Dreams Don't Come True (with kittens)

The fierce and adoring Grandma, the day-dreamy and whimsical me, and Mads (kicking and punching in my belly)

The Breaking Bad News With Baby Animals postcard I sent to Grandma the other day announced (with kittens), “Dreams don’t come true.” It just happened to be the one I grabbed from my stationery box, but also, it seemed a particularly astute message for her, regarding me. My grandma had a lot of big dreams for me--she has dreamt bigger, longer, wider, in more vivid technicolor for me than any other person ever has, myself included. And I wonder: if she is disappointed (and how can she not be), is that disappointment directed at me or at the unfair, chaotic, unsympathetic world in which I live. Is it the economy’s fault that when my name is Googled one finds - nothing -. Or is it mine?--my timidity, my lack of ambition and resolve, my belief that the world is an unthinking, unfeeling place and a person like me never had a chance?

I never became a writer (not in the way that counts, anyway). I don’t have any money and struggle constantly upstream. Since high school, I’ve managed to keep my figure more or less, but even my once beautiful mop of wild, curly hair has since diminished into a straggly, thin, lackluster mess.

My grandmother believed me to be not only a great beauty, but a great mind. And here I am toiling away in the service industry--I am a retail automaton--the highlight of my work day when a sales rep brings in grocery store deli cookies as a bribe. I am dropped off at work most days, wearing a backpack and carrying a lunch bag, like a child.

Has my lack of success and mobility hurt my grandmother, the one who dreamed for me?

I think about this a lot because now I dream. I dream not for myself but for my son. Even if I make nothing of myself, I have made him--a great beauty and a great mind. How could he not make more of himself than I have? It’s so obvious he’s destined for great things. He is better than me. I love him, and his dad loves him. I was damaged, you know, by people who did not dream for me so ardently as my selfless, obsessed grandmother. But my son--he’s not damaged. He doesn’t need to struggle.

But what if he does anyway?

When I talk about, ponder aloud, the things my son will become, am I doing him a disservice? Should I shut my mouth and just give him the space to be and breathe and become?


Or, is my dreaming for him a vote of confidence, one which will bolster and sustain him when he's a man making his way in the world? Will he pack my dreams for him into his rucksack when he leaves my arms and home to go to college or travel the world or protest tyranny or divide and conquer or whatever it is he will do?

Grandma's dreams for me have certainly never felt like a burden, but they haven't done much to propel me forward either (through no fault of my grandmother's). And, I suppose my attitude regarding my son's future, the weight on which I put success, depends in part on what my definition of success (for him or in general) is. Do I want him to be happy more often than he is sad? Absolutely. Or, at least, content. Do I want him to give and receive love freely and gracefully? Yes, of course. Do I want him to have money? -- Well, it's not the most important thing compared to contentment and love, but I imagine having just the right amount of money might make his days run that much smoother.

I consider the example I set for him in reaching those goals. I am hard on myself, often aloud. I get frustrated not because my life is not as my grandmother imagined it, but because it is not as I imagined/imagine it. I'm not talking about my family, my home, my town, or even my job; I'm talking about the little daily burdens and messes that trip me up--the unending dishes, double booking events for my son, poorly planned and hastily tossed together holiday and birthday celebrations, the inability to consistently schedule in time for my creative pursuits (like this), the list of projects and To Dos with not a thing crossed off.

My son has witnessed me cry and tantrum because we arrive at the Dorthea Dix sunflower field one week too late and discover all the flowers have shriveled up and died. He has heard and felt me snap because I wake too late and now must hurry through my day without transcribing that nagging thought/reverie/idea onto paper.

And, my son has wailed at a busy playground at the realization that he and Ella won't be able to play on the swings at the same time, that image he held of the two of them side-by-side and in the air after a week apart, squashed. He has groaned, "I can't do anything," and "it won't be perfect," when attempting to paint a portrait of himself doing barre work at his ballet studio. He has the paper, the pink and grey paints, but when he puts brush to paper he is dissatisfied and hurt.

I tell him, "there's no such thing as perfect," and when he still grumps and thrusts his paintbrush down ask, "Do you believe me?"

This is the work of his childhood and my parenthood (and adulthood). All my dreams for him, however loose and magnanimous, will mean nothing if we cannot get over this hump and heap of defeat regarding the disparity between expectation and reality--our imaginings of what life should look like and what we should be capable of, he and I both.

The lesson, of course, the one I am learning on behalf of myself and my son is not that dreams don't come true, but: Dreams Aren't Real (with kittens).

Home & Konmari, pt. 1 | The Life-Stalling Habit of Worshipping Stuff

Marie Kondo is a witch. The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up is truly that--magic(k). I read both her books in the beginning of the year (though I'm barely able to finish reading anything these days). I get Marie Kondo. She speaks to me, and I find I am often disappointed with the way people talk about Konmari. People, in the fashion of people, tend to focus on the practical and ignore (or openly disparage) the woo woo. People pretend this method has only to do with the tidying, when Marie Kondo herself describes it as "magic." Like she recommends, I really do say thank you to my dirty socks (and to my spoon after stirring honey into my tea, and to my computer after I type clumsily on it, and to my car after she settles safely into my drive way at the end of the day once more), and my relationship with all these things (all the things) is better because of it. 

I love that Marie Kondo's methods are based in animism. She says that each object in our life has a desire to be utilized and, therefore, loved by us. Each object in our life desires to serve us.  Okay, so maybe you're reading this and thinking to yourself, "my toothbrush is inanimate and this whole 'desires to serve me' thing is bogus." Fair enough. But. It does serve you, doesn't it? And therefore, isn't its purpose in being created to serve you? How far did that thing travel, through how many hands, across how many oceans and state lines, just to sit on your bathroom counter waiting to be held between your fingers and clean your teeth, an intimate job, twice daily. When we sit down to meals as a family, I paraphrase Thich Nhat Hanh aloud for my husband and child, "In this plate of food I see the Universe supports my existence." I believe the same about my copper tongue scraper, the mason jars I drink water from and store leftovers in, that little stool that sits beside my reading chair painted black and white with the pink wooden utters hanging underneath it. These things are manifestations of the Universe supporting me, healing me, quenching my thirst, making me laugh. 

