Sage Advice for Graduates

Dear Friends:

You are all about to embark on an amazing adventure. As you can guess, I'm totally jealous (and totally excited for you, too!). My first year of college was the year I grew the most---as a person, as a friend, as a writer. When I finally shed the layer of high school, something new emerged and I felt so alive soaking it all in. I grew into my skin. Or maybe just into the real me.  

It's always awkward for me to give advice to others. Mainly, because I still feel like a hot mess navigating my own life every day. While I don't have everything figured out, the ups and downs have taught me a few things. Let's not even call it advice, shall we? Here are my encouraging words as you launch into this new world after high school.

1.  Do not lock your keys in your car at the gas station when you make one last stop before meeting your new roommates at your dorm. Even if your stomach hurts from worry and you are sure you will poop your pants, hold on to your keys. It's really important.

2. Be yourself. You are going to meet lots of new people, who all seem weird and crazy and cool. They will think your weird and crazy and cool is the best thing ever. Dust off the facade, if you had one, and start being your authentic self. Immediately. Trust me on this. People are going to love you!

3. Until you find a college church family (and I hope you will seek one out because it's important), focus on the simple truths in the Bible. Love God and love others. Live your life embracing that every single day without judgment or fear.

4. Find a coffee shop with some hipsters and great coffee, then pour out your heart by writing some really bad poetry. Or journaling. Or blogging. Whatever floats your boat. Just get those emotional feelings out in some helpful way. It's a big, new world and change is hard.

5. Call your mom and dad once in awhile. When you need money, of course, but sometimes just to tell them you love them. It really does matter.

6. Do not skip your 8 a.m. class more than twice in a semester even it is a stupid geography class. Apparently, you will need to know if you need a raincoat or a warm winter coat in Italy in April in order to pass the class. Also, feel free to take a few semesters of racquetball. I mean, look how good I turned out!

7. Remember that one or two authentic friends will be more meaningful than a room packed full of acquaintances. Go deep with friendship.

8. If you aren't sure what you want to be when you grow up, you are not alone. Don't stress. Learn all you can and something will spark a fire to show you the right path for you. Or you can major in communications because surely someone will want to give you a job communicating something when you graduate. 

9. Do not eat cereal at every single meal. I know it will seem tempting because who can resist a cereal bar. But, please...try hard.

10. Don't be a stranger back home. The people who have loved you along the way are still here to encourage you, pray with you and love you. Come back home for a weekend and let us hug on you for awhile. It will help simmer down the chaos of college life.

Enough encouraging words. You've. Got. This. I hope you enjoy every single minute of this new adventure. I'm counting on you!

Much love,

Heather

Love the Mothers!

My son, Tuck, throwing a fit at 2 years old.

I visited Prescott National Forest in Arizona this weekend. No hiking. No sniffing trees (well, deep in the forest anyway). I was on a bigger mission, you see. I was there to snuggle some babies.

My friend, Mary, invited me out for a visit because her husband was going to be out of town for the weekend. While a few years ago, this might have meant late nights and karaoke, maybe even a crazy adventure, these days it is all about family. And survival. With a new baby only a few weeks old, plus an active two-year-old, I was there to be an extra pair of hands and feet.  

I felt honored to be asked. It made me feel like a seasoned pro since I know what it's like to be a mother of two boys, though mine are 10 and (almost) eight now. I should have known my inflated sense of self, and mothering, would be taught a valuable lesson. It happened. This weekend. Big time. 

Here is what I learned from my time in Arizona:

1. I like my sleep. Newborns don't sleep. I've become selfish about sleep now that my kids are older. #SELFISH.

2. The energy of two-year-olds is incredible. I wish I could bottle that shit. I mean, seriously, how do you they not tucker out after hours of jumping, talking, laughing, and running from you? I'm getting exhausted just writing this.

3. Poop and spit up. All the time. Plus, someone always needs milk (out of your breast or out of the fridge). You are a helper every minute from dawn until dusk. Unfortunately, you can't even pass out after that because you're on for the night shift, too.

