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i couldn’t stick the feeling 

I am ordinary in appearance, but before baby I could easily feel beautiful, sexy. Not every minute of every day, but I had my mojo. I never struggled with body image the way so many other women seemed to. I appreciated how strong I was, tanned skin shining over the curves of muscle. My eyes were bright. There was a sway in my hips. 

A prenatal yoga teacher shared with our class that dissatisfaction with body image tends to peak around 6 months postpartum. I guess I paid attention, but it seemed inconceivable in the early days, right after I sweated and growled and with a holler pushed out my very own 9 lb wonder. I felt like a fucking warrior goddess, a many- armed Hindu diety, weapons shinning, tongue lolling, dancing on the edge of the world. Hell yes. 


I wasn’t able to stick the feeling, though. Soon, I felt dumpy, flabby. My self image plummeted right along with my estrogen levels. And I’m talking about feelings versus what the outside looks like, but I’m not the mama who “bounced back” after childbirth, whatever the fuck that means. 1 year later, overweight, overwrought, I certainly don’t look like I used to, but what bothers me the most is I just don’t feel beautiful anymore. 

I know I am. We humans ALL are. My feelings have nothing to do with reality. But misleading as it may be, this feeling of ugliness matters somehow, and I wish I could shake it. 

I know hiking helps. Dancing helps. Laughing helps. And nothing stays the same, so I know this feeling won’t either. But maybe this overstaying its welcome because I’m not done here, there’s something I need to learn or let go of or foster before this dissatisfaction can move on. 

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her hands

If I were to claim any part of her as my favorite, it might be her hands. They dance when she is alert, fingers waving,coaxing the air into becoming her own invisible instrument.  When she is startled they bunch up into tight fists and she gives them a shake or two. Often a finger or five can be found in her mouth, shiny with drool. Lately she has started to explore the opening and closing of her hands. She touches fabric or skin or anything really, and her little starfish fingers  joyfully leap forward only to immediately spring back to nestle her palm again. Open close, open close. And sweetest gestures of all happen during nursing, as more frenzied activity slow to sweet caresses. She feeds quietly, eyes closed and gracefully, ever so gently traces her fingertips along the outside of my breast, my sternum, my chin. The very light touch of her fingers, so tiny, not yet hardened by life’s labor, feels more like a brushing of butterfly wings than the touch of a human, but here she is, real and mine. 6 months after her birth I still check her breathing while she sleeps. You are okay? You are okay.

tadpoles

The annual reprieve is here- monsoon season. We desert dwellers look to the sky, to the dark clouds which form in the afternoon hours with hopeWe need this, the nourishing rains, the plummeting temperature which follows in its wake. In an instant lightning rips across the sky, big fat drops kiss our face and we clap our hands in gratitude. Yes. 

The desert hangs on to nothing, and water rushes and rushes, trying to return to the sea. It flows down alley ways and pooling only when contained. In a flood zone at the end of my street, the dusty embankement has given way to lush Johnson grass stands and puddles. But even in monsoon the water is not always enough.

I noticed the wriggling tadpoles after the season’s first big storm. The desert toad laid those fertilized eggs remains unknown to me; I’ve never heard their mating song at dusk, or seen one hopping around in the grass. But there they were, thousands of tadpoles in the seasonal water stand. Undulating and undulating, some of them clumping together, some perpetually pushing forward, on and on. Countless miracles, nearly in my own backyard.

But then things dried up. The puddles shrank, retreated. The tadpoles become a writhing mass in the small amount of remaining water.  I prayed to the God of Rain to bless us thoroughly and quickly, thousands of tadpoles depended on this. I prayed to the God of Frogs that they may develop preternaturally quickly. My prayers went unanswered; yesterday they had evaporated along with the puddle, leaving behind only a greyish film in the center of a mud ring.

It made me hate the kind of world were thousands of beautiful creatures live and die in a breath. The waste, the injustice.

But then today the rain returned. Again the streets flowed, water pooled, and there are tadpoles once more. Well developed, survivors transplanted from other puddles perhaps. I watch them undulate with a renewed sense of gratitude. With a renewed sense of hope.

movement

I am packing boxes, surrounded by dust bunnies, wrapping paper, and the odds and ends that baffle any sort of organizational schema. Should this be in the “kitchen” box, or the “buffet” stuff? Keep it or throw it? What did I need this for anyway? The animals pace, smelling domestic upheaval in the air.

Yes, it is once again time to move. I have predictably timed this transition for the hottest part of the year. Highs temperatures are said to be 111 degrees on Saturday.

Most pictures are packed away yet one photo remains, taped to the inside of my bookcase. A smiling image of my mother presses the infant me joyfully against her cheek. I look to her image as though it were an icon, Our Lady of the Uhaul, Patron Saint of Gypsies and Restless Humans Everywhere. She who loved this shit. She who couldn’t live in a house more than two or three years. Houses were places to leave your mark, and then leave. Enter, refurbish, enjoy for a time, exit. When she wasn’t moving her own family she was shuffling her mother around: Now, she needs a senior apartment! No, assisted living! A senior apartment with some assisted living services! No, something closer to me! And so on.

