Victory is Mine!

I have been afraid of posting triumphantly here about our pronoun reversal as it's been known to backfire on me when I've blogged about something that I thought we'd moved past...but it seems as if "me, myself and I" are here to stay! I've finally stopped being the pronoun Nazi and can go back to speaking in regular English, rather than this awkward version of self-correcting and self-conscious baby-talk we've recently favored. It was getting to the point where I was giving up hope when BAM! the thing just shifted in the right direction. Off and running, and making improvements socially due to the fact that people now know who he's referring to when he tries to strike up a conversation. Before it was "You like Madagascar, you like all kinds of wild animals" and now it's "I like Madagascar, mama. I like all kinds of wild animals. Mama, can you please help me put on my slippers?" Heavenly.
In the background, he just piped up..."Mama, will you let me watch Mary Poppins?"
Well, at least he loves Julie Andrews as much as I do.
We've got to get to bed...but I have two cute little boy things to share first.
Diego's had a wicked nasty cold this week. He rubbed his cheek raw from wiping it on his sleeves, and his sleeves looked like stiff shields of snot all week long (how did it get all over the back of all his shirts, too?) and I've been instructing him (seems like every 3 minutes) to blow into a kleenex. Well, this morning I said "Blow!" and he goes, "Whoo-whoo" like a train while I wiped his runny nose. Too cute!!
Second cute thing: Diego has started to really get into his stuffed animals, and he has a sizable collection. He's been sleeping with at least ten different animals each night and making up elaborate tea parties and games with them by day. Today, they all took turns eating play food on my desk chair, and he kept telling me how nice it was to take turns and share. Well, I came in and he was dancing around the room with each animal and shaking them, singing "Mickey Mouse, Step in Time, Elmo, Step in Time, never need a reason never need a rhyme...Iguana , step in time!" and on and on, with each animal he spun around and danced, singing the song from Mary Poppins "Step in Time" Well at one point I came back from downstairs and he was not where I left him, watching Shrek, so I went looking and found him in his room with all the animals. I said, "What are you doing?" and he replied, "Playing with my bed animals."
Am I a super-geek for thinking that is really frickin cute?
Well, just wanted to gloat about my awesome, amazing, incredible kid.
Love,
Stacy

Winter's Promise (a kind of eulogy)

Winter finally fell. We're in the hibernation mode, where going anywhere seems to require undertaking a herculean task. Snow pants, boots, coat, hat, mittens. Strapping the whole package into the car seat. Off to destination; take everything off once inside. Bundling a child like this requires an amazing amount of patience and dexterity. Little tyke seems to enjoy all the fuss.

We're trudging through ice and snow here, with the sunlight glazing the ribs of clouds that skeleton dance across the sky. Ever the shiny coin, the moon hung low this afternoon on our way home. With these types of fleeting moments caught frozen in an icicle of time, drip dripping slowly to the movements of the heavenly bodies, I can hardly compete with words. My gratitude, mirrored in the graceful flight of the migrating birds a little late now, edging further toward their destination. I feel the same way: winter crept up on me, slowly, stretching out fall and summer. Refusal to adhere to the structure of things as we perceive them, my inquiry into the question of time, or the concept we're locked into, makes things slide along a bit differently.
For certain, it's not easy to hear difficult news. My own selfish clinging to the way things were, even this summer, and the sadness in accepting things as they are now, sometimes. When you are sad--of course you don't want to feel sorrow. You want to go back to a sunnier time. A more innocent time. However, the irony is so clear that the passing of life, the acknowledgement of this being what its all about, this transient coming and going, that life is never what it was even last Friday, let alone last summer. We can't hold on to anything. Not only that--we're often reminded of what is so precious yet so easy to take for granted, in the face of our ordinary human losses. We are all each in this form for however long our bodies sustain us, for however long we are graced with life's breath. No better lessons than the ones that are completely, across the board universal for all of us. Its in the shadow of death that we sing the lyrics of life.

Lucky as I am to be where I am right now, even if I find some things difficult to accept. Surrounded by my clan, feckless though we may sometimes, humanly, be! Do I want things back the way they were in the summer? Does my heart feel sorrow, a ripping and torn place where my child's namesake once lived, laughed, and touched this very spot? Would I taste the raw beauty of life without the whisper of death beneath every blooming seed? I place my heart in winter's promise. Spring will thaw. And then, without fail, there will arrive a new summer. Under the white blanket that masquerades as death, things are changing form. New life is taking root. To nourish us all. And then, like clockwork, real time will bury us all beneath. As new forms rise again. Skeleton ribs will dance across the ancient sky. Heaving in, sighing out, we rise and fall like our own breath.

Winter fell. Each snowflake, a bud of beauty. Petals of ice, flourish this snowy day. Life, bring us your ever-changing harvest. We are all still here.
Love,
Stacy

whens the last time i just let the keys freefall

just making it through another week. seems to have gone mercifully, uneventfully.
no news is good news for now.

Tomorrow is Another Day

Amen.
Let's just say anything I wrote yesterday has been thrown out with today's bathwater. Lucky the baby didn't go out there, too.
Hope December brings good tidings and good listening....
ARGH!

Virginia Slim

Well, today was one of those days where Diego is lucky he is so damn cute. Public meltdowns are my least favorite flavor of melts. This was the kind where everyone smiles at me, sympathetically, and there are comments like "I remember those days," or "I don't miss that age," or my favorite, "He's hiding over there, mom."

Yes. After dragging a kicking, screaming, flailing, hair pulling, face scratching, slapping child upside down and over my shoulder out of the bookstore, he actually flipped out of my arms as I was trying to put him down on his feet (it should be noted he was also screaming, "want to walk by yourself" so I was trying to be accommodating) thrust himself backward with such force that the brick sidewalk probably cracked, if not the back of his head. Of course, the folks walking into the entrance, greeted by this lovely holiday sight, were clucking their teeth at me as if to scold me for being completely unable to control my child. If I say I wasn't concerned about his head at that moment will I come off as a terrible mother? Outwardly I did react with sympathy though my insides were seething with a sort of embarrassed rage. I had to hold the kid down between my legs as I fumbled for the car keys, because he tried to dart out into a busy parking lot when I was searching (why is there so much crap that feels like keys at the bottom of my bag on days like this) and then I had to intercept him when he tried to open the car door and hop out while I was getting in the front seat. I got a leg cramp trying to buckle him in the carseat. I didn't get angry. I didn't yell. I might have lectured a wee bit on that ride home, between his shrieking directives to turn the car around and go back to the store, but I did not let it get personal. I tried to breathe calmly and to sympathize with how he was feeling. I might have not felt something close to composure, or even compassion, but I did manage to fake it well. You see, back in the store I had made the mistake of bribing him (with chocolate milk) if his behavior was good, which it turned out not to be. So when I told him there would be no chocolate milk, he just went ballistic.

However, there was a moment of truth in the car. I said to him, "You know, you shouldn't behave nicely to get a treat. You should do it because it feels good in your --" I paused here, for effect, and then, before I could go on, Diego chocked back a sob in the backseat and spoke clearly. He said, "Your heart."

I felt like those women in the old Virginia Slims ads, remember? "You've come a long way, baby."

We're Not There Yet...

So today I went with Diego to one of our favorite haunts, the library. As much as I enjoy spending time in the children's section, I sometimes wish I could wander over to the adult stacks and pick a book for myself, one that can't be read in five minutes, one that doesn't rhyme...
We spent the requisite hour and forty minutes in the Ingrid Boyer Room, a wonderful fantasia built to make children adore books for life, replete with treehouses, a secret window (a relic from the original building, uncovered in the renovation and expansion of the library a few years back, really cool) and more toys, puppets and art supplies than any child could exhaust in a day's visit. After picking out and reading several stories, solving an array of puzzles, and even giving in to renting a few DVDs, I wondered aloud if we could chance a visit to the adult area, where I knew the exact location of several craft books I wanted to borrow in anticipation of the coming holiday season. A friendly (and probably childless) librarian said, "I think he's ready. He can handle it, mom!" So after a brief discussion of appropriate "adult section" behavior and a bribe or two, we were off, hand in hand, to the quiet part of the building.
I should have known that this was a mistake. Within the first step into the frigid, adult region, Diego piped up, "It's not noisy in here!" I took him firmly by the arm and quickly scanned the numbers posted on the stacks, found our row, and led him to the very end. There, the windows line the wall and make a sort of perfect seat for curling up with a book--or marching down the entire wall, complete with the animated step of a soldier. Yikes...I grabbed a few of his books and tried to quietly tempt him back toward our row. He literally sneered at me, I think, as if to say, "Yeah, right" and then proudly started jumping up and down, shouting "I like to move it move it, you like to move it move it, they like to move it move it, we like to--MOVE IT!"

