just a position

thirty-seven today

2010-09-25T13:03:00.003-04:00

Yep, it’s my birthday, and I find I’m all caught up in self-reflection. I miss writing for myself so much that it is my gift to myself today to make time to write just for me and put aside for a few the cleaning, the school work, the organizing, the cooking, the rest of life that seems to always supersede this craft that I cherish so much.

Last night I had a lovely date with a lovely friend to see Aimee Mann, and on my way into the show I joked how I must truly be middle-aged now, as I was turning thirty-seven accompanied by my friend, already in her forties, and we made our way into the show to take in the emotional, female, singer/song-writer, clearly also middle-aged herself. Doesn’t it sound just like a damn episode of Thirtysomething?

Except, I defy that half my life has gone by. I am working on the theory that perhaps I may live to be 111, a wonderful number by my estimation. If that is the case, then I have lived precisely one-third of my life, which feels remarkably magical to my odd proclivity toward prime numbers, multiples of three, and repeating digit numbers. Thus, I might be middle-aged in the sense that today I begin the second thirty-seven year era of my life, which will make up my middle years. I’m at the very, very beginning of the middle. I hope. (Thank you for indulging that number weirdness. My brain works in mysterious ways.)

Ms. Mann, fine musician that she is, put on a thoroughly enjoyable show. One moment felt particularly poignant. She introduced her song, “31 Today,” and spoke of how when we are young many of us expect that we may die before reaching our thirties, as that age seems impossibly old and far away. However, she believes that if we do reach our thirties that we may be quite surprised by how much we don’t have our shit together by then, as evidenced by the sad song that laments that point. I wanted to resonate with the sentiment of the song, it being the closest thing to a birthday song about someone in their thirties that I was likely to see performed live on the eve of my birthday, but honestly, it was all wrong for me.

You see, I could never ever have guessed, not even for a single moment, how much more I would enjoy my adulthood than I did my childhood. I was so doom and gloom as a youngster, stricken with the infirmities of a broken family in a broken town in a woefully broken culture, that I couldn’t have begun to guess what grandeur my life might hold in my late thirties. Then, I started weird number games in my head again, because that is what I do, and I started to think about what my life was like and how I would have imagined my future exactly half my life ago, which was the very pivotal age of eighteen and a half.

At eighteen and a half I was just finishing my first year of college. I hated college then. I have no idea why I went to college at that point other than it was what everyone else in my private, all girls, college prep school were doing, as well as my two closest friends, Sarah and Allison. I loathed high school, and junior high school before it, with a foaming passion, and I cannot believe anyone fooled me into thinking I was ready to undertake more academia. I wasn’t ready. And yet, I had high academic goals for myself. My Aunt Lindsey, what with her prestigious PhD and all, my only immediate family member who completed undergrad work let alone post-graduate studies, definitely led by example. I wanted what she had, even though half my life ago the thought of these many years of school was nauseating. As I sit amidst the last semester of my graduate program, I realize that it’s not terribly surprising that I made it this far, though the girl of eighteen and a half would have been quite surprised to know how incredibly much she would love and become enriched by her collegiate and university experiences. I am blessed to have attended fine schools and to study under remarkable teachers, and today I give great thanks for that.

How would she have pictured herself, that girl? I can tell you that she would not have been surprised at the news that at twice her age she would be covered in tattoos and piercings and would still be dying her hair colors out of the rainbow spectrum. She was ripe for that. Babies? Considering I got pregnant the first time at precisely nineteen and a half, and had already become utterly fixated on women’s bodies and the cycles of the moon and craving to get in touch with my archetypal goddess self well before that, I assure you that girl knew that motherhood was looming on the horizon. The bigger shock to her, I suppose, would be that all these years later she would only have had two children, and would still be longing for more. The unexpected sensation that I am dealing with now is that after desperately longing for more babies during all these years of unbridled fertility, that for the first time since those heady days of womanhood’s early blush, I am finally beginning to feel like it might be enough to never conceive and never give birth again. I am not convinced of it yet, but not breeding again no longer feels like a tragedy. I might yet adopt, though…

At eighteen and a half the most remarkable, spiritual moments I had had were all at Unitarian-Universalist youth conferences, and maybe at a Grateful Dead show or three. Since I was too old for youth cons and the Dead were someday going to die, I would have thought it safe to assume that the ecstatic period of my life would be all downhill from that point. There were not going to be holy existential pinnacles, over and over again, in the forms of child-bearing and rearing, lovemaking, dancing, music worshipping, festival going, traveling, and deep, late, late night conversations with the most loving of friends. I did not see that coming. I had no idea it would keep getting better and better and better, with no end in sight. I mean, Burning Man, you guys. Seriously. But, as a young woman, I revered youth, believed that we had it all. I thought, how could a bunch of old fogies have more fun than teenagers? This, I truly believed. I assure you that there hasn’t yet been a trance dance floor all-nighter in which I did not think, at least at one point in time, that I could never have guessed as a youth that this much fun was possible. That eighteen and a half year old girl applauds this thirty-seven year old lady for her ingenuity in coming up with more and more delightful and radical ways to have a good time. Good show!

Now then, do you remember that ripe, smooth skin of our youth? Can you picture how we once glowed? It is easy to see now in our children and their young friends, that golden, fleeting gorgeousness of youth. One of the most astonishing phenomena of entering my middle years is that despite the loss of the idyllic body of my youth, is that today I feel more beautiful than I did eighteen and a half years ago. My young woman’s mind was so much more clouded by the insulting messages of patriarchal media and the hurtful things perpetrated upon my body by those who used me recklessly that I was never able to enjoy my beauty then. I am profoundly grateful that I learned to live comfortably in my body, unlearned the lies that misinformed me of my inadequacy, and have come to see my image in the mirror with clarity; I am beautiful, and so are you. But it is a source of great regret that I was unable to revel in myself during my brief days blessed by youthful, Aphrodite inspiring radiance. To the young ones that I know, I implore you not to make this same mistake. Learn to love yourself now before you lose parts of yourself you shall never regain. To the parents and teachers that I know, strive to help the youth recognize their own beauty! It is a tragedy for them not to know it.

And I must say, thank you, thirty-seven year old body, for chugging along as well as you have. Thank you, thirty-seven year old face, for braving the elements and the years of laughter and tears with such grace. You are exquisite.

And then there is the whole not married thing. At eighteen and a half I was SOOO in love with my children’s father. I wanted to be partnered with him forever and ever. I thought we had been lovers in previous lifetimes, that we had a timeless, ageless love hardly conceivable by mere mortals. But…… we all think that when we are in love at eighteen and a half, right? Mmhmm, we do. But yes, I did authentically believe that Alan and I would have a successful partnership, and unlike our parents, we would learn to make it work through many years. Obviously, I was quite wrong. And even if I could have known at that age that my relationship with Alan would evolve out of partnership, I feel sure that I would have thought that by the ripe old age of thirty-seven I would surely have succeeded in some other long-term pairing. Furthermore, I think my young self would be saddened and scared at the prospect that she would be an old lady alone. Hmmph. Guess what, missy? It’s not so bad! I have so much fun! I am loved by so many giving, adoring friends, and I have explored such a variety of interesting, if not always functional, pairings and love relationships that I feel enriched. I feel sated. I feel like my life is enough. I have art, poetry, education, music, the high harvest moon and the scent of spring on the air. I have dogs. Cats. Snakes. Rats. I have the most comfortable bed and deeply restful nights of sleep. I have the future.

That is not to say that I don’t desire to go deep with someone, to spend long years in reflection with another intelligent, striving, uplifted human being to discover what hidden potential that we might unlock in each other. I do. But I do not fear living without it. I do not doubt that the other opportunities that life will bring me and that I will create for myself can be just as fulfilling and may bring me to unimagined shores. I am at peace with my singularity, while being open to connecting with lovers and perhaps a partner or more.

My home and land. Wow. Who knew? I hoped. I think I knew. I was determined to have a sacred plot of land upon which my family could live and cherish as our bastion of heathen dirt worship. I knew I needed a place where kids and dogs and friends and plants could all thrive, away from the threats of traffic and bright lights. It is not perfect. It is a struggle to pay for it, to maintain it. I have not been able to do anything quite near what I have hoped with it. But we have it. And I love it. I love every sunrise, moonrise, lightning storm, starry night, blizzard, bloom, and breeze that I experience here. You did it, Jus. You manifested land and got out of Shaler Township, which you so needed to do. It has been an unexpected journey, arriving at this home, and required the generosity and support of many along the way: my AMAZING little sister, my brother and mother, the deep love of my former partner, and all of you who have ever dug a hole, driven my kids around, watched my dogs, and supported me emotionally so that I could keep it up to keep our home. We did it together, and there is no end to the thanks and praise I offer you for helping me make my girlhood dream come true.

And today I make a dedication to Zelda. She was a beloved pup of mine, with a long, silky, black coat. She was killed by a car on Mount Royal Boulevard, the busy road where we lived, on the eve of my twentieth birthday, seventeen years ago yesterday. Only moments before she ran into the road I was crooning to my brood of three dogs, promising them that someday I would have land for them to roam. The painful irony that her life ended on the busy road just past my front yard almost instantly as I made that promise was bitter, bitter, bitter for my heavily pregnant, emotional self on the very last day of my teenagehood. But I think that perhaps Zelda’s life was a sacrifice to propel me to make that promise come true. Zelda is an angel, and was designated as Lennon’s guardian, and she has watched over us well. Thank you, precious girl.

Yes, I am entering my middle years with nostalgia and delight, some regrets but much gratitude, and full of zest for the years to come. Thank you, those of you who have shared this journey with me, those who chose me and those who got stuck with me through life’s random assignment or karma or whatever has brought us together. I live my life for all of you. You make it worthwhile. Your love has propelled me to places that eighteen and a half year old woman could not have dreamed possible. I am spellbound by the magic of your love and the ever-building crescendo of my blessed life. Thirty-seven today, and it is the prime of my life.

duty to know

2009-10-20T22:48:00.005-04:00

I am currently reading a book that my sister, one of the most dedicated peace activists I know, encouraged me to read, Winter Soldier Iraq and Afghanistan: Eyewitness Accounts of the Occupations. This is a book compiled by Iraq Veterans Against the War and is comprised of the testimony of dozens of young, bright, and once idealistic U.S. military service members. In the tradition of the Vietnam War Winter Soldier Investigation in 1971, a group of recently active duty military gathered to talk about how their service to our country was abused, and how they found themselves engaged in highly questionable activities in the name of the "War on Terror." They reached deep into the personal reserves of bravery that they had only recently relied upon to face the harsh realities of foreign warfare, but now they used it to speak out about the atrocities they witnessed and committed in the name of the U.S. government and the optimistically but falsely named Operation Iraqi Freedom. I am forever changed by the gut-wrenching tales of their noble intention to serve our country and to improve another part of the world, nations they believed were in need of the assistance of a powerful country like the U.S., and how their intentions were subverted to the extreme by the offensive dehumanizing practices of our nation's military branches, egged on by the political leaders that we have put into office.

Story after story, these previously dedicated soldiers explain how their humanity was devastated by what was expected of them in these war zones. Rampant murder of innocent Iraqi civilians fueled by absurdly lax Rules of Engagement (the laws that are supposed to govern modern warfare to make it safer for civilians and non-combatants) is a commonplace, daily event in Iraq. Disgraceful treatment of human remains and devastation of families' homes, personal property, and tools of their livelihood take place with no forethought and no consequences. And this is only a mere mention of the atrocities committed against the Iraqi people.

Our military servants, those for whom supposedly patriotic Americans display yellow ribbons in a useless show of support, are being fucked, to put it bluntly. They are being lied to. They are told that they are being sent to countries who want and need our help to free them from their oppressive governments, but when they arrive on the scene, they find that the local populations have already been terrorized by previous troops, who were only acting as they were instructed, and now the local population live in fear and rage against Americans. Thus, our service members are being attacked by the very people they thought they were there to serve, and the hidden Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs) that greet them with a spray of hellfire at every turn reduce them to reactionary animals, desperate to stay alive as they see their brothers and sisters fall, and then all Iraqi natives become the enemy to dispatch for the sake of their own safety. The situation in these urban, highly-populated, war zones becomes a vicious, cyclical, "us-or-them" face-off, in which it is believed that only those who shoot first will survive.

Our deployed military members are being subjected to unendurable fear and are surrounded by death and threats on every side, then are forced to make split-second decisions about dire, ethical dilemmas at every turn. They find themselves acting callously, cruelly, inhumanely, then later look back on their own actions and recognize that they made critical mistakes. Normal, caring, conscientious people find themselves posing for "trophy" pictures with dead Iraqi citizens and blown up cars, pose in destroyed, ancient holy sites with their hands recently stained by the blood of the people who call that land their home. Then they come to find that their acts are futile, that their sacrifice and service is not guaranteeing safety for anyone, not for the American people, not for the Iraqi people, for no one. Our country's continued participation in this war is consuming human lives and human sanctity with an insatiable voracity, and we are duty bound to listen to those who have made the greatest sacrifice. Our fellow citizens, those on the front lines in this immoral war, are asking us as to listen their stories and to take action to prevent any more unnecessary suffering or loss.

As one National Guard member stated in the Winter Soldier hearings, "I remember a man running toward me carrying a very young seventeen- or eighteen-year old Iraqi guy, very thin, and very pale. The guy was missing parts of his arm; his arm and his forearm were only held on by a small flap of skin. The bones were protruding and he was bleeding profusely. He had shrapnel wounds all over his torso and his entire left butt cheek was missing and it was bleeding profusely, and it was pooling blood. To this day I have that image burned into my mind's eye. Every couple of days I get a flash of red color in my mind's eye and it won't have any shape, no form, just a flash of red and every time I associate it with that instance. Not only are we disrupting the lives of Iraqi civilians, we are disrupting the lives of our veterans." (p. 40-41, from the book title listed above, emphasis mine). If you believe that America is on a righteous mission in Iraq, you are mistaken. The very men and women who are fighting this war are pleading with us to listen to their stories and to stop this war that is killing American and Iraqi sons and daughters, American and Iraqi brothers and sisters, American and Iraqi mothers and fathers. I believe most people I am likely to reach through my writing are already opposed to the war, but I ask of you to share this information with others, and I ask you to ask yourself, are you doing enough to stop the war? Do you really know just how bad it is?

I believe that, though it is awful, terrible information to learn, that we have a duty to know what is going on in this war. It is so easy for us to sit back in our safe homes and be opposed to the war without ever having to really see, hear, or feel the horror being done in our name. While I count my blessings every, single, gracious day of my life that my sons and I have never had to know the wicked ills of war, I think it is an unfair privilege. We have a duty to know the pain we are being spared, and we have a duty to do everything we can to prevent more soldiers and civilians in Iraq or Afghanistan from living this fate. These stories will propel you to action. Please, visit the Iraq Veterans Against the War website and purchase the book and read it and share it with others. Donate to their organization and tune in to know that there are ongoing Winter Soldier events and writing workshops happening around the country. The first Winter Soldier event was not an isolated gathering of a few disgruntled rebels. There are more and more traumatized veterans returning home every day wondering what the hell we as a country are doing about ending this war in which they had to make untold personal sacrifices. We have a duty to know their stories. We have a duty to know the trauma they have endured, and we have a duty to know that many of them, those who survived, will never be the same again.

This brief audio clip shares just a few of the voices of veterans and active duty military speaking out against the war. Take a few minutes and listen, please. Every single one of us who plans to sleep safely in our beds tonight, without the threat of mortar attacks or our homes being raided, without the fear of loved ones dying all around us, and without the pain of recurring nightmares and ugly images forever emblazoned on our minds has a duty to know that we are very fortunate. And we have a duty to cry out for a world in which everyone can live in that same safety.

the personal IS political

2009-10-09T12:09:00.005-04:00

Today feels hard. Though it is beautiful outside, I am plagued with thoughts of the world around me, those in war torn nations and those fighting the wars of ideology and international finance dictated to them by those in power. I am thinking of those without healthcare, as I wheeze my way through another fall day. I am thinking of NASA spending millions (billions?) of dollars doing whatever it is they did to the moon this morning, and how, though I do believe in space exploration and I know that the moon was not "bombed" per se, I also don't believe in, say, mountain top removal. The essence of these great rocks circulating through our solar system, I believe, is greater than lifeless dust.

But I diverge, which I guess is the point. There is so much to think about, so much to be concerned about, and I am overwhelmed by my desire to do "right" in the world, and beyond. So, I need to reconvene here, get perspective, and simplify. I can't do it all, and there will always be problems that need fixing, issues needing to be resolved, and everything in life simply isn't and won't be perfect. But I can do my part and find peace in that. Hence, this poem I write earlier this year.

And yes, I hung the laundry today, three loads of heavy towels, sheets, jeans, and sweatshirts, in this indescribably gorgeous fall weather, and it made me feel good.

The Personal is Political

Picture this:
Homework deadlines,
dishes to do,
dogs need walking,
plus the job,
the kids,
the constant everyday crises &
there I stand, feet planted firmly on the ground,
sun shining warmly on my skin,
as I pull each freshly washed piece from my laundry basket,
shake it crisply with a snap,
then clip it to the line.
Instead of quickly zapping our clothes dry with fossil fuels &
electricity spewed from burning coal
I stand in the sun,
move my body,
breathe clean air &
hang my laundry to dry.

I shop at the French Broad Food Co-op,
unionized labor, member-owned & full of food that’s locally grown &
organic products that do not poison the water & soil shared by all.
I purchase dried beans & grains from bulk bins
that use less packaging & less fuel to transport
than convenient, hydrated foods in steel cans.

I don’t use bags crafted from petroleum or trees to carry my goods
I’ve used the same canvas totes to haul groceries for fifteen years &
If I forget those bags I don’t fret
‘cause I’ve got two strong arms & can transport, if I must,
One apple at a time from my cart to a backpack, a bike rack, or car
to take my goods home.

I wear the hair on my legs & in my pits that god grew there
Not just because I think it is a fanatic beauty standard that women must be clean shorn, rather I choose never to give my money to corporations that
profit from enforcing that beauty standard &
are responsible for our throwing
tens of millions of pink plastic razors into landfills every day.

I remember one day in elementary school as I claimed my food from the lunch line,
An older woman, the proverbial lunch lady stopped me, and she told me that
I was the only child who came through her line every day and said, “Thank you,”
for the food she put on my plate,
This woman, my grandmother’s age
who worked tirelessly for a minimum wage
She told me that I made her feel good,
Appreciated.

To this day I remember her lesson, and now
I raise my sons to be boys who say, “Please” and “Thank you,”
I raise sons who will be the kind of men I want to know in this world,
Sons who are sensitive, aware, able to do dishes & laundry & cook their own food,
Sons who ask questions about why gender differences are so important to some people,
Sons who are outraged by military training camps & inform their peers why they
should help shut down the SOA.

And this year I have been spending a lot of time & energy
studying & training.
I have had to sacrifice time with friends & family,
I have been missing parties & festivals & poetry
staying up late with books in my lap
to learn this new skill,
follow a new career path
that will allow me to serve humanity,
to empower others & ease suffering as my profession,
rather than seeking to earn my living from work that could
pollute or alienate or cause harm.

If I seem self-righteous I apologize in earnest.
I’m sorry.
It is not my goal to make others feel self-conscious for the choices they make,
only to bring our collective awareness to the truth that is
We make choices & our choices have consequences.
We can prioritize differently &
You may prioritize differently from me,
but as long as you make choices consciously
You are contributing to the kind of world in which you want to live.

Every kind word you do or don’t say,
Every cent you spend,
Every thread of clothes you wear,
Every bite of food you eat,
How you earn your dough &
Where you choose to go
Ripple their impact
through our fragile, vulnerable globe,
And I am just trying to spend most of my time kicking only pebbles into that pond &
Speaking out against those who launch boulders.

(The picture below is what my laundry hanging mechanism actually looks like...)

september has arrived with nothing less than the promise of fall

2009-09-01T23:21:00.004-04:00

I woke this morning and that phrase came to me as soon as I pulled back the curtain that covers my bedroom window to reveal the thick, cool fog that was enveloping my mountain. I wore knee socks under pants and a sweater when I left the house, and a sense of dark nostalgia was piqued when I inhaled the crisp air. Fall is here, the season of my birth, the time of the darkening, the quieting, the cooling of our days and nights.

When I got home this evening, I was struck with it again. The temperature in my house had dropped, and I was struck by my sense of foreboding, by my sudden urge to build a fire to ward off the cold. It felt premature, this longing for a fire in the hearth. Wasn't it August just yesterday, the dog days of summer?

I changed out of my work clothes (an odd, new phenomenon to me since I began my internship, I was wearing slacks I had actually ironed in the morning and professional looking clogs too impractical to walk the dogs) and into jeans and a long sleeved pullover to take my four dogs on a late walk. It was almost eight o'clock, not an uncommon hour for me venture out, but this evening I realized that this was the first evening in quite some time that I was gambling I may be returning home with just enough light left to see.

As I walked through the dimming with my pack, once more I felt a tinge of fear. We were heading into twilight and I was a lone human traversing isolated woods, only I felt I wasn't alone. I was having visions of bears out lurking, hungry bears, as they, too, would be feeling the first chills of fall and readying for their hibernation. Would we run into each other on my late jaunt?

I thought deeply as I walked, the typical phenomenon of my over-active mind going into complete overdrive when there is no other verbal traffic to interfere, and pondered why the arrival of fall necessitated I feel this sneaking sense of dread. Was fearing fall an evolutionary imperative that assured my ancestors would hurry and put up a winter's worth of preserved food and seasoned wood so they would neither starve nor freeze before the season's end, and I was tapping into some quiescent remnant of that instinct that I no longer need having access to grocery stores and fossil fuels? I also noted that though the moon is waxing, my cycle is waning to that hormonal drop off that will commence my menstruating soon, but hormonal downshifts sometimes precipitate dark, anxiety-ridden thoughts in this particular bleeding woman. Perhaps my hesitancy to embrace the seasonal shift was simply a case of PMS?

Nah, I know what it is, and I've been bluffing all the time. Somewhere, deep down inside, I have always been afraid that I am cursed for bad things to happen to me in the fall. It seems that in my life, if bad things are going to happen to me, they are going to happen during the fall, and these aren't just going to be trivial bad luck days, they are liable to be hellaciously dark experiences that change the course of my life. Such as...

Eighteen years ago as I entered my freshman year of college, a childhood girlfriend of mine was murdered in a mall bathroom in the new town where she had just moved to start her first year of school. A few weeks later, another girlfriend and I set off to Boston for a series of four consecutive nights of Grateful Dead shows, for which we had ordered tickets long in advance. One of those shows just so happened to be on my 18th birthday, and when the mail order tickets arrived we were thrilled that the tickets for September 25th, my special day, were embossed with gold foil, and we had been singing "I've got the golden ticket!" Willy Wonka style in eager anticipation, yet the pall of our friend's death clung around the edges of our minds as we embarked on our journey. The whole trip ended up being edgy. The shows were good, but it was hard to really connect with the bliss being so far from home with this recent murder on our minds. Then our ride decided to leave town early, and we had to sell tickets to one of the shows to make enough money to get a bus back to Pittsburgh.

Our bus was due to leave town at 3AM, and the taxi we called to take us to the bus station never showed. After almost missing the bus, we spent the next TWENTY HOURS in a public transportation nightmare that was complete with creepy perverts, a missed connection in the chaotic NYC Greyhound station for we two, sleepless, weary and freaked out girls, and the most phenomenally absurd happenings, like Bill and Ted riding the bus to their stop in King of Prussia and drunk Indian men getting trapped in the bus restroom and pounding loudly begging for help to get out. To top it all off, I came down with a wicked bout of the flu, so by the time we rolled into the Pittsburgh station, I wanted to climb into bed at my mom's house and never leave again. There were good times on that trip, and some great stories emerged from it, too (right, Al?), but as time has worn on I have found that those memories are forever tinged with the sorrow around the tragic loss of our friend.

Two years later, fall, I was quite pregnant and had the first uncomfortable stirrings of asthma in my lungs, which has grown successively worse each year. I cried when the doctor diagnosed me and handed me that first cursed inhaler. The other chronic ailments from which I suffer have all cropped up, some with a vengeance, in the chilly days of autumn, as well. That same year, the day before my birthday, my sweet puppy Zelda was killed by a car on the busy street in front of my house.

In later years fall brought me the break up of my relationship with my kids' dad and another nasty break up after him, the devastating miscarriage of my third baby, the powerful and frightening dissolution of my beloved's sanity that resulted in his involuntary commitment the same year we bought our house which left me alone, ever since, responsible for our property, and the stillbirth, on my 33rd birthday, of a dear friend's baby delivered into my terrified hands.

Darkness touches all of our lives, and some of us dance more intimately with the darkness than others. I have long felt that I am one that has been called to work, at times, within the veils of life's dusk and murk. Perhaps that was why I was born so close to the autumnal equinox that heralds the time when our Northern Hemisphere culture shifts into the chill and obscurity of cycle's end. Or, perhaps my own birth, when I came to my mother, herself a very young woman without the stability of a loving, safe partner and supportive family, was marked by darkness and stress, and thus it comes around to me when my body begins to sense the shift into harvest's end.

So what can I do? I'm not really afraid; I am merely lost in the musings of what my repeated and unbidden sense of foreboding today might mean. I am actually a remarkably ecstatic human being, no longer prone to the heavy weight I often felt as a young woman being initiated into a life of navigating the turbid, composting cycles.

To not let the dark envelope me into gloom, I knew I needed a remedy. I took tonight off from all responsibilities, and I tended to myself. I played Songs: Ohia albums and got lost in Molina's mournful croon. I ate warm, nourishing foods: lamb, broccoli, quinoa, and gluten-free raisin toast. I treated myself with a batch of my own homemade goat milk, maple, pear custard, because my friend Elon, the brilliant acupunturist, tells me that warm pears are supportive fruit for lungs, and fall is the lung season in Chinese medicine. I infused and drank hot, deep, supportive herbs: dandelion and ginseng and wild yam roots, nettle leaves, and horsetail needles. And I spent time at my long neglected craft, writing this blog for you.

freak

2009-06-22T01:42:00.005-04:00

I am participating in an exciting project, the first ever Freaks of Asheville calendar, which will be out for 2010. I have already had my freaky photo shoot, and now I have to submit a freak statement. I just wrote this declaration of myself, and I feel particularly glad that I wrote it on the solstice, a holy day during the wheel of the year to which I am seeking to connect more, and particularly poignant since the last time I blogged was at the equinox. I am sure this statement will be cut down dramatically in order to appear in the calendar, so I am sharing with the world the brand spanking new, editor's cut of my personal, freak story. Enjoy.

Justina. Statement of freakhood. Summer solstice, 2009.

I suspect I am not alone amongst the “freaks” in remembering that even as a young child I always felt different, felt like I didn’t fit in, felt always alone in a crowd. In high school I did it all: made great grades, smoked cigarettes, excelled in sports, did drugs, performed in theatre, had sex, sang in chorus, got in a car chase with the cops, got a scholarship, and did this all with a wildly shorn mop of dyed black hair, lots of piercings in my ears, and carrying on a punk rock meets flower child aesthetic to which neither the punks nor the hippies could relate, let alone the nerds, jocks, or stoner kids. I felt like a freak long before I learned to revel in it.

During those alienated high school years I discovered that my love of nature, my passion for justice, and my deeply primal urges to be a wild, earthy girl actually connected me to the Wiccan tradition, and I decided the minute I learned what it meant that I was a witch. To this day, I remain a witch. My pagan spirituality is inextricably intertwined with everything I do, and everything I do sets me apart from the mainstream, supposedly normal values of our culture. As a witch living amongst the forebears that burned my ancestors, I have been the freak.

I believe it is my responsibility to serve the earth and her creatures - human, animal, and plant beings alike – thus, I have lived that by gently birthing and mothering my own children, serving other families in the ancient tradition of midwifery, raising and rescuing animals, growing, wildcrafting and using herbs as food and medicine, protecting the land, protesting for peace, and attempting to live compassionately through my every choice from how I speak to my neighbors to where I buy my goods in hopes of diminishing my support for sweatshop labor, disposable products, and the many profanities of capitalism. As an activist whose purpose is to serve the planet living in a fast-food, throwaway society, I have been the freak.

A powerful tenet of my belief system is that all acts of love and pleasure serve a higher purpose. My joy, my delight in my actions, my delicious orgasms make the world a better place, not just for myself, but for all. My soul is awakened and inspired by art in every form, particularly by music and poetry. I perform raw, radical poetry as a way of sharing my art with the world and expressing my individual perspective. Like a shaman starved of otherworldly experiences, I devour deep, guitar-heavy, rock-n-roll and electronic psychedelic trance music that transports me. I dance ecstatically, stomping my prayers for peace and transformation into the Earth’s sacred ground. I make love to my partners and to myself as though sex were an ancient form of worship for all creation…. because it is. I permanently alter my body with decorative piercings and colorful, tattooed artwork, each blood-let, needle-carved alteration a chapter in the story of my journey, so that even my appearance becomes part of the giant, collaborative art project that is human existence. Amongst other artist/performer/participants I help create ritual festivals to showcase our creations in temporary societies in which the art is the focus, ceremony is part of every waking moment, and at the end of the day we burn effigies to release all that is unwanted through a spiraling inferno that itself becomes the performance, the art that is our intention. As a unique creatress in a society that values homogeneity and as a woman who always dances like no one is watching, but all the while hopes that everyone is watching, I have been the freak.

My path as a witch and a scholar has taught me that the sacred feminine is every bit as valuable as the sacred masculine, which our culture exclusively exalts. I have studied women’s herstory, have learned of the power imbalance between women and men, and I know that gender is a societally created construct that serves to control men and women alike by binding us to strict but narrow definitions of who we can be. Yet, I am a large woman, a loud woman, an outspoken, forthright, powerful, independent woman who loves the touch of another woman’s skin upon my own, and I am a soft woman, a stay-at-home mama who loves being barefoot and pregnant and tending to children, a cook, a baker, a homemaker, a hearth tending, nurturing woman who loves the feel of a man’s strong hand on my body. As a feminist living in a patriarchal society, I have been the freak.

As I grow more into the tradition of service to humanity I have sought to expand my skills as a healer. I scale ivory towers to pillage knowledge I can return to my people and use for our mutual evolution. I have learned to mediate the dissent between others, facilitating the high art of communication to prevent the schism that its absence creates. Currently I am studying in a Masters program to become a mental health counselor, and simultaneously I am learning to counsel others in a way that intrinsically honors each sacred path, and I am building a bridge of understanding between the hallowed halls of academia and the oft-maligned underground of the counterculture. As an outlandish but overachieving student performing excellently in the whitewashed world of graduate school, as a self-appointed ambassador declaring the weirdo perspective is valuable, too, I have been a freak.

Witch. Midwife. Homebirthing, breastfeeding, homeschooling mother. Activist. Pacifist. Animal lover. Environmentalist. Poet. Performer. Rock-n-roller. Ecstatic dancer. Sacred whore. Psychedelic shaman. Burner. Tattoed. Pierced. Queer. Feminist. Healer. Scholar. Mediator. Counselor. Ambassador.

This litany of mismatched descriptions names me as I am. I am a freak, the unifying quality of being exactly who I want to be in a world that wants to standardize, minimize, and tame me. I push the margins even as I am marginalized. I am a freak.

dear blog.... some poems for spring

2009-03-21T20:11:00.006-04:00

Dear blog,
I miss you. Grad school is totally kicking my ass. I swear I will be back someday soon. In honor of the vernal equinox, I am leaving you with a couple of poems from the days of yore, when I was still able to write poetry. These were written during the childbearing days, so now date back to the mid-nineties. Wow. I have been a grown up for a long time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This first piece was written during a wonderful writing workshop, the only I have ever attended. It is a letter to my then very young children, written at a time when I believed that my youthful wild days were over. I have been very pleased to learn they are not.

I am not fat.
I know I may look that way, but I am not.
I am not old.
I may seem that way, but trust me, I am as young as you.
I am not evil.
I may scream and bark and harp and swear, but I am good.
I have feelings and needs like yours, you know.
I once walked topless on a beach in Washington State, and
another time was topless in the Reflecting Pool in Washington, DC.
I won't do that again, probably,
but it's OK with me if you do.
I am not a housewife.
I am not anybody's wife, except maybe spring's.
When my years reach the century mark,
which I duly hope they do,
Remember all of this:
I dug deep holes for garden beds (I've done that topless, too).
I climbed to the tops of trees.
I carried many, many pounds of feed bags to cows and
many pounds of babies to birth.
I sang and danced and acted on stage and
had sex outside, even in the rain,
walked up steep mountain paths on dark moonless nights
to get to kegs of beer or
swimming holes
or lovers awaiting my touch, and
I've climbed steep, dark paths of my heart
to get to feelings indescribable.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This piece, I think, pretty much speaks for itself coming from a woman who conceived three times in five years during her early twenties.

I am fertile as the crescent moon.
My ova hang in clusters like grapes so ripe
they burst through their taut skins.
I conceive like nobody's business,
am forced to will away conception days and days each month.
Hormone levels soar exacerbating yeast,
Yet even in my itchy, juicy, sporishness
I feel like bread dough ever ready to rise.

