Ashleigh Baker

life stories: white bloomers and mesquite

Springtime in the desert was hot. So very hot.

A wave of warmth each February tricked us into pulling last year’s t-shirts from plastic bins and we all talked of swimming. There was always a snap, the last hurrah of the winter wind, the weeks we were most likely to see snow. But spring – real spring – arrived early in April, and with it came a crisp breeze, an almost-beating sun and the creeping of temperature gauges toward 100 degrees.

My brother and I tore out the door during those in-between weeks, when it was hot but not sweltering. We built houses between spears of yucca plants and tall Joshua trees. Using California’s own hula hoe, we banished weeds and created hallways and rooms in the hard packed dirt.

(Did you know if you Google “hula hoe,” my tiny hometown shows up on the first page of results? We must have cornered the market.)

We fancied ourselves botanists during the gardening season, Zachary and I, setting up shop with boards nailed in the juniper branches, selling sprigs of unknown foliage and attempting to cure wounds with mud. We mashed yellow berries and flowers in a Mason jar, added a scrap of white fabric and filled it with water. We screwed the lid on tight, set our dye in the sunshine, waited a few weeks. The fabric was white, still, when we pulled it out, but our fermented concoction would likely have cured any backyard ailment.

garden

Our brows trickled sweat in the spring and my headaches returned every May, but those were the laughter days. I learned to climb trees in a dress then, handmade white bloomers peeking from beneath my blue jumper if its hem caught on a branch. Zachary wore buckskins every day, a wooden musket slung across his back and a coonskin cap atop his milk-chocolate hair.

Math books could wait on the kitchen table, science experiments would be finished in the evening. The spring days were running away from us, we couldn’t catch them, and we had bicycles to ride. We lived high in our mesquite tree, carving our names in the branches, telling each other stories.

Spring in Virginia is unsure of itself, ordering us to wear sweaters in the morning and shed them by noon. The heat will be here in a few weeks, the humidity suffocating and the thunderstorms exhilarating.

My boys swing wide the front door at four in the afternoon, drop backpacks with a thud and slam the backdoor. They flip and toss on the trampoline for an hour, climb a tree and find me when they fall. Then they ask to play the Wii or to watch Power Rangers and they want to dress up like Obi Wan Kenobi.

I think of buckskin pants and fermented yellow dye, read pieces like this one and make five second plans to homeschool in the fall.

The desert was beautiful in the springtime.

Exercising my simple storytelling muscles. Are you writing your stories?

May 15, 2013 8 Comments Filed Under: loving, storytelling

on the day after mother’s day

We’ve always laughed, John and I, and said it’s a cruel joke, this thing of Mother’s Day being on Sunday.

Mothers across the nation wake extra early, readying small ones for church, preparing for a long day of Sunday School and services, lunch with napless toddlers in packed-to-the-windows Italian restaurants, the typical Sunday evening preparations for another week. The mothers wear smiles and corsages, bracelets made with macaroni by tiny hands. Each mama welcomes the love and the honor and the accolades, but all she really wants is an infusion of sleep without wasting the time it takes to actually, you know, sleep.

Our Sunday was beautiful in all of my favorite quiet ways, filled with the running, giggling, and singing of little boys, sushi, and time to knit. I was showered with kisses and construction paper cards, poems and a hot pad with a painted hand print flower. John wrapped his arms around my waist, whispered of how he adores the three small humans we parent together, how he loves the way I mother them. We ignored the chaos, John cleaned the kitchen and I’ll spare you the story of the incident involving a small person and a full bladder. Mother’s Day was sweet and simple and good.

On The Day After Mother's Day

But today is Monday and Shelton coughed himself awake all night long. The morning began in earnest at 5:30am and there have been lunches to pack, a tired preschooler with a runny nose, a leaky diaper, a full dishwasher and a sink somehow already stacked with plates and bowls. I discovered too late we’re devoid of an essential food item, which means I’ll actually need to get dressed before school starts this morning and run to the grocery. My calendar tells me I have doctor’s appointments to schedule, phone calls to return (I’m the worst about that) and hours of work to squeeze into naptime. The basement is nearly unwalkable, the result of three neighbor boys over on Saturday to play Legos and Angry Birds. I’m afraid to use the toilet in the downstairs bathroom.

For an hour yesterday afternoon, I clicked my way through a few of the pieces shared in our simple stories linkup on Friday. I read Amy’s heartfelt letter to her teenage children and sweet Laurie’s tale of a day in early motherhood and both tangled up somewhere inside of me this Monday morning, because this is it, isn’t it?

Today is the real mother’s day, the day after our holiday, when the flowers are on the mantle but someone needs to water them, when the cards tumble like dominoes and the kisses are out the door on the way to school. Today there will be whining and the tiny humans will create gigantic messes and the notes we receive will come from the teacher’s desk. We’ll have heavy conversations with our older ones while wiping the faces of the small folk. We’ll oversee homework and fold five loads of laundry and we’ll grab take out for dinner. We’ll go for a walk, run 25 errands, read books, and do the bedtime routine. We’ll whisper to ourselves throughout the day, thoughts of life and wonder and philosophy and justice and truth. Then we’ll fall into bed, too late, without making time to write them down.

This is the day we are more than the cards, more than the accolades. We prove, here, our own faithfulness in doing the hard work of the daily loving and living, of partnering with any partners we have, of holding up our good habits and asking for help, of keeping our heads down through the rough patches and finding beauty in those gentle moments when it all comes together.

This is the day we become more of what we already are, the ones who do the sacred work of mothering and nurturing and loving deeply while hiding the dark circles under our eyes.

Happy Mother’s Day, mamas. You’re celebrated on Monday, too.

May 13, 2013 13 Comments Filed Under: loving

clouds like curtains

On warm mornings we slide up the windows, the front of the house open wide to a line of cars snaking its way into the high school parking lot across the road. The boys pull the blinds to the top of the bay window, the 7am sunlight on their faces as they watch John weave his way into the thread of vehicles. Shelton balances against the finger-smudged glass, pulling his fist into a backward wave. “Buh buh, Dada.”

Morning Goodbyes

The big boys think they’re old enough to help out by making breakfast on their own each morning. We’re in a season of cold cereal and yogurt due to, well, mornings, but everyone prefers protein, naturally. So they spill egg yolk on the stove and shred cheese which ends up dotting the wood floor, mashed into kitchen rugs. I pretend to be unloading the dishwasher, lifting my eyes carefully, veiling my cautions, turning down the temperature gauge because eggs cooked at the speed of Christmas coming are better than a burned elbow. They serve me cheesy scrambled eggs with grins the size of Texas.

We’ve been on a Keith Green kick, playing thrifted albums again and again, ignoring the warp and forgetting to turn them over, wondering why the music stopped. The boys dance dramatically through the music room and I sway side to side, the baby’s head tucked under my chin.

“Like a foolish dreamer trying to build a highway to the sky,
all my hopes would come tumbling down
and I never knew just why.
Until today,
when you pulled away the clouds
that hung like curtains on my eyes.
I’ve been blind,
all these wasted years
and I thought I was so wise.
But then you took me by surprise.
Like waking up from the longest dream,
how real it seemed,
until your love broke through…”

Yes, yes, this.

Most mornings are full of urging and cajoling and pleading before 9am. Did you brush those teeth? Small folk, shoes on, now. Do the animals have water? You do actually have chore charts for this stuff, boys.

Yesterday Merritt informed me they won’t be able to obey in the mornings any longer because my brother moved to Omaha for school last month after sharing our space for nearly two years. According to the five year old, without their uncle readying for work alongside their school preparations, brushing teeth is an impossibility. But apparently spending 20 minutes on one’s hair, using a full tablespoon of gel and brushing it into an old man’s comb-over in an effort to look like the hipster uncle is a very legitimate possibility. Every morning.

