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.
If you’ve met me, you know I’m a fashionista. If you know me, you might say I’m a shoe slut, a tote tart, a closet-curator. I love fashion.
The truth about fashion—whether in your home, on your body, or within your body of work—is that art lives within polishing, revision, the details.
I loved fashion as a teen, and because I left home at 14ish, affording the “look” was not a budgeted item. What I had, back then and still, is my creativity and resourcefulness. With my small nest of mostly denim, I could invent a signature, repurposing—shorts into skirts, tees into tanks—with scissors and few quick stitches.
This most likely began in first grade when I felt bad for my Baby Tender Love.
Baby Tender Love, Circa 1970’s
She had one outfit. We had no money. Our family carried mostly dysfunction and chaos. Dressing that doll became my obsession. I’d found a basket or box or trash bag full of scrap cloth and I dug through an old sewing basket for buttons, a needle, some thread.
Baby Tender Love’s “dress” consisted of one piece of material, arm holes, and a button. I traced the original on a sheet of paper. I’d no clue that I created a pattern. I used and re-used that sheet on every cloth big enough. I probably used scissors for the first time in my life. At least adult ones, sharp and pointy and too big for my hands. I over-cut at first. I remember my tears, the heat of my face, the tossing away of pretty material I thought perfect for my impoverished doll.
Threading that needle to sew a button turned me into a tornado. Perhaps my first symptom of drive, determination, or my ability to singularly focus on one small task. Most likely coping method I still use today. I can’t remember how long it took me to teach myself these skills. I do remember the stack of clothes my doll had in the end and, later, my adopted sister, Tina, asking me where they came from.
Imade them.
In middle school, a teacher hired me to purchase clothes for her small boutique in Wheatfield, Indiana. The teacher, older—probably my age today, late 50’s—chose me because she loved my style, because she wanted a young, fresh “look” in her store. I paged through catalogs, the pages brimming with ankle boots, short skirts, and one-piece jumpsuits patterned in flowers.
I loved this job. This summer job. My payment in clothes.
Once I joined the military, fashion became an identity. When you live in a uniform—dress blues, combat fatigues, charcoal chemical warfare suits—maintaining a sense of self feels much like oxygen. I finally had money. It felt like a ton of money. Food and shelter, covered by the USAF, meant I had extra money. I shopped. I shopped often. Sometimes I stole items. Sorry, a different essay for a different day.
Scarves, totes, belts, and shoes.
At the time, I barely topped the scales at 100 pounds. I struggled with Anorexia and Bulimia, though I’d tell you, then and now, I’m fine or I burn fat when stressed. I told myself this too. I believed this. And because of my body-shame, wardrobe offered a place to hide. I could mask my thinness in layers. I could also keep my body safe from predators. My outfits became bulky, but still, fashionable, at least to me.
Comfy ClothesMe in Chemical Warfare Charcoal Suit, Circa 1980’s
During my military stint, I journaled, almost daily. I did not deep dive. I did not seek an understanding of self. I avoided any emotionally charged idea. Instead, my journals appeared like a catalog, capturing events, places I journeyed throughout Europe, sketches of the world around me.
Outside of me.
I kept everything outside of me.
Including me.
As a Damsel at a Medieval Banquet, Circa late ’80’sOn the London Tube, off duty from the military, 1990’s
There’s a long narrative between my exodus from the military in 1993 and my entrance into pageants in 2004. Most of this time has little to do with fashion or writing and more to do with surviving. What you need to know about this decade:
I hid in my walk-in closet to write at 3 am because my then-husband thought writing too much a luxury and my time should be spent on my chores—caring for my sons, keeping our home pristine, looking perfect.
One “requirement” of my then-husband was for me to look perfect—body, hair, make-up—so, after I wrote, at 5 am, I put on my face and a cute outfit. I looked good. I felt numb.
During this time, I taught and trained and coached high-level athletes at the gym. This offered the opportunity for me to keep up, keep low (body fat), keep going.
I didn’t understand the complex duplicity of my life. In the military and later. I didn’t understand how wardrobe defined who I needed to “be” at any given moment.
