Today’s Playlist: Mother God

So today I’m feeling a bit mystical, a bit ascetic (they are so parallel), monk in the desert,  contemplative Elijah in his mountain getaway, curling up to talk to Mother God.  Like the writers curled in the caves in Borges’ The Immortal.

From the mouth of Gabriel: Sufjan Stevens

Genesis: Grimes

Kill Your Heroes: AWOLNATION

Vesuvius: Sufjan Stevens

Surgeon: St. Vincent (one of my new fave musicians!  I even copied her haircut…)

Cruel: St. Vincent

It’s a Fire: Portishead

The Cave: Mumford and Sons

Wake Up: Arcade Fire

All the Trees of the Field Will Clap their hands: Sufjan Stevens

Seven Swans: Sufjan Stevens

Shake It Out: Florence + the Machines

For the Widows in Paradise, For the Fatherless in Ypsilante: Sufjan Stevens

Exit Music: Radiohead

Sigh No More: Mumford and Sons

We Are Nowhere and It’s Now: Bright Eyes

Poison Oak: Bright Eyes

Idioteque: Radiohead

How to Disappear Completely: Radiohead

What would you add to this list?  (And, wow, anyone know an easier way to load a playlist into a blog?)

Edith Södergran:

On foot my path wound through the solar systems

On foot
my path wound through the solar systems,
until at last I found my red robe’s first thread.
I already have a sense of who I am.
Somewhere in space my heart’s suspended,
sparks flowing from it, quavering the air,
reaching out to other speechless hearts.

Let me know what you think of this type of post!

Who’s That Feminist on My Beach?

I have 4 years of successful therapy under my belt, so I know a thing or two about how to to calm myself down when uber-stressed.  I’m also a very visual person, so I’ve always had visions of myself.  Before these 4 years of successful therapy, the vision of my life was that I was always drowning, heaving in air and water, working so hard just to tread water, stay on the surface, if not just under the surface.   The days that I was under water–depressed, anxious, numb, terrified–I threw in the towel, stayed home and slept, cried, tried to scramble together some kind of relief.

Ergo, the 4 years of therapy.

Now, my life very different–rather, my reaction to life very different–I found myself feeling uber stressed on the drive in to work this morning (E not eating, mom chemo, work project, hate work, late to work, I think so-and-so took advantage of me, did I come across too strong to this person, work is so ridiculous, mom’s chemo is set back, will the cells grow more, maybe we should stop trying to wean from bottles right now) and I had the old feeling of drowning, of the vise-like desire to throw it in once again, turn the car around and stay home.  But with 4 years of successful therapy under my belt (if I say it enough, the success should stick, right? ), I decided, no, I can do this.  I just need to change my visual. 

On I70 East, I created a vision in which I stood up out of the water, walked up onto the beach, sat on the beach, watched a beautiful ocean, felt warm sand under me, a strong breeze blowing my hair.  This vision was so peaceful, I began to feel better.  I can DO this, I’m not defeated, this stuff doesn’t have to be my burden.  I can sit on the beach, feeling the warm sun on my tan skin, the wind blowing my long blond hair, a big smile on my face, sand drying on my long legs and thin arms…

Sound of a record scratching.

Tan?  Thin?  Blond hair?  That’s not me.  That’s not me on my beach.  That’s not me on my beach, overcoming and at peace.  Who is that?  Who is this blonde, beautiful woman, maybe even model?

Shit.

I truly became an active feminist when I was 14 years old—that’s what going to a fundamentalist-ish christian private school will do to you, among other things.  (That and a mother that encourages critical thinking no matter the cost.)  For almost 20 years, I’ve been deconstructing, making my personal political, protesting, agitating, theorizing, unthinking all the sexist junk ad nauseam, and now teaching my own daughter feminist truths.

And my self agency expresses as Ms. Bombshell?  For the record, I’m 5’4, 160ish pounds (ugh, I’ve been losing and gaining the same 5 lbs for a year), curly, brown hair, long torso and short legs.  Sunshine reflects off my skin and when it doesn’t, I just burn.  This woman on my beach is nothing like me.

