I already wrote that record.

I already wrote that record.

That’s the sentence I thought this weekend walking the stairs up from the basement, lapping the living room and looking out the window. I already wrote that record.
So why would I be tempted to go back and write it some more?

Hope, where are you exactly? What’s the date and time? Part of you, I fear, has some catching up to do to join the present tense and leave the past behind. Isn’t it a wonder our present self can see clearly that parts of our hearts didn’t get the sign? Didn’t see the smoke, didn’t keep the pace, but part of our heart did so they call back to the past like a cheering fan seeing the runner approach and letting them know the finish line’s just ahead.

Catch up. You’re not there anymore. You’re here. You’re not that her anymore, you’re you. You got used to a certain scene and just stayed there, but you can’t stay there and you never were there and now it’s time to set up camp right here in this moment with this present heart in this present time to write what you know you know.

You know you know. And that goes for all of us. You don’t need a producer in California to jog your memory and your now-ery with your future-y to tell you that. You know. You are so used to thinking you don’t that it may be deep down, but you do. There’s knowing you have and an answer you desire and you already know it, so find it.

You already wrote that record. You already lived that chapter. You may love it so much that the desire to repeat it again and again feels cozy and warm even if parts of that chapter have you busted up and crying. At least you know where that goes in the story.

I’d say let go of that old one and be fully awake for this one you live now. For the one who lives now. With a notion of knowing what you know like you didn’t know before.

I’m 44. I’m wrestling with place and identity, with femininity and time. I’m wrestling with the sands in the hourglass and tempering my urge to break window pane glass. That’s the thought, that’s the now, that’s the present tense. The present intense. Don’t soften it because you like what happened before so much.

You can’t do what you did before even if it comes around again, Carly Simon. We can’t go back and we wouldn’t want to. I know some say to keep on and by keeping on, they mean, same old same old. It takes work to stay back. It takes work to walk forward. I choose the second one.

No writing again what’s already been written. Time to lean in to what’s readily real. You are. I am. This is. Now what?

High five.

Confluence

The joke in Nebraska is that we have lots of water. It’s just all underground. There we go boasting about our Oglalla Aquifer again like we own the place and getting the bar to buy us a round and they toast our inheritance and we all sing, “Piano Man,” arm in arm slowly swaying.

Arm in arm slowly swaying the act of tired celebration, cooperative supporting drunk bodies in joy. The last call is coming, we can sense it unspoken, the streets are all empty so we’ll sing louder to boot. *before the boot*

There are five rivers depending, depending on the landscape, the shallow moving of sandbars the tall grass and felled trees. Or maybe better yet, not five rivers, just five currents divided widely pulled apart as individual strands. Silver. Silver-plated. Silver Platted shallow and bending and we love a good rain that unites all five drop by drop.

I know a woman who knows rivers and I mean, she really knows them. She gets called out in earth movers to measure and dig. She knows water and measure and the power of current, she knows the river is the victor it’s just a matter of time. The river is the victor, it’s movement will push as it pleases, downstream it is useless to think that it won’t. So you might build a levy, a damn mixing concrete and as long as you check it, the river may be quelled. But rivers are victors and confluence is of nature and man can do his damndest to damn what he wants, but when the money and workers, those damn checkers with paychecks? Once the contract is over, the damndest man best beware. The pushing is and corrosion against man’s greatest efforts will buckle and break down and the river will win.

So say there are rivers within this one hero. She’s a mother, a lover, an artist, a dream and say this one hero one day sees all the water below her bone’s surface and starts to reflect. The power of each river one to another getting closer, if still closer to connecting, then one day they will

Come together and keep flowing downstream for the hero in her boat ever moving,

Confluence at last.

And then welcome her cheering, the bar open, the rounds pouring, arm in arm the crowd swaying like do it in film. Toasting her voyage, confluence, connection, the silverest treasure with the song they all sing.

Birds in the sky and leaves on the ground

It goes to show you never can tell.

It really does.

Two big breakthroughs in two weeks time. The backstories of both being slightly bigger and more confounding than white whales in rough seas with no names beneath boats in the deep and the sway is unceasing. Unceasing, I tell you.

Beneath boats, like white whales/ only ever/ surfacing briefly/ to keep me guessing/ and believing/ my aim may conquer/ my eye might meet its/ eye and best him.

Breakthrough as a word choice. Breakthrough as a storyline. Breakthrough as an epiphany may invite judgment. I think it’s the right word, in the right storyline, as an epiphany to help me move forward.

You’d think forward motion/inevitably moving/evidently truthful/elastic and stretching,/ would be unsurprising/with nothing to see here/but nothing to see here/is hiding glacial impediments to the traveller’s quest.

Basically, you have to cry and know you’re crying, you have to say things out loud to strangers who write it down and then allow for something hidden to be revealed before thawing the burger for tacos that night. Basically, you have to go through old emails and retrace your footsteps and see what you do as a pattern and then brown the burger and toss the vegetables in oil, sprinkle them will sea salt, hang your head and sigh. I can see a pattern I’ve been missing and it makes all the difference and now that i see it, I have to look it in its eye. I have to wrestle and tangle and go back for what I left there and take it home in whatever condition it may be by now.

Go home and sit thinking/light a lamp and start writing/leave the sea to its business/and live on dry land.

What’s rushing past you? What’s calling you forward? What kind of unraveling is on the menu today? What love had left buried/hoping one day to unearth it/now peaks brightly clearly/ through the dry leaves of fall.

And Korean dramas have everything you ever wanted in RomCom episodic TV and they only last one season and they are doing it very well. I’m dreaming of Dublin, playing shows, going to do house concerts, buying new shoes, the perfect donut, buying expensive skin products (you’re my only hope), Mexican Restaurants, searching for panthers, birds in the sky and leaves on the ground. Breakthrough seems right this time of year. Two in two weeks is work to be done truly, is work meant for a reason, will keep me busy for a while.

Write your words on my heart

Write your words on my heart

You know the ones that I mean

You saw the look on my face

Just like you see everything

I will hold very still

You will set in the type

I’ll be patient and watch

You’ll be quiet and write.

I have given this thought

Go ahead and protest

I suppose I would too

At hearing such a request

But it’s you that I need

Close as close as close can get

Let my heart be the page

Let your love be the pen.

I have tried and I’ve failed

Slept it off and tried again

In my dreams you return 

with that thing that you said

And I can’t have your arms

Can’t feel the warmth of your breath

So let my heart be the page

Let your love be the pen

Write you words on my heart

They’re all of you I will get

The Season of No

Steven Pressfield’s book, “The War of Art” is just a real little gem, isn’t it? So simple, so profound and something I go back to again and again on this road of creativity and living.

