Creation: Something from Nothing

They say that procreation is the ultimate act of creation. We have created a Being. A spirit brought to form. Whether we did this, or it was already done via God's will or karma or destiny, we have a child. Sprung from my loins, or in this case air-lifted from my belly, our child is born. The mutation of egg and sperm, cell and hormone, blood and tissue, flesh and bone is so outstanding, if it weren't so common and ordinary one would think it magic.

So too is the act of creating, well, anything. Making something from nothing. Blank page, blank canvas, blank track, parcel of dirt, empty plate. The process of inspiration into thought into plan into action becomes creation. Something from nothing. I know a little bit about this.

In the beginning, I used my innocence, my trust, my expression to communicate and create.

Then as I developed, I found my art. I used my body, the dance and the dancer, both real and perceived, literally and figuratively.

And when that faded, I used my voice, my music, my songs to tell my story, to evoke a feeling, to create something from nothing.

I also used food, as a chef, as both an expression of love and a way to survive. Both high art and commerce, but just as disposable a medium.

Now I use words, written and spoken. Documenting life. Reflecting on life. But words are passive if not combined with action, production, or movement.

Eventually, as the words fade, I'd like to be able to say I used my life to create art. My indomitable spirit, mercurial and knowing, infusing the very steps I have taken, steps leading down a path, path become journey, journey become inspiration, inspiration become contagious for many.

In the end I'd like to think my willingness to change and grow, my audacity to continue when I knew not how, my courage to face and diffuse challenges, to find another way, to not fear the empty spaces, but continue creating, has been a testament to my spirit.

I'd like to think my life will live on by the example I have lived, through the women I've touched, and through my child, whose innocence and spirit I am entrusted to nurture, who will one day take her impressions and make her own creations.

Dancing Along the Edge

Some people look at the sea and see only depth, survival, drowning, despair.

Some people see expansion, change, a journey, a place to cast dreams, possibility.

I dance along the edge
where ocean meets dry land,
where reality meets possibility,
and where unlimited possibility
becomes reality.

And when it builds rather than destroys,
unifies rather than alienates,
inspires rather than denigrates,

This is the ultimate Creation.

How Far Can I Take This?

As I ponder just how deep I wish to delve into this public school advocacy journey, gathering like-minded parents to harness, uplift and embrace Westside neighborhood schools, juxtaposed with the quicksand of all that is LAUSD and the community's disparate agendas, I am alternately excited, filled with hope and optimism--"it's do-able!" and also dread and exhaustion--"just how much effort can one repeatedly expend through one's life!" Or more succinctly, "not so do-able!" I have flashes of "do I really need yet another fixer-upper project in my life?" and "when does it get to the easy part?"

Just how far can I take this?

As I step into the street, arms sweaty, lungs open from my morning run, I am filled with a sense of ever-expanding power--a self that is grounded yet so vast it stretches across the entire intersection, where anything is possible:

"As far as I want it to go!"

This is the knowingness that rises when holding the question.

Isn't this always the answer?

It is the mind that doubts, the body that tires and weakens, and the spirit that sinks. Yet it is with connection and determination, joining forces with others toward a common goal, each one adding her strength, vision, momentum; together we can build anything.

I am as big as I want to be
I am as capable as I want to be
I am as vast as eternity
All things are possible
You just need to be willing.
I am willing.

I am reminded of this as I climb The Steps. Same steps, endless steps. Step…step…step…step. Steady, easy pace, consistent rhythm; this is not a race. One foot in front of the other, step…step…step…a moving meditation all the way to the top, the top no different than the bottom, nothing in-between but steps, focus, breathing, moving, kicking aside worry, doubt, negativity, thought even. Just step. Do it. Done. Next.

"As far as I want it to go!"

And on another topic, the question is not can I write, but rather, what do I want to write about? Where do I want to devote my time, my energy? What do I want to spend the next year on?

A series of ideas bubble up to the surface. Salt crusts over my face forming sandy crystals. The sweat evaporates. I am ready to start. One foot in front of the other.

I am grateful for the time, the years, the preparation, the healing, and the knowledge.

And now, I must do.

And so it is.

Onward!

What's new--Public School Advocacy

What's new in public school advocacy land?

Let's see. Many people have been asking for an update. I think I shall itemize:

Since Jan 14th, 2007, the eve of our illustrious Venice Edition of "Martinis, Magnets & More," and as a response to the swell of emails from confused parents, I cranked out and made available an informative 25-pg guidebook:


Westside Guide to Public Elementary Schools:
Navigating Magnets, Charters, Permits & More

"a no-nonsense, easy to understand, nuts and bolts type handbook covering all your Westside public elementary school options."

*Demystifies Magnets, The Point System, how Charters work
*Outlines how (and when) the different Lotteries take place
*Identifies when a Permit could help and more
*Complete listing of 57 Westside Elementary Schools and their contact #'s
*Handy month-by-month timeline of application and lottery deadlines


I have been selling those directly to parents via paypal, and donated 100 copies (including the document file for additional print runs) of a condensed version to my preschool for all future matriculating parents.

Was approached to speak to the local Neighborhood Council's Education Committee where I presented my idea of forming a loose affiliation, an "uber-booster" support summit where core parent leaders from all the Westside neighborhood schools could gather to compare notes, share resources and successful strategies to grow and revitalize our neighborhood feeder schools. There is roughly a dozen schools in the immediate vicinity, some of which are doing really well while others are struggling.

Was invited to attend a citywide think tank of active movers and shakers within the public school community to discuss and share strategies to raise the profile of the little neighborhood school. How do we shift the perception and improve the schools in order to get the neighbors back into the neighborhood schools instead of abandoning them for other options? This is the core question.

An ongoing online dialogue was formed to continue to share resources and ideas, of which I have been an active participant, resonating with parents, even gathering support from the other side of town.

I also have volunteered at a revitalizing local neighborhood school, attending booster club meetings, spreading the growing excitement of the school and assisting at the last tour for prospective parents.


