Say I told you that I spent a good, no, a great, part of my life in numbness training. Men thought me emotionally stable because I wanted nothing, asked for nothing, accepted even less. Women thought me a threat because men thought me well.
I was never well.
Say I told you that in my numbness training I learned to swallow pizzas whole, the thicker the better, anything to block my voice and keep my tongue pressed to the roof of my mouth. And say, in this training, I began to consider my ability to bring food back up an art, a talent, a superpower. Co-workers thought me hyper-productive and slightly masculine. My boyfriend, who watched me eat more and still dwindle to sinewy bone, thought me dying, Surely something terminal? he asked me over fish and chips and a pint of dry cider.
I was not terminal.
Say I told you that I paused numbing to grow a baby and the love that I felt nearly killed me. I didn’t know a body could hold anything outside of violence and buffets. And say, in this new holding, lived a desperate fear of losing all that was new—a boy inside of me because I planted him there. A boy inside me by my choice instead of through invasion. A boy inside of me nourishing off all that I would consume and keep. And say, I learned something new in this numb-pausing. I learned to allow food to settle on my lips, linger in my throat, move through the tracks in my body.
I thought I was nearing well.
Say I told you that after the baby, I returned to numbing because feeling—everything, anything—felt like a plastic bag over my head, felt like sucking air through a clogged straw. Anything good only reminded me that, once gone, the gape would be greater, the wound wider. Anything bad, let’s just say, I called this my norm.
I returned to unwell.
Say I told you that I’ve spent five years learning to sit with myself—mid-flame, midnight, mid-bite—and have tried to find the beauty in it. Whatever “it” might be. And say I realize how little I’ve learned in these five years except the way the body defaults to its earliest training. Say, I understand the way unholding a baby will do more damage than any war. Say, last night I went to an empty playground and sat on a rubber swing, kicking my feet into sky and, after, I laid wide on the ground and turned into a snow angel, gravel beneath my nape grinding into me, imprinting a memory that I hoped to later feel. To feel. To feel. I needed some echo or reverberation or even…oh, wait. I’m remembering.
Say, as I flapped and fluttered, I also howled and, after, fetaled myself into earth and watched the swings, empty, yet still swaying. Say that I wondered how they could hold all of me long after I stopped. I wondered if they felt me, if they feel me still.
My brother phoned me on June 13th, 2025. I was driving my oldest son to his weekly PT. I probably wore leggings and a soft tee. Maybe a loose sundress. I should tell you, my brother rarely calls. When I say “rarely,” I mean, like once or twice a year. I should also tell you that my brother and I love each other. We just don’t talk often. I should also tell you, I rarely talk on the phone.
I answer his call.
I’ve bad news, he says.
OK, I say.
Mom died.
I didn’t expect that, I say. I might’ve exhaled first. I don’t remember.
I do remember, pulling over into a gas station, worried that I would begin to cry. I didn’t. Cry, that is.
Her funeral’s next week, he says, and, I’m going.
I don’t know that I’ll attend, I say, and, Can you send me the details, just in case?
Sure. I’ll send you what I found on line.
Thanks.
I’ll call Ava (my mother’s sister), he says, and, I already told Julian (my mother’s brother).
Thank you, I say, and, I don’t know how I feel.
Understood, he says, and, I love you, Sister.
I love you, Brother.
I pull back into our drive, turn to my son, and say, Give me a minute, because he was in the middle of unpacking a new scene he’s writing when the call came.
I wait a day and send a text to some of my friends:
I’ve not shared this news with anyone. I’m still processing. My brother phoned to let me know our mother passed. As you know, I’ve had no relationship with her since I left home at 14. Still, the matters of our hearts are so complex. I will be sitting shiva for a week in hopes of healing, her and me. This means I will be home in reflective space. If you’d like to come with food or love or hugs, that is tradition. If I’ve not expressed my gratitude for you enough, my apologies. Much, much love. R
What I didn’t know, because I’d yet to talk to my Rabbi, is that I wasn’t going to sit shiva. Not traditionally.
What I noticed, were the friends who responded. Some with kind thoughts. Some with calls. Some came with comfort food of noodles and bread and wine. Some did not respond, which is a response. Maybe they didn’t know how.
If you’ve read Tangled by Blood, my first collection, a memoir in verse, you know the harmful impact of my mother’s non-protection of me as a child. It’s complicated to respond to me, I’m sure, regarding my mother, my childhood, my assaults.
It’s also very likely that it’s just complicated to respond to me.
When I talked to my Rabbi, he asked, When did she die?
I’m not sure.
We need to know. We need to know how long she’s been gone. We need to know if her body has been cremated or not. If it has, you cannot sit shiva.
I should mention, I don’t know how to sit shiva. I’ve never sat shiva. My mother did not raise me Jewish. I usually say, She raised me quite confused.
While serving in the military (forty years ago), I studied a variety of spiritual paths, including Taoism, Buddhism, and Christianity. Judaism, or more specifically the esoteric underbelly of Kabbalah, stuck. I’ve woven in other practices over time, like moon bathing and crystal energy. I’ve woven in methods to heal, ways to balm my heart.
It takes three more calls between my brother to learn that she died on May 23rd. To learn that no one knows if her body has been cremated.
I’ve probably sat shiva long enough, I tell my Rabbi.
He’s quiet. He holds space.
I continue, I mean, I think I mourned the loss of my mother before I entered the school system. When she witnessed her husband, my stepfather, sexually assaulting me. I was not even five.
