Good Thing We Have Soft Mats

Breadcrumbs

I think this blog is going to be a collection of proof that I was here while my life was happening.

The songs, the mirror videos, the rage fits, the weird magick rituals with a toddler orbiting my ankles are all proof of magick in the mess.

I’ve been journaling more lately, and I keep thinking about starting a blog. Most of my website is music and lyrics. I wanted somewhere I could talk about whatever I want. Somewhere I can ramble, circle something, wander away from it, find another piece three paragraphs later and come back.

Basically, I need somewhere my brain can be shaped like my brain.

Social media keeps asking me to squash that brain into a little rectangle and then stand nearby answering questions about the rectangle video.

A blog can just say: Here. I left the whole trail.

And then I can leave.

Little Actor Running Lines

Truman is three and a half, and I’m always noticing how much he repeats our language back to us. He memorizes everything. Stories. YouTube videos. Videos of himself he watches. Conversations. Little bits we do over and over.

He’s like a tiny actor running lines all day.

The other day he fell off the couch and immediately said, “Good thing we have soft mats.”

That’s something I always tell him when he falls.

He knows my favorite colors are pink and yellow and green, so sometimes he answers his own questions for me. “Which one do you want, Momom?” Then, “You want pink.” We’ll pass flowers on a walk and he’ll say, “Mommy would like those pink flowers.”

Lately he’s been playing this statue game too. There’s a statue at HuHot that fascinated him. He wanted to understand what a statue was and whether it could get him. I told him statues stay still. They only move when you move them.

Now, on walks, he’ll suddenly freeze and say very quietly, “Oh. We got a statue.”

So I inspect this mysterious statue. “Ohhhh, what a cute statue. Look at its pretty hair. The artist did such a good job. Wow, it looks so real.” I touch his arm. “Whoa. It even feels real.”

He holds it together remarkably well.

Then he starts walking and whispers, “We got a moving statue.”

A few feet later he freezes in another pose. We do the whole bit again.

When he finds a bit, he lives it. He’s always practicing. Over and over.

And I’ve been thinking about what he’s practicing.

Because he borrows my voice until it becomes his.

“Good thing we have soft mats.”

“You want pink.”

“Don’t touch this sharp knife, Momom, it might cut you. See the sharp blade?” (as he holds a spatula, pretending it’s a knife)

And at the same time, I’m discovering how many voices I borrowed too.

Some became “I’m ugly.”
Some became “I’m stupid.”
Some became “Sorry.”
Some became rules about what women are supposed to be like.

Some taught me what mistakes meant.
What beauty meant.
Whether needing something required an apology.
Whether discomfort meant danger.
What my voice would sound like when I disappointed myself.

Eventually the original speaker almost becomes irrelevant.

The recording plays automatically.

And now I’m getting to decide which lines stay in the script.

Little actor running lines all day.

Turns out Mama is too.

Wait

I’ve been changing the way I talk to Truman. One surprisingly big thing has been removing a lot of “don’t” from my language. I still use it. Sometimes it’s exactly the word I need, for example, “I don’t like being hit.”

If he picks up the unplugged hair straightener by the plates to pretend to straighten my hair; instead of immediately saying, “Don’t hold it there,” I might tell him, “That part would be hot if it were plugged in. I would hold it here by the handle.”

If he’s doing something that could end with him falling, I can tell him what I see coming. Then he gets to evaluate it. Often, he will change his mind and not do the thing, once I’ve just said what might happen, rather than if I say: “don’t do that.”

I’ve also been catching myself when I want to jump in and help. Sometimes I watch him struggle with something and feel myself preparing to intervene.

Then: Wait.

A few more seconds.

And he gets it.

I’m learning to leave a little space before intervening. Really, so much of parenting lately has become managing myself. My reactions. My urgency. My desire to make the thing stop immediately because something inside me has decided discomfort means FIX IT.

Apparently this lesson has wandered out of parenting and started following me around everywhere.

And there’s Porcupine, clocking in again.

This Is How I Used to Talk to Myself

I recently tried something different with one of my mirror videos.

Usually I explain. I give tips. I resolve things. I leave a long caption. I make sure everyone understands where I am now and what I mean and what I learned and why I’m sharing it.

This time I looked into the camera and said, “This is how I used to talk to myself.”

Then I turned toward the mirror.

“God, you’re so ugly.”

“You’re so fucking stupid.”

“People just tolerate you.”

“You’re disgusting.”

And I kept going.

Then the video ended.

That was it.

I left it uncomfortable.

It felt uncomfortable making it. Apparently it felt uncomfortable watching it too. One person said it was painful to watch. Someone said I made him sad because I left it without a happy ending. Someone thought I wanted pity. Someone was cruel. Someone defended me. Someone said she’d been avoiding the mirror.

