enlighten your spirit: louise erdrich

“But of all passing notions, that of a human being for a child is perhaps the purest in the abstract, and the most complicated in reality. Growing, bearing, mothering or fathering, supporting, and at last letting go of an infant is a powerful and mundane creative act that rapturously sucks up whole chunks of life.”

Louise Erdrich, The Blue Jay’s Dance: A Birth Year

I knew from the moment I saw the book’s cover that I would lose my heart to it.

Drawn from the back, a dark-haired woman nuzzles a dark-haired baby in the curve of her neck, both gazing together at a blue jay outside the window. A newer edition has replaced the duo with the lone bird’s unflinching stare. But at the beginning of my own birth year with baby #2, it was this quiet, anonymous madonna-and-child that drew me in.

Erdrich describes her book as “a set of thoughts from one self to the other – writer to parent, artist to mother.” (So of course I tore through it cover to cover.)

And her treatment of a well-worn feminist theme – the dilemma of mother torn between child and work – is tender and tough at all once.

But what I love above all is that her treatment of maternal love is the most true and least sugary-sentimental I’ve yet read:

We live and work with a divided consciousness. It is a beautiful enough shock to fall in love with another adult, to feel the possibility of unbearable sorrow at the loss of that other, essential personality, expressed just so, that particular touch. But love of an infant is of a different order. It is twinned love, all absorbing, a blur of boundaries and messages. It is uncomfortably close to self-erasure, and in the face of it one’s fat ambitions, desperations, private icons, and urges fall away into a dreamlike before that haunts and forces itself into the present with tough persistence. The self will not be forced under, nor will the baby’s needs gracefully retreat. The world tips away when we look into our children’s faces.

You have to love nature to truly love this book, or at least be willing to stay the course through Erdrich’s wanderings through the wild that eventually wind back to mothering.

(You also have to forgive her several sections of randomly-placed recipes and homages to her husband’s cooking. Though pregnant and nursing mothers can’t help but fall in love with food as they nourish themselves and their babies at a staggering pace. Writes the woman who just helped herself to second dinner.)

But anyone who has lived through the seasons of a child’s early years will find themselves in her changing landscapes, both of the natural world and the interior life.

She weaves the stories of three of her babies into one narrative of a nameless daughter, reminiscent of the way any mother of multiple children looks back and wonders, “Was that with the first baby? Or the second? Or was it the third?”

A blur of babyhoods, but the powerful love and the raw frustrations and the deep conflicts meld into one story of woman becoming mother over time.

I love this memoir of early motherhood because it is poetic in its imagery and powerful in its honesty.

She writes of walking in winter at the end of a pregnancy and letting her swollen body sink to rest in a deep snowbank, wishing she could just birth the baby right then and there.

She describes her fraying nerves while rocking a colicky newborn for the umpteenth night in a row that finally resort to whispering (amidst the baby’s screams) words that parents never admit in the light of day: I love you, but you’re driving me completely nuts. You’re such a g****** crank.

I still laugh out loud when I think about that scene.

So if you long to write in the middle of life with littles, or if you gaze out windows to mark seasons passing through the maddening monotony, or if you simply love to dig in the dirt with children, your mothering spirit can find yourself in Erdrich’s words.

Perhaps we all can:

 Mothering is a subtle art whose rhythm we collect and learn, as much from one another as by instinct. Taking shape, we shape each other, with subtle pressures and sudden knocks. The challenges shape us, approvals refine, the wear and tear of small abrasions transform until we’re slowly made up of one another and yet wholly ourselves.

resolved: not to fail at resolutions again this year

We’re two weeks into the New Year. How are your resolutions going?

Mine are – and I have never uttered these words before – going well. For the first time ever, I find myself heading into week three not cursing the workout regime I’ve already slacked from or lamenting the prayer discipline I’ve already dropped.

Because this year, I made my resolutions in a drastically different fashion. Which is to say: I made them uber-realistic.

