The World is a Playground

"First one to Ramshead is a... umm... ah..."

"The winner?"

"oh, yeah. Thanks Mom.

My rocket banana girl has grown so much she's earned a new ski moniker, Purple Plum Satellite. We whoop and holler, flying down the mountain. Giggles on the chair, hours together, precious minutes that are fewer as she grows into herself. I'm reaping what has been sown. It is fantastic.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.5

Seven

Seven years ago I was a new mother.

Today I am still a new mother, because she morphs and evolves so quickly, I feel I am always a step behind.

Happy Birthday my sweet shining star. I love you. 

Gratitude

Thanksgiving Day, 2010

So much to be grateful for. Just this week Rob started a new job. But that's just money. My children are bright, loving healthy spirits. My marriage is most often a refuge. I float through each day in the buoyancy of my community, family and friends who nourish my soul. There is abundance.

I am also grateful for those people and situations that challenge me, give me pause and lead me through fire. Tempering my steel.

I give thanks for the practice of yoga, my breath, and the limitless space it creates in my being. Everything is possible. Impermanence is the only truth. For this I am grateful.

Bless this beautiful earth and all the miracles held within it.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.5

Evolution of Practice

Over the summer I discovered this fantastic website YogaGlo, through noted (and fabulous) yoga teacher Kathryn Budig. For the price of one drop in class in Boston, I can stream unlimited classes monthly online, with various awesome West Coast teachers, from varied traditions.  At this point in my life, it's far more economical to do my personal practice this way, and I don't have to find child care to get to a studio for an external input. 

In June I made an attempt to commit to a daily yoga practice. Note I said attempt...

In October, Glo put out a 30:30 challenge  - 30 classes, 30 days. Even if the class was 5 minutes of meditation. I made 18 of those days, I got sick mid-month, and there were some days where life just got the best of me. This month, I've continued this quest to create the habit of Daily Practice. And as of today, the 18th, I've missed two days.  Not  bad... This month I've counted teaching as practice, and haven't made a minimum time for practice. Next month I think I'll up the ante, and aim for a minimum of 30 minutes practice, and a personal practice on teaching days.

What's been most interesting to me during this time though, has been simply observing the fluctuations in my practice in response to my life, my 'comfort food' practices, and what is really challenging to me. Bridger's daily rhythm hasn't really allowed for me to adopt an early practice; I'd  need to be done by 5:30 most days. I've tried where possible to practice during his erratic nap-times, but most days I end up doing an evening practice. Which means I typically practice on low energy. My instinct is to do a sweaty athletic vinyasa flow, but some nights I just don't have it in me. So I've been doing some quieter, more yin practices, and once-weekly meditation. And I've re-learned about myself in the process. I hate being still. I love being 'busy'. Even on my mat.

This re-discovery has been a gift. The intensity of a yang practice, my breath working like bellows stoking inner fire drowned out the monkey-mind chatter. In a quiet practice the mental  mastication is deafening. I chew, re-chew, regurgitate thoughts, past conversations, conversations not yet had, muse about life, love, the garbage, what's next for tomorrow, my hangnail, you name it. 

The last lesson my practice taught me is the asana you hate most is probably the one you  need to hang out with. Until you make friends with it. I suppose it applies to style of practice too...  

And the observation continues.

* I have not been compensated in anyway by YogaGlo - my opinion here only! *

Activism, Advocacy, Ethics, and How to not be an Asshole

So an advocate, and activist  and an asshole walk into a bar... There is no punchline here, just my growing realization  that there is such a huge difference between advocacy and activism. I think our society is really getting these two activities confused. Everyone likes to think they make good choices in life. Some people even like their choices so  much that they want everyone else to make those same choices, regardless of whether those choices are a good fit for those other people's lives.

The difference for me lies withing the expectation of the A-person. An advocate seeks to inform, educate and most importantly, EMPOWER others to make well-researched decisions based on balanced, unbiased data. An activist most often seeks to have everyone make the decision that they, the activist agree with, regardless of the individual circumstances of the decision-maker. A lack of ethics leads activists to masquerade as advocates. A perfect example of this would be a Crisis Pregnancy center (anti-choice activism) giving a woman false information regarding the safety of abortion - they are giving information, but it is not the kind  of data that an empowered decision can be made from.  

One step farther from misguided activism is just plain being an asshole - bullying, derisive  behavior meant to demonize those who are 'other'. Clinic protesters, 'intactivists' who post abusive Internet comments, sanctimonious parents who pity children born in a different manner than the way their children were born.  These behaviors do nothing to further a cause, and most often alienate the very people that are trying to be reached. 

I've come to believe that if I feel so strongly about  an issue that I can no longer advocate - that is, detach my self from an outcome I disagree with, it is time to move to useful activism. That is, taking concrete steps to change the cultural and societal framework, or legality of the issue at hand. For example, I truly believe that routine infant circumcision is not a 'choice' for a parent to make. I find it disturbing that my daughter's rights to bodily integrity are protected but my son's rights are not. So instead of being an asshole online, or in person, I do what I can to change the laws regarding male genital mutilation. And until certain frameworks are changed, I advocate by sharing information about the issue. Because until the larger societal issues are addressed (think formula company lobbies and parental leave in regards to breastfeeding, myths regarding male cleanliness and prepuce function for  MGM, hospital maternity policies driven by liability rather than informed consent in birth), individuals should not be crucified for making decisions based on bad information, habit, or pure survival. 

These are  really large issues, enough to make my head spin. I think though, moving forward as an advocate and an educator, it's important for me to reflect and examine these issues carefully. 

Thoughts on Breastfeeding

What follows is an essay I wrote on my personal history regarding breastfeeding, for one of the side projects in reproductive advocacy I have going on. It is in response to the following comment thread on Facebook.

Mira Clark via Kathy Abbott: If you are looking for support quitting smoking, you wouldn't call a hotline run by Philip-Morris...
Need help breastfeeding - call LaLeche League.

Opposing Views: Formula Company: Call Us for Breastfeeding Help

www.opposingviews.com

Formula Company: Call Us for Breastfeeding Help on Opposing Views. Issues, Experts, Answers.

Sunday at 3:03pm ·  · Comment ·  · Share

• 
  

  Gail Strunk Lachs likes this.
• • 
    

    Leahla Contreras formula is the devil's milk.
    

    Sunday at 5:39pm · 
  • 
    

    Gabriella Ercolani twinkies for infants
    

    22 hours ago · 
  • 
    

    Mira Clark 
    
    
    

    Remember it's the companies, our system, and the lack of milk banks that force many mothers (including me) to use this inferior milk substitute. I really think if there was an attempt to create artificial blood, and it was marketed the way artificial milk is, there would be uproar. We need milk banks, proper education on breastfeeding management and physiology, and for American companies to be held to the WHO code. I'm lucky Bridger has only ever (and continues to have) my own milk. But I wasn't that lucky with Bella. And knowing where I was lead astray sucks. Hindsight...

    
    

    21 hours ago ·  ·  1 person
  • 
    

    Leahla Contreras where were you lead astray? did it start with a hospital birth and a c-section? seems like that's where a lot of this gets slipped in.
    

    20 hours ago · 

Personal History

Mira Clark

    One of my earliest childhood memories is of sitting next to my mother, who read to me while she nursed my younger brother Stephen, and then a few years later, my brother Michael. As a child I knew that all three of us had been breastfed, and only assumed that was how all babies were fed. Although at that time I did not know the details of how long we each nursed, or that in the late 60's my mother had wished to breastfeed my older sister, only to be prescribed birth control at 8 weeks that dried up her milk, I just knew that breastfeeding was going to be part of my parenthood. The manner in which my mother not only fed my brothers, but mothered me at the same time left an indelible mark on my identity as a woman and mother.

    At the age of 24 I found my self very unexpectedly pregnant. In that chaotic time, as I worked through the decision to become this baby's mother, and own that choice, one of the constants for me was the knowledge that my child would be breastfed. Her biological father came from a very different background however. Where my mother chose to have her 3 younger children unmedicated and breastfed all of her children, his mother and sisters all had surgical births, and chose to formula feed from the outset. They did not understand my desire to have a natural birth, and thought that breastfeeding was a waste of time and effort. During my pregnancy, I bought the Womanly Art of Breastfeeding. As there were no LLL Groups nearby, it was my lifeline, the only breastfeeding support I had nearby, as my family lived far away. 

    My daughter's birth was long, difficult, and without the necessary support, the natural birth I had envisioned became filled with the interventions I had wanted so desperately to avoid. After 29 hours of labor, mockery by my ex and the l&d nurse, an epidural, and pitocin I did not consent to, my daughter was born, healthy and normal. I was not allowed to hold her for an hour after her birth. When I did try to breastfeed, the nurse roughly shoved her on to the breast. She was so sleepy from the epidural that she did not suck at all. Despite the sign on her bassinet 'no artificial nipples', and my express wish to only room-in, a nurse came the second night while I was sleeping, took her to the nursery, and brought her back an hour later with a pacifier in her mouth. I spent the next hour trying to get her to latch on, we both sobbed, and no nurses came to assist us. Not surprisingly, she did not learn to latch properly, and by the fifth day my nipples were cracked open and bleeding. Thankfully I got a good phone consult to correct her latch, and some Softies, and our rocky start smoothed out a bit. She gained well, and I nursed on demand. Her biological father was still critical of my decision to breastfeed, but saw her irregularly. I had only a hand pump from WIC, and would pump all week so she could have breast milk during visitation. One Sunday he decided to let a full day's worth of breast milk go bad, bought a can of formula, and fed her that instead. He very proudly told me that she had eaten the 'better food'. She was constipated for days. I was furious that my effort and milk had been so undervalued. To this day, he still somehow believes that formula and bottles are the better way to feed a baby, no matter how much science and commonsense is shown to him.

    Even though I had a hand pump, I hadn't really grasped that if I missed a feeding, I needed to pump to try to keep up supply. At six months I started giving my daughter juice, not knowing she didn't need it. This coupled with the extraordinary stress of her father's erratic, sometimes violent behavior and trying to support my daughter as a single mother working multiple jobs caught up with me, and I lost a dramatic amount of weight. My supply dried up, and Isabella weaned around 8 months. I was very disappointed that I hadn't made it to the year mark that seemed to be the measure of breastfeeding success. There is so much that I know now that would have perhaps changed our breastfeeding history. I do know though that I did the best I could with the information and circumstances I had at the time.

    Fast-forward 4 and half years, and I was expecting my second child. I was happily married, my husband had just adopted my daughter, and I was doing everything in my power to have a different birth and breastfeeding experience with this baby. My son was born in the water at the North Shore Birth Center, after 2 intense hours of labor. He crawled over to my breast before the placenta delivered. Within an hour he had latched on, and took to sucking like a pro. All of his newborn care was done on my belly. I didn't put him down for at least 3 hours, (bathroom call :)). We went home that afternoon, and he nursed so well that at three days he had only lost 3 oz of his 9 lbs 5 oz birthweight. While he did cluster feed, and there were the 'clucks' of older relatives swearing that a baby that big could never thrive on breast milk alone, I had the confidence and support from my husband to continue mothering him as my instincts dictated. 

    After a few weeks, it became clear that my moods were not normal, and I began treatment for what would become a very severe post-partum depression. One of the only things I felt confident about was our nursing relationship, and it was vitally important to me to be able to continue nursing my son. In the weeks between starting medication, and feeling any effect of it, I truly crashed. A friend knew a local La Leche League Leader, and gave me her number. I left a message, and got her voicemail telling me where the next meeting was just before it started. To this day I am so profoundly grateful that I got her call and pulled myself out of bed for that meeting. The mother-to-mother support I have received since have helped me define who I am as a parent, provided me and my children with dear friends, and have been a constant affirmation that I am the mother my children need. I was so proud to make it to a year with my son, and with the support of the mothers in our Group, I'm confident my son will nurse as long as he needs to.  As an advocate I hope to give other women the information they need to make the decisions surrounding pregnancy, birth and parenting that work best for their families, and help them find confidence in their authority as mother. 

Remember I shake my fist at the system that fails women, not the women who have been failed. Did you want to breastfeed? Or have your children breastfeed if you are male or a female partner? Were you able to meet your definition of successful breastfeeding? If not, where was the trouble? Would you, or have you been able to, go do things differently knowing more now? 

Control

Riding the waves of life. I used that imagery giving birth to my children. Riding the wave, looking over my shoulder to know when to paddle, staying with the crest, being in the moment so as to not become overcome by what I can not control. Knowing that really, truly, we are powerless. Being willing to surrender any notion of 'control' of the situation. Breathing, observing, being.

Rob is out of work again. My Grandmother has cancer. Things I can not control. The economy. The speed at which cells in Grandma's breasts divided. 

What I can control. The direction that I look. Whom I vote for. Where in my body I send my breath. My ability to still sit in the sun with a cup of coffee, watching the golden strands of my children's hair intermingled as they examine dirt, and say to my self "life is good". 

Because it is. Life is sweet. Regardless of the size of waves, or where I am in relation to the pounding surf. 

Teach Your Children Well

Still Life Sunday:

Finding Yoga Everywhere

Some thoughts on my June 'challenge'... last month my sister, who is 12 years my elder, finally got to walk across a stage and accept her Associates degree. It has been a long twenty-five years coming for her to experience that, the walk. Through abusive relationships, drug addictions, undiagnosed bipolar disorder, my sister has clawed, fought, slugged her way to this point. And I am so very very proud that she kept at it. When so many others wouldn't bother at this point, she is continuing on, working now towards her BA. It is her commitment that inspired me to bring discipline back into my life.

I feel often that I float through on life with little intention, lacking a clear focus. So rather than focus on the BIG things, I wanted to create daily habits, little things, that will be the fertile ground for the seeds of bigger things to grow from.

Today I finish my yoga practice at 11 pm. Just 5 Surya Namaskar A's, and Savasana. In a way I felt I had already done my practice while I cooked dinner. If yoga is truly the yoking of mind, body and spirit, risotto is yoga. The act and art of standing patiently, mindfully, coaxing and nursing along these little pearls to release their starch is a practice in its own right. As I stood over my stove, linking breath and the movement of my wooden spoon, setting an intention of love, knowing the steamed greens and ricotta added would create my son's favorite dish, this was yoga. It was lovely. But my mat time is mine alone. So I need that too.

In time I'd like to add more structure to the yoga challenge, Ashtanga 3 times weekly, 3 days to play and explore edges in a freer form. But first June, to develop the daily habit of creating space to breathe.

I thought I'd share the recipe for this dish. My cousin Selene gave it to my mother, and she shared it with me. Bridger can not get enough. Be sure to use best quality whole milk ricotta, fresh, not the supermarket kind (I make mine - stupid easy, and SO GOOD), and season to taste as you go. Once you are adding liquids, stir very frequently, it's what makes risotto so creamy.

Ricotta alla Selene

Steam 5-6 cups of greens - spinach, chard, kale, whatever you have. Puree.

Simmer 5 cups stock of your choice (chicken, veg, beef) in a saucepan. Melt 1 tbsp butter in 1 tbsp olive oil in a large saute pan over med-low heat. Add 3 cloves minced garlic and 2 medium diced onion, and sweat until translucent. Do not brown. Add 1.5 cups Arborio rice, and stir to coat, toast for 1 minute. Deglaze with a generous splash of sherry, or white wine, stirring frequently. As rice soaks up liquid, and starts to thicken, add a ladleful of the stock. Stir until it is absorbed. Continue adding stock by the ladleful as it is taken up by the rice, stirring frequently. To add all the liquid should take 25 or so minutes. As you near the last ladleful, add the greens, stir to combine. When rice is al dente, or just softer, add 1 cup of ricotta, and stir well to combine. Add freshly grated parmesan to taste. Heaven. A little bit of my mother's Italy in my kitchen.

Consistent Commitment

I'm good at a lot of things. To the point where I don't get to do a lot of them very often. And I often I am not very good at caring for myself. So in an effort to fix this conundrum, I am making the commitment to myself to do the following consistently in the month of June:

Practice yoga daily.
Have a green smoothie, and/or a green juice daily.
Blog at least once a week.
See my horse this month.

There. It's out in the ether. I have to do these things now.

Starfish

So it happened over February vacation. I was at a Panera with the kids and a friend. I had one of THOSE MOMENTS where just for a second, you look up, look around, and SEE something. Trash. Lots of it. And Panera is hardly a wasteful establishment as American capitalism goes. They have reusable flatware, mugs, and silverware for their eat-in customers. But fountain drink cups, napkins, chip bags all get thrown away. Yes there's recycling for bottles, but in the moment I asked an employee where I could recycle Isabella's juice cup, and she respnded that there wasn't a place for that, I looked around. And I was horrified. Think about it. That was one twenty minute shot of what goes on in hundreds of thousands of resturants EVERYDAY. That made me start to think of exactly how much garbage (much of which could be recycled) goes into landfills minute by minute. And then I thought about the needed paradigm shift. People bringing a reusable cup with them to more than just a coffee joint. Not just a few people, EVERYONE.

Now, don't get me wrong, recycling is important. But it is also a carbon-heavy, inefficient, imperfect PART of the solution. It is not the answer. In our culture, so much of our economy depends on the manufacture of disposable items that really MUST be replaced by reusable items. Our enviromental survival depends on breaking the conumerist attitudes that say we can buy new things cheaply and more easily than reusing what we have. There are lobbies that prevent the government from creating incentives for us to ensure that our children will have a home to live in at all. But I can't change those things all by myself, or change them right now. But  today, on Earth Day's big 4-0, I'll tell you what I can do: REDUCE consumption, REUSE what I have, RECYCLE as much as possible.

I've always identified as a 'crunchy' type, even in 6th grade, before I knew what recycling was, I'd doodle 'peace, love, recycle' symbols on my notebooks. I was raised to compost, to be frugal, to revel in the natural world. So as an adult, I already did alot of the 'obvious' green things: energy efficient lightbulbs, composting, carrying a mug and water bottle around. Bridger is in cloth diapers (LOVE OUR CLOTH!!), and our town charges for trash but recycling is free, so we recycle like crazy at home. Last year we joined a CSA, to support local organic food, and reduce the carbon-footprint of our diet.

Since my MOMENT though, I've made a few more changes. Like stopping using paper towels. I cut up receiveing blankets and we use those instead. I'm buying as much clothing second-hand as I can find. We are buying whole melons and pineapples and cutting them at home instead of buying the pre-cut, pre-packaged fruit at the store. I'm using alot less 'help from the store' - it really doesn't take that much more time to make things from scratch, there is so much less packaging, and it tastes better too. And this might be TMI, but I switched to sea-sponge tampons. In at least 25 years of monthly cycles, feminine products have got to make a huge enviromental impact. The eww-factor is really not that bad. No worse than wiping a baby's shitty behind...

At one point Rob asked if I thought not using paper towels was really going to make a difference, and I was reminded of that story about starfish on a beach. Thousands of starfish were tossed up onto a beach after a storm. A person is walking on the beach, throwing them back into the sea, one by one. A passer-by asks why, what difference could it possibly make. And as another starfish is returned to the sea, the person says simply, 'it made a difference to that one'. Alone we can not change world. But we share this earth with 7 billion other people. If each one of us took personal responsibility for our actions and the impact we have on the earth and each other, we could alter the course of the future. If we each examine our lives, and find one thing a month, week, even day to change that will reduce consumption, reuse what we have, or recycle what we no longer need, we will make a difference. We must make a difference. The time is now.

Thinking of Angels

Often enough in baby-lost blog land it's been commented that the not-babylost crowd really 'doesn't know how we'd survive it'. And I've said that myself. I can't imagine how I would go on if one of my children were to die before me. And I've also heard it discussed (and thought to myself) what might be worse, losing a term infant, a young child, a teenager about to step off into the world, or an adult child. I find those conversations a bit useless, it's all fucking awful. Pain should never be compared - it all hurts.  And, as a human mother who has survived my share of heartache and trauma, I know that when I say 'I don't know how I'd survive', what I mean is that I don't want to have to find out.

And universe, I want to die before my children, but not before they still need me. Picky, I know.

April 3rd is a cruel day in my opinion. Two years ago, a baby named Baker was almost born, but then died. To labor and not come home with a live baby, unimaginable. Twelve years ago, my childhood friend Robert was stabbed once in the back outside a night club. He fell to the ground and bled out. There were over 50 on-lookers but to date no-one has been brought to justice for his murder. He was 18. So tonight I am sending so much love to these families, marking yet another year gone by.

I have to believe that the animus that is a human spirit continues after the body ceases to function. I know that in the months after Robert's death I would sometimes feel him with me, so close it was palpable. I know I see Baker in my son's laughter. I've taught my daughter that in the retelling of stories and memories we keep the spirit of those who have passed on alive within us. On the eve of Easter, I'd like to think that I can keep these two spirits alive in a way, resurrected from faint memory.

And I pray that I will never know the sorrow of a childless mother, walking the earth without her heart here on earth. And I pray that I will always be humble and human enough to know that I can become that woman, so quickly, so easily. So I am thankful that my heart walks this earth with me. For now.

Captain Obvious

One must first be lost in order to be found.

The brilliant and profound C has once again sent my mind-cogs into action. Yesterday as we sat with toddler chaos all around, and coffee to soothe the ragged edges, she began to muse about how much more comfortable she is in her own skin as she walks through life as N's mother. As a mother, you just do what needs to be done. And after a while what used to be gross, or awkward, or someone else's job just gets done, or is ignored. Because it just is. Screaming child in store? Check. Shirtless baby on a (thankfully) 70 degree October day coming into YOUR doctor's appointment because they puked all over themselves and the car and you were too sick to remember a change of clothes? Check. Grabbing visible boogers from the nostril entrance? Check. What once would have cringe-inducing, or embarrassing, we just do. And that kind of comfort in one's life is such a revelation.

And that made me realize: it took me becoming not myself to truly become myself. The early days and months of motherhood truly made me not myself. At birth I transformed from the vessel that grew another human being to the being that was now charged with sustaining this human being. There was no room for Mira at that time. I was just Mother. This phenomenon was not relegated to just the first child either. I so clearly remember, as I began the descent into PPD, thinking out loud 'I was a perfectly competent mother of one child. What the fuck made me think I have any business being a mother of two children?????'. I said this to my mother (god love her). Please, never tell an overwhelmed mother of less children than you have that she has it easy. Guarantee you've just made her feel like shit. (And Mom, you were not the only one who shared that sentiment. You are amazing. I love you and thank you for all of your gifts.) But I digress... I had to learn to be the mother of two children. I had to abandon all that I thought that knew of the mother of Isabella alone, in order to become the mother of Isabella and Bridger. And now, I find, that in delving so deeply into being someone who is not Mira, I have found who I am.

In yoga we talk of duhka, the cause of suffering. It is the sand at the bottom of the glass, that when stirred, makes the water cloudy. It prevents us from seeing the truth of things. A block of marble looks like nothing more than a cube of rock, until the sculptor chips away everything that is not the statue. It is then we see the art within. It is with that intent that yoga aims to unify the body and mind, to quiet the inner chatter so our essence can be found. I find it a little ironic that it was my practice before I returned to the mat that allowed me to find myself. Malasana as I squatted to birth my babies. Ardha Chandrasana while picking up toys. Tadasana to be stern. All before I knew... It makes me wonder how many incarnations of myself I will be privileged enough to discover in the years to come.

