What if your original support system was not available for you when you needed it most? And what if it continued over time to require more energy from you than it returned, competed with you, or became an impediment to your success?

What if you are told over and over that you are gifted and shown appreciation for what you create and contribute, but find that you don’t have the support to follow through fully with commitments made in regards to those?

What if, in an attempt to recreate a better support system, you chose another dynamic that was harmful to you, and repeated the same pain and frustration all over again?

I wonder if that one really woke you up.

What if you woke up, and understood it all the way to the marrow of your bones – and took action to change it as soon as possible? What if you took it very seriously to actively create a real, working, and sustainable circle of trust and support? What if you did this not only for yourself, but for your children, your whole community, and the world at large?

That would be really amazing. I would send you flowers, and invite you on hike in to the mountains to celebrate. Or simply hug you with the hug you’d really needed.

The next part might also prove to be wicked hard. You might want to plan on it.

Not hard in the intuitive instinct that it took to see, feel, and act on the initial change – but hard in the journey – the transition time to create something new and truly nourishing for all involved.

Many people might not understand the motives of your actions, or be able to make sense of your apparently random navigation. Many may never know about what you experienced within dynamics that were deeply painful. Parties might not show responsibility or kindness in situations that you may assume they would. Your needs might not be heard, again, and again. You might even encounter some pretty decent hidden snares along the way.

Don’t even think about giving up.

Keep on through every single inch of the dark and difficult passage. Push on through the tall grass. You must keep faith in yourself when all else has fallen away. And you must count on things falling away and being confusing for some time. You must trust yourself and what your heart tells you. You must do this for yourself and your children, for everyone you love – and you must do it for those who have brought pain to you as well.

You must never give up.

Do you have snacks packed and good shoes? Can you locate the sweet and flowing springs? Can you name your allies? Are you willing to find new ones?

I believe in you.

And, ally of your self, I know you do too.

Different moms would answer in different ways. On another day, I might respond with a big smile and a chuckle. Today, I would answer something like this:

It is complex. The matrix of juggling self, children, home, work, and community is a big one. It’s big for any family. As a single parent, it is a vulnerable place to be. The joys of mothering are still present, and even more so when I stay entirely present. If any process has forced me to be entirely present – for the survival of my heart – it is this one.

Being a mother is what I always knew I wanted to be. I wanted to love children, love friends and family, live close to the earth, create, travel, and write. I am doing that. Despite anything that may have threatened to derail that, I am doing that. I am grateful that about certain things I am stubborn.

I love the smell of my children, their growing strong bodies, their voices, and senses of humor. I help them learn to be confident and empower them to be responsible. I listen to them, teach empathy, and encourage them to be inclusive. Like any parent, I get irritated when we’ve had a long day and they aren’t listening. I don’t always have patience at the right time. Especially when I’m alone without another voice to back me up. But I must say, if anything teaches you to expand your capacity for patience, it’s being a single parent.

We snuggle, we read books, we sing songs, and we play outside. I support and celebrate them learning to ski far earlier than I did. I got them bicycles and helped my daughter trust riding without the training wheels when she was ready. I go to birthday parties. I throw birthday parties. I sign my daughter up for piano lessons and make sure she practices at home. I volunteer at her school and read to her class. I talk to them about why we like to walk to school more than drive. They help me cook, clean their room, fold laundry with me. They color on paper and on themselves. I always design our living spaces so that their supplies and toys are in places that make sense for their stage of development. I don’t buy cheap plastic electronic toys. I keep a warm, colorful, well-organized, and inviting home.

We share our toys and clothes when we are ready to pass them on, and enjoy getting ‘new’ ones from friends who do the same. I hang their art on the walls of our home, because it find it is the best art to have on the walls, at any stage of their growing. I keep immunization records up to date, schedule appointments, and offer to help at their schools. I go running with my friends who are moms, when we can find the miraculous hour amidst work and family devotions. I get up early, and go to bed late. I’m like any other parent, I’m just doing it in a different framework.

We adapt to being a family of three. I work to get my feet back under me, to feel clear about who I am now. I keep exercise a priority because that makes everything better. I feed my children well, and am finally after six years getting back to actually eating sitting down. I remember to enjoy my own company, to embrace the time to heal that is necessary.

I have made it through a lot by being aware, creative, and allowing grief to pass through me like the weather it is. Really – that one is key – allowing the multitudes of dying moments to wash through us when we need to grieve a loss, without surrendering to the full pull of death itself. And honoring the feelings fully, feeling them completely. Grief is a normal process and necessary for whole health. And we can handle it – human beings are incredibly resilient and regenerative. We just need to trust that process. I believe someone once said wisely, ‘This too shall pass.’ It does.

