Growing pains.

From the years of 8-14, there would be a few days a year that my legs would throb for seemingly no reason. It wasn’t a sports injury, I didn’t clock myself on a desk, but the pain would be so bad the only response I could muster was red-hot tears. Once my Mom cycled through the appropriate Mom Check-List, the diagnosis was always the same: Growing pains. And then she’d send me to bed where I would sleep for 100 years and wake up miraculously pain-free. The looks I get from my own children when I deliver the same prognosis to their random (and very real) leg pains has to be comically similar to how I most certainly responded to my own Mom, “Well that’s just dumb.”

Growing pains are dumb. How can the pain be so excruciating and entirely invisible? The only proof you get that it happened is a couple of inches added to your medical chart at the next doctor’s visit and a closet full of high-water jeans. Oh how I long for these growth markers now.

How do you measure growth as an adult when there’s no measuring stick? I have so many questions! Is it that suddenly Aerosoles look cute? Is it that you start looking to Crones for style inspo? That you notice a blood blister on your forearm and suddenly all of your skin is starting to look transparent and frail? That you have a relentless desire to pitch a solo tent by a stream in the woods for one very long weekend? That you just want to make art without nary a thought of monetization but for something else that could be called legacy?

I love it when I get to use the word “zeitgeist” and I don’t think it really applies here, but it’s fascinating nonetheless. I was halfway through with this essay when I got my brilliant friend, Holly Whitaker’s Substack over the weekend wrestling with similar themes. She brought up a few ideas that I hadn’t thought of, like wanting to experience growth’s edge until it hurts and then we’re all, “Whoa, parameters please, this is not what I signed up for.” But if you’re here and you’re reading this, you have definitely signed up.

I’ve realized that if I’d given myself the talking to and was believing my own BS that I should be over it by now, I’d be knee-deep in my hustle. And if I was knee-deep in my hustle right now, I wouldn’t have time for growing pains, not my own nor each of the particular pains my children are experiencing currently, the ones that can’t be measured or summed up or drawn out with a silver lining.

But silver lining or no, these are the stories that are worth reporting. When I’m longing for the banality of day-to-day, I remember that there isn’t a lot of fodder for endless journaling there. Growth is the grist for my mill. There is beauty in simplicity but simplicity doesn’t birth my art. Note to self.

The friends I’ve lost (lost = died) since the start of the pandemic, I keep their tabs open on my phone. They greet me every time I open my browser and as gently as they can, they prod me, “Babe, you are neither important nor unimportant. Just live the fuck out of your life because news flash, whether you think you deserve it or not isn’t the point. You are here.”

My days have been both banal and rich. I’m still trying to correct my posture, figure out how to organize my photos, finally make some art out of that box of old love letters I’ve moved around for 30 years. I’m telling my people how much I love them, sometimes succinctly but often not. I got out the yardstick and I’m pretty sure I’ve grown three inches.

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A tiny bit of housekeeping to say that I am slowly but steadily working on upcycled Spring frocks. To that effort, I’ve made some additional markdowns in my Marketplace. Check them out if you will!

Clowns to the left, Jokers to the right

And here we are, stuck in the middle, again. At least I’m with you! However, in this letter, I want to suspend reality for just a moment and pretend that all of our 2022 plans aren’t going to be sidelined again. But before I get to my dreaming and scheming, let’s reflect, shall we?

2021: Remove The Claws, Sister.

Because that’s what it takes for me to properly drop something and move onto the next. It sounds so easy when I say it like that, but what I always forget to build into that process is allowing time to remove the claws, even more time to grieve the thing you are no longer dug into, and the inevitable depression that comes from feeling unmoored. 2021 was a whole year of that: saying goodbye to the Unruffled podcast, finally deciding to put wedding photography down, feeling entirely untethered to parts of my identity, (eventually) letting those parts dissipate, and accepting that spectacular failures are part of life’s trek.

Remarkably, I didn’t pick up alcohol this year, though there were occasions that I wanted to. My creative work saved my recovery, again, as it always has. I made a whole lot of beauty with my hands this year from pounds and pounds of materials that didn’t go into the landfill. I bonded with other like-minded folks from my community while helping to produce a reuse fashion show that felt like a reprieve of joy and celebration that we all desperately needed. I landed a part-time job that feels like a position that was written expressively for me. Yes, “let things go to make room for something new, blah blah blah”. What is left out of that tidy little meme is the extraordinary pain that envelops that process and my dears, it is a process.

When you are in the drudgery of that process, it feels like infinity. And not until you wake up one morning on a random Tuesday in November and see that you’re finally on a New Shore is the infinity suspended. The New Shore is my favorite place. They sell Moleskine Pro Planners on the New Shore that invite you to map out your big dreams for the year (of which I’ve done). They encourage you to pull your tarot Year Ahead Spread, in which you’re so eager to do so, you pull 13 months of cards instead of 12. And because the New Shore can fill one with so much gratitude for its mere existence, it can make you think that if there is a Word of the Year for you in 2022, it’s simply: Not Me. And not because you’re selfless, you just want to think of yourself a little less this year. The process of 2021 was just that exhaustive.

In all seriousness, I am asking myself questions around stewardship for this coming year: How can I be a good steward of self? Of community? Of the planet? While those are big questions, they also help me narrow my focus for 2022. This book gifted to me earlier this year by a friend, Making a Life, Working by Hand and Discovering the Life Your Are Meant to Live, has been the perfect companion during The Taint (as I lovingly like to refer to this week) as I lay down some answers to those questions.

In some practical matters, I’m moving the sale of new handmade goods into a monthly drop system. What that means is that I’ll be releasing new upcycled handmade items in my Marketplace once a month. The “drop” date is still to be determined but it will be the same every month. Yay to new systems! I have other personal projects planned for 2022, and more of that will be revealed next time. For now, you can still shop lots of lovelies if you’re still shopping!

So hey YOU, what do you have brewing for 2022 (full permission to suspend Covid-reality for a minute granted)? What did 2021 have to teach you? What is on your New Shore? I’d love to hear about it.

I am rubbish at this.

Transitions. Let’s discuss. I’m terrible at them. And yes, this word can imply gender transition or life/death transition, but for the purpose of this letter, I’m referring to the transitions between life events, activities or projects. What, you don’t think about transitions? Well, neither did I, until 2009 that is.

Actually, that isn’t quite true. I did think about them, I just didn’t know there was a name for that space my 5 year old enter when he didn’t want to leave one place and move to another. When he would lie down in the middle of a crowd of people and scream his tiny little head off, I knew he wasn’t being a bad kid, just having a helluva hard time. It wasn’t until he got an autism diagnosis that I learned why he was having a hard time. It took me until I was 50 to admit that I have a hard time with them as well.

