Unroll the mat

The other morning I came out to find my yoga mat rolled out on the kitchen floor. No doubt my four year old had gotten it out for some game or experiment. As I waited for my coffee to brew, I stretched out into downward dog. It felt good, though my muscles were tight and my arms a bit wobbly. I've been neglecting my yoga practice. For several weeks now I've been feeling the effects on my body, knowing that I should start again, knowing how much a regular practice helps me not only physically but mentally and spiritually. So why did it take this long to get back there?

Sometimes the hardest part is unrolling the mat.

I've been having writer's block lately too, as evidenced by the length between now and my last post. There are lots of methods and tips out there, but again, the hardest part is opening the notebook or turning on the computer. The first word on a blank page is rarely as scary as the idea of it. I've come to accept that there is no cure, only choices. Even if I write one sentence, because I made the choice to begin, that choice gives me power, and it's one sentence more than when I started! It's not always chronological steps (1, 2, 3), but a series of firsts, over and over.

Unroll the mat, write the first word, take the first step.

Then, do it again tomorrow.

"Un"-American?

I've been thinking about the things that separate us. Religions, races, nationalities, borders, genders, generations, languages, parties...

Lately everytime I turn on the news I become angry. There are any number of things to be angry about in the world; war, poverty, hunger, injustice...but it's something even deeper than that, something that hits at the core of my being.

Everytime I hear a politician using the word "American" to describe themselves, me, someone else, my stomach starts to churn. It's not just the disingenuous, patronizing, cliche, that my Nationality has become something that people can redefine, evaluate, and be used as leverage in some political game to the point that it has lost all meaning.

Borders, countries, classes of people. They don't exist. We  made them  up, and we give them meaning like it matters. So I don't consider myself an "American", not in the way it's being used, the way it's been high-jacked. I know how fortunate I am to be born in this country, I am grateful for the opportunities I've been given. I am proud of who I am. But "American" is not who I am. It does not define my worth, or lack of worth. It does not tell you if I am a good person, or a kind person, or a generous person, or a mean person, or a spoiled person, or a privileged,  poor, hungry, or glutinous. It is. Like my hair is brown, my skin is light. It's my home. It's sometimes beautiful, sometimes ugly. It is not who I am.

I am not one country, one space, or one people.

I am not just a citizen of the United States, I am a citizen of the world, and so are you. I am you. I am we.

There is no "other", no "them", only us.

Art Therapy

Today I felt defeated before I even began.

I've been tired lately. Not just mom-with-two-kids tired. My MIND has been tired. I haven't had the motivation to do anything, and with my physical state of regular-mom-tired, it pushed me into a state only once removed from "walking zombie". 

I felt like I had been in a fog that I just couldn't see the end of. Everywhere I turned, all I could see were things that discouraged me; dirty dishes in the sink, a carpet that needed to be vacuumed, a to-do-list that never gets crossed off, my writing notebook waiting to be opened. I actually sat down in the middle of the kitchen floor for a few minutes, feeling like I couldn't take another step, couldn't look at anything else.

My toddler came over and gave me a hug. :::oh!:: That gave me just enough motivation to make some coffee, which lifted my spirits, and my energy level a bit.

As I sat at the table trying to suck up every last drop of caffeine, my older son dumped out the art box all over the floor. I just watched, and let it roll off, I didn't care. The place was already a mess. I had given up. He took out some little foam cut-out pieces, found some paper and asked me to find the glue. 

I threw back the last sip and sat down to do some crafts, helping my toddler who wanted to play too. It was so cute watching them stick little moons and stars onto the paper, while naming the colors and shapes out loud.  I thought about how great it would be to have a "craft room" in our new house. A room where it didn't matter if you colored on the walls or dripped paint on the floor; where all their masterpieces could be on permanent display. Somehow, it was just what I needed. It flipped a switch, and just like that the fog was gone.

I still haven't had breakfast yet...but I feel like I can tackle the day now. The dishes in the sink don't feel so daunting, and I feel inspired to tackle that to-do-list. Maybe we'll break out the paints later, or I might even take the kids to Barnes and Noble (something my 4 year old has been begging me to do for weeks!). 

Who would have thought that some glue and foam shapes could make all the difference. The cute boys helped too...

Here's to the little things. They are actually the big things. :)