What I'll Miss

When I die, I’ll miss July –
dragging the old white comforter outside
to the back deck to make love
after the kids are asleep.
And I’ll miss these backyards
that bleed together, aglow with fireflies
and night lanterns.
I’ll miss living in a little neighborhood
where everyone pitches in and camps out.

When I die, I’ll miss those moments
when I knew what was true.
I’ll miss the light, smoldering blue-black sky
against neon summer green,
or the early mornings
when the clouds caress
mountain silhouettes, the way this morning
as my daughters slept
on either side of me,
the thin, tattered quilt that was my mother’s
bunched up around our shoulders,
I wanted to stay there,
soften their edges
hang around their ridges,
protect them from whatever storms
might come later.

When I die, I’ll miss swimming
in clean, clear fresh water,
its gentle hold
as I pull and push and move myself forward
then spread open to float
under summer sky,
the sun like a compass,
heart thumping, body resting.

I’ll miss the way the way the car smells
on a hot day
when there is a brown bag
of freshly ground coffee beans in the trunk.

When I die, I’ll write little messages for you.
Look for them
on maple leaves, on stretches of beach,
black, broken shale.
Look for me in the compost heap
and in the rush of a cold creek on the Long Trail.

Listen for me when it rains
and you’re wishing for sun,
when it’s hot and you’re longing to cool off,
when your body is so bitter and cold
you lose hope of warming.

I’ll get to you somehow to tell you
what I miss most about living:
Stop looking at what is undone,
what you haven’t accomplished,
where you’ve fallen short.

Your shame, all those moments
when you wanted to hide,
to disappear, to retract and retreat –
these are your gifts.
Open them.
Look inside. Don’t run.

You will find me here,
find yourself here, exposed,
clear as moonstone
letting the light through.

Don’t miss this, I’ll whisper.
Don’t miss this.

Can't start a fire without a spark

I'm up to something. In a few days, I'll let you know what it is. Some changes going on around here. Molting, shedding dead skin, moving the furniture of my life and work around, shifting the energy, reigning it in. It feels powerful and exciting, kind of like dancing in the dark.

Stay tuned...

A Community of the Spirit

There is a community of the spirit.

Join it, and feel the delight
of walking in the noisy street
and being the noise.

Drink all your passion,
and be a disgrace.

Close both eyes
to see with the other eye.

Open your hands,
if you want to be held.

Sit down in the circle.

Quit acting like a wolf, and feel
the shepard's love filling you.

At night, your beloved wanders.
Don't accept consolations.

Close your mouth against food.
Taste the lover's mouth in yours.

You moan, "She left me." "He left me."
Twenty more will come.

Be empty of worrying.
Think of who created thought!

Why do you stay in prison
when the door is so wide open?

Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking.
Live in silence.

Flow down and down in always
widening rings of being.

~ Mevlâna Jalâluddîn Rumi, trans. by Coleman Barks

~

For Meg, and all of us on these healing journeys. Thanks for the berries and the tears.

Short and Mad and Not Gonna Take It Anymore

PMS
Body filled with tension
Roving anger
looking for a place to land
make your own goddamn lunch
doing my best
to move through it
Feeling like the fucking maid
and knowing better
Trying to climb over the wave
catch it
ride it home
But I keep going under
tossed cursing mouth full of salt water
and knowing better
not that knowing better makes a damn bit of difference
when I'm busy fighting
and looking for a fight
and reacting to other people's fights
and feeling like a punching bag
my six-year old's sarcasm
and three-year old's blame
despite the beautiful summer dinner on the table
basil from our garden
tomatoes and goat cheese olive oil garlic linguini
So I step away
glad the back screen door slams every time it closes
SLAM SLAM BANG! THERE! SEE! HA!
Feeble really to see it written out
So I look and see
that Greg has gone to lie down
Aviva's reading on her bed
Pearl's alone in the hammock
If one more person needs something from me
I am going to explode
but still I'm trying to do the right thing
which would actually be just to breathe in and out
and let it be let it happen let it pass
but no
I am still engaging
and I ask Aviva
want to go running?
What am I thinking?
So here we are with our funny running suits on
if you see us going by
you'll know what led to this

Nirvana Jam (or the post formerly known as "Sheesh!")

The girls are with my mother-in-law today seeing Circus Smirkus, which Pearl pronounces (adorably, if I do say so myself) "Shmirkus Shmirkus." And I get some writing time, which has been hard to come by lately.

Last night, Aviva came home from her second day of camp intent on sleeping at a friend's house. When it became clear that the "yes" wasn't automatic - that there were some things we needed to talk over first - she lost it. She cried and screamed, at me mostly. Meanwhile, Pearl had her third pee accident of the day, thankfully on the floor and not the rug (we still can't get the smell out of the living room rug - any tips?). All of this as we were getting dinner ready, of course. Aviva came down with a note that said, "Sorry to Mama." This was quickly chased by a second note reading, "Now can I have a sleepover at Emma's?" When I still said we had to talk, she lost it again.

I went out on the deck, where Greg was grilling turkey burgers. "What do you think we should do?" I asked. He said it was pretty clear to him that we simply had to let her know that yes, she could have the sleepover - as soon as she showed us that she could speak to us respectfully. I hemmed and hawed, so aware as always of my reluctance to be perceived as the bad guy. (Good to know our weaknesses, right?) But what needed to happen was obvious: I needed to move through my fear of letting her down, and she needed to be given the opportunity to earn the privilege of sleeping over at Emma's this week.

Somehow we got through dinner. Who remembers?

After dinner Greg got Pearl (who was now the one screaming) into the bathtub, and I joined V at the little art table she uses as a desk. I realized after a few minutes that it was quiet in the bathroom, and I pulled out a piece of construction paper, without too much fanfare writing on the left side "SLEEPOVER AT EMMA'S" and on the right side, "RESPONSIBILITIES." I told her that I didn't appreciate the way she spoke (or rather yelled) at me earlier. She began to get defensive, interrupting me to say, "But I was overwhelmed!" I said that I had no problem with her being overwhelmed or angry or disappointed; what I was looking for was to hear her articulate that to me, using words. "All you have to do is tell me you're overwhelmed, and I will leave you be until you decide you're ready to talk."

She took the marker and made a vertical line between what I had written, forming two columns. "What would be a different way you could talk to me?" I asked. She took the cap off the marker. "Nicely," she wrote as I looked on. "Nicely talking to everybody." "Great," I said. "What's one other responsibility you can think of that would show us you're ready to have a sleepover this week at Emma's?" I really wanted her to have some ownership here, not to just thrust all of my agendas at her - and God knows there are so many of them. "Help Pearl remember to say Please," she wrote. "Oh!" I observed. "Helping Pearl to use her manners can help YOU remember to talk nicely to everyone!"

I suggested we both sign the agreement and put it on the fridge. V started to write "signature," getting the first three letters down before asking me how to spell the rest. "The next part is just like it sounds," I said. "Naaaah." She wrote, "na." Then, as I was saying how the last part was tricky to spell, she was writing "ture" before I could even finish my sentence. Goes to show me!

She signed it. Then she copied from her Summer Reading Program sheet, "Verified by" followed by a long line, where I proceeded to sign my full name.

By then, Pearlie was done bathing, happy as a clam and all clean and yummy smelling. Everyone got pj's on. Greg settled in the couch and I wandered into my study to check my email and Facebook and all of the other places I go online to connect or check-out (amazing, isn't it, how connecting and checking out can look exactly the same, depending on one's state of mind?). I overheard the three of them laughing and having a great-sounding time playing one of those on-the-spot games you can't possibly record in writing, much less recreate ever.

Then V put on Dance Party music and before I knew it, all three of us girls were rocking out to Nirvana... naked. Greg sat there watching, clearly pleased as punch at the sight of us. And the rain that has been intermittent for days on end returned, beckoning Aviva out to the street, where she did her best air guitar in full naked glory under the summer shower.

I have to admit, it all sounds pretty sweet when I write it out.

V came back in and kept saying, "I was out there in public!"

Bedtime followed, and lunches and dishwashers and overlooked messes everywhere. In the space of a few hours, we went from parenting hell to parenting bliss. After the girls were finally asleep - seems like bedtime keeps creeping later and later this summer - I said to Greg, "Can you imagine how fried you would be if you didn't have some kind of center, some neutral place, some way of moving through those huge highs and lows without getting completely swept up in them (especially the lows)?"

Of course, I can imagine. I know what it is to lose my shit, to feel so pulled, so stretched, so shaky, so angry, so unsure, that I either lash out or check out. But last night, somehow, it felt like we managed to maintain some equilibrium as Aviva and Pearl ran the gamut, and I am convinced that that is partly why it was possible to wind up having so much fun.

You hear it so often it loses its impact: "Parenting is not for the faint of heart." Neither is life, really. Not if you mean it. Practice is the only way to strengthen our ability to find that balance between soft, resilient, and adaptable with clear, firm, and respectful. Every now I then, I get a glimpse of how good it can get.

**

And now for the ironic post-script.

The girls just got home from the circus. They're settled having some movie time. I went into the kitchen to get something and saw that I left a burner on THE ENTIRE TIME I SPENT SITTING HERE WRITING THIS POST, EVEN THE PARTS ABOUT FINDING CENTER, NOT CHECKING OUT, ETC! I had been boiling water to make rice for later. Two cups of water must have evaporated in ten minutes at the most. The pot appears to be melded to the burner, which I realized when I tried picking up the metal handle on the lid and burning my hand. Oy.

It seems that this post was really about paying attention, which is probably what everything turns out to be about. "What you pay attention to thrives. What you do not pay attention to withers and dies." What's my takeaway now? Don't put the water on to boil and then disappear into the study. Multitasking = not paying attention to anything. There goes my whole post up in smoke. Sheesh. Humbling to say the least. Maybe I should make some agreements with myself, about what responsibilities would show me that I get to have the privilege of writing here.

p.p.s. I'm back again, next day. I was just straightening up and realized: it wasn't Pearl Jam, it was a Nirvana jam! I've retitled this post. Now I'm really done with it. Seriously. You will not see me adding to this post again.

