When life gives you lemons…


Last fall, a bedroom opened up in our house. This was not a happy event. In fact, it was a heartbreaking one, and as I’ve mentioned previously it means that Cane is now living elsewhere 50% of the time.

Because we are still trying to define and understand and figure out how to respond to what is happening, a reality that seems in constant flux, we don’t know when or how Cane’s daughter will live here again. Because my twins are graduating from high school this spring, things are up in the air with them, too. We really don’t know right now where any of the three will be living come September. There are all kinds of endings/beginnings and upheaval and loss and possibility and dread and anticipation swirling around us.

twins in NICU

In some ways, things are not unlike this time, when much felt unsure and unknown.

For a short time the unoccupied room remained as it had been, a chaotic mess, a concrete representation of so much gone wrong. I could feel the weight of it every time I passed its door. When it became clear that the room would not be occupied for some time, I decided to clean it out rather than let it remain a shrine to our collective pain. I boxed up belongings and swept the floor and opened the windows to let in fresh air. There was little solace in it, but it felt right.

Except, the room itself still felt all kinds of wrong. When we first moved here, it belonged to my daughter, who painted it a fairly awful shade of brown. (We didn’t say that when she painted it, other than to each other. I think it’s safe to say it out loud now.) Cane’s daughter didn’t want us to paint it when she took over the space, so the color remained. After clearing the room of its belongings, despite all my cleaning, it was still a sad, depressing, dank, poopy-brown cave.

So, over winter break, Cane and I painted the room.

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Donning the full-body suit to paint the popcorn ceiling with a sprayer.

The transformation felt miraculous. It changed almost instantly from a dark hole to a clean, clear canvas.

Not that I captured any good photos of it...

Not that I captured any good photos of it…

What to make of it? Maybe a sewing room? A guest room? Somehow a combination of both? Something, I thought, that can easily be dismantled when we need it to be a bedroom again.

On craigslist I found an Ikea table just like one we’d once owned with large sides that can fold down. I thought I could use it as a sewing/crafting table that would tuck up nicely when guests were staying in the room (and that could easily be stored until another room might open up to become a sewing/guest room). When I put the table right in front of the window, though, with its wings spread wide, I soon realized I wouldn’t want to take it down or move it to a side wall, where it would need to be if we were to put a bed in this space.

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The reality of our new normal was sinking in about the time I put the table there, and it felt terrible. The empty spaces in my days filled up with hard truths that left me sad and angry and lonely. One of them is that the room isn’t going to be needed as a bedroom for a long time and that we have no clear pathway back to living together.  Another is that we rarely have guests, and that’s not just because we didn’t have a guest room. I admitted to myself that the existence of one wasn’t likely to change that, any more than keeping it an empty bedroom would heal Cane’s daughter or us. I felt I needed to ground myself in what I know to be real, and I didn’t want our home to feed any fantasies about our life together.

So, I let go of the bedroom and the guest room and embraced the creative studio. The idea that if we couldn’t have the family life we’d  hoped and worked for, at least I might have a comfortable, light-filled work space brought some small comfort. With the room cleared of everything but the sewing table, I decided it would be nice to also have a large work surface at standing height. (After making a standing desk at work this fall, I am now a big fan of standing desks.)

At Ikea with a friend, I found some trestle table legs that allow for adjustable height.

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Those, I thought, could be used in any number of ways in the future. So, it would be OK to buy them. The Ikea table tops were a bit spendy, though. One of those seemed like too much of an investment for a table I might need to take down in a few months. I thought about a sheet of plywood, and then Cane had the idea of using a hollow-core door for the table top. It’s perfect. Large and light-weight and inexpensive.

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It will be much easier to cut out fabric on this table. In addition to storing my cutting mat, it’s also holding my scanner and a paper cutter and some other doo-dads.


Stained the door, but left the legs just as they are.

For the first time in my life, I have a “room of one’s own” just for creative work.



As you can see, it is rather spare. It is still a concrete representation of how things are.  Despite my efforts to create a space easily dismantled, it feels wrong, somehow, to create it at all, to invest anything in it, to do more to make it mine. It feels disloyal, or cruel, or as if I’m giving up on or turning away from a young person who needs support, the child of the person I love. I’ve wondered if I am. I’ve worried, working on this post,  that my intentions will be misinterpreted, that others might think my actions say that I don’t want her back in my home or that I’m glad she’s gone.



