When Lydia was still a newborn, I was producing way more milk than she needed.

I felt – and still feel – passionate about babies being able to drink human milk in their first months of life. That’s what babies were designed to drink as they transition into life outside the womb. I feel certain there could be enough milk for everyone if we shared the burden of feeding our babies, rather than making every mother completely responsible for nourishing her child by herself (or resorting to an expensive, highly-processed, artificial imitation).

I felt so incredibly blessed to be able to give my daughter that perfect nourishment, and ached for moms who weren’t able to provide the same for their babies.

Since I had lots to spare, I began to research ways that I could donate my own milk to a baby in need. (For the record, in the future, I’d be open to nursing other people’s babies if the need and opportunity arose. I know that sounds weird, but I mean it.) I found one organization that accepted donations, but it was located in the United States. I figured that though my chances of being able to work with them were slim, it was worth a shot contacting them. (Geographically, they were fairly close. The only Canadian milk bank I could find was on the other side of the country in Vancouver.) I sent the American bank an email explaining my situation and my desire.

I got a response shortly thereafter. Sadly, they weren’t able to accept my donations.

“I suspect this will be a disappointment to you,” the responding nurse wrote. “Please know that you are helping other families by being a wonderful role model. There will be an increase in the number of women who choose to breast feed their own babies because of women like yourself who share their experiences.”

She was right. I was disappointed. But I was also stunned by the suggestion that I was already helping other families. Really? It didn’t feel like I was helping other families. I wanted to do more!

As I mulled over her email, I began to see the truth in what she said.

Every action we take makes a greater impact, beyond the people we immediately touch.

Since then, I’ve tried to let that bit of wisdom penetrate my soul: we are already helping others any time we do something good for anybody. We bless the world when we bless our own children.

Whatever good things we do, no matter the context and no matter how small it seems, they have greater consequences than what we can immediately see.

When we do good things for our children, we are doing good in the world in several ways: first, by living incarnationally – simply being Christ in the world – and letting God’s glory be manifest in our lives. I like to think of it as helping to bring heaven onto earth. And second, when we pour God’s love into our relationships, it gets passed along to others in the world and spread further. And third, we offer an example  of what can be possible, inspiring others to follow suit.

Often, when I’m feeling overwhelmed with the sorrow and pain of the world, wondering what I can do, I remember what that kind nurse told me:

I’m helping already.

A few months after I had that email conversation with the nurse, I read a story in an issue of Conspire magazine about a missionary family who moved to a slum in Cambodia. In that community, mothers fed their babies infant formula because the ads on TV had them convinced that their children would be smarter, fatter, and healthier if they used it. The trouble was, they didn’t have easy access to clean drinking water. They ended up feeding their babies contaminated formula which led to dehydration, malnutrition, and sometimes death.

One of the most profound contributions the missionary mother made to the community was breastfeeding her own baby. Her neighbours witnessed this and were amazed to see her baby grow healthy and strong. Just having the chance to see a Westerner choose to breastfeed, and then seeing the positive results, was enough to help these women overcome the lies on TV. With time, the use of infant formula decreased in that slum, saving lives. All because one woman decided to breastfeed her own baby.

* * *

My book club and I recently finished the book When Helping Hurts by Steve Corbett and Brian Fikkert. It was an eye-opening read. It’s hard to believe how much harm we affluent white folks can do with our good intentions. I highly recommend it to anyone who is wrestling with questions of how we can really help the poor and suffering.

The thing is, we want to help. We see our own wealth and privilege and we feel so guilty. We have so much and others have so little. It’s not fair. We want to share.

But in our ignorance we can do so much damage. In our attempts to give back to people with less, we often injure their dignity, damage local economies, and weaken our own spirits.

I’m finding that helping out of guilt can often make things worse.

I wonder, sometimes, if we’re better off not poking around in other people’s business, looking for people and places to help. We often don’t understand the situation, and can do more harm than good.

I mean, by all means, if an opportunity arises to help, or we feel a specific call to help in a certain place or time, we should listen to that voice and offer ourselves to our neighbours.

But sometimes, I wonder if we’d better serve the world by loving the people already around us.

I get inspiration from people like Mother Theresa, who told us to Do small things with great love. I have to remind myself often of her injunction to Help one person at a time, and always start with the person nearest you.

When Mother Teresa received the Nobel Prize, she was asked, “What can we do to promote world peace?” She answered, “Go home and love your family.”

Really, these small acts will save the world. I have formulated my own ways of thinking about these things:

Your love spreads further than you realize.

Loving those closest to us is good for the whole world.

And finally: we help make the world a better place by doing what we can.

* * *

Don’t ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive, and go do that, because what the world needs is people who have come alive. – Howard Thurman

**Please note that none of this is to say that bottle-feeding is not an act of love. I just happened to learn a greater truth in relation to my breastfeeding experience.**

Image courtesy of  Pink Sherbet Photography.

The other day, I got the thrilling, heart-squeezing news that a friend – who’d been struggling for years with infertility — was finally (finally!) pregnant. You guys: there is no better news in the world that I could ever hear. I’m smiling again just thinking about it.

What made the news so much more exciting was the fact that I’d been actively praying for this couple for years. And you know what? This was one of a fairly long string of couples for whom I’ve fervently prayed – often for years – and who have finally conceived.