I’m a busy mother of two young kids. I cancelled my gym membership halfway through my last pregnancy, and I have no plans to renew it anytime soon. I love cooking, but I don’t have the luxury of lingering over exotic new recipes. So instead of setting myself up for another February failure in the resolution department, I got practical.

1) I started planning early. Resolution #1? To work more intentionally on my writing this year. Push it in new directions, polish up rough corners, ponder what might lie ahead. So back in December, I found a monthly writing group to join and two workshops – spaced far apart throughout the year – to try. Realistic enough that I could squeeze it in; big enough to challenge me. But I knew I had to start early to make it stick.

2) I erred on the side of vague. Resolution #2? To become more generous. My husband asked me what this one meant, and I told him I didn’t really know. I just knew I had room for improvement in the generosity department. But since vagueness grates on me as one who loves clarity, I’ve made myself look at generosity from many angles. Small ones (like leaving a bigger tip for baristas) and big ones (like reassessing how I can volunteer the little free time I have). Vagueness has meant my resolution has already surprised me in delightful ways.

3) I consciously thought about them every day. Resolution #3? To celebrate the joy in my life. Too often I zero in on all that’s out-of-place, still-not-done, not-good-enough. So every day since January 1, I’ve taken a moment or two to pause and let the reality of my life bring me joy. I’ve seen my marriage, my family, my work, and even my to-do list differently since I started practicing a little joyfulness each day.

So since this is the first January I’ve ever celebrated – instead of cursed – my good intentions for the new year, allow my joy (see #3) to be your cheerleader.

First, go read this. And pat yourself on the back for all that you’re already doing to thrive in the life you already live. Give yourself credit for the changes you have made, even if you’re surrounded by the chaos of raising children.

When I sat back and reflected, I realized that since having kids, I have: 1) become more serious about my writing; 2) become more committed to yoga. Two goals I had for years, but never acted up until: 1) I needed a creative outlet to process my transition into motherhood and started this lovely little blog; 2) I needed to tend to my aching pregnant body and fell back in love with yoga. Two resolutions that have changed my life for the better, because of – not despite! – my mothering.

Second, give yourself a break. January 1 is an arbitrary day on which to change your life. Start today, or start tomorrow. But don’t get bogged down by dates. Just take one small, practical, first step.

Want to jump-start your prayer life? Try a free sample of this wonderful daily resource here. (Or see below for more!) Want to go green? Ask someone else how they do it. Imagine how your life would look or feel if you made the change that’s been nagging you for years. And then imagine what dreams God has for your life. How can you clear a little room for the Spirit to sneak into a new corner and surprise you?

Happy New Year, belatedly. And happy resolving. It’s never too late.

To celebrate 2012 – and my 200th post in this corner of the world! – I have 10 free 3-month subscriptions to Give Us This Day, a new daily prayer resource from Liturgical Press. Morning and evening prayers short enough for busy parents, daily reflections on Scripture from wise thinkers, and glimpses of saints’ lives from around the world and church.

Give Us This Day is a gem, and I’d love to share it with you. Leave a comment below with your New Year’s resolution (or lack thereof!) and I’ll toss your name in the hat.

kindred (mothering) spirits

One of the beautiful and surprising things I’ve discovered since I began to write this blog is the many kindred spirits to be found in the blogosphere.

Whether it’s comments from faithful readers or links from fellow bloggers, I have come to treasure the connections that this space has let me make. And today I get to celebrate one of those connection in a lovely way.

When I first happened upon Ginny’s blog at Random Acts of Momness, I felt I had found a diamond in the rough. Here was a true mothering spirit, someone else who loved to write and muse about the connections between faith and family life. Then when I realized hers was also a byline regularly carried by our diocesan paper, I was even more impressed that this kindred spirit was an Actual Published Author. (Yes, I am still totally geeked out by this kind of stuff.)

