Adapt and Renew {One Word 2017}

Each year, in lieu of resolutions, I choose a single word on which to focus for the next 12 months. The fluidity and holistic nature of this word fits my spirit better than one specific resolution. They flow one year to the next, Grace leading to Joy leading to Presence, Intention leading to Rhythm leading to Habit, the culmination of all of those Opening my life wide for what may come. Then, a hard year, a decision to simply Go Forward bravely, one step after another. The year following demanded that I Fearlessly rebuild and heal and live, while the year after that brought Light: Live Light, Seek Light, Be Light.

Now another new year has arrived, and my focus is shifting once again.

2010: Grace and Intention
2011: Joy and Rhythm
2012: Presence and Habit
2013: Open
2014: Go Forward
2015: Fearless
2016: Light
2017: Adapt and Renew

Adapt. Renew. I find these two words circling each other as I look at the year ahead. These past two years have been ones of intense and deliberate habit building. I have shifted my sleep schedule, taken up running, adjusted our homeschooling rhythms, and developed a solid work-from home routine. It's been good. Really good. I'm happy with these rhythms.

But change always comes, and I know myself well enough to recognize that the perfectionist in me doesn't adapt well. If I can't keep my ideal routines, then it's easier to simple cast them aside rather than try to fit them into new shapes.

Well, change is coming again. In June, we look forward to welcoming our fifth child into our home.

I can't tell you how grateful I am to be able to say that.

I also can't tell you how very much this changes those intentionally-developed rhythms and routines.

I've already had to give up running. I had visions of running throughout my pregnancy, or at least for as long as felt comfortable, but my quickly-loosening joints put an end to that early on. The usual first-trimester exhaustion and nausea meant I was sleeping later and napping frequently. My work hours began to dip and homeschooling rhythms shifted as well. And naturally the prospect of a baby meant that further changes to our family routine would become necessary in the months ahead. Such is the nature of pregnancy: a demand to slow down, to rest, to do less.

It didn't take long for that perfectionism and anxiety to start speaking up. If I can't run and if yoga just doesn't quite compare, then I guess I can't really do anything. If I can't get up before the kids are awake, then my usual pre-kids morning routine simply cannot happen at all. And so it goes.

Unsurprisingly, that wasn't working either. I could feel it as my anxiety rose, my patience dropped, and my internal motivation went for a run and didn't bother coming back.

And so I must Adapt. These rhythms, routines, and habits must be Renewed for the coming year. Rather than write it all off as a lost cause, a bit more creativity and flexibility is required of me. The renewal has begun; we are shifting things around, finding what works, always the continual change but this time keeping a little more of the Good from the hard-won habits of the past two years.

Adapt. Renew. The latter brings a sense of birth, fitting for the year ahead, while the former has a less delicate feeling to it, a demand to simply do what must be done. They feel equally fitting, somehow, and I take from each what I need for this time and for the time to come.


Do you have a One Word this year? a resolution? a new goal or habit? We'd love to hear about it!

The only way to do it

Sometimes my kids don't want to do the things that they need to do.

Shocking, right? I know. I'm the only one with kids like this. They don't want to empty the dishwasher or tidy their toys or work on something challenging.

So out comes the Mom Voice and I tell them, every time: The only way to do it is to do it.

The only way to get that dishwasher emptied so you can go play is to empty it. The only way to get through that task that feels big and difficult and overwhelming is to get started. These are words to carry you through life, kids.

But this isn't really about my kids. Because for every time I remind them that the only way to do it is to do it, I have to remind myself of the same thing about a half dozen times.

The only way to get out of bed in the morning, self, is to get out of bed in the morning. The only way to run is to lace up those shoes and go run. When faced with a new client and five years of overdue taxes and no useful records, the only way to get through it is to do it. I can stare at it and dread it and whine all I like, but it's not going anywhere until I begin.

Goodness knows that as a perfectionist, procrastination is my constant temptation. If I can't do it perfectly right now, then it's best to just not bother at all, right? Put it off until I have the perfect combination of time, silence, skills, desire, space, mental clarity, everything - then, maybe, we'll talk.

Four kids and homeschooling and working from home and housekeeping and caring for my own self too, however, means that things never go well when I try to wait for the stars to perfectly align. I'm learning to be more creative with my time. I'm finding the things that work best for me: the preparations that make the biggest difference, the small pockets of time that can either be wasted or used, the disciplines and habits that bring a sense of peace and confidence and usefulness to our daily rhythms.

All those things help, yes - but ultimately, always, the only way to do it is to do it. So I sit down to my work and hear those words in my head and I begin. I put on a load of laundry. I take out the sewing machine. Turn on the oven. Pick up the broom. the book. the pen.

The only way to do it is to do it.

Light {One Word 2016}

Each year, in lieu of resolutions, I choose an idea to focus on for the next 12 months. The fluidity and holistic nature of this word fits my spirit better than one specific resolution. They flow one year to the next, Grace leading to Joy leading to Presence, Intention leading to Rhythm leading to Habit, the culmination of all of those Opening my life wide for what may come. Then, a hard year, a decision to simply Go Forward bravely, one step after another. The year following demanded that I Fearlessly rebuild and heal and live.

Now another new year has arrived, and my focus is shifting once again.

2010: Grace and Intention
2011: Joy and Rhythm
2012: Presence and Habit
2013: Open
2014: Go Forward
2015: Fearless
2016: Light

I don't know precisely how this focus on Light will play out this year - my word always ends up surprising me, applying itself in unexpectedly perfect ways - but I do have a general vision to guide me in the weeks ahead.

Live Light

I want to Live Light this year. I want there to be less stuff. Less clutter, less consuming, less purchasing. Less visual chaos creating inner chaos. Less demands on my time and attention, taking away from the better things that could be. Lighter schedules with plenty of margin. It's all beginning to feel like a burden, all this stuff to move around and tidy and sort and organize and care for; I will keep the useful and the beautiful, but so much of the rest needs to go.

Seek Light

Claiming the early hours of the day as my own has provided me with a renewed steady diet of God's Word, and I want to continue to Seek the Light there. His Word is freedom and comfort, guidance and wisdom, a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.

Building on that source of Light, I want to more intentionally Seek Light in my own spirit. I am easily burdened, heavy under the weight of the world's pain, frequently wrestling away despair and anxiety. I need to care for my soul - put on my own oxygen mask, if you will, that I may then be able to better love others.

Caring for my soul means loving my whole self, body, mind, and soul, continuing to prioritize the things that help me to feel strong and free and grateful for this gift. It means running, resting, sleeping, eating, all of it joyously and with gratitude. It means acknowledging my needs and meeting them as best I can where I am right now. It means pursuing both the creative and the intellectual. It means prayerfully releasing burdens and receiving hope, the only rescue from the temptation to despair.

