A Letter to Myself

Did you know that you could write a letter and have it e mailed to your future self? I just learned this, and I think it is so cool. Check out how it works, here at http://www.futureme.org/

Learning this just made me want to write a bunch of letters to myself and have them delivered in the future, as a way of checking in on me and my goals! My friend and I are doing a challenge with each other to lose 14 pounds and read 14 books this year. I should write myself a future letter to be delivered in 9 months as a check in, a reminder!

What brought me to this site is a series of writing worksheets I am doing. My assignment was to write a letter to myself, reminding me why I fell in love with writing. To practice being vulnerable in my writing, I thought I would share it here.

A Letter to Myself

You had dreams of writing. The end result was not always clear, the path sometimes murky, but you had dreams of writing.

Do you remember that you wanted to go to Ryerson College to take a course in journalism? That is what you thought you wanted to do, be a journalist, interview people, and write inspiring stories. In the midst of writing your poems, and essays, you got confused, you fell in love for the first time, you wanted to run away more often than you wanted to stay. Always though, you had a journal, you had the words in your head, the songs written inside you like a blueprint waiting to come out.

Thanks to an domineering high school love, you never did go to Ryerson College. At some point you decided that you didn’t want to become a journalist because you didn’t want to write what other people told you to write about. You wanted to travel and so you became a Travel Consultant. While in that career, you once spoke to a travel journalist who convinced you that journalism was a tough way to make a living, and at times, difficult to make the words come together about a topic you had no interest in. So from there, you dropped the idea, you dropped the dream you half hearted imagined for yourself. There was a period of time you stopped writing altogether.

You changed, you grew, and you looked within. There were times you just ignored who you were becoming and just lived day to day to exist. Then you had a daughter and things began to change. You wanted to live your life in a way that she could respect, learn from, and admire. You wanted to lead by example. Only something happened. The universe both gave you a gift and took something away at the same time. This little girl was not “normal”, she was not “average”, and her chromosome pattern and her doctors told you this. You coddled her and protected her and in taking all the time to do so, you were losing the essence of you and who you wanted to become.

Now you have within you, this fire burning, and your love for writing has come back to you. Your love of poems and lyrics and essays and the way the truth has a way of unfolding when you begin to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard, is with you daily. Your end result and path seem a little clearer. You discovered a desire to write a book.

You now know that it was not about making a living writing, but living to write that story that was forming inside you, waiting for the right time to come out. You needed to live your life, have the gift of that beautiful girl given to you, and now you can write the rest of your story the way you always hoped it would unfold on the pages of the story called your life.

Photo courtesy of Namaste Cafe

I want you to remember that what you loved about writing was the way it made you feel less alone in a world where you felt only you recognized your surroundings. Your love of writing gave you a path to clear through all the clutter in your mind, and make sense of a lovely sweet girl...you, who grew up too fast, innocence taken, ideals that would never have effect. Writing helped you to come to terms with the life you created for yourself, and rip yourself from its grip. I want you to remember that writing was your survival mechanism, and within your words, is where you felt safe, fulfilled. In your writing is where you will realize your providence, find completion and learn be authentic to whom you are. I want you to remember that you were chosen for a life worth sharing, given a story worth telling. Now go on, write, and do it every day!

If you could write a letter to yourself, what would you say to yourself, NOW, or in the future? I hope when my letter comes back to me, I am writing every day and that my story is at least half way to being a book. Half way seems almost there.....almost.....

Thank you for stopping by!

Tannis

When Inspiration Comes

Inspiration.

 It taunts us. It lurks in the corners, hides in the shadows, quivers quietly in the corner, until it decides to come out and seize us.

Photo courtesey of Photobucket

 Sometimes, my inspiration comes in the middle of the night, and I need to get out of bed and write something down. Other times, inspiration taps on my shoulder, just when I need two more minutes to finish drying my hair. I have to put down my brush and go to the keyboard, because I know in those two minutes, my words could be gone. Inspiration does not wait. This I have learned the hard way, often not being able to take the moment to write something down that broke into my mind, words that bubbled up from my soul. Now I write my words down whenever I can.