On the horizon:

Considering hosting a brunch for prospective parents who might be considering this local school, forming a safe environment for candid discussion, and ideally to encourage active participation and enrollment.

Been considering how to form and connect active parent clusters at the neighborhood schools that could use more help and a perception shift.

Been asked by a write-in to the LA Times to put together another Westside community public school event, based on the successful buzz the last one generated.

In the meantime, I have attracted one who's intent it is to badger, attack and write inflammatory misrepresentations about my "work" (among others) and virtually stalk via internet anyone who may or may not be able to reach me to obtain a copy of my parental guidebook, which he insists contains "conspiracy theories" or ways to maneuver around the district's administration, which it does nothing of the kind. Although at times lucid, wrapping nuggets of truth around misinformation, I have been told he has a history of this, a restraining order against him from the local elementary school, and that there is a district person who's sole job is to monitor his petty yet combative behavior, his relentless filing of public grievances and letter writing campaigns. Nevertheless, it gives me great pause to continue the inroads I have built thus far, and to open myself up to this kind of thing.

Having no "hidden agenda" other than wanting to help parents learn of and navigate their options, and rallying the neighborhood for parent participation, this man's recent activity and barrage of emails (cc'd all over town and all the way up to the mayor of Los Angeles), makes me question just how far I want to stick my neck (and my name) out to try to unify and build community.

So for now, I am on the fence, reconsidering next steps. Perhaps I will give up this noble idea of community activism and become instead a private, self-serving, mind-my-own business capitalist, as so many have done before me. But then an idea strikes me, and I envision an intuitive way to proceed, much to my husband's dismay. (He would rather I bring in a substantial income instead of mucking about in this public school volunteer pit.)

Some days, though I resist it, I feel called to this work. Can't explain why. I just know things, and aren't afraid to do them. I actually feel I can make a difference and am encouraged when others seem to respond to me when I speak out.

Other days, on receipt of another tiresome email, I cease and desist, and question what the hell I am wasting my precious time and energy for.

So there you have it: one foot sinking into the quicksand that is LA public schools, and the other running out the door.

In the meantime, there was something quite momentus for me in putting together a "mini-book," complete with an outline and table of contents and clarified arc. It's as if my "big book" idea is now somehow less frightening and more do-able. So, for that alone, it has been a great ride.

February's Fire

2/12/07

While snow and freezing temperatures continue to blanket much of the Northeastern corridor, here in Los Angeles at the top of the canyon looking out to the sea, fluffy cotton-candy puffs drift across aquamarine sky as birds perched on umbrellas of green herald an early Spring. 61° and sunny, bright yellow freesia, grape hyacinth and purple pansies push up through the earth. Our early-girl peach is even earlier this year, displaying her ebullient mass of delicate pink blossoms to the thrill of the local bees. The vibrancy is palpable today.

I am grateful to be here. I am happy on my path. I am firm in my feet as I retrace my steps, the steps I know so well. I have gone far, yet I am still here.

For every 10 doubts, there is, "Nope, I don't believe that." "Nope, I don't buy into that." "Nope, that doesn't work for me."

At this very moment the clarity is, well, so very clear: we choose. We have chosen all along. Forward, or backward. Up, or down. Steady, or sporadic. Doubtful, or on purpose.

Sideways is good too. Resting is good. So is moving. So are detours, delays, dismissals. It is all good. It is inconsequential, life's events. Both deeply significant, and not of consequence.

What is essential, is the approach. The way with which we approach life. In the present. Being present. It's where I go, with where I am, that is interesting.

I can always change my mind. I can always change directions. I can always choose Love. Strength. Focus. Movement over stagnation. Courage over doubt. Tenacity over gravity. Optimism over pessimism. I can choose to believe in myself or not.

With that in mind, I keep going. On task. On purpose. Bursting with life and unlimited possibilities.




2/14/07

With each step I command myself onward, yet I am already going. Forward. This is not a race. This is MY life. This is MY time. These are MY legs striving forward, taking it all in, assessing and deciding my future, my fate. I am opening to my destiny. I am already on its path. I can't not be.

Perhaps, as it has been suggested to me, I AM afraid of convention. Of getting stuck. Of sameness. Of being labeled and boxed in. Of feeling contained, confined, captured.

I'm more like the wind -- the great gatherer, force of nature, bringing together necessary elements, then moving on. From ferocious and devastatingly powerful to warm and gentle; the whole range. But rarely still.

Noticeable, yet unseen. Undefined. Perhaps undefinable.

As frustrating as it may be, I like it that way.

Post Martinis, Magnets & More Wrap Up

Ok, I have to admit it's been ages since I posted. My days have been FULL.

We had an incredibly successful "Martinis, Magnets & More" night, with a fantastic turnout of more than 100 people packed into the Electric Lodge in Venice, accompanied by flowing martinis and gourmet chocolate desserts, thanks to local sponsors and the LA Times.

We, meaning Sandra Tsing Loh, Christie Mellor and I, in addition to dispensing magnet and charter school info, were encouraged to observe many parents meet other parents from the same "questionable" neighborhood schools, perhaps rethink their perceptions, and begin to connect with each other about how to get involved to make Westside neighborhood schools even better than they already are. This to me is progress. I am also very encouraged to hear glowing reports about core parent groups dedicated to revitalizing several local public schools and the positive changes they've already accomplished. It is this active spirit that continues to grow and build our neighborhood.

I have since been approached by several people, from the local neighborhood council to a loose citywide coalition of active parents spearheaded by Sandra Tsing Loh, representing areas east, west, north, and south, who all in their own way are interested in collaborating to continue to raise the profile of our public schools.

Also, I recognized that there were still questions, many of which flooded my inbox particularly about how the Magnet point system works and the different timelines to apply to Magnets and Charters, so, having put on and sat through my share of school events, elementary school tours, and talks with school principals about the process, I have taken it upon myself to write a short booklet, breaking it down, outlining the nuts and bolts of navigating the labyrinth that is Los Angeles Unified School District. This booklet will initially be made available to current and future families at our Westside preschool as a public school addendum to their existing Kindergarten Handbook, but ultimately could become more widely available to parents about to enter the school system.

