When Organizing Isn't Enough

Whenever I get overwhelmed with things to do and systems to maintain and plans not working out and forgetting things and losing things and just not feeling like I'm enough, I turn to books.

Of course I do.

And this time I'm re-reading Julie Morgenstern's When Organizing Isn't Enough: SHED your stuff, change your life.

I'm reading it slow, and in sections, this time--actually doing the steps as I go. As opposed to reading through it in one go and saying, "I've read it; it doesn't work." Of course it doesn't work if you don't follow up with the actions required to change behaviors. Duh. But sometimes in my quest for Fixing It, I speed  skim through the hard part. The working part.

The book has prompted me to think of a current theme for my life, and to think of when or where my clutter entered my life. These together will help me get to the why of the clutter, and help me to only keep the things in my life that fall under (or contribute to) my current theme.

THEME

I think that for the past three years, my life's theme has been building up my romantic relationship with my loverloverman--solidifying it, growing it, loving it. I also have been continuing to mother my teenagers--encouraging them and advocating for their needs.

But just recently--in the last six to eight months--I've shifted my focus to my author business. I'm charged and ready to grow it and I've got game plans and mentors at the ready. 

One of my historical problems--"And I say one, because there are many"(Mr. Collins from Pride and Prejudice)--is in not utilizing my time and environment judiciously. So that, looking back, I say, "Damn! Why didn't I do xxx then? I had the time and opportunity then. Now it's way more difficult."

I haven't missed the chance to do xxx, but I've missed the easy chance to do it. I make things harder for myself than they need to be. Chronically.

I'd like to transition into a place in my life where I am joyously using my time on the things that matter to me--so that I don't feel like I've wasted my time, or worse, frittered away my time on unimportant things.

Instead of bemoaning that I wished I had all the time to work on my author business, I want to rejoice knowing that I am living my dream life right now. My schedule allows me family time, partner time, personal time, business time, hobby time, and a couple of days a week for secular work. My "day" job is only two days a week.

Therefore, it feels appropriate that my theme(s) are thus:

Career theme--Building my author business with joy, serenity, and balance.

Personal theme--Rediscovering joy in my authentic self.

Coincidentally--and serendipitous too!--my career and personal themes dovetail so neatly together that they feel the same to me. Finding joy in my work and personal life leads to serenity and balance in my work and personal life.

CLUTTER ENTRY

I think my paper messiness (which is by far the bulk of my untidiness) was a combination of (1) not having time to deal with the accumulating stuff, (2) the quest to be the practical do-it-yourselfer ("That could be useful someday"/hoarding hand-me-downs and not-quite-right stuff because it was better than being without), and (3) and seeing myself as a busy, important-type person.

Busy, messy desks also signified creativity to me somehow.

How could I be creative and clean?

When? 

After dissecting my life and trying to find out when the clutter started, as per Julie Morgenstern's instructions, I think I've pinpointed it to 2002, when I moved in with my now ex-husband. And the clutter has continued to this day.

My mother may disagree, but I don't remember being super messy as a kid. My room certainly looked cleaner than some of my friends'. And in my first marriage, despite moving multiple times, my office wasn't ever out of hand that I remember.

In particular, I remember one rental house in Kalispell, Montana with a sloped floor and cottonwood trees in the back. My great-grandmother's vanity table sat in the dining room/kitchen and we used it for a desk. The phone sat on top and the drawers held the phone book, pens/pencils, various supplies, and paper for taking phone messages or writing letters. It was rarely messy and I loved it. I was proud of the family heirloom entrusted to my care.

Army life after that was always pristine. It had to be.

The messiness of my second marriage wasn't paper, just "baby" and dirty dishes.

The house I lived in as a young widow was a little chaotic sometimes, with little ones and being suddenly single--but whole chunks of the house were clean and serene. That was my theme then--finding serenity and inner peace.

It was only after I moved in with my now-ex, and my first child started kindergarten, that the kitchen bar and table started filling up with papers--bills, receipts, documents, kids' artwork and schoolwork, et cetera.

After the WHEN, it was time for the WHY

I thought, at first, that in my quest to be a nurturing mom, I wanted to keep everything. That could certainly cause clutter, but it didn't really ring true. Then I thought maybe I was just pre-occupied and never could get to the organizing of it. But I'd hired organizers to come in and make everything great, to have it fall apart again within three weeks. So that wasn't it.

Did I not have the skill-set for organizing? No, because it was organized before 2002.

Maybe I just had too much stuff and it spilled out everywhere. Maybe a sense of lack prevented me from getting rid of the papers. But that didn't seem right either. I don't think I'd miss much of it if I got rid of the whole kit and caboodle.

What was my attachment to my clutter?

Before the mess was calmness, a little bit of loneliness, and a desire for a large family.

And then it started coming together a little.

Maybe the reason I had clutter piling up around the office and dining room was because I'd simply prioritized something else all those years.

My theme for thirteen years had been nurturing my family and growing romantic relationships. I just didn't have time or energy to keep my paper clutter at bay; I was focused on something else.

But now that my kids are semi-autonomous, and I'm in a refreshingly awesome romantic relationship, I can shift my theme back to reclaiming joy and serenity in my personal life and to growing my author business in joy, balance, and serenity.

What's your theme right now? 
When and why did your clutter start?

Next step from Julie's book is to seek out my treasures, and keep those. I'm looking forward to approaching my office with a sense of joy--finding those items that create that joy in me, and also those things that contribute to my current theme. Then, I heave the trash.

Do you see? It's the other way around in every other organizing book I've read--and there have been many. Usually one goes through and makes piles for thrift stores, recycling, and trash; then puts away what's left. But I think that going through and looking for those things that light you up is far more enticing than Organizing The Office.

Who wants to make time for that?

So seek your treasures then! 
Leave a comment about what you find. We'll do this together.

I Could

What to do with an unexpected extra afternoon of time?

Any number of things.

I could be productive in so many ways.

I could procrastinate by making another list under the guise of "time management."

I could call Writer's Digest and ask them to tear up the check I accidentally sent them for almost three times more than the monthly subscription was for. (I sent them my car and rental insurance money instead. Online banking can be treacherous--what with the payees being alphabetized and the teeny payment boxes so close to each other.)

I could do some required reading that I've put off for months and months and months.

