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.

Christmas is for little kids and big kids...and Moms

If only we would have had Light Sabers this cool when I was a kid.

The world has stepped it up since the days of empty paper towel rolls and sound effects produced by gargling your own spit.

In spite of the tsumami of illness which nearly wiped out our whole family - Christmas 2014 delivered her magic.  

She brought Sophie a new kitten which was discovered prematurely at 5 am by a girl who just couldn't wait.  

Light sabers for our young Jedi which he wielded all day long.  Beckam had no trouble finding an opponent.  No matter their age, everyone's eyes light up when presented with a glowing sword.

For Pepper, a karaoke machine and Elsa dress, which she slept in.  She is now right back at it with her microphone.  Kids pick up right where they left off.

Cousin Max and Beckam dueling at Grandma's house.

Yes, Jedi wear their blankies as capes.

Dad Vader scared Beckam

Hulk hands bigger than her head.

"This Rapunzel hair is too heavy"

Reading her Christmas list to Santa

The after math

My mother has 7 children.  We are all legally adults.  She's been making our Christmas magical for 35 years.
She is a single parent.
She is not rich.
She does not let this stop her.
A stockpile of presents spreads 5 feet out from her tree, and it's all for us.
I know why she does it.
Christmas is the one day a year a mother can indulge.
She can try to give her kids everything.  Of course this is impossible, and of course they don't need it.

I can see her giddiness at knowing she got a good one.  Her gift caused our mouths to hang open and eyes to pop out.  Maybe a tear or two slipped out.
She goes to work every day all year, so she can give the excess (plus a little more) to us.
To her it is a privilege, as it is for me, to care for her children.

Still a kid

Brad, me and Andrew.  at Grandma Shannon's house. She still goes all out even though we are in our 30's

Merry Christmas

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.

BOLD FONT

I FAILED TODAY.

TYPED A RESUME INSTEAD.

THERE ARE TOO MANY #!*$ING FONTS ON THE PLANET.

WILL TRY AGAIN TOMORROW

AHHH!

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......