Everything is all right, and the boys are 10

We are ten years old. We are our mother's
sons. We are our father's sons. We are freakin' hilarious.

I can't believe I have two ten year olds.

Do you know what that means?

Ten years ago, we were miles away, on the East Coast, and everything was good. Great jobs, great friends, great house...

The twins were born, and boom! when we thought there'd be one, there was two, and it changed everything - I left my great job - have you done the math on daycare? We ended up moving. Things moved in a blur for a year and a half,  but it was all good and settled for a while. We spent two and a half years in Washington State. I got to stay home with my babies, and worked on a second degree so that staying home with my babies wouldn't be the doom of my career.

Isn't that horrible? That of all the things that I did, the one that brings me the most relief, is that I got to stay home with my babies, and with my eldest child. I work now, it's in my original field, but not an intense job, and until they are in high school, I don't think I can do intense, but that's okay, because I know the value of our time together.

I mean, when they were babies, I worked on my second degree, I wrote a book dammit, I did all these things, but what do I value of it the most? The photographs of my babies smiling at me randomly from the living room.The memories of their hugs. The memories of me hiding in the kitchen, crouched in the corner where they couldn't see me so I could sneak a quite moment of coffee, only to have them find me, and want a hug, so then I didn't want to hide anymore. The walks to the parks, the loooong trips to Fred Meyers (is it strange that some of my favorite memories involve shopping at a local northwestern store?) mixed with the memories of hugs and home-made cinnamon play dough and their goofy laughs.   My daughter, coming home from school, which was literally just around the corner, through a fence post, for snacks and mom-time. Making dinner. Waiting til they were in bed so I could write. Chasing my daughter's cat around to pull string out of her butt because my daughter's cat is the reason she can't have fringe. Helping decorate the kids' rooms. Taking them to ballet, gymnastics and those hilarious first attempts at socializing, when I was part of a mom's group that saved my sanity more than I ever knew until now? Yo, Kent moms, lookin' at you here...

The giggles, the lake we used to go to, the pre-pre-school... all of it.

Then we moved to Colorado. The boys were three.

Now the boys are ten years old. Drama girl is 17.

We've given them a stable home, a stable environment, a stable school. I stayed home for a couple years here, and walked them to the park, walked them to the circle, watched them play in the magical grove, took pictures of them all, the three of them, their friends, my friends - yo Poplar Grove peeps, our lives, all connected. Seven years. Plus three. Ten. Ten years old.

I can't pass by a newborn baby without flinching... give me my babies back, I think, but don't really mean, because I didn't miss those years, I was there, I had my babies, I had my time. Sometimes, I want to go back, to hug them one more time in their chubby wubby years, to see their delight, to hear the baby laugh, but it's okay, because lets face it, they still are my babies. I feel a little guilty because I am happy, more than happy, that I got to stay home with them before they were in school all day. And I look back at those days, occasionally, because they get older every day, and today they are ten, and when I look back I smile, because I remember how we played. I look at them today, and they are ten.

And they are ten.

They are ten.

Ten years old.

Whoa.

I had this cool dream about the universe and music which I know nothing about

That title can't possibly make any sense.

I'm trying to live a simple life here, where I become a writer. Maybe that's my enlightenment.

A simple life of simple pleasures free from self-imposed worries. And writing.

I should live in a cabin. All simple-living writers have cabins.

Writing - but not just 'how to get published' or 'how to make a million dollars.' Those I can worry about after I've finished the book (ha, I know how little most authors make).  Really, it's the space to write, and writing what I am capable of writing, the really good stuff that's buried underneath the meh stuff, the rich rich stuff I have inside that can only come out through writing and writing and writing.

So last night's dream, of course, I dreamt of the universe, and music, and sounds and vibrations.

Of course I dreamt of the universe in a musical way, and I am not musical, but it had everything to do with writing and nothing at all to do with it.

It was a beautiful dream though. Three lines, strings of this universal instrument, and it was all there was. There was one note to play, one note that if you could hear it, and if you could live your life on that note, that note was the one that was deep inside, that could barely be heard. It was the piece of the music in the background that you never noticed while you were listening to it, but, without it, the music wouldn't be music.

In the dream, it was the only note playing, the only string vibrating, the only one that mattered.

I like to think it means I've finally got something right.

Writer unleashed

Hold yourselves back - nothing is more (less) exciting than a writer... writing.

I was having an email chat with another writer friend, who doesn't think she's a writer, but yet writes, therefore making her a writer... but never mind that.

We were talking about writing. 

Writing requires that, while you're writing, you're focused on you know, writing, which means the other things going on around you... aren't the priority. 

Children are fighting. Writing? You won't notice until they either figure it out or knock themselves out. 
Laundry. Writing? Well of course you've forgotten about the load you left wet, in the washer. For two days.
Dinner. Writing? Yes, then you're also hungry, along with your family, who will give up on you because you no longer cook with love and spend more time cooking with frozen foods.
Groceries. Writing? Then you probably didn't get a chance to stock up on frozen foods, so it's pizza night. Again? Right, Chinese this time.
Bedtime. Writing? You missed it. Work is going to be awful in the morning.
Work. Writing? Well, then you're at work wishing you were writing, thinking about writing, trying to write at lunch, and probably, moping about writing.
Angst. Oh, good, you're writing. 

I think the important thing to note about writing is that prior to the writing, there's a lot of procrastination of the writing. Then while you're writing, if you're not on, or you're struggling with a scene or pages, or kind of at a block, well, then, there's things you do to help that, that may look like procrastination, but are really, as I like to call them, 'thinking breaks.' 

For instance, right now, I'm trying to end a dreadful few pages I wrote about a silly pie sale which seems to be never-ending, but surely, it has to end, right? Because pie sales don't last forever, they're not eternal, yet somehow, this one seems eternal... How to get past this, the eternal pie sale, a minor sub plot of a sub plot, that shouldn't take much... the eternal, never-ending pie sale... I need a think break....

Here are my tricks:

• First, make a bowl of hot cereal, maple and brown sugar, my go-to favorite evening comfort food. 
• Second, check email. Or Facebook. Why doesn't anyone message me or e-mail me during these times of need?
• Third, scroll through television. Doesn't work when the show you land on is a show about writers, seeing as I'm a writer stuck on writing...
• Fourth, blog, specifically about how you're a writer not writing, and the things you do to avoid it.
• Fifth, Make Tea - ooh haven't done that... 

BRB...

Are you ready for the holidays?

Yeah, me neither.

But it's okay, because I have learned a lot about the holidays over many years of holidaying, and I know the recipe for a happy holiday.

Tune out.

Tune into yourself, what experiences do you want, what traditions do you have, or want to start? Keep it simple if you're simple. Go crazy if Martha Stewart is your domestic goddess. Just tune out to what isn't 'you.' 

The ads on TV, the radio, the online ads will all have jingly music, fake snow, ridiculously happy people and abnormally perfect families. The actors will be dipping into what seems to be an endless bank account to buy tons of things for tons of people and they're all so happy about it. No budget worries here! 

Then there's the food commercials. We'll see grocery store ads and TV spots with roasted turkeys and hams and casseroles on large dining room tables located in neighborhoods where perfect snow falls on perfect people.

So tune it out, because it'll just stress you out. 

Every year, most of us want to spend more than we have, eat more than we should, bake too late into the night and freak out because we have too much to do.

So tune out of the holiday buzz, fuss and glossy, photo-shopped, video-edited version of what it should be. Make it your own. 

And if you don't know how to do that, go watch A Christmas Story.

