IAM NOT MUCH for New Year’s resolutions. They mostly just make me feel like a slacker by the time March rolls around, one more thing for me to beat myself up for not doing well enough. (And don’t we all have enough of those already?) This year, instead of chaining myself in the guilt of unkept resolutions, I’ve decided to take a more, uh, aggressive approach.

As I’ve written complained here before, last year was hard. But hard times have a benefit, which is that they force you to examine how you live your life, and confront the ways you might make changes to accommodate whatever new difficulties you face. (I’m not trying to gloss over the extreme hardships so many sisters have faced this past year with unemployment and foreclosure rampant, and our nation still at war. I’m talking about difficulty, not catastrophe.)

In my life, one thing that became apparent this year was that my habit of putting myself dead last in order of my own priorities was actually having the opposite of the intended effect. I was spread too thin, miserable and grumpy and short with everyone. It was clear that my life needed a brand new organizing principle, and I started carving out time for three things that are, if I take the time to admit it to myself, really really REALLY a big deal to me. These were the holes in my life, and I needed to fill them, pronto.

The first was  (drumroll, please) making art. I am the daughter of an incredibly talented visual artist (my mom, the queen of pie) and as such have a fair bit of insecurity about my own abilities. And yet––I love to make things, used to love to draw, have a secret desire to learn to paint…you get the idea. I compromised.

"Extra, Extra"

I took a collage class, for which, it turned out, I’d been collecting materials (old books and photographs, scraps of paper) for years. I have no illusions that I’m the next Joseph Cornell, but the attempt (often unsuccessful, but an attempt nonetheless) to fulfill my teacher‘s assignment to make a collage-a-day made me more productive than I’d been in years. And, even better, it made me happy.

"Mother, the Woven Word"

The second was to write fiction. In November, I spent about an hour a day writing fiction, yet another thing I’d wanted to do, oh, my whole life, and hadn’t really tried since second grade. I completed a first draft of a novel; this month, I’m about to dive into the rewrite after putting it aside for a few weeks to give me some breathing room and some perspective. I don’t know if it’s any good, but I think it’s got the potential to be, and you know what? It exists, all 51,000 words of it. Put another way: I did it.

"Tolerance of Concentricity"

The third was to move this old, tired body of mine. This was my strategy for not succumbing to the onslaught of butter and sugar we Americans like to call “the holidays.” Three or four days per week in December (until my kids’ vacation began–sigh) I went to a local community center/gym to a cardio or strength training class. I’ve always held to the idea that I don’t like group exercise classes, but you know what? I was wrong. I love sweating my brains out, dancing around like I’m auditioning (unsuccessfully, mind you) for a Beyoncé video, with a bunch of other women. It was oddly inspiring, and both physically and emotionally curative. When school starts again on Tuesday (yippee!) I’ll be back.

My revolution this year? To keep all three of these new habits present in my life. Ironically, this fall was the time when things got really, really hard for me and my family, and yet, having a commitment to doing these small things for myself kept me sane, rather than making me crazier for taking up my ever-evaporating time.

I learned that I don’t have to write 1,500 words in my novel every day. I don’t have to create an original collage every morning, and if I don’t make it to the gym seven days a week, that’s OK. But my revolution is to change the organizing principle of my life, which had been: “Take care of everyone else before myself.” Instead, I’m going to shoot for this trio: Make Art. Tell stories. Dance. I’ve found that by creating some space for the things that really matter, deeply, to me, I can actually take better care of everyone else.

How about you? Do you want a revolution for 2010? Do you know what the organizing principle of your life is? Does it need revising? Share with your sisters.

P.S. That image above? That’s Deborah Sampson, who disguised herself as a man and fought and was injured in the Revolutionary War. She was honorably discharged in 1783, and 20 years later, became the first woman to be awarded a federal pension for her service to her country. There are all kinds of revolutionaries. Thanks to the site Honor Roll of Liberty for this image of the statue of Deborah, located in Sharon, Connecticut.

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YOU KNOW YOU’RE a sister when your friendship can survive one of you writing, publicly, about the other. Or can it? It all started innocently enough. I sat down for a coffee with the editor of a regional magazine based here in the hinterlands, talking about what I might write for him, what I was writing for other folks, and inevitably, the conversation turned to The Sister Project, and our amazing oldest sister, lovely Margaret. I should have known what was coming. The editor, like everyone else I meet, wanted to know all about her, her garden, her projects. Now there was a subject! Could I finagle a profile of my friend (and regional celebrity) Margaret? Yikes.

Margaret, for someone who lives a pretty open online life, is also a private person. More important, she’s my friend. I tried to explain. “I work with her, you know.” “Are you her employee?” he probed. “Well, no…”

“Then I don’t see any conflict. See if she’ll do it. We will run it this summer–perfect for a garden story.”

I called when I got home.

“Err…How would you feel about being profiled?”

“Mmmm…#$%@%. Can’t get this post to upload properly…” Margaret was distracted. “Sure, sure, whatever you want. Tell me what I need to do.”

And so it began. I interviewed Margaret, and was thrilled when she gave me some tidbits about her rural odyssey I hadn’t read anywhere else. Maybe, just maybe, this would all be ok. I interviewed four other sources, friends and plantsmen all, who were transparent in their love for Margaret, their amusement at her quirks, their deep admiration for her knowledge and creativity in the garden and beyond. They confirmed her stories, adding color and detail; one of them gave me a slightly snarky but funny and accurate quote that I thought twice about using before deciding that my article had to be written by a writer first, a friend second. In truth, everything was going so, so well.

And then. Photography. Margaret had images of the garden she’d shot herself that could be used by the magazine, saving them money and allowing them to show off the garden in its best light, through all seasons. It would be a lot of work for her to select and format them, but she was willing. Great! But there remained one sticky issue.

Here’s something you may not know about Margaret, though if you were a close reader of Martha Stewart Living when she was editing there, you might have suspected it. She really, really doesn’t like to be photographed. Not in the way I don’t like to be photographed, where I’m all, “Oh, crap, I’m so fat, let me contort my body to try to find some angle where I don’t look like the Michelin man, and meanwhile I’ll hope the light is catching my cheekbones nicely so everyone will look at them instead of my saggy everything else.” Nope. Imagine how the last Dodo bird might have reacted if confronted by James Audubon: running like hell, convinced that to surrender to the portraitist may well mean the end of the entire freaking species.

My editor, a nice enough guy, wanted his photographer to shoot Margaret. None of the portraits she already had (taken, beautifully, by her friend, Erica Berger, who knows exactly how to manage Margaret in a photo shoot, and no, there are no pharmaceuticals involved, although, note to self, maybe not a bad idea for next time) would suffice. He wanted his own. Oh, [expletive deleted].

I tried gently to suggest that he try, hard, not to set himself and Margaret up for the pain of a shoot. Not only was there the issue of Margaret’s aversion to the lens, she was also, rightly, concerned that a portrait shot in the garden in (very) early spring might look out of place in a story running in July. And, there was her schedule to contend with. Always busy, she was now immersed not only in her two websites, but also in writing the first draft of her book. She really didn’t have a lot of time to give away. As the tug-of-war over images continued, I grew more and more worried.

Selfishly, I had thought this profile would be good for my portfolio, good for developing a relationship with a new (to me) magazine and editor, good press for Margaret and the websites. More, as I finished the piece, I liked what I’d written and thought it presented an accurate and compelling picture of my friend.

But as the tension mounted, I put the article out as a sacrificial lamb to Margaret. If the photo shoot was going to be too much trouble, she could walk. I would understand. The editor might never forgive me, but I was crystal clear on this point: My relationship with Margaret, the one I feared I’d jeopardized by trying to write honestly and with some humor about her, quirks and all, was not available for the chopping block.

And so, as she does in most things, Margaret prevailed. I still don’t know (and don’t want to) what magic she worked on my editor to get him to use an existing portrait;  until the magazine arrived in my mailbox yesterday, I had no idea (I’d been afraid to ask) how this issue had played itself out. Apparently I, too, have something in common with a giant flightless bird, because I’d stuck my head into the sand, not even discussing the article with Margaret again until just the other day. After reading the online version, I sent off a tentative email. I needed to know she didn’t hate it, or me.

“I hope you’re ok with it. I know it wasn’t the highlight of your year,” I stumbled.

She came through, like a sister. In part, her response read, “I love you and love your writing.” Right back at you, sissie. Now, when can I take your picture for my photo album?

