Little Man

Most people's hearts live in their chests

and beat beneath their ribcage like the wings of birds.

Like windmills making sunshine, they keep forget-me-nots growing

create just enough heart-space

to keep the world turning.

But my heart has never known the feel of feathers.

Its windmills run on moonbeams that provide light to the stars.

My heart starts on the inside, grows out to my skin,

and beats like a time-bomb, tick-tick-ticking 

from the outside in.

Opened to the world with a hole to my center

my heart is a wishing well: drop in a penny

I'll give you a quarter-full of hope and a dime of praise,

but some hearts house sheets, big as the night,

that threaten the spark of 2-year-old boys

and those hearts house wishing wells

that my quarters and dimes can't begin to fill up.

Their outstretched hands let love drop through their fingers

and we watch as the coins I hand them

become litter on the ground.

But the darker the night

the brighter the light beneath that sheet

and some days I'm a wishing well,

but some days I'm a star,

and I want you to know:

I'm fighting for you, Little Guy.

I'm one light in the darkness

pouring some love out into this world

while picturing your face.

I'm allowing my hope to course from the inside out

pulsating on fear and hard decisions;

I'm fighting for you, Little Man.

I'm wishing on wishing wells

'cause even with dreams and education

degrees and good intentions,

when the wound is this deep

it's impossible to patch up the bleed.

I slipped love like pennies in your pockets

held your face between my hands

and looked in your eyes, hoping my gaze could save you.

I tied your shoes as if tying hope to your person could give you wings to fly away and

snapped the belts on your stroller

as if fastening prayers to the lips of your god.

And then I let you go with a grandmother whose heart read

"closed for repairs."

And then I let you go to a mother with cacti in her wishing well heart

and a hand that pushes away my offerings.

But I've got your pennies, Little Guy.

I'm holding on to your wishes and dreams.

I've housed them with your forget-me-nots that I'll water

to ensure they keep growing

'cause I swear

with every centimeter of my too big heart

that you, Little Man, are priceless,

and I've seen your spark, you--

you're smart, Little Man,

I see it in your round, brown eyes,

the way you curled your body around mine

and wouldn't let go.

Your potential

is big as the moon, and I can't promise

that this dark time is just an eclipse,

but I'm wishing

on every penny I have left to give

that by the time you turn three

you'll be able

to live.

Yesterday's post, part 2

I probably shouldn't write this -- particularly not right now -- because I'm frustrated and emotional.  However, I've been told that some of my best writing comes out of times when I am frustrated and emotional, so here goes anyway.

I'm thinking more about #4 from yesterdays post.  In particular,I'm thinking about this idea of how I (as a woman) am supposed to embody a specific definition of "success."  I'm thinking about the measuring stick others are using versus the one I typically use.  I'm thinking about how it is that I -- and other women, too -- can feel like a failure, or a disappointment, or an anomaly, or just feel broken because of those arbitrary yardsticks and the ways we measure up (or don't).  I'm thinking about the fact that I am generally happy...happier than I have been in several years, and have been moving forward in my happiness and confidence by leaps and bounds these past few months.  I'm thinking about the fact that I seem to have a Perceived Happiness Value by which others assess my situation.  I'm thinking about the fact that this Perceived Happiness Value is not necessarily accurate, and about the fact that, because my happiness comes from other sources, I have been and can be judged as unhappy, or unsuccessful, or not normal.  Mostly, though I'm thinking about the fact that this judgment can affect my ACTUAL happiness and my ACTUAL confidence and my ACTUAL sense of self-worth.

That is not how I want it to be.

I really wish I could say "meh.  Ya know" and blow it all off like it's no big deal.  I really wish I could just say, "I'm cool with who I am and how things are going.  I know that when things aren't cool, I can handle it and change things so that I feel like things are cool again.  But right now...I'm actually pretty cool, thanks."  I wish that I could say in actual live conversation, "you know, I understand that what you are telling me is right/was right for you and your happiness...but right now, my happiness and I are okay, thanks.  Right now, I'm happy with the decisions I am making."

And, in fact, that is what it all comes down to: choice.  The freedom to choose your own path and make your own decisions, and the ability to have those choices respected and honored as a valuable path.  Honestly, isn't that what we all want?  Isn't that how we should live and be with one another?

