Not A Slice

I read something the other day that really bothered me.  It said, in effect, that motherhood was a small slice of womanhood.  It’s not that I didn’t understand the sentiment or respect this person’s opinion.  Motherhood does not happen for all women.  It is not wanted by all women.  And even for those who experience it, and love it, motherhood has boundaries of years and influence.  But motherhood being a slice of womanhood?  That simply does not ring true to me.  It seems so backward.  So dropped on its head.  We are women to be mothers.  Mothers in a myriad of ways.  But mothers.

I have many things I love to do in life.  I love to write.  I love to read.  I love to create things (unless they are meals).  I love to dance.  I love the outdoors.  I love naps.  Many of these things – in the moment – I enjoy more than “motherhood.”  And I don’t just mean that I love them more than the mundane details of motherhood: laundry, homework, meals.  That’s obvious and apparent.  The thing is, that sometimes I even love them more than the glorified aspects of motherhood.  More than convincing my children to love each other and seeing them treat each other respectfully.  More than cuddling before bed and hearing about the day’s adventures.  The truth of the matter is, I am not a natural for even this portion of motherhood.  I like solitude.  I like quiet.  I like spareness; clean and simple lines.  Motherhood is anything but solitary, clean or simple.  It is being held at any hour of the day by any number of people who insist they have the right to do so.  It is chaos operating within the bubble of a woman, rather than outside it. 

But even though I often enjoy other activities and uses of my time more than I love the life of a mother, I cannot agree that motherhood is only a slice of womanhood.  All that other, all that extra, all those things that I really want to prize – those are the slices, and they are interchangeable for each person based on who they’re meant to become.  Seeing these slices as the forest instead of the trees ignores an entire world beyond such a narrow operating lens.  It ignores the essence of what woman is.  I am glad women have education.  I am glad women have causes.  I am glad women solve problems.  I am glad women achieve and enjoy and live and hold freedoms.  I know the strengthening of woman has enormous impact on the world around her.

But I assure you, as my life has progressed, as I’ve sorted things both in and out of what I find necessary for each day, there is one thing that remains.  It is the hard thing, the thing I don’t always like doing, the thing that oftentimes seems completely beyond me.  It is motherhood.  And the truth of the matter is that I would drop all those starry ideals and experiences to hold and comfort a newborn in my arms.  A newborn that needed to be loved, and taught, and prized.  A newborn that needed a mother to realize that for that moment her life revolved around his.

And, in fact, I have.

It’s very trim and tidy to say this truth is mine alone.  That every woman finds her own center, be it business, talent, political cause, or child.  It is very trim and tidy to say I don’t believe in an absolute truth, in an absolute necessity of motherhood for women.  It makes a nicely wrapped package that people would happily accept.  And while I do believe that each and every woman has this decision to make, and that her choice should be respected when she does so – the truth I see is that motherhood for every woman is not a slice.  That motherhood pulses at the core and, given permission, can radiate outward like the sun, giving energy and meaning to all the rest.  It is the truth I feel, it is the truth, which for me, must be spoken.

The Rainstorm that Ended Winter

It went like this:  I don’t understand Iowa weather.  In Utah, when it rains – and especially when it pours – the entire thing exists as a spectacle.  And when the downpour ends, it’s most definitely over.  Which meant that after the massive downpour that arrived with morning had spit its last drops, I assumed the sun above us meant the storm had passed.  I told Grant and Spencer we would walk to pick the girls up from school.

A fourth of a mile later, and standing outside the classroom doors, thunder rumbled in the not so distant distance.  I looked at my watch, gauging how long I had until the girls came out of school and I was free to usher my little ducklings back home.  Time did not seem to be on my side.  Iowa weather seemed ready to mock me.

Winter had been long.  With a baby born in January, and a chill acknowledged by the entire nation, my first few months of the year had not been my favorite.  Add to this a few of life’s hiccups and it is safe to say my mood had been solidly dressed in the gray department for several weeks.  Day to day, I was fine.  At my core, I felt unhappy.  Growing up, I always referred to moments like these as “Montana moments.”  You know, those moments where you want to run away to Montana and live on a ranch.  Or to Australia.  Or to anywhere not in the middle of nowhere with a negative infinity wind chill (obviously I didn’t really get what Montana was).  Needless to say, Spring had been a long time coming, and I had not recovered from the dark.

After several checkings of my watch, the girls finally came out their doors – Ellie last of all.  This girl always manages to be the last one out of class, busy as she is with some project or other.  By the time I had her, tiptoes of water had begun to sprinkle our heads.  I strapped Spencer in the stroller beside Sterling.  We would need to be fast, and Spencer was anything but.  I had come equipped with three umbrellas, two of which were child sized.  Grant and Meg took hold of these while I opened the third over our double stroller.  I hoped it would keep the rain off Spencer and baby Sterling.  I was glad that at least the air and rain were warm.  We began our walk as the sprinkles increased.

Once, thirteen years before, when I graduated from highschool, I had danced in the rain.  My friends and I were on a summer trip to Vernal – getaway of the rich and famous – and while they all stayed inside and watched “Sixteen Candles” I went outside and twirled in a middle-sized rainstorm.  At the time, it seemed like it should be more meaningful than it was.  Like it would look good in a movie with a soundtrack running alongside it to prop it up, but in real life it just felt soggy and cold.  And meanwhile, I couldn’t think of very good choreography.  The dancing was flat, as was the rain.

Then, ten years before, there was a time I jumped in puddles with a group of friends from work.  I meant to impress a fellow coworker with my carefree, funloving ways.  I remember my shoes being slick, and him laughing the way I meant him to.  I remember the skirt I wore, and the hem being damp.  He married me, and he remembered the puddles.  So there is that.

Nine years ago, I worked in the drive-through of a quiet bank that often had no more than five customers a day.  From there I watched the Las Vegas monsoons of summer race through the empty parking lot.  They were the highlight of my experience, and yet I wouldn’t have dreamed of stepping outside in those crazy storms. 

And now, here I was, walking with five children young children through a storm just as massive as any of those.  Beside me, Ellie smiled excitedly, telling me how finally we seemed to have found an adventure.  She held the largest umbrella over her two younger brothers while I pushed our way up and down the hills that would take us back home.  Meg walked near us, opening and shutting her umbrella, alternating between peals of laughter and shrieks of fear.  Meanwhile, Grant held his umbrella tightly, crying with the sky.

And the rain kept coming down. 

To describe the rain, it must be said that I’ve never walked through such a storm.  At its fullest I found I could not open my eyes for the million of drops coming from the sky.  Water ran down our bodies and the trees and then sped along the sidewalk, flooding our shoes and ankles.  Like walking through sheets and sheets of waterfalls, our breath was caught time and time again. The children pressed onward, not knowing what else to do than listen to the crazy Momma who had brought them into this mess.  Step after step, we worked toward home.   

When we finally did arrive, there had been so much water that each of us had to change every stitch of our clothing.  (Except Spencer and Sterling, who only had wet bottoms where the water had kicked up beneath the stroller.)  The kitchen floor where we entered would need to be mopped up from all the moisture we brought in.  The makeup I’d worn that day had not only run, but also disappeared.  My hair hung in a sopping rope down my back.  The children, safe beneath a solid roof, giggled and smiled at what they’d gone through.

And so did I.  Because who needed  a rainstorm to get herself back from that awful Winter?  I did.  A rainstorm that pummeled and drenched.  That soaked and sopped.  That cleaned and washed away.  That made new. 

Thank goodness for rain.

Humility vs. Creativity

I used to dance growing up.  Let me make this clear without anyone feeling the need to pat me on my head and tell me I'm all wrong: I was not the best dancer in my class.  I just wasn't.  I am okay with that.  But let me make this also clear: it was very important for me as a dancer to believe that I was the best dancer in my class.

A little more confusion to go with that clarity:

Never at any time was I under the illusion that anyone else - teachers, classmates, small five-year-olds that stood on their tiptoes to watch us dance - never did I believe that any of those individuals thought to themselves that I was the best dancer in my class.  This, you see, was not the point.  After all, I knew I would not be accepted into any New York City ballet program at any time.  And I also knew I would not be cast as the starring role in my studio's upcoming performance.  Reality did not escape me on these points.

But always.  Always. I believed that deep inside me there was a magical core to my dancing that no one else had, and that this set me apart from anyone else on the floor - though more talented or skilled than me they might be.  I believed that - at my best - an outsider might look at me and say:  "Wow.  There is a definitive spark there that no one else has."  Or:  "She brings meaning to this dance in a way only she could."

In effect, there is a reason that this person is doing this - and it would matter if she disappeared and were replaced with another.  Perhaps she is not the best.  But she is necessary.  This moment of beauty would not exist in just this way without her here.  (And, of course, they would be saying that about every other dancer on the floor as well in regard to their own particular spark and meaning.)  And this is what I told myself over and over again, as I plie-ed (and, in the case of Julie's classes, tendu-ed) over and over again.

