marisa writes

begin again

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Mon, 10 Dec 2012 09:22:00 +0000

Tonight, I feel a strange pull towards this old space of mine.

It seems impossible that it's been over a year since my last post -- so many changes since then, chief among them the owner of that tiny little foot. Little Oliver joined us in the summer and I've already learned that motherhood is sweeter the second time around.

Time is tumbling and pushing and wheeling forward with the force of a thousand engines and I'm powerless to stop it. Maybe that's why I'm here tonight, at 2 a.m. when I really should be sleeping. The allure of documenting it all, telling these moments and stories before they slip my grasp seems incredibly important when I think of how quickly my children are growing.

I don't know where this little blog of mine fits in to my life right now -- but I know it will be resurrected or reincarnated somehow. It has to be, for my sake now (I miss writing!) and later (years from now, I'll be glad I made the effort).

isaac's birth story: part four

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 03:03:00 +0000

This is fourth and final part of Isaac's birth story. Catch up here first:
Prologue
Part One
Part Two
Part Three

All around me, there is activity. I feel the room filling with people.

As I situate on the bed, I glance at the clock and see that we've passed into the next day.

12:01 a.m. I know your birthday now. I will celebrate it for the rest of my life.

I am up on my elbows, my legs held back by my mom and Aaron.

The pressure in the lower half of my body is so extreme.

Push.

I am burning.

Push.

I am being ripped in half.

Push.

I can't believe how much noise I am making, how primal and unabashed.

Push.

Moaning, screaming, grunting, groaning.

Push.

Everything is dark except for the light in front of me, which illuminates the midwife perched serenely on the side of the bed.

I focus only on her face.

Push.

I am begging, pleading for answers that will bring relief.

What's happening? Can you see the head? What should I do?

I am terrified.

Push? Now? Please. Help me. Is it almost over? I can't do it. Please.

I draw in a breath, and, calling up every ounce of strength in every molecule in my body, I give one final push.

--

In a split second, it is over. A flurry of movement, a rush of air, and then, relief.

I feel nothing. The sensation is incredible.

I slump downward and backward toward the bed. I am a shell-shocked survivor, unable to move. But I sense the eyes and energy of everyone in the room shift, so I struggle back up on my elbows to watch as you are pulled up and away from my body. I hear the words, "It's a boy!" but I don't know who says it. I ask if you are okay, and then, I hear your small, angry cry.

You are whisked away by the nurses and doctors. I fall back to the bed in exhaustion.

While I wait to hold you, I look around the room and see shining, radiant faces: your father, your grandparents, the sweet young nurse, the doula, our midwife. Everyone is smiling and crying happy tears. I am amazed at this transformation from pain to pleasure.

Eventually, they place you in my arms.

You are pink and smushed, swaddled and angry. I hold you gingerly, awkwardly, uncertainly. I see your face now, for the first time.

You are beautiful.

-

The next 24 hours were a blur.

He is having a little trouble breathing.

We're going to transfer him to the nursery for extra oxygen.

The x-rays show dark spots on his lungs.

He needs to be in the NICU for extra attention.

I pulsed with a strange combination of elation and fear.

-

At 5 lb, 8 oz., he was bigger than we expected. Not long after he was born he began to make a quiet grunting noise, a sign of Neonatal Respiratory Distress. He wasn't getting enough air. We learned that his lungs hadn't fully developed, a fairly common issue in premature boys.

He spent the first four days of his life underneath a plastic oxygen hood, hooked up to a feeding tube, IV and a myriad other monitoring devices. It was nearly impossible to hold him. After that he received air via a nasal cannula. He developed jaundice, so he wore foam sunglasses to protect his eyes from the phototherapy lights.

The NICU was such a strange and intimidating place, full of contradiction. The brightly colored quilts and stuffed animals stood in stark contrast to the serious nature of what was happening there. The silence was often interrupted by loud beeping monitors and the almost inaudible sound of a tiny baby crying.

Daily, I vacillated between feeling enormously sad at being separated from my child, and feeling enormously guilty for feeling sad. Isaac was one of the healthier babies there; how could I feel sorry for myself when all around us were the translucent bodies of micro-preemies fighting for every single breath?

-

I was discharged from the hospital two days after he was born, and they told us to expect that Isaac would be in the NICU for about two more weeks after that. The day I left the hospital to go home was one of the worst days of my life.

I stumbled out of the hospital in tears, empty-handed except for a colorful bouquet of flowers in my hand. I looked and felt like a deflated balloon.

My body was empty. I walked into our apartment and cried.

-

I struggle out of bed. I pick up the clothes that I discarded on the floor last night, and put them on again. I avoid looking into the mirror while brushing my teeth, because I don't want to see what I already know -

I am a mess.

I slip on a pair of moccasins and walk to the refrigerator. I open the freezer and begin methodically packing bags of frozen breastmilk into a little black cooler.

Keys. Purse. Phone.

I drive to the hospital and park in the Visitor's parking lot, which happens to be a million miles from my final destination. And then, I begin to walk:

From my car to the building,
down a long glass enclosed bridge,
through a dingy beige hallway,
around a colorful corridor.

I shuffle along slowly, my breasts overflowing. My body is still bleeding and aching and unable to heal, because instead of resting I am making this trip three times a day.

I am weary.

I wait for the elevator. I go up, then right, then down a short hallway. I am buzzed in to the reception area. I show my identification, and am buzzed through yet another set of secure doors.

I spend the required three eternal minutes washing my hands, until finally, I am cleared to walk back.

There, in the in the furthest corner of the last bay - I see you.

You unfurl yourself slowly, pressing your tiny foot against the thin bubble surrounding your body. You are unaware that I am transfixed by your every move.

I place my finger to the plastic and instantly I feel your foot react to my touch.

My heart soars.

