Mama Goose

Libba Bray's Printz Award Acceptance Speech

2010-08-18T19:25:00.000-04:00

Very much worth the time to watch this, folks!

Love Decree

2010-08-08T16:42:00.002-04:00

In a recent phone call with a friend I confessed that I'm starting to feel a bit lonely and considering expanding my social horizons a bit, hoping for connection. He recommended making a list of the qualities I want in a potential partner--to put it out to the universe and see what happens. After my treasure map disaster, I'm not keen on the notion of setting intentions with expectations of manifesting and what not, but clarifying and prioritizing needs and values with regard to relationships is really a great idea. At the very least, should I find myself interested or involved with someone, I can turn to this checklist to help me assess where I might be compromising too much. I tend to see the best in people and be idealistic in relationships and overlooking less desirable realities is a way to get seriously bit in the ass.

Still, I'm not a hopeful romantic; I don't really believe in the soul-mate idea or that fate will align to bring me together with my special someone. Painful experiences have forged within me a pragmatism with regard to relationships, and when I assess my list I question the likelihood of finding even the "good" level qualities all in one person. I could meet someone who is nurturing & supportive but with tastes & interests which I just can't respect--snobbery on my part I suppose. Honestly, the idea of such a highly compatible match strikes me as miraculous, but I'll allow that life can sometimes surprise a person.

The thing is, I've always been okay with being single. Loneliness is just a feeling which can be mindfully experienced and processed like any other. As long as I have friends and family, people to care for and connect with, I don't feel alone. So while I'm open to the possible arrival of an amazing person to fill the shoes I've outlined here, I'll be busy continuing to cultivate these very qualities within myself--and knowing life will be continue to be wonderful and rich in many ways.

Shared Values

At Least: someone who cares about the environment and social justice; spiritually attuned (see below)

Good: someone outside mainstream consumer culture and “walks the walk” with regard to values; personal responsibility for health & wellness (natural); someone who is genuinely compassionate—in soul & in action

Purely Ideal: we’re on the same page with pretty much everything; support one another in living in-line with beliefs

Spirituality

At Least: shared value in personal growth (not the same as masturbatory self improvement) and regard for the “big picture” however defined; also an openmindedness—neither self-righteous atheism nor fundamentalist Christianity (or other religion)

Good: an appreciation of mystery and a relative degree of humility, a committed practice or focus of some kind

Purely Ideal: fully in synch with my values & perspective—someone to keep me on my toes a bit and evolve with me in this regard

Connection & Communication
At Least:, an intelligent life-long learner who can keep a stimulating conversation going, someone able to be honest & open w/communication; mutual respect; compatible humor

Good: great conversations fairly often, mutual learning shared to enrich each other; ability to air out disagreements and solve problems together, consistent consideration for one another; someone who makes me laugh

Purely Ideal: an adept & aware critical thinker who challenges me to broaden my perspectives & not remain complacent in any ideology (without condescension!); continually working to appreciate one another’s perspectives

Mutual Attraction

At Least: a genuine spark between us—good looks in the mainstream sense are not important as the person’s inner “light”/magnetism, someone of interest who finds me worth “courting”

Good: honestly drawn to one another without self-dividing reservations, a delight in the beautiful qualities perceived in one another, someone who is playful and brings out qualities I like in myself

Purely Ideal: someone who can grow a beard (i.e. in some way fits "dreamy" animus archetype that captivates me), whom I can’t seem to keep my hands off of on a regular basis…

Sexual Compatibility

At Least: mutually satisfying sex often enough for mutual satisfaction, no pressure on either partner to be anything other than him/herself

Good: ability to keep the spark there, someone I can trust and really open up with

Purely Ideal: not even sure—mind reader? That would have as many drawbacks as plusses…

Livelihood/Lifestyle

At Least: together we get by without excessive stress via work that is not unethical or soul-destroying

Good: lifestyle embodies shared values of sustainability, simple & non-materialistic—time is more important than money or things

Purely Ideal: living in a green home off the grid, growing & raising some food (chickens!), time to enjoy family & friends and for individual creative pursuits and life-learning, being part of & contributing to a larger community

Shared Interests

At Least: respected taste (in books, music, movies, etc); enjoy activities together

Good: wide-ranging, interesting tastes & knowledge—shares new things, goes beyond current pop culture junk; someone outside mainstream; into nature/outdoors, appreciates diverse, multicultural perspectives

Purely Ideal: a talented musician or writer/artist whose style really jives with mine, ability to travel together, fun with stuff like camping, canoeing, dancing (Standard recommendation of a dear friend's husband)

Food Compatibility

At Least: no need to make separate meals & likes Thai & Indian for occasional dining out

Good: health & eco consciousness with regard to food—shares values and epicurean appreciation for fine food

Purely Ideal: has mad skills in cooking, and/or has money to wine & dine me… hey, I can dream

Parenting

At Least: respectful and non-coercive with children, able to adapt to step-parent role with love & appropriate boundaries

Good: skilled with non-violent communication, finds fulfillment and spiritual growth through parenting, values attachment & letting children develop at own pace

Purely Ideal: Someone with the knowledge & means to support the ideal life I’d like for my child—home or alternative schooling, nurturing & fun home environment

Emotional Availability & Maturity

At Least: someone with integrity & stability of self and feelings; capable of fidelity to allow for trust and deeper relationship as things develop; affectionate and loving

Good: strong self-awareness & centeredness and ability to manage emotions, someone who can nurture me without being stifling or viewing me as weak—who has “my back” when I need support and vice-versa—mutually supportive & nurturing

Purely Ideal: All needs met for all parties all the time—how much more ideal can you get?

Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror

2010-08-01T09:56:00.003-04:00

I've been obsessively perusing the Kidlitosphere--so, so many blogs and neat sites out there for children's book junkies like me. What a delight to come across Crow Toes Quarterly, "a playfully dark arts and literature e-zine and limited-edition print magazine for children ages nine and up." Yum.

In the review section of their site I found this little gem: Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror by Chris Priestley. Complete with Edward Gorey-inspired illustrations, these stories set in Victorian England are loaded with classic gothic goodies including demons, ghosts, evil objects, and the wages of sin, but they are presented in a freshly imagined way.

The book is framed by the device of a central story involving a boy named Edgar (Poe homage, certainly) sitting in the artifact-crammed study of his Uncle's resplendently creepy mansion and listening to the stories behind various objects in the room. Each chapter breaks from its tale and returns to this firelit space to transition to the next story. A sense of mystery about the uncle and his connection with the tales he tells grows as the book progresses and propels reader interest until the final chapter discloses all.

I wonder how easily average middle-readers might become engrossed in this book. The setting and so much of the richly detailed texture & vocabulary might be too foreign to pull them in. But I tell you, I'd love to be friends with any child who prefers this aesthetic to the more accessible Goosebumps series. And honestly, I'd rather write for this sort of child as well.

Yes, the stories are scary: more creep-factor than hakem/slashem gore, simple blood versus viscera. As this author understands, it is the anticipation of harm which piques fear rather than the gruesome end. No! Don't open the door to the basement--don't do it! is much more chilling than the inevitable splatter that follows.

An interesting question is whether or not the victims in these tales deserved their fate on some level. There was no explicit moral imperative connecting the tales, no didactic be a good little boy or girl or you might just get hacked to pieces. In some cases simple curiosity tempted mischief which led to a world of hurt; one protagonist was a petty thief and seemingly deserving, while another was merely a social outcast who was haunted by the ghost of an innocent murder victim. One theme which particularly struck me was the presence of disconnected or even removed parents, begging the question of just who is to be punished, if anyone. The boy seduced by the spectral presence in "Jinn" is completely clueless about ethics and social norms, and his much preoccupied father blames himself for the child's death. Perhaps if he'd been a more attentive and connected father the boy might have had enough sense to avoid trouble. Our protagonist Edgar is similarly neglected and is kept from a grisly end only by the grace of his Uncle's protection. Perhaps the nitty gritty of the horror, the horror within the gothic is the evident lack of moral absolutes in our world. The wicked are sometimes punished, but so are innocent bystanders. In this world none of us can remain cozy with the delusion that being good equals being safe from harm.

Eidi by Bodil Bredsdorff

2010-07-21T09:15:00.001-04:00

This was a sweet little story (second in The Children of Crow Cove Series) that would appeal to the Waldorf-minded for its simple spirituality, seasonal awareness and setting within a traditional Western European environment. There is a spot of violence, as our heroine gets clocked something fierce by the town's drunken lout and she rescues a child from abuse and neglect. Social conservatives might object to the open acknowledgement (without condemnation) of children conceived out of wedlock. Overall, there is an endearing quality to these characters who demonstrate loving kindness for one another, respect for nature, reverence of landscape, and joy in the process of making a living and the pleasures of childhood.

Schooled by Gordon Korman

2010-07-17T14:09:00.003-04:00

A nice thing about being a fan of middle grade and young adult fiction is that the novels can often be read in a matter of hours. Since Charlie was born, I’ve been able to read nonfiction, which is easy to set aside and return to, but engrossing adult novels remain a problem. Last one I read was Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norell and I so did not want to leave that world. For several days I carried guilt over resenting my dear child’s intrusions while I gobbled up that yummy story.

When I sat down with Gordon Korman’s Schooled, my intent was to read only a few chapters but the story was so likeable, well paced and witty that I was unable to put it down until I finished the book. The gist is that Cap (Capricorn) Anderson attends public school for the first time during his grandmother’s hospitalization after an accident on the hippie commune of which they are the only remaining residents. As part of a traditional school lark, this “clueless” boy who was raised in isolation is thrust into the role of eighth grade class president for the purpose of entertaining the student body.

Korman paints Cap with tenderness and irony while narrowly avoiding the trap of making him into an iconic deity or empty stereotype. The boy has garnered a degree of spiritual wisdom and the naivety of a “holy fool” archetype, but he’s also an adolescent with human desires and fallibilities. Chapters are narrated from the perspectives of alternating characters in a way that manages to retain the reader’s engagement and add a measure of multi-dimensionality to the characters; at least none are expressly vilified. Indeed, Schooled provides ample opportunity for learning, as the title references not just Cap’s induction into the mainstream world, but the self understanding and transformation which touches everyone who plays a part in this humorous juxtaposition of classic hippie idealism in the twenty-first century.

Contrary to popular opinion around here...

