IT'S NOT YOU, IT'S ME. NO REALLY, IT'S ME.

This probably won't come as a surprise, but I love hosting parties and dinners, the prep work, the cleaning, the staging, the whole enchilada. I, more or less, exited the womb as a retiree. I wanted to be a grown up as soon as I could comprehend what the hell that meant. No slight to my parents, but I couldn't wait to move out and take care of a house. As a little girl, I had them remove my bed and put the pull out sofa in my room, so it felt like an "apartment." I never connected with cartoons, instead preferring the likes of Mork and Mindy and Laverne and Shirley. I played games like "teacher", and "librarian", and "waitress." A real hoot and holler of a kid. You can imagine all the raging fun that goes on in our house now that I actually am an adult. My poor husband and children. I'm not that bad, it just has to be "clean" fun, as in literally clean. Reading books, favorite activity. 

I digress from my original point. Hosting shit. There's an element of planning, always a win in my book, and then you have the execution which, without a doubt, floats my boat. I'm a bit of a raging bitch in the final moments, because of the self induced pressure to perform, but it's nothing that Sean can't handle with a swift removal of the children for a long drive in the car until I've wrapped up. He's learned that one can find something pleasurable and want to continue doing it, even while appearing to not be enjoying the process. Most of all, he's learned it's best not to point that part out. Just take the kids and get in the car. Don't come back until the floor is washed and my hair is dry. Then I pour myself a little glass of wine, and I'm a pleasure to be around. I'm in it for the build up and the slow unfolding. Love. It. 

So, this retiree by nature wasn't something I was aware of until the last few years. Obviously, the older I've gotten, the older I've become, as in at 20, I was probably akin to a 35 year old. Now, at 40, I'm like 60. That math doesn't work, but it's an accelerated process as you age, says me. Anyway, I assumed everyone was like me, as I think most of us do until we realize differently. 

This caused internal struggle for me, because I was going above and beyond, on the regular, and not noticing much, if any reciprocation. My first assumption was that people didn't like me. We're not just talking about cooking dinners, this is friendships, boyfriends, husbands, you name it. If I was going to all this trouble for them, and they weren't responding in kind, they must not care much about me one way or the other. I think I spent a good decade rolling around in that assumption. 

It took a long while for me to realize a couple pretty imperative things. 

Everyone is not like me. And, praise be for them, because it's a hell of a lot of work. Beyond that, they aren't really even giving me much thought. We're all pretty damn wrapped up in our own existences. Sure, we talk a lil' shit here and there about each other, but the amount of energy put in pretty much ends there, and if it doesn't, whatever your hang up is about someone else, it probably has more to do with you than them. Time for you to do some uncomfortable soul searching.

The other crucial realization I had was that I wasn't doing shit for anyone else, making elaborate dinners from scratch wasn't an ode to my guests. Bringing my husband breakfast in his office and reorganizing his closet wasn't for him. It was for me. I was doing it because I wanted to and enjoyed the process. Whether it's appreciated or reciprocated is neither here nor there. The minute I took that bit out of the equation was the moment I upped my enjoyment factor even more. It removed pressure and the possibility of resentment. 

A book that really moved me along in this process was "The Four Agreements" by Don Miguel Ruiz. I can't stress enough what an important read this is if you are a human. No one is immune from the lessons within. I read it a couple times per year, because I require constant reminders of how to operate without resentment. If you're a giver, this is a must do for you as well. 

Taking a long hard look at yourself hurts sometimes, most times, but the growth that you stand to gain makes every ounce of pain worth it. It's so easy to point the finger at the other. I've done plenty of it. Ultimately, how we respond to our experiences is what shapes our world. Taking responsibility for our perspective is empowering and it is, hands down, one of the best gifts we can give to ourselves.

-Angi 

THE BALANCING ACT BETWEEN PROGRESS AND GRATITUDE.

Oh man, this trip to Bali has left me in the midst of an existential crisis of sorts. This post is going to contradict the last one in virtually every way. I'll need to preface this with a description of the Balinese lifestyle. Present day Bali exists almost solely for tourism. The bulk of the Balinese work in the service industry; transportation, hotels, restaurants, etc. Bali is a pretty inexpensive destination, once you get yourself there. You can eat lovely meals for a third of the price that you would pay in America. A large luxury villa, with a private pool, can be rented for the cost of a Motel 6. We lived like kings for the almost two weeks we were there. These low prices are possible because the Balinese are paid almost nothing for their tireless work. According to one of the drivers we spent time with, the average monthly salary for a Balinese citizen is $150 per month. The government is corrupt, and although gobs of money are pouring in from tourism, little is invested back into the infrastructure of the country. There are almost no sidewalks, and what pathways do exist, are in extreme disrepair. I never saw a traffic light, the roads were incredibly narrow and inadequate. Ngurah, our driver, explained to us that the Balinese education system requires parents to buy books and other necessities that American schools would provide. The tap water isn't potable, and toilet paper can't be flushed because the sewer system can't handle it. Australians have come in and invested substantial monies into resorts and restaurants because, proximity wise, Bali is akin to their Hawaii. Due to Australian efforts, the food and shopping are incredible and the upscale villa rental is off the hook, but this has little to do with government efforts.

We tried to talk to our taxi drivers and servers often, they were all Bali natives and almost none of them had ever left the country. Vacation isn't part of their vocabularies. They work tirelessly, day in and day out, serving tourists who are taking breaks from lives that probably would feel like vacations to the Balinese. Yet, there is no animosity. They have constant smiles on their faces. Any time they say something that might seem negative, they quickly self correct and point out the blessing. Shit, I can't even go to Target without the check out girl bitching about being there, and she's probably 19 years old, working 12 hours per week, and still eating on her parent's dime. At first, I wondered if they were fronting, because they know that tourism is their bread and butter, but it was just too consistent. They have a love and a reverence for life. They adore children. There wasn't a single restaurant we went to where the staff didn't go out of their way to play with my children. Indigo got picked up and snuggled by a Balinese waiter or waitress at literally every eatery we went to. Men and women alike, smiling and relishing in these privileged white children. How? Why? 

Enter my existential crisis. I mentioned in my previous post about all the books I've read that are written by these dynamic individuals who are drinking up life, living without boundaries or limitations, the masters of their own destinies, yada yada yada. I'm trying to replicate that lifestyle. We said screw it and took our three kids on a ridiculously lengthy trip to Bali. We didn't go to Tahoe, we went to Indonesia. Last year, we left everything we knew and moved, from the city we'd been raised in, to another state. We took a lot of risks and worked our asses off to make this possible for ourselves, because we wanted a different lifestyle for our family. Life without limitations, masters of our own destinies, right? But here we are, not content. What's the next trip? How do we make more money? How do we figure out a way to bypass the 9-5 so we can travel unencumbered or hire a part time nanny so we can pursue fulfilling endeavors? More, more, more. It's never enough. When you live in America, the sky is the limit. There is never a point where you have to stop and say, "Okay we've reached the pinnacle, this is the most we can have/do." That doesn't exist here. I'd go so far as to say that it's frowned upon to accept your position in life. 

Then you go to Indonesia and you meet these smiling Balinese people whose entire lives have a maximum limitation. They don't want for more, because they just can't. It's not possible. You don't leave your village, you'll never make enough money to do that. There's no college. There's no travel. But this life with limitations has created content, and that content presents as joy. And then, in opposition, we have life without limitations, which creates contempt. Contempt for what we do have, for our current lives, because we want more. It's hard to appreciate where you're at and what you have when your eye is always on the prize, the bigger house, the better neighborhood, the fitter body, the better job. 

Of course, the answer can't be not wanting for more. We weren't born in Bali. We do have options. If you dangle possibility in front of someone and then tell them they can't do anything with it, the result is depression, hopelessness, not content. It's easier to be content when you look beyond your circumstances and nothing else is around the corner. But that's not what it means to be American, a blessing and a curse, depending on perspective. There's a balance that must be achieved, balance of the most difficult variety. How to have gratitude for where you're at while still living progressively? It's a question I don't have the answer to, but I'm going to take a page from the Balinese, who are Hindu. Each morning the women spend hours making offerings for the Gods, which serve as blessings and as a means to express gratitude. I'm going to start there, by gently and consistently reminding myself of the gifts in my life, my children, my husband, my health, and of course, the freedom to want more. 

-Angi

MOTHERHOOD AND FULFILLMENT, IS THAT POSSIBLE?

I'm in Bali, lounging on the couch in our villa. It's a perfect day, by all measures. The sun is reflecting off of the pool, casting an indigo haze, and a slight breeze is rustling the palm leaves before it pushes through the outdoor living room. I should be drinking it up, basking in the glory of vacation in a foreign wonderland, but instead a familiar angst is setting in. 

I can feel the dissatisfaction for my current life stewing. It's always there, this desire for change. I struggle with knowing what the actual origins of my longing are. Am I unfulfilled in my present circumstances because I'm not yet pursuing my life purpose? Of course, there is purpose in parenting, but if I'm being honest with myself, on most days the responsibility renders me feeling more like a housekeeper and short order cook than anything else. I'm good at it, I love my children, they bring me joy, but it doesn't fill the angles of me that exist outside of being a mother. 

I tell myself that my time will come, just a few more years until my youngest two are independent enough for me to invest less coddling into them and use that excess for pursuing personally fulfilling endeavors, but I'm scared that I'm fooling myself. Things will be busy in new ways, less ass wiping, more chauffeuring. More excuses to put things off, and then I'm pushing 60, and I haven't done shit. It's passed me by. Sure, 60 is the new 40, but how many 60 year olds are out there realizing dreams and pushing themselves beyond their comfort zones? They've moved beyond that season. Excitement is of a different, safer, more relaxed variety. 