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REMEMBER MY SUMMER GOALS? Now that summer is more than one-third past (read that bit again, why don’t you, as you weep into your iced coffee) and I’m about to embark on our few short days of family vacation, I thought I should check in with, um, myself, and err, you all, and ‘fess up to what I’ve done, or not, on that list of mine.

My kids made me do it. Those ambitious little shorties forced me to come to terms with the things that seemed really important to do, see, or experience this summer. Progress is being made, but not all the news is good. Read on…

1. Tomatoes, basil, corn. Too early, too rainy, too cold. These will all have to wait until August, though I did break down and buy a supermarket tomato this week to eat with a salad nicoise I made…from ARUGULA I GREW MYSELF. (Hold your applause until the end, please.)

2. Sun on skin. See above. We had more rainfall in June than in any year since 1903. Even so, today the sun shone, and the Rock and the River and I went swimming in our own pond. My husband is convinced that amoebic dysentery is just around the corner for us all, but the sun on our backs in the cool water felt divine.

3. Fireflies. Going, going, gone, but it stays light so late here, that my kids are always asleep by the time the lightning bugs start to show themselves, anyway. Maybe next year. This year, they made do with sparklers on the 4th of July, which were as close to magic as either child has yet come in their short lives.

4. Bonfire. S’mores. See Number 1, above. Thunderstorms every night=zero campfires, though my kids did have s’mores, they tell me, at their first ever non-family, brother-sister sleepover this weekend. While they were having s’mores, I was having…my husband. Alone. For a whole 16 hours. We owe our friends, big time.

5. Beach, seaglass, crustaceans. We left for four days in Maine Monday. I’ll report back, but signs are promising.

6. A run in the rain. With all the rain we’ve been having, this one should have been a breeze. I’ve been lazy, running mostly on the weekends, not nearly enough during the week, and rain has been an excuse not to. Now that I’ve confessed my sins, I’ll try to do better.

7. Infinite Jest. OK, I’m only about 150 pages in, but progress is being made, people. Considering that I only made it to page 19 the first time I tried to read it (I know exactly where I stopped, because I found the dogeared page when I cracked the book this time). I think hope is in order, even if it’s too early for optimism.

8. A night away with my husband. See Number 4. We were in our own house, but we were alone, and it was free.

9. Stay tighter with my friends. I had a fun meet-up with a bunch of fellow writer/social media type girlfriends last week for brunch. I spent leisurely, lovely time with a couple of L.A. friends I hadn’t seen in a year or so, a high school friend with whom I reconnected at my recent reunion, and am about to see two more of those high school sister-friends in Maine this week. On the downside, I have phone calls and emails from treasured friends lingering unreturned. Two steps forward…

10. Having more fun? Definitely. While I can’t necessarily say I’ve succeeded at the “stress less” part, I’m definitely playing more. I related strongly to this blog post about the importance of play time from a wonderful writer and blogger, Jen Lee. See what you think.

How is your summer going? Is it living up to your expectations? Do you have secret goals you want to confess? C’mon, tell the sisters.

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I THINK WE have all watched in varying degrees of disbelief and horror as the saga of Illinois governor Rod Blagojevich has unfolded over the last week.  He of the uh, impressive, hair and apparent ethical deficiencies isn’t alone; his wife, Patti, has been pilloried by everyone from Barbara Walters onward, for her “potty mouth” (that, sorry to say, I have to forgive her for–I can’t throw that stone!) and for threatening revenge against her husband’s enemies (OK, that’s pretty bad–stand by your man and all, but maybe try to maintain a moral compass while you do, no?) But when the $%&% hit the fan last week, what did her sister do, bless her? Something any of us might when trouble hits our dear ones: She showed up with a bag of groceries for the beleaguered first family.  Thick and thin, indeed.  I think it will take more than a canned ham to bring holiday cheer to the Blagojevich’s, though….

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I HAVE BEEN thinking a lot lately about my semi-compulsive need to surround myself with girlfriends. I know, we all need our girlfriends–that’s totally normal.  We all want to know we have a core group of women who get us and who’ll get our backs. And as an only child, I don’t have the option to turn to sisters-by-birth, so I have to make my own.

