Last summer I enrolled in the Washington University Summer Writers Institute. It changed my life. It was the moment when I finally took a stand for finding my voice in print and for carving out a writing life. My final project was a very personal story that had taken up residence in my mind for years, and was able to find its way to the page after the two-week intensive class. I worked excruciatingly hard to shape this piece into something I am very proud of, and I am now ready to share it here at 300 rejections.
Now a college senior with my passport in hand, I was heading to France—finally. I had been a Francophile since elementary school. I wanted so much to speak the language fluently. I had peppered sentences with all the French words I knew around the house: “Bonjour ma famille!” I would exclaim. “Hey, Sis, you wanna catch a movie avec moi?
I’d once daydreamed about foreign travel with a particular companion, but now I was in the airport terminal with a group of fellow college acquaintances. It wasn’t quite the same, but I was going to France!
My enormous, hard-shelled Samsonite was loaded down with a surplus of shoes and sweaters. I also had packed my enthusiastic, though limited, amount of conversational French. In the days leading up to our departure, I had decided that a watch was the souvenir I wanted to search for—it was both practical and memory-inducing. I thought the idea of buying a lasting item like a watch in France seemed cool. I didn’t care what it looked like. I would know it when I saw it.
We spent the first few days of our trip in Paris. Then we escaped the numbing cold of the City of Lights for warmer, quaint Avignon in the Sud de France. A Janvier grey with pockets of sunshine cloaked the little city-village. Leafless sycamore trees lined the boulevards as far as the eye could see. It didn’t hurt to walk around outside like it had in Paris, but faire du shopping still helped to warm us up. We headed into Galleries Lafayette—the Dillard’s of France.
One of my travel companions was more fluent than I, but less inclined to speak up. We made a great team: she told me what to say, and I was happy to feel the French form awkwardly in my mouth and leap off my tongue for native speakers to try to decipher.
In my wallet was a 10% discount card for the department store courtesy of the travel company that had booked our trip. With two of my travel companions, I took off my mittens and began to explore the selection of French merchandise. We made our way to the jewelry department. Scanning the watches on display, I quickly found the watch I wanted. It was silver banded with gold connectors. The face was an eye-catching blue not quite as royal as the blue of the French flag but beautiful nonetheless. A small window displayed the date at three o'clock.
I pointed to the timekeeper in the display case, and Madame, the older woman behind the counter, retrieved it for me. I placed it around my wrist and stretched out my arm to see how it looked from various angles. It was just what I had imagined, and it suited my thin, pale arm.
In broken French, I mustered up the courage to present the discount card and asked hesitatingly, "Acceptez-vous?" I hoped that the clerk and I would be able to understand each other. My pulse quickened. The clerk shook her head no, and I asked, "Pourquoi?" Why? I didn't want her to think I was a pushy American. I simply had no other words to make the request. Madame paused, pointed to somewhere beyond the counter and indicated that she was going to inquire about the discount. For a few moments she was out of sight. When she returned she had a new answer.
“Oui, I can give you the discount.” I smiled, nodded my head, and gave her my credit card. The watch was mine! I felt a surge of pride having used the little bit of French I knew to make this purchase on my own—without the help of a more fluent traveler.
I can’t remember if I was still in the store or if it was back at l’hotel when I noticed the watch’s brand name etched above the intersection of the minute and second hands, in gold letters: JUNGHANS. I sighed. Try as I might, I cannot escape him. Two years before, I’d fallen in love with a Young Hans.
Hans had asked a girl in my dorm about me early in the fall semester of my freshman year. He’d told her that I had caught his attention. I was skeptical. From a distance, Hans took my breath away, but I couldn't imagine that a gorgeous guy like him could possibly be interested in plain, skinny me. The semester unfolded without a call from him. I convinced myself that he and I were in different leagues and he'd come to his senses.
Hans was American, but his parents lived in England. They had money. He wore khaki cargo pants, plaid shirts tied around his waist, and Timberland boots. He clomped around campus—aloof and superior. He made loud noises that echoed through the high ceilings of the dining hall. Students seated at other tables would look up, furrow their brows in his direction, and then resume their meals.
