via Ravelry

It’s nerve wracking, starting a new habit. You don’t know if you’re going to be strong enough (emotionally) to withstand failure if you don’t live up to your own high expectations. Well, this is exactly how I felt when I slung my gym bag on my shoulder and walked up the steep steps to my new yoga studio. I hadn’t been to yoga since I found out I was pregnant in October 2010. So when I decided that it was high time I headed back, I was really, really nervous.

The majority of the people I encounter in yoga classes are very, very fit. Like, lean bodies. I’m not, um, lean. A little piece of my egocentricity went, “RUN AWAY. YOU ARE FAT.” I stuffed that little wench down and walked in.

As it turned out, the studio was wonderful. The class was diverse, with my fellow students demonstrating varying skill levels. I laid out my mat and… soaked in my instructor’s knowledge.

Throughout the ninety-minute session, she told us to think of our practice as unfurling within ourselves in order to deeply connect with the pose, our practice, and the earth. It’s funny, because I never remember what my instructors tell me during these sessions. I’m too busy huffing and puffing and trying like mad to get into the crazy poses.

During this session, I was mindful. I paid careful attention to what she was saying, noting the changes in my body as I became rooted, lifted my heart, dug my fingertips into my mat. Instead of my usual huffing and puffing, I found myself gliding from pose to pose, as though I’d been doing yoga my whole life.

(Side note: I actually started yoga as a teenager. Holy snap.)

When the instructor asked us to line up against the wall to try the l-handstand, I was all like, “Oh hell no, lady. I’m so very not ready for this.”

She demonstrated the proper technique, breathing, and how to support ourselves without injury.

“Organic and muscular energy. Don’t sacrifice muscle for flow. Don’t sacrifice flow for muscle.”

I breathed a little prayer to something. Anything.

It was like something opened up inside of me — unfurled, even. When I went halfway up, I had originally thought that there was no way I could invert myself. Not in my first class back. No way. Nuh UH.

And then I did.

In the search for mindfulness, I found myself upside-down against a wall, staring at my fingertips. Couldn’t ask for a better epiphany.

via Pinterest

It’s true what they say about the little things adding up. It’s also true that the little changes go a long way. It’s almost five weeks into my Lifestyle Overhaul and I’ve gotta say, the changes are worth some of the sacrifices. Sure, I try not to eat or drink processed sugars. I don’t eat fast food. I usually forgo meat in favour of veggies galore. (Although this isn’t always the case.) Kale has become my healthy best friend.

But, even with all of these diet changes, I’m not quite where I want to be in terms of activity. I don’t exercise as often as I know I should be. I often opt for a few more hours of work in the evening instead of heading to the gym that’s in my building.

The truth is that I’m just not a treadmill kind of girl.

And I’m not a “do this exercise” kind of girl, either.

But I am a yoga kind of girl. Inviting in health and happiness for my body and soul? Well, who can say no?

Starting next week, I’m starting yoga at a studio in downtown Vancouver and I’m bringing company.

(Not so) Trivial things I’ve noticed

My jeans are starting to fall off.

I have a boatload of extra energy, in spite of the fact that my son is seven months old and very active. It’s not to say that I don’t get tired — because I do get tired, often — it’s just to say that on average, my energy lasts from 10am to 1am. Seriously. Maybe I’ll nap during the day but not often.

I’m way happier.

I have a clear head, most of the day.

And, according to Mike, this is the most vital I’ve ever been.

Things that haven’t really changed

My sugar addiction. Seriously. I gotta fix this. Even if I’m not consuming processed sugars, I’m still using honey and stevia in practically everything.

My love of coffee. I still have my one cup a day, even though I’m aware that I don’t need it.

My palette. It’s still… lacking. I still don’t like some veggies and some tastes. I’m assuming that it’s just… acquired. And so, I’m determined to acquire.

Next week, I’m going to try even more new recipes. Onward!

via The Well Travelled Woman

‘Tis the season for resolutions and a setting of intentions. It’s part-way through January, after all. And, since I have all of this extra time (yeah, sure), I’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching about what it means to eat well and be well-fed.

I spent the entirety of my childhood and adolescence eating wonderful food, prepared with love. I would often pine for the more expensive junk food because the other kids’ parents could afford them and we couldn’t. I was irritated by it. So when I graduated and moved out on my own, I bought all that expensive junk and reveled in their entirely tasty but deceptively horribleness.

