When Self-Care Slips

These are my tells:

A glass of wine with dinner becomes two, becomes a bottle. I spend more and more time on social media. I eat until my stomach hurts, then I eat some more. I snap at the kids; I hear myself snap; I tell myself to stop; I don't stop.

I've been through this before. The difference is that now I recognize it happening. I pull myself out of the nosedive before I crash. This morning, as soon as P had the water boiled for his coffee, I put on my running shoes and went for a run. I check myself on social media: before I fall down the rabbit hole of reading about two more black men murdered by cops in the States, I shut it down (but do I also have an obligation to look? I have the luxury of not reading, of not being personally affected, of knowing that cops will keep me safe. This is a whole other post. I have to take care of myself, too.)

Tonight, I won't have even one glass of wine, because it opens a door I'm not able to shut right now. After the kids go to sleep, I might meditate. I might work on some poems. Even though I've lost my daily writing practice, I haven't lost the poems. They come out of me, the words a migraine pulse in my head. The only difference between now and two years ago is that now, I listen. I stop and I write those words down. So even though writing isn't a part of my daily routine, it is there. I won't ignore that part of myself any longer. I've got three poems on the go that I'm almost ready to send out. I'm waiting to hear back from three other publications, too. I keep at it, doggedly.

I see these patterns in myself, when I'm not taking care of me. I overdo it on other things. Sometimes it seems like an effort to feel something: that's the overeating. Eating until I'm uncomfortable, until I feel sick, until I have no choice but to feel my body. And sometimes it seems like an effort to numb out all of the overwhelm I feel every day, to check out. I've written about that before. It's the social media, primarily. But now that I'm a year postpartum and the baby doesn't nurse so much anymore, it's the drinking, too.

So here I am, clawing my way back before it goes too far. And if I'm being grateful as a way to self-care, then I am grateful that I now recognize when things are slipping. I'm grateful that I don't need someone else to point it out for me. I sometimes feel that I need someone to hold me accountable; something I loved about therapy is that it was hard for me to sit down across from my therapist week after week, complaining about the same thing and never making a change. I don't have that checkpoint anymore: I have to provide it for myself. And maybe being honest about it on the internet, and with my partner and with my friends, can be that check, too.  But mostly it's me. Nobody else is going to tell me to go for a run or sit down and meditate or write. I have to take care of myself first. It's the hardest lesson to learn, and I'm learning it still.

Thoughts on the Orlando Massacre

Sunday morning I woke up a little before everyone else. While I waited for the kettle to boil, I checked Facebook (like I'm trying not to do) and one of the very first items in my news feed was an article about the Orlando massacre. I read it quickly. I fought back tears. I flipped the cover closed on my tablet and I busied myself with the day. We unpacked boxes of books and toys, I placed pictures and candles and nic-nacs about the house. In the afternoon we planted out some flowers and tomatoes and peppers we'd bought at the market. I kept my mind away from the hurt.

But by late afternoon, I couldn't stay away any longer. I read that the death toll was now more like 50. I read the first snippets of information about the shooter. I felt numb, until I started texting with a close friend who is a lesbian. She told me how hard of a time she was having. She said "they're shooting us." And at that, I remembered that I am in that "us". I identify as queer, though I'm read as straight. I hate how that part of myself is so easily erased, every day. How I forget it, too. It's something I struggle with. You don't have to be queer to feel the pain of this tragedy, of course, but her words brought me back to myself and I finally started to feel it.

I feel it as a queer woman. I feel it as a mother. I feel it as a human being. Like so many, I wonder how many more people have to die for something to change. I am appalled that this man was able to legally acquire the guns he used, even though he was on a government watch list. What is the purpose of these lists, then? Why do so many people insist they have a right to possess these weapons of mass destruction? I'm sure there are those saying that if only someone else in the club had been carrying a gun, the death toll would be much lower. I'm sure that's complete and utter bullshit. It's a part of the lies that gun-enthusiasts tell themselves to make it okay for people to keep dying. It's shifting the blame, it's burying your head so fucking far in the sand that you can't hear the rest of us crying for it to stop.

If this man hadn't been able to purchase a gun, he'd just be a lonely homophobe, quietly hating gays and all of those people who were just celebrating love and community and BEING, would not now be dead.

Though perhaps even bigger than the gun issue is the issue of the hate. If that man hadn't been so triggered by the sight of two men kissing, this wouldn't have happened. If we are all surrounded by love and acceptance, if we are taught these things right from the beginning, if we're taught to live and let live, then there'd be no need for the guns. There would be no fear of this happening. I hope to raise my kids to know this, deep in their core. To know only love, to feel only love for others. I hope they never have to face the agony of "coming out," because they'll know that they can love whomever they choose. And that they never have to face such hatred for that.

I know I'm not adding anything new to the conversation. But I hope that the more people who make their voices heard, the closer we'll come to some kind of reform. There has to be a tipping point. How is this not it? How was the last one not it? And the one before that?

For a several days now I've had the beginnings of a poem in the Notes section of my phone. It's a bit dark, and I knew that generally, it was about parenting and children and sending them out into the world, I didn't know where it was going, really, or what was coming next, which is a bit unusual for me. But I trusted it would come. And last night, this morning, it did. I'm saddened it was this event that gave me the words to finish the poem. I'm grateful I have poetry to help me work it out.


Me, just before the Dawson City Pride Parade, 2007.

On Gord Downie and Being Present

A week ago, Tuesday morning. I'm sitting in the rocking chair, watching the kids destroy the sun room and wishing I was somewhere else when my cell pings, calling me back to the present. I pick it up and read the text my mom has just sent me: it's a link to an article about the lead singer of the Tragically Hip, Gord Downie. He has terminal brain cancer. Around me, a pair of pants sail through the air as Aedan runs past, naked. I feel like I've been gut-punched.

The Tragically Hip are "that band" for me. The first band of which I became an ardent fan. My older cousins, in Ingersoll, loved them. They'd play their music at the parties we all went to together, and it didn't take long for my interest in the band to grow beyond my adoration for my cousins. I think Fully Completely was the first album of theirs I owned. But it's Day for Night and Trouble at the Henhouse that were the soundtracks to my early teens. A little bit bluesy, a little bit raw, a little bit moody, with a couple of ballad-type songs thrown in for good measure, those two albums were everything to me. And when Gord Downie released his first solo album and collection of poetry, I devoured it. Gord Downie's writing was my introduction to contemporary poetry. His writing sparked my love of poetry, and led me to one of my favourite Canadian poets, Al Purdy. I'm sure I'm not the only poet in this country who owes their beginnings to Gord.