Needless to say, we won't be trying that again.

Thanksgiving as a Jewish Holiday

Tonight my Uncle, as brilliant and nutty as only he can be, informed our family (who at best, can remember the prayers for the wine and the bread, and are token High Holiday Jews) that Thanksgiving is actually a take-off on Hannukah. Of course, I was like, no way. You must be thinking of Sukkot, which is a harvest holiday. No, this was also false. Shavout is actually the true harvest holiday and Sukkot actually stems from some other misfortunate time in the Jewish history of persecution when our ancestors didn't have time to build houses, on the lam, so just created lean-to shacks in which to live while they fled some other terror. At this point my head began to whirl as everything I ever learned in Hebrew School (between flooding the toilets in the girls bathroom by stuffing paper towels in them til they stopped up, and doing other small acts of vandalism and terror of my own brand as the faithful rebel I was) spun around in my mixed up mind and spilled out between my ears. I sputtered some nonesense and of course, as any good 21st century civilian would, ran to the safety net of Google to fact check this gibberish.
Well, as it turned out, in a funny way we're both right.
I quote: "In their original form, Hannukah and Purim, like the American holiday of Thanksgiving, are celebrations of thanks and honor to God for His intervention and blessings. The way some Americans celebrate Thanksgiving is far removed from the original intenet, but that does not alter the real meaning and significance of the day."
Now, another internet source had this to say about the correlation between Sukkot and Thanksgiving. "The Pilgrims were deeply religious people. When they were trying to find a way to express their thanks for their survival and for the harvest, they looked to the Bible for an appropriate way of celebrating and found Sukkot....The Sukkot explanation of Thanksgiving fits better with the meticulous research of Mayflower historian Caleb Johnson, who believes that the original Thanksgiving was a harvest festival (as is Sukkot) that it was observed in October (as Sukkot usually is) and the the Pilgrims would not have celebrated a holiday that was not in the Bible."
So here's to whatever holiday inspired the now completely obscene ritual that is Thanksgiving, far removed from any of these intentions. We eat until we feel sick, then we clear the table for dessert. What a lovely American way to express our thanks for the wonders of life!

What is Normal?

These past few weeks, more than usual, I've been challenged to dig for the answer to the title question. After a shaky parent conference with my son's two, well-intentioned teachers I've been looking at my son through a new lens--not the rosy tinted parent-prescription that I've gazed at him through the last few years, but with the clinical eyes of a stranger at worst, an educator at best. My son is not abnormal--whatever that means--nor is he, being the product of two very, decidedly not normal parents, at all what Highland Park folks constitute as "normal". The little red flags waving at these dear folks are flapping because the breeze has been blowing this child from place to place like a dandelion seed aloft on a gulf hurricane.

Take a look at this child's upbringing to date. Two non-conforming souls thrown together as a result of a few encounters of the physical kind bring a child into the world, amid their own host of problems, obstacles, and a very tenuous link to one another. Despite many dear friends and relations voicing their opinions about this, we pushed ahead in a foolhardy way, which is the hallmark of my lifetime, and I think the same goes for the other half of this equation. We've been served well by following our crazy guts, the two of us, whether or not we have had similar results or paths that meshed well...which they didn't. Yet each of us brought our signature stubbornness and our endearing, if unwise optimism. As time went on and things fell apart, as divined by all of our loved ones and bystanders, I took the helm of this ship and steered a hazardous course back to where it all began: home. That word conjures up something so precious to all who hear or see it. Just the thought of a place where you're comfortable, can be yourself, maybe a log fire crackling, maybe the smell of something delicious coming from the kitchen (brownies in my case), friends and family surrounding you.
Pipe dream #473...
A few weeks into this return to the fold, I was hard pressed to find suitable childcare for Diego. Why? He didn't fit into the "normal" mold of the kids who were raised here in the 'burbs. He didn't want to sit and do art projects, gather around for group times, or eat his lunch. He certainly didn't want to lay down for a nap. His exhausted caregivers would exchange a silent, but thunderously clear look of triumph when I would arrive to collect my little charge.
Of course--this is a child who spent 9 months in the belly of a person who was stressed, frightened and pretty much alone. This is a child who came into a world where the expectation was that he behave in a way that would allow me, the consummate pipe dreamer, to bring the child with me to whatever work I could find. After a few disastrous attempts at interviews with the little papoose, I found "the farm", where I was smart enough by this stage in the game to leave the bambino behind for the initial encounter, and again for my second, fateful interview where I first met the man who would become our biggest defender and protector over the course of the next two years. Sweet soul, this unsuspecting creek-eyed man certainly couldn't predict what was about to unfold as I continued, one hand on a baby, the other in the dirt, to eke out a living and a life at Pennypack Farm. A very special person in his own right, I'll avoid going off on a tangent about this fellow that has become so dear to us both. Suffice it to say, we're both achingly grateful to his enduring presence in our lives.
Again, is this a normal way to do things in this day, age and country? My romantic ideas of working in the fields like some rural South American princess with my baby slung across my back were a far cry from leading children in farm-based educational activities, attending meetings, visiting schools, and orchestrating volunteer days for families. Not to mention the harvesting itself, which was never easy with a child strapped to me, picking up on every nuance of stress and fear that vibrated through my body for two years as I persisted on this path of narrow focus. Determined not to do what is normal, like sleep-training, cry-it-out, or day care, I forged ahead blindly, without a lot of knowledge about what to do but mostly the desires of not doing what everyone else does. Without complaining or defending the other party in this, I can only fault myself for being at best, unrealistic. And anything but "normal".

Fast forward to the present, is it any wonder that my child is not coming in as "normal" in the barometer of these North Shore suburbs that brought us such enduring classics as "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" , "The Breakfast Club", and "Pretty in Pink"? He spent the first two years of his life strapped to the chest of a self-described crazy person who worked at a farm. At any moment in time this one-and-a half year old could be found hoisting himself over the chicken fence, popping out of rows of cabbages, and climbing stacks of construction materials with rusty nails threatening his bare feet. Diego had the fields and forest as his classroom, a front-mounted bike seat as his preferred mode of transit, and the two zaniest parents a divine comedy could think up. Reflecting on the multi-faceted net of the world today, I had to laugh aloud at the idea of the cosmos, creating itself in every form imaginable, somehow feeling the need to include us, meaning my funny little family, in this vast mysterious web of life. Each day we are lucky enough to awaken anew, taking in the unfolding graces of spirit, whether we are aware of it's glory or immune to it. I am learning to flow within the ripples of life and just accept each moment as it envelopes us in the stream that flows to the ocean of life. Grateful to be here, uninterested in normalcy, I think we'll do fine. After all, this is all we can ever hope to have. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily life is but a dream.

Wonder of Wonders

How amazing to look up at two stars, in a blue bowl of twilight, and feel closer than ever to their light. The stark winter branches point between the dark and light, in the hour just after the sun sinks down beyond the horizon. Breathing into the crisp evening, full of life, stepping with awareness, love and hope. Watching two birds in a hurry for warmer climes, lofty as a whispered prayer sent up on an earnest breath.
How amazing to be a part of this vast mystery. To be awake enough to recognize it as a miracle. Could I ask for anything else? People, places and things are all illusory. What remains is that nothing ever stays the same. But for all my yearning, for my hopes and dreams, my desires and my life's drama that is played under that cosmic basin of blue, I can smile at the stars and know that they are constellations of my own true light. Our light. We share this big blue marble and it's more than enough to feast my eyes upon each blessing as it unfolds. Thanks to all that share it with me. Glad we're in it together.
Love,
Stacy

Dear Mr. La Cosse,

I'm not sure how often this might happen to you, but I am one of your former students and felt compelled to get in touch with you. Walking in the park today, I found myself resting on the bench dedicated to you in the area behind Deer Creek Courts with my three year old son. Last week was Ravinia School's Fun Fair, which we attended, and I was amazed at how returning to my old elementary school brought back so many memories. However, I have never forgotten you in all these years, and my recollection of the time I shared with you is clear and vivid. You were not only my favorite teacher there, but probably anywhere until I went to college and met people who weren't quite so Highland Park-y...and had a chance to get to know myself better. You may remember dressing up as Julia Child for Halloween? I was in your class that year. Do you still gather the children around for magical tales of Paddington Bear?
I am now living back in Highland Park after many adventures that have culminated in my working as a Montessori teaching assistant. I have always remembered you so fondly--school was pretty tough for me and there were few bright spots in my education--you were most certainly one! Something about your manner recognized each child. You never singled me out, in fact, I remember feeling faintly ego-less in your presence. As if each one of us were equal, no one kid stood out and became your pet. Unlike most of my academic career, I don't recall vying for attention in your class. I just felt a part of things. Even when I didn't join in, your gentle chiding never riled my insides or caused a white hot embarrassment, shame, or fear to heat my blood. I never felt the helpless fury I felt before and after in my long struggle with academia, when I was a part of your third grade community.
Seems like a lot of us in education were dissatisfied students ourselves...trying to make a difference in the life of a child. You did this for me, as I am sure you continue to do so. I'm heartened to learn that you still teach third grade at Braeside Elementary. I remember you used to catch me reading under my desk at math time, totally in my own world. Remember shouting, "Earth to La Mell? We're in the math corner!" I still haunt the library and never go anywhere without at least a book or two in my bag.
Now with my own child, I spend a lot of time reading stories aloud, but we haven't made it to Paddington Bear yet. I can imagine how much my son, who loves animals, will enjoy the adventures of the little bear from Lima.
I hope this letter finds you well. I wanted to let you know, since I don't think I did on the last day I saw you, (which was the last day of third grade when I had to come early to complete my multiplication tables so I could move up to fourth grade the following fall) that I haven't stopped reading under my desk. No, not really. What I want to say is, thank you for being my favorite teacher of all time.

In sincere appreciation,

Stacy La Mell

You or Me?

A cute, endearing habit of Diego's could also be a bit of a problem. His using the pronouns incorrectly, as it turns out, could be less of a cute thing and more of a sign of something that's not happening developmentally. After my parent conference, where his teachers expressed concern, we've been drilling it into our little guy that he is not you but I. It's not your pants but my pants. He's right here singing, Me myself and I. Sigh.
Who ever knew it would be like this? Something as silly as pronoun reversal could be a red flag for something sinister and serious, not just a cute little way of expressing himself. Coupled with his obsessive lining up of his animal figurines, his seeming indifference toward other children, and his repetitive statements, these could be the harbingers of something on the spectrum...the dreaded spectrum that seems to be arching over so many of the kids in our times. Or it could just be something he'll grow out of, like diapers, crawling, and babble.
I'm a bit of a mess reflecting on all this. Although we're not going to label him or get him evaluated yet, he's now on a very close watch and it's kinda getting to me. Trying to explain pronouns is a little tricky--I am starting to feel as overwhelmed as a three year old, muddling through the nuances of our language for the first time. I always thought this little thing would fix itself, the way he started walking all by himself. It was nothing I did--one day he just went from crawling to walking. The next day, running.
I am getting myself so tongue twisted with this. It's like, each time I call Diego "you" I think I am setting him back. So I am trying to cut "you" out. So instead of "Do you want your breakfast?" I'm saying things like, "Wanna eat breakfast?" This is getting insane. I'm watching every word I say. Then, each time he says something like "You want your gummy bears." I shoot back, "I want my gummy bears." Pointing to my chest, I'll say, "I" and he'll point to his and say "I" again. But is this more of the dreaded repetition or is it sinking in? I suppose I'll have to find out through the next few months.
After talking to several pediatricians, and watching him closely (like a hawk, let's be frank) I'm slowly coming out of my panic and into a place where, though I can't say I'm 100% fine with things, I feel better that people outside his school find his behavior totally normal for his age. Two doctors have confirmed what my friends and family already told me: this kid is not in any way displaying behaviors to be alarmed about. Let's hope one day we'll look back on this wistfully, remembering how cute it was to hear Diego say, "Mama to pick you up?" or "You want to hug." Until then, I'll be the "I" nazi and continue to drill the proper pronoun usage into my adorable, perfect, and amazing little boy...whatever he turns out to be. Because no matter what, he is Diego. I love him for who he is, and I accept him as he is. One of a kind. And a part of me.

Haiku Fool

Child loves to annoy
I think I'm going crazy
Looking for lost toys

Second City No More

Well, Chicago can finally shed the Second City syndrome. Tonight, our humble city, Hog Butcher to the World, can rest it's Big Shoulders on Barack Obama, the 44th President Elect of the United States. I can't say much--I just shed a tear for the greatest election I have ever participated in in my short history here on earth. We WON!!!!!! I am, for the first time in a long time, proud to be an American. Watching the people in Grant Park tonight, watching our new President address the crowd of close to a million folks who came out to see this victory, I am overwhelmed with a feeling of being a part of a country I can once again be excited about living in. As my dad said, "It took Illinois to do it."

I love that our next President can speak without stammering, looking at a piece of paper, or making up words. I am so proud that we have a smart, honest man elected in a true democratic process. I am so relieved that our country is still able to summon up the great ideals that made us great in the first place. With grit, optimism, and hope, we can be the nation we think we are. I said to my parents through my tears, "This is the first President I ever believed in. This is what I've been waiting for my whole life to see up on that podium. This guy is honest--he's not a bullshitter. He's not your typical politician. He's real. He's smart." And, as those who know me already know, I think he's pretty handsome...but I am more than happy to leave him to Michelle, our new First Lady. She's no dummy, either. Together, with those kids, they represent the greatest beacon of hope to shine in the last eight years from Washington.

I love that the newscasters broke the news by saying, "There will be young children in the White House again for the first time since JFK." Sort of makes my heart sing to think of the kiddos running through those hallowed halls of history. I think of the damage our young Diego could do in that place...let's hope the Obama children have a little less of the farm-freedom that gives our chicken boy his pluck! Barack did mention they earned a puppy that will be accompanying them to the White House...I suppose if the kids don't trash Casablanca, the dog probably will. I guess there's hope for some hell-raising after all.

I am truly moved and amazed--each time I see an American flag waving in the wind, I honestly feel that it's finally flapping for me, at last.

Oh, I am so happy. I wish I could be among the revelers down in the city tonight. "Chicago fished from it's depths a text: Independent as a hog on ice." ---Carl Sandburg

Second City? You sure done good tonight.

Oprah? Well, she's from Chi-town, too. And this was the only picture I could steal from the internet without crashing my computer.

The Biggest Muscle

My heart is big enough to encompass the joy and sorrow both. Disappointment, suffering, mentally created anguish over imagined events, wrongful assumptions and getting all worked up when there's just no cause. I'm learning to breathe into the many waves of life's emotions, to accept each new bout with grace or disaster as my equal friend and my hard wrought lessons. Not one to be amiss for long, I tend to create what I want while life keeps handing me what I need.