I don't think I'd even finished Life Changing Magic... when I cleaned out my wardrobe. In my years of thrifting and working at my beloved little second-hand store, I'd accumulated quite a lot of clothing. I defended my overstuffed drawers and racks by telling my husband (and myself) that I was a collector. And yet, after throwing myself into a new job where I am frequently hucking forty-pound bags of cat litter and down on all fours wrangling dogs into harnesses, my daily wear became much more stream-lined, much more practical. The Type 4 of me puts up such a fight against practicality, but you're hard-pressed to find me wearing a dress these days, even on my days off work. So, I cleaned out my closet. I thought this would be the hardest part, but actually the process moved along swiftly once I got going. In the end, I culled my wardrobe by 50%. And though I still step into thrift stores about once a month, it is only once a month, and I am so much more discerning when I go. Often, I walk out with not a thing in my hands.

Like the wardrobe, I also had no problem cleaning out my old writing suitcase. In a tacky decorative suitcase, I had saved every single piece of writing I'd ever worked on--finished and unfinished--since high school. I thought I'd return to those pieces one day, edit them, spiff them up, or take bits and pieces of them to form something else--single lines, descriptions, pieces of dialogue. Instead, it went untouched in a corner of my room, and I actually fretted over the thought of dying and my husband and family sifting through all that nonsense. I chucked all but a couple pages--literally: two pages. Then, I donated the suit case.

Household objects--tchotchkes, mugs, wall hangings--have been the most difficult for me to sift through. I've been inspired by maximalist decorating my entire life. My grandmother keeps a proper Witchy Cottage, stuffed to the brim with books, plants, fish bowls, gargoyles, dolls, all the instruments Dumbledore kept in his office (I think my grandma inherited them after Dumbledore died), framed photos, unframed photos sticking out of the pages of books and tucked into the corners of mirrors, mirrors, ornate boxes and cabinets with tiny little drawers (all occupied), musical instruments, glass bottles in rainbow hues, specimen vials, rubber novelty bats hanging in the hall closet, faux butterflies and spiders and lizards and caterpillars and slugs pinned and glued to the walls and windows. I could go on. I love her house, every corner a surprise. I love her pink polka-dotted toaster and turquoise coffee maker. I love that the rainbow elephant I colored in kindergarten, the one the other kids made fun of me for, is still taped up in her kitchen. 

For a long time, I thought my house would look like this, but I didn't find my version of it as charming. Nor did my husband. I've gone through several declutterings--moving five years ago was one, then cleaning out the storage shed a year after moving--but we were still surrounded by an increasing amount of clutter. We have lived with so many things in corners gathering dust! The past couple years, the impermanence of our current living situation has been nagging at me and the amount of things I've accumulated in my adult life weighing me down. At the start of this year, I was ready to toss every single thing into garbage bags and start over, completely, radical minimalist style.

But, I know me. I know I am sentimental and animistic and place high value on objects. I know that if I were to get rid of everything without discernment, I would regret it later. Enter Marie Kondo and her ritualized tidying.

I am a seeker and collector of joy. I have already trained my mind and spirit to recognize moments of pure joy as I encounter them in my life--fleeting, small, winged things that are difficult to butterfly net. I have studied and practiced the art and sport of recognizing joy, savoring it, scribbling it down so I can return to it later. I know what joy feels like in the heart. I know what joy feels like in the body. I know what Marie Kondo means when she instructs to hold a garment in your hands and wait for your body's cues. Honestly, while reading her book, I couldn't help thinking her philosophy so easy and obvious, I should have already thought of it.

So, it should be done, right? Six months after reading her books and beginning my own Konmari, I should be sitting smug enlightened on the other side. Spoiler: I am not.

Watch this space for Pt. 2, Lessons Learned & Stumbled Over.

Lunchbox

Yesterday we said goodbye to our best pal, Lunchbox. He's raiding that big dirty laundry bin in the sky now, in Dog Heaven (the stinkiest of all the heavens). He'd been sick for about two weeks, in and out of the vet office. But, he never stopped wagging his tail, so we'd hoped he was recovering from a nasty kidney infection; what he was actually experiencing was full-on kidney failure. When it became clear he was in pain, we made the decision to let him go. We made that decision without consulting him, because he would've voted to stay by our side forever, whether he hurt or not. When I left the house for work each day, I'd tell him, "Take care of my men." When Wolfman left the house, he'd tell LB, "take care of this woman and my boy." Lunchbox took his job, chief protector and comforter, very seriously. He was 15, white hairs all over his face and paws, moving and grouching like a little old man instead of the young buck he was when I met him, but I'd still hoped (expected, even) we'd have a few more years with him.

We'd been fretting over him and shedding brief, panicked tears over him since his first somber vet visit two weeks ago. By last Friday afternoon, when LB's vet laid out the grim circumstances of his deterioration, I thought I was all cried out. Wolfman told me, "We have to put him down on Monday," and I didn't shed a tear. But, that same night, after Mads was in bed, Wolfman and I sat on the sofa with the dog between us and cried over him together, and laughed at all the stupid things he'd done, and reminisced, and loved him with our stories and memories and hands rubbing behind his ears and cradling him. We repeated that ritual Saturday night and again Sunday night and again Monday morning, sitting on the floor of an examination room as he went under and away from us. We brought his body home, and I stood in the cold to bear witness while Wolfman dug a grave for his companion, his first son, his best friend of 15 years.

In the course of our marriage, Wolfman and I told each other the story of, and thus created, a place we called Dog Spa. I'm not sure how it started, but in the eight years we've been a couple, we have often texted each other, or poked heads around corners to announce to each other things like, "at Dog Spa, there are squirrel pee facials." Or, "hot garbage juice saunas at Dog Spa." Most recently we added, "Used tissue hors d'oeuvres at Dog Spa." The point was to imagine what true pampering of a dog (by dogs) would be, while also grossing each other out as much as possible (usually, I won at being most disgusting; Wolfman is a classy gentleman, while I am a true Garbage Pail Kid.) If we are, indeed, co-creating our reality, then Wolfman and I have created a perfect, smelly, truly foul and nauseating heaven for our favorite beast. In Doghalla, Lunchbox is rolling in critter corpses as I type this. 

Last photos of Lunchbox, taken last week.

Disappointed But Not Devastated | (3 is a magic number)

A February fog.

"Disappointed, but not devastated": the official stance Wolfman and I took on my miscarriage in May. (Comparatively, our official stance after the positive pregnancy test results three weeks previous had been, "Shit.")

I had hoped by this time, nearly six months out, my emotions and thoughts on the matter would've settled into something not tidy (never that), but appreciable--a sweaty manuscript I could, at least, grapple with. Instead, I have nothing, mind and heart a complete blank. The emotional landscape of this event in my life is one with neither blue skies nor looming clouds, but awash in white wispy nothing. In the months since my bleeding stopped, I have only grown more numb to the repercussions of my miscarriage, and perhaps part of the reason is because once I'd passed the tissue that could've been my second baby, my period started again exactly one month later. I had no reprieve, my life did not pause, everything moved on as it always has, as if nothing happened. Even my body, which experienced this event more than my mind, did not take an intermission to mourn. The pregnancy was too early, too new, was barely a thing at all. I had only just learned the fact of it before I had another fact to process--the lack of it.

When I carried my first baby, high on pregnancy hormones, I thought I'd be a mother a couple times over, at least. But, after the trauma of birth, the anguish I often felt in that first year with an infant, and the three years (and counting!) of sleeplessness, I realized I didn't want to do this again. For these and so many other reasons, Wolfman and I have made the decision together to join the One-And-Done Club. People ask all the time if we'll have another (unsolicited questions about your fertility and family planning don't stop after having a child), and it is always with complete relief and complete certainty that I say, "Absolutely not." I do not feel shame writing here, for your judgment, that I would not be the caliber of mother I am if I had more than one child. I don't have the patience, stamina, funds, or desire to mother more than just Martigan. He is my one and only.

So when I saw that positive pregnancy test in May, I felt a weird mix of dread and giddiness; it must've been something like mixing uppers and booze (though I'm a good girl and wouldn't know). The dread I've explained, the giddiness, however, is a little harder to qualify. In the weeks leading up to that positive pregnancy test, I'd been struck with an intense baby fever. I made frequent trips to the rack of infant clothes at work, ostensibly to sort and organize, but really I was shopping. I didn't realize I was pregnant, but I somehow knew. That is the only explanation I can find for this sudden, out-of-character desire to fondle tiny sleepers and awe over itty bitty dresses. Pregnancy the first time around was a kind of mystical experience, and my second pregnancy, though short, was the same. I was struck with baby fever because I was struck with a baby. This, I know. (Since the dissolution of that pregnancy, I have had no similar dreaminess over babies and their ephemera.) I want to make clear here that not every pregnant woman will experience those first weeks of fertilization the way I did. I only mention this part of the story because it is part of my story.

Whatever mind games my hormones were playing on me, the very raw truth is that I did not want to have a baby, and I am not in the position to have an abortion, but I was pregnant. I felt sorry for accidentally getting myself knocked up, for putting this burden on my marriage, my relationship with my son, the already shaky foundation of our paycheck-to-paycheck finances. And then, once my first trimester spotting turned into bleeding and tissue-passing, I felt sorry for not wanting that baby and not feeling sad to see it go.

When I told Wolfman I suspected I was miscarrying, he told me in that measured way of his, "This isn't your fault. This isn't my fault. We shouldn't feel guilty." When two magical thinkers build a life together, there is a lot of real estate for guilt. If that wispy, white nothing of my emotional landscape is hiding anything, it is a cloaked ship of guilt. Guilt is the secret wet knot of emotion I've laid a blanket of numbness over in subterfuge. I didn't want a baby, and so that little soul packed her bags and left to try her luck elsewhere.

I don't think about my miscarriage every day. Occasionally, with no warning, the thought does occur to me, Oh yeah... that happened to me, and I feel a kind of passive relief laced with just a pinch of regret. In the moments when we've been struck by some financial blow (which comes often enough), I've said to my husband, "It's a good thing I'm not pregnant," and he has agreed heartily, if a little morbidly. A pregnancy now (a baby in February) certainly would complicate and crowd things, would make our future a little more uncertain and unsteady. We would've made room, in our lives and our hearts, but I'm glad we didn't have to.

I took to Pinterest in the process of writing all this out, to get a snapshot of what miscarriage feels like for other women. It's a sad tag, and my heart ached for the women who ached. I don't ache. When I see women who are about as pregnant as I would've been right now, I think about that potential child. February has always been one of my favorite months for no reason at all, and this coming February I will probably do a lot of thinking about the second child that could have been. That's what Barbara Kingsolver says of miscarriage, that if you ask a woman who's miscarried, "how old would your child be now?" she'll know. I suppose I'll always know, too, but not in any way that breaks my heart. It was all too brief, too unwished for. That's not a kind way to speak about this event in my life, but beginning to end, it was not a kind event.

"Three is a Magic Number," Blind Melon

The Struggle Is Real | I'm a lot of faith, this is how I feel

Little Michelle, searching for mermaids in Montana.

All of my birthday messages went unanswered. I've felt ambivalent, at best, about my birthday this year, and luckily for me I share a birthday with my son--it's easy to put the focus on him. Turning three is a lot bigger of a deal than turning thirty-two, especially when I've mostly lost track of exactly how old I am and have probably been calling myself thirty-two for many months now (I think). Let me just say: I am grateful, truly, to everyone who took the time to send well wishes my way. Certainly, I need those wishes.

There's this Dave Eggers short story, I can't remember the title of it, or much about it, except at one point a character is sitting out in the ocean on a surf board, bobbing aimlessly, water slapping against the palm of his hand. Eggers describes that simple sensation, of flesh meeting water, and asks, "Why isn't this enough?" As in, why religion and god(s), or for that matter, why uncertainty? Why angst? This moment, this feeling, is so miraculous: it should be enough. (Or, at least, that's the way I remember the story; I haven't read it in a while and could have this moment all wrong.) In a lot of my life, I feel like waves slapping against and tickling the palm of my hand, whether the ocean or my son's bath water, is enough. I identify as a pantheist. I see a lot of magic in the world, a lot of miracles, a lot of mundanity which is not that at all.

But sometimes, it's not enough. Sometimes, it is as though the lights go dim on the world, and I struggle. It's not really a big deal. Usually, I am striding along casually, confidently, easily, but on occasion, I stumble.

