This morning I woke up more hopeful and more energized than I’ve been in weeks.

Part of it is because I went to bed early the last two nights, and sleep generally seems to mitigate a number of ills.

Part of it is because I’m still basking in the afterglow of my weekend at Asilomar, a too-quick three days spent seaside retreating with nine beauties whom I love and admire. Every year we stop for lunch at this European inspired home-turned-dining-nook called Casanova’s in unparalleled Carmel (brief inspiration . . . at Casanova’s instead of serving water in the restaurant-supply-store water pitchers, they bring de-labeled wine bottles to your table full of chilled water. The bottles add just the right little something to the tables and serve as both function and décor equally. I’m de-labeling wine bottles as we speak. A wire basket displays them beautifully. A clever reclamation project.) My incredibly innovative friend, Katie (www.katiegardnerphoto.com) created a tribute montage of the weekend: http://vimeo.com/9194506. Enjoy! I am entirely indebted for this memorializing.

Part of it is because I went to Pat’s (a strange collection of oddities available below! thrift store prices that can be painted and distressed any color you want) this past Friday. In the treasure-laden back lot, behind the store, I found myself co-digging with a man in a cashmere sweater who turned to me and said, “This place is a gold mine!” Couldn’t have said it better myself. I left with a white shelf that looks like it was made from distressed molding and an iron plant stand (with the perfect ratio of rust to paint) which I’ll be using to store art supplies. All the digging and finding helps me breathe.

Part of it is because I had an exceptionally fun evening with Steve this weekend. We went to Ponce’s, our very favorite authentic Mexican food eatery that has the limiest (and therefore most delicious) salsa verde you have ever experienced. Steve had chorizo and eggs, and I had tortilla soup and a grilled chicken salad with extra guacamole. Total heaven. After dinner, we walked around the mall, with decaf Americano in hand, and found ourselves on the floor in Anthropologie digging through the doorknobs until we found the perfect mercury glass pair for me to use for a little project I’m doing in my little creative space/art studio/writing room (and, in a rare turn of events, they weren’t even that expensive, unlike the first pair I held up that were $78. ugggh.). After the knob find, we headed to Trader Joe’s for coconut milk and wine bottles (after all, I had to get more supplies for my aforementioned project). For some reason, Steve and I had the space to really connect. All this in the pouring rain. Soul food, I tell you.

Part of it is because I have decided to take one moment in every day and put my eyes on my kids, one at a time, intentional like. Of course, I look at my kids all day, every day, between the shushing, and schlepping, and shuttling. But do I really see them? Looking and seeing are two very different things, I’m learning. They probably find the whole routine awkward, but I just lock onto them and practice the discipline of gazing. Sometimes I look right into their eyes. I want them to know I see them. And it’s making me a better mom, already. Seriously. Who knew?!?

So here’s to a few simple-yet-sensational S’s: sleeping, seaside-ing, salvaging, salsa-ing, and seeing.

Oh, and Steve. We can’t forget about him.

Sincerely yours.

The rain continues to fall here in San Diego. Uncharacteristic amounts of water everywhere. I like to think of it as tears from heaven, God still mourning the Chargers’ loss to the Jets. We’re all in ruins over it. The whole city. Ruins.

This weekend, I will be licking my year-after-year-Charger-inflicted wounds (why do I even let myself hope anymore) at one of the most enchanting places on earth . . . Asilomar, a woodsy little conference ground that sits right on the Monterey Peninsula, next door to Carmel by the Sea. I’m telling you, you can barely stand the beauty. Chapter 27, “Dancing,” from Found Art includes a story set on this very beach.

I take this pilgrimage annually with a group of friends (9 of us this year) to attend the Menlo Park Pres Women’s retreat. As a part of the retreat, I’ll be facilitating a workshop on Saturday afternoon, which I am very much looking forward to.

