Every Rose....

Let me first state that I am not interested in having another baby. No, really, I'm not interested. I know I'm 32, and now's the time if ever, but I'm not even THINKING about another baby.

Except, that I am.

I'm serious when I say both of those things. How crazy is that? I'm torn. On one hand, I would love to have a child with my beautiful partner. Would love to see his face in a child that came from me. On that same hand, I would love to be at least one of the women in the world with whom he had the experience of fatherhood. Sometimes it hurts, the disconnect between his and mine. Because there is one. Not one that is so large it causes resentment or anything like that, but it's there.

On the other hand, I could do without contributing further to the overpopulation of the planet, without the two years of donating my body to another being. The endless marathon you run as a mother. Going through all of it again sounds just.... well...

But, maybe it all seems so alluring because 1) every woman within 100 yards of my partnership is pregnant or has recently given birth - and there are a few of them, and 2) it's impossible.

That's right. My boy is snipped. For better or for worse. So, is this a case of a rose having thorns, or sour grapes? Up until recently, I thought the snipping was for the very much better. But now, I'm not sure what I feel except slightly nauseous. I know that I wouldn't want another child with anyone but C - which he can't do. It's like The Gift of the Magi with no heartwrenching gift. Just emptiness.

Did you choose not to have a child with your partner? If so, why not, and have you ever questioned your decision?

The Plane, The Property, Pregnancy and the Nature of School

For this I see, that we, all we that live, Are but vain shadows,
unsubstantial dreams.- Sophocles

For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for
everything you gain, you lose something else.- Ralph Waldo Emerson

If you really want something in this life, you have to work for it - Now
quiet, they're about to announce the lottery numbers!- Homer Simpson

How does one live well?

I think that one's thirties are filled with tumult. Hopefully, with hard fought lessons and decisions made, you have figured out just who you are. But, in my experience, many of us have not figured out just exactly what we must have to make us feel happy, honest, just, and joyful.

We have ideas, sure, but we are locked in the business of struggle: against destitution, against hypocracy, for something precious, or philosophically battling a demon in order to live amongst our better angels. Maybe it's just my good friends and me, but I think it's a broader brush, a more common struggle.

M has decided never to board a plane, which means I will never see her unless I board a plane to Oz. This makes me sad - and I hear in her blog her struggle with this decision because travel has been such a big part of her identity development. But, in this case, it is a triumph of a more defining part of her identity since she moved to the country. Travel is not the essence of her existence any longer, but not having it on the horizon must feel painful. It pains me, so many thousands of miles away, but her decision is also one of joy.

J's development property cannot be sold - and her life has been on hold for four years waiting to sell it. Now, after working 8 months in a job she hates she must decide whether to start herself fresh or keep herself locked in stasis for what looks to be another half a decade. Will she give it all up and move to be near me? Will she give it all up and move to New Zealand, her mother's native country? If she does move on, what will she do?

C is beginning a journey toward pregnancy, which may be long and arduous. I want to believe in miracles on her behalf. I will write her love letters - but how long will this journey be? I am frightened for her, for the psychology of being a woman. There is so much baggage that comes along with marrying, mothering - and baggage of its own when any of those become hard fought. It is the anniversary of her sister's death in a couple of weeks. Magic things happen around this time of year for all those who are close to C's family. I will hope that Boomer is looking down and laying all her blessings on C.

And, I am struggling with the limitations of schooling, the unsatisfying experiences I will be required to give my students with the idea of "teaching" them, when I have philosophically different ideas about it. The institutionalization of children weighs on me. I am perpetuating a cycle. Is the answer to opt out - or can I find a way to give, to love, to teach within the boundaries set and without losing my belief in the essence of what learning must be?

The journey is beautiful and fearsome.

And a Lightbulb Extinguished in the Night

I came upon this poem by e.e. cummings

let it go - the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise - let it go it
was sworn to
go

let them go - the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers - you must let them go they
were born
to go

let all go - the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things - let all go
dear

so comes love

And it reminded me of what I must become better at doing.
Of what I have never been good at doing.

When I was a junior in my Catholic high school, I went on retreat. There was praying, but more than that, during retreat, you got to interact with people you didn't know very well.

They broke us into small groups where we shared who and what we were with one another. Where we rehearsed our stories of suffering. For some reason, the magic of sharing made people show one another empathy and for a time after retreat, people would be kinder to one another. This would fade over time, and retreats did not cure the incurable drama of high school, but your feelings about the people in your small group were changed drastically for that time and the time immediately following.

Bob Buckler was in my small group. We never really liked one another. I mean, I don't think we ever had strong feelings about one another. Well, other than mild irritation sparked by random comments - irritation that, while frequent, would fade as quickly as it struck, leaving no mark.