How do you know you’ve turned Pro according to Steven Pressfield? When the desire to do the work and get the work out there outweighs the vulnerability you will risk in putting the work, and yourself, out there. The decision that declares, “I am willing to experience one million nos and negative responses because I believe in this work I am doing.” And ka-blamo. You’re a pro.

Truth: you are not everyone’s cup of tea. Truth: Not everyone is your cup of tea.

Isn’t that so refreshing? Isn’t that so helpful, especially to us recovering people pleasers? The point is not to get everyone to like you and like what you do- it’d be cool if they did, but that’s not how humans work. The point is to connect your deal with a group of people who just love your deal so much that it’s an ever-flowing inspiration fountain between you and your audience, between your audience and you.

The Season of No can eclipse all that fun inspiring stuff and lead you straight into the magical land of “Fuck it.” Fuck. this. (sorry, not sorry).

Upon the road. to connecting with your people and finding your bliss, the passing through No’sville is inevitable. I feel like I’m there. In my personal life, in my professional life, in my civic life. I seem to be bumping into “no” in many and various ways. Not the right time, let’s wait and see, a pushing off of a meeting, 15 phone calls and messages yesterday all with no responses. The train schedule not running as I thought, the ferry boat (no joke, for reals a ferry I need) not running in October. It’s placing me squarely in the “pro” realm saying, “Linda, listen. This serious pursuit of living is not for egos that need constant petting. It’s for warriors. Now are you a champion of your own life or do want to go back to the baby pool, Linda?”

First, my name’s not Linda. Second, sometimes I’ll say to Jon, “Linda, listen” and his eyeroll and annoyance is hilarious (for me). Third, there’s so much to glean from No’sville.

The Season of No is making me really clear on what I want. Some of those Nos were blessings. Turns out, one plan doesn’t feel right even though I thought it was right. That NO was doing me favor. Another No wasn’t so much a No as it was a change in the timeline. What I thought should happen in 6 months may need a year instead. That’s a good thing. Then the 15 Nos yesterday started a fire and the fire just got bigger and bigger with every door closing (cue Ani’s “Fire Door”). Those were actually the best Nos. They made my vision clearer around something I think is super important. They didn’t have me losing steam, they had me gaining in commitment and intensity. Those Nos had me putting on my lab coat and playing the scientist to look for information I had missed, examine the landscape, and keep trying.

You know what feels amazing? Doing something that feels important, challenging, and forward-focused. Going Pro isn’t so much about gettting fame, fortune and love from strangers. It’s about investing your heart and soul into something big that has you engaging with the Yes and The No alike so that you’re unafraid of the arena. It’s warrior energy that never sees the deep end of a baby pool again because we’ve got some serious work to get done. Just tell Brene to call me.

Have a great day.

The hill I might die on

I never thought the hill I might die on would be the desperate attempt to find willing church ladies to watch some little kids so I can lead a Bible Study for young moms. I never would have thought that job was the job to break even the softest faithful servant’s heart. Send me to bowels of hell, just don’t send me to the baby room.

I raised my kids far from family and aunties, no grandparents, no nothing. Were it not for soft-hearted ladies willing to take my babies for a couple of hours, I probably would have gone crazy. Full on bonkers. I’m not exactly the poster child for stability now, so one can only imagine the horror….

My kids just left for school and I told them I might be pulling them out tomorrow morning so they can babysit if worse comes to worst. Because I guess this feels like the hill, ya know? Maybe I’m supposed to be the knight errant for young mothers and toddlers fighting for their honor on the battlefield of midweek morning womens Bible Study.

I did not see it going that way. It’s a great illustration for how we turn daily stuff into dragons, ya know? This topic of childcare has become, over the years, scarier and scarier to the point that the notion of watching some veggie tales and getting out the crayons might as well be like asking us to cure Covid. Impossible.

Oh wait…

We all have a nice little roster of dragons that never get fought. Talking it out with that friend after the falling out, going on a date with a stranger, getting into therapy, getting into recovery, enrolling, buying the ticket, whatever. And why? The dragons we don’t slay beome part of us. Who would we be if we didn’t have those dragons to look out for? What excuses would we have to retire forever if we squared up to the mouth of the cave, raised our sword, and believed we could live to see tomorrow?

If I live to see tomorrow it will be to host this Bible Study for moms with kids who deserve a chance to be in the Word together. If I can’t pull my kids out of class, then I’ll watch the babies myself and leave written instructions for the rest of them. Failure is not an option. And also, it’s an act of the faithful- trusting God will provide long after everyone thinks you’re a fool. It’s loaves and fishes, building a boat when there’s no rain, walking into the den of lions, facing a giant with a slingshot and some stones , man. We’re all called to be the dumb one and face the dragon. Maybe I prefer to be that over the role of scoffer any day.

The thing about an auspicious front porch

The thing about an auspicious front porch is that you can’t let all the plants die so it turns into the opposite of auspicious.

I took a great Feng Shui workshop about a year ago and was inspired to paint my front door red, sweep off all those dead leaves, bring in some planters, stuff them with growing things, and invite a lovely vibe into the front entrance of the house. It was great right up until I went out of town and the plants died and now we’re in a holding pattern of inauspicious dead things not to mention the need for new deck stain.

But I never walk through my front door. I’m a garage door or die, kinda revolving box of energy, I also never sit on my couch or hang out in the living room or find that stone statue that will make all the difference in my backyard view (see Feng Shui).

I took a group of high school kids to the Kansas City Renaissance Fair on Friday. My boys had to stay to play in the marching band at half time, so we didn’t leave until 8:45pm at night. We overnighted at a trusty Comfort Inn before making our way to the Shire.

It was the best. I can’t wait to go back next year- this time with all of us in costume. We learned that the costume is key. So is time. It takes time to vibe into the Shire and leave the gross modern world behind. It takes time to look around, be in the place, watch a show, wait in line for a beer, get a henna tattoo, find the best Ranger’s Apprentice-esque cloack you will ever find. inyour whole life, play a flute, see the details of the realm as they come at you. It’s a wonder to observe a gathering filled with wonder and beauty and make believe that, as it turns out, has us arriving at something much closer to the truth than any given Monday can ever offer.

My Enneagram 4-ness is a truth hunter, a realness seeker, and it seemed to me the RenFest’s fantasy was the truest thing I’ve been around in a long time.

They must have painted their front doors red, switched out dying ferns for chrysanthemums, made sure the light was working and put a stone statue in their backyard.

They must have learned early on the place for magic is deep and wide and the call to clarity must be balanced by the muse of mystery if we’ve any shot at beauty for the sojourn of this one earthly minute.

Wear the wings, play the harp and lyre, leave Monday until Monday and adorn your head with a flower crown that never withers away..

