dare to dream

Madeleine Walburger: Writing to Remember

Madeleine Walburger is a native of Newport Beach, CA who, to her amazement, is rearing her own family there.  Madeleine graduated from Stanford University, having studied Public Policy and Economics.  She currently works part-time from home as a health care consultant, servicing the pharmaceutical industry.  Madeleine enjoys running, finding/creating solutions and impromptu dance parties with her kids and husband of 10 years.  Her most recent realization:  she is a better person and mother when she is outside enjoying our outdoor world.

***

I am not a writer, though I do love to write.  I am not trained in the art of putting words together in a coherent and pleasing manner, but I do like to capture moments and preserve them in word.

In my present season of life, I write to help me remember.  I am 99% stay-at-home mother who gets to spend 99% of her day with four fantastic kids, ages 19 months to 8 years old.  By writing down the little, meaningful interactions that are not  accompanied by fireworks, I am attempting to bottle up the moment and preserve it for another day.  Life races ahead at a breakneck speed with my children running even faster.  I write to pause, and to try to prevent this fleeting phase from becoming a colorful blur bookended by my youth and empty-nesting.

Source:  istockphoto

Tomorrow, when many of the endeavors in which I am now fully engaged are complete and the outcomes realized, I hope to read my words and enjoy remembering the in-the-trenches process.

I write to remember, and in that remembering I accomplish three additional purposes:

1. By recording a history for my children, I provided a personal context for them, a background to better understanding themselves.  And, maybe they, too, will chuckle as they remember and reminisce.

2. I write to relax.

3. I gain confidence in my choices when I record them.  There is power in translating actions into lasting language.

Source:  istockphoto

Perhaps someday I will be an "official" writer (I do dare to dream), but today I just want to remember.  Here are two moments worth remembering.

***
I Looww-ii Uuuh

Chase, two years old, gets out of bed.  Again.

But he is far too cute this evening for the appropriate reprimand.

Instead, I stomp after him, much like a Mom-sized dinosaur might, and put on my most teasingly menacing face as I tear after him.  Never quite catching him until we are steps away from his bed, I scoop him up by his legs and swing him sideways onto the mattress, perfectly navigating the narrow gap of his lower bunk.

Chase begins to belly laugh.  Again.

To top off my victorious capture and toss, I flop right on top of him making a lop-sided X with our bodies.  Wrapping my arms around his little man shoulders, I nudge my nose into his cheek.

Guess what Chasers.  I. Love. You.
Still, quiet.

Chase wraps his arms around my neck, squeezing my ears with his little reach.
"I looow-ii. Uuuuh."

Pause.
Eager to keep the moment, I say again:  I love you Chase.

Big smile.  "Go way Mom."
It's time for the big boy to go to bed.

***
Goodnight Eliza

Three tucked-in, not yet asleep.  One to go.

The little one.

The nursery room is dark with only a sliver of light from the door and a gentle glow from the street light outside.  I stand-up from the glider, holding Eliza in my arms.  Snuggled in her pink softy blanket, I put her up on my shoulder.  She nuzzles in.

Her head tucks right under my chin.  I love that.

I start to hum.  When Anna was an infant, my now 5-year old, I made up a simple tune that I hummed and sung to her while loving her to bed.  It really is something that only Anna, Chase, and now Eliza would know and recognize.  No one else has ever heard it, and I anticipate it will be a memory tied only to their youngest season.  It has been years since I last sang Anna to bed; and so I don't know if she remembers her melody.

I hum. "I love you, Oh..."

Eliza's tucked-in head pops up.  She shares her gaping, gummy smile with me, a smile that emerged while her head was still nestled in her blanket.  The pacifier falls out of the happy grin.

My baby knows her melody.

She tucks her head back down onto my shoulder.  Her head snugs in right under my chin.  I love that.  I rub her head and cheeks with my own cheeks, jaw, lips, as I continue to softly hum and sing.

Eliza's body begins to gently rumble.  She is humming in her baby-coo sort of way.  And so we hum together in the quiet room with only a sliver of light.

She re-adjusts her head on her pink softy.  She adjusts one more time.  My baby hums and then just listens. Eliza looks to her crib.  It's time for bed.
Goodnight my love.  I love you.

***
Emotions, relationships, experiences are not static but in never-ceasing evolution.  Because the 'now' is only temporary, I write to pause, to reflect, and to remember.

• Do you have a favorite method of 'capturing the moment'?
• Do you have a skill that you use both professionally and personally?
• How do you clear time and space to capture moments and use your own talents and skills for yourself?

A Good Grief

All sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story or tell a story about them.  Karen Blixen

Dana King shared with me a story about Molly Jackson, a young mother who, after losing her 2 year-old daughter, has found healing through her blog A Good Grief. 

