my truth…

I had a coach tell me a few years back NEVER EVER to mix politics with my business. I remember her saying that my political opinions would only turn off potential clients, and that there’s no place for it in the work I do.

But there are times when us wild women must break the rules.  And today is one of those times.  Because one promise I have always made to myself is that I would only write the stuff that holds meaning for me.  And because I believe, contrary to many out there, that success comes not from acting as someone who others want you to be,  but by daring to live deeply grounded within your own truth, even if it shakes things up.  Even if it means losing clients.

As many know, today is a sad day in North Carolina…   an amendment to our constitution passed yesterday that not only makes it virtually impossible for a family like mine to be legally recognized, but also takes away legal protection for single women with abusive partners and takes health insurance and other benefits away from children whose parents’ relationship isn’t legally recognized.  This is heartbreaking for so many.  Not necessarily surprising… but heartbreaking nonetheless.

I’ve had well-intended folks tell me not to take it personally….  and I get that.  I really do.  I mean, you all know that I’m all for choosing to respond to one’s circumstances in productive and creative ways, and staying positive…  la dee da dee da.

But here’s the thing.

I do take it personally that my relationship, my family, my love– is up for a public vote.  Whose business is it anyway?

I do take it personally when I have to explain to doctors, teachers, and even my own kids that my partner and I are not (and can’t be) legal parents for both of our children.  Having given birth to Zoe, she is legally my daughter.  Having adopted Noah, he is legally Deena’s son.  There’s no way, as it stands, to create a bridge between our two legally separate families– unless we leave our very precious life here in North Carolina behind and move to a state that recognizes co-parent adoption or gay marriage.  Yes, we have wills and powers of attorneys and guardianship papers, but they only go so far.  Try to explain this to a very sensitive eight-year old little boy.

I do take it personally when it feels like I constantly have to try and convince others that while our family may look a little different on the outside, we are really just like them on the inside.  Every morning I pack my kids’ lunches and send them off to school.  We eat waffles and scrambled eggs for breakfast. We take hikes and mow the lawn and clean the house on the weekends.  We all snuggle on the couch under a big cozy blanket and read books out loud, we take the dog for walks around the lake, we deposit paychecks into our bank account, we worry about our kids when they cross the street and how we’ll pay for their college tuition.  And I wouldn’t trade any of it for anything.  There’s nothing here that needs to be fixed or normalized, redeemed or forgiven.

I do take it personally when I have to speculate whether or not my kids’ newer friends and their parents know that Zoe and Noah have two mommies, and wonder if I need to make it clear before inviting someone over for a playdate or if that’s why only two people rsvped for a birthday party.   I do take it personally when it’s obvious that someone is trying to “figure out” our family when we’re simply trying to enjoy one another’s company while eating lunch out, or we’re given looks of disdain and disapproval from strangers who know absolutely nothing about us but seem to automatically assume that our children need to be rescued from us, their own parents.

And so today, I’m grieving.  This is my truth.  And while yes, I have no doubt that love will eventually prevail, it’s as though someone has slapped me in the face, or even worse, slapped my children in the face.  I’m outraged.  I’m heartsick.  I want to run away.  I want to scoop up my family and hide out.

The wild in me knows that allowing myself to feel this is an important part of building up the courage and tenacity and fire to keep up the fight…  to feel the utmost pride and celebration around this wacky tribe that Deena and I have built from fourteen years of profound love…  to soak in all of the tender support and encouragement from amazing friends and family…  to hang on to the hope that this is only one teeny tiny part of a long journey…  and ultimately, to pass every single bit of that along to my precious Zoe and Noah.

And so that’s why I’m writing this, I suppose.  To give my truth a voice, and to refuse to apologize if it happens to rub someone the wrong way.  To honor the possibilities engraved within it, even when it feels frighteningly close to devastating.  

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when you feel like giving up…

Okay, I hope you’re all not sick n’ tired of reading about my upcoming triathlon…

Cause to be honest, I kind of am myself.

I’m sick of talking about it.  Sick of writing about it.  Sick of training for it.  Sick of being terrified of it.  Sick of envisioning myself staggering out of a cold lake to run up a steep hill, throw my shoes on, and jump on my bike for the next nineteen rolling miles.  Sick of wondering what the temperature of that water will be.  Sick of being so swayed by other people’s experiences of triathlons and marathons and their opinions of what I can or can’t do.  Sick of thinking about what to eat the night before and the morning of.  Sick of sore muscles and feeling utterly exhausted.

After kindly listening to my latest apprehensions, two people in the last week have asked me…  ”Is this really something you want to do?“

Like my friend Grace pointed out, that’s a lot like asking a woman who has been in labor for thirty hours straight and has only dilated to three centimeters if they want an epidural.

I’ve reached that grueling part… you know, where the end is in sight, but the end is perhaps the most frightening part of the journey, and you’re just not sure you’ll live through it.   It would be so easy to just let it go.  Afterall, sometimes quitting is the best decision.  Sometimes quitting takes as much courage as persisting.  Maybe I didn’t know what I was getting into.  Perhaps my priorities have changed.  Or it’s entirely possible that I’d be better off doing or focusing on something else.

Seth Godin calls this “the dip”…  he defines it as the “long slog between beginner’s luck and real accomplishment.”  It’s that place where we must decide– is this a dead end, or is it merely a temporary setback?  Is it time to stop, or is it time to keep going?  Do I need to move onto other things, or can I push past this and reach for my own magnificence?

Given the opportunity to quietly back out, even under the grand guise of self-honor or disappointed over the fact that I’ll be missing a friend’s wedding the day of the race, there’s some part of me that won’t let that happen.  It must be the WILD.  It must be the slightly-crazy-but-saner-than-sane, sweaty browed, frizzy-haired animal in me, gnawing at any sense of reason I thought I had.

Damn her.

And thank goodness for her.

Because if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t even be questioning what I’m capable of.  I’d be playing it safe.  I wouldn’t be caught dead training for a triathlon or writing a book or leading circles of women back to their untamed, creative roots.  
If it weren’t for her, I would worry about what other people thought about my hairy legs, my sinkful of dirty dishes, and my occasional niggling need for reassurance.

If it weren’t for her, I’d hardly remember that every day holds a new promise, a new beginning, and a chance to let go of yesterday.  

If it weren’t for her, I’d melt into a sense of mediocrity, and probably be fine with that until who knows when.

She knows that there’s something on the other side of this worth all of the trouble, the angst, the heartache, the distraction… something I’m not sure I can understand or put into words in this moment.  She knows that this is simply one teeny tiny step in the long journey of reclaiming my moxie.  She knows that the moment when I cross that finish line, or even if I don’t cross that finish line, that it’s not the end…  that whatever is gained by this experience is simply an extension of my willingness to evolve, and will spread vibrancy and possibility like wildfire into all other areas of my life.

So I will trust her.  I will keep on keeping on for the next 18 days, and then, with her help,  I will show up and outshine my own limited self-perceptions.

When you feel like giving up, never…  ever…  forget your WILD.  

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divinely contagious…

This last weekend, my family and I ran a 5k.  We’re all still in disbelief that we RAN the whole thing, finishing in just over 40 mintues.  Even my kids, who complain every single time we venture out for a hike, or spend an afternoon gardening for crying outloud!  But we did it, with energy to spare.

Not only that, but my kids eat arugula.  Never in a million years did I think they’d eat anything green other than frozen peas.  And they eat salmon too…  not just tuna out of a can.  Holy wow.  I think I just felt the earth shaking.

I’ve been doing some heavy duty thinking lately about this last year…  how last June, I tiptoed  into my nutritionist’s office due to some belly pain I’d been having, quietly hoping for a simple cure that wouldn’t involve surgery.  Little did I know, I would be walking away with that…  and SO much more.

I came away with permission to focus on myself, even if it meant feeding the kids way too many frozen pizzas and macaroni and cheese out of a box until I had a handle on things.

I came away with the rather crazy idea (at the time) that there was an athlete in me just waiting to jump out (did I mention I’m doing a triathlon in just over FOUR weeks??  EEEEK!).

I came away with a profound understanding about food that often freaks people out (you may or may not want to get me started on sugar or corn or gluten or those sprinkles you put on your ice cream).

I came away with a love for moving my body as a means to come back to center and let go of stress.

I came away with a partner who finally feels empowered despite years of anxiety and hormonal upheaval.

I came away with a father who recently told me that I’m his role model and is making strides to change destructive eating patterns he has battled with almost his whole life.

I came away with a mother-in-law who has grown to love raw almond butter and real maple syrup.

I came away with kids who are really beginning to understand and appreciate and listen to their own bodies, who are wanting to know when the next 5K is, who inspire me day in and day out with their willingness to try new things.

I came away with a friend who has raised money for an orphanage in Haiti by joining me in my triathlon training even though she’s never done anything like this in her life…  and dozens of other friends who are curious and open and launching their own investigations around what their bodies need in order to be healthier.

All of this, just by doing what I was called to do one summer day when my stomach hurt.  All of this by focusing purely on me and what I had to do in order to live more fully in this body.

Being “selfish” has made more of an impact in this world than any number of marketing strategies, valiant efforts, and business secrets combined.  The responsibility is back on me, but not to change or fix or give unsolicited advice to others–  the responsibility lies in finding my own joy, trusting in it, and allowing it (not relying on it) to be divinely contagious.  

Whether it’s the decision to become healthier, or to write a poem or a book just to get the words out, or to dabble with paint on a canvas for the shear pleasure of experimenting, or to simply take the time to snuggle with your cat on the couch…  something magical happens, some subtle (yet powerful) shift… not just for you.  You never know who you are touching.    

There’s absolutely nothing scary or overwhelming or exhausting about that.  There’s no pressure to be anything other than what you already are…  as long as it comes from the heart.  There’s nothing to sustain other than your own happiness.  

So what are you waiting for? 

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the unexpected simplicity of creative joy….

When my dear friend Jennifer Louden invited me to participate in a creative joy EXPLOSION, I was getting ready to step out of a fierce writing and triathlon-training streak in order to venture off and visit my in-laws in the flatlands of Indiana. While I looked forward to the adventure and the change of scenery, I also figured that it would pretty challenging to keep my creative fires burning while I was away.

So I brought a camera with me, thinking that might be a wonderful (and handy) creative outlet…  but unfortunately, I was so busy that I only remembered I had it a few times during the entire trip.

I brought a journal and a sketchbook with me with every intention of filling up a page each night before going to bed…  but each night, exhausted, we marveled at this peculiar thing called cable television in our hotel room instead (this is what happens when you don’t have television at home!).

The artsy, soulful me, lay forgotten on my bedside table along with a bottle of water and a tube of Burt’s Bee’s lip balm.  So much for celebrating creative joy!

Or so I thought.

But then there was one night when the folks in the next room rolled in around midnight, and with them was a tired and cranky child who made it perfectly clear that there wouldn’t be a whole lot of sleeping going on.

I lay there staring at the ceiling wondering what to do with myself as chaos ensued next door.  I thought about turning on the light to write, but knew that I’d risk waking up my own kiddos, who would inevitably determine that to be an invitation to see who could stay awake the longest.  So instead I decided to use that time to get CURIOUS about creative joy… in the dark, noisy, middle of the night.

Being an artist, a creativity catalyst, and a women’s tribe builder, the first assumption that naturally moved through my noggin was that creative joy had everything to do with purple markers and splashes of paint and glitter and fancy words put to paper.

But the mere act of choosing to happily stew on this rather than whining and growling and banging on the walls made me realize that I was limiting myself with these assumptions.

Joy in and of itself is a creative act…  a product of both our desires and our imaginations, woven with a hefty dose of self-trust.   It’s a journey of MAKING MEANING out of the ordinary, feasting on the juiciness of existence, stepping into the fullness of each moment that passes us by (even the challenging ones).  It’s a choice.

What tends to get in my way of claiming that choice is that niggly, inner-critic notion that there’s a right and a wrong way to do everything…   that there is some set of rules I must follow in order to experience authentic, sustainable happiness.  And by all means I must do so to a point of impossible perfection.

And yet a huge part of what feeds my creative joy is the practice of LETTING ALL THAT GO.  Breathing through it, moving my body, and simply being with whatever is happening around me, staying grounded in my own sovereignty and WILDNESS rather than a sense of giving in or giving up.

Creative joy for me this week didn’t involve crayons or paintbrushes or carefully placed words.  It didn’t involve meditating or writing in my journal or twisting myself into bizarre yoga poses.

Don’t get me wrong–  all of these things hold a precious place in my life….  and had I been writing about any other week, you would have surely read more about them…

But this week, it involved slowing down and resting, being deeply present with family, walking through a forest hunting for morels, offering Mamaw a bite of fresh spinach, trying to talk Papaw into hoola-hooping, lots of laughter, and making room for unexpected waves of tears.  It involved getting up early and walking on a Holiday Inn treadmill to get the blood flowing, speaking our truths even if it rubbed others the wrong way, sharing awkward silences and smoothie recipes, giggling at ourselves for being sucked into HGTV and Wii games, difficult conversations about aging parents, and restless nights in noisy hotel rooms.

Creative joy isn’t always the slap your knee, beaming-with-smiles, YEE HA kind of delight (although it certainly can be!)…  it’s the sacred, magic flow extracted from the currents that we face day in and day out…  and our own innate choice to be inquisitive and open to it, regardless of the circumstances.

(If you’re wanting to embrace your own creative joy, don’t miss out on a wonderful opportunity to play with Jennifer Louden, Susannah Conway and Marianne Elliott at the Creative Joy Retreat  on June 28th- July 2nd~  a beautiful celebration of writing, yoga, and photography with three of my favorite wild women ever!)

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something will grow…

It’s hard to believe that spring break is over.  It’s been a lovely week and a half for us…  first a trip to Indiana to visit family, and then home to our annual celebration of spring, Rough-Broglin style…  getting the garden beds prepped and ready for another year of yummies, and planting the seeds, some in starter flats and some directly into the garden.

We simply forget through the winter how therapeutic it can be to sift our fingers through the dirt, to smell fresh soil mixed with cow manure and mushroom compost, to imagine the tiny seeds in the palms of our hands growing into a plethora of tomatoes and snap peas and peppers and cinnamon basil. Noah enjoyed weeding the most, pulling out old vines and leaves by the roots and tossing them into the wheel barrel.  And Zoe’s most cherished job was to make sure that each of our raised beds had plenty of earthworms and roly poly bugs to nourish the soil.

My favorite part is visualizing what’s happening underneath the surface, and exercising my trust that something will indeed grow.  

Because something always does…  even if the corn cobs look more like corn balls, or the carrots don’t grow much larger than a quarter, or the zucchini gets bombarded by beetles before we have a chance to harvest them.   And sometimes something pops up, and we have no earthly idea of what it is, but we let it grow anyway, simply because it is a splendid shade of green.

What seeds are you planting as the springtime unfolds?

Lean in close.

Smell the birth of new beginnings…

and let your own wildness serve as fertilizer for what’s to come.

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