new beginnings

I come back to study this space once or twice a week. I look at it with my head cocked to one side remembering the days of having the time and space to fill it up with my meandering thoughts and photographs. It is both a comfortable friend and a mocking empty canvas. What to put here? Words? Pictures? Nothing?

I have so much in my head and so many half-started projects and creative ventures that I think it has overwhelmed me to the point of inertia.  Almost.  

But soon, I think, the wheels will unlock and I'll skitter-bump into forward motion again.  Because I want to share the exciting possibilities of what I'm doing and planning.  Writing makes me accountable, which has become necessary for me since leaving my comfy and secure career over six years ago and working from home while being a parent.

Here's one little piece of the puzzle - a commitment to a 365 project:  one (or more) photos every day for an entire year.  To develop my skills as a photographer, and give myself permission to look away from the computer, the mundane tasks of daily life, and the business of developing not only my own business but a project so big and exciting that I've barely breathed since it was recently announced publicly. 

So here, to ground me, is my hand firmly clasped with Sweetpea's.  Because there is no piece of the puzzle, no new beginning that does not have her in it.

And just in case you were wondering what that so big project might be, I will be co-directing/producing the 2012 San Francisco LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER show with the wonderful Kirsten of  The Norwindians.  I will have more information soon on just what it will involve, but for now I'll say that one of the reasons I'm involved is the Open Mic session that took place at Blogher in San Diego this past August.  It was an intimate venue where women were invited to step up to the podium and read their words out loud.  Ann Imig, the founder of Listen to Your Mother, hosted the Open Mic and it was hands-down the most inspiring and FUN event I've attended at a conference.

Wish us luck?  And if you are a writer/mother in the San Francisco Bay Area, be prepared for us to come knocking....
 

dreaming

Remember as a child how easy it was to make a wish? To dream? Birthday candles or first evening stars weren't always necessary - when you're a child dreams are BIG.

Please visit my beautiful friend Melissa's blog at Reverie Daydream today, where I am guest posting as part of her "Wishful Thinking" series.

a bushel and a peck

 

I've been singing "Bushel and a Peck" to Sweetpea at bedtime recently. I used to sing it to her as a toddler but when I mentioned it to her a few weeks ago she couldn't remember it.  You know it, right?

"I love you a bushel and a peck
A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck
A hug around the neck and a barrel and a heap
A barrel and a heap and I'm talking in my sleep
About you, about you

Cause I love you a bushel and a peck
You bet your pretty neck, I do"

Some of the work I've been doing lately in embracing vulnerability in my life has been uncomfortable and sometimes downright annoying.  Even though I have a personal blog and thus you would think might have narcissistic tendencies,  I prefer in my daily life to keep the focus far away from me.  My tendency is to turn questions about me back toward the other person as quickly as possible.  My best friend knows this and doesn't let me get away with it.  Which I love her for but which is also very annoying.

I was searching out photos of myself as a child today for an assignment and although I found plenty where I was smiling, I kept coming back to this one.  I remember a friend commenting about it - "that is so you".  And it is.  I looked at it, and at some of the self portraits I took in the garden today for a different assignment, and the two somehow came together.   They make me want to weep. Yes, there is much joy in my life but I am also frequently solemn.  I feel quite tender toward the little me, and thus, since the two are the same, toward the big me as well.  This is revelatory.

It's not a new concept, knowing that we need to love ourselves.  But you bet your pretty neck I do.  I'm working on it, anyway.

around the bend

There have been times in this past year when I have longingly looked back to times when I felt healthy. More myself. And then looked forward to a time where the light at the end of the tunnel was a bit clearer.

That time is now. To be honest, I've gotten sick of the sound of my own complaining voice, both in real life and in written form on this blog. Even when I'm in a slump, I do always - or mostly - try to focus on my gratitude for the blessings in my life. Home, hubby, sweetest of peas, my family far away, the fact that no matter how many blood tests I submit to my dearly loved but very by-the-book doctor says there is no apparent problem. Other than my hormones raging out of control, my intolerable allergies, my depression and my complete lack of energy, that is. I'm not dying of a horrible disease, most days I function at a fairly significant level, I put on a good face to the people surrounding me. In fact, a dear friend I confided in recently said to me that she had no idea I had been suffering because I'm so good at hiding it. And also hate revealing weakness or asking for help. Yes. It's a problem.

