Under the Bold Red Tent: A True Story

I've been doing a lot of writing on politics and injustice for school --super heavy stuff that makes me want to take a break and write something funny.

Maybe it's because birth is on my brain (just witnessed one of my dearest friends bring her sweet babe into the world), or maybe it's because this is probably the weirdest thing that's ever happened to me, but I thought this story would be appropriate. 

I've told this story to several of you, and even at a story-telling night at church, but I thought I'd rehash it for y'all in blogland and record it so that I never forget. 

*I know some of you Nashvillians may have been at this particular event, and may have had a different experience, but this was my reality, so know that I mean no offense.

The following is a true account:

A few months after we moved to Nashville a sweet friend of mine told me about an event for women: 

“Under the Bold Red Tent.” 

It was advertised as a place to connect with other women and share birth stories.

Now, I love a good birth story and I love telling my own birth stories. 

The whole thing fascinates me. How a human comes out of...well...there is pretty amazing.  

I love how like snowflakes, each story is different. 

Natural, medicated, c-section, vaginal, hospital birth, home birth, long labor, short labor, and everything in between. 

I love it. 

The friend who told me about the event knows this about me, and also knows that I’m pretty um, “crunchy” in terms of childbirth, so there is very little (so she thought...and I thought) that would make me uncomfortable about getting together with a bunch of women and discussing things like nipple stimulation, mucous plugs, and where to plant the placenta.

My second daughter was born at home in a galvanized steel trough full of water. 

My midwife gave me stitches while I lay across my mother-in-law's dining room table.

The table has since been sold--but think of that! 

Somewhere in the state of California someone is unwittingly dining at what once was an impromptu post-birth surgical table. I kind of love it.  

Which is of course, why I should have loved the "Red Tent.”

But let me add one more thing--although social, outgoing, and a person who plays music IN FRONT OF PEOPLE, I am still a bit of an introvert. I don’t like trying new things in the presence of others, I dislike most group activities (besides conversation) and being put on the spot makes my palms sweat and my fight or flight reflex take over. 

That said, here you go.

"Under the Bold Red Tent: A True Story"

It is a bright Nashville Saturday morning.
I leave the kiddos with my husband (“It shouldn’t be longer than an hour or two!”), show up to a room at the local library in a pair of cowboy boots and a summer dress, and prepare to share my birth story.

I am one of the first to arrive. 

Introverts hate to be the first to arrive to anything. 

I don't know anyone so I immediately sit on the floor and pretend to be busy on my phone.

It is then that the “Red Tent” presents some serious red flags:

1. I notice that there is an ACTUAL tent...or canopy..or fabric...whatever it is, it is indeed, red. I had thought the name was metaphoric. Apparently not.
2. The tent is on a stage. There are no chairs, just a lot of open space.
3. There is a boom box.
4. As the women arrive, I notice that I am the only one not wearing yoga pants.
5. I am also the only one wearing shoes. 

I have nothing against yoga pants and bare feet, in fact I sport that look a lot myself--but I do wish I would have gotten the memo.  Introverts don’t like to stick out. I jokingly think to myself that physical activity might be required. Ha! Now wouldn't that be funny.

Everyone is accounted for and we are guided up on the stage and encouraged to form a circle. 

On the floor. 

Cross legged. 

The uniformity of the circle and the cross-legedness makes me slightly nervous, but it’s not a big deal, we’ll soon start telling our stories and I’ll be home by lunch time happy for having gone and feeling nostalgic for the births of my daughters. 

We are told to grasp hands.

By this time I am having minor heart palpitations. I don’t like where this is going.  

First of all, I’m not a big fan of group hand holding and when I’ve done it, say, during prayer I am so distracted (“Am I holding too tight!? Are my palms sweaty? Why won’t my hand stop shaking!”) that I can barely focus on the prayer.

Second of all, WHY ARE WE EVEN DOING IT?

OH. This is why. 