We turn into light around those we love

And though I know now that Heaven may be
only the mind’s fear of the wonders it imagines,
the way our best thoughts surprise us
and seem not to be our own, I like to believe

we turn into light around those we love,
or would have loved, had we known them,
and warn them through the blood
by ringing in their ears.

From "Ancestral Lights" by Deborah Digges

Ocean Beach Girl

She crouched on the corner playing her heart out, skinny jeans slung low, blue tattoos across her flat belly.

She belted out the words though as I walked by I didn't catch them. Her voice tore through the air, hands flying over strings.

Somebody's baby, was all I could think. Was she from Wisconsin or L.A.  or around the corner? Had she run away, been abused? Did her parents know where she was or not give a shit?

What brought her to a street corner in a scruffy seaside town? The sign propped up in her guitar case: traveling broke, anything helps.

Exchange more than three words and nobody adheres to type for long. This girl could've been my daughter, my sister, my friend, me.

Somebody's baby was all I could think as I walked by, thinking about my own girls back home three thousand miles away -

Except it was I who left to be alone, backing away from my small charges. Where was my guitar? Where was my reflection? 

I could keep walking, I thought. Could belong here by the ocean with its succulents and surfers. 

I could run, too. Is this what it takes to tend to my own self? 

Who would my girls be if their mama didn't come home again? Who would I be, abandoner of them who came through me?

What tempts us isn't always love. Sometimes we have to step away, find a street corner far from home, belt out a tune, let it rip, travel broke, walk away from everything.

And then, maybe, we can see something clearly - what we've borne. See what we owe to the people we brought into this harrowing world.

It is our job to leave the door open for our babies, no matter how far they've roamed. 

And to come home, back home, to leave the door open to ourselves, to our own hearts and faces, that song tearing through the fog.

This, no matter how unforgivable we think we've been, no matter how hard it is to remember who we were once. Still somebody's baby, still somebody's ocean beach girl.

No envy, only a mirror

Towards the end of yesterday's retreat, the whole lot of us - nearly sixty women and one brave, kindred man - walked down the hill to Karen's house to visit her backyard, the oldest Japanese garden in Southern California.

I was walking with Holly, my "spider sister" as she so aptly put it. Holly from Massachusetts who has lived in the San Fernando Valley for fifteen years. Holly who blogs and teaches and acts and mothers and runs and laughs and cries less than she did in her 20s and makes killer music mixes - she gifted me four CD's, awesome combinations of rockin' 80s music and soothing lullabies. Holly, who I've gotten to "know" through writing and Facebook but hadn't met until yesterday. The minute our eyes met in the morning, we knew each other, knew we already knew, knew we didn't have to know. All the stories and images suddenly embodied.

I like three-dimensional. I have come to totally appreciate and honor and believe in the connections of this online community, and I have also experienced the magic of encountering people beyond the screen. So many of you, of us. Living our lives.

The screen makes it possible to objectify, to tell stories, to imagine what's better about other people's lives.

So Holly and I were walking together, and my tears were just starting to loosen and trickle (later they would come in a torrent). And that's when Holly said, so full of honesty and sincerity and respect, "I'm envious of you, Jena, that you have a spiritual practice." I heard her words as if in slow motion. And then my reply came tumbling out of me. "What is it?!" I asked. And then I laughed. It felt great to laugh a laugh so heartfelt and true. "What is it, tell me!"

"I feel like every time you sit down to write a poem, you're practicing," she said.

She is right. Writing - poetry particularly, but all writing really - is one of the ways I practice. It's at the very heart of how this blog came into being. And at the same time, I forget. I forget that it counts. I see what I don't do, where I fall short. My brain is dense with self-judgment, criticism, and doubt. I want to say I don't believe a word of it.

Don'tdoenoughyogadon'tmeditateconsistentlydon'talwayswalkmytalk
whydoIhaveamigraineshouldIfeelguiltyaboutbeingonvacation
howisGregdoingwithoutme
etcetcetc

I can forget that what I do do counts. What you do counts, too. Come to think of it, what we do is all that counts.

Yesterday, what we heard over and over again, in so many ways that in the end are all the same, was this: Your life is your practice. Follow your life. Do your life.

I wiped away my tears, half from laughing and half crying, held my hands up around Holly's face, like the frame of a mirror. "And you? My poems are practice but your blog isn't?" I asked.

This is why we need each other. This is why we need to keep holding up the mirrors, keep meeting in person when we can, keep walking into the many dimensions of our real lives, our living, breathing, ever-changing lives that encircle, encompass, surround us, show us everything we know and everything we don't, contain all of the practice we need.

