Bumblebees Fly Anyway

meditating on 30

2011-01-11T14:35:00.002-05:00

An interesting thought has been weaving through my life these days- I will, in two and a half years, be turning 30. It jumps up to conscious level when I look in the mirror and notice the fine lines around my mouth, and I realize that these will become deeper. When I contemplate exercise, and realize that the days of bouncing from weight to weight will not go so quickly, and that my skin will not shrink as smoothly as it used to. That when my dental work becomes the central focus of my week, I realize that the downward slope is pretty much here. That upkeep is more necessary than before.
Physical degeneration aside, I have been contemplating the import of 30. This seems to be the age of true adulthood in our culture. There is no contesting your grown-up status, when you are 30 or older. In our culture, there seems to be a sense that 30 is when you ought to be aiming towards getting settled in your life path. The early 20's is a time for finishing the task of education, putting the final shine on your career path. Late twenties is still flexible, but decidedly less so- you can shift careers, move, get married, etc. But you probably ought to know what you want for the rest of your life and go for it.
By 30 it is hoped that you are settled in some way. By 30, you ought to have your feet on some solid ground, so to speak. And so I find myself contemplating the number, the age, the stage in life.
The age has significance for me since my husband and I decided we wanted to be done with child-bearing by then. So I have two and a half years to have at least one more child, if not two more. I fully acknowledge the arrogance in such a decision- that's fine by me, I own that I can't say for sure how many more children I will have, or when they will come. God knows, God's got the whole thing covered, and that's good with me. If He decides that my husband and I should foster children, adopt, or whatever, cool. I love the idea, but my husband is a little iffy about it. Ok, God's got that covered, too.
But back to 30. The age of settling, age of adulthood, the age at which you really ought to have something certain about where you're traveling in Life's path. It's got me thinking about a dream for one's life. If one is not on the path to accomplishing a life dream by thirty...what then? What if you don't even know what you want yet?
So far I've been discussing a vague sense of things that I have from all the cultural input, my own upbringing. I don't really have a settled idea.

What if I have not yet accomplished my dream by the time I'm thirty? What about this number seems like a guidepost or worse, a deadline? And what exactly is it a deadline for?

I'll speak for myself, and myself alone- I know too many people living such wildly different lives that to speak otherwise is purely ridiculous. This is the sense I get from that particular age- That 30 is a guidepost for living well in your own (changing) skin, in a much deeper way than before. When you were fifteen, who you were changed daily, at times minute to minute. (I know I did) The goal was to ride those ferocious waves on a sturdy craft- to keep your hand on the rudder and always aim True North (Christ). At fifteen, living in your skin meant keeping your eyes and ears open and sifting things thoroughly- what was true to you, what came from the world- who you should be. And always comparing this to Christ. At fifteen, you don't know what is essentially you and what isn't- not yet.
At twenty you are slightly more hormonally stable, but the search for who you are in still in full swing. What comes from inside you is panned and sifted with great reverence- you are seeking yourself, your true earnest self. Hopefully by now you are more easily able to differentiate from the voice of you and the voices of the world. And as ever, aim True North. I was extraordinarily infatuated with me, at that point in time. I was experiencing a real honest to goodness sense of puppy love with all the things i was finding out about myself. It was all undertaken with great seriousness.
At twenty-five, I had obtained a patina of cynicism. I had seen myself, and for the most part, was tired of panning. I had ridden all the rides, and the whole theme park of self-discovery was dull. By that point, college was pretty much over, my friends had gone off with their lives, and I had had much of my tidy preconceptions shaken. At this point, I should have gotten deeply involved with ministry. Self-examination is good up to a point- after a long period of adoring attention paid to every thought and feeling and whim...you get rather ugly. Self-focus is not attractive, to yourself or others.
So between then and now, I went through a terrific shaking. I hit rock-bottom, got married, and shortly thereafter, had a child. A terrific shaking. I had my entire life shaken clean, and then had the focus moved firmly away from me. First, it was on my husband, then it shifted to include my child, and while I still keep an eye on anything dramatic going on inside myself, it is not nearly as reverent.
Who I am is pretty settled. How I react is pretty easy to predict. I can point to those role models in my life that influenced my daily functioning, I can tell you my hopes and dreams for my family, and for the most part, I am content to put my own personal goals aside for the next ten years. If I ever finish that Graduate degree, in whatever it may be, then hey, cool. If I never set myself apart by getting published for my fiction, then hey, ok. If I don't raise children who know who Christ is, who love others and serve others well, then I am NOT ok with that.
And so...30. I can see after writing all this that 30 is about being comfortable enough with yourself to be able to rise up and serve others. The focus by now, I believe, should be on those around you. You have come this far- you have survived all those awkward years, and have come out hopefully wiser and more tempered. You have faced yourself. And you are no longer infatuated. This is what I hope for- for myself, for my friends, and for my children.
To come out of your twenties sure of yourself, aware of your particular bent, and no longer desperately trying to be someone else. Whatever life accomplishments you've gotten under your belt is actually kind of moot, for me. If you have or have not gotten married, bought a house, had children, graduated college, climbed Mt. Everest, successfully launched the coup d'etat of a small African nation...whatever, you won't get any flak from me.
Let me acknowledge those who have come through hardships far beyond my experience- those of you who did not have the luxury of getting to know yourself through your twenties for whatever reason- God bless you and keep you, and make His face shine upon you. I know that God rocked my world shortly after having my first child- and I'm sure He will again, as I gather too much detritus on my ship for fast sailing in His wind. But I understand that this is a blessing. God doesn't give a hoot about 30. He's outside of time, and wherever you are, be open and willing and God will take you through the rocking, the shaking, and you will come out with a new understanding of who you are.

I suppose then, 30 is an arbitrary number. What it means to me is a sense of settled understanding. A friendly acceptance of who I am, what I am and most importantly, what I am not. What I will not have in my life. A friendly acceptance of that fact. I like that. A graceful settling of my heart into the life God has given me. oooh, I like that.

An open letter to Bob Dutko and other right wing Christian spokespeople:

2010-12-17T07:40:00.002-05:00

Dear hearts, thank you for all you do for us, but please, stop decrying the Happy Holidays phrase.

Barnes and Noble, for instance, has products lining its shelves plastered with "Merry Christmas" but because the store itself doesn't use the word "christmas" we are told it is not doing right by our society and culture.

We are no longer homogenous. We are not all Christian, and Barnes and Noble is not responsible for the influx of myriads of pilgrims to the American Shore.

Please stop acting like Jews don't get a holiday too. Please recognize that while Hanukkah may not be a biblical holiday, it is indeed celebrated by those without whom we would not exist.

I understand that marketing is a massive force in shaping culture, boy howdy I do. But when a store opts for Happy Holidays instead of Marry Christmas AND Happy Hanukah, I'm sorry, it's more efficient.

I do agree with shopping with those businesses that do say Christmas, but really, let;s not all up inn a huff about those that don't. I'm not going to get mad that an unsaved person is acting unsaved, after all.

Only in Consumerica is this an issue. Why should the stores we buy from be reflecting our values? Because we have made it so- we are defined by where and what we buy.

Home

2010-11-21T12:38:00.004-05:00

It's the holiday season, and we're all thinking about home- whatever that means. I've been perusing my monthly torturous copy of Better Homes and Gardens, which, for December, has a four page spread on setting your table. White dishes, darling, only the most fashionable around.

I've also been looking at houses, like maybe we'll buy one. Don't get excited, the maybe is so big on this it's kind of obscuring the house part. The house hunting led me to a very interesting property out in the boonies- one that reminded me of my grandparents' house in the boonies. A dilapidated two-hundred year old farmhouse with some land and a barn, that woke up this vague and beautiful yearning. I had butterflies in my stomach as we drove out there, like I used to get going out to my grandparents' house. I loved and hated that house as a child. Miles of wooded mountains, farms, and the house full of nooks and crannies brimming with tiny treasures; I was a child surrounded by alien wonder.

Well, long story short, the house was not reminiscent of my grandparents'. I was truly disappointed, really sunken in after all that inflated hope. Because you see, I realized I've been looking for home.

Home, or a house? If I could somehow find that old magic farmhouse nearby...But that house is a product of something like thirty years of living in it and a hundred years of living before that. Someone built that house with four bedrooms and a dirt cellar, wood stoves to cook in and acres of land to live on. There have been human hands stroking the worn banister daily for longer than taxes.

And even more so, are the memories I had tucked into each corner, undusted, unmoved since I last visited. Each time I go back, the mystery and delight of each strange junk filled room rings out like a tolled bell. I reconnect with each moment I left there, making each visit a resonant chorus of memory and feeling. There is no other house that could be such a delight- any house I would purchase would be an empty concert hall, my footsteps on bare floors equal to the hollow thud on a stage and no audience.

I am looking for a symphony in shells, and hearing one lone drumbeat.

How did it come to be, my love for a house I only visited a few weeks out of the year, but not every year? How is it that when talking about home, when looking for home, I am aligning my compass to the Taylor home of my childhood? Why there, and only there, are all my secret little bells hidden?

Of all the twenty-seven years I've been on Earth, I've lived all of them in temporary homes, places I knew I wouldn't stay. There have been 9 apartments(or dorms) that I have moved into and moved out of, each time sacrificing earthly possessions to lesser storage space. In comparison, my grandparents haven't changed their furniture or it's placement since I was ten. When my friend's parents moved from her childhood home, I felt sympathy, but not empathy- I actually could not feel what she was feeling- since I had had three separate childhood homes before puberty. Now, of course, I realize I only needed to imagine my grandparents selling their farmhouse.

Who is my neighbor?

2010-10-17T11:46:00.002-04:00

I'm fired up, and have nowhere yet to go. I have plans, outline, drafts and revisions stacked up on the corner of the desk in my head, and my work surface is cluttered with gems, bits, pieces of information that need to get out into the world-

I'm chomping at the bit. I just need to know where to go, I just need that gate to open and the gun to fire, and watch me run.

Buy Local, buy fresh. Farmer's markets, the state of agriculture in America today, the decline of diversification, the modern consumer based lifestyle, the failure of the concept of art in the domestic arts...

You name it, I can tie any aspect of our failing culture to the failure to buy local. It's like six degrees of Kevin Bacon, except it's not an actor, it's a cultural movement.

How do I get this idea out to people? How do i feed them this magnificent feast of possibilities? I'm fired up and ready- please, won't you please put me on stage?

And this isn't just about the local economy- this is about the body of Christ. Who is my neighbor? The small business owner down the block. How do I love my neighbor? By putting food on his table and money in his pocket to spend at his favorite local store, buy enabling him to employ some locals who need the work. They, in turn, buy with the money that has originated from your pocket.

Where do you work? Is your paycheck from a corporate office from far afar away? Why send it back there, when your neighbors need it here in Buffalo? Why not keep the money in house? Every dollar you plunk down at a local business is a seed planted and watered, blessing our town. Why pay companies with poor ethical practices, funding human rights abuses?

We are the hands and feet of Christ, and by doing the most culturally acceptable thing to us - spending money - we can build up entire communities, revitalize local agriculture, make new friends across the counter, and give witness to the fact that we shall be known by our love for one another.

I dream of a church brimming over, teeming with functional applicable ways to love our neighbor, a church where people come because they are impressed with our unyielding commitment to loving in and around and beyond our community. Judea, Samaria, and the ends of the earth. Judea - culturally close, physically close. Buy Local. Samaria. Refugees from Burma and Sudan live on the West Side, by Canisius college, etc. Grow a garden and bring the fruits of your labor, as an offering to God, to food pantries for refugees. Volunteer for one of the many institutions in Buffalo for aiding refugees.

The ends of the earth. Evangel funds missionaries faithfully, one of the biggest mission giving churches in the area, praise God. We've sent people out, we've prayed, we've paid. The ends of the earth are covered. Now go next door.

2010-08-28T12:27:00.000-04:00

Elmwood glory.

2010-08-28T12:20:00.002-04:00

I stalked him for like five blocks in my car. It was so worth it.
He said he wasn't feeling very photogenic.

Eating Animals

2010-08-21T07:10:00.003-04:00

When I was younger, my mother once asked me about going vegetarian, and I thought about it, and replied, "I can't give up my hamburger." Honest, concise, and pretty funny considering.

I slowly grew quite snobby about the quality of my hamburger- today I will only eat a Bison burger, because the texture and flavor of the meat is the closest thing to good ground meat I can find. But my snobbery about meat led me closer to veggie fare. And the more I learned about it, the more I wanted to cook veg- after all, I was very familiar with the three section plate- meat, starch, green. I thought a vegetarian menu would be quite interesting. But, at that point in time, I also thought one-pot meals were the best ever.

I flirted with vegetarianism. When my husband and I got married, we were pretty tight on money, and meat was expensive. So I didn't buy meat, except the occasional broiler chicken for less than a dollar a pound. Not only was my meat consumption dictated by taste now, but also affordability.
Which is quite funny, since protein is the only price that hasn't gone up in any significant way in the past thirty-ish years. Try that one on for size. We want to pay less for waaaaay more. Does anyone NOT know that we're eating more meat than ever? And that China is starting to catch up to us?

I'm reading Eating Animals by Jonathon Safran-Foer. Let's just say this- you don't need to read it, you already know that you don't want to know what goes on in factory farms, in slaughterhouses approved by the USDA- you don't want to know that working in slaughterhouses cause people to become truly sadistic and torture an animal that is only supposed to have two minutes to live, but may end up living through much of the "processing". Because the guy who was supposed to knock it out chose not to. And that this is widespread, common place, and the USDA knows all about this. We're talking national past time knows about it.

There is nothing good about the system we have now. The cheap meat? You already know it's got antibiotics that you should only take when you're sick. You already know that the growth hormones are causing messed up stuff in our children. You already know that eating meat causes certain kinds of cancer, and you already know that H1N1 came from a pig "farm" in North Carolina- don't you? Did you know that health officials traced the start of MRSA to a pig farm, similar to the one that bred H1N1? That when an official was going to go public, he suddenly became very sick, and died of complications of MRSA?

Yeah, yeah, conspiracy stuff. Read the book, it's all verified, Safran-Foer did the heavy lifting. What I'm concerned with is why people don't want to stop eating meat.

Rights.

Remember the line "A chicken in every pot." or, "Beef, it's what's for dinner." ? We as Americans believe that a meal isn't complete without meat, that we deserve it, that it is a basic right.

We really really do, because if we didn't, we never would have created a system as messed up as this one. We believe meat is as inalienable as happiness, and isn't that what committed meat-lovers say? Hell, look at the phrase meat-lover. Lover is one who loves, but it is also used as a term to describe one whom you have a very intimate relationship with- and haven't we all met that person? The one who orders their steak rare, who likes it bloody, and who touts the glories of red meat as they dig in?

But the only reason that person can exist in the current system of meat farming and consumerism is that they don't know and they don't want to.

The way we farm animals is now more relatable to concentration camps in Nazi Germany than the American Farm ideal. The farms are out in the country, (destroying the health of nearby townships, I might add) far from centers of population. Almost no one sees the animals alive, and no one sees them die- except the workers of the slaughterhouse. What most of us see is a nice shiny package of meat, wrapped, packed, and chilled, ready for the table.

We cannot see the horrors that went into our meat, the bacteria that is increasingly resistant to the antibiotics we feed them, and in turn feed ourselves, we cannot see the lagoons of liquid feces that are 30 feet deep, up to 120,000 feet wide- feces that contain cyanide, and other terrible things that pollute the waters, that cause nuerological damage to the populations that live nearby...

Where is their Erin Brokovich? Who will fight against the corporations? The USDA, who supplies us with nutritional information, is also responsible for promoting the industry itself. They are complicit. They fight to let the factory farms continue committing crimes against animals and against humanity- the work available in these farms and slaughterhouses are documented human rights violations- or would be, if anyone could get in to investigate.

It is not the farmer, it is not the faceless demonic corporation who is responsible. It is me. I purchased 3 dozen eggs at 99 cents a dozen, never realizing that what that translates to is chickens in a cage no larger than your printer paper, who cannot live past a year old, who lays 300 eggs a year in a room without windows, who will never see the sun. I know that to buy eggs ethically, I have to spend 3 dollars a dozen. But those eggs will be free of antibiotics, those eggs will hopefully come from a chicken who lives the full extent of her ten year life. Ten years. Imagine putting a child to work as soon as they can stand, working them past exhaustion, and then killing them at ten.

99 cents a dozen.

I am complicit. I have been complicit. I knew what was going on was wrong. I knew, and did not want to know. I no longer wish to be that person. When the citizens of German towns were asked if they knew about the concentration camps, they said they didn't know what went on there.

