Isaiah and the Gift of Today
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It’s Friday and there’s no better picture to accurately depict the Friday relief and excitement than this cartoony picture of Isaiah.
A few nights ago, we were playing with the different features of my Christmas gift – our new computer – and Isaiah got pretty excited over the different scenes and tones the pictures can be set in. This overly exposed scene was his favorite. He looks how I feel inside: YES! I got through another week of work, parenting, surviving another week of winter, and listening to the Republican debates! I DID IT! GO ME!
Watching Isaiah grow into his own person is such a paradoxical experience. He is most certainly his own self, that is clear. And he says things like, “Isaiah do it.” Meaning, “HANDS OFF MOM. I CAN BRUSH MY OWN TEETH.” Or “Forget your hand, Dad, I know what a railing is!”
But the majority of things he says are mimicking what’s around him, especially language. Just yesterday, he asked to watch a Muppet video on YouTube and when the link was a little slow, I fussed around with the mouse and before the electricity from my brain sent the message to move my tongue to say the words, Isaiah sighs, “Come on, come on, COME ON!” I looked at him strangely. Yeah, I guess I say that a lot when the internet takes forever. (Forever: 39 seconds)
Toddlers are walking mirrors and sponges and it FREAKS ME OUT that they learn instantaneously when and how to repeat something in an appropriate situation. They can read the emotional situation and deliver the comment they heard, just like it was originally spoken. So, yeah, he’s his own person – he’s got his organs, preferences, room – but everything he DOES reflects me or Nick to some extent. Now that’s some scary shit right there. Seeing myself in a 2 year old? S-C-A-R-Y.
But it’s a joy. JOY. And that’s an unexpected part of parenting that I wasn’t counting on: the joy! The little things. I was changing him after a nap and I asked how his day was going thus far at 5pm and he goes, “Oh, I just love it.” A few hours later, he picked up an empty gatorade bottle and says, “Recycle.” And then he wore my high heels for 15 minutes while I cooked dinner.
JOY.
*D my therapist says to look into our current moment with as much passion and intensity as we look to the past and future. If we all did this, we would relinquish control over the things we do not have power over or cannot change. Be present, she says, to only what you can presently know and see.
What I know and see is how fast 2 years of my life has gone with Isaiah. In the blink of an eye and in the swift move of parenting amnesia (I can’t remember what it was like to breastfeed or put him in a carrier), he’s a little human asking for juice and crackers at night, wailing when I turn off the radio because it’s time to say goodnight. Just like that (snap of the fingers) his onuses are too tight, his pants are too short, and he’s feeding himself with a fork and spoon.
Nick took the opportunity to clean out the basement this week (what a great guy, I’d never think to do that on my day off), and I was admiring his work, I saw all these baby toys, bottles, and paraphernalia were outgrew. No more boppy pillow, no crib bumper, no walker. Being a parent is so reactionary and immediate that it’s hard to retain any memory of what you did before. All you really know is how to do NOW. And given D*’s advice about staying in the present, that relationship seems perfectly complimentary.
Be present. In the blink of an eye, it’ll be ten years from now with no memory of today.
Things My Therapist Said: Light Your Damn Lamp
TweetI’m afraid. I’m afraid that I’m going to be afraid my whole life. I don’t want to be.
It’s natural to be a afraid. It means you’re alive. If you’re not afraid, you’re in a blissful state of ignorance. That or you’re drunk.
pause
The only thing we have control over is what we have in front of us: today. All you can do is be fully, absolutely present to your day. I’m not saying not to save money or plan for the future, but you cannot have or enjoy those things if you are not present to your current self. Not the past. Not the future.
silence
What are you thinking?
No words really, just more of an image.
Ok.
I thought of a long row of lamps. I want to make sure the ones down the line are lit. Ideally I want all of them lit, but I’m obsessed with making sure the ones up there, the ones for later are going to be lit.
