I have been thinking a lot lately about what spirituality means to me and how I am fitting it into my life. It seems that I am increasingly aware of how much it bothers me that living life (i.e. keeping track of kids, cleaning house, going to school, keeping in touch with my husband, etc.) seems to get in the way of maintaining contact with my spiritual self.
This seems innately ridiculous to me. I believe that I am, at the core, a spiritual being. We all are. It is our spirit that is always intertwined with our physical selves as we move through the world. As we form and maintain relationships. As we love and nurture. And so, finding myself constantly engaged in these actions, but feeling unconnected to my spirit, or stagnant in my spiritual growth, is contradictory.
How do you stay connected to your spirit in this material world?
What drives your spiritual growth?
What feeds your spirit?
I am asking for some soul food!
Friday, September 19, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Walls
I am just continuously creating walls to run up against.
Wall after wall after wall after wall.
Oh, these walls have names. Names like Fear. And Shame. And Trust Issues. Etc. Etc.
My poor husband. He is so stoic. Sure he has his difficulties, his bad days, those little habits that get on my nerves (like leaving his sock trail through the living room). But these are far and few in between. Mostly he is just this amazingly sturdy, trustworthy, calm and deeply-loving man. And my walls just keep driving "wedges" between us.
I guess I would like to say that it takes two people to put up a wall. But mostly I think that's not true. Mostly, one person puts up a wall and the other has to struggle to figure out some way to get over it or under it or around it. All the while the wall-builder sitting isolated on the other side, trying to figure out exactly how the wall got there and why they can't see their lover's face anymore.
So, I am in the place of trying to figure out why and how I am building walls. I know their names but I can't figure out why they have multiple lives. Do walls reincarnate themselves? Do they clone? It seems like every time I knock one down (with the help of many others, but mostly my husband), I build the same bloody wall right back up in a new place.
And so I am here, typing out my thoughts in a slightly wittier prose than they actually occur in my mind, to try and decipher the clues to this not so new mystery.
I was recalling today in a conversation with my husband what we might call a "schoolgirl crush" that I had on a much older cousin of a friend when I was in high school. It was one of those crushes like you might have on a teacher, or a friend's brother or something. You know, the kind that you know will never go anywhere. And so it is safe and silly. You might look forward to seeing your crush when they show up to your friend's house, but that is all it ever amounts to. Well, in this particular case my friend and her cousin were part of a very large, very social family. And everyone and anyone who even met a family member was treated like family. So, I began going bowling with them (a family ritual) and a few other people from my school, once every few weeks during my senior year; total maybe about 5 times. The particular cousin was about 10 years older than us, and very silly and flirtatious. (In retrospect, I think of how immature he must have been, flirting with a bunch of high schoolers.) In any case, one week bowling was canceled (I don't remember why), so we decided on an in house movie. I sat next to this crush. We were the only two on the couch and he felt a little too close to me. Ok, way to close. I remember beginning to feel nervous because I realized the situation I was in. Usually we were in a public environment, not the dark den of the family house. I was never this close to him. All of a sudden, the fun flirting-with-the-older-guy turned into something a little more...concrete. I was so nervous that I started shaking and I couldn't breathe (lucky asthmatic that I am). I faked that I was just cold, so he pulled a blanket off the arm of the couch. About five minutes after I sat under the blanket, practically cuddling with a grown man, I thought, "OK, this is crazy. I'm out of here." And I actually got up and left. I think I said something about it being late, parents worrying, blah blah blah.
Ok, let's be real. We all knew the potential for something going waaaayyy wrong. Dark den + movie + late night + blanket = trouble. Luckily, I was smart enough to get myself out of the situation before anything happened. But, had he wanted to take advantage of the situation, he could have. It didn't really matter that other people were there. We have all heard about things happening at parties full of people. My point is, I felt bad about it then. And I didn't feel any better recalling the incident to my husband over 7 years later.
But why?
Well, I think it boils down to the bricks that I use to make the walls. I felt ashamed because I knew, even at 17, that staying for a movie probably wasn't a great idea. My dad has always made me aware of the "safety" of public places. You never really know the boundaries that people set in their homes. I felt ashamed that I sort of fell into that doe-eyed, ego-boosting crush and allowed that to override my judgment, even if only for an hour or less. I feel the same shame now as I did sitting on the couch, convincing myself that getting up didn't make me look like an idiot. Or, more accurately, that I didn't care if I looked like an idiot. Actually, I think the fact that he let me get that comfortable shook me of my crush. I lost a bit of respect for a grown man that would encourage a high schooler to get that close.
So, I walked out of the situation unscathed, unharmed. But, it doesn't ever make me feel good to admit my dumber moments to my husband. Those situations where, if someone told me that they had done the same exact thing, I would have said, "WHAT where you THINKING?" or "Man, we are so silly when we are young aren't we?"
It has led to this habit of me holding my tongue when I randomly think of something that perhaps my husband doesn't know about me. Something that makes me feel a little less strong or capable or smart than the woman I would like to be. I hold it in until my stomach hurts and my heart aches and I practically burst from anticipation of the moment of divulging.
There is really only one solution. And that is to speak uncensored. To let my words come as they need to, with tact of course. To trust that my husband knows I am far from perfect, and to accept that he will love me no matter how stupid I was at 17. To trust that my choices in life have led me to this moment and that recalling that path gives me strength in my now. And to hear the words "I love you" and let them soak into my skin.
To my dearest Courtney. This was for you. And for me. I love you madly.
Wall after wall after wall after wall.
Oh, these walls have names. Names like Fear. And Shame. And Trust Issues. Etc. Etc.
My poor husband. He is so stoic. Sure he has his difficulties, his bad days, those little habits that get on my nerves (like leaving his sock trail through the living room). But these are far and few in between. Mostly he is just this amazingly sturdy, trustworthy, calm and deeply-loving man. And my walls just keep driving "wedges" between us.
I guess I would like to say that it takes two people to put up a wall. But mostly I think that's not true. Mostly, one person puts up a wall and the other has to struggle to figure out some way to get over it or under it or around it. All the while the wall-builder sitting isolated on the other side, trying to figure out exactly how the wall got there and why they can't see their lover's face anymore.
So, I am in the place of trying to figure out why and how I am building walls. I know their names but I can't figure out why they have multiple lives. Do walls reincarnate themselves? Do they clone? It seems like every time I knock one down (with the help of many others, but mostly my husband), I build the same bloody wall right back up in a new place.
And so I am here, typing out my thoughts in a slightly wittier prose than they actually occur in my mind, to try and decipher the clues to this not so new mystery.
