A note to the little girl dancing

I ran another 5k this weekend. I placed 100-and-something and 15th (out of 29th) in my division. I've never been so thrilled to be average. The race course weaved through a beautiful neighborhood, and I love looking at real estate. As I admired the manicured lawns, I found an easy, steady pace. I studied each house and imagined how our family of five would fit in that particular space. Then somewhere along the way, I slipped into a daydream. I worked on scenes from my memoir in my head. A lot of my writing is happening away from the computer lately. Sometimes I have to visualize it before I can make it real on the page. 

I crossed the finish line and felt the urge to pass out. So I drank some water, breathed and kept walking, willing myself to stay conscious. And then I saw her:

The girl was dancing to "Call Me Maybe" and rocking it out. I rushed over to a friend and begged for her iPhone. She thought I was having an actual emergency, so I apologized and explained that oxygen might not be making it to my brain just yet, sorry for the panic.  Then I snapped a picture and started writing a note to her, in my head. It went something like this:

I want you to know that I see you. The way you are moving and shaking in your own world, glowing in your own light. You are as bright as the sun. 

It got me thinking about how you're attracting attention, and how you're not even aware of your audience. You are putting on a show for yourself, and it's glorious to watch. I am transported to another time. I look at you, and I see myself. The little girl I used to be. I miss her sometimes. I miss her openness and her honesty. I miss her unguarded heart. 

I wonder what would happen if you turned and saw me staring at you. I won't clap and shout, "Good job!" The magic would be lost. So I'm stepping back now, and I'm holding on to how it feels to watch you, and remember. 

Later, I stood in the kitchen with my own daughter and watched an amazing video. Actually, Cate clapped and bounced to the beat of the music, and I cried. My childhood friend Meg had heard the song while eating frozen yogurt with her kids, and then she found the video on YouTube and sent it to me. She said the song reminded her of me. The video reminds me of us.

This song is good for girls. This song is good for everyone.

I can't get it out of my head. I LOVE it. Have you seen this yet? Go watch it now. Go.

Oh, she went there

This is Jody Mack, doing her thing. 

When I listened to the podcast I recorded with Jody Mack, I started thinking about the scene in Jerry Maguire when Rod Tidwell is being interviewed by the host who makes everybody cry. "I'm not going to cry, Roy," he says. He cries anyway. 

I didn't set out to make Jody cry in our podcast, but there were some emotional moments as she talked about letting go of an old dream, the dream of being a tenure track faculty at a primarily undergraduate institution.

On her blog she writes, "This is the path I chose for myself when I was fresh out of college. A 20-something who dreamed of having a small biomedical research lab and teaching wonderful, meaningful and thought-provoking lecture and lab courses." 

But then, over the course of years and hard work and lots of time and energy invested in an overcrowded field, her dream shifted. Jody says, "Science became an obligation rather than a passion. In the midst of working as a temporary faculty member,  I found myself falling asleep putting lectures together but staying awake to edit photos into the wee hours of the morning; riding into work anticipating the lighting in my next photo shoot instead of thinking about writing my next lecture or what experiment to try next."

For Jody, leaving the classroom is bittersweet, but she's excited about what's happening next: This month is the official launch of Jody Mack Photography.

Up until recently, Jody and I were merely acquaintances. We had met years ago in a moms' group; I went to a book club meeting at her house once. When I heard about her big life change, I knew we had to talk. Jody agreed to the podcast, and she really went there with me, answering my questions and speaking candidly about what it's like to listen to that quiet voice, the one that calls out to you and nudges you to step off the path that you thought was "it". 

We talked about the things that hold us back--like our own judgments and the judgments of others. We talked about kids and mom guilt. We talked about success and what that means for us, and how our definition may not be the same as other people's. We talked about money and the big and small things that shape the choices we make.

(We even talked about reading palms, and how that might not be the best way to make choices.)

Jody's podcast is here, and you can also download it free from iTunes.