(for Melanie)

shameless

2008-12-21T03:39:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I feel invincible,
and for all that human frailty may try to keep me back
I am gonna just spit in its face,
'cause the fount of feeling that wells up in my breast,
the hurricane, thunderstorm, cavalcade, concerto
of overwhelming emotion that bursts forth from my soul,
Constantly,
is powerful as nine hundred million nuclear reactors on the face of the sun
and I simply must use this power for good.

I am omnipotent,
Able to accomplish astonishing feats like
Coaxing the unwilling to learn to love,
Overcoming internalized oppression so I feel really good about myself as a person,
Communicating remarkably well, all of the time,
and consistently being a considerate human being
while striving, aggressively, toward my dreams.

I am unabashed and unwilling to take no for an answer.
I can and will do it all,
Experience every raw moment this raucous life presents –
I will guzzle everyday miracles like a baleen whale sucking saltwater in the sea,
I will let life shove my face full of sweetness like she is my merciless newlywed,
I will nurture and tend like the thousand-breasted Artemis, and
I will ride life bareback like she was my bucking rodeo pony.
I will use the thorns of the Joshua tree soaked in cuttlefish ink to etch life’s pedigree permanently under my skin,
I will study like a scholar in an ivory tower and obtain the highest degrees –
Just you try to stop me!
And I will wail the cries of every widow war ever made, brokenhearted under the stars then
Like a Jedi on Dagobah I’ll levitate my spaceship above the murky abyss that tries to keep me from soaring light speed through the universe and
Turn even the most heinous of events into lessons I will be grateful to have learned.

I refuse to accept any assessment that I am
Too big, too loud, too wild, too proud and
when those words come toward me like bullets
I will pluck them delicately from the air
Pulverize them,
then blow the dust back in the faces of non-believers till they see…
There is no one as powerful as me,
No one as powerful as any one of us who insist
We live life by our hearts
We submerge ourselves fully in the complexities of existence and
Never ever apologize for what we are or
Who we want to be -
We who are shameless in our insistence that
We are fucking remarkable beyond belief.

(This piece inspired in part by a shameless scorpio beloved, a silver super sonic rock star, and a Death Cab for Cutie song I got turned onto by said silver rock star. The artwork above, also titled "Shameless," is by an amazing artist I just discovered named Stephanie Metz. She is a felted wool sculpture - wow. Please click to see more of her work once you have read my post, of course. Thanks Stephanie.)

rhetorical flourish

2008-12-16T21:24:00.003-05:00

I am friends with a young fellow who I'll call M. M is four years old, tall for his age, blonde in a Dennis the Menace kind of way, and uncannily clever. He has a way with words far beyond his years and has a gentle, sensitive, inquisitive nature that often disarms people. He is so amicable people often do not know what to make of him. He is one of my favorite people.

One of the most delightful things about this young character is his penchant for describing and naming things in fabulous detail and with words you'd never expect out of the mouth of a four-year-old. A few weeks after Halloween he pointed out his family's forgotten jack-o-lanterns wasting away in the yard, and told me that those pumpkins were "decaying." Recently his mom told me a story about him explaining to her that he wanted to share his "loves" with her and then described his loves according to the colors and degrees of sparkliness as he saw them.

Today, while playing a game in which he attempts to surprise his mom and she is supposed to act scared, she overdid it and yelled out. M told his mom that her reaction was too loud and that he didn't like it. She asked him how she was supposed to act scared. "Maybe you could just cower," he told her. Yeah mom. Duh. Just cower next time.

But a different incident recently topped them all.

I was visiting with M a couple weeks back, and he wanted to show me one of his robots. He is quite into Transformers (one can hardly blame him; those guys are badass), and he introduced me to a battle worn robot he called Rhetorical Flourish.

"What?" I said, and looked to his mom for confirmation.

"Rhetorical Flourish," M said, with literal flourish. "This is Rhetorical Flourish and he likes to......" and whatever it is that M went on to tell me about Rhetorical Flourish I totally don't recall because I was in shock that I had heard what he had just said.

"What the hell?!" I asked his mom.

You see, M's parents are pretty serious Obama supporters. During the election they had the TV turned to MSNBC most nights taking in all the punditry they could in anticipation and hope for Obama's election. M was there, listening passively, and began endearingly referring to Obama as the president before the election ever happened. At some point M must have picked up that phrase and decided it was an apt name for his Transformer. He shocked his mother, though, the first day he asked her if she had seen Rhetorical Flourish. She said she reacted in much the way I did, asking "What?" with her jaw agape.

So yeah. Rhetorical Flourish. There's not much more I can say to compete with that.

my face in asheville

2008-10-02T23:56:00.005-04:00

I am participating in a fantastic project that I am excited to share with you. The lovely and talented Jen Bowen is documenting the people who love Asheville and call it their home. The project is called Faces of Asheville, and I encourage you to check out her beautiful and well done website about this inspiring undertaking as soon as you are done reading my blog post!

Faces of Asheville is a two part project. The first part is comprised of portraits taken of any and all Asheville volunteers who were willing to come and be photographed, holding a single item somehow representative of themselves. My boys and I went and were photographed individually and together. L held his guitar, of course; G held a stick and wore a mask for his individual photo, and I held a puppy... ;) We also did a family portrait. We haven't seen our pictures yet, but there are great examples of other people's portraits in the website.

The second aspect is for each participant to share their Asheville story. Jen asked us to write about what brought us here, what keeps us here, and what do we hope for our future in our city? Plus she asked us to include our thoughts on the a few more questions regarding Asheville:
1) In the immediate present, what do you like / dislike?
2) In the immediate future, what would you change and what is sacred that should not be changed?
3) In the more distant future, what is your vision or hope for Asheville and the surrounding region?

This was my answer:

I originally came to Asheville in 1992 to attend Warren-Wilson College. As soon as I visited the area I knew I wanted to be here. I loved Warren-Wilson, but at that point in my life I was not sure I wanted to be in school. What I really wanted was to be a mom. I had just turned 19 years old. I had some fun at WWC, and in the meantime I discovered a local herbalist named Whitewolf with whom I started my first holistic herbal studies. I decided I wanted to pursue this training and carry it over into studying midwifery. Asheville seemed like a great place to do that.

Then, sort of accidentally on purpose, I got pregnant. Yay! It was during the amazing blizzard of '93 in which my partner and I got stuck out in Swannanoa. He worked in the kitchen at the restaurant in the Holiday Inn on Highway 70, and the management put us up in a room at the hotel so he would be available to cook every shift for all the hotel patrons trapped in Swannanoa, too. We were there for three days, and during his few hours off of kitchen duty, we made a baby.

Even though I loved the area, I thought I wanted to be closer to my family in Pittsburgh to have the baby, so we moved back up north. Our families helped us a lot, which we needed, but I never quit feeling like leaving Asheville was a mistake. I loved it here so much. But, I was busy having a baby and my partner went back to school and that was what we did for a couple of years. In the meantime, we got pregnant again, and in the spring of 1995 I had my second son just in time for their daddy to graduate college.

We lived, all four of us, at my mother's house in Pittsburgh for one more year, and during the summer of 1996 we returned to attend a friend's wedding at Warren-Wilson. That was it. We knew we had to come back. Though I loved being a mommy and lived in a busy suburban area close to the city, I have never felt so isolated in my life as I did at that time in Pittsburgh. Our move back to Asheville was like a whirlwind. We went to the wedding and were in town one weekend. We picked up a Sunday edition of the Asheville Citizen-Times, and my partner found a job listing that interested him. We returned to Pittsburgh, and he spent the next couple weeks interviewing over the phone, faxing resumes to the company, and lo and behold, they hired him, sight unseen. One month to the day after we had been in town for the wedding, my partner returned to Asheville to start his new job and to look for a place for our family to live. One month after that, on August 1st 1996, our whole family relocated to Asheville, the place where our family, really, had begun.

On the way to NC our very old Volkswagen bus bit the dust, so we were destined to move with no vehicle. He found a place in Montford for us to live, a 2nd story apartment in an old brick apartment quad that seemed perfect since it was walking distance to his new job and to town, and there was a family in the apartment below, a young couple like us with two babies almost the exact same age as our kids. To this day I remain close friends with them, and our kids are the oldest and closest of friends.

So that's what brought me here. What keeps me here is the amazing community. As soon as we moved back, I felt like my whole world opened up. In Pittsburgh I had been an isolated, young, alternative mommy with no peers and no friends. In Asheville there was a thriving, supportive, progressive community of young parents with whom I immediately connected. I made great friends, as did my kids, and I loved living with my babies in such a healthy positive place with so many creative, inspired, loving people. I still do. To this day we have many friends that we have been close to for most of the years since we returned. I can't imagine living without that kind of thriving, conscious, support network.

In the years I have been here things have changed a lot, some for the worse, some for the better. I am thrilled by how vibrant the Asheville arts community has become. Everyday, everywhere you go you can find amazing visual artists, poets, musicians, dancers, crafters, circus performers and individuals doing things you never dreamed of to make this place exciting and entertaining. Unfortunately, with the influx of amazing gifted people, there has also been an element of those who seek to gentrify the town, make it more homogeneous, more upscale, and as a result the racial diversity in town has diminished, and buildings and housing developments have been going up, up, up while dragging the landscape down, down, down. The devastation of our amazing natural resources is by far the worst thing I think that is happening here. The air quality has plummeted since I first came here 16 years ago, and I think the steep slope development, cookie cutter housing complexes and forest clearcutting is criminal. If I had one wish for Asheville and the country as a whole it would be for everyone to STOP, take a deep breath, and to start doing some well-considered urban, suburban and rural planning that would preserve the land and its resources- forests, mountains, waterways, farms, etc. and learn to build sustainably with an eye for integrating with the natural landscape in the places where development and growth must take place.

That is my vision for Asheville and the surrounding area. I want us to create a sustainable haven for individuals and families that wish to live consciously - conscious of community issues such as racism and poverty and oppression and how to work against them, conscious of health and the best ways to live well, conscious of the value of art, music, dance, poetry and the beauty of self-expression, conscious of how to protect the land and the plants and animals for whom this region is also home, conscious of the human need to develop spirituality and seek divinity in a myriad of ways. I want us to learn to truly value diversity and not just give it lip service. I hope we will start taking steps toward this future immediately, so we can reap the benefits of it continually throughout the future of Asheville. Blessed be.

thank you, barack

2008-08-29T02:16:00.004-04:00

Earlier tonight I watched Barack Obama speak as he accepted the Democratic party nomination. I am no political pundit, nor am I particularly versed on politics in general. My agenda is generally so far from anything any mainstream American political candidate can muster that, unfortunately, I often pay them no heed. And though I am not naively touting the party line now, well aware of the shortcomings of the Democratic Party and even of Obama's campaign, I genuinely support Barack Obama. Furthermore, even if I didn't support him, I would still honor and respect him if only for his brilliant speech writing capabilities and his breathtaking skills as an orator. His speech tonight was certainly another spellbinding moment in his career.

I was gathered with some friends and my kids to watch the speech, and as we waited for Barack to hit the stage my younger son, G, asked if he could go watch a movie in another room. I told him no because I thought he should be with us for an important historical moment, the moment that a major political party in the United States finally, officially nominated somebody other than a white guy as the presidential candidate. Even if Barack does not assume the presidency, though I dearly pray he does, I felt this moment was of historical significance and that it was a worthy history lesson, a valuable moment to spend time with family, and if nothing else, an opportunity for the boys to get a good lesson in public speaking.

My friends and L and I watched the speech in rapt attention, and though I wasn't keeping very close tabs on him, G seemed kind of bored, and occasionally I had to stop him from fidgeting with a ball as the noise from him playing was making it hard for us to hear. So, imagine my surprise when we arrived home and G came up to me and said, "Mom, that speech was so amazing. I was interested in it the whole time even though I didn't think I would be. I even got tingles sometimes listening to it. I've never ever heard anything like that."

I asked him if he was glad I had made him watch it. He said, "Yeah," then hugged me and walked away.

Wow. For all that the American political process feels antiquated to me like a coal-fueled steam engine heading over a rickety bridge in the dark of night with no moon to guide, my heart sang for this moment. My children were inspired by the political process; they were inspired by a man participating in this supposed democracy who is doing his job well enough that an aloof teenage boy who would normally rather be playing video games listened with interest and "tingles" to a political speech referencing foreign policy, veterans' affairs, energy resources, tax cuts, the right to choose and same sex marriage. The acceptance speech from the US Democratic party candidate moved my thirteen year old boy to hug me in thanks for making sure he did not miss it, and this is a child who generally does not give physical affection without a struggle. Wow.

Thank you, Barack. Though I know this country and the world need a lot more than one man to bail us out of this handbasket to hell, I am sure grateful that you're hat is in the ring to try to help. Thank you for demonstrating to my sons that compassion, hard work, dedication and good communication are valuable to our society, and thank you for, perhaps, inspiring them to take up their civic responsibility someday soon. I am grateful for that.

I hope you and your beautiful family fare this arduous election process safely and come out thriving on the other side. And I hope I can soon call you the next president of the United States.

first night

2008-08-25T13:19:00.006-04:00

(the moon as seen before the eclipse, through the Bone Tree)

Today Burning Man 2008 begins in the Black Rock Desert, and I will not be there. I feel good about that, although of course I would love to be there, because going to Burning Man in the first place was an amazing miracle that I thought I might never accomplish, and now I have been twice! So, to my dear friends on the playa tonight, I dedicate this poem that I wrote about my first night last year during the outstanding lunar eclipse. I hope you all the change the world, one dusty step at a time.

(during the eclipse)

we were bicycle pilgrims in the flat desert night
watched the looming moon disappear into eclipse
the absence of the silver brilliant sheen rendered the scene undercover
like an underground movement of salvation seeking souls.
hallucinated colors orbited the newborn stars of the falsely dark sky
the rust colored orb slowly arced through shifting star trails
and chaos reigned as the effigy burned by arson nearby.
but all around a neon city grew from the bottom up
the bare bones of geodesic domes filled with
towers of speaker stacks eager to create oases of sound.
the moon in totality loped at a timeless pace
we wondered like the ancients if the world was ending
or just beginning
and if we would ever see her silver face again.
our answer was to commence the ritual
fired up the gas generators to start the electric drums
that echoed over the long silent floor of the empty lake bed
now brittle, dry and alkaline.
the boom of the beat drove bodies to move
to shake and stomp and beg for the light
all the while worshiping the dark.
I danced the prayers of a thousand deities into white dinosaur bone dust
felt the mercury moonglow like liquid as it seeped
cold and crystal bright from the edges of the swollen shadowed satellite
witnessed the sky’s evolution from india ink to azure
my own shadow once again cast long on the ground by
the lunar spotlight shining just above the mountain horizon
where she headed for her morning’s rest.
but before the moon laid herself down
the beat belied a hint of brassy
the distant line of the opposite horizon
began to glimmer with a warm edge of daylight.
we were engulfed between cool blue waning
and golden dawn fire waxing
breathing in the powdered shells of trilobites
rising in fossil clouds from beneath our pounding feet
rising as the smoke from the still smoldering remains of the man
who we would resurrect only to burn again
and the music carried us
as our shadows centered into ourselves
balanced
rapturously
between the moon and the sun
in the exact moment
that our day was born of night.

(the man still smoldering as the eclipse wanes)

elemental

2008-08-16T02:14:00.003-04:00

I have been noticing the parade of time lately
marching jubilantly across my friends’ faces,
fertilizing each life stage my sons race through and
dragging down the soft contours of my frame

a silent river, invisible and swift, carrying away
one day after the next
edging flowers out of the earth
trampling them then back to loam,
building our young from seed cells to
marbled flesh grown
on to lanky strong bodies
that eventually curl to shrunken shells
of themselves

our bodies are mere mile markers in this race of indefinite end
that turns brown to green to yellow orange red brown again
feel it gaining speed each turn of the season
frost floods of spring barreling down mountain streams and
fall’s hurricane winds whipping wildly through trees
a frenzy of change, of cycles, reprise
with power and momentum that never cease

yet

in the eye of this storm I find I’m defenseless
flailing and grasping to reign in my senses
to come back to the moment and be here right now
to witness, experience and listen to how
amidst this rampage of growth and decay
imperceptibly the most devout of songs plays
the undercurrent, the harmony heard only
when we deign our minds still
the thrum rises up like a sap
with which our veins slowly fill
with its essence of each moment existing tranquil
deliberate and wholly in the now
each separate zen instant
ending adamantly as it begins
the force of the stillness sets the mind to spin

it’s inscrutable this paradox of time raging on
composed of a train of never-ending seconds
individually lethargic, gradual, brief
but time that deft bandit gathers them, a nimble thief
leaving only traces and memories on our minds and our flesh
like the skin now threadbare that covers my breasts
they’re silt-dust soft as a favorite shirt worn see-through
the caress of aging that I never quite knew
to expect or to love as these lessons I learn
for youth and days past it’s so easy to yearn
but the element of time our compassionate master
nudges us onward sometimes slow, sometimes faster
to the inevitable and gorgeous culmination of our days
and we have the great joy of indulging on the way
in each second, instant, moment, hour, year and phase
and I am gathering my rosebuds while I may
and I speak to suggest that you do the same
but unlike the poet of that phrase’s fame
I implore you to endeavor that your gathering persist
long beyond the days of your prime

time does what it does and there is no denying
but how we define its impact is our way of trying
to live absolutely our fullest and best
to soak it all up before our shells rest
to make peace with ourselves and our own perfection
as creatures laconic without resurrection

I know, I say it all the time- we die!
but dear ones my point is to see through the lies
of the inequity of age and the falsehoods of danger
so we will live and live and live
and never be as strangers
to each other, to experience and
to our own corporeal selves
we are so blessed to inhabit this realm

time giveth and time taketh away
but even in the taking there are gifts that remain
so hold them, examine them, let them wide in
feel it move across your skin
I am absorbing this lifetime and letting it
win

irony

2008-08-15T12:14:00.004-04:00

I just returned from a trip to New York City to visit my sister. I consider myself a country girl and choose to live way the hell out in the mountains, and I like it that way. I do, however, very much enjoy the city. I love to see all the people and daydream what their lives are like, and of course in New York the diversity is fantastic. There are so many languages, so many styles of dress, so many colors of skin, and so, so many fabulous foods to eat from all over the globe. I also love concerts and museums and busy excitement, so the city is a great place for me to visit, then I am perfectly content to get back to my crickets and sunrises at home.

On this particular trip I enjoyed a couple moments of great irony. On our first day in town, my sister asked the boys and me if we would mind to help her catch up on her gardening. She has a plot in a wonderful, reclaimed lot full of flowers, herbs, veggies and artwork that is clearly a haven for the community. We dug in the dirt, pulled weeds and helped her harvest tons of green beans, tomatoes, basil, carrots and hot peppers. I love to garden and was so glad to have the chance to help my sister, but I couldn't get over how ridiculous it was that I had to go on vacation to one of the biggest cities in the world in order to be able to garden. At home I have a very small flower and herb garden I keep up, but I am entirely too busy, thus far, to invest in a veggie garden. I hate that I don't have one, and one of these days I will, but right now school, work and single parent homeschooling has ruled it out. Funny, huh?

On our last day in town we visited a P.S.1., a satellite MOMA gallery. It was awesome! There were several exhibits I really liked including one called "Arctic Hysteria" which featured, amongst other things, a stuffed, white, arctic hare perched mystically at the edge of a round, lighted pool of water as if the fellow were in the middle of scrying some future torment for its human adversaries. His colleague, above, holds a small plate of milk and was animated by a motor so he trembled, thus the piece's name, "Trembling and Honoring." How good is that?

There was also a collection of socio-political activist artwork from and inspired by the 60's and 70's called "That Was Then... This Is Now." Naturally, I thought this was great. I love revolutionary artwork and do believe that art is a natural forum for creating social change, so I am always glad to see it in action. I find it inspirational.

Honestly, I am a bit of a museum slut. It does not take much to turn me on when it comes to creative expression because, for the most part, I am just so freaking pleased when people take the time to do anything out of the ordinary to share their own unique perspective with the world that even if the work does not appeal to me personally, I am glad to have seen it.

So the second moment of irony came at the P.S.1. The gallery has an outdoor installation of large, round barrels full of plants and vegetables, again, another constructive way of employing urban space to hold aesthetic and oxygen-providing greenery. But this installation did not stop at plants. Oh no, once again I found that I had traveled 750 miles to the city to indulge in a simple country pleasure. This time it was hanging out with their chickens. You see, I don't have chickens of my own, even though I would really like to, because my husky dog loves to eat them. So at a hip, urban art gallery in Queens, I got to chill with some quaint country fowl. They were cute. It made me happy.

After all, I love irony.

blogs are amazing: a post for cassi

2008-08-10T10:26:00.005-04:00

I have blogger's guilt, which is a silly self-imposed phenomenon, but nevertheless I am feeling it because I have sorely neglected this blog for the last year. Though the truth is, my blog is still serving me. As you may know, I started graduate school this summer. It has been an amazing whirlwind of an experience in which first I had this wild hair idea to go back to school against all adds, and next thing I knew I was doing it.

Now, I love it! So far, at least. I completed my summer semester with a 4.0, thoroughly enjoyed all my classes, learned a great deal and realized I am absolutely on the right path for myself at this time. One of the things I have realized through this process, first in applying to the program then in doing my coursework this past semester, is that my writing joints are well lubricated even though it has been seven years since I was last in school. Blogging did this for me! If you read my first post you will see that one of my intentions in starting this blog was to give myself a constructive outlet with some degree of accountability so that I would write and keep writing. At that juncture, I was specifically missing the structure of a formal educational environment that would force me to think critically and write proactively, so I made that for myself with this blog. Now that I am back in school, I don't need it as much, so I am writing here less. C'est la vie. But I love this blog and suspect I will always tune in from time to time to put in my two cents. I can't help myself. My brain churns out penny thoughts at an alarming rate. I've got to stash all that intellectual loose change somewhere.

The other thing that is amazing about blogs is how it connects people. Twice in the last year I have had lovely experiences in which someone who read my blog had been connected to me in the past or was going to be connected to me in the future. When I met the beautiful and talented Yoni Love online through myspace, she said to me, "I have been wondering when we would meet." She had been introduced to my blog through a midwife teacher we share, and she was already intimately acquainted with my writing when I wrote to her to ooh and ahh over her gorgeous yoni paintings (please check out her artwork, like the piece above, and contact her if interested in prints of her work). In fact, she had shared one of my poems with a birthing family to ease them in a difficult time. Wow.

Recently, I was contacted by a former acquaintance who had the mixed fortune I did to grow up in the same backwards, blue-collar suburb of Pittsburgh from which I so gratefully escaped. That place always felt to me like a prison, a stifling, choking vortex of unhealthy attitudes and suffering people that I prayed through my youth to leave. And my suspicions were correct; my life blossomed in a liberating and healing way when I relocated. Every now and again I hear from folks still living in that same community, and all too often they are still stifled and stuck there carrying on the same attitudes and oppression that our families and neighbors bore before us. Once in a while, though, I meet up with a light that shone through, someone else who realized that, though they may stay in that place, they need not live that oppression and that they can seek emotional, spiritual and physical health through a different paradigm. Though I haven't spoken with her, Cassi, for whom I wrote this post, connected with me to say that she, too, has a passion for midwifery, and knowing midwifery as I do, I realize that if she holds dear the values of midwifery, she has come a long way since those dark Shaler days. I am glad you found me, Cassi. I am glad we can look behind us together and realize we are not stuck there. I would be glad to stay connected into the future.

So today, in honor of the gifts this blog has given me, I have decided to breathe a little new life into it. I've got a handful of small posts I have been meaning to add, and I will try to get them up in the next few days. School starts in one week, so before I get carried away by the rapid river of academic assignments, I'd like to dip my feet into this babbling brook of my creative writing a few more times. Thanks, "just a position." And thanks to all of you other writers out there connecting and sharing in our global community. Yay us!

paean to a modern mystic

2008-03-16T18:24:00.006-04:00

Body painted in reds and blues
you open your face to bellow melodies
that scream of soul’s initiation
of looming revelation
of stoned intoxication
the divine---
your holy verse delivered
in front of an electrified guitar choir
rumbling powerfully
fueled by sacred meter drumfire

ministering to many, your lyrics a koan
raising the level of human vibration
sending followers to seek an unknown
sung by you
your rage, your love
your holistic experience of godhead
dropping the hints we need
to reap the Eleusinian mysteries of our age

You, irreverent harbinger of the rains to come,
I am listening---
I have experienced communion through the sound of your voice,
a raw tremor and roar speaking directly to god,
resounding your poetry of sex and death
mother/ son
father/ child
the illusion of our pain
I have felt your parabols deliver me
to my mortal eternity
to the inborn wisdom seen
through my own third eye

in supplication
in prayer that I might behold you, hold you and
hear, at least once, the inflection of your voice
hummed directly in my ear
I offer my mind to yours to share in
metaphysical, psychedelic discourse,
I offer my flesh to yours to share in
sessions of salvation through intercourse
Maynard James, I would give you the holiest of gifts
I offer you my sacramental self

i have been accepted

2008-02-28T21:47:00.003-05:00

Heh. I like the sound of that. It can mean so many lovely things.

In this case, though, it means that I received my acceptance letter from the grad school program to which I applied. Which is great and a great honor. Only now I am scared to bejeesus of what my life will be like as a single mom, homeschooling two kids, holding down a part-time job and commuting to a grad school program that will be either a 30 minute or an hour and a half commute depending on which site my classes are that day. I have hardly written anything in months because I have been working on my application and quietly hiding away with all the responsibilities that I have, and love, but that already take up all of my time.

Can I make magic? Can I create more hours in the day so I can still make healthy dinners from scratch and take long walks with my dogs and do yoga and teach my kids a little about the world and go to soccer games and guitar lessons AND attend classes every evening and do lots of valuable reading and write thoughtful papers and complete an internship? Goddess bless, I hope so, 'cause I think I am gonna give it a shot!

So the program to which I have been invited is for a Masters in Community Counseling at Western Carolina University. It is, apparently, a very good program, well accredited and appropriately focused on personal wellness.

I thought I'd share the essay I wrote for my application since it is the only thing worth noting I have written in quite some time. This is the extended version; I had to cut it back considerably in order to stay within the required length, but wordy creature that I am, I prefer this version:

For a number of years it has been my goal to seek the education I need to make counseling my career path; as such I am applying for admission to the M.S. in Community Counseling program. I have an earnest desire to promote healing and wellness in the world by providing assistance to others to help them attain their own satisfaction, comfort and joy. I have always been personally dedicated to human service and healing. Earlier in my life I studied and practiced as a midwife because I felt that by helping families bring their children into the world in safety and in peace that I might make an impact toward creating a safer and more peaceful world. It is my belief that with compassionate, natural care during pregnancy and birth it will increase the likelihood that healthful nurturing will take place within the family itself, and my hope that it would create a healthy family dynamic preventing potential problems for those family members later.

For a variety of reasons, though, I have decided that I am unable to practice midwifery as my career, yet my interest in serving my community as a resource and support person has never waned and, fortunately, neither have my opportunities to provide that service. Friends and acquaintances as well as the families with whom I have shared birth experiences have continued to call upon me to midwife them, so to speak, through some of their more troubling personal concerns, and I have been grateful to make myself available to them to serve in that capacity. I have stood with my loved ones as they have faced relationship concerns, parenting issues, community disagreements, addiction, depression and the loss of loved ones. While I never think that I have the answers to their problems, I find that I have a strong ability to be present and listen and offer support in a variety of ways to people in these situations. I believe it is the logical progression of my being organically called to serve in a counseling capacity to my community to now move forward and strive for the education that will allow me to best serve that community and also allow my family and myself to benefit from this service by making it my career.

In my role as a midwife I have had many opportunities to work with people as they have tried to overcome deep fears and concerns. Midwifery is an intimate service in which normal barriers fall away and you find yourself staring directly in the face of another person, to whom you previously may not have been close at all, as they stare directly in the face of their greatest challenges. In this space I have found myself needing to be centered and compassionate, strong but yielding, giving of myself though never taking over the process that rightly belongs with the family. I have assisted women as they dealt with the unexpected disappointment of a difficult birth, a c-section when a natural birth was truly desired. I have been supportive to couples as they have decided how to tell their families they are unexpectedly becoming parents and as they dealt with the emotional repercussions of their families’ reactions. I have mediated between an expectant father and mother as they tried with difficulty to decide whether or not to circumcise their baby, should he be a boy, because the father felt his heritage dictated that ritual but the mother believed strongly that it was an unnecessary and undesirable medical procedure to which to subject the child. I have provided reassurance as a family learned their newborn had a grave congenital heart defect and stayed close as they processed the intensity of his subsequent surgeries and hospitalizations. And I have cried with a family as they grieved over their stillborn daughter and spent many long hours in therapeutic discussion with the bereaved mother as she tried to make sense of her loss.

My experiences in the realm of counseling are not limited to those I have had through midwifery. I am a mother of two teenaged sons, and my interpersonal dealings with them as they navigate their relationships with each other, with their father, who has lived long-distance from us since their early childhood, and with me has been a fount of opportunity to explore therapeutic human interaction. As a result of home-schooling my children I have also taught a wide age-range of other children in classes and groups and participated with them as they have worked to learn their subjects, to learn about themselves and the world and to learn how to interact with their peers. I have served as a youth group teacher and counselor in Unitarian-Universalist churches off and on throughout my adulthood and have worked with young people as they have explored such diverse topics as race relations, religious tolerance and their own developing human sexuality. In my long time residence in the Asheville area I have connected with a wide social circle full of an eclectic set of characters typical of this unique area; many times I have found myself in the position of mediating between these friends or within families or various local organizations. I chose to bolster my skills in mediation by pursuing professional training through The Mediation Center, which I completed in 2006.

I feel that my own personal growth process has led me to a place in which I am very open to self-reflection for the purpose of preparing myself to become a counselor to others. I am, to be frank, a thriving survivor of a highly dysfunctional family in which I experienced poverty, abuse and neglect. I have coped with the long distance separation of my children’s father from our family and raising my sons as a single parent. I faced serious emotional hurdles in supporting a former partner during an emotional breakdown that led to his commitment to a mental health facility, followed by a stay in a drug rehabilitation center and ongoing recovery work. The combination of these experiences, amongst others, has resulted in a personal openness, a deep sense of compassion for myself and others, a willingness and desire to communicate as effectively and healthfully as possible and a sense of understanding of self that allows me to recognize my mistakes and patterns, to forgive myself and to learn from the process. These traits are helping me to become a more strong and adaptable person and to succeed in my personal goals, and I hope that they will foster my ability to learn what I need in order to work competently in the counseling field. I see myself working professionally in a private or group practice, counseling for individuals or families, perhaps in conjunction with practitioners of other holistic modalities. I may wish to focus on working with a similar demographic as I did in midwifery, families going through the experiences and transitions of childbearing and childrearing and the concomitant changes of that time in relationship to self and others, and perhaps providing grief counseling for families experiencing childbearing losses.

Today, after all I have been through, I consider myself to be a content, well-adjusted and self-assured individual with a great joy for living. It is the fact that I have faced such hardship and been able, with the help of an assortment of different types of counseling and therapy, to make such an enjoyable life for myself, to provide a healthy home for my children and to have enduring and beneficial relationships with my family and friends that leads me to believe that it is possible for individuals to overcome many hardships and still find their peace. While I know that I can never hold the secret for others to reach contentment, as they must do so for themselves, I do believe that with the proper education I can combine the lessons I have learned, my gifts for compassion and communication and my desire to serve and go out into the world and listen, support, and yes, midwife others as they seek their own resolution, find their own peace and become the people they long to be.

tonight i write for grandma gail

2007-11-29T19:48:00.000-05:00

Tonight I write for Grandma Gail.

My grandma is in the hospital. Late last night, alone in her house so recently vacated by her mother, her only roommate for the last ten years who died this past summer, Grandma Gail called 911, terrified I'm sure, by the horrific pain in her chest. She was rushed to one hospital, then life flighted to another apparently in some imminent danger, and now she rests in the ICU, medicated and sedated while they wait to stabilize her blood pressure so they can open up her chest and work their way to the aneurysm swelling threateningly in her tough old heart.

See, my grandma is no white-haired sweetie who bakes cookies and sends birthday cards every year or care packages in your first year of college. That was my great grandma, her mother, who we called Sita, who passed on, as I said, earlier this year. Gail was never very maternal or nurturing. She is actually quite a miserable old lady who smokes way too much and is prejudiced and judgmental and just a wee bit delusional. She spends too much money on lottery tickets, has a loudly voiced opinion on everything whether you want to hear it or not and is usually no fun to be around. So now, having driven most of her family away from her, she is alone.

Except now, the only place in the world I want to be is by her side. Because right now, I don't care about all the ugly things she said to me when I was a teenager, right now, she is my grandma, my ancestor, and I am afraid she could be at the end of her life. Right now I am remembering that this bitchy old lady used to be my favorite person in the world. There is a family legend of which I do have a vague recollection of living that as a very young child when my mom would tell me no or make me mad that I would cry and scream, "I WANT MY GRAAAAANDMAAAAA!!!" because I knew she'd save the day. Really.

When I was a little girl, my grandma spoiled me rotten. I was raised by a single mom who, like me, like every single mom, was really busy, so when I was very young I spent a lot of time with my grandma. She took me to K-Mart to buy me cheap plastic toys and she took me to the Eat-N-Park restaurant and fed me junk food, all of which I thought was very cool. She never cooked, but she did teach me how to make fried garlic bologna. And I thought it was really, really yummy.