There is also interest in forming some sort of citywide uber-booster affiliation, where core parent groups can gather and share the most successful revitalization, fundraising, grant-writing, enrichment and neighborhood recruitment strategies, and support one another so each school doesn't feel like it has to re-invent the wheel so to speak. (Yet another resource booklet to write?) There is ongoing dialogue about what the next public event should be, and how to bring folks together.

On top of that, I wrote 2 pieces for our school's winter newsletter which will go out to about 100 families. The first piece, "A View From Within," is about how the Reggio philosophy at my daughter's preschool has influenced changes in my own life - instilling collaboration, documentation, active listening, meaningful dialogue, small groups, creating projects that follow emergent ideas and concerns, investigating and exploring possibilities, and being community-minded and inclusive, not exclusive. The other piece, "Connecting the Dots," traces those values in my work with public school awareness, which began quite by accident last year as a service to parents, and has since emerged as a major focus and citywide collaboration I'm proud to be a part of.

More on the horizon...

"Selling Your First Book"

It's one thing to write and write and write. It's another thing to learn how to focus your writing and sell your book.

Somehow in the midst of everything, I managed to crash a 6-hour MediaBistro seminar, "The Secrets Behind Writing and Selling Your First Book" with Susan Shapiro and guest speakers that included a literary agent and an editor from Seal Press. Wow. Jam-packed with info, tips, names and strategies. Part workshopping of your actual pitch letters, part honing in on your unique book angle, part Q&A with guest agent and editor, led by Susan Shapiro who has sold 5 books in 4 years. This was SO helpful and informative for the business side of things. Highly recommended.

Calling all New York/east coast writers:
Susan Shapiro will be teaching her seminar this Sunday, January 28th, 2-8pm in New York City. Don't miss this if you are serious about selling your book and want to learn how.

Project Martinis, Magnets & More

Dormant? No. Hiding? No. Inactive? Not at all.

Quiet? Yes. Surprisingly so.

Returning from "winter break," 19 days of no school, 2 in-laws, a coupla holidays thrown in there, delightful family outings, now it's back to school, back to our routines, back to work.

Like a squirrel gathering nuts for a long winter break, I have been quietly, actively collecting projects.

Most immediately, becoming active helping parents navigate the challenging, not so top-of-its-class public monolith that is LAUSD. That stands for the Los Angeles Public School District.

I suppose I never would have even considered public school education reform a serious issue to focus my energies on prior to becoming a parent. As a matter of fact, collaborating, building community, gathering info and sharing answers with others was only done if it involved musicians, a gig, and some cashola…for me.

Nine years ago, when we bought into this sleepy little Westside neighborhood, a mostly retired blue collar, post-war community, the last thing on our minds was school districts. In fact, I distinctly recall our housewarming announcement. It stated matter-of-factly: "No rings, no kids, no nonsense. (To answer your next question.) But please bring a bottle of your favorite wine."

Er herm. Yes, well.

Now that I'm married, with child, specifically child about to enter Kindergarten, it seems that there's a whole mess of nonsense around here to wade through.

Cue favorite wine, please.

The only reason we landed over here to begin with is because the lots were bigger (I love to garden), slightly more affordable, and we needed a detached garage to house the new recording studio we were going to build. We didn't want a postage-sized lot with neighbors breathing down our backs as musicians came and went day and night pushing their Anvil cases up and down the driveway. Little did we imagine that with the advent of computer technology, sampling, flying tracks and vocals over the net, the need to actually see musicians anymore is a rarity indeed, but that's beside the point.

By a stroke of good fortune and incredible timing on my husband's part, we ended up in our little fixer-upper neighborhood almost a decade ago. Who knew it would eventually become a desirable family destination?

However, it is quite simply unacceptable to me that the average price these days for a 1-story, 1200 sq ft tear-down over here has risen to just shy of a million dollars, and yet our local schools are in such a sorry state parents seem to be abandoning them left and right for anywhere better. Now if you can afford the additional $18-25K (choke, wheez) per child per year for private elementary school on up, bravo to you. But some of us just can't. We need other options; we need public options. You know, for the people, the just folks, not the let's-hemorrhage-money-just-because-we-can bazillionaires.

And furthermore, if the real estate values are where they are, I damn well think my kid ought to be able to go to her neighborhood school and get a decent education.

There are many problems, but a big one is size. LAUSD services over 740,000 children and is the 2nd largest school district in the country. That means that the tax dollars we throw into the kitty over in our hot little neighborhood get dispersed and wind up all across this urban sprawl, not just in our own back yard.

Another issue we're facing is this very real post 9/11 baby boom. I see it on the ballooning mom boards and on the ever-growing preschool wait lists. There is a swell of kids about to begin entering the school system. I have heard parents tell of even being willing to pay the 20-some-thousand-dollars per year for private school, applied to 5 or 6 of them, and didn't get in. Any. Too many children, not enough slots. As this boom grows up, the available slots per applicant will get slimmer and slimmer. Those children will have to go somewhere...perhaps back to their neighborhood schools.

I've heard it said that if the state of California were a nation--what with the output of silicon valley, napa valley and the entertainment industry--it would be ranked the 7th or 8th wealthiest country in the world! Yet we are ranked near the bottom of the country for public education. Our schools just don't line up with what Californians are capable of. With all our resources, intelligence, ingenuity, creativity, wealth…couldn't we do better educating our next generation?

So, what's a concerned parent to do?

Luckily, there ARE public school options. If you know about them. If you apply correctly and on time. There are magnets, independent charters and complex charters, inter and intra-district permits, each with their own application procedure, timeline and lotteries.

In an attempt to sort through and understand all this, I began coordinating parent nights at our preschool last year to discuss the process, bringing in alumnae parents who'd already been through it for one event, and both a magnet and charter elementary school principal for another event. I sat in on local PTA and parent booster club meetings at neighborhood schools, keeping tabs on their initiatives and progress.

