Angie Mizzell

You can keep the key

Angie Mizzell — Tue, 21 May 2013 22:14:11 +0000

Monday was Blake's last day of 3-year-old preschool, and for the past month, I've been counting down. Elementary school will end in two weeks and then, Dillon, my rising second grader, will be on vacation too. I'm ready for summer. Perhaps it's because of all the crazy and scary things that are happening in the world, or maybe it's because of shifts and changes within me, but I want my kids to be home. I'm ready for a new rhythm without all of the back and forth, the up and down the road, and the constant watching of the clock.

But as I drove Blake to school for the end of the year party, I felt a conflicting sense of sadness. I looked down at the plastic key card attached to the blue rope hanging around my neck. I hate turning in the key. When parents toss them in a box on the way out the door, it marks the milestone with a physical display of we're all done here! and a cold, noncommittal thunk.

When we arrived there was a note on the door saying that returning families could keep their keys and that the school will reactivate them in the fall. We get to keep the key! Suddenly it didn't feel like goodbye. It didn't feel like Blake was being thrust from one stage of childhood and into the next. It felt like a cheery, have a great summer! see you soon!

It's just a key. It's just preschool. But it woke me up to the never-ending need to feel at home, to be a part of something. The search for home, in my outer world and within myself, is a constant thread that runs through my life. At times, this need has clouded my decisions. Other times, it has provided tremendous clarity.

I've come to understand this about myself--how I tend to hold on, even when I'm ready to move on. And so this time, I was glad to keep the key. It served as a bridge to help me drive away.

A note to the little girl dancing

Angie Mizzell — Wed, 15 May 2013 04:39:39 +0000

I ran another 5k this weekend. I placed 100-and-something and 15th (out of 29th) in my division. I've never been so thrilled to be average. The race course weaved through a beautiful neighborhood, and I love looking at real estate. As I admired the manicured lawns, I found an easy, steady pace. I studied each house and imagined how our family of five would fit in that particular space. Then somewhere along the way, I slipped into a daydream. I worked on scenes from my memoir in my head. A lot of my writing is happening away from the computer lately. Sometimes I have to visualize it before I can make it real on the page.

I crossed the finish line and felt the urge to pass out. So I drank some water, breathed and kept walking, willing myself to stay conscious. And then I saw her:

The girl was dancing to "Call Me Maybe" and rocking it out. I rushed over to a friend and begged for her iPhone. She thought I was having an actual emergency, so I apologized and explained that oxygen might not be making it to my brain just yet, sorry for the panic. Then I snapped a picture and started writing a note to her, in my head. It went something like this:

I want you to know that I see you. The way you are moving and shaking in your own world, glowing in your own light. You are as bright as the sun.

It got me thinking about how you're attracting attention, and how you're not even aware of your audience. You are putting on a show for yourself, and it's glorious to watch. I am transported to another time. I look at you, and I see myself. The little girl I used to be. I miss her sometimes. I miss her openness and her honesty. I miss her unguarded heart.

I wonder what would happen if you turned and saw me staring at you. I won't clap and shout, "Good job!" The magic would be lost. So I'm stepping back now, and I'm holding on to how it feels to watch you, and remember.

Later, I stood in the kitchen with my own daughter and watched an amazing video. Actually, Cate clapped and bounced to the beat of the music, and I cried. My childhood friend Meg had heard the song while eating frozen yogurt with her kids, and then she found the video on YouTube and sent it to me. She said the song reminded her of me. The video reminds me of us.

This song is good for girls. This song is good for everyone.

I can't get it out of my head. I LOVE it. Have you seen this yet? Go watch it now. Go.

Oh, she went there

Angie Mizzell — Fri, 10 May 2013 03:35:25 +0000

This is Jody Mack, doing her thing.

When I listened to the podcast I recorded with Jody Mack, I started thinking about the scene in Jerry Maguire when Rod Tidwell is being interviewed by the host who makes everybody cry. "I'm not going to cry, Roy," he says. He cries anyway.

I didn't set out to make Jody cry in our podcast, but there were some emotional moments as she talked about letting go of an old dream, the dream of being a tenure track faculty at a primarily undergraduate institution.

On her blog she writes, "This is the path I chose for myself when I was fresh out of college. A 20-something who dreamed of having a small biomedical research lab and teaching wonderful, meaningful and thought-provoking lecture and lab courses."

But then, over the course of years and hard work and lots of time and energy invested in an overcrowded field, her dream shifted. Jody says, "Science became an obligation rather than a passion. In the midst of working as a temporary faculty member, I found myself falling asleep putting lectures together but staying awake to edit photos into the wee hours of the morning; riding into work anticipating the lighting in my next photo shoot instead of thinking about writing my next lecture or what experiment to try next."

