Posted in armchair psychology, search for meaning, writing

Getting Back on the Bike

I learned to ride a bicycle when I was ten years old. We had a really steep driveway, covered with crunchy brown leaves every fall, and my next-door neighbor and I devised a game of running over leaves on our bikes and tallying up points. At the peak of the season the driveway would be covered, no visible concrete anywhere. We decided that by riding down at full speed while twisting the handlebars back and forth, we could acquire maximum points in our game. Thus, a few months into riding, I flew over my handlebars and with spectacular style, took almost the full impact of the crash on my chin, breaking my jaw.

The next time I rode a bike, I was twenty-one years old.

Now, I could go on about all the other things in life, then and now, that I am much better at than bike riding. I could get defensive and say I didn’t want to ride! My parents forced me to learn! I could continue in that vein and say, No one valued what I did well and always focused on what I couldn’t do! But see, that really doesn’t matter. I can go with the “I’m a big fat victim of my life” school of thought and find all kinds of lovely vindication, er, evidence, of how the world has done me wrong from the beginning. Or, just as a suggested alternative, I can put on my big girl panties and say “Who is in charge in my head of all these thoughts? That’s right, I am!”

When I wrote my last post I did not expect to be required to take such a long break. It’s funny how we seem to be tested on these things we claim to understand sometimes. But the pivotal point, where I historically have stumbled, is when the break ends and I can’t recover my momentum, my motivation, or my focus. I don’t get back on the bike. I can see that I still judge myself a failure for needing a break, for being unable to do all the things perfectly all the time, for being human and not a god. All this judgment (besides making me feel lousy) prevents me from finding a way to pick my work back up, to resume or to begin again, as needed. What if, instead, I just brush myself off and get back up? No fanfare, no berating, just get back on…

Posted in armchair psychology, search for meaning, writing

Learning To Rest

Every day myriad fleeting thoughts and half-formed ideas vie for the elite position (tongue firmly in cheek) of becoming this day’s post. Somewhere along the way I learned to be comfortable with leaving the unchosen on the cutting room floor… I’m not sure how or when that happened, only that it did, as I no longer have the paralysis in the face of sitting down to the page that I once had.

For the past few days I have had some form of upper respiratory shenanigans going on, and yesterday it just won out. I took the kids into Atlanta for the last day of the Go West! exhibit at the High Museum (if you ever visit Atlanta, it’s worth a visit) and at the end of the day I chose to simply go to bed.


I felt guilty. I have been posting every day recently. I broke my stride. What will happen tomorrow? What if I have fallen off, like so many times before, and I don’t get back on for months or years? I am running out of time!

Well, tomorrow has arrived, I am here, I am posting. Look at that. Sometimes it’s not just ideas that need to be left on the cutting room floor. Sometimes it may be a mood, a belief, an opinion, an assumption… perhaps an entire day (because let’s be honest, some days suck). If we can leave those things, let them fall where they fall, we free ourselves to move on to the next thing. I can let myself rest when I need to without worrying that it means anything about what I’ll do next– except that most likely I’ll be less tired 🙂

If you need to rest today, but you’re struggling against it, I wish you a lovely nourishing nap from which you wake refreshed and rejuvenated… and guilt-free!

Posted in armchair psychology, search for meaning, writing

Begin Again

My investigations this week have centered around living my passions, dreaming big, envisioning myself arriving where I really want to be. What do I want my life to look like? What could happen if I free myself from everything that has gone before, and instead begin again, give myself a completely blank slate?

A conversation with a friend brought up phrases I have used against myself throughout my life: “I need to admit I’m never going to…” “I just can’t…” On one hand, it’s important to be honest and realistic, something that is highly unpopular with the positive thinking gurus the interwebs are brimming with lately. I, for instance, will never, in this lifetime, become a gymnast. (Really. Not ever.) I may or may not ever become a best-selling author, as there are factors involved in that process that are beyond my control. On the other hand, just because I can’t yet see how doesn’t mean I can’t free myself to envision the what. There are some things I am highly unlikely to accomplish at this point, and there are many doors that have permanently closed; no matter how hard I may beat against them I will never get them open again. But there are just as many wonderful and amazing things that I can yet accomplish. However, nothing is possible– NOTHING– unless I believe it is, so if I believe I can never become a best-selling author, guess what? (Those positive thinking gurus have some things figured out.)