After my first Hip concert, I vowed to see them whenever they were playing in the area. I've seen them seven times in concert, now. Gord Downie is the consummate artist. He is electric to watch on stage; he seems to have a direct line to the Muse, to his creative source, fully open at all times.

When I read that he'd been handed a death sentence, I was crushed. I don't mean to eulogize him here, though, because life rolls on. His life, his art, rolls on. They're releasing a new album, they're about to embark on an eleven date tour. In their statement about Gord's cancer, they had this to say:

"What we in The Hip receive, each time we play together, is a connection; with each other; with music and it’s magic; and during the shows, a special connection with all of you, our incredible fans."

It's this connection, the magic that they speak of, that draws me to them, that draws so many of us to them. And it's what draws me to writing, too. To take part in that magic, either directly by creating your own art, or indirectly, by experiencing it through another's art, is something special. And it's Gord Downie's dedication to this, not just now but all through his artistic career, that inspires me. He seems to be ever present for his art, for whatever comes through, be it on the page or the stage.

I hope I can learn to be so present for my own art, for whatever comes through. Not questioning it, but just being there, being a witness to it. Letting it rest on the page, and then, later, coaxing it out and pushing it just a little bit further.

I hope I can learn to be present like this for my life, too. For my self, for my family, for each moment of the day. In the tumult of the last few weeks, the roller coaster of emotions that accompany this impending cross-country move, what has helped me through has been to focus on the present moment, to really be IN it. To bear witness to whatever is happening, to whatever feelings are there. To be there for my sadness, my fear, my anger, and my excitement, too. To be there with my kids, with my parents, my grandmothers. To hold still in those moments, instead of letting my mind wander to thoughts of what we're about to lose. Because once I let those thoughts in, I'm no longer there.

In that same vein, I think seeing the Hip on this upcoming tour will be an exercise in staying present. In feeling that deep connection to the band and the music without thinking things like "this will be the last time..." I wish that peace of mind to Gord and the rest of the band; that they can just drink in each of those eleven concerts, connect with each of the thousands of Hip fans who will no doubt raise their lighters (or their cell phone flashlights, I guess) in those darkened arenas and stadiums across the country this summer, singing themselves hoarse in a shared celebration of life and art and magic.


Image via Flickr user Ryan Merkley

Coming Out of Survival Mode

On Sunday, P came home from what was supposed to be a month away from us. I must have been out of my mind when I said "Yeah, I can handle a month with the kids. This is a good plan!" In reality, I lasted approximately 8 days before texting him this message: "I don't know how I'll last another 3 weeks." Shortly after that S.O.S. he changed his flights and a month became 2 weeks.

But in those two weeks, and in the stressful, making-huge-life-decisions weeks preceding, I'd all but lost my hard-won new habits. The daily writing practice, the nightly meditation, the reduced social media time, the "I'm gonna learn to run!" resolve (in fairness to myself, I hurt my ankle)...all of that stopped. I was in crisis-survival mode. After we decided we needed to return to Dawson, to pack up and move once again across the country, away from the support system we'd built in the last 18 months, my brain had had enough. Comfort food, comfort interneting, all of the familiar escapes became large again.

And that's okay. As my dear friend reminded me one day: "It's not like you're shooting heroin. Go on Facebook!" Sometimes we just need to get through it, right?

But here I am, my partner downstairs with the kids (minus one who is playing with a basket of rocks on the bed behind me). I'm not working on any poems because that's a little much, but I'm blogging. And in the hour before dinner prep begins tonight, I'll go out for a walk, test out my ankle and hopefully get back to my learn to run program. And maybe just before the bedtime rush, I'll slip away to sit in quiet meditation for 10 minutes.

And I'll try to check myself each time I feel the urge to pop in to social media. I'll try to bring myself back into the present moment, the only thing that's real, the only thing that matters.

Outside my window it's beautiful: a few clouds high in the sky, the leaves swelling on the maple trees, sunlight and shadow patterning the lawns and spring gardens. This fills me up. It buoys me in the present.

Even though I've let the good things slide in the past month, those foundations are still there. The roots are still healthy. I just need to water them and revive the wilting leaves.

Big Things, Little Things, All the Things

I've been quiet in this space for weeks, now. I've got a few draft posts saved, but each one I've sort of given up on with my hands thrown in the air. Truthfully, I've felt unclear on the purpose of this blog, on where I want it to go, what I want it to do. I started it because I just needed to write. But over the last year, that need has turned into a (fairly) regular poetry practice.  In fact, I think I could safely say I'm working on a chapbook length collection of poems focusing on my experience of motherhood. When I have time to write, I want to be working on that, because, let's face it...I don't actually have all that much time to write.  So all of that being said, I've decided to use this space as a place for me to announce upcoming publications and to give my readers regular life and writing updates. Ideally I'd like to get back to publishing once a week, but realistically I'm shooting for twice a month.

I've got two more poems forthcoming online in June and August, and I'm still sending my best work out as it's polished. Recently I've decided to try submitting to some of my "dream" markets: they're print (as opposed to online) publications, they have a wide readership, and they pay. They also have very small acceptance rates, but I've got nothing to lose. And in a further effort to get paid to write poems, I've submitted a poem to Room's annual poetry competition. I'm working on a batch of three poems right now, and I think two of them are good enough to send out. It's tricky, learning to critique my own work. Over the winter I met with the University of Western Ontario Writer-in-Residence several times during her office hours at the public library. It helped me to hone my inner editor: by the last time we met, she didn't have much to suggest--in a good way. Writing continues to be the keystone to my mental health. It is so hard to drag myself to the page some days, but I keep doing it.

If you've read this far, you might be wondering about the "big things" promised in the title of this post. It's truly very big. Are you sitting down? Good. Make sure you don't have a mouthful of coffee (or wine.) Ready? Okay. We're moving back to Dawson. I know, right? It's pretty huge. I am at once excited and heartbroken about this. But the reality is that we have a business there. And it needs our attention, more than we can give it from here. Thankfully we've still got our log home (with our outhouse and our limited running water) so we'll live there for the summer with a plan to move into town by the fall/winter. My parents have very generously offered to do some needed repairs on our home here in London, and then we'll likely list it at the end of the summer. P is in Dawson now, and he'll come back in the first week of June so we can all travel up together.

It all seems a bit surreal, at the moment. Two cross country moves in less than two years. It's exhausting to think about. But we're taking it one day at a time, and it really is the only thing that makes sense right now. I look forward to seeing my dearest friends again. I look forward to the fresh air, the mountains, and the river. Northern themes abound in my writing so I'm curious to see what sort of inspiration pops up once I'm living there again. I try not to think about how much we'll miss our family here. It's going to be really hard.