I have made it through with the support of incredible friends and family. That support has come and gone, and it has been something to learn how to trust it. I am grateful for it – for trust and for people being present for one another at the right times. It has all been very healing, and a reminder that what I am doing and who I am is valid. And a reminder of our vital interdependence.

I learn from single parent friends who are several years out, and they say that it can be really challenging to pair after too much time passes. So of course I crave great dates, but really don’t want to date. Who really does? Dating is excruciating. I prefer more natural ways of meeting – love that grows from friendship and certain good timing. That timing thing – I seem to fall for the ones that don’t recognize how much they adored me until ten years later. Silly me. And I’ve ventured into that realm, of loving intimately again, a few times throughout this process. That has been very healing in many different dimensions. I am grateful for those partners in healing.

So, in lieu of ‘date dates’, I meet friends out to listen to music, and walk home through snowy avenues, enjoying the fresh air and that I live in a small town that is safe enough to do so. I write love notes, because I love to. I take myself on dates to work out, visit with friends, or snuggle in for the night. I remember who I am, what I like, and what is nourishing to me. I think about what it is that I really want to share with a man now.

I never, of course, wanted to be a single mother. I wanted a family that included a mate and me, sharing the journey. I experienced the effects of a divorce in my middle school years, and felt the effects of stressed single parents. I had no intention of repeating that.

Now, I watch the father of my children and his new mate do things that we had dreamed of doing here in our small community. I notice my ideas now being advanced as valuable. I noticed that for speaking up for my value as a mother over the past six years, I was called ‘entitled.’ I would call it ‘having self-worth’, but that addresses other issues. I noticed that I was called ‘crazy’ more than I would care to count. I was also called ‘genius’ more times than I would care to count. But, at the end of the day, it’s all opinion. And you know what they say about opinions.

I am, in the big view, deeply grateful for the entire process, for resilience, and that the children feel loved. I honor the contributions of my children’s father. Even grateful for our challenges, because we’ve all grown well. I am grateful for his devotion to our kids, the work that he does, and for the new dynamic that the he shares. I am grateful for how that new relationship supports my children, and therefore me.

I am grateful. I celebrate at the same time that I grieve. It is always a mix.

The kids do well when we all frame things in loving, inclusive, and positive ways. They are young enough that this way of having a family will be what they know. They will feel supported.

The kids are doing well. They are resilient, loving, get along with anyone in any environment, love learning and adventures, and are nourished by many. They are growing beautifully. And that is what we intended. So really, we are succeeding. As parents, we are succeeding.

And, at the same time, let’s just say, I could use a vacation. And a good date. Have I said that already? Couldn’t we all use that?

Finding work locally that actually works with being a single mother serves up a decent challenge. One, because there aren’t presently a slew of jobs here, for anyone. We all know we have to juggle several things to make it work. That is what this region is known for. I’ve cleaned houses to buy groceries. I’ve sold things to pay the utility bills. We all have to do what we can in the times in between.

So we have to work smarter, not harder.

Just move then, some might say. Well, my children are here, their dad is here, all of their extended family is here, and all of my community of friends and children are here. Our hearts are here. We tried moving away for work and it was very isolating. The challenge of making it work in this town is less than that of isolation and rebuilding an entire community.

For a woman with a strong work history, varied skills, strong motivation, and plenty of education, I am very capable of garnering a sustaining income and benefits. Especially as a mother. That said, sustaining commitment requires steady support systems. We can all do most anything when we have good support around us. We all need that. When our support systems are inconsistent, betray us, or are simply in transition, we are very vulnerable.

I can handle a whole lot, and have, and do. But I still need to know that I don’t have to do it all myself. And I need to trust support, without being marginalized, or having to prove my worth any more than anyone else.

So, to ‘just find a job’, means knowing that the employer will understand that I am going to be one of their most valuable team members, but I also need to take my children to school in the morning and pick them up in the afternoon. This does not mean I am a liability. This means that I am a mother. It means that the weeks I don’t have my children, I can work longer hours.

Several years ago, I started back to graduate school, so that I would have more leverage in the job market here over time. I earned all A’s in the political science graduate program, until needing to request incompletes this past semester. The short-range priorities balanced with the long-range vision.

So why don’t I just start my own business, or work with another small team of like mind?

Bingo! Now that’s something I’ve been keen on for some time – and the most conducive to my background, skills, community, and family life. To make that a success, I am aware that I need a good team. I’m ready for that, more that words can say.