What does it mean if I make this space pleasing or celebrate it in any way?

I am not.

However, I don’t want to pretend that I haven’t found pleasure in this space. I’m discovering how nice it is to be able to leave a project out half-finished and to be able to return to it without having to haul everything out and re-find my place in it. I’m discovering that having a dedicated room to create and work in is affecting my process and what I’m able to do. Those things feel good, and they help me tolerate all the things that don’t. As I putter with paper and thread and photos, I feel myself healing from a variety of wounds. I am not glad the room became empty, but I am glad to feel my strength returning. I know I need that in order to work toward being able to live again with Cane’s daughter, to create a new home in which all of us can feel safe and be healthy.

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I’ve always hated the “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade” thing. Looking for the silver lining in any dark cloud is a good thing, sure, but I’ve always taken this aphorism to mean that we can turn whatever it is that’s bad into something all good. I thought it said we can (and, it goes without saying, should) just repurpose the sour fruit life’s given us into a treat devoid of any burden or disappointment–and that’s always seemed like a nice but false idea to me.

lemons retro

It’s just not this simple.

This room, though, is helping me see that it’s possible to take a more nuanced view. Lemonade, no matter how sweet, always has a little bite to it, doesn’t it? With a lot of work, we can reduce the lemon to its juices and temper its tartness with sugar, but we can never entirely remove its tongue-puckering qualities. So it is with this room.

Getting use from the room feels better than letting it sit empty. Being real about where we are and accepting what is feels better than living in denial or suspension, putting our lives on hold while we wait for things to get better or struggle (futilely) to make them something they can’t (right now) be. We’ve been holding our breath like that for nearly two years, and I need to exhale. Yes, I have found pleasure and joy and healing while working here, which is certainly sweet, but the tang of our losses keep those refreshments from ever sliding easily down my throat.

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Lemonade sign photo credit: amy.gizienski via Compfight cc

Wednesday Words 1.27.16

"Libraries raised me."
 --Ray Bradbury



Photos taken from the ground-floor lobby of the magnificent public library in Vancouver (WA).

Let’s talk about libraries. Do you have a favorite one? Do you have a good library story? A favorite quotation about libraries? What do libraries mean to you?

Wednesday Words 1.20.16: A creative recipe

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Take bits and pieces of one poem (“For You, Friend,”) from a favorite book:

Ted Kooser's Valentine

Add a favorite photo:

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And a stir with a set of thrift-store letter stamps:

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The photo is of my grandmother.  Of course, I never knew her when she looked like this–and yet, this image is as iconic to me as any I’ve seen of Bowie or Rickman in the past week. Something to remember, I think, as we collectively mourn:  That we are surrounded by those who stroll along on the outside of time. They don’t have to be famous for us to bask in their light.

Better late

Christmas 2009, Cane and I didn’t have much money, so we agreed to make gifts for each other.

Because one our favorite things to do was cook a good meal at home, I decided to sew him an apron. I hadn’t sewn much since my early 20s, and I struggled more than a bit with the project. I’d chosen a lightweight denim for the apron (so it would be appropriately manly), and it took forever to turn the straps’ long tubes of thickish fabric right-side out. The night before the present needed to be done, I realized I needed a D-ring to join the neck straps, something I didn’t have because I didn’t carefully read the list of materials/directions until then.

So there I was, surrounded by fabric snakes and worn out from pulling together my second Christmas as a single mom with two 10-year-olds and limited money, time, and energy. When I realized that even if I stayed up very late to finish sewing/turning the last strap the apron still wouldn’t be finished because of the dang D-ring, I gave up. I wrapped up what I had along with a note promising to finish the apron as soon as possible.


Struck out on the apron, but I scored major Mom-points by finding stilts that year.

Fast-forward to the summer of 2011:  As Cane and I packed up our belongings to move into a home together with our children, I found the still-unfinished apron project. When I showed it to Cane, he just laughed. Several times in the years since then I’ve rediscovered it while cleaning/organizing my fabric stash. Each time I felt badly about it but never kept it out to finish it. Later, I thought. When I have more time. Once, in the midst of a purge-all-the-things mood, I almost got rid of it. But I couldn’t bring myself to put it in the discard pile. A few years ago I admitted defeat by buying Cane a nice apron for his birthday, and we all laughed about the apron I never finished.

