return

It's March 4th. Do you know where your New Year's resolutions are?

One of the intentions I set for myself this year (I prefer the term "intention" rather than "resolution" as I find it holds gentler and deeper meaning) was to focus on my writing as craft, and to do so, I would devote 10 minutes a day to writing practice. This would most often be done longhand, and following one of Amanda's prompts. I started strong early in the year, with a new notebook (!) dedicated to this purpose. And, most nights, I made the time to write. And then February happened.

 Not. One. Page.

(Of course I do plenty of writing in my Moleskine journal but those pages have an entirely other purpose. Keeping me sane, for one. Keeping me clear.)

So last night, cuddled in bed against the biting bitter cold, with a hot rice bag tucked at my feet and a hot cup of tea at my elbow, I decided I would come back to writing practice. And the prompt? Return. Ha!

Isn't is such a beautiful word? There is a sound of comfort in it, an echo of home. Of the relief we feel when we come back to where we are meant to be.

To return is the basic meditation instruction. When we sit to begin our meditation practice, we place our attention on the breath, on the gentle, wavelike rising and falling of the breath. The idea is to keep our awareness on the breath throughout the whole allotted time, but the understanding is that our mind will inevitably get carried away from its object of attention. But the fact that the mind strays from its goal is not considered a problem. In fact, the hallmark of a successful meditation practice isn't whether or not the mind wanders, or how many times, but rather the gentleness and kindness with which we return our awareness to the breath. Meditation is the practice of starting over. And over. And over.

I feel that we very seldom allow gentleness and kindness to lead us when we set intentions to either start a new habit, or to release an old one that no longer serves. Instead, we muscle into it. We make brave and rigid promises about frequency and duration and give ourselves stern talking-tos about how we really mean it this time. And in doing so, we set ourselves up for failure and disappointment because (say it with me!) to err is human. Launching a new habit or practice takes dedication, yes, but also a lot of time and kindness towards ourselves.

What if we entered this business of resolutions and intentions as we do a meditation practice? By taking it as a given that we will stray from our path, and not viewing such wanderings as a problem. What if we measured our success not by a strict adherence to our prescribed course, but rather gauged the worth of our efforts by the spirit of kindness with which we bring ourselves back to the path? What if we gave ourselves the grace of fresh new beginnings, not just in January but all the time, every day, with each breath? What would you begin again if you hadn't already convinced yourself you had failed? How would you return home?

Tell me. I'd love to know.

Find excellent meditation instruction here.

Following Write ALM's March Prompt-A-Day.

Having waaaayy too much fun with the Diana Photo App.

and so, to begin

Months sneak up on me. We were 10 days into October before I realized I hadn't turned the page on my Nikki McClure calendar. My baby boy is almost six months. Time escapes my fingers like so much sand, even as each minute of each day slithers slow as molasses. And here we are. November.

I hadn't considered jumping on board with NaBloPoMo until about an hour ago. But Karen wrote about it. Andrea wrote about it. My dearest Amanda has drawn up a lovely list of prompts for each day. And I had such an amazing experience playing along with Christina this summer, showing up to write a paragraph each day. So, why the hell not. November--here we go. Once a day.

The truth is I can use something like this right about now. A little bit of structure. A little bit of motivation. Something entirely mine, and at the same time something that is bigger than me. The truth is there isn't a single piece of my life that doesn't feel like a total mess right now, and I don't know which end to first pick out of the tangle and begin to unravel. This is a good a place as any to start.

To show up. Daily. Fully. To tell the truth. More than likely with Lorde loud in my headphones, ignoring the chaos all around. Making space for the order of letter, black on white, lined up, making words, making sentences. Making sense out of these days. This life of mine. Making it mine.

better than sleep: morning pages

If you've ever had a newborn, you know that phases don't last. There is no sense in trying to get used to anything, good or bad, because these little beings are set on a light-speed course of evolution, and what feels like the norm today will be ancient history in a day or two. So I feel sheepish even writing about this, but...

