Thursday, March 5, 2015

Life Lately {Art, Pregnancy, + Parenting Updates}

It feels like it's been so quiet here lately!  And really, I didn't last post all that long ago, but it's longer ago than usual for what I try to do so it seems like f o r e v e r.  Here's a bit of what's been going on . .

Even though I haven't been creating very much, I've been having some #artistlife excitement.  I sold my art at a local craft fair about a month ago . . .

. . . and right now some of my original paintings are currently on display in my favorite coffee shops for the duration of March.  It feels weird to have my art so out there like this.  Vulnerable . . . but good.  In fact, I'm writing this blog post int the coffee shop in question, and looking up to see my heart-works hanging for all to see gives me a little thrill every time.  I look forward to trying to make more of these kinds of things happen further down the line.

I also very quietly launched a new website recently, called She of the Wild.  I'd been feeling more and more like the website you're on right now is not the place for my spiritual experiments, explorations, and questions.  I wanted them to have their own space, and now, they do!  If you're interested in feminist spirituality and the divine feminine, I'd love for you to join me there.  You can also find She of the Wild on Facebook here.  I'm sure there will be some overlap in topics between this blog and She of the Wild, but in general, the blog you're reading now will be more reserved for thoughts on creativity, parenting, grief and healing, self-care, and my life in general . . . with a side of feminism, of course, because women are awesome.

29 weeks, on a day blissfully devoid of puke

All that makes me seem highly productive in the outward sense, but really, most of my creative energy has been turned inward, toward baby-making.  I'm a few weeks into my third trimester, and aside from feeling the most intense and unpredictable nausea that I've ever had in any of my three pregnancies (let me tell you -- hanging artwork in public when all you want to do is hurl is quite . . . interesting), my anxiety hasn't been even close to what it was last time, during my first pregnancy-after-a-loss.

I give all the credit on that front to this guy, who keeps me busy, and who puts up with me so patiently when I can't do more than lay in bed and try not to puke.  He is pretty much the most wonderful boy in the entire world. 

Except maybe for this guy.  They're tied in my book.  And did I tell you?  New baby is a beautiful, healthy, and BIG boy!  I'm excited for brothers, and so so so excited to meet this little dude.  It feels like the 10 weeks until my due date are the equivalent of an eternity, but I'm sure they'll fly by (or, I hope they do, particularly if my nausea decides to stick around).  He doesn't have an official name yet, but we are in deliberations. 

thank goodness I didn't feel ill the day I had to to drink this

That's about it!  Life has been slow and quiet but, aside from feeling sick, it's been good.  I've been learning important lessons in the value of Gentle and Now and Rest and Asking For Help.  I hope I remember them when I'm feeling stronger and life is urging me to go faster than perhaps I need to. 

Your turn!  What have you been up to lately, friends?

Sunday, February 15, 2015

The Phoenix Soul: Vision is Here!

The latest issue of The Phoenix Soul online magazine (formerly named Sprout) is here!  Fresh off the digital presses, this month's edition centers around the theme of Vision, with contributions from some of my favorite artists, like the fierce Heather Mattern and delicious Carissa Paige (yum yum). 

I've been so enjoying writing for and reading this publication for many years now, and I love how each new issue delights and challenges me.  Plus, they're really, really pretty.  Here's a little sneak peek of what I created for this beautiful issue (of course I had to go all black sheet and write about not-seeing!):

You can learn more about The Phoenix Soul and grab a copy of Vision (and copies of previous editions) here*.

*affiliate link -- thank you for supporting the blog!

Saturday, February 14, 2015

On the Beginning of the End (Again)

at 28 weeks in my second pregnancy, summer 2012

Well, it's here.  Again.  My third trimester.

I've been dreading it.  Which I know might sound quite awful, because shouldn't every week that brings this baby closer to his birth make me happy?

And they do.  And yet.

My first pregnancy ended in stillbirth just weeks into my third trimester.  My second pregnancy's third trimester saw me trekking up and down huge mountains of anxiety each day, not to mention going on and off bed rest with preterm labor.  Oh, and breaking my elbow so badly it needed surgery and two weeks immobilization just a nine days before my son was born.

I don't seem to have a very good track record with third trimesters.

Not to say that I believe all this means I'm destined for yet another excruciating final trimester.  But I'm not looking forward to tallying nightly kick counts (thanks to my anterior placenta for making this task more stressful) and tracking the contractions that have already been making an intriguing appearance. 

And yet.
And yet

I am really starting to enjoy my sensually swelling belly for the first time this pregnancy (an enjoyment which is coming far later than usual this time).  I am loving how the kicks and jabs and all.the.heartburn. help me to imagine that this little boy is a sweet and feisty dude with crazy hair like his mama.  My feet are beginning to tingle with the sense of waddling treading on holy ground, territory that I do not expect to travel again in this life.

All that is good.  Very, very good.  And I am glad for it.  Grateful for it.  It takes some of the edge off the double-edged sword that is pregnancy after a loss.

* * *

Some days I feel normal, and this scares me.  

Because it feels like so often the day that I manage to convince my brain to release its dark imaginings of worst case scenarios is exactly the day that those fears take on flesh.  Maybe if you worry enough, anxiety yammers, maybe you'll be able to avert disaster.

Of course I know that it doesn't work like that.  But since when could anxiety ever be reasoned with?

And still . . . some days I feel normal.  Like this pregnancy will progress smoothly, that this second son will come into my arms with only the usual amount of blood and moaning.  Like there's no reason to be afraid.  Like I'll get a happy ending as easily as so many others seem to.

And other days, the future feels dark, and I find comfort in contingency plans.  Breathing is a meditation in reminding myself that I'm not the only one who aches/grieves/weeps with terror.  That happy endings are mostly myth.  That life is ever and only a path, that perceived destinations are only way-stations and rain shelters and detainment points

* * *

I really wanted my second pregnancy -- my first pregnancy-after-a-loss -- to feeling like redemption.  But mostly it was an exercise in staying in my own terrified skin.  Sacred, though.  Even with all the fear, it felt sacred.

This pregnancy, I again wanted the redemption, and enjoyment.  I also wanted to feel imbued with divine femininity.  I don't think I've gotten any of that -- being pregnant with a beautiful two year old in the house is way more physically challenging than I expected -- but it has felt normal.  I've been chasing around this gorgeous boy, and feeling like an exhausted, exponentially growing pregnant mama -- a.k.a. normal

I like that.  I mean, when I'm awake enough to really appreciate it.  And I also like how my living son keeps my eyes on, well, the living, instead of all my fears of death and catastrophe.  Lots of mama + cute buddy dates are my strategy for surviving (dare I hope to thrive? let's go with yes) the next 13 weeks.

This life, any life, all our lives -- they're not very tidy, are they?  But they are real and true and full of now and here and a fierce pile of grit, and that's important.  That is something.  Something that matters.

feeling epically huge (even though I'm not really) at 25+ weeks this time around

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

The Price of Becoming Who You Are?

I thought we were the forever kind of friends.  Family, I called us.  The kind who would be there when days pass dizzy like a maze, or hearts sink as heavy as stones in the salted ocean.

And I tried really hard to be a good friend (although I'm sure I wasn't always) -- by which I meant a not-too-much friend, and maybe that's really where things went wrong, at the beginning instead of at the end, like it feels.  Maybe I shouldn't have made my grief so palatable in person, or drained my soul through a mesh so that it wasn't too murky when you looked close at it.  I didn't know how to do that, or that I was allowed to.

But I always thought that our kind of family, the ones we choose, were the always-there kind.  Until they weren't there.  My husband and I left the institution for the last time not knowing, not planning for it to be, the last time, and maybe everyone thought we were angry, or going through a phase, or something, when really we were (are) trying to live true.

I didn't think that friendship depended on that.  On the institution, I mean.  I didn't think we'd lose everyone along with our certainty, which was (is) grueling enough.  But we did, or most of everyone.  The ones who kept walking with us, or came after us, or asked how we were, and meant it, with no strings attached -- they were few, and not all who I thought they would be, and I cherish them fiercely.

