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Madeleine plays big sister on Carter’s first day of school, September 2007


this essay will appear in bonsai form in the May 2008 issue of Good Housekeeping, available on April 15th

Nine forty-one, and finally, finally, my children are sound asleep. Now that they both can read, bedtime is especially hard. Why, oh why, they each want to know, can I not stay up until I finish this sentence, this chapter, this final one hundred pages? Everything feels unfair.

Tonight, I lie between them, their backs pressed into my side, their faces fanning out as I lace my arms around their tiny frames. For years, I slept whole nights like this, a regular human pretzel, listening, waiting for sleep to fall, hoping the next sentence would be the last, that this next breath would be the one sending them off to sweet dreams, so I could consider my own.

We are almost there, this night, when I notice something damp on my arm like dew. Soon this tiny drop becomes a steady quiet stream, and I realize my sweet Madeleine is crying.

“What is it?” I ask, noting at once the heaviness of her body next to mine.

“We’re so different from other families,” she says in a constrained tone. “We don’t have a TV. Or a dog. And we never remember to brush our teeth the way other families do.”

“It’s true,” I say, feeling her grief. Oh the sorrows of being nine! I want to rise to our defense, and add my own items to the list. I want to say that yes we are different, but that different can be good. That, unlike other families, we go to faraway places like Africa for adventures. And that we eat dinner almost every night with our neighbors who feel like family. And that we think rice pudding is a legitimate breakfast food–all virtues in my book. But now is not the time. She is adrift in a sea of our otherness, and it will only make matters worse if I let her drift out there alone.

We hold each other for a little while, lamenting the lack-of-a-dog part especially. I imagine with her how lovely it would be to have a TV, to watch it with her dog curled up in her lap–even though I know the battles over shows and boundaries would drive me slowly insane. I vow to create a chart in the morning for teeth brushing, like the very organized and orderly mothers. I silently swear to be more normal, to remember early release day, to not be so distracted when I clean out the backpack or help with homework. I hold on to the hope that it’s not too late to change, that even tomorrow is not too late.

I remember at Madeleine’s age, feeling rather proud of my family and all the ways we could never classify as much like other families. My whole life my mother mourned our differences–the fact that we were messy or sporadic or never all on the same page at the same time. My father traveled fifty weeks out of fifty-two a year, leaving us mostly alone with our mother. We rummaged around for food in our pajamas, reading books and making up games. I reveled in the free spirited nature of it all. I felt proud of my mother’s devil-may-care attitude when it came to solving problems or making fun out of nothing.

But I’m not nearly as much fun as my mother, and Madeleine is too practical for all the nonsense that passed as a good time at my house growing up. Everyday, she runs every single thing through her razor sharp logic driven mind. She quizzes me about the highway system, Congress, public health, evolution, you name it, searching for holes in systems and theories. Everyday, I answer the best I can, all the time aware that she’s curious about things that never once cross my mind. She compares and contrasts while I dart and dodge, hoping to land on one of my better subjects. I talk too long when she asks me about spirituality, race, art or immigration. I pray she respects me even though I have no idea about the topics that interest her more.

Little by little the little trail of tears on my arm dries, and Madeleine’s sorrow turns to sighs. Empathy is a rare form of companionship that travels far, even with no dog in sight. “I love you, Mad,” I tell her, hoping it’s enough to fill her empty hands, hoping it’s enough to comfort her saddened heart. She murmurs her assent and for a second I can feel the tiny cord between us. The one from the core of her being to mine.

We float on the sea of otherness together, our differences folded into the kindness of not having to be alone–no matter how young your sorrow or how old your hope.

ready-to-print version here.

Do you have a secret you don’t want to keep anymore? A little tiny something that has been weighing you down?

So many stories I could tell you today, about courage, about loss, about defiance, about love. So many women I know from all over the world are making the powerful choice to make peace with themselves or with others–but most of all with the Wise Woman inside who knows exactly what to do.

The other day my sister asked me if I would paint something for a dear girl just starting out on this journey of courage. “What do you think is at the heart of things?” I asked her, wondering where to start. She paused to listen to her razor sharp intuition–that Light I admire in her so much. “I think this kind of heartache has something to do with secrets,” she said. Everything in me lined up with the word, confirming in my heart it had to be true.

This little word “secret” weaves like a thread through every story of power I know. Every story of hope. We each in our own way have to let go of some facade, some secret story we tell ourselves, some strange commitment we acquired to refuse to speak our truth. Telling the truth is never as life-threatening as we thought it would be. Look, I am still breathing! My eyes still open upon waking with the morning sun! But speaking our truth is life-altering, and sometimes letting go of the secret gets you so much more than you bargained for.

More clarity.
More chaos.
More courage.
More conflict.
More peace.
More life.