I could figure out a way to buy Turbo Tax to do my taxes (but I don't have the $79.99 to buy it), or I could send my info to my accountant (but I don't have the $120 to pay him.)

I could keep eating chocolate.

I could email my ex-husband about the visitation changes I need to make for the summer.

I could mow my lawn.

I could clean my son's bedroom.

I could make a behavior chart for my son so he knows what needs to be done before he can play video games.

I could read my book.

I could journal some of my angst away.

I could make myself lunch.

I could write a real blog post.

I could update my LibraryThing and GoodReads wishlists with the new book titles I want.

I could put the last edits into the e-booklet I wrote about grieving.

I could do some playing on Pinterest  social marketing.

I could write my talk on art and processing negative emotions that I'm giving next month.

I could call a winery and chocolatier about sponsoring an event I'm hosting.

I could email my graphic designer and ask her WHY I still don't have the event poster I ordered at the end of March.


But I'm frightened that I won't actually do any of them, and then tomorrow I'll be complaining that I just don't have enough time in the week to get my things done!

How's that for irony?

Blah.

S.A.D. Tales and Renewal's Redemption

I'm struggling struggling struggling. Sometimes S.A.D. (Seasonal Affective Disorder) gets the better of me and I just have to cry and stare into my Mini Plus HappyLite. I don't know if this actually helps, but it's something I can proactively do, making me feel a little less helpless. (Side thought: maybe listening to Gillian Welch isn't very helpful right now.)

Yesterday and the day before were lovely lovely lovely sunny days. I sat on the back step in full sun and soaked soaked soaked it up. And journaled. I haven't been journaling enough lately, and really feel the effects.

Journaling, for me, is code for "Checking In." If I don't check in with myself, I don't know why I'm making any decisions, why I'm facing a certain direction, or why I feel strangled/restless/unsatisfied. Checking in with myself makes a big difference in my centering and grounding.

Petting warm doggies on squishy green couches lifts my spirits, too.

Spring is around the corner and the evidence is everywhere. I'm really looking forward to feeling healthy and energetic again. This past Winter was more difficult for me than ever before--and I'm not sure why. I speculated that SAD was accumulative not only during the season, but each and every year. But probably that's not true at all. Probably it's that it was colder than usual with two ice and snow storms. Eugene usually gets one snow day a year; this time it was two weeks of snow days.

The Spring Equinox (happening next week) brings me a day of planning. Planning and goal setting for the year. Personal goals, business goals, family goals. Ginger Carlson, author of Child of Wonder, got me into doing this. One year my kids did it with me, and this year I'd love to have Ali do it with me. 

With the budding of newness in the very soil around me, I can't help but think of my own renewal. In the past three weeks I've made plans for my massage business, tried on new ways of thinking about myself as a writer, and created a new financial plan--including a new budget.

In these ways I'm moving out of my winterized shell and into the light. Quite literally. It's coaxing me out of my funk.

What I still need to worry about are my internal expectations. They say we are our own worst critics, and never is that more accurate for me than during the winter, or just coming out winter. Or just going into winter. (Ha ha.) I slow way down, I'm overwhelmed by tasks that don't normally confound me, and I fall off my exercise routine. Lots of things just don't get done--and one of those things is usually self-care.

Despite today being a low-energy day, and one where I spent a good hour in front of the HappyLite, and my continued efforts at not succumbing to a nap for the past three hours, I am feeling grateful for the future and the things I'm about to embark on that will change how I think about myself and how I represent myself to others. I'm grateful for my continued passion and love for my partner and for my continued bond with my two teenaged children. And while I'm currently stressed out about taxes, money, and having to move (or not--I'll know in a couple months), I will get passed all that. I know it.

May Spring bring you renewed energy, excitement, and health.

An Ode to Lists (but not in ode format ... if there is one)

When I get overwhelmed, I return to lists. They're just so orderly.

My house is a lovely size for my needs. Maybe a tad too big. But very manageable. Truly, it's the easiest of all the places I've ever lived to clean. Perhaps that might be because of my partial ability to let go (mostly) of my attachment to what my children's rooms look like. Or maybe the kids make less mess as they get older. (Which I don't really believe.) Probably it's that the kids' messes look more and more like mine every year, and I can't really decipher whose mess is whose, and I just imagine it's mine.

Everything is just the right size to easily keep clean. And "out of hand" in this house means two days in a row of not doing the dishes. And even after two days, cleaning the kitchen takes fifteen minutes. So no big deal anyway.

Except.

Except when there are contributing factors that prevent my innate kitchen-cleaning skills to kick in. Or the one that allows me to pick things up and put them away as I walk through the house, heading towards doing something totally different. That skill doesn't kick in either.

Things that slow me down and contribute to small messes piling up into gargantuan mountains (at least in my eyes)?

Not getting enough sleep.
Being cold.
Hunger.
Where I am on my moon cycle.
If I've argued with my children.
If I've argued with my ex-husband.
If I have a deadline looming.
If my kids have a deadline looming.

Or sometimes ... just because it's winter.

It's especially bad when it's ALL of those things at the same time. Like it was the other day.

So I turn to lists.
Somehow creating a list helps me to feel like I'm accomplishing something, doing something constructive. It's a baby step to actually getting the thing done.

I list
therefore
I can accomplish.

What do YOU need?

Yesterday I think I had a very quiet, very short, mini mental breakdown.
But only for an hour and a half.

I totally lost perspective -- worrying about my cluttered house, my overwhelming life, Costa Rica angst, working my multiple jobs, and still needing more clients.  N. calls it "Paralysis by Analysis." Whatever it is, it sure makes me sleepy.

I basically ran to my bed. Except, run is too energetic of a word. It was more like, I don't know how, but I just appeared at my bed and I fell into it -- and completely covered my head and body with pillows and covers and slept for an hour. And then, when I awoke, I didn't feel so panicky, but I sort of felt afraid to get up. It just sounded so exhausting.

My back door was open and flies were buzzing around but I didn't have the energy to get out of bed to shut the door. I felt like crying. I felt achey and despondent and I didn't want to go to work the next day. I just wanted to write and blog and move away. Maybe sleep some more.

I wanted to buy camping gear with the remaining money I had in my checking account and get plane tickets for the kids and myself and just go camping on our Costa Rica lot for the month before school started.

But when I finally did get up, I moved a bunch of furniture around. So I'm pretty sure the breakdown is over, or it never really happened and I was just tired.