Or is she?  In that, is this what I want to be or feel I need to be?  After all that feminism has done for me and I for it…I’m still struggling with body image and comfort in my own skin.

Several weeks ago, we were watching E play and noticing that she’d grown and her jammies were getting a little snug around the toes.  I commented that I’m pretty sure she has my body type and sighed and said, oh sweetie, you’ll learn to accept it by your early 30s.  My partner looked up at me and asked, oh really?  You didn’t like your body type and now you’re just okay with it?  He then went on to say some sweet things about my body.

There are two issues here, right?  The first issue seems to be that I’ve internalized the beauty standard that culture’s taught me; so much so that it’s buried deep and I didn’t notice this other woman living inside me, wishing to get out, wishing to be, to represent me.  I’ve internalized the male gaze: I was noticing details of this woman, studying her and getting pleasure from it, satisfaction.

The other issue is that, though I had thought body issues where a thing of the past, apparently not.  Or not even that dramatic.  Maybe I just really need to purposefully study and embrace my body my self my skin, instead of treating it haphazardly.  To pay attention to the woman I am so that this internalized yearning and dream vanishes.

And I need to do this quickly.  This is not a truth I intend to pass on to my daughter.

Tuesday Mornings

Tuesday mornings carry some weight in our little family.  My husband works a later day and is home with E until late morning.  They call these mornings, “Toast Tuesdays.”  C makes a mound of toast with grape jelly and then he and E sit together over the ottoman and eat their toast while watching Sports Center and or listening to music and dancing (because E has developed quite a knack for eating and dancing at the same time). 

My Tuesday mornings literally mean that I carry weight(s) around while doing ridiculous movements with my body.  I believe some call this exercise.  For those of you who can’t quite believe what you’ve just read, yes, you are correct in your understanding: I have begun to exercise.  But let me make sure that you understand what I mean by exercise: one half hour in which I doggedly follow the commands of a personal trainer whose training philosophy is rooted in muscle confusion.  One half hour in which my muscles and brain become so confused that they begin to do–against everything that seems logical to me–whatever they are told despite the level of pain, absurd amount of grunting in pain, and the seeming impossibility of my trainer’s commands.

Yeah, I work out.  

This was on my de-stress to do list, remember?  And I’ve done it.  Huzzah, check it off the list.  Pardon the sarcasm, but this work out thing is way more difficult than I thought it would be.

Actually, I’m finally exercising (read muscle-freakin’-confusion) because it all came together so nicely and easily, as if it just fell into my lap, as if it were providential.  A coworker friend is a fitness instructor in her time off (who has the energy for all of this!?) at a new gym.  This gym is 5 minutes from work,  has a brand new shower, and free parking.  And one of the most popular trainers in the city.  

This trainer has worked wonders for so many folks, surely, he could work wonders with me.  

I went on a tour with my friend and met the trainer and he said such wonderful, motivational things: that I could do it, that he just wanted to show me I could do it (I didn’t realize at the time that he meant 30 minutes of crushing muscle-freakin-confusing exercise…I just thought he meant plain, old-fashioned exercise.  Like a few reps with weights, a short stretch of cardio, and some fun cool down exercises, with lots of breaks for water and chatting.  That’s what I thought he meant.).  I told him (so that he wouldn’t get any crazy ideas in his head, so that he would realize that I didn’t really want to be challenged, just a little breathless, kind of fit, you know, just a nice runner’s high) that I needed more energy, to work off my stress and maybe lose some weight (because I’m a perfect 10 feminist, right?  That weight-loss is just a nice bonus.  Right?).  Just a little bit of that, some of this.  

Maybe I looked terrified or sounded non-committal (because I totally was), so he said the final magical thing: I’ll give you a free session.  One handshake later and I was out of there with plans to start that same week.  

It’s been a month (and now I’ve thrown a spinning class into the mix.  How is this happening?  Am I doing this to myself?  Am I being drugged and a maniacal sadist is dragging me to this gym?) and I still haven’t dared to watch myself in the huge mirrors.  I can feel that I’m dying, that I’m drenched in sweat, that my face is fire-engine red, that my pre-pregnancy sports bra squeezes everything out of the top AND bottom.  No need to watch this as it’s happening.   

