Sarah Morse Adams's Blog

Speaking takes courage.

Speaking truth takes even more.

Sharing ideas takes courage.

Seeing the world as it is, even if it makes you feel like you want to drown, takes courage.

Maintaining hope is a courageous act.

Moving and speaking against dominant culture is courage.

Finding a new path forward takes courage.

I’ve told myself for many years–not for me.

Making a consistent full-time income with my books? No way I’m good enough for that.Speaking as an authority on topics I know and have studied and have lived for years? Nope.Taking a leadership position? Not for me.Becoming involved in local government? Not for me.Becoming an activist for the things I believe in?

Not me.

Not me. Not me. Not me.

But lately there’s been a tiny voice saying… Why not me?

The path is growing clearer, and in this space, I’ll be playing with ideas, using it as a scratch board, as my sandbox.

For once, my topics will not be driven by niche considerations. This blog will not speak only of story, of fantasy, of magic, not only of the environment, of business, not only of mental and physical health, not only of society, not only of courage. I won’t limit myself because I am not a niche. I’m a human who loves to gather and share information on all interesting topics. My interests shift and evolve, and so will the writing on this site.

This is it. This is my emancipation from expectation, and perhaps from the highest expectations of all: my own.

Today, I watched the first woman and the first woman of color sworn in as vice president. I watched a new president speak of hope and unity. I watched the youngest poet laureate ever, wise far beyond her years, speak these words, tears rolling down my cheek:

“We will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one”

…and later…

“There is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it. If only we’re brave enough to be it.” -Amanda Gorman

This poem strikes me not as naively hopeful, but hopepunk. It’s a hope married with justice, holding up a mirror to our truth as a nation, and marking a path forward rather than allowing cynicism to triumph.

We are facing so many HUGE issues.

It would be easy to throw up our hands and snuggle under the covers to watch Netflix until our minds go dull. But that’s not what the challenge of climate change will require from us. That’s not what the challenge of reconnecting after covid will require from us. That’s not what creating a more equitable world will require of us.

That world, the world we live in, requires courage. It requires rewriting the stories of who we are as people and as a nation.

That’s what this site will be about. It will be about continually developing courage and strength to participate in building up the world instead of simply existing in it. It will be about learning to trust my voice enough to raise it up with confidence… and hopefully helping others do that as well! I don’t teach from on high. I will be walking with those of you who want to make a difference but feel held back by their limitations.

Today, it’s easy to be hopeful.

But I want to be hopeful and encourage hope–a just hope, a strong and nimble hope–tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, when the celebration ends and the real work begins.

I can tell you one thing.

I’ll be watching Amanda Gorman each day as a reminder of my task.

I thought I loved myself.

To, like, a reasonable level, not a narcissistic level. Sure, I have my share of insecurities. Including speaking up. Failing. Looking stupid. My nose, my eyes… WHATEVER. Your usual been-brought-up-in-modern-society-and-barraged-by-advertising hangups. But deep down, I thought I loved myself.

Yet, just over a year ago, I was doing a Yoga with Adriene (SUBSCRIBE–you will not regret it) video and she said, “Move like your love yourself.”

My first reaction was I DO LOVE MYSELF, ADRIENE. WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?!

Followed seconds later by… oh. OH. *cue light bulb moment* The rest of the practice, I focused on moving like I would if I loved myself. I was careful with my movements, gentle. I caressed my thigh a little in a transition and dug my thumbs into the arches of my feet in lotus. When I inevitably fell out of tree pose instead of the reflexive you uncoordinated dolt, I smiled to myself and said, Get right back in there, sweetheart. You’ve got this.

I got awful close to cloud 9 that day. Maybe I even perched there for a moment.

Soon after, I got pregnant and had a baby and got sleep deprived and my focus was all outward rather than inward. I forgot about moving at all, nevermind loving myself while doing so, blundering through the days with bleary eyes, changing diapers, nursing, rocking, reading–loving every minute of it. All my love poured out of me and into this little being.

As the days moved on and baby became more independent, I found more time for myself.

So, January 1st–in an effort to feel strong again–I joined in Adriene’s 30-day January challenge called Home. It’s been lovely. Just what I needed to start the year. And, what do you know, in one of the early practices, she said, “Move like you love yourself.”

I don’t know if it’s because of sleep deprivation or inattention or what, but lately my body can’t seem to avoid running into furniture. I see it; I don’t adjust; I slam into it. Resulting in many a bruise.

And so this time when Adriene spoke, I got a little teary. And later in the day, when baby was down for his second nap, in the moment between finishing the dishes and starting the laundry, the words came back. I had another lightbulb moment, just like the one a year ago, but this one with another layer.

I didn’t need to just move like I loved myself.