Ms. Jackson writes "I remember thinking there is no way I would ever be able to move past the pain, that I would never find joy again. But I have.  Grief at losing a loved one isn't something you really overcome... but what you overcome is the deep feeling of self-pity and utter loss, the desire to 'give in' so that you can again live with hope."

 

Psychologists have indicated that we can only overcome trauma when we talk about it to someone who can bear witness to our loss.  Whether we've lost a loved one, or simply traveled a boulevard of broken dreams, each of us has or will experience some seemingly unendurable loss. 

A wonderful example of bearing witness has occurred over the past few weeks with this year's Resolutionary Challenge.  Each day one of the participants (some of us know each other, some don't) poses a question to which we have the opportunity to respond.  The questions range from 'What is your most memorable meal?" to "What would you regret twenty years from now if you didn't do it today?" to "What do you do when a loved one takes their life?" and "What do you daydream about?"  In answering these questions and telling our stories, we are making discoveries about ourselves.  As we have listened, there seems to be healing.  

When you and I are in a place of loss, we don't dream -- because we can't.  If we are in that place, then let us grieve, give voice to the trauma.  Our loss will gradually give way to hope, to our dreams.

For what is dreaming if not hope manifest? 

The Stories we Tell Ourselves

I've practiced the piano about 30 hours over the past three months.

Doesn't sound like much, except that over the past two decades, I've practiced a total of 100 hours, if I'm being generous, compared with the 5,000+ hours I'd logged by my mid-20s.

When I was 8 years-old I practiced an hour a day; I even got up at 6am to do it.  I was going to be a concert pianist when I grew up.  By high school, I continued to practice, but just enough to keep from getting grounded.  There were moments in college when I was eager to practice.  When I was learning to play jazz so that I could audition for Synthesis, BYU's Big Band, for example.  But mostly I cosseted myself away for 3-4 hours each day because my parents wanted me to study music.  And so I did.  By the time I had married, graduated, and moved to New York, I was rather done with the piano, and rarely played for a good 15 years, except when asked to accompany the choir or soloists at church.

Source:  istockphoto

Five years ago, I was asked to accompany Vanessa Quigley; she was to solo in a church gathering of 400-500.  I said 'yes' because that's what we do in our church, but grudgingly.  I didn't know her, I'd never heard her sing.  Duty.  As she and I rehearsed an arrangement of the hymn 'Oh My Father', something unexpected happened.  Her voice was beautiful and well-trained.  I found myself enjoying playing, collaborating with her.  I even practiced a few hours in advance of the performance.  I had a similar experience with an equally superb musician when I accompanied Macy Robison for a cabaret-style recital chronicling her experiences with mothering.  

After decades of the piano being a duty, a drudgery to be endured, why did playing the piano again feel magical? 

Is it because:

1. I'm no longer practicing to stay out of trouble or because I'm trying pass a class, but because I choose to? 
2. I'm no longer wondering if I'll dazzle the audience with my technical chops (or embarrass myself terribly because I don't have them or I'll forget the music), but rather thinking about how to best showcase another musician, to be as Robin to Batman, the hero of support?           
3. Or because I'm preparing to collaborate with another musician, to have a conversation with her and with the audience about making meaning of our life experience?  To help people feel something and believe something about themselves that they didn't feel before?  Ultimately, it's not about Robin, or even Batman, but about how they work together to save Gotham City. 

In his book Practicing, Glenn Kurtz writes, "Practicing is a story you tell yourself, a tale of education and self-realization...For the fingers, as for the mind, practicing is an imaginative, imaginary arc, a journey, a voyage....When you sit down to practice (to make a home, build a business, practice a sport, rear children), you cast yourself as the hero and victim of your myth.  You will struggle, succeed, and struggle some more.  The story of your practice weaves all this together.  When you truly believe the story of your practicing, it has the power to turn routine into a route, to resolve your discordant voices, and to transform the harshest, most intense disappointment into the very reason you continue."

There have been stories I've told myself about why I practice -- some in which I've been the victim, some the hero. 

To now write a story in which the struggle has enabled me to collaborate, connect and communicate in a way I hadn't thought possible...

That's a story worth telling myself -- and my children -- over and over again. 

Is there something that you used to love to do that you've set aside?  Have you tried to pick it up again and found yourself discouraged?  Is it possible that you can combine your childhood skills with the ones you've since acquired, to tell yourself a new story -- one that is fresh and relevant to you today? 

One of the reasons that Macy Robison's Children Will Listen has resonated is that it creates a story that gives meaning to mothering.  Saydi Eyre Shumway's post The Snapshot that Changed My Life similarly accomplishes that, Stephanie Soper's Portrait of An Artist, tells stories about her painting, while Rebecca Ellsworth Menzie's Memoirs of My Mother helps make meaning of her mother's untimely death.

