Life is scary.

No fooling.

Things happen.
Shit.
Broken legs.
Dropped stitches.
Missed planes.
Car accidents.
Death.
Uprisings.

I know it.
I know you have it all going on in your life, just as I do in mine.
And, up on that banner across the top of this website it reads: “Laundry Line Divine: Seeing and Celebrating the Sacred in Daily Life”.

I guess I better put my money where my mouth is.

This week has been harrowing for the Baum family.
Today we celebrated one week from a hellish day at Albany Medical Center. Last Sunday we spent the day helping our 17 year old traverse the agony of a broken leg in a temporary splint, numerous transfers from bed to gurney and back again for x-rays and cat-scans and the long minutes of waiting for the swelling of his left shin to go down.
It was not an easy day.

But, time has passed.

The week has turned to February. The sky is lighter at 5 pm so I can ice skate at twilight. I scared the crap out of myself today. Let’s say I am still a little jumpy. Iced lakes make a sound not unlike a whale singing below the ocean surface- this deep, resonant twanging. Skating over glassy ice in the moonlight, velvet lavender ice sparkling then- BWOOOONNNNNG. The majestic sound of ice layers forming and the pressure changing across the inner surface of the ice booms across the sublime scene. I knew I would not fall in the water. To a lake skater, this sound is good.

But to an uber-alert Mom who has returned to infant style vigilance when every sound emitted from my son’s bedroom is a possible cry for assistance, I leapt out of my skin.

I let my heart slow down. I have felt the steady beat of my heart so much this week. I felt it race as I nearly hit the Ortho Resident for humiliating my suffering son by telling him to “man up”. I felt my heart then. Holding my son’s head as he screamed in pain as they put him in that first splint. I felt my heart then. Cuddling Ben today as he hugged me close to thank me for restocking his snack tray, I felt my heart then, too.
At the lake’s edge, I watched the moon shimmer.
I breathed gratitude for being alive.
And I headed home to write to you.

We are celebrating creativity in these early months of 2012. This is my work in the world. The Blog Series for ‘Out of the Mouths of Babes’ has 5 posts queued up for this week as more women step up to share their stories. I am so glad Linda Jackson, Sherry Collier, Shari Simpson, Kelly DiNorcia, and Lissa Rankin have posted.

It is not easy to rustle up the time or the appetite to do something other than parent when your arms are wrapped up in meals and care. Wiping and rinsing and brushing and peeling, hanging and sorting and folding and driving and running and debating and arguing and settling and admonishing and reminding and leading and modeling and paring and steeping and sweetening and badgering and cosseting and lacing and racing all just sucks up the hours and who the heck has time to thread the sewing needle anyway?

Legions of women before us out of sheer necessity, spent hours creating things for themselves and their families from materials they may have grown or raised, creating things that would comfort, clothe or cover their children and spouses.

This week’s ‘Out’ blog post by Linda Jackson reveals her connection to her mother and generations of women who have handled fiber. The thread of inventing beauty and utility connects all Linda’s diverse passions.

These antique textiles are from a show I saw at the Chicago Art Institute two weeks ago.

I have carried around this quote for years from Jennie June, a well known American needle worker who said this in 1880:

The little worktables of women’s
fingers, are the playground of
women’s fancies, and their
knitting needless are the
fairy-wands by which they
transform a whole room in to
a spirit isle of dreams.

I want to have an authentic conversation about mothering and creativity. According to Jan Phillips in her extraordinary book No Ordinary Time

“ If someone doesn’t go first, how will authentic conversations ever get started?”

I know it is fun to recall the hours I spent frosting Christmas cookies with my kids. We have all had those wondrous moments creating things with our children. But what I am calling out for here is what is birthed from the deeper places in your soul, the works that cry out to you in the middle of the night.
On one particular needy afternoon this week, Ben could not go for more than 20 minutes or so without me being near him. Pain, distraction, discomfort, warmth, drink- he just needed my company through it all.

I knew this was a temporary state of affairs. I will not be wiping my son’s chin for more than a few more days as he gets stronger and more confident in this new way of being. But, I was torn from my desk; from the slim momentum I had gained in stringing one thought after another. And I was angry.

I could not vent this on him. I would not even leak it to him. But it reminded me of the days, months and years of my early mothering in which this was the case twenty-four seven, even when I had child-care and a supportive husband. I still had to be back on time. I could not slip the yoke of responsibility from my neck permanently.

