on hypnobirthing

Screen Shot 2014-12-19 at 7.27.40 AM(My hypnobirthing doula from my first pregnancy/birth asked me for a quote on my experience…)

They refer to it as “hypno” but I think “mindful birthing” would be more fitting. Yes, the meditations and affirmations work on silent, work-horse, levels of the subconscious. But the effect is quite tangible and rooted: a simultaneous sense of calm and courage sitting by the door next to the hospital bag. Our culture is saturated in birth stories dripping in fear and pain and disempowerment. They are readily in your face, so you too have to consciously choose to shut those doors and protect yourself from the monsters in that closet. But pregnancy is perhaps the loneliest state of being I’ve ever experienced. It’s a rite of passage – and thus by its very nature, you set out alone. Hynobirthing equips you with tools for the journey, arms you with knowledge and self-confidence that you can transform to wisdom and conquest through your unique experience. It is not an easy voyage, nor will anyone tell you it is. But embracing the path of pregnancy as a gentle warrior will bring forth secret powers of your femininity that you’ll sling over your shoulder for the rest of your life path. And on the other side, a tribe of mothers will wink at and welcome you. So if there’s any piece of advice I can offer you, it’s to choose a mindful birth. (If you resign your freedoms, there are predominant cultural trends that will happily relieve you of your responsibilities/rights.) Know what’s at stake, and step into your experience. Embrace a love and trust of your body and the intuition it inherited from the lineage of women who brought you into being. As with Buddhism, you choose and take what tools you need from hypno-birthing (and leave the rest behind). And as with anything in life, the practice will only return what you authentically invest in it. So accept this quest as a rare (!) opportunity to forge a meaningful relationship with your body. There is no higher way to honor (or be humbled by) this most intimate brush with the bone-marrow of existence.

Share

on the peripheries of death

Chipmunks and small birds flit beyond the shoulder of death.

My father would interrupt my clumsy cobbling of life-memory-love professions with a chuckle and point to the antics of the tiny, striped, tumbling acrobatics in their jostle over seeds fallen from the suet feeder. “Well won’t you just look at that…” he’d say through the rasp of his choking-on-life voice.

On cold jutting stones in the silence of the low-alpine Sierras, I’d sit with Aaron, daring myself to ask him the unspeakable: about his personal experience of dying within the Buddhist context that consumed his Phd path during his cut-short years in life. He’d raise a hand to my ramble: “Did you hear that?” Eyes searching, narrowing, he’d stand and look through the binoculars that had become an extension of his body. “There she is. Wow. Look….”

I was cut short. Never said all I had to say.

But that must be a fact in all dealings with the dying.

The flit and patter of those tiny wings and paws. Did they save us from our over-thinking? Focus us instead on the looking? Root us in the insistent presence of just being? Together. Unfocused on dying.

My father and Aaron have now passed. Yet these tiny songlines of their presence still perch and tumble in all my looking-out-the-window quiet moments. At the bedside of death, I had thought it was my duty to give. To unearth. To close. But the dying have their own agenda. And mine couldn’t be bothered with relics. I stumbled into the conclusion.

There is a lightness to leaving.

Share

my own footsteps

When I was 7,
I’d rally a small neighborhood troop,
To carve a tunnel through the blackberry bramble.
Lift the warmed wooden lids off garden snake traps.
Part overhead golden grasses in search of field mice.
Construct a fort roof of fallen pine branches.
Stockpile pinecones for an anticipated ambush.
Host a ceremonial burial for a fallen bird.

Not a far skip to my adult life where I spend my days*,
Carving small student group cultures.
Through the thickets of alien customs.
Catching the most basic of life assumptions unaware,
Searching for mindful treasures in jungles of stimulation overwhelm.
Exploring themes of self-reliance and fortitude.
Stepping in front of the virtues worth defending.
Encountering small deaths and the sacred in passing.

How life dangles clues,
That we may find ourselves through circles,
Growing into the prints,
Of our own footsteps in the sand.

(*work)

Share

seeking a mindful minute

Screen Shot 2014-11-26 at 7.48.57 AM
I’m remembering,
The unwritten life is fast food eaten standing up.
A mindless conveyor motion of bits to mouth.
Yet the primary ingredient of memory, I’m certain, is reflection.
And the unwritten is the unreflected.
Buddhist hungry ghosts lounge with bulging empty bellies on ever-encroaching peripheries.
I’m certain a life can be so consumed.
Undigested.
And in the tangle of the intestines of domesticity,
Who can not fault?
There just isn’t room.
For balance and chaos to live symbiotically.
The table is set for failure.
Yet those elusive quiet moments.
Caught in sighs.
Those fifteen morning minutes,
spent sewing words together.
Those midnight forages for a bedside pen,
Chicken-scratching a dusty dream,
Those tiny pauses of consideration,
Lingering on the end of the fork.
If there’s an opportunity to close my eyes.
And look.
I remind myself.
To take it.

