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Madeleine and Carter, my little world travelers, on their very last day in Cape Town, South Africa. It’s not the last time they’ll have an amazing adventure.

I am happy to report I sent two manuscripts this morning to a nice-and-kind publisher in New York City. (Look up Mark’s story in the zine and you’ll note the Universe is checking things off her list right and left! More on that story later.) Anyway, I am so happy and relieved my heart could burst.

After writing that post on resistance, I continued (!) to avoid my work and took the kids to the pool where I promptly ran into my writing friend Emily. Emily has taken it as her personal mission to kick my butt into gear and get this project finished once and for all, and for weeks, I’d been avoiding the whole thing. Unphased, she sat down beside me, dripping wet, and outlined, in clear and uncertain terms, how essential it was that I finish these manuscripts. TODAY. Then the lifeguard announced the pool was officially closed for the day due to some maintenance issue, and everyone needed to get out. And in our case, go home. All I could do was laugh. Alright already, I’ll do it!

And I did!

All it takes is 1400 hints from the Universe and I get it. I swear.

What happens next, no one knows. But of this I am certain: Your advice on finishing was essential for me. And The End–those two little words I hate so much–really might be just another way to get to a new beginning. Another place where there’s more to see, more to do, more to learn.

Before we went to Africa, I couldn’t have imagined it could be remotely possible to take my children to a faraway land. While we were there, it seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime stroke of good luck. But when we left, I knew the truth. That this was our portal to new adventures. That by taking the chance, we’d stumbled onto some other amazing way to be in the world. And that the best is yet to come.

I think if I can let this sink into my heart a little, I won’t be so afraid of saying goodbye to projects that are dear to me. I’ll see finishing as one stop along the way and not the end of joy as I have known it. I’m not sure if I’m making any sense at all, but it feels like a little breakthrough over here, in the finishing department!

Blessings today on these little books I sent off this morning and on all the bits of goodness you yourself are sending out to the world. Thank you so much for your kind encouragement.

consider the lilies of the field. or. the hydrangeas in my front yard. whichever.

This is from The War of Art by Steven Pressfield:

Resistance is directly proportional to love. If you’re feeling massive resistance, the good news is, it means there’s tremendous love there too. If you didn’t love the project that is terrifying you, you wouldn’t feel anything. The opposite of love isn’t hate; it’s indifference.

The more Resistance you experience, the more important your unmanifested art/project/enterprise is to you–and the more gratification you feel when you finally do it.

I’m currently resisting finishing a children’s book project which has been 95% ready to go for a month. If my number is on your speed dial, feel free to call me up and give me hell about that. I need to harness the Wouldn’t-It-Be-Awesome energy for this little project and imagine how happy I would be sending this little bundle of Love off to the kind-and-nice publishers in NYC. TODAY. Wouldn’t that be great?

How about you this week? Anything you’re ready to stop resisting?

a girl like this held on to her confidence and spunk her whole life through? Madeleine and the Matriarch, Plettenberg Bay, South Africa

you woke up to outrageous blessings chalked on the sidewalk in front of your house? a little love letter from the universe?

your shy, quiet neighbors found a little note that said, “margaritas on the porch tonight–you’re invited” tucked neatly inside the front page of the morning paper?

you found a wrinkled letter in your mailbox from a faraway friend from a faraway land?

someone old and wise kissed you on the forehead, unexpectedly, to remind you you are a dear soul, a rare thing of beauty on this earth?

every taxi driver in america had at least one rider a day who wanted to hear about life back home and all the dreams that haven’t happened quite yet?

they passed out crayons instead of the syllabus? kazoos instead of job descriptions?

I could tell you one story that would change everything for you forever? this year? this month? this lifetime?

you could fall asleep every night in the arms of someone you love?

you found the words to mend a strained relationship? the just-right gesture to bring hope and healing?

the ice cream truck guy could have an angel investor who would enable him to pass out free ice cream unannounced at least once this summer?

you could call a hotline when you were freaking out and a kind, dear soul would reassure you that you are not alone, that your life has meaning and that something greater is holding us all?

you could paint without shame or self-judgment? you could write without censor?

you could show up on any doorstep in America with a chocolate cake and say, “I had a feeling something good is about to happen inside this house, so I wanted you to have this…for the celebration” and it would seem completely normal?

you could write in for a permission slip for your next big risk and receive it in the mail in three to five days?

Wouldn’t even one of these things be so great?