Instead of accepting that and building in some transitional time after a big project (or a vacation even), I pretend like it’s not my thing. In fact, I was positive that the Monday after my big fashion show event that I’d worked on for six months, I’d leap back into my studio and have my Marketplace filled with new items by now. Instead, I’ve walked around like Dora the Explorer, looking for clues as to what I should do next, tempered by long, annoying blinks. “The path is clearly right there, Dora!” *Slaps forehead.

This morning I woke up with a clear agenda again. That’s five whole days of walking in circles, long blinks, in transition. If I zoom out, I think I’ve been in transition for most of this year. Why isn’t Dora doing it right though? Why can’t I finish a project then take a minute to writhe in the details, ruminate, celebrate?

I’m finally hearing the invitation to be more intentional with closure. I need some kind of ritual to honor endings but in my wandering, I found a piece of art that I received a few years ago from my friend Stephanie, my partner in one of the many #recoverygalsartexchanges that Tammi Salas and I have hosted over the years. I’d been undecided on where to hang her beautiful ceramic chime and after she transitioned last year (the aforementioned kind), I was stalled even further. In my longing for ritual, I found the perfect place for it.

I think the experiences that require more transitional time are because we’ve been left in awe. Thank you for reframing that for me, Stephanie.

What has left you in awe lately?

Cause black is how I feel on the inside.

TW: I’m going to talk about depression with a brief reference to suicidal ideation.

It’s been said that when we can no longer see the sacred in our lives, our inner flame has gone out. Those are the best words I can conjure to describe depression.

I’m lucky, I suppose. I’m not often there, “there” like it’s a place. And it does feel like a place, like a room that you walk into and the walls are lined with funhouse mirrors where you don’t even recognize yourself. If you can even muster the energy to look, that is. If you do lift your head to have a glimpse though, you wonder, “Have I always had this very long face and short little body? I guess I’ve always been this way. Why didn’t anyone bother to tell me that I’m ridiculous? Of course no one loves me, I’m unloveable and I will always be unloveable. The end.”

When I’m there, in that room, I’m there for a while before I recognize my new and unfamiliar surroundings. If it was that I just couldn’t get out of bed or that suddenly my food tasted bland or if I couldn’t stop crying, then my brain would be more satisfied with the logic and linearity of it: Bland food + Incessant crying = Depression. I wish it were that easily identifiable. It creeps in like a whisper. It makes suggestions that I would normally cock my head at, like, “Are you talking to me? Are you sure you’ve got the right person? (scoff) I don’t want to die!” And then before I know it, I can’t even remember a time that I didn’t want to die. Giant head, tiny body.

And just like I never know the exact point I’ve entered the funhouse mirror room, I’m also not aware of my exit. It starts as a slow unveiling of the sacred again and then in a final act of completion, like She’s taking a dramatic bow, God hands me a serendipitous moment. I had not one but two of those over the weekend, two more yesterday. As much as I love the magic of kismet, I don’t know if it really pays the bill for depression. I may have to get back to you on that one.

Here is what I really wanted to tell you: making things with my hands was all I could do. There was no planning. I couldn’t even make a to-do list, but I could sync my breath to my stitches long enough to make it out of that room. If you experience depression, I hope there’s something in this story that helps you. Art continues to remind me of its persistent potency, even when I can’t manage a single productive thought. Especially.

To honor that benevolent flame, I’m extending my Fall Fire Sale to the end of this week (Sunday, the 7th). You can still enter FIRE2021 to get 25% off anything in my Marketplace. There are still lots of pretty, handmade items. I have many new items to add too and will be working on photographing and listing those after Sunday.

The drive of excitement, the vitality that lives in human connection, that is the sacred for me. When your flame reignites, gratitude is easy. Tell me, what is sacred for you right now?

Day One.

No, I didn’t relapse. But this is a dismantling, of sorts.

Since I’ve been in recovery, everything I say out loud first passes through the histrionic meter, so while it may appear that I’m circling the drain, please allow me to make one more revolution.

You see, the last seven years have been like going to school. My major? Take Good Care of Sondra. There has been quite a steep learning curve. During this (re) education, I’ve been busy integrating all of the parts of myself that I’d formerly compartmentalized to be liked, to be low-maintenance, to have insurance that others are okay with me. For instance, compartmentalized Me would not say she was in pain when she was. She wielded “I’m Fine” as a weapon against herself and every time it was a punitive payment for what I thought I deserved, for short-comings, sometimes for existing.

Recently saying “I’m not okay” doesn’t feel so radical anymore. Being integrated simply means telling the truth. So you can imagine my surprise when I heard a voice this weekend during my hours upon hours of beachcombing say, “No really. Torch it all and walk away.”

Actually, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Since I’ve not been OK for months, I’ve prayed and meditated and prayed some more. I know I have a knack for waiting to hit rock bottom to force significant change and I’ve been trying to get ahead of that. When I tell you that I’ve walked past no less than 12 burning bushes, all the while saying “Surely you don’t mean that…” and (for the woo) I’ve pulled The Tower card so many times since June I’ve lost count, please know that I’m not just being extra. That voice on the beach, bush #13.

Today, I’m striking the first match.

After I surrendered to that voice on the beach, I realized that I’ve lost sight of my values. They have slipped through my fingers because I’ve been so busy trying to hustle and crack the algorithm and marketing code and honestly, I’m exhausted. No wonder. Turns out, compartmentalization can come in handy when I’m trying to detach my inability to sell my work from my self-worth, but that’s some Buddhist-level shit that I can’t access right now. Not to mention, it’s sucking the joy out of my creativity (re: exhausted). I like to work, but I need to un-commodify creative work, to a degree anyway.

If you’re still with me, you may wondering what this means? For starters, I’m having a Fire Sale on all of my existing inventory in my Marketplace (more on that with a code in a sec). And no, I’m not finished making garments and accessories from recycled textiles and putting them up for sale in my Marketplace, however, the difference is that I’m taking the financial pressure off of what I make. If there’s no financial pressure, I only have to market it if I feel like it. I’m no longer playing the game, I’m out. (Ps. I still love commissions, and will carefully consider each one when time allows.)

