From Here to Autonomy

Rituals

When I was a kid, we had a post-Thanksgiving ritual of setting up the Christmas decorations. This had to occur the Friday and weekend after Thanksgiving. My Mom is a pack rat so this was no small chore. The kids had to cart huge boxes in from the garage and storage room; boxes full of tcotchkes--Christmas tree ashtrays, red and green felt wall-hangings, macrame santas, and ornaments. Hundreds of ornaments. Ornaments were Christmas currency in my extended family. No adult walked into a family gathering without ornaments for the kids. My aunts were very craftsy and often made our ornaments. Each one we received had our name and the year inscribed on it.

Since Olive turned one, I've been thinking about how even the most seemingly mundane traditions are developed, and how they create meaning later in life. This weekend, I pulled out a box that my mother sent me of all of the ornaments I had received as a child. Had she not sent this box I would have nothing to put on our Christmas tree--the one we have yet to purchase.

"This is your deal," Jesse said to me. Meaning, because I'm the one who celebrates Christmas in our household, I am in charge of the tree. But this really wasn't true. Even though Jesse is Jewish he does have a say, because anything impacting the house immediately falls into his bucket. If I weren't a Gentile I would have recused myself from holiday decorating altogether. All these years I've lived on my own I've never had a Christmas tree. It made no sense to buy one, as I always traveled to my mother's or my sister's house during the holidays. But this year is different. We've decided to stay home for Christmas, and I want Olive to be as excited as I was as a child by the ritual and spectacle of holiday decorating. Sure, she may be only a year old, but we started early in my childhood home. Very early.

A part of the decorating ritual that I did not like growing up was setting up the Christmas Tree, or more accurately, "building" the tree. The trunk was a series of camouflaged tubes that connected to each other and was slipped vertically into a small stand, followed by the branches labeled A through F. Dad did the high branches. Next came the tinsel, which Mom did, then the lights, which Dad did. Then came the ornaments, which all of the kids did, with coaching from my mother:

"Sweetie, don't put the heavy ones on the looser branches ..."

"Put the broken ones toward the back."

"Put the ones Aunt Mary made for you there..."

"Let your brother put his on!"

This part took an hour or more.

As a kid I didn't realize that people actually BOUGHT real trees. For years now I've fantasized about getting a real tree, but Jesse feared that wasn't sustainable. I had to agree.

This weekend I researched artificial trees and was shocked to find that they now come pre-lit--a feature that has probably been around for years. There were so many options. Jesse did more research on PVC, a common chemical in artificial trees and decided that the off-gassing involved with an artificial tree was worse than the sustainability issues he had with buying a live tree.

"We'll buy locally," he said, "and we'll compost it." On the one hand I was relieved--we'd live out my fantasy of having a real tree in the living room. On the other, more practical, hand, I was worried. We'd now need to buy lights and a proper tree stand. I'd have to keep the tree hydrated every day. Would Olive pick off pine needles and leave them in random corners of the house?

Jesse and I debated the timing of purchasing the tree. My take: I leave on a business trip tomorrow--no time like the present. Jesse's more thoughtful take: Let's buy the accessories now and wait until you get back before buying the tree. It made sense, but it poked a hole in my ritual of having the house set up the weekend after Thanksgiving. Granted it was a long-neglected ritual, but I still kept it close.

Jesse didn't understand that without a tree we couldn't have a family picture--another piece of my holiday fantasy once Olive was old enough of having a yearly family photograph embedded in a lovely holiday card. I'm not religious, but in the past I've been religious about sending holiday cards, until about five years ago when the business took over every crevice of my free time. I gave them up begrudgingly and temporarily forgot them. Last year Jesse reasoned with me that our birth announcements added up to enough snail mail correspondence with family and friends to hold us over until the next year. I told Jesse of my plan this year to get a picture done in time to send out cards before the holidays.

"No way," Jesse said. "You are cramming in way too much! You are traveling up to the holidays. And I won't have the time to do it."

"I'll make the time," I said.

