Self

Facing the Fear

By / December 27, 2012 / 3 Comments

This morning I sat in Howard’s office while he worked on painting a miniature. His hands are busy, his ears are available, and he’s likely to stay put rather than wandering off to go work on a project. I enjoy talking to Howard while he’s painting. I’m not sure whether he can say the same, because the times when I’m likely to sit down and just talk to him are usually when I need to sort my brain about something. Otherwise I’m off and running around tending to projects. We’re a pretty good pair.

I wanted to talk about one of my intended projects for January. I’m planning to run a Kickstarter for Strength of Wild Horses and the thought frightens me. I’m not at all certain that I have enough skill or social media reach to get a picture book project funded. I think what I hoped for was that Howard would take the role of cheerleader, that he’d pour encouragement on me and I could use the borrowed energy to proceed. Instead Howard stayed firmly in the role of business partner, discussing options and likely outcomes. He’s not sure we can pull it off either. He also spent time as Good Husband, expressing his intention to support me through all of it. Even the parts when I go neurotic or weepy because things are hard. I had to walk myself onward into the day because there was no tide of borrowed enthusiasm on which I could surf. I really wanted that tide, because the day just seemed hard and all my projects of questionable utility.

I was supposed to focus on shipping, accounting, and house cleaning. Instead I sat and thought for a bit. I came to some conclusions. I can either be a person who depends upon others to help her believe in her work, or I can proceed as if I believe because I probably will at some point in the future. Also, fear of failure is a bad reason to give up something I want to do. Howard is willing to follow me through this Kickstarter venture and catch me if I fall. That is a huge expression of love and trust. I need to see it.

Thoughts sorted, I went to my computer to begin accounting. Except once I got there, I opened up my 2012 One Cobble book instead. This is the layout project where I print all of the 2012 blog entries into a book for my own reference. While doing so, I was also collecting stories for our 2012 family photo book and for the 2012 edition of my blog sampler book. I happened to be working on the months of April and May, which were just about the craziest months out of this year. I took a trip to see my sick Grandmother while simultaneously remodeling my office, I taught at a conference, hosted my mother as a visitor, went to the Nebulas, helped my son through a diagnostic process for learning disabilities, managed the end of the school year, managed pre-orders for the latest Schlock book, and sent Howard off for a trip. It was the craziest mish-mash of business and personal that I could possibly arrange. Yet, as I placed the entries onto their pages, I began to see how books I’ve created in the past made a difference and how me continuing to make books will play a part in our future business. I remembered why this project matters and why Kickstarter is the best shot it has to succeed. I found, not a tide of enthusiasm to carry me, but some firm ground to stand on while I continue forward.

So, come January I will make a video of myself talking enthusiastically about Strength of Wild Horses. I will feel awkward and will dislike the result, but I will post it anyway. Then I will be sure it will all fail even while secretly hoping it will succeed. It will do one or the other and I will manage the aftermath, which will either be scary or sad. I’ll do all of this because I think it is one of the right next steps for me to take. There are other steps for me to take: finishing a novel, continuing this blog, supporting Howard in both his prose and his comic, teaching and guiding the kids, fulfilling my spiritual responsibilities, submitting for publication. All of these steps together are taking me places. Hopefully there will be wonderful places after the hard and scary ones that I can see. I’m scared, but that won’t stop me from moving forward.

Choosing to Reach for Happiness

By / December 23, 2012 / 4 Comments

I don’t remember the stated topic for the church lesson, but a tangent landed us in a discussion about the power of conscious choice in changing our lives for the better. I love hearing discussions like this. I like it when people are empowered in their lives. However the phrase “choose happiness” kept getting tossed around as part of the discussion. All the rest of the discussion was wonderful, but that phrase bothered me. As a person who wrestles with anxiety and who lives around people who get depressed, I know that emotions are not under logical control. They show up unbidden and making them leave can be extremely difficult. Telling a depressed person “Just choose to be happy” is about the worst thing you can say, because they can’t. Sometimes they can’t even believe that happiness exists even though they logically understand that it does. There is a huge difference between knowing and feeling.

