Cyber vs IRL

Tell me about the Insta-story? It's basically snapchat on Instagram, right? It's not like Facebook live where you can catch up and watch later if you take a few weeks off from social media, right? If you miss the story within 24 hrs it's gone, right? You missed out on part of whoever you're following's life because you took a break from whatever reason (I usually take breaks because I need to clean my house and hug my kids.)


So... How do we have real life interactions with people when we have to keep checking their live feeds and stories to "know what's up with them?" How do we learn to be kind, tactful and truthful when we're constantly seeking the connections we crave on a tiny screen? How can we learn to trust our selves when we are constantly distracted by the pizazz of another's way to do life?


Blech!


I'm all for having a cyber tribe. They're super helpful and lovely in times of isolation and distance, but I don't believe humans were meant to be isolated or to develop relationships with the world through a computer in their hand. I want an IRL (in real life) tribe who will get dirty in the woods, who will come over and bake or paint, whom my children will grow up knowing as safe people, role models and other trusted adults when mom's not available. I want backyard cookouts and singalongs. Those can't happen when we're all staring at our phones trying not to miss each other's lives. By doing that we are actually missing out on each other's lives! It's easy to type "I'll pray for you" but it takes work to bake a meal or clean the house of someone in need. It takes work to truly connect with other humans. And I get it, connecting can be messy. We have to apologize from time to time instead of pretending we didn't see the message that said we hurt someone's feelings. We have to roll up our sleeves and put our deeds behind our words for more than the 10 seconds it takes to snap a pic and post it. we get held accountable when we have IRL community, but its a beautiful thing to know those people also have your back should trouble find its way to your door.


I commit to working in my relationships IRL. Cultivating a tribe is just as much work, and therefore just as rewarding, as cultivating an herb garden. Each plant has a personality and a skill, each person in my life does too. How do we work together? Some of us grow well side by side daily, others are delicious when stirred together in healing teas or soups. Others need room to grow tall and spread out in order to gain the deep wisdom of a life lived in the clouds. I am thankful for our time together in stillness, embracing the cooling quiet moments in the shade, of the wisdom found in being still, together, and listening to loved ones in real life.


My Cyber tribe is all over the world, full of exotic spices and flair and I wouldn't trade them for anything! My IRL tribe suffers every time we move. They get pushed into Cyber tribe and i fear my Cyber tribe doesn't get to see the real me, the me that can only be seen by looking each other in the eyes, through all the many ways humans interact when in the same room: energetically, emotionally, telepathically, hormonally. I love the idea that when women are gathered together there is a natural release of oxytocin in the space. (I say "idea" because I haven't fully researched the claim and don't like to make scientific statements I can't backup. But still the idea is beautiful!) It so much harder to pretend that "thing" isn't bothering me when a trusted someone is looking me in the face. Its so much easier to hide behind a screen and pretend I got my shit together. You know what? I don't have my shit together. I don't think I ever have. I am constantly rearranging ideas and plans and modifying even up to GO time. It works to stay flexible sometimes, but to say I have my shit together would be a lie. And a trusted friend looking me in the face would be able to catch me in that lie much easier than in a text message or a well framed and edited Instagram post.


So I'm not gonna fake my life with you guys. I may not have my shit 100% together, I have piles of baggage to sort through and discard, I believe I will never stop growing, but I will keep coming back to myself (and hopefully this space) along the way and keep what is still working and throw out the rest. Unclutter your life, that's a hashtag movement, right? But my favorite is #unfaketheworld and that starts with un-faking me.


So cyber and IRL tribe, let's be real with each other. Social media, while helpful, can be distracting. Let's get there and see each other (especially this time of year when the darkness makes us feel even more alone than usual) and hold each up, practice active listening and truth-telling. Be together and feel your energy shift. There's magic when people get together in love (side note, love doesn't mean mushy, gooey, see-it-in-the-movies BS, it means mutual respect and adoration that genuinely cares for the other's well-being). Now text someone and make plans to walk in the park or get coffee or whatever you love to do that won't break your budget, just put down the phone and look them in the face!