So when Ginny asked me to write a guest post for her series on “The Best Gift My Mom Gave Me,” I was delighted to contribute. Not only because it’s a wonderful question and a chance to celebrate the most influential mothering spirit in my life. But also because it will hopefully lead all of you to check out her blog and her writing as well.

No matter what our work in the world, we need kindred spirits to carry us along the way. Anne of Green Gables was absolutely right.

“Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. It’s splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world.” 

on guilt, growing up, and (ira) glass

Has this ever happened to you?

You’re happily reading some mildly interesting article, when all of a sudden – WHAM-O! – the expert or the study or the news smacks you with The Finding That You Should Have Known And Now Means You Have Completely Failed At A Major Portion Of Your Life.

Case in point. Yours truly was idly surfing through the Motherlode blog at the New York Times, generally equal parts interesting-news-articles and opinionated-Manhattan-mommies-up-in-arms about the latest parenting buzz. And being the parent of a child who occasionally expresses his disdain for my insufferable rules by wailing at the top of his lungs, I clicked on this post: Seeing Tantrums as Distress, Not Defiance.

So there I was, all innocently reading about toddlers’ inability to self-regulate their emotions and how parents need to lovingly guide them through this challenging phase. When I got to this line:

Dan Siegel, author of the “Whole Brain Child,” gave me the science behind this. “During those early years, the ability to coordinate and balance your own subcortical source of emotion is dependent on a caregiver’s response to you,” he said. We freak out, they freak out. Our ability to stay tuned in to them literally helps their brains grow.

WHAM-O! And the whole room slants. My (now fully developed) brain screams, “I KNEW IT! I LOSE MY TEMPER AT MY TODDLER’S TANTRUMS AND NOW I HAVE PERMANENTLY SCARRED HIS BRAIN DEVELOPMENT AND HE’S GOING TO BECOME A SOCIOPATH!!! COMPLETE AND UTTER PARENTING FAIL.”

Ah, parental guilt. It bursts into a calm mother’s mind as quick and sudden as a newborn’s wail, and it lingers in her heart as long and pitiful as a toddler’s whimpers.

Before calling child protective services on myself, I thankfully went back and read the entire article again, only to find that it wasn’t as drastic and dramatic as all that. In fact, it might actually help me handle tomorrow’s tantrums with a bit more love and grace. (Maybe.)

But the memory of that flash of mommy guilt lodged itself in my brain and wouldn’t let go.

I remembered other sinking feelings from my first year of parenthood. Doctor’s appointments when I feared my baby wasn’t hitting every single developmental milestone. Parenting magazines whose glossy photos celebrated children who neither slept, napped, or ate like mine. A fellow mother in a “baby & me” class who actually uttered the words, “I just can’t believe how easy this has been!” in response to the question of the biggest surprise of motherhood. (I’m still surprised that my unshowered, bleary-eyed, anxious, hormonal self didn’t lunge across the circle of newborns to strangle her.)

Motherhood brings with it a new and special kind of guilt. A guilt that screams to your deepest fears and insecurities. A guilt that terrifies you into thinking you are not only making a mess of your life, but a brand-new person’s as well. A guilt that rears its ugly head just when you think you’ve cobbled together some kind of confidence about the whole raising-a-kid thing.

Along the way, I’ve learned to handle the outbursts of guilt with slightly more finesse. The second year of parenting brought with it the ability to forgive myself for being a decidedly imperfect mother. And the third year has dawned with daily reminders that since the many ways I supposedly failed my first child did not – it appears thus far – ruin him for life, I may actually be able to successfully help raise a second.

But I still feel the mother guilt on an all-too-regular basis, as I imagine many of you do, too. How can we help it? We want to raise our children well, and when we start out, we have no clue how. Fertile soil for the rapid growth of guilt, if I ever saw it.