Mothers have fear that they will never, ever think a complete thought again. You get interrupted. You get distracted. You forget. One of the gifts of this week with Ben and re-entry into such demanding parenting is this thought: With young children, or in my case, time soaking teen agers, a mother has thoughts, but they are erased by distraction, stress, weary brains and bodies. You fear the worst, that you will forget the thread of that magic equation and you do in fact, lose it. How could you possibly hold on to it with the noise of your life diluting your essence?

This is where any connection to creativity comes as saving grace.

Your creativity is the string upon which the jewels of your authentic essence are strung. Your insiders story from the front lines of mothering- that soul food- is what we are able to serve through our acts of creativity.

I don’t wish this week of my life on anyone. I am aware that things could have been so much worse. I am thankful with every breath a prayer that we will all recuperate from this time and perhaps are stronger for it. We certainly will know each other better.

But, I would not exchange this chance of being intimately close to my son again. I am so very sorry he has to suffer this pain, this major time-out of his junior year in high school. And I will press in to my heart these moments of humor borne in vulnerability, of rousing joy at simple progress and the quiet peace of him healing under our care.

I could not have done this without my cell level mission that is Laundry Line Divine. I do see and celebrate the sacred in daily living.
In the ordinary and mundane.
In ambulances and emergency rooms.
On ice slicked evenings with the moon at my toes.

Write on.
Love, S

This snowless winter has not failed to pile drifts of inertia around my legs.
I want to crawl back in to bed on these gray mornings.
Hibernation. I hear my dear friend Anne Davin tell me January is time to hibernate.
I am healthy. I am well. I am not depressed.
I have taken stock of the past year.
I have stored the seeds of my desires for this New Year, this new year of the dragon-though for me it feels like the year of the squirrel. I host visions of a petite gray furred creature encircled in a nest of oak leaves, sleeping out the windy days in a high treetop.

Knowing that I had work to do today, that napping was an option, I took the morning more slowly than usual. I did not jump on to my computer. I let myself stay in my jammies. Thursdays are my art day. My husband and I have arranged ourselves around this day being the one day of the week where phone calls, appointments, music lessons, SAT prep class arrangements, pizza runs for late night paper writers, laundry duties and all the rest are handled by him. We have a life that has room for this. Jonathan’s office is in our attic. He is very disciplined when it comes to time, so, for one day a week, he makes this work.
When I say Jonathan is my hero, you now know just what I mean.

It came to me this quiet morning that I could treat myself as I would treat my best friend. No hurrying. No pressure to produce. Lots of tea.

I sat in my red chair by the window. This is the place where I write early in the morning, where I conduct my long phone calls, where the dome of silence is almost visible, where I can look out over our yard at crow’s eye level. My red chair is my crow’s-nest on my ship of dreams. There I sat and read this by Jan Phillips as the steel ceilinged morning passed me by.

“…I remember that I owe my creative spirit all the time and tenderness I would give my dearest beloved. One is as precious as the other.”

Now, at the later end of this day where rain has begun to fall, lowering the moods of the skiers in my household, I have risen to the occasion of some creating today. My Arthouse Sketchbook project is coming together. Here is one of the pages I have prepared to write in to. The title, which was given to me, is ‘Forks and Spoons’.
I cannot get away from the ordinary things that make our lives extraordinary. I love that.

What sustains me on days like today, where the momentum of all my projects stills and the energy that is my normal operating speed has slowed by winter grabbing my ankles and thickening blood, is this comfort. Being tender with myself today has made it possible to show up here with you and ask:

What sustains you?
What is it you would do for your best friend today?
Could you possibly do that very thing for yourself?

I listened to a recorded call while I worked at my art table. Sage Levine of Women on Purpose interviewed
Reverend Deborah Johnson about intentional living.
Rev. Johnson said this:

God has given you custody of you.

I have taken custody of myself today. I am my very own best friend.
And, I am taking me to bed.

Tell me more.
What sustains you in the bleak mid-winter?

Thank you for being here,
All my love,
S

PS There are some wonderful things happening on Out of the Mouths of Babes.
Tomorrow, Sherry Collier’s post goes up. Monday, Linda Jackson’s post arrives.
Next week, more amazing women will appear. You are encouraged to visit the blog and comment. Let these long gray days be filled with inspiration from other women.

PPS. If you want to read an absolutely beautiful piece on the power of women’s friendships, read this. Thank you Emily Rapp.

Mary’s line of poetry is the title of my manifesto. That is as far as I have gotten.

