As We Near The End Of Another Year.

Originally posted December 01, 2015

I thought of something funny yesterday morning and I wanted to share it with someone.  Or, rather, with someones - plural.  For one hot second, I really missed Facebook.  I missed the immediacy of how we used to relate over there,  how I could post something quick and off the cuff and get right-away responses.  That part of Facebook felt like a community.  And yesterday, I missed it.

But instead of sitting with the missing, I tried to recreate the feeling.  I took a Facebook-style-paragraph and pretended it was worthy of being a blog post and posted it here.  Then I picked an unflattering photo of myself for Instagram and came up with a forced and I'm-trying-too-hard caption, just so I could talk about the post and, hopefully, redirect people to my site to read it. 

Then I sat back and felt sick to my stomach. 

Because remember my intuition?  Remember how much I love her and how right-on she always is?  I was ignoring her and I knew it.  It's not a big deal, I rationalized.  Plus, it's funny!  It'll make people laugh!  RELAX ALREADY, intuition.  

I'm not sure why my intuition stays so patient with me, but she does.  This time, she didn't even say anything.  She just smiled.  She knew that I knew and I knew that she knew and fuckity fuck fuck, Emily.

Because instead of posting something from a clean place - a place where my only intention is to share a piece of myself to which others might relate - I was posting from the place that looks like me looking for something.  It wasn't about the content - it was about the response to the content.  And that's where my ultra-sensitive self gets into trouble, when I ask clicks and likes and comments to validate me.

Le sigh.

And so I did that thing I've done many times before: I deleted.  I deleted the Instagram photo.  I took down the blog post (but not before saving it as a draft, because - if expanded upon - it'll be a hella funny actual blog post).  

And, most importantly, I recommitted myself to being BFFs with my intuition, to holding her hand and letting her blindly guide me.  I know she knows more than I do, and frankly, I'm a bit of an aimless mess when I don't let her steer the ship.

:::

I am so blessed to be here again, at the end of another year.  Instead of looking back at 2015 and tracking the missteps or looking ahead to 2016 and making highfalutin plans full of ego and grandeur, I'm just sitting in the right-now-moment and looking around at what's in front of me.  

Do you know what I see?  A puzzle.  It's the puzzle of my life.  I see the edges.  They're locked tightly together.  There are no missing pieces.  These crucial pieces of my life puzzle - the pieces that make it a cohesive thing - are solid, exactly where they're supposed to be.  My marriage, my children, my home, my community - these are my edges and they are immovable. 

And now, as I enter into real adulthood (real = the part where things have fallen apart in the most perfect ways and are coming back together in ways that surprise and delight and sometimes confuse me) I'm piecing together the middle of my puzzle.  These are the less obvious parts.   Does that white part go over here or over there?  It sort of fits in there, but it's not quite right.  Let's try it over here instead.  Do I actually like being social, or was I doing that because I thought I should?  What would it feel like to stay home more?  How does it feel when I use the word 'blessed' instead of 'lucky'?  And maybe it's time to start eating less pizza.

Piece by piece, my puzzle is taking shape.  And when something fits - when a piece of my puzzle clicks into place in that unmistakable way, I'm starting to pay attention.

May the end of this year be gentle.  May it be warm and softly lit and may we find space in our minds and in our schedules to feel a few of our puzzle's pieces click into place.  

With a heart full of yes-ness,
*E

When The Moment Softens.

Originally posted December 16, 2015

I just had a challenging hour with one of my kids. There wasn't any screaming, no melodramatic outburst. It was the kind of challenging that felt new, older. It was the kind of challenging that felt more like two humans being a little bit off together; this wasn't a kid acting out and their grown-up reacting. It felt more nuanced, more complex, more things-are-going-to-be-like-this-a-lot-more-in-the-coming-years.

I went upstairs to take a few solitary breaths and to change into more comfortable clothes. Before I pulled the dresser drawer out, I leaned my forehead into my forearms and began to worry. What does this mean? What part belongs to me and what part to my kid? How can I get out ahead of this becoming bigger, more, harder? Why isn't simply offering love and support - without all of the largely unhelpful parenting platitudes - easier?

And then, this: I don't need to solve any problem. I simply need to feel this moment, and then move on to the next one. Life doesn't happen in neat little blog-ready packages; there isn't always a beginning, middle, and end. Sometimes there are simply challenging moments. And if I feel them, turn my head a little to the left, and open my eyes, I'm better able to see the next moment.