Knitting in a Wii World

I think at this point if you don't have a Wii, you know someone who does. With your Wii you can do virtually anything. I like to throw myself off big mountains in the Wii Skii, but not really. So many of us 'talk' to each other on Facebook or Twitter, but it's not real conversation. This blog, the blogosphere, communities, that are real, but they aren't, too. In this world of things that are, but not really, I cling to my illusions of being something real, doing things that are real, embodied in my yarn.

I am a yarn crack whore. Total addict. It's BAD... I just love yarn. I'm certainly partial to wool, but any natural fiber will do. I rarely make it out of a yarn store with empty hands. I have a whole stretch of cabinets to hold the stash, and countless works-in-progress. That's been something I'm working on, a growing edge if you will, actually finishing a project before I cheat on it with some new, softer, knubblier ball of yarn. With my knitter's ADD I've learned to keep to small projects, that give quicker satisfaction, like hats, mittens, or baby gear. Although I swear I'll finish Bridger's baby blanket before he goes to college. Or at least by the time his first child is born.

But beyond the yarn fetish, the physical and spiritual act of knitting is a healing salve for my high-idle self. It forces me to sit, become the process, and enter a quiet space. The actions ofthe needles are quite like the sat-nam in meditation, just the simple quiet focus of breath, or yarn.

As with cooking I find knitting for others to be a nurturing act. I can literally wrap the intended recipient in my love, carried in each stitch.

But even more than any of this I cling to the realness of my yarn. With a strand I can make something of nothing. Knitting is truly alchemy. A series of loops, with a single knot at the beginning. And broken down even further, there is only one stitch - as knits and purls are simply the reverse of each other. A knit garment is a fraud, a shape-shifter. Yet with that ethereal nothingness a myriad of things can be created, things I can feel, touch, breathe into, wear.

Sometimes I question my version of this world. I know that I can look at an object, and call it blue, and someone else may do the same, but does it look the same to them? Is everything I believe to be true experienced by others? Big questions... so overwhelming. So I sit down with my yarn, and make a tangible hold on the world.

Bridger modeling my very first original design:

Floating, Lost

Tonight I feel lost... Somehow, the people of Massachusetts decided that a GOP pretty boy was the right choice... good bye rights... is it just that my generation doesn't know what it is to not have bodily autonomy, so there is apathy at the thought of losing that right? At some level I mourn TK again tonight. I always felt he was MY senator. Now I feel unrepresented. How alien.

Returned home today from a four day tornadic visit to Ohio. Visiting ghosts of a previous life. Seeing babies that look so much like my baby, but grew in some other womb. Knowing now that it was not being A father that was the issue, just being HER father.

Not understanding. Befuddled. Wanting clarity. Going to sit in the dark quiet of my mind now, to let the answers come as they wish.

Presence

Excuses first... Bridger managed to pry the space key off my computer so typing now involves pressing the white sensor just so to get a space. So I've been a bit lazy about anything involved with typing... In the next few days I should have some shots of THE birthday (Bella and Rob share their day), and Christmas. But first, my day, and reflections on the new year. Cause hey, it's my blog :) me me me time!

Yesterday was my 31st birthday. I woke up, and pretty much had one of those 'why am I in this handbasket, and where are we going?' moments. I just couldn't fathom where the last 10 years had gone, how I ended up where I am. As I mused on that feeling throughout the day, I came to the realization that I have spent the bulk of my life waiting for it to happen. I've fallen victim to the 'when' syndrome - I'll be happy when... I get x done, I meet someone, I make more money. Bullshit.

So here is my intention for this next year, more properly for the rest of my life. I will be present. Mindful. Joyous.

And I think the universe agrees... Went to lunch at PF Chang's with a friend from a former life. My fortune read "one must not pursue happiness. one must create happiness".