On this day…

Today would have been my 13th wedding anniversary. Instead I went on a first date last night that went okay. It’d be a happier ending to say it went fantastic as if it’s a new beginning. But it’s probably not and that’s okay, too.

I have a flame ignited in me today that makes me realize just how dead I was inside during my marriage. Like a complete flatline. If you would have taken me to the hospital, there would have been no life saving measures; no paddles, no urgency, no electrodes. I may have even presented as nothing more than a pile of dust.

What’s worse is that I normalized that feeling – “this must be what marriage is like” – was a repetitive soundtrack that played in my head.

It really killed my creativity; I stopped imagining our marriage could be anything different. It felt like a box I had to settle into but no matter what corner I found myself in, I couldn’t get comfortable. I felt like I came with a garden and left with a cemetery. Morbid, I know.

I look at love so differently now and while I’m less interested in dissecting what was missing from my marriage and why, I will say that the experience as a whole – complete with the exploration that’s come post-divorce – has taught me the following:

I want a partner who reminds me of my power; not a partner who wants me to exist under a label and fit into a box. I want a partner who sees my wild femininity and allows it, embraces it, and is seduced by it. I want a partner who recognizes my individuality; a partner who can truly see ME beyond what I bring to them or how I make them feel about themselves. And I want radical honesty, where feelings – even when they bring conflict – are always welcome and always seen as an invitation for connection. I want freedom to be, the freedom to have been, and the freedom to become.

The day we got married there were fires raging in what felt like all directions. It was triple digit heat and horrible air quality. I think now about all the times the universe knew before I did and the patience the universe grants us to figure it out on our own. What a blessing.

Some things are meant to go up in flames.

Politics & Marriage

Before shit went down in my marriage – before all the final straws that led to me asking for a divorce – it was 2016 and I was heavily questioning who I was married to. It was the year I distinctly recall googling: Trump is ruining my marriage. So, you know, I could see if others were feeling the same thing. I can’t even remember what those google results showed; probably because, at the end of the day, only my marriage mattered and to that end, it felt as if Trump was ruining my marriage. I’m saying that facetiously, for those keeping score, because surely a man not directly involved in our marriage could not literally be the reason for its demise. I say that instead to point to the division that took place in our very own home; a microcosm of what was happening throughout our country.

Truth is, before 2016, I really gave a rat’s ass about politics. I didn’t see myself as heavily affected one way or another by who was in power; rather, my experience showed me that whomever was in power was going to take care of me. It was all about me, you see. I laugh at my former self now, rolling my eyes at all the privilege that line of thinking is so heavily laced with.

I recall a conversation with mutual friends, who were married; the male portion agreeing with my husband, pointing to the economy and overlooking everything else and the female portion casually dismissing herself from the conversation by saying something along the lines of how she doesn’t get involved in politics, but rather puts her efforts toward being a good person. A line of thinking I know I once leaned heavily on, too, before privilege knocked on my door and so rudely introduced itself.

I’d go to work in the hospital and spend my breaks sifting through articles and texting bits and pieces to my other half, entering into debates only to be met with opposition, always. Even when we seemed to get to a place of agreement, the very next morning seemed to reset the clock and we’d be back at the beginning, re-debating the same thing.

It was exhausting.

And yet it seemed trivial. Surely couples who have been married for years don’t go their separate ways because they disagree on who is president. It felt much bigger than that, though.

Fast forward a year or two and I recall eating lunch with a friend, bitching about my marriage the way that some of us wives do. Knowing that my goal was to stay married and make it work I said something cliche about values and how – in the midst of things I couldn’t understand or didn’t want to accept – we at least held the same values.

I silently questioned myself the moment those words left my mouth; do we actually have shared values? I didn’t know anymore.

Fortunately, or unfortunately (perspective is always key), politics had nothing to do with our divorce. It’s a little of both – fortunate and unfortunate-, I guess, because it’d be a bummer if we couldn’t work out our political differences but it’s also awesome that enough other boundaries were crossed that we didn’t have to. See what I did there? Rotate the plate and you’re looking at your food from a whole new angle.

All this to say two things: one, if you’re in a marriage or relationship and vehemently disagree with your husband or partner’s point of view surrounding politics, I see you, I feel you, and the struggle is real. Also, how do you do it? And two, if politics hasn’t affected your life drastically negatively or positively, consider that you may be in a place of privilege. I didn’t vote because I didn’t think my vote mattered. I didn’t think the outcome mattered. I see now that I was only looking at it from my own privileged perspective. Today, I vote for everyone else first, and myself second. I hope you do, too.