I hope today you can find one friend who will hold your secret in kindness and unconditional love. If no friend will do, you always have the wide green earth, Our Mother. She will not say one word while you pour your heart out, as you rest in the comfort of her wise and knowing heart.

My soul sisters at Sk-rt are working their magic at Maker Faire this year–a brilliant way to support the indie artist community. My only regret is that I’m not on a plane to Austin right now to help work those tables. To celebrate, Sk-rt asked my partner-in-crime Rachelle and I to help round up some indie artists to sponsor a sk-rt.com giveaway. Go leave a comment on any article on sk*rt tagged Maker Faire, and your name will be entered in a drawing to win one of the lovely prizes. I donated a hopefulness kit (buttons and cards) along with a signed, matted original watercolor. You can read the write up (and enter the drawing!) here.

yours truly wearing crooked glasses, age 39.

I checked in on my 100 Things to Do Before I Die List today, just to see if I have anything major to cross off. Since I have not testified before Congress lately, gone to Bolivia or even lost five pounds, I guess I better get cracking!

The simple act of making the list totally energized me–listmaking junkie that I am–but I realized at the same time that I might need a little mini-list of things to do in the next five minutes or the next five days, to keep my courage up for bigger projects like say, skinny dipping, going back to Africa or figuring out how to keep the dining room table free of junk! So here’s what I got:

What’s on your mini-list of things to do in the next five minutes, five hours, five days? Just imagining the possibilities may be all you need to keep things flowing in the right direction.

Fifteen minutes left before midnight to write my post for Blog Action Day! Can I do it? I’m sure I can but you might be distracted from reading it since there’s all the excitement bursting forth over to the right on your screen! Do you see it??? After much agony and needless struggle, my intuition finally won, and I am now the purveyor of downloadable ready-to-print art! This makes me so, so happy for a few reasons. Where to begin?

For starters, every time I think about producing 50 or 500 or 1000 of anything, I have this horrible sinking feeling about putting more things out into the world that require trucks to drive across the country or planes to fly around the world. Not to mention the paper. This is not because I am the greenest mama you’ve ever met (come over and witness the waste and squalor!) but because my ecological footprint already rivals the mythology of Big Foot and company. I am not opposed to creating zines and prints that you will cherish forever, but I would prefer to do it when it really, really matters–when I know I’m making something that you will need to keep by desk or nightstand for many years to come.

All that said, I am also SO aware that sometimes little sentences or pictures come to me that some of you would like to have RIGHT NOW, who cares about forever. In two months or six or ten, these little thoughts I paint will not be so essential to you, because the ideas behind those words will be part of the fabric of your heart, but until then, it would be so nice to be able to print that treasure up and tack it on your bulletin board or put it in a little frame from Ikea and let it speak to you for a little while until you know it from the inside out.

Some of you do these little printing projects already, I know, because you write me confessional emails, worrying about the “borrowing” and wondering what can be done about it. I hope this little downloadable shop offers a way for us to make sense out of one of the ways we can give to each other, and lay any angst on either side to rest. I finally have it through my head that my art is worth sharing, and these sweet email confessions have convinced me that you would not feel oppressed if you had the opportunity to purchase it. This is very hard for me and new territory, since I prefer most things to be free, but I’m not ruling out that this kind of exchange doesn’t mean we can’t both be creative and collaborative and generous at the same time.

For example. I’m always rushing around wondering what would make a good present or a good card and the idea that either one of us could come to this little gallery and find the just right thing to make someone’s day for very little money feels just fantastic. I love putting together a present out of nothing. Christmas is just around the corner and if you want to buy one download and print it up five or fifteen times for presents, there’s nothing to stop you. The thought of you sending it to the printer and picking out the frames, trimming the prints down to size and all that feels great to me–like you made the present yourself with only the tiniest bit of help.

And lastly, in all my woes trying to get certain pieces into print production, I can never escape the fact that my art always looks best when I print it out on Best Quality and bright white cardstock off my inkjet printer. To do that en masse would cost me a small fortune, but you can do it for next to nothing and get the benefit of the most true-to-life colors, CMYK and digital output be damned.

Everything about this feels right to me, even though it feels a little bit vulnerable to be so frank about it all.

I chose these three little prints about Trust for my first offerings, not because they are the most brilliant or most clever thing I’ve ever done, but because they reflect my heart in this process. All this year, I have been learning about TRUST. About trusting my instincts, my intuition, and most recently, my heart’s truest desires. I’ve been attached to the idea that the best things come from struggle or having every little thing figured out, but no more. I’m choosing instead to trust in what flows, what energizes me, what gives me life, even if it feels a little messy. This is new territory, but I welcome the adventure so much.