Over the last few days, baby Cash's slept on in bed after I get up long enough for me to have my coffee and write my morning pages. It's been bliss.

Around 6am or so, he becomes restless with me around. He's at the breast like I would be with an open bag of chips: I don't want any more but I just can't stop myself. I could roll away from him and sleep on my husband's side of the bed, who's up by now, but by some miraculous force of will I roll myself out of the warm bed where I've had too little sleep, stumble in the dim bedroom towards the kitchen for coffee. Then, coffee in hand, I curl up on the couch. And I write.

Like I say, it's been bliss.

All I ever want in life is a cup of coffee and time to write in my journal. If you follow my Instagram feed, you'd know this already, as I seem to have only two subjects: my two boys, and my coffee and journal. I've been an avid journaller for close to twenty years now, and a coffee fanatic ever since I gave birth to my first baby. I've gone in and out of writing morning pages over the years, but it's a practice I return to over and over because it's so potent and, well, pleasant.

On the few days when my baby boy has given me this incredible gift of time, I've been happier, more relaxed, more focused, and I attribute this largely to being able to write in the morning. Even when I didn't write out specific intentions or plans for the day, I feel clearer, my decisions are more in line with my heart, and I move through my days with more purpose. I think it has to do with just having the time to do what I most like and want to do first thing: to paraphrase Karen Maezen Miller, it's a little bit of attention given to myself to I can give the rest of my attention away. And the familiar act of putting pen to paper and moving my hand across the page puts me in touch with who I am at the very center of my being, with who I was even before I was a wife, a mother, a teacher. When I remember who I am, I know what to do.

So, whenever he gives me the opportunity, I will roll away from my son in the earliest morning. I will forgo whatever extra sleep I could scrounge because, when it comes to allowing me to have days that flow sweetly and with ease, writing my morning pages is better than sleep.

small gestures

I recently finished a personal challenge to show up on the blog to write a paragraph each day for 30 days. Those particular 30 days corresponded with traveling to Montreal alone with my two young boys, where we would hang out at my parents' house and escape the brutal Texas summer for a few weeks. This kind of disruption of routine is one I generally struggle with. I like the predictable rituals of my days at home, and cling to such rituals even more so now, in the difficult first few months with a new baby. I knew it would be a challenge to show up daily to write, but I did manage to do so everyday, and that is something that I am enormously proud of. Aside from the fact that the exercise yielded some writing which I am very happy with (which it did), the sheer fact that I showed up and honored that commitment to myself, every day of those 30 days, no matter what, means a hell of a lot to me.

The challenge wrapped up just in time, too, because upon returning home I got waylaid by mastitis AND a respiratory infection. I was so, so sick--dizzy spells, high fever, chills, sweats, the works--for a solid week. Antibiotics eventually had to be brought in. I felt so bad that the illness sucked the will to self-care right out of me. I didn't even want to do any of the things I usually do for myself: write in my journal, enjoy a hot shower, practice yoga, sit for meditation. I didn't even have the energy to want out of my misery. I barely drank any coffee. Those ten days or so have been some of the darkest of my whole parenting career. I'm barely just starting to get back to myself.

I'm starting small. Re-establishing my evening routine--shower, yoga, sit, and a nightly gratitude practice--is my first line of defense. Then, slowly rebuilding in other ways, too. Checking in with myself for a daily intention in the morning, doing some mindful movement as the sun begins to shine. Two solid bookends to my days.

And I am continuing with my commitment to writing. What made it easier to show up each day of the 30-day challenge was that I didn't have to wonder whether or not I would write. I'd already decided I would, and that fact pushed me through resistance every single day. And I realized that, no matter how tired or cranky or blah I felt, if I made myself show up, something beautiful would rise up to meet me. It was surprising and illuminating each and every time. Why not continue? So I am committing to write for 10 minutes each day. 10 minutes. That's it. Let's see how this goes.