So there you go: all the things. What kinds of things are happening in your world these days? Have you ever moved across the country? Twice? Did you survive? Tell me all about it in the comments!

Two Poems in Rat's Ass Review

I've got two poems up in Rat's Ass Reviews on going "Love and Ensuing Madness" series, "Parents' Aphrodisiac" and "The Girl from St. Eustache."

The first of these, "Parents' Aphrodisiac" went through many drafts. There are 7 different drafts saved on my computer, and there were countless smaller changes made along the way. I really believed in this poem; loved the tension between being a mother and being a partner and lover. I think it's important to view mothers/parents as the multifaceted, many-hats-wearing people they are. This poem was rejected a half a dozen times before finding its home at Rat's Ass Review. I got lucky: I think that's actually not that high of a number, but I was close to giving up. After some encouragement from other writers, I submitted it one more time, and it was accepted almost immediately.  I hope you enjoy it.

Rat's Ass Review: Love and Ensuing Madness

Two Poems in Mused Literary Review

I am so thrilled to have two of my poems appearing in the Spring Equinox issue of Mused Literary Review! It's available in three formats: an HTML version, a downloadable PDF file and a full colour, glossy print magazine.

Though I've been out of the darkness for months now, much of my poetry seems to be processing some of the saddest, darkest times in my postpartum experience. These two poems take me right back there, both emotionally and geographically. I'm grateful to be in lighter place now; however, I think it's so important to share these experiences, so we know we're not alone.

Thanks for reading, friends.

Mused Literary Review

Gratitude

Last week, my creative slump came to an end. I was sitting in the rocking chair, watching the kids play, looking out at a peach coloured sunrise, and the beginnings of a poem crept into my mind. I jotted some things down and then waited impatiently for P to get up, have his first cup of coffee, and relieve me so I could run upstairs and write.

Ending a fallow period of writing is like, if you'll allow the adult comparison, having sex after a long dry spell. It is that basic, that animal, of a feeling. For me, at least. It's a few weeks of nothing and then suddenly: a rush, a flurry, the inspiration sweeping me along, words beating in my brain; the feeling that this is finally going to happen. The dash to the bedroom, to the desk, fumbling at the laptop, the pen lid, the button on a shirt. The pouring fourth across the page, across the screen. The high and then, the slow come-down.

Ah.  Relief. I expect the clouds to open in heavy rain, the birds singing from sheltered perches in the trees.

I am grateful. Let my heart fill with gratitude for this return of words. Of course I knew they'd come. I glow with my thanks. I carry it over into my day. Thank you, Muse, thank you, Inspiration, for visiting me again. I'm always here, listening, ready. Writing like this is like communion, it is natural and also sacred; sex and life and love. It doesn't always happen like that, the burst of inspiration, but when it does, it's magic.

Now is the real work of going back over that inspired piece, which is always a bit messy. There are parts of it that are downright cliched, but in editing I work them over to bring out the truth, the essence of what I was trying to say. Sometimes in those hurried inspired times, I resort to cliche as a sort of shorthand. It can be frustrating to try and root out the right words, but I'm learning to enjoy the revision as much as the initial burst of writing.

I'm looking down the nose of a week of solo parenting, and so my writing slips from a regular practice to something I have to try and fit in where I can. I feel like there are so many things I'm trying to "fit in where I can", and they all feel important to me. I've been trying to begin a regular yoga practice, even just 20 minutes a day, and I'm trying to meditate for 10 minutes after the kids go to bed. Plus keep up with the several books I usually have on the go, favourite blogs, this blog, and oh yeah, those three kids...it all feels like so much, but I guess another way to look at it is with gratitude. I'm grateful that I even have the freedom and luxury to be considering all of these things (writing! yoga! meditation!) in my life. Self-care has become such a huge priority these days, and having a partner who works from home and can help facilitate all of this is a real gift.



This post is a part of the What I'm Writing link-up.

4 Ways to Get Through a Creative Slump

It's a strange thing, to finish a poem. I think other writers, or creatives in general, would agree that the feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment that accompanies a finished piece can be coloured by fear. Will this be it? The Last Good Thing I Create? Will the muse never visit me again, am I done now? Dried up?

I often feel a bit of anxiety, especially if I don't have something else brewing. Specifically, I've finished that tricky poem I mentioned last week.  It ended up being longer than I'm used to writing, but still about 75 words short of the minimum for the CBC Poetry Competition. Maybe I'll try a different competition.

But even though I've got a few ideas swirling, themes I see emerging that I'd like to explore more, nothing is coalescing for me right now, and that's frustrating. So I've been thinking about, and practicing, a few different ways to get through this slump. I wanted to share them with you here today.

1. Read

I've often seen the advice that reading should be a writer's primary task. Reading other works in our niche helps us to see what's already out there. Through reading we see what others have done before us, what they've done better than us. Completely immersing ourselves in poetry, or short stories, or novels or personal essays, whatever the genre, makes it possible for us to be deeply rooted in our craft, so that we can grow as writers.

Reading can also inspire us in many ways. When we read something that is so beautifully crafted it makes us ache, we can take that ache and turn it into our own attempts at beauty. Though if I'm being honest, my first reaction to reading something deeply beautiful is to despair that I'll never write like that. But it's important not to get caught up in that despair. Instead, we have to try to turn that into our own attempts at crafting with our own unique voice.

Reading can also inspire us in the sense that something we read can become a jumping off point. Maybe a line in a poem gets stuck in your head, and you find yourself starting a new poem from there. Maybe you've read a non-fiction piece that you'd like to explore further from your own perspective.

Reading exposes us to new words, new ideas, new ways of using language. It is absolutely the most important thing we can do as writers.

2. Take yourself on an "artist's date".

In her book "The Artist's Way", Julia Cameron prescribes weekly artist's dates as a way to unblock your creativity. This is meant to be something fun that you do on your own, something outside of your usual experience. Something that appeals to your inner child, your muse.

If you've got kids in tow, like I usually do, every day can be an artist's date. It's easy to be in touch with your inner child when you're surrounded by children.

So take all the kids, your inner kid included, to a museum, an art gallery, the aquarium. Go for a hike. Buy a disposable camera and take some pictures (and get them developed!). Build sandcastles at the beach, swing at the park. The idea is to experience new things, things that inspire your creativity in different ways. And in the process, we might be inspired by a painting, a conversation overheard, the feel of the sun on our skin.

