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