Category: writing

The numbers don’t lie, but the eggs might…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

Is it fair to say that February may have been the longest string of twenty-eight days in the history of man? I mean, that’s probably not true (a matter of perspective I can imagine) and also from a scientific standpoint probably makes no sense. All the same, from where I’m typing it would seem that February lasted 127 years and I am entering into the month of March to celebrate what would then be my 173rd birthday. (also, to be fair, I feel I have aged so much in these past few years that maybe I feel 173…)

If you’re some sort of rapid math genius then you may have assessed that I’m turning 46 in a handful of weeks. 46. I didn’t repeat it because this number freaks me out–on the contrary, I don’t even get what the big deal about age is anymore. I had my meltdown when I turned 25, and then my worst birthday ever when I turned 40. To be fair, they were all pretty crappy, for the most part, until that one.

No, I repeated “46” because it gave me pause to realize it has only been six years since that horror of a milestone day. Those six years have really dragged on, proving that time must not always “speed by” the older we get. I guess considering almost half of that time has been measured through the pandemic lens, and included the longest January ever, followed by the 127-year long month of February…

Listen, there are a lot of numbers in this post. Some are spelled out in an attempt to distract myself from the fact that if I look at these lines just right it will feel like a story problem from my fifth-grade math book. These numbers are stressing me out… Math is clearly not my thing. Even the appearance of math makes me antsy…

One thing I don’t take for granted is the appreciation I’ve gained for birthdays, my own included, and have traded in the decades of horrible ones for better ones since the disastrous 40th. I believe we are never too old to learn, which brings me to the actual (only slightly numerical) point of this post:

Things I learned in February…

  1. Over the process of working with my publishing team and editor, I feel I’ve gained more and more confidence in my work–specifically my memoir.
  2. While I wouldn’t say i learned how to watercolor, I did spend time playing with them and definitly feel less intimidated than I did before.
  3. That there is an actual Carpe Diem day. It was February 26th. Not only is this special to me because Dead Poet’s Society has always been a favorite film of mine, but I also feel this matters because so often we choose to stay comfortable over daring to do things… As we sink farther and farther into that zone, we tend to achieve less and less. Seizing the day is something I hope I aspire to do–even when I really am turning 173. (to be clear, PLEASE GOD NO. I do not wish to live that long.)
  4. Definitly since the start of this year, but continuing into February, I’ve been working on learning to embrace my creative desires and focus on “play over results.” In doing so, I’m trying several different mediums, looking at classes, and really enjoying myself.
  5. In February I continued my education in embracing that I am a child of the moon. I restructured my entire schedule to observe the waxing and waning cycles of the moon’s phases and it was interesting. Due to things beyond my control, I won’t be able to observe these cycles as strictly in March, but I still plan to be intentional about them.
  6. According to Google, one can tell an organic egg has gone bad when it floats in a bowl of water. I don’t know about all of that, but I did learn that if an egg smells really eggy, it is not good. Maybe this is baseless information and I’m full of it, I don’t know… but when Chw made scrambled eggs one day, and I (from an entirely different room) smelled a STRONG eggs smell the second he started, my stomach turned and I couldn’t eat them. A few days later, I went to fry up an egg for a bowl of ramen and the second I cracked the egg (the NO WHITES egg that sent horrified chills up my spine!) that same smell about knocked me back ten feet. I couldn’t eat the egg, (sad ramen). I replaced the entire batch and we had eggs over the weekend and I did not smell that smell or get nauseated. This may all be baseless information but I don’t care. If I ever smell that putrid scent again, I will not be eating the eggs…
  7. HOWEVER, in my EGG-UCATION (ha!!! I know… Lame. But also, kind of funny…) I also learned that the brighter the yolk color the more natural and healthy the hen’s diet was, thus meaning the paler yolks are the less healthy.
  8. I attending an amazing workshop and learned how to not only give myself an “energy massage”, but how to give one to someone else. Fascinating stuff!
  9. I had my first King Cake… and listen, if people are binging on these before Lent, I understand the idea behind abstaining from sugar. WOW, that was the SWEETEST cake I’ve ever put in my mouth!
  10. Even though there are increasingly terrible things happening in the world, as well as in many of our lives and the lives of our people, it is CRUCIAL that we honor and celebrate our good moments, small wins, and progress.

hello january…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

You may have been a member of my Umbrella membership-based community last year, and if you were–I hope it was a fun experience. The whole plan was kind of a “play along” while I beta tested some ideas, and it was an adventure! I learned a ton (as I hope to do with all adventures) and made the decision to revert back to a Patreon account, applying what worked while also factoring in what was missing, and what I have the bandwidth and capacity for…

I know Patreon intimidates people a little, I get it…

If you’re here though, reading my page, then I’d love for you to give yourself this little quiz… And if, at the end, you’re curious–click the link!

Umbrella

Additionally, this month I’ve rebranded and relaunched my monthly email. This is going to be the place for the latest news about upcoming projects, author releases, collaborations, Rainy Day Collective Podcast announcements, courses, resources, freebies, and so much more! If you haven’t signed up, you can do that here! There is A LOT coming along, you won’t want to miss it!

I love every opportunity to connect with readers, so thank you for being here and showing you! I know this new year isn’t off to the best start, but to be honest–you make things a whole lot brighter!

xoxo

M

what I’ve learned this year…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

I don’t know about you but I’m not quite feeling ’22… Not yet anyway. For the first time in my four-plus decades of life, I am cautiously wary of transitioning into a new year. That may not be one hundred percent accurate… I was also fairly hesitant during the last few moments of 1999 as well, but I digress…

When I reflect back on the idea of what I’ve learned this year, it’s hard. The year feels like a thick, gooey, peanut butter fudge all mixed together with the year before somehow. Sort of like–what is 2021 anyway? At any rate, I’ll attempt to narrow down a list of life lessons from the twelve-month journey of this complicated year. If you happen to be a part of my tight-knit little circle and know I’m dipping into the wisdom gained from the craptastic year that proceeded this one, feel free to let me know. (Although to be fair, I’m one of those people who learns the same thing again and again, because somehow I tend to forget.)

What I learned this year:

