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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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