A different kind of hard

This post has been difficult to write. Creatively, I'm in the place where half-finished stories are swirling around in my head. They feel too unprocessed, too personal, too not ready to be published. There's an immediacy to blogging that makes me feel rushed and panicky sometimes, like I'm being pushed onto the stage without practicing my lines.

Readers don't impose this pressure I feel. And this isn't about blogging really. It's about how it's difficult for me to respect that space, that in-between, that place where important things are taking shape (and taking forever). I want to be in the flow all the time, to live in the space where I'm inspired and prolific. 

Take your time.

That's what author Kate Hopper advises in her book, Use Your Words. She goes on to write:

Sometimes, writing feels like trudging through the mud. But let it be hard. Give yourself time to muck around in the mud, to explore and write, and explore some more in an effort to discover the true story in your writing.

What's interesting to me is how I'm willing to show up for this kind of hard. How, even though I don't really like walking in mud, I'm not running away from it either. The mud does, indeed, feel necessary. I'm willing to do this work, and I want to do this work.

And eventually, a door opens. For me, it opened last night, when Dillon asked me to help him think of something to write about in his journal. 

"Well, I usually write about things that have happened to me during the day, and what I think about those things," I said. Then, I took a mental note. I said to myself, "Self, do you hear yourself?"

Sometimes things feel hard until suddenly, they don't feel hard at all.

Dillon picked up his pencil and started writing something about Star Wars, and shortly after that, Jody emailed the proofs from a Mother's Day photo shoot we did this past weekend. The weather had been unseasonably terrible for Charleston (misty rain and kind of chilly). Around here, we only get a few weeks of spring before we are blasted by summer, so we have extremely high expectations for the month of May. We almost canceled the photo shoot, but then, we decided to go for it. 

The photo shoot felt hard. The kids were crazy. Cate kept walking off the set. My hair was blowing all over the place. And yet, these photos look effortless.

But it wasn't effortless. It was work. Jody has put in a lot of time to get to this place professionally--where she makes it look easy--and on Saturday she was literally mucking through the mud. (And the real reason we are barefoot? Because we forgot to bring Cate's shoes, so it was a show of solidarity.)

So anyway, this was not the post I intended to write. The one I've been laboring over for two weeks! is still sitting in my drafts folder. It may never see the light of my blog's home page. But it took mucking through that mud to get here, to a place where I feel more open to "write about things that happen to me during the day, and what I think about those things," a place where I can celebrate the opportunity to be a writer and be a mom, and a place where I can appreciate this different, and this very good, kind of hard. 

Friday, I'll have another podcast... this time with the woman behind the lens of this photo shoot. Jody's honesty about what led her to change careers and take her professional life in a new direction is "a must hear" for anyone who's ever considered doing the same thing. 

On doing a few things well

Back when I worked for television stations and was interviewing someone, I trained my ear to listen for "soundbites". The trick was to absorb the story--and understand it well enough--in order to condense it into a one to two minute package. The goal wasn't simply make it fit. Rather, it was to capture the essence--what's the heart of this story? What's the most compelling thing?

And then, make it fit.

Eventually, I learned that I had a knack for this. I loved listening for soundbites, because people say the most compelling things. They are living the details of their own stories--the ups and downs of their daily lives--and truth is spilling out all over the place.

I had this experience recently when I was recording a podcast with Sara Painter, the co-founder of Loggerhead Apparel, a company based here in South Carolina. Sara and her fiancé Zac launched Loggerhead Apparel in 2011, got married, got pregnant and had a baby. Two years later, Sara and Zac are rocking their company. To the tune of a feature on “ABC World News with Diane Sawyer” and their products for sale in 60-plus stores in 11 states. 

Zac and Sara Painter, co-founders of Loggerhead Apparel

Aren't they so stinkin' cute? (Unlike when I was on TV, here on my blog, I can toss out my opinions anytime I want.)

