Asian Chicken Salad

This post is for all you people who have asked for (and in some cases, begged for) the recipe for my version of Asian Chicken Salad. You know the one: it's the only thing that sounds good to you when it's too hot outside for you to think about cooking (but not too hot for you to think about me cooking... )

I make this salad too many times to count during the summer months. It's cool and crisp, light but satisfying, and easy. Really, really easy--all around the perfect summertime meal. But I make it all year long because it's just that good.

The problem with sharing the recipe with you is that I never follow an actual recipe when I make it. The salad is just a bunch of ingredients tossed together, and I've made the dressing so many times that I don't need to measure ingredients as I stir them together. The last time I made the salad, though, my mother in law asked for the recipe, so I figured it was a good time to measure and record exactly how I made it. Without further ado, the recipe:

Salad Ingredients:
2 Romaine lettuce hearts
1/2 English cucumber, sliced into half moons
2 Carrots, julienned
3 Green onions, sliced (green part only)
2 Grilled chicken breasts, sliced
Toasted almonds
Crunchy chowmein noodles

Dressing Ingredients:
Base: equal parts water, plain vinegar, low sodium soy sauce (A good place to start is with 1/4 cup each for a salad that will serve about 2-3.)
1 1/2 T sesame oil (more if you make more of the dressing base)
Sugar, to taste. I'd start with about 1/4 cup. You could use other sweetners if you want to, but I like plain old ordinary sugar best.

Method:
You could really prep the ingredients any way you like and toss the ingredients together in any proportion that you like. Here's the way I do it.

Slice the romaine lettuce into ribbons. I use one romaine heart per person. If you use a regular head of romaine lettuce, it goes farther (would serve 3-4 people, depending on its size). Slice the cucumbers into half moons; julienne the carrots; slice the green onions; grill & slice chicken. Throw everything into a big bowl and add almonds and crunchy noodles; toss with the dressing.  Enjoy! (the sooner the better, or the noodles will get soggy...)

52 Projects: Project 10

Project 10

Write the story of why you moved to the city in which you currently live.

There's nothing terribly interesting about our decision to move here. It was a practical move, really.

 

We moved to the Tri-Valley, just over the Hayward Hills last summer after living the first two years of our marriage in Fremont. I had lived in there for the majority of my life, so moving away was bittersweet. By the time we left I had felt desperate for new surroundings for months, so I was terribly excited. Then again, leaving meant putting miles between myself and the community I had built over the past 30 years. But leave we did, and Dublin turned out to be a good place to end up.

The reason we moved was simple: I had left my job to stay home full time with our then 9 month old daughter, and since I wasn't working in Fremont anymore, it made good sense to us to move closer to Joey's office. We'd save on time and money that way: eliminating Joey's commute meant he could sleep a bit longer in the morning, spend more time with us in the evening, and save money on gas.

Dublin is a small city nestled in the middle of a valley that is especially beautiful in the winter, when rain turns the surrounding hills a deep, emeraldy shade of green. And in the spring, yellow wildflowers cover the hillsides, like sunshine you can touch and smell. It is a town filled with children and playgrounds and trees and calm, things that are good for the family and good for the soul. 

 

Dublin wasn't our first choice. We looked in the surrounding areas - Danville, San Ramon, Pleasanton. But it turned out that Dublin offered us the best temporary solution to our housing problem: an affordable, comfortable apartment in the heart of Dublin's family-friendly neighborhoods. 

And although there are things about adjusting to life here that are difficult, I will always look upon it fondly. After all, Addie spoke her first words and took her first steps here. It's the first place she recognized as "home." It's the place we became a family of four.  

All in all, it's a good place to call home.

The Crazy Cycle, and Getting Back to the Basics

Like many other women, I compare myself with others. A lot. No, really - a lot.

I know it's sort of a "thing" we do, consciously or subconsciously, but the other day I woke up to the truth of how destructive my habit had become.

Here's the funny thing, though. I haven't been out much lately, unless you count the recent trips to the park or Target. And when I do go out, I honestly haven't been comparing myself to anyone. In fact, most of the time, the people I see are moms of small children like myself, so I identify with them, sympathize with them, wish them luck on getting through their day.

I found the bad habit resides online. And not in a place I expected.

I follow blogs - lots of them. Cooking blogs and decorating blogs and personal blogs and encouraging blogs, blogs about family, blogs about faith, blogs about art and homemaking and writing and crafts. Blogs as diverse as the people who write them. But yesterday I realized something that many of them have in common: most of them make me feel like crap after reading them.

This was a bitter pill to swallow because, ironically, blogging once saved my sanity. I would write for no one but myself, about anything, whenever I felt the urge to do so. Nothing was off limits, and I wasn't hindered by the thought that I wasn't good enough to blog. Soon, I discovered gems in the seemingly endless blog world, writers who inspired me and encouraged me and made me want to become better at my craft. Somehow, over time, that changed. Not because the blogs weren't any good. They were. But something shifted in me, and the more I read, the less I wrote. The more I read, the less I felt like I measured up. The more I read, the less I felt like myself.

A couple days ago I cried really, really hard after I found lots of silvery strands peeking out of my messy pony tail. I hadn't given myself a really good look in the mirror for a couple of weeks; post-delivery bloat and a hazy newborn stupor precluded me from caring much about what I looked like. But on that night, those gray hairs threw me for a loop and my whole world suddenly came crashing down because I hadn't gotten my hair done in a few months.