Ah, well.

***

Have you written your simple story? If not, perhaps you want to take a moment to jot down a quick tidbit today, no pretense, no premise, just sharing a snippet of whatever it is you enjoy sharing? The way we used to do it.

I’m opening a linky, just this once because I doubt we really need more linkups when so many splendid communities already exist. But I don’t want to miss what you’re writing from this end-of-the-week window. Will you leave a link to your simple story from yesterday, today, over the weekend?

(If you're feeling overwhelmed, perhaps meander over to Lisa Jo's and take a peek at the stories shared there. This week's prompt is Comfort. Full disclosure: I didn't write on comfort and I didn't link up. I just like the community they've developed over there.)

Thank you all for being here, for showing up and making me feel a little less crazy. I like you.

Lovelove,
Ash

May 10, 2013 7 Comments Filed Under: storytelling

simple stories
[an invitation to old-fashioned blogging]

Simple Stories

Remember the old days when we shared our simple stories, when we told about our days and posted grainy point-and-shoot photos, when we were thrilled to hear of new babies and cross-country moves and the books being read and that dress you found on sale at Target last week?

I miss that.

And I suppose the missing of it was part of what kept me from this space for so long, tip-toeing in here and there, then skittering away due to what it had become. Too many opinions, too many hot topics, too many should-dos, too many bulleted lists, too much promotion, too many scholarly thoughts, too many internet bullies, too many communities turning in on themselves, too many pinnable images and algorithms and plugins and discussions about the best time of day to share a blog post.

And all I wanted to do was talk about life.

Everyday Life - laundry and toys

If the conversations I’ve had in recent months are any indication, there’s a quiet little corner filled with people holding the same smoldering coals in our bosom, driven to relish the beauty and the broken, to roll ideas ’round for a while, to appreciate laughter and share the moments of our sacred everyday. We speak and sing and create and write because we have no choice.

But we’ve become stuck, silenced by our own fear and the pressing expectations to create stellar shareable content, to catch eyes and make it all mean something. When did blogging start taking itself so seriously? Nobody has life-changing thoughts every day.

Somewhere along the line, maybe it was five years ago, maybe it was two weeks ago, we’ve lost our voices in this sphere. Maybe the old words blew away in the wind, or perhaps our daily motions were altered by circumstances and the expected rolling along of life.

But maybe we’ve become convinced our stories aren’t enough unless they bring in a few extra dollars or widespread notoriety. Maybe we want to unpack our thoughts about God, but we’ve heard we aren’t allowed to speak until we have our theology in order. Perhaps voices have filled our ears, telling us we need to quiet the truth because it was too messy. Perhaps we’ve encountered the internet police, swirling their batons and beating our ankles if we use the wrong wording, telling us to hush up if we deviate from the approved solutions. We’ve been belittled for thinking our daily lives are worth sharing, warned we won’t be taken seriously, told there’s nothing sacred in the rhythms of the everyday. Who wants to hear about our minutiae when the people of the world are busy with their own lives?

Here’s the truth about that: I want to hear your minutiae.

soundofmusicvinyl

knitsquare

I entered the online writing space six houses, three states, three children, two deployments, one faith crisis and several eras ago. Many, many facets of blogging and online interaction have changed in those years. But the compelling aspect, the one thing keeping me from walking away and returning to the solitude of my pen and leather journal? Your stories.

Your stories have shaped my life, assured me I’m not alone, changed my views, made me laugh, buoyed me and held me. It wasn’t your gorgeous photography or your helpful linkups or your carefully crafted arguments or the original fonts in your header, much as I’ve loved all of them. It wasn’t because you publish on Tuesdays and Thursdays or thanks to the email delivery service you’ve chosen. I don’t stick around because of your blog design or your hairstyle or the brands you promote or your doctrinal views.

