Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Guilt


Guilt. The endless weight of guilt and regret. Should have, could have. Why did I? Why didn't I? How could I? Self-rejection and mental beatings, reaching, reaching, reaching for...for the impossible? For the vague but brightly illuminated expectations held ever in front of my mind's eye. All I should be and do. All I want to say and accomplish. Willing me toward more, toward better, toward a sleepless night of never enoughs. Marinating, even while I rest, in the heaviness of guilt.  



Lately, I find myself falling asleep in pools of guilt, finally slowing my mind enough to realize something about my day didn't quite align with my desires just as my head hits the pillow. Finally realizing that, yet again, I have fallen short of many of my expectations. I say to myself as I drift to sleep, "Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll do better."  Parent better. Clean better. Multi-task better. Play better. Breathe better. Be better.

I plan on rising early to meditate and read, to focus my mind and heart on truth and love before the busyness of toddler-rearing and working-from-home begins. Some days I get that head start, but most days something goes wrong and I fall short before the sun even rises. My heart is racing and my muscles are tense even as I welcome just awakened little ones, the weight of all that pressure, all those expectations, all that guilt already burdening me. 

I yell too many times during the day. Sometimes I scream and cause tears and the most heart-wrenching frowny faces, that I want to rip my own tongue out. I grab wrists too tightly and I turn the TV on too often. I apologize for what seems like the thirtieth time in an hour, a constant model to my children of failing and I'm sorry's. I hear sweet, accepting, I forgive you's, but know deep down that I am not able to forgive myself. Not yet. Not now, in all this mess.

They say sociopaths don't experience guilt, that they are incapable of the moral compassing of shoulds and coulds that guide much of society. In this sense, I am thankful for my guilt. I am thankful for a built-in cue, signaling a misalignment between my actions or words and my values. I am thankful for awareness and empathy and a desire to match my life with what I believe to be truth. 

But what happens when our values are distorted? When our "truth" gets skewed into a variety of off-kilter expectations and endless quests for more, more, more? Self-imposed standards that, when dissected and exposed, are nothing short of impossible? No more sociopath talk here - nothing that extreme or obvious or menacingly wrong. Perhaps just as dangerous, yes, but much, much more subtle. Masked as goodness, as growth; masked as a desire to love more, listen more, do more, be more. Masked as our own inner drive toward wholeness, or rather, perhaps, toward perfection.



Some days feel like a broken record...

I'm sorry, Kyler.
I forgive you, mama. 
I'm sorry, Havyn.
I forgive you, mama.

But sorry is never enough, because the weight of the guilt just keeps piling and piling and causing me to crack again. Causing me to fall under the weight of it all, so that endlessly I am messing up, endlessly I am feeling guilty, endlessly I am exhausted by the never enoughs...and endlessly I am messing up again. I cannot break free long enough to feel cured, whole, forgiven. The more I mess up, the guiltier I feel. The more flaws in a day, the more self-mutilating I become. 

It is so cyclical, that I cannot help but wonder if it is the guilt that is partially responsible for the emotional mess I find myself in so many days. Sure, I need to be more patient and more attentive and more kind and more gentle and a million and one other mores. Yes I should pray more and trust more and...it all just becomes another list of mores. What about when I'm not more? What about right now? Could it be that the feeling of not enough is actually causing the most damage? Could it be that the weight of guilt from never quite living up to all these standards is the ultimate roadblock, the anchor tying me down to fatigue and failure?

I dream of life without regret, without the nightly ritual of falling to sleep with guilt and disappointment from another day of falling short. I wonder, what would life be like if I really and truly lived this word: Enough. What would it feel like to be content with my parenting and my home and my business and my faith? What would it feel like to live a whole day, not trying to accomplish or to improve, but just marinating in enough

For far too long, that has seemed like a distant dream. And perhaps I am being naive to think this, but it also seems like a lovely dream. It seems like a place of deep breaths and long embraces and full hearts. Where we try and fail, of course, but where failing is not followed by the noose of regret, but by the rope of hope. Where second chances are welcomed with open arms and somehow our souls are slippery enough that the guilt never sticks for long. Where freedom from not meeting our own expectations liberates us to a place of greater fulfillment and alignment with those very desires and dreams. Where we sleep deep, embrace our flawed selves and soar.