Recently a friend said, "God doesn't always give you the person, place, the thing you want. but always, instead, you get what you need." Starting to sound like an old Stones song. I guess psychedelics can bring on the same realizations as winging through life with open eyes and an ever larger, more accepting heart. The shortcut, drug induced, or sped up by the rock and roll lifestyle, is hardly preferable to the full on non-stop adventure in the heart, mind, and soul that is this woman's life. But I really liked what I thought she meant, religious overtones aside (she's a bit of a zealot, truth be told). Still, I wouldn't trade this funny life of mine for the moon. My heart, the biggest muscle I can fathom, grows huger every day as I keep, as Adrianne Rich said, "diving into the wreck" only to discover that I've been (and persist in being, sometimes still) the biggest obstacle to my own peace. So as I learn, at a snail's pace, to expand my big, boundless muscle, I notice joys piling up beside the sorrows, making my life a series of mountains, valleys, rivers and lakes. All full of potential for beauty and all capable of guiding me deeper into the riches of simple, unequivocal joy. Mining for spirit, churning up the crud and the diamonds together, I flex my heart muscle to include everything and everyone. Even those who don't understand, who disappoint, who can't give what I hope for, who serve to help me lose my way-- giving me the gift of those dark times, where I can encounter the truest parts of myself. I keep on going, not giving up, just encompassing it all in the myriad chapters that are writing the book called "Stacy". And sure, there are little chapters with captions that say things like, "Childhood: Light and Dark," "Iowa: Helpless (Neil Young)" OlyWA," "China," "New York: The Jason Years" " Tim # 1, 2 and 3," "Diego--Light of My Life," "Philadelphia," "Chicago Redux: You Never Thought it Could Happen to You Twice" and now, "Dreaming of the Next Great Adventure While I Hang Out in Purgatory". My life has been incredibly tied to my own experience. Whose isn't? It's just that I am starting to realize, these things are supremely personal and at once universal--your book is titled with your moniker and your chapters are all about you, but aren't we sharing the same human experience? Don't our hearts beat much like everyone else's? Can you find a home with a mustard seed who has never lost someone they love? http://hubpages.com/hub/buddhistblog

Expanding out this way, my life becomes more akin to those ripples in the ocean that enfold every creature and every motion of the universe we share. Of course, I want things to be a certain way, to turn out like such and such, to be what I want when I want it or--what? I'll have a meltdown, like Diego this morning? Possibly. I'll never be free from desire. Still, I am learning to accept the teachers, the places, the unfolding of all life's mysteries as a magic; as lovely as the emergence of a butterfly whose tiny flapping wings are somehow a part of something as huge as a typhoon. Like that fluttering wingspan, I am hitting these keys, making my waves, flapping my little wings. Better yet, I'm stretching that sore, tired, yet never giving up muscle as big as it can go to take the whole of my life inside of it-- along with yours, and everyone else's--to bless us all with peace.

Peace is possible, my friends. We are making it, slow as the slug that leaves a slippery trail. Stretch that muscle that ain't let you down yet. I love each and every one of you, whether you believe me or not. But most of all, I am learning that I need to love this big, rubber band that keeps thrumming along, snapping a beat inside my watery chest. It's a lovely sound, that heartsong. And it's mine, yours, and all of ours who are lucky enough to draw breath on this lovely, live host of ours that graces us with each everlasting moment.

The Accidental Garden of Delight

This post is an offering, an explanation, a rambling. A really backwards sort of birthday gift to a certain three year old child that has two crazy parents, a funny family and has had a wild little life so far. And now, a bit of an apology and a reworking of an original inquiry into the matter of my dearest little doppelganger. I recently was compelled by someone to explain, just how, I came to the place where I decided that Diego was the best possible accident that could have ever happened to me. So, prompted to review the past few years, the whole sodden thing, by a very special person who in no way will be roasted in this post...I want to once again reiterate the query that was posed to me one recent, lovely evening, over a shared dinner and a cozy night in my favorite place in PA. A wonderfully handsome, absolutely adorable person whom I would like to shower with all the flowers and poetry that he can withstand wanted to know something about me, wondered what, if anything, I was thinking when I made the choice that has changed my life irrevocably, beyond my naive comprehension.

Let's face it: this child was in no way planned. Nor was he born to two people who loved one another, had a history, or even were dating seriously. Everyone who knows me well knows exactly what our relationship was--a rebound gone wrong scenario with my ex-boyfriend's roommate. Here I was hooking up with a person who likes to scale walls and who (still) finds it exasperating that I am oblivious to hip hop culture. Someone with several aliases and at least nine tattoos. A guy who claims he hates recycling. For a hippie chick who loves mountains, farming, and whose common denominator with this dude was something combustible of the color green, this was not a match made in the stars. From the outset, things were stacked against us. I hung in there despite some pretty obvious signs that this was a leaky ass rowboat. And most people would wonder why I made the choices I did. To have a baby, in this situation, takes some kind of chutzpah (if that's what they're calling it these days although Tim would probably have some start rapping some Juvenile song about his baby mama drama). Raising a child on my own is not something I ever pictured and I didn't really want that. However, I am the type of person who throws herself into things wholeheartedly, and when life hands me a challenge I negotiate it--foolhardily and indefatigably. Of course, I also knew I wanted to be a mother. I wanted to incubate a baby inside of me and feel my body stretch and change, give birth, and raise a little bean. Selfish? Perhaps. Genetically programmed into most red-blooded women? Absolutely.

Folks, here it is: Would I do it again, knowing what I know about the fatality of my relationship with Tim? Or the hardships of being a single parent? The dramas and pitfalls of my life the past few months, moving back home to my parents house, to a place I have been running away from ever since I first breathed the dewy Iowa air and tasted my first bit of freedom post high school? If I could have seen into the future, seen my dreams collapse, prevented the heartbreak of trying to make my relationship with Tim work out despite some serious red flags and some very expensive therapy, if I could have walked away and made a decision that hundreds of women make every day not to have a baby, would I? If I could magically make Diego exist without having to be his mom, would I settle for that? In other words, would I do this all over again? I know this all sounds so very hardcore and serious. My life is now woven with Diego threads shot through. My garden has been planted with the flowers of his laughter, the rays of his smiles are my sun. His beauty is more alive and growing than the most tenacious of weeds, his eyes more buzzing with burning curiosity than the most industrious of bees. Whatever else life has to dish out for me, I have the supreme pleasure and challenge of being this child's mama. Honestly. And I don't really know the right answer...except yes.

Now, catch me in a moment, like today, when I asked said child to take his mud-caked shoes off before he traipsed up the white carpeted steps after my mom's house was shining, cleaning woman paid and sent home, and I might shout, "hell no!" See me in a fury, irate over fighting a two year old down for a nap for a week straight before I finally admit defeat, and I might grumble, "maybe not". Watch the first few months of my son's life, struggling to quell his incessant cries, his insatiable thirst for milk, and his demands on my time, body and spirit. I might have whispered, "god, no." Witness my struggle to make some sort of workable arrangement with his father, have to move back in with my parents after a wild career as an unstoppable gypsy, buckle down and get "a square job" as it's been called, and I might have sighed, "naw." I probably would've laughed at you if you said I would give up my apartment in Brooklyn, my job as a printer, my nomadic ways, my dreams of becoming a writer, an artist, a freakin live off the land hippie, whatever. I would have cried, simply rolled on the floor and asked you to stop bogarting the joint.


Now... see me riding my yellow bike with my son straddling his up-front bike seat, singing into the wind about wild animals, his little body swaying with his rhythm. A ridiculous, blissful grin stretched across my lips as tight and happy as a drum head. Gaze upon my little boy clambering onto my back for a ride, hugging his little body into the curve of my spine, resting his sweet head against my shoulder blades in a picture of trust and love. My whole body sings with the pleasure of this feeling, even summoned up as a memory. Recall the hours, days, months, okay-- years, that I nursed my child, held him in my arms, felt his little soft doe skin as pure as the day he first appeared in this world, even in my weariness at 3 am when I woke with him. Feel my pride bursting as I hear about one of his escapades at school, the teacher recounting his clever humor as he bolted from the room with a spoon held high, proclaiming "And the dish ran away with the spoon!" Imagine my heart lifting with gladness when he chirps, "Thank you!" to the checkout clerk, without prompting. My gut-deep laughter when he rushes to my morning yoga mat and does snake pose beneath my down-dog, even though he clocks me in the face with that hard little noggin. My awe when he looks at me, out of nowhere, and tells me exactly what I was just thinking-- though I was totally silent.

This little wonder is a part of me, and I cannot fathom my life now without seeing his face in my mind's eye. Yeah, it ain't easy. sometimes I miss the days that were simply mine, stretching out endlessly before me as open and blank as a new canvas. No one to fix a meal for, to bathe, to entertain. Sure, I sometimes long for the times when I'd just grab a book and sit quietly for hours on my porch. Or party all night without having to hire a babysitter, which I never do anyway. Or have a decent phone conversation without someone hurtling himself like a missile designed to blow up the phone. I miss the freedom of moving whenever and wherever the wind might blow me.