We are told to close our eyes and to “om”...

Again, California-born-home-birthing-daughter-of-hippies over here, but group “om-ing” is a little much, even for me.

Gracious, is that harmonizing? 

Yes, yes it is. 

Someone has begun to “om” in harmony.

Well this is Nashville, after all.

I am wrought with both fear and a fit of the giggles.

They are oming in, oming out, and I am harkening my own labor strategies trying to “just breathe” through possible outbursts of laughter. 

I evaluate the situation.

Any empowering birth conversation cannot possibly be worth what is about to go down.

I sense this.  It is serious fight or flight time. 

I strategize an exit.

Everyone’s eyes are closed, I can totally do this!

Alas, it occurs to me that I'm on the farthest side of the circle form the door.

In order to exit I’d have to move across the entire stage, and no amount of “oming” (no matter how loud or guttural) would cover up the sound of heeled cowboy boots fleeing on a hardwood floor.

UGH.

Why pick TODAY to be fashionable, Flo, WHY!? 

It’s too late for action. 

Everyone’s eyes are open. 

I start praying for Josh to call me with some sort of emergency--nothing serious of course--well, not too serious anyway. I so desperately want to say, “I’m so very sorry, but it appears one of my daughters has ingested 3 containers of play dough and the other one has had a significant diaper blow out.”

But then I remember I married a superdad. There’s nothing he can’t handle. 

CRAP. 

Why did I have to marry such a capable man!

This is what I get for being fashionable and having good taste in men.

I guess this is it. I'm in it for the long haul.

Besides, someone is telling their birth story and if I were to leave now the delicate balance of emotions would unravel causing a disturbance in the womanhood force.

Believe me, you do not want to do that.

There are probably a dozen of us in a circle up on that stage, under that red tent, and one by one we tell our stories. 

I’ve never timed it, but I’m guessing I could tell both of my birth stories in 10 minutes or less if I had to. 

Multiply that by 12 women and you get 2 hours of birth talk.

That is assuming each women speaks for 10 minutes. 

Each woman does not speak for 10 minutes.

Some speak for much much longer. 

I start wondering what time it is. 

Tears, rage, and life stories are shared.

I am not prepared. 

I wish I’d packed a lunch. 

If my stomach starts growling maybe they'll think I'm just oming.

It’s my turn, and I tell Amelie’s birth story in about 30 seconds because I am faint with hunger.

“Used a midwife. Had a home birth. Buried my placenta under a rosebush. (come on, I have to keep that in) ...It was really great...super spiritual...changed my life...Are there any snacks?”

Okay, the last part I think to myself.

The specifics are a bit foggy, but just about the time I was praising God for the last story being told, the leader makes an announcement.

Turns out I was right to question the presence of the boom box.

She explains, “Now, not everyone has had this opportunity at other Red Tent events around the country (woah, around the country?? I had no idea) but I am happy to say that we have a dance instructor among us who has agreed to lead us this afternoon!”

I am AGHAST. Truly. 

I hate dancing in public so much I didn’t even dance at my own wedding.

I have no idea what this even means. 

Oh, now I do.

We are standing up (apparently) as she tells us to try to capture the feeling of our birth and let it manifest through dance in whatever way we wish.

GOOD LORD.

I try to make eye contact with someone--anyone--who like me might be wishing the earth would open up, but everyone is dancing. Everyone is loving it. 

It is a sacred congregation of mamas in yoga pants leaping, frolicking, and whirling like dervishes in a unified rhythm.

I’m pushed along and caught up in the rip tide of hormones.

The only thing louder than that boom box zen music is the clickety clack of my cowboy boots as I stumble around the circle flapping my arms up in the air every now and then to give the appearance of “dancing.” 

I know, you're thinking, "So that's where your daughter gets it."

I’m thinking I am NEVER wearing these #@&* boots again!

I pray for some sort of supernatural time warp to carry me out of the moment, and just then the music fades.