Today, may we find courage to whisper to the skies the boldest of all four letter words: "Help!". May we find wings to rise from all the expectations, finding freedom, finally, from the exhausting weight of guilt. 







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Sunday, September 7, 2014

Mint, Blue & Purple Owl Birthday Party


Hard to believe we're already over halfway through 2014. What the heck!?  It's amazing how slowly an individual morning can go when I'm dealing with two fussy, defiant toddlers, trying to check a million to do's off my list, cook, clean...but then I blink, and six months have passed! And I would give anything to freeze some of those mornings in time, to capture them and live in them forever. 


You may be wondering why all the nostalgia or time-talk. Well, I'm about to share pictures from my kiddos' second and third birthday party...which happened back in March! I'm not sure how I left this on the to do list for so long since I'm normally anal about getting those crazy squares checked off as quickly as possible. Somehow it slipped, but was a special enough event that I couldn't let it go forever.

We had a low-key celebration this year, compared to years passed. Less friends, less decor and a much lower budget. We weren't even sure whether or not to do a party initially, thinking maybe it was better to cut the logistics and expense altogether for a year. But, in the end, I realized celebrations are in my nature and these are my babies who will only turn two and three once. So, party it was!!

I did vow early on not to make any new purchases for the party decor, which I faithfully stuck to. I looted my craft room and put together a theme based on cute little birthday owls in mint greens, blues and purples. I happened to have a ton of sheer mint green fabric left over from my daughter's nursery, so we were able to do a beautiful fabric bunting draping into a balloon chandelier. 



Cupcakes are a must for me because they are a great way to tie in a party's theme, and because I could eat cupcakes all day long! I made owl toppers and heart toppers, all with extra paper I had laying around the house. 


Since I was trying to keep costs low, I made my own cakepops! I kept them simple with white chocolate coating and mint polka dots. Our favors were a hodgepodge of leftover party favors from previous events, clearance halloween favors I had in storage and one bag of new candy. I loved being able to destash my party supply closet, while saving money!


I wrapped little juice boxes in the same coordinating owl paper, stamped owls on blue paper bags and embellished the water pitcher with ribbon and a mint heart. No new supplies were purchased in the making of these pieces (catching a theme?!).


 One of my favorite pieces was the mantle display, which included handmade pieces of art by the kids themselves! 


I always like to display the kids' scrapbooks at their birthday parties. This time around I made a simple "GROWING" banner and strung it between two bottles where their scrapbooks were. 


Happy Birthday, Kyler & Havyn! What a blessing it is to be your mama!


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Tuesday, September 2, 2014

Middle Places

Last weekend I was at a birthday lunch where I got into a conversation with extended family I had not seen for a while. The couple began asking me about our adoption journey, something they had heard about briefly from another family member. I have not advertised much about our recent walk back into the adoption world, guarding the facts in a very tender place of uncertainty and hope. 
So, a bit unpracticed, I began to share details of where we are currently in the process. I spoke about all the paperwork and finger printing and delays in translation. I told them about our referral, his age and name and what all the paperwork says about how he became an orphan. I showed them pictures of his sweet little face. Then I emphasized how tenuous international adoptions are, how quickly things can change in his country and thus, how loosely we are holding this specific referral. 
The conversation lasted twenty minutes or so, full of logistics and caveats and administrative details. Early the next morning, as I sat in stillness, the conversation played back through my mind and I felt myself watching the whole interaction as if I were a third party. I sensed my own guardedness, all the lack of emotion, and watched the flat routine of words coming from my lips. I was deeply struck with this distinct thought, “What would your words be if you were mindful of spirit?”



I saw in that moment how disconnected my words were from my heart; how often disconnected I am from spirit. I grimaced at the appearance of more facades, more formalities, more living from the surface. Despite all the becoming, all the spirituality, all the writing and creating and talking of depth, I saw how often my life is lived in the wading of shallow waters. How routinely I stick to routine, checking off my lists, thoughtlessly encountering each moment. 
This mantra began to resonate within me, “Mind your spirit.” I sat with it and felt the weight of knowing, the longing to undo so many days, so many words, so much life that continually slips through my fingers as I exist in a half-awake state. Greeting a friend, but forgetting the embrace, forgetting to stop and really see her. Smiling at the cashier, but only out of habit, distracted by kicking legs and yelling lips and long lists and what Jane is doing at cash register five. Looking up from the computer when husband gets home, but only for a moment - not nearly long enough for all his effort, all his support, all his love. 
My mind jumps from one missed opportunity to the next and at first I slip into a downward spiral of self-loathing. I anticipate the regret, the guilt, the burden of not doing more, saying more, being more. I fight the current of thoughts and feelings, willing myself back to steady ground. But, then I remind myself that the guilt alone is not the enemy. That, in fact, girded with self-love, regret and guilt can guide me back to what I value most. That if I listen, calmed by self-acceptance, they will be my flags home, highlighting a part of my soul that needs my attention, my love - not my dismay or disgust
So, this time, instead of running or wallowing, I listen to the message. I write on my arm for the day, “Mind your spirit.” My son, Kyler, notices it first and reprimands me for drawing on myself. I acknowledge the discrepancy, pleading adult know-how as my excuse. Moments later, he comes back with full sleeves drawn up both arms in blue and green and black marker, “notes like mama.” He says, his message reads, “Vacation was nice.” 

Even with my new ink, I struggle to remain aware of my spirit throughout the day, to stay awake to soul in the mundane moments of making lunch and straightening house and wiping bottoms. I try to listen more fully, look more intently. I struggle and most often, I fail. By the end of the day, my penned message has smudged and faded, much like my will.
I tell myself not to despair. I will pen messages on my arms for years to come and end many of those days with faded ink and faded will. I relate to author Anne Lamott’s words from her book, Stitches:
                    "We try to be more present and less petty. Some days go better than others.                 
                     We look for solace in nature and art and maybe, if we are lucky, the quiet 
                     satisfaction of our home.” 
I know it’s not in me to give up, and yet I get so discouraged and so stuck sometimes. I get so lost in the hum-drum of life, the lists, the routines, the empty smiles and shallow greetings. I will for more than failed attempts and missed opportunities.
In the days that follow, I retrace my temporary tattoo multiple times so that it remains legible, an ever-present reminder: Mind your spirit. I oscillate between optimistic effort and frustrated encounters, between hopeful thinking and discouraged being. The past continues to carry regret, so that only in looking ahead can I remain completely positive. I will the ink, the words and their meaning, to sink into my veins and become a part of me. To take on a life of their own and animate my being. I want to be better at all of this now - fully engaged every moment, complete, whole, authentic - now. I want to love better today. 

I am reminded of one of my favorite author’s, Sue Monk Kidd, who penned an entire book about her own journey of rushing spirituality. In, When the Heart Waits, she writes: 
                      "A lot of us have spent our lives in shortcut religion. We haven’t been willing 
                       to face the fact that while the spiritual journey is joyous and full, it’s also long 
                       and hard. It asks much - too much sometimes.” 
Her words continue to resonate inside of me, reminding me both to look to my fellow travelers, to know that I am not alone, and to honor the lifelong process of becoming. 

Later in the same book, Kidd writes:
                     "We seem to have focused so much on exuberant beginnings and victorious 
                      endings that we’ve forgotten about the slow, sometimes tortuous, unraveling 
                      of God’s grace that takes place in the “middle places”.” 
So much of life for me has been a “middle place” - a place of waiting, of groaning, of becoming and growing. Much less glory and exuberance than in my dreams. Perhaps that is, in fact, life for all of us. But, oh, how I have wrestled and writhed and struggled with all that I am to run to the end or dive into another beginning. How I have hated the “middle places”, despised the slow and steady processes of becoming.  
Today, I can look at my day and make another list full of things to regret and imperfections to perfect. Words spoken too harshly, embraces let go too soon, majoring on all the minors and the mundane, checking lists off rather than checking in with spirit. I can see my shortcomings well and feel the longing within for more. But, feebly, failingly, ferociously, I trust in the “middle place”. I remind myself, over and over and over again, that the process is life. That the middle is where I belong, where I most want to be.