I am struck by how much I don't enjoy, even eschew, being Batman when it comes to piano.  Yet it's important I feel my contribution is valued by the vocalist or musician for whom I playing.  Do you have a context in which you prefer less visibility, but still want to be valued?

Should you want to read/listen to more about my college musical experience, click on Telling Your Soundtrack Story:  College, culmination of childhood dreams

Macy Robison: Picture Perfect

Macy Robison is a teacher, performer, and photographer from Shrewsbury, MA. She was in the Music Dance Theater program at Brigham Young University and performed with the Young Ambassadors.  She also holds a masters degree in music education from The Ohio State University.  Macy has performed in professional, community musical theater productions in Utah, Ohio and Boston.  Most recently she has developed a cabaret-style recital Children Will Listen:  Reflections on Mothering which she will perform in Utah in mid-July.

After you leave a comment here (and become eligible for the $75 spa gift certificate), click through to Macy's photography blog, leave a quick comment, and you'll be eligible for a photo shoot.

***

Sometimes I feel like a priest.

I'm actually a music teacher.  For the past ten years, I have taught general music, been a choir director and taught private voice lessons.  When people discover this, they immediately start confessing their musical sins.

"I'm tone deaf."
"Oh, you don't want to hear me sing!"
"My family doesn't let me sing!"
"I love music, but I just never kept up with (insert instrument here)."

 

 And most common:

 

 "I would love to sing, but I just can't…"

 

Sometimes the conversation turns into a debate over my firmly held belief that anyone can learn to sing.  Sometimes I just listen. 

 

I'm also a photographer, but I'm starting to feel like a priest in this role as well.  Photographic sins from both sides of the camera…

"My pictures never turn out."
"I would love for you to take my family pictures, but I'm not Christmas-card worthy."
"I always hate myself in pictures."
"I would get pictures taken more, but it's such a hassle."

 

It can be a hassle to have pictures taken.  Finding the outfit. Wondering if the outfit will photograph well.  Worrying about fixing hair.  Keeping that hair looking good.  Stressing over whether your son will pull that crazy face he's so fond of making every time the photographer takes a picture.  Screaming.  Crying.  Fights.  We all know the stories.  We've all lived the stories.

 

But when you look back at the pictures, do you regret the hassle?  Need to think about it? While you are pondering, I'll give you an example of why the hassle is worth it.

This last Christmas the stars aligned and my family was in the same place at the same time for a couple of days – me, my husband, our son, my husband's son and daughter and their fiancées.  Since the next time we would be together, we would be in wedding clothes, I wanted to get pictures of us together.  I scouted the location, we coordinated clothing, I got there early to set up my tripod so I could be in some pictures.

Everyone arrives.  We're ready to smile and have fabulous pictures taken.  We're braving some unexpected cold, but it's a lovely location.  Just as we start taking the large family group picture – my usually angelic toddler gives us this:

 

And this:

 

 

 

Here, let's zoom in so you can really experience the fun:

 

 

 

There was no consoling, bribing, joking, or anything else that would get this child to stop screaming and crying.  We finally broke down and gave him his beloved animal, hoping to calm him down to get a few pictures.  But instead, we got this:

 

 

 

So, with no cooperation from the toddler, what did I do?  I kept shooting.  The point of the photos was to document our family.  To show the relationships between us.  To capture our family at that moment in time.  Toddlers cry, kids make silly faces.  But if you keep shooting, you will end up with some fabulous pictures that you love. 

 

 

 

 

Eventually, our little guy calmed down.  Though he didn't crack a smile for the entire day, I ended up with some pictures of him that I loved.  Like this one:

 

And this one showing how much he loves his big brother and wants to do everything he does.

 

 

And finally, this picture of my husband, son and I that my dad took with my camera.

 

 

Is this a perfect picture?  No.  To start with, there's a branch coming across my husband's face.  I could remove it with Photoshop, but I love the memory of shouting back and forth with my dad about framing the picture and still ending up with a branch tickling my husband's chin.  

Is this my favorite picture of myself?  No.

Do I look as horrible as I imagined I did?  No.  (And isn't that always the case?  When I look at the pictures of myself from 10 years ago when I thought I looked awful and needed to lose 20 pounds, I want to reach into the picture and slap my 1999 self.) 

Do I love this picture?  Yes. 

In part because I got out from behind the camera.  My son needs to see me in pictures with him.  I have very few pictures of me with my mom. (Something I didn't realize until right this minute.)  I wish I had more.  She passed away suddenly almost 10 years ago.  I know she loved me and loves me still, but I wish I had more examples I could see.  I cherish the few I have. 

 I want my son to see our relationship and how much I love him.  And as Saydi Eyre Shumway  put it so eloquently in her post last week – I need to see myself in the picture with him.  See how much I love being with him; become the kind of mother I want to be.

