A Baby in a Crib

A baby -- my daughter -- is lying sideways in her crib, her tiny toes poking out between the wooden slats.  She starts to cry a bit, trying to free them, still groggy from her nap.  As I gently move her across her mattress, her feet wriggle loose.  Fingers, long and slender for a person so small,  circle around a favorite stuffed dinosaur, stuffing the tail into her mouth for teething purposes.  My baby's blue eyes are like flying saucers, exploring an unfamiliar world.

Now she is awake, an orange pacifier in one hand that she shakes so it makes sound, her other hand free to scratch at the Winnie-the-Pooh pattern that covers her sheets.  The only sounds: the air conditioner, the tap tap tap of the pacifier, the shik shik shik of her scratching fingernails, until she gazes up at me again with those blue eyes, opens her mouth and says, aa-a-aaaa, with gravity and presence, like she is sharing something of great importance.  


 

My First Book!

I am pleased and excited to let you know that my debut poetry collection is being published!

Lessons in Letting Go is being published by Finishing Line Press.  It is currently in the pre-order period, now until June 7, 2013.  This poetry chapbook begins with the story of child loss and also explores miscarriage, confusion, coming to terms with loss, perspectives related to spirituality, and hope for the future.  

Please go here to check out the book and to read some of the things that other writers have had to say about it.  I strongly encourage you to order by June 7 -- shipping will be only $2.49 (within the United States) until then.  Please spread the word and share this link with others who might be interested!

Thank you for your support!

The Trouble with Kindness

I was not expecting to have such difficulty with my 33 Acts of Kindness project.  Yet it is already April, and I find that I am struggling.

One challenge that I'm running into is that part of my agreement in doing this was to avoid repeating the same act in different situations.  That makes it particularly challenging.  I'll be in line at Starbucks on one of my days home with the little one, and think, Hey!  I know!  I'll buy the order for the person behind me... oh, crap.  I already did that one.

Do you see the irony here?  I'm NOT doing acts of kindness that I would otherwise do because I've done them already and they won't "count" toward my 33 for the year. 

Perhaps this is what happens when people are overly perfectionistic.

I have decided to revisit this entire project.  I will continue to do acts of kindness, even if it's the same one over and over again.  If something new occurs to me, I will do it.  This takes me to my second issue which, oddly enough, was the reason I imposed the "don't do the same thing twice" rule to begin with.

Being kind in new ways can be anxiety-provoking.

It's like being new at anything.  Whenever I attempt to do something that is outside of my comfort zone, it is exciting and frightening all at once.  Buying things for people is a very easy way for me to be kind.  Turning around at a church service to tell a young woman how inspiring and courageous I thought she was for leaving her native country due to the threat of persecution for her sexual orientation was much more challenging.  In a way, it can be fun to challenge myself to do things in a way that is not the norm, and to see what happens.  Often, I find that it opens doors that would have otherwise remained closed, or brings me closer to new people or opportunities that I might not have had exposure to otherwise. 

This activity, the 33 acts of kindness, is interesting.  It's bringing into focus some of the ways in which I sabotage myself and act in excessively self-limiting ways.  It's amusing to see where I get stuck, and amusing to see how I haven't seen it before.  It's also interesting and liberating to see what happens when I do things differently, and how tiny changes tend to have a ripple effect, creating a cascade of increasingly larger changes.  



 

The Fault in Our Stars by John Green

I've read my fair share of love stories, some better than others.  One of my main issues with love stories is that they tend to follow a predictable arc: boy meets girl.  They fall in love.  Guy becomes girl's reason for living.  Drama ensues.  They come out of it stronger.  They live happily ever after.  From time to time, that's just the kind of thing I like, but it was not what I was looking for when I happened to be ready for some new fiction to read.  

When I picked up John Green's The Fault in our Stars -- a holiday season gift, and my first John Green novel -- I was reluctant to make the investment.  I've started enough love stories with two-dimensional characters and rolled my eyes many a time at long, drawn out bedroom scenes and dull, uninspiring dialogue.  It turns out that The Fault in our Stars made the #1 spot on the New York Times Bestseller List for good reason by taking familiar themes, adding less familiar twists, and defying predictability. 

