Welcome home.

This video is really beautiful, and by the end of the song I really liked it. Tinkling piano and hand claps = a big YES.

Searching.

I'm searching for pretty things, things to curl up inside: fanciful notions, beautiful songs, perfect arrangements of words, sleep. I'm finding them, kind of. Because I'm still restless. My brain is asking, maybe too gently, what are you hiding from? Lots, it turns out. Little dark monsters niggling at the edge of my cozy spaces. Go away, monsters. Let me live here.

A few weeks ago my husband and I were listening to a playlist that I called my 10 Favorite Songs. There are 11 on the list - and actually, I made the list a few years ago and it needs to be updated. The songs are kind of all over the place. "Devil Woman" by Charles Mingus and "Famous Blue Raincoat" by Leonard Cohen and "Complete Control" by the Clash. There's Arcade Fire and Spoon and Interpol. I was trying to pin down the thread that connects them all, and I eventually did: these songs are full of spaces that either invite you to rest or invite you to destroy -- shred the spaces up or live inside them for a bit. Either is a form of celebration.

Stop hiding. That's the answer, right? Or if I'm hiding, it should be as a form of celebration, like the songs in my favorite songs list. This sounds almost nonsensical, I know that, but think about this: If you're hiding somewhere (in the space of a song, for example) in a place that makes you stop and think, a place that pulls you into a moment where you exist only to appreciate where you are - that's a celebration, isn't it? Of life and living and the infinite finality of it all.

Or maybe that still makes no sense. I don't know; I'm tired. Here's a picture.

Three different lovelies.

There's a cuff on my wrist embroidered with the words "be still." I told Madeleine I like those words on my wrist because it's a reminder that when life gets crazy, it's a good idea to slow down, to be still, and enjoy it. Mad's eyes get big. "Mama. Do you want to see something crazy?" she asks in a hushed voice. "Uhhh....yes?" I tell her, uncertain, and she runs through the house like an insane chimp, screaming her head off.

:::

Violet greets me in the doorway when I get home from work. "Mama! Mama! Can I take dance classes? I like dancing. I want to take dance classes because I am a kid."

:::

It's spring, and after a week of warmth and sunshine, this week has been increasingly gray and cold. Today everything is blanketed with a constant, soft drizzle. I'm listening to Chris Bathgate in the car and for some reason everything feels nostalgic. I pour iced tea into my glass when I meet friends at a restaurant, and the silence of the simple action is inviting; I want to dive into it. There is the clank of people eating, the low buzz of people talking, and the silence of pouring tea. It's like shelter in a storm. I drive back to work in the rain, thinking about wild loves and movie romances and decide they probably do exist somewhere. For a minute I believe sudden love can spring instantly from touched palms in a nice-to-meet you handshake.

Fixing what's broken.

(Fair warning: this is a freewrite, an unedited mind dump, and by golly it felt good to write. It's not pretty or polished, but it was therapeutic.)

Gnarled. I can't listen to music that makes me thoughtful because I don't like where my thoughts are lately. Yesterday I read a blog post where someone mentioned being a warrior for their own happiness. I thought: when was the last time I was a warrior for my own happiness? I thought about the Chris Bathgate song, "Do What's Easy," and living a life that is manageable but mostly kind of sucky is pretty easy.

My life isn't sucky. I know this. There are lots of good things about it. But yesterday my 5-year-old had a complete and utter meltdown, the likes of which I haven't seen in ages, enough to shake me up a little because it was so INTENSE, with the screaming and crying and the inability to hear reason and the eventual slapping me in the face, repeatedly. Out-of-control. And all I can think is: this is my fault. How can I fix this.

There are things going on behind the scenes that aren't appropriate for blog posts, but it's dredged up a whole host of worries for me, about our current situation and how to fix it and really at the crux of it is how do I get to the life I want to lead?

And then there's the tension of: this is the life you're leading. Be happy and content in it, and I want to do that, but when I see how my daughters are affected by the current situation, it's hard to relax. And then I want to fix. Be a warrior for my own happiness. And theirs.