4. Time makes you forget the overwhelmingness of new babies. This may be so you'll eventually have more babies one day. Sadly, it also makes you forget and become a little less empathetic to those mothers, and your dear friends, working the day, evening, and night shift. Hug them tight. They really do need it.

5. Becoming a mother is one of the most bonding experiences you'll ever have with your girlfriends. No one can explain the happiness, tiredness, love, fear, and exhaustion that consumes you every minute those first few weeks. Well, your whole life really. Only a mother knows.

When I returned home, I hugged my own boys tight, who looked gigantic from those sweet babies in Arizona. I cried, too. I was reminded how fast the years have passed without my consent and how I've moved on to an entirely different phase in my life. A good one, just different. I am now the mother who spends hours at the table doing homework versus rocking her babies to sleep in the nursery. It was a humbling and heartfelt experience.

I then took a three-hour power nap. Parenting is exhausting.

Kids, Supper is Ready!

When people ask me to do something that is out of my comfort zone, I almost always try to say yes. I know. I'm a glutton for punishment. But it's like I need to know in my heart that I can keep growing and learning and improving. 

This is how I ended up writing and delivering a monologue at church this past Sunday about the Lord's Supper. I wrote it from the heart, and then felt so nervous right before delivering it that I swear I heard my knees knocking. I guess I worried no one would care or, even worse, think that silly childhood memories had no place at worship. But I did it. And it felt so good (after the nerves resided) to have shared!

People were so kind. I even got a wonderful note from an encouraging friend thanking me for sharing my heart with a stern, "Now, post this to your blog!" A true blogger knows to do this automatically because consistent posts are key. I'm still practicing, I guess. My last post was in June.

So, here's my speech and my stretch for this week. Oh, and a new blog post! God bless. 

Kids, Supper is Ready

When I was growing up, it was just my mom and I. No dad in the picture. No brothers or sisters. Not…even…a…dog. We lived in this tiny two bedroom apartment on the bottom floor of an apartment complex. Though it was small, my mom was a cleaner and it was the tidiest place you have ever seen. Everything had a place. And with no dad, or brothers or sisters, or even a barking dog, it was the quietest place to grow up. A little too quiet, if you ask me.

So I would leave our tidy little apartment every Saturday morning, jump on my fast moving bike, and circle the neighborhood looking for some fun. And circle it I did. I would ride to the school and swing on the swings. Go to the park and play at the playground. Then grab some five-cent gum at Bob’s Corner Market. But my favorite destination, by far, was the house up the street owned by the Nesheim’s.  

You see, the Nesheim’s were not a quiet family. They couldn’t be. They had eight kids, or 10 kids, or 12. Nobody actually knew. I was friends with Darcy and she was always the one I was looking for when I knocked on the door. But there were plenty more to play with once you got inside.

While it wasn’t a big house for all those kids, it was an interesting house. One of my favorite parts was the long hallway down to the bedrooms. Remember all those kids? On the hallway wall, from the very tippy top to as low as you can go, they had each child’s picture framed, year by year, as they grew. Brothers and sisters, all ages and ethnicity's, because they also fostered and adopted kids, lined wall after wall. It was awkward smile after awkward smile. I would stand there forever soaking all that family in. One day, I even brought one of my school pictures to their house, the small wallet size so it wouldn’t be as noticeable, and I taped it up next to the other ones. I wanted to be one of their kids so desperately.

At dinner time, Mrs. Nesheim would yell through the house, “Kids,  supper is ready…everyone grab a seat at the table!” Kids would come running from everywhere. It was never stated, but always known, that you were always welcome, family or friend, to join them for dinner. They had a BIG table. It was so big, it not only had chairs, but it also had benches. You squeezed in wherever you could find a seat and it was a loud affair. Lots of talking and laughing and passing of food. Even a few elbows and dinner rolls to the face, but it was home. I’m not sure how she did it, because they were not a rich family with an endless supply of food, but no one was ever turned away. I remember being so hungry to be fed at that bustling table.