This year, I'm about spending time with the family, about making memories. 

I'm excited because I've got it all mostly planned. 
I'm going to help Bear bake, and sew a stuffed monkey with him.
I'm going to do something with Turbo, mostly hang at swim lessons, I think. He's not big on chillin' with me.
I'm going to have tea with Drama Girl more often.
I'm going to take the boys to the Denver zoo lights, Husbear and Drama Girl included.

I'll decorate mildly, and not over-extend.

Christmas presents are budgeted and pre-planned, so there's no shopping stress for me, just Black Friday Fun - and it is fun if you have no mission.

Happy Merry Days!

Baker's gonna bake some cookies

Bear's favorite book is 1001 Cookie Recipes.

I don't know where I got this book, if I bought it, if someone bought it for me or how I ended up with it. All I know is that since before the boys were born, I've owned this book. Drama Girl used to look through it - she always wanted to make the cookie pizza.

All the kids love this book, but Bear looooves this book.  We read it together just the other night... Fudgies II, Galaktobouiriko, Galette Bretonne, Gazelle Horns, German Bon Bons, German Brownies, German Christmas Cookies I, German Christmas Cookies II, on and on...

In the middle of the book, in the I section, because the cookies are labeled alphabetically, is a sheet of paper with a list of cookies, numbered by some order, perhaps of 'order intended to bake.' He wrote this up, and is still adding to the list as he works through the book.

Tonight, we made Gum Drop Cookies. They weren't on his list, but I wasn't up to Creme De Menthe Brownies, Dainties, Date Logs, or Danish Apple Bars.

I let him do everything himself, even sacrificing an egg so I could teach him how to separate the egg from the yolk.

These cookies are the best I've ever baked. Bash the Baker.
Look how proud he is!

He measured, creamed shortening and sugar, added dry ingredients, realized his arm was tired, did ten stretches to loosen up his muscles, continued adding dry ingredients, and rolled the cookies into walnut-sized balls.

Final product: Yummy spiced gum drop cookies

The book said it would yield 60, but they must come from the land of tiny walnuts because we only got 30...

The final result:

One proud, happy Bear, one happy but worn out mom, 30 cookies, ten of which are slotted for his writing group.

Look at that grin, his, look, look what I did on my own, grin.

We might just try this again. Well, according to Bear, we're DEFINITELY doing this again.

Bear is in bed now, tucked into his sheets with the book in hand... 1001 Cookie Recipes, 1001 Dreams for a Little Boy.

There's this thing, that I think is more than a thing - Vague blog post to be followed by vague Facebook status

I believe in mother's intuition. I believe if we listen to ourselves, when it comes to our children, we get little flashes of insight meant to help us guide our children.

We're not always right, but very rarely, when a notion comes into my head that something might be something more than it is, am I wrong. 

So I've got this thing on my mind, and I'm figuring it out, waiting, watching it unfold, because it's a thing where I can only wait, and watch, and be ready.

There will be a time, I imagine, when I find out if I'm right, or if I'm wrong, or if I'm halfway right and halfway wrong, and if I'm right or halfway right, then well, we'll have some interesting years. If I'm wrong or halfway wrong, then I'll wonder how I could have gotten it so wrong ha!

It's not a bad thing or a good thing, it's not a secret boyfriend or girlfriend, or smoking habit, it's just... something... something new I'm seeing, something that has always been there but seems to be creeping up more and more, and is more evident.

It's like I'm on alert because I think the balloon in the air will pop soon, and then everyone will startle.

Today I spoke as a writer

The single best thing about today was talking to a small group of middle school students about writing. The students are in a writers workshop in the school where I work, and randomly, and I mean randomly, the teacher mentioned they were doing NaNoWriMo for kids this month. I randomly mentioned, oh how nice, I was doing it for adults. Then we chatted about writing and she invited me to talk to the kids just as someone who was doing the process. Then we chatted about my writing past, as in, you know, my writing career, because as it turns out, and I think I've mentioned this before, I'm a bona-fide writer, because I've always made my living writing. 

The thing is, I got to talk about my favorite subject in the world -- writing. It was the best thing because each of the students had a specific hurdle they had encountered in their writing, and because I happen to be a, you know, bona-fide writer, I was able to give them something to do that would help them. 

We talked about techniques to get out of writers block - potato chips and soda... just kidding. We talked about the danger of outlines in the rough draft of a story - what if your story wants to move? Your outline can be a prison.. danger, beware! We talked about the importance of knowing the ending, and in one student's case, knowing the character. 

I told them the only thing necessary in a rough draft was the beginning, the end, and a strong character.  Some might disagree, but remember, I"m talking stories, fiction, and in telling a story the most important thing to do is to get it all on the paper. Like most good students, they were trying to follow a structure, rules, an outline, and of course, were fixing grammar... in a rough draft... the horror.

I told them about the 'inner editor,' that harsh critic that says what we write is silly and we should give up - I know it's not just me, every writer writes about this! 

We talked about the experience of reading something and liking it, that small nugget that's on your page and you think,  did I write that? and that is what happens when you write - you write beautifully - you just have to get out of your own way. I said grammar does not a good writer make. I said write horribly, embarrassingly, awfully, fearlessly,  but to get it all down. I told them how to just write through their problems... the monster came crashing through and then.. I don't know how - figure out how - but it ended up smooshing a dwarf.. and that's how we all met Ed... Ed was a diminutive creature... etc etc.

I asked them about their stories, and what challenge they were stuck at. They all had good stories in different genres. The ideas were great! The characters believable.

And then something happened. The interview ended (I did talk a lot, hopefully not too much) on a pause, and then, they just... got up... went to their chrome books and .... started writing.... The teacher and I just looked at each other, I didn't know what to think. She said I was inspiring.

I just hope that whatever I said that reached them, they can hold on to, because writing, when done right, is hard!

PKS: Perfect Kid Syndrome

There's this social disease we have going on, and we've had it for a while.

It's our perfect kid syndrome,  our belief that a kid is only going to be as good in their entire life as they are when they're a kid, a kid who hasn't achieved anything in sports, well, not going to the Olympics boy, now are we? Don't have a 4.0 in 4th grade? Second-rate college for you little girl. What you do when you are 8, 9, 10? Sets the tone for the reeeeest of yeeeer life... so put your back to it, get your head out of your little butt and get cracking on those spelling words.

Aaaagh. It's not enough to be just a kid. It's not enough to have the goal of running home so you can go play outside/on your console/with your friend/just get home and have a snack  and plop down in front of a cartoon dang it, you have to achieve something real, something notable, something the average adult hasn't even accomplished in their entire lives... but, oh.. no, the best kids, well, they're not mine, they haven't invented anything, not yours, haven't composed anything.

Are you in competitive soccer? What? No? Why not, is he in baseball? What? No? It'll affect his game when he's 12.... say it with me... aaaaahhhh.

Oh. Well, what languages does your child speak? Oh, they're just starting Spanish?  My child, smarter than yours. In the highest level origami group, and speaks Mandarin Chinese, as well as French, fluently. We take things seriously in our family.

The thing is, the thing we know as adults because we've been through it, is it all resets. They stop doing the things they did just to make us happy, and do their own thing, around the time they hit high school and sometimes, middle school.

Kids are like the training tutorials. It's all nice in there, and the rules are fairly easy and well explained, and the little diagram boxes pop up to help you understand how to use the combos on the controller, and there's lots of training fights, but then, you leave the tutorial room, and your kid is no longer in your protected space.