What will you say?

bipolar husband and his friend

2010-08-05T08:17:00.002-04:00

Mania is that friend your husband should have snubbed years ago, but won’t. You know the one- thirty-something, in between shitty jobs, currently between the endless meaningless one night stands, bar hopping jerk who laughs at anything resembling responsibility. He doesn’t laugh at it in a fearless, “I laugh in the face of danger” way. He laughs because he mocks it. Mania is that friend that tells your husband to go out with him, keeps him out for two days on a bender, gambling away your savings on the way.
Entire movies have been dedicated to this wad of adolescent ejaculant. I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, and my favorite, She’s having a Baby. Alec Baldwin’s character is charming and repulsive all at once, and as a wife, I detest him, but I hate Kevin Bacon’s character more.
This character is always spouting the Peter Pan philosophy of wives being the death of a man. Not women, especially not single young women, but wives. The nagging, ever demanding perfectionist wife who cuts a man’s testicles off and wears them like jewelry. Yes, it is always the wife that emasculates.

This is mania. You know, like Manic depressive? Mania, like bi-polar. Mania, who I have come to know somewhat well, loves to lie to my husband. It tells him I’m suffocating him, that he needs to do things his own way. Mania is the invisible antagonist whispering my husband’s lines to him like Tyler Durden at the bottom of the stairs while the main character fights with Marla.
I remember watching that scene for the third or fourth time, thinking she doesn’t see what we see- she only sees this man, stonewalling her, obstinate and ungiving, while he recites these lines from somewhere. The argument ends when she says, “I never can win with you, can I?”
But mania is not Tyler Durden. Tyler, at least, had a plan to redeem humanity. An effed-up plan, sure, but he had the good of mankind as his aim. Chaos as a means to a simpler more wholesome future. Mania don’t give a rat’s ass about humanity. It hops on for the ride, eggs you on until you’re about to crash, and hops off to some other fool willing to buy the lies.
I see it riding on my husband piggy-back style, shiny eyes asparkle. It doesn’t care about consequences, negative outcomes do not apply- because it doesn’t have to suffer them- as soon as the car crashes, the collectors come calling, the wife leaves, the ambulance comes, the police click those handcuffs, mania flits off, unless there seems to be more fun to be had. Delusions of grandeur, great acts of charity, kindness, all in the purpose of self-aggrandizement.

It reminds me of the demon in the movie the Fallen, who enters a person and leaves by breath, and cannot survive outside of a human host longer than a breath. It jumps in, wreaks havoc, and jumps out, just when the fun might end. In it’s wake it leaves murders death destruction, and a very very broken human being.

The last time mania came calling I asked my husband to leave, and he stayed at a fleabag motel (called the Royal Inn oh rich and joyful irony that is) for a week. The shock of it knocked him on his ass, I think. He did start taking more meds, but I think the fear of losing everything kind of got him to change his habit. When the husband loses his family because of the idiot friend, he no longer listens to him rant about responsibility and wives- that all seems pretty empty once he realizes this man is a coward governed by ignorance and hatred.

Or at least, I like to hope so.

I hate mania. I hate that lousy punk, and I can’t really kick it out of the house, and when I try to talk to my husband, mania twists my words against me. It turns my love against me, and uses all my good intentions to show him just how controlling I am. And when mania leaves, there is depression, coddling and empty of hope. It takes forever to get my husband back.

It doesn’t seem to matter what meds he’s on, either, unless he’s heavily medicated with anti-psychotics and sedatives. But then he’s in the hospital, and obviously not working. And that usually takes a week at least.

I hate mania.

The same coin

2010-08-05T07:38:00.003-04:00

I have a very very good friend- I say best friend, accepting all the childhood connotations without the childhood fluctuations. For the past ten years, give or take, we have been building on this friendship, and I am often quite amazed at it. We met my freshman year, for all of thirty seconds, when she was singing at a retreat for Campus Crusade for Christ, and I went up to tell her how beautifully she sang. She thanked me rather curtly, and seemed very distracted, so I assumed I was telling her something she already knew very well, thank you, and there were other things to think of. The funny thing is I wasn't really bothered- I had no hard feelings about it.

This girl was, whenever I saw her over the next year, so self-contained. She seemed to be so calm, so detached. She always dressed well, looked put together, presented a very tidy front. It felt like she was smooth-faced, nothing to grab hold of. These kinds of people always fascinated me.

I had a friend in high school who felt similar to this- quiet, seemingly assured, never gave too much away. I always felt calmer in their presence, since I felt like a roiling ball of static electricity and chaotic emotions. I felt like I swung wildly from one extreme to the other, and though I could be comfortable swinging unchecked, I would have loved to have been tidy.

A year after we first met, we were roommates. She had the single attached to the double I shared with another friend- one who was much more my kind of messy and odd. It took us a few months to really talk. I will never forget the bus ride we took together from the dorms to campus. She said something that immediately hooked my attention. "People think I'm a bitch, but I'm really not." I remember that. If you asked me what came before or after, I can't recall. But I remember that. I nodded, even though I hadn't seen much other than the smooth face she presented- I agreed, because I had known and been great friends with girls who were the very same.

We were so different, and found each other intriguing because of it. And beneath our differences, we found this common nature, and all our differences had sprung from different reactions to the same feelings and experiences. My fascination with the fringes of society came from feeling so not normal- and her tidy front came from the same. She wanted to blend in, and I thought I never could.

We became very close, as close as two girls still learning themselves could be, and things happened, life changed course, and we were not so close in contact. We suffered separate woes during the same period of time, and when we started to talk again, we had been...mmm...shall we say battle hardened? More familiar with the ugly things of life. Like two men in a bar will eye each other and know that they are soldiers.

She was not nearly as tidy. And I had had my frayed ends burnt off some. And we were still the counter swing of the same pendulum. It was amazingly wonderful work, to get close again, to climb over all the stupid stuff that got between us before, and to get right down close. God blessed me with a friend who wanted to be understood as much as I did, who understood the desire, and who, like me, wanted to grow, even when it hurt.

Over the past year, through all the difficulties, I knew that while my life seemed to be shaking on rocky terrain, I could call my friend, who still presents a wonderfully calm face to the world. She is loving and wise, and I value her conversation and understanding and all her hurts and worries more than she knows, because she's like me, and we're very good at self-deprecation. I am finally beginning to understand that I can mean that much to someone so wonderful.

The thing is, all of this will still apply, because she's just moving down the coast. It's just that she'll be far. We always met for coffee for hours, at least four hours of talking and coffee. We worked out hard life stuff, face to face, and now I'm gonna have to get good at the phone. She better get a land line because this cell phone static is totally killing me.

I am so getting skype.

El Shaddai and the Shack, or, who's afraid of a genderless God?

2010-03-19T07:39:00.005-04:00

Yesterday, I attended a local MOPs meeting, and during the meeting we were handed print outs of the names of God. This print out listed one of the names of God, El Shaddai, as God of the mountains.

I have a problem with this. You see, the translation of El Shaddai is being contested among certain scholars, and there are those that argue that Shaddai comes from the word for mountain, and then there are those that argue it comes from the Hebrew word for breast.

(From wikipedia article on El Shaddai)

"Another theory is that Shaddai is a derivation of a Semitic stem that appears in the Akkadian shadû ("mountain") and shaddā`û or shaddû`a ("mountain-dweller"), one of the names of Amurru. This theory was popularized by W. F. Albright but was somewhat weakened when it was noticed that the doubling of the medial d is first documented only in the Neo-Assyrian period. However, the doubling in Hebrew might possibly be secondary. According to this theory, God is seen as inhabiting a mythical holy mountain, a concept not unknown in ancient West Asian mythology (see El), and also evident in the Syriac Christian writings of Ephrem the Syrian, who places Eden on an inaccessible mountaintop.

Albright also proposed that the name Shaddai is connected to shadayim, the Hebrew word for "breasts". It may thus be connected to the notion of God’s gifts of fertility to human race. In several instances in the Torah the name is connected with fruitfulness: "May God Almighty [El Shaddai] bless you and make you fruitful and increase your numbers…" (Gen. 28:3). "I am God Almighty [El Shaddai]: be fruitful and increase in number" (Gen. 35:11). "By the Almighty [El Shaddai] who will bless you with blessings of heaven above, blessings of the deep that lies beneath, blessings of the breasts [shadayim] and of the womb [racham]" (Gen. 49:25)."

All Sufficient One is the generally accepted translation of El Shaddai- and as far as I'm concerned, mountains do not nearly fulfill this as breasts do.

Mother's milk is all sufficient for an infant, and the promise inherent in the name is exceedingly comforting. God is All sufficient, giving us all we could ever need to grow. How does a mountain provide?

What bothers me most about the mountain translation is that it removes the feminine from God. If God created all things, then he, by inference, created women with breasts that produce milk for their children. If God made humanity in his image, then women, by inference, are a part of his Image. So why can't God choose to express his sufficiency for us in the picture of a breast producing life-giving food?

Peter, in fact, likens the Word of God to mother's milk:

1 Peter 2:1-3

Therefore, putting aside all malice and all guile and hypocrisy and envy and all slander, like newborn babes, long for the pure milk of the word, that by it you may grow in respect to salvation, if you have tasted the kindness of the Lord.

This takes me immediately to the uproar that continues to rage over The Shack, where the character of God is represented by a big black woman. God, as a black woman, tells the main character to call her Papa. Mind you, thiss is in fact a character in a novel, not God himself, but the uproar over God depicting Himself as a woman is huge. I can barely wrap my mind around it, really. The outrage at this God character choosing to be a woman inflames people.

WHY?

If woman is the other part of God's image in humanity, than why oh why do we feel that this is wrong? This is not to say that God is a woman- I will tell you that God is not a man OR a woman. God is not female or male, but choosing to refer to Himself in masculine pronouns. Super- He is God, after all, and I am not. But let us not forget, lest we become intellectually lazy, what the Jews have always known. God is Spirit, not flesh. God is neither and both genders, all at the same time. God contains both. Once again, I must remind you all, that God chooses to refer to Himself as a Him.

But we must not exclude his motherly attributes in this. He likens himself to a mother hen, at one point. Now astute readers will say likening is not the same as showing up as a big black woman. Ok, sure. But then again, The Shack is not the Bible, and the character of God is but one author's exploration of an idea.

So why do people get so bothered by it? What is it about breast milk that people refuse to allow it near the name of God? What is it about the expression of God as able to contain both genders and be neither that get some scholars so freaked out? I see in The Shack an attempt at expressing God's transcendence of all our boxes of religion- not universality, no. Please do not assume universality. Even in the book itself, the author makes a point of saying that Jesus is the only way to God. But the author does hint at the fact that any road without Jesus, even a "Christian" one, is insufficient and must risen above. It doesn't matter what denomination you are, if you do not have Jesus. That is exclusionary inn the extreme, because you see, it doesn't matter if your belief system is arranged within the family of so-called "christian" ideologies, if you're off by an inch, you're off by a mile.

So what is the big deal that people see in God choosing to show Himself as a woman to one wounded man? Why do scholars deem it necessary to strive for a distant linguistic cousin as an explanation of Shaddai? Why can't God choose to say he is All Sufficient by using a picture of breast milk?

What are they afraid of?

I'm finally going to talk about Twilight.

2010-03-19T06:50:00.003-04:00

Much has been said about the Twilight series, and the feminists are blogging brilliantly (about all the rich dysfunctional gender issues, as well as the racial ones. I have read all but the last book- the first two were swallowed whole, and the third became tiresome quickly.
Stephanie Meyer is a figure I am ambivalent about. Her Twilight series came out while I was in my last months of pregnancy, a time when I was very aware of my lack of writing. The story of a good little housewife writing in the wee morning hours while half-delirious from lack of sleep from breast-feeding a newborn struck a chord with me. I felt that it was possible, then, to write and to be a mother, to write and be successful. Ah, but how I mistook success for talent! I had read articles praising the books, the sexual tension, the purity of the characters, the simplicity of the life, the huge numbers of books sold, and I thought that the writing was good.
I did not read the books until months afterward. I had still not written much of anything- while my son was still very very small I traveled to Barnes and Noble and while he slept in the sling around me I spilled out poems about labor and childbirth and pain and identity. Other than that, my pen was largely unproductive. The idea of a mother of more than one, but most importantly, the mother of an infant, could pound out a four book series in a mad fever dream of inspiration over six months still haunted me. I had no inspiration to speak of.
So there is still a mythic awe of her fecundity, as relates to production of stories. As I continue to write my critiques, please keep in mind that though I never hope to write in her style, I do hope to write like she did. In the dirty hectic midst of children clamoring for attention, and hope that neither the story nor the children suffer any want.

To be fair, one must remember that Stephanie Meyer calls herself a storyteller, not a writer. I am afraid that she has fulfilled that nicely- but she cannot even be called a good storyteller, because if one compares Twilight to the fairy tales of folk lore, it is too wordy, too detailed. If one were to look to a writer of novels, her stories are lacking in depth. Too much one to be any good as the other.
So how could a woman write so poorly and get so rich? Why is her work so well-received? It is in what the characters and plot is not that we find the answer. The characters are sketches of types, not actual people. She does not draw on the power of mythos, it is the type of popular culture that we see in her novels. Teens, Tweens and twentieth century women with shallow educations can seize on the types easily- there are no references to ancient archetypes, no mother or father gods, no labyrinths, nothing to resound in the mind deeply.
There is the good little housewife, Bella, who fulfills her destiny by the end of the novel, there is Edward, the polar opposite of Jacob in the discourses of the male libido. And then there’s everyone else. All other characters serve only as plot mechanisms, they are all the dreaded “side characters”. As Stephen King so aptly said, “It’s also important to remember that no one is ‘the bad guy’ or ‘the best friend’ or ‘the whore with the heart of gold’ in real life; in real life we each of us regard ourselves as the main character, the protagonist, the big cheese; the camera is on us baby. If you can bring this attitude into your fiction, you may not find it easier to create brilliant characters, but it will be harder for you to create the sort of one-dimensional dopes that populate so much fiction.”

In all the whole series, there are truly only three characters, the love triangle of Edward, Bella, and Jacob. But I must reiterate, I use the word character loosely. They are three types sketched in, and Edward feels the closest to real because of his normally reserved, tight laced nature. We are supposed to know all about Bella, since she is our narrator, but sadly there isn’t much to know.

She herself doesn’t quite know who she is- all the feminist takings on it use the actions she describes without much thought, such as cooking dinner and doing laundry- it is in her lack of attention to these daily rituals that we see how she aligns her priorities, the things that make her up. One may try to posit her as the virtuous heroine, the shining white princess of fairy tale, but the truth is, she can’t wear white, she’d spill the spaghetti sauce on it. That banality in her character is glossed over, barely paid attention to in the narrative- it is simply assumed. And this is the most important point to make- it is assumed, taken for granted, that she would rustle about the house, taking care of her father, habits learned from parenting her own flighty mother.

Bella’s entire existence as detailed in the series is filling needs- at first she fills the needs of her mother, by paying the bills, cleaning up and cooking- in short, providing food shelter and security. But this is referenced perhaps in three full sentences in the first book. If any more is said of it, it is only repetition.
She removes herself from her mother’s home to make room for the new man, and heads off to take care of her father in the same way. He, too, seems to take her care-taking for granted. It is seen as a kindness, not as a defense against encroaching chaos, which is the only way I can imagine a sixteen year old girl parenting her own (non-addicted, assumably mentally sound) mother. No one ever notices that this girl is not a girl at all, but a rather empty and friendless adult in a sixteen year old’s body.

In fact, her father urges her to stop care-taking, and go get some friends, a life. Bella is not only not needed as the little mother, but is told to relate to people she cannot relate to- after all, what do 16 and 17 year olds know about caring for your parents?

Here is where I see some serious issues at play. Now, granted, I've come out of a dysfunctional home, and had access to some other seriously dysfunctional family systems, so please believe me when I tell you, taking a tour through Bella's family life looks, well...familiar.

commercials can be so great.

2010-03-19T06:48:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I think my point would be far better made by a clever artist on a nineteenth century style advertisement.

“Do you wish to be brave? Noble? Do you have many questions and don’t want to go to the Church with them? Are you dissatisfied with the easy platitudes of “God’s way are not our ways?”
Then become an Atheist! (beams emerging from the text, clouds parting) Join an untold number of noble intellectuals who have bravely stepped out from under the Church’s influence, and are even now reforming our universities for the fair-minded, like yourself!”

And all of that is in bright circus poster colors. Someone could do a whole series on ideologies. That would be hysterical. I’m afraid of what Christian might come out to be, though. Unless it were done in the tone of a laundry ad….

Are you tired of scrubbing at those sin-soaked stains? Have you had enough of leaders and gurus who tell you to do it yourself and mind your manners?
Well now is your salvation! Jesus, the God who cleans your stains for you! No more scrubbing, no more begging! Forgiveness is here, and it is free! Be amazed as Jesus wipes away your sins with an effortless nail-scarred hand! No more guilt or shame!
Come see Jesus, today! Oh, wait, is that Him, knocking at your door?

That would be a hysterical commercial. You can just hear the infomercial voice-over, right? I saw this as a TV ad.

