internal alarm clock

I don't need an alarm clock.

I wake up at 5:30 a.m. even though all the Health articles I read say, "Get plenty of rest."

A minimum of 6 hours is required to allow the body to heal and prevent weight gain.  

However 8 hours is ideal.  

Yeah, right.

I'm sure it is.

However, how can I afford 8 hours when I have:

3 kids

1 husband

a hamster wheel of artistic ambition

an endless stream of story to be written

a body which throbs for activity

2 cats....

and of course....the laundry.  (there is always, the laundry)

I don't want to sleep.

Even as a teenager, I would burst open at 7 a.m. and annoy my more "mature" friend, Monica.

It got so bad that she sat me down one day and said basically,

"Look Sarah, I like you.  But if we are going to have sleepovers, you've gotta promise not to wake me up before 9 a.m."

So I'd spend 2 hours staring at her Patrick Swayze poster on the ceiling and picking the nail polish off my toes.

Now I am a grown-up and I can do whatever I want.

This is still a novelty to me.  I dream up more projects than I can execute.

Sometimes this defeats me and I spin in too many directions.  

For example when I try to outwit traffic and wind up driving in circles.

Today I am painting a giant mirror flat black with an FTR logo taped off.

When the paint dries, which will be agonizing to wait for, and I peel back the tape, I will see the letters reflecting back in the clear mirror space leftover.

It will be glorious!  I want to do it right now!

In fact I didn't want to go to bed.  I wanted to paint it last night at 11 pm

But my eyes were aching cuz I'd been up since 5 a.m. and I was forced to be responsible for this body and let it rest.

My stomach is growling.  It is annoying.

Beckam is lying on the floor in his ninja turtle jammies.  He is going to need breakfast.

I should probably put on a bra and change out of my swishy pants.

And now I hear Pepper in the other room cooing to the cats.

I wish I could just zip from writing to art to exercise...but there are other facets of my life.

Without these dimensions, I would not be human and my art would have nothing to say.

I would be like Data from Star Trek trying to record human behavior without any connection to it.

So I take a deep breath, publish my writing for the day, and scoop up my fuzzy children for breakfast.

The BOOK

I sit down at the computer and remember that Pepper has colored all the keys lime green with a Sharpie.
It actually looks good. Andrew finished off the job for her, adding color to the tiny spots she missed.
He wasn't the least bit angry.
This is progress.

Now I'm looking around the room trying to notice the next delightful detail to illustrate for you.
This must be the block...the writer's block they talk about in my book.
I've been reading the War of Art.  It is telling me a bunch of stuff I already know, cuz I've lived it.
I suppose it is validating in some way, but I have yet to read the part where he tells me the secret code.
You know like in Contra?
Up...Up..Down...Down...Left...Right...Left....Right...B...A...Select...Start.
Bam!  30 guys.
Anyone can beat the game with 30 guys.

What is the secret code for a writer?
I believe it has something to do with fear.......
.........bathroom break...........I drink a lot of coffee............................*
Okay.
So you're not going to believe this.
I took my War of Art book into the bathroom and the next page says:

Resistance and Fear
"Are you paralyzed with fear?
That a good sign.
Fear is good.
Like self-doubt, fear is an indicator.
Fear tells us what we have to do.
The more scared we are of a work or calling, the more sure we can be that we have to do it."

The universe is tickling me, and it's a little bit uncomfortable.

So now the question.....What is the question?

What am I afraid to do as a writer?
I know this answer.
I am afraid to write a book.  I am afraid to try for publication.
I am afraid to hope for a wider audience...but I want one so bad I could cry right now.
Literally I feel tears hot in the corners of my vision.
I feel overwhelmed by this thought.  I don't know where to start.
I don't know what my focus will be.  I don't know what the book would be about.
Why would anyone read my story?
Perhaps because people read it already...?