But lately, I've been accepting help from all directions. Some of it I've sought out - a return to acupuncture and natural remedies, sessions with my therapist from long ago to address my fear of vulnerability and lack of control (I do so love my fingers on the controls at all times).  And that annoying emotion - guilt.  For not being a good friend, wife, and most of all, mother.  When English hubby's English Mum came to visit and offered her skill in reflexology, I promptly hopped on the sofa next to her and presented my feet.  If friends call and ask how I am, while I don't spill my guts, I try to avoid just saying "fine".

And yes, I'm starting to feel better.  There's still a ways to go, and I'm trying to not feel strange about placing the focus on me.  I recently read Beautiful Boy, the memoir by David Sheff about his son's ongoing struggles with drug addiction.  At one point, years into the heartbreak of watching his son spiral out of control and feeling depleted and out of control himself, a doctor asked David why he wasn't placing the same resources at his own disposal as he was for his son.  It's brow furrowing that we sometimes don't grant ourselves the same level of attention and help that we unthinkingly give to our loved ones.

So I am.  And I haven't waited for the resolutions of a New Year to put my intentions into action.

I wrote last year about enjoying the journey more than the destination in many situations.  Right now, I'm embracing both.

...I'm after the rainbow's end, waiting 'round the bend....

-- moonriver

_______________________

Funnily enough, I'm musing today on the theme JOURNEY over at Mortal Muses. We're doing daily giveaways and blog hopping on the themes from now until New Year's.  A great way to focus on the spirit of the Holiday season, whatever it means to you...

wisdom

This morning, in the middle of the endless battle to keep Sweetpea - and let's be honest, me - on track, I discovered her in the bathroom brushing her teeth. She hadn't got dressed or eaten her breakfast yet. I said as gently as I could "what are you doing??" but knew immediately that my tone wasn't right. She was tired, I was tired. She had just wanted to play with her new yoyo when she woke up but I impatiently told her to get a move on or we'd be late (again). I could have used humour, could have made her laugh at the fact that she had her order of chores all mixed up. Instead the tone of slight disbelief in my voice made her feel wrong. Wronged. She'd done it wrong. She felt stupid.

As she made her way dejectedly down the hall to get dressed, my heart cracked into pieces. This is where it starts, these little moments that could chip away at her confidence in herself and lead to a lifetime of feeling insecure about her abilities. I could do that to her. Me, her mother, who loves her best in the world. I did that. Nice job.

Later I hear from my husband some heartbreaking news about a life lost - someone we didn't know well, but whose life was parallel to ours in some ways. There is a boy who now has to live the rest of his life without his mother, and friends and family who will grieve and question why it had to happen this way.

And then Maggie posted the video to the song Wise Up by Aimee Mann which never fails to fill my heart with achingly sweet melancholy. And although I've been talking a good game lately about getting my shit together, most days I end up feeling frustrated at my own lack - of gumption, of passion, of time is WASTING.

I can't mess this up. This one life I have, and the life of my daughter who I am trying to nurture into compassionate, intelligent adulthood.

Get it right.

come on, get happy

tawny hills, originally uploaded by à la mosey.

No, this isn't the encyclopedic post that I had been working on for three days straight.
I ditched it.
To be honest, if a post takes that long to be born there's something amiss. In this case, self-indulgent wah-wah-wahing on recovering from allergies, getting my headspace turned around, mood-adjustments, and well... getting happy. (And if you didn't get the cultural reference of the title, then we didn't grow up in the same TV generation.)

I decided rather than writing about it (and boring myself as well as those of you reading it), I'd just get to it. Choose to be happy. Get the house together. Make lists and get shit done. Exercise consistently (consistently being the operative word). Have more fun with Sweetpea. Find a babysitter and actually have a date with English hubby (I'm working on it). I'm working on all of it and hope that this coming week marks a turning point.

English hubby and I have been watching The Tudors on Netflix. The first of Henry the 8th's wives, Catherine, cast aside when she didn't produce a male heir and a victim of Henry's wandering eye, said something that struck a chord while she was ill and approaching death. I can't remember the exact quote, but it was something to do with facing hardship versus happiness in life- that there is more spiritual growth in hardship. I don't think this is necessarily true for everyone, but obviously was for her.

It resonates because it's what I always feel when I come out of periods of illness or melancholy - that I have a renewed sense of gratitude for my life and the people and things surrounding me. Which I perhaps might not have if life was a walk in the park all the time.