Whatever it was, it had me thinking what it is we really need in life, and, of course, prompted me to move that furniture.

We need:

Within a home:

~A place to sleep
~A place to prepare food and eat it
~A place to poop
~A place to read/entertain/work
~A place to get away

In life:


~Opportunities to connect with friends and loved ones
~A way to meet our other needs (like chopping wood, weeding the garden, or help with homework) that may or may not actually require money. (Note: Access the gift economy.)
~Work that is meaningful and contributes to a feeling of purpose and delight.

That's all I need.
And I bet it's all you need, too.

So, as I said, I moved my furniture around.

I was trying to simulate living in a small space. Could I prepare and eat food, rest, work, entertain, and sleep all in the same room? Yes.

I don't know if I like it yet. And I'm not actually sleeping here, but I COULD.
And that's the point.

My next five year plan includes slowly getting rid of furniture and things that just clutter up my life. Eventually I want to move into consecutively smaller and smaller homes, until I am only living a tiny footprint. Smaller house equals smaller utility bills, less housework, and less headache.

However, it also means less family heirloom furniture. And less emotional attachments to inanimate objects. Which is great, but will probably take me a few years to let go of.

But that's okay; I've got FIVE YEARS to do it!



What do YOU need? 
What is your five-year plan?

It's Winter

I know it’s winter because I look for meaning in everything. Until my brain stem hurts and I get thirsty.

The Crazies Are Setting In

I have seven books on how to get organized. One of them boasts I can even do that without resorting to arson.

Venting ... With a Question at the End.

Sometimes I feel like I have so much to say it wants to leak out the crevices and orifices of my body, overflowing. And sometimes it feels like I have nothing to say. Dry. Tired. Too much work to open my mouth and call forth the images within for translation. And sometimes these two opposing states occur at the same time.

Like now.

Maybe bullet points would work.
I could get some stuff out, but not really have to elaborate on them.

• Paul was supposed to be in surgery today, but the doctor cancelled again. He wants to do more research and get more materials. Paul is second-guessing his trust in this doctor and wants to get a second opinion from OSHU. We will miss our end of year deadline for remaining medical procedures and doctor's appointments and come January 1st will have to start paying on the deductible all over again. $5000. Out of pocket. Shit.
• I'm starting to think garden already. I've got tons of seeds left over from last year and I'm going to check in with some neighbors and see if they want to do a co-operative gardening project this year. I think it would be good if I came up with some ideas of how I would want that to look like before I approached them tho. But probably it won't be a big deal.
• I am going to mail off an entry for a publishing contest today. The first 5000 words of my manuscript.
• I'm going to line edit a friend's YA manuscript within the next couple of weeks. I suspect this will entice me to start working on collecting my own bushel of clients. (Did I tell you about my friend Nawaz's idea about editing college entrance essays as a business?)
• I need to get serious about building platform so that I can get an agent for my memoir. I had a scheduled day once a week to devote to reading blogs and commenting on them and researching magazines to query and updating social media, etc., but it isn't working. As in, I'm not doing it. So. That either means I'm trying to do it on the wrong day, or I just have sucky discipline. Hmm. Maybe both.
• The kitchen is starting to crust over.
• I need to follow up with a couple of resumes I dropped off.
• I need to vacuum, but the cleaner's broken.
• I need to clean off the dining room table in the next ten minutes because Aubrey's Japanese teacher is coming over for a lesson.
• I want to finish the baby sweater I'm knitting for a friend.
• I want to connect with my two best friends.
• I want to get the building plans finalized for the Costa Rican house.
• We're still waiting to get the sales agreement for the lot signed by the landowner so we can wire the money to escrow and close on the deal.
• And there's more. There's always more.
• Like, my bedroom is turned upside down and looks worse than my kids' put together. !!! And that's saying something.

January 2nd starts a new diet, a new writing schedule, a new commitment to querying agents and magazines at least twice a month .... and a blessed routine. I am suffering from lack of routine right now. The kids being home from school is nice for the sleeping in and relaxing, but not for the I-haven't-been-to-yoga-regularly-for-three-weeks. Or I-haven't-written-anything-new-on-my-manuscript-since-the-kids-have-been-home. Those parts suck.

Robert goes back to school on January 4th and Aubrey back on January 6th. Whew.

Life back to normal soon.

Uh. And then I'll need to start thinking about our anniversary and Valentine's Day. And the building on our house will start. !!!!! Our realtor, Ricardo, said that he would send us pictures of our house being built, so I can share them with you, as well.

Our plan for an ice cream shop might need to wait a bit. We definitely don't have the capital for start-up. The loan we got was a little less than we thought (because we hadn't factored in the paying of the property taxes) and now Paul's medical bills will be more than we counted on. So. That's a disappointment. A little one. More that I'm worried about disappointing Jim (the landowner), because he really liked the idea. And I also want to start making money over there as soon as possible. I hope the rents coming in from the house will be substantial enough to cushion us. Our budget will be super tight for the next three years. Or more. 

Lots to think of.

In the coming days, I will most likely be posting my New Years Resolutions. Despite the controversy of them. :) I can call them something different if you want. I just like to write down my goals. It makes them more real and ordered for me. If they just float around in my head, I don't focus on them and they don't get addressed.

What is your process for setting goals? Or. As my husband says, Commitments. He doesn't set goals. He makes commitments. I like both. You?

December is my "Mad World."

It's all craziness over here.
Well.
Maybe not craziness.
But
a certain feeling of ....
needing to recuperate is settling in
And it's not even Christmas yet!

Paul has been having doctor's appointments galore and just two days ago, on Monday, he had an angiogram to take still more pictures of his Arterial-Venal Malformation. The radiologist thought he might be able to do an intervention during the angiogram (funny name for it -- it means to put some sort of coil, "cement", or particle into the vein to stop up the blood flow from going to a place it's not supposed to be going.) However, the situation looked too big and scary to rush into. Dr. Z wanted to make sure he was doing the exact right surgery for Paul (there are a few options) and to make sure he had enough of the equipment he needed to finish the procedure properly.

Paul has three big veins (the size of an adult male's pinky finger in diameter) on one side of his pelvis, and one big vein on the other side of it. This means lots of fast moving blood is feeding an area that isn't supposed to see that much, resulting in an "aneurysm" the size of one of his kidneys. It's huge. Every time a medical professional sees this balloon of blood on an ultrasound or CT scan, they very unprofessionally say, "Wow! That's huge!" and go and get another medical professional to come and look at it -- who then says the same thing.