I totally understood where Jesse was coming from, but I felt like I'd run out of excuses for not doing the things I loved to do around the holidays. I feel ready to embrace them again. Not because I have the time, but because I want Liv to be surrounded by what I had as a kid--the feeling that for a few weeks time stood still. No one had to be anywhere else. Family and friends meant everything.

Baking Meditation

I've been on vacation all week, spending time with family, doing not much. Wednesday I embarked on baking a pie.

I was proud of myself. I spent time researching recipes the week before. I prepped ingredients in advance, which I've never done in the past. I took more than a second to think about things that have gone wrong in previous attempts--I have chronically weak pie dough--and chilled my ingredients accordingly. I even bought a Kitchen Aid mixer so that I could better beat the dough.

As I was peeling apples I realized I had been spending hours working on this one pie. I don't recall having spent hours doing anything in a long time. Even with work, I do things in pieces--a few emails before jumping on a call. Or pulling together a deck while I wait to board a plane. I don't recall the last time I actually MADE something tangible--something non-digital.

I noticed, while I was rolling dough that I was actually nervous. I have a general anxiety around making things--food, crafts, anything requiring sewing. I don't know which came first, my ineptitude, or the fear of ineptitude, but I get more nervous making things than I do about, say, doing my taxes.

But on Wednesday I took the time--as much as was needed--to do the job right. I dug in as if making this pie were the only think that needed to be done, and it had to be done well.

The Artist as Entrepreneur

Apologies in advance to Lisa Milgram, who told me this parable. I have embellished a bit:

There was a man who used to love to fish on his boat. It was a small boat--no frills, a rowboat. He fished every day for his supper. And every day, he caught something to feed his family. One day, an Old Man floated by on his rowboat and observed the first man fishing.

"You know," The Old Man said, "You're really good at fishing! Have you considered starting a fishing BUSINESS! You could buy three more of those boats, train some fishermen, and make money."

The fisherman thought about it for a while. He loved fishing and wasn't sure he knew how to start a fishing business. But perhaps he should make more money doing what he loved by starting this business.

A week later he caught enough fish that he could sell them and buy a second rowboat. He rented out the rowboat to a fisherman, who gave him a portion of his proceeds from his catch. A month later the fisherman could afford to buy another rowboat. And a month later he bought yet another rowboat and hired yet another fisherman.

But sadly the fisherman was unhappy. He never could just sit in his rowboat anymore and fish. There were always things he had to do, like keep track of the earnings of the other fishermen, who didn't have quite the passion for fishing that he did. They just fished to feed their families. When he fished he caught more fish than they could combined. He had to teach the other fishermen new tricks, and had to keep them motivated. He often sat with them in their rowboats and encouraged them. He taught them to love fishing.

Eventually, his fishermen got quite good. Sometimes they caught more fish than the original fisherman did on his best days, back when he fished alone. Years into having his fishing business, the fisherman became quite successful. He was surrounded by dozens of expert fishermen who loved him for helping them to support themselves--and teaching them to love fishing.

The fisherman was happy that he had a thriving business, but he knew that he was unfulfilled because he no longer enjoyed the simplicity of being a master of something that he loved to do.

One day, he set out on his own to fish. It had been a while. He sat out there a long time and caught nothing. In the distance he could see another rowboat. It was weathered and old. As the rowboat got closer the person inside of it started to look familiar. It was the Old Man who, years ago, had encouraged the fisherman to start a fishing business.

"Morning," the man said. "Do you remember me?" the fisherman said. "A long time ago you suggested that I start a fishing business, and I did just that. I have a very successful business, and many successful fishermen working for me."

"Congratulations!" the man said. "But if you are so successful, why do you look so sad?"

"I'm sad because this is the first time I've gone out to fish on my own in years. I'm no good at it anymore. Sometimes I wonder if I ever should have started my fishing business, or if I would have been happier fishing on my own."

The man began to laugh. "I suggested that you start a fishing business not because I think you should be a businessman all of your life. I suggested it so that you could fish for the rest of your life, and be happy."

