This same time, years previous: in recovery, dobby and luna, magic custard cake, walking through water, three things, the quotidian (6.19.12), refried beans, Kate’s enchiladas, this particular Friday, what I got, and how to freeze cilantro.

I am in a fog. Last week when our water system sprung a leak, I didn’t notice (“Didn’t you see the water all over the basement floor?” my husband asked. “Well, yes,” I admitted. “I did see water, now that you mention it, but, um, it didn’t register.”) I put a pot of rice on the stove and then promptly forgot about it…until the smoke alarms reminded me. Once I even forgot to drink my coffee.

My older son, in particular, takes offense at my glazed-over eyes. “How much longer are you going to be like this?” My answer—at least a couple years—did not sit well with him.

See, a few weeks ago a publisher approached me with an idea. We met the very next day to bat around ideas, and the next day I stayed home from church to Google “How to write a book.” (!!!) That afternoon my husband and I rearranged our bedroom so I could have an official book-writing place, and the next evening he built me a table-desk from an old door in three hours flat.

I got some plants from the greenhouse and stuffed them in little pots and old bowls (oxygen for my brain), and I scavenged a white board and bulletin board from the thrift store.

I read about quaint writer sheds and sleek studios and offices that take up entire rooms, but let me tell you, not a one of them has anything on my nook. What with the tall, breezy windows and high ceiling, an entire floor and bed on which to spread out my papers, and a desk that has a hole in it from where the doorknob used to be, I couldn’t be happier. Plus, the room has a closeable door, and when my time is up, I leave everything where it is and no one messes with it. Oh the glories!

(Also? Our bedroom has been severely underutilized. Why? Why?!)

Actually, these last couple weeks have been spent not on the book but on the seminar I’ll be giving at our church’s national convention. But since the seminar is on homeschooling (“Skipping School,” Wednesday at 7:30 p.m. in room 2104A—COME!) and that’s what the book is about, it all blurs together.

Last week my children were all otherwise occupied thanks to their regular work schedules, my mother and a girlfriend, and an Interfaith Peace Camp, so I had six hours each day (and nine hours on Thursday!) to spend writing. I’ve always thought that I can only stand to write for about two hours at a time, so my endurance has come as a complete surprise. It certainly hasn’t been all roses, but the overwhelming feeling is enjoyment. Which is, to say the least, encouraging.

I haven’t sunk into a project like this for…well, for since forever, I guess. I live my life on the surface, only dipping into projects here and there, always prepared to be yanked from whatever it is I’m doing—perhaps this is a side-effect of mothering?—so to sink into something this deep feels luxurious. I have permission to go inward. No, scratch that. I have been asked to do this. In a way, I’m off the productivity hook. While there is the goal of a finished product (which is actually a very large and pointy hook, ah!), daily productivity is not the expectation. For now, the process is what counts. Consistency. Plodding forward, one new idea, vignette, and researched idea at a time.

And now, if you’ll excuse me. I have an outline to tackle, and a working title and table of contents to conjure out of the thin air of my brain. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can I think I can I think I can IthinkIcanIthinkIcan TOOT TOOT!


This same time, years previous: mud cake, spinach dip, the quotidian (6.16.14), the smartest thing I did, the business of belonging, street food, language study, Greek cucumber and tomato salad, a glimpse, sourdough waffles, and when I sat down.        

Nearly two years after returning from Guatemala, I finally made a book from some of the pictures. I used to—years ago—make photo albums, but that felt overwhelming. Then I saw Amanda’s post on personalized photo books, and a seed was planted.

I’ve known that these books are A Thing, but I never gave them any serious consideration. I was afraid the process would be cumbersome, the pictures would look stupid in print, no one in the family would appreciate the book, and it’d end up being a colossal waste of money. But then I realized that I’d never know if it would work or not if I didn’t ever give it a try. So I took the plunge.

It took me a while to ready the book, and I never did quite figured out how to maneuver my way through the options. Thanks to my ineptitude, it was probably harder than it needed to be. Also, I got a little stressed out over all the printing options, the hundreds of pictures to choose from, and trying to organize my photos into chronological order. So I reined in my perfectionist tendencies and focused on trying to imagine what the children would like and then selecting photos that would jog their memories. The best I could, I lumped photos into categories—food, work, people, school—but I eventually quit trying to keep everything in order. Case in point: the photo on the front cover was taken in Nicaragua. Whatever.

A couple days after I submitted the book for printing, I had the sickening realization that all the photos I used had been taken from my export folders, and all the photos in my export photos had been downsized. The quality was going to be terrible! But it was too late. There was nothing I could do. The worst that could happen was the book would arrive and go straight into the trash and I would’ve wasted fifty dollars. Oh well.

And then the book arrived and it wasn’t all that bad. In fact, it was kind of neat!

Sure, the photos weren’t crystal clear and I hadn’t sized some of them to fit the page as neatly as I could have. In retrospect, I could have done without some of the photos and used more of others, especially of the children doing their thing. But it was my first book. It wouldn’t be fair to expect it to be perfect.

As for the rest of the family, they were all quite taken with the book. The children fought over who had dibs on taking it to church to show off to friends. My daughter took it to work to show her boss. My husband keeps picking it up, turning the pages, and sighing wistfully.

When my mom came to visit, the children crowded around, all talking at once. As she slowly paged through the book, stories and memories poured from the children. It was like a spigot had been turned on full force. And then it dawned on me that while I had done a lot of processing and sharing through the blog, my children had never gotten the chance to show-and-tell their stories. Their excitement was gratifying, but it also broke my heart a little. I wish I had provided them with a way to process the experience a whole lot earlier than this.

But oh well. My imperfect book is here now, and we love it to bits. That’s good enough for me.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (6.9.14), last Sunday morning, the quotidian (6.10.13), fresh tomatillo sauce, and white chocolate and dried cherry scones,