Everything about a child, their hopes, dreams and wishes gets analyzed and occasionally tossed out the window.  In the game of growing up, the rules are tested and personalities, interests change, begin, or are lost.

In High School and beyond suddenly, the dreams are theirs, the goals are theirs and they're not interested in soccer, they stopped doing Mandarin Chinese homework, they can't remember French and they are now majoring in sleeping in and no longer interested in being an engineer or whatever they were convinced they were going to be at 12. At 10, I was going to be an army combat doctor,  surgeon specifically, I'd have a combat helmet and be running around on a field being all cool combat chick with a surgical kit. Or maybe a scientist because all I did was devour books on planets and stars. I knew the compositions of all the planets in the solar systems by heart. I was going to go to the olympics for roller skating - I had a silver star! -  and somehow, in my world, roller skating was going to be cooler than ice skating.

I was also going to be rescued from this planet by my people, who lived on another planet and had been looking for me, their long lost warrior princess, for 11 years. I remember the palace I created in my imagination. It was on a beach by a beautifully tropical ocean with a pink sunset that lingered for hours. Every now and again, I look up, hopefully...

Of course I was also going to be an archeologist, geologist and explorer.

So when I hear people talk about their child's achievements, about how amazing, brilliant, wonderful, athletic, smart, genius-like, driven etc etc, how they'll grow up to be engineers, professional soccer players and this, that, the other thing, or how they have a natural gift,  I smile, how wonderful.

I also know it's not going to hold true throughout their lives, because at some point, these kids   are going to have opinions, pick up friends, stop going to soccer practice, and hopefully, hopefully, will just be kids.  Hopefully, they''ll stick to their natural gifts, and follow their passions.

The truth? We all get tired of it, us parents, we don't want to hear about it. If we're a parent, your child's brilliance, amazingness and specialness is nice, but it is nothing compared to our child's own version of brilliance, amazingness and specialness, even if your kid is headed to the youth ice skating championship of the world before headed to their world chess league games conveniently located in China, where your child can also practice their foreign language skills.  And I'm not fooled. I know it's exaggerated, the nice bits of the kids polished up, the rough spots covered with a tacky blanket from grandma. I know that under that veneer of parent boasting, under the PR sales pitch, your kid is just a kid.

Peach Cobbler - coulda wrote it better

I spent a thousand words writing a scene including peach cobbler in the novel I'm writing.

Of course, now I want peach cobbler.

A hazard of writing I suppose.

One thousand words, and though the scene isn't strong yet, it has good stuff in it, so when I go through on an editing pass, I know it'll be 'realer' and 'funnier.'
The first draft is always so fun, but also so frustrating. It's really just a fast outline where you're putting words on a page in the order you feel they'll probably be, or just writing bits and pieces you know will be somewhere. But they aren't finished, polished and smooth. The important details in one scene are left out completely while in the very next chapter too much detail has been included. One chapter is a struggle to complete because you know this chapter will be in the finished book, and it's important, but none of the characters seem into it and the writer (me) is dragging them onto the pages because hey, they haven't come up with something better themselves, and then you write four pages where everything flows smoothly and sounds brilliant, and you wonder why doesn't all of it flow smooth and sound brilliant?

The characters are all there, but it's like they're reading the script for the very first time for a part they've never played before.

The first draft is never great, or rather, it is great, and terrible, and horrible, as well as wonderful. It just depends on which part of the draft you're reading!

Go Write Me!

Thor. Doctor. Dyson.

I'm heading out to the movies today with the boys to watch Thor 2. We'll do a nice matinee so that they can be loud with all the other loud boys and girls.

Kinda excited to see Thor 2. I love Loki. Obviously, he's just misunderstood.

I'm mostly excited to see the Day of the Doctor ooohhhhh.... it's playing at our movie theaters, but none of my friends are dorky enough to see it with me. Le sigh. I mean, it's David Tennant and Matt Smith and John Hurt... how could you not see it?

I'll be home that Saturday, watching it by myself with popcorn, clearly.

Oh, also, our vacuum cleaner broke, anyone have a Dyson they want to send me?

November Saturdays

There's something about them, the Saturdays after Halloween and before Thanksgiving. It's a quiet time for me though I know most people are out and about, preparing to be frantic over the holidays. I saw it today, driving Drama Girl around to pick up costume clothing for her school's musical - the roads were packed, the stores were crowded, and oh, the decorations are up.

Tis the Season! Tis the Season! It might as well be 'Batten the Hatches' or 'The Redcoats are Coming' because Tis the Season! harks a period of frenzy that is less cheerful and more survivalist. It's like the grocery store before a winter storm, the airport when everyone is running later than the planes, the road trip to grandma's when you're supposed to be on the road but the cats aren't fed and your kid didn't pack, Grimes and posse getting the group the heck out of dodge when the zombies come to the farm...  

It's just as intense and crazy, but, with Tis the Season! you have to pretend to enjoy it. Oh, and don't forget to shop a lot, more than you want to, more than you need to. 

Tis the Season! Sing! Smile! Shop! Bake! Ugh! 

This is why I'm savoring these November weekends. I enjoy the nice, warmish Saturdays when we have them. I browse through cookbooks and imagine the winter stews and soups I'll bake when the Sundays are cold. I pitter, I patter, I plan a hike, just the one, I promise, kids, just one hike this month, I clean a bit, and I don't feel pressured, because, why?

There are so many things that are stressors in life, a time to be joyous shouldn't be one of them. Which is why, this Saturday, behind me, to the right, is an area of the house overtaken by clutter. I will attack it today, but I can't right now, because I"m blogging, and drinking coffee, and because it's quiet in the house right now.  I haven't had my me time yet what with all the driving Drama girl around and cleaning the coat rack, and browsing through the How To Cook Everything Vegetarian Cookbook for clues on how to get the family acclimated to an expanded palate that doesn't involve meat (we all have our dreams).

The bigger challenge I face, is how to teach my family that Tis the Season! isn't necessary. We can be merry and happy and pleasant this year without the frantic stress, because the stress defeats the entire purpose.

I know there are people who thrive on frenzy and celebrations and the Tis the Season!ness of it all, and that's fine. I'll catch up with y'all in January!

Another new thing learned

It's funny how I'm going through this really forced process of looking at my life and seeing how to ensure that writing becomes a permanent fixture in it. It's also interesting to see the things that are around my writing that are important to my writing but have nothing to do with the tools or art or act of writing - mindfulness, running, my morning tai chi (i'm so cool, everyone will be tai chi'ing soon... right?) my coffee, my pacing... my friends (sigh, yes them too).

The one thing I tell everyone with writing is it's hard to find the time.

For the longest time, I said I didn't have time to write. It was hard to find the time, and everyone knows we have no time, but then I kept reading about how time is never the problem. So I looked and tried - really tried - to find the time. I found the time. I have the time. Yet, still, I didn't.  Even though I had time, it seemed empty and useless... I was tired, wound up, still had my head somewhere else etc etc.

It's true in the sense that it's hard, but finally, after a week of having returned to my habit of spending 5 to 10 minutes with my little mindfulness app (never have zenness masters been so accessible... thank you technology) it suddenly hit me.  It's not time I need, it's space... whoa... time and space are two different things, but they are wholly related...

(Dear friends who know me, no, no this has nothing to do with any of my Dr. Who watching... the time and space I'm talking about are not the time and space he flits about in, okay?)

I had the time, so looking for it is silly. What I need to find is the space. I don't mean physical space, either, I am someone who can write anywhere. I need the space that lets my mind go to that place where my words and characters and stories live. I need the space that lets me be ridiculous on the page. I need a calm state of mind, so I can withdraw into that place freely, without fret or worry or, lets face it, emotion.

