Look Who Made The News?

The LA Daily News, Sunday Edition to be exact.

It's an article about the recent proliferation of "school consultants" to help frenzied parents navigate the often difficult and confusing school choices in LA, but also does a nice feature on my Guidebook in the 2nd half of the piece.

Here's a clip of it:

With so many school options, confused parents now are hiring consultants to help them pick the right educational answer for their children

Mania over schools

"...Opting to go public doesn't exactly simplify the process. With charters, magnets, lotteries and permits, L.A.'s public system is downright Byzantine. It has become so complex that Tanya Anton, a mother and musician in Mar Vista, decided to write a book explaining it after getting involved at her daughter's preschool.

The handbook, "Westside Guide to Public Elementary Schools: Navigating Magnets, Charters, Permits & More," is a nuts-and-bolts guide to public school options. It grew out of Anton's observation that parents were filled with questions but had no good source to answer them all..."

But the best part is I get the final word at the end of the piece:

"...Whatever its philosophy, the point is that public school quality soars when parents get deeply involved, and vice versa. Anton said she would love to see Angelenos return to their neighborhood public schools. Of course, that might put the educational consultants out of business, a prospect that doesn't seem likely any time soon.

"So much can change when parents get involved and local businesses get involved ...," she said. "That's what I would love to see happen."

For more scroll down to the 2nd half of the article.
www.dailynews.com/

Mamawriters Unite!

Look who gathered for coffee and company yesterday?

Why, it's our very own RiversGrace, Jumping In, and yours truly with our offspring. Mamawriters and Bloggerkids unite. (To be fair, Holly's kids were away with Dad, and mine looks a bit grumpy in this pic even though I assure you she was well-behaved.)

Seems Prema and I might be starting an on-the-way-to-the-airport coffee tradition although it'd be just grand to do longer visits with her, and it was great to meet up with Holly for the first time and put a face to the words.

As the circle grows, shouldn't there be our first annual Writers Life reunion?

Even though we don't know each other, we really (kind of) do.

One giant heart connected in space and time....

Thanks ladies.

Observations

It's been months, yes months since I've been able to go running. Life always seems to get in the way. But today as my body woke from its half-slumber, the following thoughts occurred to me...thoughts so vast and frequent they came two by two, as if cramming to get in the door before the opportunity would be lost.

Sometimes it feels as if I've been tied to other obligations for so long I will never get back to what I yearn I might be capable of. Still, it's all in the becoming.

As my legs push off against the pavement, and when it feels so hard, I am suddenly awash in gratitude:

I have legs!
I have hands!
I have thoughts I can speak out loud!
Thoughts spill into action
Unlimited possibilities
All in one moment
Released from captivity

Observing the path in front of me, dodging fallen branches, stones, or avoiding a muddy pit, I carefully pick my way across the scratchy brown earth.

Then grass, as soft and squishy as my thighs have grown waiting their turn. Not much resistance to push against. Cush makes any rhythm feel sluggish.

When I get to the concrete pavement, my body relishes pushing off something hard, solid, difficult. It's a challenge, but like all challenges I like that it wakes up my muscles after soft or picking. The challenge feels good. I feel my power. I feel capable. I feel fully alive. And I am. I am awake.

The path changes again and my legs adjust, just as we do in life when life happens. Grateful for the hard, grateful for the soft, grateful not to be in a pit, grateful to just to be here and be free to move.

I breathe deeply and expand my consciousness forward, backward, yesterday, tomorrow, and to all the hearts seen and unseen.

In every moment, possibility. In every moment, expansion, or contraction. And the awareness that when we are moved, even if we don't know how or why, open hearts rush in. And they do.

I think of a friend. A friend in the midst of change. A friend whose finely tuned words have both recognized and soothed me. Her words are music, medicine. I send love and hope the sadness has been washed away at least a bit.

There are words that come for her. May they be medicine too:

Nothing was taken away from you.
You created this abundance.
You can create it again, anywhere.
That's what being a Creator is: filling your life with beauty and abundance and wonder wherever you are, in any moment, in any place.

I am here to remind you, my dear Prema,
that you can create whole universes in a blade of grass.
I believe that and know it to be so.

Breathe in fullness
Breathe out anything that isn't love.
Your very breath is an act of love.
All you touch is love.
All you release returns to love
And opens a space for more love…

Let the tears cleanse your eyes so that you may see again.

Let go and let the river carry you on its journey…for ahead lie vistas unimaginable.

Trust that it may be so.


With disagreements, altercations, separations, culminations, physically and environmentally I see upheaval and change all around me right now. It can be perceived as great loss and frustration, or transition and great transformation. I am filled with compassion, for I have been in the sadness, in the wanting too, and it is a mighty current.

And, at the same time, there is always so much to be grateful for, and worlds to create.

Though not always on it, that is the current I will do my best to surf.

Still Peachy

You don't have to go to Georgia to enjoy a fresh peach. No, in LA you just need a little patch of dirt, some sunshine, a baby sapling, and about 8 or 9 years. Oh, and the right amount of "chill hours" each winter to set the fruit.

Luxuriating in the peachy bounty our little tree has offered us of late, may I suggest we raise our Bellini glasses in a hearty cheers. The Bellini--a signature drink made from a combination of fresh white peach puree and Prosecco--is the creation of Giuseppi Cipriani at his infamous Harry's Bar in Venice, Italy, where white peaches were fragrant and plentiful. Ernest Hemingway and Orson Welles were said to have held court among others sipping this delightful nectar, finding inspiration in its bounty amidst the grandeur of the canals.

Our homegrown yellow peaches make a delightful version. Sweet and perfumey, slightly tart and effervescent, the Bellini is a delightful summer sipper. And with one of those handheld stick blender gizmos, fresh peach puree is a snap to make. Just don't forget to skin the peaches first.

But another amazing discovery is the Peachy Chicken I referenced a post ago.


Take one whole chicken roaster, rinsed and patted dry. Place in a roasting pan. Slide a few pats of butter under the breast skin and slather with a good dose of (homemade) peach jam or preserves. Season with salt and fresh ground black pepper.

