by Sara Barry | Aug 18, 2014 | finding time, writing
I’m not a morning person, but I kinda want to be, and I’m thinking being a morning person might be something like being a runner, something I never was before kids either.
Having a baby, having to get up in the still black, maybe gray, pre-dawn, taught me the joy of a quiet, sleeping house and the light that shifts and changes into day. Believe me, I still wanted my sleep (often still do). I chafed at the admonishment that if you were really a write you’d just get up an hour before everyone in your family and write.
I was staying up until 11 PM or later to get my work done (not because I’d procrastinated, but because that’s when the kids were asleep and I could do it). I was up once, twice, countless times a night. I didn’t know if my wake up for the day call would come at 6 AM or 4:55. I was exhausted, and somebody telling me that I should get up an hour earlier than my ever-shifting wake up time made me want to scream.
But now, I have a little bit of scheduled work time in the day and can usually get my work done then. Now, most nights are interrupted. Now, wake up time is usually around 6:30 or 7. Now, it seems almost possible that I could get up early, be a morning person.
I’m taking part in the Rise and Shine Challenge from Abundant Mama. I had run through all the challenges—Brian’s need for sleep, the little one’s routine of snuggling with me when she first gets up, our close rooms and thin walls, my dread of getting up early only to have one or both kids get up early, my struggles to get to bed on time—and the lure of a little time to myself to start the day. Today was the first day of the challenge.
5:45 “Mom. Mom. Moooom!” I rolled over and groaned. Maybe she’d go back to sleep. I heard the creak of the bed and then the sound of little feet. “Mom, I peed.”
I sighed. Deeply. “OK, go down and get some dry undies.” I rolled slowly out of bed, went and checked her. Fortunately that was dry. I got her cleaned up, into dry pjs, and back into bed. Part of me wanted to crawl back under the warm covers, but the cold floor and the chilly air, the lights, and my own suddenly insistent bladder had me wide awake. With the challenge on my mind, I decided to look at this early wake up as an opportunity. (How I managed this positive thinking before 6 AM, without coffee, I’m not sure.)
I grabbed my glasses and a sweatshirt and snuck down the stairs to the sound of rhythmic thumb sucking that suggested I might just manage to pull this off without company. Within minutes the coffee pot was hiss-dripping and I had a notebook and pen at the kitchen table.
About half an hour later, I heard, “Mom. Mom, Mooom!” again. I went back upstairs, and this time I did crawl back into bed for a little snuggle before we started our day together. I was still tired, but energized too, and calm, and ready to go. Today worked well. The little one went back to sleep, and I got a solid chunk of time for some writing. I know there will be days I get up early only to have little feet follow me. It’s one of my reasons for not getting up. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.
I’m not sure I’m a morning person yet, but I’m working on it.
What’s your time of day? Why?
by Sara Barry | Aug 13, 2014 | finding time, writing
Slow down . . . they’re only little for a short while.
Slow down . . . summer is winding down.
Slow down . . . it’ll all get done. Or not. Maybe it doesn’t need to.
Slow down. Breathe deep. Notice.
I’m good at getting things done, checking things off lists, moving forward through a plan. I’m not always so good at letting go of that list, sitting with the moment, just noticing, being, enjoying.
Monday, my big girl was away with her grandparents. It was just me and the little one. I was exhausted from a busy weekend—10K, wedding, lots of time in the car, driving to pick up the little one, sitting in traffic. I was overwhelmed by the week ahead of me—a proofreading project, tweaking a proposal with a client, the endless business to do list, prep for my new virtual writing group, never mind the writing I want to/should be doing. But the little one was home alone, so I took the morning off. We ran errands including picking out a patch to sew on her new backpack for school (she picked the same chic, fancy cat as her big sister) and a new water bottle for school. She held my hand in the parking lot, even though she usually likes to show me she can “be safe” now. She sat in the cart and talked to me about why we were getting things and “Mom, mom, mom, remember the time when . . .”
