Morning Light

 

Gluten morgen!

 

A blogger/cat lover/person of influence named Susannah Conway posted what I believe is technically a photo challenge for August, but I am going to use it as a writing challenge.

 

NOW BEFORE I CONTINUE.

 

I make zero promises that I will write according to every prompt every day for the month of August. Please. I mean sure it might happen and that would be awesome but it might not happen and I declare that that too will be awesome.

 

Anyway, so today's prompt for a photo which we are turning into a prompt for a blog post is this:

 

Morning Light.

 

So without further ado, I will compose a blog post for the first time in a long time. You're welcome, Jill. Thanks for saying you miss my blog.

 

***

 

I hated being up in the morning as a teenager. I mean, most teenagers hate that, right?

 

I believe it's scientifically proven that kids at that age NEED a lot of sleep. They're growing like crazy, so personally I try to be relatively gentle with sleepy, lanky, young humans. Then again I don't have any of my own yet, so....

 

I hated being up in the morning, and then at some point in college I became a much kinder person in the mornings and I actually had to finally have a heart-to-heart with my family members to explain that this whole "Grouchy Bailey in the Morning" moniker had to go.

 

I think my a.m. mood shifted for a few reasons. Number one, I was out of the growth spurt zone, so I think I just didn't need as much physical rest. Two, I began a job the summer I turned 19 that required me to be up early, so I just went to bed early and adapted. And finally, I was too afraid (still am) to be unpleasant with people who were friends but not family (AKA roommates from Ohio and Michigan and Indiana), so I mustered up early morning smiles and eventually it just became natural.

 

Fast forward several years when I started working 5 a.m. shifts at Starbucks and I really discovered that while coffee is a dear, dear friend in this life, Bailey Kathleen doesn't exactly need her.

 

She just loves her and drinks her anyway.

 

***

 

For years I have wanted to be an early morning exerciser, but it hasn't happened. It's true, I am totally fine to socialize and function and work even before dawn, but if I don't have to be up for anything, I won't get up. Ergo, I am not a breakfast eater, I am not a morning bather, I am not a read the paper/make coffee at home/walk the cat in the morning person. Generally speaking I roll out of bed, grab the essentials, and go.

 

But.

 

I love being up earlier than I have to be.

 

I really do.

 

I love the mystical quiet of a house filled with snoozing peeps, where I am the mouse tiptoeing to the Kuerig machine.

 

I love texting my friends who live two hours forward.

 

I love journaling in bed.

 

I love doing whatever I want or nothing at all, and usually these are one and the same.

 

I love when Max crawls to my lap to get snuggled because Mama's Up!

 

And I love the light.

 

I love the way the cat holds still as I photograph him in the beams filtering through the mini-blinds.

 

I love the black to navy to ocean to Brewer-blue-eye slideshow of colors that appear in the west, changing in their stillness until we have a new day.

 

I love a new day.

 

I love the possibility of ending the strangeness between strangers, as we chat about books we love and songs we love and IPA beers we hate and wham! We're pals.

 

I love the soft trust of a new day just beginning.

 

I love the open space and the God sitting right there at the foot of the bed, ready to listen and be with us.

 

I love that He's in no rush and I can dump worries on Him or gush about how much I love color and cats and words and man if He didn't decide that I should have a chance to hang out with all of those things in this place called Life.

 

I love being alone to reflect on all the people I love love love love love. Charging up those extroverted reserves to go be loud and touchy-feely and sappy and crabby and moody and loved in return by these people who take me as I am, hyper or no.

 

I love the morning's rest after the night's rest. The rest where we can sort out any nightmares, remind ourselves they're just subconscious. The rest where we can sit up and lean into the pillow mountain instead of climbing the day's peaks.

 

I don't do it often, but when I can coax myself into opening my eyes, lure myself awake with a cuppa, I just devour the time around me.

 

Because WHAT. a simple, sacred, ridiculous gift to exit the dark and welcome the light.

 

The morning light, and her bright rest.

My life as yoga poses

I came into this world indeed a happy baby, utterly loved by doting parents and entertained by silly, affectionate brothers. Bonus: soft, sweet cats roamed our home and warmed my toes.

I quickly put my legs up a wall in life, never afraid to look at the world upside down, a true lover of nonsense.

In middle school I was pure mountain, holding my head high with confidence in those middle school halls of beautiful Colorado.

High school threatened to turn me rigid like a plank, where I toughed out the discomfort of being the new kid on the block.

But I always retained my dolphin core, intelligent and congenial, prattling and waving at passersby, even when the water was cold.

During my undergraduate schooling you could say I was a locust, mind buzzing with politics and theology, crushes and coffee.. I very quickly shed my shy shell that had hardened around my teens; luckily it flaked off with ease, and I reached out into the air of myself.

I studied abroad as a cow, padding toward the far edges of the earth's field (and also, it must be mentioned, greedily grazing on thick, hot slices of buttered bread, filling out my frame just a weeeee bit).

College graduation came a semester before my friends, and I felt midway across a bridge, wanting to land but unable to see any future, save the boards just ahead of my feet.

When I started graduate school the first time, I was a downward dog; inverted in a personality opposite of my cat-loving self, trying to study something I didn't love. The time was uncomfortable, but the stretch was a valuable one.

After buttoning up my internship and school work for the fall term, I decided not to continue down that path. My first-ever therapist reminded me that I had survived, and with that I became a reverse warrior -- looking back and feeling my strength.

I then moved into the land of unemployment and then a job where I floundered. I hissed my anger at the circumstance I found myself in, a cobra stuck in a painful backbend, yet with her head above water.

The minute I switched jobs, I became a puttering pigeon, bowed humbly and gratefully in a time of rest, while life threw oh-so-welcome hunks of bread at me.