Be Light

With a lighter life and a lighter spirit, I am better equipped to Be Light to others, to share blessings and kindness and love. For too long I have allowed my anxiety and perfectionism to bind me, afraid that my attempts at kindness will only end up being a burden, unwanted, insufficient, just not quite right. I wish to shed those restraints and offer what I can, however imperfect or small those offerings may be. In a world that can feel so dark, even a small Light is welcome.

I want especially to be Light here in this home. Words and acts of kindness, grace, and compassion are never needed anywhere more than in one's own home, kindling love and security, raising up more love and Light to go out into the world.

Live Light. Seek Light. Be Light.


Do you have a One Word this year? a resolution? a new goal or habit? I'd love to hear about it.

Holiday heart-gazing

It's the third day of Christmas, but the main event is over. Our Advent candles are still sitting out, but we no longer gather around to light them each evening. Our tree is still up (the bottom third bare, thanks to a certain grabby toddler), waiting for Epiphany. The cardboard boxes have been taken to the recycling depot. The turkey has been eaten and the stock made and frozen, to my great satisfaction. I do believe it's time to indulge in a little holiday navel-gazing.

Actually, let's rephrase that. Forget navel-gazing. I've decided we'll call it heart-gazing from now on. Navel-gazing sounds so negative. Why is that? Self-reflection is great. It's easy to look at everyone and everything else and pass judgement, but change only happens when we look at ourselves. Get your growth game on, yo.

So there you have it. My positive spin on and justification for some indulgent navel-gazing. Let's make it a thing. Go ahead and use it yourself. You're welcome.

This past season of Advent and our current season of Christmas were both very good and very difficult. The holidays were beautifully intentional, just the way I want them to be. But then I would look up at this whole weary world and I just can't. How do you even pray, where do you even begin to help, to bring hope, or to bring change? I was there during Lent and I was still there this Advent: Thy Kingdom come, dear God, please. It was Advent in the truest sense, a begging hope, a desperate anticipation, a mourning for what is and longing for what will come, for Who will come.

But Advent isn't only for me and my wrestling between hope and despair. And so each day we would light the candles - one spot closer on our spiral wreath, the appropriate number of candles on our Advent wreath - and the kids would argue about whose turn it was to blow out the match, because jostling each other next to lit candles is always a good and wise idea. Then we would sit on the couch (where they would argue about who got to sit on which side of me, because I guess I look better from certain angles maybe?). We would read another name of Jesus, along with the appropriate passage, then move on to the day's reading from Unwrapping the Greatest Gift. We would finish up our time together with a short responsive prayer (thank you to The Anglican Family Prayer Book for making it easy for us) and a weekly Advent hymn. Sibling arguments aside, it was a lovely time each day together, and, I believe, the very first time we have ever got through the entire Advent without losing steam before the end. It flowed well and fit nicely and was a good thing in our holidays.

Christmas was good too. Just us, it was quiet and peaceful and really quite perfect. The best decision I made was intentionally choosing ahead of time to put the camera away while we went about our day. It allowed me to be far more present than other years. No taking pictures of every gift as they unwrapped it, no worrying about blurry shots and missed opportunities and posed smiles and ugh, all of it, I was so glad to just say no to myself and do away with what is usually a stressful and ultimately pointless exercise. When do I ever go back and look at pictures of them unwrapping each gift? I took one quick shot of each of them after the gift unwrapping was done, and otherwise the day passed by blissfully undocumented but fully experienced.

Now comes the time of year when we review, consider what worked and what could be improved. My head's not wholly there yet though. We're busy preparing for "second Christmas" with family arriving this week, but I'll get around to it eventually.

Still, some things are readily apparent to me when I think back on the past months. This year was one of growth and change - as, perhaps, all years should be. I discovered that I could possibly become friendly with early mornings after all. I took up running. I confronted my anxiety for the first time. I sought healing.

Much of it was good, but there is always room for improvement - for healthier and stronger relationships, for more intentional choices, for better routines, for new habits. What do I want for this new year? Not a complete reinvention, but a slow and steady continual turning, growing. If last year was my year to be Fearless, what will be my focus for the next twelve months? I look forward to a time of quiet reflection in which to ask these things of myself and my God.

But first there are floors to be washed and dust bunnies to be defeated and then family to love and enjoy and with whom to celebrate the birth of the One Who would bring us freedom and a new commandment: Love.

To all of you from all of us: May your new year be filled with the greatest joy and deepest peace. Thank you for being here.

I wasn't...until I was.

I am an introvert, a night owl, a lover of calm and quiet with a desperate need to decompress after the children are in bed.

I am most definitely not a morning person. Never have been. Cheers to the night owls, those watchers and defenders of the dark hours!

And besides, there's all these reasons. The kids will just get up if I get up early. The baby won't let me get up early. I'm too tired after being up with the baby during the night. I need the extra sleep. I'm just not a morning person.

The lovely husband, though, has been getting up early for work, leaving the house in the dark to commute to a project on the other side of the city. I, meanwhile, was sleeping as late as the kids would let me and then feeling like I was scrambling for time the rest of the day. I was getting up to the noise of four young kids, the busyness of the day already begun, and the pressure of activities and to-dos that needed attending to promptly.

So I started getting up the husband, and here we are.

I start off each day in silence instead of chaos. I drink tea and eat breakfast instead of grabbing whatever I can find on our way out the door. I watch the sky go from dark to light as the moon moves across the sky. And I witness a new set of dark hours.

The same lady walks by slowly, twice, every morning. A man with a briefcase and a take-out cup of coffee soon follows, his long and confident strides bringing him into the neighbourhood but never back out, he must drive? I can't figure him out. A yellow school bus picks up more children on its way through. A lady in pajamas brings out her garbage and then goes for a slow walk around her yard or across the street, returning, curiously, with a stack of newspapers. Another pajama-clad lady walks by with her small white dog.

I read, pray, sit. I catch up on my favourite websites, check my work email, see what the day expects from me. Sip tea. Watch.

Ell wakes up first, followed by Min. The boys sleep in. They wake up to me instead of the other way around, and it is good.

I guess I've become a morning person.

In Praise of Quiet Time

I love my children. Being a mother is hard. Our days are precious to me. Our days are challenging. Both parts are true, the beauty and the intensity, but the one practice that helps to keep things in balance for me is our daily afternoon quiet time.

Our quiet time is a mini exhale, an oasis of calm in the midst of our usual noise and activity. It is blessed relief to my introverted soul. It is silence and stillness, just for a little while. It is rest for my mind and body and oh, my ears.

Right now there is only quiet. I can hear the hum of the refrigerator and the tapping of the keys as I write. Sometimes a car drives by. For the next hour or so, I will hear little else.

Our practice of quiet time began six years ago. Jay, who was two years old back then, had decided he was done with naps. Kai was an energy-sucking bundle of joy within me. I was tired. Jay might have been fine without his afternoon nap, but I sure needed one. And so it began.

