Million Tiny Things by Kenna Lee

Memoir, myself, and I: a learning curve

Sat, 23 Mar 2013 19:13:47 GMT

I. College, freshman year

They are everywhere, the pretty actors. In the dingy hallways, the empty rooms, the ratty bathrooms, the sidewalk. They are pacing, stretching out their faces into plastic gargoyles of exaggerated emotion. They seem to sing a dissonant chorus of narcissism, with the endless “Me, me, me, me, ME, ME, ME, ME, me, ME, me, ME, me, ME, me, ME, muh-ee, MUH-EE…” of their vocal warm-ups.

They are too easy to mock, the collegiate thespians, as they tend to gesticulate grandly, quote The Bard, and gather round the piano at any excuse, belting out the full lyrics of the great American musicals as if real life were an episode of Fame. (That’s the old people version of Glee, okay?)

But they are actually kind of amazing, because after all their offstage look-at-ME! shenanigans, they take their cues on beat, hit their marks precisely, and nail their lines with subtle perfection. Basically, they give us a gift, transforming a darkened room into magic, transporting us, the giftees, into a netherworld of cathartic engagement with something Greater Than The Sum of Its Parts. Seeing as how most of those parts will be near-vomiting drunk and howling the entire score of South Pacific later the same evening, “magic” almost seems too dull a word. Alchemy, perhaps.

II. College, senior year

At my particular college, in my particular time, it is the fashion to unleash language from its foundations and watch it run amok among the student body. I am not quite intellectually sophisticated enough to delve deeply into the texts that have spawned this fashion, nor into the philosophical discussions that linger in the pots of espresso.

I do, however, with my degree, receive a lasting skepticism about words having actual meanings. One spring day, they bid us each goodbye with a hearty handshake, saying, “Congratulations. There is no such thing as truth, so good luck. Have a great and meaningful life, keeping in mind, of course, that meaning is always subjective and cannot be fixed, and therefore all communication must by definition be approximate.”

III. Life

In fact, over the decades, words do wander away from meaning. What I say is not what you hear. What you think you said makes no sense to me, despite the apparent plain English of it. You are reading way too much into what I am saying. Your truth is my lie.

I am not surprised by the loss of “truth,” as my collegiate semiotics-obsessed culture has long ago beat that expectation out of me. I know not to trust ‘truth,’ ‘history,’ ‘objectivity’; I know that what I am trying to tell you gets lost along the way. But I had greater attachment to thinking that language created common ground than I thought. These words become permanently, painfully unmoored from what I used to think they meant: love, God, friend, marriage, trust, baby, identity, self.

IV. Memoir workshop

There is a palpable fear in the room. A classroom of women, quaking in our stylish boots. Asking, “Are we narcissists? For wanting to tell our own stories? For using the pronouns ‘I’ and ‘me’?” We are here to work on our memoirs, so very easily mocked: ‘me’moir, and even worse, mom-oir--accusations of smallness of scope, of narrowness of vision.

Some days the page on my screen nauseates me—it is so heavily slathered with ‘I.’ Who wants to read about me? It’s all about me. Me-me-me-me-me. Why even bother to write the words down? Damn words, they don’t have meaning anyhow, and what I’m trying to say can so easily get lost in the process. Will inevitably get lost, cannot help but get lost. My truth is just someone else’s lie.

‘Lost,’ however, happens only if you depend solely on the words. If you let the words float freely, don’t tie them down too tightly, there is something deeper that we are all trying to get at when we, imprecisely, use the word ‘truth.’ An indescribable center which we twist the words around, a jagged scrap of opaque soul. An invisible, yet perceivable, gift.

I keep writing, because the me-me-me is just the vocal warm up, preparing my voice for stepping out onto the page to fully inhabit the written ‘I’ which is not just me but also you and him and her. My story is a human story, and the character ‘I’ is a heart revealed, a tale crafted, to touch your own. Wrapped in words, each of which may float away from the intended meaning, but which together point toward the fragment of soul that I have so carefully nested into them. An alchemical gift, from me to you. Read into it what you will.

lasting love (unless we fry the planet and all die)

Fri, 15 Feb 2013 00:10:50 GMT

It’s that season when singleness becomes slightly more burdensome, you know, “beware the ides of February.”

And I'm single, again. Just in time for Valentine’s Day. Not that it’s that big a deal. There’s a part of me that’s just profoundly relieved not to have to produce some obligatory-yet-heartfelt gift and the requisite accompanying love note. I’m good at kissing, but I kind of suck at love notes.

On the other hand, it’s just in time for President’s Day too. Which means that this February, I get to spend some time chasing after what may truly be the love of my life: the process of trying to fix everything. President's Day is just perfect for a rally to fight climate change. Sure, you can get your oxytocin release from intimacy, or chocolate. I’m getting mine from the community feeling of protesting.

For me, it’s an enduring love. I can feel my heart aflutter as a few dedicated activists filter in to a planning meeting. The fresh Sharpie smell as we make our signs sets off my molecular attraction instinct more than any of the scents floating around the ground floor at Macy’s.

Like any true love, the honeymoon fades and disillusionment sets in. The once-shiny protest signs get faded and jaded. And yet, passion lingers, reignites with the kindling of a few new facts, a few new voices, a drumbeat of long-awaited action.

So here’s my passionate Valentine to the people I love--my kids, of course, and then, well, everyone (yes, even the people whom I sometimes kind of hate, amnesty granted): I’ll be taking the next step in trying to leverage my energy toward political action on climate change. Love becomes action, and a sometimes aching heart rejoices in hope. Happy Valentine’s Day, Happy President’s Day, and see you at the rally.

P.S. Here’s what I know about love, thanks to Wendell Berry:

It is not a terrible thing to love the world, knowing that the world is always passing and irrecoverable, to be known only in loss. To love anything good, at any cost, is a bargain. (Jayber Crow)

pretty green

Mon, 11 Feb 2013 21:57:05 GMT

Those aren't my boobs. Mine are not so well-dressed. That's some kind of soy-based fair trade thing called a camisette or something...

One totally and completely not-green thing about me: my bras. They were an immediate post-divorce purchase, during the reckless fuck-it-all-use-the-credit-card stage. Which coincided with the I’m-so-lost-just-tell-me-what-to-do stage. Which my friend Sue used to good advantage, ordering me to “go and buy some bras, dammit.” Pretty ones, with padding. It’s likely she’d been thinking it for years, burdened as she is by a supportive but under-supported posse of hippy-ish friends.

I did a google search for organic bras, and found zilch. So, zombie-like, following the order, I went to the outlet mall and duly purchased a bag full of re-entering-the-dating-world-after-age-forty selection of synthetic fabric, sweatshop produced, totally ungreen undergarments. Which are getting pretty frayed just about now, when I’ve regained enough of my mojo to resist the outlet mall.

Fortunately, while my own google skills continue to leave something to be desired in the “organic bra” category, Ask Umbra over at grist.org has come through! I’ll let her explain why you don’t really want to wear the outlet mall version. And despite my usual policy against shilling wares in this space, I’m including this link for a great selection of green intimates, since they seem so elusive, kind of like that prefect relationship. Maybe by next February I'll find the link for that one.

Happy Whatever Day.

what's cooking: my Next Big Thing

Sat, 26 Jan 2013 00:56:37 GMT

Thanks to the incomparably supportive Katherine Barrett (whose Next Big Thing is actually something I can’t wait to read, having read some of her earlier writing on the topic), I’m answering the Next Big Thing writers’ blog-hop list of questions. I’ve actually got two projects which keep vying for the front burner, so I’m including them both.

1. What is the working title of your current/next book?

Life is Messy: lessons from the school garden

What Love Looks Like: putting our bodies on the line

2. Where did you get the idea for that book?

Life is Messy (LIM): from how digging myself into our school garden program helped me recover from my divorce and get off my antidepressants

What Love Looks Like (WLLL): from my first act of civil disobedience and the inspiring activists fighting the pipeline in Texas right now (and the title comes from Tim de Christopher’s speech at his sentencing hearing—if you don’t know about him, you should)

3. What's the genre of the book?

LIM: straight-up memoir

WLLL: interviews and portraits (photos)

4. If you could pick actors to play the lead characters in your story, who would you pick?

This question presupposes that I have enough involvement with non-print media to have some idea of what actors are currently working. Hmmm. Laura Linney? Jodie Foster? Claire Danes? (Can you tell I’m a lesbian? I mean, have you ever seen a more obvious list of actresses a lesbian would want to play her, just so she could meet them?)

5. How would you describe your book in one sentence (10 words or less)?

I’m going with 10 words “or so,” only a minor editorial change, right?

LIM: depressed divorcee forced to revise bleak worldview by feral, dirty children

WWWL: inspiring stories of women taking personal risks to make a better world

6. How will your book be published, submitted through the traditional route to a traditional publisher or will you be handling it yourself through Indie Publishing methods?

I’m so very done with self-publishing. Have your agent call me.

7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of this book?

In progress, who knows (unless you are an agent or editor, in which case it’s almost finished).

8. What other books within your genre are similar to yours?

LIM: I’m going to say it’s Eat, Pray, Love without the travel budget, without the kid-free independence, and without the fairytale ending. (Then again, maybe that doesn’t leave much.) And snarkier, so you have to cross it with Heartburn (because there are recipes, too) and then dip it in the mud. Or perhaps a lower-budget Split, with less war-between-the-sexes (the lesbian thing again).

WLLL: Something like Refuse to Stand Silently By or Working, only filled with beautiful photos of super-cool women.

9. Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Refer to #2 and click the links. I hate redundancy. Or else I’m lazy.

10. What about your book will pique the reader's interest?

LIM: the humor, mixed with a real portrayal of the hard parts of post-divorce life, tempered by almost-impossible-to-reproduce recipes (one starts with: “Double dig a small section of a field.”)

WLLL: the inspiration!

Okay, now on to the fun part: tagging the people whose Next Big Thing I want to know more about. Here goes. I give you all permission to alter the list of questions to meet your needs.

Holly Hester, I want to know where this is all going, what look you will take on next, and whether your rock-n-roll wardrobe will be for sale in the school auction.

Rian Kerfoot: your blog rocks, so when and what will be the next step?

Jenny Forrester, I know you are probably totally exhausted from The People’s Apocalypse. Yet I feel you might have something up your sleeve. Oh, and I owe you $15, which I will send soon.

And b.d. swain, are you willing to interrupt the chain of smut to fess up to your full writerly ambitions? (Warning to readers, don’t click that link unless you like lesbian erotica. I’m serious. Very well-written porn.)

this is NOT about how great my garden is

Fri, 25 Jan 2013 22:48:20 GMT

No, I don’t want to see your greenhouse, all gussied up with post-holiday mini-lights. In fact, IF I GET ANOTHER FACEBOOK UPDATE WITH A VERY CUTE GARDEN PICTURE, I AM GOING TO SCREAM. Oh, look, I already started screaming without even noticing. Because, clearly, I have been driven insane by the pervasiveness of precious homesteading photography.

I homestead. Sort of. Let’s just say I’m homestead-ish. I have raised beds, and chickens, and fruit trees, even sometimes a horse. None of which are scrapbook worthy. Why is this, I wonder, when everyone else seems to be ready for Sunset Magazine to walk in any day? For a while, I took to photographing my meager harvests in close-up with a wide-angle setting, to try and pass as competent. Look, I grew a whole cup of beans! I just saved the Earth!

But in reality (in stark contrast to facebook), I find gardening and homesteading to be, above all, messy. The horse manure that fuels the compost pile, well, it doesn’t clean itself up, and I only get around to it irregularly. And as for the chickens roaming at will about the place, well, they are a species not well known for its sphincter control.

My weeds get out of control at times, and I leave stacks of cornstalks lying around until they rot in place. While I was busy trying to clip back the ever-invading blackberries, my boys dug a mudpit that I keep thinking I’ll line with gopher wire and turn into another planting bed, but several years have passed without this coming to pass.

Thanks to our commitment to preserving bird habitat, large branches are always dropping in inconvenient places, and a rat has chewed through an essential part of my chainsaw, which I haven’t found time to repair.

Oh, and the big dog died, which means I now have a deer population problem (three: mom and two babies). 2012 was a total loss of strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, sunflowers, sweet peas, tomatoes, greens, fruit trees, and all the other stuff…basically everything except citrus, winter squashes and gourds. This means that I get depressed whenever I try to do any gardening, which means I avoid the garden, which makes the garden even sloppier, which gets into a whole chicken-and-egg garden/depression cycle, and has the collateral damage of allowing big tangles of vines to grow up, providing the chickens with excellent places to hide their eggs, which makes it into a chicken-and-no-egg problem.

But as January 1 rolls around, I feel pretty good. After all, this time of year, I’m not really supposed to be doing anything (oh, shush, all you pruners—the deer did my pruning), and the bleak view in my garden is justified by the season. This respite gives me the mental space to get all zen and make those resolutions to keep my thoughts disciplined and to choose love. To take the high road above all the pettiness that three kids and an estranged ex-spouse can foment. I start taking all my vitamins again, and direct my brain to stay focused on the positive. I even manage to get outside to drag the piles of frozen cornstalks into the compost pile and clear the larger tangles out of the raised beds. Everything is great. New year, new me, new homestead. Break out the camera.

A few weeks in and, well, things are sliding. The rain made it too muddy to go out there. And then we had several heavy frosts, which make me garden-avoidant in fear that my failure to cover my citrus trees will have had severe consequences, and there will be no lemonade come spring. In other words, it’s a mess.

But… there’s always a “but.” I just gotta find it. And I think this time (New for 2013!), the “but” may just be a re-frame. I need to STOP looking at pictures of gardens and instead retrain myself about what real gardens, and real life, look like. It’s possible that I avoid my garden because it hasn’t turned out like the picture I have in my mind, like all the facebook posts of creative and well-designed food-rich sanctuaries. In that way, it stands in for my life, which looks, post-divorce, nothing like I planned. I thought my garden would be well-tended and neat, just like I thought my family would, and instead both are sprawling, unruly messes.

So I need to stop fighting what is, and accept that life, real life, is hella messy. I’m swearing off looking at pictures of perfect gardens (and for that matter “perfect” families). I mean, who even knows what’s lurking just outside the frame? And as soon as it gets even a little bit warm, I’m going out there to revel in my disheveled garden beds, and my mudhole, and all the vibrant weeds and sundry that thrive on neglect. After all, the blackberries may be an invasive pain in the butt, but they sure are delicious, come summer.

do we recover?

Sun, 13 Jan 2013 21:10:16 GMT

Welcome to the January 2013 Carnival of Natural Parenting: Recovering from the Holidays This post was written for inclusion in the monthly Carnival of Natural Parenting hosted by Code Name: Mama and Hobo Mama. This month our participants have written about how their families get back to normal after the holidays are over. ***

God, we laughed. We laughed until we couldn’t hold onto our chopsticks. We sat at a corner table in an otherwise empty, stained-linoleum Chinese dive, clearly kept in business solely by take-out orders for stoned local youth. We no longer cared what we ate; the food tasted, like all food did to us then, like nothing. Just a chore of mastication and swallowing. The laughter tasted strange in our mouths, and tickled our nostrils like bile.

How strange, to taste anything at all. We laughed and laughed and found wet spots in our underwear when we finally went home. We bent over, gasping for air, as if neither of us had taken a full breath since our baby had died a few weeks before.

Our wise friend had herded us toward the unoccupied restaurant, knowing that we were not really ready for being in public and as likely as not to skip meals. And then she started talking, telling us these stories that she’d never told us in the years of our friendship, stories that if I tried to tell them now would probably not make any sense. But at that time, they made perfect, hilarious sense, and they broke us. Our loss had broken us so deeply, and we had patched ourselves together with grief, and then she came and broke us again, with laughter.

Perhaps the drafty, bleak restaurant helped, for we were not comfortable. The food was greasy and bland; we were not sated. We were not, despite our laughter, happy. For happiness would have been too far down a path we did not know if we could travel without denying our daughter, our love for her, expressed through our sadness. But we could, we discovered, laugh. And it made us breathe, and it felt sort of okay, if terrifying. Would we slowly return to something resembling “normal?” Could we do so without leaving behind our daughter?

We did, and we didn’t. She is part of my every day, and I no longer carry the grief in the same large way. It is small, like a finger. Part of every action, yet not often noted. So, did I recover?

recover (v.)

c.1300, "to regain consciousness," from Anglo-Fr. rekeverer (late 13c.), O.Fr. recovrer, from L. recuperare "to recover" (see recuperation). Meaning "to regain health or strength" is from early 14c.; sense of "to get (anything) back" is first attested mid-14c. Related: Recovered; recovering. (from the Online Etymology Dictionary)

I did regain consciousness, if a changed one. I regained health and strength (although I still find a wet spot if I laugh too hard). I did not get her back. I never will. But I did get myself back, a new self. Not necessarily better. But here.

This holiday season has been, for me, overshadowed by my memories of that time, a long, full twelve years ago, but brought back into sharp focus by the horrific shooting in Newtown. My youngest is in first grade now, and we live in a wouldn’t-happen-here small town, just like them. Those families who will never recover, at least in some ways, from this holiday without their children.

And of course they are not the only ones. The families of Trayvon Martin, of Jyoti Singh Pandey, of countless others whose names we do not know. Children killed by drone strikes, by preventable and treatable diseases, by hunger. The Newtown children look like my children, so they touch me in a tender place, and allow my heart to open to the pain of their families, and by extension, the pain of the other families whose lives do not resemble mine. Our disparate hopes and dreams for our children’s happiness, the isolating pain of our losses.

We must not “recover” superficially. We must not go about our business as if our hearts can truly forget. Our national grief can focus our national will: several gun control bills have already been introduced, and our legislators will need to know if we care enough to pass them. Wherever our grief touches us, we can work for change, for better health care services, for social justice, for peace. If we cover up our hurt, we can pretend these things don’t matter.

Do we recover? We re-enter the world. But what we have lost remains lost. We remain broken. Our broken-ness can open our hearts, but grief can seal them shut tight and rigid. May someone come along for each of us who can break us again, with laughter.

(in memory of Tobin)

***

Visit Code Name: Mama and Hobo Mama to find out how you can participate in the next Carnival of Natural Parenting this March!

Please take time to read the submissions by the other carnival participants:

Pinterest Inspiration for Easier Winter Holidays Shannon, writing at Natural Parents Network, shares inspiration for having more relaxed winter holidays from their Handmade Holidays Pinterest board.
Seven Recipes for Beans - Post Holiday Cleaning — Destany at They Are All of Me shares her favorite bean recipes that she hopes will help her body recover from overindulging her sweet tooth during the holidays.
The Recovery in the Change — Laura at Pug in the Kitchen made changes in her life and attitude throughout 2012 and was pleasantly surprised at how those changes impacted her holiday recovery!
Could this question change your life for ever? — To get your new year off on the right footing, Mrs Green of Little Green Blog is challenging us all to love ourselves with commitment and discipline. She asks you to focus on a simple question which might just bring you back in balance...
Holiday Recovery — Meegs at A New Day talks about how the holidays can be overwhelming for a toddler, and how she's helping her 3 year old recover.
5 Ways to Detox After the Holidays — Brittany at The Pistachio Project gives a few ways to help you detox and get back on track after the holiday season has passed.
3 Simple Ways to Establishing Rhythm After the Holidays or Any Time — Sheila at A Living Family shares 3 simple ways to reestablish a rhythm of connection and calm in your family after holidays, visitors, travel or any time.
Gemstones For Holiday Hangoverss — Jennifer at Hybrid Rasta Mama delves into the power of gemstones as an often overlooked means of dealing with the holiday letdown.
Getting back to Healthy — Bess at A Warrior Mom talks about the struggle of getting young ones back to eating healthy after several days to weeks of getting more candy and sweets than normal for the holidays and gives some suggestions on how to get them back to eating healthy in the new year.
Post Christmas Juice Feast — Sam at Love Parenting explains why she has created a new tradition of juice feasting, and how she includes her toddler when detoxing.
The Java Monkey On My Back — Christy at Eco Journey in the Burbs realizes it is time to kick her cup of Joe habit as a first step toward detoxing.
Minimalist Holidays — Jorje of Momma Jorje doesn't find much need for recovery after her minimalist version of the holidays.
Do something for you — Lauren at Hobo Mama urges you to find a silly and indulgent reward of me-time — and she has hers.
do we recover? — Kenna at Million Tiny Things wonders what recovery really means in the context of the tragedies of this past holiday season.
37 Easy Ways to Save Money — Shannon at GrowingSlower is sharing these money-saving tips to help get your budget back on track after the holidays.
A Two Year Old's Resolutions — That Mama Gretchen is putting the holidays behind her with a spin on traditional resolutions — New Year's goals for her two-year-old! Sound crazy? Read on for an explanation!
How to Find Balance after the Holidays — Deb Chitwood at Living Montessori Now tells her favorite ways to start a new year with hope and calmness.
Fresh Awakening — For Luschka at Diary of a First Child, the new year has coincided with a return to restful nights. With sleep, she's found new directions in life, but while she can't make too many changes to her life right now, she's inspired and excited about the future.
Learning to slow down after a busy Festive Season — Stoneageparent describes the joys and lows of this year's festive season, as well as her New Year's resolutions.
Detoxing' Your Toddler After the Holidays — Does your family suffer side effects from the holidays? Join Christine from African Babies Don't Cry to learn how she detoxed herself and her toddler off the treats and festivities of the season.
Scheduling is OK! — Jaye Anne at Wide Awake, Half Asleep explores the possibilities of the — SCHEDULE!!
We're Saving their First Christmas for Next Time — Mercedes at Project Procrastinot takes it easy after moving with her husband and new babies to Scotland.
A Vacation from the World — Mandy at Living Peacefully with Children retreats with her family at the end of every year in order to recuperate and enjoy one another.
On the Road to Recovery — Dionna at Code Name: Mama isn't just recovering from the holidays, she's recovering from a lifestyle.
We Never Left the Grind — Erika Gebhardt compares a typical day pre-holidays and post-holidays.
Remembering and Recovering from the Holidays (One day at a time) — Emily at S.A.H.M i AM is recovering from holidays slowly--taking one day at a time--while trying to remember all the sweet moments that passed too quickly.
5 a Day — To get back on track Jennifer at True Confessions of a Real Mommy needed a simple system to help her family learn new values.
Holiday Detox & Healing: Bieler Broth — Megan at The Boho Mama shares her secret for a gentle, whole-foods-based post-holiday detox: Bieler Broth!
I'm Mama Not Supermom — After a year filled with changes Angela at EarthMamas World has to remind herself that she does not have to be supermom while recovering from the holiday chaos.

think small

Mon, 24 Dec 2012 04:37:44 GMT

"Soil is not usually lost in slabs or heaps of magnificent tonnage. It is lost a little at a time over millions of acres by the careless acts of millions of people. It cannot be saved by heroic feats of gigantic technology, but only by millions of small acts and restraints, conditioned by small fidelities, skills, and desires. Soil loss is ultimately a cultural problem; it will be corrected only by cultural solutions." - Wendell Berry

Cultural change doesn’t come easy. I feel like I’m sprinting to stay ahead of the fear & despair nipping at my heels. And more often than not, I can feel slammed by guilt about not doing as much as I should to save this planet for my kids. But the guilt doesn’t help, it just slows me down to where despair overtakes me, making the changes I want to make even more out of reach.

But wait! (Memory flash.) I’m a nurse! I know how to deal with change—people trying to change their diets, to quit smoking, to adjust to great loss. It doesn’t work to just say “this is how you do it.” You have to meet people where they are. You can’t tell someone who eats French fries and soda for lunch to start eating kale/seaweed salad, you have to step down to potato salad and ice tea first, then add in a little iceberg lettuce, and six months later, feel out the idea of broccoli.

And it doesn’t really even work to say “look, I did it, you can too!” It may help, a little, but in general, you’ll be met with this response: “Excuse me, I have to do outside so I can stand in the cold and indulge the nicotine habit of which I am well aware you do not approve, Miss High-and-Mighty.”

So, be more down-and-dirty than high-and-mighty. Let’s just start where we are, wherever that is. And then step forward. One step, one bit of soil, one day, one year at a time.

Happy 2013.

looking back at 2012

Thu, 27 Dec 2012 00:48:57 GMT

I’m pretending that I’m doing a year-in-review, but really, I’m just out of sync with the news cycle. The entire nation has moved on to debating the fiscal cliff and pretending that climate change isn’t the most urgent issue on the table. It’s been waaaay over a month. Which in news-cycle time might as well be a decade.

Call me Slow News (don’t the capitals make it sound progressive and thoughtful rather than just torpid?): I’m still untangling my post-election emotions.

Okay, so we all got a wee bit anxious as the thing went on (and on and on) and at least for me, anxiety makes whatever emotional state I’m in seem glaringly permanent and Very, Very Important. So I can perhaps excuse my rash and repeated posting of “unfriend me, you rogues!” to all the FB Romney-likers, invoking Pre-Electoral Syndrome-induced temporary insanity. After all, I’ve always been proud of my ability to genuinely like people who have very (very) different political views than my own. So, whence the turnaround? Do I really want to claim that anxiety trumps tolerance? Yuck.

Like most humans, however, I’d like to find some believable excuse for my less attractive behavior, so I’m still turning it over in my mind: do I or do I not want to maintain friendships (Facebook-defined or otherwise) with people who do not support my own political views?

As I get older, I become more and more radicalized in my thinking, even if my behavior seems, well, suburban middle-class mainstream, for the most part. I believe that mountaintop removal coal mining is evil, and I don’t use that word lightly. I think the large-scale extraction of oil from tar sands is evil. I think fracking is evil. And since I’m confessing to my binary thinking about these issues, I might as well follow through with admitting that once you start down the “good versus evil” thought pathway, it pretty much takes you into intolerant territory.

I’m intolerant. Oh, the shame, in a psyche that theoretically embraces diversity. However, there it is. Visible to all who look back over my timeline.

But in my pre-election anxiety, did I unfriend Romney supporters because of his support for the Keystone XL pipeline? Nope. Rather, the issue that got me all hot and bothered was gay marriage. Which, I must say, is not usually anywhere near the top of my “activist causes” list. Really, if the whole planet is gonna fry, will it matter who’s married? At least, that’s my usual line.

This election, though, there was some wild-animal-defending-its-den that came out of me. My claws unsheathed, I ruthlessly demanded loyalty to my temporary cause, and recklessly reposted other people’s eloquently written “unfriend me if you are voting for Romney, because basically it means you don’t think I should have civil rights” messages. Grrrrrr.

Now, I’m wondering, what the hell was that about? It’s not like I’m now spending my time raising money for the marriage equality struggle. I’m right back in my anti-fracking t-shirt and divest-from-fossil-fuels mode. But I think I’m starting to get it.

I know, I’m slow. It’s taken me this long for it to sink in that this election is the first time I actually had a choice when it came to my civil rights status. Oh, yes, we all thought Bill Clinton was the cat’s pajamas for saying the word “gay” out loud. And then he signed the Defense of Marriage Act. Come to 2008, we all assumed that Obama was really pro-gay but he just “had to” say he was against gay marriage for political reasons. And maybe he did, the first time around. But as we have in the past with so many candidates, we were assuming the best based on our hopes, not based on anything actually stated.

This time it was different. I could cast my vote for someone who was against gay marriage or for someone who was for gay marriage. My personal freedom to marry was right there on the table where I filled out my ballot, as if maybe I should have had a right to it all along. And each of my friends would be making the same choice: the guy who thinks I should have civil rights, or the guy who doesn’t.

I want to be tolerant, reach my hand across the aisle and find areas of commonality. But this time around, with a choice so stark before me, I think it was okay for me to be asking the question: what are friends for?

(Thank you, my sole remaining right-leaning friend, for the eco-citation pictured above!)

peace on earth and mercy mild

Tue, 25 Dec 2012 04:00:05 GMT

Remembering all those children who could not put on their angel costumes this year.

Peace.

who bought all these dang presents, anyway???

Tue, 25 Dec 2012 00:36:22 GMT

It can’t possibly have been me. I don’t believe in getting kids a lot of stuff. Love, yes; stuff, no. I carefully consider my consumption choices and consciously conserve. Right?

Plus, I’m very aware of all the useful things money can buy besides more stuff for middle class American children: food for the hungry, medicine, clothing. Real things that meet real needs. So, I’m opposed to excess stuff.

Yeah… but this year I seem to have excepted books, art supplies, useful tools, and board games from the category of “stuff.” I have a few excuses; want to hear them?

Prolonged stress (such as, say, being a divorced single mom) can lead to memory lapses. Economic constraints (such as, say, being a divorced single mom) compel the early purchasing and hiding of holiday gifts. There’s the problem: out of sight, out of mind. At holiday time, a routine review of likely hiding spots reveals multiple surprise items. In other words, I forgot, okay?
Lack of external, adult validation (common in, for example, divorced single moms) can lead to skewed judgment. When you know that your entire holiday is going to be witnessed and judged by under-12’s, it’s discombobulating. If, ten minutes after arriving at my home on Christmas day, they are all staring vacantly at a handful of unwrapped, earth-friendly, low-impact, handmade gifts, will they feel the gifts of love and time? Or will they just think it was a sucky Christmas this year? Yea, I’m a little bit insecure. (You are too, you know it. I’m just saying it out loud.)
Despite my carefully cultivated (not to mention expensive) critical thinking skills, I am still vulnerable to group-think. The whole world was out shopping last week. I caught the virus. It didn’t take me down, but I caught it enough to do my bank account some damage. In other words, I’m human. And I exist in a context. And that context normalizes the procurement of excess stuff.

So, the shallow magic of Christmas over-consumption will reign at my house tomorrow when the kids arrive from my X's house, for at least 20 minutes, 30 if I’m lucky. I know I could be doing the kids a disservice by having too many gifts under the tree. But, hey, at least they are almost entirely plastic-free. Mostly almost.

Then, while we wait for the hormone-free, all-natural ham to bake, we’ll curl up on the couch with one of the new books, and if I’m really lucky, we’ll have 20 minutes, maybe even 30, where the kids feel the real magic for the non-religious, the time-and-love magic.

Wishing that magic for each and every one of you. May pain and fear take a day off. May you have time, and love.

Merry Christmas.

p.s. That's NOT a new dog under the tree. That's the old dog, who busted into her gift early.

the light returns, well, sort of

Sun, 23 Dec 2012 20:41:24 GMT

Above my roof, on the shortest night of the year, the gods were tearing the sky apart, almost as if to make a mockery of my blithe there’s-no-chance-of-an-apocalypse-today attitude. I curled deeper and deeper into my blanket, hoping against hope that my pager would not go off. No way did I want to ever consider heading out under that falling sky in my little hybrid tin can, though I knew I would if someone needed a nurse.

And the next morning, dawn came before I had to drive anywhere, and The People (me) rejoiced and sang songs of praise to all the families who did not need a nurse for the night. Glory be! I drove in light morning mist to an early morning patient visit, then to the office. By the time I had completed my odious paperwork and chatted up my not-at-all-odious co-workers, the sun was asserting its return, with a brilliant “take that!” attitude, shoving itself under the cloudbanks and pressing them toward the horizon.

On the bright drive homeward, all seemed well. As if the darkness never happened, as if those cracks of thunder didn’t bring a certain terror. As if my heart didn’t know rage, or fear, or deep pain. For those of us who have suffered depression, the darkness can be a terrifying time, for we do not know if we will find our way out of it. But the sunlight shone into my car window, warming my face, and the long night receded from my mind, just as the encroaching floodwater was receding from the roadway.

And just in case I wasn’t getting the metaphor, nature added her own italics to the “return of the light/passing of the flood” theme: she dropped a rainbow in my direct line of vision. I grew up with a good foundation in the old Bible stories; a rainbow always reminds me of a God making a covenant with the human who made it through, who had faith and survived. Okay, okay! I get it!

With that nudging from the sky, I decided to accept that I, too, can cycle out of the darkness. I can hope for good things. I can seek fulfillment instead of just coping. I forced only good thoughts about my ex, a feat of pure will, and it did, in fact, make me feel better. I decided that I can allow my inner best light to emerge, slowly, from all the dark thoughts I bury myself under. Thank you, light.

Today, the daylight hours are just a few moments longer, but the sun has disappeared again. Everything is soggy and I’m sad, a bit cranky. My best self is huddled up under an awning, waiting for the rain to let up before she crosses the street. But at least she’s out of the house, right?

May the light always return. May you feel the sunshine on your face, when you need it most.

Happy (late) Solstice.

this is the way the world ends

Sat, 22 Dec 2012 02:21:59 GMT

Every day worlds end, violently and peacefully. One week ago, 26 worlds ended in Newtown. Today, the news nods to the week-old tragedy, and moves on to all the people waiting for the Mayan apocalypse to happen. Seriously?

Part of me can’t believe that people actually think some dramatic End of Time might happen, pre-scheduled for centuries. But perhaps that’s because I’m more pessimistic, and in general, I think the end of things tends to be rather slow and painful. And in general, I don’t think we get to plan. Though we do try to prepare.

This week (and hopefully the next and the next), we are preparing in a hopeful direction: to shift our nation toward a less heavily armed citizenry. The concept is so simple: do not keep doing the thing that hurts you. Guns hurt us. Let’s stop getting guns.

I understand all the arguments on both sides, really. And I think, this time, the gun advocates are just gonna have to get over it. Keep your hunting guns, have a ball. But the other stuff—let it go. (Didn’t we learn anything from the cold war? Building up a big “good guys” arsenal to protect us from the “bad guys” arsenal, really, did it get us anywhere besides deep in debt?) To my brain, it’s clear—we have to start somewhere, here, now.

Yet, the topography of my psyche is vast and varied, comprising many nations. Most of these are busy signing treaties to ban assault weapons and make guns less accessible. It’s the right thing to do, for the greater good. There are, however, a few rogue states: in truth, part of me is wondering if maybe I should run out and buy a gun or two before they become harder to get. To protect my children with, of course, should the slow-burning apocalypse decide to come along. Because there’s the greater good, and there’s my children, and although I like to talk in an “all-for-one-and-one-for-all, love>fear” mode, there’s a deep, deep fear of that particular loss in me, and I might just want to have a gun or two in the back of a closet, high up and hidden. Because what if? What if I could save them? What if?

I know I’m sounding a tiny bit like an insane, possibly evil NRA spokesman. It’s just that somewhere deep in my American brain, the misguided NRA spokesman lurks, hawking his messages of fear. Thank god for my community, and my critical thinking skills. And my ability to hope. As an act of willful hope, the United Nations of Me will maintain a weapons embargo on the rogue states: I’ll use that nervous energy to build a new garden bed instead of buying a gun.

Right after Newtown, a local (to me) mom sent out a call for a mass demonstration of mothers against guns. No-brainer, right? Except… I, a secretly gun-desiring pacifist, was the only one who responded. So instead of marching down Main Street en masse, we shared a pot of tea, and tried to figure out how two people, or one person, or 10, 20, 100 people can best leverage their energy to effect meaningful change. By the time we had finished our tea, we were no closer to any real answers. President Obama had already promised concrete proposals within a month. Petitions* had already been created, and we’d signed them. We sighed, and decided to wait and see when and where pressure will need to be applied. We’ll save our strength for when action is needed, and hold on to hope. Because without hope, the world does end, every day.

Show your hope here:

Anti-NRA petition

White House gun control petition

back to work

Wed, 19 Dec 2012 18:30:52 GMT

Tonight I’ll go back to work, my usual 12-hour shift. Regular life. The shock of Newtown is subsiding, so soon. Each day I shed a few less tears for the families in Connecticut.

My children could do no wrong this week. Whining, bickering, new coats crumpled on the floor, all the things that usually drive me mad—this week, I was only grateful. Fall-to-my-knees grateful. But already this morning, I had to walk out of my daughter’s room to stop myself from raising my voice when she was dawdling, endlessly.

Next week, I suspect, I’ll start sending them to their rooms again. Next week, my daughter will be in trouble if she keeps sneaking M&Ms off the gingerbread house.

This week, I am full of righteous indignation at the insufficiency of mental health care infrastructure, at the blockheadedness of the NRA. Next week, I’ll be filling stockings, packing for a trip to the snow. I will probably cry while filling the stockings, thinking of the high closet shelves in Newtown, the hidden toys with no stockings to fill; but then I will become immersed in creating a tableaux of half-eaten cookies and carrots to verify the nighttime presence of the red guy.

This kind of tragedy does, as it should, create a pause, a pulling back from the details of our lives, a moment of perspective. But we can’t stay pulled back: life has a way of throwing us right back into the middle of our own small routines.

So, while the angle of vision remains wider than usual, I am taking stock. Deciding which of those routines are the ones I want to return to.

Everything but the grief seemed unimportant this week, but it’s not. When I reflect, I see that I do want to return to my regular work, caring for the dying as a hospice nurse, fighting climate change as an activist, hanging the laundry, mothering my three children (lucky, I’m so, so lucky). It does not strike me a meaningless to return my attention to these tasks.

Even as I hold the grieving parents in my heart, my mind and my hands are turning to the work I have chosen, knowing that even with a broader view, even if everything is incredibly fragile, my work is what I want to be doing.

My chosen work is not the buttressing of our mental health care infrastructure, nor the battle for better gun control laws. That work is important, essential, and I will support the people doing that work, and hope that this crisis has given them more energy for their struggle.

Join the people working to create better models for mental health care provision. Join the people working on stricter gun laws. Let’s get help to the people who need it. Let’s keep guns out of our schools. Join me. Let’s stop fracking, let’s overturn Citizens United, let’s divest from fossil fuels. And we’ll join you, in your work. Let’s make a better world.

Back to work.

"If I knew that tomorrow was the end of the world, I would plant an apple tree today." (attributed to Martin Luther)

first school day (what i will not ask of the Newtown parents)

Mon, 17 Dec 2012 17:00:48 GMT

I will not ask you to be ennobled by your grief. I will not ask you to be anything but brought low by it. I will not expect you to rise up, stronger than before.

I will not hand you a tissue. I will not be afraid of your tears or your snot. I will not ask you to hide them from me.

I will not, ever, ask you “how are you?” unless I want a real and true answer, and expect that real and true answer to be something like “fucked up, beyond fucked up” for a long, long time.

I will not expect you to behave well. I will expect you to use whatever coping mechanisms you need to get through tomorrow. I will not ask for those mechanisms to look pretty.

I will not ask you to choose love instead of hate. Not right now. I will not expect you to forgive me for my undeserved luck in having dropped my own six-year-old off for school this wretched Monday morning.

I will not expect you to be able to have tea with me, to accept my sympathies, to meet my eyes. I will not ask you to pretend we live in the same universe.

I will not ask you to make me feel comfortable. I will not expect you to drive safely. I will not ask you how the dents got in your car, or why the headlight is smashed.

I will not ask you to wait even one day before you get that tattoo. I will not ask you to think about it. I will not expect you to be able to think.

I will not expect you to claim you do not want to kill yourself. I will not ask you to sign any contract agreeing not to kill yourself. I will not expect you to find any such contract at all relevant to anything.

This is all I ask: let me hold some tiny pebble of your pain for you. Let me stand beside you, knowing that it is a miracle of effort for you to be standing at all.

(In memory of Charlotte, Daniel, Olivia, Josephine, Ana, Dylan, Madeline, Catherine, Chase, Jesse, James, Grace, Emilie, Jack, Noah, Caroline, Jessica, Avielle, Benjamin, Allison. And of Rachel, Dawn, Nancy, Anne Marie, Lauren, Mary, and Victoria.)

the morning after

Sat, 15 Dec 2012 17:53:14 GMT

I know grief. I have lost a child. The thought of all those parents in Connecticut—the sleepless night they just had, the despicable means of their loss—it’s too much to bear.

Yet they bear it. They bear what they cannot.

We bear what we cannot and then we get up again out of the sleepless bed and we bear it again. And again. Each day a fresh tragedy of absence, each day a new loss.

When people mourn with us, it makes the unbearable burden lighter. Still too heavy to lift, much too heavy, but infinitesimally lighter.

Then life goes on, and we get up again out of the sleepless bed and we bear the unbearable, each day a fresh loss. Each week a new pressure to live as if we are not shattered, absent.

“How are you?” again and again, a cruel question. The answer simply: “Not fine. Never again fine.”

When people remember with us, when the enormity of our unbearable burden is spoken, it allows us to take another step. To get up out of the sleepless bed one more time, to face the fresh, raw loss of another new day.

“What can I do to help?” Nothing. Nothing helps. Nothing helps, although remembering is what would help if anything helped.

Offer this: “I remember. I will not forget.” Speak their names. This week, next week, next year, every year. Often, and forever. That is how long the children live for us, those who have lost them.

Speak their names.

(For Cedar Makai Lee-Ribas)

Dredged Up

Tue, 11 Dec 2012 05:37:52 GMT

Welcome to the December 2012 Carnival of Natural Parenting: Childhood Memories

This post was written for inclusion in the monthly Carnival of Natural Parenting hosted by Hobo Mama and Code Name: Mama. This month our participants have talked about memories of growing up — their own or the ones they’re helping their children create. Please read to the end to find a list of links to the other carnival participants.

***

Tell me a story, she says, sleepy-eyed but unable to drift off. Sweet innocence, curled against her pillow. Tell me a story.

Geez, not again, I think. I just want to go to sleep. Gimme a f-ing break.

Pre-childbearing, I pictured myself spinning tales of adventure and mystery, with messages of wisdom and peace. Yeah, right. Pre-childbearing, I thought a lot of other stuff too, most of which has turned out to be total bullsh*t.

There was a period, during Number 2’s potty training, when I pulled out my dormant storyteller. Turned out, Number 2 had an intense fear of going number 2 anywhere but his size XXL diaper. Unless. Unless I told a long complicated never-before-heard installment in the ongoing fantasy adventures of Anna Zanes (Dan Zanes’ real life daughter, on whom my three-year-old had developed a huge crush/fixation). As best I can recall, there were pirates and helicopters and Anna always had to save Dan from some perilous situation he had gotten himself into. The day is saved! The End, wipe, flush, wash. Whew.

Eventually, the story phased out of the bathroom routine, thank goodness, since the well was pretty dry. Not that it had a very big reservoir to start with. And then Number 3 came along.

Tell me a story, she begs. And my mind goes instantly blanker than the looks the kids give me when I suggest room-cleaning as a remedy for boredom. That desperate self who managed to dredge up those long potty-training yarns seems like a distant stranger. Fiction is far beyond my now post-divorce, post-depression, past-the-point-of-exhaustion capabilities. I can’t think of anything.

Tell me the skates, then.

The skates story, a story from my own childhood that I myself know only through my mother’s telling of it. I was too young to remember, but apparently Santa brought me a beautiful rag doll (now cherished by my little story-hungry girl) on the same Christmas morning that my older siblings got roller skates. And I (wretched ingrate) threw myself down and howled, “I WANT SKATES!!” all day long. After which my mother was apparently so traumatized that she needed to remind me of this incident at numerous junctures in my subsequent development.

That horrid Christmas morning more than 40 years ago lives somewhere close to my daughter’s heart, a reminder that I, like her, was “the little one,” like her, oppressed in oh-so-many ways. She asks for the skates over and over. But it never stops there.

Tell me another one.

Thus her persistence drags almost-forgotten memories out of the mixed-up files in my perimenopausal brain, one by one: nights by campfires, songs from summer camp, long-dead horses and dogs, the idiosyncratic habits of her great-grandparents. In doing so, she reminds me what it was like to grow up, how it feels to be so small, so powerless, and how large the gaps between adult and child perception can be. She is searching for connection, for solace, for a pathway into sleep. And as she searches, she shows me myself, in perspective.

I’m tired. I resist. Every night, I’d rather just read a novel for a few chapters to find my own way into rest. But every night, she shows me how to find a little bit of myself, instead. And the telling of the stories wraps my own childhood memories into hers, the same way my own mother’s re-told childhood is entangled in my own consciousness. In this way I pass pieces of myself into my daughter, at her insistence. And if all goes well, she will take this piecemeal history and create her own storyline to pass on.

The end (until tomorrow). Good girl. Goodnight.

***

Visit Hobo Mama and Code Name: Mama to find out how you can participate in the next Carnival of Natural Parenting!

Please take time to read the submissions by the other carnival participants:

Childhood Memories of Peace, Support, Joy, and Love — Amber at Heart Wanderings wants to make sure the majority of the memories that her children have as a part of their family are ones that are positive and help support the amazing people that they are now and will become as adults.
Hand Made Baby Books — Destany at They Are All of Me talks about why baby books are important to her for preserving memories of her childrens first years, and shows how she made one by hand for each child.
Can your childhood memories help you keep your cool? — Here's To A Boring Year uses memories of being a child to keep her on the path to peaceful parenting.
Inter-Generational Memories {Carnival of Natural Parenting} — Meegs at A New Day talks about her own childhood memories, and what she hopes her daughter will remember in the future.
Snapshots — ANonyMous at Radical Ramblings reflects on the ways our childhood memories appear to us, and hopes her own daughter's childhood will be one she remembers as being happy and fulfilled.
What makes the perfect parent? — In a guest post on Natural Parents Network, Mrs Green from Little Green Blog reflects on camp follow and camp no-follow...
In My Own Handwriting — Laura from Pug in the Kitchen talks about her journals and the hope that they will be able to keep her stories alive even if she isn't able to.
Candlelight, fairylight, firelight — Lucy at Dreaming Aloud re-discovers the ingredients for bringing magic to life, especially at Christmas.
Making Memories (or) How We Celebrate Christmas — Rosemary at Rosmarinus Officinalis talks about creating new memories at Christmas, and the joy their adventures bring to her whole family.
The Importance of Recording Feelings and Emotions and Not Just the Experience — Jennifer at Hybrid Rasta Mama shares why she puts pen to paper every day to record more than just her experiences as a mother and her daughter's experiences as a child. Jennifer looks at the importance of capturing feelings and emotions that accompany the experience.
Dredged up — Kenna at Million Tiny Things has been forced to recount childhood memories at bedtime, due to the failure of her middle-aged imagination. She resists, of course.
Crafting Memories — Handmade is what makes the holidays special for Christy at Eco Journey In the Burbs, and she wants to create the same connection with her daughters that she remembers with her mother and grandmother.
My Childhood Memories; beacons of light in the darkness — Stone Age Parent shares the impact of her childhood memories on her life as a parent today, listing some of her many rich childhood memories and how they now act as beacons of light helping her in the complex, often confusing world of child-rearing.
10 Ways I Preserve Memories for My Children — From video interviews to time capsules, Dionna at Code Name: Mama wants to make sure her children have many different ways to cherish their childhood memories. Dionna's carnival post features ten of the ways she preserves memories; check out her Pinterest board for more ideas.
Memories of my mother — Luschka at Diary of a First Child remembers her mother and the fondest moments of her childhood, especially poignant as she sits by her mother's sickbed writing.
Creating Happy Childhood Memories through Family Traditions — Deb Chitwood at Living Montessori Now tells why family traditions are so important to her and her family and shares how she’s worked to create traditions for her children.
Traditional Christmas Tree — Jaye Anne at Wide Awake, Half Asleep remembers the great times spent with her family driving for the Christmas Tree and the lessons learned.
Wet Socks and Presents — Kat at MomeeeZen writes about her favorite Christmas childhood memory and why it's so special. And she hopes one day her kids will also have a feel-good memory of their own to look back on.
Stuff does not equal memories — Lauren at Hobo Mama learns that letting go does not mean failing to remember.
A Child's Loss- Will They Remember Dad? — Erica at ChildOrganics writes about their family's loss of their husband and father. She trys to find answers to the question: Will they remember their Dad?
Childhood Memories - Hers and Mine — Jorje of Momma Jorje wished for her daughter the same passions and experiences she loved as a child, but learns the hard way to accept whatever passions strike in her child.
Holiday Non-Traditions — Erika Gebhardt enjoys her family's tradition of not having traditions for the holidays.

"Traditional" foodstuffs

Wed, 28 Nov 2012 21:14:31 GMT

This morning saw the last of the loaf, carefully packed into three lunches in the form of turkey sandwiches made lovingly by Mowgli (not the usual morning maker of lunches, who would be, in single mom world, the single mom).

“Can we get some more of this?” he asked sweetly, eyes wide in full put-on puppy mode. “Please?”

“Sure, next Thanksgiving. I get it every Thanksgiving,” my stingy answer.

“What kind of bread is this, anyway?” all three turn their heads, hungry for the reply.

“White bread.” (Sliced, not sourdough, seriously white-bread white bread, even if organic.)

“It’s sooooo good.”

I suppose I should take this whole incident as a good sign that I’m training up my children right, in the way of whole grains. Feeding them, teaching them about food, and making connections between food, our health, and the health of the planet—that’s my main game. (Except for the climate change activism. And the anti-fracking stuff. But we’re talking domestic here.)

So of course my email box gets cool links to stuff like “The food tradition interview, a downloadable curriculum.” And I forward the link to all my kids’ teachers, because of course, links between food and culture are an essential part of the eco-literacy package.

It occurs to me, belatedly, that white bread is part of our family food tradition, a tradition I am continuing. I like to tell my childhood in the version my parents hoped we would absorb: my father growing most of our vegetables, eggs from the chicken house, beef from our own pasture, my mom shelling peas endlessly, punching down the risen bread dough, pemmican bars, homemade mayonnaise.

Then there’s the other part: store-brand margarine, Tang, sliced American “cheese” (okay, the cheese was technically bought for the dogs, but we kids went at it), and apparently, sliced white bread. At least at Thanksgiving, because that’s what my mother’s dressing recipe calls for, and there’s just something about the taste of leftover turkey on white bread that makes me feel completely and totally safe.

Next year I hope to raise our own heirloom turkeys to eat on these post-holiday sandwiches. (Really. Call me in the spring if you want me to grow one for you!) But I don’t think I’ll be grinding my homegrown wheat for the bread. Annual sliced white bread. You can have worse traditions.

Guest Posting at MotherWriterMentor This Week

Fri, 19 Oct 2012 02:47:30 GMT

"How's the book doing?"

(read it here)

Poor Little Chicken

Fri, 05 Oct 2012 00:06:49 GMT

Welcome to the October 2012 Carnival of Natural Parenting: Instilling a Healthy Self-Image

This post was written for inclusion in the monthly Carnival of Natural Parenting hosted by Hobo Mama and Code Name: Mama. This month our participants have shared confessions, wisdom, and goals for helping children love who they are. Please read to the end to find a list of links to the other carnival participants.

***

Poor chickens. They’re still trapped in their coop, this perfect Indian summer morning, when they could be pecking up the overripe fallen blackberries. God only knows when they’ll get out now. I have told my daughter I will wait for her, and she wants to get dressed first. (Sigh.) For either of the boys that would mean simply grabbing a t-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans, but for my daughter nothing is simple about getting dressed.

She will, inevitably, end up in the same outfit as the boys: T-shirt, skinny jeans, sneakers. But the process will involve many iterations of the single phrase: “You don’t get it, mom.” The ripped jeans are the most comfortable but they catch your foot on the way down. The clean ones are too stiff from the line, the dirty ones are…well, something is wrong with them, something I “don’t get.” The socks are too small, too big, too lumpy, too pink. None of the t-shirts look right. And sometimes the clothes get on despite all the problems, and sometimes there’s a six-year-old girl crumpled on the floor by the rejected clothes, crying. “Why am I like this, mom?” My poor little chicken.