It's so liberating to know what it is I need, because now I can make sure I have that space.

Today, I found that space. It was at my son's appointment where, for an hour and a half, I sat in a waiting room blissfully writing out the characters and the state of mind they were in after this one 'event' occurred in their lives. I had to write their emotions, their moods, their feelings, their essence, but to do that, I needed to leave behind mine... I needed that space.

And I wrote.

That makes it a good day!

Pre-writing

Pre-writing is an interesting process for me. It's not just 'brainstorming,' it's more than that. It's about 'what am I doing with this story, is it saying anything?'  I don't mean that my writing has to make a statement, but it should have a story to tell, about people, and how they interact with one another, which is basically, every story ever told. But how it is told is what matters.

Going through this writing pre-section I always go back to the stories I've begun, started or thought of in the past. Normally that works. But this time, something has changed... and the stories I worked on don't work for me now. Between now and then, I changed inside, and so, the stories have changed. This is what happens when you take too long between writing stories.

That's really all there is to say about it!

Run! Tai Chi! Write! Chocolate beer! Neurosis! It's all in here!

I love running in fall. Today, in Colorado, it was around 67 degrees out, and while I had every intention to take the boys out for a hike this morning, I didn't actually plan for it, and the boys weren't ready, I wasn't ready and so that didn't happen - next week, we'll be ready!

Instead, I bee-bopped around the house getting stuff done so the house could maintain a sort of, well, you could see if you really looked, I mean, well, order, if you squint, and close the left eye and don't look down, and dont look at any surfaces, then you'll see there's some order... there's even a tablecloth on the table... there is a semblance   if you look really closely, and I'm hoping that one semblance will last through the week.

I did go for a nice sunny run though! It was awesome! I love running through leaves. One of the sections of my run was so covered with leaves I couldn't see the path at all! I would have lost my way if the creek wasn't on the right and the park on the left...

Thing is, I'm noticing that since I've started Tai Chi, which I am still thoroughly enjoying even though I'm horrid at it, and I'm convinced the instructor is judging me and I will never join them for meditation because I dislike meditating in groups (I don't know why, it's just a thing, I prefer my mindfulness app in the privacy of my own head)... yes, so... lets try that again.

I've noticed since I've started Tai Chi, that more things are sore when I run. In other words, though there's not a lot of you know, strenuous effort in Tai Chi, apparently there's juuussst enough effort to make running suck a bit. I mean, I have a groove, and a good run length that I can easily attain without worrying about being overly sore, it's 3-5 miles, easy peasy, no pain unless I push myself for speed or run up a hill, but even then it's okay. Now, there are these new little... somethings... that suddenly seem to be protesting my runs. The only thing I've changed is Tai Chi. My body will adjust soon, I just think it's odd. I like to pretend it's because all these 'micro muscles' or 'mini muscles' as I like to call them, are beefing up, and preparing to be an integral part of a newer, leaner, Tai Chi'ing runner me that can leap tall buildings and sprint up mountains and stuff.

I desperately want to take a picture of my Shake Chocolate Porter, because I'm convinced that more people read blogs when there are pictures, and this... this is just decadent. Okay. Here you go.

My new yummy decadent chocolate porter. And a bunny stuffy.
Because it helped fill the frame.  Yeah. This'll totally
increase my readership!

It's November Nano-Writing month, and for many people, it's a fun challenge to try to write a book in a month. BWAHAHAHAHHAH. I mean, of course it can be done. I'm altering it, though. I'm making it allll about meeeeee. 'Cuz it's my blog and I can if I want to, can if I want to... I'm making it November Nanner Nanner Write Every Day Month.

So that's what I'm doing. I wonder if I should count blogs? Or the article I'm half-writing for my writers workshop (worst workshop participant evvvveer)?

I did use the word neurosis in the title, but I think I'm using it wrong. I think, currently, neuroticism is trendy, and the inner voices inside our head freaking us out with their incessant nagging and constant reminders of how much we suck because no one else likes chocolate porter dork, how lame we are, and how we're probably going to sprain an ankle during Single Whip Tail somehow, and all that, is not actually neurosis. But it's currently trendy. I'll have to look up neurosis.

Be happy peeps, tomorrow is Monday.

I Tai Chi

I like to think it's trendy of me, but it's not....

All the cool people are in yoga.

The thing I am discovering about Tai Chi is that it's kinda addicting.

I try to do the form, and find myself wanting to do it again, to fix it or tweak it, and then, to do it again because I like it, and again because it's fun and again because it's calming, and then I look and I've just been practicing for like 20 minutes.

It helps now that I have each move take a breath. And also, there aren't too many steps right now!

I you-tubed the form, but couldn't find the one we're learning, just pieces of it, but I"m SURE I'm doing the last bit wrong.

So not the point.
I enjoy, actually enjoy the movements. I can pretend I'm waaay more graceful than I am! And it looks cool.

I know it looks cool because my Bash thought it looked cool, and if an almost-ten-year-old boy thinks it looks cool, it must be cool.... right?

Then again, he is also the one who suggested we meditate together.

Sometimes, though, he just likes to think of Minecraft.

That's really all I have to say, which is funny, because this morning, I had about 12 things I was sure I wanted to write about!

Sunday morning wake-up, analyze things

Life is hard.

We know this, but for some reason I woke up this morning with that in my head. I think it had something to do with 'life is hard, cut people a break' or something, though what the origin of the thought was I have no idea. Probably something to do with my frustration with not having enough time to do the things I want to do, because too much time is taken up with things I don't want. Then, add on top of that, frustration that other people have figured it out, why can't I?

I do have the time. It's the energy, I expend too much of it, and leave too little at the end of the day. I worked it all out, and it will work out, but sadly, I do have to get up an hour earlier in the morning to work out. No more luxurious after-work, sun-is-out runs for me.

This means I have to go run in the coldest time of day. It's essential, though, because while I can fumble out and start running at 5:15 a.m. because my head clears the minute I walk out the door and am assaulted by wind, cold and frost, I can not fumble out of bed and immediately write anything coherently. I need to warm up. My writing time has to be my running time, my running time has to be in the morning. Brrrrrr. Brrrrrr. Brrrrrrrr. I think I have enough willpower to do it though. I'm already remembering how beautiful the sunrise is, and how good I feel after I've been working out in the cold. I do enjoy cold weather, I love the feel of just a bit of arctic chill.

I need warmer running pants. And I need to find my hat. Probably a light thingie so I can see in the dark. I'm already cold just thinking about it.

This is coming:

Ice. Snow. Cold. How Pretty! If one has earmuffs, one can
enjoy all sorts of wintry-weather concoctions.

I also woke up with a short idea to work out, it's less than 1500 words, so it'll be fun to just crank it out. Love found and lost, in 1500 words or less. Kinda excited about it.

Also woke up with a greater understanding of my voice. It's been bothering me for a while. Not my actual voice, my writing voice. I've been doing a lot of writing mimicking other voices, which is natural and good when practicing, but now that I'm wanting to really reach deeper into my writing, I need my own voice. I have two stories that are good representations of my voice so I'll go back and re-read those to give me a head start.

I've also decided to focus on the story I'm writing that has a theme I really want to explore more. I started it at the same time as this chic lit story I'm working on.

See, I woke up today with only writer thoughts and writer problems on my mind. I believe that is progress! I have a bit of writing to do tonight besides the short short story, but it's article writing, which is a different mindset.

Be the cause of the change

I loved this little saying... Be the cause of the change you want to see.

