Mase-face, my champion of love

 

 

 

 

My little man.

Never knew I had it in me to love such a small person, a new person in my life, so deeply and unconditionally. I look forward to seeing him, and worry when he’s getting too big– that I am missing parts, important parts, of his life. Amazing how a tiny body has the power to hypnotize a room of adults- grandparents and teenage boys alike. One look into his sweet face, one brush of that baby skin on your cheek .. that’s all it takes, and soon you’re holding him, kissing him, talking to him in another language, whispering, getting all up close and personal, acting like a completely different person. Powerful, I tell you.

Suppose if Mason could talk and asked me to do him a favor, I’d have no choice but to answer: yes, anything, Mase, anything at all. I am that much in love, that much. From the minute he came into this world (and I’ll always remember that moment like it was yesterday; that crazy, unforgettable moment), I was rendered helpless to his will.

Looking so forward to my years as auntie…

Put people first

A Pace of Grace, the Virtues of a Sustainable Life  by Linda Kavelin Popov

Interesting thing, reading about vitues. Not sure when I started if I really believe they still existed, thought they’d been extinct since the early eighties and downfall of social capital. Popov’s chapter on the virtue of moderation struck me, brought me to a place of soul-understanding. A place I haven’t been in a long, long time.

On putting people first she reflects,

“In my work as a hospice spiritual care director, I find that only two things matter at the end of our time on this earth– love and service. As they are dying, folks seem to care the most about their relationships, and also about what difference they have made.”

It resignated, like a low gong.

So I get wrapped up; wrapped up in perception, expectations, me and my own needs and wants and this and that. Small, meaningless to the outcome of life, really.

But LOVE & SERVICE. That narrows it down. I can do that, my busy mind can stop and wrap itself around the concept. It’s not all the fancy things we do in life– the fun, the pretty, the respectable, the prestigious, the acceptable, the great. It’s the love we show and the service we do.

One day in hospice myself, I’ll want to know, “have I made a difference?” And no amount of really cool thrift store finds, great mountain escapes, completed units, friends and followers, or letters of rec will constitute an answer to such a question.

7 or 8

We moved. It was my 7th or 8th time in four years. I must say, I did well. 

It was sort of a last minute thing. Found a really good deal on a bigger space, two blocks from the studio. So now we live in Myrtle Tree Apartments, right above old town, with neighbors, a laundry room, and enough space to cook a three-course meal if we wanted to.

We have so much space, so it seems to us. Space on the walls, space on the floor, space enough to park our bikes inside. Which, makes my heart skip a beat. Simply delightful, parking your bike inside.

We only have one chair for the dining room table. And it’s a chair I attemted to “shaby chic” five years ago. Having survived numerous occasions of , “where’s the step stool? oh, out in the garage? I’ll just use this chair right here,” and “hey, it’s a party! someone stand on the chair and dance!” it’s on its last leg. We’re having Janice over tomorrow night and I’m thinking will just sit on the floor. The table itself is an antique, and antiques can stand alone so I don’t feel bad for having an impaired table with no chairs.

It was better and worse moving with someone. Better in the sense that with just one look someone could say, “yes, this sucks.” Worse because it sucked for two people and those two people had to go to bed that night tired and grouchy.

But then later we were able to laugh, and laughing is the best medicine. My husband makes me laugh, and it delights me to no end- laughing, and knowing that we’ll get through the undersirable tasks of life with a sense of humor. 

So here we are; one chair, two bicycles, our bodies strewn on the carpet in empty space, laughing at how a dead rat fell out of the refrigerator we got for free.

get myself outside

When despair for the world grows in me, and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life or what my children’s lives might be– I go a lie down by where the wood drake rests in the beauty of the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought or grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting for their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

- (the great) Wendell Berry

I read this poem nearly every Friday, usually after work with the lights off, alone in my classroom, panting from the end of another long week.

I crave the peace of wild things.

I’ve studied myself to know that when I am really stressed, or tired or just in need of rest, I day dream; envisioning myself on a solitary hike on a clear day.