And sometimes before it gets bad, I have to walk away, because I have lost my patience for this endless dressing, undressing, searching for the one item of clothing that will finally make her feel good, right, in her clothes. It kills me, watching this bold, strong, happy naked child reduced to such anxiety by the need to clothe herself.

Just wear the damn soft comfy yoga pants, I telepathically command. You are SIX! Clothes shouldn’t matter. “How about these?” I gently offer through a slightly stiff jaw.

“The other girls will laugh at me if I wear those.” Really?? Because I know those girls, and honestly, they could care less. More likely, they would tell you how cute they were. But in the end, my little chicken always plays it safe, finds a pair of jeans and t-shirt she can tolerate, and puts on the same exact sneakers her best friend wears, even though they are too tight and she has another pair that fits better.

Of course, I try to model playful enjoyment of my own clothes, feeling good about how I look (even when I’m pretending), and when it takes me a few tries to get to the right outfit, saying it’s about how I feel in the clothes, not what other people will think. I make a point of telling her how wild and free she looks to me, how her body can do so many amazing things, how she looks graceful and strong in her ballet skirt. And then, the next day, we are crying about the clothes again. Somehow, all those women’s studies classes didn’t inoculate me against this big mothering fail.

Nevertheless, I’m holding on to the hope that I’m doing something right. When we do finally get down to the chicken coop to release the prisoners into the sunny day full of berry bushes, we stay to watch the chickens enjoy their belated freedom. And of course, the rooster wants to show off a bit, strut and then enjoy his privileges with a hen or two. Watching an embattled, squawking hen, my daughter crosses her arms and says firmly, “No one is EVER going to make ME do sex.” Yes! my inner feminist mama hen cheers. Hold that thought, little happy, strong, naked chicken, and your feathers will grow in just fine.

***

Visit Hobo Mama and Code Name: Mama to find out how you can participate in the next Carnival of Natural Parenting!

Please take time to read the submissions by the other carnival participants:

(This list will be updated by afternoon October 9 with all the carnival links.)

Why I Walk Around Naked — Meegs at A New Day talks about how she embraces her own body so that her daughter might embrace hers.
What I Am Is Not Who I Am — Jennifer at Hybrid Rasta Mama discusses her views on the importance of modeling WHO she is for her daughter and not WHAT she sees in the mirror.
Carnival of Natural Parenting: Verbs vs. Adjectives — Alisha at Cinnamon & Sassafras tries hard to compliment what her son does, not who he is.
The Naked Family — Sam at Love Parenting talks about how nudity and bodily functions are approached in her home.
How She'll See Herself — Rosemary at Rosmarinus Officinalis discusses some of the challenges of raising a daughter in our culture and how she's hoping to overcome them.
Self Esteem and all it's pretty analogies — Musings from Laura at Pug in the Kitchen on what she learned about self-esteem in her own life and how it applies to her parenting.
Beautiful — Tree at Mom Grooves writes about giving her daughter the wisdom to appreciate her body and how trying to be a role model taught Tree how to appreciate her own.
Do As I Say, Not As I Do: Nurturing A Healthy Body Image — Christy at Eco Journey in the Burbs is changing perceptions about her body so that she may model living life with a positive, healthy body image for her three young daughters.
Some{BODY} to Love — Kate Wicker has faced her own inner demons when it comes to a poor body image and even a clinical eating disorder, and now she wants to help her daughters to be strong in a world that constantly puts girls at risk for losing their true selves. This is Kate's love letter to her daughters reminding them to not only accept their bodies but to accept themselves as well in every changing season of life.
They Make Creams For That, You Know — Destany at They Are All of Me writes about celebrating her natural beauty traits, especially the ones she passed onto her children.
New Shoes for Mama — Kellie of Our Mindful Life, guest posting at Natural Parents Network, is getting some new shoes, even though she is all grown up…
Raising boys with bodily integrity — Lauren at Hobo Mama wants her boys to understand their own bodily autonomy — so they'll respect their own and others'.
Sowing seeds of self-love in our children — After struggling to love herself despite growing up in a loving family, Shonnie at Heart-Led Parenting has suggestions for parents who truly want to nurture their children's self-esteem.
Subtle Ways to Build a Healthy Self-Image — Emily at S.A.H.M i AM discusses the little things she and her husband do every day to help their daughter cultivate a healthy self-image.
On Barbie and Baby Bikinis: The Sexualization of Young Girls — Justine at The Lone Home Ranger finds it difficult to keep out the influx of messages aimed at her young daughters that being sexy is important.
Undistorted — Focusing on the beauty and goodness that her children hold, Mandy at Living Peacefully with Children watches them grow, loved and undistorted.
Off The Hook — Arpita at Up, Down and Natural sheds light on the journey of infertility, and how the inability to get pregnant and stay pregnant takes a toll on self image…only if you let it. And that sometimes, it feels fantastic to just let yourself off the hook.
Going Beyond Being An Example — Becky at Old New Legacy discusses three suggestions on instilling healthy body image: positivity, family dinners, and productivity.
Raising a Confident Kid — aNonymous at Radical Ramblings describes the ways she's trying to raise a confident daughter and to instil a healthy attitude to appearance and self-image.
Instilling a Healthy Self Image — Laura at This Mama's Madness hopes to promote a healthy self-image in her kids by treating herself and others with respect, honesty, and grace.
Stories of our Uniqueness — Casey at Sesame Seed Designs looks for a connection to the past and celebrates the stories our bodies can tell about the present.
Helping My Boy Build a Healthy Body Image — Lyndsay at ourfeminist{play}school offers readers a collection of tips and activities that she uses in her journey to helping her 3-year-old son shape a healthy body image.
Eat with Joy and Thankfulness: A Letter to my Daughters about Food — Megan at The Boho Mama writes a letter to her daughters about body image and healthy attitudes towards food.
Helping Our Children Have Healthy Body Images — Deb Chitwood at Living Montessori Now shares information about body image, and her now-adult daughter tells how she kept a healthy body image through years of ballet and competitive figure skating.
Namaste — Kat at Loving {Almost} Every Moment shares how at barely 6 years old, her daughter has begun to say, "I'm not beautiful." And while it's hard to listen to, she also sees it as a sign her daughter is building her self-image in a grassroots kind of way.
3 Activities to Help Instill a Healthy Self-Image in Your Child — Explore the changing ideals of beauty, create positive affirmations, and design a self-image awareness collage. Dionna at Code Name: Mama shares these 3 ideas + a pretty affirmation graphic you can print and slip in your child's lunchbox.
Beautiful, Inside and Out — It took a case of adult-onset acne for Kat of MomeeeZen to find out her parenting efforts have resulted in a daughter that is truly beautiful, inside and out.
Mirroring Positive Self Image for Toddlers — Shannon at GrowingSlower reflects on encouraging positive self image in even the youngest members of the family.
How I hope to instill a healthy body image in my two girls — Raising daughters with healthy body image in today's society is no small task, but Xela at The Happy Hippie Homemaker shares how choosing our words carefully and being an example can help our children learn to love their bodies.
Self Image has to Come from Within — Momma Jorje shares all of the little things she does to encourage healthy attitudes in her children, but realizes she can't give them their self images.
Protecting the Gift — JW from True Confessions of a Real Mommy wants you to stop thinking you need to boost your child up: they think they are wonderful all on their own.
Learning to Love Myself, for my Daughter — Michelle at Ramblings of Mitzy addresses her own poor self-image.
Nurturing An Innate Sense of Self — Marisa at Deliberate Parenting shares her efforts to preserve the confidence and healthy sense of self they were born with.
Don't You Love Me, Mommy?: Instilling Self-Esteem in Young Children After New Siblings Arrive — Jade at Seeing Through Jade Glass But Dimly hopes that her daughter will learn to value herself as an individual rather than just Momma's baby
Exercising is FUN — Amy W. at Me, Mothering, and Making it All Work talks about modeling for her children that exercising is FUN and good for body and soul.
Poor Little Chicken — Kenna at A Million Tiny Things gets her feathers ruffled over her daughter's clothing anxiety.
Loving the skin she's in — Mama Pie at Downside Up and Outside In struggles with her little berry's choice not to celebrate herself and her heritage.
Perfect the Way I Am — Erika at Cinco de Mommy struggles — along with her seven-year-old daughter — at telling herself she's perfect just the way she is.

Summer Games

Sat, 18 Aug 2012 19:45:31 GMT

This summer in London, there are hundreds of strong bodies doing their very best, showing their vast dedication and hard work to the world, or at least that part of the world which watches TV. I don’t live in that part of the world, by choice, having neither cable nor fast enough internet for streaming. In my little world, this summer, there is a softening body. There are even fewer posts than usual, indicating a possible lack of dedication and very little hard work. I never finished out last school year’s garden blog. I stopped doing anything at all to market my book. Instead, when not entertaining the children or working, I slept.