Manifesting baked goods

I wrote something about donuts last week. My husband woke up last Saturday morning and went to our local gas station/eatery and surprised me with donuts when I awoke. Yesterday, I went to record a podcast episode with an author who just released a new work of fiction and there, in all their glazed glory, were a plate of Dunkin’ Donuts (they actually have a donut place over there) and Moi had not eaten breakfast and it turns out manifesting stuff on blogs and post it notes on your bathroom mirror might just be this half-hearted dreamer’s ticket to the sunny side. You focus on good things, you see good things.

Raise your hand if you’re a lifelong learner. Raise your hand if you’re curious and open to Beginniner’s Brain. Raise your hand if you crave the silence of a woods and pond, tall grass and sand dunes and some island off the coast of Rhode Island where your internet friends become your real life friends. Who hopes the mangos will ripen in time for the meal you planned with their slices and who loves a message you weren’t expecting from someone you’re lucky enough to call friend?

The desire for perfection is cool and everything, but have you tried just doing it instead of waiting for everything to be just right? Perhaps the most powerfu lesson to be learned is what happens when you honor a calling or passion in some way that tells Resistance you’re not falling for its nonsense anymore. Momentum begets motivation. People who change the world and their own lives start small and follow the thread. They do one small move at a time toward where they want to go and, if the donuts don’t magically appear, they go out and get them.

We watched an old house burn down last Sunday afternoon. Neighbors brought their blankets and lawn chairs, kids sat curbside while the Volunteer FIre Department ran training drills suiting up and entering the burning structure. Sherry, her mom. and I made guesses on what we thought would collapse first. I did not guess correctly. We all cheered when it grew from smoky mess into a real blaze runner and Ryan and Shelley invited me to sit a while and drink a Bud Light. It was a great day.

Donuts, mangos, silence, Rhode Island, imperfection, and burning down old things. What’s in your wallet?

*Addendum- I called the bathroom “The Whiz Palace” a la Leslie Knope and Jon replied with “The Lemonade stand?” and then Jesse said, “You guys are the worst. The Bratwurst.” So, ya know, focus on good things and see good things.

Mars Hill, playlists, donuts, future plans

Spinning out looks better when you have a goodly worn in baseball cap, years on your hands and face, free sunglasses that read “Bayer Crop Science” on the side and it’s almost fall. The change in season always brings a change in us. A return to the layers we resistingly shed back July way when rubber flip flops dominated the bins and rows of every discount barn and footed flea market goer and yeah, OK, hell, why not drop one hundred bucks at the fireworks tent? Jesus might come back tomorrow.

And then the Sunday evening of summer: August. Sure, you’re on break but not really. Are your clothes clean? Do you even know where your backpack is? Did you set the alarm? The ultimate backyard BBQ buzzkill. Put the slip ‘n side away and trade it for scheduling/ sign-ups, bus stops and after school snacks.

Meanwhile the 44 year olds are spinning out behind baseball caps and sunglasses over here. The forward motion of the young and those who have developed and maintain professional careers leave the likes of me looking for meaning in the tiny out-of-the-way places. Podcasts, dirt road walks, journal pages, silent daydreams and playlists.

The Rise and Fall of Mars HIll podcast. Say. What? This thing is something else. Let’s just say me and my old dusty confessional Lutheran heart asks over and over out loud to the air around me, “What in hell is going on over there?” Here are things I want to say on Twitter, but social media is garbage for discourse. In no particular order here are my thoughts:

-Who lets an unchurched, uneducated, new believer with a knack for public speaking go hog wild and become a mouth piece for sound theology and church organizaton? Self-governing is great when the wise, humble and God-fearing come together to serve a higher purpose. It goes south when the objective changes, man.

-All that bullshit about who women were supposed to be is so squarely outside the gospel. The gospel never says “be who I want you to be so I feel good.” The gospel says, “Remember who you are, who you were called to be, and believe.” Jesus, born of a woman, trusting women, seeing women, equipping women and revealing his resurrected self first to women. Come on.

-Spiritual trauma is something the church needs to roll up their sleeves about, put on their big girl pants and do the work of healing believers. If the church can’t face our own sinfulness in the light of Christ and His mercy, then what’s the witness?

-The call of the ministry is to point people to Christ. WE get the hell out of the way and point to Christ every day over and over again, we, Chief of Sinners, us, first in line to fall at the feet of Jesus. None of us, no matter our Instagram followers, our satellite campus numbers, our book deals, podcasts, Dove awards, whatever, graduate from the need for a savior.

-Scripture-centered and Christ-centered. Two very different things. Scripture-centered can create a banana pants tapestry of hodge podge holy weirdness where it’s possible no one ever hears the words of freedom and grace we all so desperately crave, but they can walk away each week feeling like shit because they’re not making busy enough for Jesus. Christ-centered ministry welcomes the broken-hearted and weary sinner and says, “Oh good. You’re here. Come let down your burdens and see what Christ has done.”

-Stewardship man. Stewardship. The concept that nothing in this world belongs to us. Church especially. We are asked to serve for time, nourish it, teach, administer the sacraments and hand it off to the next steward- hopefully better than we found it, rooted and established in the eternal.

This now concludes my open letter to Mike Cosper. Back to spinning out.

Remember that things about dreaming of donuts? My husband surprised me with donuts this morning. He’s the most wonderful, gentle soul who I do not deserve at all.

Turns out making Spotify playlists is very satisfying for the heavy-hearted. The whole musical universe at my finger tips and all I have to do is come up with a playlist name and off I go? Magical, and exploitative, and highway robbery, but also super enjoyable. That scans to line up with most of 21st century living so…I’m on brand.

Finally, to file under “Internalized Mysogny” the ever-present question of how do I live out my days in service to others but also harmless and out of the way so as not to make other people uncomfortable? Two ideas: felony conviction or terminal illness. I am depressed. I am taking my medication. Morbid humor helps me. Don’t worry about it.

This has been your Saturday “mixed nuts” courtesy of Hope Dunbar. Stay amazing.

To check out the podcast: The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill by Christianity Today

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-rise-and-fall-of-mars-hill/id1569401963

Current list of whatevers

Some may take the long-form approach to revealing the inner workings of the present partially busted beating heart. Order up some middle distance staring with a newly cooler breeze from the north, old flannel trip to the Goodwill for upcoming DIY Renaissance Fair costuming with a side of angst over aging parents, lostness unrelated to longitude and latitude, the price of corn and how to live 25 years before its your turn to get it.

I’ve written that version so many times and you, dear reader, have read it. You probably have questions. Rest assured- so do I. So. Do. I.

But for now. Let’s just list it. Here’ s the status update, nerds, as told through pop culture, food cravings and playlists:

1. Sneaky Pete. I’m obsessed. With all of it. Giovanni Ribisi, Margo Martindale, slang words for con jobs, wondering if there will be a fourth season. Why he wears that knee length overcoat only when he’s being himself and not doing a con. So many questions. I’ve watched it twice all the way through so far. I would like to see Giovanni Ribisi act in more things.