I pack and remove, unwinding my life in this tiny casita, a cozy abode with blue-green walls and saffron ceilings and windows, so many windows. The light streams in at all hours of the day and if you catch a beam just right in the winter it warm you straight to the core. When I arrived here two years ago I nearly wept with joy because it was so perfect for me. The person I was. The house I needed.

The promise came true. What was broken down and dead healed over and woke up. I grew into me here. My life is now as vivid as the paint on the walls.

And now it is time to go. I have a new chapter to begin, and it will be in a different house. One that can better shelter me, now that life has become so full. So bright.  

 She understands. 
  
 

no words, only beauty

I got the news– her father passed away.  Cancer.

The news detonates a dam, and the tragedy of another triggers a flood of memories. I remember the quiet that pervaded the house during my mother’s final days, even while streams of thoughtful friends and family trickled by with somber faces.  The flocks of grey geese, a silent V slicing the grey skies above. The terrible disbelief that sets in after the final, jagged breath.

There are no words to comfort.  Maybe I can say that I understand what she is going through. Afterall, I too have lost a parent, but everyone grieves differently.  It is a lonely road, and she is a mother, she must carry on for another. The phrase “I understand” seems a bit inauthentic.

I can tell her that I’m sorry, because I am.

I can tell her everything will be different going forward, but how? I cannot predict. It is for her to discover. The truth will dazzle gradually.

What I can say, and what is the greatest truth: the only thing that knit me back together again was beauty.  People, with their awkward hugs and concerned faces, tried to comfort me, but I was beyond reach. There is nothing that anyone could do or say.

But there was poetry.  There were brilliant Arizona sunsets. There were songs that managed to fill a broken heart with joy and hope.  There were mountains that touched puffy white clouds.  There were birds, so many birds.

The beauty of the world can deliver you from her horrors if you open yourself to it.

 

Alan (4)

a survivor

I have become preoccupied with survival.  The art of endurance, of strength, of balancing precariously between life and death and miraculously making it.  I pour over manuals to learn and re-learn wilderness navigation techniques, insurance against getting lost. I do presses and pull ups and push ups in the rediculously-early morning, a rehearsal in pulling myself up and out of impending disaster.  I lose myself in memoirs of surviving avalanches, plane crashes, sinking ships. I run down city streets to prepare myself for climbing mountains. I tie myself on to ropes and learn to climb on delicate foot holds, squeeze precarious handholds, and fall, when necessary, safely, gracefully.  I practice breathing deeply, so when I feel fear building up I can just as easily let it slide away, the back and forth of waves crashing on a beach then being pulled back to sea.  The study of survival is a preoccupation which eats up, in its various permutations, most of my free time.

My degree of obsession seems funny to me because I am already a survivor. I have fallen, bruised and bloodied, to the lowest levels and climbed back up again. I have lost myself in the darkest realms and found my way back to the light.  I have worked through searing pain. I have made it, am making it, again and again.

Survival isn’t an endpoint, but a gateway. It only matters if there is a promise of life beyond the blackness of the rabbit hole. Every battle needs its prize. So perhaps these survival exercises I perform in relative comfort are more than preparation for future challenges.  They help me relive the story of my life and unleash the wisdom loosely folded in the challenges and the failures and the victories of my past.   In the consuming rituals of knot tying, trip planning, pushing and pulling and repairing and strengthening, I am reminded daily that I am a warrior, and mine is a life worth fighting for.

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Anna’s Hummingbird, Boyce Thompson Arboretum, February 2014

the harvest of now

It is a special time of year. The nights lengthen, and the earth gives up her bounty in a brilliant harvest.  Even the moon seems more generous, hanging close to the horizon like low hanging fruit.

Blessings are running thick for me these days. Last week, my writing was featured on FreshlyPressed and since then I have had hundreds of new visitors to my blog.  I am honored and I am humbled by the kind words from so many people around the world.  With a simple click from an editor at wordpress.com, these precious and unsolicited gifts came my way.  Thank you all, for visiting and sharing and encouraging and most of all for reading.  I hope you will continue to do so for many years to come.

A few days after my post went live on FreshlyPressed, a stray cat strolled into my living room, rubbed against my legs and claimed me as her own.  In a breath my household expanded from one cat to two, and I smiled, knowing the world can be full of tremendous, spontaneous joy.  And the following afternoon my father and stepmother arrived at their new home in the desert to stay.  I have family living nearby for the first time in nearly a decade. It is wonderful.  It feels like a wrong has been corrected.

There is a lot in pop culture about happiness- how to seek it, and how to keep it.  To me, it seems to be a blend of luck, suffering, patience and courageous truth-seeking. I had to suffer and lose in order to open my arms wider to all the joys in life. Today, things are simple. My days are quiet and calm and full of beauty in a million small ways, and in some larger ways too.   But to get here I had to speak my truth to my lovers and my friends and my husbands and my parents. I had to disappoint, I had to dismantle, I had to be brave. And I had to be patient, for everything circles around eventually. 

I can say with sincerity that things are good, life is good, and I am happy.

soupbone

Soupbone, my new baby