The truth of it is that these small gestures are all that is available to me, here in the weeds up to my eyeballs with learning what it means to be a family of four. It is so easy to lose myself in the daily spin and grind. But, more so than ever, it is important that I do what I can to hold on to those things that support me in who I am at the core, even before I am a wife, mama, homemaker. It is vital that I keep investing in myself so that I can be invested in my sons and my husband. It is necessary that I be at home within myself so that I can make a home for all of us. When I have the least amount of time for them, and when I have the best reasons to give them up, are the precise moments when it is most important to honor these small commitments to myself.

Here's to starting over. Please tell me, I'd love to know: how are you recommitting to self-care these days? What small gestures are you making towards living your best life?

"what showing up means"

What does it mean to agree to show up? It means that the tired can wait. That it's almost irrelevant. You go anyway, despite all the excellent reasons not to go. If only the notebook, the blinking cursor on the computer screen were as loud and insistent as a screaming infant. All of this I chose--the children, two beautiful boys, this way of being in the world called a writer.Yet I kick back, dig my heels in so often, no no no I don't want to go. But even if I have to be dragged, I show up. And once I'm there, I'm there. My pen & paper, my two-month old son, know nothing of my reluctance and resentment. They know nothing of the difficulty of choosing again and again. They don't know that on some days it's a minor miracle that I'm there at all. All they know is my hand, my heart, my breath, my scent: there there there. And they are the ones who teach me--that showing up means everything. 

Linking up with Christina Rosalie's Just One Paragraph.

a question of feeling: guest post at Kind Over Matter

print by AlignArts on Etsy

I have a guest post up today at Kind Over Matter. This piece means a lot to me: sharing insights by Vivienne McMaster and Danielle Laporte and the profound impact that they've had on my relationship with my own body. Isn't the image that Amanda chose to illustrate the post so very beautiful and moving? It brought tears to my eyes. I'm off to buy the print right now.

From the post:

I want to feel healthy, alive, energetic, whole, beautiful, sexy. I want to feel vibrant. And I feel that one of the lessons of this pregnancy is to let the inner clarity of that desired feeling inform and motivate my choices when it comes to nourishment, movement, rest, and self-care, instead of being influenced by the elusive goal of a sleeker outward appearance.

I'm keen to know your thoughts on this subject. Mamas, how did pregnancy and motherhood change the way you view your body, and how you choose to care for it?

I first wrote for Kind Over Matter back in the fall. Perhaps you missed it? Read that post here.

:: :: ::

For Kind Over Matter readers visiting for the first time, welcome! Here are a few favorite posts for you to check out:

the yoga mutt theory of parenting philosophy

margin breath practice

the best parenting advice I have to give

what is mindfulness, part 2: the kitchen sink

be the empty cup

To feel engaged

Recently, while grazing around some of my favorite blogs, I have noticed a theme emerging: women wanting to write truer, deeper posts, more rooted in their real lives. Terms like slow blogging, wholehearted blogging show up. This idea of wanting to write more about the taste and feel and quality of our days, and less about 12 ways to practice self-care using only 3 ingredients 5 days a week. You get my meaning.

This resonates with me. My relationship to this space has been somewhat uneasy of late. I have a deep passion for this world of blogs and podcasts and workshops and e-books. It has enriched my life so very much, and I feel I have a lot to contribute, that this is the work I am meant to be doing right now. But. I struggle with showing up, with using the time I have wisely and consistently.

It's true that our lives are somewhat crowded these days. There is the baby folded in my belly, his delightful kicks saying hello--but his growing within my body makes me oh so tired. There is my mother-in-law who has been living with us since December, and the mystery health issues that have brought her here, and the long process of looking for answers as to what her life will be from now on. There are my parents, recently arrived from the Canadian cold, to snowbird in our early Texas spring for a month. All of these people are loved and lovely, and yet there are a lot of bodies moving around our space. It makes me crave stillness and quiet. It makes it hard for me to write.

