Searching for inspiration is tough when ho-humnity is the name of your game, and your job is to write things that people want to read.
It’s better, then, to turn off the part of the brain that refuses to cooperate and focus on the activities that generate tidings of comfort and joy.
Here is the plan:
1. The kids and I browsed Pinterest this morning and found a graphic designer named Sarah Walsh whose aesthetic interests (pins) spoke to my brain on the side that doesn’t use words. The kids became so inspired by Sarah’s Illustration Station board that they are currently, quietly content at their own art table creating what I know will be framable works of art.
Somewhere in this messy house of mine is a beautiful set of art pens (hidden so the kids wouldn’t use them, but where could they be?) that I must (MUST) find today. Expression through art is necessary in this time of angst (divorce, divorce, divorce).
2. Outside my windows is a dark grey sky; the kind that makes me wonder if the sun is ever going to rise. No matter, I will be bundling my bod (from top of head to tip of toes) as I exit for an early morning run.
It will probably be brutally cold, hurt on a cellular level, but the results will be warmed blood, a regenerated system, and hopefully some adrenaline to push me through my day.
3. Later today, I’m taking my kids to vote. The lessons that I hope they’ll learn will outweigh the irritation that might occur from bored kids pulling on my clothes or the uncomfortable squeeze and tight proximity of three inside a voting booth.
“Women have rights, girls. They have the right to choose who they think should be the boss of America.Once upon a time women weren’t allowed to vote. People with different colored skin weren’t allowed to vote. Ridiculous, right? I don’t know who is going to win today, girls, but I pray he is able to do a good job. We are lucky to live in the United States of America. We are lucky and blessed to have freedom.”
Freedom. The ultimate inspired thought.
What do you do when you are struggling for inspiration? Do you change your focus or just plow though?
When I agreed to drive home from our seven weeks away it seemed like a good idea. I knew I’d have collected various suitcase filling objects and I wasn’t sure we’d be able to fit our stuff in the belly of a plane or comfortably underneath our seats.
As predicted, we left Groton Long Point yesterday morning with a car stuffed full, so much so that the only way to get to the cooler full of drinks was through the rolled down back window of the Four Runner (the door was blocked by a finicky bike rack). The roof rack above was filled to the brim with dismantled Hello Kitty bikes, dirty towels and random soft bags with items that normally do not go together (shampoo and shoes and Barbies, for example). I placed my precious laptop against the safest spot I could find (next to my feet on the passenger side floor) and surrounding us in every other empty space was an explosion of brought along foods, coloring books, items from the pencil boxes, empty Dunkin Donut bags and pillows and toys.
We rolled into Raleigh after eleven and promptly released the girls.
Said Grace later; “Mom. It’s like we were in jail and we didn’t even do anything bad to get there!”
All along the way I kept thinking that the trip could be described as Yin and Yang.
Yin: Passing around the nectarine and pear I’d brought and watching each family member take a bite.
Yang: Breakfast at McDonald’s (the girls and I didn’t actually eat it, so maybe that’s yin). But dinner at Wendy’s? So yang.
Yin: Outsmarting the GPS that was determined to take us over the George Washington Bridge. We found our way to the Tapanzee and were certain it would be smooth sailing all the way home.
Yang: Three hours of stop and go traffic through D.C.
Yin: Both girls falling asleep and staying that way through most of D.C.
Yang: The cries from the back seat when they woke with sore backs and crampy legs.
Yin: Listening to Sophie sing the words to Call Me, Maybe? (beginning to end) in her high-pitched lovely little voice.
Yang: Listening to Sophie singing the words to Call Me, Maybe? (beginning to end) after twelve or so hours on the road.
Yin: Listening to Adele full blast during my turn at the wheel.
Yang: Being so engrossed in that beautiful voice and missing the last big freeway change.
Yin: The Map Quest directions that said the trip would be eleven hours door to door.
Yang: Fourteen hours later peeling myself from the seat of the car and walking around my house, happy to be here but exhausted and with a headache.
Yin: Pechie’s bowl of freshly made spaghetti and meatballs in the fridge.
Yin: A fridge full of groceries that she bought for us so I wouldn’t have to take the girls in the car again today.