It wasn’t until I got older that I realized the damage I’d done.

And that my mother had been right all along. (Yeah, like we didn’t all see that one coming. She’s wise, that woman.)

On top of my stupid — oh yes, that’s the word I’m looking for — food decisions in my early twenties, my relationship with food in any form has been toxic since the day I bought my first Vogue magazine. (For the record, I don’t blame Vogue. They’re a magazine. A biznez like any other.)

It was May 2001. I walked into the local convenience store and put down my five dollar bill on the counter. The model’s windswept blonde hair was dazzling. Her figure: flawless. And that red cutout knit swimsuit? Oh goodness, what I would’ve given to have that swimsuit look the same on my fourteen-year-old body.

I must’ve pored over that magazine for days, clipping my favourite advertisements and pasting them in my secret sartorial notebook. I pulled out the perfume samples and stashed them all over my room. For months, when I walked into my bedroom, it smelled like a heady mixture of Calvin Klein and Chanel No. 5.

During one of those analytically charged evenings, I walked into the main bathroom. The girl in the mirror blinked back at me — large, hazel eyes. Haunted. But not. I shrugged out of my clothing — sweater first, fading blue jeans, underthings. Naked, I examined what had gone largely unexamined.

A collarbone, starkly jutting out against porcelain skin. Broad shoulders. Shapely flesh and fat. I stopped myself.

Fat.

I couldn’t look like the beautiful blonde. I had fat on my body. I was muscular, sure, but there were pockets of baby fat that I hadn’t grown out of, yet. I initially told myself that that’s all it was. That I’d grow out of it before I knew it.

Hips.

Fat.

So I stopped eating. Well, not entirely, but certainly in a normal way. I didn’t want to eat. I’d end up an Old Maid, living with a million dogs (because I hate cats) in some dark house in the middle of nowhere. So, I didn’t eat more than I had to. Just enough to survive. Just enough.

The pounds melted away. I could see ribs. Hipbones. Cheekbones. I became a hungry, haunted teenager.

But now, I was beautiful and everyone could see it.

That’s when the stomach problems started. When I ate, it was painful. My stomach ragefully rejected any nutrition. Each bite seemed like agony. I would suffer for hours after any meal. I talked to my doctor but failed to mention that I only ate once a day. He couldn’t find anything wrong with me, other than I was looking a bit thin.

110 pounds is a lot of weight on some frames. On me, it was too little. My skin looked like butter spread over too much bread. Stretched. Taut. Odd. It wasn’t until I noticed a clump of hair on my pillow that I realized I had a problem. No one really noticed (except my parents) when I started to rehabilitate my eating habits. And my body, for that matter.

I struggled (and continually struggle) against that nature of “You’re too fat. Stop eating, fatty.” It destroyed my metabolism. It strained an already tenuous hold on my sanity. I stopped looking at food as, “Beautiful, delicious. A celebration of flavour.” It became my enemy. And when food became my enemy, my body became the battlefield.

Since 2001 — almost eleven years — I’ve been fighting those food demons. I fought anorexia and instead plunged into unhealthy eating habits. I fought those unhealthy eating habits with more attempts at anorexia, without the “results” this time. I stopped respecting my body. In October of 2011, I had my gallbladder removed because my body just couldn’t cope with fatty foods anymore. I spent four unexpected days in the hospital without my little boy. I took the time to rest and to examine why I was in there in the first place.

At the beginning of January, we all make resolutions, even if we resolve to resolve nothing at all. We seek to better ourselves and our lives. Many of us decide to say, “Hey, this year I’m going to go to the gym and eat better.” Many of those many stop midway through January because it’s too hard to change.

Let’s face it. Change is hard.

At the end of 2011 (ten and a half years after buying that first Vogue), I made the decision to change my lifestyle. Not just “go to the gym” or “eat healthier”. But actually sit down, draw up a plan, and make it happen. I learned different recipes. I budget to buy my fruits, veggies, and lean meats from organic sources.

Partway through my twenty-fifth year, I’ve resolved to redesign my relationship with food.

And, by proxy, my body.

For the remainder of the year, I’m going to take Mondays to write about rediscovering my appreciation for my body and redesigning my relationship with food. Perhaps it’ll be a picture. Maybe it’ll be a recipe. Could be an anecdote. Whatever it is, this is going to help keep me committed to this healthy lifestyle overhaul.