We’re stopping!

God listens, y’all. 

Hold up.

What did she just say?

SWEET. MERCY.

I’m pretty sure she just told us to end our dance in ...a pose?

But wait, that’s not enough. 

We must each pose in a way that represents our birth. Together.

I look around for ideas. 

I’ve gotten this far, what's one more humiliation?

I mean, if I actually survived childbirth I can do anything, right?

Isn’t that what we always say?

I strike a pose. 

A birth pose.

I squat and throw my hands up in the air in victory.

For womanhood! 

For childbirth!

FOR GETTING THROUGH THIS AFTERNOON!

And then...the pinnacle (no, that actually wasn't just it).

The announcement, “we have a dance instructor among us” can only be trumped by the words, “Oh lovely! The news reporter has just arrived.”

FOR REAL PEOPLE. 

There we are, all of us squished together, beaming, grimacing, squatting like birth warriors.

News reporter is a guy.

News reporter has his camera, of course.

News reporter snaps a picture, and for the first time that afternoon I feel a surge of pride over my fashion decision...until I realize what the heck I’m doing. 

I imagine news reporter is totally scandalized and will go home swearing off procreation.

And just like that, we’re free to go. 

I look around at these mothers who I don’t know and who don’t know how close I was to jetting out the door, and I feel something.

Not fear, or ridicule, or even relief for it all being over.

I feel solidarity.

When I get home 4 hours later, I’m met by 2 tiny ladies (and a tired husband) who are wondering WHERE the heck I have been all day.

I kiss their faces... and I remember how they came to be mine.

I remember labor as a complete combination of fear and joy, terror and laughter. 

I remember the fight or flight struggle, and the realization that the only way out would be to surrender.

I remember clasping hands with Josh and the guttural “oms” that surprised even myself. 

I remember the awkward dance of labor that I did NOT want to be doing but stumbled through anyway, somehow. 

And I remember that final push, holding my baby, feeling like the most victorious woman on earth.

I'm finally home, happy, and indeed feeling nostalgic for the births of my daughters. 

The Red Tent was crazy. 

But then again, so is birth. 

What We Name Ourselves

"I read in a book once that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but I've never been able to believe it. I don't believe a rose would be as nice if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage." - Anne Shirley 

The other day Amelie had an emotional melt down, crying over the fact that her heart "gets mean" sometimes.  I cry every time I think of it. My precious girl. Sweet Amelie. I told Josh that it seems like her bitty heart breaks every day.

She feels SO deeply and is constantly verbalizing her emotions and she is so discerning as she tries to make sense of things in her little world. I completely understand.

Despite blaring similarities, I’ve learned to be careful NOT to pigeon hole our daughters and make them out to be tiny versions of ourselves. No matter how much they appear like us, they are truly their own little people, and I know this.

Nevertheless, when Sera came into the world it was like meeting 7 pounds of Josh. 

As a newborn. And a girl.

She continues to look like, act like, research, investigate, and analyze like her father. 

That tall, broad shouldered, science loving girl is so much Oakes.

And the short, introspective, passionate child whose photos are almost indiscernible from my own? 

Well, it's not hard to see she belongs to me. 

Sera and I get a long easily, mostly because we're so different. 

Seeing Josh's personality, characteristics, mannerisms, and even faults in my quirky little girl has given me a greater understanding for him.

She can be unintentionally offensive with her logic and knowledge. 

The other day I watched Sera and Amelie in the rear view mirror like I was watching Josh and myself on a movie screen.

The scene went something like this:

Sera: I’m in 2nd grade, next year I’ll be in 3rd...but you’re not in a grade yet.

Amelie: YES I AM IN A GRADE! I’M IN KINDERGARTEN!

Sera: (Calmly, rationally) No you’re not. Kindergarten isn’t a grade.

Amelie: (By this time her lip is quivering) YES it is. Kindergarten IS A GRADE.