Yin: My house; relatively clean.
Yang: Out of toilet paper and coffee.
Yin: Kids off playing.
Yin: Me typing at my space.
Yin: Back to blogging and writing and running and yoga class and preschool and my juicer and my friends (both real and bloggy).
I’ve been sitting in front of a blinking cursor for most of the morning writing and trashing and then leaving to surf only to return to try, try again.
The one certainty to this mess of writers block has been the title.
It’s how I feel right about now; surrounded by cracked eggs, tip toeing over them, trying not to slip and fall.
My mother has taken the girls to the town parade and then to the grocery store and (if they are lucky) to the dollar store, too.
I should run. I should do something. Instead I sit here not quite able to do anything.
A decision has been made and my excitement over the future is quelled by the paralyzing nature of such a life turning event.
It’s not like saying that you are going to write a book or run a marathon.
A divorce doesn’t have a finish line (with kids involved) and it’s not something that can be held up with pride like one’s first published novel.
There’s no pride in seeing a divorce sitting upon your shelf.
There’s a strange thing that happens when you know the time has come. When the pain of the past is put away and the anger is gone.
As if fairy magic has poofed it away.
And my inner peace makes the decision less about flailing and proving my rightness.
I did the best I could and I gave it all I had, but it still might take a little time to sweep away the mess, to find my way around the broken shells and stickiness that have up to now caused me so much strife.
There’s beauty is knowing that underneath the goo is a shiny new floor (or in this case, a life).
A shining clean slate upon which new steps will be taken. Big leaps of faith. Less tip toeing. More stomping in the direction of an existence full of possibilities.
And there is this hope.
Hope and love.
Peace and acceptance.
Only now do I understand and for that I am more grateful than I am afraid.
Saturday morning began with my running group the WannaBeasts (10.5 minutes per mile) and eight sweaty miles through the greenway around Shelly Lake, behind Crabtree Valley Mall. There was ninety-eight percent humidity and while it felt like running through soup, it was fast and easy (even downright pleasant) thanks to the conversation with my partner Nancy (whom I’d just met) and the energy of the team.
Afterward, instead of heading home to shower, I drove to Peachie’s for one last visit to her empty house and to drop off the baby clothes that the girls had gathered from their closet the day before (during their own packing session for Maine).
“It’s too small, it goes in the baby pile!”
I sat in Peachie’s back yard drenched in sweat and snot (my poor skirt had served as kleenex on the trail) and watched squirrels in pine trees pull branches from limbs and scurry away. I wondered if this is how they collected their nuts. I reminded myself that I loathe squirrels, especially after they had taken refuge in my attic a few years ago.
I called my sister and we talked.
I called my Peach and we talked even more.
When I couldn’t stand the dried sweat a second longer I left for home, driving and listening to the radio stations that are playing the same songs on rotation this Summer. I know all of the words.
I showered and threw on a typically scary post run outfit; a comfy bra, white and purple stretchy shorts that say, “I heart Saints,” a washed blue KBIA t-shirt that I intentionally cut down the front and unintentionally ripped under the arm, and bright pink CEP compression calf sleeves I’d received in the mail the day before.
I don’t like to match my clothes post run. The more mismatched I look the better I feel. I’m pretty sure that most runners feel the same way about their recovery outfits. It’s not mentioned much, but take a look at most running blogger’s post run photos and it becomes obvious. It might even be an unsaid qualification for calling oneself a runner.
As happens after a good medium to long run I was tired. I shuffled around the house until I couldn’t bring myself to shuffle anymore and by 3:00 curled up on the sofa with the girls for an episode of Sponge Bob.
I promptly fell asleep.
Grace soon nudged me and said that she was tired, too, and surprisingly both girls followed me upstairs where we crawled into their beds. Unexpected as neither girl has taken a nap since 2010. When I woke and realized that it was 7:00 p.m., I knew there’d be a long night ahead.
We came downstairs where Brian had made dinner and had it waiting on the kitchen bar; cheeseburgers, french fries and onion rings.
I cut up some lettuce and tomato and made plates of food that we took outside to eat by tiki lamps.