A body that’s lived in

Someone recently tried to put me down by referring to my kids as dirty. Old me might have taken offense. New me is able to see my reality quite clearly and see it not only as a compliment but also a byproduct of the life I provide them. Yup, sometimes we chose sunsets over showers. I’m one person and I surrender to not being able to do it all perfectly. It’s like that time my dad referred to my home as appearing “lived in”. Came across this picture of Sonny from Slab City. An honest portrait. Yes, my kids are usually dirty. They also live hard and well. Thank you very much.

The Beehive

In my healing journey, the notion of a higher power is one that has been suggested to me many times and one I’ve grappled with and struggled to let in. Having been raised agnostic, I grew up believing I controlled my own destiny. I’ve learned that while I certainly have a part, there’s much that’s not in my control and also not meant to be in my control and consequently a lot I need to hand over. I don’t subscribe to God and if I did, I’d refuse to call him a He and I downright refuse any organized religion; rather I’m defining my own power greater than myself and learning as I go. There’s more to say here but for the purpose of what I’m sharing and in conjunction with where I’m at on that journey, that’s that.

Yesterday we left Santa Cruz in the wee hours of the morning, caught sunrise from the road, came home and unpacked, napped, made it out to our local skatepark, made dinner, and even had time to squeeze in sunset at the beach. And it was there, at the beach, that we stumbled upon a beehive. I noticed a man peering under the stair and when we caught eyes, he directed our attention to it. He signaled to his husband ahead of him and I called over to Hooper, who was still climbing on the rocks. And together, we stood in amazement watching all those bees climb over and through one another. Social distancing disregarded in a way only a hive can allow. Before the man walked away with his husband he said, “it’s hopeful, isn’t it?”. It is, I said. And we went our separate ways.
When we got back in my truck, I recounted the experience to the kids and said, “isn’t it beautiful how nature can nurture human connection?”. It is hopeful. It’s also how I see my own higher power reaching out to me, reminding me she’s here.

On Failure

July 2019 | I heard this speech by Oprah today where she insisted falling is not failure. She said, “Things will show up and it will look like failure but it really is just life trying to move you in a different direction”.

I recently had a talk with a friend’s daughter about her relationship with her dad and she confided in me that she didn’t really like her dad and wasn’t pained by not having him in her life. As soon as the words “I’m sorry” left my mouth, I regretted them. Mostly because I’ve heard the same words so much as of late; people, with good intentions, throwing their pity at my divorce when I’m in no way pitying myself.

I can remember when I ended a relationship in my early 20’s and I filled a page in my journal with the repetitious words “thank you” and “fuck you”; a symbol of my constant flip flop of emotions. Fuck you for hurting me but thank you for the cleared path. They really can mean the same thing, depending on your perspective.

I quickly retracted my words and she looked at me with some confusion as I said, “you know, I’m not really sorry for you though. I’m happy for you. It sounds like he’s not worthy of being in your life and no one should have anyone in their life that is not worthy of their love. So congratulations”. I’d never seen her face so light, so free. With her eyes fiercely confident, she gave me a hard nod and said, “thank you”.

Not always fuck you, sometimes thank you.

Note to self: find perspective and then take the next indicated step.

Plants grow through pruning

Evolutionary biologist Elisabet Sahtouris has written that stress is what creates evolution in nature: Plants grow through pruning. Human beings grow the same way. When we’re faced with a situation that we can’t control or change with our current level of understanding and skill, evolutionary stress arises and impels us to question, seek, practice, and eventually take a leap outside of our comfort zones into higher levels of awareness.

From Quantum Leap, by Sally Kempton for Yoga Journal.

The Chorus | Hope

I look back on the last few months in both a fog and with a clarity only the uncovering of your own truths can provide. So much to sift through, so much buried pain. To see is to feel and to feel is to own and they’re all so intertwined it can be confusing, disheartening, overwhelming. Emotions twisting and turning, the changing tides. Millions of footprints embedded in the sand, washed away with one crash of a wave. Chapters end and chapters begin. My vision for my future fractured, blood running cold, hard, dry. Like cracked dirt in a desolate desert. And yet there’s a quiet thumping through it all. A slow but steady stream of excitement; like when you’re climbing to the top of a roller coaster and you can’t see anything in front of you and you know that at some point the breaks are going to release. That you’ll be free. That the wind will again carry you. It’s an integration, I’ve learned — bits and pieces of opposites that make us whole. The fear and the excitement. The sorrow and the release.

Life is forever ending and beginning.

 

Written as part of Amy Grace’s Chorus, please visit glitterinthedirt.com to read the full song. 

