Through all of the most difficult times in my life, writing has been my solace.  I wrote poetry about being lonely and about my parents’ separation.  Short stories have helped me to work through some of my deepest fears and most challenging confrontations.  Journaling has saved my life – and my sanity – on more than one occasion.

I used to carry a notebook everywhere I went.  In my years as a call-center agent, I kept it at my desk and would compose scenes, poems, and unsent letters in between my daily calls.  At one time, I wrote for and published my own online magazine.  For years, I faithfully journaled online – sometimes multiple posts each day.

These days, I mostly write only when something affects me so strongly that I can’t keep it inside.  I don’t blog as much as I could – here or in my less-public forum.  The last poem I wrote was over the summer, and I can’t recall the last time I wrote any kind of fiction.  How can I call myself a writer (as I have continued to do), if I don’t write?

Yet… the label has stuck.  I *am* a writer; I’ve just misplaced my voice.  Somewhere along the line, I started listening too closely to all the voices that told me I wasn’t a writer if I didn’t write every single day.  I started believing my inner critic when it labeled my writing as worthless fluff.  I accepted each short-coming and limitation, embraced them, and allowed them to come together to form an all but total block.  I stopped *being* a writer.

It’s time to start again.  I know this block took years to create and is going to take some time to pull apart, but it needs to be done.  I am, at heart, a writer; it’s time to start actually being one again.

Yesterday at the grocery store, Bug stated that he wished he had a purse.  With this concept popping up more and more, I know that continuing to ignore it will send the absolutely wrong message.

But what message do I actually want to send?  It’s a matter of my own beliefs versus society’s.  Frankly, if his interest in stereotypically “girl” toys, clothes, accessories, etc. is any kind of sign of who he will grow up to be… so be it!  I want him to be on the outside who he really is on the inside.  This is fine and works pretty much all the time at home, but the outside world is different.  As a child who was teased for being different, I don’t want the same for him!  But I also don’t want him shoved into a mold into which he does not actually fit.

So this becomes a problem of my own ‘middle-ground mom’-ness.  When he wants to try on the girls’ and women’s shoes at the shoe store, I let him.  I don’t think twice about his claiming pink and purple as his favorite colors, or having mostly female friends at school.  But I haven’t bought him Disney princesses or the aforementioned purse.  Right now, that’s where my personal line is.

So far (like with the post about dolls), he’s never directly asked.  If he does, my instinct is to tell him that these are arbitrary “rules” set forth by society, blahblahblah… in terms he can somewhat understand.  I want him to know that Mommy and Daddy want him to be whomever he wants to be and will always love him for being that person, but that other people have decided that certain things are for boys and other things are for girls. I want to support him without sheltering him from the sometimes-difficult and sometimes cruel outside world.

This is one area in which I struggle with raising a boy. I try not to make a big deal of gender. Unfortunately, the bulk of society still does, and while I try to ‘be the change I want to see,’ I also have to raise my child in the world in which we live.  It’s a struggle sometimes, but I do my best for him.

image from FallingFifth.com

Before I begin this rant, let me just state:  I did go shopping today. I went to consignment shops, independent music- and bookstores, and independent toy stores. I didn’t go within two miles of the mall (nor will I, if it can be avoided, until January!) or any big-box department stores. I shopped small and local, and I had a leisurely afternoon of it with my mother. It was about bonding and together time (and taking an opportunity for a child-free afternoon out together) – not about camping out to make sure I Got There First.

I’m not judging anyone who did do the Black Friday thing; to each his/her own. I just don’t understand the appeal. In fact, I typically go out of my way to avoid crowds and standing in line, so the whole thing is definitely not for me.

What bothers me, though, is that Black Friday is now starting on Thursday. As if Thanksgiving weren’t already overshadowed by the ever-encroaching onset of holiday music, now it is being ignored altogether by people waiting in line at their favorite store as early as Wednesday.

I love Thanksgiving and the chance to sit down to a lavish meal with my extended family and talk about all the blessings in our lives. After two years away, I absolutely can’t fathom wanting to miss any part of it this season full of magic, or skip over anything to get to the “main event” faster.

And it is sad to me to see not one, but two holidays be lost in the name of consumerism.

A nearby waterfall, after the late-summer 2011 flooding from Hurricane Irene's aftermath.

Last Sunday, we had an unseasonably warm afternoon. When we left church, my family and I decided to have an impromptu picnic lunch by a nearby waterfall (not actually the one pictured here). As we ate, a 6-year-old boy came and sat with us, conversing with all three of us. He was eventually joined by his parents, before they all went on their merry way.

From this encounter, I came away with two things:

1. Children are the ultimate cure for shyness. I am not one to talk to strangers when I’m out and about in the world, but my son very much is. Even when he was a baby, I would be approached by strangers telling me how adorable he was and striking up conversations with me. Sure, some of them were spouting unsolicited advice, but most of them were just making conversation – something I would never have stepped out of my shell to do. Now my little man vacillates between talking to random people, and pretending to be shy by making grumpy faces or hiding his face when people talk to him. Either way, though, his very presence invites conversations. And likewise, I find myself more likely to speak to people when they have children with them, as well.

2. I was struck with a profound sense of belonging. That family reminded me of the strong sense of community within this town. We are city enough to enjoy diversity, but small-town enough to be close-knit. I never appreciated either when I was younger, and I think I had to move away and back to really understand. Similarly, spending the early-afternoon surrounded by the natural beauty this area holds was a visual reminder of why I love being here.

I don’t regret (anymore) the time I spent in Florida; I feel it was a path I needed to take in order to find my way to where I am now. However, I am very, very thankful to be home.  Not only is this where much of my family lives, but it’s also where my heart lives, as well.

I am now employed with a UU church, as has been my goal for a couple of years now. I am living near family, and experiencing 4 seasons once again (sometimes all in one week!). My husband is recently employed as a web designer once again and couldn’t be happier! Next month, if not sooner, the Bug will also be enrolled in a preschool, and he may even be able to begin kindergarten as soon as next year!

The result of all of this is that we are all thriving once again, but my writing has suffered. Perhaps as our new routines stabilize, I will again be able to make room in my week for blogging, among the myriad other pieces.

We are big fans of the public library system. The first time we were ever unemployed for a month or two (back in roughly 2004 or so, I think), we discovered The West Wing by way of the library system in Rochester. Since that time, I can probably count on 1 hand the number of times we’ve actually rented a movie from a store or Red Box or what-have-you. We’re also avid readers, and my husband has read basically everything in our personal library multiple times, and I don’t like to spend money (or really, take up space in the house) with buying new (or even used) books very often. So… to the library we go.

Rarely had I had any problems with this, until my son started to use the library regularly too. Sure, there were the occasional torn pages or pen marks in the adult books, but they were rare. And audio-visual materials were usually intact. This has been pointedly not true with the children’s section.

I would estimate that 3, maybe 4, out of every 5 DVDs we borrow for him are scratched. Some of them still play but may require skipping past certain scenes; others are ruined beyond the point where our player will even recognize them. It doesn’t seem to be quite as bad with books, thankfully – mostly it’s the CDs and DVDs.

Now, I recognize that kids will be kids, to a certain point. I wouldn’t, for example, send my son to school with a prized possession because I know the likelihood of it coming home unharmed is low. As such, it certainly stands to reason that AV items handled by countless children on a monthly basis are going to suffer much the same fate.

But I think it could be reduced, if we as parents paid more attention to teaching our children how to treat things – especially things that do not belong to them. I think it’s important that kids learn to treat the library – and its materials – with respect. Libraries are an invaluable resource and provide such an important service to our communities. And most of them are under-funded, so it’s not as though they can afford to replace ruined items all the time.

So please – when you (or your children) have items out from the library, treat them right. Don’t leave them on the floor to get stepped on or scratched, don’t draw on the books, don’t handle disks with sticky fingers, and don’t tear pages out of books. Treat them as if you want to use them again. Because even if you don’t, someone else does.

To mother is to nurture. It is not dependent upon gender, nor biology. My husband has been as much a “mother” to our son as I have; sometimes he’s done the same for me. I say that I became a mother on April 4, 2007, the day the double line showed up on my home pregnancy test… but in reality, I had been one long before then. In 2001, I became mother to our first cat. My attempts at plant-mothering haven’t been very successful, admittedly, but they’ve existed. I’ve played “mother hen” to pretty much all of my friends at one point or another: “Don’t forget to eat,” “Call your doctor about that,” “Remember your medicines,” etc. At times, I have even been motherly to my own parents.

On the other side of the coin, there are those who have mothered me. Mother’s Day – this year and last – is difficult because I’ve been away from my mom. It reminds me of the geographical distance that lies between us now. But motherhood knows nothing of geography, and I feel her support as keenly today as I always have. Likewise, I feel the bonds of those others who have mothered me over the years. I have a grandmother and aunts who played major roles in my childhood and to whom I have always remained close. Friends – sometimes older, sometimes not – have taken care of me over the years. Teachers, ministers, role models… all deserve some acknowledgement of their nurturing.

