Friday, October 21, 2011
Bob’s Java Hut
Minneapolis

If I had one wish for Oliver and Lucy, it would be that they remain exactly as they are, forever.  That they can hold on to their uniqueness, to their particular quirkiness, to their essence, to their particular dreams and ways of doing things.  Watching them grow into who they are meant to be, I learn about so much about myself, about my history, about who I really am.

Lucy is highly emotive, stubborn, luminous, easy to tilt her head back and laugh uproariously in one moment, and tilt her head back and scream furiously the next.  She smiles at and admires her reflection in the mirror–rats nest hair, stained tank top in 40 degree weather, my long-sleeved shirts pulled through the neck to her waist, sleeved wrapped around her and tied in the front–a style so beautifully her own.

Oliver is sensitive, social, and wise beyond his years.  His big hair bobs as he runs and taps his “happy feet,” always moving, always thinking, always philosophizing about life and death, about God and the most powerful Pokemon cards.  A first grader, he takes pride in the work that comes home in his “Friday Folder,” and in the homework he earnestly finishes at our kitchen table.  His little body growing muscles, looking more and more like his father every day, he still carries Sheepy and Scorpie, their innocent and worn faces still peeking out of the crook of his arm and out of the covers of his bed each night.

While Oliver is just beginning to grow conscious of himself, in other words, self-conscious, Lucy is still wonderfully oblivious and about how she is perceived.

If I had one wish, it would be that they remain fully who they are.  That they never hope to be someone else or like someone else.  That they bring their gifts into this world with brave and wild abandon.

I reflect back and wonder what I was like back then, before I overheard my friend whisper to my other friend in the hallway of my junior high that my clothes didn’t match–the outfit I had saved my paper route money for, the colorful outfit that, until that very moment, I loved.  I wonder what it was like before the wordless shame crept into my conscious that I was different, that I was somehow a little off, a little goofy, not like others.  When did it seep into my head that different was wrong?

I am a 39 year old woman of two young children, my right pant leg rolled up so I don’t get it caught in my bike chain, like I’ve been doing since I began riding on two wheels.  It is just now, almost in my fourth decade, that I am learning how to be exactly who I am, boldly, without apologies, with wild abandon.  And it is my children who are my teachers, teaching me the way back to exactly who I am.

If I had one wish for our children and for ourselves, it would be that we can remain exactly who we are, so we can shine all of our light into this world, all of our being into this world, as it is meant to be.

Friday, October 14, 2011
Common Roots Cafe
Sun shining so brightly behind me
I can barely see my computer screen

I woke up in the dark of the morning, sandwiched between Oliver and Lucy, who join us in our bed in the middle of every night.  I have yet to perfect the art of peeling myself from the covers unnoticed, before Lucy’s little voice rings out in the darkness, “Mama, you goin’ to your office?”  Every morning.  It would be easier to turn off the alarm and curl up with Oliver and Lucy’s little bodies.  But then I realize, more than they need me to stay, they need to see me take care of myself.  Because when I take care of myself and my wellness, I show them the importance of taking care of themselves in their lives.

When I am well, I’ve noticed they are well.   In other words, when I fill my well, I am able to pour my life and love into theirs.

This morning, I got to see the moon soar across the sky.  At least that’s what it looked like as the illuminated clouds blew across the sky, across the light of the moon.  This morning I padded, barefoot, into my yoga class and stretched my body, keeping my muscles and cells renewed and strengthened.  This morning, I got to sit in Common Roots Cafe by the sunny windows overlooking Lyndale Avenue, write in my journal, and devour my egg and cheese on sesame bagel.

This is my Friday morning ritual, a ritual of yoga and writing, of sitting with the city in a coffee shop, listening to Life outside of my own.  This is my weekly date with myself.  Just as we must feed our primary relationships with our time and attention, we must feed ourselves with time and attention.

How can you find time for a date with yourself, when you feed your life and your soul with simple decadence?

October 5, 2011
Treehouse Deck
Minneapolis
Stunning October day
Feeling blessed and lucky

It has been twenty years since I began writing as a way to surf the unending waves of life.  Now, I am beginning a project of reading through these archives for the first time and sifting through them to write a book of “A Life in Writing.” This process of delving into the words from my past is helping me cultivate such compassion for the young woman I was, struggling with my family, life, and my place in it.

(The following is an excerpt from this book as it is becoming. I wish I could include the digital photos, but I need to fix some glitches in my site.  Until I do, I upload all images to Our Lives, Our Stories on Facebook.):

October 19, 1992, I bought my first journal, walked into Espresso Royale on State Street in Madison, Wisconsin, ordered a cup of coffee, sat down, and wrote:

These are the first words I have ever written in a journal.  I wish I would have started a journal a long time ago, but better late than never.  Today was a cold Monday.  I had an Italian 101 midterm—I think I did very well, but I could have made some dumb mistakes.  I have a horrible cold, and when I woke up this morning, I didn’t think I would last the whole day.  But, here I am, it’s 5:30, I made it to all of my classes except my 8:50.  I am waiting for my water to heat up for tea and my popcorn to finish popping in the air popper.  It’s weird to think that I will read this and it will be history.  Life goes by too fast.

I was 20 years old.  Both of my parents were drowning: my mother in an alcoholic torrent, my father in a lead-footed depression.  I was in and out of a rocky relationship and barely able to support myself while making my way through college teaching aerobics and bartending.

The gulf between how I seemed and how I felt was far and wide.  To the outside observer, I was outgoing, energetic, active, and laughed often and loudly.  On the inside, however, I was barraged by negative self-talk, crumbling beneath the rubble of a shattered self-esteem.  Though I had many friends, I felt unworthy of friendship and love.  My grades were plummeting.  I rarely attended my classes.  I was depressed and emotionally desolate.  Lonely.

When I began journaling, I did not know that I was constructing a life raft that would carry me along this journey called Life. All I knew was that I too was drowning, and I needed to save myself.  Day after day, I walked into that coffee shop and wrote.  I began to fill journals, one after the other.  Rarely, if ever, did I go back and read what I had written.  It was the process of writing that kept me returning to the blank page.

Through journaling and the reflection it fosters, I lifted myself out of that current of despair and began a process of elevating my self-esteem by getting closer to myself.  With every page I wrote, I cultivated my inner strength.  As I became clearer about who I was, my relationships began to improve.  The problems with my parents did not cease, but my propensity to delve into their darkness did.  I took charge of my life.  I began to dream big dreams on paper, and then over the years, watch those dreams materialize into reality.  I wrote.  I wrote and I wrote and I wrote.  I never stopped writing.

Writing “is a matter of necessity and that you write to save your life is really true and so far it’s been a very sturdy ladder out of the pit.”

-Alice Walker

Now journaling is a part of me.  I have a bookshelf full of my words, my adventures, my journey.

There is no doubt whatsoever that journaling saved my life.  The simple act of putting that pen down on the blank page grounded me.  It gave me a place to land, to lay it down so I could live my life.

“From small beginnings come great things.” –Proverb