The little girl Michelle, who I still carry around with me in all things, in all places, believed the world was full of magic. And I don't mean that abstractly. Little Michelle believed in witches and ghosts, demons and angels, the fae, Bigfoot, Nessie, et al. Textbook escapism, as a kid I immersed myself in fantasy worlds, and I believed in the creatures that populated those worlds, but moreso, I believed that I was special. I believed I would be chosen, or I would choose myself, and there were adventures to be had. In my teen years, I'd let go of all my fairy tale baggage, but I still believed that when I was a woman, I would be special or doing something special, that I would be traveling and writing. I pictured myself driving cross country, talking to strangers, smoking thousands of cigarettes and putting them all out in cold, black cups of coffee. I imagined myself less as part of the story than story teller.

I guess what has me down, as I search for, apply for, supplicate myself for jobs that, deep in my heart and soul, I know I don't actually want, is the knowledge that this is probably it for me. This is my life. No traveling, not a whole lot of writing, and if there are cigarettes they will only add to how depressing this small life is. I feel a little stuck and a little sorry for myself, and I feel guilty for feeling this way.

Nobody has to remind me of what I have going for me. Put aside my own health and stamina, my mind and the vast unknown that is my future (full of possibility, even if not possibility I make for myself, possibility simply because I live in a weird, unpredictable world), I have a supportive family (including immensely kind in-laws), I am married to a rare good man, and with that good man, I have created a perfect son. So many intimate partnerships go sour and fail--people cheat and lie and hurt each other, or sometimes people just fall away from each other. Hearts are broken every day. But, I have this incredible man by my side who loves me, but more importantly, who sees me and speaks my language, and I love him, an unquantifiable love that humbles and sustains me. We love each other, but also we get along; we almost always see eye to eye, and when we don't, we're judicious and giving negotiators. I have a love and a partnership that works, and this is a rare thing, a thing I hold gently and feed robustly.

And our son: perfect. The very fact that he is here is magical enough, but more than that, he is whole. In an often cruel world, I am blessed with a beautiful child who is smart, who is healthy--he can run, he can communicate, he can absorb our love and reflect it back on us. Martigan will always be my greatest blessing, the most magical thing in my life; being his mom is what makes me special.

While I don't want to seem ungrateful for all this love, it has occurred to me time and again, most recently since being laid off, that maybe this is all I get. Maybe I have been so blessed beyond measure by the loves of my life, that I don't get job satisfaction or financial security or deep, lasting, in-my-bones contentment. Maybe I will spend my life working for other people, making other peoples' dreams come true, or worse, just drudging as a cog in the machine. Maybe I've cashed in all my chips. Maybe this is it.

In the weeks leading up to my thirty-second birthday (and maybe the weeks following), I'm just feeling like there is no magic in the world. I don't feel like I'm going anywhere, or that things are ever going to get any better for me. I have my husband, and I have my son, but as far as personal fulfillment goes, me, me, me alone, I don't think there's anything for me. And it sucks.

It's hard to admit this. A lot of people I know are going to read this and worry and reach out to me. And while I know that all that attention comes from a genuine, loving place, I will be embarrassed and will struggle with how to respond (after all, I struggled just with responding to "happy birthday"s on Facebook). I'm not writing this as a plea for help or a cry for attention. I'm writing this because sometimes life is hard, and I really think it's okay to admit that. It is okay to admit when you're unhappy. This unhappiness I'm experiencing right now is just a season, one brought on by losing my job and turning another year older (and summer hanging on too long). This melancholy won't last forever, but I wanted to give it some space and let it air out, regardless. It is okay to be unhappy, and it is okay to admit to unhappiness. As the great Natalie Imbruglia sings (seventy-five times a day for over a decade on Australian radio), "I'm a lot of faith; this is how I feel."

"Torn," Natalie Imbruglia

Bad Mama

Baby boy was wide awake and ready to start his day at four this morning, as he is every morning.  Unlike all the four-in-the-mornings which have come before, however, I was not so eager as Mads to greet this one.  He wiggled, kicked his feet, punched his little hambone fists in the air, cooed and chatted, and I rolled over and buried my face into my pillow--for twenty minutes (or so Wolfman informed me--he woke in the other room, and watched the clock while listening to our baby's noises become more heightened and disgruntled; why I feel guilt over letting Mads fuss and my husband does not is clearly an essay for another time).

I was not feeling the whole Mommy thing this morning (if four hours before dawn can be called morning).  My right wrist hurt, the muscles in my arms and back ached, my nipples were raw from the hourly feedings all night (that's right, hourly).  Twice in the night I'd had to scoop Mads up and carry him into the living room to bounce him back to sleep on the yoga ball.  The second time, he kept spitting out his pacifier to smile at me, and I worried he wouldn't fall back asleep at all.

These are the tedious complaints of new mothers the world over, and I don't expect some special compensation or pity.  I'm only explaining that for the sake of my very sanity, I needed those twenty minutes of laying on my belly with my face buried in the pillow, the way I used to sleep before Mads existed, before he took over every aspect of my life, including my sleep (the position I sleep in, the room and bed I sleep in, the quality and quantity of my sleep, the subjects of my dreams).  During my fit of temporary, elective deafness, Wolfman rescued Mads from my neglect, and I took an extra ten minute vacation to brush my teeth, dress, attempt to tame the nest that is my hair these days, rub coconut oil on my face and frown over the newly acquired wrinkles gracing my forehead.  (My husband refused to commiserate with me over my rapid aging post-partum.  "I've had forehead wrinkles since I was seven," he said, then made monkey noises at the baby.)

Being a bad mother does not, surprise, come easy.  Every instinct I have urges me to put the little'un first, at whatever the cost, which is why I went two full weeks without showering in the first month of Mads' life.  I exist now, biologically speaking, to feed, nurture, and shelter this (admittedly precious) new life, and it's been a struggle to find my way back to myself.  For two months, I skipped showers, I skipped meals, I skipped opportunities for me-time in favor of caring for (serving, really) my baby boy.  But day by day, as he smiles more and grumps less, as he shakes off the PTSD symptoms after being pushed and squeezed violently through my body and out into this bright, cold, loud world, I reserve little segments of time to do things that make me feel like me, an autonomous human being.  