And one person simply said:

“I fucking do that.”

That one stuck with me.

Because that’s the thing. That’s why I shared it. People say horrible little things to themselves all day. “I’m an idiot.” “I’m stupid.” “I look disgusting.” “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

Sometimes it becomes so ordinary that we barely hear it.

Then you hear another person say the same thing out loud, and suddenly it sounds fucking awful.

I think I want to keep making those videos. I can still reach those lower emotional rungs pretty easily. Anger. Depression. Insecurity. Shame. I lived down there for most of my life.

I remember the basement well enough to tell you where the light switch is.

And I live far enough upstairs now to recognize how fucking dark it was.

Please Arrive at the Correct Conclusion About Me

The mirror video taught me something else.

Old me sees discomfort: FIX IT.

Explain it. Resolve it. Add tips. Give everybody the happy ending. Make certain nobody misunderstands. Put bubble wrap around the viewer.

If I caused the discomfort, the urgency gets even louder. Explain what I meant. Reassure them. Clarify my intentions. Make myself understood. Hand everybody a little emotional helmet before they leave.

So when somebody literally commented that I’d left the video without a happy ending, every old piece of machinery had an invitation:

OH SHIT, THEY’RE SAD. QUICK. GET THE HAPPY ENDING. TELL THEM I’M OKAY. EXPLAIN HOW FAR I’VE COME. MAYBE A PARAGRAPH ABOUT MIRROR WORK. GET LOUISE HAY IN HERE. SOMEBODY FIND BUBBLE WRAP.

And I left it.

They felt sad. Somebody else felt recognized. Somebody supplied compassion. Somebody supplied concern. Somebody supplied ugliness. Somebody defended me. Somebody talked about her own mirror.

The room regulated itself without me running around adjusting everybody’s thermostat.

I think what I’m learning is that explaining less means allowing interpretation to happen without supervising it.

Maybe the viewer can carry this feeling. Maybe Truman can solve this problem. Maybe my husband can have an emotion without me fixing it. Maybe somebody can misunderstand me. Maybe somebody can dislike what I made.

Maybe an uncomfortable silence can sit on the couch for a minute without me bringing it a fucking snack.

Maybe I can feel the urge to fix everything without obeying it.

Discomfort can be information instead of an emergency.

Welcome to the Mirror Factory

This brings me to social media.

Oh, boy.

I used to reply to every comment. I tried to answer messages. I thanked people. I explained myself.

And somewhere along the way, sharing something became a job after the job:

Make a 25-second video → edit video → write small autobiography → explain artistic intention → disclose process → prevent misunderstanding → provide emotional resolution → contemplate humanity → collapse behind couch. 😂

Or:

“Okay, but what if they misunderstand the underlying philosophical framework? Maybe I need two paragraphs of context. Also they need to understand my artistic process. And my intentions. And where I am emotionally now. And perhaps my complete relationship with artificial intelligence. Wait, somebody might think I’m sad. ADD HOPE. Somebody might think I’m bragging. ADD HUMILITY. Somebody might think…”

Ma’am. It is a 25-second reel. Truman wants more cereal.

I’ve had very little bandwidth for comments and messages for quite a while now. (Since January)
And I feel weird about that sometimes.

Because I appreciate people listening. I appreciate people caring. I appreciate somebody taking a few minutes of their actual life to watch something I made.

And yet, trying to hold every interaction was draining me.

For about two and a half years, my husband and I lived without Wi-Fi and screens. I loved a LOT about that life.

Now I’m online again because I want to make things and share things. I love making music. I love making art. I like leaving pieces of what I’m doing where other people can find them, because if Louise Hay and Abraham Hicks hadn’t… I literally wouldn’t be here.

I also know what happens to me when the internet becomes another room I feel responsible for maintaining.

Same Fucking Room

This is almost embarrassingly obvious now that I see it.

I clean the house all day. I turn around. Mess again. I pick things up until my back hurts.

Truman pours his own paints now, which is wonderful, although occasionally I have to intervene at the quantity scientifically known as “D’OHKAY, THAT’S PLENTY!”

He finishes one project while I’m still cleaning it up and immediately wants to begin another.

“One thing at a time, buddy.”

Then I look at social media.

Post something. Clean up after it.

Comments. Messages. Misunderstanding. Clarification. Thank-yous. Someone worries. Someone attacks. Someone asks a question. Someone needs context.

Clean. Clean. Clean.

Meanwhile my creative brain is already yelling:

CAN WE START THE NEXT PROJECT?!

And I’m still sitting on the floor picking up the emotional paint cups from the last one.

I have enough cleanup in my physical life.

I’m learning: the post gets to leave a mess.