Over time I began to feel the burn of holding myself sturdy like a chair, the weight of my anxiety and fear never lifted out of my lap.

To fight it I became a wheel, running my legs in infinite loops down the trail, trying desperately to get away, away.

My stress was reduced to a half spinal twist when I began Grad School Take Two. Expectations kept things relatively tense, but there was release in the writing that my coursework required of me. And in turning my head about, I saw new people who have graced my life in ways I can never fully express.

Though juggling being a student, a new reporter, and a teaching assistant had me certainly overextended, I trusted my intuition for balance and awaited the release of wearing that gown, throwing my cap in the air to fly like an eagle.

Almost immediately following, I lunged into curious California, believing against belief that this might be a new home.

A challenging internship turned me into a warrior again (one might say this was part "II" of my time to act as a soldier), as I felt clueless but knew I was tough and that someone had put me in the armor for a reason. I charged ahead, unwilling to waste my ticket for adventure.

As I came down from the combination of professional struggle and triumph, I took a long cat nap, and unfortunately isolated myself too much.  

With the help of a counselor, a doctor, a church, great friends, family support, the southern sun, and a new striped CAT!, I arose from the corpse I had become. I awoke from my stagnant depression, my arms already conveniently dropped open to welcome hope.

Suddenly the scent of my beloved LA jasmine flowers met my nose again, and I developed into something of a flower myself, a lotus unafraid of stormy seas but rather floating in peace.

Then before I knew it there was a partner in my boat, and I began to row with the help of a second oar as if this was how it always was.

Like a child, I leaned in to the sacred surrender of unearned, but nonetheless deserved, love.

After a chaotic, fun, sometimes-awful year filled with birth, marriage, celebration, grief, and art, I decided to firm my feet in a steady state. Respecting the roots from whence I came, toughening my trunk with forward focus, pruning back twigs that weren't serving me, I wiggled my tree branches in the wind, greeting life anew.

And today I stand like a crescent moon, seemingly stationary but with limber, curvy edges, looking up to the One who blesses me over and over and out to people who make sure those blessings don't go to waste.

This is what self care looks like

 

Self care looks like finding a quiet space and doing a five minute meditation.

 

It looks like recognizing that social media posts are making you especially jealous today and willing yourself to stop looking at them.

 

It tastes like chocolate after chocolate, unwrapped from the safety of your bed.

 

Self care is spending whole minutes watching the cat sleep, just obsessed with his cuteness and calm nature and how much happiness he's brought to your life.

 

Self care feels like that extra pinch of flesh around your belly. Touching it and saying, "It's OK," and getting back to your chocolates.

 

Self care sounds like the classical relaxation station on Pandora, softly, quietly sending sonatas to still your angsty chest.

 

It looks like Calvin's irresistible, wry, upside-down triangle grin. Like Hobbes' fuzzy fuzziness, a silly, adorable, philosophical tiger. It feels like letting a comic strip take you back to fifth grade, where you once slowly froze in the family basement but the pages kept turning and so no, you couldn't be bothered to get up and grab a sweatshirt.

 

Self care feels like an open window, breeze trickling in from the west, the ceiling fan click click clicking overhead.

 

It smells like a match struck, eucalyptus mint wax fumigating away the bad mood.

 

Self care looks like taking care of yourself, simple simple simple. It looks like giving yourself a break even though it took you a decade to realize that the practice is in fact simple. It looks like noticing that an hour, or day, or season is not going too hot for you, and letting go and letting God (I know this is kind of a throw-around phrase in the religious community, but all of a sudden I'm totally into it).

 

Self care is changing your environment -- get up and walk outside for five minutes only, or wash your face or re-stack the books on your nightstand. Self care is texting a friend. Self care is picking the right friend to text for the current occasion -- deciding who will make you laugh, offer advice (or NOT), rush to your door with tacos or take you to the tacos because you need to get out of the house. Self care is finding one positive in the moment and writing it down or typing it into the notepad on your phone. Write. It. Down. Don't keep it in the ol' noggin.

 

Self care may sound indulgent, or selfish (hey, it's in the name), or stupid or futile.

 

But self care only requires baby steps. No marathon sprints here. You can start at Square One and not move on to Square Two. We're only interested in seminal polygons here in the Self Care Wing.

 

Self care builds resilience.

 

Self care makes sure you are taken care of, and if you have ever felt the need to take care of anyone or anything in your life then you are already halfway there because you understand two things: urgency and necessity. You just have to tell yourself that you are worth the attention, you are worth the forgiving mercy, you are of worth. Tell yourself even if you don't believe it. And then wash your face. Or re-stack the books.

 

Square One, my friends. Start anywhere. It's OK to be angry, sad, irritable, stuck. Just don't let those things be the only players in the ring. Care for Self. Place value on yourself. Put a price tag on your heart that says:

 

"Not for sale. But here to stay. Here to be, and pump, and give life."

 

Go and give life to your life-giving heart. Wash your face. Re-stack the books. Tell yourself you have worth. Even if you don't believe it. You'll get there.

 

Love and more love,

Bailey and Max

Talking to myself

 

When I was little, maybe six or seven, I got so wrapped up in a conversation with myself that I decided to sit down on the floor of the shower and continue my discussion, while hot water sprayed down around me, keeping my personal steam room nice and humid.

 

At least I think I sat down. In any case I was in no rush to finish with my shower and the privacy it provided me to catch up with myself and her many thoughts and feelings, so sitting would not have been out of the question.

 

Eventually I heard giggling and realized some of my family members had quietly planted themselves in the bathroom, eavesdropping on me myself and I. I was horrified and outraged and very embarrassed.