(My favourite story is about a distant relative who’d already been unable to get and stay pregnant for close to ten years. She’d had multiple tragic miscarriages already. I helped her get connected with a Creighton Model FertilityCare medical consultant,* and after treatment and lots of prayer support, she finally conceived and gave birth to a gorgeous little girl. I’m crying again just writing about it.)

In other words, nearly everyone I’ve prayed for has eventually gotten pregnant and delivered a healthy baby. (Some, I’m still praying for. I’m not losing hope.)

I permanently house a special place in my heart for infertile couples. My personal experience with infertility unalterably changed me in that respect. It affected me so deeply and profoundly, I will never think about pregnancy the same way. Because it was so hard for me to achieve, pregnancy feels especially miraculous, elusive, and sacred. The subject is not one I take lightly. I feel like it must always be discussed in either reverent or wildly celebratory tones. I feel immediately and deeply connected to anyone who has carried or continues to carry the devastating burden of infertility.

As a result, I’ve never prayed for anything so earnestly or with so much passion as my own pregnancy, and the pregnancies of other struggling women. I’ve never wanted something so profoundly and urgently – for myself and for other women — and for such a long time. I prayed for these friends almost daily for years. It’s just so close to my heart. My supplications always turn to those whose wombs and arms are tragically empty. Their desire is so dear to me.

And so far, God has been answering those prayers. They’re getting pregnant. Not right away, but eventually. And it makes me ecstatic every time.

I feel silly admitting this, but I’ll just say it: I sometimes feel like I’m a champion of prayer when it comes to pregnancies for infertile couples.

I have never prayed for anything so intensely as this, and I’m almost always met with a miracle.

And for this reason, I’m asking you to let me pray for you.

Of course, I know that the stats are stacked in my favour: MOST infertile couples will eventually get pregnant, even if it takes a decade. So I’m praying for a miracle that already has pretty good odds of happening. I know that.

But still. It doesn’t make it any less exhilarating or feel any less miraculous when it happens.

I also know that prayer doesn’t work like magic or a mathematical equation. It’s not a matter of just doing it the right way for the right amount of time. There are no guarantees. I can’t promise you that if I pray for you, my prayer will be answered. Of course, there were many other factors involved in my own pregnancy and those of my friends (including other people’s prayers!).

To be honest, I really don’t understand prayer much at all.

I don’t know why some prayers are answered and others aren’t.

I do believe that God is actually unable to answer some prayers, and that it breaks his heart. For a variety of reasons – because he gave us and angels free will; because he put natural laws into play; etc – God’s will is not always manifest in this world.

If you yearn for biological children but haven’t been able to conceive, it is probably not God’s doing. He longs to grant you your desire. There are other things at work which are keeping you from your heart’s desire, and God is always working against them.**

God can, and does, perform miracles (i.e. enter into the natural realm and suspend the laws of nature for his own purposes); but sometimes – for whatever reason – God cannot fulfill a particular request. So I will pray anyway, knowing that somehow there is power in continued and passionate petition. God responds to our persistence (Lk 11:5-13; 18: 1-8). Jesus tells us time and time again that if we ask, God will give us what we seek (Matt 7:7, 11; 18: 19-20; Jn 14:13-16; 15:7; 16:23).

I also know that God and will eventually redeem all suffering.

Before I got pregnant, the words that comforted me (for some reason) were these: I am making all things new (Rev 21:5).

Things in the world aren’t right. But they will be. God is making all things new.

I also want you to know this:

God is not purposely withholding children from you to punish you or teach you something. He doesn’t work like that.

He does not hate you or your uterus. He has not cursed your ovaries. (I bring this up only because it’s what I felt at the time. I can’t count the number of times I demanded from God, “Why do you love everyone else’s uterus but hate mine?”)

We can never fully understand why we suffer, why good things are withheld from us. But we can know that God does not desire it. He’s on our side. He only wants good things for us.

And if the prayer of a righteous person really is powerful and effective (James 5:16), I will do my best to be righteous and to pray without ceasing.

* * *

So please: let me pray for you. I promise I will pray often and with much passion. It means so much to me.

Share as much information as you feel comfortable with – a name, how long you’ve been waiting. (Even if it’s been just a few months. I know that even a few months of trying are devastating.) If you don’t feel comfortable talking about it in the comments below, please email me at kathleenquiring(at)gmail(dot)com.

Here’s what I’m going to pray: that you achieve pregnancy, and bring to term a healthy baby.

And if, for whatever reason, that simply IS NOT possible, I will pray that you and your partner find peace, fulfillment, and joy. That God will lead you down another path – whether it’s adoption, fostering, teaching, or another future entirely that may or may not directly include children – which brings you deeper into mutual love and understanding. That you are comforted, and that God never feels too far away. That you find peace in knowing that all your questions will not be answered, but that God’s love for you in never-ending.

I wish you so much peace and joy.

* * *

*By the way: I have another friend who was also able to conceive with the help of NaProTECHNOLOGY and the Creighton Model FertilityCare System.  If you are struggling with infertility, I highly recommend looking into this amazing medical institute. For fellow Ontario residents, there is a doctor in Toronto who I personally saw who might be able to help you. Feel free to email me if you have any questions – I’d be happy to help.