If the lamps are all connected, the only way for those lamps to be lit is if there is energy in your lamp today. And with your faulty wiring, you aren’t lighting up the lamp in front of you.
If I don’t light up the lamp in front of me…
…then there’s no light or energy to spill onto tomorrow’s lamp. Cause it’s sure not going to light itself.
Memo to Rick Santorum: Gifts from God Do Not Include Pregnancy Through Rape
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These days I can’t seem to shake a stomach bug in which have caused me to forego two Cleveland Orchestra tickets, miss hours of work, watch Isaiah learn to say “Mama needs rest,” and feel sorry for myself for these and other mishaps.
However, when it comes to Rick Santorum’s latest comments on how raped women should “accept” a pregnancy committed through rape as a gift from God, my stomach issues vanish and suddenly the few coherent marbles rolling around in my head collide to forge a march against Santorum’s utterances.
SANTORUM: Well, you can make the argument that if she doesn’t have this baby, if she kills her child, that that, too, could ruin her life. And this is not an easy choice. I understand that. As horrible as the way that that son or daughter and son was created, it still is her child. And whether she has that child or doesn’t, it will always be her child. And she will always know that. And so to embrace her and to love her and to support her and get her through this very difficult time, I’ve always, you know, I believe and I think the right approach is to accept this horribly created — in the sense of rape — but nevertheless a gift in a very broken way, the gift of human life, and accept what God has given to you. As you know, we have to, in lots of different aspects of our life. We have horrible things happen. I can’t think of anything more horrible. But, nevertheless, we have to make the best out of a bad situation.
Please note the language, description, and advice heaped upon the rape survivor… “She kills her child” “…accept what God has given to you.”
I just lectured last night on the sacramental of confirmation and the gifts of the Holy Spirit, which include wisdom, right judgment, courage, awe and wonder, understanding, knowledge, and reverence. SHOOT! I must have missed that passage where St. Paul referenced “pregnancy through rape” as one of the gifts of the Holy Spirit. Maybe I should send my students an addendum to update that list.
Women who choose to birth their child after rape should have every possible support and resource available to them to cope and heal, physically, emotionally, and psychologically throughout every turn of their journey. Is it possible, too though, to stop demonizing women who do not choose this? Even if their decision is one you don’t agree with? Why is it more plausible to criminalize the abortion of a raped women than to increase the funding of non profits and social services who provide treatment and services to survivors?
I’d challenge and welcome any politician at any local, state, or federal level to speak intelligently to the social and societal norms that contribute to rape culture and gendered violence instead of pressing Santorum’s translation of God’s grace to raped women.
h/t to Feministe
Are You There, Margaret? It’s Me, God: On Body, Profanity, and Anger
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January is a war on our bodies. It’s a war in so many ways. It’s nestled right after a holiday speckled December, full of drink and food sprees, exit fall/begrudgingly hello winter, and January is there. Waiting. Regardless of the bleak gray sky, we wipe our mental boards clean and vow better habits, more living, less poor choices. And some take January and the promise of more living to declare war on their bodies. The dieting, restricting, cold turkey, no holds barred workouts.
It’s no wonder the war is conceded by Valentine’s Day. It’s never sustainable.
Body consciousness is taking center stage.
I’ve been thinking about my body. A lot. Experience has told me that while there’s a temptation to generalize that most women suffer from body hyper vigilance, I know that while the stressors are different, this vigilance very much includes men. Who DOESN’T think, criminalize, criticize, and punish their bodies in January? At the very least, most people take a hard look in the mirror and pick ourselves apart, one limb at a time.
So when I read THIS, a jarring response essay by the profane yet sensitive Margaret Cho about her history of body issues after she received horrid comments about her body and recently inked tattoos, I paused. She goes ape shit on two readers.
Things I could say should be left unheard and unsaid because I am not willing to be the bigger person. I do not take the high road. I take the low road and blows below the belt are my absolute favorite. The best revenge is not living well. The best revenge is revenge.
About 2% of me, all raised-eye brow and all, thinks, “Oh, Cho – c’mon. Don’t take the low road.”
And the 98% of me rejoiced. It was so refreshing, and honest. It was like the part of me that I am in a room with only the closest people I know; where you laugh too loudly at inappropriate things; where you say what needs to be said in whatever words find their way to your tongue without censoring. Dammit, she’s honest. She’s so honest about NOT taking the high road. Cho received staggering points from my respect bank simply because she’s not one of these faux reputation, Tiger Woods family man/I’m actually “addicted” to sexing White women in dirty places facade. Cho claims nothing but herself, which includes CHOOSING to go below the belt.
I couldn’t help but feel ghosts around me. Misty, clammy ghosts that appeared in the room and gently licked my skin, bringing me back to my 10, 14, 17, 23, year old self when words, hate, eye daggers and jokes were thrown at me because of my weight, my skin color, my heritage, my hair, my hairiness, my almond eyes. The ghosts were as real as ever. My breath caught and I suddenly was a little girl being told to go back to my own country. Being called every kind of word used to describe round and full. Then I was a teenager being told to only date my own. Own what? “YOUR own.” Then a running, young woman with a car full of teenage boys speeding by yelling derogatory slurs. Then there was the eroticizing of my racial make up. And then, always, there is teasing. Relentless, torrential, acid rain on the tender skin of growing up girl.
I fly my flag of self-esteem for all those who have been told they were ugly and fat and hurt and shamed and violated and abused for the way they look and told time and time again that they were “different” and therefore unlovable.
The body is a war zone we grow up in. For those who are accepted as “normal” and capable, light skinned and perky, demure or graceful, it’s a playground. But for those of us on the other side of the fence, it’s a battleground. I was never beat as a POW, but there are scars reminding me that Cho is right. When those around you patrol and use your body for shooting practice, how are we not suppose to grow up defensive and use what we can for survival? I dismiss Cho’s critics (or her lone “lost a fan” fan) who call her words too harsh and unnecessary.
How does one measure abrasive behavior when bound in a triggering and defensive situation? Why are we so quick to jump on those who defiantly take below the belt shots in defense when its clear the attack was unjustified? I think those who did not undergo hard times are quick with their high road lectures and low on understanding human psychology.
Being called ugly and fat and disgusting to look at from the time I could barely understand what the words meant has scarred me so deep inside that I have learned to hunt, stalk, claim, own and defend my own loveliness and my image of myself as stunningly gorgeous with a ruthlessness and a defensiveness that I fear for anyone who casually or jokingly questions it, as my anger and rage combined with my intense and fearsome command of words create insults meant to maim, kill and destroy.
If words are used to kill someone’s spiritual and mental livelihood, it makes sense that their vitreous ego’s defense is made of the same ammunition: words.
And call me a crazy Catholic, but I hear a spiritual knock on the door of Margaret Cho. There’s something familiar about her beckoning injured birds to come to her for comfort.
I want to defend the children that we still are inside, the fragile sensitive souls who no matter how much we tried were still told we were not good enough. I want to make the world safe and better and happy for us. We deserve beauty, love, respect, admiration, kindness and compassion. If we don’t get it, there will be hell to pay. I am no saint, but I am here for you and me. I am here for us, and I am doing the best I can.
I think there’s a God, or Buddha, or Spirit, or Life, or Universe, or WHATEVER you want to call the deeper Source of our existence, there in her words; rising up to defend what she knows is rightfully true: our inner selves, fragile and uncertain, still need assurance and community.