And further to the get happy theme I said I wasn't going to talk too much about but look at me talking about it anyway, on a recent bike-riding outing with English hubby and Sweetpea, which would have been enough for us to say "that was a good day", we stopped at the side of the road on the way home to play on the lower hills of our mountain, overlooking the coast. The grasses have all gone that golden color, the way they do every summer, and Sweetpea discovered that she could slide down on her bottom quite a way almost like sledding. It was one of the highlights of our recent weeks, which we could close our eyes and remember even if we hadn't caught it on film. Balmy air, three content people, winds in the grasses, blue blue sea. You know those times?

In Ruth Reichl's memoir "Comfort Me With Apples", she talked about visiting the glorious MFK Fisher at her little home in Sonoma. At one point, Mary Frances sighed "I love my tawny hills", about those same golden grasses, which to me from a distance look like the soft pelt of a lion. She obviously felt something similar. But that statement made me realize that it's been a while since I've proclaimed a love or passion for what surrounds me. For owning my feelings not only about what I love but pursuing, or even identifying, my passions and making them a part of my daily living.

I'm going to be working on that too.

tawny hills, originally uploaded by à la mosey.

On this day.

I was born on this day 43 years ago, late in the evening.
My mother claims I moseyed from birth as they waited all day for my arrival.

My favourite colour is blue. But sometimes yellow. And often red.
I have a daughter, known here as Sweetpea, who is 6.
I have known my English hubby for 13 years and have been married to him for 9.
I resist labels, but call myself an artist.
One who can create stories through animation and editing and occasionally drawing.
And maybe writing.
I would like to go to film school.
I would like to edit a full length documentary.
I think I may even want to make a film.
I process emotions inwardly.
As a result I fly off the handle occasionally.
When I need to let off steam, I play Rage Against the Machine full blast and stomp and holler through my house. And sometimes yell in my car.
I consider myself lazy, but my best friend looks at me like I'm crazy when I say so.
I am stubborn and my blog name represents the speed at which I normally operate.
I don't hold grudges and can be trusted with any secret.
I don't get excited. Much.
However, a beautiful piece of art or writing can strike me silent.
And make me want to create something.
If there is a lake or river nearby, I will go in it no matter how cold it is. Water is life.
Melancholy is part of my life but does not define me, as I am more frequently filled with joy.
Even when I'm moaning about my day to day complaints.
I am happiest with the sun and the breeze in my hair, doing something inconsequential.
I marvel over my daughter and love to listen to her dreams.
I occasionally feel guilty that she will not have a sibling given how much she wants one, and lightly and fleetingly grieve that she will be my only child.
But I'm also utterly content that my family is complete.
Because I don't think I could do it all over again.
I'm grateful that my husband is first and foremost my friend.
And that he thinks I'm a good photographer, even though his own photography is exquisite.
I love my family and friends with my whole heart.
And am filled with gratitude that they love me back even when I'm cranky.
Which is often.
I'm grateful for this blog which gave me a voice,
and for the blogs I read and friends I've made who let me see the world through their eyes.
And for those of you who come here to listen to my ramblings.
Thank you.

(And to Maggie May, who did this first with more eloquence, I hope you don't mind me being a copycat.)

Wash your spirit clean

We are incredibly fortunate to live near two places named after John Muir. If for some reason you aren't familiar with his name, John Muir was instrumental in the development of the National Park system in the U.S. and in preserving forests. He also wrote beautifully about his spiritual connection with nature.

Years ago, in my early twenties, while I was struggling against the faith in which I'd been raised, a friend of our family watched my spiritual consternation and gently suggested that I turn my attention to what spoke to me most deeply. For me, it was the outdoors. I grew up camping in provincial parks in Canada, swimming in ice cold lakes and rivers, climbing trees and walking trails with my family. Tying my love of nature to my faith felt natural. When I moved to California 14 years ago and was struck dumb by the endless singing stars over Death Valley and the crashing waves of the Pacific and the stinging fresh air of the Sierras, my spirit raised its head and took a fresh look around.

During our walk in Franks Valley last week, I took at least fifty photos of trees (and a few of two other subjects you might recognize). And although the melancholy of the holiday season is twitching in me and my faith still wobbles, I'm grounded by the air and the sky and the trees.

Take a course in good water and air;
and in the eternal youth of Nature you may renew your own.
Go quietly, alone; no harm will befall you.

The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness.

I never saw a discontented tree.
They grip the ground as though they liked it,
and though fast rooted they travel about as far as we do.

Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in,
where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul.

Keep close to Nature's heart... and break clear away, once in awhile,
and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods.
Wash your spirit clean.

All quotes courtesy of John Muir, poet and naturalist.