**I am not a biblical scholar, and I don’t have the time, space, or desire to expand much more here on the subject of suffering in the world and why God doesn’t answer every prayer. However, I highly recommend Gregory Boyd’s book on the subject, Is God to Blame? Moving Beyond Pat Answers to the Problem of Suffering which delves deeper into this matter. It is the most brilliant and easiest-to-read treatment of the matter I’ve come across.

Image courtesy of courtneycarmody.

In my last post, I told the story of how we finally were able to ditch the diapers just before my daughter turned 19 months old, after practicing elimination communication from her birth.

I wanted to just offer a few more reflections on the experience, and share whether we would do it again, and if so, what we’d do differently and what we’d do the same.

I figured now was probably the best time to consider the pros and cons, now that we’re done with the worst part but not so far removed from the experience that we’ve forgotten what it was like. Now that we’re out of it, my opinions aren’t under the influence of crushing frustration, but neither is my memory clouded by nostalgia.

Because, as I mentioned in my last post, there were LOTS of times when I regretted ever having started. It felt like way too much work for not enough payoff. I still had to wash just as many diapers as anybody (since I had to change her diaper after every single pee, rather than letting them accumulate in her diaper), but I was also putting way more thought and effort into caring for her elimination overall. We just didn’t seem to be getting the hang of it. It felt like I was wasting my time.

There were plenty of days when I just wanted to call it quits. To just strap on a diaper and forget about it. Nobody else bothered to pay attention to their kids’ elimination for the first 2-3 years; why was I doing it?

But then I would remember why I’d started in the first place:

• I just couldn’t let me kid sit in her own waste, knowing that there was another way. It just felt gross and wrong.

• Sticking with EC would still mean fewer diapers in the long run, because she would (hopefully!!) be done with diapers much sooner than if we took the conventional route.

• I rarely had to clean up poop. We at least had that part fairly down-pat.

On those bad days, I had to remind myself that it was working, and I was succeeding, in many of the ways I’d hoped . . . even if it didn’t feel very successful sometimes.

Even on our worst days, I had to acknowledge that I was experiencing many of the benefits of EC. I had sidestepped a whole host of common diapering and potty training problems:

• My daughter knew, from the very start, that pee and poop belonged in the potty. That’s not something I ever had to teach her. The potty was never a source of confusion or anxiety. It was a natural part of her life from day one.

• Because she never, ever sat in her own urine for longer than a few seconds, she never had a speck of diaper rash her entire life, and I never used a speck of diaper cream.

• I never had to deal with diaper leaks at night. She was dry through the night starting at four months. (I think we just got lucky here. I pottied her at night for the first four months, but then after that, she just didn’t pee at night any more.)

• From 3 – 18 months, I probably had to change about one poopy diaper a month. All the rest went straight into the potty. I don’t think I have to expand on why that was awesome.

And finally: I was completely done with diapers before she was even 19 months old – a full year earlier than the national average. How many parents get that? Not only is there the obvious advantage of not having to personally handle another person’s waste, but this is so much better for our bank account and for the planet (the same planet that your kids and mine will have to live on, I might remind you. You’re welcome.)

But like I said: there were plenty of days when none of this felt worth it. I got so very, very tired and frustrated some days.

So the question remains: would I do it again?

 Probably, yeah.

The thing is, I don’t think I could not do it. I just can’t see myself ever being content to let a baby in my care pee and poop herself. I couldn’t be one of those moms watching her baby and laughing in a sing-song voice, “Are you pooping?” and then just sit around and let it happen, only to have to clean it up later. It just doesn’t make sense to me. It boggles my mind when I see other moms do it. If you know she’s pooping, why don’t you do something about it? Do you like wiping poop off her bum? Do you like throwing out your money? Do you want your kid to grow up in a world piled high with toxic garbage? (My inner monologue can be a little melodramatic.) You want her to think her diaper is a toilet?

So yeah – I don’t think I have a choice but to practice EC in the future.

However, I would do a few things differently.

1. I wouldn’t start from birth. Newborn babies just pee and poop way too dang much. I remember Lydia wetting or dirtying all 24 diapers in one day when she was a newborn. It was just way too much headache to try to keep up with that. I would maybe start with pottying around 3 months, when peeing and pooping slows down significantly.

2. I would lower my expectations DRAMATICALLY. Gone are my expectations to be done with diapers before my baby’s first birthday. That’s just crazy. It might work for some people, and in other cultures, but it didn’t work for me. I wouldn’t ever place that expectation on myself or my child again.

Instead, I would aim to just get some or most pees in the potty, and to keep using diapers until two. If we managed to be done earlier than that (as we did with Lydia), that would be an amazing bonus; but I wouldn’t count on it.

With Lydia, because I assumed we’d be able to go diaper-free so much earlier, I felt like an utter failure when we weren’t. I went so crazy, wondering what we were doing wrong, why we sucked so bad at it.

In the future, if I let go of these expectations, I would be able to enjoy the benefits I was already granted.

It would have made the whole process immeasurably easier and more enjoyable if I’d known it would take as long as it did.

Any thoughts or questions? Have you tried EC? What was your experience?

Linking up with Your Green Resource on Red and Honey.

My husband and I were both virgins when we got married.