It is so easy to discount ourselves and to hold others up as somewhere we're not, or at least not yet. Where did we develop the prickly notion that practice - especially "spiritual" practice - is this special thing, somewhere else, over there, that we have to go and find. Something separate from our lives.

No objectifying. If we are going to hold each other up, let it not be as beyond or better but as sisters and supporters. We are all going through this life alone, and it sure helps to do that together. No envy, no one-dimensions. We are mirrors. We are the same.

Karen made a clear point of telling me how important it is to find a place to practice sitting with other people. Who or where doesn't matter - it could be a friend in a living room, cushions side by side, or the Zen Center or Shambhala Center (these are the options I'm aware of for myself for the time being, the things I plan to explore when I get home).

So please. Keep reaching through the screen, into it, through and beyond it, breaking open into three dimensions. Come sit by my side. We need each other.

After The Plunge

Because of you, I will live on forever.

This is what her teacher told her.

This is what she told me.

How can you officially be my teacher?
You don't ask.

You sit on a cushion.

I cupped my hands

in Cosmic Mudra,

breathed in my missteps

and exhaled forgiveness

over and over and over.

Outside the room

with the giant crucifix,

the Mother Mountain held us

in her lap

comforted by a blanket

of fog that never lifted

the whole day.

It covered us,

softly misting

tears – sorrow, joy – of being together,

coming home, heart bursting.

Every time

I forget to remember,

every time

I remember to forget,

I am free to experience What Is.

What Is is always bearable,

even when it isn't –

for change is just a moment away

and just as quickly, gone.

Sing to me,

Mother Mountain.

Tell me a story

while I soften my gaze.

It is easier to stomp your foot

and miss the ground

than it is to miss the Way.

Or something like that.

Without fear,

I’m left holding only upturned hands,

my eyes meeting your eyes

hugeness of spirit

and no need to know,

know when I'll return

how it will all go down

what the next chapter will hold.

Without fear,

I am emptiness,

hungry for breathe.

For once, there is nothing to chase,

to track down, to win over,

to get right,

to secure. Just inhale again,

then let it go.

Thirty thousand times a day.

There is no need.

There is no next.

There is only now.

The rest will take care of its own self,

perfect and effortless

as the sun and the moon

somersaulting effortlessly

through the brush.

In another part of the world,

the world that has no corners,

my babies are sleeping

in their own beds.

I am sending them breath,

sending myself breath,

with each exhale letting go of worry

that I am not good enough.

In another part of the world,

the world that has no corners,

my beloved sweats out his prayers in darkness.

I am sending him breath,

sending myself breath,

with each exhale letting go of worry

that I am not enough

that we will not have enough.

It is always enough.

There is always enough breath,

enough gravity and oxygen and water

and creativity

and improvisation

and support

and competence

and love,

always enough love

to get us through this moment, and the next.

Now do you see?

Your life is your dharma.

Your life is the Way.

Follow your life, watch it unfold

the soft purple flowers of the jacaranda trees

littering the road

where you walked so slowly,

for once in no hurry,

not running away

or towards anything at all.

Thank you, Maezen.
I love you. You are love. I am love. I am so grateful.

French press 6:06

French press 6:06
Quiet house but not for long
Today I depart

Early father's day
To be that close, what a gift
Dennis the Menace
Entertained the girls downstairs

The thing with haiku
Like life, you can bend the rules
Rewrite them even

Running breathlessly
Literally no breathing
I'll breathe when I die?
Not exactly, right?

Rush, rush, hurry up
Places, people, plans, produce!
Jump off the train while you can

Land in the tall grass
Lie back, watch the cars speed by
Your ride no longer

Look at where you stand
Footing shaky or solid
Ask yourself tender questions

For once, this moment
Has arrived, I've been waiting
For once, some self-forgiveness

Go easy, sweet girl
Step back when you need to
You can choose your ground

Now press the coffee
Slowly, so the grounds stay down
And take that first sip
And begin again

Whoosh Went the Wish

Can you tell summer vacation is here? Where did my routine go? Today started with a migraine and ended with a spontaneous backyard dinner with a passel of neighbors, kids chasing each other with light sabers and big sticks, swinging from the giant maple next door, red wine and such long light. We've let bedtime slide, sucking the marrow out of the day as Greg says. Like the giant peonies weighted down by their own glory, these pre-solstice evenings are not long for this world, and I've mostly been enjoying maxxing them out.

Ever read the children's book Whoosh Went the Wish, about a man who lives in a little house facing all four directions, and all he ever wanted was a cat to keep him company, but his wishes keep getting snagged on tree branches or otherwise intercepted, leaving the wish fairy to get only partial messages? It's quite charming. And lying in bed with Pearl tonight while she ooched and squirmed and resisted sleep before finally conking out, succumbing to sleep, that's what I found myself thinking. Whoosh! School's out, rhythms are scrambled, this is both unsettling and freeing, and I don't quite know where I'm at, what I'm wishing, or where my wishes are landing.

