Ode to 22 Years of Marriage

 April 17, 2026

My Dearest Ray,

Happy Twenty Two Years of Marriage!

Let me begin by saying I'm sorry that this ode is a belated one--but maybe, apropos given our life station.

How do I begin to share a snapshot of where we find ourselves 22-years into our union--to begin, our 21-year old son is in Malaga, Spain on holiday from his study abroad semester in Copenhagen.  Our 18-year old daughter is finalizing her first year of college having completed multiple theater productions and our 15-year old daughter just got her Learner's Permit and is saving to do a service trip to the Dominican Republic. Meanwhile, you have never been busier with clients and I am still a divorce mediator teaching at Creighton.  

And somehow, we still find each other--in multiple daily written and voice to audio texts, on long walks through Elmwood Park, at the espresso machine groggy in the kitchen, coming and going while exchanging logistical updates and kisses at the front door, and in countless shared articles, podcast interviews, and memes remarking on the dismissal state of U.S. leadership or lack thereof and inspiring messaging from the Pope, bravery of the Artemis astronauts, and  goodness of people we know.

We have curated a really beautiful life that I am deeply grateful for.  

To be honest, I can hardly believe that in a few short years, I will have spent more of my life with you than without you.  And in that time, you have taught me so much about what it means not only to be a good partner, friend, and co-parent, but also, a really great human being.

And when I reflect, I'm mindful of three primary ways you model unconditional love for me.  First, you are fully the fuck in it.  You listen to my fears, my crazy writing/speaking dreams, my insecurities, my over the board, 'what if's?' and you greet them usually with a big bear hug, an offer to make my favorite coffee/tea drink, a hunkering down in the seat next me, and full eye contact as I go on and on likely about something you've heard many times before.  Then, you wait until I'm done and ask what I'd like in the moment--most of the time I say--to know that it will be okay--and you calmly say--look at our life and all of the ways that it has all been more than okay.

Second up, you have boundless energy for our family.  Whatever we need or want to explore--you make it happen--including a magical dream trip this spring to Europe to see our son in Copenhagen, a Michelin star dinner because it was his dream, a trip to London's West End and tour of the Globe because it was the girls' dream, and endless trips to patisseries, cafes, and the hunt for the perfect scarf because it was my dream. You always remind us that life is for the living and that we should do the thing that our heart is yearning for and that often, the first step is just putting one foot in front of the other--making the telephone call, sending the email, creating a game plan, trusting that we can course correct when needed and that it's more about the trying imperfectly than the landing.  And to that end, you have more optimism and consistency than anyone I've known; and I'm thankful that you frequently let me borrow it when I'm scared to jump into the unknown.

Finally, you are not interested in what the world says is or is not possible or what the latest fad is--you are grounded in yourself, your values, and your deep commitment to your faith and your family--and because of that I always (and I know the kids feel the same) am your priority and I never have to prove my worthiness.  You love me for me and encourage me to be more and more of me with each passing year--and this kind of love frees me and us to grow and change in the world and to greet each other at the beginning and end of our day's journey.

As we enter into this twenty-third year, may we embark upon fun and adventure together believing that as the kids graduate from college and head into the world for their own adventures, we have cultivated a durable, sustainable, beautiful love that keeps us grounded in our commitment so that we can pursue our individual dreams. May we find ourselves on many walks, drinking delicious espresso drinks, discussing incredible movies/books/interviews, sharing countless motivational family group chats, exploring new spaces, ranting over political ridiculousness, praying for peace, serving our community, and remembering that this life we've built is a good one.

What a gift you are to me.   

All my Love,

Kelly

Ode to 50 Birthday Candles

May 6, 2025

Happy, Happy 50th Birthday to me!

I remember when I started this blog about a decade ago I was knee-deep in raising these amazing kiddos...Sam (10), Kate (8) and Claire (5).

I rarely thought about who I was outside of being a mother and I was more than happy to be there.  We went to the park.  I pushed them on swings.  We made sand castles.  We had library cards and carted bags of books to the playground where we climbed trees and nestled in with snacks and the breeze.  We rode bikes.  We created lots and lots of art--our house was filled with glue, glitter, paint, clay, pipe cleaners, construction paper and music.  We baked.  We ate lots of Mac and cheese.  We imagined.  We got angry.  We learned how to say I'm sorry.  We couldn't stop saying I love you.  And we became a family.