What story am I afraid to tell?
I am afraid to tell my story because I'm afraid it doesn't matter.
But it's the only one I know.  It's the only one I can tell honestly.
I'm afraid that if I tell it honestly I will offend the other characters.
Because my own story is so wrapped up with the people I am close to.
I am afraid that I won't be able to say the whole truth cuz someone else will be embarrassed.

I'm afraid I'll get obsessive and mean.  I'm afraid I'll go crazy.
I am afraid of the creative mania.  It is easier to fold the laundry and read children's books.
I am afraid of a new definition of myself.
I'm afraid I won't be good to my kids.  I'm afraid I won't be delighted by the lime green keys.
I'm afraid it isn't time.

Mostly I am afraid to say this matters.  This is a book.  This is serious.
But how many "books" have I written?  A book is just a whole bunch of writings smooshed into one place and read by lots of people.  Usually it is about one thing.  I'm afraid mine wouldn't make sense.  I'm afraid it would never get published at all.
How can I think about it differently?
Maybe the War of Art will tell me......

To be Free

In the wake of July 4th, I am exhausted.
 Two nights up past midnight and this Cinderella is weary of the dance.
But, as the princess says,
"Ahh...it was worth it.  Cuz when we danced...it was so....well...I'll bet even the prince himself couldn't have been more...more...Oh well...."
And that pretty much sums up how I feel.
Pretty clear, right?

Really though.  It is like heaven, right here, all around me.
I believe Heaven is to want for nothing.  It is to wish only for what is right in front of me, and to see the light, the magic, as it is.
Complete with sparkling angels and a love so complete that no wind blows through to chill my soul.

I see them delight in the same magic I have found on warm summer nights, with smell of fireworks floating above my head.  My five siblings and I running on baked asphalt in bare feet and Dad's over-sized T-shirts.
Each tucked into our little pockets of family and finding everything to celebrate.
The magic snake growing out of the ground is our own private volcano.  We stomp the ashes between our toes leaving footprints.

Beckam is a soldier, truly.  Roaring "Freedom!" with his sword over-head and his barrel chest mounding out against the night.  He told me he didn't need a shirt, and I understand.
The fireworks whirl them all into a frenzy and the kids run circles in the grass.  Pepper wears her sunglasses even though the sun has gone down.  She is a misplaced Audrey Hepburn.

I curl into Andrew on the blanket. Beckam climbs the mountain of his Dad's shoulders.
"I got you Dad."
Andrew laughs and tells him, "You're little. I'm big."
Beckam grumbles back, "No.  I'm big. and strong.  and tough."

I teach the kids the mantra of the fireworks,
"OOooo....Aahhhhh.....FREEDOM!"

They are hooked.
Every explosion launches a chorus of:
FREEDOM!

And it is true.
We are.

If it's not fatal...

Beckam has carried a bruise on his forehead for the last year.

 It migrates, but it is always there.

It is his war badge, his stamp of bravery and I am proud.

We had to superglue it shut once last summer.

His skin popped open on the edge of a rock.

My rugby playing brother came over for dinner last night.

The first question he asked the 2 year-old was,

"Come here Beckam. You got a bruise on your forehead?....Oh, yep.  There it is."

I just read an article about a school in New Zealand.

http://www.theatlantic.com/education/archive/2014/01/recess-without-rules/283382/

They have recess without rules, and the results are positive.

The school now has less bullying, less vandalism, and higher concentration levels during class.

Their students are learning how to deal with risk, and with this comes accountability, common sense.

It also breeds self esteem.  I remember looking at neighborhood trees as a kid and thinking, "I climbed that."

I didn't swing from below the monkey bars, I walked on top of them with bare feet, toes wrapped around them like a monkey.  I remember the floating transcendence when this skill clicked, and I can also still do it.

The article makes another good point, a more subtle one.

It is one thing to read such an article and think, "Yes, we coddle our children too much, this needs to stop!"

However, are these readers able to allow their own children to get hurt?

