Author Archives: Jennifer Butler Basile

Faith, Living

Light of Our Lives

We are each responsible for our own life – no other person is or even can be.
~ Oprah Winfrey

Seems like a no-brainer,

but easier understood than lived.

Often we navigate our lives based on the obstacles or openings others put in front of us; in reaction to.

But what if we created a whole new point of origin?

If our bright spark of an idea lit off a streak of light that started with us and branched out into a candelabra of possibilities?

You [YOU] are the light of the world. A city set on a mountain cannot be hidden. Nor do they light a lamp and then put it under a bushel basket; it is set on a lampstand where it gives light to all in the house. Just so, your light must shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your heavenly Father.

                                                                                                             Matthew 5:14-16

Here’s to all of us who claim our light. Who don’t wait for others to light it. Who open the gates of our cities, our hearts, for commerce, for community. Who bravely hang our lamps for all to see, for all to benefit from their light. Who give glory to God through claiming and utilizing our gifts.

Here’s to all of us who found businesses because we see a need and push our knowledge and creativity to fill it. Here’s to those who reach out of our comfort zone to bend the parameters of our career, broaden it. Here’s to the ones who leave the comfort of a steady paycheck with benefits to become our own bosses. Here’s to any and all of us willing to take a chance on our dreams.

Here’s to all of us claiming responsibility for our lives.

sun on hand gesture

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Mental Health, Mental Illness

How to Help the Mentally Ill during the Holidays

During a season known for its twinkle lights and tinsel, it’s hard to feel the least bit sparkly when suffering from a mental illness. All the shining happy people floating around us make us feel that much more isolated, removed, and miserable. They all make it look so effortless while we struggle to keep our heads above water on a regular day. The added mayhem of shopping, socializing, and stringing the lights raises the bar to a Himalayan height.

I’ve talked before about how I’ve come to hate putting up our Christmas tree the last few years. Those Christmas crackers? They’ve got nothing on me. My head was about to pop off several times throughout the whole ordeal. This year a few events have transpired that have unwittingly saved me from the debacle so far.

This is only our second year with a real pine tree, which takes more planning than retrieving the cardboard coffin of our since deceased artificial one from the basement. As always the weekends spool away from us toward the holiday at an alarming rate and we haven’t made it to the tree farm. Not to mention, we don’t have tons of extra green of the other kind lying around these days. After two years of failing to decorate that pine tree in direct line of sight from our back door, we finally decided we should chop it down and use it as our indoor Christmas tree. To which the kids balked saying it is too small. They fail to remember the merits of a Charlie Brown Christmas tree or the top third we had to slice off last year due to our overzealous choice. BUT in any event, the ensuing chaos and discord has kept us tree-free for a couple of weeks now.

Which is totally fine by me.

One day when only one of my elves was home from school, I dragged out the bin of wreaths and garlands and hung those up, deposited the empty bin downstairs, and enjoyed the view. Another day, I set up the bin with the nativity and related items. And quit for that day. A third day, I retrieved the mamma-jamma bin longer than I am tall – and which usually makes me want to lay down inside and cry because the kids fling stuff out of it with reckless abandon – and opened it. That’s all. It’s still sitting in the corner, lid askew. The kids pick a few things out here and there, but we haven’t set it all out yet.

And still no sign of a tree.

I know it’s my anxiety and perfectionism and ability to get easily overwhelmed and controlling tendencies that made opening that Christmas box of decorations so hellish. I know I may be missing the point by not letting my girls pull it all out with reckless abandon. But it doesn’t come from some deep-seated desire to be like Martha Stewart. It comes from my tendency to move like a snail and being pushed through the steps heightens my anxiety like the Abdominable Snowman’s toothache. A previously joyous activity becomes hell on a holly branch.

So low and slow is my speed this year.

It seems as if the absence of the tree lets us focus on other beautiful parts of the season, too. Our advent wreath. The nativity. The soft glow of candlelight. Christmas stories and cuddling.

The slow dissemination of decorations from storage bins is not a foolproof solution for all people struggling during the holiday season, though.

How can we all lower our expectations and be at peace with ourselves? How can you keep it low and slow? How can you help your loved ones cope?