And as they grew and we decided that they would continue to go to Catholic school, I went back to work-first in their school and then cultivated my own private conflict engagement practice.  And it wasn't easy, we navigated the dance of balancing activities, work obligations, and the disorienting feeling of watching time fly by.

Now, Sam is finishing his sophomore year in college and preparing to study abroad in Copenhagen next year.  Kate will begin her college adventure in the BFA Theater Tech/Design program at Nebraska Wesleyan, and Claire will begin high school at Duchesne.  And, I am 50. 

The beautiful problem of pouring yourself so deeply into your family is that when you look up and they are heading out, you ask, what now?  Who am I?  What have I learned?  What/where are my dreams? And these are good questions to be intentional about even if they feel daunting.

As I reflect, I've learned who I am and who I'm not.  I am a person who wears her heart on her sleeve.  I am deeply interested in getting at the vulnerable with everyone I meet and have little interest or time in pretense or pretending.  This has served me well in my work and relationships, but has hurt me in times when I should have a better poker face.  I just literally can't do it.

I am a person who looks like she has a great life on paper, but is almost always second guessing herself.  Did I do the right thing?  Did I make the best choice?  How will it all work out?  Is it going to be okay?

And while I'm deeply grateful for my humility, in my next chapter, I want to work on my chutzpah.

I am a person who believes in the good.  I trust that even if I don't know all of the inner workings or the pathway to get there that my lived experience demonstrates I will land where I'm supposed to--and that all of the twisty, windy turns have purpose and value, and that it's my choice/opportunity to learn from them.

And, after half a century, I know that life is complex and it's not about achieving or arriving or completing a plan--it's about noticing, wondering, connecting, intentionally choosing to share hope and love.

So, now that these kids are launching--what's next for me?  Well, I hope to mediate for a long, long time.  I hope to continue teaching graduate students.  I hope to keep celebrating many anniversaries and taking beautiful trips with my husband.  I hope to travel to where my children are studying/living to see the world through their view and to keep sharing bags of books and good coffee.  But I also, really, really want to write.  I want to put my stories into the world, even if I second guess myself and don't quite know if or how they'll be received.  

Here's to trusting and trying and the continual belief that life is about taking the leap in the only skin that is yours, believing that there's good people to catch you, and that your voice/yearnings matter and are meant to be shared.

You've got this...

Love, Me

Ode to Claire on Your 9th Birthday

My Dearest Claire,

Happy, Happy 9th Birthday!

My goodness...here we are celebrating YOU on your special day...a day that you have been waiting for...for SO long!

You finally convinced us that you were old enough and responsible enough to get your ears pierced, even if your older sister has no desire to do so.

You also remind us regularly that self confidence is earned and what better way to do so than to kee-yah your way in the world.  This past year has seen you earn new colors of Taekwondo belts, new opportunities to earn trophies at competitions, and multiple chances to spar competitors (especially the ones who are bigger--they're your favorite).

Last spring, we celebrated a very special milestone for you, and for our family.  You were the last member to have a First Holy Communion.  It was a beautiful mass and an important reminder that you are never alone, and that God has such a beautiful purpose for your life.  Watching you twirl in your white gown and pray with family and friends made our hearts happy.

This school year, third grade keeps you very busy.  You could not be more in love with your teacher, and with reading and writing.  You've been feverishly working on a masterpiece entitled, "The Panda Story."  Most days after school and a snack, you grab your journal and my computer and you get to typing.  You've learned about dialogue, character formation, plot, the injection of humor, and the many ways to land a surprise in the midst of the tale.

Watching you grow has been crazy amazing.  Of our three children, you are indeed the most independent and self-sufficient.  You also convinced us that you were ready for a week of summer camp...and so, off you went.  Barely saying goodbye as you prepared your sleeping bag and said hello to your cabin mates, you could hardly wait for bonfires, hiking, swimming, silly songs and crafts.  And then two days before the end of camp, you called to say that you got a bug bite on your eye and that even though it was swollen, you had absolutely no intention of coming home--they just made you call to tell us.

You have a spunk, a feist, a sass, a Hutzpah about you that drives us all mad and also makes you adorable beyond measure.  You are incessantly singing pop songs and mass hymns, while also trying your hand at piano lesson ditties and You Tube medleys.  You love to tell jokes, laugh to the point of crying or peeing your pants, and tell stories about why the chicken crossed the road.