The girls were happy. Their dad and I were civil. We talked about a friend of a friend who at thirty-eight had just died from Frontal Lobe Dementia. There was a silent acceptance that this life is too short and that happiness is imperative. The girls laughed as their stuffed puppies “tried” to eat from the plates of food. The family unit was working as it should all the time.
With renewed energy I decided to tackle the packing that waited for me; my empty suitcases left for last.
I tucked my iPhone into my bra after pressing play on my audiobook version of Wild. As I gathered my running clothes and bathing suits I listened to the chapter about Cheryl’s mother’s horse named Lady and how she had become old. With her mother gone, she knew that she needed to tend to the horse.
The heartbreaking account of what came next made the placement of items into my luggage slow and deliberate. I listened while folding my piles and piles of must haves, acting out my work while my heart swelled and pounded from the depth of the pain I was hearing.
For two hours I continued; Cheryl’s journey on the Pacific Coast Trail and my journey through my stuff.
I have much too much. As I looked around at the things I knew I’d need and then back to the closet for the things that I might need and into the extra closets for things I never wear but probably need, I felt overwhelmed and a little disgusted.
I listened to Cheryl talk about Monster, the name for the pack she carried on her back, and wished that I could lessen my reliance on consumerism, so that all I needed was a pack and my kids. If only that could be enough.
When it became too overwhelming I decided to leave the mess to which I will return to today.
I sat on the master bed and continued with the story while gazing at the mound of fabrics and colors, pants and tunics, hats and necklaces, bathing suits and skirts. Underpants will go in last.
I connected to Cheryl’s feelings about her writing. How she’d always written, but the unattained dream of writing her own novel had left her disappointed and embarrassed. She wrote about making the decision to make it happen.
Remembering how I felt when reading the Hunger Games, how I liked the author and appreciated her words seemingly written for me, I added Cheryl Strayed to my list of imaginary friends. I might not understand a lot of what she went through on the PCT, but I certainly relate to her life as a writer and a woman.
By 10:30 the house was dark and bedtime was near. The girls brushed their teeth and chose their bedtime books. I imagined that I’d get them to sleep and then sneak away for some alone time, to ponder my day and plan the next. But instead, I just lay between my daughters thinking.
In two days we’ll be back at the beach that has been home for thirty five years. I will see my friends who have known me my entire life. I’ll see the newest babies and write by the sound of the sea.
Instead of sneaking away I closed my eyes and listened to the breathing of my girls, while hoping for a future that looked a lot like this day.
A day of sweat and books. Of food and fun. Introspection and civility. A life with purpose, happiness, respect, restful naps, laughs, and possibly less in the way of stuff.
All things are possible.
With that I fell to sleep. The best sleep I’ve had in ages.
A hiatus from old style blogging must be maintained, but new and future blog posts must be shorter, easier, to the point.
My social media realm feels incomplete without the pink bordered Mommyland page, so I’ll take the lead from other successful bloggers and focus less in the way of words.
Words must be saved for the novel. Dare I say novels?
My book has progressed and stories have been put down, though much too unorganized as characters keep forming and situations twist into each other.
My voice is clear; a comforting sign.
But the task to organize is harder than it seems. It feels a lot like your mother telling you to clean your room.
I whine, “But why? I’ll do it later!”
I’ve started to think about a sweet and easy love story. A story that blooms like new love and flows by the seat of my flowered board shorts.
We leave for Maine in about a week. Summer sun and wind that pulls the sound of laughing children to our front door does not call for serious writing. It calls for a story of a boy and a girl and lazy days and hearts aflutter.
Maybe the anthropologically tough stuff should wait for Fall?
My girls pilfered the book shelf while I was out running yesterday and left my reading assignments all over the house. They do this sometimes. I view their choices as research guided to me by my messy makers and the pull of our Universe; published works that have put their authors on best seller lists.
And so it continues; writing, reading, blogging, pinning, tweeting, cooking, laundry, husband managing, children tending, packing, kissing, yelling, tidying, yoga, running, running, running.
Toes tipping in all areas remembering that balance is key.
