Step away; come closer.

While I was in Lancaster with Calvin last weekend, I took notes.

Of course she did! You’re probably saying.  And you might be inclined to ask, Why?

My answer is that it is my way.  It is the practice of a deep thinker, of a writer, to note what’s around her in hopes of it somehow weaving together on the page to form some kind of story that is something.  A story that really tells, really shows.

One of the most important notes I took on this trip was about the importance of breaking routine and providing experiences outside the norm for Angus and I as individuals and together as a couple and family.  It was really fitting when this thought came to me as I navigated the country roads of my childhood because the theme of our past few weeks has been one riddled with stress and anxiety, a battle for inner balance.  We have fallen into a sort of "grind,” a place I vowed a long time ago I would try to avoid.   Angus and I have had many discussions about how our lives have changed since having children.  We have been trying to renegotiate a life that is adventurous while still managing to be stable and predictable for the kids; we have been working hard to create something that fulfills everyone.  We've shared about what experiences we want to have, and while the talk has been great, there’s only so much I can talk about without doing.  The trip I took with Calvin was one of the first steps in our plan to “do,” and while I’m not saying traveling to Eastern PA/Amish country is an outrageous adventure, it did something to jolt me out of my funk and shed light on the fact that anything (well, almost anything) is possible.  I loved the entire, sometimes stressful, process of airport travel and revisiting special places of my past with a 4-year-old’s constant commentary.  It was simple stuff, but it was empowering.  It created a place inside me that felt completely alive and not the least bit like going-through-the-motions.  In moving away from our routine, I grew closer to an awake state of being.  Awake to my surroundings, to each moment, to my hopes and dreams.

Things I once considered unrealistic or ideas to save for later are starting to look possible, and my excitement has grown tremendously.  Some of the experiences on my own list, I’ve spent years talking about but have never scheduled.  Now, I am taking action, and have booked a weekend yoga retreat, signed up for a stand-up paddle board lesson, and bought a kit to learn how to create body henna.  The experiences on Angus’s list, one as simple as making more time for friends, are beginning to take shape, and I notice a visible difference in his mood when he comes home from these outings.  He is connecting in ways outside of work and our family, which is so important and often gets lost in the shuffle of life.  Some of the experiences we want for our family seem crazy to tackle with two kids under five.  We’ve been talked to about the horrors of camping and warned about taking toddlers to Europe.  But we are feeling optimistic and are in the mode of figuring out what we want to do and how to make it happen.  If it’s a time issue, we will wait.  If it’s a money issue, we will save.  But the issues aren’t stopping us from making plans, and even that feels more like true living than the grind.

It is amazing what a small break in the routine can make us realize about our lives and what experiences we want to provide for our families and ourselves.  Aside from the new understandings about what we want, what I love most about breaking the routine is that once you come back to it, it feels better.  It feels right.  Upon returning, I felt completely different – more present and open to receiving the pleasure of the day-to-day with two kids.  (OK, so it didn't last long, but I actually found Kyle's ear-piercing shrieks cute.)  Overall, I found that seeking a little something different helped me appreciate the same. 

The notes I take aren’t earth-shattering and may seem like little bits of insanity to another’s eye, but they matter.  They are little pieces of me, a way to speak the whole truth, to make observations, to document my journey.  They are notes about driving in storms and how the lightening flashed capturing a photograph of white knuckles and wheels on water.  They are summaries of weird recurring dreams where I lose someone or something and beg for its return.  They are jottings of travel bits like “download more to iPad” and “get a new car seat roller – one that doesn’t bruise my leg.”  They are notes about my soul’s connection to the country, to the endless rows of corn, towering trees, and open land.  They are documentations of Calvin’s new phrases like, “What are you laughing about, ladies?”  Woven together they are the song of an experience, a little gem of a ditty that just might change a life. 

Break the routine – you will love that you did.

My Reflection.