If you asked me today, what I am all about, I’d have to pause, take a deep breath and ask you to listen to a few stories about where I am from and who I have become in my 53 years on the planet. Reading this linked post at Lake Superior Spirit will tell you a lot about where I am from.http://upwoods.wordpress.com/2011/07/22/a-person-who-is-heading-north-is-not-making-any-mistake-in-my-opinion-stuart-little/

What I am about on this chilly day in the Berkshires where winter has slammed in early and taken down trees and shrubs and how about all the birds, is I am an artist, blogger, author and full time Mom. Heavy on the Mom part today as Ben is home sick with something he is sharing with a few friends, who are also home sick. So, I am a woman, often interrupted, digging deeper with my paddle to stay on course on this my full work day in my studio while my husband covers the kids and driving and dinner and phone calls.

I am sitting here with the space heater going and fingerless gloves on writing.
Thinking.
Knitting.
Getting ready to make my collaborator a post card.

Maybe you could say I am a juggler?
No, I know a juggler, my Roger the Jester. He juggles. I do something else.

Maybe you could say I am a connector?
Like the train lines that connect one route to another- hey, like the S train that runs from Grand Central to Times Square in NYC.

I am like that, country mouse and city mouse.
I live in both worlds, occupying one more than the other at present, with this rural small town life filling my days with people I love and the busy lives of my teenagers.

My whole life I have thrilled by connecting with others.
I have written about this here before, but to this very moment, I delight in getting to know what others do and how or who I might connect with them to expand our togetherness. Professionally this means that when someone recommends me meeting someone, I sit right down to make that happen. Tomorrow I get to have lunch with a writer who is new to the Berkshires. A mutual friend connected Alison Larkin and me. Both of us are mothers and writers, we have much to share.

This summer, in June at the International Women’s Writing Guild conference, I met and fell in awe and delight with Jan Phillips. The honor of knowing her as a colleague is such a thrill to me. Jan said this:

“Recall your soul’s mission and do that better and better every day. When you experience joy, you know you are there.”

Connecting brings me great joy.
It requires listening.
It requires knowing who I am in order to stand in my value as a potential collaborator with the Divine, every single day.
This mission brings me unending joy and the best, long to-do list.

On this day, as I honor the birthday of my friend Jill Rogers of The Seven Sacred Steps, I celebrate being a connector.
If you’d like to connect more, in your daily life, take a moment and notice what you yearn for, then say yes the next person who offers it to you. If no one is offering what you want, go find someone to give that very thing to. Okay, an example? I yearn to do yoga with a group of seasoned yoga people for whom the practice can be quiet and deep. I have not found that group yet, but I have begun sharing a short practice with the women I do a cardio workout with twice a week.

Here is a photo of me connecting. The 2 women pictured with me had just met that day. The woman in the center is my dear Betty Burkes, one of my longest time friends and my sister from another mother. Next to her is our new friend, Marj Hahne, who I met at the IWWG conference in June. The 3 of us were on Cape Cod at the same time. Our conversation flowed. I knew we are each women who enjoy knowing each other and what we are about. We scurried over the obstacle of newness briskly.

I hope this post finds you wondering about making one connection for yourself today.
What do you yearn for?
Would you dare ask it of someone?

Like Mary Oliver and her ‘acts of adoration’, I honor this day and all that brought me to this moment with you.
Thank you for your time,
Love,
S

Today is a perfect laundry day here in the Berkshires.

I was just about to turn my Sabra Field calendar to July when I realized I had not really seen the gorgeous print of laundry that was the illustration for June. How perfect that I saved it for this moment of recognition. As we say at the School of the Womanly Arts, my timing is perfect and elegant.

So I felt when I read Jan Phillips’ Museletter that arrived at 1:00 pm today. I found this quote:

“This is what you shall do; Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.”

Walt Whitman, Preface to Leaves of Grass

Do you see the line about ‘mothers of families’?

I had just booted Ben and his compatriots out of the house to take a jump in the lake. They were, as likely millions of kids are today, sitting in front of a video screen. Now, I can tell you ‘til sundown of my son’s amazing accomplishments in all things non-electronic. And, he has a few electronic passions that I have no bones with, but on a sunny day, I believe, like Walt Whitman said, you have to “love the earth and the sun”. That, I believe, is best done out of doors.

Which brings me back to the laundry. It almost always does, right?

I stood outside yesterday pinning up half a year’s worth of the red and orange dishtowels and napkins that have sat next to the washer waiting for such a day as this. The pumpkin napkins from last October, the Halloween napkins, the holiday reds shot through with gold, they’d all patiently waited for the humidity to drop and the sun to promise a long ride across a blue sky.