Bob was assigned to be my small group partner on the last day, the day of acknowledgements. I have to be honest, I was bummed. Despite the magic of retreat empathy, Bob was still not all that impressed with my stories of suffering and hardship. He was just one of those guys. So, I was dreading what he'd say when we gathered in a circle to give the other person a handmade gift that represented their journey this retreat.

When it came time for Bob's turn, I steeled my face against showing emotion. He awkwardly held out a lightbulb cut out of white construction paper and drawn on with black magic marker. It had a green piece of yarn hanging from where it was glued to the side. Written on the lightbulb in utilitarian printing were the words:

Turn
it
Off

Bob's explanation for his gift went something along these lines:

You take everything too seriously, you think about things too much. Sometimes, you need to give yourself a break. Turn it off... you know?

I didn't know. ...but I was 16, so I acted like I did.
His words and explanation rolled around in my brain for a long time after that.
Sometimes, I felt it was advice offered with good intent.
Sometimes, I felt offended.

I kept that lightbulb above my dresser at my parents' house for several years, not because it meant so much to me, but because I never really understood it.

I haven't thought about that lightbulb in the last decade. Until now, as I read the words of e.e. cummings.

e.e. cummings said it better than Bob.
But, Bob said it with brevity.

Yeah, Bob. I do know, now.

July to October

Since returning to Louisville from Colorado, life has been a whirlwind.

Truth be told, the only reason I'm writing right now is that I am procrastinating. I need to plan the rest of my week with my students, I'm woefully behind in my coursework at U of L and Charlotte needs to be packed up for her journey tomorrow to Virginia.

Funny, too, how so much has changed and evolved and been grappled with in that time. Why is it so hard to write when stuff is actually HAPPENING?

It's taken me a while to adjust emotionally to my new internet habits, which means me+teaching=no internet all day long. Not even personal email. Which is a huge change from being involved full-time in website creation and surfing all day every day. Weird.

So, how's the teaching? Well... what was the general mood of the 120 12 year olds that walked through my classroom with their raging hormones and simultaneous desires to rebel and please? The answer to that question holds the quality of my day in its hot little hands. I take it class by class with varying degrees of success. I'm an okay teacher. Not great. And, I'm horrifically bad at all the tracking and analyzing. But, I have a feeling I'll get better at it.

Here are the things I love about teaching:
- The days when things just chink along and the kids understand what the heck you're talking about and they participate and you reach a couple of kids you haven't been able to... like today, this one student unlocked the key to coming up with things to freewrite about - and he's so proud of himself. You can just SEE it in his eyes and his demeanor. I'm proud of him.

- The way they want to tell you about all the minutae of their lives and really believe that it's probably the most interesting thing you've heard all day. I find their innocent self-centeredness just so sweet. It's not the same brand as 16 or 18 year old self-regard, it's this mixture of approval seeking and trying out their identities that is just phenomenal to watch and nurture.

- There are some of them that get so excited about things they write or think that they burst out of their chairs to get your attention. I have to get them to sit back down so everybody doesn't bum rush me, but I'm always happy to see it happening. Same with "blurting" when kids don't raise their hands. I have to make sure that I keep it to a reasonable level, but I love it when they have a thought and they just have to share it.


There are things that drive me insane, but I'm not going to blog about those. At least, not today.

And, there are a lot of things that have changed in the way the pirate tribe functions that I'd like to address, but not today. For now, let me say that this is the most changeable job I've ever had. The kids are like a moving target. And, I struggle to keep up. But, I think I might love it.

....yeah. I might.

The Gift.

We took a trip to Colorado for a gift.

We barely Fit in my Honda Fit

We crossed the Great Plains

and navigated tall mountains.

We contemplated our place in the universe

and were blessed by one another

We saw glorious sights

and told stories before bed

We discovered towns we loved and want to visit together over and over again.

We met up with some of our favorite people

But, most of all, we loved one another and shared our wonder of the world around us.

...which was the gift we were looking for.

"Yeah, I consider myself a road man for the lords of karma."
- Hunter S. Thompson from a Salon.com interview in 2003

The MamaTrip

My three year old is driving me crazy.

Overemotional.
Tattletale.
Crybaby.
Clingy.
Cheeky.
Sassy.

It's gone from the occasional sassy that's somewhat cute, to full-blown obnoxious. "CB, don't touch the sanitary napkin trashcan!" said in a theater bathroom elicits a melt-down of epic proportions. Simple requests for picking up after herself are met with deaf ears and cheeky glances (so you know she does hear you). Everything is a reason for her to melt-down. H took her chair, she doesn't WANT to pick up her room, R won't let her use the computer, she can't have more milk.

