Bellwether

Summer is coming to a close, and I'm nesting.

At the end of June I had burnt out, disenchanted with my jewelry business in particular.  

It took my husband to point out that my physical space was a manifestation of my mental state.  Now, of course, I wish I had taken a picture, but at the time I didn't want to immortalize just how out-of-control my studio space had become. 

So I took July off - completely - to clear out my head.  

August was all about rehabbing my physical space.  When we moved into this house, the front part of the house, the one that would become my studio and store, had a liver-brown nappy carpet, and we swore we would redo the floors in the first two years.

That was eight years ago. 

Refreshed and renewed from my break in July, I was finally ready to tackle the dank-ish space where I spend the majority of the day. 

The first step was to take everything out of both rooms and pile is precariously around the rest of the house... all the furniture and jewelry/Arbonne supplies and displays.  The front part of our house looked like something straight out of an episode of Hoarders.  For over three weeks we wound our way around boxes, furniture piled hither and yon - carving little paths to get to the playroom, our TV room and the kitchen. 

We all wore the shin bruises to prove how old this got, and quickly.

Redoing the floors was supposed to take a week and a half, but as these things do it stretched into two, then three weeks.  

I was grateful for the emotional respite of July, because I was down to my last tiny nerve by the time the floors were declared suitable to move in.  

I spent the last two days feverishly organizing and decorating, vowing NOT to put anything back that I didn't love or need. 

Here is my studio space before (I didn't even take a shot of the whole room because the carpet was so bad): 

This was right after I organized it, back in 2011.  It never looked this neat again.

Here is my studio space now: 

My in-home store also needed a face lift.  Here it is before: 

And now: 

I have written about this before, but in rehab I learned about the expression "messy bed, messy head".  The counselors made us make our beds and tidy up our space every morning before we did anything else .

Of course I scoffed at this idea at the time, but I know now they are dead right.  As my physical space deteriorated, I told myself it was "an organized mess", or that it was a result of my "artistic brain".  There is some truth to both statements, but there is a fine line between artsy and out-of-control.  

As I begin this new year (I always think of September as a new year) I feel such gratitude for my new space - both mental and physical. I am blessed that my "commute" consists of walking down a flight of stairs and into a place that relaxes and soothes me.  

I am going to pay more attention to my physical surroundings, having gained a new appreciation for the fact that they are a bellwether to my overall mental state. 

Ladies and gentlemen - the World Headquarters of Shining Strong/Two Little Birds/One Crafty Mother: 

Roots

We're limping over the finish line - school finally ends today.  Greta is no longer in elementary school - this fall she heads to middle school.  Finn is reading chapter books and eager to start second grade. 

They are growing up.

I usually feel ambivalent about the last day of school - carrying a nervous pit in my stomach about how on earth I'm going to keep up my hectic work schedule with them home full time.

Not this year.

I'm tired.  I have so many exciting things happening with my non-profit, with my jewelry businesses, with my Arbonne business.  But I'm stretched too thin, and everything is suffering. 

The things I usually do to tend to the soil beneath my own feet - yoga, exercise, meetings, cancer group - have taken a back seat to my schedule.  We all know if you don't care for the roots of a plant it starts to wilt, and my flower is wilting.

I can't imagine giving up any of the things I'm doing - I love them all, and they all fulfill important needs for me financially and spiritually.  But I can't keep this up.

I have decided to put my Etsy shop - Shining Stones - in hiatus for the summer.  If you are still waiting on an order, no worries, I'll get it to you.  But once I have cleared my decks there I'm putting it in vacation mode for two months.  I have to, and I even kind of want to.

I'll keep Two Little Birds Studio open, with the caveat that it may take a couple of weeks to complete any orders. 

I need a break.

Really exciting things are happening for Shining Strong - we're partnering with a world-class addiction rehabilitation center here in the Northesast.  Gosnold on Cape Cod, where I got sober as did two of my very best friends and countless others that mean so much to me. If you go to their website (follow the link) and scroll down you'll see Shining Strong is listed as a partner.   We have big ideas, big plans, to bring the stigma of addiction out into the light and help people know they aren't alone.

I want to focus on that.

My Arbonne business is growing by leaps and bounds - I'm building a team of incredible women who are changing their lives by building their own Arbonne businesses, and it's exciting. I want to be there to help them, too.

I need to be able to exercise, go to yoga, go to recovery and cancer support group meetings.  Those things fill my soul, make it possible for me to make it through the tougher times.

And things haven't been all that easy this month.  I miss my Dad so very much.  June 11th was the anniversary of his death, two years now, and as these exciting things happen I find myself thinking "oh, I can't wait to tell Dad!" only to have the heart stopping realization that he isn't here to tell.  I still have a lot of processing to do.

My anxiety is back.  Not constantly, but enough that it's sapping my energy.  I know it is because I'm not tending to my roots. 

I want to throw myself into this summer without feeling pulled in ten different directions - physically here but mentally absent.  My kids deserve that.  I deserve that.

We have trips planned for most of July - visits to see family, a trip to the Florida Keys, and then I'm going to Chicago for the blogging conference BlogHer.   I want to be present for these things.  I am beginning to understand the affliction of workaholism.   I know my scales are not balanced. 

I will take the summer to regroup, re-prioritize.  I have to.  

It's hard, though, when all the dreams you've had start to gain momentum at the same time.  I don't mean "poor me" hard, I just wish I could space it out more, so I didn't have to pick and choose.

It's only been a year since my last major surgery - the neck dissection that removed 23 lymph nodes and hopefully the last of my cancer.  

I think I'm overdosing on feeling good.  I'm SUCH an addict.  If a little is good, more is better, right?

Wrong.

Back to basics for me: family, self-care, longer stretches of time (heck, ANY stretches of time) where nothing is planned.  Lazy summer days burying my toes in the sand with nothing on my mind but what to read next.

I hope.

I hope I can do this.  If I struggle with a more balanced pace, I know I will have to do some serious re-evaluating of whether I'm running towards, or running from. 

I'm calling myself out, here, for those days when I'd rather manically check emails than go to the beach with my kids.  For the times I drag my laptop with me on vacation and spend more than a few minutes checking in.  For when I am in the middle of a perfectly good summer day and my mind is anywhere but in the present moment.

I want to be in the present moment.  I am concerned I may have forgotten how.

We will do The Bubble Hour podcast every other week during the summer, so my co-hosts and I can have some breathing room.  We don't want the quality of the shows to suffer simply because we feel the world will stop revolving if we aren't live on the air every week.  Of course it won't. In between live shows we will air re-broadcasts of some of our most popular or helpful shows.

I hope you are enjoying a peaceful summer - even if you work full time, I hope you're able to find that breathing space, and time to tend to your roots. 

-Ellie

A Text Changes My Life

I'm excited.

I have spent years building something one tiny step at a time. It started with my Etsy jewelry business, then this blog, then Crying Out Now, then The Bubble Hour, then Two Little Birds Studio.

So, I'm busy.