Do it!

the power of words

The other day at a playground a young girl, probably about 4, announced she needed to use the facilities. She said it in such a way that led me to believe she was recently toilet trained. Her face showed a mixture of shock, awe, and complete terror that had her caregiver responding in a near panic. But what struck me was the verbal response from her caregiver: "Squeeze your legs together and let's run." How confusing! Squeezing ones legs together will in no way guarantee the activation of the pelvic floor muscles that are used to stop the flow of urine. And how can this girl run while pressing her thighs together? If she tried she'd most likely end up looking like Bert from Mary Poppins doing his penguin dance (view the dance here) and hurrying would be impossible. No wonder this sweet child looked panicked!  She was sure to fail if she tried to follow those instructions! I assume she figured out how to politely disobey and focus on getting to the loo because a few minutes later they returned to the playground in the same clothing.

So why am I sharing this story? Because it reminded me of the power of words. Especially as a parent of small children, I believe how you phrase instructions or requests is important for success. My research, of exactly one child, suggests that children want to please their caregivers (this finding is reinforced by reading books on child development). If the child doesn't understand the words, how can they complete the task? If poor grammar is used, or conflicting actions are asked of them, or they don't understand what the task is, I believe they panic a little. 

Now don't get me wrong, I do not believe this little girl's caregiver was intentionally setting her up to fail. In fact, she looked a little panicked too, as most parents of newly potty-trained kids do when they take their littles out in public for the first few diapers-free weeks. The look on her face suggested she said the first helpful bit of encouragement that came to her as she scanned the area for the closest toilet - which at this park is usually behind a big tree.

So what do I want you to walk away from this blog thinking? Think before you speak. It really is as simple as your mom told you it would be. Is what you're about to say helpful? Is it clear? Loving? Necessary? Kind? Positive? Gentle guidance? What reaction am I hoping to get from my words? Is the reaction helpful? or will be it stained with negativity from the delivery of my thoughts?

And I am saying this as much to myself as I am to anyone reading this. What you say, and how you say it, will bring about results. Be sure your are communicating in a way to ensure you get the results you desire. Yelling will ensure action, but will it be the action you wish, and will it be sprinkled with love or with disdain and fear? Are your instructions clear or are they setting up your listener for confusion and failure?

Personally, I am working to remind myself to encourage positive communication in my house, hoping to foster action and cooperation based on love and mutual respect rather than fear. Doing this means double checking my words and tone when requests aren't fulfilled. Was I unclear? Was I harsh? Did I yell? If I answer yes to any of these questions, I have not acted in line with my goal of loving communication. I must acknowledge my wrongdoings, apologize, and restate my request in a loving manner.

I have noticed when I am dedicated to this practice, my family responds. Manners ooze from my 3-year old, my husband thanks me for cooking, and we all laugh more. We aren't wasting energy yelling about miscommunication. When I'm not dedicated to this personal awareness - such as when I'm sleep deprived by the nightly screaming of a seemingly colicky newborn - negativity slips in through the cracks, requests begin to get ignored and my family members stop being polite to each other.

Be the change you want to see, in this case, in your house

This is just my household. I cannot vouch for this in your household. But I can say that it never hurts anyone to speak with extra love, respect and kindness.

Birth, part 2

If you missed part 1, here it is.

(This post is unapologetically about the truth of birth. Not for the squeamish or easily offended. Contains some blunt vocabulary.)

As a reminder, I left you all hanging as I had decided to admit it was birthing time and was about to change into my birthing clothes before heading to the birthing center. It is the early morning, some would say late night, after my sister's 32nd birthday and 24 hours before my grandfather's 81st birthday.

3:30am - Pete calls the midwives, who usually check in with momma to see where they really are in the grand scheme of labor and delivery. My short conversation with Jean took place on my bedroom floor, between contractions, as I changed out of my shorts and into a nursing bra and gown.

"How's it going?" She asked.

"Things are getting intense quick" I whispered, not wanting to wake Emagene just yet and still slightly breathless from the last contraction. Plus, I was really trying to be polite. What I wanted to say was something along the lines of: I'm in labor! How do I stop the numbing pain in my hip joints while trying to get dressed to leave? Is it possible you could you come here?

"Well, I guess it's time to head to the birth center. How long does it take you to get there?"

"We have to drop off my oldest, so 10-15 minutes?"

"Alright. We'll get there about the same time then."

"See ya soon."

I handed the phone back to Pete and as soon as I got my gown over my head, I ran to the bathroom as my water broke, thankfully in the toilet.

