Brave New Mama: A Project Is Born

I thought I needed to promote my business, you see. 

I opened an Instagram account to do just that. Except I didn’t really want to and I didn’t really need to. But I did it anyway because this is what I felt I should do—I should “put myself out there.” I should make more of an effort to be "successful."

And what is success exactly? According to my ego (and other, outside sources) success means busy. Success means work outside of the home. Success means money.

(A woman who stays home, to raise her children, is not successful. She may be kind, strong, creative—she may even be really, really smart—but she is not "successful." How nutty is that?)

I opened a professional Instagram account and started sharing things—my logo, words of praise received from an old student, a quote about healing—and it felt forced. 

Empty. 

Inauthentic.

I've learned, through years of practice (and prayer), that when things feel forced, empty, and inauthentic, it’s because they are. It’s because the door I am knocking at is not my door. The wave I am waiting to surf is not my wave. I am attempting to climb a mountain that is not mine to climb—at least not yet, not right now.

I felt a little lost. I reached out to a few friends and said, “Joining Instagram has caused me to have an identity crisis!”  Who the hell am I? What do I care about? What brings me joy? Where has my passion for healing gone? What am I passionate about now? 

I know, I know—it wasn’t Instagram at all. Instagram was just the catalyst. The questions had started some months ago—nine, to be exact—when my heart quadrupled in size as my arms held my miracle baby for the very first time. 

(Motherhood, man. It does weird things.)

This week, as I was taking a walk, with baby and dog, the questions came again: Who am I? What do I care about? What brings me joy? Where has my passion for healing gone and what am I passionate about now? But, this time, the answers came too (thank you, sunshine).

I am so many things, to so many people. Mother, yes. Writer, yes. Healer, yes. Wife, daughter, sister, friend, yes, yes, yes, yes. Changemaker and teacher, yes and yes. Just so, so many things. And beyond all of these superficial titles is the real thing that I am, which is exactly what you are too: love. I am love. We are love. We are love in human form. 

I care about so many things, too. But, right now, I care about being a good mother the most. I care about being present and mindful and gentle the most. I care about kissing tiny toes and playing with tiny blocks and marveling at tiny hands that reach for tiny socks. I care about being home with my boy—to see all of this, feel all of this, miss none of it.

What brings me joy? Easy: see above. 

What else brings me joy? Easy: writing. Writing brings me so much joy. Writing has always brought me joy. Writing has been the constant in my life of inconsistencies. Writing lights me up. 

Where has my passion for healing gone? IT IS STILL THERE. It is absolutely still there.

Let me be very clear: I love my work. I love Traditional Chinese Medicine and eastern nutrition and I love being a woman who helps other women. I love working with pregnant women or soon-to-be-pregnant woman or women juggling the magic and the madness of the post-partum period. I love helping a chronic insomniac get a good night’s sleep. I love helping an anxious person rediscover her breath. I love all of this. I am good at all of this. And I am grateful, every day, that I was guided this way.

But now is not the time to promote a business at which I work only one evening per week. Now is not the time to devote precious energy to growing something I don’t wish to grow at the moment. There will be time for this, yes, yes, absolutely. But that time is not now.

What am I passionate about right now, in this very unique moment that is unlike any other moment I have ever experienced or will ever experience again? Easy,  so easy: mothering and writing. THAT's what I'm most passionate about. THERE is my answer (thank you, heart).

As I walked (a little lighter) and smiled (a little wider), it hit me (kapow!) that combining these two things is what I am meant to do, right now, in my life. And then, it hit me harder (kapow! kapow!) that I have already been doing this.

(Wise words from a friend: When seeking your passion, ask not, “What should I or could I be doing?” but, instead, “What am I doing already that fills me up inside?” Oh. So. Wise.)

Since F was born, I’ve been scribbling little love notes to myself, on paper and on screen, about the adventure that is the first year of motherhood. They come to me, these words, at random times throughout the day and night, in little sparks of insight and creativity. 

They are a combination of my own experiences and the experiences of other mothers—sisters I’ve met along the way. Some of them make me laugh and some of them make me cry. All of them are tiny word-snapshots of this particular life stage—this sacred and terrifying and marvelous life stage called “motherhood.”

I’ve not been sure what to do with these little love notes. They’ve been sitting on my computer gathering virtual dust. I’ve not shared them with anyone.  

