welcome 2016

Every New Year's Day for the past five years, Eleanor and I have a little fun as she wears this shirt. I found it back when she was six months old, two months after her open-heart surgery. 

It captured my deepest prayer in a little sign held by a little yellow bird I'd loved since childhood.

As I put this shirt over her head on January 1, 2011, I was whispering inside, "Please protect her. Please let there be more love. Please let it be softer. Please let her be okay. Please keep her heart safe."

And I was hoping 2011 would be a gentler year for all of us, a year where she would be able to just live as a healthy little girl finding her way into toddlerhood. 

Over the years, this shirt has begun to symbolize those prayers we whisper over the ones we love. The hopes we have for them, for ourselves, for the world. 

And this prayer for her, for us, for you that I hold in my heart each January 1st is the reason behind the This Is My Year manifesto and package.

I wanted to wrap up all those prayers and possibility and send them to you in your corner of the world.

Because the truth is, I really want this little girl to live in a world where more people are pausing and noticing and choosing love when they look in the mirror, when they listen to their loved ones, when they look into a stranger's eyes.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

This little shirt is a special companion for us over here. And today, I'm whispering another prayer as I look through these photos of a little girl just being herself and feeling deeply loved.

May it always be so.

May it always be so. 

(You can see the photos from previous years right here.)

And yes, it is a little miracle that it still "fits." One day it won't and I'll use my sewing skills and create a new one from this one. But for now, over the head it (still) goes.

i want to remember

I want to remember the way you started calling me "Honey" this summer. It equal parts cracks me up and delights me.

I want to remember the sound of your laughter when you say something that you think is so funny.

I want to remember the way you reach for my hand on the evenings I chant to you just before you fall asleep. 

I want to remember the sound of you sounding out words and the look on your face when you figure it out.

I want to remember the way you're growing up as you pause and notice the way your words and actions affect others. It's a huge piece to understand, and I'm so proud of you.

I want to remember when your counselor at camp said, "Has Eleanor told you that she's become one of our best sharers?" and your face beemed when we told Daddy all about it later.

I want to remember the conversations we're having about just playing when it comes to creativity instead of worrying about "being good." I hope you always remember that playing with paint and paper and pens and color and glue is at its core fun.

I want to remember the joy surrounding you when you ran into the studio and said, "Mama, I taught myself how to swing today!" and explained how you are climbing onto the swing yourself and pumping your legs.

I want to remember the way you so often want to do what I'm doing. If I open my journal and start doodling, you want to play in your journal. If I go into the studio, you are close behind me ready to "help make things for your shop mama. I want to help you make things for the ladies." If I'm looking through a magazine, you want your own. I know it won't always be like this, but it's special to connect with you about the little things that bring me joy.

I want to remember that moment when I looked at you and realized you are a big kid now. And I want to remember the moment right before that one too. 

photo by Tara Whitney 

five years {what is real}

 

Five years ago today we were in the PICU not sure of what the next few hours would hold. Our five week old wasn't thriving and eating was exhausting her and her heart was beating so fast her little body was vibrating. At her 5 year check up last month, her growth was above the 20th percentile for the first time (it was actually above 50!). For the first two years she never hit above 5%. I remember the day her cardiologist told me it was time for milk shakes and french fries. But she's always loved broccoli and peas and strawberries most of all. So when we have ice cream on girls' night and we talk about how things went at camp today and she tells me about running and creating and playing, I can't stop myself from taking photos of her eating it all up. And tonight, I think about how blessed we are that her body kept listening on those nights I'd whisper while she slept, "Your only job is to keep growing and growing so that you can live your life and see all the beauty in the world waiting for you." Yes. Yes. Yes.

I posted this photo and words on Instagram earlier tonight, and it feels important to share it here too as this is the space where I've worked so much out over the last (almost) ten years...where I've made sense of my story and the way it's unfolding. Thanks for being along beside me.

here

 

Over here there's been peonies (all the time) and a last day of school and turning 5 and turning 39 and turning 47 and to-do list organizing and lots of flag making and jewelry making and retreat prepping and cake eating and lip sync practicing and really good book reading and mama daughter dates. 

Over here there's been popsicles and laughter and wishing for do-overs and a little voice saying, "Mama, can you chant to me again while I go to sleep?"

Over here there's been deep breaths and late nights and one perfect moment resting in bed with the windows open to the birds singing and my family laughing down the hall.

And there's been unicorns. Always, always unicorns.

retreating

Ellie and I are in Arch Cape, Oregon for her first art retreat this weekend. It's just the two of us and it's pretty awesome to be here together teaching her the ways of retreating. We're painting and getting sea and salt in our hair and snacking and writing and laughing. And there's of course a heavy dose of remembering to be kind and learning how to take some space when we need it and creating a mess with our words and then hugging it out.

Our time here has me very excited to come back in June for the One Move Retreat (which has five spots left). And it has me thinking about writing a few posts with some thoughts about what I'm learning as we paint and talk and hug it out.

 

While watching her run on the beach with a new friend this morning, I started thinking about how parenting is so much about trying to stay rooted while the world feels like it spins faster. And I'm not talking about time. That's a given. I'm talking about how you go from knowing what to do in a moment and saying just the right thing to help her learn to hearing her laughter and see her joy literally bubble up around her like magic to watching her run too far from you until she can't see you, until you can't see her, while the tide is coming in and the moment suddenly tosses you over a cliff of worry and knowing you're going to have to pull out the serious voice while not totally losing your shit in front of wedding guests who are suddenly gathering on the beach where just 20 minutes before there was only you and her and adventure waiting. Somehow staying rooted, even if only by a fingertip, in moments like that. 

More soon...but I think it's time to nap while she naps...