What My Spirit Says When I've Been Politely Tuning Her Out.

Originally posted July 7, 2013

I just shot awake from a nightmare. 

I was in a tiny house that in the dream was mine.  There was a small kitchen table, circled by warm and inviting people.  I was making them roar with laughter and crack with smiles.  There was a knock at the door and I went to answer it, hesitant. 

Earlier in the dream, there'd been a knock at the door and when I answered it, two tattered, shady people had tried to tell me a story, sell me on something, get me. 

I'd closed the door on them with a thanks-but-no kind of smile. 

When I went to answer again, they talked their way in.  "You have a dog, right?" he said in a loud voice that talked over mine.   "We just drove by a dog and we didn't hit it, but can you come over here and look out the window and -" 

I went and looked out the window and was quickly lowered to the floor by this tall and thin man with oily black chin-length hair and then I saw a plastic bag and I knew that if I didn't open my eyes right away, Emily, NOW Emily that I would suffocate. 

::: 

It's 2:37 in the morning and I'm sitting in a red velvet armchair in a cubby-like corner of my bedroom.  It's big enough for only the chair.   

When I woke up from this dream a few minutes ago, I was panting and sweating, my pulse quick and pounding in my ears and belly and chest.  I thought that maybe I'd woken myself up because I was actually about to die, that I'd been holding my breath in my sleep or something equally unlikely. 

And in the thinking I've done in the interceding minutes, I've come to believe that while I may not have saved my physical, breathing life, I probably just shook my internal, knowing one. 

::: 

For days - weeks - now I've been seeing it.     

Things happen, and there's the flashing neon sign saying "LOOK HERE, LOOK HERE." 

Why am I reacting so strongly to this person?  Why was that tone of voice so irksome?  When will my creative drive return?

"LOOK HERE."

And then tonight, "Wake up, sweetheart.  Wake up and listen, breathe or suffocate," my golden center wailed. 

*E

Monday Night Lights.

Originally posted July 16, 2013

I just prayed with my children.

I've never done that before, openly talked to a being with my little ones. 

We're not a God house in the traditional, Christian sense of the word, and so we prayed to Love. 

I asked Love to help us listen to each other, to help us be patient. 

I cried a little bit, and then Osi said, "Why we doin' this?" and I laughed so hard I thought I might pee. 

And then they laughed, a little at first, and then the bed was shaking, all three of us just lost in the ease of each other.

::: 

A friend asked me the other night if my life was "as amazingly blessed as it seems to be".  

I started to mentally list the tiny little things that make it feel not quite as perfectly amazing as it could be and then thought, "Why, yes.  Yes it is."

My actual response to her was this: "Things really are blessed and wonderful around here. Anything that doesn't feel that way is typically because I'm being a selfish asshole."
:::

I was at a meeting the other night and the guy who was up there, bravely baring his insides to a room full of strangers, said something like, "The only time I know I'm really going the right way is when I'm doing for others." 

I was turned off a bit.  I mean, how can he possibly get what he needs out of life if he isn't thinking about himself, protecting himself?  

I didn't get it. 

And then I thought, "Oh, shit." 

::: 

I've said before that my children are the greatest, most loving, most consistent teachers I've ever had.  They are totally present in themselves, busily writing lesson plans for their Mama: How To Be Present; How To Manage Time; How to Slow Down. 

I thank them for their teachings constantly, and ask for patience as I learn. 

As I drove home from that meeting, I started thinking about Osiah.  I've never met a better teacher than my jovial, spirited, boisterous boy.  

I started thinking about what it might feel like for him to constantly have his big-ness sanded down, shaped into something more smooth, less edges.

I started thinking that I know what it feels like to have one's big-ness sanded down .

I started thinking that really, probably - definitely  - the struggles we've had are due to me looking out for my needs before his.  That even though my Mama Self would clearly walk in front of a bus for him, my Woman Self is terrified of getting lost again, of getting shoved under the bus.

I started thinking, "What if I can just give myself completely to him, in each moment?  Say yes more?  Take the time to really explain things?  Remind him over and over that he's exactly the boy I dreamed of?" 

And I started thinking that maybe Love was in that room, talking through that brave man, right at me. 

*E

You Gotta Have Soul.

Originally posted July 18, 2013

I often fantasize about spending hour after hour stowed away in my little studio, playing with paper, yarn, words. 

I keep the door to my studio shut when the children are home.  I prize having a space that I can keep just so, where little hands can't rearrange or decorate unless I've given the go ahead.  The walls remain pristine, save the one framed spot where both kids imprinted their hands while helping Tim create the walls in my cherished, sacred space.  

Two little sets of fingers and palms, pressed in.  

There for good.  

Thank goodness, there for good. 

::: 

Before I had babies I knew exactly what kind of mother I'd be: nurturing, gardening, food-storing, cloth-diapering, knitting, home-cooking, blissing.  Endlessly patient.  Calm.  Serene. 