Sera: Well I mean it’s not a number. You’re not in a number yet. 

Amelie: (Full blown crying to me) YOU’RE HURTING MY FEELINGS!!! MAMA! Sera is being SO mean to me, she’s SO MEAN and she doesn't  love her SISTER!! (Scream-sobbing with her tiny hands covering both eyes)

Sera: (Confused, with hands in the air in exasperation) But she’s not in a grade yet-- She’s not in a number! I’m just saying she’s not in a number yet!

It was hard to suppress my snicker. 

There was Sera: logical, literal, unaware that her words were crushing her sister.

There was Amelie: falling apart at the first (perceived) hint of criticism. 

Um.  Hello Josh. Hello Flo.

Again, I'm not saying they are our clones, but in that moment there was something remarkably familiar. Not more than 12 hours previously the same scenario played out, but between two wiser (maybe) and more rational (maybe not) adults. Josh said something truthful, but without thinking of how it would fall on the ears of the recipient. l, the recipient, got a few words into my response before my lip started quivering. 

A lot of the things I have no patience for in a grown man I have abundant patience--even feelings of endearment--for in my child. However, in that moment I didn’t laugh or think it was cute that Josh was unintentionally offensive with his logic or knowledge. I was just mad, sad, and hurt.

This launched into one email to a friend, a phone call with another, a budget spreadsheet on how we could possibly afford marriage counseling, and 3 online quizzes to determine my personality type (4w3, INFJ, and *"I'm sorry, you're complicated personality seems to have broken our quiz") in hopes of getting to the bottom of our issues. 

Oh Amelie. I’m so sorry. I hope you didn’t inherit ALL of my crazy. 

As soon as the thought crosses my mind I see the fallacy. 

Amelie isn't crazy.

Dramatic? Well, maybe, sometimes. 

Passionate? Yes. 

Sensitive? Yes.

Ridiculously hilarious, animated...loving? Yes, yes, and GOODNESS yes.

Crazy? No. Never. And if anyone said so, mama bear would punch them in the face.

When I watch Amelie’s heart love and feel and break, it makes me want to scoop her up in my arms and tell her that she's all of those other lovely things.

I’ve been trying to allow Josh the same grace I allow Sera.
Maybe I should allow myself that same grace.

When we name ourselves crazy, or stubborn, or strong willed, or perfectionist, or high strung, it is hard not to see ugly. I don't believe I'm ugly. I believe I'm made in the image of God.

Sure, a lot of those traits can warp and manifest in negative ways, but they began as gifts--the tools we have been given to navigate our world, and the components who make us who we are. 

My hope as a parent, is that I will be able to stand (mostly) out of the way and help Amelie channel those qualities positively.

Maybe that starts with renaming all of the things we find wrong with ourselves...and our children: 

Perfectionism is diligence.

Stubbornness is determination. 

Sensitivity is compassion.

What I learned in an afternoon researching personality types, is just how many interesting people share my-so-called "negative" traits. Writers, musicians, theologians... Mother Theresa and Nelson Mandela.

"Crazy" is beautiful...and it changes the world.

*Not actual results, but my interpretation of the word "inconclusive" ;)

"My Love is a Winding Street" - Video

I'm so excited to finally share this with you!
I recorded this video with my friends over at Several Guys in California back in October and I first posted a little backstory to the video right here on the blog, explaining a bit about the process.

Filming the video was ridiculously fun, and being back in my hometown inspired the idea to shoot the final scenes at my childhood home, out in the country in Adelaide, CA.

That house has a lot of history and holds a lot of memories for our family, so the meaning of the song really grew the moment Bryan suggested going out there to film.

I'm so happy with this, it means so much to me, and I hope you like it too.

SO, here it is friends;

My Love is a Winding Street

This song was written by Flo Paris for February Album Writing Month 2011 and will be featured on the new album, "Everything We Say" - a collection of songs from February Album Writing Month.
The song title "My Love Is A Winding Street" was suggested by Andrew Osenga

Video + Music:
Several Guys (Bryan McLain, Matthew Covington, Bryant Swanstrom) - Video Production
Kenny Hutson - Music production, guitars, bass, keys, percussion, lap steel
Andrew Osenga - BVs
Dustin Rohrer - Drums
Josh Davis - Mixing
Bill Tennyson - Mastering
Recorded at Red Rose Studio in Nashville, TN

Special thanks to my good friends Jon Bartel for the loaner guitar for the video, Jeremy Wells for picking me up in his sweet truck (Don't worry, nothing bad happens at 2:48), and Erin Lundeen, for the make up, the hairstyling, and the 25 years of best friendship.

Copyright 2012 Flo Paris Music

Music Video Contest!

As many of you are aware, I have spent the greater part of the last year recording an album with the amazing Kenny Hutson producing, and as of now, all of the songs have been mixed, and now we await the mastered disc.

It has been a wonderful process, and I'll share more about it when the record releases (within the next month!!) but for now, I want to share a bit of a teaser and a chance for you to with a copy of the new album!

Back in October I visited my home state of California and teamed up with Several Guys to record my first music video.

I've had ALL kinds of hesitations about making music videos--I get really nervous in front of a camera, I've always thought the process would be embarrassing, and I've imagined the product would only come off as self indulgent and narcissistic.

I could not have been more wrong!
(Well, about the first two anyway, y'all can decide about the other when the video releases-ha)


 Bryan McLain of Several Guys approached me with the idea of working together on a video, and right away any previous hesitation disappeared at the prospect of working with Bryan, who is not only a life long friend, but my best friend's cousin. We had practically grown up together.

However, that fact shouldn't indicate a lower level of expertise--that is to say, Bryan's a friend, but he's also a complete professional and an insanely creative and skilled videographer and director.

So, knowing I'd be in Cali, I agreed to shoot the video (although some nervousness remained) and we narrowed it down to two songs off the upcoming record.

Erin, my best friend of 25 years!

Once I got out there, we decided on a song, and then Bryan, Matt, and Bryant (of Several Guys), and my "stylist" (haha) aka, my best friend Erin, all set out to make the video.

The filming wound up being SO much fun, and felt like all of us were back in high school making a video for class. As Bryan kept saying, there is nothing like making art and creating something really amazing with your friends.

Bryan had such wisdom about the direction of the song, and wound up really getting to the core of it, drawing out the most meaningful aspects, and creating not just a well produced video, but something that holds meaning for me, and makes me cry every time I watch it.

So, which song was it, you may ask?

Now remember, the songs on the album are all written from titles fans have submitted and are songs that have already been released as demos.

The 10 songs I chose for studio releases are a BIG FAT SECRET, so everyone must wait until the video posts to find out which song we filmed, and all the rest of the songs will be revealed when the album releases.

Here are some clues and miscellaneous trivia about the song and the video which may...or may not be helpful:

1. This song was released during a previous FAWM in demo form...if you need a refresher, there are samples of ALL the songs here: www.floparis.net (scroll down to listen)
2. It started out as a love song, but can be interpreted different ways within different contexts
3. It takes place mostly outside, and was filmed in Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo, Templeton, and Paso Robles, CA. 
4. I don't want to give to much away, but the end of the video features a place that is very meaningful to me, and within the scope of the filming, the song went from being a love song, to a poignant pilgrimage of sorts for me
5. The song features the glorious background vocals of Andy Osenga (if you've been paying attention, there's a hint in that, I promise)

A few pictures from the shoot:

Is Elvis critical to the song? Maybe, maybe not.

This is called hitchhiking, don't do it kids.

...Especially not if this guy offers to pick you up.
Don't worry, everything turns out fine.
Jeremy Wells, another lifelong friend is driving the truck;)

Is that a barn?

Where am I, and why am I peeping!?

