Mates and Mirrors, or, the Story of Two Narcissists

Part 1: Fairy Tales

Can’t tell if I’m inches away from confessing the truth to myself
Or falling into self-delusion
Such a fine line, and I’ve been walking that tightrope for years.

But, you don’t need the truth right now
Can’t you see, I need you, mirror!
You think you muddled me, muddied me, meddled with me?

You think a dirty mirror does that?
But darling I wasn’t ready to see the truth clearly, anyway.
Which of us is?

So clean, your desire
Always for the sanitized
While I like the imperfect, the unpolished
Each a construct in its own way
Magnetic polarities repelling mangnetism
But flip either of us around and we’ll stick
On the other side of this charged realm

Don’t you see
Now, through the looking glass dimly
The hazards of existence?

You think that’ll bring me to my knees?
You think I’ll die the slow stifled death
Of one who is afraid to love fearlessly?

After all, weren’t you a part of my inspired self?
After all, you were my muse all these years.
You were, after all.

And yet, when we speak of the Beloved,
Don’t we speak of all the idealized love we’ve ever felt
And all the idealized love we’ve ever seen embodied in one muse?
And weren’t you always beloved?

But the hazards of idealizing one person invite disaster
This world is filled with imperfect people
Imperfect situations, imperfect solutions
It’s hard for the idealized to survive a collision.
Maybe the problem is not that some are narcissists,
But that some are not.

As the hummingbird’s wings fly in an infinity symbol
So your hands move on a piano
And my keystrokes are my piano
The fluttering page, fluttering time
It darts away as soon as I notice it.

Part 2: Reflections

If you followed the river
You’d never lose your way to the sea
But beneath the river you see
Is another river from which I was expelled

When my soul-half was torn away
The subterranean path I was on
Left on me gasping on a sandy bank
Unable to breathe this air
Out of my own, out of my home
How do I find my way upstream now, Muse?
I was with you but lost my spirit
When my soul-half was torn away

I can’t travel on the surface long
Before it becomes a desert
Tell me what to look for, distant star
Should I search thickets, gates, caves, ocean inlets?

How do I find my way,
Back to my cool lakes and quiet forests,
My world with a world?
Indeed, this parallel world
It’s the only one that matters
Without its waters nourishing my soul,
My blood runs dry
And though it’s of another world
It’s my only home in this world
Until the next one.
My vision, my home within a home.

My mirror, who is
The lover of dusty books, shorelines, wolves
And me.

Surrender

they say you haven't changed
well if that's true, keep your silence
Keep it, I don't want it anymore
I will speak now and I will hold my piece forever
My Peace--it's not really on the line these days.

they say you want attention
well if that's true, I don't believe you
Take it, I don't need it anymore
You always had it anyway
It doesn't cost me anything.

well who is it, they or you...
You say. Oh, that's right--
You're your own enemy
And they are happy to oblige
Scourging your soul, your skin
i can't tell the difference anymore.

You used to be you
then you disappeared
amongst the faces, amongst them,
amongst all of what the world babbles
psychobabble

they say you're a cliche, predictable, obvious
obviously, well, that may be true but I'm not, I won't
let it
I'm different.
Your mistake was believing you're not.
Your only chains
were the ones you laid over your shoulders
Willing.

It's become blase
It's become trite
To believe you're special, unique
but you are
and I am
and We're Not
Them
and They are.

Believe what they say, fine. That's what they say.
That's what you say.
They say you believe them, are coming to see, giving up
You say you believe them, I laugh.
Don't talk to me until you can prove them wrong
Again.

We all have to surrender sometimes
a little bit
sometimes a lot
but never all
And never ourselves
never our source, never our souls.

Humility
Is knowing when to let go
What to let go
Folly is letting it all go
The good with the bad
Yet it's true
Things bloom in silence
Evolve.

I trusted you, and only you
With silence, anyone else I would cut loose
Tell off
Let go
Never speak of again
Like her
If you're not doing what you say,
Don't let me see you until you are

And I know.
It's not just you,
it's me too
And I'm working on it.
We can't ask more than
learning from our mistakes.

How's this for predictable?
I made a promise and I won't forsake it
How's that for them
for all of them, for the world?
Some of us don't break our word so easily
When we give it, willingly.
They say everything's interchangeable
I'm not.
Your mistake was believing you are,
that people are, places.
You're not. And I'm not.

they say you want me to believe
that I'm so easily cast off
Who--they or you?
As long as I know I'm not--
and I do--
you see, one underestimates
Me. My self.

Trusted, you'll prevail
I know it
And if they're right,
Don't let me know about it
Because I never will be
Trite.

Is God a Man?

Genesis 5:2 He created them male and female and blessed them. And when they were created, he called them "man."

Matthew 19: 4-5 "Haven't you read," he replied, "that at the beginning the Creator 'made them male and female,' and said, 'For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh?'"

Genesis 1:27 So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.

I have been told for as long as I can remember by Christian legalists that I'm not "really" a Christian. Why? Because I don't believe in Jesus as Savior? Because I do! That makes me a Christian. Yet some treat Christianity as a report card where you have to get the "right" marks, and if you don't, you do not pass the human litmus test for being a beloved child of God. Good thing God is God, not a bunch of religious zealots.

Here are some of the ways I've been told I'm not really a Christian (I'm not kidding--by churchgoing, fellow Christians):

because I vote democrat
because I think same-sex marriage should be legal
because I don't necessarily think everyone who's not a Christian is going straight to hell
because I don't enjoy going to church (being told at church you're not a real Christian kind of makes you not want to attend anymore)
because I, quite frankly, do not go to church
because I believe all things can be forgiven
and the most bizarre way of all:

because I don't particularly care if God is defined as male or female.

Yes, friends and foes, I have literally been told that I am no Christian at all, just because I entertain the possibility that God is both male and female.

Let's look at how the sentiments of my critics add up:

Despite what the Bible says, they are saying that faith in and love of Jesus as savior is not actually enough. It is.