I've managed, lately, to write in my journal, send a couple letters, begin the process of emptying our storage unit and rearranging and filling our home, and, even, getting a little naked with my good looking husband (ahem).  Little things, these--writing, organizing, sex--but huge boosts in Mommyland morale.  In the mornings, I do a few yoga stretches and twist my hips and torso belly-dance style (the greatest and most fun ab workout) while Mads watches me placidly (usually) from his crib or Fisher Price vibrating hammock, which I carry with me from room to room of the house throughout the day.

He's not the most patient fellow yet.  He fusses if I spend more than a few minutes at a time without looking at him or speaking to him.  He's an energy vampire if ever there was one.  I spend, easily, 85% of my day with this boy in my arms, but that baby-free 15% of the day has been revolutionary for these hands and mind of mine, and I don't mind so much stretching that percentage bit by bit as Mads' development progresses.  We jumped from the laying-in period to an intense mommy-only phase; I've been sapped (but somehow not dry?) for two-and-a-half months now.  So, stolen moments here and there, even if and when he complains, are special.  This blog update, for example, took several of those stolen moments, and I was shouted at mercilessly during a few of those moments by the boy.  What he doesn't understand is that being a bad mama some of the time is a requirement to be a good mama most of the time--call it the Mommy Paradox.    

Thankful Thursday, no. 3

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This has not been my week.  Wolfman bought me a beautiful dress on Saturday which I wore on Monday, promptly smudged with coconut oil, and thereby effectively ruined. (Today, also, I noticed too late that my little embroidered cardigan has a stain--this one a mystery--on the back.  Is this my life now, I wonder?)  I've been rained on this week.  I've blistered my feet wearing the wrong shoes this week.  I've peed my pants when sneezing this week.  I've woken to the 5 AM alarm and cried this week.  In short, it's a perfect week for gratitude.  

I am grateful: for the sound rain drops thumping on my umbrella as I wait for a bus with the hem of my dress uncomfortably wet.

I am grateful: for air conditioning on buses now that summer is upon us full force.

I am grateful: for the smell of sliced nectarines packed from home, bringing me cheer even after working through my lunch break, which always puts me in such a gloom.

I am grateful: for strangers on the street who offer blessings to my unborn baby and well wishes to me.

I am grateful: for this one moment so small, but so transcendent, I will fail to describe why it made me cry.  This moment I experience wholly, this moment I live in and appreciate, every single sensation--Wolfman putting headphones on my belly and nestling against me in bed, his hand resting on my naval as he plays music for the baby (one of the pieces he wrote, a mellow Buckethead tune).  Lunchbox curling against Wolfman's bare back, and I rubbing his belly with one hand, running fingers through Wolfman's hair with the other, and feeling this baby rolling and thumping inside me like a mermaid.  We three still and perfect and happy while Xena rough-houses with her kittens on the floor, unseen by us but heard, bouncing against various obstacles and calling them with her particular mother coo. 

Opossum Magick

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Dear Grandma,

This morning on the drive to work, I saw an opossum sitting on a chain-link fence circling a construction site, impassively watching the traffic on Six Forks Rd.  I drew the opossum card from my animal spirit/medicine deck the other morning (the one from New Mexico you found at Goodwill) and had been sitting on that message, letting it digest these past few days.  The accompanying book spoke on opossum teaching us to strategize, but when I think on the opossum, it is on a more patient, taciturn creature.  I remember that early morning at the newly-wed bungalow, before the sun had risen, after setting food on the back porch for the cats, finding an opossum helping him or herself to the feast.  But in particular, I think of that moment when I opened the door and knelt down to the creature's level, how it looked me in the eyes when I asked, "Hey, what are you doing?" and then turned and waddled away, in no hurry whatsoever, utterly unruffled.  I almost expected to hear it say laconically as it left, "yeah, yeah..."  The image of today's plump, wiry critter sitting on a fence sandwiched between two scenes of human noise and manipulation only solidifies the definitions I’d been drawing vaguely myself. 

I’ve begun reading Birthing from Within, which I think a nice palate cleanser after witnessing, and being a little frightened by (I’ll be honest) Sierra’s birthing of Ella.  Birthing from Within instructs to purge pre-conceived notions and fears, all these anxieties surrounding pregnancies and birth which build over a woman’s life time, and turn inward.  Turn off the mind, trust the body.  Acknowledge that complications occur, that birth is not in your control, and become unflappable in the face of that.  Just do as your body instructs and let go.  Maybe this is all connected?  The opossum watching that which it cannot change and adapting, finding a good spot on a man-made observation post before shuffling to its day-time hiding place?  

The one truth that, paradoxically, gives me more comfort than anything else is that I can't do anything about this now, right?  I mean, this baby is coming out whether I worry over it, dread it, plan it to death, or not.  I might as well relax a little and let my body do its work.  The first women knew nothing of cervix dilation or calorie counting.  They just surrendered to their bodies.  They ate what felt right to eat, they breathed when they needed to breathe, they squatted and pushed when their bodies gave the green light.  And here we are, the human race.  And also, the opossum race.

an excerpt from a letter to my Grandma I began scribbling this morning

Scintilla, no. 1 |

found here

I don't know if I was a good dancer.  I was good enough.  But, I loved it.  I loved it enough to assist in teaching toddlers and elementary-aged kids, though communicating with kids has never been my forte (my claim at vampirism in answer to, "why do you have such sharp teeth?" notwithstanding).   

I still, over a decade later, keep this tidbit of my past on my resume, a line I cannot delete, though I know perhaps I should.  I'm proud of this--that I loved ballet so much, I taught classes in exchange for classes of my own.  Only as a teenager can one get away with working for dance classes, and perhaps the memory of that freedom, that lack of responsibility and bills, keeps that entry on my resume.

I want this to say something to potential employers.  The employer who glances over my resume and comments, "You were paid in dance classes?  You sure did have initiative.  You knew what you wanted and you went for it," is the person I want to work for.  Initiative, ambition, the whole just do it thing: I'm not good at it as an adult.  I'm a waffler, a pauser, a ponderer.  Once I stole a man's phone number and called him, and now he is my husband.  And once, I volunteered to work for dance lessons.