On Marriage…

 

Today marks 42 years of marriage for my parents, which inevitably makes me pause to reflect on what marriage means to me. And what divorce means, too.

I’ve watched the segment of Oprah featuring Dr. Shefali several times (thanks to one of you for recommending her work) and in the segment she answered a question from the audience about how to protect your children from divorce. The answer she shared was one that has been beaten into my head no matter the avenue of healing I choose — this notion that we ourselves have to resolve our own hangups first; That as a mother I have to become okay with both the shadow and the light associated with my divorce. And only when I’ve integrated the two — the shadow and the light — can I then offer my boys the gift of integration. If I show up for them with unresolved pieces, they will only get unresolved pieces. The greatest armor, to paraphrase Dr. Shefali, in protecting children from divorce is in showing them that we’re okay. Not to be confused with denial. And here’s what I believe to be the key — it’s not in denying the struggle but in showing them the light in the dark. Acknowledging the pain as part of their (our) reality but holding light for the gift of expansion that comes with their (our) new reality. It’s in honoring the struggle by acknowledging it as a catalyst for everyone’s growth. Growing through the mess — like my previous analogy of a flower that’s bent – even wilted at times – all in the struggle to grow by bending toward whatever light it could find.

Our culture fears divorce because our understanding of marriage is faulty, says Dr. Shefali. Currently, a successful marriage is one that stands the test of time but doesn’t take into account the misery, lack of connection or communication, lies, betrayal, or the lack of growth — none of that matters, only longevity. I’m dying to read an instagram anniversary posts that reads something like this:

“Today marks our 15th anniversary. Within those 15 years we’ve had a couple good years and several others riddled with despair. I’ve worked through him fucking his secretary and he’s worked through my addiction to crack cocaine. I can remember the last time we had sex but I can’t remember the last time I wanted to have sex with him. Or have his tongue in my mouth. Or be anywhere near his cigarette infused breath. But yay for surviving 15 years together. Here’s to hoping the next 15 are better — because there’s only a razor separating hope from denial. Let’s continue to deny the notion that the best predictor of the future is in looking at the past. My fear of change allows me to love you more. Happy Anniversary, babe.” 

You’ll never read that. Instead you’ll hear people celebrating their longevity; they’re ability to withstand, tolerate, and survive (by default). Based on this cultural norm — that a good marriage is one that’s lasted — divorce, which is by definition a break in longevity, then becomes indicative of failure, eliciting fear and devastation and despair.

Marriage, says Dr. Shefali, needs to be defined on different terms; on growth, authenticity, freedom. I would add: maturity and the willingness to operate from our true selves / free from ego.

Divorce is nothing more than the end of a phase. The end of dysfunction, inauthenticity, fear, the invasion of boundaries. It’s a positive thing. A beautiful release. It’s why it makes me cringe when I feel other’s pity for me. You know what’s worse than divorce? A marriage rooted in inauthenticity. In lies. In denial, deceit, and delusion.

Back to my parents and they’re 42 years of marriage… I’ll forever hang on the words my mom once shared with me, she said, “Of course there were times we wanted to get divorced, we just never felt that way at the same time”. Instead of celebrating 42 years of marriage, I’d rather congratulate them on 42 years of shared values and continued growth. 

Dear Dad

It’s my dad’s birthday today, so this specific post is dedicated to him but not without the necessary asterisk for the incredibly strong and feminist leader-of-the-pack that is my mom, who undoubtedly makes him shine even brighter.

I’ve talked before about idiosyncrasies that make my dad, well, my dad. Like the fact he puts tortilla chips in his short pockets as a snack or how he often puts his toast in the toaster but then forgets about it. How he loves to pretend to have an accent only his attempt at a Chinese accent sounds the same as his attempt at an Australian accent. Or how he loves musicals, thinks he can sing even though he can’t, and always thought he’d make a good hairdresser despite being known for giving me a haircut in elementary school that prompted me to call my friends to tell them I wouldn’t be around for a bit. The man can nap anywhere; like the time I came home as a teenager and found him face down on the floor with half his body coming out of his office and half his body lying in the hallway, the sound of his snoring relieving any fear he had been murdered. Or how he would sit in his office and eat his yogurt using his writing pen as a spoon and not think that it was gross. Or that time he wrote his text message in the space where you’re supposed to put the name of the contact you’re sending it to and couldn’t understand why it wasn’t sending.