You're also the best and most frequent baker of the house.  Your all-time favorites are banana bread, scones, yellow cake, chocolate chip cookies, pumpkin pie, and really any recipe that you can get your hands on.

As you embark upon this new year, the final one before double digits, cling to your authentic self--even if the expression of it pisses us all off just a little bit.  Never doubt that your spit-fire ways will serve you well for many moons to come.  Trust in who you know yourself to be.  Keep writing.  Keep reading.  Keep imagining.  Keep reminding yourself that you are loved beyond measure--just for who you are.

And when the world feels a little blah--show up and give them what you got.

Kee-yah, Claire...we love you to the moon and back.

Love, Mama, Papa, Kate and Sam

Being the Verb...Becoming the Noun

No one lives in her head more than me.

I have an extraordinary gift for analyzing the shit out of nearly every mountain and mole hill I encounter...real or perceived.

I create hypothetical fantasties, proverbial pro and con check lists, wish lists, back-up plans, worst case scenarios...you name it...I've thought it through.

If you value intellect, discourse and lunatic-laden strategy, I'm your girl.

But if you want to get shit done, well...

Listening to one of my favorite podcasts while running errands, I heard the incomparable actress, Ellen Burstyn interview the equally incomparable activist, Gloria Steinem on "Death, Sex and Money."  Both women are in their 80's, staring down an impressive amount of life lived with both hope and regret.  With no intentions to stop working and living purposefully in the world, they purported a concept that I became fixated on...

Be the verb until you become the noun.

I began to tear up on my way into Trader Joe's.

This simple example of living has unconsciously permeated the way I DO everything in my life. 

I had no idea how to be a mother and so I just started mothering.  I got up when the baby cried and nursed her.  I made sure that they had help with their homework and cheered on the football field.  I listened to piano keys bang out notes that made sense and others that were getting there.  I showed up.  Day after day.  Year over year.  Until one day, I legitimately felt like it was fair to call me a mother.  Not a perfect one--not by a long shot--but a mother...one who mothers.

Five years ago, I wanted to inhabit my body again.  I bought a pair of running shoes.  Loaded some songs on an iPod.  Borrowed a Garmin and tried to make it around the block.  I ran nearly every day seeing the sun rise, my shins catch on fire, my hips hurt, my back ache, pounds shed and my confidence restored.  I just went through a dresser drawer and decided to donate several of my race shirts.  Looking at the overflowing bag, I felt like I could call myself a runner.  Not an elite athlete--but a runner....one who runs.

At the same time, I started running, I began publicly writing a blog..."Kelly's Hot Mess."  I felt like a fraud...but I was desperate to no longer be an isolated, stay-at-home mother and to have some accountability with putting pen to paper or keystroke to the web.  Over 600 posts later, I feel like a writer.  Not a Penguin press-worthy author--but a writer....one who writes.

And so it is, that in spite of myself, the best things I have accomplished have come when I just start doing them, especially, when I have no fucking idea WHAT I'm doing.  When I listen to that tiny part of my heart that says, "just try it for five minutes...if you hate it, you can always stop, what do you have to lose?"

In the doing or the being, I get out of my head and back to my heart and my hands and my legs and slowly, bit by bit, me as the verb, eventually, becomes me as the noun--one I can claim and identify with.

As I watch my 6th, 4th and Kindergartner growing up, taking on new challenges, with far less baggage than me, I realize that this process of doing until we become is the only way that true change ever manifests itself. 

No one is ever ready...EVER.  We must stop using that language.  We need to strip it out of our vocab.  The best teachers and lessons have almost never come when we are ready.  They greet us when we least expect it, primarily because we bothered to show up and welcome them into our worlds....mole hills and mountains alike.

The Stories I Tell

This past weekend, my husband and son left for a camping trip.

My daughters and I enjoyed every minute.

Two and a half days largely looked like...coffee, bookstore, glitter art, toe nail painting, hair brush dancing, sushi, gelato, tulips, pancakes, mass and sea salt caramels.  The only thing that kept us from a bike ride was the Sunday "New York Times" and the rain.

After saying prayers, singing songs and lavishing kisses, I closed the door and headed to the kitchen to pour a generous glass of wine, excited to go upstairs and write or read or peruse Netflix...and breathe...alone.

While gulping the red, I heard my Kate's (8) feet on the stairs and slid my journal to the side of the bed in anticipation of an extra cuddle or story.  "Mama...why are you always writing?  I guess...what are you writing?  I mean, can I read that?" 

