Chicken Little and Some Discipline

Chicken Little was right. The sky is falling. The proof is that I'm writing two days in a row. Intentionally.  

I often talk to my friend, Mel, about my writing process. Or, more accurately, my lack of writing. I have lots of excuses, but my go-to excuse is always the same. No time and, maybe the even bigger hurdle, I have this huge amount of self-doubt that what I write won't matter. To anyone. 

It paralyzes me. I don't write until inspiration, or a deep-felt experience, comes and about knocks me over the head. Even then, I'm cautious. If I write it, I want to really feel it. The pace of my crazy, parenting, full-scheduled life has numbed me. It is a vicious excuse cycle.

The secret to great writing, as it turns out, isn't actually a big secret. Almost every writer knows intuitively what makes them a writer. Discipline. The big D. Setting aside time each day to write. And then actually doing it! You write when you're uninspired. You write through your hectic life. You write when you're up or down. Then, you keep writing some more.

Writing is my gift. I don't know if I've always viewed it that way, but I do now. It's not a gift because I'm going to write a bestseller, or change the world with my words, or figure out (finally!) what is meaningful to you. It's a gift because when I'm writing I'm home. I'm exactly who I am doing exactly what I do.

Almost every time Mel and I talk, she always has the same question for me. Have you been writing? While my answer is usually no, it is her loving way of reminding me that what I love to do is out there. Waiting. I just need to sit down in the chair and begin.

The Lost Parent

Tuck, age 6, and Cooper, age (almost) 9

Before I had kids, I had a passion for things. I wrote poetry. I embroidered tea towels. I sipped coffee slowly. I even sang power ballads in the shower that could make a grown man cry. All this interestingness...gone, gone, gone.

In its place is this new me. The professional yeller. The impatient multi-tasker. The sock matcher. The grocer-store shopper. The pocket cleaner outer. The bill payer. This grown up (and I use this term loosely, folks) in charge of the whole wide world. Time is no longer mine. I am owned by everything else around me.

In an act of rebellion tonight, I walked upstairs to my computer room after plating up their dinners and shut the door to write. All by myself. The kids are officially fending for themselves while I try to write something grand or grandiose, but it's not been an easy go.

I had to give a tribal yell to get their attention downstairs when it sounded like elephants were tearing up the place. We're dancing, they shouted back, give us a break! I'm pretty sure a few things fell off the wall.

There's been biting and someone got kicked in the balls.

There's been a surprise attack outside my computer-room door with swim goggles and a sling shot. I think I might know what it feels like to have a heart attack and a panic attack at the same time.

One kid has asked for cheese. The other one wants to play the Nintendo DS. No and no.

Lots of laughter. This must mean they are doing something I will discover later and be very angry about, or a tickle war has begun. You lose the tickle war when you pee your pants or vomit. Your choice.

Finally, we now have silence. This is the worst news yet. It means I need to wrap up this crazy endeavor of writing by myself, so I can jump back into the world of parenting. So, here's the quick ending, the short and sweet of it.

Despite the fact I've lost some of myself along the way, raising sons is the greatest adventure I've ever been on. I might get lost. Feel crazy. Have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. So what? It will always be a more interesting story than tea towels and shower singing. It's a life in progress, imperfect and beautiful. Enjoy it.

Feeding the Beast

The blogs I love post several times a week. Some, even daily. I follow cooking blogs, DIY blogs, parenting blogs, comedy blogs, and even the blogs of a few friends. I love the writing, but mainly I love staying connected. Writers post stuff to stay connected. 

I haven't made a blog post, if I can even call it a blog at this point, in six months. It was fall when I last wrote. Today, I realized it's spring. Well, shit. This totally confirms I'm a complete slacker.

No excuses. Okay, I do have a few (the best slackers always do, right?). Work has been chaos. Kids played basketball this winter, so there was no "off" season. I stopped walking. I started devouring sugar. I took up hot yoga, if you can call taking two classes and puking like a champ after the first one a new hobby. I run from meeting to meeting. I referee fighting kids. Housework is piling up, laundry even higher. 

I feel exhausted. Dried up. A writer with no words to give.