So when I came across this delightful bit from Ira Glass, I was cheered. Not only because I love his wry voice and his quirky story-telling, but because his wisdom speaks to me as both a hopeful writer and a hopeful mother.

Ira reminds me that we can’t help but start off frustrated in the early years of any good work we’re trying to do. We have a grand vision of what we’d like it to be – the family we’d like to have, the book we’d love to write – but the daily slog often falls far short. Many days we want to throw in the towel and declare we’re beat. But when we stick it out and make ourselves keep going, we start to close the gap between hopes and reality. We find that we might actually have a chance of becoming the parent – or writer or artist or minister or teacher – that we dreamed we could be.

Nobody tells this to beginners, Ira says. And maybe they should. So the more we remind ourselves – and each other – that most everybody goes through this, the easier we’ll be able to breathe. And perhaps the guilt, or the fear of failure, or the frustration of not living up to our high hopes, can even spur us on to more than we dreamed in the first place.

It takes a while. It’s going to take you a while. It’s normal to take a while. And you just have to fight your way through that.

why i do what i do

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about why I write this blog. With the arrival of a new baby, life got even fuller than before, and I find myself examining all the ways I spend my days. How can I streamline this, find a more efficient way to do that? How do I still make time for all the parts of my life I value: my marriage, my friendships, my work, my passions? As life gets ever more demanding, how do I keep a calm, clear center?

I retained little from my AP Economics class in high school, but I do remember this: everything has an opportunity cost. If I do A, I cannot simultaneously do B. Writing takes time, precious time that can be spent in other ways. I try to carve out moments and corners where I can sit and think, write and reflect, but often I choose option B instead – which is usually time with family. All good things, but I feel pulled in many different directions. Most days I am constantly juggling activities, weighing priorities, dividing my time. I imagine most of you feel the same way.

And yet I feel a strong tug to spend time here, to keep writing and thinking about what parenting means in the life of faith. I know there are others of you out there who agree, who struggle with these same dilemmas, who ask the same questions. How do we teach our kids about God? How do we make faith part of our family life? How do we live out our values in authentic, meaningful ways? How do we raise children who are people of compassion, hope, and justice?

In the weeks and months ahead, I want to explore these questions in a new light. You’ll see some changes around here (if you haven’t already noticed a few – check out the “about me” link on the side bar, for starters). More intentional series on how we nurture our mothering – and fathering! – spirits. More resources on prayer and Scripture. More reflections about how faith intersects with the events and news that fill our lives. And hopefully, more lively conversations with the perspectives we all bring to the table.

For those of you who are new here: welcome! For those who have been journeying with me for a while: thanks. I’d love to hear from all of you – what you enjoy finding here, what you’d like to see more of. Leave a comment or drop me an email at motheringspirit@gmail.com.

Lots of ideas and inspirations have been gestating in my mind for some time now about what I dream this space could become, and it’s time to birth this baby. The labor may be long, but it’s well worth the work.

Peace – L

a view of one’s own

Life comes full circle sometimes. This week I’m staying up at the institute where I work for another meeting we’re hosting on vocation. And the apartment where I’m staying is the same place I stayed two summers ago for a week-long writing workshop.

I remember sitting on this same couch, as pregnant and uncomfortable then as I feel now, writing until the wee hours of the morning every night. The week was intense, exhausting, emotional and full of hard work. And I loved every minute. It was tranformational and vocational. It was the first time I realized that I could be a writer. Not necessarily A Writer in the grand, professional sense. But that writing would somehow, mysteriously, intimately, be woven into my vocation. And so I would need to dedicate space and time and hard work to slowly discern where that would lead me.

I wrote a lot about pregnancy that week. After our season of infertility, I was still coming to terms with what it meant that there was a child growing within me, that I was becoming a mother. I wrote a lot about transitions, the strange mix of exhilaration and terror of finding oneself on the brink of life change. Not only was I leaving behind the familiar world of graduate school, but I was also stepping into the strange new world of parenting. My identity was shifting in ways I could only begin to sense.

But mostly I just wrote, a lot. And tore apart my own writing and listened as others tore it apart for me and marveled as I saw myself create something even better out of the pieces. It was a rare blessing to have the chance to be simultaneously challenged and affirmed in something I loved, something important, something that mattered deeply to me.

This week I have looked out over the same lake, the same summer-green trees, the same lazy dragonflies. And during the few quiet moments in the midst of a busy seminar, I have again thought about pregnancy, about transitions, about standing on the edge of my world preparing to transform one more.

All this makes me grateful for the places we can go to do our good thinking, our deep reflecting. The places we create our art and our beauty. The places that inspire us.

Nature often affords us these sacred spaces. Churches and retreat centers do, too. Even corners of our own homes – the kitchen where we create, the workshop where we build, the office where we write. We claim these corners as our own; we find ourselves there. And perhaps, if we pay close attention, we find God there, too.

In a world of constant flux, where we ourselves are always changing (even if imperceptibly), it is a gift to return to these places that change slowly, if at all. They remind us where we have been and where we are heading. They remind us that life has lovely pockets of consistency, and so do we, deep down. They remind us who we are at our core.

Tonight is the last night I will spend alone before this baby arrives. Next time I stay in this same place, the leaves will have changed to autumn reds and golds. There will be two children entrusted to a babysitter back at home. There will be an early morning wake-up to make sure the youngest one still has milk (oh, how I have not missed that chore of maternal separations). My world will once again be transformed from the way it feels and looks today. And as always, I can only begin to imagine what that will bring.

Which makes me all the more grateful for a brief moment, a beautiful place, and a wide view all to myself. For one more night, at least.

a word of thanks

I was deeply touched by the comments I received on my last post. In a season that has felt dark and lonely, your words brought a light that reminded me why I started writing this blog in the first place, a year ago now. To reflect on this journey of parenting in an honest and real way, to think theologically about what it means to be a mother, to celebrate the glimpses of grace I notice along the way. Connecting with people who care about these things, too – whether friends I love or strangers I’ve never met – has been an added bonus, a source of happy inspiration for me.

Sometimes I get frustrated by the Internet. By the way we seem content to connect on Face.book and not face-to-face. By the isolation and the crumbling of brick-and-mortar community. By the crassness and the cruelty of anonymity.

But then days like today come along, when I’m lifted up by friends across the miles and people I don’t even know who share a word of encouragement. Moments like these make me realize that human nature doesn’t change whether we’re online or offline: while we all can be crass or cruel or judgmental, so too can we be loving and supportive and in our best moments, Christ-like. This blog has shown me both sides, and I am truly grateful for it.

So thank you to all of you who read this. And who take the time to drop a line or tell me in person that you enjoy what I write. Your support lifts me up in my vocation – however writing will continue to weave its way in – and I hope in some small way to do the same for you.

Floating in my head tonight is a much-loved quote from a much-loved book, The Brothers Karamazov, and I share it with you in thanksgiving of the best that online connectedness has to offer. (With the offer of apologies to Fyodor, who probably never dreamed his words would be set in such a context…)

And even if we are occupied with most important things, and even if we attain to honor or fall into misfortune, still let us remember how good it once was here, when we were all together, united by a good and a kind feeling which made us…perhaps better than we are.

- Dostoyevsky

words

There are times when we have words to share with others. There are times we have words only for ourselves. And there are some times – dark, and hopefully fleeting – when we flounder for words even for ourselves.

I thank God during those times for Words not our own to find ourselves in again.

Last week a friend and I made it to daily Mass. (Which, with two small children under 2, was no small feat for us to pull off.) Wednesdays are the weekly all-school Mass for our parish, which I love – kindergartners stumbling over petitions, first-graders fidgeting in their seats, second-graders belting out the Alleluia. The perfect kind of daily Mass for a squirmy toddler S.