Share

#nofightsworthwinning

bridge
I have four arms, four legs and forty fingers and toes. And I have two hearts, two blood types, and two brains. The latter a valid reason, I protest, for my constant state of indecision. No I don’t want dinner. I will puke if I eat. That smells terrible. Cook it away from me. Yes. Now I want some. And I want yours too. Give it to me. No questions. Thanks. My gratitude notably lacking luster as I steal and swallow my (poor, poor) husband’s dinner without shame, and leave only the silence of his lingering hunger. I feel the heaviness of his defeat making a depression in the seat next to mine. For although my husband is known to put on lawyer-like exhibitions of evidence as naturally as his favorite jeans, the man is smart enough to not put a visibly pregnant woman on the stand. Where she will inevitably be overcome with inexplicable emotion and win the jury with her Madonna tears. No. He can pick his fights wisely with our 2-year old, but with his already-waddling wife, there are #nofightsworthwinning.

Share

domestic love crumbs

MY CHILD’S CRY STIRS ME FROM BED. After he’s soothed, I crawl back under the cooled covers and just barely register the time on the clock: 5:30am. But my brain has already stirred and my thoughts toss in the sheets. They swirl around and attack this sudden fact: that I have not shared a touch with my husband in 24-hours. Not an off-to-work kiss, or a return-home from work hug, or an after-dinner cuddle on the couch. Our child is sick, and when that happens, it all becomes a game of touch and go. Touch, and handoff, of the child. Moved from the arms of one to the other, while the remaining two hands juggle pans, meds, mail, pajamas, laundry, phones, pets, bottles. In the darkness of the morning, I consider the alternate universe, where I am not pregnant and so tired that I go to bed at the same time as our toddler, where we do curl up on the couch, with my head on his chest, and I fall asleep to sound of my husband’s industrial-strength heartbeat in my ear. They say an infant’s heart aligns with that of the bosom he rests his head against, and I’ve always suspected that it is the same with lovers. And that through the business and chatter of the day, if we can just get those pulses aligned, the rest will fall into order. In the darkness of dawn, treading all these drowning thoughts, I reach out into the radiating hemisphere from the body on the other side of the bed and slip my palm into my husband’s heavy, empty hand. And in a rare moment of marital surprise, his sleepy hand responds eagerly, viscerally clutching and squeezing mine twice, as if to say: I agree and I’m here. I instinctually love you. His grip holds, and I feel the warmth and course of his blood mingling with mine. Aligning. Leaving only two sets of footprints following a trail of crumbs over the cliff of sleep.

Share

citizen of La La

Screen Shot 2014-11-18 at 9.39.33 AMI think I was ten years-old the first time I was accused of living in “La La Land” (by an impressionable 7th grade teacher). When I was a teenager, my parents (in an unfortunate turn of typical teen drama) learned that our small-town police network referred to me as “Queen Yo Yo” for the QYY prefixing my car license plate. And in my late 20s, a best (time-period) friend added the suffix “La La” to my first name which he’d sing down the paths of the beach resort we co-worked to call my attention. I woke up this morning looking for evidence that I sometimes live in my imagination — and I found this breadcrumb-trail of suspicious titles and nicknames. Of course, people can assign you all the adjectives they’d like, but it’s not until you’ve experienced that worldview-flipping moment directly that any new self-realization truly registers. And I think it was in my early 30s when I looked deeper into my Myers-Briggs psychological type and learned that INFPs often navigate a lofty inner world, oblivious to the fog of clouds between themselves and the other 96% of the population. Now I am in constant question of my reality in comparison to others: Is what I’m seeing more colorful, more mysterious, more interconnected, more breath-breathing, than what others are encountering? Has the web of my imagination woven all events and people into charmed caricatures of their otherwise more grey and grounded realities? Do I search my dreams (night and day) for links to this world that would only stand up the court of La La? As a citizen of the clouds, I’m not sure I’ll ever know. Instead, I simply offer the disclaimer, to both the reader and the writer, of the unofficial titles of loft and levity affixed to my name.