2010-07-17T11:36:00.001-04:00

...I am not a punching/kicking bag, a climbing rope or a swing; an entertainment coordinator, personal valet, repairman, or vending machine; nor am I an unlimited source of information about plant and insect identification & classification, anatomy & physiology, lexicography, or the location of miscellaneous lost items, particularly those simply described as "thing" or "it."

Where the Mountain Meets the Moon by Grace Lin

2010-07-13T11:40:00.003-04:00

Those who are fairy tale inclined know that when a story begins “Far away from here, following the Jade River, there was once a black mountain that cut into the sky like a jagged piece of rough metal. The villagers called it Fruitless Mountain because nothing grew on it and birds and animals did not rest there” (1) the ending will bring a renewal of fertility and abundance. But it is the story in the middle that counts to the reader, and in this fine novel the art of story itself matters a great deal indeed. More than entertainment, history and wisdom, stories here are a source of vitality. In contrast to the dreary landscape, our heroine Minli has a pink-cheeked glow specifically because of the stories her father tells: even his own “black eyes sparkled like raindrops in the sun when he began a story” (3). I’m a huge fan of this kind of meta-storytelling. This book charmed me from start to finish.

Grace Lin weaves a loving homage to her cultural inheritance with these layers of story beautifully rendered in words and illustrations. Seemingly disparate characters—a dragon, a tiger and the elusive Old Man of the Moon—and plot lines are delightfully tied together by the end of the book. It struck me as the sort of work that might have gestated within the author throughout much of her life. The execution was flawless.

While I enjoyed this year’s Newberry winner, When You Reach Me, I found more “classic” potential in Where the Mountain Meets the Moon (which received an Honor). Library hound that I am, I don’t purchase many books these days, but this one’s on the to-buy list. The illustrations are plentiful and chapters are short enough that I’m cuing this as one of the first novels to read aloud to Charlie.

Butterflies at the WNC Nature Center

2010-07-10T10:09:00.000-04:00

Above: yes, the wings on this poor butterfly were damaged. (not by us)

Left: Butterflies mating--something I'd never seen before.

This is nothing new. When will America catch on?

2010-07-05T18:41:00.000-04:00

The Sorrow and the (Self) Pity

2010-06-25T18:38:00.000-04:00

I spent my recent birthday alone for most of the day. It fell on a Sunday this year, and Sundays are Charlie’s only full day with his dad, a routine I did not wish to disrupt for either of them. Some of my friends may have been available for a celebratory get together, but I chose not to mention it to any of them.

Historically, my birthday has been a rough time for me. I’m adopted, and the “birthday blues” is a fairly common anniversary reaction. There were the parties when I was a child: seeing my parents go all out to make my day special, providing much anticipated gifts, my favorite meal, cake, ice cream, warm regards from friends and family, and, inexplicably, me in tears. It seemed like the more I was showered with love, the more undeserving I felt. The happiness and excitement of the day dissolved into sadness and longing year after year.

So I’ve learned to keep it “low key” and I rarely reveal my birthday to others as the date approaches. My “ex” even forgot more than once. Last year I declined a heart-felt invitation for a lovely dinner of homemade crab cakes; my dear friend Jaime wanted to share her affection for me by providing this special treat but, grateful as I was for her gesture, I knew I needed room to feel sad or lousy as needed, that any pressure I placed upon myself to be cheerful and upbeat would likely be met with an equal “shadow” of that grief and longing.

I wish I knew the circumstances of my conception and birth. I wish I knew my first family, that my mother would tell me that she loved me, that she really wanted me, that my origin was not just a big mistake. I wish I could be free of these reflexive feelings of unworthiness (of love, affection, help and support or even material gifts from others) that are part of my experience of being relinquished to adoption.

Perhaps one day NY State will open currently sealed birth records and I will have a chance to find and reunite with my first family, and perhaps through this process my birthday blues will fade away. In the meantime, I do not expect these feelings to be healed, cleansed or transcended away, nor do I need them to be. Instead, I find peace by acknowledging and accepting them as they are, and learning to work with them. Contrary to the concern my mom expressed, I did not spend my birthday brooding or steeped in self-pity. I enjoyed breakfast with Charlie at one of my favorite restaurants, then came home to a nurturing solitude. I played guitar, read, wrote. Made a lovely meal. Spoke with family and appreciated well wishes from friends on facebook. Ironically, being alone for the day left me filled with gratitude for the wonderful people in my life.

Having this time for reflection helped me open to a new perspective. I’m the sort of person who is more comfortable assisting others than accepting help, offering compliments rather than getting them, giving rather than receiving love. Maybe it is time for that to change. Maybe the next step in settling that “unworthiness” reflex is to allow others to more actively nurture me, to face the immense vulnerability I feel at the thought of acknowledging a desire for appreciation and affection. To not protest or resist when others try to give me material or immaterial gifts. To accept those crab cakes next time, or even say, hey, it’s my birthday—let’s get together! I can feel the door opening; we’ll see what next year brings.

Monkey See, Monkey Do

2010-06-22T19:11:00.001-04:00

Caps for Sale: a Tale of a Peddler, Some Monkeys and Their Monkey Business by Esphyr Slobodkina is a classic that was first published in 1938, when apparently fifty cents was a reasonable price for a hat. Charlie and I enjoyed listening to Miss Patty read this at our local library a couple weeks ago, and the other day he caught a glimpse of the book on the shelf and was eager to hear the story again.

In case you're unfamiliar, the plot is quite simple: a peddler carries a stack of various colored caps upon his head. He naps under a tree and then wakes to find monkeys wearing the caps they have stolen from him. Every attempt to get the monkeys to give him back his caps results in the monkeys merely imitating the peddler's angry gestures, and when he throws his own cap to the ground in exasperation, he inadvertently succeeds in retrieving his merchandise.

It's no wonder that young children continue to enjoy this story. The appeal lies not only in the illustrations and simple, humorous plot; they get the joke more than one might think. Certainly preschoolers identify on some level with the silly mimicry of the monkeys. And it isn't much of a stretch to see how the peddler's reaction to the monkey's mischief (and his inability to win their compliance) mirrors the way in which we as parents often react to our children's misbehavior, and the limitations of coercive "discipline" techniques. The joke is really on us.

Modeling is understood to be one of the most effective educational strategies, and it makes sense because children naturally tend to imitate what they see around them. The findings of a couple recent studies support this idea. It was publicized some years ago that regular reading to children is not not in itself enough to ensure their success as fluent readers; a "literacy rich home environment" was a more predictive factor. (Sorry I was unable to find the source.) Similarly, forcing children to eat so many forkfuls of veggies per meal is less likely to produce healthy eaters than simply setting a good example by eating well oneself. A 2004 study found "that a positive parentalrole model may be a more effective means to facilitate changethan parental attempts to impose control over their child’sfood intake." Interestingly, active coercion & manipulation resulted in less compliance and greater likelihood of negative issues with food and body image. "Do as I say, not as I do" is an approach bound to fail, and the energy expended on the attempt to control children's behavior might not only be a waste but instead produce unintended consequences.

I'd never suggest that parents can be responsible for their children's behavior, through a failure of role-modeling or otherwise. Every day my son finds some way to remind me of the limitations of my control over him. From my perspective, that is as it should be--he is his own person, after all. But I've often found that it helps a great deal to take a hard look at myself before judging him too harshly. How often his words and behavior mirror my own. Just this afternoon, I explained to him that it was time to get ready to go. "When I'm finished with this," he insisted. We needed to accomplish a task before being a certain place at a certain time, a concept not fully grasped by a three-year-old, so I might have pulled rank as the parent in charge and responded with, "No, we need to leave now," followed by action to direct him out the door. But his words echoed those I uttered myself earlier, when he wanted me to stop reading an article and read a story to him. If I want him to exhibit consideration and patience when my wishes and needs are of interest, then I need to demonstrate the same respect to him. If I want a child capable of compromise, I need to show him how it works. Neither of us will get what we want all the time, but that's how life is.

The peddler, by being slow on the uptake, was lucky to get his hats back at all. Though compliance can't be guaranteed, as parents we can be more likely to foster cooperative relationships with our children through conscious self-awareness.

Thanks, you wascally wabbit, you!

2010-06-20T10:51:00.000-04:00

Charlie was never fond of taking baths and he's very tentative about getting his face wet, but over the past few months this issue has escalated to crisis-proportions. It will take a half hour of coaxing to get his feet into the tub, much processing to ease him fully into the bath, and then come shampoo time we're back to panicked protest. We have one of those water scooper thingies with the rubber lip which facilitates pouring the water over a child's head without getting it into his eyes. Removing this item from the cupboard prompts immediate wails of resistance. No amount of emotional validation, no washcloths to cover his eyes, no carefully modeled and practiced instructions to keep his head tilted back, no playful banter about washing the dirt off his scalp to keep potatoes from growing there or heart-to-heart talks with the firefighter washcloth puppet--nothing has worked to take the stress & trauma out of bath time. We both end up frustrated: Charlie in tears and me mopping up a mess of splashed bath water with a sigh. At least I'm relaxed enough about hygiene that we do not go through this every day, but summer's great for sweaty messes, so the need is there.

When conflicts like this arise, the times I can tap into my sense of humor and creativity are the moments when I feel at my best as a parent. (Wish they were more often!) Last week, while coaxing Charlie to allow his hair to be washed, I recalled the cartoon "The Rabbit of Seville" in which Bugs Bunny gets silly with elmer Fudd's scalp. My boy loves him some silliness, so we got through that bath with his curiosity piqued while I sang the "doo-doo-doo do-do" music and described the scene, which we watched right after he was dried off & in jammies. Next bath around, we did a fun reenactment: no coercion, no tears, no exasperated sighs, just good time play. Amen.

This clip did not allow embedding, but here's the link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j97EJQ1z7nY

In With the New

2010-06-16T11:28:00.000-04:00

So before I could start posting again, I needed to re-envision this blog. I made changes to the design and layout. The Barefoot Books presence that originally prompted my set up here is now gone entirely. (Many thanks to the friends who supported this venture—I lacked the sales drive and the ability to penetrate sales tax instructions in order to succeed in business.) While I’m not entirely sure where I’m headed focus-wise, I will continue to post reviews of books that inspire me. The rest will be process and practice.

One thing that tends to hold me back from writing is the awareness that my words are a snapshot of a momentary, ephemeral framework of thought. The perspective documented in language is subject to myriad limitations, and in time I may no longer believe that which I write. My “10 best Parenting Books” would look different today. And I no longer agree at all with what I wrote about the “Writer/writer” dichotomy in my literacy narrative (October 2008), my argument against an (essentialist) identification with the title of “Writer.” Changes in my self-understanding have led me to suspect that I may indeed have an intrinsic need to write, that perhaps I cannot be content in my life or fully be myself (whatever that means) without writing.