I needed to eat like I loved myself.
I needed to exercise like I loved myself.
I needed to rest like I loved myself.
…work like I loved myself.
…talk like I loved myself.
…and talk to myself like I loved myself.

I thought about everything I do for my baby because I love him. I feed him healthy foods so he’ll grow strong. I put him to sleep at the same time every night and down for naps so he’ll be happy and well-rested. I want him to grow up and be happy and find his fulfillment. I want him to follow his curiosity, indulge his creativity.

So why wouldn’t I want this for myself?

To be honest, I’ve been in a funk for the last month and a half. It’s a yearly thing to some extent, probably due to the short days and the busy holidays. But this year it also coincided with a book I quit writing halfway through just after Thanksgiving, and another from October that I need to rewrite from scratch. Both under a pen name that I’m not sure I want to continue.

Those two events back-to-back are not good for the psyche of a writer.

I found myself paralyzed, and I’m still in that paralysis, though this is a step forward. Just writing here. To myself, to whomever will read, it doesn’t really matter. I’m doing something for myself. I’m writing.

I’m not sure what’s next for me, though I feel like something’s hanging just outside my vision. If I lean forward–if I lean in–just a bit I might be able to reach whatever’s on the other side of the curtain. Yeah, I know, I just mixed the hell out of my metaphors, but that’s where I am right now. In one mixed metaphor jumble.

All this to say:

Live Like You Love Yourself.

That’s my phrase of the year. I’m going to follow my curiosity, challenge myself, sleep, be kind in my failures, take my time, stop rushing, eat well, indulge sometimes, do things I love, rest–all because I love myself. Damnit.

And when I inevitably fail, I’ll read my little reminder card and try again.

I am a woman of many hats. Sometimes they’re stacked and organized like the mustachioed dude in the children’s book Caps for Sale. Other times, they’re strewn around the floor and under the couch, hanging askew on lampshades and floating in the toilet. I don’t know who I am that day, or what I should be doing, so I don’t do anything.

I call these my “rough” days. I sink into them. I think on some masochistic level I like them. But at the end of these days, I feel awful. Sluggish. Unproductive. And still scattered.

Wasting a work day never feels good.

I realized recently that if I can just catch a rough day early on, and if I do certain things, I can turn it around. And while it may not be the most productive day in my arsenal, it is certainly more productive than if I did nothing.

So I made a list in my bullet journal. I call it my “So you’re having a rough day…” list. See below.

Drink a pint of water. Shower. Dress in something you weren’t wearing last night. Add earrings, and put your hair up. 15 minute clean.

These are my self care items. These are what I need to do to feel better about the start of my day (even if that start is 2PM). Most days, this reminder is all I need. It was all I needed today.

My list continues.

Then:

5. Do some work. Aim for the smallest unit of work. 500 words. A plot element. A chapter edited.
6. Keep going if it’s working. If you’re not feeling it, change your scene. Leave the house. Take a quick walk around the block.
7. If something is bothering you and you can complete it in the time you have today, take care of it.

These items are my items and not yours. This is a definitely “know thyself” situation. If you work in an office your list will look nothing like mine. I know I can’t work on my writing if I’m burdened by something, but for others, that bullet may derail them for days.

As I’m writing now I’m thinking of other items to add at the end of the day to ensure the slump doesn’t continue:

8. Plan tomorrow.
9. Talk to someone you love.
10. Go to bed on time.

But often, all it takes is the first four items for a quick reboot to the day.

I recommend it. Make a list. Write down all the things you need to feel human in a day, and if you feel yourself sliding, take out your list and do it.

There’s value in starting fresh, in doing things right.

These are both things I promised myself I’d do this time with this site (after losing it in an update, backups is one thing I will do right this time). And they are both things I will do. Maybe I won’t post every day, but expect posts many days as I work to solidify my ideas around life, my writing, creativity, and hope for the future.

What better time to do it than as the days get shorter and cooler, and the leaves tinge red. It’s the best time to start fresh. Forever a new school year.

Talk soon.

Welcome to WordPress. This is your first post. Edit or delete it, then start writing!

My Dad loves to tell a story about me. It goes like this. When I was four or five, I showed him a colored picture and asked, “Is this perfect, Daddy?”

He answered, “It’s good enough, baby.”

Cue disappointment. Pretty sure that screwed me up for the rest of my life. Thanks, Dad.

I’m kidding. Well, sort of.

I have tried my whole life to be perfect in some way–the perfect daughter, the perfect wife, the perfect student, the perfect writer. At the same time, I’ve tried not to be perfect, in order to actually be perfect, because I’ve known ever since that day I drew the picture that perfectionism isn’t healthy. Sound sanity-making? Yeah, maybe not so much.