I think that when we rise to defend ourselves, what was ugly turns into something divine. Perhaps divine, for some, is equated to some pristine, soft green mountain side with Julie Andrews twirling in mother nature. But for me, rising up to defend our humanity IS divinity. Cho self-stamps herself as damaged and gorgeous, not saintly. And there’s something spring water refreshing about that. There’s something cathartic and necessary about her uproarious defensiveness. It reminds me how acutely human we are at any time, whether on Twitter or working in a factory, or writing in a library. We, at any time, are so vulnerable to the thoughts and words of others that we cannot take each other for granted. We can no longer afford to assume that those around us are not tender. We cannot afford to assume that the memories of those we encounter are blemish-free. And we can no longer mislabel aggressive defense as aggression. Not for those who have been the cork board for thousands of pin jokes. Rising up for ourselves is not rude. It is not unstable. It is not crazy. You haven’t truly lived until you defended yourself against pure spite. As
each one of us designs our path of connection to others, we also design our individualized plan of defense for self-preservation.
There’s a time and a place for healthy and healing and bomb-like anger – which is different from the foul breath of negativity – just as there’s a time and a place for the high road. When you learn the difference and know when to practice the former, it’s become a rite of passage.
If you haven’t yet defended yourself against unwarranted hatred, don’t explain to others to take the high road.
If your body has not undergone physical violation or emotional trauma of harassment, do not assume you can locate and point to the high road.
If your life has not been used as a target for cheap funnies, hasty attempts for laughter at your expense, don’t judge the response of the humiliated.
.
January is a declared war on our bodies. Let’s start a revolution and wave a white flag. Wave it high, unfettered, and free. We surrender to no one but ourselves.
I grew up hard and am still hard and I don’t care. I did not choose this face or this body and I have learned to live with it and love it and celebrate it and adorn it with tremendous drawings from the greatest artists in the world and I feel good and powerful like a nation that has never been free and now after many hard won victories is finally fucking free. I am beautiful and I am finally fucking free.
Do We Choose or are we Chosen?: A Free Write on Jobs vs. Vocation
TweetA simple but key step to living a fulfilled life is accepting what we do and do not have control over.
My beliefs – religious and spiritual – lead a wandering, brooding soul like myself to acknowledge that we have control for a little less than half of what happens to us, but that 49% is critical to our overall well-being.
What we do have control over is our decisions, our process of reflection upon our lives which (usually) leads to a more fruitful existence, attitude, and choice. Some big, some small, but all of our choices make up the sand and clouds of our day. We just have to be aware that they are, in fact, choices, and not forced up us. It’s quite freeing if you adopt this mentality.
For instance, I last year I attended a conference on trauma stewardship. It was about how to practically care for oneself when being exposed to the everyday traumas of our lives: violence, suffering, abuse, war, famine, poverty, oppression.
For those who work in social services especially, one of the lessons that was emphasized was reminding oneself that your occupation is a choice. For many of us, those who are caretakers, or social workers, or counselors, or really anyone who works on the front lines of trauma, begin to feel like their work is growing a life of its own; as if no one else can do it, like s/he must do it alone and after a little while, you being to resent it. You begin to view it with pessimism. And thus begins secondary trauma.
We choose the work and life we live, not the other way around. And at any time, if you feel the negativity of the work warping your perspective, that life is nothing but one big lemon — it’s time to remember that just as we chose the work, we are able to walk away.
But is that true for writers?
I think I have tried to walk away from writing approximately 2837271 times. Each time unsuccessful. And the work of writing is isolating, sometimes staunchly so, and unceasingly divisive. In the world of writing, there is no mental multitasking. I cannot respond to anything else when writing, my brain is so absorbed by its thoughts.
I didn’t choose writing. It chose me. And, unfortunately, when I don’t do it, when I think of a life without it, I slip into a very dark hole that thinks life is one big lemon, that everyone else gets to do what they truly love, and I, given this yearning to jot down words, must balance a tray of work, family, and responsibility just so I can get a few hours here and there to do what I truly love.
For many writers, writing itself can be traumatic. Gloria Anzaldúa once wrote that she would occupy herself with every possible chore and task to avoid her writing desk. Once you sit down and commit, writers unleash the ghosts, goblins, and demons that most people silence in their heads. Writers activate them for truth-telling. Sometimes writing just ain’t pretty. The dark oils that spill from our keyboards and pens can turn bloody as memories and questions are resurrected for sharing with readers.