For the first time, I’m not interested in “skinny”. I really, truly, and completely believe that my body is capable of being healthy, no matter what that healthy happens to look like. Or what number is on the back of my jeans.

Photo Credit: Me (via insta.gram)

My whole life has been a dress rehearsal for this moment.

The blocking was easy — going through the motions and remember where to stand, both in and out of the limelight. Learning the lines came next — there was always someone to convince of something. (Even if that someone was me.) I’ve spent years honing the many facets of my personality and various, interconnected talents. When I let these pieces click into place, the universe drew the curtain.

Sharp breath. Deep breath. Exhale.

Hunched against the corner on a rain-soaked bus, my mind wandered. (As it often does.)

It wandered into the familiar places of my psyche.

I thought about my son, sitting at home with his father, no doubt building that new furniture we bought last night. I thought about my husband — a deeply grounded, energetic man — and the dreams he’d whispered in my ear all those years ago.

I thought about my family. My brother, in his retail job on the other side of the bridge. My mother and father, back home. I thought about my clients; daydreamed about their online spaces and how to make sure they looked and functioned the best they could.

I eased myself into thinking about… myself.

Clarity spoke to me sometime before the new year. It came in the form of a trusted friend’s voice reminding me of why I do what I do. I let the clarity rattle around in my skull before writing it on paper, allowing it to manifest in my biznez by deeply acknowledging it. Superb, wonderful, beautiful people found me through Clarity.

Deep breath. Exhale.

Someone yelled from the back of the bus about the slow traffic. A couple pressed their heads together and smiled — ah, new love. The bus stopped suddenly and fought to catch my balance.

Balance. I used to be balanced. I used to put my thoughts and energies into doing a little bit of everything, with abandon. The joy of the challenge. The industrious nature of conquering something new and exciting. The impetuous glory of flipping off the universe.

Yeah right, like you can stop me. 

I angled myself to look outside at the glass skyscrapers. Baptism by rain — pieces of the city reborn by coastal storm.

We came to a stop outside of the train station. I stood outside, gazing upwards at nothing but sky. I felt… unwound.

I sought a lonely seat on the far end of the train, unaware of my impending epiphany. We gracefully arched forward, the wind whipping outside, rainwater threatening to break the glass and drown us all. Unsettling. Calming.

The book in my hands tore a painful hole through my practicality. It usurped the place where I put my fear. The little dictator that called herself Myself cried out as she fled from this improbability. Of course, I thought. Why didn’t I see this before?

But I had seen it before. I’d seen it my whole life. I’d seen it from the first time I picked up a yellow Number Two pencil and started scratching it against a piece of paper. I’d felt it from the first time I pieced together something resembling a narrative. (It currently resides in a box in my parents’ basement.)

All the pieces were falling into place. Rapidly. Painfully. Where had I been for the last seven years? In school? Pretending to be something I’m not? Pretending to be something I wanted to be? And now, the gears are shifting and the only speed I can go is fast.

I have to hold on.

The curtain is drawn. The butterflies I’m all too familiar with bubble up into my mouth and flutter their imaginary wings. I remember this feeling. I remember this stage. I know this play.

This is Act One.

Big thank you to Danielle LaPorte for making me believe in my writing once again. I’ll send you an advance copy.

The year started with great intentions of affluence, patience, and growth. As I look back on 2011, there have been more than a few notable additions (and subtractions). I’ve analyzed choices made and avoided. There are patterns that have emerged. Patterns that run deep in everything I say and do. Patterns that I need to change. Not improve. Not remove. Change entirely.

During my (very) brief stint with Reverb last year, I noted that my word of the year (2010) was Erudite. I was a Scholar — I put a strong emphasis on learning and surrounding myself with people that were working towards self improvement and biznez development. It was a year of hardship and growing pains for violetminded. My first pregnancy, followed by the first trimester exhaustion.

2011′s word is Evolution.