There are a few options open to him regarding the surgery(ies) that he can have. Right now an expert on Arterial-Venal Malformations (AVM's) from Minnesota is looking at a CD of photos from Paul's angiogram to give his advice to our radiologist and vascular surgeon. Well. Paul's radiologist and vascular surgeon. (I was just guilty of turning this into a we situation -- like when men say "We're pregnant" -- when it is so clearly happening to Paul.)

Another doctor's appointment on Monday will let us see the photos from the angiogram and hear what the expert in Minnesota advises. And then on Thursday, Paul will have surgery (or a "procedure" depending on Monday's outcome). They've also blocked out time on the 30th of this month for another surgery if it is needed.

Procedural options:

1) the radiologist can go up his femoral artery again (like in the angiogram) and push a platinum wire up the catheder. The wire will coil up into a large vein, blocking the blood from rushing into the anuerysm from that side. Then he'll do it again and again in the other veins. (By the way, Paul has more than four, but those are the big ones and Dr. Z doesn't want to cut off all the blood supply to his other pelvic organs.)('Cuz, you know, that could be problematic.)

The theory is, without the blood flow to the balloon, this bubble of blood will clot and then dissolve over time and/or shrink down. This will take the pressure off Paul's internal organs and will not cause him pain and discomfort anymore.

At the same time as the "coil" procedure is happening, Dr. Z will also put in a filter (it acts as an umbrella in the vein) higher up by his lungs. This will be insurance against the hopefully small possibility of part of the "clot" from breaking off and turning into a real blood clot. Pulmunary Embolisms are fatal, dontcha know.

Paul said, "What's the difference from a blood clot getting caught in the filter or the lungs? Both of them block off the artery/vein." Dr. Z said, "If it gets caught in the filter, I can fix that. I can melt it away and remove it. If it goes to your lungs, you die. Instantly."

Nice.

So we're a little creepified right now.

Option #2) They do the above procedure, but instead of waiting for the aneurysm to dissolve and shrink, once it gets hard like a scab, a vascular surgeon (Dr. S) will go in and surgically remove the grapefruit-sized chuck of pain and repair and reconnect the veins.

They might also do this if we try option 1 and during the "hard" stage (before it gets to dissolving), it just gets way too painful for Paul. His discomfort and pain will get worse after the procedure. We're just hoping that time period is small and manageable. If not ... that's when option 2 would be necessary.

Option #3 isn't really an option right now. Both Dr. Z and Dr. S think it is risky and are hoping to not go there. At least that's my impression. Option 3 would be to forego the coil procedure altogether and go straight for surgery. Just cut the bastard out of there and sew up the holes. This would be scary scary though. Way too much blood. Especially because of the arterial connection. And the aneurysm is very deep in the pelvis. Hard to get to. The combination is fairly dangerous.

Again. Those are my words, but that's the vibe I got from the doctors.

So, we find out Monday which of the options we are going with. Thursday he'll have the procedure, and stay overnight for safety and observation. Hopefully, if all goes way, he'll get to come home on Christmas Eve.

If he needs another follow up procedure -- because the first one is taking too long or something -- he'll go in on December 30th (two days after his birthday and the day before New Year's Eve.)

It doesn't feel like Winter Solstice.
It doesn't feel like Christmas.
I don't feel like celebrating much.
I feel like wishing and hoping and being grateful.
And not taking things for granted.
And not taking people for granted.

Perhaps I'm being melodramatic.
Perhaps this is fairly routine. (His condition is rare, but the procedures and surgeries he'd have are not.) But it's hard to keep my past out of this. My baggage is weighing heavy this week.

Realizing Dreams and ADD Coaches

Picking one thing means not picking another. At least at that set of moments in time.

This is why it's difficult for me to choose between projects.

I'm lying in bed on a morning where the chickens (it must be Sophia, the little wanker -- can hens be wankers, or can that only be reserved for roosters?) have woken me before six in the morning. Wanker. I fetched my rain/muck boots with the purpley stripes from the garage. Usually they are kept on the back patio but I'd used them recently working on the restoration of a butterfly meadow at a nearby park. We're working on our spring community service badge through SpiralScouts.

But I digress.

I grab my boots and a canister of organic chicken feed and head outside. The air smells sweet and of newly washed rain. I feed them and check for eggs. None. Stingy bastards. If they're going to wake me before six in the morning, the least they can do is gift me some eggs for my troubles.

I spill some food, swear, scoop poop and then come inside and wash my hands vigorously.

Now what?

The hot tub would be nice, but what if I stay too long and I don't get Aubrey up and ready for school on time. I could go back to bed, but Paul's already up and that cut down on half the incentive to sink back under the covers. I could write in my journal, or read.

Reading sounds too tiring so I sit on the side of the bed and take my thyroid medication and see how it is to be back in bed. Was I too restless to be here? No. My glasses are on now just in case I decide to journal, but I slide back into my sheets.

Mmmm.

I close my eyes and snuggle with Humphrey who has gotten onto the bed. Wanker. But I let him, so I can't complain too much.

I don't fall back to sleep. Instead I plan and dream and paint pictures in my head. With purple and blue blobs that flow out of my fingertips and sable brushes. I think of my knitting project I am currently working on (a stripey set of fingerless gloves from left over wool yarn that will match my newly knitted hat), future knitting projects I can't wait to start (a felted bag, socks and an afghan), and the eleven sewing projects I just bought all the fabric and notions and patterns for. Clothes for the kids and me.

I also think of personal projects I'm up against. How to connect to others when they don't want to, or can't for some reason.

There's a friend that isn't so much a friend anymore that I miss. She says she likes me but she has a hard time with my energy -- my creativity she likes, but the rest is too scattered and shaky for her to be around comfortably. I swallow harder when I remember this. It's hard to slough this off when a) it is something that is not likely to change about me, as it's fairly core value stuff we're talking about here and apparently it's my core value she's not digging, and b) that I see her in passing a couple times a week when she drops off her kids at the same school I drop one of mine at.

And people closer still, that I reach out for and am met with love, respect and tenderness, but not closeness.

