is finally behind me and now I can set pace and just keep going.

With each essay I’m holding it up to a few standards and questions to determine whether or not there’s something constructive in it, if it meets the ultimate goal or message of the entire collected work, and finally, if it’s something I want my kids to know, learn, or have as a record of me.

That last one will cut through so much bullshit.

Writing here for the last 17 years or so has been a beautiful exercise in learning to use my voice, and while I get that publishing words on the internet is sort of like putting them “out there” forever … something feels so much less permanent about these words. I write, shooting from the hip, quickly edit, and then publish. Rarely do I rework something I’ve already put out there.  But the idea of having bound pages with my words to live in a physical place for ever and ever? I mean, that scares the living hell out of me. I don’t know how paper writers for hire do it day in and day out. It really spooks me to write for a physical book.

So. That means I just have to keep doing it. Being scared, I’ve learned, isn’t the emotion that leads to safety. It’s not the response my body needs to listen to when I’m on the cusp of making something happen. Being scared is more like the “here we go” feeling of heading off into the great big yonder. It’s the walking man signal of crossing the street, not the flashing hand. Fear, in this sense, isn’t the ‘stop and wait’, it’s the ‘time to go!’

In addition to that, I’ve tried to find the appropriate box I might fit in. You know the ones, the ideas and dreams we have: where do they fit, what size do they need to be to become the most successful commercial version so I can claim success by standards not set by me, but for me. And not in my best interest, but in the interest of commerce.

Which, sounds about as exciting as reading spread sheets. Ok, LISTEN! Here’s what I’m getting at: It’s all uncomfortable. To say the ideas or dreams out-loud, which moves to (hopefully) actually making work of them, which moves to the undeniably hard work of pushing through the fear and self doubt, which leads to the unknown.

The question is: would I do this if no one cared? Would I write books to leave for my children so they had a record of the kind of legacy I wanted for them? Would I tell them everything, anyway?

And that answer is always, without a doubt, absolutely.

The volley

Let’s catch up. I have a few things to tell you and then so many more to unpack with you, buckle in.

We started school this year at an entirely new school. My kids went from a private school to a public school and everything is going well.

Along with all of this change my daughter started a sport she’s never played with a team she’s never met and her first match was also the first day of this new school and everything is new – are you getting my drift? I spend a lot of time in bleachers waiting with her for her turn while she barrels through her nerves and anxiety and shovels every bit of it at my feet and then stomps around on it, like a tantrum. And I think to myself, this shit is ridiculous. Enough of this. Pick your damn self up off the mother loving pavement, Child, and go. get. it. But I don’t say those words, no I do not.

I spend that time rubbing her back and listening and offering a little hope, but not too much because then she accuses me of not understanding, so I wait with her. That is all she wants. Someone to bear witness to the waiting for her turn. When is it going to be her turn? Why isn’t it her turn yet? And the stage-fright. It’s tennis, but people are watching, so that takes it to a new level of MAKE IT STOP.

I didn’t play school sports for my own reasons, all of them selfish and kind of childish. I didn’t have a lot of school spirit. But this kid, she wants to do it all. Paint her face and wear the logos and do the fundraisers and buy the duffle bags and sign up for every club and get as involved as possible. She makes me tired. Because I still facilitate her social life, so when she signs up for something – in essence she is signing me up too. And you know what? I LOVE IT.

Here we are, doing all the new things and both for the first time ever. It’s pretty great. It’s great that she’s still inviting us along for the ride.

My life is now a serious matrix of overlapping schedules and carpools. I am always supposed to be in more than one place at a time. So far, it’s working just fine. Somehow.

I’ve tried to catch up over the summer or just chronicle our days and trips and memories but every time I came to this place and logged in and started writing I couldn’t bring myself to publish any of it. I’ve had kind of a bumpy summer? How do I say this without sounding alarming but also telling the truth THAT EVERYTHING SUCKS. I try not to spread the wealth too much. The wealth of emotional bankruptcy. That bitch came to win, and let me tell you, she swept me off the floor.

I’m mourning a great, very personal loss. In the wake of other very personal losses. Right after the other, all stirred up in a pot, on and on and on they go. Swinging at me like a batter bent on revenge. I see you: I’m awake.