Notable Evolutions

• Motherhood. I had a very specific image in mind when I found out I was pregnant. When I actually became a mother, the reality was entirely different. As I write this, my living room has toys stored in niches and corners as we organize our new space. I swore I’d never be one of those parents that had toys everywhere. Little did I know that mothers and families often do this out of necessity (especially when baby starts to be very active), not because they’re not interested in keeping the space tidy and adult friendly.
• Wealth and accumulation. I was afraid of it, folks. Very afraid. I looked at wealth as something that often came coupled with rampant consumerism. I didn’t (and don’t) want to be the kind of person that soothes with going to the store and buying something that doesn’t make me happy in the long run. But what I did realize is that money isn’t the problem. I don’t have a problem with shopping excessively. I don’t tend to enjoy huge shopping sprees — they make me nervous. I do enjoy saving my money for an item that I’ve been dreaming of. Like a tablet. Or a designer jacket. Or the Lululemon track pants I bought the other day.
• Health. When I was pregnant (all the way up until nine months), I walked. A lot. I walked to the cafes for working. I walked to the grocery store in Kerrisdale village. Having a new baby meant that I spent a lot of days doing what he wanted to do: sit around or sleep. The rotten weather in Vancouver didn’t help either. So, when I put on my favourite pair of jeans (about a month back) and noticed they were a lot snugger than I remembered, I knew that I needed to make a change.
• Biznez. I vastly undercharged for the first two years of my biz. Worst part of it was that I felt like I was overcharging for my services. It wasn’t until I started to work with My People — those brilliant, confident, and exceedingly loving few — that I started to realize my own worth. Those that think I’m not worth it? Well, that’s their hangup, not mine. I own my problems, not theirs.
• Relationships. I made a few painful ejections this year in my personal life — none of which I was particularly happy to make. What they say is true: there are major events in life that will determine who your Real Friends are. Real Friends drag you out of the house, kicking and screaming. Real Friends call you and bother you, even if you don’t want to be bothered. Real Friends stop by with baking and loving conversation. Real Friends remind you that things aren’t as difficult as they seem. Most importantly, Real Friends put their hangups aside when you are in crisis (and you do the same for them in their times of need).

2011 was an important year — one of the most important of my life.

A Manifesta for 2012

Be mindful. Don’t take the small (or big) things for granted.

Practice patience. Breathe deeply.

There is no such thing as overwhelmed. I’m just exceptionally busy with the things (and people) I love and enjoy.

Say no to things (and people) that drain me. Say yes to the things (and people) that excite and perhaps scare me.

Move everyday. Move slowly for meditation. Move quickly for exercising. Move randomly for joy.

Cuddle and enjoy my baby boy. These are precious moments I’ll never get back.

Laugh often. Smile openly. Compliment unabashedly.

Love. Love when it hurts. Love when it’s not returned. Love because love is all we need.

Luxuriate responsibly. And often.

Invite in creativity. Exorcise negativity.

Don’t apologize for who I am. Take me for who I am. Love me or leave me.

Seek out friends with small children. Seek out friends with no children.

Slow-dance with my husband check-to-cheek. No talking.

Collaborate intelligently.

Buy artwork. Support local artists and artisans. Go to the museums, art galleries, restaurants, markets, and shops that I love, either by myself or with like-minded friends. Go somewhere every weekend.

Learn to love my body. It deserves better than my contempt and dislike.

Food is more than fuel. Eat healthy, delicious, organic meals crafted with love. Indulge in the occasional treat without guilt.

Go on a (mini) solo vacation to a creative community that I adore. Create wondrous things during said mini sabbatical.

Don’t wait for approval. Do what feels right without apology or pretense.

Be gracious. Be graceful. Keep growing.

And, of course, write more. Write every damn day. Not because I want to or have to. But because I love it.

There are times when I envy my technology. Often, debugging a problem in code or hardware is as simple as following the steps that you’ve either discovered on your own or you’ve found on the internet. There’s a logical beginning to the problem — error codes, software updates gone awry, hardware on the fritz — and there’s a logical ending (if you do it right). In life, things are a bit more challenging. We push buttons. In turn, our buttons are pushed. All kinds of feathers get ruffled along the way and we’re left with the equivalent of an emotional nuclear fallout.

No wonder we’re so eager to avoid getting messy.

It’s easier to avoid a situation than to acknowledge it. Easier in the sense that the situation quietly fades into the background. Difficult in that the more you ignore something, the more difficult it is to come back to it and say, “Oh hey, sorry about that. Didn’t mean to ignore you for six months. Just got busy.”

Uh huh.

Sure.

But what if that’s what happened?

Entrepreneurial Paralysis is something I’m all too familiar with. It happens when business becomes reactive — emails, meetings, endless deadlines, nightmare clients, scope creep — and we lose sight of what we’re actually there for: to create something. Anything. So we sit on our hands and watch the emails pile up. When the tension becomes too much, we break it by turning off our computers and hiding under the covers. We’re desperate to escape the prison that we’ve inadvertently made. Running our tin cups along the bars until we’ve run out of time and the jailer has run out of patience.