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Here he is wearing the purchased apron just last week. Yes, those are wiener dogs all over it.

The holiday season this year was a trying time for us. Because of issues with Cane’s daughter, we spent the last part of Thanksgiving weekend setting up an apartment for Cane to live in during the times she is with him. Because she divides her time evenly between her parents, that means that Cane is now living elsewhere for half of our days.

Splitting up your household is hard at any time of the year, but it is especially hard during the holidays. December is also the month of my birthday, which brings with it all the kinds of thoughts/questions about life that one tends to have once one has passed the “fun” birthdays. Somewhere in the midst of that, I came across the unfinished apron again.

It punched me in the gut a little.

It seemed far too emblematic of too many things. Would our life together have turned out differently if I’d been the kind of person who was better about finishing what I start? What if I were the kind of person who was better able to judge my own resources (or lack of them)? Maybe if I understood what things required, if I were the kind of person who carefully read directions before diving in to a project, I would have been more successful with the most important project of all, the one of making a stable home for our children?

I remembered the early days of my relationship with Cane, how wildly hopeful and optimistic and in love we were, despite good evidence both of us had that such things were not enough to stave off heartache of all kinds. We were especially hopeful and optimistic about making a new family, together, with our children–a kind of family that neither of us had been able to create for them with our original partners.


Our daughters making cookies for Santa, Christmas 2010.

Contemplating the apron parts I’d found buried in my fabric stash, I considered finally getting rid of them for good. Clearly, they were from a different time in our lives. Perhaps it was the kind of weight I should shed. Maybe holding on to them would be clinging to a part of our past I needed to release? Maybe finally discarding them would clear out psychic and emotional space that could be filled with new and better things?

I couldn’t do it, though. It felt like getting rid of the apron would be abandoning our hopes and dreams–that it would be abandoning those sweet, naive, tender-in-spite-of-experiences-that-should-have-hardened-us people we once were–and I couldn’t do it. I decided that, instead, it would be better to finally finish the apron and give it to Cane on Christmas morning, a symbol not of our failures but of our hope that things will eventually get better.

Because of our new living arrangements, I finally did have time on my hands to finish the apron. I underestimated, though, how much his absence would alter the fabric of our lives, and how that loss would leave me feeling so listless (when I wasn’t angry or sad) that I couldn’t settle down and focus on much of anything.

Come Christmas Eve, the apron was closer to being done but still not finished. I wrapped it up again with a D-ring this time and a note promising to finish it before the end of our winter break. My daughter groaned when he opened it, but Cane just laughed.

I told him I’d wanted to do something creative with the pocket, but wasn’t sure what he’d like. Together we came up with the idea of using pockets from a pair of Levi’s on the apron, and we had fun one afternoon choosing a pair at a thrift store. I got the side straps attached (although badly, as I’ve lost the pattern directions) and removed the Levi pockets from the jeans and was sure I’d finish before my new deadline. But then there was a blow-out at the end of break (a regular part of the cocktail that is blended family life with a twist of mental illness), and I didn’t finish the apron before our break ended. There was still no neck strap.

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One design iteration we considered. Decided it just looked weird.

The idea of finally saying F&¢K it! to the whole thing–apron, home, life together–seemed like it might be a reasonable response. Maybe a healthy one. Maybe I just never had what it takes to pull any of this off, I thought. Maybe I should let go of the apron and all it represented. I set it aside and went back to school.

But then one of the nights Cane was gone, I started playing around with the pockets. I put one on the apron.

Another night, when he was home, I told him I’d given up on the neck strap with D-rings. Said the apron was his and I didn’t care about it fitting anyone else, so I didn’t need to make it adjustable. I measured the length of neck strap I needed for the apron to fit him, and I pinned it in place. No D-ring!

This past weekend, while he was away again, I removed the straps I’d sewn on badly over break. When I first realized I’d messed that up, I thought I’d just leave it. I thought it mattered more to just get the thing done than to have to tear it apart and re-attach them. Doing that meant ripping out the entire seam along each side of the apron. But I did it anyway and figured out my own way to attach the straps correctly.

When I had time to re-sew, I only had red thread at my disposal. I decided to go with it, and then I kinda liked it, so I made it look like I’d done it on purpose and sewed a second seam mostly for looks.