The fisherman started to understand. His business wasn't designed to keep him from fishing, but to give him the freedom to fish without having to do it for any other reason but the joy of fishing. The fisherman knew that the only thing for him to do now was sit in his boat. And wait.

On being a content creator

Due to a confluence of blogging events of late, I've been around a lot of digital influencers, online platform builders, content creators, call them what you will.

"What is your blog URL?" I'm asked, and I reply with my boilerplate response.

"My blog is old as the hills; I never write anymore. The irony, I suppose, of having co-founded a company by and for bloggers." This is meant to somehow prequalify me as a card-carrying blogger without actually being one.

A friend's wife started a blog and sent me a link to promote, which I was happy to do--she wrote a great piece about traveling with babies on airplanes. It came at just the right time, as we were trying to determine whether to pre-pack Liv's milk or wait until we got past security. I could't help but notice how gorgeous this woman's site was. Not bad for a newbie. Time was, you needed to get some serious help to have a site that professional looking. Now bloggers are building them on their own.

Naturally this got me thinking that I should probably rethink my blog design. My design isn't bad--it's just not what I would call optimized. No newfangled features or optimization. I worked within the templates TypePad gave me--no offloading. I started to plan what I needed to do to re-professionalize. After all, maybe if I had a good looking blog, I would find more time to update it.

But I realized something--a personal truth. The business side has always been easier for me. I can always reach out to people, insert links, optimize for the search engines, establish co-promotion partnerships, pitch myself for syndication, make my site more advertiser friendly. This mode is my default. It helps to distract me from the hard work of getting back in flow.

So this blog will remain boring, er, simple. I won't distract myself and consider what I do manage to write to be wasteful because it wasn't given the ultimate SEO send-off. I need to continue to rev up and not slow down to seek out which parts of my text are linkable, or which posts are visual and need pictures. I need to keep my focus on the foundation and just write.

At some point the bells and whistles will come.

 

Life of a Secondary Caregiver

"KYE!" My daughter was yelling at me yesterday, pointing upwards. I looked at my husband, not understanding.

"Yes, My Love, SKY!" he said. It was another word in her repertoire, one that I hadn't inspired.

Last weekend, when I put on her shoes I thought she was babbling. And then I realized what she was saying,

"BUT … BUT …"

She wanted me to put on her boots.

"Don't let her wear those socks," Jesse said, as I was putting a lavender pair on her little feet. "She can't walk around in those."

"It's not a biggie," I said, putting them on and then watching Liv slip and slide on the wooden floors.

Months into coming back to work I started to notice the difference, the disconnect. I could no longer correctly guess my daughter's every need as she needed it. I could not figure out why she patted her stomach, or screeched in delight. Daddy knew how to make her laugh, while with my attempts she looked at me, not unamused but perhaps a bit confused. I watched her like a student, waiting for a teacher to explain to me what I was witnessing.

I catch myself saying things to my husband:

"Can I give her this?" I ask, holding a cup of juice. I know he has a system and doesn't want her to drink too much juice at bedtime. And then I ask myself, "Why am I asking for permission?"

"Think we can take off her sweater when she eats?"

"I think YOU can," Jesse says.

I know that when I come in the door it's my turn to be the parent. But sometimes I'm rusty, especially when I'm coming from a business trip. I put my stuff down (forgetting to zip up my purse--big mistake as its contents will inevitably be strewn across the floor once she gets to it). I want to talk about my day. Jesse wants to finish the game he'd started on his iPhone two hours before, when he last had a minute to kill.

I didn't finish an email before getting off the plane, so I open up the laptop. I just need 90 seconds to get it done.

"Are you going to be with her, or are you going to do email?" Jesse asks. He's making dinner.

"This is going to take just a minute." She comes for me with her arms out. The email is going to have to wait.

With a few moments of exception, I've learned to stop trying to fit in emails before dinner. My goal has become to put everything down and have my hands washed before she comes around the corner with her arms up. I love that she's made it difficult for me; before her no one had succeeded.