Tomorrow, I’ll be minding my spirit, failing, forgetting, trying again the next day, for endless tomorrows. There’s no glory in the messing up, I know. No fireworks or rounds of applause. No fairy tale endings and neatly wrapped boxes. No grand entrances or encore performances. Just a slow and steady unraveling of God’s grace. 

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Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Lunar Spirituality: Embracing Darkness


"I have been given the gift of lunar spirituality, in which the divine light available to me waxes and wanes with the season..."


For several months, I have planted myself in a rich, dark, earthy soil of acceptance and becoming. I have seen myself take root, awakened by the richness of wisdom and daring from authors like Sue Monk Kidd, Barbara Taylor Brown and Anne Lammot. I have felt the rising of, at first fragile starts, gaining strength and height as I grow out into the world, embracing my place in it.

Much of the growth has come at the hand of this revelation: Darkness is not evil. And inherent in that, mystery and questioning and uncertainty, too, are not evil. What is more, darkness and all it’s allies, are beautiful and holy. You should know, I do not use those adjective lightly. I have come to believe in the deepest parts of my being that the greatest challenges of our lives are likely, too, the most holy. That the deep questioning and the endless searching out of Mystery is, at it’s core, a truly holy act. And that weeping and wandering and leaving the staleness of the past may in fact be exactly what Jesus had in mind when he said, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

What greater poverty of spirit is there than to admit, “I’m not sure”? What greater humility and breaking-open - in the midst of loss and tragedy and injustice and sickness - is there, than to voice the unknown and walk bravely into the darkness? To lay one’s soul bare to the mysteries of the world? To stay true to your own heart, despite convention, despite criticism? 

In my own spiritual journey, I ran to the darkness out of necessity. I ran from the rigidity and the staleness and the certainty and the suffocation of my previous way of living and believing. In the wake of deep personal sadness and loss, questions rose from my gut and mystery enclosed me. And I allowed them to. I gave my soul space to not know, space to sit in sadness or confusion, room to thrash about and question and not accept all the petty, pretty answers that were being thrown at me. I let my heart be - timid, unsure, free. And as a result, I found myself in the midst of darkness way before I knew it was a place of beauty or holiness.

Initially, I hated the darkness. I wanted the light, the answers, the confidence of knowing what came next. The inclusion. The perceived control. I wanted to belong, I wanted familiarity and clarity. And yet, I could never will myself to swallow all the questions or suffocate all the becoming that was leading me away from those systems. As much as I mourned the loss of that former self, and sometimes ran from my new reality, I count it as one of the greatest blessings in my life that I honored my soul enough to let her wander, and ask, and become her own. I was choosing to be in the darkness, desperate for freedom. And still - it was hard. And lonely. And frustratingly dark. 



The first few years of my journey into the dark were very much like the first few months of a baby’s life outside the womb. For those of us who have experienced newborns, it’s easy to observe that in many ways these tiny creatures seem completely underprepared for life on the outside. Some refer to these post-birth months as the “fourth trimester”. Baby's virgin digestive system struggles to process mother’s milk, leading to gas and belly aches and all-night wailing. Baby is incapable of self-soothing and so, sleeps in tiny increments at all hours of the day. Baby is completely dependent, has an assortment of bizarre bodily fluids and occasionally one is so furious about their new environment, they are labeled “colicky”. From my personal experience with such a baby, colicky seems to means, “Put me back in the f-in womb or I’m going to make your life a living hell.” Unfortunately, since the logistics of putting the baby back into the womb are SLIGHTLY less conceivable than dealing with the turmoil of a baby that cries hysterically for several hours a day, we grit and bear it. And eventually, {Thank God!} we emerge from the darkness and sleeplessness and hellishness of those first months.

