This And That @giantmusings - Tumblr Blog

I woke up this morning and there is no snow left on the ground.

It melted while I slept. When I closed my eyes, after squinting out of my window, my yard was still blanketed, covered in fluffy white.

Seasons aren’t ours. Seasons aren’t ours. Seasons aren’t ours.

My son loves to play in the snow. He touches the icy white crystals with his tiny hands and looks up at me in awe and fear. His tiny fingers turn red and angry, but his eyes are bright and limitless.

The snow is gone.

Its coming back, says the morning news. This weekend. So what to do? What to do with the two days of empty earth. This season, so young, but already stretched on for so long, and now a break. Green earth peaking through.

Maybe a walk. Maybe cleaning up the window boxes before they’re covered again. Maybe walking barefoot in the yard just because.

Seasons aren’t ours.

My back is throbbing. My heart is throbbing. The snow is gone.

jaclynpaige

Write: One of the most effective ways to access and heal your inner self is through writing. To honor the part of you that makes up the root chakra, write about an experience that you remember being stressful or traumatic at any stage of your childhood. Recall the facts, the feelings and emotion behind it. Set a timer, and for 15 minutes free write whatever comes to you first.

I can remember distinctly being 12 years old and sitting across from my mother, crying, because I was soon going to be 13. A teenager. I wanted more than anything to be a grown-up, I was the pre-teen praying for her period, and for her boobs to grow, and for a boyfriend...but I was also so very afraid of no longer being “impressive”. These were my words at 12.

I was a (maybe not that good in hindsight) very talented young performer, with a voice too big for my body. When I sang, grown-ups stopped and stared and exclaimed and showered me in praise and bountiful helpings of admiration and intense visions of a future of stardom and success.

“She’s bound for broadway” “Someone get this girl a record contract” “She’s a born star” “What a big voice for such a little girl!” “Where did that voice come from?”

On and on and on they spoke about me, in front of me. Words too big for a 12 year old. Words, whether they knew it or not, filled with pressure and weight.

So I cried, sitting across from my mother. So afraid that I would no longer be worthy of the praise and admiration that my youth and tiny frame and big voice afforded me with the adults I so longed to please.

Interestingly, and tellingly for my overall sense of pressure, my mother didn’t assure me that none of it mattered. She didn’t tell me that I was more than my voice, more than my talent, more than “good for my age”. She didn’t hold me and say, “Honey, you don’t have to earn anyone’s love or affection. You being you is enough. Your voice is just as boring and wonderful and unimportant and magnificent a part of you as your freckles or your red hair or your long toes. Its just one part of a magical young lady. Nothing, not a year, or a day, or a person’s opinion can change that.”

Instead she said, “Your voice is so incredible, so special, so big that people will STILL be impressed forever. You can’t outgrow how talented you are, it will always be there. People will always think you’re incredible because of that voice.”

I think she thought she was addressing my actual fear, but instead she was compounding it. Instead, she added to the already burdensome weight of exceptionalism that no child should have to bear. She told me, NO! You don’t have permission to stop being exceptional, you’ll just continue to become MORE exceptional.

The pressure began mounting around that time, to a point of almost unbearable weight. I began rejecting lessons and growth and training and humility, afraid that someone would find out that I actually wasn’t that exceptional. Afraid that someone would realize what a fraud 13 year old loser I really was. Destined for nothing. Destined for mediocrity. I had to keep them fooled.

milestone

I’m rapidly approaching a milestone birthday. And honestly, it looks and feels (and tastes?) different than any milestone birthday I’ve seen before. 16 -- becoming a young adult, gaining independence, it felt so shiny and and special. 20 -- feeling grown. LIke done. I did it. I grew up. I knew everything when I turned 20. Ironically, on my 20th birthday I was hanging on desperately to a terrible relationship, binge drinking illegally with a fake ID (was kicked out of the same bar 3 times on my bday), and looking for love in all the wrong places to put a pg13 spin on what was actually fairly NC17. 21 -- settled down with a younger man, out of the bar scene. Had my 21st birthday at a barn in the country, played my own music, drank responsibly. Became the mother hen to a group of then 19 year olds? After always hanging out with older people. Again, fully certain I knew IT ALL. Was ready to marry said man-child (thank god for him never wanting to marry me). Thought life was a series of different experiences begging people to love me.

So its been 9 years since the last time there was cause for occasion. Cause for slowing down and commenting on the passing of a year or decade.