…and that’s usually all it takes to make me new again.

Song of response

I just wrote a very very bleak blog and erased the whole thing.

It stemmed from a two hour documentary I watched this morning, “Inside 9/11″ by the National Geographic channel. I cried through the whole thing; tears even well up now. Not that I am a huge Patriot or anything close, but I do harbor a bleeding heart for people, humanity and the little hells we experience on Earth.

In college, I used to come home from class on a regular basis, lock myself in my room, stare up at the popcorn ceiling of our apartment, and sob. Heaving, heavy, hard, loud sobs. It was my way of dealing with classes like Family Violence, Gender Inequalities and Addictions. I really felt the weight of the world then, taking it upon me like I was the world’s agent: responsible, commissioned and irreplaceable.

When I had self-talked my way out of the dark grave I’d lowered my surrendered corps into, telling myself it wasn’t only me who’d signed up for healing the world, that I had a lifetime to make a dent in the mess, I’d choose a Rosie Thomas album, push play and stare some more– this time out my window overlooking the street. Hours would pass, gazing blankly at the motions of everyday life. The latter part of this ritual, the looking-out-into-the-street part somehow restored my hope, strengthened my commitment to humanity. I don’t know why, I’m sure I could take a few guesses.

So cheers to today and to regressing back to what works. A little Rosie for you.

 

 

My hero, Germany.

There was this German girl we met on our rafting tour. She was smiling at me the moment I got on the bus. Five-thirty AM and this bright shiny smile. She was sitting next to an Argentenian (boyfriend I assumed) with a pierced lip and a Che braclet around the arm he let drape in the aisle way. They were adorable. Travelers. I was jealous. We sat in the seat in front of them and I wondered what other countries they were touring on this trip.

I was still envying her as the rafting guide stood at the front of the bus giving his little shpeel about not putting sun block on your forhead. She was obviously into meeting new people, because she asked my name the first break in the conversation. She reminded me of Heather, my best friend in India, and then I really wished I was a free agent- traveling around; rafting just a blip on the long list of adventures.

Her and her boyfriend laughed a lot. Histerical laughs that said they had inside jokes. Jokes from all their travels, no doubt. After we’d pushed through twenty sets of rapids and came to a calm in the water, the guide asked if we’d like to jump out of the boat and swim. They jumped out first- almost before it was suggested- and began trying to drown each other. They looked like a couple of bear cubs, play fighting to draw blood. They seemed to think everything was so funny. They didn’t use the break to reapply sunscreen. They didn’t care.

So this girl also had the beginning of a zit (one of those nightmare underground kind, building a hellish mound right on the middle, most elevated part of the cheek). When we started out it was bluish and purple and looked a bit painful. It was hard not to check it out, get a really good look.  After we’d been water logged for six hours, all prune fingered, the zit had taken on a whole new existance. It was filled with water which turned it an unsightly white color.

When people have big problems like that on their face it is good practice not to say anything about it, because

what can they do???

Nothing, except sit stranded with a boyfriend on a raft full of honeymooners, feeling like a freak.

But, awkwardly enough (maybe it was the revolutionary Che bracelet that lead to a rush of empowerment?) her boyfriend pointed it out. Literally pointed: “It’s all black and blue and white now!” In the silence of the jungle the statement was deafening. Even our non English speaking rafters knew what boyfriend was saying.

She touched her face lightly.

“Yea, crazy!” Germany replied, laughing.

And then on to the next thing, now giggling  and hitting each other with paddles.

She was my hero. I got back and wrote about her bravery in my journal. Where do you get that kind of confidence? The “yea, crazy!” kind that says, I don’t even want to spend five seconds thinking about a variable that will threaten my good time.

Now that I am married

I’m in one of those phases where I am thinking, “what use is writing your thoughts and posting them on the internet?” Maybe I am realizing it’s for times like these? When you’ve exhausted every listening ear, or you think perhaps the listening ears out there won’t understand (like the whole internet will then?). Whatever.