In my own spiritual journey, I experienced a "fourth trimester”, which included all the wailing and inconsolability of a colicky newborn. In many ways, for months, even years, I was simply angry and wanted out of my circumstances. I wanted to be miraculously transported to days of less knowing, less asking, back to days of blissful certainty and belonging. And like a newborn, I spent much of my time focused on the basics of survival: eat, sleep, poop, repeat. I tried to numb the pain with the busyness of life, the simple logistics of working, eating, paying the bills and cleaning. I often sought out the “here and now”, tried to let the questions and the pain wane into the background of my soul. I willed myself to believe the myth that time will heal, all the while hating the darkness I found myself in. 

When I finally awoke to the fact that time was not working as the cure I had expected it to be, I was fortunate in my awakening to encounter voices of hope and encouragement and truth. I was fortunate to stumble across others who had experienced life and loss and lived to write about it. I was fortunate to learn that the darkness could in fact be from God, could in fact be beauty, holy. 

Author Barbara Brown Taylor describes her own spiritual “fourth trimester”, her own struggle in the darkness and eventual embracing of it. Every line feels as though it came straight from my soul, so much so that I struggled to narrow which selection of paragraphs to include here. Brown captures the heart of my and many others' struggles, the pain of well-intentioned spiritual communities, and the journey to find purpose outside the walls of the "Light”. She begins by introducing the idea of our obsession with labeling the dark “bad" and the light “good”. Brown writes:

“At the theological level, however, this language creates all sorts of problems. It divides every day in two, pitting the light part against the dark part.….to embrace that teaching and others like it at face value can result in a kind of spirituality that deals with darkness by denying its existence or at least depriving it of any meaningful attention. I call it “full solar spirituality” since it focuses on staying in the light of God around the clock, both absorbing and reflecting the sunny side of faith. You can usually recognize a full solar church by its emphasis on the benefits of faith, which include a sure sense of God’s presence, certainty of belief, divine guidance in all things, and reliable answers to prayer. Members strive to be positive in attitude, firm in conviction, helpful in relationships, and unwavering in faith. This sounds like heaven on earth. Who would not like to dwell in God’s light 24/7?

   If you have ever belonged to such a community, however, you may have discovered that the trouble starts when darkness falls on your life, which can happen in any number of unsurprising ways: you lose your job, your marriage falls apart, your child acts out in some attention-getting way, you pray hard for something that does not happen, you begin to doubt some of the things you have been taught about what the Bible says. The first time you speak of these things in a full solar church, you can usually get a hearing. Continue to speak of them and you may be reminded that God will not let you be tested beyond your strength. All that is required of you is to have faith. If you still do not get the message, sooner or later it will be made explicit for you: the darkness is your own fault, because you do not have enough faith. 

   Having been on the receiving end of this verdict more than once, I do not think it is as mean as it sounds. The people who said it seemed genuinely to care about me. They had honestly offered me the best they had. Since their sunny spirituality had not given them the skills for operating in the dark, I had simply exhausted their resources. They could not enter the dark without putting their own faith at risk, so they did the best they could. They stood where I could still hear them and begged me to come back into the light. 

   If I could have, I would have. There are days when I would give anything to share their vision of the world and their ability to navigate it safely but my spiritual gifts do not seem to include the gift of solar spirituality. Instead, I have been given the gift of lunar spirituality, in which the divine light available to me waxes and wanes with the season….after I stopped thinking that all these fluctuations meant something was wrong with me, a great curiosity opened up: what would my life look like if I trusted this rhythm instead of opposing it?" 




Today, so many years removed from that "full solar spirituality" I once strived and struggled to live within, I find myself awakening to a new kind of faith, a hope in the darkness. I find that I, too, seem to have the gift of lunar spirituality and am learning to embrace the waxing and waning of my soul's seasons, the questions, the darkness and all the mystery life holds. I am finding meaning, truth, even God, here in the moonlight. 