Silver lining

Thanksgiving Friday hike in Franks Valley

This photo pretty much represents my view of the world when out and about with English hubby and Sweetpea. Being outdoors is joy and I am a fast hiker, but with a six year old whose normal operating speed is pedal to the medal and a hubby who likes to run, I've had to resign myself to the fact that I'm usually bringing up the rear. I don't mind. As anyone with children knows, you take moments of solitude when you can get them, even if it's just when you're trailing behind.

A few months ago while out on a neighbourhood walk, during which I happened to be under a dark cloud and skulking behind my two much more cheerful family members, I had one of those strange déjà vu experiences that threw me straight back to being ten years old.

I had lagged quite a way behind the two of them and finally started trying to catch up. I saw Sweetpea look back toward me, laugh and then she and her Daddy started running out of sight. It happened two or three more times, each as I got within 100 yards or so. I started feeling emotional as if they were doing it deliberately to hurt my feelings, even though my logical grown-up self knew this wasn't the case. It catapulted me back to fifth grade when the girls that I most wanted to impress would pretend to be my friend and then run away or laugh and point or do all those things that mean girls do to flex their juvenile power. It put me in a weird headspace.

Which makes me all the more grateful that I'm not ten years old. But which makes me feel the inner cringe for my daughter and my two nieces who are already in or approaching that stage in their childhoods where it could happen to them. All three are smart, self-confident girls but it takes just the once or twice that someone in their world stomps them down to shake their sense of self. It makes me want to surround them in bubble wrap.

I'm feeling the twinges of melancholy that sometimes hit me when the weather starts to turn or the Holidays approach or a shift occurs. But as so often has happened when I start writing stream of consciously, I've already turned the corner. At least for the moment. I made the choice that the video I shot on our hike the other day is a babbling brook rather than the sound of chill and damp winter looming.

And I am 42, not ten. And I know from long experience that tides turn and valleys turn to hills and mean girls aren't worth knowing. And I can help Sweetpea know it too.

Journey vs Destination

Journey.

Destination.

Who knew that soccer shin guards could be a climbing accessory?

In the era before Sweetpea's arrival, when English hubby and I would escape to the mountains or desert at the drop of a hat, with a roadtrip soundtrack playing on the stereo (CD's and cassettes, since the iPod was still a twinkle in someone's eye at Apple), when our hearts would lift the moment our car exited the county and we knew we were on our way somewhere anywhere, when some of our friends would shake their heads that we were always trying to get someplace else often after six or nine or twelve hour drives in a single weekend, we would go on long rambling hikes. Those hikes where English hubby would cheerily call back to me "we're almost there! it's just around that next bend/over that next hill/on top of that peak!". I stopped believing him eventually and would just get grumpy.

He wanted to attain the prize - the peak, the end of the trail, the killer view while I was happy to meander and watch and listen and stop for snacks and ultimately say "should we head back now?". We've both mellowed since then, not that we were ever particularly highly strung, and now on the more rare occasions when we hit the trails, sometimes I'm happy to get to the destination, and sometimes he is content to enjoy the ride without the ultimate prize.

Recently I've been struggling a bit with the journey. The routine. Get up, feed kid, make sure teeth are brushed, make lunches and snacks (so burnt on this), sit at computer, try to fit in a walk, look at list, ignore list, vacuum dust bunnies, do laundry, buy groceries, try not to make the same thing for dinner that we eat every night. It's wearing, no matter how many times I remind myself how grateful I am for the life I have.

Another blogger recently talked about choice, and how it's up to us to choose to want to do it. All of it - the chores and lunches and what do we have for dinner. And it was a good reminder (I tend to need a lot of those, I should just have post-its all over the house). To feel happy that these are things I can offer to my family, an act of love, that the alarm clock at 6:30 is a choice I want to make.

Journey AND Destination. I'm trying to embrace them both.

A hike in the distant past,
when hubby had time to take a gazillion pictures
and then composite them all together when we got home.

“Focus on the journey, not the destination.
Joy is found not in finishing an activity but in doing it.”
-Greg Anderson

(I think there is a place for both)

Mind over matter

I've had a few of those moments recently where I see a photo of myself and cringe. It's the surprise of seeing the lines around my eyes in harsh sunlight and the carved indentation from nose down to mouth that takes me aback - a momentary confusion that the outer (42) doesn't reflect the inner (22 ish).

On a recent shoot. Photo by my friend A who thinks this is a great photo of me. That's why I like her.