Spandex = Gym Diva
Gown = Pageant Queen
Uniform = Disciplined Airman
Fashion Outfit = Perfect Wife
When I became Mrs. Idaho International in 2004, a dear friend and incredibly talented fashion stylist dedicated months to helping me re-shape and re-define my image.
Her first challenge?
Cutting my wardrobe. Most of my clothes were two-, maybe three-sizes too big. I still suffered with body dysmorphia and occasional episodes of Bulimia. I thought myself “healed.” Thought that this was as healthy as I would be.
She gathered clothes that did not “fit,” hanging them on one side of my closet.
I took to a bottle of wine.
I feel this is where writing and wardrobing clearly intersect.
Here, my “base” wardrobe simulates an early draft. Here, we cut and cut and cut. Take away everything that does not belong.
Images that are out of range of theme or tone.
Repetition that fails to build or shift the narrative.
Wandering story lines.
Excessive words—articles, adverbs, etc.
And my favorite cutting—weak verbs.
And yes, shaving a narrative feels like revamping my wardrobe in 2004. Some days I want to reach for a bottle of wine. It’s uncomfortable. I’m attached to words and shoes and comfy sweatshirts. But I’ve learned that cutting at the foundation allows me to build something that truly works—on the page and my body.
Much like this off-green blouse. The arrangement is simple. A scarf, shoes one tone lighter, a woven handbag.
I could keep adding to this ensemble—pending on the weather—an off-white denim jacket, sunglasses, a hat.
This is true of penning a decent essay. You could keep adding. But it depends. Weather matters. Is there a storm brewing or a breezy beach day on the horizon?
Back to 2004 and re-defining my style. My fashion stylist-consultant-counsellor’s next step involved color. The foundation here is a bit Socratic—Know yourself. Which colors enhance your complexion? Which drains? This is both simple and not-so-simple. The stylist held fabric swatches near my chin beneath great lighting (meaning: NOT fluorescents). I could see the difference in my skin, how my tone shifted based on hue alone. Pastel and jewel tones offered a healthy sheen for me. Earth tones brought a jaundiced-death look.
We decided I’m both a Spring and Winter.
My one earth-tone exception was camel. I look amazing in camel. Teal became another signature color for me. Odd enough, both colors were absent from my wardrobe. My stylist found a camel suit, top coat, slacks. Teal blouses, tanks, sweaters. The challenge for me was not the shades but the size. I felt awkward and exposed wearing clothes that cinched my waist, tugged my thighs, showed my body.
My conflict? I love fashion. I dislike male attention regarding my body. How can these two co-exist peacefully? How can I live comfortably in my skin AND wear clothes I love?
I do not have an answer.
I still struggle with this today.
But writing teaches me about this.
Think FORM.
Form in wardrobe moves past size and color, focusing on body shape and how to enhance it. For example, a V-neck looks fabulous on a large-busted form. A cowl or turtleneck on the same body type is less flattering. Necklines, collars, hem and sleeve lengths, trouser leg width, all of these details matter.
Using form in writing is parallel to this.
The paragraph might work well, even read well, much like the turtleneck, but a list could serve the piece better, like the V-neck. It isn’t a matter of right or wrong. Think great versus good. I think of form in writing as our greatest opportunity. We can alter that same paragraph into a Haiku or short staccato sentences or one long stream of thought. We can push the entire structure into a poem, a hybrid, a flash, or long-form. The critical element in form selection in writing equates to form choices in wardrobe – is this the best shape for this body?
I witness writers pushing poetry into the middle of a narrative when the project doesn’t call for that shift. The pressure of hybrid form and acceptance into a literary journal will sometimes force an artist to add an element that goes against instinct. The same is true of wardrobe—social pressure, approval, acceptance can influence us, pulling us away from our guts and into the darkness of…fads. Of course, art is subjective. The hope for the artist, the human, is to make choices that honors their nature, their desire.
In writing, we begin again as well. Walk through, remove the lines that no longer serve.
Return to texture.
Think of white space on the page as the first layer of texture in writing. Here, we decide. Do we begin in scene? In dialogue (which is in scene)? Does the sentence stand alone? The word? These choices alter the feel of our work. These choices change the way we breathe in our words.
Of course, wardrobe holds texture too. In 2021, I fell ill with an autoimmune disorder, another layer on top of my already dis-abled body. I returned to my closet. I walked through, much like my stylist taught me. I touched every item, massaging fabric between my palms, on my face.
I kept clothing based on touch alone—the softest, the silkiest, the items that felt like butter. I love blossoming trousers (which work for my body-type) and breezy sweaters. Maybe I long to feel like a petal or a butterfly. Maybe I’ve this need because my body holds so much pain.
Soft against hurt feels a salve.
Spandex tank, silk blouse, non-binding trousers – comfort is key.
This is true of word-texture. How does a word feel rolling off the tongue? I find the use of beautiful language to describe the ugly and difficult can offer less friction, it goes down smoother.
I think of Hannah Harlee’s incredible styling—elegant, classy—and her choice of texture. Butter-love!
What I fail to mention in this essay, Hannah captures perfectly—the rest of the product. Lips. Hair. I mean, look at her red lipstick contrasted with this white ensemble. Perfection.
Again—this mirrors writing. You can manage a gorgeous, even streamlined narrative, but if you don’t land the ending (the rest of the product), you’ve failed.
If you read Hannah’s essays, you’ll see her alignment between wardrobing and writing. Elegant. Classy. Specific. Butter. Love. Nailing-It-Stellar-Endings.
For me, the fun, the true adventure—in wardrobing and writing—lives in arrangement.
As I arrange an ensemble, I begin with my lower half—leggings, capris, jeans. Dress? Skirt? And, like Hemingway’s reminder, don’t forget the weather. Idaho Spring and Fall offers continuous shifts in temperature—snow to sun within the hour—so layered-dressing is a must.
My selection continues—blouse, camisole, sweater.
This process resembles line breaks, enjambments, punctuation—em dash, semi-colon, period?
From each break, I move words, a sound-by-sound exchange. I focus not only on the best word, but the best sound. This attention to sound is like the attention required for true style and taste.
The small speck of teal in a shirt might become my main accent—my focus color—choosing shoes or totes or bangles to pull that tiny hue to the surface. To grab notice of something seemingly spare.
Note the pink-taupe barely peeking through the shirt but accented with the handbag
Words work this way.
The soft S. The hard K. I search for music.
I’ll rarely repeat an ensemble – on the page or on my body.
This does not mean I avoid repetition. I seek re-invention with every piece, maintaining an art form all its own. In a collection of essays or poetry or hybrid work, this array offers range. THAT form served THAT part of the narrative and only for THAT moment. Or, perhaps, a repetition for THAT type of moment throughout?
When I write the way I wardrobe—I maintain a sense of abandonment. I want to feel surprised. I want to love the process AND the end result. I long to linger, to delight, in both forms.
Wardrobe and writing inform one another. The more you pause for details in the small, daily matters, the more you include details in your writing. The more specific and detailed the writing, the more universal the meaning behind the words.
This type of writing (and living) is a mindful, intentional approach. There’s a sense of zen and grounding and earth within it. There’s also a deeper sense of self, of gratitude. I could compare writing to every aspect of my life—shopping, cooking, gardening, sleeping, loving, hurting—they continuously intersect, overlap, and instruct one another.
For the writer, writing is not a separate category of life. We find our stories in the every day. And should our creative well run dry, we can run our hands along a seam, trace the flower in a pattern on a sleeve, remember that the detail, the selection we made from the start of the day can be a major contributor to our art.
~
NOTE: In April 2023, I underwent a double mastectomy. After I healed, I returned to my wardrobe and undid the necklines, altering and revising yet again into something more in alignment and true to me.
If you’d like to order my FREE Zine, A Little Guide to Clothes I Wear All Day, just send a SASE to: Rebecca Evans
Image credits: From Instagram, public domain, 2024, Ageless, Stitch Fix, Dailylook and, with permission, Hannah Harlee. The remaining images are from my life.
You can find Hannah’s LookBook on Instagram at: @hannah_a_harlee and info regarding her Literary Journal, Art Wife, @artwife_mag.
This morning, I will bake and braid challah. This is one way I write poems. This is one way I pray. I pour blessings as I braid—three strands, or six—hoping all who consume my bread will suffer less. Hoping all will suffer less.
If I submit this piece for publication, they might ask about my background, my expert-ness.
What qualifies my opinion?
I struggle with an answer. I do not feel intelligent or experienced enough despite two graduate degrees, serving my country, birthing children, fleeing domestic violence, traveling the world, competing as an athlete, surviving—well, everything thrown my way.
I’m a Jewish woman, which offers little qualification as well.
Stating I’m Jewish, I know, will hard-stop many readers right now.
As a writer, readers stopping saddens me.
Lately, I’m barely writing. The state of the world paralyzes my art. Anything I wish to say, to speak towards, or on behalf of, feels too small, too uninformed. I seek mostly comfort and, what I know for certain is that because I’m able to find and seek comfort, I’m one of the few, the privileged.
All I have to offer is my lens, impressions of my experiences imprinted on me. These imprints inform and influence my managing and handling of my life.
In the build-up and center of the Gulf War, 1990-1991, we watched CNN. We listened to the Base’s reports, most of us deployed and then, re-deployed, from around the world. We found ways to tune in or read BBC and US news. We tried to feel informed. Nothing that we read or watched on the news aligned with our briefings and debriefings. And nothing, nothing matched our real-life, boots-in-sand situation. Each of us gained knowledge differently, pending on our jobs and security clearances. I could transfer flightplan data over the airwaves and know either more or far less than the person working alongside me.
The military machine operates like a focused telescope. They trained me to perform a specific job in time of war, not very different than my peace-time role. My briefings included only need-to-know information that allowed me to do that job.
Each of us, a small spoke in a massive wheel.
Through this lens, this understanding of my limitations, I respond to the situation in the Middle East today. This is my first public response. I paused when Gaza officials reported that IDF bombed a hospital. Some accused me, claiming my lack of response equated to apathy.
Not responding, for me, equates to waiting for wisdom. Not long after the official Gaza IDF-hospital-bombing report, the IDF reported that Hamas was responsible for the bombing. Now, we have evidence, including a blast analysis, suggesting a ground explosion versus an airstrike that hit this hospital.
I know that waiting for truth to surface will serve me more than reacting from emotion.
I also know that truth will not always surface.
And I know that I know so very little.
What I Do Know: I have no clue what is happening in Israel, in Gaza. I’m on foot in the center of Idaho, residing next to a cornfield.
What I Also Know: It took me two decades to decipher my role, my participation in the Persian Gulf War, and I’m still making sense of this today, a continuation of new information and my faulty memory filled with skewed reflection.
What I Know: War is horrible. War crimes, intolerable. Innocent people caught in the crossfire turns into atrocity—regardless of your belief system.
What I Know: I’m afraid to show up for events with my Jewish community. Idaho is a deep-red state with Proud Boys and Neo-Nazis and KKK chapters.
What I Also Know: My inability to attend a Jewish event is not an act against solidarity, but instead a fear for my safety.
What I Know: A six-year-old Muslim stabbed to death because of his culture brought me to my knees.
What Also I Know: A 65-year-old Jewish man bashed in the head at a peaceful protest, and later, dying from this wound, also brought me to my knees.
What I Know: I’m worried about the rise of antisemitism globally.
What I Know: Social media now melts into invented-journalism. People have forgotten that footage can be enhanced, altered, edited, shaped, slanted. Okay. So can the news.
What I Know: It’s difficult to find truth. It requires work, research, and the ability to listen to all sides. It takes discernment, conversation, and an open heart.
What I Know: Our VP announcing a protection plan for Islamaphobia heated me. Where is the protection plan for Native Americans? African Americans? Jewish-Americans? Every American? Everybody? Shouldn’t we all feel safe?
What I Know: The cure for phobia involves exposure to the object that causes fear. This is called: Exposure-Therapy. This means education and awareness. This means unteaching hate, unraveling ignorance surrounding our differences.
What I Know: We are not that different from one another.
What I Know: I can’t even begin to construct a sentence regarding the rape victims in this war. I can’t even. I can’t.
I sit cross-legged in meditation. I curl into a fetal-position and layer myself in blankets. I avoid writing. I try to tune into my inner being, my heart, which is clearly damaged. All I feel is fear. No. Not true. I feel pain and suffering and love too. I light my candles and I pray. I pray a prayer for you, for me, for all. I curl smaller because I am only one spoke in a wheel that is unreliable. I don’t want to pen an opinion because I don’t want to contribute to any more misinformation or propaganda. I’ve limited my social media to the small words that carry what I think I know.
I know how to love and, I know where I can, I can become a light for others, and I know that if I can help another, I will. I know, to me, this is the definition of living life as a Jew.
I also know that this way of life is not exclusively Jewish, that this is living as a human which has nothing to do with culture or dogma, and everything to do with compassion.
I know, this morning I will bake and braid challah, my way of penning a poem.
The other day, in a workshop with Sarabande Books, someone shared the story of a librarian discovering a taco in the center of a book.
A taco.
Squished in the pages.
A taco.
Note: This is the actual image. Here is the link to the taco story (and other horrific “bookmark” offenses).
I’m thinking this a ticketed offense.
Forget book-banning and charging librarians for providing access to literature, a rant I could blog about for all of time.
I’m imagining the yuck and guck librarians discover within pages and on shelves.
Even though I’ve stacks of bookmarks, mostly free from libraries and writing conferences, I rarely use them. I mean, I rarely use these cleverly quipped card-stock objects to track my reading progress.
I use many other items in place of bookmarks, though I’ve never used a taco.
Currently, I’m in the middle of eight books, give or take.
And while I searched for the quote, I found a bookmark, though not placed as a marker in order to return to my previous reading session, but instead, my form of “dog-earring” (another ticketed offense) an important page.
The bookmark? An unused Barnes & Noble gift card, dated 2015 for $25 and yes, it still worked, cashed in by my son for a fresh read.
So I photoed the bookmarks from my current stack for you.
I’ve a note from The Rumpus, letting me know my Letters in the Mail subscription was about to expire. Sometimes, I use one of the letters to save my place. These writings are stuffed with insight and inspiration, so yes, I’m still a subscriber. This month’s letter, six pages, included pictures, from Sequoia Nagamatsu! Priceless.
My hospital allergy wrist band from my most recent surgery, April 19th, 2023, which I’ve not told many people about (yet) as I’m still recovering and healing and adapting. Sometimes I forget I’ve allergies, like Sulfa drugs and Codeine, which could turn even a simple procedure deadly.
Some of my most treasured bookmarks include little notes from my Miracle Son, Zach. This one he left on my nightstand after my rough day with high pain and a low mood.
I’ve a coaster reminding me to love. Always.
And a nifty metal-art bookmark that clips to the pages.
And an emery board, though I rarely locate these devices when I’ve a snagged nail.
And numerous fortunes which have yet to come true, but still, I save them, repurposed for place-keeping between pages.
Now I’ll share a secret with you.
The secret to finishing. Most anything.
The act of finishing is often built on momentum and can relate to, yes, bookmarks.
In March of 2007, I worked with coach E. Dan Smith, author of Your Lifebuilder. I loved his work and sought his coaching as I continued to hone my skills as a Life Coach and Fitness Professional. In one of our sessions, a time I felt “stuck” and unable to finish several projects, Dan asked, “How many books are on your nightstand right now? Books you are in the middle of reading?”
I counted. I’m sure there were more than eight, but I don’t remember the number.
“Bookmark each one,” he suggested, and, “Shelf all but one. Finish reading just one book. And then another. One at a time.”
The idea garnered a feeling of finishing. I understood the technique as an Empowerment Coach, offering similar approaches for my own clients, suggesting spaces they felt they could “tackle” and “finish,” like clearing a junk drawer or one shelf in the fridge.
Once you finish one thing, there’s movement and a sense of completion, which propels you to begin finishing.
Today, 16 years later, I’ll incorporate this concept, move my half-read reads to shelves and dive all the way into just one book, which, once done, I find that I’ve completed other tasks, like editing another chapbook or a project on the home-front, such as resurfacing a desk for the spare room.
So, if you’ve a stack of reads and another stack of stubborn projects to finish, you might try this Bookmark Approach.
Note: This year, at AWP, which coincided with the pre-launch of my memoir-in-verse, Tangled by Blood(Moon Tide Press), I designed “business cards,” coordinated with the tone and mood of my book.