It also seemed like no matter what time of day you were at the Nesheim home there was always someone to talk with. An older brother to laugh with or a young sister to share with. There was also my dear friend, Darcy, to share my secrets with. I even remember talking with her mom at the kitchen table one night about something heavy on my heart. I poured it all out and someone was there to soak it up and listen. Whenever anyone walked out the door, there was always a big hug with a “Don’t be a stranger now.” I would then return to my quiet, tiny, tidy apartment down the hill with my heart full.

When I was thinking about the Lord’s Supper we’re going to share this morning and its significance at the last supper with Jesus and all his disciples, I kept thinking about the Nesheims. Mainly, how their example and love mirrored so much what God hopes for us as his children. God loves us passionately and unconditionally. He has this huge hallway with all the pictures of his children, all ages and ethnicities and awkward smiles, and we are all part of one big family. Sometimes we feel like we are put together and framed perfectly, but often we are taped up haphazardly, and he loves us just the same. 

Like this morning, we are all invited to his table. It is a big, loud, messy place sometimes, maybe even a few elbows along the way, but its promise is so much more. A place to be fed, a place to belong, a place of hope. There is always a seat at the table for you. It doesn’t have to be spoken, it’s just known.

Just as God loves us, he is also always listening to us. He laughs with us, cries with us, helps us sort out all those things we are wrestling with and talking over and over in our head. He knows our secrets. When we walk out the door and away from him, he squeezes us tight and reminds us to not be a stranger. His love is always waiting for us back home. 

So, I say to you….“Kids,  supper is ready…everyone grab a seat at the table!” You are loved and invited. 

My Beloved Sniffer

I love to sniff things. This is not breaking news, I know, especially for those who know me well and have been hiking with me, but it's been on my mind since a recent conversation with a co-worker. 

It started with oranges. I was commenting on the great smell and we got talking about how very few people strongly use their sense of smell. Strongly, as in they ooh and aah over the unique or wonderful or interesting smells in the world. I definitely do. Apparently, he does, too. We went over a laundry list of smells. It was so exciting!

I never realized that some people aren't as touched by smell as I am. For me, smells are tied directly to memories or feelings. Baking bread reminds me of my grandma. Lilacs of my mom. But I feel the most blessed when a smell can change my whole mood. I can't tell you how many times I've cried quiet tears in the woods, simply from breathing in the smell of pine and breathing out the sorrow. Life changing.

So, in honor of my beloved sniffer, here are a few things I love to smell. If smell is also your thing, I know you will relate. If it's not, well, perhaps this just raises my freak flag a little higher in your book. I'm okay with that, too.

1. My kid's hair after they come in from playing outside. Fresh air and sunshine. 

2. Hubby's neck. Sounds odd, I know, but pheromones smell wonderful, especially those of your mate. Primal is often offset by perfume. It's a shame.

3. The forest. I almost hyperventilate breathing it in.

4. Freshly-laundered sheets hung to dry on the clothes line. Perfection.

5. Warm, sleeping dog. The smell relaxes me.

6. Libraries, printing-presses, or freshly-copied paper. I can't tell if it's the paper or the ink, but I like it!

7. Freshly-ground coffee beans and a hot cup of coffee. 

8. A bouquet of peonies. Lilacs are lovely, too.

9. Baking bread. It fills the whole house and I'm thankful.

10. My mom's hug. I think it's a combination of her laundry detergent, shampoo, and perfume, but I get teary every time I smell it. I know I won't get to smell it forever.

These are my favorites. What about you? What's your favorite sniffing?

Embracing Change One Step at a Time

I'm a sucker for a good story. I cry at well-done documentaries. I plow through memoirs of joyful lives and epic adventures. And I often ask people to tell me the story of their own life, or at least their most vivid memory. I seek story after story.

It's rarely about the happy ending. For me, it's more about the moments of change, big or small, shaping them into who they'll become. You can see their stories whittling away at their character even when they can't see it for themselves. Change fascinates me. It also scares the hell out of me.

This week, change has been permeating my own story. I've embraced it with a mixture of anxiety, excitement, anticipation, guilt, and worry. Hard to imagine all those emotions swirling together inside one person, but it's how I deal with a big change. I start by sucking at it. The excitement and anticipation of the new is blurred with the anxiety and guilt of letting go of the old. 

