A moment's respite

When I was younger, and more full of myself and my ideas, I always thought that I would heed Virginia Woolf's advice and never be without a room to call my own. And not just any room. A writer's garret. Some sort of adult feminist clubhouse that admitted only me. 

My grown up reality is that I am lucky to be able to lock the door and use the bathroom by myself. Most showers are accompanied by an infant in his Exersaucer. I share a bedroom with my husband, and our bed often hosts one or both of our sons. If I am sitting on the couch there is a child in my lap, another vying for my attention, and two dogs trying to woo me with "pet me" eyes. I wouldn't trade any of it for that drafty room of my imagination...and yet...

Sometimes I just want to be by myself. And write. 

Most writers, whether they are willing to admit it or not, have grown up with the notion of only being able to tap into our best selves, our most poignant writing, if we are locked away somewhere in total isolation. In addition to my writing loft, my creative dream was a cabin in Maine. Three months alone in the woods and that hidden novel would surely expose itself! And unless I was able to attain that perfect atmosphere, then who could blame me for not reaching my full literary potential? I admit that I fell prey to Virginia's dashing notion that “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” 

And that idea, dear me, is bullshit.

For starters, I am afraid of being in the woods alone so at least 60% of my time would have been devoted to fantasizing about bears, Bigfoot, and either the escaped mental patient with the hook at the end of his arm or the one who licked your hand in the night pretending to be your dog. Also, I have never been to Maine and know nothing about its actual landscape. And most writers aren't independently wealthy. We are average people with mortgages and medical bills, families to care for and jobs that require our daily presence. In our lives, writing is work. It is not glamorous, it is not better with a glass (or bottle) of wine. It benefits from regular practice and multiple drafts. 

And it can be accomplished in stolen moments if we are ready to take them.

My new creative goal does not involve escaping from reality in order to try and recreate it on paper, but rather to take advantage of the wasted minutes that can be gleaned from a normal day. This way I am accountable for my time, and that novel is allowed to grow in fits and starts instead of rotting by the wayside while I wait for an idyllic writing opportunity to present itself. 

I keep hearing my best friend Rachel's voice in my head, saying "Ounces make pounds." It's something she used to tell young hikers on Outward Bound trips when their backpacks would become so heavy after the addition of one more book, one more energy bar, one more souvenir rock. That idea, of one tiny river rock being insignificant but an hour's worth of river rocks adding substantial weight to your pack, can so easily translate into time. If I write for 30 minutes a day while the baby naps for example, I may only see a paragraph that one day, but by the end of the week I'll have 7 paragraphs. By the end of a year I could have 70 pages. It's daunting if I think of it in terms of "then it will take me 3 years to write a book!" But how wasteful I feel when I realize that I could have started this project 3 years ago...

So, I will squirrel away my idle time. Facebook won't miss me. My email will keep. The dishes will get done, dinner will be cooked, television won't notice my absence and no one in my family will feel shorted. These 30 precious minutes will become my room. And soon enough, I will have a book to call my own. 

Right here, right now.

I am a horrible future-dweller. It causes me a lot of anxiety. I often find myself caught up in what could happen and my brain goes off in a terrible spiral of doom. This is especially true when I wake up in the middle of the night and my logic brain is still sleeping. I find myself at my most vulnerable at 2 am, when the likelihood of dropping one of my children into the Grand Canyon while on vacation, or being trapped in my car after driving into a river, or Gabe being attacked by a mountain lion while out on a suburban trail run are not only plausible but actually probable.

Welcome to Crazy Town, population of 1.

Crazy Town held a parade last week in anticipation of Gabe's latest checkup with his cardiologist. It has been eight months since his mitral valve repair, and every echocardiogram leading up to this one has resulted in bad news ranging from disappointing to devastating. Needless to say, I spent a grim Tuesday morning penning my husband's eulogy in my head, figuring out how to bravely raise two boys on my own, and working my body into a state of nauseous panic.

Fun fact - your body does not know the difference between imagined tragedy and actual tragedy. So, if you have a particularly vivid imagination, you can wreak havoc on your body by causing physical reactions to things that have never happened. The mayor of Crazy Town has mad skills in this arena.

And yet...

Despite all of my nutso mental preparations, the sky did not actually fall. I am happy to report that Gabe's fabulous, wonderful, strong-in-spite-of-it-all heart is pumping away like a champ. This week was a win. Turns out I made myself sick over nothing.

I'll cut me a little slack due to the gravity of this particular situation, but even if we had gotten bad news worrying would have accomplished nothing. It doesn't help, it doesn't stop the bad, and it in no way prepares us for dealing with actual life turbulence. It is an absolute waste. And the bitch of it all is that I can get equally caught up in something as trivial as a fake argument that will never happen based on a slight that was never actually received. I am quite adept at working myself into a frenzy over money troubles that have yet to manifest themselves. I have also been known to freak my freak, as my mom so wonderfully phrases it, about which kindergarten to send Jude to even though that actual decision is almost two years away.

