New year, new/no motivation.

Reasons I don't write:
I don't want to.
I don't like to,
I'm not good at it.
I don't want to write bad things.
I don't want to use up good ideas.
There's nothing to write.
People don't want to read what I write.
I might offend someone.
There is literally nothing I can write without offending someone, somewhere.

I was recently watching a show, hesitant to say which, but maybe should so people can avoid spoilers. Anyhow, there's this idea that everything we do somehow negatively impacts people, right down to buying a tomato, because somewhere along the way buying that tomato supports something bad. So yeah, we could take that to mean that everything we do could potentially hurt someone or support something we don't like. But the show misses the point that if were were never allowed to do something that might potentially offend someone we would be unable to do anything. The show practically takes away free will, saying that no matter what we do we are hell-bound because everything we do is leading us closer to hell.

Here's the thing. We would be headed for hell without the Lord constantly pulling us back. The Lord does not work on a point system. He takes our actions and intentions into account.

You may have heard the phrase "The road to hell is paved with good intentions." The point of that is that intention alone won't do you a thing. "I was planning on-" is useless. Do the thing. If you buy a tomato because you want to feed your family, then the chain of consequences about how that tomato got to you is not what matters. It's the tomatoes future that matters. Not its past.

Yeah, okay, maybe you should be supporting local business and not some cooperate food supplier, but that's not what matters. The Lord doesn't change your passage to heaven based on where you bought your food.

One thing the show does get right is that your actions matter. No one is saved by baptism. How you live matters. I do love the show. You probably know the one I'm talking about. I hope I didn't spoil anything for you.

What does getting to heaven and this tv show have to do with writing?

Oh right, you can't be stuck, unable to write for fear of offending someone. I'm gonna offend someone. And that can be scary. I can think of things I want to write that might make people I love think less of me. And what people think of me matters. I can't be useful to people if I alienate people.

I hope that people know that when I write, I am doing my best to help, not hurt.

Nevertheless, writing is scary and you'll be lucky if you get another blog post out of me before July.

Lucky? Already I doubt that, because who even cares if I write or not? No, I'm not looking for validation. I just think that most of the time I am writing for me, and no one will really notice if they don't see a blog post from me until next year. Whatever. This post is long enough. I wrote something.

Done = Art

I am hiding. Hiding from ideas. Hiding from writing. You might see me posting daily paintings and that might look like I'm doing something and not being afraid. But I am still just as afraid as I was yesterday. But when I decide to do something, I do it. If I say that I'm going to post a painting a day, I'll post a painting a day, even if I hate the painting. I should probably have a blog month too, where I have to post every day even if it's terrible.

Everything feels terrible. That's not even the slightest bit true. I actually love life so much right now. It is cold and rainy. Positivity weather for me. I love it! I have a new job. It's an adjustment to my life but I love that too. Everything is pretty fantastic so why did I say it feels terrible?

Because no matter how much I am loving life I still think that my writing and painting is no good. Which is just ridiculous. Because guess what, I am painting and I wasn't before. That is good. I am writing. I wasn't before. That is good. My paintings today are not Monet or van Gogh. But they are mine and they are better than they were a year ago. And they are better than nothing.

The paintings are mine and I take great joy and pride in my paintings. Let me tell you something, I love paint! I love the way it feels when I get it on my hands. I love watching something fluid go smoothly on and how it layers and dries.

But I hide from all of these joys because I am not yet da Vinci. It is scary to share mediocre work and pretend that it is good. But I have to remember that it is not pretending. Of course it's not master work. But it is work. And I love it. I care a lot that other people like it too, but I am trying to not value my paintings on the amount of likes they get. I am allowed to love a painting that got 3 likes even if another got 53. I am allowed to love my work and that is not vanity.

People talk about artists gifts. They call certain artists "gifted."