A stack of books. Two cars. One blanket. We'd pile into my bed and for the next half hour, I was not to be spoken to. I would read (sometimes) or nap (usually), while Jay would drive his cars along the lines of my quilt or look through his stack of books. Occasionally he would fall asleep too, and the two of us would nap for as long as we pleased. It was a nice moment in our day. When it was over, I would drag my big Kai-filled belly out of bed and the day would continue. Back to housework and games, meal prep and strolls through the forest.

After Kai was born, quiet time became an on-again, off-again thing for the next couple of years. The off-again times always left me feeling a little more frazzled, a little less calm and collected. But I wasn't very good at consistency and routine, and so the off-again times happened anyway.

Until Ell. Oh, that pregnancy. Quiet time became less of a decision and more of a default-born-of-necessity; I wasn't so much functioning as merely getting through the day for a stretch there. We made it, though, and at some point that afternoon quiet time became part of our day, a simple fact. This is What We Do. And so we do it.

For the kids, quiet time is an opportunity for rest and quiet activity. It is also a chance for solitude, to enjoy (or learn to enjoy) their own company for a while. Jay will read, work on a project, or draw. Kai usually chooses a puzzle or a game. Ell is in that transitioning period; some days she naps, while other days she chooses a quiet activity of her own. And Min, bless his baby soul, consistently naps during this time.

For me, though, its purpose changes depending on the season. There have been seasons (particularly the growing-a-baby seasons) when it has been an opportunity for a nap of my own. Other seasons have given way to creativity, a chance to write or sew or knit. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I sit quietly with God, a tiny baby, or both. It is never a time for a housework, though. I might do a quick tidy of the main room simply because visual clutter feels like chaos to my brain, and five minutes of tidying makes my quiet time feel far more peaceful.

Right now, in this season, it is my work time. I plug in my headphones, turn on some music, and get lost in the world of numbers and accounting for as long as the baby sleeps. It might not be rest in the traditional sense, but it requires, at least, a different part of my brain that the usual negotiating of peace treaties between warring children, the cleaning up of various bodily fluids, and the other assorted duties that go along with raising children.

Whether it be for sleep, creativity, recreation, or work, these minutes have become an integral part of my day. They are given up only for the occasional full-day outing. What begun as a half-hour nap beside a squirmy two year old has become a guaranteed one hour, and often more, of solitary activity for each of us. As important as I believe it is for my kids, it is one of my own primary acts of self-care. I do the next needful thing and the next and the next and then this - a pause, a stillness - and then continue.

How was my day?

It seems a straightforward enough question: How was your day? I find it a particularly difficult one, though. How do I explain how my day was when anxiety is such a frequent companion?

How do I tell you that I spent the day wrestling with the panicky flutters inside of me? How do I describe the moments when my mind got away from me, when I imagined in vivid detail one or another of my worst fears? How do I explain the amount of effort it took to wrest my mind back from the brink, to remind myself that this isn't real, this didn't happen, this has not happened and in all likelihood won't happen? How do I help you to make sense of the shivering that continued inside even after I'd returned to reality - it's not real, it's not real, but it felt so real and maybe it will happen, who can say?

When you ask how my day was, I don't know how tell you that reality was great - I got things done, I had fun with the kids, nothing went wrong, it was a good day - and yet it was also a terrible day where awful things happened in my imagination and I felt sick and shaky and fluttery. I know it sounds ridiculous because it didn't happen, but it felt like it did.

Other times, there is no specific fear. There is only an empty, floaty, swoopy feeling in my stomach, a tightness in my throat, a feeling like I can't draw in enough air. There's a hum, a vibration, under my skin. I mean, sure, I cleaned like a mad woman this morning, look how productive I was! - but only because I was buzzing with adrenaline, jittery with the blossoming anxiety, feeling it in my veins and my stomach and my shoulders.

I despise few things more than wasting a good day in imaginary fear.

This is, after all, my year to be fearless. Less worry, more life. And it has been, in its own way - in my own way. I'm speaking my anxieties out loud with those who have earned the right to hear them, and that is a fearlessness in itself. I'm noticing it and naming it, looking it in the face in a way I haven't always done. There you are, Fear. That's what you look like in my life, Anxiety. I see you for what you truly are, Worry.

This is just where I am right now. I'm in the wrestling days. I'm not here with advice or solutions or answers. I take some supplements, I talk myself down from the edge, I pray, I do what I can. I practice intentional self-care and gratitude. Exercise and sunshine help. Lists help, if only to keep myself focused, to prevent myself from either indulging the anxiety or zoning out in front of a trivial distraction in an attempt to avoid it.

Some days are worse and some days are better, and overall I hope that I'm moving in a forward direction. Right now that's as much as I hope for: progress, a little bit of progress each month. Some new insight. A few less days with those panicky feelings beating inside. A few more fears spoken aloud, freed, let go. Fewer sleepless nights, mind flitting from one place to another. Something.

Anyway. How was my day? Good and panicky and productive and scary and beautiful and hard. I guess that about covers it.

Have a Guilt-Free Summer

It's that time again - summer listicles galore. Must do's and bucket lists and you-only-have-18-summers-so-make-them-count reminders. Good things, to be sure, but only when they nurture and encourage us. Too often, though, they feel more overwhelming than anything else, just another burden, extra pressure, another helping of guilt, one more way we're not Living Up to the image of the parents we should be.

Breathe. And breathe again.

What do our kids need this summer? Room. Room to play, explore, run, wrestle, dig, splash, roll, and cuddle. Room to follow their own passions and curiosities. Room to make little mistakes, now, and to learn from them before the stakes are much higher. Room to be bored, and room to push through that boredom on their own. Room to figure some things out. And then some more room to process it all, to rest, and to be inwardly quiet for a while.

This summer isn't a checklist, get it all done or you've failed. This summer won't make or break your children's future. It's three months out of the 216+ months that they'll spend in your care, being nurtured and guided toward the day when they set out on their own.

It's lovely to get out to the beach, to wander rambling forest trails, or to have a picnic at the park. It's equally lovely to send the kids outside to play with water and dirt in the backyard, to ride their bikes up and down the block, or to read in the shade with an apple and a glass of water. A week at camp or a family vacation can be great memories; a week spent wandering in and out through an open back door, grabbing snacks while attempting to dig a hole to the center of the earth in the backyard, can an equally great way to fill a child with a sense of comfort, confidence, and peace.

Short story? It doesn't have to be momentous to be good.

So take the lists for what they are: ideas from which to select a few, tuck them away for a summer day that presents itself open and free and in need of an inspiring prod. Spend your days in whatever way best nourishes you and your family. Leave room for slow, lazy, and wide open; there's no pressure to cram in every opportunity summer offers. And if the end of summer arrives and you have yet to make popsicles, sleep in the backyard, or catch fireflies, it's okay. Love your summer for what it was; don't feel guilt over what it wasn't.

What has your summer looked like so far?