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Children, Humor

What Overnight Camping with Girl Scouts Will Teach You

  1. You were sadly mistaken when you thought the sleepless nights of your child’s infancy were over.
  2. You really did forget how much they sucked.
  3. All that whining about being overtired on your ‘normal’ schedule is a gross overexaggeration.
  4. The winding roads leading out of camp will make your head swim like the Dreaded Corkscrew of Death rollercoaster you loved as an eleven year-old – because now you’re middle-aged and sleep deprivation does funny things to you.
  5. Sometimes it pays to delay dropping the winter comforter you removed from your bed last spring at the dry cleaners. When you realize you forgot a blanket, you can retrieve it from your car trunk. Needs to be cleaned anyway!
  6. No matter how tired you are, you will hear the ill-seated toilet clunk upon the floor when the child masquerading as an elephant rumbles downstairs to use it at 3 AM.
  7. That odd scritching sound you hear just before dawn is not the pitter-patter of your charges. A seasoned leader will later tell you it was the squirrels in the ceiling.
  8. Impressing upon children the skill of packing only what you can carry is like telling Imelda Marcos she needs to cull her shoe collection.
  9. Engaging caffeine is a love/hate relationship: love it now, hate it when you shake so much you can’t put any more in your body yet still feel like shit.
  10. You really do have a laissez-faire, no-nonsense attitude with your own children.
  11. Other people’s children may not know how to navigate your ‘tough tooties – time for bed NOW’ attitude.
  12. A short time after arrival, you will take on the ‘Eau de Camping’ – a subtle scent with notes of mildew and maple syrup.
  13. Crafting at 11 o’clock at night is totally on the table.
  14. Four to eight eager girls will demand on-pointe spatial relations skills simultaneously and impatiently – at 11 o’clock at night.
  15. Children who go to sleep at approximately one o’clock in the morning will bounce out of bed at approximately seven o’clock.
  16. Bounce is not a euphemism.
  17. Shaky balcony rails were meant to be leant on.
  18. All trap-doors, attic access points, and all-around off limits areas will be located and attempted to be entered.
  19. The limitless flow of last night’s enthusiasm will dwindle drastically when it is time to sweep the floor before leaving.
  20. There is a threshold for number of times to hear ‘It’s a Hard Knock Life’ sung at top volume.
  21. Even eight, nine, and ten year-old girls can be subject to hormonal swings.
  22. You will all remember this as a special time – a bond that can only be made in a sleep-deprived, survivor-type environment.W_C2
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Weekend Write-Off

Just What I Needed

This article offers sound encouragement for anyone working toward certain goals.  It particularly spoke to my recent musings on writing.  Thank you to the intuitive soul – who can still intuit over the miles – who sent it to me.

Read – and write – on!

What I Do When it Feels Like My Work Isn’t Good Enough by James Clear

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Living, Writing

Amen

How long until the shine wears off? At what point does your blog stop being viable and become a chore? Or does it go through cycles, prone to the whims of your life just as you are?

I remember being upset, maybe even angry, when bloggers I loved decided to throw in the towel because posting and maintaining the blog was taking away from their real writing, their real life. Knowing full well it was what the bloggers needed at the time, I still selfishly didn’t want to let them go.

Then in a post I wrote two weeks ago, the last time I posted on a Thursday, I lamented the pull of personal writing vs. blog writing. That I was tapped out once I attended to one, with no inspiration left for the other. I could feel the burn. I understood the reasoning of those others I hadn’t wanted to take a hiatus.

Plus, with life being life – where the living of it gets in the way of, you know, living it – uninterrupted time to sit and think and create is at a premium. Usually I don’t get past ‘sit’ without wanting to close my eyes.

I know, lots of whining, when I could have been actually creating – and no, this is not my blosignation. I am nothing if not a stubborn mule. I have set my mind to a blog schedule and I will get back on it, come hell or high stress levels.

As always, it’s a matter of finding that sweet spot, that slice of solitude and peace – where words come easily and self-expression is crystal clear and empowering. Can I get an AMEN?

AMEN-300x211

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Art, Living, Writing

Where Art and Storytelling Intersect

It all started with a tag, upon which was typed, a title.

‘A Pear of Pants’ Rick Devin

About a month ago, my aunt and I visited various artist studios as part of HopArts, an open house festival day.  One artist’s bio captured my attention because of his whimsical, surrealistic images. I thought it would be a fun spot to scope out for my children. My aunt and I didn’t need the kids to enjoy Rick Devin’s studio.  The bold, comical animals leapt off the canvases. His fabric sculptures oozed character.  And then we noticed the titles of the pieces. We made a second pass of each piece, pointing out the titles, and laughing once more and more heartily. My aunt asked Devin whether he created the titles or the pieces first. He said it worked both ways. The depth of humor each title added struck me, but I don’t think I knew exactly why.