"Well, I guess I write because I can't help myself.  I've always written.  You know how you love to play the piano and make all kinds of art?  Even when you're not trying, you're putting something together with twine or buttons or twigs or canvas...everything is art for you...that's how words and stories are for me."

"Yes...that's right.  But I let you see it, my art and music, I mean," retorts Kate still resolute on reading my chicken scratch.

"I know what you mean, but sometimes, there are pieces of us that we're not entirely ready to share with the world and so, we respect that in each other.  I know that you have a diary and that you choose to keep it private.  I think that's important.  And well, soon enough, I suppose, you can read the stories that I've been composing and sharing on my blog over the last years.  You may get a kick out of them or you may, well, I guess you can be the judge of that."

After a seemingly satisfied look and a big hug and kiss, her question got me thinking about the sharing of my stories.  When I began my blog, Sam, our oldest was 6...now he is 11.  Kate was 3 and now she is 8.  And Claire, well she wasn't yet a year old.  They're growing and so too is their desire to know more about the inner workings of me.  What stories do I tell and why?  I'm sure that some of the blog entries will make them laugh, others will probably cause them to blush, some may even elicit a "What the hell were you thinking, mom" response.  But regardless, I hope that they can feel a level of honesty and authenticity that better helps them to get a window into the woman I am especially when I can't be as frank as I'd like to be.

With regard to my journals, well, they'll have to pry them from my cold, dead hands.  I'm sure they'll be buried in some random moth ball filled boxes in the cellar, half written, the ravings of a mad woman.  But maybe, just maybe, they'll read and think, "Right on...our mom was a bad ass who happened to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches...we just didn't know all of these sides of her."  Or, maybe they'll be horrified.  Who knows?  For now, the stories stay with me.  And I think, that's okay.

The Power of Memoir

For as long as I can remember, I've been fascinated by story.

The way that the tale unfolds is just as riveting to me as the delivery of the story teller.

I'm enamored by their facial expressions, physical gestures, pausing and intonation of the language.

If I'm reading, I'm suspended in my own imagination wondering what the characters look like, who they are to each other and ultimately, what will happen.

And then, probably annoyingly to some, if I am hearing a story face-to-face, I can't help but probe.  When I'm sitting next to a stranger at a park or on a plane or even in line at the grocery store, I ask questions about their lives long after I've concocted my own stories about who they are and what their plans are for the day.

Almost everyone I talk to indulges me and that's because I'm certain that everyone has a story to tell.

But rarely do I stop there, most of the time, I continue to share my own stories and traditionally, the farther removed the person is from my life, I'm likely to engage on a deeper level.  It feels less risky and bizarrely, more cathartic.

And that is why I had been desperate for yesterday to come...when the brilliant Mary Karr's amazing new piece, "The Art of Memoir" was released.  I kept checking my phone for the text from Amazon indicating that it was in my mailbox.

If you don't know her, you need to.  She's written three genius memoirs of her own, "The Liar's Club," "Cherry," and "Lit," all chronicaling her fucked up, unbelievably off-the-charts life.  Her newest book is about not only the inner workings of memoir as literature but the power behind this relatively new genre.

It's only been in the last 20 years that concepts like reality television, over sharing, blogging, social media and 24/7 access have been household terms.  As a culture, we've shifted the ways that we expect to know people....whether after information saturation, we want to or not.

And since the advent of my own blogging, three years ago, I've experienced a healthy dose of people criticizing me for airing my dirty laundry, giving away pieces of mine and my family's privacy and creating a landscape that will make my re-entry into the legit workforce wonky when my future employers Google "Kelly's Hot Mess" and my blog emerges.

And I suppose there's some truth to the concerns that reside in those remarks.  But for the most part, I say, poppycock.

Anything that has ever really been worth my time or gripped my heart has come from reading or connecting with the rawness of another.  And likewise, when I share ugly, cruel, painful, beautiful, scary windows into my own soul, I am almost always greeted with gratitude.

And so it is that as I'm on this journey of writing, I find that Memoir speaks now, and always has to every fiber of my being.  The trickiest parts are finding a way to write about those whom you love or have loved, who are alive or gone, in a way that maintains some level of respect and privacy.  And of course, the legitimacy of one's own memory.  How clear is my memory?  How do I remember something versus the cast of characters that were also in the kitchen or the bar or the bedroom?  The good news, according to Mary Karr is that the memoirist is not a reporter seeking objective accuracy of events...rather, she's giving you the window into her head and heart as she lives her life.