Then, chop up 3 or 4 celery stalks and a red onion in large chunks and add to the pan, scatter in a handful of garlic cloves in their skins, and finish with a few sprigs of fresh thyme and/or Italian parsley.

Slide the sucker into a 375 degree oven and roast for about an hour and a half, basting frequently.
The skin deepens and caramelizes from the peach sugars, but as the veggies break down and give off their juices, their aromatic flavors tame everything to a mellow roasty balance of sweet and savory.

Served hot or cold, this one is a winner. And don't toss those veggies. I eat them straight out of the pan standing over the stove as a "cook's treat." In fact, next time I think I'll add 2 red onions and more cloves of garlic to serve on the side of the sliced chicken.

Bon appétit.

Just Peachy

Summer's here. I've had a few weeks to slow down from the crazy-making pace of our May-June year-end schedule. I am trying my best to temper the "why am I not more productive" urgings with some "relax a bit, it's summer, enjoy some down time already."

Staring at the intersection of my life at this moment, I see a handful of potential paths in front of me. All contain a certain allure. All require more effort and self-discipline than I can muster at the moment. All require a decisiveness that seems to have packed up and left town. As I contemplate next steps, my "role," and what is essential to me, my family, and our future, things begin to get fuzzy. It must not be time to act right now. I am tired and need nourishment.

Honoring the part of me that is learning to relax into motherhood and by extension my life, I notice I have surrendered a bit of my chomping at the bit to get somewhere, anywhere. Right now I am practicing a quiet enjoyment of simple pleasures of my homelife.

I am finding joy in picking my daughter up from camp earlier than expected and spending time with her in the garden or teaching her how to cut her own hardboiled egg with a paring knife or discovering water balloons or allowing her to take her own shower and not worry about spillage. I have enjoyed re-reading Ramona The Pest with her nightly as they both prepare to go to Kindergarten. I have enjoyed watching her swimming improve almost as much as the times we spend curled up on the Big Bed talking about anything that comes into her little inquisitive mind.

Not trying to be either the perfect mother or the perfect achiever, I am instead trying to find the perfection in the moments and soak them up. They fall away so fast...especially if we're always dashing here or there.

* * *

Speaking of jam, I harvested basketfuls of fuzzy rose-blushed peaches from my tree today, (yes, peaches DO grow in Los Angeles and you're lookin' at a shot of 'em above), and made a batch of peach jam. Hooweee.

And, as if that weren't enough yummy goodness, I also made a cache of fresh peach ice cream that I think we all agreed came out most light and flavorful and delish!

I think tomorrow I shall rub some of that jam all over a chicken and roast it with a few savory items and serve it sliced over a tart green salad.

Now that's some simple pleasures.

YUM! Love the summer. Abundance everywhere.

Little Puffs

(Note: it's a long one, but I really wanted to try to capture the raw emotion.)

Although I'm sure we all came from Love originally, somehow on this physical plane-world I chose to take on the path of learning love deeply, amplified by there being a (perceived) big gapping hole of it in my formative years.

I've written about the black hole before. It stems from a deep wound of insecurity, of not feeling loved, of not being accepted. Of knowing I wasn't wanted and being told that repeatedly by the parent who stayed.

Most of the time I've been able to deal with this lack well enough, having become quite resourceful, adaptable and resilient in the process. I'm also a "doer." That helps me enormously. You see, productivity equals value, and value equals love and acceptance in my book.

But this weekend, perhaps weakened by the deluge of (unpaid) activity from the past few months, coupled with feeling just plain squeezed out and exhausted, that damn black hole rose up and bit me in the ass. Like some sugar-crazed hormonal insomniac, the black tide rose up out of nowhere and dragged me out a few hundred yards. Choking and gagging for breath, it's all I can do to get to shelter.

* * *

I'm sitting in a lovely garden surrounded by lovely people sipping lovely cocktails while nibbling lovely carb-ridden hors d'oeuvres when all of a sudden I feel the tide rising in me to an uncontrollable level of not being able to breathe. No amount of makeup or wearing the costume, a form fitting black sweater set over a long linen skirt revealing bejeweled sandals and a shiny deep cinnamon pedicure, can assist me in feeling the part in this verdant oasis.

Seated on a scrolled wrought iron bench with lushly upholstered white cushions amidst every shade of possible greenness, birds tweeter gently to the sounds of trickling water. The air hangs heavy with dewy foliage and I am encircled in light cocktail banter. I should be in paradise. Instead, the woman seated next to me on the bench keeps her back to me for 20 minutes barely acknowledging my presence despite several polite attempts to join in the conversation. She nearly hits me several times with her gesticulating, yet never turns to fully acknowledge or include me. It's not like she doesn't know me. We've spent the last two years together at the same preschool.

Her affluence finally gets the better of me when I hear her state she would rather have spent the $2000 a night lounging with her family at the Four Seasons than stay on the horrifically rustic adventure they chose for their summer vacation. Well gosh. I, on the other hand, have thoroughly enjoyed my days in town spent at the public sprayer pool with my daughter and a zillion other "public" children, getting in for free with my public library card while my husband goes out of town every handful of days with the band.

I have never felt so invisible in my life. Except maybe growing up. Invisible. Needs not met. It's the combination of wanting to be noticed and failing to get the attention. Solution? Remove the need = not being disappointed. No needs here.

Even getting to the party, which doubled as a school fundraiser, was difficult. It almost didn't happen. Because my husband was playing a concert that night it was up to me to find "coverage" for my daughter so I could go to this event. Exhausting our entire babysitter list and even desperately calling around to the neighbors with kids to see if one of them could watch her for a couple of hours this Saturday, I got nowhere. Then, when I was just about to signal defeat and cancel, another mom who was going to this event offered to have her sitter watch both our daughters together, which was such a blessing of generosity when she suggested it, that I almost started crying on the spot. I never would have thought to bother her with my problems.