I remember thinking during my second session I can do this, it’s not bad, this is going very well.  

During the last session, I was laughing (silently, of course, not out loud because my abdominal muscles were too contorted at the time while attempting to plank that they couldn’t be begged to engage in crazed laughter) at those thoughts and at the woman who thought those silly thoughts.  Who was that woman and where did she go?  Cuz, right now, I’m the woman yelling out I freakin’ gave birth, I should be able to this!  But I can’t.

I was attempting to do some weird type of sit up in which I had to simultaneously sit up and punch the open hands of my trainer.  Twenty times.  I couldn’t.  He said, alright, give me 5 more.  I couldn’t.  He said alright, just touch your fingertips to my hands.  That’s when I yelled, I freakin gave birth…and touched his hands with my fingertips 2-3 more times (I don’t remember how many, it was a blur.  I was confused.).  I did IT.

It feels great.  I’m serious, it feels great.  I die every Tuesday morning and my trainer makes sure that I know that I can do it.  My stress is lifting, my energy levels are up for a couple of days, my mood is drastically improving and–wait for it–I have muscles again!  This work out is absolutely intense and absolutely worth it.    

(And if anyone wants to join me–mwahaha–click here for more information and be confused and ecstatic with me.)

Calgon, Take Me Away

Bath salts, essential oils, eucalyptus and spearmint soap and I’m taking a relaxing soak.  To draw the stress toxins (that nasty cortisol) out of my body, to try to realign my spirit, self, mind, emotions.  I want this bath to be a step out of time, purely pleasure and restorative, purely sensory.

It’s not. (Most of you, I’m sure, were already laughing before the end of the paragraph: of course, it’s not, girl!  That would be too easy!)  I think about taking a week off of work this week, a whole week to be free, a slip of a woman, going in and out of my home, doing what I want, spending time with E, having to time for “activities of daily living” and enjoying those activities of daily living.  Planting flowers and weeding. Finishing 1Q84 and starting on the Hunger Games. Trying out all the Pinterest projects that I have backlogged: perfect-fit-waistband-for-jeans, clean-the-house-with-vinegar, all-day-cake-recipe, organize-your-toddler’s-closet….  Quitting my job and starting a free-lance career (sigh, but not in that particular order).

My thoughts seemed very profound in the bath, even life-changing.  Like I could be renewed.  I thought: I’m healed and I’m healing, both are true.  Both seemed very possible in the bath.  I love my life and I want more in my life.  My life can be shalom.  A vision I’ve had of my adult life is this:

large farmhouse or cabin on a hill out in the country, a home office that overlooks the woods at the bottom of the hill and a kitchen sink that overlooks our small (very small) farm.  My husband and I are outside (I don’t know, maybe unloading groceries, raking and mowing, putting down mulch) and start to run around with our children.  And then the sun begins to set and we go inside for dinner.  Something a little like this: Furr.

  The end.  

(We can all agree, right, that this vision is sentimental and utopian?  Okay.  Instead of a vision, then, let’s call it a glimpse.  Or context.  A space my husband and I can create in which to “raise our children up as gently as we please,” to at least attempt to live a life in balance and wholeness.)

But then I have to get out of the bathtub, put on my ratty robe and go about the rest of the evening, otherwise known as living.  Gulp down my now cold herbal tea, attempt to do some house work, attempt to do some blogging in the midst of toddler, cat, partner and TV, be sure to prepare clothes, lunch, and schedule for tomorrow.  

And it’s already changed, that profound time is already gone, I’m out of the tub and out of that time, no longer that woman.  The oh so profound thoughts now seem more like titles from the self-help bestseller’s list.  The night is gone.  Tomorrow is another day.

What do I do with my vision (er, glimpse)?  My life–wonderful as it is–is somewhat willy-nilly.  I’m making it work until what I want comes along or money drops into my lap from somewhere and I get to pursue what I want.  I’ve never been a 5-year-life-plan type of person; I barely even plan my weekends well.  But I’m now at a point in life (read: I don’t like my job and what it does to me and my family) where I need to make the decision.