 

I have since gotten over this incident, but truth be told, I have never stopped talking to myself.

 

I talk to myself all the time, especially in my car. But no. Really, everywhere, all the time, anytime. While I'm walking, cleaning, sitting, typing. Talk talk talk, these lips are flapping to sort things out.

 

***

 

Some friends recently requested that I write a post about self talk and self care. Now I know that talking to one's self and practicing self talk may in many ways be considered different actions, but for me they go hand in hand. Or, as it were, lip on lip.

 

So without further ado, I will now dump all my random thoughts about self care and self talk below. Basically talking to myself, but taking dictation of what I say, then having an audience if any of you bother to read this.

 

So here we go, let's get on with it:

 

***

 

I'd say in the last year I've really started to get fully on the self-care train, and I think in that time my self talk has become much more positive, gentle, and forgiving than it ever was before.

 

I've also gotten on a nearly-every-day meditation schedule in the past year and that has changed my life significantly.

 

I am prone to be hyper, depressed, moody, passive, joke-cracking, and, at times, simply content. The moments of calm come always unannounced, but when they do those are times that I seem to be the most at peace among my friend group. That said, by and large over the last 10 years especially, I have often felt like the most crazed and unsettled of my cohort, which has affected my opinion of myself, my ability to function, and my outlook for the long term.

 

***

 

My life today involves a lot of little bitty action steps, a lot of checking in with myself, and a lot of scribbling or typing things out.

 

At some point almost every day, I am compelled to write or type things that I can do before the day is over to bring me some joy and peace. I'll write an example list of what this looks like right now so you can get an idea:

• Try not to spend any money after work
• Go home and eat what you have in the pantry/fridge/freezer
• Sweep the floor in your bedroom
• Smooch and squish the cat. Lay your head on his belly and enjoy the soft buzz.
• Take an afternoon meditation break if you're up for it. Just three minutes, maybe more.
• Maybe walk around the office building once or twice
• Maybe go for a short walk. No need to even put athletic clothes on, even wearing your Chucks is fine. 10 minutes is great.
• Write in a journal
• Read Calvin & Hobbes
• Text some friends
• Chat with Molly on the phone
• Wash your hair
• Get some good rest

 

I could go on -- and usually would -- but I'll stop for your sake so you don't get my entire Monday play-by-play.

 

There is more than one purpose to making this list, and there are guidelines that I give myself.

 

Number One: As you make the list, simply list things that would bring you peace and joy if you were to complete them. It doesn't mean that you have to do them today or at all, ever. KEY: Things that are written on the list are not meant to be a task you are now bound to. The point of this list is not to get all the things done, in fact "done" doesn't even apply here. The point is to create options to improve your day, to become more aware of how many options there really are in each day.

 

Number Two: The list acts as a meditative device in its own way. I often close my eyes as I think of things to write down, and feel very still just in thinking up teeny weeny things I can do. I also sometimes write out each little step to break down an already little step. It's amazing how much it can relax you to just picture yourself doing the thing without even doing it. Truly. I find this is a helpful exercise simply in writing the things down.

 

I honestly don't care if I put this list in my tote bag and don't come back across it until weeks later, when I toss it. It is not a To Do list. It is a Possibility list. In a way, in knowing that something soothing like "put lotion on your feet" is written down somewhere, it almost becomes an accomplishment rather than just a spontaneous idea or action. And we Americans, even the type B among us, love accomplishments, am I right?

 

***

 

Checking in with myself:

 

I was telling Jill recently that I talk to myself like I might talk to a toddler. I'm very gentle, very encouraging, very basic.

 

For example: I was cleaning my room this weekend and I picked up an autograph book. This autograph book has been with me since the third grade, and it holds signatures and notes from classmates I remember and some I don't. It has a silly drawing inside, scribbled by my silly dad. In one corner of a yellow page are my late grandfather's initials: RFB.

 

I am not a packrat, but I am also not sure yet what to do with that precious RFB.

 

So how did I handle this situation?

 

I took a breath, let it out so I could hear it.

 

I held the book in both hands, and I said, out loud, "Bailey, what can you do with this book?"

 

While I was thinking I took a picture of a funny message in the book, posted it to Instagram and tagged the person who wrote it.

 

And then, after some moments, I decided: I can put the book on that other stack of books in the window ledge. It may be an unconventional place to put it, and you may eventually do something else with the book, but today you'd really like to get your room looking much more in order -- SO YOU CAN FEEL RESTFUL IN YOUR SPACE -- and so if you set it on that orderly stack, then your room will look nicer and you don't have to make a decision about the RFB just yet.

 

Annnnnd, scene.

 

See? Easy peasy.

 

This process might sound completely ridiculous and juvenile, like I'm a teenager who's too old for a nanny plus I am my nanny all rolled into one, still holding my hand to cross the street even though I know to look both ways and make the proper decision about when it's safe to step off the curb.

 

Here's my answer to such thoughts (and yes, these critical thoughts have run through my very own head):

 

Sure it's a bit strange, but it works.

 

In talking to myself in a positive, calm, you-can-do-it, you're-OK manner, on a continual basis, I feel so much better than I did during basically all of my twenties. And yes, there has been much life experience, much survival, much therapy, much support from friends that have helped me fill a tool belt with coping skills during and since my twenties.

 

But the self talk has been a new and huge addition.

 

***

 

I suppose I will stop my sharing here, so that you can finish reading and move on with your day, maybe even to some self talk.

 

I'd love to hear your thoughts on talking to yourself, talking to yourself in a purposeful way, speaking to yourself (and writing notes in your planner) with language that supports you, and anything else you might have to contribute to this topic. Feel free to reach out to me if you'd like.