And it's often a little bit softer.

Lovin' on you,

*E

I Almost Didn't Survive The Creative Life.

Originally posted January 20, 2016

I read a post by Glennon this morning over at Momastery and it SCREAMED at me.  I mean, I don't think Glennon was screaming necessarily, but her message was (and I wouldn't put it past her - she's a feisty one, that G - to lovingly scream her message out for all of us to hear).

Anyway, she was talking about creativity, about how some of us get burned out being publicly creative people because we attach ourselves not just to our creative product, but to the response to our creative product. We end up doing jobs that aren't ours - we become public defenders of our work instead of just doing the job we're here to do - in my case, writing words and making stuff.

Ahem.

*Cough, cough.*

I identified so completely with her essay this morning that I decided you needed to read it, too.

Here's the link.

I wasn't sure how to continue being creatively in the world because I was so caught up with wanting - desperately at times - to make sure that what I was saying was palatable to as many as people as possible, as often as possible.  Which is bullshit.  Because who's out there being interesting, appealing to everyone?  No one, that's who.  It's not my job to worry about how my opinions or thoughts or experiences land when I write them down and give them to the world.  It's not my job to defend them.  And it's not my job to apologize for getting fired up sometimes.  Passionate people get passionate, period the end.

I've spent a whole lot of time over these many quiet weeks thinking about...well, everything.  I've been thinking about us, about you and me.  About what I want to say to you and why.  I've been thinking about how looking at my life and the situations I find myself in with new eyes - with fresh, tables-turned perspective - opens up possibilities I've never before considered.  That's a bit vague, I know.  Sometimes things are a little bit vague.  

I didn't want to fail at living a creative life, I just wasn't sure how to maintain my creativity without getting my soul completely enmeshed and stomped on in the process.  After reading G's piece this morning, I sense that it might be a whole lot easier to do than I thought.  Write the words.  Hit publish.  Walk away.

I think I can do that.

***

And to you, sweet one, I say: Hi.  I love you. And I've been missing the hell outta you. Here's to us, making our way back to each other.

Oh, and because I only get things done when there are deadlines involved, let's set a date for my online shop to open, shall we?  Otherwise these towels are going to sit here, all boring and white, for eons. 

How's about February 25th?  Seems as good a date as any other, right?  Okay, great!  The new shop - where I'll be selling embroidered kitchen towels and a few hand-strung necklaces - will be opening on February 25, 2016 - you heard it here first!

Lovin' on you in just the biggest way you can imagine,
*E

An Open Letter To All The Children.

Originally posted January 21, 2016

Hi, kids,

Can we talk?

I think there are some things it might be useful to hear from someone who isn't your parent.  (And to my kids, if you read this one day, maybe you can pretend that I'm someone else for a sec, okay?)

So, listen.  I'm not mad and you're not in trouble.  It's just that I think we're not communicating as well as we could be.  You're growing up and I'm so glad about that.  I'm totally not the type to cry about you getting bigger, wishing you'd "just stay little forever".  I love watching you become more independent, more aware of the world around you.  I do not miss needing to feed you, and if anyone tells you they miss changing diapers you should run away and find a grown up you trust because that person is a liar.

It's just that along with all of this new independence -- with all of the new words you're constantly learning and trying out, with all of the things you think you know -- there's one thing I want to draw your attention to: your parents are people, too.

I know that might sound weird.  They're not people!  They're PARENTS!  Parents and people are two totally different species!

I know, I know - it seems that way sometimes.  But not so, kiddos.  Not so.

Even though I'm not your parent, I'm a parent, and I can tell you that yes, I am, in fact, a person.  I have feelings that feel confusing sometimes, just like you.  I get overwhelmed sometimes, just like you.  And there are things I want to do and things I don't want to do, just like you.

But the difference there - and this is really getting to the heart of why I wanted to write to you today - is that I do a lot of things I don't want to do, and I generally do it without whining and complaining and tantruming.  (I said generally - sometimes I do whine and complain, like when there's just so much laundry that I can't even or when I need to cook dinner again.  Every day with the dinner!)  The point here is that I think you're getting old enough to understand more about what it means to live as a part of a family, to live among people instead of just with people.  And yes, there is a subtle difference there.  

