Some things have been simmering in my head this past week ...

First, something my friend Courtney said: "I loved blogging until it became less about sharing of ideas and more about presentation. I don't know many blogs that survived the oncoming of hyper-curated lifestyle blogging. And maybe that's just a natural evolution, but I also would argue that it's not healthy to lose so many women who were writing important narrative simply because they couldn't keep up with what they were seeing. Can we talk about that? Can we talk about what killed the personal blog? Practically every woman I knew was writing a decade ago, and now I don't know any of them keeping up with those blogs. And for some it was because life became too busy, some decided to not be public, but a whole lot of them just said they became too intimidated or tired trying to keep up with how blogging became so much about how everything looked.
Economics aside, that's a damn shame. I don't blame the bloggers that moved into that space, but I do, very much blame the patriarchal culture that moved thinking and writing women of my community off the internet."

Second, this blog post from Sarah von Bargen at Yes and Yes: "But what I see is a reminder that everything matters. I see confirmation that the tiny choices I make every day add up to something. That might sound demoralizing or overwhelming but I’m choosing to see it as wildly empowering."

Third, Michelle Obama's encouraging words from her final official address as First Lady.
 

Fourth, this essay from Rachel Held Evans, which is superb from start to finish, but here's what's relevant here: "This was a strange year to have a baby. Perhaps, for you, it was a strange year to lose your father, to be ordained, to become a citizen. But if the incarnation has anything to say about it, we don’t get to wait around for ideal circumstances to begin creating, birthing, nurturing, planting, protesting, and working together to heal the world. So my prayer for you today, and in the days, weeks, and months ahead, is this: No matter what it means to you, take the risk of birth. Don’t be afraid. Finish the book. Pursue the relationship. Begin the ministry. Push the boundaries. Join the march. Write the screenplay. Do the dishes. Plant the onions. Carry the child. Roll around on the floor with your giggling toddler as if the world was even fractionally worthy of his presence. I’m so glad I did."

Fifth is from my life. My three-year-old got a bike for Christmas, and he's been learning to ride it in our hallway. At first, he focused intently on watching his feet while he pedaled; this caused more than a few run-ins with walls and furniture. I started telling him, "Watch where you're going." He's translated this into the toddler mantra, "Watch your going." I love hearing him say this. The first time, it occurred to me that my direction and his parroting of it were actually two sides of a coin -- look ahead to what's in front of you, yes, but also, pay attention to the progress you're making. Look as you go. Watch your actual going.

All these little nuggets are related, revolving around something important for me, but I haven't found the right words for it yet. More soon. I'll let it keep simmering.

reading "Mistborn"

I've noticed that a lot of my sentences start with the words "I just read this thing." Seems like I'm always sharing observations that came out of something I read -- a book, a story, a bumper sticker, a blog post, a newspaper article, a magazine profile. I could probably document my whole life just based on the things I've read, because it would show what topics I was most interested in at any given moment. When my son was newly born, almost everything I read had to do with motherhood. When we were preparing to move into our little house, I sought out advice that would help us organize our lives, downsize, and live happily in such a small space. The things I read tend to say a lot about where I'm at and what I'm thinking. For example:

I just read this thing. Well, actually, I just started reading this thing, this book called Mistborn that my husband has been recommending to me for years. Fantasy, as a genre, is not really my jam, but Craig has an enduring, deeply-felt love for it. (Proof: We have a large, framed map of Middle Earth hanging on our living room wall.)

While Craig and I both love to read, both majored in English, both have deep respect for the written word, our literary tastes have very little overlap. If my current reading of Mistborn says anything about the state of my life these days, it's that I'm consciously taking an interest in something that's important to my husband. It's a bonus that the book is well-written and the story, though definitely different from the ones I typically gravitate toward, is compelling.

One of the main characters is Vin (shown here in a piece of fan art by Ella Williams). I'm only five chapters in, but so far, I'm intrigued by her instinct toward self-protection, skepticism, and mistrust. She's experienced serious trauma in her life, so frequently that additional pain and betrayal is what she expects. It seems like the book is going to focus on themes of class struggle and racial segregation; those topics fit in much more neatly with my usual interests. All in all, I'd say Mistborn will be a challenging but worthwhile text. The things we do for love, right?