As I've been writing, these two quotes continue to permeate me:

"The most interesting information comes from children, for they tell all they know and then, stop."
Mark Twain

"Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point where he cannot distinguish the truth within him or around him, and so loses respect for himself. And having no respect, he ceases to love."
Fyodor Dostoevsky

On the journey to wrangle fear while seeking curiosity, I'm eager to see what it means to try this kind of writing on...although, if I'm honest with myself, it's really the only writing I've ever done...all in the name of sharing bits of me, while connecting with you, for the good of the story.

Hell Yes to the Holy Yes

We meet once a month and it's sacred.

A small group of women committed to gathering formally for a year, with a specific guide, encountering different topics each session set to specific intentions that we've thrown to the universe.

It's been six months and we're halfway through.  How can that be?

Tonight was about recommitting to the "Hell Yes" portion of our intention in the "Holy Yes" sort of way.

You know how it goes...when you first get really excited about an idea, a hope, a way of really expressing your passion...you want to scream "Hell Yes" on a mountain top.  Pumped, jazzed, full of boundless energy to give birth to this part of your being, you declare it to the world and for a while everyone joins you...mostly consumed by your giddiness and love, they celebrate and cheer you on.

And then a month, two months, three pass and soon, your idea has been peddled to all of your closest loved ones, friends, neighbors and well, it's collecting dust and you're losing steam.  You're getting tired and wonder what the fuck were you even thinking in the first place. 

That's when you get quiet, really quiet with yourself and reflect.  You scream, you cry, you bargain, you beg and then you try living the old way...you know the way you were before you declared your personal passion to the world and all of a sudden, the comforts of the old are not quite so comforting and you're anxious because you know that you can't go back...ever.  It's out there and no matter how much you push it, your soul is begging for it to be birthed in the world.

That's when you declare a "Holy Yes" personal proclamation with yourself...alone. You recommit.  You pick it all over again...but differently...this time it's for the long haul.  No matter if it ever garners additional support, popularity or belief.  You have faith.

It's the sacred, tiny moment when you know that you are the most important person who needs to own it and as long as you do, everything will work out, exactly as it should, when it should.

The beauty of being in the room tonight was bearing witness to the personal gifts that these women are sharing with each other and the world.  It's powerful. Palpable. A huge gift.  An enormous leap of bravery.

Whatever your idea, wherever your truth resides...break free and own it, all of it, even if it's largely a lonely place possibly for a really long time.  My hunch is, my hope is, my prayer is that it's worth it.

Hell Yes to the Holy Yes.

On Writing

I was grateful this weekend that two things happened - my husband took all of our children on a Boy Scouts camping trip and I was invited to participate in a writing circle.

On the night that I was left alone, I found myself eating sushi on the couch watching a horrible movie and then baking in the kitchen listening to music.

I was contemplating everything and ruminating on what the next day would look like.

As it turned out, I walked into an amazing space, placed my breakfast contribution on the counter, poured cream into my hot cup of coffee and noticed this sign:

"Writing is hard for every last one of us...
Coal mining is harder.
Do you think miners
stand around all day
talking about how hard it is to mine
for coal.
They do not...they simply
dig."
Cheryl Strayed

Finding my place in the circle, taking it all in, I realized that the only overt thing we all had in common is that we are women.  Otherwise, as I later learned, some are wives, mothers, agency directors, corporate gurus, older, younger...all hopeful for a fire to be lit, inspiration to emerge, truth to be told and a formal opportunity to re-engage with the written word through collective wisdom.

Our facilitator began the session by asking us to take some time to describe what the following words look like:

Sadness
Disgust
Joy
Guilt
Love
War
Hate
Science
Beauty
Evil

After we spent time writing about what something like hate tastes like, we went back to our writing and circled phrases, words and images that best captured the intent or feeling behind the word and then, as quickly as we could harvest the images into a disjointed poem of sorts to read aloud.

Shaking because my words and more importantly the combination of them felt so sophomoric and weak, I decided to raise my hand and get it over with...I wanted to get me out in the open right away.

Here I sit
the gig is up
and I know it
because the metallic taste of
old coffee and cigarette ashes
never leaves, constantly churning
screaming at the sky, wanting to
shake him or me or
both
desperate to create something new from the
old, begging don't
leave--but I'm so cold
throw me a blanket
and elevate me to a place
where I can
breathe again.