But I have another secret for you, it is true that some things come more naturally to some than to others, but sometimes to call what someone does "a gift" negates the hours of work they put in to get to that level. The artists true gift is the gift of perseverance. Not giving up even when they feel blocked and uninspired.

And that is the gift that I am struggling with. I may not be a gifted writer or a gifted painter, but the Lord gave me perseverance and dedication. I can be pretty bad at motivating myself, but if I set myself a task I will do it. Which is why I often set myself small tasks, because they are attainable. I can't set myself a task that I might not be able to achieve, not because I'm a perfectionist but because I have to believe it is doable. Setting a goal of a painting a day is achievable because I can put a splat of paint on a canvas and call it done. Done = Art.

But if I set myself the goal of becoming something, or achieving some level of skill then I don't know that I can do that and I will stop before I begin. Art is attainable. Writing is attainable. It doesn't have to be good; it has to be done.

"I will take care of the quantity; He will take care of the quality." - Julia Cameron

Under The Bridge Where I Used To Sit

Under the bridge where I used to sit,

It flowed so loudly, and now I hear its quietness.

I hear the same familiar sounds, but there are new ones too.

I hear the quiet whispers of gentler waters.

Was it always this quiet, but I just couldn't hear it?

I am listening now.



I took a few moments to try to write rhymes

But the words want to flow like the waters beside me.

There is structure in a creek, but sometimes it cuts a wider path,

Never minding if it’s doing things right.

I want to mind. I want to get things right.

But I also want to be the water that is so full it can’t be contained by a mere creek bed.



Under the bridge where I used to sit.

There is so much more for me than the mud under my feet.

The creek has more than the mud it glides over.

I am full of that life, but only if I choose it.

Instead I sit in my troubles, unable to hear.

I am listening now.



I am reminded of a song,

but the waters weren’t the ones who were troubled,

I was.

I was on the bridge looking down at calm waters.

But I could not hear them over the pounding of my heart.

Now I am still. I am closer.



Under the bridge where I used to sit

I hear the quietest sounds of the water as well as the loud.

Who knew a creek of barely a few feet could hold so much depth?

The water is truth, cutting its way, raging - now flowing gently.

I am listening now. I am listening.

Speak Lord.

Look Into Each Other's Eyes.

Sometimes you put everyone else's needs and desires above your own. And sometimes you do it for so long and so often that you feel entitled to putting your own needs first for awhile.

I think that's a mistake. We are never entitled to putting ourself above others. There's no conversion chart for being nice for so long and then being allowed to store up on selfishness.

Yes there are moments when you have to take care of yourself. But there is a thin line where it becomes selfishness.

That thin line is a scary thing.

I have to stand up for myself. I have to hold my ground. I can't let myself be walked on or used or drained. But when does walling up inside become selfishness?

My calendar has gorgeous photos and often twippy little saying to go along with: "Be gentle with yourself and be gentle with others. Remember, you are all souls on a human journey, with lessons to learn along the way. Look into each other's eyes and see the innocent child that dwells within. Let compassion be your touchstone and your creed."

Compassion is something I have really resonated with for years. I mean, everyone strives for compassion, right? I hope so, anyway.

Several years ago I was reading Exodus chapter 2, the story of Pharaoh's daughter finding Moses. In verse 6 it says: "And she opened [the basket], and saw him, the child; and behold the boy was weeping. And she had compassion on him, and said, This is from the children of the Hebrews."

I was immediately struck by this because I definitely have a strong reaction to babies crying. I always want to hold the baby and take care of it. Sometimes to a fault where I just want to take the baby from its mother. Not because I don't think the mother can handle it, but because if a baby is crying I just want to hold it!

But there is more to this verse. In the Heavenly Doctrine for the New Church, it explains the deeper meaning to this verse:

"And she had compassion on him. That this signifies admonition from the Divine, is evident from the signification of "having compassion," as being an influx of charity from the Lord; for when anyone from charity sees another in misery (as here Pharaoh's daughter saw the child in the ark of rush and weeping), compassion arises; and as this is from the Lord, it is an admonition. Moreover, when they who are in perception feel compassion, they know that they are admonished by the Lord to give aid." Arcana Coelestia 6737

I read this years ago and that last line has always stuck with me. "Admonished by the Lord to give aid."

This applies to more than crying infants. I see a friend hurting and my heart aches. I want to reach out to them as Pharoah's daughter did to Moses. It is my dream to nurture people. I feel called by the Lord to give aid. But I don't always know how to follow through on a calling. I am often crippled (as I've said many times before on this blog) by perfection. If I don't know how to do a thing right, I won't even try, and that is not what the Lord wants.

But the truth is, having compassion is vulnerable. As my calendar said, "Look into each other's eyes." It is vulnerable and sometimes draining to take on someone else's sorrow, or even their joys! Compassion is a hard thing to balance. I am still learning how to care.

My Life Is Based On A True Story

Well, that would be how things happened. I've been kinda keeping an eye on my blog and noticing that I'm nearing my 100th post. But of course, somehow I managed to un-publish one. I don't even know how one does that! So apparently I'm not very blog savvy.

I had great plans that my 100th blog post would be something clever and epic, but it wasn't. It wasn't at all. It might have been one of the most bland things I wrote!

This post however represents the start of my next 100 blog posts!

I started a blog in July. It's been somewhat steady. This year the posts have been slower in coming because I also started a daily hand written journal and so a lot of my stuff just gets written there and I don't come on my blog as often as I used to. Maybe I will write up some of my handwritten ramblings some day.

I recently was looking at some magnets with twippy sayings on them and one jumped out at me: "My life is based on a true story."

Well, as if that isn't the most obvious thing in the world! But then, think about it! Life is for real. And depending on how you wanna think about it, you are writing your own story. Or maybe you prefer to think that the Lord is writing your story. He is of course, but maybe it's kind of a choose your own adventure? We are in freedom to take any path He offers us, or to stray completely from any path at all. We can turn to page 34 or 426, depending on what we choose, or we can forge out own path, burn the book, write a different ending.

But I'm pretty sure that no matter what we choose the Lord foresaw it. So He is writing our story. Or at least righting it. No matter what we choose He will do His best to turn our choices toward use and Him.

Maybe I'm rambling. I know that I am, but I'm just too excited to slow down and organize my thoughts.

I started a blog in July. I've written over 100 posts and I am grateful for the encouragement and feedback that I have received. I really do hope that my blog is inspirational to others and is useful to someone other than me, but I also know that it is useful to me whether others get it or not.

I love to write. I've been writing for as long as I can remember. I REALLY wish that I could find the story of Toodles and Cindle that I wrote when I was like 4 or something.

I have been writing.

When I was 12 I wrote some never-ending, excessively long story about some royal families and all the people falling in love. It was over 300 pages, typed, single-spaced. It was called "The Story" and it got too big to fit on one floppy disk so I had to split the file so that I could back it up. I have so many partial stories sitting in files on my computer waiting for something to happen.

Seriously the only story I ever finished (other than Toodles and Cindles when I was around 5) was a sorta Frog Prince parody called "The Invisible Prince".

I thought it was cute and okay but had some serious problems. This summer one of my friends read it aloud to me and another friend and that moment changed the way I view my writing. It was one of the scariest things to sit there, crimson-faced while my story was being read out loud! I still cringe a little thinking about it. But they were laughing and enjoying something I had written, and I had a little epiphany that maybe my writing was okay. Maybe people would actually enjoy reading stuff I write!

So, through these friends I developed the courage to at least start a blog. It took me a few more months to start sharing posts on facebook and actually letting people read it! But it has been a great outlet for me.

I love a lot of things, but I didn't realize that I could actually be good at any of them. Painting took me completely my surprise! I'm no da Vinci... yet. But I found that I could never become a good writer or a great painter without trying. Practice is necessary, frustrating, and fun.