--

Early one morning, I exited the freeway and drove west, toward the hospital to visit him again in the NICU. I fiddled with the radio, searching for music to fill the silence. I stopped when I heard this song.

You're just to good to be true
Can't take my eyes off of you

You'd be like heaven to touch
I want to hold you so much

I began to cry: big, heaving, shoulder-shaking cries. Happily, I let the feeling wash over me, because this time it wasn't pain or fear or guilt or disappointment.

It was love.

Oh, pretty baby, now that I've found you stay
And let me love you, baby
let me love you...

*****************

EPILOGUE

I wrote most of this story about a month after he was born, scrawled into a journal in snippets and pieces. Putting it all together these last couple of days has been surprisingly cathartic.

Isaac spent 10 days in the NICU. He came home on a Friday night, and walking out of the hospital together as a family was one of the highlights of my life. He is 2 years old now, happy and healthy.

His arrival was a crash course in letting go and resting in the sovereignty of a kind and loving God.

It exposed ugly areas in me (I never realized just how much I let my need for control, control me); conversely, it brought to light strengths I didn't know I had (my mental toughness during labor surprised my husband, who later admitted that he never thought I'd actually be able to handle the pain).

It broke me open and let me understand and feel love in an entirely new way.

It taught me that a major part of parenthood is simply knowing that our children are not our own. The sooner we commit them into God's hands, the better.

Abraham called the place on the mountain where he was tested with Isaac, "Jehovah Jireh" - The Lord Will Provide (Gen 22:14).

Our beautiful son Isaac is my daily reminder that God provides only His very best to those who trust in Him.

isaac's birth story: part three

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 05:49:00 +0000

This is part three of Isaac's birth story. Catch up here first:
Prologue
Part One
Part Two

Suddenly, it was morning.

My nurse was a tall, blonde, athletic woman who greeted us with a smile as she entered the room. I watched as she quickly and efficiently went about her routine checking my vital signs and listening to the baby's heartbeat. She switched out the bag of antibiotics that were being given to me by IV, and asked how I was feeling.

I didn't sleep well, I admitted.

Try to get some rest, she said cheerfully. I'll be back soon with your Pitocin to get things started.

*

When I was younger and first contemplating things like marriage and pregnancy, the long epidural needle frightened me more than the thought of simply enduring labor pains. As I got older, and my friends began to have babies, it always struck me as funny (and a little odd) to hear them talk about napping and watching television during the late stages of labor. So when I became pregnant myself, I immediately knew that I wanted to try to have a natural, unmedicated birth, with as few interventions as possible.

Which is why, when the nurse said the word Pitocin, my heart sank. Inducing labor with Pitocin was an intervention I had fervently wanted to avoid, but at this point in our situation, I knew I probably didn't have much of a choice.

The gap between what I had hoped to experience and what was actually happening began to widen.

*

The midwife on duty was apologetic and prone to rambling.

I'm so sorry, she said. I should have come and talked to you before sending in the nurse. It's just that most women can't wait to be induced. We don't get many women who actually want a natural birth these days.

We listened closely as she explained in detail the situation we were in.

I had experienced a Preterm Premature Rupture of the Membranes (PPROM), a fairly rare situation where the water breaks before the 37th week of pregnancy, prior to the onset of labor. One of the biggest concerns at that point was the risk of infection - the protective amniotic sac was broken, it was no longer able to shield the baby from dangerous and potentially fatal infections.

At 33 weeks, the standard procedure is to use medication to try to keep the baby growing in the womb. At 35 weeks, it's widely accepted that it's safe to induce and deliver.

I was 34 weeks pregnant, a little bit of a gray zone. Sometimes babies do well if delivered that early, and sometimes they do not.

My midwife and the other doctors believed that at this point the risk of infection was greater than the risk of delivering early. They agreed that the best course of action would be to induce and deliver.

*

Aaron and I spent some time praying and talking about it. I cried and worried that the baby wouldn't be ready. My mind wandered through scenarios and statistics. I cycled through anger and frustration.

But in the end, we agreed to the induction. The decision felt a little like rolling a die or flipping a coin.

Even at that point, despite the obstacles, my midwife was very kind and sensitive to my desire to try to labor without drugs. She knew that the contractions from Pitocin would likely be unmanageable without an epidural, so she offered to first let me try a very small amount of an oral prostaglandin, a drug that ripens the cervix.

Best case scenario, she said, it will kick start your contractions, and then your body will just take over. If it works, you won't even need the Pitocin.

*

It was three o'clock in the afternoon when I took the prostaglandin.

An hour passed. Aware of what was coming (and not willing to go through it with unshaven legs), I begged my mom to bring me a razor. When she arrived, I showered, and then sat in front of her and let her braid my hair like she used to do when I was a little girl. Her hands were cool and comforting.

I felt a dull ache wrap around my body and squeeze my abdomen. The contractions seemed to be intensifying, but they were still uneven and irregular. Our doula arrived, bearing gifts of candy. She practiced breathing with me while we sat, waiting for something to happen.

*

At seven o'clock, a new nurse arrived. Her name was the same as mine, and she was young and sweet. At this point my contractions were coming fast and strong. I remember everyone in the room being excited that the prostaglandin had worked - labor had started, I was on my way.

I spent time on the birthing ball, trying to speed things up by bringing the baby down. During contractions, I leaned on my mom while Aaron applied counter-pressure to my back. In between contractions, I was still able to talk a little. Because of the high-risk nature of the pregnancy, I was tethered to the fetal monitoring machine and an IV, so I wasn't able to leave the room.

I shuffled a small path from the ball to the bathroom, from the bathroom to the ball.

*

Time started to slip away. I remember that at one point I saw blood, and I began to panic because it was a graphic glimpse of the reality of what was happening to my body.

I couldn't handle being upright anymore, so I moved to the bed, where I laid on my side and closed my eyes.

I grasped the bed rail, tightly.