 

 In fact, in addition to having another photographer take our family pictures later this year, I'm going to start work on a self-portrait series. I've been inspired by amazing photographer Davina Fear's self-portrait series to take more pictures of me with my son.  Not only when we're dressed up in our best clothes, but when we're in our every day clothes coloring together or working on puzzles together.

Coordinate the clothing. Come out from behind the camera. Embrace the hassle.  Document your relationships. Capture who you are -- who you want to be.

It will be picture perfect.

Promise.

For more on the importance of photos, take another look at Rebecca Ellsworth Menzie's post:  she too wishes she had some photos with her mother.  And Saren Eyre Loosli's post with her daughter crying?

There are so many ways to tell our story.  Macy chooses to tell her story through words and images and music via her cabaret act.  There are so many ways.  Take another look at Lizzie Christensen's Recipe Story, Rebecca Menzie (via her mother's journal), Stephanie Soper's painting, my soundtrack story.  Will you tell your story?

Any thoughts on how Macy's approach to photography is allowing her to Be her Own Batman, even as she's Robin?

When you finish leaving a comment here, click through to her blog and become eligible for her photography shoot. 

Rebecca Ellsworth Menzie: Memoirs of My Mother

...Yet another lovely voice. 

Rebecca Ellsworth Menzie enjoys being a wife and mother, baking, quilting, reading, gardening, triathlon-ing, blogging, and most recently writing her mom's life story.

After you read Rebecca's letter to her mother, will you share your thoughts with her and us?  In leaving a comment, not only will you be eligible for a $75 gift certificate to a spa of your choice, my hope is that we'll experience systergy, listening to and learning from one another. 

***

In July 1991, when I was 21, and serving an 18-month volunteer mission in Texas, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer; she passed away in May 1992 at our family home in Agoura, CA with my dad and her sister by her side. 

At the age of 38, my mother (a mother to 9 children, ages 2-15) wrote the following entry in her journal.

January 13, 1982

Jeri Edwards was in town for a few hours, so Helen had several stop over and say “hi”. I truly love Jeri. I’ve just finished reading, Eliza, and kept thinking of Jeri throughout. She’s one of those special, vibrant, fulfilled women who just radiates love of life, the Lord, and family, and of being! I’m just one of the hundreds who count her their close friend, but I’m honored to be counted too. I wish I could just sit and visit with her for hours-just share my heart and get more of a glimpse of hers.

It would be quite something to be the kind of woman she is. Everyone loves being around her. She is truly called “blessed” by all who know her. She’s intelligent, philosophical, social, spiritual, joyful, creative, kind, compassionate--all that I’d ever, ever hope to be. I feel as though I really was the caboose of heaven--just sober, depressed, boring, stifled me.

The Ellsworth Family (1982) -- Pasadena, California

***

Present-day (21 May 2009)

Dear Mom,

It’s hard to believe that you wrote this journal entry just 10 years prior to your death. From my perspective, especially since I've become a mother, you were a wise and faithful mother and woman. It’s hard to read your self criticism from 1982 when I see you so differently.

Yet, there was a time when your words could have been my own.  When Wayne and I were engaged, now 15 years ago, after a visit to his family I walked out of his parent's home easily loving each sibling and parent, but feeling insignificant compared to Wayne’s mom.

She was superwoman in my eyes. She decorated, cooked, and crafted at a professional level. Next to her I felt like an immature, untalented person.  I was so sure Wayne would be disappointed, that very evening I let him know that he was not marrying someone as talented as his mom.  Certain that I couldn't possibly accomplish all that she did in a day, I cried, “I don’t even know how to tole paint!”  When Wayne replied,  "What is tole painting?", I realized he wasn't looking for a professional crafter, chef or interior decorator; he was looking for me, and loved me.

I still admire Wayne’s mom’s talent and drive; she is a beautiful woman.  But I no longer feel as if I'm in her shadow.  As I've pursued my own path I've discovered talents and capabilities I never imagined I'd possess.  I not only can make more than tossed salad, you will be happy to know that one of Wayne's former co-workers recently told us he still remembers the strawberry pie I sent to work with Wayne over 10 years ago. (I'm so glad you left the recipe!)

What a relief it is to finally know that I don't exist to fit another person's mold, but to be true to my own self, to grow at my own pace.

In reflecting further on your letter, I'm reminded of my recent lunch date with a group of women, most of whom I was meeting for the first time. Each were beautiful, bright, articulate women, all of whom I'd gladly choose as a friend.  Our different life experiences and thoughtful, candid self-expression made the conversation rich.

Toward the end of lunch, the conversation turned to possibilities.... Whitney asked, "What dreams do you have and how can I help you realize them?" The conversation wasn’t a spotlight on any one of us, it was a spotlight on each of us as individual women of worth.