I was recalling today in a conversation with my husband what we might call a "schoolgirl crush" that I had on a much older cousin of a friend when I was in high school. It was one of those crushes like you might have on a teacher, or a friend's brother or something. You know, the kind that you know will never go anywhere. And so it is safe and silly. You might look forward to seeing your crush when they show up to your friend's house, but that is all it ever amounts to. Well, in this particular case my friend and her cousin were part of a very large, very social family. And everyone and anyone who even met a family member was treated like family. So, I began going bowling with them (a family ritual) and a few other people from my school, once every few weeks during my senior year; total maybe about 5 times. The particular cousin was about 10 years older than us, and very silly and flirtatious. (In retrospect, I think of how immature he must have been, flirting with a bunch of high schoolers.) In any case, one week bowling was canceled (I don't remember why), so we decided on an in house movie. I sat next to this crush. We were the only two on the couch and he felt a little too close to me. Ok, way to close. I remember beginning to feel nervous because I realized the situation I was in. Usually we were in a public environment, not the dark den of the family house. I was never this close to him. All of a sudden, the fun flirting-with-the-older-guy turned into something a little more...concrete. I was so nervous that I started shaking and I couldn't breathe (lucky asthmatic that I am). I faked that I was just cold, so he pulled a blanket off the arm of the couch. About five minutes after I sat under the blanket, practically cuddling with a grown man, I thought, "OK, this is crazy. I'm out of here." And I actually got up and left. I think I said something about it being late, parents worrying, blah blah blah.
Ok, let's be real. We all knew the potential for something going waaaayyy wrong. Dark den + movie + late night + blanket = trouble. Luckily, I was smart enough to get myself out of the situation before anything happened. But, had he wanted to take advantage of the situation, he could have. It didn't really matter that other people were there. We have all heard about things happening at parties full of people. My point is, I felt bad about it then. And I didn't feel any better recalling the incident to my husband over 7 years later.
But why?
Well, I think it boils down to the bricks that I use to make the walls. I felt ashamed because I knew, even at 17, that staying for a movie probably wasn't a great idea. My dad has always made me aware of the "safety" of public places. You never really know the boundaries that people set in their homes. I felt ashamed that I sort of fell into that doe-eyed, ego-boosting crush and allowed that to override my judgment, even if only for an hour or less. I feel the same shame now as I did sitting on the couch, convincing myself that getting up didn't make me look like an idiot. Or, more accurately, that I didn't care if I looked like an idiot. Actually, I think the fact that he let me get that comfortable shook me of my crush. I lost a bit of respect for a grown man that would encourage a high schooler to get that close.
So, I walked out of the situation unscathed, unharmed. But, it doesn't ever make me feel good to admit my dumber moments to my husband. Those situations where, if someone told me that they had done the same exact thing, I would have said, "WHAT where you THINKING?" or "Man, we are so silly when we are young aren't we?"
It has led to this habit of me holding my tongue when I randomly think of something that perhaps my husband doesn't know about me. Something that makes me feel a little less strong or capable or smart than the woman I would like to be. I hold it in until my stomach hurts and my heart aches and I practically burst from anticipation of the moment of divulging.
There is really only one solution. And that is to speak uncensored. To let my words come as they need to, with tact of course. To trust that my husband knows I am far from perfect, and to accept that he will love me no matter how stupid I was at 17. To trust that my choices in life have led me to this moment and that recalling that path gives me strength in my now. And to hear the words "I love you" and let them soak into my skin.
To my dearest Courtney. This was for you. And for me. I love you madly.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Writing Joy
I have a tendency to write sadness. It isn't that I am always feeling sadness, but it seems that is when I feel the urgent need to express my emotion, above and beyond its vocalization. And so it comes out on paper or via this intangible intergallactic network we are all hooked into, in a stream of woes. It is usually depressing and angry, and I often never want to read it again.
Now, this has become a problem because I love to both read and write. And to reread what I have written. There has been so little writing in the baby years, that I find most of it has been out of frustration or a moment here and there in awe of my little ones. To be one who loves writing so much, and who needs that form of expression to really evolve (seriously, I think my spiritual, mental and emotional growth might be stunted without it), no writing is really just out of the question.
So, I have decided to write joy. Not to escape sadness altogether (could you imagine?), but to allow myself to focus on the joy. Not to miss it. Not to deprive myself of it. And to share it with others.
Now, this has become a problem because I love to both read and write. And to reread what I have written. There has been so little writing in the baby years, that I find most of it has been out of frustration or a moment here and there in awe of my little ones. To be one who loves writing so much, and who needs that form of expression to really evolve (seriously, I think my spiritual, mental and emotional growth might be stunted without it), no writing is really just out of the question.
So, I have decided to write joy. Not to escape sadness altogether (could you imagine?), but to allow myself to focus on the joy. Not to miss it. Not to deprive myself of it. And to share it with others.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Akeem and the Monsters
The year Akeem turned three, he began dreaming of monsters.
He woke up one morning and ran into the bathroom looking for his mama.
"I'm here, Mom!" he said. "I'm here!"
"I see!" said Mama. "Good morning, baby. Where did you go?"
"The monster came and took me away and I woke up and I was looking for you, Mama."
"Ohhhhhhhh," said Mama, nodding. "That was just a dream."
"Yes," he said. "That was my dream."
"You know," said Mama, leaning in real close, "anytime you have a bad dream about a monster, you can just wake up and come in my room. I will always be there."
Akeem snuggled her. "Can I have a popsicle?"
Sometimes, Akeem woke up at night because of the monsters. He went to see his mama, just like she said he should. She snuggled him until he fell asleep again. The monsters stayed away when his mama was around. Mostly.
When the monsters didn't stay away, Akeem's mama said, "You can tell me about the monsters if you want. What happened in your dream? What did those monsters do?"
Akeem told his mama that the monsters tried to take him away from her.
He didn't want to go. but they made him go.
He would run and hide, but they found him.
One night at bedtime, Akeem had enough. "Mom," he said, "I am gonna dream and see that monster and if that monster tries to get me I am gonna find you and I am gonna KILL that monster!!!"
Akeem's mama was not pleased by this.
"No, Akeem. We don't want to kill the monster, honey," she began.
"Yes! We are gonna beat him up!" he insisted.
Well! Mama thought for a minute.
"You know what, Keem?" she said. "You don't have to worry about those monsters. Do you know why? Because you are strong and tough!"
"Now if you see a monster," said Mama, "you just say, 'I'm not afraid of you because I am tough!' And that monster will say. "Uh-oh, you are tough? Then I had better run away!' And off he'll go."
Akeem did not have to think twice about his mama's words. He knew she was right.
"That's right," said Akeem. "I am gonna see that monster and say 'I am tough!' And that monster will run away!"
"Mmm hmm!" said Mama. "And if you see another monster, you say, 'I am tough and my mama is tough!' And that monster will say, 'Uh-oh! You are tough AND your mama is tough?! I better run away!' And off he will go."
Akeem giggled. "And if I see another monster, I will say, 'I am tough and my mama is tough and my sister is tough!' And that monster will say, 'Uh-oh! I better run away!'"
"That's right!" said Mama.
"And Mama," said Akeem excitedly, "if my friend sees a monster in his dream, if my friend from school sees a monster, I will tell him, he he will tell the monster....!"
"Ok, Akeem, no more monsters," said Mama.
Akeem flopped around for a minute in his covers.
"But, Mama," he said, "If a monster comes in my dream, can I come in your room?"