Living with people is just you doing your thing and the other people you live with doing their thing.  You might live with people in a few years when you go to college.  You'll have your room and you'll be able to do with it what you want.  They'll have their rooms.  You might be friends and you might not be.  Living with people is a pretty casual thing.  There's not much connection.

Living among people though?  Totally different thing.  Living among people - which is what you're doing with your family - requires a lot more work, yes.  But the payoff is way greater, too, so don't worry.  When you live among people, you take their needs into account.  You realize how your actions might effect them.  Instead of screaming at anyone in your path because you're frustrated that you have homework, for example, you stop for a second.  You implement one of the coping mechanisms your parents have taught you - maybe a few deep breaths, maybe a minute or two alone in your room - and you think about how it might feel for the other person if you go ahead and scream at them.  

Do you see what I'm getting at here?  Living among people requires a little bit more from you. You need to think about other people sometimes, and yes, that includes your parents.  (Because it's still true - they're people, too!)  Your parents don't like being screamed at.  They tolerate it sometimes because they understand that you're figuring stuff out and they're safe people to scream at.  They really do get that.  I'm willing to bet that, like me, they're not holding a grudge about all of the times you've directed irrational anger their way.  But just in terms of actual volume?  In terms of how much overwhelming loudness one person can take in the span of, say, ten minutes?  Kids, you've just got to tone it down.  How would it feel if your parents screamed at you for ten minutes because they were stressed out about the laundry  That would be silly, right?  And unfair?  Exactly.  I know you can see the logic here.  

And in keeping with the theme above, please realize that it's hard listening to you be mean to your siblings so much.  I know it's hard to be a big sibling sometimes and it's equally hard to be a little sibling sometimes, too.  I mean, being a plain old person is hard sometimes - I'm the first to admit that.  And living with a bunch of people that you didn't choose but love deeply - well, it's weird!  I know!  But be kind.  Calm your tone.  Remember that your sibling is not the annoying semi-human specimen you believe them to be - he or she is a real-life person with real-life feelings, just like you.  And as much as we try to let you work your business out on your own, it gets tiring to listen to sometimes.  

In closing: if you trip over a toy on the floor, pick it up and put it away. (No, not on the dining room table - that's not away.) Rinse your toothpaste spit down the drain.  (I know it's gross, that's why I don't want to do it.)  Put your dirty clothes in the hamper, and when I'm folding laundry, please do your best not to knock over the piles.  I'm happy to make you lunches for school every day; when I ask you to move your dirty lunchbox from your backpack to the kitchen counter, could you not act like I've asked you to give yourself a root canal?  

We love you.  We love you madly.  We love you so much it sometimes keeps us up at night. Which is why I wanted to write this letter in the first place.  We love you and we want living among each other to feel as pleasant as possible.  We know you want that, too.  And we know you're not trying to be difficult - you're just growing up, and growing up is weird. I think I can speak for all parents when I say that we're not trying to be difficult either.  We just want to be treated more like people you're aware of living among, you know?

Thanks so much for reading, kids.  Wishing you a life full of respect, thoughtfulness, and fun.

Until next time,
Emily

These Days: A Poem

Originally posted February 17, 2016

I'm good at laundry these days.

The dryer is always running.

My floors are mostly vacuumed. 

I make my bed every morning.  The days feel fresh that way.

The kids have clean underwear and the socks they prefer and only occasionally get splinters in their feet from our old and brittle floors. 

My husband and I communicate in a way that would make me scoff if I was watching us in a Rom-Com - no married people get along that well. Fuck this movie.  

Therapy + a mutual desire for marital greatness. Also this: "Can we just come from a place of assuming that neither of us are being assholes to each other?"

That. 

My kids keep hugging me and I keep kissing their heads.  Their frustrations - at life for being hard, at me for saying no sometimes - don't feel personal.

I haven't meditated in almost forever. 

I'm keeping a few secrets.

My friendships feel simultaneously close and distant.  

My desires are clear: acquire a full-time job, discover real financial security, pursue creative endeavors, keep up with boundary-maintenance.

Shine.

Enjoy all the coffee.

Sometimes eat the bread.

Always keep asking, "Does this feel good?" and if the answer is 'no', shake shit up in real time.

I'm a micro-level-game-changer; my aim is small and local.  

I'm shining where I'm planted.  

Silently vocal.

xo,
*E