Somehow, naturally, and without fully realizing how important it was, I realized I needed to share your story. My dear mother, you didn’t think you made a difference in the world. You felt "sober, depressed, boring, stifled," and yet you expressed the secret, difficult feelings so many of us women feel, or have felt at one time or another... your words are like a friend saying, "On some level, I can relate.  You're not alone."

Thank you for keeping a journal. You thought it was pathetically sporadic, but I find it priceless. Through your words I know that you know how to help me as I journey through motherhood and womanhood. I’m sorry that you ever felt small, or that you had little to offer. I know differently about you. I see greatness in you, for I see the ripple effect of your love, devotion, and faith. Even as I write these words, I know you have spoken them to me, and I to my loved ones.  Why is it so challenging to say these truths to one's own self?

I know differently about you.

I see greatness in you.

Wherever you are, I hope you can see the legacy of your life's offering.  I hope that you see beauty, intelligence, strength, and honesty, and that you hear your loved ones call you "blessed."

I love you more,

Becky

The Menzie Family (2008) -- Boston, MA

Because Rebecca's mother provided an unvarnished account of her life, Rebecca and her 9 siblings have a 'real' person from whom to draw inspiration.  As we increasingly journal publicly, do we risk not teaching our children how to work through tough times?

Writing is one of myriad ways we can 'tell our story'; take a look at Tell your Recipe Story and Tell your Soundtrack Story.

After you leave a comment to Rebecca here (Go systergy - go to a Spa!), click through to Rebecca's blog for more of 'Memoirs of Mother'.  While you are there, scan the right-hand column Quotables.  My favorite is: "Mom-you're a good maker!" from her 6 year-old Grace. 

Additional resources:

1. The Gift of Stories -- Robert Atkinson
2. Old Friend from Far Away -- Natalie Goldberg
3. Thinking about Memoir -- Abigail Thomas

Christine Vick: Simply Living

 

In June, we will hear many thoughtful, compelling voices.

The first is Christine Vick, a stay-at-home to four kids who also enjoys editing and writing for the organizing website Store and Style she and her sister co-founded last November.  If she has a spare moment, she loves to cook, read and take walks.

After you read Christine's story, will you share your thoughts with her and us?  In leaving a comment, not only will you be eligible for a $75 gift certificate to a spa of your choice, you will be listening to another's voice -- and what better gift can we give to another than to listen?

***

My college self would be disappointed with my life today.

Back then, I had it all mapped out:  graduate in three years with a B.A. in English (check).  Serve a mission for the L.D.S. church (check).  Get an M.A. in English Literature (check).

But then I started to go off course:  Get a PhD (ummm...)  Secure a tenure track position by the time I'm 28 (ummm...again).  Have three kids (oops, four) and a white picket fence (nope).

Turns out my 18 year-old self couldn't see the whole picture.  Like that I'd be burned out by academia after my master's degree and feel miserable about applying for PhD programs.  Or that I'd quite like what I imagined then would be very mundane tasks:  cooking, decorating, organizing and hanging out with my kids.  I rarely say this out loud, but I don't even mind cleaning (except for doing the laundry--which is my Achilles heel). 

Image courtesy of and copyrighted by LaNola Kathleen Stone.

When I was younger, I dismissed any field or career that was less than rigorously academic as "fluff".  I don't know where I got this idea, because my parents have encouraged all my efforts and never pushed me in any direction. Nevertheless, this philosophy guided my early decisions and left me feeling like a failure when I found my studies unfulfilling.

By the second year of my MA program, I was unhappy, frustrated and fed up, but I couldn't admit (even to myself) that I wanted to quit.  The dream of being a professor had always defined me, and letting it go made me panic.  What would I do?  How could my life be relevant?

Pride played a big role too.  I'd always been so vocal about my goals (I'm still learning the value of saying less, a lot less) that I was just plain embarrassed not to follow through.  Especially when my fellow students were busy being accepted into PhD programs across the country.

My pain eased a bit when I moved East and took a part-time job with a small community newspaper.  I was no longer surrounded by academics and it became clear that most people aren't concerned with the roles of Renaissance women, applying continental philosophy to modern texts or deconstructing old English manuscripts.  They're just trying to earn a living, balance hectic lives, and find a little free time.

Two years ago I was approached by a friend of a friend who was starting her own magazine about organizing (a favorite topic and hobby of mine).  She was looking for part-time editors and wondered if I'd be interested.  

I said yes immediately.

One of the highlights of the job was a trip to North Carolina to interview the Flylady, Marla Cilley.  It was my first "business" trip, albeit with my 6 month-old in tow.  I enjoyed meeting Cilley who was fun, vivacious and full of empathy, hanging out with my boss, eating out, overcoming my fear of prop planes, and seeing the Biltmore Estate in Asheville.  It actually seemed more like a vacation than work, since I normally spend my days in Cinderella mode;  scrubbing, cooking, chauffeuring and trying to be patient with lots of little people with lots of needs.