In my best dreams, I see myself adding little bits of inspiration to this shop all the time, knowing that these pieces are better off in your hands than stacked in piles on my studio floor. (And believe me, I have stacks of finished work that’s dying to come off that floor!) I look forward to this becoming something we both come to expect–so I can get on with the business of telling stories in this space that reflect and inspire and bring you (and me) lots and lots of joy.

I want to go back and edit the hell out of this, but I won’t. Here’s how I’m feeling in all it’s awkwardness and glory! For what it’s worth, dear friends! I trust you’ll know *exactly* what to do with it.

Indain pussy ReifeGrls pissingass.com EbonySybian MPEGs interrassischinterrassisch Hahnerei Geschlechtporn Cartoon Spione VölligPissing Mädchen hentaifucking moms Duaghtersverspritzend Anker Frauenpics Japanisch bbw

A week ago today I was on my way to New York, excited to discover why my intuition insisted I make the trip. So many lovely surprises there, I’m not sure where to start. For certain, deciding to meet up with bloggers was a great idea. I loved the chance to feel more connected to other people’s stories in a in-real-life kind of way and felt so energized by spending time with truly amazing people. Here’s my little collage of meet-up happiness below.

top row, me and… jen lee, marel, second row, me and…nicole, shay, third row, me and jennifer b. not pictured, but present, angela t. and with us in spirit, the lovely mrs. pilkington who i was so sorry to miss

I also was so, so happy to spend time with Emily McKhann of Katrina Clearinghouse and theMotherhood fame. My sister Kris and I playfully adopted (the brother-full/sister-less) Emily to be our honorary sister over Yahootinis at Blogher Business, and then had fun introducing her to “our” mother at Blogher Chicago. We’ve had lots of little amazing moments here and there in both those venues, but this was our first opportunity to really talk for a long period of time. The conversation was so stimulating and energizing, I think there might have been actual sparks flying out of our heads.

One of the things I love about Emily is her ability to think globally about world problems and then apply the power of online community to build momentum for social change. This is a superpower, I believe, and I am totally and completely inspired by her soul-fueled desire to actually do something to make the world a better place.

Check out themotherhood.net along with this letter from Coolitmoms.com–a global online effort driven by mothers to aggressively engage world leaders on the subject of global warming.

I didn’t take a picture of Emily or her sweet little girls, but once I got back to the Tower I could not resist painting one. Those two little munchkins look a little bit like this:

Back at home, I am busy, busy, busy with laundry, and feeling more calm by the moment. I am learning so much about myself in this process and feel so thankful for this wonderful web of friendship that continues to encourage me (online and in person!) along the way. With a little techie help from Dave or Nick in the next few days, I’ll be able to launch a DIY Delight Page–a little mini-shop on this site with ready-to-print downloadable art from my adventures in the Tower. This is just a precursor of course, to the barrage of prints, candles and books coming to you via actual snail mail.

Happy Thursday, everyone! Sending lots of love your way.

because for some reason, i associate dainty purple flowers with the delicate cycle

One of the things that’s problematic about writing your fears on leaves and throwing them into a river, is that you must then return home and figure out a way to do your life differently. I’m discovering the fear mindset is both familiar and habit-forming, as if the washer got stuck on the delicate cycle and it’s been like that for so long that you need some sort of minor miracle to repair the dial so that going forward, you can adjust the setting any damn way you please.

My particular load of dirty laundry in regards to my work has been stuck in this cycle for quite some time. It goes like this:

1. I get fantastically inspired and start to create with ink and watercolor. The possibilities are endless and each little project yields another idea until I have a whole line of something–half on my desk and the other in my head.

2. Around this time, people start emailing me out of nowhere with kind suggestions about making posters or cards or prints. Jen, have you ever thought of this??? Have you ever considered that?? Why, yes, as a matter of fact I have!

You would think this would be no problem but by this time, the water starts to drain out of the tub in preparation for the rinse and spin. And it takes no time at all before I feel hung out to dry.

3. I start to fantasize about the production process. The cost of printing. The UPS truck dropping off the boxes. And me. Fantastically, unorganized me, putting things in envelopes and sending them out. TO THE WRONG PEOPLE. And then the email of dissent begins. And I can’t find which print goes in which envelope. And slowly, by slowly, everyone on earth hates me and curses the day we ever met while my house slowly is swallowed up into the ground by a earthquake of chaos and clutter.

4. Rinse, spin, repeat.

Just typing this, highlights how ridiculous this is to me. Really, for all my flaws, I can put something in an envelope for Christ’s sake, and despite all my anxiety about organization, the truth is I’ve probably sent out 85% of my zines relatively on time and to the right address. But this little cycle of fear has really held me back. Because of it, I’ve only been able to throw a small handful of projects into the washer–the most hardy of delicates that promise to come out unscathed and in one piece because they were washed only one or two at a time.