So, I went dictator on her tiny little person.

Not ACCEPTABLE! Not COOL! Not HAPPENING! Time OUT! No STORIES!

I heard echoes of my father's authoritarian approach and my mother's hysteria. And, after I put her to bed, I cried my eyes out from exhaustion and frustration at having to be a hard-case. It's the hardest part of parenting, I think. The part where you have to draw a hard line and then figure out your strategy and stay consistent despite exhaustion and wanting to just give in to get a little peace and quiet.

You want it to be effective without harming their burgeoning personalities. You want them to understand appropriate from inappropriate and differentiate between respect and disrespect without breaking their spirits.

And, in the process, sometimes this little person breaks your spirit and your heart all at once...

Then, in the morning, you go in to wake up this child, still bracing for terrific frustration, your shoulders standing sentry at your ears, your abdomen taut, body in battle formation.

What you find is an angel there, where the demon went to sleep. And the angel is loving and snuggly and kissing you all over the face, telling you she loves you. The angel is docile and sweet and simply gorgeous and your heart overflows, and the walls of frustration melt into rainbows like you were on some kind of massive acid trip.

And, that's how I'd sum up motherhood, at least today.

A really effed up acid trip... but it's happy acid...the kind you'd drop again next week.

(Not So) Anonymous Love

This morning, as I am wont to do, I cruised over to LOM to check out the scenery. Today, it was my favorite strand of lovely that dear Meg has such a gift for finding: Random Acts of Art. This particular brand of random gifting was executed by Lenka + Michael.

I read the letters, absorbing their kind and generous anonymity. It made me want to send all the people I love (and a few strangers) anonymous letters. So, I thought I'd start with a theoretical anonymous letter to my lover.

Good morning, my love,

I wish that I could write you an anonymous letter that would brighten your day. That would make you feel seen and happy.

http://www.mysteriousletters.blogspot.com/

What a lovely idea. I love random letters and random connections and small missives of kindness that don't mean much except as a blip of strange-goodness in an otherwise ordinary life.

If I sent you a random letter, I would compliment your awesome car (I would make a small mention of how the hubcaps and Budda really make the vehicle special) and the expressive nature of your face. I would admire your efficiency with yard and housework and would notice how you grasp life with both hands to live it fully. I would say that your outside activities indicate that your inside is full of depth and passion and interesting-ness. I would tell you that your subscription to the New Yorker and devotion to newspapers make me think that you are probably well-read and have a lot to say. I would say that your recycling bin tells me that you are concerned about the world around you, but not so much that you would be annoying. I would tell you I like that. I would also tell you that I like the fact you like good beer and wine, and I would probably assume that you like good food and drink in general. I would say that sometime we should get a good beer and follow it up with good wine and maybe some cheese and fruit. I would say that I think we are probably meant to be in one another's lives and it would be a shame not to meet and see if it were true. I would sign the letter with my phone number and then I would keep my phone in my pocket until you called. Because, I would never stop believing you would call me.

And, i would be right about all of it.

I adore you. Madly. Completely. With my whole soul.
You are beautiful.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
tricia

Such a gift to give. To express that another can be seen clearly and appreciatively by the world. To elaborate upon the connectedness of our shared humanity. What a lovely way to pass an hour, a day or a life! This reminds me of another quote that a friend had recently as his Facebook status:

"I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all those people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. It was like waking from a dream of separateness. . . ."
-Thomas Merton

Another Bedtime Story

What is it that is so intimate about bedtime? I suppose it's what differentiates friends from family in some ways. If I've shared my daily bedtime and waking with you, whether as a lover, a sister, a daughter, a roommate or a mother, you have innately been a part of my family.

R, H and CB have been sharing a lot of bedtime lately. All of them are enthusiastic about sleeping upstairs together. Sometimes CB is on a futon next to H or R's bed. Sometimes the three of them cram into the double bed that serves as a place to lounge, or a place to wrestle. Oftentimes, it isn't even CB's idea to sleep upstairs. In the tone and tenor of her question "Mama, can I sleep upstairs tonight?" you can hear the intonation of a whispered boys voice. Sometimes you overhear the boys planting the idea in her head in the other room.

I resisted this at first, being rigid as I am with bedtime. I've always seen bedtime as sacrosanct. It's the demarcation line between Tricia the Mother and Tricia the Person. But, as C has pointed out to me, this is a sweet time of bonding they're experiencing. We should embrace that they want to be together. So, I have begun to flex my flexibility on the subject.