I have to interject here that many a time I have cast an envious eye on those with family close by who just drop their kid off at grandma's when they need to, or call on the sister across town, or have a high-school-aged cousin look after the kids. Or the more affluent ones whose nannies do much of the drop-off and pick-ups at our school, accompany the kids to weekend birthday parties and such so their parents don't have to. I suppose extending the nanny's shift into the evening some nights is probably not a huge deal if they're already on staff and you can afford it. Or, some smart parents hire a sitter for an ongoing weekly stint--say every Friday or Saturday night --regardless of plans. One babysitter I called told me her Saturdays were usually booked 2 months in advance. Two months? We hardly know what we're doing next Thursday, let alone a few weeks from now! But that's smart shopping: Book the sitter, and the date will surely come. But at the going rate of $12-15 per hour, you'd better have a reason to go out! It adds up quickly.

A little pang of economic inequity coupled with parents who've let me down begins to fester inside. I know I have a lot to be grateful for but we've been the juggling do-it-yourselfers from day one. We've had to be. And usually when hubs works at night, which is frequently, I'd just stay home forfeiting any personal plans.

I gratefully accept the kind help my mom-friend has offered, feeling somewhat less-than and loser-like. Oh, here's the DIY mom who can't get her shit together, sitter-wise. Yet my friend insists it's totally fine, please don't worry about it, and she won't take my money.

So I'm sitting in a luscious garden of abundance all around me yet I can't help but feel like a wilting imposter, like I don't belong, like if I stood still for 30 minutes, not one person would come up and talk to me at all. I know I am creating this projection, and I know it's old business, but here it is nonetheless. I am weak and susceptible. The howling in my head is growing like a cancer. I'm feeling diseased and pitiful. Me, the "uber-doer" parent of the bunch. The recently-coined "highly functioning, high performing" school parent.

Waiters come and go, and the host refreshes another woman's drink across from me. He comes up and generously offers to bring me a glass of Prosecco, then sends the waiter back this way who instead ignores me and refills everyone else's glasses. See? Invisible. Pathetic. Two trips later and I'm thinking the waiter just got it wrong since I don't have a glass to fill, but the host is happily ensconced in dialogue elsewhere, forgetting his offer to me.

I'll just get my own glass, thank you.

Hurt by this ridiculously petty injustice, the anger rises to its whip-slap reaction. Emotions whip out of control like a windstorm on the beach blinding me with sand in my face. I can feel my imbalance like a chemical reaction, yet I am powerless against the internal storm. I am nothing, not even worth remembering. I don't deserve a drink like the rest of them do. I must not be likeable. Not worth fussing over like that other woman in the glamorous dress.

I feel more at home in the laundry room where I painstakingly blotted that red wine stain off the nice woman's expensive white shirt, or doing an unofficial garden tour identifying different varieties of herbs, citrus and vegetation. I feel more at home in the kitchen where two waiters and a nanny bustle around cleaning and baking off platters of thinly-crusted spinach pizzas or miniature roulades of puff pastry and tapenade. Little puffs of air…


My eyes follow the spiral of black tapenade against the gold and I fall into the pastry, comfortable and in my element. My mind starts to envision different fillings and colors. Anything goes with puff pastry. It's so light and accommodating. You could fill it with just about anything…sweet, savory, textured, puréed…something more substantial.

It occurs to me that I spent a good deal of years being "the help" in the kitchen, not the celebrated guest. It is uncomfortable for me to not be "doing" something. If I am not productive, I feel like I am not fully alive, not worthy of just being for being's sake. Although irrational, I know this is a deep wound.

I remember the words of a therapist who once wondered out loud what my life would look like if I had truly felt loved and accepted for who I was and had nothing to prove. Hmmm…would I be the happily married hostess living in the same town as my family wearing a lovely party dress throwing delightful garden cocktail parties never raising my voice at my children or feeling that desperate, burning need to succeed and "BE SOMEBODY?!"

Could I EVER feel like who I already was, was enough already?

I've been walking through my life off-kilter, grown lopsided from accommodating this sense of lack, finding ways to over-compensate and cover the hole.

I feel the lump rising in my throat as I sink further, knowing that the sting of tears behind my eyes is on its way to the surface. Damn. Thought I'd gotten over this one. It's so ridiculously transparent but I'm caught.

Suffocated by listening to bland niceties and feeling ignored, I check my watch and realize it's already 10 minutes past my daughter's bedtime.

Screw pouring my own drink. Screw trying to fit in where I feel out of place. Screw the carb overload, I'm hungry for protein. Shifting my focus on not wanting to take advantage or poach another family's sitter, I grab my bag and dash away, barely throwing goodbyes behind me. I exit stage left under the auspices of picking up my daughter despite there being no real need to, except for my own perceived inadequacies.

I can't get out of there fast enough as the tide crests. I get in my car and rev the engine while opening all the windows. (Damn air conditioning's broken.) Aaahh, air. Motion. Speed. Wind blowing my hair every which way. Cool me, save me, be the salve on my skin. Blasts of air, though empty, somehow are healing now.

I feel miserable. Hungry. I should feel happy and full.

I don't.

Instead I race away to my daughter. This time I need her more than she needs me.

Jam or Jelly?

Today I received a fervent call from a friend inquiring about the appropriate way to preserve her freshly-picked Oregon Marionberries, a kind of cross between a mulberry and a blackberry.

Jam or jelly she wanted to know?

She had already gotten into a heated "discussion" with her husband about the matter, and was curious to hear my opinion.

"Well," I ventured, "it'd make a great pie," not wanting to get in the middle of things.

"Too late," she countered, the pot already simmering.

"OK, the way I see it, on pure instinct alone ...jam. If you want jello, then make a bowl of jello," I tell her.

But if you've got fresh, hand-picked juicy berries, I say bring on the big jammy fruit. Let me feel the tender crush of distinctive flesh and seed, let my tongue savor big lumps of the exotic tartly-sweet fruit surrounded by dense gooey berry goodness, (as I envision it lovingly spread on a thick-cut piece of butter slathered crusty paisano bread, or warmed and spooned over creamy vanilla-bean ice cream.) Why strain out all the personality?

