Miracle on Glenbrook Dr.

Originally posted June 19, 2013

The other day I watched the video for the new song "Brave" by Sara Bareilles and I almost went insane.  I'm kind of not even being dramatic.  I watched it again and again, the kids then joined me, and we all agreed: YES.

The words are clear and certain: Say what you want to say/Let the words fall out/Honestly, I want to see you be brave.  They drove me to my computer and forced me to write an e-mail I'd been thinking about for a long time.  It was something I needed to say and it was hard and it was true and it was old and real and so right there.

I sent it and flashed panic, and then thought that if I was brave enough to send such a thoughtful, kind, honest e-mail that I could sure as shit be brave enough to open the response - no matter what it said.  And then, because this is what happens now, a miracle. 

The response I opened poured love and truth and light all over my keyboard and I gasped.  The hard things I said were received and turned and held.  And then their counterparts - my friend's hard things - were sent back to me.

I read our correspondence over and over again, and couldn't shake the astounding fact:

truth triggers truth. 

And that someone has to be the one to knock that first domino, friends.

Day One.

Originally posted July 3, 2013

Part of the problem is that I haven't told you everything.

And this morning, I'm sitting here feeling muted and bumpy and squishy - somehow all of these weird feelings together - and I know that I need to say things. 

In March I stopped drinking.  Like, for real.   

And a month or so ago, I started going to meetings.  Because I needed camaraderie and understanding and the looks in the eyes of the people who get what I'm saying. 

Who understand the crazy-making that thinking, "Do I have a problem?" can bring.  Who can relate to the teary confessions, the shame, to the desire for a steadier, clearer future. 

I started going sporadically, here and there, just touching my toe to the water.  I asked a dear friend to sponsor me, to be The One to hold me accountable. 

And that was that.  Sophisticated, clear progress, right?   

Then the other night at work, a friend from one of these meetings came up to me and asked what my day count was.   

I had no idea what she was talking about - the cultural lingo is not familiar to me yet.  I did the rough calculation - somewhere around 100 days - and she congratulated me.  "You need to celebrate that number.  Keep track of it.  You're worth celebrating."

And then, the next night.  I took a pill.  A Percocet.  Because I wanted to sink deeper into something that was feeling good, because I'd chosen to convince myself - very clearly and level-headedly - that taking a pill to relax was a separate thing.  It wasn't a drink, and so it was fine, totally fine, just this once.

After the warm glow of the short high, the subtle panic set in.  I planned how I wasn't going to tell my sponsor, how I didn't really need to be doing the steps anyway, how there are plenty of people who don't do the steps and and and. 

And then the abrupt clarity of: the jig's up.  You can't consciously lie to yourself anymore, at least not like this.

Which drove me immediately toward my e-mail, toward my confession, to her and to myself.  Which drove me into fear and defensiveness. 

And which simultaneously drove me into the heart of my sponsor-friend, who loved me despite me curious choice, who was able to see me  instead of just my decision.

:::

Last night I walked into a meeting.  I was oozing shame and anger and frustration.  It became my turn to speak and I struggled to get the first word out.

"My name's Emily.  And this is Day One." 

*E

Library As Church.

Originally posted May 18, 2013

The other day I had about 45 minutes to spend all alone before work.  I've been trying to stop my pattern of constant over-caffeination, and also realized that I didn't bring the iPad.  As I drove, I was clueless about what I could do that didn't involve sitting urbanly in a cafe, drinking espresso and scrolling around the internet.

I turned onto Main St., and saw an open parking spot right in front of the library.

"Of course", I thought.

I walked in and was immediately filled with a rush of adrenaline. 

I headed back toward the non-fiction section and started grabbing.  I piled books into my arms, books I've been wanting to read for years, books that I can't possibly remember to look for when I'm there with my eager children.

As the pile grew, I found myself smiling giddily.  A pile of six books felt uncontrollably indulgent - there's no way I'll read them all before they're due, and it doesn't matter.  

Last Thursday, my library felt like a magical palace of potential, where whim and fancy were okay, allowable and encouraged.

Supreme magic, indeed.

:::

I've come to the sudden and jolting realization that time's up on my sophisticated illusion of action, of progress, of movement.

See, I'm an office supplies addict, someone who'd happily and easily spend a whole day scouring Staples for the just-right supplies for my Here Comes My New Amazing Life Binder.

(In fact, I have two such binders right now, though they have slightly different titles.)

I look at my binders and feel so inspired by their tabs, their sections, their lists.  

The potential for action is right there!

And yet I'm constantly spinning my wheels; a to-do list is only as good as the things you cross off of it, right?

My days always feel frenetic and busy, like I must be getting so much done.  But really, I'm just completely unfocused, bouncing from getting dressed to Facebook (refresh, refresh, refresh) to "I'll be right there!" to Facebook (repeat) to loading half of the dishes into the dishwasher to something else.

There's no intention, not anywhere.

Intention.

What is my intention?  With my life?  With my days?

Peace, I think.  And kindness.  Patience.  Love.

And those things look like a recipe for maintainable happiness.

Or at least for a bunch of good moments.

Happy Saturday, lovelies,
*E

MOTHER SEEKS YOUNG TEACHERS.

Originally posted May 24, 2013

Last night, my daughter had her first dance recital.  She was quiet on the way there, and willingly offered that she was nervous about performing in front of people.  I get it - performance anxiety is incredibly real for me, the "what if I suck?" loop running on repeat.

I turned to face her, sitting slightly hunched in her seat, and said something like, "The fact that you're going to perform is so, so brave, Isla.  I'm already so proud of you.  All you need to do is dance so it feels good.  And try to have fun.  Really - you and your friends, you're all just so brave."

After the first segment of the show, she rushed over to me in tears.  I hugged her and kissed the top of her head, whispered to her, and she scurried back to sit with her classmates.  

This process repeated itself after each portion of the recital, with each teary visit to my arms growing shorter and shorter.  And after her last act - walking across a beam, balancing, and jumping off, she looked at me, wavered, and instead of coming for me, headed for her spot on the floor.

Then she looked at me and smiled.

Afterward, I told her how inspiring she'd been.  "You just did something that felt really scary to you.  You felt scared and you did it anyway.  Isla, GOSH am I proud to be your mama."

:::

I've taught my daughter - and I hope to pass the same lesson on to my son as he grows - that she can do scary things.  That she'll survive discomfort.  That taking a risk is completely worth it when you have love to run back to.  

She was vulnerable last night, publicly vulnerable, and when I went to congratulate her, I was blindsided by this:

If she can do it, so can I.

Heaps and heaps of love,
*E

Kind of a Poem, Maybe?

Originally posted May 31, 2013

These kids aren't mine, you know.

They grew in me, from some kind of miracle, and came through me, yes.  We worked hard together, me and these kids, on those sacred, holy, life-giving nights.

But they aren't mine.  

They belong to you.  To the world.  To all that they will do.

They belong to themselves.

They belong to no one.

Growing them and birthing them and loving them like a mad-woman - those are the things that I must do.

But they are not mine to mold.

They are theirs to become.

*E