January 24, 2012
Home
Lucy playing with her Lalaloopsy dolls next to me.

The journal pictured above is for Lucy and begins on April 8, 2009.  This is her second journal.  The first one, which began when she was in-utero, is filled and sitting in a safe in the basement.

I write in Oliver and Lucy’s journals about once a month, sometimes more, sometimes less.  I often write in snapshots, framing a moment in time.  Today I had five minutes to sit down on my red couch, feet up, and write to Lucy while she played with her Lalaloopsy dolls on the floor next to me.

“Tuesday, January 24, 2012
home after going to
Ridgedale Library
after dropping Oliver off at school…

Yesterday, while swinging on the tire swing out back, before we made snow angels along the path out back, one after the other; before we found animal tracks that led to trees and then disappeared; before we walked to Wirth Chalet for some water and a snack of popcorn, you said:
“We are like toys to God.”
*
Saturday night, when Oliver and Dad had “guys night out,” you and I had girls night out.  We went to the Children’s Theater to see a play.  That day, we went to Target, the Gap, Macy’s, and Marshalls in search for the perfect dress to wear on our big date.  For you, we found a gray and black dress with an animal print, a long black sweater, and black boots–so adorable.  I dressed in a black dress that I got from Ragstock and my Frye boots.  Together we ran down the sidewalk along the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, late for Harold and the Purple Crayon.  Magical.
Afterward, we went out for dessert to Gigi’s Cafe, at a candlelit table.  You said, over and over, “Mom, this is the life.”
Yes, yes it is.” 

When I show the kids’ journals to friends or family, they say, “Oh, I wish I would have done that.”  I always tell them, “You still can.”

You can begin now, with a scrap of paper, with a thought, with a moment. 

January 18, 2012
Treehouse

This morning I woke up having no idea. No idea how to revise the book I wrote, no idea where I’m headed with my work, no idea where I am going or how to get there, no idea how to run a business. Sometimes the Unknown is too big, and I want to hide. Or get a real job. Or embrace what I have and not worry about not knowing.

I know I’m not supposed to know. None of us can know. Every day we step into the Unknown of our lives. But that doesn’t make it any easier when I compare (compare and despair!) myself to other people who seem to know what they are doing.

So I hang on to my ritual like a lifeline–Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, from 6-9 is when I work. In theory. I usually untangle myself from between Oliver and Lucy, who still join us in the middle of the night in our bed, at about 6:20, go downstairs in the dark and pour myself a cup of coffee, (Paul grinds the beans and sets the coffee maker for me every night. To me this equals love.) and read a book on the red couch in the brown room while I wake up, a candle on the windowsill. From the couch, I see my neighbor Dave take his dog for a morning walk. He leaves for work by 7:00. When he pulls out of his driveway, I pack my bag and computer and head back to the Treehouse to write. Or plan a class. Or sketch. Or spin my wheels. Or check Facebook.

I tell myself that if I just show up, if I just hold on to this ritual, place one word after the other onto the page, I will arrive somewhere. I usually arrive at the doorstep of myself. Which is nice. Even if I leave the Treehouse every morning, still not knowing.

A glimpse into this morning in the Treehouse, not knowing:

Dharma, my moral support

When I don't know, I remind myself what matters.

I do know I will be working with youth at the amazing non-profit Youthlink.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Treehouse
Blustery, bland, monochromatic outside
Warm candlelight, Aveda rainforest, quiet inside

This is the place where I write, the place where I dream into the future and reflect on the present.  This is the place I recharge, revise, renew.  This is the place where we gather and spill the wine or blow the steam off the top of our tea.  This is the place where I work it all out in my head.  This is the place where I get perspective, where I go when I need to walk away.  This is the place where I meet myself, on the page and in all of the little things I place around to remind me to stay close to the heart and soul of my life.  This is a place for which I never dared to dream, but that reminds me we are not meant to know, that we must leave space in order to discover.

This is the Zen Adventure Treehouse in Minneapolis: