This week it has hit home, that not only does it take a village to raise a family, but it takes an entire city to make creative endeavors a reality. I am continually blown away by those willing to step into my chaotic life and help me achieve forward momentum. Men and women alike. Thank you does not seem to sum it up, but I am ever thankful!
So I ask, who makes up your village?
There are two kinds of people in this world. Okay. Maybe more than two, but for the moment, there seem to be two categories in my life. Those that suck energy and those that give.
The time suckers, for the most part, tend to be an obvious part of my life — no matter how much I love them.
But then there are those, who I strive to surround myself with. Without a doubt, they give me energy in abundance by just being in their presence. To sit with them, sip coffee, and hear of their own whirlwind of creation and brilliance, helps to manifest my own creative tendency. It’s contagious. Enlightening. Energetic.
So I ask, who gives you energy?
Simple, right? One word.
One single, solitary word to encompass what 2013 will mean to you. (Although, highly over-rated if the people in the blog atmosphere have anything to say about it.) But I like it. It’s simpler than a New Year’s resolution. Resolutions almost always gets broken — just ask the people who signed up for gym memberships the first of this month.
I’d look for a word last year, but couldn’t quite land on it, but now I’ve got it. I’ve got it, people! So my word, you ask?
Kick-ass!
In an enlightening banter with a friend, I found it tangible, straight forward, and it matches wholeheartedly what is awakening inside of me.
So I ask, what is your word for the New Year?
I have to say, before kids, I never understood why Mom’s couldn’t get their kids hair brushed, or their clothes matching, or their unruly behavior in line. It baffled me.
I would stand in the grocery check out and watch mothers try to contain their kids, their noise, their attitude — with little success mind you — while their kids hair was standing on ends, still dressed in his or her jammie-joes.
Honestly, I didn’t get it. I didn’t get it, until I had kids of my own.
And now, I find it a slight miracle if their hair gets brushed in the morning, and an Oscar worthy performance if they brush their teeth AND dress in clothes that are at least a step up from jammie-joes.
And shopping, well, that’s a whole different battle. I find I’m more willing to tolerate “the look” from the women who have yet to be moms — like I once naively was.
So I ask, are you “that kind of mom?”
A few weeks back, I was having a marketing pow-wow with Ken Grant over at MotivatedBranding. Toward the end of our conversation, he pointed his finger at me and asked in his lilting Aussie accent, “Do you have an ego?”
My reply took all of a split second, laced with what I can only imagine was a snort of disbelief as I stuttered through my latte. “No! I’m as easy going as it gets.”
He barked out a laugh and replied even quicker, “Bulls*#*! Of course you do. What do you think an ego is?”
My quick definition came out something like, “Self-centered, egocentric, sorry ‘males,’ who need to fill every room they walk in with the power of their presence.”
Quietly, he said in conspiratorial tone, “Courtney, it’s you. Your identity. Who you believe you to be — who you decide to be when you get dressed in the morning. It’s inside of you. Only you.”
Needless to say, I couldn’t shake the question after our time together, and immediately found myself asking friends and family, “Do I have an ego?”
Because, in that instance, I felt a shift with this question — something that whispered my “ego” shapes me from the inside rather than the influence of egos radiating out of others.
So I ask, do you have an ego?
I am recognizing a pattern with my 7-year-old son. A familiar pattern that harkens back to my own childhood. Where the smallest kernel of an idea turns into a wild tiger and all you can do is hold tight to the tail and ride out the uninhibited passion until the next big idea comes along.
It’s as simple as seeing a bug collection, and Rylan insists on starting his own collection—immediately, in the dark, with a make-shift box in one hand and a flashlight in the other. He sees explosions on Myth Busters and suddenly I find him armed with test tubes and ingredients that make me cringe and reach for the mop. He gathers rope and some wood, and insists we build a multi-tiered tree house that can be inhabited by our entire family and dog.
It’s refreshing. It’s contagious. It’s exhausting. And yet, it makes me hopeful that I too, can shake loose the inhibitions instilled with age and hold tight to the thrashing tiger without thought or care.
So I ask, when was the last time your enthusiasm was unbridled?