Hans had been like the watch in Galleries Lafayette—within moments of meeting him, I knew he was the one I wanted to spend every waking moment with. In the remaining three weeks of the semester, we finally met and started dating immediately. Some of my friends cautioned me about getting involved with him. I was determined to get to know him personally rather than to judge him merely on what I had observed on campus. Much to my surprise, I felt completely at ease in his presence. He was smart, funny. He felt like home. We talked for hours the first afternoon we met. We became inseparable, making up for lost time. I loved Hans deeply and immediately.
His love and attention transformed me. Everything looked and sounded new. Our conversations were expansive. He was well read. He’d seen and lived so much more than I had. I was attracted to the idea of seeing the world through the lens of his experience and walking through life with him by my side. Hans would make a great tour guide. There wasn’t time to know everything about each other yet, but one thing was certain: we were indescribably drawn to one another.
The semester ended. We packed up our dorm rooms. We stood in the parking lot outside the guys' dorms clinging to each other. I remember how tightly we held each other, willing the minutes to slow so that we could be together longer. As we embraced, Hans whispered in my ear, “We're done dating, you know. We've found each other. Our search is over, and we'll begin to build a life together when we return in the fall. We can do this. It's just a few months.” I nodded, sobbing into his shoulder assuring him that I'd heard his words. We summoned the courage to finally go our separate ways. He had a flight to catch back to England. I would make a stop in Omaha with a friend before taking the train home to Michigan.
May, June, and July were filled with our longing and long-distance phone calls as Hans traveled to various locations abroad: a kibbutz in Israel, Sweden, and back to England. The first part of his summer was spent miserably in Israel. He was lonely, and he felt our separation keenly since he didn't know anyone on the kibbutz. My heart broke when I heard how sad and lonely he was. My mood revolved around whether I was home to answer his phone call. Some days I was at work when he would call, and I would mope the rest of the day.
Young Hans’ letters articulated love and affection and outlined a future together. When he talked about our lives, I filled in the details: we'd own a Land Rover, travel to exotic places, and someday have children. I applied for a passport. I wanted to be ready for when we planned a trip to visit his parents in London.
Time passed excruciatingly slow. The end of the summer promised his return with a visit to meet my family and our drive back to school. The countdown gave us something to focus on and made our separation almost bearable. I couldn’t wait to pick up where we’d left off and for our romance to blossom further.
I ran ahead of my family to watch him exit the terminal. I breathed a sigh of relief. We embraced, and held onto each other like we had in the parking lot three months before. I can't remember what we said to each other. I recall he was so anxious to get the “meet the parents” scene behind him that we moved quickly back to where my family was waiting.
We spent the week hanging out, spending time with my sister and her boyfriend. It was easy to imagine future visits with my family. We laughed, watched television, and hung around the house. We were acclimating to being in each others' presence again. Overall the week together was wonderful, but I began to catch glimpses of his mood swings and sharp tongue.
Once we returned to campus, my boyfriend was a stranger. He ignored me much of the time. At one mixer, I saw him talking with his friends, and he never came over to talk to me. I could have approached him, but something had shifted. This wasn’t the future he’d described, promised. When we were together, something was definitely off. I couldn’t put my finger on it. I clung desperately to the conversations we’d had over the summer.
One sunny afternoon my worst fear came true sitting on a bench in the middle of campus. Hans announced that he didn’t want to date anyone. He broke up with me with little explanation. He stood up and walked away. In that moment, I lost my love and my future.
I was devastated and disoriented by the sudden change. I was convinced that the break-up was temporary. I didn’t cause a scene. I didn’t cry or scream at him. I didn’t call his dorm room over and over asking for a better explanation or beg him to change his mind. I knew now that those actions would definitely turn him further away. But I did cry my eyes dry when I was alone. I hoped he would come to his senses, and tiptoed bravely through the semester praying that we would reconcile.
The semester moved forward. Over the summer, our parents had bought airline tickets for us to fly to Michigan together for Thanksgiving. With our break-up, those plans hung heavy in the air. We eventually broke our silence and talked about the tickets. Hans decided to fly to Michigan. He would stay with friends who lived in Detroit.
It was awkward to be with this man I loved so much, but was no longer my beloved. Our seat assignments had been made when we were a couple, so we awkwardly sat shoulder to shoulder. This was my first flight, and Hans knew I was nervous to take off. He held out his hand to offer some comfort at take-off, and I absolutely took it. I spent the holiday with my family, and tried to ignore the dull ache of our changed circumstances.