"Mmm hmm," said Mama. "Because we are tough and strong."
He woke up one morning and ran into the bathroom looking for his mama.
"I'm here, Mom!" he said. "I'm here!"
"I see!" said Mama. "Good morning, baby. Where did you go?"
"The monster came and took me away and I woke up and I was looking for you, Mama."
"Ohhhhhhhh," said Mama, nodding. "That was just a dream."
"Yes," he said. "That was my dream."
"You know," said Mama, leaning in real close, "anytime you have a bad dream about a monster, you can just wake up and come in my room. I will always be there."
Akeem snuggled her. "Can I have a popsicle?"
Sometimes, Akeem woke up at night because of the monsters. He went to see his mama, just like she said he should. She snuggled him until he fell asleep again. The monsters stayed away when his mama was around. Mostly.
When the monsters didn't stay away, Akeem's mama said, "You can tell me about the monsters if you want. What happened in your dream? What did those monsters do?"
Akeem told his mama that the monsters tried to take him away from her.
He didn't want to go. but they made him go.
He would run and hide, but they found him.
One night at bedtime, Akeem had enough. "Mom," he said, "I am gonna dream and see that monster and if that monster tries to get me I am gonna find you and I am gonna KILL that monster!!!"
Akeem's mama was not pleased by this.
"No, Akeem. We don't want to kill the monster, honey," she began.
"Yes! We are gonna beat him up!" he insisted.
Well! Mama thought for a minute.
"You know what, Keem?" she said. "You don't have to worry about those monsters. Do you know why? Because you are strong and tough!"
"Now if you see a monster," said Mama, "you just say, 'I'm not afraid of you because I am tough!' And that monster will say. "Uh-oh, you are tough? Then I had better run away!' And off he'll go."
Akeem did not have to think twice about his mama's words. He knew she was right.
"That's right," said Akeem. "I am gonna see that monster and say 'I am tough!' And that monster will run away!"
"Mmm hmm!" said Mama. "And if you see another monster, you say, 'I am tough and my mama is tough!' And that monster will say, 'Uh-oh! You are tough AND your mama is tough?! I better run away!' And off he will go."
Akeem giggled. "And if I see another monster, I will say, 'I am tough and my mama is tough and my sister is tough!' And that monster will say, 'Uh-oh! I better run away!'"
"That's right!" said Mama.
"And Mama," said Akeem excitedly, "if my friend sees a monster in his dream, if my friend from school sees a monster, I will tell him, he he will tell the monster....!"
"Ok, Akeem, no more monsters," said Mama.
Akeem flopped around for a minute in his covers.
"But, Mama," he said, "If a monster comes in my dream, can I come in your room?"
"Mmm hmm," said Mama. "Because we are tough and strong."
Sunday, June 15, 2008
For Ali and Our Rolls
Last night I asked Courtney to take pictures of me. I have been looking in the mirror lately, actually taking to time to look at myself before I hustle the kids out of the door in the morning, and I began realizing that the image I see is different every day. It so often depends on my mood or my self-esteem on that particular morning. Just as frequently, my reflection seems to determine my mood. You know what I am talking about. It is impossible for you to gain 15 pounds in one day, but you and I both had days last week when we swore that was the case. Or, we looked in the mirror and admired that same body, those same curves that we cursed the day before.
The more I noticed these drastic changes from one day to the next, I wanted to see a "real" image of my body. One that was removed. That didn't turn with my own movements as in a mirror, but one that I could post up on the wall like a cover girl. Hence, the pictures.
What I saw when I looked at my body from different angles was the same self image I saw reflected in the mirror. Changing with each shift in perspective, my body seemed to project the self that I felt most connected to at the moment the picture was taken. Now, what does that really mean? What do we see when we look at ourselves in the mirror? In photographs?
Now, let's be real: I have had three babies. I am about 20 pounds heavier than my before-baby weight. I need a hair cut. I AM A PARENT!!! And a wife, and a student, and a latte addict. Self-professed, all the way. That all being said, I don't expect to see Sophia Loren or Iman when I look in the mirror. But looking at those photos, I didn't focus in on my physical imperfections, but rather on the disappointing and inhibited attitude that my face and body displayed.
My sister recently told me that she remembers seeing an art exhibit, painting or sculpture I think, when she was just moving into adolescence, in which the renderings of beautiful women focused on their ample waists and hips. I don't mean curvy like a perfectly smooth curve, I mean curvy like love handles, creases in the skin of their waists, little ripples of fat that accentuated the shape and appeal of their bodies. It was at this moment, when viewing these women who she saw as both beautiful and real, that my sister decided she loved "rolls."
Do you love your rolls? I don't, not every day. Courtney does, every day. More importantly, my body is a part of who I am. By expressing it with confidence, I change the way that I feel about it. I change the way that I am perceived.
Look in the mirror tomorrow and make a conscious decision to LOVE what you see. For yourself and for those around you. We love to see you smile.
The more I noticed these drastic changes from one day to the next, I wanted to see a "real" image of my body. One that was removed. That didn't turn with my own movements as in a mirror, but one that I could post up on the wall like a cover girl. Hence, the pictures.
What I saw when I looked at my body from different angles was the same self image I saw reflected in the mirror. Changing with each shift in perspective, my body seemed to project the self that I felt most connected to at the moment the picture was taken. Now, what does that really mean? What do we see when we look at ourselves in the mirror? In photographs?
Now, let's be real: I have had three babies. I am about 20 pounds heavier than my before-baby weight. I need a hair cut. I AM A PARENT!!! And a wife, and a student, and a latte addict. Self-professed, all the way. That all being said, I don't expect to see Sophia Loren or Iman when I look in the mirror. But looking at those photos, I didn't focus in on my physical imperfections, but rather on the disappointing and inhibited attitude that my face and body displayed.
My sister recently told me that she remembers seeing an art exhibit, painting or sculpture I think, when she was just moving into adolescence, in which the renderings of beautiful women focused on their ample waists and hips. I don't mean curvy like a perfectly smooth curve, I mean curvy like love handles, creases in the skin of their waists, little ripples of fat that accentuated the shape and appeal of their bodies. It was at this moment, when viewing these women who she saw as both beautiful and real, that my sister decided she loved "rolls."
Do you love your rolls? I don't, not every day. Courtney does, every day. More importantly, my body is a part of who I am. By expressing it with confidence, I change the way that I feel about it. I change the way that I am perceived.
Look in the mirror tomorrow and make a conscious decision to LOVE what you see. For yourself and for those around you. We love to see you smile.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
One soy turtle latte, a baby sling, a soccer ball and three dog bones
"Hold my juice, Mom. I need to get some doggie treats."
This is my three-year-old, Akeem. We had just dropped off big sister at school and managed to drive ten blocks, park the car, a get all three of us, my two boys and myself, into the coffee shop. Baby in sling, soccer ball tucked under Keem's right arm, I am in pursuit of the morning latte.
"Akeem, wait for mama," says Mary. "She needs her soy."