 Image courtesy of and copyrighted by LaNola Kathleen Stone.

Being a part of Organize not only gave me the experience to start my own website Store and Style, it taught me a valuable lesson:  for a task to be valuable, it doesn't have to be weighty, solemn, or make history.

It just has to be important to me.  If it's fun too, even better.

I love editing--knowing what to add, move around or rework so an article shines. I love organizing--helping people see how a little order can make life easier and more enjoyable.  And I love making school lunches, reading to my son on the front porch while waiting for the bus, baking cookies and painting my daughter's fingernails.  Lucky for me, my life can encompass all of these activities.

Looking back, I'm glad I didn't pressure myself into starting a PhD program--I know I would have quit.

I'm also glad my college self is no longer in charge.

***

Christine's comment about what she likes to do versus what she thought she should like to do is a valuable insight.  Have you ever made a list of what you enjoyed doing each day (made you happy/was satisfying) and subsequently compared that list with what you've stated publicly makes you happy.  I have. Yup -- there were a few surprises.

And yes, LaNola Kathleen Stone's images are of Christine and her children in their home.

P.S.  After you leave a comment here (I'll announce the winner of the gift certificate on Monday, June 8), click through to www.storeandstyle.com and sign up for this week's giveaway.

Guest Post: Janika Dillon on 'Taking a Stay-cation'

"I don't even have the time or energy to hear myself think a thought, how can I possibly 'dare to dream'?"

If this is your current plight, dear reader, I dedicate Janika Dillon's guest post (see her bio at the end of the entry) to you. She begins:

This week I've become a rebellious hermit.

Since last October, our family has been planning a spring break trip to visit friends and historical sites in Pennsylvania, a trip for which I had:

• Researched where to eat, what to see (and best day to see it), entrance fees, hours of operation, parking fees, best driving routes, etc.
• Made a neat pile of all my research and had a packing/things-to-do list two pages long.  
• Checked out children's books and tapes about Gettysburg, The Statue of Liberty, Valley Forge, and more.  
• Selected travel friendly activities for my children and bought lots of snacks.
• Did all the laundry, packed all the bags, vacuumed & cleaned out the car, cleaned out the fridge, cleaned the whole house. 

Are you tired yet?  I was.

Minutes before our planned departure I told my husband, "You know, I really don't want to go on this trip. I just want to stay home all by myself for five days." He quickly agreed, discussed with our four kids, and within minutes they were gone. Without me.

At first I felt guilty and slightly rebellious--who am I to opt out of the family vacation?  I love my kids, was looking forward to some family time and was eager for them to learn about our country’s history with me as their tour guide!  

But I really did need a break.  It had been three and a half years since I had the whole house to myself for a few days, and in fact, what I'd wanted last Christmas more than anything was "12 hours by myself in my own house!"

Courtesy:  Swallowfield

Once I gave a million kisses and waved good-bye, I found myself suddenly alone in a perfectly clean and quiet house. I had no desire to venture out of the house; I just wanted to luxuriate in time to myself. I made a long list of things I wanted to do, including some sewing, organizing and keeping in touch with loved ones.  

I called my 88 year-old grandparents for a delightful hour-long phone call.  A few minutes later a dear high school friend called me, saying "I just saw your phone number in my book and thought I should call you." We spoke for two hours, our friendship never missing a beat. I chatted with another out-of-town friend who happened to be coming to Boston this week; we've planned a day's worth of lovely activities. 

I began to sort through files on my desk, finding long-forgotten scribbled notes on tiny scraps of paper with phone numbers and emails of friends I meant to contact months ago. One friend had a baby in December--still haven't been to see her. Another newly-discovered friend is an amazing artist, mother and person--someone I'd love to know better. My husband and four children going in different directions had left a wake of neglected friendships and missed opportunities.

More than that, I had filled my mind with so many to-do lists in the midst of mothering chaos, I had forgotten how to hear my own voice over the past few months. When a quiet moment did come, I didn't how to use my free time because I didn't really even know what I wanted to do.

Courtesy:   Swallowfield

With everyone gone, I thought I would feel lonely, that I would listen to books on tape all day to keep me company. But I'm not. I love the silence and the chance I have to hear my thoughts, to wonder what what I will think up next, to wake up early, my mind spinning with new ideas.

Just this morning I woke up with a plan for how to improve my town’s Patriots Day celebration. Paul Revere rides through our town each year complete with a mini-parade, a speech from the Mayor, the high school band and lunch at the Revolutionary-era funeral home.  But because the crowd (mostly comprised of young families and grandparents) waits about an hour between the time that the mini-parade is over and when Paul Revere actually rides in, the high school band runs out of songs to play and an awkward dead space ensues.  