BUT, BUT, BUT....instead of doing the things that restore me (walking) and energize me (writing), I do the exact opposite. I escape into the pages of stories I didn't write and under the comfort of covers to sleep. I scroll endlessly through people's Facebook posts and candid pictures. I research new adventures with intensity, knowing in my heart I will never go. I seek bigger dreams than the life I am living.

Someone said the other day, "We become the creature we feed most." Such truth in this simple statement. What we feed, flourishes. We we nourish, grows. Hopes and dreams are wonderful, but it is our actions and what we practice daily that ultimately defines us.

I guess what I'm trying to say, friends, is I'm not a writer. Not yet. But I'm tired of silly dreams, of others and my own, with no action behind them. I'm ready to feed the beast. Get ready.

{The Toilet Writer}

It's only been a few short weeks since I officially declared myself a writer. I love being a writer! The tricky part is I haven't written anything since my bold declaration. Not so writer like, I admit, but I have some pretty creative procrastination excuses.

For example, a few short minutes before I sat down to write this post, I hear screaming and crying from my sons downstairs. Apparently, someone has their hand stuck in the toilet. I'm pretty sure this isn't possible, so I casually walk down the stairs feeling extremely huffy that my moment of inspiration is being disrupted. 

It's true. You can get a five-year-old hand stuck in the toilet all the way up to his wrist. It took me 15 minutes to get it unstuck through lots of crying, my other son yelling "Call 911! Call 911!," and the dog trying to drink out of the toilet during the extraction. I didn't even ask what he was digging for when it was over. I just shouted for him to pull up his pants and wash his hands. Toilet diving is disgusting. DISGUSTING!

I also threw out my lower back last weekend on a float trip. I wasn't even drinking, friends. I'm just old. I had finished an extremely aggressive slippery log balancing duel (yes, people do this on the river!) and, as I rested on the raft after my victory, I reached out to grab my hat and BAM. Lower back spasm. I can't sit very well or roll over in bed, but I can still fish out a fat hand from the toilet. My muscles are starting to cramp as I write this, but I'm a tough writer, crazy mom, log-dueling champion. Tough as dirty rusted nails, I am.

I will also be unplugging in a few short hours at a lovely cabin by the water. Technology is too much sometimes. I've spent my morning gearing up for the relaxation---downloading new songs to my iPod and books to my Kindle, posting yummy recipes on Pinterest, and commenting on every one's posts and pictures on Facebook. I didn't tweet because I still don't get it. I'm also updating my blog in case I get so relaxed I don't write for another month. It happens. I don't always relax well, but I'm bound and determined to give it another shot.

My mantra for this summer is to not take myself so seriously. I'm going to suck at something, sometimes, some days. Writing, parenting, wife-ing, relaxing, working, friending. I'm up as much as I'm down on these things. Life still moves on. It's a much better ride if I can just enjoy it.

Coffee Shop Time

A rare moment last night. I had two full hours in a coffee shop. No kids. No phone calls. No agenda. No need to hurry up and get going. I savored a cup of coffee and the atmosphere, plus even snuck in some good, old-fashioned people watching. It was dreamy.

I used to live in a coffee shop. Well, not live, but I did spend a good amount of time pouring my soul out at that green corner table with the wobbly leg in college. I sipped coffee. I wrote poetry. I soaked in the vibe. Words, words, words. More coffee, please. Occasionally, I would even get into a crying fit if my words were really moving me. Weird, huh?

Here's the thing. I liked myself weird. Funky. Super creative in a bohemian poet/dark coffee drinking kind of way. A girl alone at the table in deep thought with something useful, if even slightly morose, to say. I had gumption. I had flare. I had time to be me.

These days, if I was asked to describe myself, coffee shop junky, or poet, or thoughtful girl with too much eyeliner wouldn't even make the list. Bigger titles have prevailed. Mother, wife, worker, friend, responsible adult. I've got a mortgage, two kids, and dog that needs to be let out right at 5 p.m. I don't have time to creatively loiter. I don't know about you, but I really miss letting my freak flag fly.

We need coffee shop time, my friends. For you, maybe it's outdoor time, or perfecting a recipe time, or trying something exciting and new time. It's the you before it got buried by too much responsibility. It's that girl, the one you smile at when you look back and remember the exact moment you figured out what finally floated your boat. Remember her? I sure do. She's intense, shiny, slightly off (in my case), and so full of possibilities. Embrace her, love her.....any way you can.

