Fire and Skies

A terrible forest fire is burning about 30 miles north of us, in the mountains just west of Ft. Collins. For days, my FC friends have been posting apocalyptic photos of skies filled with black smoke, too-orange sunsets, and dying red suns. Two days ago we could see the flames from the brewery's patio where we sat drinking pilsner. It was hazy all the way to Denver, but by evening the wind changed, granting us clear views and a flame-tinted sunset, marvelous and awe-striking to behold. Today I wake to the scent of the earth burned and ravaged like the end, the ground smoldering in the dawn. The smoke is thick enough in my backyard that the bees are hesitant to leave their hive. They dart nervously around the lip, those inside possibly gorging on honey by instinct. Over 41,000 acres have burned. My sister-in-law Sophie has been evacuated from her mountain home.

Yesterday Mr. V and I sat in downtown Denver drinking mojitos and talking about god. I care about things that happen in the world, but I don't read the news. I don't assign the divine too much blame, nor too much credit. Cheryl Strayed writes in Wild that "god is not a granter of wishes", which both goes straight to the heart of what I believe and only skims the surface at once. It is in the same spirit I tell you that I wasn't too worried about this fire until I woke up and found it arriving in my own back yard. I tried to explain to my husband how I agree with what Cheryl wrote, but that there's more to it than that. I got teary, it might have been the rum. The fire burned, and I couldn't find the words. The winds will change. Everything will.

Spiritual D.N.A.

Exhibit A (1)

I was baptized on All Saint's Day or Reformation Sunday (depending who you ask) as an infant, in an Episcopalian church. My parents were not regular church-goers at the time.

Reformation day celebrates the day Luther challenged the Catholic church. The origins of All Saint's Day skew more Catholic than Protestant. It celebrates those who have attained a beatific vision of heaven--which isn't, really, very Lutheran--and originally was meant to celebrate the prayerful bond between those in heaven, those in purgatory, and those on earth. Decidedly un-Lutheran.

The Episcopalian church ordains women. I happen to believe that women should be ordained. My mother, last time I checked, does not.

Exhibit B (1)

When my mother was young, her own mother dropped her off in front of a church on Sundays, offering money in her hand. My mother would wait until my grandmother drove away, then walk in her church shoes to the drug store and spend the offering money on candy or at the soda fountain.

I like this story about my mother.

Exhibit C (1)

When I was a baby, my mother was approached by Jehovah's Witnesses. She was young and, I imagine, hungry for a spiritual tradition. My father, who had been raised Lutheran, called bullshit and they began attending a Lutheran church. I'm grateful for this, as I would have made a terrible Jehovah's Witness. It is far more difficult to be a bad Lutheran; I still don't know if I've accomplished it.

My father's people were Swedish and German and Lutheran by tradition.

Exhibit D (1)

Three years after me, my infant sister would be baptized in a Lutheran church. She identifies as Lutheran to this day.

Exhibit A (2)

By the time Ayla was born, I had left the Lutheran church and was dabbling briefly in non-denominational Protestantism at a very large church. Around the time Ayla was one, I stopped going to church altogether. To this day, I very much enjoy not going to church. My free Sunday mornings still feel like a gift. Like hitching up my petticoats to wade in a cool river.

I have developed other ways of nurturing my spirituality. Ways that fit my frequency. They are gentle and grateful. They scorn guilt. They focus on love.

Exhibit B (2)

Neither of my daughters have been baptized.

This was difficult for my mother.

Exhibit C (2)

"If you think God is a boy, he's a boy," says Indy. "If you think God is a girl, he's a girl. That's it." She shrugs. What's the big deal? "I think God wears lipstick," she adds. She tells me the most fantastic things. She wants to be Catholic but "daddy never lets her". (Not true). God lives in the stars but also in the flowers. God has a face like a tree but does not have blonde hair, just the picture has blonde hair.

"I think God is a boy," says Ayla.

Her world view has always skewed patriarchal.

It is possible I've given birth to a conservative.

Exhbit D (2)

Indy seems particularly spiritually inclined. She has a lot of questions and talks about her dual-gendered version of God often.

But both girls agree that church (their grandmother takes them on occasion) is boring.

Exhibit A (3)

I spend a lot of time wondering what things are passed to us through blood. Some things are easy: from my ancestors I've inherited fair skin, small eyes, a creative drive, a dramatic flair. But what about other things? What about the way I view the world, my ease in it, in my own skin, with others? My parents raised two daughters in one spiritual tradition. One left, the other stayed. It was painful for some members of my family. I know this.