And then there's the house. You know about my house and how much I feel prisoner to its clutter and chaos. I'm ever trying to corral its mutations and fail miserably. I read an interesting bit of information from a book called something like: ADD-friendly ways to organize your life/home. It's advice was basically you allow yourself your faults and limitations and you hire coaches. You categorize all your needs and assign them Level 1, 2 or 3.

If one of your tasks is a Level I, maybe a weekly email from a friend would suffice for the reminder to do this thing. They're jobs that you can really do yourself, you just need a bit of momentum.

Level 2 tasks require that a coach actually be in your house. They sit with you and drink tea and remind you of what you were doing after you are done with the phone call, or the dog smears muddy paw prints on the wood floor and you rush to wipe them up before they harden. I would need a coach to keep me on track to file paperwork that's accumulated over the years in three rubbermaid totes. Or folding socks.

And Level 3 tasks are pointless. You will not do them. Best just hire a professional to come and do it for you.

Aspects of this book really make sense to me. Therefore, I've enlisted the help of my friend, Kesha, to come and help me de-clutter my house. Officially. Until it's done. I want half the house gone. We simply have too much stuff in the house for it to be all put away. There actually are not places for these things. So they must go.

After Aubrey and Paul leave and I shower, Kesha comes over and we walk around the house with a clipboard and brainstorm things to get rid of, systems that need changing and objects that need purchasing in order to make said systems work.

She's committed to coming over about twice a week to help me accomplish this feat before June 25 -- a quasi-self-imposed deadline for a benefit garage sale for our SpiralScouts circle.

After the house is a cozy, safe haven that all members of the family want to come home to ... Kesha has agreed (though I'm not sure she remembers she agreed to this) to continue on as my "ADD" coach (for lack of a better term). She can help me accomplish my creative goals by just being there and re-focusing me. Mostly this will be done jointly.

For instance, I've had three garbage bags of raw, dirty sheep wool in my garage for almost a year. Yum. Bet you didn't think I'd say that.

I got it free from a farm sanctuary after just teaching myself to knit and discovering how expensive knitting can be. Nice yarn can get spendy.

So my intent was to wash this grubby, sweaty sheep fur (oh, excuse me: fiber) and card it and spin it and knit with it. And if that wasn't enough challenge for me, I could dye it before spinning it, too.

Well, as I've said, it's still in the garage untouched.

So, Kesha totally wants to do this with me. So we'll do this project together and it'll be a win/win situation. She'll get all the raw materials she wants and a friend to do it with her, and I get ... well, the same as her BUT the added benefit of a coach that will keep me on track.

For awhile I couldn't wrap my head around being the kind of person that needed people to tell me what to do. This didn't sit well with me AT ALL. I liked the free-spirit, chaotic neutral, artistic image of myself and being a submissive follower didn't fit into that. But then it occurred to me.

I know what I want. I even know how to get there. I just need help staying on task in order to realize my dreams.

lists

I'm struggling. As does everyone else from time to time.
I really hate "whining" to people or page, so it is often held in.
And I'm sure this entry is better suited to my journal.

Words and ideas and to do lists are swirling in my brain.
Some are exciting, some are exhausting and some just make me want to cry.
Or eat chocolate.

And that's another thing! People keep bringing me chocolate when they visit!
And I keep buying it! AAAAH!
Chocolate goes against one of the things on my swirling to do list.
Which is eat less sugar and lose body fat.


It seems often that my blog posts turn into lists of things we've done in the weeks since I've posted last. My journal entries have lots of lists in them. My essays even sport an occasional list. And I've been writing -- gasp -- poetry (*said with a shameful shake in my voice*) lately. Which are mostly in list form, as well.

What's up with that?
Where do the lists come from?
I never thought of myself as analytical or linear in any way.
My house is in constant natural disaster mode and my art and writing is spread all over my office. Nothing else in my life is in lines. Why on the page?

Is it because I crave order amidst my chaos?
Makes sense.

But sometimes I wish for no lists. Sometimes I wish for a time when there is nothing to put on my lists. For there not to be a need for lists.

So many things swirling in my head create a desire for the lists, I think. To make sense and order out of the spaghetti up there.

And I crave the open-ness to express all those swirling thoughts and descordant dreams ... but I think it would be shocking to see for some, so out of deference to them, out of fear of rejection and non-acceptance, and out of sheer discomfort from being in a vulnerable position ... I don't write it down here.

Let the judging commence.

space between the walls

truly.

i'm sick of this.

how does it come to this?





...just junk outside the house.
...in the front yard for all to see.

...i don't even know what these are for.
...they aren't mine.
...roommate brought them home for something.
...and never used them.


...a collection of stuff on my front porch to be taken to Goodwill.
...from the last time i de-cluttered my house.


...sigh.
...raw milk from a wonderful farm
...that started separating before we could finish it
...and i set outside to take out to the chickens
...and forgot all about it.
...and now i cringe everytime i see it.
...it's been there since november, i think.


...found randomly on the floor.


...recycling and potatoes.


...a box of bathtub toys and a peek into my closet.


...my bathroom.


...my bedroom.


...supplements that i often forget to take
...despite them being on the counter for me to see.


...a polymer experiment gone wrong.
...paul reminded us that when we throw this away (because it can't go down the drain -- and don't ask me how i know this) it will stay in the landfill for nine million years.
...perhaps this is why it hasn't been thrown away yet.


...my sewing/craft area.


...this is my altar for fuck's sake!


...my office.

Stuck in Hypocrisy

This is going to be raw and broken and weird and not very coherent. I'm going to use this space to free-write and journal today.

I'm feeling melancholy and slow and pensive. I'm feeling trapped and stuck and I can't breathe.

I feel like I'm at an impasse, a stalemate, a conundrum of days and ways of life. And the puppy just ate one of my shoes.

I think I haven't taken my vitamin D in a long while. Maybe it's time for a "happy light" purchase. But that just makes me sound mentally ill. And I don't feel mentally ill; I just feel ... stuck. And overwhelmed a little.

I feel like I'm grieving. That's what it is. Grieving for what, you ask? Sigh. I don't want to tell you. I don't want to spell it out loud here on the page. I don't want it to exist. But then I do want it to exist. I want to act on it; and then I don't want to act on it. I want to live a different life, but then I want and cherish the very one I have. I want less chaos in my life because of the pull on my time and energy; and then I want to add more for the excitement and promise. I want to live authentically, with my true self showing at all times, but then I'm too afraid.