Pete met me in the bathroom again (poor man was getting dizzy trying to determine if I was on the bed or on the toilet every time he came to check on me!). He had come to tell me Emagene was in the car and ready to go.

"My water just broke. In the baby carseat is a package of water proof pads. Will you put one on the seat in the car?"

"Good idea."

"With E, my water broke at 6cm" I thought, doing my own mental progress check. I should have considered that I had just dilated 2 cm in 2 contractions.

Pete came back to get me;

"Ready?"

"I really want to get in the water."

"Should I fill the tub?"

"We don't have time to do it here and still get to the birth center. We'll just fill their tub when we get there."

By the time I reached the car, I was having such intense contractions I could barely cope. Plus, being buckled in an upright seat and not wanting to scare my 3-year old - who was visibly excited it was finally time to get the baby out - made keeping up with the intensity elevation difficult. There was some loud noise making.

3:50 (?) - We are pulling out of the driveway. Pete had never been to Jen's house before. Ever. He had a text message with directions but I knew the secret of the strange intersection; the intersection that if handled wrong would get him incredibly lost. So the drive was a combination of me having contractions I could barely cope with -squeezing handles and neck rests and trying to rotate the ache out if my hips- and giving him directions. (Who does that?! I was definitely in transition, based on my sudden desire for pain meds and not wanting to leave the house, though I didn't realize it at the time.)

4:00 ish - (I was no longer concerned with the passage of time) - We pulled into Jen's driveway as I got hit with another wave and thought, Is that the urge to push? Couldn't be.

Once it passed, Pete helped Emagene into Jen's arms with her overnight bag, got back in the car and began the 5 minute trip to the birth center. As we backed down the drive, I rolled down the window and waved to Emagene, shouting "I love you, Emagene!" Completely surprising Jen that I was able to talk while reassuring myself and Emagene that everything was gonna be fine.

K, she's safe and not worried about me, I thought as I rolled up the window and was slammed with the desire to bare down.

Speeding way too fast, Pete started quoting the mantras he remembered from our last birth: "Remember it's just an interesting sensation to help get the baby out"

"Right. I know," I said, baring down again.

"Breathe"

"Okay?"

I squeeze my hip bones toward my naval to release the pressure in my abdomen and realized just how low in my body the pressure was compared to moments before. I was starting to open. I shifted my pelvis forward, undid my seatbelt and yelled: "this seat belt is too tight!"

"So take it off" (men are so very helpful during birth...)

"I already did!" Baring down again while squeezing the emergency brake handle and the door handle simultaneously.

"Peter, it's time. This baby is coming. Now." I say in what I think is a calm voice. Oh, look the rec center.

"I know. Hold on." He replies.

"She's crowning."

"We'll be there soon."

What part of 'crowning' did he misinterpret? I think to myself. Time to be incredibly clear; "There is a baby coming out of my vagina. RIGHT. NOW!"

He looks over and steps on the brakes. Once the car comes to a complete stop - halfway around the corner in the intersection of Windsor and Hwy 77, less than a mile from Inanna - he jumps out and comes around the car. I'm still trying to hold her in a little and push, not helpful and totally resulted in bruising.

"Can you lay back any more?" He asks, trying to hide the panic creeping into the edges of his voice.

I recline the seat, find a helpful place for my feet, and grab the emergency brake handle and whatever that handle above the door is called and push.

"I can see her nose. One more push and her heads out. Can you push?"

"I need to listen to my body, Peter," I was probably a little more curt then I needed to be.

"Right."

Then I push.

"Okay, one more and her body will be put." I really think he was talking to stay calm, so I rolled my eyes and stopped responding.

4:15 am - Another push - she's out, facing to the right, he's got her little white body covered in bodily fluids, and amniotic fluid has sprayed all over the console and dash. But not the seat thanks to my mid-labor thinking ahead and the pads! With that gushing feeling that comes from a small body unblocking a larger-than-normal opening, I looked around to determine the mess of the car. As I reached for the baby I saw the clock: 4:15. Glad I had looked around or we would have no idea of her birth time.

Pete set the baby on my chest, grabbed an extra pad to wrap her in and runs around the car. He proceeds to drive like hell the remaining 3-5 the minutes to the center.

In the meantime, I make sure to point out that she's breathing, I can see her nostrils working. And she's already pink, so no worries on the cord being pinched anywhere. After no time at all really, maybe a minute (we were literally around the corner from the center), she starts to whimper. Then the cold air hits her and she full on cries. Pete physically relaxes and obeys the red traffic lights. He later told me that until that point all he could think was "is there anything in this car we can use as a sucky ball thing (bulb syringe)?"

He calmly pulls up the birth center drive and Jean meets him at the door. I don't know what their conversation entailed but I can see her face chance from Pleasant Greeting to Game Face. She calmly and quickly walks over to the car, access the situation, relaxes a little and helps me out of the car. We slowly walk into the center, babe in arms and still attached to the placenta within, and onto the bed. After helping me out of my blood-soaked clothing and getting blankets for baby, she calls her birth assistant, Amber, who would have been called in after I entered transition to help with the immediate infant and postpartum care, but we kinda skipped that part. From that point on, everyone acts as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened or that Jean had assisted three births prior to ours that evening.

So there you go. Aoife (EE-fuh) Rose was born at 4:15am, in an intersection. She weighed in at 7lbs 13 oz and was 21 inches long. Dark hair, blue eyes, perfect everything. She left the outside of the birth center looking like a murder scene when we trooped into the warm bed at 4:21 am. She was greeted with lots of kisses by her big sister just after 5 am, and by 7:30 we were all back home, snuggled in bed, eating farm fresh eggs, and trying to process what had just happened. While it is incredibly nice to be fed real food, in my own bed, hours after giving birth with no one pestering me for blood pressure or lab donations, I'll give the hospital experience one thing: the forced overnight or 2-day stay definitely gives a new family time to process that change has just occurred. When we woke to a skinnier me, a tiny wiggler, and a day of exhaustion, the ordeal of the night before seemed like a dream.

Or a movie we had stayed up too late to watch.

Birth, part 1

Warning: Contains some detailed descriptions of natural labor

Last week, I had a surprise. Our newest family addition decided to come early, and dramatically. To give you the full scope of this tale, I've decided to make this into a 2 parter. Otherwise I may never get the story typed up and the new one will be 6 months old before you're able to hear the tale of The Night of Thirteenth of August.

We've been planning on birthing at the Inanna Birth and Women's Center, here in the Denton, since the beginning of this pregnancy. They've been great every step of the way and I'm so glad its only a few minute drive from my house, about seven minutes, with traffic lights.

The incredibly long To Do list I posted last time was nearing completion. We'd gone to one water park, had plans for the big water park, cleaned, healed the chicken and various other things. All that was left was to plant the fall garden and make the bed in the guest room. Upon waking Tuesday morning, Emagene and I took our chosen seeds out to the garden and spent the cooler hours of the day planting, mulching and spreading diatomaceous earth in the garden. The tiny bit of heat that rolled in near noon wore me out and we decided to just play in our hot tub instead of having a solo day at the water park. 

Good thing we stayed home because I started having contractions in the water. Full on, take all your concentration, try not to snap at the unsuspecting preschooler swimming around you, contractions. I got out of the tub after 3 of these rushes to drop my mucus plug off in the toilet. I then decided I should let Pete know what had just happened since Emagene was born 24 hours after the bloody show and second babies typically come faster.  

4:30p - I got back in the tub and reminded Emagene that mommy's belly has to squeeze to get the baby out and while it's practicing I might not be able to answer her questions but instead need to sit still with my eyes closed til my belly stops squeezing. She tried to be respectful as I went through another contraction. When it was over, I asked her to ask the baby when it was going to come. (We'd played this game before and the answer was 5 days. I tried to bargain for 15. That was 10 days before this.)

She put her ear to my belly and said "baby coming now." 

"Now? Not tomorrow or Saturday when Aunt Rachel will be here?"

"Yup, now." She said matter-of-factually and returned to swimming.

After another manageable contraction, I got out of the tub and double checked that everything was packed and Googled how to stop or slow pre-term labor. (A lot of good that really would do since I was 39 and 1; not exactly pre-term.) I spent the rest of the night lounging on the sofa visualizing my uterus staying closed and resisting the urge to get in the bathtub and relax. I avoided this because relaxing in the tub could either stop labor or speed it up. I did not want it to speed up. I did, at least make sure a friend was available to take Emagene should baby have a different plan and try come during the night.

7:00p ish - Pete came home, made dinner, reviewed the When to Call the Midwives protocol, and then cast my belly. Finally. (Which was a good thing since 7 hours later I would be holding a new bundle of... baby. I would say joy, but it was truly a crying bundle of mess.) I continued having mild contractions on and off all evening, far enough apart and manageable enough to stop noticing them.

Anyway- we all showered and went to bed as if nothing was out of the ordinary, this could easily be false labor or another 24 hours before anything interesting happened. The only exception in our nighttime routine was taking a minute while reading baby On the Way to tell Emagene that if the baby decided to come out before Aunt Rachel came to visit that she'd most likely spend the night at her friend's house. 

1:30am - I am awoken with an intense contraction. It's short lived and had me slightly confused as to whether the bacon I had eaten for dinner was given me gas or if it was a contraction. I was so confused that the next rush twenty minutes later sent me to the toilet, just in case. For the next hour or so I kept going back and forth between the bed and the toilet as guided by my ... body?... Hormones?? ... the baby?? i don't know which, but that's what I did. I tried to lay in child's pose and slow things down, but was too uncomfortable (and squished on the bed beside Emagene). 

2:30am - I moved to the foot of the bed where there is more room and tried to fall asleep. As soon as I lay on my side, everything protested and I got back on all fours rocking through the squeeze. I think I must have moaned a little because as I'm coming out of it, Pete sits up and ask how I'm doing. I haven't admitted to myself I'm in labor yet, so I just respond with an "I'm doing OK." He sits and watches me in the dark for a minute while he tries to wake up and remember he duties. Then I have another rush.

"Wow, those are close together." He says. 

"Yeah, but they're short. I think we're supposed to wait until they're 1 minute long and 3-5 minutes apart for about an hour." Another contraction. "When do I admit this is the real thing? When i throw up?" he goes to check the When to Call sheet again. I go to the bathroom.

In the quietness of being alone and tying to calm my mind I remembered watching an interview on More Business of Being Born. The celebrity had said that it is the baby's job to get out and her job to stay out of the way so the baby can do its job. Time to get out of the way.

"Alright, Aoife, you're in charge."

The rushes started intensifying. They came closer together and happened with such purpose that I had trouble keeping my coping techniques up to speed.

graphic

3:00a- Pete came into the bathroom to tell me Jen was awake and ready for Emagene and that he was going to put the bags were in the car. I answer him by saying "I think I'm gonna throw up." Since I was sitting on the commode, again, he ran to the kitchen to fetch a bowl and returned just as I turning around and releasing bile.

"I guess it's go time. And thanks for the bowl."

He went to call the midwife on duty. I sat back down to rest and was met by the memory that with E I was 4 cm when I vomited at the hospital. Taking a deep breath, I thought "I still have a while to go tonight."

While Pete's sorting out which midwife to call, I start experiencing shooting, numbing pain in my hip joints, similar to pinched nerves, during contractions. No matter how I adjusted, my legs screamed at me and all I could think was "maybe I can take something for the pain? Take the edge off this. No, they can't do that at the birth enter and ibuprofen is bad for the baby." The sudden inability to cope with a desire to "give up" is a major sign of transition.

 I decide its time to change out of my pajamas and into my birthing clothes.


To Be Continued...

here's part two

the inner workings of my mind, part 1

An old college roommate's mother used to say "you can do anything for a year." Its true. I lived in London for almost a year, I've been on the verge of penniless for a year, I've tried so many different forms of religious expression for roughly a year each. I've blogged for a year. I've studied theatre, art history, world religions, American history, farming, birth, parenting, unschooling and other interests for about a year each. (If I keep listing things, I'm gonna sound really old, so I'll stop the list here.)

In all this searching, I've found a handful of constant Truths. The Truth that continues to ring the loudest is We Are All Connected. How I supplement the soil affects the bug population which affects the plant production which affects the food supply which affects the hunger level and food quality of the population which in turn affects the health and peace of the planet. How I treat my neighbor affects his mood which affects how he treats the next person he comes across and so on. From this base, the rest of my convictions begin to take shape.

I was raised in a conservative christian household. Like many "good christian" families we were at the church building any time the doors were open. We limited our interactions to church related activities, "helping" those less fortunate usually by praying for them. And yet I somehow came away from that house with a musical appreciation for the Smashing Pumpkins, Nirvana, Sarah McLachan, Boys to Men, and the other heathen artists of my high school years.

My mother blames my part-time attendance at the public high school for my spiritual degradation. I thank that same experience for opening up my mind to the possibilities this life has to offer. I never would have found my professional passion or my husband without the freedom of mind to explore my convictions. But what I truly learned from that "real world" experience (as real as high school gets) is the simple difference between those two perspectives: blame and thanks. Blaming coats an experience in a blanket of negative assuming the only result is something less than positive. Thanking an experience for the opportunity to learn and grow acknowledges that, while not all the choices made may have been the most helpful, one can come away with profound revelations and know what choice might serve better the next time around. That simple, yet profound distinction set me in a lifelong search for the spiritual expression that makes my soul fly.

And so, here I am nearing the end of a year in Texas surrounded by a lovely group of Wiccans. I have discovered that what I love about Wicca is the same aspect I love about Judaism, Buddhism, Jainism and many tribal ways: the focus on the female in deity and a love of the mystical. It was always hard for me to understand the compassion of an angry Father God, but compassion in a Mother Spirit who holds her children with loving arms while letting them choose their own expression of life without judgment is an easier picture of unconditional love for me to digest. The concept that the energy we put into our deeds comes back to us, found in the theories of Karma or the Three-Fold Rule, which only works when love it spread unselfishly without trying to change or manipulate is such a freeing idea! I don't need to convert anyone to my way of being, I just need to live true to myself and accept others as they are when they cross my path. In doing so, I will inadvertently spread the freedom of simply BE-ing to those around me and spread peace. For when we try to impress others, we begin to let stress into our lives.

While I adore these expressions of love, I do not completely understand any of these faith traditions. I still haven't chosen one that fits me. Chanting in Sanskrit always brings tears to my eyes and releases the tightness in my chest. Honoring the Moon and living by the Seasons is not only sustainable spiritually, it is required if I want my garden to thrive without artificial aides.

At the moment, I am a blend of many things. A little backwoods farmer, a little bit of a country-dweller, a little bit of a city girl, a little bit of a non-Christian. So, according to definition, I must be a Pagan. Whatever label I ascribe myself, I will live fully in accordance to the peaceful nature of my heart. I only ask that you be gentle with my heart, for what faith tradition you choose is your choice and I will not ask you change the direction your heart is set upon.

May we continue our journey together in peace and do our best to understand each other. No one lives the same experience as any one else, therefore we can not expect any one to have the same convictions or be on the same path as ourselves.

Namaste.

Hearts and Minds

  A lot of people dear to me have been through and are continuing through some really tough life stuff. The kind of stuff that makes me stop and think, what would I do if that was my story right now? Mostly I just cry; for them, over them and because it's the only thing I could possibly do if these stories were mine. Naturally the full range of emotions runs through me and I do my best to ground myself and let those precious people live their own stories while making myself available, with tissues, if needed. It's doubly hard when I'm 2000 miles away from these dear ones and cannot physically take them for drinks, make them dinner or clean their bathrooms while they try to heal, make tough decisions or just simply nap.

  Then I struggle with feelings of selfishness. It's not my story, why am I hurting so bad? Do I want to help because my heart is breaking for them or is my heart breaking due to helplessness of the situation or due to my inability to help?? I feel confident that if the love wasn't mutual, their heart-wrenching situation wouldn't leave me offering to clean their toilets. I can find peace knowing that they are not alone, that I can send them healing and positive energy, and pray for someone physically closer to them to take the initiative. I can long distance hire a maid for a day. Or send chocolate bouquets. None of it will stop the cancer, heal the lungs or bring a baby back to life but it might offer a chance to smile and take a break from the overwhelming existence of the painful side of life. Frustrating little sayings spin through my head and I get upset at them: "where there's a will there's a way", "everything in it's time", "with extreme love comes extreme pain". They are truth, but right now truth is painful and unwanted. My heart also aches for the mothers of these, forced to hold their ailing babes, knowing this could be the last moment.

   I struggle with my religious convictions all at once. Where can we find the strength to go on? From god? From within themselves? From the support of others? From the earth and her never ending presence? From religion? From alcohol, food, cigarettes, etc.? There are so many stories like these playing out around us yet, as outsiders, we try to legalise some ways of coping and degrade people for choosing methods we wouldn't recommend. What if you held your 2- hour old son and watched him take his last breathe? Would you be able to still swear off a strong drink at the end of the day? I wouldn't. Would you not have doubts or anger toward the object of your faith tradition for even a moment? I would. So would the father battling tumours. It can get overwhelming quickly!

