Create an environment where you’re free to express what you’re afraid to express.

The Creative Act: A Way of Being

by Rick Rubin

***

The older I get, the more I perceive authenticity to be the greatest gift we can offer ourselves and one another. I’ve always felt a little weird. (A friend called me eccentric this week, but that’s just a more creative way of saying weird, right?) I dress kinda funky and my taste in music is anything but hip or current (cue up bluegrass, alt indie, and angsty nineties feminists). I’ve been rocking a head of gray hair since my late thirties when most of my peers started heading to the salon every eight weeks to keep that shit covered. 

I’m both an investigator and a dreamer. I stink at informing myself on what’s going on in the world, and sometimes I feel like a crappy global citizen. Why can’t I remember the names of governors and world leaders, but I can name thirty breeds of chickens or write out a list of wild edibles to keep you alive should you ever find yourself stranded in the north woods?

I’m a deep thinker and slow processor, and I can’t keep up in a group. I recently met a few lovely friends for dinner, and the conversation was lively and exciting. I kept having things to add, but when I’d wait my turn, my turn never came because we were onto the next thing. In bed that evening, I was still wishing I had chimed in more on any or all of the talking points — my revulsion of standardized testing, my years-long wrestle with high-pressure religion, how lost I’m feeling a lot of days as a mom of three wickedly smart, smelly and funny tween/teen boys who are beginning to make their own way in this rollicking world. 

I’m both an idealist and a skeptic. I can never just take anything at face value. I’m always digging, examining, questioning. Someone once told me I analyze more than anyone she’s ever met, and the way she said it didn’t exactly sound complimentary. I don’t know how to make quick decisions or be black and white. Gray area is where it’s at for me, and I’m not afraid to admit when something I believed yesterday no longer seems certain today. A lot of people don’t like this, or at the very least are uncomfortable with it. Maybe this is why I have such a small circle of friends. Maybe this is why some of my best friends are goats?

If I get honest with myself, I have to face the truth that I’ve spent hundreds of hours waiting politely for my turn only to realize my turn won’t just come if I don’t have the guts to take it. 

I’ve spent even more hours longing for safety and belonging in places I will never find them — places where the only people accepted are the ones who quietly comply with the rules and systems to which they can’t even exactly remember agreeing.

Do not question.

Do not speak up.

Do not look behind the curtain. 

I don’t want to live like that anymore. I don’t want to squirm and sink beneath systems that silence and diminish. I don’t want to nod my head and yes-sir-yes-ma’am my way to false belonging and security. 

Maybe you don’t either. 

Maybe to live authentically, we’ve gotta follow the deep longings to create space for ourselves and others to ask the hard questions, some for which we’ll never find answers. 

Maybe to live authentically, we’ll have to find the other idealists and dreamers, scientists and skeptics, weirdos and eccentrics, and dig in — shovel aside the still-smoking detritus of blind certainty and plant our feet decidedly in the gray area that is the foundation of the human experience. Maybe we can do it all gently — without violence, but with resolve and assertion. After all, isn’t commitment to authenticity more arrival than departure, more acceptance than rejection, more homecoming than rebellion?

In her famous poem, “The Summer Day,” Mary Oliver implores the reader:

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? 

Tell me, what is it you plan to do 

with your one wild and precious life?

I spent four decades wishing I could cooperate enough and agree enough and be good enough so others would approve of me. My hope, I suppose, for the second half of my “wild and precious life,”  is to stop trying so hard — to stop pretending to know things I can’t know. To ask more questions. To let things simmer. To revel in mystery. To live with eyes, ears, and heart open.

To create space for my own voice, and for yours. 

Maybe you’re tired, too, of nodding your head yes. Maybe your interactions are feeling kind of empty and your soul is craving some real talk. Give yourself permission to be weird (or eccentric, rather). Find the person in your world who isn’t afraid to wonder, to philosophize, to linger in the nebulous glow. If you don’t know any of those people, you know me. There’s room at the table. The conversation is lively, and everyone gets a turn.