  • There is not an aspect of life that isn’t improved by being connected to a community of people.
  • While I love our cat Darcy, whom we rescued the day she was born (in 2020) I am simply not a cat person. I’m not… I may love the random cat videos, and pet the cats of dear friends, but personally I just can’t surrender to being a cat lover in general. So many “cat habits” grate my nerves. Again though, I adore Darcy so much and do have a deep affection for the feral cats we feed and shelter…
  • I’m a slow reader. Chw insists I used to read much faster, and maybe it’s true. Perhaps years of chronic illness and medication induced brain fog have robbed me of that ability. For a long time I felt guilty for being a slower reader than many others I know. It felt embarassing. I am no longer taking on ownership of that guilt or embarassment. I am a slow reader. I’m a savorer. Every so often I encounter a book that I can’t put down, and I read all night. While I love those rare treats, I’m also chronically fatiqued and it simply isn’t practical or condusive to my health. I am ok savoring a book.
  • As I’ve continued my religious deconstruction journey (heading into the seventh year… Does it ever get easier? No. Is it worth it? YES!) I’ve began to realized that I am most whole and at home within the boundaries of connection. I find God there. Whether I am connecting with my Creator through creativity, barefoot in the depth of a forest, toes deep in beach sand, eyes raised to the mountain, or gazing up at a starry sky–it is that connection that drives me. Likewise, in the connections I share with people, God dwells. Sometimes this shows up through beautiful conversations, intense laughter, shared tears, and mutual experiences. Other times this looks like stepping up to love someone else where they are at, however they need. It is in these realizations that I’ve learned I never felt even close to this sort of connection within the confines of the church. With my many moves and church experiences, there is only ONE place which came the closest and this place was where I called “home” as this deconstruction began. Of all the Church “friends” I’ve known, I also know that body of people would be the only ones supporting me where I’m at today. I spent years searching for the things that I got from that space, and always left lacking. Religion would tell you that “church shopping” is a sin, and that the lacking was less about the church and more about my wicked heart…
  • BUT I’ve learned that is a lie. I believe that I am a created being, created by a loving creator. Of course I connect to Them within the beautiful spaces They created. Of course I feel Them in my core as I connect with, and love other people. It is a cruel deception to argue that in favor of oppression, manipulation, and judgement.
  • Likewise, I’ve learned to ask questions. I’ve learned to research and probe. To wonder why I was taught something was “bad”, and what that translated word or phrase actually says. Enlightening.
  • I have grown in my love of tactile things. Of paper and texture–things held in my fingertips.
  • For years I believed I could not do artistic things, and it was true. I could not, because I did not try. I did not try because I had foundational years of people telling me I was no good so why embarass myself? No more. Today I do the creative things. I’m sketching, painting, stitching…
  • I lost my mother and aunt this year, along with nine other people close to me (or very close to people I love deeply) and it was hard. Harder than hard. I learned how to grieve alongside others as I navigated my own sea. I learned, once again, that there isn’t a portion of life that isn’t made richer by community. Grief is only isolating because we are conditioned to grieve alone.
  • Having been suicidal for a time (years ago), and knowing three people who died by suicide (also years ago) I learned a lot about suicide this year. What it really looks like to be close to it. Part of what I needed to let go of, and reeducate myself on was stuff instilled during those foundational religious years. Again: lies.
  • I’ve learned a group of women of various culteral backgrounds and ethnicities can share an intimate connection. Some of these women can love Jesus, some can be Athiests, and a few can be a little witchy, and that none of these differences change a thing. In fact, this love and community is stronger for not letting them divide us. This isn’t what we are taught, but even so it’s what I’ve learned.
  • I’ve let go of my fear of the word witch. In fact, I’ve learned that the very things women did which had them labelled as such during the puritanical era involved things conservative families embrace now. Meditation, herbs, holistic medicine, essential oils, plant based sustinance, affirmations, self nurturing… these are all things that women were once killed for. Looking to the stars and paying attention to the changes in the moon caused women to be labelled devil worshippers. It’s interesting really, because men navigating the seas and seasons by stars was acceptable, even when the ships they sailed brought over people of Color to be abused and enslaved. (This is something the church should have always been against, isn’t it?) Modern medicine states the pull of the moon can effect us in many health and mental health ways. After all, we know the moon has an incredible affect on our waters, and aren’t we mostly made up of water? If my growing education in natural ways, the effects of the moon, the practice of hollistic things, and my belief in self-care and affirmations makes me a witch, I’ll claim it.
  • Fun fact (that I learned) Christian Witches are a thing! Who knew?!?!
  • The word witch has such a negative conatation, and it’s innaccurate. Each one of those things is divinely feminine in nature… Could it be that was the problem all along?
  • I’ve learned I prefer tea to coffee, and that I prefer that tea with sugar cubes. Infused sugar cubes are even better.
  • I’m learning (because I’m not quite there yet) to love myself as I am. Having once put my body through intense hell in an effort to take weight off, I have come to believe that was a mistake. Ironically the consequences of that decision have left my health a mess. Even more fun is that due to those issues, and endocrinal issues already present, much of that lost weight has come back. It’s frustrating. I’m tired. I’m sad, but I’m learning to love and accept myself as I am.
  • I learned that while I am a beautiful writer, I am not a well educated one. My foundational education, while heavily focussed in Biblical teaching and obedience training, did not do much for teaching me the skills I should have learned like math and grammar. Combine that with the afore mentioned brain fog and well, I’ve seen a lot of frustrationt this year. (As has my editor.) She has been so patient with me and we have really grown from the experience. After the new year I’ll be getting to know my Publisher’s editor and start that process all over again. Truthfully? I’m terrified. In fact, if I think about it too much I feel sick. BUT, I have to keep reminding myself that we all want the same thing: for this book to be out in the world and in the hands of people.
  • This year my word was AND. I learned to accept results of my hard work or goals, and then reach for more. Additionally, when my nostalgia made me sad about things which have been over for a long time (especially when I may wish they weren’t) AND reminded me that I can grieve and ache for a different outcome while also remembering boundaries and the reasons why it’s best as it is.
  • I learned that I could rewrite the majority of my book in seven days, if asked by the publisher I had my heart set on. I had no idea I was capable of that. (Brain fog be damned!)
  • This year I learned that I can be a sleeper. I’ve struggled with sleep for the majority of my life, and had grown to exhaustedly believe sleep just wasn’t meant for me. I was wrong. I researched, educated myself, and by trial and error have learned how to sleep well.
  • I learned that while I LOVE TikTok, I do not love making them. (nor do I have to.)
  • I learned that I have zero patience for the the Let’s Go Brandoners, the passionately anti-vaxxers, or the people who go about life like normal while being covid positive because “no one has really died from it.” Yes they have. We know several of them. Listen, I support your right to deny the vaccine. It’s your body, your choice (100% of the time) but this illness is real. People are dying, and others have had their lives impacted in devestating ways from it. If you don’t want to get the vaccine, social distance. Wear a mask in public. Keep yourself safe. Limit interactions so you don’t get sick, or carry it to someone else. I am triple vaxxed and I social distance. I wear a mask in public. I care about your safety as much as my own. (The LGBers though? GO AWAY! You’re loud, obnoxious, self-centered, and ridiculous. That this nonsense is happening in churches and is rampant through church communities only affirms my decision to walk away.) You don’t have to love our president, but don’t be a dick.