There’s a riot, folks. And it ain’t pretty.

Dealing with Entrepreneurial Paralysis is a doozy. I mean, it’s temporary paralysis sometimes accompanied by temporary insanity. Discipline is moot. Vodka is sitting in a cabinet drawer, calling seductively. Caffeine drip IV. Okay, maybe none of those things but the paralysis is real. Your fingers and toes may work but your brain is drowning in to-do lists and has put itself on vacation instead of dealing with the overwhelm.

“Choose a project. DPS until it’s defeated. You can do this.”

My husband has a way with words when he wants to. The gist of it — for ye non-gamers — is to choose something that’s right in front of you and chip away at it until you’ve got something to show for it. Choose something small. Like, for me, I chose something that I can create. Instead of diving into futzing with code for hours on end, I booted up Photoshop and created a few small graphics for one of my favourite clients (ahem, Tanya Geisler). That small ritual — the colour, the texture, the typography — cleansed me (at least temporarily) and afforded me the opportunity to break the paralysis and move forward.

“When given a choice between forward motion and remaining in the same place—choose forward motion.” – Chris Guillebeau

It’s easy to ignore. It’s easy to put our fingers in our ears and pretend that nothing is wrong. It’s difficult to acknowledge your paralysis and wiggle your toes in the general direction of help. Or, at the very least, blink twice for vodka.

I started receiving Sara Blackthorne’s writing prompts every few days, just to get my creative juices flowing. Her prompts really get into my soul, which is fitting as her prompts are called “Prompting the Soul”. If you haven’t checked out Sara’s work, please do. She’s a talented writer and an amazing woman. I adore her work.

Today’s Theme: The Changing Weather

When I was little, the weather changed infrequently. In the summer, it was blistering. In the fall, it was crisp. In the winter, it was biting. And in the spring, it was bitter. Since I moved to Vancouver, the weather changes on a dime. More often than not, it rains. In the winter, the dampness follows me wherever I go, nipping at my heels and settling into my bones. It took two winters for me to get used to it and be thankful that it wasn’t -40 like the winter I was in Fort McMurray.

Frozen lungs. Frozen hair. I even remember tears freezing on my cheeks.

I look forward to the change in seasons, even if it means more rain. I like sweaters and jackets; I especially adore scarves and hats. In the summer, I have to watch the populace prance around in cut-offs and tank tops while I slink around in jeans and v-neck raglans. I’ve never been particularly interested in summer clothing, even if I do enjoy summer sunshine in BC. And although I do miss the sunshine, I welcome the change in the sky (at least for a little while). When the grey mood sets into the city sometime in January, no one is happy. People get snippy in the streets; they’re not keen to move to the side on the skytrain. We become hermits, half-crazed from lack of sunshine and vitamin D.

The first sign of sunshine and suddenly, we Vancouverites unfurl and come alive. We’re more pleasant to one another on the street; more apt to smile on the skytrain or bus. Little old ladies may even get primo seating on transit. Hell, a guy might actually give up his seat for a pregnant woman. The city of glass comes to life and we’re reminded why we live in our coastal rainforest home. Its beauty is breathtaking. The stark modernity of the glass towers mixed with views of the ocean and the expansive greenery is why we are where we are.

Sometimes, we forget about it when the rain rolls in.

I met him a little over ten years ago.

I remember a tangle of black hair and a pair of brown eyes that looked both inquisitive and shy. When I held him in my arms, I fell head over heels. School was a painful place — I often came home crying. Those brown eyes and that tangle of black hair wiped away a day’s cares.

I relished our walks and runs together. We’d go to the local elementary and run around the track until we both ran out of breath, usually with me collapsing first. It kept me in shape. It kept him happy to expend all of that energy.

In the winter, we would jump into snowbanks and play carelessly in the fresh snow. At first, he was timid. As the years went by, he became more and more bold. He’d chase me around the yard. Even in the midst of biting winds, we’d find time to play together.

In the summer, we’d laze underneath the fruit trees that used to stand in our back yard. My brother would join us after a time. We’d run around the yard together, throwing frisbees and tennis balls. When we finally collapsed from exhaustion (and the severe temperatures), we’d go inside and play video games in our spare bedroom.