That alone makes us statistical anomalies, since over 90% of American adults have had sex before their wedding day, and the number of evangelicals who have is not much lower (around 80%). But the fact that we didn’t sleep together until we were married isn’t particularly interesting.

The interesting thing, to me, is that I know at least eleven other couples (that’s 22 individuals) who were also virgins before they were married. They’re all close friends of mine.

Given the statistics, that is positively remarkable.

I’ve tried to figure out why such a large group of us were able to do what almost nobody else does in our culture. We all go to the same church, but we’re not a particularly spiritual bunch of people. We don’t talk about God all that much, and we dress and behave like most other secular people. (Note: this is not something I’m proud of.)

It’s not our church, either, because just as the last of us were getting married, the cohort just below us experienced an explosion of unwed pregnancies.

So what was it?

Sure, one major factor is that we all married quite young – almost all of us were wed between 19-24 years of age (one was 28, and we felt very, very sorry for him for having to wait so long). It’s a lot easier to put off having sex when you don’t have to wait until your late twenties or early thirties.

But the most important contributor, I believe, is the fact that we had each other.

We belonged to a tight-knit community of like-minded young people wherein waiting until marriage was the norm. We talked about it openly at sleepovers and on trips to go see theatre productions. We shared hysterical wedding night stories (one friend confessed, “I thought I was going to have to call 9-1-1!” and we all died laughing. You probably had to be there). We openly voiced our fears. Engaged girls would talk to married girls about their struggles to stay pure, and asked for advice and prayer.

There was no punishment-reward system in place, no fear of shaming. We just did what was expected of us. We expected to wait.

But this is not a post about virginity. This is a post about church.

* * *

Earlier in the year, I told you that the one word I was embracing for 2013 was Holy. I wanted to infuse my year with liturgy, ritual, and the observance of holy days.

It hasn’t been going so well.

The trouble is that it’s very hard to practice liturgy all by yourself.

One of the root words in liturgy is “public.” My dictionary defines liturgy as “a rite or body of rites prescribed for public worship.” It’s something that’s meant to be performed as a communal body.

But no one else I know practices liturgy or observes Holy Days (aside from Christmas and Easter, which have been thoroughly secularized and commercialized). My husband feels like I’m speaking foreign language when I try to talk to him about Advent or liturgical prayer. My mom-in-law will invite us over for pepperoni pizza on a Friday during Lent. On Palm Sunday, my church started its series on marriage. The only thing my friends know about Ash Wednesday is that they stop selling Poonchkies at the local bakery.

I’ve been working through Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals, but it’s hard because so much of the language is communal (as it’s meant to be). I find myself skipping over all the passages that begin with “We,” and jumping right over invocations to “confess to one another.” They don’t apply to me. I’m all by myself.

I feel like the prayers would work better if I said them out loud, but I can’t find a good time or place to do that. I end up sitting in bed in my pajamas, reading everything silently in my head to keep from waking the baby. And also, let’s face it, because it’s awkward to read out loud with my husband right there next to me.

I wish I had someone else to do this with. I’m discovering how important it is to have a community in which to celebrate, confess, and pray.

In short, I’m discovering how much I need the Church.

Note that I didn’t say I’m discovering how much I need Sunday morning services, where we meet in a big church building for 30 minutes of singing and 30 minutes of sermon. I’m not sure about that yet.

But I need to be embedded within a body of like-minded folks who want to follow Jesus together. I need to meet regularly with fellow believers and share our fears and burdens, celebrate feasts, and share the sacraments.

We need to remind each other of all that is Holy, that we belong to a backwards Kingdom, where foolishness is wisdom and the normal things are sacred.

I do some of these things already, of course. I meet with a group of friends bi-weekly to discuss books written by Christian authors, and to talk about ways we can live out the ideas we read about. I occasionally go to Sunday morning services to sing worship songs and listen to sermons.

I’ve also found so much strength and encouragement from a community of like-minded bloggers.

And, like I said, I belong to a group of friends that continues to practice chastity and other virtues.

But I really wanted to go deeper this year. I wanted holiness to pervade my daily, weekly, and yearly rhythms. I find myself yearning for the Church, where fasts and feasts and spiritual disciplines are normal and expected – just like chastity was normal and expected amongst my peers in my young adulthood.

So while I work through infusing my daily life with holiness, I also want to focus my energies on figuring out how to be and do church.

I’m just not sure where to start.

Have you been there too? Care to share some of your story?

Photo courtesy of habeebee.

Note: This post was originally published on my embarrassing old blog, Project M, nearly three years ago. It was one of my more popular posts, and I’m re-posting it here because I still need to be reminded of this truth. And also because I’ve been too busy reading YA novels to write a new post.

For the record: I have since become a bread-baking NINJA. 

I’ve been baking my own bread for the last year.

Which is to say that all the birds in the neighbourhood have been extremely well-fed in the last twelve months.

For an entire year now, I have been putting various flours together, mixing them with various different ingredients (yeast, oils, sugar, salt, etc), kneading them, baking them, letting them cool, and then taking the misshapen bricks of hardened dough to the back yard and pitching them into the neighbouring field.

I suck at baking bread.

I have created enough dense flour bricks to build a small palace for my gnomes. I have spent countless mornings munching on stiff rectangles of baked dough with my husband while we reassure each other, “It’s not so bad . . .  Just needs to be doused in oatmeal . . . It would probably make good croutons . . .?”

But for some reason I’ve kept at it. And occasionally I have made excellent loaves. Every once in a while, I get a beautiful, fragrant, springy warm loaf of wheatey goodness that quite possible makes the angels sing. And I cut away steaming slices straight from the oven and eat them — gloriously unadorned — coming back and coming back until the thing is half gone.

Ah, yes; I have made some wonderful loaves. I just glory in the beauty of homemade bread.

Today was one of those days. I made two perfect, delectable little loaves with lightly golden tops. And I realized that this was the third heavenly batch I’ve made in a row. And before that I had made at least four fantastic batches of baguettes, one after the other. And I had finally landed on a perfect recipe for rye bread that made mind-blowing veggie sandwiches every time.

In short, I realized that I was starting to become a pretty good baker. My time of total suckiness was coming to a close. I was beginning to master the art of bread-making.

As I was cutting up one of these lovely little loaves to store in the freezer (I’ve learned that slicing before freezing is essential), I thought about all those dreaded failures. I thought about all those sunken brown tops and hard crusts and burnt bun-bottoms. I’d had to make a lot of crummy loaves before I was finally able to consistently make good ones. And yet I realized that a year of frequent mistakes was a small sacrifice for a lifetime thereafter of frequent successes. It may have been an expensive year, but from now on I’ll be able to make healthy, economical, satisfying bread of my own.

All of a sudden, as I was standing there in my kitchen with the serrated knife in my hand, I heard a ding go off in my brain as I realized I had learned a life lesson: sometimes you gotta make a lot of horrible loaves before you can make a lot of good ones.

This is an obvious lesson which I have already heard a bajillion times, but one that I have never really felt or experience until now. I tend to assume that if I suck at something the first few times I try, it’s not worth doing — that it’s a waste of time and resources. But for some reason I was stubborn with the bread and am starting to actually get good at it.

Here’s my problem: I want to be good at things, but I often forget that being good at things usually takes a period of being sucky at them first. Or even just mediocre.

In mastering bread-making, I learned the secret of being good at stuff: taking a good long time to totally suck at it. There are no short-cuts, no free passes to awesomeness. Whether it’s cooking, painting, writing, parenting, driving, or washing laundry, you’ll have to screw up a couple of times or a couple dozen times.

I like to imagine that there was a kind of quota for suckiness I had to fill. Like, if I want to be a really awesome blogger, I have to fill my quota of sucky blog posts before I become really good at it. If I want to become a fabulous portrait artists, I have to paint a couple of crappy portraits where everyone looks like monkeys before I get to the really good ones.

When I admire another person’s talent and feel a twinge of envy, I just have to remember that there are probably plenty of failures stashed away in their closets or rotting in dumpsters, too. They didn’t get that good the first time they tried, either.

If I think about it this way, hopefully I’ll be able to take my failures more in stride from now on.

What kinds of things have you been lousy at in the past, which have enabled you to be awesome? Is there anything that you feel you suck at now, but are hoping to be good at in time?

Photo source

The other day I caught Lydia ripping papers out of our filing cabinet. As I sorted through them to put them away, I came across this, written two years ago. If you’re doing the math, that’s before I was ever pregnant. I’m still pondering this question . . .

A professor-friend of mine once told me that she and her husband—also a professor—had a euphemism for doing things that distracted them from their academic work. They called it “canning tomatoes.” “Canning tomatoes” could refer to any activity that kept them from doing their real work, whether it was weeding the flower bed, baking unnecessarily elaborate desserts, picking the dead leaves off the houseplants, whatever. All those things constituted distractions, wastes of time.

Years later, after having a child, she confided in me that she often despaired over the fact that parenting was keeping her from her real work: her writing.

Her cry of despair is not uncommon. This is how we’re taught to understand life: that we’re put on this planet to accomplish certain goals. We’re put here to publish books or solve big problems or discover cures or start important businesses. We’re put here to make an impact on the world. Anything that gets in the way of these tasks takes away from our purpose. Getting distracted with unimportant things like dusting the bookshelves or baking muffins or trimming the hedges is one of the great hurdles to fulfilling our purposes. And we’re always getting distracted.

When I told my professors (different ones from the friends I just mentioned), near the end of my Master’s degree, that I was not going on to do my PhD but instead planned to be a mother, I could sense their disappointment. What a shame, they said with their looks. A bright student like you. You could have been so successful as a scholar. You could have done great things. What a waste of talent, education and potential.

And I can’t blame them. I feel all the time that that’s true. Cleaning my windows and cooking complicated dinners and having lunch dates with my friends are holding me back from my real purpose.

Sure, all of these things are much more satisfying, good for my health, and great for fighting off depression, but they keep me from doing my real work, the important stuff: writing for publication. Advancing my career.

But lately I’m wondering if our real purpose isn’t to “can tomatoes,” so to speak. I’m wondering if we’re not put on this earth to plant gardens and sweep floors and read stories to children. I’m wondering if our careers aren’t getting in the way of our real lives more than the other way around.