Bring your questions and your doubts, your weirdly wonderful self. Bring your shovel — we can dig together. 

One night a year, when the rest of our family is camping with the Scouts, my middle son Reed and I have a date night. Last night, we ate an early dinner at Spiro’s, walked around Strawberry Lake, did our evening chores, then snuggled on the couch watching “The Greatest Showman.” I love this time with my boy, and want to remember it forever. 

***

Reed, I hope you know how truly happy it makes me to be your mom. We are so alike, you and I, from our need to take things slow to the way we observe every detail of the world around us. We are mellow and quiet, but when we hit the fun button, we can be pretty dang goofy. We love art, creativity, a story that pulls at our heartstrings. We can be really selfish and really generous. Clutter drives us mad. Music makes us feel. We love having our backs scratched and our heads tickled. When we sing, we do it with our whole hearts.

I love to hear you sing beside me at church. Sometimes when I look over at you and lock eyes during a beautiful chorus and we are both singing right from our souls, I feel like we are in another world. This kind of connection is what people like us were made for. 

You are almost thirteen, and your voice is starting to change. I know you are going to be an incredible young man, but I have to say I will miss the voice of your childhood — pure and clear and sweet. I’m sure your adult voice will be wonderful too, but I think I’ll record us singing our song, “You are My Sunshine,” together so I can always have the way you sound at twelve years old.

When we sat at the restaurant last night and made our summer fun bucket list, your eyes lit up the most when you said “Night swim in the river!” I am in, Buddy. I’ll bring the glow sticks and a pile of fluffy towels. I hope there will be stars. 

I want the world for you, Reed Henri. I want you to feel and see and taste it all, then draw it or sing about it or write about it in a way no one else can. I know you will.

Thanks for loving me. Thanks for holding my hand as we walked around the lake even when we passed by the cool older boys. Thanks for making me laugh when you thoughtfully asked if pickles are finger food because you wanted to use your manners at a nice restaurant. Thanks for describing your chocolate mousse as ice cream and pudding having a baby, and thanks for offering me a bite. It really was delicious. 

I love our time together. I love who you are and how we just get each other. How lucky I am to be called “Mom” by one of my best friends. 

You’re still curled up beneath your blankets this morning, but soon I’ll wake you and we’ll go out together for farm chores. We have a few more hours with just the two of us before our theatre party. It’s the most beautiful spring morning here. The sun is highlighting the young maple leaves and everything everywhere is green. The river is high. The birdsong is full and clear. Let’s take it in together. 

To my youngest son, Miles,

You are eleven years old today. The presents are wrapped. The party games are ready. The piñata is stuffed with chocolate and fruity candies. In a couple hours, we’ll head to Grandma and Uppa’s house to celebrate you with our extended family. 

But right now, I’m sitting here in my sweats in the sunny window thinking about the boy you are at eleven years old. 

There are so many things I love about you, Miles. Your squinty-eyed smile. Your gentle spirit. Your willingness to share with others. 

I love how loud and high-pitched your voice is when you’re really happy. How giggly you are when you joke with your cousin, Emmett. How grateful you are when someone does something simple for you like makes you a snack or buys you a pizza. You once hugged me three times and told me I made the BEST HOT DOGS OF ANYONE ANYWHERE. You are so free with your “thank-you’s” and it makes everyone feel good to be around you. 

When I think of you at eleven, I will think of you carting Ollie Cat around the house and saying, “Mom, just look at this cat. Is he not the cutest, nicest kitty in the world?”

I will think of you saying to me before you boys go out to walk the dogs, “If we’re not back in twenty minutes, come find us,” then winking at me and clicking your tongue. And I’ll think of you walking back down the street toward home in that stained red hoodie you wear every single day, Lucky trotting happily along by your side. 

When I think of you at eleven, I’ll think of you sitting at your laptop with your headphones on, laughing with your brothers and Emmett and Jack and Ayden as you play your boy games that I’ll never understand. 

