The Story Behind the Sweet Board Game

If you hang out around our house long enough, you will hear:

"MLP!"

Make. Life. Pleasant.

In fact, last February, right after Jordan joined our family, we made a little book called MLP. As a family we staged different situations and took two photos. In one photo, we made life pleasant and in the other photo we didn't.

For example, we set up a game and took one photo with everyone was sitting and playing. In the second photo, Jordan stood up and danced while Stephanie stood with her hands on her hips screaming and Sam played Legos and Hannah walked away.

We created a series of photos like this. Anytime there was an issue, I made a note of it and later -- after tempers simmered down -- we staged photos for our book. The book stayed out in the thick of family life...on the counter and in the car and on nightstands.

Sometimes it takes a long time to learn MLP. It's been nearly a year since we became a family of six and we are still learning to make life pleasant.

We've been hunkered down for a few days now because of snow and cold temperatures. Naturally we brought out the board games. We love playing board games and Clue is one of our favorites. I posted this photo on Instagram, with the caption, "Better than TV."

I'm not sure I told the truth.

It was a miserable game. One person took as much time as possible on his turn. He moved, then went back. He counted wrong and had to recount. He made an accusation and then changed his mind again and again and again. He hid game pieces and didn't reveal them until we looked under the table and under the game board and under ourselves. He had to check every card eight times to decide if he could prove someone wrong.

Another person had to tell everyone what to do. It sounded a little like this: Mom it's your turn. Roll the dice. That's 7. You can move to the Hall. Or you can use the secret passage. Now make your accusation. You should guess Miss Scarlet. No, don't guess that, we just had that one and Dad proved it wrong. You should guess the rope. Now pass the dice. Your turn is over. Just imagine this monologue for every single person on every single turn.

Add in phone calls and dropped cards and two drinks being spilled and a few arguments. The TV starts looking golden.

I remind myself we are the kind of family who has fun playing board games together. The TV simply disguises MLP with complacency.

So we persevered. Kind of. Eventually we set a timer and played until it dinged. Then we pooled our knowledge and won the game as a family.The game ended and the kids were all cheerful.

Andy and I were exhausted. "It's a learning experience," he said.

I might have rolled my eyes. I might have wondered if my life long favorite game was going to be donated to Goodwill. I might have wondered if my frazzled patience would last until bedtime.

The thing is this: If we don't learn how to make life pleasant, then we just roll through life surviving. The world doesn't need more people surviving. It needs people thriving. Perhaps the caption wasn't a lie after all. It was so much better than TV...not because it was easier, but because it helped transform us into the kind of family we want to be, and that means we each thrive by being the individuals we are created to be.

Daughter Redefined

Five feet.
Three inches.
125 pounds.
Ten years old.

Andy gave her a nickname.
I was mortified when he suggested it,
Thought it was offensive.
Of course,
She loves it.

Boss.

It's not something she would want you to call her, but us -- the ones who share a house and breathing space with her -- we're allowed to use it.

I don't use it.

Boss.

What mother wants her little girl to be called Boss?
Sweet.
Tender.
Gentle.

These are the words to describe a daughter.

But not this daughter.
She defines herself.

Strong.
Demanding.
Bold.
Confident.
Self-Assured.

Boss.

She's redefined my vision.

And,
I will always be
grateful to be a mom to

Boss.

The Best Medicine

Sneezy
Stuffy
Sleepy


Write

Grumpy
Groucy
Ouchy

Write

Wimpy
Woozy
Whiny

Write

hugs

A hug is the number one mood booster among men and women.

I heard this fact on the radio today and it gave me pause. Whenever our kids get frustrated or angry or start sliding down into the land of no-self-control, we ask them: Do you want a hug.

Sam always takes the offer. Always. Growing up with endless hugs must make it easy to take one even when you're grumpy or angry or frustrated.

The other kids have learned to take the offer. Hannah learned the fastest. It took Stephanie years. She crossed her arms, set her jaw and shook her head no. Finally we talked with her about how a hug can help her make a different choice. Eventually she started taking us up on the offer. Although there are days when she still crosses her arms, sets her jaw, and shakes her head no.

Jordan is a reluctant hugger when he is angry or frustrated. Recently we talked about it.

"I know you don't want to get angry and lose control. So when I notice that it seems like you might be ready to lose self-control, I'll ask you if you want a hug. It's something we realized really worked with Stephanie."

"Why you wanna hug me if I'm mad?" His arms are crossed. He's a tough guy and wants me to know it.

"Hugs help people feel better. If you're starting to feel angry, sometimes a hug gives you enough time to think about how you're going to act while you're angry."

He looks at me like he's trying to figure out if I'm real. "So you're sayin' I could hug you and not be all mad?"

"You might still be angry. Everyone feels angry, but maybe instead of screaming or hitting you'll make a different choice."

"Like hug you?"

I smile. "Sure. Or maybe you'll go run around the house or go draw a picture in your room or do something besides losing your temper."

"Hugs must have a lot of power."

"Wanna test it? See if it works?"

He shrugs. Arms still crossed. Jaw still set.

"Do you want a hug?" I ask.

Shrugs. Rolls his eyes. "I guess."

I hug him. Squeeze him tight and say, right in his ear, "You sure are special," and I kiss the top of his head and tell him again, "You sure are special."

"Geez, Mom, you always sayin' that."

I can't resist. I tickle his ribs.

He can't resist. His smile cracks and a giggle escapes.

I let go and he goes to play, his step lighter and his grin growing-- all because of a hug.

This is why I chose to love more. It is always the better choice.

When You Want to Quit

It's not even 8:00 am and tear-soaked tissues gather at my toes. Alone, I try to pull it together, tuck the chaos behind my ears as I smooth my curls, and take a deep breath.

You are a mess.

A tear drops off of my nose, followed by another sliding from my lip. I ball another tissue and wonder if maybe I were smart or savvy or insightful, then I would be able to fix it all.

Kids would write with impeccable conventions.
Misunderstandings would be extinct.
And love would be enough to heal a childhood of heartache.

I lean forward, fists clenched, and I wonder if maybe it's time I quit. Maybe there's something else for me to do. Something where I fail less. I swipe the tears off my eyes and the tissue lands near my toe. My necklace swings out, grazing my knuckles.

Breath catches in my throat and Shine swings back and bumps my chest.I lean forward again, making the necklace suspend in the air. Shine it says.

I snort an ugly laugh, eyes locked on the word, Shine, and I wonder if maybe I'm a big failure after all.

Maybe the heart of who I am, the core of what I believe, is bogus.

I can live a whole life of Shine, celebrating the moments, and still, at the end of the day (or maybe even the beginning) turn out to be a failure.

I lean back and tip my head up, turning to look out the windows. I talk to Jesus. The heavens are grey.

I take a deep breath, push it out through my nose, and breathe in again, filling my body with all it needs to keep going -- determination and courage and joy. Exhale.

Just like that, I feel it inside of me. The still small voice rising up and I know, knowknowknow, that even in the thick of the mess and the middle of the muddle and the grey closing in, I can still choose joy.

Wanting to quit because I'm tired of the flaws and the fighting for the same cause again and again and the loving more until I'm tattered is not a sign of failure. Balling up another tissue and swiping the tears and feeling inadequate does not mean I lose. I gather the tissues and stand tall.

It is this moment that I have a choice.
I can choose to celebrate or I can choose to get by -- survive.
I will celebrate.

This is what it means to shine.

Undeserved (SOLS)

In the back southwest corner of our yard is a dump pile. It's a place for grass clippings and watermelon rinds and leaves and trimmings from the flower beds. It is also the place where the kids can dig holes and watch out for imaginary bad guys.

Last year they dumped their pumpkins there too.

They just happened to grow. "We're not touching the vine," Sam informed me. "I read pumpkins don't like to be touched."

I smiled, not really paying much attention to information from the dump pile. I tend to avoid all dump pile news. It's the kind of place where the things they do stay at the dump pile.

Mid-summer, Andy came in from mowing and said, "I think we are growing pumpkins."

I let it roll off of me. I have a black thumb when it comes to gardening and any thought of gardening is unpleasant. I'm a failure at gardening, so the best thing I can do is avoid it.

Late summer and I noticed dots of orange in the southwest corner of our yard. I still didn't give it much thought.

Then Sam showed up in the kitchen with his arms around a pumpkin. "Where'd you get that?" I asked.

"The pumpkin patch!" He grinned. "I told you we were taking care of them."

Last weekend we harvested 19 pumpkins from the dump pile. "That's a bounty, Mom!" Sam said.

"We should grow pumpkins every year," Stephanie said.

"Yeah, we sure should," Jordan added. "We're experts at growing pumpkins."

"We didn't do anything," I said

"Yes we did." Hannah crossed her arms. "We put our old pumpkins in the middle of the dump pile, just so we could watch them all year."

I smiled. I love pumpkins and have always wanted a slew of them to tuck into our flower beds along the front of the house. Andy's not such a pumpkin fan. Or perhaps it's not that he doesn't like pumpkins, but rather he thinks there are better ways to spend our money.

As the kids were washing the dirt and grime from the dump pile off of the pumpkins, I couldn't believe how many there were.

We didn't do anything to deserve them.
They don't serve a specific need, yet the abundance makes me smile.
They are completely superfluous.

And I realized this is exactly how God blesses us. We don't do anything to deserve it and yet the blessings come in abundance. God wants us more than happy. He wants us blessed. My 19 pumpkins will be reminding me of this all season long.

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Flower Boy (SOLS)

{Flowers from My Editor}

Once, a long time ago, Andy and I lived in two different Big Ten towns. I attended IU Bloomington and Andy studied (briefly) at Purdue. One year, I went back to school early to help with freshman orientation. At the end of the week, there was a surprise waiting for me behind the front desk -- a large bouquet of colorful flowers. I couldn't believe Andy had actually done something romantic. These were the first flowers he'd ever sent after more than two years of dating.

I tore open the envelope looking forward to the sweet greeting. Scanning the card, I smiled at the very sweet message and then blinked at the wrong name signed at the bottom of the card. Instead of Andy's name, it was the name of a guy I met during Welcome Week. Thinking back, I realized we were at a lot of the same events and he did end up at my table more often than not during meal times.


The flowers, although beautiful, made me frown.

Later, during our phone conversation I told Andy about the flowers. I mostly remember silence from his end. It went something like this.

"Someone sent me flowers today."

"Who?"

"Oh, just a guy I met this week."

Silence. Then, "What kind of flowers?"

"All kinds. There's daisies, do you know those are my favorites? And roses and some lilies. They are all different colors. You know how much I love colors! It's a pretty big bouquet."

Silence. "Why'd he send you flowers?"

"I don't know. I guess because he likes hanging out. He's a new friend."

Silence.
Silence.
Silence.

Andy said, "Maybe you should get rid of them."

I was appalled. "They're beautiful! I'm not getting rid of them. I've never gotten flowers before and I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it. He knows I'm dating you."

Silence.
Silence.
Silence.

The next time I saw Andy he greeted me with long stemmed roses and balloons. Balloons? I think I said it out loud, "Balloons?"

"Flower Boy didn't give you balloons did he?"

"Flower Boy?"

He takes my hand and we walk across campus. "That guy who gave you flowers. There weren't balloons, were there?"

"Well, no." I had almost forgotten about the flowers. It was weeks ago.

"I thought you should have balloons."

The story doesn't end there. Andy spent the next two years visiting me at IU. It turned out there was a man who sold roses alongside the route Andy drove. Every single time he visited, he brought me a dozen roses.

Years later, after our wedding rings were worn, Andy's friends let it slip. "Of all the times I saw Ayres angry, nothing compared to when he hung up the phone after Flower Boy made a move on you, Ruth."

"Nobody ever made a move on me." I laughed.

Their eyes were big and the rumble of "Ohhhhh!" and the laughs that followed made Andy smile.

"Guys don't send flowers to friends, Ruth." Andy said. "Guys send flowers when they're making a move."

"Or when they're refusing to be shown up, right Ayres?" They laugh some more.

"How many dozens of roses did you buy off that road side stand for Ruth while she was at IU?" another friend asked.

Realization strikes, my eyes wide, I ask, "You bought me those flowers because some guy sent me flowers once?"

"Flower Boy," all three say in unison.

Ever since I moved home from Bloomington, I've never received another bouquet of flowers from Andy. Flower Boy continued to be the only person who ever sent me an arrangement of flowers from a shop. And it was quite an arrangement.

Last Thursday I received an even bigger arrangement of flowers from my editor at Choice Literacy. "It's huge!" I said.

Later that night, we remembered Flower Boy. "It's even bigger than the arrangement from Flower Boy," I said.

"Good," Andy said. "I'm glad he doesn't hold the title of best arrangement anymore."

I snuggled into his shoulder, the place I've fit perfectly for the past 19 years. He starts the crime show. The smell of flowers wrap around us and I'm thankful for the way things work out.