Are they able to let go of the impulse to hold someone else accountable?  Can they give administrators, teachers, and coaches the space to let kids run free?

Last year at gymnastics, Sophie broke her arm.

She dove into a forward roll and dislocated her elbow.

Never once did I think to blame her coaches.  She is a gymnast.  Gymnasts get hurt.

My daughter wore that cast like a soldier in uniform.  

She had the experience of heart ache while watching her team-mates compete.

She attended their meets in her cast, with a smile.

Granted, she did cry all the way there, and she didn't want to go.

Her Dad told her, "You are a part of a team, and you will go support your team."

So she suited up in her GTC warm-ups, cheered them on, and learned the value of good sportsmanship.

I watched her struggle to regain the skills she'd lost while injured.

I saw her work hard for something she wanted.  The decision was hers.  The commitment was hers.  I am a teacher.  I know how difficult it is to teach kids to be intrinsically motivated.

The article's last point is this, those of us who remember free play will preserve it.

I would never want to rob my children of these medals.  My tag-line is:

If it's not fatal, it's okay.

Sophie belaying Pepper while she climbs in Big Cottonwood

The Truth about Baking a Cake

I programmed myself to wake up at 6 a.m. just so I could write.
I have been missing this time.
The rest of the world is asleep now, and I can sneak into my own heart.
Because once everyone wakes up, it belongs to them...and that is exactly how I want it.

When this life is over, my heart will be the most ragged stuffed animal.
It will be the t-shirt I can't give up.  The one so thin it looks like cheeze cloth.
It will be my 28 year old brother's baby blanket, whittled down to a 1 foot square and still draped over his shoulders in the morning.
It will be my husband's Big Book held together by duct tape, with a broken spine, and highlighted paragraphs.  The pages soft and brittle on the edges, like Grandma's skin.

I get hurt often, and I am grateful.
There is a line from the Big Book which I often meditate on, and it says:

"...we invariably find that at some time in the past we have made decisions based on self which later placed us in a position to be hurt."

In the margins I have written:

"I am not a victim."   and    "Not so bad, that I am human."  I am a willing participant in this human race.


Yesterday my daughter Sophie decorated her cousin's birthday cake.  He is turning 10 and he loves Batman.

We went to the craft store and bought black fondant.  She is pumped.  We baked cakes the night before. They sat perched on the kitchen counter, waiting to be draped in Batman's cape and logo.
She watches Cake Boss  with the eager face of a teenage groupie.
That guy can dream up any cake and make it happen with precision.
So, in her mind, her cake is supposed to be masterful.  It is the 2nd time she has used fondant...in her life.
To her, this does not matter.  She is supposed to be able to make her cake look like "The Boss's" cake.

I coach her through, just as my mentors have done for me.  They remind me that I am learning, and to take it slow.  This is impossible for me.  My ambition drives me smack into the solid wall of reality.  It hurts.

"Ugh!  This fondant work is sloppy!  Look there's a hole in it!"
She stomps around in her boots and sticky fingers, fluffing hair from her eyes.

"It's okay Sophie.  I promise, people won't see it as you do.  It is a small hole.  Let's wrap a band of fondant around the bottom to hold the frosting in.  It is good to learn to work with your mistakes. Because you will make them.  You are learning. It's okay.  It looks better than you think."

"No Mom! It is NOT ok!  It looks terrible!  I hate it!"

I remember this.  I remember studying art in school and feeling this way.  I had an idea of the painting but couldn't execute it.  My professor would say,
You have to paint a hundred bad paintings before you will paint one good one.
To which my head would respond,
Not me.  I'm going to paint a good one, now.

But he was right.  I am only barely able to paint...kind of...how I want to...sometimes.

I know she will kick against me.  I know I can't take away her frustration, because it comes from hope.  It comes from caring.  I will simply keep telling her the truth, no matter how many years it takes, for both of us to bring about the desires of our hearts.