Tucking CB into bed upstairs last night, I was getting ready to read to her. Both boys bounded from bed and came flying across the room and into the double bed. C lay at the foot of the bed, all my loves crammed into the tiny space. I read the book with voices, R provided color commentary about the quality of the plot, H provided vocal reading of the signs in the story. C and I provided love filled glances at one another, not quite believing our luck. These three beautiful children who have informed us that they are brothers and sister.

After the reading was done and all the children were kissed and tucked into bed, C and I met in our own room with starry eyes and full hearts. So beautiful, we said to each other over and over.

The most amazing thing, beyond the magic of our blossoming family, is that this family is a growth from a point of origin, and that point of origin is our strong, passionate love for one another. I am truly blessed to live in a house filled with such an abundance of love. My heart overflows.

Sweet Dreams

H - "I think you'll make a great teacher, Tricia."
Me -"Really? You're just saying that. Are you kidding with me?"
H -"No! I really think you'll be good. I wish you were going to be my teacher, that would be awesome."
Me-"That would be awesome, I would love that. But, you know, it would be hard because you'd be my favorite kid in the classroom."
H -"Yeah, we wouldn't want to tell anyone."
Me -"Yeah."
H -"And, then I'd be like, 'Tricia, why didn't you eat any of that pizza last night....I mean, Miss Meeley, do you like pizza?'"
Me -"And I'd be like "H, you have to stop leaving your dirty socks all over the house... I mean...your dad told me you do that."
H -"And I'd be like (whispers) "I live with her!'"
Me -"Yeah, and then they'd all know."
Me -"I love you, H. You're the coolest kid."
H - (smiling)"I know."

Welcome Back, Tricia

I have been admitted into the Master of Arts in Teaching (MAT) program at the University of Louisville. If I can get a job with the public school district, I'll be teaching Middle School Language Arts in the fall.



I will learn everything (cough, cough) I need to know in six short weeks of summer classes before I take the helm of a classroom.

I am very excited, but terrified. I think that this is healthy.

Vu Ja Day

Well put me in a cage full of lions, I learned to speak lion
In fact I know the language well
I picked it up while I was versing myself in the languages they speak in hell
That night, the silence gave birth to a baby
They took it away to her silent dismay
And they raised it to be a lady
Now she can't keep her mouth shut

And for one crowded hour, you were the only one in the room
And I sailed around all those bumps in the night to your beacon in the gloom
I thought I had found my golden September in the middle of that purple June
But one crowded hour would lead to my wreck and ruin

-from "One Crowded Hour" by Augie March

My Boys

C's kids are my boys. I didn't give birth to them, but through circumstance and their sheer awesomeness I have grown so attached that my heart couldn't possibly grow any bigger to accommodate more love. Except that it does. Every day. They break my heart with their sweetness and sometimes they just plain break my heart.

The frustrating thing about being a stepmother, a member of the "tribal village" or a "vital parental figure" to a child not of your womb is that you get the full-body joy and pain of raising children - NOW with added boundaries! An already difficult road is made muddy, sometimes.

Being a mother myself, and having the shoe on the other foot with a former lover and his wife, I'm very sensitive to this. I don't want to be called a stepmother because of my own sensitivity to the back-end of that word. I am lucky in the fact that C and I share our perspective on this and our view on the collaborative aspect of his children and my child vs. the weight of responsibility is very similar. We are letting this family grow in the way that is right for us.

But.

(There is always a but.)

When things go awry (or things go awry in the other house that makes up the world of your family) you are stuck with biting your tongue till it bleeds, as LOM so rightly put it, ages and ages ago. And that is tough. You have to live with the decisions that are made, but aside from discussions with your partner half of the equation, you cannot control the outcome.

I was thinking about this frustration and my diplomatically expressed opinions about these precious souls for whom I feel so deeply, and it made me think: Perhaps this will be good preparation for surrendering to the helplessness of loving these children when they are adolescents and adults.

To learn to love fierce and well without control or agenda. That must be valuable! Oh, the difficult and varied avalanche of gifts the road less taken heaps upon your soul.

Woman Chased by Ghosts: Film at 11.

Oh, you silly ghosties. Why can't you leave me be? You make me slightly miserable and you weigh down everything I love with your ecto-plasm of emotional importance. I know that I've got baggage, but that doesn't mean that you need to pursue me with such gusto.

Yes, there are photo albums in the basement and detritus of whole lives lived before me. There are shoes that belonged to smaller boys and highchairs that heard laughter of a happy family that is not together in quite the same way anymore.

There are Christmas cards and plastic Easter eggs with petrified candy inside and Halloween decorations littered in closets and on shelves with dust of years. There are nude paintings and pastel drawings and intimate family portraits of my partner drawn by another woman's hand. But, ghosties, look at the DUST! There are layers of it. That was so long ago. So, why do you have to lay your cold hand on my heart?