The second announcement: I’m discontinuing all payments for The Midlife Solution by Friday, Oct. 22nd. I love our community and it’s valuable to me, so I’m still there engaging and it’s open to any sober midlife woman who wants to join. I’m leaving the $19 payment option open until Friday, if you want to sign up and think of it as a donation to offset the costs of keeping the group open (the real community lives on the Circle.so app). But after that, I’m cancelling the recurring payment, so you’ll only pay $19 one time to stay in as long as you’d like (or until I shut the door, but I have no immediate plans for that). If you are considering this but need me to explain further, just hit Reply. I’m also discontinuing 1:1 coaching.

I’ll also still be sending out this newsletter. When I ask myself, What do you really want? I want to make art and I want to write, so this will continue to serve as a vehicle for that. But with less promotion. And with the financial burden taken off of my creative work, that means I’m looking for a J.O.B. (so if you know of anything, winkwink). Actually, my dream job would be to teach fashion design with an emphasis on sustainability to high schoolers, so I’m looking at Spring coursework right now. And now that my values and goals are clear again, I suppose I need to learn how to write grants and apply for scholarships. Ugh. It’s still Day One, right?

If you shop the Fire Sale, it’s like you’ll be striking another match. (And since I’m being so transparent, I have some classes to enroll for.) Enter FIRE2021 for 25% off. And I’m so grateful for your support over the years. I stayed afloat for most of a global crisis and that ain’t nothing.

We’re doing grief work in The Midlife Solution this month with a new book club pic called The Grief Recovery Handbook. I’ve known that I’ve entered a transitional phase for months and I’ve already been grieving, but now I can process it in a community, another check-mark off my values list. Saying all of this out loud, I already feel like I’m floating.

Comparison is a thief.

A thief of imagination, that is.

And I’m sure you’ve heard the other quote, attributed to Pres. Roosevelt, that comparison steals your joy. But before it steals your joy, it steals your imagination. Joy is just one of the options available but so is sadness, anger or indifference.

You may remember a few letters back I wrote about an experiment I was conducting. I’ve been feeling invisible for a while. Maybe this is what they say happens when you hit middle age? I’m okay with some invisibility, but I feel like my work isn’t reaching who it needs to reach. And when I’d slid into the habit of opening my phone first thing in the morning, it was only there to confirm that. I can’t control algorithms, who sees me or who buys my work, but I can control my imagination and what I do with it. Checking social media first thing in the morning was only showing me my limitations. It was like pinching the hose.

I won’t bore you with my thoughts on the perils of social media. We all know them. And that feeling of constriction isn’t something I feel every time I open up the apps either, or I’d just throw my phone in the garbage. But since it is unpredictable for me, drawing that boundary around part of my day has already made me feel profoundly better, even though my circumstances haven’t changed.

y creative energy feels urgent right now, but less efforting and more ease. This month in The Midlife Solution community, we are rolling over to a new topic and the concept of being a Late Bloomer felt really relevant. The expansive energy I’m in right now reminds me that it’s never too late to start something new, even if society would like to remind you that you’re way behind. The space I’ve given myself is allowing me to really examine options for whatever this transition is I feel I’m on the precipice of.

Are you in a place where you want to make some changes in your life, in your career, in your relationships or just creatively? I hope you’ll join The Midlife Solution this month. I’d love to go deep with you!

And if you have a creative project that you’d like 1:1 time with me to bring it to life, ask me about The Midlife Solution 1:1 coaching.

So with all of this time I’ve opened up, I’ve been making. I’ve gone through my 20 year archive and have pulled some products that I haven’t made in a while, like fabric cuffs. They are like art for your arms! I’ve listed two for now, but will have many more coming this week. I hope you’ll check them out!

And one more thing I’m super excited about, Ephemera Bundles. They are bundles of vintage fabric, lace and trims, buttons, thread and other ephemera…all you would need to for your own textile art project. I have a hand full listed right now, but will be adding more of those as well.

So yeah, I think my experiment is going swimmingly.

Tell me, are you a late bloomer?

“I was a late bloomer. But anyone who blooms at all, ever, is very lucky.”—Sharon Olds.

The first time I read that line from poet Sharon Olds, I’m pretty sure I audibly gasped. It took me until I got sober 7 years ago to fully feel into the luckiness of it. For most of my life, I just felt like I’d missed all of it: the mark, the boat, the opportunity. But now I feel like Sharon with the caveat that if I’d kept drinking, I’d surely be one of the unlucky ones.

I got to talk about this at length with my friend Lori Massicot  on her podcast, To 50 And Beyond. Felt good to be on a podcast again…hmmm. Hope you’ll give it a listen!

Being a late bloomer will also be a topic we will be exploring soon in my online subscription community, The Midlife Solution. If this pricks your interest, I hope you’ll join us. Late bloomers unite!

Every day this week, I’m dropping new Fall items a few at a time and posting them on Instagram. Wheeee! I am prepping inventory for a reuse fashion show (that I’m also helping to produce) with Austin Creative Reuse, so I am very much in my creative flow space. Let me know if you see something you like!

If this is late bloomin’, I’ll take it.

Equinox it off.

My brain hates change. I don’t think it’s a projection to assume yours does too.

However, because you are receiving this letter, that most likely means that you know change intimately. But why, WHY do we (I) forget that you can’t do the same thing over and over and expect a different result?

The Fall Equinox is as good a day to start as any. My creativity deserves the best part of my day and for me, it’s the hours from waking up until about 1pm. But instead of creating before I consume, I’ve slumped back into the habit of opening up my phone first. Email turns into social media and then I have to Google something and before I know it, I’ve lost at least an hour (ok, usually more). But it’s not just the lost hours that I suffer, and this was harder to admit. The phone is the thief of my imagination and therefore, possibility. No matter what my mindset is upon waking (and I’m a perpetual optimist, so it’s usually pretty good), scrolling through anything on my phone never fails to introduce limitations and dread. Never fails.

You know when you go camping in the mountains without data or wifi and that feeling of expansiveness you have every time you wake up? That’s the feeling I’m after. Hell, that was everyday of our lives before smartphones, right? (Provided you grew up in a relatively safe household with a roof over your head.)

That feeling has been very elusive for a few months. If I were to ruminate on my timeline (and no worries, I have), I’ve felt stuck since June, when I lost 900 wedding photos while transferring them from my camera to my computer. I danced around this in one of the last Unruffled podcasts that Tammi and I recorded before we took an indefinite break, and I’ve yet to really write about it publicly, but it fucked me up. The photos were recovered, edited and delivered, but I feel a bit like Alice. It’s like I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole, I feel very small and I can’t find the cake to make me right-sized again. And guess what? The cake isn’t on Instagram, I’ve looked.