But I don't notice. I'm so passionate about all these endeavors - the art of creating is my meditation, my escape, and it fuels my soul.  Breaking down the stigma of alcoholism, particularly as it relates to women, bit by bit, gives me a sense of purposeful determination.   I do all of these things because I love them, and I have always followed the adage "do what you love and the money will follow".

There's a hitch, though. My Heart Projects are so interwoven into my life I can't imagine life without them - they are almost like children to me. They have brought so many incredible people into my life, such amazing community, that I could never put a price on what they mean to me.  I'm rich with friendship.  In the friendship category, I'm a badzillionaire, and I know how lucky I am.  But they don't make money.

My jewelry business has far surpassed anything I could have imagined, but in order to grow that business I would have to have a massive paradigm change: hire people to work for me, open a retail store, slog around to home parties - something - if that business is going to contribute meaningfully to our household income.  I like it the way it is, though.  It's mine, it's from my heart, and I don't want to change it. And I don't want to stop making jewelry.

Shining Strong - the umbrella organization for all my recovery sites - is coming along. I'm incorporating it as a non-profit, and hope to get 501(c)3 status by the end of the year.  It's my dream to have that be a self-sustaining organization, its mission is to break down the darkness and denial that surrounds addiction, and it's growing by leaps and bounds, in large part thanks to you - my readers - who help by spreading the word and donating. THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart, for all your tweets, posts and donations.  Because of you Shining Strong will live another six months.

But it was never supposed to make money, either.

I found myself in a quandary.  My jewelry business has peaked - I work hard at this business because I LOVE it, but it's not going to be a major financial contributor to our income unless I make major changes I'm not willing to make.  My recovery projects fuel me, give me purpose and community - but they are never going to be money makers, either.

My kids are in school full time, and my days are full.  BUT. And this is a big one - I need to earn more money. I did my taxes recently, and was so depressed to see how little I'm actually earning with the jewelry.  I work way too hard to make that little, I thought.  But it was never about money, was my next immediate thought. A pause, and then reality crashed through:  but now it needs to be. You can't continue like this. 

I was really down, because I was fearful I was going to have to give some, or all, of these projects up and get a "real" job.

I don't even know how to have a 'real' job anymore, because I've spent so much time being purpose driven.  I'm smart. I know if I applied myself I could go back to the corporate world, where I logged so many hours in my previous life. I'm good at it. I made a lot of money doing it.  I was miserable.

I was mulling all this over on my way to yoga last week, when my phone beeped with a text. It was my friend, Jen, who I was supposed to meet for coffee that morning but somehow never got into my calendar.  I drove into a Target parking lot and thought hard. I knew why she wanted to meet with me - she is an Arbonne consultant and I knew she wanted to ask me to sign on (officially - I'd been an unofficial consultant for months just to get the products at the consultant's discount) to sell Arbonne.

I stared at the text for a solid minute, and had my thumb hovering over the keys to tell her I couldn't meet her because I had yoga.  I don't have time to sell Arbonne, I thought. Even though I adore the product, I just don't have the time.  We had already rescheduled our coffee date three times, and I was starting to text sorry, can't make it, yoga ... when something stirred in my gut.

GO, that something said.

So I typed "on my way" instead, pulled out of the Target parking lot and went left to coffee instead of right to yoga.

That one little decision has already changed my life, and it was only one week ago.

I love it when the universe chucks you one, burrows down into your gut and whispers: stay open.

Over that two hour coffee date Jen explained all the reasons Arbonne does fit, for me.  It is a natural extension of what I'm already all about: self-care, building businesses, interacting with people, sharing things that have changed me for the better because I believe in them.  Not because I want to make money.

"I can't sell something just to make money," I told her. She smiled. That's okay, she said. Do as little or as much as you want. You're already telling everyone you know about Arbonne, why not make it official?

"I won't do parties," I said.

She smiled again.  That's okay, too.  Find whatever way works for you.

"I'm not sales-y," I said.   Thank goodness, was her reply.  You can't cram anything down someone's throat. Just keep doing what you're doing - tell your story, about how it's changed your skin, your health, and see what happens.

"I don't have time," I said.  Well, why not give it a try? she said. If it doesn't work out you can stay a consultant and get your favorite product at a discount. What do you have to lose? 

As I drove home from our coffee date I thought about what Jen said and the Universe's message to me:  stay open. And, while the Universe was on a roll, it said: what's wrong with making money? It will allow you to keep your Heart Projects going, and then some.

So here I am, writing about it, because since that coffee date I feel alive again. I've already earned more in this week than I usually do in a month of jewelry making, and I haven't had to sell anyone anything. Jen was right - I'm out there talking about it anyway, and people are interested in what I've learned.  I'm a story teller, not a salesperson, and that's totally okay. More than okay.

Arbonne rolls right into everything I've been building.  Cancer taught me so much about the scary chemicals we put on our faces bodies every day in make-up and skin care products.  I shudder to think of what my kids had been putting on their bodies. There are so many known carcinogens out there in everything we use, and the public doesn't hear enough about it.  In Europe the standards are MUCH more stringent. It makes me mad.

Because we're so uneducated about this stuff, we don't give these chemicals a moment's thought. I think about the gallons of lipstick (I've always been mad for lipstick) I have ingested over the years. And I ended up with cancer in my throat.  Even if they aren't causally related - I'll never know - I've changed our lifestyle - no more aluminum, no more sodium lauryl sulfate in this household (SLS is known to be one of the most dangerous chemicals in health care products and it's everywhere).  No more anything harsh or harmful.

Most importantly?  Being healthy and taking care of my skin and body makes me feel good.  I have spent years writing about how women struggle with self-esteem, self-confidence, self-love -- and how these issues feed addiction like gasoline feeds a fire.   Learning to put myself first was a years-long battle.  Arbonne fits right into that - I look better, I feel great, and I want to tell people that they deserve this.

The upside earning potential in Arbonne is mind-blowing. I don't know if I'll get that far. I'm not really thinking about it.  Just like with everything else, I'm taking it one step at a time.

And I'm writing about it. This won't become a "please buy Arbonne website".  I won't peddle product here.  But I may write about how it's changing my life, now and again.  If this much can happen in one week, it makes me very excited for the future.

And I gotta say  it - if you want to learn more?  Email me at ellieandsteve@verizon.net.  I won't sales you to death. I won't pressure you to do a thing.

I'll just share my story, like I always do.

The Sprinter and The Trudger

I blow the steam away from the surface of my coffee, anticipating its creamy roasted goodness with a smile.

It's a rare afternoon with no pressing deadlines, no plans, no structure. Sleet spits against the window, blurring the grey and white landscape outside.

I feel poised on the edge of something. I used to feel this way all the time, like a runner hunched over waiting for the gun to go off.  Lately, though, the forced lazy pace of snow days and sick days has unfurled my inner sprinter, forced her to lay low.

Today, for some reason, she's up and itchy, wanting to move forward, press on towards the Next Thing.

What is that Next Thing going to be? I think, with some trepidation.

Cancer honed my ability to live in the day, the moment, which is mostly a blessing.  Thinking about tomorrow, or next week, or next month, when you're in the throes of cancer feels wrong, like testing the fates unnecessarily.

