The Best Parenting Advice Isn't Even Parenting Advice

I grew up in a pretty small, conservative Southern town where right was right and wrong was wrong. And you weren't supposed to much question that. So when I encountered the concept of dialectics in graduate school, I was skeptical.

For those of you wondering what the heck I'm talking about, I'll skip the esoterics and just say it's the idea that your right is not always the right and your wrong is not always the wrong. There's no absolute truth and opposing viewpoints can coexist. At. The. Same. Time. And even in your own head.

I know, right?!? It took me a minute, too.

But now that I have warmed up to the idea, the merits of its application are endless, especially since becoming a parent.

Because what I've noticed, in my very limited and brief time as a mom, is that everyone has an idea about how you should be raising your child. And they all think their way is the "right" way (myself included). And when you do or say something contrary to their way, they get all defensive and yelly because they think what you really mean is, "Your way is wrong."

And if their way is wrong, then they must be awful people and terrible parents.

For instance, I recently had a conversation about how to handle a crying baby. Now my husband and I loosely subscribe to the RIE parenting philosophy, which means we don't always swoop in to "fix" our crying child. We respect that babies cry sometimes and that's ok, especially since it's one of the only ways he has of communicating with us. When he cries we give him a few minutes (seconds even) during which we try to decipher what he's telling us, ask him some questions, and then proceed with whatever we think he needs (which, yes, means leaving him alone at times).

Now I know some of you are rolling your eyes, because my god you have a parenting philosophy?!? Others of you just want to read about the birth story and could care less about how I tend to the kid now that he's here (it's coming I promise). The rest of you have gone to call Child Protective Services because how could we be so neglectful?!? The baby is crying! You have to do something when a baby cries! You have to pick him up, or change his diaper, or rock him, or swaddle him, or something! You can't just let him cry! You are going to scar him for life! You are horrible parents!

Now, I could recite facts, and reasons, and philosophies about why we disagree. I could point out how immediately intervening seems to be more about your own discomfort than the baby's. I could do all this in order to get you to see the errors of your way, so that you change your mind. So that you ultimately agree our way is the "right" way and your way is the "wrong" way.

But chances are that's not going to happen. You won't change your mind, and in the meantime we'll do nothing but frustrate and upset each other.

So I could just save us all a lot of time and trouble, by applying the dialectical "Yes, and..." rule.

Yes, you do/did that with your babies, AND we are choosing something different.

See how wonderful that is? Your experience and choices are just as valid as mine. And me doing it one way, in no way discredits the way in which you do it. We're both "right". 

Yes, I believe having a working mom is important, AND staying at home is just as valid. Yes, we want to breastfeed for as long as possible, AND formula feeding is good, too. Yes, you rock your babies to sleep, AND we put our kid down before he nods off so he can figure out how to self soothe. Yes, I think letting kids regularly watch TV before aged two rots their brains, AND Sesame Street is cool.

And it doesn't just work when people are giving you parenting advice you disagree with, but in all areas of conflict. 

Yes, I want you to do this dishes, AND you would rather watch TV and drink beer. Yes, you want cookies for dinner, AND we are having broccoli. Yes, your crying is annoying at times, AND you're an awesome baby. Yes, the the fact that I have to point stuff like this out to you drives me crazy, AND I love you.

This method works because it doesn't shut people down. It continues the conversation and allows space for everyone's thoughts, feelings, and experiences to be heard.

Is it harder than arguing, judging, or rolling your eyes? Yes, AND it's worth it. Because it means that respect, compassion, and empathy are being practiced. Even during tough moments. Even when we disagree. Even when I know I'm right.

And the practice of those things is what will allow my kid to be able to say, "Yes, my mom was passionate, and opinionated, and headstrong, and vocal, and did things wrong, and totally screwed me up, AND she was wonderful, and considerate, and kind, and loved me very much.

My Fish Are Dead!

Or the Importance of Treating Mental Illness

When I was about 16 my OB/GYN diagnosed me with PMDD (premenstrual dysphoric disorder) and recommended that I start taking Sarafem (Prozac for women). This diagnosis and treatment plan excited me because for the first time in my life I felt like someone saw me, understood me, recognized my struggle, and was going to help me. Up until that moment I thought I was broken, too sensitive, melodramatic, should just "stop it." Now, I had a real thing. A real thing that could be treated. I could stop having all these feelings all the time. I could get better. I could be "normal."

Then, I drove home and told my mom about my appointment. She immediately discredited the doctor and forbid me to have the prescription filled because "didn't I know what happened to kids under 18 who take SSRIs? They commit suicide." End of story. No discussion. You're fine. You absolutely do not have that. Now, let's have dinner.

To say I felt deflated is an understatement, and I often wonder how the trajectory of my life would have played out had I been able to start getting treatment for my depression at such a young age.

Instead, it would take me ten years, countless poor relationships, 70 pounds, and numerous risky behaviors to seek out and get the help I needed. I was most definitely not fine and I most certainly did have that. I just couldn't always see it and neither could those who loved me.

I don't blame my mom; I know she was just scared. And I've mostly stopped blaming myself; I was scared too.

But I haven't, and I won't, stop blaming our society. Did you know that 80% of all people who had a physical illness got treated for their medical condition last year, while only 40% of those with a mental illness did? Or that one and ten adults report being depressed? Yet, nearly two out of three don't seek the treatment they need.

This is not okay. The stigma we have created around mental illness is not okay.

Mental health issues are just as real as physical ones. I'd even argue that they're more powerful, more influential, more detrimental (at times) because they come with a large dose of guilt and shame. And they permeate our whole entire lives, including our ability to genuinely connect and be in this world. To experience love, joy, and contentment which are just as much birth rights as health, or did we forget that line about the pursuit of happiness?

No one finds fault with the person who gets treated for cancer. No one whispers about them, questions their abilities, denies their symptoms, criticizes their choices, tells them to "just get over it." But those are all things I've heard, things my clients have heard. 

Things that cause millions of people to suffer in silence each year. And that is not okay.

What happens to people, to families, to towns when mental health issues go unresolved is not okay.

So, in honor of National Depression Screening Day I beg of you to begin thinking about health differently. Take your loved ones seriously when they reach out to you and even more so when they don't. Take yourself seriously. Your feelings are real and you matter.

Let's start making getting our souls "fixed" just as important as our bodies.

And because there are many people who've said it better than I ever could, here are some of my favorite depression related links:

A hilarious and accurate description of depression.

It would be like having a bunch of dead fish, but no one around you will acknowledge that the fish are dead. Instead, they offer to help you look for the fish or try to help you figure out why they disappeared. 

An incredibly moving podcast about how depression is treated in rural Africa. Transcript here.

He said, “You know, we had a lot of trouble with Western mental health workers who came here immediately after the genocide, and we had to ask some of them to leave.”
I said, “What was the problem?”
And he said, “Their practice did not involve being outside in the sun, like you’re describing, which is, after all, where you begin to feel better. There was no music or drumming to get your blood flowing again when you’re depressed, and you’re low, and you need to have your blood flowing. There was no sense that everyone had taken the day off so that the entire community could come together to try to lift you up and bring you back to joy. There was no acknowledgment that the depression is something invasive and external that could actually be cast out of you again.
“Instead, they would take people one at a time into these dingy little rooms and have them sit around for an hour or so and talk about bad things that had happened to them. We had to get them to leave the country.”

Sciencey things and resources.

Don't Think Twice, It's Alright

The advice I wish someone had given me

When I found out I was pregnant I did a lot of things, including but not limited to: freak out, cry, wallow in bed, throw up, sleep, curse, squeal with delight, deny, worry, wonder, question, and obsess. But perhaps what I did most was start Googling, and asking questions, and reading. And then I stopped for awhile. The Internet can be a scary, mean place for mamas and nothing I was reading was resonating with me. The following post is what I wish I would have found in my first burst of research.

Dear Mama-in-the-Making,

Stop reading this and go outside. Or write, or paint, or draw, or cook, or take pictures, or call your best friend. Or talk to your husband. Or better yet, have sex with him. Do anything that lights you up because what your baby needs-what the world needs-is for you to be lit up.

Your baby does not need you to be an expert. Your baby does not need you to read books, or studies, or blogs.