When I start to feel this discontent brewing, I search for opportunity to make a shift, something to temporarily camouflage the void. Let's buy a fixer upper, let's live in an RV, let's sell it all and move to Italy, let's buy a vacation rental, and most currently, of course, let's move to Bali for six months. But, is this about seeking out excitement, or is this about distracting from the fact that I'm not fulfilled, searching for anything to satiate the hunger, when ultimately, another exciting venture will have to take the place of the last. We've lived in four houses, and remodeled three of them, in the last six years. The shifts are never enough. Moving to Bali means the same problems in a different location. Still a parent, still asses to wipe, and mouths to feed. Still no time.

I have justifications for wanting change, too. The American dream and the accompanying idea of success leave me feeling dispirited. It's dull, and supposes that joy and pleasure come only with lots of time, very hard work, and a chunky 401k. I want to enjoy my life now. I do want to expose my children and myself to different cultures, different lifestyles, different geographies, but does one have anything to do with the other? Until I fill up the things that are lacking within my soul, all of those aspirations still won't be enough. They'll be magical, and they aren't off the table, but something else needs to be the main course, or else Mama's always going to be hungry.

I'm a firm believer that the universe supports our endeavors when there is a soul's longing and a clear intention. You create what you give energy to. During the last few years, I've been pouring through writings of people who are the architects of their own destinies. They are purpose driven. Excitement oozes from them. Mindful+ Mama is one step towards personal satisfaction. With clear vision and motivation, I intend to push on, my path slowly revealing itself amidst the brush and overgrown foliage that life's day to day distractions place in front of me.

-Angi

HOW TO FIND YOUR ZEN IN THE MIDST OF CHAOS.

We've welcomed four sets of house guests this month. Tomorrow the children and I are off to bunk with my mother in law, while my husband hosts his father for his 60th birthday. The crew and I return, post father son shenanigans, and one day later we have an international flight to Bali with all three children. It's 35 hours people. Thirty. Five. Hours. Three. Children. 

July has been an amazing month, brimming with friends and family, but it's seriously testing my mindfulness. I'm excited, to the point of combustion, about our upcoming trip, but my Type A headspace is overwhelmed by all of the past activity and anxiety is mounting that I'm not preparing adequately. Then there's the obvious panic that we are complete lunatics for taking an 20 month old on a 35 hour journey. That last part is a fact. Let's be real. We cray. Every parent reading this knows it and is nodding, but you're also kinda envious of our bravery, right? Not enough to book your flights, but sorta giving me props? Maybe perusing Airbnb, just to fantasize? Be careful, that's how these kind of things start. You should see my Airbnb wishlists. Prolific. 

My third baby was a surprise. These sorts of things happen when you Google the rhythm method. Lesson learned, not the first time, but the last time. Snip snip. Anyway, right before I had my first child, surprise number one, rhythm method blip number one, I'd resolved to start traveling. I'd been tethered to my home and life, and circumstances had shifted. It was time to get a move on it, see the world and have some straight up enriching experiences. Enter unforeseen pregnancy and push pause on the travel plans. In hindsight, we should've jumped on a plane and got jet setting with the first kid, but everything seemed so daunting with that initial go around of parenting, and your threshold for stress is still ridiculously low. If I knew then what I know now... words uttered by literally every parent.

Baby number two was planned. I planned him right after my third rum and coke the evening of his conception. I was ovulating and I knew it. At least I'd managed to figure that part of my body out since the first kid. My son had been spending way too much time longingly watching the neighbor children through a hole in our backyard fence. He had that same look on his face that I do when I flip through a West Elm catalogue. Fruitless yearning. There were no cousins in his future. He needed a friend stat, and Captain Morgan agreed. Nine months later, done. Prisoners in our home, again. Check.

By the time the second kid was two, my husband and I started consistently talking about our impending freedom, with a wildness in our eyes. Everyone knows that three is the magic number when it comes to re-entering the world and not having to chase your kid around like they're a wild animal. We could taste the liberation. It was as good as ours. Then aunt flow was late. Rhythm method for the win. Again. I'm not gonna lie. This one hurt. Normalcy was within our grasp, and we lost it. I know, I know, children are a blessing, but so is eating at a restaurant and having the opportunity to chew your food. 

So, here we are with an 20 month old sugar plum. She's sweet as hell. I love her like crazy. But I'm ready to break outta jail. I can't wait until she's three to make good on  delayed travel dreams. This is a desire so powerful that it feels like it burns my insides if I ruminate on it too long. Parenthood has honed our skills. Our standards are super low as to what we find enjoyable. Our thresholds for stress are top notch. We've been training for this since the first kid arrived eight years ago. Like, I could find my zen place in the middle of a Walmart on Black Friday. That's how good I am. 

But, that said, here I am feeling anxious about the unknown and the possibility of said toddler running up and down the aisles of the plane. If I really slow my mental roll, I can identify two voices. One is freaking the hell out, incessantly voicing a stream of what ifs. The other is breathing steadily, whispering "shhhh, all will be well". They're always present, both of them. One represents the personality, and the other aligns with the soul. You have them too. The personality operates from fear. The soul is the inner zen on Black Friday. It's Morgan Freeman narrarating any commercial. It knows that no matter what, you are whole, you are love, and all will be well. The tricky part is remembering which one to listen to. The personality is noisy. It's like that anxious friend that feels uncomfortable with silence, the one that requires a nap and a glass of wine just to gear up for. Your soul is Mr. Miyagi, quietly observing and waiting for you to slow down and breath, to feel the zen, Daniel-san. I read a book a few years ago, The Untethered Soul, by Michael A. Singer. The content is about quieting the chatter. Do yourself a favor and read it. You need it. We all do. To hush the incessant internal dialogue, you first must notice and recognize it. It's there, constantly preaching negativity. "You're not good enough", "Why did you eat that cupcake, you know you're trying to lose 5 pounds," "Your thighs are entirely too big for skinny jeans", "Your flight is going to straight up blow. You have no business taking this trip....there are way too many kids to pull this off", and on and on. 

Just stop, breathe slowly, listen, and separate the ego driven, fear mongering personality from your all-knowing soul. Hear the two independent voices. Which one feels good? Which one feels like love, like a warm blanket and a hot drink? Which one brings you strength?

I'm breathing deeply today, listening really hard, and gently smiling because I know that everything will be okay. Even if my baby runs up and down the aisles for 14 hours, zen is mine, and all will be well.

-Angi

I AM ENOUGH.

I often find myself sitting at intersections, looking upon all of the cars and their inhabitants, not voyeuristically, but humanly, wondering what they're thinking about as they wait for the light to turn in their favor, or peeking into houses with lit windows on early morning runs, catching glimpses of moving bodies, curious as to what they're doing, what they're feeling, of their strife, their happiness. It's during times like these that I feel a deep kinship to my fellow beings. At our cores, we're all the same, wanting for love, connection, peace. We all wear bathrobes in the morning, wake up with bedheads, drink coffee, and relish our rituals to get through each day. These are the things I've had to remind myself of when trying to practice self acceptance, when trying not to judge myself to anyone else's standards. 

My fear of vulnerability, of not measuring up, equates to a lack of self worth. If I'm not A, B, and C, then I'm not worthy of love, friendship, attention. Me, at my core, stripped of all the overachieving business, doesn't feel noteworthy. Noteworthy and worthy being two different birds. I want to be noteworthy. 

I learned at a very young age, after feeling somewhat invisible, like there was nothing particularly noteworthy about me, that hard work got me attention, praise.  The voodoo that is positive reinforcement worked its wonderous magic, so I worked even harder, becoming better at everything I did, better than most everyone else, at the things I chose to put my efforts into. More attention came, and over time this way of existing was solidified. I didn't have to work very hard for it anymore, I had a reputation for being smart and able, and my hard work and thirst for knowledge had become innate. Now, even new acquaintances quickly realize that I possess these qualities, because this is my way of being. It has become authentic. I know no other way.

So, we'll say that at around age 6, I started developing my tendencies towards overachievement. Now, at 40, I exist as that woman. Do I berate myself for requiring that attention, that feeling of love and connection, worthiness, noteworthiness, at a young age and now, as a grown woman? Do I try to strip it all away, put an end to my weekly cleaning of baseboards and making bread from scratch, and just be, in the name of loving myself for whatever raw little person resides in there? Do I stop with the Martha Stewart bullshit completely? 

In years past, I may have thought that necessary to "heal", to identify the "authentic" me, but today, and a library full of self help books later, I realize that would be pure tomfoolery. I may as well beat my head against a brick wall in the hopes of breaking it, one mind numbing blow at a time. It's simply not gonna happen. Given that info, I have to ask myself, "what's so bad about Martha?" Yeah, she did go to prison, but criminal record aside, she's putting out some quality information. And, what's so bad about me? I am loved. I am connected. I am noteworthy. I am happy. I can say those things without pause, and that is enough. I am enough. Maybe, just maybe, I'm absolutely everything I was intended to be. Maybe my soul's journey always meant to take me here. Maybe my need for noteworthiness has left an imprint upon others. You're reading this right now, aren't you? Maybe, just maybe you're feeling like your curses have created gifts in your life, and maybe, most importantly, in this moment you are feeling like you are enough.

-Angi