"Jam, baby." Not a doubt in my mind.

* * *

So later I was thinking, why is it we continually try to refine and strain our personalities, our individual uniqueness in order to be nice, fit in, be presentable, etc?

Here's to allowing our inner-fruit the opportunity to ripen and be fully celebrated.

Cheers!

Compass Girl

On the eve of the 1-year anniversary of the conception and birth of my Go Mama blog, as I revel in its new color makeover, I can't help but reflect back on the title track and name of the CD I made, er, 9 years ago, a few years after I moved to LA.

Compass Girl.

Compass Girl…a concept I resonated with so deeply, an identity I clung to and well, completely identified with…a phrase, an image, a cellular snapshot, a touchstone, a moving icon, a theme song, a melody that announced my presence, my own personal ringtone…it couldn't get much more "me." We embodied each other.

I envisioned her like some spinning ballerina in a child's jewelry box, both mystical, delightfully magical, and the longer you stared at her going round and round, somewhat cheapened at the same time. Her gilt showed some wear, the too bright lipstick belied a too-perky smile, the pointe shoes were the wrong shade of pink. These flaws merely hinted at something being a bit off. Still, she draws you in to her ever-spinning world to examine her compartments, knowing they hold secrets, transformative in their power.

Unfortunately, those who looked with an untrained eye would never fully grasp her and she would spin herself into perpetuity, frozen in half-dream half-reality, popping up when the lid was opened like some ever-hopeful jack-in-the-box desperately wanting to be "seen," recognized. Only a child's pure heart could ever fully embrace both her imperfections and her perfect majesty. Only love could break the spell.

I suppose in some ways the notion of Compass Girl represents my ideology at the time, my memoir in song, with every inch of it true, actual, literal yet also layered in double-deep significance. This was, afterall, my life.

It was heartbreaking really when it didn't stick, professionally speaking. But then lots of things don't. Go figure.

Moving on.

Skill-sets like so many pages ripped out of a diary, were tossed into the street, caught by a blast of wind, scattered into oblivion. Dancer, singer, actress, waitress, coat check girl, chef, accountant, personal assistant, guru's disciple and retreat staffer, songwriter, recording artist, radio personality, talk show host, editor, producer, music rep, music publisher, chick singer, session singer, background singer, voice-over artist, line cook, pastry chef, head chef, kitchen manager, event coordinator, private chef, home improver, landscape designer, chief gardener and bottle washer… Bills, one hundred, two hundred, three thousand, slapping them down, used and consumed, muscles aching and repaired, spirit cracked and bonded, relations disconnected, discarded, personas shifted and realigned, deliberately disposable, invisible, not lasting. Momentous moments. Momentary all. Transitory.

Moving into a whole new world of change and disruption and death and rebirth. Could I ever foresee this happening? As a woman, now as a mother, finding my way, finding my voice, forging a family connection where none grew before me. Out of new mama crisis, the tearing apart of any shreds of identity and dignity and self-preservation my ego stubbornly clung to, I come through the fire anew, and this time instead of song, words were born out of the chaos into the stream of consciousness and flow into the collective force of mothers everywhere. I found my step, tentatively at first, I found my voice, and most importantly, I found connection. With support, anything is possible.

Perhaps it's the passage of that identity, the loosening of its tight inner-grip, as well as the realization that I'm no longer her, not so mobile, not in that same indie spinning way. No, I have put down roots. I have been here longer than anywhere. A dozen years. That must count for something. I have created a mate, a family, a home, a village, and I have witnessed the re-creation of myself and the sound of the rallying cry as we cheer each other onward:

Mothers in unity, not judgment. …Go Mama, Go Mama, Go Mama…!

So in homage to the past, to the girl I used to be before I stopped spinning long enough to stand still, with arms outstretched to the cosmos I honor her, the girl, and with open heart, I listen to her story once more:

Compass Girl

I've been around this world
Searching for my lost pearls
I've dragged them through the mud and swine
And I told myself it was… fun, fucked… fine.
I'm just a Compass Girl
Spinning around this world

A nomad and misfit, wandering spirit
East coast, west side and true north, but
It's going to take a lot of snow to freeze this heart
And I come to you still…
I'm just a Compass Girl
Following my own free will

And if it feels right, it's alright by me
But when the feelin's gone, you know it's time to move on
I spent a long, long time finding my place in this world
I'm just a Compass Girl

Sightseeing and nightseeing, feeling with eyes closed
My life, your knife, twist and turning
Hey! it's gonna take a lot of jabs to cut this light
And no matter what you do
I'm just a Compass Girl
Following my own free will

And if it feels right, it's alright by me
But when the feelin's gone, you know it's time to move on
I spent a long, long time chasing my tail in this world
I'm just a Compass Girl

And oh I keep searching, but oh, I just keep spinning
Spinning around, around, around and round-oh-
I'm chasing 'round this world
A Compass Girl, a Compass Girl
watch me chasin' round the world
…all my life I've been a Compass Girl...



But in reflecting backward in order to connect to who I am today and "see" the transformation of my life, I am witness to the truth, the actual experience that so much has changed since then. In fact, I embody change. Change and possibility.

I'm still spinning, but this time with purpose.
I'm still going places, but this time I've got an anchor.
I'm not in isolation pining away, but in community inter-connected.
I'm still the Compass Girl, but now the compass is inside me.
And I have unlimited possibilities.

Use the compass, use the compass….

Listen.

And act accordingly.

* * *

Happy Independence Day!

TLC

As summer kicks in and the heat index intensifies, it's enough to keep our own body and hair groomed and tidy, but those of you with cats, particularly those with long-haired cats, know this is the time of year for massive shedding, abandoned grooming efforts--hey, I'd be over it too using the feline showering method-- which leads to hairballs, painfully matted tangles of fur which pull at their scalp and make for even grumpier kitties than usual.