So no, I’m not deleting all apps and extracting myself. There may be a season for that but it’s not this one. I am just implementing some structure to my days so that I can be relentless and undaunted in the hot pursuit of my goals.

And now I’m sharing that with you, because this girl likes a little accountability. And no judgement either because I’ve tried setting this intention before and following through and I’ve failed. July 13, 2014 is an arbitrary day but it was the first day of drastic change for me. September 22, 2021 is as good a day for change as any.

Do you want a fine community of women to be accountable to? Maybe you want to start a practice or quit something or work towards a goal…The Midlife Solution community is a good place to work that out. It’s my subscription community for sober, creative women in midlife and I’d love to have you join us.

I’ve been whipping out some meditation pillows lately and I’m kinda on a roll. They are made from 100% recycled upholstery fabric, even the zippers are reuse. They are filled with buckwheat hulls so they feel very grounded under your bum. They are also one-of-a-kind and they make great gifts! And if that’s what your thinking, it’s not too early if you are thinking about Christmas. I know, I said it, but doesn’t Sept through Dec fly by? I’m hoping my new daily practice will slow it down.

xoxo

I never thought I’d say this.

But I’ve been saying it a whole lot lately and am experiencing the giddiest feeling of freedom every time I do.

“That ship has sailed.”

To be the next big fashion designer? That ship has sailed.

To be the next social media celebrity? That ship has sailed.

To be a public figure in my field? That ship has sailed.

You may hear some resignation in that but I promise you, that is not what is happening.

Instead, it’s allowing me to assess what I CAN do, what IS within reach. Instead of for the stars, I’m shooting for, like, a tree branch. And a tree branch? Well, that is something I can grab.

This is huge for someone for whom longing was her first emotional language. (And why yes, I did Google, “Is longing an emotion?”)

Longing has been both the juice to inspire action and the mud in which I’m stuck. And let’s be honest, the heir of my longing has mostly been the stars: something (or someone) way out of reach. And as a result of the overwhelming action that would be required to reach the stars, I’ve been more stuck in my life than not.

Lowering the bar and allowing that the ship has indeed sailed on some starry dreams has surprisingly opened up a world of options. A few of those options look like: going back to school, eyeing a few master’s programs, seriously entertaining the thought of working for someone other than myself for like the second or third time in my life and knowing that it could only happen sometime in the very unknown future and being okay with that.

Jumping for the tree branch instead of the stars is not very sexy or subversive, it’s not even that risky and yet, it feels exhilarating.

I guess this is late bloomin’ 52.

Hey, do you want in on conversations like this? You should join The Midlife Solution community. We’re talking about goals and ambition and external validation and detachment and whole lot of other topics just like this. I hope to see you there.

Also, I’m having a big ol sale on all of the garments in my Marketplace (including this amazing cat robe/jacket) to make space for FALL. Ah, Fall. Hope you snag something you’ve been eyeing!

xoxo

PS. Daily cutting, stitching and making is a practice and practice is the ultimate unsexy tree branch. In case you were wondering.

Take me down to the Neutral City.

On the weekends, my husband and I like to go for long walks and end up at the gym for a little weight training. Most days, I have on a mask, earbuds and glasses and usually engrossed in a podcast, I feel like I have on a cloak of invisibility. So when a young woman (late 20s if I had to guess) approached me this past Saturday, I’m pretty sure she was waving for a good 15 seconds before I realized my cloak wasn’t actually effective and she was trying to speak to me.

“You look really good,” she said through a wide grin. And when I didn’t respond, she said it again. I finally found my words, “Oh my gosh, thank you!”

I’ll admit, that gave me a little swoosh of energy to finish my workout. When my husband and I were walking home, I told him about it. But then, that was it. I didn’t think about the exchange again. It just entered Neutral City.

Until yesterday in the shower, that is, where all of my deep thinking takes place and it hit me, “Oh, she meant, ‘…for my age.’ She didn’t finish her sentence. She meant, ‘I look good…for my age.’”

And then I just stood under the water and relished in my own growth for a moment and here’s why: if she had said that to me when I was 40, I would have immediately picked up on what she didn’t say and I would have taken it as a slight. You know, one of those underhanded compliments that comes with an (often unsaid) disclaimer that leaves you not really knowing how to feel like, “You have such a pretty face!” (Unsaid: “As for the rest of your body, it could use a little attention.”) Yes, I received the compliment, but mostly I just felt neutral about it. Can I get a high-five, because that is some serious detachment from the need for external validation RIGHT THERE!

And it’s true! I deliriously DON’T CARE! I don’t care what you think about my body. I don’t care if you think I dress inappropriately for my age. I don’t care if you dislike my cellulite. I don’t care if you resent how I show up, if you think I’m too loud or aggressive or talk too much or have too many ideas. I DON’T CARE. And I’ll tell you what I DO care about: I care about what YOU think about YOU. And I can’t tell you if this shift happens on a timeline but I am pretty sure that for me, it’s been the combination of this decade (50) and the work I’ve done in recovery.

And THIS is what excites me about my membership community, The Midlife Solution. Nothing thrills me more than experiencing women extending their freedom to stretch and grow in any way they damn well please and to have a place to be witnessed and supported and high-fived by other women who are doing it too. That kind of energy creates a contagion of reciprocity, like the idea that “a rising tide raises all boats”. There’s enough going on in the world and it’s hard not to spiral in despair or resignation, at the least. I want The Midlife Solution to be a web of relief, not only because creativity and community matter, but besides nature and family, they are the only sane tethering in an insane world.

I don’t need you to tell me I’m right about that. I just hope you’ll come see for yourself.

Art insists, you resist.

Or ack, not another hack!

I know. I’m grossed out by hack language too. So I promise that this isn’t that. I just wanted to share with you how I worked through some creative resistance last week.

I’ve been trying to write more. Before I can even get to the part where a daily practice becomes a habit, I need a soft entry or I will resist. I WANT to write and early mornings would be the ideal time for me to do that. But because it’s still Summer, I’m having a hard time letting go of my hour (or more) of morning reading time, and therein lies the conflict. So I'm exercising my writing muscle in Instagram stories (of all places, saving them to my Highlights, if you want to follow along), but it feels really good. It's like I'm floating down a stream when it comes to what I want to write about next. Maybe because I took it out of the regular format (the blank page) and put it there, it's taken the pressure off. I’ve made it less precious because it doesn't really have a purpose other than I'm enjoying doing it. That’s my soft entry that may lead me to a practice that will then become a habit. But instead of getting ahead of myself, I’m going to keep enjoying this view.

Can you apply that idea to creative work that you are resisting? Maybe the blank page of your sketchbook is mocking you, so you doodle in the margins of a book you are currently reading (if this is a library book, do not recommend). Maybe you are stuck on all creative fronts? Write a letter to a friend, pen to paper. Add some collage, doodles, stickers. Just by giving your creative work a different assignment (“I can’t do it for myself, but I can do it for Jennifer!”) can be like pulling a Jeep out of the mud. Let me know if you try this!

You want to hear something else fun? There is a space to share this kind of stuff in my new membership community, The Midlife Solution. That’s right. The space is called Share Your Wins, but it’s a place to put any practice, either creative, practical or spiritual, for which you’d like some accountability. There is also a monthly Member Spotlight, where one of the community members will get to share their shine. There is a Book Club (first book pick is Mother Hunger by Kelly McDaniel) and a place to share words or art you’d like the members to read or admire. I’m scheduling some interviews to share and there will be monthly member live calls. If this sounds like something of your dreams, I’m here to tell ya, it’s real and open and we’d love to have you join us.

If you have any questions about The Midlife Solution, please use this form. There is a beautiful group of women already there, ready to commune with you.

xoxo

The serpentine path eventually revolves ⭕

Besides, if you were offered the straight shot, would you take it anyway?

Probably not. Sounds boring. The path we're given is often circuitous and meandering, but the scenery is way better.

I didn't know that skirting close to a relapse followed by a seven year recovery milestone would take me back to the first page of my sobriety journal, but it did.

Written the first week of my one year sobriety "experiment", I had no idea how prophetic those words would turn out to be, although I had a glimmering. The last seven years have not been a smooth and arrowed trajectory. There's been death and perimenopause and kids becoming teens and failure and a pandemic. There has also been four years of a successful podcast and creative risks and a community of creative, sober women 1000+ strong. It's been circuitous and meandering and I'm grateful for all of it.

All of this reflection has brought me back to this: Sobriety is a Midlife Solution. How did I do it, stop drinking? Honestly, it's becoming harder and harder to say. It was part miracle, part spiritual experience, part dumb luck, but mostly I was sick and tired. It's a conversation I'm becoming less interested in having though. Not because I don't want to shut the door to how bad it was, but I'm more interested in how someone stayed sober yesterday. How do you do it when you have to cancel travel plans once again because of rising Covid numbers and deal with teen expectations and keep an eye on a parent's precarious health and sweat through another hot flash? How do you stay sober through all of that?

So I'm creating a space to have these conversations. It's called The Midlife Solution.

Every month, we will explore a topic: Why is sobriety a Midlife Solution? What do I do with this creative sense of urgency? How can I embrace the idea of myself as a "late bloomer"? How happy am I to be going through menopause sober? (Alternative title: I can't believe I'm going through menopause sober?) There will be monthly live calls, community discussions, topical breakout rooms. There will be bonus content, like interviews, AMAs and a book club! (So excited about the book club.) It's almost ready to go and it's what I need, what I've needed all along.

The women who get in this community on the ground level will get to watch it build and evolve but they will also get to influence the shape as it does. The space will only become more valuable with time. If this sounds like a space you need too, the doors will be open soon. Life will always be a labyrinth, but it's a path best navigated with friends.

xoxo

The Seven Year Stitch ✂

Because I love a good sewing metaphor.

On 7.13.14, I woke up at 2am with my heart beating into my throat, anxiety full throttle, sweat streaming out of every pore. I sat up and said to anyone who was listening, "I don't know how I'm going to do this, but I can't do this anymore." I haven't had a sip of alcohol since.

After a year or so of just not drinking (one element of claiming 'sobriety' for me) and doing the work of recovery (that thing everyone talks about but harder to define), I'd often slide into thoughts about what might take me out of recovery, make me want to drink again. Would it be a death of someone I loved? A terminal illness? A fuck-it moment that jumps out of the shadows, unforeseen, shoving a  well-aged beverage in my hand while I say to myself, "Oh well, here goes"? My brain loves to future-trip and these kind of exercises have helped me play out the story. Conclusion always: no good, very bad, probably dead. That's the kind of drinker I am and will always be. 

In the last seven years, I've survived the death of my father, perimenopause (if you know, YOU KNOW), preteen hormones (still in it) and identity crises (now, what do I want to be when I grow up, again?), but this last year of sobriety has been the hardest thus far. I'm still processing this, but I think it was the combination of losing some women that I'd grown close to in recovery (not lost, they died) forcing me to look at my own impermanence paired with an incident that left me feeling like a disappointment and a fraud. The result, I really wanted to get mind-numbingly drunk (and there is really no other kind for me). It initially took me by surprise but then I remembered, "Oh yeah, I'm an alcoholic*". And then, as if I needed just one more reminder from that ol' chestnut, Humility, I slipped and fell flat on my back in three inches of mud while on vacation, and I had to strip like a child in front of my family and God so I could shower off and we could resume our day. 

I was going to use this time to critique The Promises of AA (and yes, they've made me tear up here and there, I'M HUMAN), but if you've ever read that passage from The Big Book and thought, "Why is everyone in this meeting nodding like this is their experience? What phase of development am I in, exactly? When are we halfway through?" I'm here to tell you that while I've experienced some fulfillment of a promise or three, I've never felt them all simultaneously. People and circumstances still baffle me. I feel useless and insecure often. I can be amazed by the shit sandwiches that I'm still eating on the regular. I've comprehended serenity and known peace, but I've also comprehended anxiety and known grief. I know it helps others to hear how far down the scale I've gone but I think what is more helpful is to hear how someone stayed sober today, because life is more often a shit sandwich than not. I want to hear how someone didn't drink today when they really wanted to. I'm more interested in not in how someone got sober, but how they stayed sober.

I've often heard that Seven Years wields some kind of magical conclusionary powers: circles close, relationships expire, feelings resolve. It took seven years to earn my college degree, seven years for my first marriage to dissolve. I spent exactly seven years in service to at least one restaurant on my resume, and "The Seven Year Ache" by Rosanne Cash was the second song that I knew all of the words to and would belt loudly in my pink childhood room ( second to "Delta Dawn" by Tanya Tucker). I got to close this chapter over the weekend when I returned from the exact vacation that I returned from seven years ago, went to a party at the very same house hosted by the same friend, but instead of getting annihilated by alcohol, scaring my children and disappointing my husband again, I got to show my kids  how to laugh and converse with friends at a party, fizzy waters in hand, and how to leave when we were done. Circle closed.

I woke up this morning feeling like this wasn't going to be just another 24 hours. It really feels like I've stitched a chapter closed and I get to start a new one. The title of the first blank page is, Who do I want to be in the next seven years? I'm settling in, pen in hand.

A little business:
---Tammi and I recorded this emotional episode of The Unruffled Podcast and then decided to take July off. A short Summer break, if you will. See you in August!

---I have a Marketplace full of silk fabric scrap earrings and a few marked down garments. I'm back from vacation, doused with that magical energy and will be loading lots of new items this week and next. And, Instagram finally granted me a shop button on my profile! Yay!

xoxo

*That's a word I use when I need to remember that there is no safe amount of alcohol for me.

 

Who was your first 😳?

The first person you compared your alcohol intake to, that is.

If you read last week's letter, then you know, #amwriting. I'm currently developing a character that is loosely based on one of my best friends from college, Anya. That is her real name and it's important for me to use it, at least here, because she's one of those people in your life you don't forget. And since I can't tell her that, nor can I tell her parents, this is the only way I know how to continue loving my friends that have died.

Anya and I were both nineteen when we met, even though she seemed at least five years older than me. She knew things I didn't, like how to shoot a gun, how to follow your bliss like Joseph Campbell, that juniper berries smelled just like gin, and what it was like to escape the Holocaust like her Mom had. She also knew how to drink. She was the first person I hedged my drinking behavior against: I go to class, even hungover and she hasn't been to one class this week; I don't drink before noon on weekdays (the Bloody Marys on Sundays or the bottles of wine cracked open on the PMS-skip-days don't count); I don't need pot in the morning to quell the shakes, but there isn't enough coffee on campus to keep me from nodding off in Chemistry. Her hugs never lasted less than 25 seconds and she was the first person I knew who got sober, decades before I even understood what that actually meant. More about her next week.

Last week, I also mentioned that I'm reading books that my book could potentially saddle up next to. This exercise is to make a list officially called "Book Comps" that you would include in an agent query but really, it's just gd enjoyable.

I'm slightly embarrassed that I've just finished Here Kitty, Kitty by Jardine Libaire.

Embarrassed because she took the time to send it to me two years ago, but in my defense, it was swiftly packed up in the great Remodel Move before I had a chance to read it. However, I did have a chance to gush over another of her books, The Sober Lush, that she co-wrote with Amanda Eyre Ward, just last summer when they came on The Unruffled Podcast, so I've made it up to her.

Here Kitty Kitty is very accurate at depicting how stripped down and bare your thoughts become when you are in active addiction, as portrayed by the narrator, Lee. Even as she's surrounded by the pulsating life of beauty and decay that is NYC. Jardine writes so shrewdly how addiction puts a barrier between you and your longings, one impossible to cross until your addiction has been reckoned with. I understood Lee. Again, I don't know if Addiction Fiction is a real genre, but if it does exist, this book fits nicely and Jardine is just an exquisite writer.

I have more book comps in my pile and look forward to sharing more with you. Do you have a favorite? Feel free to pass on your recommendations. In the meantime, #amwriting and #amsewing and #amnotcomplaining. 

Pardon me while I whip this out 🍆

I'm really calling on my Big Eggplant Energy rn.

I've always been risky. But getting sober in my 40s prepared me to bust through my 50s swinging. There's still just too much on the list of What I Want To Do With My Life that hasn't been crossed off.

My little sustainable design and fashion business is going as well as can be expected, considering I'm the designer/sourcer/maker/marketer/model/shipper. This is a place that I've been in many times over the 18 years I've been doing this. To scale means that I need to hire someone, even if it's models and hair+makeup for a proper photoshoot. And this is a place I can get easily overwhelmed and say, f*ckit, I'll just keep doing it all myself, which doesn't actually nudge the scale. All that being said, I'm also content. Not that I'm not still ambitious, but most days, I'm just basic happy.

All of this solitary time has allowed my imagination to meander and dammit if it doesn't keep going back to the idea of writing a book. That idea has inspired some action and I've actually had my butt in the chair on more days than not. This book idea has gone from Memoir to Women's Fiction to Magical Realism, I've even thought it could be a Graphic Novel. Trying to define the genre first has kept me circling the drain and not getting much actual writing done. Until, that is, I stumbled upon a genre that might not really be a genre called Addiction Fiction and that seems to have created an inviting container that I'm inspired to fill. I won't say that writing has been easier, f*ck no it's not easy, but there's been a lot less resistance to sitting down and doing it, even if it's been one not-very-good sentence after another.

So my next many newsletters may be filled with what is coming up as I'm plunking away at my keys. I'll feel too exposed to share actual excerpts but throwing out some hooks to see if I'm using the right bait feels...right. Plus engaged in all of these solitary acts is lonely AF. I'm also reading some book comps (competitors) to see how mine may fit but differ and I look forward to sharing those as well.

I'm strapping on my BEE and asking Failure to dance again and again. Some days I feel blissfully ignorant and some days I feel brave. What's your risky business these days? 

I can see the forest, but how 'bout them trees 🌳

I've lately been having a lot of visceral memories.

And it's probably because I'm doing so much making, a solitary existence. Occasionally I have on a podcast or audiobook, sometimes music, but I often prefer silence. External silence, that is, my brain is rarely at ease.

My most easily accessible recollection of being a kid is all the time I spent in the woods. There's so much of my childhood that I can’t recall or I've just stuffed into the back of my sock drawer, but the details of the woods that surrounded my house are brilliant.

Everyday after school, I'd let my brother and myself into our house, I'd change into something comfy and worn and head out the door to the thick woods across the street from our house. Sometimes I'd have a plan to meet my neighbor, Kim, sometimes not. I'd occasionally have on shoes, but often not. We'd worn a path in that was obvious to us but would go unnoticed to anyone over four feet tall. The barbwire fence even had a permanent bend from so many little bodies squeezing through. I'd enter that fence portal around 3pm and wouldn't exit until sundown.

My first destination was always the Slanted Tree. The Slanted Tree was an oak that must have blown sideways at some point but then just continued to grow that way. I was a skilled tree climber but this one you only needed to straddle like a horse and scoot yourself forward a few inches at a time, to take care not to scrape all the skin off your inside thighs. I usually stopped when I got to a certain knob in the tree that was proceeded by a break in the incline. 

I could hang in that straight spot on the otherwise Slanted Tree for hours. Sometimes I'd just lean forward, let my tummy and cheek hug the tree and take a nap. If I had to pee, I'd just wiggle my shorts down, let my fanny hang over the side and let gravity do the rest.

The Slanted Tree also acted as one wall of a clearing in a small thicket that was our agreed upon clubhouse. Kim and I spent lots of time in there scheming our next ambush on the boys, our brothers, or if it was just me, I'd dig a hole, arrange pine needles just so, follow a ladybug, study a spider's web. Each of those tasks might take minutes or hours, I didn't know and didn't have a watch that would insist that I care. Sun as the enforcer, when the light started to dim so that I could only make out the edges of things, it was time to return to homework and chores sometimes, but more often to parents that hated the sight of each other. 

All that time spent in the woods was a magical time, yes, but what feels more real is how untethered yet genuine, safe and protected I felt. In this season of making I'm in right now, I'm feeling the same sensations. I am in the forest, so untethered from things that only matter outside of the forest, like purpose and goals and to-do lists. And I'm more than okay.

Every day feels the same now. I get up early and do the tasks I must do: make coffee, empty the dishwasher, make sure everyone has clean underwear, awaken the kids and get them on task for the day. Then, I take off my shoes and enter the forest. I put my hands on something real, often fabric or a needle and thread, but sometimes it's a book or a pen to paper. It will surprise me how many minutes will have ticked by when I finally look at my phone. Lately I haven't been able to count on my appetite to give me structure, I even forget to brush my teeth some mornings. Every task is filling me with sublime wonder. It's been hard to leave the woods when the Sun reminds me it's time to pick up a kid and start the nightly routine.

As good as it is right now, I have to reconcile the forest with the real need to engage in capitalism. I cherish this time and what I'm creating and everything I'm doing to remind you that I have beautiful things for sale feels disingenuous. If I could set up a stand amidst the poppies in my front yard, I would! I'd make a sign that would say, "Come! Try this on! Or let's just talk about beauty and craft and have you ever stared into the center of a poppy?"

Lately, I've been making these silk scrap earrings. I just added five pair to my Marketplace. They will evolve, get a little more scrappy as you wear them, tiny threads floating down to the ground from which they came. Can you think of anything more wonderful?

xoxo

The tree in your acorn 🌳🌰

When the student is ready, the teacher appears.

Or something like that.

I've twice before attempted to read this book:

It was like I knew there was something in it for me, a box of mystery waiting to be unlocked. There's a key right there, ffs!!! But I could not ingest one swallow of it, no matter how hard I wanted to. Until, that is, attempt Number Three, and now it's going down like a cold glass of watermelon juice.

I've only just begun (again) so no spoilers, but the gist (who am I kidding, there's no "gist") is that every human soul enters with an acorn and every acorn contains a grand and beautiful oak tree. It is inherent and unequivocal. Often the acorn will show its intentionality when we're children and sometimes, the nudge can be so sharp that it will topple the child into awareness, like in a prodigy or a child that has very specific requests, makes definitive choices. But for most of us, it's only in reflection that we can see the acorn attempting to make itself visible.

That's some box of fucking mystery, right? I've had honest-to-goddess tears every time I've sat down to think about little Sondra and her acorn.

I've read up to where the writer will explain that there are no winners, losers or victims here. Whatever tree you grow from your acorn, it's yours and it is beautiful. When I look at the above photo, I see three humans who have all suffered differently from mental illness: one died without ever receiving care, one has schizophrenia, one self-medicated with alcohol until she stopped. That describes a few branches of each of our trees, but it isn't the whole, magnificent tree. What I also see is that I'm gleefully donning this bonnet that for all practical purposes was choking me and that may say something about my acorn.

I've also been extra astute to my own children and their acorns. I don't know definitively that I've seen shape and color of their acorns, but maybe. Max told me when he could barely say words (and with a speech impediment, words that only I could understand), "Mom, I am not your puppet." And Chloe has always shook off pain like a dog shakes off water, like she'll "get knocked down and get up again, ain't ever going to keep her down" (come on, Chumbawamba!) without one tear---pre-preteen hormones, anyway. I'm content not knowing what their beautiful trees will look like. I guess I like boxes of mystery.

With the shift back to sustainable design and making, I think my tree is reflecting my acorn. Sometimes you can be so IN IT that it's hard to see things objectively, but I'd like to think that my sturdy and stunning tree is still growing.

I'd love for you to check out what I've been making! I gave a few fun biz facts over on IG and the caftan in the reel is on sale here. The robe is listed in my Marketplace too! The colors are Spring's siren call, like leaves bursting out of branches, like my tree, waking up from a long nap.

xoxo

PS. THE UNRUFFLED PODCAST IS BACK! Please listen to our 200! episode and our FOUR YEAR celebration! Thanks for your continued support during our pause, and we're so excited to be back with new energy, new schedule and new content.

Boldness has magic in it ⚡

Attributed to Goethe, the rest of the quote goes like this:

“Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Only engage and the mind grows heated, begin it and the work can be completed.”

Although that quote reads like something I pulled from a trending personal development book, it's a common sentiment that's endured for a few centuries because it's true. Acting boldly on your dreams is damn magical. And it may not always equal success by "society's standards" (said like there's a definitive definition of that) but grabbing freedom by the nap of the neck and saying, "You're coming with me", means you also get to choose the color of success that suits you.

I recently heard a man named Gideon Tsang talk about what it's like to be a 7 on the Enneagram and as we share the number, I was ready to take notes. He said something that I'd heard before, but his articulation was like connecting stars in a constellation. He said that eventually he'd run out of ways to reframe his situation, he could no longer spin the narrative, he had to walk away. 

Oh boy, can I spin a narrative: It's not that bad. The thing I want is right here, I just need to do this first (dream adjacent). What if I (fill in the blank with verb du jour)? Meanwhile, I'm spinning so hard that it's only until my face is on concrete that I'll stop.

Steven Pressfield described this so astutely in a recent interview on the Rich Roll podcast. Some of us came off the assembly line with an insatiable hole and when it's empty, it's the most itchy, uncomfortable feeling that we grab for the quick and easy fills: food, alcohol, sex, shopping, Netflix, productivity, social media. They work but it's like they're made of disappearing ink, the minute they're written down, they're gone. It's until we feed the hole with the nutrition it's asking for, the dream unengaged if you will, will it stop writhing and screaming.

Satiety is success, for me. Not taking bold actions toward my dreams? Sure, it's not that bad. Drinking myself into oblivion every night wasn't that bad either. "Life isn't that bad" is a tale I could spin until the end of my time. But filling that hole with what it's asking to be filled with is so damn satisfying, it really does feel magical. I'm so happy and you know what? Happiness is not canceled, I don't care what you read. 

My purpose in writing this today is that I hope it's contagious. I hope that wafts of Spring air, trees sprouting green, poppies in bloom and a little more social freedom (re:vaccinations) on the horizon is inspiring you to find your life's most genius, powerful, magical lust too. Let me know if you do.

If you want to see what I've been up to, I've listed a few new items in my Marketplace and you can always catch glimpses of works-in-progress on Instagram.

Dream adjacent 💭

My desire to work there was so bad it scooped out my stomach like a deseeded cantaloupe. And don't think I didn't try to get a job there. I stalked that wing of the mall. I lurked and touched every garment and accessory in that store. At sixteen, I'd only afforded one long graphic-printed t-shirt but I wore it every time because surely the manager would see me and say, "Oh my god, you should fill out an application pronto!" and then I'd say, "I totally did!" and he'd pull mine from a stack of applications a hand tall and say, "Cyndi is taking the weekend off, can you start Saturday?" I'd even theoretically spent my first three paychecks using my discount because of course I'd need to be dripping in the store's clothes top down, but it never happened. Contempo Casuals never even gave me an interview.

Sure, everyone wanted to work there but I knew deep down that it wasn't just stiff teenage competition to blame. I wasn't fully committed to the Contempo look. I mean, I was close. I'd swam out to the New Wave. I was mostly Molly Ringwald with paisley blazers and rhinestone encrusted pearl brooches, but right on the edge of exploding into full bloom, I'd edit myself by ditching the hat and floral tights because that would have said, "I freaking love fashion and who cares what you think, cowboy hat and Wrangler-wearing East Texas!" Or maybe the manager knew that I still had a purple Izod in the back of my closet or that I didn't change the radio station when Journey came on but, I'M STILL COOL PLEASE HIRE ME!

So I settled for dream adjacent, Brook's Fashions. Brook was like Contempo's older, more mature sister who went to a nice state school to pursue education instead of living out her wildness as a Soho artist, Danceteria-ing the nights away. They stationed the new salesgirls at the front of the store to greet and left "Can I put this in the dressing room for you?" to the more seasoned. And there I was, every Saturday, Sunday and one weeknight, faced off with Contempo Casual dilettante, Jazzy.

Jazzy had a zero-effort tousle of asymmetrical blonde curls with a rattail so thick it could be divided three ways: one loose, one crisscrossed ribbon wrapped, one cascading with careless black bows. She was always in a complexly patterned Contempo dress over black leggings or some type of ripped hosiery and as if that wasn't enough, the assault was completed with pointed, buckled and bruised Chelsea boots.

Jazzy was my dream and I was adjacent.

Allow me to further illustrate this pattern going forward: Liberal arts instead of art. Production assistant instead of photographer. Ad sales assistant instead of photojournalist. And more recently, a creative coach instead of creating.

Please don't read this incorrectly, I've found everything I've done stimulating and most of it I've been quite good at, but I've still stayed adjacent to the work I really want to be engaged in. I don't want to just wedge it into the peripheries anymore, I want to be all in.

So why am I writing this down? To scratch my itchy need to plan, yes and as proof of my commitment. To say that I thought I had my year all figured out, I even had a content schedule (the fact that saying that makes me feel vomit-y should have been my first clue) and that I've changed my mind. To say that if you are currently a client of mine, I'm going to love our work together and show up 100%, but I won't be actively soliciting new clients (for Change Your Story) nor will I be opening anymore group classes for foreseeable future. What I will be doing instead is doubling down on garment design, construction, marketing and sales, making art and writing, taking photos. I have some new skills I want to add to my repertoire, like crochet and quilting and Photoshop, because I have so many design ideas that I can't wait to indulge. You, dear readers, have supported me all along and I will be sharing it all here and on Instagram. I am purely aglow and scared shitless.

Is it a privilege not to let materialism taint the delicious freedom to create what I want? Yes, but it doesn't come without loads of risk. What if I fail? What if I make no income, fail my family? Or disappoint them, at the least? But...what if I have to spend the end of my life unraveling tales to my children, grandchildren of a life spent living adjacent to your dreams? I would say, it was still a good life but it could have been wild.

xoxo

PS. If you've read all the way to the end, thank you! And one more thing, The Unruffled Podcast is still on hiatus but is coming back mid-March! Breaks are so precious for reasons too innumerable to list so I'll make it short: 1. They allow for breakthroughs.

To thine own self be entirely unhinged 🙀

My brother and I looking like two backup singers on HeeHaw and the most appropriate image I could find to describe this feeling.

Alternate title: When the going gets tough, the tough break down sometimes.

Nothing like a good ol' crisis to reveal yourself to yourself.

And the opportunities keep coming, no?

It doesn't matter how much self-inquiry work you've done, a crisis will never fail to test the efficacy of that work. Like someone once bellowed at the end of an AA meeting before the circle of hands had even a chance to break, "Let's see if this shit works at home".

Sometimes this shit does work at home. Life can lob something my way that challenges me to be productive in a tactile way, like to protect, defend or provide for my family, and I'm on it. I'll drive across Texas at 25 mph on an icy highway to help my Momma without hesitation. If it's under my four walls or an extension thereof, I'm energetic and nimble. I'm also excellent at zooming out. I can see a big picture. I can easily synthesize information, disparate concepts do not frighten me.

But don't ask me to do both at the same time. 

As the sun emerged on Friday in Austin and the calls for mobilization began is exactly when my paralysis set in. I'd joined some mutual aid Facebook groups, I could see modern heroes making this effort and that and as eager as I was to DO SOMETHING, I became entirely overwhelmed. I could be a witness at the very least, but the scrolling only served to disassociate me further. It reminded me of when I was at the end of my alcoholism. I was so overwhelmed by my circumstances, the only response I could muster was to further detach myself with more alcohol. 

And then the shame set in. I managed to donate some money here and there, but the onset of shame can be like opening a package of Oreos, once it's open, I'm probably going to eat them all. Oh what's this? Unopened boxes in my house that have sat here for months? *Swallows* The realities of a postmenopausal non-existent sex drive? *Yum* You're 51 and you forgot where you placed your lust for life? *Sure, I'll have another, please!* Can you manage to finish one thing you start? *Mmmmm*

I woke up this morning determined to write this down even knowing it won't be resolved. And perhaps it doesn't need resolution. THIS IS  the murky discomfort of life and it's actually the only thing guaranteed in recovery. If you are reading this and in early sobriety, I hope that discovering life is still going to be a complex cookie-turd sandwich doesn't deter you. In fact, eating the entire box, right here for everyone to see, is this shit...working at home.