 

And finally, if you're feeling overwhelmed, down on yourself, tired, bored, or even straight-up calm and self-actualized, maybe write a list. Think of what you would do right now if you could -- get a cocktail, vacuum the rug, snuggle your baby -- and write it down. Don't worry about whether it might actually happen today or tomorrow or this decade.

 

See how you feel when you're done writing the list. Then, later, if you get stuck in depression, anger, boredom -- pull out the list. Lost track of it? No worries. Just write a new one. Then pick one thing on the list; it does not have to be the thing at the top of the list. And go ahead and start it. (P.S. If a task seems too big, such as "clean the bathroom," start with "wipe down the sink").

 

If you get overwhelmed as you go, check in with yourself.

 

"What can I do next?"

 

"Are you hungry? What can we eat?"

 

"Are you tired? When should we start winding down for bed?"

 

"You're doing great. That shelf was so cluttered before and now it's linear and you're actually breathing easier looking at it."

 

Write things down. Check in. Be the child and the nanny at once, speaking only in gentle tones. Treat yourself as if you are a three-year-old having a meltdown. Get that kiddo goldfish crackers. Tell that kiddo to breathe. Sit with that kiddo and breathe beside him, until both your hearts come to steady.

 

Then throw away the goldfish wrapper, get some water, and decide only what to do the very next.

 

Gentle, calming love coming your way,

Bailey

A precious evening

 

Guacamole sustained us.

 

The Moulin Rouge soundtrack lifted us.

 

Fuzzy socks and a loud scarf comforted us.

 

Jill and I were self care queens last night, discussing at great length how we were going to make it through our marathon trek to Santa Barbara on a school night, how we were going to treat ourselves the next day, Tired Today. We quoted aloud our Queen Anne, who taught us both about practicing "radical self care."

 

Anne beckoned us in with her miracle writer's beam. Up the coast we snaked, alien fog gracefully misting and settling into our open pores, open to the night and its treats.

 

***

 

I ordered mole, as a nod to Kimmy Schmidt, and gawked at the guac, so creamy.

 

We walked quickly up a hill back to the car, re-parked, and walked quickly to the theater, bellies full of beans and rice and big writer hearts ready for the Queen.

 

The Queen talked about mercy and hope. She told us, unfortunately, that we must cease our practice of not writing. She said we have a choice to do the hard work of telling our story or live with the regret that we didn't.

 

She told us that birds and birdsong are proof enough to her of something Greater Than Us. She said that pelicans are her favorite. She left us with the benediction to take off and land, take off and land. As she exited the stage she readjusted her knit purple shawl, and for a moment she had wings. Our Queen, our angel, our bird. Our bird who had flown into hundreds of lives in that room, teaching us that it's OK to be a person of faith with fear, it's OK to tell the truth, it's OK to cry or laugh in any moment, any moment at all.

 

***

 

I bought a copy of "Hallelujah Anyway," and I wanted to tell her as she signed the title page that a year ago I read it to a man in a coma, a man who soon later died, that his blood pressure mellowed as her words filled the ICU at 3 a.m. I wanted to tell her Thank You, but she was tired and so instead I gifted her with the grace of moving out of the line so she could rest.

 

How many times has she let me rest; I could only return the favor.

 

I do not say it lightly that Anne changed my life. I may not have chosen to speak openly about my hurts, I may not have believed that I could write them down, were it not for Anne.

 

Anne first let me rest when I was 18, showing me that I could have questions about God but still want Him in my life.

 

She offered respite from crippling worry and heartache, an ache I feared I could not escape, when I was navigating life after college. Her essay titled "Junctions" in "Grace (Eventually)" is one my heart returns to, years later. It is a beautiful piece about being in a stark, dusty place of life, going on a dusty hike, and finding some sort of peace. Whenever I call it to mind I am back on my tummy in my twin bed, my only reading lamp the afternoon Kansas sun.

 

"Some Assembly Required" held me safe in an office basement in Missouri.

 

"Stitches" rocked me to sleep in a pool house in LA, a la the Fresh Prince(ss).

 

"Help Thanks Wow" gave me wings on a plane headed west.

 

***

 

An audience member last night asked our Queen about her Christian faith, likely poking at how it plays into her life, given the current world climate.

 

Anne answered without mention of mules or pachyderms. She told the story so many of us know well: joining the Jesus Freaks was never something she wanted to do, and a group of singing voices in a dilapidated Northern California church soothed her hungover, hungry heart.

 

She told us of the children she teaches on Sundays, the children whom she calls upon one at a time and assures them they are loved and chosen.

 

She said of her church and fellow Christian family, "It's my precious community, and I show up."

 

***

 

Brave and emboldened by our Queen, Jill and I went deeper into the night that had already grown late, deciding to wait in line to get autographs, then veering off course for dairy products.

 

Chocolate glue and rainbow sprinkle glitter hid my vanilla ice cream from sight, and I spooned childhood into my mouth as Jill dined on what can only be described as a hefty smear of Nutella atop her churro-flavored froyo.

 

We talked and talked in the Toyota, our faithful sand worm zig-zagging us back to La La Land (this is not a review of Jill's driving, the road is just windy along the ocean, Friends).

 

***

 

My church, too, is my precious community. Fellow believers I meet in bars and airports and Walgreens parking lots are my precious community. Brothers and sisters who don't know what they believe are my precious community.

 

My family is my precious community.

 

Honest writers are my precious community.

 

Jill is my precious community.

 

I can't imagine life without any of them, and I can't imagine life without Anne. It is truly a miracle that I have been gifted with all of the above, not to mention so many more heroic people who show up in my space and make me better, make me OK, make me safe.

 

Full nights in the middle of the workweek are not for the anxious of heart, which is why Jill and I began texting days before last night's event to make sure we would be properly fed and mentally prepared for our evening excursion.