I’ll think of you pogo-sticking around the yard yelling “Look, Mom! Look at me jump! Twenty-six…twenty-seven…”

I’ll think of you sitting on a pail in the barn with your hand outstretched to a little lamb. Your brothers typically head back to the house as soon as chores are done, but you like to linger with the animals and me…watching, noticing, enjoying. 

Last week, Dad was out of town and I was down sick for the day when two baby goats were born. I peeled myself out of bed to check on them and make sure the babies were warm and dry in the cold afternoon. I was dead tired, dragging myself along, mustering the energy to set up the heat lamp, clip and clean umbilical cords, and get mama goat some extra nourishment after her labor. I turned around and there you were. “What should I do, Mumma?” you asked, knowing I needed you… knowing our animals needed you. You helped me set up the warming hut for the babies and get Honey situated with her food and water. We fawned over how cute the goat kids were and how happy we were that Honey had twins so they’d each have a play buddy. And even though I was sick and tired, my heart was so happy to be in the cozy barn with you.

I have a thousand “thank-you’s” for you too, Miles. Thanks for loving me. Thanks for being kind. Thanks for being my trusty sidekick and snuggle pal. Thanks for reminding us all that nachos are a breakfast food and every animal we own is the best animal ever. Thanks for enjoying life so dang much that everyone around you enjoys it more too. 

Happy eleventh birthday, Miles. I love you more than you know!

-Mom 

I took a walk with my dear friend yesterday, and when I showed up to her house, we shared about our mornings and confessed we were both feeling a little Grinchy.

“Well, I’m glad we’re in it together,” she laughed, as we got into her van and headed toward our walking loop.

When our feet hit the path, we got right to it — arms swinging in sync, zipping our coats to our chins in the shady stretches and tilting our cheeks to the sky in the sunny clearings.

We talked about life as we stepped it out. Her upcoming birthday. Next weekend’s plans. Summer camping adventures. Aging parents. Teenage drivers. Mental health.

We descended the path to the lake on our third and final loop and stepped out onto the dock for a nice long inhale of sunshine. 

“Thank you so much,” I sighed —  to her and to God and to the blue-white ice shining up our whole world.

“Thank YOU,” she replied. “I feel so much better.”

“ME too.”

On the drive back to her house, I thought about how easy it would have been to bail on that walk. We could have canceled and sat home on our couches. Neither of us would have been mad at the other. But we showed up with our real selves and our real moods and the real knowing that we were probably going to feel a whole lot better after moving our bodies. 

***

My alarm is set for 4:45 each weekday morning, and I leave for the gym by 5:30. Sometimes I didn’t sleep well the night before. Sometimes it’s below zero outside. Sometimes my hip is sore from an old injury or I wake with a kink in my neck from rolling over to the wrong side. Sometimes I have no motivation. 

Honestly, though, I’m to a point in life where I don’t need motivation. Getting up is what I do. Pouring a hot cup of coffee for my drive into town is what I do. Starting the day with Pilates or yoga or weights, or stepping it out on the elliptical is what I do.

It’s not a question of whether or not I’m going this morning. I’m going. 

It’s a question of what am I doing to improve myself today? 

What am I doing to become better and stronger and healthier and happier today?

Author and retired US Navy Officer, Jocko Willink, famously says, “If you want to get better, stop looking for a shortcut and go find your alarm clock.”

And he’s right. You just have to do it. Do it tired. Do it Grinchy. Do it slowly. Do it alone or with a friend. Just do it often enough that showing up is your habit. Movement is your habit.

Meanwhile, learn to trust. Trust the process. Trust the small steps that lead to big progress. Trust it won’t always be hard to swing your legs out of bed — and before long you won’t even need that alarm clock. Trust me when I say I have never regretted getting up and moving this body, and you won’t regret it either. Trust that movement is medicine, and you are always only one workout away from a better mood.