I laid in bed and began to cry, reeling over my unkempt hair. That's when the spin started. I thought about how frumpy I felt in my now-too-big maternity clothes and my still-too-small regular clothes, which then made me think about how my toddler is better dressed than I am, which made me think about how crabby she's been lately and how I can't seem to spread myself thin enough to make everyone happy, which then turned into being frustrated that I spend every waking minute I have making other people happy, which made me wonder What about myself, for goodness sake? When will I feel like myself again? And why is my life so messy, so ordinary, so far from being the the beautiful adventure I always thought it would be? And I began to think about all the people who had it right, who were living their dreams and doing it with gusto and style.

The next morning, as I sat down to check for blog updates, it hit me: the people I was comparing myself to the night before were authors of blogs--people I didn't even know. And yet I managed to compare myself to them. And then I realized how even though so many of these blogs were written with great intentions, they were hurting me. Not because of them, but because of me.

Let me explain.

When I get up in the morning and pour myself a cup of coffee, I intend to write. I always want to write. But instead of writing, I end up spending my time reading blog updates, and then my daughter gets desperate for my attention and my window of opportunity to write anything closes, and I get upset and discouraged that I'm not doing the thing I love. And then I start to think that it's just as well because I don't have anything to write about. Comparing my life to the lives of the bloggers I've just read about, I feel like my life is terribly ordinary and uninteresting that no one would want to read about it anyway. So I begin to brainstorm ways I can make my life interesting, or projects I can attempt in order to have something to write about, or ways I can infuse personality and character into my otherwise plain old ordinary life. And then I get honest and remind myself how tremendously wonderful my life is and how I sound like an ungrateful little spoiled brat for even entertaining these thoughts. And then I resolve to begin writing about the truth of my life and find the beauty that's already there, starting tomorrow. And then tomorrow comes and I decide to just check the latest blog updates to see what's new before I start writing. And then the whole cycle begins again.

Sheesh. That's a crazy cycle, if I've ever seen one.

In the past few days, I reminded myself that I started blogging to save my sanity. I kept blogging because writing is therapeutic for me. I want to continue blogging because when I write, I see differently. I learn. I grow. I change.

And so, I took a drastic measure to stop the crazy cycle. I cut the blogs I follow down to 10. For a time, I'm only allowing myself to follow 1) blogs written by people I know personally, and 2) blogs that never make me feel down about myself, for reasons which I really can't put my finger on. There are only three in my list; they are blogs written by people I don't personally know, but highly respect. People I learn from and am encouraged by. People who call me up to what I hope to become.

In any case, writing about this is a bit scary because I am pro-blogging.  I love that there is a platform for people like me to explore and share ideas, to inform and to encourage one another. And down the road, I'll start following them again. But for now, this is something I know I need to do to regain some sanity. To see clearly again. To avoid the temptation of comparing myself with people who seem to "have it all together," and focus on writing about the beautiful life I get to enjoy every day.

Not that this will be a cure-all (I still haven't made it to the salon yet, and I'm still between sizes, and my toddler is still cranky...), but at least it will get me back to the basics: I'll be writing, and by writing, I'll be seeing things differently. Learning. Growing. Changing.

Spend Yourself, Rachel

As I alluded to a few months ago now, I started a new blog project called "Shines Like Stars" last year. This morning, I made a (perhaps impetuous) decision. I cleared that blog out. I didn't delete everything, but I imported all the posts I'd written to this space instead. There was something that just wasn't quite right about what I was writing over there. Nothing I ended up writing seemed to fit the original vision for the new blog the way I wanted it to. I felt as though whatever I was writing was censored, which I suppose is a good thing in some ways, but in reality, it's a hindrance to good writing. My writing felt forced, when I actually did it, and so it was a huge struggle to break through that and come up with something real. Thankfully, I never posted anything I wasn't proud to stand behind, but it didn't flow naturally; it was a clear sign to me that something about the blog wasn't right.

I guess it comes down to this: the posts I wrote there were just the sort of posts I'd write here. And that blog was supposed to be different in some capacity. I realized, though, that despite my best efforts, I was attempting to create something new out of my own strength, creativity, and vision. I wasn't listening to what God was saying to me at all. That's a scary realization, but a necessary one at the same time.

So, you'll notice that there are many, many new posts on this blog, but if you've followed along with Shines Like Stars, you've already read all of them. If you haven't, then you'll have some new things to read here. 