*

It is dark and late, and I am drowning. I see it looming: a wave. A huge, gigantic wave that I am powerless to escape. I watch as it threatens to overtake me, and then suddenly - impact. The strength of it knocks me down and drags me under, sending me hurtling, flailing, into the void.

I desperately want to breathe.

*

The pain became so intense that I started to fear every contraction. I became frantic as it would build within my belly, my eyes roaming around the room, my voice desperate and shrill. I was a wild animal searching for escape. Please help me. Please. Help. Me.

My doula grasped my hands and fixated her eyes on mine. She spoke in a firm, calm voice, and I clung to it. Over and over we faced them down together.

There and back. She saved me every time.

*

It was eleven o'clock, maybe later. The contractions were unbearable and I thought I felt the urge to push. The young nurse came and checked my cervix.

Five centimeters, maybe six? she said softly, with an apologetic tone.

I was crushed. How could I only be halfway there? If the pain was this bad at only five centimeters dilated, I knew I would never be able to handle it during the later, more intense transition period that I had learned about in childbirth class.

I faltered. I began to whimper for something to relieve the pain. Drugs, I whispered forcefully, in between contractions.

I think I need it. I'm pretty sure. Please. I can't do this anymore. I really think I need it now.

*

My midwife entered the room. She watched me labor for a few minutes, listening to my unsure requests for medication. Something must have caused her to question the young nurse's assessment of five centimeters, because she decided to check me herself.

Nine, she said authoritatively. You're almost there.

I smiled a huge smile. Instantly, I knew I didn't need the drugs after all. The pain was the same, but mentally - a switch had been flipped.

The end was in sight.

Click here to read the final installment: Isaac's Birth Story: Part Four

_

oops!

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Sun, 31 Jul 2011 22:16:00 +0000

I accidentally published the rough draft of the final part of Isaac's birth story. So sorry if it was confusing.

The real thing will (finally) be posted tonight or tomorrow. :)

In the meantime, here are the links to the beginning of the story to refresh your memory:

Prologue

Part One

Part Two

home is wherever i'm with you...

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Wed, 18 May 2011 01:56:00 +0000

Aaron and I have a really crazy ‘how we met’ story. Maybe I’ll tell it sometime on this blog, but for now, the short version is: our relationship started as a whirlwind long-distance romance that ultimately led to his moving from Ohio to Arizona to be with me (despite the fact that we had been together in person only a handful of times).

We were young and crazy in love. It didn’t matter where we lived, as long as we were together.

We said stuff like that a lot, back then. I have the embarrassingly mushy letters and emails to prove it. I was so head-over-heels for that man that I would have lived in a cardboard box if it meant that we would be together.

That was over eight years ago. Since then, we’ve slowly built a life here in Arizona, in a tiny, 900 square foot apartment (that, ironically, actually resembles a cardboard box in shape and color) in the heart of Central Phoenix.

At first we lived here out of necessity. The rent was cheap and the location was good, perfect for a newlywed couple just starting out. Over time, however, we grew to love the place for its own sake – the quiet community, the wonderful restaurants nearby, the view of the mountains and city lights, and the amazing mountain preserve just steps from our door.

Sure, the carpet is dingy and the fluorescent kitchen lighting makes me cringe. But it’s home. And I love it.

Which is why, when we gave our notice to the apartment complex this weekend that we are planning to move out next month, I cried – big fat hot tears.

An opportunity recently came up for us to move into a bigger place, and we decided we can’t pass it up. I know in my head that it is the right decision; practically speaking, we ran out of space here YEARS ago. Having a kid and expanding our photography business finally pushed us to our limit. It will be amazing to finally have a place to spread out and not feel like a sardine maneuvering for space in a tiny can.

But in my heart I can’t bear to go. I hate to leave behind the place that holds all the memories of my early adult life – that spot in the living room where we proudly placed our first piece of “real” furniture, the bathroom floor where I collapsed when I saw the positive sign on the pregnancy test, the place where Isaac toddled his first few steps.

I’m sentimental, I know.

A few weeks ago, I lucked into a ticket to a show featuring the band Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. As they played their hit song “Home” (listen to it here if you haven’t heard it) I sang along to the lyrics:

Home
Let me come home
Home is wherever I’m with you

That’s the song that’s getting me through, the song that repeats in my head when I’m packing away our belongings. I’m lucky, because home is STILL wherever I’m with you:

Photo by Scott Foust

thank you + an update

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Mon, 25 Apr 2011 09:05:00 +0000

Tonight, out of the blue, my husband approached me and sweetly told me that I was a very good writer and that he didn't think I should shut down my blog.

After giving him my best what-in-the-world-are-you-talking-about face, I suddenly realized: he is as belated a blog reader as I am blog writer.

Oh, I said, smiling. You mean the post I wrote two months ago? That old thing?

And then I laughed, because clearly, we are a perfect match.

-

I just wanted to pop in and say thank you so much for the insightful, supportive thoughts on my previous post. After reading all the comments, the anxiety I felt about this blog was washed away. You gave me the permission I needed to finally feel okay about simply being a Sometimes Blogger. So, thank you!

I've realized that blogging and writing are two different things. I don't have to be whiz at the former in order to be great at the latter. I'm going to be good at what I'm good at, and then let the rest go.

I wanted to share something that Alfie said, because her comment really hit home:

you don't post everyday because its expected. you post when inspired. and each post is meaningful.

Isn't that perfect? Inspiration, not expectation. If my blog had a mission statement, that would be it.

I'm here, I'm staying, and I'm glad you're going to stay, too.

and the world spins madly on

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 09:41:00 +0000

I let the day go by
I always say goodbye
I watch the stars from my window sill
The whole world is moving and I'm standing still

- the weepies

I've been thinking about this blog a lot lately, wondering if it is time to turn out the lights. I'm here so infrequently that I don't even know if anyone is following along anymore, and even if they are - what's a blog without a community of people listening and talking and sharing? As a blog author, I've failed pretty spectacularly in that department.

The main reason I'm not in this space as often as I would like is simple, but hard to admit: I'm a perfectionist, and more often than not, my unrealistic desire to be the best at everything I do prevents me from doing anything at all.

If I can't blog everyday, then I sit back and think that it's not even worth it to post occasionally.
If I can't plan out dinner meals a week in advance, we end up eating take-out because I already feel like I've failed.
If I can't clean the apartment from top to bottom, then I give up and let things get completely out of control.

It's a certain kind of terrible bondage, this paralyzing feeling of never being able to reach some crazy high standard that I've set. It's a standard that I would never hold to any of my friends, but for some reason think it's okay to impose on myself.

I would love to know if you struggle with this issue, too. I'd also love to know your thoughts on blogs with infrequent posts - do you stick around for the content or do you get tired of waiting and move on?

[Photos by me, taken earlier this year]

2011

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Wed, 05 Jan 2011 20:04:00 +0000

"Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?' / Let us go and make our visit." - from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot

In 2011, I want to:

be more decisive,
trust my instincts,
believe in my eye + my voice,
shed insecurity,
stop worrying about what other people think,
accept my imperfection.

In a word... confidence.

[photos of me, taken by my husband, with diana]

last christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Fri, 24 Dec 2010 23:11:00 +0000

Last Christmas, he saw snow for the first time:

He was almost one year old, and his perfect, almond-shaped brown eyes cut right to my heart:

Like true desert-dwellers, we overdressed:

The snow diffused the sounds, and the lights:

And he (barely) tolerated the striped cap we made him wear. He ripped it off not long after this photo was snapped:

This year, we're staying home. Instead of a picturesque Midwest Christmas, we'll sit by the fire on my parent's back patio, eat tamales, menudo, salsa, flautas and leftover birthday cake, and enjoy the crisp night air. Someone will probably wear flip-flops to dinner, and my brother and I will strike a few ninja poses for the camera. We always do.

Thanks for being a part of my life and always leaving such encouraging and kind comments. I know most people are taking a blog break next week, but I'm hoping to keep my blogging momentum going (4 posts in this month so far! Must be a record for me) and power through the final chapter of Isaac's birth story.

Merry Christmas!

i've got my love to keep me warm

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Thu, 23 Dec 2010 22:05:00 +0000

Today is my birthday. I've got two cute men by my side. What more could a girl ask for?

Tonight we're going out for Thai food, then coming back to our place for cake + ice cream + presents. It's the one day out of the year that everyone in my family comes over to our apartment. We're always squished and cramped and sitting on the floor, but I love it. It's going to be a great night!

[Photos by Scott Foust, taken December 2010]

Anatomy of the DIY Gift Wrap: Budget Edition

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Fri, 17 Dec 2010 09:11:00 +0000

Is it just me, or do DIY crafts always seem to end up being more expensive than if you went and bought it pre-made at the store? I have such limited space in my home (my bath towels share a shelf with the tool set) that it's impossible for me to stockpile a useful stash of materials. As much as I'd like to, I really can't hold onto old sweaters in the hopes that one day I'll rip them up and use the fabric as decorative accent on gift wrap. Where would I keep them - in my crockpot? It's just not practical right now.

And let's not forget that all that pretty DIY takes a fair amount of time, which is not abundant in the life of a toddler mom/small business owner/wife/wannabe writer. It takes even more time when you are not naturally design-y (not a word, I know) as well as an indecisive perfectionist. Translation: I'm very good at wasting time on unimportant details because I don't know what I am doing.

So when I get the urge to do something homemade -- fairly frequently, thanks to all the amazing, creative bloggers out there -- I usually end up with a diminished bank account and a discouraged spirit.

I promised that I wouldn't do that to myself this Christmas, despite being completely taken by Summer's luxurious monochromatic gift wrap and Sally's more modern, gilded take and wishing I could create something similar.

I reached into the the closet, pulled out the old, gaudy, drugstore bargain-bin rolls of wrapping paper and forgot about it.

-

When we opened the three small boxes that store our Christmas decorations, out tumbled a few rolls of wide, shimmery gold metallic ribbon and some tiny, round, gold ornaments. They used to adorn my small, college-apartment Christmas tree, but have sat unused in the box since then.

It gave me a little idea. So I started scrounging deeper - in the Christmas boxes, in the kitchen, in my closet. Here's what I found:

White Yarn
Tiny Gold Ornaments
Wide Gold Ribbon
Skinny Gold + Silver Ribbon
Miscellaneous Buttons
Roll of White Paper

(FYI: The white paper is from my son's art easel that we bought at IKEA. It's the MALA paper, and I'm officially in love with it. Go get a roll. It's heavy and perfect for wrapping).

I decided to try to make some pretty packaging with those items, plus these things from the clearance aisle at Michaels & JoAnn Fabric:

Sheer Ivory Ribbon - .75 cents
1 Yard of Burlap - $3.00
Glitter Leaves - .49 cents
Glitter Gift Bag (to make tags)- $1.29

Total Cost: $5.53

Here's what I ended up with.

Not bad for under six bucks, if you don't mind me saying so. I'm glad I didn't let my need for perfection stop me from at least trying. It feels simple, but special. Isn't that what do-it-yourself is all about, anyway?

love in details

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Wed, 08 Dec 2010 21:21:00 +0000

Years from now, I'll remember that sweet head of baby fine blonde hair. But I might forget the way the wind swept it up into a tiny golden tornado that day.

We have lots of photos of Isaac - an overwhelming number, thanks to the unholy trinity of photography, first-time parenting and digital cameras.

They're all special to me, but I have a soft spot for the details. Someday, when I'm old and he's grown - I know they will bring me a lot of joy. They already do.

signs

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 08:58:00 +0000

Dearest husband,

I bought you a card ages ago. I'm sure by now you think I just forgot to give it to you, considering that our anniversary was last month.

It's just a silly, throwaway card, with no flowery language or meaningful subtext. At the time it would have felt odd and insincere to give you something touchy-feely like that.

Because you and I - well, we're the stubborn ones. That old Achilles heel of ours. After six years of marriage, our struggles have become less noticeable and less frequent, but seemingly more potent. It's like we're pushing against opposite sides of an invisible door and wondering why we can't get in.

I know in my head that relationships ebb and flow, a decrease followed by increase. That's the law of nature and of love, but even so - it's hard to know what to do and how to act on an anniversary when there are undercurrents of tension and frustration.

So, I didn't give you the card because I simply didn't know what to say. Instead, I held on to it, hoping for some flash of inspiration or for something to nudge at my heart.

And then I got it. All these weeks later, a sign. A literal, honest-to-goodness sign, via a photo I snapped earlier this year.

As soon as I saw it, I felt a wave knock me over. It felt like regret, and a little like shame for forgetting one of the most important foundations of any good marriage.

Yield, Marisa. Let it go. Stop pushing. Wait. Give.

You, Aaron. Not me.

That's what I wish I would have said then. And it's what I'm happy to say now.

Happy (belated) Anniversary, my love.

Your always adoring wife,

M

daily riches

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Sun, 12 Sep 2010 06:52:00 +0000

(L) The late-afternoon light is meditative, gliding silently across the creased and rumpled blanket. I look into my bedroom often, just to see the glow. (R) The gilded edges and aqua cover brighten the mostly white room; empty pages beckon like an open road.

*

I've been feeling really down about our living space lately. It's a 900 sq. ft apartment with only two bedrooms, and between me, my husband, our rambunctious toddler AND the small business... well, cramped is not a strong enough word to describe how it feels here. Every day I am faced with clutter and stuff and displaced things, and every day I wish for space and order and simplicity instead.

I want to be content, but I find myself held down by frustration and disappointment.

I want to be better than that.

So, I've started a little project, inspired by the words of one of my favorite writers, Rainer Maria Rilke:

If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches.

I think that the cure for discontentment is gratitude, so occasionally I'll be posting photos and words that celebrate the daily riches that I do have here in my 900 square feet. Think of it as -- a little modern poetry.

(Are you feeling discontent about something in your life? Join me if you'd like! Leave a comment - I'd love to follow your progress.)

a little bit of magic

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 09:20:00 +0000

"I am struck by the fact that the more slowly trees grow at first, the sounder they are at the core, and I think that the same is true for human beings. We do not wish to see children "precocious," like sprouts producing a soft and perishable timber, but rather, better, as if contending gradually with difficulties, they are solidified and gradually perfected." - from the journal of Henry David Thoreau

I read this recently and it really struck a chord. There is something to be said for letting our little ones develop into life unhurried and unencumbered. I want my son have that innocent light for as long as he can.

[Photo by my husband]

isaac's birth story: part two

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 20:53:00 +0000

Want to start at the beginning? Read the Prologue first and then read Part One.

I know she is struggling.

How I wish I could sit beside her in that dark room and tell her not to worry. The future is beautiful.

I would show her a photo from his first birthday - the cute one with all the yellow balloons. I would tell her that he is smart and funny and perfect in every way. I would tell her that he won’t remember his time in the hospital, that he wouldn’t notice that his changing table was actually just a hastily cleared off portion of the desk, and that he never knew that she didn’t get a chance to pick out a special homecoming outfit for him.

I would tell her that there would be scary moments, but that they would pale in comparison to the moments of complete and utter joy.

I would tell her that soon she would be proud of her own physical strength.

I would tell her that yes, just as she had always suspected, her husband was indeed an incredible father.

I would tell her that her heart would be broken, just a little. Don’t worry, I would say. The fire will not consume you– it will only refine.

And then I would tell her to rest, because the sun would be up soon.

*

When we arrived at the hospital, the midwife on duty gestured to the crowded OB triage waiting room and dryly asked me if we all came in on the same bus. She was a bit intimidating, which only increased my anxiety.

They hooked me to a machine and checked for our baby’s heartbeat. I heard the tiny thud-thud-thuds, steady like raindrops, and smiled my relief.

More tests, and then, waiting. We spoke in low tones and phoned family members to let them know what was going on. Naively, we talked about how inconvenient this was, and how they would probably just send me home on bed rest. Our wrecked apartment loomed large in my mind. It was such a disaster. How would I get anything done now?

The midwife returned. Your water broke, she said, confirming what we already knew. It’s a risky situation for the baby, so we need to watch you carefully.

My brain was still ten steps behind, and I mentally kicked myself for skipping the chapter on premature babies in the pregnancy book. I remember glancing up and seeing the uncertainty on Aaron’s face. How long would we be here? When could we go home?

She smiled a wry smile. We have to do more tests, she said matter-of-factly, but you won’t be going home anytime soon. I’m sure you’ll be here until the baby arrives.

*

My room was at the end of the hall. Occasionally the distant moans and cries of a laboring woman punctuated the silence, her pain so raw that the sound tingled my spine.

To my left, my husband slept fitfully, wedged uncomfortably into a broken, over sized armchair.

To my right, a machine played the low, soft, sweet heartbeat of the child inside of me.

I lay in the center, finally alone with my thoughts, torturing myself with the unknown.

Had I done something to cause this? It was my fault.
Would our baby really be okay? Six weeks early seemed like a long time.
Would my hoped-for natural birth still be possible? Things were more complicated now.
Were we ready take a baby home? We didn’t even have the basic necessities.

My emotions crashed together like waves.

Guilt. Fear. Selfishness. Anger. Disappointment. Confusion.

I tossed and turned throughout the night, searching for resolution. My contractions were coming, but they were weak and sporadic.

The sun was coming up.

*

Tighten. Release.

Tighten. Release.

I learned something in the late stages of labor, when the pain was excruciating and I thought I couldn’t bear it any longer.

The moment you want to panic, the thing to do - the thing you MUST do - is relax. It’s not easy, of course. You feel as though you are about to be swallowed whole. But if you cling to and claw at the pain, if you try to control it - it will control you.

When you are holding on, let go.

Click here to read the next installment: Isaac's Birth Story: Part Three

the two-week life

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 06:56:00 +0000

Every two weeks, for the whole of our married existence, something rather important would arrive.

A paycheck.

In the beginning, the checks were small, but as his role at the company grew, they grew as well. Like everyone else, we worked hard at our finances - mapping out strategies for reducing debt, increasing savings and planning for retirement. It wasn't always easy (we tackled a lot of debt in the early years), but at the very least I felt quite a bit of stability and security from the regularity of those checks.

You all know the punchline, right? Let's just stop here for a moment and shake our heads in collective agreement: stability, in all its earthly permutations, is really just a big fat illusion.

It's been nine months since he was laid-off from his job. At that time we made the choice for him to forgo looking for another job in the corporate world, and instead decided to take a (gigantic) leap of faith and expand his evenings + weekends only freelance photography into a full-time gig - effectively making it our only source of income. (I had quit my job earlier in the year to be home with our son).

Since then I haven't talked about it at all, because I worried that writing about my myriad fears would only magnify them and because I knew that if I didn't talk about it, I also wouldn't have to talk about any failures we encountered along the way. It's embarrassing to admit, but it illustrates that I didn't have much faith in what God could do in our lives.

George Muller said that "God delights to increase the faith of His children." I see that now.

The photography business is our employer, and since our budget has always been based on the anticipation of a two-week paycheck, we kept it that way. We established ahead of time how much money we would need every two weeks to survive.

And then we survived.

Every time he has a photography job, we deposit the money into our business account. And without fail, for the past nine months, we have survived. Sure, I'm not getting weekly spa appointments (I bought a nail file last week and felt sort of guilty), but it's better than that. We are together. Pursing a dream. Increasing our faith.

Every two weeks, the money has been there, even during the times I never thought it would be. I remember one time being SO COMPLETELY SURE that we would have to resort to plundering our savings in order to buy groceries. And then, voila - our tax refund came and it was literally the exact amount we needed to survive for the next two weeks.

There is no stability. Not that kind of stability, at least. There is only this two-week life. And I am learning to love it.

Like swinging from vine to vine only to discover that the forward-motion is terrifying and exhilarating.

Like peering through the dirty glass to see the shape and form of something just beyond, where things are a little obscured but everything is beautiful.

[All photos by me, taken July 2010]

where i've been

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 06:36:00 +0000

chasing wide open spaces,

catching sunlight between pine trees in the arizona high country,

taking slow steps on the beach in encinitas,

listening to waves crash against the jagged la jolla coastline,

sitting on the front-porch on a quiet street in ohio.

Summer has been lovely so far, but really - I'm glad to be back home.

[All photos by me, taken with my Diana Mini]

love in action

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Mon, 10 May 2010 06:37:00 +0000

Last week I called my mom at 7 o'clock in the morning and mumbled desperately into the phone that I was sick and the baby was sick and if it wasn't too much trouble couldn't she please come over and help?

And she did - of course she did. She soothed us with kind words and vegetable soup, and the calming force of her presence made me believe that mothers actually DO have supernatural powers. I don't know if she had plans for that day, but if she did, she never let on that I had disrupted them.

Sacrifice is beautiful because it is rare in this world; we are drawn to the souls who bring light in the form of unconditional service and love.

My mother shines.

[Photo of me + my mom on the beach, sometime in the early 80's]

renewal

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Fri, 09 Apr 2010 08:37:00 +0000

This life is not a state of being righteous, but rather a growth of righteousness; not a state of being healthy, but a period of healing; not a state of being, but becoming; not a state of rest, but of exercise and activity.

We are not yet what we shall be,
but we grow toward it;

The process is not yet finished,
but it is still going on;

This life is not the end,
it is the way to a better.

All does not yet shine with glory;
nevertheless, all is being purified.

-Martin Luther

Easter was lovely - my mom arranged the prettiest centerpieces for her table this year. I'm lucky to have a mom who understand the need for beauty in everyday life. Isaac hunted eggs for the first time, and although he was mostly interested in the marshmallows that we hid inside of the eggs, it was still pretty adorable.

I'm particularly inspired by Martin Luther's words today. I've been feeling a little stagnant lately - so I am happy to be reminded that renewal is always right around the corner.

P.S. I LOVED every single one of your comments on my last post about writing. Thank you for the wonderful feedback!

thoughts on writing courageously

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Fri, 26 Mar 2010 07:42:00 +0000

This post was inspired by J, who commented on my last post. She said: “I DREAM of putting myself out there and actually writing something worthwhile, but I am too much of a sissy to actually do it. You need to share some of your courage with me! Seriously? Advice?”

I’m not an expert and certainly don’t have it all figured out, but since she asked, here are a few things I've been thinking...

Write for yourself first.

Are you self-conscious? I am. About a lot of things (among them: my post-pregnancy body, my high-pitched voice, my penchant for really bad pop music). I used to think that a bit of self-consciousness was fairly harmless, but now I realize – it’s a dangerous, paralyzing form of narcissism. It causes us to look with disdain on our flawed humanity and instead chase after an idealized image of perfection.

And so it goes with writing – we don’t write boldly because we’re self-conscious. We fear that we’ll be judged, mocked, or questioned, that we won’t say the “right” thing or that no one will understand. We’re unable to move past the belief that what we say won’t be good enough.

Break your self-conscious spirit. Spend some time writing in a journal, or anywhere where no one will ever read what you write. Practice finding what satisfies you as a writer so that when you are ready to write for the world, their feedback will merely be a validation of what you already know.

Embrace confidence. You have to respect your own thoughts and expressions before anyone ever will.

Stop reading other people’s writing.

Take a break from blogs and books. I know, I know - a blogger telling you stop reading blogs. But hear me out.

Most of the writers I know are also voracious readers. It’s so important to be inspired by those who have gone before. But I think that there is a point where you need to stop consuming in order to begin creating. The infinite swirl of words around you will simply overwhelm, not motivate.

How can you write in your own unique voice if you have to strain to hear it?

Expect it to be hard.

You know the stereotypical image of the tormented novelist, bleary eyed and disheveled, alone at his typewriter, with a mountain of crumpled pieces of paper at his feet?

Good news! It probably won’t be exactly like that… no one uses a typewriter these days.

To write courageously, you need to be bold yet vulnerable, liberated but intensely aware. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that that kind of writing probably can’t be done during the commercials breaks of LOST (trust me, I’ve tried).

Resist the urge to skim the surface of your life. Make it a priority to contribute something worthy, something substantial, even if it’s just a paragraph or a few sentences.

Occasionally, the words will flow easily. But 95% of the time for me, writing is a laborious act of love.

Aim for the shape of things.

My dad is a gifted artist. I love (and envy) his ability to convey moods and feelings with simple brushstrokes. Here’s an important thing I learned from his art:

It doesn’t have to be literal in order to be true.

I think that sometimes we don’t write courageously because we think it means that we have to let it all hang out, exposing every flaw and wrinkle in graphic detail. Not so. There are things that should be shrouded, and they are better that way.

When I started writing my son’s birth story, the original draft was four pages long and was brimming with every detail I could muster. But it didn’t feel right, and when I stepped back from it, I realized that while I had literally told a story, I hadn’t actually said much at all.

Remember that your life is more than a play-by-play of actions and motions. Knowing what details to keep and how to express them in an effective way is mostly a matter of skill, which you can develop with a little time and practice.

Blur the edges. Sketch the mood. Use emotion instead of fact.

Aim for the shape of things, and you may end up with something more true than you originally imagined.

Remember: You are not unique.

It sounds harsh, but this is good thing. The reason I know I can share my emotions and feelings is because I know you, the reader, can relate. You’ve been there, too – fights and jobs losses, proud moments and overwhelming joys. I’m not unique in that aspect, and I’m glad!

The beauty of writing and sharing is that it makes it easier to find like-minded souls and kindred spirits. Have you ever had the experience of reading a line in a book and then smiling because the author articulated something that you’ve always felt but never knew how to say? It’s a comforting feeling to know that you are not alone.

Except, you really are.

If everyone’s souls were made of the exact same stuff, then humans would have run out of things to say hundreds of years ago.

Live authentically. Value sincerity. Believe in your heart that you have something entirely unique to offer to the world. These are small acts of great courage.

Focus on these things first, and the courageous writing will take care of itself.

Good luck, J. I hope this helped you a bit! Keep me posted on how things go for you.

[Photo taken in Maui on our honeymoon. We were using film back then and I love how ethereal the mountaintops look.]

isaac's birth story: part one

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 04:31:00 +0000

This is part one of Isaac's birth story. To read the prologue, go here.

I have a habit of holding on to ordinary receipts from important days in my life, tucking them away for the same reason that people save special ticket stubs and theater programs.

I like the way they take me back.

Date. Time. Location. Items. Price. Total.

Utilitarian, to be sure – an impartial snapshot of a brief moment in time. But sometimes the facts are all I need; they are enough to remind me of the feelings that I might have forgotten.

*

It was Monday, and I was 34 weeks pregnant.

Five days before, I hugged my coworkers goodbye and drove out of the parking lot for the last time, towards my chosen life as a soon to be stay-at-home mom. I had a lot of plans for the weeks between leaving my career and birthing a baby – there were the mundane tasks (wash and fold baby clothes, buy diapers, clean the apartment) and the more personal aspirations (write in journal, spend alone time with husband), but suffice it to say, the ultimate goal was to be completely prepared for when baby arrived.

On that Monday, Operation Preparation was in full swing. I emptied out all of the kitchen cabinets and set about reorganizing them to make room for bottles and sippy cups and soft-tip spoons.

By the time Aaron arrived home from work in the evening, the contents of our kitchen were no longer actually in the kitchen. He surveyed the overflow with an amused look on his face, but wisely kept his smart-aleck remarks to a minimum. I’m sure he knew that crossing a nesting pregnant woman would be about as useful, and as dangerous, as poking a beehive with a stick.

I was exhausted. He ordered a pizza, our usual pepperoni-and-cheese (with jalapenos on two slices, for me) and flipped on the football game. His beloved Buckeyes were playing, and he wasn’t going to miss one minute.

Sometime before half-time, I stood up to go the bathroom. Something felt wrong.

*

Suddenly I felt stiff, and the routine movements of flushing the toilet and washing my hands were impossibly labored. Alarm bells were sounding, but I didn’t want to jump to conclusions.

There was no gush. There was no river. But there was a slow, almost imperceptible, leak.

I turned to the internet, of course, hastily Googling crude, unscientific phrases like “how do I know if my water broke” and “leaky bladder or water breaking?”

He was still engrossed in his football game when I approached him with a furrowed brow and tense muscles. I remember his calm voice. He told me everything would be okay, that there was no need to panic. He offered to make me soup. But the fear was gnawing at my stomach, growing and multiplying as every minute passed.

I laid on the bed and contacted the midwife at the hospital. Her authoritative manner quelled some of the anxiety I was feeling, and she instructed me to empty my bladder once more and then take a walk. In a calm but serious voice, she said: If at any point during your walk, you still feel like you’re leaking, come to the hospital immediately.