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Today Marks ALWAYS

{2008}

Today marks the day when always becomes real for Hannah. She turns twelve and this will be the year when she will be with us longer than she lived without us. Before coming home to our family she learned to compartmentalize and it was a little rough learning that a forever mom and dad were always there. Always.

Always is a big word to understand when your first years of existence teach you that the only expected thing in life is nothing can be always. Houses change. People are in constant flux. Food isn't a certainty.

It takes time to understand always.

Sometimes you may act indifferent.

Sometimes you may be aloof.

Sometimes you may simply lean into a hug.

Then there comes a time when things change. Living it day in and day out, it's hard to pinpoint the exact moment. It's hard to know the day when she realized the truth. It happened, though.

We know because Mom and Dad roll off of her tongue like they've always been part of her language. These words are commonplace, no longer spoken with awe and reverence.

We know because she runs to the door when we get home and hugs us real -- tight with arms.

We know because she has favorites -- a favorite color and a favorite food and a favorite ice cream flavor. She doesn't just want whatever and she doesn't copy my favorites any more.

This year always becomes real. She will live with us longer than without us. When you make it this far, then you know always is possible.

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practical joker

"Ask Sam what he did to me today," Andy said as we were driving to a soccer game.

I look over my shoulder and Sam winks at me. "It was a good one, Mom."

I asked him to write the story for blog readers. (Stop back on Friday where I share my thoughts as a writing teacher of his story. Right now, just know as a Momma, I'm thrilled he was willing to write something I asked him to write under a deadline. Normally he only writes his own ideas on his own timeline!)

"You should have seen him," Andy said, "I looked over and he was rolling on the floor."

"Yeah, I just about died from laughing," Sam confirmed.

"Did Noah help you?" I asked.

"Ohhh, no!" Sam said, his blue eyes round. "I had to keep it a secret from everyone. I didn't want Dad to know."

"Really? Well, then how did you think of doing that?"

His smile gets even bigger. "Captain Underpants! You always find useful things when you read."

We laughed some more. He's funny.

"Maybe we should be a little scared," Andy said low-quiet so his voice wouldn't carry to the backseat. I lift my eyebrows. "He's really good at pulling off practical jokes and he's seven. Just wait. You might not be laughing so hard next time!"

Real Life Now (SOLS)

Today it is grey. The weather has turned (at least for now) and the leaves rustle gold and rust under my feet. My thoughts swirl like the autumn breeze and I wonder if, maybe, this season is my favorite. I think about the beef and noodles that will fill our bowls and the Honeycrisp apples ready to crunch for dessert.

My mind twirls the places of the week. Soccer fields and Scout hall and church and football fields and after school pick up. I wonder how we will ever keep up when the sun sets sooner and the schedule is bursting.

And then I am reminded: This is real life. It isn't practice for the real thing. It isn't the scrimmage. It isn't the dress rehearsal. This -- right now -- with the half-folded laundry and the stove that needs scrubbed and the little boy who didn't have anybody to play with at recess and the girl who failed her math test and the one who has a headache so she thinks the whole wide world should pay too and the one who was finally just plain happy because he is with his forever family -- all of this is real. 

I don't want to be overwhelmed because we have a full schedule or because dinner dirtied a few pans or because the showers are lasting a little past bedtime. Instead, I want my joy to overflow with the giggles bursting and the arms tight around my waist hugging and Andy's eyes sparkling because we're in this together and even when they are grouchy and we are in passing vehicles, this family life is very good.

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evidence of healing (sols)

{Evidence of Healing}

Hannah put her hair in lots of minibraids last night. "It's not going to stay like this for picture day, I just want to get the waves," she said when Andy gave her the look dads perfect when they have middle school daughters.

She selected her favorite shirt and chose the perfect shoes. She rolled her eyes when Andy asked why the shoes matter when the pictures are only of her head. 

"Wake me up a little early," she said when we hugged her good night. She snorted a laugh when Andy mentioned she would be early if she just got up the first time, instead of the seventy-first time we asked.

We realize it's happening -- this whole becoming a teenager thing -- and yet, we are trying to ignore it. Maybe if we pretend she's still little, we can stop the inevitable? (Those of you who have walked this path before, it's okay not to tell me. We are enjoying our blissful ignorance.)

Then today she wakes up and spends too-long in front of the mirror. 

Meanwhile, I weave a thick braid along the front of Stephanie's hairline, flat iron the rest of it, and spritz on some shine spray. "I love it!" Stephanie smiles in the mirror.