Who ever imagines that they'll be doing the bulk of parenting alone, with limited support and even less money. Sure, I wanted things to be different. I held onto slim hopes that I might cobble a funny little family together out of some dire circumstances. I bailed out a leaky boat for three years, the eternal optimist, bounding back from disappointment and heartbreak. Not in the line of getting depressed, my ebullient nature churns up rainbows from floods, flowers from muck, and dances along the precipice of fear and illusion with a silly song, a goofy grin, and a nervous giggle. So what if it looks kind of like crap for a while. Everyone knows that compost is gardener's gold. Maybe it's just steaming into the perfect soil to grow the best garden of my life--our lives.

The limitless possibilities have indeed narrowed, due in a large part to the fact that I've got someone else to worry about. Who knows-- could it be good luck or bad luck. In many ways my son has saved me. I'm a better person for his sake, and with his clear cat eyes upon me, I am conscious of my voice, my actions, and my intentions. Maybe it's best not to try and figure it out. It's true-- it's not always what I thought it would be. Nor what I pictured that I wanted. Before, it was easily cookies for dinner. Now, it's twenty questions 'til I get a clue about what might be acceptable for dinner. Yet, I bet if I asked Diego if he wanted cookies for dinner, he'd light up and shout, "Yes!"

After all, he is my son.

Apples and Honey

This time of year, the autumn that announces the ever-changing nature of our lovely world, we Jews eat apples and honey to celebrate the sweetness of life, and to count our blessings from the year before while we look eagerly, with sticky chins and dripping fingers, to the one ahead.
Lasting as long as one could hope to hold them, the freshest memories have already become the past. Oh, how they taste so crisp, so freshly fallen from the branch.

Now, throwing the cores out the window on the ride home, digging into bags of apples and pears, looking for another taste of you, I cried. Cleansing tears of renewal, not crocodile tears or signs of weakness in character. Real hope is born in the admission and acceptance of raw emotion. Real strength comes from refusal to compromise or sweep aside what's meant to be felt. Trust me, a raging river in melting spring bursts forth with more power than the trickle that is left by autumn, just as a full range of emotions felt at once can resolve more than just one small portion of sorrow.

No matter that I should be sleeping, like my baby is. Don't even ask how long my back has been crunched into my lunchbox car, shuttling our bony bodies back and forth from one home base to the other. For some unbelievable, blessed reason (lord have mercy?!) I am awake, my fingers jabbing the keys like my Nana Mollie stabbing the air in her final delirium, thinking she was playing the penultimate game of mah-jong.

Whirlwind weekend come and gone. Much anticipated, a heady reunion has already slipped away, replete with blissful celebrations, contemplative run-on moments and days of run-on sentences. Laughing out loud, big belly laughs. Holding hands. Singing. Harvesting. Eating apples. Strolling the market in animated wonder after sitting in utter stillness. Drinking cider and beer and glasses of wine. Witnessing the exchanging of vows and donning party clothes to celebrate in mountain air. Unknowns, flecks of autumn's jewels, sparkled in our eyes. Electric moments charged between us as we did the things that folks do. Driving, riding, sighing with longing and the fullest satisfaction, both. Counting stars and waving at the moon. Smiling at plain old you. Just you and me, happily we be. As now has no place else to go.

The New Year has arrived. I've made another journey around the wheel. Though we're looking toward the fallow season, the frozen ground hardly closes itself. Under the blanket of white, silence falling from the sky, forces are gathered and work will get done. For now, the fall is rustling through the finest golden flames, the reddest torches and fans, the leaves and the tawny grasses all wait for a sign. Hushed in the undulating mountains, trees like paintbrushes stiffly rising forth in a proclaimation of the constant certainty of change, leaves rustled and blew along the side of the road the whole way back across America. As I drove, miles reeled behind me, littering promises that have yet to be uttered by the wind.

Would you care to share the mystery that unfolds within each new promise of our moments, connected to the last one, connecting us all the way from beginningless time? You wanted a shout out and here it is. Every pore of my being is saturated with the imprint of recent moments; I cherish each even as they drift quickly into the past tense. I tasted them, full on, as they arose from our boundless joy. Then, I let them go, like falling tears. Washing away the bittersweet remnants of the fading year, purifying my soul. Honey, you gave me bags of apples. Along with kindness, joy, and light. Open hearts can do no more. I responded, my own heart full, with one last leap at you, arms thrown wide to close around you. Held you, tight. Then I slammed shut the door of the car and drove away, heart pounding in my ears and the salty works streaming down.

But...don't worry. By the time this funny lass hit KOP she was already rocking the harmonica and singing at top volume. Moments come, then go. Memories linger long after the actions fade. Sadness (happiness too) ebbs and flows, unblocked, like falling mountain water. No manipulation can create the serpentine pathways that will carve their own course with time.

Perhaps, together once more, we'll eat apples and honey with sticky, beaming faces. Eyes locked in wonder at the sweetness I'm certain we can continue to find. Electricity crackling between us, jaws working at the sweetness, goofy grins that consume a whole face. My vision looks like this: mountains surround us, bubbling water and our own laughter serve as a useful language. Our bodies and souls hum one blissful, continuous song of union and love. We dip apples in honey and let the goo run down all the way to our elbows, licking it off in glee. Happy New Year, dear reader. Welcome to my inner universe. Join me for another unknown stretch of mystery. Hope you stick around for the apple blossoms to burst forth as the wheel continues to spin around. This is the stuff my dreams are made of.

Words of Love

I spend a huge amount of time with my nose in a book. Old friends and family won't be surprised by this admission; I spent my childhood smuggling books into the shower (by pasting their covers with water I adhered them to the tiles), under my desk at school, and at the dinner table (not well received in many cases). In fact, I recently recalled a time when, disgusted with a conversation at a restaurant between medical students, I nonchalantly slipped a trusty book (I never travel without one) under the table and blocked out the offending parties with sweet fiction or perhaps some meaty philosophy. I love it all, from novels and history to religion and philosophy. Oftentimes the boundaries blur: what category can we delegate to Thoreau's Walden, or more recently, most anything by Alan Watts. Anyone who's had more than a five second conversation with me has probably been quoted John Steinbeck; between the covers of Travels with Charley to East of Eden, and everything in between, lies some of the most quotable wisdom that I've ever been privileged to pass along.
However, as I tote around anywhere from one to seven books in my bag daily, thumbing through them for inspiration, wisdom, or just an escape from whatever is going on at that moment, I've begun to look at this habit (some might use the word addiction) in a different light, thanks in some part to good ol' Alan Watts, who has been weighing me down as of late with a variety of good works. I've always known that my voracious reading has been a bit of an escape; from family, school, work, or now, parenting. Even as I read books about parenting, I am not actually DOING any parenting. Reading about enlightenment is different than being there for each moment of your life, and responding to each facet of your inter-web of experience. Reading about Walden is far different than setting out to live off grid in a cabin in the woods (we found this out the hard way, without Emerson to stomp along the path to shake us out of our pipe dream). Enjoying the wisdom of John Steinbeck is not the same as fully embracing the culture and times of Now. Certainly all of my wise and beloved gurus that live between the musty stiff covers, worn paperbacks, filmy leaves of fine laid paper dance with life as my eyes bring them into my realm of consciousness, regardless of the fact that most of my masters have long departed. I can't say how deeply the poetry of Walt Whitman has brought me to my true self, same as Carl Sandburg, Langston Hughes or Claude McKay. I'd hardly be the same person without my beloved books, even as my spine curves from the weight of the bag I lug in hope of a free moment to snatch a quick phrase that might just unlock the secrets of the universe.
Alan Watts has a lovely, jolting and humorous way of 0f cementing his reader into their own present. His frames, like a photographer, capture an expanse that reaches through you and moves you to action. He's calling me to close the books, to taste the universe that I am unrelentingly fixed to, tethered to the filaments that hold each luminous being to one another, recognizing the extremely ordinary, miraculous state of being that we all share. Each morning, a new day. each breath, a new chance of filling my lungs. Each cloud, a reflection of the vast changing landscape that breathes us as surely as we breathe oxygen in to live. We are passengers aboard a living, breathing, loving creature. I'll probably always have a few books under my desk. I'll probably never stop quoting Steinbeck, or feeling my heart swell to capacity at the words of Sandburg or Whitman. I'll never give up my library card. And perhaps, in time, I'll add to the cannon of words that each one before me dipped into, like a never-ending spring bubbling up through the nerf-green moss-fern rocks, pooling into the clearest mirror so that all catch a glimpse of our revolving selves. The dipper is bestowed upon those who would look to humanity with eyes of uncompromising love, and would sacrifice their own thirst to quench the driest of their brothers and sisters.
What a friggin hippie I am! I have written words of love to the ancestors of the word. The marvelous moments come round again and again. Dip into the water, it will never leave you parched. Love each other. And put down your distractions...life doesn't stop each time we drop out. Though more than likely, when we meet again along the twisty path, I will be brandishing a dog-eared copy of something, anything, that delivers words of love to my seeking eyes.

