Inside the 11th Hour

It consumes your thoughts. I know, you don’t want to admit it. Most of the time, neither do I because it’s

something trivial or fleeting or an idol I’ve created out of something that won’t last.

I won’t judge.

Because hear this loud and clear, I sure as heck don’t want your judgment spotlighted on me.

Stepping into this risk, I’m going to reveal what’s crept into just about every single one of my thoughts lately. Pervasive as dewy skin humidity.

I’ve been wondering about the 11^th hour. I’ve been giving too much credit to time. Time as we understand it.

Let me explain.

I’m not talking about Meg Ryan weeping on Billy Crystal’s shoulder, “I’m gonna be forty.” I am talking about this subconscious time table I have, regulating some sort of order of events in my brain. Picture a factory of clocks if you will. A factory creating a false sense of soundness and inaccurate logic.

Examples:

I hope to be published by…

I want my girls to learn this by…

I’m eager for my marriage to look like this by…

I will finally learn this by…

While you could easily call these expectations or goals (I’m a strong believer in goal-setting), I’m going to suggest they’re also linked to fruit. When you pour time and energy into something the typical consequence is that you experience evidence of time and energy invested.

Here’s the catch. The time catch.

Time is limited. Unpredictable. And sometimes time squashes fruit. Or it rots it, making those hopes and wants seem futile, if not ridiculous.

So we’re on the same page, I’m not merely referring to the seconds and days we’re granted here on earth, but the entire concept as a whole. Dreams can’t be crammed inside time. Or lessons. Or hope.

It is these thoughts that ground me when I begin to get desperate and worried things won’t come through for me in the 11^th hour. There’s still a window, I tell myself. There’s still hope. What if life is one gigantic 11^th hour? What if my faith is finding ways to come through for me all the time?

What I really want to know is when I began to let it slide—hope? When did I give time the keys to my cerebral car, hijacking hope in the process? At what point did I shove trust into a box, ordering it to stay there until I tell it to come out?

This is probably why I love reading books that bust free from the conventional ways we understand time…The Time Traveler’s Wife. Mrs. Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children, and why I’m looking forward to reading The Repeat Year by Andrea Lochin. Also why I’m tempted to make a Benjamin Button joke at least once a week. Marty McFly, anyone?

Here’s the thing, I’m taking back the keys. I’m going to embrace the wild idea that the 11^th hour is a limitless playground of becoming and elongated saves.

Have you ever given time too much credit in your life concerning a particular situation? Could we all be living in the 11^th hour?

photo by stock.XCHNG

“When you love someone, you do not love them all the time, in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. It is an impossibility. It is even a lie to pretend to. And yet this is exactly what most of us demand. We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity - in freedom, in the sense that the dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern.

The only real security is not in owning or possessing, not in demanding or expecting, not in hoping, even. Security in a relationship lies neither in looking back to what was in nostalgia, nor forward to what it might be in dread or anticipation, but living in the present relationship and accepting it as it is now. Relationships must be like islands, one must accept them for what they are here and now, within their limits - islands, surrounded and interrupted by the sea, and continually visited and abandoned by the tides.”  

-Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gift from the Sea

Top Ten Joy Stealers for Writers

If you’ve been writing long enough I don’t have to expound upon the following joy stealers much. You know them and you know them well. Writing is not for the feeble, the quick quitters or the wishy-washy. 

Writing is for those with malleable hearts, insatiable curiosities, and ironclad resolve.

Because there are joy stealers lurking and ready to rob you from the unexplainable joy writing can inspire.

And they are…

Disillusionment

When you hold up the picture of what you thought the writing life would look like and it doesn’t even vaguely resemble what writing actually is.

Distraction Deluge

When life hits you with a bombardment of commitments and you’re squeezed dry of time and energy.

Disbelief

Somewhere along the way you lost the majestic wonder that motivated you when you began writing. The confidence and belief that you were meant for this shrinks to the size of a mustard seed. (Hmm…a mustard seed.)

Dry Spell

Ideas disappear into thin air like genie smoke, triggering a season of drought. You find yourself flirting with the belief you were wrong and that you’re ideas won’t ever grow green and vibrant again.

Daggers

Criticism comes your way without a shred of anything constructive in it.

Derelict Characters

You’ve gotten so caught up in the story you’ve forgotten who’s writing who. Until one day your characters rebel and attempt to throw you entirely off course. Worse than a rabbit trail, this is a career direction detonator. (A key time to listen because characters always have something interesting to teach us, but ultimately to also remember whose boss.)

Deceptive Deathblow

Rejections, people who promised to be you’re biggest support but who fail to meet your expectations, the love of writing shriveling like embers turned to ash. Somewhere along the way you mistakenly substituted love of craft for so many other seductive loves—approval, acceptance, validation, timing, attention, etc.

Deadline Drift

Date looming and your mind draws a big fat blank. You feel like you’re writing for the man. A machine. The romanticism of the craft is stripped away.

Dead end Delusion

With writing there is no end in sight. It’s all about exploration and learning and discovery. But there’s nothing like the publishing industry to fool a writer into entertaining these familiar thoughts:

“I’ll be happy when…

I finish my novel

I get an agent

a house buys my book

I see my book in print

or my formatting is done for e-book

I meet my sales goals

I sell another book…”

& so the dance begins again.

Debilitating Doubt

I can’t. Therefore I won’t.

 On the flip side, Joy Planters are:

Dedication

Commitment to write through the highs and lows.

Determination

A “I’ll write no matter what I feel” attitude that presents opportunities for you to learn far more about yourself during the process than at the outcome.

Decision

Because it always comes back to choice.

You have a choice in this. Freedom to keep at it or to chuck the whole thing.

As for me and my mouse (bad computer humor), we will surf the lore.

What have you found to be a joy stealer during your writing journey? And a joy planter?

*photo by stock.XCHNG

  

I Had This List of Rules

I shot myself in the foot for years as a mother. I didn’t know I was doing it. It was as though I were running around crazy trying to be the best mom I could be while unknowingly firing arrows into the Achilles heel of my undoing.

I had this list of rules in my head.

You know…a good mom _______________. 

A bad mom...________________.

Sound vaguely familiar?

I work really hard not to pass judgment on others, but I spent a lot of time not only peering at the wooden plank in my eye but hammering nails in as I constructed a gargantuan tree house of lies, one mistaken truth impaling me at a time.

Here are some doosey misconceptions that made my list…

A good mom…has Band-Aids in her purse at all times.

A good mom…joins the PTO and attends every meeting.

A good mom…never has laundry stacked in piles that rival architectural wonders.

A good mom…doesn’t yell…ever.

A good mom…bakes realistic-looking animal and caricature cakes she found on Pinterest for her children’s birthday parties.

And then there’s the other pesky side of this list…

A bad mom…doesn’t know the lyrics to the shanty Sponge Bob Square Pants because why would she let her kids watch that show?

A bad mom…doesn’t stab herself in the finger, creating a blood-spurting hole while trying to separate Lego guy’s hair from his mini-Lego head with tweezers.

A bad mom…would never shove a bunch of pennies and loose change in an envelope when sending in money to her child’s class for end of the year teacher gifts.

A bad mom…wouldn’t be caught dead sprinting to slather coconut oil on a patch of psoriasis on her child’s leg, delaying the bus.

A bad mom…cannot for the life of her recount the names of the other students in her child’s class.

I had this list.

And if, by some fluke, I ever caught you doing or not doing one of the above, it might surprise you that I refrained from judgment. At least I didn’t judge in the way you’re thinking. I liked you—instantly. Inside I smiled because I just became a little more normal—more human. And you, in all your you-glory, helped me believe in grace again. Helped me to believe every time one of these tweezed out ideas flashed like a neon sign in my head that lists like these are pure malarkey.

I eventually found my way to the end of the list maze.

Know where I landed?

Here:

A good mom…loves her kids.

A bad mom…withholds love from her kids.

Want to know what I did with those other cockamamie lists?

I mixed the ingredients of a boxed Betty Crocker cake, baked it, shoved the little particles of good mom/bad mom thoughts between the spongy goodness, slapped some icing on the top, devoured the whole whopping ooey gooey cake pan, then I let it pass through me.

And now those lists are gone.

And I’m not about to go looking for them.

Have you ever done yourself a disservice by believing in a fabricated and skewed list as you tried to live well in a specific role in your life? 

“It’s How I Stay Sane”

I’ve never known how to answer people when they ask, “How is it possible you’ve written so many

novels?”

I stare blankly, scrunch my nose, then smile with that awkward over-animated frog face I make sometimes. Eventually, I come up with some goofy answer like “It’s what I do” or “My brain is crowded and it helps me get some ideas out.” I enjoy responding with a wink and a healthy bout of sarcasm. Ah…why we do what we do.

Not long ago, I heard the real answer. It came without pretense. I was, ironically enough, asking another mom and friend from the soccer team how she runs so many marathons (not to mention how she finals with crazy fast times). The woman is my hero. Before a game one day, she took off sprinting at the far end of the field in order to squeeze in a run. I had to double check with another parent on the sidelines that I wasn’t seeing things. I’m talking Road Runner fast.