Blessedly, some of these things have actually happened.

And yet I struggle with feelings of inadequacy when, for example, reading posts from Amanda Soule of SouleMama.   

I want my life to feel how hers looks: on purpose.

Last year, after deciding to embrace dear SouleMama instead of mocking (due to insecurity, of course) her dedication to her dream, I purchased all of her books, which have been sitting pretty on a high-up book shelf in my studio, largely untouched. 

Last weekend, after re-purposing our playroom into a projectroom for all (above), I tugged the stack of books from the shelf and displayed them on a side table for perusing.  The children and I have taken turns flipping through the slick pages, looking for inspiration.

And then this morning, I sat and started to really read her words.  What jumped at me, while reading the introduction to The Creative Family , was the (now, seemingly obvious) notion of creating alongside one's children, of making the very life we daily lead into an excuse for creation and expression.

I'm embarrassed by how lightbulb! it felt when I read this:  "Being creative (in whatever capacity) is important: important to me, because I feel myself to be a more complete person when my creativity is expressed; important to my children, who witness adults growing, sharing, and learning creatively; and important to my family, who grow and connect by creating together.  It is so important to me that my children not only see this creative pursuit and drive in action, but also that we do it together and that they fully know, love, and embrace their own creative selves." (The Creative Family , page 5)

So often, I'll set the children up with a small project and let them work together, heading to the kitchen to wash dishes, check e-mail, or make a phone call.  Rare are the creative moments that involve the three of us, rarer still the ones that include all four of us. 

And so it felt a touch revolutionary to think that I could simply decide to extract some of my cherished supplies from my studio - glue and colorful paper scraps and card stock - and set up a morning collage session in the projectroom.  Which is precisely what I did today, teaching the children about how to use Mama's glue, how they could create whatever they liked as long as they respected the supplies they were using.

Which, of course, they did.  Because that's what happens in these kinds of tales, isn't it. 

Thank you, Osiah. 

Thank you, Isla. 

I'm learning how to be the kind of Mama I always knew I'd be.  

Thank you. 

*E

Time (Or, Now.)

Originally posted August 1, 2013

I walked downstairs this morning and found my husband in the kitchen in a sweatshirt. 

It took my breath away for a second, both because my husband looks extremely young and hip and handsome in zip-up hoodies, and because the air was chilly - cool enough to warrant extra layers. 

::: 

This is my time of year - fall, autumn, end-of-summer.  

These are the temperatures that make my pulse quicken, my drive focused, my inspiration turned to 'on'. 

This is the time of year that I want my coffee hot instead of iced.  That cardigans are buttoned once.  That children's backs get rubbed quickly up and down to ward of goose bumps on the way to the car. 

At the beginning of 2013 I hung a magazine cut-out on the bulletin board in my studio.  It says - in gold, fourth-of-July-like sparkler sparks - "This is your year - 2013". 

I hung it there because I needed and wanted to believe that this was true.  That magic would happen this year, that this would be THE YEAR that my blog was discovered, that my readership would grow, that I'd be the very ultimate version of my clearest visions of myself. 

Good things have happened this year.  Hard things have happened this year.  Good things and hard things are often the same things. 

Again, so I don't forget: Good things and hard things are often the same things. 

::: 

I have a tattoo on the inside of my right wrist.  It's less than an inch long, a tiny little pile of hot pink dots.  Some people have asked me if it's a rash, and I say, "No, it's a reminder that these are my seconds." 

My sister once gave me this little book called The Traveler.  It's a fable that tells the story of Charlie.  He sets out, having packed up all of his time in a suitcase, searching for the perfect thing to spend it on.  He travels and travels, and eventually ends up sitting down with some friends, opening his suitcase, ready to spend all of his time.  He realizes, once the lid is up, that almost all of the time he packed up so carefully is gone; only a month and some days and some hours and minutes and seconds remain.  And so after traveling the world for years and years, searching, Charlie sits down on a couch and spends the time he has left with his people.

He says yes.

Peace,*E

PS: A prayer: 

Dear Golden Essence, Spirit of Bigness, Conductor of Love, 

I honor you.  I am you.  I'm terrified of never knowing you. 

I surrender.  I will try to surrender.  I will release my grip.  

I will try. 

Remind me again and again that I know everything and nothing. 

That calm and quiet will take me where I'm supposed to go, not force and will. 

Guide me toward the middle of where you are, of where we are together, of where all things you-like reside, even for moments. 

I surrender.  

I will try. 

A Poem of the Sea That Saves Me.

Originally posted August 3, 2013

I walked a path to the ocean today.  

My daughter ran ahead, into the waves

and became

electric. 

She threw fists into the air and screamed out her joy.

She kicked and jumped.

She spun and threw her head back,

thanking. 

My daughter.

Our daughter. 

In the middle of real life, of receiving and giving.

It was mesmerizing.

Alive. 

I will weep when I remember this. 

I will know that this was truth. 

*E