Back when I was keeping up with this blog (and writing for class) a friend who hadn’t seen me in a while noted that I looked good—remarkably so, and when I suggested that I might have lost a few pounds from a recent flu bug, she insisted, “No, no, not that! Something else.” “I’m writing again,” I shrugged and she replied, “That must be it.” Anyone who knows me fairly well might be inclined to remark that I’m an analytical sort who tends to think perhaps too much about pretty much everything. My Gemini talkativeness is symptomatic of a deeper need to communicate these rampant thoughts to others. Oh yeah, need.

I can relate what I mean in an analogy with my favorite dog breed—the Border Collie. Folks are often attracted to animals that mirror themselves in some way, right? Years ago I looked up information about these dogs and found pages and pages of personal anecdotes detailing the destructive behavior of which they are capable. Border Collies are highly intelligent and energetic dogs who need to work. Idle minds (and bodies) can indeed be the “devil’s playground,” resulting in de-upholstered couches and car seats and countless variations of costly mischief. I suspect that my mind, when lacking the right outlet, wreaks havoc with my life in a similar fashion. Perhaps if I regularly channel this restless mental discharge into an active writing life, it’s more likely that I’ll leave the rest of my life alone—less compulsive problem finding/analyzing/solving in relationships, at work, at home etc. Recently I had an epiphany that not only will Charlie’s various “phases” pass without troubleshooting, research or consciously directed responses on my part, that energy might be better off reserved for other things. No wonder I’m so tired!

But writing practice offers more than a way to burn off excess mental energy. As I mentioned in my previous post, I started playing guitar again. I’m a perpetual beginner, due to long periods of dormancy and no inclination to actually perform. This winter I realized how the limitation of my technical skills inhibits my ability to give voice to what’s inside me. While I enjoy the guitar, I do not feel a connection with the instrument the way I did with the oboe back in my school days; even apart from lacking technique, it just doesn’t feel like I can convey myself the way I long to. I’ve listened closely to the layers of the music I like and I think the fiddle might be a better vehicle to release my heart in music. Of course, apart from not being able to afford a violin, it would take years to become proficient enough to adequately express myself that way. So what if instead I could learn to “sing” through writing? Yeah, I would need practice to tune my voice, to get the rhythmic flow of the language to match the energy I wish to express, but I possess both the instrument and the fundamentals already (no running through boring scales here). Writing might function well as my conduit. It doesn't need to be perfect, and if & when I change my mind about what I've written then I can write about that next. Through the practice itself I may again find that centeredness, that vitality, that glowing aura, that wholeness.

Out With the Old

2010-06-15T18:02:00.003-04:00

The dates here make it obvious that over a year has passed since I’ve posted anything to this blog. The treasure map in the final post marked the beginning of a challenging and often painful year full of changes. Returning here to face that hopeful expectancy has been difficult: many of my intentions not only failed to materialize, they instead offered lessons in non-attachment. I attribute the fact that the universe did not deliver on my requests as empirical evidence that I don’t belong in its center; my focus is better placed not on what I wish to receive but what I have to share, how open I am to loving what is—as it is—and others as they are.

Rather than finding more joy with my partner, this year brought the end of my marriage. Within a month of the treasure map post, my husband admitted to having feelings for someone else. By November it was clear that our relationship was ending and in January he moved out. So crumbled the castle image I placed in that corner of the map. A new teaching job brought some hope of an improved financial situation, but the separation left me in the same tight spot I’ve been in for some time.

A few things—all within my control—did manifest. I started going to the local farmer’s markets last summer and my diet has become less processed & more vitality-filled. While I’m only now getting underway with the writing I’d hoped to do, I did pull my guitar out of the closet and start playing again—a fantastic help to me during the rough patches of this past year, as I was able to work through my emotions with music.

It is extremely important to be careful what you wish for. Spiritual growth was the centerpiece of my map, and the difficulties of the past year have indeed helped me learn to “go with the flow,” to be more present and to trust that I will be okay—that my needs will be met well enough through my own resources and with help from others (and a little luck sometimes). Though my current life’s circumstances (impending divorce, poverty) would hardly appeal to most people, I’m in a place where I feel hope about my uncertain future and immense gratitude for all the riches I possess: my friends & family, living in a beautiful and inspiring community, nourishing and delicious food and the bright & beautiful boy who is the center of my world.

Treasure Map 2009

2009-03-27T19:48:00.000-04:00

This was my first venture into treasure mapping. What fun! The basic idea is to create a visual layout representing your wishes and intentions for the year ahead during the Aries new moon with all the seed planting, future-manifesting mojo going at that time. I learned about the concept from Tracy's Astro Salon--a well written & insightful astrology blog.

We had an enjoyable get together at my house with several friends chatting and clipping pictures from magazines while our children played around us. I drew mainly from old issues of Shambhala Sun and Natural Home, but I also had these Comstock catalogs which were loaded with useful photos.

I took a right-brain/intuitive approach to the process. I'd chosen posterboard that was purple on one side and orange on the other and when the time came to start gluing pictures, I felt drawn to the purple. The diamond shape also came to me at the last minute. I suppose there's and association with wealth & prosperity--one of my primary concerns. Diamonds in the contemporary card decks correspond with the earthy & practical suit of pentacles in the tarot. Actually, I think all my central themes fit this suit nicely--think "nutrition and fruition."

If I had planned or thought things out in advance I might have looked up the significance of the cardinal directions and arranged my themes appropriately. For the heck of it, even though my map was already complete, I did a google search and found a website which lists various interpretations of the four directions--none of which really fit my own design. The one which came closest and had the most interesting parallels was attributed to the Lakota:
North = wisdom/thought
East = salvation/spirit
South = beginnings/purity
West = conclusions/fullness

And here's mine:
North: (air) joyful creativity, inspiration, turning ideas into reality
East: (water) family/marriage
South: (earth) prosperity, employment opportunities, making ends meet
West: (fire) health & wellness, nourishment (physical & spiritual)

My number one intention is always to live with more presence and mindfulness and I chose for the center pictures which reflected or represented my spiritual core values. Before I got to work on placement I did a bit of bibliomancy and opened to this passage from Stephen Mitchell's translation of the Tao Te Ching (what's written in the middle of the diamond):

In harmony with the Tao
the sky is clear and spacious,
the earth is solid and full,
all creatures flourish together,
content with the way they are,
endlessly repeating themselves,
endlessly renewed.

This was perfect! And it reminded me of "Simple Gifts" which is a song dear to me for its spiritual resonance:
Tis a gift to be simple
Tis a gift to be free
Tis a gift to come down where you ought to be
And when we find ourselves in a place just right
Twill be in the valley of love and delight
When true simplicity is gained'
To bow and to bend we shant be ashamed
To turn, turn will be our delight
Til by turning and turning we come round right

And I found a wonderful buddha picture that embodies this joyful, fluid, transformative, dancing, "going with the flow" energy I seek to cultivate within myself:

So let's start with the North point:

I didn't have a specific meaning in mind for that bird, but the image resonated with me. Maybe ideas taking flight. Freedom & joy in inspiration. Playful artistic expression. I loved the dude playing sax in the picture on the left--he looks like he's having such a good time. And music is definitely something I'd like to bring back into my life. On the right you see the pen & paper--gotta set my intention to devote more time and energy to writing. I chose words & phrases like "Fun" and "space and light" for this section because it is important for me to keep that association with creative work. Parts of the process bring up resistance and aren't so enjoyable and I tend to get weighed down by that. "Community" is a word that went up early and the only one placed at an angle. Reaching out to engage with others in creative and spiritual pursuits is definitely on the agenda, since I tend to be a loner too much. Well, except for my friendships that I cherish and enjoy! Working to improve community as a kind of social action is important to me as well. One of my dreams is to start a non-profit that brings mothers together to support one another in the postpartum period. Maybe the bird also represents rising above doubts--so often I shoot myself in the foot with my ideas before I give them the chance to take flight, discouraged by all the possible pitfalls and obstacles. It's time for some optimism.

Being an English-major type/word person, you can see my map is text heavy. I found a three stanza poem by Thich Nhat Hahn that fit nicely. For the north section I have:

Our True Heritage

The cosmos is filled with precious gems.
I want to offer a handful of them to you this morning.
Each moment you are alive is a gem,
shining through and containing earth and sky,
water and clouds.

And now the East:

Family & relationships were the main focus that evolved here. I started with the picture of the couple in the canoe. Loved that one as a representation of the energy I'd like to enrich my marriage--they are having such fun and sharing the work of keeping the boat afloat and moving along. Water is typically symbolic of emotions, and the stress of keeping up with life's tasks, fears about the future, resentment and anger over domestic squabbles can seriously undermine a relationship--tip the boat, so to speak. And this couple is clearly not getting swept up in the current and keen on one another to boot. Which brings me to the hope embodied in the picture of the older couple enjoying a walk together and my (playfully intentioned) words "happily ever after." Now I know it takes more than one person to make a relationship work, but my intention is to be mindful of the thoughts and feelings I hang onto which have the potential to escalate and sabotage things between my husband and myself. When things aren't going well or I get upset about something, I tend to become fatalistic, dwelling on thoughts that things will never work out, maybe we just aren't right for one another, etc. Such thinking does nothing to serve the relationship. So here's a reminder not to dwell, not to pout and brood, but to acknowledge, process, communicate my needs as appropriate, and most importantly, move on. I added the green buddha figure here (too shiny to see in the photo) which says, "May all beings be happy/beginning with you." As for the castle image--my family is my home and my source of strength. It is my deepest attachment in a world whose transitory nature is perfectly apparent to me. It is both my motivation and means for keeping centered. And the love I feel--both given and received--sustains me. While we can be open to evolve and flow with life's current, I want our togetherness to endure. (If my husband reads this he might be tempted to emit fake vomiting noises at my display of sentiment here.)

One last note about the other pictures in this section. My role as mother is perhaps the part of my life with which I feel most content. Not looking for a change there, but I did want to acknowledge motherhood since I want this by all means to continue, hence the picture with the mom's hand lovingly cradling the child's hands. Toward the top there are smaller pictures of a tree with the sunrise behind it and one with rows of those Russian dolls which fit inside one another. I chose these to represent my wish to find my first family. I'm an adult adoptee who started searching over ten years ago with no success so far and no hope of that changing. Since my son was born the need to know my roots has deepened--my missing family tree extends to him. How wonderful it would be to have some kind of breakthrough--maybe a law passed to open the records that are sealed by the state or finding someone with the inside information to get my mother's name.