Sometimes I beg inspiration to come to me when I need her the most. She doesn’t always listen, and then I need to try something new. Like the one time, for my Momoir Project writing course, my final essay was not coming together. I read my words out loud; and re read them over and over again. I hated what I had written; it seemed like such a chronological story, dry, boring, unfeeling. And unfeeling is the last thing my story should have been, because it is a story about something that made me feel every single day. Working with a deadline freaks me out sometimes! This was one of those times.

I decided to leave, the hours could count themselves down, I was not going to do it, and that was that. Inspiration was not listening to my begging, she would have no part of it, and I was frustrated with her! So I took myself to my friendly neighborhood Starbucks for a latte!

 This one is inside a book store, and you have no idea how many times I have gone without my pen and paper, or one of the 10 journals I have made for myself, only to find myself asking someone for paper, or going to the bookstore to buy yet another blank book! Today though, I was in search of something else, a photo book of my favorite musical artist, Prince. I found it, 21 Nights, a photo book from a 21 night tour in London. When I got home, I put in the Indigo Night CD that came with the book, and you know what happened, Inspiration, she came at me like a gale force wind, ripped through my insides, took up residence in my heart, and my pen hit my paper with a fury and out came my story. My Final Essay was written, yes, but so were the words in my heart that needed to just come out. I listened to Prince play his guitar, sing his beautifully written words, and he touched me. The gift of his music, gave me the gift of my written word. This day, Inspiration, she came to me through his music.

 

Today, I woke up brave. Today, thanks to my bravery, I decided to share my final essay. I hope you like it!

One

I was visiting a friend of mine who had just had her second baby, a beautiful girl, now little sister to her big brother Andy. For most of our visit, baby was snuggled next to her momma, in a wrap. Once she started to squirm, we knew our visit would be interrupted by feeding time. But all of us moms understand that it just happens that way and we have to be okay with that.

Once my friend was done with the feeding, she held out her new, bundled, warm and glowing baby girl to me, seemingly knowing that I would want to hold her. Perhaps any other day I would, but today I am caught off guard, overtaken with sadness and sorrow that has come out of nowhere and hit me in the gut like a baseball bat swung at full speed. Because I know I can’t be rude, indifferent uncaring, I take her swaddled baby girl in my arms and I try not to look at her. I distance my heart and close my mind and I fake it. I become that master of disguise I know so well. And after what I hope is an acceptable period of time, I hand her back to her momma and I speak my regrets, but I must go, time has moved so quickly!

As I linger at the door, to say farewell, speaking my genuine heartfelt thanks for the visit, oh it’s always good to see them, I can see in the distance, Andy totally entranced by his new baby sister. I cannot help but see the glimmer in his eyes, the pride, the joy, and I am taken aback.

I start up my vehicle and pull away, not even a few houses away and the tears swell in my eyes. A memory comes to me, so clear in my mind at that moment, as tears blur my vision. My memory goes like this...While driving home from tutor a few months earlier an exchange happened between me and my daughter.

“Mom, I can’t wait to be a big sister!” she says, a big smile on her face as she looks over at me.

“Mom, did you hear me?” she prods. She thinks that every statement she makes requires an instant reply, as though she asked a question. She never gives me more than a few seconds to say something in return, and a simple “uh huh” is never good enough, her pre teen mouth would say something like “you don’t even care!”

She had only given me a few seconds to respond to a statement in which I had no idea how to reply, and we were only minutes away from home, I had to be quick.

“Honey, I know you really want to be a big sister, but I don’t think that it’s going to happen. Sweetie, I just don’t think I will be having a baby now. In fact I definitely won’t be having a baby. I’m so sorry.”

As I looked at her, I could see the tears in her eyes. They sprang up in a hot second. I had never really said it to her so adamantly before, and I made a point of doing it this time, because frankly she has been asking since she could speak, even when I was alone, with no one to have a baby with! My heart just couldn’t handle her asking this of me again. I couldn’t lie to her again. I knew I was in trouble because I was turning down the street that was going to lead us to our house, and she needed more time. We parked in front of the house, she was crying now and this is the first time she has cried about this.

She asks me why, and my head sinks down. If I say I don’t know, it will not be good enough, it will not be the right way to handle it, but I don’t know what to say. I don’t want her to place blame, but I know in my heart that I do. I just don’t want her to. My internal struggle is so immense that I want to just lie and tell her I will think about it. How will she ever understand that he just doesn’t feel that a baby will fit perfectly into our lives? How can she ever forgive him for changing his mind, for thinking he is too old? How can I possibly help her understand it all, when I don’t, when I am still working on forgiveness and acceptance myself? How can I tell her how sorry I am that I was unable to give her what I promised her we would one day have? 

Instead I try to explain that Mommy is getting older (a lie I can’t even make myself believe), it is harder to have a baby when you get older, and our time has just passed. She is thinking now of the baby I miscarried 2 years ago, and I can see the hurt scrunching up her face, causing her lips to quiver. I let her cry a bit more, as I hold her hand, and then I hug her. We have been outside the house for a while now, and I tell her we should go in and I wipe her face. I kiss her cheek.

My mind is back to the present now, of sitting at the side of the road, tears stinging my eyes, causing my head to pound. This scene goes through my mind like I am re living it and the emotions take over me in a sweeping moment and I need to get home fast. I try to push it all from my mind, the softness of the blanket wrapped around my friends baby, the sweet smell of milk on her breath, the warm, wrinkled hands, nails just a bit too long, the tugging at my heart, the lump in my throat.

Once I am at home, I succumb to my sorrow, I want to feel this, I need to feel this, and I need to get it over with. I need to grieve. I want another baby so badly that I can feel my breasts swell, my belly expand, the warmth of breath on my neck, the strain in my arms from holding and rocking a little one longer than most would say is healthy. It is true what you see in the movies, sometimes your sorrow and sadness are so powerful that your legs cannot hold you and you crumble, you drop, you become a rubber mess and you collapse to the ground.

I bring forth to my mind, an evening like most that I could not fall asleep and when I did, I was awaken a short time later to a feeling that startled me. I could feel a leg, entwined with mine, and in a haze wondered what the hell? Then I realized, it was my daughter, she still likes to sleep with me sometimes. It is comforting for her, to be in my cozy bed with me, and I indulge her, because I like it just as much. But in this moment, I am startled awake and then shocked when I realize her leg is nearly as long as mine. She is sleeping on her back, her leg over mine, her hands above her head, her face tilted to one side, just like when she was a baby. I am awake now, and I listen to her breath, I touch the soft skin on her face, I move her mass of knotted curls away from her face. I remember a time when friends would tell me not to rock her to sleep, don’t lay down with her at bedtime, it will never end, she will never go to sleep on her own, don’t hold her too much. I listened to none of them. I rocked her as long as I wanted, I sang her to sleep in my rocking chair every night of her baby life and when she was big enough to be in a bed, I lay down with her every night to talk to her until I could hear her breath, slow and steady, into a sleep. Bedtime has always been our connection time, a review of our day, our time to be together in stillness. They were all wrong.

I am hit with the reality this night that she is growing up so fast. She is no longer even a little girl; she is a pre teen, consumed with thoughts of herself, raw emotions and so many questions. I will no longer rock her, cup her whole body against mine in one swoop as we snuggle together. This night, as I remember her as a baby, look at her in the dark, as I listen to her breathing in and out, I cry. I ache with the awareness, that there will only ever be one.

Thank you for stopping by.

Tannis

A Day of Feeling Full on Gratitude.

Gratitude.


I am feeling grateful today to a few people who have helped me, or inspired me along the way.