The place we chose, six miles past a paved road in the land of wild horses made it easy to forget the outside world. We four by foured it all along the sandy dunes to get to civilized land, since the roads aren’t paved that far down the Barrier Islands of North Carolina’s coast.
I spent my days sitting on the beach watching the girls play, giving me a chance to read a real book with real pages (as opposed to the audio versions), while Brian manned his fishing pole.
It’s funny how a break from reality lifts the doldrums (monotony you don’t even realize until you escape) and everyone is so much more peaceful.
The wild horses have added to the mystique and magic of the place.
They’ve been living along the shores of the Outer Banks since the 1500’s, descendents of the Spanish. We know this because we read up from books lining the rentals’ shelves. They had been pushed off Spanish ships that were sinking and their tough stocky bodies mixed with determination to live gave them power to swim to land.
The horses have survived longer than the Colonies and Blackbeard the Pirate and now roam the beaches, heads down nibbling sea grass. Every morning we would watch to see them coming up over the sandy hills and at dinner time we’d crane our necks to catch a glimpse as they’d disappear through the trees to where they’d sleep.
I managed to run one day, despite a nagging pain in my left calf. I probably should have given myself a few more days to nurse the leg (sore for a week already), but I couldn’t resist a beach run with the horses.
Beach running, I’d forgotten, is much tougher than running on nicely paved streets. My attempt at five miles turned into three with a half mile walk up the dunes back to the house. When I returned I was dripping with sweat, but stuck my legs in the hot tub anyway, hoping the heat would loosen the pull.
Amazingly, it felt much better the next day and tomorrow I will attempt a street run as soon as the kids are dropped off at school.
Yesterday, Brian’s old friend Uncle Al drove up from Raleigh and it was great to see him playing on the beach with the girls and their dad.
I watched from my chair while the boys got my daughters started with drippy sand castles, which kept them occupied for long enough that I was able to get all the way to page two hundred fifty in my book. Have I mentioned how much I’m loving The Help? It’s about a writer and a story she must tell and I’m delighted by the surprise (I can relate more than a little).
Last night I left the guys to party it up with Crown Royal and Coke and only had to come up once to tell them to turn down the music. They were having a good time, but I chose to spend my evening in a wicker chair next to my sleeping girls, while putting the finishing touches on the piece I sent to GeniusMoms.com.
The piece I was working on, entitled Infertility, Hope and Mother’s Day, turned out fine. It was a difficult one to write, but sometimes I need to be reminded of how much I wanted my monstrous monsters. If it doesn’t get published there, I’ll post in Mommyland.
It was early when we got up this morning and not at all a beach day. I attempted to get something posted, but the 10:00 check out time made it impossible.
We are home now. I’m back in my writing chair.
Back in the saddle tomorrow in regard to my diet and my running, school for the girls and work for their dad.
The saddle. It’s a good fit, but sometimes I wish we were more like those horses we left trolling the sandy dunes; wild, free, with nothing to do but laze and graze. Those horseys have no idea they’re on a permanent vacation.
A vacation is the best time to test drive new batch of sunscreens.
This week we’re trying Coola Mineral Baby in SPF 45, Kiss My Face Sun Spray Lotion SPF 30 and their Kids 100% natural Pink Sun Stick SPF 30.
The Coola was on the expensive side at $35.00 for three fluid ounces. It’s chemical free, 100% paraben free and thick like Crisco. The active ingredients are 10% titanium 7% zinc.
With that much protection (i.e. zinc) and due to its heavy nature, the stuff goes on white and stays that way. I’m using it on my face (and on the girls’ faces and shoulders). It’s protecting us great, but leaves me feeling like a living, breathing, walking grease ball. It’s the price I pay for serious coverage. I’ve yet to find a chemical free brand that leaves me unbuttered, but I continue to test and try (Skinceuticals makes one similar and a bit less expensive, but with a similar texture and terrific protection).
I bought the Kiss My Face at Whole Foods the day before we left. I like the larger size and the spray top makes application really easy. It doesn’t go on thick (much more watery than the Coola), but I like that about it especially when it comes to re-application for the kids. I sprayed them right over the stuck on sand and it blended in great. I think I’ve found my newest family favorite, which is always exciting.
