Monthly Archives: November 2011

The Science of Spirituality

I’ve got this side of me that geeks-out over science. I have been known to wander aimlessly, by myself, in some of this country’s best science and natural history museums while on business travel. I visited Bodies: The Exhibit, twice, alone. I aced college level chemistry in high school and almost chose it as my college major until I realized how much math was involved.  Science = bueno, Math = no bueno.

I suppose I get this trait from my father who is a chemistry teacher and a science nerd to his core. The man wore a t-shirt imprinted with the periodic table of elements when I was kid. (A t-shirt I rescued from the donation bin and still have to this day.)  I seem to be genetically hard-wired with this insatiable curiosity about how my world works on an empirical, scientific level. The facts about life never cease to amaze me.

Then there’s this other side of me that geeks-out over the spiritual. The side that loves yoga and meditation and learning about religion. It is where these two worlds collide that my brain explodes into a frenzy of hyperactive, toddleresque-overstimilation and I want to pee all over myself like a nervous chihuahua. I could literally talk about this for hours.

Oh will you looky there, I went and created myself a blog wherein I’m pretty much free to talk about whatever I want so…

There are two theories in particular that I think about often as it pertains to science and spirituality. The first, is Newton’s Third Law of Motion. Newton’s Third Law of Motion states: The mutual forces of action and reaction between two bodies are equal, opposite and collinear.

The second law, is a law of physics pertaining to the conservation of energy. This law means that energy can change its location within the system, and that it can change form within the system, but that energy can be neither created nor destroyed.

I know, sounds totally boring right? If you’re still with me and haven’t started skimming to get to the end of this snoozer of a high school physics lesson/ blog post, then stick with me and I’ll break it down.

Have you ever been to an open casket funeral? Have you ever buried the family pet? Do you remember the first time you saw anything that was dead? Do you remember how you felt when you first laid eyes on the deceased? It’s not my intention to stir up a bad memory, I don’t want you to think about the specific person, animal, or situation, but rather the physical experience of seeing it.

I was about six when I went to my first open casket funeral. Since then, I’ve been to more open caskets funerals than I care to recount here, but that’s not the point. My point is that when I saw that for the first time I wasn’t afraid, and I haven’t been afraid since. I wasn’t afraid to see death at age six because what I was seeing might have looked like something that used to be alive, but I knew, at a six-year-old instinctual level, that what I was seeing was not the same as a real person. The energy that animates life was missing because, (and this is the tie that binds it all together so let me be very clear)…

We. Are. All. Just. Energy.

When you understand that, you will start to see life in a whole new way.

We can feel each other’s energy if we pay attention. It resides in the silent, empty spaces between our physical bodies. Have you ever gotten “a bad vibe” from someone? Conversely, have you ever been instantly attracted to another? That’s your energy connecting with another person’s energy. On this instinctive level we draw to us like magnets the same energy we are putting into the world, which conveniently brings me back to Newton’s Third Law.

Newton’s Third Law says that each action (use of energy) has an equal and opposite reaction. To put it more plainly, Karma’s a bitch folks. What you put out into the world, comes back to you. It is up to you to choose what that energy will be. Will it be positive? Or negative? Will you give? Or will you take? Have you ever heard of the saying, the more you give the more you get? It’s true, because it’s science.

Now let’s take the second law, the law of conservation of energy. This essentially states that energy can never cease to exist, it merely changes form. So let me repeat just in case you didn’t get it the first time, We. Are. All. Just. Energy. We never cease to exist, we merely change form.

When our bodies fail us, when it’s time for us to leave the physical world, our energy (or soul, as it is more commonly referred to) lives on in another form. It is our bodies that stay behind. Where we go is the million dollar, highly debatable, unanswered question, but I have no doubt that we all have always, and will always exist in one energetic form or another. It’s true, because it’s science.

Furthermore, (and perhaps another blog post), I believe that all the energy in this world is connected through an elegant system of design that is far beyond my abilities to comprehend. At every moment our energies are speaking and perceiving, connecting and being acted upon by forces that we have yet to fully realize. That’s the spirituality part.

It’s true, because it’s science… and spirituality.

I Give Up

Today was just one of those days. Sadly, all of my days are feeling like just one of those days and it’s making me well, sad.

My 3.5 month old son is a very big boy. I give you Exhibit A: The child he is squashing is a 2.5 year old toddler.

As much as I didn’t want to admit it, he has officially grown too big for the bouncer he has been sleeping in since birth. That bouncer, with its vibration and well, bounciness, is the only tool in my arsenal that kinda, sorta, maybe (but probably didn’t) helped get him to sleep, and last night, we relinquished out of necessity. I could no longer stand to hear his little heels bang the plastic vibrator part as he kicked in fury. Instead, I listened to his little heels kick in fury on the quieter bassinet mattress until 4:15am as he let us know just how much he disapproved of the new arrangements.

For the last couple weeks I don’t think he’s gone to bed before 2am, and that was a good night. Add to that, five nights of a house-full of eating, sleeping, pooping house guests and top it off with (in her honor of the holiday) my daughter channeling her inner Native American and waking with a puking virus most likely contracted from one of the foreigners and so yes, it has been one of those (insert expletive here) days.

Most of the day was spent letting the toddler veg out to cartoons whilst refusing every attempt at nourishment and fluids while the infant slept off his middle-of-the-night-tirade and I partook in some retail therapy. I need to look no further for proof that there IS a God because today was Cyber Monday. Hallelujah! Praise be to Jesus!

You will never guess what I bought myself.

It is both practical and frivolous. It is indulgent and needful. On the one hand, I feel good about it. On the other, like a failure. The gift I bought for myself this year is five phone consultations from a parental counselor specializing in child sleep issues. She was running a Cyber Monday Deal, how could I not?

I’m excited at the prospect of finally getting some sleep, but I’m also feeling like a total wuss. I feel like I’m officially saying that I can’t hack this parenting shit and so I have to pay someone who actually knows what their doing to tell me what the hell I should be doing because I am obviously incapable. (Did you get all that?)

If you’ve read this blog you know that I’ve tried just accepting my situation. That led me to doing yoga at 3am in a dark room which further helped me to understand that I have some (insert Matthew McConaughey’s voice from Dazed and Confused here) “serious anger issues dude” and now, I’m just throwing in the goddamn burp cloth and calling in the professionals. I give up.

I give up because something has got to give and it might as well be me. I give up because I desperately NEED to have a day that’s NOT just one of those days.

“Wear Dance Dress?”

I think we’re all guilty (to some degree) of nudging our children toward our favorite activities. I started dance classes when I was 9 years old and danced for 8 years consecutively. I even took tap, jazz and hip hop classes in my 20′s. The last time I performed on stage I was 25 and one of the only shows I watch on television these days is So You Think You Can Dance. All of that is to say that I love dance and naturally, I want my daughter to love it too.

Since she started walking at 11 months she has moved the rhythm of her world. Until she was about two, I would catch her dancing to helicopter sounds, police sirens or the oven beeping; anytime she heard a beat she planted her feet and did that stiff, knee-bouncing, toddler-dance. Each time my heart swelled with pride and I proclaimed her, “a natural.”

I enrolled her in dance class the minute she was old enough. If I’m honest, it was as much for me as it was for her. Before the first day of class we went to the studio and she picked out a dance outfit. She chose a little pink number with a thin, flowing chiffon skirt and tiny pink roses across the front collar. We call it, “the dance dress.” We also bought the white tights, the pink ballet shoes and pink hair bow to match. Every time she puts on the ensemble she is the happiest little girl there ever was. In fact, most mornings she looks over at the pink dance dress hanging in the closet and asks, “wear dance dress?” One out of every four times, I cave and this is what she’s wearing around the house on any given afternoon.

Unfortunately, that’s about all she likes about dance class. She is, by far, the least attentive child in the room. She probably spends 75% of the time just watching herself dance, in the dance dress, in the mirror. Since starting the class 2 months ago, I still have to go inside the classroom to coral her whereas most of the other parents watch from behind a glass window.

At first, I got frustrated. I wanted her to be ready for the class and I wanted her to want to do it. Everyone reassured me that it wouldn’t take long for her to get used to the classroom and pretty soon I would be watching from behind the glass too. Now, I can spend the first 10 minutes behind the glass, but the last 20 are spent inside the classroom making sure she doesn’t hang upside down on the ballet bars.

Today, as I stood outside the classroom the with other parent’s they began commenting on how my daughter was always doing her own thing. One parent leaned over and said to me, “It’s hard being the parent of the kid who doesn’t get it.”

I could have gotten upset. As much time, effort, money and parental pride was at stake, I could have easily chosen to let that one insensitive comment get to me. Normally, I might have laughed it off and said nothing, or worse, pretended like I agreed. But I didn’t, and I’m glad I didn’t. Had I not said what was going through my mind at that moment I would have replayed the conversation in my head all day and wished I’d said something different. Instead, I said exactly what I was thinking as I watched her off in the corner by herself twirling her skirt in the full-length mirror. I said, ”No. It’s not hard at all. Actually, she makes me laugh.”

And she does.

As Serious as a Panic Attack

The following was written one year ago in the middle of a panic attack. I had recently gotten fired from my job and was floundering. I was taking medication every night just to fall asleep. I was clearly depressed, but hadn’t admitted that to myself yet. This was right before I did. Every time I read it I am reminded how far I’ve come. If you have ever felt like this, please know, as I know now, that you have to keep asking the questions and more importantly, learn how to listen to your heart for the answers… because He is telling you everyday, in every way, where He wants you to be.

I’ve never felt so trapped in my life.  I’m prone to wild swings in emotion and so I’m not sure if what I’m feeling is accurate but I know for certain that it is real.  It is real because my anxiety always starts in my chest.  My heart pounds against my sternum and creates a full, heavy feeling like something is either sitting on me or trying to get out of me.  Either way, it’s suffocating.  I feel nervous, like the world can read my mind by just looking at my face and these thoughts are lethal, like bullets.  I try to control my bullet thoughts.  No dice.  They become obsessive and quicken to a deafening pace.  I shake on the inside.  My hands are steady and my legs aren’t moving but I feel like there’s an earthquake happening inside my body.  The instinct to escape and find safety is overwhelming.  “This too shall pass” My inner voice says.  “Hurry the fuck up” I reply. 

I know what a wild animal in a trap feels like.  Only I didn’t get caught, I built the trap around me one mortgaged brick at a time.  I think my original intent was to keep myself contained where I couldn’t be a danger to myself or others, like a prison of responsibility and status quo.  Even though it was self-made I think I would chew my arm off if it meant I could get outside.  But, like a prisoner suffering from Stockholm Syndrome I kinda like my walls; at least some of them.  They are a place to hang my hopes and dreams for safe keeping and they remind me of what hard work can do.  But they also keep me from seeing, let alone going outside.

 I sit with this feeling for a minute.  Questions start to bubble to the surface like thick, black oil.  Am I scared? The answer to that one is easy. Yes. Am I hormonal? I don’t know, but does that matter or is that just a convenient excuse to not take responsibility? Is this a crisis of the existential kind?  Am I being self-deprecating, self-righteous or just selfish? For sure I am confused. I don’t have any answers and that has always made me uncomfortable.  I have never lived easily in the space of the unknown or unknowable which is the essence of life in general.  For me, understanding and truth are as essential as breathing and right now I lack all of those things.  The anxiety in my chest, my heart, my center leaves room for little else including my lungs to breathe.  But breathing is the only answer I do have.  That’s not true. The other answer I have is that God is here and that I may never know all the answers but someday I will know the only one that matters and that is what my purpose shall be. And so I ask again, the only prayer I’ve ever asked… use me God. Use me.

I’m not where I’m going, I’m not where I’ve been, but I’m on my way.

Sneaky Hate Spiral- Part II

Remember that Sneaky Hate Spiral from the other day? Remember how I thought I was at the bottom of it? Well, I wasn’t, but good news! now I am.

Last night my son cried until 3:30am, just like he did the night before that, and the night before that. Only today, my daughter woke up an hour earlier and well, I had a temporary break from sanity that involved the destruction of a Diaper Genie and a metal chair falling on my head. The rest of that story is far too scary and pathetic to share in this forum so I’ll leave it there, but the point is… I haven’t learned a damn thing people! Now I’m not only mad that I haven’t learned anything, I am mad that I am mad! So naturally, I went about violently hitting and throwing things. Sounds like a reasonable response right?

Okay *throws hands up in the air*  I give up Universe. I am official crying uncle on this lesson. I have obviously missed the point so I’ll ask you again.. What in the hell-fire-and-damnation am I supposed to be learning now? (And if you even mention the word “acceptance” I’m going to shove this (now useless) Diaper Genie refill up your a**.)

I decided that I clearly was not in the right frame of mind to listen to this answer so I chose a life line, and phoned a friend.

Three months ago, when I was still soft and squishy and aching from childbirth, I bought a Groupon. This Groupon was for an 8 class introductory course to Vinyasa Yoga. I’ve done Vinyasa before, hell, I’ve done the P90X Vinyasa tons of times and if you’ve ever done that, you will forever fear the words, ”now crane.” I didn’t really need to be introduced to it, but I thought that after my long pregnancy/ childbirth hiatus, that easing gently back into practice would be good for me. The classes at this studio fill up fast and I had to sign up way in advance. The first class started last Tuesday. When I signed up, I thought that three months into life with a newborn, things would be calmer, and by calmer, I mean the exact opposite of what they are now.

My first sun salutation was joy rising. My first downward dog felt like upward everything. I breathed. I became present. I promised to do no harm and I was reminded that the light in me sees the light in you…Namaste.

It was what I needed right now and the Universe gave that to me. Thank you Universe. But like the ungrateful child that I am, can you PLEASE fix this crying-baby-in-the-middle-of-the-night thing because I’ve done broke my Diaper Genie and those are like $35?

Did I mention that the friend I phoned is a yoga instructor? Ah, it’s all coming together now.

My wise yogi-friend helped me realize that acceptance and non-resistance was only half the lesson. The other half, is about energy. I can sit in my son’s dark room night after night and accept it all I want, but that isn’t going to prevent me from eventually getting frustrated, or sad, or angry. Those are natural human emotions; emotions that also deserve my acceptance.

My learned method for releasing heavy emotions (or negative energy) has been to scream and hit things, because if I’m truly honest, anger is my signature emotion. It is what I turn to almost every time a situation has exceeded my capacity to cope. I needed not only to accept my situation but also accept the emotions that I was feeling should they arise AND I needed to take that emotional energy and redirect it away from my fists and into something else. Perhaps a sun salutation? I immediately knew she was right. I needed relearn how to release that energy in a way that didn’t breed more negativity.

And there you have it folks… another A-ha moment for the books. Now I just need to go apologize to my husband, my children and the Diaper Genie for being such a jerk.

Oh, and if for some reason you need me at 3am, I’ll be downward dogging, quietly in a dark room. Namaste.

P.S. God and/or Universe, please take this as an official notice that I’d like to take a break from lesson learning until after the holidays. This month as been too much.

P.S.S. Oh, and if you’re still listening. I need a new Diaper Genie for Christmas. Thanks.

My Sneaky Hate Spiral

As I’ve said, I believe the Universe speaks, but have I also mentioned that it has a sense of humor?

Just as I was feeling all proud of myself at how super-accepty I was being of the things in my life of which I lack control  acceptance, I was hit with a sudden Sneaky Hate Spiral. As near as I can trace its origin, I believe it started yesterday at approximately 3am when I was still awake dealing with this…

He’s totally cute, just not in the dark… at 3 mutha-effin o’clock in the morn…yo. But I’m accepting it right! I’m Mrs. Accepty McCeptance!

Functioning somewhere on the evolutionary scale between amoeba and preadolescent human being, I slogged through my morning fueled only by a luke-warm cup of coffee and will power. I open my computer with the best of intentions on catching up on the day’s news and kick-starting my docile brain, but instead, I find myself clicking endlessly onto ninetyleven jillion blogs all ninetyleven jillion and ONE times better than mine in every way. *Shuts computer feeling stupid and incapable.*

Hold on to your dignity, this is going to be a fast free fall.

Then I thought that perhaps checking something off my ridiculously long to-do list might make me feel a bit more capable…  well, at least a little less pathetic anyway. I don’t know what part of my brain thought it would be a good idea to go through the 2348 bins of Brooke’s old baby clothes that I’ve been meaning to give away, but it was clearly the part that hates me.  Fast forward two hours and I’m sitting on the laundry room floor clutching a stained, size 12 months alligator shirt and crying about all the babies I’m never going to have and how big my first baby has gotten. *Leaves clothes half-packed and now strewn all over my laundry room adding one more thing to my to-do list*

It’s getting really dark in here. Wait? What’s that sound? It sounds like crows? I think they’re chanting, “Can’t! Can’t! Can’t!”

Then I remembered this one time in 2003 when I ran for exercise and I didn’t want to die, so I thought maybe I’d try that. I pushed aside every cautionary thought reminding me that it’s been awhile since I last attempted such things on account of the very recent birth of a child.

Nevermind that, because I’m in the clutches of a Sneaky Hate Spiral that must be thwarted! Desperate times call for depserate exercise! Put on your ill-fitting running clothes and go, go, go!!!

More than a mile away from my house I realized that I hadn’t wussed out and started walking yet. A smile crossed my face and just when I was feeling all super-fit-mom-hear-me-ROAR! the heat from a thousand suns shot up my shins and burst into flames under my kneecaps.

At that moment I all but gave up and decided that each awkward, gimpy step was bringing me closer to either chocolate or wine; I hadn’t decided which, but that was okay, because I had about a mile to think about it.

All the while I was hearing this whistling, falling sound; like when a bomb drops in a cartoon.  

As I’m holding a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio to my shins, (because there’s no point in being civilized now) my husband waves an important looking envelope at me, “Did you know that a part of our adjustable rate mortgage just adjusted to a higher rate this month?”

Run for your life! She’s gonna blow!

So let me get this straight? I’ve been affectively kicked in the brains, the shins, the womb and the wallet all in one day and less than a week after proclaiming myself, Mrs. Accepty Accepting-pants?

If you need me, I’m lying at the bottom of a Sneaky Hate Spiral holding myself together with a luke-warm bottle of Pinot Grigio and will power. Funny, my day kinda started out that way too?

Speaking of funny, oh you silly Universe, you crack me up.

Quick! Read This! Hint: It’s Not about Patience.

This blog entry was originally titled just Patience. It was titled that because it started out being about that, or rather, about my significant lack of it. I’ve been writing and editing this post for a couple of weeks and every time I went to press publish, I couldn’t. Something felt wrong; it felt forced, like I was trying to be too funny for the sake of being funny and not entirely honest either. In addition, there was no real conclusion to it because I hadn’t really learned anything about myself in the process and isn’t that what this whole blog is about anyway?

Then I had one of those moments that I LIVE for, one of those Oprah A-HA! moments. I realized that what I had been writing about wasn’t my lack of patience because I already have patience, at least when I want to anyway. I mean seriously, someone who decides that their life’s passion is to write novels has at least a decent grasp of the benefits of delayed gratification. No, this wasn’t about patience.

You see, I’ve been going through a difficult time lately with our infant son. Every night, for the last two months he has refused to sleep between the hours of 11pm and 2am. At his worst, he has stayed awake until 4am. Last night, it was 3am. Because our bed is located one poorly-insulated wall away from his bassinet, my husband has resorted to sleeping in the guest bedroom. This has left me alone each night to brave the isolation of a pitch-black room while bouncing, singing, rocking, swaddling and reswaddling our suddenly and seemingly possessed infant son for hours. Every. Single. Night. It is depressing and I’m so over it. There hasn’t been a single night in the last two months that I have not gone to bed angry wanting to scream and/or cry out of frustration and exhaustion. In addition to my tears, and in my efforts to remain quiet, my poor pillow has been assaulted with the most vile curse words you can imagine. This clearly sucks and I may also be slightly disturbed, but it could all be better if only I had, you know, more patience.

Two and a half years ago, in the immediate hours post-delivery of our first-born child, my husband and I were trying to have that once-in-a-lifetime, tender moment. The one where you both tearfully gaze into the eyes of your minutes-0ld, first-born and marvel at the miracle of it all. You tell each other how much you love one another while looking at your cherubic, sleeping angel in awe and bliss. But we couldn’t have that moment because for several hours post-delivery our daughter cried that shrill, nerve-shredding newborn cry right in our terrified faces. They reassured us that everything was fine and it was just the shock of being born. Like the idiots new parent’s we were, we believed them. Hindsight having the miraculous ability to be 20/20, we should have known then what we were in for.

But they were right, the initial shock of squeezing through my birth canal did wear off and the next 7 days were filled with newborn baby bliss c/o hormone overload and lack of knowing any better. After those 7 days, just as my parent’s were leaving on a plane back to Kansas City and we were sufficiently tired of patting ourselves on the back for being exceptional parents ourselves, our precious baby’s head spun around ala the exorcist and I swear I saw little horn nubbins sprout out of her head. After a couple of days, when it became abundantly clear that we lacked the ability to exorcise whatever demon had possessed our little angel, we did what every new parent would do… set up camp outside our pediatricians office because it was just easier than going there everyday.

That’s when I learned all about “colic” or what some of the more kindly pediatricians refer to as, “high maintenance babies.” Those are the babies that refuse to sleep during the day, cry every night for no damn reason and resist every soothing technique known to man. In other words, good times ahead. They told us that only 10% of babies have colic and by “colic” what they really meant was, “we have no fucking idea what’s wrong with your baby and no, we can’t fix it so please stop coming here. Also, you owe us a $25 co-pay.”

They told us that colic typically lasts about 12 weeks because, “that’s when an infant’s neurological system matures and yadda, yadda, total bullshit, and also your co-pay is due at the time of service.”

Five months, and hundreds of dollars in co-pays later, my daughter’s colic FINALLY abated. That’s my little overachiever! My daughter was going to be fine, I, on the other hand, was ruined on babies forever. After 5 months, I had totally lost my shit.  I cried countless tears, I screamed, I blamed myself and anyone else who shared my genetics/ home/ life/ zip code. I’m not proud of it, but I hit things in my fits of desperation because I was so fucking tired, and I was sure I was the worst parent ever, and I’d do anything to make it stop, why me? God, WHY?!! It was utterly exhausting in every sense of the word.

That was it, I was done. One and done! was what I was thinking because why on Earth would I willingly put myself through that again? There’s nothing wrong with being an only child right? Naturally, we had another kid two years later. After all, only 10% of babies have colic right?

10% my ass. I’m batting 1000 on the colic baby front. On the bright side, my son does sleep during the day unlike his predecessor which has been a huge relief. However, he has picked the worst possible hours to start the whole demonic baby bit. I mean 2am dude? Seriously?

So here I am, three months into my second colic baby and I’m no better at handling this than I was the day my daughter screamed in my face post delivery. All I need is patience right? This won’t last forever right? Yes, but in the meantime, I’m miserable. I asked myself the question I have now trained myself to ask when there is something I don’t like happening in my life. What is this experience supposed to be teaching me? And that’s when the Universe (more specifically, Eckhart Tolle) spoke to me again because let’s face it, I spend a lot of time alone with my thoughts in a dark room these days.

“Whenever you notice irritation, resentment or stress arising, it means you don’t really want to be doing what you are doing (or you want to be finished before it’s finished). You are generating unhappiness. So stop, or let go of the resistance by recognizing that it’s harmful as well as futile. When you are total in whatever you do, Life assists and supports you in countless ways.” ~Eckhart Tolle on Facebook October 15, 2011

And also this: “Whatever you fight, you strengthen, and what you resist, persists.” ~Eckhart Tolle

Oh. My. Universe. I haven’t been lacking patience at all! Saying that I need to have a little more patience is like saying that right now sucks, but if I can just hold on a little longer there is something better in the future. The only problem is… the future doesn’t exist. What I would waiting for is a mirage, a product of my imagination because right now is all I really have. It’s all anyone ever has.

No. It’s not patience I lack. What I am truly lacking is acceptance…acceptance of what is. Looking at it in the way Eckhart so elloquently puts it made it clear to me that my resistance to both my children’s beelzebub fussy nature’s has allowed it not only to persist, but to poison me/us/them with unhappiness. A-HA!

Today, I ran to my computer and rewrote nearly every word of this post. I also decided that tonight I was going to accept fully whatever my son was doing as if I’d chosen it myself… and I would too if he’d only wake up because right now it’s 11pm and he’s been sleeping since 7pm.

They may start out crazy, but they are my angels for sure.

Arrow Root

Sometimes, I get creative ideas in the wee hours of the morning when I’m either barely awake or not yet sleeping. Either way, I’m on the cusp of something and it is in this space that my creativity abounds. Metaphors and imagery flow freely as if they’d been there all along. I love this weary dream-state because I feel uninhibited. The inherent problem with this burst of creative juice is that I’m tired, too tired in fact, to get out of bed and write down whatever it is that is so juicy. Stephen King claims that he never writes down ideas. He says that the good ones always stick. But if ask Anne Lamott, she’ll tell you she carries a notepad wherever she goes. Both of them are great writers who have written bestsellers on how to be great writers. I think maybe they are both right but what do I know? I’m just an embryonic writer. However, I am a fan of anecdotal evidence so let’s test this theory, shall we?

Two early morning’s ago the word ‘arrow root’ came to me. I had a whole theme behind it that I thought was pretty good, so when I finally got out of bed and to my computer, I saved it as a possible title. I went back to it today and realized that I didn’t write anything else down besides ’arrow root’ and I couldn’t remember what it was that inspired me. Stephen King would say to press delete, Anne Lamott would say to write a shitty first draft. Shitty first draft it is…

I decided to see if I could re-inspire myself and figure out what it was that captured my attention about the word arrow root. I already knew that arrow root was used as a thickening agent in cooking but that’s as far as my knowledge base went. I headed straight to one of my favorite places on the Internet…Wikipedia. What an amazing time sucker website that is. I’m fairly certain that without the need to sleep, have a BM or care for small people, I would not find my way out of that wormhole. <—– Do NOT click on that until you’re done reading this, you will not make it back, trust me.

Wikipedia told me… “It is invaluable in cooking when you wish to have a clear, thickened sauce, for example, a fruit sauce. It will not make the sauce go cloudy, as for example will cornstarch, flour or other starchy thickening agents…. Substitute two teaspoons of arrowroot for one tablespoon of cornstarch, or one teaspoon of arrowroot for one tablespoon of wheat flour.”

Ah ha! I remembered. Oh, hmm, I guess arrowroot is one word.

Before I met my husband I was a bit of a mess on the life-planning/ financial/ career front. I had been a college graduate for less than a year. I was working at my first sales job for only six months and all my credit cards were frozen in a block of ice in my freezer.  My rationale for the latter was that by the time I could get the cards thawed, I would have talked myself out of buying whatever it was I thought I needed. Without access to hot water, it might’ve actually worked. Anyway, my first job was one I fell ass-backwards into because I had no definite career goals.  I took the job because it was one of the few internet companies in Kansas City and all I knew at the time was that I wanted to, “have something to do with the internet.” My ambitions were exactly that vague. In other words, I was short on long-term plans. It wasn’t until I met my husband, who was also a sales person in the same industry, that my career ambitions became more clear. He showed me what a sales career could do for me and (like usual) he was right.

My husband is well aware that I want to be a writer. He is the first person to ever hear my secret dream. He’s usually the first person to hear of any dream and he is generally supportive, but he also a realist to his core. He has always wanted for me what I want for myself, happiness; and, “If writing makes you happy, then go for it,” followed quickly by, “but don’t forget we have two kids to put through college.” Encouraging, and also anxiety producing motivating.

He is a consummate planner, a researcher if there ever was one. There is rarely an item that crosses our doorstep that hasn’t been cross-checked with consumer reports. We order organic coffee from Columbia which is fantastic. We have the best rum I’ve ever had in my life from Guatemala. We got ”the best deal” on the grass-fed beef from Texas which my husband cooks to perfection on our awesome infrared grill using tried and true techniques he found on the internet. His success rate hovers in the 99% territory. The man knows what he’s doing. He’s so good at research, that I rarely bother to research anything. I trust him completely to make all those types of decisions and if I’m being completely honest, this ability of his to make informed choices ranked super high on my list of reasons why I wanted to marry him.

Yes, but what in the world does all that have to do with arrowroot? My husband is my arrowroot. Imagine it as I first wrote it, two words, arrow root. He is the arrow that points me in the direction I want to go and also a root to grounds me in real life. Arrowroot… invaluable… clear… thickens; it is potent, keeps things clear and yet substantiates whatever you add it to. Without my husband, I am loose, liquid, meandering with the potential to be delicious. With him, I am thicker, richer, a full meal capable of filling you up– “the name may come from aru-aru (meal of meals) in the language of the Caribbean Arawak people.”

Yes, Arrow Root.

Being the definition of an informed consumer/ voter/ citizen, it kind of amazes that to me that he went and married a woman who didn’t even bother to research which university she would attend. I’d like to think it was another one of his good decsions. Afterall, his percentage for success is about 99%.

Epilogue: Shortly after writing this I revisited my Thanksgiving shopping list…

Perhaps I’m not as creative as my semi-conscious state would have me believe.

So what do you think? Stephen King, or Anne Lamott?

The Space Between

I keep referring to this silly, (and maybe a little trite), phrase like I’m out to coin a term or something. I’m not. I just don’t know what else to call it without writing out, “the place consciousness lives” each time. I heard this phrase recently said by, wait for it……..wait for it…… OPRAH (imagine that). Before I heard Oprah say it, it was the title to one of my favorite Dave Matthews Band songs. Dave, a poet if there ever was one , sings:

The space between the tears we cry as the laughter keeps us coming back for more. The space between the wicked lies we tell and hope to keep safe from the pain.

The space between where you’re smiling high is where you’ll find me if I get to go. The space between the bullets and the fire fight is where I’ll be hiding waiting for you.

The space between what’s wrong and right is where you’ll find me hiding, waiting for you. The space between your heart and mine is a space we’ll fill with time.

The song itself is about the a relationship that has become tumultuous and damaged. They have started to play games with each other and fight like the wild-eyed beast you be. They even, go off like a devil in a church in the middle of the a crowded room. Dave sings about trying to find the place where the love still lives between them. The space between where they’re smiling high and the laughter keeps us coming back for more. Poor Dave just wants to live there… and so do I.

There are so many things in this world that are competing for our attention. I’m competing for your attention right now. Information abounds at our fingertips and it’s hard to know where to spend our time and energies and increasingly harder to know what’s real or not, more importantly, (as Dave sings), what’s wrong and right. These are, indeed, important questions to ask oneself.

Over the past year I have become convinced that the answers to most questions, at least my questions, lies in the silent space between all these things. The knowing part of ourselves that does not, and cannot speak in words but speaks none-the-less. Some people call this intuition, others call it consciousness. Whatever you call it, it’s the part of you that not only speaks, but hears and sees the world not with your ears or eyes, but with your heart and soul. It’s not always obvious or pleasant and it’s the wicked lies we tell about ourselves (our ego) that prevents us from hearing it because we hope to keep safe from pain.

The things I love to both read about, and write about, are the things that make us human. The things we all have in common because I believe we are all more alike than we are different.  Over time, and through writing, I’m learning to hear those things more clearly by listening to the space between, or my heart, to use another metaphor. Because I believe that, The space between your heart and mine is a space that we’ll fill with time.

Hypocracy & Cheese

Ha! What a hypocrite I’ve already turned out to be and I’ve only published one post! From the moment I pressed that blue and white ‘Publish’ button I’ve done nothing but fret over all the people NOT visiting my site. I updated all my profiles to include my website and even posted two tweets how could no one, as in not ONE person visit? Nevermind that I only have 28, whoops, make that 27 followers. And nevermind that I didn’t post it on my Facebook wall because let’s face it, that’s where everyone I actually KNOW would see it. For someone who just wrote over 1000 words on her own fear that was a scaredy-cat move if I’ve ever seen one.

But today someone actually clicked through to my site and I promptly began to panic. Like a proud new parent pulling back the blanket on their newborn I waited for the positive feedback to come rolling in. Then… nothing. I looked over my site, checked and rechecked the privacy settings and then re-read (for the frillionth time) all that I’d written. That’s what actually brought on the panic attack.

I did what anyone would do suffering from a shortness of breath brought on my anxiety… first I took a few deep breaths, then ate a piece of cheese and sat down to correct what must be the #1 first-time bloggers mistake of all time. Too much, too soon.

Who on Earth is going to read 2600 words about my personal crisis and who am I to assume they would? Who is going to read 1000 words on my stupid fear and why would I think anyone would care when I’ve never done anything to make them care?  Don’t get me started on how many times I edited these words. When you spend so much time mulling over words they start to mean a great deal to you. Problem is, you are the only one. What a self-absorbed jerk I was being.

The lack of feedback ruffled my ego feathers and when I realized that, the tightness in my chest began to release. I reminded myself (for the hundredth time) that in the end what still holds true is that I have a dream I’m in the process of accomplishing. This is just one step in the process. If I’m going to get my ego feathers ruffled because no one cares about my first blog post, well then I’m in for a world of hurt when I go to query agents.

So this turns out to be just another lesson in toughening up my skin and listening to my heart. Whew, I’m glad that’s over. Now I’m regretting the cheese.  Oh well, I suppose one personal development revelation is enough for one day. I’ll tackle the cheese tomorrow.