Shines Like Stars isn't going away; but it's back to bare bones (or will be shortly) until I get some clarity about what to actually write in that space. The Lord is putting some deep, important things on my heart and I know that He's calling me to do something that's a little bit risky and out of my comfort zone. I'm not exactly sure what that is, but I do know that it will go back to Philippians 2:15, which states this:

“Go out into the world uncorrupted, a breath of fresh air in this squalid and polluted society. Provide people with a glimpse of good living and of God. Carry the light-giving message into the night.” Philippians 2:15 (The Message)

Since August of last year, the Lord has been speaking to me about this verse, and he's been bringing it up in various ways every so often, reminding me of it and making it very clear that this is what He's calling me to. Last Sunday was sort of the last straw, in that I had all but given up on finding the right groove on Shines Like Stars until He spoke very directly to me through Pastor Terry's sermon last week. He spoke out of Isaiah 58 and urged us to live out that passage in a very real way. It's a powerful passage that talks about how the people of Israel appeared righteous because of the kind of religious motions they were going through, but God implores them to not to bother with those  religious motions because they were empty.  The people were doing things to appear righteous, but really, they were treating others unfairly, exploiting them for their own gain. But what God really cares about, and wants us to bother doing, is to deal with injustice, exploitation, the oppressed, those in debt, the hungry, the homeless, the naked. Even just be there for our own families. In other words, instead of creating a life that makes us appear righteous and important, God is imploring us to create a life out of humility. To serve others. To spend ourselves.

I spent the week mulling this over in light of what God's telling me through Philippians 2:15, and then I saw this verse in the next chapter of Isaiah:

"We long for light but sink into darkness, long for brightness but stumble through the night."

-Isaiah 59:10 (MSG)

I realized that when I'm at home in the middle of an ordinary day, I have a difficult time knowing how to actually do the things the Lord is calling me to do, especially in the culture in which we live. Example: Is it really safe for me to see a homeless man wandering the street and invite him into my home for a hot meal when it's just me and my 1 year old at home during the day? My flesh tells me that no, it's not safe - regardless of whether the man is a danger or not (there's no way for me to really know). But I wonder what Christ would say to that. Where do we draw the line between being wise and not taking a risk for the sake of Christ?

And then I realize that there are things I can do - easily. But I don't. Or if I do, it's few and far between. I long to do more, but I don't. I let myself stumble through the darkness telling myself I'm looking for light instead of actually being the light that I am. I keep looking for ways to spend my time and resources instead of spending myself by just being me and being available to be used by Christ through the heart and resources he's given me, which I strongly believe includes gifts and talents and passions.

Anyway, I've gone off on a tangent here I think, but the point is that Carnival Mirrors will be back to what it used to be, but I will also be doing something new at Shines Like Stars. I'll keep you posted on the progress as I have news to share. But will you do me a favor? Will you pray for me? The task seems insurmountable to me, and risky because I have no idea whether it will actually do any good or not, but the bottom line is that I'm choosing to be obedient and to spend myself, what little I have to give I will give it willingly to the Lord.

Thank you all for your encouragement and support, and perhaps most of all, for reading whatever I happen to write. You have no idea how important that is to me. Being vulnerable with strangers is sort of easy, but being vulnerable with the people who know me best is often the most intimidating and scary. Thanks for making it not so bad after all.

The beauty I see everyday (but usually miss)

In response to my post where I talked about my distorted self-image, a good friend suggested I do an exercise in which I list out the things I like and the things I don't like about my body - specifics, things like "the luster of my hair" to "the dimples on my butt."  (Not that I have dimples on my butt. That's just an example, of course.)

I knew it was something I had to do because I'm in search of truth. I know my self-image is distorted, and I know that I focus primarily on all the stuff about myself that I don't like. Instead of doing that, I'd like to focus on that things I do like, and not just things I like about my character. I know that real beauty is on the inside, but let's be honest: there is beauty on the outside, too. I am a physical being; I'm made up of spirit, soul, and body. And as a woman, I've been endowed with beauty from my creator who is beauty itself. Therefore, there must be something beautiful about my physical self, right?

Anyway, when I finally sat down to do the exercise at least two weeks after it was proposed, I really did think that the things I don't like would outweigh the things I do like. The things I don't like are the things I focus on daily; I rarely think about the things I actually do like, so I was convinced they were few and far between.

I was wrong. The things I like about my body outweigh the things I don't like by more than 2:1. In other words, I like twice as many things about myself as I dislike. (To be fair, though, I probably dislike my thighs more than I like the fact that I have straight hair. And I probably like my olive skin more than I dislike the little bumps on my upper arms.) Even so, I find it completely baffling that by just putting a half an hour into this exercise, I was able to come up with this list. It could grow - in either column - as I think about it more, I'm sure. But for now, it's eye-opening.

I include the list below for a couple of reasons. First, I do so in hopes that I'll really own this list if it's published. I don't want to just shove the list away somewhere; I want to remember it, to use it to focus on the things that are true and lovely about myself when I'm tempted to focus only on the things I'm unhappy about. Second, I hope that somewhere someone might be encouraged to do the same thing and to discover the happy truth that there are many lovely things about herself that she actually adores. If you're struggling with self-image, I encourage you to do the same. And don't berate yourself for things that are beyond your control at the moment you write the list (ie: swollen ankles that accompany pregnancy...). Just think about yourself in your normal, stare into the mirror, and discover the beautiful things that you see every day, but usually miss.

Things I Like

My hair

… its color (brown)

… its shine

… its softness

… its straightness

My eyes

… their shade of deep brown

… the way they smile

… my eyelashes that easily curl

… my little mole just next to my left eye

My mouth

… straight teeth

… soft, full lips

… my smile

My skin

… its softness

… its elasticity

… the olive tone, especially because I tan easily

… the little brown freckles sprinkled over my body

… my birthmarks

… the fact that I don’t have stretch marks

My neck & shoulders

… my collar bone. Strangely, I love it.