{Time Sucking Creativity}

Writing is my creative outlet. This is why I blog, send handwritten notes, and dream of one day finishing a novel. Words really do make me happy. Lately (refrain from judgment here, please), I've been straying.

Pinterest. A major time sucker in many ways, but so visually stimulating I cannot look away. I have been following the hippest designers and all their lovelies (fabrics, projects, room designs, and on, and on, and on). My new crush is Elsie Larson, designer and owner of Red Velvet, out of Springfield, Mo. I'm not stalking, but it's real close.

Elsie then led me to my next creative adventure. A year of art journaling. Never heard of that? Yeah, me either. But a few short weeks ago, I got an email from Elsie (well, I'm sure she sent it to a few thousand people, but I like to think it was more BFF to BFF) inviting me to an e-course teaching the crazy ways of art journaling. One page per week. Easy as pie, right?

Well, it been interesting. It's also been super fun. I'm not feeling like it's masterpiece material yet, but my first two weeks are pictured here. An introduction page on the left (yes, that's me with a large bunny, if you've got great eyes) and a magazine page with my love list scribbled on top.

I've also been dabbling in some photography, thanks to my friend Dulce. She introduced me to the iPhone app Instagram. Suddenly all my boring photos are transformed into these amazing vintage wonders. I'm a photography genius. If you have your doubts, check out my bear photo from lunch today. Okay, so I'm in the photo, which means I didn't actually take the photo. I did push the button to make it more hazy and dream-like though. It's a gift and you're welcome.

Having said all that, I'm sorry I haven't written more, but please know the creative energy is flowing through me in all kinds of ways. I'm super happy about that. Try to be happy, too. Okay? If you want, I could come over and take your picture.

{Joyful Resolutions}

I rarely keep resolutions made on Dec. 31. It's too much pressure, I think. What can I do at the start of a new year to transform my whole life? Well, jeez. That's a lofty ambition. Do I start with what isn't working at all? Or should I start with areas I've made minor progress and add on to that? You can see my dilemma.

Last year, I tried to keep it lighter. I decided to read 111 books in 2011. Very straight forward goal, plus reading is one of my passions. I've got this. What I could not keep a handle on, unfortunately, was logging each and every book I read. I was on matrix overload. By February, I just conceded that my obsessive tracking was getting in the way of reading, so I stopped entering the books altogether. I'm pretty sure I read more than 111 books. I can't prove it though.

Maybe I would like New Year's resolutions better if they all focused on finding more joy in your life versus the traditional changing all the "bad" stuff. Joy goals would be more straight forward. Simple. Savoring every ounce of your life. If change happens amidst those joy-finding activities, well, good for you. If it doesn't, no big deal. Your main goal is just to live your life to the best of your ability.

With that in mind, here's my 2012 joy list:

1. Nature balances me. Surround myself with great views, sunshine and the smell of pine.

2. Sneak in as many snuggles with my kids as I can. Even if they resist, hold them down for snuggles and call it wrestling.

3. Spend more quality time with family and friends. Hug them more, too.

4. Read & write every spare moment. It's obviously what lights my fire.

5. Speak kinder words to husband. Critique less. He deserves joy, too.

6. Help others.

7. Try one new, crazy adventure a month. Growth is good.

8. Cook fabulously for my family, even if I've never heard of the wholesome ingredients.

9. Make do with less.

10. Count to 10. Take deep breaths. Enjoy this amazing ride.

If my list gets you thinking about your list, I hope you will put finding joy and a passion for your life front and center. You deserve that. Here's to a new year and, I hope, a more joyful us.

Much love, Heather.

Excuse Me

It's been 51 days since my last blog post. I guess I could be grandiose and say that I gave up blogging for the summer to focus on a simpler life. I turned inner versus catering to the outer. I love that concept, really I do, but it's just not true. The truth is that I filled myself up with excuses this summer and didn't have time for anything else.

I stopped walking outdoors, which keeps me totally sane and physically healthy, because it was just too hot. I got behind on housework and laundry, too. No energy, you see. I also lost my patience completely right before July 4 and never got it back, but it's because I have boys and they're crazy. I've been swamped with work stuff, personal stuff and then a whole bag of "other" stuff. When you're life is this full, who has time to write and reflect?