I worked during her rest, and then when she got up I didn’t try to write one more page or check one more note. We packed cheese and crackers, hummus and pita, and walked down to the playground.
“Slow down,” she reminded me. “I have little legs, remember?”
I pushed her on the swing—a big push!—and sat on the rough boards of the tiny climbing structure while she pretended to drive the ship north, then south. She held my hand again on the long way home. After dinner, she climbed into my lap, and I held her warm body that is getting so long, feet getting so big. My face rested against her head which for once doesn’t smell like old sweat. I held her close.
“I don’t like hugs, remember?” she told me.
“I forgot,” I said, squeezing her again.
“Mom, stop!” she demands, a half-fake frown on her face.
And I do. “But I like hugs, I tell her.” She throws her arms around my neck, locks them tight and gives me a dramatic kiss. My big girl is more likely to tell me she loves me, but the little one sustains me with her super hugs (and one arm hugs and two arm hugs . . . she’s created a whole series of styles).
Yesterday afternoon, we got in the car to pick up her big sister. We hadn’t been driving long when I heard the slow rhythmic suck of her thumb, and then looking back, I saw the red hair blown about her face, head drooping. We got there early, and she slept on, mouth open slightly.
On the way home, my girls called each other names and kicked at each other. There was much pouting and whining about wanting to see Roscoe right NOW! I could feel the overtiredness that would color our night.
As I brushed my big girl’s newly shoulder-length hair and felt her lean into me during stories, I kept thinking, “I’m glad you’re home.” And as I rocked her and assured her that she would have “alone time” tomorrow, but not now at bed time, I told her “I’m glad you’re home.” And I was, even as I took deep breaths to calm us both down, even as I willed her to settle into the sleep she needed.
Tomorrow, we have bags to unpack and things to show and stories to tell. She needs alone time and down time. We’re not going any where. We don’t have plans to do anything. And as I think ahead to Friday, Saturday, Sunday and the plans that jammed up against each other suddenly, I try to rearrange the pieces, figure out what we can skip or reschedule. We both need it.
Slow down.
Slow down.
Your Turn
Write with Me:
Start with a phrase. Use slow down or a phrase that’s been rolling around in your head. Try repeating the phrase. What images or memories does it evoke? Or take the phrase slow down literally. Write about what you notice if you slow down.
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Share your writing in the comments, add a link to your blog, or email me at sarabarrywrites@gmail.com.
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by Sara Barry | Aug 8, 2014 | finding time
In the spring of 2009, I was heavy with the weight of two pregnancies with nine months of stress eating in between. I was heavy with grief and exhausted caring for an infant. My husband was engrossed in a challenging nursing program. I was muddling through getting back to working from home with a baby who wasn’t on any real schedule. I was too out of shape to run. I didn’t have time to run, but the Couch Potato to 5K plan made me think maybe I could.
30 minutes, 3 times a week. I could do that.
Walk-run patterns that built up to all running over several weeks. I could do that.
So I did. I handed the baby over to my husband three days. I worked around his schedule, so sometimes my running days weren’t spaced as nicely as I would have liked. Some days I ran in the gathering dusk; some weeks in the blazing heat of the summer noon sun. But I did it, three times a week, until I was running regularly. Until I wanted to run more. Until I missed running when I didn’t.
I loved the C25K plan because it broke things down for me into very attainable goals, so even when I wasn’t running much, I could still check something off, say I did it.
I loved the plan because it had a reasonable end goal. Not running at all to running a marathon sounds daunting. Not running at all to running 3 miles sounds doable.
I love the plan because it made me a runner. For most of my life, I didn’t run at all or I ran to be in shape for other things I liked to do. In my mid-twenties, my sister and I trained for and ran a 5K together. I almost started to love running then. Almost, but not quite.
When I started running again with a baby at home, running gave me something. It helped with that extra weight as expected. It got me out of the house. And it changed my mood and energized me in ways I didn’t expect. I let go of frustrations and sweated out the morning’s meltdown or at least more prepared to deal with the one that came in the afternoon.
