Crossing the Bridge

Roughly six weeks ago our family moved from a lovely 2000 square foot home in the trees of Castro Valley, California, to a tiny 1940's cottage in the small water-side town of Benicia, California. It was a daring move.  While both towns are technically within the "Bay Area", or greater San Francisco metropolis, Benicia requires the crossing of a toll-bridge, which, to many Bay Areans, means it doesn't exist.  This explains how I managed to overlook this quaint town for the first 6 years of my Bay Area residence.

It's not the bridge-crossing alone that makes this move a daring one, however.  The house we signed up for is a cottage that was built in the 1940's; giving it ample time for a speckled history of being loved and nurtured, as well as abused and neglected, as evidenced by uniquely executed additions, mismatched fencing, questionable plumbing and wiring, a variety of flooring types, and a well-earned, 70-year-old-house scent.

In general, I welcome this type of "character" in a home.  I prefer it to the modern comforts found in many tract homes, actually.  But, it can be a challenge to take on as a renter. Particularly if the contractor in charge of renovating the well-aged home fails to complete the renovations prior to the move-in date.  When we arrived on moving day, with two truck-loads of way too much stuff, our new little cottage was missing a few necessities (any appliances, useable closets, finished floors, functioning gas, electricity, plumbing, sinks and showers).

Why?

Well, for the first month of living with strange hammer-weilding men traipsing through our personal space, drilling holes in our walls, holding cock-fights on our roof (or so we suspect), and shoveling shit (yes literally) in our backyard, we weren't sure we had a good answer to that question.  But, there was an answer.  We came here on purpose.  We were following our soul-fire.  That unquenchable inner light that haunts you with visions of the life you're meant to be living.  I have always felt it - since I was a child drawing pictures of my dream home.

We saw the potential for that life in this old home, in this small town.  And, while the initial weeks were flooded with the dread that maybe we had made a horrible mistake, Benicia gently whispered to us that we were home.  She whispered in the distant lullaby of the train whistle and passing boat horns.  She presented us with gifts of sea glass and beach wood.  And she embraced us with the warm smiles and genuine "hello's" of her community.

Slowly, this cottage is accepting our many treasures (and helping us to identify the less keep-worthy items).  Goodwill and Craigslist have been well supplied by our loosening grip of 'stuff'.  It feels good to trim back again.  I have always felt at home in a cottage.  It makes sense in my entropic mind to live in a smaller space with less to manage.

Not everything is smaller though.  We have a lot of dirt to play with here, and I'm giddy about it.  This weekend, Klee and I tore down the old picket fence surrounding our large front yard.  We have been carefully pulling out old rusted screws and sifting out the rotted lumbar (not a small task) in order to reclaim the old wood to build a new fence.  We are building a "hog-fence" (also called a welded wire, or no-climbe fence).  We have already re-set all of the posts in cement and are almost ready to start assembling.  I can't wait!  Once we have it up we can start our garden.  We are planning to plant a large vegetable garden in our front yard and another in our backyard.

This is it!  The beginning of the answer.  A small piece of the WHY that moved us here.  We are living in a 1940's cottage (at substantially less rent than before) surrounded by the promise of vegetables and flowers (and chickens?), on a quiet street with friendly, and perfectly quirky neighbors. We are just a short bike-ride away from the beach and a fabulous downtown community that embraces art and music.  This is the vision.  We are here and my heart feels at home.

Finding My Words

Last night I sat in a room, surrounded by other damaged people; a support group of sorts.  The moderator posed a question for us to consider.  Where is your healing place? While my comrades seemed to ponder their answers with a twinge of uncertainty, I knew my answer without hesitation.  Writing.  Writing is where I bleed and where I heal.  I have other healing places, such as the beach, rain, trees, creative projects and solitude, but writing is where my real medicine is. 

I think this may be the reason for my long bouts of literary silence.  Sometimes I can’t find words.  Other times, I don’t want to.  I don’t want to spill my soul out.  It’s a mess that I rarely feel I have the time or the fortitude to deal with.  Reliving my thoughts, penning (or typing) them down, means I have to think them.  I have to give them life.  

It’s foolish for me to think they don’t have a life already, regardless of my acknowledgement.  Those wounds exist with or without my permission.  But, what if I can’t contain the emotional deluge that inevitably accompanies their exposure?  If I start; if I unlock those gates, I might just fall to pieces.  Truly.  So, I leave the space.  The void.  The blinking cursor on the empty screen. 