How does one (okay, I'm speaking more about me here) get through change? How do we embrace it in a healthy, productive way without becoming a hot mess? 

Here is what I've learned from all the stories I've ever had the privilege of hearing along the way:

1. Seek wise counsel. A trusted friend, a prayer partner, a parent, a mentor, or anyone who can give you sound advice and a better perspective--stick to them like super glue! When you're emotional, as change often makes us, a person to keep you grounded is key.

2. Take one step at a time. I'm a control freak. This means I constantly seek what the big master plan is for my life, and it would be even better if it was all printed out, color coded, and spiral bound. Guess what? Life isn't that neat and tidy. When in doubt, just take the next best step. It's enough...for now.

3. Wholeheartedly embrace it. Take a deep breath, blow the worry out, then embrace change with gusto. Change is needed because we cannot live a great story without it. If we have no twists and turns, direction changes, ups and downs, rollover-and-play-dead-but-then-get-back-up, we are living the worst kind of story. It's the one that no one cares about.

I put a lot of expectations on myself. I'm my worst judge and my hardest critic. Change brings a lot of unknowns that I can't control. That's okay. I know in my heart I can't live a better story worried about the worst-case scenario. Neither can you. 

Starting now, I'll only be looking forward to the excitement and great anticipation of what is ahead. It's shaping me. I can feel it already.

The Potter and His Clay

My youngest son, who just turned seven last week, has a true artist's heart. He paints, he draws, he colors and creates, and now he even makes pottery. This is his first creation on his birthday pottery wheel. I captured his intensity in this photo, but wish I could have also captured his excitement. He is doing exactly what he was made to do.

I've been thinking a lot about this lately. How God created us with certain gifts and passions that tell us the path we should go, what we are made to do. It's what puts fire in our belly. It's what makes work not seem like work. It's what makes us passionate about certain things in the world.

And, yet, we lose our way. Every day. 

We say yes to things that aren't our strengths, or our passion, because someone asked us to serve (and they were kind in their request), or we got promoted into a job that no longer fits who we are. We become drained, but we keep plugging away. No intensity. No excitement in our soul.

Gretchen Rubin, who wrote a wonderful book called The Happiness Project, notes that one of the keys to finding more happiness in your life is to be serious about play. She writes, "What did you like to do when you were a child? What you enjoyed as a ten-year-old is probably something you'd enjoy now." I was so moved by this idea that I called my mom immediately after reading it to ask what I enjoyed at 10-years-old.

Writing. Reading. Playing in the woods. Riding my bike. Having friends over all the time. Laughing until I peed my pants.

Granted, laughing until I pee my pants may not be a career option. But this list gives me lots of food for thought. Writing does fuel my passion. Outdoor time is still sacred for me. Good friends fill my bucket up daily. God has been telling me my strengths and passions for a long time, even since childhood. When did I stop listening?

Wherever you are today, whatever your journey at this moment...take heart. You have been molded since childhood to become who you are supposed to be, despite the mess ups and even the unintentional successes. Try to remember what re-charges and re-fuels you. It makes the journey so much more joyful and abundant along the way.

Stupid Artificial Christmas Tree

November is the month of gratitude. I love reading all the daily thankfulness posts on Facebook or the magazine articles on the art of gratitude. Perhaps it's over done, but I guess I like the fact that people are trying to slow down and appreciate the blessings in front of them. Gratitude is definitely a gift we have to cultivate.

After a wonderful day yesterday of eating turkey and catching up with family, I found myself already moving ahead to all the things I need to get done in December, the biggest consumption month of the year. I wrote handwritten Christmas cards last night until my hand cramped. I finished getting all the supplies for my advent calendar for my boys. And the hubby and I got into an argument this morning about why our stupid artificial tree is so much damn work. For him. Grrrr!

Thankfulness has already fled, my friends.