Another salve for my Charger-wound came in the form of an all-day women’s event (hosted by Flood Church) last Saturday that I was invited to facilitate. We spent the entire day talking about the theme of inspiration, and we enjoyed a rare break in the rain at the Carlsbad beach. It was heaven for me. My favorite moments of the day were as follows: (1) During an hour of personal reflection time, I went for a walk on the bluff above the beach and walked by almost every woman attending the conference. Some were praying, some were journaling, some were staring out into the ocean, some were listening to music, reading, napping. I loved seeing these women sitting outside, breathing, taking in life. (2) Walking around the room while the women were creating their own personal clothesline (a little project I had them do that incorporated some of their favorite muses from the day). Few things are more inspirational to me than creating, and I especially love watching other women get past their “craft-anxieties” and create their own little found art pieces. (3) When I said, “Courage is the new black.” I thought that was particularly clever. (4) How I felt comfortable enough in my own skin and with those women to cry a minimum of probably 6 times throughout the day. I’m so soft when it comes to this topic! (5) I was able to use my new, “professional,” raspberry patent leather tote that Steve got me for my birthday. In the words of Rachel Zoe, “I die.” (6) Seeing women awaken.

I’ll leave you with a recent dream I had about Michael Phelps who, in the dream, was named Shane Kim and was coming over to our house because he wanted to date me. Shane Kim was a renowned world-class athlete in the Olympic sport of Frisbee Windsurfing (this is all true) and was all over the news because of his recent accomplishments. For some reason, he had his eye on me. Though I was married to Steve and we had the babies, everyone was aflutter with the fact that Shane Kim was coming over and no one seemed the slightest bit concerned with the minor detail that I was already married.

I was relating the dream to my mom in great detail, mentioning how he was sitting on our couch and how his hands touched the ground because he has those really strangely long arms and how he was so good with the twins and on and on and she stopped me and said, “Leeana, do you need some attention?”

Always, mom. Always.

Did I mention I’m doing a cleanse? Yes, it’s true. The least likely person to ever deprive herself of any kind of food or beverage (”But I deserve this five pound carne asada burrito,” “But Diet Coke has no calories,” “But they say red wine is good for you,” “But you have to eat queso if you’re watching a football game,” . . .) has chosen to abstain from just about all things edible. Not totally true. But close enough. Liquid breakfast, grass and twigs for lunch, liquid dinner. That’s about it. I indulge myself by drinking my body weight in tea every day. The other day I had a certifiable craving for warm sour cream by the spoon full. I know, nasty.

At the same time, we are cleansing the house to further allow all five people living here (my mom, my husband, me, and our twins) to survive together under one roof. Last night, we were emptying a closet and found a puzzle of a huge hamburger (so big, it looked like the meat was sweating . . . what a tease), 200 travel sized bottles of shampoo, 15 pounds of old coins, and an air rifle. All in the same closet. I told my mom, “The chapter is practically writing itself.”

Cleansing is a holistic act of self-care. I’m learning that. Getting the trash out. Letting the good in. Never easy. But well worth the work.

Today, I’m also thinking of the intolerable images of Haiti. What would it be like to see your world turned to rubble? And I think of Martin Luther King, Jr., who tried his very best to point out the rubble around him and to clean it up. Because cleaning things up is not only about self-care but about restoring dignity.

I hope we can all be a part of cleansing this year. Whether it’s a colon, a closet, a country, or a culture. After all, the world could use some people who are serious about getting clean.

Just sat down to light a fire and work a bit since I finally got both babies down. We’re in the middle of the heinous transition from two naps down to one. All of a sudden I have crabapples for children. Today will be a two-napper.

Getting babies down, especially when they’re in a transition, is a rain dance of sorts. Some days, the rain falls with ease. Some days, you have to hop around for what seems like far too long, jumping and gyrating until the stars align.

Anyway, finally got them both down, put the fake log in the fireplace, lit it, only to discover — after a bit of time — that Steve had closed the flue last night. Amazing how much smoke those plood bricks can pump out.