Time passes, and the blankness remains, and I function.  I do the stuff of life.  Kids to school.  Dinner.  Bath-time, diapers, dogs, toilets, mail.  I write my nutrition papers – the ones that pay the bills.  I watch my shows, and laugh, and cry.  But, when you’re a writer, you’re always writing.  It’s there in your head.  ALWAYS. Words float around and bump about, occasionally forming clarity, but usually they tease.  It’s an internal conversation that persists regardless of the stuff.

A good portion of the time, writers are introverts.  We live in our heads.  We relish our solitude, despite a very clear need for social interaction, support, and friendship.  We prefer to present ourselves from a distance; from behind our pens.  Those who know me well, know that I struggle with social interaction, even talking on the phone.  I’d much rather text, email, or write snail-mail.  It’s a quirk, and I’m aware that it alienates me more than I want it to.   It’s a social anxiety, I’m sure.  It just is. 

So, when a writer doesn’t write, the words can become overwhelming.  And that’s when the fear of writing them down becomes real.  And their release, necessary.  Like letting the steam out of a pressure cooker.  In her song, 'Breathe', Anna Nalick has a line that describes this experience well:

“2 AM and I’m still awake, writing a song

If I get it all down on paper, it’s no longer

Inside of me threatening the life it belongs to”

It is a torturous and honest… and beautiful necessity.  It is medicine.  When I let them out, my words, my closest companions; the pain seeps out with them.  I am suddenly aware of my heart pulsing; my cheeks are wet with tears; my soul exposed.  It is the truth inside of me, and it is rarely pretty; but it is my truth.  And as the pain filters out, the space that remains begins to expand.  And, in that space, I heal.

Trust the Process

Our plane touched down in San Jose last night.  It is my practice to only fly if heavily inebriated, so my recollection is a tad foggy, but I'm pretty sure I sacrificed a fatted calf, did 500 Hail Mary's, and vowed a life of chastity to the divine powers that be.  We had landed.  We were still alive.  Somehow, the near-death experience of flying in the belly of a large clumsy metal beast (which, I have under good authority, is the work of VOODOO), made the whole foreboding 'end of vacation' thing a little less tragic.

It always happens.  Vacations end.  I'm aware of it from the very start.  It looms over me, getting heavier as the days, hours... moments, of vacation slip away.  I dread it.  Inevitably it takes three quarters of the vacation to adjust to the new agenda of having fun.  Then, just as I've found my groove, it's done.  Time to go home.  Back to the stuff; the busy, stressful, messy stuff that made the vacation necessary in the first place.  I start making deals with father time, "if you just give me one more week, I'll be ready to go.... I promise."

After years of being me, and working with myself, I've learned that I have a process.  And, when working on a design project, or writing a paper, I've learned to trust that process.  I'm confident that if I just see it through, the end result will be inspiring.

As a designer, it can be very frustrating to have a delay half way through a project installation because it leaves the client hanging with only a piece of the final result.  This can make them anxious and cause them to second guess the decisions made. And, when I'm up there on the ledge with them, I frequently find myself saying, "trust the process;  allow the details to fill in before you panic; if you don't love it, we'll fix it."  They always love it.

I have the same pep talks with myself when I'm writing.  Staring at the mess of words on the screen (or worse, no words at all), doubt and creative paralysis set in.  I close my eyes, breath deep and slow, calm the anxiety, and remind myself to trust the process.

Slowly... very... s.l.o.w.l.y...  I am learning to trust this same process as I wait impatiently for the details of my life to fill in.  For instance, when I move to a new home, I can expect it to take me about a year to start feeling settled.  No matter how fabulous the move is, I will get depressed and feel homesick during the packing/unpacking phase.  I will feel the OCD bugs crawling all over me in the initial weeks in my new house.  But, as pictures get hung, I begin to connect with my surroundings.  I've moved many times.  It happens every time.  It is my process.  And knowing this about myself allows me to be patient with the pain of transition.  I'm able to trust that I will find peace on the other side.

We stumbled through the door with a disoriented toddler dangling from my arms and mountains of luggage hanging haphazardly from Klee.  It was late.  The house felt... cold.  On autopilot, we drug the bags up the stairs, changed the baby and got him to bed, rummaged for our toothbrushes, and collapsed into bed.  Our bed, with the worn-in body-shaped trenches and the bleach-spotted pillow cases... and the soft billowy down comforter that keeps us warm in the cold Northern California nights.  It felt good.  We were home.

