Posted by Anne

How do you move past a rough beginning?  Take the following examples…

• The book whose first 50 pages are slow at best, snooze-inducing at worst.
• The first date filled with slight promise, but even more awkwardness.
• The new job that creates anxiety throughout the entire first year.
• A vacation that begins on the wrong foot—with a flight delay, a bad hotel, or a disappointing meal.
• A new town that disappoints you—a town that’s different than you imagined.

How long do we give something—a relationship, a book, a job, a town—before we give up on it?  Do we let these rough (and sometimes disappointing) beginnings taint us before we gather the full story?  And how long do we wait?  How much patience should we allot before making our decision, breaking it off, or packing our bags?

This dilemma has been at the forefront of my mind since moving to a new town—and a new coast—a year and 7 months ago.  I knew moving to the Northwest would be an adjustment, but I was optimistic.  I was ready for a lush green landscape, berry farms, and countless destinations for outdoorsy recreation.  Our town has totally delivered on those expectations.  But culturally, I knew I was in for a change.  And I thought I was ready…excited even.  It’s been harder than I imagined. 

When we first moved here, there were some not-so-pleasant surprises…

• My 2^nd day in town, when someone shattered my car window at a local park (at NOON on a TUESDAY), and stole my purse and computer. (Yeah, I was stupid to leave those in my car…but still…)
• The arrival at our new home—a fine and cute rental, but a street that lacked the kind of Northwest charm I’d envisioned.
• A community that was certainly laid-back and kind, but one that also lacked the outgoing and open friendliness I’d known for my entire life in the Midwest. 

In short, it was a rough beginning.  And after 8 months, I started planning my escape.  Life would be better, I thought, when we moved.  The Douglas Fir trees would be greener, taller, and better in another city. 

But we didn’t move.  The opportunities weren’t there yet, and when push came to shove, we weren’t ready to pick up and start over, or leave the security of jobs we like.  So we stayed.  And people told me, “Give it two years.”  People encouraged me, “It takes awhile to feel at home…the Northwest can be a tough place to break into.”  And they were right.

This August will mark our 2-year anniversary in our new digs.  And since the 8-month mark, our life has changed.  We have friends instead of acquaintances.  And we have more acquaintances that could become friends.  We have a Church, hobbies, favorite restaurants, and favorite neighborhoods.  Those first few months of rough beginnings are still there (and hard to shake), but beginning to fade slightly.  I’m still not convinced this town will be my home forever—I don’t have that sense.  And there are many days I still dream of moving.  But not in the urgent, restless way I did before.  It feels positive to have made it through a rough start, and to make the best of the situation I’ve got.  It feels a little…life in pencil. 

Sometimes a false start can indeed be a sign of things to come.  And our instincts are often correct.  But there’s something gratifying about pushing through the stumbles, and finding something worthwhile on the other end.    

Have you ever experienced a rough start?  When those rough starts occur, do you “put down the book” so to speak, or do you keep plowing through? 

Counting our blessings...

March’s theme at Life in Pencil is Beginnings

Posted by Elizabeth

As I’ve mentioned before, Anne and I share a deep and abiding love of movies and books, not only for their entertainment value but for their teaching value.  There is nothing more satisfying than a story that captures the human experience and helps me to better understand myself and the world around me.  In fact, as Anne aptly pointed out a few months ago, sometimes fiction does an even better job than nonfiction in relaying the slings and arrows of personhood.   I have been dying to see Alice in Wonderland since I learned that Johnny Depp and Tim Burton were once again joining twisted forces, if nothing else than for what promised to be a stunning visual panorama.  What I didn’t expect was the variety of life in pencil lessons that Linda Woolverton’s excellent script offered up.

Life is a process of learning to become yourself

The film begins with a fanciful and unsure 19 year-old Alice about to become married off to a stodgy aristocrat.  After falling down the rabbit hole at her engagement party and landing in Wonderland, it soon becomes clear that her arrival is much-anticipated:  she’s been brought here to sleigh the Jabberwocky and end the Red Queen’s villainous rule.  But first, there is some question as to whether she’s the “right” Alice for the job.  To clear up any confusion, she’s brought to the wise and Buddha-like Blue Caterpillar.

Blue Caterpillar: Who are you?
Alice: I’m Alice.
Blue Caterpillar: You’re hardly Alice

As the film progresses, Alice – who at first is confident she’s not the “right” Alice – slowly becomes convinced that perhaps she is the right Alice.  When she meets the caterpillar again towards the end of the film, the Caterpillar asks her once again:

Blue Caterpillar: Who are you?
Alice: I’m not sure.
Blue Caterpillar: How can I help you, silly girl, if you don’t even know who you are?
Alice: You yourself said I’m hardly Alice.
Blue Caterpillar: I said you were ‘hardly Alice.’  You’re much more like Alice than you used to be.

The film is, at its heart, Alice’s journey of becoming Alice.  Through drinking potions and eating cakes she continually grows bigger and smaller until she finds just the right size for her, literally growing into her own skin.  The tentative Alice we meet at the beginning of the film slowly fades away as she gains confidence in herself and her unconventional choices, fully becoming the Alice that everyone in Wonderland has been waiting for.  I think each of us is on a similar journey, as we are faced daily with choices and decisions that bring us further away or into closer contact with our true selves.  Alice does what “feels right” – even if it defies logic – and it’s these decisions that help her to grow into who she is.  We face the same crossroads each day, and in moments of uncertainty and indecision – both big and small – perhaps the question we should ask ourselves is, “Is this bringing closer or further from the person I was born to be?”