What I do know is that Friday I fly to L.A. for the first time in over a decade. I am going to the Mother's Plunge, which Karen Maezen Miller, also known as Momma Zen, describes as "a one-day summer camp offering retreat and renewal especially for mothers." This is exactly the kind of thing I would have previously longed to do but assumed only other people get to do. You know, people with time, people with money, people with lives vastly different from mine. But life kept making it hard for me to fall back on that. Karen asked me to call her a few months ago and said, "You have to come. You have to come see me." I committed to coming then, even as I wondered how I would manage the money, the logistics of leaving.

Then one of my sisters not only offered me miles on American, but decided to fly out with me to see old friends for a few days. And then a scholarship appeared out of the blue with my name on it. Finally, with so much conspiring in my favor, I sat down with Greg and asked how he'd feel about my being gone on Father's Day. He happened to say something perfect about what better way to spend the day than with his girls. And so it happened that this plan evolved and now I'm here going whoosh and getting ready to meet approximately 50 women who by the end of Saturday will no longer be strangers (including Holly, who I finally get to meet in person!).

It's no wonder I haven't written much this week. Sometimes when I need it most is when I can afford it least, the time, the sitting down, the settling, the check-in. I am amazed to think that this time next week I will have spent five days without my husband and kids. This time next week, I will be on a plane back to Boston, at which point I will round out my time away in Amherst, where Aviva is going to Farm Camp with her cousin.

We were at a party last weekend for my friend Nyarkoa's son, who was celebrating his fifth birthday. When it came time for the cake, all the kids were gathered at the table, anxiously waiting for him to blow out the candles so they could eat. But he didn't just blow out the candles. He looked up and around at all of us and announced, "This is how I do it." Then he squeezed his eyes shut, very tightly, for a good half-minute. You could feel his concentration, his intent. You could practically see the wish whooshing by. And then, slowly, finally, in his own timing, he opened his eyes, looked at the cake, and blew out that candle.

This is how I want to wish. With my whole face, my whole being, scrunched up then released, gathered carefully then scattered freely, with faith that my wishes will land, complete, intact, just right, where they belong. Well over a year ago, when Karen wrote about a Beginner's Mind retreat at her Zen Center, we had the following exchange in the blog comments:

Jena Strong said...

Some next time, I will be there, sweating it out with great sincerity.

March 18, 2008 7:21 PM

Karen said...

Jena,
Your seat has your name on it.

March 18, 2008 7:27 PM

So the wish went whoosh, and here I go, off to claim that seat with my name on it. I'm going to go sit there, plop myself down, and see who I am when I'm not mama, wife, coach, poet, blogger, housekeeper, cook, money manager, girlfriend, daughter - all of the roles I choose, some of which I cherish and others I sometimes loath, all of which are temporal, whooshing past. What's left without all that wishing and all that whooshing? That is exactly why I'm going to California this weekend.

I'll be back.

That Other Keyboard

I sit at the keyboard, waiting for words that don't come. No academic words or legal words, no poetic words or pragmatic words, nothing insightful or inciteful. Just no words, no movement.

I sit there, then realize it is the other keyboard I need, the one where I can feel my way into myself without words, without explanation. I don't spend much time these days at those other keys, that unlock something words sometimes can't.

Moving from symbol to sound, something settles. It is a relief, this feeling. It is a relief not to have words, to let my fingers find these other notes, to tell the story a different way, without having to say a thing.

What May Be Coming

I've been more than usually aware of the way my mind always seems to have something to chew on, something to churn away at, some puzzle to solve, some logistics to tackle or project to complete (or, as the case may be, avoid completing), or some tension between family members, or when I'm going to get everything done (how's never? is never good for you?).

In other words, it could be anything. The what doesn't matter. The point is, my mind does this thing, and lately I've been noticing that the byproduct of this thing is anxiety on my part. Now that I've been noticing this more consciously for the past several days, and talking with Greg about it, I'm beginning also to see that the anxiety is only a byproduct when I believe my mind, when I engage it, when I go in there and pour a cup of coffee and roll up my sleeves and say, why yes, this is clearly something we need to work out.

So the answer is obvious, isn't it? Don't listen. Detach, disengage, just notice. So easily said. The practice requires so much vigilance, it is like another full-time job. But I'm realizing that I need to take it seriously, this practice. Why? I ask myself. Why does this matter so much? Well, it has nothing to with being good, thank God we've gotten that cleared up. What it does have everything to do with is being available, being able to access more of myself and my surroundings, being able to experience life rather than just prepare for it, get through it, and then start worrying and working on the next thing.

Because there is always, always, always a next thing, and a thing after that, and when I let my mind sit up in the Air Traffic Control Tower, all we will ever do is fret and prepare and anticipate and defend, look for the coming collisions and storms, anticipate every possible iteration of weather, never looking out the window - much less stepping outside - to observe, to experience the day as it is, the sky eggshell blue, the wind not so threatening at this very moment, no matter what may be coming.

And there it is. What May Be Coming. We do not know What May Be Coming. I could stay up all night working myself into a lather about those words, so grave and menacing they deserve capital letters.

But What Is Here is pretty good. Yes, there is so much work to be done. Yes, there are so many clothes on the floor upstairs to be folded, and pink toothpaste caked onto the sink. Yes, there is a snarl of logistics to untangle. And there is this: I came home with my girls today and we three piled into a steaming hot bubble bath together, which my post-half-marathon body was aching for. We laughed in there and I sang a little Sinatra "Heaven, I'm in Heaven" song, which Pearlie parroted as she gave herself a bubble beard. After, the girls threw on their cozy pajamas and raced up the street to their friends' house and I found myself with an unexpected window alone. And there is Greg just now walking in the door, having just walked up the hill, all creaky himself.

What Is Here is good enough. Whether it's better or worse than What May Be Coming becomes a moot point. Quiche is waiting and I'm excited to go eat it. I'm going to feed myself, my body, my tired body and my fierce spirit, so that I can be rested and strong enough to step away from the mind, and do it my way.

Start. Keep Going.

Tonight, I say thanks for this girl, so fast on her feet -

and this one too, choco-monster sweet -

for this pre-race kiss from my partner in crime

and for this mama who crossed the finish line in two hours and thirty-five minutes!

***

A year ago, four miles sounded like a long run to me. Today, Greg, my sister and brother-in-law, and I all ran the Covered Bridges Half Marathon. The crazy thing is, four miles still sounds like a long run to me. But I have to say, I have learned a lot by training for this and completing it today.

Essentially, running is just one big metaphor to me. There is no point in looking behind you to see just how slow you are or how many people are behind you. There is no point in thinking ahead and getting freaked out about how much further you have to go or how many people might be ahead.

The absolute only way, for me anyway, to survive, maybe even to enjoy the experience, was to focus on staying very, very present. This meant taking it deliberately slow - I averaged a 12-minute mile today - and steady she goes. It meant paying attention to the surroundings and not wearing my ipod, listening to the birds and noticing the wildflowers at the sides of the road, the river winding along side the course, the cheers and drummers and handmade signs and the water hander-outers. It meant talking out loud to myself in the later miles, thanking my body, telling myself to go easy, go gentle, doing great, keep breathing.

It was a weekend of soccer tournaments and violin recitals and logistics galore and uncharted territory, unprecedented distances, and all-you-can-eat pasta dinners. We're home now, back in our assigned seats on the couch at our computers, catching up and once again preparing for a new week. But today, several times as I was running, I told myself, "When you run, just run." It almost felt vacation-like, to be so unencumbered, my task so simple and straightforward for that stretch of time. Just to run. Just to start and keep going. Just like parenting. Just like building businesses. Just like marriage (this was actually the "advice" my dad offered me and Greg on our wedding day). Just like anything you do in a crowd but essentially must do alone. Just like life. Start and keep going. Check in with yourself and say nice things. Let the support in. Accept the hand-outs. And breathe, slow and steady as she goes.

Heaven Here

It was my friend Nyarkoa Yaa Mensah-Jordan who offered me the image of nourishing the roots a couple of nights ago. And she nourished me, fed my roots, when she sang this song, called "Heaven." I was so happy that she agreed to share it again here on the blog; it reminds me of everything I need to know. Stop dreaming, stop dreaming, my friend, of the day when your life will begin...

Unfortunately, my little camera cut off the ending, but you get three whole minutes of Nyarkoa's exquisite presence.

*

Also speaking of heavenly offerings, soulsister and life coaching client Rachelle Mee-Chapman over at Magpie Girl has come up with something we could all use more of: Less. As part of her DO LESS Revolution, Rachelle has been writing about her guiding values. Pop over there to find a special discount for an hour-long values assessment session with yours truly :)

*

Hope you find a slice of paradise yourself today. Be sure to look right in your own backyard. It's never far.

Nourish the roots

Roots. Flower. Reach. Deepen. Offer. Receive.

The weeds, with their shallow, spindly roots. The thoughts you don't really believe. The stories the mind tells. Ground cover. Run for cover. Do not be smothered. Do not be threatened. Just stop. Stop feeding them. Stop and nourish your roots, your own deep roots.

And look! The iris, the peony, the poppy, the maple, the oak, the cyprus, the almond, the olive, the towering tulips and the reddest rose, nourish the roots, deep and strong, and watch them thrive. Without the roots, that sustenance, that grounding, the anchor buried deep beneath the surface of things, they will whither, topple, die.

Reach! The sun is calling.

Shine! We need you here.

And root down, down where nobody sees, where only faith can take you to knowing what is hidden from view, reach through movement or stillness, through silence or music, through slowness or sweat. How doesn't matter. The why is love. And the who is you, here, now, extending into your day, reaching into yourself, balancing the two, opposing forces creating stability, equal parts, reaching, rooting, offering, receiving, giving and taking.