Your baby needs you to be happy. Content. It needs you to take care of yourself. To experience the world. To pay attention.

It needs you to trust your intuition. And none of that will you find in a book or on the Internet.

What you'll find there is a lot of crap. A lot of people telling you what you need to do, or should do, or absolutely can't do. And for every expert opinion, you'll find ten more that are contrary.

Why do you believe they know better than you? Why do you let their voices override yours?

You are designed to do this. 

Every atom of your body knows its role. How to grow and form a life. And no matter what you do or don't do, that process will happen. Your baby will grow. It will push itself out into the world. It will thrive.

Whether because of or in spite of you, it will have its own life. It will make its way. It can't not.

And I know you want to do everything right. You want to be perfect so your little one will have the best possible chance. It's how your brain will work from now on. In worst case scenarios and late night fretting. In protection and preparing. But think back on your own life.

When have you grown? When have you learned?

Not when life is perfect. But when it's messy and hard. Don't forget to give that to your little one. To be vulnerable and imperfect. To make mistakes, and repair, and learn. To be honest. Deeply honest even about the hardest things.

The best thing you can do. The only thing really. Is to live. Really live your life. 

So, do what you've always done...

Eat what feels good, even the bad stuff sometimes. Delight in what you put in your body even when you reach for something processed, or with high fructose corn syrup, or from the forbidden list. Food is just food. Parisians eat soft cheeses, the Japanese sushi. So stop worrying and enjoy it. Praise the miraculous tingle of sugar on tongue. The texture of cheese on bread. Then, be done with it. Don't worry about not doing right or getting enough leafy greens. Stop beating yourself up. Your body knows what it needs. And sometimes it needs pleasure. It's ok. Take your prenatal and eat a salad tomorrow.

Do what you like, all of it. Even the stuff other people don't understand, or accept, or tell you not to do. Take a nap. Skip your walk. Run a marathon. Read a book. Whatever makes you feel alive. And be gentle and kind to yourself when nothing feels good. It will pass, as all things do.

Have feelings, every single one of them. Be mad. Cry. Hate that you are pregnant. Love that you are pregnant. Nothing you could think or feel will make you a bad mother, or someone who doesn't deserve a child. Even if the Internet tells you otherwise. Allowing yourself to be honest about this whole mess is an incredible gift-to you, your partner, your child, the world. Having the courage to tell the truth is more honorable than hiding behind fear and judgement, and it's something most don't do. So admit and acknowledge where you are. It's the only way to create true connection, you know that.

You also know the peril of that. Of speaking your truth. It makes other people uncomfortable sometimes. Can ignite loneliness and isolation. Embrace those moments of pulling in. Then, get out of bed, fix your hair, and get on with things. You know who your tribe is, who gets to hear your whole story. Call them. Tell them.

Worry, knowing it won't help a bit. But realizing when we try to dam up our thoughts they soon become an overwhelming torrent. So let them be. Wonder and be curious about them without indulging.

Know that when people are harsh and judgmental-when they offer their opinion as God's given word-they are probably just scared. You're scared too. Tell them that. And listen. Chew on the kernel they offer until it splits open and reveals a deeper truth, even if takes awhile. Even if you have to dig through a mountain of bullsh*t to find the pearl. Even if you end up spitting it out or throwing it away. Because everything is a opportunity to go deeper. To learn more. No matter who's mouth the words are coming from.

Be open. Let things unfold as they will. Control is just an illusion we give ourselves to sop up fear.

Pay attention. Listen. Not only to your body, your mind, your feelings, but to your baby's. And to the world around you. Life is much bigger than your tiny existence. Look up when you get too myopic. Lay down on the ground when you feel disconnected.

Say you're sorry. But only when you really are or when you've truly wronged another. It's not a filler word. Not to be uttered when you are doing what you need to do to take care of yourself.

Respect the little person you've created. See her for what she is-what we all are-beings trying our best to make our way in the world. She can be your greatest teacher if you let her.

Ask for help when you need it. Tell people no when you mean it.

And mostly importantly know that there's no one way. No best way. No perfect way. 

“You have a right to experiment with your life. You will make mistakes. And they are right, too.”
-Anais Nin

So, stop reading this and go outside. It will all be fine. Is fine.

Love,

Your True Self

Just Be and Other Things I Learned While Recovering

Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver 

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

When I was in pre-school I informed my parents that I wanted to learn how to read. So they marched me across the field and our very patient next-door neighbor (Hi Frances!) pulled out some See Jane Run and got busy fulfilling my wish. In elementary and middle school there were special classes, and camps, and trainings. And then in high school, when I felt I had out grown my public school, I decided I was going to an elite boarding school. In college, I studied Art History in the Louvre––in. the. Louvre. After that, in grad school, I was voted "Outstanding Marriage and Family Therapist Student." Since then, I've applied to and participated in yoga trainings, counseling seminars, local boards, and extra classes.

I do not tell you this to brag or tout my accomplishments, because at the end of the day I haven't cured cancer or solved world peace, I haven't done anything all that great except have an insatiable need for knowledge, for learning, for growth. A need so painful, so intense it has driven me across continents and countries. It has made me annoying, and humble, and depressed.

Yes, depressed.

Because when you base your life solely around accomplishing things, you're bound to get let down. Not every moment is great, there's not always something to learn, and sometimes there's nothing more to do than keep your head down and slog through.

And slog through is exactly what I have been doing lately. Getting up, going to work, coming home, and watching TV like most Americans. Except, I am not most Americans. I am the Valedictorian of Everything. The Valedictorian of Everything does not just slog through.

The Valedictorian does things. Accomplishes things. Has projects. Is great.

But I've accomplished all the major things on my list. I have an advanced degree, a job in my field. A wonderful husband. Amazing friends.

I've ticked the boxes I've been told to (that I've wanted to). So, what's next?

It's a question I've had a long time to ponder as I've been laying around being the Valedictorian of Doing Nothing, of recovering from my surgery. My it's not cancer, you may have endometriosis, but you'll be fine surgery.

And all I can come up with is that my next project is realizing that the mundane, ordinary life I've created (that I've been granted since my it's not cancer, you may have endometriosis, but you'll be fine surgery) is actually quite extraordinary. That it's what I worked hard to create. That it's what I walked across that field for when I was three.

And that it's enough. I'm enough.

Which may be the hardest lesson of all. Becoming a human being instead of a human doing. Funny how we do that. How we learn that we have to do things, accomplish things, run marathons, tear down walls, cure cancer to be good enough.

When really all we have to do is let the soft animal of our body love what it loves.

And my body loves my husband, and seeing clients, and cooking food, and snuggling on the couch. And that's good enough. I'm good enough.

So are you.

New Year's Resolutions

December 31st, 2013

While most pop champagne and share ruddy cheeked kisses, I sit on the couch running my fingers along my belly. No outward sign of the abnormality I know is there. No rippled skin. No hard place. No indentation or bulge.

Nothing to announce the presence under my skin except for a phone call and a hunch, "mass, right ovary, abnormal, cyst, large, specialist." A string of words I arrange and rearrange as the clock ticks. As the new year slams into me.

And I can't help but wonder what's really there among the old spent cells, among the blood and viscera of my sex. Is it the story of my mother? The unwanted glances, missed opportunities, and regrets of my youth? Or is it newer? Maternal ambivalence, over-striving, and always measuring myself up short?

What has grown, but then been discarded?

The doctor says it's just endometrial tissue. But I know it must be something more. Why else would my body turn against me? Why else would it threaten my fertility?

January 10th, 2014

Google search:
Chocolate cyst
Endometriosis
Treatment for endometrioma
Endometrioma and ovarian cancer
Can I have babies
Will I die

Today
I'm tired of not talking about this. Of saying, "it's nothing," "millions of women," "no big deal."

There's a golf ball sized growth in my ovary, and the blood work doesn't come back until next week. I'm tired, and full of too many thoughts.

I need to say, "this hurts," "I'm scared," "please pray."

Four Ideas for Better Living

Conversations for Overcoming Depression

Dear Internet,
I spend most of my time thinking about how I can improve myself, what I need to work on, how I'm lacking, and/or ways to combat any number of the things I've either been diagnosed with or have diagnosed myself with (SAD, dysthymia, depression, eating-too-many-cupcakesitis). This, perhaps, helps explain why I'm a counselor for a living because this sort of obsession? Compulsion? Way of being? is encouraged. And sort of what we get paid for in a way. After all, how am I to be of any assistance to my clients if I haven't done the work myself?

Because of this neurotic tendency towards growth, introspection, and being the Valedictorian of Life, I have a lot of esoteric conversations with people about navel gazey type things, the latest psychobabble research, and strategies for better living.

Recently, several of these conversations have resonated very deeply with me. So deeply, I feel the need to pass them on to you because they've shifted how I think about things and ultimately how I behave (which is sort of the whole point of psychology when you get right down to it). They've been the shot in the arm I've needed to help me get off my butt and clear the depressive fog that sometimes creeps in on me. Maybe they'll do the same for you.

>The 7/10 Rule

Part of my depression stems from the fact that I don't like to fail and have a very abnormal desire for perfection. I often get so caught up in doing it right, in winning, in being perfect that I often end up not actually doing anything at all. Because procrastination is the flip side of the perfection coin.

We set ourselves up for failure when we set the bar too unrealistically high.

Don't get me wrong lofty goals are wonderful, but at a certain point they become action prohibitive. This conversation and subsequent realization has completely changed what I do (and how depressed I (don't) feel).

Instead of having an insane, totally unrealistic goal (like going to the gym everyday for an hour and running a marathon next month), and then being totally derailed and shutting completely down when I don't achieve that goal (because come on-that's never going to happen for me), I've put the 7/10 Rule into effect.

You don't have to make a hundred on the test, all you gotta get is 7/10. So, I missed one day at the gym. Did I go six other days? Well, good enough. I'm still moving in the direction of my value. One slip up, one wrong answer doesn't matter in the long run. Because 7/10 is way better than none/10. And none out of ten is usually what happens when we get too focused on being perfect.

This rule alone has re-energized me, and served as a massive counter to the inertia I often experience (especially when it's 30 degrees and snowing outside).

>Don't Wait, Just Do It

A few weeks ago I was in one of my slumps. Instead of wallowing in bed like I usually do, I reached out to my girlfriends by sending a simple mass I miss you text message. They of course responded with witty and I love you banter that instantly lifted my mood.

Then, one of them called me. Which is sort of a rarity with this friend (we're more of the let's meet for coffee or go for a walk kind of girls). In the course of that conversation she said, "I was going to text that if you needed to talk just call, then I thought that's silly I'm just going to call her. I'm not going to wait for her to ask."

How many times have you gotten the impulse to do something for someone, but didn't? How many times have you said, "If you need something just let me know?"

Do you know how much that works for people in crisis? Not very much because they are in crisis. Also, do you know how helpful it is when someone just does something for you when you're down, or upset, or hurt, or...? It is extremely helpful.

So, don't wait. Don't make it the other person's problem. Just do it. Just make that phone call, or send that message, or fold that laundry. Action begets action. And what goes around comes around. Not to mention, being of service to others is one of the quickest ways to improve your own mood.

And since you only have to get a 7/10, you don't have to worry if your action is perfect or not.

>Actually Show Your Support

Living and working in a small town comes with a unique set of problems. People frequently complain about the lack of resources we have, or the cost of the ones we do. They do their shopping out of town, or seek out services elsewhere. Then, they complain when people don't show up or support their own venture. (And yes I've been guilty of this).

The recent closings of several of my favorite businesses in conjunction with trying to drum up my own clients, has made me consider the part I played in the shuttings. Me just liking that we have a knit shop, or bookshop, or yoga studio, wasn't enough. And that's true no matter where you live.

People need you to actually spend your money in their shops. They need you to show up for the things they plan. They need action not just kind words and prayers. 

Plus, how can we expect people to support us when we don't support them? When we don't show up for the classes they are teaching, the events they are planning, the shops they own?

I have to invest in the community not only with my time and well wishes, but with my money if I want it to invest in me.

So, if there's a shop you like. A person you know doing something cool. Go. Go, spend your money. Invest in them and they'll invest in you.

>No One's Coming to Save You

It's no secret, to those who know me well, that Maggie Mason is one of my personal heroes. So, when she posted, Amy DuBois Barnett, "Take care of your own damn self, a few weeks ago I was all, "Yeah! Do that! Take care of your own damn self!"

It was an article, (who's basic premise is that no one is coming to save you, so you best get along with your own life), that stuck with me for days. I kept vacillating between, "that's so true," and "aww that's sad, we all need support and connection."

I'm still not completely sure of how I feel about the whole thing. But I do know there's an element of truth there because I do believe we are each responsible for our own lives and how they turn out (to a certain extent). 

And if one thing's true, it's that we can control the meaning we make of the situations we either put ourselves into or that are thrust upon us. 

When we fully realize that it gives us an immense amount of freedom to make changes because we aren't waiting around or at the mercy of other people.

And that my friends feels good, especially when you don't worry about being perfect, or how your actions will be received.

As winter closes in on me, my hardest time of year, I'm trying to keep these conversations in the forefront of my mind because I find them useful tools.

What helps you? What conversations have you had that are helpful?

XO,

Sara

From Pink to Red: My Issues with the Month of October

[Author's Note: I wrote this last weekish and let it sit in my drafts box because I know it's controversial. And quite honestly, I was a little afraid of posting it (least I hurt someone's feelings). I also sat here for a half hour debating whether or not I needed to put several disclaimers on here and apologize for my strong opinion. But really, I'm not sorry for the following post. And I do truly believe it's our duty to be responsible, to ask questions, to educate ourselves, to stand up and say, "Hey something's odd about this," even about the hard things-even about cancer. I also believe in listening to my urge to write, and this I didn't so much write as standby and let the words fall out. ]

Dear Internet,

There are a handful of things that really fire me up. Like when my husband gets something out of a cabinet and leaves the door open. When people say one thing, but do another. When grave injustices are committed like double parking, genocide, or Netflix not having a movie I really want to watch.

But nothing really compares to the disdain. The furry. The annoyance. The fire I feel for the month of October. Because for the month of October I have to hear about, and see, and deal with breast cancer awareness.

I usually keep quiet about this particular pet peeve of mine because: 1) it's not exactly popular to say, "If I see that stupid pink ribbon on one more thing I'm going to scream." 2) I know my hatred is personal and stems from the fact that my mom died of Ovarian cancer. A cancer that gets little attention, yet is far more deadly (figure that one out Internet). And 3) Deep down I'm all about promoting awareness and research and supporting survivors and their families because regardless of what kind you or your loved one get-cancer sucks.

I bide this month sending dear friends snarky messages, rolling my eyes, and complaining to my husband. But this time October you've gone too far.

I mean seriously, a National No Bra Day? Pardon my french but WTF? How is putting on display the things breast cancer survivors loose helpful? Should we have a no underwear day in support of testicular cancer? I mean the cruel, cruel irony of this idea makes my insides hurt. (Which is what really fired me up about this whole thing in first place. Because really, a No Bra day?!? It makes no sense to me.)

(Then, there's the second thing riles me up about any "awareness" type event, breast related or not.) What does it do?

Let's say I didn't hate trite (My inner feminist would like for me to also insert the world sexist here, which I realize opens up a whole other can of worms. Do with that what you will.) stuff like this and I just happened to whip off my bra in support of breast cancer. Then, what? Are we closer to a cure? Has some family suddenly gotten money to offset the cost of medical treatment? Has a survivor magically grown their hair back, overcome their nausea, and resumed a "normal" life?

No. Not one of those things happens.

What happens is people have pointed and stared at my nipples and sagging breasts all day. Which helps no one, and quite frankly makes me feel a little weird. Just like half the crap that's painted pink.