  In these moments I choose peace, i breathe and let my spirit guide the healing; for in living the questions, the answers become apparent. Maybe not tomorrow, but someday it will all make sense and we will all heal.

photo credit unknown. If you know, please message me and I will give credit where its due.

Things I noticed about my girl this week

When toys are presented neatly, she'll play with them. In particular the doll-house or the train set.
Peanut butter sandwiches cannot be eaten sitting down.
She is able to recite parts of books and songs she's heard once, if they grabbed her attention: grumpy bird, head shoulder and other new things from storytime.
She loves mastering new abilities: puppet play, jumping into water, holding breath.
Fairy tea parties are almost as good as bubble bath tea parties.
She is getting to end of her quiet and watch phase of this new place.
She is starting to talk up a storm.
Ice cream cures everything!

Long Late Naps

First: I don't think I would have survived this long in Parenthood without them.

Second: I find it amazing that all the small creatures who rely on me for their well being nap at roughly the same time. Those long hours just before sunset, when the shadows are starting to pop up, the breezes kick in, and the temperature has (in some cases, finally) started dropping.

Usually this is my only quiet moment all day. I can read, watch a non-G rated movie, Facebook, nap, bake, make an elaborate dinner, sleep, get a lot of chores done really fast, or play XBOX.

Today, I took 5 minutes to blog, and then I'm gonna pee (alone!) and take a nap.

In case you cared.

This moment

I'm laying on a blanket on the floor reading while she plays with the contents of a birthday box. Mostly she's using her MegaBlocks dump truck driver to stomp down the tricky balloons she can't blow up. We are both extremely content and comfortable laying on our stomachs. Then she needs her nose wiped. I have to get up, walk to the table and come back with a tissue. In that short amount of time, my book has become the Balloon Stomper's platform and my bookmark has been pulled out and become storage for the Balloons In Waiting.

She calmly let me wipe her nose then resumes trying to blow up those damn balloons! I decide to grab my phone and type this post. She's now done with balloons, pushed the book back towards me and moved on to other things. Like tissue paper. And felt fairies.

A Love Affair

I've been known to drive old, dumpy vehicles until they explode. (Not into balls of flames, mind you, but usually something awesome like the head gasket goes.)

My favorite was a 1977 Nissan King Cab 4x4, 5 speed, burnt orange with actual rust highlights and white canopy. It had tiny little speakers, doors that rattled and a really loud engine, Tweed seat covers and a carpeted dash. (yes, I hung a handmade yarn tassel with a bell from the rear view mirror.)

We did everything together: Country Fair, Smith Rock, sliding on icy streets, driving up the east side of Sandy river, revving the engine every time the clutch went in so it wouldn't die. (I know, total gas guzzler!)

I called it my Classic Rock Truck. So, naturally that was the music we listened to in the Tank.

In the summertime, my inflatable raft lived in back. After a day of painting houses, I'd meet Pete and whoever else came along at Dabney with a case of cans for a float down the river. That truck belongs in a carefree chapter of life, full of young love, lots of sunshine and herbs, and little sleep.

But what I remember most is listening to The Eagles, Stevie Nicks, James Taylor, Black Sabbath etc... as I drove through the summery green forest of Oregon - with the perfect sunny skies, 82 degrees and a feeling of complete freedom.

It's that sense of freedom, so similar to inner peace, that makes my love affair with a truck so alluring, like a magnet in my memories.

The Classic Rock Truck is a symbol. A character in a story. She represents the first time in my life when I WAS free. I could go wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I didn't need permission or to worry about someone else's time commitments. No one cared what time I came home or who'd I'd been with or what I was doing. I had space, time and freedom to form my opinions, to dream things possible, and make plans all for myself.

This is when I truly fell in love with myself.

It is this sense of freedom that I still tap into when I'm feeling stifled and squashed in my tiny house in the flatlands of Middle America; where no one plays music on the street corner and the mountains aren't hiding behind the clouds and trees.

'They' say that hearing or smelling can transport you instantly to the past. I believe it! I can't listen to Cat Stevens without thinking of an old roommate and her record player, the cranberries and my sister, or led zeppelin and that truck.

I only had her for a year. But it was a sweet love affair.

What love affair do you still remember fondly?