Other tidbits about my dad: he’s as humble as the desert roads are long, he’s a man of his word and has taught me – through action – the meaning of integrity. He was a pitcher in the Twins minor league system and today will kick your ass on the golf course; I once found his notebook of secrets and it included things like, “be sure to stand at a 20 degree angle on hole number 6 if the wind is blowing in the southeast direction” and other creepily specific things I’m quite certain the average person isn’t documenting. Speaking of documenting, he also keeps a notebook where he keeps personal record of all of Trump’s lies, which I find endearing. He also used to interview my sister and I and record them on cassette tapes, asking us about our favorite things and documenting how we’ve grown, etc. I’d give anything to find those tapes but like the toast in the toaster, he seems to have forgotten. And he’s the first to take my camera and ask me to get in the frame, even if the shots he takes are never in focus.

But that’s only a slice of it. These past few months, when my life has never felt as unmanagable, he has shown the fuck up. He’s helped me navigate finances, which I was led to believe to be difficult and you know what? They’re not. He’s walked me through insurance coverage and helped me find the best deals. He’s helped me go after money that was left on the table from things that had fallen through the cracks. He’s expressed concern about the amount of lint in my dryer (worried it might start a fire) and he’s helped me move furniture, pot plants, and fix broken bricks in the yard. The other day I came home to find him in the backyard cleaning up Jimmie’s dog shit. Two weeks ago I came home to him washing my windows. He’s texted me on Wednesday to remind me that Thursday is trash day. And as if even a fraction of that is not enough, he also signed up to help coach the boys’ baseball team. Sitting in the bleachers and having other parents ask me, “is that your dad out there?” has to be one of my favorite questions to answer.

And even beyond all that, I’ve watched my dad simultaneously care for his own mom, who he’s recently moved to an assisted living facility nearby. Talk about a full plate. And when his mom tells him that she hates him and hates her life – because dementia is a hoot – I see his pain and frustration, as well as his patience, and I dunno, it’s all relatable and admirable and there’s just something to be said about seeing your father as a human.

All these wonderful things said, the guy still gets grumpy. My three boys can wear him out and wear him down. And he doesn’t have the best ears and man can he get fixated on details that don’t matter.

But I dunno, pretty sure those things make him all the more special. All the more human.

He’s as loyal as a dog and as loved as they come. Happy Birthday, Pops. I’m so proud to be your daughter.

Image 1: my dad, coming up with word problems for Van while in Maui. |  Image 2: my dad, on the beach with the boys.

You can’t be what you can’t see

I have a clear memory of being in elementary school and daydreaming about creating a robot that could do my homework for me. I distinctly remember being overcome with joy; a solution to all that time spent doing homework. Though I should say complaining about homework, because I probably spent more time vocalizing my distain for it than I actually did doing it (sorry, Mom). Almost just as fast as the idea came to me, so did the realization that the robot could only be as smart as me; that if I were the one building it and programing it, it could not perform beyond my own abilities. So I let the idea go and sharpened my pencil and got to work.

I was reminded of this memory the other day when I was taking a class about anti-racism by Layla Saad. In it, she drove home that fact that we cannot expect our kids to learn things we have not sought out and learned ourselves.
It’s such a simple notion but it’s replayed over and over in my head as of late.
Want your kids to be honest adults? Be an honest adult.
Want your kids to have good coping mechanisms? Model good coping mechanisms.
Want your kids to eat healthy? Eat healthy.
Want your kids to be kind? Be kind.
Want your kids to be accepting? Be accepting.
The life we live is their blueprint. It’s so hard to chose a way that we don’t know or haven’t seen. Choose right, so they can choose right. Never rely on your words carrying them, it has to be action. In the words of James Baldwin, “I can’t believe what you say, because I see what you do”.
The same goes for relationships. I can, once again, distinctly remember the same notion coming to me like an epiphany; you have to be the person you want to be with. Meaning, you can’t ask that the person you’re courting have all their shit together if you don’t have your shit together. Nor can you expect them to be a, b, c, or d if you yourself are not a, b, c, or d. Want to be with someone rad? Be someone rad.
Filed under: simple concepts that still require routine reminders.