Year-Round Homeschooling: Why and how it works for us

Summer has arrived in all its heat-soaked glory. We're enjoying the usual summer traditions - berries and watermelon, garden-fresh vegetables rinsed off under the garden hose, sidewalk chalk and bubbles, ice cream and popsicles.

While the parks and grocery stores are busier than we're used to, filled as they are with kids on summer break, I find that claiming the same for us doesn't quite ring true. I do take advantage of late summer to re-evaluate where we are and where we're heading, but there's no official start-and-stop to our homeschooling year. It just continues on, weaving its way through our ever-changing lives.

How dreary that sounds! No break, no year-end celebrations, no first day back? For us, though, it works.

Our homeschool journey is ever-changing, shifting to fit our life and our children. There's an ebb and a flow to it, sometimes a focus here, other times a focus there, sometimes more formal and sometimes less. Sometimes it looks like math and reading and writing, every day. Sometimes it looks like spending hours outside. Sometimes it's weekly science experiments. Sometimes it's maps spread over our laps, history while we each lunch, read-alouds about other people and places and times. Sometimes it's new babies and all the science that brings - not to mention all the love and cuddles. But what it always is is ours. It's what we need, what we love, and what makes sense in our life.

What hasn't yet made sense for us, though, is taking a summer break from our learning. Our educational leanings are whole-life based, a learning that is part of what we do and who we are. Our goal is to nurture that holistic education, in part by preventing, as much as possible, a separation between "school time" and the rest of our daily lives. To disentangle those homeschooling strings from the rest of our everyday life would feel unnatural.

Our unschoolish bent means that we are ever following what fits with our lives and interests at that moment. Summer might mean less math and more nature study, but it's all learning. It might mean fewer days of dictation and more days of listening to history in a shady spot outside. Yesterday it meant picking wild blueberries, then coming home and turning them into a berry crisp before playing a few rounds of Crazy Eights. Our days have a familiar in-and-out rhythm, but the details within that rhythm are rarely the same.

Sometimes I wonder if our education should look more "traditional", but it always comes back to that time thing, still, now, four years later. It proves itself to be true over and over: Learning just happens as we go about our daily lives. I notice an area that could use some work, I start to worry, I begin planning a formal lesson, and then - they learn it. Without me and my lesson. They learn in their own good time and their own good way, and only my own unsubstantiated worries try to convince me otherwise.

But this is now. Always we are watching, considering, evaluating: What needs to change? What do our children need at this moment? What still works, and what no longer does? Perhaps the summer will come when we put away our books and declare ourselves officially, properly, on Summer Break. For now, though, it's just another ebb, another season in our lives - with traditions and rhythms all its own, yes, but with that ever-present homeschooling thread, too.

Inspiring Dinnertime Conversation

"No books at the dinner table" is easily Jay's least favourite rule in our home. Being lovers of books ourselves, the husband and I sympathize with his plight, but that's the rules, sorry Love. Dinner time is for talking, not reading.

Every evening we gather at the table, marked as it is with scratches and burns and glitter and paint. We hold hands as we offer our thanks. Water is poured, food is passed around, pieces are cut for those who need it. There's noise and a few moments of chaos and then everyone settles in to their dinner (save for the occasional "I'm not eating THIS" holdout).

And then our dinner conversation begins.

"What did you learn today?"

It's a simple question, but the discussions it has created since its introduction a few months ago have been nothing short of fascinating. Jay likes to share a random "weird but true" piece of trivia with us. Kai usually insists he didn't learn a thing, but a bit of prompting often coaxes a tidbit out of him - a new word he sounded out on his own, a fact picked up in an earlier conversation, a new game he learned, a unique Lego creation from the day's play. Ell "didn't yearn nuffink today," but she's happy to chatter away just the same.

Then it's our turn. The husband has often read about a new scientific discovery to share with us, and I round things up with something from my own day's reading - a new-to-me nature factoid, a social justice campaign, a young entrepreneur, a bit of world news, a new skill I've been working on, whatever inspires me when the question comes 'round my way.

Sometimes we each share our little bit of learning and the conversation moves on. Usually, though, we find ourselves exploring one of the introduced topics at a deeper level, or branching off into related discussions - from science to math to etymology to social awareness, wherever the kids' questions (and our own) lead us. What started as a deliberate way to stimulate conversation, share information, and keep all interested parties appraised of the kids' homeschooling situation (not to mention take some of the sting out of Jay's book prohibition at the dinner table), has become one of our prime opportunities to learn and ask and rabbit trail to our hearts' content.

Last night's conversation began with the automated cameras recording Serengeti life. But what is an aardwolf? or a zorilla? How big are they? How big are they when they're born? What does "aard" mean? What does "aardvark" mean? How many ants does it eat in a day? How many seconds are there in a week? So how many ants is that per second? And so it goes.

The question itself was chosen not for its informative opportunities, though, but rather for its encouragement to always keep learning. Listen, Daddy learned something new today. So did Mommy. And you? What did you learn? What do you have to contribute to our conversation? We all have something to share. Learning isn't limited, isn't top-down, isn't separate from our daily lives. It isn't dull and boring and forced, something to suffer through until free time can begin again. It has no beginning and no end. It is part of what makes us human.

It has been good, this question, a lovely addition to our frequent bedtime conversations, which hold familiar questions of their own. Keep the conversation going, keep quietly pointing them to all that is good and worthy, keep listening and learning and hearing as they tell you, piece by piece, who they are.

Do you have a regular topic or question that you use to inspire dinnertime conversation?

What I want to give up for Lent

Lent has arrived and there is much I want to give up.

I want to give up my worries, all of them. Always worry has been my steady companion and tormentor. There have been too many sleepless nights, too many what ifs, too many knots twisting stomach and shoulders and relationships because worry, worry. Because of these anxieties, I have seen things that do not exist, believed things about others that are untrue, and heard words that were never said - demons, all of them, that worry has given life to. I have not trusted you, Lord, in the small things or the significant things; forgive me.

I want to give up my apathy. Too often I am content with the bread and circuses society offers, and in doing so I turn my eyes and heart and hands away from that which should fully capture them. I line my thighs with excess calories while others go hungry. I buy things I do not need. I scoff at the idiocy of a culture that would discuss at length the appropriateness of wearing yoga pants while giving no thought at all to the working conditions of those who make their clothes in the first place, and yet in so many ways, I am no different. I can be equally unconcerned, equally unbroken, over the things that deeply matter rather than the frivolous things that raise my blood pressure and occupy my thoughts. Forgive me, Lord, for my apathy.

I want to give up my perfectionism, that drive that says if you can't do it just so and all the way, then why bother doing it at all? This perfectionism has kept me from carrying out in body what my heart desires. It has heaped shame on those I love. It has made me a poor friend. It has limited my desire to live a full and creative life. I want to do not for approval, but for Love's sake alone. Forgive me, Lord, for the control I have allowed perfectionism to have and all that I have allowed it to rob from my life and my relationships.