My Montessori Child

Well, almost a month into the grind, but it hardly feels that way. In fact, Diego and I are both blossoming under the care of our Montessorian guides. For Diego, he's learning social skills, preschool subjects, and he gets to play with some really cool toys, kids, and teachers. And for me, well, it's almost the same story. The difference between Montessori school and traditional school is incredible. The children at our schools are treated with respect, are honored and listened to, and are eager to learn and participate in activities they choose independently. They are given autonomy within limits, freedom within structure, nurturing within a challenging environment. Diego even came home with a note today that said what a good day he had!
My role as a Teaching Assistant is varied and interesting; often, I marvel at what the kids teach me (inadvertently of course) and also, what I am relearning or learning in a totally new way. Take math, for example. In a Montessori classroom, math is made concrete instead of abstract; you use beads, spindles, rods, or other objects to count each numeric value and the children can actually feel and see how much is one, ten, a hundred. Children in Montessori schools can add, subtract, and count to sums unimagined. Trust me, listening to a child try to count to nine thousand is not something I have the patience to do, but our golden beads and cubes will actually give children a visual idea of how many nine thousand really is!
Something else I really love is the way Montessori kids learn geography. We start by giving them puzzle maps of the world, and then the different continents/countries are broken up individually. Each child begins by tracing the puzzle pieces of the world map, then using a large pushpin to punch around the line they've traced. They wind up with a perforated continent that pops out of the paper, and then is glued in place on their own world map. After tracing, punching, writing each continent's name, then glueing it into place on a large blue paper, I bet they will retain a memory of where each continent is in our world. Much more than simply looking at an atlas, or being forced to memorize by rote. It's kinesthetic, it's visual, it's language based, and it's fun!
The environment in Montessori is totally different than a regular preschool classroom. Rather than a bunch of kids grouped together making the same thing at the same time, there are kids working on many different projects, choosing their own materials and their own work. Often we have soft music playing in the background. Many days, we have a moment of silence on the rug together during "line time". The children take turns sharing what they heard in their hearts when they were being silent. It's the cutest thing you've ever seen. For birthdays, the ritual involves lighting a candle and moving a globe around the lit candle, or "sun", while the children sing and the birthday child is asked to recall what he or she could do each time the earth moved around the sun, and their age changed. Before group snacks and meals, we sing a song about community that is so adorable and so positive that I sometimes tear up!
All in all, we are loving being Montessori children...both of us!

The Blessin' in the Lesson

So many times I can't help but wonder: WTF is the lesson here? I am looking for the sane, rational answer as to why my baby daddy and I are here, linked inextricably to each other, balancing between two regions of the country by a gossamer thread named Diego. Some folks say that kids choose their parents. Again, WTF??? Why on earth would an unborn soul pick the two of us to bless with his little light?

Moving away has allowed me to have more grace when it comes to said baby daddy. After all, I feel horribly guilty that the dudes see so little of one another. I wish that things had been different. I wish that I would have been treated with respect, had been given more time to succeed at my work, time to enjoy my life and make a life without schlepping a baby on my back (or front) 24/7 for two and a half years. I wish that our therapy would have given us some concrete tools to work with one another, outlined some ground rules that would have allowed us to remain in close proximity without the fallout that occured instead. For the record, I wasn't looking to stay with this man-child...far from it. I was simply asking for a little, tiny bit of help and for the chance to develop a life and times outside of motherhood.

From a distance, I can see that there were ways I could have made it work. I could have hired outside help to watch the baby, I could have applied for state assistance and gone back to work full time instead of trying to take Diego with me to the farm, and relying on the unreliable for back-up care when I really needed to attend a meeting, or just go to work without a baby! I was so attached to the idea that our child needed to be with us, his parents, and no one else, when he was so very small. And I am so grateful, in many ways, that we moved to Philadelphia and I found the farm, because I was given the gift of time with my son when he was a wee baby that many mothers in this era simply don't have. I was vehemently opposed to day care for a child under the age of two. I wished for a way to somehow do it all, and I gave it a very good try. But without that other person to lean on, I became more and more overwhelmed, more and more resentful, more and more angry. I became a person that I didn't like--and it wasn't me. Now with the panacea of time and distance, I feel so much like I've dropped back into my body and soul. I'm Stacy again, and I like me.

In my heart of hearts, I want my child to be able to be closer to his father. I want Diego to grow up seeing his dad whenever he can. Yet, I want to be whole enough to never let my own life become backseat to the life of my child and his father. Living with my family, relying on their help (and having them there when I need them, not when it's convenient for them) is such a gift. Giving Diego a good education, stability, a family. Having some time to myself. I wished I could have had it in Philly with Tim. Not the two of us together, just the two of us agreeing to co-parent successfully and to treat each other with respect and make solid arrangements for caring for our son. Ultimately, I want that! I want a lot. Hence the name of this blog. I'm a spoiled brat, 'cause I always think I can have it all. And I want to spoil my son...not rotten, but with love, with values, with peace. But I don't want to die tryin'. I need to know that the father of my child can meet me halfway. That he can get a job (come on already), make his son proud, help me raise him in a way that I can feel comfortable with. Still, I need to let go of being critical, I need to accept him as he is. I also have to stop ingesting his criticism and cruelty toward me, letting it poison me and distort the beauty that is mine alone to shine out into this world. I couldn't do that when we lived a block from each other. I tried. It just didn't work.

Yes, I have a son. I love him so dearly that I ache each day we're apart. Yet, I have been given a gift of two weeks time all my own, to embrace and love myself for who I really am and meant to be. Not just this inconvenient blob between Tim and Diego. I can't shake the guilt that plagues me each time I leave Philadelphia and the boys say goodbye. But why should I be the one doing all the work, making all the sacrifices? I spin myself around and around and never can catch the tail of this beast. I know there is a reason that I am tethered to these two souls in this life. What is the lesson in this, and how can we learn it together without blasting each other apart?

So today was a nightmare and I was laying on the couch in my mom's downstairs, the white couch that no one is actually allowed to sit on but callaway (my cat who my mom abhors) has staked out as his own personal perch.
Who comes sautering down with my padded push up bra hooked through his scrawny arms, grinning like a crazy cheshire cat and saying "You're Mama!"
Almost warmed the cockles of my bitter, brittle, maniac heart.


Okay, it totally made up for everything.

blue heron sighting

Something that I think is kind of special, lately, is that I've been seeing a lot of blue herons around here. Being a silly hippie as I certainly ascribe to be, I find it to be a sort of spiritual message of some sort, and liked this bit I found online that confirmed the specialness. I was very surprised the other day to see two great blues flying together; I think of them as solitary creatures and have never seen more than one, even when I lived in Olympia and they were as common as pigeons.