But in the blur that has been my life (and my brain) as of late, the only part of the Mass that I heard was the Gospel. It wasn’t the reading for the day; it was a simple passage chosen by the kindergarten teacher who planned the liturgy. But in this sharp moment that pulled my attention away from S and the piles of books he was throwing on the floor, I felt like the words were directed Right At Me.

Amen, amen, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat; but if it dies, it produces much fruit.

Whoever loves his life loses it, and whoever hates his life in this world will preserve it for eternal life.

Whoever serves me must follow me, and where I am, there also will my servant be. The Father will honor whoever serves me.

John 12:24-26

I love my life as a mother. But to embrace it meant I had to give up a life that I loved. A life of more freedom and less responsibilities. A life when I was in charge of my own schedule and my own time. A life where I could focus more on me and less on others.

I think – I hope, trust, on the good days, believe – that I will love my life as a mother of two. But to begin to embrace it, I have had to give up a life that I loved. A life where I felt healthy and well and in control. A life that was known and finally beginning to settle into a norm. A life that I knew and was happy within.

The last few months, the beginning of this pregnancy, have been hard in ways I never imagined. I don’t yet have the words to share what it has meant. But suffice it to say, it has not been easy or seamless or bright. I am challenged every day in ways I never expected.

When I lack words, I know I am lost. Which is exactly where I find myself these days. So the surprise of a few Words that spoke to me, that gave me a glimmer of hope, that reminded me of the call and the center of my life – those Words were pure gift.

Dying, but rising. Loving, but losing. Following, and finding.

Perhaps those are words enough.

why i write

Thoughts on why I write have been bouncing around my head for the past few weeks. I’ve felt a renewed sense of creativity, and within that, a call to write more. And as I’ve jumped in and run with the inspiration, I’ve been reflecting on why I decided to start writing this blog in the first place.

(I’m also grateful that after the past week, I heard from many of you who read this, and you told me that my writing matters to you, too. That meant more to me that you may ever know.)

I write because I believe it’s part of my vocation. I’m not sure yet what that means. I’ve never seen myself as A Writer – like my sister, who is finishing her first novel and has dedicated years of her life to her craft, to her degree in writing, to her commitment that This Is What She’s Meant To Do. I’m in awe of that kind of writing, but it’s not my calling. Mine is somehow woven into my other calls – to theology, to motherhood, to marriage. Though it’s not yet clear to me how writing will become a thread that links them or a passion that spurs me on, I have a nagging sense that I have to nurture my writing to see where it leads.

I write because many of the things I care deeply about rarely receive the attention I believe they deserve. Theology? Hardly flashy, rarely popular. Faith and spirituality? Trendy catch phrases, but truly counter-cultural lifestyles. Family life? Given lots of lip service and smiling photos, but often glossed over in its daily challenges and shadow sides. I want there to be more places to explore these questions, bring new dialogues to life. I like to pull together unusual conversation partners – ministry, academia, current events, parenting – and see what insights emerge. That is part of why I like the blog format: it’s interactive, it’s timely, and it gives me just enough structure to pull together pieces from the various corners of my life and be surprised by the interactions.

I write because it helps me to make sense of my world. The journey into motherhood has been a transformation that at times called forth every last reserve of strength, patience, wisdom and understanding that I could muster. Parenting alternately inspires, confuses, frustrates, and amazes me. The whirlwind of day-in, day-out can whisk by so quickly that I fail to reflect on what’s happening, what’s changing. So when I make time to write, my world makes more sense. I am centered, calmer. By giving the gift of time and space to my writing, I have more energy, direction, patience and love to give to those around me. A lovely paradox of self-care.

I write because I believe words are important. I was raised in a family that loved reading, that valued the written text, that championed educated opinions. So when I joke that perhaps my real calling in life is to teach people correct punctuation, I’m only half kidding. I believe that writing well is a skill that should be taught, and a value that must be staunchly defended. I worry about the long-term effects of the texting age, the Twitterized reduction of communication to 140 characters or less. All of us need to hone the ability to write clearly, persuasively and even elegantly.