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Sunday, July 6, 2014

Broken Hallelujahs


Last night I ran farther than I’ve ever run before. Eight miles. An hour and ten minutes of straight running, my feet hitting the cement and my chest heaving with each step. Civil Wars on my iPhone belting out their glorious southern harmonies and Gatorade in my fuel belt sloshing back and forth (the one my loving husband makes me wear). The cool evening breeze on my cheeks, the still water in the creek below, masses of trees sprawling to the sky in a breathtaking Hallelujah

This summer, I’m training for a triathlon and a half marathon, both physical goals I never, ever would have expected to achieve. Goals I could hardly even have expected to set for myself a year ago. It’s amazing how much can change in a year




I can hardly believe that today I sit on the anniversary of a dear friend's passing, a tragic death, a life gone from this earth far too soon. It seems so fresh, too close to accept that it all happened a whole year ago. 365 days of life in the wake of loss. Endless minutes of remembering and regretting, honoring and hoping. 

I can hear the voice on the other end of the line vividly, frantically waking us from sleep, sharing the news of the accident. I can remember my first reaction - the shock, disbelief, absurdity - and then the long, long dreaded ride to embrace other mourners. To face the truth. I can see bloodshot eyes, drained of more tears that any human should ever cry, weary, gutted, hollow. I can hear the silence, throats suffocated with the weight of circumstances.

I can see her pale face clearly, feel the touch of cold skin on my trembling fingers as though it was yesterday. I can feel the ache in my heart, the wailing in my soul, the hopelessness that engulfed me in the days and weeks to follow. I can see family and friends lost in their own seas of grief, all of us trying to reach out a hand in the midst of our own drowning. I can feel the guilt, the regret, the weight of our mortality. 

Today, one year later, I can hear her voice, our last conversation filled with all the kindness and thoughtfulness she so richly possessed. I can see her glowing skin, her bright smile as she asked about a recent trip our family had taken. As she sat there in quiet confidence, so interested in my answer, so concerned about our lives. I can feel the softness of the couch, the warmth of that Fourth of July day, the tenderness of her presence. I can hear my then two year old son crying from another room, beckoning me away from her, forever

I cannot find the words to express how her life affected me, how her death forever changed me. I know I am different now - because she lived, because she died. 


Taken on our way to run the Loryn Memorial Thanksgiving 5K

As I ran last night - joyful about my training accomplishments, energized from a productive day, sobered by the approaching anniversary - my heart filled with a deep sense of gratitude. A gratitude birthed out of grief, watered by tears, fertilized by seeking. I ran and breathed in a profound knowing that each step I took was a gift. That each breath I breathed was holy. I ran in awe of all the days I have gotten to live, all the souls I have gotten to embrace, all the words I have gotten to write. 

Just as my feet rhythmically hit the ground, my soul found a perfect cadence of Thank You’s. Thank you for health to run, the gift of freedom, the joy of deep, fresh breaths. Thank you for glorious sunsets and fields to play in and mud to clean up. Thank you for the privilege of caring for two beautiful children, the wonder of living life alongside such an amazing man. Thank you for the home I get to make memories in, the words I get to write, the life I get to live. Thank you for green grass on my feet and warm sun rays on my skin and kind words in my ears. Thank you for questions, for mystery, for the opportunity to love. Thank you for every day, every minute, every second that I am. 

I spoke my Thank You's to the sky - to Loryn, to the Divine, to the trees, to all who would listen. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I sung it, shouted it, breathed the fullness of it. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 




Nothing will ever justify such a loss. Nothing will ever explain such a senseless tragedy. No amount of time will satisfy the questions or remove the aches. We are right to weep, to wail, to scream with furled brows at the sky. We are right to mourn, to wear our tear stains publicly, to retreat for a season. We are right to keep remembering, seeking, wanting. 

And we are right to keep living. We are right to find a mysterious weaving together of sadness and joy, of grief and gratitude. We are right to laugh, to sing, to shout our Thank You's with hopeful hearts to the skies. To believe each day is a gift and to seize every moment with open hearts. We are right to keep loving, building, hoping.