So I gathered my cup of coffee and retreated upstairs to write. I wanted to write something really meaningful, long-lasting, funny even, and far away from all the things in this house that are overwhelming (cleaning and laundry, Christmas decorations, shopping lists, etc.), but it's difficult to do much of anything when your spirit is overwhelmed. It's paralyzing.

I'm taking up a new strategy. Forget December. I'm staying in November forever--the month of being thankful for what is right in front of you. Quality time with my kids on a rare day off from work. A full fridge with Thanksgiving leftovers. A husband who makes me crazy, often daily, but knows the real me and loves me anyway.

The tree can wait. Right now, I'm going back down to snuggle with these fine loves. Three of my finest blessings.

Beauty in Life's Moments

I'm always rushing. I'm rushing to this event or my next meeting, or to pick up this, or to do that. At the end of the day, I've gotten a lot marked off my list, but I haven't enjoyed very many moments. Almost none, actually.

One of my favorite charities,  To Write Love on Her Arms, an organization that helps people struggling with addiction, sent me an email today with the t-shirt below. The proceeds from this shirt, purchased in the next seven days, go toward TWLOHA. While the flowers on this baseball tee are nice, it was the message that hit home for me. 

Beauty is found in life's moments.

Courtesy of Sevenly

It's so simple, yet so true. Beauty is in all of life's moments. The great ones, the terrible ones, the rushed ones, and the simple ones. It's waiting for us to soak it in. We just need a nudge, a reminder now and again, to stop rushing and start enjoying.

A message this strong is hard to resist. I bought the shirt. I'm such a sentimental sucker.

The Balancing Act of Life

I have a happy spirit inside me. It's been there every since I was a kid. I love life. I love family and friends. I also love the possibility of the next adventure up ahead, including all the interesting people I might meet along the way. I am a social soul.

Unfortunately, I hit a low patch the last couple of days. I'm not sure what triggered it or why it has stayed awhile, but I've been wanting to pull the covers over my head and stay there forever. All by myself. I'm teary and tired and temperamental. And, even worse, I feel like if I have to juggle one more ball in the air that is my crazy life, I could start shredding this big tent and give the freak show a run for their money with my hysterical screaming.

I am so tired of running the race. So so so tired.

Whenever I hit this humbling low, I find myself going back to the basics. It helps me unbury my head from the sand inch by inch. Gratitude always tops the list. I think about all the abundant blessings in my life and thank the Lord for every single one. I then write thank you notes to people in my life who are making a difference, whether they know or not. I feel better when I seal a note telling someone the world is a better place with them in it. Or, a simple, beautiful...I love you.

Honest talk with my friends comes next. I love to be the person that lifts people up with my kind words, support, and love. It's harder for me to be the one who needs lifting up. Instead of being happy Heather, I have to admit I'm struggling. I have to say the honest words. It's the only way I can accept the honest help. There is something so healing about letting people see the real you, ugly warts and all.

Lastly, I have to let go of some control. Not easy for a control freak, let me tell you. I want to know every single detail of every single minute so I can plan every single detail. If I don't have my pulse on everything, something might fall through the cracks. As you can imagine, this also causes much worry and anxiety and fretting. The world wouldn't stop spinning if I let go of a few things, would it? It wouldn't be a worse place if I took a time out and let someone else have a go. I must repeat over and over: I do not control the universe, I do control the universe, I do not control the universe.

In the end, I'm just me. I have to remember that being me comes with some amazing, unique, awesome highs and some unsettling, sadder lows. It is the great balancing act of life. We must remember we don't get to stay too long on either side. We find meaning in the moment, if we're lucky, then move on to the next great ride. 

Finding a Sister

I checked a big item off my bucket list this week. A sister's photo shoot. It's huge because, for one, I don't actually have a sister and, two, it involves some quirky, creative photography that is way beyond my skill set. In my mind, milking a goat would have been mastered way before I found a sister. I like it when life has other ideas.

Did I mention I have a wonderful friend with a wonderful name? Dulce. We have lots in common, too. Mother to two boys. Reading. Sharing stories. Laughing at ourselves until our bellies hurt. We even share a love of two sisters, Elsie and Emma, and their creative blogging, which also includes their "famous" sister photo shoots, where they dress up in clothes they've made or vintage finds. As it turns out, I'm not the only one with this item on her bucket list.