Hannah is still in the other bathroom, in front of the mirror. 

I'm on my way out the door, and she's finally out from the mirror. "Have a great day, Mom!" she skip-steps over to hug me.

Her hair is in a ponytail. "Did you remember it's picture day?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah. But I forgot when I brush my hair after braids it gets poofy. So I put it in a ponytail instead."

"Do you want me to help you?"

"No, that's okay. I like my hair this way."

Stephanie raises an eyebrow. "Mom's good at fixing hair," she says. I fire a look at Stephanie, a look that says, be nice.

Hannah pours cereal into her bowl. "I know, but I like my hair this way. I was thinking about doing it all fancy, but it didn't work out. Now I'll just be the same way I always am. That's fine too."

I smile. All these years we've waited for her to become real, to become sure of herself, to not let pleasing others be her first priority. And here we are on picture day, her hair in a ponytail, and instead of a meltdown, we get confidence.

I hug her again, a little tighter and blink back tears. "You okay, Mom?" she asks.

I'm more than okay. I tuck a loose strand behind her ear. "You're beautiful," I say.

"Wait 'til I smile," she says.

It is evidence of healing. Her confidence and strength and moxie are her beauty. (Not to mention the pretty face and smile.)

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slices.

hannah's emergency (soLs)

I'm writing. Sam is next to me watching a video about how planes fly. Hannah is on the other end of the couch reading, "The best book I've ever read in my entire life." The others are at sports' practices.

"Oh no! I have an emergency! I don't know what I'm going to do!" Hannah's panic breaks everyone's concentration.

"What's the matter?" I ask.

"I don't want to stop reading, but I have to go to the bathroom soooo bad. Like really bad! But I can't put this book down."

"That's an easy solution," Sam says, turning his attention back to the iPad, "Just take your book with you."

"Oh! Oh! You're brilliant!" Hannah says hopping off of the couch and darting to the bathroom, her nose stays in her book.

Sam snickers. "I think she means practical," he says.

I find them both hysterical. It's these ordinary moments that remind me how blessed I really am.

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discover within the mess (sols)

Airplanes are the current rage around the Ayres' house.

Paper
Cardboard
Styrofoam
Lego
Wood

The material is in constant flux.
The ideas revised.
The testing constant.
The passion permeable.

They sent cardboard and duct tape home with Noah. He brought his design the next morning. (Noah is a high school senior and hangs out with the kids in the mornings before school.)

I'm stepping over airplanes while I cook dinner. I'm picking them out of my front shrubs. I'm closing the sliding door to the balcony five hundred and eighteen times each evening because they are too excited to measure the flight path and forget to pull it closed. My parking spot in the garage has become littered with duct tape and scissors and rulers and plans that resemble blueprints designed by a seven and eight year old.

If I'm ugly honest, there's a part of me that just wants to be rid of the mess.

But the richest living happens in the mess.

This kind of passion isn't ignited by adults (or babysitters) who care too much about tidiness. This creativity isn't spurred by sitting at the table and cleaning up each mess before the test, before the revision. This engagement doesn't exist if neatness is more important than pressing through failures.

So I chose to live in the mess of Airplane Insanity (which is what we've come to term this phase). Because I know it is in the mess that good stuff happens. It's true for my own living and exploring and creating. So I'm giving them space to discover within the mess.

(And a plastic tote... so they can also learn to contain the mess in order to provide space for more ideas to grow without the clutter.)

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change is coming (sols)

I returned to school cold turkey this year.
No candle.
No chili.
No new school shoes.

Nothing.

Two days before my first day this conversation happened:

Andy: You go to school on Monday? Like two days from now?
Me: Yes.
Andy: No...you have to be joking around. You really go to school on Monday?
Me: I'm not joking. Monday I start school.
Andy: Where did the summer go?

I'm not sure, because I didn't let go of summer at all.

But it's gone.

I don't think I'd do it differently, because even though I didn't transition, the kids are. They return to school on today. All last week they followed a school schedule for bedtime and a summer schedule during the day. Then there was the Last Hurrah of Summer yesterday.

It's good for them to realize change is coming.

But this doesn't make it easy.

Sometimes when kids have a history of being uprooted, any change -- even expected change -- can make for a bit of a rocky time. And even though they are excited, they are also anxious and nervous and even scared. They know in their brains there isn't a reason to be scared but their hearts feel differently.

So the emotions are raw and close to the surface. No! is always on the tip of a tongue. Defiance is a go-to comfort. And the words runrunrun from the mouth.

This momma might just have had enough. And then...

They snuggle with me as we read Because of Winn Dixie.
"You've gotta see this, Mom" as they show me the latest Lego creation.
I am pulled by the hand out to the back yard, and they show me their latest bike trick.
I pull the brush through the long hair and form the braid strand by strand.

They hug tight. And I know, despite all of the turmoil, this is going to be okay. They are going to get through. And I am enough to shoulder their fears and nerves and concerns.

Change starts today.
We will manage.

surrender (sols)

{I made this.}

Art is always good for the soul. Especially on the last official day of summer, which for me was last Sunday. I spent the afternoon playing with something new: mixed media art.

I had no plans for what I was doing.

I was a bit of a mess and a whole lot of joyful.

I trusted something was emerging one step at a time.

I liked it this way.

I've been considering this question for over a year: What is mine to do? In my car door is a scrap of cardboard with What is mine to do? written in black Sharpie marker. Each time I pull my door shut, my fingers brush the rough cardboard. When I open my computer screen, there is a digital sticky note blazing What is mine to do? On my bathroom mirror, in my journal, on the washer, What is mine to do? infiltrates my day. I've become accustom to finding moments in the day of things that are most certainly mine to do.

However, I've been thinking perhaps there are many answers to this question. In the moments of the day and also in the dreams of  a life.

This summer, from all aspects of my life (Christ-follower, momma, friend, adoption advocate, abolitionist, writer, teacher, reader, speaker), I've been nudged by someone to dream a little. To think outside of the box. To go beyond the planned. To imagine possibilities.

I never would have guessed building a little mixed media art canvas might be the way I'd see a bit of light illuminating a hidden path. Maybe, just maybe, mine to do is something unexpected.

I have no plans for where I'm headed.

I'm a bit of a mess and a whole lot of joyful.

I'm trusting in a God way bigger than me, for something emerging one step at a time.

And I like it this way.

I think the word for this feeling is surrender.

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preparing (sols)

I purposely waited to write my slice. I considered preposting, but instead, I wanted to write it in real-time, at the end of the day, from my in-law's lake house. Then the magic of the lake wrapped around me and I didn't have a single moment to write.

We drove. Nine hours, south and east. Just the kids and me, plus our babysitters, Noah and Krisy. I didn't know fleeing could feel freeing.

We arrived. Hugs around and swim suits on. They couldn't wait to jump in. Except the youngest. He just needed a fishing pole.

Unpacking and lasagna dinner. Giggles and catching up and Can we swim again? 

Jammies and makeshift beds, piling into bedrooms. Hugs and I appreciate you brought us here for the end of the summer. Reading and sleep.

Then we get out the cards and pull up around the table, me sitting across from my mother-in-law, realizing we've been partners in cards long enough to have a history.Laughing and stories. Stories from the 70's. Stories from yesterday. Stories stacking and cards laid and laughs bubble and I realize this isn't a mistake to spend the last week of summer away.

Five more wake-ups and I will be spending my days in school. I normally spend this week preparing for the return of the routine, making plans with purpose, and transitioning to school-mode.

Instead, I'm finding it is through embracing summer that I will be most prepared. It is saying Yes! to more swimming and planning for popcorn under the stars and playing another hand of cards that will prepare me for school.

I'm not running away, not fleeing, not escaping. Rather, I'm embracing summer and all it has to offer. I'm holding on to the moments of being a mom who doesn't have something else she should be doing. I'm tapping the artist and the child in me. I'm being a friend and a daughter.

And I'm preparing to be the best educator possible in five more wake-ups.

writing well (sols)

Lots of writing time today.

I'm learning what I need to write productively. Brenda Power is graciously hosting a writing retreat for Choice Literacy contributors. The theme of the retreat is Habits.

I consider myself a low-maintenance writer. I don't need a lot. I prefer to write on my computer, but can easily use a notebook instead. I can write with noise or silence. I can write in solitude or in crowds. I can write at a desk or curled in a chair. I can write in many genres and on many topics. I can squeeze writing into almost any moment of the day since I usually have an idea (or twenty) stirring in my mind.

Yet, having some time apart from the daily routine of life, is helping me see how I can be even more productive. I have many habits already in place that allow me to live a writing life. It is fascinating to listen to "Brenda's Brilliance" (as Franki coined her minilesson sessions) and think about how habits apply to my writing life.