Local Indians, known for their healing rituals, revered the serene, elegant and powerful heron as a symbol of self-realization—the joy you experience when you discover your best self.

lake michigan, you save the midwest

what can i say? i love the lake, and so does diego...we go to the beach every chance we get. it's funny that i can remember going to the same beaches when i was not quite as small as Diego, but we do go to my old beaches. i remember being mad at my parents and running away to the lake, which was only a block away back then. now it's a car ride away, but in ten minutes we can be poking our toes through the sand and wading in the now tepid waters lapping our calves. the first few visits, the water was more like a liquid ice pack. freezing!! now it's nice, like a puddle of spring rain.
we run along the shoreline, picking up rocks, driftwood, tiny seashells. Diego stamps on any attempt at a sandcastle, mine or some other poor child, it makes no difference. his foot knows no distinction, no castle is safe from his wrath. we contemplate the water, the horizon a ribbon of blue, an inky smudge against the sky. planes, blimps, and boats enter our field of vision. flies bite our legs and we swat at the ones we catch in the act, or run back to the shore where the wind blows the buggers away. mostly, we laugh, splash, look and listen to the water. I love the comfort, the ever changing faces of the lake. where all is flat and the land has no obvious, dramatic features (prairies are lovely but sort of subtle) an oasis of blue water lapping the shore of the city is a saving grace, a blessing for it's inhabitants and a reason for chicago to have a real
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place in the natural world.

the irony of the divine

Did I get born on opposite day? It's like everything I say with conviction will most likely get tested and ultimately shown to be yet another false assumption. I should know better. If I ever try to sound definitive about something here, just remind me that nothing is permanent. And certainly, when it comes to a certain wildebeest known as Diego! I was so victorious, so happy about Diego's adjustment to his Montessori classroom. I finally was feeling the pride of a parent whose child is comfortable, has his needs met and is able to participate in the world of children without event. I was patting myself on the back for his good week, and feeling like most other parents who pick their children up from school each day, receiving little comment from the teachers unless to say, "we had a really good day today, right Billy? See you tomorrow!"
Oh, no...not our little tiger. This Diego, a child whom I knowingly named something that can be looked up to mean "wild, untamed" is the very definition of his name. Like his mother and father before him, he flaunts convention, has disregard for rules, and is in constant violation of the laws of gravity (well that is mostly dad). So upon picking him up at school, the teachers form a huddle at the sight of my shadow in the door of the classroom. I can hear them, an electric crackle of static "Diego's mom is here. She's right there. Okay, someone, go talk to her." I am, at my child's tender age of two, already having flashbacks of my own parent-teacher conferences, shades of Stacy the discipline case flooding my mind as the teacher leads Diego to the door. "Mama came!" comes the bright and happy voice of my little troublemaker. Attached to his hand is his teacher, Ms. Ro. Diminutive in stature, she is magnificently endowed with a sense of peace, calm, and order. Her face is unflinchingly stern yet enormously kind . In her eyes I can see her quizzical but non-judgemental search for the reason's behind Diego's continued contribution to the uproar in his class. She expresses concern over his stuffy nose, asks not unkindly if he is not feeling well, how he is sleeping and eating at home. She tells me that Diego was throwing puzzles on the floor today. This behavior is challenging in the Montessori classroom, because the children are all at different types of play, and the teachers need to trust they can care for their work without being hovered over. Diego was asked to put a puzzle away before taking a new one, and he furiously hurled them both to the ground. Not surprised, but disappointed, I ask my small son if this is true. He seems to be upset, and says "A hug will make Mama feel better." At this, a singular act of love and trust, I drop to the floor to embrace him. He speaks with the voice of a little angel, even if he behaves more like a devil sometimes. Head spinning, we exit the school, my promises of talking about this behavior at home echoing in the halls as we wave goodbye to the sainted, patient teacher who is probably heaving a huge sigh of relief as I take my little wild, untamed child home to battle him down for his nap. Chalk it up to being the victim of Murphy's Law, the only constant that seems to pervade my very tapestry of life.

back to the boy

this blog has been spiraling out of focus, or at least, threatens to become overtaken by a raging mid-life crisis gone public. For the sake of everyone who comes here to see Diego and hear about his misadventures, not mine, I promise to devote some time to talking about the boy. And posting some recent pictures. Here is a start: said child is incredibly focused on putting his wild animal collection in all kinds of curous formations, some of which are so creative and artistic that I've considered putting together a photographic show if his most recent work. here are some examples of his amazing formations. enjoy!!
it's also worth mentioning here that Diego is really coming into his own at school, finally. Lucky for us all, mama snagged a job at a great Montessori School just across the park from our current outpost, Chantilly Lace. Here, for the first time in his tumultuous school career, he has participated willingly, eaten lunch and snack independently, and actually doesn't want to leave when I pick him up. Honarable mention to Miss Debbie and Jessica (former school teachers) aside, he has not expressed any remorse in switching to this new setting, and in this humble mama's opinion, this is by far the best match for our fiercely strong-willed boy. In a supportive and gentle environment with freedom of choice within clear limits, he is finally thriving and starting to respond to routine & structure, and display fixed concentration on his "work" at school. I asked Diego what he likes best about school, but he /is 51326.6659
9very busy trying to
help me with this posting.
got1ta go before the new +6keyboard gets broken--he
keeps say
ing "you're help2ing me".. 02

yi6kes.. you're a good helper, he says....
lol, another writer in the family. just what we all need.

well maybe the night knows

here i am trying to write something so lovely and expressive,
to make sense of my watching a moth
last night, late
beating it's wings in futility to reach the light inside a lamppost

so of course, like any good twenty-first century human, i turned to google for more
I wanted to understand the work of moths, of butterflies, and why it's so beautiful and mysterious.
what I learned was incredible, from caterpillar to chrysalis to moth.
singlemindedness, it seems is the hallmark of the stages of this amazing creature. first for eating, almost to the point of disgust, imagine eating your own skin as these creatures do.
having a garden, you would know the voracious appetite of a caterpillar.
having flowers, you would know the loveliness of a butterfly alight, sucking the nectar to produce the energy needed to fly, to beat the painted wings that scare away predators and attract a mate. the transformation of caterpillar to butterfly is classical, remarkable, and holy to a child. many caterpillar destinies were played out in a pail in my garage as a child, where I watched in tingling anticipation for the emergence of a butterfly. a miracle that can be witnessed every summer, a prayer alive on the wind. and finally, butterflies are only seeking what so many of us search for, the union to procreate, namely s-e-x. yep, those lovely creatures that seem to represent our very innocence and spark a childlike wonder in almost everyone with a pulse, are voracious, sex-crazed and on a desperate, pheromone induced hunt for copulation. of course, unlike us humans, they are doing it for true procreation, but is it really any different for us at the core, or are we all programmed to search for a mate, for that very purpose, though the various fictions of our lives might lead us to believe otherwise? nonetheless, i was curious enough to keep searching in that unique and modern way that only this generation can truly understand, taken over by the ease of answers beneath your pulsing fingertips.

so, I found something so lovely and simple that I couldn't help but feel humbled and awed by my longtime poet, Carl Sandburg. Why try to pin my experience on the hallowed wings of the moth when i can just read these luminous words...

A GOLDWING moth is between the scissors and the ink bottle on the desk.
Last night it flew hundreds of circles around a glass bulb and a flame wire.
The wings are a soft gold; it is the gold of illuminated initials
in manuscripts of the medieval monks.

ah, just forget it...
or read on. this is my take. after google research, after soul search. maybe it's a lame attempt that comes after years of inactivity, but it's a start.

a moth, last night
flickering around a lamp post
held aloft, thick wings
beating a pulse to reach light

diving midair, prostration
worship before a naked bulb
muscular wings, hairy bodies
flying toward a timeless musk

will she, will he
meet again in this lifetime
paths lit, floodlight
the scrawl on her back

wild beating, in vain
compass reading distracted
disoriented, confused by light
which is not the moon.

