The Phoenix: Epicuriousmothering Rising

(Sample of my favorite outfit . . . ) This journey of mine began months ago, in the spring, when I would wake up nearly every morning feeling . . . discontent. I was always mystified because I'm the first to admit that my life is good.  Really good.  But still each morning I'd wake up and feel sad.  I'd go in my closet, put on my running or yoga clothes (I do one or the other every day) and look at myself in the mirror and think, Blah.   Then I'd go my work out and come back and not feel any better for it.   I didn't like what I saw in the mirror.   I hate this part.  I feel all sorts of shame and wrongness, but I'm going for the full honestly and so I'll say, I really didn't like the getting old me.  If I wanted to lose five pounds even two years ago, I'd up my mileage and cut out sugar.  Boom.  Five pounds gone.  Then back to eating whatever I wanted. And so on and so forth.  It was easy maths. But then things started changi

Every year my Buddhist brother-in-law goes on this two week (I think) silent retreat.  For two weeks you don't way a word, you spend your days, hours upon hours sitting indian style on a cushion and meditate (meaning clear your head of every thought).  You eat in silence.  You sleep in silence (but what if you're a sleep talker . . . Phoebe would get booted like the first night.  She carries on long conversations in her sleep).  During these two weeks, my brother in law gets lots of mental work done.  He works through things and sees the world better and more clearly. I envy him. Well, I envy a day of silence. But the idea of it . . . oh the idea of having time like that . . . seems lovely.  But then I remember that being on a Silence Retreat means I can't talk  . . . and then I realize, well, that would be hard. I may last a day. Ok, maybe like five hours of silence.  I'm a chatty Cathy.  I would be kicked out by day two for sure. And so when I REAL

My Day in Numbers 54 pints and 2 1/2 quarts of salsa. 3 hours of horrid nightmare plagued sleep. 1 dark run 1 very loudly sick teenager 3 medicine pills taken 2 kids off to school 1 child at home . . . loudly sick.  45 minute basement session of Choga (chatty yoga) 1 different walk/run/therapy session with friend 1 very quick shower (3. 45 minutes) 1 stop 5 minute at Called to Surf for dress . . . 23 minutes later, one dress bought 1 fast (that wasn't really fast . . . I love this store) trip to Target 1 daughter moved into a new (to her) apartment 67 near misses while moving said daughter into very under construction apartment 1 new great nephew met (and utter and completely fell in love with) 3 different foods picked out and eaten at Ikea Cafeteria (veggie balls were my favorite . . . go figure) 29.4 items purchased for new apartment in a 27 minute check out line. 2 frozen yogurts and hot dogs consumed 9.8 times I almost fell asleep drivi

So it's 10:39pm and I've got about 24 quarts of salsa waiting to process (the steaming/bubbling stuff you do so that all the germs are dead and gone and no one gets sick eating it years from now).  My house smells amazing.  Sometimes too amazing. I've cried three times today when I bent over the bubbling salsa to check the consistency and got a big old whiff of delicious peach, onion, garlic, jalepeno magic. Holy Hannah.  It's strong.  And that's just how you want it.  Only, don't stick your face over the pot right as it begins to boil. You might get a little too much.  Just a friendly little tip for when you're canning. (If you want the recipe, it's amazing, and I'll totally share it with you.  If you live close, I'll totally come help you.  And if you live far away and want advice, I'll totally take your FaceTime call . . . though, I often don't shower/dress until 3pm or 4pm so just be warned . . . I may not look so pretty).

I'm sure I mentioned this before, but I'll mention it again . . . just in case . . . as a child, I was somewhat riddled with anxiety.  Like I woke up each morning convinced that this day was my last.  My poor mother.  Bless her heart for dealing with my crazy. At some point, maybe around 12 or 13 I begin to realize that this daily terror was affecting my life (yes, it took me a minute).  Everyone around me seemed to get into cars without the least worry.  They'd leave their love ones daily and not fear and tremble that it would be the last time they'd lay their eyes on their dearly beloved.  Not to mention, they did fun things . . . like all the time.  They biked, swam, ate adventurous food, and well . . . lived.   Now, I'm going to get side tracked for a second, and mention that my fears were founded on fact.  My brother was seriously injured in front of me, my mother got ran over as I watched (both stories for another time), and literally everything

So this is me and my sister, Annie B.  Note our natural state.  We are in this photo about to embark on a week of showerless existence.  I woke up that morning and said to myself, Let the week of no make up, no hair do, lots of wet wipes, and prayers begin. I may have been a little excited about it (and the fact that I can take photos with my watch as a timer . . . holy. cow.  I mean, look at these awesome shots I got of me . . . yes, you are welcome to laugh your head off at them.  I do).  but really . . . aren't they a little awesome?  I mean . . . look at those jumps! So we camped. We hiked.   We biked (a lot). We saw bears (if you look really careful you'll see him too . . . Finn biked right by him about a foot away . . . Hello, Bear.  You're cute.  But I'm still scared of you). We cooked (and it was hard.   Bear boxes . . . BEAR BOXES will be the death of me.  Honestly, my phone tracked a mile I walked during one dinner.  I literally work