My early-morning idea was to involve the city historical society, the city family network, the local top-notch university and other city and business organizations to sponsor several historical activity tables for the children to learn more about Paul Revere and the history of our town.  I mapped out the layout, supplies, partners, activities and funding in less than an hour and realized that I felt so strongly about this project that, if needed (gasp! How scary is that to my shy self!), I could go talk to the mayor, business owners, historical society president, or whoever I needed to help get this event rolling.

Courtesy:  Swallowfield

It was so refreshing to discover that I felt strongly about something that I was willing to step outside of my comfort zone to make it happen.  In my normal 'non-rebellious, non-hermetic' life, I often find myself pushing away really good ideas because I just don’t have time to develop or implement them.  Maybe, just maybe, this time away from the noise will allow me to set some priorities for myself until the next time I take an extended break.

Joseph Campbell wrote, "You must have a room, or certain hour of the day or so, where you don’t know what was in the newspapers that morning, you don't know who your friends are, you don't know what you owe anybody, you don't know what anybody owes to you. This is a place where you can experience and bring forth what you are and what you might be. This is the place of creative incubation. At first you may find that nothing happens there. But if you have a sacred place and use it, something eventually will happen."

As I carried on coherent conversations with my long-lost friends, many were at first shocked I would stay home, but then commented enthusiastically, “Oh, that is exactly what I want to do!”

It has been my perfect stay-cation and I highly recommend it. 

Kudos to Janika for 'asking for what she wanted'; kudos to her husband and children for saying 'yes'. 

For Mother's Day, your birthday, or even next year's Patriot's Day, why not ask for a Stay-cation?   Everyone leaves, and you magically remain home alone.

For more on this topic, click to Making a Place for Your Dream, Spoiler Alert, When our Loved Ones Ask What about me?,  A Space for Women's Voices.

P.S.  In the spirit of full disclosure (she says with tongue firmly in cheek), I've purchased more than several pieces of art from Swallowfield, and plan to purchase many more in the coming years.  Jennifer Judd-McGee's art makes me happy!

***

More about Janika (She asked me to shorten, but it was far too interesting!)

Janika Dillon originated in Ithaca, New York where her parents were in graduate school. She spent her childhood roaming her Wichita, Kansas neighborhood on a sparkly blue banana seat Schwinn bicycle and organizing club meetings in the tops of trees. Her teenage years were spent in Provo, Utah where she played violin in the orchestra, designed and sewed the costumes for school musicals and Shakespearean plays and dreamed of traveling to Europe.  As a student at BYU she studied Communications and German and had the time of her life studying abroad in Vienna, Austria and Frankfurt, Germany.  Two hours before departing for an 18 month church mission to South Korea, she turned in the final draft of her honors thesis about noted 19th Century woman's suffragist Emmeline B. Wells.  

One month after returning home from her mission in Korea, she returned to work as an intern at a small manufacturing company in Seoul.  The fascinating experiences with the women in this office and other companies she eventually interned at inspired her masters thesis on "Women in the Workplace in Korea" for her degree in Organizational Behavior and International Development. Janika worked in Exec Ed for a few years before moving to Boston with her husband James and deciding to stay home full time with her four young children.

Writing our way to a right-sized dream: Rebecca Nielsen (Part II)

In her guest post, Rebecca Nielsen (see Rightsizing our dream: Rebecca Nielsen), the mother of twin daughters, and a graduate of Harvard's MBA program, wrote "After each class I kept a journal of how my education in brand management, strategy, controls or finance would serve me in the non-for-profit arena – and I kept the dream tangible: someday I would run the American Red Cross."

I was impressed by Rebecca's discipline, and intrigued.

By keeping a journal, or 'telling her story' in real-time, could she also write her way to a right-sized dream?

My initial query was, "How can your mothering experience help you to continue to prepare to run the Red Cross?" She reframed with , i.e. "how is what I am doing now preparing me to make a significant contribution in the realm of humanitarian relief?"

Here's what she's written:

For the last month and a half I've kept a journal (about 2-3 times a week) focused on my thoughts about humanitarian relief as prompted or spurred by my daily activities as a mother.

Some entries related to interactions with my children, but for the most part I wrote about the current handling of specific disasters (e.g. the neglect of the junta following the cyclone in Myanmar, the efficient response to the earthquake in China, etc.).

My experiences as a mother are likely schooling me in qualities of character important to non-profit leadership; however, what this experiment confirmed is that my current lifestyle also grants me the mental space to digest much of what is happening in the global humanitarian aid arena.

The journal entries became a set of "lessons learned" as I observed actions of leaders and aid organizations through a variety of sources from The Economist and The New York Times to video conferencing with my parents who are among those on-the-ground in assessing the needs of flood victims in Romania.

I also found this type of exercise a satisfying complement to the physically and spiritually demanding role of caring for young children -- it enabled me to establish a balance in my thinking between the world and the home-sphere.

Both are real and relevant.

