misty.

it is so quiet here in vermont.  i can hear the tiny feet of the squirrels on the pine tree outside my window, and the country birds calling morning to each other is a cacophony in the silence.

i'm almost embarrassed to press the keys down, bringing such rough-and-tumble noises to the neighborhood.

in a few hours, i'll be embarking on my first spanning study at the institute for descriptive inquiry, laying bare this question: in a profession that is so personal, how can i balance inserting myself as a member of the classroom community without saturating the culture of the group with my own values, beliefs and personality as a teacher?

i'll have three days to work on this question with other educators, people i know and don't know, and it will all begin this afternoon with me giving them my personal history.  giving them the story of my life, or one version of it.  i'm a bit scared.

i know i am safe here, that what i bring to this place is sacred in its own little way.  i will try to present myself without judgment or inclination, and lay bare my teaching self for all to see.  naked in my paring down of thoughts.  

it feels like a weight right now.  

but then the open windows give me just the tiniest of cool breezes, and i hear the squirrels chasing each other up and down the branches while the jays tell them to stop fucking around, and i know it will all be okay.  i will be okay.  i am always okay.

the day moves forward, and so do i.

alone time.

just watched my family drive away from me, my daughter howling from sadness in the back seat.

i'm alone for a day and a half with my parents before i head to my conference in bennington, and my ears are adjusting to three people being out of this tiny house.  amazing how i can hear the air in my ears, that tinny, ringing sound that accompanies silence.

of course, my niece and nephew and mom are upstairs, so its not all that quiet.

still.

that's what i need to focus on for the next couple of days: regaining some stillness in my heart.  i'm not good at being away from my family, and yet i need it with all my soul sometimes.  i forget just how much i should spend on my own breath, letting me just bathe myself with what i have to offer this world.

last night my daughter and her friends went through our 1990 yearbook and cracked themselves up silly at the names, clothes and hairstyles from "the olden days".  we were told that the 80s were the worst time to get dressed.  they found our hair amazing.  they thought we were doofuses.

we were.  still are.  but back then, we had baby-fat cheeks and the fresh-faced optimism about the world and our lives.  thought love would last and nights would never end.  thought everything had the weight of a bon jovi song, and that we needed to know all the words all the time.

it was a long time ago.

i remember how, when i was 17, i was so scared to be alone.  i hated the idea, thought it meant that i wasn't loved.  i still have that somewhere inside of me, but i know better.  i have to find myself sometimes, take the minutes given to me and focus them inside of me.

i've had a blessing of a vacation in the past week: spending quality time with my favorite women, and now having a bit of respite to allow me some room before i go and pour my heart out as a teacher at my conference.  i'm very, very lucky.

of course, there is still the fact that my parents are with me.  maybe i'm not alone as i'd like to be.  

i'm good at hiding, however.  although, since i've been writing this, my mom has yelled out my name three times, asking for me.  "do you need me?" i asked.  "no!  i just miss you!" she responded.

breathe.  breathe.  breathe.

know this.

i spent the weekend with a few of my oldest and dearest friends in the whole world.  we sequestered ourselves in alyssa's beautiful house, occasionally venturing out into the real world, but for the most part we just sat together and talked.

there is something inherently gorgeous about the small talk that occurs among lifelong friends.  the second-nature of the joking, the ability to finish each others' sentences without feeling trod upon, the endless laughing. . . this is the framework for something that is so decidedly pure i can't tarnish it with too many words.

i will say this: i may not be the most spiritual person, nor the one with the most connection to my inner light.  i may not be the funniest or the most fulfilled or the happiest or the most daring.  

actually, i may be the most daring.

no matter who we are together or who we become when we instantly find ourselves holding each others' hearts in close proximity--breathing the same clean-rain air, hearing the same cicadas hum--no matter what it looks like to the outside world: to me, this time spent with these women is holy.  the time spent with them is a reminder of all that is good and powerful in this world, and why we are simply here on this planet.

holiness in the form of red-wine induced, mint chocolate mousse-inspired conversations that weave in and out of time zones, past and present, morning and evening.  laughing until we cry, holding our stomachs in solidarity.  we were in the church of old friends, and i was falling in love again with four women whom i have adored since i was a teenager.  

they remember me, they see me for who i am.  and in them i see nothing but grace, beauty and blessedness.  

today, there is only pure gratitude.

drive-in movie.

so here we are, stranded at the drive-in.

its amazing that the mendon drive-in still exists; that there are still families piling into cars and carting their folding chairs and vigorously spraying their children with bug spray while hoping it doesn't get on

the chili-cheese fries that they just bought from the snack bar.

