by Sara Barry | Sep 8, 2014 | baking, parenting, what I love, writing
Right now I’m loving this cool, dry air after a few sticky, icky days and the return of energy that comes with this cool weather.
I’m loving the urge to bake and the cinnamon-coconut-almond smell wafting out of my oven with this morning’s batch of granola. I’m loving the crisp gingersnaps I baked yesterday—and the homemade ice cream sandwiches I made with them and peach ice cream.
I’m still loving my early morning time, both the quiet and focus itself, and the calm i
t brings to the start of my day—even when one little one wakes up with wet undies and the other rages that she is too tired to get out of bed. I handle this so much better after a few minutes to myself, a chance to pee and brush my teeth, a cup of coffee.
I’m loving my new writing notebook—and the hour I spent yesterday with my art-loving girl doing collage. I’m loving the memory of making a collage notebook with my friend Kate years ago that cascaded into a string of other memories of lazy-productive weekends spent marbling boxes and constructing jewelry holders, taking a glass fusing glass, baking dozens of cookies on a snowbound afternoon, stirring jam on a steamy summer afternoon in my old apartment.
Writing prompt for Monday
Think about a person you’ve known for a long time. List memories you have of being with that person. What places does that take you to? what stages of your life? Who are you with this person? Has that changed over time or does being with them bring out a certain part of you?
What are you loving right now?
Write What You Love starts next week! You can sign up here—it’s free.
by Sara Barry | Aug 27, 2014 | parenting, summer, writing
Brian looked up, our little red head in his lap. My suddenly taller, more long-legged girl at the end of the bench. I was across the picnic table in the sudden quiet after his stove was turned off. It was one of those moments where everything froze for a second, and I was aware of the fullness of what is and what was.
We were camping, our second camping trip with the girls. Our first one with the dog. We were camping on hardpack dirt with a picnic table to sit at, our own personal bear box, and the car just feet away. It is the kind of camping Brian used to scoff at. It’s the kind of camping we can manage right now.
My children look feral after only two days here—hair unbrushed, faces smeared with dirt and chocolate, clothes rumpled and dirty. They look happy too, despite the squabbles over colored pencils while we cooked breakfast. They’ve made fairy houses and walked across fallen logs. They’ve hiked dirt roads and well worn trails with walking sticks they found trailside. The little one adopted the nickname Mountain Sally. Whatever it takes to get through a hike.
Brian and I used to hike a lot more. Our first date was lunch and a hike. He proposed on a backpacking trip, up in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. He was a backpacker long before I knew him, completing the AT a decade before we got married. On our first trip, I had a borrowed pack and boots, nothing fit quite right. By the second trip, I was breaking in my own boots and my own packs, learning its pockets and straps, fitting it to me.
We hiked at different paces. He’d outstrip me on the uphills. Downhills too, but give me flat ground—especially heading out of the woods toward a good meal, and I’d win hands down. I miss those days of long walks, hard work, hiking our own hike, catching up with each other throughout the day and then at night when we settled in to make camp. The stove would fill the evening with its loud static and the smell of gas at first. Then we’d sit in quiet, mugs of cocoa warming us, dinner right out of the pan. We’d start the morning the same way, oatmeal tasting slightly of chili or whatever we’d eaten the night before.
Brian had his own systems when he backpacked solo or with different friends. We had to figure out how to work together—who carried what, dividing up camp chores—but we got into a rhythm.
We’re still finding a rhythm with this car camping thing. Our neighbors had bacon sizzling. The people we met at the beach had kebabs with steak and chicken and bacon. We had oatmeal, hotdogs. The car is a tangle of overflowing bags. I packed too many clothes.
But we had s’mores. We visited the nature center, observed small yellow and red newts navigating the roots and leaves underfoot. We sat on a big rock on the edge of a field and watched bats swooping in the gathering dusk.
We are getting our kids used to the woods, to sleeping in a tent, to walking on rough terrain. Someday, we’ll go deeper into the woods, away from where our car can carry all our stuff. I think of it as a return to what we used to do, but really, I know, it will be different with four of us. We’ll need to learn new systems, figure out how to adapt to our different paces.
I love being in the woods and seeing my kids loving it too.
Your Turn
Write with Me:
Start with a moment that has stuck with you. Tap into your senses as you describe it. Do you know why it has stuck with you? Keep writing.
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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by Sara Barry | Aug 25, 2014 | finding time, garden, summer, what I love, writing
- My early morning quiet time with coffee and my writing notebook
- This post about another writer’s mornings
- The height and color in my garden
- The canning cupboard shelves filling up
- Space I’ve cleared (bye-bye clutter—it’s a slow process)
- An abundance of hot peppers—stuff them with a mixture of cream cheese, cheddar, and a spicy sausage and bake until the cheese is good and melty.
- Notes and writing from friends with details about moments they will remember and the texture of their days.
What are you loving in these last days of August?
by Sara Barry | Aug 22, 2014 | kids in the garden, summer, writing
When I flip through my pictures from the summer, I’ll remember picking blueberries, but I might forget how the five-year-old took charge of the three-year-old and two-year-old and how much easier it was in 2014 than it was in 2013. I’ll see it was sunny, but I might not remember how foggy and cool it was that morning when we set out through the hills and back roads. I might forget the singing of rounds that paced our work as we sorted and how I sang the songs over and over, teaching the girls and making up my own verses to “Hey Ho, Nobody Home” in the car until they begged me to stop. One of the reasons I write is to remember.
This is my picture, my story. What’s yours?
Ready to start telling your story? Download your quick guide to summer stories now.
by Sara Barry | Aug 20, 2014 | parenting, summer, writing
It is not a great photo. I snapped it a few seconds too late, I see the tops of heads, red hair and blond flowing toward the lush, green grass as they bend at the waist. It’s not a great picture, but I know that they are mid-bow.
“We’re doing a show! Come watch! Are you coming? The show’s starting.”
This summer was the summer of shows. There have been music shows and dancing shows, hula hoop shows and acrobatic shows (like the one they’ve just wrapped up in the picture that involved the crocodile see saw). The dancing shows usually have costumes: the purple and teal fairy costume or the polka dot tulle dress or the shell pink ballerina skirt leotard from the dress up box. The music shows feature instruments—always a drum—and self-written songs. I’ve watched them march and arabesque, twirl and leap, inside and out, morning or night.
They announce each other—“And now the most amazing dancer ever”—in deep, dramatic stage voices, and tell each other what to do in not so quiet stage whispers, “Now you come in. Now. Dance!”
And before I’m invited to watch the show, I hear the rehearsals, which sometimes turn into squabbles as they each fight for their own vision.
I remember watching our neighbors do shows just a couple of years ago. They’d want my girls to be in the them, and sometimes my girls were up for it. Even when they were, at one or two or three didn’t take direction so well. They crawled off stage or wouldn’t say lines or wanted to play instead. Now, this summer, my girls are directing. This summer, they’re the stars.
Your Turn
Write with Me:
Choose a picture and tell your story. Draw from your memory or your imagination.
Share It:
Share your writing in the comments, add a link to your blog, or email me at sarabarrywrites@gmail.com.
Get more ideas for using your photos for writing—Summer Stories in 5 Minutes.
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?
