Depleted

My family is sick lately.

We’re not usually sick – we get regular flu shots and for the most part, we’re all rather healthy, even in the middle of flu and cold season. No one has severe allergies or any sort of “-itis” or medical condition. We’re really lucky like that.

But something shifted late last week.

My younger daughter has been a little out-of-sorts, crying, upset. My middle daughter collapsed from a mild case of heat stroke on a Sunday hike (she’s fine, thankfully, just needed a lot of R&R and water) and missed most of her classes on Monday.  My oldest daughter, already in pain from the final rigorous phase of her last month of wearing braces, felt like she was going to black out this morning and collapsed into a catatonic heap on my bed before school.

I wondered aloud to my husband, What is going on?

He didn't have to answer. I feel it, too.

We’re depleted, plain and simple. Depleted of the energy required to go through the motions of a regular schedule. Sick of waking up early and running and working all day long, only to have hours of homework after school (when they should be outside, playing, enjoying the real, natural world). Ready for the unstructured freedom of summer.

What is it about the sun that makes our minds wander?

At the start of every school year – or, really, a month into it, around October – we’re ready for the structure and discipline of winter. It seems as though the cold weather inspires a nose-to-the-grindstone attitude, followed by the rewards of winter holidays and New Year celebrations. And just past the new year, we have a plethora of faux-holiday days off that keep our stamina up. But after Spring Break, it’s all about the last few months of school, the “final push before summer.”

But still, I hate it.

This morning after I dropped Serena off at school, I watched Emme sleeping in her bed, mouth open slightly, dreaming, her braces enjoying their final weeks in her mouth.

It won’t always be like this, a voice inside my head admonished. Someday in the very near future, my little ducklings will have to finish up their little lives here with me and go off in search of their own paths. And at that time, will any of this rigor matter? What will missed homework and sick days and even school itself mean?

Again, I know the answer. 

Not much.

Watching Emme sleep, I recognized the trap we fall into, believing that we have to do this, or we have to do that. And I was a junkie for good grades and being the best at my job, etc. Just last night (and again this morning on the way to school), I lectured Serena on not falling behind in homework because the due date is several days away (and other homework tends to pile up, on top of it). To tell the truth, I got sick of hearing my own voice lecturing, mostly because I don’t get the point of so much homework.

Is it just me? Or are you feeling depleted too??

Transformation

Lately, I'm thinking about transformation.

Before I begin, though, I'd like to apologize for my spotty blogging over the past year. It's my intention to write more frequently now that I've finished the second draft of my novel - YIPPEE! Even though I have much more to do with that project (revisions galore, dipping my toe into the "next step" of publishing and getting it into the world, for starters), I have ideas for new projects and new ways to communicate. And one of the things I've really missed is blogging, which is more a form of journaling for me and allows me to connect more fully with YOU. 

And so we begin again.

Last weekend, I was in Ojai at my twice-yearly yoga retreat. My teacher Julian Walker calls them "transformation retreats" and, after 18 of these events, he has structured the 4-day/3-night weekends to allow participants to explore the inner depths of their personal journeys. The interesting thing is, sometimes we don't know we're actually transforming... and it takes a long time to recognize it ourselves, though the other participants can see it in within us.

Because I missed the last retreat in October, I hadn't seen many of my dear yoga retreat friends for nearly a year. In that time, I've finished my novel (twice, really, since I did a major revision for the 2nd draft), I changed my nutrition and got real about my physical form (I'll write a separate post on that one of these days), and I stopped allowing myself to believe the stories I'd made up about myself. You know the ones, about being "too old" to learn things, "I've always done things this way, so I'll continue on this unproductive hamster wheel," and other ridiculous ideas that our minds use as propaganda to keep us from pursuing our dreams. 

For me, this new thinking has resulted in a different-looking body, a strong will to forge ahead as a bonafide writer, a kick in the pants of what I thought being over 40 was supposed to look and feel like, the exploration of hobbies I've always wanted to try (singing on stage, for one), and a "what the hell?" attitude toward creating and living the life I want.

The transformation feels intrinsic to my well-being and I hardly notice it now. But when I first rolled up to retreat, fresh from my regular role as a mom who has to get shit done and live in the regular world, as my friend Evann shared with me later, I didn't seem the same. Yeah, I looked different, etc., but she wondered, "Where is Erin? Is she still there?"

Which reminded me that, even with transformation, we can still put up our defenses to deflect others' judgments. Sure, I was sparkly and self-confident, but I still wanted everyone to see me and LIKE me. It was seamless.

Over the course of the weekend, as I practiced silence and meditation and being in community with other people who are as committed to finding their best selves, I found myself again under the new layers I'd added to my "self." When I dropped under all of it, I knew again that I was so much more than even the transforming self I'd worked so hard to create. 

Once again, I knew I was infinite and I didn't need anyone to tell me that. 