I think a part of me (maybe the part raised in the south and the part that pledged a sorority and the part that used to search ebay for confederate flag clothing because I wanted to fit in SO badly in my redneck hometown) always hoped I’d be married, a mom, and have a home of my own by 30. Yet, the other, more feral part of me, is still disappointed that I felt so rushed to get to those milestones.

Regardless. I’m here. I’m wed to a man whose love I never have to chase, and the only uncertainty in our marriage is self-created. I’m 30 and I can finally see it and name it and choose something else.

I’m here. I’m the mother to a hilarious wild man one year old. He makes me laugh, he makes me cuss, he’s changed my relationship with my body for the better and for the worse. He’s stretched my perception of what I’m capable of, and also shrunk my world in ways I never anticipated.

I’m here. I have a home with a brick foundation and sturdy wooden walls. An acre of land, and playground, and a vegetable garden. So much more happens in this house than I ever could have anticipated. Its within these walls that my baby grew, and began to move through my body to join us. We brought him home to this magic blue cottage. I found my dream job here in the sunroom, on conference calls while breastfeeding. Joe and I have had the biggest fights of our marriage, and the calmest times of our life together. In these blue walls beers often are poured down the sink luke-warm, a strange juxtaposition to so much of my life when not a drop would be wasted.

I’m here. I don’t go out to bars anymore, but I do slowly cook breakfast for a girlfriend or guy friend in my kitchen once a week. I don’t go out dancing, but when Miles is tucked in his high chair I can always make him laugh with my sweet moves to Toddler Radio on pandora. I rarely put on make up or do my hair or put together coordinated outfits. And honestly, when I do, I sometimes feel insecure about the togetherness -- who am I to appear to have it all? Most days are bra-less, with a blazer layered over my tank-top for video calls.

I’m here. And as I approach 30 I find myself trying to convene, a la a seance, with my younger self. Maybe my 20 year old self, desperate for attention always loving out, never loving in. What would she think of me now?

I’m sitting in my comfy old computer chair, writing on tumblr (lol such grown), while the sunrises over the wooded lot across the street. My face is warmed by her light. My neglected hydrangeas and window boxes taunt me from outside. My insides are currently being throttled by the high-waisted jeans I shoved myself into. I haven’t had breakfast. I’ve had 3 cups of coffee. I’m here.

I guess I have the house, I have the husband, I have the son. I have the journey. I have the sunrise. I have the perspective. And finally, after a few milestones of knowing everything, I know that I know nothing. I know that I can finally approach life with humility. I’m not the best at anything, I used to think I needed to be the best at everything. And finally, finally I don’t feel like I’m in a rush.

I have set ONE GOAL for my 30th year. My goal is to let go of defensiveness. to become secure in my weaknesses, my failures, my shortcomings. So that when someone points them out I can simply say, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m working on it, can you be patient with me? I’m growing and sometimes it hurts to grow. Thanks for loving me anyway.”

#10 minutes a day #daily writing

septemberwildflowers

here’s a thought

let’s tell young boys that they are brimming with kindness and imagination and nobility. point out their gentleness, their fierce joy and limitless capacity to love everyone and everything. tell them they are princes in a kingdom of wonders and beauty and thoughtfulness and the warmth of their own hearts. take them to museums and symphonies and forests to make tree forts in. raise them to empathize, innovate and do good things. with confidence and humility.

hannaoliviaway

let’s raise kind and honest and hard-working children, who know their incredible worth, and are truly 100% themselves, without apology.

onlinecounsellingcollege

That’s what careless words do. They make people love you a little less.

Arundhati Roy (via onlinecounsellingcollege)

laraelizabeth-blog1

concept: forgiveness becomes the default, as immediately as possible, because all things are flowing and so why hold on like that w those claws

giantmusings

My preoccupation is no longer empires; I tiptoe in darkness to witness your blanket’s rise and fall. Then, bending over the slats of your crib that remain silent sentries through the night, I become reacquainted with a God I knew in my youth and say a wordless prayer of hope for your future, which is the future of all the world, while listening for the sweetest sound I have ever heard: your breathing

Would Jesus Sleep Train?

I realized I had hit rock bottom when I watched the search results load on my tiny iPhone screen at 2:00am: “Would Jesus Sleep Train a Baby?” The results:

“Should you let your baby ‘cry it out’? A Christian Response”

“Catholic All Year: Have a Baby They Said...”

and my personal favorite, “God Does Not Want Your Children to Watch Spongebob.”