Now branching out to an even wider community, this Sunday I have agreed to jump onboard with NPR humorist Sandra Tsing Loh and "Three Martini Playdate" author Christie Mellor, along with the LA Times and a vodka sponsor, and am co-hosting a westside public event, "Martinis, Magnets & More," a public school survival seminar. We have your vodka. We have your Choices Applications. We can help.

At the heart of it is to be able to offer nuts and bolts info on school options and navigating the often confusing application lottery process, and also to connect parents to each other and encourage them to get involved locally instead of flee. It's time to revitalize our neighborhood schools. It is already happening in little pockets of dedicated, core parent groups at many neighborhood schools. We're building awareness and momentum. With a little twist.

Cheers.

For Holly

Today I offer this tribute to my cross-country friend with whom I honor as being the impetus for my early mama musings.

Holly, I credit you with being the one who inspired me to start writing about this whole motherhood transition to begin with. It was that string of long emails I wrote you in the middle of the night, wrought with insomnia-induced confusion, trying to explain this existential hell I was feeling that is new motherhood, doing my best to answer your questions and concerns, one new mother to another expecting one. It was my lame attempt at passing along a light, a roadmap, some tips, from one sister to another, and your returned enthusiasm that made me think I could actually write something of value to others.

So for that, I say thank you.
Bless you.

That I'm still struggling with what to do with it all, how to put it all together in a coherent way tells you just how lost I have become in the fog of doubt.

Either that, or as we grow further into motherhood, and the immediacy of terror and survival subsides as the child thrives, the ongoing and far-reaching implications become mighty and thick; they are motherly arms that twist and strangle. Too vast to encapsulate. Too subtle to articulate. Too daunting a list to actually achieve and matriculate.

Reinvent myself? Juggle career and family life? Advocate for my child? Heal my family's critical mistakes? Heal my body? Save my relationship? Save my friendships? Save the education system? Navigate the changing economic culture? Reclaim relevancy as a woman/mother/wife and thinker? Become socio-politically active? Shatter archaic images of womanhood and her capabilities? In my daily life, and again with my words?

Or lie on the couch and watch reruns of Top Chef and Grey's Anatomy wondering why my life isn't at all where I planned it would be and why I feel so alternately optimistic, and powerless and stuck. And hungry.

Here I am. Everywhere and nowhere I expected to be.

Perhaps I just need a drink.
Or a good night's sleep.
Or a natural hormone cream.
Or a windfall of cash.

Or a job to take me out of here.
That is, a job other than the 10,000 little ones I already do.

And even if, I said IF, I could do it all, who said I would want to anyway?

So here I sit, looking ahead and looking back, weaving, spinning my tales, telling my truths. Words everywhere, spilling, casually, miserly, abundantly. Simultaneously light and dark. Fruitful and slim.

Grateful to know you. Sending love your way.

Signed,
the reluctant nester AND the reluctant drummer girl...
Marching in circles.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

As the storms of December subside and I step back to review before turning to a new page, the lesson I am struck most with is "Letting Go."

Not just as in last year is done it's time to move on, but to let go of a deeper almost urgent need to touch, reach, connect, embrace, reciprocate.

As I examine this need for connection lately through swirls of misunderstanding, miscommunication, mixed messages, non-action, and drifting relationships, I recognize a base fear of mine.

Rejection.

Or more succinctly, abandonment.

This goes way back to a primal toddler need to connect, to love--in this case to the parents--for comfort, safety, security, and ah, yes, identity.

With one arm ripped away at 3, the other contorted and sometimes disconnected, it is rejection I felt rather than an embrace, and separation even though some were in close proximity. Self-assuredness becomes muddled. Control no matter how small and ineffective, attempts to offer security but usually backfires.

That thing, that thing I fear the most, is to face the fear of being, once again, alone. Unmet. Unrecognized. That very same feeling of disconnection.

So, it occurs to me, so be it. Face the thing that appears the hardest to face. Make it go poof.

My new approach this year, one of the scariest and most risk-taking steps for one like me, is to let go. Let go of all needs and expectations. My need for personal or professional outcomes. My need for achievements. My need for connection. My need for understanding. My need to be admired or liked. My need for depth. My need for reciprocation, substantiation, or financial compensation. My need to fit.

Just. Let. Go.

So as I turn the page to a new calendar month and year, I challenge myself to dive off that cliff…


…hang-gliding…


…free-falling…


…into my destiny…


…wherever that takes me, with no expectations except to stay light, follow my intuition like a compass, and keep my heart open. Every moment a delight.

Nothing happening? Delightful.

Too much happening? Delightful.

Friends close by? Delightful.

Space and silence? Surely a delight as well.

Drop all expectations at the door, and step into delight in the moment.

Holiday Wishes

"Some day… there will be a story you want to tell for no better reason than because it matters to you more than any other… You'll stop looking over your shoulder to make sure you're keeping everybody happy, and you'll simply write what's real and true… That's when you'll finally produce the work you’re capable of."
-JD Salinger to Joyce Maynard
excerpt from At Home In The World : a memoir
by Joyce Maynard


On the eve of Christmas, as I review the past year's work, progress, hopes and dreams, the above quote I just stumbled upon seems even more timely, more appropriate to hear and absorb, even though I had originally clipped it several years ago.

As I work on my craft, the turning of the wheel, reviewing and refining my point of view, the frame to my story, may I also find the very same courage and fearlessness that is necessary to write authentic work without worrying what others may think.

So with a holiday blessing in mind, I share this thought with you. May it help to reveal the core of who you are, your essential self, and may you live and work from there as well.

Happy Holidays!

Abundance and good things to all….

Updated not Upgraded

It's not like I haven't been writing. I have. I just haven't been posting. And I haven’t much felt like converting to a Google act either. Call me stubborn, (wouldn't be the first time), but can I just say that I am soooo sick of things changing on me.

Yeah, I know. Life, right? Yeah, I get it. It's just that if the banks aren't being bought out and changed 6 times in 5 years, then my email acct is being bought out and changed (thanks Time Warner), and now I can't post comments on Blogger until I update to a Google act. Then my cellular service recently called us all in to replace ("upgrade" they called it) to their new battery power system. Well the damn thing doesn't hold 1/7th of the charge it used to. Progress?