Share

stirrings of the other side

MY MEMORIES OF STAYS AT BORDER TOWNS ARE CONSISTENTLY DINGY. There seemed to more litter in the streets. And more stray dogs picking through it. The rooms were bare and broken, with cracks highlighted by inevitably faltering bulbs. The shadows in the streets seemed longer, and uninviting of evening adventures. The whispers, however, were the the most forbidding. In Guatemala, the restaurant owner would place a bland plate of food in front of me with a stern warning of the cartel activity in Mexico. In India, the hotel manager would inquire persistently as to why I would ever want to travel to the neighboring town in Nepal when the people were notoriously dangerous. Elevating the advice of locals higher than my guidebook, I’d hunker down in my room, reviewing maps, and questioning my route: What was I doing at this remote land crossing? Why would I ever leave the charms and comforts that I have discovered on this side of the border? In the morning, with a pack feeling heavier than normal, I’d trudge through the squinty-eyed border authorities in their menacing uniforms with weapons readily perched on walls or waists. And I’d exhale with relief when I made it to the other side, jumping on the first bus heading in any direction away from there. I’d watch the new imagery slide by under my reflection in the window, and feel the stirrings of something exhilarating, and building, in my chest. In whatever town I ultimately landed, I’d sit down to eat my first warm meal while a member of the house poured me tea commenting, “How did you ever survive India? The things I’ve heard….” and get my keys from a hotel attendant who would praise my decision to “get out of Guatemala and make it to the safety of Mexico…” And I would — finally — chuckle. Realizing that there is nothing dingier, or darker, than a neighboring unknown.

******

OVER THE COURSE OF THE LAST 21-MONTHS, I HAVE TRAVELLED ACROSS THREE COUNTRIES OF COLLAPSE: the death of my father and loss of two early second trimester pregnancies. If you accept the invitation to waltz with life, you accept the inevitability of obscured strangers on your dance card. Every date may ultimately be as dark, as handsome. And as the claws grew from the fingertips of my shrouded dance partners, tracking blue veins toward vitals, I out-of-body surrendered my crevassing heart. What was left, bled for months. What remained, were webbed scars in my eyes that I will never look in the mirror and not see.

In those dingy, broken border towns, I’d wake up before dawn, and organize my minimal belongings into a packing-order created out of habit: heavy, cold books at the bottom for weight-balance, crinkled maps and the warm, tough, leather of my journal slipped into the pockets within an arm’s reach. It was a task I could, and did sometimes, do by memorization in total darkness; the familiarity of blind touch bringing order to an otherwise directionless space.

What I didn’t know then, was that my travels would teach me how to move on. That sometimes in life, it would be only the ritual itself, of going through memorized motions, that would lead me, one foot in front of the other, out the door and across a border. Today, in the showing light of the other side, I’m surprised by the craggy scales revealed under a pushed-up sleeve: overlooked in, and earned by, those echoing midnight howls of grief. I see now that these newly taloned nails will be essential in the scramble across similar scarps of neighboring unknowns. And that every dusty step of this pilgrim path has leathered my life in preparation for the next.

Share

200 words

IMG_9079(I’ve been experimenting with microblogging as way to fit writing exercise into my almost-daily life. The following are a few, unrelated, paragraphs drafted in an effort to chase the elusive creative life from the cracks of parenthood…)

*********

200 words

A DIET OF 200 WORDS PER DAY. I’m not sure I even know what blocky-form a congregation of such sentences look like.  But let’s see where this goes. At the loss of a little sleep. At the expense of a rare and captured quiet moment normally spent in delicious silence reading the news.  At the cost of a cuddle in bed with a lover with whom I have only spoken in the language of life management logistics for the last 24-hours. At the risk of arousing my toddler from his sleep with my *softest* typing. Knowing very well that before I reach 200 words, I might more likely hear, “Momma! It’s nice out there. Get me up momma. Momma?!” In motherhood, every moment is stolen. Every minute comes with an opportunity cost tag. If I’m typing, I might lose a minute in joint-investigation of the red-bearded woodpecker in the aspen tree out the window. If I’m joint-investigating, I’ll lose that fleeting minute I need to catch the tail of a novel thought barely glimpsed in the sunlight between the trees. And there is a sweet spot between the two: where my child discovers on his own without a want for (the waste of) adult commentary, and yet at the same time, witnesses the independent and creative life of his mother. Oh sweet spot. I have my eye on you. 228 words.