Quiet.
Or maybe when I fled home at 14 or 15. And she told me that any man is better than no man, when I told her after ten years of rape, I could not stay anymore. I told her this at the diner she waitressed. I can’t remember if I had my lawn bag with me. The bag I filled with Levi’s and 8-tracks and my track spikes.
Quiet.
Or maybe later, at her mother’s funeral. I was 32 or 33 and hadn’t seen her since I left. And here, she waltzed around pretending she knew me, pretending she had some bond or something. I pulled her aside, told her that I’d love to have a mother but we would need to acknowledge the damage…
She held her hand up, Stop, it said. Then she said, If that’s what you need then I need to wash my hand of you.
That was it. The official, End.
Quiet.
Somewhere before the age of five and my grandmother’s funeral, I sat shiva over the loss of my mother. Shiva looked like eating disorders and dating and marrying inappropriate partners and drinking shots of tequila chased by Bloody Mary’s. I didn’t know I was sitting shiva. Didn’t know I was mourning. I thought I was living and nearly dying through starving and suicide attempts. I thought watching destruction during the war catapulted me into a deeper death.
Quiet.
How many times can you die? Or sit shiva for another? I ask my Rabbi.
Here, 29 years after my grandmother’s funeral, and now, she, my mother, has left her body.
You can be thankful she is no longer suffering, my Rabbi offers.
Now I’m quiet. Oh! How much she probably suffered. How much those who bring suffering are also in pain. I don’t know what to do with this thought. I set it aside. For now.
What do I do while sitting shiva? I ask.
IF you can sit shiva, he reminds, and, the goal is to find good memories. To allow her memory to be a blessing.
I have none. I have nothing, I say.
You’ll think of something, he says.
We never find out if my mother was cremated or not, so I sit un-shiva and pen in my journal.
I call my brother.
Do you have good memories of Mom? I ask.
We always had food. She worked hard as a waitress, he says.
At more than one place, I say.
Quiet.
Thanks, I say.
I love you, Sister.
I love you, Brother.
Someone, I still don’t know who, sent flowers.
When the flowers begin to wilt, but still hold color, I clip the stems and leaves and “stencil” watercolor onto pages.
I’ve not worked with foliage and watercolor. I’ve not turned foliage into art, unless you count my backyard, my fruit trees, my gardens. I’m not sure why I’m making art with flowers for my mother’s death from an unknown, yet caring, person.
I’m not sure why I don’t ask my list of friends, Did you send the beautiful flowers for my mother?
I save the flowers. I press them between wax paper and place in collected cookbooks: Moosewood, 52 Shabbats, and Fire + Wine. I don’t know why I’m saving them. I’m not sure what I’ll do with them. My plan was to cut the watercolor stem stencil pages into bookmarks and gift them.
I don’t.
I’ve tried to journal about un-shiva-ing each day since the call from my brother. This practice has churned into an interrogation of mothering. I wonder if I’m a good mom. I wonder how my mom felt (if she felt) about her mothering/non-mothering ways. I sort through this in my journal, in my garden, in my dreams.
By now, I’ve purchased modge podge and cheap brushes and art tweezers. I purchased these, not for the flowers, but remembering a friend’s dresser, circa 1999. She’d completely coated the furniture in cuttings and images and paint. I loved the whimsy. Loved the idea. I’ve thought about this type of curation a lot since then and have wished to apply this to my lessons with my high schoolers in the Juvenile system.
Last night, a friend visits. Our plan was to “work.” When I say work, I mean the business side of art. But I’m tired and I tell her, I want to create something beautiful. She smiles. She nods. She’s like that.
She works until her laptop battery runs dry.
I interrupt her.
I’m making some sort of modge podge collage from the bouquet of flowers for my mother when she died, I say.
I think I’ll make two. Use both sheets of watercolor prints, I say.
I’ll give one to my brother, I say.
I practice modge-podging on a smaller sheet of watercolor paper.
It works.
I like the way the flowers are dead and preserved at the same time. Like the way they’ve textured the paper. Like how there’s some fur-fuzz from my Newfoundlands who are standing by.
I podge. I modge. I need the tweezers to put flowers back together. I leave petals to fall where they will, like in my garden. Like in my heart.
I make one.
I’m surprised by the way the rose still holds her hue.
I make the other.
Here, my friend turns the rose for me. I didn’t see how I had the front face-down and I wonder how many times something in my life has sat this way without my noticing.
I don’t know if my brother will like the art. Here, my way of creating a soft memory where none exists. I don’t know if he’ll understand what I’ve tried to do. I do know that it doesn’t matter.
After my friend leaves, after the pups fall to sleep, I stand beneath the Full Blood Moon and empty my hurt and some anger I that I thought I’d already released. I understand that my mother never did wash her hands of me. I understand the way her non-protection and her abandonment has curated much of my narrative arc. I understand that there is no “end” in relationships. Only movement. Forward or backward. We decide.
On April 14th this year, my oldest son, Zach, underwent his 40th procedure. He’s 24. You might’ve kept up with this event through my social media posts. You might’ve thought me worried. You also might’ve believed me strong.
Let’s not be fooled.
If you asked me, How are you? those two months leading up to Zach’s procedure, I would’ve responded, Great. This is an easy one.
I would’ve believed this response to be true.
Today, now two months out from that surgery (yes, Zach is doing fantastic), and I’ve journaled about this experience in hindsight. I wanted to share a few of my entries.
We knew this surgery was coming.