Then, this past weekend, I took my two oldest girls to Charlestown Gallery. My seven year-old is working on a painting badge for Girl Scouts and was scheduled to visit and talk to the curator/artists at the gallery. I brought my nine year-old along because she is blossoming with artistic talent and enthusiasm. I may have had as much, if not more, fun as they did.

I don’t know why I sometimes separate the visual and written arts. The creative process is much the same, only presented in a different medium. Each piece there was making a statement, telling a story, looking to evoke a feeling. And each was so varied – from artist to artist, even from work to work within one artist’s body. It wasn’t simply an image etched into being, any more than a story is words written on a page.

My girls and I talked about what some of the pieces might mean, what the artist may have intended. When they each gave a different interpretation of the same piece, we discussed how what the viewer brings to the image is as important as the original intent of the artist. My mind whirled on to the reader response school of literary critique. When I peered at another painting, analyzing it as I would a piece of literature, trying to understand its meaning, I formed a vague notion – when I looked at that tag naming its title and an unexpected door opened, leading me into a richer, more detailed room.

'Heading Out' by David Witbeck

                                                                                                                                             “Heading Out’ by David Witbeck

All art is storytelling. The thought processes involved in the creative process bend and stretch the parameters of meaning; forcing the close study of the object right in front of us and how it fits into the bigger picture. Even the ‘simple’ experience of viewing the outcome of the creative process – without engaging in its creation – pays many of the same dividends. One is still engaged. Though my daughters hadn’t made the art, they made their own meaning. The hand of the artist reached through the canvas and provoked a thought process in them that made them view the world through different eyes.

The creative arts help us to interpret and synthesize our world in a way our practical, procedural lives won’t let us. The value of that can be seen no matter which way one looks at it.

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Writing

Soy un Escritor (o Perdedor)

Do you find your muse is very specific? And stingy? She will not grant amazing blog entries and inspired chapters simultaneously. It is one or the other my friend. The imagination, brain, stamina is easily overtaxed. One cannot expect too much out of any one or all. Pick your battles. Pin one on your shirt; shove the other in the drawer. Either write for obscurity or build a platform for a work that won’t exist. Ah, but there’s the rub. Where are the benefactors? The sponsors? The insanely rich and generous who will pay me to sit at home and write the great American novel? It’s so much easier to whine about it than actually go write. . .

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anxiety, Mental Health, motherhood

Mental Intervention

What was I thinking having three kids?

I mean, I love them, but who went and told them they could have their own social lives?

My life has turned into a maelstrom of meetings and play dates, educational outings and activities, birthday parties and sleepovers. Add that to my own [limited] social calendar and my outta-mind anxiety is over the top.

A dear friend once commented that a fellow mother reentered the real world more smoothly and earlier than I, perhaps because she came from a large family and was better equipped to juggle multiple responsibilities at once. She was busting my beans for being incommunicado for most of my child’s infancy, but it stung. Because I was an only child, I sucked at balancing the many demands of life? More so, I think it hurt because it hinted at my inability to cope. In a subconscious effort at self-preservation, I had compartmentalized my life to its limit. The new job of mothering was so all-consuming, I shut out all other demands like the airlock of a submarine to prevent an all-out deluge.

Nine years later, I feel myself pulling back, anticipating catastrophe as life – mine in relation to the swirling schedules around me – ramps up big time. Can I truly not handle all we’ve taken on? Or is my anxiety creating a problem before it’s even – or will – begun/in? I think my struggle is a direct result of my anxiety and not from a need to learn to say no.

It could also be the stubborn mule in me that hates change putting on the brakes. My family no longer exclusively rolls as one unit. The oldest is here, the middle is there, the youngest is home with Daddy while I run errands. Going to the grocery store by myself and buying Christmas gifts without acting like an art smuggler to keep them away from prying eyes is a luxury – but our family life feels so disjointed lately. Times of transition are not my friend.

Another friend once left me a message – somewhere between the two points on today’s timeline – that I couldn’t just stop answering the phone because I was stressed out. It amazed me that she could see me more clearly than I could see myself. When I finally did talk to her, she made me laugh and at least temporarily forget my troubles.

I need some sort of mental intervention now. If only I could enact one myself.

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