I don't mind signs of aging, and I don't mind aging either. I embrace it (mostly) and definitely do not miss the emotional roller coasters of my teens and twenties, although I do occasionally miss my flat stomach.

But those (sometimes shocking) moments of recognition are useful reminders not to let time get away from me without wringing everything I can from it. There's a quote from George Bernard Shaw I've always liked about wanting to be "...thoroughly used up..." at the end of one's life, although the second part of his quote "for the harder I work, the more I live" doesn't resonate so strongly since I would hope life would be so much more than the work I do. I wish I could find a college keynote address I remember reading a few years back where the speaker expanded on Shaw's quote, with his or her hopes for a life so well lived - spiritually, physically, mentally - that they would be thrown on a trash heap at its end.

When I recently made a sarcastic comment about my dry wrinkly knees and my no longer bouncy skin of youth, Sweetpea responded "But your skin means you're lucky and that you're grown up and have a child."

And isn't that the truth.

Age is an issue of mind over matter.
If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.
~Mark Twain

Universal Truths, Part 2

Do not feel smug about your endless patience and most excellent mothering skills. What will inevitably happen is this - your daughter will get distracted while getting ready for school but only because you yourself got distracted. You will then tear your hair out trying to get the double-knots out of her shoelaces while trying to get out the door (late), throw the shoes across the room in frustration and grab the other purple pair that "I don't want to wear those ones, Mummy!". You will subsequently, while impatiently trying to help your daughter get buckled into her car seat, let go of the belt while tightening it and accidentally whack her in the face. Which makes her cry. Which then makes you feel a complete piece of shit.

Beating yourself up because you're the worst mother in the world is natural. Do return home after school drop-off and eat the rest of a pot of mac'n'cheese that you prepared for your daughter's lunch. Although I don't advocate stress-related eating as a regular way of making yourself feel better, in this instance it worked nicely.

Do take your daughter for ice cream after school. And make sure you get rainbow sprinkles, that part is very important. Hug daughter constantly and apologize for being a complete piece of shit multiple times (but don't use the words complete piece of shit, she's only five, you know) until she says "MUMmy! Okay, okay."

Laundry can wait. Because when English hubby says that the weather is perfect and the tide is low, it means you won't be folding any laundry or even cooking your daughter a well-balanced evening meal because you'll be driving across the Golden Gate Bridge to visit the Wave Organ to hunt for crabs and watch your daughter run crazy on the beach and listen to the waves through tubes and you'll take the deepest breath while the sun goes down in its usual spectacular fashion and the fog rolls in over the Bridge and feel grateful that tomorrow is another day to try and get it right.

Can you hear it?

Luxury

When I looked up the actual definition of the word LUXURY, I found this:

• something that is an indulgence rather than a necessity

To me, it means something different. Penelope in The Shell Seekers, one of my go-to books when I have nothing else in the house to read, described it as "the total fulfillment of all five senses at once". She felt warm, she touched her lover's hand, she smelled the sea and frying onions, tasted cold beer, and heard gulls and water lapping.

I get that. Even after an exhausting night with a sick kid (back in March), I felt it.

Luxury feels sensory to me.

Cool breeze in the hot sun.
Red wine with a chocolate cupcake.
Climbing into crisp, freshly laundered sheets after a hot shower.
Crunchy leaves underfoot on a bright, brisk autumn day.
Cracking open the spine of a brand new book that you just know is going to be soul-satisfying.
Seeing an astounding view of mountains or ocean after panting and sweating up a non-trail that English hubby insists is just a short hike.
Being stone-cold sober but feeling like you're experiencing an acid flashback while lying on the hard ground in Death Valley looking up at the almost painfully mind-boggling constellations with no city lights to dim them for miles up on miles.
Not that I would know what an acid flashback feels like.
Blissful free time with nothing on the agenda.

Okay, that last one isn't strictly sensory, but it opens up the opportunity for all kinds of luxury. And is a reminder that I need to stop once in a while and be content right-here right-now. As I said to someone recently, I need post-its all over the house to remind me.

But don't think I'm poo-pooing the idea of indulgence. Because by golly I do embrace that kind of luxury as well. And later this week, I'll be sharing a little video I cut together recently for a local artisan. It's the sweetest story ever. And there will be a giveaway. An indulgence. A luxury. Because we all need that kind too.

sneak peek

Universal Truths

PMS victims should qualify for paid sick days. Weeks, even. You wake up in the morning, looking forward to the day and all the accomplishments you're going to ... accomplish ... and the first word anyone says to you or perhaps the sight of guinea pig poop squished into the hardwood results in snarls toward anyone in the vicinity. Lasts all day too, even with coffee and waffles with maple syrup. Day ruined, the world hates me, short fuse, Sweetpea keeps a low profile in her room drawing. Smart girl.

Don't plan. Remember my snoozy Sunday, the heat wave, my prediction that chilly and/or rainy weather would in all likelihood return? And all my plans to get the vegetable garden planted this past weekend? If you don't live where I live, guess what the weather's doing right now? Four straight days of rain, that's right. Not that we don't need it, but hello - could it not have waited until I was over my PMS? Oh. And planted the garden, for crying out loud?

When the time is right, you'll know it. At this time last year I was wringing my hands over whether to enroll Sweetpea in kindergarten this past September. She has an unfortunate birthday which means that she would either be one of the youngest or the oldest in her year, depending on when she starts school. I think the reason I did so much hand-wringing was not only because I wasn't sure if she was ready but - just maybe - because I wasn't ready for her to be in school every day. Well, I'm ready. She is a daily delight to me (as demonstrated by how often she is featured in my ramblings), but I'm ready for my little bird to fly the nest so that I can too. Plus, she asks every single day how many more days it is to kindergarten, so she's ready too, just in case you were calling me a selfish mother under your breath. I heard you! PMS gives me superhero-hearing, you know.

Don't try to roast garlic in the microwave. You'll be smelling its charred remains for days afterward. True story.

Write it down or you'll forget. Because I had at least six or seven universal truths planned for this post before I did three loads of laundry and then sat in the rain watching Sweetpea play soccer and then took us both for a hot chocolate and a banana muffin afterward to warm up, even though my stomach is a total wasteland from all the stress-related eating I've been doing lately. But I'm afraid five is all I've got.

And with that, I'm off to drown my sorrows in a cup of tea (and later after Sweetpea is in bed, a glass of wine). I wish you all a PMS-free day.

Overcoming Inertia

Back in my animating days, one of the issues facing me and my fellow animators was the principle of overcoming inertia. Meaning simply the motion required to start an action - having a character go from a stationary position into full-on movement. It's surprisingly difficult, and one of the tasks I confronted with frustration every time I had to do it.

This girl has NO problem overcoming inertia.

I have that same problem getting going in real life on occasion. If you Google the phrase, you'll find all sorts of search results from life coaches and self-help gurus guaranteed to help you get over it.

Procrastination (my middle name), fear of failure, not having a clear path forward - all these things stymie me on a daily basis. Today I was re-working a video project - one for which I have great enthusiasm, so it's not or shouldn't feel like a chore. But I spent almost four hours pacing up and down the hall, drinking coffee and ultimately eating almost an entire bag of Pirate Booty because I just... couldn't... get... started.

When I finally DO get started, and things flow just as they should, I mentally (and sometimes physically) whack myself in the forehead for my stupidity. I cheerlead my friends all the time when they're facing challenges, and counsel them in how you just need to find a tool to help get rolling on whatever is stalling you. But of course, I always forget my very good advice when it comes to my own life. Easier said than done.

I've said it before, but working for yourself is hard. Working for a studio is hard too, but at least there is immediate support the next desk over. On the worst days, I consider going back to studio work full-time, which would not only sacrifice the precious time I get to spend with Sweetpea (even challenging as THAT can be sometimes), but would sabotage all the work I've done in reinventing my career so I can work from home.

But I need to find myself some new tools obviously. Self punishment never works (for me), beating myself up about it is pointless, desperation and frustration both turn to procrastination (all those -ations!). Mantras work, a walk around the block works, making a list of goals to achieve works, a shout out to the universe definitely works.

Now I just need to remember to use them. What do you do to get yourself over the humps?



Just to show that I'm not the only frustrated person around here, as I was driving Sweetpea home from daycare today, she was vainly trying to tell me something but unable to get the words out. She finally exploded out with "Oh, my brain is so mad at my body!"

I hear you, sweets.

Sunday vacation

I grumbled about our mad dash to the beach late on Sunday but it was the BREATH that we all seemed to need. The oppressive heat at our house gave way to cooler breezes and views that make you shake your head that views like it exist.

I plopped myself down on a blanket close to the food while English hubby and Sweetpea ran somewhere way over there....

...to look at anemones and climb rocks.

I was grateful. Yet melancholy. I thought with the coming of spring that the upbeat side of my nature would step back in more permanently but it hasn't happened quite yet. I'm always aware that there will be a moment, uninvited and almost unconscious, when I'll feel an unfamiliar emotion and later identify it as joy.

I wish the definition of melancholy weren't so -- negative, strange as that may sound. Because it's as if I'm just touched gently with it for the most part. My melancholy walks side by side with wonder and gratitude, and only very occasionally dips down deeper. I'm aware of my blessings and my luck in having a joyful girl who bounces up the stairs to greet me each morning, and doesn't seem to take offense at my moods. Yet. She's only five. And a hubby who is considerate and gives me space when I need it.

I don't talk faith much. It's deeply personal and something that I play tug-of-war with - pull it close, push it away. Mostly push it away. But looking back at my footprints (and then snapping a pic) reminded me of the footsteps in the sand story. And it both comforts me and weirds me out to acknowledge that I know.... KNOW, that there are times in my life when I'm being carried. It sounds nutty, even to me, but faith is nutty.

Picture Frame

Tonight we watched a documentary about Annie Leibovitz, Life Through a Lens. Aside from the fact that she is an immensely gifted photographer and that the scope of her work is astounding, I will watch a documentary about just about anyone. I love the feeling of being immersed in someone else's life.

She and her family talked in the film about how much of their upbringing was in a car - they travelled constantly since her father was in the air force. One of the comments from her sister was about how it was easy for them to become artists (in their family) because so much of the world they saw was through a ready-made picture frame - the car window.

I like this idea, and how they have defined that piece of their family history - seeing the world through a car window - as being key in how they developed.

Recently I've been working with a friend on a small documentary project where we've been interviewing some ladies in their 80's and 90's about memories that they felt were important in their development into the people they are today. As inspiration, my friend found a photo from her own childhood that so obviously showcased where her love for dogs and her problem-solving skills came from.

I've been poring over my childhood photos to find one that defined my character in some way. Nothing yet, I'll have to dive deeper into the albums when I visit my folks this summer. All I could find was a posed image of me in a ballet costume wagging a reproving finger in a stuffed animal's face. Perhaps a sign of my latent control issues? But not a fair representation since it wasn't candid.

I'm not that interested in self-analysis, but I like history and getting a sense for why things are as they are. I definitely like taking a backseat, in my work anyway - I don't like to be front and center, I'm happy behind the camera or creating a story from still or moving images.

I started this post an hour ago specifically to display this photo of Sweetpea and my Englishman - captured in a frame by me (in the backseat), with the subject of their observation framed by a window.

It's all tied together somehow.

Oxygen

Single mothers, I salute you.
Mothers of multiples, I bow down in wonder.
Moms of any number greater than one, I shake my head in amazement.
Stay-at-home or working outside the home, you're goddesses.

How do you do it? And I don't just mean how do you get through the day from A to B, wrangling school drop-offs and homework and picking up groceries and running the duster around and making dinner and performing your away job if you have one.

How do you do it with grace and patience and understanding? And maybe a drop or two of humour?

Oh, I can occasionally make it look as easy as the best of them, we all have our good days when the sun shines as we wake up and then trip lightly through our day without a care in the world. Especially if you're a blogger and only write about the good stuff.

I only have one child, and she will be our one and only. Other parents of more than one have said to me how "easy" it seems when they are able to run an errand with only one of their children tagging along. I nod (just a tad disgruntled on the inside) and say yep, I'm lucky, Sweetpea's so good. And she is.

But there are days, like a few I've had recently, when I wonder just how parents DO it when they have more than one demanding their attention, affection, time. Or questioning every decision I make and throwing back at me lines that I previously tossed out casually. Like, "I don't have to do anything I don't want to do". Luckily I have a somewhat reasonable child who seems to at least partially absorb our talks about respect and listening (and how it goes both ways).

But. Those reasoning talks always seem to take place when we're on our way out the door (late, of course) which causes my nerves to reach their limit although I try to maintain my equilibrium, hoping that my oh-so-calm demeanour will rub off. More often than not, I end up hollering at her to go for a time-out, and then take one myself. Which is probably when I should be reminding myself of this.

And because she does not have a sibling, I (and English hubby) am the only distraction she has while at home. Most of the time this is a lovely thing. But I don't have to say it, do I? Sometimes you wish they'd just leave you alone. My grandmother used to tell us tongue-in-cheek to go play in traffic, and I get it.

Today was a good although exhausting day. We made a school project, went to swimming and soccer, got three loads of laundry done, and managed to maintain both our good moods for the most part.




This past Friday was not one of those good days. But this image of Sweetpea hugging a tree would make you think it was.