All that detritus created everything I love - as it is today. It is not coming to destroy it. No matter what you try to whisper in your lying voice. I reject the weight of you and your sticky fingers, ghosties. You are not real. You are not real. You are not real.

Unconditional

The world is a crazy, mixed-up place, I thought to myself when I saw that the package sitting on my front porch from Bed, Bath and Bexpensive was addressed to my ex, G, with my address on it. Weird. I also thought: a) I never gave him my new address and b) I bet he and his fiancee are registered at the triple B, c) oh, f*ck, now I'm going to have to figure out a way to send this back to him which is going to be a most royal pain in the ass and d) I hope that this is not a prelude to a deluge of random kitchen shite that I'm going to have to traffic cross country.

So, how did this happen? Well, this little lady right here (umm, that would be me) has quite a paper trail of addresses littered cross the country through previous and current stints of mail forwarding. And, the G in question at one time in the past was part of my addiction to new addresses. Apparently, the UPS computer system is smart enough to link my paper trail to our previously joined addresses but not smart enough to realize that G is most definitely not living with me and my lover in Louisville. Totally bizarre, but true.

Anyway, I called the G in question to let him know that he may want to let the UPS computer in on our breakup. After clearing up the mixing-up, I asked after his wedding preparations. It turns out, that poor guy is suffering from a lack of unconditional love.

You see, G is an observant Jew now. And, apparently that impedes his family's ability to get behind his decision to marry a lovely observant Jewess and have a lovely observant family. Poor schmuck, ditched the shiksa and still can't catch a break.

I offered my support and hopes for his happiness with his new wife. Personally, I feel so thankful and blessed by life and my tribe, that I can't help but think that the universe, or if you prefer - G-d - has good things in store for him and this lovely young woman he has found. He said, "You wouldn't think that my ex-wife would be the most supportive person of this marriage in my family past and present, but you are." Which was nice to hear, but mostly saddened me for everyone involved. Most especially, G and his fiancee who simply want to celebrate this beginning!

It got me thinking about the nature of love. And, it made me wonder about myself and the things that I insist on seeing negatively instead of for the light that lives inside them. We all have those things inside ourselves, I suppose. Those things that feed on our insecurities or presuppositions. We can't control the other people in our lives, but I guess, what I took away from my conversation with G is that I want to be a force of light for the people I love. A force of accepting, positive, joyful light.

Because this crazy mixed-up world can always do with more love. Pure and delightful.

A Break in the Weather

My winter blues have been deep and wide this year, so the recent thaw has been a balm for my soul. I had actually gotten a bit worried that the blues were more than winter blues, wondering if my theory that a good, warm day would blow them away would be true. We had that good, warm day on Saturday and I felt my spirit come alive.

Yesterday afternoon, C and I chiseled six coats of paint off the front of the front door revealing orangey lacquered wood. We're going to sand it, maybe stain it. What a difference it makes to the front of the house!

It was the first project we've taken on together since the house became somewhere we both make a home. It was symbolic. It was beautiful.

....It called my attention to every dust bunny and corner of clutter.

A wise woman of the theatre, Ms. H once said to a group of us seeking her counsel: "Don't should on yourself, dear." She was in her 90's. She knew what was what.

So, after spending part of last night getting myself wrapped around the flagpole of "should," I decided to celebrate the beginning with something more productive. This morning, I centered my spirit and hung the Tibetan prayer flags across the porch, following C's instruction to not make them "too even."

The sun was rising, the sky was clear and the breeze was fresh.
It was an auspicious beginning to a Monday.

Stories I Stole

Stories I Stole is the name of one of my favorite books. It is by Wendell Steavenson. She is so cool. I would like to be her, except that I couldn't possibly be that cool. I mean, just look at her cool first name. If I had a cool name like that, I bet I'd be cooler. But, I'm not.

I bought my copy of the book in Perth, Western Australia (a cool town) from a cool bookstore called Bookstop. It was cool.

The book came to mind because the following story is stolen from H, age 7. It is also way cooler than I could ever be.