Maybe, at the end of our lives when we sit down with God, and we tell him, “I wrote a book that was read by millions, and influenced people’s thinking on the subject for decades;” or “I was a CEO for a large company — I led thousands of people in a very successful enterprise;” or even “I found a cure for cystic fibrosis;” God will kind of look at us and go, “OK.” And then he will look at us more sternly and say, “OK, sure, you did all that. But you hardly made any time for your daughter, often letting the TV do your parenting while you pursued your career. And you took shoddy care of the body I gave you. And you didn’t watch a single sunset that I sent you, and never reveled in the pleasure of a well-baked loaf of bread or a tidily-swept floor. What were you so busy doing that you missed out on all the important stuff?”

He’ll probably say it nicer than that, being God and all, but you get my point. Maybe from God’s point of view, we’re missing the point of life entirely.

Lately I’m wondering if the real living isn’t in the long phone calls with your brother, the birthday parties, the made-from-scratch breakfasts, the moments spent staring out the window, watching the squirrel on the roof of your shed. I’m wondering if all the projects and career goals are the distractions.

I could sense that my professors thought that it would be a waste of my highly-trained, analytical, linguistically-adept brain to spend my time breastfeeding babies and hand-grinding wheat for homemade bread. But lately, I wonder if it’s the other way around. Maybe, by going on to be a full-time scholar, I’d be wasting my nurturing, feminine soul, my God-given compassion and healthy young uterus, writing useless academic papers that would only encourage other perfectly good bodies to write more academic papers. Don’t my fertile body and sensitive nature run the risk being tragically wasted, too?

Since leaving university just over a year ago, I feel as though I have discovered life. I have discovered that I have a body. I mow lawns and make blueberry pies and practice yoga instead of writing essays. And it feels real for once, and meaningful.

I’m wondering if I’m only now getting to the important stuff.

What do you think?

Photo courtesy of devlyn.

(Update: Giveaway contest closed!)

I’ve written a number of posts on ditching shampoo, and switching to the “no-poo” method (i.e. washing my hair with a baking soda and then apple cider vinegar rinse).

Since I know a lot of people have tried the no-poo method with unsatisfactory results, I’ve been trying to hunt down a good alternative. I’m still perfectly happy with the no-poo method myself – honestly, it just keeps getting better with time – but I really wanted to be able to suggest a second option for those who weren’t having luck but still wanted to ditch conventional shampoo. Conventional shampoo is so bad, you guys!

I wanted something that was frugal, eco-friendly, and body-friendly – i.e. something that didn’t rely heavily on plastic packaging or synthetic chemicals, but was still affordable.

Enter the shampoo bar.

I first heard of solid shampoo a few years ago, being sold by a company called Lush (they had a store in our city mall). The first major appeal to me in solid shampoo is that it doesn’t require throwaway plastic bottles. Apparently, solid shampoo doesn’t require (harmful) preservatives, either, unlike its liquid counterpart. I was totally pumped!

After digging a little deeper, though, I discovered that Lush used sodium laurel sulfate (SLS) in its solid shampoos – one of the bad ingredients I’d hoped to abandon with conventional shampoo. (According to the book No More Dirty Looks, SLS isn’t super-harmful in itself, but when mixed with other ingredients to soften its harshness, it produces a carcinogen called 1, 4-dioxin. No thanks!). They also often use questionable perfumes. So I kept looking.

I eventually discovered that there are plenty of other artisan-made shampoo bars available for purchase on the internet (like these), made with all-natural ingredients. Most looked a little pricey, though, and shipping in Canada is always expensive, so I was wary about taking the risk.

So I was excited when I came across a tutorial on making your own shampoo bars from Frugally Sustainable. I’d always wanted to try my hand at making soap, so I decided to give it a try. Here are my notes!

Making My Own Shampoo Bars – Notes:

Cost

The first thing I need to tell you about is the cost involved: the ingredients needed to make your own shampoo bars are a rather expensive investment. I didn’t keep my receipts, but I probably spent $40 at Whole Foods on the oils that I didn’t already have on hand (i.e. castor oil, jojoba oil, shea butter and cocoa butter). I decided that for me, it was worth it, since I wanted these things in my cabinet for future homemade body-care projects anyway. I already had beeswax on hand from my parents’ beehive, but that would be an additional cost for anyone whose family members are not dabbling in beekeeping. I also pinched some lye from my mom.

Whether or not it would be worth it for you to invest in these ingredients would depend on a number of factors, including how much you plan to use them in the future and how much you value the learning experience.

The Experience

Making my own soap for the first time was SO COOL, you guys! I felt like a mad scientist, cooking up crazy concoctions in my kitchen. It was fascinating to observe the lye get scalding hot just by adding it to water, and to watch the liquid oils “saponify” – i.e to transform into a solid mass that could be cut into bars that create a lather when applied to my wet hair. Rad!

The Verdict

I went into it really, really optimistic: the tutorial says this shampoo bar is “the most amazing natural hair product I’ve ever used!” How can you beat that?

In the shower for the first time, I LOVED the way it lathered. After two years of pouring cold liquids onto my head in the shower, it felt good to massage that rich, luxurious lather into my hair.

Even though I thought I’d put in a good amount of essential oils (I went with lavender and lemon), the smell ended up being very subtle. Turns out you need close to half a bottle of essential oil in a recipe that size to get a strong scent, and that would just get too expensive. So I guess I’ll settle for subtle.