I’m sure I’ve learned more. Already this is longer than I expected… A hard year? Yes. A sad year? Resoundingly. But also a year of solid growth and accomplishment. (or should I say AND a year of solid growth…)

a surviving memorial…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

I did some dumb stuff as a kid. Now, looking back with the wisdom of a full-grown human, I’m sure that I was looking for attention of various kinds…

I was really young, perhaps six or seven, when I–in a fit of anger over being locked in my bedroom–decided to stick a metal hairpin into an electrical wall socket. Not only did this act blow the power of our single wide trailer home, but it melted my thumb and forefinger flesh to one another, the hairpin painfully sandwiched in the middle. The pin shaped scars lived to tell their story in my fingerprints for decades…

I’ve already shared my old, weather worn couch and rattlesnake story. No need to go back there here. *shudder*

Throughout late middle and early high school I did the worst of it. Like many girls my age, I was in pursuit of not only parental love and attention, but the attention of boys too. A boy’s attention warranted the sort of popularity that my naive self had determined was most validating.

I wanted to feel valid…

I also, having arrived at this point in my life from a foundational origin of childhood trauma, took my pursuits for love secret steps farther. Cutting, carving into, and burning my body primarily. Punishing this self for the ways in which I saw it had failed me. Fingers down throat, diarrhetics, deprivation of hydration or nutrition–of enjoyment… As bad as those choices were, they weren’t the sort of dumb teen stuff I am referring to.

I’m talking about vegetable oil and sunshine!

Together.

This body lathered in cooking oil while laying out with friends… peaceful afternoon naps in the cozy sunlight where I barbequed my flesh to the point of black, blistering char. The swimsuit criss-cross design became the ornament of my skin. Twenty years later my back still shown that X. Now, nearly three decades after that brilliant summer habit, while the difinitive lines have faded, the freckled clusters of scarred open spaces still tease that the kiss of a shape may live on forever…

There’s the scar on my nose from tumbling stubbornly down a hill…

The painful, cystic deformity I will live my entire life with because I insisted on wearing size 5 1/2 shoes, while my feet naturally filled a 10.

The scars from childhood– both living on the surface of this shell but also veining deep into the inside, have shaped me. They’ve taught me to walk with caution, to show myself grace, to actively love this body… to try and send love out into the world.

Some of the scarring stems from the consequences of my stupidity, but also from the recklessness of others. They stay with me, altering my person in seen and unseen ways. I am neither the melted flesh of my careless choices, nor the result of cruelty rained upon me.

I house the remnants of what was– I am the relic…

Scissors…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

There is this not enough theme ribboning throughout my story.

Sometimes its satin curl weaves with the abrasive too much-jagged stretch of twine.

Not enough daughter, yet whose presence was too much.

Not thin enough, the world seeing this body as too full.

Not pretty enough…

Mom enough…

Good enough…

Smart enough–rough fraying edges intermittently choking out the lustrous band of sheen.

The ribbon–smooth and feminine– serves to remind of the delicate beauty I could never be, while brown jaggy frays define the ways my very love and self are undesired… unwanted.

These truths, contrasting, weave around the divine core of self.

The hands who have embroidered my inadequacies tighten their grip

Pulling, constricting my airway

As breaths become scarce, my search for you grows frantic.

Darkness, black and muggy, settles in, my eyes no longer able to adjust.

I think of you now, picturing your face.

Those kind eyes and the warmth of your smile.

My mind’s eye travels to your hands, fingers laced firmly around their handles, and they sit tightly in your palm–

Scissors.

In the instant my vision connects with their silver blades, peace floods me.

Memory can be a powerful thing.

Peace settles over me–I feel myself slipping into the surrender–becoming one with the tangles of pink satin and scaly twine…

In the dark I hear the door followed immediately by your nearly out-of-breath voice, “I’m sorry I’m late! Traffic!”

Snip snip.

The woven reminders will come again, their handlers eager to pull tight.

Today though, right now, their remnants lay scattered at our feet.

I am here.

You are here.

I can breathe.