I have been working as an independent contractor  for 11 years – writing, helping folks connect the dots, creating better design, and mentoring. I’ve found success and enjoy doing what I do. Making that pay steadily and enough is the key. Doing that alone is not conducive to balance. No business, or family, succeeds by doing it all alone.

I notice that many folks, by no fault of their own, tend to take for granted the support of their families. That is an enormous wealth. Having an apartment to share with a sibling during a transition is emotionally grounding and financially supportive. Having someone reliable to call to help with the kids when they’re sick, or you have a late meeting – that you don’t have to pay – makes life do-able. Elder’s homes that host rituals through the years and weekly visits are grounding and supportive.

When those supports don’t exist, or are inconsistent, one has to constantly work to rebuild something that does create support. And that is an extra job to add to the plate. Those who know me know I survive and can make the best out of anything. They know the home I make. They know how hard I work. They know that I value love and empowerment.

Over the past few years I been taught some sharp lessons – and have learned better how to tune out the critics, walk away from the dry or erratic springs, and how able I am in any present moment to choose to navigate and create nourishing support and altogether fantastic collaboration.

The point it seems to me – driven home in the personal realm over the past three years – is how to include everyone’s voices and ensure all an ample slice of the pie.

When will those who earn hefty salaries, due largely in part because of the work of those at home or those beneath them on the corporate ladder, wake up and see that they have not been sharing well? Can they?

On their own they will not. It will require enough voices that demonstrate that that any selfish minority is destructive to the whole. And absolutely necessary at the same time is the recognition that that 1% needs the compassionate help of the 99% to understand and cultivate a better approach. It takes strong pairings of thought and action. Balanced teams. Smart, strong, and inclusive compassion must be at the heart of this new leadership. It must, there is no other way. Singular or exclusive approaches, bickering, and blaming will get us absolutely nowhere.

We will remember to have faith in the long game. It is the only game. As my kids say, ‘Sharing is Caring.’

At this point, I’m willing to venture that we’re all, in our own ways, ready for something different. We can lead with our hearts, which direct our thoughts, which produce actions. We are the creators.

Toward the pond, I would walk a short distance on a gentle two-wheel rutted road that led to the bigger cabin. In it lived the owners of property, who had rented the cabin to our family while my father built a big cabin of our own. They were kind, hard-working folks. Ranchers. They both had remarried later in life and found their best mate. His hands were big and leathery, just like his smile, and his voice was deep and gentle. She had a tiny classic Toyota, the Toy, teal green and was an immaculate housekeeper. I remember them laughing and chuckling almost constantly together, and that they square-danced, and drank bourbons in their respective chairs in the living room in the evening after a long day of work.

Outside felt right. It felt safe with plenty of room, and quiet. Quiet to me meant a lack of human voices. Outside quiet had other sounds, but they seemed more balanced out there.

I always loved to be outdoors as a child. I played in mossy, rooted, and leafy forests in northern Virginia. I favored forts, the ground, and moving through space on my bicycle most days. I found the barn and the pond and sandy beach when we visited our family in upstate New York. As a baby, my parents took me to the beach and gentle edge of the Caribbean Sea in Cartagena, Colombia. I never wore clothes, and apparently, I loved being tumbled in the shallow waves and would come back up grinning with a cupful of sand in my smile. Point Barrow, Alaska was a different story. A slope nestled against the side of our house in the village, made from a stack of pilings covered with snow. Bundled well in snowsuit and boots, I would pull my sled up and slide down, up and down, up and down. Even long after my parents had gone in and were watching the Arctic light on the expanse of sea ice and my three-year-old self closely from the window, up and down, up and down.

When we moved, at the end of third grade, from Alexandria, Virginia, to Northwest Montana, I had just succumbed to my first crush. Collin was his name. He was in my class. I was terribly in love. When we moved, I felt, oddly, more pain from that loss of potential love than I did leaving my group of close friends with whom I had played for four years. Sure, I would miss all of them, very much, and they threw me a party, with a cake shaped like a telephone that read, ‘Keep In Touch.’ It was yellow.

But, driving across the country, through the Midwest and endless miles of corn that ticked by in rows as I looked out the window, and through the Dakotas, where I stood for an elongated moment in the wind-singing grass knowing something I’d known before, my heart burned. The whole way. It hurt. It knew something, and it had lost something forever. I would see parts of his name on signs. I don’t know if I told my parents the depth of my feeling, or even if I told them at all about this boy. Did they know? Did he even know? What would they have said about the depth of my feeling at such an age?

I don’t remember, but I do remember that it took the entire trip west to numb my heart. Miles and miles at 45 miles per hour in the back of a blue, hard-topped Land Rover. Nights of camping, exploring, swimming in lakes and in KOA pools, and a few luxurious hotel nights with clean white sheets. The sharpness of the grief subsided, I do remember that, but I still would write notes to him, love letters, while lying in my bed in my tiny loft, in a one-room cabin.