 

Here are the comments people (co-workers, neighbors, parents of my students) have been making:

• welcome to the club!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!![wide grin]
• getting any sleep?!
• [referring to married life (like it's a life of it's own)] “It’s a different world, isn’t it!??”[more wide grin]
• have you figured out which side of the bed you sleep on?
• have you made any really good recipes lately?  to which I usually respond, “no, why do you ask?”
• you are going to love the first year…. [grin] and then, you know, it’s all down hill after that [hahahah, knee slap]
• you guys getting all settled?
• working out a routine yet?

….the list goes on.

Basically, the questions are either very personal, or sexist. And because I am an undercover feminist at work, bombs detinate silently in my head each time the later type occur. And then I remind myself, “it’s OK, they don’t know.”

But then … yea, “they” don’t “know,” true. But who is to assume I get off work, frantically make dinner and clean the house?

Trust me, no sympathy needed here.

In fact, I’ve enjoyed this first month. Charles is more mommy that I am. More apt to pick up crap from the floor. Maybe it doesn’t matter, but we switch sides of the bed, we don’t steak a claim. Usually we eat snacks for dinner; fruit, toast and honey, roasted chicken. We get plenty of sleep. Except for last night when I was waking up every 30 minutes to throw up (I think it was regular flu, sad you have to deliniate between N1N2 and “regular”, whatever regular is, that’s what I think it was). Adjusting? Not really anything to adjust (I’m probably naiive about this one). I think Charles has made the biggest adjustment, because I stole his car. I ride the car to work, he rides his bike. The only reason I am OK with this is because it was an expensive new road bike. So I consider it a trade. A different world? Not really. It’s the same world. We still wreck our cars, have to go to work and get the flu, just….. we do it together. If that makes it a different world, then OK.

I like being married. It fits nicely. Things are changing, but so far I am the same person I was before the ceremony, just more of the same. It’s hard to describe and now I am going back to wondering why I have a blog in the first place if none of it makes any sense at all or if I sound like a weird freak downer person.

My thoughts.

I hate this. I have nothing to write, because lately (and I can’t stand admitting it) mylife has been consumed with….. wedding. 

Let me just tell. you.

I was not created to be a bride. Girlfriend? best on the block. Fiance? you betcha. Wife? definitely gonna try very hard. Mom? I’m starting to think so. Pretty OK I’d imagine. But, bride? That hat looks terrible on me. Like a derby hat with a big red plume sticking out the side on a hippie chic girl who bites her nails and doesn’t comb her hair. It’s terrible. It’s awkward. You want to turn your head.

This is why: (I’ve been examining my insufficient nature in this area) I DON’T CARE. I don’t care about “colors” or save-the-dates or shades of white. I think it is all rediculous. As a woman I am offended at the marketed wedding. I look through bridal magazines and my palms sweat. Suddenly four years of solociology and gender studies comes flooding back and my lense tells me “poison!” And I’ve asked myself many times if I am overreacting. Sometimes I believe I am. Most times, I come to the conclusion that it’s a crazy jacked up world out there based on fear culture, hegemony, profit and appearance.

Me? Negative?

That’s the thing- this experience, although it may sound very ”anti” has been entirely liberating for me. Wholly positive because I’ve been affirmed – deep in the spirit of who I am- in ways indescribable. Because, I have said

No.

And it has meant the difference between my sanity and details… the difference between comfortable and grouchy. I’ve said “no” to things people don’t even think you can say no to. And my friends… it’s felt so good.

I’ve resisted the wedding process, but I have grown. I have grown into a more confident woman, one who knows what she wants and is not timid and will (kindly) say no. One who knows what freedom is and how to get it. The secret is simple:

Less, not more. Do what you can and love what you’ve done.

 

Be kind to yourself.

I know your long walks in the woods.

I’ve witnessed the way the spirit moves him.
I’ve seen his body sway to favorite music.
I’ve felt on his bare neck his pulse race as he stands beneath mountains.
I’ve known him to be speechless in love.
This is how I know I am his,

because what stirs his heart,
stirs mine.