In the fall, when the leaves were at their most crunchy, we’d leap in and out of the piles I raked. Fall was for falling. I’d re-rake and we’d jump back in. The air was crisp but our home was at its most beautiful. Our walks around the block became less frequent but we’d try.

The last few years were difficult for all of us, watching his health deteriorate. Suddenly, that mess of black hair began to fall out in clumps. Those bright brown eyes looked a little less bright every time we saw one another. Towards the end, wrapping my arms around him made me cry. I could feel ribs and only whispers of muscles.

The last time I saw him, I held him tightly in my arms and told him I loved him as much today as I did on the day we met. I whispered in his ears that he was the only man in the world that had never hurt me and that I would love him forever. We sat together on the tired blue couch in the upstairs living room. My son slept peacefully in my lap and he looked in my eyes expectantly.

“Just one more time?” he said without a word.

There was no guarantee he would be waiting for me when I made it back home. I handed my baby to my mother and took him in my arms one last time. I pressed my nose to his, tears quietly streaming down my face.

I knew that I’d never see him again.

In those last moments with him, I didn’t regret a thing. He had been perfect — an amazing friend that I would miss for the rest of my life. When I received the call last week saying that he’d died, I cried all day. I had lost a part of myself that day.

I held my son close, letting the tears stream down my face. My tears soaked my son’s tangle of black hair. As I wrapped my arms around him, I remember the first time I held my dear friend.

He was no larger than the palm of my hand. I could fit him in the pocket of my housecoat. Teaching him to go to bathroom outside at six weeks old was difficult but he was worth it. All of the memories — the good and the not-so-good — were worth every year I got to spend with him.

One day, my children (yes, there will be more) will hold their first puppy in their hands and know what unabashed, unrelenting love feels like. They will walk and run and play with their puppy for their childhood and even their adolescence (perhaps their adult years, if they’re lucky). One day, their puppy will get old and sick and will inevitably die. That day will be sad but they will know what I know now: to have the love of an animal is to be truly blessed.

Goodbye, my dearest friend.

You are missed.

I love you.

We are all new, in some way or another. In the last seven weeks, there is an incredible sense of newness in my life. It’s not exactly shiny or sparkly, but it is beautiful.

I am an acolyte — a new mother — and I find myself worshipping at the altar of Life.

I’ve spent my fair share in a dark part of my psyche, pondering my future and brooding about the past. I’ve admitted both out loud and online that I don’t feel qualified to be bringing a baby into the world, what with my plethora of fuck-ups and “oh mai gawd, what if I really screw my baby up?!”

I’ve come to the conclusion, with the help of others, that parenting is an exercise in failure and fucking up. I’ve come to learn that those failures are not just future therapy bills (although, they have the potential to be); they’re just another way of showing children that we adults are mere mortals.

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.

Phillip Larkin – This be the Verse

I read this poem as part of my first year university Contemporary Poetry class. In fact, it was the first poem we dissected as part of our curriculum of poetry. I sat down amongst the freshmen and slipped my netbook from its case to hear my professor – a young, fashionable man from the West End in Vancouver – say: “They fuck you up, your mum and dad.”

It shocked me. Not just the language, but often buried concept of “You’re fucked from the get-go, thanks to your folks.” It’s cynical and I don’t fully subscribe to the school of thought, namely because it’s easy to blame parents for our failings, instead of seeking to fix said failings. Some say it’s a generational thing (man, people always love to hate on the Millennial). I don’t dig that. Not all of us believe that our parents are the cause of our problems. And truthfully, even if they are, blame isn’t going to fix our current issues.

We’ve risen above and managed to find a way to blast past the “soppy-stern fools” to get to what we need, whatever that is.

When I press my hand against my swollen tummy – and believe you me, it is pretty damn swollen – and think about ZomBaby’s impending arrival (less than two weeks away), I worry about his future. And as unnecessary (and all-consuming) as worry tends to be, it’s one of the ways I feel connected to him. It makes me feel like a better mama.

When I think about how quickly I’ve evolved, I’m astounded. I went from a little girl to a woman to a wife to a mother in the span of six years. I may be scared but I feel nurtured. I feel whole.

Nature’s Nurture

When the moon is sullen and unforgiving
We will kiss the stars to make it right.
When thunder rolls across your dreams
We will chase away the clouds.

When the sun slips and you fall down
We will patch the sky with white clouds.
When flowers can’t smile in the morning
We will paint on its blank canvas.

When you arrive,
black or blonde,
green or hazel,
we will
be perfect.