So while it might make you, personally, feel better to ditch your bra or buy something with a ribbon, it's not actually doing anything (and in some cases it's actually spreading the disease). (Some of you will argue, "Yes, it is! It is! It's bringing awareness!" To which I will reply: unless you have been living under a rock for the past decade we are all very aware of breast cancer. I can't buy yogurt without being reminded of breast cancer. Awareness does not in fact fix the problem. It's like if a giant hole opened up in the middle of my living room and all I did was tell people about the giant hole. "Hey, there's a hole. It's giant. It's in my living room. It happened at this time and was caused by this. And it's a real problem. Let's make t-shirts about this giant hole. And go on walks. And spend a portion of the money we'd use to fix the hole making sure everyone has a trinket that acknowledges the hole!" And if I did that. If I made sure everyone was aware of this hole. Not only would my husband think I'm crazy, we'd still have a giant freaking hole in our living room. The problem wouldn't have actually been solved. I can't just wear cute shirts that announce the presence of the hole. I actually have to do something about said hole.)

And doing something is what cancer survivors and their families need. They don't need you to take off your bra (they may even actually hate you a little because you have a bra to take off). They don't need you to buy a key chain, water bottle, Christmas ornament, trash cash, vibrator, dog dish, T-shirt, bumper sticker, tote bag, pencil, pen, roll of wrapping paper, yoga mat, magnet, lipstick, or cookie. (Things that organizations and institutions have to spend their money on to make, instead of spending their money on you know finding a cure and doing research. And all because we want some bauble that says, "I'm aware! I support! Look at me!")

No, cancer survivors and their families don't need any of that. They need you to come over. To sit with them. To clean their house. To buy their groceries. To talk to them like they're normal. To talk to them like they are sick when they are sick. To mop up vomit and diarrhea. To help care for their children. To visit them in the hospital. To listen to them. To cook for them. To tell them you love them. To make donations directly to companies and foundations that are doing research whether you get a knickknack or not. To take care of yourself. To be educated and empowered about your body. Your whole body-not just your breasts. To give them a pass when they are tired and cranky and crabby. To be supportive by actually being supportive.

Because cancer is hard. And it sucks. And for the most part we'd all rather buy a cute shirt or take off our bra because it's easier. But these people don't have it easy. And neither should you.

Love,
Sara

Redefining Yoga

"If you love something, set it free." —Sherrilyn Kenyon, or maybe someone else who had waaaay too much time to create Facebook memes

Dear Internet,

I walked into my first yoga class when I was eighteen. That means that for the past twelve years my life has revolved around this ancient practice (Okay, so it hasn't been a solid twelve year commitment. There were those moments, mainly in college, where I did a lot more thinking about yoga while sleeping off a hangover than I did any actual yoga. But still—twelve years. Twelve years, I've been organizing my life around asana* classes.).

*For those of you whom I'm related to or suffered with through that bizarre reenactment of Peter Rabbit that the Baptist church put on when we were kids in which they forced us to dress up like vegetables, asana is not some secret code for having cocktails with Satan. It simply means posture. I could have easily said stretching, or attempting to put my foot behind my head instead, but I like to sound smart and superior so I say asana. I also realize this weak attempt to explain my heathen ways probably has no effect on you whatsoever and I'm still on your prayer circle list. To which I reply, "Thank you." Because as far as I'm concerned, I could use all the prayers I can get.

Anyhoo. Twelve years is a long time y'all. Some people don't even stay married for that long. Yet, here I've been rolling out my mat and doing my thing. For. Twelve. Years.*

*For those of you who have me on your prayer circle list because I've "been doing my yoga thing for twelve years," I assure you that does not refer to sacrificing goats, or making burnt offerings, or having graven images before anyone, or worshiping golden calves. It simply means that for twelve years I have been going to a public yoga studio, rolling out a rectangle of rubber, and stretching in the company of others, while sometimes talking about why it's important to be nice, and turn the other cheek, and be kind to everyone—you know, kinda like what Jesus did (I'm sorry was that too far?). But if you don't believe me, you can ask my friend Jan. You can ask her because not only is Jan one of the people I've been "doing my thing with," Jan happens to be a yoga teacher AND the wife of a minister. Yes, a yoga instructor AND a minister's wife. I just blew your mind didn't I? And before you discount her as the wife of some snake charming not real minister from the wild, wild West, Jan and her family live in Wagner, South Carolina. Wagner. And the church they belong is a real, live Methodist church. That's okay I'll wait while you apologize for condemning to me hell for something you've never even participated in. I got all the time in the world because I learned patience in yoga.

Now back to my existential crisis about yoga—the one consistent thing that has defined my life for the past twelve years besides trying to find a husband.

I can blame the following positive life occurrences on yoga:

• Recovering from my mom's untimely death.
• Managing my depression.
• Losing 70lbs.
• Prolonging my sinful life by lowering my blood pressure, improving my cholesterol, introducing me to a form of exercise that doesn't give me seizures (Okay, I never actually had real seizures, they were just mainly in my head when I thought about having to workout at a gym or go running or heaven forbid—play a team sport), and lowering my stress level (all of which can be proven by science, which I would totally show you if I wasn't too lazy concerned I might have a seizure from working too hard on the Internet, so you're just gonna have to trust me when I say there are numerous studies that scientifically show yoga to be very, very beneficial for your health, and if you don't trust me, well then you're just going to have to go look them up yourself but don't say I didn't warn you about the seizures).
• Introducing me to a beautiful, supportive group of women who will fly to the other side of the country just to ensure my secret trashy isn't showing on my wedding day while wearing silver glittery Toms and non-matching dresses because I asked them to. They will also do lots of other nice things like tell you when you're getting that far away depressed look, or have salad in your teeth, or smell bad.
• Helping me not murder anyone while in grad school (see article about yoga as stress relief).
• Cutting my getting ready time to ten minutes tops, as yoga pants and t-shirts aren't really time intensive wardrobe decisions.
• Allowing me to meet my husband (Okay, so he's not my husband yet and if this does end up going South I'm totally blaming yoga for it).

I'm sure there are others like making me a nicer, more patient, loving human being, and raising my self-esteem to a normal level, but I didn't want to get too cocky. And you can never be too sure where therapy and anti-depressants end and yoga begins (except I'm not on anti-depressants anymore because of all the yoga).

Nevertheless, the point is—yoga has done amazing things for me. Things I'm very thankful for. Things that make this next sentence sort of hard for me.

I'm kinda over asana. I know, some of you just praised the Lord and others of you are speed dialing me to make sure I have not been abducted by aliens. I thank both camps.

It's just when I wake up in the morning and I check in with what my body wants to do, it's not asana. It's mainly everything but asana. And while I laid in bed last night working out exactly how I was going to tell you this, I suddenly realized I actually have a fantastic reason why. A reason that was so unexpected—and by unexpected I mean that I've been trying to figure this out for moths and only just discovered it last night at 3am even though it had been laying right beside me the whole time—I started to cry because it's so true and perfect and comforting.

Brian is my yoga.

That's right. Brian is my yoga.

For these twelve years, yoga has been the vehicle I've used for knowing myself deeper. For challenging myself. For growing. For learning how to be patient and kind and accepting and loving.

Until it wasn't. Because we can only do so much alone. We need mirrors.

And Brian is now that for me. The love and acceptance that happens between us is much deeper than anything that has ever happened on the mat. And I'd much rather spend my mornings doing that kind of yoga than trying to kick into handstand.

 

Because at the end of the day yoga is not about the postures or the stretching. It's about radical love and acceptance and deep knowing (Chit Ananda for those of you who know).

And Brian shows me that every single day. He shows me that when I roll over and poke him awake. When I sing the same four bars of one song for a month. When I spend the entire morning writing instead of cleaning the house like I said I would.

He shows me that because he loves me. Because he loves me despite all the weird, annoying things I do. Even because of all the weird, annoying things I do. He loves me even though I'm not perfect.

So suddenly, moving my body through a serious of contrived poses* in order to know that feels sort of meaningless in comparison. (*I'm actually putting this one at the end because lord the can of worms it's going to open.)

And I'm okay with that for now, for Brian to be my yoga. Because he's—our relationship—is pushing me to grow in ways asana never can. Never has.

And if I've learned anything from all the horrible, no good things yoga has helped me overcome, it's that—life is short. And if I've learned anything from yoga, it's—when you find something that lights you up inside, that so perfectly reflects your brilliance, and so so gently pushes against your growing spots you should hold on to that thing like holy heck.

So, that's what I'm doing.

I'm holding on to Brian like holy heck. And I'm taking walks, and writing, and meditating. And I'm doing just fine.