The Fault in Our Stars is an atypical love story from the start: the main characters are teenagers who meet in a cancer support group.  Seventeen-year-old Hazel Waters is the edgy, sharp-witted, intelligent protagonist who has terminal cancer.  Her life takes a turn for the more adventurous when Augustus Waters shows up to her otherwise craptastic support group.  Gus shows up to the group in support of his and Hazel's mutual friend, Isaac, who is about to have surgery that will render him blind.

Although the story focuses upon Hazel and Gus's evolving relationship, a series of intriguing side plots are explored: Isaac's transition from sighted to blind; the eccentricities of Hazel's favorite author; and the ways in which cancer affects the lives of the teens and their families.

Throughout the book, Green transitions smoothly and suddenly into moments of devastating humor and devastating pain.  He deftly creates snapshots within the story that draw upon the lives of the characters before the time of this story, infusing the dialogue with emotional depth and adding to the richness and complexity of the characters.  One particularly potent example can be found in this exchange:

     Dad asked me if I was working on anything for school.  "I've got some very advanced Algebra homework, " I told him.  "So advanced that I couldn't possibly explain it to a layperson."

    "And how's your friend Isaac?"

    "Blind," I said.

    "You're being very teenagery today," Mom said.  She seemed annoyed about it.

    "Isn't this what you wanted, Mom?  For me to be teenagery?"

    "Well, not necessarily this kind of teenagery, but of course your father and I are excited to see you become a young woman, making friends, going on dates."

     "I'm not going on dates," I said.  "I don't want to go on dates with anyone.  It's a terrible idea and a huge waste of time and ---"

     "Honey," my mom said.  "What's wrong?"

     "I'm like.  Like.  I'm like a grenade, Mom.  I'm a grenade and at some point I'm going to blow up and I would like to minimize the casualties, okay?"

     My dad tilted his head a little to the side, like a scolded puppy.

     "I'm a grenade," I said again.  "I just want to stay away from people and read books and think and be with you guys because there's nothing I can do about hurting you; you're too invested, so just please let me do that, okay?  I'm not depressed.  I don't need to get out more.  And I can't be a regular teenager, because I'm a grenade."  (p. 98-99)

As the story unfolds, Green deftly and skillfully weaves in several surprises.  Some are pleasant ones, and others not so pleasant, but they are written in such a way that struck me as true to life.  Perhaps it is trite to say, "I laughed!  I cried!  I felt like I knew the characters and I missed them when I closed the book!  I couldn't put it down!"  It turns out that all of these things were true.  I encourage you to read -- and enjoy -- this wonderful story. 

Solitude and the New Mom

I wrote this post many moons ago about the reasons why solitude is such a great and useful thing.  All of these things are completely true, and are major reasons why I think solitude is so grand.  Of course, I was not yet a parent at that time, and looking back on it, I imagine that parents in the know may have wanted to laugh me off the face of the Earth.

"Solitude," I imagine some mother scoffing at me via her computer screen circa three years ago, hair greasy, wearing pajamas, and getting up for the third time in five minutes to deal with some child-related catastrophe before vacating the vicinity of her computer screen for six hours, finally coming back after the kids have gone to bed, sighing, and shutting down the computer while throwing a load of laundry into the washer.  

Now that I'm that mom, I get it.   I continue to need to adjust accordingly.


One of the most challenging things for me about solitude as a new mom is that my opportunities for it have dramatically decreased since the birth of my daughter, especially once I returned to work.  For some people, perhaps this lack of solitude would be a welcome relief.  For me and for others, the demands of being involved with others in a continuous way -- even those we deeply love and care for -- creates a practical challenge to a vital aspect of our self-care.  In my case, lack of solitude makes it difficult for me to approach the tasks of my everyday life with the clarity and connectedness that I'd like to have.  From there, it's only a matter of time before I wind up a sobbing mess on the kitchen floor, hair in a Medusa-esque pile on my head.  