But I have always known in my heart of hearts that Grandma Gail has had a much deeper and more formative impact on me. For all that I have come to know in later years that it was mostly a facade to hide her own pain, my grandma was tough. While other people's grandmas were white-haired and shriveled and in nursing homes, my grandma was sturdy and black-haired and loud. She ran her own business. Of course, through my child's eyes I had know idea her business was failing, miserably. Instead what I saw was a smart woman who could be a business-lady, who worked as an equal with men and drove a jeep out into the country to oversee operations. It doesn't matter now what a myth that is, what a mess it was, the impression it made on me lasted. Grandma Gail taught me I could be bossy, I could be in charge, and I don't think there is a soul who knows me who would argue I have done anything but live that lesson to my core.

Grandma Gail taught me to love books, love literature, love to write. Although the books she read were mostly crappy-ass romance novels, that woman read books voraciously. There were always, always books stacked by the dozen on her desk, her kitchen table and on the floor by her bed. She set an example that if you had free time, you better have your nose in a book. And I didn't know any better about what kind of books she was reading. I just saw that she was reading, all the damn time.

But you know what books she gave me? Shakespeare's plays. I was in fourth grade when my grandma bought me my first copy of Romeo and Juliet. I loved it. I didn't understand a goddamn word of it until I read it all again in high school, but then it was fluid like Seuss, because in early childhood I had mustered my way through that thick and indeciperable old English so it was back there in the recesses of my brain, and with the illumination of a few years and some English classes, suddenly that stuff made perfect sense. I can still recite the balcony scene by heart. Since the fourth grade.

And as much as she read, she wrote. She was aspiring to write the great American romance novel that was going to fly onto the bestsellers list with its buxom heroine on the cover and make grandma a bunch of money. And, like her every other endeavor, she failed at that. But that didn't stop her from clacking away at the cacophonous keys of her electric typewriter late into the night, sometimes really late into the night. She tried. She was really trying. And as I rapidly clack away at my somewhat more decorous computer keyboard composing this ode to her, there isn't a beat in my rhythm that wasn't put into motion by her. Looking around me at the volumes of poetry and blogs and journals I have written over the years, at my sister's nuance laden, remarkable song writing and my brother's deafeningly talented, late night poems, there is no argument that can be made that Gail didn't have a hand in making writers out of all of us.

I just can't figure out what the fuck went wrong. Grandma, for all the falsehoods she has come to rely on as fact the older she has gotten, is a really smart lady. She is highly intellectually gifted. She could have been a good writer. She could have run a successful business, but something was always wrong and for the life of me I have not been able to trace it to its source.

Our family is like a modern fairy tale, a tale of one daughter that grew like a favored flower on a vine and another who grew like a hardy weed, tough and irascible but never the delicate blossom you would bring home and admire. My great grandma Sita or Mary, as the rest of the world knew her, had two beautiful daughters, Gail and Wynne. I didn't know my great grandfather, but I heard he was a nice man, and Sita was a very lovely lady. They had traditional values, of which I am not a huge fan, but that was how the world worked early in the last century, right? And some of those traditional values were really based in an even older tradition, that I suspect I would appreciate more. Sita's family immigrated from Lebanon, five kids or so in tow and a couple more to be born in the new world. So Gail and Wynne grew up with a loving mother and father and lots of family around to shower them with love. They grew up on homemade Middle Eastern food with Arabic speaking aunties telling them stories.

So somehow along the way the two flowers diverged. Gail got married young, too young, to my grandfather who I never knew because he left before I made it into this story. She had three kids, beautiful and bright, and from their telling, she committed her worst failure of all by neglecting to nurture her babies as she should have. They resent her and her lack and their lives have been full of struggle, are still full of struggle. Wynne, though, well, she went to college, then got married, then had four kids, who all grew up to get educations, then careers, then spouses, then families-- and all in that order. Not that I think that is all there is to life, but those cousins of ours, they seem even-keeled, seem a little less stricken. They certainly have made some money, but they also seem to have a lot of love. They seem like happy people.

But my grandma's legacy has been poverty and drunkenness and drug addiction and divorce. Her kids have all seen it all, and most of us grandkids, too. And though I personally am truly happy and very content with my life now, it was a hell of a hard road getting here. And I do recognize and honor all of the radical thinking and revolutionary acts and outstanding art that has been born out the painful path that Gail's progeny have walked, too. The beauty in the dissonance (to quote Tool) stemming from Gail's side of the family is by no means lost on me.

But I can't help but hurt knowing that my grandma is not happy. She has never been happy. Not, I believe, for a day in all the years I've known her. And I am sad for her. I forgive all her ridiculous mistakes, all the times she called us names once we left behind childhood's innocence. Man, she hated that. She loved to dote on all of us as young children, but once she began to see a glimmer of our snarky adolescent independence, she turned on us like God turned on poor Adam and Eve once they had bitten that bittersweet apple of knowledge. When our innocence was lost, so was the grace we held in her eyes. And it was a really fucking hard fall for me, her pronounced favorite. But in retrospect, I know in my flesh made of her flesh that that was when she experienced her own fall. I am sure of it. When she lost her own innocence was when all the world went dark for her, and every time she saw one of her kids or her grandkids go through our natural progression out of the safety of childhood's naivete and into the relative danger of the dirty knowledge of adulthood, she went through her own loss again, and she could not bear it. She lashed out at us, as if to keep the very memories from her own mind, all the while, though, wanting only to protect is from the fears she held for us about growing up into the pain she has known for herself.

I don't know what happened, Grandma, but I wish I did. I wish I could take all that pain away from you and let you live your life again unfettered by that trauma and fear. I wish for all the world that any of us could have better tolerated your harping abuse, because maybe now we wouldn't all be so far flung away from you all over this big country and instead be by your bedside. I get it now. But it took you being incapacitated in a hospital 500 miles away from me for to really let it sink in.

When Sita died this summer I was the only one who didn't cry. I loved Sita, but I did not feel close to her, and she lived such a long, rich and happy life that when in her 96th year she didn't wake from a nap one summer afternoon, I felt nothing but relief and joy that she did not suffer, that her full life had come to its natural end. Today I've cried for Gail off and on all day. I want my grandma who I always thought was so strong to actually be strong. I do not want her life to end alone and miserable, for I would not wish that on anyone, but most certainly not on the woman from whom I learned that wearing boots made you look cool and swearing like a fucking truck driver isn't just for truck drivers. I wish that, despite our insistence that poverty is an act of revolution that we had somehow succeeded where she failed and that we all had enough goddamn money to take the week off work and jump onto planes and fly to her side.

When I was a little girl, I had a lot of fears. The dark veil that fell over our side of the family shrouded me most in my early years, and I had some real shit to be scared of. But I remember saying to grandma one time that I wasn't afraid of any monsters coming to get me at her house cause I knew she would scare them all away. I remember everyone laughed when I said that, and of course as a mommy now, familiar with the "out of the mouths of babes" phenomenon, and knowing how everyone felt about Gail, I understand why they laughed and the entirely different dimension of meaning there is to that story. But I also remember acutely, in a way I do not remember much else about my cloudy childhood, the feeling I had when I said that to her. I felt safe. I felt secure. And I did not feel that way much as a child. I am grateful my miserable grandma had the power to make me feel safe, had some sort of gift of illusion that lead me to believe she was strong, that demonstrated to me that women are strong. I have gone far with that belief.

As I sat writing this my mom called. Although she is still in ICU, it sounds as though maybe Grandma Gail is not as bad off as we thought earlier today. The diagnosis is no longer coronary aneurysm, but two small aortic tears brought on by a very serious and scary, nonetheless, attack of high blood pressure. This is just the beginning of the end. Born of her pain and self-loathing I am sure, Grandma Gail has not at all cared for herself well. I do not suspect she will make the mostly graceful exit that her mother made, having never lived with much of the same grace, either. It is too early still to know how she will recover from this episode and how she will respond to medications and instructions to, say, quit smoking (although, I can guess on that count). She will probably be bitchier now and in pain and feel even more persecuted than before. She may not be able to work, poor soul that she is, who has still been working almost every day at 75 years of age as a manager at a gas station because she's too poor not to. Fuck, what I wouldn't do to change that for her.

But I am grateful that her illness brought up this well of compassion and admiration for her that I didn't even realize until today that I harbor inside me. I am inspired to get more present in her life and figure out how I can be there for her if and when this happens again. And even more so, I feel suddenly dedicated to work on bringing her some joy, some comfort, some validation in the coming months and hopefully years of her life. I didn't realize until just now how much I forgive her. I didn't realize until I started writing how much that tough old broad really did help make me who I am today. And though I did not learn this trait from her, I really like myself and am proud to be who I am, a third generation single mother who swears too much and writes late into the night and fiercely protects her children from monsters in a way that I may have only imagined had been done for me, but that my grandma helped me imagine well enough to make it my reality.

(Grandma Gail loves unicorns, as do my mom and I. I picture her as the unicorn above with all of us gathering around her.)

spiritual rock

2007-11-15T19:49:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, for the first time in a long while, I walked out onto the other end of my property. Granted, almost every day I walk alongside one edge of our property’s border with the boys and the dogs, and I love our walk and daily feel so blessed to live in these mountains surrounded by trees and millions of brilliant little plants and under an impossibly blue (and still very dry) sky. But out of habit and function, we have fallen into a routine in which we take the same walk every day, so it was nice to break out of that and walk the overgrown path out to the sturdy wooden platforms that were built on this land before we ever got here.

And I fell in love, as I do every time I wander anywhere on this patch of earth I so gratefully call home. The leaves crunched crisply under our feet and our pack of dogs gleefully ran roughshod around our legs. The kids climbed on our mysterious hippie sound dome, another structure built prior to our arrival that we adopted with the property. I keenly noticed which pieces of fallen wood will burn well to heat the house and which pieces were better suited to compost back into the ground nourishing the soil and providing housing for mice and bugs. It is so beautiful here, and there is so much life, so much going on around us every minute; it is miraculous.

I cannot explain really what it is like to be in love with land like this. As much as I don’t want to think ownership has anything to do with it, I know my relationship to this place is very different than it has been to any other place I’ve ever lived or visited, but I think it is less because I feel it belongs to me, and more because I feel like I belong to it, or that we are here for each other, locked into an agreement that these hills and trees will provide me with shelter and beauty and food and heat and space, and I will, in turn, do everything in my power to protect at least this little parcel from being plowed under, bulldozed over, excavated and turned into one more homogenized, flattened, suburban sprawl style housing development. I talk to the land and to the trees. I pray for them to pull energy up through their roots to send out to me that I may have what it takes to protect them. I offer to be their voice. I vision what I might see for the land and me to create together and play that vision over in my head as I walk along to feel if I am met with approval or resistance. The land feels it might enjoy having some alpaca live here. It would rather not become ground for cattle or too many more houses. That works for me, too.

As we trekked back toward the house I noticed another entity that makes this place feel especially magical and enduring and inviting: the rocks, the outcroppings and boulders and huge stones that are all around us as if we now reside on grounds that were formerly used for some sort of giants’ pebble tossing festival. I will never ever forget the first time we drove here, utterly enchanted and enthralled to think we could perhaps live in such a wonderland. The route to our home from town is filled with dramatic rock faces and waterfalls, and our land is home to many impressive, massive stones that jut defiantly from the ground. They have so much personality in their different sizes and shapes and colors and feelings.

One rock, in particular, will always have my heart. This one sits just a little way off the path we walked yesterday, back amongst the trees, and I noticed it very fondly. It faces out into our yard to the east, where you could catch a dazzling sunrise through the forest if you were to sit there near dawn. It is large enough that two or three beloved friends could sit together comfortably, their feet dangling off the edge just above the ground. During one of our earliest visits, as we returned here numerous times to be sure this indeed was the place we would call home, my then eight year old G romped excitedly through the woods. This place was like something out of my children’s dreams, and they were excitedly exploring every facet of the land. He called to me from the woods and I looked up to see him perched on that particular rock, and he said, “Mom, look! A spiritual rock!” but in his childlike dialect it came out more like “speerichool rock.” I am sure I will always think of that rock as the spiritual rock, and it will always give me a shiver of pleasure to remember his little voice calling out those words and to be reminded of how exceptionally blessed we are to live in such a place that calls a little boy to so easily name the sacred.

(The rock in the picture above is not on our property, but rather is a distance view of the locally famous Chimney Rock which our property overlooks from a greater distance.)

suddenly adolescent

2007-11-12T20:07:00.000-05:00

My eldest is going to turn 14 next month. That means in just over a year he will be old enough to qualify for his driver's learning permit. This occurred to me just recently. Now, all of the sudden, he seems to have a girlfriend.

He is a tricky fellow, my little boy turned big. He is very smart and very cute, but very awkward. He talks too much. He is really negative and judgmental. He seems to want to dress all in black and kind of goth-metal. Which is fine, I did all of that stuff. But the issue has been that for months he has felt like he has no friends (which isn't true) and has been a bit mopey about it, yet at any opportunity I have provided for him to make new friends (and I have gone well out of my way to do so), he always hates the other kids.

Until now. A few weeks ago a new girl showed up at the homeschool writing class I teach. She is tall, like him, pretty like him, all goth and into vampires, like him, wears dark eyeliner, like him, a 13 year old Capricorn, like him. During the second class I noticed she threw notes to him throughout. Cute.

So they have spent some together since. And oddly, another thing they have in common is their upbringing. She, too, has a single, heavily tattooed, fringe-of-society kind of mom. She, too, has been living out on a very rural acreage with limited friends. She, too, has three big dogs, one of whom eats their chickens. She, too, has been homeschooled her entire life. So it all really makes sense.

Last night when I arrived to pick him up, there he sat on the couch with her, arms around each other, her head on his chest. A first. I am experiencing my own sense of shock. It feels a bit like the tornado winds of change have just blown through my life and my relationship with my son. Now he puts his arms around a girl and I wonder what will come next. (Well, I know what comes next, but when?) For the first time in his life, he ignores me and my adult conversations for his own teenage companion. An entirely new set of very adult issues is now a potential reality for his life, and mine. I want to reign him in, hold him close to me, tighter. I have worked so hard to protect him, but now I really do need to let him go and begin to figure out his own life (which it is) on his own.

I realize I am not the first person to ever go through this transition with their child, but our paradigm has been one of being so very enmeshed with each other, intentionally. Attachment style parenting is about allowing the incredibly powerful bond that exists between parent and child to truly flourish. It is about giving yourself, body and soul, to your child so that he knows that he is safe and loved. Through that gift he develops a strong sense of security, of self-worth, which allows him to explore his world with such secure back up that he can become strongly independent. Now he is. He has had wide open access to me for all his needs for so long, that it is a bit like getting the rug yanked out from under me to recognize how near he is to no longer needing that. Not yet, I know. Not today. But soon.

I am pleased that he is happy and enjoying himself. I have been giving him rides and dropping him off and allowing him to have free time with his friend. I have not been harassing him (too much) with questions about what they do together. And I know (unbeknownst to him) that this is just a beginning, the first in a long line of meetings that will gradually, over time shape how he gives and receives love, who he will love and what love will mean to him. And I know that this is a delicate and powerful process that will literally shape his life and will greatly impact his enjoyment of his life, his ability to be fulfilled in and out of relationships. I look around at all those around me broken by love and I realize why this feels so monumental. Because it is.

We are born to love, are creatures of love incarnate, and so many struggle with that all of their days. As I have since the first of his cells began replicating in my womb I want for him to live a joyous existence and thrive in every aspect of his life. The role that love plays in his life will touch every other part of his existence. And now at this crucial moment is when I must let go and give him up to this big world and to his own destiny. It sucks, quite honestly.

Yet now is when I look back on the last almost fourteen years of my sacrifices for his sake, of my loving him and his brother like nothing else mattered (because nothing else did), of my being there for him, and I can release him to life knowing that I have prepared in him a well-nourished soil for love to root strongly and survive even the most bitter of winters should he need to brave them, he and his warm heart full of all abiding love.

poem for my brother

2007-11-08T18:43:00.001-05:00

poem for my brother

Night creature
Slight young creature born in the pneumonia month of January,
I watched as the ambulance drivers carried our mother
out into the cold on a stretcher.
So sick was she,
Her belly swollen with you protruding into the white sheet
Pulled meagerly over her weak body on its way into
The sharp chill of a Pittsburgh winter.

On a penicillin bender
You came to us 3 weeks early
Never put to the breast
‘cause nobody knew that the good that nursing would have done you
Far outweighed the risk of more antibiotics in the milk you never imbibed,
Nobody knew that whatever attention from our mother you could get
Would barely quell the ache in your heart left by our father’s absence.

30 years later I sit composing in your cave,
Sit writing in your dark, underground space
As I know you have done a thousand times before.
Driven to write about you sitting in your seat and
Surrounded by the library stacks of your poetic predecessors
Blake and Bukowski
Confucius and Cummings
Dante and Dostoyovsky
Hesse, Kafka, Kazantzakis and Kerouac.
Your life lacks such order
Yet your heroes’ tomes rest alphabetically on their dusty shelves
A testimony to the priority the written word has in your world.

Unpaid bills and unattended health issues and untapped talents galore
You are the poet I wish I could be-
Prolific, spewing volumes into the deep hours of the dark night
Edgy and complex and tortured and
What a fucking way with words, man.
All that brilliant angst and unprocessed pain
Distilled into a tangled fury of pure emotion
Your clarion call to yourself, to our mother, to our father
That your childhood still requires action.

Take it, babe. Take that action, whatever it may be,
That gets you out of the pizza joint and into the literary magazines,
Out of the bar and into graduate school,
Out of your misery and into a fulfilling, exciting life of
Love and art and health and family,
Functional family, finally.

in honor

2007-06-17T14:31:00.000-04:00

Today is father's day and not a day on which I typically do much reveling. My father has never been in my life and my children's father lives 500 miles away from me, and them. And yet I want to shout out that if you are out there doing a good job, being a good man and a good father, thank you.

Furthermore, if you are a good human being, doing your part to lessen suffering on the planet and to do right by others, thank you, whether you are man or woman or otherwise, parent or not.

So today I share with you some inspiration that came from my beloved and brilliant little sister who was asked to perform a mother's day sermon a few weeks back at a UU church. She humbly sent her writings for that day to me only after I begged the privilege to read her words. She felt she could have done better. I feel we all could do better, but that she is doing a fucking remarkable job. Thanks, Mimi. You inspire and honor me beyond description.

Her words:

I was asked to speak today about the origin of Mother’s Day and I just about died. I feel like I know how Christian Ministers must feel on Easter or Christmas, preaching the sermon on the mount. Or how a relief pitcher must feel getting a call from the Bull Pen during a championship game. It’s a big day with big shoes to fill. A day when many of my heroes have stepped up to the plate. So I’m honored and a little terrified, but I’m channeling one of them: Julia Ward Howe, an ordinary woman, a poet, an activist and a mother, devastated by the carnage of the Civil War, who stepped up to the podium in 1870 to proclaim the first mothers day, it gives me goosebumps that can only mean that I’m in the right place.

“Arise, then, women of this day! Arise all women who have hearts,
whether our baptism be that of water or of fears!

Say firmly: "We will not have great questions decided by
irrelevant agencies. Our husbands shall not come to us, reeking
with carnage, for caresses and applause. Our sons shall not be
taken from us to unlearn all that we have been able to teach
them of charity, mercy and patience.

We women of one country will be too tender of those of another
country to allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs. From
the bosom of the devastated earth a voice goes up with our own.
It says "Disarm, Disarm! The sword of murder is not the balance
of justice."

Blood does not wipe our dishonor nor violence indicate possession.
As men have often forsaken the plow and the anvil at the summons
of war, let women now leave all that may be left of home for a
great and earnest day of counsel. Let them meet first, as women,
to bewail and commemorate the dead.

Let them then solemnly take counsel with each other as to the
means whereby the great human family can live in peace, each
bearing after their own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar,
but of God.

In the name of womanhood and of humanity, I earnestly ask that a
general congress of women without limit of nationality may be
appointed and held at some place deemed most convenient and at
the earliest period consistent with its objects, to promote the
alliance of the different nationalities, the amicable settlement
of international questions, the great and general interests of
peace.

With these words, a great American holiday was born. One whose origin and meaning is as obscured by the magical erasing, manipulating powers of capitalism as Christmas. Yet a stern, disapproving reproach from a mother, especially a public one, as we all know, has a special power to plant itself firmly in the conscience and ring in our ears constantly and at the most inconvenient times.

I’m not a mother, so I don’t know the seeming alchemy that makes this work. I’ve often found myself in awe of how the moms in my life in a single statement can mix one part disappointment, one part anger, one part unconditional affection and one part absolute allergic reaction to excuses to let me know when I’ve screwed up and I can do a better job. I think of my sister, who as a single mom at one point working, going to college and homeschooling her two sons at the same time, has elevated domestic cooperation to an art form, a science. Her house is like a high-functioning direct democracy. I remember one incident when my nephew was 9 or 10, and she was frantically cleaning or making dinner and asked him to please find something upstairs. When he spent 30 seconds half-looking for it then moseyed back down empty handed she said something like, “Attention children: the excuse ‘I’m not good at finding things’ will no longer be accepted in this house. Please go look again.” Now anytime I am slacking my way through half-doing a task someone has asked me to do, justifying myself with the old, “This kind of task just isn’t my forte”, I see the look on her face when she looked at him. It’s that look that says “I know very well that you are capable of more.”

It is precisely that art of gentle persuasion, that x-ray vision into our souls to draw out our deep reserves of motivation and sense of purpose that I believe have preserved the true spirit of this day. In spite of Hallmark, in spite of 1-800-FLOWERS attempts to revise and re-sell us an apolitical version of Mother’s Day that assures big money for their companies (whose CEO’s, you can probably bet, are not turning profits over to mom for her troubles.)

The true spirit of this day has been followed by other fearless leaders like Cindy Sheehan (founder of Camp Casey outside Bush’s Crawford Ranch) and other mothers of soldiers killed in Iraq, who along with the Granny Peace Brigade and Code Pink, Women for Peace, are right now engaged in a 5-day camp out at the White House demanding a withdrawal from Iraq and an end to the bloodshed on both sides. Standing with them are veterans and their families, active duty service members, students and many other heroes.

In previous years on this day you had movie stars like Susan Sarandon speaking at the Million Mom March for gun control. In the spirit of Ana Jarvis, who first conceived Mother’s Day to call attention to sanitation conditions for poor Appalachians, Coretta Scott King led a Mother's Day march in support of poor mothers and their children as part of the Poor People's Campaign in 1968. Under the banner of "Mother Power," she exhorted "black women, white women, brown women, and red women-all the women of this nation"-to take up this ..campaign of conscience." In the 1970s the National Organization of Women employed Mother's Day to stage rallies for the Equal Rights Amendment, to promote access to child-care, and to hold their own "Give-Equality-for-Mother's Day" banquets. In the 1980s the Women's Party for Survival, founded by Helen Caldicott, held Mothers for Peace Day demonstrations. Others used Mother's Day to highlight their boycott of multinational corporations selling infant formulas to third World mothers.

Like good sons and daughters, many have responded to the grieving and outrage that gave birth to the Mother’s Day proclamation and absorbed the lesson, as we would a harsh reminder from mom to clean up after ourselves, wear our seatbelts, or share our snacks. The proclamation has taken root in America’s conscience and refuses to go away.

There was a man at a benefit for Iraq Veterans against the War in a crowded Irish bar in Manhattan where I saw Cindy Sheehan speak. It was standing room only, drinks were two for one, and as you can imagine it became quickly a very rambunctious event. Though the crowd was supportive, there was a lot of shouted interjections and what you could only call heckling. Cindy handled it all with amazing grace. Anyway this man interrupted her speech to say, “you’re a true patriot Cindy!” Without missing a beat she fired back, “actually I prefer the term matriot.” A little taken aback, the man simply shouted back, “I stand corrected!”

As Cindy implied, the patriotic or matriotic work of pro-actively striving for peace and feminism have always been intertwined. For it is in the name of women that war is waged. How many grieving 9-11 mothers and wives’ tears were exploited on camera to fuel the drive to war, first with Afghanistan and then Iraq? How many times did the Bush camp champion the cause of women restricted from work and mobility by the Taliban, only to leave thousands of them homeless, in need of food and water, many with small children in tow after the bombings?

Women are more likely to be displaced as a result of war, more likely to be the sole providers of children and the elderly and more likely to die of disease caused by lack of sanitation wars create. Women and children make up 80% of war refugees worldwide.

Yet, it’s easy to get used to this kind of grandstanding in your name as a woman. Easy to get used to paternalistic, trivializing prescriptions for your needs. You get used to people constantly making assumptions about what is too heavy for you to carry, too complicated for you to operate, simple machines like door locks and bicycle gears and audio visual equipment, used to getting unsolicited advice about where and when you should or shouldn’t go alone. If you stood up for yourself constantly, you’d be living a war eternally with your surroundings. You’d be written off as pushy, un-feminine, a neuter, a non-entity. If by some miracle your feelings in a given matter are taken into consideration, let’s say you take the podium like Julia Ward Howe, and you manage to overcome all of your internalized suspicions that what they say of you is true, that you’re not strong, that you should stick to what you were designed for, wifing and birthing and rearing and attending to others. And you stand up, and you let the words come through you from all the generations past, all your mothers and aunts and sisters and grandmothers who never had the occasion or the agency or the poise to speak them, and they come down torrentially, and they move others to act. They inspire and instruct and help others to grow. Well, the sad reality is that history will come for your very words, for your statement, for your story, like a thief in the night to hijack and annihilate. The sad truth is that even the websites you can surf onto that are maintained by Harvard, Cornell and even juliawardhowe.org, barely mention her proclamation, this major moment in American History. This day that theologians have called an “opening to women in the Protestant calendar.” A day when singing "Faith of Our Mothers" instead of "Faith of Our Fathers" in Christian churches and honoring the Virgin Mary as Mother of Jesus has become the norm. A day that activists have claimed as an occasion to challenge militarism by locking themselves to fences at air force bases and nuclear facilities for more than 100 years. A day that has made millions for everyone from corporations to the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker.

Who will remember your story? Who will tell it?

As I see it, to be small, to be poor, to be a woman, a single mother, a prisoner, an invisible, is to be erasable, even when your contribution is monumental. To truly revere mothers in our society, we must listen to them. We must learn to hear better and ask questions to discover their true stories, their struggles, and stand beside them. Sometimes that means buying flowers, or making breakfast in bed. Sometimes it means digging into the trenches beside them to fight for child care, job training, a higher minimum wage, parental leave. Watching kids or making sacrifices. Sometimes it means doing our own dishes, as I learned from my mom who begged us not to have parties in her honor, because she’d end up cleaning them up, or examining the assumptions and privileges we walk around with in this world. For basic rights to safety, mobility, autonomy, the freedom of choice, are not doled out equally. It means looking at a world at war and seeing that the costs are not shared fairly, and who is calling the shots, who is at the table, how did they get there? What assumptions and unearned entitlements got them there? It means going to the violent neighborhoods in our own hearts to wrestle openly with these questions.

If you are looking for a place to start, or to continue, I have 3 categories of suggestions. Stand with mothers to stop the occupation of Iraq and protect the children fighting on all sides of the conflict. Help to hold our leaders accountable. Hold them to their word, for example Nancy Pulosi recently stated, “When people ask me what are the three most important issues today in congress, I always say the same thing, ‘our children, our children, our children. Their health, their education, their economic security, their families, their environment… and of course, a world at peace in which they can thrive.’” Let’s hold her to that.

Support the growing GI movement in opposition to the war. Lt. Ehren Watada and Sgt. Ricky Clousing are two officers who have refused deployment to Iraq, and need the support of Americans that oppose the war on moral or legal grounds.

Lastly, of course, call your mother. And all the mothers in your life. Ask her what a true Mother’s Day would look like to her, if she had the power and the glory. Don’t assume she wants flowers. Most of them are picked by children, paid a pittance, and who are exposed to toxic chemicals while they work. Anyway, maybe she wants a membership to War Resisters League, or a copy of the War Resisters League 2007 calendar. Maybe she wants a ride to the CodePink rally. Maybe she just wants to sit and talk, to tell you her story, to complain, the gift of space to exist as an intelligent, complex being who, at any age, is still growing, still expanding, still full of surprises.

Whomever you are, parent, teacher, mother, father, street sweeper, arise. Whether your baptism be of water or of tears, whether your war is half a world away or right on your doorstep. Whether it is militarism or poverty or indignity, the dehumanizing forces of sexism, racism homophobia or violence that has come for you or your child in the night, it is time to forsake the plow and the anvil, leave all that is left of home for a great and earnest day of counsel. A day of reckoning with a deep sickness that has pervaded our culture for too long. A day to refuse to pass on our own bad habits to the younger generation and set an example for them. To create new meanings of honor, without bloodshed; love without violence, possession, dominance, unfair and paternal usurping of self-determination.

If you need help, it is there. There are organizations of like minded people. There are study groups to struggle with our own internalized superiority and inferiority complexes. There are marches and workshops and books and mentors. There are your neighbors, like me, looking around every day for those with passion to match our own for justice, equality, true freedom for all. Looking to be inspired, to find relief and solidarity. And of course, there are the stories. Let’s not let the good ones get lost.

“Not only is another world possible, but on a quiet day, you can hear her breathing.” --Arundhati Roy

Mimi is also an amazing musician, and more can be found about her music at mimilavalley.com.

schism

2007-06-12T00:39:00.000-04:00

"I know the pieces fit 'cause I watched them fall away."

Whether we like it or not it is nearly irrefutable that we humans belong together in community, in tribes, in family groups. We are social creatures and once upon a time, it is likely that we got along, at least as well as other animals do, which is to say that while we might have gotten nasty to defend our food supply or our children or mate if called to do so, we didn't argue over the petty shit. There was no petty shit.

"Mildewed and smoldering. Fundamental differing.
Pure intention juxtaposed will set two lovers souls in motion
Disintegrating as it goes, testing our communication."

So now we have these big brains and these big fucking ideals, and life is one big existential crisis compounded by imminent social and environmental collapse. Without such pressure we have a hard time figuring out how to express ourselves to each other. Now we get set off by each other even when our goals and desires are in accordance with each other. Our work is in learning how to recognize that perspective is everything, we are each entirely the sum of our experiences, and then to talk, write, sign, look at each other in more effective ways so that we can quit bickering and work towards integration.

"The light that fueled our fire then has burned a hole between us so
We cannot see to reach an end, crippling our communication."

So it hurts. We hurt. We hurt from broken families and broken homes and broken cultures. It hurts when others say and do things we do not understand, and our pain blinds us to try to see where they are coming from, just as it hurts to say something that is then not understood by others, and our pain blinds us to try to see where they have been coming from. We do not function well in our pain and we have a hard time getting to the place where perhaps we need to explain further or apologize or make progress or forgive. If we do not? Breakdown.

"I know the pieces fit 'cause I watched them tumble down
No fault, none to blame - it doesn't mean I don't desire to
Point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over."

Goddammit, look here! I know there is a better way! I know we don't have to destroy each other and the earth! I know if you just do it this way we can make it!

No way! We are doomed, we're fucked, we don't have a chance in hell. Give up, fuck you all, I am doing whatever I want!

"To bring the pieces back together, rediscover communication."

Interesting. Hmmm, ok. I'll try to....Listen. Speak with consideration, deliberation, care. Think. Be patient. Accept other's faults, their baggage, the places they've been, their sun sign and moon sign and rising sign. Apologize. Keep humor intact. Be compassionate. Metered. Diplomatic. Creative, constructive, effective. Cooperative. Lose insecurities and quit fantasizing that it's all about me. Listen with my mind wide open. Speak with my tongue not barbed.

"The poetry that comes from the squaring off between,
And the circling is worth it.
Finding beauty in the dissonance."

Maybe there is something to be learned from with whom I do not agree. Maybe there is a magic, a lesson in our discord, like a chord thumped loudly on the strings of our souls. Beauty in dissonance? The light in the dark, remember? The dark that is a light? Let the paradox arise!

"There was a time that the pieces fit, but I watched them fall away.
Mildewed and smoldering, strangled by our coveting."

Ecosystem, biosystem, social systems that sustain. Once and future world views that work only when there is no desperate grabbing for power, wealth, resources, fame.

"I've done the math enough to know the dangers of our second guessing,
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication. "

Well, this sure seems to keep coming up again and again. The crumbling is around our ears, in our eyes, our air, water, food, homes, relationships, families. Needing each other as advocates, this lifetime not fulfilled. Sure extinction is a real possibility, but it isn't here yet, isn't a choice as much as a possible outcome, but until then what? I am here with you, all of you.

"Cold silence has a tendency to atrophy any sense of compassion
Between supposed lovers...
Between supposed brothers..."

Silence = Death. Ever heard that before? You are my supposed lovers, my supposed brothers. I refuse to be silent. I beg of you to use your voices, as well, and use them well...

"I know the pieces fit!
I know the pieces fit!
I know the pieces fit!
I know the pieces fit!
I know the pieces fit!
I know the pieces fit!
I know the pieces fit!
I know the pieces fit!"

("schism" by TOOL, by whom I am gratefully humbled.)

a trancer's prayer for her knees

2007-06-04T00:20:00.000-04:00

Dearest Goddess of dancing all night,
of transformative, psychedelic, powerful, life changing events,
Goddess of long walks up the mountain and gorgeous strong legs,
have mercy upon me.

I may not have always held my body as I should have,
may have stood with knees locked in a defiant stance
in a stony challenge to the world to go ahead and try to knock me down if you can,
(and you can't)
but now I am ready to yield
soften
bend at the knees
relax
if you would please
grant me respite from the mounting pain
in these knees
which have carried me thus far
and for which I am ever so grateful.
You see, Goddess, I still need these knees
for many more vigorous mountain hikes and
reverent trance dancing for hours and sometimes days on end.

Sweet loving Goddess of gardens and scratch cooked meals,
Goddess of the sacred hearth that must be tended,
I beg of you offer me relief
from the aches and cramps of my feet, calves and crackling joints
that need to kneel in the dirt with veggies and flowers and
hover low over morning fires heating my children's home and
stand long hours in the kitchen
perpetually and lovingly
preparing the days' meals.
I will sit when I can, stretch and
wear supportive shoes on the hard tile floors,
will soak my feet and wrap my knees in hot castor oil healing packs,
but I beg for your compassion;
let me carry out my duties, work and play
without pain.

Diana, Goddess of the hunt and the hounds,
each day I invoke you as I exercise my pack of rescued beasts,
hike devotedly on my two legs so they may each stretch their four.
Please bestow upon me limber joints and far-reaching endurance,
relaxed smooth muscle tissue and
the ability to lope capably alongside my lupine companions.

Grandmother Goddess, I tell you,
someday I may need to rock more babies on my hips
and walk them soothingly long into the night and
Goddess of revolution and rock and roll,
I at times still find myself in tough black boots
(with supportive insoles, of course)
thrashing my way through the pit or
marching the streets of DC in protest of the abounding madness.
Holy, holy Goddess,
sometimes I seek only to kneel,
bow my head to the sacred ground,
give thanks and pray.
May I do so without the sharp stab of ligaments
stretching beyond their once liberal elasticity.

Goddesses, of you all I implore:
I need a thousand more miles
upright on these tired soles,
I need a million more stomps of bare feet into earth,
I need ease and yogic grace in my deep squats
as I hunker near the ground face to face
holding hands with women nearing birth and
listening to children share profound insights,
I need to feed the hungry on strong legs,
stand unwaveringly against injustice in the world
and leap in celebration when we should triumph.
I need to
walk
run
dance
stomp
hike
cook
march
bend
crouch
pray
attend
dig
plant
harvest
heal
and
jump for joy
for many, many long years to come.
For this boon, Goddess, I offer myself unto you.
I shall serve relentlessly
(though frankly you know I'll do it whether I ache or not)
but I would feel so honored to do so
in that blessed state of grace-
free from chronic pain.

a blog reborn

2007-06-03T12:41:00.000-04:00

Oh my sweet and beloved blog, I have not abandoned you! I actually think of you far more often than is reasonable. I mean, if I am going to write, I should write. If I am not, I should not spend my time feeling guilty that I have not. That said, I believe I have returned.

This spring thus far has been...revolutionary. Certainly, I am prone to bouts of personal revolution, in fact, I seem to not function well without them. But somewhere between new years eve's self-inflicted, psychological turmoil (which I have yet to post about, but will; the tale is party written and deserves to come to light) and the first blooms of the equinox everything settled like a silky layer of silt at the ocean floor; the blackness is occasionally rustled by the tides but mostly rests compliantly below where I can dig my toes into its soft murkiness when I choose.

What has spring wrought upon me? With delicate hammers of silver and copper my life has been molded and fired, the materials of my days sometimes easing seamlessly into new forms and other times requiring a little extra banging into place.

I have new housemates, three to be exact, that actually comprise an entirely new family structure for me with great potential for the future. Three lovely ladies now complete my household, and we two mommies, two sons and two daughters have become the progressive evolution of the old Brady Bunch theme. And trust me, two cooperative parents under one roof is far superior to one struggling alone. We are having a blast!

There has been a shift in my codependency and in a primary love relationship. I am demonstrating a high proficiency in my lessons around living my life for my self and allowing others to do the same and keeping healthy boundaries. It feels fantastic.

A powerful catalyst swooped into town and once again brought up some questions for me that I continue to address. What level of priority do I place upon my need for the profundity I experience through trance, festivals and travel versus the sanctity I desire at home and with family and in relationships? How do I continue to strive for balance amongst them? Where must they intersect, and at what points is it acceptable for them to diverge? And who should I love and how and what love will compliment me most in all arenas of my being? These are all big questions for me, as both realms are of immense import to me. This is an ongoing process.

And then there is the pain. The physical http://www2.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifpain which seems to have, for some reason, become my constant companion. I seek the whys and hows and what to do for relief. I have been looking at the physiological and psychological reasons for these ongoing struggles and feel confusion. Should my goal be to find the answer that ends the pain or to make peace with it and accept its place in my life? I do not want to hurt, especially when I feel so fucking gloriously about being alive. But then, I count my blessings; at least I feel gloriously about being alive. At least my children are well. At least my home is safe. At least I continue to have these periods of personal transmutation and revelation. And yet I grow weary of the hurt.

And there has been music, so much music I am blessed to feel. Band of Horses, The Arcade Fire, Goa Gil and more. Next stop TOOL!

Alas, I am alive, dear readers, fully. I am activated. I seek answers but understand that I may spend the rest of my days looking for them. But for the opportunity to quest, I give thanks. Welcome back to my process and thank you very much for sharing.

soccer mom poetry

2007-04-10T01:02:00.000-04:00

the sky is incredibly blue and
the breeze is soft and
the sun is warmly beginning to descend in the sky
casting long shadows
over long boys
finishing soccer practice
in this grass field where I
quite contentedly
scribble musings
in my pink flowery journal and
thank god in all her forms
for the grandeur of my life
holy heck!
blessed be.

the infinite possibilities of morning

2007-04-02T09:09:00.000-04:00

I have definitely become a devout member of my own personal sun cult. I absolutely expand at the rising of the sun in the morning. Even though I am still tired and want to be asleep, when those brightest rays of light pour through my window as the sun creeps above the ridge line in the east, I am up.

Then, daily, I find myself plagued by what to do, how best to use this precious, glorious time that seems pregnant with possibility. Should I write? God know it's all I really want to do and there never ever seems to be the time for it. Should I read? I am volumes behind on the reading I would have liked to have done at this point in my life.

But there are so many more pressing and practical uses for my time. I could finish the dishes, or start the laundry, or prepare breakfast. Hell, I could start preparations for dinner, considering the amount of time that scratch prepared, whole foods cooking requires. I could wake my lethargic, homeschooled boys and try and get us all started on our day together.

What I often end up doing, what I did this morning between starting and finishing this post, is going for my morning walk. My saving grace, my kinetic salvation, I walk up the mountain with my pack of unruly dogs almost every day and it serves as their exercise and mine and my opportunity, if only for 35 minutes, to be outside and soak up the sun and breathe the mountain air and be in my body fully.

Often when I wake I think I could stretch. I could do yoga. I could meditate and do chi gong. But I don't. I need to, but I don't. I haven't mustered up the routine of it yet. I will need to sit with books and read and figure what style and what method and what approach. Then I will just wake up and do it. I don't know for what the hell I am waiting. I haven't figured it out.

I like the feeling that I get in those hours, as though I could accomplish anything. I seek to harness it and to make better use of it. Someday, perhaps, I will rise and compose a fine poem, start the laundry, read a chapter, make omelettes with fresh veggies for breakfast, complete six sun salutations and one 1000 hands Buddha chi gong form, soak the beans for dinner, correct homeschool papers and come up with a brilliant new science experiment for the day and take a strident stroll as a walking meditation up the mountain all before 10 AM. That would rock!

What do you do in the morning?

frustrated and grateful

2007-03-14T23:42:00.000-04:00

I never thought I would be so truly dependent on computers, but I am. My lovely little machine has, for some reason, failed me again recently which meant I went a week without it, and now that it's back it doesn't feel like mine anymore. It's got a new operating system installed and I have to go through the hassle of transferring the data (of which, thank god, I had saved much though not all) onto it, replacing lost files and applications, some of which I paid for, and I am just annoyed about the whole thing.

Furthermore, my frustration is compounded by the fact that I really depend on it to write now, and I feel like writing more than ever before, and I am not getting to do so for all the lost time these inconvenieces cost me in conjunction with the immense busy-ness of my life. I mean, this is not what I wanna be writing about.

I pray for time and fluidity of currency so I have more opportunities to write. And do other things, like write at the beach or, say, Burning Man. For which, incidentally, I received my ticket today. Black Rock City, here I come - blessed be!

And in walks gratitude, a refreshment, a healing balm . Thanks, gratitude. I am grateful for your help.

just so you know...

2007-02-23T09:12:00.000-05:00

At midnight last night my pretty Aleksie came home. Yay!

frazzled

2007-02-22T21:55:00.000-05:00

Well, I do hate when I go this long without posting, and this time it's quite a tragedy because there is so much good writing in my brain that I just have not had time to get out of my system and onto a screen. It's making me crazy. I have been so busy and I am quite tired. I seem to need so much sleep. Plus, I started a long and involved post that seems very important to me and I keep thinking I'll get back to it and shouldn't post anything else till that gets completed, but alas, tonight I just need to vent.

I am so premenstrual, I am very overly emotional. I have felt clingy and a little hung up on some things (read: people) that I have lately been in a rather good space about. This morning I cried in the car on the way to our new homeschool coop group (which is quite wonderful, by the way) about the idea that I wouldn't have another baby. Frankly, I feel like I have been processing that concept for a while. In many ways I felt like this past fall and the emotional pain I was having was my grieving over the acceptance that my childbearing days truly are over, so I felt very much in a place of acceptance. It was a bit of a surprise to creep up on me so unexpectedly.

I have also been sick with some silly cold or flu which I certainly caught last weekend at this "kissing" party I went to. (Yes, it was every bit what you imagine it to have been.) So the cold combined with the PMS is making me feel vulnerable. Often in states like this my dreams go a bit haywire, as they are prone to surreal hyperbole and drama in a graphic and visual way anyhow, and I have dreamed twice in recent nights very vividly about my beloved dog Aleksie coming to harm or dying.

So tonight, she and the silly rottweiler decided to take off as they do when Stanley gets loose. It pisses me off and worries me, but usually they are gone a few hours then show up tired and dirty, but always together. Well, Stanley has been home for over and hour now and there is still no sign of Aleksie, gone since 5:00 this afternoon, and my fear that some harm has actually come to her is really starting to get the worst of me. I mean, those could have been prophetic dreams. It would certainly not be the first time I have had dreams of that nature. But then again, I do not trust myself right now because I know I am emotionally vulnerable and over anxious as a result. I just want her to come home.

So the rest of my life you will have to wait upon. If you haven't already seen it you could check out the valentine I made for everybody I know earlier this month. Part of it was just a recycled post from a very early date in this blog. Ooh! Actually, you could do that, too. If you haven't been reading from the beginning, now is a good time to go back and catch up on some of my earlier posts. My blog is definitely not strictly chronological and most of my posts read as individual compositions. So there. I'm off the hook. Go read my old stuff while I sit here and worry about my dog and work on some long winded, heady new stuff to post later.

Goodnight. I hope my 'leksie girl comes home safe and sound and all in one piece and I hope I sleep well and find some time to write.

unconditional

2007-01-19T15:49:00.000-05:00

I normally don't blog other's writing, but there is something that I really want to share in the world that I don't think has gotten nearly enough credit. Ulali is a First Nations women's acapella trio, (First Nations, for those who may not know, is the title some of the indigenous tribes of North America more commonly but inaccurately known as Native Americans have chosen for themselves.) and they are amazing, brilliant, talented and inspiring. Their album Mahk Jchi is a powerful work of art, rife with gorgeous harmonies, deeply felt but never dramatic emotion, humor, and a most compelling sense of compassion.

One of the last tracks on the album, called All My Relations is the most powerful statement in acceptance, inclusiveness and unconditional love I have heard anywhere, ever. The degree to which they succeed in offering their devotion to all their relations, meaning all of us, as in we truly are all one family on this planet, the good, the bad and the heinous amongst us, is astonishing. It is profound.

This entire album tends to make me cry for a host of reasons. Just the sheer beauty of these women's voices evokes a strong sense of love and loss and challenges overcome which is plenty to yank a tear or ten from me. Also, when my beloved lost his mind and ended up in a rehab in Tennessee a couple years ago I got into the habit of listening to this album on the drive to visit him. That was, naturally, a very emotional time in my life and that album brought to mind for me the beauty of the world in contrast with my own pain, the pain of women struggling in such a broken world, and the overwhelming tragedy of cultures lost and how that has affected all of our ability to be whole. I would drive and sing and cry and cry and cry.

And All My Relations in particular culls the strongest response from me because it so eloquently reminds us that we need to include all in our prayers, even those who seem like the perpetrators, the enemy. To hear a dedication coming from the mouths of First Nations women directed not only to their ancestors and all the victims of the atrocities of relocation and extermination, but also many who have caused suffering along the way is a humbling reminder that we all could work a little harder at cultivating compassion in our hearts and minds. Compassion is a way of life whose purpose is to allow us to forgive those who seem not to deserve forgiveness, but in our forgiveness we serve love in the highest and that can only elevate us and the plight of our species. At least that is what I believe, though I am not always perfect in my attempts at compassion. This song prompts me to strive for it.

All My Relations by Ulali

To our elders who teach us of our creation and our past so we may preserve Mother Earth for ancestors yet to come, we are the link.

This is dedicated to our relatives before us, thousands of years ago, and to the 150 million who were exterminated across the western hemisphere in the first 400 years time starting in 1492:

To those who have kept their homelands and to the nations extinct due to mass slaughter, slavery, deportation and disease unknown to them, and to the ones who are subjected to the same treatment today,

To the ones who survived the relocations and the ones who died along the way,

To those who carried on traditions and live strong among their people,

To those who left their communities by force or by choice and for generations who no longer know who they are,

To those who search and never find,

To those that turn away the so called non-accepted,

To those that bring us together and to those living outside keeping touch, the voice for many,

To those that make it back to live and fight the struggles of their people,

To those that give up and those who do not care,

To those who abuse themselves and others and those who revive again,

To those who are physically, mentally or spiritually incapable by accident or by birth,

To those who seek strength in our spirituality in ways of life and those who exploit it, even our own,

To those who fall for the lies and join the dividing lines that keep us fighting amongst each other,

To the outsiders who step in, good or bad, and those of us who don’t know better,

To the leaders and prisoners of war, politics, crime, race and religion- innocent or guilty,

To the young, the old, the living and the dead,
To our brothers and sisters and all living things across Mother Earth and her beauty we’ve destroyed and denied, the honor that the Creator has given each individual, the truth that lies in our hearts…

All my relations.

There is no way I can do this song justice by just publishing the words. You need to hear their voices speak their truth. Please find Ulali and support them by purchasing their music so you can experience their gift of beauty yourself and so they can continue to generate music of the highest vibration.

it's my blood

2007-01-09T01:02:00.000-05:00

Today I was talking to my friend, S, an empowered, feminist woman. She had just gotten her period and was having some cramps and complained a little. I, who has somewhat of an issue with random muscle spasms and cramps in other parts of my body said that I prefer menstrual cramps to that other type of cramping. S said that she prefers no cramps at all. Then I told her that not only do I prefer uterine cramps to the cramping of other muscle groups, but that I actually kind of like uterine cramps. She said I was weird.

I guess she must be right. I realized that all my years of feminist consciousness raising and herbal education and midwifery training and practicing has put me into what is probably a tiny minority. I am so deeply connected to my cycles and appreciate my body so much that I love menstruating, furthermore I enjoy the minor discomfort associated with it.

Now please hear me out. First of all, I know there are many women out there who, for a variety of reasons physiological and emotional, experience extreme discomfort and even acute pain during their menstrual cycle, and I, gratefully, am not one of them. I would likely feel differently if I were. Also, I believe that it would be far less difficult for all women to cope with the physical and emotional symptoms associated with our reproductive cycles, and reproducing itself, if we were all in a culture that allowed a little more space for us to provide ourselves with the care we may need to ameliorate those symptoms, care such as time off, bed rest, nourishing foods and teas, gentle exercise, support of other women in the community, support of the men in the community, etc.

That said, here I am, anomalous. I like the bleeding, the gorgeous bright and dark reds of my blood. I like the warm sensation of the contractions as they gently grip my womb. I appreciate the emotional vulnerability, the wide openness that comes in this state and the days leading up to it. I get a kick out of the tears I can find myself shedding over a sunrise or a Hallmark commercial. I even find the tender soreness that my nipples experience to be kind of yummy; my breasts long to be held and when I am lucky enough to have the pleasure of someone's attention on them the sensitivity is really quite a turn-on.

I like to sit and let the waves of aching wash through me as I am submerged in a hot bath. I like it that when I go to bed the night of the first day of my bleeding I am assured I will sleep deeply and deep into the morning. I try whenever possible to allow myself that treat, that brief, period vacation some mornings.

I am glad that when I bleed I bleed onto cotton cloths and pads that I wash and use over. I spend no money on disposable menstrual products that eventually get thrown or flushed away.

I cherish watching how my cycle gets swayed with the moon. I am not a 28 day bleeder; I generally cycle more quickly than that so it is interesting to notice how the tides of the earth and orbit of the moon can pull me into one direction or another, a slightly longer cycle, a particularly juicy fertility spell during a full moon, a dark, heavy bleed during a new moon. I track the days of my cycle in my We'Moon calendar and have done so for ten years or longer. I am as in touch with my fertility as I think one could be. I can choose not to practice any other method of birth control than fertility awareness when I have a lover if I want because I know beyond the shadow of a doubt when I am able to get pregnant. It is a beautiful blessing.

So to those of you reading who are shirking at my intimate recount of something most women hide or despise I ask that you have an open mind and imagine that perhaps there would be far fewer women who did suffer under a simple and natural rhythm of their bodies if they were not forced to hide it or feel shame in it or work through it quietly eating Midol and stuffing chemical laden tampons into the most delicate niche in their bodies. Perhaps like so many other things in our world we are out of balance in how we manage, approach and appreciate what women's bodies do.

I like bleeding. You could, too. And our men can learn to love everything that our bodies do and appreciate and value our cycles and make space and provide love for us in the course of that flow.

And thus we have come to the end of another one of my feminist, tree-hugging, dirt-worshipping, witch-talking, yoni-loving tirades. But you can excuse me, right? I am bleeding, after all. ; )

(PS - I bet most of you have never seen Judy Chicago's earth-shattering, feminist art piece called Red Flag. I chose not to use it as the image heading up my blog only because I wanted to gently introduce my feelings on the matter, but if I were feeling feisty, this is the image I would have used. Please check it out. Judy Chicago is one of my heroes.)

you know it's the holidays when... (alternate title: you know you have serious food issues when...)

2006-12-24T16:14:00.000-05:00

All I've eaten today is cookie dough, egg nog, and a pound of bacon. Granted, it was locally-raised, all natural bacon and organic cookie dough and egg nog, but still.

Blessings and abounding delicious and nutritious food to be enjoyed in moderation to you all.

thursday morning, i see the sun

2006-12-14T09:06:00.000-05:00

I am climbing
Slowly
Ascending again
As I have done before
Exorcising myself from this darkness
One rung at a time
I am heaving myself
Some days no progress at all
Then this morning
With the light on the horizon
Beckoning as it does most days
I arose from bed
And left the telephone behind
Tell tale sign that I am not
Bound
Captive
To the promise of your call

I am trying
To receive the love of others
That bounty
With which I have been generously
Blessed
Which I somehow often
Miss
Flailing about waiting
Begging
Insisting
That only love from you will do

I am learning
Studying my role and
The women and men around me
How we all
Do or do not
Love
Examining this concept
From every angle
The lover, the loved, the unloved
Steeping myself
In its glory and anguish
In the heartfelt charity of friends seeking to please
In the bitter cold of the sheets against my skin
Each night in bed alone
I admit my humility
I accept my lesson
I attempt to wait only for the
Unfolding
The flowering
Of each event of the heart
On my way

(From the bottom of my heart, Ashaya, I thank you for your gracious love and generous help. I cannot express enough how you have aided in restoring me. That all midwives and friends should be honored by their loved ones as you have done for me is my wish; our world would be a kinder place, a refuge rather than a battlefield. I love you.)

raise it up

2006-11-26T22:02:00.000-05:00

This poem is clearly the culmination of the emotional work I've been doing and the writing that has been going on here in this blog. I performed it last week at Gaia Resurrect's all women's poetry, art and music performance in Asheville. As usual, my sense is that my work is more effective off the page than on it and is truly brought to life by my performance of it, but since I'm working with this written medium I am going to go ahead and make this poem as an offering to my people, my community, and to some people in particular like Rain's parents and Citrus's parents and to myself, today being the eight year anniversary of the loss of Ursula. Blessed be.
***************************************************************************************

I am a prophet of saying unpopular things.
I talk about bodies and birth
Without doctors and drugs,
I shout about freedom for each to do with her body as she choose,
I scream it is our right to refuse what others think we must do
Even if that thing seems like it is good for you.
And I whisper about death holding a righteous place in our lives.

I believe that we are bought and sold by fear
Our bodies which we should hold dear are manipulated and managed
By an untrue terror that is instilled,
Insisted upon and insidiously enforced by stories whispered,
Threatened from the cradle with the horrors of the grave.

I love life gorgeous in its infinite complex tangible way,
Its endless opportunities and unexpected days,
Do not underestimate how I cherish it when I go on to say that
Death has unfairly been given a bad name.

I long to live long and have many days on earth
And I have been devastated and disheartened by death
Have lost loved ones who seemed taken untimely or violently
Wept for the mothers who weep for sons and daughters killed mindlessly,
Yet I come to say fighting death and fearing our natural course
Is harming us, hurting life, creating great remorse in the days when we should
Live for living
Not fear for dying
Live for living
And accept that

Death is a home
The turn of the spiral that composts, nourishes, restores
Before rebirth
Death is the name of the angel who ushers us on our way
Wherever in the universe we’re meant in that moment to be
Inevitably

Why has this lie that death is our enemy come to be the alma mater of modern society?
Once upon a time every one lived knowing that someday they would die
They accepted it, they carried it with them through their days and
It was no source of fear and
It was no source of pain
It just was.

Now we’ve been taught to dread our approach to the grave
We’ve learned that we must beg to assure we get the most days
We’ve been told that there are supernatural ways
Of cheating cruel nature and her unfair play of forcing us to have losses and to age
and for each of us to someday lay decomposing underground.

To buy in to the fabulous miracle of evading death, we learn
We must literally buy in.
We are convinced that every dollar we spend will save us from an untimely end,
From the maternity ward to the auto lot to the grocery store
We are convinced that the more money we spend, the more we can live
and the less we will die
and it is simply not true.

I do not lie to you when I say that our fear of death is thrust upon us at our births.
From the moment we are conceived we feel acutely the energy
Directed to us
From our mothers and fathers and doctors and friends, and
No one in this room was born in a time
when all those well-intentioned people
Did not fear and project and
Act crazily over the possibility that our new lives could end
Suddenly or unexpectedly without intervention.
We learned before our births it is unacceptable to die
Thus our births were ruled by the unacceptable lie
That the only way to be born safely and live
is to supersede natural law
Which has every animal on the planet
Birthing in her natural home amongst her own
Without doctors, machines, drugs and insurance
Without bells and whistles and untrue assurance
That her baby will live no matter what
Because that’s not true.
Like every animal mother your mothers’ chances of giving birth to you alive
Were very, very, very high
Regardless of location or the presence of experts
Regardless of technology, regardless of excess,
But she never had a guarantee
That all her offspring would live because
Regardless of location or the presence of experts
Regardless of technology, regardless of excess
Babies still die.

And I say
As unpopular as it may be
That it is time we accept the nature of natural losses
And stop starting our lives under the worst of curses
Which is to fear constantly even as we live
To fear constantly on the brink of new life
Of the death that will surely seek us in its own time
And to still take care of ourselves and be careful and be healthy
But to no longer be ruled by that mythology so stealthy
That tells us if we buy good doctors and safe hospitals and new drugs
If we buy bigger cars and stronger militaries to depose foreign thugs
That we will live forever,
That our children will never die
Because they will.

As women we experience the undue burden of culture’s death scorn
As carriers of life we’re expected to fulfill the fabled promise of new life guaranteed born
And our bodies have become battlefields for powers that be
To vent their frustration at their inability
to have complete, unswayable control of all things wild and unpredictable.

We are wild and unpredictable
Despite the laws that have been decreed as to where, how and if we give birth,
Despite the unwritten laws that say how we as women should look, act and feel, and
We cannot tell anymore what is real.
We experience insecurity feeling we cannot have control over
Our own bodies and our paths,
We are objectified as bodies expected to perform certain tasks that
someone else determined for us, and
We are having a hard time knowing who we are and what to do.

Well let me tell you-
There is no shame in our bodies and no shame in our blood
There is no shame in our abortions and, regardless of outcome,
No shame in our births.
We cannot judge one another or ourselves on the merits of our reproductive worth
Because that’s exactly what the patriarch wants us to do.

Have you ever held an embryo in the palm of your hand?
Have you ever held an embryo in your heart, in your womb, in your soul,
An embryo whose heart never beat without yours?
How many women in this room have known death inside their own bodies?
How many women in this room have carried life that never made it to light
whether the end was of your choosing or of theirs?
Raise your hand, raise it up,
You have nothing to hide-
We must tell our stories to each other if none others if we are to survive.

Our culture’s fear of death has left us paralyzed and alone amongst each other.
It spends billions to wage war and murder thousands of innocents
While screaming and insisting that every conceptus in every womb must live
Despite its mother’s impetus.
This is madness, this contradiction under which we’re forced to live
Something has got to give.

It is time to embrace death as a part of our lives
and to refuse to live meekly under her shadow.
It is time to rage against death’s misuse
as she is meted out murderously upon others deemed unworthy,
Others perceived to threaten our tenuous existence
They are murdered by the false promise that with their deaths
Our deaths are indefinitely delayed
The false promise that says by killing these others our lives will be saved.
Refuse to accept the lies that you are told
And stand up for the right
Of every human being to live their full story so boldly and free
that humanity can finally achieve peace.

We are going to die every single one of us-
Me and you
And my children and your children, too.
It is true and beautiful despite the pain at the loss
It is our life’s destiny to die and it is rightfully ours.

To live life fully one who loves life must learn to love death,
Have compassion for death
She waits patiently for the day she’ll hold us in her arms
Though we scorn and dread her all the while.
Take comfort in knowing that when the right time comes
She is waiting to whisper in your ear,
Have no fear my love,
Your remains will now rest in the bosom of the earth and
Your spirit will soar amongst the timelessness of the universe.

happy birthday just a position! : what's in a year?

2006-11-16T00:29:00.000-05:00

I did it. I have consistently written in this blog and kept it active and growing for one full year. I am pleased and proud! Tonight I am composing my 46th entry, so in 12 months time that means I have averaged writing near to once a week. Hooray!

So why is this significant? Well, if you go back to my very first post you will read that one of my main reasons for starting a blog was so that I would have a tool that would compel me to be accountable to my writing and to write regularly. I am a writer, a poet, a wordsmith, a speller, an editor, a complete and total fool for the written word. Writing is my one true art, my love, my passion, my therapy and my pastime. Why then did I need compulsion to keep writing on a regular basis? Because, as many of you know, I am also a single, homeschooling, work at home mother, as well as an activist, a trance dancing priestess, a birth attendant in varying forms, a dog rescuer, a friend to many, a lover to a few, a cook, and a Burner, and that all takes up a whole, big lot of my time, and sometimes writing gets lost in it. But since I started my blog 1 year ago I have been writing more than I have in years. Hip, hip hooray!

So what else have my blog and I accomplished this year? We have seen deaths and births and sometimes both at the same time and have continued to work out our feelings about such matters. We have facilitated the beginning stages of my sons' adolescent years with sensitivity and just a hint of hilarity. We rescued and adopted a large, male rottweiler to add to our pack of two females, an elderly black lab and an also recently rescued, young husky shepherd. We also brought home an entire family of chickens, one mother hen and 10 chicks who grew up and then were systematically decimated by said husky shepherd leaving us, once again, chickenless. We have seen friends come live on our land, then leave no longer quite what I could call friends, to be replaced by other kind people with whom we share the land, and it seems there is a continual coming and going of the occupants of this place. We fulfilled the dream of many years of attending Burning Man, and decided that we ought to continue to go ad infinitum. We have had my lovers drift in and drift out, yet I am still occupying the romantic limbo that has been my place for many years now. We have been trying, essentially, to learn about and to live in love. We have enjoyed many, many moments with my young sons, and laughed heartily together. We have propagated poetry onto the planet. We have survived the season of the snake on this here mountain, and successfully hosted a breathtaking wedding ceremony practically in the rattlesnake snake den with no ill outcomes. We have trance danced and explored the ethers then come back to tell the tales. We have thought at times we would die from the exquisite pain of it all and others as though the deafening bliss would keep us aloft infinitely. We, apparently, have bonded, my blog and I, because I am now referring to my blog together with myself in the first person plural as if we were the best of buddies out doing all this wild marauding together. And thus, we must be.

So come one and come all and join my blog and me on the fabulous adventure of life through the next year. Let's continue to learn and grow and think and feel together, all of us. I have so thoroughly enjoyed the great dialogue that has arisen out my last posts and their comments; this is exactly the type of discourse I have always hoped for. Talk to me! Tell me what you think when I tell you what I think! Let's dialogue (I love using that word in a verb tense). I was telling a friend (you know who you are you sweet thing ;) tonight while celebrating the glory of my one year old blog that what I miss the most about the academic setting, and dear god I do miss it, is the excellent discourse amongst peers. It is one thing to read and write and formulate opinions and proffer them, but it is through the process of discussing them and sharing them and dissecting them then integrating others' input and ideas that allows us to grow and develop the most in our thinking and learning. I want to do that with all of you: those who have regularly followed my meanderings and those who occasionally drop in and those who are totally new to my zealous opining (ooh, that's another really sexy but atypical verb tense. See? I just love words!). Stick around, let's think together. Let's write together. Let's get our groovy letter rhumba on together!

For my blog's birthday my offer to you, dear readers, is a birthday gift. For every reader who leaves a comment on this birthday post, I promise to write a personal and individualized haiku in response to your comment. I assure that these haiku will be authentic and finely crafted pieces of poetic pleasure that you will treasure for years to come. I'd love to make poetry for all of you, and that is what I shall do. Thank you for your support and input, dear readers. I hope you'll stick around.

Tonight's composition was accompanied by a deeply steeped and well-cooled quart of red lavender tea.

living free: more thoughts on birthing autonomously

2006-11-13T23:15:00.000-05:00

This post is a continuation of the comments from the Birthing Autonomously post:

When it comes right down to it, after another discussion with another friend on this topic today, I realized I am just plain fucking scared to go to prison. I realize that I would be the "perfect" midwife to be able to walk into a woman's home with nothing but her birth on mind; even in the most supportive of cultures I'd still have all of my own personal issues with which to contend. It feels like a massive defeat to admit this because I always felt so brave before, I felt like I was doing the work of the righteous and therefore I'd be protected, and I don't feel that way anymore. I feel defeated. I feel like "they" won. I no longer feel like that brave, radical protector of women and children who would do anything to spare them the horrors of Western medical obstetrical care. I feel like a wounded warrior who just wants to rest comfortably at home.

And the truth of the matter is I can say my inability to make the ultimate sacrifice is for my children, that I have chosen my primary path in this lifetime, and as closely linked to my mother path as midwifery is that my obligation to the two children I brought forth myself must be my first obligation, my undying commitment. It simply would not be fair to sacrifice my freedom to mother them for the benefit of another's child while they still need me. I could say that, and I do. And yet I find myself wondering if choosing motherhood wasn't in some ways my out for making all the sacrifices I feel I should have in this lifetime. Being a mother has allowed me to excuse myself from not being on the front lines in Oaxaca and in all the other places around the globe that have needed witnesses for peace and workers for justice. I always say that motherhood is my primary activism, and I still believe that to be true. I know that by raising conscientious, compassionate, honorable men I am doing the world a much-needed favor. But it feels a little like I took the cush route.

When my sister went to prison to serve her time for an act of civil disobedience directed at shutting down the School of Americas I was baffled by her choice and simultaneously enormously impressed that she could choose that level of sacrifice in the name of protecting others. I don't believe I could live without my freedom; I think I am a spoiled American convinced that I am entitled to be free even while others are oppressed. And I am working myself into a quandary trying to figure out how I am to be grateful for and manifest additional security and comfort and ease in my life, because I feel like I want and need that, while at the same time living in solidarity with those whose entire lives have been nothing but suffering and challenge and loss and pain.

Everything in our world is so fucking fucked up. You’re right, Ashaya, fuck all of that shit. I just don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know how to fight the good fight and not get lost in it, and so I’ve been trying to live the good life to loose that vibration onto the planet, that’s what all the trance dancing and the Burning Man adventures have been. I seek the balance between following what my own heart wants for my children and myself and what my heart wants for all the children on the planet. It is difficult to find.