I sat in the meeting trying to figure out how to retain the message that we have the power to choose without implying that we can do the impossible. Then I realized that “choose happiness” left out a few words: Choose to reach for happiness. We may not be able to grasp it for a hundred different reasons, but we can choose to reach for it. That reach may look like taking a brisk walk on a Sunday morning so that anxieties will not chase you through your dreams at night. It may be seeing a doctor to discuss mental health issues. It may be skipping a treat and paying down a bill so someday that crushing load of debt will be gone. It may be splurging on a small treat because this particular $3 purchase bestows hours of enjoyment. The answers are unique to each person, but each of us can reach for happiness, taking logical actions toward it, even if it seems that grasping it is impossible. That conscious choice–to reach for happiness–sets your feet on the beginning of a path to attaining it.

Writing Things I Do Not Post to the Internet

By / December 20, 2012

Last April I went to visit my Grandma in the hospital. She was suffering from a broken hip and was having trouble keeping track of reality while she was there. She is much improved now, back at home and back to normal. Yet during that time we all worried for her very much. I did what I usually do, which is to blog about the things that were going on. My dad read the post, told me it was good, but then requested that I be careful about what I post because there are times when grandma reads my posts. This seemed to be a fair and reasonable request to me. I always try to be mindful of possible audience when I say things in public, particularly on the internet.

Yet, my brain was full of thoughts, memories, and emotions. They swirled in my head and I knew that the only way to calm the noise was to pin these thoughts into written words. Writing clarifies me to myself. It is how I sort and make sense of the things that happen to me. I talked to Howard and his wise advice was for me to write it all anyway, just don’t post it. So that is what I did. I wrapped words around all the things I was thinking and I delved deep to figure out what I was feeling. Because I knew I was the only audience, I was freed from being careful. I wrote what I needed to write without fear that it would hurt anyone else.

I have many beloved people in my life who choose not to be public on the internet. They are cautious about online interactions and generally avoid social media. I love them and respect their choices. However I have thoughts and experiences about things which include them. There are stories I would like to write out, except that I fear it would upset someone. I see this often with my children. They have friendship troubles, emotional trials, and health concerns with affect me. I have to think these things through, sort them out for myself so that I know how and when to help. I write it all down and don’t post it.

Lately I’ve been reading the blog of C. Jane Kendrick. She recently posted about telling her life story and why she thinks it is important for her–and all of us–to do so. She had one reader ask her the question “I want to write my story but there have been some terrible experiences that would scare someone to read, should I still write it?” Jane’s answer sounded wise to me:

Don’t we all have those experiences? Terrible, scary experiences? Hurt, pain, anger? Threatening ex-husbands?! If we gloss over those parts how will our children navigate those experiences when they have them? Are the deep wounds as important to flesh out as the times of joy? I say yes. But cautiously, and only when those stories asked to be plucked.
–from The Thing About Mary by C. Jane Kendrick

Yes some of life’s stories are hard, but not talking about them just means that everyone who faces these same hard things feels alone. We need to be willing to share our hard stories because my hard story can be someone else’s road map to survival. I know that I’ve used other people’s experiences as maps for my life. This is why I’ve posted about radiation therapy, my sister’s cancer, my anxieties, diagnosis and selecting medication for my children. Hard things will come to me in the future and I’ll write about those things too. When I write about a hard thing and it becomes useful to someone else, then that hard thing is redeemed for me. It has a point and a purpose.

Yet my belief in telling the hard stories often comes into conflict with my desire to respect the privacy and feelings of others. I have in my heart–and I apply it to all my writing–a version of the Hippocratic oath, First Do No Harm. This becomes difficult when my head is full of hard stories that I need to write, but worry will cause a problem for others. Sometimes I need to post them anyway, because the value is important. Mostly I write them but don’t post.

Sometimes I forget about the option to write and not post. I get so tangled up in thinking about things and respecting others that my brain gets clogged with stories I am not telling. My brain becomes like a slow drain which needs to be cleared. Last night I wrote three different essays of 800 words each. They fell out of my brain one after the other, filled with stories that I needed to write knowing that I would not post them. When I was done I read back over them and realized that 90% of what I’d written was perfectly fine to be public. The remaining 10% could be re-written so that the story was told without doing harm. This is often the case, but I first have to write the story without fear.

Memoir and blog posts are best when they do not pull their punches, when the writer does not shy away from telling the hard stories. However I enjoy them most when the writer is not vindictive or angry, but rather expressing calmness and forgiveness. I try to do that. I try to make sure I tell my stories in ways that do not injure, even though I know that this sometimes weakens the stories. But sometimes I need to write without softening anything. Even though I know no one else will ever read it. Even when I sometimes erase it as soon as I am done. The act of writing the hard stories changes me. I emerge with a clearer sense of where I am and where I need to go. This is why I sometimes write things that I do not post.