Home.  In Hawaii, people would ask us where we were from.  We'd answer, "the Bay area, San Francisco," and I would feel a twinge of pride.  I woke up this morning, loaded up the coffee machine (the coffee machine that doesn't know when to stop dripping, so it spills all over the counter when you go to pour a cup of coffee, even though it pretended to be done brewing), and walked out back to check on the garden.  The tomatoes are starting to produce.  The loquats are turning yellow.  I pulled a few new weeds and picked three red strawberries. My heart felt full.  Happy.  Home.

It's just my process.

She's How Old??

My 40th birthday is dangerously close.  Despite my attempts at evasion, it appears that I will indeed be 40 years old one week from today.  So far, I'm only reluctantly OK with this.  I've resigned to the reality that bad things happen to good people.

But I don't want this to be a bad thing.  I want to embrace this milestone.  I want to be 40 and Fabulous!

It isn't really that I'm sad to say goodbye to my thirties.  I remember how excited I was to turn 30.  It was going to be my best decade ever!  Life was good.  I was on the right track.  I was a mother to three gorgeous children and the wife to a very talented pastor.  But my thirties began to bitch-slap me no more than a month after my 30th birthday, and (with a few years of happy reprieve) continued the beat-down for the better portion of that decade.  So, in many ways, I am happy to turn this page.

The fact that my father died at the age of 43 looms over me a lot.  It makes the forties a scary decade for my superstitious mind.  I am not superstitious by choice; it just nags at me on a subconscious level, causing regular conversations between my rational self and my other self.  Don't look at me like that... I know you do it too.

After some persistent contemplation, I've concluded that, outside of the obvious link between aging and death, my angst about getting older is due to my inability to reconcile where I thought I would be in my life by this age, and where I actually am.  At 20, I dreamed of marrying the love of my life and raising babies together in the home we would buy to grow old in. Clearly, I have made valiant attempts at realizing this dream. What is it they say? "Try, try again?"  "Never, Ever give up?"  Yet, three husbands, four babies, and too many homes later, it seems my progress has taken the two steps forward, four steps back approach.  I somehow feel like I'm still just trying to get started; only, not with a virginesque blank slate, clean credit, or youth.  Where I am isn't bad, it is just vastly different from the picture of success that I spent years training my brain to believe in.  And, my current reality is quite different from what society has taught me it should be by now.

** Ok.  Stop right there.  I know you already have half your speech prepared on why I shouldn't care what society says; why I need to be true to myself; how life is a journey of experiences and learning...  Of course, I know all of this is true.  Again, what I know to be true and what my other self interjects are frequently at odds with each other.**

This is why I write; to spill out the clutter of thoughts that paralyze me from forward motion.  And, as I'm writing this, bits of happiness and hope are seeping in.  I'm realizing that, with the surreal losses of my thirties, I have gained priceless perspectives about life and humanity, and have found beautiful pieces of myself.  And, I know this is not unique to me.  Many of you are reading my words and nodding your heads in understanding.  This is the gift age brings.  Wealth provided by experiences of both joy and pain.

So, I guess I'm not starting again empty-handed.  Of course I'm not! I have four spectacular human beings that call me mother, a rugged and poetic man that calls me wife, and the wisdom that these first 40 years have afforded me.  (Just, maybe, can we slow down a little bit on the wisdom-imparted-through-pain part??)

I have sort of been looking at this birthday as an opportunity for resolutions.  So, phrases such as, "five year plan," and "bucket list," have been uttered.  My imagination has been swimming with visions of physical fitness, moving closer to the ocean, sustainable gardening, owning a home again, developing community, growing our shop, medical insurance...

But, first things first... I'm turning 40... LET'S PARTY!

The Shop!

We did it! We've finally launched Entropy: The Shop. And just in time for the holidays! We even shipped our first order this week!

We're small right now, but are growing daily. Please stop by and check out the goods...

We're selling some of our fabulous vintage finds:

My funky bohemian designs:

And Klee's delectibles!

And, if you ever see something you want from one of my blog posts, please message me, I'll do my best to accommodate!

Posted with Blogsy

Two Roads Diverged In A Yellow Wood...