Should we have sent up crimson soul-flares of distress?  I thought we did.
Should we have been more clear that we loved our friends?  Yes, I'm sure. 
Should we have assumed less naively that beliefs and love were not dependent on one another?  To which I reply: do we really have to be identical to the majority before we are loveable?

You're not alone, one or two said.  We're here for you, just come back inside.  I want to, I said, but I can't right now.  Won't you meet me out here in the wilds?  And they said nothing else.

My heart bleeds for all the ways that we tried, imperfectly, to love and be loved, ways that now seem wasted, rejected.  Their silence whispers in the aching hours that I am forgettable, problematic, unwanted.  But my soul cries, louder every moment, thank you for listening to me at last.

from Mandy's Secret Message Society zine

Friday, January 23, 2015

The Now of Motherhood

Time is slipping away from me.

As January dawned, I found myself suddenly halfway through this pregnancy.

Just five more months before my life gets really interesting/challenging/beautiful/sleep-deprived, I thought to myself.  What do you want to accomplish in that time?

I meant it as a challenge to myself.  A professional challenge, and a creativity challenge.  How many words could I put to paper in five months?  How many paintings could I finish?  How many new followers/sales/[insert-your-favorite-measure-of-success-here] could I accrue?

And so I began.  I began to work on my novel again, to step it up in the art department, and --

I quickly found myself running out of gas
and caring.

The fire that normally burns within me, begging to roar and light and flare, wasn't.

Because it was busy.
Making a person.

I looked back at my New Year's question to to myself.  What do you want to accomplish in this time, Beth -- in these last months of your last pregnancy?

And the answer that rose from my soul was so unexpected, yet dripped with truth.

I want to enjoy the remains of this pregnancy as much as possible.  To sink into this sacred time.

I want to soak up the last months with my oldest son as the only child in the house, because (if all goes well) it'll never be just him and me, and him and me and his daddy, ever again. I want to build an excessive amount of Lego towers, and play-dough burritos, and go on an extravagant amount of adventures.

I want to rub my belly, and wander through books, and nibble dark chocolate, and wrap myself in soft blankets.

I want to visit with my kindred, to paint when I feel like it, to journal and meditate as I can, not as I "should." 

I want to play.  I want to stretch this aching body.  I want to stare into the widening sky, at the circling of the moon.  I want to lay on the earth and feel her move beneath my bones.

I want to be here, in this time, fully present.

Most of all, I want to not trade this time, this this-is-the-only-chance-I-get time to meet goals whose time will come, and come without such a steep price tag.

It feels strange, to still be learning (or relearning, or learning again for the first time) this after the steep educational curve of stillbirth.  Wasn't that enough?  And yet, I remain human, and sometimes it's hard to soften into my own motherheart, when so many of my beautiful friends are putting themselves out there, creating amazing things with great courage.  I want to be out there, too. 

But not at the price of right here, and right now.  Not at the price of missing this blue-eyed boy grinning at me with the universe inside him, or that baby nudging me from the inside. 

And so, I smooth my palms across my swelling abdomen, and fold my two year old into my arms when he'll let me, and trace fingertips over my husband's grizzled face, and know that this is more than enough.


Monday, January 5, 2015

5 Ways Writing a Book is Totally Like Being Pregnant
image by Ellen Kohlenberg via a Creative Commons license

I know, I know.  It's one of the oldest and most cliched writing metaphors around.  Writing a book = being pregnant.  Pish posh, tell us something new.

But I can't, because I'm writing a book.  And I'm pregnant.  And I can't stop thinking about the ways in which the two connect.

And anyway, it's only cliche because it's true -- like, really, really true, which is why people make the analogy so often.

So I give you, straight from the pregnant writer's mouth:  5 Ways Writing a Book is Totally Like Being Pregnant.

1.  It takes a long time.

Writing a book and growing a baby take a really long time.  Like, really long.  I'm 21 weeks pregnant as I write this, and I feel like I've been pregnant f o r e v e r -- and I'm only halfway.  That's what I feel like when I'm writing, too: look at me go, I'm so professional, I've been writing every day for weeks . . . and my word count is only at 30,000 words -- and that's not even counting editing and querying/submitting/publishing.