2. Donuts. When I was in California I ate two donuts- both Old Fashioneds- both incredibly delicious and now I’m dreaming of donuts all the time. Not eating them, just thinking about them and how great the world is, even in hellscape, when there are donuts to be had.

3. Listening: Japanese Breakfast, Ruston Kelly, Kacey Musgraves new record (coincidence, I think not), Gregory Alan Isakov, Enya in the afternoons. When I was alone at my parents house cleaning up the kitchen while my dad was at the YMCA and my mom was in the nursing home, then memory care, I asked Alexa to play Gregory Alan Isakov. When in doubt, always Gregory. And I’d scrub the sink and cry. The rules are no one can see you cry. Especially when you’re being the strong one who needs nothing ever from anyone ever because the lesson in this world is no one will ever help you, you get to take the moments when no one sees you while wiping down counter to cry. Also airplanes surrounded by strangers is where I do my best crying. Thank God for masks.

4. Will being on Spotify playlists increase my listenership? Do I pay a guy to help me get on playlists? Yesterday I said yes. Today, my gut says no. I am ashamed to admit that looking to my left and my right at artists doing really well and taking off around me has left me sadder than normal. I thought writing good songs would do the trick, but the trick has way more moving parts. Like a con job. I could be a confidence man. Right now, I’m a songwriter.

5. Dye my hair? Shave it off? Give up? I got it cut in California- shorter than I had expected. It’s either my haircut from third grade or charmingly curly and weird OR (and this is the worst one) straight up middle aged mom hair. One of the those. A dear friend mailed me a package containing a dress and a treasure trove of dangly earrings the likes of which I’ve never had. It took my earring collection from three to 30. Way more than I’ve ever had ever. Of course, not wanting to actually enjoy a beautiful gift, I go into the, “Is it OK for me to wear lovely earrings every day?” If I went with my normal mode, they’d join all the dresses and lovely things I’m saving for a special occasion that will never come. (I DID wear them yesterday and it was awesome, though)

6. Who would be on your dream Board of Directors? Like, who would be your close circle of contacts that would foster an energy and vibe that would inevitably inspire you and your life to shoot right through your uninsured roof? It’s a fun one to think on. And, as an Enneagram 4, it’s good to do as a solution to my two poisonous enemies: comparison and the idea that there’s something seriously wrong with me that makes me disqualified from ever belonging anywhere ever except for heaven.

7. And finally Marbella, Spain, Granada, Flowers and candles, outdoor dinners on a Tuscan patio, playing songs with my friends, credit cards, getting a job maybe?, Natalie Hemby, writer’s block, removing wallpaper, finally drywalling the basement, new calendar, fall, campfires, sweater weather, harvest, Sambal, cilantro, house plants, area rugs, dream curtains, decluttering, the black silk shawl with red embroidered roses in my closet whispering that someday I might wear it under a star-filled sky where there are candles, flowers, a friend softly playing, a night breeze and a bottle of wine and all will be right with the world and someone will get donuts the next morning.

Lots of love to you on this Wednesday. We’re all in this together. Be nice to yourself. -H

When sons leave for college

When sons leave for college sometimes mothers reflect on the first eighteen years before the day they leave for college. Sometimes when sons leave for college, mothers are confronted by the storyline montage from cradle to move-in day and everything in between.

Born in Germany to two unprepared young parents in a foreign land scared to death living in borrowed everything- onesies, stroller, carseat, crib, nappies, and blankets. If it weren’t for the seminary girls all getting together to throw me a baby shower, I’dve been sunk.

That one year without a car in an Olathe apartment just me and a baby waiting for Jon to come home watching daytime TV and taking walks in the strong Kansas wind. That year in St. Louis dropping him off at Lindsey’s in the apartment below our’s so I could go work at Lutheran High North and the dads all finished their schooling.

Cub Scouts, camping, VBS, town pools, walks to the parks in every city and state, MOPs, moving, travel, California, Germany, New York City, Kerrville, Colorado, Arkansas, Iowa, Nebraska, St. Louis, Olathe, hand me downs, help from neighbors, outgrowing shoes, jeans, shoes and jeans, dress clothes and shoes and then outgrowing jeans again.

Being afraid for him as he walked out the door over and over again in many and various ways. Watching him return with a smile on his face and celebrating having conquered such quests as church camp, basketball, cub scouts, marching band, pep band, All State, One Act, Speech, detasseling, Pac N’ Save, Melodrama and each time he came home stronger and more sure, and each time he let go just a little bit more and each time he had his eyes a little more open to what was out there and what he wanted and what he thought he could accomplish.

At the time, I wasn’t able to see the slow transition from child to adolescent. I was too busy looking through a mother’s eyes to see he was looking at the world more and more through his own and becoming a free agent.

Tomorrow is college move in day and I think of it as the last day of one chapter and the beginning of another. He was mine, but he was never really mine. He was gifted to me for a time to help guide and instruct, equip and surrender and now I get to watch him let go a little more and become who he was always meant to be.

I remember my own college move in day. Was I thinking about my relationship with my mom and dad as I looked around at the new dorm room and campus that would become my new reality? Not at all. I was eager to dive in for my own self and define myself according to what I was capable of and what was important to me. I was an explorer on a mission to know all of it and now so is he. It was nothing personal with those wonderful people who were Mom and Dad.

And now it’s his turn for that and it’s my turn for the goodbye. We have been planning for this for years. I am so so proud of him. Am I afraid the world won’t see how amazing he is? Yes. Am I worried he doesn’t have what it takes to find his own way and forge his own path? Not at all. Will I be waiting in the wings in case he needs my help? 100%. It has been the most wonderful gift I never deserved in the first place.

Feelings and Eff Chords

This blog has been a feelings and overshare dump since its very sloppy incarnation and we all know that. This summer I challenged the boundaries of its ability to hold feelings and oversharing and I didn’t ask one person for permission. I didn’t worry about what it looked like. I was really burning trash and throwing it into the webisphere for all to see like I owned the place or something. Like I was allowed to take up space or something. And I thank you for the high fives and the kind compassionate looks of encouragement as I lit things on fire. Yay life!
Eff that Eff chord. And so it goes.

My earliest guitar learning was all self-taught. I bought my husband one of those $150 Fender guitar starter kit jobbies one year for Christmas along with 4 guitar lessons. He proceeded to get really really good at Elizabeth Cotton’s “Freight Train,” learned the chords for Sunday school and VBS sing-alongs and then I just snaked it. I just went ahead and took it. I mean, he was working all the live long day and there it was, that guitar, sitting all by its lonesome, while I was home with three little kids cutting sandwiches into quarters and watching the clock til nap time, ya know?