I get so lost in what might/could/will happen that I ruin the here and now. It's a sickness. I need to fix this for myself, but I also feel compelled to address this behavior before I pass it on to my children.

Let's use now as an example.

It is 8:41 pm on a Sunday and I am stressing over the Q2 taxes that are due at the end of the month, the fact that I may or may not have a freelance gig after next week, and we need to call plumbers to bid on what I fear will be an expensive upgrade to our house's water main by order of Denver Water. All of these events will play themselves out within the next few weeks, but I have no idea what will actually happen. And seriously, what could I possibly do about them right now at 8:44 pm on a Sunday? Absolutely nothing.

The best trick in my bag, and the one I don't seem to utilize enough, is to root myself firmly in the present moment.

And right now, everything is okay.

Right now, at 8:46 on a Sunday, this is what I know:
Gabe is giving Jude a bath.
Aidan is practicing his new "ka-ka-ka" sounds in my lap.
Belle, our Boston Terrier, is snoring beneath a pile of blankets at the end of the couch.
Our lab Rocky is passed out at my feet.
My house is filled with the people I love most.
We are all healthy.
We are all safe.
I don't know what will happen in an hour, or a day, or next week, but it is now 8:48 on a Sunday and right now, right here, I am just fine.

***

It is 8:49 on an average Sunday. No one is home in Crazy Town. The sole occupant is currently vacationing in the present moment. Someday she hopes to move there.

Bite v Chew

I am a compulsive starter of projects. It has been a problem my whole life. I am addicted to the thrill of a good idea, but the problem arises when I try to complete them all at once. I work faster and faster, spinning into madness, until I finish a fraction of the projects on my list and the rest get washed away in the deluge of my resulting breakdown. And then it starts all over again. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Right now my addiction is at an all-time high. Quitting my job has freed up ample time to think of a million wonderful new things to tackle!

Currently, I have plans in the works for 3 TV pitches, 2 books, a screenplay, a non-profit, a real estate investment idea, this blog, my upcoming Etsy store, a new writing gig, and 2 potential job opportunities that have blossomed out of freelance producing. Oh, and I still have my lovely boys to raise, dogs to play with, a husband who deserves some of my attention, a garden to plant, and various home projects designed to welcome summer.

Reading this list makes me tired.

Just yesterday a girlfriend described me as "ambitious." This was in the midst of a lunch play date where our toddlers were rapidly declining into a pre-nap freakout, my baby was crying in his Exersaucer, and I was trying to clean up a delightful lunch I hadn't yet had time to eat while simultaneously beating frosting to top the homemade cupcakes I'd pulled off that morning. Yeah, I don't think "ambitious" was a compliment. I think it was a euphemism for crazy.

Jude has an indoor trampoline we bought him to help with the pent up physicality of the winter months. Every time he starts to go a little nuts we send him to the tramp. He knows the drill, and on a recent afternoon yelled out "Mom, I gotta jump on my trampoline! I feel some crazies comin' on!"

Maybe I should try this. When I get that buzz of a new idea, instead of pulling out the albatross of my idea book I should shut everything down and head to the trampoline. I can burn a few calories (bonus!) and distract myself long enough that my fuzzy new-mom brain will eat my fledgling idea before it has a chance to fully form.

I'll tell you one thing. Next time I have a play date, we're doing cold cuts and hoagie rolls. What was I thinking?

The Same River Twice

I've swiped the title of today's blog from Alice Walker, whom I love, and her book "The Same River Twice: Honoring the Difficult." It's a moving long-form essay on a time in her life when the most wonderful was paired with the most devastating. In the ultimate tribute to grace, she looks back on that tangled period of time with gratitude.

There is an inherent connection, I think, between the awful and awe-inspiring moments in life. Though it's more easily said than done, I'd like to be more like Alice and learn to embrace the difficult. Not just the overtly difficult, but the small disappointments that can build up and drown us if we aren't careful. In my best moments, when I am able to let go of what I thought life would be and simply see it for what it is, I start to glimpse how lucky I really am.

If I can apply some perspective now, when I know what was waiting outside the window after life slammed that metaphorical door, maybe I will be able to more readily wade through difficult waters in the future.

Here goes.

A Letter to My Life

Written with humility, happiness, and hope for the future

Thank you failed acting career. You remain my biggest disappointment. But I learned that there is no shame in throwing in the towel. Sometimes, even though you try your best, things just don't work out. I met Gabe doing a play though, and with the gift of Gabe came the treasure of my boys. There is no sitcom, no Broadway play, no Oscar-worthy movie role that I would choose over my little family. And even though I did not end this journey a star, I cannot discount the small victories along the way. Seeing my name on a cast list, that moment when a character clicks, the feeling of holding an audience captive - these things still happened. Life is long...who knows if or when this path and I will meet up again.