When is it time to move on?  Is the answer never?  Is the answer now?

I had a good natured disagreement with my friend Courtney a while back, about the expression "trudging the road to happy destiny".  I told her it annoyed me, this expression, because I think of trudging as a negative - something you have to do, not something you want to do.  Trudging connoted, for me, feeling the heavy weight of each burdensome step.

She laughed and said she couldn't disagree more.  "Trudging is walking with purpose," she said.  "It's one of my favorite expressions.  When you don't know what else to do? Walk forward with purpose. It works."

She's like this, Courtney.  A casual conversation with her is peppered with all sorts of profound wisdom. She doesn't seem to notice, which makes me adore her even more.

I've been thinking about trudging differently since then.  I trudged my way though early recovery - twice. I trudged my way through the sudden death of my father and the grieving aftermath. I trudged my way through cancer.  I'm trudging my way through a winter clogged with fierce weather and stuffy noses.  Looking back on the past two years, it was trudging that got me through.  Moving through each moment with only one purpose:  keep going.

When I think of trudging, I picture my head down, keeping my view on just the few feet in front of me. This isn't a bad thing, I've come to understand.  Breaking the pace of life into individual footsteps is so contrary to how I lived my life for so long - eyes squarely fixed on the horizon and missing so much that was right under my nose.

So what's next? my inner sprinter wants to know.  Is it the completion of Shining Strong, the non-profit company I'm building?  Is it growing The Bubble Hour even more?  Is it finally writing that book?  What if my cancer comes back? Now that I know how quickly life can change on a dime, do I dare dream?

I feel the anxiety and impatience willing up inside me.  The antidote?  Trudging. Walk forward with purpose, with my eyes focused only on the next few steps.  The outcome has never been up to me, anyway, it just took the cage-rattling experiences of the past two years to make me understand this.

And so I trudge. Every now and then I indulge in a glance back over my shoulder and I think: wow - one step at a time and I've gotten farther than I thought possible. 

Evey now and then I glace up ahead, and think: I wonder what's up there?

My sprinter stamps her feet impatiently, urging me to get there - wherever there is - faster.   It's harder to trudge than to sprint, I tell her.  But it's worth it.

Cafeteria Girl

I had a public snit fit on Facebook last night.

My finger hovered over "publish comment" for a good 30 seconds before I pressed on it with my eyes closed.  I decided to hit the button, because I didn't think I was the only one who felt this way, and it was embarrassing to admit, but I just had to know what people thought.

Here's what I (wince) said:

I am being ridiculously needy and superficial and immature about this, I know I am, but if I get two comments on a blog post these days it's a lot. I used to get dozens. Am I boring now? Am I asking for too much help with my projects? You can PM me if you want to give feedback that you don't want to put out there in public. It's been going on for a while now, and I have to admit (though I'm embarrassed to do so) that it's making me insecure.

 I have to watch the line of ego, attention seeking and people pleasing really closely, examine my motives for blogging, etc. - because those bugaboos are traps in my sobriety.  I worked hard to get beyond (mostly) what people think, to stay focused on the mission or writing for myself, from the inside, regardless of the response.

Sometimes I do a really good job of that. Other times, like last night?  Not so much.

Of course I received comments empathizing with how I felt, and offering suggestions, like people use FB as ways of giving feedback now, people read but don't comment as much, people read through their Google reader and it's hard to leave comments.  All polite ways to put me in my place:  it's SO not about you, Ellie.

I think I'm overly sensitive these days because of the new endeavors like The Bubble Hour and Shining Strong are SO important, and I'm an alcoholic and instant gratification takes TOO LONG and I want THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD to respond instantly.

That is something I have to watch closely, because in that impatience lies a drink for me. If I'm seeking validation from the outside in (as a friend gently PM'd me last night- you know who you are and thank you) - I'm looking in the wrong place and I'll never be satisfied.

But sometimes? I still feel like that girl holding her tray in the cafeteria and looking around for a place to sit without looking like she's looking around for a place to sit.  I'm human.

I do believe in the mission of Shining Strong, The Bubble Hour and Crying Out Now from the bottom of my heart - and that is driven from the inside out. It's in my DNA, because it's how my parents raised me.  So I take comfort in that, and try to forgive myself for my occasional snit-fits.  The response has been amazing, and I'm SO grateful to all of you who have liked my page(s) and left testimonials and sent me encouraging words.

Sometimes? This is what it's like dealing with an addict.  We can never get enough.

Last night I meditated and prayed on this, and at the end my heart felt so full.  I have enough.  I am enough. And it will be what it will be.  I was all brave talk a few posts ago about being okay with trying and failing, but not being okay with not trying.  And I feel in my heart that this is true.

I just have to keep an eye out for those bugaboos, and I have to plunk my cafeteria tray down wherever I damn well please and not be scared of acceptance.

On a logistical note?  If you want to be sure you get all the updates from Facebook (where I think most people hear about posts) for Crying Out Now, One Crafty Mother, The Bubble Hour or Shining Strong it's not enough to "like" the page anymore.  I found this out last night - you also have to go to each page and look for the "tool" icon (little wheel - next to the "Likes" box) and select "Add to Interests".  Then you'll get all the updates, if you want to.  Thanks, Facebook, for making things so complicated and making me have to come make more self-serving comments that make me itchy.

Bottom line, I guess, is that we never really shake Cafeteria Girl, do we?  But we can keep moving bravely forward, tell our truth, empathize with each other instead of being embarrassed about our truths and stick together.

You guys are all at my lunch table, and I thank you for it.  Truly.

A Mother Like Me

There she is, I think.  And she's had another baby. 

I'm standing in the church pew, mouthing the words to a hymn and watching a woman across the aisle from me.   Her family is always sitting in the same place, her five boys lined up next to her like Matryoshka stacking dolls, one right after the other, hair brushed and shoes shining.   Her husband is belting out the words to the hymn; he looks over at her and gives her a loving wink.

Her baby looks to be about two months old.  We haven't been to church in a while, and I hadn't noticed that she was pregnant the last time we were here.   Six kids, I think, feeling horror and awe simultaneously.

She rubs her baby's downy head, slowly rocking him back and forth as she sings.   Something twists in my gut:  jealousy?  admiration?   Somehow, it feels more like rage.

The hymn ends and her family all sits down in the pew, politely folding their hands in their laps. 

I go to sit down and land on Finn, who is sprawled out in the pew, kicking his feet in the air.   He lets out a squeal as I wrestle him upright.

How does she do it, I ponder, pretending to pray and peeking at her out of the corner of my eye.   Her own eyes are closed, a beatific smile on her face.

I'm feeling snarly and scribbly, like a caricature of a middle aged mother, eyes wild, hair pointing out in all directions.   Finn is picking his nose and asking for a donut.

I bet she doesn't close herself in the bathroom and sob while her baby cries in the next room and her boys fight over the Wii, I think uncharitably.  There's probably no Wii in her house, just shelves and shelves of educational toys. 

It's time for communion, and her husband plants a kiss on her cheek before he steps up to the altar.   I mentally add Christian books to their perfect sun-splashed and Wii-free playroom.