What's worse is that in the face of all this behind-the-scenes turmoil I become the opposite of a warrior. I shut down. I drink a little too much wine and ignore the dishes in the sink or the clothes that need folding and I don't find my workout clothes for the next day even though I know if I leave it for the morning I won't get it together in time and there will be no workout. I sit on the couch and watch stupid TV and drink wine and go to bed early and sad.

How fucking stupid. And I don't use the F word lightly, but I think I need to dredge things up some more, get angry for once, anything but complacent and FIGHT, just fight for myself for once. Instead of just existing. Fight. Even a little. And live.

I mean, I might as well.

These songs are in constant rotation lately in our house: songs for spring!

it's a snarl right there in my chest
the sinews angry and entwined with rib and vein and vessel
binding my heart tight to lung to bone
so I spend all day chasing gasps of breath.

until tonight, when the fall of day hooks one great finger
on an inside tangle and gives a mighty tug.
everything gives; this body sounds out
a breath, a breath, a sigh.

Achieving a dream in between.

It was low-hanging fruit, admittedly. I was taking an online "class" on dreaming big, and in the beginning we needed to basically freewrite our dreams until we got to the biggest, most outlandish things we could think of achieving. Some of the early things I wrote down were easy, imaginable realities. Find a new job. Focus on clean eating. Run a 10K.

"See Chris Bathgate live" was one of those early dreams that maybe wasn't quite so imaginable because it seemed like the guy never left Michigan. Nonetheless, I was spending many evenings a week on long bike rides then, following long stretches of paved trails out into the closest thing we have to wilderness here, surrounded everywhere by green and huge expanses of sky and sunsets, avoiding the grasshoppers and gnats littering the trail, catching glimpses of bobcats and armadillos. Chris Bathgate was the soundtrack for the unloosening I felt there, for the quiet revelations, for the easy letting go.

Even today, the first strains of "Buffalo Girl" create a feeling like a gasp in my chest.

This is how it came to pass that on Friday, March 18, my family and I loaded up the car and made the drive down to Austin to see Chris Bathgate in a live music showcase at The Tea Embassy, in conjunction with SXSW.

It was perfectly lovely, with blankets stretched out on green grass, a small gathering of people sprawled under the sun, soaking up the heat and listening to great music. Delicious iced tea in plastic cups with colorful bendy straws. Violet danced and then got tired and Madeleine was patient and then restless. I thought of all the memories being cultivated on that lawn, people who escaped the bustle of SXSW for this quick breath of calm, and people like us who drove a long way just for the one show, who would be driving a long way back home in just a few short hours.

Was it perfect, checking that item off the list? No and yes at once. Chris Bathgate only sang two songs I knew, "Cold Press Rail" and "No Silver." The rest were great, but from his new album and so I have no connection to them just yet. I couldn't give my full attention to the show while I was managing my hot, tired girls.

But that's where perfect comes in, right? Achieving a dream, no matter how small it may seem -- in between Madeleine whining because the bug she caught just escaped or Violet's restless wandering because she wanted to dance but was just too tired at that point, trying to hear the words to songs I wanted to know -- that's capital-L Life right there. And that brief moment in the middle of it, when the first song started and I stretched my feet out on the grass and raised my face to the sun and gave the universe a silent thank you - it's really the point of it all, isn't it?

I'm just choking down a salt year.

I can't stop listening to this song. I mean. It's just. Wow.

To love and enjoy.

NEW LOVE
by Dallas Clayton

Find something new today
to love and enjoy
like the rest of those familiar loves
that have topped your list for years.

It doesn’t have to come close
and likely it won’t
but it might
and if it did
boy, that’d sure make this a day to remember-
the day you set about
turning over rocks
and shaking the neighborhood trees
only to discover
exactly what it was
you didn’t even know you were looking for.

Quite beautiful.