We flew back to school together and finished another semester. Then Hans left college to become a Marine. His physical presence no longer loomed large on campus. It was both a relief and added heartbreak to not see him every day. He gave me the address for where he was stationed, and I wrote him letters. He wrote back a few times, and in each letter he gave me the impression that a future was still a possibility, so I believed him and waited for that day to come.
But Hans was like the arcade game “Whack-a-mole.” Months would pass with no contact. I would feel my equilibrium returning slowly but surely, and then out of nowhere he would pop up with a phone call, and I’d be jolted once again out of the calm—equal parts heartbroken and hopeful. Another period would pass without a word from him. It seemed this back and forth was my new normal.
All of this history with Young Hans flashed before me as I admired my new watch. It seemed to be taunting me: How are you doing, really? Well, admittedly life feels awkward and unsteady like the French I'm speaking on this trip. Can you cope with wearing me on your wrist while being reminded that Hans isn’t with you? I can and will wear you every day. Can you enjoy this life, you know, the one without him by your side? Life is different than I imagined. I wish he didn't cross my mind, but I am moving on. I'm in France, after all.
Saturday, August 16, 2014
Sunday, May 4, 2014
Quiet that Doesn't Mean Disaster
I poured the milk into the blender. A dollop of vanilla yogurt followed. I dropped some fresh strawberries in next. As I thought about the other ingredients that I'd add to this morning's smoothie, I realized I was making it solo.
There are those quiet moments in parenthood that are never peaceful or calm. Every mother has said to herself, “It's too quiet. What's my toddler up to?” These days I'm not worried about finding the contents of the pantry poured across the kitchen floor trailing into the living room or my daughter fearlessly climbing an unstable piece of furniture. At seven, her quiet mischief usually stems from make-up application minutes before we're set to head out the door. She's loathe to draw attention to this banned form of artistry for public display.
I break a banana into chunks and drop them into the blender. I heard her walk out the front door a few minutes earlier. She hasn't come back in yet. Now I'm a mixture of curious and concerned. How is she filling this quiet time outside?
As I approach the front window something tells me to simply observe her before breaking the silence. I look out the window down the sidewalk to the left. She's not there. I turn my head to the right. There she is on our sloped driveway. Dressed in a beloved tee-shirt too small to be worn as anything other than pajamas and a pair of hand-me-down warm-up pants four inches too long. Barefoot, she's holding a bubble wand.
I know immediately I am witnessing a holy moment. I remain still and quiet and simply watch. My companionable daughter, so fond of being by my side most hours of our waking day, has found a way to entertain herself. She blows on the drenched wand and bubbles float away from her. Ever on the move and a song on her tongue, I watch her do a little dance and sing the chorus of a popular song.
Her relentless needs sometimes rub against my own demands for space and time alone. But as I watch her with the bubbles, this tension blows away—at least temporarily. I breathe a little easier. I recognize that my fear that she'll never be independent is a characteristic of every parent's experience. “This too shall pass” never seems like it will when framing an early morning feeding or a tantrum in the grocery store aisle. In this moment my daughter is proving that her independence is indeed budding.
Knowing she's safe, I return to the kitchen. I resume my smoothie making. On her own, my daughter comes through the door. “Mom, the door handle may be a little sticky. I've been blowing bubbles.” I smile. I don't want to give away that I checked on her. She walks to the sink. She washes her hands. As she dries them near the blender on the counter, she strikes up a conversation about my opinion of our new blender and what other fruits should be added. Together, we blend. She's at my side again—where she belongs.
There are those quiet moments in parenthood that are never peaceful or calm. Every mother has said to herself, “It's too quiet. What's my toddler up to?” These days I'm not worried about finding the contents of the pantry poured across the kitchen floor trailing into the living room or my daughter fearlessly climbing an unstable piece of furniture. At seven, her quiet mischief usually stems from make-up application minutes before we're set to head out the door. She's loathe to draw attention to this banned form of artistry for public display.
I break a banana into chunks and drop them into the blender. I heard her walk out the front door a few minutes earlier. She hasn't come back in yet. Now I'm a mixture of curious and concerned. How is she filling this quiet time outside?
As I approach the front window something tells me to simply observe her before breaking the silence. I look out the window down the sidewalk to the left. She's not there. I turn my head to the right. There she is on our sloped driveway. Dressed in a beloved tee-shirt too small to be worn as anything other than pajamas and a pair of hand-me-down warm-up pants four inches too long. Barefoot, she's holding a bubble wand.