While I am at it I want to continue to express how angry I am at this maniacal state our world has gotten into because I feel it also impacts my ability to be a good mother. Yes, I know I am a good mother and I know I’d receive a bevy of protests if I tried to suggest otherwise, but only I can know how much better a mother I’d be if I weren’t forever having to sacrifice my time to the lords of money, if I weren’t parenting alone due to my own or my partners’ inabilities to sustain healthy relationships because our world never taught us how, if I weren’t always chasing some social validation to appease my wounded soul and always needing sleep and therapy to mend my broken body and psyche-- all casualties of my lifetime under the patriarchy. I am frustrated that none of us get to fully be who we could be because of the shackles that capitalism and sexism and racism and environmental degradation and dehumanization has wrought upon our lives. FUCK!!! And all my ranting and all my raving does nothing but give me an outlet so I can clear my privileged head enough to lay it upon my pillow and sleep through the night so I can get back on my hamster wheel and start my routine of doing the best I can under the circumstances all over again tomorrow.

And, specifically I also want to address some of the comments that I have received from the Birthing Autonomously posts, both on Blogger and Tribe. Inevitably and as if on cue, those who are afraid of the loss and afraid of the death or have learned well the story about the dangers of birth that our culture taught them have spoken up to assure me that one way or the other birth really ought best be under the care of trained professionals, ideally in a medical setting, and to you all I will assert once again, that you are wrong. In a well researched comment sent to me via e-mail a friend pointed out:

Global Infant Mortality Trends

For the world, and for both Less Developed Countries (LDCs) and More Developed Countries (MDC) Infant Mortality Rate (IMR) declined significantly between 1960 and 2001. World infant mortality rate declined from 198 in 1960 to 83 in 2001.

However, IMR remained higher in LDCs. In 2001, the Infant Mortality Rate for Less Developed Countries (91) was about 10 times as large as it was for More Developed Countries (8). For Least Developed Countries, the Infant Mortality Rate is 17 times as high as it is for More Developed Countries. Also, while both LDCs and MDCs made dramatic reductions in infant mortality rates, reductions among less developed countries are much less than are reductions among the more developed countries, on average.

As illustrated in Figure I, infant mortality is strongly proportional to decreasing per capita GDP (Gross Domestic Product).

My response to this is that it is not the excellent medical care women receive in MDC’s or the improvement in medical standards in the last 50 years that has lead to a lower infant mortality rates, rather it is the access to nourishing foods, safe and clean water supplies, sanitary living conditions, and reliable information on the best ways to care for oneself during the prenatal period, with access to those conditions being highest in the MDC's. Ironically, the United States, arguably the Most Developed Country, with its epidemically high rate of epidural and cesarean section and almost universal reliance on hospital birth and the use of MD’s as primary maternity caregivers ranks behind 42 other MDC’s for its infant mortality rate. Yes, you read that right. The United States of America ranks 43rd in global infant mortality rates, which means 42 other countries in the world have better success keeping infants alive at birth.

You want to know why? Most of the rest of those countries still have a longstanding tradition of midwifery care and/or a cultural acceptance for homebirth and/or socialized medical care which takes the profits out of giving women medications and surgeries during labor and leans toward providing care that is known to have the best possible outcome, not the highest profit margin.

And while I am not prepared to cite the study right this minute because it is late and I am tired (but I will if you insist, I know it exists because I utilized it both in my midwifery training and in my undergrad research for my BA in Women’s Studies), the most comprehensive research ever done on the safety of homebirth versus hospital birth revealed evidence that not only is homebirth equally as safe, as determined by rate of neonatal and maternal mortality and morbidity, as hospital birth, but even for a “high-risk” birthing population, some evidence shows that homebirth is considered SAFER than hospital birth.

However, I must make it clear that this research proposed those statistics based on homebirth with a trained attendant, i.e. usually a midwife, because to include the spontaneous births at home in the population that did not plan unattended home births but ended up unexpectedly birthing at home without an attendant (due to “precipitous labors” or uneducated/underserved populations who did not seek care because they could not afford it and therefore, in theory, also did not have the appropriate resources for adequate nutrition or education in the prenatal period) throws the numbers out of favor for homebirth. Mind you, NO ONE has ever done a study of the outcomes of planned, unassisted homebirths in a population of informed consumers with sufficient access to adequate nutrition, prenatal education, and self-assessment tools and techniques, so we have no idea what those numbers would look like, but anecdotally, the stories are reassuring.

So to say that because poor women all over the world are still dying in greater numbers when they birth autonomously at home does not adequately support the idea that it is safer to give birth either with an attendant or in the hospital. Sorry. I stand by my story. I still believe it is our fear of and inability to accept death that leads us to cling so desperately to the idea that there is a safer or safest way to give birth in someone else’s hands and on someone else’s terms. Birth is beautiful and birth works, but like the rest of Mother Nature’s wild creation, birth refuses to be tamed and behave in a manner in which we always have control. Birth is autonomous in and of itself, and in the aftermath of facing death at birth’s gate I feel more sure than ever that I trust it as a process.

Blessed be.

birthing autonomously

2006-11-03T21:28:00.000-05:00

I wrote this in response to a forum question that a woman posed asking if anyone on the list had had or would have an unattended or unassisted birth, meaning a homebirth without a midwife or doctor present:

If I ever have another baby, which I still pray that I will, then I plan to have an unassisted birth. My boys are 11 and almost 13 y.o. and their births were both attended by a midwife, resulting in one hospital transport and one gentle, straightforward homebirth.

I have been practicing as a lay midwife for the last 7 years and just attended my first stillbirth last month on my birthday. I had been feeling for quite some time that I was ready to quit practicing midwifery, and that most recent birth has propelled me to accept my own resignation. But you see, the reason I had been feeling that I was done practicing was not because I do not want to attend births, but simply because over and over again I felt like I had no business attending these births as the "manager" or the "expert." I believe so strongly in our bodies' ability to give birth and I also believe just as strongly in the natural cycle of birth and death, that I had begun to feel like the women whose births I was attending, the typical, american, homebirth client, the women who were already taking good care of themselves and eating well and educating themselves about pregnancy and birth and motherhood, they did not need me. I felt there was too much potential for me to disempower them. And perhaps some women wouldn't make the leap to have their babies at home without a midwife, and they feel they need that support in our crazy society that doubts them so heavily and instills them with fear, and so I am glad there are midwives out there to do that good work. But me? I am ready to let go and let birth happen on its own.

When that little girl was born dead into my hands I realized that there was nothing anyone could have done to "save" her, and I also realized that there was no need for her to be saved. It is normal for some babies to die, it is the way of the earth, it is the way of nature, it is part of the cycle of life. I began to feel that all of the prenatal testing that we do and most of our society's choices around prenatal care and birth are all rituals we have ascribed to in order to ward off death, and you know, they just don't work. No matter how hard we try to save them all, there will always be babies that die, at home, in the hospital, in utero and sometimes in our arms. And it is sad, so, so sad. No one wants to lose their child and face that grief. But for millennia human and other mammal mothers have been giving birth and losing their young, and no matter how much we intervene what you will find is that most babies survive their pregnancy and birth just fine, and there are always some who don't, but what I believe to be true is that our culture has such an abject fear of death and has vilified it so seriously that we are no longer capable of accepting the normalcy of death and taking it in stride. We act as if a lost child is the greatest of tragedies, and though it is in some ways (my miscarriage was one of the hardest challenges I have ever faced and I thank god for the safety of my living sons every day), it is also a normal part of life. It is our fear of death that has lead us to behave so irrationally about how we birth.

So, I will support my sisters and friends on their birth journeys. I love birth. I want to be there if I am needed to serve a woman and her family as they go through that life changing experience. Of course, I fully support education for all women, in particular in regard to their needs in child-bearing. Women need help learning how to care for themselves during pregnancy, what to eat, how to exercise, how to care for their changing emotional and spiritual needs, in particular because we have lost much of that wisdom that used to passed down from mother to daughter and from sister to sister before we abandoned our care into the hands of obstetricians. Women need to hear birth stories, read birth books, watch birth movies since most of us are no longer blessed with the gift of being present since childhood at the births of our siblings and our cousins and our neighbors. We need to work towards normalizing the concept of birth, and of death as a sometimes part of birth, so that more and more women will feel empowered enough to birth autonomously.

Many women who believe firmly in homebirth with a midwife in attendance will eschew the idea of birthing unattended, and most of the time it is not because they feel like they need one more person at their birth; they have partners and family and friends to hold their hands and look into their eyes and feed them sips of tea while they labor, but because they want one "expert" present at their birth. Truly for most women, they feel they need that expert there to keep them and their baby alive on the off chance they are the one in thousand or a million who will lose their baby or won't live themselves. And I would be remiss to state that there are never situations that can arise in a birth scenario that could lead to dire consequences, including death, in which a trained professional could manage to keep all parties alive, for that is true, there are situations like that. But does every woman who gives birth need to give up certain autonomies and freedoms, does every woman need to thwart what may be the natural consequence of death simply in order so that a few will be saved? I cannot answer that question for anyone but myself, but I know that I am willing to risk that myself or my child is the one that dies so that I can experience birth as authentically, naturally and spontaneously as the universe intends for me by choosing to birth of my own recognizance.

I support all women to have complete freedom to birth wherever and with whomever they choose. Blessed be.

the internet is sucking out my brain

2006-10-30T22:28:00.000-05:00

An hour and a half ago I walked into my room and sat down at this computer to look up a wheat-free pie crust recipe. I just walked into the kitchen and remembered that was what I was doing. I never looked it up. Instead I joined tribe.net and started my profile. Now, to top it all off, I am blogging about how incredibly easily side tracked I am by the internet. sheesh.

only so much time

2006-10-26T20:17:00.000-04:00

I am trying, as usual as my Libra self, to find balance. I have been working more lately, finally. Not that I wanted to be, but I need to feed the family and such, and the big holidays of the summer have drawn to a close, so I am buckling down and doing the work that needs to be done.

What this translates into is that all the time I am now selling for an income has eaten into the time in which I had been doing other things, like writing. I know there is a way for me to do it all, I simply have yet to come upon the magical spell that works to allow the maximum amount of waking, cleaning, laundry, fresh food preparation, dog walking, animal tending, yoga, income producing, creative writing, homeschooling, kid playing, reading, music listening, dancing, activism, socializing, healthful eating, sleeping, dreaming and (hopefully again some day) lovemaking in a day. I believe the magic which will allow me to accomplish all those things exists. I am working on it.

In the meantime, my thoughts today are on the nature of balance. This morning a dear friend honored me by sharing a story, a tragic recollection of a moment in her early childhood, the pivotal moment, an instance of cruelty demonstrated by someone who ought to have been protecting her that has impacted her ability to feel safe for most of her life. I was so grateful she could and would share this with me. So many of us, so many more of us than there rightfully should be, have stories like these hidden away deep in the recesses of our minds and our hearts, hurtful memories that get locked in our cells. I believe that by telling these stories, exposing them to the scrutiny and care of others, taking them out into the light so they can no longer hold their shadowy secrets hostage in our souls that we begin the process of healing.

As I rode home from soccer practice this afternoon, the air was crisp and fresh with that rare moment in fall before all is dreary and moldy and gray. The sun shone through the golden leaves and lit up our way like a hallelujah chorus of light. I was stunned by the regular, constant beauty of the world around me as I am daily. I just think everything is so fucking gorgeous: my children, the sacred earth, our profound gift of the experience of this lifetime, all the exquisite tastes and smells and sights and sounds and sensations that it staggers my soul to know that all of our delight exists amidst such gross destruction and cruelty. Almost every person I know has suffered gravely at the hands of others, most of us as children, most of us at the hands of those who should have cared for us the most, those who should have sacrificed their very lives to protect us, rather than be the ones who put us in harm's way.

So I seek to understand the balance in that? Is there any? Is the beauty and glory of life so immense that the profane and profoundly ugly must exist with it side by side in order for there to be balance? I suppose that's possible, though I am unwilling to totally accept it. Nature herself dishes out enough tragedy in the bear maulings and hurricanes and earthquakes and the thousand other ways she can devour and maim life on the planet for us humans to necessarily have to be in on the action, don't you think? Or perhaps life on earth is so utterly, admirably beautiful that the death wrought upon it by the natural rhythms and cycles is of the same beauty, and it takes the grossly inappropriate abuse, murder, pollution and warmongering we humans singularly perpetrate to offer an authentically polar opposite to all the world's grandiose good. We, perhaps, manifest that dark that gives the light.

Can that be true? I imagine life on earth was pretty fucking stellar a million years before humans made their debut. But did any other life form on the planet perceive it as such? Are we the ears that finally heard the tree falling in the woods and thought to qualify and quantify that experience?

"Wow! That was so loud, it terrified me!"
"I thought it was great. It was such a powerful, thunderous noise it made me feel more alive!"
Humans, we not only perceive, we interpret.

Duality. Do I believe in it? I am drawn to it, the Libran, justice-seeking scales of my psyche ever attempting to weigh things out, make them even, fair. Humans in general love our dualities, all that good and evil and dark and light and yin and yang and yadahyadahyadah. We're fixated. We're obsessed.

So what does it look like in a world, in a world view without balance? Must we have all that evil to weigh against the good? Must a million children go hungry so a million more can thrive on nutrient rich, organic food? Can there not be limitless joy without limitless sorrow? I'm not fucking buying it.

As much as I love balance and order I can feel the Eris lurking inside me, that wild, beloved chaos theory that gives rise to the exquisite fractal rebelling. Symmetry has its place. Order and logic are fine concepts that have taken us far. There is a time and a need for balance, but we have gone overboard, swung our own pendulum too far thereby destroying the balance in which we supposedly believe by believing in it too vehemently. If that has something to do with how the cycle of war and abuse got started on this planet, I am clearing this up right now. There is no way I can accept that all the tragic suffering must coexist alongside the peace and elation. I cast out the pain of the millions of children lied to and beaten and starved and fucked, I banish it from this realm. It has no place amongst poppies and puppies and mountain views and mango trees and moonrises. I see the lives on earth living out a scattered fractal pattern of so very much pleasure mitigated not by a single instance of raw abuse of power. I embrace it, I embolden it and empower that vision to take hold of all that experience, all that interpret.

he still holds my hand

2006-10-09T08:41:00.000-04:00

My younger son is 11, and I am 33. I love the magic of numbers and it feels really special that we're both delicious double digits and that I am 3 times his age as 3, of course, is a magic number.

My boys, quite honestly, are awkward fellows. Chalk it up to the combination of being adolescent boys who have grown up entirely outside of the mainstream paradigm: they've never been to school, their mom is a pagan, psychedelic, priestess freak, their dad is a far away, liberal, academic, law student type, their clothes all come from thrift stores instead of box stores and malls, and they live deep in the mountains surrounded by a mismatched collective of neighbors and roommates and lots of animals and holy, holy, wooded beauty. They are different from other children. However, they are doing well with it, awkwardness and all. They are intelligent and wildly creative and mostly considerate and can function pretty well in a group. They play sports and video games, so as not to set them too far apart from their cultural peer group, and they argue and bicker and wrestle with each other, too, the older they get.

But a phenomenon in our lives that keeps occurring that I continue to cherish but wait on the edges of devastation to no longer be true is how blessed and lucky I am that G still holds my hand. He is a strong boy, a triple Taurus, so he's very earthy, almost feral at times, and quite headstrong. His physical makeup is the very embodiment of his bull archetype; he is stocky, muscular and firm, full-faced, and tough as a young bull learning his strengths. His hands are thick and rough with boyhood adventures of climbing trees and digging ditches and building forts. And those hands still reach for mine whenever we walk together. It is nigh on intoxicating at this point; every time he does it I catch my breath, silently so as not to let on at my grateful surprise and glee.

He holds my hand automatically when we walk in the city and need to cross streets. It must be ingrained after all those years that I refused to have it otherwise so paranoid of traffic accidents I am. And yet somehow L quit holding my hand every time we crossed the street at some point in the recent past. I don't remember it; I am unsure how he got away with it because frankly I'd just as soon we all hold hands when faced with the threat of vehicular manslaughter. But L is just as likely to be holding some younger child's hand when we cross now, so I trust him and let him go. What truly amazes me, though, is that G holds my hand out there in public, in full view of the city and whomever may accompany us. This big little boy has not yet matured so much that he even realizes that other boys his age would be mortally embarrassed to hold their mothers' hands in public, and so he himself is not. Thank my lucky stars.

Holding my hand is not just reserved as an automatic response to city walking, either. G holds my hand, takes my hand in his even when we go on our long walks up our mountain. We walk our dogs up the gravel, wooded road nearly every day, and oftentimes the boys carry with them sticks or swords or other, various, phallic implements of destruction as they seem genetically programmed to do. And yet even still, I regularly get the delighted rush of satisfaction of feeling that rough-palmed, chunky hand make its way into my own. His hand seeks mine. He likes holding my hand. He enjoys being close to his mom while he walks. I cannot put my true feelings into adequate words. I feel I am the luckiest woman in the world every time it happens. And when the getting is really good, now that he has grown so much taller, he occasionally throws his arm over my shoulders so we can walk arm and arm, as comrades, as partners, as the best of friends. What sweet bliss-- may it never end.

I wish every mother I know could have the opportunity to experience the visceral bliss of her half-grown son's hand, tough but not yet manly, grasping for the comfort of her hand's embrace. The world would be a kinder place if our boys were all so blessed as to be able to appreciate that safety and comfort and our mothers were all so gratified by their sons' appreciation of them.

right this minute

2006-10-07T19:29:00.000-04:00

The sun is in Libra and the moon is in Aries and my heart is breaking, breaking, breaking. I want my Aries sun forever in my life, he needs his Libra moon forever in his life. How do we do it? How, dear god, do we make it work?

How long will it hurt this much? How long can I take this pain?

breakfast

2006-10-03T12:55:00.000-04:00

I have a very dear friend with whom I occasionally share meals, and we have this game in which we discuss all the things that happen at the dinner table at my house which could never, ever have happened at the dinner table at his house as a child, for example listening to Led Zeppelin, children requesting additional servings of brussel sprouts or tofu, moms saying the word "fuck," etc.

This morning we were having breakfast and though my friend wasn't here to share it, I imagined the scenario before me was again unique to my household. With plates and mouths full of pancakes and hash browns, my L and my little sister sat side by side, fair skinned and light haired, both in all black attire singing along, word for word to Elvis Costello. It was darling. They knew all the words. They are such cute indie rockers of a like mind, though they are 12 years apart.

It makes me realize what it could look like if I had another child even though my boys are so much older now. I hadn't thought of it that way until I wrote it down. I still have no view of what life has yet to bring. I am open, trusting. Free and falling.

money

2006-09-29T22:44:00.000-04:00

A friend of mine, another trance mama with two kids, has been an internet marketer for years. She has tried a lot of things and not succeeded the way she had hoped, until recently. Since mid-June she's made over $30,000. I don't usually buy that kind of bullshit, but this is someone I actually know actually succeeding in doing this. So I decided to try it. If you want to try it to just go to my link.

I'll keep you posted on my progress.

http://www.sure-and-pure-prosperity.com

33: a birthday excerpt

2006-09-26T14:32:00.000-04:00

My life has been in an intense and powerful transitionary space. It's been all encompassing and nothing feels solid, not love or money or home or life or death. It's not bad, it's all just so fluid and flowing there's nothing to grasp onto. I feel as if someone picked up all the pieces of my life and tossed them into the air and I am waiting, spellbound to see where each piece falls. I feel the free fall. I like the free, I fear the fall.

some thoughts on burning

2006-09-19T21:44:00.000-04:00

I can't believe how hard it is to do Burning Man justice in words, even for a wordy creature like myself. I have found I have hardly even talked about it to many of my friends because I just do not know where to begin. I wrote this article for New Life Journal and had a very specific slant in mind for it. Though I stand behind everything I say in the article, I feel I truly failed to capture the magic and the poetry of Burning Man. Burning Man is a free form poem, not a piece of prose for an alternative but slightly reserved print magazine. I imagine I'll get around to writing the poems. They'll eek their way out of my system in trickles and floods like my word children always do. My dreams only recently quit reeling wildly out of control with people soaked, mad moments on the playa. Now I can begin to distill. But trust me, no matter what you take away from what I say, know that I am changed. I have been burned and transformed, and I feel I am rising again.

Synchronicity: The Gift of the Culture of Burning Man

Deep in the dry and decorated landscape of the Black Rock Desert lives another world, an antidote to capitalism and the dreary cultural mundane of America’s homogenized homeland. Once a year Black Rock City, population 40,000, rises from the flat and empty desert plain 120 miles north of Reno, Nevada. It is the home of Burning Man, an international arts festival that has spawned not only a generation of dedicated artists, activists and followers, but a ritual based tradition that has been changing lives for twenty years.

Burning Man is nearly impossible to define. It has been written about, video documented, and photographed more extensively than an army of paparazzi could accomplish, but it is the very nature of this event that is what lends itself to the lack of definition. It is a participation-only week of pandemonium that eschews the stage and spectator arrangement more common in other arts and music arenas. Every attendee is invited to create the art, the audio, the experience they desire. The result is a non-stop city of sights and sounds where anything goes, where there is something for everyone; everyone, that is, who seeks something different from that served up by the strip mall and pop radio standard.

One of the most endearing qualities of this brave, new culture is its adherence to the tenets of a gift economy. Every performer, every artist, every kind soul who lavishly embellishes their offering to the community whether it be pulsing sets of electronic music or an impossibly large wooden sculpture on the desert terrain or freshly made French toast served from a cart on the side of the road does so for free. They each offer their art, service or craft as a gift to the community, not a commodity for which they expect to receive compensation, which flies in the face of how we as a culture understand trade. Capitalism becomes moot in Black Rock City where every member of the community comes prepared to offer gifts to one another, whether that gift is food or drink or handmade crafts or artwork or entertainment or clothes or jewelry.

As a gift to oneself and to others and as part of the no-spectators philosophy, Burning Man participants practice radical self-expression which is exhibited through dress and personal style, an endless variety of Theme Camps, decorated bicycles and elaborate art cars known as “Mutant Vehicles,” as well as through art and performance. There is an inherent freedom to express oneself against the status quo, which is exemplified in the events’ very namesake. This is a modern day gathering of the tribes that has gained momentum on the premise of “burning the Man.” Yes, every year at Burning Man a giant effigy, who has grown taller each year, is painstakingly hauled into the desert and built with great care only to be burned on the last night as a statement, as a tool and prayer for transformation, as an offering from the community to the community for their delight, their desecration and their dedication.

The use of fire as a ritual tool is as ancient as any tradition humans have. Many have grown away from fire, no longer needing to interact with it on a daily basis as we cook our food in microwaves and on electric ranges and heat our homes with forced air and radiant floors and no longer with open flames to which we must tend. We have forgotten that fire is alive; it eats, it breathes, it consumes and grows, then withers and dies just like we do. We have forgotten how beautiful fire is, how mesmerizing it can be to simply stare into the plumage of dancing flames. We have forgotten, many of us, that when we feed fire our intentions, ours hopes and fears and prayers, that the fire can transform them, give them life or render them powerless, whatever our desire may be. This ceremony is one that Burning Man returns to its people.

It is in this ceremony and this yearly ritual that an ancient type of tradition is emerging from this modern festival. The call to arrive to Burning Man every August is akin to a pilgrimage for many people; regular “burners” speak of Black Rock City as their home and greet each other upon arrival with wide arms and proclamations of “Welcome home!” Seekers who have felt alienated by their culture and unfulfilled by the options they have found for spiritual paths available to them have created this week long, round-the-clock, vision quest of extremes in which the climate, the beauty of the landscape, the events, the people, and the stamina required to participate are more dramatic than anything they can find in their cities of origin, and therefore, for many, the Burning Man experience is more satisfying, enlightening, and even ecstatic than any other path they have taken. Once they find Burning Man, many return year after year and begin to incorporate into their lives not just the one-week event, but the concepts of radical self-expression, the gifting mentality, and the fire ceremony ethic.

Though Burning Man draws people together from many distant locations its community has begun to have an unexpected cohesion exemplified by a profound synchronicity that weaves the experience together and is carried back into the “default world,” which is how life as most know it is described in Black Rock City. Burners who have never met and who live on opposite sides of the country may find that they share numerous common acquaintances or are connected through business, through an art project, through their musical affiliations, or other random circumstance. Participants may find that throughout the week they are again and again confronted with mind bending realizations that one story from their life has echoed repeatedly off the lives of others whom they previously did not know, but who are now coincidentally their closest neighbors in a temporary city of tens of thousands. Connections abound and new connections continue to be forged as this gathering and its practices develop as an authentic, modern day tradition.

The Burning Man community has long recognized that its connection to the earth is no less important than its connections amongst its participants, and members hold an innate respect for the desert ecosystem that is home to Black Rock City. The land itself is lovingly referred to as “the playa” due to the uncanny resemblance that the wide, flat, desert expanse and far reaching horizon holds to a beachfront coastline, and it is with great affection for the land that burners use that term. From its outset Burning Man participants have held this consciousness regarding their surroundings, coining the term “leave no trace” as a policy attendees follow that seeks to preserve the integrity and the purity of the land which hosts the event. “Leave No Trace” requires participants to remove from the site all of their waste, not limited to garbage but including grey water, ash and burned materials and remains of any sort produced by their camps. Though community members are far from perfect, it is unique to see an event of Burning Man’s size leave so little trash and debris in its wake, and debris that is left behind is scrupulously removed by staff and teams of volunteers.

Now that the gathering has grown to such an impressive size, many citizens of Black Rock City are also focusing more upon issues of sustainability within their infrastructure and continue to raise the level of consciousness about how larger components of Black Rock City and individuals themselves can seek lower impact choices for life on the playa. Increasingly Theme Camps such as the Alternative Energy Zone Village, the Evolutionary Center and the Earth Guardians are focusing not only upon leaving the land clean behind them, but what powers the city in the first place and are leaders in what is now known as the Greening the Burn Movement. Having been dependent on gasoline generators for its first years, these Burning Man participants are now working toward increasing the use of solar and wind power and bio-diesel generators, decreasing the use of disposable goods in camps, and encouraging collectives which can utilize bulk purchasing and transportation to bring organic foods and clean, potable water to the playa for members use with the least long term environmental impact.

It is in accord with this movement that the theme for next year’s Burning Man is the Green Man, and event organizers are taking even greater steps to incorporate recycled materials into the art projects on the playa, and are now calculating the “carbon footprint” of burning the Man and other art installations, which is an estimation of the amount of climate changing gases that are released into the air by their construction and subsequent burning. To minimize negative environmental impact, they will sponsor projects that will efface this imprint and are encouraging all participants to involve themselves likewise.

Amidst the all night dancing and ongoing parties and what may seem like unbridled hedonism in the streets of Black Rock City there is a distinct underlying cohesiveness and consciousness to Burning Man’s community, and its power lies in the paradox of so much careful planning and well-laid intention snuggled warmly in the cold desert night amongst impulsive inspiration, unexpected events, and a zen-like attention to the now. Synchronistic meetings occur and profound connections are made which will be carried off the playa and into the default world. Networking for future art projects and Theme Camps build momentum so that each subsequent year builds on itself and the intensity and power of the event continue to heighten.

It is not uncommon for the very direction of a participant’s life to be changed by attending Burning Man, propelling many to seek a more artistic or ritualistic focus in their lives and many more to return to the playa in subsequent years to foster and create more enchanting artwork, more daring participation, more magic and more synchronicity. The gathering of this ever-growing, experience focused, fire-worshipping tribe is tantamount to a revolution in the consciousness of popular culture to utilize modern technology to achieve the glory of an ancient shamanic state working towards harmony with the whole. The art is impressive, the setting is gorgeous, the people are amazing, and the experience is otherworldly, but it is in the rebirth of fire ritual that burners may truly activate a lasting shift in their consciousness and send its effects out like so many wisps of smoke to waft into the consciousness of the rest of humankind.

i am ready

2006-09-19T01:35:00.000-04:00

I have been waiting, like many of us, for my life to begin. But I went away and burned through layers and now I am ready.

I am ready for love that has everything to offer. I am ready for consistency and constancy and care. I am ready to be through with generations worth of bad habits.

I am ready for leisurely afternoons spent in the sun, in the grass, with my sons, free from worry that there is something more important I should be doing, because what could be more important than being in that moment? I am ready to feel that there is nothing more important than the moment in which I am every moment.

I am ready for passion reckless and ruthless that will rule my nights and give breadth to my days. I am ready for passion pure and positive that sits simmering on my soul's burner emitting enticing scents and slowly, alchemically distilling nourishing relations.

I am ready for insurmountable joy with each sunrise bright or lackluster, fog-hidden and grey.

I am ready for unbridled energy coursing through my veins daily, hourly. I am ready for the body I never knew I should praise, I never knew I should revere, for which I never knew I should give thanks. I am ready for regular comfort, deep, unhindered breaths, the subtle lack of symptoms.

I am ready to up the ante on the pleasure principle promoting my interactions. I am ready for unabashed, ongoing, ecstatic evolution.

I am ready for the queen's bounty swollen like the tides, like the spring debacle drowning every notion of lack or debt ever considered. I am ready to casually cast my seed in the loamy banks of the fertile crescent and to sit back and relaxedly watch the crops come rolling in.

I am ready to offer my services to my gods and my people for all they are worth.

I am ready to spend countless hours letting the words flow from the ends of my fingertips, fashioning prayers and poems and stories and sermons. I am ready for my mind to unfurl and finally bleed itself openly of the volumes impacted therein.

I am ready for unknown worlds and the delight of foreign conversation while exotic tastes rest on my tongue. I am ready for mysticism and waterfalls and tropical fanfare. I am ready for the steady whine of the engine beyond me escorting me amongst other pilgrims to destinations of sheer delight.

I am ready for the new world reborn in an earthly paradise balanced and pristine, honored and upheld, understood, accepted, and appreciated.

I am ready for the births for which I have been waiting to labor into being healthfully, productively, and with ease.

I am ready to dance. I am always ready to dance. I have always been ready to dance, and so I remain.

I am ready. I am.

only in asheville

2006-09-16T01:06:00.000-04:00

Don't worry. I'll write about Burning Man. Right now I'm still in recovery, still trying to collect my thoughts.

In the meantime, I couldn't pass this by. The other morning I'm sitting at the cafe at a local health food store having some breakfast with my kids. This hip-hop, breakdancing, hipster I know from around town approaches me very intently. He's got something on his mind. He says to me, "You've got the moon cycle tattooed on you somewhere, don't you?"

In fact I do not, though my mom and a few other women I know do. But this didn't help him at that moment. I got the impression he really needed to LOOK at a moon calendar for some reason and thought I'd make do for his needs. I told him no and he wandered back to his table without explanation.

Only in this freaky ass town, man.

morning thought collage: the man soon burns

2006-08-23T07:45:00.000-04:00

I slept fitfully, woke often with an engorged, gassy belly and a head full of things to do. I am an earthy, grounded creature, sometimes too much so for my own good. Transition, change of routine, personal upheaval make my mind race and my digestion halt to a crawl yanking my body in different directions. I am leaving in two days for the biggest journey I have engulfed upon in ages. I am going to Burning Man, and in so doing realizing a goal of many years. I am also, I think, finally leaving the man that I love. He doesn't know it yet. The sheer fact that I can write that announcement in my public journal before I tell him is a sign to myself that I ought to have done this long ago. He doesn't read my blog. It has never occurred to him to do so even though I have discussed at length how my words are my art, that writing is my saving grace, that with my words I attempt to save his life. It never occurred to him that what I say might matter enough to him to pursue even though sometimes I post on his computer and I send out a link to my blog in my every e-mail.

The abdominal rumbling just got worse, downward motion to accompany the heightening emotion. For two years, ever since his psychotic break before he went to rehab that man has ruled my bowels. But I did not wake up this morning to write about him, I woke to the sound of my roosters crowing, to a monstrous flock of crows and other morning birds loudly cacophonous. I woke to a text message from my beloved Burning Man traveling partner that simply said, "Burning Man! Aaaaaaaaaaa!" I woke to plans of completing my mix CD as a gift to others on the playa. I woke to a head full of packing plans and last minute errands and a house needing a thorough cleaning before I embark and laundry still drying that belongs in my suitcase and new love. I woke to my own Hope and Fear for the Future and exhilaration and exhaustion. I am awake? Already? Again?

I will miss my babies, and I will miss the cool mountain greenness of my home. I will miss my dogs and my cats and my chickens and my snakes, those that live in the house and those that live in my yard, a constant threat lurking in the grass. I will miss my crisp cotton sheets and firm mattress. I will miss my dear friends and the new friend who occupies so much of my thoughts these days. I will miss long baths and hot tub soaks under the waxing moon. I may miss the internet. I will probably miss my blog. At moments I will likely miss my sanity while I rage long into the desert night in silly outfits and fur-lined boots and a head full of psychedelic trance and psychedelic thoughts. I wouldn't have it any other way.

I am going home to a strange new land, dusty and dry, daring and delightful. I will meet new people and see new stars and think new thoughts. I will wash my feet in vinegar and shower under a tepid gallon of water from a tube. I will ride a bike (for the first time in years) decked out with a bell and purple streamers and red flashing lights. I will stroll languidly and naked in the sun and dance vigorously to keep warm in the night. I will trip and trip and trip and trip. I hope I get to kiss new lips. I will eat lycii berries and raw chocolate bars and emergen-c packets to keep up my strength. I will glory and gush and giggle. A lot. My Burning Man girl and I, we giggle ourselves hoarse.

The day after tomorrow I get on an airplane and fly someplace new. I'll see you on the playa.

puberty

2006-08-18T08:16:00.000-04:00

Though I think he'd probably find it incredibly unacceptable for me to make the public announcement I am about to make, I feel I must. I want this venue to honor and pay tribute to the immensity of the process he is experiencing. If you should ever come across this post, dear son, please know that we have ALLLLL been through what you are going through and it is no source of shame, and my intention in writing about it is to share my pride that my child is growing towards adulthood which should be lauded in the same way all cyclical, natural phenomenon should be hailed as the simple miracles they are.