 

Yesterday, in a town so much quieter and cleaner than our city of residence, we communed with our precious community. For Anne, we showed up.

 

***

 

We could not see the sea as we drove home in the dark, but I knew she was there. Lapping at the shore, waving hello before dipping her head in a somersault back out to herself, where she could gather greetings from the orcas and the kelp, translating their message and carrying it back to the people.

 

Take off and land. Take off and land.

Help yourself

 

This is just your daily reminder that air is free. Breathe. Help yourself.

 

Also, going to sleep when you're tired is not against the law. Rest. Help yourself.

 

Choosing not to read the current bestseller won't subtract from your substance. Refrain. Help yourself.

 

Drinking a fourth cup of coffee when you're exhausted and the calendar won't hold a nap is totes allowed. Caffeinate. Help yourself.

 

Requesting a hug from someone is strongly advised. Ask. Help yourself.

 

Feeding yourself queso for dinner is welcomed. As is listening to your body's need for vitamins and eating a green. Nourish. Help yourself.

 

Petting something fuzzy and telling him over and over how cute he is is considered reasonable behavior. Repeat. Help yourself.

 

Surprising someone with flowers will almost positively give you a lift. Gift. Help yourself.

 

Buying lilies for your own home is an equally good move -- some of the best perfume available. Inhale. Help yourself.

 

Closing your eyes for even a three-minute meditation gives your heart space to move freely. Exhale. Help yourself.

 

Writing a note to a friend may take the thoughts that are ricocheting off the walls of your brain and pass them to a listener (who will be pleased as punch to see your return address). Correspond. Help yourself.

 

Walking for 10 minutes outside might remind you that you are not a caged animal. Emerge. Help yourself.

 

Packing a gym bag doesn't have to be a promise; but it does provide opportunity. Trust. Help yourself.

 

Seeking, recording, and sharing the good you see, feel, hear, taste, and smell is always possible. Hope. Help yourself.

 

Saying out loud that you deserve light, laughter, and love -- even especially when you don't believe it -- will open the door for that trio to enter your life. Speak. Help yourself.

 

xox,

Bailey and Max

A change of page

 

Even though I studied magazine writing in school, I find it surprising that of late I am gobbling up glossy periodicals. For someone educated in and practiced with and occasionally paid for churning out pieces that are more than a soundbyte, the medium just hasn't been what I've fed myself on since my teenage days of poring over Seventeen and YM. In my twenties, I used to buy Vogue and Marie Claire at airports as a treat for the flight and all the gate 3B waiting, but I stopped once I discovered that I really didn't read what I purchased.

Recently I found good deals on the Economist, New Yorker, and Businessweek (no this post is not sponsored), and decided to bite. And with my new access to longform literature, I'm just the happiest camper that ever was.

Actually, Max the cat is probably the happiest of campers. He snuggles in bed all the time and purrs purrs purrs each a.m. when I sit up in bed and collapse my doting self over him for some morning snuggles.

Anyway.

In the past couple of weeks I've read about bugs, flower arrangements, a Saudi Arabian prince, nude dining in France, an out-of-control space station, and a robot that can detect lung cancer.

Also I've discovered that I actually can tolerate some of David Sedaris' writing and that he actually can make me laugh pretty gutturally when he's talking about something serious and inserts a borderline-cruel quip rather than when he's trying to be over the top for an entire narrative. He's deeper than I had given him credit for, or maybe that he gives himself, based on what he reveals in his books (and my opinion of them).

I've found myself reading magazines before bed instead of books.

I've found myself at times able to read while music is playing.

I take note of the cartoons and art and articles that I want to mail to various friends and family. (Mama, get ready for an influx of animated cats).

I find myself returning unfinished library books in exchange for sips of well-researched topics I would otherwise never explore. And sometimes those sips are actually gulps and I drink them down with satisfaction, ignoring the New Yorker's pretention and appreciating its commitment to focus, culture, and cleverness.

I have not given up on books -- NEVER -- and occasionally still pick one up and thumb through hardbound pages while I wait in the doctor's office. But I'm enjoying this new change of pace, greatly.

I've enjoyed the recent rain in LA (though admittedly by day three I was feeling a little glum). I've enjoyed cross stitching princess Ariel in bed while my feline prince warms my feet, then setting aside the rainbow of thread to read reviews of Broadway plays I'll never see.

I'm in a new season, and Friends, I'm kind of in love. I haven't packed a suitcase or boarded an airplane in four months, and to many that may seem insignificant, but given the craziness of my life last year this is actually a huge, welcome shift.

 

I do have a fill-limit on the amount I can read in one sitting, but I've noticed that when I'm supersaturated with the written word, I find myself more and more less restless. I've caught myself just sitting, chin cupped in a hand on an elbow pedestal, gazing into forward space, and I'm not rushing to do the next activity. Life is less a race, a competition, a proving to myself that I have been productive enough. Ah, America's greatest yardstick: Did I do enough?

 

My life right now is enough. I write letters to friends; my handwriting is still abhorrent, but it is legible and I can feel the pen simply traveling across my stationery rather than being pulled to the edge of the cardstock. Sure, I still get irritable and depressed and angry. But I view each moment as a moment, not a final statement to define how I will feel for the next hour, day, month.

 

Perhaps it is this momentary thinking that has me momentarily appreciating The Magazine. And perhaps I should define her not for what she isn't: a book, but for what she is: a bearer of words, a comforter. Wrapped in a different weekly cover, much care put into her by bustling writers, but non-judgmental of how much of her I read. If she hits the bottom of the recycling bin only partially tasted, she has still served her purpose. She has helped lead me home.