Puppies, chickens, husbands, boyfriends, children, IEPs, homeschooling, gardens, special needs, doctors, therapy, traveling, writing, agents, editors, proposals, desires and un-met needs.

I struggle with extremes. Paul told me once that my dreams were diametrically opposed to each other. Yes. True. Like: the fierce dream to travel around the world and wade in multiple cultures and breathe in their essences and write about them -- AND, to live with minimal footprint, on a mountain farm and ranch with a creek and tons of trees, living totally off the grid and completely self-sustaining. I can't do both. Who would take care of my animals while we traveled? Who would tend the gardens? How could I knit and sew all our clothes and household items and still have time to write the books that are milling around inside me like lost travelers? How could I live my dream of using little to no fossil fuels and still fly around the world? I would be (and am) the biggest hypocrite of all.

And so I sit in my office -- with the compact fluorescent light beaming on me, and the dogs play-growling down the hall, and the kids yelling "Don't bark!" and my son locking the puppy in with me so they can hear their television show, and the dog scratching at the door so that I have to get up and let him out so he doesn't tear the paper blinds -- and feel stuck.

Wallowing

I'm having a blah day ... and it's only 10:15 in the morning. Sigh.

I've already re-started a sour load of laundry that I didn't take out of the washer yesterday, closed up the chicken coop that I left open yesterday to air out (oops), fed the chickens/puppy/dog, read a chapter and a half from The Lighting Thief to Robert, cleaned up puppy urine from the carpet, brushed my teeth, cleaned up puppy poo from the carpet, almost cried over the amount of clothes to fold and put away and the status of the kitchen dishes, and talked to Paul about a conversation he had with our 11 year old daughter about viewing some UBER-disturbing images on the internet. Time for parental locks.

I want coffee.

And I want to go back to bed.

But what I will do instead (well, I'll still make coffee) is switch the twice washed laundry, take a shower, have Aubrey do some laundry and shower and find her ballet clothes and shoes, and take her to an audition for the Nutcracker Remixed that her dance school is going to be performing. We will come home and I'll work on the kitchen and decide what to make for the Spiralscouts Circlewide Potluck that's happening tonight at my house.

Paul also wants to watch Coraline with the kids tonight.

Every night is packed with stuff to do this week (and next, too) ... fun stuff that I myself planned and want to do ... but seeing it all laid out on the calendar is daunting.

I'm really looking forward to tomorrow morning. My friend Candace Hunter is coming over to help me work on some writing goals I have and to work out a writing schedule for me. (For regular writing and Nanowrimo writing.) I think it's the only thing getting me through this day, so far.

Just keep writing, just keep writing, just keep writing, just keep writing, just keep writing ...

New Things

I'm so overwhelmed.

But I'm excited at the same time!

My problem is: I love new things. I love to try new things. There's that new love/new sex/new relationship kind of feeling when I try new things. Like, the building a garden, getting chickens, learning to knit, making strawberry jam for the first time and picking and freezing sour cherries and blueberries -- what an urban homesteading rush!


And homeschooling. That was new last year, so this year I'm adding a kid -- my daughter -- and curriculum to my son's unschooling routine. That's a new and different aspect to homeschooling for me.

And now it's a new puppy. I've wanted a second dog for a couple of years. For Kiya's sake -- I wanted her to have a friend to snuggle with when we weren't home. We didn't want a puppy; we were looking for an older dog, one already potty trained. And then we stopped looking for almost a year. But then Humphrey came along when he did and he just happened. Like life usually does.

The other new thing I'm juggling right now -- as I've mentioned before -- is my book proposal I'm writing. Or rather NOT writing. Right now I'm soaking in the bathtub.

I'm finding it difficult to get to the next stage of this proposal because this is the reading part and I don't want to read right now, I want to write! So I'm stagnating. Hmpf.

Best go and do some reading. I AM in the tub after all. What better place to read? Except for maybe in front of a fireplace, under a lap quilt, with pjs on. Mmm. I love winter for that very reason.

Namaste!

Who I Am

Part of me wants to upload pictures of my house (each room) so you can see what the inside of my brain looks like right now.

But then I get too embarrassed.

But then I think: There are so totally other moms out there with revolting homes that never seem to get organized no matter how they try and might even feel better and less like a louse if they saw my wreck.

But then I think: No way, Jose. I'd alienate you all forever and maybe even the county would come and plaster my doorway with those condemned buildings signs and tapes.

So I won't upload pictures. Just use your imagination.

I've hit the puces again. My house is a new shade of the leader essay I wrote a while back.


On a home-schooling vein: I'm anxiously awaiting our Waldorf curriculum. Aubrey wants a curriculum to follow instead of being unschooled as Robert is. I am also buying a used copy of the 3rd grade curriculum for him -- in case I can sneak it in for him, or if he sees his sister doing something and wants to follow suit. Also, it just gives me an outline to work with. If he wants to do it, cool. If not, no biggie. I'm only out $17.

I registered them for classes on Tuesday. They got all the classes they sent me out to get.
I'm not sure how I'll fit the Waldorf rhythms into this but I'm gonna try!

Both Aubrey and Robert are taking a chess class (which counts as a math core class) and water safety once a week. In addition to that, they are each taking an additional p.e. class: Aubrey will be doing ballet and Robert, another swimming class, so he'll be swimming twice a week. Also, Aubrey is taking an American Girls history class and Robert is taking a computer art class.

So. We'll see what happens. I'll try and get more math in for Robert (since he likes it anyway) with the Waldorf math book I bought. (It's a combined grades 1-5 math book.)


I told Paul today that it felt like I had four full-time jobs. I love them all and don't want to quit any of them, but that that's why the house looks like this. ;)

Job 1 is, of course, homemaker. I could totally have the house immaculate and healthy meals around all the time if that's all I ever worked on.

Job 2 is a homeschooling parent. I'm driving the kids all over for classes four times a week, in addition to curriculum. But I so want to do this forever. It is the right thing for my kids.

Job 3 is a writer. I'm writing and researching my proposal for my non-fiction book Grief Shadows: Young, Pregnant and Widowed. Four agents have requested that I send them either pages or a proposal, so I TOTALLY want to get on that and not let this AWESOME opportunity pass me buy. This is my dream job and a project I've had on my mind almost since Rob died. I want our story told and I want it to inspire other widows.