There are mothers who are struggling to feed their infants because of disaster and the rise in commodity prices. It made me grateful and humble and sometimes ashamed -- and drove some vibrant dinner-table dialogue about action we can take as a family.

Some observations:

July 3 -- Numerous victims of the cyclone in Myanmar fared fairly well in the absence of aid because they had developed certain life skills that enabled them to live off the land (they knew how to fish, etc.). To some extent ultimate aid is enabling individuals to hone skills and prepare stores to deal with a disaster themselves (although this isn't always sufficient). In the western world, fishing skills may be of limited use, but having 3-day-kits, food and water storage, financial reserves, and emergency education can be potent tools.

July 8 -- The response of the junta is particularly tragic because they refused support and denied access during the relatively brief window of time after a disaster when the world is willing to give its attention in the form of media coverage. Alas, the regime was focused on other priorities rather than maximizing the impact of the relief efforts!

July 12 -- There is a need for transparency to "investors" (i.e. donors) in the non-profit world as there is in the capital markets. Imagine a research house that analyzed various non-profits and provided return-on-investment proxies for various donations. Imagine investing in a mutual fund of non-profit organizations ("hunger fund," "malaria fund," "U.S. hurricane fund,") and then getting performance updates.

July 29 -- Gates and Bloomberg are combining efforts to combat smoking -- they have earmarked $500M for the purpose. It is exciting that the Gates Foundation will likely prove a rigorous vehicle for dispensing aid resources and creating new thinking around measuring performance.

September -- Although Hurricane Gustav only hit New Orleans as a Category 2 storm, local and national officials had anticipated a storm of the magnitude of Katrina or worse. As a result, the mayor ordered a mandatory evacuation, and 2 million people left the state. Should we fault officials for being over-prepared? No. We should chalk it up as a victory: taking thoughtful action on the best information available merits applause, regardless of the outcome.

Are any of the rest of you trying to figure out how to right-size your dream? Have you thought about writing your way there? Or to your dream -- period? Should you want to share, you have a forum here.

After reading Rebecca's post, I'm thinking that she and Belle L should connect. Don't you agree?

Has Sarah Palin's VP nomination increased the probability that Rebecca can achieve her dream?

Related posts:
It takes courage to tell our stories
Tell you story
Psyche's 1st Task: Sort the seeds
A philanthropic hero's journey: Luanne Zurlo
Rick Riordan's Golden Fleece

When a dream dies

My first pregnancy had been SO easy.

First try.  Pregnant.  Not a day of morning sickness.

And notwithstanding the fact that I'd had my son the old-fashioned way because no anesthesiologists were on hand when I arrived at the hospital, his birth was also easy.

Two years later, I was ready to have another baby.

I'd get pregnant in late August; an early summer baby wouldn't interfere with my busy time at work, and allow me to enjoy a summer off.

Baby number two -- coming right up.

Easy peasy.

©iStockphoto.com/RonTech2000

Until I miscarried.

I was only one month along.  No big deal - I told myself.

But it was a big deal.

My body and world were reshaping, welcoming new possibilities -- I was going to have another baby.

And then I wasn't.

***

Several months ago, one of my girlfriends' dreams derailed.

Oddly enough, I immediately thought of a miscarriage.

Perhaps we've hoped and planned, planned and hoped.  Perhaps the dream was borne of necessity as was my friend's.

As we dare to dream, we are preparing to birth a new piece of our self.

Something wonderful is going to be.

But sometimes the dream dies.

And we are sad -- very sad.

Do we eventually make meaning of the experience, tell our story?

Yes.

Do we try to have another baby, dare again to dream?

Yes.

In the meantime, do we need to grieve?

Yes.

I'm trying to -- I hope you will too.

Related posts:
Morning sickness metaphor
Google lesson on dreams vs. expectations
Tell your story
Soundtrack story:  Career, motherhood and 9/11

Scribble Press: Helping our children tell their story

When I was in Mexico last month, my friend David Luhnow told me about his sister-in-law Anna's store Scribble Press, a place where children can write, illustrate and publish their very own books.

Why was I so taken by their concept?

Because Scribble Press helps us help our children move to the center of their story.

To dream, not deflect -- to be the hero.

For example, Anna shared with me that several children had recently made meaning of their adoption by writing and illustrating books that were then bound before their eyes.

What events do your children need to make meaning of?

What do you need to make meaning of?

If you are going to be in Los Angeles this summer, and want to encourage your children to be the hero of their story, then run, don't walk, to Scribble Press.

In the meantime, take a moment to go to kirtsy and click through on the link Scribbling our children's way to self-esteem. I can't think of a better way to say Atta Girls -- Darcy and Anna!

Related posts:
NY Times: This is if your life (And how you tell it)
Dreaming or deflecting?
Children and the call to adventure
Soundtracks: Finding our voice, telling our story
It takes courage to tell our stories