After everyone who wanted to share did...we entered into a private 30 minute writing exercise where we independently wrote a piece on the one word that we have longed to retire and the one word we have longed to embrace.

In every way, it was exactly what I needed.  I felt free and validated and irreverent and really, more me than I've experienced in sometime.  And the beauty was that I just got the chance to write.  I didn't have to fret over where to start, I was given prompts that were meaningful and a space that buzzed with collective creativity and hope.

I like the image of the coal miner digging.  Writing like running or mothering or wifing or friending or laundrying or fill in any blank you like is simply making the choice to do it, until one day, you stumble upon something that wasn't there before...a diamond in the rough that makes all the labor worth it.

The Case of the Withering Sock Monkey

I'm getting ready to run my last race of the year.

It's a half marathon in it's inaugural year and as such, the course looks really fantastic.

Filled with fun landmarks, rolling hills, good people and hopefully, a little more fall-like, beautiful weather, I think it will be a great way to end 2014.

In an effort to let anxiety and expectations go, I've been drinking out of a coffee mug to help bring me back to the basics.

It boasts a well known quote, but a good one.

peace.
it does not mean to be in a place
where there is no noise, trouble
or hard work. it means to be in
the midst of those things and still
be calm in your heart.
(unknown)

Post this last Half, I have to decide what to do next.

I turn 40 in 2015 and have an opportunity to run another marathon, take my hand at a triathlon or focus on 10K races to try to increase my speed.

A friend recently mentioned that I should keep running because I love it so much and try to publish an essay or submit a piece to "Modern Love," my favorite column in The New York Times.

Her words were...writers write...just like runners run.

And why not?  There's nothing to lose.  You'll never look back and wish that you hadn't tried.

And then she saw, my older son Sam's well loved, in need of being mended, sock monkey...

 

and said, "See, that will be you, if you don't do something that is just your own outside of your family, over time, little bits will fall out."

Oh, for the Love of God, I retorted.  I do plenty that's just mine.

"No really, you need to have something that you dedicate time, effort, passion, and elbow grease to that at the end of the day can only be claimed for yourself...or pretty soon, you're going to be the real life living case of that pathetic sock monkey."

Oh Christ...(laughing)...you're so fucking melodramatic.

"I'm just saying...we only live once.  How are you going to make that big heart of yours proud?"

And then, she left.

Damn it.  She's kind of right.

What will I do that will be all mine?  Particularly if it doesn't involve full-time work for some years to come.

Alright, here's to Walt Whitman...

"That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.”

My Muse

This weekend has been nothing short of busy.

You know the one where you're looking forward to Monday just so that you can catch your breath.

And through the in's and out's of all there is to do, my discipline for working on a short story writing assignment per my friendly throw-down contest with an undergrad friend is well, not going so well.

Why is it so hard to say goodbye to the to-do's and carve out space for the creative process?

Where do we find our inspiration?

Where is our muse?

Staring off into an oblivion listening to music, "Bright Lights and Cityscapes" by Sara Bareilles came on...take a listen.

And then it came.  It's as though, as the writer, you yearn to be inhabited by the muse...whomever she may be.  You want her to come on like a freight train and you to be ready, the vessel, through which the message will be delivered to the world.  You, the noticer, the observer, the pen....and she the bright lights and cityscapes.  And somewhere in the process, you're exhilarated, mystified, worn out,  never wanting her to leave you...but then, as all good things do, she must go.  And you're left holding the pen wondering when she'll return, exhausted and a bit sad.

I'm certain the creatives find inspiration in the most mundane and the most majestic of spots.  Their partners, blades of grass, color, tragedy, love, desire, washing the dishes, a toe nail, cancer, the birth of a baby.

The world is filled with stories begging to be told.  But sometimes, no matter how hard you try or how deeply you pay attention or how frequently you show up to write, your muse is no where to be found.

It is in these moments that I've decided to stop chasing her and instead to invent her or to recreate her based on the stories inside my heart or those I create in others.

I suppose at the end of the day, muse or no muse, the goal is to keep writing...to keep creating...to keep being the vessel, trusting that the words and the tales need to be told, if only for the benefit of me.

To Delight in e.e.cummings

This morning, my older children were home from school.

They had a teacher in-service day and their 3-year old baby sister had preschool.

It was rare and wonderful.

