My work

Two days ago, I read The Old Man and The Sea by Hemingway.  I understood the old man as I never did before.
Yesterday as I did my work, I noticed my head was remarkably quiet.  It used to be ON most of the time, thinking, feeling scared, trying to figure out or predict.  I can only attribute this peace to the fact that I do my work.

My work is to wipe boogers with any stray piece of cloth available from Beckam's nose as he races past me, sword in hand with no shirt.

My work is to write illegibly to everyone but myself...and sometimes even myself...because it is the only way to outrun the made-up stuff.

My work is to make coffee before anyone else in the house wakes up and to listen for my own voice.

My work is to kick Kit-the-cat off my bare toes in the kitchen before sunrise.

My work is to drive Sophie to school, to gymnastics, then home...and to always remember a snack which includes protein.

My work is to leave a canvas hanging by thumbtacks on the living room wall, and to lay paint until it is finished.

My work is to hear my husband's exasperated sigh and to kiss him anyway.

My work is never to loose my wedding ring, and to remember when I couldn't stop staring at it.  I scrubbed it with a toothbrush in the shower so it would sparkle.

My work is to convince my weeping Pepper that she really will be brave enough to get her ears pierced by the time she turns 10 years old, and no they don't really give you a free teddy bear.  It only hurts for a second.  (I need Sophie's help on this one.)

My work is to sing Beckam "I am a Child of God" every night while smoothing fine red hairs from his wide forehead.

My work is to let Pepper paint with my favorite brushes every time she asks.

My work is to hang her pictures in the kitchen from the wire strung along the back wall designated for Kid Art.

My work is to sneak out of the house when no one is looking and run 3 miles into twilight and old songs.

My work is to call high school friends on their birthday and sing stupid songs into their voicemail.

My work is to stay up past my bedtime with Andrew while he takes a bath after a long work day.
It is to watch him in his soapy ritual and to love the way he washes his hair twice with eyes closed and bubbles sliding down his face.

It is my work not to leave him not with my body or with my heart or my actions...big or small.

It is my work to take leftover slices of time and turn them into art.

It is my work to invite little Beach over every Tuesday for art class.  It is to leave her alone without trying to make her paintings my paintings.

My work is to say all the embarrassing stories out loud so the are not embarrassing anymore.

It is my work to pick up the towels that no one hangs on the rack in the bathroom.

My work is an ocean and when it is too big, I dive beneath the waves to where it is quiet.

When I Was a Mermaid

When I was a mermaid
I was never cold
I laid on the hot cement until my fingers were fat grapes again.

When I was a mermaid
I lassoed my feet together with old jump ropes and sashes from church dresses
In my newly tied tail I curled all the way across Miriam's backyard pool
We shouted to each other, dialogue from our dreams, surrounded by thick green trees in another world

Everyone told me I would drown if I swam with my feet tied together.
I knew I wouldn't drown
My arms are strong and I can swim forever

When I was a mermaid
I opened my eyes under water and always won the swimming pool games
Marco Polo and Colors
I wasn't afraid of the chlorine
I let it burn my eyes and turn my hair green
Because somewhere I knew, childhood summer doesn't last forever.

When I was a mermaid
I never wore sunblock
I liked the deep burn on my shoulders and the invincible armor of tanned skin

When I was a mermaid
I was in harmony with the quiet under water
It matched the stillness in my belly right before I'd fall asleep
All of my muscles exhaling sighs of thanks for their exhaustion
I felt no obligation to fill this space nor leave it.

When I was a mermaid
I loved to eat cold, sweet watermelon

When I was a mermaid
I moved to Utah, to the desert, to the snow,
to an unfriendly climate for a mermaid.

When I was a mermaid in Utah
I shivered in my sweater
I stared, puzzled at a red plastic sled
I wanted to go home

Then I discovered Lake Powell in the desert
Fins splayed out from my feet
Sun sprinkled from my finger tips, and I swam
I vaulted from the water onto crimson sandstone
I came home to the hot ground

Now my children are mermaids
Beneath the water, I know, Pepper sees fairies.
As babies I threw them into the water before they could fear it.
I let them feel how she will hold you, how a body knows what to do.
Now my children are mermaids.

For this I will always get my hair wet
I will always wear a swimming suit to the pool

When I was a mermaid
I watched the brown walrus adults in their lawn chairs eating salty chips
They talked about boring stuff and their lips were blubbery

When I was a mermaid
I shouted to the adult walruses:
"WATCH MY TRICK!"

I cartwheeled off the diving board, toes pointed, into a perfect pencil
Hardly a splash...
I sunk all the way down to the bottom
I laid my belly against the grainy pool cement
That's where I learned to breath under water.

When I was a mermaid
I understood a lot of things my kids understand now
And we never bring towels to the pool
We lay on the baked ground
Our butts all in a row, a family of land fish

My Family of Mermaids 2014

Milk spots

Danielle has a new baby.  When she wakes up in the morning the mattress has wet circles where her nipple pressed it's sweet, hot juice into the fabric.
My mattress has these circles too but they dried up 2 years ago.
I could almost cry at this desert upon which I sleep.
When my breasts began receding back into my chest, I thought I'd be happy.  I thought I'd be free of their weight and obligation to lie down in submission every 2-4 hours.
But I wasn't.

Happy was not the feeling.  Free was not the feeling.  It was only less.  I felt like less.
As if my children had just shown up for dinner and then hurried out to the driveway to their scooters and skateboards and chalk and legs walking.

Now when I put on my bra, I lift up the loose flap which used to be a breast. I set it into the pocket of my bra, just like my Mom used to do.  She nursed 6 babies.
I used to watch her do that and think it was sad.  Her bras were old and thin and hardly necessary.
They were a pale dingy pink with worn down lace.

She had a boob job when I was twelve.
I remember her coming home dazed and eyes half-shut.
She was standing in front of the mirror with her shirt off.
Two bulbs as big as ripe cantaloupes pushed against her red skin.
I thought they might right through her skin, they looked so unnatural, so angry.
She looked baffled at how the got there,  I was too.

My Dad hurried her off into the bedroom and I heard her crying.
Shortly after that she started drinking.
I didn't know that though.  I only knew that she was mad a lot, and gone a lot and I liked it when she was gone.
Shortly after that, she was gone for good.

I didn't miss her though.  She had become bitter like a cucumber left on the vine too long.
She was no longer the mother who sang me primary songs in her timid, wavering and perfect voice.
The one who traced a path along my cheek, through the channel of my nose and upper lip and up over the crest of my forehead.
She went to that plastic surgeon and held out the skin which used to be breasts and told him,
"Fill me up."
That's exactly what she said:  Fill me up.
How could he?  How could he give her back all that she had lost?
How could they know what she was really missing?

I liked it better when she delicately lifted the empty spot and laid it into her bra.
There was an integrity in that gesture, and I intend to keep it.
So although I am now a little bit less, the part I gave away is still out there.
It is riding bikes in the sunny driveway.
It is breathing steady in the next room the wide breath of dreams.
It is taking a bold tumbling pass with 12 year old muscles that I started from scratch.
It is devouring books with eyes that see more than they understand.

My mother visits often.  To a large degree I have lived her life, and I do not fault her for scrambling to fill a space that is endless.  A mother's heartbreak is constant.  It rests along the edges of every precious moment.  It is the knowing that we do not get to keep any of it.

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......

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.