We all benefit from personal responsibility and accountability, simply put. Less blaming, more gratitude, empathy, genuine self-care and willing, determined, and assertive grit that decreases the need for others to wipe our arses. Empowerment does wonders.

And thinking inclusively helps everyone.

None of us can afford any more partisan drama. If we really value a stable home and country, then we better do the work and use the language to create that.

As a mother of two, ages 5 and 4, I first teach empathy and communication skills so they can navigate effectively on their own. Sometimes, when they are overly tired or another stress makes that navigation more challenging, a different approach is needed.

I mediate an escalated conflict by lovingly acknowledging that something isn’t working and then working with both kids to quickly change the energy dynamic.

Sometimes they just need to be held for awhile, hugged and loved. Or they need something yummy to eat and a cool drink. A nap.

I remind them always that there is plenty for everyone.

It also works to unify them around a new, fun, and beneficial-to-all project. Or I suggest some time apart to clear the air. Or I put on some fantastic dance music so they smile and change gears. Or we all go play outdoors and get in our bodies and fresh air closer to earth.

Blaming or criticism, by anyone, does absolutely zero to assist any kind of efficacy for anyone. Empathy, noticing, and then changing the scene does. The solution presents itself later, or the conflict dissolves. Harmony within, and with one another, is about energy balancing and navigation.

Politics and economics are complex, yes, but really at the end of the day are all about relationship, and that starts with each one involved. Adults need to be as loved and responsible (aka, ‘present’) as children sometimes.

These simple kinds of actions are very basic, and very powerful.

Conscientious and thoughtfully-occupied folks don’t have time to argue!

That’s the ‘occupy’ that will get all of us somewhere.

And let us enjoy sharing supportive and delicious embraces with our loved ones most of all!

And so, being creative and coming from a lineage of creatives, I work to create that. Either the reality of that, or the perception of that. I suppose we all do, in our own way. We all learn to navigate our individual realities and geographies. We all adapt in one way or another. It is said that necessity is the mother of invention. And so it is that creativity flows from a survival instinct. Simple as that – creativity seems to keep us alive.

I won’t pretend to be pronouncing anything new or insightful here. I’ll just write tonight. Because I would rather be entwined in warmth with a kindred lover. I would rather be feeling safe within a small group of trusted family members. And having said that, I realize that I feel safe in my home, with my two beautiful children who are asleep in the other room. I feel thankful for the heat that is on and the food that is in the refrigerator. I am grateful for my health and that of my loved ones. While I know my value, the translation in the outer world is not financially demonstrated at present, and therefore I feel some of the most basic pain. Basic survival, resource-oriented pain. I am not the only one that feels this. Much change always in life, and now it seems we all are very aware of resources and their balance on a global scale. Or at least becoming more so. For me, I am aware that much of the apparent ‘lack’ is partly because I am navigating a substantial life transition, and also because I’m not aligned completely with the best way to give what I’ve got to give, in my current geography, in the current dynamic and time.

It has been said that the place in which we are most wounded is where our greatest giving comes from and our greatest wealth.

In that vein, I started a women’s money group years ago. We all were and are creative women. Some of whom were mothers already, some married, and some single. We learned remarkable things about our seemingly disparate paths, and the reality of the unity of our struggles. Everyone went on to embark on some new venture, business, process work in their marriage, or the like. That gathering felt good, as we shared perspectives on our past, our hearts, family and power dynamics, our fears, hopes, shame and redemption both. We brought each other validation, accountability, hope, and humor. And wine and food.

I write tonight because I started writing when I was seven. I can’t say I remember why I started writing, but I did. In a small, fabric-bound journal with strawberries printed on it. I lived with my mother and father in Alexandria, Virginia. I spent my time, when not at school or with friends, reading, writing, drawing, riding my bike, and playing outdoors in forts and in the grass and tree roots. I still like to do all of these things. Because I am still a child at heart. I believe we all are. Always.

When you are an only child, you learn to adapt to the world in different ways. I learned to write, to play and employ my imagination, to enjoy and inhabit silence as a kind of wealth and freedom. I also loved friends, and play with them was quenching. I believe the sadness of parting when we returned to our respective homes created conflict at times. I celebrate now for my two children that they have each other, for so many reasons.