Even our local drugstore was bought out by another national chain. Frankly, I don't need to be wowed with diagonal maze-like aisles and fancy lighting. If I'm stopping in to the corner drugstore, I just want to know that my 1-2 buck items are handy and accessible. It's just a drugstore for chrissakes.

Then there's the updated versions of every tech thing I ever use, from browsers to applications, cable to digital tv, even learning the difference between convection bake or broil and conventional bake or broil, I mean, I just want to heat something up in the oven, does it have to be so damn complicated? Do they have to reinvent the wheel every few months? Do I have to study another manual? Do I need an ID and a password for every thing I do?

(F@#k, was this one all letters or numbers or some of each? How many IDs and passwords can one brain retain already? And when you factor in acct #s, we're all making ourselves dizzy with digital strings. I'm going to need a password for all my passwords!)

Whine. Moan. I know. Sorry for the long digression. I think I'm suffering from saturated learners curve syndrome. I don't want to learn how to use another god-damned thing for at least another 2 weeks, 'cay? I got enough to do around here right about now.

Wow. I do feel better for having gotten that off my chest. Thanks for listening.

(Perhaps I'll submit to the new Google acct soon...I miss everyone....just not tonight. My brain is full.)

Results 102

Feet touch the earth, connecting, anchoring down. Sunlight pours into the top of my head, receiving, purifying, expanding. An imaginary vortex of carwash-like scrubbers wash me clean as I jog along the sandy path today. Energy shifts. Aura brightens. Thoughts drift by like birds on wings. Sweat trickles down my arms, my ribs, pushing toxins out.

How could I question this?

Sunlight dances on the water sparkling, merry, delightful. Just past the California Incline, I can see the longshot of the ferris wheel and the rollercoaster on the Santa Monica pier jutting out into the Pacific Ocean. It's a classic shot. I've seen it so many times I don't even notice. Except today I do. The beautiful coastline.

This is California. This is LA. This is why I moved here.

The ocean. The expanse. The positive energy radiating from a sun that shines year round. The feeling that everything is possible and it's happening all around you. I am already moving when my feet get caught up on a horizontal escalator. Effortless motion. Journey full-speed ahead.

It occurs to me to experiment with what it feels like to run downhill. To let go. To stretch the legs using different muscles and receive the blessing of going WITH gravity, not against it. Flow, yes, but more.

It's the rush of momentum, forward movement, easy, effortless motion upon motion, gaining speed, without so much as a thought of conflict. No going uphill, going upstream, fighting resistance. Instead, aligning with the current, with the wind, down, down, down, faster and faster, using different muscles, foreign muscles, non-resistant muscles, doing less but gaining more, until a new muscle memory is built that is as familiar with utilizing ease as it is breathing. Second nature. What a concept.

In the middle of December, 70-degree sun beats down, crystallizing the sweat on my arms, healing me. I feel happy. Legs stretching, lungs open, body moving, gaining speed, a meta-physical cocktail in motion, uniting earth with cosmos, turning dark cells to light. I am pure energy. With and without form.

This is Prana. This is Life.

This is MY life.

I am alive.

Anything is possible.

Now.

December 8th.

Ben's Birthday.

Wonder where he is. Wonder how he is.

I was the last one in the family to see him.

It's been 11 years since I last laid eyes on my older brother when he drove off in his red Budweiser truck, navy blue uniform and matching hat, a hug and a "see ya!" between us, and 6 years since he deliberately dodged my occasional calls by changing his number.

I suppose any connection to the family is too painful a reminder of our past, even though I can't fathom what evil I did to warrant his silent treatment. Just that I came through that same tortured womb he did.

Unfortunate for us that we couldn't at least bond against darker forces, together building a fraternal solidarity, a united front . But no, that would be a behavior we didn't see modeled anywhere near our family dramedy.

Like missing an arm, it's weird to think he's out there, somewhere, living his life, a lone survivor, an island unto himself not needing connection or reattachment.

I know little of his adult life.

Does he know he's an uncle...again?

He knew about my sister's baby 23 years ago, but he doesn't know about mine. He doesn't know Miss I'm Never Getting Married is now married. He doesn't know Miss You'll Never Catch Me With A Child now has a 4 1/2-year-old. He's never seen her wavy blonde tresses, or heard her delightful laughter, felt her squishy bear hugs, or experienced her maddening willfulness. Maybe he thinks it's better that way. Any connection to the past might be a gateway too fragile to broach.

So today, December 8th, the day he was born, my thoughts scan and return to honor his memory.

How does one close such a chasm, suture such a wound?

What would I say if he would take my call?

I hope you are…well.
I wish you…well.
I wish you…peace.

Love.

Happy Birthday, dear brother, wherever you are.

Experiment 101

Seems like a no-brainer but I guess I had to try it out for myself.

Sensing that pre-holiday emotional vortex of unmet expectations, unrequited emotional yearning, sadness and disconnection in my upcoming horizon, coupled with an exaggerated sensitivity and a professional rejection, the downward spiral pulling at me was inevitable, without me putting up a good fight.

Hmmm. Maybe I AM working too hard, maybe it's NOT worth the effort, maybe my "practice" IS unnecessary, I thought, succumbing to my inner self-defeatist leanings.

I know, let's see what happens when I fall off all self-discipline, add in gratuitous doses of caffeine, wine and cocktails, sugary treats and baked goods, chocolate, excess refined carbs and bread products, along with no running, no meditating, no writing, and still, so little sleep when there's TIVO to catch up on.

Why not prosecco AND Bloody Marys. Martini AND wine with dinner. Banana cake AND pain au chocolate. Espresso AND milky, sugary Lapsang Souchong tea. French fries for lunch AND pasta for dinner. Who cares? Fun, right? C'mon T, indulge a little. You NEVER treat yourself. Don't be such a hardass I convinced myself.

OK little experiment. You're on!