*cue tearing of hair and gnashing of teeth*

It's not necessarily a bad thing that it takes a long time for a book and baby to form (actually, it's a really good thing for babies  -- prematurity is no fun for anyone involved, it seems).  But when it feels like you're holding your breath -- and I always feel like I'm holding my breath when I'm writing a novel, and when I'm pregnant -- well, that gets really hard after a while. 

2.  It really hurts.

You've been pregnant for what must certainly have been a lifetime.  You've got stretch marks, ankles the size of both the Dakotas, and you're peeing every fifteen minutes (in the toilet, if you're lucky).  And then, after all that, the Very Best Day -- the day you finally get to meet this precious, most-wanted and incredibly tiny and adorable person -- also happens to be the Most Painful Day of the whole run.  You're doing really well if you come through with only the most excruciating physical experience of your life and and a vagina that's so sore you're terrified to try going #2 anytime soon.

Writing a book is kind of the same way.  You write -- and write, and write -- for weeks, months, maybe years.  You get feedback, constructive critiques, and edit the hell out of that manuscript.  All of this takes major guts.  And then at the end of it all, you get to look forward to the experience of basically begging agents and publishers to pretty please just look at this book you've given your life away over.  Or you indie publish, and get to do all the final edits, dreaded formatting (I'm looking at you, Kindle), cover design, marketing (argh!), and release day glories.  You're doing really well if you come through with only a couple of venomous one star reviews.

3.  It's kind of scary.

I think pregnancy is a beautiful and sacred time, a time of exquisite mystery and opportunity.  But it also can be really scary, particularly if pregnancy loss or infertility have played a role in your life.  Even if those villains haven't paid to a visit, though, pregnancy is, at times, weird and kind of terrifying.  All this stuff is happening to your body and you're just watching it happen.  Pregnancy also brings with it higher risk factors and scary potential complications.  And as if that wasn't enough, pregnancy concludes with your body essentially tearing itself open to painfully excrete an entirely new human being through your hoo-ha.  And then you spend the rest of your life half-sick with worry about all the many horrifying things that could befall your amazing and (it feels like) stupidly fragile child (who decided humanity could be this fragile? obviously not a mother).  Basically, being pregnant (or trying to get pregnant, or adopt) takes major balls.

Writing a book is not for the faint of heart either.  Ernest Hemingway famously said, "There's nothing to writing.  All you do is sit down at at typewriter and open a vein" -- and that pretty much sums it up.  Want to write a book?  Prepare to turn your soul inside out and scrape its insides raw.  Ruthlessly edit said soul scrapings before turning them loose into the world, where you stand a good chance that they will be dismissed/judged/misunderstood/ignored.  More soul bleeding will ensue, whether your book is beloved or reviled.  Rinse, repeat.

4.  It's thankless.

If you want a career or life calling in which the people you relentlessly give everything you have for fall over themselves to thank you -- parenthood is not it.  My son is still very small, but it seems like the last thing to expect, that at some point he'll start falling all over himself to show his gratitude for my efforts.

You don't get into parenthood for the glory (is there any glory?).  You do it for the love -- the love you have for this mind-blowingly awesome person who may or may not roll his eyes at your awkwardness every five seconds starting at puberty.  You do it for the love first, and hope that you don't screw it up too badly.

Books, too.  Unless you're really lucky or really good -- or, better yet, a combination of both -- you're not going to hit it big with your first book.  Or your second.  Or maybe even your tenth.  And anyway, if you're doing this kind of gut-wrenching worth only for the fame and glory -- well, there's got to be an easier way to get said glory. 

No.  You do it for the love.  For the love of words, of dreaming up new things, of your characters, of communication, of the sensation of lay letters down across the page.  You do it for the love first, and hope that your words will mean something to someone, but know that it's okay (if hard) if you are the only someone. 