It gave me something else too—quiet time, me time. Nobody needed me when I was running. Nobody interrupted my thoughts. My mind wandered. I daydreamed. I still do. I don’t listen to music when I run. I notice the sky and the trees (and the traffic). I count as I breathe. I imagine trips to Italy or hikes on the John Muir trail. I picture our yard with chickens and bees, blueberry bushes and another peach tree. I play with my writing projects. I don’t self-censor. I don’t tell myself why I can’t do these things. I let my dreams flourish while I run.
I’m running a 10K tomorrow because having a goal helps keep me going and pushes me just a little more. I’m running a 10K tomorrow because I love running (even if I walk the monster hill). I’m running a 10K tomorrow, sun or rain, I’ll be out there, sweating, running, dreaming.
by Sara Barry | Aug 7, 2014 | finding time
I had just hit send on an email to a friend lamenting that my summer had gotten out of control and I hadn’t met my writing goals. I half-heartedly recommitted to them for August but noted that I was starting a tight turn around project next week and right after that wrapped up we had a week of vacation.
This Anne Lamott article about finding time popped up in feed.
Am I really that busy? And I want to say yes. I want to tell her that while I don’t go to the gym, I do run, but it has nothing to do with jiggly thighs or a big butt. I want to tell her my house is such a mess I can’t think straight, so clearly that’s not my problem. I want to tell her that I crave that half hour of quiet time for myself (it’s one of the reasons I run), but that it’s hard with two little kids who have their own schedules and noise and needs.
All those things are true—and I spend too much time on Facebook. I don’t engage in writing or anything I really want to pay attention to right after bedtime because the girls are up and down needing the potty or having to tell me something. And somewhere in that post–lights out time, they settle and I’m still waiting, still fiddling away my time.
Last night, the article, my own email conversation on my mind, I closed out my browser and turned off email and after a final “goodnight,” I started writing. I sat for an hour with my own thoughts and words. I need to do this more often. Even when I’m tired.
I had long ruled out after bedtime as a time to get things done, but what if I don’t think of it as getting my writing done. What if I think of it as claiming my quiet time for me? I had my quiet time this morning, a long run on a glorious summer day, but I might get greedy and take a half an hour of quiet, focused time tonight too.
What would you do with a quiet half hour? What’s getting in the way of finding that time?
by Sara Barry | Aug 6, 2014 | finding time, garden, writing
I worked in my garden this morning, just for an hour and a half. I cut zinnias and cosmos, a golden sunflower and coreopsis. I harvested the zucchini I had somehow missed. I tugged out weeds here an there. I picked the peas that seem to be starting again though I thought the plants were all dying back. I cut the last of the lettuce and pulled the plants.
Once I did pulled the lettuce, there was a little brown patch, dappled with sunlight coming through the branches of the maple that shades the very back of the garden. It was clear of green, clear of weeds. It was a tiny patch of possibility.
It’s getting late for planting. I’ve never gotten the hang of the fall planting thing. But there was a little bare patch, and I sprinkled it with lettuce and spinach seed. I sifted compost through my fingers to cover it—1/4 inch, ½ inch. I picked up the blue plastic watering can, the one with red duct tape holding on the nozzle, and wetted the soil. As I did in the spring, I’ll wait to see if they grow.
I keep thinking of that little clear space, two feet maybe, by one and a half. Possibility and breathing room. My garden is overgrown. My neighbor kindly reminded me that that was okay, as long as my plants were bigger than the weeds. She’s right. It seems to be working mostly, but still, I want to make space for those plants, keep them from getting lost. That patch is clear with space to grow. I think I need to clear more space around me inside and out, to make space for possibility, to make space to breathe and grow.
Your Turn
Write with Me:
Start with an image that has stuck with you today or over time. One image lets us start small and tight. Show us the image—use your senses. Turn it around and look at another angle. Wonder about it. Is it impressive? Disturbing? Why does it stick with you?
Share It:
Share your writing in the comments, add a link to your blog, or email me at sarabarrywrites@gmail.com.
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