bird by bird.

"Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he'd had three months to write. It was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother's shoulder, and said, 'Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird."

-Anne Lamott

This book changed my life. 

This has been a hard week. I've been crabby and restless since it began. I've cried and prayed in equal measure, which is to say a lot. And the biggest part, aside from two huge interviews, was a deadline for a story I'm pitching to a big fish magazine.

 
I'm just so tired and I'm tired of being so tired.

But in a moment of self-pity two days ago I emailed a good friend with this and several more equally exhausting paragraphs. 

I know exactly why I'm tired. I've been so busy trying to change so many parts of my life that I didn't realize just how much monumental change I was in the middle of. I am someone who craves structure and finds comfort in that. But I'm also someone who wants, a lot. And there's just no comfort in staying stagnant and not becoming. 

I feel like I've been becoming for a while now. Thank God for that.

I'm tired because I don't know how to slow down and I'm tired because sometimes I'm really bad at taking care of myself and being kind to myself.

We know why we're tired when we feel so physically drained we want to crawl onto the nearest hopefully soft surface and take a nap. We know. Even when we say we don't or we pretend to be confused.

I know what I can do to change this. I can make better choices for myself: going out of way to walk longer, choosing to take a different path so I don't go past the pizza place I love. I can hit the pause button at any time and say, "What do you want to do?" Be it to myself or others. There's been a lot of Anne Lamott this week too, which is always a good thing.

I wrote all of this before I got a really great email yesterday with a really great job offer. I start on Monday. It hasn't fully hit me yet, partly because I start on Monday. But I'm going to show myself kindness by reminding myself that I deserve this. I deserve the good. This is what I've waited and worked hard for.

Bird by bird. I'm going to take things bird by bird.

the shortest date night in history.

we went to ben's favorite mexican restaurant. i really like it: small, family-owned (they close at 8), with fresh strawberries for the margaritas. the waitress, one of the owners, is so warm. she calls people sweetie.

but it was the shortest date night in history as a certain game 7 needed to be watched. i did insist on vacuuming the car after we left the restaurant. "sigh. i love this." and then i fell asleep by 9. i am just a barrel of fun sometimes.

A result of Ben saying, "Think of the Fonz."

my chicago: spring in bloom.

the woman on the stoop.

there is a tiny woman who sits on the stoop of an apartment next to a now-closed argo tea. i see her nearly every day on my walk to work.

she has stringy brown hair and reddish-brown glasses and she sits hunched over on that stoop, like she's been in that position for over forty years. she looks like she rattles a bit, but then, i think a lot of people look like that.

this woman smokes long thin brown cigarettes, the kind my grandmother used to smoke before she had to quit. she hurt her leg, couldn't drive, and everyone in our family joined forces to stop buying them for her. she didn't like this.

but i think of my grandmother when i walk past this fragile-looking woman. my grandmother, who looked nothing like her, was not a fragile woman in any way. this woman who ran a restaurant and raised three kids pretty much on her own was tough. that is the first word i'd use to describe her to someone who never met her.

this woman drinks big-gulp-sized cups of soda from the 7-11 across the street. with three bags next to her she sits, but she doesn't seem to be waiting for the bus that pulls up right in front of her. she doesn't get up to board it.

today i passed the corner, but turned around and walked back to look at her again. i don't know why and i don't what i was trying to see. i stood there and stared for another ten seconds.

she just sits, waiting for something.

life plan: doing what feels good, even when it's hard.

i pray a lot. and i ask for a lot when i do. sometimes i keep it informal and start by checking in.

how are things?

and then there are times i keep it extra formal. those are the times i need the most: the most help, guidance, love, and forgiveness.

hello, yes, it's me again. how are you? i have a few questions and a few requests and was hoping we could discuss these things. i seem to be needing you quite a bit lately. i hope that's okay. 

all of my prayers start with thank you. and then a list. these lists are long because there is so much i have to be thankful for.

thank you for another day here. thank you for so much for this day that started out really well and then just seemed to tumble downhill at a disgustingly rapid rate. please give me another day tomorrow and i'll try much harder to cherish it. i will be better tomorrow. i promise.