Breadcrumbs

So I think that’s what this blog is for.

Breadcrumbs.

I’m learning the difference between explaining myself and leaving proof of myself.

I think social media can become simpler for me:

Here is what I say now.

Here is what I said then.

Here is what happens when the old voice comes back.

Here is what I do when I’m scared.

Here is a ritual I use.

Here is the song that came out of it.

That’s plenty.

Someone wants to understand the music? Website.
How I make it? Website.
Who I am? Website.
Albums? Website.
Lyrics? Website.

The whole archaeological dig?

Fantastic.

Here’s the museum.

Instagram and Facebook get the artifact.

“Hi! Before you form an opinion about me, here are seventeen important contextual factors…”

Ma’am, security is escorting you away from your own exhibit.

Let them encounter it.

And that’s partly why I’m starting this blog. I want somewhere I can go long. Somewhere I can talk about motherhood and mirrors and music and magick and whatever weird thing happened that weird Tuesday. Somewhere I can circle. Somewhere I can leave the screws showing.

Everything that crosses my mind has been trying to become an album lately. Maybe my creative attention can wander around for a while without immediately becoming Album Ten called: “For Fuck’s Sake, Woman, Sit Down.”

Protect This Space

There’s something funny happening with magick underneath all of this too.

My songs and rituals have been giving me names for things.

Porcupine: Wait. Look again.

Seahorse:panic and the fear of being perceived.

Skunk:the part of me that apologizes for existing.

Coyote: falling apart, gathering herself and continuing.

The angels those animals are inspired from give me directions and structure.

The songs have become emotional flash cards.

They give me handles.

Instead of one giant SOMETHING FEELS BAD → REACT, I have more room now.

Oh. Porcupine. Hi, Sarah. Wait. Look again. What’s actually happening?

Even protection means something different to me lately.

The mirror used to feel like somewhere I got hurt.

But glass never said anything.

The attack came from a voice.

Maybe protecting myself sometimes means protecting the person in the mirror from that voice. Maybe protecting myself online means leaving something I made and walking away from the comments and messages.

Maybe protection sometimes looks remarkably unimpressive.

Post the work. Put the phone down. Go make cereal.

Truman has been repeating parts of our rituals lately too. He walks around my legs while we’re doing them, saying the lines after us.

At the end, my husband and I kiss and say, “Protect this space.”

And sometimes Truman yells:

“YOU DID NOT PROTECT THIS SPACE!”

Thanks, buddy. Your complaint has been forwarded to the appropriate archangel. I’ll work on my form better next time.

The Closet

There’s another little thing Truman has been doing.

For a while, the closet scared him. Then one night he hid under a blanket when my husband came in to brush his teeth. My husband snuck into the closet and hid.

When Truman found him, he was terrified and delighted at the same time.

After that, Truman started wanting to go into the closet. Then he wanted me to hide there with him. Then the stuffed animals came.

So the sequence became:

Scary place → approach scary place → bring safe person → bring imaginary companions → play there.

And slowly the closet changes meaning.

I keep thinking about the mirror when I think about that.

The mirror used to be somewhere I got hurt. Now I walk back into it deliberately.

I bring a camera. I bring songs. I bring animals. I bring rituals. Sometimes I even bring the old voice and let it speak.

And slowly the room changes ownership.

Maybe that’s what I’m doing in more places than I realized.

Good Thing We Have Soft Mats

I think so much of this comes back to voices.

Truman is building his.

I’m rebuilding mine.

I hear myself in him constantly.

“Good thing we have soft mats.”

I hope that voice stays. I hope when he falls, some part of him looks around for the soft mat before looking for somebody to blame.

And I’m trying to do the same thing for myself.

Sometimes I still hear the old recording.

“You’re ugly.”

“You’re stupid.”

“Sorry.”

Sometimes it starts playing before I even realize I pressed anything.

And now I hear it.

I can decide which lines stay in the script. I can leave a few seconds before reacting. I can let somebody misunderstand me. I can let a viewer feel sad. I can let my kid struggle with something for another moment. I can leave the post without cleaning up after it.

I can make art without standing beside it explaining where everybody is supposed to look.

I can leave breadcrumbs.

The people who are curious can follow them.

The rest of my attention gets to live here, in the room where my actual life is happening.

Because I really do want to share.

I just want to share in a way I can live with.

So maybe this is it.

Make the thing.

Leave the breadcrumb.

Let people feel whatever they feel.

Go make cereal.

Truman gets Mama. 🖤

Thank you for staying long enough to look.

May the next uncomfortable thing get five more seconds before you decide what it means. May the soft place still be there when you land.

A little crow’s on the wire, keeping watch over you.

I’ll leave another breadcrumb soon.