Next weekend, my husband of 11 years is getting remarried.  I learned of this two weeks ago in a conversation regarding the kid's schedules.  It went something like, "the boys don't have camp next week; will Kinsey be around on Thursday? Oh, B and I are getting married next month; do you know where Bailey's phone charger is?".

Three weeks is not a lot of time to process it all, but I think I'm doing... OK.  It's very surreal. From what I can tell, she's a nice person.  The kids love her.  I want him to be happy (except when I don't).  I hope they won't have to fight the same dragon that burned down our fairy tale.

Of course I've been playing all the memories over; usually when everyone else is sleeping.  We had a lot of good.  In fact, outside of that one beast, we were pretty great.  I held on to that greatness whenever it got dark.  I kept thinking if I just hung in there, kept fighting... loving...

I held on until I couldn't anymore.  I lost my grip.  I lost myself.  Lost hope.

So here I am, completely disillusioned about love and the institution of marriage. Wondering why I've been so unsuccessful in it.  Sometimes it feels I've got my nose pushed up against the glass of the 'Love and Marriage' shop with my pet, Bitterness, sitting at my feet.

If I hear another well-meaning, "You, know, marriage takes work...", I'll... well, I don't know what I'll do.  I know what I'd like to do, but I'll probably just nod and say, "yes, it does."

I think, however, that sometimes, deciding to let it go is the brave thing to do.  I assure you, it is not the easy way out.  It is not immediately rewarded with acceptance and understanding from others.  It required me to trust myself.  That inner voice that I hid from for such a long time.  The one that blurred away when he shined.  I had to listen to her, and do still.

So, as he takes that proverbial stroll down the aisle, away from me, I'm forced to ask myself, "Do I feel at peace, as he goes? Do I accept this road I chose?"  I have to say...

I do.

Is There Anybody Out There?

Hello?  Is anyone still reading my blog?  I know I've been MIA for far too long and you may have given up on me, but I'm still here.  Just limping along, wondering where the hell my groove is at.  Anyway, let's see if I can catch you up a bit...

I'm proud to present my greatest accomplishment this decade:

Elliott Ocean Wiles Pearson

Born 10/22/2010 at
10 lbs, 2 oz, 22 inches long

I'd love to share my well-earned war story (birth) with you, but am feeling overwhelmed with all that I want to update you on; so the abbreviated version is: I'm pretty sure I was in labor for the last month of my pregnancy but it wasn't until 41 weeks and my THIRD trip to the hospital that I was able to convince the doctors that I was DONE.  After 19 hours of labor, my sweet TEN pound, two ounce Biscuit, Elliott was placed on my belly.  I wept uncontrollably.  Smitten beyond belief.   

Ok, so let's see; since Elliott's birth...

We said goodbye to our sweet piggy, Princess.

09/2006 - 10/2010

In memory...

We trick-or-treated,

ate turkey, 

Thelma

and, after a two page diagnostic report (including such descriptions as, "your car's engine is only being held in by gravity,"), we put Thelma out to pasture.  This was only made possible by the unfathomable generosity of Elliott's great grandfather who provided us with my dream car, a minivan!

Hmmm, back to Elliott.  As I've mentioned in earlier posts, Elliott's daddy, Klee, has arrived to join our little circus and raise his son with me.  Our story has been developing in a most unorthodox fashion and probably deserves some commentary.  I may refer to the "CherKlee" chronicles in the future.  Stay tuned.

I'm certain that there's much more that I wanted to address.  Also pretty sure I could have written more eloquently.  Regardless, I blogged.  Now on to bigger hurdles like showering...

Facebook and The OTHER Head

I recently asked for input from my nearest and dearest on the subject of circumcision um.. I posted the question on my facebook status... because I'm THAT smart.  I was immediately made aware of the passion behind this issue.  Understandably so; it has been of great concern to me with the impending arrival of my Biscuit and his perfectly intact penis.  


One of my favorite responses came to me in a private message from my very special friend, Pam... seen below with her precious Zion.

Kinda forgot to ask if I could use this photo...

After reading her message on this subject, I had NO choice but to share it with the world.  I did get her permission to quote her.  So please, enjoy Pam's thoughts on Circumcision.  