I want to give up my hurry. Always rushing about, quick, we'll be late, come on, let's go, I want to get home, pay attention, this needs to get done, I'm busy, I have other things that need attending, quick quick hurry hurry now. I want to be less inconvenienced by the minor nothings that cause me to sigh or rant my impatience, those moments of spilled cereal or late-night needs or other such grand-scheme-of-things trivialities. I want to be slow, calm, more willing to see joy than to rush through the moment's task. I have missed much in my busyness; forgive me, Lord.

If only it were possible to turn these things off, the way I turned off my computer in past years. Remove them from the house like foods we've given up before. Put them in a drawer and leave them there while these forty days pass by.

If only.

But these things are woven among the better parts of me, not easily separated and set aside. They are my continually-working-out areas, long and slow processes as the One who created me untwists the broken parts inside, burns away the impurities and brings me ever closer to my true and whole self.

I'll quietly choose something different this year, something separate and concrete - but if I could, I'd give up all of the above instead.

Whoever said the days are long?

Whoever said the days are long?

(Oh yes, I did, once or twice or probably a lot.)

They don't feel long anymore. These days I'm holding on tight, and when I'm not holding on, I'm reaching to catch up. Where do the hours go?

Every day the baby looks older, the toddler jabbers on more clearly, the little boy learns more, and the bigger boy asks more. We moved the boys into bunk beds this weekend, and my (oft-neglected) craft room has been turned into a bedroom for baby girl. We're back down to just three in our bedroom now, the smallest baby and the husband and I, and I already miss hearing her light snores. But now she's in big-girl underwear and a big-girl bed in her own big-girl room and I guess it's time I stopped calling her baby girl?

No. She's still my baby. They all are.

I know why the days are slipping away like this. It's because of this death grip I have on them. Wait. Slow down. I need more time. I need more moments. I need more memories. It's all going by too quickly. I'm missing it, mourning its passing, even as it happens.

Relax. I tell myself again and again but I can't seem to let go of that frantic feeling. They're growing up and I make too many mistakes and I'm tired and there's so much to do and even more that I want to do and so much I never get around to and I need to get off this hamster wheel.

I know what I need to do. I know it demands surrender instead of control, calm rather than panic, intention rather that reaction - oh yes, and probably an earlier bedtime, as sad as that makes my introverted self.

I know what I need because there are moments when I feel it, moments when I actually get it right. It happens when I watch the baby fall asleep, when I say yes to a request for a bedtime snuggle, when I get outside and breathe the crisp air, when I run or laugh or look someone in the eye, when I turn off the light on another day and feel satisfied...

...when I celebrate this moment instead of grieving its passing.

This is my daily practice, today and tomorrow and the day after that, every day, trying again and again to enjoy the passing hours instead of clutching them in my fist in an attempt to hoard what will inevitably pass by.

Relax, laugh, celebrate, and enjoy.

New year, old me

I love the feel of the new year's blank slate as much as the next person. New words, new goals, new hopes and plans, it's just all so shiny and new.

I used to plunge into the new year certain that my mere resolve would make me into a new person, every thought and action purposeful and exact. I'd get it all right this time. That usually lasted about until the minute I had to wake up from my warm cozy bed on New Year's Day. I'm not very good at resolving to be a better person.

Last year I simply chose to go forward into the new year, each step brave and difficult and enough for the moment. I went forward through that year and marveled at all the good and lovely things that happened, from our New Year's Day discovery of a little stowaway, through a Lent of gratitude, beyond a busy summer, past catching that same little stowaway as he arrived into this world, all the way to December and our first Christmas spent at home instead of travelling. It was a very healing year.

This year feels like a year in which to be Fearless. Less worry, more life, that's what this year needs. But I've lived through enough new years to know it's not going to be as simple as that.

Because it all boils down to habits, doesn't it? One thing at a time, slowly, deliberately, it's the most likely way to craft a change that will last.

And so this fearless year is going to start with one simple thing, a morning alarm. These four lovely noisy children have long been my alarm, but somehow I sense that this season needs a change in that regard. A real alarm, a dedicated Time To Get Up, a way to start the day a little less abruptly and a little more purposefully, that's what this season needs.

It's a new year, yes, but let's not try to reinvent ourselves completely. We're still the same people we were a week ago, two weeks ago. A new year does not a new person make - but it can be a nice start to a new habit. One thing, however seemingly small, is another step on this continual turning toward Better.

New year, old me, new habit.


Do you have a word or a hope for 2015? Is there a new habit are you currently working on? What are you looking forward to this year?

Too fast

It's only been two weeks and already, too fast, too fast.

There are those size 1 diapers that I mistakenly bought because I forgot that such a thing as newborn size existed until after he was born. They were so ridiculously big on him and now they fit him just fine.

(Let's not discuss how, when I first went to buy all the various post-birth necessities, I forgot about diapers altogether. Basically, the punch line is, I have run out of brain.)

His legs aren't all scrunched up anymore and his arms aren't nearly so scrawny and his face isn't wrinkled and his skull is lovely and round and he doesn't smell like birth and too fast, too fast.

How can he be bigger already? What did he look like last week? What will he look like next week? I'll forget about today but I don't want to, I just want to cling, collect each day and hold it right in my fist so I never forget what he looked like today and yesterday and tomorrow, capture his scent too, record every little facial expression and newborn sound.

I've spent hours each day just sitting here while he breathes the rapid newborn rhythm of sleep. The top of his head is baptized with endless kisses; I whisper steady murmurs of love. I inhale deeply every few moments. Close my eyes and savour the weight of him of my chest, knees pressed into the soft skin of my stomach. He shudders, shifts, sleeps on.

The kids gather round with books and games and kisses. I read aloud, imagining how my voice must sound to him, his ear resting against me. I play chess with the boy. The kindergartener works on his letters with me. Baby girl reaches over to play with my hair, thumb in her mouth, still, always, for now. Evening arrives and we move to the kitchen table while the husband and I play a board game, Pandemic or Power Grid or Ticket to Ride, or the three of us snuggle on the couch and watch Sherlock or Doctor Who or Top Gear.

Life continues on around us as I sit here with this growing creature. I know it will pass too fast, it already is, and I want to soak up these days while I can. Nothing is urgent; everything else can wait or continue as it will. I'm busy sitting with my baby.

What I learned from 80 days with my laptop closed

I wrote this reflection 40 days after the end of Lent last year, but I never did share it. I recently found myself thinking back to that Lent and to the freedom I had felt in this habit. It was interesting to re-read this from the perspective of nearly a year later.

_____________________

I knew I needed to set aside the one thing that was consuming too much of my time. Sitting open, always there, that tantalizing laptop was distracting me from living intentionally, the continual desire of this journey I am walking. Just a few minutes...and a few more.

So I closed it for Lent. By the time Lent was over, I'd formed some better habits. Why mess with that? And so I find myself, an additional forty days later, still enjoying the freedom of days without a laptop.