If you've ever wondered, this is what I mean by, "house shows"...
(If I show up on your porch, will I still get paid?)

And this.
The view behind me is one of my favorites in the entire world....

• The first correct responder gets a copy of the new album, but I'll leave the contest open until the video posts, and then reveal the winner. 

• Anyone who was involved in the video and anyone who already knows which song title this is may not participate. Sorry!

So, do you think you know which song this is? GO:

Beauty and the Mess

Recently a dear friend (and mama) rode in my car, but not first without my sincerest apologies for the state of the car, which looked something like this:

*The coffee cup in the back seat contains a banana peel. I discovered this when taking the photo... It's still in the car.

It's not like I thought she'd be offended, but I still felt compelled to hide the mess as I tossed trash and coffee cups into the backseat. She insisted it was fine, and in fact said something surprising. She told me it made her feel better. She had so far only seen the inside of my house which is kept, or appears to be kept in perfect order. One of my closest friends had never really seen my mess. This got me thinking...about mom blogs.

Every mom I know, including myself, reads mom blogs.
There are even celebrity mom bloggers. They write eloquently, post exquisite photographs, journal their Food-Network-worthy dishes, knit, crotchet, sew and paint, all while teaching their dozens of whimsical children at home...

And it is lovely.

It really, really is.

I don't mean to satirize mom blogs.

As an artist, I live to create beauty and to breathe it in and I am often inspired by these creative mamas.

Neither am I condemning the blogging mamas themselves.

I am one of them.

I'm no celebrity, but I have definitely projected, through my blog and through my posts, a picture of a beautiful life.
I am only suggesting that we think twice about the standard we create when we post only the good stuff. 

For example, another friend of mine posed a question about one mom blogger in particular, asking, "How do you think she does it all, and still has time to home school!?"

With my current season being full--with writing and music and school and a family--several friends have made the same comments to me: "How do you do it all?"

I can promise you this:

She doesn't.

I don't.

That "it all" you're so surprised we can do, is not the "it all" you imagine or that is displayed through a few well cropped photos and highlights from the week. We look with fascination at the mom who has it all together. She documents the meals she crafts, but not the dirt beneath the oven, she features the serene and never the chaos.

In turn, other mothers, regular mothers, tired mothers, new mothers, mothers with sick kids or stressful jobs or people like me who have a very, very low capacity for stress are left discontent, disheartened and wondering what mistake we must be making that our cups aren't overflowing with these lovely moments. What my cup overflows with is coffee...that I've stuck in the microwave 3786493 times because I'm freaking EXHAUSTED and I keep forgetting that it's in there.

Like I said, this is not a campaign against mommy blogs, and especially not a campaign against presenting lovely and beautiful things. I mean, I'm a big fan of loveliness: creativity, wooden toys and eyelet dresses, picnics in the sun and handmade goodness.
I think it's valuable open our eyes to beauty.

But it's also valuable to open our eyes to the mess...to acknowledge the mess...embrace the mess..to even blog the mess (Messy Mondays anyone?) and I'm going first:

I've decided to share with you 10 examples of blog life vs. real life. I hope you are inspired by both the beauty and the mess.
Keep in mind, the "mess" here isn't even close to the messiness that exists in my life, but just hasn't been caught on camera!

#1 - My Beautiful Home

Pristine, no? well this was taken when NO KIDS WERE HOME.

Would you like to see my front porch?

In case you were wondering, that is a rug from inside, a rained on sock and some pumpkins from October. I have no idea how long the rug or the sock have been there, but I'm sure my neighbors do and obviously the pumpkins are from...well...October... and they are moldy.

#2 - Homeschooling

This is a picture from that one year I home schooled...

...This is a picture of the girls at their public school. Post homeschool burn out.

#3 - Wooden Toys

Wooden abacus, wooden puzzle. The types of toys I long for my children to play with.

Plastic VW Bug from Goodwill and a Barbie from Walmart. The toys my kids actually play with.