The Great Appendage

My therapist pulled from this story during a couples session many months ago and it’s stuck with me ever since; she used it to speak of happiness within versus happiness based on external circumstances. Saving it here for myself, really. But maybe someone out there could use it too. And if you’re in Orange County and need a recommendation for a therapist, do check in with me. She’s everything. Here’s the story…

There’s an old story of a simple country fellow who had to go to the big market town for the first time. He had managed to remain all his life in the little village where everyone knew him and where he knew most everyone. Now, something else was demanded of him and he had to step out into the wide world. He had heard travelers tell of the hordes of people and the rush of activities in the market city; he feared that he would become lost amidst so many people. So, he went to seek advice from a friend who was more experienced than himself. He blurted out his questions along with his fears. “When I go to the city I will have to stay in one of those big inns where all the workers and travelers stay in the same room. I will have to sleep in a room full of strangers. I have never done that before and I am afraid that I will become lost and confused. I will know myself when I lay down to sleep; but amongst all those people, how will I know which one I am when I wake up?” His friend saw a chance to play a trick on him, as people often do when someone indulges in their innocence or foolishness. The friend advised him to first go to the market and buy a large and colorful watermelon. He instructed him that before going to sleep he must tie the watermelon to his ankle. After that, he should take his rest. The friend went on to explain that in the morning when he woke in the company of strangers, he would be the one with the watermelon tied to his foot. The foolish fellow thought for a while, then asked: “What if during the dark of night someone unties the watermelon from my foot and ties it onto theirs? How will I know which one I am if the watermelon has been switched?” At that point, his friend was wise enough to become silent on the subject.

It’s a simple story of a simple-minded fellow, yet more and more people seem to depend on a watermelon, or a degree, or a certain home address or prestigious title for proof that they are in fact an individual and someone of worth and value. Ironically, more and more people fear becoming victims of “identity theft;” as if the watermelon approach is taking precedence over the sense of a true identity that is seeded in the soul. The statistical view of the world, the massing of people and the obsession with appearances makes the dilemma of the country fellow an increasingly common experience. Modern ideas tend to follow the fears and concerns of the fellow whose identity is but an appendage to his life. Either the presence of a unique soul is considered impossible to prove and therefore not to be believed or else the soul is deemed a blank slate to be conditioned by one’s life circumstances. If our identity has been determined by other people and by forces outside ourselves; then our sense of self will be like a colorful item that we purchase in the world-wide market and tie onto our bodies. If our identity in this world can become nothing but an appendage to be manipulated and adapted to outer circumstances, we are in increasing danger of losing it or having it taken from us. In forgetting how the soul is seeded to begin with we can be in danger of becoming completely lost in this world, both empty within and completely disoriented as well. Without a genuine sense of an inner life and deeper self we become increasingly subject to those who cleverly manipulate the marketplace as well as the elements of politics and even the premises and promises of religion.

Meade, Michael. Fate and Destiny, the Two Agreements of the Soul (Kindle Locations 1193-1201). GreenFire Press. Kindle Edition.

Cambria

I set up my new username on what used to be our shared online mortgage account, YouGotThis, before hitting the road mid-afternoon on a Friday. The last Friday in May. My ex-mother-in-law’s birthday. Do in-laws become ex’s too? I’m not sure. I find myself questioning a lot these days. As we finally make it up to LA, sitting in stalled traffic as we pass a broken down bus one car at a time, I’m questioning the decision to hit the road, too.

Van thanks me for taking them; says he’s having the best time. I’m feeling victorious and we haven’t even made it out of LA yet. Sonny requests for his window to be rolled down, the soon-to-be-summer air fills the car and the LA skyline stretches the length of the horizon. We pass the Hollywood Bowl and Hooper recalls when we went to see Paul Simon. I’m glad it wasn’t a waste, that he remembers.

I think about my time with them. My role with them. And how grateful I am. How it’s a privilege to guide them and raise them and show them and, well, be with them.

Sonny throws his toy car for the umpteenth time leaving Hooper, sandwiched between his brothers, left to fish it out under now-hardened fast food, sandy blankets, and the boneyard of discarded shoes. I can tell he’s getting frustrated; having to help out more than usual. Sonny, as relentless as ever. Somehow it morphs into Van thinking everyone hates him and he’s screaming and I’m so lost in my own thoughts and frustrations I don’t really even know why. Sonny demands that I turn the music up; he listens to “Sail” on repeat. A song I never really cared for ever but now can say I truly despise. Van’s asking a question I can’t hear and I have to turn down the music I was just demanded to turn up to play a torturously ambiguous game of “guess what I’m thinking?”.

A wave of resentment comes over me. I should have help. I shouldn’t have to do this alone.

I remind myself that I chose it to be this way. But then I question if it’s truly a choice when the alternative is as futile as banging your head against a wall in an effort to relieve a headache.

We pull off the freeway in the Valley to eat and stretch and hit the old proverbial “reset” button. I find comfort in showing the boys parts of the valley; I point to the exit that we used to live off of. Our first home; the home both Hooper and Van were brought home to for the first time. Where we lived next door to a cracked out woman who incessantly swept the leafs out of the street. She had biceps that would make you believe she spent her days lifting weights but all I ever saw her do was sweep. I recall the time her husband, who was equally unique, helped me following back surgery when I was home alone, unable to lift a gallon of milk, and had to clean up after Van who had pooped following his nap and had taken his diaper off, effectively spreading poop all over his crib and himself. He got the bath started and lifted my poop-filled kid into it.