I guess the thing with transformation is, we're really just stripping back the layers and finding who we already are. It's ironic to me that our most magnificent selves are the naked, vulnerable ones. 

Here I must quote Mary Oliver (yet again), from her brilliant poem "The Journey":

...and there was a new voice,
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company 
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.

And that life is your own.

Campfire Stories

For years, I have loudly proclaimed my extreme dislike of camping. When I was a kid, my family used to camp a lot. Mostly, we went to Sequoia and Cachuma, places where there are a lot of trees, a lot of dirt, strange wild animal noises in the middle of the night. My dad loved fishing and I think my mom kind of loved it, too, maybe because he enjoyed it so much. What I remember is the smell of canvas, a constant layer of dirt on the floor of the tent, and boredom. 

I'm sure there were things to do. I have a brother and a sister, for god's sake. We probably fought and made up, played card games and wandered around. My dad loves fishing, so we must have done that, too. But I never liked it, even when we'd meet up with other family members (those times were worse, in a way; I remember drunken relatives, freezing-cold swimming holes, no showers, peeing the woods... none of those rank high on my favorites list).

I may have also considered it a "poor man's vacation." I longed to stay in a comfy hotel room, with soft sheets and turn-down service and cheeseburgers that you could order at the pool bar and sign to your room. That sounded like a real vacation to me.

Fortunately, I married another non-camper and we've lived blissfully camp-free for 15 years. (In fact, the last time we went camping was while we were dating and we left the campsite in the morning swearing we'd never camp again.)

And then...we had kids.

For a few years now, my girls have been asking to camp. They saw it on "Parent Trap" and it looked pretty fun - outsmarting bears, hiking trails, swimming in lakes. Emme was in girl scouts, so she's camped once or twice, but anyone who's been a scout knows that a fair share of a scout camping trip is devoted to earning those dreaded badges and listening to boring stories and obeying someone's mom (who wishes she hadn't volunteered to go). But that's just not the same.

Last weekend, though, we went camping. It was the perfect set-up: just me and my girls with another mom and her three girls. Susan (my friend, the girls' mom) had all the gear and did the shopping; all I had to do was pack up my kids and then drive all 6 kids to meet her at Leo Carrillo (only 20 minutes away). How could I say "no"?

While the kids scattered about the campground in pairs (my three are the same ages as her three), exploring without the usual parental supervision and paranoia, Susan and I effortlessly set up camp. (We were next to a girl scout troop, naturally; but I suppose the 8 of us looked like our own "troop"...) I drank coffee from the stove while she busied herself with organizing and unpacking. In fact, it took me a while to just chill out and stop offering to help do stuff. 

"This is what I like to do when we camp," she said, "putter."

After a few hours, I understood what she meant. The kids roamed freely and I felt unfettered by the usual Saturday activities. I'd sit a spell, make a little snack, clean a dish, and pack up a few things. I watched a blue jay for a while, listened to birds singing, stared into the fire. I'd brought magazines and my Kindle and I had my phone, but I didn't really feel like doing anything. I just wanted to putter.

Later, after we went to the beach and walked in the sand for a while, we settled ourselves around the campfire, eating burnt marshmallows and talking about our favorite books and hearing scary noises in the trees and watching the squirrel vandals traipse through the campsites, searching for dropped morsels. One of the littles fell asleep and then the other one fluttered her eyes and an older girl yawned and we decided to go to bed. The last things I heard were the crackling embers of our fire and tent zippers and the older girls giggling in their tent and other conversations around the camp. And then I was blissfully asleep in the nurture of nature.

I'm not saying I was sad to go home and take a long, hot shower the next day. But it was a sweeter experience than I could have expected. That night, Raf and I threw some logs in the firepit and sat outside for a while watching the stars, then went inside to fall asleep on our own bed. It wasn't quite camping, but it seemed the best of both worlds.

Okay, I'm a Muse

(Sometimes I can't find the perfect shot to go with my words, but this one was kind of magical, too.)

Right, so I'm working on a book and I'm nearly through the second draft (don't get too excited because the second draft reads like the first draft should have... but I digress...), but I realized in the midst of writing about magical creatures that perhaps I've missed an important detail in my own life. 

I'm a muse.

Like those mythological sisters who inspired excellence and beauty and art from mortals, I'm on a mission to gently whisper inspiration to those who seem to be sitting on the fence between "reality" and their dreams. I try to tap them with a single finger and, in essence, push them over the fence and into the garden where their dreams can bloom.

These moments are even sweeter when the "mused" person is merely an acquaintance, someone who doesn't know my strengths or absurd desire to inspire. And I had another one yesterday, when author Christine Ashworth, the president of the Los Angeles Romance Writers Association, emailed me to say that a tip I gave her has inspired a change in her diet. (You know how much I love Kris Carr. I just can't keep my mouth shut.)

Christine gave me a shout-out on her blog, and she even spelled my name right (thanks, Christine!).