*

Image by French Toast Girl

Morning Practice, 6:34am

Morning practice, 6:34
fridge humming
birdsong in cold June trees
yesterday's coffee lukewarm
stillness
an iris Aviva picked bends its ear
towards her desk

I keep feeling thirsty for something
that pool of tears
at the end of a hike
where the view opens up
and you can plunk down on a sun-warmed rock
heart still beating hard
from the climb

You can sit down and cry a little
and then not even need to cry
simply arrive
take in the beauty
of your surroundings
knowing, as Walt reminded me via Wendy this morning,
I exist as I am, that is enough

There might come a morning
when I no longer require this reminder
when I no longer compare
or quibble or squabble or quarrel
or concern myself
with the stuff of nature's passing

In the meantime,
I will take this line
live it as best I can
write it on a mirror I walk around with all day
hold it up to you
hold it up to the beauty that is you
as you are
then hand it to you
as an offering
to keep or pass along
as you move through your day

Thoughts on Responsibility

I have debated writing about this here, but something keeps asking to be shared. Bear with me as I ramble my way into this post. I've had variations on a cold for over two weeks now. I'm beginning to wonder if maybe I have the swine flu. (Who would know, really? It doesn't necessarily look all that different than any other less famous flu. Greg says I would have a little curly tail, but so far the only curls are the ones in my hair.)

I feel like I spent the month of May on a train speeding through the countryside. When I put it that way, it sounds kind of lovely. Ah, a month on a speeding train, a month in one of those little rooms with the cot and the window and the samovar. Not quite the sensation I was getting at.

Today for the second time in as many weeks, I took what felt like an emergency nap. Not a luxurious, rare, mid-day snooze, but a near-collapse, one that didn't suggest many alternatives. I even had my running clothes on! I felt as if my body had been infused with something leaden. I felt drugged, heavy. A ship run aground.

So now we have trains and ships.

Aviva's class held an end-of-year literacy celebration this morning. Each of the kids had out their "browsing box" filled with things they've written and mastered reading this year. The parents nibbled on homemade coffee cake and drank coffee from a cardboard box, and then Aviva's beloved teacher handed out special awards for each student. Aviva got a certificate recognizing her growth this year in "outstanding math thinking." She was beaming.

**

I'm reading Eat, Pray, Love. I am reading this book, this book that the whole world has told me I MUST read, in my own sweet time, on such a slow burn it has been well over a year now and I'm still in Italy. I read a few pages at a time, sometimes separated by many weeks. This past week, I read a few sentences where she was describing the point at which she knew she had to end or leave her marriage. She wrote about the word "responsible," how she suddenly looked at it differently, saw that it meant "having the ability to respond." In my head, I expanded the definition as "demonstrating the ability to respond appropriately to any given situation."

The ability to respond appropriately.

The story I've been wanting to write about relates to Pearl. Pearl has self-identified as "a big boy" and "big brother Sam" for many months now. In fact, she chose to go by her middle name, Renner, before she could walk. Later, she was "Eric" for a good stretch. To us, she is always herself, our Pearlie girl. She has a penchant for bulldozers and goes crazy for Lightning McQueen. She wanted to get her hair cut to match her cousin Caleb's hair, a "big-boy haircut." Her favorite color is orange, because it's a "big-boy" color. So we got her haircut short. And lo and behold, the rest of the world began seeing her as a big boy, too.

Including my dad.

We were down in Amherst two weekends ago, and Pearlie had been over at my sister's house with Aviva and the cousins. Her clothes had gotten wet, so she changed into Caleb's clothes - some baggy cut-off sweatpant shorts and a "life is good" t-shirt, also about three sizes too big on her. When they all tromped across town back over to my parents' house, where we were staying, my dad saw her standing in the kitchen doorway and asked, "Who's the little guy?" "Dad," I said, "It's Pearl!" Later that night some friends of my parents also mistook her gender.

Greg and I have had our share of conversations about Pearl's sense of self. We'd pretty much settled comfortably on feeling spacious about it, loving and trusting her to grow into herself. I did speak to her pediatrician at her three-year check-up about it, not out of concern but to share something that struck us as significant about her emerging identity. His only advice was "to keep it grounded in reality." In other words, when she stood up in front of the toilet and asked, "When can I get my big-boy penis?" I would gently remind her that she's a girl with a vagina and she can't pee standing up. But hair? Feh. It grows back.

My dad called me to talk a little more about it all after I was back in Vermont. He shared some advice a friend of his had for us, someone in the psychoanalytic circles he travels in: "keep it grounded in reality." I told my dad that that's exactly what we were doing. He suggested that this friend and colleague of his might have some valuable insight based on his decades of experience working with children. It was a Sunday evening and Greg was out at a meeting, I was trying to move bedtime along all while being a "good daughter" and making time to listen to - and really try to hear - my dad's perspective, as well as share some of my own conversations, resources, ideas, opinions, and perspectives on the subject of gender identity more generally.