At various points in my life, I’ve made a good effort at seeming like I didn’t care. But sure as the sun rises in the morning, I cared. I cared about everything.

It wasn’t until I started writing books that I could even make tiny progress. This was always something I secretly wanted to do but never thought I could. I could never be Virginia Woolf. Or Sylvia Plath. Or Charlotte Bronte.

I didn’t know then I didn’t have to be.

Perfectionism to a writer is a big ole wall on the path. No way you can get through 50 or 80 thousand words without a mistype. Without a stray plotline, or a misguided character motivation. Each word becomes a brick in the wall, another potential for imperfection to the perfectionist writer.

But I did it. Somehow, I wrote a book. Then another, and another. I was doing it. I was finally getting over my perfectionism.

Or so I thought until this week. I was reading Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way and she spoke of the temptation of perfection and I thought, my God, she’s describing me.

The way I drop some projects halfway through. Or the way I don’t start some projects at all. Even this blog post. I’m tempted not to finish it because it’s too much about me and how could it be helpful to others and blahdy blah blah blah.

But you know what? I’m not going to delete it. I’m going to publish it, and I don’t care about what kind of impact it makes.

In her book, Cameron talks about enjoying the journey of creation rather than the final product. She strongly suggests this as a mantra: You, Great Creator (God, whatever), take care of the quality, I’ll take care of the quantity.

It’s time I started doing that.

I started on the right path with my books, I just need to be sure not to get bogged down. I need to be sure to keep telling my story.

There’s freedom in the telling.

I was flipping through the newspaper this morning and out fell this little insert.

It, like most magazines, is a treasure trove of subliminal societal messages, messages most of us don’t even question.

Let’s examine a few:

“Younger this year” isn’t physically possible, but you know what I mean, it says. You want to look younger & feel younger. The fact that it’s a headline–the headline–belies its importance. YOU MUST DO SOMETHING IMPOSSIBLE AS YOUR GOAL THIS YEAR. And who doesn’t want to feel younger and look younger? The value we place on this, however, is a societal cultural story we have about youth. It’s not innate. You must be thinner in the New Year. Duh. This has always been the case. And look at the totally, younger, not-at-all-photoshopped Jillian Michaels. She can tell you all her secrets. Where did you get your air brush, Jillian? These tasty nachos are so secretly healthy that you can eat them all you want. Go ahead, eat away your pain. Alternatively, there’s an even deeper story here that food can be shameful, that there’s a right or wrong to it. You’re failing at weight loss because you haven’t found the right method yet. Also, you’re doing exercise wrong.

Almost every item on the page screams you’re lacking something. That you don’t know something. And once you know it, it will be the magic holy grail. That’s how they sell magazines, my friends. That’s how they sell basically everything.

And the reason we buy it? Because we accept it as true. A little questioning can make the idea(l) crumble faster than an overbaked cookie.

What are you accepting as true that may not hold up under questioning?

Last month I upgraded Hulu to the commercial free plan. It’s a whole $6 more per month, double the price I was paying, but it’s worth every penny.

I’m high “input” on the StrengthsFinder personality test, which means I loooooove gathering information. The only problem is that we’re firehosed with information these days. Ads. Facebook. Twitter. Etc.

In an effort to limit my inputs so I don’t spend all day, you know, binge-scrolling, I’ve cut out Facebook for a week. The only place where I can get my news is from the newspaper. Oldschool style.

It has significantly reduced my anxiety in the week before the midterm election, that’s for sure.

I might even keep it up, or only check once a week.

Sometimes I forget *I* control the information flow to my brain. Breaking from the normal inputs may help remind me of that!

Remember when you were a kid and time seemed endless? Hours and hours stirring your witch’s cauldron filled with smashed Yew tree berries* or stepping on skunk cabbage** or throwing your sister’s Furby higher and higher into the air to see what sound it made***? Afternoons never seemed to end, mornings were filled with pancakes, and evenings with mystery.

And then BOOM. Adult. And the days, months, fly by. Or the minutes crawl at sloth pace when you most want them to move like the cheetah.

I researched once on why this was the case and found that new experiences, especially once which induce awe, affect our perception of time. As kids, we’re always trying new things, going on new adventures. As adults, not so much. Life interferes. We’re awed by less.

So I’ve been testing this theory on and off for the past year, embarking on new experiences, and, when I can’t, just noticing something new in my everyday life.

And it’s definitely made me into a time bender witch.

Orrr maybe it’s just made my memory a whole lot richer.

But I like the first option better!

*Mostly poisonous, apparently. How am I not dead?

**Hot tip: it smells like skunk.

***It actually said “weeeee” until I threw it too high, failed to catch it, and it smashed into the pavement. At which point it settled into a low drone before crackling and turning off.