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Then I decided that one jean pocket (which we’d finally decided upon) didn’t look quite right all by itself. I thought the apron needed more faded denim for visual balance. That meant more tearing to remove the original apron pocket I’d sewn on back in 2009, so I could replace it with one made from the thrift store jeans. I spent a good part of Friday night and much of Saturday morning finally finishing the apron.

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I’m not over the moon about this project’s design. To be honest, I think it’s kinda goofy-looking in a cheesy 70’s way. But we’re children of the 70s, so what-the-hay. On Sunday Cane came back home, and we did what we like to do best this time of year. We lit candles and turned on some music and cooked a nice meal together. Cane wore his finally-finished apron, and all felt right in our world. (Or at least, all felt OK enough to feel good.)

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He wanted that top pocket just for his cell phone.

He wanted that top pocket just for his cell phone. He’s a modern old dude.

So often we invoke the words “better late than never” to mean that it’s better to get something late than not to get it at all. These days, I’m thinking about just the first two words:  better late.

If I’d finished that apron in the first days of 2010, as originally planned, it wouldn’t look the way it looks today. It would have looked nice in a pretty safe, plain way, but it wouldn’t have our personal style stamp on it. If I ‘d finished it in 2010, the apron would have a meaning, but not the one it has now. Watching Cane wear it while stirring pasta sauce and sipping a glass of wine, I hoped that this apron has become something that truly does embody our dreams and how we work toward realizing them. I hoped that years from now it will still be hanging on a hook in our home, something we’ll never be able to bear discarding, and that it might be the first of many other things in our life that will be better late, too.

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Wednesday Words 1.13.16:


Most days seem little more than furious treading,
all arms and legs churning just to stay afloat,
but there are moments when I am able, briefly,
to stop kicking, kicking, kicking my way through.

Body still in an amniotic calm, eyes open
to the balm of sky and light, I recognize the sea
of these years as the place I have spent
my whole life swimming toward, from the time

I was little more than a seed tethered
by one gnarled root, and all I want is to float here
forever, feel the waters of these days with every inch
of skin, my spirit buoyed and rocked by them.

But now, as then, my head turns to the shadow
of the coming shore. As I measure the distance
between myself and that inevitable coast,
unable to deny the currents of time or the futility

of treading, the lilting waves rise into swells
of sweet pain, salt flooding the gates
of my eyes, breaching the barrier of my lips,
and my animal limbs begin their windmilling once again.

We swim above boulders of loss,
our bodies sliding through
the mute shadows they cast.

I once thought we might move beyond
them, but I now suspect
they stretch to the opposite shore.

I remember a time
when this sea was a playground
and we frolicked with abandon.

Now it is an open plain we must cross;
vast fields of water
that mirror the sky’s infinite tides.

Too often we are caught
in separate currents, but still
we swim here together,

our children a tiny school of trailing fish.

Sometimes I think my love
for them might drown me, my body
slowly sinking beneath the weight of it,
bulky as a box I cannot get my arms around.

Sometimes I imagine letting go of it,
setting it upon the roll of a wave
and watching it drift until it looks no
bigger than a ball, a bottle, a doll.

Sometimes I wish I were a mighty ship,
with a sharp bow that could slice neatly through
these waters that constantly surprise me,
my steel hull an impenetrable hold
in which to store it.

But sometimes I know
this love is not something I carry
but something I am, and I am more
the water I swim in than anything else,
more than flesh or blood or bone,
more than dream or memory or desire,
and my skin is more membrane than wall,
and the sea around me, within me, stretches
as far as I can see, and I can see
that it cannot be contained or diminished,
this body that holds me, holds me holding my burdens,
the precious cargo of my existence,
and I know that what holds me will not drown me.


This morning I was looking in a book for a poem I might share here today, and I found this one tucked into its pages. I wrote it years ago, when in the thick of mothering, but I’d forgotten all about it. I know there are other poems I’ve lost. Perhaps I’ll find them again. Perhaps not. I’m sharing it here because this is my notebook, and this is one I’d like to keep.

I’m feeling a bit full of thoughts about writing these days, and about what creative work I do and why. My windmilling is winding down; my babies turn 18 in weeks, and in months they will graduate from high school. When they were born, I had roughly 6, 752 days to spend raising them. Now I have fewer than 200. I cannot believe we are so close to the shore that was only a shadow when I wrote this poem. So many days now, it feels like all I can see. I wonder what will fill my days (mind, heart) when I finally land there.