those people are still here, my friends.

i remember the drive-in from when i was a kid: snuggling down under blankets when it was chilly, waiting out a rain storm, those incredible speakers that sort of fit on your car window, my brothers and i running around the parking lot before the movie started.

my father remembers his drive-in from when he was a teenager: 25 cents for each person in the car, making his friend Inky get in the trunk so it was cheaper, then taunting him when they finally parked, only cracking the trunk to throw him a bottle of soda.

classic.

in the midst of all of the whirlwind of drama around me--home, family, country, world and otherwise--it is times like last night that root me to the reality of my very, very good life.  sure, the movie wasn't the best (turbo--although it had a great finale) and the girl was tired and sniffly and the boys ate the huge bag of popcorn we bought in about five minutes and the camp chairs were really uncomfortable and alex got bit a bunch of times despite bug spray and the children next to us cried a lot, but still.

still,

this life of mine.

scenes from this place.

groton public library.  

boston, 5 am.

silent, indeed.

blueberry season.

madness.

for trayvon.

i can't seem to let go of his face, that sweet gentle smile and eyes full of life.  i keep finding pictures of his mom and his dad, reading their words about their son, not fully understanding the pain they feel but still not being able to ignore what it is.

he was my son, too.

i say this from my safe house, from my white skin, from my blue eyes.  i say this as a middle-class woman, still married, with a job that i live by and believe in with all my heart.  i say this as an outsider to  many lives, but as an insider to the reality of this country.

i say this as a mother of a white boy, secure in the fact that there is no reason to fear him walking down the street.

and i say this wondering what it is i can do, what i can possibly provide for my privileged child to help him understand his place in this world; the fact that he will be chosen first, be looked upon with pride, be seen as a great possibility instead of a liability or a statistic.  

he will be just fine.

but today i realized that i have a job to do, a new kind of parenting that i have been entrusted to provide.  trayvon's parents would ask me to.  his community would ask me to.  i have to do this, in order to combat the institutionalized racism embedded in myself, in my family, in my world.  i have to, in order to make things a little bit more right.

the job is simple: tell my son like it is.  let him know of his privilege, and tell him about his surroundings.  explain how far back it goes.  speak the names of the boys lost, and tell him of their stories.  show him pictures of trayvon and oscar grant III.  tell him what they liked, how they played, what their favorite things were.  make them real.  

and then enable him, engage him to make change.  have him stand for what is right, and have him aware of his own thoughts.  talk to him out loud, be bold in my opinions and be brazen in my faults.  let him see that racism is inherent in all walks of life, let him see how it hurts, let him see how it destroys.

let him see how shallow, how small a person can be who believes skin color denotes behavior.  show him how much fuller an open heart can make one person's life.  

this is what i can do for my son.  this is what a white mother can offer in this time of strife and sadness.  this is what i can do--walk the walk for trayvon and all of the boys lost.  i can only hope that my heart's beat contributes to the healing that we need, and helps me to see myself more clearly.

sweet boys.  may my tears for you meld with your peoples' tears, so that we have the evidence in front of us that speaks to how entwined we are: water from our bodies that mirrors each others' sorrow.  we are the same, i am your mother, i am your sister, i am yours, and you are mine.

only together, no other way.

 for my son, for my other sons, this is the truth i know tonight.

bug spray heartache hike afternoon in groton.

mother meltdown in process.

foiled walk in the groton place woods replaced by whining child has to pee won't in the woods and sticky bug stuff that won't let me rest

child in shower asking for me to wash her hair to carry her on walk to make another choice available to her when the choices presented are not to her liking

well fuck, you little jerk, this isn't exactly to my liking either this having to retreat to tread on the old path to slip and slide through the mud where the happy dogs just were

oh how i wish i were them today so sloppy and greeting each other with abandon and wanton displays of life happiness and justified behavior

instead i am here rat-a-tat-tatting this post on keys that are being abused while she interrupts me to help her check her hair is the soap all out mommy and i go in and put on my patient voice while i check and then slam the door for good measure 

just to show her i can

today was spent with each other minute upon minute in the sweaty house the gray of the day descending upon us like a mist from the ocean and infiltrating our moods one minute laughing like you can't stop us next minute there is nothing but discontent

now is the summer of our discontent

i love my child i love her i love myself i love being her mother but goddamn days like today make me wonder about my skills or lack thereof and i am just plum tired out from this eight-year old daughter of mine who yesterday said:

"i can't help it!! when i'm tired i'm rude and i don't know why!!"

at least the little shit is honest.

i hope the rest of the party is enjoying the walk in the woods, where my legs and heart and eyes ought to be, instead of staring at this screen and yelling at it

everything happens everything moves on everything happens everything just happens and then its all okay again.

head case.

been sitting up here in my in-laws' house, reading and writing and preparing for my conference in bennington.  i've had five days, uninterrrupted, to work on stuff and get my head in the right place.  its been a little bit of a miracle.

last night i went to dinner and a movie with alex and melanie, and walked around kendall square like i belonged there.  

tomorrow i'm going to the eric carle museum of picture book art, one of my favorite places in the entire world.  mo willems will be there, so selkie is excited to meet him.  i'm just thrilled to go into their library, which is organized by illustrator, and has the most amazing collection of books i've ever seen.

i wish i could draw well.  

there are these things, these plans that i have in the back of my mind that seem to forever shift in importance but never go away.  for instance, the ukelele.  i swore two years ago that i would know how to play by the end of that summer, but i remain, sadly, untaught.

there's the idea of all of the push-ups and crunches i am to do every day, no questions asked.  

there is also the plan that i will write a children's book.  that i will write a story that will be a book for children.  i've always wanted to do this, and yet i don't.  i buy a book on amazon about how to write one, thinking that it will kickstart my urge, but instead it scares me and i hide it away.

scared of what?

there is a need in me for acknowledgement.  its not enough that i write this blog for myself, or that i write a story and read it to my class.  i need you to recognize my effort, recognize my goodness.

i'm so sick of this need of mine.  the "see me" need.  point me out, call me up, highlight, tag, do whatever you can to provide me with some form of validation.

its so goddamned frustrating.

i try to find the quiet moments to find peace within, and that works, for a bit.  for a bit.  but then i get caught up again, caught up in the need for you to tell me something good about myself.

when i should be the only one doing that.

i am a vain, entitled, self-absorbed person.  or am i just like everyone else?  is this who we are now?

sigh.  

my happiness sometimes seems too wrapped up in other people acknowledging me, and that shit is fucked up.  

why can't i be good why can't i be good why can't i be better than i was before?

change, come quickly.  come take me on, suit me up in the costume of armor and steel me against my own damn self.  thrust the pen into my right hand and demand that i pony up in spite of myself, please.

i am ready for a permanent shift, here.  the kind that alters everything.

or who am i kidding, maybe this is just me, me forever.

do other people ever feel satisfied in their own heads?  what does it look like inside of you? 

the view from in here is murky sometimes.  filled with tinsel and moss and memory strands captivated by time and embellishment.  

it's a tricky place to live in, but i can't deny how sick and comfortable it feels in here.

heavy lifting.

who am i, but a woman in central massachusetts with a roof over her head, food to eat, and basic human needs met?

i've been reeling a bit from the world today; my in-laws get the globe and i've been reading the newspaper again after a long time gone from it, and it's hard not to get caught up in the state. of. the. world.  and with that, i mean the people of the world.  my sisters and brothers.  because that's how it feels right now, this pain in my heart.  this is what it feels like to have the whole world reside inside of me.

egypt. may peace prevail, may democracy come clean, may no more innocents be taken away.  

guantanamo.  all that is holy, release these men.  give them what is right and decent and fair, under the laws of human decency and love.  do this now, and with haste.

nigeria. no more guns, no more violence, no more children shot at their school desks.  find the way to be one people again, find the way to solidarity and peaceful life.  no more lost.

 these people are me.  i am them.  do you understand?  do you feel this, too?  

helpless, guilty, saddened, lost.  full of despair.  knowing that i will hold this heavy within me tonight, but somehow in the morning i will wake up under my covers after a night in a bed with someone who loves me and take the time to go for a run, on my own, through this town, in relative safety and calm.

i am beyond lucky.  i am beyond lucky.  i am beyond blessed.  so are you.  we all are, in this neck of the woods.

just by the fate of parentage and heritage and geography and dna, i am me: fair-skinned, blond-haired, blue-eyed, woman, United States citizen.  able-bodied, able-minded.  lucky, lucky, lucky.

and its moments like these that i take stock and sit in my bubble and just breathe, offer air, offer hope, and prayers, and light, and solidarity, with these oppressed family members that i have never met. i can only do this right now.

but there is always more to do, isn't there?  there is always more i can do.  and yet, most days, i choose to take a breath, turn the page, close the link, skip the video, and not lay my eyes upon the suffering that is all around me.  it is here, it is there.  interchangeable.

i'm unable to come to a conclusion, nice and neat, pretty this post up with a bow and send it on its way.  i'm fallible, and lazy, and so, so entitled.  dear god, i know this to be true.

send a prayer to the world tonight.  to this boy, to his people, to the men in chains, to the woman who wail, to the soldiers who fight, to the pussy riot in prison, to the survivors, the witnesses, the children.

pray, pray, pray, as hard as you possibly can.  

and then tomorrow morning, let's do something, anything, to make a dent.  give a little, give a lot: amnesty international, doctors without borders, red cross . . . anything.  

we are all one, together.  there has to be some kind of hope in that.  

time, time, time . . . see what you've done to me?

just came back from a walk/run.

here's the thing: i believe that i deserve time to myself.  i really do.  but in the beginning of my summer, especially this week as my kids are in camp and i am working by myself, i find it hard to give myself the full chunk of time that i crave.

so this morning, i go out and exercise, macklemore in my ears, feeling really, really good.  its cloudy and cool/humid today, and the birds flew in front of me constantly.  i saw a male cardinal, which i always think is my grammie making herself known.  the cars were kind to me, and gave me a wide berth on the streets.

my body reminded me how good it feels to do this kind of thing.  and it reminded me that it is still strong, capable, and lovely, even at 151 pounds.

then i get back home and i start to stretch and do hand weights and i think, should i stop now?  shouldn't i do things?  shouldn't i plan, work, organize?

on the other hand, shouldn't i just do more of me?

i am giving myself permission to take a shower over five minutes long, with no interruptions or other bodies needing to use the bathroom while i'm in it.  i am also giving myself permission to read a magazine during lunch, and to finish the article even if i am done eating.

i know, its shocking.

not every moment has to be filled with things accomplished.  simply sitting here, breathing, listening to the sounds of massachusetts--this is enough for me this morning.  all i really have to do is look out the window.

lucky, lucky me.

massafornia.

tonight my son listed all of the reasons he hates california:

1. it's not green enough.
2. our family isn't there.
3. it never snows, at least where we live.
4. it's too far away from massachusetts.
5. and, finally, "i just don't like it."

what do i do with this child of mine who has somehow found his way into the tiny fissure in my heart that i've tried to repair all of these years?

it's not about me, of course.  i've tried really, really hard to make it clear that Los Angeles is our home, that our people are there; i swear i have.

back me up on this one.

i know it was rough a few years back but ever since i found my calling at children's community school i felt like i could cobble out a home for myself there.  i had my kids, my husband, some of the best people in the entire world surrounding me with their love and light--what more did i need?

but the truth is, my son has inherited my sense of space and surrounding.  he needs to be comforted by the world around him, and as he grows older, i think he knows that his body is not meant to spend the rest of its life in a town where trees can be scarce and air can be murky.  he's already casting his mind's eye forward to a time when he can no longer be a california boy.

of course, when i tell him that he can always plan to go to school in massachusetts, his reply is that he wants to but he has to be able to live with "you guys".

ah yes, therein lies the problem.

home is where the heart is, people.  that's what many country kitchen placards say, and i know that to some extent i believe that.  but i also know that place itself--the sanctity of a place that speaks to you and calls you forward and blesses you with all it can muster, thereby making you wholesome and true--place itself pays a part in the search for home.  at least in my family.

california, you know i adore you. you made me the woman i am today.  i will always be grateful to you, and pledge allegiance to the wonders and diversity that you hold.

but massachusetts, goddamn you; you are a temptress and a tease, while at the same time being a soulmate that i cannot ignore.  when i am inside of you, i am alive in a way that no other place makes me.  you turn me way, way on.  i can't ignore you, forget you, or revoke you.  you are in my blood and on the worn-out soles of my feet.

this isn't about choice.  this is about acknowledging that one woman (and one boy) can have one hand in each place, holding on for dear life.

let us grab hard, and with passion, milo.  i'm right there next to you.

long time coming, long day ending, long long love.

i just spent about 30 minutes writing up a post about today, and then i accidentally deleted the entire thing.  as i lay in bed with the kids reading them a book, i tried to decide whether or not i would attempt to re-create said post, but the truth is i am tired, and i somehow feel i got it out of me, even if it was to be destroyed by the delete button.  

its out there somewhere.

the gist of it was:

when all is lost, there is still love.  no matter what, i am grateful for this life and this ability to love, and be loved. 

love saves me every single time.

and that's all she wrote.