When Margaret Roach first told me of her inspiration to create this–The Sister Project–my first reaction was, “How in the world can I fit in?”  (Yes, it was a bit of a pity party.)  But as we talked and brainstormed and plotted and planned, I began to realize that in addition to my search for substitute sisters, I also look for sisters of a less literal kind.  In my reading, in my ‘net surfing and shopping, in my movie-watching–I’m drawn to things that convey or examine or suggest some kind of sisterhood, and I have been for a long, long time.

And that’s how we came to the idea of one part of my multitasker role here at TSP–the Sister Scout.  If you’ve already visited the Galleries, you’ve seen the work of Elsa Mora, whose work I discovered online long before TSP was a gleam in anyone’s eye.  Amanda Blake and I started emailing ages ago when I was exploring the idea of having my kids’ portraits painted. (My husband rolled his eyes at that one, but that’s another story.)

In the Galleries, in our profiles of sisters in the kitchen, and in this blog, I’ll point you to sources of all kinds that for me (remember, the sisterless one!) suggest sisterhood. And I hope–I really hope–you’ll tell me if I get it right (or not).

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NEARLY FOUR YEARS AGO, I went to the hospital, on the day before my own birthday, and delivered a baby sister. She was just under 8 pounds, with a thick head of dark hair and deep, dark blue eyes that seemed to focus instantly, and would not let go. My husband likes to joke that if we’d had a daughter first, we might have thought our son a little, um, slow. He also occasionally says that if she’d been our first, she might have been our last. In both cases, though rude, he’s not necessarily wrong.

Her name means “Rock.” As in stone, not music. She lives up to it. At 3-1/2, she can carry on a conversation about almost any topic, whether she actually knows anything about it, or not. (In this, I am not too proud to say, she closely resembles her mother.) She has complicated relationships with an extended family of dolls, most of whom are named “Baby,” though a couple are called “Butterfly.” She can draw excellent flowers, recognizable humans, and vibrant suns.

She is absolute in her convictions, certain in her rectitude, on all subjects.

She terrorizes her 7-year-old brother.   Shrinks (at least the Jungians) will tell you that naming is everything, it is an act of power and creation.  I think that’s a lot of pressure to put on new parents, but I do notice that Seven, too, rises to meet his name, which means “river.”  He’s easy, for the most part: emotional, full of feeling, but also mellow. As a toddler, he was the kid who never (well, almost never) hit, bit or terrorized, and looked at those who did with gentle non-comprehension.  All of this, it should be said, changed when he met the Rock.

Until the last year or so, it was mostly sunshine and light between the sister and the brother. He openly doted on her, and she looked up to him, or ignored him, depending upon her mood. Both seem satisfied with this arrangement. When she started school, everything changed.

At first, they loved being in school together. (And they both complained bitterly this fall, when my son decamped to a different school.) But at home, things grew tense. He’d growl and grimace at her when she invaded his space. In response, she’d scream and cry and advance further into enemy territory, all at the same time.

Is this just the way it goes for siblings, and the scars from all these battles and counterattacks will be only that–healed reminders of old conflicts among allies?

Saying “no” to her just made her grit her teeth, elevate her decibel level and push harder for whatever it was she felt was her due. He’d respond in kind, calling out for parental reinforcements, or, instead, mounting his own assault, usually by grabbing and then letting go of her arm–this, after all, is a kid who doesn’t really believe in physical violence of the non-cartoon kind. Except when the target is the most annoying person in the world.

Then, my loving, sweet boy morphs into a ninja bad guy bent on revenge and destruction. Meanwhile, the instigator weeps and cries and my heart melts–she’s younger! she’s still a baby!–I know she’s a pain in the a** but don’t yell/grab/scare her!

“You always take her side,” he cries, wounded, slamming his bedroom door against both of us girls. And the thing is–I don’t–always take her side, that is. Really, when I’m rational, I see why she’s irritating, and understand why he responds, in anger, as he does. (I would, too, I suspect.) But at what point will she have to take responsibility for her behavior to him (or to the rest of us, for that matter?)

Or is this just the way it goes for siblings, and the scars from all these battles and counterattacks will be only that–healed reminders of old conflicts among allies?

You see–I don’t know. I don’t have any idea what a sister feels, or should feel, or what it is to be the youngest who’s never been alone or the oldest who remembers the luxury of solitude. I’ve only ever been an only. How in the world am I supposed to help these two navigate the high trails and falling water of siblinghood?

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