much, much better

amazing. dropping the pretense of being a mom desperate to lull a child to sleep has resulted in a total re-evaluation of everything that makes up the stuff of life, mine, my child's, the birds that wing above us in the park, the beautiful crisp blue sky that is a never ending picture of the perfect breath, the reflection of our innate goodness and our human toils that seek divine rewards. now with love coursing through my body and overflowing out through my hands as i massage my child to sleep with tenderness, rather than a sense of duty, he is simply slumbering as if he never napped before. i even coaxed him back after he woke prematurely, unhappily, and he succumbed to the gentle and love-directed soothing that i have often tried to embody but failed for the want of it. now, in the hour of hopelessness, all has been righted and i am set on a new balance of living in the present and being fully awake to the realities of life. lofty, not really. it's the nitty gritty, the business of being fully here.
all of the soul searching, all of the moves and men, all of the past and whatever i had hoped for the future, it's all here and it can all flow around and through the illusion of reality. all of the self-doubt, the worthlessness and pain, all has been self-inflicted. no amount of anyone sagely quoting aphorisms half realized would have landed me squarely in my body and waking up to the full meaning of all that i have been blessed with, and all that i can savor and relinquish my thirst to.
my only wish, if it were a perfect world, my dogs would not be panting at the door now with the fury of a thousand hounds. they are so desperate to love us. their eyes reflect the longing of the world to me, and it's both enviable and unbearable at once to give in to their unrelenting desire for more. it's all i can do to try and form these thoughts, to try and give these feelings some shape so when they fade, i will have more than a fuzzy memory of how to walk in the world with true feet.
and two little feet, ones that have been kicking at me since they were formed inside my belly, they will stand alongside me as i stumble through it all, i hope i can convey the feeling that courses through my body and the soul of the rocks beneath our feet as we continue the journey one step at a time.
and he cries out, in his sleep, to mama. and the one who can't separate my love for him from my own self responds to the end of this, another looong, peaceful nap.

ta da, dum...

and just like that, flat down to earth. but unlike before, i have the awareness that i need to carry and protect, like a flame in the wind, cupped and sheltered from the inevitable storms that will continue to rage.
amazing, so nothing is something and then again it's back to the same. yet, with a twist.
i only know i can't feel the same way about anything, yet the knee jerk responses are programmed deeply. i guess if the light goes out i just need to keep some matches on hand, till i get to the point of being able to light fire with fire.
okay, the poetics are getting cliched.
time for bed. been quite a day.
love to all, all are love.

naptime awakening

i don't know what the right method is; I've pored through books and listened to all my mommy friends, parents and neighbors, day care providers and super nannies offerings but none of them are there each day at 12;30 pm when i try to put my boy down. i often wonder if it's not his natural hour to rest, but this is the time of day care and the routine he needs to set his internal clock to, though it's nothing but the fiercest resistance to the whole set-up.

today was much the usual, in fact, when i sat down to write this post my hands were not on fire with the pulse of living as they are now. i can actually feel the aliveness, if you will, rushing out past the keys in a furious attempt to express the transformation that has come upon me.
i can feel my hands, i can hear the words of the lullabies, i can feel my son and his lovely doe skin that feels exactly the same as the day he entered this world and i first held him.

i feel it. i am so grateful to be alive to wake up to the internal struggle of the nap time battle. in a rush of flooding images i saw the last few years of my life, sped up on fast forward while i vainly attempted to comfort Diego to sleep. i realized how crazy and stressed I've been and what insane pressure I've felt and just unloaded it for one moment to actually feel myself rocking Diego and i felt my hands in every fiber of their aliveness. i realized how seldom in my life I've just enjoyed being where i am at that second. it's almost like i don't want to try to express this but i want to record and remember this feeling as it happened to me. i was just soothing him, but trying to really be there and suddenly i felt a heat throughout my arms and shooting out of each finger. i just really felt every bit of my body at once and then succumbed to just oozing the feeling of being there, soaking it up in waves washing over me and surrendering the control of everything to just be with it. and as i did that, he finally surrendered to the place i so desperately wanted him to go, dreamland.

this started yesterday with this crazy recollection i had of an experience I'd call mystic, a moment that slowed down and felt almost as a scene acted again and again and i remember feeling that I'd known my friends and self for centuries, which was then referred to in a book i was reading on the playground while sitting next to a still for the moment Diego. i started looking at everyone in my life as a sort of archetype and a player in a grand opera--or soap opera-- I'd call my life up til now. that's all. not that anything has changed, i can just feel my hands.

i looked at my feet and my feet were new, looked at my shoes and they were too. ---ray Charles

i looked at my hands and they looked new, looked at my feet and they did too. started to walk, i had a brand new walk, started to talk i had a brand new talk
started to sing i had a brand new song, and everyone was wondering what went wrong.---gospel song, variation sung by Ella Jenkins

it feels like that sort of thing, an out of the wilderness type moment where i just wake up, as i finally soothe my child, now really being comforted by fingers that feel every morsel of delight and shame at once, holding him and rocking him as a primal mother rather than Stacy, worn out old soul that sees her old hands in her new body that she hardly even knows or appreciates.

just feeling it all instead of flogging myself with it, for once. really embody the spirit, instead of reading the books or seeking the perfect place to open myself to something that is there all along. all the time I've wasted looking and looking in every corner of the globe, ironically, I've been dead to each moment. i only saw in flashes, when i wrote poetry for example or maybe while doing certain types of art. I've felt it in passing moments of being engrossed in my work, whether outside in the sun, or with children. I've felt it in the arms of a lover, but often that led to grasping at things that i thought would make this or that experience, lead me somewhere, anywhere, but here is where I've wanted to be all along. just wakening to the moment is heady and humbling at once.
the only reason i am writing the words is to hold on to the feeling and analyse it so i never forget. these electric threads connecting me like a mass of wires to the outer world, tethering me into an ancient but modern role in the world, aren't just trudging on the path with heavy pockets.
Christ, imagine never looking up to feel the warmth in the sun but always cursing the scorch of it's heat. I've been heaping up resentments and blames the way my mom collects clothes and my sister drinks coffee. i watch while drama unfolds before me, in my own family, in my extended relationships, and my searching. there it is, hotly smoking and mirrored world outside me, in Israel and Palestine, in Iraq and the USA, in Beijing and Tibet, in Obama and McCain. reflected and reflecting, like the moment of truth in Mexico with the energy of the ruins, and the push pull of the moment, in china again without self looking for self, which could happen over and over again. it could hit me over the head like carrie did big in the new sex and the city movie, with the flowers, the petals flying and her saying i knew you would do this to me. it's the drama of evermore over and i recognize it, i want to shout to carrie, i knew it, too. and the moment in ancient times that overlaps with the moment of now. we are my blood and i am theirs, and yours, Diego here now, too in the mix of it. i want to love every last one of the people connected to this child. if not for myself alone, for his sake the trials and dramas must come to a close.
i have known all along that there is more, but have been so busy looking that as they say here it is. i wanted to bring him in to my world so that it would never be empty. not having him in the world at all could have been my mistake. these aren't the best reasons to have a child. people should be seriously trained in the art of rearing children rather than being let loose to procreate like the wild things that we are. i know that he didn't ask to be here. i had no freaking clue it would get so limitless and so personal all at once. my god, every moment i've lost through the lens of looking for the next one or focusing on the one that just went by. having a child brought me to my senses, over and over again but even so i have stubbornly resisted and rubbed salt in many old wounds.

he's been a load to me, too. and he's felt that from within me, from the moment he was latched on to my uterine wall. now i need to guide him in this crazy world. sometimes it ain't pretty. i feel as i force him to comply with the rules of the day, like meal times or nap schedules. i feel the pressure from outside forces to do things with this child i would never want to force upon an enemy, yet i know so well why i and he both need the nap to continue. it's been awful struggling up til now. i wonder if i were more present, would he respond in kind. within just a few moments of my being really focused on every single sensation, of being there fully, allowed him to surrender in a true slumber that has been hell-worn to try and bring on by casting all the images of what should work. lack of feeling it, of stepping in to the role and doing it timelessly and gracefully, with gratitude for the chance at all, has been bitterly frustrating and hard won. I've been in a fog of unfeeling-ness. not even a word, but i don't care. my shift key isn't working in case anyone but me reads this stuff and notices that i never use the correct punctuation or capitalize things properly anymore. i apologize for the confusion.

now i am seeing the vast connections to the outer world both created and reflected, and falling into a place rather than worrying through it, and feeling the fiber of being rather than hoping to feel it or working toward it or feeling helpless in the face of it.
there are many cycles to be broken and changed. directions are shifting in the wind of the future, but nothing can be there before it arrives. or at least it sounds good to me. all i know is, i feel bone-through alive and lit with love rather than scorched down with the fear of every last blamed thing.
and my sweet, heaven-sent lesson of love and duty, blessed treasure of a boy as dear as the coursing blood in my fingertips, is finally sound asleep and dreaming.