*********

that very precious moment

THE BEST THING I EVER DID WAS TEACH MY CHILD TO LOOK AT THE SKY. Something about the clouded perspective of adulthood means I never catch him in the act of searching, but only take note when his arm is outstretched like an exclamation point across my omni-armed aim of accomplishing ten tasks at once, and he declares, “Momma. There’s the Moon right there.” And I stop. That very precious moment of stopping. The reason children humble us to better, smaller, more human beings. I drop all my busy, dumb thoughts and look at the sky. And there it is, often just the palest crescent, hanging delicately in a hazy horizon of blues and white. And I marvel that he’s found, and brought me to this moment. And say, “Why that IS the moon right there.”

*********

big jump

SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL HAPPENS IN THE SPACE WHERE WORDS ARE LOST. I’ve noticed it myself, growing, in the pause between sentiments that just can’t be contained in a sentence. And last night, a minute after dabbing a little local anesthetic on a mouth sore that was keeping my child awake, he rubbed his eyes in exhaust and astonishment and said, “Momma? Ouchie flew away in the sky!” And isn’t that just how pain exits? Lofted on the downy wings of a strong breeze? Whisked away as inconceivably fast as it arrived? Has anything ever been said so well? A month ago, he was stung by a bee captured in his hand from the windowsill. And as the bee dizzily droned out the open sliding glass door, my child looked up at me and in the middle of his streaming tears said, “The bee is going back to work.” So, yes, I’m making a case that my 2-year old is a poet. But more, I’m realizing that our verbal limitations, real or feigned, force us back to the fertile grounds of what may have otherwise been overstepped. My 2-year old and I are on the same quest, exploring the space between words where we are similarly lacking in equipment, but treading precariously anyway. “Big jump!” he announces just in time for me to turn around and and see him leap from the bed to the floor. “Stomped it,” he quietly assesses with the ski-vocabulary he’s inherited from his Pappa. How far can I leap without explaining myself, I wonder? It’s clear from his example, the further the distance, the more exhilarating the travels.

 

Share

chosen

(The following is a generalized version of a wedding speech/letter I recently wrote for a girlfriend…)

In my (fused) professional-personal community of entrenched international experiential educators, there is an archetypal woman.  Her 20’s (and often 30’s) all but vanished in a flurry of global assignments and expeditions accepted without hesitation. She is proficient in a foreign language or three, and fluent in the discourse of the heart. She’s been weathered by all that she’s witnessed, yet wears the scars of her stories with grace. She has earned her laugh lines early in life, and is also ever ready to shed an empathetic tear across them. She beats her heart, like the dust out of a rug, through prose, form, depression, dance, chant, or song. This woman: She is travelled. She is inspired. She is accomplished. She is evasive. And, she sheds men with the seasons.

To the observer (family included), her life design might appear haphazard.  But let me assure you, there is sub rosa blueprint to her architecture. What she is doing is the inspection and heavy lifting of each stone that will forge the foundation of her life. And if this is not clear – it is the foundation of a life without a partner that she is building.  For not only is she wary of a man’s intentions and purpose, but she wants full ownership of the house from which one day she’ll sit on the porch in her old-age and reflect, read, write, pet her cat, and wave. (And frankly, in the long run, she’ll outlive her husband anyway, so there’s no sense in building upon his foundation.)

So it’s a joyous event when this woman selects a life partner. The first thing to celebrate is that this particular man had the courage to approach this woman, who by all appearances does not need him. The second quality to honor is his intelligence (and self confidence) in recognizing the work she has put into her foundation not as something intended to make him small by comparison, but as that which adds character, depth, experience, and strength to their union. And here’s the secret that my husband, and the partners of other women in my community know: That as independent as she may appear on the outside, what this woman seeks, and needs, is someone who, gently, makes space for her softness to surface. Someone who isn’t alarmed by, but comfortable with her tears. Someone who does not leach the strength she has spent her lifetime accumulating, but who encourages forth femininity from the fortress she has built.  And yes, this woman also needs someone who brings both checks and balances to her sometimes-righteous sense of self-government. Ultimately, what she needs is a partner who can shoulder the leaning-in of she who will construct her dreams tirelessly, until her partner gives her the permission to — and arms within which — she can rest.

Congratulations to every woman who finds and lets that man into her life. It is no small feat to lower the drawbridge and invite in, what will surely be a humbling unknown. And congratulations to any male who is that man. While (a least for my husband) there remains the tiny threat of the realness and allure of a solo path that was sacrificed in the merging of two, he may also enjoy the sweetness of being truly chosen as a companion, not only above all other men, but single life paths too.

Share