Teletubbies and counting

The joy of a multi-layered life. After the bleakness of the last post, I was pondering what to write about. I started something on a work break earlier, didn't finish. Was standing in the living room a few moments ago, with a BRILLIANT idea - I came in to write it, but -

Finn thought differently.

He climbed up on my lap - I wouldn't say forcefully - more like with DETERMINATION.

And he said "I need play Teletuvvies. I need play Teletuvvies on the computer. I need play the TIGER."

So we did. We went to pbs.org and then to PBS kids and then to the Teletubbies and we played Guess the Animal shape, which is the game you get to when you click on the Tiger.

I forgot what I was going to write about. And that's okay. The present is enough, I think.

Because earlier, Finn counted. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10....

which he's done for a while.

Then he kept going - 13, 14, 15, etc - 20!

which he has also done, for a while.

THEN he continued - 21! 22! 23! 24! 25! 26! 27! 28! 29...

..... (big eyes, questioning me... I whisper "30")

FIRTY! FIRTY 1! FIRTY 2! FIRTY 3! FIRTY 4! FIRTY 5! FIRTY 6! FIRTY 7! FIRTY 8! FIRTY 9!

You get the idea. We went on to 40, then he kinda drifted away.

He is 4 years and 2 months old. And he has learned to count - and count, and count.

I was blown away. I don't know if it's exceptional or not, but it sure feels that way. A massive shift in understanding, the power of ten, the addition of a number in front of another number and how that unfolds and unfurls, pattern after pattern, into infinity

Amazing, don't you think? I do. I love him so much, and I just feel full of hope when I see him learn.



Free Counter

Autumnal ramblings

Of a mental sort, at least.

It is the Autumnal Equinox. I got a voicemail this morning, from my dearest friend, wishing me a happy one. Wishing I could join her for a circle of women. I wish that, too.

Leaves will be getting wet, underfoot, soon, on Whidbey Island. I remember a Samhain with Tom Cowan, when Janine was still alive, a circle of wild power at the Marsh House. Is Joy still there, I wonder? Her cat died that night. Sassafras, I think. A cold, wet, windy night with a moon somehow peeking through, and the body of Sassafras quite, quite dead. And we buried her, together. Joy's white hair whipping around, her powerful old body digging into the earth.

I think that happened. Although I might have made it up.

I miss Janine. And Joy. Janine I know has passed on, and I know she's happy there, wherever she is, lighter than air, flying about on pale purple wings I imagine, tending the souls who are hurting, everywhere in the world.

It is the season of dying.

May not seem like it here, in the land of sun, but it is. What part of me will die this Autumn?

What part do I want to die? What part do I want to purge, shed, peel away?

There is so much weight on me. I feel heavier, in every way, than I have in a very, very, very long time. Psychically, painfully heavy. Oppressed, I would go so far to say. And I would like to shed THAT. I would like to shed the weight of regret, of dishonesty, of escapism, of addiction, of un-tended to pain. This is my call, my prayer, for this Autumn.

I intend to shed. I intend to jettison my flotsam. I intend to peel away, I intend to surrender, I intend to heal.

Finn sings behind me: "Down came the rain, and washed the spider out..."

Yes.

Yes.

Please.

Please,

Aho.







Free Counter

Sunday at the Beach with Friends

That is where we are headed, today, to celebrate a friend's birthday. That is our PLAN, anyway.

We met them at the beach a few weeks ago, these friends, new friends we first met at a 4th of July party and liked, friends who are artists and teachers and workers for Obama, people right up our emotional alley. That over there to the left is a picture of our encampment. Sea Wall / Sand Castle designed and constructed by Ken, to save us all from the waxing surf.

Makin' friends - as I posted before, it's a process. It's why we miss home, Seattle, so much - all those people who know us, who have known us for years and years, who showed up to birthday parties and Solstice parties and who opened their doors to us on Thanksgiving and Christmas and Easter and summer picnic gatherings.

We miss them. We miss YOU - since you're probably the ones reading this.

And now we are here, in the southern corner of the United States, and we're trying to make new friends.

And Kenny & I reverb back to adolescence, wondering Will They Like Us, Are We Weird, and sometimes (frequently) end up staying home with our heads under the covers. Which we can easily disguise as Playing Fort With Finn.

But today, I think, we are going to be brave. We're goin' to the party. Or at least we're gonna try.
Deep breath.

Wish us luck.






Free Counter

Reprieve...

The job is not there, the one he was going away to do. My husband is staying here, at least for now.

He may travel north, to help another friend, soon - and I hope that he will, that he does, I hope this for him.

And I feel a little, tiny bit guilty. Because truth be told, I was silently screaming to the heavens:

"DO NOT LET HIM GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"

I was afraid. Afraid of being the ONE, single parenting, and afraid on a superstitious level that something BAD might happen. That he might not come back.

I was afraid of a lifetime of single parenting. And I was afraid of losing him. And I was just plain afraid of the inconvenience and stress and all of that, of driving Finn to and from preschool and working and hiring babysitters and and and blah blah blah...

the hamster-circle of worry.

And now I don't have to. He's staying here, with us.

For a little while, anyway. Yeah, maybe he'll go up soon, to help Bret on the big paint job. And I'll be okay with it then. Really, I will. I promise. I won't scream silent prayers for divine interference, for adjustments in the cosmos that allow him to stay here. With us.

My husband. My bipolar bear.

He sits outside in the sun right now, talking to his friend. Sounding remarkably mature, calm, spiritually fit, loving.

Will he sound like that when he comes inside? I doubt it. Maybe he'll surprise me. But I seem to get the wounded, snarling side more often. I don't know why.

Have you ever felt that? Have you ever been that?

What side of me do I give him, I wonder...





Free Counter

Single parenting... Survival... Holy crap.

Free Counter

I have an active imagination. Ever since I was small, I have imagined terror and trouble, just to see what I would do...

8 years old, in church: "If TIGERS escape and come in here, in church, how will I escape? Could I climb up the altar? Could I then jump to the lights? Could I hang there until rescue came?"

Another scenario, albeit a similar one: "If a FLOOD came into church, how will I escape?" etc....

Sometimes even moral implications and consequences would enter my pondering:

"What will happen to my family? Will I save them? Will I even try? Or will I just scramble to my own safety?"

It would while the hours of mass away. Which was essential, considering I went to mass six days a week.

My penchant for bad fantasies has stayed with me all my life. I once read an interview with Mary Steenburgen, where she said she used to think she was insane, because she daydreamed about horrible things happening to her and her family. Then, when she was studying Meisner (an acting technique), she realized she was just an actor.

Lately, since I got married, my fantasies have primarily been about my husband leaving my life. Never, ever my son leaving my life - there I do not wander. Ever. Some places are unimaginable, even for bad fantasy time.

But my husband - he leaves a number of ways. Sometimes he dies. A pleasant, peaceful death, that's over before he or anyone knows it. Sometimes he just disappears. Sometimes I leave him.

No matter how he goes, the fantasy is pretty much the same - I grieve and grow wise through my grieving, maybe I even write a book about it, and I become a noble, wise, spunky single parent. I am Finn's friend, his mommy and his daddy. Somehow, inexplicably, I am 35 again. We explore the world, I make lots of money (somehow), I buy a little home for us (huh?), and eventually I meet my soulmate who becomes the best second dad for Finn that you could ever imagine - a sweet, calm, quiet, giving, smart, generous, patient, saintly kind-of-fellow, a guy who's a world away in temperament from my current bipolar bear.

and I drift off to sleep thinking - "Yeah. I will survive...hey, hey..." as Gloria Gaynor echoes in my head.

And now - NOW. Oh Good Lord, NOW - I am going to get to actually practice.

My husband is leaving.

Not for good, and not for bad. Actually - let me be clear with my language.

He is leaving FOR GOOD. He's leaving to go back to Seattle to work with old friends, and make a lot of money for us, his family, and regain a bit of his soul, hopefully. And then he is coming back here, to us, in San Diego. (note - I did not say "home." Since none of us are at all sure where that is.)

He is coming back. That's the plan. After a MONTH. FOUR WEEKS.