We’ve known this surgery was coming for almost two years, probably longer.
We were ready.
Image: Zach at his pacemaker interrogation, Feb 19th, 2025.
At birth, Zach barely weighed four pounds. He had a heart defect and could not breathe on his own or eat. His limbs were twisted. By the time he was three months, I’d learn that he was visually impaired and deaf in one ear as well. And more.
Image: Zach only a few hours old, briefly held by me and the nurse before returning to his isolette and vent at St. Lukes NICU, Boise, March 27th, 2001.
Image: Zach in his isolette, St. Lukes NICU, Boise, March, 2001.
I wouldn’t know until Zach was nearing 18 months that he had a secondary heart defect, bradycardia. His heart didn’t just slow, it stopped, though I didn’t know his heart was stopping. His body trembled as if he were seizing.
It took months with monitors before I captured an “event” for the specialists to accurately diagnose him.
Image: This is Zach walking his little journey with all those monitors, Fall, 2003 and by now he’s endured nearly 20 procedures.
Zach endured his first heart surgery, a pacemaker implanted into his abdomen because his body was too small to “store” the device anywhere else. We’d flown to Chicago for this procedure. The “seizure-like” activity ceased within minutes of the pacemaker installation.
I didn’t understand then that with every “event,” Zach died. Over and over.
By 2013, we (Zach and me) traveled to Sacred Heart in Spokane, Washington for another pacemaker-related surgery. This, a simple battery change.
Safe Handling is a collection-length poem, but really, this poem is a love letter to Zach, to a surgeon, to my two other incredible sons.
Fast forward. Here. 2025. We know the battery must be replaced. Every year at Zach’s heart interrogation, we are given the countdown. We are told how much life is left in the battery. We are told whether leads need to be exchanged. We are told how many “events” occurred and how long each one lasted.
We are informed.
We are prepared.
When I say “we,” I mean Zach, my other two sons, and me.
A heart like Zach’s means two different surgeons. One monitors his defect (back flow, aortic fusion, and more), while the other monitors his bradycardia and the pacemaker.
A heart like Zach’s handles life with love, with clarity, with complete tolerance and truth.
(I wish I had a heart like Zach’s)
Image: One of the many pre-op appointments before Zach’s 2025 procedure.
The size of it all.
This surgery is not a battery replacement, but is another very simple surgery.
I call these little operations “tune ups.”
They, the surgeon, will place a new pacemaker near Zach’s left shoulder.
This device (similar to the one that is soon to be installed) is much smaller than the one in his abdominal cavity.
Here, Zach is so excited to have his new pacemaker.
Perhaps because we’ve been counting down to this surgery for a few years, I countdown.
I countdown on social media.
I post, not for sympathy, but because these types of journeys are rarely shared. They are usually quiet, isolated, tests of endurance and faith.
Here, April 6th, and we are eight days out.
Much like most matters of the heart, this, Zach’s heart, has been clearly part of my own rhythm.
I penned a poem somewhere between his birth and 2022, “Life Lines.”
Here, seven days out in my countdown and I talk about Zach’s heart.
The responses on SM helped. I felt less alone. I was also managing a cleaning spree in my home.
I washed my cabinets and walls. I repainted base boards. I vacuumed between the concrete cracks on my driveway. I thought my frenzy simple distraction. Thought this a healthy way of managing stress.
Or maybe I thought, I’m just over-prepping the house for Zach’s return.
My neighbors did not ask. Some of them have started vacuuming their driveways and I feel I might’ve launched an unhealthy trend.
I’m cleaning. I’m counting. I’m counting down. I logically understand that though this is a simple procedure, there is risk.
I even correlate my brain to the last heart surgery, the battery exchange, where Zach ended up with a staph infection and nearly died.
…an excerpt from Safe Handling, from that 2013 experience with Zach, with his heart.
Oh…in the countdown…the list.
Here, all the pre-op needs.
…and the “other” pre-op preparations.
These are the things we rarely talk about, especially as a single parent with a special needs child.
Oh! the extra prep and planning.
By April 11th, three days out, I’d missed posting on social media. I feel bad. I feel like I’ve let someone down.
Perhaps I decided to do the countdown publicly for my own need. Perhaps I needed one more task to ensure the busy, distract the worry.
Though, I didn’t think I was worried at the time.
Here, the day before surgery and Zach has been receiving so many messages. I read the responses aloud each day.
All that out-pour of love.
I forget to say, Thank You.
I still need to say, Thank You.
How small Thank You feels right now, two months later.
We arrive.
We wait.
Zach is ready.
This new pacemaker will change his life. He will be able to operate (and be near) a microwave, which means more independent living. His old pacemaker, which brings him much discomfort, will eventually be removed (another surgery for another day).
Image: Zach at St Lukes, Boise, April 14, 2025.
I sit in the small waiting area, an open book on my lap that I don’t read.
The surgeon comes in, says, He’s in recovery. You can come back in five minutes or so.
And here, I crumble.
I did not know how much stress my body held. Did not know the worry I carried. I can’t even catch my breath and the other waiting families, concerned that I’d lost a child, gather `round to console me. It takes a minute before I can shape the words, He’s ok.
When I enter his room, my knees buckle.
Here, Zach, peaceful.
Here, a complete echo of his 2013 procedure, the one where he nearly died.
You see it, don’t you? The image for the cover of Safe Handling and here, 11 years later?
Image: Zach post-op and in recovery, St. Lukes, Boise, April 14, 2025.
