a long while...
and you aren't sure how to start...
or what to say...
Hi. It's been a while. We are all doing pretty well. The weather is rather melancholy, and very damp... I could use a haircut... The kid is getting bigger....
And you somehow find a link to your old blog, from years ago, before the baby was born even. The baby who will start fourth grade tomorrow...
What do you say? How do you begin?
Hi. It's been a while.
and you try not to feel like a failure, for letting the months pass without a word. And you try to focus on the present, and the now, and the positive things that have happened:
I wrote a bunch of stories for Waldorfish's Festival Stories course, available later this fall.
My wonderful aunt came for a visit, and I felt bad that I couldn't take off work to hang out more. I hate feeling like I've let someone down, especially someone who came all that way to see me.
My son had a minor injury, that was still bad enough to bring a premature end to his baseball season. To make up, he's playing fall ball, which means our Saturdays are booked to the end of September. Which means he's missing the first few group lessons with his Suzuki teacher. Which makes me feel bad, too.
And here it is, the end of summer break. School starts tomorrow. I have learned a lot this summer about myself. About things I want in the world, and things I don't want, really, no matter how much others say I ought to want them. I'm trying to let go of the list and the score-keeping, and to be here, on the last, rainy day of vacation, and enjoy it.
There are new things coming. Thank you for being here. How's your summer been -- or your winter, you lovely southern folk? I'll be giving a workshop on the 15th here in town. More on that coming soon.
There. The streak of not-writing has been broken. Now we can begin again.
I had a dream last night. In my dreams, I am often teaching. years ago, I used to dream about acting, but now my anxiety dreams and my questioning dreams are almost all about teaching. Owl dreams are the magical ones, and they are rare. Sometimes, there are supermarket dreams, like the one I had when I was an exchange student in Moscow in 1991, when bread lines and toilet paper lines, and everything lines were the norm -- you got in line, and after a while you'd ask what the line was for. In a supermarket dream, I have to find things, things I want and don't have, and if I can check out before I wake up, I get to have those things in waking life. In Moscow, I dreamt of liquid Tide detergent, orange juice, and packaged cookies.
Last night, I dreamed I was a teaching assistant, and the children were supposed to come back into the classroom and say the closing verse. I was trying to lead them. Several children wandered back out of the classroom. One of them was wrapping himself in blankets and crawling under a sink, and I sat with him until his mother came around the corner, because I knew his anxiety was overwhelming him. The lead teacher had finally gotten the children, who were fourth graders, back into the classroom, and at the end of the verse, I called one of the girls who hadn't come back when I called, but did for the teacher, over to me and asked what was up.
She became older then, as dream people can do. She was a young teenager now, and she handed me a little book of photocopied and printed pages, cut small -- 2 or 3 inches square. She had had it in the pocket of her apple-green coat. "I looked you up. I've been reading what you wrote." I was afraid for a moment. What did this girl know about me?
But when I looked at the pages, I recognized the words as my own -- not ones I can find now, but in the dream, they were my writing. And she had been reading and treasuring them. They mattered to her, and had been helping her to get through. I woke up then.
So I am writing for you, girl in the apple green coat. I'm writing for you, person I haven't met, reading my words. I'm trying to trust that who I am is okay, and that I won't be attacked with the words I've written here, and elsewhere, because someone, somewhere, is reading and is helped.
Can we really know the effects of our actions, completely? I lie awake sometimes, living and reliving the mistakes I've made, the times I failed to be the teacher children needed me to be, the times I've been less than perfect. Trusting in the goodness and needfulness of our own humanity is intensely difficult. For years, I have tried to be good enough. Good enough to be cast in a play. Good enough to have friends. Good enough to be loved. Good enough to get an A. Good enough to get the job. Good enough to be admired. Good enough to check all the "good mom" boxes. Good enough to teach. Good enough to be read online, or in print. Good enough.
When I dared to believe I was, usually something would happen to cut me down to size, to deny my status of Good Enough.
Maybe what I was looking for was "better." We are constantly told to compare ourselves to others -- encouraged in school, in sports, on TV, on Facebook, at work, at church, in the grocery store, in the fitting room. Are you as good as he is? As she is? As we are? If I was smarter, funnier, more spiritual, more pure, more beautiful, more inspiring, more effective, than someone else, I'd be chosen. What a stifling way to live.
But the girl in the apple green coat didn't care that I couldn't make a group of fourth graders obey me. She knew there was something more important. A real-life former student gave me the gift of telling me that I had helped her when she was younger and feeling frustrated and sad, and that she still remembered it 12 years later. I don't remember that day -- I remember the times I failed. But she remembers, and it helped her. The dream girl had my words in her pocket.