Studies on identical twins suggest that our propensity to believe in a higher power has a genetic component. So do our political leanings.

Exhibit B (3)

I didn't leave the Lutheran church because it was a bad church. I left it because it wasn't right for me. My spirit craved a different tradition. It asked to be separated from the routine, the creeds and recitations and lessons I'd learned by rote, that I practiced without meaning or celebration or any earnest yearning for the Divine.

I think these very things that left me feeling dry and alienated from my spirit are the same things that bring others comfort and peace.

I believe there are an infinite number of ways to celebrate the infinite Divine and I believe in a Divine that smiles on all of them.

So then: which was in my blood--the Lutheran, or the leaving?

I believe it's both.

La Belle-y

It was during my first yoga class that my active mind slipped away and I was suddenly and wonderfully aware that there were two of me in here. I knew that I was not, in fact, my mind.

Inside this body were two unique halves. Never before had I felt them quite so intimately. One was caught up in all the trivialities of the day, worrying about how it looked and whether or not it was doing this--this class, this day, this life--correctly. The other me was the deeper one, the true spirit, blissfully unaware of it's surroundings and circumstances. It was smiling with every part.

But I've gotten ahead of myself.

The night before I'd been up late, padding around the house, when I was unexpectedly brought face-to-button with my belly. I was svelte once, in college, (put that on a t-shirt) but I haven't seen that body since I got pregnant at twenty-two. The body my husband fell in love with was pale and freckled and wore a size 8. Even then I took that body for granted, feeding it pizza and wishing it would be a 6. This body, eight years later, isn't one I choose to see often. I dress quickly. I don't even own a mirror that reflects my lower half. That night, in the bathroom, it jumped out at me like a monster from behind a corner.

I beheld my belly and told it I hated it.

The awareness of the two of me came during a particularly challenging pose. My body was quivering all over with the effort to hold itself in the form I had asked of it. My muscles were burning and my mind was self-conscious, but as I continued to hold, and to quiver, all that mind clutter slipped away and a deeper voice proclaimed clearly: I love this.

It was my spirit. That quiet, knowing part. It was, I believe, the spark where the divine rests in all of us. And that part of me was having the time of its life. Underneath all my cares is the deeper self that is gazing at this life in wondrous adoration and isn't worried at all.

We ended the class by laying on our backs in what I believe is called the Shavasana Asana, and it was then that my belly began to speak to me. Throughout class, as I had asked my body to bend and twist and withstand, my spirit had been whispering to this soft, freckled space how much it loved it.

And my body had spoken back. In warrior pose, it told me I was powerful. Doing cat-and-cow, and a particularly bendy combination of poses that requires one to both torque and expand, my body felt sensuous and strong.

Now as I lay there, I could hear that my stomach was bruised. The night before, I had looked in the mirror and hated it for not being flat and taut, for the stretch marks that will grace it like pumpkin flesh, always and forever. In my mind, I made war on my body, telling it things that were ugly and cruel.

But this body has done so much for me. This belly, that has stretched beyond its capacity, beyond endurance, to shelter the spirits and flesh of two children. This entire body, that did what I asked of it, that withstood until I shook all over, until I felt I was about to collapse from exhaustion, and then withstood some more.

I lay there in Shavasana Asana and I apologized to my belly. I told this soft part of me, this part that refuses to conform to all Western standards of beauty, that I have punished with words and loathing and Spanx--that I loved it. I was so proud of it. I thanked it for doing so much for me.

A few days later I would find myself again in front of that same mirror, in a degree of undress. This time I beheld my beautiful body, this thriving, healthy gift. I was, I realized, everything I had experienced myself as in yoga. Sun-burnt and moon-pale. Rolling and lush. Wildly curvacious and sensuous and strong.

My spirit said something like: va-va-voom.

And later, as is the way of things, my husband did too.

**Painting: La Belle Rafaela, Tamara de Lempicka. 1927.

Full Bloom Days

Yesterday I sat at Starbucks so long the baristas offered me free sustenance. "We made a mistake, but you look like you could use this," said the young man singled out to approach me. He set a passion tea on my table and backed away slowly, like the wrong move might make me cry, off with his head. I wondered how I must look, pale skin, glazed wonder in my eyes. The laptop zombies, they drive me crazy. Mainly when when I can't find a place to sit because of them. But yesterday, I was one.