Of course, 2 weeks later, I say in my unceremonious French, "F@#k that shit!"

For those keeping score, here's the results:
Restless nights, more insomnia, more exhaustion, bloating, gas, weight gain, particularly in the middle. ( I like to call it my 3 Ring Circus - top abs folded over middle abs folded over C-section scar with the bulge under that.)

Emotionally I felt depressed, unmotivated, stuck, snippy - well, OK, angry, sad, vulnerable, useless, and defiant. Spiritually I felt disconnected. In fact, I wanted to disconnect physically, emotionally, socially, and isolate. Not be seen. (Of course, that didn't happen. Too much to do.)

What I didn't feel was motivated, balanced, optimistic, enthused, willing to persevere, be adaptable, stay on track.

So, after reviewing the results of my little experiment, I find I must return to my unceremonious French, and say, "F@#k THAT shit!"

I started taking my Jarrow Bone-Up Calcium/Magnesium at night to sleep better and my B100s during the day for energy. I added back salads at dinner and a reduction in carbs. Today I went running again after a 14 day hiatus. Baggy shirt over baggy pants. Instead of pounding, I went easy on myself: jog at a comfortable pace, walk a little, jog some more, steps. I didn't beat myself up. I didn't berate myself. I didn't think, "God, you're fat. God, you're ugly. Man, you really slipped. Now look how far you have to go."

No.

Instead, I just noticed, "hmmm, interesting experiment. Well obviously THAT doesn't work for me. Let's get back to work, m'kay?"

So, easy does it, I center myself, tune in and begin again. I spin out the cottony haze surrounding my aura, ok with having been somewhat vulnerable and needing to be hidden. It's alright, I'm still here.

I am Love.
All I am is Love.

Love still loves when it seems love's gone missing.
Love can never leave you.
All lessons are lessons for more Love.
Love is all around.
Love never ceases.
I AM Love.
I AM That.


* * *




As I pass the knotted tree, I contemplate its form and this time I don't see knots at all. This time, I see beauty and a knowing kind of grace; a spirit who through moving and turning around obstacles, traumas, challenges, grew compassion, wisdom, beauty, humanity, divinity in its rich complexity. Surrender to what is, yet never stop striving.

As I contemplate the palm tree - skinny trunk shot straight up 30 feet unhindered, ending in an explosion of palm fronds, I realized my life would never be that. Not A to B, fast track to external success, showy in its ability to sprint upwards and bear fruit. No, I am the twisted tree, complex and individual, able to withstand inclement weather, gathering options, turning and turning to find the sun. I may not go in sequence, I may only reach 6 or 7 feet tall, but what a blessed journey.

Thanks

Thank you ladies. Your support means the world to me.

I like to think of myself as the strong-willed, strong-minded, self-motivated bulldozer type who is impervious to rejection or criticism, but the truth is that as strong as I am, I am also at times weak and have my moments of doubt.

I am learning to embrace the totality (brokenness and wholeness), go gently with myself, and realign with the inner-truth that propels me forward.

The truth is that inspiration (alignment) and breakthrough can occur at any moment. And so, onward we go...hand in hand…

Personal Reflections

Perception is a tricky thing. One minute I'm heavy, exhausted, bags under my eyes, hair wadded up in a ponytail holder, last night's tee shirt still rumpled around me after noon, feeling like a misfit, a loser, an unaccomplished wanna-be. The next minute I splash some cool water on my face, revitalize a bit, dab on some under-eye concealer and lipgloss, rip out the hair binder, shake myself loose, step into some well-fitted clothes and voilá, minutes later I feel different, more alert, self-assured, accepting, excited even of all the possibilities, of my capabilities, of the new alliances and collaborations that have been revealing themselves to me. With a twinkling of an eye, and a shake of the head, suddenly, things are possible, new directions are opening, ideas are flowing, and I don't feel so alone or so stuck or so limited. I actually feel quite good, quite capable and downright excited about future possibilities.

Tricky thing this perception. And what is it about confidence? How can some of the most confident, capable women in the world feel so inadequate at times?

We might not be able to have everything we want, or all at the same time, but we surely always have exactly what we need, even if we can't always see it.

As I watch the proliferation of millions of predominantly women-mama bloggers with their comments in the double digits and subscriptions in the hundreds and thousands, as others go through their gratuitously open lovefest, supportfest, rising popularity and cross-bloginating jump on the bandwagonfest, I start to question my voice, my reasoning, my raison d'etre. My POV. (Point of view.) Why am I blogging?

And as for my writing, the book, I ask myself where's the angle? Where's the framework? Where's the ladder? Quick get the wading boots.

My tendency is to stop, reflect, pull back, rather than glom on. I never have won any popularity contests. I never was trendy. I never did grab the brass ring. I did always, however, have an opinion. I did always speak my mind. There was, always, my heart of knowing, my truth. Perhaps I never was reaching for the brass ring afterall, perhaps I was striving for gold. Platinum. Perhaps my victories will be small, personal, hard won, luminous.

While out walking today, this little bauble presented itself to me:

"It is not so much your words that offend, but rather, your silence."

I took that as an answer to the question, why do this, what's the point? To mean carry on, tell your story, don't worry so much about it being perfect, or agreeable, or popular, or accepted, or validated. It is the silence, especially women's silence, the silence of shame and struggle and victimhood, the "I'm fine I can manage all by myself thankyouverymuch," which cripples and keep us in the dark, isolated, unknown, and unhealed.

Yet it is the very assertion that I am valuable, my pov is valuable, I have a right to express my life and my story, there is a place for me, there is value in it, perhaps even universality in it….and the telling of it releases the secrecy, the inner struggle...and already I am healing. I am becoming my own light of knowing.

And so, like that inflatable punchbag clown who keeps popping back up, I pick myself up, dust myself off, and keep going.

Today's "Mama Moment" brought to you by Bozo the Bop Bag, a brisk hilly walk and an ice-cold cup of water.

Happy Thanksgiving

Wishing everyone a happy and abundant Thanksgiving.

As I sit down to relish this year's feast, I am reminded to take a moment to be thankful not only for the family I came from, but also for the new family I've created and the many wonderful circles in my life...my online writers circle, the families in our preschool circle, the local moms circle, and mamas across the internet felt but not seen whose presence and collective consciousness have guided and supported me throughout my own journey.

I am grateful to be included in such ever-growing, ever-connecting circles and am awed by the care, compassion and support you've all shown me. I wish you a joyful peace as I bid you a heartfelt thank you.

With gratitude and many blessings to all,

Tanya

Threads Of Compassion

As I back up against the decision, the almighty decision weighing heavily on my mind these days, I see with either outcome the bell jar will drop, rendering instant death or suffocation of a dream…a dream so close I can almost taste it at times.

I am not a have-it-all kind of woman. Not yet anyway.

I have been in the backyard of my dreams. So close. On the property even, yet hidden behind gates and fences of limited resources, time, exposure. Let's face it, I have become the thing I had always been taught to despise. The dirty word.

"If you can't cut it, why don't you move to Connecticut and have babies!" my professional dance teacher in New York would swagger if someone couldn't retain his excruciatingly long chains of choreography.

Even the musical A Chorus Line, (a show I toured with for several months), has the Diana character longing to leave the business, have babies, and finally get fat.

My mother Alison disdainfully referred to them as housewives. Housewives--useless, spineless, brainless women who couldn't carve out a life for themselves, women who relied on a man's security and identity. Mrs. Henry P. So-and-So. Ack.

I suppose she was bitter because she had to go it alone. She got to do it all. She couldn't rely on her husband's security. He basically divorced then deserted us until we were grown.

Housewife. Mother. Smother. It conjures up the smell of coffee and coffeecake, surface conversation about the weather and gardening, and the joys of those darn little ones! Brainless needy dependents.

I hate boxes. Don't box me in. I will struggle and resist and break down those walls…

OK, I am a housewife and a mother.

There. I said it. I am a backyard woman whose dreams and aspirations haven't materialized…who is essentially supported by her man while raising the baby-child. And with each passing year, the time to make choices is running out. My fertility. My ability. My business plan. Which do I choose? But denial doesn't work where age and fertility are concerned. This is do or die time. Am I really a failure? Have I failed to launch?

With this emotional revelation, I have untangled one long vermillion thread, a main artery that runs the length of my own intricate magic carpet.

I begin to pull at a tangled mess of collective history of loss and grief, sadness and pain…and the death of my self, for there is surely a death of sorts, of freedom and autonomy, in becoming a mother…and then there is the death of the babies I've already lost…three of them.

Three.

Like the three of Alison's children, the bell tolls for each one. Each loss marked…

my brother,
my sister,
and I.

I slip away.

* * *

My dad left when I was three.

My mother was in over her head with three.

Our nest was damaged and broken, not only by his absence but by her inability to cope and nurture.

After my third inexplicable loss, through the cottony haze of numbness and disbelief, hot sprays of shower water run down my swollen breasts and fully vacant belly attempting to wash me clean of defects. An overwhelming intuition prevails, shocking in its boldness, announcing that my soul had decided to take it on. I chose to bear the grief of our three childhoods lost with my own three losses. My role, my destiny was to heal our family. Surely she wouldn't do it.

But why would I agree to that? Why would I take that on? Why carry Alison's burden after all she put us through? Who did I think I was? Child-mother to my mother?

I cannot say why I would make such an agreement to carry this kind of karmic load, or if any of this is even true, but the awareness is there just the same. Haunting. Loaded. Devastating.

I try to wrap this idea around my brain. It slithers snake-like, around and around, without rest. Incomprehensible.

I, the baby, am pallbearer to our three lost souls...with sacrificial offerings…each of my three dead babies…return the weight to zero.

A psychic once told me that the first two miscarriages were the same soul trying to download, but not being able to complete the transaction. She said the soul was in agreement with this plan. She didn't speak of the third one at that time, as it hadn't happened yet.

A Maori healer told me last summer that I had created this blockage in my womb, but that it was released and healed now and that "the apples would come when the tree was ready."

Would I ever be ready? Could I attempt another journey so intense?

What had I done? Had I blocked the threshold of the womb? Was my uterus defective? Was the thought of stepping aside for 2-3 more years to raise another baby just unbearable to me? Had I really created this? We were not infertile. In fact, conception was never a problem. It was keeping the baby. No amount of testing could explain why they kept slipping away. They found nothing.

Perhaps I was aware of the realities of motherhood this time. I was already broken, no longer naïve to its personal toll. The joy, the love, the divine magnitude of the gift--yes-- but the price…the personal price of motherhood, especially to one with dreams and ambitions, and limited resources in an escalating cost of living.

Could I even attempt this again? And face a potentially fourth loss? Or, had I paid my debt to my mother and this time it would be fine?

Then there's the laundry list of issues…the age thing…the fear thing…the labor thing…and the grief thing. Oh yes, and the body thing. And the sleep thing…or lack thereof. I am already stretched pretty thin. It is already more than a lot. Where did I think that reserve was going to come from? Dare I suppose I can step it up a few more notches, and take on more, as in another baby? Do I have more surrender in me? That is, were we to be so lucky to come to term this time?

Who's to say there's one more chance anyway? It would surely have to be a miracle baby, a magic child to get through this fine web.

But as my husband put it and I agree, one of the things we do well, perhaps even best, is parent. Look at our daughter. She's incredible. To be able to bring another soul forth like that and watch it blossom would be so amazing. Godly.

My determination to persist is there. I am not afraid of hard work. I am not afraid of being broke.

I AM afraid if it will all be for naught.

Again.

Sadness washes over me with the realization that underneath it all--all my fighting, scratching, and clawing to "make it"--in addition to being validated, and perceived to be valuable, is my need to be totally independent.

As I dig a little deeper, under that…is the need to need no one. To trust no one.

Aha! That's my mother's fear. That's HER projection.