In a fit of hurling furball overload, every year for the last 3 years right around the 4th of July weekend, I have taken my domestic long-haired alley-cat-- who happened to wander into my yard 12 years ago and subsequently move into my life--in for a shave.

I know. It sounds ridiculous, cruel even, but really, it isn't. In fact the first time I had her shaved, after the initial shock and adjustment wore off, she seemed to lose about 5 cat years along with the extra fur. She became frisky, happy, agile, downright youthful again.

So each summer I have given my kitty, Jade, the pleasure of a trip to the salon for a "lion cut." You know, tall boots, full mane, shaved body and the little poof at the tip of the tail. Comic relief, yes. Hurlage relief too. Everyone was happy.

Until that first and fantastic neighborhood "feline groomer" closed her shop due to neighborhood gentrification and rising rents.

So being that it's that time of year again, this weekend I called around looking for another "pet salon" and found a place that would take her the same day, TLC-Tender Loving Care experienced groomers. Sounded good to me.

I got my daughter up, breakfasted and dressed, and the cat packed up in her carrier, and half-an-hour later we dropped her off for her shave and wash. The lady at the shop seemed nice enough, really chatty, and I was relieved to have been able to check one more thing off my weekend to-do list.

A few hours later I get a call from the groomer saying Jade had bit her and they weren't able to get the job done. She said they would try again later when things were less hectic--and loud--in there. (13 groomers all going at once, dogs and cats and blow driers and shavers barking and yowling and yelping, it was pure animal pandemonium. And even though this wasn't her first time being shaved, it was her first time at this particular venue and I'm sure my cat was pretty freaked out and defensive.)

Another hour goes by and this time the groomer calls telling me she got bit again, they couldn't finish her, and could I please come and pick up my cat. Relieved that she--the groomer-- was OK, not hurt too badly, I began to feel under-whelmed. Afterall, this was their terrain, not mine. What happened to 30 years experience and that tender loving touch? What about finishing the job?

When I got there, Jade, like some half-shorn sheep, was curled up in a kennel panting from the stress of it all. Poor thing. The shop happily refunded my money and I took my shaken kitty home calming her down with a roll in some catnip.

She's fine, but here's what she looks like now:






I guess in this case TLC doesn't stand for Tender Loving Care, or even The Lion Cut, but rather, Total Lack Of Control.

So what does one do with a half-shaven cat?

Do the neighborhood cats ever snicker... "yo, duude, what happened?"

Do kitties ever feel humiliated over a bad hair day?








P.S. (Three days later) All better now:

Latest--Full Plate

Been super busy lately, but just wanted to dash off a post to anyone who might still be lurking out there, wondering if I fell off a cyber-cliff into an abyss of...(fill in the blank.) Well, no.

My plate has been (is) filled to the brim with activities and houseguests and birthdays and school-wide camping trips and volunteer work and preschool culmination and last minute end-of-the-school-year craziness and, oh, let's see, volunteering and doing outreach at the budding local elementary school hosting parent gatherings when we're not yet out of preschool, in addition to taking on the on-site event coordinating (w/ another mom and an administrator) of a rather sizeable (380-person) national Reggio Educator's Conference our preschool's hosting at the end of the month.

As if that weren't enough, I decided to raise money for the school by throwing a lavish, decadent desert buffet party called "Let Them Eat Cake" for $40 per head and baked all week for the party which was at our house last Saturday. Am I crazy?! Well....perhaps, but it's too late now.

In lieu of lengthy "postage," please accept a glimpse into my recent sugary world. Though I am exhausted from staying up nights baking, on top of everything else going on, it was a lot of fun. Thought you might like to see some of the photos. Grab a plate and take a virtual tour... And I promise, I'm coming back when this month's over! Got to. I'm facing my one-year Bloggery Anniversary on Independence Day!

Cheers!




My signature cake, one I've been making for at least 15 years, the Strawberry Amaretto Cream Cake....moist layers of genoise cake soaked with amaretto-marinated strawberries and enveloped in amaretto chantilly cream with a hidden thin layer of dark-chocolate ganache in the middle.











...and again, after the ladies had successfully hacked into the insides. (This was also the recipe used for our wedding cake 6 years ago. No, I did not make my own wedding cake. I'm not that crazy!)














The intrepid Dark Chocolate Raspberry Torte
chillin' with its friends...



The tart and sweet Coconut Meyer-Lemon Cloud Cake (lemons from my little tree)














Vanilla-bean Cheesecake Bites




The awesome little Papaya-Lime Brulée Tartlet (one of my favorite creations)















Double Chocolate and Cointreau Orange-Hazelnut Madeleines


...and more. What a bounty. Enjoy!

Awakening

I cleaned out my closet (see Closet Memories), and I'm also cleaning out my colon. I know. Maybe it's TMI (too much information), but let me just say that they're connected. It's all connected.

Somehow, slowly, innocuously, we're so used to yielding, nurturing, giving over as the lifeline to our babies, that we become unconscious of it and the long-term effects of it's accumulation.

As I give over my body, my focus, my identity, my stability (and everything else that comes with it), to house this baby and care for its very survival, the very act of the shifting focus, deferring, protecting, stepping aside as it were, becomes habitual. Almost automatic. (Of course you'll drop everything for your child, who wouldn't?)

So when years pass and you start to wonder, hello? Where did I go? Who am I anymore? What have I been doing? What have I done? How do I introduce myself to others? And in that context you find you've been out of the game, stuffing yourself into little boxes, stealing shreds of quiet time as unpredictable and rare as they are, keeping yourself busy, and the rest of the time slowly becoming padded, unconscious, going soft (and wide), gathering dust, mourning the loss, the disconnection, the split, with the slow drip of deferment. Everyone's needs. Everywhere. Endless. Food becomes a relief. TV, drinks, anything to numb the painful monotony of the day to day stepping over self for family life.

It's a choice I willingly made, but was I so sure of its lasting effect?