We headed to the bookstore and after researching the Golden Sower books that Sam wanted to read, I stumbled upon a book of poetry and shared one of my favorite poems by e.e.cummings.

anyone lived in a pretty how town

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

 

They were a bit confused.  My 7-year old, Kate said, "That doesn't make any sense. But it does rhyme."

 

And then, we talked about how poetry can rhyme, but it doesn't have to.  It can sound garbled or backwards or nonsensical, sometimes like song lyrics.  But it can also touch your heart, move your soul, and help you to see the world in a new way, especially if you're open to the way it's written.

 

To that end, they directed me to Shel Silverstein and said, "Try this one on. It's better."

 

Hug O'War
from the book "Where the Sidewalk Ends" (1974)

I will not play at tug o' war.
I'd rather play at hug o' war,
Where everyone hugs
Instead of tugs,
Where everyone giggles
And rolls on the rug,
Where everyone kisses,
And everyone grins,
And everyone cuddles,
And everyone wins.

 I agreed and said, I adore Shel Silverstein.

And then asked, how about Pablo Neruda?  Take for example,

"Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too..."

To which they said, "Naw...how about Dr. Seuss?"

The Cat in the Hat

Then our mother came in
And she said to us two,
“Did you have any fun?
Tell me. What did you do?”
And Sally and I did not
know what to say.
Should we tell her
The things that went on
there that day?
Well... what would YOU do
If your mother asked you?

It was a lot of fun and ultimately, all three of us realized that poems have different meanings at different stages, seasons, and times in our lives.  I encouraged the two of them to start writing their own poetry and to watch it change and transform as they change and get older.  To which Sam replied, "I think I have enough on my plate."

Alrighty then...it was worth a try.

Hail to the Shitty First Draft

It's freeing the first time you do something.

It doesn't have to be the first time ever.

It could be the first time for that day.

Like, the first run of the morning...the first report writing of the day at the office...the first thing you tell yourself as your feet travel from the bed to the floor....the first words out of your mouth to another.

It's freeing because there's no expectation.  It doesn't have to be perfect.  It doesn't have to be tidy.  It just has to be.

I write much like I live...scattered, chaotic, neurotic, a bit like a caged animal full of lots to share with the world but mired by the inability to find the perfect way out of my own prison walls.

And so the other day I told myself, you've got to get something down on paper.

This essay isn't going to write itself.

No one has to see it or ever read it.

Let it be awful.

In fact, will it, work hard to make it clicheish, cheese dicky, run-ony, ridiculously over the top, in short...absolutely horrible.

The gift of telling myself that the first draft would be abysmal made the writing process more alive, fluid, and fun than I could have ever imagined.

And now, I have the ultimate shitty first draft.  And, hands down, it's a beaut.  A real piece of shit.

But, it's more than I had yesterday.

And, it's a starting point...there's actual content to edit.  Hallelujah!  I get to be both an author and an editor!

I decided that the metaphor of the shitty first draft is a perfect one for the way I should be living my life.  Because the other way isn't working very well.  It's suffocating and exhausting to be worried about it always looking good.  It's stifling and really no fun at all to be consumed by getting it right.

It's exhilarating to presume that you'll most likely get it wrong but that simultaneously, the sun will come up tomorrow and you'll be better for trying.

So, I say, "Hail to the Shitty First Draft!"  Hail to running the slow and heavy mile.  Hail to letting the beds stay unmade and the dust bunnies collect.  Hail to knowing that you need to go to the store but choosing to take a walk while crunching the yellow leaves in your path.  Hail to letting yourself have the ugly cry when a disagreement with your child sent you into the depths of despair.  Hail to not mowing the lawn and being "that house" on the street.  Hail to Starbucks cups and Gatorade containers lining the bottom of your car. 

Hail to letting go of that that doesn't matter, so that you can make space for the pieces, places, and people who do.

Do The Work

I've been pouring myself over and into this amazing book that my dear friend shared, "Bird by Bird...Some Instructions on Writing and Life," by the absolutely brilliant Anne Lamott.

I think she knew that I needed some self assurance, a kick in the pants, and some good old fashioned inspiration.

And so last night, in the wee hours, I read this and it clicked:

"Fantasy won't get you in. Almost every single thing you hope publication will do for you is a hologram.  What is real is that if you do your scales every day, if you slowly try harder and harder pieces, if you listen to great musicians play music you love, you'll get better.  But you will have countless, defeated hours of uninspired boredom.  And you will rock and sway and become paranoid, frenzied, angry, beyond unsure...why won't the words come?  But you will show up every day at the same time, in the same place, and you will do the work."