I took a break from my other writing this summer as well, for the same reasons, everything was angry in response to my pain. But I also started this really lovely, very daring personal project before the summer came. And if the only thing you take away from this rambling is this: please pull for me. I think this is big, if for no one other than me, it’s monumental. And I need the timing to be right and the people to be in place and the conversations that have yet to happen, for those to have a way paved before them so I can have them. I need some cheerleaders. I need someone pulling for me, even if you don’t know why or what for.

As I was journaling recently I came face to face with some fear, not new. It’s the ugly side of my vulnerability. I am my own roadblock. Afraid of looking like a fool, but realizing that if everyone I’ve ever quoted or loved or admired let their fear stand in the way of their message or art or gift for the world: I wouldn’t have their words to help me or their photos to inspire me or their songs or poems or paintings to take my breath away. I wouldn’t have a full understanding of how big my own dreams are, how rare my own beauty is, how daring my own words could be.

And I learned: I’m not done yet. I have to keep showing up.

Just like my daughter needs someone there to witness her showing up, even when it’s scary and new and nothing feels normal, she needs someone who believes in her, not because we have to. Or because she’s shown great athletic prowess – but because we know she can. If she keeps showing up, if she keeps trying … eventually the ball will make it over the net. Eventually she’ll move from the bench to the court and without ever thinking of how or why, she’ll volley.

Not because she knows how – but because thats what you do when the ball is yours.

Remind me of this when I forget, which might be often. Or just every January.

I want you to be ridiculous. I want you to say YES to the weird stuff. You’re not having any fun? Change that. We can absolutely be sojourners on this ride, and we can be missionaries to our neighbors – or we can pack up everything and move across the pond. Let’s do it all. Let’s not wait another day to start living. Your bank account might never be wide enough for the dreams you can dream but may your heart always be strong enough for the weight it will carry.

You can’t afford a trip to Europe? Do you know someone who’s been? Invite them over to tell their stories and ask to see their photographs. Make food you might taste over there and drink the drinks you envision yourself having. Sit outside in a garden. Call the visitors bureau and ask them about the city. If you can’t call: research, here I’ve done some for you … Travel ideas for Italy. Pinterest is a thing: use it.

Streets of Madrid

Go there, do it. Even if you can’t literally go any where. Enlist help from someone who loves hosting, ask them to show you or help you, invite friends (new and old) to enjoy a night on the canals.

You don’t have to own a boat, rent one; it doesn’t even have to have a motor. Or you can ask a friend or family member who owns one. Buy the hat for the captain, sit down, play the music, and watch the landscape pass-by as if you’re in Italy. DO IT. Why not?

Fathers Day 2015

When you feel ridiculous you should always have weird looks and stares from those around you who can’t see the beauty of dreaming just yet. They will soon, keep going. When they ask “why” your answer is always at the ready … “why not?!”

Dreaming isn’t an idea that you never realize. Dreaming is the opposite of fantasy, it’s your reality waiting to happen.

It won’t give you permission and the first step into Ridiculous is chilly. You might feel foolish and childish. You might fain mocking from the crowds but here’s a secret: they all wish they could wade into this water too. So keep going. Start swimming.

Lakeshore, showing them the beach

They will know who I am by your love for each other. (Paraphrased from John 13:35) Love is so many, many things. Mowing someone’s lawn, visiting the sick in your hospitals, making meals for young mothers, lending your hands, giving to causes with time, money or talent. But love isn’t a chore. Love is also being first in line at the roller coaster with your wide-eyed 9 year old for the first coaster ride of their life. It’s the sheer volume of happiness they eek out as you ascend and then rip down the rafters. Love is showing up to the dance recitals and hosting the sleepovers, it’s making the pancakes or warming up leftovers. Love is beneath the sheets, but also in the backyard. It’s touching your loved ones gently and ushering them closer for an embrace. It’s always an offering, never an obligation.

You guys!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Love is the high five and the posters on the sidelines when your people run the race they never thought they could finish. It’s the Holiday dinners and traditions for some of us, it’s the stockings and wrapping paper for others. It can be too much and not enough all at once. Love is overwhelming, like standing in a field of wild poppies for the first time and noticing that if you had never taken the wrong turn you would have gone the rest of your life not knowing that this existed. And it would continue to exist, without your permission or need for interference whatsoever. It’s there because the seed was planted and the clouds broke open and sang them into the air, a duet with the sun. It’s there, we just have to see it.

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Love is so contagious. Be ridiculous. And then pass it on.