I know immediately I am witnessing a holy moment. I remain still and quiet and simply watch. My companionable daughter, so fond of being by my side most hours of our waking day, has found a way to entertain herself. She blows on the drenched wand and bubbles float away from her. Ever on the move and a song on her tongue, I watch her do a little dance and sing the chorus of a popular song.
Her relentless needs sometimes rub against my own demands for space and time alone. But as I watch her with the bubbles, this tension blows away—at least temporarily. I breathe a little easier. I recognize that my fear that she'll never be independent is a characteristic of every parent's experience. “This too shall pass” never seems like it will when framing an early morning feeding or a tantrum in the grocery store aisle. In this moment my daughter is proving that her independence is indeed budding.
Knowing she's safe, I return to the kitchen. I resume my smoothie making. On her own, my daughter comes through the door. “Mom, the door handle may be a little sticky. I've been blowing bubbles.” I smile. I don't want to give away that I checked on her. She walks to the sink. She washes her hands. As she dries them near the blender on the counter, she strikes up a conversation about my opinion of our new blender and what other fruits should be added. Together, we blend. She's at my side again—where she belongs.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Mama Meditation: Running on Emotional Empty
When the advice "Sleep when your baby sleeps," was passed on to me as a new mama, I could not imagine that same wisdom would still apply when my daughter was seven. Those days were overflowing with physical exhaustion. Middle of the night feedings; early mornings getting two people ready for the day; the awkward carrying and lifting of a car seat into the ill-fitting back seat. There were never enough naps for me to catch up on the sleep I lost.
My baby buckles her own seat belt now. My body isn't taxed the same way--except perhaps on the three-mile hilly bicycle rides I take with this baby-turned-almost-second-grader. My brain is what needs the breaks these days. I'm getting a taste of what my chatter-box tendencies were like for my parents. Ugh. Incessant questions, directions on what we're going to pretend and what part Mom is to play. Tonight I asked that we all not speak for five minutes. I just couldn't take any more input and remain kind and patient.
My energizer bunny has conked out on the "couch bed" in my room. I love watching her sleep now as much as I did when she was an infant. There is a peace in her gentle audible exhalations. There is peace in the quiet. There is peace in uninterrupted moments. It's like a treat found at the bottom of a cereal box when I am awake after my daughter has fallen asleep.
There is a strong temptation to jam in a ton of house work now that I have this free time. There is never an end to the work I could be, dare I say, should be accomplishing. But tonight, I'm updating the adage to better fit the stage I'm in. "Keep your activity level low and restful when your grade schooler collapses at the end of the day, ahead of when you expected." The dishes can wait. So can the laundry. The house work looms large when I'm running on empty.
The same chores are a moving meditation when my tank is full. I'm filling up on writing, listening to music and reading a great book. These activities ease the tension between working and resting. How do you fill your tank?
Rest easy, mamas. Sleep tight, too.
My baby buckles her own seat belt now. My body isn't taxed the same way--except perhaps on the three-mile hilly bicycle rides I take with this baby-turned-almost-second-grader. My brain is what needs the breaks these days. I'm getting a taste of what my chatter-box tendencies were like for my parents. Ugh. Incessant questions, directions on what we're going to pretend and what part Mom is to play. Tonight I asked that we all not speak for five minutes. I just couldn't take any more input and remain kind and patient.
My energizer bunny has conked out on the "couch bed" in my room. I love watching her sleep now as much as I did when she was an infant. There is a peace in her gentle audible exhalations. There is peace in the quiet. There is peace in uninterrupted moments. It's like a treat found at the bottom of a cereal box when I am awake after my daughter has fallen asleep.
There is a strong temptation to jam in a ton of house work now that I have this free time. There is never an end to the work I could be, dare I say, should be accomplishing. But tonight, I'm updating the adage to better fit the stage I'm in. "Keep your activity level low and restful when your grade schooler collapses at the end of the day, ahead of when you expected." The dishes can wait. So can the laundry. The house work looms large when I'm running on empty.
The same chores are a moving meditation when my tank is full. I'm filling up on writing, listening to music and reading a great book. These activities ease the tension between working and resting. How do you fill your tank?
Rest easy, mamas. Sleep tight, too.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Rejection #2
I meant it when I said it: submitting this brief reflection to Literary Mama Magazine online was a win-win proposition. I'd either be selected and would be able to add Literary Mama to my writer's bio, or I'd have something to blog about here.