The Sun Stick is a cute idea and I bought the pink (they also make blue) knowing the girls would be into it. It’s a good thing to have in the beach bag and like I figured, the kids want to wear it. The only drawback is that the color isn’t brighter. Maybe I’ve been too bombarded with neon colors this season, but I wished the pale pink was more flourescent. I would streak it across my own nose and cheeks if it was!
Inspiration struck and I found myself writing all day long.
My husband, not convinced that writing will serve a purpose in his idea of a future (i.e. funds), commented on the placement of my tush in chair every time he passed through the kitchen.
Not to be deterred I foraged on.
I have committed to getting two actual articles written and sent off to publishers by the end of May.
In order for this to happen, dear husband is going to have to take a great big chill pill and muster up all of his patience, because the laundry will get behind again and he might have to iron his own pants for work. The horror, really!
I’ve decided on two topics that the articles will encompass.
The first begun yesterday is regarding yoga and how one comes to their own practice. What does that mean? How did it happen for me? Why are people so afraid to begin and discouraged by what they’ve heard?
Interestingly, my first go at article writing turned out feeling a lot like blog writing and I wonder if maybe I am being lazy? Maybe I’ve stumbled upon my style? Maybe I should stick with it?
My second article, which hasn’t been started but has been tossed around in my brain for years is in regard to family sleeping ergo co-sleeping ergo the family bed. It will be a perspective piece stating the pros and the joys that it’s been for me; my rebuttal to my husbands disbelief that the arrangement is good for a marriage or children’s capability make their own decisions as they grow.
This piece may take longer to write and I’m okay with that.
My cousinRebecca, herself the talent/writer/producer of Mirror/Mirror on the Live/Well Network suggests interviewing for different perspectives. I will take her advice, especially for this topic. Forget that most of the world co-sleeps, we as Americas are frightened by the sweet and simple act of waking next to our kids.
I am not one to preach, but I despise the judgements about it. It’s dangerous to think that when it comes to parenting it’s your way or the highway. I hope to add perspective for people who haven’t given the idea a chance.
I also like the idea of conducting a survey to add credence to my points, but I’d appreciate views from the other side, as well. There are lessons in the cumulativeness of the experiences; both sides hold value.
If you are interested in sharing your views, for or against, feel free to email me or tweet or call me! I would love to hear from you!
For today, a gloomy looking Sunday, I’m going to take a little break and remove my tush from the chair. I have yoga at 11:00 and then must collect all the goodies needed for a small jaunt to the beach later in the week.
Brian needs a break from the Raleigh monotony and I happily agreed to the trip. There was, however, one condition imperative for him to be graced with my presence by the shore.
I’ve succumbed to a bit of writer’s block since Sunday. Everything written has been tossed due to its scattered nature and ineffectiveness. I haven’t been able to get it together, though I’ve tried over and over again.
It’s a shame for a writer when the blockage rears its ugly head. There is nothing more frustrating.
I’ve been busy, too, and the abundance of good stories have led me back to the computer for try after try.
Yesterday I Skyped with my eighty-six year old grandmother whom I only met this past Thanksgiving, but whom I love like I’ve known my whole life. I’m learning to see my physical self a little more clearly through my relationship with my biological family. It was telling when Grandma complained about her medicines making it difficult for her to take off some extra weight she’d been carrying. It seems that our weight stickage is a genetic issue for all of us and I will probably continue my own struggle with the scale until I’m an old lady myself (rocking on a porch petting cats, no doubt).
On Tuesday I visited Target with my big girls who were being rewarded for their own tush wiping (finally) with big girl cups (the baby ones are being phased out). It’s a happy day when mothers finally get their kids potty trained. It’s a whole separate party when the kids no longer need assistance in the wiping department. A new sense of freedom all around.
Last night my husband’s friend Neal came over to install a couple of ceiling fans. I popped up excitedly when he entered the house with his daughters’ new husband, who incidentally is from Nepal. Vinod and Alecia met during her first year of college when she was visiting and volunteering in a Nepali orphanage. They fell deeply in love, these two from opposite sides of the world, and I’ve watched their story grow through uploaded images on facebook.