~These words are dedicated to Loryn Cassady~




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Thursday, June 26, 2014

Ahoy It's A Boy! {PLUS Discount}


My baby sister inspired me to make a "101 things to do in 1001" days list last summer. The list is full of meaningful, random and insanely challenging things, like meet a new neighbor, expand our garden and run a half marathon.  On that list I wrote: "Reunite with an old friend", not having anything particular in mind, but knowing such a feat is possible with the Internet and Facebook.  


 I never imagined number 37 on my 101 list would turn into a full-fledged friendship with an old high school friend - getting to share life and raise children side by side with such an amazing woman, who knows more of my past than almost anyone else in my life right now.  It's been an honor reconnecting with Julie and so I was thrilled when I got to co-host a "Sprinkle" for her soon-to-arrive baby boy, Dane (AND I got to co-host with another old high school friend, Sarah, who's recently moved back to Columbus - so thankful!). 


Sarah picked an adorable nautical theme in aqua and orange. We made a diaper cake for the main table decor and decorated with baby's breathe and whale tails. I realized the morning of the party that our family portraits probably weren't an appropriate background for the Sprinkle, so I found coordinating fabric and lined the frames with aqua polka dots and orange chevron stripes - easy fix! 


Kelly with Green Jazz Face Banners made this adorable "Ahoy It's A Boy" banner that was really the show stopper of the decor. She was very fun to work with and very accommodating with our custom requests. She has a great Etsy shop and is offering all our readers 20% OFF all party banners, shipped everywhere! Just enter code WHALE20 at checkout and enjoy. Thanks, Kelly!  


It's amazing how many whale oriented things you can find to serve when you look - we served fruit salad in a whale watermelon, GF cupcakes with whale cookie toppers, GF chicken salad sandwiches cut out in the shape of whales and whale crackers! 


It was a fun, low-key celebration amongst old and new friends. Now we're all waiting to welcome baby Dane and congratulate his family! 


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Tuesday, May 13, 2014

Permission to Hope




I have not written much in the past couple months. The first reason is the same, stressed song I find nearly everyone I meet singing: Busy, busy, busy, lalalalala, too busy, busy, busy. No matter how much writing feeds my soul, no matter how magnetized my fingers are to the keyboard, no matter how many ideas and thoughts are swirling around in my head - without a concious, disciplined routine, and frankly just a lot of mad determination, I do not write. It is as I've heard beloved author, Anne Lammot, exhort over and over again: If you want or need to write, you have to create a consistent space for it in your life. I assume this is true of most any soul feeding or meaningful activity, whether it be writing or painting or running or sleeping. We have to conciously, consistently, madly make space for it in our lives. And with space being so crammed, day in an day out, that can feel like a truly impossible feat.

But the second reason that I have not written much recently is more intentional and really completely opposite as far as soul-caring goes. I gave myself permission, several weeks ago, to stop writing, to stop publishing, to step away from the keyboard completely if need be. It may sound odd to say that I gave myself permission not to do something, but if you have any experience with that inner urge to please, that debilitating sense that everyone's expecting you to perform or that compulsory feeling that your life is only meaningful when you produce something useful - well, then, you will understand the need to give oneself permission to just let go. And so, I let go. 




I found, sometime during the month of March, that writing had become compulsory for me. Not the lovely, artistic sort of compulsion where you just have to get this growing, living thing out of you and onto paper, but the shadow-self compulsion that functions by performance and rules and have to's and "what would he/she think?". The compulsion of the Performing Perfectionist: always doing, always pleasing, always useful to the world around her. I know many of you can relate. 

I was surprised when I first discovered how influential the Performing Perfectionist had become to my writing habit. Just last Fall I began discovering the joy of writing, with no strings attached, no need to edit, no particular performance or expectations surrounding it. In a season of deep grief and turmoil, writing became a place of freedom, clarity and becoming. I know for some people this magical space is contained when they run, or go for early morning walks, or paint. For me, I found deep peace and meaning in writing.