What do I do with this vision for my life?  I guess I make a life-plan and work really hard at it…right?  Things to do:

• eliminate stressors
• take better care of my whole self
• quit my job (…wait, no, not quite, can’t do that yet.  Get therapy to help me deal with my job.)
• invest in friendships
• prioritize life around my family
• figure out how to make money as a writer
• hmmm, clean my house? (just throwing this in for good measure)
• um…work out (for real?)
• er, take supplements (In case the whole “take better care of self” thing doesn’t work out and I remain an emotional eater, which is a nice way of saying I eat crap when I’m stressed and lately I’m always stressed)
• go to bed early  (But then how do I get all of the above accomplished?)
• or, yes, here it is: drink heavily.

So not a plan so much as a goal…or not even a real goal, but something to strive for, right?  How does one embark on a new plan, path, journey, life?  Having just read the titles of self-help books and not the books themselves, I have no idea (like this one: No Excuses: 9 Ways Women Can Change How We think About Power or this one: The Custom-Fit Workplace: Choose When, Where and How to Work and Boost Your Bottom Line).

Instead, I’m just complaining about  it all in a blog post.  And seriously hoping that you have ideas.

Loss Prevention

Last Week of December

Anti-dry mouth mouthwash.  Lemon extract, peppermint extract.  Fleece zippered jacket, red (red because it was my mom and my sister that finally convinced me to shed the black and wear color again, years ago. I bought a red dress to start with.)  Hats: purple fedora with sequins (a favorite picture of my mom was taken by my dad in black and white: she’s wearing a black felt hat, holding a flower to her cheek, looking askance at the camera) and a black fleece cap for the cold.  Lotions, extra bronzer and chemical-free face powder (no more chemicals, don’t add to the poison in her body).   Ginger tea for the nausea, chamomile tea for calm.  Handheld Sudoku game (because she has said on numerous occasions that hours and hours of solitaire at her computer helped her through my brother’s deployment) , backlit and easy on the eyes.

That’s all I could think of then.  That’s all I can remember now; this is what I gave my mom, a cancer-survival kit, I guess. Stuff to preserve her, to keep her, body and spirit, intact during these months.  The cancer diagnosis happened so quickly and treatment began so quickly that I just threw together a mishmash of anything that could possibly help.

And, really, it was just voodoo.  Piling up stuff to make the cancer stop, to make the treatment work but not hurt, to make sure, really really make sure that she felt cared for and to maybe do a tenth of the good for her that she’s done for me.  Loss prevention, something to staunch grief.

I’ve compiled a list of every possible side effect for chemotherapy and a remedy; not prevention, just a remedy (i.e. swishing with mouthwash 5-6 times a day could ease mouth sores; some foods can actually stop metastasis by preventing the growth of capillaries; add mint or lemon extract to everything to block the metallic taste of chemo; and so on).  My list is nothing compared to what my dad has put together, is entirely different from a list my sister made of oils and herbal remedies to soothe mind and body, and falls so short of what my brother offered, a blood transfusion to replenish her blood cells.

First Week of January

My dad texted me on the first day of treatment to say that the chemotherapy chemicals were being mixed.  Nurses were going to start injecting it in a few minutes.  I briefly panicked, about the drugs entering her, the havoc they will cause to her self.  I cried.  The panic immediately was intense and painful (i.e. yes, the same old sensation of choking, dizziness, etc.), but was different because I think I was terrified as opposed to panic-sensations-not-based-in-reality.  This was really it and I so didn’t want it to be.

Days before this, I had a couple of (selfish? weak? exhausted?) conversations with my partner that went something like: I’ve spent the better part of my LIFE grieving over shit, I can’t do it again; I don’t know how to do it again; there’s no way she should have to go through this, too, or that all of us should have to go through this, too; how do I handle loss and grief during the happiest part of my life, like what do I do with it; this my mom, this is my mom, how do I help her or how I can stand by and witness this happening to my mom?