A Resting Place

By / December 15, 2012

This week was a push week. I pushed to get the last calendar pre-orders out. I pushed to do the regular shipping. I pushed to organize all the scout things. I pushed to help Patch with his big assignment. I pushed to help Kiki with her massive, must-not-fail, picture book project. All of that on top of pushing for things all the week before. I was not sleeping enough. And anxiety re-emerged to make many tasks less easily accomplished.

I could tell I was fatigued because of the little things like the increase of typos in my text messages, emails, and blog entries. The available cooking ingredients in our house dwindled to canned goods because I kept failing to go to the store despite my intentions to do so. I was late picking up kids. It took me four days to get a plane flight booked because I kept forgetting to sit down and do it. Email stacked up so that my inbox overflowed and I kept discovering that I’d composed email answers in my head, but not actually sent them. My brain was trying to track too many things and lost track of some of them.

In years past I got very stressed about this creeping unreliability. I’ve come to accept it as part of the holiday shipping season. Not only do I accept it, but I let people around me know to expect it. I get flaky between Thanksgiving and Christmas. I don’t want to be, but I’ve had to learn that I am. There is just too much going on. I push too hard on too many things. I short myself on sleep trying to get them done. Even attempting to normalize my sleep becomes another thing to manage. So I just muddle through, prioritizing each day to make sure that none of the critical things get dropped.

Until I hit a day like today. All the big things for the week are finished. I pushed hard. I didn’t miss the important things. I am tired, but there is no time for me to drift and recover. I’ve already got ten more things lined up waiting for me to push and accomplish them. I want to drift and there is no time for it. Time available or not, I’ve done a fair amount of drifting today. I ran out of push.

Anxiety Follow Up

By / December 11, 2012

Writing the list of why I am doomed and then mocking that list was extremely helpful in establishing perspective. It let me quell the fears and move forward with the day. However it also revealed something else. I expected the list to be much longer because I thought the anxiety was a generalized mood for the day. Instead I found it to be very localized to those specific things. This means that later, when I was feeling more stable, I needed to come back to those seemingly ridiculous things and dig to find out what in them was an anxiety trigger for me. I did it by writing extensively about every detail of what I was afraid would happen for each thing. I also wrote out any wandering thoughts which were attached to the subjects. This process helped me dig out the not-ridiculous things which were at the root of the ridiculous things. Figuring out the roots is important in the long-term strategy of reducing anxiety. In this case, I am once again assigning myself responsibility for things which are outside my control. I need to figure out how to stop doing that.

Poking in the Irrational Recesses of My Brain

By / December 11, 2012 / 5 Comments

I really should not have written that post about how I was not feeling afraid. I summoned it, or taunted it, or something. Today everything terrifies me, even though some part of my brain can step back and see how completely irrational all the fear is. So I am going to make a list of my recent decisions and how those choices will obviously lead to my ultimate doom. Then I will mock the irrationality and maybe when I’m done things will feel better.

I paid a large bill. It reduced the number in the checking account significantly. Therefore our business is doomed, we’ll never be able to get ahead, all my efforts are in vain. (Which makes complete sense, because hey I paid a big bill in full and had money left over. That’s always evidence of financial doom.)

I made a request of Howard regarding social media. Therefore I am a horrible over-controlling person who is neurotic and needy. Also interrupted his writing in order to make the request and therefore I’ve thrown him out of the writing space and he will not be able to complete the work he needs to do today and that will be my fault.(Because it is unheard of for spouses to ever need things from each other. Also, the request took him less than a minute almost two hours ago. He’s been writing this whole time.)

I agreed to baby sit my sister’s kids while she goes to a job interview. But instead of it occurring during the already chaotic afternoon hours, the kids will be here in the middle of the day. Therefore I’ve just ruined both my work day and Howard’s which will ruin the entire rest of the week because we’ll be thrown out of kilter. (Borrowing trouble anyone? The kids in question are much quieter than mine and we manage to work with mine in the house.)

I engaged in a business discussion via email. Therefore our business is doomed because…I have no idea. It just somehow is. (Yeah I can’t explain this one. The discussion is friendly with no horrible outcomes. No clue why so much doom has become attached.)

I was up until 2 am last night because the brain hamsters were running on their anxiety wheels of doom. Therefore I will never get a good night’s sleep again. (All the nights when I sleep fine are insufficient evidence to counter this.)

