Jenn has started to have "muscle strains" in her belly. She is making plans for her jewelry business and wants to expand her exposure in various galleries, but really, she has been busy with nesting around the house, ironing diapers, cleaning the kitchen, organizing the baby supply room (formerly known as Tom's Meditation Space).
Today, Jenn said she's "feeling restless" and doesn't know why, but I suspect she does. Yes, we are heading down the home stretch.
I feel fully prepared and qualified to deliver our baby and am even willing to sever the umbilicus with my teeth (if necessary) once the cord has stopped pulsing. How do I know to wait for the placental pulse to cease? Here is a clip from a hand-out given to us by our midwife--a "To Do" list of pre-birth preparation:
"Stay Calm (Nice lead) and remember that birth is a natural, healthy process. Encourage mother to deliver baby's head slowly, by panting if possible. Catch the baby's body (remember they're slippery!) and dry the baby with a clean, dry towel. Wrap the baby in a new, dry towel and wait for midwife to arrive. Keep the baby warm. Do not clamp/tie or cut cord. Leave the baby attached to the cord and wait for the placenta. If mother has cramping or gush of blood from the vagina, the placenta is probably ready to deliver. Have mother push while you pull GENTLY on the cord. If the placenta does not come at this time, wait. If the placenta delivers, leave baby attached to the cord and placenta until the midwife arrives."
There is something so touching about this paragraph. I feel assured and encouraged that Jenn and I have no reason to panic or worry. Also, what can I say, I like drama. The image of delivering our baby in a driving snow storm is quite appealing, even if we are living in the desert in the middle of Summer.
Before Jenn and I left Oregon, a psychic told her that living in New Mexico would put her jewelry on the map, but being a mother would put her on the map. Jenn believes she can create the kind of birthing experience she desires with a positive attitude and the right mind. I couldn't agree more, but me myself, I tend toward a pessimistic view of life. More often than not I have severe doubts about human nature even while I love and foster undying hope in humanity.
As I rode my bike today along the arroyo trail, I reflected on this cynical, lifelong point of view that seems to have permeated my every fiber since birth. I am the eternal optimess--always waiting for the other shoe to drop even whilst hundred dollar Nikes are raining from the sky. Thus, as I sweat (swat?) and pedaled, I asked myself this question: Why, when I have been so blessed, am I always braced for an energetic shot to the kidneys? To get to the bottom of this mystery, we must delve (insert wavy flashback lines here) and go back, back, back for a stroll down memory lane into -- Bum-bum-buh-bummmm! -- Tom's dark and seedy childhood.
Ha, Ha. Just kidding. The last thing I want to do at this stage is point a ruminating finger at, say, a hypothetical Jewish crone whose natural personality makes Eeyore seem like a party animal. Instead, I choose the high road (sort of, aside from the Eeyore allusion above) and accept my cynical optimism as both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it has taken said-hypothetical crone's son (i.e. me) and made him slightly Eeyore-esque in disposition himself; on the other hand, it has blessed the author with an above average sense of humor and a healthy lack of naivete.
This is not to say I don't aspire toward a sunnier disposition. I once asked Jenn how I could become more positive as a human being, and she said without hesitation, "Change your thoughts." I feel in my gut that she's right, but have yet take the steps to turn her advice into reality. Jenn, however, is living proof of what is possible. She is a master of re-framing her world view to see the positive side of things, sometimes to the point of making a pest of herself. Off-and-on, I have suspected my wife of using the disingenuous technique of playing devils advocate rather than giving me her true and honest opinion. In actuality, it is a probably a rare event, but even if I'm wrong, it doesn't makes her "Maybe You-Can-See-Things-This-Way" advice any less annoying. As you can see, I am a bit attached to my cynicism.
How this will manifest in fatherhood, I have no clue, but we are expecting our home birth to go into high gear any day. Lets see:
Birthing pool inflated? Check.
Midwife's two phone numbers stored in my cell phone? Check.
Chucks, shower curtains, and hose at the ready? Check.
Hundreds of garments of baby clothes folded and stored? Check?
Photographer lined up to record the blessed event? Check.
Stews and soups made and stored in the freezer to provide ready-made meals for the newly crowned mother? Working on it.
Inundation of visits from relatives and friends choreographed to help and support the new parents and, lets face it, because they want to be around a newly-delivered diving being? Double check.
Jenn and I are as ready as ready can be, which is to say, not at all. How does one prepare to have everything one once knew be turned on its head? Answer: Surrender to the process. Jenn and I go forward with profound gratitude and fear, excitement and Oh-My-God-Am-I-Really-Ready-for-This?
It started five years ago with a sacred Yes. While still in Oregon, I was fast approaching the end of my one year sabbatical. It had been a glorious year of writing, spiritual pursuits, and isolation, and I was preparing to return to New Mexico. But something inside, some intuitive hit told me it wasn't time yet. I closed my eyes and prayed. I said, "Spirit," I said, "whatever you send my way, the answer is Yes.
There have been four times in my life I have put this invitation out to the Universe with sincere intention, and each time it has lead to a major revolution in my life. This was not the exception.
I made the decision, as a symbolic gesture of my re-joining the planet (and with the mild hope of getting laid), to place an ad on the Portland Craigslist Personals. Around that same time, and more out of curiosity than anything, I visited some of the Oregon tribal websites. The last job I'd held in New Mexico was as a therapist at an urban clinic for Native Americans, and I was curious to see what the Northwest had going on. One tribe, The Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde, happened to be advertising for a mental health counselor. I called them to see if I could have a tour of the facility. In the mistaken belief I wanted to actually apply for the position, the HR guy suggested I send my resume first and then he would show me around. My thinking was, Okay, if that's what I need to do to see the place...
At the same time, a cute and very authentic young redhead responded to my personal ad. On our first date, we went out to the airport and watched planes landing and taking-off and talked. Let me tell you, the sparks did not fly. Jenn thought I was handsome but uber serious; and I found her sweet (normally the kiss of death), real, and importantly enough, she had big hooters. On our second date we got to know each other a bit more, and my appreciation grew. At the same time, Grand Ronde called me for a an interview and shortly thereafter offered me the job.
Grapple, grapple.
I mulled things over for a couple-three days and came to the conclusion that there was no fucking way I was going to stay in the Northwest to be with a woman I barely knew to work at a job I didn't really want. I called the tribe, turned down the position, and told Jenn I would be returning to New Mexico in six weeks. I asked her if we could date a bit in the meantime, to which she smiled and said she yes.
The more we hung out, the more I began to question my decision. Was it time to take a leap?
"No way," said my ego, "I'm going home."
That was when I heard the whisper. You know the one. It sounds like one's own thoughts, but isn't. It said, "Ah-ah-ah, remember, you said the answer was 'Yes' to whatever I sent your way."
Fuck, shit, cunt!
I stomped and kicked around a bit, and then I called Jenn and told her I was considering staying. I let her know that there was no pressure to, you know, fall in love or anything, and that we could just check things out. Then I called the grand Ronde HR guy back and told him that when they offered me the job, things had been moving a bit fast; that I had reconsidered, and if the offer was still available I could guarantee them one year. (I ended up staying four years.)
So here I am. Because of the Sacred Yes, Jenn and I are married, living in the desert, and about to embark on the greatest adventure of either of our lives. We are bringing another being into the world who would have never existed if I had given into my fear and embraced the wobbly, familiar, fence-sitting "Maybe" of my previous career as a commitment-phobe.
Sliding doors open and closing in every moment.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
AARP
Today is July 12th, 2011. Jenn's official due date is the 23rd, but I am told that Baby Arrival Prognosication is an imprecise science at best. The baby could pop anytime between tonight (unlikely) and the end of the month (possible, but also unlikely). Here is the beautiful mother-to-be and the author in a recent photo:
Jenn's pregnancy has been as smooth as can be, but she has reached the stage where she has pain in her back and hips, and her bones are softening and becoming more pliant due to the release of a hormone called Relaxen. When we first heard what it is was called, it lead to a solid day of coining equally obvious names. Reflexen, we decided, was the hormone released when a doctor hits one on the knee with a rubber mallet; Re-stampeden is the chemical the brain releases right before being trampled by rampaging elephants; Flatulen floods our bodies when we need to break wind; and we produce Regurgiten right before projectile vomiting.
Unfortunately, Jenn has now passed the point beyond which she can be reached by a good running banter. Her moods swings have become more frequent, and she's laughing at my jokes less and less. Anymore, after I crack (what to her is) a particularly corny jape, Jenn will say something like, "Come here so I can poke you in the eye."
(A quick word to the wise: If you value your life--and I cannot emphasize this enough--do not sing the chorus to Pumped Up Kicks by Foster the People in a weak falsetto while in a car with Jenn. This is especially true if you don't really know the words to the song, and it comes out more like, "You better something something something ... faster than my bullet.")
It seems to me the final stage of pregnancy is designed to make the mother-to-be utterly ready to give birth. At this point, she would do almost anything to vacate the baby from her womb. Jenn, a woman whose body has traditionally been strong and sturdy, is not the exception. She is ready to be quit of the aches and pains of pregnancy, as well as the additional 35-40 extra pounds she's added. Jenn will have her wish soon enough, but even at this late date, it's still all I can do to fathom what we are about to experience.
I was at a Buddhist service last Sunday facilitated by, Gamlam, the lovely Buddhist nun and religious director of the Shakyamuni Buddhist Center. Before donning the plum and yellow robes of her order, Gamlam was a long-time hospice nurse. During the service, as is the Buddhist's wont, she spoke to us of death, rebirth and karma, but rather than paint the birthing process as a magical, transcendent experience, she referred to it as a birth "trauma." As one who has witnessed many beings entering the world, Gamlam suggested that if babies could communicate their experience--the pulsing uterus, the sounds, being expelled through a narrow birth canal into a strange world of light and sensory stimulation--he/she might indicate that it was something less than a joyous ride.
I can see her point. Newborns have never taken an unexposed breath, never seen unadorned light, never experienced anything but the most climate controlled of environments. Going from pure union with The Mother/God/Insert-Your-Belief-System-Here to this world of samsaric separation must be quite jarring. However, many transcendent experiences involve a passage through a symbolic birth canal. Suffering, it would appear, is an integral component in the transformation process. The choice is always there: to fight against our daily challenges (which I do, plenty), or say "Yes" to life.
The Native American sweat lodge is a great and timely metaphor for our entry into the world. The half dome of the purification lodge represents the womb of the Mother; the heated volcanic rocks in the center of the lodge are referred to as Grandfathers and represent the sacred masculine while the water poured on top of the rocks is the Grandmother. When the lodge pourer pours a ladle of water onto the rocks, the two meet in a sacred marriage, filling the lodge with an intense amount of heat. For four rounds the steam from the union carries the offered prayers up to the Creator. At the ceremony's end, each attendee exits the lodge through a low-set door on hands and knees, emerging from the womb humbly and reborn.
I am excited about the arrival of our daughter, but I still have middle-of-the-night moments when I wake up with an almost paralyzing fear and anxiety, distracted with a bad case of the Whaddabouts:
Whaddabout writing? Whaddabout traveling the world? Whaddabout my privacy and time alone? Whaddabout having a fragile little being utterly, completely, utterly dependent on me for the next however many years?
I am soon to be 51 and have already started receiving AARP membership mailers. Frankly, I wish they'd leave me alone as I find their unsolicited pitches a subtle and unwelcome reminder of my mortality. This is, after all, an organization of gray-haired, septuagenarians toddling across the country in over-sized RV's, pink Rava Jeeps in tow, as they make a mad dash for the next KOA camp ground. Let the AARP keep their discounts and caravans. I've only just started feeling as if I've fully entered into manhood. With a baby on the way and a lovely wife to support, my senior years will wait. They must.
I'll be 68 when little Zinnia Rain Bender (for this is now her name) turns 18 and eighty years-old when she reaches her prime as a powerful, thirty year-old world changer. Will I, in my dotard-hood, be a drooling invalid in medium-sized depends whom Jenn patiently feeds pureed sweet potatoes; or will I still be trekking the Andes with my delightful daughter and adventurous wife as we chatter away in Spanish and nibble at succulent racks of cuy (guinea-pigs-on-a-stick, to the uncouth)?
Last night I had a dream: I was cradling our little angel on one of my arms in what our birthing teacher called the football hold. Zinnia looked wise and sweet, old and young all at the same time, and the whaddabouts floated away on her breath like clouds in the breeze.
Jenn's pregnancy has been as smooth as can be, but she has reached the stage where she has pain in her back and hips, and her bones are softening and becoming more pliant due to the release of a hormone called Relaxen. When we first heard what it is was called, it lead to a solid day of coining equally obvious names. Reflexen, we decided, was the hormone released when a doctor hits one on the knee with a rubber mallet; Re-stampeden is the chemical the brain releases right before being trampled by rampaging elephants; Flatulen floods our bodies when we need to break wind; and we produce Regurgiten right before projectile vomiting.
Unfortunately, Jenn has now passed the point beyond which she can be reached by a good running banter. Her moods swings have become more frequent, and she's laughing at my jokes less and less. Anymore, after I crack (what to her is) a particularly corny jape, Jenn will say something like, "Come here so I can poke you in the eye."
(A quick word to the wise: If you value your life--and I cannot emphasize this enough--do not sing the chorus to Pumped Up Kicks by Foster the People in a weak falsetto while in a car with Jenn. This is especially true if you don't really know the words to the song, and it comes out more like, "You better something something something ... faster than my bullet.")
It seems to me the final stage of pregnancy is designed to make the mother-to-be utterly ready to give birth. At this point, she would do almost anything to vacate the baby from her womb. Jenn, a woman whose body has traditionally been strong and sturdy, is not the exception. She is ready to be quit of the aches and pains of pregnancy, as well as the additional 35-40 extra pounds she's added. Jenn will have her wish soon enough, but even at this late date, it's still all I can do to fathom what we are about to experience.
I was at a Buddhist service last Sunday facilitated by, Gamlam, the lovely Buddhist nun and religious director of the Shakyamuni Buddhist Center. Before donning the plum and yellow robes of her order, Gamlam was a long-time hospice nurse. During the service, as is the Buddhist's wont, she spoke to us of death, rebirth and karma, but rather than paint the birthing process as a magical, transcendent experience, she referred to it as a birth "trauma." As one who has witnessed many beings entering the world, Gamlam suggested that if babies could communicate their experience--the pulsing uterus, the sounds, being expelled through a narrow birth canal into a strange world of light and sensory stimulation--he/she might indicate that it was something less than a joyous ride.
I can see her point. Newborns have never taken an unexposed breath, never seen unadorned light, never experienced anything but the most climate controlled of environments. Going from pure union with The Mother/God/Insert-Your-Belief-System-Here to this world of samsaric separation must be quite jarring. However, many transcendent experiences involve a passage through a symbolic birth canal. Suffering, it would appear, is an integral component in the transformation process. The choice is always there: to fight against our daily challenges (which I do, plenty), or say "Yes" to life.
The Native American sweat lodge is a great and timely metaphor for our entry into the world. The half dome of the purification lodge represents the womb of the Mother; the heated volcanic rocks in the center of the lodge are referred to as Grandfathers and represent the sacred masculine while the water poured on top of the rocks is the Grandmother. When the lodge pourer pours a ladle of water onto the rocks, the two meet in a sacred marriage, filling the lodge with an intense amount of heat. For four rounds the steam from the union carries the offered prayers up to the Creator. At the ceremony's end, each attendee exits the lodge through a low-set door on hands and knees, emerging from the womb humbly and reborn.
I am excited about the arrival of our daughter, but I still have middle-of-the-night moments when I wake up with an almost paralyzing fear and anxiety, distracted with a bad case of the Whaddabouts:
Whaddabout writing? Whaddabout traveling the world? Whaddabout my privacy and time alone? Whaddabout having a fragile little being utterly, completely, utterly dependent on me for the next however many years?
I am soon to be 51 and have already started receiving AARP membership mailers. Frankly, I wish they'd leave me alone as I find their unsolicited pitches a subtle and unwelcome reminder of my mortality. This is, after all, an organization of gray-haired, septuagenarians toddling across the country in over-sized RV's, pink Rava Jeeps in tow, as they make a mad dash for the next KOA camp ground. Let the AARP keep their discounts and caravans. I've only just started feeling as if I've fully entered into manhood. With a baby on the way and a lovely wife to support, my senior years will wait. They must.
I'll be 68 when little Zinnia Rain Bender (for this is now her name) turns 18 and eighty years-old when she reaches her prime as a powerful, thirty year-old world changer. Will I, in my dotard-hood, be a drooling invalid in medium-sized depends whom Jenn patiently feeds pureed sweet potatoes; or will I still be trekking the Andes with my delightful daughter and adventurous wife as we chatter away in Spanish and nibble at succulent racks of cuy (guinea-pigs-on-a-stick, to the uncouth)?
Last night I had a dream: I was cradling our little angel on one of my arms in what our birthing teacher called the football hold. Zinnia looked wise and sweet, old and young all at the same time, and the whaddabouts floated away on her breath like clouds in the breeze.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Life Unimagined
There's a Steve Martin film where he's speeding and pulled over by a state patrolman. The cop tells him to get out of his car and makes him run through a battery of field sobriety tests.
"Please touch your nose sir ... Now recite the alphabet backwards while standing on one foot," etc, etc.
The tests become increasingly more difficult.
"Okay," says the patrolman, "now I want you to do a series of back flips along the fog line."
"But--"
"Just do it, sir!"
"Wow," Steve Martin says aloud before nailing the flips, "these California State Police don't mess around."
Six years ago, my friends Marc and Susan journeyed down to Central America to pick up their cocoa-skinned Guatemalan baby girl, Sofia. To arrive at that point, they had to run the adoption gauntlet, as it were. They contacted a reputable adoption agency, filled out a lengthy application, had any number of friends and references checked out, and payed upward of $30,000 for expenses and adoption costs. They spent the better part of five days in Guatemala City getting to know their new baby daughter before at last bringing her back to Albuquerque.
That flight home--I can't even imagine. Two people travel to a foreign country as a couple and return as a family. No doubt the time needed to prepare for the addition to their family--the interviews and paperwork, the hoops to jump through, and the travel time--all served as a kind of white collar gestational period.
I refused to pick up Sofia for almost the entire first year of her life.
I did hold her briefly when they first got home. Susan thrust Sofia into my arms, and I offered the obligatory smile as if, gosh, there was nothing that would make me happier than holding this little infant in my arms. In reality, I couldn't--and to a certain extent still can't--get over the feeling that a human being was being passed to me like a bowl of chips, regardless of whether she liked it or not. I held Sofia as one would a particularly odoriferous bag of garbage--arms extended and slightly away from one's body. I looked at her and tried my best to make soothing, cooing sounds, but really, I was whistling in the dark. Not practiced in Baby-ese, I quickly ran out of material and simply stared at her with an anxious smile on my face. No doubt sensing my discomfort, Sofia started to squirm and arch her back.
"Um, she's moving," I said a little panicked.
"That's okay," Susan said with a smile. "She just needs to get used to you."
"That's okay," I said and quickly handed her back.
It took me nearly a year and hours of therapy to recover from the trauma of what became known (in my head) as the "Baby Holding Incident." I still went to Marc and Susan's on many occasions, and would often play with Sofia, but never allowed myself to swoop in like some entitled giant and just willy-nilly pick her up.
Then one morning ten months after they brought Sofia home, she stood up. Then I stood up and, natural as can be, I scooped her up as if I had been hanging around babies my entire life. Together we mosyed toward the back of the house where Sofia stared longingly at the door, then up at me, then back at the door. I got the hint. We took a turn around the backyard, and Sofia pointed at various things, her face lit with wonder and glee.
"That's a bird," I would say looking at the object of her delight.
She pointed to some flowers along the fence. "That's a rose," I said with excitement.
She pointed again. "That's tree. Can you say tree?"
"Buh," she said.
"Close enough."
We walked around the yard a bit more until Sofia indicated she wanted to get down. She crawled around on the grass a bit until ... uh-oh. "Susan," I said, through the back door, but keeping an eye on my charge, "Sofia's eating dirt."
"That's okay," Susan said from the kitchen. "She'll learn."
Fast forward four years. Jenn and I are visiting Marc and Susan from Oregon. Jenn is sitting in an overstuffed chair in the living room making jewelry. Sofia is standing to her right watching with fascination and chatting away while the family dog, Chaco, milled about under foot.
I let my attention be diverted by a coffee table book when I heard Jenn say, "Who told you that?"
I looked up to see an amused smile on her face.
"My mommy," Sofia said.
"What?" I asked from the couch.
"Sofia was just telling me about Chaco."
Sofia looked over at me with her innocent, almond eyes.
"What'd she say?" I asked.
"That they had to cut Chaco's balls off so he couldn't have babies."
Tears poured down my face, and Sofia studied me to figure out if I was laughing at her. I muted my mirth enough to convey that, while I loved what she said, my amusement was not at her expense.
Over the years, I have had any number of friends relate cute stories about their kids--if they are sent via email, more often than not I delete without reading--but I'm not sure that I've ever been more delighted by any child quote. Ever. This is what I am looking so forward to about parenthood: To be able to spend time with a being who is seeing everything for the first time, and by extension, will teach me to see things for the first time as well.
From the Prophet:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
As a young boy, I remember being in awe of my father. There didn't seem to be the name of a movie star he didn't know or a song he couldn't sing along to in his smooth baritone voice. He was the sea god whose shoulders I would ride as we swam through the chlorinated waters of our country club pool. Later, of course, we would watch the Packers get trounced on TV.
What an unimagined life. I still don't know how I got here. Jenn is getting bigger by the day. She thinks our baby turned last night to what's called the anterior position--face down toward her tail bone. This is the ideal birth position for mother and baby alike. Our daughter will be entering the world anytime between mid- and end of July. She will enter a world surrounded by fire and smoke, love and mystery. Many, many arms are awaiting her arrival. They will have to wait in line. I plan on packing a lifetime of baby holding into a few short years.
"Please touch your nose sir ... Now recite the alphabet backwards while standing on one foot," etc, etc.
The tests become increasingly more difficult.
"Okay," says the patrolman, "now I want you to do a series of back flips along the fog line."
"But--"
"Just do it, sir!"
"Wow," Steve Martin says aloud before nailing the flips, "these California State Police don't mess around."
Six years ago, my friends Marc and Susan journeyed down to Central America to pick up their cocoa-skinned Guatemalan baby girl, Sofia. To arrive at that point, they had to run the adoption gauntlet, as it were. They contacted a reputable adoption agency, filled out a lengthy application, had any number of friends and references checked out, and payed upward of $30,000 for expenses and adoption costs. They spent the better part of five days in Guatemala City getting to know their new baby daughter before at last bringing her back to Albuquerque.
That flight home--I can't even imagine. Two people travel to a foreign country as a couple and return as a family. No doubt the time needed to prepare for the addition to their family--the interviews and paperwork, the hoops to jump through, and the travel time--all served as a kind of white collar gestational period.
I refused to pick up Sofia for almost the entire first year of her life.
I did hold her briefly when they first got home. Susan thrust Sofia into my arms, and I offered the obligatory smile as if, gosh, there was nothing that would make me happier than holding this little infant in my arms. In reality, I couldn't--and to a certain extent still can't--get over the feeling that a human being was being passed to me like a bowl of chips, regardless of whether she liked it or not. I held Sofia as one would a particularly odoriferous bag of garbage--arms extended and slightly away from one's body. I looked at her and tried my best to make soothing, cooing sounds, but really, I was whistling in the dark. Not practiced in Baby-ese, I quickly ran out of material and simply stared at her with an anxious smile on my face. No doubt sensing my discomfort, Sofia started to squirm and arch her back.
"Um, she's moving," I said a little panicked.
"That's okay," Susan said with a smile. "She just needs to get used to you."
"That's okay," I said and quickly handed her back.
It took me nearly a year and hours of therapy to recover from the trauma of what became known (in my head) as the "Baby Holding Incident." I still went to Marc and Susan's on many occasions, and would often play with Sofia, but never allowed myself to swoop in like some entitled giant and just willy-nilly pick her up.
Then one morning ten months after they brought Sofia home, she stood up. Then I stood up and, natural as can be, I scooped her up as if I had been hanging around babies my entire life. Together we mosyed toward the back of the house where Sofia stared longingly at the door, then up at me, then back at the door. I got the hint. We took a turn around the backyard, and Sofia pointed at various things, her face lit with wonder and glee.
"That's a bird," I would say looking at the object of her delight.
She pointed to some flowers along the fence. "That's a rose," I said with excitement.
She pointed again. "That's tree. Can you say tree?"
"Buh," she said.
"Close enough."
We walked around the yard a bit more until Sofia indicated she wanted to get down. She crawled around on the grass a bit until ... uh-oh. "Susan," I said, through the back door, but keeping an eye on my charge, "Sofia's eating dirt."
"That's okay," Susan said from the kitchen. "She'll learn."
Fast forward four years. Jenn and I are visiting Marc and Susan from Oregon. Jenn is sitting in an overstuffed chair in the living room making jewelry. Sofia is standing to her right watching with fascination and chatting away while the family dog, Chaco, milled about under foot.
I let my attention be diverted by a coffee table book when I heard Jenn say, "Who told you that?"
I looked up to see an amused smile on her face.
"My mommy," Sofia said.
"What?" I asked from the couch.
"Sofia was just telling me about Chaco."
Sofia looked over at me with her innocent, almond eyes.
"What'd she say?" I asked.
"That they had to cut Chaco's balls off so he couldn't have babies."
Tears poured down my face, and Sofia studied me to figure out if I was laughing at her. I muted my mirth enough to convey that, while I loved what she said, my amusement was not at her expense.
Over the years, I have had any number of friends relate cute stories about their kids--if they are sent via email, more often than not I delete without reading--but I'm not sure that I've ever been more delighted by any child quote. Ever. This is what I am looking so forward to about parenthood: To be able to spend time with a being who is seeing everything for the first time, and by extension, will teach me to see things for the first time as well.
From the Prophet:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
As a young boy, I remember being in awe of my father. There didn't seem to be the name of a movie star he didn't know or a song he couldn't sing along to in his smooth baritone voice. He was the sea god whose shoulders I would ride as we swam through the chlorinated waters of our country club pool. Later, of course, we would watch the Packers get trounced on TV.
What an unimagined life. I still don't know how I got here. Jenn is getting bigger by the day. She thinks our baby turned last night to what's called the anterior position--face down toward her tail bone. This is the ideal birth position for mother and baby alike. Our daughter will be entering the world anytime between mid- and end of July. She will enter a world surrounded by fire and smoke, love and mystery. Many, many arms are awaiting her arrival. They will have to wait in line. I plan on packing a lifetime of baby holding into a few short years.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Sumo Jenn
I know in a deep way that it's not politically correct to compare one's nearly-to-term pregnant wife to the famed (and only non-Japanese) Grand Sumo Champion, Akebono (Chad to his friends), but I couldn't help myself. Jenn had twisted the sides of her tee shirt into two tails and tied them together so the knot rested atop her belly Dukes of Hazzard-style. Additionally, due to her pregnant state, her, um, undergarments weren't fitting as snuggly as they once did. Thus, in the dim bedroom light, her garb created the effect of a loose, loincloth. I studied her profile.
"You look like a sumo wrestler," I said helpfully.
"I'm telling Susan!"Jenn said, referring to a good friend of ours who is particularly outspoken, all the more so since she has sobered up. (Here's a link to Susan's courageous blog: http://writingmywaysober.blogspot.com/ )
"Wait, wait. Here, try this." I braced both hands on my upper thighs, lifted one of my legs and stomped down on the carpet.
Jenn refused to even give it a shot despite how much pleasure it would have brought me. Women can be so selfish sometimes.** Why, I even offered to get her some rice to sacrifice to the Shinto gods, but again, my wife would have none of it. (Upon further research, I discovered that the white substance the sumos casually toss to the mat is actually salt).
Jenn is a little over eight months along now. Her naval has become a tight slit, and her stomach gives notice that, in almost no time at all, the rest of her will be rounding the corner. In the evenings when she works on her jewelry, Jenn rests bracelets, lanyards, and necklaces across her belly as if it were a work bench.*** If she sits completely still, she can even support a steaming mug of coffee without much spillage. When we hug now, Jenn tucks her pelvis and then leans in with the top half of her body so we can make actual contact.
The idea that we will be parents in a month (or less) is still nearly beyond my comprehension. Is this how it is for all first time parents? I am at once already in love with this little person in my wife's belly even while feeling a sense of dread at the arrival of this being who is about to obliterate everything I've ever known. Had Jenn's gestation period been an elephantine two years, I'm still not sure it would have been enough time to prepare.
Years ago, I was speaking to a friend who already had two kids. After watching him interact with his sons most of the night, I told him that I didn't feel I was ready for the rigors of parenthood. "You're never ready for it," he said. "You just have to do it and learn as you go along."
Jenn and I were visiting a friend recently, a lovely and gentle gay man who has done much childcare and nanny-ing in his life. Commenting on Jenn's pregnant state and parenting on general, he decided to share his philosophy. I expected him gush all romantic on the topic. Here's what he said:
Kids are awesome. At first they're these wrinkled tiny animals that make ear-piercing, inhuman sounds at all hours, and then they become adorable little parasites (adorable because they're *your* little parasites). When you're crazy and exhausted and wanting to take a breather, they sense your need to pull away and glom on even harder just when you most need to get away from them. Haha, an exciting adventure awaits you!
We were both laughing by the end of his description. It was refreshing to hear someone peel the sugarcoat off impending parenthood and say something besides how in love we are going to be when our daughter arrives (yes, we know); how we are about to undertake the hardest and most beautiful thing we are ever going to experience (yes, we know); how our lives will never be the same (like this is a good thing, with the implication being that there was something wrong with how our lives were before we got pregnant ... and yes, we know); and how we are in for the greatest adventure of our lives and how utterly sleep deprived we will soon be (yes, we know.)
Jenn's cousin--a new mother herself--nailed it in an email when she said she hadn't needed a baby to make her life complete, but that they were "really happy there little Amelia is here."
Me myself, I had wanted kids for years, then let go of the idea of parenthood six or so years ago and was content ... or at least accepting. And now? I have lived long enough to know that fatherhood will be an earthshaking event, but one that won't make or define me as a person. What kid needs that "without-you-I-was-nothing" kind of pressure?
The past four weeks Jenn and I have been attending Ecstatic Baby workshops. Birthing classes, in other words. Since our arrival in Albuquerque, my entry into the culture of the Baby has included being in contact with two different midwives plus the instructor for this class. Honestly, I have felt very little connection with any of them. Of course, it didn't help that at the second meeting with our midwife, she greeted Jenn and I in the front lobby, extended her hand, smiled warmly, and said, "Hi, I'm Cassie."
"We know," we informed her. "We met you two weeks ago at our first appointment."
The midwife gave a sheepish look, but seemed to take her forgetfulness in stride and brought us back to the examination room. The exchange was pleasant enough, but it would also be the last time we'd see her for the next six weeks. Cassie explained that she was taking a month-and-a-half off to renew her energy and travel around. She would be leaving us in the hands of her midwife-in-training--Sky.
To date, we have met with Sky three times. She smiles a lot and says all the right things, but I get the feeling she is more focused on her personal life and passing her (no doubt challenging) mid-wife boards than forming a bond with us, the people whose birth she may or may not be attending. This is consistent with the rest of my experience of the wacky world of midwifery. Save for Saint Margy (the midwife we left behind in Oregon), as a rule, midwives are slow to return calls or emails--if they return them at all--and many seem a a bit, well, ungrounded. Ironically, in a field that is, by necessity, top heavy with feminine energy, it seems that what they need most is a strong dose of solid, grounding, masculine energy.
Before we left Oregon, we attempted to set up appointments with midwives here in New Mexico, and were often stymied in our efforts to procure even a current or active phone number. For one midwife, I left messages on several listed message machines. A week later, I got a call back from someone who said the midwife in question hadn't been at that number for five years. The woman on the phone didn't actually use the words "disappeared under suspicious circumstances," but I could read between the lines. Worst of all (and I know this will be a great surprise to the reader), almost across the board, midwives don't laugh at my jokes, a sin that, under ordinary circumstances might be forgiven, if only they showed evidence of humor themselves.
However (and this is a sincere "however"), I do not doubt the professionalism or credentials of our chosen midwife (or midwives in general). Cassie has been in the field for over 30 years and has delivered countless babies. Jenn was told at her baby/mother's group that if we wanted a hands-on, active midwife presence during our labor, Cassie was not our gal. Indeed, she is know for standing back and letting the mother have their own specific experience and will step in, we were told, only as needed. This is as it should be.
In one of our birthing classes, we watched a video that showed a woman grunting, panting, straining, and lowing from the confines of a small, water birth pool. In the background, a gray-haired, hippie--the midwife--stood in the doorway beaming. My first reaction was to wonder what the hell she was doing? Shouldn't she be in the pool as well, arms elbow deep in the mother's vagina while shouting commands with MASH-like urgency like, "Push, dammit, push!"
It is said that for any professional sports event--basketball, baseball, football--one should be able to leave without any knowledge of the name of the referee. If a spectator/fan knows who an official is at a particular game, it is generally because the ref (and pardon my French) fucked-up. The same rule applies to home births. What Jenn and I have learned is that if the midwife has done her job well, barring an emergent situation, the mother, father, and anyone else invited to the sacred event will have little memory that the midwife was even there.
What a wonderful goal: to do one's job so well and put one's ego aside so thoroughly that no one even knows you were on the scene.
"Good," Jenn said upon hearing this philosophy. "That's exactly what I want."
I find Jenn unspeakably brave.
**Author's note: Things have pretty much gone to pot since they expunged "obey" from most wedding vows. I'm just saying.
***Speaking of Jenn's jewelry, here's a link to her Etsy website: http://www.etsy.com/people/blessingbeads
"You look like a sumo wrestler," I said helpfully.
"I'm telling Susan!"Jenn said, referring to a good friend of ours who is particularly outspoken, all the more so since she has sobered up. (Here's a link to Susan's courageous blog: http://writingmywaysober.blogspot.com/ )
"Wait, wait. Here, try this." I braced both hands on my upper thighs, lifted one of my legs and stomped down on the carpet.
Jenn refused to even give it a shot despite how much pleasure it would have brought me. Women can be so selfish sometimes.** Why, I even offered to get her some rice to sacrifice to the Shinto gods, but again, my wife would have none of it. (Upon further research, I discovered that the white substance the sumos casually toss to the mat is actually salt).
Jenn is a little over eight months along now. Her naval has become a tight slit, and her stomach gives notice that, in almost no time at all, the rest of her will be rounding the corner. In the evenings when she works on her jewelry, Jenn rests bracelets, lanyards, and necklaces across her belly as if it were a work bench.*** If she sits completely still, she can even support a steaming mug of coffee without much spillage. When we hug now, Jenn tucks her pelvis and then leans in with the top half of her body so we can make actual contact.
The idea that we will be parents in a month (or less) is still nearly beyond my comprehension. Is this how it is for all first time parents? I am at once already in love with this little person in my wife's belly even while feeling a sense of dread at the arrival of this being who is about to obliterate everything I've ever known. Had Jenn's gestation period been an elephantine two years, I'm still not sure it would have been enough time to prepare.
Years ago, I was speaking to a friend who already had two kids. After watching him interact with his sons most of the night, I told him that I didn't feel I was ready for the rigors of parenthood. "You're never ready for it," he said. "You just have to do it and learn as you go along."
Jenn and I were visiting a friend recently, a lovely and gentle gay man who has done much childcare and nanny-ing in his life. Commenting on Jenn's pregnant state and parenting on general, he decided to share his philosophy. I expected him gush all romantic on the topic. Here's what he said:
Kids are awesome. At first they're these wrinkled tiny animals that make ear-piercing, inhuman sounds at all hours, and then they become adorable little parasites (adorable because they're *your* little parasites). When you're crazy and exhausted and wanting to take a breather, they sense your need to pull away and glom on even harder just when you most need to get away from them. Haha, an exciting adventure awaits you!
We were both laughing by the end of his description. It was refreshing to hear someone peel the sugarcoat off impending parenthood and say something besides how in love we are going to be when our daughter arrives (yes, we know); how we are about to undertake the hardest and most beautiful thing we are ever going to experience (yes, we know); how our lives will never be the same (like this is a good thing, with the implication being that there was something wrong with how our lives were before we got pregnant ... and yes, we know); and how we are in for the greatest adventure of our lives and how utterly sleep deprived we will soon be (yes, we know.)
Jenn's cousin--a new mother herself--nailed it in an email when she said she hadn't needed a baby to make her life complete, but that they were "really happy there little Amelia is here."
Me myself, I had wanted kids for years, then let go of the idea of parenthood six or so years ago and was content ... or at least accepting. And now? I have lived long enough to know that fatherhood will be an earthshaking event, but one that won't make or define me as a person. What kid needs that "without-you-I-was-nothing" kind of pressure?
The past four weeks Jenn and I have been attending Ecstatic Baby workshops. Birthing classes, in other words. Since our arrival in Albuquerque, my entry into the culture of the Baby has included being in contact with two different midwives plus the instructor for this class. Honestly, I have felt very little connection with any of them. Of course, it didn't help that at the second meeting with our midwife, she greeted Jenn and I in the front lobby, extended her hand, smiled warmly, and said, "Hi, I'm Cassie."
"We know," we informed her. "We met you two weeks ago at our first appointment."
The midwife gave a sheepish look, but seemed to take her forgetfulness in stride and brought us back to the examination room. The exchange was pleasant enough, but it would also be the last time we'd see her for the next six weeks. Cassie explained that she was taking a month-and-a-half off to renew her energy and travel around. She would be leaving us in the hands of her midwife-in-training--Sky.
To date, we have met with Sky three times. She smiles a lot and says all the right things, but I get the feeling she is more focused on her personal life and passing her (no doubt challenging) mid-wife boards than forming a bond with us, the people whose birth she may or may not be attending. This is consistent with the rest of my experience of the wacky world of midwifery. Save for Saint Margy (the midwife we left behind in Oregon), as a rule, midwives are slow to return calls or emails--if they return them at all--and many seem a a bit, well, ungrounded. Ironically, in a field that is, by necessity, top heavy with feminine energy, it seems that what they need most is a strong dose of solid, grounding, masculine energy.
Before we left Oregon, we attempted to set up appointments with midwives here in New Mexico, and were often stymied in our efforts to procure even a current or active phone number. For one midwife, I left messages on several listed message machines. A week later, I got a call back from someone who said the midwife in question hadn't been at that number for five years. The woman on the phone didn't actually use the words "disappeared under suspicious circumstances," but I could read between the lines. Worst of all (and I know this will be a great surprise to the reader), almost across the board, midwives don't laugh at my jokes, a sin that, under ordinary circumstances might be forgiven, if only they showed evidence of humor themselves.
However (and this is a sincere "however"), I do not doubt the professionalism or credentials of our chosen midwife (or midwives in general). Cassie has been in the field for over 30 years and has delivered countless babies. Jenn was told at her baby/mother's group that if we wanted a hands-on, active midwife presence during our labor, Cassie was not our gal. Indeed, she is know for standing back and letting the mother have their own specific experience and will step in, we were told, only as needed. This is as it should be.
In one of our birthing classes, we watched a video that showed a woman grunting, panting, straining, and lowing from the confines of a small, water birth pool. In the background, a gray-haired, hippie--the midwife--stood in the doorway beaming. My first reaction was to wonder what the hell she was doing? Shouldn't she be in the pool as well, arms elbow deep in the mother's vagina while shouting commands with MASH-like urgency like, "Push, dammit, push!"
It is said that for any professional sports event--basketball, baseball, football--one should be able to leave without any knowledge of the name of the referee. If a spectator/fan knows who an official is at a particular game, it is generally because the ref (and pardon my French) fucked-up. The same rule applies to home births. What Jenn and I have learned is that if the midwife has done her job well, barring an emergent situation, the mother, father, and anyone else invited to the sacred event will have little memory that the midwife was even there.
What a wonderful goal: to do one's job so well and put one's ego aside so thoroughly that no one even knows you were on the scene.
"Good," Jenn said upon hearing this philosophy. "That's exactly what I want."
I find Jenn unspeakably brave.
**Author's note: Things have pretty much gone to pot since they expunged "obey" from most wedding vows. I'm just saying.
***Speaking of Jenn's jewelry, here's a link to her Etsy website: http://www.etsy.com/people/blessingbeads
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Wallow-ing in Fire
Jenn is at home working on jewelry and enjoying newly scoured air thanks to the air purifier we bought yesterday. As I write this, eastern Arizona is ablaze. The Wallow Fire is sending plumes of smoke, ash, and particulate matter as far east as Iowa--1310 miles away. The fire itself has consumed roughly 670+ square miles. In comparison, Rhode Island is 1044 square miles. Due to high winds and drought conditions, the fire is only 5% contained. I'm not sure what this five percent figure means, but it's clear we are in the midst of an environmental disaster.
A week ago I drove home from work through a dense fog of smoke drifting in from the west. I quite literally could not see the Sandia Mountains--the 28 mile range lining the eastern part of the city; nor could I see the vast west mesa on the opposite side of town. The entire outdoors was permeated with the familiar (and usually pleasant) odor of campfire while 3000 plus firefighters worked around the clock to get a handle on this thing.
Jenn and I attended a birthday party for a friend last night. One of the attendee's told us her ex-husband used to be on a local fire fighting brigade. He told her that when it came to forest fires, Mother Nature contributed as much to putting out fires as anything, and that human intervention really had very little to do with it. This is bleak news for the southwest, and Albuquerque in particular, where but a few wisps of clouds have been spotted in the sky over the last two weeks, and the setting sun has taken on the shape and color of a bisected blood orange.
It is times like these that the male imperative dictates that we do, well, something. Anything. I feel a powerful need to act, and if my wife wasn't on the verge of having our child, I very well might head west to see how I could contribute. As it stands, all I can do is pray.
I'm feeling a bit freaked out. The New Mexican spring winds, which generally last a month-and-a-half have now been swirling around unabated for nearly three months. A spokesman for the firefighters admitted yesterday that they have only achieved what little progress they have due to the winds dying down for the last two days. As I write, from my vantage point at my regular Starbucks table, I look out the picture window to see sprigs of tall grass bowing under the force of the easterly wind. Not good.
And those poor forest animals.
(Two days later) The fire is now approximately 190 miles east Albuquerque.
"It's not like we weren't feeling challenged enough," I whined to Jenn this morning, "what with a baby on the way, making arrangements for a home birth, and trying to create a viable living. No, Spirit had to set us square in the path of the worst forest fire in the history of the Southwest."
Jenn laughed, as well she should. It's bullshit, of course. We moved to New Mexico because we felt guided to do so, and relocation was absolutely, 100% our choice. Sometimes the soul makes decisions that the mind doesn't understand. It is not inconceivable that Jenn and I chose this abysmal-yet-perfect time to move to Albuquerque because, on a spiritual level, we needed to experience being on the edge of a massive forest fire.
I am reminded of a famous East Indian master who, after a bomb went off near his compound, injuring several people, said, "Why not here too?" I took this to mean that, Hey, bombs are being set off all across the planet, why should this little slice of India be the exception.
Could the same be said for earthquakes, forest fires, Republicanism, and other natural disasters?
(June 16th) Intellectually, I see the wisdom of radical acceptance. Emotionally, however, I'm feeling pissed and scared. Pissed because a couple of nimrods decided it would be a good idea to leave a
campfire unattended in the middle of an incredibly windy season in the water-starved Arizona forest; scared for the health of my family, for the trees and the critters, for the planet and ozone layer. Having said all that, I hold these beliefs as true and self-evident:
--That there is such a thing as karma, and that karma, rather than a form of punishment, is the ripening of positive and negative spiritual seeds we have sewn in this, and previous lives.
--That reincarnation is a fact, and each life offers us the opportunity to heal whatever needs to be healed from our previous incarnations.
--That aside from psychedelic past life insights during ayahuasca ceremonies, I have no memory of any of my past lives and am okay with this. As far as I'm concerned, I could remember a thousand previous lifetimes, but my work this life around would still be my work this life around.
--That--apropos of nothing--if the upcoming NFL season isn't canceled, the Packers stand a better-than-average chance of repeating as Super Bowl champs.
--That any fear or anger I generate in my mind only harms myself, yet I continue to generate it.
This last point brings me back to (cough, cough) the approaching forest fire. Lets see if this link works from June 16th:
http://www.weather.com/outlook/weather-news/news/articles/fire-now-largest-in-Arizona-history_2011-06-15
http://nmfireinfo.wordpress.com/2011/06/19/wallow-fire-update-6102011-1030-am/
Reportedly, the Wallow Fire is now 29% contained after burning over 700 square miles, but high winds are predicted for the next 3-4 days. The skies are once again hazy, and I wore a surgical mask on my drive to the cafe this afternoon. I don't know if the masks help or not, but they've become a kind of forest fire security blanket that allows me to feel as if I actually am doing something to protect my lungs.
The same friend who's ex- was a fire fighter, handed out bumper stickers to all takers at another recent gathering. It says this: "Visualize Rain."
Thus, to all my devoted readers out there--a small-but-mighty force that, by all estimates, number in the tens of ones--and especially to our soggy friends in the Northwest who are heading into their eighth straight month of clouds and rain, here is my message-in-a-bottle: Please take a moment to offer up a prayer for the entire Southwest. Visualize Rain.
A week ago I drove home from work through a dense fog of smoke drifting in from the west. I quite literally could not see the Sandia Mountains--the 28 mile range lining the eastern part of the city; nor could I see the vast west mesa on the opposite side of town. The entire outdoors was permeated with the familiar (and usually pleasant) odor of campfire while 3000 plus firefighters worked around the clock to get a handle on this thing.
Jenn and I attended a birthday party for a friend last night. One of the attendee's told us her ex-husband used to be on a local fire fighting brigade. He told her that when it came to forest fires, Mother Nature contributed as much to putting out fires as anything, and that human intervention really had very little to do with it. This is bleak news for the southwest, and Albuquerque in particular, where but a few wisps of clouds have been spotted in the sky over the last two weeks, and the setting sun has taken on the shape and color of a bisected blood orange.
It is times like these that the male imperative dictates that we do, well, something. Anything. I feel a powerful need to act, and if my wife wasn't on the verge of having our child, I very well might head west to see how I could contribute. As it stands, all I can do is pray.
I'm feeling a bit freaked out. The New Mexican spring winds, which generally last a month-and-a-half have now been swirling around unabated for nearly three months. A spokesman for the firefighters admitted yesterday that they have only achieved what little progress they have due to the winds dying down for the last two days. As I write, from my vantage point at my regular Starbucks table, I look out the picture window to see sprigs of tall grass bowing under the force of the easterly wind. Not good.
And those poor forest animals.
(Two days later) The fire is now approximately 190 miles east Albuquerque.
"It's not like we weren't feeling challenged enough," I whined to Jenn this morning, "what with a baby on the way, making arrangements for a home birth, and trying to create a viable living. No, Spirit had to set us square in the path of the worst forest fire in the history of the Southwest."
Jenn laughed, as well she should. It's bullshit, of course. We moved to New Mexico because we felt guided to do so, and relocation was absolutely, 100% our choice. Sometimes the soul makes decisions that the mind doesn't understand. It is not inconceivable that Jenn and I chose this abysmal-yet-perfect time to move to Albuquerque because, on a spiritual level, we needed to experience being on the edge of a massive forest fire.
I am reminded of a famous East Indian master who, after a bomb went off near his compound, injuring several people, said, "Why not here too?" I took this to mean that, Hey, bombs are being set off all across the planet, why should this little slice of India be the exception.
Could the same be said for earthquakes, forest fires, Republicanism, and other natural disasters?
(June 16th) Intellectually, I see the wisdom of radical acceptance. Emotionally, however, I'm feeling pissed and scared. Pissed because a couple of nimrods decided it would be a good idea to leave a
campfire unattended in the middle of an incredibly windy season in the water-starved Arizona forest; scared for the health of my family, for the trees and the critters, for the planet and ozone layer. Having said all that, I hold these beliefs as true and self-evident:
--That there is such a thing as karma, and that karma, rather than a form of punishment, is the ripening of positive and negative spiritual seeds we have sewn in this, and previous lives.
--That reincarnation is a fact, and each life offers us the opportunity to heal whatever needs to be healed from our previous incarnations.
--That aside from psychedelic past life insights during ayahuasca ceremonies, I have no memory of any of my past lives and am okay with this. As far as I'm concerned, I could remember a thousand previous lifetimes, but my work this life around would still be my work this life around.
--That--apropos of nothing--if the upcoming NFL season isn't canceled, the Packers stand a better-than-average chance of repeating as Super Bowl champs.
--That any fear or anger I generate in my mind only harms myself, yet I continue to generate it.
This last point brings me back to (cough, cough) the approaching forest fire. Lets see if this link works from June 16th:
http://www.weather.com/outlook/weather-news/news/articles/fire-now-largest-in-Arizona-history_2011-06-15
http://nmfireinfo.wordpress.com/2011/06/19/wallow-fire-update-6102011-1030-am/
Reportedly, the Wallow Fire is now 29% contained after burning over 700 square miles, but high winds are predicted for the next 3-4 days. The skies are once again hazy, and I wore a surgical mask on my drive to the cafe this afternoon. I don't know if the masks help or not, but they've become a kind of forest fire security blanket that allows me to feel as if I actually am doing something to protect my lungs.
The same friend who's ex- was a fire fighter, handed out bumper stickers to all takers at another recent gathering. It says this: "Visualize Rain."
Thus, to all my devoted readers out there--a small-but-mighty force that, by all estimates, number in the tens of ones--and especially to our soggy friends in the Northwest who are heading into their eighth straight month of clouds and rain, here is my message-in-a-bottle: Please take a moment to offer up a prayer for the entire Southwest. Visualize Rain.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
On Reassurance
When I arrived home two Fridays ago, Jenn was nowhere to be found.
"Hello?" No answer.
I worked my way through the house toward our bedroom to check out back where Jenn could sometimes be found gardening. She was lying on a thin, maroon blanket on a berm of sandy soil in our backyard, crying. She lifted her head to look at me, her face puffy and red.
Lets back it up a bit: When we spoke on the phone that afternoon, I was in the midst of a busy work day. In-and-of-itself, this was already a bit of a miracle, since my schedule was (and is for the time being) extremely part-time. Until my caseload builds up, I have been spending my days seeing a handful of clients, studying DBT therapy, completing paperwork, writing, and looking for more contract work. I was in the middle of one of these activities when Jenn called. I could hear in her voice that she needed something, perhaps just to talk or some sort of reassurance.
"Hi, what's up?" I said.
Brief pause. "Nothing."
"Are you sure? It sounds like somethings up."
"No, I'm doing ... okay," she said. "What are you doing?"
"Well actually, I'm in the middle of a bunch of paperwork and some reading, so I don't have a lot of time. What have you been up to today?"
One thousand one, One thousand two. "Working on some jewelry."
Under normal circumstances, Jenn can be a bit of a Chatty Cathy on the phone, so when she resorts to one or two sentence answers, it often means she is either:
a) Tired
b) Online, or
c) Upset up about something
This day, there was a subtle difference in the quality of her voice, a nuance that, to the unpracticed ear, might have gone unnoticed, but to me, her partner, it stood out in stark relief to the lovely weather that day. I silently chose C and glanced at the clock.
"Are you going to take a nap?" I asked.
"I don't know," Jenn said with an implied rather than stated question mark.
"Wellllll," I said, impatient to get back to what i was doing, "I have to get going,"
Another brief pause. "Okay."
"Look, are you sure you don't want to talk?" I was wanting to be available, but still kinda hoped she'd say no.
Jenn paused for a moment. "No, I think I'll just hang out with it for a while."
"Okay, talk to you soon."
Click.
On my way home, I worked myself into a slow burn: Jesus Christ! She knew when we moved here that I was going to be gone a lot. What, does she expect us to live off. And what's going to happen once the baby arrives? I've been here for nearly two months and haven't brought in a dime. What, does she want me stay home with her AND somehow make enough money for us to live off of? Fuckity-fuck-fuck! We've already spent a third of our savings, and what's wrong with that fucking HR rep from my old agency anyway? I worked there for five-and-a-half years, they're advertising for clinicians and she still won't return my calls. I don't fucking have time for this shit. And another thing ...
From the above rant, the astute reader may surmise that by the time I arrived home, I was totally, and I mean totally in touch with my Higher Self. As many of my friends can vouch, I am nothing if not the picture of compassion and nurturance. So when I saw my pregnant wife lying on the ground in our backyard weeping, my instincts kicked in, and I acted. I went for a short, head-clearing bike ride, came back to the house, and laid down next to Jenn while she continued to cry.
"Would you hold me?" she asked.
"Absolutely." I draped one arm across her pregnant belly and with the other stroked her hair.
I'm not a nap taker, never have been. This may be a little odd for someone with chronic insomnia and sleep apnea, but there's something in my nature that has always resisted lying down when it's still light out. While Jenn wasn't asking me to join her in a nap, as I lay with her while she deeply felt her emotions, I started to get a little, um, antsy.
"Wow," I said looking up at the sky, "check out those clouds."
Jenn gave me a you've-got-to-be-kidding sideways glance.
"Bad idea?" I said.
"The worst," she replied, not looking up.
I readjusted my cuddle and focused my energies. A few more minutes passed.
"Would it help if I patted you on the back and said, There, there?" I asked. Running joke, bad timing. Jenn, once again demonstrating her good sense and declined to respond.
Mel Brooks defined humor this way: Tragedy is when I cut my finger; comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and die.
I'm not sure what it is about human suffering that makes me want to crack jokes. Or maybe I do. Freud theorized that humor was actually the unconscious negation of death. In the face of suffering, there is nothing quite so uplifting as a verbal (or literal) pie in the face. However, it is also a way of modulating my own feelings, as well as, in my own way, trying top help the person gain a little perspective. I have been working on reigning in untimely jokes a little, but it's a slow go. I guess this time, I simply wasn't in the mood to show some restraint.
I hugged Jenn a little closer and we lay there a while as she sniffled. Seven minutes passed.
"Do you want to talk?" I said at last.
It poured out of her as if it were the one question she had been longing to be asked: "I've been feeling so raw today, and scared. I feel like I'm counting on you to help me feel safe and secure, but then when you're in your shit it's hard for me not to get drawn into mine, and I know it's my job, but when you're in your stuff around money, I don't know what to do, and then I remind myself to relax, that's there is nothing for me to do, but I feel so helpless because there's nothing for me to do, and I'm here away from my family and friends and don't have any support, which reminds me what Elizabeth said when we were up at their house -- that making a baby is enough -- but it doesn't feel like enough and ... "
There's a great young comic named Mike Birbiglia. During his concert (free on Netflix) he relays funny episodes from his life without the angry "me-against-the-audience" vibe that so many comics exude. During one of his bits, he described how, when he was moving a mattress into his new apartment building, an attractive woman entered at the same time and held the door open for him. The woman said half-joking that she was letting him because "no rapist would have a bed like that."
"What I should have said," he tells the audience, "was nothing. What I did say was, 'You'd be surprised.'"
As the sun started to sink on the horizon, I had much the same feeling--I ought to say nothing, be supportive, offer a hug, but the vibe I worked up on the drive home was still rattling around inside of me. On top of that, I felt it was necessary to say what I was about to say for the pure pragmatic reason that it was true.
Here's what I said: "We talked about this when we decided to move here. You knew what you were getting yourself into when you agreed--"
"I know." she said, interrupting with a tone that said, "Don't lecture me."
Undaunted, I continued. "I'm not even working full-time yet, so I'm only going to get busier. It's the trade-off we made so you can stay at home and be a stay-at-home mom for at least six months, if not more."
Jenn listened, but was wearing an expression that said this was pretty much the last thing she felt like hearing in that moment.
I knew my timing was off, but kept going. "I asked you a couple of times what was going on, and you more or less said nothing. I knew this wasn't true, but I don't want to go fishing anymore. If you tell me nothing's going on or that you don't need to talk, I'm going to take it on face value. It feels like you not taking care of yourself. Meanwhile, I'm working my ass off trying to find work while our bank account is melting away like a fucking ice cap, and we've already spent more than a third of our savings ... "
Jenn has the special talent of non-defensiveness. Somehow, through my tirade, she was able to hear what I was trying to communicate without re-bursting into tears or soaking me down with the garden hose.
I mistook Jenn's reasonableness for agreement, we forced a few jokes, hugged, and headed inside toward the kitchen.
"Are you hungry," I asked hopefully.
She turned toward me and looked me in the eye. "You suck at reassurance." she said.
I didn't deny it. I knew she was right, but I also had a reaction to the observation and was just about to verbalize it when Jenn beat me to the punch.
"I know it's not your job to reassure me, that I need to be able to do it myself ... "
I nodded my head.
" ... but you still suck at it. All I wanted was for you to hold me for a while."
"I did," I said by way of clever retort. "I laid down with you for a while."
"Yeah," she said, "but you always do it with some sort of time frame." She mimed me looking at my watch. "It's like, 'Okay, I've held her for ten minutes, time to check out the scores on ESPN.' "
"Hey, be fair. The NBA playoffs are in full swing right now." The joke was met with pure steel.
"Look," I said, "if you're not telling me what you need, then I get impatient. At least give me a hint so I'm not left to guess."
"Yeah, but that's just it. Sometimes I don't know what I need or how to put it into words. I just want you to hold me."
Oh.
Externally I said nothing. Internally, I made a mental note: Must hold wife without knowing what's going on.
Fast forward to yesterday. Jenn and I woke-up early, took our friends to the airport, had a nice breakfast, and went to our first birthing class, called, "Ecstatic Birthing." We followed this by heading home, having some lunch, and discussed our reaction to the class. Jenn turned, grabbed me by my shoulders, and told me her love and gratitude for being in relationship with me was growing daily, and that she was happy and proud to be my partner.
Lovely : )
Shortly thereafter, we retired to the boudoir for a "nap," and after a time--miracle of miracles--I actually did fall asleep for a bit. When I woke-up, I had this thought: What a great day. I looked over at Jenn and told her I wanted to leave in a few minutes to go write--to work on this very blog entry, as a matter of fact. I'm not sure what was going on for her, but she started to cry. Jenn seemed to be in the middle of having more of those (insert eye roll) pesky feelings again.
This time, I was ready. She had told me what she needed in these moments. I'd like to say that this time I didn't ask what was going on or hesitate to act; I merely wrapped my wife in my arms and gently stroked her hair. However, that wasn't how it played out.
"What just happened?" I asked, feeling irritated. "I thought we were having a good time."
Jenn and I hung out for a bit, but I lacked the patience to sit in mid-day silence and the clarity to understand what was going on for her. With some hesitation, I left to go do my own thing.
I am a professional Re-Assurer by trade--a psychotherapist--and I do it well, but in my own personal life, I am discovering, that, well, lets just say it's a work in progress.
"Hello?" No answer.
I worked my way through the house toward our bedroom to check out back where Jenn could sometimes be found gardening. She was lying on a thin, maroon blanket on a berm of sandy soil in our backyard, crying. She lifted her head to look at me, her face puffy and red.
Lets back it up a bit: When we spoke on the phone that afternoon, I was in the midst of a busy work day. In-and-of-itself, this was already a bit of a miracle, since my schedule was (and is for the time being) extremely part-time. Until my caseload builds up, I have been spending my days seeing a handful of clients, studying DBT therapy, completing paperwork, writing, and looking for more contract work. I was in the middle of one of these activities when Jenn called. I could hear in her voice that she needed something, perhaps just to talk or some sort of reassurance.
"Hi, what's up?" I said.
Brief pause. "Nothing."
"Are you sure? It sounds like somethings up."
"No, I'm doing ... okay," she said. "What are you doing?"
"Well actually, I'm in the middle of a bunch of paperwork and some reading, so I don't have a lot of time. What have you been up to today?"
One thousand one, One thousand two. "Working on some jewelry."
Under normal circumstances, Jenn can be a bit of a Chatty Cathy on the phone, so when she resorts to one or two sentence answers, it often means she is either:
a) Tired
b) Online, or
c) Upset up about something
This day, there was a subtle difference in the quality of her voice, a nuance that, to the unpracticed ear, might have gone unnoticed, but to me, her partner, it stood out in stark relief to the lovely weather that day. I silently chose C and glanced at the clock.
"Are you going to take a nap?" I asked.
"I don't know," Jenn said with an implied rather than stated question mark.
"Wellllll," I said, impatient to get back to what i was doing, "I have to get going,"
Another brief pause. "Okay."
"Look, are you sure you don't want to talk?" I was wanting to be available, but still kinda hoped she'd say no.
Jenn paused for a moment. "No, I think I'll just hang out with it for a while."
"Okay, talk to you soon."
Click.
On my way home, I worked myself into a slow burn: Jesus Christ! She knew when we moved here that I was going to be gone a lot. What, does she expect us to live off. And what's going to happen once the baby arrives? I've been here for nearly two months and haven't brought in a dime. What, does she want me stay home with her AND somehow make enough money for us to live off of? Fuckity-fuck-fuck! We've already spent a third of our savings, and what's wrong with that fucking HR rep from my old agency anyway? I worked there for five-and-a-half years, they're advertising for clinicians and she still won't return my calls. I don't fucking have time for this shit. And another thing ...
From the above rant, the astute reader may surmise that by the time I arrived home, I was totally, and I mean totally in touch with my Higher Self. As many of my friends can vouch, I am nothing if not the picture of compassion and nurturance. So when I saw my pregnant wife lying on the ground in our backyard weeping, my instincts kicked in, and I acted. I went for a short, head-clearing bike ride, came back to the house, and laid down next to Jenn while she continued to cry.
"Would you hold me?" she asked.
"Absolutely." I draped one arm across her pregnant belly and with the other stroked her hair.
I'm not a nap taker, never have been. This may be a little odd for someone with chronic insomnia and sleep apnea, but there's something in my nature that has always resisted lying down when it's still light out. While Jenn wasn't asking me to join her in a nap, as I lay with her while she deeply felt her emotions, I started to get a little, um, antsy.
"Wow," I said looking up at the sky, "check out those clouds."
Jenn gave me a you've-got-to-be-kidding sideways glance.
"Bad idea?" I said.
"The worst," she replied, not looking up.
I readjusted my cuddle and focused my energies. A few more minutes passed.
"Would it help if I patted you on the back and said, There, there?" I asked. Running joke, bad timing. Jenn, once again demonstrating her good sense and declined to respond.
Mel Brooks defined humor this way: Tragedy is when I cut my finger; comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and die.
I'm not sure what it is about human suffering that makes me want to crack jokes. Or maybe I do. Freud theorized that humor was actually the unconscious negation of death. In the face of suffering, there is nothing quite so uplifting as a verbal (or literal) pie in the face. However, it is also a way of modulating my own feelings, as well as, in my own way, trying top help the person gain a little perspective. I have been working on reigning in untimely jokes a little, but it's a slow go. I guess this time, I simply wasn't in the mood to show some restraint.
I hugged Jenn a little closer and we lay there a while as she sniffled. Seven minutes passed.
"Do you want to talk?" I said at last.
It poured out of her as if it were the one question she had been longing to be asked: "I've been feeling so raw today, and scared. I feel like I'm counting on you to help me feel safe and secure, but then when you're in your shit it's hard for me not to get drawn into mine, and I know it's my job, but when you're in your stuff around money, I don't know what to do, and then I remind myself to relax, that's there is nothing for me to do, but I feel so helpless because there's nothing for me to do, and I'm here away from my family and friends and don't have any support, which reminds me what Elizabeth said when we were up at their house -- that making a baby is enough -- but it doesn't feel like enough and ... "
There's a great young comic named Mike Birbiglia. During his concert (free on Netflix) he relays funny episodes from his life without the angry "me-against-the-audience" vibe that so many comics exude. During one of his bits, he described how, when he was moving a mattress into his new apartment building, an attractive woman entered at the same time and held the door open for him. The woman said half-joking that she was letting him because "no rapist would have a bed like that."
"What I should have said," he tells the audience, "was nothing. What I did say was, 'You'd be surprised.'"
As the sun started to sink on the horizon, I had much the same feeling--I ought to say nothing, be supportive, offer a hug, but the vibe I worked up on the drive home was still rattling around inside of me. On top of that, I felt it was necessary to say what I was about to say for the pure pragmatic reason that it was true.
Here's what I said: "We talked about this when we decided to move here. You knew what you were getting yourself into when you agreed--"
"I know." she said, interrupting with a tone that said, "Don't lecture me."
Undaunted, I continued. "I'm not even working full-time yet, so I'm only going to get busier. It's the trade-off we made so you can stay at home and be a stay-at-home mom for at least six months, if not more."
Jenn listened, but was wearing an expression that said this was pretty much the last thing she felt like hearing in that moment.
I knew my timing was off, but kept going. "I asked you a couple of times what was going on, and you more or less said nothing. I knew this wasn't true, but I don't want to go fishing anymore. If you tell me nothing's going on or that you don't need to talk, I'm going to take it on face value. It feels like you not taking care of yourself. Meanwhile, I'm working my ass off trying to find work while our bank account is melting away like a fucking ice cap, and we've already spent more than a third of our savings ... "
Jenn has the special talent of non-defensiveness. Somehow, through my tirade, she was able to hear what I was trying to communicate without re-bursting into tears or soaking me down with the garden hose.
I mistook Jenn's reasonableness for agreement, we forced a few jokes, hugged, and headed inside toward the kitchen.
"Are you hungry," I asked hopefully.
She turned toward me and looked me in the eye. "You suck at reassurance." she said.
I didn't deny it. I knew she was right, but I also had a reaction to the observation and was just about to verbalize it when Jenn beat me to the punch.
"I know it's not your job to reassure me, that I need to be able to do it myself ... "
I nodded my head.
" ... but you still suck at it. All I wanted was for you to hold me for a while."
"I did," I said by way of clever retort. "I laid down with you for a while."
"Yeah," she said, "but you always do it with some sort of time frame." She mimed me looking at my watch. "It's like, 'Okay, I've held her for ten minutes, time to check out the scores on ESPN.' "
"Hey, be fair. The NBA playoffs are in full swing right now." The joke was met with pure steel.
"Look," I said, "if you're not telling me what you need, then I get impatient. At least give me a hint so I'm not left to guess."
"Yeah, but that's just it. Sometimes I don't know what I need or how to put it into words. I just want you to hold me."
Oh.
Externally I said nothing. Internally, I made a mental note: Must hold wife without knowing what's going on.
Fast forward to yesterday. Jenn and I woke-up early, took our friends to the airport, had a nice breakfast, and went to our first birthing class, called, "Ecstatic Birthing." We followed this by heading home, having some lunch, and discussed our reaction to the class. Jenn turned, grabbed me by my shoulders, and told me her love and gratitude for being in relationship with me was growing daily, and that she was happy and proud to be my partner.
Lovely : )
Shortly thereafter, we retired to the boudoir for a "nap," and after a time--miracle of miracles--I actually did fall asleep for a bit. When I woke-up, I had this thought: What a great day. I looked over at Jenn and told her I wanted to leave in a few minutes to go write--to work on this very blog entry, as a matter of fact. I'm not sure what was going on for her, but she started to cry. Jenn seemed to be in the middle of having more of those (insert eye roll) pesky feelings again.
This time, I was ready. She had told me what she needed in these moments. I'd like to say that this time I didn't ask what was going on or hesitate to act; I merely wrapped my wife in my arms and gently stroked her hair. However, that wasn't how it played out.
"What just happened?" I asked, feeling irritated. "I thought we were having a good time."
Jenn and I hung out for a bit, but I lacked the patience to sit in mid-day silence and the clarity to understand what was going on for her. With some hesitation, I left to go do my own thing.
I am a professional Re-Assurer by trade--a psychotherapist--and I do it well, but in my own personal life, I am discovering, that, well, lets just say it's a work in progress.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
On New Mexico and Impending Parenthood: A Brief Conversation with Jenn
Tom: ... So Jenn, you have left everything you once knew in Oregon to move to the windy, drought-ridden desert where you will soon be giving birth to our new, butternut squash-sized baby girl. How are you liking your new home and what are your thoughts on impending motherhood? (Remember, be completely honest, and don't forget to use a number two pencil.)
Aside from the sinus crusties and the sunburn on my eyeballs, I'm feeling remarkably comfortable here. It doesn't feel quite like Home, yet, however, I found myself gazing up at the Sandias this week, feeling welcomed. Elizabeth told me that she found that she needed to ask permission to be here to make her transition. Just to be on the safe side, I did this, even though I've felt like whatever Forces are at work have been inviting me to be here from the beginning.
My thoughts on impending motherhood... I'm glad we're doing this here, in NM. I'm pleased with the support and resources we've found. Impending motherhood... I'm a little nervous. Everyone I've talked to in the Mamma & Babies group has told me I'll feel like I've been hit by a truck for a while, that the birth is the "easy" part.
Being the oldest of six kids, the physical care of a baby isn't scary to me. What I think about is how the quality of my being will affect this new life coming into the world, how it's already affecting her now. I didn't feel her moving much after my last emotional meltdowon and I wondered if she was retreating because of it. I worry about things like that when I'm looking for something to worry about. Mostly, I feel excited. When I sit in the Mamma & Babies group and watch these women interacting with their children, I feel intensely excited to meet OUR daughter. I wonder what kind of traits she'll have, who she'll look like, what her preferences will be and how we'll discover her personality and get to know her. I know she's going to be a tremendous gift.
What are your biggest concerns about your impending fatherhood?
I know that the nebulous nature of your employment has you at your edge. I also think that things are still "on schedule". I think June is going to be the month when you really see movement there.
The things I am most looking forward to:
I could really go on for quite a while about what challenges I can imagine or anticipate and then drive myself batty with how I ought to prepare for these things. I'd rather bask in the glow of how I'm going to feel when I see you hold her for the first time, how melting with love we'll both feel. I'm sure we'll be exhausted and sleep-deprived and worn out as well (like everyone else). But what's the point of dwelling on that?
Remember when you were asking me about the happiest moments of my life? It was a real revelation for me to realize that these moments were not the ones in which I was the most comfortable.
Jenn: I'll be honest, but I won't use a number two pencil.
Aside from the sinus crusties and the sunburn on my eyeballs, I'm feeling remarkably comfortable here. It doesn't feel quite like Home, yet, however, I found myself gazing up at the Sandias this week, feeling welcomed. Elizabeth told me that she found that she needed to ask permission to be here to make her transition. Just to be on the safe side, I did this, even though I've felt like whatever Forces are at work have been inviting me to be here from the beginning.
My thoughts on impending motherhood... I'm glad we're doing this here, in NM. I'm pleased with the support and resources we've found. Impending motherhood... I'm a little nervous. Everyone I've talked to in the Mamma & Babies group has told me I'll feel like I've been hit by a truck for a while, that the birth is the "easy" part.
Being the oldest of six kids, the physical care of a baby isn't scary to me. What I think about is how the quality of my being will affect this new life coming into the world, how it's already affecting her now. I didn't feel her moving much after my last emotional meltdowon and I wondered if she was retreating because of it. I worry about things like that when I'm looking for something to worry about. Mostly, I feel excited. When I sit in the Mamma & Babies group and watch these women interacting with their children, I feel intensely excited to meet OUR daughter. I wonder what kind of traits she'll have, who she'll look like, what her preferences will be and how we'll discover her personality and get to know her. I know she's going to be a tremendous gift.
What are your biggest concerns about your impending fatherhood?
Tom: What about a #2 computer font? Needless to say--but I'll say it anyway--I am pleasantly surprised to see and hear that you are feeling comfortable here.
I myself am not quite there yet, even though I lived here for nine years. Part of this, no doubt, has to do with the free-floating nature of my employment situation. Aside from one glorious year of travel and rest, I have been working, going to school or both for most of 22 years. As you have bore witness, the lack of steady income has been trying for me at times, and this has been the most difficult part of impending fatherhood for me. I'm not used to worrying about or even giving much thought to finances. The money has simply always been there. We knew this would be a challenge from the get go, but I had no idea I'd be freaking-out over a packet of Trader Joe chicken sausages or spending 170 bucks on a new (and necessary) printer. It is a side of myself I am trying to simultaneously breathe into, have compassion for, and change, all at the same time.
And this isn't even addressing the fact that we have a little human being on the way that is going to change our lives forever. Our discussion with Dan about the birth of his son cracked me up. One night you can be watching a cheesy movie with your pregnant partner (in his case, "Space Cowboys") and the next moment--wham!--your woman goes into labor and the life you knew is completely obliterated. I know Celia/Zinnia is coming, I can feel her move in your belly, and yet on some level it still doesn't feel real.
So, my biggest concerns about impending fatherhood (in no particular order) go something like this:
--The health and well being of our daughter and her mother, (i.e you)
--Money (already addressed)
--What feels like the probable loss of privacy and personal time.
--OH MY GOD!! WE'RE HAVING A KID!!!
--How to maintain a creative, spiritual, and physical life
--The condition of the planet
--NO, REALLY, WE ARE HAVING A FRIGGIN' KID!!!
--How the cats will adjust to the new edition to our family
As far as discovering ol' what's-her-name's personality and preferences, my guess is she'll let us know pretty quick. Just so she's a Packer fan, I'll take no issue with her.
What are the things you look most forward to about motherhood and the things that may be most challenging?
I myself am not quite there yet, even though I lived here for nine years. Part of this, no doubt, has to do with the free-floating nature of my employment situation. Aside from one glorious year of travel and rest, I have been working, going to school or both for most of 22 years. As you have bore witness, the lack of steady income has been trying for me at times, and this has been the most difficult part of impending fatherhood for me. I'm not used to worrying about or even giving much thought to finances. The money has simply always been there. We knew this would be a challenge from the get go, but I had no idea I'd be freaking-out over a packet of Trader Joe chicken sausages or spending 170 bucks on a new (and necessary) printer. It is a side of myself I am trying to simultaneously breathe into, have compassion for, and change, all at the same time.
And this isn't even addressing the fact that we have a little human being on the way that is going to change our lives forever. Our discussion with Dan about the birth of his son cracked me up. One night you can be watching a cheesy movie with your pregnant partner (in his case, "Space Cowboys") and the next moment--wham!--your woman goes into labor and the life you knew is completely obliterated. I know Celia/Zinnia is coming, I can feel her move in your belly, and yet on some level it still doesn't feel real.
So, my biggest concerns about impending fatherhood (in no particular order) go something like this:
--The health and well being of our daughter and her mother, (i.e you)
--Money (already addressed)
--What feels like the probable loss of privacy and personal time.
--OH MY GOD!! WE'RE HAVING A KID!!!
--How to maintain a creative, spiritual, and physical life
--The condition of the planet
--NO, REALLY, WE ARE HAVING A FRIGGIN' KID!!!
--How the cats will adjust to the new edition to our family
As far as discovering ol' what's-her-name's personality and preferences, my guess is she'll let us know pretty quick. Just so she's a Packer fan, I'll take no issue with her.
What are the things you look most forward to about motherhood and the things that may be most challenging?
Jenn: Give it up, Tommy! No #2 anything!
I have to say, I'm pleasantly surprised with how comfortable I am here, too. I do miss the proximity of the ocean (I never realized I could feel it before). I think the Sandia Mountains are taking it's place for me. I love looking at them in the evenings especially.
I know that the nebulous nature of your employment has you at your edge. I also think that things are still "on schedule". I think June is going to be the month when you really see movement there.
I really appreciate your commitment to being a good provider. I like that Elizabeth referred to you as a "magic money man" and I know without a doubt that this is true. I am also frequently reminded that this new being emerging into the world through us will also be attracting her own resources. This is something I've had a sense of from the very beginning. I've been surprised at how much more easly this transition (to unemployment) has been for me than I initially expected. Hearing that growing a baby is "enough" right now has helped. Believing this has also helped me to take some of the energy I might've used to fret and refocus focus it on my jewelry business. In so many ways, for both of us, it feels like this is a time of incubation. When I tap into this knowing, I feel elated.
The things I am most looking forward to:
--Holding our daughter
--Watching you hold our daughter
--Growing into my role as a mother
--Getting to know who she is
The things I think will be the most challenging:
--The initial recovery period after birth
--Staying connected to you from inside the "mom/baby bubble" I'm told I'll be in
--Letting go of needing to do any of this "right"
--Loss of personal time or the time I spend making jewelry and growing my business. While I feel this, my sense is that I'll be strapping her onto me in some kind of wrap and doing what I would be doing anyway. I think this feels different to me because she's already hanging out with me all the time and having my attention (like right now, she's kicking hard enough to bump the computer on my lap).
--OH, MY GOD! WE'RE HAVING A KID!
--Maintaining some grace in the face of unsolicited advice and not wreaking too much havoc on certain familial relationships as my "good girl" filter disintegrates.
--Setting healthy boundaries.
I could really go on for quite a while about what challenges I can imagine or anticipate and then drive myself batty with how I ought to prepare for these things. I'd rather bask in the glow of how I'm going to feel when I see you hold her for the first time, how melting with love we'll both feel. I'm sure we'll be exhausted and sleep-deprived and worn out as well (like everyone else). But what's the point of dwelling on that?
Remember when you were asking me about the happiest moments of my life? It was a real revelation for me to realize that these moments were not the ones in which I was the most comfortable.
I have this idea that she might come a little early (in spite of what Margy the midwife said). Do you think you'd be prepared to catch her on your own?
Tom: Catch who, again? Just kidding. I have my mitt oiled up and ready to cradle our little seahorse right out of the shoot, if necessary ... But I still hope the midwives are on hand.
Tom: Catch who, again? Just kidding. I have my mitt oiled up and ready to cradle our little seahorse right out of the shoot, if necessary ... But I still hope the midwives are on hand.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Ode to a Man
I found out last week that the man who was my boss and mentor at the jail, Dale Warrington, died last October from lung cancer at the age of 57. I had been trying to locate him off-and-on for a couple years to thank him and express my appreciation for how he influenced and inspired me as a therapist and a human being. His number was unlisted, and at the last known places of employment I had for him they didn't even know who he was.
Here's his obit: http://obits.abqjournal.com/
I probably shouldn't be surprised. Dale was a hard drinking, Marlboro-smoking, Harley-riding man. I last saw him in December of 2000--Christ, has it already been a decade?--and without knowing the details around his death, I have little reason to believe he changed his habits over the years. In fact, it would be a fair to assume quite the contrary; if anything, he most likely died exactly the way he lived. And yet the news of his passing shocked the hell out of me, as death often does when a larger-than-life figure finally meets his maker.
Years ago while a grad student at Naropa, I was having a discussion/debate with a friend who had been around during the wild Trungpa years. Chogyam Trugnpa Rinpoche was a Tibetan Buddhist monk, the eleventh Trungpa Tulku as well as the holder of both the Karma Kagyu and Nyingma lineages. He was the founder of the Naropa Institute as well as the inspiration for a large number of meditation centers around the U.S. and abroad. He also happened to be a sake-swilling alcoholic and sex addict who, it was alleged by more than one person, not only slept with many of his female students but a not insignificant number of male devotees as well. I was told the Rincpoche died (from liver disease at the age of 48) while screaming from his deathbed for more sake.
I felt outraged from what I had learned of Trungpa's escapades, and was fed-up with the hypocrisy of his ex-students, many of whom were teachers and administrators at Naropa. They would dismiss Chogyam's behavior as "crazy wisdom," often doing so with wistful expressions on their faces, presumably longing for the good old days.
However, not everyone was wistful. One woman I spoke to was, to put it mildly, no longer a Trungpa fan. She stated that some of the men of the community (including her own husband) encouraged their women to offer themselves to their "teacher," as if bedding down with the Rinpoche (Precious Jewel) was some sort of blessing.
I asked the friend with whom I was having the debate how he could defend such behavior when if it were coming from me (or anybody else for that matter), he would have cut the person out of his life.
"What is it," I said, "that made this man so special in your eyes?"
He thought about it for a good 30 seconds before saying three words that have stuck with me to this day. "He was fearless," he said.
As unseemly as Trungpa's behavior could be, he never tried to hide who he was. If he wanted to do donuts on the grass field behind the school in his stretch limo, well, hey, crazy wisdom. If he showed up for a dharma talk an hour late (and drunk) before giving what I've been told were often remarkable seven minute discourses, okay then.
As much as I was disgusted by what I learned of Trungpa's antics, his books were (and are) pure insight and light. What I learned from him (and other teachers in my life) was the importance of learning to separate the man--any man--from the spiritual being underneath. In all honesty, I would have loved to have met the Rinpoche. Here's his wiki page. It's a good read: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/C%C3%B6gyam_Trungpa
How is this related to Dale Warrington?
Dale was one of perhaps three people I have known who would fit the description of fearlessly themselves. He lived his life full throttle. He did not try to hide the fact that he drank a pint of JD every night (and more on weekends); nor did he even bother to feign a desire to quit his pack-and-a-half-a-day cigarette habit. The vast majority of the time, when Dale spoke, he did so in a booming baritone voice that filled the room. His voice carried, in other words. And while this alone isn't particularly of note, when Dale did speak, it was often without the aid of internal editing or filters. Needless to say, his judgment was far from impeccable. Dale could (and did) fuck-up with the best of them, but when he did dive into a situation, he jumped in full-bore, with both rattle snake boots.
To wit: He once referred to his boss at the mental health center as a "conniving, polyester
suit-wearing, back-stabbing, bitch."
Not a big deal behind closed doors, but true to form, Dale voiced this not terribly ambiguous opinion in his typical unmuted tones which, as a rule, could be heard quite easily from 75 paces. He also happened to do so with the front door to our office wide open. It remained a mystery whose ears overheard Dale's comment that day--his enemies at the jail were legion--but the comment did indeed make it back to his boss leaving, shall we say, a few fences to mend.
I can not put too fine a point on it: the words subtle and Dale Warrington rarely bumped into each other in the same sentence. To some, his behavior might be said to reflect a certain lack of tact to the point of foolhardiness. But I would argue that Dale's willingness to speak his mind in that booming voice of his and then stand behind it regardless of who was in the vicinity, reflected a type of courage that is rare in our society. It said, What you see is exactly what you get. If you have a problem with this, it is your problem.
I met Dale six months out of grad school. A friend told me that the Mental Health Center had contracted with the jail to provide psych services, and that they were hiring a slew of full-time counselors. I applied, and so desperate were they to get people to work at that toilet bowl of a facility that I tried to sabotage my own hiring by answering the drug portion of the background check form truthfully. I listed the 11-12 different drugs I had used or ever tried, and even admitted that, yes, for a brief time I did indeed deal marijuana. Nobody said a peep.
What they don't tell you in your graduate school training--thank G-d--is that when a budding counselor passed through the doors of whatever institution they attended for the final time, they would be entering into the world with a diploma in one hand, a world of debt in the other, and almost no counseling skills whatsoever. The real education would come afterward. It would come from working in the field and stumbling around some agency while trying to help people or, at least, attempting to follow the Hypocratic oath of doing no harm. The education would come during client case reviews and from the occasional scrap of positive feedback from a clients; and it would come after even more stumbling around.
My mantra back when I fist started at the jail was: Please, G-d, let this person be alive when I get into work tomorrow. I hated everything about working there. The smell of recirculated air and sweat, the cluh-clang of sliding doors, the dishonest, manipulative inmates and (sometimes) corrections staff, and the guy who pressed his face against the one-way glass to see into the control room where I was standing and shouted that he "wanted me." And if all that weren't bad enough, here was this guy with an Amish beard, cowboy boots and an endless supply of garish ties and a megaphone voice who I was looking at calling my boss for the foreseeable future. I was in hell.
One morning a few weeks in, I was out on the patio staring up at the sky through the barbwire and chain link roof lamenting my employment fate when Dale joined me for stress-relieving smoke. He took a seat and lit up without a word until at last, I lowered my gaze to find him studying me with a Mona Lisa smile on his goateed face.
I looked at him, he looked at me, I looked at him. "What?" I said at last.
"Tommy," he boomed, spontaneously using my childhood name, "where were you born?"
"Uhm, Milwaukee, why?"
"Any brothers and sisters?"
This line of questioning went on for roughly two cigarettes or, in laymen terms, about ten minutes. For reasons I never quite understood, out of the blue, Dale seemed to have taken a shine to me. What I found out later was that he did not take shines lightly. To be on his shit list was, as far as I could tell, to be there forever. If you worked hard, were honest, and cared about helping the mentally ill, you were golden in Dale's book, but if you were there to slough-off and collect a paycheck he could make things a little ... unpleasant. Okay, quite unpleasant.
Another story I want to tell about him because I can, and because it sent a bolt of admiration down my spine when he told me, occurred prior to Dale's working at the jail while he was a nurse at the mental health center. One day, an out-of-his-mind, floridly psychotic behemoth (and why the paranoid schizophrenics are often huge, burly me is beyond me) was running amok on one of the units.
In a mental health setting, employees are expected and trained to help restrain out-of-control patients; but this guy wasn't going down and had already hurt 3-4 people. As the psychotic man (or "toon" as Dale liked to call them) took a swing at another psych tech, he slipped and fell. Dale, who had just arrived on the scene, saw his opening. He galloped up to the scrum like the cavalry and kicked the guy full force on the side of the head, briefly knocking him out. The giant was quickly restrained, medicated, and locked down. Dale, of course, was reprimanded for his behavior, but oddly or no, was not fired. Afterward, he told me, he and the schizophrenic became good friends.
I believe Dale was able to keep his job with the Mental Health Center (and at the jail) for as long as he did because his "polyester-wearing, back-stabbing bitch" of a supervisor astutely recognized that--like him or hate him--there was a indeed a place for such men as Dale; men who seemingly reveled in taking on the jobs that no one else wanted; men who were the fixer-uppers in dirty situations; men who were the mental health equivalent of the Wolfe in Pulp Fiction.
As stated so beautifully in his obituary, Dale Warrington's priorities lay first and always with the well being of the mentally ill. In fact, the only time I ever remembered him modulating his voice was when he was sitting across from a one of the toon inmates. He would take a seat at the table across from some angry bipolar or schizophrenic man, lean in, lower his voice and ask how he could be of service. Dale would listen for as long as the person needed, the very picture of deference and sincerity, as if it were the most important thing he could possibly be doing. And it was. He would generally end things with a handshake or back slap, and a quick, "Okay, bueno."
The presence he brought to his interactions were without either affectation or manipulation. Dale genuinely cared for and respected these downtroddenest of the downtrodden, and did so without a hint of patronization.
His big heart was unquestioned, if not lacking in even a hint of sentimentality. He had a simple rule-of-thumb that I still go by in my practice today: Mental illness is no excuse. "Tommy," he said, "we give them the best care possible, treat them with complete respect and dignity, but the mentally ill are responsible for their actions and deeds just like the rest of us."
I have been struggling with this blog entry for five days trying to do this man justice, and yet still feel that my words have fallen hopelessly short . The four plus years I spent on the psych unit with Dale were life changing for me--both as a therapist and a man. It was a place where I did things and handled situations I never imagined I could or would. With his undying faith and support, I started to believe in myself in ways I never had. Many a time I ran up to Dale with some perceived problem or dilemma. He would simply smile, slap me on the back, and say in his booming voice, "I have faith in you, Tommy. Whatever you decide is fine."
The last time I saw him was my final day at the detention center. Typically, when someone left the team, there was a potluck and a grand send-off. But when party time arrived, Dale was nowhere to be found. I'd seen him earlier in the day, but he took off without saying goodbye. I have always viewed this as both intentional and unconscious on his part. Dale and I had gotten quite close over the years. I always wondered if Dale's absence was his reaction to my departure--the betrayal of the son leaving the fold against his father's wishes. An act of love, in other words. I'd like to think I had his blessing.
Here's his obit: http://obits.abqjournal.com/
I probably shouldn't be surprised. Dale was a hard drinking, Marlboro-smoking, Harley-riding man. I last saw him in December of 2000--Christ, has it already been a decade?--and without knowing the details around his death, I have little reason to believe he changed his habits over the years. In fact, it would be a fair to assume quite the contrary; if anything, he most likely died exactly the way he lived. And yet the news of his passing shocked the hell out of me, as death often does when a larger-than-life figure finally meets his maker.
Years ago while a grad student at Naropa, I was having a discussion/debate with a friend who had been around during the wild Trungpa years. Chogyam Trugnpa Rinpoche was a Tibetan Buddhist monk, the eleventh Trungpa Tulku as well as the holder of both the Karma Kagyu and Nyingma lineages. He was the founder of the Naropa Institute as well as the inspiration for a large number of meditation centers around the U.S. and abroad. He also happened to be a sake-swilling alcoholic and sex addict who, it was alleged by more than one person, not only slept with many of his female students but a not insignificant number of male devotees as well. I was told the Rincpoche died (from liver disease at the age of 48) while screaming from his deathbed for more sake.
I felt outraged from what I had learned of Trungpa's escapades, and was fed-up with the hypocrisy of his ex-students, many of whom were teachers and administrators at Naropa. They would dismiss Chogyam's behavior as "crazy wisdom," often doing so with wistful expressions on their faces, presumably longing for the good old days.
However, not everyone was wistful. One woman I spoke to was, to put it mildly, no longer a Trungpa fan. She stated that some of the men of the community (including her own husband) encouraged their women to offer themselves to their "teacher," as if bedding down with the Rinpoche (Precious Jewel) was some sort of blessing.
I asked the friend with whom I was having the debate how he could defend such behavior when if it were coming from me (or anybody else for that matter), he would have cut the person out of his life.
"What is it," I said, "that made this man so special in your eyes?"
He thought about it for a good 30 seconds before saying three words that have stuck with me to this day. "He was fearless," he said.
As unseemly as Trungpa's behavior could be, he never tried to hide who he was. If he wanted to do donuts on the grass field behind the school in his stretch limo, well, hey, crazy wisdom. If he showed up for a dharma talk an hour late (and drunk) before giving what I've been told were often remarkable seven minute discourses, okay then.
As much as I was disgusted by what I learned of Trungpa's antics, his books were (and are) pure insight and light. What I learned from him (and other teachers in my life) was the importance of learning to separate the man--any man--from the spiritual being underneath. In all honesty, I would have loved to have met the Rinpoche. Here's his wiki page. It's a good read: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/C%C3%B6gyam_Trungpa
How is this related to Dale Warrington?
Dale was one of perhaps three people I have known who would fit the description of fearlessly themselves. He lived his life full throttle. He did not try to hide the fact that he drank a pint of JD every night (and more on weekends); nor did he even bother to feign a desire to quit his pack-and-a-half-a-day cigarette habit. The vast majority of the time, when Dale spoke, he did so in a booming baritone voice that filled the room. His voice carried, in other words. And while this alone isn't particularly of note, when Dale did speak, it was often without the aid of internal editing or filters. Needless to say, his judgment was far from impeccable. Dale could (and did) fuck-up with the best of them, but when he did dive into a situation, he jumped in full-bore, with both rattle snake boots.
To wit: He once referred to his boss at the mental health center as a "conniving, polyester
suit-wearing, back-stabbing, bitch."
Not a big deal behind closed doors, but true to form, Dale voiced this not terribly ambiguous opinion in his typical unmuted tones which, as a rule, could be heard quite easily from 75 paces. He also happened to do so with the front door to our office wide open. It remained a mystery whose ears overheard Dale's comment that day--his enemies at the jail were legion--but the comment did indeed make it back to his boss leaving, shall we say, a few fences to mend.
I can not put too fine a point on it: the words subtle and Dale Warrington rarely bumped into each other in the same sentence. To some, his behavior might be said to reflect a certain lack of tact to the point of foolhardiness. But I would argue that Dale's willingness to speak his mind in that booming voice of his and then stand behind it regardless of who was in the vicinity, reflected a type of courage that is rare in our society. It said, What you see is exactly what you get. If you have a problem with this, it is your problem.
I met Dale six months out of grad school. A friend told me that the Mental Health Center had contracted with the jail to provide psych services, and that they were hiring a slew of full-time counselors. I applied, and so desperate were they to get people to work at that toilet bowl of a facility that I tried to sabotage my own hiring by answering the drug portion of the background check form truthfully. I listed the 11-12 different drugs I had used or ever tried, and even admitted that, yes, for a brief time I did indeed deal marijuana. Nobody said a peep.
What they don't tell you in your graduate school training--thank G-d--is that when a budding counselor passed through the doors of whatever institution they attended for the final time, they would be entering into the world with a diploma in one hand, a world of debt in the other, and almost no counseling skills whatsoever. The real education would come afterward. It would come from working in the field and stumbling around some agency while trying to help people or, at least, attempting to follow the Hypocratic oath of doing no harm. The education would come during client case reviews and from the occasional scrap of positive feedback from a clients; and it would come after even more stumbling around.
My mantra back when I fist started at the jail was: Please, G-d, let this person be alive when I get into work tomorrow. I hated everything about working there. The smell of recirculated air and sweat, the cluh-clang of sliding doors, the dishonest, manipulative inmates and (sometimes) corrections staff, and the guy who pressed his face against the one-way glass to see into the control room where I was standing and shouted that he "wanted me." And if all that weren't bad enough, here was this guy with an Amish beard, cowboy boots and an endless supply of garish ties and a megaphone voice who I was looking at calling my boss for the foreseeable future. I was in hell.
One morning a few weeks in, I was out on the patio staring up at the sky through the barbwire and chain link roof lamenting my employment fate when Dale joined me for stress-relieving smoke. He took a seat and lit up without a word until at last, I lowered my gaze to find him studying me with a Mona Lisa smile on his goateed face.
I looked at him, he looked at me, I looked at him. "What?" I said at last.
"Tommy," he boomed, spontaneously using my childhood name, "where were you born?"
"Uhm, Milwaukee, why?"
"Any brothers and sisters?"
This line of questioning went on for roughly two cigarettes or, in laymen terms, about ten minutes. For reasons I never quite understood, out of the blue, Dale seemed to have taken a shine to me. What I found out later was that he did not take shines lightly. To be on his shit list was, as far as I could tell, to be there forever. If you worked hard, were honest, and cared about helping the mentally ill, you were golden in Dale's book, but if you were there to slough-off and collect a paycheck he could make things a little ... unpleasant. Okay, quite unpleasant.
Another story I want to tell about him because I can, and because it sent a bolt of admiration down my spine when he told me, occurred prior to Dale's working at the jail while he was a nurse at the mental health center. One day, an out-of-his-mind, floridly psychotic behemoth (and why the paranoid schizophrenics are often huge, burly me is beyond me) was running amok on one of the units.
In a mental health setting, employees are expected and trained to help restrain out-of-control patients; but this guy wasn't going down and had already hurt 3-4 people. As the psychotic man (or "toon" as Dale liked to call them) took a swing at another psych tech, he slipped and fell. Dale, who had just arrived on the scene, saw his opening. He galloped up to the scrum like the cavalry and kicked the guy full force on the side of the head, briefly knocking him out. The giant was quickly restrained, medicated, and locked down. Dale, of course, was reprimanded for his behavior, but oddly or no, was not fired. Afterward, he told me, he and the schizophrenic became good friends.
I believe Dale was able to keep his job with the Mental Health Center (and at the jail) for as long as he did because his "polyester-wearing, back-stabbing bitch" of a supervisor astutely recognized that--like him or hate him--there was a indeed a place for such men as Dale; men who seemingly reveled in taking on the jobs that no one else wanted; men who were the fixer-uppers in dirty situations; men who were the mental health equivalent of the Wolfe in Pulp Fiction.
As stated so beautifully in his obituary, Dale Warrington's priorities lay first and always with the well being of the mentally ill. In fact, the only time I ever remembered him modulating his voice was when he was sitting across from a one of the toon inmates. He would take a seat at the table across from some angry bipolar or schizophrenic man, lean in, lower his voice and ask how he could be of service. Dale would listen for as long as the person needed, the very picture of deference and sincerity, as if it were the most important thing he could possibly be doing. And it was. He would generally end things with a handshake or back slap, and a quick, "Okay, bueno."
The presence he brought to his interactions were without either affectation or manipulation. Dale genuinely cared for and respected these downtroddenest of the downtrodden, and did so without a hint of patronization.
His big heart was unquestioned, if not lacking in even a hint of sentimentality. He had a simple rule-of-thumb that I still go by in my practice today: Mental illness is no excuse. "Tommy," he said, "we give them the best care possible, treat them with complete respect and dignity, but the mentally ill are responsible for their actions and deeds just like the rest of us."
I have been struggling with this blog entry for five days trying to do this man justice, and yet still feel that my words have fallen hopelessly short . The four plus years I spent on the psych unit with Dale were life changing for me--both as a therapist and a man. It was a place where I did things and handled situations I never imagined I could or would. With his undying faith and support, I started to believe in myself in ways I never had. Many a time I ran up to Dale with some perceived problem or dilemma. He would simply smile, slap me on the back, and say in his booming voice, "I have faith in you, Tommy. Whatever you decide is fine."
The last time I saw him was my final day at the detention center. Typically, when someone left the team, there was a potluck and a grand send-off. But when party time arrived, Dale was nowhere to be found. I'd seen him earlier in the day, but he took off without saying goodbye. I have always viewed this as both intentional and unconscious on his part. Dale and I had gotten quite close over the years. I always wondered if Dale's absence was his reaction to my departure--the betrayal of the son leaving the fold against his father's wishes. An act of love, in other words. I'd like to think I had his blessing.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Babies in Flight
(I wrote this blog entry on April 9th from my plane at the Albuquerque Sunport. The body of the text was written while under the euphoric haze of a benzodiazapine cloud. Disclaimer: Parents, please, don't let your children try this at home.)
Flying the friendly skies on two migs of lorazapam. Sitting on the tarmac of a Southwest flight waiting for my "happy pills" to slowly begin to wield their magic.
Flying the friendly skies on two migs of lorazapam. Sitting on the tarmac of a Southwest flight waiting for my "happy pills" to slowly begin to wield their magic.
Years ago, while on a midwinter flight to Holland, the plane I was on was getting tossed around in turbulence like the proverbial tin can. I knew realistically that planes were designed to handle such tumult. I had even spoke with pilots who said they enjoyed turbulence much like a surfer enjoys bouncing atop the big wave, but my visceral response that day on my way to The Netherlands was grim-faced, white-knuckled terror.
We got tossed around 45 minutes, including some not insignificant sudden plunges in altitude. I sat with my my eyes scrunched closed while I hyper-ventilated and throttled the arm rests. I imagined myself and my two seat mates embracing in a moment of clarity and love right before the plane barrel rolled into the ocean. As I summoned the courage to look around the cabin, I expected to see the other passengers in equal shades of terror. Instead, when I opened my eyes, the couple sitting next to me had moved as far away from me as their seat belts would allow. They were glancing at me sideways with concern, no doubt wondering if I was going to have a heart attack. I was certain they were silently reciting some sort of prayer along the lines of, "Please, G-d, don't let this guy up-chunk into our laps."
Clearly no sympathy there. I closed my eyes again, tried to slow down my breathing, and started to pray. Needless to say, we made it.
Clearly no sympathy there. I closed my eyes again, tried to slow down my breathing, and started to pray. Needless to say, we made it.
And now here I am on yet another flight waiting, hoping to be reunited with my wife who I haven’t seen in 10 days.Today is windy, as are many days during the sand-blown New Mexican springs. It is the only place I’ve ever lived where Spring is more a season to tolerate then celebrate.And just now, the pilot got on the intercom to announce that take-off would be “pretty bumpy” until we reached cruising altitude.
I manfully resist taking another half lorazapam and begin to fervently pray for my own safe arrival in Portland as well as a speedy, mind-calming medication haze to fall over my furrowed brow like a red movie theater curtain. Abject terror is a wonderful source of spiritual inspiration.
I manfully resist taking another half lorazapam and begin to fervently pray for my own safe arrival in Portland as well as a speedy, mind-calming medication haze to fall over my furrowed brow like a red movie theater curtain. Abject terror is a wonderful source of spiritual inspiration.
Here are my thoughts as they arise:
It is my strong desire to see my wife again.
Here are a few others:
Here are a few others:
Planes take off in high winds all the time ...
Planes take off in high winds all the time ...
Planes take off in high winds all the time ...
Always a nervous flyer, after the flight to Holland I decided to raise the white flag and do what I needed to do to make flying a more tolerable experience. Now I take a little white pill that has made much of my flying anxiety fade. I completely understand why people get addicted to these things--and they are highly addictive--which is why I only take them when flying. Lorazapam is my co-pilot, as it were. Antidepressants are a slow climb to normal--the tea cups at Disneyland. Anti-anxiety meds are more a roller coaster doing a slow climb, but with an immediate payoff. And while my happy pills don't entirely mute the nervousness, right now in this moment, during an incredibly choppy take-off, they do make things tolerable.
And now, let us bow our heads in prayer: Dear G-d, Let me and all air travelers arrive safely to their destination ... but especially me. Amen.
I look around, and see nothing but calm, seasoned travelers. What is wrong with these people? Don't they know this ... this flying thing we have squeezed ourselves into is getting tossed around the skies like a skipping stone?
(Two minutes later) And just like that, we burst through the clouds and reach cruising altitude. Life is good again.
Two people sit to my left in the middle and window seats with their five month-old baby. Though there was a dearth of aisle seats throughout the plane, no one wanted to sit in the second row--the second row!--next to two black-wearing, twenty-something slackers, their faces pierced and uncheerful. They also have a baby who--lets face it--will probably be howling the entire flight.
As a future father myself, I resisted the tried--and-true code of single fliers everywhere: Do not sit within two rows of babies. They will cry and disrupt one's harmony, and generally get in the way of people like myself who need to use our super-human concentration to keep the plane afloat.
I spotted the aisle seat next to the couple, and decided to intentionally expose myself to a flying baby.
I ask myself: What is the trick to successful baby flying?
"Is anyone sitting here?" I asked politely.
"No," said the mother with perhaps a tad less enthusiasm than I would prefer.
"Wonderful," I said with a smile and settled in. The burly father in the window seat is holding the baby who, in fact, is not crying as all. By all appearances the infant appears to be a braver traveler than your intrepid author. (Although in all fairness, I would probably be brave too if I had a breast on which to suckle during take-off. I'm just saying.)
Uhp, I spoke too soon, The baby in question has just started to cry. The mother, no doubt the host for a cooking show called, "The Discerning Palate," expertly mixes water and powder into a bottle, shakes it up, and gives it to dad to feed the wailing child. Mom folds her arms on the drop down tray from the seat in front of her, lowers her head and tries to get to sleep.
Many fathers do their parts and do it well, but I'm not sure we men will ever fully understand how much it takes to be a mother.
Jenn thought getting pregnant was taking too long and was still a little gun shy from her miscarriage last year. However, with kudos and inspiration from Maude Lebowski, she got pregnant relatively quick. Jenn has shifted from being hyper-vigilante about every little ache, sensation, and movement inside her belly to a place of quiet faith. She and I both know we "got it right" this time. Her belly is growing, and I have missed witnessing this growth these last ten days.
Last night on the phone, Jenn informed me that even I could feel the baby at move at this point, as if I was some sort of drooling, tactile retard who doesn't quite have the capacity to feel the subtle ballet going on inside her belly. It's like we're watching the super suspenseful movie, "Baby on a Train," and I keep turning my head at every exciting part. To wit: I have never felt the kid move. Sometimes Jenn looks at me like I'm trying not to feel our baby move on purpose. There may be a hint of truth to this, but not much.
As I write this blog in handwritten print, I notice that I press down on the pen with way too much pressure. I often do this, sometimes to the point that my wrist aches. My theory is that unconsciously I want to make damn sure I've made myself understood. If I'm not cracking jokes, I've been told my eyes can take on a rather intense and piercing glare (Jenn calls it "hawkish"), and can lead people to think that I am a quite serious bloke. When angered, my mood either fills the room or fills my head. Everything I do seems to be geared toward getting my point across in a clear, concise way. It's probably a control issue that says, "Understand me."
With our baby, it's different. When little Celia/Zinnia is kicking around, I'll put my hands where Jenn instructs, but and she stops almost immediately. But I don't feel a need to understand or be understood. In my head, what I tell myself is this: "Let's give the kid a break. She's only, what, the size of a ... a --what the hell was the last fruit we were told--a small plantain? I trust that our little daughter will tell me when it's time to for Tom to play Feel Baby Play with Mommies Innards. When Celia/Zinnia moves, Jenn sometimes tells me to push a little deeper into her belly, but it feels like such an invasion of privacy. On the other hand, what do I know? Maybe the kid enjoys the stimulation.
As my plane heads toward Oregon, who knows, maybe I'll feel our baby move in Jenn's belly tonight. Perhaps we'll write each other messages through my wife's uterus. I'll spell mine backwards so she'll be able to read my words of love, and she, our child-to-be, will press a foot or a hand against the wall of Jenn's womb, pooching it out like E.T. reaching a finger toward Elliot.
In the seat next me--now in her mother's arms--the top of the baby's head is 12 inches from mine. I want to lean over and smell it.
And now, let us bow our heads in prayer: Dear G-d, Let me and all air travelers arrive safely to their destination ... but especially me. Amen.
I look around, and see nothing but calm, seasoned travelers. What is wrong with these people? Don't they know this ... this flying thing we have squeezed ourselves into is getting tossed around the skies like a skipping stone?
(Two minutes later) And just like that, we burst through the clouds and reach cruising altitude. Life is good again.
Two people sit to my left in the middle and window seats with their five month-old baby. Though there was a dearth of aisle seats throughout the plane, no one wanted to sit in the second row--the second row!--next to two black-wearing, twenty-something slackers, their faces pierced and uncheerful. They also have a baby who--lets face it--will probably be howling the entire flight.
As a future father myself, I resisted the tried--and-true code of single fliers everywhere: Do not sit within two rows of babies. They will cry and disrupt one's harmony, and generally get in the way of people like myself who need to use our super-human concentration to keep the plane afloat.
I spotted the aisle seat next to the couple, and decided to intentionally expose myself to a flying baby.
I ask myself: What is the trick to successful baby flying?
"Is anyone sitting here?" I asked politely.
"No," said the mother with perhaps a tad less enthusiasm than I would prefer.
"Wonderful," I said with a smile and settled in. The burly father in the window seat is holding the baby who, in fact, is not crying as all. By all appearances the infant appears to be a braver traveler than your intrepid author. (Although in all fairness, I would probably be brave too if I had a breast on which to suckle during take-off. I'm just saying.)
Uhp, I spoke too soon, The baby in question has just started to cry. The mother, no doubt the host for a cooking show called, "The Discerning Palate," expertly mixes water and powder into a bottle, shakes it up, and gives it to dad to feed the wailing child. Mom folds her arms on the drop down tray from the seat in front of her, lowers her head and tries to get to sleep.
Many fathers do their parts and do it well, but I'm not sure we men will ever fully understand how much it takes to be a mother.
Jenn thought getting pregnant was taking too long and was still a little gun shy from her miscarriage last year. However, with kudos and inspiration from Maude Lebowski, she got pregnant relatively quick. Jenn has shifted from being hyper-vigilante about every little ache, sensation, and movement inside her belly to a place of quiet faith. She and I both know we "got it right" this time. Her belly is growing, and I have missed witnessing this growth these last ten days.
Last night on the phone, Jenn informed me that even I could feel the baby at move at this point, as if I was some sort of drooling, tactile retard who doesn't quite have the capacity to feel the subtle ballet going on inside her belly. It's like we're watching the super suspenseful movie, "Baby on a Train," and I keep turning my head at every exciting part. To wit: I have never felt the kid move. Sometimes Jenn looks at me like I'm trying not to feel our baby move on purpose. There may be a hint of truth to this, but not much.
As I write this blog in handwritten print, I notice that I press down on the pen with way too much pressure. I often do this, sometimes to the point that my wrist aches. My theory is that unconsciously I want to make damn sure I've made myself understood. If I'm not cracking jokes, I've been told my eyes can take on a rather intense and piercing glare (Jenn calls it "hawkish"), and can lead people to think that I am a quite serious bloke. When angered, my mood either fills the room or fills my head. Everything I do seems to be geared toward getting my point across in a clear, concise way. It's probably a control issue that says, "Understand me."
With our baby, it's different. When little Celia/Zinnia is kicking around, I'll put my hands where Jenn instructs, but and she stops almost immediately. But I don't feel a need to understand or be understood. In my head, what I tell myself is this: "Let's give the kid a break. She's only, what, the size of a ... a --what the hell was the last fruit we were told--a small plantain? I trust that our little daughter will tell me when it's time to for Tom to play Feel Baby Play with Mommies Innards. When Celia/Zinnia moves, Jenn sometimes tells me to push a little deeper into her belly, but it feels like such an invasion of privacy. On the other hand, what do I know? Maybe the kid enjoys the stimulation.
As my plane heads toward Oregon, who knows, maybe I'll feel our baby move in Jenn's belly tonight. Perhaps we'll write each other messages through my wife's uterus. I'll spell mine backwards so she'll be able to read my words of love, and she, our child-to-be, will press a foot or a hand against the wall of Jenn's womb, pooching it out like E.T. reaching a finger toward Elliot.
In the seat next me--now in her mother's arms--the top of the baby's head is 12 inches from mine. I want to lean over and smell it.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
On Film, Music, Courage, and the Art of the Bromance
Jenn and I went to see Johnny Clegg last night at the New Mexico Expo Center. Clegg, a South African musician, was here as part of his North American tour to support his first album release in 17 years. The outdoor venue was perfection, with grandstands toward the back fronted by sections of folding chairs and a huge dance space toward the stage. There were perhaps 500 people in attendance, and at least half the crowd was shaking their collective booties to Clegg's music which, in today's parlance, might be called "World Music." To me, this label says nothing and does little to capture Clegg's own brand of electric South African pop. His music is catchy, danceable, and political--a rare combination. He peppers his lyrics with Zulu phrases and supports it with rich harmonies. Clegg, who used to participate in Zulu dance competitions, was enthusiastic and sincere, and his contagious rhythms got the crowd to its feet by the middle of the second song. Here's a couple of youtube clips:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?
In the past, Johnny Clegg has played before thousands and shared the stage with the likes of Peter Gabriel, Joan Baez, and Nelson Mandela. His wiki page said that he was once so popular in Europe, he was a bigger draw than Michael Jackson. Yet here we were, a few hundred people on a beautiful New Mexican evening enjoying the music of this now semi-obscure, lovely man and musician.
Yes, I admit it: I have a mild man crush on Johnny Clegg.
Typically, my bromances have been limited to actors. My first love--despite deep reservations as to who he was as a man, and more importantly, a human being--was (and I feel only a little embarrassed to admit this): Hugh Grant. I loved him in Four Weddings, Notting Hill, Love Actually, and About a Boy. And after he got caught trolling for prostitutes in L.A. (see Hugh below not in his finest moment), he made a brilliant comeback with an understated performance in Sense and Sensibility.
I enjoyed Grant's unapologetic, womanizing scoundrel in "Bridget Jones Diary," a role, I suspect, that was not too much of a stretch for the actor to nail. On the director's commentary for "Two Weeks Notice," Grant comes across as a charming rogue with a sharp-wit and good sense of humor. At one point, he mentioned to Sandra Bullock (his co-star and fellow commentator) that he had been told she had a crush on him while on set. There was brief, awkward pause before Bullock laughed in a breezy sort of actor's way and denied it, which, of course meant it was true.
Grant brings a subtlety and humor to most of his roles. Additionally, I admire his boyish good looks and his success with the ladies. The fact that a fellow Virgo--the least sexy of the Zodiac signs--could strike it so rich in the bedroom department was, to me, a reason to hope.
However, a man has to move on, and so I did. To James McAvoy.
McAvoy is a young Scottish actor who is not only extremely engaging on screen, but exudes a certain joie de vivre that so many Scottish performers seems to have. (Has anyone spent time in Scotland? Are they indeed a cheerful folk?) And while not ever cinematic choice of his has been impeccable (see "Wanted," or rather, don't, unless you enjoy vacuous, heavy-handed, special effects-laden movies), there is a certain quality he brings to his films that guarantees to make even a mediocre movie a little more watchable. **
Jenn and I saw one of McAvoy's movies a mere two nights ago, (Atonement). Afterwards, of course, we Googled his ass. My respect grew as I listened to Jenn read about his personal life. As it turns out, McAvoy is the anti-Hugh. He is monogamous, a dutiful father, and a devoted husband. Jenn quoted an actress who worked with the 32 year-old McAvoy on a film. She claimed that through her interactions with McAvoy and his wife on set, she was profoundly influence in her views of love and relationship.
I enjoyed this bromance while it lasted, but there was something missing. A man matures. I am fifty years old, long of tooth and gray of beard (or would be if I had one) and have come to the conclusion that what one wants in life is not a bad boy (Hugh) or the vibrancy of youth (McAvoy). No. As one grows older, one starts to long for something more substantial, something with depth and stability, something that can survive the ravages of time when the bloom has faded from the rose without the drama and emotional tumult of romantic love. In short, as a man matures, he begins to seek the intimacy of a deeper connection on all four levels: the heart, mind, spirit, and gonads. I decide to move on.
To Alec Baldwin.
I never gave Baldwin much thought until I saw him in, "It's Complicated." He had a deft touch and such wonderful comic timing, I couldn't help but swoon. The director's commentary (yes, there are people who actually listen to the commentaries) only confirmed what I had sensed--that Baldwin is an impeccable performer, loved and respected by directors and fellow actors alike. This perception was only enhanced when I discovered the hilarious, "30 Rock," on Netflix.
I know, I know. These days, when people hear Baldwin's name, the first thing that comes to mind is his, "You are a rude, thoughtless little pig" comment to his 12 year-old daughter. His estranged (and very angry) wife, Kim Basinger, taped and broadcast Baldwin's gaffe to the entire tabloid consuming world. (I would argue that this says as much about her as about Baldwin, but for another day.) I conducted some research on this sordid event and discovered that Baldwin was so distraught afterwards that he--gasp!--entered into counseling and briefly contemplated suicide. Whether he was more upset about what he had said or about being caught, of course, is a matter for debate. I suspect it was somewhere in the middle.
Yet, it's times like these that we get to test the mettle of a relationship, to see if it's strong enough to withstand the stormy waters of our emotional baggage. Now, I'm a therapist by trade. It's a great profession for reflecting back when one is being hypocritical in one's life, what one friend called "being out of alignment." Often times, a therapist can (and does) find himself offering advice to a client who is struggling with the exact same issue the clinician is struggling with in his own life. The invitation is always there--it's more a reminder really--to do one's best to walk the walk. I can't, for example, ask my clients to negotiate the tightrope of forgiveness without trying to live it in my own life. I decided o give Baldwin another chance and to trust that his verbal mishap (okay, assault) of his daughter was a terrible, aberrant mistake rather then the rule of who he was as a person.
One of the nice things about bromances is that there's no need to be monogamous. It's okay to have more than one guy crush at a time, as each seems to reflect a quality or projection that I either want in my life, already have, or would like to magnify. Additionally, I can indulge in an unrequited man crushes without any heartbreak or repercussions to my current relationship. Jenn, in facts, seems amused that I flit about from one actor to the next like a dilettante butterfly.
Yesterday, I was visiting some friends in the east mountains. One shared that recently she was watching Oprah and the question was raised: If you could choose two people to have lunch with, who would they be? Oprah chose Julia Roberts as one of hers (which I found a bit pedestrian, but whatever), while my friend picked Gloria Steinem and and Nelson Mandela (solid choices in my book). My other friend chose Desmond Tutu, who I have seen interviewed and found him delightful, but she couldn't come up with a female lunch partner. For my female lunch date, I chose the very friend with whom I was having the discussion with. She beamed. For my male lunch companion, I tapped the Boss, Bruce Springsteen, but the choice rang a little hollow. (Although if I could go back in time, say Springsteen circa 1978, well then, lunch it is. Check this clip out to see as rascally and charming a performer as there ever was at the height of his power: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d5PoIrcyd34 )
The point: After the concert last night, I changed my lunch date partner to Johnny Clegg. The unassuming Clegg grew up in South Africa under the rule of apartheid and was the first white musician to play in public with a mixed colored band. Clegg and his band mates were arrested and jailed several times for the offense, and his concerts were routinely broken up by the South African police. Yet he continued to perform. I admire and am inspired by this type of courage more than I can say. Johnny Clegg, Tutu, Dali Lama, Aung San Suu Kyl, Mandela, people who risked it all for the sake of doing what they know to be right. This seems to me the highest form of courage. During his show last night, Clegg exuded what everyone on this list seems to have--humility, unquenchable good humor, and an unshakable belief in humanity. He reminded me what true strength really is and how one person can move mountains when guided by a clear internal compass.
**(Phillip Seymor Hoffman is the king in uplifting any movie he is part of, but he doesn't cross the threshold into bromance, and therefore will not be part of this discussion.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?
In the past, Johnny Clegg has played before thousands and shared the stage with the likes of Peter Gabriel, Joan Baez, and Nelson Mandela. His wiki page said that he was once so popular in Europe, he was a bigger draw than Michael Jackson. Yet here we were, a few hundred people on a beautiful New Mexican evening enjoying the music of this now semi-obscure, lovely man and musician.
Yes, I admit it: I have a mild man crush on Johnny Clegg.
Typically, my bromances have been limited to actors. My first love--despite deep reservations as to who he was as a man, and more importantly, a human being--was (and I feel only a little embarrassed to admit this): Hugh Grant. I loved him in Four Weddings, Notting Hill, Love Actually, and About a Boy. And after he got caught trolling for prostitutes in L.A. (see Hugh below not in his finest moment), he made a brilliant comeback with an understated performance in Sense and Sensibility.
I enjoyed Grant's unapologetic, womanizing scoundrel in "Bridget Jones Diary," a role, I suspect, that was not too much of a stretch for the actor to nail. On the director's commentary for "Two Weeks Notice," Grant comes across as a charming rogue with a sharp-wit and good sense of humor. At one point, he mentioned to Sandra Bullock (his co-star and fellow commentator) that he had been told she had a crush on him while on set. There was brief, awkward pause before Bullock laughed in a breezy sort of actor's way and denied it, which, of course meant it was true.
Grant brings a subtlety and humor to most of his roles. Additionally, I admire his boyish good looks and his success with the ladies. The fact that a fellow Virgo--the least sexy of the Zodiac signs--could strike it so rich in the bedroom department was, to me, a reason to hope.
However, a man has to move on, and so I did. To James McAvoy.
McAvoy is a young Scottish actor who is not only extremely engaging on screen, but exudes a certain joie de vivre that so many Scottish performers seems to have. (Has anyone spent time in Scotland? Are they indeed a cheerful folk?) And while not ever cinematic choice of his has been impeccable (see "Wanted," or rather, don't, unless you enjoy vacuous, heavy-handed, special effects-laden movies), there is a certain quality he brings to his films that guarantees to make even a mediocre movie a little more watchable. **
Jenn and I saw one of McAvoy's movies a mere two nights ago, (Atonement). Afterwards, of course, we Googled his ass. My respect grew as I listened to Jenn read about his personal life. As it turns out, McAvoy is the anti-Hugh. He is monogamous, a dutiful father, and a devoted husband. Jenn quoted an actress who worked with the 32 year-old McAvoy on a film. She claimed that through her interactions with McAvoy and his wife on set, she was profoundly influence in her views of love and relationship.
I enjoyed this bromance while it lasted, but there was something missing. A man matures. I am fifty years old, long of tooth and gray of beard (or would be if I had one) and have come to the conclusion that what one wants in life is not a bad boy (Hugh) or the vibrancy of youth (McAvoy). No. As one grows older, one starts to long for something more substantial, something with depth and stability, something that can survive the ravages of time when the bloom has faded from the rose without the drama and emotional tumult of romantic love. In short, as a man matures, he begins to seek the intimacy of a deeper connection on all four levels: the heart, mind, spirit, and gonads. I decide to move on.
To Alec Baldwin.
I never gave Baldwin much thought until I saw him in, "It's Complicated." He had a deft touch and such wonderful comic timing, I couldn't help but swoon. The director's commentary (yes, there are people who actually listen to the commentaries) only confirmed what I had sensed--that Baldwin is an impeccable performer, loved and respected by directors and fellow actors alike. This perception was only enhanced when I discovered the hilarious, "30 Rock," on Netflix.
I know, I know. These days, when people hear Baldwin's name, the first thing that comes to mind is his, "You are a rude, thoughtless little pig" comment to his 12 year-old daughter. His estranged (and very angry) wife, Kim Basinger, taped and broadcast Baldwin's gaffe to the entire tabloid consuming world. (I would argue that this says as much about her as about Baldwin, but for another day.) I conducted some research on this sordid event and discovered that Baldwin was so distraught afterwards that he--gasp!--entered into counseling and briefly contemplated suicide. Whether he was more upset about what he had said or about being caught, of course, is a matter for debate. I suspect it was somewhere in the middle.
Yet, it's times like these that we get to test the mettle of a relationship, to see if it's strong enough to withstand the stormy waters of our emotional baggage. Now, I'm a therapist by trade. It's a great profession for reflecting back when one is being hypocritical in one's life, what one friend called "being out of alignment." Often times, a therapist can (and does) find himself offering advice to a client who is struggling with the exact same issue the clinician is struggling with in his own life. The invitation is always there--it's more a reminder really--to do one's best to walk the walk. I can't, for example, ask my clients to negotiate the tightrope of forgiveness without trying to live it in my own life. I decided o give Baldwin another chance and to trust that his verbal mishap (okay, assault) of his daughter was a terrible, aberrant mistake rather then the rule of who he was as a person.
One of the nice things about bromances is that there's no need to be monogamous. It's okay to have more than one guy crush at a time, as each seems to reflect a quality or projection that I either want in my life, already have, or would like to magnify. Additionally, I can indulge in an unrequited man crushes without any heartbreak or repercussions to my current relationship. Jenn, in facts, seems amused that I flit about from one actor to the next like a dilettante butterfly.
Yesterday, I was visiting some friends in the east mountains. One shared that recently she was watching Oprah and the question was raised: If you could choose two people to have lunch with, who would they be? Oprah chose Julia Roberts as one of hers (which I found a bit pedestrian, but whatever), while my friend picked Gloria Steinem and and Nelson Mandela (solid choices in my book). My other friend chose Desmond Tutu, who I have seen interviewed and found him delightful, but she couldn't come up with a female lunch partner. For my female lunch date, I chose the very friend with whom I was having the discussion with. She beamed. For my male lunch companion, I tapped the Boss, Bruce Springsteen, but the choice rang a little hollow. (Although if I could go back in time, say Springsteen circa 1978, well then, lunch it is. Check this clip out to see as rascally and charming a performer as there ever was at the height of his power: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d5PoIrcyd34 )
The point: After the concert last night, I changed my lunch date partner to Johnny Clegg. The unassuming Clegg grew up in South Africa under the rule of apartheid and was the first white musician to play in public with a mixed colored band. Clegg and his band mates were arrested and jailed several times for the offense, and his concerts were routinely broken up by the South African police. Yet he continued to perform. I admire and am inspired by this type of courage more than I can say. Johnny Clegg, Tutu, Dali Lama, Aung San Suu Kyl, Mandela, people who risked it all for the sake of doing what they know to be right. This seems to me the highest form of courage. During his show last night, Clegg exuded what everyone on this list seems to have--humility, unquenchable good humor, and an unshakable belief in humanity. He reminded me what true strength really is and how one person can move mountains when guided by a clear internal compass.
**(Phillip Seymor Hoffman is the king in uplifting any movie he is part of, but he doesn't cross the threshold into bromance, and therefore will not be part of this discussion.)
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Celia the Rutabaga
My in utero-daughter and I have a little game we play. Whenever Jenn says, "Wow, she's really moving around," or "She's kicking up a storm," I put my hand on Jenn's belly and little Celia (this week's name) stops moving.
"Yeah, right," I say.
"You don't feel that?" Jenn grabs my hand and places it on her lower belly.
"Nope," I say, and roll over to read my sports book.
With all peaceful and quiet on the western womb, Jenn falls quickly asleep.
At first I found it frustrating, and oddly or no, took it just the slightest bit personally. How come Celia stops moving every time I try to feel her? Maybe she's surly because I don't talk to her more or sing lullabies to Jenn's belly. What a concept--to sing to Jenn's pregnancy bump with the knowledge that on the other side of it is a floating head of cauliflower snapping her tiny, fetal fingers to my off-key crooning.
The observant reader may have caught a recent and subtle allusion to my daughter's size. Why, as recently as two sentences ago -- in this very blog as a matter of fact! -- I compared her to (and I quote) "a head of cauliflower." I do this because, apparently, it is common practice to compare the size of a baby's progressive stages of growth to various types of grains and produce.
Early on in the pregnancy, Jenn informed me with genuine excitement that Celia was "half the size of a small grain of rice."
My internal reaction to this news (read with affected enthusiasm): Big Whoop.
From there, our daughter sprouted to half the size of a lentil (evoking much the same response) before graduating to the size of an entire lentil. The latter garnered a mild raise of the eyebrow from the author and a semi-feigned "Wow!" I offered this, of course, to demonstrate to Jenn that I would indeed be an involved father.
A month or so later, the handful of congregated cells in Jenn's uterus had grown to the size of a pea, which is when I informed Jenn that it was hard for me to get excited about this. I asked her to let me know when Celia/Zinnia had reached the size of a grapefruit--the produce of choice for many comparisons in life. However, I got on board with the food comparisons sooner than expected. Jenn's mother, a nurse and very happy future-grandmother, started giving us semi-regular, produce-based updates. She called one day to inform us that Celia was now half the size of a small banana. I felt a little twinge of excitement with this one. I paused to evoke the image. Half a banana. Hmmmm ...
I visualized a banana, cut it in half, then replaced its spotted yellow peel with pink, glowing baby skin and placed it in Jenn's womb.
"Cool," I said at last. And I meant it, by G-d.
From there, and somewhat predictably, Celia grew to the size of an entire small banana (albeit a really grotesque banana with squiggly arms and legs). Then one day two weeks ago, she graduated to zucchini status. I nearly burst my buttons with pride and mused aloud what it would be like for Jenn to give birth to a bouncing baby summer squash. Jenn, of course, refused to play along, and frankly, I don't blame her.
Yesterday, Jenn's mom informed us that our child was now the size of a cauliflower. Not, presumably, one of those monster heads one sees on sale at the tail end of cauliflower season for $3.50, but more a smaller, organic cauliflower with nice, crisp florets and tender, spade-shaped leaves encasing the head in a green crown. Now that's produce I could wrap my brain around!
I asked Jenn to tell her mom to let us know when her grandchild-to-be had reached the size of a watermelon.
"No," Jenn said, slamming the door on that fantasy in the bud. "I will not be passing a watermelon through my body."
I whined. "But I like watermelo--"
"No."
Jenn's mom, M., can not wait to be a grandmother to our child. She has knit countless booties and made a number of hooded sweaters to protect little Celia from the harsh southwest sun. Due to M.'s medical background (as well has having brought into the world six kids of her own), she has offered various suggestions as to what Jenn should expect and what could help her during her pregnancy. Ironic or no from a woman who had three home births herself, she seems neutral-to-slightly-disapproving of our decision to have our child at home. This sometimes manifests as a sore of smiling, measured neutrality. But what I know about M. is, she wants what we all want--a healthy, happy baby following a smooth, uncomplicated birthing process.
Regarding the birth itself: I have long held a scene in my head from a movie. (I think it was, "Little Big Man.") A Native American woman is about to give birth to her baby even while her people are being attacked and killed by marauding band of Calvary soldiers. The woman is in a squat behind some bushes, biting down on a dirty strip of cloth to stifle her cries as beads of sweat pour from her forehead. The image was unspeakably poignant, so naturally I suggested that Jenn, too, could bite down on a rolled up bit of cloth, and I even offered to roll it up for her. She must have been having one of those days (wink, wink) because she nixed the idea out of hand with little (if any) consideration to its merit.
However, lest the reader get the idea that my wife is some sort of female curmudgeon who walks around with her smile perpetually upside-down. it was Jenn's sense of humor that won me over early on and, in fact, was (and is) the very mortar of our relationship.
What I consider to be Jenn's crowning achievement occurred one day in our kitchen back in Oregon. She was encouraging me to try some food or other that I held a decided antipathy towards.
"Come on," she said, "You might like it."
"Hey," I said trying out one of my favorite lines from Pulp Fiction, "sewer rat might taste like pumpkin pie, but ... " I paused, unsure how the rest of the line.
Jenn saw me struggling. "... but that doesn't mean I want to eat the motherfucker," she said as cool as can be.
It nearly brought a tear to my eye. I clapped my hands with delight and spread my arms. "I'm so proud of my baby," I said. "Come here so I can give you some sugar."
"Yeah, right," I say.
"You don't feel that?" Jenn grabs my hand and places it on her lower belly.
"Nope," I say, and roll over to read my sports book.
With all peaceful and quiet on the western womb, Jenn falls quickly asleep.
At first I found it frustrating, and oddly or no, took it just the slightest bit personally. How come Celia stops moving every time I try to feel her? Maybe she's surly because I don't talk to her more or sing lullabies to Jenn's belly. What a concept--to sing to Jenn's pregnancy bump with the knowledge that on the other side of it is a floating head of cauliflower snapping her tiny, fetal fingers to my off-key crooning.
The observant reader may have caught a recent and subtle allusion to my daughter's size. Why, as recently as two sentences ago -- in this very blog as a matter of fact! -- I compared her to (and I quote) "a head of cauliflower." I do this because, apparently, it is common practice to compare the size of a baby's progressive stages of growth to various types of grains and produce.
Early on in the pregnancy, Jenn informed me with genuine excitement that Celia was "half the size of a small grain of rice."
My internal reaction to this news (read with affected enthusiasm): Big Whoop.
From there, our daughter sprouted to half the size of a lentil (evoking much the same response) before graduating to the size of an entire lentil. The latter garnered a mild raise of the eyebrow from the author and a semi-feigned "Wow!" I offered this, of course, to demonstrate to Jenn that I would indeed be an involved father.
A month or so later, the handful of congregated cells in Jenn's uterus had grown to the size of a pea, which is when I informed Jenn that it was hard for me to get excited about this. I asked her to let me know when Celia/Zinnia had reached the size of a grapefruit--the produce of choice for many comparisons in life. However, I got on board with the food comparisons sooner than expected. Jenn's mother, a nurse and very happy future-grandmother, started giving us semi-regular, produce-based updates. She called one day to inform us that Celia was now half the size of a small banana. I felt a little twinge of excitement with this one. I paused to evoke the image. Half a banana. Hmmmm ...
I visualized a banana, cut it in half, then replaced its spotted yellow peel with pink, glowing baby skin and placed it in Jenn's womb.
"Cool," I said at last. And I meant it, by G-d.
From there, and somewhat predictably, Celia grew to the size of an entire small banana (albeit a really grotesque banana with squiggly arms and legs). Then one day two weeks ago, she graduated to zucchini status. I nearly burst my buttons with pride and mused aloud what it would be like for Jenn to give birth to a bouncing baby summer squash. Jenn, of course, refused to play along, and frankly, I don't blame her.
Yesterday, Jenn's mom informed us that our child was now the size of a cauliflower. Not, presumably, one of those monster heads one sees on sale at the tail end of cauliflower season for $3.50, but more a smaller, organic cauliflower with nice, crisp florets and tender, spade-shaped leaves encasing the head in a green crown. Now that's produce I could wrap my brain around!
I asked Jenn to tell her mom to let us know when her grandchild-to-be had reached the size of a watermelon.
"No," Jenn said, slamming the door on that fantasy in the bud. "I will not be passing a watermelon through my body."
I whined. "But I like watermelo--"
"No."
Jenn's mom, M., can not wait to be a grandmother to our child. She has knit countless booties and made a number of hooded sweaters to protect little Celia from the harsh southwest sun. Due to M.'s medical background (as well has having brought into the world six kids of her own), she has offered various suggestions as to what Jenn should expect and what could help her during her pregnancy. Ironic or no from a woman who had three home births herself, she seems neutral-to-slightly-disapproving of our decision to have our child at home. This sometimes manifests as a sore of smiling, measured neutrality. But what I know about M. is, she wants what we all want--a healthy, happy baby following a smooth, uncomplicated birthing process.
Regarding the birth itself: I have long held a scene in my head from a movie. (I think it was, "Little Big Man.") A Native American woman is about to give birth to her baby even while her people are being attacked and killed by marauding band of Calvary soldiers. The woman is in a squat behind some bushes, biting down on a dirty strip of cloth to stifle her cries as beads of sweat pour from her forehead. The image was unspeakably poignant, so naturally I suggested that Jenn, too, could bite down on a rolled up bit of cloth, and I even offered to roll it up for her. She must have been having one of those days (wink, wink) because she nixed the idea out of hand with little (if any) consideration to its merit.
However, lest the reader get the idea that my wife is some sort of female curmudgeon who walks around with her smile perpetually upside-down. it was Jenn's sense of humor that won me over early on and, in fact, was (and is) the very mortar of our relationship.
What I consider to be Jenn's crowning achievement occurred one day in our kitchen back in Oregon. She was encouraging me to try some food or other that I held a decided antipathy towards.
"Come on," she said, "You might like it."
"Hey," I said trying out one of my favorite lines from Pulp Fiction, "sewer rat might taste like pumpkin pie, but ... " I paused, unsure how the rest of the line.
Jenn saw me struggling. "... but that doesn't mean I want to eat the motherfucker," she said as cool as can be.
It nearly brought a tear to my eye. I clapped my hands with delight and spread my arms. "I'm so proud of my baby," I said. "Come here so I can give you some sugar."
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