when you make your fun into work...

when work is too hard, and life feels heavy, it's time to remember what you really are...

*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.

Fragile. 

Fearful.

And how does it manifest? Oh, people. All this shit has to get held somewhere.

Literally. 

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.

ALL LIES.

Is this bloodroot not good enough?

The magnolia?

The butterfly?

​

look. 

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.

I matter.

You matter.
​

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.
​