I locked my phone screen, stared into the dark abyss of our bedroom while my eyes adjusted away from the blue light of my constant parenting companion. My child’s blood curdling screams were my only company, my husband safely buried beneath layers of pillows smashed over his ears. No, he wasn’t being a bad partner. We had agreed earlier that day that “tonight was the night” that we would let our precious angel “cry it out.” He was playing by the rules we had set.

Meanwhile, I’m asking Dr. Google WWJD with a sleep deprived, miserable, screaming baby as my soundtrack.

I can remember some of my first google searches as a child, who felt very much ready to be an adult. Actually, if I’m not mistaken they were AltaVista searches. "When will I get my period?” “How do I make my boobs grow?” “How do you get a boy to like you?” “What is a blow job?” I was a part of the first generation to grow up with a bonus, cool parent: the internet. The internet was a shame free place to look for answers, encouragement, and company. It was safer than mom, less judgmental than my dad, and certainly less embarrassing than asking my friends.

The year’s passed and my searches changed. I think if they could somehow be recorded, they would provide a dry, sometimes sad, and often desperate coming of age in the age of information story.

“My ex-boyfriend is gay, is it my fault?”

“Is it legal for a 16 year old to date a 21 year old”

“Do I have to tell my boyfriend I’m a virgin before we have sex?”

“What is a UTI? Do I have to go to a Dr. for treatment?”

“Where to get birth control without parental consent”

“How to break-up with your boyfriend”

“Where to buy the morning after pill”

“How to get your boyfriend to propose.”

“How to break-up with your boyfriend when you live together”

“Is my boyfriend cheating on me?”

“My boyfriend won’t propose”

“Natural family planning? Are Catholics crazy?”

“How to get pregnant”

“Pregnancy symptoms”

“How to know you’re having a miscarriage”

“Pregnancy symptoms”

“Why do I keep having miscarriages”

“Pregnancy symptoms”

“Is it gas pains or contractions?”

“Am I bad mom if I quit breastfeeding at [insert current week/month here]”

And suddenly here I am. Twenty-nine years old, sitting up in my bed with my boobs finally just as big as I ever could have wanted or hoped (and currently on the brink of exploding while my son screams in the next room), wondering again, just like at 11 years old, when I’ll get my first period, and certain that both my husband and I would need to use google to remember what a blow job is, much less how to perform one (sorry honey).

My fingers are twitching towards my iPhone. In my hands I hold a portal to the darkside. I hold a piece of technology that can tell me exactly what I want to hear when the sun is out, “Sleep training is an effective way to help your child learn to self-soothe.” “Sleep is critical to your child’s development, its not benefiting either of you for him to cry or nurse all night.” “You’re a good parent.”

But in the dark hours of the night, I’m simply one carefully phrased google search away from being immersed in shame and self-doubt. You see, I didn’t type in an unbiased search to fuel my critical thinking. I typed in, literally, I shit you not:

“Would Jesus Sleep Train a Baby?”

I started to say a prayer to this God that I’d been out of touch with for years now. Like a casual, “Hey Jesus, I was going to look for the answer on the internet about my baby crying but then I thought I’d go directly to the source?”

And this instinct to seek external answers, even without google, made me laugh outloud, and then, of course begin to sob.

Just as I do in many other relationships in my life I was searching for validation of an answer I wanted to hear: YOU ARE A HEARTLESS, GODLESS BITCH. GO GET YOUR SON BEFORE YOU SCAR HIM FOR LIFE. YOU MUST PUT HIM FIRST OR YOU WILL FAIL AS A MOTHER. That is literally the answer I was searching for. It just is.

I was looking for reinforcement of my martyrdom, reinforcement of this endless cycle of baby-on-boob that was not serving me or my blow-job-less marriage.

I turned off my phone. Fully. Completely. Off.

And instead I did an internal search. I used the critical thinking skills I’d learned and refined off of the internet. I culled through the data I’d collected in books and studies and anecdotes. I looked at my sweet, darling husband who had access to so little of my energy these days. And I ran an internal search:

“Can I give this try? Can WE give this a try? Can I do this hard thing, for five more minutes to give us all a chance to approach life with a bit more joy?”

The search query returned a modified yes. “Yes. But only for five more minutes.”