While it was bad, the worst part of the whole mess wasn’t the excessive smoke inhalation. And it wasn’t even that the fire alarm started blaring in the hallway until I opened enough doors and waved a pair of Lane’s red fuzzy Christmas pajamas in front of it vigorously enough (now I’m sweating) that it finally cut off.

The worst part of it all, as I’m sure you’ve already guessed, is that the incredibly subtle fire alarm stirred Luke, and he began crab-appling in his room.

I thought I was literally going to put my fist through the wall. I would’ve, too, if I could’ve seen the wall through the haze.

Obscenities. Curses. Gasps. Clenches. Mutterings. Choking. More curses. You get the picture. Hold breath and reach up into the annals of the chimney to pull some secret lever . . . all while madly texting Steve for instructions. Open all doors. Wave pajamas. Try to ignore crab-appling. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Sputter a bit from smoke. Utter the prayer of desperation (which cannot be replicated here as it involves some additional obscenities). Oh, and try to graciously shew off the man from the VA who has appeared on our doorstep in the middle of all this (Yes, of course he rang the doorbell. Or, maybe more appropriately, doorsiren.).

Miraculously, after some ventilation and time, the house has cleared and quieted, and I’m reminded, yet again, that fire alarms are a part of life. So if you’re waving pajamas today, or cursing, or texting madly, or rain dancing, or shewing away one more person who needs something from you, or reaching up into the darkness to try to jiggle a flue loose — literally or figuratively — just know you’re not alone. I think that matters more than anything.

Peace to you.

If I were sitting at my growth group right now and I had to give an update on my life over the last couple of weeks, I would probably choose to express my update through a theme word. And that word would be family.

We have now been living at my mom’s house for 3 months, and we’ve officially moved past the honeymoon stage of things and into the heavy negotiating of stuff. Organizing, throwing out, Good Will-ing, painting, decorating, hanging, repurposing (a gun cabinet my brother made in high school shop that now stores those oversized toys that one-year-olds push around — amazing what a little fabric and new pulls will do — and, of course, removing the five shotguns that had been displayed previously), and a little yelling. Oh, and also, some laughing and some crying. Family.

I just survived my first Christmas with kids. Though officially we had them last Christmas, I don’t count that as an actual Christmas with kids because we were all still in the hospital recuperating as they had just been born two days prior.

This year, we packed our pilot and Steve, me, the babies, and my mom all headed to Lake Tahoe where Steve’s parents have a lovely cabin in Squaw Valley. We joined Steve’s parents and brother and his wife and son and we celebrated non-stop with just about all the birthday and Christmas cheer a group of people could possibly endure, including fancy dinners, sledding, skiing, Charger games at the Blue Coyote, shopping, Christmas card stuffing, gifting, receiving, some laughing, some crying, and vomiting. Family.

Luke and Lane celebrated their first birthday while we were in Tahoe. I’m trying to figure out how I can take it all in. Each day is awash with the urgency of keeping two babies alive and I’m so relieved when we get to bedtime and we’ve all survived. Yet there is also this sense that the days add up to something incredibly sacred and sometimes it’s hard to take in that sacred part. Family.

Steve and I continue to be married. That’s a major accomplishment, I think. When the polarizing pulls of work and home are erased momentarily during the holidays, and we are in it all together, I am — and I believe we are — at my best. Being a team. That’s what we’re good at. And I miss him this morning as he’s back at work and I’m here at home and the responsibilities of life keep us in separate worlds most of the day. Family.

Yep, that’s my word. The great art of navigating family. All the needs, the wants, the expectations, the disappointments, the instructions, the input, the hopes, the celebrations, and the bodily fluids.

About a week ago, my mom says to me as we’re both standing in the kitchen, “Leeana, I’m going to put together some New Year’s resolutions for you . . .”

Family.