#4 - Food:

One morning, I made a frittata and I posted a picture of it.

Every Saturday Sometimes, when I sleep until 9:30 in a little, the girls come into my room and ask for breakfast. Drool still fresh on the pillow and without opening my eyes, I manage to mumble, "Go ahead and get a snack out of the fridge...like a piece of bread." And they do. Sometimes they add jelly.
Not jelly I made myself. Not even organic.
Straight up grape jelly.

#5 - Costumes:

One year, I stayed up until 2am crafting this very sweet blog-inspired owl costume...that my daughter wore one time.

The next year, I bought a cheaply made yet overpriced and slightly scandalous Wonder Woman outfit off the internet and my daughter wore it 6 days in a row. 

#6 - Enriching Activities:

One day I made paint. It was cute, and my kids had so much fun!

A different day I stared at Facebook for hours!
As evidenced by this picture I found on the camera while preparing for this very post, my bored-out-of-her-mind child had resorted to playing with my camera without me even realizing it.
This happens more than finger-painting with cornstarch.

#7 - Homemade Clothing:

One Easter I made this dress out of old sheets. How very mom blogger of me!

I probably hand-make all of my children's clothes!

I didn't make this shirt... Er, or the bed, obviously.

#8 - Family Photo

This was one of our Christmas photos. Gosh I'm such a serene mother goddess in my flowing skirt and side bun.

This was me on Christmas. And most of the time, really. Not gonna say anything else about having posted this, other than yes, I realize it was a bold move.

#9 - Happy Children

Look at my kids during this forced impromptu moment!

They are like this all of the time!

No, actually this is what they're like most of the time.

The list could have been twice as long, with a picture for every situation...

For example, all of this healthy/organic/allergen free food that is also very expensive. 
So expensive in fact, we have to cut costs elsewhere--like replacing our broken refrigerator door pieces with duct tape.

(Hey, it works!)

But I want to leave you with this:

#10 - The Garden

The vegetable garden.
It is peaceful and lovely.
It is satisfying and nourishing.
It is blooming and it is plentiful.
 It is a summer garden.
 Other times, it looks like this:

Not so beautiful.

And guess what? This is what it looks like most of the year.

And this, my mama friends, is the lesson. Most of our lives are not fingerpaint and frittata.
Much of the time, our lives are rained on socks and old banana peels, tears and defeat, life held together with duct tape with glory and beauty sprinkled here and there.
Some don't even have the time for discontentedness--they have bigger troubles, like lack of housing or very ill children.

So yes, I am thankful for beauty.
I am also thankful for the mess.
For the moments not captured in a blog.
I'm thankful for the time my daughter told me she wished I wasn't her mom, because despite the hurt, I was able to hold her and let her cry it out, and model unconditional love and forgiveness...

Or that time I said something equally ridiculous ("You better clean your room with a cheerful spirit!") and I was able to model humility and repentance and my 5 year old heard "I'm sorry" straight from her mother's lips.
I'm thankful for this mess.
I'm thankful for the "winter garden" when the ground seems hard and cold, but important things are happening just beneath the surface.
I'm thankful for the "summer garden" when we bloom and laugh and when our cup overflows...

And, at the end of the day, by the grace of God, there is love, despite the beauty or the mess.

And for this I am grateful.

Oh, and this too. 

Behind the FAWM Series #14 - "Take What You Want"

The Grower of Trees, the gardener, the man born to farming, whose hands reach into the ground and sprout to him the soil is a divine drug. He enters into death yearly, and comes back rejoicing. He has seen the light lie down in the dung heap, and rise again in the corn. His thought passes along the row ends like a mole. What miraculous seed has he swallowed That the unending sentence of his love flows out of his mouth Like a vine clinging in the sunlight, and like water Descending in the dark? - The Man Born to Farming, by Wendell Berry

A few months ago, my sweet friends Katy, Sandra and Alice and I made a once in a lifetime pilgrimage to Port Royal Kentucky to meet one of our literary heroes, Mr. Wendell Berry.
Sandra blogged about it (beautifully) over at Art House America.