Onto the West end:

This one was heavily influenced by a fantastic book I just read called The Yoga of Eating. I'm actually grateful for my quality of health but I'm always on the quest to eat better. This book helped me call the concept of "better" into question. Now my goal is to eat with mindful awareness, listening to my body's signals to choose foods which nourish me most. The funky lettuce leaf here is radiant with vitality, as I hope to be. The water drop (which is clearer in a picture above) serves as a reminder to maintain the health of my mind by treating my thoughts like ripples in still water, just letting them do their thing and not building them up by believing their stories. Interestingly, Traditional Chinese Medicine draws a direct connection between a busy/agitated mind and poor digestion and nutrient assimilation.

The autumn woodland scene at the top is a prompt to get out in nature more--an activity I love, especially living in such a beautiful place as we do here. And the garden below expresses my wish to overcome my black thumb and grow nourishing food and herbs. Other parents might appreciate the word "sleep" tagged on there--we could all use more of that!

Here the second verse of the Thich Nhat Hahn poem fits both East & West:

It needs you to breathe gently
for the miracles to be displayed.
Suddenly you hear the birds singing,
the pines chanting,
see the flowers blooming,
the blue sky,
the white clouds,
the smile and the marvelous look
of your beloved.

Finally the South corner:

Two perfect pictures for this one had me terribly excited. The first was the nest at the bottom--golden eggs with cash interspersed. Am I looking to get rich? No, but we hope to sustain our life here without continuing to rely on public assistance and the generosity of family. We are truly fortunate already because poverty in America is not what it is in so many places in the world, and we have more advantages than others (education, health, transportation, family support) to give us the means to turn things around. What would help is a little luck in throwing some viable opportunities our way--hence the Aces (also brings the tarot to mind--good energy for getting things started). The businessman walking toward the lighted door could be both me and my husband--we're both looking for the light at the end of the tunnel with regard to employment. Here I chose words and phrases carefully because we really crave work which doesn't make us crazy or go against our values. I barely endured four years of retail sales before Charlie came along, and I can't go back to that and be the mother I want to be. And we both feel strongly that full time daycare for him is not an option for us at this point.

The final stanza of the poem reads:

You, the richest person on Earth,
who have been going around begging for a living,
stop being the destitute child.
Come back and claim your heritage.
We should enjoy our happiness
and offer it to everyone.
Cherish this very moment.
Let go of the stream of distress
and embrace life fully in your arms.

That about sums it up. While taking this look at my hopes and wishes I found that acknowledging and expressing gratitude for what I have was an essential and vital part of the process. A large part of what I chose to ask for here is help remaining mindful and centered so I might appreciate the abundance of moments that so easily get overlooked and to be able to do my part to serve life by more fully being myself.

Here's to realizing dreams and positive changes in 2009!

At the Park

2009-02-25T18:39:00.000-05:00

Top 10 Parenting Books

2009-01-10T07:44:00.001-05:00

I'm a sucker for countdowns of this sort, and you tend to find all sorts of them with the end/beginning of the year. Plus, I've been a major slacker with this blog, so it is about time I posted. So, if you are shopping for yourself or another parent-to-be, here's my take on the best of the overwhelming glut of parenting books on the market. (Not that I've read them all, and my biases are clearly evident.)

#10--The Baby Book by William and Martha Sears
I almost took this one off the list. For one, this article makes some excellent points. Also, the idea of seeking advice from the dominant male doctor parenting "guru" (formerly Spock, now Sears) was deservedly scoffed by Jean Liedloff in The Continuum Concept. But this encyclopedic tome was co-authored with his wife Martha, and no one can deny that their parenting experience is impressive. With loads of information about infant development, this one's a reliable reference which I found myself turning to again and again when I found myself questioning, "Is this normal?"

#9--The No Cry Sleep Solution by Elizabeth Pantley
Gotta have a sleep book, right? And this one has loads of gentle techniques for the Attachment-minded parent to get more sleep without resorting to the unsavory cry-it-out method. (Told you my biases would be clear.) I'm a firm believer that sleep is more a product of a child's unique temperament and physiology than anything else, and I have to admit that nothing I tried produced the holy grail of sleeping through the night. Frankly, I moved to a place of acceptance regarding my restless co-sleeper a long time ago, but if you're looking to feel in control and "do something" about your child's sleep, there's plenty in here to try, and a lot of solid information about sleep in general.

#8--Learning All the Time (or anything else) by John Holt
My plan is for unschoolers to take over the world. Seriously though, John Holt is a wonderful advocate for children's rights to respectful treatment and honoring their independent thinking. Whether or not we choose to homeschool, as parents we are our children's first and most influential teachers, and Holt's child-led approach is the best foundation for a vibrant and inspired life of learning.

#7--Unconditional Parenting by Alfie Kohn
This one's more for theory than practice, inspiration rather than action. Kohn makes a strong case against behaviorist models of parenting (think carrot/stick or gold stars/time outs), arguing that punishments and rewards lead children to focus on how their behavior affects themselves, versus others. He offers a framework for an alternative way to work with our children, rather than doing things to them. This one's already moved to "classic" status, influencing some of the more recent books out there.

#6--Everyday Blessings: The Inner Work of Mindful Parenting by Jon and Myla Kabat-Zinn
Parenting and family relationships in general have been for me the most powerful center for spiritual growth. Even if you aren't a Buddhist, you'll find here the motivation to slow down and take the time to be present and deeply engaged with your child, which is nourishing and rewarding in itself.

#5--The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding by LLLI
This is the one book I wish I had read before my son was born. It's the standard introduction to breastfeeding and reference for solving basic, common nursing issues. As many families come to understand, breastfeeding is more than a feeding choice; it is easily a style of parenting in itself, encompassing sleep, discipline, nutrition, lifestyle and more, which you'll find expanded upon in this book.

#4--The Natural Child by Jan Hunt
The heart of Jan Hunt's parenting philosophy might well be her "Golden Rule" of parenting: "Treat your child as you would like to be treated if you were in the same position." I find her insightful essays to be a source of inspiration and reaffirmation of my parenting values. You can read a bunch of them and many others also here at The Natural Child Project.

#3--Naturally Healthy Babies and Children by Aviva Jill Romm
An essential tool to educate yourself and support your child's health and wellness, it is my go-to book for herbal recipes to battle congestion, alleviate the crankies, etc. Aviva Romm's books are a huge help in learning to trust the body's wisdom and healing process.

#2--How to Talk So Your Kids Will Listen and Listen So Your Kids Will Talk By Adele Faber and Elaine Mazlish
A classic for good reason, this book was an enormous help to me when I was teaching young people of various ages. Drawing upon principles of nonviolent communication and active listening techniques, the book is full of specific strategies for engaging cooperation, resolving conflicts and fostering healthy and loving family relationships based on mutual respect. The cartoon examples throughout make it easy to glean and revisit the ideas when you are short on time and attention span (as many parents so often are!).

#1--Raising Our Children, Raising Ourselves by Naomi Aldort
I have to admit that this is the most recent book of this sort that I've read, but it quickly became my favorite. Aldort's psychology shows a strong Buddhist influence, not in the religious sense, but in terms of stepping back from judging our children's behaviors as "good" or "bad" (there's an acknowledged anti-behaviorism solidarity with Kohn here) and granting our children space to experience life in their own terms and process their emotions with support from us if needed but certainly without our active "management." So many parenting books offer philosophies that seem so simple, yet we find ourselves falling short of our parenting ideals again and again. Aldort's S.A.L.V.E. formula is a useful tool in understanding and changing our patterns of reacting to behaviors we find bothersome. The first step she advises is for us to stop and be mindful of the initial script that starts running--a script which is heavily influenced by our culture, our own childhood experiences and (mostly irrational) fears. Once we let go of that and give ourselves a little reality check, we can connect with our child in the present moment and respond with mindfulness and intention, often employing that good stuff from book #2 above. At first glance, one might think she advocates a lax, child-centered approach veering on permissiveness, but in fact she's clear on the point that we aren't here to tailor circumstances and our responses so that our children feel or act "good" all the time. Rather, by learning to accept and "be with" our children's anger and sadness, they are more likely to move through their feelings and let them go instead of escalating into more socially unacceptable behaviors. When children are respected as individuals instead of coerced or manipulated so that their behavior meets our (and society's) expectations, they are more likely to respect others in turn. Makes perfect sense to me.

Great day for America!

2008-11-05T09:19:00.000-05:00

My literacy narrative (class assignment)

2008-10-18T20:49:00.001-04:00

Search for the reason that bids you write; find out whether it is spreading out its roots in the deepest places of your heart, acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write. This above all—ask yourself in the stillest hour of your night: must I write?

--Rilke

In the cause of silence, each of us draws the face of her own fear—fear of contempt, of censure, or some judgment, or recognition, of challenge, of annihilation… We can learn to work and speak when we are afraid in the same way we have learned to work and speak when we are tired. For we have been socialized to respect fear more than our own needs for language and definition, and while we wait in silence for the luxury of fearlessness, the weight of that silence will choke us.

--Audre Lorde

One morning, about a week before this class began, I woke from a dream of eggs and spider webs. My son was on my back in the Ergo carrier and we carefully navigated crowded aisles at a farmer’s market. I remember seeing eggplant of various colors and sizes and round white mushrooms. In wide, flat wooden bins there was a mess of broken eggs and empty egg cartons and a few whole cartons left which people were scrambling to take for themselves. “But that’s the reason we’re here!” I pleaded, “I need those to feed my family.” As happens in dreams, my upset and the scene itself was redirected into a small, wood paneled, dormitory-style room. There was a loft space with a twin sized bed and a desk against the opposite wall. Cobwebs and dried leaves and dust had accumulated in thick layers everywhere. This was a place I had occupied before and I was delighted to be there again and to share it with my son. I grabbed a broom and enthusiastically started sweeping away the debris.

Nearly ten years ago I walked away from a potential career in academia and left a Master’s degree incomplete. A period of intense personal growth bled into intense personal crisis. At the start, my plan had been to follow my M.A. with a Ph.D. in English and to teach at the university level. After three years of engaging in graduate study with a devoted and inspiring faculty, working with an intelligent, seasoned, and patient counselor, and teaching English Composition—an experience of immeasurable value—I was no longer the same person. I had broken open. And I had no idea who I was exactly or what I wanted to do with myself.