Yes it's a joy. Yes it can be terribly exciting. Yes, it’s so fulfilling and gratifying on an enormous level, yes I love and cherish my daughter, but as I survey the handful of moms I know, we're all struggling to get back to ourselves. To find that piece of self-passion, reconnect, reinvent, get stronger and thrive again.

***

I'm on day 7 of a cleanse. Not too strict. The powder 2x/day, no wheat, no dairy, no sugar. Lots of veggies, fruit and whole grains. Chicken and fish. And water. Spa water w/ sliced cucumbers and oranges.

As my body releases and lightens, I am astounded at just how much I have accumulated in there and how I've been hiding inside myself, bubble-wrapped in this flesh.

I am willing to let it go. I am willing to release the weight, the bloating, the holding on. I am willing to reveal my inner sanctuary, my inner strength.

I dedicated this morning's run to longevity…to stick with it and examine what that means, and how that approach varies from fast and furious, and burnout.

What are the next steps, I ask?

As I'm running along the path, I am reminded of a Chi Gong (or Qigong) exercise to gather up the chi and with a short and forceful exhale, push down and compact my energy into my body and into the earth. I do this grounding exercise as my feet connect with the dirt.

We spend so much time in the ever-expanding heart chakra and third eye and crown, nurturing, intuiting, we forget to come back down into our bodies. Many of us have neglected them, abandoned them figuratively and literally until we are walking shells which makes us more, not less, vulnerable. Somehow sex is relegated to a chore, a duty, or tied inexplicably to creation--life and death and loss in all its turmoil--that the intensity of this knowing creates a disconnection. We abort sensuality. We are touched out. Fortresses are built. Is this too much life for one body to handle? Or too many other lives for one body to handle?

As I'm grounding my energy into the earth, my heart swells and expands, energy radiating outward full force yet I'm present, connected.

"It's time," I hear.

Thwack, thwack, thwack, as invisible ripcords release from my belly. I take myself back, lovingly, in all my power.

What would it look like if I could live from this place of heart-centered, grounded, intuitive, physically and spiritually-connected all-knowing? How would my life look? Could I do this? I mean, really do it? And do it with a family?

"Do not fear it."

It's the salve I needed to hear. Yes. Do not fear it. Do not fear living with greatness of spirit, connected to the earth, through the body, all parts vibrant, moving forward with knowing and grace, unencumbered, intuitively guided. Live from this place. Live.

I am given a blessing to let her go. She is 5 now, a big girl. I am there for her but she is independent.

"Do not fear it," I say to both of us, "do not fear it," picturing her sweetness, knowing her willfulness.

I get it now. It's the Mother's Blessing. The mother's gift to her daughter. To let her begin to individuate, as I must too. I can't hold on forever. She must begin her autonomy. This is tied to the separation anxiety in the mornings I am sure, year 2 of heart-wrenching death clings at the door, "no Mommy, stay, staaaaay….noooooo!"

Now it has shifted. I feel it. It is OK to take it back, my life, releasing the psychic cord. I am not leaving you, I am at your side. But I am one now, not two.

Recognizing the depth of this seemingly simple moment, I am overcome with gratitude. Oh Blessings. Thank you.

Today the drop-off was short. "Hey Sienna, what if we just do what some of the other kids do, you know, like 'Bye! See ya later alligator.' We could try it that way" I pitch, envisioning the long drawn-out hugs and pep talks, the exchanged notes, the series of goodbye rituals we have worked on over the last two years.

"OK. Bye Doodie!" she says, and runs off with her friends laughing.

Check!

Closet Memories

Today I cleaned out my closet. Well, not all of it, mainly the jambalaya etouffé of accessories that monopolized a handful of shelves, and by that I mean the carelessly shoved free-for-all of baskets, boxes, hats, boots, belts and tangles of costume jewelry strewn about with sewing materials, not to mention running sneakers (as opposed to "walking" or "funky" sneakers), that have accumulated over the years. And by years I don't just mean the 9 in this house. Some of this stuff dates back to the, er, 80s. Lifetimes ago.

The clothes? That's a whole other project. Considering I've been in and out of 4 pregnancies over the last 6 years, I have been hoarding sizes--from 6 all the way to 16-- determined to return back to them one day like some tantalizing unrequited lover. For now they'll just have to wait. I'll get through those another day.

Today (or yesterday, actually) it felt good to go through, edit, arrange and organize my things. The loose accessories jammed into odd places. Why had it taken me so long to put like with like? Had I become disrespectful of my belongings? I began to take down the clutter and arrange all the hats together on one shelf (does anyone still wear a hat?), the boots on another, large totes and shoulder bags up there, smaller dressy clutches under there, and the jewelry at eye level. Crazy, dusty, tarnished, jewelry spilling out of mismatched baskets, bowls and boxes… empires were built and destroyed inside these boxes.

Remember the stacks of skinny black rubber bangles and matching hoops Madonna made famous during her "Lucky Star" days? We both found them on the streets of New York way back when, mine fading and beginning to decompose. Or the dangling spider and spiderweb earrings I bought after a gig at CBGBs. How about the intentional lopsidedness of a 6" dangling chandelier earring on one side worn with a stud on the other, or am I dating myself here?

Then came the crystal phase…rose quartz, lapis, carnelian, amethyst and blood-rich garnet…

And pearls….ropes and ropes of pearls. I adored pearls back then…gaudy clusters, glitzy chokers and single elegant strands. Pearls, wrapped around my wrist or slung around my hips, or worn cascading dangerously all the way down a backless back.

And, not to be out-shined by a patron…(Wayne used to say "the singer should always be overdressed" assisting me with his knack for picking outfits and accessories, never mind that we were playing bars in Brooklyn, Long Island, or the surrounding boroughs)...rhinestones.

Dripping in rhinestones. Rhinestones and more rhinestones, dahling. A chick singer's staple. Rhinestones with a black cocktail dress, rhinestones with a mini skirt, rhinestones sewn onto a top, rhinestones with jeans and a mens suit jacket. Rhinestones = instant glam. Sparkle. A poor girl's affluence. Cocktail anyone? Make mine a Manhattan. With brandy. Straight up.