The five of us (Sandra, Alice, Flo, Katy and sweet Baby S) with Mr. Berry. Photo by Tanya Berry.

Since reading Berrry's work, and since becoming more informed about the effect of industrialization on the small farms, I have become, oh, let's say *slightly* passionate about the subjects of farm preservation and food justice.

I brought my girls to their/my first rally, to raise awareness about the issue of genetic modification and to protest the ban on labeling food that has been genetically modified.

The industry of farming with genetically modified seed is not only bad for our food, it's bad for our farmers. There are *ahem* certain agribusiness entities that are particularly aggressive, and this song was written with the farmer in mind who has been strong armed by the corporate giant and has no choice but to surrender, and ultimately, give up his livelihood.

I brought Mr. Berry a copy of this song, a song dedicated to all the farmers out there who are truly men "Born to Farming" and struggling to do so in this age of industry.

Take What You Want

Title suggested by Curtis.

Overalls and withered hands
A big straw hat and a leather tan
Growin' up out of the dark red mud
50 years of sweat and blood

They moved in close and they sowed machines
They wrote their name on every seed
They milked the ground till it was bone dry
And in a distant field you could hear him cry

Oh, take what you want
Oh, you take what you want

He kept on just like he'd always done
From the last of the stars to the last of the sun
They came rolling in like rain
That rots the fields and floods the plains

They pulled him up just like a wild weed
They called him liar and they called him thief
Hands in his pockets he walked away
They took it all and he took the blame
He said

Oh, take what you want
Oh, you take what you want

You can have my money
You can have my bread
You can even have the roof from over my head

I'll keep the stains in the cracks of my hands
I'll keep the smell of the dusty land
Take what you want
I'll have the peace that lets me sleep
Every year and memory
Take what you want

Full

I've been a little busy lately.
Did you know that musicians have other lives too?
Years ago, I didn't know.

By the time I was born, my musician parents had given up the road, and the "music life," and had regular lives (more or less) so other than the frequent late night jam sessions, my only exposure to the life of the musician was through their stories.

So, naturally, I romanticized their lives and imagined that all musicians (regular musicians, not uber-world-famous ones) just sat around all day long writing songs and playing shows.

Musicians don't do this.
At least a lot of the ones I know don't--many of them have other jobs, pursue other interests, record and produce other musicians and generally are creative in other elements, and amazing entrepreneurs.

Music has always been an integral part of my life, and I feel so thankful to be able to share that with you, and to write songs people listen to.

That said, I am learning that it doesn't have to be everything to be satisfying.
In fact, it's probably good that it's not.

This post is already getting longer than I had anticipated--and sometime I will post more, but for now, this is the long and short of it:

I am recording my 3rd record, and I am also back at school, full time, pursuing my English (creative writing emphasis) degree.

With little ones, music, school, etc., I have never felt busier--but I have also never felt so rich, or so full.

I am SO proud of the songs on the record, and having so much fun recording them (thanks to the Kickstarters out there!) and I am also stretching the not-so-creative part of my brain by working out math problems, refreshing my Spanish skills, brushing up on my world history and doing something else I love: writing, writing, writing.

It is hard work, but it is already so rewarding.
I have noticed a correlation between the logical part of my brain and the creative part, and that when I strengthen one, the other benefits. I'm excited to see how those two seemingly separate worlds continue to compliment each other. I get a thrill from writing an essay as much as I do from writing a song, and the first is one I have never sought any formal training for, before now.

Since I love connecting with my fans, and I love the dialog we have between us, I wanted to let you all know a little bit about what I've been up to lately.
Thanks for listening, and thanks for all of your support during Kickstarter and always!

A post to come later this afternoon with the story behind "Take What You Want."
Stay tuned!
-FP