Violet walks up to me with purpose, arms outstretched, so I pick her up and give her a hug. "I love you, Mama," she tells me, nestled into my neck. She pulls back to look into my eyes. "You're beautiful and pretty," she says. I wonder at these terms of endearment she's learned, think of how often I must tell her those words: love, beautiful, pretty. I worry about self-image, worry about the first time someone will make her feel less than those three words, and my heart clenches. I look into her eyes and give her those words back, and more: smart, funny, proud. "I'm proud of you every day, Violet," I tell her. Her legs are so long they fall halfway down my body while I'm holding her. Her teeth are perfect rows, her cheeks so full when she smiles.

::

"Stop being so pretty," I tell Madeleine playfully. A second passes: "Madeleine! What did I tell you? You just got PRETTIER!" Sometimes she laughs at this. Sometimes she denies it. "I'm not pretty," she says. Offhand, after she climbs into my bed in the morning and snuggles under the covers, I ask her: "Why are you so darn cute?" She appears to genuinely ponder this. "I don't know," she says. And I stroke her hair from her face the way she likes, take in her deep brown eyes, dark and bright at the same time, like there is gold at the center. Her features are so delicate, her body long and slim with surprising definition of muscle, especially in her stomach and legs. Every morning when she comes to pull me from sleep I wrap my arms around her and remember the shape she made when she was a tiny thing, all slopes and rolls instead of angles and sharp limbs. She has a small discoloration in one eyebrow, another, much less noticeable, on her forehead. One day she will hate these things, I know it. One day someone will say these marks make her less than pretty, and I wonder how I will fortify her against it. She's so beautiful I feel it like a smile that demands your face, and I want her to feel it, too. I feed her the words I feed her sister: love, beautiful, pretty, smart, funny, proud.

::

My hair is not as thick as it used to be and is abominably frizzy. Clothes don't fit the way I want them to, and yesterday I noticed one side of my waist curves in more than the other. One hip has a pocket of fat that is more pronounced than on the other side. Lines crawl across my face and the pores around my nose are wide. I had a full-fledged zit on my upper lip a few days ago. Hair grows on my chin and my eyebrows aren't even. I have a vicious overbite and a mole on the side of my jaw. I see all of these things every time I look in the mirror. I acknowledge them every single time, and once upon a time, they could ruin my whole day. Ugly, fat, unsexy, lumpy, unworthy.

Today, I acknowledge these words, then carefully place them back down, away from me. My eyes have green and gold flecks, and you know what? My calves are pretty nice, too. No, scratch that. They are freaking awesome. My body can run 4 miles fairly easily, and when it does, I feel wild and strong. My body grew two of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. And if I want them to always feel beautiful, I have to feel it, too. So I give myself the words I give them: beautiful, pretty, smart, funny, proud. Because I'm worth it. Every single one of us is. We are all quite beautiful if we choose to see it, and even more beautiful when we finally believe it. And so I will keep trying.

Growing is forever.

This is something I want to meditate on, from Superhero Journal:

"What I came across was a blog post that a yoga instructor posted who was also craving the medicine of the redwoods. I loved this line in particular, "When I sit near them, I can feel the power of the simple act of staying."

And maybe that's what it's about. The redwoods grow fast and they grow strong. They give oxygen and shelter. They are beautiful and wild and no matter what happens they stay put. It's starting to sound like motherhood to me, at least the kind of motherhood I'm being asked to step into. To stay with the uncertainty, to grow wild and strong, to stay rooted and firm, steadfast."

Growing is Forever from Jesse Rosten on Vimeo.

Help I'm alive.

These two songs go together. They have the same kind of dark vibe, but carry such a vibrant, celebratory message: We're living. What do we do next? Emily Haines of Metric sings, "Help I'm alive/My heart keeps beating like a hammer," and "If we're still alive/My regrets are few/If my life is mine/What shouldn't I do?" Whatshisface from Interpol sings "Remember take hold of your time here/Give some meanings to the means/To your end/Not even jail."

Stand up; pay attention, they both say. Your heart is beating like a HAMMER. It's going to knock a big ol' hole in your chest. You can't ignore that. So let's go DO something.





