If it's not one thing, it's your mother

I have written about my mother a lot since I began blogging. She's an irresistible character - the cold but charismatic antihero. I write about her often because she had a big role in making me the person I am today and I like who I've become and the life I've created. If our relationship had been simpler would I be the parent I am? Would I be as compassionate? Would I understand the importance of holding my kids close and telling them I love them every chance I get?

There is no way to know but that is one of the ways I've come to terms with the past.

I see her in myself sometimes. I recognize the impatience and the cold stare that I can deliver but try so hard to keep in check. I see her in my need to control things and in my desire to know what's going to happen.

But, it's not just the hard parts that I see. My mother was a storyteller. She knew instinctually what details to include, what facial expressions would drive a point home. I could sit and watch her tell stories with her sisters and never grow bored. She was also a loud laugher - head thrown back, mouth wide open, hands in the air. I laugh just like her.

So, when I was approached by Autostraddle to write an essay for their series, "True Stories from Unstoppably Extraordinary Lesbian Moms", I knew I would write about my mother. It is my story of making peace with her and making peace with myself.

Check it out here.

And The Words?

When my children were small, I would curl up in bed with them and read Frederick by Leo Lionni. It's a story about a family of field mice who is preparing for winter. Most of the mice are hard at work collecting food but Frederick spends his days staring at the sky and the meadow and he tells the other mice that he is gathering the warmth of the sun and the colors of the fields and words.

I'm sure the other mice thought Frederick was a lazy, self-involved, pretentious little rat.

My friends and I occasionally joke about the apocalypse.We talk about who we'd want in our bunker, who has skills that would be vital in rebuilding our lives and who might not make the cut.

Yeah, we know how to have a good time.

We talk about our friend who has a bow and has been practicing archery. She's in. We talk about Luisa's ability to organize and her strength and her ability to remain calm in a crisis. She's in. We talk about our friends who garden and can, who know how to slaughter animals, who know how to build. They are all in.

Then, there is me.

I often joke that I'll be left to wander the post-apocalytpic wasteland because I have no practical skills unless you count burning yourself with an iron and spilling lattes in your lap as life skills. I can cook but I'm accustomed to getting my food from the store. I can take care of my kids but I can't make them clothes and I definitely can't help them with algebraic story problems. I'm also really good at taking long, hot showers and pondering.

What do I really know how to do?

I can tell a good story. I can use words to entertain, to comfort, to calm. I can recreate the past and envision the future just by arranging and rearranging words in my head.

I am like Frederick, observing and collecting and waiting. Writers and storytellers take in the world and then give it back again.

At the end of the book, the mice have run out of food and they all turn to Frederick and ask, "And the words, Frederick?"

The words.

I may not be able to build a shelter for you but I can tell you a story about the time I hit myself in the head with a hammer that will make you laugh for days. I can make you remember and I can make you forget which just might come in handy when the squirrel killing and skinning starts. Don't worry - I'll accept canned goods as tips.

How Do You Measure A Year?

One year ago today, I walked away from my career as a social worker, walked away from money and stability. In my mind, I was taking a risk though I can look back now and recognize that staying would have been a different kind of risk.

I told myself that I was taking a year to finish my book and figure out what was next but I realize now that I was playing games with myself. On some level, I believed that my leap of faith would be rewarded, buying into that whole door closing, window opening thing. Faith has never been my strong suit so I somehow convinced myself that leaving my career wasn't an act of faith at all.

I was doing what made sense.

I was opening myself up to the next good thing.

I imagined that my book would be finished and I'd have an agent and would be close to being published. On some level, I believed that I would find a way to make a living doing something that I love.

I expected magic.

When I reflect on those secret beliefs, the quiet ones pushed to the back of my mind so that I could manage my expectations, I want to pat myself on the head, smile and say, "Oh, Vikki..."

I remain a confounding mix of arrogant and insecure, naive and cynical.

In the past few weeks, I have wrestled with feelings of failure because I didn't finish my book, because I don't have an agent, because I am no closer to being published than I was a year ago and I've also had to grapple with the thoughts about windows and magic and success that I didn't even know I had.

My initial conclusion? I have wasted a year of my life.

There is often a split between what I know to be true intellectually and what feels true emotionally. For me, the only way to reconcile the two is to state the intellectual truths. I started by listening to trusted friends, repeating their words of encouragement as if they were my own. Then, I started acknowledging my own thoughts on the past year - the good ones, those that my fearful self didn't want to see. Then, I started saying things out loud, claiming my accomplishments. And now the questions are changing. I am no longer asking, "What more could I have done?" and "What could I have done differently?" but "How do you measure a year?" and "How do you define success?" These seem like much more productive questions.

So, this is how I should measure the year...

I finished the Foreword program at The Loft.

I received a Beyond the Pure Fellowship for writers through Intermedia Arts.

I co-directed Listen To Your Mother and read my work on a stage in Minneapolis for the first time.

I helped launch VillageQ, formed an LLC and continue to be an integral part of the site's evolution.

I spoke at Blogher and TypeA and Bloggy Boot Camp and SalonLGBTQ.

There were people who paid me for my words.

And...I have nearly finished my book - only two more essays to finish drafting.

Those are things that can be quantified and I know there are many more that can't be - friendships and connections, things I've learned. Really, the only thing missing was money. Granted - that's a big thing but it can't be the only way I measure the worth of the past year or anything at all for that matter.

A year ago, I left my job to open myself up to the next good thing. I'm learning that the next good thing doesn't always look the way you imagined.