Books. Beautiful Books.



For those of you who don’t know about Michelle O’Neil, let me introduce you. She is a beautiful soul, mother of two children, wife to a darling man, and brilliant writer. She is many more things than that, but I’ll let you find her blog if you so desire. The purpose of this particular post is to draw your attention to her new book. She has written a deeply touching, funny memoir that anyone who enjoys memoir ought to read. Just in case you’re looking for a book to wind down the dog days of summer, I suggest you head right to Amazon via the link above and buy this book.

The other link I found today, completely by accident, will be of great interest to those of you who love photography. Especially if you take gorgeous pictures and aren’t much of a Crafty McScrapbooker (like me – I’m hopeless at it). If this sounds like you, or if you just have a few minutes on your hands, please go check out Blurb. They will help you put together a book (yes, actually bound) of your photos or artwork, add some text, and ship as many copies to you as you want for less than $3 each. You can sell them, give them away, line the chicken coop with them – whatever you want. What a cool gift that would be for a wedding party or a sweet sixteen or a 50th anniversary….Wait! Hmmm, I’ve got one of those coming up. Gotta go!

That’s Why This Song Has Been Rattling Around in My Head for Days…



“All this time believing love meant someone’s leaving…” Edie Carey in Easy Now from her album Bring the Sea

I have abandonment issues. Not the ones you might think, though. I would actually prefer to be abandoned a hundred times over than think that I might be the one responsible for leaving someone else high and dry. The truth is, while the notion of being left behind is sad and a little lonely, I’ve been there before and I know I can handle it. There is a strong sense of power and control and core competency that shows itself when I imagine being abandoned. Almost a righteousness – “See? I don’t need you. You weren’t smart enough to recognize how much I add to your life and how much you ought to be here with me. Your loss.”
No, I am afraid of being the abandoner. From the day my dear Eva was born and I realized the magnitude of my responsibility for her, I have been plagued with occasional moments of panic when I thought I might not be able to rise to the occasion. When Lola came along and Bubba started getting sick, I insulated the ties with my girls by adding layers of steel. Something might happen to him, but I would be damned if I was leaving my girls all alone. No way! I wasn’t going to go away and let them grow up thinking I had abandoned them.
Even in the midst of my greatest depression, it was the stark reality of caring for the girls that kept me going day after day. The knowledge of what a sudden loss can do to a child. How they internalize the reasons, rational or not, and come to believe that they somehow caused this person to leave.
Two days ago Bubba and I drove the girls two hours away to a sleepover camp where they will stay for a week. They were excited, if a little nervous since this marks the first time either of them has been away from home for that long. Each of them invited a close friend to join them, and I know that Eve and Lola will take comfort in knowing that the other is there (although not sharing the same cabin, “Thank goodness!”) and our good-byes were blessedly free of tears or clinging.
Three months ago when I signed the girls up for this camp I was thrilled. The notion of having both girls away in a safe place for a week in the summertime left me with all sorts of possibilities for ways Bubba and I could enjoy time alone together. I threatened him with a thorough neck-wringing if he scheduled a business trip during this one, precious week.
He did.
In his defense, it is a very necessary trip to visit a very important client.
In his defense, it is only for two nights and he invited me to come along.
So I am.
And I sailed over the first hurdle quite cleanly, thank you. When Bubba asked me what our contingency plan was should the camp call with news that someone is sick or Lola has broken a(nother) bone, I replied that we would have their aunt go pick them up and I would immediately fly home and everything would be fine.
This second hurdle is a bitch. Last night it occurred to me that it was possible that something might happen to Bubba and I. I chose not to tell the girls that we would be away for two nights while they were gone because I knew it would only stress them out. (Who will take care of the animals? What if I need you?) So, whether it is that karma coming back to bite me in the ass, or simply the imaginings of an over-enmeshed mother, I don’t know, but images of plane crashes and earthquakes kept slicing through my thoughts last night.
I grabbed Bubba and made him promise to call his sister this morning and tell her to get the kids and bring them home if something happened to us. I contemplated writing them long letters full of love and hope and promise “just in case.” I began envisioning their utter confusion giving way to hurt as they realized we had lied to them and left home.
And the friendly angel on my other shoulder keeps whispering in my ear that I am no more likely to get hurt away from home than I am at home. She strokes my head and says that there is no law or moral code that says I have to stay home alone and hold down the fort just because they are away. It is really no different than them being at school all day or on an overnight at a friend’s house. Why should I have to stay here?
Logically, that makes sense and I love this little sweetie for telling me. But what I keep bumping up against is this: I was okay when the girls left because I don’t mind being left, but the thought that I might be the one doing the leaving is nearly unbearable. If I stay home, I’m not “leaving” anyone behind. If I go with Bubba, especially without telling the girls, I’m the one doing the leaving. And if I don’t come back for some reason, it’s my fault. I have abandoned them. And if there is anything I have ever been more frightened of in my life, I can’t name it. I cannot abide the thought that I might be responsible for abandoning someone who needs me. Period.
Clearly, I have more work to do here. And, fortunately or unfortunately, I think the first step is to pack my stuff, get on that airplane and head out with Bubba, if only to prove to myself that my fears are mere clouds of black smoke. There is some small kernel inside that truly believes everything will be fine and I will arrive home well before the girls, relaxed and happy to have had this time with my husband. ‘Scuse me while I go nurture that seed…