Given, things happen that are out of our control that are not what we would have chosen.  There are times we have to make decisions when we don't have a good choice, or the option that we would like is simply not available.  Sometimes, really shitty things happen, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.

But we do have choices.  After the shit happens, you have choices.  Even if they aren't good choices.  Even if they aren't choices you would like to have to make.  Even when it seems like you don't have choices.  Even then you have a choice.  

My decision to date right now -- or not -- is my business, and mine alone, end of story.  My decision to get married and have children right now -- or ever -- is my business, and mine alone.  It does not have to do with whether or not I am meeting these socially imposed milestones.  It does not have to do with whether I am objectively whole, or broken, or healthy, or unhealthy, or mature, or immature, or emotionally scarred or stable.  It does not have to do with how attractive I am, or how unattractive I am.  It does not have to do with my weight or lack of it.  It does not have to do with my fashion sense (or lack of it), or how well (or poorly) I flirt, or how well (or poorly) I can play the games society insists we should play when we date.  And yes, each of these things has been mentioned as a potential factor in my lack of partner situation.

It feels, though, like I am failing.  Like it's wrong for me to be happy without these other things in my life.  Like I am wrong for being happy without these things in my life.  "It's just not normal," I've been told.  There are pressures from people and communities around me that make me feel like a failure for not wanting and starting a family in which I stay at home and take care of a handful of kids.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with that -- absolutely nothing!  In fact, I think it is a wonderful and honorable choice for any man or woman to make, and I respect each person who makes that decision.  I respect them, however, exactly for that -- their decision.  It is not my decision right now.  Choices change, of course, and my position on this could very well change.  However, for me, now, at 28 with a recently completed doctoral degree and a job I am privileged to have and love with all of my being, it is not my choice.  Because it is not my choice, it makes the rest of my choices seem wrong, unimportant, and inconsequential.  Because it is not my choice right now, it feels like I am messing up the rest of my life and letting others down.  And, more than anything, I just hate feeling like a disappointment.  

Choices change!  Decisions change.  Circumstances change, opinions change, and there is nothing I can see that I am doing now that would negate the changing of my choices in the future.  In fact, I foresee my choices as definitely shifting in the future.  But does that mean that I am a failure now?  Does that mean that me, as I am, with my choices in this moment...does that mean that I am somehow failing at this big, hard thing called life?

The answer is "no," but there are parts of me that feel like the answer is most definitely "yes."

Final Friday

It's Friday again, and I seem to be making a ritual out of lists on Fridays...so here is our Final Friday list for November:

(1) Family is a wonderful thing for which we should all express gratitude and thanksgiving.  And then we should go home, before that feeling of gratitude and thanksgiving passes.  Sometimes, that window can be very, very small.

(2) Hanging out downtown in the town you grew up in is an interesting experience.  My sister and I went downtown today, because all the little shops were open and doing fun activities for "Frosty Friday."  It was a little chaotic and crowded, but it's fun.  It's also crazy to walk around and see the same people I've seen since I was a kid.  I can't decide if I like this or not.  Sometimes I do: I like the familiarity and the fact that things don't change, and the fact that people know my name and my family.  Sometimes, though, I just don't like it.  I know I would never be able to be seen as my own person, and this bothers me.  Space and my own community is a very good thing.

(3) I had a long conversation today with a family member who does not know I blog about this person's perception that blogs are self-centered, and that only self-centered people have blogs.  It made me think and made me quite uncomfortable, because it's true.  It really is.  Not that only self-centered people have blogs, I don't think you can say that, but that blogging is rather self-centered.  There is no reason why people should want to read my (or others') ramblings about my/their mundane thoughts and/or existence.  And yet...here I am.  I need to think about this more.

(4) I hate that people in my life hold the idea that a woman is not truly successful until she has found a partner/married/had children.  I hate the fact that I know I will not be seen as truly successful until I have accomplished this.  I completely understand that this is a developmental milestone I am supposed to have reached by now.  I also completely understand that, sometimes, people don't know how to handle it when certain expected developmental milestones have not been reached.  And, actually, it's NOT really a developmental milestone, so I take that back.  It's a socially expected milestone.  There is a difference.  Just because I'm not married/don't have a partner/have not had children at 28 does not mean that I am developmentally behind.  It feels that way right now, I won't lie to you.  It feels like people must think there is something flat-out wrong with me.  BUT...the rational part of me knows and understands that this is merely an arbitrary social expectation based on patterns of other people in our current culture.  Regardless, it pisses me off, perhaps unnecessarily.