I also am the child of two cousins. This in and of itself has proven challenging for me to navigate, for several reasons. I am willing finally to accept that it has been more difficult than not. A very different family dynamic I had indeed. And still do. They divorced when I was 11 years old. There are too many layers to launch into at once. A story must unfold naturally, not like a sequence on a timeline. At times I feel compelled to process things like that, as there have been quite a lot of points to plot. We all have these points to graph on whatever shape of graph we might choose. Maybe it’s not a graph. Maybe it is a dance. I’d rather it be a dance. Or film. And music. I love complete creative expression. Color, sound, movement, story, rhythm, tone, silence, wind, sun, and all bits of weather that does move across the earth and through us as creatures here.

I am simply so in love with the energy that moves through all of us and what realms we inhabit. We can create such immensely joyous and powerful dynamics. We can. Often, we do. Often we also forget that it is OK to do that. Alright, I will speak for myself and say that there are days that I forget that it is OK for me to do that. To be all-the-way beautiful and joyful and shining – to inhabit love and loving and simply shine that as a clear conduit for the energy of what might be our creator.

It is my most important task right now, my most responsible path, to inhabit that in myself completely. The concept of ‘Celebrate Creative’ came through last summer, as a combination of many ideas, vision, synergy, years of living, learning, and connection. “What is it to be?” I have wondered. I allow it to emerge in its own time. I will know. We will know. Having the courage to really come in to that place, and allowing it to manifest through me as the viable living example, is my initiation. Keep on moving through. Keep on, walk through, and steady on.

Tonight I celebrate creative and also celebrate the remarkable generosity and faith of human beings, each on our own path. Some of which converge, some of which are shared, and some of which are continents apart. Nevertheless, each person continues, by hook or by crook, on their own path, and are often willing to share story and support along the way. That is really good stuff. That sharing thing. Sharing really helps things be easier and altogether more delicious. And I’ll toast to that, tonight, alone, but not really that alone. I love you all out there. We’re going to make it. We Are.

I really love creative route-finding and the process of balancing wellness. And being outside.

Having just made it through one of the most difficult passages in my life, I will say that what kept me resilient was a trinity: My faith and knowing in my own heart and being, strong support of friends and deep love for my children and my daily relationship with earth and its elements.

During times of intense challenge or grief, it is vital to take excellent care of oneself. Just as on a long journey in wilderness, being prepared, pacing oneself and making time to celebrate and rest all make for a more successful and graceful passage. While it is important to allow one’s self to fall deep into grief, let it wash and burn through every element of ourselves, it is also equally important to balance that at the same time with buoyancy and celebration – true play and joy that reinforces forward movement and engagement with new paradigms. Going to the forest, out into the darkness at night, sitting alone under trees, sitting in storms under a blanket with tobacco or sage to burn, powering up mountainsides in hot sunlight, running rooted trails, standing tall in rain-wind and plunging as much as possible into clear and cool lake or river waters – these are incredible medicines.

It is OK to feel the sensation of being lost – whether physically or emotionally – and to allow that very to-the-marrow intensity to burn bright. Or perhaps it will feel like dense fog. But it is good to feel it completely and understand the contrast to what it feels like to know the way or to belong. It is excellent to remember that we know how to find the way from there, or to listen deep and learn a new way to navigate.

If one is able to sit with this feeling, with deep fear of loss or being lost, a passageway opens.

Lake MacDonald in Glacier Park has always been a homing place for me. Swimming in the waters off of the round-stone beaches since the age of 3, I have found great clearing peace. A swim followed by simple snacks and easy sleep on a blanket on warm stones. Whitefish and Flathead Lakes are the same for me. I have spent hours on boats on the waters of these lakes, and in my body in the waters during all of the swimmable three seasons. Temperature gradients change throughout the year, and as the body plunges downward into the depths, or pulls along the surface, any pains or fears or dis-ease are washed away, dispersed.

And to hold my children outdoors – to sleep with one on either side of me in a tent and hear birds, coyotes, owls – now that is wealth. To hear my five-year-old daughter say to me, “Mama, I love to sleep outdoors because the air is so fresh and I can hear everything that is alive,” brings me deep contentment and hope. To take my children outdoors, to open the doors to them again and again, is true love.

your LOVE – which in turn is your work – which in turn is your

ART

Because it is everything that you experience and that,
this,
NOW,
is
valuable.

The four creatures flew off in different directions, one sat on a flower
for awhile
He was gone when we returned from our hike

Isaac said on the way home,

“I miss the butterflies.”

Then,

“I want to get some more.”

Daughter, you can navigate, at age four, your bunk bed ladder in the darkness to find
the bathroom, and a drink of water
and back again up top,
rustle of down comforting pulled up about you
on your own
already.

And just like that,
I am here at my desk
Wondering, yet
knowing,
all along
what will be,
next.