Especially when she said I'm getting oxygen from the tree, Mumma. If I had posted only that last line with the photo anyone would have thought - what a great day they must have had! But it wouldn't be the whole picture.









Yet, I'm grateful for those days. They remind me to cling to the small sweet moments when the bigger picture isn't so sweet. To take in some oxygen and hug a tree.

I'm assuming that's how you all do it too. And I offer you my admiration and gratitude because knowing I'm not the only one makes it a whole lot easier.

Back from blue, and back to basics

Last week was a WEEK. And I'm grateful for the sweet notes asking how I am. I'm well thank you, and I really am, but it was touch and go for a few days as I coped (or didn't cope) with some emotional volcanoes. Hamster videos aside, my loved ones brought me back onto an even keel by simply being there. Sweetpea lay on top of me on the couch whispering "it's okay mummy", and my lovely Englishman was home in mere moments when I needed him.

I'm breathing deeply, trying to ask for help when I need it (a sometimes impossible task), and trying to remember to keep it simple.

So Sweetpea and I baked.

In my continuing pursuit of using healthier ingredients even for the sweet stuff, we baked spelt cookies. For those of you not familiar with it, spelt is an ancient whole grain full of nourishment and often more tolerable to those who have trouble with wheat.

Here is Sweetpea's monitoring station including a stool with refreshment should she feel faint with impatience waiting for the timer to go off.

And here are the cookies. They have a slightly grainy texture, almost cake-y, but you throw a few semi-sweet chocolate chips in there and deliciousness is guaranteed. Next time I'd use a little less flour to give them a bit more chewyness, but overall very tasty.

I also baked a loaf of spelt bread which turned out great - better than my whole wheat version - and unbelievably yummy toasted with fresh local honey. I used the recipe right on the package for both.

Can't get simpler than bread and cookies. I needed the reminder.

Why can't we all get along?

I've noticed in my blog circuit lately a number of posts dealing with the diversity of opinion in certain issues around child-rearing.

It reminds me of the so-called MOMMY WARS.

I first heard, or at least registered, that term a year or so ago at a conference where Leslie Morgan Steiner was the moderator. Although I haven't read the book (which she edited), I've read some of her blog and articles she's written, mostly at mommytrackd. The basic gist of the Mommy Wars is that there is a divide between the stay-at-home moms and the career moms, that some made the choice to go one way or the other (and fiercely defend their choice), some don't have that choice and so resent whichever side they're not on. Every mother falls at least partially into one category or another, really.

I was 36 with a solid career in the film industry when I became pregnant. I never intended to stay home forever - maybe six months or a year at most. The decision was taken out of my hands when my daughter was 8 months old. I had gone back to work part-time when she was 6 months with the promise of a project assignment, only to find that no producer wanted a part-time crew member. I was laid off, although not alone. The film industry is very project-oriented and if you're not on a project you're not employed.

I was angry and bitter, my confidence was shot, and I sunk into a delayed PPD for almost a year. Looking back, I look at it as a tremendous blessing. The choice was made for me to be at home with Sweetpea and today I wouldn't trade the time I've been able to spend with her. As a result, however, I've had to struggle with reinventing myself to maintain some sort of link to my career (I now work from home part-time), and still be a conscious and present mother for my daughter. It's now my choice (with my Englishman's blessing) to be at home, and whatever income I manage to pull in helps with the monthly bills.

But back to the topic at hand (how I do get distracted) .... that being....

Different parenting choices, and the fact that they are personal and benefit your own family and no one else. And that we shouldn't feel judged by anyone who might take an alternate path.

Right now Alice at finslippy is feeling some heat because of her stance on circumcision - a current topic on momversation. It's definitely one of those hot-button topics - like breastfeeding (or not), attachment parenting, sleep training (cry it out, baby!), homeschooling and anything else that is a blood-pressure booster for you. Someone commented on Alice's blog that because they adopted their children, they were able to opt out on a lot of these hot-button issues and focus their attention elsewhere. And not feel guilty.

That sums it up nicely for me - it demonstrates what is of primary importance - raising aware, compassionate, thoughtful human beings. And however you get there is up to you.

I like that the debate is out there, that we have the opportunity to discuss and challenge each other on these topics and increase our own awareness, but that in the end it's personal choice and that judging anyone else for their hard-fought decisions regarding their family is not productive. Or nice. Dammit.

Thanks to Scottish Lass for her post on sleep training, which started me mulling this whole messy topic last week.

Sweetpea, hollering.