I work. I work full-time, at a job that will grow increasingly demanding over the next four weeks. There are many graces - we are an office of women, half of us mothers, and I am the boss of me. There is no one to hover or disapprove. I can bring Finn, I can leave early to get him from daycare, I can do many things -

and I have daycare, thankfully, at Finn's beloved preschool. I don't know if he'll love daycare as much as school, but it's in the same place - that has to count for something in his affections. I hope.

And I can ask for babysitting. I have one person I can ask. Maybe I'll find more.

It's just that I will be the ONE. I will be the ONE who drives him to school, goes to work, then picks him up from school; the ONE who takes him grocery shopping to the park and on errands and the ONE who makes his breakfast and dinner and the ONE who brushes his teeth and puts him to bed - I will be the ONE doing this, while at work I will be the ONE artistic directing the whole shebang.

I am terrified. I suspect that I will not be noble, or wise. I'm pretty certain that I will not wake up and find myself 35 again. I'm afraid of the new map of furrows that will arise on my already weary face. And I know, in my heart, that I may shriek more than I laugh.

Now, without being the ONE, I barely keep my head above water. I paddle along, breathing hard, until I fall into bed at night. How will I paddle for two?

My only consolation is that I will be alone, after Finn goes to sleep. I will not have my husband here to help (him helping me) - but I will also not have my husband here to help (me helping him). I'll be alone - and that may be a blessing. His troubles brew large, much of the time. He takes up a lot of psychic space, my bipolar bear.

So maybe the respite from his worries will compensate, a bit, for being Finn's ONE.

Or maybe I'll just die.

Mary Steenburgen would understand.

I Am Special

Free Counter

Sorry, friends - time just flew.

Some gorgeous firsts this week - Finn's FIRST Homework!! We had to answer questions and print up family pictures for a book he's making at preschool.

A book called "I Am Special."

He is. And so are you. Think, for just one moment, of what makes you truly unique. What makes You, You.

I think it might just be the people who love you. And the light you shine on their lives.

We all have that. Now we all just need to remember it.

Free Counter

Okay. Okay. I'll try to be happy for a moment or two.

I am in distinct danger of becoming obsessed with the coming election. I want to be obsessed in a GOOD and positive way - taking action, calling folks, talking to people and campaigning joyfully for Obama/Biden.

But I'm not exactly doing that. I'm trying - but when I am honest with myself I'm spending more time searching the Internet for horrible, horrible things about S. Palin. It's not hard to find them. I just like to search, and then read them, with a growing sense of doom and disgust, wearing my most appalled face. I can actually feel it as I write, that tightening of my diaphragm and curling of my lip.

It is very visceral.

And maybe just a little bit habit-forming.

I wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, I could think about something else for a while...

McFailin', McPain, Mc I Cannot Allow These Two People In The White House

"Citizen Maria, awake!!

What are you gonna do, to make sure Barack Obama and Joe Biden get elected in November?"

asks my civic conscience, which is still cringing a bit at the fact that I did not write a single letter of protest when Bush/Cheney stole the White House right out from under us via crooked dirty tricks in Florida oh-so-many years ago.

My answer: I'm posting whatever I can find on Facebook and sending on to all I think will read it. I wrote my check to Obama and will write more as soon as I can. And I'm signing up to volunteer, and I'm emailing everyone I can think of --

including the Obama/Biden campaign. Those emails request that they stop being nice and start fighting HARD against the lying, scheming, grotesque Republican machine. They say -

Hey! Why did MSNBC pull Olbermann and Matthews off the air? And what are you going to do about it? I sure as hell hope you are going to TALK about it, LOUDLY, and cry fowl!!!!

We can't be nice. Respectful, yes - but not nice, not in any way whatsoever.

I don't give a shit about John McCain's time in Vietnam, not compared to the disastrous time millions of Americans now face if he becomes President.

And as for her - don't get me started. I might never stop.

So, please, join me - volunteer, give, write, call, and VOTE. And get everyone you meet to VOTE. We have to save our country.

OMG... Two Days In A Row?

And.... "OMG"? Did I really just write that?

I've entered the texting universe. I was at a work meeting yesterday with some younger folks, talking about scheduling things, and asked if I could email them some information. They looked at me kind of blankly. I pressed on, asking "Is that okay? Do you check email?" And they somewhat sheepishly said, "Well. Not really. We text."

So I guess maybe I will, too.

But that's a sidenote, a small tangent of sorts. It's not why I wanted to post. I came here this morning because I woke up wanting to write, talked myself out of it, glanced at my email, looked at my Facebook, thought Oh, what the hell, I'll look at my blog - and my friend Lisette had posted a comment. And that felt so good... to have been read. To have been heard.

I woke up with ENVY this morning.

That's what I was gonna write about.

I hate ENVY. It is my least favorite feeling, and one that plagued me through my 20's, and sometimes it comes back to visit.

It is enervating - is that the right word? It Takes my Energy, is what I'm trying to say. I leave myself, my world, my son, my husband, my life, to think about Someone Else's Life and long for it.

I was beginning to berate myself for my ENVY, labeling it a character defect or a sin or what-label-have-you, and then a quieter voice spoke up -

"What is your ENVY trying to teach you?"

And whoa. Quiet thunderclap. Of course - I envy because I long for something I think I want, I think I don't have - and maybe those thoughts are true.

I am missing something in my life. Something I want.

It might be dressed up in different colors, and maybe I don't ACTUALLY want to travel the world performing like Mike Daisey and Jean-Michele Gregory (although I do, kinda), and maybe I don't ACTUALLY want to be a surfing Life Coach living at Half Moon Bay like my friend Corrine (although I do, sorta) -

Whatever the exterior activities look like, I realize that I DO want, DO long for Creativity. I want to write and perform again. I long for new experiences, for travel. I long for independence, for self-employment freedom, for MORE FUN.

I have a really good gig. I must admit that. I have a job in the arts. I get to be relatively creative. I am relatively well paid.

But I'm not on stage. I'm struggling spiritually. I'm sliding sideways into dangerous habits of escapism, which I know from long experience means I'm ignoring some real need inside. And if I keep longing for escape, sooner or later I'll take a possibly dangerous step in a likely dangerous direction.

So, this morning, at least, I decided to write.

And now, on a hot Saturday, I'll go be a mom. Finn, my 4 year old son, has our whole day planned. We'll go to:

Mommy & Me Ballet class (us in our sweats with a handful of little girls in pink tutus with their moms in nice exercise clothes);
Starbucks (for our snack/treat)
The Model Train Museum in Balboa Park (to which we MUST ride the Park Trolley), then we'll
Walk Over the Bridge to the Cactus Garden, then we'll
Go to the Rose Garden, then we'll
Go to Another Park

And that will be my Saturday.

Not bad. Not bad.

A Year? Unbelievable

I had such good intentions.

I was gonna write every day, or at least some days...

...describe my journey, join the blogosphere, have lotsa readers, touch lives, be known, be read, be wildly successful, whatever that looks like.

And I never came back here to write. Not until now, nearly ONE YEAR to the day of that first post.

I did write. Just not here - I wrote, as I have all my life, in scrawled journals. And in emails. But did not write all that much, I guess. I kinda shut down.

I shut down to survive.

It turns out Moving is Hard. Moving can Suck.

Moving means you might end up in an apartment with shared walls and an drunken neighbor who falls asleep with two TVs BLARING (one tuned to ESPN and the other channeling porn) while your new city bursts into flame and your new co-workers confess they work 50 to 60 hours a week (but didn't think to tell you that when you interviewed) and your not-new husband had a brand-new kind of breakdown. Moving means you have to find a lawyer to break a lease and then find a new home and learn how to set boundaries at work in a brand-new way and figure out exactly what the "for worse" part of the marriage vow means. Moving means you have to make new friends and Moving means you realize that is much different in the decade of 40 and the decade of parenting than it was in the decades of 20 & 30 and "I'm in theatre so let's be friends and do a Play!" Moving means your son might not have anyone at his 4th birthday party except his mom and dad, instead of the 30+ entourage of friends and family who attended his first 3 extravaganzas.

Moving brought me closer to despair than I've been in many, many years, and nearly a year later I am not entirely sure we're out of the woods.

So maybe I'll write some more on here soon. I'm not done Moving yet, that I know.