"Our final decision came after much research and finally on the basis of the fact That the APA (American Pediatric Assoc) said there's no SOLID reason to do it.  Once can come up with reasons that might make circumcision a favorable decision - like 1. Their parts should look like their dad's (where is this rule written I wonder?)  2. It's cleaner...(perhaps, if one isn't taught how to take care of it) or 3. STD's/AIDS (again, if you don't intend to teach him about such things anyway.)

I think a lot of it just comes down to the fact that most men at least used to do it. I don't know that that's true now.  Tradition, basically.

But one good reason for NOT doing it, according to our pediatrician, is that there are, let's just say, more pleasurable sensations for those who DON'T have it done (which may or may not explain my boy's frequent need to gyrate on the floor, regardless of the setting).

That just leaves one with the question of, do I really want to do anything to increase the capacity for my man-child to think with his other head than he might already be prone to?

We decided in his favor.  :)"  

34 Weeks, 2 Days... Going Scared

"I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing." ~Anais Nin  (I stole this quote from my friend, Janet.)

How do I feel?

"

I feel scared.  

Not so much about the delivery; I've been down that road before, so I have an idea of what to expect.  It probably consumes about 5% of my fear.  I do worry about getting to the hospital in time.  I don't want to birth my baby on the side of the 680 (albeit a cool story if all ends well).


I have questions.


I wonder if my supporters will have time to be there with me, or if I will be alone.  Will Biscuit's daddy make it in time to welcome him into this life?  I know the desire is there.  Time and circumstances could be our enemy.  Will that be OK?


Will the postpartum depression kick in right away like it has in the past?  Can they inject me with estrogen and Zoloft to fight those demons off?  I have to fight them off.


Can I do this?  Again?  Will I love him well enough?  Give him the life he deserves?  Do my three know how deeply I love them?  Are we doing OK?  Will we?  We will.  I know we will.  


Where is the money coming from?  


I want to heal.  So much.  To heal. To love.  To press forward.  The loss is still so overwhelming.  Life still feels intensely foreign... and, is about to feel even more so.  


Sometimes I feel so alien.  Like no one in the world understands what I'm experiencing.  Where's the, "Older, pregnant, financially destitute, mid-divorce mommies" play group?  I don't fit.  Not a soccer mom.  Not a career woman.  Not feeling real successful in the marriage department.  I don't blend.  Most of the time I'm at peace with that.  I even appreciate some of my eccentricities.  But, when I want... need... belonging.  Support.  I feel a million miles out in the middle of nowhere.


I don't mean to wallow.  And, I know I'm not special.  I know everyone has pain that sets them a part for a time.  I do know this.  BUT, I wish some of my traumas were a little more run of the mill.  The kind books are written for.  It's just that several of the major events in my life, which have left me altered, just don't have support groups named after them.  And the sensational quality of some of my trials have left me wary of the motives of would-be supporters.  Is it the "scoop" they want, or do they care?  About me.  Who can I trust?

Will life get better?  Experience tells me that it will, eventually.  But, I'll always be aware of the fragility of it all.  I wish naivety could be restored.  I would so love to recapture the spunk and optimism of 17-year old Cherie. 


I'm here now.  37 years old.  A mother.  I'm looking for hope.  Light.  I am learning.  I am finding some of my own beauty.  Creating it.  I'm scared.  


Years ago I was scheduled to speak in front of a large group of people.  My nerves were eating me alive.  A good friend at the time said, "you don't have to feel calm, just go scared."


I am...
          going scared.

Pregnant Ramblings

I've been in project mode lately.  It's my attempt to fight off the panic of being unprepared for the Biscuit to arrive.  Every project I complete gives me a small sense of peace, until my brain starts listing all of the, as yet un-done, details.  This is what happens when OCD meets Third Trimester.  Suddenly, the lack of Desitin seems dire.


Add to the above, Pregnant Brain.  This is the state of dementia which sets in with the implantation of the egg and persists until... well, I'll let you know.  Forgetfulness is a big symptom, as is word loss.  Word loss really sucks when trying to execute a witty comeback only to deliver some version of awkward.  I find myself wanting to explain that I really am intelligent... Really!


Throw in a few thousand hormones, a divorce, three adolescents and an economic crisis, and we have a big soup of WTF!?!


When attempting my projects, I frequently have to institute a plan 'B' (C,D,E..) because 'A' didn't quite work out.  Admittedly, I'm not real big on patterns or manuals.  I drift when reading them, wanting to skip to the end, past all the slow, redundant explanations.  Hence my "trial by error" ways.  I learn by doing... and then doing again.  Mom says she could never teach me anything as a child.  My first sentence was, "do it MYSELF!"  