My oldest son is going through puberty. He still seems like such a tiny, young fellow to me. I realize at 12 that I had physically fully blossomed into womanhood and furthermore was foolishly taking liberties playing at very adult games, but he is so different than I was. He is still small statured, wearing a young boy's physique, though he has grown about 3 inches in the last year. And he, thank all the gods in the heavens, is still a child, an innocent youngster who plays. He and his brother play dress up. They still put on funny outfits, capes and tunics and hoods and boots and take their toy swords and bows into the woods and play elves. They don robes and mount brooms and pretend to play quidditch in the yard with their soccer goal and a sparkly pink soccer ball, no less. Hell, I think they still play cowboys now and again. They have stick horses, OK? Stick horses that still get used, as well as legos and playmobiles and fuckin' bionicles. Less and less often these items appear, but I can fairly say they are still in use. Again, thankfully.

So I was really surprised at first to find some very physical development was occurring. He had already started to get the errant blackhead on his face, but then I found out about the pubic hair. How did I find out? Well, honestly he told me many months ago that the hair had started to grow, but I figured, prone as he is to dramaticism, that when he said he was starting to grow hair around there he just meant some light peach fuzz. But no. It so happened that a few months back we were both stricken with vicious cases of poison ivy, and in an attempt to soothe our rashy skin we got into a tub full of oatmeal and salt and baking soda together. We don't really bathe together anymore, and that was in February and we haven't again since. But that was when I realized that what he described to me was no light fuzz but honest to goodness, dark colored, growing all over his groin, pubic hair. That day I came face to face with the reality that my little son, the funny, little fellow who once had the silky, fine, long hair and the chatterbox mouth was becoming a young man complete with the physical nature of adulthood.

Then this summer his voice started changing. Honestly I have always heard about the archetypal, teenage boy voice cracking, but I don't remember it. Perhaps when I was a young woman and the young men around me had begun to change and their voices were ranging from high falsettos to deeper baritones and shrieking in every octave in between I did not notice because I was so enamored with them in my boy-crazed way. Or perhaps, since I had gone through my own changes at lightning speed that I had already discarded the boys my age by the time they were changing and had moved on to spending (unhealthy) time with older boys who had completed that phase, and I missed it altogether. In any case, now I know that that archetype is all based in reality. My son shrieks with high-pitched giggles when he laughs, but when he answers the phone my callers keep wondering aloud who the new man answering my phone is. He is often hoarse and froggy, and is very self-conscious about this animalistic transition in the way he presents himself to the world, especially because he is such a vocal character.

And now the blackheads have colonized his nose and his forehead and are making progress towards complete facial domination despite the fact that I keep insisting to this young man that he needs to wash his face more often.

I can hardly neglect to mention the attitude change. My L has been a consummate mama's boy most of his life. He listens well, he does my bidding, he adores me. Now, though he still is fairly compliant in terms of completing his chores and such, he gives me lip nearly constantly. He says mean and sardonic things. His brother and he used to get along famously, but now there is much bickering and wrestling and mockery. He wants to listen to his music, loudly, all the time, and he's on this death metal kick right now thanks to my downstairs neighbor, a 32 year old adolescent still obsessed with Star Wars and the black arts. He wears badly drawn Slayer t-shirts of his own design.

I am patient. I remember my teen years, the struggles for independence, the crappy music and silly clothes, the arguments with my mom. I also remember that by the time I was his age I was smoking cigarettes and marijuana, drinking alcohol and having sex. It makes me shudder to think of my precious girlhood ravaged in that way, but moreso to imagine that it could be my sons' boyhoods going by the same route and it's not. It makes me believe that though I arrogantly assumed that our close-knit, homebirthing, breastfeeding, home-schooling, holistic lifestyle would allow us to breeze seamlessly through my sons' adolescent years and that is not the case, that I am still doing a good job. There are bumps in the road, and I can see on the horizon that the terrain remains rocky for some years to come, but my kids still like me. They still want to hang out with me. They still like some of the music I bring home. They still let me read to them. I am grateful.

Because I have sons instead of daughters, I am unsure how exactly to mark this transition, to honor it properly. I had always imagined that if I'd had a girl I would regale her with gifts and ceremony to mark her transition into womanhood when she reached menarche. That desire welled up in me the day I learned of L's pubic hair. I simultaneously had this freaked out, I'm-losing-my-little-baby kind of impulse to pretend it wasn't happening and a powerful pride surge in me that my little boy was becoming a man and wanted to toast him, gift him, celebrate him. I think he would have died of mortification had I suggested that. "Son, now that you are growing hair on your genitals about which you probably feel a lot of personal confusion, a mingled shame and pride of your own, I'd like to announce it to the world by inviting our friends to a sumptuous meal in your honor and offer you..." What? A new video game? A real bow and arrow? What are the proper honors our young men deserve at this transition in life? I haven't figured it out. I think I will generically mark the transition for him when he officially becomes a teen at the end of this year. I would like to do ceremony. Any ideas anyone?

In the event that my boy should come across this post, I'd like to close it with an adulation just for him:

My baby, you are still everything to me, you will always be everything to me. Despite what may feel like some current awkwardness please know that you are very beautiful physically and emotionally; you are smart and strong and capable. In your long life we may not always see eye to eye on music or art or lifestyle choices or politics or partners, but I will always respect your autonomy, yet in these years ahead I want to remind you that you are still just a boy, and it is still my job to guide you through the process of discovering your own belief system by exposing you to my beliefs and the world around us and teaching you tolerance and compassion and patience. I will always be there for you despite any folly or fluster you may experience. My home will always, always be a home for you. My heart will always, always be a refuge for you. I trust you. I appreciate you. I cherish your growth process as your own. You will know love and partnership though there will be times when you feel frustrated or frightened or hurt by the work required to make it happen. You will experience inexplicable bliss and seemingly unmanageable woes, and you will be enriched for them all. I will be there for you during every personal trial, and though I will want to save you the challenge and live the hard moments for you I cannot and would disservice you by trying to do so because it is through every one of these experiences that you will become more fully yourself. I love you. I am immensely grateful your soul chose my soul to come through for this incarnation. We are gonna rock together for the rest of our days.

worst bedtime story ever

2006-08-02T22:46:00.000-04:00

A few years back my younger sister was visiting the boys and me. When she visits, she's totally got this "Let's get the kids on my side and gang up on mom" schtick going on, which is mostly fine. She's really just teaching them to be in-your-face radicals, of which I approve because, hey, I'm one, too. Sometimes, I feel like she's missing the point a little, though, because after all, I am actually on their side, mom or not.

So this one night, I was done with kids and ready for everybody to go to bed. I sent the boys to get ready and go to sleep. My sister pipes up, "What? No bedtime story?"

"No," I reply, "No bedtime story. Go to bed you guys."

Now they're in on it, "Awww, come on, mom. Tell us a bedtime story." She joins in, and they're all beating me down, so they think.

"Fine," I say. "Sit down. You ready? Once upon a time...Go brush your teeth."

"Awwwww! That is the worst bedtime story EVER!" my sister says emphatically. And it has stuck. Every once in a while we pull it out just for laughs. It's not in very regular rotation because it is, after all, the worst bedtime story ever.

rant and rave

2006-07-30T11:51:00.000-04:00

Last night was the third annual Rant and Rave, a spoken-word and art event created to celebrate free speech, raise consciousness on our current world situation, and raise funds to support the Poetix Arts in Education Program which takes local poets into the juvenile detention facility to teach kids writing, performing, and marketing skills so they can have the opportunity to rehabilitate and be heard through their art. It's great.

So the theme this year was Unify and I was honored to once again be asked to participate. I would like to share one of the poems I performed, even though I feel my poetry loses a lot in the translation to page. I am definitely a performance poet.

Let's break life down to some basic elements:
Earth, Sun, Wind, Rain
from which comes forth
Man, Woman
from which comes forth
Religion, Government, Art, Technology
from which comes forth
Civilization, Culture, Morality, Lifestyle
War or Peace
Famine or Feast.

We are living our lives, eating food, loving each other, watching tv, driving cars, going to church, working jobs, sleeping in beds
Precariously balanced on a precipice
that our ancestors and our contemporaries and we have
hastily slapped together.
We are going to fall-
All of us
Unless
We work together.

To avoid disintegration
DIS---INTEGRATION
We need to work together
to meticulously dismantle this unstable structure
on which every planetary life currently
T E E T E R S and T O T T E R S.
Take it apart. Build it from the ground up.
Consciously pick up every scattered component out of place and
Put it back where it belongs.

This is simple, kids.
Like a nursery floor covered in
lincoln logs, legos and blocks
just one piece at a time
Pick it up and Put it where it belongs.

Renewable Resources?
Pick it up and Put it where it belongs.
Religious Tolerance?
Pick it up and Put it where it belongs.
Non-polluting Solutions?
Pick it up and Put it where it belongs.

But we can't even start this clean up project if
Dick is still pulling Jane's hair.

To save ourselves from Annihilation
from the total Dis-integration of our current situation
will require our Cooperation
which grows from Communication and
leads to our Salvation.

Building from the bottom up starts at Home.
If we can't get along with our Brother and Sisters,
with our Lovers and Partners,
with our Neighbors and Friends and Communities
How are we going to get along as
Religious Congregations,
States and Nations,
Governments and Financial Agencies
with big agendas in mind?

Simple equations:
Man + Woman = ?
Black + White = ?
Christian + Muslim = ?
You create the answers and you create the world we live in.
The sum total of our existence is in our hands.

You think Feminism is an antiquated theory?
You think Racism is a thing of the past?
You think an ethos of Tolerance, Compassion and Forgiveness is too gentle for
these violent times?
Every concerned member of our Movement needs to take a look in the mirror.
We cannot love each other until we love ourselves and
We cannot love ourselves until we examine and unlearn society's lessons
that tell us we are:
Unattractive, Unsuccessful, Unfulfilled and Unworthy.

Unplug.
Forgive.

Everyone that ever hurt anybody anywhere was hurt by someone else themself first.
Forgive your Mother and father, and Forgive the ones before them.
Forgive your clergy, Forgive your elected officials.
Forgive Yourself and Move Forward.
Pick up a piece and Put it where it belongs.

Man + Woman = Love
Black + White = Understanding
Christian + Muslim = Tolerance
Rich + Poor = Compassion
Then suddenly we live in a culture that sustains on a planet that survives.

Let's keep it simple, kids.
Let's start our project with six simple words,
take them home and say them out loud,
Believe them and Know them all the time:
There Is No Us and Them
There Is No Us and Them
There Is No Us and Them

why the world needs superman

2006-07-23T09:39:00.000-04:00

I have never been a big comic book person, though in some ways I have really appreciated the genre. I wasn't a comic reader as a girl, but as a I grew older some of the men in my life shared some of their favorites with me, such as the Doom Patrol series (in particular the issues with Grant Morrison writing) and Elfquest (one of my kids' favorites).

I must make the disclaimer that as a woman, and furthermore as a feminist and a pacifist, I have definitely objected to the strongly sexist treatment of women characters (or complete lack thereof) and the focus on intense violence in the bulk of the genre. I have also read an analysis of the structure of comics that suggests that the format of comic books, a series of frames of graphics with a speech bubble or box included for each frame, is actually more difficult for most women to process than for men due to some subtle differences in the way our brains process information and deal with spatial schematics. This could possibly be why the genre has been so strongly patriarchal in nature if it is so much more easily processed and therefore utlilised by men. (I wish I had an article to reference for you, but this was years ago, and I cannot remember the source.)

However, I have seen wonderful stories come from comics and brilliant, creative ideas and characters. I love the wide and wild variety in styles of artwork and have seen everything from the sublime to the minimal work wonders for a tale. And because the genre is so accepting of different styles of art, that makes it accessible to everyone despite their artistic limitations. I also appreciate comic books as the genre of "the other" often dealing in themes of alienation and discrimination, despite its own internal prejudices. Plus, since its inception there has been a reclaiming of the comic genre by women and some awesome and fun work has come from that movement that I have really enjoyed. (Check out Strong Women In Comics and Wimmin's Comix and Friends of Lulu.)

The recent trend toward turning comic books into movies has proved interesting; I like to see the way those characters and that otherworldly action is interpreted on the big screen. I am a big fan of the X-Men stories and the movies. (Plus, I have a burning crush on Wolverine.) I haven't delved too deeply into too many other of the comic to movie trend, but yesterday the kids and I went to see Superman Returns.

Personally, I didn't even know Superman had gone anywhere, but as the story line goes, he had to travel far into another part of the universe to explore the remains of his home planet and the journey took him quite a while. I have never been much of a Superman fan. Though he certainly is an alien and must wrestle with his own demons of alienation and otherness, he always had such a good American boy feel to him: his dashing good looks, his constant quest to do good that overshadows any internal struggle, his silly, silly outfit, and his bumbly alias, Clark Kent. And it has always really bothered me that Lois Lane was so daft that she couldn't figure out that the man she loved was the same man that she worked right next to every single day. I am sorry, but anyone that is that deeply in love with someone is simply NOT going to be fooled into mistaking them for someone else by the mere presence of some spectacles on their nose.

But here we have a Superman that HAS been grappling with his darker side, the pain of the loss of his family and his entire culture, the realization that he is the ONLY one of his species left in the universe. Talk about feeling alone. Furthermore, he fucked up. He took off and left Earth and all of our human woes and frailty behind, and to top it off he didn't even tell Lois he was going. Oops. Now he needs to figure out how to re-enter his old life, and one gets the sense that it is all taking its toll on him. Yeah, so now is when I would start to dig Superman, right? When he is in pain, when he is fucking up, when he feels isolated and hurt. I am sick. (please see previous post on my codependency)

So Lois Lane has written a Pulitzer Prize winning article in Superman's absence, and amidst her own suffering from his abandonment of her in particular, an article titled "Why the World Doesn't Need Superman." Interesting concept. The article is not much expanded upon in the movie, but Lois goes so far to say that the world doesn't need a savior. By the end of the movie, of course, she feels differently.

And frankly, so did I.

How good would it feel to know that when you are in the most dangerous and bizarre of circumstances, that their just might be hope? Who or what else could you possibly conceive of to rescue you if you were about to be in a plane wreck, crushed under a toppling building, drowning deep at sea? Anything to give anyone more hope in those circumstances works for me.

But beyond that I am deeply enamored with a character who rests above the skyline utilizing his superhuman hearing to tune into the happenings below so that he may appear on the scene anywhere, anytime there is a need for help. That is truly generous. If only we were all able to offer our assistance to the world so effectively, we would each experience far fewer crises.

And you know, here is a man who could choose to fuck anyone in the world he so desired. He is 6'4," charmingly handsome with crystal blue eyes, and he can do anything. He is solar-powered for god's sake; how hip is that? Just about anybody would cast aside their derision as to how queer his super-suit is and take him to bed if he asked, if for no other reason than he's just so nice, and not particularly conceited despite his grandiose repertoire of skills. But he is devoted to the one woman he loves, he never takes advantage of her, and he fucking ADMITTED HE WAS WRONG TO HER for leaving without saying goodbye. That quality, the ability to go ahead and apologize and eat crow if it's your turn to do so, is precious and endearing coming from any man, and I laud Superman for his humility and his honesty. That in and of itself, his example of a strong, good looking, highly accomplished man admitting his own mistake to a woman makes me feel like the world needs a Superman around.

I also think that Superman would be very beneficial to the anti-globalization movement. Here's a man who has experienced genocide first hand, and I think he's pretty smart, I believe he'd be able to see the connection between the global economy and the ongoing oppression and destruction of third world culture for the profit of huge industries benefiting few people. He has already demonstrated that he absolutely opposes any one man's quest for power if it interferes with the will or well-being of others, I mean check out his track record keeping down Lex Luthor. Furthermore, he grew up in a midwestern farm town, and he's got a righteous reputation with the average, mainstream American. The people are going to follow his lead if he starts supporting rallies and protests. Just imagine the edge his powers would give to international peace and economic justice activist planning. No need to worry about big government infiltration of your affinity groups' plans to shut down the G-8 summit or the big WTO talks if he is on our side, and he can see and hear through walls, can transmit important organizing information without risk of interception by flying our messages anywhere in the world, and can keep armed police forces safely at bay with some well targeted cooling breath or laser beam eye shots, while we circle the city, any city! Yay!

With Superman's powers and his penchant for salvaging humankind I think he'd make a welcome ally to our struggle. I don't think he'd stand for large scale terrorist attacks (whether Islamic fundamentalists or the American government were the terroists in question) or nuclear holocaust. I think he'd take the School of Americas and uproot it at its foundation and send it orbiting out in space, never again to produce a graduating class of war-mongering, mass murdering militia leaders. He is apprised of excellent, advanced technology that could likely save us from our own destruction of ourselves by eliminating the need for a fossil fuel dependent economy of pollution and waste. The possibilities are endless.

So Lois, take the night off. I've gone ahead and finished your next article for you. The world does need Superman, in fact the world needs all of us to respond to our own plight as though we were bred of the same steel and sunshine composition as Kal-El, Krypton's native son. Superman sets an example for us all encouraging us to do the best we can with whatever we've got to take care of each other and to be honest and kind. He demonstrates that it's OK if we make mistakes, we just have to be willing to admit that we have and learn and move on from there. We really need us all to be saviors, and I would be really grateful if we had his help, 'cause man, our asses are nearly up against the wall.

codependent

2006-07-22T23:12:00.001-04:00

Some time back I wrote a post called "i like to feel" in which I talk about a lot of the things to which I am not addicted. I recently discovered something to which I am addicted. I am addicted to love, or at least the illusion of it. I am addicted to my relationship, probably a lot of my relationships. I am addicted to people, and right now painfully so to one person in particular.

It hit me tonight as I drove in the car, lamenting the difficulties we are having, worrying desperately that our relationship will soon draw to a close, that a day may come when I longer get to see him, hear him, smell him, touch him, bask in his presence. I felt like I could die. I felt what I believe is a craving. I craved to be in his presence, and this is far from the first time I have felt this way.

I have often wondered what it must feel like to crave, to truly, addictively crave one's drug of choice. I wondered how much it was visceral, how much emotional, how it must be to not be able to shut off that sensation. I am sure it is different for every different person, and for every different substance one can crave. Now I have some insight.

My craving feels like a desperate need to see him, be near him, as though everything in my world will be OK if I can simply get into his presence, into his arms, or even better into his bed. My craving starts in my mind, starts with a cycle of thoughts that involve a lot of pain and insecurity and discomfort, and then it moves into my throat which feels like it is a rough knot that I cannot possibly swallow past, then my mouth gets dry. The craving keeps moving till it gets to my heart [I had typed "hurt" instead of heart in my first draft. Talk about your freudian slip.] which feels hollow, feels a terrible vacancy aching to be filled. Then the sensation hits my stomach which flips nauseatingly. The sensation is absolutely physical and emotional in nature, and it is pressing and demanding and gives me the keen sense that nothing will quench this desire other than him.

I feel it now, a wild desperation to get into my car and leave behind all responsibilities, all logical behavior and get nearer to him. And I've done it. I have unexpectedly shown up at his door many times over the years and in different incarnations of our relationship. Sometimes it is rewarding, a good score; I reap some temporary gratification through receiving the desired response, the right words, the right reaction, the right embrace, as though a stronger version of the drug I use just hit the streets and hit my unsuspecting bloodstream for the first time. Oftentimes succumbing to that craving does not pay off; I've built up a tolerance to certain responses he may have to me and I need more, stronger, better interactions to make this hit worthwhile.

I seek his company again and again to stave off the unbearable sensation of being without him, just like junkies seek their high again and again just to save themselves from the unbearable sensation of being sober.

Now I've got another label I can tack on to myself: codependent. So what? I am not going to start going to a 12 step support group. I am glad to be aware that this behavior is not healthy. It is helping me to keep myself in check, keeping me from getting in the car and doing drive-bys just to see if he's home, what he's doing, if he's alone. It is helping me to recognize that if our relationship does end that I may not die from longing for him. There is likely to be a painful period of withdrawal and then recovery, and I will make it. Oh yeah. I remember. I have felt this way before, have felt this way everytime a relationship I am in draws to a close before I am ready for it to do so. And I do get better.

But then there is the next relationship.

I feel little hope right now for the likelihood of my getting into a healthy, successful, long-lasting partnership. I think it is common for those of us who are still single as we get older [Older is, of course, relative. Right now I feel older, having moved firmly out of my twenties.] to doubt that we'll find a mate. I think it is especially common for single mothers with half-grown children and mountains of debt and yard-length stretch marks and unfathomable responsibilities to feel that way. Who would want to walk into this mess? Nevermind that I am beautiful and strong and smart and an incredibly caring, generous and attentive partner. It would take an especially secure person to look past all of the challenging features and dive into the substance of my life. I have a hard time picturing who that person could be, especially because everytime I try to see them in my mind's eye, I see only one man, the same man whom I have adored for ten years, with whom I have shared some of my most profound experiences. The man whose mere presence acts as a balm to my soul. The man whose shirt I keep balled up next to my pillow so I can have the scent of him near me all night, every night.

I don't fucking care if I am codependent. I want him. I want only him. And the healthy, conscious, precious, loving woman part of me knows that given the proper attention and energy we can be together, healthfully.

Denial? I don't know what you are talking about.

my day

2006-06-17T22:11:00.000-04:00

A letter I sent to the Full Moon Farm volunteer crew today:

Dear FMFers,
I just wanted to write in and say that I had actually finally set aside a day for the boys and me to make it out to the farm today to help with the fencing and whatever chores we could do, and lo and behold, just a few steps into our morning walk with the critter crew here, my Aleksie began to limp as though she had hurt her foot very badly, then proceeded to go into shock. I immediately began dosing her with rescue remedy and got on the phone to the vet.

I was unaware at the time, as I could not see the bite wounds, that she had been bitten by a snake, presumably a copperhead, but fortunately I knew well enough to rush her to the vet. On my way to the vet I got stopped in a "routine license check" by the state troopers. I handed them my license, made it clear that I had a very hurt dog in the car and was on my way to the vet in a hurry and they could call if they needed for confirmation, but that they needed to let me go quickly. Apparently that was their cue to single me out and make an example of me and those f'ing SOBs (excuse me) told me to pull over as they wanted to write me up for an out of date inspection sticker. Can you imagine? What if it had been one if my children in shock in the back of my car a half hour drive from the nearest hospital? There was no way I could make them understand that to me, this was the same thing. It was awful. And I WILL be lodging a complaint.

When we finally got there the good people at Charlotte Street Animal Hospital took us in immediately and provided excellent and compassionate care (unlike the people with whom I am very annoyed at Fairview Animal Hospital who told me that they could not see my dog even though I explained that she was going into shock and they are 20 minutes closer to me than the other vet. They won't be seeing any of my business in the future...). By the time we reached the vet it was very evident that Aleksie had been bitten, as her foot had swollen voluminously and the puncture wounds had begun to bleed and ooze. They got her on IV fluids and stabilized, but were about to close for the weekend, so they sent us on to REACH for continued care.

At REACH we concluded this was not a case in which anti-venom was required (thankfully as it is $561 per dose!) and they began by treating her for pain as she was now exhibiting an extreme level of discomfort (the vet there said that she finds huskies do not tolerate pain well. what do you all think?) and she would not allow them to do anything in terms of cleaning or assessing the wound. The vet then ordered an x-ray which showed there were actually 2 separate bite wounds and she felt the leg needed physio therapy in the form of alternating hot epsom salt soak and ice. Unfortunately Aleksie would not let them do anything involving touching the injured leg, so they had to fully anesthetize her in order to carry out the therapy.

After a total of 7 hours of treatment (and a grand total of $700 in vet bills and meds for the day) they sent her home with an anti-inflammatory (Rimadyl), antibiotics and pain meds. Since she has been home she has limped around the yard, as happy to see her Lucy and her Stanley as they were to see her, eaten and drunk a little, and now she is resting.
Tomorrow our instructions are to take off her bandages and if she will allow do hot and cold compresses. If her pain is too aggravated we may need to take her back in for an additional IV dose of pain meds tomorrow to continue treating her.

The REACH vet felt that this is a severe bite wound and warned me that the skin on her leg may slough off, which sounds atrocious (does anybody have any experience with THAT?), but that ultimately her prognosis is good. She is expected to be fine, thank all the gods and goddesses as I tear up with relief.

We got home, though, exhausted and stressed and, to the boys' horror, to find our mama chicken disemboweled in the yard. This is the second chicken we lost this month (the first was to Aleksie...oh well) and in the last month all three of my dogs now have been to the vet. It has been exhausting. And we will now need to postpone, if not cancel altogether our long planned trip to visit family and attend a festival in Pennysylvania for which we were leaving Monday. I am mostly just sharing now, though, because I seek the comfort of knowing there are other animal people out there who have been through this type of stress, and I know you will all be able to relate. So please send your healing thoughts to my precious Aleksie girl who turns 1 year this month and just a little peace to the boys and me. And kiss the wolfers for me and remind them that we haven't forgotten them and we'll be back as soon as the stars shift back into an alignment that makes my work as an animal mommy flow just a little tiny bit more smoothly. Thank you so much.

Lots of love to you all and all your animal babies, too.
Justina

biological destiny

2006-06-17T08:33:00.000-04:00

The other day, for the first time in many years, I had a pap smear. What a terrible name for a procedure. It sounds obscene, and while it is not exactly a rollicking good time, it is a simple diagnostic option for women who may have concerns about some aspects of their reproductive health. But, since it is a procedure that is reserved exclusively for women and it also pertains to our mysterious internal organs, I think there is a lot of mystique and misunderstanding around it, and I believe that is one of the reasons why it has such an atrocious name. Like much medical terminology, it was named by the physician (usually male) who invented it or discovered it; that is why many parts of women's bodies, aspects of pregnancy, and methods of managing childbirth have ridiculous and non-descriptive names like fallopian tubes, braxton-hicks contractions and robert's maneuver. George Papanicolaou, in case you did not know, was the inventor of the "pap" smear, hence the name.

The smear is the part of the procedure that involves literally smearing cervical cells onto a slide to be viewed under a microscope. There are many, many diagnostic procedures that involve the smearing of some manner of cells or other onto a slide, but off the top of your head how many do you know that actually use the word "smear" in the name of the procedure? Personally I cannot think of any. It's a bit of a smear campaign made to create even more uncertainty and discomfort about that natural oddity, the female body. Don't you think?

Well, I do. But I guess that is where I get my reputation as a nasty feminist. Many people still to this day do not believe or understand that the patriarchal social system in which we live considers woman other, lesser, incomprehensible and perhaps even dangerous in her difference. Society loves conformity, likes it when everyone plays by the rules society has established. So when the society, the politicians and the scientists and the clergy are all men, then men are the status quo, and woman, her brain, her body, her ways, by default are different. Granted, in the last fifty years women have made great strides toward inundating those realms of social influence, but are still not seen in equal numbers in any of the most influential aspects of modern society, and are definitely still swimming upstream against the tide of 2000 plus years of complete and total male dominance and patriarchal definition of normal.

So, while I sat in the Planned Parenthood office yesterday it was a rare and interesting moment when I realized there were only women there. I was in woman's territory, and that is pretty rare. Women exclusively comprised the patients, the practitioners, the administrators, and the staff. Wow. And though I was not exactly looking forward to having my cervix swabbed for tissue to be examined under microscope, I suddenly felt right at home. I felt like I was in an exclusive clubhouse, and then I realized that I was. Of all the many men I know, I know for sure that none of them have ever had the experience of waiting in a gender specific clinic for care that was necessary exclusively for their sex. We as women do have something men don't, and I was again reminded that that is probably why and how patriarchy took a stronghold over our culture in the first place.

Women have internal sex organs that until the last century could never be seen by the human eye (at least while the woman is alive, which is a very important part of this story). And not only are our organs inside of our bodies, furthermore the continuance of our species is contingent upon the fact that healthy human replicas periodically emerge from within those mysterious confines. And since men cannot have what our bodies have or do what our bodies do, despite the fact that the reproductive process is certainly lost without them, at some point in the deep annals of history enough men were philosophically or emotionally uncomfortable enough with that idea that they begin to place restrictions- physical, psychological, and eventually legal, on the women around them.

Yesterday I sat at the girls club surrounded by other women taking care of their bodies, controlling their destiny, exercising their reproductive choice. In that setting they felt like my sisters; I felt the bond that we share in that we alone bleed, or don't bleed, and then bear children. And with the honor and privilege of the ability to carry life in one's womb comes great responsibility. Because of the nature of our internal organs and their capacity to give life and sustain it, women are physically at greater risk for a host of infections, STD's and unique cancers. Women are also more likely to be physically, emotionally, practically, and financially burdened with pregnancy, wanted or not, and therefore have also had to assume greater responsibility for birth control, which has many of its own tolls, to assure we do not become pregnant when we wish not to become parents. And I certainly hope I do not have to mention that how, in reality, even simply through the nature of our biology as mammals, that women carry much, much more of the responsibility of the rearing of the children they may bear once that child has left her body.

But ultimately what do we get for all of this additional responsibility we must take to care for ourselves so we may bring future generations to the planet? We get vilified. We are mocked, we are looked down upon, and we are abused. Not always viciously and not by every living person, but please have no confusion about this, women are still harmed daily by the presumptions of our otherness in patriarchal society. This is called sexism, and it is still very much an active social construct in our world.

How might it look different? To me, it would make a lot more sense for men and women to work together more closely to insure that all aspects of women's (and men's!) reproductive health is maintained and fortified. This cooperation would encompass everything from the mundane and daily aspects of care to the grand ramifications that public environmental and healthcare policy have on us all.

For starters, eat together, men and women. Eat well and healthfully together. Take care of your bodies on the most basic level. Together.

Appreciate the marvel of the menstrual cycle. Yes, it can be annoying, it can be painful, it can cause emotional challenges for women and the men involved with them. But so what? It's not going anywhere. Hopefully healthy menstrual cycles will continue to be present in women's lives for many, many generations to come. Only when that phenomenon ceases will we realize how incredibly valuable it is to us all. So when she is tired or in pain or bitchy because she is about to bleed or bleeding, support her. Nurture her. Her body is doing work, fellows, that your body cannot, and that work is vital to the future of your children. And even if neither of you want children, so what? Be grateful that we as a species function effectively, and take care of that function.

Share in the responsibility of birth control. Even if you mutually decide to utilize a method of birth control in which the primary responsibility and consequences are with her, get involved. Pay for her birth control pills or her IUD or her hormone therapy. She is paying enough by altering her body and creating possible health risks so that you may benefit from methods of birth control which do not require you to wear a condom. Furthermore, pay for her yearly check ups that help insure that she is tolerating your method of birth control well, and research ways to maximize her health picture, i.e. what supplements or food or herbs or exercises will benefit her, and then provide her with those also. Please be aware, also, that methods of natural family planning that involve fertility awareness cause no harm to a woman's health, and can be extremely reliable but do require an intense level of commitment and education from BOTH partners. Keep in mind, too, that every month she is not pregnant she is bleeding which requires her to spend additional money on menstrual care products and ibuprofen and chocolate bars. Pitch in.

Respect that it is not fun to have yearly cervical exams and pap smears. Offer to come with her to her appointments and hold her hand and pet her head while some stranger sticks their instruments and their hands into her sacred body. Take time to make her feel appreciated for all she must go through. And that holds true if she needs to have diagnostics done for her breast care as well. (I recommend sonogram and/or thermogram over mammogram, just so you know.)

Certainly if your female partner actually becomes pregnant by you it is tantamount to providing unwavering support whether or not you choose to keep the pregnancy. If you opt for termination, I assure you that the emotional and possibly even the physical consequences of that procedure will be with your lady friend for many years to come. The very least you can do is to pay for the procedure, escort her to her clinic and doctor visits, and be very, very patient and understanding and supportive in the days and weeks and months to come. Help her afford a few days off work to recuperate. Do some stuff around the house so she doesn't feel pressured to resume all of her responsibilities. Give her time. Cook her a high protein meal. Brew her nourishing teas. Hold her when she cries, and hold her even if she doesn't cry and you both feel fully comfortable this was the right choice for you. Furthermore thank her for enduring the challenges of maintaining your reproductive agenda. Whether you want to believe it or not, this is harder on her than it is you.

And if you choose parenthood together, all the previous suggestions hold true, but multiply your involvement by the number of years you would like your child to thrive on the planet, and plan on carrying out your commitment to your child's mother that long as well.

Furthermore, work toward social and environmental changes that will do things like allot monies for healthcare so none are forced to pay so much to be well and to control and eventually eliminate gross environmental pollution to our air, soil and water that have caused a grave increase in infertility, miscarriage, birth defects, cancer, and the general health of us all.