Brilliant.  Completely obvious.  Fucking brilliant.

This is the truth about everything that has ever worked in my life.  If I want it and I want to do well and to experience the greatest sweetness in it, I must show up, day after day, moment after moment and try.

It's insane to me how it's all connected...marriage, parenthood, friendships, careers, running, writing...everything. 

There are so few moments in life when everything you want aligns without you putting in substantial elbow grease to get there.  And the only way to get there is to practice day in and day out as if you are.

I remember when I started running, I felt like a fool...a bonafide idiot...I could barely make it around the block, huffing and puffing, cursing why I ever thought I could do this.  And then, one block turned into two, turned into a 5K, a 10K, a half marathon and then a full marathon.  And almost every Saturday morning when I head out for a long-run, I don't want to go.  I feel anxious.  I get scared.  What if I can't do the mileage?  Is today the day that I'll get injured again?  And with all of the doubt and fear, I still lace up my shoes and I'm always happy that I did.

And now, I'm practicing this concept with writing.  And it's hard.  And I feel like a fraud.  And most days, it's a joke and I can't come up with anything decent and I wonder why is this important to me?  Why do I feel compelled to share any of it with the world? 

But despite my own fear, I keep showing up with my keyboard, my hope, my cup of coffee and my ideas.

When the going gets tough and it always, always does...the only sure fire thing I know, is that you have to be willing, even when it hurts, doesn't make sense or feels futile...to show up and to do the work.  The world needs everyone of us.

Recommitting to Me

This has been one hell of a summer.

In so many good and bad ways.

We've spent more time traveling or hosting friends and family than I can remember in ages. To connect with the people we love has been glorious.

But sprinkled in the mix has also been the loss of my father-in-law which has been harder than any of us imagined.

Subsequently, my better half has been gone more than he's been home and I've been with the children alone a lot.

This weekend, he took the littles on a Dad's and Kids Camping trip and for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I had three full days completely to myself.

I had no idea what to do first...finish up the laundry, tidy up the bedrooms, grocery shop, water the flowers, write thank you notes, catch up with friends, stare mindlessly at the wall...

In the end, I found myself lying on the couch in my underwear scooping out handfuls of homemade whipped cream while watching a flick I haven't seen in ages..."Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind," with Jim Carrey (Joel) and Kate Winslet (Clementine).  The premise is that after a beautiful, passionate, and tumultuous relationship...Joelie and Clem call it quits.  The problem is that they have all of these memories of each other and their times together.  And so, they both seek out a make-shift outfit that through some interesting methods can erase one's memories of another...thereby, eliminating pain when drudging up something from the past.

The acting is fantastic.  The music is amazing.  And the concept had me laughing, crying and wondering.

At this point in my life, my world is wholly committed to my family.  There's little time, money or energy for dreaming about me or wondering about the should of, could of, would of's in life.  It's largely about who needs which school supplies, oil changes in the cars, story books at the library and maintaining sanity while the kids tear each other apart one minute and then play happily the next.

But what about the memories, the moments of life reflection, the wonderings, the cravings, the hopes?

Not long ago, I was at a dinner party and one of the women who I'm friends with on Facebook said, "What happened to your blog?  Where did your writing go?  Are you still running?  I haven't seen many morning posts?"  And then later, someone started talking about creativity and I retorted with, "I'm the least creative person I know unless you count the kids' initials in the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches." To which she responded, "I think your writing is great.  I wish you'd do it more."

And I thought, how can I?  I'm just saying the same things over and over again.  What's the point?  And then she said, "I like it because it's real.  I can see me in you." And I was blown away.

This fall has me sending all three of my children to school in one form or another.  After seven years of being at home, I can hardly believe it.  I've decided that I need to write...regardless of whether it's good, it's relatable, noteworthy, inspiring, intriguing, or useful..I need it...like I need running...to smooth out the rough edges, to help me to breath, to teach me to let go and to remind me that I'm alive.

And so, feel free to ignore my ramblings.  They'll most likely just be a hodge podge of crazy talk.  But they'll be mine and that's what matters.

I can't imagine erasing any of my memories, as painful as some of them are.  They happened purposefully.  They shaped me.  And the one that I have of me writing in a villa in Tuscany and alongside a cafe in Paris haven't happened yet...but they will, one day, hopefully, with a tub of homemade whipped cream at my disposal.