That F Chord was a real doozy. It took me so long to get my hand comfortable with it and it wasn’t even a bar chord. I had a book, no internet, and hours to figure out how to make the guitar work. And I did. In a low level, self-taught kinda way.

I learned cover songs. Let it Be, The River is Wide, 500 Miles, Sentimental Journey, You Belong to Me, Time After Time, Hit Me with your best shot (that one was a kooky strum pattern and I was so proud to have figured it out).

Then I wrote my own songs. Then, five years in, I found a guitar teacher, then I recorded some EPs on my own and then got the guts up to do the records with producers and stuff. And now I’m here.

I love F chords. I love Bb. I love the practice of looking back to the beginning of the story and tracing it from then until now. I used to do it a lot and now I rarely take the time. All those moments where I had a choice to make: to either quit, stay the same or keep going and I marvel at the choice to keep going. All those moments of trying to advance and improve- succeeding in some ways and revealing my lack of experience and skill in others and I kept going. All those times I cried because I couldn’t get it right and something made me get back up and keep trying.

It makes this current moment way more interesting when allowing it to live inside a longer narrative than just, “Hope’s having a hard time writing songs these days.” If I added the first 15 years into what I’m telling myself about my current writing problem? I think it’d be truer to say, “In 15 years, Hope’s never really experienced this kind of extended alligator wrestling match and it’s a test of her trust and a desert she’ll use to help her in the next chapter.”

Ya like that third person treatment? It makes me sound way more epic like I’m standing on a mountain, wind in my hair, looking all middle distancey and what not.

I’m slogging, my friends. It’s been like this for months. I wish I knew the answer. I wish I could confess it. I wish I could steal some of that bright-eyed can-do energy from my 15 years ago self who definitely thought she was writing the best shit out there and that Nashville was going to come knocking any day. I know now she was not a hit machine, but goodness, what I wouldn’t do to believe I was a hit machine?? That kinda swagger writes like 5 a day. How do I get swagger?

Eff chords? Feelings and overshares? A new kickass guitar (which I confess I’m kind of afraid of)? I’m trying it all. In the mean time, I’m looking at all these old notebooks from years and years I’ve saved and collected thinking it’s time to send them on their way. Clear the air of old stories to make room for new ones. Light candles, smudge the room, remove 27 things and then see what I got. Have a good one.

Maybe I'm still a musician after all

Confusion is a funny thing. Sometimes it masquerades as boredom, sometimes frustration, stuckness, or the classy shiny object syndrome. I think confusion is one of those seemingly harmless but actually extremely sinister evil things that keeps the Good Lord’s work from getting done and keeps people from contentment. It can shape shift to make us believe we are noble and honorable because we take things so seriously that we can’t possibly come to a decision all the while the days float on, years pass by and our lack of decision and loyalty to confusion build something of a confused ecosystem and life.

I’ve been ankle deep in some harmless confusion for quite some time. I’ll just go ahead and blame the pandemic, the world, imperfect people and mom guilt for it and say it’s done me zero good.

I called up a friend the other day. One I hadn’t spoken to in well over a year. I rarely do this, but I found myself in a place where I needed the right friend to talk to me about just the right thing and, by golly, she delivered. I am a churchy person and I do believe in the God of heaven and earth and how he uses people to give us the messages we need to hear and I do believe he used my friend Leigh to cut through the standing water of confusion and point me in the direction of decision.

The remedy for confusion is decision. The antidote to confusion is clarity. What do I know? Write that down. What do I believe is true? Write that down. What do I have permission to do? Write it. What would be the coolest? Write that also down.

Turns out. I might still be a musician. I might still wanna play some shows. I might know the remedy to this confusion and it might just be allowing myself to be myself again. What a concept.

I’m a recovering people pleaser, I’m a mother and a woman conditioned to perform for stars and ribbons and cookies in order to earn approval from fellow mothers and women and also people who score the performances of mothers and women in big and small ways. All that shit is the opposite of clarity and decision. It will exhaust and frustrate even the best of us and the race and competition is endless, was designed to be impossible, the goal posts are always moving and the goal IS most definitely to frustrate and defeat women and mothers and also everyone in the whole world. Fear does that. In an attempt to avoid risk, it burns everything down.

So here I am. Trying to shed the muddy, water-logged garments I’ve been dragging around. I’m taking the wet soggy mess and wringing out the doubt, the fear, the good girl bullshit, the expectation, the what it looks like, and underneath it all is pretty much everything I already knew. I like music. I like playing music.

Yes, I’m older. Yes, I’m not real camera ready anymore. Yes, I worry that my work is not cool enough or current enough, but oh well. I think I’m going to do it anyway. Why? Because life’s too damn short, the rent is too damn high, the stakes are super low, and I don’t want to be an Admin. Asst. and I have no qualifications for proper employment of any kind. So, we do this. We do it bravely and decidedly and that will make all the difference. High five.

What remains after perfection slips away?

What remains after perfection slips away?

Everything else. Everything else still survives the moment perfection and the illusion of perfection go up in smoke.

In the past I may I have argued that upon faultering and flailing, upon falling and failing, the only thing remaining would be ridicule and punishment. The world and its scolding, the prim figure of expectation, folding her fan, rising from her chair and quitting the sphere so as not to be soiled herself by the soot of second-rate living.

Let the grand lady leave the ballroom. Let her call for her coach, retreat to her retreat way up on a high mountain and let the rest of us get on with it, OK? That’s what remains after perfection is finally over.

When it’s over, there’s no consequence, there’s only grace, imperfection, freedom to move and be seen, kicking off the heels and getting to the dang thing we call living.

Of course, before the real party starts, I confess to being confronted with voices of judgment and shame up in my head. Voices of “I told you so” and “you always do this” and “how will you ever get where you’re going if you can’t get it right?” Those voices get center stage for a moment, they get to say what they’ve always said, and then, I get to figure out next steps.

This week I have not been the healthy warrior of my dreams nor the She-Ra with a wind machine and sword. I’ve been more like me drinking water, wearing sweat pants, doing tiny improvements or choices to help my eating and fitness, looking out the window, watching Netflix stories even. Yesterday the voices were having a turn with me. Not enough, not perfect, not even close, AND I ate cookies (that I planned for) and my run time was real slow in the July heat.

True- perfection is out the window. True- this week I have not been working with a warrior’s spirit. True- people who lose the final 2.5 pounds skip cookies but I chose to eat them. True- a lifetime of negative self-talk makes me really really good at negative self-talk. I have my 10.000 hours, everybody. I don’t want to brag, but yes, I am excellent pro-skills master at negative self-talk.

So after a day of cookies and low-impact fitness where no one would ever book me for an intense health and fitness guru gig ready to take on the world in a leotard and Reeboks, the lack of perfection feels like a real problem.