When I began my blog, I was not sure what all my reasons were in beginning this journey. I knew that it would all come to fruition at some point. What I do know now, is what I love about blogging. Here are a few of those things.

Community

 I have met a whole community of great bloggers, and writers alike. I have made invaluable online friends, and connections, worldwide. That is amazing to me! To think that I have written with and linked up with people from Canada, to the USA to the UK, all in a day’s work! People I admire, people who inspire me, people I enjoy connecting with!  These people have encouraged me, given me invaluable feedback and supported me, at times when it was difficult to find it close to home with friends, family and acquaintances.

Learning and Growth

Trying to build a blog is not an effortless thing to do. Creating a blog, updating it, learning about new buttons, current changes, updates to programs....not really my cup of tea. I am not the savviest person in the world when it comes to technology, I can hardly use my cell phone properly, and I don’t own an IPod, IPad or IPhone! Keeping up with two blogs, learning it all on my own, and with the help of some great blogging sites, I do an ok job of learning something new every day. I love the challenge that blogging offers, and I thrive on the knowledge that it is a never ending growth.

Documenting a Journey

Documenting our life on my blog will be a way for my daughter to know me, and read my thoughts and feelings, when the time is right. In my writing, she will ascertain how I view life, she will know how much I love her, she will learn about me, and my complexity.  I hope all of it will encourage her to be her own person and not conform to anyone’s vision of her, including my own.

I have had the pleasure of participating in writing groups, writing classes, writing challenges and online forums with some amazing people. Here are some links to just some of them. I am grateful to them, and I hope that you will enjoy their stories, their writings, what they have to offer.

Through the Momoir Project, I have shared the trial and error that comes with writing our stories. A few of us have been published here, and I wanted to share a few of my favorites, all though there are many more here if you check out the site.

A funny spin on getting your husband to pick up his own laundry – The Laundry Fairy. Oh, and getting “fancy”, or not! -  Time to get Fancy

A woman who inspires me with anything I have read of hers – A Room of My Own

How do you really answer the questions of lyrics sung by LMFAO – The Battle of LMFAO

The truth about real beauty – Smart and Beautiful

Don’t be in a hurry to let your kids grow up – Rushing Through the Baby Years

Please, come back to this page when you have time, save it to your favorites, click on the links, check out the sites, read the stories, they are really good. Honest, I would not stear you wrong!

Thanks for stopping by!

The Best Sandwich I Ever Ate

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but stop trying to be so original. Your genius is hiding in someone else’s ideas, someone else’s project.”

These are the written words I woke up to this morning as part of my writing challenge with Jeff Goins and his The 15 Habits of GreatWriters Challenge.

He encouraged us to steal, to lend our own spin of creativity on someone else’s idea. He told us to give up on our pursuit of originality and genius and just find inspiration.

I’m sure all writers do it, steal a conversation they over heard, and turn it into a topic idea, embellish someone else’s truth.  Maybe they listen to a loved one’s problem and turn it into a blog post. I remember clearly one of the times I stole an idea. I wanted to write a poem, but I was not feeling any particular pain or sadness, or the ethereal knowledge of some kind of love. I looked around the room I was in and saw a Harlequin Novel. I picked it up and flipped it over to read its synopsis. It was about a blind lover or something or other. I just know there was a blind person in the story and that’s all I needed. So I wrote a poem, I still remember...

Blind Lover

He cannot see my beauty

He cannot see the curls in my hair

He feels the softness of my skin,

He tastes the sweetness of my kiss.

He fills my mind, with thoughts, only of him.

Who is he?

He is my beautiful Blind Lover

I was thirteen, what the hell did I know? Stealing right, I think it is.