I had identified myself as a writer since I was ten. This was not simply something one does, but something one is. Reading and writing came early and easily to me, and books were a central preoccupation for as long as I can remember. When I wasn’t reading I was daydreaming. Writing was daydreaming on paper. The worlds inside books and my own imagination held far more interest than what was happening around me. At my high school graduation party folks asked, “What are you going to college to become?” My response: a writer. “Oh, there’s no money in that. You should be a teacher.” I refused to entertain the possibility. I chose creative writing for a concentration, not secondary education. The books I loved provided glimpses of a larger truth which remained altogether hidden. Issues of employment and financial security were pedestrian concerns tied to a world that was empty of inherent meaning. I read poetry and philosophy. I hungered for epiphanies. I was a writer.

And school, however distasteful at times, provided a safety net—I could hold off the advances of the real world for a time. The transition to college had been difficult; it took several semesters for me to understand how to write (and think) in the form required for success. My mind worked in intuitive flashes. Supporting my insights and conclusions with specific details and examples initially felt like stating the obvious or being redundant somehow. The first time I “got it” was in a paper for Studies in Poetry on Plath’s “Tulips.” The professor, who knew me from Understanding Poetry the previous semester, confessed his pleasant surprise that I was not “just another B.” Once I learned the format, writing papers felt like an empty exercise; explicating poems line by line, word-by-word didn’t say anything important about the great works of literature I read. For most papers I chose one of a few topics outlined by the professor and filled in the requisite blanks with close reading examples to support the argument. Occasionally my argument would start to unravel; I could see flaws, but I had to go on through to the conclusion, even if I saw it as relative to other possibilities of interpretation which held equal value. It was bullshit, and I learned how to shovel well enough to get by.

Creative writing, on the other hand, meant something to me. The writing classes themselves were challenging because it was my habit to write only when in the mood, when feeling inspired. When the lightning storm of words hit, I’d ground as much as possible with pen and paper. Through these years I carried around a three-subject, 5x7” Mead notebook in order to catch the words when they came to me. Writing poetry or fiction on demand for assignments was harder, but still more play than work. As to whether or not my writing was any good, I certainly had doubts. I fretted that I wasn’t prolific—weren’t writers supposed to spend a lot more time writing? But when the visions came, when the firestorms struck, I was compelled to respond.

I remember wishing that instead of the standard argument papers I could respond to the literature I was reading through fiction or poetry—trying on the styles and idioms, showing a taste for the language in which I was immersed in my classes. It was my inclination to think in fiction or poetry; it felt like a more natural way for me to reveal my complex understanding of the texts we read. Only once in my undergraduate years did I attempt to substitute fiction for an expository essay assignment. With the professor’s permission I wrote a response fable to Thurber’s “The Moth and the Star.” It was a playful story which articulated more than I would have been capable of explaining in thesis, development, conclusion form.

After graduation, once I had some distance from school, I found myself delving into books and writers of interest, free to savor words, images and story without the nagging imperative of critical analysis. I also devoured children’s books, which rekindled the passion for reading I had known as a child. With ample solitude and no need to divert my energy into schoolwork, I wrote more than ever: poems which had music to them and a deeper resonance of meaning than any work I’d done before. In time I wanted to share my work, to discuss what I was reading and to get feedback in order to grow as a writer. And I was flunking at the business of making a living, forced to move back with my parents. So back to school with me; by seeking to become a college professor I could shelter myself in that environment indefinitely.

The two courses which initiated my graduate study were a dramatic change from my experience as an undergraduate at the same school. Multicultural Literacies with Dr. Courts and Trans-forming Writers with Dr. Burke introduced me to the concepts like marginalization and discourse and (dis)empowerment. Words like this with significant slashes, hyphens and parenthesis. For Dr. Burke’s class we read Audre Lorde’s essay “The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action” and the broader, political relevance of literacy—furthering our own and opening the door for others—was revealed to us. We were on fire, determined to speak out and champion all underdogs. The impact was long lasting for me; years later I came across a bumper sticker which read “Your Silence Will Not Protect You” and it remains on my car today. In both classes we were co-creators of knowledge; we wrote weekly responses to our reading assignments, and shared these with one another in class, working to further contextualize and deepen our understanding through a variety of collaborative exercises and discussions. We looked at writers breaking free of traditional definitions of form and structure, writing across genre or in unique, innovative styles. I was thrilled by Susan Griffin’s essay-as-poetry/poetry-as-essay Woman and Nature. It struck me as bold. You can do that? For both classes I wrote cross-genre paper/projects, weaving poetry and argument, fiction and exposition. Writing for class in this way was intimidating; I worried about compromising the A I had worked so hard for. And I needed those A’s if I were to have any chance of being accepted into a Ph. D. program. To be “just another B” would mean failure.

In a dream I found myself visiting my high school. The music instructor invited me to sit in and play oboe during band practice. “It’s been so long,” I said, “I don’t know if I can play.” It will come back, he assured me like riding a bike. I sat awkwardly between young students and stumbled through scales and warm ups. But as the first song was underway, my fingers and breath remembered what to do and I forgot myself, became open to the music, a voice joining with other voices, rising, merging into something larger, something of beauty.

Outside the conference room in Fenton Hall I waited for my interview for the only teaching assistantship available. I glanced in through the narrow window in the door and saw the row of white bearded professors with stern expressions on their faces, and a young woman’s crisp blonde bob from the back. I don’t belong here pounded in my mind and I struggled with the physical compulsion to run out of the building, when Dr. Burke came down the stairwell nearby. “You’ll do great,” she assured me. No escape. She had recommended me and I couldn’t let her down. My competition walked out and I read a worried look in her face. Gulp. Here goes. I sat down. Dr. Courts was serious and detached. Dr. Shokoff remembered me from undergraduate classes and he was lukewarm, inquiring. Dr. Mosher (the only one without a beard or white hair) and Dr. Ramsey were the others. Both were friendly but little comfort since I didn’t know them. After introductions I was asked what my interest in the position was. I explained I was planning to follow graduate work here with a Ph. D. in English and that I wanted to teach at the college level, share my love of reading and writing with others, or something to that effect. Next question was what I planned to do with the class. I stumbled through a joke about writing a theme on what we did last summer. Where did that come from? They laughed! Oh my god, I actually broke the tension with a joke? I surprised myself with more eloquence--carefully considered ideas fluently detailed. I was almost poised. Who was this person? By the end we were a relaxed bunch talking over topics of mutual interest. How did that happen? And I was hardly surprised later when I received notification that the job was mine.

I remember reading either in Jung or Joseph Campbell about a tribe (somewhere in Central or South America I think) who spent most of their lives isolated from one another, in solitude. They cultivated a relationship with a “great man” whom they were partially conscious of as the higher part of themselves—a part of but somehow apart from—divine, worshipped. I think of this interview as my initial encounter with my own great woman. Teaching especially fostered this gift, with these moments in which “I” am not consciously at the steering wheel and what comes out of me is better than I could have planned or expected. And I don’t know how it happens, except that it is preceded by a terrible case of the nerves and many, many deep breaths. Before walking into the classroom for the first time as Teacher, I wrestled with heart palpitations and nearly hyperventilated. I was certain the curious eyes of the twenty-five students sitting in neat little rows could detect the uncertain shake in my step, the edge of panic in my voice. I clung to my copy of the syllabus like a floatation device. But I found that calm space within, and it grew over the semester, grew over the many years since—a wellspring of trust and confidence I never could have imagined I’d find.

Another central component of my experience in graduate school was regular sessions with Susan at the Counseling Center. Periods of depression had left spotty marks on my undergraduate transcripts, and I was determined to insure my success against the threat of emotional instability. Early during my second year we broached the subject of my being adopted. To me it seemed too obvious—a textbook reason behind “issues.” Feelings of low self worth, symptoms matching that of posttraumatic stress disorder, stem from being placed for adoption—experiencing abandonment, identity confusion, holding on to repressed grief. Sure! That made sense intellectually, but I doubted the relevance; I felt no connection. Susan handled this with tremendous patience and delicacy. Pandora’s box was inched open. I wrote to the infant home where I was born and received what little non-identifying information was legally permitted by the state of New York. The ghostlike presence of my first parents now had form: they were nineteen-year-old college students, athletic, musical. They had brothers and sisters. My hands shook as I read these papers again and again, slowly comprehending that the name at the top—Barbra Jean—was referring to me. My birth, and the four months I was cared for by the nuns at Our Lady of Victory were embodied in that name. It was an earthquake, a foundation shift. By holiday break I started smoking for the first time in my life; I dreamt of a mysterious, dark-haired, sorceress woman hiding in the library stacks and a baby locked in the trunk of my car. Some days I would return from school and stand paralyzed at my apartment door, certain the floor inside had caved into an abyss.

I managed to keep it together well enough through my last semester. I now understood why some troubled people throw themselves into work—it was an escape from my own mind—stable ground. My perfect A’s remained untarnished. A course in Literary Theory which surveyed ideas from Plato through Foucault and contemporary approaches, filled in the gaps of my spotty and often erroneous understanding of philosophy, challenged me to read and think at a higher critical level, pushed me beyond my current, already tenuous boundaries of thought and perception. Up until this point I read (unconsciously) as an idealist/transcendentalist—hungry for some truth I suspected was out there, spiritually fed by each particular visionary glimpse in this or that text. But as I gained consciousness, that ground eroded like the floor in my apartment. DUH! —God was dead, only this time god was an essentialist approach to language and meaning. So now what? Why read? And, as we explored in the essay by Sartre, Why write?

I was driving fast, careening perilously around sharp bends on a city highway. Police sirens screamed behind me. It was an exhilarating ride, and I steered with ease, unafraid of losing control. When I saw my car heading toward the edge of a broken bridge I was more thrilled than terrified. I was flying.

My writing for class vacillated between creative multi-genre pieces and your standard argument papers, but with the latter I started having the tiniest bit of fun, writing a playful indictment of the bloodless prose of Brave New World and 1984, for one class, and another tongue-in-cheek consideration of arguments about the sexual orientation of Carson McCullers, concluding that she was more confused than anything. For one of my favorite classes, a look at Thoreau and others writing in his tradition, I wrote an essay which had a deep personal connection. Looking at the relationship between nature and emotional healing in works by Terry Tempest Williams and Gretel Ehrlich, I connected my own experiences in the form of creative non-fiction segments sandwiched between my discussion of the texts.