Sara and Zac have a mission: to provide top-quality, American-grown, American-made clothing at a fair price. Loggerhead Apparel donates ten percent of its revenue to local causes that support the conservation and protection of loggerhead sea turtles. Which is awesome, all by itself. But I wanted to know more about why they do what they do, and how they do it. And Sara graciously and thoughtfully answered all of my questions:

How do you turn your "big idea" into a viable business?

And how are you able to stay true to you, while simultaneously trying to (eventually) make a profit? (I had my artist/writer/entrepreneurial friends in mind when asking this question... myself included).

And then, what do you do when -whoosh!- your big idea takes off? And now you are successful and there are so many things to do. How do you do that? (I had the same people in mind here as well). 

Sara said many wonderful things, but this is what kept ringing in my well-trained ears:

"Start by doing a few things well," she said.

Remember when I told you I was in the midst of a downshift? Remember when I talked about wanting abundance? Sara's suggestion to "start by doing a few things well" summed up how we can begin to have both. Less and more. 

Yes.

And unlike when I was on TV, I didn't have to reduce our conversation to a few soundbites. I thought I'd edit out some things, including a part in the middle when I start talking about myself, but I decided not to. I enjoyed our whole conversation, and I hope you will, too.

If you want to listen to the podcast now, click here. Or if you want to download and listen later, the podcast is also available on iTunes.

Feeling free

Do you ever feel like you're standing there, half-naked, in your tutu, with your Elmo diaper peeking out? Like you're outside, exposed, where everyone can see you, and you're sort of a mess? 

Me too.

Cate sat on the white backdrop by the pink number "1" for three whole seconds before fleeing the scene. Before she took off running down the sidewalk, Jody got the shot. The one I'd wanted. The one we had staged.

And she also got this. 

And this is all kinds of awesome.

And, to me, it looks a lot like free. 

When 85% is as good as it's going to get.

Monday evening, Jody sent me an email:

“I wanted to get these to you and hopefully it will bring some happiness on this horrible day...”

Jody included a link to photos she took of Cate a day earlier to commemorate her first birthday. (Never mind that she's 14 months old already. I got it done.)

Just look at her.

Her world is happy and simple. She doesn't know about the horrible day Jody was speaking of. She doesn't know what happened in Boston. Or in Newtown. None of my kids know, and I feel relieved about that. One day, they will, and we'll have to talk about it. But not now. 

Lately, in our own small world, we've been caught up in the process of making a decision--a decision about where my 7-year-old will go to school next year. Truth is, the decision is already made. And I just keep trying it on, again and again. Just to be sure. 

But I'll never be sure. Not completely.

So much of me--85% of me--thinks the choice will be really great. And the other 15% wants Dillon to be three again. I want playdates and cheerios. Thomas the Train and trips to the park. One day, my children will make big decisions on their own. It won't always be up to me. They'll pull out of the driveway, move out of the house, tell me they've found "the one". 

They'll be so sure. And I won't be sure at all. 

I don't like watching them go. Even when I say I need time to myself. I do need time to myself. But in my heart, I want to hold them close, always. Keep them young. Keep them safe.

15% of me doesn't want them to ever grow up. 15% of me is scared about what's going on out there. 

But that bigger part--that 85%--wants them to have the world. 85% of me wants to teach them to trust themselves. To live fully, without fear. And for now, 85% has to be good enough. 

The weight of indecision

(One person's scribble is another person's art. Here, we have a loose interpretation of the Mayflower.)

Few things rattle me more than not being clear about something--not knowing what to do. I get all bossy with my spirit. "Tell me what to do!" Then I breathe and pray, "God please tell me what to do." 

Sometimes, the answer rises up. (I love when that happens.) From there, I am able to do brave things even when I'm scared. And sometimes, I hear noise: the voices of others mixed with my own questions and concerns. So I get quiet. And I hear... NOTHING.

Then I do the logical thing. I grab a paper and pen and write down all the pros and cons. I ask questions and gather information. In all of this, I want to take the action that will bring me peace. I want the answer that feels like YES. 