Last week we took our kids to the aquarium in Toronto. It's led me to reading up on horseshoe crabs, and I feel like it might eventually lead to a poem. If nothing else, I've learned something new.

Getting out of our heads, as artists, and as parents, is really important. Because the act of creating is often a solitary one, just like the act of parenting. We get into our routines so easily (and having a routine is great!) but sometimes we can get stuck there. I feel like that's especially dangerous when we're between projects. When I'm not working on something, I end up sitting at my desk, staring out at the same trees, the same street, the same dog that walks past at the same time every day, and feeling like I'm in this loop. A really uninteresting, uninspiring loop. So an artist's date can help to lift me out of that. To see things from a different perspective, or even to try something completely new, can be magic. It takes a bit of mental gymnastics to turn your everyday with kids into an artist's date, but it can be done.

3. Journal or Freewrite.

I try to start all of my writing time this way. Personally I aim to fill 2-3 pages with freewriting: I just write what's in my head, no matter how dull or uninspired it might be. Sometimes what I write is related to what I'm working on creatively; sometimes it's just a bunch of complaining about what I have to do later that day. But just getting that pen moving across the page can be a surprising thing, because occasionally something really interesting comes out. Often my freewrites have led me to a poem, as I flesh out an idea or a thought or experience, and really explore where my mind wants to go with it.

Some people like to do this using a prompt. If you Google "writing prompts", there are endless resources available out there. You can sign up to get writing prompts delivered daily right to your inbox. What comes out of your use of prompts might just be practice for you, a way to flex your creative muscle a little, a way to get you thinking about something in a new way, or it might turn into something really wonderful that you take further. Either way, at least you're writing something, doing the work of creating and using that part of your brain.

4. Connect with other writers.

This is something I don't do enough of, and maybe that's why I'm adding it here. Talking to other writers and artists is a good way to realize that you are not alone. We all get stuck, we all have downtime. I'd be willing to bet that even the best have these moments of despair.

So reach out on Twitter, or on blogs, or better yet, in person, if you're lucky enough to have a circle of writers near you. Commiserate a little bit. Remind one another that this will pass. That last poem will absolutely NOT be The Last Good Thing You Create. There will be other poems, essays, stories. You are not a one trick pony! We have to remind ourselves, too, that writing and creating is our life's work. It is easier to write than to not write, There will be a next thing. We just have to do the work of showing up at the page, being patient, and listening.

What's your favourite way to get through a down time? I'd love to hear your tricks in the comments!



This post is a part of the What I'm Writing link-up. Please click through the link to visit the other participants!

When Your Inner Critic Won't Shut Up

I've been working on a poem lately that has proven difficult. It's a bit more complex than what I usually write; and to add to that, I'd pre-emptively decided that I was going to enter this poem in CBC's Poetry Competition. Entries must be between 400 and 600 words...and I don't usually write poems anywhere near that long. It's possible to submit a collection of poems, but I just had it so firmly in my mind that this was going to be one poem. With a minimum of 400 words.

So where I usually revise a poem by cutting out all that is unnecessary, I found myself keeping an eye on the word count, adding in things that I knew weren't really adding to the poem. Trying to make it work. Getting really frustrated in the process.

And then I did something even worse: I went on to the Canada Writes website and started reading through last year's winning and shortlisted poems. And reading the author bios. And getting really, really discouraged.

Julia Cameron calls it "the critic" in The Artist's Way. Kim Addonizio simply refers to it as our demons. Basically, it is this sad, scared little voice that sometimes gets very loud, trying to convince us that our creative endeavors are silly, stupid, tired, pointless, worthless, etc. etc. My demons were loud yesterday. I'm not a published author! My poems are not like these poems! I do not have an MFA! Oh god, should I get an MFA? I can't afford an MFA! I'll never be published! Give it all up now!

Stop. Stop stop stop stop stop! Step away from the internet!

I did just that. While babies napped and 4 year olds watched a show about crocodiles, I unrolled my mat and did a few rounds of sun salutations, then a few more poses and finally a blissful savasana. Just lying there, feeling my body sink into the floor, watching my mind very briefly go quiet. Then I got up and hugged my kid, made some pizza dough, got outside, came back in, drank a beer, and went to bed.

And this morning, on waking, I knew. Don't listen to those demons, first of all. Because writing is my life breath; it is so important for me to do. I must do it even if I never get published, never win an award.

And I knew, too, that I must stop trying to write the 400 word poem that will be entered into the CBC Poetry competition. Instead, write the poem that needs to be written. Write it on your terms. Cut out all those extra words that are making it a poorer poem, anyway. It seems so simple but I, and I hope I'm not alone, often get into these rigid places where my mind is set on something and so it must be. It's useless, though, to try and fit ourselves into a rigid structure that just isn't working. The outcome will make us feel like shit, and it certainly won't win any prizes.

Once I'd freed myself of these expectations, I was able to come back to the poem and see it's truth and beauty. The demons were quiet again, sitting petulantly in the back seat, looking out the window as I let my muse drive the car.

That poem won't be entered in the CBC Poetry Competition. In fact I don't know that I'll enter anything in any competition right now! Instead I'll focus on writing the poems that need to be written. And if they happen to fit nicely into a box, then maybe. But I'm done trying to force them.

It occurs to me as I write this that these things hold true for parenting, as well. It's funny how often I see parallels between my writing life and my parenting life. Just as with this particular poem, I get these ideas about how my kids should be, or how I should be as their mother, or how our day should be structured or whatever. And then I just try so hard to slam that square peg into that round hole. And nobody is happy, and it never works. I need to parent the kids I have, the way they need to be parented in each moment; and I need to be the mother that I am. The harder I fight these things, the harder our lives are in general.

It should be noted, too, that comparison comes in to play. Don't compare yourself to other mothers; don't compare yourself to other writers. So obvious, but so difficult in practice!

So how about you, readers and writers and parents? How do you shut up your inner critic so you can just do what you have to do?



Image via Flick user TheGabeC. Licensed via Creative Commons.


*This post is a part of the What I'm Writing link-up.

Self-Care is (Still) Hard

This past weekend, a week into a ten day stint of solo parenting, I left all three kids with my parents while I walked to Wortley Village. I stopped in at the health food store, I made a quick trip to the library, I bought a tea and found a sunny bench in the church garden. And I found myself sipping my too-hot tea, burning my tongue, and reading the first few poems in my book without even really reading them. 