Do I Deserve This?



Elizabeth Aquino, a fellow blogger, lit a fire under my butt today with her blog post. You can read her post by clicking on her name, or I can give you the Cliff Notes version. Open-minded, open-hearted person that she is, she occasionally checks out blog posts from folks whose political leanings are vastly different from her own. In doing so recently, she came across one blogger who presented the notion that individuals who rely on social assistance for food, money, healthcare, etc. ought to be ashamed to do so as well as humble and thankful for the assistance. There was clearly some judgment about whether certain individuals deserve public assistance or if it is simply an enormous scam that a large portion of the population is taking advantage of.

Elizabeth had her own (very gracious) thoughts and ponderings on the subject and she asked for input from her readers. I started to comment and then realized this was going to be a looooong reply, so I had probably better put it on my blog instead. Here goes:
The notion of taxes was created in order to centralize a way to pay for things that we all, as citizens of a country or city or state, utilize to some degree. There have been many discussions about how to make this fair over the centuries, but ultimately, I think we can all agree that, even though we grumble about the amount of taxes we pay, we all enjoy some benefits from this system. I certainly sleep better at night knowing that if my smoke alarm goes off at 2AM, all I have to do is get my family out of the house and call 911. Ditto for the police officers in my neighborhood and the roads I use to get to school and work and the grocery store. I am grateful for the state employees that manage the public library and the DMV and the ones who maintain the sewer lines, among others. I don’t feel as though I need to apologize to them for using these services. Nor do I feel as though I ought to sneak around and pretend I don’t use them.
Sure, there are folks who use various services more often than I – the ones who drive everywhere all the time or sit at the library for hours on end job hunting or using the computers. I’m certain there are also those people who use them less often than I do, and I’m okay with that. Social services are the same as far as I am concerned. By the grace of God, may I never have to apply for food stamps or Medicaid. But if I do, it is a comfort knowing that they exist. And I don’t begrudge those folks who do use these services. I am certain that there are individuals who abuse these systems, but do I believe that everyone does? Nope. Do I think that just because there are some scammers playing the system, we should brand everyone using the system with the same iron? Nope.
I honestly believe that until we, as citizens, can shift our mindset away from our “individual freedoms” and toward a “collective consciousness,” we will remain separate from each other and some of the best solutions available. As Americans, this notion of individuality is centrally important to our identity but it only goes so far. And when it begins to damage our notion of what it means to be part of a team, acknowledging everyone’s strengths and weaknesses and working with them to create a better whole, rather than shaming individuals for things that are largely out of their control, we are all harmed.
I no more believe that it is shameful to access and utilize social services than to ride my Trek down the local paved bike path. Those things exist as a testament to what we can do together and for equal use by those who need it when they need it. So the next time you need a police officer or a firefighter, by all means, thank them, and then remember that these things, these lifesaving things, are a gift to us all from us all.