On Sunday night, at Listen to Your Mother Boulder, I spoke my truth.  One of my truths, on stage, in front of 250 people, alongside 11 other brave souls choosing to speak theirs.  What is that feeling that takes hold after hearing your own voice project itself so authentically?  Why is there a desire to deconstruct that moment time and time again with family and close friends?  What is that part of me that wants to relive the heart-pounding seconds before stepping up to the microphone, the deep breath I took before diving in, the applause, and words of appreciation or pride?  I feel a little self-indulgent admitting that, but at the same time, I think it’s only natural to want to savor something so big.  Something so moving.  Something so important.

When people ask me how I felt about the night, I have a million different answers.  I barely remember my four-minute spotlight, and I could feel my entire body shaking as I stood there.  Each time I’d look down at my words on the page, I’d catch a glimpse of the bottom of my dress quivering in tune with my nerves.  I remember hearing one of my best friends laugh in the front row when I delivered a line toward the beginning.  This was grounding.  I remember finding my husband in the audience and feeling his energy of support and pride.  That felt right and uplifting.  I remember being in awe of my co-presenters and their stories; though I’d heard them before in rehearsals, each one was more poignant than ever.  I caught things in each I had never perceived before.  This reminded me of the wonder of writing and how we can experience the same piece in a new way a thousand times over.   I felt nervous to talk to friends afterward and wondered how they’d react to my story.  The praise was nice, and I really tried to stay in each conversation, absorb their words, as normally I shy away from that sort of thing.  Overall, my answer usually takes some version of “amazing” or “crazy” or “grateful.”  I do not elaborate because partly, I do not know.

Most of what I’ve felt in the past few days has been something close to utter exhaustion.  It could be the fact that we hit the town post-show and I downed a shot of tequila and two beers and was out until 12:45 a.m., but I’d like to think I still have some fire inside, the ability to rev and go once in a while and not crash for three full days following.  I’m beginning to realize that my exhaustion may be stemming from releasing something this huge and then diving suddenly back into the grind of normal life.  I’m a processer, people!  A reflector.  A thinker.  A writer.  And until now, I really haven’t had the chance.  I had a lovely talk with my husband who is just as excited as I am, and he allowed me to repeat myself, ask the same questions over and over just to hear his response.  Lying in bed way too late to be awake, high on some kind of chemical our bodies naturally produce, we talked all about it.  I got the rundown on his every thought, feeling, and interaction.  But I still felt confused about my own.

It has only been in the past 24 hours that I feel I’ve grasped almost fully what the experience meant to me.  When you hear my piece in a few months, when they are posted on You Tube, you will hear me talk about my son Calvin and what he’s taught me.  You will hear me talk about motherhood and the journey it constantly is.  You will also hear me admit an extremely personal struggle, one that I haven’t let many people into.  It is very real for me and was an excruciatingly painful time in my life.  It was this part, this process, of releasing something that had settled so deep inside me, to open up about the spillover, about what it’s been like to live current life against the backdrop of “ick” that moved me the most.  Instead of lurking in some file on my computer, some dark corner in my mind, or in some broken place in my heart, it bubbled up out of me, words let out, a truth spoken.  And I was not passive in this process.  My story definitely had its own push, but it would never have been told had I not made the choice to tell it.  I am very proud of this.  And what I’ve determined I’m feeling about this entire experience is a mixture of everything I already mentioned plus this extra little piece that probably has to remain nameless for fear of downplaying it or not giving it justice.  In my past, I did not open up, and therefore, I suffered.  My story then had push too, but I allowed it to overrule.   In small ways leading up to Listen to Your Mother I had conquered, but nothing compares to what it was to write a truth and then speak it aloud to family, friends, and strangers, and soon the ever-expansive Internet.  In the vulnerability, I found such strength.  In the openness, I felt people connect.  In the quivers, I felt something shift and move in a direction that isn’t without “ick” but is much closer to it.  In thanking motherhood for setting me free, I felt even more set free. 

Exhaustion, please, you can lift now.

Thank you for all the emails, texts, cards, calls, and notes of support, and for being one who supports my writing and my most true voice.