And so, I began writing, pouring my version of the world out onto the page, sometimes for all to see, sometimes hidden away for just myself. Somewhere along the way, however, the purity and peace that originally defined the habit of writing for me began to be overshadowed by the Performing Perfectionist. Her strangle-hold, so long known; her grip, so slow and deceptive.  The subtelty of her invasion would leave me unaware and upon eventually discovering her influence, bewildered. How had I fallen into this trap again? How had writing, birthed out of freedom and peace and joy, given way to motives of musts and appearances? When had my authentic, artistic expression of self become another muse in the game of Please & Produce? 

I would discover the invasion, finally, in counseling one day, as I lamented about a stall in my creative energy. The conversation went something like this: 

"I just don't feel as free or drawn to writing as I did a couple months ago? And I'm discouraged about that. I love writing. And I need to write.” 

"Why do you need to write?” 


"Because it keeps me healthy and sane.” 


"Is that all?” 

"Well, no, I guess I feel like I have to write, too, like it's my responsibility now to be a writer. Like others are expecting it of me and there's this thing to be accomplished in the writing world.” 


"I see.” 


I'm simplifying and dramatizing the conversation a bit, but essentially, that was it. My compulsions and motives may seem blatant enough to an outside ear, but so used to the game am I, so ingrained is the need to please, to produce, to perfect all I touch, that it truly wasn't until that counseling moment that all those motives and habits and thought-patterns finally came into focus for me again. It wasn't until the words "have to write" delicately rolled off my tongue, subconcious confessions of a deeper inner truth, that my concious woke up and gears started clicking. 

In that same session, I would go on verbalize the pressure I felt to be a writer, now that I had started to identify myself as one. It became clear that writing couldn't just be a love, a hobby, a thing I did from time to time - at least that’s what the Performing Perfectionist in me wanted me to believe. As with all things in my life, if I chose to do it, it would need to be perfect. It would need to satisfy every expectation I had, or anyone else around me had, of what a writer is. It would need to be consistent, receive only positive, deeply meaningful feedback and be completely vulnerable every time. “Do this or else! Oh, and do it well!" had become my subconscious writing motto.

And so, rather than being a salve, soothing and curing the illness of performance and perfectionism, my habit of writing had fallen prey to the same cycle. Produce. Please. Perfect. Produce. Please. Perfect. Rather than allowing me to weave meaning and truth out of my days, I now felt constricted when I wrote, suffocated by the cycle. 

It was hard to let go, still. I guess letting go always is. There was this heart-wrenching mix of purity and confinement, beauty and compulsion, tugging me back and forth, back and forth. I justified to myself for at least a month that nothing was really wrong, that the good writing did to my soul was totally out-weighing the suffocation of performance I often felt even while doing it. I tried to set boundaries, without really letting go, and found that only in letting go completely could I return to my writing with freedom.

And so, I have not written much in the past couple months. Yes, I've been busy. Yes, I've found a million and one things to fill my time and distract my mind. But time, for once, hasn't been the issue. The battle, for me, has been with fear. Initially, I was scared to let go of all the expectations I had mounded on my shoulders, afraid that I would be seen as inadequate or a phony. I was worried about what others would think, how they might judge or scoff or nod in "I told you so's" as I let weeks and then months pass by without writing. I longed for the satisfaction of a completed piece, the esteem of positive feedback, the sanctuary of achievement. I feared that without writing, I wasn't enough.  

And now today I write again, not wholly free of fear or naive enough to think that these compulsions have faded, once and for all, into the past. I write with awareness, with a hint of righteous fear and trembling, with vulnerability and courage and heart. 

I write with hope, for hope. Hope that whatever your soul salve is, you, too, will find the courage and the determination to pursue it whole-heartedly - despite the setbacks, despite the demons that cloud your motives, despite the fear. Hope that you will find the space, make the space, and that your soul will breath deep and free and true. Hope that, in the end, courage will win.

Today, I give myself permission to hope. 




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