Why click Publish?

In October, a person I lived with hit me. On purpose. It was an event that was both the climax of one narrative, and, perhaps, the precipitating action of another.

Ever since, I have been struggling not only with living this narrative, but also with knowing how or whether to tell the story, to put it into words to share with others.

Like Joan Didion, I’ve long thought that the primary reason I write has been fairly simple and very personal:

“I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.”

Publishing–the act of putting our writing out into the world–is an entirely different thing.

When one writes primarily for personal reasons, as I do, whether or not to write is a simple question with a simple answer:

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When one publishes, when one has at one’s hands the means for easy publication (as we all do now), the question is much trickier.

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And even this doesn’t really capture it. Far more often than the chart would indicate, the question needs the word “possible” and my answer is actually “maybe.” The idea of my own gain is always mostly abstract because for me, both writing and publishing are entirely optional. I made choices early in my life to make it so. Though there was much I didn’t understand (about everything), I somehow knew (fiercely, without doubt) that I did not want to tie my writing to my livelihood. Not “real” writing, anyway–the words I cared most about, the ones I set down in order to find out what my experiences mean.

I’ve experienced traditional publishing, but probably because I did not care much about influence or money (and subsequently didn’t get much of either from it), my experiences with traditional publication felt a little hollow, a little flat. (Not unlike losing my virginity, which mostly caused me to wonder what all the fuss had been about.)

Blogging has been a different thing entirely.

To carry my questionable metaphor further, writing and (traditional) publishing are, it seems to me, fairly masturbatory acts, at least for the writer.

Yes, yes, yes, I know:  Published words can have profound effects on readers. But in the traditional model of word sharing, those effects are rarely known by writers in any but the most abstract of ways.

Blogging–the small, old-school blogging of the type I do here–is much more a two-person affair with the potential for intimacy. The answer to the question of Why publish? is different here. I’m under no illusion that publishing isn’t still very much about my own desires and gratification, but the notion that putting words out there will do something for someone other than just me is more than an abstraction. And what we create here is just that:  what we create. Whatever happens in this space is as much about readers as it is me. My words are the opening of a conversation, not a lecture.

So, the question of whether or not to publish is a quite different one when the venue is a space such as this. To answer it, I must consider what value my words might have to others, what benefits my partners–my community–might get from them. I have to weigh those potential benefits against possible costs to myself and others, which are so often those I know (sometimes intimately) IRL. It’s rarely an easy equation to balance when the topic and the truths are hard.

So. Do I tell the story of being hit? I’m down in that last big bubble on the chart, where my words are hanging out in a drafts folder. There are things I want to say about mental health care. I know that shared experience is always valuable, but I don’t know how much value my words on this might create. I don’t know how much sharing those words–even in a space as small as this one is (but which could blow up in size at any time)–might cause more harm than good, particularly to some I love. Though I boldly claimed voice as my word for the coming year just days ago, I have more questions than answers about how to use it. That’s why I’m doing here what I always do when I write:  I’m writing entirely to find out what I’m thinking. And by publishing here, I’m letting you know that I’d like to know what  you think, too.

Hope we can talk in the comments.

Wednesday Words: 1.6.16


To Her Absent Husband

I try to love you with light hands,
fingers cupped enough to hold you,
yet open, so you won’t mistake them for a cage,
but no matter how I curl them, too often
they are empty and you are gone again.
You seem to me then like a suit on a hanger,
or a car idling at a curb, no driver in the front seat.
I walk into love’s closet and bury my face in the suit’s jacket, inhaling
your scent, but the empty sleeves hang slack above my hips.
In the car, I rest my cheek against the cold window,
the chorus of a song you once gave me playing
in my head, wondering if you still listen to that music.

When I am away from you, my wonderings bloom
like weeds in the field of space between us, and then our marriage is a kite
I am running with to hold aloft.

I am tired of running, of looking backwards to see
if the kite is still there, bobbing in our infinite sky.
I need to let go of the string.
It is a beautiful kite, and I love it.
I love it.
But I don’t want a kite.
I want, perhaps, a glass of water.
A letter to read by the bank of a river, or in front of a fire.
A pair of warm socks.
I want something I can put on, hold close, drink from.
There are many things I might be for you,
would be for you, forever:
a sheer curtain, the limb of an oak, a painting
on the wall of a favorite room.
I do not want to be a shovel or a boot.
I do not want to be a cracked teacup, a scratched record,
a shutter banging against the house on a cold night.
I will not be the dog who whines outside your closed door.