Thank you failed relationships. Thank you Stupid Pete for teaching me how to love someone. Thank you Kirby the Destroyer for showing me that 2 is better than 1, even though you weren't the man I thought you were. If it weren't for the two of you, I wouldn't fully appreciate what I have with Gabe.

Thank you to the four houses that I loved and then lost over the course of 3 months due to bad home inspections. Turns out that the fifth time is a charm! And now that we've left the congestion and noise of the Denver neighborhoods that we were aiming for, I wouldn't trade my big backyard, access to open space, and proximity to my parents for anything. Not even a good English-style pub...

Thank you heart surgery. Nothing puts life and love in perspective more than the threat of loss. Gabe's surgery was 7 months ago, and today it's as if it didn't happen. Except that maybe we appreciate being together a little bit more. And we try not to take the little annoyances too seriously or let the easy moments pass by unnoticed.

Thank you XY chromosomes. I had always wanted a daughter because I am so close with my mom, but this has turned out to be a delightful curveball. I was so sure that both boys were girls! Being wrong has never been more wonderful.

Thank you miscarriage. It breaks my heart to write that, but without you I never would have been honored by the birth of Aidan. And he is worth a million heartbreaks.

Finally, thank you former job for overwhelming me with work and then cutting my health insurance benefits when I was 5 months pregnant. I learned that just because I can function at a high stress level doesn't mean that I have to, and that it sometimes takes an extra push to overcome my fear of change and walk away.

Along those lines, thank you non-profit "dream job" that didn't even call me in for a first interview. I am so happy to be freelancing, spending more time with my kids, and finally being able to work on my own projects at my own pace. I never would have had the guts to land here voluntarily.

And that's maybe the biggest lesson of all.

I don't always know what is best for me. Just because I want something so much doesn't guarantee a success, and success doesn't guarantee that that path will be the optimum one for me. Unexpected pitfalls force change. I wouldn't have chosen any of the aforementioned struggles before they happened, but in hindsight I would not change a thing.

Thank you life. You seem to be working out quite well.

Honoring the task at hand.

Multi-tasking is one of the biggest fallacies of the modern age, and I fall prey to it on a daily basis. If I am watching a movie, I am also picking up toys, paying bills or checking email. During dinner, I am up clearing plates and putting away condiments before my family has actually finished eating. Instead of enjoying a hot shower for what it is – a treasured moment of solitude – I spoil it by starting a list in my head of all of the things that need to be accomplished over the next hours, days, weeks. This minute, I am rocking the baby with my foot, writing this entry, and watching an episode of Chopped.

Why?

What is this compulsion to split focus and add an element of stress and mania to everything I do? Why can’t I enjoy a quiet moment of rest without inflicting a To Do list on it? I thought that leaving a full-time job would cure me, but I just find other ways to invite the albatross of “so much to do, so little time” into my home. I am addicted to this madness.

Stepping back and viewing myself objectively, I have come to the obvious conclusion that I am doing myself a disservice. Right now, it took me almost a full minute to come up with the word “objectively” because I am not giving this entry my full attention. I don’t know what the contestants on Chopped had in their mystery baskets this round of competition. Aidan is looking at me, and I am looking at a computer. Many things are being done simultaneously, but not one thing is being done well. I feel stressed and out of balance. And if you ask me in a few hours what I accomplished today, I won’t be able to remember. The details of my days are being sacrificed.

So here is the plan: I challenge myself to do one thing at a time, and to be mindful that activity. I challenge myself to honor the task at hand. Because what is the point of watching a movie if I am going to reduce it to background noise by making a grocery list at the same time? If I merely scan an email and send a half-baked reply, am I really doing my job? If I don’t immerse myself in playing pirates with Jude or take the time to memorize the earnest look on Aidan’s face while he nurses, will I one day forget that these things even happened? And if I don’t allow myself moments of peace, time in the day where I am not plagued by actual and imagined “things that need to get done,” am I going to end up in the nuthouse?

This is difficult for me but I need to remember that stress does not equal importance, and accomplishment cannot be gauged by a To Do list. I am going to kick things off by shutting down the computer. I am going to pick up Aidan, put down the mantle of multitasking, and watch my baby sleep.

Chapter One...

So it begins – big changes for the Bryan-Combs clan. We are about to embark on the grand adventure of going from a two-income family to a one-income family at the same time that we prepare to morph from a one-child family into a comfy clan of four.

“Twice the kids on half the income?” you’re saying to yourself. “Why, that’s simply brilliant!”

We think so.

And we’ll document the journey here – notes on everything from our gardening adventures (yeah, it’s June and we haven’t planted yet), to maintaining an organic food lifestyle on a limited budget, to my own adventures on mothering Jude in ways I never have…like taking him grocery shopping.

Honestly, I couldn’t be more excited. Gabe and I make enough money to support a comfortable lifestyle but we never seem to have enough time to really enjoy it. Leaving my job, opening myself up to the unsecured world of freelance, and knowing I will be able to spend the summer with Jude…well, like the title says, we may be paring down, but things are starting to look up.