For Jody, leaving the classroom is bittersweet, but she's excited about what's happening next: This month is the official launch of Jody Mack Photography.

Up until recently, Jody and I were merely acquaintances. We had met years ago in a moms' group; I went to a book club meeting at her house once. When I heard about her big life change, I knew we had to talk. Jody agreed to the podcast, and she really went there with me, answering my questions and speaking candidly about what it's like to listen to that quiet voice, the one that calls out to you and nudges you to step off the path that you thought was "it".

We talked about the things that hold us back--like our own judgments and the judgments of others. We talked about kids and mom guilt. We talked about success and what that means for us, and how our definition may not be the same as other people's. We talked about money and the big and small things that shape the choices we make.

(We even talked about reading palms, and how that might not be the best way to make choices.)

Jody's podcast is here, and you can also download it free from iTunes.

A different kind of hard

Angie Mizzell — Wed, 08 May 2013 15:30:40 +0000

This post has been difficult to write. Creatively, I'm in the place where half-finished stories are swirling around in my head. They feel too unprocessed, too personal, too not ready to be published. There's an immediacy to blogging that makes me feel rushed and panicky sometimes, like I'm being pushed onto the stage without practicing my lines.

Readers don't impose this pressure I feel. And this isn't about blogging really. It's about how it's difficult for me to respect that space, that in-between, that place where important things are taking shape (and taking forever). I want to be in the flow all the time, to live in the space where I'm inspired and prolific.

Take your time.

That's what author Kate Hopper advises in her book, Use Your Words. She goes on to write:

Sometimes, writing feels like trudging through the mud. But let it be hard. Give yourself time to muck around in the mud, to explore and write, and explore some more in an effort to discover the true story in your writing.

What's interesting to me is how I'm willing to show up for this kind of hard. How, even though I don't really like walking in mud, I'm not running away from it either. The mud does, indeed, feel necessary. I'm willing to do this work, and I want to do this work.

And eventually, a door opens. For me, it opened last night, when Dillon asked me to help him think of something to write about in his journal.

"Well, I usually write about things that have happened to me during the day, and what I think about those things," I said. Then, I took a mental note. I said to myself, "Self, do you hear yourself?"

Sometimes things feel hard until suddenly, they don't feel hard at all.

Dillon picked up his pencil and started writing something about Star Wars, and shortly after that, Jody emailed the proofs from a Mother's Day photo shoot we did this past weekend. The weather had been unseasonably terrible for Charleston (misty rain and kind of chilly). Around here, we only get a few weeks of spring before we are blasted by summer, so we have extremely high expectations for the month of May. We almost canceled the photo shoot, but then, we decided to go for it.

The photo shoot felt hard. The kids were crazy. Cate kept walking off the set. My hair was blowing all over the place. And yet, these photos look effortless.

But it wasn't effortless. It was work. Jody has put in a lot of time to get to this place professionally--where she makes it look easy--and on Saturday she was literally mucking through the mud. (And the real reason we are barefoot? Because we forgot to bring Cate's shoes, so it was a show of solidarity.)

So anyway, this was not the post I intended to write. The one I've been laboring over for two weeks! is still sitting in my drafts folder. It may never see the light of my blog's home page. But it took mucking through that mud to get here, to a place where I feel more open to "write about things that happen to me during the day, and what I think about those things," a place where I can celebrate the opportunity to be a writer and be a mom, and a place where I can appreciate this different, and this very good, kind of hard.

Friday, I'll have another podcast... this time with the woman behind the lens of this photo shoot. Jody's honesty about what led her to change careers and take her professional life in a new direction is "a must hear" for anyone who's ever considered doing the same thing.

On doing a few things well

Angie Mizzell — Wed, 01 May 2013 15:09:44 +0000

Back when I worked for television stations and was interviewing someone, I trained my ear to listen for "soundbites". The trick was to absorb the story--and understand it well enough--in order to condense it into a one to two minute package. The goal wasn't simply make it fit. Rather, it was to capture the essence--what's the heart of this story? What's the most compelling thing?

And then, make it fit.

Eventually, I learned that I had a knack for this. I loved listening for soundbites, because people say the most compelling things. They are living the details of their own stories--the ups and downs of their daily lives--and truth is spilling out all over the place.

I had this experience recently when I was recording a podcast with Sara Painter, the co-founder of Loggerhead Apparel, a company based here in South Carolina. Sara and her fiancé Zac launched Loggerhead Apparel in 2011, got married, got pregnant and had a baby. Two years later, Sara and Zac are rocking their company. To the tune of a feature on “ABC World News with Diane Sawyer” and their products for sale in 60-plus stores in 11 states.