My original plan was to find some vintage clothes with Dulce, maybe even a thrift shop gem, and take some selfies of ourselves while giggling hysterically. Dulce took it one step further by enlisting another friend, who is a gifted photographer, to help us create an unforgettable photo adventure. And, friends, it was an adventure.

I've never seen a sunflower field so vibrant. Or ridden a two-seater bicycle. Or sat in the middle of a sun-warmed road and enjoyed the view outward. Or worn such a lovely vintage dress. Or laughed so hard. Or wished so much that a moment could last a little longer.

Here are a few photos from our sister's photo shoot.

Vintage fun in a sunflower field. Copyright Posy Creative.

Pinky swear we'll be friends forever. Copyright Posy Creative.

A bike built for two is risky business. Copyright Posy Creative.

Laughter and love, sister style. Copyright Posy Creative.

It feels good to check something off my bucket list. It feels even better to have invited someone along for the adventure. Life is pretty sweet. Enjoy it, my friends.

Love and Pizza Dough Beards

I used to think my love language was acts of service. However, in the last few months, I've come to realize just how important relationships and quality time are in my life. People tip my happiness scale upward. And while the crazy pace of my packed schedule often sucks the life right out of me, time spent nurturing relationships rarely does. 

This past weekend, my cup was overflowing with quality time. I had date night with the hubby. We had some great discussion over onion rings and IPA. I then got the opportunity to re-connect with someone I mentored many years ago, who is now a college student making her big dreams happen. Over dinner and catching up, I couldn't believe a decade had already passed in our friendship.

I also got to spend lots of quality time with my boys. We wrestled, fought over toys, played games at a picnic, jumped off diving boards, and ended our evening by sharing the best part of our day over pizza. We even managed to work in making a full beard out of pizza dough. It may not be proper table etiquette, but it's what we do when we're having fun.

Boy with pizza dough beard.

So, friends, here is my wish for us all this week...

May your days be filled with laughter and pizza-dough beards. May you feel loved from the person sitting next to you, or across from you, or in front of you. May your cup be full, even slightly overflowing, and may you always remember to fill the cup of others. May you be kind, loving, and present. May you love boldly and be boldly loved back. May your happiness scale, if it must be pointed somewhere, always be pointed up.

Scrub a Dub Dub

I hate to clean. Scratch that. I hate to clean in a house with a husband, two children, and a dog. It feels like you never get ahead. You go into one room and work your scrubbing magic. Return a mere 15 minutes later and it's back to chaos. Grrrr!

It isn't all their fault, I'll admit. My love-hate relationship with cleaning has been years in the making. Childhood even. You see, my mom, she is a crazy cleaner. A scrubber. A put-on-those-ugly-plastic-gloves-and-scrub-the-daylights-out-of-something kind of woman. My mom would scrub when angry, frustrated, or sad. Our house always shined.

I had a few chores, too. My mom would leave the perfectly typed list dangling from the fridge listing three chores for each day. The chores I was assigned always involved organizing (my better love!), picking up, or putting away, but never scrubbing. Deep cleaning was her mission and an escape from life's frustrations.

My escape? Books. I would spend all day reading, lost in the world of someone else's imagination, and then rush through my chores the last few minutes before my mom returned home. It was a neck-breaking race to the finish line. It was never rewarding, but it always got done. Even to this day, I would rather be lost in a story than a sink full of suds. This is, perhaps, why my house never shines.

This week, however, I am tackling a new cleaning strategy. I printed off a cleaning schedule I found with three chores in the morning and then three different chores at night, rotating items seven days a week. If you do those simple chores each day, your house is pretty much cleaned top-to-bottom in one week. Then begin again. Shiny, shiny, shiny.

So far, it's been good. Not amazing, of course, but more manageable, and the productive feeling of keeping a shiny house is coming back to me. I also love my perfectly typed chore list dangling from my fridge. It reminds me of a woman who worked hard and did an amazing job, so I could spend time in faraway places, dreaming my big dreams. 