Perhaps that’s the difference between jobs and vocations. I’ve had a million jobs – server, golf caddy, admin coordinator, counselor, advocate, cashier, sales rep, camp leader – and I walked to and away from them for various reasons, but always knowing it was a choice. Writing has never felt like a choice. It was like a calling. A distant, over the mountains, faint echo of sirens calling. A lusty, obsessive call of the soul to communicate. In my world as a writer, the only choices I see are the ones to set up my life to make writing happen.
Perhaps it is the things that we do NOT have control over which become potential treasure maps. Weather, rude strangers, stop lights, sickness, family, childhood, body type, shoe size, allergies, others’ decisions. WIth or without our handprint, these winds of life blow in whatever direction they please.
You can be blown over by it. Or you can parasail.
Where Thoughts Go to Die: A Free List/Write
TweetI’m taking on a challenge of a free write. It feels rather risqué to do such a thing — free write, no edit, publish on internet. But, here goes.
The first thing I felt when I began writing was to make a list of all of the random things that pass through my head that never get processed. I often think about the million and one things that pass through the human brain that we immediately disregard as inappropriate or irrelevant, and they fade into the outer space of our noggins, never to be revisited or shared. I think have about a gazillion of those by 10am.
So, a sample list of unshared thoughts:
Morning
1st thoughts:
I love this new bedroom. So cozy.
I really need to start strengthening my back. Isaiah is getting so tall and heavy.
Should I work out?
Mhm, I better send that email for work.
I’m going to be on time today. Mhm. No, I’m going to TRY and be on time today. Critical difference.
I should do Yoga.
If I start wearing a robe, then I’m really old.
My knees crack like an old lady.
Is my doc appointment today or tomorrow?
Do I do enough with my privilege?
That’s a hellluvalot of snow.
I’m a capri girl and it’s a capri world.
2nd thoughts:
Is Cleveland really the best place for me?
Is Cleveland really the best place for me to raise a child?
I really hope Isaiah sleeps at least another hour.
I can’t believe I’m up before Nick. Such role reversal since we got married.
I don’t feel like cooking anything. The kitchen floor is so cold.
Mhm. Yes. Sending that work email right now.
Yay! Paget’s back! I feel more freedom already!
Midmorning thoughts:
I swear everyone else and their mom is off work today.
I’ll miss not working with Nick when he starts working for Deloitte in the fall.
Nick really loves those button down shirts with black pants.
Today is a great day even though it’s snowing like a mothereffer outside.
I really need to work on my presentation for Wednesday.
Catholic Social teaching? That’s like oxygen for my brain cells.
King Herod was a coward. Afraid of an infant?
I wish people paid attention to their faith. It’d make my job a lot easier.
Afternoon thoughts:
This barley should’ve cooked at least another 30 minutes.
Southern pound cake is crack. I want this whole loaf.
How does Fresca have sodium in it? It’s so sweet.
Working out is such a chore in January.
It’s so flipping cold. Cleveland is not the place for me or Isaiah.
How can I arrange my life so that I spend winters in warm climates? How do I do this without disrupting Isaiah’s education?
Things will be better once I have a really good run and get my endorphins pumping.
Soup is my medicine.
Late Afternoon Thoughts
TJ Maxx truly is a different store everyday.
This kid doesn’t know anything about furniture.
He’s really sweet, but a lovable idiot.
Not an idiot after all. he found the gadget to fold down my backseat.
HOORAY! The table fits in the car now. Should I tip him?
Early Evening Thoughts
I miss Isaiah.
Go back to sleep, child.
How the Buckeyes manage to lose so badly is a disgrace.
Why do I always end up with the poopy diaper?
Am I still a feminist the way I was last year? Or the year before?
How does one teach about sexuality without getting lambasted by conservatives in the catholic church?