Women's reproductive health is part of your life, guys. Seriously. And take care of yourselves, too. Learn what your reproductive system looks like on the inside, 'cause I know you done looked at that shit that hangs on the outside. What is your prostate gland, where is it, and what can you do to make sure it's healthy? It's worth figuring out. And eat well. Research and incorporate into your life beneficial herbs and supplements for your well-being. Get whatever routine check ups may be necessary for you. By no means am I a big proponent of going to the doctor just for the hell of it, in fact I usually recommend avoiding them, but seek out practitioners in whatever modalities seem supportive to you to assure that your hearts and circulatory systems are strong, your reproductive organs are thriving, and your emotional health is peak. It takes a strong man to stand by a strong woman, no shit. It takes a lot of patience and inner strength to excel in the challenges that relationships and parenthood can bring. And make sure that your exercise routine is a little more comprehensive than walking up a flight of stairs to work or pounding 40's and shaking your booty a little on Saturday nights. Yoga is not just for chicks and SNAG's, and there are a host of martial arts option that are cool, tough, and extremely beneficial to you physically and emotionally. And even just taking a walk with your sweetie gets that blood a-pumping enough to be good for you. Making love often is a great way to exercise together, too.

I'd like to rename the pap smear. Maybe we could call it the "Gentle View" procedure or the "Sacred Cellular Study." I could see that really changing everyone's attitude about routine gynecological care. As I once ranted in the Vagina Monologues, maybe we can also get some velvety covers for the metal stirrups so our feet don't freeze while they're flung up in the air, and definitely let's adopt a policy of ALWAYS warming the speculum prior to inserting it into anybody's warm, cozy yoni. And the next time you need to see a doc or nurse or midwife or clinic for routine care or even more so if you have a health concern, bring a friend. Bring a friend that is the same sex or not, bring your lover, your boyfriend, your girlfriend or partner. You ARE allowed supportive care in the exam room, remember it is YOUR body and YOUR experience, and you DO have autonomy over what happens to it. Having loving, caring support during a health check can help you cope with stress, help you remember to ask all the important questions, give you strength to refuse unnecessary or undesired treatments, and can ultimately help you heal better if you are ailing. We all deserve that care and support. Guys and girls, let's start giving that support to ourselves and to each other.

not abandoned

2006-06-10T13:26:00.000-04:00

I think about blogging everyday. So far the blogs I have missed writing (and you have missed reading) have included a beautiful depiction of the hip-hop world as exemplified by my experience at the KRS-One show, Stanley the Rottweiler: A lesson in my own gender prejudice, Tool at 5AM: the psychedelic culmination of my recent house party, and a letter to my lover's lover, just for starters. I may still write these blogs. But I just wanted to drop a quick line for anyone who cares to know that this blog is, albeit not frequently, still active.

Thanks for looking.

we're writing a book! (yes, us!)

2006-04-30T00:41:00.000-04:00

I think I would like to write a book.

This idea feels like it is a large improbability considering I can barely keep up on writing a blog post once a week, but I just spent the last two hours (literally) perusing items for sale on amazon.com, and you know, I believe I've got it in me.

What do you think? If I were to write a book, about what should I write it?

I'll tell you what. If you send me a note or a comment on a topic for my book, and I choose your topic, succeed in writing the book, and then manage to get my book published, I will mention you first in the acknowledgements, provide you with as many free copies of the book as you would like, make you dinner once a month for a year, and give you the first $100 of any profit I make.

I think this is a very generous offer, so get to work 99 monkeys, and I'll be your hundredth.

my life with the animals

2006-04-16T08:45:00.000-04:00

I dedicate this post to the devoted members of the Full Moon Farm rescue team, in particular Nancy Brown, and all others, all over who take care of animals as their life's work.

I am an animal person. As a little girl I was crrr-azy about horses. I longed for my own horse desperately, and in lieu of acually being able to keep an equine companion in our backyard in suburban Pittsburgh I submerged myself in stories of fictional horses' lives; I read all of the Black Stallion series and Marguerite Henry's Chincoteague pony and horse stories.

When I was fifteen the planets magically converged to allow me to have my first dog. As unexpected as it was at the time, my mother and my grandmother, with whom we then lived, both agreed that I could bring home this shepherd-husky puppy that some young man had found himself too busy to care for. There could have been no accident to this situation because that dog was my beloved Sierra, rest her blessed soul, who was my most darling and precious canine friend for 15 1/2 years, and about whom I could write pages of stories about our mutual love and devotion. I believe that dog may have saved my life because she was a child and a friend to me during the years of my most serious emotional hardship, providing unconditional love and a reason to live when at times nothing else seemed worthwhile. I miss her dearly.

As that young girl I always imagined that as an adult I would live out in the country on lots of land where I could keep my own veritable farm and rescue shelter. Turns out, that may well be where I am heading.

My sons (and their father, ahem) just recently found a stray rottweiler in Ohio and somehow managed to beg me into submission so that this big fella could come and stay here on our land. That brought my personal dog ownership to a total of three, and with the three other dogs belonging to tenants on my land, our grand total is six dogs on this 13 acres in Bat Cave. That's not too bad, right? That's over two acres per dog, much better than the days I was trying to keep three dogs in my downtown Asheville apartment years ago. Well, throw into the mix my three cats, the three cats that belong to the tenants next door, and our two snakes (well, I think we may be down to just one snake. It seems someone wriggled their way out of their tank this week and we haven't found him yet. But that is the way with owning this many animals. They come and they go...), the tank full of mice we keep to feed the snakes, and the mama hen and her 10 chicks we are expecting later this week, and now we've really got a little sanctuary thing rolling.

But it is so much work! Yesterday alone I spent $112 at the vet on medicine for dogs and another $100 at the hardware store on materials for the chicken coop. I don't have this kind of money! And the time investment is astronomical. Because the new rottweiler is having trouble getting along with some of the other dogs on the property I have had to keep him contained or on lead for his stay here, which means my life schedule is now dictated by dogs. I wake when they are ready to wake, which is usually just after sunrise. I am forced to schedule in walks as needed around my job and other obligations, and I don't sleep until I know everyone has been fed and watered and petted and securely bedded down for the night, then I go to sleep and dream about all of them, and wake to the sound of "Get up, Mommy!" yips in the morning and start it all over again. Oh, and then there is all of the shit shovelling, too. Sigh.

And yet it is so rewarding. When I see Aleksie, my new husky-shepherd puppy that we adopted out of rescue last year, running all over this mountain and sweetly adoring Lucy, my now aging 10 year old lab mix, and all the other dogs in her pack, my heart swells with joy. She is so beautiful and so happy, and I made this life possible for her. And despite the rottweiler's challenging disposition toward some of the other dogs, he is very loving to all of us humans, humble almost as if he knows the sacrifice we've made for him, and by the way I see that he is very good to Lucy and Aleksie with whom he shares his home, I believe his other animal aggression is rooted in his desire to protect us from the perceived threat these other dogs on his property pose to him. Plus, his stay here has forced me into a more active role, literally, with the dogs, as I am now obligated to get my butt out and walking every day so I can be sure that he is getting his exercise. This new walking plan has become a source of great adventure for the kids and me, and certainly has provided me with some much needed daily exercise.

And though my thoughts seem constantly dominated by who needs feeding what and when and whether there is enough money in the bank to get it, whose health is challenged and why and how to fix it, who has been out or needs to come in, and what time they are going to get me up tomorrow morning, I am feeling good. I am successfully juggling this crazy mess of animal responsiblity, and I am really grateful to some of the other people who have made that possible. This week I managed to cajole a friend into picking up an awesome, big, sturdy doghouse I found through the used newspaper from way the other side of town and delivering it all the way out to Bat Cave. Another friend, one of my tenants, picked up the chicken house in his truck and brought it home for me, and a third friend is on the schedule for pick up and delivery of an outdoor kennel enclosure that I also found used. Thanks to all of these folks, as they have saved me hundreds of dollars and have helped improve the life situation of a number of animals in the process. It takes a village to do EVERYTHING!

I don't know yet whether the rottweiler will be able to stay. He is a sweet boy and I would like to be able to continue to care for him, but this is new territory for me. I have never had a male dog, and I have never had a "difficult" dog before, so I am willing to give it my best attempt to see what comes of it. I suppose once he's neutered he may chill out a little bit, and I am even willing to give some sort of obedience training a try. I truly feel obligated. After checking out the NC rottweiler rescue website my commitment to him is galvanized. I checked the site to investigate what my options might be for safely pawning him off if we found him too difficult to deal with and what I found was a rescue operation in desperate need of MORE homes, MORE volunteers, MORE money and space and time. Duh! Is there any other kind of rescue? After viewing pages and pages of dogs in kill shelters in need of fostering before they reach their already scheduled execution date followed by pages of dogs that had been featured on the site then died anyhow because there aren't enough homes, I realized that the inconvenience this dog poses to me is nothing if it means I can save a life and keep another animal at my home thereby freeing up space for the rescue and other possible foster homes.

So here I am, sore from walking, tired from not sleeping enough, broke from buying food and medicine and shelter materials, and content. This is what I had always wanted, right? I pray it keeps going well. I pray we keep having enough. I pray the chickens don't break me, 'cause next year I wanna get goats! And maybe someday we will get horses. And llama. And alpaca...

I miss the wolfdogs at Full Moon Farm since I've been so busy taking care of my own brood, but my commitment to them is also solid. When we're not feeding, watering, and scooping poop here, my boys and I plan to try to go do it some there, too. To folks who aren't aware: wolfdogs and rottweilers are animals that are routinely killed in shelters without ever even being given the chance to get adopted, so I feel even more strongly about doing whatever small amount I can to help their plight. Of course there are other dogs and animals for whom this is true also, and there are many, many good causes to support human well-being on the planet also, so I figure do what your heart moves you to do. If you can alleviate any suffering on the planet at all, human or animal, then you have done good, loving work. Thanks.

P.S. I figured out how to insert links! Yay!

what the fuck is up with wahoo?

2006-04-05T08:53:00.000-04:00

So the most oddly synchronistic thing happened yesterday.

Backstory: My kids' father is from Cleveland, Ohio. He's a big sports fan, mostly football, but nevertheless I've been exposed to far more Brown's and Indian's events, history, and lore in this lifetime that I ever thought possible. Last week I was having a conversation with him and we got on the topic of the Cleveland Indians and I inquired about the current whereabouts of the infamous Chief Wahoo, the ugly and incredibly offensive team mascot who is a red-faced, big-nosed, half naked, loud, obnoxious Indian dude. My hope was that he had finally met a long overdue death and was no longer embarrassing the American Public by demonstrating clearly that we are, after all, the nasty bunch of self-centered, eurocentric, indigenous culture-hating bigots that we appear to be. (Hyperbole intended.)

A (their dad guy) told me that unfortunately one still runs into vestiges of the mascot's reign of terror, meaning that while his face appears occasionally on some sports insignia, the stadium at least no longer features him animated or alive. Progress, right? We had a long discussion about whether or not it was even appropriate for the baseball team to continue calling themselves Indians. I was leaning more toward the idea that it is not appropriate to name a sports team after a race of people (especially if the name you are using is not even the name that most clearly identifies that race respectfully), while he was leaning more toward the idea that as long as the race of people after whom the team is named are OK with it, then so be it. We both agreed wholeheartedly, though, that Wahoo was gross and unacceptable by anyone's standards.

That said, I want to make it clear that Chief Wahoo has not occupied my thoughts with any regularity in the last decade. I mostly did not think about his existence until I would become faced with his ugly mug again, and every time I was newly shocked that anyone ever could have thought it would be acceptable to publicly demonstrate their racial hatred in such a jovial manner. But then I would remember things like slavery, or the entire genocide of the Native american population, Apartheid in South Africa, the Holocaust, hell, the 1950's in America and be brought back to my senses. Of course we could make fun of a race of people whom we've already decimated, humiliated, and destroyed...it's our birthright! (Again, hyperbole intended. I recognize that when I say "we" I am perpetuating some sort of white guilt motif. I am well aware that it was not me, per se, who committed atrocities towards people of other races, in fact I have tried very hard to consciously respect people of other races in this lifetime, and I do not walk around lamenting the fact that I am indeed a white person. However, that does not change the fact that it was largely the portion of my ancestry that was light-skinned and European who did commit such atrocities. While I know that I am in no way responsible for their behavior, I sure want to acknowledge that they did behave reprehensibly, that I do not condone such behavior, and hope to do everything in my power not to perpetuate such racist and hateful acts in the future. Plus, I really like to shit talk on white people...we're such easy targets.)

So, lo and behold, yesterday morning I am taking a morning walk with my kids and dogs. It is a gorgeous and sunny day on our beloved mountain. The wind was crisp but the sky was wide and bright and we were enjoying each other's company, the exercise, the blessing of living in such a beautiful place when what to my wandering eye should appear but an unnaturally red blob on the ground before me. Suspiciously shaped, oddly familiar, it looked like a red foam finger. As I got closer I could read in bold, blue letters, "GO INDIANS!" I stepped toward it, picked it up from the ground and turned it over to find THAT HATED FACE staring back at me!!! What the fuck?! What the fuck is Chief Wahoo doing brazenly laying on the ground in the mountains of Bat Cave, North Carolina? What is going on here? Into what twilight zone episode have I just stepped?

For a moment it felt as if by simply mentioning his name that I had somehow summoned the unholy figure to my home.

So, I was inspired to write about it in part for the sheer absurdity of finding the Cleveland Indian's mascot whom I so despise laying face down on the ground a few hundred yards from my home so very far from Cleveland, OH, but also because I wanted to take this moment to ponder what the fuck we are doing as a species sometimes. How can we be so ignorant? Isn't it amazing how that question is applicable to almost everything we do in regard to our relationship with everything, including each other, on the planet?

But, when cities like Cleveland, however gradually, do make the effort to phase out offensive characters like Wahoo, it does feel like we are making some progress. We are, perhaps, evolving to recognize that at any given moment we, whoever that we may be, either humans in general (as opposed to animals or plants), or humans of a particular gender, humans of a particular color, humans of a particular religion, etc. are NOT so important that we can neglect to notice how our actions toward others affect them. At least I hope so.

I'm waxing conviluted...distracted by my life outside of the internet. Thanks for being there for me to share this weird story.

poem

2006-04-03T20:33:00.000-04:00

Last week there was a Poetix Lounge in Asheville, an event that has become one of my favorite outings. It's a gathering of local poets and DJ's mixing it up and inspiring each other by putting out there insightful words, groove-you music and a lot of passion. It has consistently proved to be a hotbed of raw talent and moving performances. I have been lucky to have been invited to participate in several of these events and last week I wrote a couple of new pieces specifically for this edition of the Lounge.

The theme was "gourmet soul food for thought" and I wrote this and am publishing it today in honor of my lovely sons' return home this weekend. I rejoice everytime they make it safely back by my side. Hallelujah!

at my breast

chunky little milk monkey with big eyes and fat legs
gazing up at my face, nipple on tongue
nipple stretched beyond reason by an eager mouth
sucking with the force of a rocket escaping the stratosphere

I feed you, body and soul
on my milky emulsion
on my heart strings and hope
on my love affair
larger than anything ever known

with every gulp you suck my essence into your gut
we are one
my love
I am you and you are me
you who grew in my temple's core
you who today are long and smart and
becoming adolescently independent

I feed you still
hours upon hours spent
shopping, washing, chopping, mixing, seasoning, cooking, serving
then over and over and over again
gone from my breast I am stretched beyond reason
to nourish from an external source
a bounty of wholesome ingredients
transformed by my love

nipples long and soft and low on my chest
breasts empty
everyday you grow taller
further from my arms
which open wider
everyday
to let you go
with your heart and your belly full
of me

two days in a row?

2006-03-21T00:33:00.000-05:00

No fucking way. I cheated. I just finished the other post an hour ago, then I sat here looking at naked girls on the internet for a while and figured I'd come back and say some more stuff. Yes, I was actually looking at naked girls on the internet. No, I am not impervious to my culture's weird fascination with pornography. Sorry.

Mostly what I wanted to say is that I am striving towards some discipline, and I find it delightfully ironic that I chose to divulge my temporary porn indulgence at the beginning of my post on discipline. What the hell kind of feminist am I? The voyeuristic, bisexual kind! But truthfully, I don't look at porn all that often...

Anyhow, the week before last I went outside and stretched and took a vigorous walk 5 DAYS IN A ROW. It was a feat. Last week, I walked twice. This week zero, but I have posted to my blog twice. Last week I exercised. This week I blogged. Hey, hey! In a perfect universe there would be ample time for exercise and blogging all in one day. Or if I were as hardcore as Bored Housewife, I might pull off both. She even goes to the fucking gym. (see her blog, just do a google search since I am apparently too stupid to post links in my blog.)

Alas, I am neither a housewife nor bored, though honestly I don't think she is either. And she even posts braless and half-nekkid pictures of herself on her blog. So we've come full circle...back to the naked girls on the internet!!!

I'll let you know on the day I blog and exercise and don't eat sugar or wheat or look at pornography. We'll have us a healthy, little party with no sex and no desserts, mmmhmmm.

snowy, rainy monday morning: the first day of spring...for alan

2006-03-20T23:13:00.000-05:00

Today, for the first time ever, I was chastised for not updating my blog more often. Granted, it was my children's father who did the chastising and I am sure he did it more because he desired a reason to chastise me than that he so missed reading my ramblings, but it was all the prompting I needed. Trust me, I was already chastising myself plenty for not writing sooner.

You see, it’s not so much that I haven’t written anything, I just haven’t made it a point to write it here. Just this morning I was driven to ranting after receiving a well-intended e-mail forward. Meant simply to remind us to not blow our tops when faced with life’s little frustrations, the content of this message instead set me on the path of exploring the deeper meanings of what it means to be alive and believe in god.

This e-mail was simply titled “Divinity,” and here is how it read:

As you might know, the head of a company survived 9/11 because his son started kindergarten.

Another fellow was alive because it was his turn to bring donuts.

One woman was late because her alarm clock didn't go off in time.

One was late because of being stuck on the NJ Turnpike because of an auto accident.

One of them missed his bus.

One spilled food on her clothes and had to take time to change.

One's car wouldn't start.

One went back to answer the telephone.

One had a child that dawdled and didn't get ready as soon as he should have.

One couldn't get a taxi.

The one that struck me was the man who put on a new pair of shoes that morning, took the various means to get to work, but before he got there, he developed a blister on his foot. He stopped at a drugstore to buy a Band-Aid. That is why he is alive today.

Now when I am stuck in traffic, miss an elevator, turn back to answer a ringing telephone…all the little things that annoy me...I think to myself: this is exactly where Divinity wants me to be at this very moment!

Next time your morning seems to be going wrong, the children are slow getting dressed, you can't seem to find the car keys, you hit every traffic light... don't get mad or frustrated;
Divinity is at work watching over you.

May Divinity continue to bless you with all those annoying little things and may you remember their possible purpose.

And this was my response:

While this is a lovely sentiment and I appreciate you sending it on, it feels to me like a good opportunity to explore the idea of divinity, however you choose to define *what* is *divine.*

If we believe that it is true that some divine force intervened the morning of 9/11 to save a handful of ordinary folk by fairly pedantic means then what does that suggest divinity had up its sleeve for the thousands of other folks that morning who were consumed by flames, crushed under tons of fallen high rise infrastructure, or had to choose between one of those possible fates or leaping 100 stories to their inevitable doom on the concrete below? Were the people that died the sinners? Were the people that were saved some sort of saints pre-ordained to continue to walk their days on planet earth doing good unto others? Was there a karmic drama unfolding that morning in which those who had somehow done "right" in this lifetime or the previous being rewarded for their good behavior, while those who had erred were forced to face the consequence on this spin around the globe?

Personally, I think not. The idea that some divine force will step in mysteriously just at the critical moment to take care of you when you least expect it can be comforting, but it is false, and it is unfair to the rest of the world that is left suffering staggering losses at the hands of war, crime, disease, natural disaster, accident, or intention because what does that tell THEM about the nature of the divine? It is also a strictly western notion based in the concept of duality: there is good and there is bad; there is right and there is wrong; there is light and there is dark, and so on.

If I choose to believe that there is some divine will gently guiding the hand of how each day unfolds for me and the rest of the planet, and I do make the choice to believe that, then I find myself in the position of wanting to believe that everything that happens, however "good" or "bad" is all meant to be in the universal scheme of things. In those moments when I am stuck in traffic or nursing a blister or wrestling with a struggling child hell-bent on wrecking my schedule for the day I find greater peace in knowing that whether that minor incident somehow kept me from a derailing train or massive car accident or act of terror or was precisely the thing that put me in harm’s way that that is simply the tune of my life at that moment. I might hear it as a good song, and you might think that the melody of my day is depressing or boring or poorly played. It is subjective. All of our experiences are subjective; it is we who apply judgment to each experience and interpret it as a "good" experience or a "bad" experience.

And while I also think that it is nearly impossible to escape the pattern of judging and interpreting our experiences so subjectively, I have found that I have greater compassion for myself and others by accepting that we are all, every minute precisely where we need to be whether that means we are suffering from cancer, enjoying successful relationships, dying in car crashes, purchasing our dream home, burning down rainforests, feeding the poor, voting for Bush, or wiping the brow of a child sick with AIDS. That does not mean that my goal in this lifetime is not to ease suffering whenever possible, to work for justice and human rights and animal rights, and it certainly does not mean that I do not get angry when I see others taking actions that I think are harmful and that I do not feel pain when I suffer a loss and that I do not get frustrated when my life feels like it is going nowhere. It simply means that when I have the clarity of mind to take an emotional step back and review my life and life in general that I work very hard at being fine with what I see. It is a tool that has served me well in being able to continue to live and to thrive despite the suffering others and I experience.

So this morning while I am awake too early feeling the discomfort of my body's struggle to breathe through asthmatic bronchioles and to fight off an ongoing viral infection not knowing how to pay my bills this week and dreading the bounced check fees, I am surrounded by delightful beauty as the hazy, early spring sunlight makes its way over the mountain ridge to the east and my gorgeous sons sleep contentedly dreaming of the basket of goodies the imaginary bunny has delivered for them to celebrate the vernal equinox on this day. I am grateful for my bounty of love and life and land as tenuous as it sometimes seems, and I am trying to be grateful for whatever purpose it serves to be physically ill so often and constantly working to make sure there are enough dollars in the bank to meet all the required expenditures. And I am grateful that some lives were spared the morning of 9/11 and trying to be grateful that sometimes lives are taken from us unexpectedly and unpleasantly for apparently no good reason at all. I am trying to believe that no matter where I am and what is happening that it is an acceptable experience in the realm of this lifetime. I am trying to be.

I am grateful to have you all with whom to share my thoughts, also, and I hope that your subjective experiences wax pleasant today. Another blessed spring arrives.

My addendum:
The theme song for this post is “Family Snapshot” by Peter Gabriel. What a gift to be able to create a musical moment that sounds and feels so much like a love song, but is actually the story of an assassin moving in for the kill. Love and murder, sometimes flip sides of the same coin, and this song such an eloquent example of my point.

P.P.S. Another friend responded to the original "Divinity" e-mail to say that his favorite how-I-avoided-death-on-9/11 story came from a man, now divorced, who fielded his wife's panicked phone call on his cell phone from his mistress's bed the morning of the event, and hushed her, "Don't worry, honey, I'm fine...I'm here at my office." Divinity (and debauchery) at work, indeed.

not dying

2006-02-26T21:41:00.001-05:00

I am not dying, though I feel as if I could be, find myself fantasizing about the benefits of my life ending. Don't be scared, I am in no danger. Having spent as many years of my life courting the idea of suicide as I did, I assure you I know the difference between justifiable sadness and a dangerous, depressive state.

Those of you who have not known me for many years might find it hard to believe that your ever-loving, uber-mama friend suffered under the weight of an agonizing depression for many years prior to my current ebullient nature, but it's true. I did. But perhaps you've rightfully caught glimpses of that edgy undercurrent to my personality, of that darkgoddess-worshipping side of me that wants to lurk in cemeteries late at night so as to be closer to those have passed from this incarnation. It's still there. My work is to keep that side at bay now that I've healed, now that I've actively chosen to live my life and not wish it away for the suffering it involves.

I am fucking sad right now. I have been all but wallowing in the pain of lost love, of abandoned friendships, of unkept promises, of deserted dreams for days now. I ache. I yearn. Today I can hardly say three sentences without crying. I did find myself having an ugly suicide fantasy for a moment there, but I caught myself, righted myself. That is not what I want. My untimely death at my own hand is NOT one of the outcomes for my life (or my children's lives) that I consider acceptable. The act of imagining my own death now is like going out and trying to rekindle a flame with a highschool sweetheart; at one time that relationship held significance, provided a sense of comfort, but now it is grossly inappropriate, gangly, awkward, and immature.

Therein lies the challenge, dear readers. I have suffered plenty and worked hard to come to terms with the role of suffering in life so as not to be waylaid when it inevitably cycles 'round to visit again. I strive for wellness, for love, for life, for acceptance, compassion, understanding, enthusiasm. I spend countless hours in counsel with many dear friends and family members trying to help them attain a level of comfort with their own pain, and now I am called once again to face the spectre of my own suffering and be OK with it, and I am finding it a difficult task. I do not lament it, nor do I fear it, I am simply wearied by it. I feel too tired to do anything but feel.

I imagine that is my lesson. To accept suffering, to cease to judge any of life's experiences as more valid, more worthy than any other is hard work, is ongoing work that it is foolish to expect will end anytime before my life does draw to a close. I must accept this process, work with it, grow from it just as I have done before, just as I will do again. It's a cycle, it's a spiral, it's a circle our lives are unfolding upon. I have been here before, I will be here again, and I will have the opportunity to greet all points along the way over and over again in this lifetime and the next...it's existential poppycock, it's buddhist rigamarole, it is all and nothing and back again. Sigh. And I am still exhausted.

Right now I would like a little ease. I'm feeling attached to the idea of some comfort, some predictability and stability, some reciprocity for all the good love I put out there. Ahh... there it is. I felt it. As I write, the music got just right, so sweet just now- the fire is blazing, the lights are low, the babies are safe upstairs enjoying themselves and everything is, briefly, just is.

And it's gone. And it will be back and it will go and it will be back and it will go and it will be back and it will go. And I find myself grateful for the opportunity to live every minute of it rather than dreading it and wishing myself away. It is all so massive and insignificant and lovely and horrible at once. I have come this far.

dre-e-e-e-eams, dreams, dreams, dreams

2006-02-26T15:00:00.000-05:00

I kissed G to wake him up this morning. He mumbled, " I don't like Eris."

"You don't like Eris?" I questioned thinking of the little girl who used to be in our homeschool group.

Getting my meaning he responded, still groggy, "Yeah, the goddess. I don't like Eris. I had a dream she was trying to destruct everything. I kept destroying her machines that were trying to make the monster things go back to life. She kept trying to turn people into stuff. Ferrets and stuff. She was trying to turn L into a ferret. He had a ferret spine and a whole bunch of hair growing up his back to his head."

L interjects, "You didn't try to save me?!"

"I tried!" G says, "I tried like three times but I couldn't stop her."

"What did Eris look like?" I query.

"A blue lady. Her hair was long and black. I think she was wearing her hair."

"Was she pretty?" I wondered.

G says, "Not to my extent. And she certainly was not summoning things that were pretty."

To my extent, that was a pretty cool dream.

homeschoolin'!

2006-02-22T00:58:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago L was working on writing something, perhaps an e-mail, and I said to him, "You know, you're old enough now that you really need to be focusing on correct punctuation when you write."

He replied, "Punctuation? What's that, like dots and stuff?"

Yeah, dots and stuff. What a stellar homeschooling moment.

Homeschool music class sounds something like this:
(in the car, "Iron Man" blares from the speakers)
"Hey you guys! Who's this?"

"Black Sabbath?"

"Yay!"

The first time L answered the Black Sabbath homeschool quiz correctly he was about 4 years old.

Lately G has been getting into more music. He has pretty eclectic tastes, like his mom. He loves soul music, and he has an entire 60's soul box set from his dad to which we listen whenever it's his turn to choose the music. Then, yesterday he made me play "The Christians and the Pagans" by Dar Williams twice in a row because he liked it so much. And I made a mix CD for Solstice with this Anti-con/Bjork remix on it that's all moody and breaky and hip hop and such, and he told me that was his favorite song on the mix. He said, "I like that song that starts out really simple, and they keep adding more and more to it." And, he likes trance.

Dear heavens, they are by far the most wonderful people on the planet. I love them so much, they make EVERYTHING worthwhile. As much as I respect those of you who choose not to breed, I must say, I cannot begin to imagine how my life would seem worth living without my children. They are quintessential. They are love incarnate, embodied, realized. They are pure, they are truth, they are the point. It is no wonder I want more of them. How could I turn away the possibility of exponentially increasing the amount of love in my home, in my family, in the world? I cannot resist the lure of more blessings with whom to share my meager life. I live in constant gratitude that my days are graced by these offspring of mine.

For their breakfast this morning I made a lovely quiche from a large, fresh, green emu egg. Does life get any better than this?

incontinence diaries

2006-02-07T21:27:00.000-05:00

Right now, I don't feel good enough. Good enough for what I do not know, just not "good enough."

I feel like I'm not doing enough. How not Zen is that? I think that's why I'm writing right now. I mean, my sister wrote at least three blog entries in the last couple weeks and at least one of them was so fucking brilliant it actually made me feel insecure that she is smarter than I am. Who cares if she is smarter than I am? That's great, she's my sister, I WANT her to be brilliant. Nevertheless, the motivating force that is currently illuminating my future corpse felt threatened by the perceived loss of my imagined throne of brightest childom.

I don't exercise enough. I feel a great deal of guilt over that. Again, a self-imposed judgement that is unnecessary and certainly doesn't help motivate me to exercise more. But whenever I'm curled warmly in bed or making breakfast or sitting in front of the computer for the 10th or 11th hour of the day (I know!), I'm feeling guilty that I don't wake up early and do yoga or take a walk in the mountain paradise outside my front door. Meanwhile, I'm only hurting myself by not doing those things, but then I'm hurting myself worse by indulging in the absurd phenomenon of guilt that arises due to my lack of a disciplined exercise regime.

And now I feel guilty because I know what I'm writing is total shit. Nobody wants to read my fat girl confessional. What makes me think anyone is reading this? What do I care if they are? Furthermore, what do I care if they like what they're reading? I'm not holding a gun to anybody's head and insisting they stay current with my blog. Am I writing it for me or them? I read a lot of other people's blogs and I do get a lot out of it, but most of them, my brilliant sister included, insist they are writing for themselves. Oh yeah, well if you are what happened to your journal, OK? Remember the little books that we all used to keep in which to write our innermost thoughts? Now we air our dirty laundry for all the world to see and smell and rate and upon which to comment. Maybe it is better for us, poorer for everybody else, 'cause now your nose is full of the stink of my bad day, and hey, I feel a little more pure now that I purged my unsavory emotions onto your computer screen.

I'm sure the end of the day drag I'm experiencing is also exacerbated by the money trauma. Again, there's more guilt for me to feel 'cause today I didn't work enough hours, I didn't make enough money, and how could I even dare to consider cutting out of work early with the insane amount of debt I'm carrying? And then I didn't even do anything really productive like exercise or write brilliant blog entries with my unsalaried time. Moments like this I harbor no doubt that the puritans certainly did a number on America when even a godless heathen like myself is forced to self flagellate every time I have a somehow less than pious day not nearly full enough of productive work and righteous activity. And again when I write rambling, run-on sentences like the previous. Or sentence fragments, such as these two.

Give it up, Jus. Pack it in. Call it day. It obviously ain't getting any better from here. I guess it's time to go bathe away the day's sins and the uncomfortable dampness sullying my panties 'cause my PC muscles just aren't what they were before I had kids, all the more confirming my profound personal undeservedness.

Goddamn, I did just say that, publicly, to whomever may be paying attention.

imbolc

2006-02-02T23:39:00.000-05:00

Blessings on this day, the turning of the wheel, the cleansing, the shifting, the quickening.

All week I have been in this zone, the time of the returning light, the promise of spring, the clearing away of the dust accumulated through the winter dark, too much darkness to see our way to clean. At my house I heat with wood, so it actually happens that my house gets EXTREMELY dusty in the winter time, and by spring I've GOT to dust every surface, shake out the cobwebs, shower every dull, dry houseplant.

Today, February 2nd, is solar Imbolc, Sunday was lunar Imbolc, the new moon in Aquarius, so my kids and I cleaned, dusted and updated every altar in the house, sprayed every room with an essential oil mist "energized" by salt water soaked crystal pieces. How very hippie! How fun! Everything fucking sparkled by the time we were done. It felt really good. Scoff if you like, but our home defintiely felt as if an energetic shift had taken place.

Two years ago today I sat in the tattoo shop adding fresh, green leaf growth to my bear tattoo, the one I wear in memorial of the baby I lost, the one I had inscribed to my body five years earlier, seven years ago today. I chose Imbolc for the application of that original work because it is the holiday the marks the slow transition of the return of the light, and though I still suffered immensely at that point, light had begun to grow on the horizon of my life. I chose to add growing, green leaves two years ago because my sweet friend who had fathered that lost baby and I were beginning to make a life together. And much in the same way that the new segment of my tattoo was halted in its progress by an unexpected turn of circumstances, leaving me still bearing an unfinished, partial work of art on my arm, so my relationship with that friend came to a screeching halt later that same year when we both succumbed to very unexpected changes in our circumstances, and now that relationship dwells in my heart and my soul waiting for some completion, some evolution or some closure.

Hmmm. I actually never thought about that till I just wrote that right this minute. I think it's high time I get this tattoo taken care of. If spritzing some crystal water around my house can make way for energetic change in my home environment, then I feel damn sure that completing the work of art etched into my very skin could propel some shift in the nature of the relationship it symbolizes.

Cool. I like getting tattooed.