Image sells

2010-03-18T12:51:00.002-04:00

"I note what you say about guiding your patient's reading and taking care that he sees a good deal of his materialist friend. But are you not being a trifle naif?.. He doesn't think of doctrines as primarily "true" or "false," but as "academic" or "practical," "outworn" or "contemporary," "conventional" or "ruthless." Jargon, not argument, is your best ally in keeping him from the Church. Don't waste time trying to make him think that materialism is true! Make him think it is strong or stark or courageous—that it is the philosophy of the future. That's the sort of thing he cares about."- C.S Lewis, the Screwtape Letters

We all know the phrase "Sex Sells.", used almost constantly now in advertising. The truth is that sex itself doesn't sell much at all- sex itself is often a let down for those of us raised ona steady diet of the idealization of sex. What our culture acknowledges as sex is a far more sterile and glowy idea, one where sweat is always a good thing, and the moment of passion sweeps away all thought, and the release at the end is never ugly messy or boring.
But here is the import of my argument- the distance between the crafted image and the thing itself. Sex does not sell, my friends. The image of sex sells, and I will go even further than that- image sells. Do not craft a real picture of anything if you want to sell it- craft only it's potential, it's ultimate idealized state.

C.S. Lewis published the Screwtape Letters in 1942, and I am often astonished by how well this quote expresses the truth in our consumerist society today. It is not the argument or it's logic that matters- it is the image.

These days, every ideology has an image. The easiest example of this is given by Richard Dawkins in the preface of his book The God Delusion, in which he states that atheism is "Brave and noble" and goes on to promise just how he will prove his statement and in what chapter. The Preface itself is all about image- he makes vague references to how many people really are atheists, even if they themselves cannot bring themselves to acknowledge it- an impossible statement to prove, since the people in question cannot acknowledge it even to themselves. He also goes on to say that being an atheist in America is equivalent to being gay in the 50's. Not only are they numerous, noble and brave, but they are also downtrodden and misunderstood, as well as persecuted! He paints a very interesting image of the state of atheism in the world today- but never gives any hard facts, never gives any data to back up his claims.

Dawkins is selling atheism, very clearly in his preface to the God Delusion. I must admit that I thought him a giant with awful rhetoric on his side, excellently wielded data and argument, but I have been deeply disappointed by the disparate image and the man. His rhetoric is easy to disarm, it is easy to drive Hummers through the Redwood trees that grow in the holes in his logic. But you see, logic is not important to one who longs to be brave and noble.

I cannot speak so clearly towards other ideologies, but Buddhism's image is an easy one to point out. Immediately, one thinks of serene inscrutable smiles, the lotus blossom, and pacifism. I have heard the Dalai Lama described as a"Beautiful man" more times than I care to count, from people who aren't even Buddhists. The picture he presents is one they enjoy, would hang on their walls, even, but ask them to actually prescribe to the self-denial rigorously upheld by Buddhists...and well...the Dalai Lama is a beautiful man. I think that's the nice way of saying "That's true for you, but-"

Every ideology maintains an image. Once upon a time it was based on the lives of its followers. Now we are surrounded by marketing, and marketing is all about hype, not actuality. Remember the first time you had sex? Was it really any good at all? Were you disappointed? I know I was. The image presented was so much more...everything. Magical, exciting, romantic...clean. MArketing is all about hype, about potential, about the ideal state, and it does not concern itself with the distance between what it shows and what life is like. But we should.

What does it mean to be a responsible consumer of ideas? What does it look like when people truly think about the messages they receive?

Image is fired at us from so many different medias that it's commonplace to think in image-jargon instead of truth. Atheism is brave and noble, Buddhism is serene and compassionate, Christianity is hypocritical, Republicans are corporate, Democrats are philanthropists, etc. And all of these crafted images will shift when you talk to the followers of an opposite ideology.

Abortion is the perfect example. From the Pro-Choice camp: Abortion is a necessary right of a woman to control her life and her body, and denial of that right is cruel. Those that oppose it are referred to as "anti-choice" or even better, "anti-woman".
From the Pro-Life camp: Abortion is the destruction of human life and should not be allowed. It itself is a cruel act that harms all involved. Those that oppose this view are called "pro-abortion".

Now, before anyone gets all up in arms about this narrow very very short run-down of terms, please be aware that I am using terms employed in short essays and articles written by both sides of the issue, and will be glad to hunt down those articles for you if you want them. For quick reference, the pro-choice terms can be found on Feministing.com, and the pro-life terms can be found on Breakpoint.org

But the truth about image is that it tells us, the audience so much more about it's crafters and the culture that we live in than most would believe. Each image carefully omits very important ugly details. By familiarizing yourself with the details omitted, you begin to see what it is that the proponents of the ideologies struggle with themselves, what our culture tells us we should and should not want out of our ideologies, and in the end, human nature itself. If you follow the rabbit hole, Alice, you will come out the other side of the looking glass, and then my child, you shall be so much fiercer than a Jabberwock.

Be a responsible consumer, and do not blindly swallow the images, but discerningly swallow the image's makers, their fears, their hopes, their secrets exposed in the way they crafted the image, chew them soundly in your mind, and spit out the lies.

See what blows, and how far.

Buffalo, the Queen city

2010-03-13T13:30:00.004-05:00

Most native Buffalonians will tell you their fair city has an inferiority complex. Deep in the grassroots interior, I see little of this- at least not directly. It is the grassroots movements here that has so deeply affected me. I can only express to you my own opinions, colored by only the articles, books, and conversations I've had in my years here.

Every depiction of the city I've read and heard invariably makes mention of the city's seedier sides- the waterfront, the immigrant poverty, the characters who populated those areas.

But the thing is that Buffalo has a long, strong and important history- did you know, for instance, that Buffalo was burned by the British forces on Dec 30th, 1813?

I know, right?

By 1825 the Erie canal was finished, and it opened the small town to the world. Over the course of 8 years the population exploded from 2,400 to over 10,000. I think that might be termed a "boom".

Buffalo continued to explode through the mid 1800's, and the Erie canal was the major reason for it. Tourists and travelers passed through the Queen city, and the harbor was a massive source of income. Grain traveled here via the canal, and Buffalo was home to the inventor of a steam powered grain elevator named Joseph Dart. His invention allowed for faster unloading, which meant higher efficiency, and efficient industry is successful industry. For awhile, I heard, Buffalo was the biggest processor of grain in the nation. The Cheerios plant is visible from the 190- currently, all Cheerios shipped to the East Coast are produced in Buffalo.

Because of the hydroelectric power, Buffalo was once named the City of Light- for the same reason, our grain mills ran long and strong.

Buffalo was also a very important site of the Underground Railroad, one of the last stops before freedom in Canada. Since I don't know much about this portion of Buffalo's history, I cannot elaborate without sounding dopey. Sorry guys, don't mean to be exclusionary.

By World War II, Buffalo had hit a high point, low unemployment- railroad cars were being manufactured here as well ass munitions for the war.

Of course, I'm skipping the assassinations. Oh well, it's plenty talked about elsewhere- besides, who wants to be famous for important people dying here? There's so much more to this town.

But then, the first death knell for industry sounded: The Saint Lawrence Seaway, a system of locks and canals that by passed us entirely. It kind of made us moot. The worst part is, an American was a major voice pushing for it- Dr. N.R Danielian fought for it because it would greatly benefit the heartland, the bread basket of the U.S.

Why it was better than the Erie canal, I cannot say. What this development did was make the Erie obsolete, and it was a master stroke against the Buffalo economy.

By the 50's, suburbanization had taken hold. Middle-class white families trucked out the edges of Buffalo and settled en masse. By the seventies, we had become de-industrialized, and firmly ensconced in the Rust Belt.

There are political decisions made that I cannot talk much about here- the decisions not to incorporate the suburban townships around the city, thereby keeping the money they generate out of the city itself.

When I look at a map of Buffalo, I see a rose bush left too long untrimmed, unpruned. At it's edges flowers bloom prolifically, but at it's heart it is dying, ragged stems and thorns slowly browning. (This may be in part due to the radial city plan)

This spread outward has several implications- the one that scares me is the farming problem.

Falling in love with the Queen of the Rust Belt.

2010-03-12T06:44:00.004-05:00

I've been living in Buffalo since 2001- almost ten years now, and I've just started to think of myself as a Buffalonian. I've discovered the retro-coolness, the kitsch, the heart, the fierce loyal determination that is the Buffalo vibe.

It's not the kind of city people travel to, not really- it's not NYC, it's not Toronto- but it is homey. It's about neighborhoods and history, and it's about a grassroots movement that sinks their teeth in crouches and growls when bureaucracy threatens.

We've got urban farms on the West Side, garden centers and parks and local artists pitching in to make pretty. People care. I know that there are movements like this in other big cities, but listen, those towns ain't Buffalo.

Buffalo, in my imagination, was the rusty giant of the industrial age, milling, toiling, blue-collar thick fingered Polack workers hunched over beers in dingy bars before going home, it was wide abandoned avenues of empty lots and old buildings painted inappropriate colors. (drive down W. Ferry, you'll see colors no house should EVER be.) It was big and grungy and disheartened. It was swamped with snow, and somewhere under there must be interesting people-overwintering the depression like heart grass under thick insulates of snow drifts.

I came for college, from a small town by the Delaware River. My family called me crazy. My teachers all asked the same damn question. "Do you like snow?" I didn't know how to answer without getting too deep into my theories of Buffalo, so I nodded and said yes. I explained that a city that dealt with it so much sure knew how to keep the roads clean and life moves on.

(I have to say after visiting elsewhere in winter- Buffalo truly is exceptional. Life sure does go on. If you can actually make it somewhere alive, however risky it may be, come on down. It's amazing. Eskimos with dog sleds would be more cautious.)

I would love to go back and tell everyone what I've found here- citizens that give a damn, love their city, fully believe in upholding the name, "The city of Good Neighbors." There are few areas in this city that you can say people have stopped caring- and I really mean that. They may be poor, they may be overworked and overwrought, but they still give a damn about their neighborhood and their city.

I've found a group of people who believe in a vision for Buffalo's future that involves urban farms and sustainable living. A revitalization of the city's empty lots and abandoned homes. And these people are willing to go round for round with city hall,too.

I have such admiration for Buffalonians, old school and new. I love it here.

And with fresh eyes, I take a look at Buffalo in February. Brigitte's theory of Spring coming soon.

TLD 4

2010-01-07T17:24:00.002-05:00

A little while ago I named parts of Tristan's body for him - "This is Tristan's body" (waving my hand over his whole little self), naming neck, back, legs. Well, yesterday, Tristan, while on our bed with Brigitte, touched her and said "body" - touched her back and said "back", touched her neck and said "neck". Holy moly, that is cute and brilliant.

Other new words:

eight (for all numbers)

purple

red

blue

boot

sock

poop

light (yat)

He also has connected hot and cold as related.

I have another interpretation of the -s thing, with mommies, daddies used instead of mommy and daddy - very many times when speaking of the other, we will say what they're doing - "daddy's home", "mommy's out" - so I believe he hears the "daddy's" and "mommy's" as the nominative form, as a simple name for each of us; he doesn't have the word/concept of "is" on its own yet.

Tristan LD V.3

2010-01-05T14:25:00.002-05:00

Tristan is picking things up quite rapidly:

New words:
duck (for all birds, but also just today):
bird
wet
cold
dirty "dody"
nose
booger "buga"
potty
peepee

And his first color word: yellow. He has noticed and named yellow things all around and outside the house (toilet paper package, lamplight. He wanted to combine banana and yellow..first he said nana for banana, and then "banawo" (yellow is "yewo").

He's also combining words, as I mentioned before. Brig was grooming his nose, and showed him the results, told him what it was, and he repeated "buga" and then said "dirty". He picks up He's very good with dirty now, and gets that it means it should be not touched or thrown away. He throws things away for us - we ask him "Tristan, will you put this in the garbage?" He marches over, lifts the lid, drops it in, and shuts it, and receives a cascade of accolades.

He touched a puddle from a boot and said "wet...cold".

I want to explain the hyphens in "I-see a-ball". Brig and I heard this as two words, not four, and what I know about stress patterns marking word boundaries in English bears this out. Both I-see and a-ball were two syllable constructs with the same stressed-unstressed pattern, as in a usual two syllable word (like "Ke-vin"). The I part is then like a first person verb prefix, like suffixes that mark conjugations in romance languages, and the a- is a demonstrative prefix, rather than a separate demonstrative word, like the indefinite article "a" that it comes from and will evolve into. This is all my personal conjecture based on what I learned about linguistics while earning my bachelor's...not sure what anyone official would have to say about it.

He already understands a few core grammatical features of English, like V-O (verb-object) sequence as in "read book", S-V (subject-verb, "I sit"), SVO and dem-noun ("I-see a-ball").

kiss

2010-01-05T12:27:00.003-05:00

Standing in the front door of the brick apartment building is a woman, propping the door open with her extended arm. She feels the wind's pressure against the door in her triceps. The sun is shining through the clouds, lit and relit in the high snow. It has been warm enough that the snow on the walkway is melted. The man and the very small boy stopped and looked back at her, the former smiling, the latter squinting against the ambient bright light.
The boy was wearing his father's hat, folded up in half, so that it fit his head. He listened to her tell him she wasn't coming outside, and had clenched his hand and opened it, in a wave, and said with a lisping little mouth, "Bye-bye." Each word spoken with such specific attention. She laughed and said "bye-bye" back, imitating his stress pattern, and the father laughed. The small boy hesitated, still, and on a whim, she said "Blow me a kiss?" the boy ducked his head and furrowed his brow further. He started trodding back along the walk towards the door. The diffused reflected sunlight brightened his pale face.
She squatted in the doorway, still holding the door open, still resisting the slight wind, smiling. Kisses were special and rare- tokens of delicate affection placed carefully on adult mouths like jewelers place precious stones in settings. Adult kisses were frequent, sometimes slathered on his smooth fat face. They were often greeted with glee, but there had been many times the boy had exercised his right to refuse. She remembered them specifically at first, the smiling and the serious, always his little face swinging quickly away from her. She had given up requesting them, and had as a result, received the two he gave her with surprised tears in her eyes.
Up the short walk he toddles, his coat rustling and twisting as he swings his arms, eyes downcast. He keeps his eyes on the ground, carefully assessing his steps. He takes the small step up and finally looks up, very serious. He tilts his face up and placed his mouth against hers, his skin lit impossibly bright in her memory. Such a careful gesture, a gift, freely given and undertaken with great solemnity. The woman's eyes fill with tears, but the boy is already turned and walking back to his father. The man is laughing, shoulders shaking and eyes squinted up, sharing in her almost crying. They look at one another for a moment longer until the boy reaches his father. The boy waves again, the clench unclench of his little fist, and says with great care, "Bye bye." The adults laugh and nod.
"Bye bye." she repeats, voice a little thicker than before. She finally gives in to the wind, and lets the door swing shut, the flat brown face of it eclipsing slowly the bright snow.

Tristan's Language Development Cont'd

2010-01-03T13:39:00.003-05:00

I forgot to mention wow-wow (for all dogs and some non-dog furry beasts, like rabbits, bears, etc.), meow for cats, and hooray.

And, just yesterday, Tristan mastered a few multi-word sentences - daddy bye-bye, read book, want book, want read book, I-see a-ball. COOL

Tristan's Language Development.

2010-01-01T16:05:00.002-05:00

Hey this is Kevin, I wanted to give a report on all the words Tristan's been learning lately. He's picking them up fast now, he learned 3 just today - key, coat and shoe.

So here's the collection as of New Year's Day 2010 (somewhat in order of when he started saying them, the first was a few months ago)

Daddy, Mommy, hot, hi, oh (for falling, slipping) wow (mostly for screeens), yay, bye-bye, sit, hise "eyes" yiyi "Lily (Grandma's chihuahua)", a-go "I go", I know (what Brigitte says when he's hurt), up, ball, akako "avocado", bapu "bottle", eat, book, babies, key, coat, shoe. There might be a few more but this is what's coming to mind atm.

(I would have put in the IPA if I had font support and I thought anyone else would be able to read it...)

He also says a-Daddy, a-Mommy, a-Lily (a-yiyi), and today his first morphological rule appeared, he applied the "s" at the end of babies to Daddy "Daddish" and Mommy "Mommies". He doesn't get the plural meaning, but he generalized baby->babies to daddy and mommy, very cool.

And I can't forget the all-important boundary marker and self-assertion tool, NO!

Ok better get off the computer and get him up from his nap, time for dinner.

the importance of talking out your dreams.

2009-12-13T14:40:00.005-05:00

I have been dreaming of bears, lately. I have had two dreams with very similar situations, and it intrigues me. I rarely have recurring themes in my dreams, so that alone is intriguing, but even more so is just how afraid I was in the dreams.

The first dream featured a large Kodiak male that was something like a ghost, and was at times invisible. It was inside a house I was staying in for the night, and even worse, Tristan was with me. He was oblivious to the bear, but I was terrified, because it had the ability to hurt us, and I knew it. Twice we were trapped in a room by the bear, and in the end I was holding a flimsy bedroom door shut, listening as the bear snuffed us out. I woke just before the bear tried to open the door. I was terrified, absolutely terrified. Scared enough to wake Kevin up and ask him to hold me.

The second dream involved my grandparents' farm. A mother bear went into the sheep pen, and I was worried that she would hurt them, but then discovered she was gathering her cubs.
It ended up where I was pressed up against a flimsy door, looking through the peephole, aware that should she want to, she could break the door down. I had further to travel, and my trip was being held up by her and her cubs on the front porch. I was afraid of her in a different way.

Both dreams featured a bear on the other side of a door that offered no real protection, and that bear was keeping me from completing the trip I had planned. But there was a difference, in that the first bear was intentional about hunting me out. It was also very unnatural- able to become invisible, haunting a house's upper levels, etc. The second was obviously very natural, and did no harm to the defenseless animals around it, but still barred me from continuing my journey.

From the dream dictionary:
Attic (the ghost-y bear came from the attic)

To see an attic in your dream, represents hidden memories or repressed thoughts that is being revealed. Alternatively, it signifies difficulties in your life that will hinder you from attaining your goals and aspirations.

Bathroom (the first room I was trapped in was the bathroom)

To dream that you are in the bathroom, relates to your instinctual urges. You may be experiencing some burdens/feelings and need to "relieve yourself". Alternatively, it may symbolize purification and self-renewal. You need to cleanse yourself, both emotionally and psychologically.

Bear

To dream that you are being pursued or attacked by a bear, denotes aggression, overwhelming obstacles and competition. You may find yourself in a threatening situation.

alternatively, from this site:

Bears

A bear in a dream is a very rich and complicated dream symbol In order to understand it, objective association need to be made. Bears are solitary animals and the females are solitary mothers. They hibernate in a cave and they are generally not predatory animals. A bear is only aggressive when provoked, and as such times he is dangerous and deadly. Bears in dreams may represent a period of introspection and depression. However, this may be a part of a healing cycle, where the dreamer has retreated into himself in order to regenerate and in order to create something new and valuable in his life.

Door

a door that opens into the inside, denotes your desire for inner exploration and self-discovery.

To dream that the doors are closed or locked, signify opportunities that are denied and not available to you or that you have missed out on. Something or someone is blocking your progress. It also symbolizes the ending of a phase or project. In particular if you are inside the locked door, then it represents harsh lessons that need to be learned.

Traveling

To dream that you are traveling, represents the path toward your life goals. It also parallels your daily routine and how you are progressing along.

So if we put that all together, in my dreams I am traveling, so it's about my life's progress towards goals. The traveling is put on hold by a bear, which could be a symbol of depression, and it certainly makes itself an obstacle in my dream.

I think the door definition just isn't right- I am relying on it in the dram, but I know it is merely an appearance of protection, not actual. In both dreams the door can be broken down by the bear, and it is only by some miracle that the bear does not break in.

But there is good news. In the first dream, the bear was breaking in, and I knew that I would have to take Tristan and go out the window. In the second dream, the mother bear didn't want to come in. She was just doing her job as a mama. I believe that this bear was more about a healing cycle.

I was afraid, but in the end, I was overwhelmingly impatient. I wanted to distract her and get on with the journey. I even thought about this in the dream- I realized that if I just relaxed and waited, she would eventually head off, and we could continue. But my fear at her presence and my desire to just go already was overwhelming.

So what do you guys think? I'm now much more interested in your comments and readings, since I think I got what I needed to out of it. What do you think?

Best Beef Stew, ala Cook's magazine, part deux!

2009-12-09T07:08:00.022-05:00

Ok, ok, so the first one was really about how I got a new camera. And how it takes good pictures. You got me.

But this one will be about beef stew AND pictures. It'll be great.
So, the article in Cook's Illustrated begins with the premise that after simmering for hours, beef stew smells amazing- complex and rich and beefy- but doesn't really live up to it on the spoon. I could recall times when I felt the very same, but until I read the article, I hadn't paid much attention. So I can't say that in my heart of hearts was the longing for beefier beef stew...but I had run out of interesting meal ideas, and beef stew is always a nice winter option.

Apparently, after trying many many recipes, the article's author experienced beef stew nirvana with Thomas Keller's recipe, which as she put it "took four days, a dozen dirty pots and pans, and nearly fifty ingredients to make. Sure, it was fit for royalty..." (page 8 of the #102 issue of Cook's Illustrated.)

So what we end up with is a brilliant breakdown of why certain ingredients work well, and the best ways to adapt such a gorgeous professional recipe into something that can be done in four hours as opposed to four days.

My personal favorite was the addition of anchovies to the stew. Why? Well, Glutamate ( G in MSG) occurs naturally in certain foods. These foods serve to boost the beefiness of your beefy flavors, thereby deepening your stew's flavors. One of these is anchovies, but they have even more going for them than glutamate- they have the compound inosinate, which apparently is to glutamate what gas is to an open flame.

The other wacky ingredient is gelatin. Unflavored gelatin. Why? Well, Keller (the amazing) starts his stew out with homemade veal stock, which is rich in collagen that breaks down as the stew cooks, "giving the final stew a luxurious, mouth-coating texture." Something that flour or corn starch just ain't gonna give you. So the author rightly surmised that by adding unflavored gelatin, you could get the right texture without the labor intensive veal stock. ( I have a feeling that the biggest part of the four days is the making of the stock.)

Depending on the pot you have, the beef will take a bunch of batches. I did four batches? Five? I dunno, but my stove got DIIIIIRRRTY.
Begin with 4-5 pounds of chuck steak. It's cheap, it's beefy. What more could you want?
Cut this up into 1.5 inch cubes. I eyeball it, and sometimes I make rhombuses. I am not, nor have I ever been this guy.

RECIPE

2 teaspoons minced garlic
4 anchovy fillets, finely minced
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 boneless chuck-eye roast, trimmed of fat and cubed. squared? no, cubed. ( about 4 lbs)
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 large onion, sliced.
4 medium carrots, sliced as well.
1/4 cup flour
2 cups red wine
2 cups chicken broth
2 bay leaves
4 sprigs fresh thyme
4 ounces salt pork, rinsed.
1 lb Yukon Gold potatoes cut into 1 inch pieces (I used Russet, and they were fine)
1.5 cups frozen pearl onions
2 teaspoons (1 packet) unflavored gelatin
1/2 cup water
1 cup frozen peas.

These are the ingredients in the paste that is going to punch up your beef stew so it will no longer be a girly-man stew. And if you are somehow self-identifying as a girly-man and reading this, that's fine, but you don't want your stew to be wimpy, do you? Do you?

After chopping and mincing and mashing, I realized I probably could have used my food processor ( my little one) for this, but it was kind of fun to mince garlic mired in fish mash. And then pound it all into tomato paste.

My fingers smelled funny, though.
But my apartment smelled AMAZINGLY delicious, and all I did was make that paste!

Like I said before, it took a couple of batches, but eventually all my beef went from this,

to this:

From here it gets a bit more complex. After the beef is browned, the sliced onions and carrots hit the pot, and once the onions are softened, you're supposed to throw the rest of the beef in with it, but my Dutch oven wasn't that big.

Then, you're supposed to stir the flavorful paste in, and then the flour, and stir like mad. If you have a small pot like me, this will be alot of work.

And THEN you add the wine, and scrape at the browned bits on the bottom of the pan. I've always done the de-glazing right after the meat, but whatever.

After the wine has settled down, you add the bay leaves, thyme, broth and salt pork.

This is the stuff that Ma and Pa in the Little House on the Prairie Series always cooked stuff up in. Seriously, like thick slabs of pig fat.

I sliced it like thick bacon, trimmed off most of the fat, and then sliced that into bits.

After you add the ssalt pork, you stir it all in, and put your pot into the oven, at 300 degrees for and hour and a half.

After that, you add the potatoes ( my pot wasn't big enough to hold the whole pound, so I just added what would fit.)

Another 45 minutes, and you take it out, remove the thyme and bay. The directions told me to remove the salt pork, but I didn't. I left those porky bits in there, and enjoyed the textures present.

THEN, you soften the gelatin in a half a cup of water, and when that's ready, keep the stew simmering on the stove top and add the gelatin. Simmer for another three minutes while stirring, and what you end up with is this:It's thick and smooth, and sooo beefy. Almost too beefy, to be honest. In my opinion, the texture is the very best thing I got from this whole experiment. That, and the time in the oven. The oven cooking was wonderful, because of the well distributed heat.

We ate this with a slice of crusty white bread each. Ok, like four slices of bread. It was utterly delicious on the first night, and I think I haven't quite got the hang of reheating. The microwave just wasn't the way to do it. The sweet meaty complexity became garish upon reheating, and I just don't want to eat it anymore. But Kevin is satisfied, so hey.

Maybe scale it down, or maybe reheat it in the oven. Either way, the thing I'm going to definitely do from here on out is use fresh thyme, add mushrooms, bake it in the oven, and add gelatin.

And you know what? That makes this experiment a success.

Best Beef Stew, ala Cook's magazine

2009-12-08T09:34:00.003-05:00

Ok, so I got a new camera. It's the hottest thing ever, in my humble opinion, and I got it in part so that I could post pictures of my cooking. I know that some of you are on Facebook with me, and seeing my status updates has become a favorite portion of some people's days.

Well, we got the camera, partly because of this very issue. How can I take great pictures of my yummy food if I have a less than great camera? Every time I tried, everything came out just...blah. And you know, the camera really does make a difference. So, I decided that Best Beef Stew was a great chance for food porn blogging!

Recipe will follow, with more pictures!

Minotaur

2009-12-04T19:50:00.000-05:00

I need you to pay attention

Lean in close and examine every word. The letters

have been sewn with thread.

Follow the thread, it leads you

deeper to a cold and frightening place

but do not stop. Crawl, if you must

Face to the floor, listening to things flapping overhead,

searching for you.

They are the guardians of this room

but you must not stop.

Crawl. Keep the thread between your fingers and scrub

your flesh against the stone

you will shiver

you will cry.

Keep going.

In the labyrinth, they say, there is a Minotaur.

Do not stop.

They say that it was once a man, or maybe it is only part of one.

You don’t know, you’ve never seen it.

But the villagers whispered of it.

Inch by inch you will shiver and mewl along the path

The threads will take you deeper.

It will be hard- your palms will sweat.

The cold damp dark does not end.

After a time, the flapping sounds may stop. Maybe they sleep,

Or maybe you’ve passed through their realms.

You will not be able to see, yet.

You may try to stand.

Maybe you will keep crawling, hands and knees,

afraid. You’ve been cold for so long.

Please do not stop.

You’ve never been this deep before.

It is too quiet. There is nothing to stop the memories.

This may be worse than the flapping sounds

of god-knows-what above you, seeking your flesh.

The voices you hear are cruel

whimpering lashing gnawing lies

But they feel so true.

You have been cold for so long.

The creatures sleeping behind you

were better than this,

you think. And maybe they were.

Do not stop. The threads are still there.

In the labyrinth is a minotaur,

it is huge and awful,

the way only fairy tales monsters are.

Once someone saw it, and lived.

But it was so long ago, that no one is sure

what is real, anymore.

How did you come to this place?

You listened and followed the threads

that slithered like snakes from the dark

and stitched you up like a patient

etherized upon a table

The threads you follow,

That hurt as you walk,

you realize they are wet and warm in your hand

But you have been cold for so long-

There are voices in your head,

the memories that hurt,

they are slopping out of you like guts

like a patient whose stitches have come loose.

You understand now why the threads are warm.

Pieces that were a part of you are falling out

splashing on the stones

Do not stop. Keep crawling.

You may be weeping

but you do not need to see

Follow the threads.

You feel it in your chest,

the bindings which kept you whole

are coming loose.

There is nothing to stop the voices.

There is nothing to hold you together.

Do not stop. The threads are still there.

You remember being wrapped tightly

and told that if you were,

the minotaur would not get you.

They lay you down and strapped you tight

and began to sew.

It was terrible. It hurts now like it did

that first aching hour of needles and threads,

no child should endure.

Everyone, they said, has been sewn together like this.

It will keep you safe.

When you walked with a limp,

They all wondered why. When you curled with a hunch,

they all wondered why,

out loud, to each other, the same hands

that held you down

and punched iron through flesh

the same hands that strung the needles with thread

They all wondered why.

You are afraid to move. You cannot stop sobbing.

The noise of it will draw down the monster,

you are sure. But you cannot stop weeping.

they never did give you anything

for the pain. Not at first.

And then all there was was numbing

against the hunch, against the limp,

the hobbled legs and crippled back

They told you there must be something wrong with you.

still, they slipped you herbal teas

and you slept.

How did you get here?

You followed the threads

Do not stop. They are still there. They will take you deeper.

You may not want to keep going.

You feel so raw. As if every needle hole was fresh

You may want to run, hobble tilt, towards the opening

but you cannot tell where it was.

Do not stop. There is more.

And that’s what frightens you most.

You could not see what fell out of you

when you pulled the stitches loose

but it sounded so wet. And you hurt so much.

Do not stop.

They all told you not to wander far

keep close to home and hearth

the fires will keep the monsters at bay

and they handed you another cup

something.

You slept.

You may rest, there in the dark.

But do not linger. There is more. There is

So much

More.

The threads tug a little at your hand,

As if there is something on the other end

drawing you in. You are so afraid.

But you have come this far

And if the minotaur were to eat you?

Well, that would be an end, wouldn’t it?

You stand.

The threads are dry and slip through your calloused hands easily.

There is tension at the other end, and you can walk now,

Quickly, even, towards it.

There is light curving around a stone bend. The threads lead you to the heart of the maze,

Where there is warmth, and light. You shiver

Some more, as you warm, and as you steady yourself

For death.

The heart of the labyrinth is round, circled by torches. In the center is a rug,

Hand woven

That looks familiar. There is no minotaur. That you can see.

There is only

a child.

A boy.

He is afraid of you. You are afraid of you

Covered in grime and tears and snot

But you will not look down to see what fell out of you

It would be too awful.

The boy holds the strings in his hands.

He is relieved to see you.

He weeps with the abandon of childhood.

You do, too.

You speak of many things with him. He is smart,

for a child.

There has been terrible pain

In getting here

But when you ask him about the minotaur

He is surprised

And tells you that it is he.

You laugh and say

The minotaur is a monster

With iron teeth

And a voice so loud you can’t think

Arms so strong they crunch your bones

So you can’t walk

Breath like a sleeping poison,

So you can’t get away.

The boy laughs and says he ran away to hide from that monster. Here,

In the labyrinth. Where it is safe.

But he couldn’t go too far

Because of the threads

What threads?

The ones they used to sew me up. I couldn’t go away, he said,

So I went in. And then the cave got longer and longer

Until it was a maze. And I was very lonely.

He puts the threads down, as if they were snakes, and walks to you.

When you look down at him, you cannot help

But see yourself.

There are no gaping wounds, nothing

Horrible to see. The holes where the threads once were are healing,

Even now.

You see that your legs are straight, and with one hand, you touch

Your back, unbowed.

You are whole.

The boy runs to a chest you did not see before

And opens it, and asks you

for your help. You are so much stronger than he.

Inside is a sword, blade unmarked and gleaming.

A hero’s sword,

You say.

The boy shrugs. You can take it if you’re going to leave.

Why?

There are monsters along the way. He says, and points to the door

Of the heart of the labyrinth

Where you suffered and wept and fell open

And instead of darkness

You see the doors of all the villagers standing open

And they are afraid.

The maze is gone, and there is sunlight on the boy’s face

For the first time

In many many years.

On the wall, where you never noticed it before,

Is a glass, and in it you see

A man

He is tall, and strong looking,

You think he must be quite a hero

A real slayer of monsters,

But when you ask the boy about it

He looks into the glass, and says

I see myself.

You ask if there’s a shield for this sword

And he shakes his head.

You don’t need it anymore.

You tell the boy he should come with you

And he says he can’t

Because the monsters will eat him. When

They are all gone

He says, I will be able to visit you.

Outside the heart of the labyrinth,

You see the doors of all the villagers standing open

And they are very afraid.

The sunlight is blinding after all this time in the dark.

You go towards it.

You can hear the villagers screaming.

They will stop, soon.

Very soon.

Life, or something like it.

2009-10-02T21:37:00.004-04:00

I could talk about the beautiful eggplant Parmesan I made tonight- the custardy slabs of eggplant, the salty acidity of the fresh tomato sauce, the meaty hot mozzarella, and sopping up its juices with crusty Italian bread.

I could tell you about the sexiest jelly I've ever eaten in my life, the Concord Grape and Walnut Conserve that I made myself and canned myself, or the thick buttery lemon curd I made.

I could tell you about all the lovely foods I've made, lingered over, planned, crafted and devoured. The pear jelly that burbles even now on the stove.

Or the way Tristan is growing, the physical and emotional and psychological leaps and bounds. How he is emerging from those chubby little baby parts into a sweet, giving little toddler who likes to help mommy clean up ( ha ha!) and who LOVES throwing everything into the garbage pail or the toilet bowl. Somewhere in my tiny apartment is a toilet lock that I desperately need.

Tristan is teething, so gobs of pale green snot are flubbering out of his cute nose. He blows his nose, now, too, which is pretty funny. Today, while cooking, he asked to be picked up, watched me and then swooped low to kiss me on the mouth! Whoa! talk about a sweet little surprise!

A woman from Persia once said, in an exquisite voice, "His skin is like milk." and she is very right. I like to think that she meant more than it's color or creaminess. I like to think that if milk could become flesh, Tristan is what it would be like. Sigh.

evidence of a smart boy

2009-07-04T13:47:00.002-04:00

This is Kevin...first time I'm on here to give actual life details.

I'm frequently impressed by Tristan's developing abilities. From squirming to crawling and now walking, from 'gu-gu' to 'hi da-di' and "dattt!" (used to indicate any source of light), every couple of days he's made obvious advancements.

Today he had two that wowed me so much I just had to come and tell everyone. First, while I held him with Brig standing next to me, he, with a grand smile, gripped my nose, then hers, then mine, then hers, with clear recognition of the similarity. Then, just now, I gave him his little set of keys for an old combination lock, and set him down on the floor. He walked directly to the front door and held the keys up to the doorknob...this kid is putting it all together pretty fast!

Anyway, I love being a dad, very proud that my boy is now a whole year old. I usually get annoyed at the inevitable refrain of "Doesn't it go so fast?!" and usually I acquiesce with a "Yep, yeah it does!" just because I'd rather not delve into details with most people. But here, let me say - I believe that if you're paying attention every day to how your children are growing and changing, it will seem less fast. So because I'm spending the time I want to with my son and experiencing him a lot, I will say the time is going at a normal pace, and as to where it all went, well, it went where all time goes, and I'm ok with that.

Parenting

2009-06-21T21:16:00.004-04:00

Oh, where to begin?

I have been going through so much- our family has been growing in leaps and emotional bounds...

All the small things, the things with which I pass my time- the house plan browsing, the recipe hunting ( too many things to link to, so I can't pick just one. Sorry.) the constant reading I have been doing lately-

But there are a few big things, such as Tristan's first birthday (!). On Wednesday, our son will be a full year in existence, and what a delight he has been! I find myself saying constantly "He's such a good boy." He is behaving as a child who is thoroughly assured of love. I am amazed at his growing personality- how cheerful he is, and how serious.

When he was six months old, he started crawling, and the world was wide and exciting. There was little interest in sitting still those days. Now, my son is walking, and he has started choosing to show me affection, to reach out and be touched, to be loved in a tangible way, and his choosing is what delights me most. I know that by seeking to sit in my lap, he is looking for affirmation himself, but I cannot help being thrilled because he knows that he can get it.

What great satisfaction in being the kind of person others go to for love and affirmation- to be a person who is so safe. I am not yet this safe in all my relationships (ask my husband) but I am growing in that direction.

Some of my reading has led me to a resource that describes healthy parenting as a "one-way valve" where resources flow from the parent to the child, but not the other way around. I have come to thoroughly agree with this. I can affirm my son, but I must never look to my son for affirmation. At least not directly, and certainly not as a goal in our interactions. My son will love me, but I must never depend on his love- for he is small, and he is very vulnerable.

The healthy flow chart of love- from God to me, from God to my husband. From my husband to me, and me to my husband, and then from us to our son (and possible future children). Just as God does not depend on my love to be who He is, so I must not depend on my child's love for me.

This is in no way saying that my son's love for me is unwelcome or unwanted- but I am saying that I must not lean on my son's love for me. Do you understand the difference? I am starting to.

Recently, my husband and I discussed a passage in a book that read "Whenever I hear a client say that they 'love being a parent' I get suspicious and start looking for clues that they are using their children to meet their own needs."

While Kevin said he disagreed, I had to admit something that had caused me some source of black shame-

I do not love being a parent.

Hear me out- I love being Tristan's mother, and I love Tristan, and I love my family. But being a parent is the very reason I stopped my schooling, stopped working, and live a somewhat rigorously scheduled existence that has very little to do with my own gratification. I do not write that way I used to.

Oh, the hours spent at coffee houses, journaling, writing poems and drinking coffee! Spending money on frivolities! The road trips, the nights out at parties, at clubs, the life that then seemed a bit solitary now seems utterly hedonistic!

So when I am asked if I love being a parent, I am liable to say yes, but the truth is a little more complicated. Do I love sacrificing everything for the first three years of my son's life, focusing my energy on others?

No. Yes. No- er...Am I a masochist? No. Am I a human being, selfish mostly? Yes.
But am I also a mother? A principled woman who believes strongly in causes bigger than me? Yes. Do I believe that while I may never get a return on my investment into my son, it is still worthwhile?

Yes.

All this ferocious rhetoric to justify the simple thought that I am not such a fan of self-sacrifice. But you see, to be a mother in this culture is to be riddled with guilt, any way you turn. How can I say that I do not want to live for my children? ( inner guilt brigade gasps at even uttering such a statement.) Ah, but I can. I can say that I refuse to live for my children. I can say it and accept it as a healthy statement.

Because, let's be honest, a one year old sure ain't a conversationalist. He cannot sustain me, and I will never ask him to. I look forward to my husband's arrival home like a thirsty woman leans towards a glass of water. I eagerly await my emails from friends, my rare and oh-so-thrilling girl's nights out, when I am not a mommy.

Here is the main lesson I want to really learn, to suck the marrow from its bones: I and my children are seperate beings at very different stages of development, and as such, we will not be friends for a very long time. I have been entrusted with this one young life, and I am not here to be his friend. I am here to be his mother, to train him up, to direct him, to lovingly tend him, and to teach him how to be on his own. I will respect him as a seperate person, even as that personhood is growing, even as he is not sure who he is.

This, I am coming ot understand, is a healthy place to be. I will not be consumed by my role as mother- I would rather be consumed by my role as human being. Complex, maturing, growing, encouraging. Supported and loved by husband and friends, so that I can then support and encourage my son with all my needs already met. We should never burden our children with our needs, or our desires, or our longing for companionship. My children are not here for me.

My children are not here for me.

Free at last, free at last, I thank God I'm free at last.

Projects

2009-05-14T08:37:00.007-04:00

I am clearing up today, running around, bending, heaving, shoving...yes, just some lite cleaning. I'm preparing for a visit by Kevin's mother and grandparents, just trying to get some last minute decor done.
When people visit, it gives me great motivation to clean up. And to finish those decorating projects I've just lacked the energy to do without a deadline.

Other than that, life has been ticking along with regularity. I have always been one who revels in the comfort of a routine, like cats roll in the sun.

Kevin and I recently celebrated our two year anniversary of marriage, by meandering around on Elmwood and picking up our gifts for one another, and going out for Mexican. A vastly better Mexican experience this time than last time- but I think that might be another post. I should start a resteraunt review series. I should review a whole bunch of things, like movies and recipes. Oh well.

But, of all the things I'd love to talk about, there is one for sure I'd like to throw out, test the waters, run up the flagpole see who salutes it...Whatever metaphor you want.

Of late, I have been thinking over the concept of generational sin. I was raised with the idea that generational sin was some kind of poorly defined largely mystical sense of sins in your family that seem to run in your blood. In my family, it was always lust. People just couldn't seem to keep their pants on, despite the hurt they did to themselves. (Interestingly, no one committed adultery that I know of. Considering how easily they told me about bed-hopping, I doubt they'd leave out wife-stealing.) This idea was that in my blood was a ferocious predilection towards lust.

I have come to decide that this is not true. The article listed above does justify me in this. You know what I think generational sin REALLY is? I think Philip Larkin said it best.

This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Whike I thoroughly disagree with the last two lines, I think the man had a better concept of generational sin than most pastors today.

So the question is, how to two very damaged people raise a child without their particular brand of damage?

I think I know- do you?

home decor, on a dental floss budget

2009-05-08T13:54:00.003-04:00

So, of late, I have been performing my own version of self-help reading, which is to say I have been going to the library and getting out gardening and decorating books. And cook books, which hopefully each of these topics will get it's own post.

As you all know, we are a young couple with little money (mostly used for living on) and a budding little toddler. We are both pretty fresh out of college, and have the furniture to reflect that. Oh, the joys of Ikea and the metal frame futon. Our art is mostly posters stabbed through at the corners by multiple years of thumbtacks. Everything else is either loaned to us or bought at discount stores. When we are actually able to purchase our own furniture, it will probably come from Wal-mart. Not saying this is necessarily bad or intolerable....

It's just that when you take out books by Better Homes and Gardens, also known as We have crap loads of money and time to decorate our homes and gardens....Well, if you followed the link, you get the idea. I love the sample rooms they show you to give you ideas, like this bedroom, for instance. Or these living rooms.

Honestly, when your home looks like this, is it so hard to make it look good? Frankly, I want a decor book that's the equivalent of starting with a toad and turning it into Kate Moss. Show me that book, and I'll buy that sucker, not just take it out of the library!

So I decided to start getting things together for your basic Section 8 decorating plan. I'm learning basic principles, and trying to implement them. I went to Goodwill, and made some serious finds for picture frames, (because you cannot paint your apartment, thank you.) And I'm going to post on making your own canvas art. I heart Jo-Ann's fabrics!! Target is also my friend.

Here's to being poorer than dirt and struggling to be stylish. "Fashion for all" let's not forget.

a few photos

2009-05-08T08:17:00.003-04:00

lots going on, lots of daily life. Will be updating very soon- be ready for terminal cuteness on my son's part.

a home of our own...but for now, an apartment

2009-04-07T09:35:00.009-04:00

Stephen King, in On Writing, talks about his periods of feverish work and then months of nothing...and I instantly felt justified. I, too, go through feast and famine of words, and of motivation to put those words to something.

For now, let us be content with an update on our little family status.
We have finally made good on all our applications to apartments, and have our very own little basement home. There in the picture, if you follow the line of the sidewalk you can see our dark little window at the bottom floor of the house. That's us.
It's section 8 since we are not making enough money to rent without assistance, and I mention this only to say that I was very nervous about what I might find here. I have lived in apartments my whole life- and assisted housing for the largest part of that chunk of time. My mother worked very hard to make sure our Brooklyn apartment had none of the usual roaches and mice, and I am very proud ot say that she succeeded. Occasionally a mouse would find it's way into our home, but my cat took care of them very kindly.

Ferdie, the orange tabby that loved me more loyally than most cat-non-enthusiasts would believe, would capture the mouse in his mouth, and sit at my mother's bedside, mewling with his mouth full. The mouse was still alive, and would remain so. When mom had gotten a tupperware to house the mouse, Ferdie would release it gently for re-capture. He was very proud of his ability to provide for us, even if we didn't eat his generous gifts.

There are many humurous tales of mice and my cat, and hamsters, and my cat, but for now, let's focus on our little apartment.

We have southern light, and Kevin and I are thrilled. The living room has sun all day long, and we wasted no time in getting herbs to grow on our windowsill. In seeing the place for the first time, I was surprised by the light, the clean bright light. In that moment, we both knew it would work out just fine.

Tristan adjusted brilliantly to his room (sleeping alone for the first time in his eight months of life.) and he started sleeping through the night without a hitch. The first morning that happened, I woke up startled and ready to check on the baby. All was well- It was six am, and I had slept for eight uninterrupted hours!!!! Praise GOD!!!!

And so, we have been living out from under the protective umbrella of living in my mother's house. It was very scary, at first, but after a month or so, we have enough money for living, I'm still sleeping well through the night, the baby is cheerful and exuberant, Kevin is working hard, and so am I... We cook dinner together and feed the baby, we drink wine sometimes while we watch a movie or talk, we ride through everyday sometimes without noticing the details in the scenery. We are learning, and that is a great luxury.

lentil stew, an outline

2009-02-20T12:32:00.003-05:00

So two days ago I ran out of grocery funds and found myself face to face with my pantry, no clear idea of what to make in my head.

I had a bucket full of lentils, though, and my fridge was thankfully stocked with aromatics for the base of a soup( onions, carrots, celery two random red peppers). I had some frozen sausage, tucked away in my freezer, and since my husband was running errands, I asked him to pick up some greens for two dollars a bunch.

I love peasant food. I absolutely love the ingenuity, the creativity and the pride with which the Old World poor made their food. Give me a whole chicken, some vegetables, any dairy product, and a crusty bread, and I promise you a hearty feast. Every culture has that ingredient that they worked with the most.

I found a recipe for lentils sausage and greens stew, and improvised. It helps that I own several cookbooks, as well as an internet connection.

Here's some basics I figured out: Any grain paired with some kind of animal fat equals filling goodness. The fat pairs with the texture of the fiber provided by the grain, flavors it, and sort of lubricates it. The stew recipe called for bacon and sausage, a double dose of pork flavor.

The second lesson? Hot and sweet works well in this. I had leftover baked sweet potato pieces, red peppers, and jalapeno peppers. Along with the carrots from the maripois and the onions, this created a sweet and spicy partner for the pork fat.

The layers of flavor I found in this impromptu dish blew me away.

To make:

1 lb of lentils, pre-soaked ( at least two hours, four is best)
2 medium onions, chopped
2 medium carrots, chopped
2 stalks celery ( I substituted 1 red bell pepper)
1 package of Baby Bella mushrooms, sliced thick
1 large sweet potato, baked and chopped (optional)
1 Tbsp Cumin
1 Tbsp Paprika
enough salt to cause a heart attack.
4 cups of water ( I only had one can of broth, so I added water.)
1 15oz can chicken broth
1 cup white wine (cooking wine)
2 cups rice, pre-cooked.
1 lb of sausage (Italian, mild)
5 pieces of smoked bacon
1 bunch Swiss Chard
olive oil

Broil sausages to desired doneness.
Meanwhile, slowly cook the bacon to render the fat, remove from pan, add onions, carrots, celery/ red pepper, and mushrooms. Add at least two teaspoons of salt. ( This helps them let go of their liquids and break down. Saute till tender. Add water, white wine and broth, bring to a boil. Add lentils, sweet potato, bacon, and half the sausages, cut into slices. ( I add only half now so that the soup will absorb the flavor, but these pieces of sausage lose some of their texture, so I save the other half for the meaty texture and brighter flavor) Cook for 10-20 minutes, depending on preferred texture of lentils. I like them soft, but still discernible, so I cooked for 20 minutes.
Once 20 minutes have passed, add cleaned Swiss Chard and the rest of the sausage. Cook until Chard is wilted, about ten minutes more.

Can be served with crusty bread, or rice, or alone. In these economic times (when both rice and bread ar emore expensive due to poor prioritizing...nevermind. The rice or bread helps spread the wealth, so to speak.)

This makes enough to feed a small army for a few days. In my house, that means the leftovers feed us for three or four dinners.

As the earth remembers, so do I.

2009-02-11T08:23:00.003-05:00

Warming weather is always exciting, thrilling in a way only the Northerners can understand. There is something tremendously special about the four season cycle- life death, rebirth, etc, etc. As Yul Brenner said, "Et ssssetera, et ssettera..." I really can't get those crisp T's across by typing, can I?

So, as the day creeps towards the sixties, I stand on my porch and look out on what is still a winter landscape- grey and brown and twiggy. No new leaves to soften the lines. But still, the air is redolent with moisture, wiht the smell of earth warming. Our creek is flooded, and this thaw may stay, or not. I know Buffalo well enough to know that this is only a glimpse of the spring that is to come. We may yet go into freezing temperatures, since we are in the beginning of February.

But still, the warm weather sings to us, doesn't it? The grey overcast is pregnant with wet.

Every spring my mind echoes the earth in its thaw. I am reminded of every spring since I can remember- being a teenager in Eldred, walking up to our modular buildings where we had drama. I recall my springs at UB, walking in the moist air smiling at the geese that flock the sidewalks and fields. The spongy feel of damp earth loosening, the promise in the air. For me, it is the spring and fall that are the most evocative.

My past rises again in the spring, and in the fall I feel the ancientness of the dying- the harvest that was celebrated by every culture since the beginning of time, and the last desperate dancing done around bonfires. The impending darkness compels us to frenetic motion. These are our human impulses, the body that we live in responding to the world wihtout our permission.

I think of my husband and my friends who experience S.A.D (seasonal affective disorder) and I think that I kind of envy them. I don't quite get into a funk in winter- I do not experience the sense of my body wanting to hibernate- and in this way I feel that my body is not so well-tuned to the earth. I do not see this as a "disorder" since I see this as an ancient way to be. I do feel bad for my friends, because we live in a culture that turns its back on the earth. Just the fact that we call it a disorder points out how far we are from our environment.

I do not long to hibernate- I long to migrate. In November, when the winds blow cold and bitter, and the leaves have left the trees bony and bare, I struggle not to follow the geese that fill the sky. I will be driving in my car, and a V of geese break from the tree line, and I feel my arms longing to turn the wheel to follow them, to simply drive in their wake, and meet them in their new summer lands. The fall excites me, and the spring saddens me. How strange. My husband feels more alive when the spring comes, and I waken to all my old seasons that stood frozen in me while the snow kept the flowers quiet.

By the summer I am bold and full in my skin, but in the spring I am as raw and tender as the shoots that emerge from the cold earth.

I think of the Industrial Age, when we turned our eyes from the sun and to the clock. When we moved from the land to the city, and our culture left the virtues of the farm behind. I dream of returning to a life that lets us obey our internal seasons. To rejoice in them, if not obey. For now, it is a disorder. How sad.

fairy tale romance

2009-02-05T09:37:00.009-05:00

Once upon a time, there was a young woman who was desperately longing for love that did not stop to count the cost of loving. She had lived a long time with love doled out based on merit, and had learned that that kind of love never stayed, if it ever arrived. After this many years, she had learned to stop setting a place for love at her table, and then she stopped going to her own table. It had become such a lonely place, that it wasn't worth going there to wait for any visitors, and so she never ate there, herself.

She had once grown a garden, but since no one seemed to want to enjoy what she grew, she stopped tilling the soil, and stopped planting, or watering or tending at all. Her little cottage became very overgrown, and the dark forest that had long occupied her back acres encroached, and soon the sun barely touched her little roof. She had once thought that she would sing out in her front yard as she tended to her little plot, but the songs she had planned to sing became long and lonely, haunted verses that she barely recognized as her own.

This little home was so unsatisfying and unfulfilling without any Love visiting her, that she stopped going back. For many days at a time, she would wander in the woods, fascinated by the shadows and thick gnarled trees, scavenging whatever she could for sustenance. Sometimes she wondered when she would accidentally pick a poisonous mushroom or berry, and the thought never really frightened her as it should have. When she saw the quick moving shadows of wolves and strange lunatic birds, she contented herself with the thought that they were farther off than was dangerous. Sometimes she wondered how she would fare if they were close enough. In her heart, she knew that one day she would meet one face to face, and there would be no sunshine, no torch, to keep them at bay. The thought brought only vague curiousity, and the ebb of sadness that flowed in her would rise and wash over her.

There was a village of run-down sheds and cottages somewhere in the forest, that she sometimes stopped at and met and sang her lonely songs to the people that lived there. Sometimes they listened, and one or another villager would walk with her for a day or two. But they would always go back, because her little cottage was too far to walk to, and no one really wanted to do more than walk awhile, anyway.

One day, while walking along the outskirts of the village, she saw another lone figure along the path up ahead. This person was so bundled against the cold that she could not tell if it was a man or woman, old or young, dangerous or safe. It had been so long since she even thought of her little cottage, that she forgot that anyone might visit her at all. So when she saw this figure, all she thought was that it might be fun to walk with someone else for a time. She knew that just like every other villager, they would leave her to the dark woods.

As they passed, she saw that this was a young man, whose face showed the same sadness that she lived with. He breifly glanced up, but neither spoke. She took comfort in the simple fact that she was not alone.

The woods were darker than ever over the next few days, and more and more she found herself travelling through dangerous territories. More and more she could glimpse the wolves darting between the trees, hear the flutter of the owls that took more than small rodents. She stumbled into an opening in the forest one night, tired from so long wihtout a roof. With great surprise she found it was her very own little cottage, nearly overtaken by the grasses and thorns. the paint was chipping and one shutter was hanging from one nail, but inside the table was set and there was everything she needed to host a lovely little party.

The supplies and the lovely table made her sadness harder to bear. She laughed at her own innocent hopefulness, and the laugh was so bitter it tasted foul in her mouth. It was too painful to stay, so she left her little house by the front door.

Out by her broken down little garden plot was the same young man she had passed by those few dark days ago. When he heard the door, he looked up, the remaining delight from the sight of her little garden plot still on his face. There was hope, and longing, and she recognized both because she had never been able to shed either from her lonely heart.

There had never been any fence around her cottage or her garden, because she had taken them down, believing that Love must have been convinced that the fence was there to keep it out. All that happened was strangers would come and take her fruit and flowers, and leave. That seemed so long ago, and so full of hope.

This young man apologized for trespassing, and complimented he ron her little plot, and she went out to him and they stood for a long time by her poor little garden plot. After awhile, he shuddered from the cold, even with all his layers. So she invited him in to sit by the fire, and he agreed, more delighted than she could ever fathom. Why would anyone want to sit in such a broken little home? She hoped she could get the fireplace to work. She didn't bother to warn him how mean and poor it was inside, because she was quite sure it all spoke for itself.

But it seemed the young man never noticed. His face registered such delight and wonder and pleasure at her dusty little rooms. The old curtains were still up, and the interior, which she had taken such care to furnish, were dirty, but unchanged. She looked around and began to see what she had once taken such care to create- a place where Love could live.

Sometimes they walked together in the woods, and mostly they shared the little dusty cottage. After awhile, she began to dust, and clean, and fluff out her table cloths, and curtains, and she began to clean out the flu, and prepare her table setting for a feast. After all, she had the supplies, and finally there was a guest who cared to stay and share the food with her.

She tended her garden, and pulled out the paint cans in the cellar. Just when spring was coming to her little cottage, her visitor came and spent the day with her, but he was preoccupied. He told her he wouldn't come to visit her anymore. The woman felt all her hopefulness like a dagger in her heart. She realized what a fool she had been, and turned her eyes to the beckoning night of the woods. Maybe if she let an owl tear her heart from her chest, it wouldn't hurt like this.

But before he left her yard, she called to him, and laid all her heartache on his shoulders. She pulled out all the feast plans she had made, and handed them to him, and when he left, at least he would know what he had cost her.

The trees were gnarled and ugly, and the wolves circled her from a distance, and she wandered so far, so long, that she stumbled and fell asleep on her feet. But it was never far enough, because she still felt that dagger in her heart. She went to the village, and took no company. There were nights she laid down in the woods and slept, dreaming frightening dreams, and woke shivering in the cold dawn. It was always a disappointment that she had not been devoured.

After days of sleeping in the woods and walking the windy paths of the village, her paths crossed with the young man once more. The sight of him was so comforting, that she thought maybe if they would only walk together, and no more hoping- then maybe she would be alright. There would be company but no hope. That, she thought, would be alright.

He agreed to this arrangement, but as they walked the dark cold paths, she found that he was leading them back towards the little warm cottage. He was shivering, and he smiled with great longing. When they came within sight of the tended plot, she stopped. "Please." he whispered. "I did not know how cold I was, until I sat by your fire. I did not know how dreary it was, until I saw the pretty curtains, and soft chairs. I did not know how hungry I was until I could not eat wiht you any more. I dis not know how terrible it was to wander until I had a home."

And in her heart, she knew she felt the same. There was no home without Love. "Please don't turn away." he pleaded, and reached out his arms. It was not her sadness, or her loneliness that moved her then- it was the greatest thing she feared and longed for. It was Love.

She went in wiht him, then. Laid out a hot feast and warming mugs of mulled wine, and they sat and ate and when they were done with all their fruit, they went out together and planted a garden full of seeds. During the day, they worked to bring the little cottage back to it's original state- bright and warm and cheery. He chopped down the trees that had come too close, and the sun shined on their little yard. Together they put up the fence that she ahd taken down, and she realized that it had never kept Love out, but kept out those who had the worng intentions.

After a time, they took in visitors who needed the warmth, and they saw many a traveler stop and take heart at the sight of their chimney puffing smoke and the windows lit with yellow glowing light.

There were days when she wondered if she would have met him if she had never wandered- if he would have come to stay when her garden was blooming and her fence was still up- but she knew that it was no matter, now. The old scars had healed, and she was cold no longer. The night outside was not hers, and she knew that it never had been. Wherever the villagers were, whatever they did, she could not find it in her heart to care. If there were wolves and the lunatic birds out there, she lived within strong walls that kept them out.

Love had finally come, and this Love stayed.

Takes two to tango, or the Tragedy of the Duchess

2009-02-04T10:36:00.004-05:00

I recently watched the movie "The Duchess" starring Keira Knightley, and I am still wheeling from it. I have heard, of course, that it was not historical on some things, but to be honest, I am not terribly interested in that.

It was a story of a woman born to privilege, who was married at seventeen for the politics and status. Her husband wanted only to have a son, and she had no idea what the hell she was getting into. From the beginning she was uncomfortable with her husband- who did not woo her, talk to her, or even get too affectionate while making heirs, if you get me. At one point her dear friend tell her to imagine a man kissing her back as he unfastened her dress, and she replied "They do not do such things." Oh how sad.

Suffering miscarriages and stillbirths, she believed that she as a woman was incapable of carrying a boy to term, as if it was her biological inability. (Oh the irony that it's the man that determines the sex of a child) Her husband had many affairs, sired a daughter out of wedlock, and Georgiana suffered quietly. Dressing extravagantly, going to parties and striving to be winsome and winning, she succeeded in being adored by everyone but her husband. When she did have an affair, one that may have promised love, she was forbidden by her husband to see him, and told her if she did not turn from him, she would be denied her children. (four, by now)
She bore a daughter to her lover, Charles Grey, and went off on "vacation" to be pregnant, and then hand over the tiny infant to her lover's family.

If ever there was a scene that ripped my heart from my chest and stepped on it, it was this. Accompanied by her best friend and her husband's mistress, she took her tiny baby Eliza and in the middle of nowhere, handed her over to a nurse. The baby was silent, until the carriage began to draw away, and then when her daughter began to cry, Georgiana flung herself forward, but her friend was there to hold her, whispering in her ear as G wailed and floundered.

Can any mother watch this, can any woman watch this, and not wither in horror and grief? A loveless life save for her children, a friendship that struggled to continue through the affair wiht her husband, and now this? The abandonment of her only chance for affection, and the giving up of her baby?

My poor husband didn't know what to do with me, as I quailed and silently sobbed as the baby cried. I went and held my sleeping boy in my arms for a long time, savoring his healthy adoring weight.

I watched a portrait of a woman whose extravagant exterior and social life belied a miserable shriveled marriage and a lonely interior life. Her children were her only source of love, and at the same time her burden. There was no blessing without it being mixed. How should I come away from this?

A selfless woman, who sacrificed her own happiness for the well-being of her children? A poor mistaken soul who suffered for no good reason? I think the movie lends itself towards the former interpretation, but truly, there was no overwhelming moral lesson. I found one moment interesting.

She confronts her husband after many years of affairs and failed pregnancies- after he has bedded her best friend. After exploding at him, she finally, in desperation and pure vulnerability, asks him "What is wrong with me?" implying his lack of interest in her. He goes to her, face full of concern and sorrow- and she leans towards him. Before he touches her, though, she shudders away and shakes him off.

There was one single moment where there might have been something real- a seed of possibility. Personally, I believe that no matter how ugly, a marriage can be patched up and given some kind of life. It takes a hell of a lot of work, and requires that one be completely vulnerable, and then be willing to continue with that. If she had let him hold her, as she so desired, if he had accepted her as she so wanted, (which it seemed he would) then their love might have become real. I believe the movie does make it clear that she wanted her husband to love her more than any other.

And the truth is, it takes two to tango, right? She wants his love, and he only has so much to give. He has a set idea of what will come of this, and does not believe that he is willing to change. But as the movie proved, he was willing, in some extent. If only they had read "The most important year ina Man/Woman's life." then maybe they would have had some luck!

Mawidge

2009-02-04T10:13:00.005-05:00

My husband and I are coming up to our second anniversary of marriage ( May 11th) and now past is our second anniversary of
a) having met ( February 8th)
b) our first conversation (February 11th)
c) our first "date" (February 12th)

If you have been paying attention you will notice that we married about three months after having met. I don't really tell people that right away. I try not to, since most people tend to react with a sense of restrained surprise and doubt. How do I express to these folks that in our three month courtship, we crammed in three years' worth of life? How would they believe me?

How can I tell these nice people that though their concern is well-intentioned, and based on reality ( so says the great relational cynic) but totally unnecessary? That we know exactly what challenges we face as a married couple, let alone one who has only recently gotten to know one another ( and continue to do so). We know what a failed marriage costs, and so we know what a successful one is worth.

Well, let me say that life with Fuzzy has finally settled down, somewhat. In our first year of marriage, God changed both he and I dramatically, and we went through EPIC adventures. We also lost a baby and then had a baby shortly after our first anniversary. We are now learning how to be parents, and learning how to love one another in the midst of a life that feels more like regular life.

While the changes we go through are smaller, they are no less dramatic. I want to post a tribute to my husband, to the beautiful man he has become, and is still becoming. But before I do, I think it is important to talk about us.

I am motivated strongly not only to praise him to whoever will listen, but to lavish him with affection this Valentines' Day, and I am excited by this. Every day my hubby goes to work, to earn us a living and to allow me to stay home to raise our little Tristan. Every day, he chooses to put me and our son first, and for each small sacrifice he makes, I resound like a bell in gratitude. How can I show him what this means to me?

I come from a broken home, as many of you know. My father has chosen to love himself more than any other being, and as such he is not very well equipped to love ANYTHING let alone himself. My mother has a tendency to love based on production and behavior. I believed that God loved like that, too.
Until my husband came along, I didn't believe that anyone would or could ever love me like he does. Even God. For that alone, I am thankful. I keep that in my mind whenever I have the choice to get angry for the little stupid things. Because of him, God is introducing me to the love that He really has for me, and who I really am in Him. What a blessing!

On the anniversary of our first meeting ( four days from now) I am overwhelmed at how much we have both changed, and how we have been changed for the better. Marriage is a constant refining of one's self in order to put another first- and so is parenting. Much refining is going on, little by little. In the beginning, it was like refining metal- boil it up, skim off bad stuff, boil it up again, lather rinse repeat. While such a process is volatile and painful, it may have been easier to take for someone like me, who is drawn to extremes in myself and in others. I also enjoy using extremes to challenge people. But the slower process? More like water on a stone? ( Isn't there a torture like that? Chinese water torture?) I have a hard time with the slower ways, because it's easy to forget what's going on, lose focus and just complain.

But there are times when I am bored out of my mind and so rocked by what feels like stagnancy, and in comes a still small voice saying "this is so painful- there must be a purpose. What compels you to run, and what good comes of staying still?" and I thank God for that voice. It is this very inclination that causes me to realize that there is a purpose.

Joni Earekson Tada is a quadriplegic. She is strapped into a wheelchair, and is so much more than many people ever will be with all four limbs functioning- but one of the things that blew me away about her was what she said one day about when she gets to meet Jesus face to face. In her glorified body, she will have all the uses of her limbs and digits. She said that she used to tell people that when she met Jesus she would dance for Him. Later, and still, she said that now she knows that when she meets Jesus, she will

just

sit

still.

I felt that through my whole body as if I had been hit. An offering to Jesus to be still in His Presence, after a lifetime of being still. How amazing and self-sacrificing. I think of this whenever I feel frustrated. My stillness as an offering.

a portion of the story

2009-01-29T09:24:00.001-05:00

Tonight was going to be my last with Will, and I had to dress.

Suiting my education, I took to my suites and began to prepare. Since we were in New York, I had Merrique’s servants at my disposal. Gretchen pulled up the bath for me, and scented to water with bergamot and vanilla. After I had soaked, she rubbed me with lotion and left my cosmetics out. Michel was our hair stylist, and he would arrive in an hour.

In the mirror, I sat in my lingerie, La Perla Coup de Couer- a black lacy feminine pairing that was both deadly serious and fragile femininity. My nipples were just visible through the bra. Unadorned, I was pretty. With make-up and the right attitude- now, I could be anything I wanted. Marilyn Monroe used to sit in front of the mirror for hours, practicing facial expressions. I always used this time before and during the application of make-up for that very purpose. A meditative appraisal of my face, of my eyes and mouth and the tilt and turn that crafted the right look. Cheekbones and a nose give a face it’s character, the hardware a woman learns to use. I had been blessed by genetics with a fat plush bottom lip, and a chubby cupid’s bow for my top lip. This was my easiest ace. I had learned to highlight the inside of my bottom lip to make it appear rounder and fuller, which was a trick that never failed to seduce me, let alone a man.