Maybe I will go back to school and be an English professor, I said to myself the other day. It was raining in L.A. but it was almost 80 here, making mockery of all my dreams. I was sitting in my backyard and reading a book about just that, about an English professor, about doctorates and discussions of love. That did it to me, that always does. I want bao and green tea ice cream, I'll say to Mr. V, and Mr. V knows I've been reading Lisa See.

So maybe I will do this instead, I said to the universe. She just smiled back. Go ahead and try, she said. I won't stop you.

But the truth we knew was this. I am not an English professor, or a magazine editor, or a 911 operator or any of the other occupations I entertain on warm spring days. I'm not a blogger either, something I realized when reading this post by you know who, my favorite blogger, who realizes she is not a writer of books, not now anyway. I am not a blogger, it is not my calling, it was a relief to recognize it.

Which does not mean I am going to quit blogging. But I had neglected my work, momentarily. Stopped editing, stopped writing, and so this week I've gone back to it, like I hope I always will. I am telling stories. I am struck by Ayla, who is seven. My mind recites the only times table it ever memorized: Seven, fourteen, twenty-one. I feel overwhelmed some days, driving from the grocery store, sitting at Starbucks and frightening the baristas, with happiness. There were times in my twenties when I was so unhappy, so restless, such a stranger in my life. 7, 14, 21, Ayla marches on and so do I, but I am so lucky, my sun-dappled life a thing of dreams, I am doing what I want, what I feel I am meant to do and some days I feel I'm getting younger. The days pass maybe not in straight lines but in circles, or moons, regressing, fulfilling, full bloom. My soul grows lighter.

The story moves on.

A Story Of My Life

Until I was nearly eleven, I was sent to St. John's Lutheran church and school in Denver. The sanctuary had a high vaulted ceiling speckled with lights like stars which I would lay back and count during sermons. The narthex included a living-room sized coat closet, and I recall hiding among the coats, the furs soft against my face, and quiet, and whispering Narnia. Secret doors opened to a hidden passageway, stone-walled and spiraled, exactly like in a castle. There was a basement full of costumes and props, old Renaissance gowns and fake swords, and in the balcony was a marvelous pipe organ, hundreds of pipes arranged descending by height, all glittering and imposing and pleasing to my young eye, which liked order and magic and shine.

My classmates and I often passed between the school and the church, which were connected by a corridor. On the wall of the hallway we traveled was a sculpture, which was mysterious and frightening and commanded my attention every time I passed it. It was a simple wooden cross, with hundreds of nails pounded in to different degrees, so that the surface was not smooth but jagged. It looked like by running your hand across it, you could catch your skin and bleed.

The most arresting feature, however, was the at the top. Around the place where the head should have been, silver iron contorted into the shape of a headscarf. The scarf enshrouded not a face, but a pool of black. Many years later, when I would see the Lord of The Rings movie, the ring wraiths would look startlingly familiar to me and it would take me a moment to figure out why: their voided faces looked almost exactly like the sculpture.

Not long ago, my dad told me that this particular sculpture was the focus of some controversy among the church members. An unintended result, I'm sure, but for years, this strange black void with the hood obscuring its face was what I pictured when people said the word God.

Image by Joseph Easterbrook.

*****

I am writing at home today. I drove to Starbucks, but my unwanted companion was there. I know his car, noted it so I could avoid going in when he's there. He is there almost every day. He sits alone for hours and watches people, occasionally attempting to strike up conversation. He doesn't read. He sets a large digital clock on the table, it has the temperature displayed on it, and he watches that. He is a misfit. I know this sad. Sometimes I feel I ought to indulge him, make conversation back. Occasionally I have. I feel I should develop compassion for this man. The sight of his car makes me angry. He makes me feel self-conscious, noted. When the morning rush clears, he and I are there alone. I prefer anonymity. I wish to be unknown.

He makes me uncomfortable. Sometimes I feel him watching me.

*****

I collect images of the Virgin of Guadalupe. I have her on rings, necklaces, pink candles from Wal-Mart. I love the looks of her. Her brown face, her blue or green robe with all its glittering stars. For me she represents not a human woman, but a female face of divinity. I love that she is likely an incarnation of the Corn Mother, or the Aztec Tonantzin, which speaks to the fact that across the ages, nearly every culture has recognized a divine presence and has bestowed upon one thing many names. As I got older, I chose to stop believing some of the things I'd been taught and one of the things I abandoned was the idea of an exclusively male god. I choose to believe in feminine images of the divine, and I love seeing her as depicted in the images of Guadalupe: infinitely loving, deeply compassionate, present in the earth and stars, maternal and divine.