Essay specs:
Write about your resistance to and need for rest as a mama writer
800-1200 words
Due February 3, 2014
A brief bio was also requested, so this is what I proffered:
Julie Mahoney is a Midwestern mama who carves out writing time in the midst of full-time work, motherhood, and restful episodes by writing at her blog www.300rejections.blogspot.com and filling her 18th journal.
I'm pleased to now present, Rejection #2:
The house I grew up in could have been featured in a magazine. My mother lovingly decorated with wallpaper and hardwood trim, and she made an art of keeping it organized and orderly. This home, the place she worked each day, helped to define her. Keeping it clean and ordered was her occupation. She was the queen of efficiency and multi-tasking. The bathroom counters were spotless. The kitchen sink was always empty. The beds were made daily. I cannot remember my mom doing the work. My own occupation was to play “school” and “grocery store” in the unfinished basement, so I had little appreciation for the hard work that it took to maintain the sparkle and order. What I remember is her always being busy. When her favorite soap opera was on television, she folded laundry as she watched. Her only down time came in the evenings. Snuggled under a blanket, drowsy as we watched Matlock and asleep by the mystery's conclusion.
I am a different mother. My work days are spent outside the home seated at a desk and writing words on behalf of a medical executive. My housekeeping is accomplished as my mood and energy levels allow. When an energetic spurt strikes, I knock out half a day's worth of house work in 90 minutes. I set the timer, and race against the clock. Or I catch up on DVR'd television, and make commercial breaks productive. But when another mood strikes, I sit and read and let the dishes wait until my mood shifts again. My daughter, Cadence, and I play “hotel” when the sheets need to be changed. We play “cooking show” when it's time to cook and clean the kitchen. Just the other day, she started playing “store” as she folded the family's laundry and sold the clothes to her customers. She bolted up the stairs weighed down with freshly folded towels, “Mama, my arms are full! Please open the closet door for me!” I met her at the door and helped her place her work on the shelves. The towels' corners didn't match, but I appreciated her efforts and put the towels in the closet just as they were. With more play and practice, her corners will come together one day.
The time I spend at home not making my house sparkle is dusted with guilt. If there is housework to be done, it must come before fun or rest. This is one of the unspoken messages I took with me into adulthood. But as a Gen X mother, I have also been introduced to the ideas of living in the moment, being present for my daughter, and balancing the needs of my child, my employer, and my washing machine. These messages resonate with me better than they likely do for my mother. This is why I seem to be a lazy undisciplined housekeeper. I convinced myself that good moms get their work done first. But then, when is a mom's work done? Unlike my mother, I am so easily overwhelmed by the fact that there's really never an end to the housework. The mental fatigue of a long day in the office coupled with the mess of daily life at home can render me paralyzed with exhaustion. And yet, the guilt doesn't keep me from doing the things I love: reading, journaling, and playing with my daughter. But it absolutely robs me of feeling relaxed as I do these leisurely activities. The voice quietly reprimands. “You know you should do the house work before you do anything else.” “Reading should come after the dishes, not before.” “What kind of example are you setting for your daughter?”
What I hope I am teaching my daughter is that living in a messy house is not ideal, but neither is all work and no play or no rest. I hope I'm teaching her that keeping house is important, but isn't the only thing. I hope she catches on that tidying up our living space can be a meditation, even a joy. I also want her to grasp that it takes energy to keep a house neat and tidy. I want the unspoken message she takes with her into her own adulthood to be that I trust her to do what she wants and needs on her own time line. I'm working really hard at showing her an example of a woman who spends her energy wisely and understands that burning a wick at both ends serves no one.
Essay specs:
Write about your resistance to and need for rest as a mama writer
800-1200 words
Due February 3, 2014
A brief bio was also requested, so this is what I proffered:
Julie Mahoney is a Midwestern mama who carves out writing time in the midst of full-time work, motherhood, and restful episodes by writing at her blog www.300rejections.blogspot.com and filling her 18th journal.