Such a day as yesterday, the 4th of July it was. I could have been cooking up a picnic, but I hate picnics. I don’t like fussing with food, packing it to unpack it, then eat it and pack it all up again to go home and unpack it and wash it all and put it all away. Couldn’t we just have a sandwich and call it a picnic? My family differs with me on this topic.

We did arrive at the lawn at Tanglewood with a warm apple pie. No, I had not a speck of flour on my palms. Just the touch of the secret smile of a woman who remembered the frozen apple pie in the freezer at just the right moment in order to thaw and bake it to carry. Then, to serve it to hungry 16 year olds and a few men taller than that, placed on their palms the handiwork of a pie baker on a fine summer evening. Not bad for a woman who hates picnics.

However it is that you come to do the work you love, whether in a workshop with Jan Phillips, with Jill Rogers and The Seven Sacred Steps or at MamaGena’s School of the Womanly Arts, whether in ‘hating tyrants or dismissing whatever insults your soul’, you must, we all must take up our work like our hair is on fire. It is on fire. This Planet and all it’s passengers rely on each of us speaking our truths and doing the work we were born to do. I know it is not easy, what I am asking of you, but it is possible.

Mary Oliver said it this way: “My work is in loving the world”. When you read her poems you will see, ah ha, yes, there she is, loving the world with her senses and in each exquisite line of poetry she writes down every day.

If you need help figuring out what that means for you, please take yourself outside. Read a bit of Walt Whitman or Jan Phillips or Mary Oliver or whoever tickles your fancy, but let yourself be inspired. Be inspired by the house wrens making a nest or the flight of one male cardinal in pursuit of another.

“…your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.”

I bow to you each on this fine summer day.
Thank you for stopping at my Laundry Line and for appreciating the beauty of Sabra’s line, too.

xo S

Adoration is the essential preparation for right action.

Evelyn Underhill

I am at the International Women’s Writing Guild conference here in New Haven. I get woken up in the Silliman dorms by the neat tap tap tapping of construction workers out at 6 a.m. every morning. Here in the shade of an enormous copper beech tree, my tiny room is a perfect retreat for me. This is my first time attending this summer conference, long recommended to me by my Journey Women writing group led by Jan Lawry. I am at summer camp!

I have read, written, listened and shared since Friday night with momentum and enthusiasm. I am not hanging back long to wait for others to speak. I am polite, but not reserved, sharing what I unearth through the writing prompts I get in any one of the 4 classes a day that I attend.

Just today, with Jan Phillips, who is the main reason I am attending this gathering, we were asked to pair up. I happened to be sitting next to the only man in the room. Now, don’t worry about him. Tim is here with his wife and from what I can tell, feels quite welcomed among the 200 or so women in attendance. I am not sure what would happen if more of his kind wanted to participate, but he, tall like an elegant crane has the manners of a prince. We asked each other:
1. What are you drawing attention to in your life, in your work?
2. What energy or intention are you trying to inspire?
3. What challenges you?
4. What fuels you?

How would you answer these questions?

My dear readers likely know that my answer to the first question would fall in the zone of “shining light on the mundane aspects of life and finding the jewels within them”.

You know that I am seeking to inspire each of you to find those very jewels in your own life, to see the hand of the Divine in even the most troubling of circumstances that you might transform by your openness to wonder.

You know, perhaps, that I am challenged by my massive self-doubt. It is no secret to me that I have never been published anywhere but in parent newsletters at my kids’ school and fear that I will never ever be published elsewhere.

And you would know what fuels me is communication, with the Divine. With myself. With my husband. With my friends. Sharing fuels me. Play fuels me. Sleep. Being outside. Swimming. Swinging on swings. Smiling, greeting, being greeted fuels me.

Tell me, what does fuel you?

Here in this month of June Beauty I have been singing “Firework” loud and louder. I am struck over and over again by the shiny light coming from the most unlikely people. And I love to see and celebrate that light.

Find someone who crosses your daily rounds tomorrow and shine your light on them. Notice what happens, who smiles back at your glorious grin. What happens when you shine your light?

Love, S

Hand Marbled Paper

may for once spring clear
without my contriving.

If this is arrogant, God, forgive me,
but this is what I need to say.
May what I do flow from me like a river,
no forcing and no holding back,
the way it is with children.

Then in these swelling and ebbing currents,
these deepening tides moving out, returning,
I will sing to you as no one ever has,

streaming through widening channels
into the open sea.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~

(Rilke’s Book of Hours:
Love Poems to God, translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy)