Sunday, August 30, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Love Yourself As You Are
Lately I feel like I am the mother of an adolescent.
I really had no idea how much five and a half resembles twelve and a half,
Especially in a daughter.
I'm not exactly prepared for this quite yet.
I was busy working on preparing for the idea that when Dahlia actually does hit puberty,
I will be close to hitting menopause.
Perfect timing.
It should be lovely at our house right about then.
Dave is already planning the separate edifice he'll be building in the backyard - his manspace.
I think right about then I'll be moving - solo - to the south of France.
Either that or it might have to be boarding school for my adolescent.
Earlier today as I was deep cleaning years of grime in the corners of our new bathroom,
Dahlia came to the door and announced,
I'm fat.
Then she pointed to her belly, and asked to see mine.
After telling her she's not fat, I showed her my belly,
Bulge and all.
My belly's fatter than yours, she continued.
Bellies are supposed to be round,
That's what bellies do, Dahlia.
How do you tell your daughter she's not fat without making fat a bad thing?
The whole time a little voice inside my head is saying,
Really? Already? You're only five? Where do you get this?
Then she changed her outfit a third time,
Unsatisfied with how her second skirt fit on her body.
And that same voice in my head is saying,
Aren't you too young for this?
Then I say, to clarify, to make sure she knows, to try and get some sense of where it comes from,
You know that the Disney princesses aren't real, right?
You know that their bodies aren't what women really look like, right?
Yes, Mom, you've already told me that. I know.
(Exasperated voice, rolling eyes, reminiscent of an adolescent.)
Sigh... I am so not ready for this.
*****
I have spent a LOT of my life disliking my physical self,
Incredibly insecure, wanting to be anything but what I was.
I don't think it started quite at age five,
But it was definitely well ingrained in me by the time I was nine or ten.
I wished my hair was straighter, less frizzy, more blond than brown.
I wished my legs were more wiry, thighs less thick.
I wished my nose was more pointed, less bumpy, less Jewish.
I wished my skin was clearer, smoother.
I wished my clothes were more name-brand, more hip.
I wished I was more popular, that boys would like me as more than a friend.
I even wished my family was more American, more normal.
You could not pay me enough money to go back to junior high school.
It was over 25 years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday.
*****
LOVE YOURSELF
AS YOU ARE.
THERE IS NO ONE
QUITE LIKE YOU.
*****
That is all I want her to know.
There is no way to teach this to her except by living it.
It's a hard one to live sometimes.
I get it, I really do.
In my head, I believe it...
On a concept level, I really do love myself.
But on a deep feeling level, I wonder...
Do I really love myself AS I AM?
Will I ever really love my flabby stretched out thighs?
The same thighs I began hating at least 28 years ago?
How do you unlearn that?
How can I not love my thighs if they are a part of me?
How can I not appreciate the legs that allow me to walk,
That carry me?
Do I still love them even if I don't use them as completely as I could?
Why is it that exercise comes so reluctantly to me?
Why am I so inherently lazy when it comes to using my body to its fullest capacity?
No wonder I am so triggered when my daughter tells me she thinks she's fat.
*****
I was fat for part of high school and part of college.
Then I had serious acne for three years.
Lots to hate about myself then.
Lots of time spent incredibly uncomfortable in my skin,
Wishing I could wake up one day in another body,
A thinner body,
With clear skin.
For many years after that, my greatest victory was having lost the weight and kept it off.
Then I got sick with colitis for the first time,
And I got really skinny,
Size 0 skinny.
And I felt awful, even if a part of me secretly enjoyed being so thin.
And I stayed thin for many years after that, no more than a size 4.
Even after having Dahlia, I went right back down in weight.
But I wasn't healthy, felt really depleted, had a hard time keeping weight on, and I'd get sick a lot.
During my pregnancy with Tikva, I asked my body to keep on some of my pregnancy weight after I had her.
And I did, and still have - an extra 10 pounds from before carrying her.
And I stayed healthy all winter, for the first time since I can remember.
I feel better at this weight, less cold all the time, more solid, more resilient.
Even with the flabby thighs...
Even with the belly...
Even with the colitis...
Even with the acne.
*****
I'd like to spend a lifetime after this one as just pure spirit.
Take a vacation from having a body,
Because inhabiting a body is a lot of work.
I am grateful to my body for its resilience,
Its ability to heal,
Its ability to hold me, to carry me, to recover when I haven't always treated it as well as I could.
Thinking about Tikva,
how hard she worked in her body,
I am even more grateful for those precious gifts:
Breath. Sight. Digestion. Touch. Life.
I of all people should be able to remember that.
So why is it so hard to feel peaceful in my body?
Why is it so hard to believe that I will heal - as I have before - from the colitis?
That I won't have colitis on and off forever.
That my skin will clear.
That I won't always have a headache for four days during and after my period.
That it really doesn't matter how many stretch marks I carry on my thighs.
That going grey means it's time to have fun with hair color, even go blonder if I want to.
(I don't sound convincing, do I?
That's because I'm not yet convinced.)
*****
If I'd been born in Samoa 150 years ago,
I would be trying to fatten up in order to feel beautiful.
It's all relative...
*****
In the end, the vessel that carries my soul won't matter.
In the end, it will end up in the ground,
Merging with the molecules of the earth around it.
In the end, my soul will merge once again with all that is and all that ever has been and all that ever will be
And my body will be just an empty vessel,
Like Tikva's.
Strange how something like a body can be so important,
And then so unimportant.
Her body is the reason she is not alive anymore,
And yet now it doesn't matter anymore.
It's no longer where she is.
My body has been such a point of struggle for me for so many years,
For so many reasons...
And yet eventually I will leave it behind,
Hopefully thankful for all it has given me.
For its gifts.
I hope when it's my time, I can feel that gratitude.
Perhaps the point is to feel that gratitude already.
*****
There must still be a small part of me that believes I had something to do with why Tikva was born so sick.
It's that same part of me that blames myself for getting colitis in the first place so many years ago.
The same part of me that blames myself, even before that, for getting fat in the first place.
It's the part of me that blames myself for all the pain and sorrow I have put myself through,
All the struggle that could have been avoided
If I'd only known better then...
Hindsight is 20-20.
I know... it's not fair to blame.
I made the best possible choices then with what I knew at the time.
I could be gentler with myself,
More forgiving.
I once looked in the mirror and said out loud to myself,
I am so sorry.
I forgive you...
*****
God, I thought I was past this - years past this.
I have a strong sense of myself,
Incredible confidence,
High self-esteem.
And yet... this.
It's still here, and it is so triggered now that I see it in my daughter.
I am terrified for her, for all that is ahead for her.
I want to shelter her from the hateful looks she is capable of giving herself when she looks in the mirror.
I want to take her away to a small hut on a mountain, far away from everything and everyone that could influence her negatively.
I want to take us both away from mirrors, and media, and a wardrobe full of clothes we search through to make us feel beautiful on days when we don't.
My frustration that she finds herself here makes me impatient.
I want it all to go away, for her to skip over it all and get to a place where she realizes, on a cellular level, that her beauty really does come from deep within.
It's taken me 38 years to just barely start to get that, to believe it.
I need to be patient with her, understand that she has her own process to go through,
In her own way, in her own time.
Still, I just want to shelter her from it all,
Have her see herself through my eyes,
Where all I see is the sparkle of her blue eyes encircled by her long dark lashes
And the humor in her facetious smile as she teases me.
Where I look at her - from the inside out - and think,
Some day, someone is going to fall so madly deeply in love with you,
And I am going to be so jealous of them...
I really had no idea how much five and a half resembles twelve and a half,
Especially in a daughter.
I'm not exactly prepared for this quite yet.
I was busy working on preparing for the idea that when Dahlia actually does hit puberty,
I will be close to hitting menopause.
Perfect timing.
It should be lovely at our house right about then.
Dave is already planning the separate edifice he'll be building in the backyard - his manspace.
I think right about then I'll be moving - solo - to the south of France.
Either that or it might have to be boarding school for my adolescent.
Earlier today as I was deep cleaning years of grime in the corners of our new bathroom,
Dahlia came to the door and announced,
I'm fat.
Then she pointed to her belly, and asked to see mine.
After telling her she's not fat, I showed her my belly,
Bulge and all.
My belly's fatter than yours, she continued.
Bellies are supposed to be round,
That's what bellies do, Dahlia.
How do you tell your daughter she's not fat without making fat a bad thing?
The whole time a little voice inside my head is saying,
Really? Already? You're only five? Where do you get this?
Then she changed her outfit a third time,
Unsatisfied with how her second skirt fit on her body.
And that same voice in my head is saying,
Aren't you too young for this?
Then I say, to clarify, to make sure she knows, to try and get some sense of where it comes from,
You know that the Disney princesses aren't real, right?
You know that their bodies aren't what women really look like, right?
Yes, Mom, you've already told me that. I know.
(Exasperated voice, rolling eyes, reminiscent of an adolescent.)
Sigh... I am so not ready for this.
*****
I have spent a LOT of my life disliking my physical self,
Incredibly insecure, wanting to be anything but what I was.
I don't think it started quite at age five,
But it was definitely well ingrained in me by the time I was nine or ten.
I wished my hair was straighter, less frizzy, more blond than brown.
I wished my legs were more wiry, thighs less thick.
I wished my nose was more pointed, less bumpy, less Jewish.
I wished my skin was clearer, smoother.
I wished my clothes were more name-brand, more hip.
I wished I was more popular, that boys would like me as more than a friend.
I even wished my family was more American, more normal.
You could not pay me enough money to go back to junior high school.
It was over 25 years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday.
*****
LOVE YOURSELF
AS YOU ARE.
THERE IS NO ONE
QUITE LIKE YOU.
*****
That is all I want her to know.
There is no way to teach this to her except by living it.
It's a hard one to live sometimes.
I get it, I really do.
In my head, I believe it...
On a concept level, I really do love myself.
But on a deep feeling level, I wonder...
Do I really love myself AS I AM?
Will I ever really love my flabby stretched out thighs?
The same thighs I began hating at least 28 years ago?
How do you unlearn that?
How can I not love my thighs if they are a part of me?
How can I not appreciate the legs that allow me to walk,
That carry me?
Do I still love them even if I don't use them as completely as I could?
Why is it that exercise comes so reluctantly to me?
Why am I so inherently lazy when it comes to using my body to its fullest capacity?
No wonder I am so triggered when my daughter tells me she thinks she's fat.
*****
I was fat for part of high school and part of college.
Then I had serious acne for three years.
Lots to hate about myself then.
Lots of time spent incredibly uncomfortable in my skin,
Wishing I could wake up one day in another body,
A thinner body,
With clear skin.
For many years after that, my greatest victory was having lost the weight and kept it off.
Then I got sick with colitis for the first time,
And I got really skinny,
Size 0 skinny.
And I felt awful, even if a part of me secretly enjoyed being so thin.
And I stayed thin for many years after that, no more than a size 4.
Even after having Dahlia, I went right back down in weight.
But I wasn't healthy, felt really depleted, had a hard time keeping weight on, and I'd get sick a lot.
During my pregnancy with Tikva, I asked my body to keep on some of my pregnancy weight after I had her.
And I did, and still have - an extra 10 pounds from before carrying her.
And I stayed healthy all winter, for the first time since I can remember.
I feel better at this weight, less cold all the time, more solid, more resilient.
Even with the flabby thighs...
Even with the belly...
Even with the colitis...
Even with the acne.
*****
I'd like to spend a lifetime after this one as just pure spirit.
Take a vacation from having a body,
Because inhabiting a body is a lot of work.
I am grateful to my body for its resilience,
Its ability to heal,
Its ability to hold me, to carry me, to recover when I haven't always treated it as well as I could.
Thinking about Tikva,
how hard she worked in her body,
I am even more grateful for those precious gifts:
Breath. Sight. Digestion. Touch. Life.
I of all people should be able to remember that.
So why is it so hard to feel peaceful in my body?
Why is it so hard to believe that I will heal - as I have before - from the colitis?
That I won't have colitis on and off forever.
That my skin will clear.
That I won't always have a headache for four days during and after my period.
That it really doesn't matter how many stretch marks I carry on my thighs.
That going grey means it's time to have fun with hair color, even go blonder if I want to.
(I don't sound convincing, do I?
That's because I'm not yet convinced.)
*****
If I'd been born in Samoa 150 years ago,
I would be trying to fatten up in order to feel beautiful.
It's all relative...
*****
In the end, the vessel that carries my soul won't matter.
In the end, it will end up in the ground,
Merging with the molecules of the earth around it.
In the end, my soul will merge once again with all that is and all that ever has been and all that ever will be
And my body will be just an empty vessel,
Like Tikva's.
Strange how something like a body can be so important,
And then so unimportant.
Her body is the reason she is not alive anymore,
And yet now it doesn't matter anymore.
It's no longer where she is.
My body has been such a point of struggle for me for so many years,
For so many reasons...
And yet eventually I will leave it behind,
Hopefully thankful for all it has given me.
For its gifts.
I hope when it's my time, I can feel that gratitude.
Perhaps the point is to feel that gratitude already.
*****
There must still be a small part of me that believes I had something to do with why Tikva was born so sick.
It's that same part of me that blames myself for getting colitis in the first place so many years ago.
The same part of me that blames myself, even before that, for getting fat in the first place.
It's the part of me that blames myself for all the pain and sorrow I have put myself through,
All the struggle that could have been avoided
If I'd only known better then...
Hindsight is 20-20.
I know... it's not fair to blame.
I made the best possible choices then with what I knew at the time.
I could be gentler with myself,
More forgiving.
I once looked in the mirror and said out loud to myself,
I am so sorry.
I forgive you...
*****
God, I thought I was past this - years past this.
I have a strong sense of myself,
Incredible confidence,
High self-esteem.
And yet... this.
It's still here, and it is so triggered now that I see it in my daughter.
I am terrified for her, for all that is ahead for her.
I want to shelter her from the hateful looks she is capable of giving herself when she looks in the mirror.
I want to take her away to a small hut on a mountain, far away from everything and everyone that could influence her negatively.
I want to take us both away from mirrors, and media, and a wardrobe full of clothes we search through to make us feel beautiful on days when we don't.
My frustration that she finds herself here makes me impatient.
I want it all to go away, for her to skip over it all and get to a place where she realizes, on a cellular level, that her beauty really does come from deep within.
It's taken me 38 years to just barely start to get that, to believe it.
I need to be patient with her, understand that she has her own process to go through,
In her own way, in her own time.
Still, I just want to shelter her from it all,
Have her see herself through my eyes,
Where all I see is the sparkle of her blue eyes encircled by her long dark lashes
And the humor in her facetious smile as she teases me.
Where I look at her - from the inside out - and think,
Some day, someone is going to fall so madly deeply in love with you,
And I am going to be so jealous of them...
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Shechechiyanu
A Jewish prayer said when doing or experiencing something for the first time...
We've had a lot of firsts in the past month.
First cross-country road trip as a family.
First time seeing Zion, Bryce, the Grand Canyon.
First time eating at the Cracker Barrel.
First, second, third night in Gallup, NM.
First day in Cincinnati all together.
First night in our new home.
First big house with a big grassy backyard.
First purchase of brand new couches and beds.
Dave's first time using a lawnmower.
Dave's first day back in rabbinical school.
My first time in 15 years looking for a job in a brand new city.
Our first time researching buying a brand new car.
And today, Dahlia's first day of kindergarten.
(She's that big already?!)
At the local public neighborhood Montessori elementary school
With so many kids who are so much bigger than her all around.
Black and white kids, totally integrated in a way that I don't think they are in any other neighborhood in Cincinnati,
Or in many other places in this country.
I can't tell you how happy that makes me, that this will be part of Dahlia's school experience.
Teachers and parents from the PTO welcomed us as we came in and walked to her classroom
In this new LEED-certified green building.
Her classroom is gorgeous...
Serene, tranquil, beautiful, open, bright, calm.
A blue goldfish in a bowl.
Montessori-style areas for learning that look like little corners for meditation.
Peace prayer flags hanging on the wall.
Teacher Kim wearing a pink summer dress.
She's pretty, Dahlia says about her teacher.
This is going to be so good for Dahlia.
As I pulled out of the school parking lot,
All You Need Is Love played from a CD Sharon made us for our travels.
I thought about my big girl who just started kindergarten,
And my Baby Girl who is in the wind,
In my heart.
Some other shechechiyanu moments from the past week...
Our first hike on the trails to the creek in nearby French Park.
Our first celebratory dinner on the porch,
Prepared by Dave for our seventh wedding anniversary.
Dahlia inviting Daddy into her pool on a hot muggy afternoon.
I am surrendering the urge to be in control of everything,
To try and stay one step ahead of it all.
Instead of feeling totally overwhelmed at the prospect of buying a new car and all that goes into that,
I am going to allow myself to get excited about it...
After all, I've never owned a brand new car in my life, and I am 38 years old and should experience this.
What kind of car do we want to get?
Anything is possible...
Same with the job search...
An opportunity to reinvent myself and what I do,
Make a hole in the box and climb out,
Try something new, a new environment.
Trust...
Now the house is quiet,
Quieter than it has been in two and a half weeks.
Just me and whirring of the fans.
Summer rain seems to be making its way here.
Even the crickets are quiet outside.
Perhaps a nap waiting for me on our cozy new mattress.
We've had a lot of firsts in the past month.
First cross-country road trip as a family.
First time seeing Zion, Bryce, the Grand Canyon.
First time eating at the Cracker Barrel.
First, second, third night in Gallup, NM.
First day in Cincinnati all together.
First night in our new home.
First big house with a big grassy backyard.
First purchase of brand new couches and beds.
Dave's first time using a lawnmower.
Dave's first day back in rabbinical school.
My first time in 15 years looking for a job in a brand new city.
Our first time researching buying a brand new car.
And today, Dahlia's first day of kindergarten.
(She's that big already?!)
At the local public neighborhood Montessori elementary school
With so many kids who are so much bigger than her all around.
Black and white kids, totally integrated in a way that I don't think they are in any other neighborhood in Cincinnati,
Or in many other places in this country.
I can't tell you how happy that makes me, that this will be part of Dahlia's school experience.
Teachers and parents from the PTO welcomed us as we came in and walked to her classroom
In this new LEED-certified green building.
Her classroom is gorgeous...
Serene, tranquil, beautiful, open, bright, calm.
A blue goldfish in a bowl.
Montessori-style areas for learning that look like little corners for meditation.
Peace prayer flags hanging on the wall.
Teacher Kim wearing a pink summer dress.
She's pretty, Dahlia says about her teacher.
This is going to be so good for Dahlia.
As I pulled out of the school parking lot,
All You Need Is Love played from a CD Sharon made us for our travels.
I thought about my big girl who just started kindergarten,
And my Baby Girl who is in the wind,
In my heart.
Some other shechechiyanu moments from the past week...
Our first hike on the trails to the creek in nearby French Park.
Our first celebratory dinner on the porch,
Prepared by Dave for our seventh wedding anniversary.
Dahlia inviting Daddy into her pool on a hot muggy afternoon.
I am surrendering the urge to be in control of everything,
To try and stay one step ahead of it all.
Instead of feeling totally overwhelmed at the prospect of buying a new car and all that goes into that,
I am going to allow myself to get excited about it...
After all, I've never owned a brand new car in my life, and I am 38 years old and should experience this.
What kind of car do we want to get?
Anything is possible...
Same with the job search...
An opportunity to reinvent myself and what I do,
Make a hole in the box and climb out,
Try something new, a new environment.
Trust...
Now the house is quiet,
Quieter than it has been in two and a half weeks.
Just me and whirring of the fans.
Summer rain seems to be making its way here.
Even the crickets are quiet outside.
Perhaps a nap waiting for me on our cozy new mattress.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
The Harder Moments
Last night Dave, my ever-the-optimist partner on this journey, reminded me about what is good about a bad day:That each day ends eventually, and you can start over the next day.
I'm glad it's this morning, and no longer last night...
When I cracked with PMS and the prednisone in my system,
Which I'm taking to get my colitis to calm down again,
And the colitis is stressful in and of itself,
And just overwhelm from big decisions about whether it's even worth it to fix the busted head gasket in Gypsy Rose or whether we should just sell her now, cut our losses, and get a new car,
Whether we can even afford new car payments while I don't yet have a job,
Which makes me feel like after 15 years in the nonprofit sector I've boxed myself into a professional corner where I have no choice but to do work that I no longer love doing...
Etc. etc. etc...
And then Dahlia threw a tantrum when I was trying really hard to stay calm while trying to help her
And she threw her swimming goggles in my direction and unintentionally hit me really hard in the eye
And I came completely undone
And screamed and cursed at the top of my lungs,
Started crying and left the bathroom,
Where Dave had rushed in to take over with Dahlia
Who needed to get calm as much as I did.
I spent a good bit of time beating myself up for being a shitty mommy,
A terrible example for my daughter of how to manage her emotions and not throw tantrums.
Dave reminded me to be kinder with myself,
That I can let my daughter see my humanity,
That we all turned out fine even though our parents yelled and lost their cool plenty of times.
The inside of my lips is chewed raw
And I really want to just bite off all my nails,
But I'm not, because I hate how they look when they're bitten off.
Dave calmed Dahlia down and got her out of the bath.
Dahlia came downstairs and hugged me and said she was sorry.
I cried and hugged her and said I was sorry.
Dave made dinner.
Dave cleaned up after dinner.
Dave got online and researched our particular car problem, our particular car, and put together a bunch of information for me to take to our mechanic today.
We looked at new cars online and talked about what it would cost us each month if we finally, for the first time in our married lives, got a brand new car.
Dave suggested that I wait until I feel more empowered about my job search before applying for more jobs.
I did feel empowered, over the weekend when I submitted my resume and several versions of a great cover letter to 6 jobs at Cincinnati Children's Hospital and the University of Cincinnati.
Jobs where I could use my experience but in environments that are different than those I've worked in before.
Then for some reason yesterday I got totally deflated about it,
Frustrated that I've spent about half of my 15 years in this industry wanting to get out of it.
Frustrated that the kind of work I know how to do is work that puts me at a desk in front of a computer most of the day.
Wishing pre-nursing and nursing school wasn't going to take so damn long to get through.
Wishing I could just write creatively and help people and make art for a living.
Wishing I had a trust fund...
Did I mention the prednisone is giving me zits?
It rained last night and it's grey today.
It feels right, not gloomy actually,
But cleansing.
Only one thing on the agenda today: Go talk to the mechanic.
Otherwise, it's going to be a mellow day,
And Dahlia will be thrilled to find out that she can watch as many videos as she wants,
Since kindergarten starts tomorrow so this is her last day of summer vacation.
Maybe I'll hang up the towel hook in the bathroom.
Maybe we'll make more collages in the sunroom.
I just need a mellow day...
One with no screaming.
I am not in charge.
Clearly.
Trying to control anything just doesn't seem to be working right now
So I surrender.
I am not in charge.
Is that what this is all about,
What I'm supposed to be learning right now?
That I am not in charge and don't have to be?
That I can't and don't need to control it all,
To always be in control?
Hm.
It's been a HUGE month plus of dealing, dealing, dealing
With everything that crossed out path.
Wrapping up, packing up, departing...
Crossing the country in a temperature-challenged automobile...
Arriving, settling in, unpacking, enrolling our daughter in school, buying furniture, finding grocery stores...
No wonder I'm exhausted.
Just writing it all down makes me sleepy, and it's not even 9 AM.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
What If...
I just watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button and I am sitting here wondering,
What if we all came to the ends of our lives and died as babies?
Remembering nothing,
Yet knowing everything...
What if we all came to the ends of our lives and died as babies?
Remembering nothing,
Yet knowing everything...
Kindness
by Naomi Shihab Nye
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and
purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you every where
like a shadow or a friend.
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and
purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you every where
like a shadow or a friend.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Words That Bite, Words That Soothe
On Glow in the Woods this week, Kate wrote about words and how they make us feel. There is so much there, and it has made my mind spin with thoughts, things I want to write. Things I have been thinking a lot about lately. Things I am quite honestly hesitant to write about for fear of offending someone. For the full context, read Kate's post first. Let's see if I can answer her questions...
What words have been pinned to your back, and why? How do you feel about them? What words make you feel small when you hear them, either applied to you or to someone else? Tell me about the words you’ve reclaimed that make you feel like a giant. Help me redefine the ones that leave a sour taste in your mouth as well as mine.
Tell me about your necessary spaces. Tell me how you protect them.
* * *
You are so strong.
To be honest, I hate being told that.
It makes me resentful that I have had to be so strong, so often throughout my life, at much too young an age the first time, and ongoing since.
I know they mean well, those words. I know there is admiration there, respect, recognition.
They're true. I am strong. Damnit...
But sometimes I don't want to be strong. Sometimes I want to completely fall apart at the littlest challenge. To be that person people talk about saying,
Wow, she really isn't going through this well at all, poor thing. We should help her along, make sure she makes it. Hold her together because she's not doing a great job on her own.
* * *
I hate when I hear myself saying, She didn't make it.
Because she did make it. She just didn't survive.
Well, actually, she did survive... in spirit, always.
But that's just semantics.
Doesn't really comfort me most of the time.
Still, she did make it. In so many ways.
And yet she didn't.
And that makes me sad.
I wish she had.
Angie has a piece of art she made on her blog that reads,
She's not an angel. She was my baby.
Exactly.
* * *
If she had survived, overcome the odds against her, would I be walking around calling her my miracle?
I hate that word. It rubs me raw, makes me squirm with irritation.
I hate hearing that babies who made it against the odds are miracles.
And I hate being told, Tikva was a miracle.
She inspires me.
Because it's no comfort. I didn't want a miracle. I didn't want an inspiration.
I just wanted a baby, a child, a daughter I could watch as she grew.
* * *
Are you reading blogs? Disappearing into your babylost world again?
That one makes me want to clobber someone.
Like there is something to explain, to apologize for, about finding community, needing support, accessing the places where I am reflected, seen, heard, understood.
As if I am lingering here too long, as if I should be done with this part of my healing already.
I will never apologize or explain myself for being here. Never.
* * *
I am so sorry your little girl is not here with you.
Those words feel good. Simple, sweet, honest.
They are really all that needs to be said when people don't know what to say.
Those words, I appreciate tremendously.
Because they acknowledge that even though I do feel her close to me, it's still not enough, still not the same, still no replacement for a healthy, living her.
* * *
Julia wrote a phenomenal comment to Kate's post on Glow, rejecting the whole idea of ugliness.
She questions why society around us is so surprised that we are changed by our dead babies,
Especially when that same society doesn't bat an eye that we are changed by our living ones.
So about the ugliness...
I don't know that I am especially interested in meeting living children who survived a diaphragmatic hernia.
Lately I'm not even sure I want to know about them.
It's hard to admit that, it's that shadow place...
That place where I allow myself to actually feel envy, jealousy,
The hundreds of Why theirs and not mine?
Those questions that don't really make me feel very good, the ones I am mostly able to avoid most of the time.
And yet they are there, needing their attention too.
Why theirs and not mine?
Why couldn't she have been in the 30% instead of the 70%?
Actually, she was in the 30% for a while...
Until she wasn't.
And I do resent - too strong a word? - the comfort and ignorance of those whose births were easy.
Whose babies came out just fine in spite of the smugness that they didn't need ultrasounds, monitoring, to be mindful of not going past due dates...
I don't exist in that resentment. It doesn't make me seethe.
But every once in a while I just want to scream,
You are so fucking lucky that you have the luxury to still believe that you had anything to do with that. Just don't get too smug about it...
* * *
You're so lucky you have Dahlia.
Yes I am lucky. She helps me survive this.
She is living proof that I am a mother, so that nobody forgets just because my baby is dead.
But she doesn't take away from the loss of Tikva.
I would never put that on her, either.
She reminds me that my body can do it right.
But oh how I hate that word, as if I did something wrong in making Tikva.
As if there was something wrong with her because her body was too fragile for this life?
As if she was anything less than perfect?
Still, it's easy to doubt my body, and I do plenty of that, and I try not to, but it's still hard.
* * *
My necessary spaces...
Time alone.
Conversations with myself.
Writing.
Those sweet, sweet spaces where a comment comes into my blog that just makes me feel, Aaaahhh... Thank you.
Sharing my story.
Sleep.
The space to integrate this huge jag where the world shook for a split second and the plate tectonics of the earth shifted...
Ever so slightly, unnoticed by everyone but me.
And sometimes others who can slow down just enough to notice too,
And let me know they notice.
I will never apologize or explain myself for being here. Never.
That's how I protect my necessary spaces.
Thank you for sharing space with me.
For hearing my words.
For being gentle with yours.
What words have been pinned to your back, and why? How do you feel about them? What words make you feel small when you hear them, either applied to you or to someone else? Tell me about the words you’ve reclaimed that make you feel like a giant. Help me redefine the ones that leave a sour taste in your mouth as well as mine.
Tell me about your necessary spaces. Tell me how you protect them.
* * *
You are so strong.
To be honest, I hate being told that.
It makes me resentful that I have had to be so strong, so often throughout my life, at much too young an age the first time, and ongoing since.
I know they mean well, those words. I know there is admiration there, respect, recognition.
They're true. I am strong. Damnit...
But sometimes I don't want to be strong. Sometimes I want to completely fall apart at the littlest challenge. To be that person people talk about saying,
Wow, she really isn't going through this well at all, poor thing. We should help her along, make sure she makes it. Hold her together because she's not doing a great job on her own.
* * *
I hate when I hear myself saying, She didn't make it.
Because she did make it. She just didn't survive.
Well, actually, she did survive... in spirit, always.
But that's just semantics.
Doesn't really comfort me most of the time.
Still, she did make it. In so many ways.
And yet she didn't.
And that makes me sad.
I wish she had.
Angie has a piece of art she made on her blog that reads,
She's not an angel. She was my baby.
Exactly.
* * *
If she had survived, overcome the odds against her, would I be walking around calling her my miracle?
I hate that word. It rubs me raw, makes me squirm with irritation.
I hate hearing that babies who made it against the odds are miracles.
And I hate being told, Tikva was a miracle.
She inspires me.
Because it's no comfort. I didn't want a miracle. I didn't want an inspiration.
I just wanted a baby, a child, a daughter I could watch as she grew.
* * *
Are you reading blogs? Disappearing into your babylost world again?
That one makes me want to clobber someone.
Like there is something to explain, to apologize for, about finding community, needing support, accessing the places where I am reflected, seen, heard, understood.
As if I am lingering here too long, as if I should be done with this part of my healing already.
I will never apologize or explain myself for being here. Never.
* * *
I am so sorry your little girl is not here with you.
Those words feel good. Simple, sweet, honest.
They are really all that needs to be said when people don't know what to say.
Those words, I appreciate tremendously.
Because they acknowledge that even though I do feel her close to me, it's still not enough, still not the same, still no replacement for a healthy, living her.
* * *
Julia wrote a phenomenal comment to Kate's post on Glow, rejecting the whole idea of ugliness.
She questions why society around us is so surprised that we are changed by our dead babies,
Especially when that same society doesn't bat an eye that we are changed by our living ones.
So about the ugliness...
I don't know that I am especially interested in meeting living children who survived a diaphragmatic hernia.
Lately I'm not even sure I want to know about them.
It's hard to admit that, it's that shadow place...
That place where I allow myself to actually feel envy, jealousy,
The hundreds of Why theirs and not mine?
Those questions that don't really make me feel very good, the ones I am mostly able to avoid most of the time.
And yet they are there, needing their attention too.
Why theirs and not mine?
Why couldn't she have been in the 30% instead of the 70%?
Actually, she was in the 30% for a while...
Until she wasn't.
And I do resent - too strong a word? - the comfort and ignorance of those whose births were easy.
Whose babies came out just fine in spite of the smugness that they didn't need ultrasounds, monitoring, to be mindful of not going past due dates...
I don't exist in that resentment. It doesn't make me seethe.
But every once in a while I just want to scream,
You are so fucking lucky that you have the luxury to still believe that you had anything to do with that. Just don't get too smug about it...
* * *
You're so lucky you have Dahlia.
Yes I am lucky. She helps me survive this.
She is living proof that I am a mother, so that nobody forgets just because my baby is dead.
But she doesn't take away from the loss of Tikva.
I would never put that on her, either.
She reminds me that my body can do it right.
But oh how I hate that word, as if I did something wrong in making Tikva.
As if there was something wrong with her because her body was too fragile for this life?
As if she was anything less than perfect?
Still, it's easy to doubt my body, and I do plenty of that, and I try not to, but it's still hard.
* * *
My necessary spaces...
Time alone.
Conversations with myself.
Writing.
Those sweet, sweet spaces where a comment comes into my blog that just makes me feel, Aaaahhh... Thank you.
Sharing my story.
Sleep.
The space to integrate this huge jag where the world shook for a split second and the plate tectonics of the earth shifted...
Ever so slightly, unnoticed by everyone but me.
And sometimes others who can slow down just enough to notice too,
And let me know they notice.
I will never apologize or explain myself for being here. Never.
That's how I protect my necessary spaces.
Thank you for sharing space with me.
For hearing my words.
For being gentle with yours.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Cincinnati Or Bust!
A photo montage of our epic journey from San Francisco, CA to Cincinnati, OH...
Mom, pancakes at Denny's are the perfect lunch food!
Somewhere in Utah, we stumbled onto a museum with real fossils of dinosaur tracks.
The earth starts to glow in reds and golds on the way to Zion National Park.
Arriving in Zion, a place I've been wanting to visit for years.
The little hiker.
My two (kosher) hams.
Ice cream in the car on the way from Zion to Bryce Canyon.
A completely stunning drive through the golden Utah rock.
Big horned ram on our path. Gorgeous!
I finally made it to Bryce, after dreaming of it for years like Zion!
Have you ever seen anything so golden and magical?
Dahlia was a brave little hiker as we zig-zagged down into the canyon.
Exquisite... I felt like I was back in Petra.
Me and my big girl, surrounded by gold.
The way back up was arduous, but we made it.
Dahlia captured a heart butterfly in the cement.
Totally pooped out after the long hike out of the canyon.
Through a mighty rainstorm in an overheating car, we made it to the Grand Canyon...
Even if we were a little distracted by the fate and stamina of our trusty Gypsy Rose,
It was incredible to be there.
A rainbow in the wispy clouds above.
I loved this crow, who sat perched on this rock for ages.
I sat and watched him for a long time.
There he is, still on the same rock.
I have a feeling he's not the first bird to have discovered this vantage point.
Things to do while stuck for three days in Gallup, NM...
Draw pictures and decorate them with stickers.
(Thank you for the sanity-saving infusion of new stickers, Laurie!)
Go to the movies... Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaurs in 3-D!
Unload and reload Gypsy Rose several times, each time thinking we were really leaving.
(Notice not especially pleased look on Dave's face.)
Enjoy two ridiculously filling, high-startch meals at the Cracker Barrel.
Play at the air-conditioned playground inside McDonald's while Dave visits the Pep Boys a zillion times to check on Gypsy Rose.
Hightail it out of there as soon as we possibly can!
(Thank God for the portable DVD player.)
And rainbows...
Cadillac Ranch, Amarillo, TX
Only in America...
Spray paint cans were everywhere, so we grabbed some and went to work.
Passing the St. Louis arch on our last day of driving...
Cincinnati, here we come at last!
Four mechanics and about $800 later, Gypsy Rose has decided to stop acting up.
She probably needs a new head gasket, but there's nothing to be done until she proves it,
And she doesn't seem to want to do that now that we're not driving 500 miles in a day.
It was epic, but we made it.
And now, this is where we live.
(The window on the bottom left is one of four windows in my sunroom...)
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