Last night, reliving my Failure to Fulfill fantasy one more horrific time, I remembered one of my favorite fear leaves–two items reserved for the same long and lovely petal of green: fear of failure AND fear of success. I had considered listing them separately but then realized how much they are part of the same thing–being afraid to move in the world, to enter into the chaos of creation, to trust that creativity breeds its own solutions when things get insane, and to believe that it’s okay to dive in without knowing all the details in advance.

Case of this fear released in point: SARK sold her first poster without any means to reproduce it for the masses, so she filled orders by copying the poster by hand. All 11,000 of them. She went on (carpel tunnel free) to become one of the most widely distributed artists in her genre and probably never had to do more than two or three of anything ever again.

Considering all this last night up in the Tower, I decided to try on a new fantasy to see if that nudged the dial over to a cycle that could take a large load with LOTS of colors. What if, I sent to print, so many posters and candles and cards that the house was kind of overrun with boxes and the buzz of new beginnings? What if it was so happy and successful and out of control that I had to invite every dear friend I have over to pack and ship and bless all the happy packages going out all over the world? What if Dave had to sit me down to have The Talk about all the chaos and we had to make a hard decision to move everything out of the Tower and into a little office and I went there everyday and drank coffee and figured out the definitions of exciting concepts like: licensing and other legal words I am not advanced enough to type right now. Wouldn’t that be great???

Of course, saying all this, brings up the Fear of Being Presumptuous, but I wrote that one on a leaf, too, and threw it in the river a week ago. Or rather I tried to throw it and it got stuck in some river grass and stared back, mocking me, and too far out of reach for me to make it go away. Evidently, some things are harder to shake off than others.

Well, I have nothing more to say, dear friends. I must go now and collect my colors. There are so many on the floor of that Tower you would be amazed. More than enough to fill the basket to overflowing and turn that dial to the cycle I’ve been waiting for. I could do so in a state of fear and trepidation, but I am choosing the spirit of joy and adventure instead.

Thank you for being here, and for listening. It means more to me that I can say.

I am writing this little letter to you from the freedom of my Tower (aka the Studio). We call it The Tower because you have to climb two flights of steps from my front door to get all the way up here, and once you are up here everything feels so otherworldly that you think you are in another place entirely. It could be because there is a ridiculous amount of paper on the floor and more cups filled with colored water than is reasonable. Or it could be because inside the comfort of these light blue walls, real magic sometimes happens.

Last night after a horrible bout of tossing and turning, I came to the Tower as I often do when I cannot sleep. I think I
have probably had insomnia for most of my adult life, though someone told me long ago that the best thing to do in this case is to get out of bed right away and find something else to do and to make sure under no conditions that you lie awake in bed and torture yourself over the fact that you are not asleep. I have followed this advice so faithfully over the years, spending two and sometimes three hours at a time, up by candlelight, writing and making art, that I sometimes forget these episodes are actually insomnia, and consider them instead some strange invitation from the Universe to let inspiration come to me and do with me what she may.

So far, so good.

Last night, for some reason, I decided to work on my 100 Things To Do Before I Die List per my soulsister Stephanie’s suggestion a few weeks ago. I’ve been meaning to work on this for weeks, and why it felt imperative to start at two o’clock in the morning, I’ll never know, but something about making that list totally energized me and gave me a little snapshot of what is truly important to me in my life right now. Each item made me happier and happier. To see my list, you’d need to make a list yourself–which I highly recommend. After that, I climbed back down the stairs and slipped under the covers next to Dave, my one true love, who also happens to be toasty and warm–no matter what the season–and fell fast asleep.

That’s Stephanie on the left, the talented Kyran Pittman in the center and me on the right. At Blogher in Chicago.

This morning I’m back in the studio and not feeling too tired–mostly because I’ve been on such a roll the last few days. Everything to do up here feels delightful. I’m working on a series on TRUST that you’ll be able to buy via download and print away to your heart’s content. I’m also sending off some files to the printer in the next day or two, so I can offer some full color 11×17 poster size prints per your request. Oh, and I have another zine in serious production (my Africa zine desiring to be more book proposal than zine at the moment) and this one is coming along without angst or agony. Pure joy. Damn. That ritual thing-y really did do something to the arrangement of my soul furniture. I’m feeling good and much more willing to let go of all the things that were keeping me from putting more of my work out into the world.

Okay, blessings all, back to my scanning! Back to work! If you are bored at your work or thinking the sum total of your life will be spent in the throes of laundry and little ones, go MAKE YOUR LIST. I promise you’ll feel fantastic.

Oh, before I forget. I just received a Perfect Post Award from the lovely MommaK at Petroville. I never know what to do about these things, other than to say thank you and please consider doing your own free ice cream day if you live someplace where the weather at the moment makes ice cream make sense!