5.  It's totally worth it.

Some days I wonder if getting into this whole motherhood thing was the best idea.  It's kind of a lot of work, and I tend to get heartsick with worry in a way that I never used to before.  Plus I'm pretty low on sleep, with no reprieve in sight.

But then I look at my son -- this unimaginably beautiful and sweet and amazing and hilarious and sacred person -- and I can't imagine a life without him in it.  He's worth it all.

Same with writing.  Words have been my lifeline for most of my years, and writing them is not only sometimes the most fun thing of all time and sometimes the thing which leaves me tearing at my hair in despair -- but its necessary.  It's life, self-care, therapy, community, and soul-exploration.  It's holy ground, and I can't imagine life without writing in it.

And while writing novels isn't quite like writing a blog -- definitely less self-care in the novel department -- it's still necessary.  It is somehow a part of me, not to mention a lifelong dream.  To not write would be a sort of death at the soul level.  And so I write, even when it hurts, even when the words come out all wrong, and I never seem to know how to end the damn thing.

My son is my heart.  Writing is my heart's work. 

* * *

I'm sure there are more connections, but I'm too pregnant to think (there's another one -- pregnancy + writing will completely sap your brain of the power to think about anything other than pregnancy/writing).  So I'll leave you with a really cute intersection of babies and book-writing from when my son was even tinier than he is now, and I'd decided that simultaneously breastfeeding and writing was a thing I could do (hint: it wasn't, not for this brain):

You're welcome.

Now, your turn.  What's your favorite "writing a a book is totally like being pregnant" connection?  Feel free to sub any other art form (or, um, anything, really) in for writing.

Thursday, January 1, 2015

2015 Word of the Year {#OneWord365}

from my painting Heart-Follower
For the past couple of years, I've picked a guiding word or phrase for each 365 day run, hoping that this would help me to better hone in on my goals for that period of time.  And -- the practice has been life-changing for me, in beautiful and challenging ways.

This year, I'm doing it again.

But I feel like picking this year's word is particularly challenging, because 2015 is (if all goes well) a birthing year.  We'll be welcoming a new baby into our lives in the spring, so the majority of my energy in 2015 will be poured into my childrens' lives, not into my personal goals.  And that is wonderful, and sacred, tear-inducing and at times grueling -- it is the life of a mama. 

So I need a word that will carry me through those early days of caring for an infant, with little sleep and leaking breasts and the riches of cupping tiny toes in my palm and cradling this sweet slip of a miracle to my chest.  Of transforming into a mom with two very small people in my care, two sets of crankiness, and two bundles of heart-rending beauty and golden snuggles.

But I also need a word that will carry me to the start of those days.

To, and then through.  How could one word possibly span all of that?

I really didn't think it was possible.  So I waited, fretting, and tried to remember to breathe, trust.

And then, sure enough, as November rolled over into December, a word began pursuing me.  It really felt like that.  Not that I found it, but that it found me.  And my heart leapt when it did.


Play was the word.

Play, God, the Universe, and Everything seemed to be whispering to my soul.  Be free.  Enjoy.  Go lightly.  

Play with your children.
Play with paint and papers and glue.
Play with your words.
Play with spirit.
Play with courage, and with trying new things, and with going to bed early.
Play with new books, and old ones.
Play with your food.
Play with intimacy, with love, with your beloved and your self.
Play with the moon and the stars and the sun.
Play with your body, with its movements and pauses and sacred rhythms.
Play with the breath.
Play with knowing and not.
Play with friends and friendship.
Play with forgiveness and release and opening palms.

Play with everything imaginable and unimaginable.  Embark upon everyday adventures.  Frolic along with a treasure map to yourself.  Look for the fun.  Look for the joy.  Get a little dirty, and enjoy this gorgeous tangle of a life.


And so I will.

I will be posting about my year of Play here on the blog.  But if you'd like to really see inside my 2015, follow along with the hashtag #myplayfulyear2015 on Instagram.

Are you picking a word or phrase or theme of the year for 2015?  If so, I'd love to know what it is and what it means to you.  And don't forget to link up with the One Word 365 site if you blog about it!