Writing for myself—journaling, poetry writing—dried up and ceased over the course of the three years I was in graduate school. The firestorms weren’t coming. In a video of Audre Lorde giving a writing workshop, she tells students, “Don’t wait for inspiration.” This was a lesson I knew from Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones, a text that informed my own teaching of writing. Writing and thinking are distinct, separate processes. To cultivate good writing, you need to write and write and write, even when you aren’t in the mood, even when what comes out seems like total junk. Creating and editing are processes best kept separate—get the down draft down, keep going, then come back later with your editing cap on, then lather, rinse repeat as needed. But now lines of writing were thwarted before I could get them down on paper. No that’s crap. Where are you going with that? Not going to work. Too sentimental. Insipid. Etc. My mind was in critical thinking hyper-drive; I could not stifle those voices long enough to produce anything to work with. This is where I fail and manage to frustrate myself—even today, I cannot disentangle my editing mind from my thoughts as I sit to write.

And it wasn’t much better when I worked on papers for class. Writing was often an excruciatingly constipated process, with handwritten paragraphs strewn about the table, some to be developed, some to be tossed. As I plunged into my topic, the arguments would unravel and expose new directions; I’d find myself gripped in the tension of holding on to my intended focus and surrendering to the change in perspective which unfolded. Finally, the commander-in-chief inside me would declare, “We’re done,” and I would assemble and polish what I had to put together at that point. It was exhausting, draining work. It felt irrelevant, artificial.

By what was supposed to be my final semester, the impact of that speeding car doomed to crash was finally felt. I was attempting to write my thesis, teach my usual two sections of comp, complete and submit my applications to Ph. D. programs and take two unneeded courses so I could maintain my teaching assistant income. And I was knee-deep in an emotion-saturated search for my birth family. Unraveling we shall go.

Constipation was an understated metaphor for what happened at this time. Laryngitis is a better diagnosis. It wasn’t just my thesis—the Statement of Purpose essay for the graduate applications left me strangled each time I sat down to give it a whirl. Why did I want to pursue a career in academia? Sure, I want to teach at the college level, but that was only part of the package. Publish or perish, baby. What was it I thought I needed to add to the great conversation? I was no longer sure why I was reading and writing anymore; the driving hunger was gone. This tension was bound up in my failure to get off the ground with my thesis writing. Unlike papers for classes, which despite personalized touches, still largely felt like exercises, my thesis was, well, mine. It was supposed to mean something, and I was supposed to seek some form of publication with it. Again and again, I sat in front of the computer and was stymied, tongue-tied. My thoughts were jumbled. erratic, and it was hard to sit still physically in one place very long, much less settle the inner turmoil in order to think clearly. Sure, it didn’t help that I was overworked and emotionally strung out and utterly exhausted. But no amount of cigarettes could overcome the anxiety of groundlessness when I sat face to face with a blank page. My convictions had unraveled—what was the point? Despite my hesitations, I managed to complete a blasé purpose statement and sent applications off to three schools. But when the rejection letters finally arrived, I reacted with relief rather than disappointment.

My doubts had been fueled by observations of the sheer delight my professors took in their work—not just teaching, but their academic pursuits. Dr. Burke was thrilled to be writing the introduction for the republication of Pilot’s Wife by H.D. Dr. Steinberg, who taught the Medieval Romance course I failed to complete that final semester, practically floated up the stairs to his office after class. “If they knew how much I loved my job, they’d never pay me!” he remarked. He was ebullient when he spoke of an upcoming project in which he would have access to some rare, old texts; he spoke with longing about the sensory textures and delicacy in handling these documents. Their enthusiasm reflected back to me my own distaste for academic work. I never wanted to study any particular topic in such depth, to be an expert in the field of... My love for literature was based predominately in a quest to better understand myself and to explore questions like what does it mean to be human? What is life for? What is a life well lived? Etc. But this was old fashioned, naive and irrelevant in the postmodern culture of academia today.

Finally, I found myself with no writing to share with Dr. Burke for a meeting at her office. She expressed concern that I might not make it in a Ph.D. program without being able to write copiously on demand. I shocked myself by bursting in tears. I had to confront my failure to write and the implications she addressed. For three years I’d clung to a future I was now realizing was not right for me. If I wasn’t going to be a professor, what was there for me to do? How would I now define myself? Or make a living in any meaningful way? The fear was overwhelming. Being a college professor would be a mark of success and worthiness. I am somebody. And despite the competition, there was hope of a sustainable income, a stable life. What was I supposed to do with myself now? To step away was somewhat liberating, but mostly terrifying.

I waited in line to meet Joyce Carol Oates after her reading on the University of Buffalo campus. She peered at me quizzically from behind her large glasses as I explained that I had no book but just wanted to let her know how much I enjoyed her writing, which was often so vivid and intense I sometimes reacted viscerally while reading. “Ugh, so do I,” she laughed. “Are you a writer?” she asked. Uh. Ummm. Not really. I shrugged. Shame pooled in my stomach. “You look like a writer,” she said, “Especially around the eyes.” I floated out of the building and over the next few weeks and months.

But who was I kidding? I wasn’t a writer—I wasn’t writing. Constipation. Laryngitis. Nothing was coming out. But was it the end of the world? Maybe I could live without it; maybe writing was just a phase—something I did when I was young enough to entertain illusions about myself.

What did I want? Closing one door meant I could open any of my choosing. Where was my Jungian libido, that bliss Joseph Campbell advised us to follow? The only thing that surfaced for me was an interest in moving to the southwest. I spent ten days alone driving around Arizona, Utah and New Mexico, a deeply nourishing and revitalizing experience. As I de-schooled, I opened up to various interests: herbs and natural healing, children’s literature, Buddhism. Reading about adoption introduced me to theory about human attachment, which led me to books like Joseph Chilton Pearce’s Magical Child, which sparked an interest in natural birth and bonding, years before becoming a parent myself. Poetry and “literary” literature fell to the wayside, and attempts to write became more infrequent. I might wake from a dream and run through lines and images of a story fresh and alive in my mind, but when I picked up a pen the vision faded and the words were garbled. It wasn’t happening. I gave up my identification with being a writer. Instead I married one. It took years to dissolve the lump in my throat when I responded no to the question, “Are you a writer too?”

Sometime during the middle of my son’s first year I struck up a correspondence with an old friend, someone who had been a kind of spiritual mentor to me. I found myself looking forward to hearing from her, not only to read what was going on in her life, but for the chance to sit down and write. I’d save snippets of thoughts and ideas, and once there was opportunity for a break from attending to my son’s needs, I’d let myself get lost in writing for a while, finding clarity, confirmation and a kind of breathing space for my inner world. So much of my daily life involves Sisyphean tasks: preparing meals to be eaten immediately, washing dishes and clothes that quickly pile up again, endless diaper changes. As a mother, so much of my work is unappreciated and undervalued by our society: sitting for hours nursing my child, engaging in activities or just being together—nothing is accomplished, nothing directly produced, so there is an invisibility to the art of mothering. So I overcame my introvert’s social reservations to meet regularly with other mothers at La Leche League meetings and mother/child groups. I subscribe to magazines like Mothering, Hip Mama and Brain, Child and post on local and international web forums for mothers. We share our experiences, voice our perspectives and above all else, validate one another. Speaking out has never been so important to me—a matter of survival. Sharing with others is a way to create and affirm meaning in a life which might otherwise become oppressive with insignificance. So I started a blog—perhaps the cliché thing to do these days, but it has been productive and fun. I began with a story of my son’s birth. And writing, now shed of dependence upon the illusion of inspiration, no longer intended to meet the demands and expectations of others, is now a vehicle to explore my thoughts, to discover what my experience means to me, to reflect upon my life, to give it a ground, to infuse the mundane with spiritual sustenance.

This is a beginning for me, and I am cautious about avoiding expectations. If I consider myself a writer now, it is only with a small w, not capitalized or italicized, and the title is only relevant as long as I am actively engaged in the writing process. It is something I do, not who I am. As my voice opened and I felt more comfortable writing, the possibility of completing my degree, which I could not have imagined until a few months ago, came into focus. A mama friend teaches composition at AB Tech and finds the schedule works well with family life. Sounded good to me. So I made some contacts and found that I only needed to take one class and transfer it back in order to graduate. And here I am. The writing hasn’t been easy, but the biggest challenge is carving out time to step away from my son and all my responsibilities. But in making this commitment I am taking steps not only toward a much-needed source of income, but also to nourish and renew myself. And that is a habit worth cultivating.

Apologies

2008-09-28T09:38:00.000-04:00

In case I have any returning readers out there, sorry for the lack of posts. Any time for thinking, reading & writing has been directed to school work. I'll make an effort to post more than once a month though!

Review--The Snow Leopard

2008-09-27T21:31:00.001-04:00

THE SNOW LEOPARD by Jackie Morris

I picked this up during our library visit last week. It's the sort of thing I'm drawn to: a story set in the Himalayas is likely to have spiritual overtones which resonate with me. And this one exceeded my expectations.
The illustrations are lush with mood and emotion. They evoke a melancholy which transcends mere sentiment, a quiet sadness rooted in an awareness of suffering and the transitory nature of life.
The text was no disappointment either. The mythic and haunting nature of this story is accented by the dreamy, poetic prose, rich with sensory details. The complex, densely imaged phrasing did not capture Charlie's attention for long, but I imagine at a later stage in development he will be captivated as I was by the breathtaking and lovingly crafted words and images in this book.

A Dream & Anticipation

2008-08-09T09:02:00.000-04:00

In my final cat-nap stretch of sleep before crawling (literally--our current co-sleeping bed arrangement is funky) out of bed this morning I had a vivid dream. Charlie and I were at a little farmer's market. I think he was on my back in the Ergo. There were eggplants of all shapes and sizes, ranging from the usual dark purple to lavender/white in color. And I think there were mushrooms growing here and there. Many people were crowding around the wooden bins where the eggs were. There was a mess of broken eggs and empty cartons. We were there especially to buy eggs and I was upset when some folks grabbed the last bunch. "I need them to feed my family!" I pleaded. I don't remember the exact resolution of this part--as dreams go we were moved into a dormitory type room with a wood-framed bunk/loft type bed. It was a small space--all wood paneling, and filled with debris like dried leaves, mushrooms, cobwebs, bugs, etc. It was somewhere I had stayed before and I was excited about being there and sharing it with Charlie, and I eagerly picked up a broom and vigorously began sweeping away the webs and clutter. I woke up with a good feeling.