The Magic Sea

Once upon a time Long ago there was a slave and his wife. Every day they had to go to the sea and get two buckets of water, now they had to do this five times a day. So One day on the fivth time the slave was out geting water and he said "I wish I was prince" and then he saw a big splash, next thing he knew he was sitting in a thrown at the Palace he was surprised, amazed. "wow" he mummbled. the next day he said "Bring me a Boat. Let me sail alone" so he sailed alone at sea then he said "i want to be king" next he saw a big splash then the next thing he knew he was sitting at the throne at the palace he was surprised amazed "wow" he said once more he set out to sea but he had gotten so greedy this time he said I wish I had a palace made out of gold. When he returned home his palace was made out of gold. The next day again he set out to sea but this time he said "I wish I had all the gold in the world" then in a booming voice, the sea said, "you have grown too greedy. I will turn you back into the slave you use to be." He saw a big splash then the next thing he knew he was back in his hut with his wife. His wife said, "where were you?" "When I was going to the sea I said, 'I wish I was prince' all I saw was a big splash of water then I was prince. I don't know what happened?" His wife fell silent. "There's a legend that says one day a man would find the magic sea. I guess you found it." "Yes," he said. From then on they were never ever dissapointed.

Passing Beauty By

I have been sad since returning from my grandfather's funeral. The open casket caught my heart unawares. The tears streaming down my father's face spun me round. The grief surrounding me became my grief. The tide swept me, and the quantity of wine and single malt scotch I consumed did nothing to center my spirit.

And, then I discovered this article by Gene Weingarten. It rightfully won the Pulitzer Prize.

"If we can't take the time out of our lives to stay a moment and listen to one of the best musicians on Earth play some of the best music ever written; if the surge of modern life so overpowers us that we are deaf and blind to something like that -- then what else are we missing?"

What unexpected beauty do we miss every day?
Here is Joshua Bell in the "right frame" playing and talking about Chaconne by Bach:



How much beauty have I rushed past today? Yesterday?
How often do I forget that we are blessed?

Coincidentally, I went to see Brett Dennen play last night, here in Louisville. He filled the room with grace and joy. It was beautiful.

going... going...

My grandfather is dying. Has been for almost a year. He has end-stage lung cancer that they stopped treating about four months ago. He is 86 years old.

Right now, the majority of his remaining 7 children are gathered around him (his eldest daughter, passed of lung cancer in January of 2005), my sister KW is amongst the crowd. My mother will head to the family gathering sometime tomorrow as the vigil continues.

There is nothing for me to do, but wait for the wake and funeral. For the phone call to come with the inevitable news. It is a helpless feeling.

My father called me earlier today, shortly after his father received his Last Rites. The purpose of the call was to say my awkward and public goodbyes to a man who has been mostly enigma to me. I felt like crying, mostly because hearing the note of a break in my father's voice can inspire me to move mountains to attempt to salve his pain. I am never successful in my quest, but my father in distress is a motivator I don't fully understand.

I wanted to jump in the car and get there for the important part. For the departure. Funerals just don't make sense to me as a gathering place. Deathbeds seem more friendly-like. Am I bizarre? Maybe.

I wanted to get in the time machine and have one more real and lucid conversation with him, ask some questions I never got answered. That's the real problem with "one last time." By the time you know that's what it is, it destroys the spirit of the actual conversation. Assuming there can be one.

And, there couldn't be now, anyway. In a sense, I was too late already when I went out there over the summer - you can't ask existential questions of a man who has already been given a death sentence. It's just not done. Best to talk about the weather and hope your toddler doesn't deliver him a death-blow of a cold direct from daycare. That's how it felt. A polite audience on plastic covered furniture. No real connection with the situation. All bright natural light and photo ops for albums that my daughter will see when she is older. Proof.

From Charlotte's Big 4th of July

And, I'll always look at those photos and see a dying man. Not my grandfather. Not really.

He and I never had all that much in common. I don't think he understood a single decision I made as an adult. A quiet, introverted man, I think he found me to be a bit gauche, frankly. He wouldn't be the first.

When I was a teenager, I spent a lot of time trying to draw him out, to learn more about him. But, I felt it exhausted him. And, as other distractions entered the scene, eventually, I gave up on it altogether.

Now I am just bracing for the inevitable. Sad that I never found a way to grasp the essence of the man who shaped the way my father shaped me. Sad that I will have to watch people I love, be sad. Sad that there is nothing I can do to fix them. Or me.

Link Spree.

I visited a blog I found in LOM's follow-list, Color Me Katie, (who never fails to inspire me with her random acts of color) where I saw her High Five Escalator post, which took me to the Improv Everywhere site, where I relived my own Melbourne Fringe Festival memories of years ago, and thought of my friend Meg's project Display Purposes Only which I haven't forgotten that she sent me shirts for and I never, ever, ever did a damn thing with them. Oh, and I thought about being naked with 4.500 other people, which was still some of the most fun I have ever had. Thinking about Meg made me visit Land of Meg, which made me learn more about the blogger who made her think about Meg Later, Now. This made me curious about one of his twitters, which took me to this guy, whom I'm still confused about. Which also took me to Wunderings, which took me to Swiss Miss, who I spent quite a bit of time with, before she dropped me off at charity:water, which made me wonder what PJ thinks of this kind of water activism. Which made me look at their Twestival, which I forwarded to some people in the online marketing department at work, because I hadn't seen Twitter used quite that way before. Twitter always makes me think of Facebook statuses. Especially since I read this New York Times Magazine article about them last Sunday (which I found pretty unsatisfying for an interesting topic, but I still am thinking about the article, mostly the parts that were left unwritten).