Because self-care is still really hard for me. I felt like this time was undeserved. I felt like I had to rush to get back to my parents' place. Like for sure the kids, Charlotte in particular, were all perishing without me. I was tense, just waiting for my phone to buzz with a message from my mom saying "you'd better come home".  

I had a similar experience a few weeks ago. I went to a yoga class one Sunday evening, leaving all three kids with P and my parents. So one adult per kid. It's a fair ratio! But through the entire class I just could not relax. I could not still my thoughts; instead, I spent the entire time picturing Charlotte screaming, tear stained face. I rushed out of the class when it was over, raced home and burst through the door to hear...nothing. No crying baby, no freaking out toddler. Maybe a little laughter, the sound of the t.v. Of course everyone was fine without me. 

So back to the church garden, and that sunny bench with my tea and book of poems. I stopped myself. I took a few slow, deep breaths. I closed my eyes, felt the warmth of the day. And reminded myself that everyone would be okay without me for awhile. In fact, they would be better without me.

We all know that in order to keep at the hard work of pouring ourselves into these little people day after day, we have to stop and fill ourselves up, too. No one seems to talk much about how hard it is, though. How making time for self-care often feels illicit. It is so difficult to just shut down that part of our brain that is constantly thinking about the next diaper change, the next snack time, the next melt-down, and just sink into the moment and take care of ourselves. 

I'm going to keep at it, though. I might continue the practice of checking in with myself, taking a few grounding breaths before I do whatever it is I'm doing. What about you? Do you struggle with self-care? Are you getting better at it? Or do you find yourself, like me, rushing through it so you can check that off your list, too? 

One Foot in Front of the Other

I'm sitting on my bed, drinking tea. I came up here to write for one hour, as I've been trying to do for almost two weeks now, every day. Some days, it's easy. I can't wait to get here, pouring out the words to a new poem or working one in progress like a jigsaw puzzle. Some days, like today, I get here feeling uninspired and with a whining voice in the back of my mind. I don't feel like it, the voice says. Just skip today. And I guess these are the days that are most important to push through.

I used to believe that I could write only when the mood struck, when inspiration hit. I believed that if I just waited patiently in between those bursts, another idea would come eventually. Now, I understand that the real work of creating comes between those (rare, precious) bursts of true creative inspiration. The real work of creating is just showing up, day after day, sometimes kicking and screaming.

As I sit here musing over this aspect of the creative life, it occurs to me that parenting is much the same. Most mornings, I wake up feeling unrested. I open my eyes and I think "already I have to get up with these kids? Didn't we just go to sleep?" I expect to get out of bed with the ache in my lower back and pelvis and thighs and feet having been soothed by sleep, only to find the ache is still there. It's a constant in my life. I change diapers, I get the kids breakfast, I refresh my Facebook feed, bleary eyed.  I nurse the baby. The sun comes up, the boys start to get wild and I know I need to engage, I need to get us all outside. But the ache. The tired. I just want to sit, and rock in the rocking chair, and close my eyes. But doing that is always so much harder than pushing myself to get up and get us all dressed and out the door for an hour. And eating junk convenience food for dinner always feels so much worse in the end than actually prepping and cooking a real meal.

Every day of this parenting gig I feel like I do the impossible. I wonder how the hell I can possibly get through another day, but then I just do. I'm sure most parents, moms of more than one child in particular, are familiar with the question: "How do you do it all?" I don't even know how to answer this. I shrug. Because I have to. I have to do this, I have to show up every. single. day. And feed and dress and engage with these little people because I don't have a choice. I have to do this work because I can't NOT do it. And some days are fabulous. Some days are beautiful and smooth, they just flow from moment to moment like my pen flows across a clean blank page in those rare moments of true inspiration. I push through so I can be open for those inspired moments.

So, in writing poems as well as in parenting, I just continue to show up. When I don't feel like it, when I'm tired, when I want to do anything but. I put one tired foot in front of the other, and keep plodding along.

Writing, Life

The past week was an exciting one for me in terms of writing. I met with UWO's writer-in-residence, Tanis Rideout, to go over some of my recent poems. She was so warm and encouraging and gave me some really helpful pointers for tightening up my work; suggestions that seemed general at the outset ("get rid of everything you don't need!") but that just clicked for me. I've been reworking everything I've written recently with these things in mind, being ruthless, looking at my poems line by line rather than just as a whole. Questioning each word, what does it do for the poem, what tone does it set, is there a better way to say this? I love the way a little nudge like that can just open up a whole new way of seeing. I'm going to submit these revised poems to another round of literary magazines, hoping to find them a home.

Over the weekend, London had its 2nd annual Words Fest, a festival celebrating all things wordy. I was able to take in a reading on Saturday morning at Museum London. It was invigorating for me to be among other writers, and especially to hear some localish authors read from newly published works. My favourite was Carolyn Smart, reading from her new collection of poems: Careen. Her reading was powerful and I picked up the book, a dramatic rendering of the story of Bonnie and Clyde.  I'm most of the way through it already and I'm really loving it.

Through all of this it's become clear to me that I want to connect with other writers, poets, creatives. I desperately need to share that part of myself with others who get it: who get the process, the struggle, the thrill of a new idea. Who can look at something I've written and offer constructive criticism. I think there is a thriving writers community here in London. Later this month I'm going to try to attend a meeting of the London Writer's Society in hopes of finding a critique group, and some day...when I can be away from babies and stay awake past 8 pm, I'd like to attend one of the poetry open mics hosted by Poetry London.

I see it as being a long road, but I feel my feet are firmly planted upon it and if you're still reading this blog, you'll get to come along for the ride. I suppose I see this space as focusing mostly on my journey as a writer. If you came here strictly for the baby stuff, and you don't wish to follow along further, then thank you for coming this far, at least.

I think I've found my writing time, though. In making the best of being up at 5 am with the littles every day, I've started slipping away for an hour around 7, once P is awake and we've both had some caffeine, back up to the bedroom where I write for an hour. I've always loved mornings best, and of all the times I've tried out in the last couple of months, this feels the easiest. I think it's something I can maintain. And having that writing time in the morning makes it easier for me to be present and engaged with the kids the rest of the day, something I've been working on, too.

I started this blog lamenting the loss of myself in motherhood, but over the last 6 months I see myself reclaiming my identity as writer, a poet, and that is inextricably tied to my recovery from PPD. A year ago, I was merely surviving, dreading having a third child, totally overwhelmed and depressed. Today I see myself as being on the brink of thriving, and I am so deeply grateful for that!



One year ago, heading out of the Yukon.