And then I remember this: What’s left after perfection is out the door? And the answer is: Everything else.

I’m not giving up. I’m doing a mini-goal inside a bigger goal that remains and I am working on it. The graph is not meant to always go up up up. How will I manage down days if I never have to practice down days? The work I’ve been doing does not get dashed because things didn’t go A++++ awesome. Now that perfection is out, how about we have some fun and reach for something else instead? How about grace? How about curiosity? How about solution? How about help or hope or how I get do overs?

Brene Brown’s book, “The Gifts of Imperfection” turns ten years old this year. She and her two sisters are doing a series of 6 podcast episodes to review its guide posts and talk about them. I love her and I love her jam. I love her honesty, transparency and vulnerability. She really does model what remains after perfectionism is unmasked for what it really is- shame and guilt and self-hatred.

Diet and fitness culture really is powered by high-energy, ripped people with zero body fat. If you’re not grinding kale into your next kale crust pizza while doing three reps of wall sits and 3 minute planks while the green wheat-free dough rises then you might as well quit. If you’re not taking the 20 minute layover in Houston to get some steps in and some wall sits followed by 3 sets of 1 minute planks with your carry on on your back, then you’re not in it to win it. It’s hard to think I’m in it to win it when I’m not in fitness wear working on my core.

So there ya go. I’m over here in soft pants, drinking water, making tiny indetectable shifts toward my goal and sometimes feeling like it’s not intense enough. If I were more intense then the whole thing would be worth more and then I’d be worth more. OR

I strengthen muscles only available to me when the perfectionism setting is deactivated. I strengthen awareness, trust, commitment, belief, kindness, living as an enjoyable activity and cue music. Have a great day.

Fear Expressed Allows Relief

F.E.A.R.

Fear Expressed Allows Relief. I heard this acronymn while listening to a recent Tim Ferriss podcast episode with Anne LaMotte. She said she learned it in A.A. and I think they are wise words to keep close.

What does fear make us do? Fear makes us hide, assume a defensive stance, protect our hearts, sacrifice authenticity for some second-rate tactic that may lead to more fear in an effort to stay safe.

I’d say my blog is essentially born from this notion: Fear expressed allows relief.

In the final days of this 23 day blog-a-thon, fear has me tangled up in something other than blue and trying to work my way out again. And again and again and again.

Wins: More running, more water, less hunger, allowing the shaking loose of past hurt, allowing it to come to the surface and exist, allowing for tears and caterpillar-in-a-chrysalis-type goo being, resisting shame but only kind of, noticing the shame and being aware of how it works (it perpetuates fear, everybody. It loves fear and loves people staying in fear). Having no desire whatsoever for the chips or cookies in the snack cabinet. Thinking about the ice cream in the freezer and realizing I don’t actually want it. Asking myself what I would really want instead? I would want some small exquisite dessert beautifully plated and served to me in a Tuscan garden. I would want a lovely plate of scallops and something that goes with scallops with a nice glass of wine in a quiet tiny restaurant perhaps somewhere in Spain beside the ocean. Neither of those things are possible so forget it. I don’t want dessert.

I’m still that Enneagram 4w3- the clown car of personality assessments. I still feel those fears of being too much, too loud, too embarrassing for people near me. I played two shows this past weekend and, afterward, I immediately felt guilt and shame for even wanting to get up there. Why can’t I be a quiet polite organized woman in a tea-length Laura Ashley and off-white pumps or something? THen God would love me. Then I’d be worthy. Then I could live and be allowed to be here. There’s that comparison cryptonite. There’s that ‘there’s something fundamentally wrong with me’ core belief. Oh how frail the human heart!

(Fear expressed allows relief). I’m scared. I’m scared of having to admit I don’t think I’ve lost any weight since last week. I’m scared to step on a scale because I’m scared to face the truth of my not being a badass. I’m scared to admit I still measure worth in pounds and inches and desperately want more worth by earning weight lost. I’m scared to confess that my warrior spirit floated away some time in the night and I awoke fearful and without purpose acutely aware of my obsolete status as my children and family have less and less use for me and my domestic ways. What does a clown car human do when she has no career and no skills, no work history and can’t lose 2 pounds to reach goal? I’m scared. I have fear. I thought I knew what to do, but I don’t. I could use some help.

Allows Relief. I can allow relief to exist in the storm. Hey Storm, have a seat. Hey Relief, take a chair. Let’s work this out. Let’s see where we can start a campaign for something other than Fear and Shame.

How ‘bout this: It’s not August first yet. I started doing this work in April and I have no plans for quitting. I am not working toward perfection, I am working toward completion of a long-term goal. I have made good and permanent changes worth acknowledging and protecting even if this week hasn’t gone so well. I don’t throw out progress just because I’m not “feeling it” today. “Feeling it” is not a great strategy, everyone. Living from a place of “feeling it” guarantees that fear will hijack some days, anger, resentment, depression, guilt, regret, will all take their turns railroading your plans. Somewhere above the “feeling it” strategy is something like, awareness of what you’re feeling and asking yourself if you’re cool with that plan. If you’re not cool with it, then you can ask, “and what else is available to me?” Relief. Fear expressed allows relief.

The shame of fear and stuckness is nothing compared to the grace and freedom felt in loosening shame’s grip. I’m OK with knowing it’ll capture me over and over again. I have a tendency toward it, I have a long relationship with it. Instead of deciding to abolish it forever, I’m going to look at it. I’m going to look at it and then ask what else there is to access. I’m going to do that over and over again. I’m going to expose hidden things to light things over and over again. I’m going to work on strengthening my relief muscles. I hope you do too. Have a great day.

Home Stretch, Pray for Mojo 8 days left

Hey my friends. Let’s log some wins:

Good run, lots of water, wanted ice cream and didn’t eat it, played a show live in person and didn’t die, did some super hard therapy work this week that handed my ass to me and then I handed my ass right back and said, “Not today, Satan.” Of course I cried and journaled like any action film star would after the building blows up and they shoot that helicopter out of the sky. That’s part of being a badass.

Diet thinking wants me to think I’m not working hard enough. I’m not hardcore enough in my celery and sadness quotient so I better run more and feel bad about myself.

WELLNESS Thinking has me logging wins, writing down my food, staying focused and not burning out. I’ve got a long way to go and I’m sure as hell not quitting now. Wellness thinking asks, “Hey what else is there that we could punch in the face and add to our kill necklace?” (gross, Hope. That’s so gross) I think the answer is found in thing that feel more like living and fewer things that feel like dying.