I'm doing more than just fine. I'm doing fantastic. And isn't that sort of the point of yoga, anyway?

XO,
Sara

*Hey guys can we all just admit that the system of yoga we practice in the West is relatively new and based solely on the ideas of a handful of men? Indian men. Indian men who did not have large boobs and short arms and birthing hips. Indian men who sometimes hit their students with sticks if they were misaligned. Can we all also agree that this is a little crazy? And that maybe we shouldn't be sooo concerned about exactly replicating those poses. And maybe we should stop giving people the stink-eye when they don't really want to do an Eye of the Tiger practice or be the Valedictorian of Asana or could careless about standing on their heads for ten minutes at the time. Because there are other things to life besides yoga. Other things are just as worthy and valuable. And being a yogi does not make you better, or more enlightened, than anyone else. In fact it probably makes you a little worse off in some ways (according the that book that was on the NY Times Bestseller list), especially if you live in the South, where you get the stink-eye for being a yogi. And could we also stop with all the competing and focusing just on asana? Because there are seven other limbs. SEVEN!

**And also could we realize that the above rant does not secretly refer to anyone I know personally or to either of the kulas I've been a part of, but just to the general air of yoga in general, generally speaking?

Feminine? Or Femi-none?

"A well-read woman is a dangerous creature." —Lisa Kleypas

Dear Internet,

I have worried about the following things this week: the current length of my leg hair, whether I could go one more week without an eyebrow wax (I could!), and how exactly I was going to whip up something delicious for dinner while washing all the dishes, scrubbing the grass stains out of Brian's pants, finding a cure for cancer, maintaining a perfectly manicured coif, and working forty hours a week (I could not.).

In short, I have worried about being a woman. And doing all the womanly things I'm expected to do now that I'm shacking up with someone and on my way to being his wife.

Now, before you phone me up to berate me for marrying such a cretin, let me say he does not expect me to do anything of those things. Sure he prefers not to be able to braid my leg hairs and likes a warm meal every once in awhile, but for the most part he grunts and shrugs and does his own laundry and mending. Seriously, I once watched in fascination as he sewed two buttons back on one of his shirts while simultaneously cooking dinner. I mainly watched because he was shirtless—but still. He was raised well and is generally a prince when it comes to these things. It's me who's not.

I expect to be able to do all those things because isn't that what we're told as women? That we must whip up homemade French Laundry quality meals after working all day and managing to keep our hair in the right place (and out of the wrong places)? And that if we don't we somehow fail the wife test and the police come and revoke your license and it's a whole big "thing." I do not like "things." Or failing.

Although, I'm sure you're laughing now if you know me intimately. Because you know I can go weeks—nay months—with chipped nail polish, that I am quite capable of using every last dish in the house before I wash a single one, and well the status of any of my hairs on any given day is usually code orange.

Which was fine when I was single. But now that I'm an almost wife aren't I supposed to get it together? Aren't I supposed to become this neat, tidy, well-organized, multitasking goddess of domesticity while also remaining wildly desirous to my husband?

It makes me tired just thinking about it. Sigh.

Now, because it's almost Mother's Day, I will blame my lack of skills in the domestic arts on my mother, god rest her soul. I will do this mainly because I can and I'm a therapist and it's a trade secret that everything is always our parents' fault.

But to make my case, the woman wasn't exactly the most feminine person in the world. She believed in applying lipstick once a day (in the morning), that panties were to be white, cotton, and bought once a year (for Christmas), and her version of cooking was eating all the icing off a store bought cake (heaven help you if you ate the last piece).

And because I don't want to be accused of trashing my family again, I will add—she had many wonderful qualities that I totally appreciate, keeping house and knowing her way around Sephora were not them.

So, I'm a little deficient in these areas (Ok not the Sephora part. Most of my twenties was spent figuring that element of being a women out, but doing that while also folding laundry is a lesson I have still not yet mastered. I've been too busy cataloging all my shoes).

Figuring out what exactly it does mean to be a wife is also hard since I don't have any sisters and was awkward around most women until I was in my mid-twenties. Okay, I'm still a little awkward around most women. Groups of them often scare me. Hence why my upcoming bridal party consists of four lovely ladies instead of the mandatory herd most Southern weddings call for.

But I digress. Back to all the responsibilities and things I'm at best average at. And yes, I just cringed a little when I wrote that word—average is not something I'm programed to be.

I shall learn how to crush keeping everything tidy while minding my nails. Ok, I probably won't.

Because half of the crap we worry about as women is total bunk. And if you don't believe me please read this book. Seriously.

I picked up How To Be a Woman mainly because the book I really wanted to read wasn't available and navigating this new word wife has been hard for me (something about not having a mom or sisters to ask about these things) and I figured surely I could learn something from "The British version of Tina Fey's Bossypants."

And my god I have! I have learned so many things. I have also spent most nights howling at Brian, "Wait, wait just listen to this part!" as I laughed spit all over him.

Because this book is hilarious, and irreverent, and poignant, and exactly what a *gasp* feminist book should be (why do we hate that word so?).

Not to mention it instantly stopped all the hand-wringing and worrying and fretting. Because it reminded me that we are all in this together. And we have many ways of doing things. And contrary to what my Southern upbringing says there's no rule that mandates you scrub the floor with a toothbrush and always wear pearls. Nor do I have to have twelve pieces of matching silver and sixteen sets of china.

I can do it my way. I can be any kind of wife I want. Any kind of woman I want. And so can you.

And that my friends is what *gasp* feminism is. Saying out loud we're all in this together whether or not you've had your bikini line waxed or not.

Thank you Caitlin Moran for that. And thank you to all the wild, wonderful women I run with who remind me every day there are many different ways to be a wife, a mother, a sister, a friend, a woman. And that all ways are pretty fantastic (even the ones I poke fun at for having tidy houses and perfect hair).

Now, since it is almost Mother's Day go kiss your mom. Tell her you love her. Thank her for showing you the kind of woman you want to be (or even the kind you don't want to be-although maybe don't say it like that).

Thank her for coming before you. For doing her thing. Because whether or not she was the best role model her existence is exactly why I can sit here typing this while Brian cooks dinner. Exactly why I can have a public opinion and job and fret about all the things I have to do.

Exactly why we can choose the kinds of women we want to be.  And that deserves some thanks whether she was perfect or not.

Love,
Sara

The following excerpts may use foul language, allude to bodies parts we aren't supposed to talk about in public, and tout liberal ideas. You have been warned.

"Similarly, if we live in a climate where female pubic hair is considered distasteful, or famous and powerful woman are constantly pilloried for being too fat or too thin, or badly dressed, then, eventually, people start breaking into women, and lighting fires in them. Women will get squatters. Clearly, this is not a welcome state of affairs. I don't know about you, but I don't want to wake up one morning and find a load of chancers in my lobby."

"I can't believe we've got to a point where it's basically costing us money to have a vagina. They're making us pay for maintenance and upkeep of our lulus, like they're a communal garden. It's a stealth tax. ...This is money we should be spending on THE ELECTRICITY BILL and CHEESE and BERETS..."

"In a world of infinite possibility, why not learn to hang off a pole by your pelvic floor? It probably will be more useful than learning Latin."

"All weddings seen to boil down to acting like Michael Jackson at the height of his insanity—pretending to be a celebrity for one insanely expensive day. And we know why celebrities have pet monkeys and stupid shoes and the Elephant Man's skeleton and a fun fair and swimming pools shaped like guitars. BECAUSE THEY'RE DYING INSIDE. THEY'RE STARING INTO THE VOID....We communally pity these people as damaged idiots."

"There's so much stuff—in every respect—that we can't afford and yet we sighingly resign ourselves to, in order to join in and feel "normal." But, of course, if everyone is, somehow, too anxious to say what their real situation is, then there is a new, communal, median experience that is being keep secret by everyone being too embarrassed to say, "Don't think I'm a freak, but...""

This Little Light of Mine

"Yes, but I think she's really a writer." —my mom

Dear Internet,

Someone recently asked me why I stopped writing here (*cough, Uncle Mark, cough, cough*), which led me to wonder why I started writing in the first place.