And I love that man. My intention is still with him. He would never read this to know that, but it is, bless us both.

it sounds good and solid up here

2006-01-09T13:18:00.000-05:00

I live in an interesting extended family situation in which another family very dear to mine lives in a house right next door to us on the same property. We share meals and childcare and joys and worries.

A week ago, my friend and neighbor’s 96 year-old grandmother came to live in her family’s house so close to my family’s house. She had been confined to a nursing home after a long stay in a hospital following an accident where she fell, then lay in spilled bleach on the floor till she was found many hours later, resulting in severe chemical burns on a large portion of her body. She was not expected to live.

Yet this resilient, wizened, little, Cherokee woman made it. She is still alive, her wounds now mostly healed. Since that time there has been much family debate about the safest, healthiest place for her recovery and her opportunity to live the remainder of her days, however few or many may be left. My friend gallantly volunteered to keep grandmother at home with her and her family.

And so she arrived, one day before her 96th birthday on New Year’s Eve. On the day of her arrival I entered the house next door, warmed and cleaned and full of the workings of caring for life: fresh food, nourishing tea, clean washcloths, soft bedclothes, new blankets, gentle soaps for the washing of delicate skin. I was struck, for not only was I familiar with the trappings of this type of caretaking, but I was at home immediately with the intensity of the energy in the room. Having attended many homebirths over the last several years I have come to know the feeling of the gate between the worlds being parted, of a particular energetic channel being open in a space in which life is about to pass through that channel. Here it was again, only the life that will be passing when her time comes will be leaving our earthly realm rather than entering it.

Today I sit with another friend, greatly pregnant with her first child. Her labor has begun, a slow tide flowing in, just beginning to rock her body with those great waves of power that will open her body and allow her child through her and will simultaneously teach her strength, patience, endurance, and humility. She was up for most of the night though this process is still in its beginning stages, and this morning when I woke I cleaned her house, fed her breakfast, held her hand in the bath, and now I’ve tucked her back into bed.

My work today is the same work that my neighbor has been doing with her grandmother this last week. It is the work of life and of death. It is the work of labor and of a transition in our life process. I do not know how many hours or days my friend will labor to bring forth her new child, and I do not know how many days or weeks, or months, or even years the 96 year-old grandmother will labor to come to the end of her life, but I do know that the work each of them is doing is not so removed from the other. I do know that when the gate between the worlds is open and the veil between this realm and other realms is thin that it is the same opening for each process, for the entering and the exiting of life. Both crossings are sacred, holy, beautiful, and whole.

The work of aiding those who are in the throes of life’s transition is not always easy work, but it is to be cherished. I am sure that my friend has spent her morning feeding, tending to, and cleaning the body of her grandmother. I am sure that as today wears on we will each have the opportunity to wipe the most private and delicate folds of the bodies of the women we serve, to do away with the fluids and the wastes that bodies give up but cannot be tended to by these woman as they move through the work of their labors. We will each be surrounded by washcloths and disposable underpads and cups full of tea and juice with straws sticking out of them so they can be put to the lips of the woman who needs a drink but cannot reach for it herself.

And amidst the trivial details of these incredibly significant processes we are all surrounded by the immensity of the energy, of the mystical vortex of opening, of change, of the moving of life forces that may sound cliché, but I assure you is real. It is palpable. It is as tangible as the subtle thump of the fetus hiccupping against his mother’s abdominal wall, as delicately visceral as the waxy, blue-veined thinness of the skin on grandmother’s hand in your own.

When the grandmother who is blind arrived on our mountain and was settled into her new bed in her warm house surrounded by loving family, she said, “Sounds good and solid up here, doesn’t it?” She who can no longer see with her eyes could hear that she had moved into surroundings that are safe and stable.

On a different mountain where I now sit, I can hear the fire gently consuming the wood in the stove. I hear the quiet, sweet music the coming child’s father has playing for the pleasure of the laboring mother. I occasionally hear the mother’s deepened breaths, her groans of discomfort as the birth tide makes its way through her body. It sounds good and solid up here, too.

uh-oh

2006-01-03T01:12:00.000-05:00

I had no idea that there were 978 million blogs to read. And that so many people read so many of them. It makes me feel oddly insignificant and included all at the same time.

I want to write more. Not for your sake, dear reader, because honestly I think my mom is the only person reading this, but for mine. I want to write more and more and more and more. It feels so good.

I don't do New Year's resolutions, but I was reading this blog tonight, Gone Feral, (which I cannot create a link to because apparently I am more stupid than the 978 million other bloggers out there and haven't figured out how...) by a wild mom and she wrote "motherfucker" in her blog a lot, and I thought, "I love that word." I have mixed feelings about that word because I suspect its etymology is quite dubious, however, I have ALWAYS liked the sound of it, always. It so hardcore. So I thought maybe I would resolve to just go ahead and use "motherfucker" a little more proactively in my life, and, hell, in my blog, too.

Why not, motherfucker?

If we can reclaim "cunt" and "bitch" and "dyke" and "queer" and so on, why can't I reclaim "motherfucker"? I mean, I happen to know a lot of motherfuckers and I really like some them. And I REALLY, REALLY like some of them....

It's not such a big leap for me. I am notorious in close social circles for my use of the word "fuck." I am one of those people who utilizes that word quite universally. In my book it is certainly a noun, an adjective, an adverb, and for sure a verb. Now my 10 year old says it with a regularity with which I'm not very comfortable, but I know it's my fault, so I have a hard time chastising him for it. My 12 year old, being the slightly more socially adept of the two, has at least adapted it and says "frickin'"instead, but he does say it all the time amongst any and all company.

Oh well. They are very nice boys, smart and cooperative. I'm pretty nice, too, and I fuckin' sound like a well-educated trucker most of the time. I guess it's acceptable. Whatever.

They're out of town. I'll write more.

ridiculously mighty

2005-12-26T18:39:00.000-05:00

Apparently if you hold all three Egyptian God cards in your Yu-Gi-Oh deck then that is truly an unfair advantage against your opponents because then you will be "ridiculously mighty."

Or so I am told by sources pretty close to home.

Ridiculously mighty.

Just had to put it in print one more time....

kid words

2005-12-19T23:40:00.000-05:00

G is 10, and he says "shring" instead of "string."

L is almost 12 and very precocious and alarmingly adept verbally, and he says "figger" instead of "figure."

And I love it.

My heart broke the day G started calling L "Brother" instead of "Bruvver."

I will cling greedily to every last vestige of their boyhoods, forever.

breath

2005-12-07T19:21:00.000-05:00

Even as I write this I sit here with a nebulizer in my mouth. A nebulizer, a little machine with a pump and some tubing and a mouthpiece that aerates liquid medicine to go into my lungs and make them shut the hell up.

I can’t even tell if this is working.

I’m not the big medication sort. I hate it, actually, but when faced with the choice of death or breath, I’m taking the drugs. I really want to be here in this world, in this body, in this life. Yes, I want even this life with all of its woes and worries. I want even this body with all of its stretch marks, shortcomings, and imperfections. I love everything, remember?

This breathlessness began during the fall of my first pregnancy over twelve years ago. I’d experienced some hay fever prior to that, but nothing like the wheezing that had begun to bother me.

In the ensuing twelve years I have cried, prayed, used herbs of all sorts, taken homeopathic remedies, seen therapists, received acupuncture treatments, and hoped, and hoped, and hoped that this would let up. Instead, it’s only gotten worse. And now, I take more and more drugs: steroids, beta-antagonist blockers, leuketriene inhibitors, things that suppress my immune system, make my hands shake like an early morning alcoholic, can have dangerous side-effects.

I have studied the correlation between lung problems and suppressed grief. It’s a connection recognized in several major healing modalities. I have certainly experienced grief in my life, more than some, less than others, I’m sure. But I certainly don’t feel as though I’m suppressing ANYTHING at this point. I let it all hang out. I speak my truth, loudly, much to everyone’s dismay sometimes. I weep unabashedly; I write enthusiastically, I dance earth-poundingly. I do not hold anything back. Repression isn’t my thing. There sure is plenty to feel grief about, but I am feeling it, not squirreling it away to lurk deviantly and destructively in the recesses of my alveoli.

In all fairness, I have to say that I live in one of the most beautiful and the most polluted places in America. The air in western North Carolina is rated amongst the worst in quality in the country. A murky haze that has steadily grown thicker and more ugly each year mucks up our beautiful mountain views and causes rates of childhood asthma and adult asthma related deaths to increase every year. I may be a victim of our ongoing environmental onslaught of all things pure and healthy.

But I hope not. I actually have hope, still, quite a lot of it. I have somehow managed to maintain hope for me, for the air, for the earth, for the water. I wrote myself an affirmation:

My lungs are light and air-filled, loose and comfortable, well oxygenated and pink. They remain constantly open for the breath of life and constantly relaxed even during duress. Though my body recognizes it is living in a toxic time on precious earth, it is strong enough to deal with even the most potent poisons and continues to function fully well so that I may work hard to eradicate the risk of toxicity for all.

So mote it be.

Ursula

2005-11-28T11:17:00.000-05:00

Seven years ago today after 24 hours of labor in the darkest hours of morning I miscarried a baby. My sons were 3 and 4 years old, I had just returned to college that semester, and their father and I had been separated for a year. It was not an ideal time to have another baby. Furthermore, the man by whom I was pregnant was a raging drug addict whom I loved very much, but who had no capacity to love me and didn’t want me, or anyone ever, to be pregnant with his child.

And yet, I was happy. Hell, I was downright courageous. I was going to have that baby, and I was going to make a good life for all three of my kids, and even if we were poor, we would have had a lot more love than some people ever know. Of this I was sure. So I loved that little bundle of cells growing in my belly fiercely. I invoked all the bear mama energy I could. No one or nothing, no negative thoughts or nay saying would keep me from my mothering of another child, for that is the thing I do best.

I sang to my tiny baby, sang songs of love and devotion, sang Sinead O’Connor’s “Three Babies” over and over again. I wrote to her, I prayed to her. But this pregnancy felt different. I had a hard time connecting with this baby. With each of my other pregnancies I could feel my baby, not just as a physical presence in my body, but as a spiritual identity, as another personality interacting in my psychic space. This baby seemed lost.

I understood why a spirit approaching this reality could have felt daunted. With all of the challenges I faced with this pregnancy the idea of it had not been well embraced by all of my community, and this approaching child was not being made to feel particularly welcome by her father and his community either. So I pleaded with her. My journal from that time period is full of entries in which I ask, “Where are you? Why can’t I feel you? Are you really coming?” and in which I say, “ I love you. I want you. I’ll do anything for you. I will make your life good, I promise you.”

She heard me. But she had to go.

But oh! She went dragging my heartstrings behind. I thought I would die. I wanted to die. I wanted to lie in my bed and slowly let every last bit of my life force bleed from between my legs. The only things that kept me tethered to this reality were the sweet little boys of mine who made it. I knew I could never leave them behind for a phantom child who had only ever lived in the ethers. I also knew that my pain over the loss of this baby was more acute, more devastating because the little boys staring at their sad mommy in confusion and sympathy were what made the lost baby so real to me. In their warm, soft bodies I could feel tangibly what was lost to me. I was in agony.

In the months following my miscarriage I processed my experience in the way that makes the most sense to me. I studied it. I analyzed it. I researched it. I found that I was not alone. Millions of women miscarry babies. It is not an uncommon occurrence. But even more importantly, millions of women also grieve for their lost babies. In a culture in which death and dying are things we do on TV or that happen in far away lands, but not things we acknowledge or embrace, nobody wants to hear a woman mourn a child that was never even born. No one wants to feel your pain, so instead they greet you with nonsense, cliché sayings. “It was meant to be. At least you have healthy children. You can try again. It wasn’t good timing anyhow. There must have been something wrong with it. All things happen for a reason.”

I didn’t need any of that. I needed only for people to recognize that I hurt. Whether they could understand it or not, I had experienced a loss. I needed the space to grieve and the time to heal, which I have done.

In the ensuing years I have been able to look at my loss more objectively. I know other women who have lost babies. My dear friend just lost her 6th baby two months ago. I have known women whose babies died much later in their pregnancies or were stillborn. Another friend lost her only son just before his 7th birthday (and she didn’t make it, she took her own life within 6 months of the accident). During my midwifery internship in Jamaica I lived in a world in which women lose pregnancies, lose babies, lose children as a matter of fact in the course of their lives. Witnessing these losses made me question whether it was valid for me to have mourned so hard for a baby lost in the first trimester, whether it made sense that I would have experienced so much pain upon losing just one baby who was with me so briefly. I cannot say how I would handle a similar loss today. I think the gift of that lost baby was the catharsis of my grief process. I had been hurting and sad for many reasons for many years prior to that loss, and once I made it through the worst of my sorrow and depression following that miscarriage, I have never experienced that level of despair again. Gratefully.

Today in honoring the anniversary of the loss of this child I am more wistful, more wishing than sad. I have never been pregnant again and I still deeply long to carry a child in my belly and to bring that baby forth into my loving community and into the fold with my now more grown sons. I wonder who this person would have been. I have no way of knowing whether that baby was a girl, but we all felt she was. I guess I hoped she was, blessed as I am with only boys. When the fierce mama bear rose up inside of me to protect this little spirit I knew then that she was my little bear cub. My Ursula, my little bear. I had played with her name while she still lived in my belly and thought perhaps she would be Ursula Twilight, but instead she came just as night was breaking into morning, and so she is instead Ursula Dawn. I have a tattoo of a red bear in the sunrise on my left shoulder commemorating her. Now I permanently wear my heart on my sleeve.

Today in honoring the loss of this child I am thinking of her father whom many years later did come to love me. We are so close now, love each other so deeply, and I believe that closeness truly began to develop while I lay in my bed bleeding, fearing the inevitable loss before me when he came to sit by my side and rest his hand for the first and only time on my belly, and later when we walked together to the cemetery and laid to rest in the sacred ground the tiny unformed body and placenta and birth blood of our child, and earlier when our genetic coding and our DNA combined in one entity however short lived. And today he is no longer a drug addict. With 13 months clean behind him he still faces every day the challenges of learning to live his life fully present, fully willing. But he is still so scared to bring forth another life on the planet, is still so unsure that he will ever have the skills to commit himself to partnership with me or anyone, let alone to fatherhood.

Today I hope that he will give birth to himself and find the love he needs for us to bring our love to fruition and perhaps together to give birth to our love in another body.

Three Babies
(Sinead O'Connor)

Each of these
My three babies
I will carry with me
For myself
I ask no one else will be
Mother to these three
And of course
I'm like a wild horse
But there's no other way I could be
Water and feed
Are not tools that I need
For the thing that I've chosen to be

In my soul
My blood and my bones
I have wrapped your cold bodies around me
The face on you
The smell of you
Will always be with me

Each of these
My three babies
I am not willing to leave
Though I tried
I blasphemed and denied
I know they will be returned to me
Each of these
My babies
Have brought you closer to me
No longer mad like a horse
I'm still wild but not lost
From the thing that I've chosen to be

And it's `cause you've thrilled me
Silenced me
Stilled me
Proved things I never believed
The face on you
The smell of you
Will always be with me

Each of these
My three babies
I will carry with me
For myself
I ask no one else will be
Mother to these three

what is love?

2005-11-22T23:08:00.000-05:00

I realized shortly after I began this endeavor that some of what I might want to write about I couldn’t since I told all of my friends and family my blog address and sign it with my name. I am sure I am not the first person to have this dilemma. I might start another blog and not tell them all about it. Again, I am sure many folks out there have anonymous blogs in which they exhaust their exhibitionist tendencies to share their deeper secrets and more risqué experiences without fear of those who need not know finding out information never meant for them.

I feel like that’s the kind of stuff I want to write about now. I wonder, who’s REALLY paying attention? If my kids’ dad is I might not feel could speak freely. As much as he’d hate for me to put him in the same category with Alan, I have to say if Mike, with whom I share an extremely complicated and non-traditional life partnership situation, were reading I’d be hesitant to speak my experiences openly, but for very different reasons. I trust I could say anything to my mom at this point and she would respect my choices and decisions. Since my adulthood she has developed a profoundly blind faith in me, which works for me. Thanks, Mom.

Today my friend told me she looked up polyamory after reading that that was something I might write more about. I felt slightly defensive, but only slightly really, because I feel so at peace with the reality that I love more than one person at a time. And just to qualify this, that doesn’t mean I am sleeping with more than one person at a time although I have in the past and may in the future. Right now it’s about the breathtaking expansion of my ability to love many while exploring the possibility of sharing my life with just one. Whether it makes sense to everyone or not I feel capable of loving in a very big way more than one person at a time. Or more than 2 people at a time. Right now I feel like I’m on the verge of loving more than 4 people simultaneously. Big, big love I’m talking about. Yes, romantic love, possibly the love of partnership.

I spend a lot time evaluating within myself whether or not this is actually true, whether it really is love that I feel for these different people. I fear it could be instead a desperate search for validation, some kind of dying to quench the incompleteness I feel out of a relationship, and that these needs are a result of some shortcoming of mine, the acting out of some neurosis born of childhood neglect or abuse. I feel really bold saying it so publicly like this. But I think I can be so bold with that theory because I am not afraid that that is what is going on. Just in case anyone was wondering, yeah, I’ve thought of it. Maybe the love I think is real isn’t.

However, I suspect that it is. For one thing, I don’t feel terribly incomplete being out of a relationship. I feel a little lonely and a little horny sometimes, but I have an outstanding community that reaches far and wide in which I feel well loved and appreciated and supported, and this meets the majority of my social needs. I do not feel that I am the desperate feminine yin side of the circle longing and craving for her masculine yang.

Also, it helps to have a definition of love with which to work. What is love? Oh, I’ve heard it sung in a thousand songs, seen it played in a thousand movies, and yet how do we as a culture actually define love? How do we personally? According to The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition, love, the noun, is “1. A deep, tender, ineffable feeling of affection and solicitude toward a person, such as that arising from kinship, recognition of attractive qualities, or a sense of underlying oneness.
or
2. A feeling of intense desire and attraction toward a person with whom one is disposed to make a pair; the emotion of sex and romance.”

Love is a feeling. That makes sense. Whereas, love, the verb, means
“1. To have a deep, tender, ineffable feeling of affection and solicitude toward (a person).
or
2. To have a feeling of intense desire and attraction toward (a person).”

OK. That makes sense, too. Love as a verb is the state of having the feeling of love. And yet, I suspect we are selling ourselves short. There are an awful lot of people out there with these feelings they define as love who are abysmally poor at expressing, living, or acting these feelings in a way that truly embodies the emotion. But, since we as a culture do not apply a definition of love that expects or states what actions are involved with having the feeling of love we are all doing the best we can making up that aspect of things as we go along.

I really like a different definition of love. In her book “All About Love: New Visions” bell hooks makes a compelling case for our need to define love more actively thereby taking some of the mystery and fantasy out of the most necessary emotion and act on the planet. She writes:

“I spent years searching for a meaningful definition of the word “love” and I was deeply relieved when I found one in psychiatrist M. Scott Peck’s classic self-help book ‘The Road Less Traveled,’ first published in 1978. Echoing the work of Erich Fromm, he defines love as ‘the will to extend one's self for the purpose of nurturing one’s own or another’s spiritual growth.’ Explaining further, he continues: ‘Love is as love does. Love is an act of will—namely, both an intention and an action. Will also implies choice. We do not have to love. We choose to love.’ Since the choice must be made to nurture growth, this definition counters the more widely accepted assumption that we love instinctually.”

I like this definition because it is a definition that takes all the “I have no control over my feelings” punch out of the concept of love. People do not just fall in love with no will or intention or choice in the matter. There is no special chemical reaction that takes place between two people that equals love. That’s not to say that people do not have intense energetic, emotional, and perhaps chemical responses to each other, but that in and of itself is not love. Hell, in one of the worst, most emotionally devastating and unhealthy relationships I’ve ever been in we had consistent and profound experiences of that nature. But in retrospect I know for sure it was not love we were experiencing.

People certainly fall into feelings of affection for others and may find themselves inextricably and powerfully drawn to other human beings, but that is not the equivalent of loving them. To love someone you must act.

As such, bell hooks goes on to say:

“To truly love we must learn to mix various ingredients—care, affection, recognition, respect, commitment, and trust, as well as honest and open communication.”

If we enacted love as a composition of feelings of affection for someone plus the acts of caring for them, respecting them, trusting them, recognizing their wants and needs and their innate humanity, committing oneself to them and their spiritual growth, effectively communicating with them while all along not compromising our own spiritual growth, well then a grander experience we would all have living and loving. We would get more done. We would spend less time in pain. There would be far less abuse of any sort on the planet.

I subscribe to this more encompassing definition of love. That said, this is how I have come to the conclusion that I can love more than one person at a time, even if it includes a romantic or sexual connotation to that love. It is possible for me to have affection for and simultaneously care for, recognize, respect, commit to, trust, and communicate with more than one person. I’m not saying it isn’t challenging, because it is. I am not saying that I might not make mistakes in my process, because I do. I also willingly admit that the deeper and more time consuming any one of these commitments become the more challenging it is to meet the terms of the commitment to an other relationship or relationships. But it is possible. But it is only possible with an extremely effective and ever present dose of that honest and open communication.

bell hooks did not write “All About Love” as an endorsement of polyamory or non-monogamy or anything like that. She wrote it to help us culturally and personally figure out how to love one another more effectively so that we may all quit struggling and suffering under the false suppositions we have learned about love. I highly recommend this entire book to everyone, everywhere.

So, from Fromm to Peck to hooks to Justina to you much love in your living and much conscious choice and will and positive action in your loving. I am working so hard to assure it is all in mine.

p.s. Happy Birthday Mom. I dedicate this post to you.

what I really meant to say was...

2005-11-19T12:46:00.000-05:00

My aim in writing publicly is not to brag about all the shows I've been to as my friend accused me of yesterday, but to use it as a tool for revolution. That's my goal in most of my endeavors, some of them more subtley connected to the movement than others. But I also like to have fun and write lists.

I've been reading and enjoying a book that in part prompted me to blog. The author has used the internet as an extremely effective communication and activism tool while participating in major global justice direct actions opposing meetings of the major financial puppeteers who are yanking the strings of every government, every policy that effects the well being of EVERY being on the planet. This book "Webs of Power: Notes from the Global Uprising" (http://www.starhawk.org/writings/webspower.html) shares many such writings.

Starhawk, the author, is a witch and activist who had an incredibly formative impact on me in my teens when I read "Dreaming the Dark," amongst the first of her books. The book gave a name to my spiritual path and furthermore opened my eyes to the level of oppression women are still experiencing, even though at that point in my life I was quite convinced we all had much more pressing issues with which to contend than women's rights. The term "post-feminist" made sense to me then. Today I hold a B.A. in Women's Studies. It is the most compelling topic I've ever studied, and if you think there is no need for this sort of dissection of patriarchal culture, you are missing out on a valuable analysis on why the world is as troubled as it is today.

Oh, so much to say, so many choice topics!

So, "Webs of Power" is a very useful book if you already believe something is very wrong with our system and are aware that there is a burgeoning movement opposing "globalization," but you are not entirely sure what globalization means and who its instruments of implementation are and why people are losing their lives in the struggle against these entities and what the struggle really looks like from the inside. It will help to make it all more clear. It is a very engaging read that brings you into the essence of what the people on the streets in Seattle you may have seen on the news a few years back were doing and why. Plus it reinforces that those same people plus many thousands more are still involved in that same struggle and helps you to realize that probably you ought to get involved somehow, too.

Here is an excerpt that I immediately knew I wanted to share, a list of simple questions we could all ask ourselves (especially this time of year when the materialistic debacle that is our winter holiday season is upon us) that could be the first steps into recognizing just how we strum the strand of the web closest to us that results in someone else losing their already tenuous grasp on that strand that links them to all life.

"Are the people who produce the tools of my trade, my food, my clothing and luxuries paid a living wage? Are their health and safety protected? Are their children well educated? Can they afford to buy the products they produce? What is the true cost of this work, this product, this toy to the soil? The waters? The air? The complex and irreplaceable habitats of this earth? The health of our communities? Who pays that cost and in what coin? Money? Cancer? Extinction? Who profits?"

You could print this out if you want and take it shopping with you. You're invited.

(p.s. if there is anyone reading this who is more blogger savvy than I it would be great to get suggestions on things like inserting links and doing block quotes, 'cause frankly I'm using those features as I create and they just don't seem to be working...)

list #1

2005-11-17T20:38:00.000-05:00

I really like lists. I had a fabulous time last night at the Blackalicious show while this list rampaged through my brain. It made me feel pre-eminetly blessed for having had this wealth and diversity of musical experiences. The following is a list of all (that I can remember) the musical acts I've ever seen live, starting at the age of 8. I have an ambitious but incomplete collection of ticket stubs from many of these events that have helped me to remember. They are, however, in no particular order because I certainly can't account for them chronologically, but you may notice genre clusters (or you may not when the juxtaposition otherwise was far too surreal and enticing) as one act in a genre often spurred the memory of yet another as I went through this process of recollection.

Blackalicous (last night)
Digable Planets (Saturday night)
King Crimson
Adrian Belew
Drums 'N Tuba (my favorite band of my adult life)
Les Claypool
Les and Frog Brigade
Primus
Colonel Claypool's Bucket of Bernie Brains
Tortoise
Buckethead
Van Halen (Sammy Hagar led)
Ministry
INXS
Robert Plant
Pink Floyd
Olivia Newton-John (my 4th grade hero)
ZZ Top (first time I ever saw my mom smoke pot)
Neil Young
CSN
CSNY
The Grateful Dead (most number of shows...it was a thing, OK?)
Phish (only once)
Bob Weir and Rob Wasserman are Scaring the Children
Willie Nelson
Waylon Jennings
Kris Kristofferson
Ani Difranco (2nd only to the Grateful Dead)
Hole
Beastie Boys
Smashing Pumpkins
Rusted Root
Drive-By Truckers
Alejandro Escovedo
Steve Earle
Steve Earle and the Dukes
Anti-Flag
Public Enemy
Tribe 8
Fugazi
Metallica (a close 3rd to Ani Difranco)
Patti Smith (best show ever)
Bare Jr.
Unholy Trio
Dar Williams
Richard Thompson
Linda Thompson (but not together)
Fishbone
Jesus Lizard
Be Goood Tanyas
Hank Williams III
Assjack
Superjoint Ritual
Bruce Springsteen (Look, I don't care what anyone says, he actually IS the Boss)
(the next brief section of my list brought to you by a junior high school experience in the 80's)
Bon Jovi
Motley Crue
Aerosmith
Def Leppard
Genesis (worst show ever)
G. Love and Special Sauce
The Nields
Ben Harper
Lucinda Williams
Indigenous
Robert Mirabal
John Cougar Mellencamp
Rolling Stones
Paul Simon
Arlo Guthrie
Whitesnake
Living Colour
Ladysmith Black mambazo
Warren Haynes
Jonathan Richman
String Cheese Incident
North Mississippi All Stars
R.L. Burnside
T Model Ford
Nashville Pussy
Doc Watson
Saffire the Uppity Blues Women
Blue Rapture
Jason and the Scorchers
Sons of Ralph
The Cult
Asylum Street Spankers
Dan Bern
Jump Little Children
Scorpions
Tori Amos
me'shell ndegeocello
Chickasaw Mudpuppies
Guns 'N Roses
Danielle Howle
Greg Brown
Pearl Jam
Red Hot Chili Peppers
The Evens
REM
P. Funk All Stars
Sound Tribe Sector 9
GFE
Orchestra Morphine (never got to see Morphine before Mark died, though, sadly enough)
Goose Creek Symphony
Bob Dylan
Little Feat
Joan Osbourne
Naughty By Nature
Ghetto Boys
Arrested Development
Megadeth
Anthrax
Blues Traveler
Melissa Etheridge
Bonnie Raitt
Marsha Ball
Big Head Todd and the Monsters
Allman Brothers
Neville Brothers
Lyle Lovett
Laura Love
Blue Rags
Bitch and Animal
Bottle Rockets
Southern Culture on the Skids
Korn
Stain'd (tee-hee)
God Speed You Black Emperor
Jon Spencer Blues Explosion
Reverend Horton Heat
Sonic Youth
Corey Harris
The Wailers (never Bob Marley, though, dammit)
Taj Mahal
Billy Bragg
Night Watchman (Tom Morello)
Zap Mama
Beck
Social Distortion (at the Electric Banana in Pittsburgh!)

Can you believe I have never seen Jane's Addiction? Me neither.

what's in a name?

2005-11-15T21:00:00.000-05:00

I mentioned that I had thought about creating a blog for some time. I have to admit that one of the big things that kept me from doing it sooner was my inability to come up with a name for my blog. Yes, what I called my journal, the catchy moniker that would live at the top of my page and of which my own URL address would be composed eluded me, and so there would be no spur of the moment public postings of my own unique perspective until I came up with a name.

Buddhamama, obviously, was taken. Though I dispute my mother's claim to alpha bitch (I think once I began breeding I quickly assumed the alpha status in our family), I certainly didn't want to use my pack position in my blog title. I wanted it to be witty but unassuming. I had to fight very hard against intolerable, innate tendencies to make the title, like other things I write, overly long and descriptive, mired in the sacred feminine, and worst of all, HIPPIE-LIKE. No hippie title for my blog, I simply wasn't going to have it.

I wanted a play on words. I wanted to play with words. I love words. They're like ingredients. I can mix them up in all these different combinations to make endless permutations of tasty treats for our eyes and our ears and our psyches and our souls. I love to feed you, I love to feed me. I want my blog to taste good.

I really like alliteration, too. I tend to overuse it in my poetry. I was exploring alliterative phrases with my name. Justi's juxtaposition. Dorky. Justi's juxtaposition of what? Well, of words, of course. But, I really like that word juxtaposition. How about Justi's position? Same thing, Justi's position on what? Oh. Justi's position on anything. It's my blog. I'm sharing my position. I am positing my truth. This writing exercise is my effort to posit on anything I want. (D'you like that one, Russ? Get it, posit on? That was for you.)

So what? Who cares what I have to say? It's just a position. It could be anyone's or no one's. It's subjective. But it's not offensive that way because I acknowledge up front, it's just a position. Take it or leave it. I am not that attached to it. I certainly don't expect you to be.

With this juxtaposition of words I thee wed. With this juxtaposition of words I devastate thee for lifetimes. Nah. With this juxtaposition of words the little piggy says wee-wee-wee all the way home. Tasty treats. Sumptuous verbal snacks. Take a bite...

Just in case you were wondering, I promise that my blog is not always going to be about my blog. The novelty is already starting to wear off. Other topics will gain sovereignty soon. I feel their insurgencies rising in my breast.

open up and say "ahh"

2005-11-15T03:05:00.000-05:00

I have been considering the possibility of composing my own blog for sometime, but not forever. When I first learned of blogging it was through my sons’ father, my ex, who had just started his first, short-lived attempt at keeping a live journal. “Hmm, how arrogant,” I thought, “How completely self-indulgent to think anyone else in the world cares enough to read what you would write in your journal.” And in fact, I probably did more than just think it. Most likely I said it aloud, to him, ‘cause, well, that’s what I do: say things aloud. Loudly, oftentimes. So, Alan, I offer my very public apologies here for all the world to see. I was clearly mistaken.

But I do not retract my original theory on blogging being a self-aggrandizing act born of hubris because I finally decided I wanted to blog, too. My reframing of my opinion of blogs is the result of my exploration of other people’s blogs over the last few years and discovering that this can be an amazing tool. For one thing, committing to writing for public consumption on a regular basis is an excellent practice for any writer to keep, especially one like myself who is usually too busy, too overwhelmed, and too exhausted from the rest of my responsibilities to find free time to write, and yet I need to do so. Furthermore, there are a lot of great people saying things that ought to be said out there. There are also a lot of regular folks who are saying something compelling simply because they have a unique or insightful perspective due to their location, their experience, their particular slant.

I’d like to give you some links to blogs I have enjoyed, or from which I have learned.

First, my sister’s blog – with all due credit, I have to say her blog is ultimately the one that has propelled me the most into writing my own. Thanks, Mimi.
http://runforyourlife.blogs.friendster.com/blog

And my mom has a blog, too. I’m proud of her for putting it out there even if I heartily disagree with her flagrant disrespect for spelling properly. Keep on writing, Ma.
http://snavebed.blogs.friendster.com/the_alpha_bitch_collage

The following links are for blogs less personal to me, but such necessary voices, so well spoken, educating or saying things that have got to be said by someone, somewhere.

Baghdad Burning:
Girl Blog from Iraq... let's talk war, politics and occupation.
http://riverbendblog.blogspot.com

Herpes Nation:
Thoughts and Meditations on Holistic Treatment for Herpes
http://herpesnation.blogspot.com

And I assure you there are more, but I don’t want to send you to too many other places on my maiden blog writing venture. There will be more links in time.

So, what might you expect from my blog? Right now I feel really inspired by that lovely, old, feminist adage “The personal is political,” ‘cause I’m feeling mighty political these days, but I really like to keep it personal, keep it real. What is the point of putting my perspective out there if it isn’t MY perspective?

Expect to read about love and mothering, activism and earth caring, dancing like a dervish and poetry reading, food and sex, asthma and addiction, herbs and the moon, mind expansion and fear and frustration, polyamory, homeschooling, community and communication, and be prepared for anything.

Tonight’s composition was accompanied by an elderberry and olive leaf infusion.