By the time we get back on the road, traffic has totally cleared and we’re smooth sailing. Hours to go, but still, smooth sailing. We all have our moments of highs and lows and tears and screams. I start to think that I’m not really any different than them right now; my own emotions keeping the pace with their swings. It’s the same as it is everyday but it’s met with a new awareness, a new relatability. It’s not until the sun begins to set that we all seem to settle into the same rhythm. We stop to stretch on the side of the road, nothing but road stretching before us, fields on both sides, the setting sun glistening in the distance. I know we only have a little over an hour to go but the break feels so needed. I have one of those moments that make all the dreaded moments before it worth it. I text my mom, “no regrets”. Sonny chases Van with a piece of a busted tire and they laugh. They’re happy and so am I.

It’s after dark by the time we roll into a small motel just north of Cambria. The towel rack breaks immediately, the water comes out in spurts, and everyone is beyond tired but we settle in. I start to fall asleep with Sonny curled into my side and notice that Hooper and Van, in bed together, are both fast asleep before I even have the lights out.

We’ll be okay, I think. I’ll be okay.

You got this, I remind myself.

Fill my cup

I was having a conversation with a friend the other day who was seemingly trying to convince me that I needed / wanted a 4th child. Don’t get me wrong, there was definitely a time I did. Part of me would consider it if Willy had any desire but I digress because this morning I was looking out our kitchen window at our backyard; the little patch of grass that filled what was once a pool covered with rusted scooters, broken skateboards, pots I’ve washed out with intentions to put plants in that still sit inside our living room slowly dying, an upside down plastic pool that I’m quite certain all three boys have pissed in at one point or another. And that’s just the grass area, never mind the makeshift side yard fence that I’m always nervous Jimmie will get through, the beach umbrella that has been carried by recent storms from one end of the yard to the other, the random holes where worms have been vacated from their homes. The thought crossed my mind that our home is too big for me to keep up with. I felt old in my thought process; commiserating with retired folks who size down because they no longer want the ‘burden’ of keeping up; the ‘burden’ all us young folk work so hard to obtain. And somewhere in the rush of getting the kids fed and ready, the connection of it all came to me; I truly don’t think I have enough in me to give another child. Like I’m barely filling cups as it is – both literally (as in they drink all their milk before I even put the milk away) and figuratively. Most days, I’m just treading water; hoping plants don’t die before we get a chance to pot them, making sure the good bikes are inside when it rains so they don’t rust, and making sure there’s enough milk in the fridge to get us through the next morning.

I have to believe I’m not alone. I know I’m not alone.

Reminders to Self

Someone shared this with me the other day. I had to change a few lines so they better applied to my own life, but man, I’m trying to make this my daily morning read.

Call in, not out. Filed under: reminders to self. 

“And acceptance is the answer to all my problems today.
When I am disturbed,
It is because I find some person, place, thing, situation —
Some fact of my life — unacceptable to me,
And I can find no serenity until I accept
That person, place, thing, or situation
As being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment.
Nothing, absolutely nothing happens in this world by mistake.
Unless I accept life completely on life’s terms,
I cannot be happy.
I need to concentrate not so much
On what needs to be changed in the world
As on what needs to be changed in me and in my attitudes.”

 

Therapy for the win

Before Sonny was conceived, Willy and I had a lot of discussions surrounding adding another member to our family. I always knew I had wanted more than two; it’s just what has always felt right, instinctively, on a level that cannot be backed up by any sort of logic but instead is felt solely on an emotional level only the one feeling it can comprehend. I knew that should we not go on to have another baby that I would feel a void, a longing, and I feared the resentment that likely would fill in the holes.

Many of our discussions ended in frustration; Willy protesting that life with the current two is crazy enough, all he can handle, and me, saddened by the fact his reality did not match mine.

Our parenting structure kind of broke down. We didn’t support each other in the same way we had in the past. It was only in hindsight that we can attest to much of the acting out during this time, on the kids part, was in direct connection to the fact we were no longer standing strong together.

I always saw the argument for a third as a matter of perspective. That life as it is today and the hardships that come along with the caregiver stage of parenting are temporary, Willy always saw it as starting over again; hitting reset, and adding to what is / was already a chaotic struggle. Albeit the chaotic struggle we all endure and on some insane level seem to miss just as soon as the dust starts to settle.