(Oh here she goes on her life-death-life rant again)

You’re darn right I’m on the life-death-life rant again. Buckle up. When therapy has you ugly crying out on the run and feeling all the feels you’ve been putting off for 20 years, when looking at your younger self and wishing you could tell her she didn’t look like a bridge troll, she looked like a nice 16 year girl back in the day and to go ahead and not feel so guilty about eating food? You feel those missed years at easy breathing, you cry for its loss and you let the 44 year old version of yourself remember that these bones turning into blubber and this heart melting into liquid are not the end of the story. I’m not shedding armor in order to get stab murdered by history and tears and getting over my bullshit. I’m shedding this to usher in New Adam alchemy.

You cannot kick your ass into peace and freedom. You cannot punish yourself into wholeness. I can’t allow diet thinking to do what I want to happen (which, to remind the reader, is be at the size I want to be, feel totally myself and free to achieve the things I believe to be important, not let old shame limit my current life). Instead I have (get) to choose grace, wholeness, trust and knowing this isn’t the end of the story, it’s a transition into a new version of it. Life- what feels like a death- deeper truer life.

What does the weight of human flesh fitting into a pant size have anything to do with that? Kinda everything. The way I’ve treated myself since age 5 is a thing I carry around with me. 39 years later, if I’m going to rest in Gospel freedom for my last 44 years, then my relationship with my human flesh, my heart and soul, my place in the kingdom is the work. What do Peanut butter sandwiches have to do with eternity? Nothing. They have nothing to do with eternity and now my job it to tell all my past and present versions of myself that message over and over again until it sticks.

Lucky number day 13/23

I’m here in decision in a brand new way. It’s like I’ve entered a new dimension where clear thinking effortlessly ushers in clear doing. That post I wrote about it being decision time to get real and stop living with one foot in and one foot out hokey pokey style? Well, that had me waking up and doing my plan and my day easily, intentionally and drama free. Amazing.

The plan was easy. I did what I said I was going to do. I didn’t enter into the witching hours craving a little bit of this and a little bit of that and part of me thinks it has to do with clear decision thinking and part of me gives credit to the hot 90s workout mix that got me through my run.

It was probably both.

Also. What I wrote above illustrates the awesomeness I got to experience yesterday. Along with awesomeness comes the reality of moments less than awesome. Real human life feelings that, probably five years ago, I would have understood to be indicators of being less than, not winning at life, being a malfunctioning human doing. Not anymore, Dear Reader. With on plan eating, good runs, lots of water, happy fun times, comes the true honest heartache that also exists in different measures from day to day and that’s OK too. Wholeness, rather than goodness, is my new goal for living. Rejoicing with those who rejoice and mourning and with those who mourn and giving myself permission to show up for all of it and everything in between. That’s a shift. That’s new. That wasn’t there before.

When life is graded on performance, then you have to be camera ready all the time. The cracks are meant to be hidden. You have to be ready for the show with a pretend smile, an ironed shirt and rehearsed lines to finish the look. But when performance is replaced with whole-heartedness, then the measure of living and love shifts, expands, makes room for the toil alongside whitened teeth as if both had permission to be here.

I’m allowed to be here. My whole self is allowed to be here. If I’m allowed to be here, then I’m allowed to ask for help. If I’m allowed to ask for help then that means I’m allowed to be truthful about my needing something. If I’m allowed to need something, then I am allowed to express weakness or want and that, in its best and truest form, sounds like love and vulnerability, strength and weakness all at the same time. Have a great day.

"Tubthumping" is a good song

Here’s the real short version: When I was a senior in high school, I had a teacher named Mr. Chris. He was a good teacher and I liked his class. I sought him out to ask him about class and to talk about the stuff we were learning. I was thankful that he was interested in talking about those subjects with me. He saw me walking to school one morning and asked if I wanted a ride and I accepted. He then made it routine to pick me up on my way to school. Somehow, at some point, he professed affection for me and then told me he was in love with me. Such professions did not cease. I was very confused and ill equipped to handle the situation. By graduation, he had kissed me in his office. He continued to write me letters after I went to college. I told one person around the time and then kept it silent for years. The end.

Here’s the set up: By 17 I was already convinced I was fat, ugly, not a good fit for school, not a good fit for my family, life was pretty busy, and I was using my Enneagram 4 skills of ‘there’s something wrong with me’ and comparison as an evil tool to help me confirm there was something wrong with speed and agility. Looking back, I would call myself ‘at risk’ at that time.

And here’s the longer version:

When I was seventeen I was entering my senior year in high school and I was so over high school since sophomore year it wasn’t even funny.

When I was seventeen I thought I was way grown up. I thought I was mature and ready for the next thing. I thought that when my teacher gave me attention and encouragement and let me keep asking questions even after class about philosophers were were studying, that that was a sign of my intelligence, maturity and poised for the next thing.

Then, the next thing that happened was that he started telling me he was in love with me and, it turns out, my 17 year old self was not ready for that kind of next thing. I did not have the skills to manage the mental acrobatics it took to balance wanting to be noticed, being a good girl, believing I could handle it, and having a 50 year old man tell me he was in love with me all at the same time. There was no plan for that and, in my mind, I tried to figure out how such a shift could’ve taken place and, in my mind, I was trying to understand where I got lost and confused with no way out except explain away his words and actions to protect his good guy status, believe I was a smart mature young woman, and act like it was no big deal.

I hadn’t heard any of the rumors that he was someone to avoid. It was only when I was wading through confusion and shame and guilt and fear that I heard people telling jokes about him and high school girls. And the day you find out, in fact, you are one of those high school girls? That’s all the more reason to keep your mouth shut and try to figure out how to manage the mess. By the time he kissed me in his office months later, the emotional damage was done so the kiss was just more of the same confusion, guilt, shame and silence as before.

I have spent most of the past 26 years believing it was no big deal. I know I got off way easier than most (the gift of comparison). Only it turns out, that doesn’t help. The ‘no big deal’ explanation has not resolved, helped or healed any of it. In truth, ‘no big deal’ when not dealt with, can turn into a giant Mothra crisis big deal stomping on your downtown Tokyo heart skyline over and over again.

Dear reader, I am 82% (maybe 79%) fully functioning adult with like 18-21% heart/soul/spirit damage getting in the way and showing up in the deepest and most important places of life- like love, help, belonging and self-worth. Did I think my weird weight loss journey blog would bring this up? No. But it’s here now and it’s time to recover a little more wholeness and restoration and shed some of this old bullshit. Gotta defang the monster. Gotta expose the shame to light. Gotta exorcise some demons if I’m going to survive 44 more years. I’m telling you this not for attention or sympathy. I tell you this because I’m trying to save downtown Tokyo. I’m doing this because facing the dragon (Mothra) in the arena is the work and if it’s showing up now, it’s showing up now for a reason and if I’ve learned anything it’s that I could wrestle with this shit now, or I can save it for later and saving it for later is not working.

It was a big deal. It’s been a hidden big deal for most of my life now. All I wanted to do after graduation was leave and never come back. I was desperate to find a place where no one knew me and try to redeem myself. He helped ruin my concept of love and being worth anything so it was pretty easy to finish the job on my own when I got to college.