Sadly, I wasn’t overly thrilled with the results when my hair was dry. It almost felt like the shampoo had cleaned my hair too well – the roots of my hair felt like they’d been stripped of all their natural oils. My hair looked and felt kind of limp. It was perfectly clean, but lacked oomph.

I admit I only tried it once more after that. Since I wasn’t dazzled, I didn’t want to mess with the delicate balance I’d finally achieved with the baking-soda-vinegar method. The no-poo method had been working so well for me, and was still cheaper and simpler than the shampoo bar, so I decided I’d just stick with that.

I gave my mom a bar for her and my sisters to try, and they weren’t super-crazy about it, either – I’m not entirely sure why.

But it’s not a loss at all, and I’ll tell you why.

First of all, Ben has been using the shampoo bar ever since I made it two months ago and has no complaints. Being a guy, he’s not so concerned about his hair falling exactly perfectly, and the shampoo bar is really handy. For one thing, it enables him to wash his hair in the sink if he wants to.

Moreover, the shampoo bar makes a lovely a body soap. It’s lather-y and moisturizing and smells (subtly) nice, and I know exactly what’s in it. (For someone who used it as a shampoo bar as well, it would be the ultimate minimalist shower bar: everything all in one.)

I’ve read that shampoo bars are less ideal for people whose water is on the harder side. So someone with softer water might have more positive results.

As for cost, I figure it probably cost me about $20 to make one recipe, which made 7 bars. With Ben and me both using it as a body bar, and him using it as a shampoo bar, it has lasted us over two months, and there’s still quite a bit left. I gave several away, but if I’d kept them all they probably would have lasted us a year. $20 a year for all-natural shampoo (and soap!) is not bad!

Even though I didn’t personally love it on my own hair, I will probably make this recipe again (or one very similar)!

Giveaway Time! (Update: Giveaway Closed)

Curious? Want to give the shampoo bar a try, but not sure you want to invest in the ingredients?

Now that I’ve told you every freaking thing there is to know about this bar, I want to offer my last two bars to you dear folks as a giveaway! You can give it a try at no cost; and if you don’t like it in your hair, you still have a luxurious homemade soap for your shower.

Just let me know in the comments that you’re interested. If there are more than two of you by the end of the week (Saturday night), I’ll randomly select a winner and send it to you! (Canada and US only, I’m afraid. I can’t afford to mail it overseas!)

*Linked to Your Green Resource over at SortaCrunchy.

Over the last year or two, I’ve noticed a number of bloggers writing about choosing a single word to guide them in the new year. I thought this sounded like a powerful practice, and when I looked into it a little more, I felt moved to do the same.

I played with a couple of different ideas, but the one word that seemed to stick was this: Holy.

I feel as though the upcoming year, for me,  is meant to have a focus on holiness.

Now, obviously Christians are always striving to become more holy. For me, the word is referring to something a little more specific. What I’m talking about is making a conscious effort to be aware of the sacred, and to infuse my daily rhythms with reminders of who I am and Who I belong to.

See, some time between my university days and today, I lost my sense of the Holy.

I stopped noticing that my life was sacred — that I was connected to the Holy One in a profound and mysterious way, and that his beauty and majesty could be seen everywhere.

For years, I’ve been living my life and making my daily choices based on principles I know in my head, and not out of love or awe. I’ve lost any sense of mysticism in my daily life.

I’ve made certain life choices — like keeping a more eco-friendly home or donating to certain organizations — because I believe in my mind that they’re good; but not out of a deep sense of love for the Creator of the world, or out of a longing to see relationships restored, or anything like that.

I pray infrequently, and with short, often careless prayers.

Most days, I live as a functional atheist, making decisions and working and playing as if my brain, my body, and this physical world are all there are.

I have felt a growing need to intentionally infuse my days with an awareness of the Spiritual.

I started this blog because I hoped it would help me to actually become a peculiar human being; but I’ve been trying to do that through outward acts alone. I really feel it’s time to spend some time focusing inward as well, remembering that I have a soul, and that it is in need of transformation.

I hope that this mindfulness will influence the way I interact with people and steward the resources that come into my hands, so that I desire to do good.

A few major ways I intend to infuse my life with holiness:

• with liturgy. I recently purchased the pocket edition of Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals, and I’m totally in love. I now want to get my hands on the full-length edition and use it as a guide to help me pray more intentionally. Spontaneous prayers are important and good, but when I rely solely on my own feelings to guide me, I find that I’m terribly haphazard — I forget to pray for days on end, and when I do pray, I quickly get lost in other thoughts. I pray only about things that concern me personally, and I forget to ask God to work in me. I forget to pray about the Hard Things. So I want to take hands with others, and let them help me find the words to talk to my Maker.
• by observing holy days. I want to fill my calendar not just with to-do lists, birthdays, and get-togethers, but with reminders of the biblical narrative, and perhaps even days celebrating saints who have gone before me. (I know this is a terribly un-Protestant thing to do, but I think there’s value in it). I also want to observe Natural Holidays (for lack of a better word — i.e. equinoxes and solstices, astronomical events, etc), to remind me that the universe goes far beyond what I typically experience in my everyday life. These events inspire awe at the One who created them, and reminds me that I’m part of a Grand Creation.