Finn won't stop wiggling, whining every five minutes about whether he's being good enough to get a donut after church.   I lean down and hiss a threat into his ear, my fingers roughly clutching his arm.

Her baby begins to fuss, and she gently hush-hushes him as she rocks him back and forth.   One of her sons rummages in her diaper bag and pops a pacifier into the baby's mouth.

Six kids, I think again.   As people shuffle up for communion I kneel in the pew and ponder having three times as many kids as I have now.    Quiet rage rumbles in my belly; what is it about her that is making me so angry, I wonder.   I watch them file back into the pew and all simultaneously kneel down to pray. 

She looks so happy, I think.   How can she be happy with that many kids?    I can't even handle two.

And then I know.  I know where the rage is coming from.   She seems to wallow in motherhood.

I am not someone who wallows in motherhood.    This truth hits me out of the blue, and I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

I fold my hands and close my eyes, pretending to pray to keep tears from streaming down my cheeks.    Images of the past week float through my head:   angrily shushing Finn over and over as I try to participate in a conference call for a project I'm working on.  Plying my children with bowls of ice cream and endless amounts of television and video games so I can finish work, talk on the phone to a friend who needs my help, answer emails.

Finn leans his head onto my shoulder and distractedly strokes my arm.    Momma?  he whispers tentatively, I love you. 

I lean back in the pew and gather him into my lap, inhaling his salty-sweet boy smell.   

I look over at the woman with six kids, and catch her watching me out of the corner of her eye.   I bet she thinks I have a sun-splashed playroom full of educational toys.   I bet she thinks I'm a wallow-er.

And then I catch myself.   I don't know what she's thinking - perhaps she's remembering how she used to have two kids and more of a life?  Perhaps she's picturing me getting into a car and escaping to a real job every day?

I give her a smile, and she smiles back.

I hope she's thinking what I'm thinking, finally:   there is another mother, like me.

Swept Away

I woke up Sunday in an inky black mood.

There was no specific reason for my edginess.   I didn't want to be anywhere.    I glared at the dishes piled in the sink, the dog hair matted to the rugs and the toys strewn about the house and I felt downright homicidal.

The sound of my husband chewing his cereal nearly made me apoplectic.  

I knew the problem was me, but I couldn't stop it.  I couldn't find any lightness, gratitude or peace.     The kids were just being, well, kids - full of demands, and "Momma LOOKs" and plaintive pleas to go do something.  

I wanted out of my skin, out of my house, out of my life.

I dropped an open gallon of milk on the floor, and I just stood and watched it glug-glugging out onto the floor, thinking:  well, THAT figures.   I was on a hunt for misery.   I found it everywhere I looked.

Every few minutes one of the kids would say "Momma!" for one reason or another, and my shoulders hunched in irritation.    I wanted to press the button for some magic trap door and drop right through. 

It was a sparkling clear winter day.  After weeks of horrible weather we finally had the perfect snow day.   Steve offered to take the kids sledding, to give me a break.   I grumbled and mumbled about what a giant pain in the you-know-what it is to get the kids all bundled up, they probably would only want to stay a few minutes, what was the point, anyway. 

He gave me a hard look and said, "You need fresh air.  Come with us.   It will be fun."

I stuffed the kids into their snow gear, snapping at them to hurry up, pay attention, hold still, find gloves.    Snap.  Snap.  Snap.    

On the drive to the sledding hill I crossed my arms in silent protest and stared stubbornly out the window.  Steve and the kids pretended they didn't notice, and chatted animatedly the whole way there.   I despised them for their cheeriness.

When we got to the hill the kids tumbled out of the car, squealing in delight.  Steve unloaded the sleds and they ran to the top of the hill.  I sighed, unfolded myself out of the car and slumped after them.

I tipped my face towards the sun, and thought about how long it had been since I felt warm rays on my skin.   Finn whooped as he went over a jump, and Greta laughed.   I opened my eyes, and saw Finn trudging up the hill, pulling his sled and smiling from ear to ear.  "I went ovah da jump, Momma!" he cried.  

The tight coil deep in my gut loosened, just a little.

Greta zoomed down the slope, went over the jump and sailed through the air.   Laughter bubbled up from deep inside me, pushing the misery and irritation up and away.  

I found myself helping them load into the sleds, giggling as I gave them a push.   Finn ditched his sled, deciding he wanted to run down the hill, arms and legs pinwheeling as he raced to the bottom.    I stood in awe at the the lanky, loose-limbed little man he has become.  

Greta flicked her hair over her shoulder as she pulled her sled back up the hill, then gave me a sideways glance and smiled.   "Having fun, Momma?"  she asked.

"Oh, yes."  I replied.  "Yes I am."

I fell into the moment, swept up by the kids' delight of a sunshiney winter day. 

The Only Way Out Is Through

It's been a long couple of weeks.

Between snow days and sick kids we've been cooped up in our house for a loooong time. 

Last week, in particular, was trying.   Finn got Greta's strep throat, we were buffeted by snow storms and plunged into a deep freeze, and we were all sick of each other and being trapped inside.

For five days straight I left the house only to go to the doctor's office or the pharmacy.    By the end of the week I felt ready to peel off my own skin.

Every now and then, though, I'd remember that I'm going to Nashville to attend the Blissdom blogging conference.    My stomach would do a little flip-flop of excitement and nervous anticipation.

The idea of traveling to Nashville, speaking on a panel, networking, and attending events seemed very far away, given that I had been wearing sweatpants for days, showers were a rare luxury and my primary conversationalists for over two weeks had been an eight and five year old.

Now it's not far away, though.  I leave tomorrow.    Predictably, the butterflies in my stomach upped their game, and the ambivalent mother-guilt tugging began.

As I've talked about before, I have a phobia of flying.   I'm determined not to let it cripple me, so I'm not going to miss opportunities like this one just because of fear.   That doesn't make the irrational thoughts go away, however.    Rationally, I know flying isn't any more perilous than the myriad of other dangers we expose ourselves to every day, but the unwanted thoughts show up anyway.   The phobia of flying is at the root of all the guilt, too, because it creates of foundation of fear in my mind that is fertile ground for all the other negative thoughts:

Who are you to put yourself in danger just to go to a blogging conference?  my mother-guilt voice says.  What if the kids get sick while you're away?    How selfish of you to stay away so long.   You should have gone for three days, not six.  

I can't pretend the anxiety isn't there; I have to face it head on.   I do my best to counter-balance the fear with healthier thoughts:

Moms need time away, too.    This is an opportunity that doesn't come around very often, to get outside your comfort zone, learn a lot, meet new people and see old friends.   Your kids benefit from seeing that you try new things, have outlets and interests that don't revolve around them. 

