I’m inviting ways to more fully participate in my life. To that end, I got a good idea. (I tend to be very fond of my good ideas. To the point that I become obsessively committed to them and, possibly even, become a bit of an impulsive activator.) So, last week I ordered eight silver clutches/wristlets online in an attempt to find the perfect little purse that would hold all my essentials, fit nicely into my diaper bag, and work well for day or night. The purse would not only hold my keys, glasses, gum, credit card, ID, and lip gloss, it would hold my attempts at a lean-and-mean life, so organized and trimmed down that I would be envied for my ability to live chicly and simply.
Exit stage left my bulging bag of gum wrappers, receipts, pounds of change, thirteen (yes I counted) lip colorers of all descriptions, mail, and six (yes I counted) pens. Mindless hoarding. Not only is all that nonsense in my purse, but I’m willingly carrying it around all day with two almost-thirty pound children and a diaper bag.
Stop the insanity! Wake up! Exercise your options! Get creative! Think!
I received all eight clutches, lined them up on the floor in the living room, removed each one from the plastic. Steve and my mom looked on, advising and questioning, roles they are very fond of. All this while we watched WVU get stomped by Duke. So sad, Mountaineers.
I chose the one I had liked most online, and felt that $19.50 was a modest price for something that is sure to revolutionize my life.
One day into it, the purse is spot on. I can’t cram a whole lot of crap into it, so it requires me to decide what I really need, and part with the rest. Purging is not an intuitive skill for me, so I’m practicing. Trying to get better at the editing process. Trying to participate more fully—make conscious choices—in life instead of just hoarding and numbing. The silver purse is a start. A good start.
Other noticings on the same theme . . .
Last week I facilitated a writing workshop at the Soul Care House, and just loved every single second of it. I cried when I talked about the gifts that writing has offered me, and I urged us all to embrace the whimsy and the work of paying attention to life and of getting down our thoughts and perspectives. I left feeling as though the time had been so much more for me than for the attendees, like a real shot in the arm to keep going and to remember how much the craft of writing matters. How much participating matters. “Writing helps me feel alive,” I wrote in response to a prompt I offered, “confronting the best and worst parts of myself.” A long loving look at the real.
My friend Mel sent me a link to a darling carved wooden sign – READ – from etsy that she thought I’d like, which I very much did. She mentioned in the email that she would love to be able to make something like this but, she says, “I am no woodworker.” Loved that line. Something about her words reminds me to embrace the truth, which is often more obvious than we give it credit for being. Additionally, truth is always so freeing.
Purse is out of control. Soul is dead. Buy a clutch and start typing! Wake up! You are not a woodworker. You are a writer. Get to work!
At church yesterday, Easter Sunday, I stood in line in the women’s restroom and hugged so many of the women that came in and out while I was waiting. I loved that feeling, of knowing and being known, of being at a place that is home to me, of being awake enough to receive and give love.
After church, we put the babies down for a long midday nap (Yes!!! Both children are successfully taking one nap simultaneously. Victory!!!), and then we went to friends’ for an early dinner. We sat outside on their lawn, eating honey-baked ham off their solid wood dining table the boys had moved outside. Breeze. Sun. Rope swing. Trees. Music. Parmesan risotto. Egg hunt. Fresh berries. Absolute delight. Present and participating with slim silver purse by my side.
I am no woodworker.
Life, and life more abundant.