Obviously, there are pitfalls to this tendency.  It can set a project back, or change its course entirely.  It can be exhausting and frustrating.  But, I do learn.  I solve.  I innovate.  


Finding plans B or C in the project of my life is much more intimidating.  My attempts to solve and innovate become very clouded by the above-mentioned dementia soup, as well as by the noise.  


I sometimes find it difficult to distinguish my own voice from those of my contributors/critics.  My need for approval and acceptance can smother my clarity.  Please understand, I need and seek the input of others.  It is vital and appreciated. But, I have found this to be true: Pushing through that noise to find confidence in my own conclusions and actions, is ultimately where I find the most peace.

Reflecting on Lake Tahoe

Does This Baby Make My Butt Look Big?

I can't tell you how many times I've encouraged my sweet, plump, girlfriends about their weight gain during pregnancy.  "It'll come off, don't worry."  "Go with it.  If ever you can enjoy your round self, it's now."  "You're gorgeous!"


It's amazing how easy it is to give advice.


In my first two pregnancies I spent the first 14 or so weeks throwing up.  Even spent some time in the hospital with the twins.  Yet, I still managed to gain the high end of the recommended weight both times.  This pregnancy brought the nausea as well, but no where near as bad.  I was able to manage it by eating... ALL THE TIME.  I gained a good portion of my weight in those first 12 weeks.  Then the baked goods cravings started.  I was powerless.



When I'm pregnant, I do it up right; pregnant arms, face, butt, feet.  I'm one of those puffy, worn, preggies that sit on the bench in the mall, smoothy in hand, glaring at the spunky toothpicks-for-limbs, 20-something pregnant anomalies walking in and out of Motherhood maternity stores.  You know, the ones we like to say aren't realistic until they step out of the magazine and into my doctor's office.


My doctor isn't concerned with my weight gain.  Why doesn't that relieve me more?  


The kids are helpful.  It's really fun to experience pregnancy with two pre-adolescents and a teenager.  "Hey Mom, do that triple chin thing again!"  "That swim suit doesn't look right."  *Sigh*  "You look fine.  You look like.. a.. mom..." (heard in my head as nightmarish echos).


This all flies in the face of my ideals.  I'm very pro REAL woman.  I hate the obscene expectations put on society (especially females) to be super-stars.  I think retailers would be surprised at the influx of business they'd see if they marketed apparel to flatter human people.  It would be so much easier to select clothes if the manikin used to model them was a size 8 or 10 as opposed to size 10-year-old-boy.

**In Theory**

Truth be told, I buy into it far more than I'd like to admit.  Sometimes it's hard to distinguish the line between expressing myself as a creative individualist, and being motivated by feeling "not good enough".  I am not opposed to dying hair (obviously) or buying fun clothes, painting nails, or even plastic surgery (especially to repair real damage done).  Those things can make us feel good; like we're taking care of ourselves; like we think we're worth it.  But when it's done because Susie is skinnier, blonder, richer... then it is degrading.  It's no longer about who I am as a person but who she is and who I am not.

Anyway, back to my butt.  As difficult as it is, I have made a determination to accept my maternal right to be soft right now.  Embrace it.  It requires forcing my mind in the opposite direction when the self-loathing sets in.  Retraining the grooves of thought.  

I do LOVE certain aspects of my roundness.  My belly mainly.  I think I have appreciated the gift of pregnancy so much more this time around since I never thought I'd be here again.  I love feeling him thump about.  I'm not as eager to get him out as I was with the others.  This time is so short and I'm so lucky to be given this miracle of an opportunity.  I love and accept my belly.  I will learn to love the rest of me as well.

Watch out, Barbie dolls, cause 

Baby Got Back!!

Sleeping in My Bed Tonight

I just spent eight hours in a hot car with my three kids and a bunch of stuff.  

We made the journey back home today, after our two week friend/family-a-thon.  I would have driven the I-5 but was worried about Thelma making it over the Grapevine in the heat.  (We've decided to name the beater Thelma - kinda makes her special that way.)  For those of you who don't know, the Grapevine is a long stretch of the 5 freeway which goes up and over mountains to take you from L.A. to about 200 miles of desolation.  