It was a battle no one was going to win. He’d tease me on the ‘good days’, when the boys were our ideal versions of themselves, by holding up three fingers and locking eyes with me as if to say ‘in this moment, and only in this moment, I do want a third’. I’d question the seriousness behind such a statement and we’d launch back into the same discussion we’d beaten into the ground so many times before.

It takes two to tango and tango we obviously did and when I found out I was pregnant right around my birthday, I, of course, was ecstatic. Willy shared in the excitement from time to time but I also sensed a twinge of an ‘you won, I lost’ attitude and sometime around the start of the second trimester, I was feeling alone. I was beginning to wonder if adding a third to the mix meant anything to me if it also meant losing a part of my husband. I felt like I was carrying the weight of ‘I asked for this so I have to deal with the repercussions, whatever the repercussions may be, on my own’ on my shoulders.

We bickered more than usual. We fought a lot over the birth plan, his anxieties over the first two births flooding back in. I remember we went down to San Diego to tour a hospital that offered both a birthing unit as well as a labor and delivery unit. We went out to dinner afterward and fought the whole time. Me, thinking I had found the perfect middle ground, him, still not satisfied with involving a midwife in our care on any level. I agreed that night to go the OB route, threw it in his face that I wasn’t comfortable with any of it and blamed him for making decisions out of fear that involved my body and the baby I fought so hard for.

Perhaps I’m painting a picture of an unhappy couple. We weren’t. Not at all. Life continued on in between all these events and though our everyday was impacted on some level, the extent to such wasn’t apparent at all at the time. If anyone would have asked us, we both would have said we were happy. And we were. But we were also on edge.

I can’t remember how it came about… if there was a final straw or if it was that I just knew instinctively we needed to regroup and prepare in a more serious way to welcome our third baby, but whatever it was landed us in therapy with a therapist a dear friend had seen for years and highly recommended.

And. It. Was. The. Best. Thing. We. Could. Have. Done. For. Our. Relationship. As in, we still talk about how great it was for us and we still feel the freedom that came from unearthing all the resentment and anger and bitterness that, at-the-time, we thought we were so neatly sweeping under the rug when in actuality we were more like a tractors at a construction site building piles of dirt that eventually ended up crumbling and suffocating us.

I talked about the regret I felt in putting the both of us in a position where our own relationship was negatively affected. How I didn’t realize that ‘winning’ in one battle would mean ‘losing’ in another. Willy talked about how much of his reluctance to bring another child into the world was associated with the birth process and his anxieties related to our past experiences with birth. Any and all issues brought up were discussed and through none other than the vulnerability associated with sharing with a professional, laid to rest.

All this to say, therapy is where it’s at.

For most of us, when we hear that an individual, or better yet a couple, is in therapy, we think the worst. We think that life must be caving in on them. We think they’re weak, unable to handle whatever they are dealing with on their own. We think therapy is the last stop, the last chance to pick up whatever morsels of the broken pieces that are left.

I think it’s stigmas like these that prevent many from seeking outside help. It’s my hope that in sharing our experience that you too may come to see therapy as an outlet to helping yourself the same way you may help a friend. That consulting a therapist is a way of practicing and nurturing love for yourself and for your relationship. That it’s okay to admit to not being whole. And to see therapy not as a weakness but instead as an attempt to help build a stronger understanding. Because all we’re ever really striving for is to be the best versions of ourselves, right? And don’t we owe it to ourselves and our partners, too? I think so.

In any event, Sonny was welcomed into this world by two eagerly waiting parents. And he’s brought so much joy. These days Willy jokingly pokes, “You couldn’t have possibility known”. He’s referring to how special Sonny is (to us, anyway). And all I can say is, “I knew. I just felt it”. And we laugh, knowing that we not only got through it but that we also buried any lingering resentments.

If you, or a friend, needs help I hope this post encourages you to seek the help you need. And if you’re in the Orange County area and are in need of a great recommendation for a therapist, email me. Look. No. Further.

Go Vote.

While I value autonomy and one’s ability to find the path on their own, I also think that what’s going on in the 49th district is important and if you live in the area and don’t know what I’m referring you, you should reach out. Learn more. Because primaries are in June. And there’s four democratic candidates running for congress; two are billionaires that are essentially looking to buy their seat (democracy? What democracy?), one is a master manipulator who’s been handed over to the ethics committee via a Supreme Court Judge, has a DUI on his record, and had two temporary restraining order from his ex-wife, and one is an environmental attorney – endorsed by the California Teacher’s Association, the National Organization of Women, and several others – with a clean slate, a solid grassroots campaigning effort, and a pretty good agenda. His name is Mike Levin and he’s also the only candidate that’s proactively met with other congressmen about moving the nuclear waste at San Onofre. Happy to share more with my friends and neighbors in the 49th district who are lookin’ to flip the house. Feel free to reach out.