There's another reason I leave the ballet thing on my resume: at one time, dance was not just a hobby, it was my job.  Ballet is useless for toddlers, just an excuse to let them wear pretty costumes while socializing them.  I spent most of my time with the toddler class wrangling them into straight lines and saying a private prayer that my adult conversations never turned as bland as that of their parents waiting in the lobby (I walked through many a conversation about paint).  Six, seven, eight-year-olds, though--that's when you start seeing the spark in them.  When I moved, they repeated, to the best of their (still slightly uncoordinated) ability.  When I pointed down at my feet in first and second position (third and beyond a little complicated for them), the turned their little toes out astutely.  

I donned a leotard several days a week, happily, and I long for those days again.

I daydream now, from time to time, usually on the long commute to work, where I crunch numbers and push papers, about what my life would've been like had I kept dancing.  I would have more control over and a better relationship with my body, for one thing.  Perhaps I'd be a teacher now, still wearing my leotard out to the grocery store post-class, covered in a tunic or coat, the convertible feet of my stockings pulled up around my shins in a bunch.  Maybe my life would be more physical and creative.  Maybe I'd be more of an active participant in things, having graduated from that first ambitious job negotiation into greater ones, even more to my advantage.

I leave this entry on my resume for the time being.

Thankful Thursday, no. 1 | The Chocolate Kind of Gratitude

"All I really need is love, but a little chocolate now and then doesn't hurt!" - Lucy, from Peanuts

Last week, for a few brief days (I won't tell you just how brief), I carried a little box of artisan chocolates in my purse with me wherever I went, a gift from my Valentine.  Strawberry, huckleberry, and grand marnier truffles nestled safely in their papers and box, jostling against my sunglasses and jack knife, calling to me at 3pm, especially, when the work day seemed it may never end.  My boo sure does get me.  We watched together, on V-Day, so many menfolk buying roses at the Whole Foods while we ate our breakfast, and while I wouldn't object to roses, chocolates sure do taste better.  My guy--I sure do love him.  How grateful I am for that man in my life, for leisurely breakfasts, for emergency chocolates almost too pretty to eat.

Reverb12 | Day 9, The Eat Pray Love Cliche

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I fell in love with Elizabeth Gilbert in a couple of radio interviews, when Committed, her follow-up to the Big One (you know which one), was published.  I loved her voice.  She was charming, funny, warm, imperfect.  She was like a female Garrison Keillor (which is about the highest compliment I can give).  She told great stories--like the one about learning advice on wrangling with the muses from Tom Waits.  I took an instant like to her.  She sounded like my kind of lady, which I must admit came as something of a surprise to me.  While I had not actively turned my nose up at the Big One (oh, okay, Eat, Pray, Love), I hadn't actively sought it out, either; you could say I was passively avoiding it.  I knew nothing much about the eating, the praying, the loving, except for the brief mention of it in an article I read about the growing trend of "divorce porn" in the publishing industry.

Even after meeting Liz Gilbert (or, her voice over the radio waves), I didn't immediately jump into the pages of her massive best-seller.  I chose, instead, to read The Last American Man, her slim 200-something page profile of North Carolina forest man Eustace Conway, who lives up in the mountains near Boone erecting buildings without nails and sewing his clothes with sinew from deer he's killed with his hands, a man who rode a horse across America with his cowboy brother, whose vision for this country doesn't include television or indoor plumbing.  I've built my life admiring men and women like this, and enjoyed his story mightily, but I also enjoyed the woman behind the tale--her insights, the voicing of her curiosities (what of his sex life?, she ponders for us all).  I devoured what articles I could find of hers online.  And, as 2011 came to an end, I found a used copy of Eat, Pray, Love, and without much thought to what I might look like in public holding this cover up in front of my face, I dispatched it, with glee.

Eat, Pray, Love was the first book I read in 2012, and it very much has directed the course and focus of my year.  A friend of mine read the book a little before me, around the time my curiosity over this writer was building, and when I asked what she thought, she told me she loved the food and travel dialogue, but was a little bored with all the spirituality stuff.  Five years ago, even a year ago, my answer would've been much the same.  It's not for everyone, all the spirituality stuff, but for whatever reason, my agnosticism has taken a strange turn, and while I still don't believe in Deity, I do believe in the power of prayer, in self-reliance, in manifestation of our wildest dreams, in living carefully and with purpose, in seeking: all things endorsed by Elizabeth Gilbert.

And there's the rub.  People don't like earnestness.  We are an acerbic kind living in a sardonic age.  Sneering is the stylish thing.  Not too long ago a fellow blogger (by which I mean, blog-writer, one who forms actual complete sentences [and good ones, I might add]), mentioned Elizabeth Gilbert (or perhaps The Book) as a punchline to a joke on Twitter, and I could not help but quip back the truth, which is: Elizabeth Gilbert is the writer I want to be.  She is.  Sharp and warm, personal (honest) yet urbane and seasoned, traveling the world, making money (I hope it's not too uncouth to mention).  I believe that people who judge Elizabeth Gilbert too harshly (like the aforementioned blogger) have never read anything by her, not the Big One, not anything.  As a writer, a constructor of sentences, it is difficult to find fault with her.  

No, what I think people find fault with, women in particular (because men appear to be mostly indifferent on the matter), is the quest aspect of Elizabeth Gilbert's memoir.  Liz Gilbert ended her marriage, pressed the pause button on her life, engaged in an utterly indulgent (that was partly the point) pilgrimage,  and then wrote (what became) a best-seller about it.  How dare she.  As if that weren't bad enough, she lays bare all her foibles, depressions, struggles, misguidedness, her desire to escape into relationships, her various methods of self-denial, all that messy stuff, and she doesn't apologize for it.  She reckons it for herself, but she doesn't hide any of her weaknesses--in fact, she claims the right to happiness in spite of all that.  What an entitled slut.

I love it.  I love her.  I ate it up.  As I wrote Kath during my reading of Eat, Pray, Love: I was feeling it.  I'm still feeling it.  I am still grooving on the Eat, Pray, Love manifesto.  She says something early in her book which hit me like a ton of fucking bricks.  She says it is our responsibility to make ourselves happy, because by being happy we make the world a better place.  It's true, of course.  One must open herself up to love before she can love anybody else, or anything else, and caring, changing things, begins with love.  It's a squishy, feely logic, but a logic nonetheless, and one that I abide by, completely.  Working on me in 2012, seeking, questing, has made me a better person, undoubtedly.  I have Eat, Pray, Love to thank for that, cliche or no.