Inspiration is a funny thing. I can see when a person is ready for it and when (s)he isn't. And I'm not just a junkie for nutrition and green drinks, people. My super awesome friend Kendra - if you don't read her blog, you MUST! - went from telling me she's not a writer (pssshhaw!) to having 500 avid followers on her blog. And you know what? I begged her to start a blog.

And why? Why do I care what other people do? 

I guess that's the muse in me. I like to see the intersection of dreams and action. I like to be the catalyst for change. And I like to sit back and smile as I watch these tiny sparks of inspiration catch fire and become bright, blazing bonfires of creativity.

*sigh*

*smile*

Be crazy, sexy and inspired today. If you're reading this, you're already part of the inspiration revolution!

Awesome Loves Company, Too

Misery loves company. I've grown up with that phrase - I'm sure you have, too - and it's very easy to see examples all around us. Not only does it seem like miserable people find each other to commiserate, but terrible things seem to happen in bundles, as though one awful thing will cast a net far and wide, grabbing all the other calamities it can along the way. 

But one observation I've made over the past few years is this: awesome loves company, too. Just as much. Maybe even more.

Okay, okay. This is probably sounding a bit like that crazy self-help book The Secret and its promises that magical thinking can help you attract a good parking spot. But that's not a bad thing.

Hear me out... I've found that, since I've owned up to my own wishes and hopes and desires to be a better human on the planet, I've come in contact with other people who are similarly seeking their own awesomeness. And in pursuing that awesomeness, they ARE awesome, simply by the very nature of the pursuit. There is a spark in their eyes and a joyfulness in the way they talk about their lives and a willingness to take risks - and to fail, for goodness' sake - in order to find out what they're capable of. They are always learning, striving, interested... 

One thing I've learned about myself in making this observation -- hey, maybe I'm kinda awesome myself -- is in direct opposition to an old story I used to tell myself: "I'm not good enough." And I pushed it down by being "perfect" - sound familiar to anyone? I got good grades - no, not merely good, but the BEST - and struggled to put myself through college and to get a corporate job that paid well and to make all the "right" choices so that I would be "good enough"... 

But where does that get you when you've outgrown those ideas? Who are you if you no longer believe that story?

Well, you're awesome. And you're on your path. And that path will never end because you are too curious about its nooks, crannies and detours to worry about where it takes you.

Even knowing all of this, I must admit that, even now, I worry that I'm getting "too old" to write a book. 

Bollocks! my awesomeness says (and he/she sounds suspiciously like all the awesome people I've come to know in my life).

Here's to finding your unique awesomeness and allowing it to cast its own net far and wide, ensnaring a wide variety of awesome seekers who will encourage you on your way. Happy 2013!

Peeling Back the Layers

I found this pic
on www.yummly.com

Pardon the tiny, phallic picture. I just wanted to illustrate my point for the new year.

A few days ago, I went to my aesthetician Gia for my annual "winter blues" facial. Generally, after the holidays, I need a little pick-me-up in the form of a fake tan or a facial or a new cosmetic. I guess the excitement of the holidays and the promise of a new start makes me want to show off my enthusiasm for what's coming next. And when I look in the mirror, a sunny tan, glowing skin and/or a fresh lip gloss always makes me feel a little better.

Anyway, in lieu of the usual facial/microdermabrasion, I chose to go for a chemical peel. I won't go into the procedure or any of that stuff - if you're curious, Google is open 24/7 - but after 45 minutes, I was out of there and back in the world with a few words of caution to ensure the best results. 

The main one was: don't panic. Gia said, It will get bad... and then even worse... before it gets better. Way better. Trust the process. In 3 weeks, you'll be so happy with the results.

Okay, that was three days ago. I survived looking like a St. Tropez vacationer, and then an Oompa Loompa, and now my face is both tight and shedding skin like a snake. I need to go to Costco for something but I am reluctant to even leave the house because I look CRAZY.

However, I'm trying to remind myself that this process is identical to what I'm going through in my life, both creatively and personally. I'm shedding skin. I'm going through the process, trusting that what looks rather unappealing now (in the form of my 2nd draft, or the blank art-deprived walls of my house, or my winter garden, or sticking to a fitness routine, or any number of in-process projects on the inside of my brain) will pay off in spades once it's done. 

I may look like a withering old cobra now, but when this is done, I'm hopeful that my skin will appear as soft and buttery as the flesh of a banana... 

May your new year allow you to shed some old habits, too, so that you can emerge with a new "skin," too. 

xoxo

More Love

I am shaking with horror at the images from the Connecticut elementary school where an asshole decided to shoot at young children, their teachers and other staff who love them. Normally, I don't love to swear in this blog, but I am stunned. Those could be my kids, or yours, or perfect strangers - it doesn't matter. They are *all* our children. We are all connected. 

In that vein, I'm just taking a moment to remind all of us to LOVE more, every day, every hour and minute. Do what we love. Love who we want. Be the people we mean to be.