I pulled this endurance guru aside and asked it straight, “How do you run like you do? What’s your motivation?”

She laughed. Then, without any added explanation, this mom of four young girls admitted, “It’s how I stay sane.”

Say no more. I got it.

I get it.

Call it an outlet, a passion, our oxygen, a stress reliever, a calling, or a vocation. Call it what you will, but I understand this intense level of commitment as a road to sanity.

Protecting the mind. Nourishing the soul. Counterbalancing all the grating and ugly we rub up against during our days here.

Every time I sit to write I’m restoring, reconciling—reinstating sanity. I’m making sense of a senseless world if only by piecing together letter after letter. Word by word. It’s healing for me—this practice of rolling out words like a red carpet, smashing them like an angry kid stomping on a sandcastle, stringing sentences along like fresh linen whipping in the breeze on a clothesline.

So, sure, there are plenty of reasons why I write and keep writing.

But I bet you can guess my latest response to inquiries regarding my commitment to writing.

Sanity, it’s a good thing.

How about you—do you have something you pour yourself into that ends up replenishing your sanity?

*photo by stock.XCHNG

The Care & Feeding of Your Imagination

Picture this…your imagination as a ravenous, Tasmanian devilish animal in need of your personal care. Only

you can tame this beast.

Everyone slips into a rut sometimes. It’s easy to

forget all that goes into the care and feeding of the great and powerful Oz…scratch that—imagination.

Whether your imagination falls into the category of playful puppy or sweaty-toothed madman (nod to Dead Poets) monster, I’ve got your creative go-to list right here.

Imagination 101

1. Take It for Plenty of Walks

Step outside your comfort zone. Go to a rodeo or stop by a Harley-Davidson store. Ride in the back of a police cruiser (I’m cannot be held responsible for any delinquent behavior that may incite you to get yourself there). Take a rockclimbing class. People-watch your heart out at the park or Trader Joe’s if you feel so inclined.

2. Brush & Groom It as Often as Possible

Use your hands. Create. Paint furniture. Build a birdhouse. Plant an herb garden. Doodle. Be artful. The physicality of creating churns imaginative thinking and opens the door for new thoughts to enter in.

3. Careful What You Feed It

Imagination has the potential to morph into worry faster than you can say Anxious Annie self-soothing by vacuuming down M&Ms. If you stuff the beast full of negative thoughts you are practically guaranteeing it won’t digest well. Imagination’s stomach will be sending false signals to the brain—tricking it into worrying about nonthreatening, unlikely outcomes. Make sure your kibble is full of worthwhile bits.

4. Know When It’s Most Apt to Bite

A keen awareness regarding said beast is the first step to training it well. Does it bite when scared? Will it attempt to leash and drag you down a mud soaked, thorny road if you leave it outside in the rain overnight? Your imagination craves care. If its ribs are showing do not be surprised if when you reach out to stroke its mangy head your ordinarily mild-mannered critter suddenly goes all Cujo on you.

5. Surround Yourself with Other Imagination-Feeders

Much like a trek to the dog park, go—go where the creatively passionate gather. Join Pinterest. Frequent museums. Network with excellent conversationalists. Advertise your love of books. Share the brain-bulging love. Imagination sharpens imagination.

6. Let It Out of Its Cage

Remember Tom Hanks with his memorable line, “There’s no crying in baseball” in A League of Their Own? I’m here to officially declare—there are no limits in imagining. Your imagination is desperate for plenty of run around time. You can’t risk stifling it.

Brainstorm often. Let your imagination run wild. Free with its jowls flapping in the wind.

What are some ways you are cognizant about the care and feeding of your imagination?

*photos by stock.XCHNG

This Land Is Your Land…

My husband and I decided to chill last weekend so we watched a movie. Hmm, that’s weird my post last week started this way. Okay, there you have it—we like watching movies. It’s our thing.

This time we chose Promised Land. While it didn’t blow me away, I was surprised to find it was one of the few movies my husband and I have ever paused repeatedly to discuss. A high-powered corporate natural gas company is interested in Pennsylvania farmland. And they have their ways about securing the deal. Town members don’t know who to believe—a small-money enthusiastic environmentalist who’s telling them the grave risks of fracking or the likeable, eager proponents of natural gas.

The movie reminded me of the immeasurable power land can possess.

As my husband and I raised points relating to the dilemma in the movie I thought of the book Mudbound. 