In particular here, I point a finger at my own (perhaps? future?) profession: theologians. All too often, academics have become so insulated, so specialized, that they write complicated, esoteric prose merely to compete with each other. This is why I love practical theology as a healthy alternative, because it is grounded in the everyday realities of Christian practice and seeks to communicate clearly to people outside academia’s ivory towers what matters about the life of faith, lived today. If I want to become a practical theologian – and as of my current vocational discernment, I think I may – then I need to know how to write for a wide audience about theology, faith, and the Christian life.

I write because I find God in words. I’ve never been good at journaling regularly, and my dedication to disciplines of prayer waxes and wanes. But I have always been able to encounter God in words: in Scripture, in poetry, in other people’s wise thoughts. One day I worked up the courage to try my own hand and see if the Spirit could be found within the words I might let loose. I was surprised to find that it could. And these moments of encounter, of presence, of humility are the glimpses of grace I write about.

Thank you for coming here to read them. You inspire me, too.

back to school

A few years ago, I fell in love with summer. Completely, unconditionally, head-over-heels in love. I realized I adored warmth, I craved sunshine on my skin, I longed for long days of light and nights lived outdoors. Why was I fooling myself for so long that fall was my favorite season, or that I loved the buds of spring? I am a summer lover, practically a heathen for melting ice cream and sorching sand between my toes. (Living in the Midwest can make this love affair challenging, given the 6+ months of winter in the calendar, but that’s a story for another day.)

So I love summer. So what?

Well. I have an asterisk to add to my summer loving. A small piece of my heart is reserved for early September. (I can already hear my spouse declaring, “HAH! I KNEW IT! YOU REALLY LOVE FALL.”) But this is not a seasonal love – it has nothing to do with crisp mornings or the first changing leaves. Fall starts out beautiful and full, and then it breaks your heart with barren trees and ice-cold wind. (To say nothing of November rain; Guns and Roses already said it all.) My small love for fall has only to do with back-to-school.

You see, I am and will forever be a complete dork when it comes to going back to school. I used to savor the smell of fresh school supplies, delighted in the crisp crack of a new book’s spine. My heart leaps at back-to-school sales, even when I no longer need shoes for gym class. I love the excitement of new classes, new teachers, a whole year of learning ahead. I think this love of school is partly to blame for my return to graduate school – maybe I just wanted new notebooks, not a master’s degree. But either way, I get excited just watching the school bus barrel down our street in September. School is BACK!

(And here I can hear my brothers’ eyes rolling. “You are just a LOSER, L.”)

Yes, and I embrace the dorkdom.

So in honor of my love for this small sliver of fall, I am embarking on a new venture. Part penitential discipline, part creative endeavor. The writing bug has bitten again and left a gnawing inside. Reminded me of a part of myself that I am neglecting. Which isn’t healthy, spiritually or otherwise.

So I am resolving – and I need you, dear reader, to help me stick to it – to write for 20 minutes every day (<– the Creative Endeavor). No great American novel is getting written here; I just want to make myself write, and I have to start small to make it feasible. Blogging gives me the structure I need to make it happen, so here I shall write.

In order to carve those 20 minutes out of the working mother’s typically too-busy schedule, I am going to Give Up (<– the Penitential Discipline) reading the blogs that I normally like to peruse in my idle internet-ing. (And I confess, there are more than a few.) I know this sounds counter-intuitive in one sense: give up reading others’ blogs so you can write your own, thereby attracting other readers into the time-suck of reading your own musings? But, dear reader, I don’t care if it’s illogical. I’m going for it, and I would love for you to stick around and hold me to my resolution.

20 minutes is up. If only I had that “new notebook” smell around to celebrate…

See you tomorrow!