**I was inspired this week by this post by Elizabeth at the lovely a moon, worn as if it had been a shell, on Our Lady of the Dry Tree**

Sometimes Hermione Just Says, Look

Vesuvius, the voice whispers. Post something happy on the blog today.

Happy? I say. I'm afraid I don't know what you mean.

You're not always so moody, says the voice. It's ok to write about those times too.

I don't get it, I say. You mean like cake pops? It's true that on Friday there were cake pops. But there was not Supernatural. . .


Vesuvius, the voice warns.

But just now, I answer. Just now, Ayla woke up and immediately began to cry because she couldn't watch her show. Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beatiful your child has thrown herself on the floor in the pre-dawn chill and is sobbing because she wants to watch Goosebumps, not Rugrats.

So what, says the voice. I mean really.

. . . . .I guess you have a point. . .

All right then. How about this:

On Valentine's day morning, the voice in my head WOULD NOT SHUT UP and so I woke up at a quarter to five am with a spring in my bleary-eyed step.

In the sweetest of silence, under yellow light in the dark kitchen, I brewed some Italian coffee in my magic silver coffee triangles (haha, hipsters!) and got some writing done. Alone with my thoughts, until the sky began to pinken and the birds began to sing. Writing: one of the greatest joys bestowed to my particular soul.

I love it more than money.

More than fame.

More than whatever satisfaction one might find in visiting a bookstore and seeing their own book there on the shelf--a million times greater than that is the dizzying joy of creating the work itself.

No amount of measurable success will every make me as happy as a pen and a page beginning to curl with ink.

I woke up, this pre-dawn V-Day to three bunches of flowers on the table. (Mr. V had departed at four am, you see.) For each of the daughters there were roses and a heart-shaped box of candy.




For the wife there were more roses, and a Bee Mine, and a bundle of money.

And next to the bundle, it was printed: For the Bees.

While the wife worried where she would get the money for the bees, the husband had been working extra shifts and saving money for that very thing.

Because I had woken so early and had a precious quiet hour to myself, I was a content mother. One who actually made heart-shaped pancakes for her daughters on Valentine's day.

Or tried to, anyway.



(I wonder when we learn how to actually fake a smile rather than to simply stretch back our lips and bare our teeth it what might as well be a show of dominance, were it not for the stricken look in the eyes. I almost wish we never learned; except then I would spend a lot of time grimacing oddly at acquaintances I'm not actually all that fond of. Which might bruise some egos, but would also save me a lot of time.)

Later, at Target, browsing the toys with a sparkly gift card, Indy would sigh and offer me this gem: "Mom, I kind of want all of this, but I actually want none of it."

Such wisdom, my girl.

There, I say to the voice. There is all that happiness in my life. Plus, soon there will be bees.

And cake pops, reminds the voice. She is just so gentle, sometimes.

And cake pops, I agree.

What We Don't Say

What I didn't say was that Monday, I woke up in a black mood.

There was no reason for the mood. I went to bed feeling fine and woke up with an absence of any feel-good hormones. I was unloading dishes in the kitchen, my entire body feeling heavy and my heart unwell, when Mr. V got home from the gym. "Why don't you go out," he said almost immediately. I nodded. My mood was so dark, I could barely speak.

This doesn't happen often, these days.

I wrote for awhile, came home, and took the girls to Chick-Fil-A. I felt marginally better, but by the time I'd returned from fast food and a very crowded grocery store, the mood had crept back in, unwelcome visitor in the tender places. Mr. V made dinner while I folded laundry in the bedroom with the door closed, the girls perfectly content to watch some early evening Totoro. It had been a good weekend. We'd all gone to see "The Secret World of Arrietty", the new one from Studio Ghibli, an outing we don't take very often. Then a fun party, followed by a good meal. A night's sleep.

Black mood.

