Sitting in a jazz club listening to a big band jam on Benny Goodman is hardly the moment I would expect to be thunderstruck with a life lesson.
I was catching my breath after dancing with a new partner. We started chatting and he asked how long I have been dancing.
“You obviously know what you’re doing,” he said.
In honor of Mother’s Day (and due to a very busy week), I decided to re-run this blog from last February. This is for anyone who needs to be reminded that you’re doing a helluva job.
These days, being a mother requires the memory of an elephant—and the thick skin of one too. Thanks to a recent scene with my 15-year-old son, I won’t soon forget that most of us are simply lumbering our way through parenthood, and life.
Book Release of ‘The Buddha at My Table’
Women and Children First Bookstore
5233 N. Clark
Chicago, IL 60640
October 26 @ 7:30 p.m.
I’m an April baby. And I’ve always thought spring is a great time for a birthday. Who wouldn’t want to come bursting into the world accompanied by birds chirping and flowers blooming?
I think of spring as a time of renewed energy, purpose, and possibility. It’s a time to get moving again after the impatient, closed-in feeling I get as winter winds down.
I’m at the coffee shop, head down over my laptop, wearing a look of concentration that makes everyone around me think I’m being productive when, in fact, I’m berating myself for my absent-mindedness.
I left the house without my cell phone and had to drive back to get it. It was already an hour past when I meant to leave and I have no idea where that hour went. As I got back in the car for the second time in ten minutes, I looked in the rearview mirror and chided myself.
You sure are spacey.
It’s been a long-time dream of mine to have a team of people supporting my publishing career. Maybe it’s common to every writer who spends years down the rabbit hole churning out words that may never be read. The idea of having someone else believe in you enough to say “let’s share this with the world” has got to be the best feeling ever.
I’m about to find out.
Don’t you hate it when you have to follow your own advice? When writers tell me that they’re stuck, I always point them toward the present moment and ask:
What’s happening right now that you can use?
What is the conversation you’re already having that can be transferred to the page?
So when I was stuck this week about what to blog about, I grudgingly asked myself the same questions. And I didn’t like the answers.
I consider myself the hopeful sort. When I was a teenager, I wrote the words of Emily Dickinson in my notebook:
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.
Like the old song says, there’s a thin line between love and hate. I was thinking about this in January, and in February, and again in March when living in Chicago can feel like being trapped in a cold, gray, concrete box. Every year I try to convince my kids that the grass is greener somewhere, anywhere, else. (This year I was briefly enamored with Texas–huh?) And every year they tell me to stop being a hater.
“You’ll get through this, Mom,” they promise. And I do. Summer comes and I’m in love.
I admit I’ve never read Mitch Albom’s The Five People You Meet in Heaven, but I’ve been thinking of it anyway because of five people who taught me an important lesson this week.
I was in a complete funk, stressed out and shut down in the face of a problem that seemed to have no solution. I had a decision to make—one that would require not only a financial investment but also would force me to step into a bigger, bolder version of myself.
👉 Enjoy dedicated writing space just steps from Lake Michigan
👉 Benefit from one-on-one developmental editing sessions