But I know, now, that these little love notes are not just disjointed little love notes at all. They share a common theme (new motherhood). They have a common purpose (lifting the spirits of new mothers in that way spirits are lifted when we realize we are not alone in the rabbit hole).

They are a book, friends.

Yes, yes, they are. They are a book—my book—in beautiful, magical progress.

(This was the biggest KAPOW! of all.)

I’ve already started writing my book. The one I’ve been dreaming of writing forever (literally, forever). 

I’ve got these little love notes, you see. 

And when I read them now, back to back, I see a book, I feel a book—a book of little love notes (call them poems) inspired by new mamahood. 

Cool, right?

I’m so happy I could cry. I have cried. And laughed. And danced. And hugged my guy. And said thank you. And said thank you some more.

There is work to be done. There is writing and editing to be done. There are love notes that need to be tossed and others that need to be sparked into being. But it all feels so good. It feels the farthest thing from forced, empty, and inauthentic. It feels easy. It feels fun. The words are flowing and I’m flowing with them. 

THIS IS MY DOOR, you guys. This one, right here. This is my right-now-door.

I knocked and it opened and I'm crossing the threshold and I'm inviting you in, too.

I’ve temporarily deleted my professional Instagram account (she will be revived, some day, when the time is right) and I’ve created an account for these love notes. That’s all this account will be—a sharing of little poems (one a day, or so), by a mama for the mamas, until I feel the book is complete. I won’t share everything, of course. Some of the loveliest pieces will be reserved for the book alone. But I will share many of them, hoping they bring comfort, laughter, a shared nod of understanding or a collective sigh of relief across the sisterhood of mamas that I feel so blessed to be a part of.

Find your love note: @bravenewmama and please share this with any poetry-loving mama you know.

(woman. on the cusp of the catapult. isn't she lovely?)

See you on the other side of this door, you guys. Thank you, as always, for the love.

***

{This is my favourite quote. It was actually part of my speech when I graduated in 2012. It has never felt more relevant than right now:

“Don’t ask yourself what the world needs. Instead, ask yourself what makes you come alive and then go do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”  —Howard Thurman}

A Return to Words

(Originally published on elephant journal on June 19, 2014)

Artwork: Print by Trista M.

I used to trust my own voice.

I used to believe in the words that flowed from the hollow at the center of my heart (for this is where words are born) to the pen I gripped in my crooked little fist of a hand. I used to grip, not hold, the pen because there was a torrent of words pouring out of my fingers and I had to hold on tight and be quick in order to get them all out before the word-water reached my neck, my mouth, my nose and caused me to drown in a sea of unexpressed verbiage.

This is how I wrote, when I was 12.

I wrote like a wild animal chasing its prey, or being chased as prey, always running towards something, or away from something, never stagnant.

I wrote all the time, every day. There were words living inside of me, filling me up with sentences and wordplay and stories. I felt them pushing and pulling and swelling, demanding attention. I remember asking my Mom once if there were words living inside of her too and she paused for a moment and looked at me like maybe I was a strange little girl and answered, “No. Not really.” (I later discovered that there were numbers living inside of my Mom—mathematical equations and Sudoku-like puzzles).

I remember thinking maybe I was a strange little girl. Maybe I was the only girl in the world with so many breathing, pulsing, yearning words living inside of her. And that thought frightened me, but only for a second, because I was a brave 12 year-old and knew I could survive the terrible fate of being a bearer of words as long as I kept writing them out of my body and into the world.

I wrote.

I filled journals and scribbled on pads of legal paper and spent hours and hours (whole days, whole weekends) sitting up in bed, warm and safe under my pink, ink-stained comforter with stacks of books as companions (for I read as much as I wrote) and leaky pens and blank sheets and stories born between heartbeats.

When I was 13, I wrote a novel. It is called Donna Jill’s Unforgettable Birthday Bash and the main character’s name, Donna Jill, was inspired by Candace Cameron’s DJ in Full House. She resembles her too: blond, blue-eyed, the eldest of three sisters. The story revolves around DJ and her three best friends and the adventures they encounter on DJ’s 13th birthday (they meet Luke Perry, for example).