I have so many ideas for magazine articles swirling around in my head; I even have a list of topics that I keep. One day while having lunch outside with my family, flipping through my magazine, this is what happens. I turn the page; see the title, The Best Sandwich I Ever Ate, and in disgust I throw down my magazine and declare, “This wench stole my idea!” In fact she didn’t, The Best Sandwich I Ever Ate was still floating in my head and hadn’t even made it to a piece of paper yet! So you know what, because it’s my challenge of the day, I’m going to copy and I am going to write my own version of The Best Damn Sandwich I Ever Ate! Right Now, the one that has been dancing in my head for years, yes I said years! Here it goes! I may just leave out the damn though.

 

The Best Sandwich I Ever Ate

I’m in Phoenix, Arizona, for Spring Break of my 16^th year. We flew out here, my friend and I. This is our own little adventure. Her brother and his friend drove us across the U.S border to catch a flight from Fargo to Minneapolis and on to Phoenix. It is my first time on an airplane. We have a male flight attendant. He told us he was the pilot, and when the voice came over the speaker preparing us for take-off, he winked at us, acknowledging his playful little lie. I was scared shitless of crashing, but my friend held my hand!

I love the heat of Arizona, the big old cacti in the desert, the turquoise jewelry at every flea market, the thermal radiation you see when you look at the highway and the heat rises off of the tar. I love my friends Grandparents, who have taken us in for the week or so of Spring Break. I call them my Grandma and Grandpa, because I don’t have my own.

I tell you, this Grandma makes a mean tomato sandwich! I don’t know if tomatoes grow differently out here in Arizona, but they are sweet and succulent and if it’s at all possible, they taste like the lovely bright, hot red that they are! Grandma slathers them with full fat mayonnaise, on white soft bread. The bread is so soft, that when you bite down into this sandwich, the bread sticks to the roof of your mouth. She shakes more salt and pepper on than I know a mom would allow, and she passes the plate with her petite wrinkled hand with long painted nails and offers up a smile. We feast on this sandwiches almost daily for lunch.

I love our nights, spent just my friend and I, in the hot tub, smoking American cigarettes, in the warm, night air. We submerge our heads in the hot water, come up for a drag of our smoke, and belt out the lyrics to Sinead O Connor’s “Nothing Compares to You”, trying to mend our teenage broken hearts.

I dream sometimes of that perfect tomato sandwich, the best sandwich I ever ate, and I am thankful, for the taste in my mouth, the friendship that grew fast and turbulent, the love and adventure in my heart. I think sometimes that the best damn sandwich I ever ate had nothing to do with the sandwich at all.

I am a Writer!

I believe that if you tell a child they are dumb, they will grow up believing it.

I believe that if you tell your daughter she is beautiful, she will grow up believing it.

I believe that if you tell yourself that you can do it, you can do anything.

I believe that if you listen to that whisper buried deep somewhere, that chirps its words of doubt, you will have fear, and not try, or worse, not give your all.

I believe that if you tell yourself you have limits, you will not see your dreams come true.

I believe that if you tell yourself you are too old, that you become stagnant and dead inside.

I am taking part of a 15 day Challenge, with Jeff Goins, Writer.

 I found it a day late, so I am a day behind, but our first challenge you ask? Declare you’re a writer.        

I declare.....

That I am a writer.

I don’t care what anyone thinks, what they say, what they mumble under their breath, or if their own insecurities cause them to groan at me or spew something negative. I am a writer. You encourage, support and embrace me, or you don’t.

I believe that I am a writer.

I declared it. Challenge number one, complete!

I told my friend the other day, that one of the things that always annoyed me about myself, was that my brain just never seemed to SHUT the hell UP! It still annoys me, but I just realized that this was my way of telling my story. All of the things in my head were my way of writing. I would take every memory I had, conversations, anything of importance that happened in a day, and it would just stay somewhere cluttered in my brain. When I write it all down, in a story, in a journal, in an essay, in a blog post or a writing submission, it makes room, for the real story that needs to be told.

I know the challenges will become increasingly more difficult, but I am up for it!

If you think that you may want to join in on this challenge, you can do it! And this is where you need to go....Have fun with it!