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.

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.
​