I'm pleased to now present, Rejection #2:
The house I grew up in could have been featured in a magazine. My mother lovingly decorated with wallpaper and hardwood trim, and she made an art of keeping it organized and orderly. This home, the place she worked each day, helped to define her. Keeping it clean and ordered was her occupation. She was the queen of efficiency and multi-tasking. The bathroom counters were spotless. The kitchen sink was always empty. The beds were made daily. I cannot remember my mom doing the work. My own occupation was to play “school” and “grocery store” in the unfinished basement, so I had little appreciation for the hard work that it took to maintain the sparkle and order. What I remember is her always being busy. When her favorite soap opera was on television, she folded laundry as she watched. Her only down time came in the evenings. Snuggled under a blanket, drowsy as we watched Matlock and asleep by the mystery's conclusion.
I am a different mother. My work days are spent outside the home seated at a desk and writing words on behalf of a medical executive. My housekeeping is accomplished as my mood and energy levels allow. When an energetic spurt strikes, I knock out half a day's worth of house work in 90 minutes. I set the timer, and race against the clock. Or I catch up on DVR'd television, and make commercial breaks productive. But when another mood strikes, I sit and read and let the dishes wait until my mood shifts again. My daughter, Cadence, and I play “hotel” when the sheets need to be changed. We play “cooking show” when it's time to cook and clean the kitchen. Just the other day, she started playing “store” as she folded the family's laundry and sold the clothes to her customers. She bolted up the stairs weighed down with freshly folded towels, “Mama, my arms are full! Please open the closet door for me!” I met her at the door and helped her place her work on the shelves. The towels' corners didn't match, but I appreciated her efforts and put the towels in the closet just as they were. With more play and practice, her corners will come together one day.
The time I spend at home not making my house sparkle is dusted with guilt. If there is housework to be done, it must come before fun or rest. This is one of the unspoken messages I took with me into adulthood. But as a Gen X mother, I have also been introduced to the ideas of living in the moment, being present for my daughter, and balancing the needs of my child, my employer, and my washing machine. These messages resonate with me better than they likely do for my mother. This is why I seem to be a lazy undisciplined housekeeper. I convinced myself that good moms get their work done first. But then, when is a mom's work done? Unlike my mother, I am so easily overwhelmed by the fact that there's really never an end to the housework. The mental fatigue of a long day in the office coupled with the mess of daily life at home can render me paralyzed with exhaustion. And yet, the guilt doesn't keep me from doing the things I love: reading, journaling, and playing with my daughter. But it absolutely robs me of feeling relaxed as I do these leisurely activities. The voice quietly reprimands. “You know you should do the house work before you do anything else.” “Reading should come after the dishes, not before.” “What kind of example are you setting for your daughter?”
What I hope I am teaching my daughter is that living in a messy house is not ideal, but neither is all work and no play or no rest. I hope I'm teaching her that keeping house is important, but isn't the only thing. I hope she catches on that tidying up our living space can be a meditation, even a joy. I also want her to grasp that it takes energy to keep a house neat and tidy. I want the unspoken message she takes with her into her own adulthood to be that I trust her to do what she wants and needs on her own time line. I'm working really hard at showing her an example of a woman who spends her energy wisely and understands that burning a wick at both ends serves no one.
Monday, January 20, 2014
Let Go of Outcome
My vision board leans against the wall just past my open laptop like a window. As I contemplate what to write, I look at the images I rubber-cemented to the board more than a year ago.
Reach for more
Flexibility
travels
believe
creative mind
so many ways to play
strike a balance
"when you're open to receiving them, the possibilities just keep on coming."
A little change is all it takes to make a big difference.
Since I metabolize the world through words, these are the ones that resonated with me as I crafted my visions for guiding me to my future pursuits. Intermingled with the words, phrases, and sentences listed are images of yoga poses I want to grow into, a map to signify my soul's need to travel, and a stack of books that right now represent the journals I have filled (17 to date), the constant pile of books "to be read," and the publications I aspire to accomplish in the future.
I just finished reading a book by mama-writer, Kate Hopper, called Use Your Words: A writing guide for mothers. I must say I feel incredibly energized by the notion of carving out a writer's life as I work full time and mother full time. Hopper writes beautifully and specifically about how she has incorporated writing into motherhood and her teaching career. While her approach and mine will be different, I am bolstered by her suggestions, descriptions, and encouragement to find my own way.
It is a marvel to me that my vision board and its words and images still feel nourishing; relevant after these long months. That says to me that I'm on my right track for my personal pursuits. I haven't blogged since before the holidays and I miss it. I miss the sense of having this blog serve as my accountability for actually doing the writing that I too often only talk about.
As I begin spending more time in my office without TV, reading more books, and contemplating what I want to say in cyber-print, I feel myself gaining the courage necessary to move forward. The other phrase that is helping me is "Let Go of Outcome". It's what I'm calling my 2014 Phrase of the Year. I am using it like a mantra to pursue scary, hard things. It really helps me take the pressure off and will come in really handy as I gather my rejections from submitted work. Here's to writing words in the New Year, submitting them, and getting rejected!
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Four Tools I'm Carrying into 2014
2013 has been a phenomenal year in terms of my mental outlook. I returned to my counselor in January for a tune-up. Twelve months later I'm still being coached by her and am harvesting some really dramatic results. She has been planting seeds of thought and reflection for years, and this year I saw so many of those seeds sprout in different areas of life.
As I approach my 39th birthday in days, I see the New Year as a new landscape to cultivate. The tools I've acquired (or fine-tuned in 2013) are certain to ensure that 2014 is productive and enriched spiritually and otherwise. These are the tools that I'm carrying with me in 2014 and beyond.
With practice I no longer label the negative aspects of life in a flurry of self-talk. Say I pack my lunch in the morning before work. On the commute miles from home I realize I left the lunch in the refrigerator or worse on the counter where all the food will spoil and have to be thrown out. I used to engage in negative talk. "Dang it, I knew this was how the day would start. Now I have to spend money I was trying to save by packing the lunch. My mornings never go right." I have learned that this inner dialogue is an energy drain, changes nothing, and is ABSOLUTELY USELESS. Now in moments of forgotten lunches or the bigger things life throws my way, I take a deep breath and remind myself It's okay. I can handle this. Sometimes I have to repeat this over and over. No matter how often I tell myself this, I am far better able to take life as it comes. Repeat after me, ONLY POSITIVE WORDS. Make no mistake. This takes practice, but it is so worth the time and practice.
In 2013, I identified areas of my life where boundaries did not exist and where some boundaries needed to be redrawn. Of the four practices, I am declaring this one the hardest for me to do. It required me to look at some painful scenarios, mourn the losses they meant for me, and reclaim what is best for me. I came to understand that some (if not most) of my past suffering stemmed from the lack of boundaries or my poor maintenance of said boundaries. I imagine the rancher who doesn't maintain her fences and as a result her ranch is threatened by the forces that would normally be kept out by a sturdy fence. In 2013, I mended my fences thus protecting my heart's acreage from outside attacks. Repeat after me, CREATE BOUNDARIES FOR HEALTHY INTERACTION.
The boundary maintenance became instantly easier to do when I began removing the "shoulds" and "suppose tos" from my inner and outer dialogues. Each time I thought or spoke a should or suppose to my boundaries were weakened. These words create unrealistic expectations and almost always usher in disappointment. They are the cousins to negative labels and unhealthy self-talk and undermine positive outlooks. Should and suppose to insinuate black and white,control, and ulterior motives. They keep authenticity from taking root and are generally no good. They do not leave room for the grays that are inevitable and beautiful in life. Repeat after me, THROW OUT THE SHOULDS AND SUPPOSE TOS.
Removing negative self-talk, re-drawing boundaries, and removing counterproductive vocabulary ushered in my improved ability to live in the moment, the best tool for living life to the fullest. As I sat with my counselor recently, she stopped me mid-sentence and said that all day she'd been talking to clients about the importance of living moment to moment, not worrying about what was going to come next. She thanked me for already doing this and not needing to be reminded. WOW. I'd been practicing it so much in the past two years that I didn't realize it had become second nature. Her feedback encourages me that the work I have done this year will help me to take the New Year as it comes and will be able to avoid some of the pitfalls that have wrecked my positive outlook in the past.
I wish you a Happy New and Peaceful Year.
As I approach my 39th birthday in days, I see the New Year as a new landscape to cultivate. The tools I've acquired (or fine-tuned in 2013) are certain to ensure that 2014 is productive and enriched spiritually and otherwise. These are the tools that I'm carrying with me in 2014 and beyond.