One of the next things I did was take down both my blue suede and my fancy brown and black "shit-kicker" cowboy boots I got in Nashville while living in Kentucky. Although it was a shift from my Manhattan heels, back there you could wear your cowboy boots with jeans, with shorts, with leggings, with a skirt, hell you could wear 'em with pretty much anything…silk boxer shorts and a white wife-beater… except not so much when it rained it turns out.


Stroking my faded blue suede boots, ripped and trashed though they were along the sides, the toe, the sole, I'm cruising through the back roads of Kentucky, music thumping, transported to Austin TX, hanging with CC Adcock and young Doyle Bramhall, Stevie Ray Vaughn's rhythm section who became part of Arc Angels, and then Storyville with Malford Milligan. I'm having a mango margarita at Fonda San Miguel, a Makers on the rocks at Antones, raw oysters and an Abita beer at Acme Oyster House in New Orleans, chasing music and players across the south, my boots steady, my abs taut and my silver crosses dangling. I was free.

In those days I only needed 8" of lycra -infused material to cling to my A cups and chiseled abs. Add a g-string, the black Betsey Johnson mini that came round the bend and glued to mid-thigh, my boots, and I was good to go. It wasn't the clothes, the jewelry. The power was in my body, determined, on fire, self-sufficient, seeking union. The rest? Adornment.

With a wicked laugh I realize I'd need all that just to cover one boob these days. What was once exposed is long covered over, draped, hard flesh gone soft and abundant. Given to nurture. It's scandalous. Pathetic. Oh, the places I've been. The hands that have traced these curves, the lips that have searched for nectar, the dusty trails long abandoned for sureness, for belonging, new creation.

Deciding to retire the blue ones, I slip into my fancy brown "here-comes-troubles" with the contrasting black wingtips and red underlay detail. I struggle a little getting them on. They haven't been worn in years. Maybe a dozen. Maybe more. But as the leather warms to my feet, we are indeed a fit. Foot to sole, sole to earth, earth to soul, past present future paths abound and collide.

I see the girl but she's not me, not now. Hair flowing, eyes twinkling, boundless magnetism, laughing, drinking, hard yet soft at the same time but in different places, places to be opened, discovered. Her beauty is more than lips, than hair, but beauty born of feeling, of pain, of knowing, of yearning, of longing to connect.

Cupless, nipples hardening, there's nothing to restrain them as they rub against soft cotton. From a simple touch, pleasure. Your fingers tracing my belly, stoking my fires, ripples quake throughout my body. Blood courses, racing to the point, beyond music, pulsing, throbbing. Lace triangle moistens as the coil of kundalini rises, aching for entrance… tongue circling, circling, take me, take all of me, fill me…just…be…with…

…all goes white…

…forms vanish…

…evaporate…

…water flows underneath.

…already a little death…

...separation…


Exhale.



I might wear these again.

A loving stroke of mink oil revitalizes the dusty skin. These are just lovely… reminders of my past…boots made for walking… no, commanding my path.



Markers in time are these closet memories…
a trail of precious diamonds
perhaps real or was it make-believe...
cut, glistening, then abandoned
laid with blood, with semen, and drops of saltwater...
I take my things and go.

Jewels scattered then collected
hidden, silent
Treasures layered in dust and disarray.

I take my memories down today one by one off the shelf, examining my long ago and far away. Fingering my stories, touching the pieces of me, honoring the girl I used to be, a part of me lost, a part of me found, lifetimes away yet entirely here, this time they're laid out with reverence and care.


Ed note:
Did I really want to go there?

The answer, although uncomfortable, is yes, absolutely. I have never written this type of explicit depiction before but the piece begged me to go there, far from my comfort zone, evocative, sensual, intimate in its exposure. As a writer I hoped to depart from safety and journey into provocative, emotionally rich territory. Dangerous to step out and expose oneself…but there it is…I felt it and I took the risk.

Virtual Moms Materialize

Prema, Prema, Prema...

From her first words I was sucked in, willingly, taken by the strength of her sacred poetry, her mind-bending ability to freefall across space and time within a few sentences. Through the virtual door a window, and through the window a mirror, and through the mirror recognition: a kindred spirit.

How moved and blessed and fantastic it was to actually meet you today RiversGrace. As if I'd (almost) known you all along...

Good to know…

…that I still have legs even though it's only the 2nd time I've been out running since Spring Break began April, wait, no March 31st!

…that my size 12 ass still inspires construction workers enough to drop their tools and walk around the corner just to get a better look!

…that despite the lack of sleep, I still managed to pull off a Birthday cake: 4 layers of buttery yellow sponge cake wrapped in billows of fresh vanilla chantilly cream, with an oozing center of speckly vanilla-bean custard, (or vanilla-vanilla-vanilla as she insisted!) Despite the garish exterior, it turned out as luscious as a wedding cake. And yes dear, animals. Plenty of animals.


(Maybe that's why my ass is still a size 12!)

...that a girl's best friend is bubbles, not baubles. Plenty of bubbles.

Cheers!

Time's Up

It was 86 degrees by 9am this morning coming back from LAX.

(LAX = taking my Dad to the airport. Dad who flew in for a week to celebrate Sienna's turning 5 and tour the amazing preschool he's helped sponsor. Dad who left when I was 3, met again when I was 13, held an intermittent relationship with through the years and as it turns out, proves to be just as irresponsible a grandparent as he was as a parent. No, I guess he can not watch my daughter and her friend for an hour while I do some weeding in the front yard!! Not without allowing them to make a giant, expensive, horrible mess and then telling me he was not responsible so won't apologize….the evening before her garden birthday party after we had been cleaning and preparing for it for days…which set me back a couple of hours due to cleanup...time that could have been spent prepping the food or making the cake, but who needs sleep?