It’s a terrible story and I read it now and cringe. But it was fiercely hand-written, all 60 pages of it, and it stands now as a snapshot of sorts, offering a glimpse into the dreams and fantasies of my 13 year-old self. It reminds me to be daring.

I was a daring 13, 16, 19-year old. I dared to write poems and letters to the editor and journal entries so scorching it burns to read them. I dared to be open, to be fragile, and to love. I loved the same way I wrote: ferociously and without hesitation. I wrote love letters to boys, to girls, to friends, to authors, to pen pals who lived halfway across the globe. I wrote a love letter to a bee once, sitting in a field of wild daisies, under a sky so blue it pierced my eyes to look at it.

When the bee perched on my writing hand I whispered, “please don’t hurt me because I love you,” and I do think she heard me because she flew away, leaving me stunned, but unstung.

I trusted in the truth of my words. I didn’t judge what ended up on the page, or wonder if what I wrote was worth writing, or worry about the reception it may or may not receive. I just wrote and, then, I shared what I wrote. I shared it with whoever was interested in reading it, in hearing it. I remember being 16, hanging out with my friend Renée, and her asking me to share with her family a fictional piece I had written for English class. So, I did. I pulled The Myth of the Seasons out of my backpack, stood up, and read to her family as they sat around the table drinking tea after dinner. This felt comfortable to me. I felt comfortable–writing and sharing, writing and sharing. It felt as natural as breathing.

Then, somewhere along the rickety road of growing up, my pouring of words slowed to a leaky faucet trickle and nearly stopped entirely. When I did write, I did so only for myself, not willing to share the inner workings of my soul with even my closest of friends. I grew timid. I grew quiet. I had suffered my share of irreparable heartache and, in my tender state, had begun to build a flesh-and-blood barricade between my heart and my fingers, between my heart and my throat. I shut myself up.

This happens.

We grow and we fall and we ache and we become cautious. We slice open our hearts and reveal the shiny messy insides to people who take those shiny messy insides and crush them and we promise never to slice ourselves open again. We start to doubt. We doubt we had anything worthy to say (or to draw or to paint or to sing) in the first place. We drink, we smoke, we party all night and sleep all day, quieting the calling that resides in our cells, convincing ourselves we were no good at it anyway.

But the calling never dies, not entirely, and there comes a time (in our thirties, or forties, or fifties, or later) when the words (or the drawings or the paintings or the songs) that live inside of us can no longer be suppressed and we start to feel the cracking of the flood barriers and the rising of the tide. It rises and rises and, like an old beloved yet terrifying friend, it asks us to be brave again.

We must bravely express what lives inside of us because we must make space inside of us–space to hold (fear, grief, pain, longing, love) and space to let go (of fear, grief, pain, longing, love). We must bravely express what lives inside of us because our bodies and minds and hearts are not meant to be stagnant waterholes (things fester there), but flowing waterways connecting the outer world to the inner world, emptying and filling, transforming all the time. We must bravely express what lives inside of us because this is how we set it free (it is the only way) and this is how we set ourselves free. And this is how we heal.

I returned to my pen in 2010 by starting a blog I expected nobody to read. But people have read it, do read it, and some even like it. Last week, I received an email from a complete stranger expressing gratitude for my words and asking me to please keep writing as my perspective on things has shifted her world a little.

And here is the thing, friends, here is the kernel: We must bravely express what lives inside of us because what lives inside of us has the power to shift worlds a little.

After months of neglecting my blog and barely writing at all, I have recently picked up my pen and felt my confidence grow with every ink stain, every hand cramp, every nine o’clock sunset that tells me I have written the whole day away. I have broken my own promise of never slicing myself open again and I have stocked up on Band-Aids for I know there will be blood. I have submitted my words for publication, to an elephant I know, and it has responded like a happy trumpeter. I have asked my heart for forgiveness, for all those times I forced her to sit in silence, and I have started humming away the lump in my throat (which has almost completely dissolved).

Every morning, I write. I stretch and bow to a new day, make some tea, take deep breaths and write.

I write to connect to my own brokenness and I write to help others connect to theirs. I write ferociously and without hesitation. I write like my health depends on it (because it does). I write because it is one of the things I am meant to do, in the time that I have here on Earth. I write because I love it, because I hate it, because I have to, because I choose to be brave.

***

“Let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences.” ~ Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath