I’ve always loved her. But now … oh now it goes much deeper.
Admittedly, I was not a huge fan of the book “Eat. Pray. Love.” I actually, and this never happens with me, preferred the movie to the book. [gasp!] I also didn’t make it all the way through the paperback, so that might have had something to do with it. But her latest work, “Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear,” really resonated with me.
True, I’m very lucky. My job, and jobs to this point, have allowed me to use that wacky, wonderful creative sphere of my brain in a capacity that brings both a general sense of satisfaction and suitable income. But the majority of folks have to find a way to interject creative beats into their work. I have a friend who’s a dental hygienist, for example. I don’t imagine that, on a routine day, plague and floss do much to lube up the creative wheels in the cranium. I could be wrong. My folks sell insurance. I don’t see those creative sectors of their message center lighting up on the regular. But again, I could be wrong.
But what Liz is saying with her book is that you don’t have to make a living from whatever medium you like to play at. You don’t have to torture your hobby to manipulate it into what defines you. But you do have to entertain it. You do have to create. paint. draw. write. act. sing. garden. cook. sew. knit. bake. sculpt. storytell. Something that lights up that part of your soul often enough that it doesn’t extinguish entirely.
I have this friend who’s an actress out in L.A. She comes home almost every December to spend some time with friends and family over the holidays and, it never fails, someone always asks her about her backup plan. “What will you do if you don’t make it?” they ask. “The thing people don’t get,” she explained over whiskey and ginger beer on New Year’s Eve, “is that I’m doing what I love. I have made it. I’m making a living acting and creating art and work that I’m proud of and that’s all I ever wanted. You may not see me on TV, but that’s not what it’s about for me.” The sentiment aligns so beautifully with this line from Big Magic: “You can measure your worth by your dedication to your path, not by your successes or failures.”
Liz doesn’t demand that you quit your desk job and pursue your long-hidden aspiration of painting a scene from the top of Mt. Everest or anything (unless you want to), but she does plant the seed and water it a little.
“Creativity is sacred, and it is not sacred. What we make matters enormously, and it doesn’t matter at all. We toil alone, and we are accompanied by spirits. We are terrified, and we are brave. Art is a crushing chore and a wonderful privilege. Only when we are at our most playful can divinity finally get serious with us. Make space for all these paradoxes to be equally true inside your soul, and I promise—you can make anything. So please calm down now and get back to work, okay? The treasures that are hidden inside you are hoping you will say yes.”
She also offers a bit of caution. Ideas are fleeting and can often be fickle. If we don’t nurture that grand invention or storyline or project that whispers in our ear, it might just pack up and move onto a soul that will listen.
“ideas are alive, that ideas do seek the most available human collaborator, that ideas do have a conscious will, that ideas do move from soul to soul, that ideas will always try to seek the swiftest and most efficient conduit to the earth (just as lightning does).”
It’s a quick read and I’d encourage you check it out so you can at least entertain the notion that a a little creativity can bring a great deal to your days. You don’t have to write a book, but start a journal. You don’t have to open a bakery, but maybe try decorating a birthday cake yourself. Plot out a killer garden. Put together a play with the kids. Just play.
Here are some more of my favorite excerpts from the book.
“Creative entitlement simply means believing that you are allowed to be here, and that—merely by being here—you are allowed to have a voice and a vision of your own.”
“So whenever that brittle voice of dissatisfaction emerges within me, I can say ‘Ah, my ego! There you are, old friend!’ It’s the same thing when I’m being criticized and I notice myself reaching with outrage, heartache, or defensiveness. It’s just my ego, flaring up and testing its power. In such circumstances, I have learned to watch my heated emotions carefully, but I try not to take them too seriously, because I know that it’s merely my ego that has been wounded–never my soul It is merely my ego that wants revenge, or to win the biggest prize. It is merely my ego that wants to start a Twitter war against a hater, or to sulk at an insult or to quit in righteous indignation because I didn’t get the outcome I wanted. At such times, I can always steady my life one more by returning to my soul. I ask it, ‘And what is it that you want, dear one?’ The answer is always the same: ‘More wonder, please.’ As long as I’m still moving in that direction–toward wonder–then I know I will always be fine in my soul, which is where it counts. And since creativity is still the most effective way for me to access wonder, I choose it.”
“The universe buries strange jewels deep within us all, and then stands back to see if we can find them.”
“But to yell at your creativity, saying, ‘You must earn money for me!’ is sort of like yelling at a cat; it has no idea what you’re talking about, and all you’re doing is scaring it away, because you’re making really loud noises and your face looks weird when you do that.”
“Because the truth is, I believe that creativity is a force of enchantment—not entirely human in its origins.”
“Recognizing that people’s reactions don’t belong to you is the only sane way to create. If people enjoy what you’ve created, terrific. If people ignore what you’ve created, too bad. If people misunderstand what you’ve created, don’t sweat it. And what if people absolutely hate what you’ve created? What if people attack you with savage vitriol, and insult your intelligence, and malign your motives, and drag your good name through the mud? Just smile sweetly and suggest – as politely as you possibly can – that they go make their own fucking art. Then stubbornly continue making yours.”
“I have a friend, an aspiring musician, whose sister said to her one day, quite reasonably, ‘What happens if you never get anything out of this? What happens if you pursue your passion forever, but success never comes? How will you feel then, having wasted your entire life for nothing?’ My friend, with equal reason, replied, ‘If you can’t see what I’m already getting out of this, then I’ll never be able to explain it to you.’ When it’s for love, you will always do it anyhow.”
“Pure creativity is magnificent expressly because it is the opposite of everything else in life that’s essential or inescapable (food, shelter, medicine, rule of law, social order, community and familial responsibility, sickness, loss, death, taxes, etc.). Pure creativity is something better than a necessity; it’s a gift. It’s the frosting. Our creativity is a wild and unexpected bonus from the universe.”
“A creative life is an amplified life. It’s a bigger life, a happier life, an expanded life, and a hell of a lot more interesting life. Living in this manner—continually and stubbornly bringing forth the jewels that are hidden within you—is a fine art, in and of itself.”
It’s been a hectic and emotionally exhausting week. I’m 7 days deep into a Whole30, which tends to make me antisocial for a spell and overly reactive, and I spent like 48 solid hours filling out my Bachelor bracket. But trumping that, there’ve been some brutal life lessons in our household as of late. It would appear that 2016 has come in like lion … one with sharp-ass fangs and Freddy Krueger freaking claws.
Heaven.
The good world up above gained a precious soul last week when Hank’s Grandma Monie walked through the pearly gates. She deteriorated quickly after a fall about a month ago. For as long as I’ve been in Hank’s life, Monie struggled with her hearing, mobility to some extent, and memory. She put a lot of weight in being social, volunteering and teaching, and she always kept a sense of humor about her age, but I know she often felt smaller and unimportant because of her handicaps. I pray, and believe, she entered into heaven through a most-electric sunset, with a bounce in her step and a smirk on her face. That her husband and great grandson were there to greet her, and she danced with all the friends who went before her.
As much as I’ve struggled with death myself, talking to the girls about this kind of loss strangled me with anxiety. There is no handbook, no guidelines, on how to walk your child through this life truth. Admittedly, I don’t know how to get through it as a 33-year-old woman. They had just gone to visit their great grandma, so when we told them she had passed away and gone to heaven, it was a bit of a shock, bring about some mixed reactions. JoJo started sobbing. At 6, I think the finality of it registered with her little heart. “It’s OK,” Spikey answered. “Because she went to heaven and then she gets to start her life all over. It’s sad that she died, but it’s OK she went to heaven.” Eventually JoJo put her energy toward drawing pictures for Grandma Monie to take to Jesus and things calmed down a bit. I was a mess.
The biggest dilemma, as I’m sure anyone who’s been through this can understand, was the funeral. Do we take them to the viewing, or just to the funeral but not the burial, or to all of it, or to none of it. Given my fear of death and tendency to avoid anything uncomfortable or emotionally wrenching, my gut call was to have them stay with mom and not be exposed to the harsh reality of true loss just yet. An attempt to preserve their innocence just a little bit longer. But in Hank’s family, death was treated as a natural part of life. Just as people will enter this world, they will leave it. It is sad but not scary. It is reality and they are looking to us to see how to process that reality. We have to set the example.
We decided to take them to the viewing so they could say goodbye. Spike was so brave and timid and wonderfully naive. Her confusion was in why Grandma was still here when we told her she’d gone to heaven. The concept of a soul at the age of 4 is as tangible as it is elusive. JoJo wasn’t sure she wanted to go up once we got there. “That’s OK,” I said. But eventually she followed, standing behind me, peeking only for a moment with confusion and fear. It was a face I’m confident I would have made at her age in this situation.
Talking through the loss of a family member, and turning my face toward it out of my concern for the girls actually made accepting the loss of a woman I loved a little easier. Now, as we work through the grieving process, I don’t know for sure how our little ladies feel about death, but I know we handled it the best we could. We talked about Grandma and why we loved her. And we will speak of her often to remember her. That is how we will honor Grandma Monie and the footprint she left on our hearts.
The Law.
Every other week we have Big Breakfast – a fitting name for the gathering though I can’t for the life of me remember who officially came up with it – at my folks. My entire family shows up in pajamas to shove Dad’s famous dippy eggs, pancakes and cinnamon rolls down our pieholes. Eventually the 10 grandkids disperse to torture each other and make messes upstairs, out of the adults’ sight, while the grownups sip coffee and retell stories we’ve heard 8 trillion times.
Things got a little exciting this week. “Mom!” Spike exclaimed. “JoJo just called 9-1-1!” “She what?!” As soon as I stood up to go hunt my eldest daughter down, the phone rang at Mom and Dad’s. That was the dispatcher. I yelled her name upstairs. I yelled her name downstairs. I yelled her name upstairs again. i yelled her name downstairs again. “I’m …. right … here …” a little mousy voice whispered from under my parents’ bed. “Get out here.” I said, in that slow, spiccato tone that sends hot pee down even my own leg. About that time, I heard, “It’s the cops!”
A sheriff was in the driveway and Mom’s dogs were circling his authoritative feet, playing into the excitement. It would seem that my two little girls called the emergency line a combined total of five times. Five. Times. “I want you to come in and talk to the kids,” Mom said. “Ma’am, I have to come inside.” the sheriff replied.
He brought his broad shoulders and chocolate brown uniform through the front door and – thank the Lawd – cast his kind eyes down on a scared shitless crew of little ones. Here stood two mothers, a Grammy and 10 grandchildren, the majority of us still in our pajamas at noon. I felt JoJo quivering behind my back and heard her regretful sniffles. “Honey, don’t be scared. You aren’t in trouble,” he offered. I was not feeling as generous. “You need to apologize and you need to understand why this was so wrong.” I said as directly as I could in front of an officer. “Now you know that if you call that number, a police officer will show up. And that is only OK if you are hurt, we are hurt, or you are lost. Do. you. under. stand?” “Yeeeeee[sniffle]eeeeesssss.” she answered.
The kind sheriff left CrazyTown behind to go bust bigger bad guys and Spike and JoJo learned a very important lesson. When you dial 9-1-1, the fuzz is gonna come for ya.
Do you ever see a magnificent sunset and think, “That must be the exact spot where souls enter into heaven.”?
Tune in today to see if she can … prep for a dietary turnaround.
It’s the night before my third round (fourth attempt) of Whole30 and I gotta say, I love this time in a cleanse. When the food is prepped and the week of recipes is planned and I don’t quite want to rip the heads off of everyone around me yet. It’s a beautiful time of optimism and lofty aspirations and dreams of white t-shirts and stretchy skinny jeans. But, with the impending denial that any incredibly restrictive scenario brings, comes a bit of lashing out. For me, that lashing out comes with an impressive caloric tally and a healthy dose of remorse and humiliation.
Here, in no particular order, are my confessions on my Whole30 Eve:
- I ate a ginormous bowl of Lucky Charms in a shameless attempt to polish off my non-compliant cashew milk. “Don’t look at me,” I told my husband, as I sorted through sugary horseshoes in an embarrassing sea of purple milk.
- While cleaning out the pantry, I found a box of chocolate graham crackers that expired in July 2012. Where do these things live for all those years? Like, I look in there … typically daily. And I haven’t noticed them hanging out, just, expiring. Where were those chocolate graham crackers hiding?
- In the psychological battle between eating the holiday candy and throwing it in the garbage where it belongs, I opted for eating, on average, 5 haystacks and 7 peanut clusters every day for the last 5 days. Kind of gross, right? Also hid the rest for a post-Whole30 treat. (This is what they call “setting yourself up for future failure.”)
- I came down with an insane cold-type thing on New Year’s Eve. I lost my voice, which stopped coming from the general area of my glands which were so sore and swollen I thought you could visibly see their abnormal heft. I had the spins and just a severe case of the “blechs”. None of these afflictions could stop me from cramming in a buffet of bad choices (mostly dairy) as the ball dropped, Arby’s and a sausage roll on Saturday and ruebens today. These were accompanied, of course, by the aforementioned haystacks and clusters, a fact that could be attributed to my slow recovery.
- I watched in awe as my lovely husband, who is going to accompany me about 90% percent of the time on this particular Whole30 journey, cleared an entire bag of jalepeno kettle chips in 48 hours LIKE A BOSS.
OK, I think we’re all good here. You good? I’m good. Let’s do this Whole30 thing!
Until next time …
For a goal junkie like me, it shouldn’t come as a shock when I, right here on this blog with tens of dozens of followers, officially declare my unyielding love for New Year’s resolutions. I am, after all, an aspiring optimist. I embrace the idea that, even though I haven’t been able to pull something off for the past 365 days (or 33 years … whatever), the changing out of the calendar, as cued up by Jenny McCarthy of Singled Out fame, will somehow bring about the strength and willpower and skill necessary to finally climb that mountain … give up those sugary snacks … pump up that flat tire.
“This is it! This is the year,” I proclaim every January 2 (January 1 would just be unrealistic, cocky and disrespectful to the due process my hangover demands). And I mean it, too. I go into it guns blazing, ready to fight the good fight in the battle of habit vs. headway. I print off lists and pencil in reminders and attack the first month with all the gusto of a potential Bachelor suitor at her first cocktail party. Eye on the prize. Forward ever. Backward never.
In the spirit of the aforementioned optimism, I’m going to drop this particular line of commentary off right here and gloss over the point in the year when the wheels inevitably fall off the wagon and I find myself in a parking lot eating Ritz crackers dipped in chocolate and drinking gas station cappuccino listening to the new Adele CD, working through all the feels. Yeah, I think we’ll just stop there and move on to the goal portion of this post.
First, let’s journey back in time.
Resolutions for 2014
1) I want to practice mindfulness/meditation.
2) Have a fit pregnancy.
3) I want to find a passion project, something that isn’t tied to work that encourages me to stretch as a writer again.
4) I want to play more with the girls.
5) Move forward with our dream of backpacking.
6) Try to stay positive at work.
7) Stop living by a schedule!
8) After this baby gets here, it’s time to get IN THE BEST SHAPE OF MY LIFE.
9) No more yelling.
10) I want to start celebrating other people more and making them feel special
Resolutions for 2015
1. Meditate (10-20 5 days a week)
2. Run the half in September
3. Backpack at least twice
4. Kick sugar addiction
5. Write something more than subject lines.
6. Quit. F-ing. Smoking.
So, being generous, I’d say I’m 4 for 16. The numbers could be stronger, I’ll admit. I’ve checked off some important ones – the cigs and the half – and I’ve thrown a few into this year’s group for a third consecutive round. Who knows, maybe this really will be their year. (Meditation, I’m lookin’ at you, kid.) After a great deal of deliberation, and with some input from the peanut gallery, here is the big reveal – my list for the year ahead. This is it. I’m really doing it. Forward ever. Backward never.
Feel free to share your own resolutions or give me unsolicited but helpful advice regarding any of mine. Anything goes!
Tune in today to see if she can … get a tattoo. (Yes, you read that right.)
I don’t know how many times I asked myself how I got there … wearing a cardigan backwards, negotiating the benefits of unbearable vs. extremely uncomfortable pain, as framed skeleton faces looked on in disapproval. I remember the playful banter and hypothetical happiness, but I can’t pinpoint the exact moment, some 3 months ago, somewhere between mojitos and margaritas, when it was confirmed that we would, indeed, get matching tattoos on this fateful day in late December. But here we were, 5 high school friends getting fresh ink on an otherwise mundane Wednesday. I came straight from work. I mean, I was wearing opaque tights for crying out loud. Who gets a tattoo wearing tights?
The shock some of you might be experiencing upon hearing that I went through with this is not lost on me. In fact, no one was likely more shocked than I, the tattooee, was. I am, after all, a mother of 3. And in my 30s. And a complete pansy ass. I have diapers and smashed goldfish crackers in my purse and I can sing the theme song from Jake and the Neverland Pirates like a baby-lovin’ boss. I take melatonin and tuck myself in at 9. I have a Pinterest board dedicated solely to Crockpot meals and I can’t remember the last time I was up past 2 a.m. when it wasn’t related to a baby’s fever, diarrhea or teeth. All of this would suggest I’m not a prime candidate for getting marked for life. But I guess, in a lot of ways, all of this was the argument for why I did it.
My hesitations – and there were many – were tied more to the actual act and placement. I mean, it’s gonna hurt, that’s a given. And I’m not particularly fond of self-inflicted agony. But also, how will I explain it to the girls when they see it? And shouldn’t I get something that symbolizes my family first, if I’m going to do this at all?
The design our group agreed on, arrows crossing, is a Native American symbol of friendship, representing the meeting of two different souls. That was the easy part. The bonds I feel with the great women in my life mean enough to me that I knew I’d never regret wearing a reminder of that love. So, about 2 weeks ago, I started mulling over the mark by having Hank draw different arrows on me in different places I was considering; my hip, my ankle, my wrist (a close second for the perfect spot) and my side, right under my armpit.
I must have had that poor man draw 50 pseudo tattoos on me. “Yeah … but smaller maybe.” “Do you think that looks trashy?” “Is that too noticeable?” “My fat is eating it there.” Always the patient onlooker and supportive spouse, he kept his criticisms to himself (and I’m sure he had a few he could have shared), and erased and replaced arrow after arrow, until finally I arrived at a spot, design and size I felt comfortable with.
The day of the appointments, still not 100 percent convinced I was in, I told myself I’d know what to do when I got there. Surely, your instinct kicks in in a situation like this, right? It was 2 days before Christmas and the Midwest was blanketed in thunderstorm warnings. I thought it might be a sign. In fact I mentioned that more than a few times to my friend Jackie when she picked me up from work. “It’s not a sign!” she urged. “You’re freaking out.”
And I was. When we walked into the tattoo parlor (a sentence I never thought I would write) I was relieved out how nice it was, but the tidiness was no match for my nervous stomach and rapid, racing pulse. I couldn’t stop peeing and pacing. My cool cucumber buddies, all of whom already had tattoos, were also sweaty and super chatty. ,Not a good sign. If I were to walk in cold of the street and assess the situation, I would deduct the group was recently exposed to an abundance of gases or 5 seconds away from meeting Sarah Jessica Parker (because people, I imagine, get ridiculously giddy before meeting Miss Carrie Bradshaw). We did not have our shit together.
Naturally, I was last of the five. I stood like a first-time dad in a delivery room, watching as they tightened their mouths and clenched their teeth, covered their eyes with their forearms and lied out loud, buzz after buzz. “It’s not that bad.” they’d say. “It’s an annoying pain.” Let me ask you a question, dear reader, does an “annoying pain” sound like something made up but tolerable to you? It did to me. They were selling crap and I was buying manure by the bucketful.
This is your badass move, Courtney, I told myself. You only get so many opportunities in your life to do the unexpected and make this kind of memory. Tomorrow is never promised. Get out of your head and live this moment. No regrets. No second guessing. Go grab this experience by the balls.
After sharing the illustration I unearthed in my exhaustive Pinterest explorations, I was told the artist wasn’t super comfortable making it as small as I’d envisioned (“The size of a nickel?”). He mocked up an alternative and I agreed. First blow to my plan and psyche. I walked over to the table like a death row inmate who’d just finished her fried chicken. The second blow came swiftly and shortly after I pointed to the spot where I wanted my arrows, a spot still red from my husband’s practice sketches. “Can I tell you something?” the nice man with the needle gun asked. “Oh gosh, what?” I said. “I only say this because I know this is your first tattoo and I can tell you’re a little nervous, but that spot right there is going to be pretty brutal. The farther down you go, the more tolerable it is.” He didn’t say painless, mind you, just more tolerable. So, we moved ‘er on down.
I assumed the position on the table and, sensing my sobering realization of the reality of my impending pricks, was joined by my friend Jackie, a nurse and all-around outstanding individual. This is a woman who has birthed 3 babies herself, stopped people from bleeding out and seen patients in their final moments on earth. She’s powerful stuff, is what I’m saying. And thank God she is because, in this instance, mama needed a life coach. She crouched down next to my face, held both my hands and talked me through it. “Acknowledge the pain. Now let it go. Acknowledge the pain. Now let it go. You are OK. You are going to be OK.”
“I’m going to do one line,” the artist said, “and then we’ll see how you feel.” A sweet gesture, but I didn’t come for a line, man. I think it’s kind of like peeing your pants. Once you start, you’re pretty much all in, even though it totally sucks. You’re getting a mark whether you finish it out or not.
The peanut gallery SnapChatted and verbally high-fived me for several seconds before … well … something terrible happened. I started to cry. In my defense, it really freaking hurt. Like getting stabbed with an epidural needle in your ribs for a stupid amount of time. And, like Jackie said on the drive home, “I think it was an emotional release, too. I mean, you were so nervous.” Whatever the cause, it was a release of epic proportions. It could not be denied that there, on a paper-covered massage table in a tattoo parlor on the outskirts of downtown, I, Courtney, aspiring bad mother shut your mouth, sobbed all over my rebel moment. Possibly my one shot at being a badass, and I drowned the whole thing in salty, sticky, mascara dripped tears, and the entire room got really uncomfortably quiet.
From the tip of the first arrow to the final stroke of a feather, homeboy had me wrapped up in about 3 minutes flat. Everyone erupted in over-compensating support, declaring how proud of me they were as I used a tough paper towel to rub off streams of mascara from my upper cheek. None of it was what I pictured; the tattoo, the pain, my ability to hold it together. But it was done. I had a tattoo. I even got a bent, broken tip to forever remind me that I jumped but fought through it. If I hadn’t seen a picture of the thing and felt a bit of a pin cushion tingle (what I would accurately describe as an “annoying pain”), I wouldn’t have believed it.
We paid the guys in time for them to, I’m confident, go meet their buddies to recall the side-splitting tale of the suburban housewife who just an hour ago cried on their table getting a one-color, three-minute arrow tattoo. They probably slapped their full-sleeved forearms on the table and wiped away tears of laughter with fingers intricately dressed in cursive letters and celtic symbols. But alas, who gives a shit, right? We too went for drinks. Shots all around with the clever caption, “First the ink, and now we clink!” And then, sitting there, I felt a little bit of the badass I’d imagined.
After 5 days of living with it, I’ve decided I really love my tattoo, and I think we’re going to get along just fine. The reactions have been pretty stellar, I must say. “What possessed you?!” my mom gasped with tears in her eyes. “I can think of so many other things to get …” my sister snickered. My dad just laughed nervously and walked away. Pretty positive otherwise. The kids haven’t noticed it yet, but when they do, I’ll just tell them that Mommy and her friends got matching pictures, and I’ll hope that someday they have friends who are as crazy and lovable and loyal as the ones I’ve managed to pick up along the way. And when the day comes when they ask if they can get one just like me, I’ll be sure to tell them, in great detail, what an “annoying pain” it really was.
Until next time … Badass, out!
I’ve managed to pull myself out of my sugar cookie coma just long enough to piece together a blog post before the week runs out. This is not a drill, people. Today alone I’ve consumed 2 snickerdoodles, 2 chocolate mint cookies and 4 peanut butter Frosted Flakes candies. I hope your Christmas was full of family, food and chaos, just like ours. At 6, 4 and 1, the kids were so into it this year and it just made for so much fun. Candy the elf was here with her typical shenanigans and, for the first time, I set an alarm but didn’t have to go wake up the girls. The sound of those excited little feet, followed by, “He came! Oh my gosh, Santa came!” made my ovaries wink up at me with that familiar ache of fleeting bliss. It was the sweetest. (The girls, not the ovary wink.)
But as much as I feel like I get through the season with some successes – ignoring the fact that I’ve never gotten Christmas cards out the door and didn’t roll sugar cookies of my own for the second consecutive year – I always find myself in awe of the master of the holiday, my mom. I was born from Mother Christmas and she is as legit as they come when it comes to jivin with the holly jolly.
Here are a few things I’ve observed in my time watching her in action.
The more the merrier.
I’ve mentioned the Grand Lighting Ceremony and a bit about the outdoor decorations, but truly, my parents’ house is a joyful joint in its entirety come November 29. I don’t know where she keeps all this stuff the rest of the months, but once the turkey goes in the fridge, every beam is garnished with garland, every cabinet topped with a stuffed Santa and his pals, every light adorned with ornaments. When your dwelling is deemed the “Christmas house” I suppose you acquire a lot of yuletide knickknacks. It makes sense. But it’s during this time, when her home is dripping in glitter and gifted craft show Santas, that my mom seems most comfortable in her house. And I love the smell … like sticky kids and cinnamon pinecones.
Be the classic. Let others experiment.
My mom always hosts at least two, often three, Christmas gatherings at her house every year. The amount of food this woman churns out makes my wallet, back and stomach hurt. Rows of slow cookers brimming with simmering meatballs, ham balls, chili cheese dip, macaroni and cheese, and wings. Platters of rye bread, cheese and meat. Ham sandwiches and homemade vegetable dip on the relish tray. As impressive as the quantity of it is, the menu is constant from year to year. She has mastered her holiday spread and thus, her plan of attack the day before and morning of the party. People look forward to her predictable fare and never get bored because everyone else brings different sides and desserts. Every Christmas is deliciously familiar with some new things to nosh on as well. Genius.
Get a list and then get creative.
I can remember, when I was a young girl, my mom would give me the catalogs that came in the mail and a marker and I would go to town. I’d circle things I liked and triple circle the ones I had to have. No doubt three circles, pressing hard with the marker, was unspoken code for, “Put this one next to my new Popple, yo.” Guaranteed, on Christmas morning I would get my most-treasured catalog callouts but also, a handful of the most thoughtful surprises. Things I didn’t even think of, but I was so glad Santa did. A classic is the year Mom got a beagle puppy for my brother. She hid the dog for at least a week, often right under Matt’s completely unsuspecting nose. Christmas morning, she has him close his eyes and plops this precious little pup down in his lap. I swear the giant smiled the most sincere, most surprised grin I’ve ever seen. It was like holiday urban legend. It was my maternal role model at her finest. She conditioned me to go for the big moment. Now, as a mom, I have to have at least one thing for everyone in my family that they weren’t expecting and, upon seeing it, realize they can’t live without.It’s an exhaustive pursuit, but when it works out, it’s like Christmas crack. I know a lot of folks like to give their loved one a list with very specific links to very specific products in very specific colors. I dabble in that, but I still love the unpredictable presents. It’s a Marilyn move, and it’s pimp, to deliver a Christmas miracle for someone you love, especially when they never saw it coming.
Holiday albums on fleek.
Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers, Neil Diamond, the Judds and Sandi Patty. Those are the CDs that magically pop into the shuffle every December at Mom and Dad’s. Just a few notes into “A Christmas to Remember,” with Dolly’s sweet, sugary voice popping from the speakers and I am all in for holly and twinkle lights.
Throw a blanket on it.
When it comes to the packages under the tree at my family’s Christmas, three things are guaranteed: 1) My mom will have at least 5 gifts with no name on them that she then has to open herself to hand out to the proper owner. 2) At least one person will get a gift that makes them sob like a little holiday bitch. (This year it was a hand-painted portrait of Mom’s dog, Buddy, who she lost last year.) and 3) Childlike excitement will build around the giant gifts in the corner with blankets thrown over them. Sometimes it’s a big ticket item, sometimes it’s a laundry basket. You just never know. And that’s the joy of the blanket. In the end it doesn’t matter what’s under the blanket. It serves its purpose by populating hype. It’s a mind game and she’s the master.
Be Scrooge at the end of the movie.
From Christmas Eve through Christmas night, my madre’s merry spirit makes all of us feel so grateful and giddy and lovey. She is so generous and so thoughtful but doesn’t make a show of it. She just wants to watch everyone enjoy her hard work. She doesn’t even open her own presents until the kids are already playing with theirs. Since having kids of my own, I get it. I gather more jollies from my family’s reactions when they open something special than I do from anything someone could pick up for me at a store. I feel nostalgic about the season and people and the traditions. I see Christmas through my mother’s eyes and it’s beautifully simple and worth all the hard work. God bless us, everyone.
Happy holidays, everybody. Let’s all meet back here in time to make some New Year’s resolutions and revaluate these bad dietary decisions, shall we?
In my stack of recently unearthed journal entries, was a letter written to my younger self. This was my wisdom at 17.
One day on a walk, I ran into my 10-year-old self. She was short and skinny and stood with a worried look permanently stretched across her face.
“Courtney?” I said.
“Yes, and you are?” she replied.
“I am you in 7 years. Older, wiser and most importantly, stronger.”
“But I don’t get it. How? Why?”
“Just trust me. I don’t have long, so pay attention. Ahead in the road, especially middle school, you’ll feel lost and lonely sometimes. It’s important that you don’t allow yourself to become a follower. Followers never outgrow the people they stand behind. Be open to new things and doubtful talents. Most importantly, people will try to get you down, but that’s just their insecurity showing through. Everything lands where it’s supposed to.And with that, I turned and walked away. The rest she has to learn on her own. That’s how she will become me.
First, I have to just say what we’re all thinking here. This seems like a crazy heavy conversation to be having with a 10 year old, no? Not to be my own worst critic, but ease up there philosophical Phyllis. She can’t possibly process that deep of an emotional dump. Cheese and rice ….
I do feel the need to rekindle this assignment; to right the wrong that is my over-dramatic, over-analytical junior year docent into adulthood. If, at 33, I just happened to collide with this high school version of myself on the street, I would smile fondly in an attempt to calm and quiet her 50-miles-a-minute thoughts. I would speak deliberately and honestly, knowing her thirst for truth, clarity and directness.
“Courtney,” I would say, “stop focusing so much on what success should look like or might look like. It will look like different things at different times. Sometimes you’ll think you have it, only to discover, it doesn’t really feel as great as a simpler happiness did. It will find you if you resist the urge to chase it. It will mean less when you get there than you think it will right now. In fact, you could measure it in the increments they use to measure air in comparison to the value you find in the people who will fill your home.
Those people, those amazing blessings your mind can’t even fathom at this point, will come to you through love. I know you worry about if and where that kind of love lives and how it will find you. It’s there, dear girl, and it’s much closer than you think. Find a peace in your being and confidence in your own skin and your heart will let you know when he gets here.
Make your friends, your family and your health a priority. Make phone calls, send cards and take walks. Watch your mom; believe it or not, one day your crazy and her crazy are going to look pretty darn similar, and you’ll be better for it. Relax on the sugar and the smokes and the self deprecation. Go out and push your body.
You worry so dang much. And, I’m sorry to tell you, that’s not going anywhere. You are cursed with a persistent perplexity and it only grows as your care for those around you deepens. The only thing I can tell you is that, to this point, the road has been mostly smooth with subtle turns that brought unexpected joy and growth. Try to look around and appreciate the adventures when they come.
Never stop working on yourself. Never trust a stranger when they stand to gain anything more than friendship from your relationship, and visit with yourself in the quiet moments. You might like what you hear when you really listen. Enjoy the journey … it’s a good one.”
And then I’d go get frozen yogurt and she would go get a pack of Camel Lights and Diet Coke. I mean you have to let kids make their mistakes, right?
“Honey, go upstairs and see if there’s anything you want to take home before we have that all torn apart,” Mom said. Every couple of years my folks get the bug to overhaul some section of their farmhouse. The long-vacated second level seems like as good a place as any to slap on some fresh paint and throw down some new vinyl. The rooms that once held my sister and me have been a warm ghost town for my parents’ puppy to defecate and grandchildren to Crayola the walls for years now.
I’m always amazed at how even now, 15 years since I technically lived under Mom and Dad’s roof exclusively (Hank and I did spend a year back in the nest in 2010-11 when we moved back to town) these relics of my younger years still remain. A high school phone directory with pager numbers written on the back. My cheerleading jacket and an “it’s a cheer thing” t-shirt. Pictures dimmed by a centimeter of pasty dust. A vase keepsake from prom that reads, “Oh what a night”. (Which I believe it really was.)
I’ve come and left with a carful of boxes at least three times, and these are the memories that didn’t make the cut. There just wasn’t a place to put them in my grownup life. Not that I wanted to lose them forever, but I didn’t want them on my suburban mantel, either. You just assume your folks’ place is your evergreen locker. A vault you can crack open at your leisure. Until they tell you to get your shit and throw it in your own dang attic so they can have a designer come in and punch up the color scheme.
My most recent sweep turned up a stack of notebook pages torn from the spiral binding nestled in my old vanity drawer. At first I thought they were just pieces of my typical written ramblings about teenage angst and pimpled pipe dreams, but then it came back to me. They were assignments from my …maybe junior … English class. The teacher, Mr. Rusk, would begin some of our sessions by proposing a question or topic. He would give us a few minutes to consider it and then encourage us to free write our thoughts. At the time, I don’t remember thinking this was anything particularly motivating or inspiring. But to read them from where I sit at the table now … gold. Pure gold. There are some real nuggets here.
Rusk’s Topic: Insignificance
2000 Courtney: “There are so many things in our world that we find insignificant; people, emotions, litter, time and pennies. I see these things trashed day after day. Throwing bags of litter out of the car window or spending a gorgeous April day on the couch watching a movie you’ve seen 8.000 times. Pennies are everywhere. People are always seeming to drop them, leave them, or simply just misplace them. They’re found stuck to drive through windows and clinging to car floor mats. People see them as 1 cent, and well, meaningless. Each penny is worth something. Saved, it can add up to a small fortune. Greed has led to the demise of the copper piece. Everyone wants a quarter instead. But those who save and don’t waste will pull ahead in the long run.”
Rusk’s Topic: What does it mean to be fearless?
2000 Courtney: “How many people can honestly say that they are fearlessly themselves? Maybe it only happens when we’re older. Maybe it’s impossible to fearlessly be yourself in high school, a time when most people don’t even know who they are. What holds people back from being themselves? Is it insecurity? Is it doubt? Or do people simply not know how to be themselves? I believe society drives people to be like everyone else because that is socially acceptable. I think that people should live by that statement. Fearlessly be yourself. After all, it’s only showing the sides of yourself that we usually hide away. It can’t be all bad.”
Rusk’s Topic: If you could invent something, what would it be?
2000 Courtney: “Warning labels for human beings. I would be able to read what I’m getting myself into before I was in too deep. For instance, I would probably avoid a person wearing a sign saying, ‘I am on a path to complete selfishness and you’re in my way.’ Perhaps maybe I would even be wise enough to notice a sign saying, ‘I say what you want to hear and do what you want me to do … until you leave.’ Boys would be another area of my life which would greatly benefit from these signs. Hearbreak is an inevitable part of dating. They go toegether like peanut butter and jelly. The warning label might read ‘I’ll give you the best 3 weeks of your life. It’s the three months after that you have to worry about.’ But, as helpful as these would be, I’d rather take the bad with the good and experience life’s lessons.”
Rusk’s Topic: Purpose
2000 Courtney: “A predestination given by God which is usually realized and achieved by a human being. That is purpose. I find different purposes in different ways. For example, after a month-long relationship that my friend assumed would be a lifetime, her heart was broken when he ran back to his ex girlfriend. i learned of the news when my friend showed up on my doorstep with nothing but a handful of tears and a broken heart. We stayed up late that night and I listened to her cry and gave her my advice. And right then, for one night, my purpose was to be there for my friend.”
Rusk’s Topic: Some book we must have read
2000 Courtney: “In the story, the wolf makes the brave decision to take freedom and independence over stability. As a 17 year old preparing to graduate from high school, I am surrounded by stability. I know I am alive and I know I’ve lived fro almost 18 years. But have I really lived? Have I ever been in a situation where I could only rely on myself and my personal strength? So, hopefully, come Ausgust 2001, I will be heading off to college. Somewhere far away from my 3 dogs, my flowered bedspread, and the goose cookie jar in the kitchen that always seems to be full. And when I am alone and searching for my future, it is then I will walk away from my collar. I will find my freedom. My independence. Myself.”
Rusk’s Topic: What would you do with 30 minutes of air time?
2000 Courtney: “I would sell it to the highest bidder and take my girlfriends to Cancun for our senior year spring break.”
Rusk’s Topic: Change
2000 Courtney: “In this world, there are always things we want to change. But the 7 girls I call my second family are just ‘cool’ the way they are. We couldn’t be more different. There’s the funny one, the crazy one, the moody one, the responsible one, the supportive one … However, it was only when I got all mixed up in the diverse group that I found myself. I know time will move us all in different directions. We will settle down and watch our children make their own friends. But time will never erase the campouts, the deep talks while everyone else was sleeping, or moments crowding in front of a mirror trying to fix our hair. It’s always been said that time would pass and then I would write a movie script about our relationships. I don’t know about that, but I value their optimism in my future. The ladies who have shown me strength, hope and love, my second family, I hope will never change.”
Rusk’s Topic: If you had a dinner party with 3 people, alive or dead, who would they be?
2000 Courtney: “I would have my maternal grandmother, Garth Brooks and God.”
Rusk’s Topic: What lesson would you share with your younger self?
2000 Courtney: “Never hurt others to make yourself feel cooler. Popularity, i have found, is like a game. The finish line being popularity, whatever that is, and the starting point being your first day, and everything in between is just scandals and drama and gossip. People get pushed around and stepped on simply so others can feel good about their social status in the end. Never give up on the human race. Just when you think it’s too ugly, someone will shine through. Never sacrifice parts of yourself to satisfy someone else.”
Rusk’s Topic: Write a letter to your future self.
2000 Courtney: “Dear Courtney, There’s probably a smile and surprised look on your face right now. My friends at the prsent time are Jenn, Kim, Kelly, Molly, Ashley, Jill, Jackie and Haley. News just broke that Jackie is pregnant and I see her less and less every day. I am awaiting my senior year of high school and thinking about going off the college. I hope that I am reading this while sitting with my dream husband, in my dream house, doing my dream job. I hope I actually went away to college and stuck with it. I hope I have an amazing job at Rolling Stone or a couple movie scripts on the screen. There’s a possibility I even pursued acting. Overall, I hope I lived the last 10 years the most I could have. i hope I took big risks and some even paid off. I hope I’m not sitting somewhere reading this with a heart full of regret and a mind filled with unfulfilled promises to myself. I hope I’ve made it and most of all, that I am happy.”
If these excerpts tell me anything, it’s that I was an over-analyzing, cheeseball of a teenager who had incredibly ambitious thoughts about what could be smushed into a decade. The crazy thing about this last one is the fact that our friend Jackie’s little girl is about to start driving and is one of the most beautiful, balanced young women I’ve ever seen. I still consider these girls my second family and I still value pennies, kinda. Really pissed that Rolling Stone thing didn’t work out though.