Mary, bless her, is the lovely owner of Audubon Coffee, a just-the-right-size, kid-friendly, wireless, art-infused coffee oasis on Johnson Stree NE and 28th Avenue in Northeast Minneapolis. And of course, she is accomodating not only of moms and babies and wireless internet scavengers, but she is also equipped with a stash of treats for the dogs in the 'hood. More importantly, the stash sits on a table just high enough to keep the dogs out of it, and just low enough to allow curious three-year-olds to rummage the contents.
"We don't need any doggie treats, Keem," I say to my son. "There are no dogs here today."
"But, Mom, I'm just gonna hold it." He looks up at me as I get ready to go out the door.
"Okay, just one," I say, heading out, a large soy turtle latte in hand. I prop the door open for him and notice he has three, stacked neatly in his tight fist. I smile.
"How are you going to carry your soccer ball, with the dog treats in your hand?" I ask. I can see him working through this, looking first at the treats, and then at the soccer ball that I am holding.
He replies, "Here, Mom. You can hold them."
I start to phrase my rebuttal, and then I decide to cut him a break. What's the harm in a couple of dog snacks, right?
"Okay, guess what? I have a pocket in the sling, and we can put the doggie treats in there."
"A pocket in the sling?" he says. I don't think he quite believes me. He watches as I flip over the end of the wrap to reveal a small zipper pocket. I slip the treats in and zip it up. Magic.
"There," I say. "All done."
Keem smiles, clearly satisfied.
I have been enjoying my boys lately. Leila too. But the particular stress I was feeling from managing the needs of the three-year-old and the ten-month-old has seemed to dissipate. I think I all of a sudden realized that there really was no need to rush through the day. I mean, what are we rushing for? If we don't enjoy the process, there really isn't a point. And whatever huge accomplishment we are seeking, in the end, doesn't seem so grand if we haven't enjoyed the path that lead to it. I have spent less time lately trying to be present, and just being present. I am finding that the path is the accomplishment. That how I navigate through life is what matters.
This is my three-year-old, Akeem. We had just dropped off big sister at school and managed to drive ten blocks, park the car, a get all three of us, my two boys and myself, into the coffee shop. Baby in sling, soccer ball tucked under Keem's right arm, I am in pursuit of the morning latte.
"Akeem, wait for mama," says Mary. "She needs her soy."
Mary, bless her, is the lovely owner of Audubon Coffee, a just-the-right-size, kid-friendly, wireless, art-infused coffee oasis on Johnson Stree NE and 28th Avenue in Northeast Minneapolis. And of course, she is accomodating not only of moms and babies and wireless internet scavengers, but she is also equipped with a stash of treats for the dogs in the 'hood. More importantly, the stash sits on a table just high enough to keep the dogs out of it, and just low enough to allow curious three-year-olds to rummage the contents.
"We don't need any doggie treats, Keem," I say to my son. "There are no dogs here today."
"But, Mom, I'm just gonna hold it." He looks up at me as I get ready to go out the door.
"Okay, just one," I say, heading out, a large soy turtle latte in hand. I prop the door open for him and notice he has three, stacked neatly in his tight fist. I smile.
"How are you going to carry your soccer ball, with the dog treats in your hand?" I ask. I can see him working through this, looking first at the treats, and then at the soccer ball that I am holding.
He replies, "Here, Mom. You can hold them."
I start to phrase my rebuttal, and then I decide to cut him a break. What's the harm in a couple of dog snacks, right?
"Okay, guess what? I have a pocket in the sling, and we can put the doggie treats in there."
"A pocket in the sling?" he says. I don't think he quite believes me. He watches as I flip over the end of the wrap to reveal a small zipper pocket. I slip the treats in and zip it up. Magic.
"There," I say. "All done."
Keem smiles, clearly satisfied.
I have been enjoying my boys lately. Leila too. But the particular stress I was feeling from managing the needs of the three-year-old and the ten-month-old has seemed to dissipate. I think I all of a sudden realized that there really was no need to rush through the day. I mean, what are we rushing for? If we don't enjoy the process, there really isn't a point. And whatever huge accomplishment we are seeking, in the end, doesn't seem so grand if we haven't enjoyed the path that lead to it. I have spent less time lately trying to be present, and just being present. I am finding that the path is the accomplishment. That how I navigate through life is what matters.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Baggage
Bag lady you gon' hurt your back,
Draggin all them bags like that.
I guess nobody ever told you
All you must hold onto
is you. - Erykah Badu
Why do we hold onto baggage and let it hold us down?
I have spent the past year it seems, upacking all of my baggage. All of the mess that has really weighed me down since I was fourteen years old. Ten years of mess. Foolishness. Man, oh man. And I am tired, real tired, of carrying it on my back, on my mind, and in my heart.
Let it go, let it go, let it go, let it go. Thank you, Erykah.
My husband and I just spent the weekend dredging up history, laying it out on the table, and pulling it apart. You know, we have known each other ten years. That adds up to a lot of history. Bags. We have our childhoods. Bags. And our adolescence. Bags. And college. What I'm gon' say? Bags! You know it! Don't get me wrong. I loooovvvvvee that man. Together we have endured tests and trials, and have experienced more joys and blessings than I can count. But when we lay it all out on the table, we have taken alot of those experiences and carried them for those years. Truth be told, and let it please be told now or never, I tend to hoard most of the drama. Is it a female thing? Ladies? I don't know. I don't. But what I know is that I have had E-N-O-U-G-H! Carrying this mess around with me is hurting me. And my husband. And my children. And anyone who comes into contact with me, really. Because they cannot see me through the mess that I have covering me up.
Now, let me speak some truth to you all. And please tell me if I am on point or not, okay? We hold onto our baggage to hide. To cover up our fears of actually being someone, doing something in the world. We hold onto it for self-pity. We carry it so that we don't have to make someone else shoulder the burden. But let me tell you something (as my mother-in-law would say), other people, the people in your life, are there to shoulder that burden for you. That is why they are in your life. And if they are not willing to be there for you when you need them to hold your hand, then let them go.
We are not here to waste time holding secrets, holding hurt and fear and shame in our hearts. We are on this earth to love and to show others how to love by giving them love. We don't always receive the love we need. True. We don't always know how to be the best lovers, friends, parents or neighbors. But to use our baggage as an excuse for being in the place that we are in our lives? I am here to tell you that is unacceptable. We are better than that. I am and you are too.
Be truthful.
Show love.
Take a chance on those you love; let them love you.
"Sometimes we forget what we've got,
Who we are, and who we are not.
I think we got a chance
to make this right.
Keep it loose, keep it tight."
Amen!
Draggin all them bags like that.
I guess nobody ever told you
All you must hold onto
is you. - Erykah Badu
Why do we hold onto baggage and let it hold us down?
I have spent the past year it seems, upacking all of my baggage. All of the mess that has really weighed me down since I was fourteen years old. Ten years of mess. Foolishness. Man, oh man. And I am tired, real tired, of carrying it on my back, on my mind, and in my heart.
Let it go, let it go, let it go, let it go. Thank you, Erykah.