Here's to paying it forward with a happier heart. I sure hope I can keep up.

Ugly, Heartfelt, Inspiring Seeds

A few years ago at a work conference, I was given a seed of happiness. It's not actually a seed. It's a crazily formed lump of clay with a smashed nose and crooked smile. It stares at me every time I sit down to write. In a real writing slump, which is often, I roll it between my palms as I ponder. 

The story behind these seeds is a simple one. Kindness. Mark, a sculptor in St. Louis, decided to make something meaningful out of life's leftovers. He took his left-over pieces of clay and formed them into small smiley faces, then painted them like a rainbow. He took his first one to a friend's son, who was dying of cancer, because he didn't know what to say, or what to do, but he wanted to make him smile. A Seed of Happiness was born.

The best thing about these ugly, heartfelt, inspiring seeds is you can't buy just one. You have to buy a whole pack, 10 or more, so you can give them away. While you are always welcome to keep one, and roll it between your hands when lost, true kindness comes in sharing the crooked smile with others. Paying it forward, passing it along.

The truth is we are all homely lumps of clay, made in all shapes and crazy colors, trying to be something beautiful in this world. It's the kindness that ultimately defines us. The passing of our smiles and the act of giving ourselves away.   

The Music of Poets

I love the way words come together. How they make you feel when put together perfectly, or even how they make you see the world so much differently. I can't tell you how many times I've read a line in a novel and thought, "Damn, I wish I would have written that!" Song lyrics are no exception to my envy.

My husband often jokes that I have a melancholy soul when it comes to music. How do you not love the music of poets? Couple that will some acoustic guitar, maybe even a ukulele, and the tears start flowing. I want my music to move me!

In the search for my musical poets, I always turn to NPR's Tiny Desk for that unique blend. I am never disappointed, including yesterday when I stumbled upon Keaton Henson. Maybe it's his gentle demeanor, his heartfelt lyrics, or his mesmerizing voice, but I could not quit listening or look away. I cried the whole time I listened to the last song called "You."

"If you must wait, wait for them here in my arms while I shake. If you must weep, do it right here in my bed as I sleep. If you must mourn, my love, mourn with the moon and the stars up above. If you must mourn, don't do it alone."

Here is some Keaton Henson poetry, my friends. May you feel it down to your very soul.

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.

My Bucket List....Bob Goff Style!

Bob Goff wrote a book called Love Does. I could sit here and tell you how fabulous and wonderful and amazing it is, but that doesn't even begin to do it justice. For me, it was life changing. 

Goff lives each day pursuing love, adventure, whimsy, and meaningful relationships. He doesn't just think of living a life fully engaged, he actually does it. Every story, inspiration. Every struggle, learning. Every encounter, meant to be part of your story.

This is exactly why my copy of Love Does is battle worn. I often re-read a chapter or two a week (nerdy, but true!) to soak up the inspiration. Tonight, I came upon the part where he talks about taking his friends on his bright blue classic motorcycle, complete with a sidecar. A whimsy mobile at its finest!

He says, "When I pass by people they smile because they've never been in a sidecar, but I can tell they wish they were the passenger. Whimsy is a lot like that--it needs to be fully experienced to be known. Whimsy doesn't care if you are the driver or the passenger; all that matters is that you are on your way."

I added "ride in the sidecar of a motorcycle" to my bucket list shortly after reading this chapter. I did want to ride in a sidecar. I also wanted to have more adventures. So, I started writing down my bucket list, not just keeping a random list in my head, to ensure I would actually start DOING them. And I have. Slowly, but surely.

But, it occurred to me tonight, I don't often ask people to join me in my adventures. While I say yes to joining anyone who needs a partner in their adventure (like my friend, Mari, who invited me go to a Pink concert in November to check it off her bucket list), I often drive solo thru my own journey. I never ask anyone to get in the sidecar.