So when dad texted, I wanted to immediately do something to stop it.  Then the voice so quiet said to me: this is healing, this is good.  And my panic was gone.  And my mom is in the 4th week of treatment.

Woefully Neglectful

I’ve been so woefully neglectful of my brand new blog…sorry, readers!  My goal over the next few weeks is to catch you up on the events of the last 2 months and, of course, to rant and rave regarding any of those past events.  The saga(s) continue…

So the Dalai Lama Walks into a Bar…

I have days when a therapist would say that I’m experiencing depersonalization or derealization; ascetics would say I’m meditative or contemplative, Elijah in his mountain hideout.   My office window is both the literal and metaphoric location for this today: inside looking out over the park the street, the sidewalk, all the people cars kids birds.  Not participating, just observing.

It’s as if I’m pushing aside the curtain of the reality in front of me (if any of you are able to or have done so in the past, please don’t call in a pink slip here, k?) because I feel like there is something deeper going on, something very un-Oz behind the curtain. Perhaps it’s the opposite of mental unhealth in that I’m connecting to humanity and creation.   Finally.  Instead of just plowing through the day, I’m stopping and smelling roses and looking/smiling at people and holding gazes as we pass.

This is what it is: stepping into the world that I am one with and I want to share in the beauty and pain and truth.

I don’t usually agree with Plato, but maybe this is one of those times…looking further to find the True Reality where everything exists as it is, in the raw. Colors are brighter because they’re true, people are truth because there is something they are all saying and seeking and yearning for, because we are all connected to something regardless. Connected for many reasons but connected in such a way that each person is an opening to another reality and another learning. We’re all in this together, I guess, and I feel that.  We all suffer and seek and rejoice and that’s beautiful.

This moves me; I feel this beauty and this truth in my bones.  It is not meaning-making, but is, Plato might say, The Meaning.  A Meaning.  Shelley said it pretty well, too:

'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,
that is all Ye know on earth and all ye need know.'

Or this:  the Dalai Lama walks into a pub and asks to put an order in. Bartender says: what do you want?  Dalai Lama says, pizza, one with everything.

So this is pretty abstract, just a lot of thinkin’, existential detecting.  Your thoughts?

Ah, Misogyny…

Chivalry may be in its final, arrogant death throes, but misogyny is still alive and well here. 

Check Out Revolution Every Day New Post!

CHECK OUT REVOLUTION EVERY DAY POST! Have you seen it yet?  And is Occupy aware of this?  Somebody needs to be on this.

Stop All the Clocks

My mom admits that she’s not a great communicator; she prefers to write what she wants to say.  I’ve learned a lot about her through written communication and though I yearn for a more intimate relationship with my mom, I am the same way.  I write what I want to say.  Writing is organized and can be edited and it helps my brain to settle and focus.  The written word has weight and carries something of the eternal with it; the written word is participation in the dialogue of humanity.  It is what’s left.

Writing instead of vocalizing is also distance.  My self, my heart once removed scratched onto white space.  It’s easier for me to write than to speak; this white space a place to put my self and my say.

That said, not only do I not know how to say this, but I don’t know how to write this.  When my mom called this morning,  she  could not say the word either.  But she called and we spoke to each other and wept.  My mom told me what it was. My mom has cancer.

There are the words, there.  There.  For all their distance and for all the white space surrounding them and holding them and bearing them up, the words are not distant enough and it hurts and I can’t say anymore.

Instead, this is what others have said in their grief:

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

…let the mourners come.                                   Auden

Do not go gentle into that good night

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.                                     Dylan

In this world you will have trouble.  But take heart!  I have overcome the world.   Jesus

And this is what my mom wrote:

I’ve lived long enough to say, I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t want this, but if I must my first response cannot be anger at God nor hurt feelings of Him not protecting me; instead I know whatever it is that this is about, I must say I will face this furnace and if He saves me wonderful; if not it is still good.  He has already given me more than I could ever have hoped for or wanted and if I get more, I will be grateful.  It’s still hard.  But everyone in their life at some point has to look into that furnace and everyone better have a speech prepared for that moment.