Even without the online dream dictionary (here's one to check out), it was easy for me to understand this one. After nearly ten years I am going back to school to complete my Master's degree in English. When I left the program I had two incompletes and an unwritten thesis, and I was in a difficult place emotionally, having opened the door to search for my birth family and dealing with some powerful feelings which surfaced. I also had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. While applying to Ph. D. programs that final semester, I realized my motivation for a career in academia was driven by a need for external validation (college professor=worthy/valuable person) rather than a love for the work itself. Truth is, my real motivation to read and learn was not about love for the work of interpreting literature, but to better understand myself and my place in the world. I hated writing papers; the critical part of my mind went into hyper-drive and writing was an excruciatingly constipated process. In fact, this blog is the first time I've been able to enjoy writing in all these years. In school, despite a progressive-minded department, I could not write freely and creatively for myself; instead, I needed to meet specific criteria, and do so well enough to merit the almighty A. Now I'm a lifelong unschooler and much happier.

For a time my mind was in a lachrymose haze, unable to complete a coherent paragraph, much less write the papers to finish my degree. And soon I was overly preoccupied with making a living; we were dirt poor and needed to get on our feet financially. I almost went back to school while we lived in New Mexico--both jobs I had there required teaching certification, but I just couldn't afford the tuition. And we got the itch to move back east, where I worked my way up the ladder in retail and Shad enrolled at UNCA to finish his degree. Then came Charlie. School was nowhere on the map.

Once in a while I thought about looking into completing the degree. I assumed it would be more work and more money than I would be able to manage. I even revisited my thesis research to see if writing it might be a viable option, but the idea was overwhelming, and I'm no longer the same person who started that project, so how could I finish it now with any coherency?

While it wasn't something I would brag about, I was at peace with the situation. After all, lacking the piece of paper did not mean I lacked the education. My time in grad school, coupled with my experience teaching, was invaluable--as painful as that time was, it was essential to the process of finding myself and becoming a secure and more confident person. I had no regrets, even without the formal closure of a diploma in hand.

Then through toddler fun I met Jessica, who encouraged me to look into teaching at the local community college where she is an adjunct in the English Department--a flexible job in which she managed to avoid expensive child care for her son. I loved teaching, and found myself with enough motivation to inquire about completing my degree. I only need one class, which I can take here and transfer to my alma matter for credit.

So it's all coming together, and I'm a bit surprised by how excited I am to be clearing out those dusty cobwebs inside myself and steering my life in a new direction (eggs) which I had not anticipated. The mess with the eggs in my dream likely reflects my anxiety over getting registered at the last minute--I've called admissions more than once to make sure there is no glitch holding up my entry in the system. I'm not one who likes to wait until the last minute, and I'm concerned that the class I want might be full. But these issues should be resolved this week. And the presence of the vegetables just confirms for me that this change will be a nourishing one.

What a pleasant feeling to have these images floating around my mind and to detect an almost crisp quality to the air this morning, and to notice some leaves gathering at the trunk of the Ash Maple in the backyard--suggesting that autumn will be here before long, and change is good.

Barefoot Books Open House

2008-08-03T14:50:00.000-04:00

Thank you to the four wonderful women who made it to my open house on August first. It was nice to visit with each of you. This is a busy time of year for people, so hopefully we'll get a better turn out next time.
For any local folks who are interested in ordering books or earning free books by hosting a party, please email me (kristinLmarsh@gmail.com)! And for anyone who stumbles upon this blog who would like to learn more about these lovely books, please click on the button on the left.

Review--Sensational Meditation for Children

2008-07-25T16:31:00.001-04:00

SENSATIONAL MEDITATION FOR CHILDREN by Sarah Wood Vallely

Last week Charlie and I had the pleasure of attending a party at our friend Sarah's home to celebrate the release of her book. It was a well-attended, family friendly event, with a fun castle-shaped bounce house, and fantastic food. I met Sarah when she gave a presentation on meditation at Stroller Club last summer, and a few months later I saw her work with a group of young children at a children's health event hosted by my chiropractor friend. Remembering how engaged the children were, I was eager to read her book to learn more.

Sarah's writing reflects her years of experience, solid background knowledge and her love for working with children. There's plenty of information here to develop a good understanding of the various purposes and benefits of meditation for anyone, and children in particular. With your appetite whetted, she then presents detailed, easy to follow, step-by-step instructions for a variety of child-friendly meditation exercises. These sound like a lot of fun, with titles like 'Fudge Swirl," "Inside Friends," and "The Happy Tree." I especially liked the way the meditations are grouped thematically in chapters titled Clearing My Mind, Healing My Body, Renewing Spirit, and Finding Out Who I Am. Woven throughout are specific suggestions and exercises to connect with your child and ways to make the most of the meditation experience through art and writing, among other ideas. The final chapter offers guidelines and inspiration for creating your own meditations.

This book is a great tool for parents, educators and anyone working to connect with children, to help them open their minds and souls to possibility and higher self-awareness, and not least of all, their imaginations! Please go to Sara's website to purchase her book and to learn more: http://www.sarahwood.com/

Review--The Breastfeeding Cafe

2008-07-19T13:56:00.001-04:00

THE BREASTFEEDING CAFE by Barbara L. Behrmann
May be enjoyed by nursing moms, moms-to-be and anyone interested in cultural issues surrounding breastfeeding and motherhood.

This is one title I picked up with birthday money (thanks Gram!), and it was hard to choose, with dozens of books on my "save for later" space in my Amazon.com checkout cart. What an enjoyable read! With a structure intended to reflect a conversation among mothers, Behrmann skillfully weaves together a myriad of voices from a wide range of cultural, economic and educational backgrounds, from women who have nursed children through age five and beyond and others who were unable to breastfeed due to medical issues or lack of information and support. She describes her intention with this format: "Telling our stories is an act of power, of taking control of our own life, of helping other women in theirs. It is, above all, a starting point. My hope is that the stories in The Breastfeeding Cafe will give women the courage and permission to dispel myths, reveal secrets, and be honest." (292) There is both vibrant emotional connection and thought-provoking academic perspective. Pretty much every conceivable aspect of the topic is touched upon. The last chapter, "Where Do We Go From Here?" will rouse your inner lactivist: she clearly outlines specific societal changes needed to improve breastfeeding success in America--things like mother/baby friendly care for birth and the postpartum, better education for health care providers (whose ignorance is frequently responsible for sabotaging nursing relationships), truly family-friendly labor policies, including an actual paid maternity leave, and other actions the need for which is well documented within her collection of narratives. Inspiring.

In Breast We Trust

2008-07-09T10:35:00.000-04:00

Recently, I had one of those uneasy conversations which played over and over again in my mind afterward, and I wish I could go back and edit my response. A well meaning person asked, in genuine curiousity and without intended criticism, if my son would be able to develop self-soothing behaviors and coping mechanisms as long as he was "placated" at the breast whenever he was upset. I stumbled through a defensive response, citing arguments for the psychological soundness of breastfeeding past infancy, how by age five most children will have a variety of internal coping mechanisms, and how children I know who were breastfed responsively have grown into very secure, indepentent individuals, etc.

It was the word placate which shook me. Sure, it was used innocently enough, but the connotation is one which in my mind evoked the image of me thrusting my breast into my son's mouth whenever he gets disagreeable. Here's something that will stop your whining--pop! There's also the suggestion of the s-word: spoiling. That by placating him with the breast I am allowing myself to be manipulated, or that I'm reinforcing my son's neediness by giving in to his demands by nursing him, as they say--on demand. Again, I don't suspect these notions were suggested by the questioner, but they are common assumptions in our bottle feeding, baby scheduling culture.

A more fitting response would have been to clarify that my son is not placated at my breast, he is nurtured. Nursing provides him not only optimal physical nourishment, but emotional sustenance. It is a safe haven for him, a place where he comes to center himself, to process his experiences and recharge his batteries. Unlike the child who may smirk with self-satisfaction once his manipulations have been rewarded with a formerly taboo object (the sweets he was whined for, as an example), the child soothed by nursing returns to his activity like one rising from meditation--calm, with focus and once again able to act from the better part of his nature.

Unlike anything I've ever experienced in my life, breastfeeding my son feels intenseley and inexpressively right. The urge to meet his needs this way is prompted from deep within and acted upon peacefully, without question, with no trace of hesitation or internal conflict. I imagine many moms who have responsively breastfed their little ones well into infancy and beyond touch upon this deep feeling of inherent rightness. This may be one inspiration behind lactivism and breastfeeding support efforts, just as I imagine a similar feeling inspires the natural birth movement. It's something which is extremely difficult to convey to those who have not experienced it.

Of course, I intended the title of this post as a little joke. It is not in the breast but our children in whom we need to place our trust. I have complete faith that in time Charlie will find other sources of emotional nourishment, other ways to center himself and cope with life's challenges. He learned to walk and talk. He wants to be able to do things for himself. He will wean. He will sleep through the night and someday he will even prefer his own space. Our time spent nursing may serve as a bedrock within him--evoking that place of safety, a deep well of comfort and love which he can always draw upon as needed.

Review--Wild About Books

2008-07-09T10:31:00.001-04:00

WILD ABOUT BOOKS by Judy Sierra, Illustrated by Marc Brown
May be enjoyed by children ages 18 months-- about 9 years

In the first major compromise of my parenting ideals, I bought a DVD for Charlie to watch: Chicka Chicka Boom Boom by Scholastic. What began as a cute infatuation with The Simpsons (Charlie would point to our DVDs of the series and shout, "Dooh!" his approximation of Homer's ubiquitous "D'oh!") sparked concern as Charlie grew more imitative. Not eager to see him grab a stuffed animal by the throat and growl, "Why you little..." I found an appropriate distraction with "Boom Boom." We both enjoyed the animated version of Wild About Books (one of seven stories on the disc), so I found a copy of the book.

Book lovers will especially appreciate this story, which involves a librarian bringing her bookmobile into a zoo and igniting a passion for reading and writing among the inhabitants. There is a dedication to Dr. Seuss on the last page, and the rhyme and meter evoke his style without being overly derivative. The writing and illustrations are playful in a way which makes you feel the artist and author found much pleasure in their work; there are little jokes and allusions peppered throughout which may be appreciated on various levels, such as waterproof Harry Potter books for the otters and a penguin scribbling, "The Iceman Cometh." My favorite part is when the insects write haiku, with the scorpion giving out "stinging" reviews: the dung beetle writes, "Roll a ball of dung--/Any kind of poo will do--/Baby beetle bed," to which the scorpion responds, "Stinks."