It's a nearly constant tug-of-war in my mind.   I know this is something I need to go through, not around, so I let the thoughts come, and I sift through them one by one as I make my way to the other side of fear.

~~~~

This morning the kids were eating breakfast while I packed their lunches, and I was talking to them about the plan for while I'm away.

Greta grew quiet, pushing her waffles around on her plate with her fork. 

"What is it, hon?"  I asked.

"What if..." she paused for a moment.   "What if your plane falls out of the sky?"

My stomach twisted, but I put on my best poker face.    I wanted to tell her she was being silly, to stop awfulizing, but I didn't.   Oh, she's just like me, I thought, and my heart sank.    I have never talked about  my fear of flying in front of the kids.   I know this anxiety is just bubbling up from somewhere deep inside her, as she gains more understanding about the world.

"Oh honey,"  I said, "are you worrying about that?"

She nodded, and tears brimmed in her eyes.

"It's hard, sometimes, to stop the worry thoughts from coming, isn't it?"   I said, stroking her hair.

She nodded again.

"I understand,"  I said.   "But if I only thought about the bad things that could happen, I'd never do anything new.  I would never try something for the first time.   Life would be very small and boring."   

She gave me a weak smile.

"Think of all the things that made you nervous once, that you do now and love,"  I said.   "Like going on the school bus?   Remember how scared you were to go on the bus for the first time?   Now you LOVE the bus."

"Yeah," she said, "and remember how scared I was to do my first presentation in front of the class?    I didn't sleep for two nights!    Then two weeks ago we had another presentation due, and the teacher called me FIRST to do mine and I was a little nervous, but I wasn't really scared anymore."

I gave her a squeeze.   "Sometimes, when things make us scared or nervous, it's because we're about to learn something really cool about ourselves."

"Are you nervous about the conference, Mom?   About speaking in front of a bunch of people?   Of traveling by yourself?"

"Yes, a little," I said.  "Especially when I let my brain think about all the things that could go wrong... like if I get so nervous I forget what I want to say.    I try to give my brain other things to think about, too, like how cool it will be to do something for the first time, or how proud I'll be of myself that I did it... no matter how things go.   And I've traveled by myself before, so when I start to get nervous I remind myself that I can do it.   Just like you did with your presentation.   It really helps."

"Can I have some more waffles?"  she asked, grinning her sweet gap-toothed smile.

~~~~~~

As I prepare to leave, time seems to shift into slow motion;  moments snap into focus with crystalline clarity.   I feel my love for my family - really feel it - in ways I can't always access when I'm mired down in the daily grind.   This can provoke its own guilt-inducing twinges:   what's wrong with you that you can't access this love all the time?

But you know what?   It doesn't matter.   Sometimes it is easier to see all that I have when I view it from a distance, when I take time to gather myself around myself again.

~~~~~

As Greta waited for the bus this morning, she was kicking at a pile frozen of snow, lost in thought.

After a few minutes, she looked up at me with excitement flashing in her eyes.  "Will you bring Flat Greta with you?"  she asked.   Flat Greta is a school project; each second grader made a little paper doll in their own image.   Friends and family members travel with their Flat Doppelgangers, send pictures back, and create a little journal of their Flat Travels.

"Flat Greta and I are gonna rock Nashville,"  I grinned.
 
"Yeah," she grinned back.   "You ARE."



**Note:  something has been acting up with my comment section, and it randomly disappears sometimes.  If you want to leave a comment you can do so by clicking on the title/link to the post (so you're just viewing the one post) and the comment section will re-appear.   Where, or where, is my cracker-jack techie team?   Oh yeah.  I don't have one.

An Operation Get Healthy Update

I'm not on a diet anymore.

This thought hit me the other day.   It took me six months to lose 60 lbs, and I'd been in a dieting frame of mind for so long, that I didn't even notice when I crossed the line from someone who is watching calories to someone who eats respectfully.

It started in early November, when a bad cold ran through our house.  For three weeks straight, someone was sick in our house:  first one kid, then the other, then me.

I couldn't go to my Jenny Craig appointments to get my weekly food, or get weighed in.   I couldn't get to the gym.   I was on my own.

Up until that point, I had been fearful of weaning off the Jenny Craig food, even though my consultant was urging me to.   I didn't trust my own thinking, because I know full well how easily I can justify bad habits.   But now I didn't have a choice, and because we were in full-on survival mode at home, I didn't even have time to panic about it.

I still weighed myself, but only once a week, so I couldn't get obsessive about the number on the scale.   The number I saw each week held steady (give or take a pound or two up and down).   But I was still eating basically the same things every day, fearful of deviating from my routine.

Thanksgiving taught me a valuable lesson:   I can eat what everyone else eats, but in moderation.    Instead of depriving myself of mashed potatoes, gravy and a slice of pie, I ate all of those, but kept my portions in control.

This is a very new concept for me, this whole control thing.    What I found out is that it's only hard in the beginning - after a while it just becomes my New Normal.

When I went to my Jenny Craig appointment on Monday, I hadn't been in almost six weeks.    I hadn't eaten their food in almost four weeks.    I didn't gain any weight.   My consultant smiled at me and said, "You're doing great.  See?  You know what to do, now."

That's when it hit me:   I'm not on a diet anymore.  Now I'm just living my life, but with a new respect for the role food plays in my life.   I keep an eye on balance - if I'm going to eat cheese and carbs, I balance out my plate with vegetables or a salad.     I don't allow myself to have second helpings, ever, because those second helpings are all about emotional eating.   If I'm hungry - legitimately hungry - an hour after I ate I can have a light snack.   

I can finally tell the difference between emotional eating and eating because I'm hungry.    The other night it was 9:30pm and I was stressed, tired, and still had a pile of work to do before bed.   I was feeling edgy, angry and more than a little bored.    I wanted to eat so badly.    I wasn't hungry - I was angry and restless.  I was looking for comfort, and something to do.     So I had two dum-dum lollipops.    A total of 30 calories, and it took half an hour to finish them both.   My sugar craving was satisfied, and I felt like I had given myself a treat.   

Now I keep hard candy and lollipops on hand all the time, just in case.     When moods like that hit me, it's far better to reach for a lollipop than a big sugary bowl of cereal, or a handful of cookies.

I don't need to be in deprivation mode anymore.   It's difficult to get my mind around the fact that this is the new me.   That if I eat regular food, carefully, and exercise moderately I'm going to do just fine.    It's hard to trust that, but as time goes on and the weight stays off, I'm leaning into this concept more and more.

This doesn't mean I don't have a strategy for tougher times, like Christmas, when the whole point of the day seems to be to indulge.    I don't indulge anymore.   I enjoy.

I don't let myself get too hungry.   If I eat when I'm really hungry, I have a very, very hard time stopping.   So about an hour before Christmas dinner, I'll have a Chobani yogurt, maybe with a little granola sprinkled in.   I plan in advance what my 'treat' is going to be, I look forward to eating it, and I enjoy the experience of tasting it.  Instead of compulsively and unconsciously reaching for cookie after cookie and barely registering the taste, those two that I eat taste so very good. 

The biggest breakthrough I've had is that there are no bad foods, but there are bad habits.   Food isn't the enemy; my emotional state is what gets me into trouble.     It's a time of year when it would be easy to feel resentful - everyone around me eating and drinking and I'm an alcoholic in recovery who is watching her weight.   

I don't feel deprived or left out, though.   Just like it was with alcohol, food owned me for a long time.   Eating a bag of chips for comfort is a lonely place to be; it's like a band-aid over a bullet hole ... you only think you're solving a problem, when in fact you're making it much worse.     I was an unconscious eater for so long.   When you eat just because it's what you do, you never get to enjoy or appreciate food.   I'll never be able to enjoy or appreciate alcohol, so I'm grateful that with food I've managed to find a balance.

What keeps me on track is the fear of going back to that unconscious place, where I'm stuck in a prison of my own creation and I don't even realize I have the key to get out.

Awake

As I braked in order to slow for a red light, my car hit black ice and started to slide towards a busy intersection.

My heart jumped in fear as I turned into the skid, while my eyes darted towards the cars rushing through the intersection about twenty feet ahead of me.

Two thoughts popped into my head before conscious thought winked out and my mind went white with fear:

Huh.  Time really does slow to a crawl when you're facing imminent danger.

Thank God nobody else is in the car.

It seemed to take hours.  My front end turned left - into the skid - and headed towards the median strip next to me, while my back end shimmied out of control.   I admit it - I closed my eyes and braced for impact.  Two feet before the intersection my car suddenly spun 180 degrees and came to a dead stop, facing the wrong way, but shy of the cars rushing past.  I missed the median strip, too.

It took a moment or two for my brain to register that I was okay.  I was okay.  

The whole thing probably took 10 seconds.   I turned the car around, the light turned green, and I cautiously  made my way through the intersection.  I was shaking too much to drive, so I pulled over to the side of the road.  

I sat with my face in my hands, heart racing, and tried to slow my breathing.   Thank God there were no cars near me, I thought.   Thank God I stopped before the intersection.    Thank you, God. 

I was out on a snowy Sunday night because I had to go to Target to pick up baby clothes, blankets and diapers for our church's annual Christmas Charity Drive.    Maybe that's why my car stopped, I thought.   I was heading out to do some good in the world. 