Okay, I didn't repeat that big long clunky paragraph to myself in the midst of a ballet exercise.  Instead I said:  I am something special.  I can create beautiful things that no one else can.  Because why else does a person push forward with a task if not to be able to say: no one else could have done this like me, and aren't you glad I did it?

In my own experience I have found this to be true of many creative endeavors.  In order to persist in a work a person needs to believe that deep underneath all the guts and errors they produce that they bring something necessary and vital to that field.  That somewhere deep inside them a genius is lurking.  An undiscovered genius whose starry insides could at any moment break out to blind the world with their awesomeness.

Certainly I have found this to be true in parenting.  Come on, everyone has to believe that they were meant to do great things for their children that no one else could quite provide, otherwise we'd all be hitting our heads against the wall for the many things we mess up.  I  have also found it to be true in my writing.  If I am going to write I have to truly believe that my writing is meaningful/beautiful/creative/lovely in a way that no one else's is in exactly that manner.  There must be words for me to speak back when doubt/discouragement/depression slink their way in and begin beating me over the head with a stick.

I must - in a sense - be egotistical and self-assured.  I must be able to say:  I am good at this.  Only I can do this.  I have something special here.  But mostly because I am frightened and unsure, and the only way to keep going is to convince myself that these things are true.

Which brings me to my point: Can creativity exist in a state of humility?
Which brings me to my second point: Creativity MUST be capable of existing in a state of humility.

Because at the end of the road there is always the truth:  The failed audition.  The jumbled feet in an intricate jumping exercise.  The form rejection letter delivered from multiple agents.  There is always that knowledge lurking just underneath that all these grand things you're telling yourself may not be true.

And in that moment of realized humility... when it becomes apparent that flaws exist, and Tolstoy is quite extraordinarily out of reach (not to mention a million other published authors and their achievements)... it becomes important to be able to say:

I am not the best.  No one appreciates my special spark right now.

But I will still keep going.  I will pick myself up.  Dust myself off.  Take a deep breath.
I will try again.

It is in these moments of realized humility that you become the person who keeps on going, or the person who gives up.  Creativity in the face of humility is creativity with strength.  Creativity that has been doused in a bucket up water and insists on continuing to exist as a flame is creativity that will eventually produce.  Dare I say that without humility creativity can never really come in to its full self?

I always knew I wasn't the best dancer in the world, but I also knew - deep inside - that I was.
They were/are both true.

Humble/Proud.
Sure/Unsure.
Brilliant/Ordinary
Me

On Writing.

For some reason, it makes me uncomfortable to talk about my writing with others.  Perhaps this is because it doesn't seem like writing is "official" if it only exists on a home computer.  Perhaps this is because it's important to me, and I can't quite bear the scrutiny of outside evaluation on its somewhat nebulous existence. In explanation, I've compared my writing to quilts.  For a quilt-maker, regardless of skill level, the finished product of your efforts will be appreciated by others.  Quilts are warm.  Quilts are useful.  Unless they're itchy, you can always find a person willing to take a quilt off your hands.  This does not prove true for pages of stories stored away on a hard-drive.  All that creativity, effort, and thought - and if it's not ready for the real world - then it's only ready to be stored away as "practice."  And so, despite the fact that I do write, and that I do write regularly, I don't really talk about it.  I keep it away inside myself.  (Which is - you know - kind of the opposite of the point of writing.)

Recently I read a blog post from a published author that really made a difference in my writing outlook.

Link here: http://kristincashore.blogspot.com/2012/12/pictures-of-book-being-made.html

After reading it, one of the things I realized was that I needed to write about my writing experiences.  Not only will it help me remember them, and crystallize the things I learn along the way, but it might also be meaningful to others.

And most of all, I need to admit out loud that I am a writer.  Especially if I ever want to actually be one.

I Won A Contest, And So Can You!

Did you know I never win contests?  Never, ever, ever, ever, never, ever, ever, ever, never.  It's true.  But recently, I won a contest.  Yay!  And it was for a book!  Yay! 

Do you need proof?  I did.  (I was pretty sure some other "Jamie" won it, but no, it was me.)  If you don't believe me, look HERE .

This contest was held by my writing friend Elena.  She often has book contests, and since I've even won one now, you could too.  So, you should continue to check her blog out for future contests, good poetry, and other such wisdom.

Anyway, after I won this contest (and I was VERY excited) I got even more excited because someday soon I get a book in the mail.  Oh, wonder of wonders.  Like really.  Like this is making my week ten times better.  Mail, and a book.  What could be better?