Tonight, I walked for an hour at the Nature Center. While soaking up the beauty and putting my feet into action, it's like all those nonsensical excuses just poured out of my soul. The world came back into focus. It was quiet and quick, but it made me teary just the same. I also made a few resolutions, starting this evening, to ensure my summer of excuses doesn't turn into the story of my life.

1. Walk outside everyday. Nature heals many things.

2. Blog weekly. It doesn't have to be profound or lengthy, it just has to be real.

3. Snuggle with my kids more.

4. Cut out white sugar. It's crack that makes me fat.

5. Nurture the relationships around me.

6. Find a few moments of quiet time in my day to meditate, pray or reflect on what is real.

7. Laugh.

8. Lighten up. My life isn't a dress rehearsal, but it can still be a good time.

9. Stay hopeful.

10. Try one new adventure each month. Be open to asking others to join me.

I'm back, my friends. No more filling my belly and mind with excuses. We make our life what it is and I'm thankful for that. I've already got my alarm set to walk outside tomorrow morning. What will you be doing?

Sorting Out My Life

My mom has been cleaning out her basement, which means she's been sending box after box of childhood mementos my way. She has saved every piece of artwork, certificate, pen pal letter, medal, grade card, poem or graded paper that I took home. It's a lot of stuff. For someone not into clutter, such as myself, it's pure torture to dig through.

If there is any good that comes from sorting junk, I have found some common themes emerge from my childhood. First, I loved things with my name on it. I have pencils, bags and notebooks with my name everywhere. Heather. Heather Boehmer. Heather Dawn Boehmer. I must have liked the way my name looked in print. Ironically, I still kind of feel that way. My secret wish is to see my name on the cover of book, hopefully with "national bestseller" right above it.

Secondly, I was a prolific writer. I wrote letters to friends in the summer, random pen pals, journal entries, notes to family members, poem after poem after poem (all terrible, by the way), and many short stories. The writing wasn't terrific, but I was amazed by the kind, encouraging words of my teachers. "Keep at it, you've got great potential," one wrote on my paper. They believed in me before I knew to believe in myself.

I also realized how much my mom relished every part of my journey. She kept every word, every picture, every award. She was so proud of me. While I've written often of the struggle growing up with single, teenage mother, I'm not sure I've accurately conveyed what an amazing woman my mother is. She is humble, funny and kind. She has never, not even for one small second, given up on me, though my actions would have tested the most patient soul. I guess I'm thankful she's let me sort out my life at my own pace.

At the bottom of the last box I went through tonight, I found a poem I had written in the ninth grade with a green honorable mention ribbon stapled to it. I don't remember the poem or the ribbon, but it reminded me of the dreamer I used to be. Still am, I guess, in many ways. Here's hoping we can all grow into something special and keep working on the big dream. If it's super unrealistic, well, then I think you're definitely headed in the right direction.

Lament for the Non-Dreamers

by Heather Boehmer, 9th grade

They never seem to look beyond today

or wish for anything unrealistic.

A second of their time is not wasted

on such foolish measures

as daydreaming a tomorrow.

Their lives are synchronized into patterns,

which are colored black and white.

Their eyes are closed to all the magic and beauty

that is soundly sleeping behind the closed doors of their imagination.

For Book Lovers Only

I love a good story. On my worst days, or even semi-bad days, you can find me in the library or bookstore greedily looking for a story to devour. Happy or sad. Real life or make believe. Romance or tragedy. If you write it well enough, I will probably read it.

On rare occasions though, I come across a book that when I close the last page I think, "Dang, I wish I would have wrote that." Here are a few books I wish I could claim for my own.

1. House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros

2. Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd

3. Finn by Jon Clinch

4. At Home in the World by Joyce Maynard

5. The Guernsey Literary Potato Peel Society by Mary Ann Shaffer & Annie Barrows

6. The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison

7. Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller

8. The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin

9. Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day by Zoe Francois and Mark Luinenburg

10. The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

The best part about a good story? You get to tell others, so they can experience it for themselves. If you haven't read the books above, or baked bread from the number nine recommendation, add them to your list. I'm also ready for your recommendations, my friends. Go ahead. Give 'em to me.