It’s February — one of the toughest months of the year. Many of us who experience the seasonal blues are FEELIN’ IT, and a lot of winter still lies ahead. Even if every voice in your head is telling you to stay in bed or on the couch, I am telling you there is no better time to do this.

Your body needs this. 

Your mind needs this. 

Your spirit needs this. 

Lace up your shoes or roll out your mat and promise yourself you can quit after ten minutes if you hate it — but I’m betting you have at least twenty in you.

If I can do it, you can do it. Start today.

“Getting better is a campaign.”

– Jocko Willink

My youngest son is ten years old. Every night at bedtime, there’s a particular way he likes to be tucked in with four blankets in a specific order — the safari one on just the feet, the tie-dyed one folded over, and so on. Curly Bear needs to be tucked tenderly beside his right shoulder. Night light on. “This Little Light of Mine” sung by Mom or Dad. Then he asks for a head scratch and smiles the most contended smile I have ever seen before sighing something like, “I’m just so happy,” or “I’m just so cozy.”

I sit in the moment with him, peaceful, content, and cozy in my own heart too.

***

When I was a kid, my parents tucked me in every night they were home. The gravity of this gift is not lost on me. I was afraid of the night, so I liked being packed in tight like a burrito with stuffed animals lining the wall beside my bed. My parents knew the drill, and I counted on it each night. No matter what struggles happened at school or with friends, I knew someone would be there at night to pull the blankets up to my chin and kiss my forehead.

My dad always said, “Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite, sweet dreams and I love you.”

My mom said, “I love you up to the sky, down to the ground, around the whole world, and more than that even.”

It was so simple, yet so meaningful — the final act of every day was being loved.

***

As an adult, I’m an early morning riser, and sometimes I’m so beat at the end of the day that I make the boys tuck ME in before Daddy tucks them into their own beds a while later.

When my youngest son was three years old, the boys were snuggled in against me in my bed. I sang them each their bedtime songs, then told Miles he should sing me a lullaby now. He said, “Well I only know one song.”

“That’s okay — let’s hear it,” I replied, expecting “Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star.”

He took a big breath and broke out in “ROCK ME LIKE A HURRICANE!”

To this day, when we hear that song, I still teasingly say to Miles, “What a sweet lullaby.”

***

It doesn’t have to be complicated. A simple song will do. A poem. A book. A blessing. A prayer.

A blanket pulled up to the chin. A head scratch. A night light switched on.

A two-minute investment that adds up to hours and hours of your kiddo feeling loved, peaceful, and secure.

I’ve never forgotten it.

They won’t either.

The corner of my dining room
is crammed with humming incubators.
Gold and lavender chicks trip over one another,
chirping loudly, steadily,
trying to figure a way out of the rounded dome.

There’s a bottle lamb in a tote in the living room.

My basement shelves are stacked
with tomato seedlings.
Their names are Brandywine,
Cherokee Purple,
Sunrise Bumblebee.

Tulips reach leafy arms
from beneath receding snow
on the south side of the house.

My yard is bright
in the warmth of the waxing moon.
Ripples of light are the high harmonies
on the river’s thawing song.

April.
The world is rubbing sleep from her eyes.
She’s filling her lungs with damp air
and smiling at the sound
of her boots pressing air bubbles
up from the muddy hollows.

My eyes are wide again, too —
wider than the gibbous moon.
I have that sense of happening in my body,
A skipping lightness in my chest.

Is it an awakening?
A homecoming?
An answered prayer?

I don’t know its name.
I just know we’re here.
I just know we’re coming out the other side.

The nape of our neck remembers the sun.
Our ears await the first chirps of peeper frogs,
the shouting return of Canada geese.
Our eyes recall the shape
of dandelion and fiddlehead,
robin and sparrow.

If Winter is the test,
Spring must be the star in the top right corner
of the paper beside all of our names,
a note in cursive letters…

You did it.
You made it.
You have what it takes.

– Stacy Harrison

April 4, 2023