Family Gathering



Family is such fertile ground. I feel as though, even though the same crops are grown there over and over again, generation by generation, there is enough rotation to keep the soil rich enough to produce hearty stock.

I grew up knowing that my mother’s side of the family was a matriarchy. Yes, there were boys and men, but their numbers were far fewer (and their voices much less boisterous) than the women and girls. I suppose there were times when we females abused our power, but more often we reveled in it – celebrated it. We cooked and laughed and played hard. We spent summers on the beach, kicking up sand and surf, playing volleyball and scraping the tar from the soles of our feet with turpentine-soaked rags. We collapsed in heaps at the end of the day, our bellies full of barbecued chicken and baked beans, and snickered as we listened to the adults pour more wine and raise their voices to be heard over each other.
Returning to this nest for my cousin’s wedding last weekend, I was excited for another generation to experience what I knew as a kid: this family is all about family. Eve and Lola found their second and third cousins and, within minutes were devising games and giggling and chasing each other around the room. Now that my mom and her siblings are the oldest generation, they have slowed down a bit and from time to time they seemed acutely aware of their status as the elders. They have tightened their ranks around each other a little more as the vulnerabilities of age creep in, leaving no doubt that this is one group that will look out for each other.
With all fertile ground, some weeds creep in. There are decades-old hurts that rub like sandpaper on tender flesh and some new issues that require a delicate touch. There are stories that have grown with each re-telling and some of them have thin walls that bulge out like aneurisms ready to burst. On the flight home, I was reading “Waiting for Snow in Heaven” and when I came to the following quote, I had to catch my breath, “Loss and gain are Siamese twins, joined at the heart. So are death and life, hell and paradise.” And so, in this family, on this special occasion when one of us was getting married and the rest were coming together in celebration, we felt the losses as acutely as the love. My grandfather, a larger-than-life personality if there ever was one, was sorely missed, but attached to that sadness (joined at the heart) is the gratitude that comes from being among these people who know us so well and love us anyway.

I wrote once before about the notion that the abrasive nature of emotional pain, while uncomfortable, may be simply a way to open up more space for love and joy. I may decide I like that metaphor better than Carlos Eire’s metaphor of Siamese twins. But for now, I am content to acknowledge that the two are part and parcel of each other and turn my face more toward the light.

Seeing in a Different Light


I was helping out a friend. And, if I’m being totally honest, I have to say I was intrigued. I can’t imagine being able to justify hiring a Life Coach, either to myself or Bubba. It seems like such a frivolous, privileged thing to do, and my life is pretty damn good. But the notion that someone could look at my life objectively and help me figure out where to go from here is pretty tempting. I am a person who likes a road map. Give me some expectations and I will deliver the goods. Give me some vague idea of a goal and trust me to figure out the details by myself and I’m scared. What if I don’t do it right? What if I make a mistake along the way? What if I waste precious time mucking about and learning things other people already know?

So when my yoga instructor announced that she needed to complete ten hours of Life Coaching in order to get her certification, I leaped at the chance. You know, to help her out and all….

At our first meeting she explained that she was there to help me with whatever I wanted – solidifying career objectives, clarifying personal relationships, creating emotional health, maintaining a healthy lifestyle, etc. And so I began by talking about what is nearest and dearest to my heart – writing. I talked about my need to create balance in my life so that I can have time to write consistently in the midst of parenting and managing the household. I talked about my first book project and how the research and writing lit me absolutely on fire but the agent-querying/selling/marketing portion gave me the creeps.

It took her all of five minutes to break it down. She asked some insightful questions, many of which I have answered before for prospective agents and publishers. She wanted to know why I wrote the book and what my ultimate goal was for it. I explained that I write primarily to create dialogue around difficult issues. My purpose is to offer the reader a perspective that seems unique at first but becomes universal. I want to get people thinking about their own lives and how they relate to others and prompt them to talk to others about those situations. Being able to make money is so far down the list of priorities (Bubba is cringing right now, poor guy). It makes me feel almost dirty to look at creative ways to convince people that they ought to pay me to write like this.

I know that money is how we express worth in this culture and, if I’m being pragmatic, I spend a lot of my valuable time writing and thinking about writing and engaging in dialogue with others. The thing is, doing so is part of what makes my life so full. I believe that, in this currency of worth, I deserve to be paid for my time and efforts. It is just that asking for that feels skeevy. I was the girl who felt bad hawking Girl Scout Cookies to my neighbors. I felt as though I was intruding on their lives in order to make money (even if the money didn’t necessarily go to me, personally). If they came to me and asked, I’d gladly sell them as many boxes as they wanted. But going to them always made me wonder if they truly wanted the cookies or if they felt coerced. This could be part and parcel of the fact that I have a tremendously difficult time saying no to little entrepreneurs attempting to sell me things.

In any case, Jen was able to re-frame the entire situation for me. She fully accepted my discomfort with “selling” the book to an agent or publisher. She asked how committed I was to “sharing” my work with the world and I assured her I was. I fervently believe that this subject is one that desperately needs the spotlight of dialogue in American society and would be thrilled if my book could help spark that.

“What if you changed the focus from ‘selling’ to ‘sharing’?”

It took a moment to sink in, but when it did, it was like a drop of food coloring in a glass of water. The notion spread out and filled up the space. Yeah. In effect, selling my manuscript would achieve the goal of sharing the message. If I hone in on my desire to spread the word and see selling the book as a means to that end, it suddenly feels much less smarmy. And even, dare I say it, exciting.

I’m so glad I could help her out.

Give It a Rest!


Nearly fifteen years ago, before I had children, when I was working at a job I truly loved but wasn’t sure I was smart enough to have, I had a bout of anxiety. I didn’t recognize it for what it was, maybe because of its benign beginnings.

I had an hour commute to work that I didn’t really mind. I had recently purchased my blue-collar dream car – a cherry red Ford Ranger pickup truck with a king cab and a manual transmission. I felt invincible in that thing as I sat high above all of the compact cars and listened to NPR’s Morning Edition on my way into the city. About two-thirds of the way to work I had the sinking feeling that I had left the iron on as I went out the door. I knew, despite the long round trip home, that I had to go back and check. We didn’t have any neighbors I could ask to pop in and have a look and Bubba was on a business trip. I got to work, explained the situation to my boss, and took off for home. The iron was off.
A week later, I had the same moment of panic about the toaster oven that I had used to make my breakfast. Luckily, Bubba was in town and only fifteen minutes’ drive from home so this time he could go check it out. The oven was off.
Nearly a week later again, I had the same anxious feeling as I climbed into the truck to back out of the garage. This time it caused me to stop and wonder what was going on. I was struck with the notion that I was becoming OCD. And then I realized that what I really wanted was an excuse to just stay home. Despite loving my job, I was overwhelmed by the feeling that I was “faking it” to get by and even when my co-workers and my boss praised my efforts and abilities, I felt as though I was fooling them all. I was also lonely. Bubba had begun traveling a lot for his job and I didn’t have many close friends. What I really wanted was to stay home with my cats and work in the garden and feel safe in my own space.
Since that revelation, I have had many more opportunities to understand that the things I am often afraid of are also the things I am most fervently wishing for. Not really, of course. I was relieved each and every time that the iron or the oven were off and I didn’t truly want the house to burn down, but if it had, it would have been an accident and people would have rallied around me in support.
When Bubba was sick for so many years, a horrible fantasy used to creep into my mind before I could slam the door against it that he would die on one of his business trips and not come home. I hated that thought. I hated that I was capable of thinking it and that my mind could go there. It wasn’t superstition – that if I thought it it might come true. It was the knowledge that, if he died, my fears would be validated and everyone would come to see that I hadn’t been crying, “Wolf!” when there was none there. I would have a reason to feel anxious and upset that nobody could dispute.
While I still shun those dark thoughts as quickly as they pop into my brain, I have also come to realize that they serve a vital purpose for me. Whenever I conjure up some terrible scenario of doom and gloom in secret, it is a cry for help. It is the way that my psyche lets me know that I’m feeling unsure of myself and frightened and alone. During one such time when my anxiety overwhelmed me to the point that I crawled beneath the covers and sobbed, Bubba asked me what I wanted. What I needed. The answer that came to my lips before it reached my brain was this, “I want someone to take care of me.” Nobody was more shocked than I was to discover the truth of that statement. I wanted to be cared for. I didn’t want to have to run the house, parent the children, make any important decisions. I just wanted to be. And I wanted to know that someone else was making sure things were okay in my absence. I didn’t want to have to justify it with a major illness (I fantasized about contracting horrible diseases from time to time) or a family member’s death or some other excuse for incapacitation. I just wanted to take a break from being “in charge” and “responsible” and “strong.” But I didn’t think I could.
It is still difficult for me to admit that these thoughts crop up in my brain. I’m beginning to work on allowing myself to feel overwhelmed and anxious without needing to justify it to anyone. And it’s not as though anyone has asked. Or accused me of histrionics. I think that as I become more realistic about my limits and how hard I really do work, I can prevent the need for these periodic alarm bells in my brain. It’s okay to take a day or two off. And I am not faking it. I am the real McCoy.

That New Car Smell


Most people I know avoid change. Those people who thrive on it, seek it, relish it, are usually known as nuts or thrill-seekers or drama queens. The rest of us like our comfy chairs, revel in our routines and predictable scenarios of day-to-day life, right?

Until it comes to buying something new. That new car? We love it when a friend gets one – we want to ride in it, sit in it, push all the buttons and listen to the engine. When someone gets a new house we all crowd around for the tour and bring housewarming gifts. Even better when it’s us who gets something new, isn’t it? Even though it’s primarily functional and meant for some concrete purpose, we still feel that grin creeping across our faces when we walk out to the parking lot and spot that sexy new car sitting there or open the closet and see those gorgeous new boots.
We get compliments on changes like new jobs and new relationships and can’t wait to share the news, so why do other changes freak us out so much? Is it only those changes we didn’t choose that are scary?
Losing your job is scary. Moving is scary, whether you choose it or not. Being in a situation where you can’t predict or control the variables puts most of us in a state of panic. The loss of something important to us is also stressful – for a child it can be moving on from their favorite teacher or having a friend leave town. Changes are usually complicated, but so often bring as many new opportunities as they do questions, and, honestly, the majority of changes in our lives are gradual.
Personally, then opportunity to have some level of predictability and control over any change gives me a much better chance of adapting to it positively. Maybe the trick is to remember that ‘control’ is an illusion except when it comes to my own actions and that change is inevitable. Nah, that’s too big a lesson for today. Maybe if scary changes came complete with that “new car smell” we might be a little less averse to them. Although, all things considered, I prefer the scent of dark chocolate…just sayin’.

Summertime with SPD


That is, Sensory Processing Disorder. (Don’t get me started on the name. That’s another rant/post.)

Suffice it to say that Lola deals with SPD – much of the time graciously and with a large measure of acceptance, other times not so much. And much of her life is structured so that she doesn’t have to head butt the enormous invisible beast that taunts her. She has teachers who “get it” and encourage her to work in the way that suits her best. She has pared her wardrobe down to several choice items that, while they don’t allow for much variety, enable her to move through the world without feeling constantly stimulated and irritated. She has plenty of opportunities for physical activity – playing sports and riding bikes and wrestling with Bubba. Her routine, during the school year, is predictable and, when it isn’t, we are sure to accommodate with extra down time and soothing routines.
And then summer hits. And the first few days are bliss. It’s like a long weekend and so long as I make sure she eats every couple of hours to keep her blood sugar up, she is enthusiastic and cheerful.
Go beyond a few days without structure, add in a week-long trip to the mountains, follow that up with a morning sports camp and a sister with an entirely different agenda than her and we’ve got a perfect storm of SPD triggers. She starts to assert that she ISN’T HUNGRY and asks to stay up late reading and slowly begins to disintegrate into someone who turns to mush for no reason at all. The last few days have brought more tears and hysterical outbursts and agitation than we’ve had in the last nine months put together.
And there is a twin crumbling going on inside my head. The small but hopeful, insulated, pretty-in-pink place where I had harbored a hope I was afraid to admit to myself. The hope that she had “outgrown” SPD or that we had been hasty in diagnosing it. The hope that she had come to manage it so well that she had folded those “quirks” inside of her personality the way a tree grows around a wire over time. That SPD had just become part of who she is and she could either wall it off as a separate but alien piece of herself or make friends with it and entirely disarm it.
Instead, summer is here, stripping away my denial. And so the next few days will require me to steel my resolve and re-engineer some boundaries that have fallen away with the end of the school year. Lola admitted to me last night that she is raw, over-reactive, edgy. She is apologetic and contrite in moments of calm, but utterly inconsolable and manic when agitated. I know that it is impossible for me to predict and systematically eradicate everything that could possibly set her off, and I’m not even sure it is wise to try. I do want to allow her to let her true personality shine through, though. This Lola, who is so funny and compassionate and possesses such wisdom about herself and others deserves to shine.

Let Them Have The Pill!


Thank goodness for email! Two days ago I saw an email in my inbox from Planned Parenthood asking me to participate in their blog carnival. They have teamed up with the National Women’s Law Center to increase momentum for passage of a healthcare bill that would allow American women free birth control as part of a comprehensive package of preventative healthcare. Count me in.

The link to the list of bloggers participating is here in case you want to see what others are saying. Read on for my two cents.
Pregnancy, childbirth, and child-rearing are all things that, like it or not, disproportionately affect women around the world. I’m not denying that there are some very stand-up guys who choose to be intimately involved in these activities, but ultimately the life-altering issue of unplanned or unwanted pregnancies falls to women to deal with. Culturally speaking, this amounts to some degree of gender discrimination, given the time, effort and expense necessary to deal with such pregnancies.
If we are to offer women equal opportunities to participate in society, we need to afford them the opportunity to plan their pregnancies. Birth control methods in this country are effective, safe, and inexpensive and to exclude them from insurance coverage ends up costing us all more in the long run. Many of the children born to women who weren’t planning for pregnancies end up taxing families financially, potentially putting them in a position to utilize social services they wouldn’t otherwise need. Others are born to single mothers who don’t possess the resources to care for them.
There are a great deal of women for whom regular access to birth control is not an option. For many of them, continuing a pregnancy is financially unthinkable as well. Women who cannot afford preventative health care such as birth control are even less likely to be able to secure low-cost obstetrical care during a pregnancy. Many of these women choose abortion as the best way to deal with an unwanted pregnancy. It is my sincere belief that providing free birth control would eliminate the need for scores of abortions annually.
Women who choose to continue unplanned pregnancies find their lives forever altered. Pregnancy is hard on a woman’s body and, even if they ultimately choose to give the child up for adoption, the physical toll pregnancy and childbirth take on a woman can be significant. In the meantime, they may find themselves unable to perform tasks that their job requires, paying for healthcare they cannot afford, and dealing with difficult emotions about giving up their child. Those who decide to keep the child face decades of hard work, not to mention the expense of raising a child.
In a country that espouses freedom, justice and liberty to pursue happiness, it seems like a no-brainer to provide birth control at no cost. Beyond the obvious benefits of reducing the number of unwanted/unplanned pregnancies and saving on healthcare costs for the entire country, it offers American women the same opportunity to pursue their livelihoods that American men have. The birth control pill is not used for frivolous reasons. It is not as though American women are asking for insurance companies to pay for botox injections. This is a safe, inexpensive way to ensure that more women and their partners are able to plan their families reliably in order to fit their own needs.

Excavation and Forgiveness


Big doin’s around here. At least in my head. I’m back to working on forgiveness. And this time it is a little closer to home. This person is someone who is still in my life and is likely to be for a good, long time. And, while I knew somewhere deep in my ugly innards that I hadn’t forgiven her, I didn’t honestly think about it much, or acknowledge that this might be a problem. But I’ve bumped up against it hard lately and it is causing a swirling ball of heartburn in my gut.












**Same issue of Tricycle Magazine. The article is The Seventh Zen Precept: Not Elevating Oneself and Blaming Others, written by Nancy Baker