I remember thinking that her voice sounded a little unkind, as though she’d already fielded a hundred calls that night from nervous first-timers who couldn’t distinguish a Braxton-Hicks contraction from regular old indigestion.

I thought she thought it was nothing, and that made me glad.

I waddled to the living room and reported what the midwife had told me. Okay, he said. Go empty your bladder, and then we’ll take a walk around the park.

I waddled back to the bathroom.

*

The moments that followed are seared into my memory.

I felt the rush of water, it was unmistakable. It wasn’t a small leak; I didn’t need Google, or a pregnancy book or even a trained midwife to tell me what was happening. I knew.

I will never forget how it felt to stand there, alone in our bedroom, my body cold and tight. I will never forget the color of the carpet, or the feeling of my heart expanding violently in my chest.

My legs had grown roots into the ground. I watched the amniotic fluid spill down my thighs and calves and ankles and toes, like a torrent of unstoppable tears.

*

You moved me.

You were there the instant you heard the sharp panic rise in my voice. You swooped in and cleaned my legs, changed my clothes, brought me my sweater.

I will always remember the way your palm felt on my foot as you tenderly helped me into my shoes.

You knew I was crumbling because I was scared for our child. Because at 34 weeks, this wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. You were scared, too. But you never showed it, because you knew I needed you to carry me.

I can’t type these words without feeling the prickling hot behind my eyes.

*

Within minutes, we were driving to the hospital.

I didn’t know much about premature babies, but my mind was racing with fear. I thought of the translucent babies growing in incubators, babies who survived with tubes and machines, babies who were permanently disabled, babies who would ultimately succumb to complications.

It was my first brush with that certain brand of motherly fear – a fear I am now well acquainted with. It’s the one that catches in my throat when he knocks his head on the cement sidewalk or when he stuffs his mouth so full of graham crackers that I’m sure he’ll choke.

We held hands the entire way. The mess we left behind – the colanders and cereal boxes and spoons and muffin tins all piled randomly around the apartment, the half-eaten pizza and salad abandoned on paper plates – mirrored the chaos in my mind.

I felt precarious. Helpless, worried and entirely out of control.

*

On the afternoon of the day my water broke, I bought $12.42 worth of kitchen organization items from The Container Store.

The memory is clear. I see myself, clad in red sweatpants, a brown long-sleeved maternity shirt and tan moccasins, hair pulled back into a smooth ponytail.

The time on the receipt says 3:56 p.m. The sun had not yet dipped; the sky was wide and bright and blue.

I exited the store with my purchases, eager to get back home and finish the job I had started.

I inhaled a deep breath of cold air into my lungs and walked to the car with my hand on my taut belly, and the hope for all I had envisioned, all I was expecting, embedded confidently in my heart.

Click here to read the next installment: Isaac's Birth Story: Part Two

and the winner is...

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 23:54:00 +0000

Elizabeth, who said:

And what do I love most about myself? About the outside, my skin, how pale it is, how I've hated it almost all my life, but recently embraced it. About the inside, homebody Elizabeth, who likes to read a good book, cuddle on the couch, have a homemade meal.

Thanks, everyone! I loved reading your responses -- they were so inspiring. (Elizabeth, email me at marisawritesblog [at] gmail [dot] com so I can send you your little gifts!)

valentine's giveaway...

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 22:47:00 +0000

ends tonight at 9:00 p.m. PST! Don't forget to leave a comment on this post for a chance to win.

I hope you're having a sweet Valentine's Day. Mine has been really wonderful - Aaron and I went to a gigantic book fair this morning and then ended the afternoon with some out-of-this-world bruschetta + wine from a favorite local spot. Later tonight we're meeting up with the whole family for Korean food - yum!

beloved + valentine's giveaway!

noreply@blogger.com (Marisa) — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 04:05:00 +0000

"And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth. "
- Raymond Carver

I didn't make any New Year's resolutions this year, but I think if I were going to have a resolution, it would be akin to Raymond Carver's uplifting poem on the importance of loving yourself.

Somewhere between the delivery room and his first birthday, I'd forgotten the things that I love about myself. It was frighteningly easy, the forgetting, because as so many of you know -- being a wife and a mother is a constant exercise in forgetting about yourself.

On the one hand, so much of the sacrifice is easy. I would happily endure a million more bouts on the changing table if it means hearing that silly laugh and seeing his sweet smile.

But there are darker moments: the sometimes debilitating inadequacy I feel as an inexperienced mother, the bedraggled emotions after a day of wrangling an unhappy baby, the I'm-still-wearing-pajamas-at-three-o'clock-in-the-afternoon-and-when-was-the-last-time-I-took-a-shower? days.

The darker moments always seem more visible. Which is why "to call myself beloved," to remind myself that I am still whole even though I have given away so many pieces, seems timely this Valentine's Day.

***

I'm proud of this little blog, and I am always blown away by your thoughtful and encouraging comments. They lift my heart and make me a better writer. So as a thank you, I went to Anthropologie today and picked up a few small but lovely things to send to one of you:

- Petite cabbage rose + citrus shea butter handcreme by Lollia (The scent is so light, you'll think you're wearing a flower.)
- Sweet ginger peach teabag by Revolution Tea (Revolution makes some of my favorite teas. This combo is so refreshing.)
- "a day for me" Kraft notepad by O-Check Design (Be still, my heart. I was so happy to find this - I've been eyeing it online for ages. Which means I couldn't resist getting one for myself, too!)

To be entered to win, tell me: What is one thing you love about yourself?

Comments close on Sunday, February 14th at 9:00 p.m. PST. I'll randomly choose and announce the winner on Monday. Be sure to leave a link to your blog or an email address so that I can contact you if you win. (P.S. I have a small readership, so your odds of winning are pretty good!)