I love black beans. Small tragedy Isaiah doesn’t like them anymore.
Nick is implementing all of his resolutions already. I like it.
Evening Thoughts
If I call Dad, it’ll be at least 30 minutes of my night talking about the latest kidnappings.
I miss Dad. Call anyway.
I can’t believe this butternut squash soup cooked the rice so well. YUM.
This must be terrible twos. If it’s not, I’m returning this kid.
I should write.
I should workout.
I just want to lay here on the couch with Nick and laugh with Isaiah for hours.
Life’s too short.
Just because I like “Baby, Baby” doesn’t mean I’m a Bieber fan. He’s like 12 years old.
Late evening THoughts
I don’t think old houses are my thing.
Efficiency is the trump card of life.
Why did I friend her? I’m not even sure she knows who I am.
This new Timeline thing on Facebook looks like a commitment of at least 2 hours.
I love having a child.
Do I want another child?
I think I’m still a child.
I love this damn mac so damn much.
I love Nick so damn much.
I think I have to live someplace warm. Maybe Northern California.
I don’t want to be a cliche, but coastal life is calling me.
New curtains. YES. But not frilly.
Why can’t computers just think for me and download what i need without asking me questions?
Now
Sleep sounds good, but I’m addicted to this mac.
Loving Thee, Loving Me
TweetI’m not sure when I stopped writing down quotes/
maybe when I realized
that
my words
my experiences of love
were just as worthy
as Shakespeare’s imagination,
or Barret Browning’s loving Thee-
when we believe our love is worthy
we rise to the expectation
and seek Love
that we were/are
created for:
Divine.
What Dreams May Come: A Christmas I’ll Never Forget
TweetI’m writing this from my room of one’s own. It was the Christmas gift I asked for from Nick. I wanted a room in the house, completely mine. A room with light, with my chosen fixtures, with my clashing bright colors and unevenness throughout. I want to choose everything about it and in that room I will write, paint, draw, create, think, sleep, cry, be, wither, rejuvenate, ruminate, research. It’s mine. All are welcome in it, but it’s a space dedicated to me. The rest of the rooms in the house have their purposes, but this room. THIS ROOM is created out of need, out of love.
And Nick delivered.
Christmas eve he was working like a madman to switch the master bedroom with another small room which would be our room, and the master bedroom would be my Room. Room. Such a beautiful word.
It was hard work. We bundled Isaiah in a coat, gloves, and hat and asked him to play downstairs while we left the side door open and we walked in and out of the house, carrying furniture we decided to donate into the garage. In the cold December night, we sweated as we lifted and turned heavy pieces of shelves and desks on their sides. I cleaned. Nick moved all of our books to the basement until we decide what to do with the hundreds of books that used to be our library which is now the space for our mattress. I sneezed and dusted, swept and vacuumed. Isaiah proudly held the extra broom and ran around scattering my piles of dirt.
Some Christmas wishes don’t come true without hard work.
So after we attended Christmas eve mass we came home to exchange gifts. Nick sent me on a scavenger hunt throughout the house and, finally, upon my last clue which had me flustered and confused on the third floor, I came upon my gift. The GIFT. The gift that surpassed all other gifts he’s given me (minus a notebook full of love letters from 2001). It was rectangular and spectacularly enormous. I ripped the paper in one long thick strip and glimpsed the front cover. One word: iMac. iScreamed. Loud. Isaiah started bawling, probably thinking I was under attack from the huge box. iCried. And couldn’t stop.
Most people would raise their eyebrows at such a luxurious gift for such non fancy folks such as me and Nick, so let me elaborate on what went on in my mind.