The laundry overfloweth. Again. Always. Therefore I am an awful slovenly person who will never accomplish anything good. (The clean kitchen does not count just the grubby carpets.)

Huh. I just ran out of reasons to be doomed. Either making this list helped and my brain is no longer seeking evidence of doom everywhere, or it really was just those things bugging me and I now have a list of things to complete/adjust in order to feel better.

Sympathetic Vibration and Depression

By / December 10, 2012 / 1 Comment

If you slowly press down the C key on a piano so that the hammer does not strike the string and then keep it pressed so that the dampers are off of it, that string is now sitting free inside the piano. Then take a different finger and play a different C somewhere on the key board. Just push and let go so that the second string plays and then is dampened. You can hear the free string still vibrating in tune with the other. This is resonance or sympathetic vibration. The two strings vibrate at the same frequency, which means that they can cause each other to sound.

I am in tune with the people in my household. It is like those resonant strings where I start to pick up whatever tune it is that they are playing. I have my own music, naturally, but if two or three members of my family are playing mournful songs I pick up on that. Even when I am trying not to, my heartstrings will vibrate sympathetically. Sympathy is a good trait to have in a relationship, yet often what is needed is not sympathy but harmony or counterpoint. When Howard is depressed he doesn’t need me to sing along in tune. He needs something else so that the tune of the day will not all be bleak. This is one of the hard things about dealing with depression. I must have enough sympathy to feel compassion and still have enough detachment to play a different music.

Learning that was hard. Even harder was learning that I can’t fix someone else’s depression. Not really. I can succeed in alleviating bad moods or cheering up a child. I can get quite good at it, but I have not actually solved a problem in a lasting way. I’ve just acquired a never ending job as the make-it-better person. This job burdens me and prevents anyone from taking the long hard steps to seek out a true solution.

So I sing my own songs. I do my own soul searching to figure out why some of my songs are sad or scared. I find ways to be happy. And I try to sing in harmony with those around me. Because sympathetic vibration works both directions. Sometimes I’m the one who gets lifted by it.

Fear and Growing

By / December 11, 2012 / 2 Comments

One of the side effects of putting together a book composed of all the blog entries for the year is that I get to review the year just past and let me tell you, I would not re-do January through May of this year ever again. June calmed down a bit, but July and August were made out of crazy. I think I finally found my balance in October. There was just a lot of stuff, much of which did not make it into the blog. I’d say something like “rough homework time with Patch, I’m really tired” when what actually happened was four hours of crying, cajoling, scolding, and arguing because Patch could not be convinced to try to do homework. There was about 20 minutes of work to do. After that one hideously hard day, all the rest of the struggles were easier. Except there were other things. Thing after thing after thing without much respite in between. On top of all of that I was still trying to dig deep inside my own head to see if I could find the sources of my anxieties. The digging was effective. I learned the first half in April when I finally realized that I have value independent of what I do or don’t accomplish. The second half came in September when I finally knew that it is not my job to prevent my loved ones from feeling stressed. It is my job to love them and help them deal with the stresses as they come. Both of those are things I would have assured you that I already knew, but this year that knowledge sank deep and finally filled up the holes which believed the opposite. All the emotional chaos finally helped me open up enough that I could really believe when the quiet voice of inspiration spoke these truths to me.

It feels strange. I am not afraid. I am busy, often stressed about meeting deadlines, but I am not terrified that everything will fall apart if I’m not good enough. Last week was pretty exhausting. I was thoroughly worn out, all of my emotional reserves tapped to their limit, and yet I was only afraid in short flashes that vanished as quickly as they came.

I feel wary about claiming victory over anxiety, because I’m not sure that my battles there are over, however I do feel like I’ve gained some important ground. Perhaps I’ve constructed a fort, a better refuge for when I have to manage things again.

Hopefully I will never again have to manage all of these things in a two month span: a trip to see grandma in the hospital, a trip to the Nebula awards, remodeling my office, two kids having panic attacks at school, those same kids needing interventions with teachers, book release deadlines, a local professional event, a family vacation trip, major psychological realizations, a teenage relationship issue, and all the end of school events. We grow through hardship and this was definitely a growing year. I could do with a little bit of coasting for awhile.

Edited Dec 11, 2012 to Add: And then last night I had an anxiety attack which kept me awake until 2 am. Not fixed yet.