That's it. I want Peace and Yes. And I want it to hurry up.

While I roll around in the uncomfortable place of I don't know, I'll share some things. First, this quote from Emily Freeman that sounds a lot like me:

"It takes a long time for me to be honest. Not that I lie – I’m not a liar. I just have a delayed response to what is true. I can’t always tell in the moment how I feel about something.... I admire people with strong opinions. I might even be one of them if I had more time to think about it." Excerpt from the post, Three Ways to Be Brave When You Feel Like a Wimp

Saren and April from the Power of Moms have a great podcast about learning to live from your deeper yes. I just love that.

My friend Dee is on a quest to rediscover clarity and simplicity in her own life. 

And this video: Hell Yeah, or No. A strong opinion, indeed. Do I agree? Maybe. I need more time to think about it.

Saying yes when you're not sure

I didn't want to do it. Not anymore.

I wanted to do it at first, when I purchased the Groupon on the eve of the New Year. $20 is a good deal. 

And I wanted to do it as I hopped on the treadmill in January with every intention of being prepared to run a 5k by the time March 23 rolled around. That's three whole months. Of course I can do it.

But I wasn't prepared. I'd love to blame it on the phone app that was supposed to take me through nine weeks of training. I had no idea why it kept resetting at the end of week two. Until I realized I needed to pay $1.59 to unlock weeks 3-9.

Ah.

Even though it was a fun run (one where you get sprayed with colored corn starch along the way), I wanted to rock the fun run. I didn't want to jog, gasp for air, start, stop and limp across the finish line. 

I had expectations. I hadn't met them. And I also had a wedding at 3:30 that day. And suddenly, I felt out of shape and unmotivated. It felt like too much. I was seriously considering backing out, until Kelli emailed me and said, "Hey, I'm picking up my race packet today. Do you want me to get yours?"

And I replied, "Yes! Thank you!" 

That morning, it was cold. I live in the South, and cold is relative. But brrr. I'm just saying. Rain clouds hovered. I clutched my coffee and cranked the car.  

I didn't rock the race. But I ran. And I walked a little. And I had a great time. Because here's what I experienced: space. Not a lot of traffic (all things considering), easy parking, a wide-open race course through the local fairgrounds.

And colors. Pretty colors!

I heard shoes hitting the earth, broken bits of conversation, the sound of my own breath. I was alone with myself, but not alone. I was present, in the moment. Observant. But not consumed by my thoughts. 

You know what I felt? The most surprising thing? I felt light. Sometimes I run, and I feel heavy. Every stride hurts. But not this time. And I don't know why.

I just know I'm glad I said yes.

What's your perfect day?

The last time someone asked me, "What's your perfect day?" I quit my job and changed careers.

But this time, when Kate Hopper asked the question, I was not teetering on the edge of a life crisis. So I won't end this week of questions with any big announcements. Instead, I'll describe the scene:

I wake up before dawn. I grab a steaming cup of hazelnut coffee brewed by the Keurig machine. Milk (I downgraded from half and half) and two Splenda. 

I walk to the couch and wrap the blanket around my shoulders. I sink into the cushions. Kids wake up, turn on the cartoons and join me on the couch. They don't fight, and we cuddle and snuggle.

The sun rises, two cups of coffee down, and my husband and the kids go somewhere. I don't know where. Just somewhere they are happy and occupied for a few hours.

The house is quiet. I'm still in my pajamas. I eat a scrambled egg topped with mozzarella on a rice cake (I'm obsessed with this breakfast lately), work on my book for a couple of hours and write a blog post.

I get up, throw on workout clothes and head to the gym. I exercise, shower and come out clean and fresh and dazzling. Because having the time to shower and dry my hair makes me feel dazzling.

I meet the family for lunch. The sun is shining and the sky is blue. The kids behave. This calls for a cold beer. Yes, waitress, I'd love one.