Slowly, I watched myself as I moisturized, applied foundation with my make up brushes- some of the girls used an air brush, but I preferred the slightly heavier look of brush application. Geishas of Japan would leave a thin line of flesh visible around their nape and hair line, to suggest the mask of their white face paint. It was as sensual as letting your dress slip to show your bra strap. It suggested the warmth of the living flesh beneath, which in turn, eroticized the mask. As my face took on the even tone of foundation, I dabbed at my mouth, and it disappeared beneath the nude make-up. I covered my eyelids and under my eyes, which had always given me trouble. Just as I was born with a mouth to worship, I was born with under eye circles. No matter how well I slept, they were always there, the purple of a bruise.
When all my blemishes were covered, I smiled at my ghost face- the base of my empire. I used powdered eye liner, which took great skill to apply, but was worth the trouble. Befitting my mysterious dark woman persona, I gently tilted the line to appear more like cat eyes, and dusted a soft black of shading around the final line. This too, I had to take care not to look like I had a black eye.
There have been times where I was called on to wear false eyelashes, which I loved for their drama. This was not such a time. The up close and personal tussling I would be engaging in would have melted the glue, and nothing is less sexy that a sudden sprouting of a limb of hair from your eyelid. When I first met Will, I wore them. To be seen from across the room. The opera houses of old were the right atmosphere for false lashes.
I gently slid the mascara brush over my long curling lashes, and smiled at myself. With the right curling, they hung low, which added to the unfolding woman in the mirror. I brushed over my cheekbones, a bare bare blush, and turned my mind to my mouth. If anything could persuade me of what kind of a goddess I was to be, it was this mouth. It told me who I was that night. IT is hard to say what goes through my mind, because as I lined my lips, very little did. It is perhaps my greatest refuge- make up. It is so technical and delicate as to require full attention, and as I do this, I watch the appearance of a woman who is beautiful and formidable. Poor Will.

The color is red, as always. Will falls into the Victim Persona of the Sensualist, a sucker for the bright and lovely, for the sensations. In his world, that which is colorful, striking and pleasing is extremely desirable. I drag the lipstick brush down and up the lines of my lips, and smile slowly.

“Bernadette Godfrey.” I said, to the smiling woman in the mirror, fair skinned, dark haired, and almost naked save for a few bits of supportive black lace. I laughed.

I feel sexier when I put on my shoes first. Tall heels, with a seductive swoop to the heel itself, my foot was strapped and wound by the shoe, that invoked bondage severity. Gretchen helped me slither into the jersey dress (black) that covered me from my collarbones to above my knees. Long sleeves clung to my arms, and I could see the lift of my wrist bone under the fabric. I loved this dress because it gave away nothing but hinted towards everything. Michel arrived, and attended to me as I watched in my mirrors. He was tall, French, and bleached blonde. He wore dark rimmed glasses, and eyeliner. Despite stereotypes, he was flamboyant and straight. An artist from the top of his head to the bottoms of his feet, he prattled adorably, but was all seriousness about my hair. After awhile, he became too absorbed to talk, and I had the distinct pleasure of watching him. A tight chignon, so simple and smooth and beautiful. I had to be able to take it down easily, so it was very difficult work. One pin to unravel his knot meant he had to tie it up with great balance.

“Adieu, Michel. Merci beau coups.” I said, shutting the door on my suites, letting Gretchen see him out. Once more I glanced at myself, and was surprised by the creature that watched me with wide dark eyes. The whites of her eyes were very white, and there was a hint of fear in the expression.

The writing place

2009-01-28T19:57:00.003-05:00

There is a room, a loft studio. It has white walls, with years of paint on it and dents on the corners of the walls and doorjams from years of use and it looks well worn and a little fudged around the edges. But the light is amazing. The floors are a soft bright maple, a warm color, but in the winter the floors are so cold. All day long there is a bright bar of sunlight across the floor, and the writer has positioned her desk right by that window. The desk is an old cheapo kitchen table from the fifties. It's white Formica-ish surface is free of clutter entirely. In fact, the only thing on it is sometimes a typewriter, and sometimes a sleek little word processor.

If she wishes it, there is street noise, and traffic. She can look out the window and see the gritty sidewalks of the lower east side, and all the man hole covers say NYC WATER and SEWAGE. Sometimes there is a fire escape she can smoke on, drink her hot perfect cup of Starbucks and crawl back in the window, back to her words. If she looks up and sees a plant on the far windowsill, it is her old white orchid, pristine and sweet. Sometimes there is a snake plant, like her mother's mother grew, in a small terracotta pot.

There are old dressers on the two far walls, again the warm of maple. One of them has the fish-bone design on it's drawers and fronts like her mother's old art-deco vanity. Gone for years now.

When she needs them, certain women appear. Lately it's been Marilyn Monroe, dressed in a white sleeveless zip-up dress, with her pale pale blonde hair and baby soft cheeks, her gentle doe-y eyes and the voice that she did not have to make breathy. She has a small voice, but she's got a lot to say, and she says it all with the sigh of resign. She smokes with the writer, and stands just in front of the window, the light glowing along all her paleness.

Sometimes it's a dark beauty, like Monica Bellucci, who is wry and smiles with one corner of her mouth, tosses her dark hair, and sits on the farthest dresser, being beautiful. When asked questions, she gives simple one word answers, smiling like Mona Lisa. She is there to be mysterious and dark, and Marilyn is there to be world-weary and wise- the thing she never got to be.

Sometimes men are there, but there haven't been any men in a long time. The most recent one was Stuart Townsend, a faux-hawk and a torn black Clash tee shirt on. There was Sam Rockwell for awhile, sweaty and tanned, half-naked and swaggering. They all talked and she listened. They all told their stories, or rather, let the characters they brought to life for her tell the tales. There is a new face in her repertoire now, the right kind of face for a character she never could fit well wiht any person. She heard him loud and clear, but his face was hard.

But for now she listens to Marilyn sigh, and watches Bellucci smile. They all smoke and she drinks her coffee, talking to a voice that is not quite hers, but not unlike her. She tucks up one foot under her leg, wraps a scarf around her neck, because it is cold in the loft, but her fingers never get too stiff to type. She sets her coffee down and stretches out her hands to the machine before her. It is the Word Processor, this time, and when she lifts her head, both of her pretty muses are gone. Ann Bancroft stands in front of her, slick and bitchy and so wry. "Hey kid." she says, "Watch this." Ann Bancroft as she was in GI JANE, all business and Southern charm.

She throws open a door, and out walks a young woman, and when she begins to talk it sounds like this:

Lascivious, a novel

2009-01-27T09:19:00.007-05:00

las⋅civ⋅i⋅ous [luh-siv-ee-uhs]

–adjective

1.	inclined to lustfulness; wanton; lewd: a lascivious, girl-chasing old man.

2.	arousing sexual desire: lascivious photographs.

3.	indicating sexual interest or expressive of lust or lewdness: a lascivious gesture.

Origin:
1400–50; late ME < class="ital-inline">lascīvi(a) playfulness, wantonness (lascīv(us) playful, wanton + -ia -ia ) + -ous

So let's review. Amanda Quick's novels always contain

A heroine who is considered an eccentric spinster (at 27)
She is intellectual and also very naive in the ways of the world, men, and sex
She is accused of a crime she did not commit, and must clear her name
She needs the help of the hero to do this
The hero is always disfigured in some mild way,
he is emotionally reserved if not downright cold, hiding a tender and wounded heart.
The word the "ton" meaning London society. There is also always a ball. And the heroine never digs the threads of the day.
It's always in regency England.

I decided I couldn't take it anymore, and after digesting the fun and frustrating fluff, I came up with an idea for a novel about a heroine who was NOT innocent- not naive, and really truly not so much a heroine. I was so tired of the women being so damn good. Practically angelic.

So what about a wicked woman as my heroine? A woman scarred by life and embittered? A woman more like the heroes in Quick's novels, but so much juicier....

This idea slowly evolved into two very different stories, but they both featured the two issues I had with all the romances I had ever read: The innocence of the heroine, and the bright redemptive version of sex these authors kept propagating. That kind of sex is possible, but not the way they keep selling it.

I decided to write a story that took those ideas up, and I am currently writing one of those stories-

I began with a woman in Regency England, who was young and brilliant, and fell in love. She was betrayed by the man she loved, and went off to become a character named Madame Merrique- a madam of a brothel, and a spy. She took several young women under her wing, and trained them in languages, etiquette, and the ideas of love in her culture. They used their knowledge to manipulate men- and the most important part of their training is the crux of the story. To abhor love, to see it only as a means to their destruction.

the story takes place in modern day, narrated by a new student of Merrique ( the original named her successor, and this passing of the baton went on for generations. Like the Dread Pirate Roberts.) She stands at the decision of becoming the new Merrique, or choosing to love.

It has a lot to do with arguing with the current ideas of sex, of womanhood, of love and marriage. I'm reading a whole lot of books to research it, The Art of Seduction, The Book of the Courtesans, Seductress, and those are what I've got right now. Veronica Franco will also be a very big part of my research, but I'm not reading up on her just yet.

Next time I'll give you a clip of the story.

2009-01-25T14:24:00.006-05:00

I'm thinking about a lot of things lately, and it's kind of like Jack of All Trades, Master of None. Nothing has really been wearing my wheels out, you know? I've had a whole bunch of ideas for posting, but nothing really said "write me". I knew a few of them could turn into something, if only I started the spinning wheel turning- hey, maybe even gold- but I just never got the motivation to do it. I have been writing a story, and maybe that's where my energy has been going. When I was in art class in high school, I spent a lot of time drawing, and none writing. Like I have only room for one expressive medium- or better yet, to do one medium right, you have to focus on it, and it alone. It's like a language, in that to really be able to converse in it, you have to speak it more than any other.

So writing a story takes up all the space, it is far more fragile than blogging. Blogging can be hodge podge and sometimes it can be half-assed. A story will tell you right away if it's lying to you.

But that's a whole other post, isn't it? The fine and delicate art of fiction? Even cheap fiction, like "beach novels" or "Subway Reads" the kind of throw-away literature you can buy at the grocery store- even that is fine.

That's where I got my idea for this story- cheap fiction. When I was in Junior high and high school, I had a friend who introduced me to Romance novels. She had entire boxes of these books, pastel colored covers with elaborate fonts and the inner cover had a picture of semi-pornographic embraces. All the heroines were short, fiery/spunky/strong-willed/determined/hell-bent, and they all had hair the color of some kind of jewel.

My friend liked the western romances, but I fell head over heels( ha ha ha) for a writer named Amanda Quick, a period romance writer who stood out from all the others I had been reading, because she could actually write with some skill. The first book of hers I read was a sweet iced tea (even if it was the instant Tops brand).

I began reading these romances in short obsessive bursts, two or thee, one right after another. I usually had what I called a mourning period after books, especially good books, but I didn't need that at all with the bodice-rippers. I read enough of them to notice several common threads. The genre was extremely limited, it seemed, much to my eventual dismay.

I came to realize that a romance novel is a collective fantasy, a culture of women longing to be women ( short, spunky and with hair the color of sapphires- shoot, those are blue! ugh.....hair the color of copper? too common, not precious...shoot! Hair the color of honey- oooh, yeah.) But seriously, folks. Fantasies are very specific- the wrong note and the whole song is ruined. And in this way, romance is limited. In fact, there's a definition:

"According to the Romance Writers of America, the main plot of a romance novel must revolve around the two people as they develop romantic love for each other and work to build a relationship together. Both the conflict and the climax of the novel should be directly related to that core theme of developing a romantic relationship, although the novel can also contain subplots that do not specifically relate to the main characters' romantic love. Furthermore, a romance novel must have an "emotionally satisfying and optimistic ending." Others, including Leslie Gelbman, a president of the Berkley Group, use a more shortened definition, that a romance must make the "romantic relationship between the hero and the heroine ... the core of the book."^[2] In general, romance novels reward characters who are good people and penalize those who are evil, and a couple who fights for and believes in their relationship will likely be rewarded with unconditional love.^[1] Bestselling author Nora Roberts sums up the genre, saying 'The books are about the celebration of falling in love and emotion and commitment, and all of those things we really want.' "
excerpt from wikipedia

So, like I said- Amanda Quick. It turned out all her novels share the same bone structure. In fact, some of them share the same sentences, just shift out one name for another. I do find that kind of entertaining, and highly encouraging, since I could make MILLIONS as a romance writer and not work hard at all, but that's not the point.

The point is I got tired of reading these stupid miserable fantasies that reflected nothing of what I knew of human relationships, men, women, SEX for crap's sakes...oh the crappy bullcrappy sex....

They never acknowledged the dark side of sex, and maybe that's because everyone lives with it already, but still. I needed it to be said, and nobody seemed to be saying it. The heroine was always a virgin, was always more intellectual than physically oriented ( though she has a great body...and usually she feels self-conscious about some part of it, if not the whole thing, but the hero assures her just how perfect she is to him, can you dig it.) and was always F@$%ing CLUELESS about everything and anything sexual. She'd maybe been kissed, but not so well, usually poorly enough to convince her that sex was nothing to compare to a good rousing debate!

And Quick's heroines are always being accused of something that they are innocent of, and need the hero's help (reluctantly asking) to get their name cleared.

I was so tired of innocent sexually clueless heroines. I was so sick and tired of everything working out just fine, of the emotionally stony hero with a broken heart (and usually some kind of very mild disfigurment a scar, a limp, whatever.) who is won over in the end by the heroine's sweet fiery independent nature (toss jewel colored hair over shoulder and lift tiny chin pugnaciously)

So I came up wiht this idea- I even had the title of the book-

Lascivious

to be continued.

Ode to what was

2009-01-14T11:14:00.002-05:00

There's a sippy cup on my counter, and a binky on every possible surface. I put him down for a nap a few minutes ago, and I tried to think about all the things I want to do- and the most awful feeling of longing stole through the gates of my mind like some yellowing fog.

To be on campus again, to be studying- to be addicted to the heady throbbing feeling of translation work, to have a giant cup of coffee and no other purpose than this one on front of me. To be free to be stupid (oh how I used to smoke... and oh how I miss the whole ritual) to go out clubbing or stay out at a coffeehouse for hours upon hours just writing, observing, reading. The luxurious words! The luxury of the time spent however the hell I wanted to-

To go back to the year I studied Old English, to go back to scholarly and self-indulgent pursuits.

I cannot write fiction unless I am not at home. I cannot put on headphones and zone out. I keep the monitor by me, humming anxiously, while I run around clearing up and doing laundry. I am no longer just myself, and it was easier to be more-than-me when he was so dependent.

That's it, you know. Some weird limbo of dependence and autonomy, leaving me hanging towards the open window, to smell teh breeze, but not to actually play outside...IT is the haunting possibility.

And, it seems my son no longer wants to nurse- but tha tmay be another heart-wrenching post. I bought "no more milk tea." I wanna cry, and at the same time I am exultant. To be free of trying to breast feed? Because he just won't take it during the day. If I force him, he opens his mouth and "bah-bah-bahs" against my breast. Which is stinking funny, but also frustrating. Shouldn't he want to? I just wasn't prepared to feel so selfish when my child decided to skip the boob.

Sigh. I miss coffee and schoolwork and yes, I do miss the cigarettes. I hate that I do. I hate that I want to go through the whole moment of it. It signified my secret selfish time. It was a treasured part of my day- the first one of the morning with the perfect cup of coffee.

I also used it to write. I had the worst time writing wihtout them. There just was this feeling of missing the spark. Stephen King talks about getting off of them and how he felt writing after he did. At least I know the process is the same from one writer to the next.

I am longing to be what I will never be again. I don't quite know how to deal with it, and I hate that, too.

ars bellum

2009-01-08T12:25:00.003-05:00

Over a good cup of tea, I had a conversation with an old friend about who we were in college, who we are now, and what we thought of ourselves, how we projected ourselves. We discussed how we had first perceived each other, and how different that perception was as compared to our own ideas of ourselves. It made me think of this essay contest the University had- "the Skin I'm in" about who you are, issues of gender, culture, sexuality, blah-dee blah-dee blah. I could have won some money, but I was no longer a student (ha ha ha!!!) Anyway, what came out of that was worth so much more than 250 bucks. Here was my entry:

The skin I’m in is a projector, film strip flapping, reflecting and directing all eyes, all gazes, because let’s face it, we’re judged in less than thirty seconds by our appearances.
How does it affect me to be different? The great failure of this question is that every single human being, no, let’s narrow that down, every single person who sees your question is different from every other. I don’t think it really matters what color or orientation, what gender you are, or what culture you come from. You are not the same as me, and I am not the same as any of the thirty thousand or so students in this University.

So what is the question really about? Is it about what my skin is? A sheath of living organ that feels and registers sensation by sending messages to my brain through a system of nerves? I doubt it. All biology aside, what’s the point of asking? Is this really going to be about how I feel other people looking at me, judging me, and my personal testimony to how I am me despite the constant molestation of other people’s opinions and force of will on me every day?
This is not my therapy session- this is my ars bellum- my art of war.

We have established that we are being looked at, therefore we are objects to the gaze of those around us. But am I going to tell you how I feel about being an object? This is pointless. The goal of every object ought to be becoming a subject.

The skin I am in is my tool, my weapon, my projector, the canvas from behind which I shine only the image I want you to see. Actors and actresses learn the skill of pouring their personalities, spirits, selves, out into full-wattage beacons to hold an audience in thrall. We all know people whose presence can be too big for a room- these are the souls who have learned how to use the canvas of their skin- how to be a subject.

How to be a subject- in other words, how to take control of the skin that they are in, and thereby take control of the judgments and opinions formed about them. In short, the skin I’m in has become a powerful mind control. Few people have such dedication to their own opinions that they are not willing to be bent by a confident soul.

I have been given access to places I should never be allowed, I have dated far more attractive people than myself, I have never been turned down in a job interview and the professors in my classes wrote me glowing recommendations because of my assumed confidence when I enter a room. I got into Grad School on letters and an interview alone. The world is dying for someone who wears his or her potential like a glowing sun under his/her skin.

When I was a child, my mother told me stories of getting into exclusive clubs in Manhattan by projecting an image, by looking and acting and talking as if she belonged there and no one could dare tell her no. I have heard over and over how there were lines around the block, and the bouncers would open the rope as she walked past all the people in line. This image has never left me, and it was so simple, she said. Just act like you belong there. Just act like there are no ropes.

This is a motto, this is a mantra, this is my method. Just act like there are no ropes, no obstacles, no barriers before you that could matter. I have been complimented on my powerful confidence, but the honest secret is, I doubt myself daily. I know I’m not what other people imagine, I’m no genius, nor am I a great passionate beauty- not really. But you believe I am because I commit to the image. It is a decision, like so many other things in life, a decision to use the skin you’re in. A decision to meet all eyes on you, to be looked at, and be no object, be no one’s judgment, be no one’s stereotype.

This decision has cost me- there are those who are terrified of anyone who changes the status quo- but these costs are few and far between. Actually, most of that cost was high school, but what I discovered was that though they are afraid, they are also deeply envious, and will follow the lead if you are brave enough to set it.

The skin I’m in? This is my tool, my weapon, my means of success, my ars bellum.
How does it feel to be different?

Inspiring.

Some things I've learned about writing-

2009-01-08T08:48:00.002-05:00

You know, I've been doing it for so long, that alot of the techniques I use I simply take for granted. But I'd rather not talk about things like rhythm and pacing- I don't know how much I'd have to say about that anyway.

I wanted to talk about how simple it can be to write a good blog- a medium much like the essay of earlier years- non-fiction, personal and intended for public consumption. My blogs are usually shorter than my essays, but I've been thinking about trying my hand at a few topics for essay writing. The truth is, I'm good at it, and I like them. So I wanted to share some things about writing something non-fiction, personal, and for public consumption.

I think that the hardest part is starting. Most people that want to write have something they want to talk about, so the issue is likely how to write it out. As soon as you sit down in front of your blank page, the perfection of the shape of your idea is daunting. How do you disassemble it and put it out there the way it ought to be? Sometimes it's so perfect I think I don't really need to put it out there at all.... But then it wriggles its way to the forefront, ready to jump out of my mouth where I know I really won't get it just right. It makes my hands itch, it whispers to be said, go on, flex your fingers, go on, do it, write me, say me, you know you can.
And I know I can, but I don't know if I can do it well.

So how do you start? I try to think of my audience- not the whole wide world, mind you. That will cripple you faster and more thoroughly than chopping off your hands. For me, I imagine a conversation partner, one of my friends or my husband, to start with. Someone you know who will let you talk. I find that parents are rarely the right Reader to think of, because of the inherent criticisms. You start defending before you start arguing.

So think of someone you know who will read you with enjoyment, because they love you, they love what you want ta say, etc. At first, this person will be the only audience member you can and should pay attention to, but hopefully, as the idea begins to bloom on your page, it is the writing itself that holds your gaze.
When I imagine my Reader, I feel the pressure come off, and either I can go right into it, BANG, or....

I really feel that what I want to say is important, so I have to find the heart, the kernel, the meaning, the POINT. The reason why it matters. The thing that will connect my experience to something in the human nature and condition. This is a lot simpler than it sounds, because humanity is basically the same at it's core, and has been forever. The question is, why do you care?

And that may be the biggest hardest question to answer. Why do you care? What is it that makes your heart react the way it does? Some of you will sit and think about that. Some of you are like me, and you'll write a few drafts before you figure it out. But it is the engine that drives this whole thing, you know that, don't you? If you didn't, you wouldn't want to to write, let alone write about your idea.

So, you have homework to do. Figure out why you care about what you want to write about. Send me your ideas and reasons why at brigittassen23@yahoo.com

Oh Jesus come soon...

2009-01-07T11:44:00.004-05:00

Why the Human Race Sucks, Vol. 1

Follow this link to discover something called the Great Toxic Garbage Island.

In the ocean are vortexes of currents that create in essence the biggest eddies in the world. Here, all our dumped garbage gets broken down and floats, plastic, tires, buoys, every kind of trash. The worst part about this is, the plastic does break down into small bite-size nibs that the leetle fish eat. The little fish eat them, and on the story goes until we are ingesting our own garbage. It makes me think of Fight Club: "Selling rich women their own fat asses back to them."

We sow toxins, we reap toxins. In between California and Hawai'i is a massive area of toxic stuff, some say the size of Texas, others say twice that. I imagined actual mounds of trash, which there is sometimes, but nothing like the bergs of gunk I had in my head. Really, there's miniscule bits that create a film of plastic. You really want to get depressed, watch the film on the link. The main guy curses up a storm, I mean really. There are certain words that just don't need the F-bomb, but this guy spreads it around anyway. Other than that, you GOTTA see this. You really wanna get depressed....

It makes the phrase "out of sight, out of mind" kind of funny....because we're ingesting our own toxic waste, which I don't doubt does something to our brains....oh Dear Jesus come soon.

We're such asses.

rosebuds and rosehips

2009-01-02T19:05:00.004-05:00

So I cried a little bit today. My baby boy, my little baby boy is now sleeping by himself. Going to sleep by himself, without my nursing and rocking and shushing.

I hear all you proponents of this hollering your congratulations and say thank yous, yes I do. I hear you very well. Ah, but how bittersweet it is, to feel the first pull from Mother towards independence. I remember my own affirmations to myself, how I will be a strong proponent of independence ion his terms, when he feels ready, but let me tell you, dear readers, how bittersweet it is.

To see your child choose and go easily towards being able to do himself what you once did for him- it makes me feel lonely in a tender way, the way I felt after I gave birth and realized that my body was empty of this life I had nurtured almost without my willing it to do so. A gentle emptiness. Can emptiness feel full?

He has for the past two days been able to be laid down in his co-sleeper (even that is not far from Mommy's arms...) and snuggle into blankets and teddy bears and go to sleep. Just that easy.

After nights of torture, getting up every half hour (teething is a bitch, aye say true.) and being sleep deprived, shouldn't I be ecstatic that this enables Mommy to sleep better? To do more in the same amount of time? I should. I am. But in a hollow way.

Also, to emphasize the way my little boy is galloping towards being a big boy, he pulled himself up to a standing position today, several times. I cried a little bit then, when I thought of how little he is and how not little...

How time hurries! How he hurries with it! How when he was born I thought to myself, Oh how sweet it will be when I have three hours to myself when he goes off to pre-school! I will write, and do all sorts of things...

I lamented every hour I spent on the couch, trapped, strapped to this baby because of nursing. I stared at every little object on the floor, every item out of place that I KNEW I could clean up and do so happily!!! Had I ever complained about cleaning? Had I ever lamented going ot work? What little I knew!

Now that I have the luxury of eating breakfast and showering, and going to the bathroom whenever I want, I have lost the teeny baby that never wanted to be put down. Just the way I looked back at myself before Tristan, now I look back at me, when Tristan was two months old, and laugh. I remember thinking "when he is older, and does not want to nurse because he is too busy with the wide world, then- then... then..." It was always "then" and it is still.

Are we ever able to watch the minutiae of time as it happens, or must we always stare ahead and behind, anxious for, sorry for, what is not?

Oh ye mothers gather ye rosebuds while ye may...May is past, June is coming to it's heat, and the summer ripens towards it's full weight. My child is growing, and the more I realize it the more I feel as if I wasn't paying attention. I hope I will learn this lesson fully, so that in a few years' time, when I have another baby, I will not hurry on only to regret the rush.

Maybe I have to be a grandma to really learn it. But I won't look for that too hard. I'll take my time. I promise.

The Other Bumble

2008-12-18T15:30:00.002-05:00

Hi, this is your Fuzzy speaking. Buzzy has been the star of the show so far, it's about time I at least said hello.

I imagine I'll get comfortable at some point and talk about anything that crosses my mind, anything that comes up during the course of the days...

And ok. I started writing this on the 18th and now it's the 31st, so I'm just going to post.

I love my wife, love my son, having a great time being husband and dad, yes, life is good. Details forthcoming!

And If We've No Place to Go-

2008-12-18T14:59:00.009-05:00

While it was snowing furiously a few years ago, I was riding the bus from South Campus to North Campus, and was discussing the snowstorm going on with a few friendly patrons of the bus. One of them was an older woman who talked about the blizzard of '77. She smiled and said that she had been planning a dinner party for a large group, and therefore had a ton of food and good wine in her home. She invited some neighbors and they ate and drank good food and sat by the fireplace for three days while the world went white beyond their windows. She said " I loved it. A big blizzard is nothing when you have good food and good company."

Well, you see, there it is. And if we've no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

This is my idea for the best Christmas I will never have.

A select group of close friends, coming together in a lovely wintry locale- since I'm dreaming let's say a big ski lodge with cabins for privacy for each couple/person. The lodge itself has a big beautifully stocked kitchen, and we cook together, enjoy the fire and each other's company.

Lights and trees and all sorts of lovely decorations grace the log walls. We cook whatever kind of meal we want- a classic British Christmas, a hodge podge of our very favorite dishes and cookies, whatever we choose.

For a few days, we make our own traditions and make our own Christmas, making and remaking for each other and for ourselves.

I grow weary of the "supposed-to's" I learned a long time ago that my family can never deliver the Christmas I hoped for. The togetherness and the love and peace and joy?

Try emotional and verbal abuse at it's extreme, an overall feeling of rejection and loneliness at it's best. I never fit in, not to one side or the other (of my family). The more people there were, the greater the feeling of being a misfit, and being lonely. At least on my father's side, I knew everyone else felt that way, too.

So when I made good friends in college, when I fell in love with my Dear Fuzzy, I found home and I found the exact scene I wanted to enact around my Christmas tree.

I realized that not everyone's family make them feel like this. So, to all my friends (and my husband) who love their families, love what you have, and value it. And think about one year, maybe, having a dinner party with your friends. A close pleasant gathering where we have a chance to remake our favorite traditions for each other.

December 25th ain't Jesus's birthday...

2008-12-18T13:19:00.003-05:00

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-1093053/Cancel-Christmas--Jesus-born-June-17-say-scientists.html

Follow this link to read the article about a scientist who wanted to figure out when Jesus was really born, because we have all heard that there was some suspicions. Why would an emperor call for mass travel in the winter? The article states that by the arrival of a massive star, they were able to pinpoint Jesus's birth to June 17th. So why do we celebrate on December 25th?

I don't really want to burst anyone's bubble, but I just thought I'd do something that so classically me: Rocking everyone's boat, challenging everyone's comfort zone, and aiming to burst the big fat bubble full of crap, and then saying, I don't really wanna wreck anybody's ideas....
So yeah. I was listening to the radio preacher this morning, as I do every morning, and every one of the pastors are talking about "the reason for the season" and the focus really being Christ. BUT HE WASN'T BORN ON DEC 25th. How can you yell at anyone (or gently remind everyone) about the real reason for the season and then tell them it's Christ, when it was really several winter solstice festivals, and possibly associated with Semiramis's consort/son Tammuz. Babylonian festivals...always sneaking into our holidays.

The reason for the season was a pagan festival. In that case, bring on the presents, trees, decor, and other things that have nothing to do with Jesus....yeehaa....

Why does no one comment on these things when preaching? Why does no one ever talk about the fact that over all this is a pagan holiday and most of it's celebration is pagan in origin? Because it's such a huge part of the culture, and tradition. This really takes the air out of any huffy puffy churchy folk, doesn't it? I mean, don't get me wrong,

Jesus must always be the center and focus of our lives if we follow Him and seek Him-

I'm just tired of people getting up in arms about that which does not truly matter. And I love the good things about Christmas, how everyone gets so excited about celebrating, and it truly accomplishes the thing we need most in the dark winter nights:

It brightens us up, and we seek each other out. But then again, upped suicide rates kinda suck....If you have a good support system, then Christmas really rocks!

I like doing the Jewish thing: Chinese food and a movie on Christmas Eve/ Day.

So there's my rock in the boat.

O ye mothers, gather ye rosebuds while ye may

2008-12-14T19:21:00.011-05:00

It was the pile of clothes growing next to the baby's dresser that did it. I found myself opening drawers to dress him, and pulling out everything he'd outgrown. At first I was concerned with the little picture- We need to get him more clothes, because he had only a few shirts and two pairs of pants... And then I realized what it really meant. My son blasted through the 3-6 month clothes and is now out of the 6 month size as well. Some brands fit him at 6-9 mos. size, and some he fits into the 12mos. He is not yet six months old.

When did he suddenly get so big? Why didn't I realize before now how much has happened? There are four packed garbage bags full of clothes that he doesn't fit into anymore. When I looked back at him, he was the length of the changing table. He doesn't fit into the sink for his bath.

I have just begun to understand what everyone keeps telling me- "It goes by so fast".

It's very tempting to keep thinking forward, keep looking to the future, to say I can't wait for him to crawl, to talk, to walk, to eat solid foods, etc. And while this is a delicate and hard to impart feeling, I have begun to appreciate how fast it really goes. When he was a newborn, I could not wait for that phase to be over. But things get easier and harder as he grows. I've begun to notice how large he's getting, and realizing that he used to fit in one arm instead of two.

Almost a feeling of regret, that somehow I didn't notice each little detail before this, but that's not true. Perhaps it just hit me, that he really is growing at a breakneck speed, and I've only just realized what that will mean.

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may- your baby only has one first year, and there will never be a time like this in all his life. Security is easily defined with a glance towards a loving caretaker's direction. Love is everywhere he stretches his hand, and there is nowhere to go but forward. Why rush independence? He will push me and his father away in the years to come, for many different reasons. Why should I persuade him in favor of autonomy when he will rush after it in just a few months? For now let my baby sleep next to us, for now let him sleep on my chest, gripping my shirt. For now, let him have all of me and Daddy that he can stand. For now, I will gladly carry him on my hip and struggle to do things it would be easier to do two handed.

My son is growing, and I have only begun to understand what this truly means. Good thing it happened today, because tomorrow, he'll be a whole new boy.

Growing up: the Christmas edition.

2008-12-11T13:55:00.004-05:00

So, I married a man whose family celebrates holidays and birthdays with gusto. On his birthday, my Fuzzy got a phone call from each immediate family member (not that exciting, but wait, there's more) SINGING at the top of their lungs happy birthday. No preamble, no hello, every person just started hollering. Oh, I'm not knocking it, it's tremendously cute. But for someone who grew up refusing birthday parties and not calling or getting calls, this is very...festivious. (I just made that up on the spot. Good, huh?) We call every cousin and aunt, every possible relative, and sing into ears, voice mails, whatever. I gamely join in, but this is just weird to me. I had to be pinned up against a wall in Hong Kong for my team members to get to sing to me, and I was not pleased.
My idea of a good birthday party is one where no one pays attention to me, but mingles and has a blast all on their own. I would like to be the kind of hostess that Deists believe God is. He's here, He started it, but He's not really commanding the whole thing. That's the hostess I'd like to be. Keep this in mind as we discuss Christmas.

I'm sending out Christmas cards. No, Really, I am. To all Fuzzy's family, to some of mine, to our friends. I am notorious for failing to get any kind of card out on time. Especially thank you cards. (On this note, I'm glad I'm married, because if my mother had anything to say about what went on my tombstone, it would probably be Beloved daughter, wife, mother, and ingrate.)
This is the beginning of a transformation, my friends. I am choosing to-gasp- participate! All for my husband! What would the feminist agenda think of me?

But seriously, folks. It's really about setting up new traditions as a new family, and that's something I believe in. Up til now, I had no good reason to really celebrate Christmas. I never really wanted to get gifts, I loved giving them, don't get me wrong. They were super fun to give- the challenge of getting just the right one. My favorite kind of gift is something not on the person's list, something so rightly them that it was almost too obvious to see. Yeah, I like that.

So here's to all my young couple friends who are doing the same. Setting up a new family means getting to set up new family traditions, or keep old ones, or do a little mixing. I see it as my chance to honor old traditions, welcome those from my husband's family, and set a new standard with our own. Casting off what doesn't work in favor of building what does from scratch. Who cares if it's a little crooked? It's homemade.