Side note: I advise strongly against seeing Interpol live. It's one giant, gaping yawn of a show. Nonetheless, "Not Even Jail" is still a favorite song of mine.

Etsy lovelies.

1) TheGinghamOwl 2) levansphotography 3) skippydesigns 4) also skippydesigns

No lovely cast.

In a dream last night, Wayland and I both arrived home from work one night to find an empty house. The girls should have been there with Wayland's mom, but everything felt unnaturally quiet and still. We were standing in the dining room and suddenly Wayland announced, "Look who's here," and I turned, expecting to see his mom's car in the driveway. Instead, I saw Violet outside, pressing her face against the window. She was coming up from a hole in the ground, like an actual flower. She seemed nonplussed.

I was enraged. Wayland's mother had gone off with Mad and left Violet all alone! How could she? And just where had she gone? Where did she take Mad? Why weren't they HERE?

In the dream, I was clenched, angry, ready to yell. Furious. What was she doing to our family? I felt like she was taking it away from me. I could feel it slipping through my fists and I just wanted to hit something.

I am getting shaky, trying not to cry as I type this. Stupid, man.

Lately I feel incomplete. Unsettled. I am doing something wrong. Not living my life. Not embracing what I love most. Here is the hard truth: I changed jobs and I am 1000% happier in my job now. I changed jobs and I am 1000% less happy in how I am managing the things that matter most. I don't always feel this way. Sometimes all the pieces fall in the right places and that elusive balance is never obtained, but something close to it. It's manageable. I think: I can be happy this way. But it never takes much to tip the scales too much in the wrong direction.

I woke up this morning with a headache. Madeleine woke up too early and was fine for a bit, but she got upset that I couldn't sit and watch Skunk-fu with her all morning. When Violet got up, Madeleine didn't want her on the couch and put her blanket in Violet's face, trying to push her way. "Mad," I told her in the warning-mom voice. "Don't."

"But I don't want her here! I don't want to watch TV with her! I want her to go play."

"Violet can watch TV," I told her. "Don't put your hands on her."

I turn to grab a movie for them to watch and see from the corner of my eye that she is pushing at her again. Violet reaches over and scratches her.

"GUYS!" I exclaim. "STOP IT!"

They both burst into hysterical tears.

I sit on the couch, take a deep breath, try to soothe. "Mad, why don't you want Violet to watch TV with you?"

"Because I don't LIKE her!"

Violet: "I don't like you, either."

"You cannot talk to each other this way," I begin, but Mad reaches over and hits Violet.

Mad has to take a break.

I'm carrying Mad out of her room when the doorbell rings. It's the neighbor letting me know that water has been running out of our backyard all night long. Violet must have turned the faucet on yesterday when she was playing back there, after I explicitly told her not to.

I stomp through mud to turn the faucet off, wincing at the huge puddle of water now in our neighbor's driveway.

Wayland's mom shows up, chirps out a "Good morning!"

"Ha ha, no," I tell her, and debrief her on the day's happenings.

She tells me what I have to do - keep them separate. She had to do that yesterday. Sometimes it's the only way with them. I clench my jaw, try not to snap at her: I know how to deal with my children.

She tells me that she wishes she could have more one-on-one time with Madeleine.

"So do I," I suddenly want to scream at her. SO DO I. With both of them. Every single day. Hell, I would love ANY time with them, save the short few hours before we have to get them to bed.

Anything more than this.

I tell the girls goodbye before I leave, give them kisses and tell them I love them. They blithely sip their milk and don't even look in my direction. "I'll miss you," I tell them. And though I know I should ask the next question, I do. "Will you miss me?"

I expect Violet to say yes, but she smiles at me. "No," she says pleasantly. "I won't miss you."

::

I know there's nothing lovely about this. I have no lovely cast for this. It is what it is. My life tipped too far away from balance, spurred by an awful dream and crappy morning. Tonight I'm going to make breakfast for dinner, have some wine later and go to bed early. It's all I can do at the moment, and wait for the scale to balance itself back out again.