I am one of those people who cannot care well for my kid, my home, my job, or my relationship with my spouse without a little time to myself to fill my own cup, as they say.  Otherwise, I have nothing to give.  At first, trying to find time to myself was a daunting task, but I've managed to find it in a few places I wouldn't have expected before having kids.

1.  The Workplace
Not every mother goes back to the workplace, nor had outside employment to begin with.  However, for some women who relish solitude, going back to work in whatever capacity -- if you have the means and comfort to do so -- provides you with opportunities to be by yourself.  Whether it's in the car, a few minutes with a cup of your favorite (work-appropriate) beverage, or the time between clients, a little downtime can be found.


2.  Night Owls
For those who can wing it (ha ha, get it?  Wings?  Owls?  What a hoot!), grabbing a bit of time after the kids go to sleep and before you go to sleep can help fill your own cup.  Of course, if you'd just prefer to go to bed early, I'm certainly not going to blame you.


3.  Early Birds
If you're this type, go ahead and get up before your kids if you like.  Again, if you want to stay in bed, I won't judge.


4.  The Car
For whatever reason, the car seems to work magic for my daughter, and for other small kids I know.  You aren't exactly all by yourself, but a drive can give you a chunk of quiet time and space.


So I realize I'm not the first mother to ever walk the face of the planet, and I'm certainly not the first to come up with the above ideas.  I have found, however, that you can do all of the above and not feel like you've really had any solitude.  There are a couple of things I've learned about that, too.

1.  Be Present!
I define presence as the quality of bringing your full attention to the task at hand and resting there.  I have found that being by myself doesn't quite cut it -- I also need to be aware of the fact that I am in solitude and to fully engage it.  I check the clock, maybe put on a timer or alarm, and let go of my to-do lists or other activities until the alarm sounds.  By doing this, I get more out of the moments I do have, which leads me to...

2.  It's Not the Time, It's How You Use It.
Even if you were accustomed to spending tremendous stretches of time in solitude pre-kids, as I was, the length of time you have available for solitude doesn't necessarily matter.  Bringing presence to your downtime makes any time you do have -- whether it's three minutes or three hours -- more restorative and filling.

3.  Solitude Is An Inside Job
One of the major lessons I've learned about solitude in the past four months is, by and large, solitude is an inside job.  You can actually build a place of solitude within, like a wellspring or a reservoir, that you can draw upon to sustain you when even those brief pauses are difficult to come by.  I imagine this ability is really helpful once you come to parenting toddlers, but I'll let you know if that's my experience when I get there.   

I love solitude!  I think it's great, and my consistent experience is that it helps me to stay calmer, more competent, and more sane than I would be without it.  I am so glad to discover that I have been able to maintain some solitude in my life post-childbirth, although it looks different than it did before.

 

The Joy of Spring!

I have yet to live in a city or town that's famous for much of anything, other than colleges.  However, I've discovered recently that we've beaten out Syracuse, New York in terms of total snowfall for 2012-2013, as noted at Golden Snow Globe.  Hooray...?  I guess...? 

Today there is still snow on the ground, but it is melting away after two warmer, sunnier days in a row.  On a drive earlier this morning, the car windows were lowered as I enjoyed the balmy, luxurious 50 degrees Fahrenheit that Mother Nature had on offer.  You cannot possibly fathom my delight!  Well, to be fair, you probably can, especially if you have perpetually cold hands and feet and live in the cold, snowy parts of the world for at least half a year.

Naturally, with the warmer temperatures, sunshine, and approach of the spring holiday season, my thoughts turn toward spring!  Spring!  AT LAST!  All winter, we periodically purchase plants from the local florist in vibrant colors.  Bright yellow daffodils, robust red roses, and delicate pink carnations adorn the dining room table and the counter top along the edge of our open kitchen.  I love this!  It keeps the beauty of nature alive throughout a season that is often thought of as a season of stasis (although anyone who has been through a blizzard can attest that "stasis" might not be the best descriptor).

As the tulips bud and burst through the still-cool earth, I am flooded with memories, but I am surprised to find that the memories of this time of year are limited and center around sports.  The smell of snow becoming mud becoming dry dirt reminds me of chocolate bars and parades to kick of the start of softball season.