Which made me check my friends' statuses - which made me notice that the quarterly journal that my poet-friend Mark edits has been updated, which made me read the work. Especially this work whose words and images were so powerful and made me think so deeply that I just didn't even know who to send them to... or why. Which made me think about the Newspaper Blackout poems of Austin Kleon, a link to which I posted for my poet-friend, and an image of one I sent to my newspaper man(see above). Oh, and I forwarded a link to another to a colleague as sound advice for a marriage.

All this linking managed to keep me in between productive thoughts for most of the day, in a zen-like state of surfer's bliss. Oh, and I changed my image on Skype, courtesy of wikipedia - Rocinante - Steinbeck's caravan. Delicious.

growing

So, looking through all the old photos and videos, I saw CB and R and H grow up before my eyes all time-lapsey. I heard the bass notes start to enter R's timbre. I laughed with tears in my eyes at Charlotte's stilted language. I saw H grow inches.

I thought of how fleeting this time in their lives is. And, how much we've all grown together. This is the second year I've given my little buccaneers Valentine's gifts. I was surprised at how sweet it was to do something for the second time. Usually, I'm more blown away by the firsts.

Two nights ago, two small boys came one after the other into the kitchen for a big hug and a kiss goodnight. "Oh!" I said, startled before settling into a grin that ran the width of my face. C walked in a couple of seconds later and saw me surrounded by small arms, my lips buried in shaggy hair and he had the same reaction I did. "Oh!"

It was a first. Not the first time I've given them hugs and kisses goodnight. But, the first time that I was not the initiator. They wanted me. They sought my arms.

There is a sweetness to the repetition of new traditions, and a sweetness to the adventures into new frontiers of family-ness. It is the beauty of watching growing things, including my own ever expanding love.

Tagged

Land of Meg tagged me the other day, so I'm supposed to put my fourth photo in the fourth folder up on this here page. This is it. Me with CB in my apartment in Portland, Oregon circa April 2006.

Thank you Land of Meg for bringing me memories!
xx

Six.

There are six reasons I am happy today:

1) I got up my gumption and still went to my masters program info session despite
- stinky armpits
- no parking which led to stinkier armpits
- running very, very late
- feeling very, very hopeless
- insane amounts of social anxiety
I got halfway home, after talking myself out of it - and then turned back around, double parked and walked in 45 minutes late like I knew what was what. And, you know what? It was worth it... because....

2) I got my transcript re-evaluated and now I'm eligible to apply for the alternative program I wanted!

3) AND I found out that the deadline for the program I want is a month and 15 days later than the other deadline

4) The weather is getting better - supposed to be 50 degrees outside in the next few days!

5) I am so lucky to be in love with the most amazing partner. Without C-Roll, I wouldn't have turned around. Not even a little.

6) 9 credits turned to six, just like that... I'm beginning to believe....

and it's a wonderful feeling.

Forcing

Today I woke up wrapped in my lover's skin and could hardly lift myself out of my deepest sleep. I dreamed long after I was conscious and felt delirious with tired bones all slack with exhaustion. There is a lot of tired in those two sentences - I think it's the dreary winter-ness. Or, perhaps it was the news I got yesterday. One class may keep me locked exactly where I am. And, I'm so tired, so defeated, that I don't feel much like fighting it.

Winter Blues.

When I was in college, I got the winter blues pretty badly. So badly in fact, that I would go to the tanning bed just to get my body to produce warmth. I only went once every couple of weeks, so it was definitely not an exercise in body darkening - I don't tan so well even in real light - but the artificial sunlight helped my mood.

Even the Sunday Sun didn't help my feeling of helplessness. I sat outside with a chair in the snow, closing my eyes and letting the warmth wash over me, I took supplements, I had water. Still, this exhaustion, unnatural in its tenacity. Honestly, I don't even feel like posting anything right now, but the only way to get past the roadblock of the winter blues is to force one foot and then the other, willing to do whatever you've got wrong, looking at every movement, small and large, as a triumph against your static nature.

Reclaimed.

Today, Barack Obama was sworn in as the 44th President of the United States of America.