We can’t change our past. (If someone finds my lost key to the TARDIS, let me know.) But the rumors of the limits imposed by our story thus far may be exaggerated. It’s our interpretation of our story that needs questioning. Who am I, what am I capable of? What if I answer those questions from the center of my being, without much concern for where I’ve been or what I’ve done in the past? How will tomorrow look, if I wake up in it unaddicted to yesterday? What will I say then?

Posted in search for meaning, writing


It is quite late where I am, after a long day, and I have an early morning tomorrow. I am not complaining, but observing… I debated a bit on whether to just wait for more inspiration, more time. But something happens when you keep the heat on the pot, when you keep tending and stirring the cauldron. It may not always look or smell lovely at every moment of the process, but consistent progress is only made by persistence, so I chose to sit down, log on, start typing.

Something happens, too, when we immerse ourselves in a process, doesn’t it? Have you ever made a commitment and seen it through– both times when it was easy and times when it was hard to keep going? The transformation is nearly never predictable, but it is steady and assured, the way a river will certainly wear down rocks over time, but we have to stay in the river to be changed. Stepping in and out along the banks will keep our feet wet perhaps, but we won’t develop strength from the challenges of the current; we won’t give enough of ourselves to the water to become someone new. I have spent much of my life to date as a dabbler. This is perfectly fine, necessary even; clearly it is part of my story. But I also desire the depth I may develop from persisting through the many cycles of doing just one thing, instead of dipping my toe into first this, then that.

Of course, to succeed in not quitting, I do have to silence the demanding perfectionist in my head. I require permission to be imperfect, too brief or too verbose, too pointless, too focused (since it’s writing I’m talking about here). What permissions do you need to go deeper with a worthy process? Does your desire to “do it right” get in your way of doing anything at all? Can you set that requirement aside, if only for a moment, and try on a different thought? You can always judge yourself harshly again tomorrow! 🙂

Posted in writing


For those of you who are finding your way here because of NaNoWriMo, I want to repeat myself in the interest of full disclosure: I am not writing fiction. I feel, as I am amassing these word counts that I was so certain were impossible before, that I must confess this, that I am cheating, that this must be easier… I’m not truly sure that this is true, as I have no plan and no idea where I am going with what I’m writing, but still. It keeps working, and I keep feeling like I’m ripping somebody off… can writing really be like this? Is word count– dare I say it– easy for me??

Here on day 13 and still on track to finish, I am soon to tip the scales and have more words behind me than in front of me. If I do not die in the next week I will most likely reach the halfway point. Why is this so bizarre? Why should this not be commonplace? Why have I never been here before? I’ll tell you why, and it’s a simple, one-word answer:


I have been a chickenshit for my entire adult life thus far. That’s it. I clearly have no other excuse. I laid the blame for my previous lack of productivity squarely at the feet of my children and spouse.  “My kids are sooo needy,” I said. “I homeschool!” I declared. “My husband never helps with the kids or the housework,” I whined. “I have an anxiety disorder,” I pleaded. Well, guess what? All those things remain unchanged, but what has changed is that I have written 22,365 words in thirteen freaking days.

Now, it may be drivel. And it may get edited down to less than half of its final volume. And in the end, it may be a rehashing of the works of others that never leaves my laptop. But I no longer have the excuses I had to explain why I don’t produce. In fact, I have no excuses for not producing. I have had “zero days,” where no words left my fingers save a few comments on Facebook. But somehow this 1667 words-per-day thing is propelling me along, and I keep catching up again. I could fail. No one would care; few would even notice. Why is this working for me? I have no idea.

Perhaps I’ve harbored the words for so long that they are now just spilling forth. Perhaps I am utilizing my subclinical OCD to my greatest advantage. Perhaps this is part of my midlife crisis. Perhaps I will soon come to a screeching halt, abruptly at a complete loss for words altogether. (This looks unlikely, even to me.) But whatever comes, I have been writing, and I am no longer afraid.

Posted in writing

Two Days of Silence

See, I knew I needed to get ahead while I had the chance. No new words since Monday means I am now behind. I need 3336 words today to catch back up. Verily I say unto you, meh!

Please tell me to give up. Someone validate the critic in my head that says I can’t do this anyway so I should go ahead and save my energy for motherly duties like wiping noses and cleaning toilets and scolding small people. Never mind that my brain will go to mush on my steady diet of toddler-ese, kindergartener whining and Mexican stand-offs with the almost ten-year-old. I am already a failure, so why bother, right??