And let us not, of course, forget Mother Earth, who nurtures us all by providing us with a home, with food and water, with all of our basic needs. Our Earth suffers from the careless and thoughtless way we treat her. Much like any human mothers does, at one point or another. She knows we do not intend to hurt, to be cruel; she believes we simply don’t know any better. And she loves us, no matter what.

To be a mother is to nurture someone – or something, no matter what.

* Title – as well as some of the major themes of this post – taken from the sermon of the same name, delivered by Rev. Allison Farnum on May 8, 2011 at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Fort Myers

When we first arrived in Florida, I searched and searched for another group similar to what I’d left behind in Rochester. I found the SWFGLC, but didn’t end up joining right away. I have to wonder how much smoother my transition would have been, had I joined sooner. At the very least, I now know to make sure there are community chorus options in our next location, and to be sure to seek one out ASAP. From the very first rehearsal in January, I felt immeasurably more at home than I’d felt in the year and a half we’d spent in Florida at that time.

Our concert season ended this weekend, with two phenomenal shows at the two UU churches in the area this past weekend. A few weeks ago I auditioned for a solo, and from that point forward my confidence continued to rise. By the time the actual concerts rolled around, my head was swollen from all the kind words from my director, fellow choristers, and eventually members of the audiences.

I told Bear last night that it seems to be an all or nothing thing with me – either I feel awesome or I feel like I suck. While I don’t really want to walk around with a swelled head all the time, I do hope I can hold on to some piece of the past few weeks’ self-confidence from now until next season – whenever and wherever that may be!

And yet, I find myself coming back to it quite often these days. I’ve adopted a much more “living in the moment” stance on my life, and on my relationships with people, and it lands me in a place of acceptance for what is. A year ago, I was very much stuck in a rut of “I wish,” regarding my geographical location, my career-goals, my body, my family… and it really, really brought me down to a dark and difficult place. Through the help of my minister, my husband, and a monthly workshop with some newfound friends, I am learning to accept that what is, is.

There is a certain negative connotation to the phrase, though, which may (in addition to the repetition mentioned in my first paragraph) be part of what has turned me off from it. In a way, it felt to me like settling. “Well, I can’t have what I want, so… I’ll settle for what I’ve got.” It felt like blowing off one’s current circumstance and taking a “whatever,” sort of attitude. Now that I’m able to come at it from a point of acceptance of my own life situation, I can see its positive side as well.

It still is overused, though. I’m not conceding that point!

Love.

We all use these words so lightly, despite how powerful and deep their true meanings are. I was thinking about this recently, as it pertains especially to the word love. We say it almost as habit. We use it to sign letters, to end phone conversations, and in place of “thank you,” all without giving it much of a thought. When I realized this, I vowed to be more mindful when I tell someone I love them. As a rule, I am very choosy about those to whom I will say the word, “love.” To me, it goes deeper than just valuing someone as a human being. It is an intimate expression of trust and confidence, qualities I do not take lightly.

Yet, even though I may reserve the words, “I love you,” for only certain people in my life (and I’m learning to let myself be one of them!), I still use it habitually. Since making this realization, though, I have tried to be more mindful. I still end each phone conversation with my husband by telling him I love him, but I try to take the moment and pause to really feel those words. I feel more honest and genuine now, and less like I am saying just what is expected of me.

Let’s now consider the darker words from the list above. As a society, we use those words lightly as well. “Ugh, I hate it when that happens!” or “I’m afraid that just won’t do.” I’m not suggesting, of course, that we should take a moment to really feel hatred or fear, the way I suggested for love. Rather, I think we should take the mindfulness in a different direction with these words.

My husband has said that he has all but eradicated the word ‘hate’ from his vocabulary, and that he hopes our son never learns what it means. I don’t know if it’s a realistic hope, but wouldn’t that be beautiful? Certainly, at age 3, he has no concept of what it is to hate. Likewise, I don’t think he really knows the word, either. I’m sure he’s heard it because, again, it is most definitely over-used (and I’m certainly guilty of that, myself), but I don’t think he knows what it means. I hope the day when I have to explain it to him is far in the future. I know I can’t protect him forever, but I hope that I can avoid having to explain it to him before he’s old enough to understand. If any of us are ever old enough to understand hatred, that is.

In the meantime, I’ll try to be careful what I say. To assign more value to my words and restore to them their power.