They are saying that if I believe same sex marriage is ok, I am not a "real Christian," and am therefore going to hell. They are saying if I believe God is both male and female, I am no Christian at all, and am therefore, in their view, going to hell. Aren't you glad God is God, and not a fellow person? Because I'd apparently be doomed to eternal damnation for daring to disagree with group interpretation. This is a form of control.

Now, to address the actual issue of God's anatomy. I personally refer to God as "He," because I've been raised in a tradition that does so, and it's fine with me. But it does not bother me at all if another person wants to think of or refer to God as "She." Why? Because I believe that God is quite possibly beyond gender or sex, or encompasses both.

"You think God is a woman?!" the outraged ask.

"Well, do you think God is a man?!" I reply.

Is God a giant man, really? Does He also have specific characteristics of human gender and race?

"Well, no." they reply. "But He is male."

"Really?" I ask. "But how do you know? Do you think maybe God is beyond our human notions of gender or sex?"

"Because--well because because the Bible says!! He is called He! He is called Father!"

"Well, yes, I do certainly agree that the Bible does refer to God as He, and as Father. But it also refers to both male and female as 'man.' Who has seen the face of God? Who knows what God looks like? Doesn't it say God created them both in His image, male and female?"

At this point, if I am going to be called a non-Christian, this is when it happens.

My point is this: I personally do not care whether God is male or female. I am willing to exchange my desire to be right at all costs for the wonder of the majestic unknown. Ask yourself: Does it matter? Why does it matter to you? Would God being male, female, neither, or both make you love God any more or any less? It shouldn't. Because if God is truly omniscient, God has perfect knowledge and understanding that transcends biology and gender.

'Nuff said.

No Other Meaning Than This

I did yoga this morning with the snow coming down softly outside, and every time I closed my eyes, I saw the snow falling inside.

I started running in October because I was actually becoming discouraged with yoga, and was seeking an alternative form of exercise to boost my energy level. But as time went on, I learned that running has actually helped my yoga immeasurably. I had attended a few of the yoga classes at the Y again, now that I have my nights somewhat free. But, it felt like we were all just going through the motions. So, some in the class can achieve a full crow pose? For what purpose, other than some contortional pi$$ing contest, either with oneself or with others? The classes were a series of poses, with a meditation at the end. The interlocking spiritual and mental benefits one should get from yoga were not present, there. So I stopped doing yoga for several months, and concentrated on running. Physically, it was satisfying, but again, I wasn't feeling holistic benefits, beyond the increase in energy and self-image I was gaining.

I came back to doing kundalini yoga on my own this past week--ie, mantras, spinal series, 5 Tibetan rites, meditation, and prayer. Kundalini yoga is very different from other forms of yoga, and it is kundalini that I prefer over all others. The problem is that it is hard to find kundalini studios and teachers, and group classes at the Y certainly do not offer this type of yoga. I found that running had not only increased my strength and endurance for the kundalini exercises, but had increased my lung capacity and rib cage flexibility for the spinal series and breathing methods.

Practicing yoga has a purpose for me beyond striking challenging poses, getting a workout, or joining a class. It breaks me out of thought patterns that can become entrenched in my mind. It re-centers my mind, body, creativity, and energy. It gets me in touch with myself, as well as with God and others, as we use the energy we gain to project healing prayers for others, and peace into the world. It reminds me that spirituality involves being interconnected to all creation, not just to our "communities" or other people in our own religion. It reminds me that the mind and body are actually, strongly connected, and this is humbling knowledge as well as practical. There is meant to be a higher purpose to yoga than perfecting one's downward dog.

Last week, a friend mentioned that they were feeling nihilistic. It made me think about how I never ask people what they believe the meaning of life is anymore. Is it a trite question? Sophomoric? Are we all too busy these days to think about it? Or do we just not want to think about it?

Of course, there comes a time in each of our lives when we wonder what the purpose of our lives might be, and what value all we do might amount to. Over the years, I've heard a variety of responses to what the meaning of life might be. "To love and be loved," is a typical answer, and not such a bad one. "To make a difference," or "to do good," is one I've heard a lot. "To better oneself as much as possible." A few very optimistic ones have said, "to perpetuate more life."

Yet none of these answers are failproof. If the meaning of life were to love and be loved, or to do good, we should be wired to do so as much as possible. But we are not. We are filled with selfish ambitions and desires. We are wired to sleep much of our lives away, and spend many of our waking hours in pursuit of basic survival--the means to procure food, shelter, etc. Oftentimes love between people seems hard to grasp, let alone attain. Ultimately, life is filled with the mundane, with distractions and hardships, illnesses, disasters, and the needs of the body. And that's not even getting to the "higher needs--" the needs of the mind, of the intellect--the needs to create, learn, pursue, pray, explore, and think.

Whatever way we look at it, any worldly definition of meaning--whether it's love, doing "good," bettering oneself, or creating more life-- meets with almost crushing obstacles. The harvest fails. The body gets injured. The car breaks down. War breaks out. The field or the home floods. Our lifestyles cannot sustain our bodies, or our bodies cannot sustain our lifestyles. Things need attention. Things fall apart and need to be repaired, including ourselves. We need to eat well, and exercise, and bathe, and get enough rest. Oh, and mow the lawn. We may find ourselves spending the tiniest portion of our life on the "meaningful" bits.

Even if we have got our lives in relatively good balance and smooth sailing, "making a difference" and "doing good" are concepts in flux. One only needs to look at human history and the misguided intentions of the past. Also, it can be an arrogant way to live--"doing good" often involves power structure and institutional or societal hierarchy. History sings the praises of great leaders, but not of the parents who raised those leaders, or the farmers who fed them, or the teachers who taught them, or the janitors who kept their hallways clean, or the construction workers who built the roads they traveled on. We cannot all be Gandhis and Einsteins--life is just not set up that way. Someone needs to grow the food. Someone needs to slaughter the animals while others are busy trying to "make a positive difference."

Just as exercise has a higher purpose, so everything does, if we are in the service of sat-nam, ie, the True One. God creates us and gives us all a place in the world, and I believe the meaning of life is to live in the service of our God-given purpose. Every living thing--all of Creation--has a God given place in the ecosystem, if not in society. If we move our view of "meaningful life" from a human-centric one to a Creation-centric one, we see that every living thing has a purpose in the world. But first, we have to overcome our selfish notions of self-importance, of success, of significance.