At the end of the five minutes he was still crying. I went in, and my much prayed for D cups were thrilled with my choice, as was my son. I was listening to my mind, my heart, and my body. And the answer was more complicated, but more right.

And the next night we both got better. And the next even better. And for awhile, he slept. I slept. Joe slept. We smiled more. I googled less.

Now, he is almost a year old and I do not regret any of the nights I was awake with him. Nursing him. Singing to him. Glaring at him.

I also don’t regret AT ALL the nights that me, and Jesus, let him cry a little bit.

#daily writing #parenting #cry it out #dr google #moming

maninsun

Never be afraid to apologize to your child. If you lose your temper and say something in anger that wasn’t meant to be said, apologize. Children need to know that adults can admit when they are wrong.

American Humane Society (via maninsun)

File this under TMI:

I think my period is about to (finally) come back because my body is acting like it's going through puberty for the first time again.

I smell like a middle school boys locker room.

I just sent my grandpa an angsty response to an email he forwarded making fun of millennials.

and I’m watching broadway youtube videos.

Literally 13 y/o me.

delta-breezes

A noble life is not a blaze of sudden glory won, but just an adding up of days in which good work is done

Frank H Sweet, The Independent (via kvtes)

Illustration by Ben Giles

ONE MORE THING - I almost subscribed to online workout videos to do in my living room. And then I PAUSED. And instead I watched free videos of people dancing to pop music on youtube and danced for an hour and it was fucking hilarious and free and a great workout.

yesterday found me grounded. calm. not owing, but giving freely. I feel my anchors right now more than I have in a longtime. When I feel rooted, I can dive into something. yesterday, that looked like reading longform articles from start to finish without needing to pause and scroll through my phone. It looked like finding strength and purpose from someone else’s words, letting those words guide me to introspection without tipping me over that edge of reason into self-pity or confusion or spiral.

I dug deep yesterday and thought hard for the first time in awhile. With a freedom to not. That, I think, becomes key. I’m not doing this because I must or because introspection is “authentic”, or because someone like me looks inward. I dug deep because the mood struck and I followed it. Here is a brief summary of what I found when I dug...

I actually feel good right now. I feel comfortable in my skin. I feel like I’m using my brain. I feel so at home in the role of mother, wife. I love my home. I love my job. I have in-person friends who challenge me and give me life. I also have far-away friends who I’m managing to stay engaged with more than I’ve been able in the past few weeks. I’m growing and changing at a natural pace -- nothing manic here right now.

And instead of letting the outer voice of the world tell me that contentment is dangerous and ugly and inauthentic (i.e. if I feel good where I am and I am also not practicing yoga 7x/wk and I’m eating a digiorno pizza with reckless abandon then I’m actually not trying hard enough and if I were to just look deeper I’d see how deeply unsatisfied I am with my body/my diet/my wardrobe/my furniture/my car), I’m actually listening to my heart which is screaming ENOUGH. I have ENOUGH. I am ENOUGH.

This is so foreign. All of the voices of social media and media generally are telling me otherwise. Every pitch is curated for my weaknesses...every targeted ad is carefully selected based on recent profile views, google searches, any page I linger on for too long...and when I can see the pitches through that lens it actually becomes laughable. I want to break this down

1. I see an ad for “encircled” a Canadian clothing line that promises me that I can “be more with less”. But. BUT I have to buy your MORE to be MORE with less? Wtf. A) I am plenty already thx tho; B) Buying more shit to be more minimalist? come on now; C) I actually love color tho, I know I look at a lot of blogs and pages where women wear black and neutrals, but I like to SEE that with my eyeballs while I wear orange that clashes with my hair.

2. I see an ad for “maggielouiseconfections” on instagram. the lovely chocolate shoppe out of Austin, TX is barking up the wrong tree. I like to watch the Great British Baking Show because their accents are charming and they’re all so kind and subtle compared to American TV. I like to watch the slow process of European baking, while I am committed to only using recipes that start with bisquick and end in 45 minutes in my own life. I do not need to follow this account and look at fancy chocolates and I certainly don’t need to buy them, because EVEN IF i were to buy and then photograph gold foil chocolates and then post them on my instagram, I am still the human that thinks that recipes that start with bisquick are the most delicious and I wouldn’t post that so what and why?