“Happiness is the consequence of personal effort. You fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel around the world looking for it. You have to participate relentlessly in the manifestations of your own blessings.” - Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love

Prompt, Day 9 - What was the best book you read in 2012, and why?

Reverb12 | Day 4, All I Want for Christmas

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By all appearances, Christmas and I should be at great odds.  I should be (and, in the past, have been) a grouser.  I have spent many a Decembers past in surly funks, my heart a dead tomato splotched with moldy, purple spots.  On and off for a number of years, I've worked retail. Nothing taints the holiday season like being witness to rampant consumerism and the stress it cultivates.  Do you know why we should avoid stress?  It has less to do with our general well-being than the fact that people who are stressed out are assholes.  Nobody likes an asshole, especially not during the holidays, and all these poor clerks in gift shops and clothing stores across the world are the front line defense, attacked by assholes on all sides.  And, with stressed out assholes and corporate greed come extended holiday hours, which might help you find that perfect gift for that special someone, but for the clerk means only an extra hour spent on his or her feet when maybe he or she would rather be trimming a tree or sipping hot chocolate with his or her own special someone.  

I am not proud of this fact, but I have my moments throughout the day, already, and it will only get worse as the month goes on.  I sometimes walk to the back of the store for a useless ceramic thing's box rolling my eyes.  There have even been a few moments of open-mouthed gaping, nauseated with a nauseous super naus, at the obscenity of all this buying, people pulling huge lists out of their purses and crossing off names like this spending is somehow an obligation.  And before you comment to tell me that all that "obscene buying" is what's paying my bills, yes, I'm aware, which only makes me part of the problem, which only makes the Call of the Curmudgeon even stronger.

And who do I complain about all this to (besides you poor few who may now be reading this): my husband, The Wolfman, Pagan Superstar and Lovechild of Scrooge and The Grinch.  In December, I share my life and bed and thoughts and laughs with a man who would gladly dig himself a hole to hide in until well after the sulphur of New Year's Eve fireworks have dissipated from the atmosphere.  Wolfman does not do celebration.  He does not do cheer.  He is opposed, as I've informed several of our acquaintances, to any kind of fun at all.  He is a serious, intense man.  (The exception to all this is Halloween, suggesting he may actually be some kind of demon sent to this earth to bring down a reign of darkness, but I, too, love Halloween, so I don't question his glee, but gladly take part in it.)  How he came to fall in love with me is a mystery, considering I get excited enough to shout and clap over desserts and good parking spaces.  But, by whatever accident or magick, I am partnered to a man who indulges, even encourages, my yuletide petulance, the garlic in my soul, and that is mighty addictive.

Let us not forget also, the Jesus is the Reason for the Season movement (quite the strong one here in the Bible Belt), which is mighty irritating to pagans and general practitioners of the old traditions.  Jesus is fabulous, and I begrudge no one for following his teachings.  But, the reason for the season precedes Christ by several thousand years.  Keep the Yule in Yuletide.

Also, I really hate wimpy, sleepy indie music, the Christmas/"winter holiday" songs most of all.

Against these great odds, the way I will celebrate myself this holiday season is by being as willfully cheery as fucking possible.  Despite all of the above, this season is a beautiful one, steeped in ancient tradition.  Whatever you choose to call your holiday this December, ultimately it is about gathering together with family and friends as the days grow cold and the nights grow long (unless you are in the Southern Hemisphere, in which case, I don't understand your holiday system at all, the one kink in my dreams of living as a Kiwi).  We all, pagan, Jew, Christian, or Agnostic/Atheist, light candles and string lights this time of year, to keep away the darkness--isn't that a beautiful thought?  Some of us bring trees into our home, to remind ourselves that even in the depths of winter, there is life.  We drink hot cider and eat gingerbread, we go to parades and hang garland and wreaths on every surface.  

I will watch little Kevin get lost in New York, and Billy Peltzer feed Gizmo after midnight, Ralph shoot his eye out, "Christmas with the Joker", and the Nutcracker fighting the Mouse King.  I will wear red and green, a color combination I avoid every other time of the year.  I will get out my box of inherited and collected ornaments, and reminisce as I hang them on the tree.  When "Blue Christmas" comes on in the drug store, I will sing along, and when the Vince Guaraldi Trio plays "Christmas Time is Here", I will cry (I always do).  I will drink peppermint tea, put Christmas stickers on fucking everything, and make a little bonfire on solstice night, to roast chestnuts and marshmallows and say so many prayers of thanks.  

I will celebrate myself this yuletide by not being the three-decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce it is so easy to be.

Prompt, Day 4 - How are you going to celebrate your self this holiday season?

Reverb12 | Day 3, A Very Strange, Enchanted Girl

by Djuno Tomsni

There are things I want for my life--self-reliance, rebellion, unrelenting joy.  In 2012, I learned to make my own shampoo and toothpaste, and in 2013, I want to extend that knowledge to detergent, soap, and various herbal elixers.  In 2012, I waved no flag, I followed no leader, but in 2013, I want my know-how, my health, my strength and self-sufficiency to speak my dissent loud and clear; I want my great fuck you to be a garden.  In 2012, I already throw my head back and laugh periodically throughout the day, but in 2013, I want that number of laughs to be so high there's a permanent crick in my neck.

But, let us say, theoretically, that 2013 is to be my final year.  What, then?  All of the above, but moreso, and with even greater fervor, I will be in the woods.  I will be a nature girl.  Were I diagnosed with only one year left to live, by doctor or soothsayer, after I had a good cry (after all, being alive is just about the greatest thing I can think of), I would pack up a bag, a tent, a knife, a canister of coffee, some bacon wrapped in wax paper, and I would be off to the woods--the deeper in, the better--the darker, more crowded the trees, the better--the louder the birds, the closer the wild things, the better.

Communing with nature in the wild wood (or on the wild beach, or on the edge of the wild desert): more of that.  This is my prescription for 2013; the doctor is in.

Prompt, Day 3: Imagine a scenario where you only had one year left to live. What is one thing that you really wish to do that you just haven't had the chance to accomplish yet?  What steps could you take (however small) to ensure that you accomplish this thing in 2013?