Starting now, I am officially amending my adventure mindset. Below is my working bucket list and you are all invited to join me, friends. If you see one that strikes your fancy, let me know. I'll give you a shout when the adventure is about to begin. 

My Bucket List
1. Walk my kids to school everyday. Enjoy every minute.
2. Stand on the side of the street with a "Free Hugs" sign.
3. Only buy local or go without.
4. Hear Anne Lamott speak again.
5. Learn to play lacrosse.
6. Hear live music at Red Rocks, Colorado.
7. Sisters photo shoot.
8. Act in a community theater production or at least have the balls to audition.
9. Learn to auctioneer.
10. Roll a Chipotle burrito. No rips.
11. Milk a goat and/or learn to make goat cheese.
12. Ride in a motorcycle sidecar (yes, still on the list!)
13. Hike Yosemite.
14. Get invited to Bob Goff's cabin for a sleepover.
15. Lunch or coffee with Stephanie Meyer.
16. Visit national parks to sniff more trees.

Lastly, if you happen to be working your bucket list and need a sidekick, I am your girl. I repeat. I AM YOUR GIRL!

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.

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{Rock-and-Roll Daughter}

All I can think about when I look at this photo is ZZ Top. I also think about yellow and how it's way too much for one vintage ride, but mainly it's just ZZ on my mind. The band. The beards. The classic cars. It's all here...staring back at me.

This is actually Doug, a guy I don't know all that well. In fact, this is one of the only pictures I have of Doug, standing next to something he lovingly restored with his own hands. He is so full of pride and love. His baby. Doug is no ZZ Top, you see. He's just my dad.

I've mentioned my dad before. The one who left when I was two, showed up again in my life at 19, and hasn't been back since. I'm 35 now (in case you're counting). He calls every few years to tell me he thinks of me often, but his words have never been worth anything, certainly never made of action. He is daughter less guy. I am his fatherless girl.

Yesterday, I met Doug's brother for the first time. Great guy. He's been married to his wife for 40 years with four children and many grandchildren. He's also a minister. He glowed when he talked about his faith and his family. There were some tears, too. 

He cried when he talked about the abuse that he and his four siblings, including Doug, endured at the hands of their step-father after being abandoned by their real father. He spoke of a mother incapable of affection and love. Extreme poverty. No second changes. Hurt, that for years, has gone unhealed in many of them.

I listened. I soaked it all in. I looked at family photos, including this one he gave me of Doug. I only cried once during our visit. It was when he was talking about how he didn't love or hate his own dad, who would come in and out of his life. He mainly felt nothing. I cried because I felt nothing, too. It makes you sad to have that hole in your heart for someone you should love, but simply don't.

It was a tough day yesterday. But it was also good. For the first time, I was able to hear a solid reason why my dad may not have been able to show up to be my dad. It's more than just not knowing how. He may not be capable. And then, even better, I meet someone full of love and warmth that learned to love despite being unloved. It means there is hope for me, too. Hope for us all. The cycle can be broken.

I like this photo. I really do. It makes me laugh to think my dad could really be ZZ Top instead of what he really is. I'm glad he's found something he loves. I have to.

{I Am a Tree Sniffer}

Forget roses. Stop and sniff the trees, my friends. There is nothing better than the smell of pine as you hike in the forest. It is seriously the best smell in the world.

Tree Sniffer, 2013

This is me yesterday hiking at Three Creeks Conversation Area near Columbia. It was my first time hiking this trail and, even though we had to creatively cross a few creeks, I loved getting back outside after a long winter of hibernation. 

I sniffed the tree. Or made love to it. It's hard to tell in this photo, I know, but I love the smell of pine enough to stick my chubby cheeks right up in it's grill. I almost hyperventilated breathing it all in. I think the tree appreciated the love, too.

Today, back to snow and sleet in Missouri. Boo. Hiss. I am posting this picture as a reminder that tomorrow brings a new day, a new trail, maybe even a new adventure. Sniff it. Stick your face in it. Breath it all in. We get no guarantees in this life. 

P.S. This might be a cedar tree. I can't tell the difference between cedar and pine. I just sniff everything. No discrimination here, folks.