I’m still trying to think of other ways to seek out the sacred (other spiritual disciplines, rituals, readings, etc); and I also want  to continue to live a peculiar life in the ways I’ve begun to write about on the blog. These are just a few ideas that have been percolating for a while.

Regardless, I’ve decided that I want the word Holy to be my guiding word in 2013. It might not sound very exciting or original, but it’s the word that’s been planted on my heart.

P.S. — sorry that my writing is extra-bleh in this post. Like, more than usual, even. I had to write this post over three or four 5-minute writing sessions. My monkey of a toddler recently learned how to climb onto the kitchen table, along with a number of other tiring accomplishments. She is keeping me BUSY, meaning I have to stick with whatever words come to my head first, regardless of how cliche they are. I hope it’s not too tiresome.

How about you? Are you choosing a word to guide  you in the coming year? What is it? Or do you have another way of starting the new year? Or maybe you prefer not to enter the new calendar year in such a way? Please share!

(This is my hair a day after washing)

A couple of my real-life friends have told me that they’ve tried going shampoo-free, like me, without success. They all gave it a good, long try, too, before giving up and going back to conventional shampoo.

“I feel guilty using regular shampoo again,” one friend confided. “I can’t un-know what I know about that stuff. But my hair just looked like crap when I was using the baking soda and vinegar.”

They all complained about the same thing I’ve mentioned: waxy-feeling, oily-looking hair.

I’ve been puzzling over the problem for a while. Why does it work for me? I’m still completely happy with this method of cleaning my hair.

To be honest, though, every once in a while, I’ll have a spell of bad luck with it, too. For no apparent reason, all of a sudden I’ll get the waxy locks  for a wash or two.

It happened a few months ago, just in time for a wedding. Great. I was befuddled and annoyed.

But now it’s back to fabulous. Consistently. (Is it okay that I’m calling my own hair fabulous?) And since then, I’ve come up with a few ideas, along with a couple of words of advice for anyone still interested in trying it. I still love it and want to help you find success, too!

(This post assumes you’re already familiar with the no-poo method — i.e. washing your hair with a baking soda rinse, followed with a vinegar rinse, instead of using shampoo — which I’ve outlined here.)

1. DON’T FEEL GUILTY if it’s not working for you, and you have to switch back to conventional.

It just doesn’t seem to work for some people for some reason. I don’t know why. It might be your water or your scalp. Who knows. But you’re not lazy or vain or lacking perseverance if you can’t get it to work for you and you go back to regular shampooing.

I do think it’s worthwhile to get the ‘poo out of your life if you can, but it’s not the most important thing in the world. It’s definitely not worth stressing over. And it totally makes sense that you don’t want to look icky. It’s not narcissistic; it’s totally natural.

If ridding yourself of conventional poo is important to you, try again another time. You might need to tweak ratios. But if it’s stressing you out, take a break and come back to it.

Or try to find some other option. If it’s the plastic waste and the synthetic chemicals you want to avoid, you might consider trying a natural shampoo bar, either bought or homemade. (I want to try this one yet myself.)

You don’t have to do it immediately, though. Put it on your to-do list. If it’s important to you, you’ll get to it. I have faith in you.

2. If you want to keep trying, and if it’s waxy hair you’re dealing with, TRY DOUBLE-RINSING.

When I was dealing with this a couple of months ago, this technique seemed to do the trick.

I think the problem is excess baking soda staying in your hair. Resist the urge to increase the vinegar concentration in your follow-up rinse to combat that. You’ll just get oily-looking hair. (Ask me how I know this.) Instead, rinse more thoroughly.

Do your usual apple cider vinegar rinse, in the usual concentration; rinse with water; and then repeat.

Additional Tips

If you are sticking with the no-poo method, and having success with it: hooray! We can be no-poo buddies. I have some additional tips for making it even better!

1. Invest in a good spray bottle.

In my initial posts in the subject, you’ll see I was using a crappy plastic spray-bottle for my ACV rinse. I got it from the dollar store. The nozzle was never great.

I recently switched to a high-quality spray bottle — one of those industrial-looking ones for the workplace, with warning labels on them in case they’re used for hazardous chemicals. I got it from the hardware store and paid a couple of bucks for it. That might seem like a lot for an empty plastic bottle, but OH MY WORD I should have done that a million years ago. I no longer have to give my forearm a workout just to rinse my hair. (Cuz let’s face it: I don’t want to ever feel like I’m working out. That’s why I don’t, you know, work out.) It gives a nice, heavy, even spray, and takes me half the time.

I don’t even have to do a double-rinse anymore (see above). SO worth the couple extra bucks.

(For the record, I still just pour the baking soda mixture onto my head, though.)

2. Pre-mix big batches of the stuff, and keep it under your sink or in your bathroom closet.

I got this idea from Tsh. Again, I don’t know why I didn’t do this sooner. I now mix them in big, old vinegar jugs. Instead of having to mix a new batch every week, I can mix up a big batch that lasts several months. Each week, I just have to funnel it into my spray bottles.

Realistically, it only saves me about two minutes every week, but that little bit of increased simplicity makes me ever so much fonder of the method. It’s just SO EASY.

Update: I found this page of suggestions helpful: No Poo Help for Dry, Dull, Waxy, Straw-Like Hair

* * *

So that’s it. Have you tried the no-poo method? Did you like it? Do you have any additional tips?