There is a whole, wide world out there, and we should not believe ourselves above any part of the human experience. As parents, we create our children for love and for meaning--and while it pleases us when they are obedient, or when they're working hard to achieve, we do not want to see them so busy with school or homework (I hope) that they never notice the world around them. We did not create them for obedience, or doing the "right" things all the time. We created them to be infused with love and light, to live in this world and find their place, and from this, meaning and joy.

If we limit meaning to human-centric notions, what does it say about our respect, tolerance, care, and gratitude for non-human life? Nature has always been all around us, but it seems ever-increasingly pushed away from our daily concerns. If we ignore the rest of Creation, we are cutting ourselves off from wonder and the fact that it's not just all about us. It's not just all about us as humans, nor is it just about human society. Again, there is a whole world out there, filled with God-created sentient beings, beings who have a purpose in an interdependent web--ie, a relationship. I reject explanations about the meaning of life that narrow a meaningful life to a particular sort of life. What do we do to ourselves when we, either deliberately or through complacency, come to see the natural world as nothing more than backdrop to human drama, and other creatures as nothing more than tools to be used for human purposes? We lose compassion for other beings, as well as opportunities for wonder, for exploration, for inquisitiveness, for scientific knowledge, for understanding the nature of God, for quiet, for meditation, for solitude, for comfort.

I realized this today as I read my son a book about nature. "Nature is more beautiful than gold or jewels so rare. Each day's a precious gift for everyone to share." I talked to my son about what dew is. About what irises and pebbles and poppies are. About what it means "to bloom." About milk thistle and how blackberries grow. And about foxglove, which provides digoxin, one of my son's life-saving heart medications. He soaked up all this information with excitement and pleasure. Why? Why did we talk about it? Because I want him to grow up and be a famous biologist? Because he longs to know about this world around him, and because I want him to know it is all interconnected, and we all have meaning, from he and I to the foxglove to the dew.

We cannot deny all of our existence except the one element we most approve of--whether that be our ability to love others, or to make a difference, or to create more life, or to better ourselves. First, we need to be in the service of God, and from Him (or Her, if you prefer--it's as arbitrary as Him), the true sense of purpose, humility, love, and action will come. God created us to live a wide range of experience, and through Him (or Her, if you prefer), there is meaning in everything, from eating and washing, from repairing the car and taking breaths, from being in love and making a family, to making a difference and exercising and sleeping. Do not live in one dimension, but find meaning always in service to God, in knowing that your purpose is interconnected to everyone else's, and in acting as part of such interconnection.

The Broken Page

Prayed to the Lord for a new beginning, and here I am, broken at the blank page, coffee in hand, trying not to be overcome by nervous mom anxiety. Today my heart kid wouldn’t eat breakfast, wouldn’t drink much, woke up trembling and coughing and with a diaper that wasn’t wet at all. He has a heart cath scheduled for Tuesday (today is Friday) and I don’t know if he’ll be able to go under anesthesia with this cough. He wanted to go to school so badly, but I hated to send him with an almost empty-stomach, with my nervous fretting energy flitting around the little lightbulb of his existence. We got our first snow of the winter, finally, last night and the school wants to let the kids outside, even though it’s only about 20 degrees out right now. I plan on swooping in shortly before release at 11:30, always the earliest mom there, to rescue my son from imminent dehydration/hypothermia/neglect. And to give him his next dose of medications, which I push back so he can go to preschool. But this is all my nervousness—he loves preschool, and they take great care of him. Keeping him home to mope about and stare longingly outside didn’t feel right, either. So I released him like a canary from cupped hands, and he raced into school with a “goodbye Mom!” and didn’t notice at all when I came back in with his snowpants and boots. This makes me happy—to let him be where he wants to be. I just hope he’s ok—that his strange and “off” behavior is nothing more than a touch of a cold and maybe, like me, being woken from 1:30-3:30 am by snowplows.

Life is not tied up in neat packages. Unfinished novels show us that—Hemingway died and left over 300 unpolished, unfinished, or otherwise unpublished works behind. Yet that doesn’t stop us from reading them, from imagining our own endings, or engaging in a self-satisfying flight of fancy, "WWHD?” “What Would Hemingway Do?:” imaging the old man had something up his sleeve after all. But reading a published, unfinished novel reminds me that tying up all the ends is merely a convention of the genre, like a sitcom or a blog post—an “all’s well that ends well” or a sense of an anecdote, a false sense that it has happened, and we can now stand back objectively and laugh about it a little—“see how cool I am? I can see the irony in my own situation.” The end. But no, problems aren’t always resolvable, especially not to an author’s or mine or your satisfaction. Maybe we don’t want resolution to a story yet, and resent having to tack on an ending to an otherwise unfolding story. And that is how I feel about my journey right now. I want to write about being a heart mom, but to do so with any authority seems to imply I have something final to say about the topic, and just when I think I’ve found my footing, I have more summits to climb after all.

Summer Storm

(for Shawn)

You came home in the night with the approaching storm
Each seismic wave of thunder a giant's pace
I awoke from my spell with your kiss on my cheek
But my release was in mouth-to-mouth resuscitation
After the sea had tossed me, delirious, to a solitary shipwreck.

Portal

I wandered from the hearth of the living and you followed
A backward glance towards the warm den of family and friends
I was drawn into the street by Patrick and the red wolf
You padded behind me in white socks and I knew you were watching

Patrick was sitting on the curb, thinking, but he vanished when we reached him
The wolf circled us and I laughed, saying it was only a dog after all
Impossible, since there aren't red wolves in WI...just grey
That's what I told you, but we turned and fled

Straight into an underworld, or an overworld
A tower of staircases, we couldn't tell if we running up and down
And you in your white crew socks
You were the only one who followed me there.

My Friend of Cautious Amusement

I dreamt of a mind meld but it was terrifying A stern cold voice and my "how did you get in here?" It held me inside the bubble as I tore against your presence My friend of cautious amusement, you don't know how I laugh now You've never seen me smile so wide, nor so happy How happy I am now, we never dared to imagine You might return but you won't know me You're not following what I'm trying to tell you I forget you don't see what I see You're not acknowledging what remains after the world breaks a heart If you reject the way life has turned out, you'll reject the inseperable self Why don't you accept my joys and sorrows Standing over this wishing well, trying to see our reflections I wonder if I'll ever again say what I used to say about you, and believe And I'm lowering, lowering this bucket into my heart I can't even say if it'll come up empty or brimming.

Stalemate Showdown

A traffic jam of anxieties converges in my mind
each vehicle holding a tiny dictator-occupant shaking a fist,
honking, yelling, cursing in pip-squeak sounds
It's rush hour in my life again.

A railroad yard crowded with beached steel on wheels,
Heavy boxcars squealed to a stubborn halt and
their morose bullying bulk demands my action.
Called to be the magic conducter,
flipping switches, giving clearance
When I'd rather
let their dead weights explode into each other and burn

When I can't escape the logjam,
When I can't shout over them
When they refuse to be ignored
when they refuse to disperse
with their heavy freights
When running away just means
they'll catch up again,
I can't take any prisoners
I have to banish them all
One way or another
I have to deal with each one
and send them on their way
One by one.

An Early Lesson in Greed

I learned a lot of valuable lessons from my Dad early on. Like, the reward of being loyal to a particular team, no matter how abysmal their performance year after year: that loyalty is its own reward. That it's ok for a man to cry. That it's ok to be imperfect, as long as you're genuinely you. Like not compromising your beliefs. But one of my Dad's lessons was largely unspoken, and came to inform an unfolding perspective over many years. It is a discussion he probably doesn't even remember. This weighs heavily on my mind right now, when suddenly everything in Wisconsin seems for sale and "open for business," including public services, benefits, and worker's rights.

My parents had gotten a subscription to National Geographic for donating to some cause or other. Being interested in other places and cultures for as long as I can remember, I would thumb through every issue and study the pictures.

One month, there was a photoessay on famine in Ethiopia. I was 5 or 6. I stared at the picture of an emaciated mother holding a skeletal baby, and the light seemed extinguished in their eyes. I wondered why they were starving. Was there not enough food in the world? Did they live in a place so isolated that food couldn't get to them? Why did people have children if they were going to starve? These were the thoughts that went through my 6-year old mind.

I brought the magazine to my Dad and asked him why there wasn't enough food in the world to feed this lady and her baby. My Dad looked at the picture, and I could tell he felt angry about it.

"Well, you see, there is enough food in the world to feed everyone," he said.
"But Dad, if there's enough food, why are they starving? Can't anyone get them the food?" I asked.
"Well, let me put it this way: we could feed everyone in the world if we really wanted to," he replied.
"But Dad, I do want to!" I exclaimed in horror. "What do you mean, if only we wanted to?! Why should they starve if there is enough food??"
"Because of greed," he said. "Because there are greedy people in the world."

I didn't know what to say to that. And he seemed to have nothing more to say. So I walked away, and for days, my child's mind was obsessed with images of fat pashas gorging themselves with delicacies, and sticking their fingers down their throats so they could throw up only to stuff more food in their faces. I imagined storehouse after storehouse of grain horded by warlords with guns. Although these images subsided over the course of about a week, the seed was planted for me to have an awareness of the enormous structure of global economy, trade, and inequality in the world. What I couldn't grasp at the time, what my Dad could not explain to a child as young as I was (and maybe couldn't even explain to himself at the time), was that there were very few particular individuals gorging themselves on actual rare and expensive delights, but a huge, complicated picture of interconnected political, economic, and social forces of power and greed at work in the world on all levels--local, national, international.

My Dad taught me to see and try to understand the big picture, and about the problem of insidious and destructive greed. To try to grasp things that might defy simple explanation. To try to put a picture, instead of a face, to a concept. To realize that relatively small-scale injustices can add up to far-reaching catastrophe. To remember that greed cannot only be attributed to "warlords with guns," but to an entire global order. That the famine, or any situation, was not an isolated event with a quick and easy fix, but an entire process of historical events and factors. And that therefore, quick fixes are rarely the answer to enormous structural problems of greed, corruption, mismanagement, and inequality.

I can recall the picture of the mother and baby, and their eyes. I still wonder what happened to them. I still wonder if the light seemed extinguised because they were so hungry, or because they knew there were some who wanted to help, and others who wouldn't help.

Falling under

Sometimes it's too cold
I drive to end of the road
And I walk to the end of the land
Where the land falls under the water

Brilliant blue ice and eyes
when he appears and I ask,
"What brings you here?"

Aren't you afraid that you've run into a strange man out here?
I never fear my own people.
Are you the queen of this land, then?
Why, yes. And as queen, I know what you're seeking. I can take you to it. As long as you agree to do no harm.

Come on, let me show you these parts.
So I showed him where the deer sleep and the birds wait out the winter
I showed him how they survived and when they would go to the stream
Until he'd forgotten what he was looking for, and his intentions

As his lips turned blue to match the ice and eyes
He realized he felt the fear inside no longer
The land and water would keep him
We had time to walk in the land that falls under the water
And I showed him those parts too
And there I left him, knowing he could find his way home.

When Winter Gives You Lemons...Make Sunshine

It's a snow day. Well, not officially. But it did snow a bit last night, and everything about this Monday feels like a snow day. The walk remains unshoveled; the sky's white matches the ground. I've been burying my nose in a book, and I caught Himal and Babs the cat gazing out the window together in companionable quiet.

Although it feels like the only thing in season here is the Packers, January is the height of lemon season in CA and AZ. So when winter gives you lemons, make...lemonade? Lemonade hardly sounds appealing at the moment. A cup of tea, a dark beer, a towering mug of hot chocolate, anything but...lemonade. So what to do with lemons when it's not lemonade season?

I'm currently on sabbatical from facebook. I need time to focus on other things, and I need to remember what life was like without it. I have too much that I want to do, and catch up on, and something had to give. I also cut out the volunteer activities I was doing for now. We need to focus inward for a precious bit--it is, after all, what winter is about. It feels good. It feels darn good. Yet there is still so much to catch up on, and being without facebook has caused me to reconsider its usefulness. When I go back to it, I'll have to appoach it in a different way. I'll have to pare down my "friends" list. I'll have to not let it be so much of a substitute for real interaction.

Lemons! What makes me happy? Little things make me happy. I've always been the type of person to savor the small pleasures life has to offer versus the big and gaudy. What makes me happy in winter? Food makes me happy. Drink makes me happy. Books make me happy. I gazed at my new coffee calendar this morning. It is a work of art. It's classy. The book in my hand is a gem that very few readers have discovered. I finally sat down and ordered a boatload of tropical chai and Thai spice from Cathy's Botanicals, the talented tea maker we met in last year in the Naples Farmer's Market. And then there are the lemons that were on sale at the local grocery store in a giant, exuberant citrus display.

My little suns. The lemon is versatile. I can, and will, use them to clean my cutting boards and kitchen sink. I will shave curls off their peels and use them to flavor cups of espresso. I will make lemon-mustard cod on a bed of lemon spinach. I will add them to my tea, and to the new juicer I got for my birthday in the quest for the perfect orange-lemon juice.

Keep the lemonade. When winter hands you lemons, make your sunshine.

Romantic with a Capital "R"

I have a doppelganger, a strange and estranged doppelganger. One time I said, "I'm a Romantic, but I'm not romantic." He replied, "you mean, in that train travel and postage stamp way--not in that flowers and chocolate way. Romantic with a capital 'r.'" "Yes, exactly!" I was relieved he understood.

It all makes it fairly easy to please me--I have a husband who's more "r"omantic (luckily, in an effortless, not contrived, way) than I am, so I'm never disappointed in my marriage as some (many?) women are.

However, when it comes to "R"omance, I'm always mourning the loss of it in our society. I'm a fan of postcards, handwritten letters, artifacts/tangible objects, snail mail, used/vintage books, CDs with artwork in the booklets, rocks, leaves, sticks, feathers, bookshelves and photos. I'm not such a fan of digital files-easily produced, dispatched, modified, deleted, forgotten.

Of course, I recognize the utility, practicality, and convenience of technology. I'm not anti-technology; however, I find it preferable to try to preserve some sense of individualism in how we consume media and correspondence. When I was in Mongolia, it was this sense that drove me to send handwritten letters on local paper, using Mongolian stamps, sometimes with a Mongolian bill enclosed as a tangible piece of the place. But if any of the recipients preferred one of these letters to a standard email (all of which looks the same) from the unreliable, slow, sole computer in Bayangol, none commented. I still love to send and receive letters in this way. I have kept, nearly 10 years later, the letters a friend sent me from his Peace Corps assignment in Cameroon. I've kept postcards from faraway places, with defunct stamps, bundled in my desk drawer. The emails, on the other hand, from various people's vacations and stints abroad--they are forgotten and haven't been so much as glanced at since they were read for the first and only time. There's something about seeing a person's handwriting, the pen and paper and envelope and stamp that they chose, that I think reflects upon them and the relationship in a way that the billionth gmail or yahoo message cannot possibly.

Recently, a friend (who also writes letters) and I engaged in a Romantic endeavor: sitting in Anaba Tea Room and chatting for a couple hours over slowly-imbibed cups of tea. One of the things we talked about was whether technology is good/better simply because it's new, whether change is always good, and whether change should be made just for change's sake. US-style capitalism, with planned obsolesence and the creation of desire for "newness" that feeds our consumer economy, seems to have spilled into our outlook on how we learn about and share our our experiences of the world as well.

One of the products we discussed was the e-reader. I can certainly see how an e-reader would be convenient for travel, as well as for magazine subscriptions and the like. But as a bibliophile who is not only enraptured with the act of reading, but the books themselves, the Kindle, Nook, Sony E-Reader, or iPad just doesn't cut it for me. My friend agreed with me: "at the end of the day," he said, "it's stil just pixels on a screen." I know that the e-reader has done its best, thus far, to replicate the reading experience. You can still get cover art; you can even design a "bookmark." You can check out, return, and "lend" books to other e-reader devices.

But still, it comes down to the weight of things. I like the weight of a book in my hand. I have held and paged on kindles and nooks, and it's the same dead weight for every book or magazine you could possibly download. The weight of a book is part of my reading experience. How yellowed the pages are--part of my reading experience. My bookmark collection (gathered and gifted from all over the world, from people whom I remember fondly when I touch and examine these bookmarks) is irreplaceable. To walk into our family's office and be surrounded by my books on bookshelves all around--this matters to me. To be able to take one off the shelf and page through it, as opposed to hitting the same button on an e-reader over and over again--this matters to me.

The weight of things also reminds me to exercise restraint. Never a person to desire being bound by excessive things, the weight of things matters to me as a symbol of how much clutter might be in my life. What does it mean when we have endless digital space to horde and forget about? How do we relinquish attachment to the meaningless items in our collection then?

The issue of Romance came up in the past couple days again, which is why I write this. Some of my friends don't want actual books this year--they would prefer a gift certificate or gift e-book for their e-reader instead. Which, if that's what they want, I guess I will have to indulge. However, it once again makes me mourn the loss of the weight of the book I would give them, the act of paging through it or wrapping it or sending it through the mail, the loss of the handwritten card I would attach to it.

The Mandala

Every year around this time, I feel ugly. The glowing tan of summer is wearing off, my sun-streaked hair is coming in a dun brown at my scalp. Fall's preening display has succumbed to a barren brown landscape; puddles freeze over and the rivers develop icy sheens upon which the lingering waterfowl sit with their naked webbed feet, making me wish I were cold-blooded. The novely of breaking out my fall fashions has worn off as I wear the same handful of sweaters over and over again.

We haven't had our first snow yet, and for the most part, it's actually been rather blue-skied and warm here--relatively speaking. Still, the ugliness of the late fall/early winter season gets to me--a sea of Packers gear and blaze orange, dead deer strapped to vehicles, Christmas trees lashed to car roofs somehow incongruent in the snow-free landscape.

But then--but then. I come to accept the quiet and the indoors. I focus on the little things that have been overwhelmed since the bacchanal summer arrived. I get out the music that makes me reflect and dream on the beauty of the world, such my classical Spanish guitar and Latin harp albums. I notice, and appreciate, the interior--the interior of the mind and soul, the interior of living spaces, the interior of nature where many creatures lie dormant under ice and snow. I come to admire the unique pattern in which the steam rises from my coffee cup; I take in the beauty of people's attempts to celebrate the holidays without the rush and spending--the handwritten card, the visit, the late night discussion in a German bar over a warm winter drink, decorating a tree, hanging stockings...and I focus on these things until beauty blossoms from the feelings of ugliness...this is winter's mandala.

Dr Seuss, the Sunday Paper, and Other Self-Reflections

Recently, someone I considered a pretty good friend told me that he didn't understand me. It's been a wake up call--I've been in disbelief about the statement because I've always considered myself a straightforward person. Someone who is easy to read, maybe deceptively simple, unwaiveringly honest, transparent, and free from subterfuge and games. Is contemporary society really so complicated and insincere that someone genuine becomes baffling? I admit I have some major faults. I can be tactless and even critical at times. At times, I approach most things, including emotions and relationships, as if they were just one more interesting discussion topic, which has caused a few people to accuse me of being cold sometimes, or rigid in my views of fluid feelings. But all in all, I've never considered myself a complicated person.

But maybe I am more hard to read than I realized. Last night I was out with a few friends, one of whom said I was the most "academic non-academic I know." I denied it and said, "I'm a bookish theorist, which can make it seem like I'm an academic, but it's an entirely different thing." Complicated?

This morning, Esposo and I had some errands to run before Himal came home from a visit to his grandparents' house. Since it was a Sunday morning, we decided to go out for espresso first. As we sat down (I with my cortado, which the barrista told me his favorite drink to make because no one--but me--ever orders it), as Esposo and everyone else snapped open their Sunday papers, I opened my latest colorful Dr Seuss picture book and immersed myself in The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins. Complicated?! But it seems so simple, and it makes perfect sense to me....

When I saw Esposo reading the headline story on education in America, and we started an intense discusion of my fairly radical views on education...then I remembered the views I expressed on Disney movies at work the other day (how I've never liked Disney, even from a very young age, and I hate how Disney manipulates the viewers' emotions), I stopped.

"Esposo, am I a difficult person to understand? I'm not, am I? I'm the easiest person in the world to understand!"
"Actually...the normal person is not going to understand you."
"What?! That's impossible. I'm completely transparent."
"You may be transparent, but you have too much depth. The normal person cannot see to the bottom of so much depth. The normal person is not going to understand how deeply you feel about things, or understand your position on some issues."

I tell you. My world has been upset.

The Witch, the Whisper, the Scream

When I was really little, I had a recurring nightmare where a witch would drag me into the basement and lock me in a secret back room. In the dream, I would scream and scream, but no one would hear me. My voice would come out as a barely audible whisper, no matter how desperately I tried. People wouldn't look my way; they'd go about their business, and I'd wake up in a panic, panting as I tried to tell myself that such a situation was just a dream and would never happen in real life.

One of the worst feelings in the world is trying to confide in close friends or family, and being ignored, met with indifference or silence or downright lack of compassion. I realize that the competing demands and mundane tasks of modern life make whispered screams all but inaudible to those not paying attention.

Desire

My desire to see the world
has become a cat sleeping in the sun
and when there's no sun
it's curled up in the blanket of my family's love
Only when it's cold and hungry
does it wake up and prowl

Because I've seen enough of the world
to know it's better to expand one's own frontiers,
better to explore the boundaries,
better to unlock the wonder;
it's better to explore one's own province
than to nose in someone else's.

On "not all who wander are lost"

I should write something, and so this is a quick response to an article a friend posted, a friend who may or not be reading this.

I completely agree with the 3rd-to-last paragraph and most of the last paragraph.

I find "happiness" to be a relatively useless word. I don't often worry about it or talk about it, nor do I particularly shoot for it because I don't think it's something you can make happen; it's something you have to let happen.

Is "dissatisfaction" the same as "unhappiness?" I don't think so.

It's interesting to think that when people wanted to talk about the US in Nepal, the vast majority (with some notable, wise exceptions) would tell me that if only they could live in the US, all their problems would disappear and they would be happy for the rest of their lives. They truly had a hard time believing that Americans could be unhappy without some tangible outside source of sadness in their lives.

I see people searching so hard for love, peace, and/or happiness. But I most often see people find these things precisely when they stop trying so hard. Most people are happy and they don't even know it. Most people have love in their lives but some can't even see it. Most people would find peace if only they would stop churning in the tide and just listen to the waves.

When we were kids, weren't we told "if you get lost, stay where you are" (this is assuming you can't find your source, which I emailed you about)? If we frantically cast about, we may get more hopelessly lost, as well as make it harder for others to find us. Likewise, if you meet a wild animal, will you catch it by chasing after it? Or will you sit still, be peaceful, and let it come to you?

Being more fully you now than then is quite possibly a different discussion than the "happiness" question, though. Is "being you" the key to happiness? The article's author seems to admit that it is, if only she knew how. That's the remaining question in my mind, as like I said, I don't really aim for happiness and I just let it happen or let it come to me whenever it will and does.

I still believe if you can go back to your source, you can never go wrong.

Meat: A Big Sham?

I have ventured into new terrain: the meat section of the grocery store. However, I don't think I'll be making a trip there very often. I had no idea what to purchase. I felt like I was in the middle of a morgue; there was a chill in there air and flesh and body parts lay all around me in a relatively sanitary, sterile atmsophere. I was shocked at how expensive the meat was. I'm so used to relatively inexpensive grains, legumes, fruits and vegetables, and dairy products.

I should back up a minute and say that Himal finally started eating meat--sort of. I do not know how to cook or store meat, so I told Esposo that he should be in charge of this area. He's up to the task--my husband loves cooking. Esposo is what we've deemed an opportunistic/non-practicing meat eater. He'll eat if it's around, he might order it once in awhile if we're out, and if I'm going to be gone for awhile, he might cook some at home. But he's not a regular carnivore, and these tendencies pre-date our relationship.

When my brother was living in Budapest and I visited him, we went to his girlfriend's ancestral home in rural Hungary. There, her vegetarian mother cooked a small feast for the family, and picked at a few mushrooms while the rest of us stuffed ourselves (I was eating her chicken dish, as I can be lax with vegetarianism abroad--food offered to a guest should be eaten, as much as possible). I asked my brother's girlfriend about how one can be a vegetarian in Hungary, which seemed like such a meat-based cuisine, and she replied, "oh, she cooks meat for all of us. She just doesn't eat." Glancing at this gaunt woman who was grimacing and picking at her mushrooms, I saw this to be true.

Despite the grim portrait this scene painted in my mind, I thought I would follow her example. After I returned from Hungary, I made the Hungarian chicken dish for Esposo (who was Novio at the time), as a gesture of how highly I thought of him and how I was (symbolically) willing to make sacrifices to please him. But I think my attempt scared Esposo more than anything.

Thus, that was the one and only time I've cooked meat (other than seafood and eggs, which I will cook). Fast-forward several years, and we have a toddler in our midst, a toddler with a heart condition that makes his red blood/iron count on the low side to begin with. I started wondering if Himal was getting enough iron in his diet, as he tends to refuse almost all animal protein. Of course, I've been careful to include iron-fortified foods in his diet, but I still wondered if it was enough. I was relieved when we went to Irish Fest last weekend, and Himal chowed down on a corndog, corned beef, and a chicken strip. I thought this might be the completion of a diet that is otherwise extremely healthy. Until he got sick...along with Esposo. They have since been suffering from stomach "bugs" whereas I've been spared--was it the meat they ate?

Nevertheless, I chugged on in this terra nova--right into the meat section of a local store yesterday. But I ran into immediate confusion--looking at the nutritional information--4% of one's daily iron in this serving of chicken?! What?! When Rice Krispies have 50% ?!!! Why in the world would I spent so much money on chicken if it's not worth the nutritional bang for the buck? Sure, I could splurge on a more iron-rich meat, but what toddler really eats steak? Who dares to eat liver these days, the organ meat that stores all the pesticides the animal has eaten? This is not making sense to me...are people aware of the nutritional value of meats opposed to grains, legumes, veggies? All my life, carnivores have lectured me on the merits of eating meat...but I don't see their views bearing out on the labels.

Esposo also made the point that maybe Himal doesn't like "meat" yet, but the salty taste that imbued the hotdog, corned beef, etc that he ate at the festival. "Hm," I mused. If I remember 23 years or so back, I might be able to recall what a hotdog tastes like, but I've never had corned beef. I thought a nice transition would be to buy some "chicken strips." I baked them last night, but Himal refused to eat them.

This morning, I wondered what to do with the leftover chicken, and decided to make fried rice--a toddler staple around here. It's easy, it includes several food groups in one dish. I fried up some veggies and egges--standard for fried rice. I made the rice. I cut up the chicken...and then I remembered the Old Testament admonition about not cooking a lamb in its mother's milk. I don't know if it's the same thing or not--serving a grown hen in the same dish as an egg, but it reminded me of just how much I was venturing into unfamiliar ethics. I remember reading that verse in high school, when I was dating the son of a Lutheran pastor. I asked my then-boyfriend what the verse meant, and he said, "well, it's just obvious. It's unethical." But it raised so many questions in my mind--did that mean, according to the Bible, that animals have family bonds that should be respected? I still wonder about that verse.

I tend to respect meat eaters who have the courage to raise/hunt, and slaughter and process their own animals. I think if you're going to be a meat-eater, you should be willing to do that--otherwise, how will you have an accurate picture of what meat eating really is--if you always let someone else do the dirty work for you? If you give an animal a good life, and kill and eat it, I think that's awesome. If you go to the grocery store and pick out factory-farmed meat that has been raised in terrible conditions, that an undocumented, underpaid foreign worker has slaughtered and cleaned up for you in dangerous conditions, if all you ever see is the nicely-packaged meat without all the exploitation and sacrifice...I'm sorry, but I don't have a whole lot of respect for that food choice. I don't know how we're going to negotiate getting some meat into Himal's diet...I figured that sooner or later, he would go after it himself, and then we would do our best to supply him with good quality/humanely-raised meats from then on. Maybe he's not there yet. But this has been something of a practice run.

A Question of Wills

As Himal's 2nd birthday draws nigh, I've been thinking a lot about parenting lately. There are a couple of blog posts I've been wanting to write for awhile now, but like all my heady summer thoughts, they seem fragmented. I've reflected a lot on what the past year has taught me, all the hard-won lessons I've learned, and how my pespective has changed over the past year.

In the past, I've written about choice and free will, mentioning that despite our free will, there's a lot we don't get to "choose" in this life. I cited our birth families as an example. But, the more I think about it, the more I wonder if there is more of a cosmic roll call going on than we realize.

I remember when I first got to Nepal and was to live with a host family. Our program director, Manohari, had a mind-boggling list of families who had bravely volunteered to host an American college student of unknown character and hygiene. A few families had specified whether they wanted a male or female student to share their home, but other than that, there were no qualifications. I listened attentively as Manohari went down the list. I hadn't realized there would be some degree of choice involved, so I hadn't come up with any particular attributes I'd like my host family to have. The list went on and on, and still no family seemed quite right to me. After Manohari read each description, one or another of my 23 colleagues would jump on it. As he approached, the bottom, I felt a growing apprehension that I wouldn't find a suitable match.

Then, towards the very end, I heard this: "An ethnic Limbu family from the eastern hills living in Dhumbarahi. Extended family living situation involving a mom and her 2 girls and 1 boy, an aged grandmother, an auntie and uncle with a 3 year old boy, and several other people living both upstairs and downstairs. The father is away, working in Hong Kong." My hand shot up and I rushed to the front to sign my name on that line. I had found my perfect family, and perfect they were. I'm wondering lately if something similar occurs on a more spiritual level.

Today a neighbor came over with her 6-month old son. I'd never met her before, but I had many of Himal's baby clothes and toys to give her. As she entered our home, the difference between life with her child and life with my child was astounding. She nonchalantly mentioned that her husband was home "deathly ill," and the heart parental red flag went up...the unspoken code that You Do Not Come Over If There Is Illness in the Family flag. But, I sighed internally and let it go--after all, she doesn't know. Then, she proceeded to tell me that her pregnancy was completely unplanned, and she didn't even know she was pregnant until the 3rd trimester. The thoughts came washing over me in an unwanted tide...those thoughts that I try so hard to repress. But think about it--if you were me, wouldn't you think them too?! The thoughts that we had planned Himal's pregnancy so carefully and done everything "right," but he has HLHS. The thoughts that this woman didn't even know she was pregnant, didn't want children at all, and--surprise!--gave birth to a perfectly healthy baby like magic.

I looked at the baby, who was an adorable boy. At 6 months, he already weighs 18 lb (Himal is almost 2 and weighs 25 lb). The 6 month old is almost in 12 months clothes. He sits up on his own and is almost standing up on his own. The difference between the 2 experiences couldn't be greater.

Sometimes it's hard to comprehend. It's hard to comprehend why some people try so hard to have kids and can't, whereas others have kids they didn't plan or even want. But, as I looked at this mom and baby, I got the impression that having her son had completely changed her life around. There was no question that she loved her son and was a good mom to him. She might not be like me and her priorities were certainly very different, but I've come to believe that both of our sons have completely changed us internally.

I marvel at how she didn't *know.* I knew...I mean, really knew...that I was pregnant even before an early detection test would work. I bought the earliest detection test on the market and took it days before it said it would work, and the faintest pink line confirmed my knowledge. I *knew* Himal was a boy even though my family and friends all guessed he was a girl. I knew, deep down, that there was something wrong with him, despite everyone around me insisting things were fine and that all expectant moms share this worry. And I also knew that he really wanted to be born and be given every chance to fight.

And this brings me to the crux of this post. I was chatting online with a fellow heart mom a couple weeks ago--a heart mom who was asking some heavy questions about faith and God. I brought up a train of thought I've been wondering about lately. Our culture places a huge emphasis on controlling one's own destiny, exercising our individual rights, and asserting our free will. Modern Christianity also is a big proponent of the idea of "free will." And yet, our notion of "free will" seems so violated when a traumatic event happens in our lives. We didn't "choose" this--we didn't choose to give our son HLHS, and he didn't choose to be born with it...right?

Wait a second. Maybe...we did? And I'm not talking about in the Garden of Eden, when humanity chose to know good and evil alike. God knows us better than we know ourselves. He knew our souls even before we were born on this earth.

Someday, when Himal is say, 16 or so, he might scream at me, "why was I even born?! I didn't ask to be born!" But I know better. I, as his mom, *knew.* Sometimes, we parents know our kids better than they know themselves. Sometimes we remember things that for them are deeply buried in their blurry subconcious. I might then say, "I knew you before you were even born. And at that time, you told me you wanted to be born and live this life."

What if I, before I was born into this earthly body and forgot what came before, volunteered to be a mom to a child with HLHS? I can just see God calling for volunteers. Maybe volunteering is different than raw choice.

Even Jesus, who volunteered to lay down His life for humankind, seemed to have momentary forgetfulness in Gesthemane, when He begged God to take away the cup He had to drink. But God said, "I know better. I remember. You volunteered to do this."

I'm not saying I'm a god of any sort. I'm merely saying that there may be Biblical precedent for this idea.

Countless times I've heard parents talking about how their heart kids seem otherwordly, almost as if they have a more direct connection to the Divine. I've heard stories of heart kids having premonitions and heavenly messages that, if I didn't know the parent were telling the truth, I'm not sure I would believe. I've heard parents talk about some of the things their heart kids have said about God and heaven, and these things are way beyond their years and even way beyond most people's spiritual understanding. I've heard other (as we call them, "heart healthy") parents say to parents like me, "God chose to give you this child because He knew your faith would be strong enough to be their parent." But "choosing" to give us this situation...is that like God? Maybe yes, maybe no. What about Himal? He didn't "chose" this...or...is it possible that God called for volunteers and he stepped up?

I can actually picture it so perfectly.
God: I need a few special souls to be born with heart defects. You're going to have to go through operations and countless procedures and feel immeasurable pain. Everyday things will often be a struggle for you. You might not live very long. But the payoff far outweighs all that. You are going to touch a whole lot more lives than you ever dreamed. You're going to give people hope and you're going to be loved more than you can even bear it. You're going to know what really matters, and your going to show it to others. You're going to meet the most amazing people, the faces of determination and dedication, such as pediatric cardiologists and physical therapists and other special people who take interest in you and protect you. And I'll even throw this into the deal: I am going to keep you close to me, under my wing and especially tight in my palm, because I know you're going to need me a lot (and that's a good thing).
Himal (and several other voices in a chorus): ok, I think I can do that. Sounds like a pretty big adventure. Sign me up, then.

I think this is a pretty radical idea as far as Christianity goes, and maybe it's even a bit of a stupid idea. To go around saying that we chose our general lot but forgot? I don't think most religious folks would really accept it or acknowledge much Biblical basis for it other than what I've outlined. In fact, some would probably say this entire post is an indication that I'm getting way off-base, and need to start attending church again so that my spiritual ideas can be tested for truth (ie, shot down) by a body of believers. What about Job, right? No warm fuzzy notions of choice there! But I don't quite feel like Job. I feel like I've been blessed, not cursed, punished, or stricken. More on that later. But because of the theological shakiness, I do feel obliged to put in a disclaimer: this is only an idea and I do not claim it to be absolute spiritual truth.

Then again, maybe we didn't choose at all. Maybe God, knowing our souls inside and out, just *knew* that we would choose this path if we could do it over again (more on this later too), having the hindsight or the greater knowledge we will eventually have, and chose for us.