Job 4 is a homesteader (gardening, keeping animals, canning and knitting and otherwise trying to live sustainably and self-sufficiently), which probably should go up with job 1 so that I can also add

JOB 5: feeding myself (with hot baths and romantic comedies and reading and art and dates with my husband and socializing with friends and one-on-one times with my kids) so that I can be a healthy, contributing member of my family -- one who is pleasant to be around.


There.

How can I do all those jobs every day?

Because I can't quit any of them. They are all vastly important to me and make up who I am. And who I've always wanted to be. I can't change that, nor do I want to.

Oh Bother

I walk in the front door, eager to see my children but don't see my mother-in-law's car out front. She's been watching them this weekend because I've been in Portland pitching my book to a handful of agents (who want the proposal!).

"Hello!" I call out. My housemate, Steve, comes around the corner from the kitchen. "Where are the kids?"

"I don't know," he says. "I think I heard them talking about pizza."

I can't decide if I'm disappointed they aren't home. A nice quiet house to reflect on the success at the conference and the No Shame skit I'm thinking up in my head? Or little ones running at me and hugging me and telling me how much they missed me. Hmm.

I bring in my things from the van and sort-of put them away, think about the music I listened to on the way home and the memories it evoked, check on the wee chickens and admire the work Steve has done on the chicken coop so far.

I call Paul and wildly hint about sex tonight and wonder now, since the children are still not home, what I should do with my free block of time.

Work on proposal?
Straighten bedroom?
Get something to eat?
Start watching a dvd -- knowing they'll be home ten minutes after I start it?
Read?
Clean off the kitchen table?

This might be why I can't seem to take advantage of small blocks of time during the day. I never can decide which of the pressing items to choose from and so do nothing out of panic and indecision.

Oh Bother.

I'd Take Waffle Brains Over Spaghetti Anytime

I'm watching the chickens poke around in the yard and coo and chirp and pretend to fly. They gallop and flap their wings, lifting their feet every so often. It looks exactly like a three year old leaping around the house with a Superman cape on.

My husband is leaving for work. I hear his car door close and the ignition turn and him drive away. Some days I'm glad he goes so I can get some work done around the house. During most of his days off I mill around restlessly, knowing I should be doing something but fretful that I'll miss quality time with him if I, say, run errands.

But today I don't want him to leave. I try to shed the feelings of abandonment and decide how my day will pan out.

My intention was to process the eight pounds of strawberries I picked yesterday, after picking them. But I'd promised my son a visit to friends. I thoroughly enjoyed the time spent there admiring the house and the cool games and books on the shelves ... and the pantry! Oh my. I want my food storage to look like theirs. What a bounty.

So I decide to make the strawberry jam this morning. I leave the house early to get the extra honey and sugar I need and then stop at BiMart to get the lids and rings we were too tired and hot to get yesterday. Oh, and the tool one uses to reach into boiling vats of water to retrieve glass jars from the canning bath. I need one of those, too.

BiMart was closed for another hour. I have to leave to get home so my husband can go to work.

I finally manage to get the children dressed and they brush their teeth. But now I don't want to go. I don't want to make jam today. I'm feeling that familiar monster, Overwhelm, prance around my shadows this morning.

I have to take the children to TWO birthday parties today. Hideous thought.

I enjoy gathering with friends as much as the next person, but when Overwhelm strikes, I notice all the things that need to be done immediately.

I'm picking up more raw milk tomorrow but still have over half a gallon in my fridge from last week. This is probably because I haven't baked any bread in weeks and my housemates have stopped drinking milk ... and Paul's afraid to now. I need to do something with this extra milk.

I can borrow my friend's butter churn and make butter. I can make yogurt; I can even make a farmer's cheese.

I need to make that strawberry jam.

I need to work on my book pitch again.

I need to continue compiling my book. I've got essays and prayers and pictures and journal entries but I want to round it out a bit more -- and I'm frantic to know in what order to put the essays. Should it be chronological? Thematic?

My kitchen is a mess; I can't find the candy thermometer for making the jam.

I need to call 811 Call Before You Dig's number to find out where we can dig post holes for the clothesline and I'm worried about the Chilean Guava bush I planted last week. (Two weeks ago?) It's crispy and rustly ever since being sunk in the ground. Should I fertilize it? Water more? Move it to a shadier spot? My wisteria is looking shabby, too.

Overwhelm can lead quickly into Despair if I'm not looking, and I can start to believe that I'll never make it as a gardener, I'll never be able to live off my own land (small as it is) and Monsato will still get my business because I can't seem to find any products on the supermarket's shelves that don't have soy something in them.

I still have soap making supplies on my kitchen counter from WAY before and I desperately want to go to the chiropractor and for my kids to stop fighting. Also, the chickens still need a home. The dog crate won't cut it for long.

After a handful of gluten-fee pretzels with soy lecithin in them -- shit -- and a cup of organic, shade-grown, fair trade, decaf coffee with raw cream and agave nectar in a chipped Willamette Writers mug, I start to calm down.

Gregory Kompes once said at a Willamette Writers Conference, "Do just one thing a day." He was talking about writing careers and websites and marketing, but I think it applies to harried, un-schooling, wannabe urban homesteader moms, like myself, too.

It's sound advice. Just do one thing. Just one thing.

Funny. At the conference he handed out little wooden cubes and told us to write on each side something that contributed to our writing career: updating your webpage, adding an article to a directory, submitting something, writing, sending a thank you card to an editor. The idea being you'd flip the cube everyday and to do your "Just one thing" for the day, and know that that was enough. It had to be, or we'd all go nuts trying to fit it all in.

I took two cubes, confident that I had more than six things to do.

Today I re-wrote the cubes directions for more homier things: write a letter, go on a field trip for fun, sew a project, hand-make a gift for someone I love, freeze or can something, write an essay or blog entry, research a plant or garden tip and do it, knit, make a dairy product (cheese, ice cream, butter or yogurt), bake bread, weed, make dog food.

In a panic I realize I have far more than twelve things and I need more cubes. What about trying
new gluten-free recipes on the kids? What about the family cookbook I want to compile? What about submitting query letters?

Should I erase the field trip and substitute the cookbook?

Oh my god. I forgot I need to touch up the paint on the bean bag toss board for Faerieworlds this Friday! And the kids' swimming lessons start this week!