With practice I no longer label the negative aspects of life in a flurry of self-talk. Say I pack my lunch in the morning before work. On the commute miles from home I realize I left the lunch in the refrigerator or worse on the counter where all the food will spoil and have to be thrown out. I used to engage in negative talk. "Dang it, I knew this was how the day would start. Now I have to spend money I was trying to save by packing the lunch. My mornings never go right." I have learned that this inner dialogue is an energy drain, changes nothing, and is ABSOLUTELY USELESS. Now in moments of forgotten lunches or the bigger things life throws my way, I take a deep breath and remind myself It's okay. I can handle this. Sometimes I have to repeat this over and over. No matter how often I tell myself this, I am far better able to take life as it comes. Repeat after me, ONLY POSITIVE WORDS. Make no mistake. This takes practice, but it is so worth the time and practice.
In 2013, I identified areas of my life where boundaries did not exist and where some boundaries needed to be redrawn. Of the four practices, I am declaring this one the hardest for me to do. It required me to look at some painful scenarios, mourn the losses they meant for me, and reclaim what is best for me. I came to understand that some (if not most) of my past suffering stemmed from the lack of boundaries or my poor maintenance of said boundaries. I imagine the rancher who doesn't maintain her fences and as a result her ranch is threatened by the forces that would normally be kept out by a sturdy fence. In 2013, I mended my fences thus protecting my heart's acreage from outside attacks. Repeat after me, CREATE BOUNDARIES FOR HEALTHY INTERACTION.
The boundary maintenance became instantly easier to do when I began removing the "shoulds" and "suppose tos" from my inner and outer dialogues. Each time I thought or spoke a should or suppose to my boundaries were weakened. These words create unrealistic expectations and almost always usher in disappointment. They are the cousins to negative labels and unhealthy self-talk and undermine positive outlooks. Should and suppose to insinuate black and white,control, and ulterior motives. They keep authenticity from taking root and are generally no good. They do not leave room for the grays that are inevitable and beautiful in life. Repeat after me, THROW OUT THE SHOULDS AND SUPPOSE TOS.
Removing negative self-talk, re-drawing boundaries, and removing counterproductive vocabulary ushered in my improved ability to live in the moment, the best tool for living life to the fullest. As I sat with my counselor recently, she stopped me mid-sentence and said that all day she'd been talking to clients about the importance of living moment to moment, not worrying about what was going to come next. She thanked me for already doing this and not needing to be reminded. WOW. I'd been practicing it so much in the past two years that I didn't realize it had become second nature. Her feedback encourages me that the work I have done this year will help me to take the New Year as it comes and will be able to avoid some of the pitfalls that have wrecked my positive outlook in the past.
I wish you a Happy New and Peaceful Year.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Mid-week Prayer
Dear Lord,
I have been praying without ceasing, and phew! I'm worn out. There is so much need around me. So many opportunities to ask for your divine presence, healing, and help.
Diagnosis, prognosis, unemployment, and discouragement. Small requests and Giant worries. These just scrape the surface of the troubles of the people who need you - strangers and loved ones alike.
It's a good kind of tired. I feel close to you each time I pray on another's behalf. I'm getting better at letting go of the outcome and knowing that your will will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven.
Thanks for the Heaven-on-Earth moments too. When my daughter listens and follows instructions on the first request, when there's an opportunity to help a mama whose overwhelmed. When technology makes it possible to stay in touch with long-distance friends. When we see geese flying together in the sky. Thanks for taking my breath away and for reminding me how grateful I am to have every one of these breaths.
All this prayer and need, more prayer and more need is changing me, God. Help me to be quiet and hear your words. Help me not only to hear your words, but to heed them too.
And so it is, Amen.
I have been praying without ceasing, and phew! I'm worn out. There is so much need around me. So many opportunities to ask for your divine presence, healing, and help.
Diagnosis, prognosis, unemployment, and discouragement. Small requests and Giant worries. These just scrape the surface of the troubles of the people who need you - strangers and loved ones alike.
It's a good kind of tired. I feel close to you each time I pray on another's behalf. I'm getting better at letting go of the outcome and knowing that your will will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven.
Thanks for the Heaven-on-Earth moments too. When my daughter listens and follows instructions on the first request, when there's an opportunity to help a mama whose overwhelmed. When technology makes it possible to stay in touch with long-distance friends. When we see geese flying together in the sky. Thanks for taking my breath away and for reminding me how grateful I am to have every one of these breaths.
All this prayer and need, more prayer and more need is changing me, God. Help me to be quiet and hear your words. Help me not only to hear your words, but to heed them too.
And so it is, Amen.
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