There is also the larger issue of what to write. My purpose for this blog is to write about the ways in which mindfulness practices like mediation and yoga can help mamas (this one included) to live their lives with ease, meaning and intention. As a yoga teacher, it's easy for me to write from the teacher's seat, as it were. To write in ways that are more directive, less reflective of who and where I am. Now, I love me a good list post of ways to be more this-and-that, so this isn't a dig on that particular sort of writing. But rather, just an observation that I may have gotten myself tied up in the expectation that I need to be writing such posts, and that this expectation has been limiting, sometimes paralyzing, my writing.

There is a question that started tugging at my sleeve at the end of last year. It came up in conversation with Erin Goodman (I cannot find the blog post--in her newsletter, maybe?), and then exploded big time when I started reading The Fire Starter Sessions. That question is, How do you want to feel?

I began to work with this question a lot. To ask it of myself, of my students. Guided by Danielle Laporte, I distilled my answers to my three core desired feelings. One of these is engaged. Engaged is a quality of relationship: to the people close to me, to my surroundings, to my work. When I think of being engaged with my writing, it has a feeling quality of being deep in the thick and muck and joy of it, of carrying threads of thought with me as I move through my days, of stealing moments here and there to scribble down some of those words before they escape. As though writing were a delicious body of water that I could dip into and out of, again and again. Something I can feel on my skin, that could envelop me whole. Like that.

And so it occurs to me that the only way to really feel engaged with the writing on this here space is to shift to a deeper, truer, grittier, more beautiful place. I have written so little about this pregnancy, how it has felt, what I've been thinking about, planning for, enjoying, eating. There is so much to say about these here days, these precious few remaining as a family of three, as our yard greens over and the birds return with their brand-new, same-old songs, and I want to tell it. All of it. Wholeheartedly.


How do you want to feel?

PS: Karen's beautiful answer from today.

the start of something new

I know that I'm not the only one who feels that September marks the beginning of something new as much, if not more, as January does. Even for those of us who have long been out of school--and especially for those of us who tend towards unhealthy affections for all things stationery--September, with its old promise of new school supplies, new outfits, new teachers, new friends, new chances, is wildly enticing. I remember, in grade school one year, before the start of class, I spent hours in elaborate daydreams about the various personas I would affect once school started, one for every day of the week: romantic girl on Monday, tough chick on Tuesday, etc. Back then, I believed that, once September rolled around, I could even become a brand new person. That seductive thought isn't entirely gone, though now I'd settle for being just one new person for all the days of the week. I think that would be less confusing for my husband.

Or better yet: just be newly comfortable in the skin of this same-old person would be great. My friend Laura and I have been talking extensively this past week about the curative powers of clearing clutter: how it opens up space and possibilities. Over the past week, I've been clearing clutter off of my to-do list, taking care of tasks that have been nagging at me for months. Buying the domain name for this here blog last week felt like a huge step into new possibilities: declaring to myself and the world that I am serious about this space, that I am passionately committed to it. This past weekend, I've tackled a similar task: completely overhauling my yoga website, and switching it from Wordpress to Blogger--sorry Wordpress, I just have no love for your clunky interface. There was an immediate imperative to do so, since I am starting to teach two brand-new classes this week, about which I am super excited. I feel that giving my website a new look will open the door to greater and better things for my teaching. But even beyond my being happy with the site itself, I feel even happier about the mental space that's opened up now that I no longer have that task hanging over my head. What freedom!

I have also taken on the task of sorting my son's clothes, and moving them from the cubby in our en-suite bathroom which serves as a changing table, to the chest of drawers in his bedroom. At 19 months he had bunches of clothes that no longer fit, and bunches more that had been given to us and needed to be sorted, washed, put away. I cannot tell you the feeling of glee and accomplishment I got from having this done. More than once I have gone into his room, opened each of the drawers in turn, gazed at the neatly folded stacks of clothes, and sighed a happy sigh. 