My arms

… my forearms: their shape, size

… my wrists (I think they’re dainty)

My hands

… long fingers

… healthy nails with long nail beds

My curves

... the fact that I have a feminine body

… well-proportioned waist, hips, rear

My height

… 5’4’’ –tall enough to feel “not short,” and short enoughto feel “not tall.”

My feet

… a nice size at 7.5

… they look really cute when my toenails are painted

Things I Don’t Like

My face

… its roundness

My hair

… how fine it is

… and how dark and course it is on the rest of my body

My arms

… the little bit of skin underneath them that flaps

… the bumps on my arms

My torso and hips

… extra padding

… my tummy “pooch,” as I call it

My legs

… my inner and outer thighs. Heck, just my thighs in general.

… my calves. They're on the big side.

… my ankles, for reasons I can’t figure out

A Little Perspective

Sometimes, perspective is all I need to set my mind right.

This past weekend I left everything I know behind - schedules, routines, people - and headed up to the mountains with a friend who had invited me to join her sisters and their friends for a girls' getaway weekend. I don't remember the last time I did anything like that, but whereas my natural inclination would have been to decline the invitation (based on the fact that I didn't know anyone), I took a shot and went.

When we first got there, I suddenly felt transported back to high school. I felt awkward and out of place, and imaginary audience of adolescence reared its head in a very real way. When you're the new girl, the only one out of the bunch that doesn't have a long history with any of the others in the group - that's intimidating at first. And as I walked into that cabin, I was flooded with the feelings that every other woman there would be scrutinizing every detail about me: my clothes, my shoes, my hair, my skin, my weight, my height, my style, my voice, my personality - and I suddenly felt as if I wasn't going to be deemed good enough for them. This was before anyone even said hello.

The funny thing is that it didn't take long for it to occur to me that these ladies were not up at that cabin to get to know me. (Funny how during adulthood, things like that actually do occur to you, whereas during adolescence, no one could convince you otherwise).  But then, I was hit with this: "Tell us something exciting about yourself." I had nothing.

Exciting? Interesting might have been slightly easier to come up with, but exciting? What's exciting about myself? My life? The fact that I couldn't answer scared me.

As I laid in bed trying to drift off to sleep after the evening's festivities died down, I found myself longing for that something, that thing that would set my heart on fire and make me want to pursue it so passionately that everything else would sort of fade away as not nearly as important (read: laundry, dishes, diapers, and the like). I thought about all the things that other people do, all the things I like to do, and when I compared the two, I felt as if the things I enjoy aren't nearly as "exciting" as the things that so many other people are excited about (chiefly among them, training for a marathon). And I beat myself up about it for a good bit of the weekend. But by the time I got home, I realized that exciting doesn't have to be limited to running marathons. It doesn't have to be limited to mission trips to China. But, it also can be something more than buying organic strawberries at the farmer's market in January (True story. I bought some about two weeks ago. And it was very exciting.)

I've been searching lately for something more. I don't think that's a secret around here. Something more, though, seems a bit elusive because it's ill-defined. More of what? More busy? More meaningful? More exciting? More productive? More spiritual? More creative? More holy? More what? I think the answer is this: all of that. And that is overwhelming. It's a tall order for someone who feels a bit lost.

When I was working an outside job, I was distracted from this desire. Perhaps the job wasn't my calling or my dream, but it was a good distraction from the fact that I actually want more out of life than just to make it through the day. And now, making it through the day sane is at the top of my list, especially since I've had a very moody toddler on my hands for the past month.

Being surrounded by a group of friends tell old stories from a common past and updates on their current lives gave me a glimpse into how other people live, what's important to them, and what excites other people. I heard recipes being exchanged, discipline tips being shared, plans for marathon training being devised, and stories about trips to other exotic places exchanged. All of this was laced with laughter and the belief that life was actually quite good. Perhaps imperfect, but overwhelmingly good. And perhaps that's what was exciting about these women's lives, not just the marathons or the trips.

After gaining new perspective, I have a deep desire to stop thinking about things I want to do, and actually do them. I've let money and time and fear keep me from pursuing these things that seem exciting to me for far too long, and so today, I'm setting a new course for myself and giving myself permission to go and learn and discover. To try. And to be excited about that.

And the first step, for me at least, is to make a list. So off I go to do so.

  

(Image via)

What sorts of things have you been dreaming of doing lately? What's holding you back? Are those limitations real or imagined? What would it take for you to stop making excuses and just get going?

Here We Go Again

I wrote this last Sunday when I was in the throws of feeling a little off.

Do you ever have those days? Days when whatever battle you're facing - mental or otherwise - seems to be staring you in the face, mocking you, dogging your heels and not giving you a moment's breath? I do, every once in awhile.

This post didn't actually get posted due to some strange problem with Blogger, so in my draft folder it's sat for the past few days. But here I am, finding myself with the urge to actually post it in hopes that it will, again, be like ripping off a band aid and exposing the wound to some air. And Lord knows I could use a little bit of fresh air, these days.

This is something I've dealt with before, many times over in fact. But here I am still, or again, confronting that pesky little thing that comes out when I'm at my most vulnerable. Being pregnant, I'm vulnerable to succumbing to my feelings and throwing myself a pity party about it. 