We come home and take a nap. Everyone naps. Because everyone knows that kids napping at the same time is perfection. We wake up and go outside. My husband and I sit in rocking chairs on the porch, and Cate is confined by the baby gate. The boys play with friends. We watch. We talk.

It's late afternoon now, and we start thinking about dinner. Steaks on the grill and a salad. Pop a frozen pizza in the oven for the kids. Because trying to feed them steak and a salad would mess up the perfect vibe I have going on.

After dinner, Shawn bathes the kids and I clean the kitchen (because even on a perfect day, it isn't going to clean itself). Shawn makes popcorn and I put baby girl to bed. The boys and I reunite on the couch for movie night. 

More cuddles and snuggles and laughter. And I actually stay awake through the whole thing instead of falling asleep in the middle.

We go to bed at a decent hour. And do the whole thing again. And again. And again.

There's a simplicity at the core of my dreams and big ideas and plans. And miraculous divine intervention where my kids turn into low maintenance angels. But mostly, it's simple. 

I'll end this week of questions with a song that my middle child and I love to sing. It's from "The Princess and the Frog", and we listen to it on H's mix. (Best birthday party swag ever):

You gotta dig a little deeper. Find out who you are. You gotta dig a little deeper. It really ain't that far. When you find out who you are, you find out what you need. Blue skies and sunshine guaranteed.

Click here to listen. And if you do, throw your hands up with us and say, We don't care!

What's your perfect day? 

So here's the thing about me, being a mom...

Dillon and me in 2009, Erin Sage Photography

I wasn't in a hurry to become a mom. It took five years of dating and five years of marriage to produce one child. We weren't ready. And then, I wasn't ready.

He was ready first. And as much as I wanted to be ready at the exact same time, I wasn't. And as hard as it was to admit, I knew I had to be honest about that. 

Here's what's ironic about that--all I've ever wanted was a family. A happy family that stayed together. I've wanted that image in my head since I was a child. But I knew having my own family meant more than adding kids to the mix.

I had to become a mom. And I wasn't sure what that meant. In my 20s, when my life consisted of 50-hour work weeks and after hours beers with friends, I said things like, "I won't put my children before my husband, or my career." And even then--when I had no idea what I was talking about or what it really meant to become a parent--I knew this: I needed to be ready and willing to create space for children. Space in my home, space in my time and attention, space in my heart.

I needed to get my head straight. My mom used to say, "You have to run your race and find your place."

I knew how to run. I had not found my place.

All I know for sure is this: One day, when I was 30 years old, as I sat in the rocking chair on the front porch of our 1400 square foot house, I was overcome with two feelings. One, that I was home. Two, that I wanted to be a mom. As I sat and rocked, I saw myself in that same chair, in some other time, rocking a baby boy. That baby boy was Dillon.

Today he is 7. And Blake is 3. And Cate is 1.

And still, I don't feel "ready", in the sense that there's never a perfect time for kids. It's a process of making time. And it's a process of deciding, "What do I want my life to be? How do I really want to live?"

I am a mom, a role that I avoided because I worried it would suck me up. I worried I would suck. And sometimes, it does suck me up. And sometimes, I do, indeed, suck at the job.

But being a mom has done something else for me.

It has taught me how to become myself. Those draining, soul sucking, exhausting days have forced me to take a hard look at myself, and decide what is important. Not just what's important to my kids. Not just what's important to my husband. But what's important to me. Showing up for them on the hard days when I want to hand them off to someone else has taught me how to show up for myself.

And I'm not exactly sure how, or why, that is. How I feel more rooted and connected to "me" in the midst of being "mom." Except that maybe, we find our place when we stop running the race. 

Each day this week, I'm answering a question by author and writing teacher Kate Hopper. Today's question: In what ways has parenthood shifted your perspective on some aspect (you chose) of your life? You can join me by answering the question on your own blog and placing your link in the box below. Click here for tips.

Or you can answer in the comments.