A nervous voice in the back of my brain feared that here it was: a late arriving plummet into seasonal depression. I didn't listen to that fear. I knew from my previous experience that the only way was to wait it out. Not to nurture the darkness--not to feed the bad wolf--but not to deny or repress it either. Just to lean in. To let it be. To observe it like from a distance whenever possible. I made it through the day, quietly, avoiding unnecessary interaction. I managed to tell my husband that I wasn't mad at him, this mood wasn't his fault. I just am out of happy today, I said. I know, he replied. It's ok.

I sang Indy to sleep and put myself to bed. In the morning, it was gone.

****

Headed out the door to school drop off, I texted my husband. "Indy is in the worst mood of her entire life," I said. Indy is rarely grumpy, and the culprit is almost always lack of sleep. She resolves this by asking me to put her to bed, and I do. She wakes up refreshed, her good-natured, buoyant self. This morning, I'd told her to put on her shoes. She'd squared her shoulders at me and said "NNNNNNO." Oh Indy. Indy's fate is that she's stubborn so seldom, it becomes comical when she is. I handed her her pink jacket. She took it and threw it on the ground.

I turned away and laughed. Indy angry is like a fierce beautiful pixie. She presents no real threat, can do no real harm.

The breeze changes.

So does Indy.

****

Ayla and I walk a delicate line together every morning.

My seven-year-old in her spirit is thirteen. Being asked to do something nicely annoys her. She drags her heels, not wanting to comply until the power of being told is worn off. She is reminded again. The reminder kicks her off the balance beam and lands her fully in outrage. If she has to be told a third time, things go irretrieveably down hill. She stomps, rolls her eyes, slams doors, calls names. Says, "I knnnoooooow," in her best teenage drawl. O-M-G. Whatever. You're ruining my life.

All have crossed her lips.

Of course it is difficult. I take deep breaths. I imagine white or my preferred caramel-colored light. I try to send her calm energy, try to keep calm myself.

Often I fail.


*****



Driving the girls to school in the morning, I know that Ayla and I have the more difficult time because her moods hold up a mirror, reflect my own struggles back to me in harsh glinting blades. But in the strengthening February sunlight, I know that dealing with my black moods, the process of learning and struggling over time, is what has allowed me to become the person who can ride them out today. Ride them out without hurting others or sending hurtful thoughts at myself

I know that this angsty incarnation of Ayla has emerged early, the moods and anger and defiance rearing long before they were expected. But now, like waking up on a black day, I know there is another side. Sometimes Ayla seems a world-weary traveler, sent to show me how far I have to go. How easily my daughter can tug a thread and ravel me undone. I love this old soul that was sent to me. Who she is, and who she will become.

I know the person that emerges in the light is different from the one who first started out down that dark path, into the woods by chance or by choice. I know there are roads through the blackness and out. I know that I can tell her about them, but she'll have to find them for herself.

I trust the wisdom in this.

Ayla will become, like me, a person who knows that all things pass.

Over and over again, we will walk these roads.

Forever we will find the light.

Snow, Secrets

Last night we put two sick kids to bed early and watched Moneyball. We'd watched Drive the night before, and I'd spent the evening walking around the house listening to the song on my ipod and had even played it in the car en route to the library, driving purposefully but with my face all emotionless and blank. I like to pretend I'm in the movies whenever I'm alone. I've never been caught.

It's important you know we'd watched Drive because it's possible what happened next can be solely chalked up to SRGD (Sudden Ryan Gosling Deprivation). My husband was trying to enjoy the movie and I start tossing out comments like "Could we take baseball any more seriously?" and, "Could this movie be any more like The Social Network?" with a vaguely Chandler Bingish inflection. I don't know why I decided to become the movie's heckler, it was after all an innocent little movie, sweet and well-intentioned. I swear I didn't know until the credits rolled that Aaron Sorkin had written this, too. Like I said, it wasn't Drive, there was no Ryan Gosling or sweet-ass synthesizer music, or hot pink fonts. Billy Beane seemed determined to be unhappy and the scene--MILD SPOILER HERE--where the clouds roll in during the game and you-know-what happened really bothered me. It made me itchy. I get that we are trying to be romantic about baseball here, but come on. I just don't have it in me. You can't play "Kittens are being forced to fight each other to the death" music during baseball. Hath Jimmy Duggan taught us nothing? Also I was annoyed that I was born in 1981, I'm 30-years-old, and the vast majority of movies are still made about men. Yes, I know we had The Help and Bridesmaids this year, but Kristen Wiig and Skeeter Phelan can't single-handedly save Hollywood and can someone call Steven Spielberg and check if he's even aware that women exist? The last time I saw a female in a movie of his, Drew Barrymore was in pigtails and screaming.