The Choir Concert

By / April 21, 2014 / 2 Comments

“Is Gleek’s Mom here?”
I looked up from the row of chairs I was helping to set up. “Yes?”
One of the choir directors came over to me with an earnest look on her face. My tired brain flitted over reasons she might need to see me. Top fear was that Gleek was not cooperating with the pre-concert practice or that she’d had a meltdown. I knew she was pretty keyed up, over tired, under fed, and with some pain in her mouth caused by twelve year molars trying to make an entrance through her gums. With all that, it seemed likely there would be some sort of issue. Getting Gleek dressed and out the door had been a significant cat-herding experience, which was why we’d barely had time to feed her a light snack with a promise of Wendy’s after the concert.

“I just wanted to make sure that you knew the kids are supposed to be in best Sunday dress, because Gleek’s clothes are kind of casual.”
As if I could have missed all of the four emails which had stressed this point in the past week. My tired brain stuttered over forming an answer. This was not the conversation I expected. I wanted an answer that conveyed, yes I had read all the emails, yes I’d understood them, yes I’d planned to help Gleek look her gorgeous best for the concert, but then the day had turned out so differently that I was just glad we’d made it at all. Because making it to the concert was important. I loved that Gleek was singing and finding a focus for her energies. I also wanted to give a somewhat biting response because I could hear between the words to the message Gleek doesn’t match the other students. She doesn’t fit with my vision of how this concert would be perfect.

The words which came out of my mouth were “I tried to get her to dress up, but she argued.” It was a half truth. Gleek had come downstairs wearing a swingy skirt and her choir t-shirt along with a pretty purple scarf. She’d obviously chosen the clothes with care, I’d mentioned Sunday dress, but my brain was full of a dozen other things, so I hadn’t argued. I’d just hustled us out the door.

“Well there is plenty of time. So if you wanted to run home and get something…”

I nodded and said “I’ll go ask her what she wants to do” as I walked away.

The thing is that we attend our current school, not because we live in the neighborhood, but because my kids tested into the program. Running home would be a twenty minute round trip. Yes there was time. No I didn’t want to do it. I was tired. I’d spent the afternoon helping Kiki nurse an injury and evaluating whether the injury was severe enough to merit an ER visit. The following doctor’s appointment had been reassuring, but we’d returned to immediately launch into a dinner scramble and helping Gleek get ready for the concert. In the middle of all of that there was an issue with damaged calendars that Howard needed fixed so he could sketch and then there was an email telling me that my childhood best friend’s mother–my surrogate mother–was hospitalized after multiple strokes. I’d also been short on sleep every night for a week. I wasn’t just tired, I was weary in my mind and heart.

I found Gleek. She wanted me to go fetch fancier clothes because she felt out of place among the fancier dresses of the others. I’d been prepared to face down the director and stand up for my daughter’s choir t-shirt, but for my daughter I would drive home. On the way to the car I berated myself for not grabbing a dress on the way out the door. It would have been easy. Then I would not have to give up the excellent parking space which had been the reward of our early arrival. Then I could sit in the gym and work on a critique for writer’s group which would begin at my house just after the concert was over. Instead I drove carefully through the dark, aware that my fatigue and frustration might impact my driving.

I couldn’t find the shirt Gleek wanted. Instead I brought back a Christmas red shirt which turned out to be a little too big.
“It’s okay.” Gleek said “I’ll just keep it pulled up.”

I went to sit in the gym. I had a good seat because I’d taken one page of the story I was critiquing, wrote Reserved on the back, and left it on the chair. During my twenty minute run, most of the seats had filled, but mine was still there. I looked up at the stage then focused on reading because I did not want to think about the last time Gleek performed on this stage. The stress and excitement of performing had triggered a panic attack. I’d spent half the show smiling at her, making “you’re okay” gestures, and pantomiming taking deep breaths. Gleek seemed to have forgotten that experience, but I had not. I worried that this concert would trigger the same response. I wondered if I was about to spend forty minutes trying to help my child manage anxiety from forty feet away. I’d intended to have a calm afternoon, a solid dinner, all carefully staged to reduce stress. Instead she’d skipped dinner, ran around in the gym before practice, and was wearing a shirt which made her feel self-conscious. There was a tap on my shoulder.
“Gleek looks lovely. Thank you.” said the choir director.
I just smiled at her and she moved on. I barely knew the woman. I barely knew anyone at the school. I felt bad about that sometimes, as if we were interlopers and freeloaders in their community. The solution would be for me to get involved, volunteer, work to chat and make connections with the other parents at the school. I haven’t had the emotional energy to spare. Not last year. Not this year. I watched the director and knew her for a good person. She cared so very much about choir, about teaching the kids, about making this concert be a good experience. I thought all these things, but mostly was glad that she didn’t stay to chat more. I didn’t have any chatting energy left.