~~~~~

Later that night I was still shaken.    Everyone else was asleep, and I sat in my darkened living room and basked in the lights from the Christmas Tree.

I kept replaying scenarios in my head, thinking about how narrowly I escaped being badly hurt, or worse.   What if the car hadn't stopped?  What if I had hit the median?   What if there had been cars in the lane next to mine?  

Careful what you wish for, I thought.   You just might get it. 

I had been feeling so flat lately.    Busy but bored, I had felt like a spectator in my own life.    I have been living under a pile of little details, busily sifting through each day to make the pile smaller, only to have it grow in the night.   Every day:  wake up, sift, sort, sleep. 

I don't pray very often, but I prayed last night. 

I get it, I thought.   My gratitude is back.  Thank you.

~~~~~

Thank you for all of the responses to my last post, too.   Every single one of them helped me; I am comforted to know I'm not alone in how I felt, and inspired by all you had to say.

I figured out, too, what the problem was:   my people-pleasing is showing.

I have been too caught up in writing about what I think people want to hear, instead of what is coming from my heart.     I'm focusing on the external again, something I have worked hard to avoid.    It's probably because I'm stressed, I'm tired, and I haven't been able to get to many meetings.    Left alone in my own head, those voices that like to tell me how I don't measure up come alive.    For years the only antidote I had for those voices was to ramp up my people-pleasing:  Don't like yourself?  Make sure everyone else likes you!   

I never used to worry about how blog posts will be received; I wrote because I needed to.   Somewhere in the past month or so, as I became disenchanted with myself, I lost the melody to my heart song, and I lost my gratitude.   I was sleep walking through my days.

It took a near death experience and kind words from all of you, but I'm back, now.

I'm awake.

Hamsters, Homework, Haircuts and Havoc

The day started with the expiration of our hamster, Rhino.

He lived a surprisingly long little hamster life, given that our track record with small-ish critters is less than stellar.  Steve and I knew he was ailing, and it had become part of my morning and night routine to peer cautiously into his cage to see if he was still among the living.   

This morning, he wasn't.

I waited until the kids were home from school to tell them.   Lots of tears ensued, followed by the Circle of Life talk. 

"Wino (I love that Finn calls him that because he can't say his "Rs" correctly) is in heaven, wight?"

"Yes, Finn."  

He thinks for a moment.  "So he's playing wif Coalie? And Yellowy?  And Taily-Tail?  And Harry I, II, II and IV??"  (our kitty, favorite chicken, leopard gecko and a series of Betta fish, respectively).

I grimace.  "Yes, they are all together now."

Greta took Rhino's passing in stride, for the most part.   She cried for a while, then wiped her tears away and said, "even though it makes me sad when they die, I'm glad we have pets."

~~~~~

My days are jam packed.   My business is busy, and the kids' schedules are hectic.   I hit the ground running at 7am every morning, and usually don't get to bed until after 11pm each night.  

Every inch of today was full.   With both kids in school until 2pm,  I spent the morning delivering local orders, catching up on work emails and going to several stores to buy materials and office supplies.   Finn got home first, and I forced myself to carve out some time and play a game or two.   Greta came home at 3:30pm and found me where I usually am at that time:  scrambling to finish orders and get to the post office by 5pm.   

After the post office we went to Target for some much needed groceries and gifts.   Home by 6:15pm, unpacked groceries, fixed dinner, supervised baths, gave Greta a hair cut that is long overdue and read a bedtime story.   Steve came home at 8pm and we held a little ceremony to say goodbye to Rhino, and then Steve buried him back in the woods.   More tears, a couple of back rubs and two fetched glasses of water later I limped downstairs, exhausted, to work some more on orders.

Every day feels just like the last one.   There is often some unexpected hurdle (like the death of a hamster), but for the most part every day unfolds just like the one before.   And there is never enough time.

I keep waiting for the panic monkey to strike.    Last year at this time I was a wreck; I felt like I wasn't measuring up on any front.   I almost shut down the business.  I almost stopped blogging.  Everything was so dramatic. 

This year feels different, and I've been trying to figure out why.   Part of it, I think, is that I adjusted my expectations.

I go easy on myself about things like laundry and housework.   I'm asking for help from family, friends and babysitters instead of resentfully doing it all myself.   When doubt and shame creep in and whisper to me that I'm not spending enough time with my kids or the house looks like a tornado hit, I tell myself that I simply don't have time to listen. I know I'm doing the best I can, dammit, and I'm too busy to feel badly about any of it.   So there.

I have my moments, to be sure.   There are times I feel like my head is going to explode:  when I'm trying to get orders done and I have to get up every three minutes to break up a fight, adjust a channel, find a lost toy or fetch a snack, I can get resentful.   But it doesn't last long. 

Last year at this time I felt like I was chasing my tail.    This year I feel swept along by some unseen current, and instead of feeling panicky and out of control, I feel mostly curious.   I wonder where it's taking me?

I haven't posted since last Thursday - haven't even thought of posting - and that's a long time for me.   I told myself I wasn't going to post just for the sake of posting, but I need to decompress, think things through.  I need to stop, once in a while, and writing a few words on my little acre of the internet helps me do just that. 

Thank you for listening.   I'm grateful for this space where I can just ramble, unwind, decompress.    Eventually I'll get back into writing; I'm not worried about it.  