And while my son is the one going back to school--two days a week at a local Mother's Day Out program--with a new classroom and new teachers and friends, I'm also stepping into a new space in terms of my work. My word of the year is expand, and I feel like I'm only now coming into the fullness of its possibilities. After a slightly difficult summer, and a restorative time away, I am so thrilled to be coming home, after dropping my son off at school, and turn to my work: this writing, my teaching, both of which I have great, exciting ideas for. I've ordered new Moleskine notebooks, stocked up on my favorite Muji pens on my recent layover at JFK airport. I'm clearing space in my home--my own closet is next!--and refreshed my online spaces. Any day now the oppressive Texas heat will drop and the feel of our days will match the freshness I can feel inside my heart. September, how I love you.

I'd love to hear from you on this. What new spaces are you creating and stepping into this month? Where are you looking for the fresh and new in your days? What is creating that expansive feeling in your heart? What supplies or treats are you celebrating the unofficial New Year with? Perhaps a bouquet of freshly-sharpened pencils? Leave a note in the comments!

:: A few housekeeping notes: I have updated the link love in the sidebar, and created a separate page to hold all of those lovely links. I've also recently figured out why the pictures I've been posting have been all fuzzy-looking. Here's to looking a little sharper. yes? ::

open mic night

While I was in Victoria, BC last week, my best dear friend Matthew invited me to an open mic night at Solstice Cafe. He has become quite active in the local slam poetry community and I was eager to see him in action. 

I have quite a history with this place. I have attended numerous shows and readings there. I have read poetry there myself on several occasions. My husband launched his poetry chapbook there. We even held our wedding reception there. Most of that rests squarely in the past: I haven't written poetry in years, and don't think of myself as part of that crowd anymore. 

But a few hours before the show, Matthew started nagging me, asking me if I was gonna read anything. "Dude, I have nothing" I texted. "Liar" he replied.  Back and forth. I felt sure that the young hip slamming poets wouldn't want to hear the rant of a sleep-deprived mom in her mid-thirties. I thought of more and more good reasons why I couldn't read... until I decided to make them into a piece. The following is what I read last week at Solstice Cafe, when I didn't really want to and should've been in bed. Thanks, Matthew, for being persistent. I actually really enjoyed it.

Reasons Why I Can't Read At The Open Mic

Because I am not prepared.

Because I don't have a piece ready to read.

Because reading at open mics hasn't been my thing for years, and I'm afraid you'll notice.

Because I am hungry.

Because 16 months ago a bomb exploded in my life in the shape of a beautiful baby boy.

Because my friends are putting him to bed tonight for the first time.

Because I am crazily, dangerously, sleep deprived.

Because for so much of every day I feel like I'm teetering on the edge of the abyss, and it would only take the merest puff to send me tumbling over the edge.

Because when my son wakes up, again, in the middle of the night I say mean, horrible things to him.

Because the other night, I squeezed him too tight, and shoved him on the bed.

Because I am sorry.

Because I am scared.

Because I have never done anything this hard, and this beautiful.

Because I have gained so much weight I can no longer hide it, not even from myself.

Because I am angry, and sad.

Because so often I feel like a fraud.

Because my husband is such a better writer than I am.

Because I am afraid I'm not that person anymore, that writer person.

Because I am not always sure of who I am.

Because I have a cold.

Because I miss home.

Because I am angry at my mother.

Because I am tired.

Because I am so, so tired.

Because I don't think you want to hear about the neuroses of a new mother.

Because I just don't feel cool anymore.

Because even though I know I know being cool shouldn't be a thing that matters, it still does.

Because I don't belong here anymore.

Because I had my wedding reception here in this space, and I feel I should leave it on that high note.

Because I shouldn't feel like I have anything to prove to you.

Because I feel I have to prove everything.

Because I forgot to put on my fancy earrings.

Because my cool t-shirt is covered in stains.

Because I'm not sure I want to.

So you see, dear people, there are just too good many reasons why I can't read at the open mic. I hope you'll understand, and that you'll forgive me.

Note: I wrote this in the very honest and raw space of a mama who hasn't had a decent night's sleep in a week. Last week was crazy. Feeling much, much better now that we're home and getting some decent shut-eye. Still, it was both illuminating and scary to find out that the dark place of the worst of sleep dep is always only a few bad nights away.