Before Zach’s released, we ask his surgeon if we can see what the pacemaker looks like in his body.
Image: Zach’s new pacemaker, April 15th, 2025.
If you know Zach, you’re one of the lucky ones.
If you know me, you know how inter-woven my existence is with my sons.
You also know my gratitude.
You probably also knew my stress pre-surgery and with all your love, decided not to call me out, but instead, offered grace.
Image: Zach post-op check up, St Luke’s, Meridian, April 29th, 2025.
This is true of difficult decisions. True of preparing a gorgeous meal. True of creating beautiful art. The fastest track might yield “results,” but rarely offers a deep sense of fulfillment.
For the last three years, I’ve suffered a variety of medical malfunctions. Maybe I’ve suffered this way most of my life. After yet another surgery in January, my body began her shift, away from fighting and into healing. I wanted to expand, to add back routines and events that I’d neglected.
Instead I paused.
I asked, “What needs tending?”
I began within me and within my home. I could tell you all that I think I’ve “fixed.” But I know better. I know that healing is not “fixing” or “adding.”
True repair is a “returning.”
One of my “returns” involved my gardens.
When I say garden, I don’t mean only the beds where I grow herbs or vegetables. I don’t mean only the spaces I plant pollinators. I mean my heart, my family, and my mind. We are in a continuous space of rooting, seeding, rebirthing in our relationships and in our thoughts.
I consider my Free Little Library one of my gardens. Here, I offer books. Here, I remain in community with my neighbors. Here, a space to share what we value. A chance to note what we’ve tended.
This space needed tending, especially a fresh coat of paint and a more aesthetic base.
I hated the previous base, PVC piping, but didn’t have the energy or resources to replace it.
Here, a new beam. And a new shelf.
I’m certain the new shelf confused my neighbors. A few left extra books. Others left flowers.
Behind the scenes, I worked on an idea.
What I wanted to offer, along with books, was a seed library.
Isn’t this what libraries do?
This honored my sense of “return,” a small contribution of restoration to earth.
I packaged seeds in small envelopes.
Labeled.
Placed empty envelopes in a box for others to also easily share.
I printed a small sign, explaining the new neighborhood exchange.
Once the Little Library was painted, I added the sign.
The process was not a mighty one.
Still, It took almost three months.
Slow and steady.
Small movements forward.
No.
Not forward.
A step at a time to my place of return.
We forget that we began as community. We sat across from one another, sharing stories and food and laughter. We helped one another build havens. We healed each other.
The “return” for me is this deep connection with self, with source, with you.
Today, there’s a swearing-in. Yesterday, three hostages were released. The day before, TikTok “went dark.” Last week, Zuckerberg decided to eliminate fact-checkers on Meta, citing a “cultural tipping point.” Last year, Musk created a reel using AI, putting words in Harris’ mouth, and called it a Parody. In the days of yonder, we called this slander. Today, we—the people—call it fake news.
Later today, number 47 will be sworn in for another term and you might feel like you’ve just dropped into the middle of a Sci-Fi-Drama-Comedy in an oligarchy society where the rules keep changing and the world shifts into multiverses at every blink. Some might call this the Gilded Age Redux.
I want to remind you, You are an artist.
I want to remind you, there are ways to navigate the world and still hold true to yourself.
Here’s a few ideas
Keep your values as an artist, as a human. Check out ArtWife‘s Episode 17: THE COIN by Yasmin Zaber (And What it Can Teach Us About Artistic Values).
Maybe now is a good time to re-list those values. Prioritize your top ten. After, make another list of why they matter.
If you need to make hard choices over the next four years, return to your value-list (see #2, above) and ask, Does this choice align with my values?
Keep consuming. Knowledge is power.
Choose your consumption wisely. This includes meals, events, books, relationships, courses, energy, etc.
Keep engaging. Many of us will want to isolate and cocoon. This is how we feel safe, and yes, this response often works. And yes, if this is what you need—do this. I invite you, if you can, stay in the game. Keep playing. Play by your rules, your values.
Illegitimi non carborundum
Connect with communities that nourish you—your heart, your mind, your art.
Remember that great communities include literature, libraries, films, radio.
Use your critical thinking caps. While you’re at it, teach critical thinking where you can. Many people carry a limited understanding of what AI/Creator skills can accomplish. Many struggle with recognizing false information. Many walk through life with limited knowledge and resources. I have sons and grandsons, friends and family, students and community. I can ask hard questions and showcase methods to research. I can reiterate the importance of questioning truth. Of questioning.
Remain a student. Keep stretching yourself. Garner wisdom from people you trust and respect.
Use social media and platforms to make a difference. Choose beauty. Choose community. MySpace launched social media for many of us, reminding us of our longing for connection and reconnection. Consider maintaining social media on your terms. Maybe it will shift to its original design—a space where we make new friends. Make old friends new again.
Encourage deep listening into conversations that weigh on your heart and on the world.
Become a deep listener.
Make a list of five ways to take great care of your precious self over the next four years. My list includes writing, reading, studying, watercolor, family-time, puppy-time, gardening, chai, bagels, music, meditation, and more.
Sage. I invite you to pack an enormous bundle of sage with you. Consider saging negative jerks. Can you imagine, someone cuts you off in traffic and at the next light, you exit your car, light your smudge stick, and offer a spirit-dance around their vehicle?
Reach out if you’re hurting. Ask for something on your list (#15, above). If you receive a text from me with the word Puppy, please do not bring me a puppy. Instead, understand that I need company and cuddles.
The only way to be part of the solution is to retain who you are.
I’m taking notes, one multiverse at a time. I’m sorting through this continuous rule-shifting game called life. I’m part of the resistance. I take my role seriously.
Let me take you to a powerful portal in my life when I left my universe of world-level athlete and entered motherhood.
Scene Set-Up: My son, Zach, is four hours old. His pediatric cardiologist, Eloisa, sits across from me at St. Luke’s NICU:
“I know we’ve found a lot of wrong things,” she says. She’s right. He can’t breathe on his own, eat on his own, his feet are deformed, his hands are twisted, he is gray instead of pink-baby-hue. His list of “defects” continues, down to less important, more aesthetic issues. Things I care little about.
“Remember, we are looking for wrong things,” she says. “He’s premature. He’s ill. He’s small. If we ran these same tests on every full-term baby, we’d find something wrong with everyone.”
Side by side, we watch my baby sleep. He wears a tiny diaper, electrodes, and his full head of hair. He is not worried; to him his heart works fine. Time is all that exists in this ward, and, like the other parents here, I am required to wait, watch, wonder how my son will develop. I wish I could make a plan, write a list of to-dos that could fix my baby.
Eloisa stands, offers an embrace, pats my back tenderly, as if to console.
“There are so many things that can go wrong with the human body,” she says. “I’m always amazed with the miraculous number of things that go right.”
This morning, I decided to stay committed to a choice I made 24 years ago—I will look for right things in the world and I will offer those things praise.
Last week, Zuckerberg’s decision to place power in the hands of the Meta user can do just that.
We—the people—choose who we gather with, what we read, what we think.
We—the people—can create art no matter.
Today, there’s a swearing in and, during this time, I invite you to re-oath as an artist.
Tomorrow, you can remind yourself, you are still an artist.
And if you forget, look me up. I’ll be under my stairwell, painting or reading, a bagel piled, a mug of steamy chai, and my heart, still holding hope.
I underwent a little spine surgery last Wednesday.
Yes. I’m fine.
Yes. It was a necessary tweaking, offering hope to alleviate pressure and pain on my occipital nerves.
I think of all pain, nerve pain is the worst.
No.
Heart-pain wins.
But this isn’t about pain. This is about hunger.
The day after my tweaking, my youngest son toasted me two slices of rosemary sourdough bread. I taught him how to spread butter—thin and all the way to the crusts. He brewed chai, aerated coconut milk, slowly stirred in creamed honey. I can’t remember a better meal and, within the hour, I heard myself, Is there more?
By 3 pm, I’d devoured the loaf of sourdough and five mugs of chai and still, my belly squealed with wanting.
Before my little tweaking, I’d prepped a couple weeks of dinners. Japanese BBQ meatballs, fried rice, lemon chicken with snow peas, meatloaf and roasted potatoes.
I’m a pescatarian, but my man-cubs, still growing into their skins, are carnivores. Over the years, our meals have shifted—out of piece-it-together based on leftovers and budget and into savory, into recipes curated with time, thought, and blossoming.
By 4 pm, I heard myself, I’m starving. For dinner, we’d planned Udon Noodles with shredded grilled chicken. My son replaced the meat with thinly sliced boiled eggs and avocado for me. I asked for more sesame seeds. Asked for seconds. I might’ve asked for thirds.
I can’t remember the last time my body felt hunger.
That empty and visceral roar, one that rattles the bones.
By Friday, I told my surgeon about my feedings and he said, The body knows, and, It is hard to feel hunger when the body is under assault, continuously navigating deep pain.
If you’ve sat with nerve pain, you know this zapping. It wears you down, grinds your energy and your smile. I never thought of how pain interfered with my appetite. My appetite for life, for food, maybe even for love.
You don’t know what you don’t know.
I thought I was living fairly fully.
I thought wrong.
Four days have passed since my tweaking.
I’ve consumed two books, sixteen new poems, the tub of honey, a bag of soft tortillas with nut-butter and fig jam, a dozen eggs, and a pound of salmon.
This is what I’m willing to catalog.
Despite this filling, I do not feel heavy. I turn my head left without cringing and tearing up. I rest my head on a pillow without the taste of bile, a taste I’d grown so accustomed that I failed to notice.
I sit here with my accommodating keyboard and mouse, a fig & cedar candle dancing.
The sun has yet to rise, the pups are well-fed and already back to sleep, deep in digestion.
California is still burning and fear in our country has traveled beyond our throats, past our voices. There’s a sizzle in our nostrils and I think of the relationship between fear and pain. I think of the way both eradicate desire. I think of how I’m secure in this tiny suburb—a bubble in Idaho—where, in this moment, I am satiated.
Maybe this is about pain after all.
The world’s heart-pain is in need of deep healing.
I know we need more than a tweaking, more than four nerves are in need of attention.
I don’t know what I can do except fill myself with toast and write a poem, share it with you and hope,
Let’s say, recently, interested men-folk express their said-interest in you by pointing out all that they are willing to accept. And, let’s say, their acceptance, which is tolerance in disguise, shapes into a short list and on this list is the life you’ve curated, including your four Newfoundlands, your adult disabled son, and your own “limited” self. Let’s say, none of these men have met you IRL, but they do DM, and DM frequently and yes, they are kind enough and most likely good men. In their messages they recant their willingness to “step up” and “partner up” with you despite your medical “challenges” or “issues” or “liabilities.”
We can say that your medical challenges/issues/liabilities are not
Medical
Challenges
Issues
or … Liabilities.
Because, let’s say, you, like your adult son, are disabled. Magnificently and beautifully disabled.
Let’s say, your disability begins here, mid-1980’s, stationed at RAF Upper Heyford as you don a chemical warfare suit to “practice” wartime skills. Here, you weigh maybe 110 and spend your off-duty time trying to control your eating disorder. Your cervical spine is damaged. You wear a brace on your lower leg. You don’t think of yourself as disabled. You don’t talk about your limited ways. You keep a game-face. You maintain your military bearing. You teach yourself to appear as normal as possible…all the time.
Or let’s say, here, 1999-ish, you are at the height of your fitness career. You compete on National and World stages in SportAerobics. Maybe you are 11% bodyfat, give or take. You train six hours a day. You teach PiYo, Pilates, Yoga, JohnnyG Spin, and weighted step. You train athletes, coach dancers, study the human anatomy. You still suffer with eating disorders. You believe yourself invincible and your ego is the size of Texas. Here, you are clearly disabled.
Or let’s say here, 2004, you’ve shape-shifted again, this time with breast implants and a “softer” look. You win the pageant, you wear the 60-pound beaded gown and earrings nearly as heavy. You still starve. You traction your cervical spine in secret. You hide your leg brace beneath wide trousers. You’re married, but not really. Let’s say here, you’re at the height of your disability because you believe yourself truly awful, a terrible human and even worse mother. You believe this because this is what you are told throughout your DV marriage. Did we mention your weight? Your size two gown? Do we need to?
Let’s say here, 2009, your third son arrives and you press his heartbeat into your own. You’ve done this with each son. Here, you feel unabashed, raw love. You have (and still) feel this with each of your beautiful children. You feel this despite all your broken. Let’s say here is the launch of your Exodus, your exit out of abuse, self-induced and otherwise. Within a few months, you will flee that DV marriage and claw your way out of ashes and up a mountain and begin to heal what some have labeled as “flaws” and “poor choices” and “illness.”
Let’s say, here, 2015, and you’ve endured your second cervical spine surgery. And let’s say, you are not at the height of your disability, but instead, you are finding your way.
Let’s say, through the struggle, out of destruction, you realize that you’ve never really accepted disability. We know this is not denial. We know how much your first-born, now-adult (“disabled”) son has taught you. Perhaps what others label as disabled is instead, your superpower.
Or, let’s say, you have an understanding that
every single one of us
carries “disability.”
Some of us are financially disabled. In our current culture, many of us are demographically disabled. Others are educationally or emotionally disabled. Let’s say we are all working WITH something, against another something, and sorting through yet one more something.
And let’s say, because of your childhood sexual trauma, your military stressors, your DV marriage, and your brave mamma-bear single parenting stint, you’ve learned to not display your weaknesses, mainly to avoid the pouncing of predators.
Say it’s taken years to muster your new level of courage and release the shame that society has planted on you for overcoming…
for surviving….
for falling down…
for getting back up.
And, let’s say, now you’re comfortable and madly in love with who you’ve become. And say, in this space of love you begin to openly share on social media these tiny windows into your challenges. You share these glimpses and pieces of your authentic life with the hope that others will also be unashamed. Let’s say you also hope to create awareness. Or let’s say, you’re just trying to stay your course
only to have a handful of men, let’s say seven, give or take, reach out to you and remind you
that you, “limited” and “issued” you, might be tolerated by them.
Let’s say, instead, they remind you that your work has just begun.
And let’s also say that these men, they are your brothers, and like your other brothers (birth brothers, found brothers, brothers-by-choice, brothers-in-arms), you love these men. You love them though their judgement annoys. Let’s say, you are well aware that someone, somewhere, at this very moment, is sitting with deep annoyance of you as well.
And let’s say you welcome this annoyance so long as they lose the labels and you hope, at the top of their disgruntlement circling around you, you hope they find a way in, into their own heart. And in their finding, they realize that they too are super-powered and deeply lovable.
I’m not your average poet. I’m not your average anything. I make soap, candles, lip balm. I use garden ingredients, foraging my backyard, negotiating with the Bumbles and Hummingbirds for my share.
I clipped the last round of lavender a couple of weeks ago. If I were offering instructions, clipping would be the essential first step. If you don’t garden, rummage through your cabinets, spice rack, fruit bowl. A little zest will do you well.
Lavender is known for her calming properties, her fight against insomnia, her wrestle with anxiety. But did you know, she also represents serenity, grace, devotion? And her color, purple, often depicts royalty and luxury. Purple is also linked with the crown chakra, our energy associated with higher purpose and deep spiritual connection.
No matter what you choose to enhance your soap, I highly recommend a bit of research. When I have little lavender, my second soap go-to is Rosemary.
Once you clip and save (or rummage and salvage) your product, you must let it dry, air, aerate. Let it sit atop a counter, a chair, a stairway.
My pile of lavender took two weeks to thoroughly dry. In the summer, I bundle and hang my herbs from my clothesline.
Next, crumble into a bowl. All parts are welcome. Remember, there’s juiciness in stems as well as flowers.
You’ll need your soap base on hand, so hopefully, you’ve read this through before beginning. If not, you can pause here. The lavender can sit for another week, hour, year, while you find your favorite base. I prefer a vegan, cruelty-free, easy-to-cut, base like Primal Elements Triple Butter Soap made from mango, shea, and cocoa butter. I order in five-pound blocks. For this process, I used half the block (2.5 pounds of soap).
Cut your blocks into smaller, uhm, blocks. Melt them in a microwave-safe dish. I use a wooden chopstick to stir. It really doesn’t matter because, well, you are making soap and everything just comes clean.
In the melting, you can add more “flavors,” like essential oils. Note in the background, I’ve set up molds with chunks of lavender.
Your molds can be anything. I use traditional soap-shape molds, along with old plastic lids. Yes, that “lid” to the left is a KFC coleslaw cap and KFC will end up imprinted on my bar of soap. I also use silicone molds…
Pour into molds.
Yes, that is a tablecloth beneath. No worries, everything washes out, because, well, we are making soap.
Let the molds sit til set.
Once set (usually overnight), pop from molds. Use. Use well. Use often. Wrap unused bars and blocks in wax or parchment.
At this point, you might ask yourself, like any good artist, Why?What’s the why?
Why make soap?
I make soap…
because I can,
because, sometimes, making soap feels like the only thing in my life I have control over.
because there might be a new cabinet position in the new Department of Soap-Making
I can only begin with advice I read (and re-read) from Rebecca Solnit‘s Facebook post, Nov 6th at 4:25 am,
“Things you do not have to do today.
–Join the frenzy of what/who to blame.
–Take in a bunch more media.
–Feel like you’re ready to face the next five years and have to plan and strategize and do it all now.”
I often feel the need to push, press beyond pain and fear, and just DO something, anything when I hit bottom, slam into a wall. Solnit’s post offers permission. I didn’t realize that I needed permission, but apparently, I do.
So I thought, maybe you might too.
You have soft permission to sip whatever brings you comfort—whiskey, wine, chocolate cake milkshakes—and drink them anytime during the day (or night) you feel.
Brewing Chai is my blanket. I think the meditative process matters. I think the warmth of the mug against my palms brings calmness. I think the sweet mesh of cinnamon, ginger, clove, cardamom, black pepper infuses something ancient in me.
You have gentle permission to hug whatever and whoever offers you solace. Perhaps a tree, a body pillow, a shaman. Maybe you just need to hug yourself for awhile, for the day, for all of time. Do this. Do this often.
I’m blessed with Newfoundland-surround-sound. I’ve four beasts, each over 140lbs. That’s a lot of fluff and love. And these water-rescue-bred beauties feel emotion, all the emotions, sometimes all at once. When I’m hurting, they gather. They press against me and, I swear, sop away my hurt.
This is Penelope on my bed, like most mornings.
I gift you permission to read all things loving, all things that restore and replenish you. Read daily. Sit with others art and beauty all that you can. Allow words to wash over you, rinse away darkness that might bring damage.
I’m absorbing Ben Okri. Above is a snippet from his novel, The Freedom Artist, which feels timely and timeless.
Heed this as permission to gather, to lose yourself in community, to surround yourself with like-minded hearts. Your community may include trees or humans or jelly beans, no matter, just gather.
Here is permission to play. Yes, play. Creative time shifts perspective, releases angst, offers a marinading of all that we hold. Gift yourself a bit of wonder. Sit with paints and color and new-found recipes from long ago. Dance in the rain to the drum of your heart. Build a sand angel, a snow castle, a gingerbread gender-neutral being.
I love to Zine and Watercolor. Both mediums are less-than-forgiving, in a good way. They bring the art of letting go, the art of letting art be whatever she wants to be. Here is a recent Zine, thank you Sarabande Books, Natalie Wollenzien, and Kris K. who led the zine workshop on Self Care for a Beloved Self.
Here is my zine…
Here are a few of my zines from my little Guides series.
…and below is one of my waterweaving pieces from my series. The medium is black ink and water color on water color paper, titled, I am a purple lotus. This piece was featured in Boise Weekly‘s May issue (v 32, i 40).
I offer you little if I fail to mention the poets, and for now, Kathryn DeLancellotti, who shared in an IG post to lean into our “holy rage.” I’m paraphrasing, but I’m certain I’ve borrowed her phrase, “holy rage,” every day for the last week. Here is a sample of her holy poetry from Beaver Magazine.
Permission to eat well. Drizzle everything with garlic oil and coarse flake salt. Pause and toast only the best cranberry walnut bread. Chew slow and in silence and thank the good earth for nourishing you, restoring precious energy that we will all need now, and even more, later.
Permission to love on your skin. I typically soften coconut oil between my palms until melted and apply it to my face, neck, locks. I started this in my impoverished days when I couldn’t afford decent lotions or conditioners. I retained the habit because, well, the skin and follicles absorb everything and I could rant on products and ingredients, but I’m preserving my energy and knowledge for better banters.
This month, I dove into a new product created by my incredibly talented (and chic) friend, Jessica Holmes, called Beaux Glow. I’m in love, enchanted, in awe. I love, love, love this product and I am not a product pusher. If you know me, you know I make my own soap, mostly from items in my garden. This product I love. On my face, my elbows, my lady parts. I give you permission to pamper yourself with something new.
Permission granted to body scan and body scan often. Check in with your body. How do you feel in the soles of your feet, your third chakra, your guts? How might you move, stretch, shift to bring your body more comfort? Do you need a warm blanket, fuzzy socks, a punching bag? Pause and listen to your body, note its whispers and respond accordingly.
Speaking of snuggles. I can’t resist. I’m a Bubbe. I don’t take it lightly. I don’t take anything lightly. But whenever I can, I jump at the opportunity to hold my grand-baby, Charlie. Sweet innocence, being of our future, the reason why I poet, my reminder to “keep going.” I give you permission to find your reason, your Charlie, what or who you need to hold on to that allows you to keep moving.