but the please lists are equally as long, sometimes longer. and sometimes i don't like that about me.

please give me a sign. please, please, please. 

in those moments, i imagine God looking at me and saying, stop searching everywhere. stop looking for it.  it. stop. just stop. it feels like such a big part of life is learning to wait. period. end point. waiting, but not desperately searching for things. waiting, but living at the same time. living. the waiting means nothing if we don't keep ourselves open to whatever God has in store for us. and i often struggle to remember this part. i am not open to receiving good if i doubt good is going to come my way. i need to pray and hope and then turn it over. i need to let it go, everything i'm afraid won't happen. everything i'm afraid will happen. everything i can't control.

there's that word again. that tricky, ugly word. control. i'm trying to loosen my grip and trust life more. this is hard and this takes time.

i say my lists and listen. i wait. i hope. i pray some more, just in case i wasn't heard the first time around. anne lamott says, people say God is in the details, but i've come to believe that God is in the bathroom. i agree. i do some of my best praying there: looking in the mirror and brushing my teeth, sitting on the edge of the bathtub washing eva's hair, shaving my legs.

i do the things that make me feel better.

i order the iced nonfat mocha.

i move my seat in the coffee shop so i can be by the window to watch the rain. i look at the nice little tree with bright green leaves and think, the only thing missing is fruit. oranges, maybe lemons like the ones i saw in florence. and then i think, nothing is missing from this tree nor from the two to its right. 

i watch the two men in their 40's sit in the big leather recliners and i make up a story about them: old college roommates who happen to be staying at the same hotel while on business. they ran into each other in the lobby while checking out and they decided to grab coffee before heading to the airport. or maybe they're cousins, or colleagues meeting for the first time. maybe they're lovers. one's named george. he's definitely a george. the other is either a jeff or a bill.

i watch the woman in her early 60's with the neon pink t-shirt and the peach straw hat and i think, peach is a good color on her. 

i think about the things i see when i slow down. and the things i miss when i refuse to. last week when the man who runs the fruit cart outside my train. he tipped his hat to me, how that tiny moment of kindness cracked me open. the woman on the train who sat talking to herself while folding a blue blouse. she was swearing a bit. but then she pulled out a tiny box of raisins. and how i thought in that moment these two actions, the folding the shirt and the raisins softened her.

i listen to ella fitzgerald and think, if i had that voice i'd never stop singing. i walk without music. just walk. i watch the fluffy shows and read the fluffy magazines and listen to the songs that make me smile and take the load off for just a moment. because this is enough. all of these little moments add up to a good day, when we let them. i take naps with sloth. i think of how wonderful it is that dogs are smarter than some humans. and a dog that curls right up next to you when you crawl into bed is a really good dog. i look for the helpers: in oklahoma, on the bus, in the grocery store.  i stop comparing myself to things that don't warrant the comparison. i spent forty-five minutes on the bike and close my eyes. i focus on the only things that matter in that moment, in this life: breathing and movement. the rest is noise. i cut out as much noise as i can, which isn't all that hard to do. i stay away from the scale. and facebook. i pack big salads and healthy snacks. i take pictures of everything. i thank God for patty griffin.

i take care of myself. i do the things that help me feel good, the things that calm and heal me. i try to do these every single day.and sometimes i don't. and these lists get thrown out the window and i swear and cry and eat too much chocolate. but i pause-and usually go to the bathroom for some one-on-one time. and i pray.

i say thank you. 

participating in a writers workshop.

A friend from graduate school started a Writers Workshop on her blog. Since finishing my final quarter at DePaul at the end of March I've been missing the workshop atmosphere, the talking, the hearing ideas, the scooping up of the really good ones and the dismissal of the bad ones. 

The prompt for this week is I knew he loved me ...

I knew he loved me when he introduced me to Eva, his daughter. I sat on his living room floor, now our living room floor, and colored with this beautiful, happy curly-haired toddler. He let me into this very sacred part of his life. I told him Eva should be the last person I met and he agreed. 

I watched Ben watch us and in that moment felt so much love: from him, for him, for her, for the big happy brown lab snoring on the couch, for the way I felt in that living room, surrounded by giggles and crayons and books and dog hair and a calm I'd never felt before. I felt like I had come home.

I knew he loved me because I felt it; I felt us changing. I felt us growing into an us. Summer turned to fall and I was different. I felt myself breathing more and smiling more.

I was happy.

I was in love.

I saw him look at me differently and hold my hand differently and kiss me with such tenderness it made me cry. And sometimes still does. 

I knew he loved me because he was careful with me, the first and only man to ever do so. He was kind and patient and warm. From our first date, which lasted close to six hours. 

I know he loves me because I feel it every day. 

a mother's day prayer.

a little while ago, having just woken up, eva slipped on her magna-doodle. she didn't cry. i was sitting on the couch and held my breath hoping she wasn't hurt. i do a lot of this now. people say you don't really know love until you have a child in your life.

people are right.

she walked over to me and climbed into my lap. we watched mickey mouse clubhouse while ben made her favorite, pancakes. she sat back on my chest sucking her thumb and i was overcome with love. i was reminded just how much i love this girl. this smart, happy, beautiful girl in my lap and this warm, big, beautiful brown lab next to us and this kind, loving, funny man cooking in the kitchen. i felt blessed that she came to me. later today when she falls again she may run to ben and i'm okay with that. ben has been everything for that girl since the day she was born two years and one month ago.  

i didn't know love with a man until ben. but i didn't know what full-circle, i have come home love was until eva. the sound of her saying good morning! cracks me open. how she runs to me in her hoodie after getting out of the tub, giggling and jumping around. how she loves taking baths more than anyone i've ever known, the sound of her saying home! hi rhi! when i walked in the door last saturday cracked me open. when ben tells me she asks for me when i'm not there. how she grabs one of my fingers at a time, the way she says, cracker, how smart she is, how she's already so warm and loving and she's only two, how the sound of her saying daddy and love you makes me feel. being partly responsible for eva, even though i did not give birth to her, is making me a better person. i want to be a better person for myself so i can be more present for her. 

loving this girl has cracked me open.

this is a lovely day, but a hard day for some. a mother is not just someone who gives birth to a baby. a mother is also one who nourishes and cares for others. let us not forget to celebrate those people today. all of those people.

happy mother's day to my dear friend amy who delivered an 8 pound, 5 ounce boy NATURALLY friday morning. sawyer joins the ranks of liam and ben in what is a ridiculously good-looking brood of erwin boys. i tip my hat to this woman. she is a wonderful source of friendship and guidance when i email or text with toddler questions or life questions. and i'm so thankful for her.

happy mother's day to our dear friend nina who gave birth to twin boys last month, on eva's birthday! alexander and michael are beautiful and nina, you are amazing.

happy mother's day to my lovely friend bradey who along with her husband coby and their families, dedicated their beautiful daughter adelaide at their church yesterday. this woman oozes love. and it's a wonderful reminder of something to strive for.

happy mother's day to my two cousins, maureen and peg, both pregnant right now. i can't wait to meet your little ones!

happy mother's day to my cousins and aunts, my godmother, and my grandma.

happy mother's day to the women in my life no longer here with us. i miss you and often think, what would grandma dee do in this moment? what would great grandma phyllis do? 

happy mother's day to all of the single mommas out there doing everything on their own. 

happy mother's day to all of the men who serve as mommy and daddy and best friend.

happy mother's day to all of the women and men who adopt and create a family this way. 

happy mother's day to all of the wonderful gay couples i know, some of the most supportive parents i know.

happy mother's day to the women i've worked with who have become both mother-figures and dear friends. i'm looking at you, stacy. 

happy mother's day to my mom, brenda adele. i'm so grateful we're where we are now. i'm grateful for your daily emails and texts and the fact that we never leave your house without yet another gift for eva. i'm grateful for your patience and unwavering love for me these past twenty eight years. i know i didn't always make it easy. and i'm sorry my stubborn streak started in the womb as i was ten pounds and eleven days late. i really do feel bad about this.

happy mother's day to the women who've had babies and lost babies, the women who are in the midst of trying with every ounce of strength to have babies. i pray for these women and their partners that their journeys become less trying. that God will send them a sign and a break and help them keep their faith. 

there shouldn't be a day set aside to remind the world to be thankful for anyone who mothers. in any way. but there is. so we give the cards and send the flowers and say thank you.

let step one be remembering to say this more often. every day, multiple times a day. let us pause and know how lucky we are to either have our mothers or mother-figures or someone to take care of.

family is family and love is love and blessings come in many different forms. they do not have to follow any "conventional path." love is love. let us never forget this. 

let us remember to be open to all of these blessings and forms of love that fill us. let them fill us. and let us not get bogged down in the titles, but in the meanings behind the words. 

i am in awe of the strength of all of mothers and fathers in this world. i hope today, tomorrow, and the next you always know how appreciated and loved you are. thank you to all parents who teach and help, who make the sandwiches and help with the homework, who are nurse and doctor and teacher and chef. who stop the crying and start the giggling and do the laundry and the cleaning. who do it all because they love. 

and it is love and loving one another that fills us up.

time.

One of the best things you can do for yourself is become acutely aware of your energy and how you manage and care for it.

Indigo Williams

the need to slow down.

what do you do when stress and anxiety sit heavy on your chest? when they take up residence on your shoulder and whisper bad things in your ear, things that bring you no good. 

no growth.

no joy.

what do you do when negativity rolls in and tries to make itself comfortable? 

nothing even has to "happen" to feel stress like this. but "things" add up. long days add up. and a person picks the wrong day to send an email or call with a problem or a favor or a question.

i slow down. i can hear better when i slow down.

i close my eyes. i open them and look out the window. i look at the men working on the roof across the street. i wonder if they like their job, if they like being that high. i look at the dark clouds rolling in. i look at the tree next door with peach leaves. i think of the friend i get to meet for dinner later and how much i'm looking forward to seeing her. and having a margarita. i think of the wonderful women i got to meet for lunch earlier. and how good that chicken pita was. and how i need more tzatziki sauce in my life. i stop reading things that piss me off. i listen to the music that calms me. bob marley, always. i listen to the mary chapin carpenter songs i could sing in my sleep. i save the rihanna for the gym. i walk, even if it's around the office. i look out the window again. i think of my blessings. i make a list and smile and sigh. i think of how eva loses her mind with laughter when i tickle her. i lie back in my chair and stretch. i put my hand on my heart, close my eyes, and take deep breaths.

i repeat this last one.

there are not enough deep breaths in this world.

i tell myself, this is not the hardest thing i will ever have to deal with. this is not the hardest day i'll ever have.

it's a long life and no two days are the same, even when i'm convinced they are, when they are either so dull or hectic i could scream.

i slow down.

what's next.

i'm writing a book.

holy hell it feels good to finally say that.

a book that is separate from this blog.

a book that talks about my life right now, as big and exciting and frustrating as it is.  

a book that is a space for me to put the things i don't want to put on my blog right now, things i don't have the energy to explain. things i don't need to explain.

it deals with the lessons i've learned and continue to learn in my twenty-eighth year. and many of those lessons have involved crawling. a lot of dancing too, but really a lot of crawling. so much has felt like that and those are the pieces that need the most work.  

27 was a weird and hard year. 28 has been better, the first five months of my 28th year have inspired me to write, really write. 

i've been paying attention, universe.

there's a lot of gray in this life i'm trying to figure out. and i figure things out by writing about them. i put the words somewhere else and they begin to make sense. 

make sense

but that's really what i'm here to do, make sense of this life i've been given.

the funny part is i have no fear right now. maybe i'm just too tired to have fear.

no.

i'm not afraid to tell my story and open myself up to the world. i lost so much time by not doing this. i won't waste more. 

a few weeks ago jim told me, this is your life. you can write your own story.

it's time.

life, as of late.

i believe...

when you feel stress taking up residence in your neck and shoulders it's time to take a walk.

in open windows. as often as possible.

joy is contagious, so is crabbiness. choose your company wisely.

guilt is crippling.

old people are never boring. joining the ymca is going to be good for my writing.

lilacs, anne lamott, jazz. always.
flipping the calendar at the start of a new month is a wonderful feeling. everything is fresh.
in reminders.