On Rejection

Recently I wrote that I'd submitted a few poems to several different online and print literary magazines. I've heard back from two of those journals already, both kind-hearted rejections. And I'm okay with that. In fact, I was expecting it. It's been years since I read or wrote poetry with any regularity. It's only been weeks, a few short months at most, since I decided to dedicate myself to the craft of poetry again. So it's silly to think that with the first few poems I write, I could be published.

And I understand in a way that I didn't years ago that it's okay to be rejected, that it is absolutely a part of the creative life. It's the risk we take in creating and in putting our art out there. In her book "Big Magic", Elizabeth Gilbert asks: "What are you passionate enough about that you can endure the most disagreeable aspects of the work?" She quotes a blogger named Mark Manson, in asking "what's your favorite flavor of shit sandwich?" Which is to say that rejection is the shit sandwich that goes hand in hand with putting your art out there for consideration. And if you love your art, you'll learn to tolerate the shit sandwich, too.

Through reading "Big Magic" and in considering more deeply my relationship to my writing, I've come to understand an idea that I've flirted with for years, an idea first brought to me through "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron. That is the idea that the practice of any kind of art is a spiritual one. To create is a spiritual endeavour. It's the idea that the work, whether it be a poem or a photograph or a sculpture, wants to be made, and it wants to be made through us. It is a gift from the Universe or God or whatever random creative forces coincided to put us all here, and the best thing we can do is be grateful and enter into communion with our creativity, acting as midwives to bring them into being. It's a beautiful idea, and one that softens the blow of rejection.

Because I want to create. It gives me joy to write poetry, to play with words and punctuation and line breaks, to bring a thought into being, to crystallize it on the page just so. Lately I approach poetry and writing as a form of play. It brings me peace instead of the anxiety I used to feel. I've let go of the idea that to be successful, to call myself "writer" I have to be published and widely read. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to be published and widely read, but it no longer feels like an end goal. I feel like I'm finally learning to feel joy in the process, in the magic of creating, whatever the end result may be. I will continue to hone my craft and I will continue to send my work out for consideration. I find satisfaction that someone, somewhere, read it and thought about it long enough to say "No, thanks. Not for us."

I see this shift in my mind touching other aspects of my life, too. Last week I tried a new recipe, a variation of shepherd's pie, for dinner. I put a fair amount of time and effort into the meal, first roasting, peeling and pureeing sweet potato for the topping, then chopping all the vegetables for the filling, sauteing them and making a sauce. The dish was bright, colourful, and I was excited to try it. But my boys declared it was "yucky" before they even had a bite (though Colm did eat some of the sweet potato topping) and my husband bravely ate most of his portion, though I noticed all of the kale pushed to the side of the plate in a soggy green pile. And my initial reaction was one of disappointment, and even a bit of embarrassment to think I was going to pass this very different dinner off on my currently picky bunch. I bit back tears as I cleared the plates in a huff.

But then I remembered these ideas about creativity I've been turning over. I remembered the grace with which I accepted the rejection of my poems. I realized that I took joy in preparing the meal. I myself thought it was quite good. So what if my critics disagreed? I probably won't make it again, but I'm glad I tried. In that moment my mind shifted from feeling personally offended to just observing the reactions with curiosity. I realized that I can take pleasure in preparing a meal, but I can't control peoples' taste. Just like with my art.

If we're to live a happy creative life, we have to learn to deal with the inevitable frustrations, too. I'd rather write poems that nobody else likes than not write poems at all. And the same goes for my cooking!

A Mother's Writing Life Version 2.0

The only thing constant about my writing life is that it is always changing. If I try to set myself up into some kind of routine, it inevitably falls apart within a week or two. When I think of the oft-given writing advice to schedule your craft for the same time every day, so that your muse might follow, I feel despair. Because that just ain't happening. I thought my time would be early mornings, up with the baby. But then she started sleeping a little later, and, thankfully, so did I. Then, I thought it would be during Colm's nap, but Charlotte doesn't reliably sleep for that and it leaves Aedan alone in front of the t.v. for an hour or more. Then, I thought it would be an hour several times a week in the corner coffee shop, but that's only happened twice, because life with three littles is crazy and unpredictable.

My muse must be fast and ready at all times, prepared to leap into action whenever I find 30 minutes or an hour alone. I have to trust that she is just the muse I need at this point in my life. It encourages me, just now, to imagine this spirit: she is wiry and tough, sharp-eyed and always listening. She sees the opportunity coming before I do, and she begins to hum in anticipation. And I hear that hum, hear it steady and low beneath the constant (and I do mean constant) chatter around me. Together we snatch up a pen and paper, or fire up the computer, and we create something. We put words together, or rearrange them on the page. We build my writing life new each day.

I've been drawn to poetry over these last couple of months, both because of its compressed nature and because it's my first love. I've been writing and rewriting several poems, polishing them til they gleam, til I can't look at them anymore. Yesterday, I sent them out to several online literary magazines for consideration. I'll try not to think about them and how they might be faring out there as I move on with new poems.

This morning over oatmeal and green tea, I emailed a local writer's society to inquire about their critique groups. And I joined the mailing list for the Ontario Writer's Conference, which I hope to attend in the spring.

So, even though this seems like the worst, most ridiculous time to be building a writer's life, I'm doing it. Because, like I said in this post back in July, this is the only life I can save. And as Elizabeth Gilbert points out in her inspiring new book, Big Magic, this life is temporary, so why not use it to create?

This post is part of the #WhatImWriting link up. Please visit Writing Bubble to see the other linkers!

Heart in Two Places

It's been almost a year since we left our Yukon home. We left with plans to spend the darkest part of winter visiting family in Ontario and exploring the beaches of Costa Rica. But our beach plans changed mid-vacation, and soon after returning to Ontario, we began talking about moving our family cross-country. It has been the easiest, and also the most difficult thing I've ever done.

Here in Ontario, my kids get to experience the connection to their extended family that I enjoyed growing up.  We see my sister and her son at least once a week, and we usually spend our weekends with my parents. P and I are free to go on dates occasionally; Aedan enjoys sleepovers at Gramma's; we visit my grandmothers regularly.  I didn't realize how important all of this was to me until I had kids on the other side of the country, 2 day's travel from our family. Seeing pictures on Facebook of my family's gatherings, with all of that distance between us, was heartbreaking. Watching my sister get married via FaceTime because I was too pregnant to travel, was heartbreaking. I no longer felt like living in the Yukon was a gift: it felt like an exile, self-imposed. But we had a home there, a business, and roots put down over a decade, longer for P.

We made the decision to move in distress.  From the safety of my parents' house, I felt intense anxiety at the thought of going back to our little cabin in the woods. I was dreading having another baby so far from my mom, and from all of the support of extended family. So we scraped together our resources, we made it work, somehow, and we bought a house here. What started as a trip "out" became a huge move. P has been back regularly, for work, and I've had one brief visit. The boys have yet to return, though.

When I think of our Northern home, I remember the total hush at our cabin. Even in town, there is a resounding lack of all the background noise of a larger city. No sirens wailing, no trains shunting along the tracks, no traffic hum. Rarely, a helicopter's blades cutting through the air. Instead we hear the wind in the spruce, the leaves of birch and aspen tremble, the shush of the river coursing by. Quiet so complete you can hear a raven's wings beat overhead. And the community in Dawson is like a huge extended family, looking out for one another. There are the dark parts, too, like any family. But overall, it's a caring place and an exciting one, too. There are so many possibilities there, and chances to affect real change in the community. In the Yukon it's easy to raise kids with an appreciation for nature, because you're surrounded by it. And kids who grow up there are often a little different: independant, enterprising, creative.

Choosing to leave all of that behind was horrible. But when I see Aedan playing with his cousin or when I send the kids to my mom's when I need a break, I know beyond a doubt that it was absolutely the right choice.  My heart is here, with my family, but it's back there, too. Robert Service wrote of it in his poem "Spell of the Yukon". It gets under your skin, that place. It runs in your blood and it beats in your bones. I still identify as a Yukoner; it is such a huge part of who I am today. And I know we'll return to our hushed cabin in the woods. We'll find a way to honour our two hearts.


Home.

Identity Crisis

I've been silent here these past few weeks. In that time I've been writing poetry; I've reconnected with my university creative writing professor, who has offered to serve as my mentor; I've continued down a path of healing from PPD, taking good care of myself and, in turn, my family. It's been good to be somewhat offline, but I haven't forgotten about this blog. In the back of my mind, I've been wondering what I want for this space.

I started out wanting a creative outlet, but since finding my way back to poetry and deciding to take myself seriously as a writer, I feel like what time and energy I can spare for creative writing is better directed elsewhere. And although I'd like to use this space to connect with other writers and to talk about the intersection of writing and mothering, my posts solely about mothering and how difficult it can be have also been well received. And I feel like it's really important to talk about the hard, ugly truths of parenting. That being said, I sometimes want this to be a baby-free zone, a place to guard those parts of myself that are more than "mama."

So. Where does that leave us? I love blogging, with its possibility for connection and peering into the lives of others. I'm not ready to take a permanent step away from it.  Maybe I see the answer here in this post. Maybe I don't hold myself to any one topic, and continue to write what's in my heart. I guess I just feel like I owe the writers a post about writing, the mamas a post about moming, and those who are just curious readers a post more interesting than this one!

What would you like to read more of here? If you blog, have you ever had a similar blog identity crisis? I'd love to hear how you moved past it in the comments!

This post is part of the #WhatImWriting linkup. Please go to Muddled Manuscript to visit the other participants!

Self-Care is Hard

I'm sitting in a corner coffee shop, near my house. I am alone. I drink a green tea as I type this post, trying not to listen to the conversations taking place around me. My back is to the door: I'm determined not to be distracted from my hour of writing time. Weeks of mental preparation have brought me here, a morning of talking myself out of it, talking myself back into it. How is it possible that 4 years ago I did this kind of thing without a second thought? Now, I sit here nervously, expecting at any minute for the Mom Police to come up behind me, clap a heavy hand on my shoulder and take my tea away, spilling it across my lap and burning me. They wouldn't take me to jail, no. Just back home to the babies.

If there are myriad blog posts and magazine articles and forum conversations dedicated to the importance of dad's self-care, I apologize. I've missed them. Self-care, the very intentional practise of putting oneself first every once in awhile, is the realm of women and mothers. We are socialized, particularly as mothers, to put everyone BUT ourselves first, all of the time. Then we read that the key to staying sane is to care for ourselves. To put the oxygen mask on ourselves first. Enjoy a cup of tea, they write. Take a long bath. Go for a run. Practice yoga. And these things all sound wonderful and simple, but the truth is, they're not. Taking care of yourself after not doing that for several years is SO HARD. I expect it will take several weeks of regularly coming to this coffee shop, sitting at this same table with this same mug of green tea, before I feel good about this. Before it feels easy and my cup truly feels full.

Why? Why is this so difficult?

Maybe it's wrapped up in my own failing self-worth. If I don't feel like I deserve even this, a couple of hours spread out across the week, then of course this time would feel stolen from the laps of my children, prised from their grimy little fingers. Of course I'm waiting for someone to call my bluff, send me packing back to dirty diapers and the endless loop of making snacks and cleaning them up.

Maybe I take some kind of sick pleasure out of being a martyr. I will spend all my time with these kids if it kills us all, dammit. But nobody really likes a martyr, they're worshipped only after they're long dead. Living with one: not fun. And I am worth so much more to my family if I'm living, and happy to be doing so.

Maybe I like to think that I'm the only one who knows how to care for them properly, the only one they want. Charlotte has started sucking her thumb this past week, soothing herself to sleep on many occasions.  And each time she does, I am surprised, happy, devastated. Already, three months old, she doesn't need me for that one little moment. If all I am is a baby-soother, a milk-maker, a bum-wiper, then of course it feels uncomfortable to be something other.

So here I am, in the world of the living. In the world of adults with complicated beverage orders, with softly playing indie folk music floating on the cool air. And around me, others talk with friends, they do a Sudoku puzzle, they read the news on their laptop. I am incognito, taking care of myself. I pencil it into my calendar: "self-care, 10 am".  It's ridiculous and it's the only way. So if you're like me, and you find it almost impossible to take care of yourself: Do it. Find a way. Be uncomfortable the first 10 times you do it, and then slowly, like I hope to, I hope you'll feel better about it, too.

I'll write my book of poems, my collection of short stories, my novel, one stolen hour at a time.


Image via Flickr user Nina Nelson. Licensed under Creative Commons

Learning to Live with Anger

It's late morning. I sit on the couch in the sunroom, nursing my baby and watching the boys play. This particular day started too early, and my attempt to sneak in some writing before the demands started was interrupted when Aedan curled up beside me, clinging to my arm and resting his head against my shoulder. Now, the boys are playing a noisy game of "you be the lizard and I'll be the dragon chasing you": they roar, hiss, screech with delight. To say I am overstimulated would be an understatement. And I'm tired, and hungry. I decide to do something about that last one. I sling the baby up onto my shoulder, and walk to the kitchen to find something to eat. And the second I am out of the room, Colm's squeals of joy turn to cries of distress. I tense up (if it's even possible for me to be more tense), my jaw clenching, and storm back into the room. Aedan has his brother pinned face-down, and he's gripping Colm's chubby little cheeks, pulling his head back. And I lose it.