February self care

 

February was a very full month. Socially, professionally, emotionally. I spent most of it being busy, tired, irritable. And also grateful, calm (sometimes), and happy.

 

I couldn't always slow the train of calendar items barreling at me, but nonetheless I did take several steps toward self care. Here's just a bit of what I did, and what you, too, can do for you. Be well, my friends.

 

***

 

I never missed a Tuesday open mic, because reading my work and listening to others' art feeds me.

 

I took more than one nap, I think, which is crazy, considering I average about three a year.

 

When I had a handful of hours between activities, I went home, snuggled in bed, snacked, cross stitched, read, and watched rom coms.

 

I drank water.

 

I meditated almost daily.

 

I had a meeting to discuss my time commitments and what I can realistically give going forward.

 

I started reading a long book of fiction by a gem of an author.

 

I surveyed just one level of my bookshelf and removed five books I knew I would never read. Goodwill, here we come.

 

Every morning I sat up and curled myself over the cat who kept my feet warm all night, paying him with scritches and kisses and words of love.

 

Instead of cramming to get myself ready, I rescheduled a meeting I wasn't prepared for.

 

I bought tickets to a concert for one of my all-time favorite artists.

 

I did not buy tickets for a concert that would bring Alex much joy, but that are $100 a pop.

 

I let the possibility of seeing Celine on my birthday be a real one, and emailed friends to gauge interest in being my dates to Vegas.

 

I ate two bowls of chili at the Superbowl party, because it was deeelicious.

 

I rarely counted calories or stepped on a scale.

 

Every time I arrived home, I took something out of my car, to slowly but surely empty it out.

 

I counted my blessings in times of high stress.

 

I wrote letters to people I love and bought stamps with tiny animals on them.

 

I ate at least one salad.

 

More importantly I ate much queso.

 

I called my parents.

 

I hiked. I took it slow when I needed to, and I talked to myself through long, deep breaths, reminding myself how great I was doing.

 

I snuck out of social gatherings when I was ready to go, saying goodbye to the host but not to all.

 

I wore makeup when I was into it, and didn't when I wasn't.

 

I made my bed a time or two.

 

I cleaned my bathroom.

 

And I wrote.

 

***

 

In some ways, I truly feel this is the best I've ever taken care of myself. Many of my environments are still messy, I still often feel stress, I can't always take things off the calendar that I want to. But I'm taking time to breathe, I'm consciously being grateful, and I'm recognizing my limits and doing what I can to keep my spirit healthy.

 

Much love,

Bailey and Max

An open letter to my high school

 

Dear Alma Mater,

 

High school wasn't my favorite time or place.

 

I felt the force of a creative, funny, confident girl somewhere in the tissue of my body, but in the halls you walk today the true version of me made only a rare appearance. Mostly she felt somehow invisible and glaringly out of place, all at once. So she tried to lay low, hoping that someone would notice the best parts of her and respond to them.

 

***

 

I called my mom this weekend, and after I finished bragging about my 85 degree weather out here in California, she told me about you guys.

 

Needless to say, the conversation dimmed in tone, as we sunk into the quiet of tragic truths.

 

Let me say first, to the parents, siblings, and friends of those who were recently lost, you have my love, my prayers, and my firm belief that every future holds hope.

 

To the teachers who take their tireless stance in front of dry erase boards each morning: you will always be among my favorite group of people in the world, and your investment in me has enhanced my life in ways that will hold me forever grateful. You are invaluable light.

 

But this letter is mostly to you, the students of my high school, present and future.

When I attended your/our school, the Twin Towers came down. We were reading "In Cold Blood" at the time for English class, and this piece of literature didn't exactly restore my faith in humanity. FYI: there are a lot of gruesome books out there, but I promise there are about a billion others that will put a smile on your face. I know this because I spent a lot of my time in high school visiting the library. My social calendar was pretty sparse, so I often turned to words for warmth.

I vividly remember turning the pages of a novel after school during my senior year, ultimately needing to set it down because my tears were blurring the paragraphs before me. The book was happy, but I was not.

I didn't recognize depression by its name, this being our first encounter, but I certainly felt her unforgiving grip.

Later that semester I became extremely ill, and I am convinced to this day it was my emotions' way of saying, "Something's gotta give."

I was out of school for a week, and I watched my mom cry in response to a very frightening (mis)diagnosis from the doctor. Each hour as I slept a palm would pause on my forehead, checking for fever.

When I returned to classes, my self-conscious figure sidled into calculus, where something happened that I never saw coming. Fifteen years later, my memory has yet to scrap it.

Morgan, a very well-liked girl with friends to spare, shouted, "Bailey!" and slid out of her desk to stand up and wrap me in a real, unrushed hug.

It was in that moment I realized I had been present during my absence. In a time in my life when I thought none of my peers noticed me, I was proven wrong.

And oh how beautiful it can be to be wrong.

***

When I was released from Morgan's hug, I was held in a new attitude. I thought to myself, "College will be here in nine months, so let's try and make the best of this opening act."

And suddenly I could see.

I could see Nate, sneaking ice cream into English class, bribing our teacher out of a tardy slip.

I could see Corie, who looked out for me and could quote "Friends" as readily as I.

I could see Katie, giggling on her living room floor as we gobbled trail mix and our pencils scratched out derivatives and limitations.

 

I could see that one teacher (maybe he's still there) who would yell, with empty hands, "Hot coffee!" and clear himself a path through a gaggle of teens.

 

I could see all the people who were doing their best. I could see that I wasn't necessarily being ignored by my classmates, but perhaps I was too timid to raise my gaze and meet their eyes.

 

***

 

I know how busy you all are, and right now your daily agenda probably holds to-dos such as "Grieve," "Wonder why this happened," and "Just move forward."

