Back to the Bonfire

A lot has gone on since I abandoned this space. The most important being that my depression finally became so deep, so dark, so desperate that even I finally recognized what was happening to myself and my family. So, I found a decent doctor and got on medicine that works well to overcome the genetic infinite sadness that I inherited from my Grandmother. So, I'm a lot better, nearly whole. And my family unit is much better, and feels very whole, which is vital as the years of expensive infertility treatments added quite a lot to my depression and my family didn't feel whole and I didn't feel whole and the whole thing was really falling to pieces around me as I struggled to keep them glued back together.

Now Chris, and E, and I are the glue that holds everything else around us together. In a very good, very happy way.

See? Glue.

Along with becoming happy and whole, I started my own company! A little copy writing business that I love very much, and that is growing all the time. For the many friends who have been wondering where I am and why I never answer the phone and rarely return calls, here is the answer:

Chris made the logo; I love it! I have intentions of having that little inkwell tattooed above my elbow.

Which proves that I did NOT turn into a medicated zombie, and that I am indeed still my regular, fiery, The Flaming Maiden: Nicole! self. I turned 30, and my Mom gave me this for my birthday present:

That, my lovelies, is a tattoo on my right shoulder. It is a large (to me) fiery lion. As a matter of fact, it is THE fiery lion that pulls a fiery chariot that carries a fiery Prince, WHO, it turns out, is in fact my very fiery son.

He has learned how to ride a bike this Spring.

Though I don't have as much time as of late, we do still craft. I am currently working on lots of socks, and an afghan for Chris that is a tiny bit like one his mother made him when he was a boy. It rained Sunday, so E and I had time to hole up in the art studio.

I tried to make a pincushion from scrap fabric. I need to reopen it and add some stuffing-- the bottom is rather poky.

Chris's Granny has recently been in the hospital, and very on our minds and in our prayers (she is recovering). A combination of that, and a giant pickle jar induced me to come up with this:

I used a piece of a quilt top that I inherited from Granny's old sewing stash, then I sewed it- wait for it--- using zigzag stitch all around the edges to a piece of-wait for it--- that sort of grippy shelf paper! Do you know what I'm talking about? The shelf liner that keeps the rims of glasses from chipping? Only I have very pretty grippy shelf liner! So now we have a very pretty kitchen grippy for opening jars! And it pretties up the giant pickle jar too!
As an added bonus, Chris informed me that his Mama used to have a quilted jar lid cover that she used on giant pickle jars. Mine is grippy to make it easier to open jars, but it's the same concept. Folks, that's like two sweet things for Chris in one!

Also, he gets to eat the pickles. Unfortunately, we are crazy for giant pickle jars and Ezra and I need Chris to eat two of these jars of pickles as quickly as possible. I hope he's up to the challenge. To be fair, Chris started it. He uses a giant pickle jar to store corks for the miniatures that he carves. I have one giant pickle jar that I store ribbons in (it's so pretty!), and recently had a reason why I need another, though I can't remember just at this moment what it is. Yarn, maybe? Ezra wants one to fill with "pricklies" that he collects on his bike rides around the neighborhood. They are some sort of large, prickly seed pod that falls off, I think it's a ginko tree, maybe. Anyway, he collects them and wants a jar to store them in. He also has plans to grow one of these trees in our yard so that we will have a never ending supply of pricklies. I think we should start it growing in a pot so that it can grow into a sapling before we plant it in the yard so that it doesn't get cut down by the lawnmower.

See? Whole.

Where The Wild Things Are

The weather is changing. I can smell dirt and green, ever so faint on the air. I haven't slept well in weeks. I can feel something waking up inside me, something that doesn't fit into this tidy life. Something wild. Something that wants to move, to do, to become larger than life. Something secret, and dark, swelling up. Something that wants to take over. Something. Something that shows up every Spring, when the ground is wet and warm. Something that might come from belonging to a large clan of women. Something that makes me play the stereo too loud. Something that makes me dance inside my house like dancing will set me free of the house. Something that makes me feel like it's all just preparation. For Something.

Aging

The overwhelming theme for me this week is age. I saw it a few days ago when I was getting dressed to go to lunch with an old friend. Bonnie Rait said it best when she said "Those lines are pretty hard to take when they're staring back at you."

I saw it yesterday when I was just too worn out to care about much.

And I definitely saw it this morning as I met with the insurance adjuster about the missing shingles on my roof. I feel unprepared. How do you know what questions to ask? What questions to avoid? How much damage is there? What will it cost to fix? Is it worth making an insurance claim? Who should I call to get the work done? How many slams in old screen door? What child is this that's laid to rest on Mary's lap is sleeping?

How do I pull off all my dreams in a timely manner?

Unphenomenal Woman, That's Me

Somebody recently called me a Feminist. I've been called many things; crazy, bitch, obsessive-compulsive. Hell, there has even been the occasional "C" word thrown in a few times for good measure. But I don't think I've ever been called a Feminist.

I am the sort of person who does not make a habit of aligning myself with particular groups of people. I am not a Christian by name, nor a Pagan. I spent a few years dutifully running around with The Mommies, but I abandoned that social order as soon as I possibly could. I am not an entrepreneur, as I do not currently own my own business. I am not a house-wife, as I do have a paying career (it just happens to be from my own house). I am not a philanthropist, though I do as much charitable work as I can manage. I don't like labels.

What I am is Myself. My status as Mother and Wife does not immediately classify me with any of the social assumptions about those positions. I am a writer. I am driven to write in much the same way I am driven to breath. My life is spent writing-- everything I do, every small task I accomplish, is done with a running monologue in my mind. But I am not full of angst, suffering for my craft. I am a crafter. I love creating lovely little things then giving them away to spread love and joy to others. Everybody should have at least a few handmade items in their home.

I am all of these things, and many more. But I am also none of these things. Any moment I might decide to pack away the sewing machine, or change my name and disappear into the wild blue yonder. I do these things not because they are who I am, but because I enjoy them. I am wary of being labeled "Feminist" because I just think that I truly am NOT a Feminist. "The Stepford Wives" is one of my favorite movies. When I'm ironing my family's clothes, I often sigh and think how wonderful it would be to be a brainwashed robot and not care that I have to do housework. To me, that sounds like freedom.

Some have said that my forging ahead and creating a career of my writing makes me a Feminist. That following my dream is what Feminism is all about. But I worry about the dichotomy there. Writing isn't a choice for me-- it is something that I am constantly, unrelentlessly driven to. By the same token, so is Motherhood. I am driven to have children. To raise them, teach them, play with them. Even to sew monsters for them. I cannot do both if I label myself. I cannot be Feminist and Stay-at-home parent. Every stitch I sew for my son is one stitch away from Feminism, and every word I am paid for is another word away from Mommy.

Call me what you want. But I know that I do not fit into any category. I am simply me, getting through my days.

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This post is being cross-posted at the Oxdown Gazette. I have been invited to become a regular poster there, and will do my best not to cross-post much, so keep an eye out here and at Oxdown for more TFM!