With my baby still in my arms I start yelling. I forcefully pull Aedan off of his little brother, pushing him away from Colm. I scream "What are you doing? What is your problem? It's not okay to hurt people!" And as I utter those words, a voice somewhere in my head whispers: You are such a hypocrite. It's not okay to hurt people but you're trying to hurt him.

And then the guilt and the shame set in. I feel like shit, like an awful person. All three of us are crying. I promise to do better but the truth is, now that I've lost it once today I'm more likely to lose it again. This path is so worn I swear I walk it in my sleep.

Anger is absolutely the last emotion I expected to encounter on my parenting journey. So when it began to bubble up, hot and intense and unstoppable, just after Colm was born, I had no idea how to handle it. I had never experienced anything like the kind of anger I've just described. My biggest triggers are Aedan getting too rough with his little brother, and my own over-stimulation: both of these are unavoidable parts of parenting young kids. I hate this aspect of myself. I think it's ugly, out of control, and scary. Over the last two years, I have promised myself and my kids repeatedly that I will not yell. I will not lose it. I will do better, be better. And, inevitably, I break my promises, over and over again.

With the guidance of a wondeful therapist, I've come to realize some key issues with my approach. First of all, framing it as "doing better, being better" implies that what I'm doing now is wrong, and that there is something wrong with who I am today. And saying "I'm going to be better" sets me up for a big let down when I lose it the next time. Because, let's face it, just saying those words doesn't magically make it so. Learning a new way of dealing with explosive anger isn't going to happen overnight. So if I've promised to be better, and then I'm not, the feelings of shame and guilt are even greater. It's a pattern that leads to more anger, more shame, more depression. Instead of saying "I'm going to do better", I now think of it as doing differently. I'm learning new techniques. I am still me: ever evolving me.

The biggest issue I face, though, is that I am trying to live without anger, trying to deny the feeling exists, trying to squash it down. But anger is a very real, albeit a very uncomfortable, feeling. It is physically uncomfortable: we often feel anger in our bodies, the tension and the jaw-clenching I mentioned. Maybe you ball your hands into fists or grind your teeth. Maybe you feel it in your gut. We often feel an intense need to relieve that anger, by yelling or by lashing out: shoving, hitting, kicking. And that may feel like relief, briefly. And then we feel awful for what we've  done. We might feel even angrier then, at the person who "made" us lose it in the first place, and at ourselves, for losing it.  The feeling of discomfort lingers, intensifies.

So what if we just sit with our intense feelings? What if we just give those feelings space to be? Over the past month or so I've been trying this. Noticing when my anger is being triggered. Acknowledging it by saying, either in my head or outloud: "I'm really angry right now!"  I feel it in my whole body, I feel that urge to strike out, and it is so uncomfortable. I feel my anger peak, and then, gradually, simmer down and finally pass. I've noticed that when I do this, I'm actually angry for less time. There are fewer tears shed. My relationship to my kids is unscathed.

The hardest part about sitting with my anger is still dealing with the situation at hand.  Since my anger is usually triggered by Aedan getting too rough with his brother, I still have to act. Real life prevails: I can't just retreat to a quiet room and deep breathe until it passes. For now, I tell Aedan firmly that we don't push, hit, kick, bite etc. And then I go to Colm, if he needs me, and I hug him and kiss him and make sure he's okay. I hold his sweet little self until the anger begins to dissipate and then I might address Aedan more fully. For now, it works to get me through the day.

This trick of giving space to uncomfortable feelings works with more than just anger, of course. When I'm feeling depressed or anxious, I've begun to just notice these feelings, acknowledge them, and patiently watch for them to pass. And in the same vein, when I am feeling happy, joyful even, I honour those feelings by attending to them, letting them swell and crest and then gently lap at my toes as I wait for the next wave, whatever it might bring.

Were you surprised by unexpected emotions in parenthood? How do you deal with things like anger or deep sadness in your everyday life? I'd love to hear what works for you.

A Mother's Writing Life

The Journey

By Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road was full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly 

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life you could save.

I recently came across Mary Oliver's poem "The Journey" for the first time. Reading it, and then re-reading it over and over, I felt like she'd peered into my life and written these words straight at me. It's the first time a piece of writing has spoken so directly to my soul.

I say this because it is only very recently, in a very intense time of life, surrounded by very small, very dependent people, and exhausted from 5 years' worth of broken sleep, that I have decided to take myself seriously as a writer.  I feel that purpose clearly and calmly.

I used to think being a writer meant producing best-selling, literary novels.  I thought it meant a brooding, solitary life. It was an idealized fantasy, and when my life didn't shape up like that, I shrugged, and with more than a little heartache, put the dream in the corner of a dark closet in my mind.  I spent years just living: fucking up, falling down, drinking and dancing, climbing mountains and being dirty. It felt chaotic, and now is even more chaotic: now looks the very least like the writing life I imagined.  But like she writes in her poem, one day I finally knew what I had to do.  And even though this looks like the worst possible time to begin, I can't do anything BUT begin.

I understand now that the writer's life is whatever life looks like, so long as there is reading and writing woven into the minutes and hours.

So I just fit it in: I write, bleary-eyed when I'm up at 5 with a gassy baby; I read while I eat breakfast, pausing to refill cereal bowls or butter another piece of toast; I write while little ones nap, pecking out words one-handed, the baby asleep across my lap; I read a few poems in the evening, lying in bed nursing, half-listening to the boys splashing in the tub as my husband gets them ready for bed. And in a few years, that much further down the road, I'll have the momentum built up to keep going.  I'll have even more time to give to my craft, my passion. I'll be so grateful to have made the start now.  Because it can be so easy to tell yourself that now isn't the time, so easy to put it off and put it off and put it off.  And then one day it's too late and you're left with nothing but regret, cold ashes sifting and falling through your fingers.

The second half of Oliver's poem feels especially true to me: her description of the stars beginning to shine through the clouds, of the inner voice becoming clearer, so perfectly mirrors how I feel about my own life right now. It feels so right, and so easy, and so essential, to be doing this, and doing it now.  To be, as she writes, saving the only life that I can.



Photo via Flickr user Craighton Miller. Licensed via Creative Commons