I've stumbled upon my writing habits. They work well and they are efficient. What I'm learning is although I can write in a variety of conditions on a variety of topics in a variety of genres, what I need is the variety.

It is important for me to write in my go-to spot (the other end of the couch from where Andy sits to watch a game) and it is important for me to move outside or to the kitchen table or away from home.

It is important for me to write in solitude and it is important for me to write in crowds.

It is important for me to grow ideas in my notebook and it is important for me to grow ideas through conversation with others.

It is important to cuddle into my comfort zone as a writer and it is important to courageously step into new territories.

By being conscious of my need for variety, I will be able to sustain a productive and creative writing life. How about you? What do you need in order to sustain your writing life?

all in the same moment (soLs)

I've spent a handful of days in the Ozarks visiting my grandparents almost every year of my entire life. Last week I spent a day in the valley with my kids. I found myself feeling like a child, yet being a mother. It was a combination of spirits that I hope I find more often.

I have a favorite uncle, Uncle Duffer. He's unconventional as far as favorite uncles go. He brought a four wheeler up to the house for the kids and me. The mother in me said, Nonono. I'm not piling my kids on to that, without helmets, and barreling around the mountains.

My dad said, "You're in the valley, Ruth. Live a little."

So we piled on.

And barreled around the red dirt mountain roads trails. Their woots and hoots were worth it. The lack of brakes made it even more of an adventure.

We stopped at the swimming hole.

And swam in our clothes, the way you do in the valley. The water not-cold-enough to keep us out, and the rock too enticing to only jump once.

Yes, being a momma and a kid all at the same time is good for the soul. I think, perhaps, it is how you find your roots, live in the present, and hope for the future all in the same moment.

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do less (sols)

July is the month of not-much-happening around the Ayres' house. If said aloud, Andy would roll his eyes. Hannah would say, "Se-ri-ous-ly, Mom?" And Stephanie would put her hands on her hips and say, "Yeah, right."

The boys would be outside running races around the house, being daredevils on their bikes on the steep north hill, and defending our territory against the latest evil villain.

And me? Well, there are two bushels of canning tomatoes waiting for me to pick up this morning. I'm getting ahead on laundry in order to pack the kids and me for a road trip with my parents this weekend, there are cookies to make for our friends, swimming plans for this afternoon, bible school tonight, and invitations to create for the So-Long Summer party we promised the kids we'd host.

Which brings me to the slice for today:

We live in a world that is screaming for us to be there and sign up for that. It tugs on us to keep up with the latest news, read books, exercise, clean the house, and trim the bushes. It's a world that says, "You can do it all!"

But what if I want to do less?

When I linger with my cup of coffee and watch the sunrise, I'm grounded. When I'm still for a few more minutes, I'm fortified. When I enjoy the moment -- not thinking about what else I need to do -- but I'm there, totally, in the moment, I'm secure.

So today I will do less in order to make room for more. It might just be about my state of mind, rather than the things I do. Instead of thinking about the next thing, wondering how I'll get it all done, I'll focus on more giggles and more stories and more tastes of cookie dough from not-so-stealthy little hands.

Because this day is too precious to fill it up with stuff. Instead, doing less will preserve it more.

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Slice of Life writing challenge.

my floppy heart.

{my words from a year ago}

I'm miserably horrible at staying in touch. It is my Achilles' heel. I know this and I try to keep in touch (I cringe thinking I could be worse at staying in touch.), but I still fail miserably.

So a few days ago when I hugged Martin after not seeing him for a year and very limited contact because of my aforementioned weakness, I was reminded how special and important he is. I was reminded of Karianne and Taija too. And it makes me want to remedy my Achilles' heel.

I don't want to be limited to loving BIG only within the walls of my home or the boundaries of my community or the lines of my school district. I want to love BIG across the country and the oceans and the entire globe.

I'm not sure what my recovery process will look like. It'll involve a paradigm shift -- to understand that investing in relationships is bigger than I ever imagined. It isn't only sharing a cup of tea or going on a walk. Investing in relationships is more than mailing a card or taking a meal to a friend. It can be tweeting or sharing a link on Facebook. It may mean sending an email or a text message. It is liking a photo on Instagram.

I'm looking forward to seeing the creativity of connecting with others in ways I never even imagined. And I'm anxious to see the results of loving more.

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of Life stories.