I enjoy painting, even when the end result looks like a 2 year old painted it. I enjoy writing, even if I misuse "it's".

I enjoy it, so I do it, and I progress.

My life is based on a true story. It's the story that I make it to be. I get to choose my own adventure. And by golly, I'm gonna choose it!

How To Deal With A Difficult Nalison: a useless instruction manual.

Sometimes I'm afraid of admitting a solution to something for fear that someone will throw it in my face when all I want to do is complain.

I probably complain too much, but sometimes you gotta vent. And I when I want to vent I'm not looking for solutions. I'm not looking for advice, I just want to be acknowledged. I want someone to realize that I'm having a tough time.

I have a lot of nieces, so you won't know who I'm talking about. But recently one of my nieces was worrying about her alarm not going off, not waking up in time, not being ready and she was concerned.

It was obvious to any adult that these were not as life threatening as she thought them. An adult can recognize that she was tired and just needed to go to sleep and everything would be better. Said child was reassured that it was going to be okay. They would wake her up. She wouldn't miss anything. Nothing that awful was going to happen. But she was sure the world was ending.

But you know what? I so relate. I am a little older than my niece. While others might recognize sooner than I what my problem is, I often recognize it too. But I don't want to admit it.

I start feeling sullen and upset and I realize that I didn't eat breakfast, or lunch. I am hangry. Someone else might realize this, but a wise person would not suggest "Hey, Alison, when was the last time you ate something?" because they might get their fingers bitten off.

I was sick for the second half of December until nowish. Still recovering. Been so exhausted and had no energy to do anything. Not moving, not doing anything is a perfect recipe for feeling like utter crap. Physically and emotionally.

A smart person might realize that I need to get out on a walk, or listen to music, or any number of things. A wise person would not suggest this for fear of getting yelled at.

So, if a Nalison is being difficult, what IS the proper procedure?

Well, if I told you, you'd probably suggest it to me when I was upset and then I'd be furious at you and then I'd just feel worse for being mad and for snapping at you.

Sometimes I need food, sometimes I need music, sometimes I need walks and dancing, and I always need hugs. I want to feel heard. I want my feelings listened to, not dismissed.


This blog post has probably come across as a whiny self-serving post, and it probably isn't even serving me that well. Cause you know what? When you friend is being a jerk you DO just want to say "Shut up and get over yourself!" When your child is crying over spilled milk, or faulty alarm clocks, you are fairly justified in telling them that they don't get to whine about it. I'm not criticizing the parent who tells their kid to get over something trivial.

I think that my point is that even if you can see that something is trivial, it doesn't feel trivial in the moment, to the child or to the thirty year old woman.

The burden of joy.

I think I'm a better writer when I'm sitting in a little bit of angst. When something gets under my skin the way to get it out is to write it out.

It's not always true, but I'm noticing a pattern. In fiction and in journaling when things are well I'm like "The sun is shining. October is beautiful. Life is great!" which there's nothing wrong with. I like being happy! But I just don't churn out words the same way.

When I'm processing some minor or large hurt I think my writing develops a bit of crunch to it that allows me to delve a little deeper into my soul.

And that isn't to say that hard things are deeper than happier things, but they do seem to be easier to write about.

Random thought: are hard things more vulnerable than happy things? Or are the really, truly happy things so locked up behind my vulnerability barrier that they never get written about?

It can definitely be hard to write or talk about a lovely hope, for fear of jinxing it, or someone bursting that bubble.

So maybe the bestest, truest happies are far more vulnerable than the sads. I don't know.

Today I am happy, so my writing is more relaxed and undefined.

Like, I want to write about how heavy my heart feels. Not a burdened heavy, but a solid fullness in my heart that is weighing in a good way. I can't describe it. It's easier for me to write about something weighing me down than the burden of joy. I can't describe it.

Suffice it to say that God is good.