The illustrations are whimsical and engaging. Charlie loves the hippo who has a big grin from being awarded the "Zoolitzer Prize"--he will turn back to that page and look up at me with the silliest, squinty-eyed smile. This is one we will enjoy for quite a while.

Gorgeous Breastfeeding Video

2008-06-30T19:08:00.000-04:00

Many moods of popsicle eating

2008-06-26T12:59:00.000-04:00

The Birth of Charles Thelonious

2008-06-25T14:15:00.000-04:00

So, I'm a fairly voracious reader, and while I was pregnant I spent most of my free time devouring info online at places like Mothering.com or reading books like Birthing from Within, Spiritual Midwifery, etc. I knew years before getting pregnant that I wanted an unmedicated birth experience for myself and my baby, and I planned a home birth with New dawn Midwifery. My ideal vision was Leboyer inspired: to be in the dimply lit, calm, quiet, comforting space of home, perhaps staring at the trees outside the window while I drifted into labor land, and my son would make a peaceful transition from womb to world in water. And I accepted that it most likely would not happen as I expected--maybe the water wouldn't work for me, and who knew what manner of positioning or caterwauling would be needed in the process. I resolved to be open and my biggest concern was not the pain management, but surrendering control.

Having learned from my midwives and online sources like spinningbabies.com the difference fetal positioning can make in labor and birth, I began regular chiropractic care with Nancy who specialized in working with pregnant women. From 28 weeks along through the rest of my pregnancy I saw her twice a week. I took vitamins and fish oil supplements, Floradix when my iron count dropped, and drank strong infusions of pregnancy tea (red raspberry, nettle, etc.). Given my demanding work schedule I did not eat quite as well as I wanted, but I kept a pretty healthy diet. The one thing I didn't manage was regular exercise--I was simply too exhausted from work to take walks; I just wanted to lay down.

A change in management at my job tripled my already high stress levels, and that's my guess why my systolic pressure escalated in the last months of my pregnancy. (Testing for pre-eclampsia was negative.) Then, about two weeks before my estimated due date, I caught the worst flu I've ever had in my life. Nothing stayed in but saltine crackers--I could barely keep down water--for ten days or so. I lost five pounds was worried the baby was not getting enough nutrition. My husband fell ill too, and for a while our home was a disaster, our recovery was slow. I went on maternity leave and prepared for the arrival of my mom and sister and niece Emma. My blood pressure was still high, so the caution flags were raised.

Friday, December 15th 2006 was my due date--fairly meaningless in my opinion, since I never remembered the exact date of my last period. I'm preparing to leave for the airport when Jan from New Dawn calls to inform me that she had an ultrasound scheduled that afternoon. Because we were planning a home birth, the consulting OB wanted to be sure I didn't have a closet case of pregnancy induced hypertension. So I pick up my family and drop them off at my house with hugs and kisses and we'll catch up later and Shad and I speed off to Mission Hospital for the appointment. The first thing the technician says is that the baby was breech. I thought she was joking! He had been in a great position for months. But earlier that week I did have a strange and intensely painful sensation of pressure moving up my spine--that is probably when he flipped. And at that week's check up, Kirsten did have a harder time picking up his heartbeat, like it was not in the same place. So there we were--surprise breech and my fluid levels (which took the technician a good 20 minutes to measure) were low at 4--too low for the doctor to consider a version. We left with orders to return that evening for a non-stress test and were told the c-section would be done that evening or first thing in the morning. From this point I felt that things were set in motion and I was no longer at the wheel.

I was in shock, and I wanted to spend time with my family, so we went out for dinner. Emma was probably a little stir crazy from a long day of travel and she spilled her coke all over me. It was a welcome diversion--we all laughed. I just couldn't get my mind around the situation. I had done everything I could to prepare for a natural birth--I had been SO determined to NOT have a c-section. How could this be happening?

After dinner we went for the NST, and the baby was fine. I was having regular Braxton-hicks contractions, which I would have never felt if we hadn't watched the monitor. It was just a slight pressure--like a rubber band snapping but without any sting. I wasn't dialated or showing any signs of labor, so they sent us home with instructions to skip breakfast and be in by 6am to prep for surgery at 8.

I suppose I was just too stunned and still too drained from my illness to take action. I could have asked for more time to just see if he would turn despite the odds. Nancy would have been happy to perform the Webster-technique. I might have set up an acupuncture treatment--I knew about using moxa on the pinkie toes to turn breech babies. I could have even tried the breech tilt described in Birthing from Within. But instead, I sat there in a daze and surrendered to it. That's just where I was at the time.

Poor Shad was coping with shock himself--he had an hour of sleep that night at best. I managed to get in only about four hours. We were not prepared to be in the hospital, so we hastily threw a bag together and I armed Shad with a list of "demands" like no Hep B, no circ, no artificial nipples or supplements, breast only, etc. The fear of surgery was setting in and I fretted over how well I would bond with the baby, since plans for the optimal skin-to-skin and delayed cord clamping were out. But oddly I also felt peaceful--surrendering to the "accepting things I cannot change" part of the serenity prayer, and when Jan arrived she commented on how well I was handling things. Of course, part of it was that I was still numb, but part of me felt that this was somehow meant to be.

The staff at the hospital were considerate, and I liked Dr. Sherr who was to perform the surgery, especially when I found out his children were born at home. It felt like he was in my corner somehow.

Jan was assisting with the operation, and she held my hands as the spinal block was set up. I was terrified, but it was just a tiny prick and cold feeling, then nothing. The room was blazingly white--floors, walls, ceiling, everything, but there was some natural light, which I appreciated. I felt better once Shad was able to be at my side--he was freaking out a bit I'm sure, but he kept it together and was so sweet and supportive. Once things were underway I remember not feeling well. I must have reacted to the medication, and I'm pretty sure my BP crashed. Shad said I turned gray at one point.

We didn't know we could have a CD playing for the birth and there weren't any in the car which felt right to me, so I agreed to listen to a guitar lullaby one they had in the operating room. Right before Charlie entered the world the song "Simple Gifts" played--a song which is near and dear to my heart. "Tis a gift to be simple/tis a gift to be free/Tis a gift to come down where you ought to be/And when you find yourself in a place just right/Twill be in the valley of love and delight./When true simplicity is gained/To bow and to bend we shan't be ashamed/To turn, turn will be our delight/Til by turning and turning we come round right." I remember feeling so comforted and happy to have that spiritual tune welcome my little guy. (Although as I write this I'd say the turning bit is ironic!)

We heard an irate screech and Jan announced, "What a handsome little fellow!" and Charlie was held up over the curtain and Shad cut the cord. I could not move to get a good look at him, and it still saddens me that all I saw before they cleaned him up was an arm and a leg.

Shad asked if I needed him or if he should go be with Charlie, and I told him to go, absolutely! I wanted Charlie in his father's arms since he could not be in my own. It wasn't long before he was brought to me. I remember his little pursed lips opening and closing and wishing I could nurse him even though I wasn't sure how. I felt so helpless with my arms in restraints and unable to move. But I spoke to him and could not take my eyes off him. Those moments are fuzzy in my recollection--these intense shakes started and I didn't feel fully present in my own skin for some time. Somehow I did have the presence of mind to request that our placenta be kept for us, so we could plant it later to honor Charlie and this special time we shared in one body.

We settled down in recovery and despite my continuing convulsions, Jan and the nurse managed to get Charlie latched on for his first of countless nursing sessions. Soon my mom and sister came in to see him. I felt touched my the tears in my sister's eyes as she saw Charlie for the first time. Then my in laws had a turn to share in the joy. I was the only patient in the recovery room and we had the royal treatment, with the nurse bringing ice chips and answering questions. Before long we were wheeled into our own room and the exhausting, sleepless weeks of life with a newborn began.

Ironically, my son's birth being the opposite of what I had intended was just the introduction to motherhood that I needed. Being the sort of person who searches for meaning in my life, I took away from this experience a spiritual lesson which has changed me deeply and made me a better mother as a result. There was a moment when Shad returned to the hospital room after a needed break and he told me of a strong deja vu feeling which prompted a memory of a dream with the image of the antique dresses framed in the foyer by the elevators. This, from someone who is not remotely new-agey, inspired chills. At the very least, Charlie's last minute acrobatics may have been his own way of determining how he was to be born. And so, while I continue to take seriously my responsibility as a parent, educating myself, being conscious and informed, I also realize than I am not "alone" in this endeavor--Charlie's life is also nourished and supported by our family and friends, our culture, and in the grand scheme of things, the universe. Who knows what myriad of influences and experiences will shape his unique, individual process of becoming? It is certainly not all up to me! My desire for control and tendency toward perfectionism have been strongly tempered by this understanding, and, if I daresay, I have gained a measure of trust and learned to let go.

OK, so I am not a hook-nosed old lady...

2008-06-23T22:39:00.000-04:00

straddling a vaguely phallic bird. And I'm not much for writing in meter & rhyme.

Frankly, I was stumped by what to title this blog. How do I sum up what I am attempting to do here in a few choice words? What am I attempting to do here besides have an online presence to sell Barefoot Books (see link below)? Then, as I was going through my shipment from Barefoot Books (they are great, check them out), I came across this passage in the introduction to Clare Beaton's MOTHER GOOSE REMEMBERS:

As the carrier of the Hindu goddess Saraswati, who presides over the learning of language, music, and the literary arts, the goose has been associated with the power of speech for centuries beyond telling. (Tessa Strickland, publisher of Barefoot Books)

Loved the idea, so we have a blog title. Another reason the goose image drew me was a fondness I have for water birds. Back in my college days a friend asked me, "What is your favorite animal?" to which I replied, "the blue heron." "And what do you like about it?" was her next question. This was harder. They are solitary, you don't see them every day and they frequent lakes and streams and seem so serene and wise standing meditatively in the still water. "Well, you just described yourself," she said. It's a fun little game which generally works--try it.

So, putting aside the obvious differences, the goose fits the bill (he he), and captures the essence of my purpose here, which is to share my love of books and discuss what I'm reading, and to find moments of calm reflection within my busy mama life.

(Go Barefoot!)