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.

Bizarre Passions

It's fascinating what incites passion in we humans.

Yesterday, C and I met back at the homestead after work. We had decided we would race to the boatyard to pump the water out of the cabin of the sailboat and duct tape the hole where the rain gets in... again; taking advantage of the unseasonably warm weather.

On the way, we chatted with All Things Considered playing softly in the background just under the roar of the 1984 Mercedes Diesel engine. One of my favorite things about Louisville is Louisville Public Media. We have THREE public radio stations. And, they are awesome.

After a minute, C and I fell into a comfortable silence, waiting for a train to pass. Suddenly, we began to wonder what in the hell we were listening to. It didn't become clear what the story was about, or what they were trying to accomplish with it until the whole thing was nearly complete.

All I knew for sure is that people were up in arms, passionately defending throwing bread in the water somewhere in Pennsylvania. This was accompanied by a song about the fish and the bread by Tim Fite.

It was a bizarre report both in format and content, and it made me think deeply about the nature of our passions and how simple things can incite real rage. Passion for a tradition of littering, instead of a passion for peace or environmental consciousness. Or universal health care. Or human rights. Interesting.

Here's to the hope of 2009 being a better year for channeling our energy toward real, positive change.

My Sister Mother

I live in K's old house that she used to share with, what is now, my family, too. We gathered as a tribe on Christmas Eve for tamales and white russians, exchanging and laughter. Children, children everywhere. It was joyful and strange, my skin still stretching to accommodate all the new love and my throat still swallowing all our histories, gone before.

The lights and candles shone as we sat together on her piano bench that still lives in my dining room, sharing our thoughts and mutual admiration.

One time, at a party many moons ago, before I'd spent more than a handful of minutes with K, someone made a gossipy observation. It wasn't meant in an unkind way, but I became silent with defensiveness. I thought: "You can't talk that way about the mother of my boys!" It startled me, then.

I spent several years immersed in Orthodox Judaism. Someone used to say to me that "In Judaism, the Mother is everything." It was a sentiment I heard reflected in a Rosh Hashanah service some time later. The rabbi intoned that the men present were there for women: their mothers, their wives. At the time, I found it to be somewhat sexist. I thought: "Isn't that a classic move, we make you second class citizens, then tell you you're the reason we exist."

Now, I'm not so sure. I believe that the richness of my connection with K is greatly responsible for this integrated family life that is such a blessing to me, to my partner, to hers and to all our children. It feels as though the ancient wisdom of sisterhood informs my own tribal lore. And, while I do not pretend to know the exact alchemy that has produced my blessed luck, I like the idea that K and I have conspired together to be the architects of our family.

We are not the only participants, but it often feels as though we are the origin of the tribal life-force. I find myself mulling over the role of women in family personality. And, wondering if maybe the rabbi had a point.

The Sporting Life

I have two sisters. This is important to know. In many ways, it defines who I am and my particular view of the world. As I watched CB with her two older companions, her almost- brothers, I think of how her experience will be different to mine.

We moved my mattress into our room. The old mattress was sent to the other side of the attic, where the boys live. When we did it, the boys were with K, so we left it on top of one of the beds for discussion upon their return. Rather than a spirited discussion about where the mattress should go (which is what I expected) instead, a new sport was invented - double bed on top of single bed wrestling.

It may also be known as "King/Queen of the Hill" or "Team Knock Off" or "Irresponsible Parenting Move No. 165,000." Yes, there were exposed corners on which any of them could have lost an eye. But, to be fair, so could we!

The wrestling commenced. CB was in it to win it. I'm happy to report that no one lost an eye, and everyone walked away with a wincing bruise. Just the way it should be.

Perhaps I am naturally lazy, or inclined to feminine forms of imaginative play (not that my sisters and I didn't wrestle plenty over the years) but I feel a sense of wonder for the freedom of rough and tumble and the diversion and unity of family board and card games. I was never a game player (being a habitual sore loser and tantrum thrower), but now I hear my own voice suggesting we play blackjack or agreeing happily to a round of Pente.

My boys have, with their six hands, dealt me another deck to play with. And, I feel like I've won the jackpot - even when I'm being mercilessly beaten by a seven-year-old.