Neal’s daughter isn’t even out of college and yet he and his lovely wife Marcie have embraced this beautiful boy and the marriage of their eldest daughter. When Vinod called Neal, “Dad,” while handing him the proper screw for fan installation my heart melted a little. I love a good love story; a real one not found in a book. What moved me as much as the love story between the kids was the love involving the family. Baring witness to great parenting and the embracing of children’s dreams cannot be pushed aside or ignored. It’s an extraordinary love that when seen must be acknowledged.
It’s funny how the words can flow when I get a grip on what’s been bothering me causing decent writing to get stuck in the deepest corners of my head.
Christine, from Love, Life, Surf posted a piece that I read this morning about being labeled.
This week, I too was faced with one of the labels that I can’t seem to come to terms with.
This is the crux of my issue; the source of the block.
On Monday I went to visit to my doctor who has been there for me through ultrasounds with absent heartbeats, D&C’s, crazy pills and way too many tears. That much history gives someone enough knowledge about a person to have frank conversation.
Needless to say I was anxious about the visit.
That morning I put on mascara, which I never do because it hurts my eyes, in an attempt to look together. This was dumb, because all the reasons that I’m not together were imprinted in my file; proof of my past heartbreaks and medications and the reasons for them all permanently etched in black ink.
Everything was going fine until she went to check my weight.
“You don’t want to know what you weighed a year ago, Martha. My experience with you is that you eat when you’re sad. What’s going on?”
She’s efficient, my doctor, I must give her that.
Without missing a beat I put on my biggest smile in an effort to convince her that I had everything under control.
“I’m not sad!” I exclaimed.
“I ran a marathon!”
“I’m not taking Metformin anymore!”
“Brian and I are getting along!”
“Yes, we’re having sex!”
“Yes, I’m getting sleep!”
“No, I’m not depressed!”
“I’m blogging! I write! I’m doing things that make me happy!”
It all came out so fast; a high pitched attempt to convince Dr. Polly that I was totally A-Okay.
Driving home I was shocked by not only my behavior, but that feeling deep inside that pointed to self-loathing.
Am I a fraud? I blog about healthy living, yet I was just faced with all the ways I’m not.
In my anger I began to repeat the mantra, “I am more than a number on the scale!”
She hadn’t come out and labeled me fat, but the silent judgement rang in my ears.
The more I thought about it, the more anxious and angry I became.
I got home and the typical response to those kind of feelings took hold.
A chocolate chip cookie here, a bowl of ice cream there, a handful of marshmallows have no fat, dark chocolate is good for you, have a little more.
Food as comfort. Dammit. There it is.
Jenny C. may not be happy with me at my weigh in this morning, but it will be good to talk to someone about this pattern that I so easily slipped into in the moment my control of life seemed unmanageable. The moment that it wasn’t shiny and happy and not just perfect.
Perfection. None of us fit that description.
Happiness. It isn’t possible to be so all the darned time.
Managing. Living the best we can and recognizing our weaknesses.
Forgiveness. Believing that we deserve it, even when all signs point to the lack of perfection.
I am a work in progress.
I am more than a number on a scale.
I am a writer. I am a mother. I am a daughter and a wife. I am strong. I run. I care about people. I don’t lie. I am fair. I have worth.
With the post finally written I’m going for a run.
I feel best when my body is in motion. Somehow when moving the labels have less ability to grab hold and the fresh blood that surges through my body gives me renewed peace and comfort to be exactly who I am.
My sister converted to Islam less than four years ago.
I hadn’t seen her since my girls were a month old and our relationship has been tumultuous as she’s transitioned into her new life.
I was scared for her.
I didn’t understand why she would choose something that was so misunderstood in our country. I viewed the head covering as an adverse action toward the rights of women. I was confused and worried. I thought only the worst.
Her new life is simple and busy. Her children are happy and healthy.
She’s happy, which is all anyone wants for the people they love.
I asked lots of questions of her and her husband, a Bangladeshi Imam. Once I got past his dress I found him to be a genuinely lovely person. He’s a good father. His beliefs are not so different from some of my own.
So, what was I really scared of?
They left this morning and I got call from Peach as soon as they drove away.