Reverb12 | Day 2, The Discovery of Junk

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About $150 for junk removal, is what Wolfman tells me we paid.  We marked the autumn equinox while pushing a mattress on top of the big white van.  Not moving on up, but moving.  That day, the air carrying something of the scent of a late September reprieve from summer's brutal heat, we ate a standing brunch of shiraz and a Butterfinger pumpkin in the room which had just days before been our office, stuff piled in the corners.  Then, together we lifted the pre-fab desk my brother and grandpa put together for me a few years before, which promptly fell apart in our hands.

It's not exactly my favorite subject, but I don't mind admitting that finances have not always been the easiest aspect of our life as man and wife (or as single man and single woman before that).  When Wolfman and I decided to marry, he looked me in the eye and told me firmly, earnestly, "I'll never be a rich man," to which I answered, "I'll never be a rich woman, so we're even."  I have an old friend who once told me she wouldn't date a man if he didn't drive a certain kind of car, and I looked at her like she'd just announced she wouldn't date a man unless he knew the truth about Area 51 and had a pet unicorn.  My family history being one of varying degrees of impoverishment, I suppose money, the attainment of (one way or another), could very well have become a major driving force in my life had the thought occurred to me.  It did not.  But, regardless of all that, coming home to a dark house and the discovery that our electricity had been shut off was an unkind realization--after juggling our bills for so many months, we'd dropped one.  

After two nights spent in candlelight (the upside to that being that my skin is velvety perfection in candlelight), we bid a hasty farewell to our crooked little newlywed bungalow.  We bagged what we needed to keep with us (clothes, toiletries, a few select books and the record player), we boxed what to store in a rented unit (kitchenware, art, so many more books), and gave away as much as I could bare to part with.  And then, there was the junk removal--for the things we were holding onto which weren't even fit for Goodwill (how does that happen? and why?) 

We've been living spartan for a couple months now, and every other day I toss an item of clothing into a box in the corner for Goodwill--any time I try an outfit on in the morning and it doesn't work (because it's ill-fitting or because I'm just not feeling it), I toss it in the box.  And the stuff--my books, my little trinkets, my things--packed in boxes in the storage unit?  I don't miss them.  I don't need them.

Today I did another closet weeding--the honorary one celebrating my freedom from secretarial work and button-down blouses.  And, when we can gather the strength, we'll begin the big storage unit clean-up.  The process of moving, of junk hauling, has made me aware of just how much junk I do hold onto, and just how much junk I buy.  My most important purchase of 2012, it turned out, was not an acquisition, but the freedom from such.  A seed has been planted, and now I am letting go.  One day, yes, I will have the witchy little cottage, stuffed to the brim with books and artifacts, crystals and fishbowls.  But, now, though I will not be living out of a back pack, I think I can manage living out of a couple of trunks. 

Prompt, Day 2 - What was your most significant expenditure in 2012?  It doesn't have to be necessarily the biggest expenditure, just the one with the most impact.  What difference has it made to your life?

Reverb12 | Day 1, I Live in a Cafe

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In the refrigerator of our cafe is a carton of almond milk with, quite literally, my name on it.  Wolfman doesn't like working with almond milk--it foams inconsistently, he says, and his opinion is expert.  I don't doubt him.  But, I am wary of dairy and moreso of soy.  And, truthfully, I like the nuttiness almond milk adds to coffee--a fold of extra flavor.  

This cafe is my home away from home now.  Just a couple weeks ago I suddenly, without thinking much about it, changed jobs, and now I have my mornings free.  That hour and a half I once spent on the 311, reading or, with more frequency, staring out the window and listening to Born to Die, I now spend sitting in the coffee shop, writing--in my journal typically, but lately in this little space as well (or, early last month, there was that attempt at a fucking novel, which was sort of a joke, but a noble one).  

My grandmother is pleased.  She always thought I read too much.  She believes in books, let me tell you; her overstuffed book shelves are a testament to that, and those summers we spent reading aloud to each other at the kitchen table while she made dinner--from Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee and biographies of Wyatt Earp and Ben Franklin. But, she's of the opinion that reading the dust jackets, the introductions and prologues, and maybe the first couple chapters are enough--to get the gist.  As far as I know, the books she's completed cover-to-cover are considerable (Marilynne Robinson's Housekeeping, Dracula, Crime & Punishment, among others) though minuscule in comparison to the books she buys and borrows and samples daily.  Sometimes she gives me books she's started, knowing that eventually I will finish them, as if she is reading vicariously through me.  And though I joke about this, perhaps her attitude is the right one--how much time do I waste completing books I feel only lukewarm about (or, worse, books I actually abhor, like the Twilight series which I still have every intention to master, or that Anne Rice disaster, Belinda).  I'm a slow, methodical reader, it should be said.  How much of my life am I spending reading words on pages I could easily take or leave?

But, I digress (as usual).  The point I intended to make is that my grandmother has always been my greatest fan, in all things.  According to my grandmother, I am the prettiest (well, tied with my sister) and the most breath-taking dancer ever to grace a stage.  I am the wittiest, the brightest crayon in the box, the sharpest tool in the shed.  I am the tallest, the strongest, the most charming and charismatic.  But, above all, I am the greatest writer.  And I am, perhaps, wasting my talents.  This is all hyperbole, of course.  My grandmother is not insane, but she does believe in me, more than I believe in myself, and she knows that in order to succeed, what I need is discipline.  And, though I am the best at a lot of things in her mind, discipline is not among them.

So I write now, and I make her happy.  And, more importantly, I make myself happy.  I drink my coffee (which, these days, is half-caf), and share a scone with the man I married whose clothes always smell like coffee.  This morning, I taste test a new hot chocolate out of an espresso shot cup painted with a yin yang.   

I'm loosening up.  That's part of what abruptly quitting my job a couple weeks ago was all about--changing my routines, realizing I am not a little old lady yet.  So, perhaps the mornings in the cafe will not last, but I'm hoping the writing will.  Sixty days to make or break a habit.  Sixty mornings sitting at this bar, typing here (getting accustomed to this weird, tiny keyboard, which I know you can not see, but which, trust me, is a pain in the ass), scribbling in my journal about the days, and spirit letters, and all my esoteric bull hockey which means so much to me.  

But words and words and words.  My life built in words and fueled by coffee.  I live in this cafe.  For now.

Prompt, Day 1: How are you starting this last month of 2012?  Take a moment, close your eyes, take a deep breath and ask yourself the question: how do you feel... in your body? in your mind? in your day job? in your creative life? in your heart?