The internet certainly isn’t a soul-sucking waste land and the trappings of blogging aren’t inherently devastating. I’m addicted to Instagram and waste hours on Pinterest and can’t imagine a world without Facebook. There are a million obscure platforms and tools we bloggers use and they’re all needed when it comes to getting the the job done. By all means, use them and use them well. Do what you do, create businesses, take the opportunities, write the books, make things happen.

But I don’t read your blog because of a multi-avenue internet platform. And I don’t stay away from your blog because of your lack of online glamour.

It’s always been the stories. Our lives are all we have, aren’t they? So let us hear your passion and the way you thrive. Let us cheer for you, mourn with you, share in your ponderings and hilarious anecdotes. Speak to us of your days and toss away the need for an obvious premise. The telling matters, to me, to your aunt two states away, to the readers who pull from your life hope and freedom and empathy and courage and commonality and faith and humor and inspiration.

Refuse to be silenced. Sing loud, light a flame, start a new chapter. Share your world, because it is yours. Do it eloquently, do it beautifully, do it humorously, do it boldly, do it sarcastically. But however you do it, do it as you.

Soccer Field

This is an invitation to return to old-fashioned blogging, in which we do life and share the simple realities, the open parts, the hard and the lovely. This isn’t a call to a confessional or a rally for waving around our dirty laundry. No, no – keep your secrets and honor your stories in the telling.

But this is a call to slow down, to break the rules a bit, to have some fun and trust that it doesn’t have to be so complicated. It’s a call to do the work of showing up, being real, pushing past the fear and the belief in our own incompetence.

Let us not desecrate the magnificence of the sacred days we’ve been given with the lie that our words no longer hold value, that nobody will take seriously the life lived well. The simple truths, shared intentionally, are shaping communities, online and off. These stories deserve to be told.

Need inspiration? Follow along with Heather of the EO’s Just Write community on Tuesdays, or dig in with Lisa Jo’s Five Minute Fridays.

Need accountability and community? Join this new Facebook group, where we’re committing to writing down the simple stories and holding each other to it.

I love you, you beautiful, rag tag, messy, perfect online community, you. Let’s live our simple lives together again, mmkay?

~Ash

May 8, 2013 111 Comments Filed Under: creating, journeying, storytelling

sing loud

It’s always in whispers at first, isn’t it?

We mean it, then we don’t. But maybe we do? We have our thoughts, they have their own.

Too opinionated. No backbone. Loose canon. Too innocent. Trying too hard. Too strategic. No voice. All the same. Opportunist. Manipulative. Broken. Too fairy-tale. Only in it for the return. Just looking for fifteen minutes of glory.

Criticism, too many opinions, their voices and our own. It’s all tossed to the open wind, stuffing our brains with cotton and paralyzing all of us with its spine-shattering fear.

So why keep at it?

Why not just give up the whole gosh darn thing?

If you create, why make something new?

If you write, why tell those stories?

If you paint, why pick up the brush?

If you speak, why open your lips?

If you sing, why belt out that melody?

I’m going to venture a guess and say you’re doing it because you have no choice, aren’t you? Because if you don’t make that art, whatever it is, however practical, however mystical, your head will go buzzy and your heart will turn grey and your stomach will be filled with heavy brick.

Let’s not give it up, weary ones.

They say you’re too outspoken? You know what? You’re heard.

You’re too naive? You’re winning them over.

Too private? You’re wise.

Too driven? You’re making it happen.

We’re all in this together, me with my discretion and you with your open book. You keep your secrets, I’ll tell mine, we’ll see-saw our way through this journey of ours, toward becoming ourselves, toward growing up, toward learning what it is we’re even trying to say. We’re telling our tales as we live by them, we’re singing our songs with full lungs, we’re dancing until our limbs go numb, we’re discovering truth in the dank cellars and the sunshine.

Keep at it, wild hearted life liver. You’re doing just fine.