Any many thanks to the many who volunteer their precious time and energy so that people like you and I can stay informed and stay motivated to be a part of the change.

Winter Escapes

A cold winter evening spent on the beach because even winter in California is worthy of such happenings. Riding bikes, chasing ducks, bbq-ing and eating too many s’mores, throwing sand, and lots of make believe with sticks.

These days go by so fast and so many of them I spend willing to get to bedtime, for reprieve and the sound of silence, only to in turn feel guilty about that because it all is going so fast. I look at these photos and I see a baby that will always be a baby in my eyes but is really anything but. And two boys, in full blown kid-mode; only remnants of their sweet baby faces.

Time, it’s a real bitch.

Featured | Artful Blogging

The folks from Artful Blogging were kind enough to reach out to me last year about featuring me in there Nov/Dec/Jan issue. It’s a privilege to be featured anywhere but it’s always a touch sweeter when it’s something printed. Many thanks to Danielle and the rest of the team for publishing my words and images. When asked about blogging, here is what I shared:

So often in life, the stories write themselves. When I find myself caught up in the day to day—the struggles, the chaos, the dishes (oh, the dishes)—it all feels like a blur. Writing and photography, for me, go hand in hand. They are small ways of holding on to what’s otherwise fleeting, of making emotions tangible, adventures more memorable. I don’t think of blogging as anything more than a desperate plea to slow life down, hit the proverbial pause button.

We travel often as a family and it’s never easy. In fact, before any adventure, Willy and I often wonder why in the hell we’re packing our bags, spending the money, getting the hell outta dodge. In some ways I feel like we are constantly trying to escape, to push the wheels a little faster, like when you’re a child and it’s Halloween and you’re going through one of those haunted houses and it’s getting darker so you move a little faster just so you can get to the end a little quicker. Because raising children is hard, and trying. The walls of our own home are, at times, suffocating. Sometimes it’s only beautiful in hindsight. That’s not to say there isn’t beauty in the moment; there is. It’s just so convoluted and messy, like a painting covered in dirt, that your vision—your perspective—gets a little cloudy. It’s why hindsight is so important, why turning back the pages and reflecting can sometimes carry more value than even the present moment. So often, when looking back, I see the painting. Not the dirt.

It’s why I write and reflect on these days. It’s why I take pictures. Because sometimes staying present and ‘in the moment’ (a term so loosely valued these days) is downright stressful. And not feasible. I think of a prisoner of war being held and tortured on a tropical island, trying to take the scenery in while being stabbed in the eye with a burning hot pencil. Hard to do. Parenting? Same same but different.

The challenge for me, as a mother to three, is finding the time and then clearing my mind so that I can think and reflect. I always knew that I would come to view time in a new light once I became a mother. But I never anticipated the struggle to continue self-growth and self-love; I never before valued the ability to have a clear mind in the way I do today. I harbor an inner commitment to my blog and speak often of it as something I do for my boys, so one day they will know the person behind the woman they only know as ‘mom’. And so they, too, can remember their idiosyncrasies—when they started and how they changed—and gain greater self-awareness. And so they, too, can hold on to the memories. But it’s also for me. Because sometimes the days are filled with nothing but tasks and silly fights only mom can referee and at the end of the day, or in the beginning—before anyone is awake—I like to steal away a few moments for myself. To make space for the clouds to part, for clarity to roll in, and for hindsight to shine brighter than whatever the current struggle is.

Dear Boys,

Untitled-1I debated telling you the news that truthfully ran on in the background the entire day while you were at school; it’s always a debate as to whether to shelter or share. Complexities of a world that’s ever-changing. And not always in a direction we want it to.

Initially you had a lot of questions, most logical like “how could he carry that many guns?” and “did he have a car?” and others that offered matter-of-fact answers, like “how many people did he kill?”. It’s the questions of why that I cannot answer; your helpless eyes looking to me, always, for all the answers.

We talked about good and evil before going to bed and I asked that you hold the victims in your heart. We joked about being hearts for Halloween because we’re all on the same page that the world needs more love. You asked about gun laws and, on your own, came up with the novel suggestion that only the police should have guns.

I agree boys, I agree. You are my light, my life. The good in a sometimes evil world.

I beg you, grow to be good.

Love,

Mom

Image by Walter Chappell, words in response to the Las Vegas massacre.