by Sara Barry | Sep 22, 2014 | fall, finding time, Uncategorized, writing
It’s the last day of summer, but I’ve already embraced fall.
We’re digging potatoes, stacking wood, crunching apples.
My garden is still putting out kale and chard, beans and herbs, zinnias and cosmos.
I sauté deep green kale and pair it with bright orange squash. I simmer big pots of soup and chili, bake pork and apple pie, fill up the freezer.
I notice the beauty, the color, how much we have.
I invite you to notice the beauty and fullness in your life, harvest your own ideas, preserve your memories, and savor your own abundance. I invite you to make time to think, space to write.
The school bus rumbles down our street, squeals to a stop, bright yellow against a deep blue sky. Watching my big girl climb the high steps I remember holding her—then holding her back—as we watched our friends get on the bus, back when the bus was a break in a long morning.
I collect that memory, sit with it, gather the details, write it.
***
Saturday orange-red globes and dusky cherry tomatoes spilled over my friends counter. I set down a bag of peppers, chunky fir green poblanos, narrow yellow bananas, mid-green bells. We chopped and simmered, moving easily around each other in the comfort of old friends.
It is the last of our summer canning. Apple sauce yes, but that’s fall. Green tomatoes maybe as frost threatens. I’ve step out at night with the dog and smelled the cold already. When I get out of bed for my early morning writing, I pull on a sweater, slide into slippers.
Sunday was sticky and warm days are in the forecast for this week—summer hanging on, but the crispness of the days before, the days to come, it energizes me. I’m running more regularly and settling back into a better writing routine after a lack of summer schedule.
I am more motivated to do. But I take time still to sit outside writing, watching, reading, letting go of the weeds in the garden, letting go of my lists.
Later when my girls are in bed . . .
Tomorrow morning before they are up . . .
In the car after preschool drop off before I start work . . .
I’ll write.
I’ll describe this late summer day, the quiet in the house, the steady buzz of bees in the carpet of alyssum around the kale. I’ll shake off a morning meltdown or shift back my to my own kindergarten days, little snippets—red shoes, a yellow record, a batik project outside. I’ll start with the sensory details of making salsa and see where it takes me.
Take the time to write, to explore your ideas and memories, tap into creativity.
It’s Monday. Lunches to pack, school drop off, call with a client, meet the bus.
It’s Monday, and I’m taking time to write, creating a pocket of calm, holding space for myself.
I’m noticing my world in all its messy glory.
I’m capturing bits of today and harvesting memories, palpable, and sometimes as elusive as the potatoes I need to finish digging up.
I’m preserving the moments in words, filling notebooks as I fill my canning cabinet.
And I’m slowing down, savoring it all—even the chaos of a Monday morning.
You can too.
Take time for yourself. Notice your world. Write it. Join me and embrace your own abundance.
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.
Share It:
Share your writing in the comments, add a link to your blog, or email me at sarabarrywrites@gmail.com.
Get another writing starter—Summer Stories in 5 Minutes.
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 | Jul 9, 2014 | books, finding time, reading, summer
I signed my kids up for the summer reading program at the library today. K wants to log enough hours for a small stuffed dog. Last summer it was a hula hoop. I don’t remember prizes when I was kid. I do remember coloring 50 segments of a dragon poster, one for each book I read. I finished it easily. Now, reading 50 books (if I don’t count picture books read over and over) in a full year is a feat.
My current stack: a mix of memoir, YA, fiction, mystery, and writing guide
When my girls were infants, I read more than I expected. I was sitting for hours a day feeding a baby, and I could read while I did that. When K was a baby, I reread childhood favorites mostly: Little House on the Prairie, Little Women, A Little Princes, The Secret Garden . . . When E was born, I jumped around reading gardening and food books, memoirs, and mysteries. I read late at night when I should have gone to bed and during nap time and in the pale dark morning light. Then they grew and started to interact and move, and my reading slowed down again.
Still, I keep a stack of books by my chair. Usually at least one has one of E’s watercolor bookmarks in it. I read at night, and if it’s a particularly gripping book, I keep reading in any spare moment I can find. I had just wrapped up Unbroken before vacation, but the beach has not been book friendly to me for years.
Then came last week. My sisters stacked beach chairs and boogie boards in the car, while I made sandwiches and packed up the towels and sunscreen. I don’t know what made me do it, but I tucked a book in my bag, shoving it under a towel as though I didn’t want anyone to see it.
Last year, I couldn’t imagine ever reading at the beach again. And yet this year, I packed a book—and I read a chapter.
I chose carefully, mind you. Molly Wizenberg’s Delancey has short chapters. It isn’t deep or complicated. You don’t need to follow a complex narrative. It’s interesting but not so gripping you can’t put it down.
I read a chapter of a book at the beach, and it felt like a small miracle. I’m coming out of a time when I couldn’t imagine reading the beach or making dinner while my kids played outside or writing several times a week, all things that I’ve settled into this year.
Looking ahead to this vacation, I was excited to get a dose of the ocean. As I drove, I realized too that I was also looking forward to having help. My kids would run with their cousins instead of telling me they were bored. My sisters would deal with a meltdown while I got dinner on plates or send somebody back to bed while I organized stuff for the beach the next day. We’d all see what needed to be done and step in and do it. So even though I was still figuring out meals and changing the little girl who wet the bed, even though I was packing for the beach and finishing the grocery list, it felt like vacation. I got a little break. I laughed. I was in one of my favorite places with my clan. And I got to read.
What are you reading this summer? (Or what’s in your want to read stack?)