Shhhh. Do you hear that? Wait. Wait.
Now. Right there. Do you hear it? Me neither. I hear nothing. Nada. Zilch. Do you know why? Because those cute little munchkins have finally left the building and returned to school! Phew!
So, cheers to me as I regain some sort of routine back and take a minute to “Dance to Joy Division!”
Happy Monday, everyone!
I’ve never been accused of being an outdoorsy kind of gal, and the trace amounts of green on my thumb can barely be detected with a magnifying glass, so honestly, I have no idea what possessed me to sign-up.
It was an “in the moment” kind of thing, but sign-up I did, for the “Survivor Mud Run”. The goal you ask? “Three and half hellish miles peppered with twenty-two obstacles,” so the website touted.
The morning weather started off gray, but as we pulled into the staging area, the gray took a back seat to the party atmosphere that swirled through the air, disguising the seriousness of this “athletic endeavor.” And costumes, I cannot begin to describe all the crazy costumes.
I was not alone, though. This was a group event. There were eight of us huddled together at the starting line — eight of us who will forever be bonded together by mud. (Left to right in top picture: Kyla, Alison, Cortney, me, Lisa, Tami, Erin, Julia.)
The gun went off (ok, a fog horn), and we ran, we climbed, we crawled, we hurdled and slid, but most of all we laughed. We laughed our asses off. Because what else can one do when climbing over precariously placed logs, not knowing if the puddles on the other side will be three inches or three feet deep.
The beer and smiles at the end attest to the fun had by all. And yes, you will see me rolling in the mud again next year.
So I ask, will I see you?
Chivalry is an interesting concept to me.
For example, how does “chivalry” align with “pro-feminism”? Have men been scared into thinking that the mere action of opening a door for a woman will only win them a disapproving look of wrath? Or are women so capable, that to help one hoist heavy items into her car is more of a distraction than a necessary need? Maybe chivalry is generational? Are the younger generations even instilled with the concept that a woman should be treated with extra kindness and, well, chivalry?
Can you guess where this is leading?
I was at home depot. The man’s mans store. My purchase? 24 bags of mulch spread out over two trips. I was solo, pulling the bags off the pallets and dropping them onto my flat cart. And then I pushed. And pushed. Leaning over, picking up momentum, and pushing harder, to get my cart to the front of the store.
Along the way, these are the comments I received from men:
Male #1: “Wow. Looks heavy.” His arm was in a sling and he was standing next to his wife, who offered, “Our kids are at home, so they will be helping us.” I looked in their carts. Two carts. One filled with a half dozen flowers and a small bag of soil. The other (the man’s cart) held exactly one item: a weed-wacker. Power tool — not surprising.
Male #2: Also with his wife, standing in line at the register. “You sure picked the wrong day to come by yourself.” His smile was friendly, but that was where it ended. I smiled and nodded in agreement.
Male #3: I’m not sure if he really counts, but as I pushed my heavy cart out the doors toward the parking lot, a little old man drove at an agonizing slow pace, forcing me to pull my forward momentum to a halt. I waited as he looked at all the flowers in front of the store from the comfort of his vehicle. When he finally noticed me, he gave me a toothy smile and a little wave, and continued to roll his car at the same slow pace.
Male #4: Now this was the most curious to me. (A quick side note before I continue: For my trips to Home Depot, I borrowed my neighbor’s truck. She is a Medic for the Seattle Fire Department, and as such, has the distinctive fire department sticker in the back window.) I was dragging and hoisting bags of mulch from my cart to the back of the truck — a definite layer of perspiration gathering on my brow, when a gentleman, about my age wanders by, and actually says, “Glad to know our finest stay in shape.”
Really?
So I ask, is chivalry dead?
The day after I wrote this post, I had returned to Home Depot in need of 10 more bags of mulch. (I tell you, I should get some sort of prize for all this yard work!) I was pulling my 1st bag off the pallet, when I heard, “Can I give you a hand?” Tony! Tony with the beautiful smile and friendly disposition, not only offered to load my cart, but he also helped me load it in my car! I knew it! Chivalry is not dead!