Makes me wonder who the bigger child is, my Dad or my child? It's all a slippery slope. My brain--not to mention my back-- is exhausted from trying to follow the twisted contradictory turns of non-logic and bad English. Every time I think I understand what he's saying he changes on me. Nope. I was wrong…it's just the opposite. A moving target.

I'm like a baby who desperately wants milk but can't latch on. Instead out of frustration, I disconnect…water flowing…surfing the inner wave…la, la, la…I have no idea what you are talking about, nor do you try to make your thoughts legible. Asking clarifying questions only makes things more unclear. He reminds me I should feel sorry for him. He reminds me what a horrible life he has led, how much he has suffered in agony. Yet as a parent myself, I can't imagine walking away from my children. No communication. Nothing. Ten years. Bonding never really happened. Though he tries to make it up to me, what we have is a complex "friendship." Only, I probably wouldn't have chosen him as my friend. What I wanted was a parent. From either of them. I look at him and all I see is a self-absorbed, fearful little man, chasing his shadow, misinterpreting others, totally unaware of the effect of his actions. Or non-actions. Especially his absence. What that does to children. His children. Me. Even though I know he genuinely loves me and would do anything for me, truly, I can only take small doses of his hyper-behavior and pretzel logic.

The truth is, I don't need him anymore. I haven't in some time. And though I try to include him at times, he is really at best a distant bystander. His choice.)

And, despite everything, it was a fantastic, lovely Birthday weekend. We hung out, we saw friends, we played games and revelled in the time together as we celebrated another year.

Now that the "Gift of Time" has come to a close, I am grateful to be back. I am also grateful to be coming back from LAX.

Man, it was hot today!

(More to come…)

The Gift Of Time

"The Gift Of Time" is a generous phrase that gets bandied about between preschool directors and parents considering whether or not to hold a child back from Kindergarten. The child gets another year of preschool to take his time developmentally in order to avoid feeling like he is always rushing to "catch up" with everyone else.

With this in mind, I decided I am going to take some time myself. Even though there are a million things to do, emails to catch up on, stories to write, tasks at hand, I am going to stop, take time to smell the roses and have a little cake with friends and family. I am going to give myself the gift of time and fully enjoy the weekend my daughter turns 5, the near close of her preschool life, and a milestone in my own mothering. Five years. Half a decade. My life has completely changed since conceiving her...in ways I can't clearly articulate. Instead, I will raise a glass and celebrate being present for this incredible ride.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SIENNA!
Love,
Mama

Intersection

I ducked out for a while. Life. It got in the way. Instead of fighting it, I jumped into the stream. Let it carry me. This too is who I am.

When I ponder where I left off--the feeling of "dancing along the water's edge" --the place where ocean meets dry land, the constant pulling of opposing tides, it is this very conflicted tautness that keeps me present. The choice to walk this razor's edge or surrender into the stronger pull, though it may switch and sway me at any time, this is what keeps me alive, current. This intersection of life.

I want a big life. I get my assed kicked. Then I long to be small, safe. I hide.

I long for a deep love, a partner to share with. I find that. Then I long for freedom, independence. My own space.

I am a woman, I am a child. I have a child, I am forced to grow up. Growing up, I am a child again. I become whole. Wholly woman.

I can't help but create, this is my fire. Yet non-paid creations, though priceless, don't pay the mortgage. I burn out. I create elsewhere.

I focus on my child, who, after all, needs me. My own needs suffer.

The laws of inertia, of defeatism, of neglect defy momentum and make a mockery of progress. Yet I surrender to who I am, where I am. Some things I cannot change, though I push and push. Until I stop. I'm still breathing.

As I grasp at different perspectives, poking and turning them, angling for a view, the piece that doesn't quite seem to fit, the piece where she ends and I begin, or where I surrender and she is met, the mother-daughter dance, the "how long is the rope?," the how much freedom and autonomy, how much supervision and protection piece….as soon as I think I've mastered this, I am presented with another view.

There is no correct answer. This is a fluid question that demands continual adjustments, many times after the (devastating) fact.

(Insert detailed story…)

We are both learning, expanding, accomplishing…and failing, deflating, healing, then growing again. Never static. Never arrived.

At times the growing pains are enormous. This is one such time.

When I consider the push-pull of my own life, living at the intersection of many issues, this piece, perspective, never quite fits. Rather, it expands and contracts, twists and turns, always shifting, leaving me in a continual state of growth and learning, not to mention mental dehydration.

Time…oh where do we allocate those precious hours?

Priorities? What's more important? On this given day or mood of the moment? Me, myself and I, my child, my husband, my family, my work, my workout, my friends in need, the preschool, the elementary school, the community parents, the neighbors, the cat? The emails, the blogs, the phone? Having stuff? But we need a new roof, our grill is shot, our 11-yr-old couch is uncomfortable…yet… still we have so much more than many.

It's hard to keep a perspective on what is a most meaningful use of my time, my work, my effort, plans.

I am at the edge of knowing and unknowing, seeing and unseeing, feeling and unfeeling, believing and unbelieving, encouraging and protecting, building and tearing down, letting go, of self, ideas and others.

I've been everywhere. I am nowhere. I am right here.

I am with my daughter. I am putting meals on the table, socks on her feet. The yard, a place of beauty, becomes a home to celebrate 5. Five. Arguably one of the hardest jobs I've ever done, I am being present, excruciatingly present. I expected no less. For now that is enough. But it isn't enough. I also expected more.

As I stand at the intersection, fully conscious, searching for perspective in my mothering and in my own life, I am awash in gratitude. We have each other. Though there is struggle, though there is pain, and certainly loss, this is a great gift not to be squandered. And in a moment's notice all could be taken away rendering my angst meaningless. But it isn't. And gratefully, it wasn't, not now, not this time.

I exhale thank you.

With that my heart lightens and I am filled with love and abundance. I may not understand it, others definitely may not understand it, but this is what I am doing. And, in gratitude, I hope for more expansion to come...in whatever way it will.

I bow down to this giant mystery and do my best to stay on the path.

All I ask is that it lead somewhere…worthwhile.

Lord knows, my maps haven't worked.