What I thought was no big deal has come storming through my life in terrible ways. It taught me rules of living that I’ve used as a weapon, a shield, and a dark dark room. So what would Brene Brown do? She’d say the scariest most vulnerable thing in a TedTalk and let the chips fall where they may. What would Anne Lamotte do? She’d remember that Jesus is the Light of the world, a light no darkness can overcome and she’d do the damn thing. What would a survivor do? She’d fight for the right to get to be here and learn to accept whatever scraps of love are left yet to claim while there’s still time. Mothra may never be defeated this side of heaven, but I’m sure as hell not going to allow it to set everything on fire on a quarterly basis. If we have to live with one another, then we figure out a way to live with one another and pray that, in the living, the living get stronger.

“Tubthumping” is a good song.

Three pounds AKA White Whale AKA My greatest challenge

My greatest challenge? Really, Dunbar? Are you sure those are the words you’re going with RE: losing three pounds in ten days?

I’ve been lost in foreign lands, I’ve birthed babies, I’ve lost song contests, I’ve learned languages, chaperoned high school service projects, and this? This is where you want the flag staked?

Eff yes. Eff. Yes.

Why? I walked around all day yesterday asking myself how do I get this goal in a way that isn’t mean, endurance-based or quit-enducing? Oh dear reader. You’d think I had never done any hard things before. You’d think I had just returned to the land of the living after years in a coma like I had no skills, no knowledge, no tool box or tools. Oh dear reader. I am not a fan of that mindset. Pro tip: When you start searching around for advice and help from your friends and it’s not about some new age flex capacitator and hard math you’re developing and, instead, it’s about losing three pounds? YOU’RE STALLING FOR TIME AND AVOIDING WHAT YOU ALREADY KNOW, DUDES.

Lands, languages, babies, eleven hour car rides to NYC will a bunch of teenagers, losing song contests- they’ll all teach you the same thing in the end: you are the one who has to do it and you are the one who has to get super effing clear about what you’re doing. In the words of Chubbs Peterson to Happy Gimore, “You’re gonna give that shit up. You’re gonna concentrate on golf.” All day yesterday I was avoiding the thing I knew. Me. I had to get out some trash bags, throw some bullshit thinking away and get to work.

Time’s run out on bullshit, my friends. And that. THAT is the great white whale. The moment time’s up on bullshit is the moment the real heavy lifting of commitment and focus begins. No more “will she/won’t she” garbage where everyone’s wondering (her included) if the happy (gilmore) ending will pan out. Now? Now it’s time for making the ending inevitable. Taking the whale very seriously and doing so unapologetically. In my training as a girl and then later, a woman, apologizing is SUPER important. It’s like every other lesson. But not today. No more ‘I love yous,’ Annie Lennox and no more "‘I’m sorrys.’

Not today, Satan (of socialization). Today, three pounds has entered into ‘greatest challenge’ status. Every moment from here til August 1st is a member of my team and every moment is pointing toward the inevitable outcome labeled victory. In fact, after this post I’m driving to Philaedelphia, buying all grey sweats, running up some steps and punching sides of meat just in case the world needs more evidence of my determination.

And, just to be clear about the concept of commitment and mental toughness in my mind and your’s, toughness does not mean without struggle or without weakness. It doesn’t imply a willful denial of human brokenness. In fact, it works best when all the data is available to us- both the strengths and weaknesses. Commitment does not look like what we think it looks like- the hero transcending and rising above the messiness of humanity and embracing other-worldly superiority. No. Commitment is a willingness to show up in strength and look at all the weakness and say, “And I’m doing it anyway and it’s OK for these raggle taggle misfit toys to come along for the ride.” So every minute is for my whale. I’m gonna get a cute whale tattoo on my wrist to remind me (no I’m not). I’m gonna tell you the uninteresting and yet life changing story about me and my high school English teacher because, like it or not, he’s in the story I carry around about my freedom to exist and be seen and have nice things.

Buckle up, fear the deer (I just heard that yesterday re; NBA sport team from Milwaukee), taste the rainbow, Mentos fresh and full of life, like the sands in the hourglass, we’re doing this. High five.

Day 11/23 Halfway day

By tonight it’ll be halfway to 23 days. I’m down 2.5 pounds. I am 3 pounds to goal so preferrably if I can lose .25 pounds between now and bedtime, I’ll be halfway on weightloss too (just kidding, but also dead serious).

Wins: good runs, better splits, more water, good sleep, half a sandwich, not hungry, bad songwriting, did it anyway.

The weight is the thing. The thoughts I have around my weight is the thing. The thoughts around what I put for food in my mouth is the biggest thing of all. People who are overweight don’t need a lesson in the food groups. It’s not like I have no clue as to apples versus oreos or the difference between eating from a mixing bowl or a cereal bowl. I can cleanse and punish, punish and cleanse and clean out the fridge to brace for war over and over again and never get free from what’s really going on. What’s really going on? I have a fudged up relationship with food that points to my fudged up relationship with my own heart and soul and worth and breathing.

How about not kicking my own ass for every little blessed error from now until kingdom come? How about letting food be food and me be me and existing in a way that I get to be here, feel all my feelings and only eat when I’m hungry instead of making up for being a worthless sack of something by eating food I don’t need? That would be cool.

So that’s what I’m doing. All the Enneagram 4 stuff? All the memories from when I was a kid and a teenager? That’s part of it, I’m afraid. Most of us started gathering our belief systems about ourselves and the world when we were children and never asked ourselves whether any of it was completely accurate or not when we finally grew up. That includes how we think about what’s for dinner, our worth when we eat it and rules about achieving “goodness” through food consumption or lack thereof. That, my friends, is effing bananas. That’s bananas. No one has ever received a humanitarian award for what they put in their maws. It’s not a thing. VIrtue and food are different. French fries are not your nemesis and kale is not judging you.

My brain and heart have rules and thoughts about my beauty and freedom. Somehow, along the way, eating became part of the story around value. I took tips and hints about becoming more attractive, more worthy, more in control and more at ease by using food as a buffer, an enemy, a temptation, relief, control, lack of control, love, acceptance all that stuff. Wrapped up in a chicken soft taco and served with sadness.

Halfway to day 23 is good work to do. Slow, deliberate work of untangling and rearranging. Asking myself what I really want. What does it really mean to love and take care of oneself? What am I willing to do for the rest of my life after the 23 days are over? How do I never get into a battle of emotions using food as my weapon? That’s the thing. 2.5 pounds might not look like much. The grocery store magazine says that lady in a leotard lost 15 pounds in 48 hours. It’s the mental weight you cannot see that’s gone forever. You’d need a pickup truck to haul that nonsense away. Have a great day.