When I say 80 days, it really was only the "day" portion. I allowed myself evenings in order to get caught up on emails, work, and various online activities. But during the day, when it mattered most, I slipped that shiny silver distraction under the couch and left it there.

80 days later, I've been able to see my daytime computer use from a new perspective.

1. On the days I cheated, I was grumpier and more impatient. "Just let me finish this one thing" can stretch on for quite a while in the fast-paced online world.

2. I was more productive. I mean, of course I was. Sometimes I'd do a bit of housework simply because I was bored and didn't know what else to do.

3. I read more. Again, naturally. Less time online means more time for other pursuits. Still, it was good to see that actually playing out.

4. I was more in tune with my body. Hunger, thirst, and tiredness are easy for me to ignore when I'm staring at a screen and clicking from one place to another.

5. I didn't miss a whole lot. At the end of the day, there just wasn't as much to "catch up" on as I expected there to be.

I did, however, have a hard time keeping up with my work. Whether volunteering with Natural Parents Network, marking my students' assignments for the online course I teach, or simply responding to emails, it was even more difficult than usual to juggle everything and get things done in a timely manner. Breaking out the laptop only in the evenings meant I usually had to choose between getting something done and spending time with my husband. Previously, I was able to get most of that stuff done during brief quiet moments throughout the day, leaving evenings free for watching a show or playing a game with the husband. This was a point of frustration for me. It made it even harder for me to get time alone, whether to relax, to write, or to work.

I don't have a good solution for this increased difficulty in juggling things when the laptop remains closed during the day. Cut down on my responsibilities? Set aside one day to have it open and catch up on things that have built up during the rest of the week? I'm not sure, but the list of benefits indicates that it would be worth it to brainstorm some more and see what I can come up with.

And now onward I go to day 81!

_____________________

Postscript: Unfortunately, I've since let go of this habit of leaving the laptop closed during the day. I am better, however, at closing it and walking away for large chunks of time, and I feel its distracting pull less than I used to. Now that the sunshine is emerging more, however, I'm feeling the desire to reinstate the laptop-closed-during-the-day rule completely.

If you avoid computer use during the day, do you find it difficult to balance online responsibilities, social media, alone time, and time with your spouse during the evenings? What works for you?

40 Days of Gratitude

Some years I have done well, writing down lists of thankfulness, the big and the small and the everyday things. There have been seasons, too, where my gratitude is offered in small prayers throughout the day, but I don't write it down and it doesn't feel, somehow, the same as when I can see those words on paper.

It's been the latter sort of season for me. There are moments when I'm left breathless with gratitude, but the moment passes and I forget too easily that it happened. I need to write it down. I tell myself that often and yet I never seem to get around to opening that notebook of mine, even with fresh paper and new pens and more than enough time in my day for this one small-yet-big thing.

What better time than Lent to return to this practice of recording gratitude?

Bring my heart ever closer to you, Lord. Some people draw away from God during times of pain and struggle, angry and bitter and accusing. I am one of the other group, the ones who forget during times of ease. I forget that He is my rock and my comforter, the source of all, Alpha and Omega, as near as my very breath. Gratitude reminds me.

I looked this past weekend at the last entry in my list of gratitude. During the very depths of my pain, it read simply this:

God, the one Who takes brokenness and turns it into joy, Who brings life from our death and beauty from our ashes, Who turns our mourning into dancing and binds up the hearts of the brokenhearted.

That is where I am during times of trial. Clinging to the rock and grateful for my very life, for the strength to simply take the next step forward. But now, when I feel my breath has returned to my body and my days are no longer awash in pain? I forget. I laugh more and smile more but I give thanks less fervently and this is my weakness.

It may not seem like much, but gratitude will be my Lent. Write it down, watch the list grow and grow and grow because gratitude is endless. 40 days and then beyond, why stop, let the habit carry me forward through Easter and past Pentecost and into Ordinary Time (which is anything but ordinary).

And if you'd like to join me? I'd love the companionship as we journal our gratitude through the next 40 days. Feel free to share the graphic to the left if you want to invite others as well. Leave your links, share parts of your list, whatever you feel comfortable doing as we encourage each other towards deeper gratitude in our daily lives. I'll share a few notes from my list each week as a jumping off point for those of you joining in.


Maybe Lent has snuck up on you this year and you're feeling unprepared, or maybe you're not sure what Lent is all about. Last year I shared some ideas on observing Lent. This year, I'm looking forward to the servanthood-focused series Waiting Tables over at SortaCrunchy; Megan has also shared some Lenten resources in preparation.

Interested in joining in? Already have something else planned for Lent that you're comfortable sharing with us? I'd love to hear about it!

Battling perfectionism

I am a perfectionist.

I am a perfectionist, and some days I will defend it with all my heart, hands balled into tight fists as I shout, there's nothing wrong with this! What's wrong with perfectionism, anyway? What's wrong with doing the very best you can possibly do in every possible area of your life? What's wrong with that?

So what if I refold the towels my husband (incorrectly) folds? They fit better on the shelf my way. So what if I have to clean and organize my house top-to-bottom before having company over? Our loved ones deserve it. So what if I spend half my life paralyzed by minor decisions? It's worth it to take the time and be sure before committing to something that might not be quite right otherwise.

But when I look at my life, at myself, at my relationships and anxieties and fears, I can't pretend for long that there's nothing wrong with that.

Perfectionism makes me a poor friend. I want to invite you over. I do. I care about you and enjoy spending time with you but what if I don't have the right food in my house? What if I have nothing to offer you, no homemade cookies to go along with our tea, no guest-worthy food to serve for lunch or dinner? What if I don't find the time to scrub my shower before you arrive? And then I panic because I don't know what to make and I don't have time to go grocery shopping today and the kids create a new mess just as I quickly as I clean another one up and my laundry hamper is never empty and why would you want to come over anyway? I'm probably just imposing, and you'll accept politely because you're kind and generous but I know it's really just another obligation to add to your calendar...and so I don't invite you over.

I'm sorry.

Perfectionism limits the kindness I extend to others. You just gave birth, you beautiful mother you, and I want to serve you with meals and thoughtful gifts and oh, I would love to help you in any way I can while you recover. But I don't know what to make, don't want to burden you with another casserole to add to the collection in your freezer. Maybe something warm and fresh? Although you probably have something planned already; I could call ahead to be sure but then you'd feel like you had to tidy up and be presentable (or at least I would in that situation, I'd run around like a mad woman just to be sure everything was in order before you arrived with the meal that was intended to bless me with rest). You are incredible and I'm afraid my attempts at kindness will only end up being a burden. And a gift? You probably have more baby clothes than you have closet space, trinkets are just something else to be dusted, I don't know what books you already have and maybe you'll think this outfit is silly or ugly and who'd put their baby in that anyway? I could help, though. I know that most days, having someone else put on a load of laundry would be gift enough times a thousand, but I'd probably come off awkward or creepy or imposing, as if you need me to do your laundry for you anyway. In the end, I offer a generic-but-heartfelt let me know what I can do to help, but I know you won't ask because I never do either.