 

I certainly don't want to add to your plate, but I do have one tiny assignment for you, and I give it to you because I care about you, though we may never meet.

 

So here it is, are you ready?

 

Find your Jell-O.

 

I know, I know. You were hoping I was going to say "Let loose and take a break." Well in a way I am saying that.

 

When I was in your shoes, in your locker room, in your stairwells, thumbing your textbooks and numbing my bum on those ice-cold football bleachers, there was one thing that was constant in my Monday to Friday.

 

No matter what the menu in the cafeteria, I always ordered a side of Jell-O. Red when I was interested in flavor, green when I was chasing after levity.

 

The Jell-O was cut into cubes, piled in sticky stacks in plastic bowls, and (now this is very important, so pay attention:) topped with a little flower of whipped cream.

 

Ever interested in fairness, I divvied up that floret with the tip of my spoon and made sure each cube received a smear of dairy before popping each block into my mouth.

 

High school wasn't all bad, of course. I laughed at teachers' antics and read some great books and enjoyed the occasional day off thanks to a Kansas ice storm. And of course there was Jell-O. I could count on that gelatin at every lunch hour, often saved it for last. Because it was something to savor.

 

There are plenty of things to savor during this time in your life, sometimes you just have to search for them.

 

***

 

You, my friends, are the Cougars. By nature you are solitary creatures. But please don't let isolation be your way.

 

There are so many of you and you're each so. incredibly. special. So get to know each other while you can; don't wait 'til graduation. Talk to each other.

 

If you're hurting, tell someone, anyone.

 

If you're feeling fine, reach out to just one person who maybe seems too afraid to speak first.

 

And ALL Y'ALL:

 

Find your Jell-O!

 

Join the choir. Volunteer. Help build a set for the play. Or spend Saturday night working on extra credit, if that's your jam. I highly recommend Mrs. Koenigsdorf's creative writing class -- what a great space to find your voice.

 

High school will not be forever. Nothing will, including how you're feeling right this moment. These four years don't have to be your celebrity season in the sun, but you deserve a ray of joy regardless.

 

So find something that makes you happy, revel in it, and revel again. Try your absolute hardest to forget about what others think of your preferred hobby and instead just get into that mode where you can't see or hear or feel anyone else's judgment because you're too lost in what makes you tick. (But look up every now and then; there may be a new friend nearby).

I know firsthand how scary it can be to be yourself. But take it from someone who tried navigating life without herself -- advertising the truth is a lot less work and the only way that flirts with freedom.

 

Raise those banners to the fore. I can't wait to see how you're going to better this world.

 

All my love,

Bailey

Things that do and don't stir up my stress

 

Things that stress me out

 

Being out late -- in general, but particularly on a school night

 

Beads on clothing

 

Caption contests -- I feel like as a writer I should be good at this, but I don't think I am

 

Fighting/feisty disagreement/confrontation

 

Events that happen infrequently (like when I host my annual birthday celebration), in which I put too much pressure on myself to have the best time. Then I try to balance it by not having expectations, and the whole thing just becomes a messy back-and-forth battle of my own wills.

 

When people in an audience speak loud enough to overpower a performer/speaker

 

Contemplating how airplanes work, and flying

 

Riding the subway in Los Angeles

 

Grocery shopping. Ack. Hate it.

 

When someone wants to, like, legit ballroom/swing/salsa dance with me. I stick to freestyle, buddy, and my feet only move so fast.

 

Dogs' inability to sit still/not interact

 

Being on cruise ships

 

Related: the movie Titanic

 

Hiking

 

When my many different friends, all of whom I love dearly, don't mesh with each other (see: birthday parties)

 

The sheer amount of books in the world

 

Things in the universe (including the universe itself) that are really big or really small

 

Feeling like I have to watch a movie or play a game when I'd rather just mix and mingle. What? I really love to mix and mingle.

 

When someone I love is really upset and I can't help him or her feel better

 

Not having something in my car or bag to read

 

Being cold

 

Slow-moving lines

 

Things that don't stress me out

 

Dishes in the sink

 

Toilet paper not placed on the dispenser (as long as it's within reach of the commode, I'm good, people)

 

Getting up early

 

Going basically anywhere in public by myself -- restaurants, bars, movie theaters, etc.

 

When people leave a used K-cup in the machine

 

Dancing, singing, or speaking in public (OK speaking is sometimes stressful, but I still love it)

 

Chatting with strangers, up to and including if the discussion goes deep

 

Cats' attitudes/sudden decisions that they need space

 

In some regards: writing. While of course this vocation has its share of true stress, I feel like in general I enjoy writing way more than the average person, and I'm not always overwhelmed by a blank screen and a blinking cursor.

 

Society's expectation that people be fashionable when in the presence of others -- meh.

 

When friendships fizzle out simply because of distance and time. As someone who moved a bunch growing up, and as an extrovert who's bound to meet more people than I can keep up with anyway, I just see this as a part of life. Sure, I look back and think fondly of people in my past, but I don't worry that I did something wrong or, furthermore, whether I'll ever see them again. I believe that God has a way of circling people back into my life when I need them.

 

Standing room only concerts -- I actually prefer them

 

When people cry

 

Doing laundry (not being caught up on piles of laundry is another story)

 

Talking openly about intense emotions

 

Silence in between bits of conversation/Quiet people

 

Being an impromptu social director

 

Hot weather

 

Long lines (that move at a reasonable pace)

 

***

 

Your turn: what does (or doesn't) stress you out?