I have come to realize in a new, very real way that most women aren't very comfortable in their own skin. And if they are, they've most likely walked through a very raw place in their life in which they weren't comfortable with themselves, a place where they were plagued with questions and doubt and frustration and misunderstanding, the unwelcome result of a wound inflicted in childhood, a wound they weren't really even aware of even, until their incessant tendency to compare themselves to other women somehow caught their attention. It's not new news; I've known this on some level for a long time. I understand it in a new way now, though. We're not all that different after all. And the divide that keeps me captive to the idea that "I'm the only one who doesn't have it all together" is fading away.

For most of my life, I simply thought this is just how women are: they compare themselves to each other in some unspoken competition for who could be . . . well, what, exactly, I never knew for sure, but I suspected it was a combination of the prettiest, the funniest, the smartest, the friendliest, the best dressed, the most stylish. It seemed like everything was a competition with us girls - and it didn't matter how much I actually liked the girl I pitted myself against; I somehow usually ended up feeling less than, as if I was somehow cosmically insignificant if my dress size happened to be slightly larger than any one of my friends.

I'm not sure I even really participated in this collective comparison until I was in fifth grade. I call that my "butterball stage," and anyone who knows me well knows why. I was pudgy. No - that's not really fair. I was really pudgy - and I was blissfully unaware of it until the moment that changed everything.

My dad was the children's pastor at our church, and it wasn't abnormal for us kids to go down to the church office every now and then for some reason or another. One day, my mom took me down there, just the two of us. I don't know if I really knew the reason we were going or not, but I remember what happened when we got there. We went into the bathroom and I stood on the scale and my mom read the number aloud. "115. Now, if you can just stay there, you'll be ok." I've never forgotten those words, not in the 20 years or so since I heard them.

Before anyone is tempted to assume that I'm villifying my mother for this, let me say this: the words were innocent. Her intentions were not malicious. Never in her wildest dreams would she have thought that moment would stick with me into adulthood. I love my mom, and I know she loves me whatever size, shape, color, or texture I come in.

What did happen, though, was that those words had power over me for years. After that day, I was acutely aware of weight and size, and how they were inextricably linked to being ok. From that moment on, 115 was my number, the number that I couldn't ever quite reach again, the number that dictated my own sense of self-worth. If I wasn't 115, I wasn't ok. Something was wrong with me. No matter what else was good about me, the only thing that would make me ok was the right number on that scale. I was wounded without realizing it. As I grew up, I came to believe that if I couldn't be ok, than at least I should be humble about it, as if self-deprecation made me a better person or something. And I became obsessed with the scale.

When I got a bit older (and perhaps a bit wiser), the Lord graciously revealed this wound to me and helped me to see its effects on my life. And for a few years, I did fairly well believing the truth about myself and at battling through this weakness of mine, the weakness that makes me feel distinctly less than because of my unrealistic standards for myself. I began to feel comfortable with myself and accepted the fact that 115 isn't a healthy number for myself. I came to terms with the fact that if I got to 115, I still wouldn't be ok because I would be under weight of my height.

Even so, that nagging sense that something about me wasn't quite enough was always with me. Pregnancy brings this out in even fuller force, even though there's a very real (and very apparent) reason why my body is morphing into a shape that feels alien - and even a bit monstrous. The amazing truth that there's a new life forming inside of me doesn't shake the feeling that somehow, it's not making me any more beautiful than before. In fact, as the scale creeps up little by little, I watch my sense of self-worth diminish just a little bit more. And so I start to self-deprecate. I start to berate myself for things beyond my control, and I compare myself with other women who are pregnant or have had children and are all the more beautiful for it. (Especially the ones whose bodies don't change at all except for a slight blip in their midsection.)

But you know what? I'm realizing that self-deprecation is false humility. And I'm also realizing that it is impossible for me to be the only woman to deal with these issues. If heart burn and round ligament pain and swollen ankles and mood swings are all common effects of pregnancy, then a distorted body image probably is one, too. And to go even further, that distorted body image probably doesn't just exist during pregnancy - but pregnancy is the perfect time for it to flair up again and take advantage of an already highly sensitive, emotional girl who is questioning herself anyway.

And so, that being said, there are a few things I want to leave you with today. Since I wrote this on Sunday (and according to my own rules I'm supposed to be leaving you with my favorite tidbits from around the web this week) here are things that have stuck with me for the past few days. The first is a link to My Body Gallery, a site that shows what women with a particular height and weight actually look like. This helped me realize just how distorted my own view of myself is.

The second is a link to a friend's blog where she posted something very similar to this just the other day. When I read it, I thought, "I was right. More women deal with this than any of us really think about." When I catch myself thinking I'm surely the only one struggling with this particular battle, I'll think of her, and then I'll think of all the women she represents, women who outwardly seem strong and secure, but who inwardly are doing their best to get by just like the rest of us. And here's a link to a video she made of herself while she was working through some of these demons awhile back. The video spoke to me profoundly, and I find that the chorus of the song has been popping into my head every now and then for the past several days - a welcome reminder to my weary heart that its time to give up the fight and embrace the beauty of who I am, just as I am.

And finally, here's a link to a project I finished awhile ago: Project 31. Project 31 was a challenge to rediscover my own true beauty, to deal with my demons and get right in my brain about who and what I am. I find that even though I finished quite some time ago now, it really is an ongoing process for me, and I've got to keep going back to these truths to keep my mind healthy when it comes to all this stuff. I'm doing it for myself, yes, but also for my daughter who will watch me and mimic me, who will learn from me and who will emulate me.

This picture says it all.

52 Projects: Project 34

Project 34

Photograph your bookshelves. Then, make a list of every book that’s on the shelves, putting a check mark next to the books that you’ve actually read. Next, make a list of all the books that aren’t on the shelves that you’ve read over the years. Some you’ll have no problem remembering, others you won’t be able to recall. And then make still another list, this one noting all the books you want to read but haven’t — yet. Update frequently, and keep the lists and photographs tucked away in your favorite book.

I love my bookshelves, so much so that a place doesn't quite feel like home without them or the books that fill them. The funny thing is that I haven't read the majority of the books that take up residence here; I've known that for a long time and it hasn't really bothered me until recently. I love reading. Always have. But I also love books for their beauty. (Am I crazy that I think books are beautiful?) As such, I have many books that I love simply for the  aesthetic value they add to my living room; I'm sure the contents are incredible as well (most are classics, you know), but I wouldn't be the one to tell you that for sure.

But, last December, finding my appetite for reading was suddenly voracious, I determined that now was as good a time as any to start reading these books. As many as I could, as quickly as I could. (In other words, I resolved to start one and finish it without letting weeks slip by without picking it up.) And, as I began, I realized I had several books that I just didn't care about. I had picked them up once upon a time because I had wanted to read them, but as the years passed, I lost interest and forgot about them. With space at a premium in our apartment, I started sorting through the books and making piles of those that I was willing to let go of. I did this before I realized that one of the 52 Projects dealt with books on one's bookshelf. Nice timing, eh?

Here is one of my bookshelves; this is in the living room. There's one more shelf that's not pictured here; it's covered up by storage boxes behind our couch, and the camera couldn't catch it. (Told you space was at a premium - who wants storage boxes in their living room?) Anyway, we keep classics, books on faith and spirituality, and fiction on this shelf. 

This is the other shelf in the living room; it houses classics, literary anthologies, and art and history books. Oh, and Addie's books and toys are on the bottom two shelves. Didn't catch that in this picture, but I promise you I've read all the books on her shelf. Many times.

And here is the much more functional bookshelf in my bedroom. The books on this shelf are the spillover from when I cleared out two shelves on the living room shelves for Addie's stuff. And yet, somehow, adding books to my bedroom made it finally feel like my own room.

And this is the final bookshelf to show. This is in Addie's room; she has another one with strictly her books, but I included this one because the majority of books on it are actually mine. Books from childhood, high school, college. Books I held on to because they seemed to special to get rid of (my mom's Nancy Drew book from when she was a young girl); books I held on to because I thought perhaps one day my own daughter might love them (Anne of Green Gables); books I held on to because I still read them over and over again (Harry Potter).

So. The point of all this was to write a list of the books on these shelves, right? Well, I wish I could tell you that I had my list complete. I don't. I've had a clingy, moody toddler on my hands this week who has made it fairly impossible to do much else during her waking hours than read books with her, play hide and go seek with her Little People, or watch Sesame Street for the 47th time in a row. But I can tell you that the list is started, at least. I'll add pictures here when I get it finished. Promise.


What books do you love? Why do you hold on to the books you do? How do you decide what stays and what goes?

What I Do and What I Don't Do

Last week I was thinking a lot about dreams, goals, and ways to pursue them without losing my mind. Have you ever been in a place where you feel distracted by the things you think you ought to do, sacrificing getting something you want to do? (And I'm not talking about paying bills vs. blowing your paycheck at the mall ... )

Someone taught me a very valuable lesson last January, and here I am a whole year later and haven't done anything about it. I've remembered it, though, and every time I find myself caught between the ought to and the want to, I think about the lesson and wonder if it could help sort things out for me.

It's simple: make a list of things you do and things you don't do.

Shauna Niequist, she's a genius. I'm telling you. (She is hands-down one of my absolute favorite authors. She tells the truth, beautifully, honestly. And I never get through the first chapter of either of her books without crying. You can check out her blog here.)

In her book Bittersweet, there's a chapter called "Things I Don't Do," and I've been thinking about the truths in that chapter for the past several days. In it, she tells the story of how she came to write a list of things she doesn't do. She tells the story of how she came to hear (and believe, and put into practice) this invaluable piece of advice: "It's not hard to decide what you want your life to be about. What's hard [...] is figuring out what you're willing to give up in order to do the things you really care about."

So today, after re-reading the chapter for at least the hundredth time, I'm thinking about what I really care about. I'm asking myself questions like, What are the things in my life that are central to the life I want to lead? Am I leading the life I want to lead? And if not, what are the things I care about that I'm not making room for? What are the things in my life that I don't really care about, that are distracting me from investing in the things I do care about?

It's a two-part exercise. The first step is to decide what is most important to me - the things I do. The second step is to make a list of things that I don't really care all that much about - the things I don't do. I think by writing it out, it's like giving yourself permission to say no to the things you don't really care about, but more than that, it's permission to say yes to the things you actually care about, the things you always say you would spend your life doing if only you had the time.

When I sat down to make the list, I realized that it's much more difficult than it sounds. It may not look that way when you read my lists, but give it a try and you'll find out just how truthful I'm being. And by the way, if you don't feel like reading this list, I don't blame you. It turned out to be quite long. And believe it or not, I could probably make it longer. But maybe it will make you think differently about what you do and what you don't do - and just maybe, if you're like me, it will end up helping you feel really good about who you are and what you do (and what you don't do), and help you to take a step toward focusing your time and mental energy on pursuing the goals that line up with what's actually important to you.


Things I Do
I love Jesus. I do my best to live my life as He has asked me to, which includes serving others and being involved with fellow believers on a weekly basis.

I try hard to make sure the people I love know they are important to me. Sometimes this means watching something obscure on Netflix that clearly is nostalgic to my husband (but quite silly to me); sometimes this means inviting friends over to our place for an impromptu dinner;  and sometimes this means driving a bit to spend time with people I haven't seen in too long. Doing what I can when I can to spend time with people who make me think, make me laugh, and challenge me to be a better person is never time wasted.


I work at home. I have a more-than-full-time job taking care of my growing family. I try hard to keep things clean and running smoothly around here, and I take in freelance work when it pops up.

I spend a lot of time in the kitchen. Cooking and cleaning, yes, but studying and experimenting and creating. Cooking is a creative outlet for me, a beautiful way to experience all the colors and textures and flavors this world has to offer. I do my best to cook in a healthy, mindful way, but I never sacrifice flavor. Ever.

Which leads me to my next point. I believe in putting my money where my mouth is (perhaps literally and figuratively?) by buying organic milk, eggs, produce, and meat. I support local farms and I belong to a CSA. What this means in a practical sense is that I pay an awful lot for organic milk, I don't buy tomatoes out of season, and I made Addie's baby food from scratch (which actually is not nearly as hard as it might seem). Food is important, where it comes from is important, how we come to purchase it is important, and how we think about it is important - for the environment, for our health, and for our taste buds. Seriously - the real stuff tastes better. I promise.


I spend a lot of time with the written word by reading and writing. I read all sorts of books and blogs, especially ones that make me see the world a bit differently, or teach me something valuable, or give me sheer pleasure as I turn the page. When I read inspiring writers, I find that I am a better writer myself, and since writing is important to me, reading is essential.
 
Things I Don't Do
I don't have a outside job outside my home in the traditional 9-5 workday sense. I quit that over six months ago to stay home with my then infant daughter. When I was working, I felt lots of pressure to stay home. And now that I'm home, I feel lots of pressure to be a working mom. The thing is, I can't have it both ways, not really. But I can still do what I love here, in my home, while raising my daughter. 

I'm not much of a crafter. I could be, and I enjoy it (usually), but let's be honest here: I don't make my own jewelry or greeting cards or pillow cases or tutus for little girls. And I don't scrapbook. (Believe it or not, this has been a point of guilt for me. Not creating something fancy and pretty that documents my marriage and my growing child has made me feel like I don't care about them enough. But the truth is, I'm actually really terrible at documenting much of anything in any organized manner.) 

I don't stress over having a perfectly clean house. I do my best to keep things tidy (and actually, I really really hate going to bed with a messy kitchen), but overall, I'm not one of those women whose kitchen floor you could eat off of. Heck, I don't even scrub my shower. (But I can happily say that Joey does do that.)

I don't perform, and actually, it took a long time for me not to feel bad about that simply because I grew up among performers. Artists. Talented folks who enjoy sharing their gift in front of an audience. Plus, I married a man whose dating history primarily involves seriously talented musicians. Me? I'm not one of those. I don't sing or play an instrument, I don't act, and I certainly don't dance. And while I do want to learn to play the piano again (I quit when I was in 6th grade), I want to do that for me. I don't want to learn it with pressure to play for anyone other than myself unless I want to.

I don't do much with social networking. I don't Twitter, and I rarely Facebook. I like being connected with my friends, but I do my best to stay in touch with them by actually talking to them, visiting them, writing emails or letters to them. I admit that Facebook is an easy, fast way to shoot them a quick "I'm thinking about you" message, but I feel like it's pretty impersonal, and to be honest, I don't want the whole world privy to what I have to say to them.

I don't live outside my means. This means that I don't go shopping very often (unless you count shopping for milk and bananas every week), and I don't use money budgeted for something else or a credit card to get the things I really want. I either save for it, or wait for extra money to come in, or ask for it for my birthday or Christmas. It's tough - there are times when I feel deprived when I can't go out and buy a new purse or get a pedicure, or (even worse) sip a fancy cup of coffee as I roam around a bookstore, picking out a pile of new books to bring home with me. But I do feel good about making huge strides toward being debt-free, and believe it or not, life does go on if I keep on using my worn out purse.

I don't run marathons. I don't ski. I don't hike. I don't sail. I don't ride horses. In short - I'm not outdoorsy. I like to be active and healthy, but I don't spend my free time doing the things I listed. Perhaps I will someday, but for right now, I don't. And that's ok.

I don't keep up with the media. I don't have cable. I hardly ever know what new movie is out. I couldn't tell you who the latest pop star is. I enjoy movies and clever TV shows, but I don't keep up with the latest celebrity gossip.

Come to Me

When you know you're supposed to be reflecting on the past and anticipating the future, when you know you're supposed to be setting new goals and starting to walk in new ways to get those goals accomplished, sometimes it feels too hard to actually start. 

In the days leading up to the first moments of 2012, the idealist in me was full of good ideas -- no, great ideas -- for how I was going to do things differently this year, how I would make real changes that would matter, that would change my life both inside and out. But I never actually got around to writing them down or defining them any further than simply making a mental note of what I hoped to accomplish this year. I dragged my feet when it came to that; it was as if I was rebelling against new years' resolutions or goal-setting with an attitude that seems to think it doesn't really matter anyway. I'm fine the way I am, aren't I? Do I really have to make changes? And if I do, who says New Year's Day is the "right" or "best" time to start? And yet, here I am, three days into the new year, finally forcing myself to sit down and define my dreams for this year.

Defining dreams is pretty important, I think. Writing them down, giving the unspoken desires deep within your heart words that take up space outside of yourself, that gives the dream a bit of substance, doesn't it? It makes it seem as though perhaps you might actually see that dream come true. It motivates to action. It gives direction to decisions.

This year, I waver between feeling as though my dreams are far too lofty to be attainable and feeling as though my dreams aren't nearly big or important enough. The more I thought about the disparity between these two thoughts, the more I realized it is caused by a cocktail of desire & destiny and self-doubt & faithlessness.

As I was putting Adeline down for her morning nap today, I pondered this as I rocked her back and forth. It was not lost on me that I do that rocking motion in my thought life every day, sometimes without even realizing it. Back and forth I go, moving between belief that the Lord has planted desires in my heart whose buds are beginning to peek their little necks out from beneath the soil, and the flawed thinking that the bud has died, and that no amounts of water or sunlight will revive it. The pull between what I dream of doing, what it seems like I "should" be doing, and what I actually feel like doing on a daily basis leaves me burdened and burnt out. And so I do nothing (thus the reason I haven't written anything here in nearly two weeks).

As I continued to rock back and forth, I breathed a small prayer asking, "What do I do with this?" Being in that in between place is uncomfortable and paralyzing. I felt a faint whisper in my ear say, "Come to me," an echo of what Jesus said in Matthew 11:30: 

 Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? 

Come to me. 

Get away with me and you'll recover your life. 

I'll show you how to take a real rest. 

Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. 

Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. 

I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. 

Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly.

(The Message)

And so, I didn't waste time. I went to him immediately. I flipped through my journal, a bit embarrassed by how long it's been since I'd written in it, looking for a shred of evidence that He'd met with me before in hopes of bolstering my faith that He'd do it again. Without looking very far, I found this letter. It is a letter written last April at our annual Women's Conference; our speaker, Susie Larson, gave us an opportunity to sit in the presence of the Lord and write a letter with words the Lord would speak to us right then. "Don't think about it, just write," she urged. Here's what mine said:

My precious child, 

I want you to know that I love you. More than anything else, I want you to know that I love you. Deep. Deep. Deep. Love you. And I have your back. You don't have to worry. You don't have to be afraid. I'll take care of you. I know you, your heart, how your mind has kept you captive from the things I desire for you. They're for me - so take heart, love. Take my heart and let it become yours. I'll not leave you. Never. I can't. I won't. Don't even try pushing me away because you'll lose. I win. I always win. With me, you are safe. I've got your back. I see you. I know you. I'll help you. I mean what I say. Maybe others don't. Haven't. But I do. I will. Trust me. Trust ME. I am good. I am true. I am real, more real than anything else, for without me, there is nothing. Apart from me, there is nothing. With me, there is fullness of joy. With me there is clarity, not confusion. With me there is light at the end of the tunnel. I am that light. Keep walking. Keep moving. Keep seeking. Keep trying. Don't fear failure. Don't fear falling. I am. I promise. Believe the promise. Step into the promise. Embody the promise. Don't forget. Remember. Remember me. Remember me? I am the one who brought you here to this sweet place. I will continue. My word is true. My word is sure. My word will not fail. Honor me. Honor me with everything you are and I will honor you. Do not forget. And I will not forget.

Perhaps today the Lord was trying to tell me something even more specific than the message of this letter. As I was looking through the pictures I took to share with you, my eyes landed on this:

They're for me. My dreams, that is. They are not my own; they are mine to bring glory to the Lord. However big or small those dreams are, however dramatic or seemingly mundane, all of them are for His glory alone.

Take my heart. Instead of "taking heart" on my own and operating from my own strength, take His heart and operate in His strength. Make what He cares about what I care about. What hurts His heart, let it hurt mine, too.  Let the things that move him, move me. Love like he loves.

I'll not leave. I'm not alone, nor will I ever be. I am not facing this alone, and I never will. We're in this together.

I don't know where you are in processing and pursuing your dreams. Perhaps you're like me and have been feeling like the desires set deep in your heart are more of a liability than they are liberty these days. Maybe you've lost sight of your dream completely, or maybe you've walked through this place before but have come out the other end. Either way (or any number of other ways this might find you today), I will leave you with this:

Your dreams? They're for Him.

Take heart. His heart.

You're in this together.