I'm sorry.

Perfectionism keeps me from carrying out in body what my heart desires. I want to offer something to those in need but I'm afraid it won't be enough, it'll be wrong somehow, not good enough or helpful enough or offered in the right way. I want to help but I'm afraid my help will be more burden than anything else. I want to send photos of the children to their grandparents but they're just cellphone pictures and they deserve nice bright clear beautiful pictures, and I need to sort them and choose them and edit them and I get behind and it gets overwhelming and so I send nothing. I want to share my thoughts but what do I have to offer anyway? I want to write but what do I have to say that doesn't waste the time of the one who will read it? I want to sew but how do I ever choose just the right fabric for this project? And everything takes so much longer because it must be thorough and checked and rechecked and redone and polished and just so in the end, and even then I'm as likely as not to decide to toss the whole thing out anyway. Not good enough.

I'm sorry.

Perfectionism heaps shame on my family. I know my husband notices when I quietly refold a wrinkled shirt before slipping it in its drawer. I have to nearly sit on my hands to keep from taking over my son's projects - let him fold his own damn paper airplanes, who cares if they're six-year-old quality instead of perfect? I get angry too quickly, do too much myself, because am I the only own who bothers to do anything right the first time? Look, you just swept the floor and there are huge crumbs under the table! Don't you know we have company coming? They'll think we're disgusting, that we can't even concern ourselves with their comfort enough to remove the bits of Cheerios and toast from under their chairs! Oh forget it, I'll redo it myself, just keep the kids out of here or they'll scatter my dust pile across the floor.

I'm so, so sorry.

And after all that...still those thoughts creep back in. Who wants wrinkled shirts from poorly folded clothing anyway? Why wouldn't you put your best effort into whatever you're doing? Why not do everything as thoroughly and as correctly as you are able?

I can read all the reasons why not and still that voice lingers.

I'm sorry.

The lie of perfectionism is that the goal will ever be achieved. I am juggling, constantly juggling, and I can't keep all those perfect balls in the air. I get one just so and another one crashes to the ground, then another and another until I give up and let the rest of them fall to my feet as well. If I can't do everything, why bother doing anything?

It sounds just as foolish and self-defeating in writing as it is in reality, but I catch myself clinging to it nonetheless. I tell myself to prioritize. I assure myself that some seasons demand letting some things go. I remind myself that I am the only one - the only person on this entire planet - holding myself to these impossible ideals. No one else expects perfection in every area of my life. It's all on me.

And yet when I dig underneath the noble-sounding ideals of hard work and a job well done and so on and so forth, it all comes down to the same thing - what will they think? They - friends, family, casual acquaintances, complete strangers, they. They will think I'm a mess. They will think I'm foolish or weird. They will think I'm a bad mother, a bad wife, a bad friend, a bad whatever. They will think I can't keep up with basic housework. They will think I'm unintelligent. They will think I've failed them. They will think...

I just want everyone to think well of me. That's what it really comes down to. Just one more unachievable goal. I don't remember a time when I wasn't a people-pleasing perfectionist...but I do think it's time to figure out how to let it go.

I'll start by leaving these imperfect words just as they are.

Releasing the Myth of Done

Another thing added to the list. They come so much faster than they get crossed off, all these various to-do's, and it just keeps growing. It feels overwhelming, never-ending, why bother?

A new bit of work to tackle. A new mess that must be cleaned. A new email that deserves a thoughtful reply. A new thought that demands to be written down and fleshed out. Another meal to cook, another load of laundry to do, another dustpan's worth of crumbs under my feet. My head hurts.

It's never going to end! I think. Never!

But that's just it, isn't it? It's never going to end.

Have I been expecting, all this very long time, that the list will ever be empty? That the work will ever be done? The laundry, done, even as we wear clothes that will soon make their way to the hamper? The dishes, done, even as we look forward to our next meal? The work, done, even as we count on its continuance for its meager income? The writing, done, even as words ever rise within us?

It's never going to end - and praises for that!

If I look at these daily tasks as things to accomplish, things to check off, there, done, finished, I will feel endlessly frustrated. Because they are never finished. They will be there again, sometimes days later, sometimes mere hours later.

But if I view them as ways to bless myself, serve my family, and worship my God, they become good things, satisfying things. Not fun, not always, let's be real here. But Good.

These daily tasks nourish me physically. As I write these words, I feel the ache in my arms from an afternoon spent on my hands and knees, scrubbing every bit of tiled floor throughout our home. It's a good ache, a satisfying feeling, evidence of having pushed my body even in this silly small way. All day I lift and bend and scour, and maybe it's not a 5K run but some nights I collapse into bed as though it has been.

These daily tasks nourish me emotionally. They give me time and space to let my thoughts drift, to rest my mind, to let words swirl and form within me. The mindlessness of these duties is blessing in disguise, allowing that which is creative within me to bubble to the surface. Yet too often I spend that time grumbling instead, acting the martyr, silently stewing as I do what must be done. Why do I choose anger over daydreams, complaints over creativity?

These daily tasks nourish me spiritually. They mirror my own inner dailiness of confession and repentance, renewal of mind and heart, pushing back the darkness within as Christ shapes and forms and fills my heart. Always the dust and dirt returns, and always I wash it away it again. Always the mess returns, and always I tidy it again. Pushing back the darkness and the chaos again and again and again, what holy work this is!

I want to say No More to the grumbling and the overwhelm, but I know myself. Perhaps, though, I can remember more often? And then more, and still more? This is blessing. This is good. I am privileged to have these daily moments of mindlessness in which to think and pray and create and worship and bless and serve. Thank you.

Asking the right questions

I am the goal-oriented product of a goal-oriented society. I ask questions the focus on achievements, outcomes, accomplishments. I ask how I can get what I want, how I can improve my surroundings, how I can make things happen. Good things. Worthy things.

But on their own, they are the wrong questions.

They all focus on the end, but the end cannot be the foremost consideration. Too often I have witnessed - in the world and in myself - the goal becoming the Good Thing, and anything that aids in achieving that goal must also be a Good Thing. So very many things are justified in the name of attaining that Good Thing.

Parenting for Results

The principle applies universally, but I am a mother and I have a habit of seeing everything through that role. As a mother, I see all the ways in which we, too, focus on the wrong questions.

How can I make her listen to me?
How can I get him to do what I want?
How can I make her stop doing that?
How can I keep them safe?
How can I ensure my children Turn Out Right?

Their focus is on the end, achieving a goal, making something happen, and on their own they are insufficient.

Sometimes it is our own human weaknesses that most clearly illustrate the insufficiency of these questions. We want them to obey! now! and so we yell because it is effective and we don't have the time, energy, or patience to do the harder work of teaching and guiding. We focus on our desires and lose sight of what we believe to be true. These days do not define us, but they happen and we apologize and we try again tomorrow.