Lately, I have been thinking about sustainability and community. I think it is all the promise of change in the air - suddenly, buying organic isn't enough - I want to do it in a way that supports my community. Not purchasing new isn't enough, I want to create with my own hands. I want to make do, to patch the tire, to embrace things like canning and jarring and darning of socks.

I want to reclaim all the damaged things, used and thrown away.
Perhaps because I feel as though my country has finally been reclaimed.

Maybe my idealism could be usable with a little wood glue and a coat of varnish. Maybe my patriotism could be darned with a needle and thread, fixing the hole I left in the heel of America's sock. They will never be perfect again, these things, but there is nothing more beautiful than the hard-won character of something of value, glued and fixed.

Wishville, USA

I am living in Wishville right now. It's a place I go to in my head - there is a door in, but no door out. In Wishville, I am engaged in active daydreaming. I usually go there when I'm in front of the computer, making up alternate scenarios for my reality through research and endless tangential googling.

Sometimes, Wishville is about furniture or my immediate surroundings. Others, it's about a more disciplined yoga-ish meditation-filled lifestyle. Sometimes I'm an astrologer in Wishville. Sometimes, I'm a world traveler and adventurer extraordinaire.

Today, my Wishville is about becoming a teacher. Getting rid of the three credits between me and imminent career change. Figuring out the financial aid I'll need to make it happen.

Today, instead of engaging in my life of the present, I'm living inside the idea of "could."

Rocinante

My parents have a wooden statue. The skinny legs of Don Quixote mesmerized me as a child. His craggy face was explored by my fingers as they grew. I studied the dark wood and its grain in the carving, feeling the smooth curves of his coat and pantaloons, wondering how you make something like that from a block of wood. The statue always seemed so strong, but delicate.

My father, who was hardened and shaped by decades in the military, wasn't always the way I knew him. Once, he wanted to be a poet, or a forester in Oregon. Once, he was a writer and a dreamer. Once, he was an optimist, a writer of love letters. Once, he was a philosopher king. Once, he sang "The Impossible Dream" in the shower, getting ready to meet my mother on a date.

Once, he was Don Quixote, adventurer, knight-errant, dreamer and hero.

We are different people, my father and me. Life shaped him in ways that I will still not accept for myself. But, that statue reminds me of him in his youth, in what I envision as his purest state.

C's parents had a similar statue in their home, when he was growing up. When I came to his house for the first time, I saw that he had the same framed print of Picasso's Don Quixote as I had grown up with (in addition to the statue). They played the soundtrack to Man of La Mancha on their turntable constantly - as did my father and mother.

C and I are buying a 34 foot sailboat. We will hopefully close by the end of the month. We dream of sailing together all over this blue earth. This purchase is the beginning of making that dream a reality.

The boat is not perfect. It is old. But, to our eyes, it is beautiful. It is Rocinante, the skinny nag, riding to glory - helping us tilt at windmills. As we keep believing in beauty. Believing in honor. Believing in dreams.

...but she's ours!

We arrived home from our big weekend in Chicago with CB in tow, fresh from her stay with her Dad, his wife M and his whole family for a week. When I say fresh, I mean it the same way my mother used to say "Don't use that fresh tone with me, young lady." She's fresh, alright. Freshly spoilt. It's to be expected. But, dealing with it isn't a rose garden.

Getting your child back from their other parent is a double edged sword as with so many things in loving your child. On one hand you feel complete, an aching hole is filled, the world is brighter. On the other, your head feels like it is in a vice with the constant whining, jokes you don't find funny (but the child's other biological half clearly did) and the general exhaustion that can strike anytime, but seems to strike harder when you've had a week of peace and quiet.

I've done this before, so I know that my patience runs thin that first week, despite my joy at having my girl back. When my mother asked if she and my dad could take CB for the weekend right after she returned, I didn't hesitate with my "yes."

My sister KW decided to come out from Philly for an impromptu visit and take CB up to my parents' house for them, a day early. Monday night, sitting around the dinner table, I mentioned KW's visit and CB's subsequent departure. Much to my surprise, H got indignant. "So, CB is going away AGAIN?" he asked. I said yes. His voice went up two octaves and he said "But, we just got her back -and now she's going to leave again?!" I explained that my parents hadn't seen her at Christmas. He went on: "But, she's ours! She should be here with us, not going everywhere else!"

H's indignant response was music to my ears. So is the way he'll quietly take CB under his wing and teach her things, or the way he'll patiently play Candy Land with a two year old who has the attention span of a gnat because he sees the value of teaching her to love board games, knowing that it's an investment in years of beating her at chess. For my part, I think she'll give him a run for his money.