I've always been, shall we say-a sensitive child-a quality often not appreciated by some of my more rational kinfolk. So, at an early age, I began scribbling things down in notebooks or on the backs of discarded pages, least those things-those feelings-escape from my mouth or worse yet my eyes.

Some of you talk over wine, or spend hours on your bike. Some of you take baths or read. Some of you make art, or cook, or doctor on people. Or whatever it is you do to make sense of the world.

I? I write (and walk, and drive, and talk, and a myriad of other things).

But the writing-it just happens. The words come to me and it's all I can do to keep them from spilling out and ruining everything. So instead of blurting them out (vomiting them up?), I pen them down. I write them so I can see if they are true. If they make sense.

I write them so I can understand. 

 

Because when I don't-when I keep them rattling around inside my head-they turn rancid and bitter. They bite and sting and make me cranky.

And maybe I should just keep them to myself-continuing to fill journals and bits of paper. But I don't believe that's what we're meant to do-to hide ourselves. No, we-we are meant to let our lights shine. And writing? Writing helps me reveal my light-especially when I forgot it's there.

So why then, as this person asked, did I stop writing here?

 

There are several answers I could give: I was busy and flooded with words, and sights, and sounds-too many to tag, catalog, and trap here; I said a lot of my words over there and didn't have many left for here; I didn't think it was wise for the words I did have to be kept here as they needed some sorting.

Which would all be true. But, there's a better answer I can give-a truer answer. And that's-I haven't felt safe here. Someone I adore, whose opinion matters dearly to me, said some very unkind things about my writing. Trash was the chosen adjective.

Which is right in some ways. What I write is trash-mental, emotional garbage that needs taking out. Cleaning up. Dealt with.

Trash that often makes me cringe when I look at it now. Because I'm not that girl. Hardly ever am once I let the words out on the page. 

It took me a long time to shake that criticism out. To brush it off. To dust off my keys and open myself up again because what I write is so uniquely, heart wrenchingly me. And trash it may be, but it's my trash. It's me.

And the jab seemed to extend far beyond just the words on this page, because as I mentioned before I'm a sensitive child. And opinions matter to me. Those opinions especially matter to me.

So instead of leaving my trash here, I went into hiding. Retreated to my journals, my fiance (yes I have one of those now), and my bed. I let my mental garbage build up and weigh me down. I piled it up and barricaded myself in.

And while sitting amidst the rotting stench of unwritten words, I wished I didn't have this curse. This desire. This impulse to air my garbage out. I wished I could make myself into something more acceptable. Could just sweep my words under the rug and be done with them.

But I can't. I am me. And me writes and has opinions, and makes unusual choices, and marches to the beat of a different drummer, and yes takes her trash out and puts it on the Internet. And that's ok.

 

In fact, it's more than ok. It's fantastic. Because that's what we're meant to do. We're meant to stand in our lights. To be our true selves. To use our gifts.

 

Because when we do-when we have the courage to write, or draw, or talk-to live from our hearts-it gives other people permission, encouragement, the desire to do the same. And our world needs more of that-so much more of that.

But now my naivety has been scrapped off and I now know that not everyone can, or will see my trash (or yours) as treasure. No matter how much we wish they could. No matter how much we want them to. No matter how much we love them. Mean things will be said, eyes will be rolled, support will be withheld. And at times we'll feel all alone and it will stink.

But the cracks are where the light gets in. And when we bravely do what it is we're meant to do, other support floods in. Connections form. Hearts open.

And that covers. That mends. Any criticism.

I'm sorry I chickened out. Stuck my head in the sand. Tucked my tail between my legs. That's not the kind of living I believe in.

And I pinkie promise from now on I'll tell my stories, I'll write my words no matter what anyone says about them.

Love,
Sara

I Love You to the Moon & Back

I love you, I love you.
That is all that has ever mattered.
Live your full life and I will always be with you.
--- Cell phone call, September 11, 2001

Dear Internet,

Let's all pretend that I haven't ignored this blog for the past month, and we're all up to speed on what's going on in my life, ok? Because telling you exactly what has been going on, did go on, is currently going on is a epistle I don't have the time or energy to write, nor you to read. Trust me. It's been crazy. Is crazy. And I'm not sure I even believe all of it—yet.

But please know I'm safe, happy, loved and still looking at the Tetons through my windows (and will be for awhile).

This year has been one of the most transformative of my life. It's also been the hardest, saddest, best, happiest and every other emotion you get to experience when you pack up everything you own and move across the country to completely change your life.

I've had moments of sobbing on the studio floor. Moments of spreading my arms to the sky and screaming I love my life. And regular everyday nothing special moments too.

But through all those moments—those hot mess moments, those jump up and down moments—the one thing I've consistently had is you. That's right—you. Whether I know you or not. Whether we speak, or smile, or laugh, or cry, or just exist here together on this planet. I've had you.

You, who comes here and reads my words. Who may scoff, or laugh, or roll your eyes. Who may send me love notes, or what heck are you thinking notes, or hold my hair, or dance with me. Or never even talk to me at all.

You've been there.

Are there.

And knowing that has been what's pulled me through this year. Has helped me pick myself up off the floor, smile a little brighter, try a little harder. And for that I'll always be grateful.

You are beautiful and amazing and so precocious to me. I can't tell you enough—show you enough how much I appreciate you. How much of a difference you've made.

And I know I often suck at telling you. Can drop off the face of the earth for weeks on end. Can get so wrapped up in my daily drama that I temporarily forget you. I'm sorry for that.

But please know I love you. I love all of you. Even if we drive each other crazy sometimes, or don't understand each other, or don't talk for weeks (or at all).

I love you and I'm so grateful for you. I couldn't have done any of this without you.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

You are so important and matter so much and I wish I could hug each of you.

More stories are forthcoming (scout's honor), but I have a lot of people that I can and need to hug, and kiss, and tell I love.  And so do you.  So scoot.

The world is too beautiful & life's too short for you to be sitting around reading my blog.

I love you dearly and miss you terribly.

XO,
Sara

Why saying I love you is so important.

Circles and Squares

It was well after midnight and I had just come of off two twelve hour shifts slinging beer to Teton Valley's unwashed masses when I found Eustace Conway in my mailbox. Eustace is the main character in Elizabeth Gilbert's The Last American Man, a biographical novel a friend gifted me because he thought I was ripe for it and that Eustace had something to tell me.

Despite the fact that my feet hurt like hell and I could barely keep my eyes from fluttering closed, I cracked open the spine. Because what can I say? I'm a junkie for the written word and couldn't resist a fresh score (especially one from this particular friend).

By page two I was hooked. This is your brain on drugs, egg in the frying pan, hooked. I couldn't put the man down even though I tried. I found him to be all at once charming, and alluring, and down right maddening. Because he's a man so committed, so hard headed, so selfish that at times he cuts his own nose off despite his face. Yet, at others he's the most connected, sensitive, charming pied piper of a guy you can't help be be drawn to him. Can't help but to want to sell all your stuff and walk right out into the woods and live with him in his teepee.

That's right. This girl. This city girl who owns 50+ pairs of shoes found herself wanting to walk right out into the woods and live in a teepee and eat squirrel and never come back again. That's the power of this man. This book.

Then the more I read the more I realized he sounded like every guy I'd ever dated (especially the last one). So maybe selling all my stuff and moving to Turtle Island to sit at his feet wasn't such a good idea. I mean if my dating history is any indication of how well I do with stubborn men who enjoy immense amounts of personal freedom well then I should probably steer well clear of Eustace Conway and his 1,000 acre nature preserve no matter how alluring. And boy is it. Is he. Alluring.

Because who doesn't want to be free of the stress of the modern world? To not have to worry about bills, and health care, and running here and doing this. Thoughts that have been pervasive since I packed up my car, sold most of my belongings, moved West, and got a not real job. Thoughts that have only gotten louder and stronger as I've started working one day a week on a farm, teaching more yoga classes, and picking up odd jobs here and there to make ends meet.

Which is a way of life I knew nothing about until moving here. Because bless their hearts, my family prides themselves on being well educated, upstanding, contributing members of society. Which is fantastic the world needs such people. And I'm very fortunate to have a whole host of incredibly talented doctors, and lawyers, and engineers I can call to bail me out when need be.