Anyway, to avoid the possibility of a pregnant lady and three kids madly escaping a wagon inferno amidst endless fields of kindling, I opted to drive home via the 101 (always makes me hum,  "Ventura Highway, in the Summer time..").  I love driving the 101.  It's lined with all of my favorites: beaches, farms, quaint towns, vineyards...   Good for the soul.  Even the kids seemed soothed by it.


It shouldn't have taken eight hours to make the trip but Mama had to take lots of "potty breaks" (Grrrr), which inevitably resulted in Thelma-refueling, gum-buying, and seat-renegotiating.  Throw in traffic and collection of the dogs and a six hour trip was successfully extended to eight.


Still, my kids were fantastic.  I didn't have one frazzled-mom moment.  A notably amazing feat.


In truth, I was dreading today.  Not because of the drive, I actually love road trips; but because it means I have to go back to facing life... alone.  I know I'm not entirely alone, but somewhere over the years I drew into myself and abandoned that social butterfly I once was.  I'm sure there are great explanations for this, and I'm certain that my therapists are hard at work solving it for me.  In the mean time, I'm back home, alone, after two weeks of soaking in the love and support of time-tested friends and family.

***Long Sigh***

So, here I am.  These first few hours haven't been bad.  In fact, I was surprised by how good it felt to drive down the familiar streets of Pleasanton.  And stepping into our sweet little home was... nice.  The kids helped unload the car then bolted off to reconnect with the neighborhood gang.  I didn't mind.  They needed to run and yell a bit.  I opened the windows to let the cool breeze in, plugged in the chinese lanterns in the garden, loved on the pups, and did the preliminary sorting of the stuff.  Feels good to be here.  It's mine.  Ours.  Home.

A few visions from my Mom's garden...

If all dentist's chairs were in gardens I might have fewer cavities.

Making Peace With 'Less is More'

As I've mentioned before, I live in a small two bedroom house with my three kids, three dogs, and a guinea pig named Princess. It requires a great deal of medication creativity, but it's happening.

It hasn't always been like this.  A few years back I lived here:

Spent weekends here:

And drove these:

It was nice. I won't deny it. So far, from my experience, many aspects of life are easier with money.

BUT... The STUFF. That was a lot to manage. The book keeping, the cleaning, landscaping, furnishing; making enough of a living to keep up with it all and then managing that. I remember wishing I could find a way to simplify. 


I remember missing the single mortgage and no car payments. I loved that my kids were living such a comfortable life, but I was overwhelmed with it all. But knowing how to (0r wanting to) deconstruct what we'd worked so hard to build was beyond me.

DONE

What I didn't think I could do, the universe did for me (and for way too many others). It was a painful process. 

I remember the first thing I sold. It was a garden fountain. I couldn't even be there when the buyers took it away. I hid inside my bedroom until it was over. I sort of just went on auto pilot for the rest of the purge. Detached. Let it all go... 

I remember my load lightening even with the pain. A sense of loss mixed with acceptance. Of course, I'm not suggesting the transition was that simple. I still dream about my homes, that life. I still feel it all slipping away...

But I have been given something fantastic.  LESS.  I am constantly amazed at how little we need to be comfortable, functional and happy.  And it has been a wonderfully creative challenge to learn how to live well in a smaller space.  I refer to it as "Jewel Box Living".  It is liberating and can be very beautiful.

There is a whole movement of small space dwelling out there.  I have found countless blogs and websites providing tips for simplified living.  People are embracing this lifestyle for a variety of reasons.  Obviously, the economy has been a major unsolicited motivator for many; but there's a large number of people choosing to live with less for environmental reasons, or to escape their hectic jobs, or to simplify what they manage, or to afford living in a city that they love, or to free their funds up for experiences like travel, etc.  

I'm loving the decor/design inspirations I've been finding.  This is a great example of an eclectic living room from a small space design contest hosted by Apartment Therapy:

I also enjoy the blogs on patio and balcony gardening.  It's fun to explore the possibilities of these frequently neglected retreats.  The blog, Small Place Style, posted this sweet pic of string lights:

My mother was a single mom for many years.  She was also a born designer.  She created beauty where ever we lived.  I learned from her that financially challenged doesn't equal trash, it just fosters greater creativity (if you let it).  What a gift she gave me.

I am pouring my heart into my jewel box and finding healing in it.  I would love to spotlight your petite spaces as well if you care to share. Inspiration is a fabulous motivator.