I have a little addiction to inspirational sayings. I don't see them as empty and meaningless phrases. They are words with a message that have the power to affect those ready to fully hear the meaning.

There was a poster that I passed in a classroom every day when I was a lonely Middle School transplant from a familiar, larger, wilder city school to a tiny, emphasis on tiny, rural school where everyone knew everyone from birth. I was always a shy girl, so didn't make friends easily in an environment where no one needed new friends.

I don't remember the exact words on the poster, I remember it was one of those motivational-style posters.

It said something to the effect of 'to not choose is to choose,' or 'to not make a decision is to make a decision.' It was worded a bit better, but the point of it was, by doing nothing you're in essence choosing to do nothing, simply by not choosing to do something.

It planted a seed that grew into a determination to choose to do things even if  I was afraid or scared. I joined the field hockey team - and we lost EVERY game - but I loved playing. I made a concerted effort to learn to talk to people, reading those silly articles in silly pre-teen magazines on how to make friends (yes, some of us need instructional manuals). I continued to try to do things even if I was nervous, or not great at it, or not really the type of person to do those sorts of things - like the time I volunteered and joined some dance decorating committee in high school. I remember making a poster and something about balloons.

It was a saying that solidified my mother's advice to do whatever, no matter, to go for it, fiercely. She never said fiercely, but it was there in her eyes.

The act of living involves choices, and those choices include the ones we are not making, the ones we ignore as we go about our daily lives.

It's so easy to get up, make breakfast, get the kids ready for school/walk a dog, go to work to earn a paycheck, doing whatever all day long/staying home, cleaning the house, doing the laundry - doing the day to day, every day, all day. Come home, make dinner/find dinner/order dinner, watch a show because the day's exhausting and the kids have been fighting or you worked late and have no energy.

Those days, the day to day, there are no choices to be made, you can go through life day to day.
Without realizing it, you're not choosing. Because there's another way.

You could live each day. You can do all the things in the day to day, but rather than doing it on auto pilot, you can truly live the day, be in those moments, and by living those days, and being in those moments, you can see where choices can be made, where you have a bit of space to dream, a bit of space to plan, a bit of space to choose a life outside the day to day.

That quote, though I can't remember the exact words, completely justifies my little inspirational quote reading habit.  I don't just 'read' them though, I pull the message out of the quote, I own it, and I work toward it.

Be the cause of the change - what can I do to cause the change I want in my life today? Today, it's going to be staying up late to finish a writing assignment for a writer's workshop even though the house is a mess, the children are all riled up like werewolves on the eve of a full moon (checking, is it a full moon?) the teenager is needing to be carpooled and is already cranky and the husband disappeared and checked out before 6 p.m.

Everyone would understand if I didn't do any writing tonight, even I would cut myself a break, but then, today, I would not have been the cause of any of the changes I want in my life. So tonight, I will write a little bit, just a little bit, toward those assignments - I am owning that quote. I am today, being the cause of the change I want in my life.

I try to read an inspirational quote at least once a day, as a reminder. They are meant to guide, signs on the path to the life I want, reminders that though the road is long, I am headed in the right direction, this is not the place to stop.

This evening's inspirational quote:

“Your imagination is your preview of life's coming attractions.”

— Albert Einstein

Running after the mind

I went on a run today - I know that this week will be hectic, and I can't run on my normal run day on Tuesday. I know if I don't make the time for these runs, I'll go loopy, per my earlier post about not letting myself get all frenzied and out of sorts.

Today, like I've done the past few runs, I tried to bring my mind along with me. 

This mostly entails my running after my mind, never quite catching it because while I run, I am grounded and present in a sense - my feet are hitting the pavement and the shock of it is absorbed in my body, and I am aware of every movement, I am aware I am running. My mind, a piece of it, however, isn't always with the rest of me. I have enough of the mind to be attentive to my motion and my running, but the rest of it is just so far away, speeding off down paths I'm not interested in.

I try to bring it back, and sometimes I am successful, but I don't achieve anything much. Mostly, it's a conscious effort to make my mind be with its body. While I'm running on the pavement, this is what my mind does:

Running running running oh that was a chill wind. Oh I ordered those new running pants. How cool that'll be. It'll be cold. I'll need a face mask this year maybe... Maybe I can run... oh look the water is going down the channel I wonder (randomly) for some reason how my friend is doing, the one I haven't seen in 20+ years, wouldn't it be cool if we got to meet up, we could do a yoga camp... wait now I'm daydreaming, I've never done a yoga camp. I haven't even participated in a yoga class in years. I wonder if I should do yoga again, how much? Why does it have to be hot yoga all the time? I own yoga pants! I wonder what you wear at Tai Chi, do yoga pants work, because I think I'm going to that class with my friend who actually lives in this state with me, and okay okay wait, focuuusss...

So then I take my mind and force it back to the moment, the literal moment: I am running on this path I've taken for the past six years... SIX YEARS.. I've been here six years...my boys were so little I remember walking with them when they were in the red wagon...  wait back to now, okay the tree leaves are yellow. The creek is moving a bit fast. The wind has a chill. It's fall. It's gorgeous weather. The day is gorgeous. The water is murky but beautiful in it's own way. There's the temporary fencing with the white bags holding it in place because of the flood. Think about the impact of running. Huh. What'dya know, probably need to stretch my left leg a bit. My butt is hurting. How does that always happen? Wait, stop, your mind digresses.

Then it ran away again. As it always does, because my mind, man, it's a fickle thing my mind, and does not like staying with me, but I took the victory of having it attend to me for at least a little while on the run. Then I focused it again, just paying attention only to the moments - the houses I passed, their yards, the trees, the bridge, all of the things I see, feel, hear as they happen.

So while I can't say I ran with the breath, or ran mindfully, I can say that I ran after my mind, and occasionally I caught up with it and we ran together. 

I think if I keep at it, my mind and I will get to go on some pretty nice runs together.

silverware, mindfulness and not so much..

I wanted to be deep today, and meaningful. I was going to write something mindful, too. Deep, meaningful, mindful, all present together... 

But I can't, because right now my husband is cackling, screaming and gleefully singing tribal victory war chants. Apparently both his 'home team' and his 'fantasy league' team are doing quite well. Mostly, the tribal bellowing is annoying me.

Except that's not really the reason i'm not being deep. It's just a reason to be annoyed and an excuse to not be mindful "I can't be present, the present is very loud and bellow-y."

 I'm not being meaningful or deep,  or even mindful, because I'm currently wondering about the fairies. I believe in fairies, but not the fairies that live in meadows and flowers and trees, they may exist, but those aren't the ones I'm talking about.  I don't know where the fairies I'm talking about live. I imagine they live in a tree designed by Crate and Barrel, or a butterdish-shaped land of silver and mis-matched china. I imagine the slight fairies dancing around all the spoons and tupperware bowls they have stolen from my home.

Just the spoons, today, though. I gave up on tupperware a while back.

I don't know where they are. The spoons, they've all disappeared. I never find them, either. I secretly suspected for the longest time my children took off with them, but I've been through their rooms, no spoons, or tupperware. No idea where they are. It must be the fairies. Like with socks, only instead of the sock-eating monster that lives in the vent, it's fairies. I don't question the sock-problem anymore, I'm fairly satisfied it's the monster in the vent.

Except I really need a spoon.

But this spoon issue, and the related tupperware bowl/container issue, has stopped my progress on the dishes, because it was while I was doing the dishes I realized all the spoons seem to be disappearing again, and that made me wonder about fairies that stole silverware, and reminded me I also have tupperware container fairies, and then I had to stop doing the dishes so I could consider what this all means and ask anyone, anyone at all... are the tupperware fairies a different type of fairy than the silverware fairies?