But this also means I was never granted permission to have those pointless but fun jobs, as college was a time for studying. Not for waiting tables or tending bar or being a ranch hand. And after college was a time for getting a real job that had benefits, and insurance, and a 401(k). Not for taking off across America or hiking Patagonia. So, now, at almost thirty, I find myself drawn to these things. This way of life. This kind of living. Which is an entirely different verbiage from working and is exactly what Eustace preaches.

That most Americans live and work in a box. Eat from a box. Drive a box. Do box like things. Never once considering breaking out of that box. Which is detrimental to the earth and everyone's health. So he offers a different way. A circular way. A way that is connected and integrated and whole. That honors the rhythm of nature. The cycle of earth, and life, and death. And isn't about filling a box with more boxes. Or in my case a closet with more shoes. But is about being mindful and respectful and breaking out of the box. About doing crazy things like riding across the country on horseback or hiking the AT mostly nude or living completely off the grid because you can. And why not?

And while I realize that I like my iPhone, and painting my nails, and electricity a little too much to go completely native the box metaphor does resonate with me. Especially since I was just offered a job that comes with so many boxes I could build a mansion sized fort with them. A job that by most people's standards is a good job with all the right boxes-health insurance including dental and vision, a 401(k), paid vacation, a hefty salary, a relocation bonus, paid CEUs and supervision and expenses, automatic increases in pay, etc, etc, etc. It also comes with some boxes that should be sent straight to the recycling bin as far as I'm concerned. Boxes like 24 hour call Monday through Friday and one weekend a month, a 40-60 hour work week, mandated clients, Medicaid paperwork, rigid counseling protocols, and a staff I haven't exactly connected with.

Boxes so large that I wouldn't even have time to consider other boxes. Much less buy them or enjoy them. And the only circles I'd get to experience would be the ones I was constantly running around in trying to keep up. Which is not what Mr. Conway had in mind with his metaphor I don't think. 

So, now that I know Eustace. Now that I've experienced a different way. Now that I've taught yoga, slung beer, housesat, catered, done graphic design and PR work, pulled weeds on a farm... Now that I've pieced together boxes of work that allow me to have a more circular lifestyle. That allow me to live instead of work. To do what fills me up instead of what fills a box. I'm not sure I can take a job that is all boxes and no circles.

Because if I've learned nothing else from this book, from my year here, it's that ultimately once you break free of the box it's hard to go back in again.

XO,
Sara

PS-Don't worry your pretty little heads my darlings no final decisions have been made yet. And even if I don't take this particular box I'm still fairly certain all my boxes will end up back east. So everyone take a deep breath (especially you Dad).

Times are a Changing (and Quick)

"There came a time when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." —Anaïs Nin


Oh Internet,
There are so many things I want to tell you. The words rattle around in my brain and I struggle to catch to them. To pin them down on this page because there are so many. So many stories to tell. Stories about boys. New boys, old boys. Stories about jobs. New jobs, old jobs. Stories about yoga, and meditation retreats, and finding God. Stories about stories.

Because this past month or so has been one story after another. One story dissolving. Another being created. Two more springing up. Three leaving.

A rush of new words and old words and unexpected endings and beginnings. So that when I start to tell you one thing it's quickly become another and I'm not sure what to say. Except that cliche is true, the only constant is change. 

And boy have things been changing. Have I been changing. Rapidly. So fast that I often go to sleep one girl and wake up another. That one minute I have a plan and the next I don't. That right is left and left is right and my world is upside down and right side up again. And again. And again.

And how wonderful is that? To be so tapped in that things are moving. Rushing around. Shifting. Changing. And fast.

Too often we resist this. We cling to the past or reach out to the future. We attach ourselves to what we should have done, or said, or been. Or to what we have to or must do next.

Bypassing the moments that actually create the done or going to. But this middle part. This force that through the green fuse drives the flower is so sweet. It's what makes the bud blossom. And the blossom decay. It clears out and makes room. It creates and destroys. And without it you can't have seeds or flowers. Can't till, and plant, and reap.

So I try to sit with it. To marvel at the growth it causes. And the destruction it brings. Knowing that they are both the same. That I can't have one without the other. That if I want the blossom I have to be open to the decay. To the shifting and changing.

As radical and forceful and unpredictable as it may be.

So while I wish I could tell you all my stories. Pick the blooms and present them to you in a neat bunch. That doesn't seem to be how this is working.

Because just as soon as I gather them up they've already wilted and they're are others that need to be plucked.

And I know this will settle down. That the process will slow and there will be time to present you with a final bouquet. A longer absolute. But right now those are things I cannot say. Can't tell you what, or who, or where is next. And I'm ok with that. Because the blossoms I've been given are beautiful even if they don't last.

Hope you are well. Miss you terribly.

XO,

Sara

THE FORCE THAT THROUGH THE GREEN FUSE DRIVES THE FLOWER

Dylan Thomas

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

THE ACT

William Carlos Williams

There were the roses, in the rain.
Don’t cut them, I pleaded. They won’t last, she said.
But they’re so beautiful where they are.
Agh, we were all beautiful once, she said,
and cut them and gave them to me in my hand.

What's Love Got to Do with It?

Love.

I wish it weren't such a weighty word.  Because I find myself wanting to say it.  To tell him I love him.  And not in a let's be together forever and have lots of sex and babies kind of way (which family is a quote from a movie-chill out).

No.  The love I have for him has nothing to do with our could be or maybe not future.  It's like the love I have for the sun when it tickles my skin while pulling weeds at the farm.  Or the delight I experience when a fresh strawberry bursts open on my tongue.  Or the wonderful cracking open I feel each time I come to my yoga mat.

It is a love that just is.  Because he is a good.  And pure.  And wonderful man.  And I appreciate the time he devotes to me.  The things he says.  How he lives his life.  What he does.  Who he is.  And just as I want the sun to know I love its rays, the food I eat that I appreciate its nourishment, the practice I have that I honor its transformative power.  I want him to know those things too.

To know that I recognize him.  That I see him.  And that he is delightful.

But it's only been several weeks.  And he is there and I am here.  And love is a weighty word.  One that wields much power.  Can cause fear and constriction.  Turning away.

And I don't want the sun he's brought into my life to stop shinning.  I don't want the delight and brilliance and transformation to fade.  And I'm afraid that if I let those words loose they will shift things.

Create expectations.  Rules.  Boundaries.  Where none are now.  Where at this point I'm not even sure any should be or ever will be.

Because saying I love you is not like picking which movie you want to watch.

It is real.  And important.  And if you take it back it hurts.

So I keep the words in my mouth when we speak.

Then I remember that video about the horse.  And I realize that really, because we are mirrors for each other, the love I have.  The love that wants to rush out and spill onto him.  It's about me.  It's mine.

All he's done is reflected the deep delight and joy and love I have for myself.  The recognition and sight I at last have found for me.

Not for my life.  Or my place.  Or for what I do and think and feel.  But for who I am.

For the good and pure and wonderful woman I finally see myself to be.

And that.  That kind of mirroring.  That brillance.  And delight.  And knowing is so much bigger than he is.  Than I am.  Than our could be or maybe not future is.

Which makes the words suddenly seem small and unimportant.  Because the gift he's given me is one I'll always carry with me.  One that will color all I do.

So I don't have to say it.  He'll see it.  You all will.  Because now I do.

XO,
Sara

Warning the first 40 seconds of this video are terrible but the cover is worth it so just tough out the beginning.

Another Life on Another Shore

Shortly after Brian broke up with me the studio officially went up for sale.  An opportunity I would have unhaltingly and without reservation said, "Yes!" to before April.  As it was something Brian and I often talked about.  Me buying the studio.  Us moving in together.

But it wasn't before April.  It was now (or rather then-two months ago).  And while at first it seemed like a golden opportunity delivered on a golden tray sprinkled with golden dust that I'd be a fool to turn down.  I mean hadn't I always wanted to own my own business?  And doesn't it even have space for a counseling office?  Something about it clammed my lips.  And it wasn't just the change in my relationship status.  There was something deeper that prevented me from emphatically saying, "Yes!"

