It’s been a good month for all things writerly. I received my contributer copy of the first anthology I’ve ever been published in, which I wrote about here. I didn’t know what to expect from this literary journal, but I was incredibly impressed with the caliber of poetry and essays it contains. The way one piece flows into another is so satisfying. It felt amazing to be in such good company.

The publication I write for regularly, The Equals Record, is moving into print, and they accepted a piece of mine for the inaugural edition. They launched their Indigogo campaign two weeks ago, and I hope that you’ll pre-order the first book there, as it is sure to be something you’ll want to hold on to. The editors have invested so much curation and beauty in the publication. And since I’ve been doing so much hustling for them behind the scenes, they offered me an Editor at Large title! So, if you contribute, in addition to supporting ad-free writing and design, you’ll be helping my debut as an editor.

Some of the lovely loot you can reward yourself with by supporting Equals in Print.

I also got word that a piece of mine was accepted for the publication Literary Mama, on their After Page One blog series about parent writers.  So, head over to their site on July 1st to read words of mine, or go over there now as well to catch up on that inspiring series in advance.

The other exciting thing that happened this month was I got to participate in a lovely little act of flash mobbery in Union Square with my fellow dancers from Rhythm and Motion. It was the kick-off event to Bay Area Dance Week, which I look forward to this week every year – a chance to discover a new dance form, and be a part of a celebration of dance.

Shaking it in Union Square

The event in Union Square was unbelievably heart-warming. The philosophy of the dance classes I take at ODC through Rhythm and Motion is: “Anyone can dance”, and people of all ages and all walks of life showed up to do this flash mob in the heart of the city. Seeing the old folks troupe and the children in their school blazers was particularly heart-pulling. When we had a chance to join in the action, I couldn’t stop smiling. With the sun beating down, sometimes going in the wrong direction, I threw myself into the fray and had a blast. It felt like the embodiment of what we practice in class — shaking our bodies no matter what happens — out in the world.

Another incredibly inspiring experience was going to the ballet with my friend Nehemiah, who is a student at SFBS.  He took me to see Cinderella, Christopher Wheeldon’s magical re-telling of the Grimm Brother’s version of the fairy tale.  Not only was Maria Kochetkova’s vulnerable dancing in the main role filled with risk and beauty, but I was blown away by the loveliness of this version of the old story, in which the mother watches over her daughter in the form of a tree that sprouts from her daughter’s tears.  I want to get Olive a copy of this version of the story, instead of the sanitized and mother-less Disney film.  The visual effects were so stunning yet simple that several times, the sold-out audience collectively gasped.  They are bringing back the production in 2014, and I highly recommend checking it out.  It has stayed with me all week, infusing my dancing and my parenting.

I am grateful for all these chances to be a part of creative endeavours — I think it gives me space to be more creative in my play with my daughter, as well.  We’ve been inventing new games, playing a lot of “Queen”, and she’s been practicing her British accent (which is hilarious, her being two and all).  She even found her first imaginary friend. His name is Grover, and he’s from Mexico. They have to communicate mostly through art, since the extent of Olive’s Spanish can be contained in the song “La Araña Grandiosa”. But I think they do alright. The language of friendship is universal.

And I am trying to be so chill about everything. Olive has learned the phrase, “No big deal” from me, which she intones with a sassy hand wave.

I am attempting to be calm and non-reactive while I clean up piss from her little chair where she eats, when I suspect she’s taking a dump in her undies at the park and rush her into the bathroom, when I’m trying to coax her up the stairs to our apartment to potty before she goes all over the foyer.

But I am losing the battle.

I’m talking through gritted teeth, ingesting way more sugar/caffiene/alcohol than usual, and also doing a lot more yoga (ew).

Talking to Olive’s godmama, Fabienne, who just happens to teach Family Studies at NYU, gave me a great perspective on the whole thing: I am trying to say, “No big deal” to something that is a big fucking deal. It’s a huge developmental change. Recognizing that, and making space for the fact that that is going to effect Olive’s behavior in other areas is going to help me feel less like a failure of a mom and more like a human, who is helping another very small human do something new and big.

So, while I am still attempting to be non-reactive when Olive has accidents, to do my breathing when she’s extra defiant, and to roll with what this season of life is bringing me, I’m also embracing that this is a big period of transition. My two-year-old is learning something huge, how to connect what is happening in her body to an outward response, and I need to create space for that. So, we forewent our usual big outings this week. We kept to our neighborhood, and ended up having some really sweet experiences with friends, neighbors, and family.  Olive’s behavior has totally mellowed out, in response.

Snuggling up on a hot day.

It’s making me wonder, are there other places in my life where I’m trying to be so cool, laid back, and non-reactive, that are actually kind of a big deal?  Maybe if I can give those areas some breathing room, they will blossom, like my child is doing right now.  How about you – is there anything in your life you are trying to pass off as par for the course, which is actually a huge change that needs acknowledgement and space?

This week, a few friends, my 2 year old daughter Olive, and I drove over the bridge to the East Bay, where the weather is warmer and the vibe is chiller. The beach in San Francisco is majestic for sure, but way too cold to swim in, and you usually leave so windswept you feel a touch of vertigo. I needed something tamer, so we headed to a tiny forest-backed cove in Alameda, with a bluff that overlooks the water below.

At first I thought it might be a mistake to go to the beach with Olive without another kid, only 4 adults. My daughter is the most social animal I’ve ever met, and will go to great lengths to find the nearest kid to play with, even if they are much older and have no interest in her whatsoever. However, I forgot that one of the adults we brought was her godfather, who is the absolute best at play, and is in his natural habitat at the beach. A California dude through and through, he is most himself at the ocean. He instantly took her down to the water and started digging, creating little pools for her to jump into and castles for her to be “Monster Olive” and knock down.

And I got to sit on a blanket, and just be. My camera wasn’t working, so I couldn’t even be in the role of “documenter”.  I chatted with the other friends that joined us, people-watched (which is just as good in Oakland as it is in SF), and took in the beauty.

I recalled a conversation I recently had with Olive’s Waldorf preschool teacher about stimulation. I told her that I was really enjoying the philosophy of trying not to overstimulate my child — with TV, frequent changes that take her out of our weekly rhythm, and too many new people. But some experiences that happen to be overstimulating, like participating in a street festival or going to a party, are also really positive, and things I want her to be able to experience. So how, I asked the teacher, do I get her back to equilibrium afterwards? I feel like I pay for it with her behavior for at least a full day each time.

“Go into nature,” she said. And that made sense to me. In nature there is not the loud roar of the hand dryer in the public bathroom, the jackhammer of road work, the cat calls from the bros on the street. There is time just to be.

I love that my daughter still has a few years before most of her time will be consumed with school, and then work. She is not really a “student” yet, she’s just a small person. And it suits her — she is learning so much just in the course of life.

I used to despise the Biblical concept of “rest”, since I always liked to be doing. What did it matter, to rest, when there were so many worthwhile things to do? Now, I get it. I need time where I am not a writer with deadlines, a lapsed therapist who needs to take her MFT exam, an American, a woman.

Sitting there on that bluff in the sun, I didn’t even really need to be in the role of mother, as my child’s godfather was pretty much taking care of that. I could ease up on it. Even when Olive took a crap in her bathing suit bottoms, one of my friends cleaned them out while I cleaned her. I’ve cleaned my fair share of crap-filled underwear lately, so it was definitely appreciated.

Anyway, it felt amazing to just be a human on earth. I connected deeply with gratitude, and with all the other feelings percolating in me this week. I felt grateful even for the difficult ones. I was just me.

When was the last time you took an hour just to be you? Not a yoga student, or a lawyer, a husband, a chef, a TV-watcher. If you can’t remember, I encourage you to slough off those roles and responsibilities for one short time period, and simply let yourself be a person.  Though it was just for one morning, it was deeply restorative for me.

I have never experienced sound wedded to light in such an enchanting way as I did at the Sigur Rós show. Seeing them live has always been a desire of mine, since everyone has told me it is breathtaking, so when I got a surprise birthday ticket from a friend, I had to take her up on it.

Photo by Saskia Mauro

Sitting on the stair of the balcony, I let it all wash over me and felt tremendously grateful, that in a world of makeshift bombs that blow off limbs, the 11 people in that band have committed their lives to art-making. They travelled from Iceland to play music for us in San Francisco, leaving their families to share their gifts with the world.

They’ve chosen beauty over bombs.

The music of Sigur Rós is already contemplative, so I was quickly in a prayerful space. I meditated for a bit on the bombing, sending love and healing to the injured in Boston, and to all the people affected by violence this week, the world over.

The music darkened and deepened, and I was taken to a place of praying for the bombers. It is twisted and sad to even for one minute try to put myself in the place of people so desperate and ruined that they would do such a thing. But I prayed for them anyway. They really, really, really need it. Their hearts are opaque at this point, so hardened by intentional violence.

Did it turn out the way they’d hoped? Would they be chagrined to know that the huge outpouring of love and strength that followed has shown most of us the goodness of our people, rather than the evil? (Don’t get me started on the NY Post. Not everyone’s response to this is going to be kind-hearted or true. I’m no Pollyanna.) They sought to terrify us, but New Englanders don’t scare that easy, and what they’ve done is deeply grieve us, instead.  Do they realize the difference between the two?  So many questions arose in me. But then the sounds lightened, and Jónsi’s voice called out like a siren, holding the same impossible note for two full minutes, and I was brought back to a place of joy.

Photo by Saskia Mauro

It’s been hard to find joy this week. Even my dance classes have been subdued — all of us struggling to wade through the shit to find our footing again. I realized that I just have to take it when it arises, like a last-minute chance to see a concert, a heartwarming encounter with my child, a deep conversation at a bar. (P.S. Drinking with 25 year olds is no joke, especially when you have to be up at 6am with your toddler. Repent!)

I have been doing so much processing of the attacks this week, as well I should. But when I get really mired down in it, I remember that a moment of joy will come soon. I have to wait for it, and then grab on to it with both hands, allowing it to pull me up, even for a short while.

A friend on Facebook gave me another important reminder, to “bask in all the love you receive today.” It really changed my perspective from feeling a little nervous about having a party filled with people wanting to talk to me to feeling blessed to have so many kind friends that would come out to celebrate my birth and life. So I decided to bask, to soak in the love like the hot California sun that beat down on us, warming my skin despite the windy San Francisco weather.

Soaking in some family love.

And it’s a really, really good thing I did. That love and the overall sweet perfection of that day, has been carrying me this week, in the wake of the Boston Marathon bombing.

In the therapeutic world, there is a lot of discussion about one’s Family of Origin, but I think in the intake, there should also be a deep inquiry into Place of Origin. Where you come from is just as important as where you end up. When people ask where I grew up, I always say New England, as it is the region that I resonate with more than my particular state.

When you grow up in Connecticut, you usually spend at least several weeks out of your summer in one of the neighboring states, New Hampshire or Massachusetts chief among them. In school, you learn the history of the entire region, and field trips are usually to Boston or Sturbridge Village. The states that make up New England share a football team, and we root for the Boston Red Sox in baseball season (I know Yankees fans exist in New England, but I try to just forgive them and move on).

In any event, when someone blows up a cultural event in New England, it feels like a part of my history has been attacked. It’s even deeper than that. If we see Place of Origin like Family of Origin, it’s like a close cousin of mine died. The Boston Marathon is so inherently New England, with all its quirky traditions, and a history almost as long as California’s statehood itself. The fact that such a good-natured, traditional event was chosen as a place of intentional mass violence feels sacreligious.  The number one word I have read in the responses of the people I know is “heartbroken”.

My family was not big on crowds, so we never went to the Marathon, but my husband went every year with his father, stopping off at the Museum of Sciences on the way home. A friend of mine who went to Wellesley was just yesterday morning telling me about her exploits in the famous kissing line, where students line up all day to kiss the marathoners as they go on. I think there should be more spontaneous opportunities to kiss people for encouragement, don’t you? It would be sad if people stayed away now due to fear.

Last night, I squeezed my daughter well, and felt grateful that we had had such a good weekend together, since her behavior has been really off, like she can feel that the whole nation is upset and is following suit. I thought about all the love that the 60 people who came to Joel and I’s birthday picnic showed us, glad that it had filled up my reserves in the belief that people are caring and good.

Snuggling my girl at our party.

We need to keep filling up those reserves now, in the days/hours/weeks before finding out who is responsible for these attacks. If we are so full with the love and kindness of others, perhaps our response will be less reactionary, and do more good in the world rather than just adding to violence and escalating old grudges. In the waiting time, before finding out motives, let’s remember where we’re from, that we are a people of strength and love, and then drink deeply from that reserve, in the days to come.

This year, I really stepped out as a writer, writing less on this blog and more on other outlets: performing in Listen To Your Mother, reading on KQED’s Perspectives, getting published in Geez Magazine and The Mom Egg, landing a regular writing gig on The Equals Record, and starting as a Features writer for Golden Gate Mother’s Group Magazine. I also took several writing classes with the Literary Kitchen, which got me writing tons of memoir-style pieces that I am excited to get out in the world soon.  I also submitted to hecka places that never wrote back or rejected me, but it’s all about putting myself out there, taking risks. A lot of my rejections really made sense to me, helped me see what I’m ready for, what I’m not, and what is worth my time and energy.

That’s why, just like last year was The Year of Enough, I want to make this year The Year of Worth. My friends that know the dirty little secret that I don’t get paid for ANY of my regular writing gigs keep sending me links to articles about knowing my worth and charging for my work. They are probably sick of paying for my drinks while I give my work away for free. But here’s the thing — I feel that these past two years have really been an experiment, seeing if I really have what it takes to be a professional freelance writer, learning from my mistakes and following my interests. The experiment has been a successful one, and I am now feeling ready to put a worth on my work.

In doing that, I want to spend a lot of time meditating on where I get my worth overall. This was the year I started Operation Rad Bod, with my pieces on Radical Body Acceptance, and my work on feeling like I am enough, just as I am. I really want to continue and deepen that work, not feeling like I’m worthy if I’m thin, beautiful, young, sprightly, or amassing wealth/letters after my name. I want to feel worthy simply because I am. My worth comes from within, from the spark of the Godhead within me, not due to my size in the world or how big of a splash I make in it.

That being said, the time has come to start gaining some income for all my output. Some of the writing gigs I have are completely volunteer-based, which I respect, and actually cherish. There’s something about people working together without the exchange of money that really appeals to me.

Then again, Mama’s gotta eat. So, although a lot of people have suggested I put ads on my blog, I realized that I really don’t want to do that. I want to write about whatever I feel led to write about, not do sponsored posts, and not gain revenue from selling someone else’s stuff.

Therefore, you may notice a little orange “Donate” button on the bottom right hand side of the site. I am ridiculously proud of myself for figuring out how to do this, so if the only thing that comes from it is me feeling like a little bit of a website rock star, so be it.

The button is linked to my Paypal account, and in the spirit of taking risks and asking for what my work is worth, I’m asking that if you’ve enjoyed any of my pieces in the past two years — perhaps the ones on Radical Body Acceptance, on Parenting Without Fear, on Marriage Equality, on Books, on Spirituality, or, the real reason you are all here: Cute Pictures of Olive — that you press Donate, to keep me going. And then, any time you really love a post in the future, clickity click it again, and buy me a cup of coffee (please note that coffee is about $4.00/cup here. I wish I were joking) for my efforts. I promise to keep the hits coming.

Next year, for Year Three of Thirty Threadbare Mercies, I want to have a face-to-face party, where do creative things together and eat delicious delights. If you donate, you are confirming your invite to this party, a year hence. How’s that for planning ahead? You’ll receive a lovely invitation in March of 2014, with ways to participate in person or from afar. So, help this mother out.  With the money I raise, I’ll buy my own domain name (finally!) and give the site a makeover.  I thank you in advance, not just for donating, but simply for reading.  This has been an awesome year for me as a budding writer, but it feels really, really good to have my words be read.  Especially from the likes of all of you.

Most of Olive’s little friends at church have same-sex parents, which she accepts completely, with no questioning or fear. In fact, she is even a little jealous of her buddies, and one day recently in church she turned to me and said, “I have two mommies AND two daddies.” I said, “Oh yeah? Where’s this extra couple? When are they going to start pulling their weight?”

Later that week, one of the moms from church who had been sitting in the pew in front of us emailed me about something and I took forever to get back to her, which I apologized for. “That’s okay,” she said, “I know you’re struggling with a one-mom household.”

It made me laugh for days, because it totally flipped the conventional ideas about heterosexual vs. homosexual families, and it also struck me as really true. For the years that my husband and I lived in community, I loved having extra women in the house so much that we often joked about the viability of sister-wives, as long as we didn’t also have to share sexual partners. I could really use another mom around here, although I feel less enthused about the idea of a second dad. We’re pretty happy with the one we’ve got.

Anyway, I think it is extremely powerful that Olive’s main interaction with families who have same-sex partners is at church. There’s something about her making those connections in the very place that she worships and learns that God is love that is beautiful and prophetic to me.

Holy Innocents Marriage Equality

We have a picture from our wedding on her dresser, and she often asks to hold it, and wants to hear the story of why we are all dressed up, dancing, in the photo. She says, “Mama and Papa are getting married? Because they love each other?” We say yes and tell her some details from that day.

She’s only two and half, but she knows marriage is more than a piece of paper. It’s a special day, and if I told her that Cora’s Papas or Christopher’s Mommies aren’t legally allowed to get married, THAT’S where the confusion and fear would come in. The fact that anyone would think they are any less of a family than ours would be totally baffling to her.

Joel and I on our wedding day.

We are lucky to have found a church that welcomes all people, all kinds of love, and supports marriage equality. I hope that soon we will be blessed enough to live in a country that from the highest court in the land also says, “We recognize all families. We will not stand in the way of two people committing to each other, in the form of marriage.” Maybe as adults, we don’t need recognition from church and state to live any way we want to. But think of the impact it could have on our children, to grow up in a place that honors all persons, all kinds of love.

Our family is a queer family too, since I identify as Bi, and the government can’t stop me from being both queer and married. They don’t get to define my sexuality or police my identity. However, since I chose a man instead of a woman to commit myself to eternally, I get to say “I’ve been married almost ten years” with pride. I want that for my GLBT brothers and sisters, too. I want that for our country. So I’m living on pins and needles until June, praying for justice, and liberty for all.

On St. Patrick’s day, I feel that the veil between the living and the dead is very thin. My ancestors are right around the curtain, in the ether.

Usually, that makes me feel good, a part of something greater, but this year it had a darker tinge to it. I’ve been writing more in my personal musings about the parts of my history that I am uncomfortable with, that leave me with more questions than answers.

I’ve also been reading some more Irish Lit, curtesy of my brilliant professor sister, who has been schooling me on the words of my ancestors, which it is her life’s work to study and teach.

If you are not familiar with Irish Literature, then perhaps it will be a surprise to you that a culture known for our jubilant celebrations write the most morbid literature in all the world. Humor is often a part of it, for sure, but the dark kind of “gallows humor” that leaves you thinking more about your own mortality than the lighter things in life. Hence, the Jameson.

I always need a combination of reflection on the past and celebration of the present on St. Patrick’s Day, but today it was weighted more heavily on the former. So, I forewent the big party I usually attend and had a small dinner at my house, inviting one couple that we are close with, and asking my husband to cook the meal my dad used to make every year when I was growing up, corned beef and cabbage.

A Haitian husband willing to learn Irish cuisine — I am one lucky lady.

Olive digging in to the soda bread I made, watching her Papa cook from her perch on Heather’s lap.

Dinner time like it’s nobody’s business — Olive and I are psyched.

My friends brought me flowers, homemade chocolate stout cake, and whiskey. It’s nice to be known.

The party ended the way every party should – dancing to old school hip hop jams.

I’m sitting here now, sipping my Magners, missing my family but loving the one I’m creating here and now.  I hope you all feel close to your heritage, whatever it may be, and find a way to bring old traditions into your present life, in ways that seem small, but build up to something meaningful.

Her hands were crammed in her peacoat like a mini Bob Dylan. “Not today.” she said, not looking up.

My husband and I cracked up in laughter, at how serious of a refusal she gave me, and since street safety is important, I grabbed one of her little hands out of her pocket to skip to the other side.

We retold the story several times that day, of how adorably earnest she was about not holding hands at that time. But I felt a ping of guilt, as all the feminist texts I read about raising a strong daughter tell me not to laugh at my girl’s “no”s, but to respect them.

It’s good advice. In my life, I have had people be shocked, offended, and outright dismissive of my no. I had my share of experiences in the young days of burgeoning sexuality in which boys did not listen to my no. But in many ways, I was able to get through those body manipulations less scarred than the times my no has been rebuffed in educational, professional, and personal settings. The power of a woman’s no. What is it worth?

I know the world Olive will grow up in is not much different than the one I did. And despite the fact that people are often appalled when I say no, I keep doing it. My parents can attest to the fact that I was born with a certain strain of defiance, a gene from my father, a steely commitment to protection, of myself and my loved ones, when that is needed. I want to impart this to my daughter as well, though I think all I’ll need to do is nurture what is already within her.

“Mama, can you not sing that right now?” She looks up at me, a concerned look on her face. I was grooving, but she’s asking me, seriously and politely, to stop. I let out a chuckle, at how much it means to her that I stop singing my silly little song in that moment, but I say, “Okay.”

I’m trying to cut out the laughter, and skip right to either telling her, “I hear that you don’t want to wear your coat, but you have to, it’s cold out!” or saying “Alright, you don’t have to go upstairs yet. We can wait here until you’re ready.” It’s hard, since she’s so flipping cute, her eyes big and imploring, her unibrow knitted into an expression of concern, or determination.

“No Mama, I don’t want to smile right now.” “Oh, alright. No smiles.”

Today, that meant not getting a kiss goodbye when she left for preschool. I wanted one, and asked for one, but when she said no, I decided, in honor of International Women’s Day, I wouldn’t steal one. I’d let her no be no. And off she went.

I did not move here for the majestic beauty, I came for friends, freedom, and inspiration, and the natural wonders have been mostly a bonus. I grew up around natural beauty, after all, in New England, where we don’t make a big deal about it. Every once in awhile, though, it’s nice to really WOW that staid New Englander right out of me, and tap into the hyperbolic Californian in me that looks out at the ocean, mountains, and trees all in one place and says, “This is the best place in the entire world.”

The beauty reminder worked. The immune boosting didn’t. I’m now in Day 6 of the Virus-From-Hell, and none of the adults I know that have contracted it are 100% better yet, some of them well into their 2nd week.

I think this is how the zombie apocalypse starts. Arm yourselves with echinacea, my friends.

I let myself be truly sick in bed for 2 days, which is saying a lot, for me. On the 3rd day, I fled to Big Sur, because, I figured, I could be horribly sick in bed with the West Wing (SO MANY brown boxy suits and beepers!), or I could be horribly sick in the redwoods. With my girlfriends. On a trip we’d been planning (and replanning) for months. I was not about to bail on account of a little Death Virus.

My friends were nice enough to have me along, despite the amount of mucus exiting from my nostrils. I was so out of it on the way down, that they all laughed when I finally said something, which was, “DON’T move to Cherry Hill!” Then I expounded on all the excellent donut shops in Long Beach, as we drove down the coast.

I mean, are you fucking kidding me, California?

We arrived at our little cabin, which was directly overlooking a river, and found a dead sparrow right at the base of the entrance. It was perfectly preserved in its stillness, as it must have just dropped there a few hours before. My friend Amanda and I buried it, marking the site with a few branches and stones.

Farewell, sparrow. I hope I don’t have what did you in.

Hours were spent catching up with one another, playing games, and procuring juice (for me) and wine (for them). We drank in the millions of stars. We ate at ridiculously excellent, unpretentious restaurants, and several of the ladies took little hikes around the area.  We reveled in the noisy quietude of the forest.  We felt like proper nature women.

NYC & SF ladies trying on our best Mountain Mama stances.

I did not feel better. However, the beauty of California was feeding my spirit, and the strengthening of relationships was feeding my soul. So, my physical body just did its thing.

Bundled in Joel’s sweater, a tad grumpy at my illness, but see – I went outside!

My husband and daughter were having the time of their lives back in San Francisco. It is such a huge gift to know that I can leave them and they will thrive, enjoying their own little rituals and deepening their daddy-daughter bond through carne asada quesadillas, “late” night hangouts with friends (Mama would have had her in bed at 7! She stayed up until 8!), and wild hair days, no clips or combs in sight.
I came back to them, still in a lot of pain from this virus, but refreshed by a change of scenery. If I have to be sick for so long, at least there’s California, right outside my door, waiting for my return.