Each of us is creating our own path.

As much as there is a person we were born to be, each of us has free agency to create the path towards becoming that person.  Although the role Alice is to play in Wonderland has been prophesied, she creates her own way of going about the journey.  Helping her to deviate from the plan, the watchdog Bayard worriedly remarks to Alice, “I’ve ruined your destined path.”  “No you haven’t,” Alice confidently responds.  “I’m making my path.”    As we begin our journeys, it’s important to remember that there are many roads up the mountain, and we should choose the one that resonates most with us.  As the White Queen reminds Alice, “You can’t spend your life pleasing others.”

The life we’re meant to lead is waiting for us…when the time is right

We’ve all heard the quote “stop living the life you think you should lead and start living the life you were meant to lead” (or something like that).  I’ve always struggled with this credo, perhaps because I find it difficult to believe that it’s as simple as that.  Through the film, we discover that Wonderland has, quite literally, been waiting for Alice her entire life – she even went once, as a girl – but she hadn’t yet grown into herself enough to be able to live that life.  While our lives might be waiting for us, timing is everything.  As someone who is eager to begin new things, I often have to remind myself that perhaps I have some growing to do.  While I wait for new beginnings, I can make small steps towards preparing myself for the starting line, or simply focus on living the best life I have right now.

There are no beginnings and endings, only transformations

Towards the end of the film Alice observes the Blue Caterpillar weaving himself into a silky cocoon.  “You’re dying,” Alice says.  “No I’m not,” responds the Blue Caterpillar.  “I’m transforming.”  Each of us has the opportunity to transform every day, becoming more fully who we are.  We end each day a different person than we began, and each morning offers a chance for a new beginning.  But if life is nothing but a series of transformations, how do we embrace this inevitable series of changes while staying focused in the now?  Don’t the two seem contradictory?  Maybe, but I think some of life’s greatest transformations happen through living in the present.  Sometimes I think about the person I was at the beginning and end of my eight month round-the-world trip:  essentially the same, but different in so many ways.  Never have I lived more in the present moment, and in no period of my life have I transformed more.  Change means becoming a different person; transformation suggests morphing from one version of ourselves slowly over time.  We all have the opportunity to be Blue Caterpillars if we attend mindfully to the stuff of our everyday life.

We live in the now by attending to our real lives

At the end of the film, Alice is faced with the choice to stay in Wonderland or return home to London.  She states with confidence that she must return home, where there are “questions to be answered.”  For years Alice had lived in a suspended dream-state, enchanted with the dream of Wonderland which distracts her from fully living her life in the present.  While her adventures in Wonderland provide a welcome diversion, her real life is calling.

How many of us transport ourselves to other words through TV, internet, cell phones, and Blackberries, thus distracting us from the real lives right before our eyes?  Alternate worlds – be they video games or vacations – are fun for awhile.  But we’re avoiding the inevitable difficulties of our everyday lives that command our attention.  The only way out of Wonderland is through Wonderland, just like the only way out of our difficulties is by trudging through them.  I bet it’s not as daunting as sleighing the Jabberwocky.

Did you see Alice in Wonderland this weekend?  If so, what lessons did you take away from it?  Do you agree or disagree with the “lessons” I’ve cited?

Posted by Anne

This woman seems to have an even bigger problem than I do.

What is it about spring?  This perfect season—nascent and cheerful—is upon us.  It makes me want to open the windows, let in the fresh air, make pesto and hot cross buns, and…

Spend Money.You see, something happens to me with the promise of spring.  And apparently, that “something” is greed.  Or perhaps it’s the softer form of greed—good old fashioned materialism.  I hope I’m not alone on this, but I’m outing myself regardless. 

This troubling bout with materialism occurs every year…right around March 1^st.  I’m not sure why I can’t hold off until at least April, except that late February/early March is about the time the “early spring” catalogues begin arriving in the mail—depicting earthy and fresh blond J Crew models posed on the edges of sailboats—wearing shorts and darling cableknit sweaters.  (Digression:  Would someone like to tell me when that combo ever works?  Or is living in Maine a prerequisite?) 

I wish I could identify the origins of my deep desire for a “spring spending splurge”.  But I’m at a loss.  All I know is that it’s like some invisible alarm that begins ringing in my psyche.  My need for a “fresh start” materializes (get it?  Materializes?!) in the form of multiple visits to the Anthropologie website and that time-waster of all time-wasters…Craigslist.  And since I can’t really afford much of a shopping spree, I appease myself by exiting that virtual Anthropologie store with random (and inexpensive) items like…oh, maybe a pastel-hued egg cup.  Or that new door pull I just had to have.  Trust me people…it’s a problem.

Normally, our checkbook makes it through my spring fever relatively unscathed.  In addition to the egg cup and door pull, I usually treat myself to one new outfit, which I shamelessly claim is my “Easter Outfit” (as though I’m still 8 years old and need an “Easter dress”). 

But I really do wonder—why does this season of beginnings cause me to search for reasons to spend?  A few theories…

Oh-so-tempting...

1.  The US retail industry wants me to spend and expects me to spend.  Thus, it’s a national phenomenon.  A little springtime manipulation, if you will.

2.  I’m a greedy person. 

And last but not least, I give you the most likely contender…

3.  When we’re looking for a “fresh start”, we seek to find one by changing the external as well as the internal. And these external changes (in my view) often boost us internally.  Of course, there’s a limit.  You can’t just spend, spend, spend. 

So, if #3 is at the root of my need for new clothes, new furniture, and new kitchenware, I have to believe there are other ways to satisfy this desire for a “fresh” look or novel environment.  Some possible solutions…

Spring cleaning.  I recently learned this is a global phenomenon.  In Iran, there’s a word for it that means something akin to “shaking the house”.  Even though I like my clutter, I could stand to make my environment a little more orderly. 

Change something minor.  A new throw pillow perhaps?  A springy-looking mug for my coffee?  I could buy something that creates a permanent visual novelty, but doesn’t break the bank.

Plant a garden.  This would be so perfect if I owned a home, or didn’t kill plants.  I do, however, generally pot some herbs each spring…pretty AND edible.  Can’t lose. 

Focus on a different kind of “external”.  Instead of buying a new wardrobe, maybe I could stand to do my hair more often…instead of the perpetual ponytail.  Or maybe I could pump some iron—build strength from the outside in. 

There you go.  Four external solutions to an internal problem.  I think I’ll start this weekend…when my fingers reach for the newest Williams-Sonoma catalog, I’ll take them right over to our disastrous hall closet—a great place to start an external makeover. 

Am I alone in this one?  Anyone else love some good old “spring shopping”?  Or do you have other springtime rituals that satisfy your need for fresh beginnings…that DON’T cost money?  Or if you totally indulge, what’s your favorite springtime indulgence?

March’s theme at Life in Pencil is Beginnings.

Posted by Elizabeth

Last Friday I finally got around to doing some much-needed pruning in my yard.   I clipped back the sage bush, a tangled mat of crisp vines supported by a thick carpet of decaying leaves.  I tore at shards of dried iris leaves with my bare hands, strips of coarse raffia removed to reveal tiny green shoots of new growth below.  New life was emerging, unseen and untouched until I folded back the blanket of winter.  March is an elusive month, filled with tentative beginnings. Daffodils and crocus – the front-line soldiers sent out before the rest of the troops – hesitantly shoulder their way out of the hard earth, peeking their fresh heads out for a look around, then seeming to retreat.  One moment the cold wind is howling at our doorstep, and the next the sun is peeping through a curtain of grey.  March is an identity crisis, unable to decide whether it’s time to continue hibernating or come out of our holes.

These days, my life seems reflective of this shift of seasons.  Last week spring fever was in full swing, the promise of new beginnings swirling around me like a happy whirlwind.    The energy and excitement of new writing projects, social engagements, an upcoming trip to Europe, and impending motherhood – all emerging on the horizon – was enough to carry me full-throttle into a new season.  I crossed off items on my to-do list, many of which had languished for months, in an inky flourish, cheerily wondering to myself, “Why did it take me so long to get to this?”  I wrote.  I made reservations.  I researched.  I returned phone calls.  I got a lot done, and as I result I felt happy, alive, and energized.

I planned for an equally productive week, enthusiastically sketching an exceedingly long to-do list on Sunday evening.  But yesterday morning I woke up groggy and out-of-sorts, immediately feeling the shift of energy that had taken place overnight.  I scanned my to-do list, the items of which now seemed daunting and unachievable.  I moped around the kitchen for awhile, then killed time checking my email, feeling that familiar sensation creep in around me.  Now what?

Humans are just like the seasons.  There is no clear breaking point between winter and spring, but a number of weeks on either side of March 20th where the seasons “slosh” back and forth, an ongoing arm-wrestling match until spring finally wins out – and such is the case with new beginnings in our own lives.  There is an uncomfortable push-pull that takes place before new life firmly takes root.  We tend to revel in those spring-like moments of action, clarity, purpose, and productivity, but fight those inevitable small slides back into winter, often characterized by inaction, confusion, and low energy; in other words, mental hibernation.  If we endeavor to live our lives in the present moment, though, we need to learn to accept whatever the day (and the season) brings us – even if it’s not what we would have chosen for ourselves.

As I thought about how I’d like my day to unfold, accepting the parameters that had been given to me, I knew I had a decision to make:  I could retreat back into full winter hibernation mode or step tentatively back into spring.  Here’s what I considered:

1. I needed to embrace the “sloshing point.” Year ago, I took a series of classes at an organization in Seattle called Centerpoint, which teaches clients how to better manage their careers and their lives through periods of change.  At Centerpoint I learned to think about my life as seasons of the year, and the inevitable “sloshing” that happens between stages and seasons.  Even though the sun was shining, yesterday felt more like winter than spring:  so be it.
2. I need to realize that activity has to be balanced with periods of non-doing. Last fall I wrote about the importance of plateaus, those inevitable periods of inactivity that pop up in our lives.  While plateaus can last weeks or months, sometimes I think we experience mini-plateaus that last just a day or two.  After a week of total productivity, I needed to give myself permission to take a mini-break.  In fact, this dip in energy was probably just a natural balancing-out.  New beginnings require both activity and non-doing.
3. I need to set small(er) goals for this week. This week isn’t last week, and my metric for what I accomplished yesterday need not dictate my level of productivity today.  Although I’m not ready for full-fledged spring, at times like these it’s easy for me to slide back into full hibernation, which usually leads me to falling even deeper into winter.  Instead, I decided to take a smaller step into spring, setting more manageable goals for where I’m at today.  Will I get as much done as I did last week?  Probably not, but I’ll get something done, and won’t feel like a slug.  At Centerpoint, I learned to ask myself, “What do I have energy for today?”
4. I don’t need to chastise myself for a waning enthusiasm for these new beginnings. We naturally praise ourselves for being active and productive – as products of the Western world, it’s hard-wired into us.  But last week, I didn’t read, or think, or do any of the contemplative activities that make my periods of activity possible.  So rather than berating myself for not moving in a steady “onward and upward” pattern, I will recognizing that every new period of beginning involves a few steps back.

How about you? What do you find helpful when you’re “sloshing” between seasons – especially between the “winter” and “spring” of your life?  How do new beginnings show themselves in your own life?  How do you “stay in the moment” when the excitement of new beginnings is on the horizon but not quite here yet?

Posted by Anne

Life is full of to-do lists.  From school to retirement, we often find ourselves at the mercy of a timeline that we follow, and that someone else created.  School.  More school.  Marriage.  House.  Children.  We persist through the journey, crossing off the expected milestones—some fit us, and some may not.  Where do they come from?

Lately, I’ve been pondering my own life to-do lists.  I’ve generally followed them, and frankly these to-do lists have landed me a very good life.  It’s a life that doesn’t need to be completely erased or rewritten.  It’s a life grounded in a loving family, a solid career, caring friends, and really cute dogs.  So why am I always looking ahead to the “next step”, be it home-ownership, babies, or vacations I won’t be able to take for months or even years?

My life-to-do-list smacked me in the face last fall, on a hike with my husband.  The coastal trail we hiked was probably one of the most lush, gorgeous spots I’ve seen since moving to the Northwest.  The weekend had been so perfect—a string of pleasant and memorable moments.  So naturally, I began planning future perfect moments.  And the moments after those.  And suddenly, my mind was months and years ahead of me, nowhere near the majestic cliffs and misty skies right in front of my unappreciative face.  During the first quarter-mile, I asked my husband where he thought we’d be living next year.  I want to be settled, you know.  My husband, who is so darned comfortable with ambiguity, had no answers.  But I kept badgering him.  In the second quarter-mile, I asked him about buying a house.  When would we be ready?  Nope, no answers there either.  My pace quickened.  Oh…how about babies?  When should we start a family?  Silence.   I worked myself into a literal frenzy, until his exasperation came through, and he reminded me that he’s just trying to make it one day to the next.

I had a verifiable planning-addict meltdown on those craggy coastal cliffs.  I’ve since tried to unpack my freight-train of emotional panic because, frankly, it seems pretty unreasonable as I look back.  All I can figure is that my life has always fallen along neat timelines.  Graduate programs, temporary internships, and so forth.  Neat little segments of a life, predictable and finite; not unlike the items on the to-do lists I meticulously create every day, and dutifully cross off.  And now I’m in a phase where it’s become hard (impossible?) to predict how life will unfold.  I still have my life’s “to-do list”, with no clue how to go about checking off the milestones.  And every so often, I’m apparently emotionally unequipped to handle the ambiguity.

I’d venture to say we all have “to-do-lists”, but I wonder to what extent our “to-do-lists” are of our own design?  Is your list packed with domestic goals, travel destinations, or the pursuit of a relationship?  Since my meltdown, I’ve been on a mission (a la life in pencil), to adjust my to-do-list.  Or to at least avoid panicking when I can’t check off an item—when I need to just be patient.  Every day, I try to ignore my existential deadlines, and live.  It’s an ongoing project, and one for which I need the support of friends and family.  Because unfortunately, ambiguity isn’t going anywhere. 

What’s on your life to-do list?  Has your to-do-list given you the life you want?  Or have you ever crossed something off, and found it wasn’t all you expected?

Posted by Elizabeth

Sometime last summer, I made the first mention in these pages that I was thinking I might be ready to have a baby, a tentative whisper into the crashing world of the blogosphere.  And at that time some wise reader told me that not only would having a baby bring change into my life, but that the ability to live one’s life “in pencil” was the biggest prerequisite for having said baby.  These words were very reassuring to me.  As the resident change-a-holic around here, I thought, “I love change.  I understand change.  I embrace change.  And the ambiguity that “life in pencil” presents?  Easy breezy!”  But as my first trimester draws to a close this week I realize, in a stark and scary way, that my understanding of what it means to live one’s life in pencil is woefully incomplete.

During the first appointment with my nurse midwife an eternity six weeks ago, I was asked to fill out a family health history.  Aside from some cancer and heart disease – standard American fare – my background is pretty run-of-the mill.  No chronic diseases or major health issues here!  When I got to the part of the form that inquired about any infant deaths, I had to pause and think.  My dad had a brother who died when he was young from a defect related to malformed lungs, and Maikael’s dad had a son who also died, days old, due to a congenital problem.  These are parts of our family health history that we rarely give much thought to – so much so that we even debated whether it was worth marking on the form – so imagine my surprise when my midwife followed up with a phone call the next day to gather more details about these situations.  At the mention of “genetic counselor,” “perinatologist,” and “just to be sure,” every fiber of my being immediately went on red alert – and I don’t think the alarm bells have turned off since.

Despite my midwife’s repeated assurances that the chances of something being wrong are “remote,” it’s all but impossible to focus on the “what if” scenarios that dance across my mind (if not in the foreground, certainly in the background).  I find them to be particularly acute while dreaming, when my rational mind, who has such catchy phrases as “I’m sure it’s fine” at its disposal during daylight hours, is rendered helpless when the lights go out.  It’s then when nighttime visions of a fully formed fetus, with features as delicate as a seahorse but cast in frightening miniature, quite literally falls out of me without warning.   These are awful dreams that shake me from my slumber in a sweaty twist of sheets in the middle of the night.  It’s these moments where I realize that motherhood is uncertainty incarnate, that the best efforts to explain or pacify are for naught, and that I have no choice but to throw up my hands and say, “We’ll just have to see.”  I know that I am not unique or special.  Just as every life contains a cross to bear, so is every pregnancy touched by something beyond our control.  But it’s how we treat these uncertainties that reveal how well we’re able to live our life in pencil.

This morning Maikael and I are off to the perinatologist for a detailed ultrasound, which feels less like a meeting with a medical professional than an appointment with fate.  Hope will be divined not through the stars but through grainy images that I cannot interpret.  I am both relieved and petrified that this interminable period of waiting is drawing to a close, ready and not-ready to hear the conclusion.  The chances are good that my midwife is right, that I’ve spent the past six weeks worrying over nothing.  But what if she’s wrong?  What if there are no answers, but simply more “I don’t knows,” more “we’ll just have to wait and sees,” more “just to be sures?”  What if? It’s these “what ifs” that show me just how much I have yet to learn about facing the unknown.

Do you agree with my assessment that “motherhood is uncertainty incarnate?”  What situations have you faced in your own life that caused you to realize that you have much to learn about facing the unknown?

In other news, I’m pleased to announce that “Dear You,” my letter to this unborn baby who has already incited such worry in my life, won Momalom’s Love It Up Challenge!  We here at Life in Pencil are honored to have been considered in the company of so many great writers and entries.  Thanks, Sarah and Jen, for this award!

Posted by Elizabeth

Dear You,

How are you?  Can you hear me alright?  I know my voice probably sounds a little muffled, but I have some important words I want to share with you; words that I hope you’ll always remember.

It’s hard to believe that, just mere weeks ago, you were but a glimmer in my consciousness.  But even in that short amount of time you’ve already changed my life.  It’s hard to believe that I was so ambivalent about your existence for nearly 32 years, and that in 12 short weeks you’ve wiped away the slate of doubts.  Before you came along, I wondered what you’d take away from my comfortable life, if the trade off could possibly be worth it.  But I took the plunge, the ultimate leap of faith, reasoning that I had accomplished the big things I wanted to in my life.  I earned my graduate degree, and traveled around the world, and have had plenty of fun and adventure along the way.  It dawned on me one day last fall that you wouldn’t be keeping me from doing anything I couldn’t do with you in tow.  Although having you was never a foregone conclusion — many will undoubtedly be shocked by the news of your arrival — now that it’s happening I can’t imagine it being any other way.  I’ve surprised myself by how quickly I’ve embraced this change, how excited I am for your arrival.  Even though I wasn’t completely sure when I made that great dive down the rabbit hole, I guess I really was ready for you.

Sometimes I lie in bed and wonder what you look like, what you are like.  Are you a boy or a girl (we already have a name picked for you if you’re a girl, but if you’re a boy we’ve got some work to do)?  Do you have your dad’s brown eyes or my blue eyes?  Do you have my thin lips or your dad’s full ones?  My little nose or your dad’s proud one?  Do you lean towards math and science, like him, or English and the arts, like me?  Do you hate olives and seafood and pickles as much as I do?  Do you share your dad’s penchant for spicy foods (after eating that roasted pepper pasta dish a few weeks ago, I don’t think so)?  Are you even-keeled and quiet like your dad, or fiery and impatient like me?  Most likely, you are some of these things…and none of these things.  You are your own person.

We have a lot to learn about one another, and before we get too far, here’s what you should know about me and the life you’re about to be born into.  I love change, a good life project, being goofy, and telling stories, so I think you’ll like me when you’re little.  As you climb into your teen years, though, I suspect your dad might be better at this parenting thing.  I’m more of a morning person than your dad, so go easy on him in that department:  I’ll be up at the crack of dawn with you, but if you’re looking for a night owl, he’s your man.  I tend to worry a lot; in fact, I’ve already done my fair share of worrying about you.  I even worry about worrying about you too much.  It’s just that I don’t want you to grow up to be anxious and neurotic like I am.  When you get older, I know you will roll your eyes and tell me to stop worrying so much.  And I’ll try; I really will.  But just know I worry because I love you.

I love to spend time in the kitchen, and already have dreams of us cooking alongside one another, so I hope you like that, too.  Your dad and I both love to read The New York Times on Sunday mornings, but I have a sneaking suspicion that those days are about to come to a close for awhile (although, if you, too, are a fan, let me know and I won’t cancel the subscription).  We enjoy eating out, and if you’re good, I promise we’ll take you out a lot.  Oh, and we love to travel, and plan to take you everywhere with us.  In fact, you’ve already been to Mexico (weren’t those carnitas from the market fabulous?), and before you’re born you’ll add three more stamps to your passport.

I know it won’t always be easy.  I know our life is in for a monumental change, and that you’ll be at the center of the whirlwind.  I know there will be times when you’ll drive me crazy, when I’ll plead with you to stop crying, when I’ll wonder why you did this or didn’t do that.  I know you’ll probably feel equally frustrated with me, too, wondering why I simply can’t understand.  But through it all, I know that we’ll love each other.

When it’s finally time for you to be born, will you make me a promise?  Will you try to work with me?  Know that I’ll be doing my best, but I’ll need your help, too.  In return, I promise that I’ll do my best to help you to grow into the person you were born to be, not the person I’d like you to be.  Because maybe you’ll prefer playing soccer to being my sous chef.  I’d like to believe that I’ll be always be an open and accepting mother, no matter the circumstance, but the reality is that at times this will hard for me.  In fact, it might be the hardest lesson I have yet to learn in life.

Baby, your dad and I can’t wait to meet you on August 31^st (give or take a few days).  We’ve got a lot to do to get ready for you – turns out, you need a lot of stuff – but we’ll be prepared.  Or, at least as prepared as we can be.    Until then, keep growing healthy and strong, and I’ll do my part to make sure you have everything you need to do just that.  Even though we’ve never met, I already love you.

Love,

Your Mom

PS: Thanks for not making me sick.  I really appreciate it.  I’m sure you’ll think of some way that I can repay you in the near future.

Although I hate to insult the intelligence of our bright readership, in the off chance that you didn’t catch on, The Waiting Game is over!  For those of you who suspected this (and I know there are many of you in this category), I am happy to confirm that I am indeed pregnant, due August 31.  Do you know what a hard secret this has been to keep from you all?  I have been busting at the seams to share the good news with you!  While I’ll strive not to bore you with the details, I hope this new life adventure can provide excellent fodder and many life lessons for all of us who are better trying to live our lives “in pencil.”

Oh, and for those of you who are curious, pictured above is my first ultrasound, taken at about 8 weeks.  Apparently, I am giving birth to The Blob.

This post was written as part of Momalom’s Love It Up Challenge, where bloggers are encouraged to write a “love letter” to someone or something.  I thought this was the perfect way to share the news with you all (and, I hope, will be a happy memento for the baby book).

Posted by Elizabeth

When I heard that Elizabeth Gilbert had written a new book, I was nervous.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to read Committed, which picks up where Eat Pray Love leaves off, chronicling her difficult decision to marry Felipe, the man she literally sails off into the sunset with at the end of the story.  There was no way this book could ever live up to EPL, for I am one of those women – and I know there are many of us – for whom EPL changed my life.  Although Maikael and I had already been toying with the idea of taking eight months out of our life to embark on a journey of self-discovery around the world, EPL sealed the deal for me.  Inspired by her tale, we even spent two weeks lapping up life and culture in Ubud, Bali, which she details in such a mesmerizing way.  For me, Gilbert’s prose captured what I was feeling but was unable to put into words at that time in my life, feelings about being caught between a conventional and unconventional life, about being unsure what I wanted from life, about not knowing who I was or what made me happy in the slightest.  As different as our lives were – I was ten years her junior and not considering divorce – I identified with Liz Gilbert.

But I know not everyone felt this way.  When my former bookclub read Eat Pray Love, our group was fiercely divided by equal amounts of adoration and dislike of the book.  Some felt her journey was trite, her head inflated, her love story too tidy and saccharine.  Other just simply didn’t “get it,” which was unfathomable to me, who had found such connection and solace in the book.  As I traveled around the globe, the subject of the book often came up in conversations with fellow explorers (it really was a worldwide phenomenon), and, even amongst the highly self-selecting group of long-term travelers, the division of opinions was just as acute.  Love it or hate it, the book clearly made people feel something.

However, when I learned that Elizabeth Gilbert was coming to town – and that $35 could buy me two tickets and a hardback copy of the book – I was Committed.  So last Wednesday night, me and 500 fellow Liz Gilbert fans, including my former therapist, filed into an expansive ballroom at the University of New Mexico, which was stuffed to the gills with conference seating and estrogen.  The audience was one loud hum, buzzing with the anticipation of a cultural icon about to speak.  But a loud hush fell over the room as soon as Elizabeth Gilbert stepped to the stage, a flowy grey cardigan draped over her thin frame, her tousled blond hair pulled away from her face in a messy twist, a genuine smile etched on her face.

For the next 30 minutes she talked about the process of writing Committed, which represents the fruits of her second attempt to write a follow-up book to EPL. She spent two years writing a 500-page manuscript…and then threw the entire thing away. As she spoke these words, I’m pretty sure I heard myself groan audibly.  I’ve never written anything 500 pages in length, but I’ve written something a tenth of the size, and even throwing that away is vomit-inducing.  Gilbert discussed how difficult it was to ditch the manuscript, one in which she had received a considerable advance from her publisher and who, after two years of work, was soon expecting a publishable book.  “But the book was horrible,” she said.  “It wasn’t ‘me.’  It wasn’t written in my voice.  It was written in the voice of who I thought I should be after the success of Eat Pray Love.”  Her best bet, she reasoned, was to take six months off to figure out the follow-up book she was meant to write.  In the meantime she gardened.  And one day, with her fingers dug hard into the soft earth, a single sentence – the sentence that was to become the opening line to the book – simply came to her.

Late one afternoon in the summer of 2006, I found myself in a small village in northern Vietnam, sitting around a sooty kitchen fire with a number of local women whose language I did not speak, trying to ask them questions about marriage.

From there she “took the sentence for a walk across the page,” and proceeded to pen Committed in a mere two months.

While not all of us have the luxury of time or literary advances, as I sat in that overheated ballroom, surrounded by a sea of like-minded New Mexicans, it dawned me on me what a powerful lesson her process presented for living a life in pencil.   There is nothing more important in this life than learning to be YOU – whoever you are.  In fact, is it even something we should have to learn? If we are skilled and equipped to be anything, it’s to be ourselves.  And yet, how difficult it can be to discover and then speak our voice, whether we are writers or not.  It shouldn’t be easier to be someone else, but that is often the case.  Borrowing someone else’s tastes, pleasures, preferences, and aversions is a simple game of mimicry; to truly face who we are, and not who we think we should be, is a lifelong project.

When we are living a life that isn’t attuned to who we are, it’s been my experience that things take forever to manifest themselves.  Everything feels like a Sisyphean task, making it difficult to differentiate between sheer hard work towards a difficult goal and being engaged in the “wrong” thing.  The difference, I think, is that when we are living a life attuned to who we are, things come more easily, more quickly.  While there are bumps in the road, setbacks, and hard uphill battles, the effort feels purposeful.  We feel a deep sense that, while the path is bumpy, it’s the right path to be traveling down.  No amount of construction can reshape the wrong path.

While we talk often here at Life in Pencil about making changes within the parameters of our existing lives, Gilbert’s story teaches us that sometimes life requires us to start over.  If a plan is born from a place that doesn’t feel true or authentic, no amount of “editing” is going to make it right.  Sometimes, major revisions are required.  Sometimes, we have to throw the baby out with the bathwater.  Sometimes, we have to start from scratch.  When Gilbert threw away that first draft, without another story idea in sight, she was facing a problem that needed to be solved, a puzzle of the highest order.  “A puzzle,” she said, “is just a crisis with the volume knob turned down.”  But rather than panicking, she trusted that time – and a vegetable garden – would eventually bring order to the puzzle.  “Problems are like cheap underwear,” a Buddhist monk friend once told her.  “Eventually they wear themselves out.”

And it’s true, isn’t it?  Over time, even the most pernicious problems wear themselves dull and raw, until we genuinely wonder what we were ever worried about in the first place.  Such was the case with Gilbert’s book, and such may be the case with any dilemma, crisis, or life change that you might be facing.  Sometimes, the best thing we can do is take a break and trust that the process will work itself out.  I have always believed that the only way out is through.  Whether we are talking about a failed book project, a career crisis, or a relationship gone awry, there is no easy shortcut or “work around” (as my computer programming husband would say).  We need those seemingly impossible puzzles, those failed attempts, to push us through to the other side.

Just last week I was cleaning out my office, and I discovered a draft of the first essay I had ever written nearly six years ago.  Back then, I was a graduate student in counseling psychology, and a career in writing was the furthest thing from my mind.  And yet, much like Elizabeth Gilbert, I was drying my hair one morning before school when a single line popped into my head.  I immediately scrambled to write it down, and proceeded to skip my morning classes – which I never did – to write an entire essay, which tumbled forth from that one line.  I wasn’t sure where this line had come from, or where it was going, but two years later I submitted that essay to a local writers’ conference.  I remember feeling very proud of my effort, a reflection of the best I could produce at the time.  But reading this essay six years later, while there are lines that are still gems, it struck me that it just wasn’t very good!  The ideas are there, but the execution is sloppy, amateur.  It dawned on me how much I have grown as a writer in that time span, but how necessary it was to write those first stumbling drafts on my way through to becoming a writer.  And when I read this post in another six years, I’m sure I’ll be struck by the same thought.

Gilbert’s friend, an artist, often reminds her, “The creative product is the unidentical twin of the dream you had in your head.”  In other words, what we produce while pursuing the creative process – be it writing a book, baking a pie, or even living life itself – is often a flawed copy of the perfect image we held in our head when we conceived the idea.  It seems to me that the purpose isn’t to create a facsimile but to simply chase after that image to the best of our abilities.  Whatever we produce will never be as perfect as we’d hoped.  But with time and experience, I think our image and the real thing grow closer together.  Just like Gilbert’s book, this blog, as imperfect as it is, couldn’t exist without that first humble essay.  And whatever goal you are working towards in your life couldn’t be accomplished without whatever fumbling efforts you are making right now.

Are you a fan of Eat, Pray, Love (or not)? Have you read Committed?  What lessons do you take away from Gilbert’s process that I have missed?  Do you think that sometimes starting over is the best thing?

Posted by Elizabeth

I just finished reading The Happiness Project (book #5 since The Waiting Game started last month!), Gretchen Rubin’s account of one year spent trying to lead a happier life.  What struck me about the book is that, when she begins her experiment, she’s already a fairly happy person.  And yet, there is something wanting in her life.  But rather than starting her life over from scratch through drastic and dramatic measures, she concludes that she’d like to implement change within the context of the life she already leads…which is basically what we here at Life in Pencil espouse!  Given that Rubin’s book is currently ranked #2 on the New York Times’ Hardcover Nonfiction Bestsellers’ List, this tells me that a lot of people feel this way:  their lives are pretty good, although not all they want it to be, but starting over from scratch (if that’s even possible) either isn’t an option or very appealing.

Throughout the book, I was surprised to discover that Rubin persistently mentions bluebirds (even the cover art features a little bluebird winging its way over New York City).  As I’ve mentioned before, bluebirds represent a powerful symbol in my life; in a sense, they’ve been with me all along.  When I was five, my mother registered me for an art class, wherein we created giant masks fashioned from chicken wire and papier mache that slipped over our head.  Where I got the idea to create a bluebird is beyond me, but for years that massive mask, which I slathered with electric blue paint, sat at the top of my closet, gathering dust but unable to be thrown out.  At some point my mother started gifting me bluebird tokens and trinkets – again, why or when that started baffles me – which I’ve continued to be drawn to my entire life.  My Christmas tree is literally filled with bluebirds.  I often see bluebirds in nature – even in places where the birds aren’t known to nest.

Once somebody asked me, “But what do the bluebirds mean?”  I honestly had no idea, but after pondering the question for awhile, I responded, “I’ve always taken it to mean that I’m on the right path.  It’s a symbol of reassurance.  When I see a bluebird, I know that whatever I’m doing in my life at that time is the right thing.  If I’m considering some sort of change and a bluebird wings its way into my life, I feel good moving forward.”  As I was nervously finishing up a writing project last fall, silently wondering to myself where it might lead and if it was worth my time and trouble, I suddenly looked up to see a fat bluebird perched on the wall of my courtyard, staring intently at me.  I took this as a very good sign.

On one hand, Rubin’s use of the bluebird is not surprising.  Bluebirds have long been associated with happiness (we’ve all heard of “The Bluebird of Happiness”).  On the other hand, when Rubin decides to start a collection and chooses bluebirds, I couldn’t help but feel a little spooked out, for I have never met another soul who felt as drawn to bluebirds as I have (they’re not exactly kittens or cows or any of the other ubiquitous animals that people tend to collect).  However, I got the sense that Rubin selected the symbol for its significance more than being genuinely drawn to it.  The thing about “spirit animals” is that you don’t choose them; they choose you. If you pause for a moment, I bet you can think of certain animals that consistently seem to make their way into your life, who you feel an unusual connection to.  These animals – what they symbolize – have something to teach you about yourself, about the choices you’re facing, about the life you’re trying to lead.  Last week, Kristen from Motherese wrote about woodpeckers, making elegant connections between their behaviors and being a writer.  I encouraged her to do some reading on the bird, because I bet there’s something she needs to learn about herself as a writer that’s revealed through them (just as I enjoy diagnosing people with existential crises, so, too, do I like to assign people spirit animals).  Over the past few weeks, usually-timid roadrunners have made a happy home in my yard, literally waiting for me by the front gate (which, coincidentally, is blue); I probably should do some reading on them, too.

I’ve always wondered about the origin of “The Bluebird of Happiness,” and Rubin gratefully answered the question for me.  The earliest mention was in a 1908 play called The Blue Bird, and the plot goes like this:  two kids go in chase of happiness, guided by a bluebird around the globe.  When they return home, they find the bluebird waiting for them.  “We chased you all around the world, and here you are, right where we started!” they exclaim.  “Happiness is right where you are, not something you need to go in search of,” replied the bluebird.   The hairs on the back of my arms stood at attention as I swallowed these words, for if there is one lesson I’ve have spent my life trying to learn, it’s to be content with wherever I am in my life.  Perhaps that is what the bluebirds have been trying to teach me all along.

What animals are you naturally attracted to in your life?  What do you think they are there to teach you?  Do you think making an already happy life happier is a worthy goal; or, do you think we have to start from scratch to enact any meaningful change?

This Sunday’s New York Times Book Review featured a great article on the recent surge in happiness-related books (including one called Bluebird!).  And, if you’re interested in reading more about your “power animal,” or discovering what your power animal might be, I highly recommend Ted Andrews’ Animal Speak.

One final note:  I had no idea what an uproar my Groundhog Day post would cause!  Apparently, I was under the (false) assumption that everyone hated the Bill Murray/Andie McDowell movie as much as I did.  To quell the fire, I am offering this YouTube video from LiP Reader Meghan, featuring her nephew Zach and his eloquent thoughts on Groundhog Day (the holiday, not the movie).  Enjoy!

Posted by Elizabeth

In case you forgot, today is Groundhog Day, the day when we discover if we’re in for an early spring or doomed to suffer the slings and arrows of a late winter.  I can’t say I’m a huge fan of Groundhog Day, maybe because it reminds me of that insufferable movie circa 1993 starring Andie McDowell and Bill Murray, where a weatherman is doomed to repeat the same day over and over (and over) again, which, as a change-a-holic, is pretty much my worst nightmare.  Truth be told, I never understood what those two things – repeating a day and a traditional rodent – had much to do with one another, but, now that I think of it, Groundhog Day does seem particularly suited to people who appreciate comfortable routine.  I mean, is it me or does Puxatony Phil seem to see his shadow, sending him racing back into his hidey hole, more often than not?

Phil has always struck me as somewhat of a scaredy cat – maybe someone who’s a little afraid of change?  Rather than bravely facing the daylight and the possibility of a new season, he often retreats to the comfort of his warm, safe burrow, prolonging the inevitable.  How many of us are like Phil, clinging to the changing seasons of our life with a death grip, trying our hardest to hang onto the shut-in nature of winter when spring, with its new life and beginnings, is at our doorstep?  How many of us hold onto a season past its prime, rather than face the turn of the calendar with grace?  Given Phil’s propensity for dodging the new season, Groundhog Day seems perfectly crafted for the world’s change-phobes, wanting to hang on to the comfortable, old way just a little bit longer.

This winter has felt especially interminable; I don’t think I’ve ever been more ready for a spring in my entire life.  I was delighted to receive a seed catalog in the mail last week whose pages were splashed with colorful photos of heirloom vegetables, the first tender sign of spring.  As someone who is always chomping at the bit for the next new thing, I sincerely hope Phil doesn’t see his shadow.  Although I can’t help but wonder, in my fervent desire to cut winter short and push through to the next season, if I am any better than Phil, who insists on hanging onto winter?  Maybe, rather than preparing to banish or cling to a season, we need a day to remember what’s good about this time of year — even if it’s sometimes hard to see — to remind us to be in the moment?

Are you a fan of Groundhog Day (the movie or the holiday)?  Do you root for Phil for see his shadow or not?  Am I crazy, or does Groundhog Day seem uniquely suited to the world’s change-phobes?

I have to mention – because when else am I going to mention this? – that I have a friend whose mother loves Groundhog Day so much that she throws a party every year.  I have always wondered if she’s able to find Phil-themed paper products.

UPDATE:  Once again, that scaredy cat Phil saw his shadow; six more weeks of winter in 2010 folks.