More than anyone else in my life, Nick knows my dreams. As well as a person outside your own mind can understand your desires, Nick knows my dreams. He knows what excites me. And he knows that what makes most people happy doesn’t make me happy. It’s not that I’m hard to know, but there are such few things that I would truly cherish as much as a device that facilitates my creativity like a new speedy computer whose graphics and clarity bring out the beauty of my photography and helps immensely when processing batches of photos. More than that though, it was the first time I felt like someone broke inside my head, didn’t steal anything, and just looked. Like Nick studied all the different ideas I have for writing projects, he analyzed my frustration with not having space or time to devote to quiet. With a stethoscope, microscope, flashlight, and samples, he did investigative work on my heart. And I wasn’t wishing for a Mac. I was wishing for space.
He helped me create that space and then added an unexpected ornament in the center. An ornament that whispered, “I believe in you. Do this.”
That’s what made me cry.
In 1997 I attended a lecture my first year in college. It was on self-defense and how to be safe in college (mandated for all first year students) and the woman who lectured digressed into talking about her partner. I’ll never forget her words that rang in my then 18 year old ears, “If you find someone who believes in you more than you believe in yourself. Marry them.”
I didn’t like the advice. I thought, “I always believe in myself. I don’t need others to believe in me before I believe in myself.”
Now 32 years old, with a 2 year old son, balancing life on a tight rope it seems at times, I strive to wonder what the hell I was thinking. Who in the world thinks s/he is exempt from self-doubt? Who DOESN’T need a someone in their life who looks you in the eye and believes in everything inside of you? Who, except a naive fool, thinks they can get through life holding onto their dreams and make them happen alone?
When we allow ourselves to speak our dreams, we will find a listener. Perhaps it won’t be a crowd. Maybe you don’t even get two. But you will find one. One person is all it takes to be heard and when that one person listens closely, like you have the only voice in the world, it can be a magical experience all on its own. All year we come down on ourselves with failures and disappointments, and the world seems all to eager to remind you that dreams are only for the few and wealthy.
Dreams belong to us all and when folded with love, a gesture, a Gift, can make us feel like dreams are possible; like anything is possible.
It wasn’t the screen or wireless gadgets that came in that huge box. It was imagining Nick lying next to me, listening to my endless lists of almosts, shoulds, and maybes and him thinking, “Let’s do this.”
And now, I sit here, in a newly cleaned and organized Room of my own. In a space that looks, smells, feels like it came straight out of my soul, I cannot help but sit here on January 1, 2012 and believe, not just in dreams, but in myself.
Merry, Happy, Ecstatic New Year, my love. Thank you.
2011: My Year and Self Review
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Since 1999, I stopped doing new years resolutions and introduced themes. They’re much easier and manageable, not to mention realistic, as I strive to grow into the human person I want envision myself to be.
Boom, Onward and Upward, Phenomenal, Spectacular Spectacular, Faithful are just a few of the themes I incorporated into my life. 2011 was a bit different. I chose, “The Year that I…” and let my actions define the theme to see what emerged out of my life. Truthfully, I was a bit disappointed with myself because the year wasn’t as defined as I would have liked. There wasn’t one particular milestone that stood out, which leads my sometimes Type A self to come own unnecessarily harsh and lambaste the past 365 days.
And then I take a closer look.
This was the year I watched my sisters get married.
This was the year of watching 4 of the closest women in my life get married, one of the including my own sister. The other three – Tricia, Amanda, and Claire – are the dearest friends of mine from different parts of my life. Tricia, my best friend from 11 years old. Claire, one of my closest friends out of college with whom I’ve shared incredibly powerful traveling trips. Amanda, my best friend from graduate school. And then my very own sister, Carmen, who shares the same blood as I. My sisters, in every sense of the word, got married in 2011. These four weddings alone – Canton, Ohio; Louisville, Kentucky; Madison, Wisconsin; and Honolulu, Hawaii – defined an emotionally powerful era in my life.
This was the year I edited my first book.
The Dear Sister Anthology is a work that will define my life and I have spent the better part of 2011 in the depths of rape and sexual violence. Reading, rereading, editing, and working with over 40 writers and artists to refine their trauma into a letter, poem, or essay changed me this year. It confirmed my identity as an activist for which I have defined as actively participating in the world to witness or cause a transformative, societal, or cosmic disruption which contributes to the evolution of the human species toward a more loving and just existence. Working to end gendered and sexual violence has taken me in 2011 to present at the Civil Liberties and Public Policy Conference and further engage other activists and students with the voices of survivors who have and will continue to light their own path of healing. Dear Sister, I promise you, will be published/available/distributed in 2012.
This was the year I shifted within make/shift.
Since November of 2007, I began editing with make/shift magazine, the leading independent feminist voice in the world (in my not so humble opinion). How make/shift unhooks itself from mainstream and kyriarchal practices of editing and publishing has clearly defined my path as both an editor for Dear Sister and a writer. Making the transition from front of books editor to contributor and supporter has been difficult. How does one walk away from a consistent source of inspiration? Well, you measure priorities and then you wake up to the opportunities the seed themselves along the new soil that the hard decision cultivated. My son, my partner, my writing, Dear Sister, and my work as a minister called me to reevaluate my role within the magazine. And true to form, Jess Hoffman, my life “editor” (one who builds relationship and brings out your personal best) embraced my process and welcomed my shift. It was so Jess, so make/shift.
This was the year I created and hosted my first retreat, Abundance, in my own home.
Three of the most respected writers and activists on the planet traveled from Michigan, North Carolina, and New Mexico to spend a weekend of reflecting, connecting, and loving each other. Connected by passion, words, humor, dancing, and food, we strengthened a bond based on abundance, a theory/perspective springing from the ideology there is more than enough in this world and we need not fear or hoard or dismiss ourselves in the practicing and living out of that belief.
This was the year I ran my first road race.
This was the year I created women’s ministry in my profession.
This was the year l grew as a photographer; photographing another wedding and learning more about lomography.
This was the year I began regularly tweeting.
This was the year Facebook started seeing less of me.
This was the year that I let the pristine and saintly illusion of motherhood permanently die. My responsibilities and blessings of family led me to drop the towel covering the naked, vulnerable, and defensive part of me and let the world know who I am: an amorphous vegan, a sensitive mother, a hot mess of a life partner, a patient of a mental health counselor, by day – a sure footed minister, by night – a less certain writer. I began being less afraid to tell the truth because the truth was so obvious it seemed almost ridiculous to keep any kind of farce in my life. This was the year of recognizing two options and choosing the latter: pretending I’m super woman or asking for help. I hired individuals to help care for Isaiah, my home, and accepted that co-parenting means Isaiah has equal bonds with mother and father. (That can be hard when you’re raised to believe mothers are the heart of the family and allowing TWO hearts to pulse for your family.) All of this and more meant laying my Martyrdom Mom identity in a casket. I want to live my life for my son, not give it to him with resentment.
I learned from 2011 that the more you say NO, the more my YES’s mean. Relationships, projects, money, even goals themselves increase in the quality of attention paid to them when I flip my turning signal on less frequently and drive further down the main artery of my life. Which leads me to my 2012 theme: Simplify.
2012 is the year that will grow two facets of my core identity: writing and health. Last year took a lot out of me. I was there for so much for others that I didn’t give myself the time I personally needed, which includes rest and nothingness. The only things I am saying yes to in 2012 are activities and demands which directly feed either my writing or health. Specifically, I will say no if it doesn’t help me publish or distribute Dear Sister and/or write my memoir, or help me train for a triathlon. This means saying No to photography gigs that would make me more money. This means saying Yes to organizing and redecorating my office so I have more motivation and clarity to read. This means saying No to superfluous activities which I enjoy so I have ample time to dedicate what I most hunger: creativity and balance.
2012: Simplify means stripping down the excess of my life so all that is left in December 2012 are two towers of gleaming accomplishment: my internal and external work of art.
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- I get flack for publicly loving Lady Gaga. Aren't there worse things in the world?