But I couldn't quite put my finger on it.  Nor could I figure out whether or not the feeling was legitimate or just silly I'm not good enough fear.  So I decided to put off the decision (hence my cryptic post).  To sit with it awhile.  Try on what owning the studio would feel like.  Consult trusted friends, advisors, and mentors.  Run off to study meditation.  Remain open.  Instead of just jumping right in like I've previously done.

Which has been hard.

I like plans and rules and checklists.  I like knowing what's next.  And I thought I did.  Stay here.  Keep doing what I'm doing.  Move in with Brian.  Make it work.

But all that got pulled out from under me and (at times) I felt like I had capsized and was drowning.  Relationship-done. Place where I live and work-done and done.  I no longer had a direction to row.

Then slowly I started to tread water.  Rafts, life preserves, and hands were lent to me.  Prayers, cups of coffee, midnight conversations, and great acts of kindness were shown.  This strengthened me so I was able to grab ahold of the boat.  So I could eventually haul myself back aboard and start paddling.

The only problem is I haven't known where to.  So instead of forward progress I've mostly just aimlessly smacked my oars on the water.

Sure I could buy the studio.  I could be good at it.  I could make it work.  Smack.  Smack. Smack.

But as my beloved teacher said, "It's not about making it work it's about being in the flow."

And I realized today, as I was driving back from a meditation workshop, here is not where I flow.  It's too hard to paddle.  My oars just won't catch.  Sure this place has been good to me (for me) but it's also been a struggle.  Continues to be in some ways and feels like it always will be in others.  And I can't just keep sitting here rowing around in circles.  I gotta get on with things.  Go somewhere.  Find some calmer waters.

So as much as it pains me to admit this (because I know I'm going to be letting a whole host of people down) I'm not landing here.  I'm not buying the studio.  And I'm not staying.

I'm still not exactly sure where I'll drop anchor (Or is it land this plane?  I forget which metaphor I'm using).  Regardless, it's time I put up my sails and look for some wind because I'm tired of beating my knuckles together.  Here is just too hard.  And staying I'm afraid means constantly being knocked out of my boat and having to scramble back in again because there's nothing left for me here.  I've learned what I needed.  There's no where else for me to go here.

I'm so sorry to everyone who wanted me to stay.  Who wanted me to buy the studio and put down roots.  Part of me really wishes I could and I'm so sad I can't.

But it's not what I'm meant to do.

Driggs is not my port of call.  My final destination.

I still have miles to go (and I'm fairly certain they're in the easterly direction).

So much love and thanks to everyone here and there.  To the people who've helped me back in the boat and paddled it when I couldn't.  And mostly to those who really believed in me.  Who thought I could buy, and own, and run, and manage, and teach here.  Your encouragement buoyed me in ways you'll never know.

I'm forever grateful to you all.

XO,
Sara

What It Means to be a Real Woman

"The quickest way to emasculate a man is to tell him what to do."

I felt like calling all my ex-boyfriends and apologizing.  Because as the former Valedictorian of Everything I've told most all the men I've dated they're doing it wrong, offered very pointed do it this way suggestions, taken over, and not respected their thoughts.  Whether that be from what we were having for dinner tonight to stop it I'll just fix the stove because I can do it better.

Which now, after three days of Mastin Kipp's Love Uni-versity: Love and Relationship Bootcamp, I realize is horribly unattractive and totally disrespectful and not at all going to land me my Prince (a word that sort of makes me throw up in my mouth a little but one Mastin uses to describe the sort of man one should pursue-as a opposed to a knight who's off having adventures and slaying dragons and shacking up with fair maidens and not at all interested in building a kingdom with you).

So to all the men I've told to drive a different direction, or take me to another restaurant, or no stop-do it this way, or most recently for the love of god get over yourself and just talk to me already Brian White, I am humbly and most apologetically sorry.  I've been terrible.  I've not presented you with the opportunity to show up in your own way.  I've demanded you do it on my terms.  I've been hard and focused and driven.  In other words-I've been a total dick (and yes I just wrote the word dick on a blog my family reads.  It will be fine just breathe. Also sorry family!).  And while that may be my job in my professional life, it's not in my personal and I'm sorry I've done that to you.

What I should have done is be a vagina (something a dear teacher once recommended to a good friend which totally made me giggle).  Because be more like a vagina?  WTF?

But I get it now.  As a woman I'm made to be soft, open, receptive, watery, flowing in my relationships.  I'm called to, "respect my chosen man and his thoughts, suggestions, ideas, and plans EVEN WHEN I know I'm smarter and can do it better."

Yeah read that again.  EVEN WHEN I know I'm smarter and can do it better.  Talk about punching my inner Valedictorian right in the gut.  Are you crazy?  Even when I know I can do it better?

But I've come to realize that's what it takes to make relationships work.  Both parties can't be hard and driven.  Someone's gotta bite their tongue every once in awhile.

And when you can do that.  When you can present the problem but not the solution.  When you can remain open and let a man show up in his own way and time without telling him exactly how, when, where, and why he should fix the sink that particular way you'll get a partner who can, "cherish his chosen women's feelings even when she's being irrational, irritating, and totally illogical."

Which let's face it happens a lot, at least around here.

So I think the trade off's worth it.  And I'm adding it to my list.  Practicing being open not directive.  Because does it really matter which road we take to get there in the end?

No.  It just matters that I accept whatever shows up, whenever it does, in its own way.  Because that's my job as a real, powerful woman.

And it's also what I want done for me.  To be loved just the way I am.

XO,
Sara

Of course the day after that course started this was on Elephant Journal because you know God likes to beat me over the head with the lessons I'm supposed to learn...

A Call to the Divine Feminine: Ten Bold Invitations from the Sacred Masculine

All At Once After Awhile

The one thing that Ms. Elizabeth Gilbert fails to mention in her book is that after your wonderful ceremony atop the sliding board where you make peace with your ghosts and find God you eventually have to climb down and get on with living your life.  And while it was all peace, and bliss, and contentment atop the sliding board real life is a bit messier.

Real life finds you sitting across from one of his dear friends having coffee, driving past his house twice a day for the next while because of course the house you're staying in is in his neighborhood (where else in the whole freaking county could it be?), exchanging emails about him, passing him on the road.  And a whole host of other things that bring him right up instead of leaving him off in the distance where you threw him.

And even though you know.  Mentally understand that it's over and he's seeing someone else.  And that your own life is turning out quite amazing really.  Sometimes it takes awhile for your heart to catch up with that.  For your body to release the pattern.

So you find yourself speed dialing one of your best girlfriends demanding she tell you to "Stop! Turn the car around right now.  Don't you show up on his doorstep."  Or crying after yoga because my god this sucks so much how could he possibly already be in a relationship with someone else?  Or furious because he refuses to acknowledge your very vulnerable email.

Then other times you find yourself smiling so much it hurts, dancing wildly around your house, so full of love and joy your head might just rocket right off because you've reconnected with a really great man.  A man who pursues you.  And says and does the most wonderful things.  And you're running a 5k, and going to study with Paul, and have some pretty rockin' plans with some amazing women.  And your life is so full and rich.

And then it's not.  And then it is.  All at once.

Because things aren't simple.  Because you can't really throw anyone off into the distance.  You carry your experiences with you.  Your memories and love and tears.  All of it is part of you.  And being authentic and real and vulnerable is not easy.  It's a constant dance between those things.  Around them.  

And you do the best you can to be present for all of it.  To say in one breath I do miss him.  Followed with but there's also so much good.  Because that's your truth right now.  And that's ok.

Because you know that if you throw time.  And goodness.  And compassion at it.  At yourself.  One day your stomach won't drop at the sound of his name or the sight of his house.

But that can only happen if you let all the feelings come.  If you acknowledge them, feel them, and let them pass (without doing crazy reactionary things like showing up on his doorstep and making him a part of it).  If you savor the good things.  If you continue to put one foot in front of the other.  One smile on top of the next.  Remaining curious about what's next and where you're going to live and who you're going to love.

Because that's the only way the light you let in can grow.  If you feed it openness.  Truth.  Authenticity.  Vulnerability.

So here I am saying I miss him and I don't.  That my life is fantastic AND hard.  That, "I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes."  And that there's room for all of it.  Which is actually pretty wonderful when you think about it.

XO,
Sara