Life, March 2019.

 

Life, March 2019.

 

Here's what it looks like:

 

An eos egg sits beneath my PC monitor at the office. I smear it over my lips about eight times a day.

 

I've discovered that several magazines are free in a virtual reading format via the LAPL website. I've been enjoying Esquire and O and New York and Seventeen (for memories) and even HGTV magazine when I am in a good place to not get jealous of all the beautifully decorated bedrooms and living spaces.

 

My babiest nephew has curly hair and it makes every picture texted to me that much more amazing and irresistible.

 

As of last night -- and please be mindful this boycott may be lifted in a matter of hours -- I am taking a break from the Amazon Prime show Homecoming, because it makes my heart pound and adds to my general tendency toward nervousness. But it's so good. Shea Whigham's performance is particularly great.

 

I spent yesterday's lunch break reading the first half of a Baby-Sitter's Club novel. I love that I can speed read through it because when I see the characters' names I don't need to reorient myself to who they are: Kristy tomboy, Mary Anne shy, Dawn hippie, Stacey sophisticate, Claudia artist, Mallory bookworm, Jessi dancer. Boom; takes no thinking at all, these are deeply grooved pathways in my brain. These are the sisters who were birthed in the 80s and waited until the late 90s to meet me. They gave me agency and confidence to provide childcare beyond simply getting my brother ready for school, kept me company on road trips. Mama worked at the library, and after school I would comb carefully across the Sitters' shelves, hoping to see the next number in the series not checked out, as I was committed to reading their story in order, following their journey as an honorary member, a baby babysitter in Colorado taking tips from headquarters in Stoneybrook, Connecticut.

 

My friend told me I should throw a party for a milestone in my life and it feels a little egocentric, but I think it's an opportunity to surround myself with people who support me and reboost that spark inside me. Plus she said she's buying cake so how I can I back out?

 

I am trying to spend more time at home, and I am trying to work on one cross stitch project at a time until it is completed, Missy.

 

I'm also working on speaking to myself in kinder tones than this stern Missy language.

 

I wear jewelry nearly every day. This is new. My fidgeting with it and taking it off while at stoplights is not as new.

 

In general anxiety has been my go to fragrance I've been wearing, but I've come so far in recognizing it, handling it, truly believing that it will disappear in time. I've been drinking water without being told by Alex or the internet or Dr. Oz.

 

Still no library fines in several weeks! I am crushing it!

 

As of, well, yesterday, I am trying to resist the knee-jerk habit of buying and eating chips. I think I can ignore them for a while and find solace in cheese and beets and other, less carb-dense-salt-rich-oil-soaked items of nourishment. OK fine maybe cheese is not great for you but this is one step I'm taking, People. We'll revisit cheese later.

 

Sorry. That "People" talk was basically Missy language. My apologies. It must be the chip withdrawal.

 

I don't check my texts and Instagram as frequently as usual and it really makes a marked difference on my levels of agitation, impatience, and discontent.

 

And that's basically my life right now. It's interesting how it changes all the time, separates into seasons that we don't even notice until we've switched into a new one. At present my season is drizzling worry, but the winds blowing in are so peaceful. So very so. Self-esteem is budding out the ends of twigs and my allergies are going crazy but I don't even care because Peace. Calm. Breath. Bright threads of lime are stemming up into flowers of azure across eggshell canvases, while Max snoozes in the purple comforter meadow across our bed. I bring my neon pink scarf with me in case there is a chill, but it remains tucked in my bag, as the days are warm. But why not carry a little color, just in case?

 

Be well, my friends. Feed that anxiety water; she doesn't thrive in humid spaces. Close your eyes and feel your cheekbones soften. Flip through a magazine and admire the thousand-dollar fashions. Snuggle the cat and read an old book; serve yourself memories, and believe in the future.

 

Xox

A meditation/devotion/blessing thingy for your day

 

To my tired children,

 

Rest will catch you, somewhere soon. You’ll be able to lie back in the netting of her hammock and let your weight float on air. It will be a miracle of density and physics, meanwhile it’s a weird miracle all its own that your body recognizes fatigue to signal you toward sleep. Hold on. Breathe for a moment, sip some water, make another cup of coffee. I won’t tell anyone.

***

To my babies who feel stuck,

You’ll be freed from this stall, though it feels now that confinement is your permanent lot. You won’t be in this state forever; absolutely something will change course. Jobs and relationship status and attitude and investment and money situations change all the time. They follow their own individual schedule, and we’ll always have the calendars of others to make things feel more unfair. But you’re on your way. Find one thing today that sets you free, even for a moment. Hold it. Bless it. Invite it back tomorrow. Chances are she’ll show up again.

***

To my friends who can’t keep up,

Your pace is just fine, honey. The deadlines don’t define you, the rat race doesn’t rule you. Priorities will rise to the surface. You’ll skim your ability across the smaller worries underneath, and with finesse you’ll meet the immediate. Your kids won’t judge what you pick and choose, as long as you choose affection and exceptional parental obsession with those tiny tots you are bringing up. Let them bring you up, too. Let their tiny fingers with swollen knuckles pet your head. Drink in their tiny voices that tell a story and get distracted a hundred times before the finish. Hold their tiny torsos in your lap and feel those tiny hearts beat against their chest. Feel that the tiny are mighty, and let the future strengthen you.

***

To my peeps married to anxiety,

Whoops, when did that wedding take place, right? Nevertheless, it sure feels like we’re locked into a contract now, and further it feels like a bad dream because we never would have picked such a relentless, unloving partner for our better-deserving self. You know what, though, babe? That partner is just kind of here, swirling amongst us, tucking into the corners of our handbag and the creases of our overcoat. And you know what else? You’ve lived with that partner for a thousand years, and you’ve always, always survived. When you can’t get the irrational fears to abate, can’t get the worry loop to desist, try the next step: breathe in and around and through it. Look out, look up from the ever-shrinking corner you’ve painted yourself into. Don't punish yourself for ending up here. Simply hold open your palms, to make it easier to catch Grace.

***

To my loves who are content,

Praise the good Lord in Heaven above that you are at peace, my sweet. Those around you who struggle are jealous of this stillness, but goodness do they need you to keep close. Be gentle as you come near. Set down the tea in front of them, then find a reason to fuss elsewhere in the home. Give them time to approach the mug; though they feel the warmth, they still fear the steam may burn. Use your calm, your joy, your strength, to infuse the space around them with safety. Open the windows to let pressure air itself out. You may want your charge to speak, to cry, to release in a way that proves to you they’ll be OK. They just need you, Love. Be there. Refill the tea, squeeze a shoulder, then go fuss. Come back with socks, tattered copies of Calvin & Hobbes, pizza. Always pizza. Let the cheesy triangles work their magic, let their goo melt into the soul. You are a light without a dimmer setting. Your brightness only builds.

***

Wherever you are is OK. Your mission is to believe it.

Xox

What's New -- a copycat post -- since I've been out for a minute

 

I had lunch with Jill on Sunday, we ate giant burritos -- we each took half of our own home, come to think of it maybe we should have shared? But she gets the green salsa on top, myself the red, she the go to my stop.

 

She really is the go to my stop on frequent occasion. I text her when I'm feeling blue, anxious, questioning life as a writer.

 

"Time to move," she says, and I valiantly slouch toward the kitchen for water, bravely strap on my tennies and go for a walk.

 

Jill is my mental health champion, my cat sticker supplier, the doodle captain of Instagram. She is one of my favorite people I found on the Internet.

 

During our burrito meeting this weekend we covered our usual topics -- books, Netflix, Dolly & Max. We talked about what kind of writing we're doing lately, and I told her I haven't actually blogged in months, definitely the longest stretch since I started nearly 10 years ago.

 

Yesterday she posted this, and it made me feel brave to post something similar.

 

So here we go:

 

I find myself at the point in adult life when people ask me what's new, and I don't really know how to answer.

 

But like any good writer/thinker/good college tryer, you can always come up with an answer if you sit with the question long enough, right?

 

So let me sit here for a minute, and I'll think of what is actually new.

 

...

 

I have been excellently out of character recently in the fact that I actually return library books on time.

 

It's true.

 

One, that historically I have paid fines bigger than a breadbox to public libraries across the contiguous United States, so I do believe that I am singlehandedly keeping the institution alive.

 

And two, that I've been really good about getting my titles back in that book drop at their drop deadline.

 

Twice this year, I've devoted my lunch break to speed reading the second half of a middle grade novel that's due back that day. If I've sampled a book and feel I can move on without completing it, then I'll return it before its due date. But if I've invested emotionally in the content, I've carved out space to finish volumes that are important to me, and I feel like that's a valid gift I can give myself.

 

(By the way, how do you all feel about not finishing books that you start? I have abandoned HUNDREDS of titles over the years, because for me it's not something I lose sleep over. But I know that others feel differently.)

 

RELATIVELY, my bedroom has been cleaner than usual.

 

My car? Still a transportable disaster.

 

But my bedroom has gotten better. I've downsized a lot of the stuff I have -- including, yes, books -- and I tidy just a bit more often than I used to. And I frequently find that it doesn't take super long to get it looking better, which is new. It used to always be an overwhelming event to clean my room. Now it's only dramatic on occasion.

 

I bought plane tickets to Kansas City.

 

I've decided to go to my friend Tommy's wedding in the spring and to a Mark Knopfler show with my dad in the summer, despite my distaste for aviation travel.

 

Very excited to squish nephews and drink Boulevard Wheat and eat burnt ends and dance with my favorite wedding date.

 

AND see one of my all-time favorite musicians with one of my all-time favorite humans. So ready. But not quite ready. Letting the excitement build contributes to the final concert experience.

 

Ready.

 

Not quite.

 

(Ready.)

 

The Forever 21 sale page is my new Kryptonite.

 

Guys.

 

The faux gemstone rings. The lint rollers with cartoon dinosaurs on them. The delicate hexagon necklace and the knock-off triangle necklace like the one Ben gave Felicity!

 

And the bidding starts at 50 cents.

 

There are so many dollar and three dollar items on there, it's ridiculous. So you understand my status as repeat customer.

 

I have avoided purchasing all the concert tickets that I want.

 

I really have. I've purchased a few. For others I've made it as far as the select your seat ticketing page.

 

But I've retracted my finger from clicking "complete purchase" because, I don't know, I guess I have some self control. Not a lot, but a bit. Un peu.

 

Since (no one) asked, here are some of the shows I want to see but have not bought tickets for:

 

Lauren Daigle, Weird Al, Craig Ferguson, Hillsong, Mandolin Orange, Dido...

 

And the ones that have come and gone that I missed but hey look I'm still here:

 

Robyn, Patty Griffin.

 

Also my friend Caleb took me to see MØ and it was amazing, a top 10 all-time show for me.

 

My shoe collection is shrinking, and my sweater collection is blooming.

 

It's true.

 

I keep looking at shoes in my closet, wearing them (or not), and thinking, "Why?"

 

I've decided I'll be good with a pair of Converse, flip flops, wedges, work flats, and running shoes the end. I just don't want to be burdened with foot decorators. I have a hard enough time matching outfits and accessories, and my taste is too loud and I think I'm learning that red glitter pumps may identify me as a Kansan, but they don't exactly go with anything. Especially if I'm wearing purple and yellow and silver already. Which I am.

 

Sweaters on the other hand, I'm building a whole tulip garden of knit jewel tones in my closet.

 

I have grape. I have maroon with gold dots. I have blue. I have pink. I have it all, and with the help of my $3 Forever 21 triangle necklace, I am on my way to becoming Felicity.

 

*One of my favorite quotes from the show is when her roommate, Meghan, compares Felicity's life to watching Little House on the Prairie, "only with more sweaters." And if ever there was an insulting description to live up to, I think I'd want it to be that.

 

Because if I could be kind and speak in hushed tones and look always beautiful even in a chunky turtleneck, then I wouldn't be insulted at all.

 

***

 

LOOK AT THAT GUYS I JUST WROTE A BLOG POST. Now to hit "Publish," because it's cheaper than the "Complete Purchase" button.

 

Xox, I've missed you guys.

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.