The concert was lovely. Gleek sang with all the others and while she did fiddle with her shirt and fidget with her feet, she didn’t show any other outward signs of stress. We acquired Wendy’s on the way home and headed on into the rest of the evening. The next day brought a general thank you email, in which the choir director was gracious and praised everyone who participated in the concert. She also mentioned how she would be stepping down from her director position because her step-father was dying and she needed to focus on her family. I was not the only one that evening with a head full of more things than I could possibly express. The new knowledge did not erase my frustrations of the evening before, but did increase my ability to bestow the benefit of the doubt. The director was right. Gleek would have felt awkward in her t-shirt.

Some days are difficult and there are no villains to blame.

Projects

By / November 24, 2012

Yesterday I was focused and effective. Today, not so much. I meant to re-focus the kids, to require them to haul out their homework papers so we could assess the work to be done before Monday. But then I found myself in the middle of InDesign putting the finishing touches on our 2011 book. After that I began the sorting of invoices in preparation for when the calendars arrive next week. Next week will also feature the arrival of company, twice. There is also a concert that I’ll be attending. Yet the week to come does not feel full of stress to me. I’m not certain why. Perhaps I’m beginning to learn how to get things done without pressuring myself with an artificial deadline. Then again, I worked past the point of fatigue yesterday because I told myself I only had one day to get the Christmas decorations up. I’m glad they’re done, but truthfully, I could have spread out the decorating a little more. On the other hand, when I scatter myself across too many projects, I lose focus and momentum. Then every day feels like a failure because nothing is complete. I like completing things. Today I am sitting next to a shining Christmas tree and I don’t have to do a thing more to it until January. That feels good.

When I cleared out the front room to make space for the tree, I sat for a moment and contemplated the empty corner where the tree would go. Mostly I contemplated the dirty wall and thought about how much it needs a coat of paint. Perhaps I’ll make that my January project. I need a happy project during the month of January when the world feels dark and cold. Making my front room nice instead of embarrassing would be a good use for that energy. Not that January will really lack for projects. I’m contemplating running a Kickstarter then. I’ll also be working on a new iteration of the CobbleStones book. Yet neither of those have the physicality of painting. I think I need to be doing something with my hands.

Howard bought Pringles today. This is not because we need to eat chips, but because I want to make another cascading pillar candle and for that I need the can. So there is another project. It is a hobby project. Something I can do in the moments when I am bored without feeling pressured to complete it. Once I’ve made the candle I will then watch it burn and melt. That will bring a very different sort of fun. As another hobby project I’m thinking about writing holiday letters. These would not be duty Christmas cards sent to everyone and meant to summarize our year. Instead they would be short notes I write when I’m thinking of someone during the holiday season. They are not an assignment with a deadline, just a way for me to mindfully address the good people in my life as part of my holiday celebration.

Right now I’m in the middle of cooking dinner. This is a project with a very definite goal and deadline. The meal in question is named “beef stroganoff” in our family, but bears little resemblance to most recipes of that name. In this meal the part of beef is played by cooked hamburger and canned cream of mushroom soup serves as the sauce. We add a dollop of sour cream for flavor then serve it over rice. The kids love it. However last week we had foodie friends in our house. It was so lovely to have interesting and yummy things to eat almost every day. I am now wistfully thinking of meals where the preparation instructions are more involved than “open this and dump.” It is yet another project, and one on which I’m unlikely to follow through. I have usually spent all my creativity by the time that it is time to prepare dinner.

I have so many projects, most of them will remain incomplete for a long time to come. Sometimes I feel quite discouraged about that. I re-watched Julie and Julia a few days ago and I felt a strong sympathy with the moment when Julia Child says “All that work, eight years, and it all was just so I would have something to do.” I’ve felt that, the futility of my efforts when it seems like none of my work will make a difference to anyone other than me. There is great value in projects which exist to bring happiness to the creator of them. I play with wax, make a candle, watch it melt, and there is no material difference in the world other than my happiness in the process. But other projects I do want to have an existence beyond me. This is when I find hope in Julia Child’s story, because her years of work were not wasted. Her work sent ripples out into the world and changed it. That is a future worth hoping for.