Despair retreats as I start to laugh at the sheer enormity of chaos my brain imbues. (It could be hysteria though.) Oftentimes I feel I'm living a Seinfeld episode where either so much happens at once that it's funny, or a bunch of beautiful "nothings" happens all day long.

It astonishes me that I can think of all these things at once without breaking into a nice calm meltdown. A friend once told me that women's brains were spaghetti and men's were waffles. Men could compartmentalize and blessedly think of one thing at a time. Lucky bastards. Waffle brains and they can pee outside without wetting their jeans? Come on. This is hardly fair.

Yes, I have spaghetti brains. Everything I think of reminds me of something else, which reminds me of something else.

Which reminds me -- I need to put the chickens back in their pen before we leave for the birthday parties, lest a neighborhood cat comes calling, or one of the chicks manages to crawl under a neighbor's fence and they turn us in to the City for having five chickens instead of two.

I think I'm Kramer today. Or maybe the Jason Alexandar guy. What was his name? George.

I wish Paul were home. (sigh)

Staycation

I'm so torn about what I should be doing during this "vacation". 'Cuz that's what it really is. My kids are gone for three weeks to visit family in Massachusetts. I had great visions of:

reading voraciously
watching movies in the middle of the day
making soap
cleaning all rooms in the house until they shone
and writing every day.

So mostly none of those things have happened and they've been gone a week.
I did do some catch-up work the day after they left and did some extra sleeping here and there. And all weekend I was at a Sustainable Living Festival at Wise Acres farm (which was super cool and wouldn't have been able to do easily if the children were in my care).

Monday I did some errands and Tuesday I did a bunch of baking and made a weeks worth of dog food (and watched a movie in the middle of the day). And designed a chicken coop.

I have done a bit of writing. I hack-edited a chapter in my novel on Monday and yesterday I made a blog entry. So some writing is being done. But not quite like I thought.

Why am I so hard on myself? I seem to have far more expectations on myself than anyone else does. And that's fine, but when I feel bad because I don't reach those expectations ...

Maybe I should focus, as my mother-in-law says to do, on the things I DO accomplish every day. A "Look What I Did!" journal to be written in every night before bed.




I did some weeding in the garden this morning and went to a memorial "Celebration of Life" service for a woman I used to work with. Sad, but lovely.

And now I'm going to hang out with my man. He's got two days off and we've got no kids right now ... ;)

Magenta-Flecked Puce

When I'm depressed, I usually want to sleep. In fact, that's generally what gives me the heads up that I've entered the blue phase. though why it should be called blue -- which evokes healing and calmness and serenity -- baffles me. It should be called the puces.

Puce is that sickly mustard blah color that better depicts the flaccid jelly I become when in the doldrums. Magenta, also, seems an appropriate color to augment the puceness of my state when depressed. Magenta-flecked puce.

Magenta, because it is a color that screams. A color that overwhelms the senses and deviates from any normal protocol. And that, too, is what I feel when depressed. I'm overwhelmed.

And that is why sleep seems so blissful in my magenta times. My magenta puce times. I just want to sleep.

So yesterday I had driven a long way to a hiking trail near waterfalls with my kids and met up with my daughter's scouting group to work on our hiking badge and direction finder award. It was raining and though it was a nice hike and I loved watching the children interact, as well as connecting to some adults I admire, the trip was way beyond my exhaustion level.

I humped back home, stopping for cocoa with whipped-creamed straws and decaf coffee; dealt with parental disciplinary actions at home and then went to a friend's house for dinner. By bedtime I was magenta. After connecting with my husband and exchanging stories of our days, I rolled over in my bed, completely puce.

It got me thinking: what does one do to climb out of the slippery sludge that lines all sinkholes? How do you surpass the panic and terror? How do you make it back home to YOU? How do you make it back HOME at all?

Often I write. Sometimes I journal or write an essay -- but other times I make a list. Today's list (written in my head) was to purposely ignore the kitchen and the eighteen-inch grass in the backyard and instead focus on my children's bedrooms.

I have to say it. They were vile. I cringed every time I tucked my sweeties into bed and I feared lasting damage to their psyches from living and sleeping in such stagnancy.

So we cleaned.
For hours.

And now both their bedrooms are beautiful, there is a sense of accomplishment in the air and we've come to Chuck E. Cheese's to celebrate. Two and a half hours later I'm looking at the clock, but my luvs don't want to leave. Sigh.

Another list (a mega one this time) plagues me until I write it down.

1. my bedroom
2. my bathroom
3. kitchen
4. garage
5. laundry room and 1/2 bath (also hanging and putting away clothes)
6. phone nook and bar
7. dining room
8. living room
9. back patio
10. back yard
11. gardens
12. office
13. entry
14. staircase and landing
15. learning closet
16. upstairs bathroom
17. front patio

If I dedicate one day to each off these tasks (and some will be hard-pressed to fit into one day -- like the yard or gardens), and exclude the days we have out-of-town guests, or plans that take more than half the day (and maybe a day off once in awhile for good behavior), I could be done with a major house cleaning by July 7th. Wow.

I don't know if I should be excited that I might be on top of things finally, or depressed further that ONE: it could actually take seventeen plus days to clean my house, and TWO: that at the end of said seventeen days I would have to start all over again! Ug.

Thinking now about the state of, say, the dishes if I waited seventeen (or even THREE) days without addressing them; I wonder about extending the July 7th date out even further. If I did that (crazy and unforgivable thing), I could add in one day a week (gasp! should it be two?) for maintenance purposes. That would take me to July 14th -- the day before the kids fly home with Fernanda. Three weeks in Massachusetts with Vavo, their Portuguese grandmother.

Now wait a minute. The puce starts rolling in again. I am not going to spend my entire stay-cation sans kids on cleaning the house! (Slave that I am.) Ha!

I WILL read a whole shelf of my glorious books. (snort) Maybe THREE. Realistically, reading twenty books in three weeks won't do, if I want to retain anything.

I WILL write everyday! Even on heavy cleaning days. I promise.

So with a couple of game plans and a list, plus a successful day of cleaning behind me, I see the magenta-flecked puce fading and while it is time to get the kids home and to bed, I'm not crabby and ready to hibernate for twenty-one days like yesterday.

Unless, of course, I spy the kitchen on the way to my bed.