Today I'm squeezing in a blog post, a few emails, and some online shopping into her nap time. Jesse's just come back from his Saturday bike ride--one of two or three times he gets to himself during the week. He comes in the front door, avoiding the garage door, which can sometimes wake her when opened.

"What time did she go down?"

I tell him what time. And I know it's 30 minutes later than he suggested to avoid her becoming overtired.

"Bummer," he says, walking his bike through the kitchen.

I don't worry about it. She'll get used to these days with Mom. When naptimes are off, when a bottle is forgotten. She knows that I live for this time with her, however imperfect it may be.

Something

The other day I was in NYC for a new conference BlogHer launched for writers named, well, BlogHer Writers. I had learned to disassociate myself with the content of our conferences long ago, back when I sensed frustration at having to run, versus attend, my company's events. While I very much wanted to sit in and enjoy sessions, I knew that more realistically I would be running over to a sponsor to make sure they were pleased with their investment, or run back to the press room for an interview. After a few years, it just became understood, or rather, assumed, that I would be doing things other than attend the conference.

BlogHer Writers was built for bloggers seeking to publish. Yes, these people exist. We haven't sucked every vestige of traditional media into our vortex just yet. But publishers like Penguin have become smart to the ways of the new, new writer, who oftentimes now came to print via blog success first. There were many familiar faces in the room--women I'd come to know over the years who had slowly built a platform and who, over time, came to call themselves writers. There were other faces in the room as well, faces of people I'd known even longer, who hardly recognized me. After all, I hadn't stayed for very long. I was 21 years old and had moved from the Midwest to work at a book publishing house--Penguin, actually. My goal had not been to be an editor, or even to work in New York. It was to become a writer.

"Nice company you have here," one of them told me.

"Amazing to see things come around full circle," I said back to her. And I meant it. So many times we see life as a series of lost opportunities, or failed attempts. And yet my attempts, while being short of the goal I had set for myself of supporting myself by writing, had sparked a fire elsewhere, causing that original trajectory I used to look up at, wanting to realize, to melt and warp in my direction. The worlds I had wanted to become a part of had somehow come to me.

In the morning we hosted panels of experts in the publishing world--agents and editors--who could speak to how to get a book published, what they looked for, how to have your book stand out. Agents attended to meet writers. One told me, "I have to be here to meet writers. You all have PLATFORMS! That's half the battle." I recall a much bigger battle being waged five years ago, when I tried to sell my book and getting a contract if I could accept changing my target audience. I recall another publisher saying that they wish I'd gone more Cosmo and made my stories more how-to. I recall a publisher sharing with my agent that I didn't need to write a book so much as see a therapist. After founding BlogHer I recall an agent who came to speak who left a stack of business cards on a table before leaving--she didn't want to be mobbed by a bunch of bloggers wanting to get published.

I recall waking up in the morning and going to a coffee shop with no wireless by design so that I would not check email as I hammered out pages and pages of copy. I had no job, I simply wanted to write and get a book published.

Things have changed.

"You are at an advantage," one of the speakers from the publishing side said at the conference, "you all are in the habit of writing every day."

I look at the date on my last blog post and wonder how that happened. The sad reality is that it wasn't hard not writing. I knew how encompassing writing could be. I knew how when I got into writing everything else tended to fall away. Where would I start? What if  had nothing to say?

One friend offered up a nice metaphor: Creativity is a muscle. When you go running for the first time, you feel like shit. But keep going every day, and slowly it starts to feel good. You start to run faster and more efficiently. You know how to inspire your creativity. You re-learn how to call it up.

"Just write short," friends have told me, "just get something up there." That's what I tell other people. But I'm really not very satisfied to do that.

I saw a friend this weekend when I was out in the neighborhood with my one year old.

"You inspired me to blog," she said. She's been actively blogging and consulting in the social media space now for five or six years. "It makes me sad to go over to your blog and see nothing there."

She challenged me to write a blog post while on the plane flying home from business trips.

"I've tried that," I said. "I have a lot of stuff I need to finish. I don't know if I can commit to that."

"Just write something she said."

Today I saw an email she left in my inbox. The subject line: It's Blogging Day!