We don't know, always, the effects of our actions on others. We aren't necessarily particularly good judges of our enough-ness or goodness. I don't know if my writing or my words or my actions are helping anyone most of the time, but maybe I can remember the girl in my dream, who had looked me up online, and found these words, and found solace. There's a kind of humility required in this trust, that we might not get to see that we've been of use to someone, that we have made life better for them. And, too, there is a humility required to see the times that we have, that we didn't have to try so hard to be good enough, because we already were.
When I started this blog and website, I wasn't thinking about selling anything, teaching anything, offering anything but my words. I was still getting used to not being a full-time teacher, and I wanted to have a place for long-form interaction. I was never a particularly consistent blogger, or journaler. I had a livejournal, which I loved, because so many of my friends were there, too, and I met lovely people through their writing. There was a sci-fi/fantasy fandom element to it, too, and I loved being able to connect with authors and fans that way. But when facebook came along, and twitter, and they got so big, long form blogging kind of left social media. There's reddit, which I only kind of understand and don't use much, and there's tumblr, ditto. But back in the 2005-2015 years, I was reading a lot of blogs.
I like blogs. I like reading what people have to say. It seems though that personal blogs are fewer and farther between now, and that there are more blogs that are sponsored and affiliated and dedicated to very specific subject areas.
I tried to do that here. I have tried to make this all about parenting and Waldorf and storytelling and biography work and fairy tales. It's been difficult for me, because I often don't feel like I have anything that important to say. I'm really afraid of just putting myself out there, because who would want to read about my life, if they don't already know me. But then, I have been happily reading about other people's lives for years.
There are lots of things I'm interested in talking about. Where I get tripped up, is in feeling like I have to be an expert on anything I bring up. I am not an expert. I don't know when I crossed that line, from being an explorer and an interested person and a dabbler, and became someone who feels the need to know everything before I can speak, and lives in fear of someone commenting and telling me off. Not that anyone EVER COMMENTS HERE. It's like none of you exist, even though the website stats page tells me 421 unique visitors saw this site in the past week.
I tried closing everything down here for a while. My last course offering had 2 signups (three other people asked about it after I decided not to run it), which made me start seriously questioning what on earth I'm doing here. The fact of the matter is, I never wanted to be a businessperson. I wanted to be an artist and teachers, but I think this is an area where I have a lot of inner work and exploration of my preconceptions to do. See all the gaps over there in the archive listing? So many gaps. There's also a dearth of tags on most of those existing writings.
I'd love to recommit to writing here, but it has to be without expectations, without saying, oh it has to be polished, it has to be perfect, it has to be worthy of being reprinted in a magazine or linked from some other blog. I miss writing these paper airplane letters and flinging them out into the void. I also miss having some kind of connection with readers. Are you even there? How hard is it to leave a little comment and say hello? I want to go back and add tags to my earlier posts so they're easier to find, and maybe remove some posts that feel too raw or tender in retrospect.
I hope to offer some more courses and opportunities to work with me, soon, and maybe a membership site? or a patreon page? Would people be interested in supporting my work in exchange for stories or coaching or something? I think I could be a really good coach.
Anyway, there you are. a post. first in ten weeks or something like that.
Hi there! How are you? New year starting off okay?
I have been busy, with two new articles up at Waldorfish.com, both on Pedagogical Stories (what the heck is that???). One of them already has an audio version, and the second audio will be coming soon! We went on a little mini-vacation to visit my aunt in Florida and take in the Harry Potter attractions at Universal Studios, and to walk on the beach and splash in the pool. Since our return, we've been battling various illnesses, and I'm glad that March is here and spring is on the way!
I have also created a new course for your -- all about using stories to help and heal. It's called Little Stories, Big Changes, and you can learn all about it HERE!
and you? what are you doing these days???
here's what I'm pondering and doing and dreaming today...
in the quiet spaces of the year, as we reach toward its turning from old to new, I am dreaming of what I can offer you in this space. What stories I can tell, what journeys we can take together...
What are you listening for in these days? What stories does your heart long to hear? Leave me a comment and let me know!
I wish you a beautiful, health-filled, joyous new year...
With love and many blessings,
So, I made this big "oh, I'll post every day" announcement, and then I got a stomach bug. can we say, "upper limit problem?" yep. we can.
I'm stepping back. I'm going a little quiet. It's advent, and it's also a busy time of year, and I am going to work on balancing these two truths.
I'm pulling in my shingle and my banners, and resting a bit. There is time, and I can determine what exactly I'm doing...
much love to you all, gentle ones. have a beautiful december...
Here's the deal: I posted a thing to Instagram yesterday (you can totally follow me there, but if I don't know you, drop me a message so I can add you to my sooper seekrit, fancy-people list), about how hard things have been lately, and how I was really down and funky. Not in a good, Bruno Mars, Uptown Funk way.
I was laying too much of this funk on a friend, and she did something amazing: she said no. She gently, kindly told me that she needed a break while I upgrade. I was SO HAPPY. I LOVE IT when people set clear boundaries about what they need. LOVE IT. And she reminded me: There's a purpose to all this funk.