3. I see an ad for Target’s adorable new home collections full of funky colors, textures, and shapes that are whimsicle and lovely. Here’s the thing. Our living room currently consists of two rocking chairs from Joe’s 10+ year dead grandparents old basement, a coffee table from his grandma’s house, a leather couch that was a steal off of craigslist, and a WHOLE BUNCH of funky colored textures and shapes courtesy of my sons toys. I find myself deep in Target’s webspace once or twice a week, filling a virtual shopping cart with LITERAL ACTUAL CRAP and I’m so grateful that my husband doesn’t let me spend casually anymore. Because what why no. No thanks. Thanks but no thanks.

I paused. I thought about how everything I look at and say and do online is allowing someone else to buy my brain and then try to sell to me. And within that pause came a chance to laugh at the absurdity of it all. I don’t want your less is more, I don’t want your gold foil sweets, I don’t want a cheaply made couch that is sold by the machine of american “big box” stores that treat their employees like shit.

I am ENOUGH. I have ENOUGH. Yall. Life giving stuff happening over here. You can’t beat me internet.

Alternatives to what they’re selling me:

1. Less is more - give away the clothes I no longer wear. if I need more buy used or buy from a maker/shop owner whose success I’m personally invested in. These people likely cannot afford to target me with an ad online.

2. Golden chocolates - Sugar. Butter. Flour. Oven. Endless opportunities for mixing it up.

3. Target shit - family hand-me-downs and/plus/also we’re good. our house is fine. I don’t even need to cruise craigslist. our house can be FINISHED RIGHT NOW. Its in everyone’s best interest EXCEPT mine to see it as otherwise.

#10 minutes a day #daily writing #ranting

http://thenewinquiry.com/blogs/marginal-utility/viral-oppression/

^^ inspiration

“Peers who share a reality owe each other constant reminders of its truth; they must repeatedly demonstrate their fealty to this reality by asserting it in the face of the alternatives and by raising the costs for those who might be tempted to defect.”

Okay. I’m trying to get back into ~daily writing and I’m starting with this quote/article as my launch point. I was chatting with my compass @laraelizabeth yesterday and I was working through the idea of craving a platform and recognition, despite the fact that I haven’t done the hard work of figuring out what it is that I want to say/add to the space. I kept chewing on this long after our morning call, and the simplest way to distill the situation is:

I want to be heard, but I don’t know what I want to say.

When I first observed this desire in myself I passed some pretty harsh judgments on myself. Really, I felt sort of sickened by the image of craving fame/recognition/admiration but not earning it. I listen to podcasts, I read blogs, I follow accounts on social media and I hear their messages and voices and internalize their advice and I imagine that they deserve that platform. They must be spending hours crafting their messages and creating their content. Then there’s me.

I cannot stick to anything. I don’t consider myself an expert on anything except maybe my husband, myself, and my kid. But even on those subjects at least once a week I realize I’m a total novice. So why would I want a platform? Who could possibly learn from or even engage with my narrow tales from my narrow life?

And then I read the above article and I started to give myself a little more grace for my craving. At the risk of sounding dramatic, we are really living in this world of contrasting, adjacent realities. One obvious example is that Donald Trump is our president because people wanted him to be, despite the fact that there are millions of people who literally think he’s going to destroy the fabric of our nation. This isn’t just difference of opinion--this is people living in fundamentally different realities.

And okay. If thats true, which I think it is, not just on politics but on any number of other subjects, then maybe that contributes to why I’m craving a platform. I’m seeing all of these people share their realities, some I agree with (or want to agree with) some I disagree with (or want to disagree with) and some I don’t understand at all. Maybe I want a platform to throw out my version of reality because I crave the feedback loop described in the quote featured first in this post...

I crave “constant reminders of [my reality’s] truth.” I want to share my world and my priorities and my opinions so that people will tell me that my experience is real and valid and shared. And, at least according to this great article, that is a phenomenon shared. Its not just me.

But after reading the entirety of the article I felt an empowered push back. I do not need validating for my choices, my priorities, my reality. I need to engage in my reality, and challenge it, and grow it, and cull whats not working and add more of what is. Instead of living in the vapid online subculture of “shared realities” which is actually no more than a circle jerk of people desperately “shouting” at each other “I’m okay, right? please tell me I’m okay!”

I am okay. I am more than okay. My world is full and complete and my reality is bounded by god, friends, family. The edges are there, and I know I don’t see it all, but that’s okay. I can tell myself that I’m okay.

#10 minutes a day #daily writing

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