Then I woke up, and started feeling very anxious about the whole nationwide-record-temperature-drought thing and the ongoing deterioration of my short term memory, and decided I needed a bit more sleep. When I woke up again, I wished I were climbing mountains in West Virginia to stop the crazy coal mining or standing in a road in Texas trying to stop the southern leg of the Keystone pipeline, and I felt really shitty because I wasn’t one of those cool and awesome people doing those things. So I decided that I should buy a plug-in car RIGHT NOW, just to feel like I’ve done something, anything. All those athletes are doing these superhuman feats in London, and I’m just wandering around my garden surveying the complete and utter lack of harvest (deer are so pretty, but so evil) and trying to figure out whether 12 miles of electric range makes it worth trading in my old Prius for a new one.

Somewhere in there, I went and recorded a TV interview (which I will not, due to aforementioned lack of TV, be able to watch), in which I very convincingly argued (I think. As I said, I can't watch it.) that there is no right path or thing we should all be doing to save the earth; rather, we each need to follow the call of our own path, descry our own talents, and then simply do our very best. Afterwards, I am somewhat ashamed to admit, I took a nap.

The sleeping shames me, as I do it during the day, late mornings and even mid-afternoons when, according to my WASP-y work ethic, I am supposed to Be Productive. I’d been pretending that daytime productivity is possible despite the fact that I work night shift. But chronic sleep deprivation will eventually catch up with you (see: aforementioned short-term memory loss). I will probably forever remember (if I remember it at all) the summer of 2012 as the first Olympics that I entirely slept through.

I’m dreaming of a comeback, though. I don’t yet know what my event will be, in the high-stakes race to do what we need to do to make this planet livable for our kids. I did get out of bed long enough to get to one anti-fracking rally, and I felt that runner’s high of hope, watching my sons’ proud faces as they yelled out “Stop Fracking Now!” I’m aware, however, that this one will be an endurance event, and there will come desperate lows as well.

For now, my personal best is simply catching up on sleep, and storing up my energy for the next push. Listening hard to find what path is calling me. Trying not to feel bad about the things I’m not doing and glad for the people who are running out there in front protecting the eco-systems. Because although this might be a race, it’s not a competition.

Natural History

Sun, 19 Aug 2012 15:55:10 GMT

Welcome to the July Mindful Mama Carnival: Mindfulness and Nature

This post was written for inclusion in the Mindful Mama Carnival hosted by Becoming Crunchy and TouchstoneZ. This month our participants have shared their experiences of mindfulness and the natural world. Please read to the end to find a list of links to the other carnival participants.

***

7:30 am. In the car, in costume. Living history, ho!

I tried to muster up a level of appropriate enthusiasm, though the night before I hadn’t even thought about my costume. I’d spent the last week helping my son put his together, wasn’t that enough? What does a female Russian cowherd living in a fort on the California coast in 1821 wear, anyway? The teacher had given us a handout about headscarves and long skirts with no adornment. As I had stared at it in a ten pm daze, I regretted waiting until long after the thrift stores were closed to begin this process. My closet offered up a rather hilarious collection of items that somehow added up to an overall Russian peasant effect when I added my son’s old kindergarten apron over the top. Threw a sleeping bag into the car, and I was set.

Upon arrival at the fort, one thing became instantly clear: there is no rest for the weary. Or any sitting down. You must remain in character and make sure your “employees” (read: children) are properly preparing authentic Russian food for 40 people without any modern conveniences, unless you count the pottery butter churn as a convenience, which, I suppose, it was in 1821. Within a few hours, it was clear to me that the leather boots, which seemed such a great addition to the costume, were a bad idea, and my feet were just going to hurt like heck until our return to the 21^st century.

In the afternoon, someone needed to hike back to the cars to get an emergency form for a girl who was sick and needed to call her parents. I volunteered.

“Where are you going?” some of the short endentured workers asked.

“Oh, I’m a cowherd, I need to move the cows from their pasture to the barn for milking.”

I felt like an escapee, slipping out the big fort doors, temporarily removed from the unrelenting work of trying to keep the kids focused on the cooking. I strode along the coastal path, head ducked against the high ocean wind. Thinking about the woman I’m pretending to be, her life 200 years ago, and whether she walked this same path with her cows. The chill air pushing through my clothes made me aware of her in a way I hadn’t been before; her woman’s body had felt these same winds, this same cold. And she wouldn’t have ever been back in a warm car in another 24 hours, resting her feet. So we walked together, as I started to understand how intense, immediate and taken for granted was her relationship with the natural world.

I love camping, I like to be outside, I even enjoy getting cold, wet, and exposing myself to the harshness of the elements at times. But there is a moment-to-moment choosing in my doing so, a decision to temporarily push myself, that makes these exposures seem like daring fun, not burdensome chores. Not the cows must get in before dark, never mind that it’s raining and freezing, you simply get it done. Not the direct and necessary reliance on nature to provide what is needed which humans, for most of history, have experienced.

Once I had retrieved the paper I needed, the cowherd’s ghost and I decided to walk back by a different route, looping through a stand of redwoods and over a hill. God, my feet hurt! And I could only imagine how hers must have felt every day, with boots probably made of coarser leather than my own, not to mention that she probably didn’t have any custom orthotic arch inserts for hers. Down through the shadowy woods we went, aching feet and all, and then up towards the fort, breaking out of the trees into… a miracle. A small, everyday miracle: trees block wind. Paraskovia and I were suddenly on a field of sun-warmed grasses, perfect for the cows to graze, and just walking across it was a rest. I didn’t stop—I was needed back at the fort, but my shoulders sank back into warmth and my sore, sore, feet relented just a bit. A patch of hillside where the wind doesn’t reach you, and you can finally feel the sun. Rest for the weary.

The immense relief of the break from the wind made me understand that for all the time I spend extolling the virtues of nature and “enjoying” it, I am almost entirely protected from it. For me, it wasn’t the carefully chosen historic foods, the Russian words, the cannon or costumes that gave me a real sense of lived history, it was the wind, and the cold, and that tiny moment of warmth. For in that moment, a rush of gratitude so deep and real came over me, and I felt a closer connection to the natural world than all my experience of breathtaking views, introspective hikes, and caretaking my plot of earth has ever given me. I paused, took a breath, said a silent “thank you,” and kept walking.

***

Visit The Mindful Mama Homepage to find out how you can participate in the next Mindful Mama Carnival!
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Please take time to read the submissions by the other carnival participants:

Zen and the Art of Raising Chickens Jenn at Monkey Butt Junction has found a connection to nature in her very own backyard, thanks to her chickens.
Healing Gemstones and Crystals for Children Jennifer at Hybrid Rasta Mamadiscusses which genstones and crystals are best used by children to support physical, emotional, and/or spiritual healing.
A Gardener’s Meditation Andrea at Tales of Goodness shares how she finds peace and renewal through gardening.
Weeding My Thoughts Amanda at Let’s Take the Metro discusses how nature keeps her in the moment and stops her endless stream of thoughts.
Grounded in Nature Rani at OmSheSaid shares her walk in nature, and through expressive words, shares this journey to coming home.
Embracing the Magic of Moonlit Nights Lucy at Dreaming Aloud shares ways to embrace the magic of moonlit nights with your children and as a woman.
Meditation for a Mindful Mama Alinka at Baby Web guides you through her research on the science of meditation, its numerous benefits, and presents to you a life changing meditation exercise.
The Wild Within Naturemummy at Motherhood: My Latest Adventure reflects on the soothing qualities of wild places.
Nature’s Lessons in Mindfulness Tat at Mum in Search wants to bring the same mindfulness that comes so easily in nature to her relationships.
On Manicured Nature: We Roam in Small Spaces Featherstory at The Aniweda Dream shares her gratitude for her limited natural settings and her plans to expand her children's experience with the natural world.
Garden (Time Out) Meditation Do you ever need a time out for yourself? Amy at Anktangle finds that during a difficult parenting moment, taking pause to spend a few minutes outside is just the thing she needs to be able to experience renewed patience, focus, and energy.
Nature Makes Me a Better Mother Terri at Child of the Nature Isle could not imagine parenting without Mother Nature.
The Healing Power of Sunshine Karen at Playful Planet shares her experiences of reneweal in the natural world.
Natural History Kenna at A Million Tiny Things gets out into nature, 200 years ago, and isn't sure she likes it there.
Nurtured by Nature Darcel at The Mahogany Way shares with us how being in nature helps her feel centered and connected.
Mindfulness and Nature Zoie at TouchstoneZ explores the connection between mindfulness and the natural world.
A Sense of Awe and Wonder Kelly at Becoming Crunchy shares the feeling she never fails to get from the natural world and how it guides her to the mindfulness she craves.