Zac and Sara Painter, co-founders of Loggerhead Apparel

Aren't they so stinkin' cute? (Unlike when I was on TV, here on my blog, I can toss out my opinions anytime I want.)

Sara and Zac have a mission: to provide top-quality, American-grown, American-made clothing at a fair price. Loggerhead Apparel donates ten percent of its revenue to local causes that support the conservation and protection of loggerhead sea turtles. Which is awesome, all by itself. But I wanted to know more about why they do what they do, and how they do it. And Sara graciously and thoughtfully answered all of my questions:

How do you turn your "big idea" into a viable business?

And how are you able to stay true to you, while simultaneously trying to (eventually) make a profit? (I had my artist/writer/entrepreneurial friends in mind when asking this question... myself included).

And then, what do you do when -whoosh!- your big idea takes off? And now you are successful and there are so many things to do. How do you do that? (I had the same people in mind here as well).

Sara said many wonderful things, but this is what kept ringing in my well-trained ears:

"Start by doing a few things well," she said.

Remember when I told you I was in the midst of a downshift? Remember when I talked about wanting abundance? Sara's suggestion to "start by doing a few things well" summed up how we can begin to have both. Less and more.

Yes.

And unlike when I was on TV, I didn't have to reduce our conversation to a few soundbites. I thought I'd edit out some things, including a part in the middle when I start talking about myself, but I decided not to. I enjoyed our whole conversation, and I hope you will, too.

If you want to listen to the podcast now, click here. Or if you want to download and listen later, the podcast is also available on iTunes.

Feeling free

Angie Mizzell — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 02:33:39 +0000

Do you ever feel like you're standing there, half-naked, in your tutu, with your Elmo diaper peeking out? Like you're outside, exposed, where everyone can see you, and you're sort of a mess?

Me too.

Cate sat on the white backdrop by the pink number "1" for three whole seconds before fleeing the scene. Before she took off running down the sidewalk, Jody got the shot. The one I'd wanted. The one we had staged.

And she also got this.

And this is all kinds of awesome.

And, to me, it looks a lot like free.

When 85% is as good as it's going to get.

Angie Mizzell — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 17:49:04 +0000

Monday evening, Jody sent me an email:

“I wanted to get these to you and hopefully it will bring some happiness on this horrible day...”

Jody included a link to photos she took of Cate a day earlier to commemorate her first birthday. (Never mind that she's 14 months old already. I got it done.)

Just look at her.

Her world is happy and simple. She doesn't know about the horrible day Jody was speaking of. She doesn't know what happened in Boston. Or in Newtown. None of my kids know, and I feel relieved about that. One day, they will, and we'll have to talk about it. But not now.

Lately, in our own small world, we've been caught up in the process of making a decision--a decision about where my 7-year-old will go to school next year. Truth is, the decision is already made. And I just keep trying it on, again and again. Just to be sure.

But I'll never be sure. Not completely.

So much of me--85% of me--thinks the choice will be really great. And the other 15% wants Dillon to be three again. I want playdates and cheerios. Thomas the Train and trips to the park. One day, my children will make big decisions on their own. It won't always be up to me. They'll pull out of the driveway, move out of the house, tell me they've found "the one".

They'll be so sure. And I won't be sure at all.

I don't like watching them go. Even when I say I need time to myself. I do need time to myself. But in my heart, I want to hold them close, always. Keep them young. Keep them safe.

15% of me doesn't want them to ever grow up. 15% of me is scared about what's going on out there.

But that bigger part--that 85%--wants them to have the world. 85% of me wants to teach them to trust themselves. To live fully, without fear. And for now, 85% has to be good enough.

The weight of indecision

Angie Mizzell — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 16:32:16 +0000

(One person's scribble is another person's art. Here, we have a loose interpretation of the Mayflower.)

Few things rattle me more than not being clear about something--not knowing what to do. I get all bossy with my spirit. "Tell me what to do!" Then I breathe and pray, "God please tell me what to do."

Sometimes, the answer rises up. (I love when that happens.) From there, I am able to do brave things even when I'm scared. And sometimes, I hear noise: the voices of others mixed with my own questions and concerns. So I get quiet. And I hear... NOTHING.

Then I do the logical thing. I grab a paper and pen and write down all the pros and cons. I ask questions and gather information. In all of this, I want to take the action that will bring me peace. I want the answer that feels like YES.

That's it. I want Peace and Yes. And I want it to hurry up.

While I roll around in the uncomfortable place of I don't know, I'll share some things. First, this quote from Emily Freeman that sounds a lot like me:

"It takes a long time for me to be honest. Not that I lie – I’m not a liar. I just have a delayed response to what is true. I can’t always tell in the moment how I feel about something.... I admire people with strong opinions. I might even be one of them if I had more time to think about it." Excerpt from the post, Three Ways to Be Brave When You Feel Like a Wimp

Saren and April from the Power of Moms have a great podcast about learning to live from your deeper yes. I just love that.

My friend Dee is on a quest to rediscover clarity and simplicity in her own life.

And this video: Hell Yeah, or No. A strong opinion, indeed. Do I agree? Maybe. I need more time to think about it.

Saying yes when you're not sure

Angie Mizzell — Wed, 27 Mar 2013 14:50:55 +0000

I didn't want to do it. Not anymore.

I wanted to do it at first, when I purchased the Groupon on the eve of the New Year. $20 is a good deal.

And I wanted to do it as I hopped on the treadmill in January with every intention of being prepared to run a 5k by the time March 23 rolled around. That's three whole months. Of course I can do it.

But I wasn't prepared. I'd love to blame it on the phone app that was supposed to take me through nine weeks of training. I had no idea why it kept resetting at the end of week two. Until I realized I needed to pay $1.59 to unlock weeks 3-9.

Ah.

Even though it was a fun run (one where you get sprayed with colored corn starch along the way), I wanted to rock the fun run. I didn't want to jog, gasp for air, start, stop and limp across the finish line.

I had expectations. I hadn't met them. And I also had a wedding at 3:30 that day. And suddenly, I felt out of shape and unmotivated. It felt like too much. I was seriously considering backing out, until Kelli emailed me and said, "Hey, I'm picking up my race packet today. Do you want me to get yours?"

And I replied, "Yes! Thank you!"

That morning, it was cold. I live in the South, and cold is relative. But brrr. I'm just saying. Rain clouds hovered. I clutched my coffee and cranked the car.

I didn't rock the race. But I ran. And I walked a little. And I had a great time. Because here's what I experienced: space. Not a lot of traffic (all things considering), easy parking, a wide-open race course through the local fairgrounds.

And colors. Pretty colors!

I heard shoes hitting the earth, broken bits of conversation, the sound of my own breath. I was alone with myself, but not alone. I was present, in the moment. Observant. But not consumed by my thoughts.

You know what I felt? The most surprising thing? I felt light. Sometimes I run, and I feel heavy. Every stride hurts. But not this time. And I don't know why.

I just know I'm glad I said yes.

What's your perfect day?

Angie Mizzell — Fri, 22 Mar 2013 09:39:51 +0000

The last time someone asked me, "What's your perfect day?" I quit my job and changed careers.

But this time, when Kate Hopper asked the question, I was not teetering on the edge of a life crisis. So I won't end this week of questions with any big announcements. Instead, I'll describe the scene:

I wake up before dawn. I grab a steaming cup of hazelnut coffee brewed by the Keurig machine. Milk (I downgraded from half and half) and two Splenda.

I walk to the couch and wrap the blanket around my shoulders. I sink into the cushions. Kids wake up, turn on the cartoons and join me on the couch. They don't fight, and we cuddle and snuggle.

The sun rises, two cups of coffee down, and my husband and the kids go somewhere. I don't know where. Just somewhere they are happy and occupied for a few hours.

The house is quiet. I'm still in my pajamas. I eat a scrambled egg topped with mozzarella on a rice cake (I'm obsessed with this breakfast lately), work on my book for a couple of hours and write a blog post.

I get up, throw on workout clothes and head to the gym. I exercise, shower and come out clean and fresh and dazzling. Because having the time to shower and dry my hair makes me feel dazzling.

I meet the family for lunch. The sun is shining and the sky is blue. The kids behave. This calls for a cold beer. Yes, waitress, I'd love one.

We come home and take a nap. Everyone naps. Because everyone knows that kids napping at the same time is perfection. We wake up and go outside. My husband and I sit in rocking chairs on the porch, and Cate is confined by the baby gate. The boys play with friends. We watch. We talk.

It's late afternoon now, and we start thinking about dinner. Steaks on the grill and a salad. Pop a frozen pizza in the oven for the kids. Because trying to feed them steak and a salad would mess up the perfect vibe I have going on.

After dinner, Shawn bathes the kids and I clean the kitchen (because even on a perfect day, it isn't going to clean itself). Shawn makes popcorn and I put baby girl to bed. The boys and I reunite on the couch for movie night.

More cuddles and snuggles and laughter. And I actually stay awake through the whole thing instead of falling asleep in the middle.

We go to bed at a decent hour. And do the whole thing again. And again. And again.

There's a simplicity at the core of my dreams and big ideas and plans. And miraculous divine intervention where my kids turn into low maintenance angels. But mostly, it's simple.

I'll end this week of questions with a song that my middle child and I love to sing. It's from "The Princess and the Frog", and we listen to it on H's mix. (Best birthday party swag ever):

You gotta dig a little deeper. Find out who you are. You gotta dig a little deeper. It really ain't that far. When you find out who you are, you find out what you need. Blue skies and sunshine guaranteed.

Click here to listen. And if you do, throw your hands up with us and say, We don't care!

What's your perfect day?

So here's the thing about me, being a mom...

Angie Mizzell — Thu, 21 Mar 2013 11:11:02 +0000

Dillon and me in 2009, Erin Sage Photography

I wasn't in a hurry to become a mom. It took five years of dating and five years of marriage to produce one child. We weren't ready. And then, I wasn't ready.

He was ready first. And as much as I wanted to be ready at the exact same time, I wasn't. And as hard as it was to admit, I knew I had to be honest about that.

Here's what's ironic about that--all I've ever wanted was a family. A happy family that stayed together. I've wanted that image in my head since I was a child. But I knew having my own family meant more than adding kids to the mix.

I had to become a mom. And I wasn't sure what that meant. In my 20s, when my life consisted of 50-hour work weeks and after hours beers with friends, I said things like, "I won't put my children before my husband, or my career." And even then--when I had no idea what I was talking about or what it really meant to become a parent--I knew this: I needed to be ready and willing to create space for children. Space in my home, space in my time and attention, space in my heart.

I needed to get my head straight. My mom used to say, "You have to run your race and find your place."

I knew how to run. I had not found my place.

All I know for sure is this: One day, when I was 30 years old, as I sat in the rocking chair on the front porch of our 1400 square foot house, I was overcome with two feelings. One, that I was home. Two, that I wanted to be a mom. As I sat and rocked, I saw myself in that same chair, in some other time, rocking a baby boy. That baby boy was Dillon.

Today he is 7. And Blake is 3. And Cate is 1.

And still, I don't feel "ready", in the sense that there's never a perfect time for kids. It's a process of making time. And it's a process of deciding, "What do I want my life to be? How do I really want to live?"

I am a mom, a role that I avoided because I worried it would suck me up. I worried I would suck. And sometimes, it does suck me up. And sometimes, I do, indeed, suck at the job.

But being a mom has done something else for me.

It has taught me how to become myself. Those draining, soul sucking, exhausting days have forced me to take a hard look at myself, and decide what is important. Not just what's important to my kids. Not just what's important to my husband. But what's important to me. Showing up for them on the hard days when I want to hand them off to someone else has taught me how to show up for myself.

And I'm not exactly sure how, or why, that is. How I feel more rooted and connected to "me" in the midst of being "mom." Except that maybe, we find our place when we stop running the race.

Each day this week, I'm answering a question by author and writing teacher Kate Hopper. Today's question: In what ways has parenthood shifted your perspective on some aspect (you chose) of your life? You can join me by answering the question on your own blog and placing your link in the box below. Click here for tips.

Or you can answer in the comments.

When the words carry you where you need to go

Angie Mizzell — Wed, 20 Mar 2013 10:33:06 +0000

“Strength, courage and wisdom. It’s been inside of me all along.”

— India Arie

When I pondered the answer to today's question, "What essay, poem or short story do you return to again and again?" this is what kept showing up:

“Inside my head there lives a dream that I want to see in the sun. Inside my eyes there lives a me, that I’ve been hiding for much too long. But I’ve been too afraid to make a choice, because I’m scared of the judgment that may follow. Always putting off my living for tomorrow.

It’s time to step out on faith. I gotta show my face. It’s been elusive for so long. Freedom is mine today.”

— "Strength, Courage and Wisdom", by India Arie

It's actually the words to a song. I've told you before that living in Portland for a year was the year that I unraveled. These lyrics carried me there, as I drove across the country alone. They delivered me to the place I desperately needed to find: the me that I'd been hiding for much too long.

Ten years later, I'm back home, full circle, living a different life. And the words stay with me. When I'm driving around town, I slide the disc into the player and remember that every day is a new opportunity to step out on faith and show my face.

Freedom is mine today.

This week, I'm answering five questions posed by author and writing teacher Kate Hopper, and I'm inviting you to join me. You can answer today's question, "What essay, poem or short story do you return to again and again?" in the comments, or on your own blog. Then you can include the link at the bottom of this post. Click here for tips.

Monday's question is here. Tuesday's question is here.

Who has influenced your life?

Angie Mizzell — Tue, 19 Mar 2013 04:13:44 +0000

The details are vague. I'm being vague on purpose. And I'm breaking grammar rules, calling an individual "they". They know who they are, and the specifics of what we were talking about that day boils down to this:

"They" asked me how I felt about it.

And I said, "I don't know how I feel about it."

And they said, "Well, you need to figure out how you feel about it."

I was 18 years old. I wasn't sure if I knew how to have feelings without first considering how those feelings would affect someone else.

But this person insisted. "You need to know. And if you don't know, you need to take the time to sort it out."

Since then, I've learned that I can control how I act. I can be considerate in how I respond. I can speak my mind or zip my lips. But first, I need to know how I feel. I have feelings, and they matter. I know that now. I don't dismiss them anymore. Feelings can change. But when I sit with them long enough, they guide me.

I strive to do the right thing. But the most important thing--to me--has been learning how to do what feels right.

Will you join me this week? Today's question: Who is the one person who has had an important influence on your life? You can answer on your own blog and add your link to this post. Click here for tips.

Don't have a blog? No worries. You can answer in the comments section.

This year, what will you do?

Angie Mizzell — Mon, 18 Mar 2013 09:29:58 +0000

“Shadow artists often choose shadow careers—those close to the desired art, even parallel to it, but not the art itself.”

— Julia Cameron, The Artist's Way

The note written inside the book is dated 2005. My friend Lisa mailed it to me when I was very pregnant with my first child--a copy of Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way, a 12 week guide to "discovering and recovering your creative self."

And here I am, nearly eight years later, still discovering and recovering my creative self. While I've read bits and pieces of the Cameron's book, I've never committed to following the course step-by-step, week-by-week. But the chapter about shadow artists stuck. Cameron says a shadow artist dances close to the art, but doesn't step out and do the art.

I am a shadow artist.

Cameron asserts that shadow artists block their own creativity with judgments about what living an artist's life looks like. We don't take it seriously, and we think if we follow the path of our art/heart we will be broke. So what's an artist--what's anyone--with a burning desire to finally become who they really are--to do?

I can't tell you how to make a living. That's something we all have to figure out for ourselves. I have a successful track record of making a living as a shadow artist. I know for a fact I can do that. But can I thrive--personally and professionally--as an artist? Sometimes, that feels too risky for me. So, rather than finding some middle ground or building a bridge to help get me there, I usually set the art aside.

Here's the thing: I can't do that anymore. This year, I will step out of the shadow.

(I snapped this for a photo project hosted by Nilsa @ Somi Speaks.)

This year, I will free myself from the judgments that are so convincing, the beliefs committed to holding me in the safe and comfortable place of hiding. One day I hope to make a living as an artist. In the meantime, I'll focus on simply living as an artist.

I will document that living here on my blog. In doing that, I hope to encourage you to free yourself and find the path that feels true to you.

Will you join me this week? I'm answering 5 questions posed by author and writing teacher Kate Hopper. You can answer the question on your own blog. Link back to this post and add your link to the "linky box" below. Click here for tips.

Don't have a blog? No worries. You can answer in the comments section.

How I fell back in love with the work.

Angie Mizzell — Thu, 14 Mar 2013 13:09:23 +0000

Late last year, Abby emailed me a link. I clicked it, because I always click links from Abby. It was a blog post written by author Kate Hopper, announcing that her memoir had found a publishing home and will come out this fall.

Kate explained how the whole process--from writing those first drafts to publication--took nine years. She talked about how in the middle of all that work and waiting, she got a clearer sense of what the book was about. So, she started over. She opened a blank word document and wrote the book again.

And that's the part that spoke to me. How she saw the true heart of her story and began again. I had spent 2011--with the help of a handful of friends who served as beta readers and an awesome editor--revising and polishing my own memoir. Remember how you encouraged me? How I paused to celebrate when the work was complete?

But when the imaginary confetti settled, I had this nagging sense that I had not hit the jugular. Which part of my story was the story? I knew it was in there, but where? And then Kate's post landed in my inbox. I left a comment, and she reached out to me. We swapped several emails and started working together. As it turns out, Abby had led to me to Kate and to the heart of my own story.

It was there all along, hiding like a shiny jewel. Buried in a flashback scene. I had understood the scene was important but was never sure where it fit. Kate said it didn't belong in the last chapter, but in the first. Her suggestion--and the "rightness" of it--brought me to tears.

I'm introducing you to Kate, because I'm sure it won't be the first time I mention her. And also because I saw it as an opportunity to try something here that I've wanted to try for a long time. And that's build a community of shared stories.

I believe we are bound by the universal nature of our personal stories. By sharing them, we inspire, we entertain, we connect. We learn, we grow. We realize that our flaws and our screw ups make us more normal than we thought. Our secret hopes and dreams suddenly seem possible.

Recently, Kate honored with me a blogging award and tasked me with answering five questions. So today, I'm going to share Kate's questions. And next week, I'll answer one question a day, and invite you to answer each question, too. You can answer in the comments section, or you can use it as a writing prompt for your own blog. Then, you can add the link to my post. (If you've never done a link up, I'll include instructions. Since I've never hosted a link up, this ought to be fun. Just taking us on a little test drive, friends.)

In the meantime, here are the questions:

1- Monday: What is one thing you’d like to accomplish (professionally or personally) in the next year?

2- Tuesday: Who is the one person who has had an important influence on you? Describe.

3- Wednesday: What essay or poem or short story do you return to again and again? Why?

4- Thursday: In what ways has parenthood shifted your perspective on some aspect (you chose) of your life?

5- Friday: Describe your ideal day.

You may be tempted, but don't answer today. Let them simmer. I hope you'll join me next week and share your stories!

When the hero isn't who you think she is.

Angie Mizzell — Mon, 11 Mar 2013 15:22:25 +0000

I was clipping toenails at the time. The boys were squeaky clean from their baths, and they were zoned out in front of the TV. I sat on the floor and trimmed the nails on two sets of hands and two sets of feet. No argument, fuss or fight. And I felt glad to do it. Because sometimes, those mundane parenting tasks that make you want to stick a fork in your eye are also the ones that help you see.

Blake, at three, has squishy, silky soft skin. Dillon, who just turned seven, has big seven-year-old feet, and I remember how when he was first born, I counted his toes. His toes were so long that for a moment it looked like he might have six of them. So I counted, just to make sure. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Whew.

And now he is seven. And seven twists my stomach and digs into my heart. Seven makes me feel honored to clip toenails. And perhaps a tad bit crazy.

“Angie, come here,” Shawn called from the kitchen. “You need to see this.” Shawn had pulled a book out of Dillon’s backpack and placed it on the counter. I recognized it immediately. I remembered writing the check and grumbling about another school fundraiser.

But Dillon had insisted. “You have to buy this book. I am going to be an author.” How could I argue with that?

And now a book written by first graders was sitting on my counter, filled with stories about their heroes. Dillon’s entry was on page one.

Homework, from my view, is often a mind-numbing 45 minutes of telling him to sit still, or use better handwriting, or erase it, or don’t forget the period. Sentences begin with upper case letters, remember? But when the two younger children are occupied and I’m able to sit with Dillon, bite my tongue and let him work at his own pace, he opens up. He tells me about his day. He doesn’t whine. He works with intention, eager to apply what he knows.

I closed the book, brushed the tear from eye and went back to the other room. I sat down on the floor and said in my best even-toned, mommy-like, heroine voice, “Hey, Dillon. Thank you for what you wrote in the book. It means a lot.” He shifted his gaze from the television and smiled, revealing the empty space where two front teeth used to be. Then in a moment of pure self-indulgence, I asked, “What do I do to help you not be scared?”

Was it the way we worked through those tearful mornings when he didn’t want to go to school? Was it the way I encouraged him to be brave and ask his teacher a question if he didn’t understand something? Is it because I finally took down the smiling sun that had been hanging on his bedroom wall since birth, because he said it freaked him out? I had to know.

“Well,” he said, “I think I made that part up.”

I burst out laughing.

And next time, Daddy is clipping toenails.

My new year starts today.

Angie Mizzell — Fri, 01 Mar 2013 12:57:04 +0000

Somewhere along this blogging journey, I made a decision to not apologize for posting sporadically. I didn't want to cloud the process with guilt and excuses. Instead, I decided to simply show up. To show up in a real and conscious way and give you the best that I had at the moment. And over the past year as I've recovered from having my third child, (after the third time around I can honestly report that it does, indeed, take that long) I believe I've done that.

But.

In many of my close relationships, I can pinpoint a time where I needed to know, are you in this? That's the thing I need to know about people before I can let down my guard. It's the final threshold of trust. And of course, it goes both ways. I must be willing and able to give what I hope to receive.

So, to be "all in" in my writing life, I realized I had to do more than announce my intentions for the year. I had to do more than say I'd spend the year rewriting the book. I had to take an inventory of my days and weeks and figure out when and how I was actually going to do that.

So lately, I've been teaching myself how to slow down. And wow--that's not easy. I've had to let go of some things. That part is difficult for me to blog about because personal finances and how we negotiate to make ends meet is so personal for everyone. For the majority of my adult life, I've grappled with success--what it means to be successful and have success. And it's been a two decade long (if not a lifetime) journey of realizing I am an artist.

I've had the most difficult time coming to terms with her. With me. My inner artist represents so much truth. And she scares me.

But ultimately, I had to acknowledge that I want to write this blog. And I want to re-write my book. And now, writing in the cracks while I also focus on kids and day-to-day tasks of keeping the household running doesn't feel like settling. It feels like success on my terms.

Perhaps what I have now, at 38, after trying my life all kinds of ways, is perspective. And perspective changes everything.

So, today I'm here, without apology, to let you know that I'm in this. I'm in this relationship to the written word. This relationship to telling stories that matter. And this relationship with those who show up to read those words.

As in every relationship, it's a matter of choosing. I have to say yes, over and over again.

Happy New Year to me.

I did it... because it matters to me.

Angie Mizzell — Wed, 13 Feb 2013 12:55:42 +0000

I told you in my last post that I am downshifting, and I am, really. But it might not have appeared that way if you saw me decorating my house for Cate's first birthday party.

My mother-in-law pointed out, "She's not going to remember it." (grin)

True, I don't remember my own first birthday party, but there's a photo in the archives of me clasping my hands together in awe of the lone candle aglow on top of the homemade cake. I know that it happened, and that is enough.

As I hung tulle on my walls and turned the first floor of our house into a butterfly garden (remember Cate's nursery?), I recognized that I was expending a lot of energy for an event that would be over as quickly as the baby could smash her fingers into the icing.

I knew that as I attempted six times to make a butterfly cake (four went straight to the trash and I saved two) that it would have been easier and cheaper to call the bakery and have them do it. (Remember when I tried to make chocolate pie?)

So in the midst of the buzz and the prep, I consciously decided that I was doing all of this for me. I love how tulle is so forgiving--you just tack it to the wall-- and it's beautiful. I loved watching my husband make butterfly treats out of ziplock bags and turn balloons into flowers. (Random side note: you'll notice the pink balloon looks a bit like a breast. I decided it was a tribute to breastfeeding. I know, I'm hilarious.)

And I especially love how good it felt to decorate my home with butterflies--creatures that have become my own symbols of birth and freedom.

The truth is, this past year has been a blur. They say it goes by quickly, and I'm here to tell you, this year went by faster than the others. Cate has been along for the ride. She's always there, but we just slipped her into the daily routine and the constant motion. When I think hard enough, I can remember some details. There are moments that really stand out.

But I know without a doubt that when I look back on her first birthday, I won't have to dig around for memories. The physical act of setting up for the celebration was my own way of celebrating. I was conscious and present and engaged.

As Cate contemplated the icing, I passed the camera to a friend. I was there. In the moment. On my daughter's first birthday, it was the greatest gift I could have given myself.

You got what I need

Angie Mizzell — Thu, 07 Feb 2013 15:42:30 +0000

Yesterday, I went to the cafe at Barnes & Noble to work while Blake was in preschool. It's one small step towards efficiency--working minutes from the school rather than driving 15 minutes back to my home office. I set up my laptop and went to the counter to order. I stared at the sweet treats, like I always do, and before I had a chance to talk myself out of it, I ordered a nonfat gingerbread latte--with whip--and a toffee crunch Blondie.

As I said on my Facebook page, "sometimes you just gotta."

I needed comfort, and I ordered up a heaping helping of self-love and didn't feel the least bit guilty about it. Lately, I've been beyond tired. A mind numbing state of tired. Living that way for an extended period of time is not okay with me.

It's been a while since I read this article by Anne Lamott, but I knew it was fitting so I dug it up. Here's the part that stays with me:

"You take the action, and the insight follows: You don't think your way into becoming yourself.

I can't tell you what your next action will be, but mine involved a full stop. I had to stop living unconsciously, as if I had all the time in the world."

I am in the midst of a downshift. I am making deliberate and conscious choices towards living a sweeter life. In the background, I can hear the gears grinding and the gurgle of the latte machine.

Beginnings

Angie Mizzell — Fri, 01 Feb 2013 11:11:11 +0000

She stands up and curls her toes into the hardwood floor. Steady. She bounces her diaper-clad bottom. Three half squats. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. She laughs and plops to the ground.

She's on the edge. Ready to walk. Practicing. Testing her limits. Taking her time. And when the time is right, she'll step. And then, she'll step again.

Into her world.

I don't have a bunch of preconceived ideas about who my children will grow up to be. But after having two boys, there's something different about having a daughter. I feel like God did her a favor by letting her come last. Giving me time to test my own limits, take my own time and step out into my own world. I'm better equipped. I understand.

At night, before I put her in the crib, sometimes I whisper to her in the dark. Wherever you go, I have your back.

And sometimes, I sit on the floor and take photos of her feet. I hold out my hand, in case she needs to relocate her center of gravity. Sometimes she reaches out. And sometimes, she doesn't need to.

She's already standing on her own.

Many thanks to Nilsa at Somi Speaks for inviting her readers to join her in a February photo project. The inspiration prompt for today is beginnings.