Permission to join others in movement and musings. This is not a plug for the workshop that I co-teach with the amazing Gayle Brandeis. This is a plug for the community we’ve curated, one of hearts and gentleness. Find a sacred space, a place you can dwell with others, a place that nurtures your loves and fills you.
Here is a Movement and a Musing from our November gathering:
Movement: Choosing to be separate. There is strength in your individuality. There is strength in being a single unit as part of a whole. Separate your toes. Move each toe in each direction. Stretch. Massage. Say thank you.
Musings: Choose your singularity. Gather strength through singularity. Write one sentence. Separate each word down the side of your page. Now write a sentence using each word to begin a sentence. Repeat.
If you’d like to join us or download a PDF from previous gatherings, you can visit us at Musings & Movment.
I could keep going, all the permission that you might need for all of time, I give it all to you.
…and I’ll leave you here, with this reminder, circling from where we began, Rebecca Solnit, who offered me permission: “Rage is a form of prayer too.” (Nov 7th, 2:27 pm).
I collect money. Collect it in a mason jar. Collect coins and bills and hand-written IOUs on Post-Its. I charge five dollars per bad attitude. I began this transactional system when my sons were younger, say eight and ten and two. The price lower back then. A quarter for an eye-roll, a dime for a, But Mom.
A few years ago, I stored this jar, believing that we—my sons and me—had arrived. When I say, Arrived, I mean here, someplace stable. Maybe I mean here, Star, Idaho. What I really mean is that I hoped we’d shifted into peace, which meant our energy stabilized.
I believed that arriving here equaled more time. No. More energy.
In my journal, I map my time.
4:30. Feed pups. Make beds.
5:00. Prance through my garden and pluck basil and sage, fry them crisp, fold them into fluffy omelets.
5:30. Yoga.
6:30. Pre-prep lunch—tuna salad pitas with air-fried sweet potatoes smothered in rosemary, again, from the garden.
7:00. Don’t forget the laundry, the dishes, the bills. Remember: Pre-prep dinner, shave Parmesan by hand for pasta. Oops. Buy Parmesan. While shopping, buy bread and eggs, just in case.
Already noon.
My sons munch their lunches while playing video games. In another room, I unclog the vacuum for the third time this week and tell myself. All this energy expenditure will buy me—
Appreciation?
Approval?
Irreplaceability?
Tell myself, 30 minutes. Certainly I have 30 free minutes.
I brew tea.
Set my writing intention.
I’m lying.
I need an entire week, most likely a month, to polish my manuscript. I need minutes all in a row. And
a pup eats the remote, I hand-wash dishes, store leftovers, mop floors for the seventeenth time. I forget my tea as I return to my manuscript. Technology fails. I troubleshoot. I re-boot the router. I hole in my office for six minutes, re-reading the second line of the sixth stanza of a Golden Shovel and
one of the boys pokes his head in, What is there to eat?
I pretend not to hear him.
It’s 6 pm.
Mom? Mom? Mom, I’m hungry, and
I cave.
Words escape, You need to leave
me alone.
The words are louder, more square than I intended.
The head in the doorway pulls away. Angels gasp. Devils clap. I slump, hold my face. My brain chugs a thousand directions.
My focus is hard-earned, if earned at all.
I count, oneandtwoandthreeandfour…
Boys, come here.
Look, I say and point to my poem.
See? I say, and show them my need to maintain the anaphora phrase AND the end word AND
I’m stuck in the middle of this line on a word that feels wrong in my body, I say.
How can you feel words in your body?
I have no answer.
No.
I know how to answer.
I could ask, Did you feel my shout?
But I can’t.
I don’t.
I’m sorry, I say. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. Though we know this is the nice way of owning yelling.
Let’s make hot cocoa, I say.
The guilt of parenting quilts me, snuffs out my need to create.
After they sleep, 10 pm, give or take, I wander my home like a ghost. I wish I could re-carve our life, turn time back to last week when we watched a movie, ate salted popcorn mixed with Hot Tamales.
What I really want is the ability to leave the dishes dirty.
You piece of shit, I say to me.
I move room to room and kiss their foreheads, say, Forgive me.
Tell them, I’ll try harder.
Ask, Can I have a do-over?
They slumber.
The next day, I find and place the mason jar on our kitchen counter.
Do you remember our energy exchange? I ask.
You used to charge if we argued with you, one of them says.
Do you remember why? I ask.
Because arguing zapped you and you needed more coffee to parent.
Good memory, I say.
Uhm, but we’re not arguing, the other says.
I know, I tell them. Do you remember how I told you, everything requires an exchange of energy? How, in the old days, people traded chickens for flour, or horseshoes for grain. How currency—like money—became a thing and we forgot what it represented. Our energy.
We have to pay you for something now? one of them asks.
No, I say.
I place a five dollar bill in the jar, say, This is for my bad attitude yesterday.
One of them says, Maybe you’ll save enough to hire a housekeeper and that will help your attitude?
Genius, I think.
A pup sprints through, dish towel in her mouth. Another pup chases after. The boys squeal and join in and suddenly, my body,
my body feels the word, and I, too, sprint up the stairs to my office, to my poem, jot the word and plop into my chair, the resistance of stillness fades. I’m here. Me with my body, my body with my words, my body-words with me. I smile a small smile, perhaps a glimmer of achievement.