My husband and I just spent the weekend dredging up history, laying it out on the table, and pulling it apart. You know, we have known each other ten years. That adds up to a lot of history. Bags. We have our childhoods. Bags. And our adolescence. Bags. And college. What I'm gon' say? Bags! You know it! Don't get me wrong. I loooovvvvvee that man. Together we have endured tests and trials, and have experienced more joys and blessings than I can count. But when we lay it all out on the table, we have taken alot of those experiences and carried them for those years. Truth be told, and let it please be told now or never, I tend to hoard most of the drama. Is it a female thing? Ladies? I don't know. I don't. But what I know is that I have had E-N-O-U-G-H! Carrying this mess around with me is hurting me. And my husband. And my children. And anyone who comes into contact with me, really. Because they cannot see me through the mess that I have covering me up.
Now, let me speak some truth to you all. And please tell me if I am on point or not, okay? We hold onto our baggage to hide. To cover up our fears of actually being someone, doing something in the world. We hold onto it for self-pity. We carry it so that we don't have to make someone else shoulder the burden. But let me tell you something (as my mother-in-law would say), other people, the people in your life, are there to shoulder that burden for you. That is why they are in your life. And if they are not willing to be there for you when you need them to hold your hand, then let them go.
We are not here to waste time holding secrets, holding hurt and fear and shame in our hearts. We are on this earth to love and to show others how to love by giving them love. We don't always receive the love we need. True. We don't always know how to be the best lovers, friends, parents or neighbors. But to use our baggage as an excuse for being in the place that we are in our lives? I am here to tell you that is unacceptable. We are better than that. I am and you are too.
Be truthful.
Show love.
Take a chance on those you love; let them love you.
"Sometimes we forget what we've got,
Who we are, and who we are not.
I think we got a chance
to make this right.
Keep it loose, keep it tight."
Amen!
Monday, March 17, 2008
Dear Baby
The following is a letter to a friend's fetus. Tomorrow she is having an abortion. You might view this post as an editorial about my views on abortion. This is not my goal. This post is my reaction, my personal process of dealing with the death of a child and the ramifications of that action on the life of my friend.
Dear Baby,
Tomorrow you will die.
You know nothing but warmth and water. You are floating in a small, insulated home. Inside a woman who is probably awake when she should be resting. She is tired and anxious because she has made a decision that will impact your life and hers forever. I don't think that she knows yet the extent of this decision, how far or long it will affect her as a human being, as a woman, and perhaps, one day, as a mother. She is a mother because of you, yes. But she is giving that up, I think, because she believes that it will allow her to live. She is giving your life for her own.
Your mother, the woman who now holds you in her womb, believes that she cannot deal with this situation. She is young, younger than I was when I gave birth to my first child, and I too was young. She is alone in a place where she sees many relationships going on all around her. She is trying to make relationships of her own. She is trying to get somewhere in life, somewhere that many people around her have not gone. She is struggling, and you have made her tired. You take what you need, because that is what growing children do. Your little body soaks up her nutrients and her energy, and she feels less motivated and sick.
She knows that she could bear you. She could physically bear the pain of the labor, and the annoyance of the whining, and the years of working to support you. You would be hard work. And she has not even begun to get at a place called "stability." She is trying, I think. At least with as much heart as she knows how. She has been told that she is lazy, and in the same breath that she is talented. She has not experienced unconditional love from the people that she needed it from. At least I don't think so. And I don't know, I don't know if you came into being because she consented to sex, or because she was forced into it. I just don't know.
I don't pass judgment on her. I will not. People say that they don't, that God is the only judge. But they don't mean it. In their minds they are thinking, passing judgment. But I will not. She has made a decision. It is her choice.
Here is the rub, as we say. In my view, a choice is not only a right, but a responsibility. A choice implies that one is making a conscious decision between one thing and another. And if we defend our right to choose whether or not to terminate our pregnancies, than we also need to be making choices that will help protect us and our humanity. I don't think there is one pro-choice advocate in the world who does not view abortion as the termination of the early stages of life. There are different views about the spiritual significance of this action, the moral implication, the physical impact. But we can agree that the act of aborting a fetus ends a life that was beginning to develop. So, I don't think anyone enjoys it. It is not a process that we would volunteer for, it is rather our way of dealing with the development of unexpected, unwanted life.
That is you, my dear little one. Though I am saddened by this, by the fact that you mother has to make this decision, and by the fact that you will not live through this stage in your physical life, I do not view this as your end. I think, I hope, that the only pain you will ever feel is that of tomorrow. That beyond those few moments you will feel nothing but pure joy, in a stage of life that many of us will not see for many years. For this reason, I must make a request of you on behalf of your mother. You must guide her through this life. She is trying in the best ways that she knows, to become someone in this world. More than anyone else, she needs you. She does not realize that you would be a joy in her life. Or, if she does, it is not enough to outweigh the difficulties she believes you would bring. She is trying to better herself, to give herself the opportunity to grow in this world, by deleting you from it. I ask that you not abandon her in her time of need, when she needs you the most. It is my belief that in the world that lies beyond death, your work will be much greater that any we are doing here on earth. Like all of the good we can muster multiplied by a million. You will have power and love beyond measure, and I ask, in your mother's name, that you embrace her with your true self at all times.
Dear Baby,
Tomorrow you will die.
You know nothing but warmth and water. You are floating in a small, insulated home. Inside a woman who is probably awake when she should be resting. She is tired and anxious because she has made a decision that will impact your life and hers forever. I don't think that she knows yet the extent of this decision, how far or long it will affect her as a human being, as a woman, and perhaps, one day, as a mother. She is a mother because of you, yes. But she is giving that up, I think, because she believes that it will allow her to live. She is giving your life for her own.
Your mother, the woman who now holds you in her womb, believes that she cannot deal with this situation. She is young, younger than I was when I gave birth to my first child, and I too was young. She is alone in a place where she sees many relationships going on all around her. She is trying to make relationships of her own. She is trying to get somewhere in life, somewhere that many people around her have not gone. She is struggling, and you have made her tired. You take what you need, because that is what growing children do. Your little body soaks up her nutrients and her energy, and she feels less motivated and sick.
She knows that she could bear you. She could physically bear the pain of the labor, and the annoyance of the whining, and the years of working to support you. You would be hard work. And she has not even begun to get at a place called "stability." She is trying, I think. At least with as much heart as she knows how. She has been told that she is lazy, and in the same breath that she is talented. She has not experienced unconditional love from the people that she needed it from. At least I don't think so. And I don't know, I don't know if you came into being because she consented to sex, or because she was forced into it. I just don't know.
I don't pass judgment on her. I will not. People say that they don't, that God is the only judge. But they don't mean it. In their minds they are thinking, passing judgment. But I will not. She has made a decision. It is her choice.
Here is the rub, as we say. In my view, a choice is not only a right, but a responsibility. A choice implies that one is making a conscious decision between one thing and another. And if we defend our right to choose whether or not to terminate our pregnancies, than we also need to be making choices that will help protect us and our humanity. I don't think there is one pro-choice advocate in the world who does not view abortion as the termination of the early stages of life. There are different views about the spiritual significance of this action, the moral implication, the physical impact. But we can agree that the act of aborting a fetus ends a life that was beginning to develop. So, I don't think anyone enjoys it. It is not a process that we would volunteer for, it is rather our way of dealing with the development of unexpected, unwanted life.
That is you, my dear little one. Though I am saddened by this, by the fact that you mother has to make this decision, and by the fact that you will not live through this stage in your physical life, I do not view this as your end. I think, I hope, that the only pain you will ever feel is that of tomorrow. That beyond those few moments you will feel nothing but pure joy, in a stage of life that many of us will not see for many years. For this reason, I must make a request of you on behalf of your mother. You must guide her through this life. She is trying in the best ways that she knows, to become someone in this world. More than anyone else, she needs you. She does not realize that you would be a joy in her life. Or, if she does, it is not enough to outweigh the difficulties she believes you would bring. She is trying to better herself, to give herself the opportunity to grow in this world, by deleting you from it. I ask that you not abandon her in her time of need, when she needs you the most. It is my belief that in the world that lies beyond death, your work will be much greater that any we are doing here on earth. Like all of the good we can muster multiplied by a million. You will have power and love beyond measure, and I ask, in your mother's name, that you embrace her with your true self at all times.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Back to Life, Back to Reality
Yesterday I was on a high. All day. I found out that I received an amazing fellowship from the University of Minnesota Graduate School. I was excited, understandably. I have worked hard as a student, and as a mom, and have been fighting to figure out my path in life. I am also a self-professed research nerd. So, you know, a chance to go back to graduate school is wonderful. And the fellowship allows me to excel in my program by paying me to go to school. I will be able to afford day care, I will get to watch my daughter as she experiences a "real" school for the first time, and I will be able to do it all without stress. At least not financial stress, not the stress of knowing I am borrowing ridiculous sums of money from the government.
Today, today. Today. Today, is not so sunny. I am still excited, and ready for the year to begin already. But I remember that the world doesn't stop for me. That doing the program is going to mean getting up, getting myself and everyone dressed, getting Leila to school, Akeem to daycare, and Malik to grandma's. Getting reading, writing and studying done. Completing two field placements. I know it's going to be tough. But, this time is different. I feel prepared. I feel like people are behind me, are excited for me to be going into this field, to begin connecting myself to the world through a different venue.
I am ready.
Today, today. Today. Today, is not so sunny. I am still excited, and ready for the year to begin already. But I remember that the world doesn't stop for me. That doing the program is going to mean getting up, getting myself and everyone dressed, getting Leila to school, Akeem to daycare, and Malik to grandma's. Getting reading, writing and studying done. Completing two field placements. I know it's going to be tough. But, this time is different. I feel prepared. I feel like people are behind me, are excited for me to be going into this field, to begin connecting myself to the world through a different venue.
I am ready.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Field of Dreams
My favorite scene of any movie is when James Earl Jones is invited by a team of baseball players to pass on to the next world. He walks from the "field of dreams" into a field of unharvested crop, holding out his hand. I am not sure if his hand is held out in caution, as one entering an unknown place, or in anticipation that someone will take hold of it, and guide him through his passage. As his fingers brush the golden crops, he begins to smile and giggle like a child, like my children. He looks forward and back, forward, around the long stalks, and finally through, laughing and laughing...
Sunday, March 9, 2008
thank you
I just wanted to say that I am so happy you all are reading. Every last one of you. I really wasn't sure who would check it out, and I was even less sure who would take any interest in it. The comments you have posted are wonderful, and the responses I have received by email or facebook messaging are just...phenomenal, really. I had hoped that my writing would allow others to open their voices, but I hadn't even the slightest clue the thoughtfulness and sincerity that would ensure. My dearest gratitude to you all. Keep writing!
Friday, March 7, 2008
Minnesota Spring
It is freezing today.
I have really become immune to Minnesota winters. But Minnesota springs are just unbearable. You get through five months of arctic weather and then you come into March with visions of green grass shoots in your eyes and the smell of mud and slush and the hint of warmer winds in your nose... And then you wake up and look out the window to find a new layer of fluffy, white snow, just enough to cover the inches of dirty snow that have carried you through the winter. It used to be that there were more feet of snow, that there was some warmth for playing in snowpants and mittens. Or at least it seemed that way. Global warming seems to have combined slightly warmer temperatures with decreased precipitation here in the MinneApple. Ick. That's really all have to say about that.
But there is hope. I can taste my garden already. I can feel the round, ripe cherry and plum tomatoes in my hands. I remember my children squishing the overripe ones underfoot and between their toes. The morning glories that we pulled right before they blossomed. Novice gardeners, only second year vets, who didn't realize that the periwinkle blue blossoms open only after the summer season seems to be at its end. We will wait this year. I am determined to try dahlias again. And to remember basil this year. And to enjoy every moment of it. Even as the kids pull down all of the other fences in the community garden, and taste veggies from other plots. Because that is the joy of summer. The warmth and the joy and the warmth.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
POV
Do you need a change of perspective? Think about it. How many days do you spend "on edge," crossing the line into frustration more often that you might want to admit? Or, do you typically see things negatively? You are late for work, so you know it will be a horrible day. You can't catch up on dishes, laundry, or sleep, and so you are always feeling like everything you do is unfinished?
This morning, before 10 AM, I practically catapulted my voice box out of my mouth yelling at the top of my lungs. My kids were running the halls, laughing and yelling, while I was frantically trying to get dressed. I have been trying to catch up on laundry for weeks, and I finally got some done this morning, really only because my two-year-old was out of Thomas the Train underwear. So I am scrambling around, my husband saying sweet things to me and trying to help, while my pressure meter just keeps rising. Right after he offers to grab the laundry, I finally just pop the top, and out comes this ferocious scream. I mean, really, really ugly, scratchy, make your throat hurt scream. At my kids. Immediately after the noise stopped and the kids went to their room, I thought, "Now that was totally unnecessary. Why did I do that?" I look at my husband, surely with a guilty look on my face, knowing I had really crossed the line, and hurled some major tension at my children. He just looked at me and shook his head, in disbelief, or more like disappointment. He knows me, knows how I give up way before my limit, knows that I am explosive (to his calm) in a pressured situation.
I really, really needed an attitude adjustment. Not like a momentary one. Because I can't say that these mini explosions don't happen frequently. True, now they are not followed by a total breakdown complete with tears and self-pity. They are however, not helping anyone, especially my husband and kids. After my mid-morning blast, my husband was really just done with me for the day. I mean, how much can a loving, supportive and helpful husband take, right? And what the hell is my problem anyway?
So, let's call it an overhaul, an attitude overhaul. The real truth, like the nitty-gritty of it all, is that I really think this is about me. That IT is about me. Let me explain. I get frustrated by the laundry mountains, the toys in every possible nook and cranny, the endless mounds of mail and paperwork, unwashed dishes, etc. And when the kids get going with the noise, and the baby is crying and my husband just wants to have a conversation, it's like, ENOUGH ALREADY! I think yesterday I practically threw my hands up, looked skyward, and said, "What do you want from me?!" Unfortunately it is not the laundry, the dishes, the children or my beloved husband that are driving me crazy. It is my inability to handle it all. To juggle it. Life, I mean. And that's a valid sentiment. I think it is. But, in all fairness, I need to get over myself. So what I didn't shower this morning, the living room is a mess, and the last kid wasn't asleep until 9:54 PM? Because the kids ARE asleep, my husband still thinks I look amazing, and if I put my mind to it, I can clean up all of the mess in my house in about 20 minutes. And if I don't get to it, whatever, right? Because it can always be done tomorrow. Especially if it means twenty uninterrupted minutes with my husband on the couch. Amen to that.
This morning, before 10 AM, I practically catapulted my voice box out of my mouth yelling at the top of my lungs. My kids were running the halls, laughing and yelling, while I was frantically trying to get dressed. I have been trying to catch up on laundry for weeks, and I finally got some done this morning, really only because my two-year-old was out of Thomas the Train underwear. So I am scrambling around, my husband saying sweet things to me and trying to help, while my pressure meter just keeps rising. Right after he offers to grab the laundry, I finally just pop the top, and out comes this ferocious scream. I mean, really, really ugly, scratchy, make your throat hurt scream. At my kids. Immediately after the noise stopped and the kids went to their room, I thought, "Now that was totally unnecessary. Why did I do that?" I look at my husband, surely with a guilty look on my face, knowing I had really crossed the line, and hurled some major tension at my children. He just looked at me and shook his head, in disbelief, or more like disappointment. He knows me, knows how I give up way before my limit, knows that I am explosive (to his calm) in a pressured situation.
I really, really needed an attitude adjustment. Not like a momentary one. Because I can't say that these mini explosions don't happen frequently. True, now they are not followed by a total breakdown complete with tears and self-pity. They are however, not helping anyone, especially my husband and kids. After my mid-morning blast, my husband was really just done with me for the day. I mean, how much can a loving, supportive and helpful husband take, right? And what the hell is my problem anyway?
So, let's call it an overhaul, an attitude overhaul. The real truth, like the nitty-gritty of it all, is that I really think this is about me. That IT is about me. Let me explain. I get frustrated by the laundry mountains, the toys in every possible nook and cranny, the endless mounds of mail and paperwork, unwashed dishes, etc. And when the kids get going with the noise, and the baby is crying and my husband just wants to have a conversation, it's like, ENOUGH ALREADY! I think yesterday I practically threw my hands up, looked skyward, and said, "What do you want from me?!" Unfortunately it is not the laundry, the dishes, the children or my beloved husband that are driving me crazy. It is my inability to handle it all. To juggle it. Life, I mean. And that's a valid sentiment. I think it is. But, in all fairness, I need to get over myself. So what I didn't shower this morning, the living room is a mess, and the last kid wasn't asleep until 9:54 PM? Because the kids ARE asleep, my husband still thinks I look amazing, and if I put my mind to it, I can clean up all of the mess in my house in about 20 minutes. And if I don't get to it, whatever, right? Because it can always be done tomorrow. Especially if it means twenty uninterrupted minutes with my husband on the couch. Amen to that.
Monday, March 3, 2008
The Big Why
I think we all ask the fundamental questions at some point in our lives.
We have to. We exist and so we have to wonder why. Why are we here? What is our purpose? What will happen when we die? Those who know me well, know that these fundamental questions of life/existence/purpose have been a source of...turmoil for me ever since I was a child. I remember when I was a kid, couldn't have been more than six years old at the time, I was sitting on my living room couch late in the evening sobbing my brains out while my parents tried to console me. "But WHY?!" I kept asking, insisting on an answer. Why is God infinite? Why do we live for eternity? Why can't we just die and be done? A bit of an existental crisis, no? In retrospect, though, I think these were perfectly logical questions for a child to ask; for anyone to ask. Everything is so defined, so definite and factual in our world. At least we like to think so. We like facts and statistics and formulas. Evidence is the highest level of proof. But we have no way to prove answers to any of those questions. And so sometimes, even now, I get overwhelmed by the thought of it, of everything. Of the fact that we exist at all, and what that means.
Lately, I have found more interesting to me, and perhaps more relevant, is that we all, ALL of humanity, we have these thoughts/feelings/intuitions that there is a reason that we exist, that we have a purpose in this existence. I'm not talking about evidence of God or a Creator; that is an entirely different blog. But just the notion that our existence, apart from all else, is purposeful.
I am in a certain position in this world. I am American, which denotes a certain privelige. I am a VERY light-skinned African-American, White and Native American (mulitracial) person. (Don't mistake this descriptor for a celebration of lightness in any shape or form; it is just an indicator that I have been perceived as white most of my life.) I am a woman. I am in my twenties. I have a college degree. I am married with three children. I stay at home with my kids and my husband works a management position in retail. We could be perceived as a middle-class family. All of these indicators place me in a certain status, socio-economic perhaps, on a national and international scale. However, these indicators say nothing about my spiritual maturity. They give no notion of how I feel about my life and my purpose. They say nothing to the crying six year old or the existential crisis.
That is why we are all united. Because we share a common humanity that is divisible only by our willingness to make it so. And at each moment in our lives, we are asking derivatives of the basic whys. For example, perhaps our momentary crisis is not, "Why did God put me on his green earth?" but, "Why did God put me in the PLACE?" Or "How did I get here?"
I am trying to answer some of my whys, some of my fundamental questions, by giving myself purpose. Or at least creating paths for myself to investigate that purpose. The blog is an example of that. Trying to determine why I am here, I have decided that I have a voice and a love for writing that seems to express that voice. Through my blog, I am able to think through my whys and begin to develop action. Writing is one of my actions. And it enables me to speak to you and to myself about the things that matter to me.
What is your why? And how will you use action to answer it?
We have to. We exist and so we have to wonder why. Why are we here? What is our purpose? What will happen when we die? Those who know me well, know that these fundamental questions of life/existence/purpose have been a source of...turmoil for me ever since I was a child. I remember when I was a kid, couldn't have been more than six years old at the time, I was sitting on my living room couch late in the evening sobbing my brains out while my parents tried to console me. "But WHY?!" I kept asking, insisting on an answer. Why is God infinite? Why do we live for eternity? Why can't we just die and be done? A bit of an existental crisis, no? In retrospect, though, I think these were perfectly logical questions for a child to ask; for anyone to ask. Everything is so defined, so definite and factual in our world. At least we like to think so. We like facts and statistics and formulas. Evidence is the highest level of proof. But we have no way to prove answers to any of those questions. And so sometimes, even now, I get overwhelmed by the thought of it, of everything. Of the fact that we exist at all, and what that means.
Lately, I have found more interesting to me, and perhaps more relevant, is that we all, ALL of humanity, we have these thoughts/feelings/intuitions that there is a reason that we exist, that we have a purpose in this existence. I'm not talking about evidence of God or a Creator; that is an entirely different blog. But just the notion that our existence, apart from all else, is purposeful.
I am in a certain position in this world. I am American, which denotes a certain privelige. I am a VERY light-skinned African-American, White and Native American (mulitracial) person. (Don't mistake this descriptor for a celebration of lightness in any shape or form; it is just an indicator that I have been perceived as white most of my life.) I am a woman. I am in my twenties. I have a college degree. I am married with three children. I stay at home with my kids and my husband works a management position in retail. We could be perceived as a middle-class family. All of these indicators place me in a certain status, socio-economic perhaps, on a national and international scale. However, these indicators say nothing about my spiritual maturity. They give no notion of how I feel about my life and my purpose. They say nothing to the crying six year old or the existential crisis.
That is why we are all united. Because we share a common humanity that is divisible only by our willingness to make it so. And at each moment in our lives, we are asking derivatives of the basic whys. For example, perhaps our momentary crisis is not, "Why did God put me on his green earth?" but, "Why did God put me in the PLACE?" Or "How did I get here?"
I am trying to answer some of my whys, some of my fundamental questions, by giving myself purpose. Or at least creating paths for myself to investigate that purpose. The blog is an example of that. Trying to determine why I am here, I have decided that I have a voice and a love for writing that seems to express that voice. Through my blog, I am able to think through my whys and begin to develop action. Writing is one of my actions. And it enables me to speak to you and to myself about the things that matter to me.
What is your why? And how will you use action to answer it?
Saturday, March 1, 2008
I HAVE A BLOG! And 5 things I am doing for myself.
I just posted my blog link to facebook...maybe people will read it now. Cross your fingers for me.
1. Eating gluten-free! I feel better than I have in years. For more info on gluten intolerance or celiac disease written in a witty and hilarious and elegant style please visit www.glutenfreegirl.blogspot.com. She is wonderful!
2. Yoga, yoga, yoga. I actually have an appetite for life now.
3. Being honest with myself and others. I have taken heed to the statement, "Truthfulness is the foundation of all human virture." Letting go of your past through being truthful is so liberating.
4. Playing with my kids. Set down the damn dish, and walk away from the sink, mamas. Just for 10 carefree minutes. You'll thank me later.
5. Hmm. What is the fifth thing? Probably the daily application of hope and patience.
1. Eating gluten-free! I feel better than I have in years. For more info on gluten intolerance or celiac disease written in a witty and hilarious and elegant style please visit www.glutenfreegirl.blogspot.com. She is wonderful!
2. Yoga, yoga, yoga. I actually have an appetite for life now.
3. Being honest with myself and others. I have taken heed to the statement, "Truthfulness is the foundation of all human virture." Letting go of your past through being truthful is so liberating.
4. Playing with my kids. Set down the damn dish, and walk away from the sink, mamas. Just for 10 carefree minutes. You'll thank me later.
5. Hmm. What is the fifth thing? Probably the daily application of hope and patience.
Oh, what to write?
So, my husband says to me yesterday, "You know what you should do? I think you should write a blog about people in your sitution." And the conversation ensues:
Me: I have a blog.
Husband: You do? Where?
Me: On Blogger, the Google blog thing. But nobody reads it. I haven't written anything on it in a while.
Husband: Why not?
Me: It was all depressing. What do you mean, "People in your situation?"
Husband: You know, young, stay at home mom...
Me: No one would read it.
Husband: I think it would be good.
The thing is, I hate my label. The "stay at home mom" label. Truth be told, I got pregnant at 18, gave birth to my daughter at 19, and then madly began the life cycle at superspeed: baby-school-baby-husband-school-graduation-baby... Three babies, one lovely husband, and an English degree later, I am asking myself," What the hell is going on here?!" I managed to successfully complete three-quarters of the life cycle in the span of 6 years. Yay!...I think. Don't be mistaken, I LOVE my husband and my kids and I even love waking up to a bed of with five sets of fingers and toes and sleep-deprived eyes, but I find myself kind of floating in a void where I am not quite sure what my purpose is anymore.
Which brings me back to the mom label. I really became a stay-at-home mom by default. I was in school full-time with first two dumplings, and by the nine-month warning of the third, I was going part-time and caring for the kids while my hubby worked full time. (Hubby, what a ridiculous word). So, I graduate, the baby is old enough to put in childcare, but the cost of putting three kids in childcare is insane, right? Insane!! It should be illegal. I mean, the government should pay for it something. Or at least put up a stipend. And you don't want to send your kids to a cheap daycare...It's like going to a dentist that practices in his basement or something. You just don't do that to your kids. You want the best for them.
And so I am here, in this privileged position, not feeling so privileged. I want to be out in the world, asserting some sort of individual identity, but most people see me as a mom first or a wife. That sounds just horrible, doesn't it? I mean, really now. But I am determined to do both: be with my kids and work, or something to that effect.
I am playing the waiting game now. I have about 2 weeks until I hear from graduate schools I applied to (my reentry into the "real" world), and then if I don't get in, I am going to have to get a job. Even just a few days per week. Because my kids need a sane mother. And I need happy kids.
Me: I have a blog.
Husband: You do? Where?
Me: On Blogger, the Google blog thing. But nobody reads it. I haven't written anything on it in a while.
Husband: Why not?
Me: It was all depressing. What do you mean, "People in your situation?"
Husband: You know, young, stay at home mom...
Me: No one would read it.
Husband: I think it would be good.
The thing is, I hate my label. The "stay at home mom" label. Truth be told, I got pregnant at 18, gave birth to my daughter at 19, and then madly began the life cycle at superspeed: baby-school-baby-husband-school-graduation-baby... Three babies, one lovely husband, and an English degree later, I am asking myself," What the hell is going on here?!" I managed to successfully complete three-quarters of the life cycle in the span of 6 years. Yay!...I think. Don't be mistaken, I LOVE my husband and my kids and I even love waking up to a bed of with five sets of fingers and toes and sleep-deprived eyes, but I find myself kind of floating in a void where I am not quite sure what my purpose is anymore.
Which brings me back to the mom label. I really became a stay-at-home mom by default. I was in school full-time with first two dumplings, and by the nine-month warning of the third, I was going part-time and caring for the kids while my hubby worked full time. (Hubby, what a ridiculous word). So, I graduate, the baby is old enough to put in childcare, but the cost of putting three kids in childcare is insane, right? Insane!! It should be illegal. I mean, the government should pay for it something. Or at least put up a stipend. And you don't want to send your kids to a cheap daycare...It's like going to a dentist that practices in his basement or something. You just don't do that to your kids. You want the best for them.
And so I am here, in this privileged position, not feeling so privileged. I want to be out in the world, asserting some sort of individual identity, but most people see me as a mom first or a wife. That sounds just horrible, doesn't it? I mean, really now. But I am determined to do both: be with my kids and work, or something to that effect.
I am playing the waiting game now. I have about 2 weeks until I hear from graduate schools I applied to (my reentry into the "real" world), and then if I don't get in, I am going to have to get a job. Even just a few days per week. Because my kids need a sane mother. And I need happy kids.
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