I’m off to celebrate a week full of camp–the WAHM’s salvation–with my cute husband, Dave Lemen. We’ll be the ones at the bookstore with the matching glasses, dueling notebooks and big cups of coffee. Your additions to my wouldn’t-it-be-awesome-ifs in the comments below would make this list truly great. Silly and serious wishes are, of course, most welcome.

UPDATE:
This post just made sk*rt thanks to a kind link from my friend Meg! Click on Love It! and help spread the love here. For those of you new to sk*rt, this is the love child of Blogher friends Gabriela and Laura who decided a site that drew attention to content that mattered to women was long overdue. In the meantime, we’re conspiring over here about that ice cream truck!

Madeleine at our little mother/daughter graduation lunch for two. Next year she’ll be in third grade at a new school and those too hot egg rolls will be a piece of cake. More Drama Queen pictures here.

Here’s my short but sweet list of the delightful and endearing for this Monday, my first day ever as one of those mothers who dropped off BOTH kids at camp and turned around to catch up on work for six whole hours:

Bamboo Journal–one of my new favorite reads from one of my favorite new friends Meg. Read this post and laugh, read this one and weep.

the Famous Chookooloonks Rum Punch–oh so refreshing, the perfect vehicle to get you and all your dear friends out under the stars on a big white blanket where everything said is endlessly funny. I know because that’s exactly what we did post-punch until three o’clock in the morning on Saturday night in celebration of Dave’s birthday. I am still recovering. One word to the wise: Don’t try this recipe at home unless you have a juicer. Trust me.

Carter who announced: “Oh, and Mom? I’m not going to camp tomorrow because first I was nervous and then it was fun, and I don’t like that.”
Madeleine who replied: “Oh bud, that was just First Day Jitters. Tomorrow will be the second day and you’ll feel fine. Cuz there’s no such thing as Second Day Jitters. I swear.”

That’s all I can think of in my still slightly sleepy state. How about you? Anything delightful this weekend?

dandelion curls by Madeleine, Aja and Osman

My sister and writing partner Patience called me from Richmond this week to read me this poem over the phone. I read poetry everyday like most people read the newspaper, but it’s been a long time since someone read me a poem that moved me quite like this. I offer this poem to you in honor of my soulsister Sage and her recent engagement. Sweet, sweet blessings on this lovely new chapter of your life, dear friend!

Your Basic Love Poem That Can Be Read at Any Wedding
-M. C. Boyes

What I mean is this—
after the long ride home
when the grass is wet, and the dishes
have been dried, and the wrinkles
have begun to set themselves
in lines more broad
than fine, there will be you—
asleep. Your head in its infinite state
of undress. Each hair
set upon another
wrestling against the grains,
that by some unwritten rule,
must form in your blue eyes.
There will be you, again.
You.
Alight, aloft, adrift,
in my arms alone.
There will be you
and me
and we will be
at home.

More loveliness like this here and here.

a page from the new zine–”mi familia”–in process

The nice thing about being away is the gift of fresh eyes when you return. I’m not sure if Dave has ever looked so handsome to me, or Carter so winsome. I know everyday that Madeleine is my wild sprite of a girl, but seeing the fire in her eyes yesterday gave me an overflow of adrenaline–the kind of fierce love that she has called out of me since the day of her birth.

Even sitting up here in my studio feels slightly different. I greeted my pages like old friends and looked at my handwriting like some kind of magic language long forgotten. All the angst I’ve felt over the last few weeks has slipped away–at least for this moment–and I’m not feeling so hard on myself or as critical of these lovely sheets of Arches drenched in color. I hope it lasts forever. Holding your self and your talents in contempt takes a lot of energy and is hard work! Why am I so quick to forget?

Being on the plane, squished in the middle seat between a sleeping beauty and near giant, I mused on all the ways I hold myself back. This is not my intention, of course, but over time it keeps happening. I secure space or time or both and then little by little I give it all away until I’m getting by on scraps and crumbs. Some of this is a byproduct of being endlessly interruptable, genuinely interested and even more disorganized. Add to this, a rogue sense of capabilities–”of course, we’ll just figure it out!” or “why not? it’ll be SO MUCH fun”–and my resources of time and energy can slip away before I know it.

Recently, when musing on the tension between doing my work and engaging anyone/everyone who walks down the street, my phone/soulfriend Andrea asked me, “What do you think that’s about??” I realized A’s been asking me this during almost every conversation we’ve had over the last several months. I’ve taken it mostly in the spirit it’s been asked–part awe, part genuine curiousity–and given my best Sunday School answer everytime–(I LOVE these people, I really don’t mind, it’s a serious part of my values, you should meet my family! They’ve got it even worse!) But this time, I realized none of those explanations really cuts it.

So today I’m thinking, dreaming, scheming. Trying to mine the wisdom waiting to be harvested from a fertile intuition. Realizing that my energy is a finite resource, best utilized when aligned with the Source of All Good Things. Knowing on some level that I can’t use helping or being available anymore as the chief reason why I’m not completely focused on the tasks and adventures that the Universe is inviting me to create.

What makes you feel the most alive in your life right now? What excuses do you roll out to explain to yourself why you cannot do that thing? Dare to share in the comments below.

me and Josh, minutes before he and Nicole left via seaplane for their honeymoon

I’m home, home at last from Seattle, after the world’s worst red-eye ever. The wedding was a holy and magical affair, full of love and many, many blessings. I was honored to be a part. I didn’t say it at the time, but Josh and Nicole feel like my long lost siblings–the brother and sister of my heart. I can’t explain how deeply hopeful I feel for their union, and how I sense that their partnership is one that exists to show the world that love can be abiding and real. Rachelle wrote about it more eloquently then I can here.

So glad to be home with my dear ones. Dave especially. Today is his fortieth birthday. We dined tonight at Corduroy, a posh hotel restaurant with excellent wait staff and desserts to write home about. Hope all is well in your part of the world. More stories and celebration to follow tomorrow.masterbation KitzlerReifen cum Creme Fotze GrannyFKK-peeingVideos Gay scatfrei Pissing DaumenScat Fingersatznackten Skinny Frauen verspritzendSexy Damen pissingInterrassisch großen NaturalsTitten Wolds größten

I’m in Seattle this weekend for the wedding of my dear friends Josh and Nicole–two amazing people who have forged the kind of honest and loving partnership that makes you take one step back and sigh. I was invited to give a blessing at the end of the ceremony tomorrow, and despite all my last minute jitters about what I should say and how, I can’t wait.

Any tiny thing you’d wish someone had wished on you on your wedding day? I’d love to hear it.

In case you were wondering, I’m typing this from the desk of the one and only Magpie-Girl, my partner in all things scandalous and soulful. As if that’s not enough delight for one weekend, I’m also reunited with my soulbrother Ray and I’m enjoying little things–like wandering around Seattle in one of Rachelle’s vintage coats (pictures to follow) and sampling one of Paul’s most amazing cocktails. It is as cold here as it is ridiculously hot at home.

Hope this finds you well and entertaining your truest hopes and dreams. Yours truly, Jen

Mita’s son Swagata

This evening we celebrated the end of the school year with a big bright Carnival on the blacktop in the school parking lot. The Ethiopian moms brought samosas and big bowls of hot, spicy lentils. The Latina moms brought huge sheets of cake with sticky sweet frosting, and all the rest of us white mothers on Weight Watchers brought leafy green salads and then spent the evening eating anything but. The kids, of course, ignored it all–opting instead to stand in long lines for the ice cream truck parked out front or the cotton candy machine tucked away in the back of the playground. Even all the activity in the Moonbounce could not counteract the amazing amounts of sugar consumed in one short hour.

As things were winding down, I ran into Mita–a thirty-something young woman who won the diversity lottery and emigrated here from Bangladesh a few years ago with her husband Sadat and two boys. Mita has long black hair that she wears in a loose bun at the nape of her neck and a bright smile that stretches across her lovely face. Tonight she was wearing a bright orange and red cotton shirt and round gold earrings that jangled and sang as she talked.

“We have good news,” she told me, lowering her voice and glancing at Sadat. Sadat is as sweet as Mita is good-looking. “A baby?” I asked. “A new job?” Each guess made them laugh harder–no, no, no! “You’re going back to school?”

“No,” she said, leaning in so she could almost whisper in my ear.

“We bought a house.”

People buy houses all the time, but most of those people are not two somewhat newly relocated immigrants working 80+ hours a week at the local GNC. Oh that, and that other job in the worst part of town at a very scary check cashing store. We hugged and then stared at each other for a long moment, before laughing again.

“Look at you two–poster children for the American dream!” I said, tearing up a little. I don’t know if I could have been happier if I was buying a house myself.

We stood in the stairwell and talked some more–about what a relief it would be to be out of their apartment, about how I would need to visit them soon, about what their work schedule would look like now in order to make their mortgage.

“We cannot take even one day off,” Sadat said, very serious. I tried not to worry about the circles under his eyes or how tired he looked already.

“It will be expensive for us,” Mita added. “And we will need to get better jobs. But we can do it.”

I know how huge this is, how much hard work that achievement represents. I admire how steadfast they’ve been in working towards their goals, even when it’s been lonely. Even when their new American friends like me don’t always return calls or pick up the phone. Or ever find time to go over for a good homecooked meal.

After awhile, Madeleine came over to lean against me while I chatted.

“Does she want ice cream?” Sadat said, immediately concerned, seeing so many yummy cones all around. “Oh, no, no!” I protest, “She’s had plenty!” and even Madeleine agrees. I can tell she is so, so tired now from playing that she doesn’t even care about ice cream anymore, that all she wants to do is go home and quick, but Sadat has other plans.

“Please, Jen,” Mita says, giving me a puppy dog look with her amazing brown eyes. “We have no daughter. Only these boys who are getting so big. Please let us spoil her.”

I love Madeleine so much in this moment. With one look, I know she understands–that sometimes to love is to let someone love you first. That to love is to receive, to be the guest–even when you are tired. Even when you have already had two bags of cotton candy and one cone, not even one hour before. It’s a sacrifice designed by the Universe to entice second graders into the Life of Love. You want to spoil me with ice cream and kindness even though I am full of sweets already? Okay, okay. I will do it just for you. Who could resist such hardship? Who can stare down such unadulterated affection?

Sadat steers Madeleine around to the ice cream truck, just as it pulls away. Madeleine hardly cares, but Sadat is so disappointed. “I cannot give up. My feeling is so bad! We must go right now, someplace very nice. We cannot leave Madeleine like this!”

Before I know it, he is pulling around the car, ushering us in like royalty. Mita sits in the back with us, stroking Madeleine’s hair, telling me about her mother and her sister back home in Bangladesh. Madeleine perks up a little and takes her place as the missing daughter in this sweet family. She tells stories about wearing Bindi dots in kindergarten, about loving Indian fashion. Mita smiles and laughs, the way aunties do when you tell them daring and childish secrets.

We drive down to Ben and Jerry’s which happens to be Madeleine’s favorite. This makes Sadat so glad. Mita and I eat sorbet; Madeleine, cookies and cream. I wonder how these things happen–how two people from Bangladesh can feel like your long lost family in one night, how simple things like having a daughter or eating a meal together can be just enough glue to create a bond that brings so much joy. I wonder how tiny forgotten accidents of kindness become seeds of friendship that do not die–even when life takes you down another path.

Sadat drives us back in silence. He is happy now, even though he has had a long day. “We have to get Madeleine home quickly,” he says. “She will be so tired.”

Mita reminds him our house is further down–on the right, do you see it? He pulls up slowly, then jumps out to open our door like a gentleman.

“You can come to our house anytime,” Mita says as we get out of the car. “We have time before we go.” I agree and turn to Madeleine, wishing she’d say one more time what a lovely time we had, but it’s too late. She’s already flying across the yard to Nick and Jess’s to tell her story–about someone needing to love her. About being a girl, the long lost daughter Mita and Sadat never had, if just for one ice-cream filled night.

Fatih in motion. This little guy and his brother Osman are my constant companions most days afterschool until bedtime.

My house sits in repose, quiet calm washing over the ones I love as they drift off into sweet sleep. Over the fence, I hear Fatih’s tiny voice, calling to God knows who in Turkish. Tomorrow he will rub his eyes and swear he is not tired, that his bedtime is at eleven o’clock. I know now he is partially right. When has Fatih ever gone to bed before eleven?

In the beginning, I went on small campaigns to convince him otherwise, going so far as to march he and Osman to bed at eight o’clock and lie beside them until they fell asleep two minutes later. But they missed their mom so much, all it took was the sound of car door slamming to bring them back to life for the happiest of reunions. Those nights Berna reported they wouldn’t go to bed until after midnight. This after she had already put in an eleven hour day. I decided early on to give my agenda a rest and let play rule the day. After that, everyone was happier, eye-rubbing and all.

Today I climbed to my tower and painted for a few hours. Tonight I feel like my old self–almost! though Fatih’s little voice reminds me I have other work left to do. Like figuring out how to care for little boys without inadvertently becoming their mother. Like finding a way to give my own path credence and time. Like learning how to honor the values that run deep in me–kindness to strangers, generosity and an open door–while giving proper deference to my own learning, achievement and grace.

(big sigh) No pretty bow for this one, friends. I’m all loose ends and good intentions! We’ll see where things g(r)o(w) from here.