Home alone... quick, write!

I'm not really home alone.
I'm home because my boy isn't feeling well, but since he's not feeling well, he's in his room doing what boys who don't feel well do, playing quietly in his imagination.

I'm home, so I'm going to take the time today to sneak some writing in. Here's the hard part though, all I really want to do, every day, is write. I would rather be here, at my desk with my non-ergonomic keyboard, in the quiet of my home, and write. Write my books. Write essays. Write articles. It's really the world that suits me. I've done it before, when I was in Washington, juggling a degree, raising preschoolers and writing my first book, so I know I can be home and get the work done.

And it's totally in my three-year-plan to achieve this type of life.
It's just, every now and again, when I get a glimpse and taste of the life  I want, oh man, I really just want it now... but patience, I know. Doing this while earning an income is important. I need that steady paycheck right now... oh but I shall dreeeaammm....

And after I dream a bit, I'll write! I'm in two writers workshop courses, both of which so far, are going really well. The next one I take, depending no the course of this one, will be on fictional writing vs. nonfiction writing. The workshops are good because they are doing two very important things for me: 1) Helping me hone my skills and 2) Reminding me to stay on the path I'm on.

I am a writer. Before anything else and after everything else, that is who and what I am. 

Sometimes, life is frazzling

It’s been a rough crazy week. By other people’s standards, it was probably mellow, but as an introverted sort of person, there are certain things I need in order to not feel frazzled or out of sorts on an average week, and that is a boring, predictable routine. 

I need time to do the after/school evening routine of homework, cooking and cleaning up, time to run, time to write, time to recharge. Of the those, the last is most vital. So vital that if I don’t have that down-time, I will take it at the expense of all the others. 

I will not cook, clean, manage the homework for the kids, run or write. 

This week, I had a town hall meeting I needed to attend and my daughter’s talent show, and no time between leaving work and attending the meetings/talent shows, which resulted in two late-nights in a row, which for me, is a bit much. 

This happens sometimes, as in sometimes enough it's almost often, and instead of be-moaning it, which is my normal course, “Oh, I got nothing done because I couldn’t be home to actually do any of it, I’m so behind, work is so crazy, the kids are so needy, we don’t have any food and I’m too tired to do the things I want to do waaah’ I soothed myself by visiting some mindful websites because honestly when I'm frazzled I'm not practicing being mindful, and mindful for me = happy. The return to a place of mindfulness was a reminder that hey, it's okay to totally be out of sorts. Having accepted feeling totally wacked and out of sorts, I decided I didn't need to stay in that feeling. I took a few breaths, and decided to reflect on what led to this feeling.

I don’t like spending too much time reflecting, my mind is too busy to look back, but here I have a consistent problem that I view as being an impediment to my growth not only as a writer, but as a person trying to practice mindfulness, and a person trying to live fully the life I have.  

What I realized is that occasionally my life is thrown off balance, usually on a week-to-week basis, and that I have no counter-measures to it. I see it, I react to it, but I don’t have a plan that allows me to account for weeks where the normal routine falls out of whack, and the things that sustain me fall to the wayside, where the things that aren't nourishing take priority.

First, I love normal routines. I think life is smoother when weeknights aren’t filled with events and activities. As an introvert, staying in more than going out is a more comfortable lifestyle for me. Oh, I love going out, if I can stay in the next few days… 

So, yes, one weeknight, sure, maybe two occasionally, but with kids, that’s it. A week of too many events, especially back-to-back, and especially so time consuming, drain me.

After reflecting, I realize I can plan for most of these whacked-out, too-busy weeks. When I KNOW I have a week of too many events and too much to do, what is my plan… right, I didn't have one. I came up with one, though. There's no reason that I can't wake up extra early to run on a meeting night, check, put that in the plan. Spending my lunch time writing instead of waiting til I get home when I know I won't be home before 9 and I turn into a pumpkin at 10, check. Having frozen meals in the dinner and paper plates on hand for when I’m not home or running out the door just as dinner’s getting served, check. Stay up an hour later just to have some recharge time. Check.

Those three little changes to a disrupted routine will give me everything I need: time to manage afternoon/evening routines, time to run, time to write, time to recharge. There's so much truth in the saying that the only time we have is the moment we actually have. It should be spent truly in that moment. There's no logic or sense in putting off the things that nourish us the most in favor of external priorities.

And that is the lecture I gave myself, and is why today, on this beautiful, rainy Friday, I am not frazzled, out of whack, or bemoaning anything.

It's 3 a.m.... Let's BLOG!

Funny story about Turbo and random purple rashes on his hands and feet that don't hurt or itch, but kinda turn into weird teeny white blisters that don't hurt, that he picks at giving his hands that picked-skin look I find so queasy-inducing.

 He said "MOM, what is HAPPENING to me?" 

and I said "I don't know..." 

and introduced him to WebMD...kidding... 

I have been checking him daily, sometimes twice, but they seem to be going down. Just... dark purple rashes...file under 'weird kid things that magically go away after freaking mom out.'

I hate waking up in the middle of the night. I know I'm not the only one that does. I have e-mails and Facebook posts to prove it.

Tonight I woke up because before I left work I read an article on how the ultra-wealthy are a) not Americans and b) going to American schools and c) ruling our economy and d) that's why the middle class is going away and e) we're all doomed because before we can do anything about it, giant Pulsar Waves of Doom will wipe out all technology, and omigosh I'm never going to have money, I'll be educated and broke and living in poverty and have to retire in squalor because my brilliant sons won't have the money to go to a good college and take care of me in my old age, because they will be forced to be modern revolutionaries in the post-pulsar America driving old hum-vees, SUVs and Jeep-vees, wearing the same jeans and duster coats for  weeks on end. 

They'll probably smoke, too, because with the demise of technology, all the warnings about how bad smoking is for you will have disappeared, and they won't listen to me because I'm just an old naggy anxious ninny at that point railing on about old fish-wives tales about smoking being bad and once, before the Pulsar Waves of Doom, America had rivers and lakes....

Also, my assignments for my writing workshop were due TONIGHT and I didn't get them turned in because, hey, I didn't have time to read any of it, and while I did email the teacher my ideas, with questions ,I didn't do the submissions because I haven't had time (thank you, school town hall meeting, daughter's talent show and etc etc) I should have just done them over the weekend. So even though it's not a graded class, I'm stressed because I missed a deadline and aaaahhh.

Then I thought, OMIGOSH how do I think I could even make money at this?

Then I went into 'OMIGOSH' I haven't even written more on my novel, even though I have this great scene I need to do where main character gets into a fender bender, and never mind the guilt I'm having because even though I want to write more 'serious' stuff, the things that come to mind are scenes for that fun book, and we all know fun is not serious, and evil, and and... ahhhh.

I hate insomnia.

Do I even answer this crazy email sent at 2:12 a.m. from this work person with a crazy response at 2:46 a.m. that says, hey, like you, I'm neurotic and anxious? Maybe I can just say, do you know what time it is? Go back to bed!

Tuesday Calm

Some not good mornings can still be calm mornings, I've learned, by completely and totally lowering all expectations.