Poem is mine. Photo is from: ** RCB ** via Compfight cc

Recently, someone asked about posting their own Wednesday Words and linking to them here. Please let me know in the comments if that’s something you’d like to do. And if you do your own version of Wednesday Words, please feel free to leave a comment with a link to your post. 


2015 was the hardest year of my life.

So many things shattered this year.

So much shattering.

When you’ve lived 51 years, that’s saying something, as there’s some good competition for the title of “hardest year.” Was 2015 harder than the year that straddled the nearly-constant misery of 7th and 8th grade? Harder than the year I got divorced (the first time)? How about the year I became an instant, full-time parent to my step-children when their mother suddenly died? The year IVF failed 3 times, including one miscarriage? Or the one when pregnancy finally stuck but was swiftly followed by bedrest, life-threatening birth, NICU, and caring for preemie twins? How about the year of calamities (school strike, surgery, terminal illness, break-in, death), in which we discovered our home was riddled with mold that was making us all sick, and I came to realize it was a metaphor for my marriage? Closely followed by the year in which my husband and I lived together while negotiating divorce because he threatened to sue for full custody of our children, and then I adjusted to living half my life without them.

Yes, 2015 was harder than all of those years, in spite of my best efforts to manage and make it not-as-hard. I did all the things I know to do:

  • Stay in the day, hour, moment I was in
  • Surrender to the truth/pain and find the lessons within it
  • See a therapist
  • Exercise and eat right
  • Practice self-care
  • Set clear boundaries
  • Practice gratitude
  • Reach out to friends and accept help
  • Be gentle with myself and others
  • Breathe
Focusing on small moments of pleasure.

Grateful to breathe with the bee in this single lovely moment. More grateful he didn’t sting me.

Although there were days of light and ease and comfort and hope, most days of the last year mostly sucked, pretty much from the first one up until the very last. And some were just knock-me-to-the-ground devastating. 2015 followed a really hard 2014, which had followed a fairly crappy 2013, years I’d ended with a firm belief that the next one must surely be better than the last because they couldn’t be worse–so the whole idea of joining in with all of those choosing a word or setting an intention for 2016 seemed laughable to me, something for innocents who don’t understand how truly uncontrollable life is and how, sometimes, it is nearly unbearable despite all the things our culture tells us we can do to be OK with whatever it throws at us.

And then–for reasons I don’t clearly understand–I decided to do it anyway.

I signed up for Susannah Conway’s mini-course on choosing a word for the year, despite my skepticism and my feeling that such things are, in the words of my good friend Kate, “silly and twee and a bit woo-woo.” At least, a bit too much of all those things for me.

But, I had a notebook, and I thought, What the hell? Can’t hurt, right? (And, because of one of those hard 2015 things, I now have time on my hands that I look to fill in positive ways.)


I was working pretty hard in the last days of this year on surrender and practicing gratitude and staying in the moment, and I thought writing in my journal to explore words would be fun, if nothing else. And you know what? It was.

I love words, and I loved exploring words. I liked the questions Susannah posed. By the end of Day 3, I was down to three possible words:  Flow, Power, and Voice. By Day 4, I knew my word:


As I wrote on Day 5:

My word is Voice. If I use my voice, I will have power. When I make time for flow experiences, I find and express my voice. After a year of allowing myself to be silenced, I need to claim my voice. I need to speak for myself and for others I care about. I want to use it to speak truth, to connect, to heal, to do good work.

The truth is, I’ve allowed myself to be silenced in many ways for many, many years. Perhaps I needed the pain of 365 hard days–in which I became literally silenced in my own home–to wake me up to this. I wish it could be a year for me to focus on the kinds of words I found myself writing over and over again on Day 1, when describing an ideal day:  light, warm, soft, ease. These are things I want in my life. But I think I am only going to find them when I find my voice and use it.

And, I think that finding and using a strong, true voice is going to help me get through whatever 2016 wants to throw at me in much better shape than I got through 2015.

So:  bring it on, 2016. Give me whatever you’re going to give. But if it’s more crap, don’t expect me to put up with it quietly or dress it up with pretty words.

I’m done with that shit.


Photo Credit: Voice image modified from original by bek15 via Compfight cc