Other times, however, the insufficiency of these questions is demonstrated through deliberation rather than a slip-up in a moment of weakness. Entire parenting paradigms are built around the idea of goal attainment, promising children that grow up to be productive citizens or God-fearing adults or responsible or hard-working or whatever it is that we want to hear.

Perhaps even worse, these promises are often cloaked in religion, and there is always the looming threat that failure means the loss of our children's very souls. With that end, what means could possibly be worse? It is upon that question that many of those who call themselves Christian parenting experts build their kingdoms. Follow these biblical instructions and you too can be guaranteed to raise a godly child. We are assured we can raise them to righteous through these instructions, usually centered on a "biblical model" of corporal punishment, yet ultimately amounting to nothing more than moralistic behaviour modification.

There are no promises in parenting. If we could parent our children into God's good graces, they would have no need of Christ in their lives. We cannot presume to be able to do the work of the Holy Spirit; our children are as human as we are and will need God's beautiful redemptive grace as much as we ourselves do. Nothing is gained by making obedience the goal of our parenting.

If we parent with the belief that things will add up as we expect, we will be disappointed. There is no guarantee that good parenting will produce the desired results, religious or not. We must parent not for their obedience, but rather out of our own obedience.

And therein lies the question.

Asking the Right Questions

Whatever our goals, whatever our desires, however noble our purposes, there is one question that must accompany them all: Are my actions the right actions?

Not the goal. My actions. Are they good? Not will it work, but is it right?

In so many other words,
Is this the right choice in this moment?
Does this decision line up with my values?
Am I faithfully doing what I should be doing?
Am I, right now, bringing glory to my Creator?

Many things will achieve my goals, but far fewer things are Good and Right.

Goals are good. They give us direction for the journey. But when the question of how to achieve them becomes the ultimate question, we too easily lose perspective. Those questions must always be balanced by that one question, is this right?

My ultimate desire is to bring glory to God, as a person, as a parent, in whatever role I find myself at any particular time. Is this action going to please and glorify my Creator? Maybe your question will be different, not God but peace or love or freedom or kindness or non-violence or whatever your ultimate value is. But underneath it all, however we word it, whatever the ultimate motive is, the question must always focus on our own actions.

I cannot control others. I cannot guarantee outcomes. But I can always control myself, can consider my own actions, my own reactions, my choices along the way.

Likewise, I cannot control my children. I cannot guarantee that they will Turn Out Right. But I can control my actions and reactions, letting those be lessons that teach them about life.

This is the principle that ultimately guides my parenting. It is why we respond to our children's cries, speak to them with kindness, respect their individual needs, extend them grace, seek solutions rather than punishments, and apologize when we mess up. It is why we ultimately seek to demonstrate the fruit of the Spirit to them rather than demand it from them. We ask not will it work, but is it right?

Beyond Parenthood

The same principle applies throughout our lives: our marriages, our relationships, our workplaces, our churches, everything. Regardless of roles or desired outcomes or anything else, the question of how to accomplish our goals must always be coupled with the question of is this action, right now, the right action in these circumstances?

The question is not how can I make my spouse do what I want, but how can I act and react in a way that lines up with my values? Not how can we grow our church, but how can we live faithful lives today? Not how can we get promoted, but how can we love and serve where we are? Not how can we make things easier, but how can we behave honourably in these circumstances?

With that question foremost in our minds, the rest often falls into place behind it. But even if it does not - there are no guarantees - at least we have lived well and without regret, having considered the rightness of our actions ahead of the achievement of our goals.

Finding a new (old) groove

New year, new possibilities, new groove.

We're loving our wide-open days. The boys are signed up for swim lessons. They're in the same class together, it's just too precious for words. The older one spent an afternoon at a Lego robotics class and another afternoon tubing with his grandparents; the younger one and I have been loving the time spent together, just us, and did you know he talks a mile a minute when his big brother's not around?

Too precious for words.

This little girl of mine, she's cooing and rolling and giggling like mad. I am so over-the-moon in love with her magical self. She's - you guessed it - simply too precious for words.

Words. The idea of them has been on my mind for a while now. I love words. I love the feel of them, the shape of them, their sound, stringing them together, arranging and rearranging, getting them just right, the whole process. It's grand.

I don't know if you can tell, though.

I've been trying too hard these past few months. Sometimes I'll close my eyes and let my fingers fly, but too often I'm cautious, deliberate. It's not enough to just write anymore. No, now you have to have a perfect picture to go along with each post. Bonus points if it has text on it - makes for a better pin, you know? Add share buttons to the bottom of each post, and then share that post like mad yourself (don't forget to consider optimal share time on the various social media sites - and you are on all of them, right?). Find out what your readers want and then give it to them! Don't write about too many different subjects, just carve out your one specific niche and stick to that. Lists are best, people like lists. Update your layout, get a blogging calendar going, and don't forget that engaging with your Facebook page is nearly a full-time job in itself. You really ought to try vlogging once in a while. And it's been nearly six years, when are you going to get that About page published, don't you know how integral those are?

Then I read similar thoughts from Megan and Heather and I know I'm not alone in feeling this way, and wasn't that really why we all started blogging in the first place? To know we weren't alone, to let others know they weren't alone? We're all figuring out this life as we go along, and it's comforting to hear that we're not the only ones who don't have our crap together. You mean it's not just me who still feels like I'm pretending at this whole "adult" thing? Awesome.

But lately it feels like blogging is less about writing and more about marketing. I don't want that. Not for me, not for you.

Yes, there's you. And that's the other half of it, isn't it? I'm honoured by your presence here. I value your time. It's precisely because of that that I've been fighting with myself for a while. There's a little voice in my head telling me that if I'm not going to write a "worthy" post, then I shouldn't bother to write at all. With all this stuff that goes along with blogging now, part of me feels like if I want to be a serious writer, this is the cost, just go along with it. But another part of me is shouting forget it! I don't have time for all that, I'm busy living and loving and all I want to do is bang out a few words in my few spare moments for the pure joy of it.

Always the frustrating cycle: I want to write, I love to write, but there are all these blogging "extras" now and I just don't have the time or inclination to get sucked into all of that, but then why bother blogging at all if I'm not going to keep up with the whole blogging "culture", but I want to write, I love to write...

Enough.

While our little family is feeling our way into a new groove this year, I'm feeling my way backwards. I'm reaching for my old groove, where I wrote for the sheer love of it. Perfect pictures be damned, forget fancy titles, I don't have any lessons to share because I'm just as lost and imperfect as you are, you beautiful soul.

I'm not sure which to apologize for - sorry for getting sucked into it or sorry for tossing it all away again - but I'm just happy to be settling back into the good ol' blogging days. Maybe it was useful to try out a few new things, consider some different possibilities. This is my year of being open, after all. But now I think I'll be open to simplicity again, open to old ways, open to doubling back when the path beneath my feet no longer feels right.

I'm rediscovering my old groove, and it feels unbelievably free.