We turned off Moneyball and I listened to the song again to comfort myself. Mr.V went to bed and I made a cup of tea and settled down with a Jacqueline Carey novel. It was close to ten and the house was dark. The snow had started outside. Mr. V had baked bread and I had a thick, warm slab of it drenched with butter and honey. It was a real cozy moment, where your bones just say "ah". From down the hall, I heard a small coo. I set down my tea. In her bed, Indy was crying.

Baby, I whispered. What's wrong?

She had an earache. Medicine and warm washcloths were given. Look, I said, pointing to her window. It's snowing. We snuggled up tight together. How sweet a mother I will be right now, I thought. We will just cuddle here until she is back to sleep. Indy sat up. "I'm just going to go lie down on the couch and watch Rugrats," she said. "Because I feel like I want to."

It was ten o'clock and she'd in bed for three hours. I am powerless to Indy. I settled her on the couch and turned Rugrats down low. Outside the window behind her the snow was thick like marshmallow cream. I felt my flirting illness settling deeper into my bones. Baby, I said. I'm going to go to sleep now.

Ok, she said. I'm just going to watch this for a few more minutes and go back to bed.

Yeah right, I thought, kissing her forehead and padding down the hall. In the morning I knew I'd find her there, the tv still on, my Indy dreaming away under quilts on my sofa. But I was wrong. A short while later a noise opened my eyes, and there she was in her room. My door faces hers directly, her nightlight was on, and I watched my Indy in her private world, in her owl pajamas, five-years-old and so good natured, whenever I tell her I forgot to put dessert in her lunch or the birthday party is canceled, she shrugs and smiles and says "Oh, that's ok!" I watched her climb up on her bed, on the flannel sheets, and pause to rest her elbows on the sill and peer out the window. She muttered something, soft as snow, some private world or language I could see only the fringes of, the essence like Avalon, shimmering in the mist. She blew on the glass and squeaked her finger through the fog.

Memorize this moment, my spirit said to me. So very seldom am I present enough to memorize. Brief flashes, laughter on a beach, my daughters in the spring, pink cherry blossoms falling in the breeze, landing in their hair, and they are holding hands. But now I have it, this memory, forever. Indy, five-years-old, pausing at her window to think thoughts I will never imagine, to spin dreams to be forgotten, to tread in worlds that I will never see.

Hunted

A lot of stuff went down today.

I guess that should be expected when you get up to have a pee in the dead of night and in mid-act hear your husband's alarm going off. Because it's 2:30 a.m. and time for him to head to work.

Some days, I don't know. Life hunts you down. "Oprah says you can't solve emotional problems geographically," I tell the husband, but sometimes the urge to flee is so strong. Sometimes you want to feel safe in your world, even though you know that doesn't exist. We rushed over to Oskar Blues Homemade Liquid and Solids because that's what the male V and I do when we're feeling hunted. We eat and drink, the girls blow up Death Stars and, as I would come to find out hours later while in emergency room triage, stuff sand down their pants.

Don't judge their sandy-bottomed joy.

After that we had no strength to venture out in the cold. We headed for Barnes and Noble in Boulder. Within five minutes I realized our mistake and we left. Ayla asks for everything. Her requests the white rabbit, I leap down my black hole. I'm getting better at what my Blood Sister A calls "thought-stopping". When my brain starts to launch me into my old "universe is out to get me" or "good things don't come my way" soliloquies, I can usually tell her just to knock it off. Depression is a wolf howling at the door, who says you have to open it? But when she knocks in the form of my children having desires, I spiral downhill fast. "I want to ask Santa to bring me Legos for Christmas," says Daughter A and seconds later I'm shivering in the corner, mind whirling with every sparkly gift I can't afford to buy them. Christmas is coming. Get the hell out of the retail stores.

Fortified now with hot beverage, we drove to the park. My husband tossed my daughters around in the leaves to their everlasting delight. The dog stalked squirrels.

Somewhere in all this I canceled our cable, found a rejection letter in my email, and decided to dye my hair brown. The day grows dark. We buy produce for a vegetarian dinner, healthy. Just what we need.