Good things that graced my January

 

Zero library fines accrued (if you're a Brewer, you understand that this is an achievement)

 

Lunchtime library visits to pick up books on hold and peruse the YA section for additional treats

 

Didn't have to pack a suitcase or board an airplane

 

Spent lots of time cross stitching an adorable Winnie the Pooh pattern

 

Got reacquainted with my excessively large collection of rom com DVDs

 

Two very long walks -- just me, Pandora, and suburban sidewalks

 

My nephew did not grow out of his fat phase, and for this I am thankful

 

Communed with several talented artists at an open mic at one of my favorite bars

 

Happy hour date with Cat

 

Dinner date with Debbie

 

Writing date with Steph

 

Read "Milo" and "The Manny Files," two beautiful, hilarious books that together deserve 10 stars

 

Bought tickets to an Echosmith show, and validated my purchase as their songs made me smile

 

Reached my 1,000 minute meditation milestone with Headspace

 

Topanga shared this picture with the world

 

Did occasional yoga with a coworker during lunch, and giggled and breathed

 

Had some "shred" sessions at the gym, where pop music pushed me along the treadmill

 

Went to an outdoor baby shower where the weather was A+ perfect -- only in L.A.

 

My honey's Bills went to the playoffs

 

Sat with Chels during church

 

Wore a party hat at Alex's birthday and received warm greetings from strangers

 

Great conversation about writing, during which I was encouraged as an author

 

Lots of silly, sometimes ranty phone conversations with Nick

 

Got invited to a book club, to be hosted by a girl I adore

 

Listened to "Fight Song" approximately 13 times (at least)

 

Took myself out for chicken korma, and considered crashing the wedding next door in my jean jacket

 

Ate three PB&J's in one day

 

Bought the new Glen Hansard album

 

Gushed over the writing of a fantastic columnist

 

Found a robot tote bag, LEGO paper plates, and dry scalp shampoo for $1 a pop

 

Attended a bowling birthday fete and a bingo birthday celebration in the same weekend

 

Fuller House announced a fourth season

 

(Though I am yet to view), One Day at a Time dropped a new season of episodes

 

Got to be a first-time-pet-owner coach to a friend who was approved to adopt a fluffy rescue cat

 

Some friends went on vacation to Florida, and I felt like an honorary traveler thanks to text updates

 

Got to be a reader, writer, friend, daughter, sister, partner, feline lover, and a person in this life

The birds who have flocked around my heart

I’ve had some troubling experiences in my life. Particularly with the avian community.

 

Sometime near the age of 12, a blue heron-looking bird with beady red eyes chased me in circles around an indoor rainforest exhibit. I hustle-walked round and round, losing my mind with fear of being pecked to death, until my brothers finally figured out how to chase it, at which point I ran for the exit to recover from what is still a traumatic memory.

 

During early childhood, a peacock scared the pee out of me in simply being its ostentatious, sexually forward self. To this day, I don’t understand why they let those things roam free. Anything whose body can suddenly burst open should be kept at a considerable distance from nervous blondes. Preferably behind plate glass. And hidden behind a curtain. 

 

There were also some disagreeable geese outside a library in Colorado that used their necks as lunging devices and no I did not find this charming and no I’m not over it.

 

So me and birds, I wouldn’t exactly say we’re of a feather.

 

But our relationship has taken some flight in recent years, and I’m proud of us for the connection we’ve been able to foster. (Mostly I’ve done the difficult emotional work in this area, but I try not to hold that against them, as they probably can’t afford insurance for their own therapy).

 

Maybe they are working on their treatment of me, because this past summer I saw some peacocks and they seemed to reserve their shows of mating for the peahens instead of me. Also I frequently see some crows or wrens gathering on a wire that overlooks the Pollo Loco (where I presume they hold vigil for their chicken cousins who have gone before), so there is a chance that between bits of gossip they have decided to ease up on my jumpy self.

 

Because, if I’m being honest, birds have actually served me in incredible ways.

 

There was Martin and Katerina, the pair of mallards who wandered the Lutheran seminary where my family lived during my high school years. They decided to nest their family of eggs outside our front door, where Dad set out water for Katie and affectionately greeted her with his standard “Duckduckduckduckduck” speak. He’s a very intelligent man; he just, like me, melts into a state of incoherency when adorable, vulnerable creatures are present.

 

Those birds’ selection of lodging made me feel special, like I came from a hospitable tribe worth choosing.

 

There were the chickens at the Noah’s Ark petting zoo station at Vacation Bible School. They were placed in my palms and I held them close to my belly, where they sat calmly, like contented cats. Those fluffy babies kept their talons tucked and restored confidence in me after encountering some less-sociable animals that morning.

 

And there were the flamingos at the Manhattan(, Kansas) zoo this past summer, who truly lifted me out of a depressed funk within moments of crossing my vision. I hoisted my nephew on my back for a better look, and after he scrambled down toward the playground, I lingered and marveled at the ability of these pink balancers to restore balance to my day.

 

***

 

Last night I was rustled in my dark bedroom by the honking of passing geese. I immediately fell to worry, thinking their cacophony was arriving at an unorthodox hour. I wondered if they were OK or if they were sending the humans some warning message about something being off in nature.

 

“There’s fog, and we’re lost! You’re lost! We’re all lost!” I imagined them shouting.

 

My paranoia was soon overtaken by fatigue, and I joined Max in his state of slumber, him atop the mountain of blankets that covered me, his feline body a paperweight for mine.

 

Perhaps the geese were just complaining about the recent chill that snuck up on Los Angeles, inviting other geese to join on their red eye flight to Peru.

 

Maybe their call laced around the cat's dreams, the fowl kind being, I assume, his favorite type.

 

Maybe they were just saying Hello.

 

Anne Lamott says something along the lines of if there were one thing to convince her of the existence of God, birds would be enough.

 

I’ve never fully understood this thought, but I am beginning to better, I think.