This morning, I woke up late, which means EVERYONE woke up late, and all my work pants except the ankle pants, were dirty. (Because I didn't do laundry, not because I woke up late.) This is the first thing I noticed. The second thing I noticed is I had fuzzy ankles. I'm trying to wear jeans less in the office (it's truly a difficult thing to accomplish, because jeans are so... jeans). So I used my husband's razor really quickly to do a quick clean-up of the ankle area. Don't tell him. But I'm not wearing jeans today. Victory! After, of course, I ran downstairs and threw some toast in the oven because my sons need to eat before school (yeah yeah I know, and I did buy a toaster, it's sitting in the box looking shiny and new) and they all got fed, except me. I'm starving. BUT I HAD COFFEE.

Everyone got dressed. Then Turbo couldn't find his shoes. We looked everywhere, and still, only had the one. So he borrowed my five-finger Vibram toe shoes that fit him. He loves those shoes as much as I do. The other students don't know how to quite react, but it's Colorado, so they all have at least SEEN those shoes on others, just not in school. TOE SHOES ARE COOL!

My other son, Bear, slipped out the door with jogging pants, even though I told him he couldn't wear sweat to school. But hey, his long, flowy, in-his-face, over-his-eye hair was brushed, as were his teeth, with minimal prodding. I let the sweatpants slide, because the alternative was being late and chances are good no one at school will notice they break the school's dress code. Turbo's teeth were brushed, too. I'M WINNING!

So this morning, I woke up late and did a bunch of quick re-evaluation of our normal routines, re-prioritized how I would like my morning to go, lowered my expectations of EVERYTHING, and got everyone fed, dressed and out the door on time, without frantically throwing shoes and snacks at my sons screaming 'to the TRUCK GET IN THE TRUCK' as they flee out the door ducking and screaming 'I DON"T HAVE SHOES ON' and 'MY BACKPACK' and 'AAAAAAHHHHHHHH' like sometimes happens when we all wake up 45 minutes late.

So even though today started 45 minutes late, we still all arrived calm, cool, mostly-fed, not fuzzy-legged, not shoeless, not bad-breath-ed, and not like we all just emerged from the bloody battle that we call 'the morning routine.'

Sweet. 

Running and writing and not mopping

My kitchen floor is a disaster. My house an ever-changing mess. So I went for a long walk today, because, unfortunately for my kitchen floor, tomorrow I am going to do a six-mile run. I'll just sweep it up real fast and pretend it's an old floor with character.

Running pants with high-tech fabric, cost more than my work pants. Sneakers..
plain looking but pricier than my go-out shoes - runner priorities.

I really need to get that six mile run in, though. 

I am not the fastest runner., though I am leaning closer to ten-minute miles than 11-minute miles. I do not run the farthest, though I have run 20+ miles and am inching back up to the ten-mile mark. I am not an overly-ambitious runner with several strategies to improve my PR, though I do some fartleks and hills to improve what skill and form I have.  

I am not a jogger, though I am still not sure what the difference is beyond joggers jog for fitness or fun, don't read running magazines, and have clean kitchen floors, while runners run because they "have to," read a lot of running magazines, and don't have clean kitchen floors. 

I am a consistent runner. It's the consistency of it that allows me to inch closer to ten minute miles, to longer distances, to managing my breathing, to maintain calm. I even plan to run the full winter season this year! I've got an uber pair of extra-warm, extra-pricey running pants in a shopping cart, waiting for the first cold spell. Probably another difference - runners spend more on high-tech running pants and jackets than they do on any other clothing they own.  I've got a jacket. I've got a hat. I can run in the cold. My family accepts my runs as something that I do, that five to six times a week, I'm out the door on a run, or a walk or bike ride on an off-day.

How I run, I find, is how I live my life. A few years ago, I defined my priorities, decided what mattered. If I only did three things, it would be to run, to write, and to raise my family healthily. You'll notice cleaning isn't on the list. Neither is 'maintain a neat and orderly home.' Just as I am a runner, I am a writer. Like running, I am not overly ambitious, but  I do work to improve my skills, to go further, explore more, test my own limits.  

I'm a consistent writer. I write for the same reason I run. I have to write. When I write, the house can, and often does, go to hell. It's okay. The alternative is to not write, and if I mop once every.... lets be honest.... three months or six.... well, at least my sons sweep.  

I run, and I write. Running feeds my body. Writing feeds my soul. Both allow me the energy to raise my family. Neither allow me the time to mop. Or clean much. At least I cook...ish.

Mom runs. Mom writes. Mom doesn't mop. Do we even own a mop?

Usually it's a whisper

Sometimes, once in a great while, the universe shouts at you. This isn't ideal, because the universe is vast and big, so when it shouts, things break and people get hurt. It's best to not have to make the universe shout.

Usually, the universe just whispers. It whispers inside you. Sometimes, others pick up on the whisper, and echo it back to you, but usually it's because the universe is whispering to others that whatever it's telling you to do is a good idea, and the universe thinks you're fairly obtuse so enlists the help of others.

It's easy to miss the whispers, which is a shame, because the whispers are your guide, your clue, your map through life. There's so much noise outside of us, around us, through others, even others who mean well, telling us what our path is, how to get there, when to get there, when we have an opportunity and when we miss an opportunity, what we should do and should not do, what to strive for, what to do to get there, and they're all wrong, well-intentioned, but wrong. If we all embark on our true journeys, and work to our true paths, then walking the roads all others have walked will only get us to the popular destination everyone else arrives at, not the roads we were meant to travel, not the destination we wish to arrive at.

It's only the faint echo, the slow stirrings, the whispers deep in a place in you that goes deeper than your physical being ever can, that whisper, that voice, is truth. It's not a gut-feeling, not at all. Gut feelings are not infallible. No, the whispering voice, it's a gut-knowing, and it truly is infallible. Gut feelings make you instantly react to something. A gut knowing makes you turn down something that seems so right, in favor of something so uncertain, with no doubt or second thoughts.

If you hear it, if you heed it, only if. The universe doesn't speak in complete sentences. It translates to us as vague stirrings and knowings that become clearer to us as we hone in and begin to listen, to understand its language.

The universe has been whispering to me for some time, and I knew it was saying something, and I did try to listen, but I had things to take care of.  One of the boys is having a hard time at school and needs a lot of help, I can't find a good sweater to buy and my office is getting chilly now that the weather is turning, I didn't do laundry, I haven't lost ten pounds, the children want to be fed and I'm managing a tight budget that is manageable  with effort and by the way, my house is a mess... but I knew it was whispering at me, and I tuned in a bit, and my friend picked up on this whispering, and echoed it, and I made a small choice.

And then, just as I did so, it came, the knowing, that gut-knowing, that this small choice was one small choice that can only lead to other choices, it's a choice that set me on a different course. It was the right choice.

Sometimes, we don't know when we make a choice the impact it will have later.  Sometimes, when me make a choice, the universe sighs in relief and contentment. It no longer has to try to reach you.

Think about your dreams, and the small choices that take you there, and listen for the whisperings, the voice that will get you there. 

***What choice? Honestly, it's too insignificant of one to even share, it's just... a seed planted really.***

After Thursday...

Our 'Mighty St. Vrain' has always been a loose term for our river, as it meanders through town peacefully, and our Left Hand Creek has always been a little trickle for the most part, getting to proper creek status only after a lot of snow or rain in the mountains. Then, we got 2/3rds of a year's rain in one night. Hello Mighty St. Vrain. Hello, Proper Left Hand Creek-River.

We live in drought land. So when a phone call came at 4 a.m. saying all schools in our district were closed, because of.... rain... I though they were being overly cautious. Really? Some rain?

You can understand the initial disbelief between friends to see that really, schools canceled, in September, for rain?  Compounded by the knock on the door at 6:45 a.m. Leave? For rain? We live by a small river and a creek. Really? I was probably one of many faces who replied with a look of 'are you in the right neighborhood? and sane?' that morning. 