Softball season was a big deal in our town, or it was a big deal within my family and among some of my friends.  Although we had an active Minor League in town, I never seemed to hear as much about them as I did about Girls' Softball.  At school, you could find more girls playing softball than not.  Many of my friends and acquaintances were involved in the teams.  It became such a vibrant community activity that an old bike racing course was transformed into three softball diamonds, parking lots, and a big concessions stand.  My first job was as a babysitter, and my second job was as a softball umpire for the younger leagues in town.

 I loved to play, although I was not the strongest player.  I found a niche for myself eventually by playing first base on our league team, and then later for the B-Team during tournament season.  It was my sister, however, who played softball by what a college friend calls "California Rules."  No-holds-barred, take-it-to-the-limit, badass softball.  She routinely hit doubles, triples, home runs.  Part of this was her powerful and accurate hit.  Another part of it was that she would routinely ignore the third base coach and tear around to home plate, sliding in just as the ball reached the catcher and, since teams tended to place people who couldn't catch in the catcher position, my sister's carpe-home-run  attitude paid off more often than not.  We would come home, she doing her best to clap off as much of the dirt and mud as she could from her pants and shirt and shoes (and sometimes cap) while I stood next to her, running a hand along my slightly dusty knees and wishing I could slide into base without looking like a crash test dummy.  

When I went to high school, playing softball was no longer practical, and I moved on to play on the school's lacrosse team.  I loved playing lacrosse and the release it provided from the pressures of life.  I couldn't shoot on goal to save my life, but that didn't matter because I was a fierce defender who could keep up with most of my opponent offensive players.  I had a stick and I wasn't afraid to check.  Sometimes I found myself in the path of a ball flying through the air, like the time someone shot on goal and the ball struck me in the center of the chest.  It hurt, but I got over it and moved on.

As an adult, spring brings opportunities to hike in the woods and go camping.  I love being in the woods with a backpack and my thoughts, and maybe a few people to travel with while I immerse myself in the richness of thick green leaves on trees and tiny buds poking through on their bushes.  These days, I bring my camera and a book.  I write poems and take photographs of waterfalls against a backdrop of wooden bridges and rocky hills.  When I get home and see neighborhood kids outside running around and playing catch, I smile and remember the excitement of the outdoors as a child.  I remember that winter is finally done and spring has returned again.

Grieving and Gratitude

While I was out on maternity leave and home with my then-almost-a-month-old daughter, I decided to start listening to the stereo during the day.  This is something my mother always did while I was growing up.  Leaving the stereo on and one light whenever leaving the house, she always returned to a lighted, sound-filled home.  I don't know what her reasons were for this, but I assumed it had something to do with not wanting to come home to a dark, quiet house.  As I sat at home, nursing, changing diapers, sometimes cleaning the house, and sometimes eating lunch, the combination of our grandmother clock's steady tick-tock, and intermittent newborn cries could have induced a turn for the worse in my mental health.  Fighting this decline was critical, and so I started listening to the oldies station.  

I love music in general, and the oldies are no exception.  Much to my surprise, I've noticed the music of my childhood years edging its way onto the local stations, indicating that the tunes of the decadent eighties are now going the way of the dinosaurs.  It was noticing this, combined with decent pattern recognition skills and auditory recall, that led me to realize the local station was rotating a few playlists.  Tiring of being able to predict the next song to play, I decided to really shake things up and listen to NPR instead.

Although there is predictability to NPR, it didn't bother me because I knew I'd be listening to different topics each day.  I started to learn about politics as I changed diapers, and listened to people I've never heard of talk about their new books while I nursed.  

Then Sandy Hook happened.

It was one of those moments when I knew I'd remember where I was when I heard the news.  That day, I was eating lunch at my dining room table and my daughter was on the floor in her jungle animal play gym nearby when the news broke.  It was the first major tragedy to make news since my daughter had been born, and I had no preparation for the impact it had upon me.

I looked at my daughter.  I thought of my workplace friends.  The teachers filling in for me on leave.  My students.  In particular, I thought of an elementary school in which I work.  The principal, the office staff, the students with whom I work in the halls on travel skills.  The dedicated teachers who support them in their educational programming every day.  I thought of the people at Sandy Hook, desperately waiting for children, spouses, and friends to leave the school building.  I looked at my daughter again and finally understood why some people live in desperate, controlling fear, and cloak their children in it.

Oh, how I cried.

The photos started to go up online.  You know the ones I'm talking about.  Young children and the educators who lost their lives.  The person who carried the gun, and the person who brought him into the world.  I have never cried so much over the deaths of people I did not know.

I began this post intending to write something about safety versus independence, and how being able to live fully means being willing to accept a certain amount of risk, to deliberately exchange our attempts at keeping ourselves safe for the richness and joy that can be ours when we stretch beyond our habitual ways of behaving.  All of that is true.  Sandy Hook is a painful reminder that we cannot be certain that this moment won't be the last one, and of how limited our control is over what happens to us.  

We do have control, though, over the spirit in which we approach life.  After all, we only have our lives, our loved ones, our memories and values and dreams, for so long.

Let us be grateful for what we have while we are fortunate enough to still have it, and let us express that gratitude by living as fully as we can.
 

 

Musical Memories #1: "Operator" by Jim Croce

Musical Memories!  We all have them: a song comes on the radio, or over your favorite web music channel, and it brings you right back to a certain time.  I share some of my own musical memories here in this special series.  Click on "Musical Memories" in the sidebar to read them as they're posted.

The room was dark, and I was exhausted.  Thankfully for the gift from medical science known as epidural anesthesia, my body had finally relaxed enough that I was able to progress through active labor to transition after being stalled for over 12 hours.

At some point in the early morning, the spouse had hooked up his iPad and asked what kind of music I wanted.  I don't remember how the music was picked out; I eventually found out that he had set up "Moody Blues Radio" on Pandora.  This indicates that my mother had something to do with the choice of music, the Moody Blues being far and away one of her favorite groups. 

I had had my epidural placed for about three hours and was at that point where I would have to start pushing.  At some point in this whole process, I had a brief, lucid moment and tuned into the sounds in the room.  I heard "Operator" playing and said to the spouse, "Hey, this is a good station."

"Yeah," agreed the others in the room.  "It really is."


The lyrics to "Operator" have nothing to do with childbirth, as far as I can tell.  They seem to be a song about the one that got away, a long-lost love.  It's the last song I remember hearing before my daughter was born and, when it came on over the oldies station today, it brought me back to that moment just months ago when she was about to come into the world.  For that reason, it has landed a spot among my musical memories that I'm sure will last until the end of my life.
   

On Heartbreak

Sometimes I find that I have real difficulty in naming what I'm feeling.

Has this ever happened to anyone else?

Let's take, for instance, the feeling of heartbreak.

Over time, I've been able to recognize and acknowledge difficult feelings as they come up, and maybe even name them properly: grief, loneliness, disappointment, frustration, and so on.  I'd thought about heartbreak, and even thought that I didn't have much heartbreak in my life.

My active, present-day journey in starting to recognize and name heartbreak has a few notable markers that come readily to mind.  One that comes most quickly to mind was when I was at the wonderful Ferry Beach Camp and Conference Center last summer and speaking with new friends about some relationship challenges that I had been grappling with over a period of several years.  One woman -- a thoughtful, articulate woman with a rather quiet demeanor but a wicked sense of humor -- broke the silence after I told my story by saying, "it sounds like a situation of almost constant heartbreak."  I studied her face for a few moments before looking down at my hands.  Heartbreak.  It resonated, and I found myself in this place I find myself in so often, the place where I become reacquainted with some feeling that I haven't felt in awhile and get intensely curious about it: hey, what is this?  Where did this come from?  Heartbreak seems like the right word, but what part of what I'm feeling is the heartbreak part?

The concept of heartbreak has shown up again recently, in an online exchange I read about the distinctions, similarities, and relationship between rejection and heartbreak.  Saying that a lightbulb came on would be an understatement.  This wasn't merely a lightbulb moment; this was a veritable I'm-going-to-light-up-a-darkened-room-and-blow-your-mind moment.  My sudden realization was many times in my life, I was able to identify and work through the grief and loneliness that come with social rejection, death, or that drifting apart that happens sometimes between friends when life changes, but I had not successfully identified my feelings of heartbreak.

To help with my understanding, I went to seek some help from all-knowing Google, who referred me to Wikipedia, that lovely pre-research research page:  "Heartbreak may refer to: broken heart, the emotions felt after the end of a romance, or grief or disappointment."  As I went on to follow links and read more, I discovered that I'm not the only one who has had trouble identifying heartbreak -- or other feelings, for that matter -- and that humans can often have feelings they have difficulty naming, or even may not know they have.  I also discovered that what scientists know about heartbreak is fascinating. There is a real "broken heart syndrome" that can cause the tissue in the heart to break down and is seen at times in a person who has suffered the loss of a spouse after many years.  

As interesting to my mind as all of this was (online research:candy store :: Amy:kids), it didn't really answer the question of what one does with heartbreak, or other feelings that are so challenging.  The only thing I know to do with it is to accept it with as much compassion as you can and, eventually, grow from the experience.  I think heartbreak is one of those givens about life in a human body.  I do know, though, that for me, just being able to identify the feeling as one of heartbreak has already gone a long way toward helping me to accept it when it's there, and to move on from it when it's time.
 

33 Acts of Kindness

The holiday season comes and goes each year, and in the chaos of multiple visits to relatives' homes, the driving all over creation, and the chance to start anew at the beginning of another year, I often forget that my birthday will soon be here.  It isn't until we're a few days into the new year and I remember an ex-boyfriend's birthday, or have cause to write the date on a piece of paper, that I realize it's a new year.  That means that I have three weeks to figure out what to do for my birthday.

Each year, I've tried to pull together some kind of gathering.  Not one for big, noisy parties as a general rule -- though they have their time and place -- I usually have a few friends over sometime around my birthday.  We eat, we hang out, and one year, we even watched the Super Bowl to celebrate.  I spent my tenth birthday at a local roller skating rink with ten of my friends, while my thirtieth birthday was taken up with yoga, meditation, writing, and staring at the stars while at Kripalu.

My thirty-second year was a remarkable one, with the news that I was pregnant again, shortly after having miscarried.  That ended with a healthy little girl who is two months old today and a total delight.  I also received news that a poetry collection I had submitted to a contest had placed as a semifinalist,  meaning that I was offered publication.  I find myself fortunate to still be gainfully employed given the economic challenges that our country faces.  It also turns out that, although I still find myself feeling pangs of loneliness in my day-to-day life, I am not as alone in the world as I have often worried that I am.  

I am fortunate, and I am blessed.

 When I think of all of this, I find myself full of gratitude.  It lifts my heart and causes me to consider what had to happen for me to get to this place in my life.  Much of it has had to do with being willing to see what is good and wonderful and beautiful in life, rather than overfocusing on what is difficult or painful.  This doesn't mean ignoring the difficult pieces of life.  It only means giving the places in life that are challenging just as much attention as is necessary, and not a bit more.

I've decided that, for my thirty-third birthday, a few friends will come over as they do each year to hang out, eat ice cream, and talk about intense and thorny topics, like religion and politics.  When they go home, though, I have another year facing me, so I am committing myself to 33 Acts of Kindness over the next...well, however long it takes, but no longer than a year.  They can be big or small, but it won't be the same thing over and over.  For example, I won't be counting "let a car pull out in front of me on Pleasant Street during rush hour" more than once.

This was an idea I had unbridled enthusiasm about when I thought of it in the car on my way to the gym last week.  As I think about it now, it's the kind of thing that just feels right.  When I hear "what do you want for your birthday?"  My honest answer is that I really can't think of much.  My life is full, and I want to do these acts of kindness as a way to express my gratitude for what I already have.


For each act of kindness done in the world -- for another person, an organization, or what have you -- I plan to direct an act of kindness toward myself.  If you don't fill your own cup, you have nothing to give to others, and the giving you try to do comes from a place of needing others to give to you.

What do YOU have to give, to share with the world?