Everything works itself out, I'm learning, if I can just be patient enough to let it.

A Life Changing Message

I'm not a big fan of posting videos of other people talking on my blog.   I feel like it's a cop-out for doing serious writing, and I'm pretty sure very, very few people ever actually watch them anyway.

But a reader sent me this talk by Brene Brown (sorry, I don't know how to put the accent over the last "e" in her name - it's pronounced Bren-nay), and it moved me to tears.   Brene says exactly - and I mean EXACTLY - what I try to put into words on this blog, and she says it beautifully.  And concisely.

It's about twenty minutes long, so please find some quiet time, when you don't have any distractions, and watch this.   This message is life changing.   Truly.  What she talks about is how I try to live my life, and when I struggle it's only because I'm losing sight of these important fundamentals.  

Thank you, Leslie, for sending this, and for understanding how much it would mean to me.

If you can't open the video below, please click here. 

Hobgoblins and Ekk Monsters

I've been thinking a lot about time, because I don't ever have enough.

November came and went in the blink of an eye.   One minute we were trick-or-treating, then I blinked and we were sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner.   I blink again and another week has flown by.

My life is very full at the moment - not unmanageably busy, but teetering on the edge of Too Much.   My little business gets a lot bigger this time of year.  I'm grateful - so grateful - that it is growing, that this may be what I do for a living when Finn is in school next year.   It has gone from a something I did on the side to keep the wolf away from the door to something that materially contributes to our household's income.    I haven't lost my sense of wonder that this little hobby I started three years ago has become such a creative force for me; it has surpassed my wildest dreams.

But it means I have less time for other things, like writing.   My writing hobgoblin has gone on vacation again (if you have no idea what I'm talking about, click on the link).   I used to have so many ideas for things to write about I would wake up in the middle of the night and furiously scribble thoughts down.   Now I sit and stare at the Big White Space on my computer screen and feel totally uninspired.    I can't fake it, or force it, so I'm just waiting it out.    Eventually my writing hobgoblin will return from wherever hobgoblins go, and I will write again.    I know I will.   In the meantime my creative energies are flowing into my jewelry.  I guess that's just where they are meant to go at the moment.

The other night I was clicking off lights, preparing to go to bed, when I saw a picture my daughter had drawn - one I hadn't noticed before - tacked to the bulletin board in her playroom.     It sums up the way things are around here right now:

It's hard to see, so I'll provide a narrative:  Greta drew herself standing at the bottom of a flight of stairs, and two little monsters are chasing her .. saying "Ekk".  The Ekk monster closest to her has his little arms outstretched, ready to snatch her away.  She is thinking, "Mom".   And where am I?   Upstairs, busy with something, and yelling down, "Coming!"

Yup.  I'm busy. 

It's okay, though.   Last year I remember I was all twisted up about time, about balance; I felt like I wasn't measuring up on any front.

I have more acceptance this year .. at least at the moment I do.   The mommy-guilt doesn't stab me as deeply.   The kids are learning how to amuse themselves on their own, and I'm proud of the business I'm building.  

The other day as I sat and made jewelry, they wandered into my studio.  I waited for the usual requests  for juice or endless questions about what we were going to do that day.   Instead, they walked around my studio, admiring pieces of jewelry, passing them back and forth and talking about their favorites.

"When I grow up, I want to create," Greta said.  "Maybe art.  I think I would be a great artist."

"Like Momma?"  Finn asked.

"Yes, just like Momma," Greta replied.

Instead of beating myself up for all the ways I'm not cutting it, for all the times I have to put them off to finish an order or talk to a customer, I'm grateful they see me as more than just the snack-fetcher, cook and chauffeur.

And when my hobgoblin gets back from vacation he's totally going to kick the Ekk monsters' asses.     In the meantime, I've got jewelry to make.

Fear and Loathing in The Land of Pie

I had some trepidations going into the Thanksgiving holiday.  For many people, Thanksgiving is all about eating and drinking.    I had experienced Thanksgiving three times sober and I knew what to expect, what to do, how to keep myself safe.

This was my first Thanksgiving, though, since the completion of Operation Get Healthy.   I had successfully maintained my sixty pound weight loss by sticking to a healthy diet and exercising moderately.

But I haven't really been tested yet.   Thanksgiving would be my first test.   

I realized recently that I'm still very fearful of food.    I'm fearful of the whole idea that I'm a healthy weight now, actually.   It still doesn't seem real to me yet... like I might wake up one morning and it will all have been a bizarre dream.   

There are a lot of parallels between an unhealthy relationship with food and an unhealthy relationship with alcohol.    In many respects, though, getting sober was more clear cut.   Not easier, but the Do Not Cross line was more obvious to me.  Every drink is a "bad" drink.   I can't even have one.  There is no such thing as moderate drinking for me, but I'm having to learn moderate eating.  It's hard.

Let's take pie, for example.   I love pie.   Thanksgiving is all about pie for me.    I was pondering a pie-less Thanksgiving and feeling sad. 

I really felt like if I ate a slice of pie that I would wake up the next morning right back where I was, sixty pounds heavier.  I know the thought is irrational, but the fear is real.   It's the same fear I have of drinking, but with recovery that fear keeps me sober.   I don't want to live my life fearful of food.

I talked to my Jenny Craig consultant about it, and she emphasized - yet again - that the idea is to live in a world full of good food and be able to make smart choices.   "One moderate slice of pie won't hurt you," she said.   "You need to start to trust yourself again, cultivate a healthy relationship to food.   If you deny yourself everything, it's going to make the cravings louder, and you'll be miserable.   The trick is healthy portions, and no seconds.   Just give that a try."

I have an addict's brain.   If one slice of pie is good, two is better.    I have to learn how to have one slice of pie.

At Thanksgiving I took small helpings of everything.    I wanted more when I was done, but I didn't have more.    When I scraped the kids' half-full plates into the disposal, I thought about how before I would have polished their leftovers off, too.

Pie was served about an hour after dinner.  I had one smallish slice with a dollop of whipped cream.   A voice in my head was screaming to me: this is WRONG!  WRONG!   You're going to FAIL!    And, sure enough, I immediately wanted more.

But getting sober has taught me that just because I want something doesn't mean I have to have it.  

I poured myself a cup of coffee and sipped that instead.   The craving for more pie passed in about three minutes, leaving me feeling satisfied and a little bit proud.  

The real test came for me at my weekly weigh-in.   I don't weigh myself every day, because I'll get obsessive.   So once a week I step on the scale, in order to track how I'm doing on my own.    The scale showed the same number it has been showing for six weeks now - my goal weight.

Thanksgiving dinner and the pie didn't ruin everything.  Of course they didn't.   But I'm having to prove to myself that I can do it - I can make smart choices and stop myself from eating more than I need, and that I don't have to live in full deprivation mode to be successful.

In order to successfully lose the weight, I had to get my faulty thinking out of the way; I was an expert at rationalizing myself into the wrong choice.     Now I'm having to slowly reintroduce my thinking back into the equation, but this time using my powers for good instead of evil.     I can hear my Food Voice talking to me all the time.  Sometimes she's trying to get me to eat more, like a second helping of pie.  Sometimes she's convincing me that if I have one slice of pie I may as well give up, because I've blown it.

I'm learning to acknowledge that she's there, forgive her for having those thoughts, and then ignoring her.   She can babble away all she wants, but it doesn't mean I have to listen.  

In recovery, if I have one drink I would consider it a relapse.   I would start again, from scratch, Day One.

With food it's different, and it has taken me a while to get my mind around that fact that there is no Relapse.   It used to be one of my favorite tricks to play on myself ... I'd diet for a while, then I'd cave and eat cake or cookies, and then that Food Voice would kick in and say, "Well, I guess you've blown it for this week.  Start again Monday."   And that Monday would never come.

There are no "bad" foods, just bad choices.   I want to feel pride from making a good choice, rather than give food the power to make me feel badly.  The best thing about choices?  You learn from each and every one of them, and that is the pathway to freedom from guilt and fear. 

How About Now?

I forget, sometimes, that I live with a Zen Master.   He's five.

Finn has no concept of time.   Several times a day we have a conversation that goes something like this:

"Momma, can I have some juice?"

"Yes, in a minute."

"How long is a minute?"

"It's not long; just let me finish typing this email and I'll get you some juice."

"But.. how long is a minute?"

"Sixty seconds."

Pause.  "Sixty is a big numbah, though.  Sixty is a long time."

"No, a second is short, and sixty seconds doesn't take long."

Pause.   "It feels like it's taking a long time."

"Every time you interrupt me, it takes longer.  Now just be patient, I'm almost done."

Slightly longer pause.  "Is it a minute now?"

I ignore him and type.

"How about now?  Is it a minute now?"

"Just WAIT, Finn."

Very slightly longer pause.    "I told you sixty seconds is a long time.   It's taking forevah."

The only time Finn understands is NOW.     It's not just that he's impatient, although that's part of it.   Mostly, he simply doesn't grasp the concept of more than a few seconds into the future.

The other day, as I was putting his coat on, he said, "Momma, I don't want to go to school."

"It's Wednesday, Finn," I replied.  "You don't have school today."

His face lit up.  "Oh GOOD!   I like Wednesday, then.   Wednesday is stay-with-Mom day."

I realized he gets up every morning not knowing what he'll do that day.  He just wakes up and exists.  If he's hungry, he'll ask for food.   If he's bored, he'll ask to play a game.   He waits for a thought, desire or need to arise before addressing it.    He's not thinking:  I hope I'm not bored today.

When he's looking forward to something, like his birthday party, he'll struggle with the concept of time.   

"How long until my pahty, Momma?"

"Five days, Finn.  On Saturday."

He furrows his brow.   "I just counted to five.  Is my pahty now?"

"No, five days means you go to sleep four times, and on the fifth morning it will be Saturday."

"Can I take five naps and then have my pahty today?"

If Finn has a thought, or a need, he wants it addressed immediately, because RIGHT NOW is all he understands.

It was starting to drive me crazy.    

But then I realized I read countless books, listen to hours of guided meditation and spend an inordinate amount of time prattling on about my own quest to live in the moment, and forget that the perfect tour guide of Now is right under my nose.  

I tried looking at the world through Finn's eyes.  When he's coloring or playing a game he's totally lost to the moment; he isn't painting a picture while worrying about the Next Thing.   In his world, there is only Now.

Greta, who is eight, has understood time for over a year now.   She's a clock and calender watcher; she lives in anticipation or fear of future events, like the arrival of the bus in the morning, bedtime or a doctor's appointment in two weeks.   

Since grasping the concept of time, Greta doesn't exist in the Now much anymore.   At first this was a relief, because it put an end to the instant-gratification-takes-too-long conversations.  It took me a while to understand that it is actually a kind of loss.   Along with the understanding of time comes anxiety, anticipation and nervousness.    She won't sleep well the night before a class presentation or a dentist appointment.   She gets herself into a panic most mornings, worried that she will miss the bus.

As I tucked the kids into bed last night, Greta said, "Mom, tomorrow I have Girl Scouts, so don't forget.  And Thursday is the school book fair, so you have to come visit my classroom.  Friday I have a doctor's appointment.  Did you write all that down in the calendar?"

Finn got his story and his back scratch and settled down to sleep.   He doesn't know if the next day is a stay-with-Mom day or a school day, but he's not thinking about it.   He'll deal with that when it comes.

It's sad, really, how one of the first grown-up lessons kids learn is to be a slave to time, schedules and obligations.   

When Saturday and Sunday roll around and we don't have much planned, it can be tough.   I get up feeling edgy and disjointed when there aren't places we have to be, only endless stretches of deciding where we want to be.   I get a little pit in my stomach thinking about one whole day of juggling household chores, jewelry orders and yard work with the endless demands of two young kids.

So this weekend I surrendered to time.   I did my best not to think about the next minute or the next hour.  When the kids asked what we were going to do, I replied, "I don't know ... what do you want to do?"

They wanted to go to the playground.   It was an unseasonably warm November day in New England; the perfect day to be outside.     I didn't want to go to the playground and sit uselessly while they played.  I had a list of things to do a mile long.     So I pretended I was Finn.  I told myself the only thing that mattered was now - the playground - and didn't let myself think about what came next.   

I spent about twenty minutes thinking:  here's me not thinking about my to-do list.   Gradually, though, I relaxed into the moment.    I listened to my kids' laughter as they played tag with a kid they had just met.   I felt the slight twinge of cold in the air, and inhaled its sweet wood-smoke scent.   I turned my face towards the bright, low-slanting autumnal rays of sunshine, and soaked in their warmth.      

When the kids - apple cheeked and beaming - tapped me on the arm and announced they were ready to go home, I surfaced from a deep reverie; my head was full of silence.   

I had no concept of how long we had been at the playground.  The clock in the car informed me more than two hours had passed.    Two hours of simply existing, instead of wringing my hands, glancing at the time, and hurrying the kids along so I could get to the Next Thing.

I understood why Finn smiles a lot.  

Now is the perfect slice of time, absent of obligation and worry, because you can't be anywhere but right where you are.

What is a moment?   It's a heartbeat, a single breath.    We do these things hundreds of times a day, and don't give them a second thought, but they are the building blocks of all life.  Without them we cease to exist.
 

Moments are like that, too.   We examine hours, days, weeks and months, and ignore the thousands of single moments that hold everything together.   

Neglecting moments is like spending life in the waiting room, living in anticipation of Next, waiting - always waiting - and never experiencing. 

We are all born hard wired to live in the moment, to experience life exactly as it is, not as we want it to be.    As we grow up, we get further and further away from our natural state of wonder and acceptance.

The other day Finn and I were running out the door, late for something - school, or an appointment - and I was rushing around, begging him to hurry up.   On the way to the car, a bright yellow leaf on the ground caught his eye, and he stopped to admire its beauty.

"Look, Momma," he said, holding it up for me to see.   "Isn't it amazing?"

Yes.  Yes, it is.