The boys, they jumped into evacuation mode. My Bear, my sweet sweet Bear, grabbed the most important thing in his nine-year old life - his fish blankie.... everything else can go down the river. But not that blankie. Still, I only took it half-seriously. Little creek. Little river. 

Compound the visit at 6:45 a.m. by a mid-morning walk  over to the creek with a friend to see that yes, indeedy, our creek has become quite the river. *Yes, we went a whole block away, to a friend's house, who wasn't evacuated yet... baby steps... baby steps...* We could see that the creek has flooded into the road, and that the road opposite, the OTHER side of the creek, was now a river itself, flowing fast and high. At this point Thursday morning, before noon, we knew it was both real and unprecedented. We spent the rest of the day low-key and cool as cucumbers for the kids - stifling any uncertainty and anxiety we might have had to ensure the children knew hey, yeah, this is different, this is serious, but we're all fine. It's exhausting, when you really want to go "WHOA this is SERIOUS."

We didn't know the full extent of its impact on our city. We knew, by this time, our favorite mountain town, Lyons, had already begun flooding, people evacuating out of their homes in the middle of the night and trying to stay up on high ground or sheltering in the school. Roads already washing out or washed out. Thursday night, Boulder residents took the brunt of it, hearing the sirens go off non-stop while the Boulder creek took over main roads.

We followed it all through social media, we followed our own city's flooding through the same means, the feeds from the city, the county and from the local newspaper keeping us up to date, people hashtag-ing the flood by location: #Longmontflood, #Lyonsflood, #StVrainflood, #Boulderflood, everywhere around us. You were either in a flood or in a drought here. It's a testament to the modern age that while we were experiencing one of the biggest weather events in our area in more than 500 years, my husband went to work, and it was all business as usual.  Right, 500-year flood event - yes, that's how common this is - and towns and cities all around us buzzed about normally. Now, while the city had a plan for this 500-year flood event (which I think involved them evacuating everyone on the 500 year flood plain), no resident spent their days thinking that the tiny Left Hand Creek and the St. Vrain River would be quite the force it became. 

I feel like the entire state should have stopped Thursday, with us. There should have been a day of state-wide bewilderment and awe. "Work has been canceled, because in the Front Range, a 500-year flood event is happening, and our Front Range communities are in a diasaster area. Be in awe of Nature, and spend the day in contemplation of nature's raw power and its impact on man's creations..."

....but of course that isn't how life works.  

These pictures in the album are of just the Lefthand Creek. The St. Vrain did a mighty amount of rearranging of our earth on its own, but these photos are right in my neighborhood:






The damage to our infrastructure is devastating. The estimates have more than 17,000 homes damaged, 1500 lost, but the real telling damage is to our roads and highways. Bridges here in town are gone, completely wiped out, leaving us a city of detours. We've lost some highways, and around 30 bridges. There is no access to some of the mountain towns, no visits for quite some time to our favorite Lyons, or Estes, gateway for us to Rocky Mountain National Park, and beautiful day-escape. In many areas, it's like nothing happened. But in some areas, where it's like nothing happened, go down one more street, and suddenly, you see it - what flood waters leave behind when they recede.

I had always imagined flooding to be quick, but as long as it rained, the flooding came. Wednesday night, Thursday night, Friday night, Saturday saw a reprieve but then more of the rains on Sunday prompted new fears, and more flooding. I'm pretty sure we need the rest of September to be dry. 

Next up, winter.

I ran in the rain

I ran in the rain and wished it was a little bit cooler.

I ran, and the rain fell. It's still falling. Tons of water suddenly descending on us after days of sunshine.  The water rushed by faster than normal, with the creek beds rising high. I was lucky the bridge under the road wasn't filled with water yet, it will be tomorrow. I ran until the sun finally set around me, and I realized that between my fogged up glasses, the darkness, and the passing headlights of cars, the only thing I could see was the ground directly in front of me.

Eleven minute ten second miles, faster than my runs in 90+ heat, slower than the ones from last year's cooler times.  I ran in the cool rain with fogged up glasses in the darkening sky.  The rain tells me fall is coming. Tonight it reminded me how important it is to run as much as I can before winter comes. I can handle chilly fall morning runs, I am not equipped for a full-blown winter run, though I have sworn that I'd try this year.

Tonight, running in the rain, I accomplished something easily that I haven't been able to do on other runs. I was able to let go. One run in the rain started out like most, with a thousand thoughts on my mind, imagined conversations I should have, to-do lists, things I haven't done, ought to do, worry about what I haven't done, what about the appointments I made, the things I have to do in the next few weeks, but the rain poured down through my glasses fogging them up so I had to pay closer attention to the ground. Then, it got darker, so I had to focus even closer, and soon, I wasn't thinking about anything but running. I didn't have any music on so I took cues from the sounds around me. No one was out, except the other people that were - some kids playing in the creek while it was still light. A man walking his dog in the dark. And I stayed in the moment, in the rain, just running.

Things I noticed on my walk this morning when I wasn't paying attention

This whole thing about living in the moment doesn’t preclude any future, or suggest that plans shouldn’t be made for the future, only that the moment you exist in is currently the only moment, and unless you’re currently writing up a five-year plan for your life, then you shouldn’t be mentally living the next five years of your life. 

You should be paying attention to the moment you have, because really, it is the only thing that currently exists. The only things that existed in my walk this morning were the many things I wasn’t paying attention to because I easily get pulled out of moments by my very busy, buzz-about bossy mind which, as far as I can tell, is not the aspect of my mind which has gotten me anywhere far in life, and is the least reliable part of my mind.

Today I noticed that I wasn’t paying attention to the speed of our walk, because when I came home, my calves were a little sorer than normal, strange considering I normally run that walk. 

I noticed my not noticing that we passed by two dog-owners walking their dogs early in the morning, and my friend made a point to say hi, while I smiled awkwardly and moved on. I rarely go with a 'hi' and prefer the subtle nod of the head and half-smile with strangers. 

I noticed the water of the creek ran low and slow and the ground is still mostly brown. I noticed while not noticing that my friend was moved by the sunrise behind us in the East, while I was moved by the soft pink hue of the mountains in the west.

I did notice the pink hues, though, and that image has stayed in my mind all day, the mountains looking like a mirage or an illusion as the sun seemed to rise and set simultaneously.

The mountains out here are my silent partners. They help me stay in the moment, help me put things in perspective, and provide a guide, something to move toward, when I’m not quite sure where I’m going. A lot of times, I’ll choose a run or a bike ride toward the west specifically so I’ll be able to see the mountains, to use them as a personal base.  I put a lot on those mountains, but I’m pretty sure they’re completely indifferent to me.

 I’m pulled to them because they are immovable; their surface may always be changing, seasons come and go, fires ravage their forests, new forests grow, roads are built, people and animals traipse about, but still, they are at their core, immovable. So when the pink hue of the mountains meeting the sky caught my eye, I looked and remembered that no matter what silliness I have going on, whatever I’m thinking, planning, doing, contemplating or whining about, is of little consequence in the lifetime of these mountains, of little consequence to my own lifetime even, but my entire life is nothing in the timeline of a mountain, what of it all, they would ask, if they could speak. What of these small things you talk of? Suddenly, in a glance to the west, t  the circumstances are not so insurmountable, the urgency not so much of a rush. The mountains remind me that there is time in life to live life, if life is lived truly. I noticed all of this while not paying attention to the things I was noticing.