There is no shame in being in the funk, in the stew and the muck and the stink and the awful. I was stuck in that smallness and overwhelm and anxiety. I tried pretending I wasn't. Didn't work so well.
What worked, in the end, was hearing that I was UPGRADING. Yup. You know how when you are in the middle of a project, cooking or making art or building, and there is a God-awful, unholy mess everywhere? That was me. I was a mess. I'm still kind of a mess. But I've decided not to be scared and sad about it any more. I'm in the process of an upgrade. Not that there was anything wrong with the old model of Sara, but the new one will be even better.
So, I'm letting myself off the hook. No perfectionism allowed, not even about no perfectionism. No freaking out, even about maybe starting to freak out. I started a little "not-good-enough" panic today, and I stopped it. I overdrew my bank account by not depositing a check before buying groceries, but it's FINE (I have overdraft protection! Thanks, me!) The stories I'm telling at Reindeer Day tomorrow might not be perfect. It's OKAY!
So, because December is a really busy month, I've decided More is More. I'm going to try to post daily, and see what happens. No perfectionism.
Meanwhile, go listen to this total gorgeousness.
that isn't quite right...
how about this:
Give the people what you want to give. Give them the things that make you feel alive. Give them your poetry, your heart. Give what you can part with, and give just a little more.
But don't give away yourself, and don't give into the need to sell and sell.
I'm not doing a lot of things I could be doing, and I'm working on being okay with that. I am working on not needing to figure out what others want from me so I can give it and gain their approval.
What I want to do instead, is find what I can give, and give it.
Here's what I have right now:
I have this thing I do, where I find a story for you. You tell me what you are needing, what feels wrong, or where you are lost. Or you tell me your joy, the excitement you have about something new or old or beautiful. You tell me a little or a lot. And I find you a story.
Just for you.
When was the last time someone picked you out a story, a story that might have a key in it, or a treasure, or might just have the words you want to hear?
And then we figure out why and how this is your story, and what happens next. Together. It takes some trust, some willingness to step into that story.
It's what I have to give. Right now, I have stories waiting for the right people. And I have you -- you are waiting, some of you, for the right story.
If this sounds like something you want to receive, to give to yourself, you can go here and sign up.
I want to give this. Give what you want to give, and let the people who will receive it, do so.
*warning. this gets a little scatological. you've been warned.*
It's not working.
Trying to be anything other than what I am, who I am. Trying to make this into something that makes money, when all I want to do is play. Trying to be the perfect mom/wife/teacher/daughter/anything.
It doesn't work.
It binds me up, holds me back. Nothing flows. My creativity turns into nothing. My heart feels totally tightened and tugged. I snap, anxious and irritated by everything. I believe the lie that my life is something happening to me.
When I tell myself I have to be an expert.
When I tell myself I am failing as a Waldorf mother.
When I tell myself I am a failed teacher.
When I tell myself I am not enough. Not enough of anything.
And it all gets so very heavy.
Then I am afraid to write, to share, because it isn't good enough. It's not hip enough, bright enough, expert enough. I don't look good. I don't sound together and hop and high-frequency and spiritual.
And how does it manifest? Oh, people. All this shit has to get held somewhere.
And it comes down to this: Somewhere, I believe in the core of my being that I am never going to be good enough. That I am never going to the right kind of girl, even though I've been a woman for years and years. I believe I've missed the boat. That I'm too old to ever make my way.
And this blog should be better. Should really be about stories and storytelling and parenting and being a perfect waldorf teacher-mother-partner-artist-person.
And my storytelling isn't even happening on the level that people could call "professional."
And those are ALL LIES.
Is this bloodroot not good enough?
I'm never going to be anyone else. This blog is never going to be SouleMama or the Magic Onions. It won't be anybody else's blog. My courses aren't going to be like the ones other biography workers or storytellers or mom bloggers offer. I'm not them.
The work I'm doing right now? It matters. And even if I were serving coffee or entering data or sweeping streets or proposing legislation or performing surgery or performing puppet plays, it would matter. Work matters.
This ordinary life matters. And even if this blog isn't making me money, even if only 2 people sign up for a course I'm offering, even if I yell at my kid or leave the dishes in the sink for days or lose weight or gain weight, even if nothing changes, it matters.
and I'm tired of trying so hard, and of pretending, and of striving to be something else.
When I was in high school, I wrote a column for my school paper. I called it "Dust Particles," because I thought that was cool. I wrote about life. I wrote terrible poetry with one or two good phrases, because it felt good.
There's a forest of "I"s in this post, and I'm still going to publish it, because I need to prove to myself that this is good enough. Being here, telling you about my life. It's enough.
You are enough.
Your life is worth telling. You're enough.
Sara is a storyteller, writer, artist, teacher, wife, mother, and singer living in Minnesota. I write about storytelling, and about living a life with stories.