I spent the next 48 hours getting myself all worked up in a lather. I wanted my parents to call me not to offer advice but to ask questions, be curious. I wanted my maternal instincts recognized, respected, and validated. I wanted to know that we were doing everything right, that if I trusted myself and trusted Pearl then how could there possibly be any room for "concern," even the well-intentioned kind? I became the child, reacting, defending, appeasing. This was not the relationship I wanted with my parents. I did not want to distance myself from them, nor did I want to feel beholden to their opinions. I wanted an equal exchange, a mutual respect, healthy boundaries that were strong enough to support an open, trusting relationship. I could feel the impulse to talk to everybody I saw about the whole thing, but know better at this point. When I'm in a lather, it's best to stay quiet, to wait, to listen.

Then I had an a-ha moment.

Pearl is in a class of ten children in her preschool. Eight of them are boys. Big boys. Boys who like Spiderman and Cars and plaid shorts. Two of them are girls, including Pearl. I saw how being a "big boy" is a useful, effective expression of belonging, of claiming her place in the group. At home, I suddenly saw Pearl's choice of identity through new lenses, too. To be a big boy in a family where she is the younger sister of Aviva, who I must say is quite a force, self-possessed and a girl in no uncertain terms, well - it suddenly struck me as nothing short of brilliant. Her own way of being powerful. Feeling distinct. Special. The one and only Pearlie-Big-Boy.

And with this, the whole thing transcended questions of gender and became about something so much bigger, broader, deeper, more complete. My tension around responding to my dad dissolved. In fact, my energymust have shifted altogether, because ironically, in the week or so since this, I have only heard Pearl mention being a "big boy" a couple of times. She was even singing "Pearlie girl, Pearlie girl" in the bath to herself the other day, words I've never heard her say. Her own name. In the car on the way to school yesterday, she said, "I don't call myself a big boy at school, just at home."

If only we could all articulate things so well.

I emailed my dad yesterday. I wrote what felt like a centered, mature, loving, appreciative, honest response to the email he had sent with the psychoanalytic colleague's phone number whom he'd suggested we contact. I thanked him, and shared some of what I've been thinking and seeing, and told him how much we value his place in our lives. I told him I feel secure and solid in my own sense of Pearl's development, but without this having to be a door closed to him, without feeling belittled somehow, trapped in an old way, a limiting way, of relating to my dad.

He wrote back, thanking me for the "reassuring message." And then Greg wrote back (I had cc'd him), telling me how much he had enjoyed watching this whole thing play out and resolve over the past couple of weeks.

And I felt like I had grown up a little more. Like at thirty-five, I am just now beginning to really claim my way of seeing, to trust it and own it, which means not having to hold tightly to it. Being secure and centered enough to be able to not only tolerate but to consider other perspectives and suggestions, but then having the tools to make the choices that will work for me, as a parent in this case, but in a larger sense, as myself, as a person.

**

I feel the train slowing down. I can see that we are traveling through cities and meadows and industrial parks and woodlands. I have my little room, the one with the samovar, sugar cubes melting into strong black Russian tea. There is room here for me, for my girls, whoever they may become, and for my parents, who have - I am learning, allowing - supported and empowered me to trust myself.

They've done this in the only ways the can, which is to say in their own hard-won, trial and error, self-adjusting and thoughtful and well-intentioned ways. How could it be otherwise? Just as I'm finding my own ways of living, parenting, loving, eating, praying responsibly, my girls will have to find - are finding - their own ways, too, of being in this family, with their peers, in an ever-evolving relationship with the world. My hope, my prayer really, is that we will all keep letting each other in as we learn and grow.

Invitation to Summer

After such a cold spring
your presence is requested to enjoy
one long, delicious downward dog
irresistible to small children who will rush
to climb the universal gesture of a jungle-gym mama

If you topple over or fall
let me be the earth pressing upward
our bellies breathing together
bodies filling with laughter
so ready to lean into
the sun-stained days of summer

And while I’m at it, you’re invited
to the newly hung hammock
No need to call, just swing by
Be prepared to go nowhere and do nothing
but rock gently and stay up late
watching the sky,
that empty channel
even the kids like surfing

*

Written for the Pose of the Month, Adho Mukha Svanasana at Evolution

Stepping away from the storm to come home

The mind's a tornado
threatening to take me down
A performer demanding constant applause
An insatiable predator on the prowl
A pack of wild monkeys set loose in town

Then I see what's happening
Step back slowly, back away
I see that shitstorm in there
I hear the roar from a distance
and my body expands with relief
to be watching from afar

Now things get interesting
How glorious to be the observer
of the madness in there
that told me it knew the way
and yet never once kept me safe

And in the space between us now
I am actually here
listening to my own heart
trusting my own instincts
available to the wisdom I pushed away

There is nothing to be defended
Storm away, mind
Storm away, while I watch
And watch me walk
so slowly you will think I am lost, or dumb

Maybe I am dumb
Maybe, I realize as the words come,
dumb is what I want to be
A babe in the woods, curious about everything

But lost? No.
I am coming home
The door is already open so I let myself in
and know where everything is
including the bed
where I can rest this weary head
and dream.