(5) I have a lot to say, maybe tomorrow, on food, and body shaming, and how hard it is to be body-positive and to stand up to body shaming in all of its sneaky forms.  I will have to write about that tomorrow.

(6) I have some super exciting things coming up for me the next few weeks, and I am extraordinarily excited and full of amazement and gratitude for each of them.  I will hopefully have some exciting things to write about soon.

Happy Thanksgivukkah!

Happy Thanksgivukkah!

To all my friends: Happy Thanksgiving and Happy Hanukkah!  I hope you all had a wonderful day full of family and love.

Let's all remember to express gratitude tomorrow (and other days) too!

Thanksgiving Eve and culinary mishaps

Happy Thanksgiving Eve.  Or Thanksgivukkah Eve.  Or, you know, Happy Wednesday.  Happy November 27th.  Whatever works for you this evening.

It's been a long ass day.  So long, in fact, that the curse words have been flowing freely all night simply because...well just because.  It's been a long day.  At 2PM I was ready for the day to be over, but I wasn't done at work until 6.  Ten after six, actually, because the family I was working with wanted to show me pictures of the Christmas lights on their house.  This was great, and it was a sweet little house, and normally I would be very patient and enjoy such an interaction because it's indicative of what wonderful rapport with them and how much they consider me part of their life that they want me to partake in the joy of Dad's handiwork with the Christmas lights.  Tonight?  I kind of wanted to throw my hands in the air and say "for the love of all that is holy, I don't care about your freaking Christmas lights!"

I didn't.  I wanted to.  But I didn't.

Anyway, after I finally got home and got dinner, I cleaned up the house and then drove out to my parents house, which is where I am now.  It's been a long ass day.

So, briefly, I will share the family story about Autodidact at Thanksgiving that is told every year and will live down in infamy forever and ever.

I was 11.  A newly turned 11, mind you, and we had 19 people coming to our house for Thanksgiving.  My job in all of this was to make the pumpkin pie.  I was a pretty sharp little 11 year old, and I knew my way

around a kitchen pretty well.  There was nothing too special about this pumpkin pie...just the simple recipe from Joy of Cooking.  I was going along, doing really well, super independent and feeling important amidst my parents and grandmother in the kitchen.  I was going to make the best pumpkin pie ever.  Everyone would be so impressed, right?  I felt I was pretty much something special.  Isn't if funny how important those things become to us, especially when we're young?

Well, in feeling like Something Special, I failed to realize that the recipe spread onto a second page.  I saw the directions on page two, but failed to see that the last ingredients on the ingredient list were on that second page.  I mixed and measured and poured it all into the pie crust, and I popped that beautiful pie in the oven.  "I'm done!" I told my mother.  Several minutes later, she came to check: Did you put in the pumpkin?  The evaporated milk?  The sugar?  We went down the list -- yep, yep, yep.

"Did you put in the eggs?" she asked.

"Eggs?" I questioned.  "There aren't any eggs in the pumpkin pie."

"Yes, there are," she said, panic rising in her voice.  "Did you put in the eggs?"

I looked at page two of the recipe.  There, at the top of the page, were the two eggs.  The two eggs I had NOT put in the pumpkin pie that was now in the oven.

Of course, just then, the door bell rang with the first load of relatives.

"Get out the eggs!" my mother said sharply.  I retrieved them from the fridge.  My mom pulled the pie out of the oven just as the relatives came in the door.

"What are you doing?" they asked.

"We're a little breathless," she said.  "Autodidact forgot the eggs in the pumpkin pie.  So I'm fixing it."  She dumped the filling out of the pie and back into the bowl, whisked in the eggs, dumped it back into the crust, and put it back in the oven.

I was humiliated.  No one was going to be impressed.  No one would think it was the best pumpkin pie ever.  It wasn't even mine anymore, I felt.  I left out the eggs.  It was the talk of the entire day -- how clever my mother was for thinking of dumping out the filling and putting in the eggs; how lucky we were my mother caught it; how I would do better next year.

The year after that, I was again given the task of making the pumpkin pie.  "Remember last year?" everybody asked.  "Did you remember the eggs?" everyone repeated.  I did remember the eggs.  However, that year I reached for the glass jar of brown sugar on the top shelf and dropped it, into the glass bowl underneath, and somehow managed to shatter them both.

I am-- somehow -- still the one who typically makes the pumpkin pie...and everyone still asks about the eggs.  Interestingly, I don't even like pumpkin pie.  Something about the consistency.  Maybe it would be better if I left out the eggs?

I am the keeper of the Transformers

This poem is not what I intended to write tonight.  I started a post yesterday that I thought of the day before that I want to finish...but this poem suddenly wanted to be written.  This is exactly how it fell onto the page, attempt one, little to no editing...but here it is anyway.  

I wrote an "I Am" poem about two years ago when I did a poetry service at church with my friend Reticula.  I shared that poem here.  Here is an updated "I Am" poem, two years later.  

I am the keeper of the Transformers

I am the keeper of the Transformers.

The gateway to Thomas the Tank Engine, Spiderman, and Captain America,

I am the helper of badass kids who want what they want when they want it

but learn to get what they get when they earn it.

I am floating bubbles bringing open-mouthed belly laughs,

quiet praise and jubilant exclamations for cleaned up blocks,

bottoms in chairs, fingers on noses, and hands not used for hitting.

I am "that lady with the stickers and chips"

the talking doctor, the worry doctor, the un-cross doctor,   

and the M&M dispenser.

I am a Swamp Monster, a Potato Head, a Poo-poo Face, and

a doctor who doesn't even know the names of all the Pokemons.

I can certainly be a disappointment.

I am words on a page hiding a face,

longing for connection behind the plain-face type.

I am gentle and fierce; fiercely gentle and tough --

I will stand up while sitting down with words that give me

a presence I don't understand. 

I am a fighter of injustice, I am

finding, using, discovering, uncovering

my voice; I am

scared of, trying to find, racing towards, running from

my power; I am

blossoming.

I am quick to smile,

the familiar face that reminds people of Sarah, or Elizabeth, or someone I'm not --

but could be, if the tables were turned.

I am hiding in a crowd

overwhelmed by its energy, I am the one who is swallowed by extraversion. 

I am skirts and scarves, boots, and wool sweaters.

I am a nose-ring and a secretly desired tattoo -- covertly funky

while fitting just barely inside the constraints of professionalism.

I am dog kisses and long walks at the park, 

the saver of stinkbugs and earthworms,

I am the prayer that is whispered for road kill on the highway

and the first to smash a cricket.

I am full of contradictions and always far from perfect.

I am sleepless nights.

The birther and fighter of worry bullies.

I am long emails and handwritten notes in the mail,

I am a vaguely familiar melody. 

I am too much, too intense, too emotional, too nice:

I am an out-of-bounds, free-form soul

expanding the edges of my existence.

I am inviting you to join me.

I am not enough for all I want to create,

but always searching for all I can be.  I am bearing my soul because

it's the only way I know to change the world.

I am loving this world with all I have to give. 

I am the keeper of the Transformers.

I am one gateway of hope in a world that needs transforming

so I open myself to being

transformed.

An old poem, made new

A slight re-write of an older poem, because writing something for real just ain't happening tonight.  Still, I don't know that I've ever shared this one and I just found it again...and it kinda fits where I'm at today anyway.  It's like it was meant to happen.

Untitled

There are moments.

The moment between sleeping and waking when I,

tiptoeing cautiously back from a dreamless night

feel Sun’s beams stretching across my bed.

Like the hope I’ve been waiting for,

she warms my body before I can attempt to

shame it into non-existence.

It’s as if the Goddess herself crawls into my veins and

holds me from the inside.

She breathes life into my limbs,

pulls my body back from the exile of denial

and instills my heart with innocence

my sleep-filled being

doesn’t remember losing.

In that moment between sleeping and waking,

I let her love me

in the ways I dare not love myself.

I feel her open the secured places,

let her slip inside and

infuse them with denied truth, rendering them sacred.

I suspend my thoughts in her arms,

let her bless my sunshine filled body, and

spend the rest of the day aching

to live wholly into this half-realized dream

of me, as I am.