It is hard for me to sit still and be dependent, especially with the idea of another baby, for that means I'd really have to slow down and trust him, at least initially, huh? Trust him to provide for me, to feed me, shelter me, protect me while I nurture another baby. It's hard to feel that I would be worth protecting even, without having to be productive or prove worthy, without contributing my financial independence to the familial kitty. I've always had to earn my value, my keep. I never got a free ride.

It's such a great feeling to never feel quite OK enough just in your own skin, for who you are, that you always have to be more in order to be accepted.

This is far too great an entanglement of needs and desires to unravel in one session. But the thread is there hanging. I have uncovered it.

One strand…blood red and pulsing…dangling. If I pull it, will it result in a disembodied unraveling of my tightly woven security blanket, sending me tumbling into a downward free fall…?

Or instead, could it be the ripcord to my golden parachute?

Either way, it will be quite a ride…and a certain death as well…whichever I choose.

I have no clue.

I don’t see a clear solution. I'm not sure there is one. I will have to trust in the higher powers to untangle these knots.


* * *

It's A Groove Thang

I have a very complex, love-hate relationship with music, more specifically, the nature of the business of music and what it takes to "get over" these days. Sort of echoes my take on that last post. Sometimes thinking about it all just makes my heart feel, well, heavy.

My relationship with music runs deep and wide. It's complicated. It has been my joy, my passion, my escape and my blood. Perhaps also my curse.

Both my parents were classical musicians. From the time I could toddle I was singing. Supposedly I walked up to a piano in 1st grade or something and played through Silent Night with chords having never had a lesson before in my life. I studied cello and played in string quartets, youth orchestras, sang in choirs, ventured into show tunes for a brief foray into musical theater, then got my first record deal doing techno dance-pop in the mid-80s before going on a quest to find my own singer-songwriter thing. My musical influences were all over the map. I was diverse. Where my own tunes were concerned, I eventually evolved into more of a rootsy, pop-rock sounding chick, but that was then.

Cut to now. I haven't been very interested in making my own style of music much lately. Not post-kid. Not post-9/11. Not post-remind me why I'm going broke banging my head upon a closed door being just another chick-singer in a sea of chick singers kind of thing. The fire seemed to have drained out of me. For a long time I would just as soon listen to silence. Seemed like a luxury post-kid.

In defense of my tuning out, LA is well-known for its bad radio, repetitive formulaic playlists and celebrity talk. Talk, talk, talk. Hey, I have enough talk going on between what's been banging around my brain and my non-stop preschooler. I don't need more mindless chatter about who's doing who, who's about to come out with what, or what bullshit someone else is getting rich hawking…

Spare me the drive-time radio crap and stupidity. There's not enough room to squeeze much more into my already full and under-slept brain. I don't need it.

What I DO need is groove. Music that makes me feel gooood. Especially this morning.

This morning, on the way to the preschool, what I need is to wake up! I need some Tunes because that cup of coffee I chugged on my way out the door just isn't cutting it.

Part of the problem is that darn CD changer in the trunk. I know they put them back there so they won't get stolen, but it's just that I never seem to remember to actually go back there and change it out. For 6 months now, those same 6 CDs have been sitting there. 6 months! I can't listen to them anymore! Yet every morning it's the same. I still pile into the car with my daughter, despite my only 4 or 5 hrs of sleep, and have to get it up to get her across town to school.

Today I was particularly groggy.

Looking for inspiration, anything, I start flipping around the dial, er, bandwidth, seeking something other than drive-time sketches, commercials or talk radio. But no one is playing music. No one. Come on! Work with me here, people. I need something. I need a lift. I need more than that mindless chatter.

Miraculously, yet quite by accident, I stumble across Hot 92 Jamz…mega-old school and today's R&B.


(He, he.)

wtf?


Then, after a few beats, it occurs to me…I feel good…I have a smile on my face…


I am actually…



(wait for it…)



…startin' to feel HAPPY!


I am gettin' a groove on to Earth Wind & Fire's Shining Star. You gotta feel happy hearing that. Even Sienna is listening. "Shining star for you to see, what your life can truly be…"

Then, Atomic Dog starts up. Ooh, "bow wow wow, yippee yo yippee yay, bow wow, yippee yo yippee yay!" P-Funk, can ya believe it. How long has that been?

The Dazz Band's Let It Whip gets to whippin'….whip it all night! C'mon…you gotta be happy now!

Just thinking about Rick James and Give It To Me Baby makes me laugh out loud.

"Mommy, what are you laughing about?"

"Oh, nothing. Just some songs from when I was a kid."

It occurs to me that what we need is to dance. DANCE. I used to dance. No, I used to dance non-stop for hours. No one ever dances anymore. Not in my world. Not any more. Not since music became just about making money.

Dance.

Groove, people.

Shallow, pointless lyrics all intent on you gettin' a groove on. Party over here.

Shakin' my thang in the carseat, I bookmark my new groovin' station. I don't care if it's before 9 am folks, I feel good. And that is a new kind of alright.

As I'm driving around town doing errands and listening today, I let out one righteous shit-eatin' grin from ear to ear...as those ass-grinding grooves and visions of my lily-white bubble butt bumping and grinding my way through my past, fill me with joy…

Prince: I Wanna Be Your Lover.
Earth, Wind & Fire: Let's Groove Tonight.
Cameo: Word Up…"Wave your hands in the air like you don’t care, glide by the people as they start to look and stare…"

I am fully laughing at the thought of codpieces and sculpted hair. Is anyone with me here? Word Up!

Then they hit me with Harold Melvin & The Blue Notes: If You Don't Know Me By Now. Wow, now that's a song!

See… Life IS a buffet…something for everyone…room for all types of grooves and personalities.

We really should dance more. And laugh more too.

"How ya gonna do it if you really don't want to dance, by standing on the wall, get your back up off the wall... Get down on it, get down on it, come on and get down on it, if you really want it…"
-Kool & The Gang


I'm a non-partisan music lover.


"whoa, whoa, you got the best of my love, whoa, whoa, you got the best of my love…"
- The Emotions


I'm not cool...I'm Old School.

(…at least for today…that is, until another mood strikes.)