Everything happens when mom goes to the bathroom. From my moment's peace, I hear a yelp. A yowl. I open the door and my Indy is crying. I rush to her and grab her little face, which is smeared in blood. She had been resting her head on the dog. The dog has nipped her. One cut on her lip is very small but deep enough that I bundle her back into boots and drive her to the emergency room. Ayla is sobbing, she stays home with dad.

In the Emergency Room a couple checks in. She's twelve weeks pregnant. I assume she's had bleeding but later I hear whispered 'throwing up'. I don't know. I count my blessings. My baby is shaken, but she's here on my lap.

In the emergency room, we discover the sand in her britches.

No stitches required. They say she won't have a scar.

I email Blood Sister A. I tell her I wish a wise person would swoop into my life and tell me what to do.

Then I figure, maybe that wisdom's just waiting here.

Within me.

















(This picture is of Indy feeling better and playing with the syringe they gave her. I love the fierce concentration on her face. She was plotting about how she was going to come home and squirt Ayla. Like that.)

Things People Say About God

One of the great perks of my life is that I spend a lot of time sitting at Starbucks.

People come to Starbucks to talk to their girlfriends while their kids run around--hey, I've done it too--or to type forcefully on their laptops, or sometimes to sit with a mystery novel.

The old men come to sit and read the newspapers, and the friendlier baristas, the ones from Colombia and Venezuela and Brazil, stop to chat with them.

The old ladies come to do the crosswords or to stare out the window together and pepper the long silences with afterthought comments on the weather, or their children, or the deteriorating health of their friends.

Teenagers come to be really loud and self-conscious and buy Venti frappucino's with their parent's money. (Hey. I did it too.)

And then, some people come to Starbucks to talk about God.

My first creative writing class in college was taught by a poet named Cactus May.

He's the one that taught me to do this.

So if you don't like it, you can blame him.



This conversation was held between a man and a woman, both in their late twenties. I can't write as fast as they talk. I can't make out every word. I don't fill in any blanks.


Man: You just get it in you, because if it's not in you, there's nothing to enlighten. . .. .I'm ready to move forward and I'm graciously trying to help you get on to the same page. . . . if something hurts your ego, what does that mean? And what does God do with that?

(The woman replies, I can't hear her)

Man: We'll check in, just see how they're doing, ok it's going well thus far. . . what you have to do is you have to clear yourself. . . waiting on God frees you from having to do anything. .. . just start to listen. That's what listening used to mean. . . . new season. Sitting down cleaning all that desire empty I'm going to be used for your service. . . his goal. . . . empty out of you that's how much God wants to fill you up you have to give him that. The cup he had to drink was death. . . . Would going back to school make you more righteous?. . . We can go to Wal-mart and look for some skin product for this guy. .. . we all have plans for our lives but is he coming into this what is god doing. .. . exactly. . . attempting to get back on that page but together. . . ministry. . . headed towards getting a house and we're gonna get comfortable. Honey it's on Christ. . . laid down his. . . all I'm doing is because this stuff comes but it has to come in God's. . .seek ye first the kingdom of god so I don't even wanna think about a house. I don't wanna think about kids all I wanna think about is god's will for our lives when you seek it on your own it gets crazy so you gotta be willing to put down all that stuff thank you for the treats honey god told us to give you that gift card.

Then they got up, and left.

Presumably for Wal-mart.

I Am A Douche

On a mild Tuesday in November I had a massive, overly dramatic, overly wrought, overly indulgent writerly--'writerly'--breakdown.

I came into the house and pulled the 'manuscript' (read: stack of semi-indulgent, overwrought, overly dramatic, six or seventh draft-edited pages of fiction) out of my Jack Pack (look, I resent that I have to call my lovely green messenger bag my Jack Pack,especially as I don't even watch the show wherein one of the Sutherland men pretends to face the dangers that I faced at work everyday), and I threw in into a drawer.

I can't do it anymore, I whined to Mr. V. I've been working on this thing for two and half years and it isn't working, it's not coming together and I can't look at it another second.

You should take a break, said Mr. V reasonably and I threw my shoe at him, going for 'tortured' and 'bohemian', but really all I got was a confused husband and the suggestion that I make my own damn dinner because now there would be blood in the peas.

I spent a good 6 weeks doing nothing but watching Supernatural. We've discussed it before. It was a bona fide funk. It was ugly. I hid in my room curled up on my bed with my lover laptop and my best friend wine (Please Laptop and Wine, please never leave! I love you! I'll be anything you want me to be and no I don't think we should go out and do stuff, we are so happy right heeeeere!)

Then, some time after Christmas, I began my stumbling ascent. I climbed out of the funk in fits and lurches, and started functioning again: again I was able to carry out conversations, brush my teeth, take interest in something other than the devil ruining the road trip for the brothers.

The beautiful, beautiful brothers. . . with the guns and the gravelly voices and the authority issues. . . hmm? Oh you're still here? Sorry.

I went to Bookstore Job to save the world, but I kept hearing: I want to quit my job to write full time.

I know.

It was more than my own little fancy. It was that quiet, deep down voice. I don't know what to call it. Can we call it Hermione? I think she embodies quiet, persistent wisdom. And if there's one thing we know about Hermione, it's that she won't be ignored.

Hermione kept whispering at me to quit my job to write full time, and can I just say that Hermione had never whispered that before? Since I started taking writing seriously, about six years ago, Hermione would sometimes chime in with an image or a bit of dialogue and an occasional--very, very occasional--nudge of encouragement. She would never be like, "You are going to be rich and famous and drinking dollars for breakfast!" but sometimes she would be like, "Writing is good!". You know the Brits, stiff upper lip and all that. I wrote on most Saturday mornings, and sometimes Sunday mornings, and that was enough. Hermione and I were fine. I enjoyed Black Ops, and we needed the income, and I wrote a few hours a week and that was dandy. Hermione wasn't saying crazy things like "Quit your job to make no money!" or "Put on that muumuu and offer to do the Single Ladies dance for your mailman, he will love it!", and it was good.

Now she wouldn't leave me alone. She kept bugging me when I was trying to shelve books and kill terrorists. She nagged me as I washed the dishes and, rather uncomfortably, was fond of appearing while I was in the shower. "Quit your job to write full time or I will tell Dumbledore," she would say. "Stop looking at my nuddy bits you fussy British prat!" I would yell back.

"What?" Mr. V would call from the kitchen. "Who are you talking to in there?"

It was a confusing time.

Look, I told her finally, because she wouldn't shut up. Of course I want to 'write full time'. But 'writing full time' was something I'd always imagined I'd do when I actually became, you know--a writer? A person who wrote and got paid for it. A person with permission from the outside world to take herself seriously. Hermione said pish posh to that, write full time now. And buy some new underpants, what if you had a car accident?

It was time to level with Hermione. So I looked her in the eye and I told her: I can't tell my husband I want to quit my job that pays real money to take up a job that pays no money. I don't make a lot, but my income was paying more than half our rent. We are living paycheck to paycheck here--and I wish Suze Orman would quit yelling at me about that, all accusatory-like, as if it's some sort of shortcoming. I have news for you, Suzy Orman: living paycheck to paycheck isn't easy. It's a friggin accomplishment. Every time I hear Suze excoriating someone for living paycheck to paycheck, as if they have a choice, I want to yell back at her: You spend more in a month on Lady Blazers than I do on groceries for four people. YOU are the one who is doing something wrong.

But I don't yell at her because I hope to one day have a rather handsome Lady Blazer Budget myself.

So what I said to Hermione is this: I cannot possibly tell my husband that I want to quit my job to 'write full time'. I need some help here. Because this just is not something I can ask for.

And that week, Mr. V came home and said these words: I am going to rearrange my schedule and take on a second job so that you can quit your job and have more time to work on your writing.

Obviously, I protested. I told him I couldn't let him do that. What a ridiculous thing to do, quit a real job for a fantasy one. But then Hermione was all like, What the fuh??!? Don't you remember our little conversation over the dirty dishes? Also, I know you're still wearing that underwear you got on clearance in 1997. I am the mouthpiece of the Divine, I am watching you, and I am concerned about your undergarments.

And I realized that I couldn't turn this down.

So that is how it came to pass that last week, I worked my last day at Operation: Bookstore. It was a difficult step to take because it involved doing this thing I was repeatedly instructed not to do as a child: It required me to Take Myself So Seriously. The worst part was, everyone had to SEE me Taking Myself So Seriously, bear witness to my pretentious airs. I had to confess to all my comrades, because I believe in truth, that I was quitting my job to "pursue my writing".

You know who takes themselves so seriously? You know who quits their jobs to "write full time"?

Massive douches.

The Douche Kings of the Doucheatrons.

And so I am. A douche.

But comrades, I'm a happy one.

I am Vesuvius and Hermione was wrong about the mailman.