I thought of my childhood days paddling an old fence my dad fashioned into a raft. I spent hours on our pond, giving “tours” as I rattled off fabricated names of trees and flora and fauna encircling me in abundance.

I thought of fields covered in bloodshed—wars ignited over land ownership.

A scene came to mind of an ongoing spat the main character in the novel I’m reading (Where’d You Go Bernadette) is having with her neighbor. (The Hatfields and McCoys have nothing on them.)

I thought of how even within my affluent town people are judged based on where they live—down to the street and acreage.

I thought of the homeless and the untouchable pride some folks have in property.

So, did I like the movie? I thought it was good and it got me thinking and you know how much I love that.

As I closed my eyes and tucked into bed lyrics from grade school funneled through all I’d been sifting through…

“This land is your land. This land is my land.
From California to the New York island; 
From the red wood forest to the Gulf Stream waters 
This land was made for you and Me.

As I was walking that ribbon of highway, 
I saw above me that endless skyway: 
I saw below me that golden valley: 
This land was made for you and me.”

And I thought of how we’re always complicating things down here—throttling the goods, choking them in the muck and the mire. I dreamed of how it’ll all be different one day. To step on that land—that land made for you and me.

Have you ever contemplating the worth you assign to land? Does it matter all that much to you? Can you imagine what it might feel like to have your land be everything to you?

“The battles he'd fought were the kind nobody cheers you for winning, against sore feet and aching bones, too little rain or too much, heat and cotton worms and buried rocks that could break the blade of a plow. Ain't never a lull or a cease-fire. Win today, you got to get up tomorrow and fight the same battles all over again. Lose and you can lose everything. Only a fool fights a war with them kind of odds, or a man who ain't got no other choice.” 
― Hillary Jordan, Mudbound

*photo by stock.XCHNG

**thoughts & prayers are with OK!

This Is Somewhere Between 35 & 40

To chill out last weekend my husband and I decided to watch This Is 40. Can you say ego boost for the marriage? Sure we’ve had our fights, taken and thrown our share of verbal punches, but man, we began to feel like we belong on top of wedding cakes after watching that movie. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated some of the gut-real honesty in the comedy (?) and actually, I’m grateful it made us thankful for what we have.

Instead of continuing down this road of reflection, I thought I’d steer us in another direction today.

The movie did a great job of nailing some universal relationship blunders and comedic episodes. It also got me thinking about a typical day in the Miller abode.

And now you get to laugh at my expense.

A Day in the Life of This 37-year-old

This is 37…

Brush teeth only to squint when I notice the underside of my Olive Oyl upper arm swinging like a hammock

Wince at the unfortunate inbreeding of clothing spreading across my bedroom floor with the tenacity of kudzu

Apply makeup, confused why my eyelashes keep falling out above one eye

Race around to pack three lunches, dress for work, supply dog with food and water, and write five sticky notes—things I’m supposed to remember

Huh, that’s weird, when I put on my jeans the button popped off

Text husband sweet nothings (and sometimes nothing when I forget)

Order book from Amazon for next book club

Shoot an email to parents from daughter’s class (but end up spending over an hour hunting for where I stored their email addys)

Cringe when I bypass the toilet I refuse to clean because we’ll be getting a new one with the upcoming home reno

Clear dishes, pick up stray articles of clothing, wipe down counters (times each by 20 and you get the picture)

Count another “scrape” (as my daughter calls them) on my forehead when I look in the mirror

Listen to a chorus of “That’s not fair” and “She started it”

Pick a weed or two from the thousands infiltrating our flower beds

Drive girls from here to kingdom come (or rather until my butt goes numb)

Ask husband for tenth time this year if I’m 37 or 38. Have him help girls with math homework

Cook dinner and something with the color green in it so I can say I’m feeding the family healthy foods

Write, read, run, paint, or some combo of all four to preserve my sanity

Look for sticky notes I wrote earlier for twenty minutes only to find them stuck to the bottom of the recycle bag, saturated with milk and therefore illegible

Write new sticky notes

Kiss girls goodnight and smell their heads (this is a mom must)

Do something people call sleep but I’m not sure it counts because I wake up at the slightest sound and my kids have active imaginations like their mother (you know, the did I turn everything off? and what will I do if…that parade through my mind at night) so they like to visit for midnight cuddles

My kids aren’t the only ones who like midnight “cuddles.” Take care of him. Love how he takes care of me. (In-laws, pretend you didn’t read that.)

Count my big fat blessings.

Wake up and do some version of the above all over again.

~

Conclusion: This is exactly where I want to be right now. I love my age. Here's to 37!

Are you at peace with your age?