And then, I kind of felt lame, because pretty much this is just my friend - not some random stranger - buying me a book.  And I don't need her to buy me books to be my friend.  After all, she's an amazing writer and sometimes she lets me read her stuff.  (Like "Thrushbeard" - my most favoritest - excellent grammar here - unpublished book ever.  Someday it will be published and I can re-read my store-bought copy instead of wishing I didn't politely delete the electronic version she sent me.)

So, I thought again of how excited I was to get the book, and I thought again of how my friend was buying me this book, and I thought about getting the book, and I thought about my friend sending it, and then I thought about it again, and really I was thinking about it a lot, and then I thought... I know, I'll pass it along.  (Not the book she's sending me.  Come on.  I won that in a contest, and it's my only prize EVER.  No touching, please!)  I mean, I'll pass along the whole "mail and a book" good thing along.

So, here's the deal.  Here's my book contest:

Rule #1:  If you are reading this post you MUST enter this contest.  Especially if you are my friend or a family member or a stranger or something (did you notice that's all of you??? I am sooo smart) and it seems weird to enter some contest where I would send you something.  This is to make me feel better, and that is what friends are for.  So, ENTER THE CONTEST, okay?  (There is a reason E is so bossy, you know.) 

Rule #2:  To enter the contest you have to push that obnoxious "follow me" button on the sidebar... because I can be a little ego-centric too, you know?  Actually, you don't have to push the button.  I don't really care.  But, it would be fun to see your picture and stuff.  And to know who was stalking me and stuff.  Okay, I know no one's stalking me.  Whatever.

Rule #3:  You get to pick which of my 10 favorite books you would like to read.  (Okay, I have more than 10 favorite books, and I definitely have more that are MORE my favorite.  But this is what I could think of tonight at 8:41 pm... so this is the list of books you could get from me.)  Pick a book, and if you win, that is what I will send you.

Rule #4:  You should tell me one of your favorite books.  Or not.  You know, I don't seem to be too rule-oriented tonight, so I guess you can do whatever you want... except not enter (and that includes you, Elena).

Rule #5:  You have to enter by next Wednesday.  That's the 6th of July. 

Rule #6:  I am NOT using one of those fancy number randomizers.  Like Elena, I will pick names out of a bowl.  This is the best way to pick winners.  I know, because it is the only way I have EVER won ANYTHING.  Remember?  So, if you want this to be perfectly fair or something... too bad.

Rule #7:  (Apparently I am rule-oriented tonight.)  You have to live somewhere that amazon.com can ship to.  I am not paying for shipping, only for books.  I am lame that way. 

Here's the list of books to pick from:

1.  Edward's Eyes -  by, Patricia MacLachlan - short and sweet, makes you cry, a perfect novel in my opinion.

2.  Mrs. Mike - by, Benedict Freedman - a standby re-read, romance, adventure, wisdom, a higher quality "Christy."

3.  These Is My Words - by, Nancy E. Turner - actually started reading this again right after I finished it.

4.  Crooked House - by, Agatha Christie (Actually this was supposed to be "Man in the Brown Suit" but that is out of print... STUPID.  So, this is my 2nd favorite Agatha Christie.) - I re-read "Man in the Brown Suit" once a year.  Look for it at your library!

5.  Avalon High - by, Meg Cabot - My favorite Meg Cabot.  King Arthur tale in highschool romance fashion.

6.  Howl's Moving Castle - by, Diana Wynne Jones - Every year on this one too.  I wish I could write like this.

7.  A Town Like Alice - by, Nevil Shute - A more serious read.  But one I've read lots.

8.  The Goose Girl - by, Shannon Hale - Everyone needs a good fairytale.

9.  Lonesome Dove - by, Larry McMurtry - Favorite quote from a headstone:  "Cheerful in all weather.  Never shirked a task.  Splendid behavior."

10.  Emily of New Moon - by, L.M. Montgomery - SOOOOOOO much better than the Anne series.  And it's only 3 books!

11.  Daughter of the Forest - by, Juliet Marillier - Made me cry.  A good fantasy read.

(I know that's not 10.  But I forgot about "Daughter of the Forest" until now, and it belongs on the list.  What?  Do you want me to kick "Lonesome Dove" off?  I think not!!!)

So, there you go Vern.  ENTER or risk deportation from my blog.

the end

wait.... I forgot two books (someone stop me now)

Addendum #1  Bird by Bird - by, Anne Lamott - a writing book, a life book, a good book.

Addendum #2  Gift from the Sea - by, Anne Morrow Lindbergh