Day 40

fox

Have you ever noticed how, often when you come across a fox in the wild, it stops and turns toward you instead of away. I have, more than once, encountered a fox on my commute, slowed to a stop and been surprised to see him take a seat there on the shoulder of the road. His eyes look for mine, as if he knows exactly what I am and wants to ensure that I know him, if only for a second. He is in no hurry, and so alert and self-aware that he exudes fearlessness. Clever fox we call him because he is wise enough to know that his fearless gaze will undo much of our aggression, causing us to question our superiority, to pause in our assumptions that the road, because we built it, belongs to us. The fox knows to stand his ground and observe us in such a way that we just might reflect on the absurd idea that he exists for us to see. He asserts our mutual fate. Then he turns and disappears and leaves me idling in the road that no longer seems to be mine. I have neighbors I never see, and he has awakened me to this. I put the car in gear as my mind struggles to regain control, sensing a restlessness in me, reigning in the wild wolf that would follow fox into the deep willows and lose sight of the road.

 

Day 39

enemy

One of the primary teachings of the faith and religion I was raised in is to “love your enemies.” I am forty-five now, and until this morning, I always, without exception, thought about this teaching in one way: I am the one who is called to love the enemy, and the enemy is someone else.

This morning I started reading a book called Native, by a Potawatomi woman. Just a few chapters into the book, I had a thought like a cold slap in the face: I am the enemy. I am not just, or even most significantly, the one called to love the enemy, but I am the enemy that so many others are struggling against.

Epiphanies are powerful realizations that align us with what is. They move us, abruptly, from certain ways of thinking and being that we have developed to avoid or cope with our darkness, into ways of thinking and being that do not deny, or simply survive our darkness, but allow us to acknowledge it so that we can transform.

This morning my epiphany leads to this:

I acknowledge that I have inherited the riches and the power of the conquerors. I am the daughter of colonists and people who twisted the most sacred teachings of my faith to justify acts of terror. My ancestors have taken advantage of their privilege to create opportunities for their children, for me. I personally have used more resources than were necessary and chosen to be a consumer rather than create a sustainable life that respects the limits of this planet. Because of my ancestry and my choices, it is not unjust to call me an enemy of this earth and so many of the creatures that inhabit it.

But at my center is a deep and dark irony that the faith which has made me the enemy of so many, is also the faith that inspires and empowers me to work toward justice, reconciliation and wholeness.

I am the enemy, but I am the enemy that seeks refuge in the love of those who have been damaged by the choices and actions of me and of my ancestors. I am the enemy that has been humbled by the suffering of those who are struggling to be heard and seen, and most of all by the suffering of this earth, which I love so dearly. I am the enemy who sees that fear leads only to more violence, and so I will not be afraid. I will reconcile myself to the truth of who I am and what I have done, and I will surrender so that I might be transformed into a person who heals and lives in peace.

I am the enemy who requires the love of this earth and of those whom I have hurt, in order to be reconciled. I am the enemy who will learn to listen first, before I bring answers, even when they are accompanied by my best intentions. I am the enemy who will practice peace, who will practice stillness…until I am like a pond that swallows stones.

For stillness and humility give birth to creativity, and creativity and intention give birth to movement, and from a movement born of stillness, humility, creativity and intention comes that mysterious and divine action that reconciles all things. Beneath this grief and guilt, I have but one deep and abiding desire: to know the incomprehensible peace and to share it with all living things.

Day 38

wonderful

I remember how he looked at me before we went to sleep. It was too wonderful. His eyes were so clear, even though the skin around them was wrinkled and drooping. He was so old, and he hadn’t looked at me like that in so long. He sat down on the edge of the bed and he rested his hand on top of mine. I pulled off my glasses and laid the open book down on my chest. Our hands were cold and dry, and no longer familiar with each other. Then he looked at me, right in the eyes. “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he said. I was so surprised I laughed. “All day?” “Yes, all day” he responded, as if it were nothing. I felt tears in the corners of my eyes and a slight rush of heat in my face. “What were you thinking about me?” I ask quietly. “I was thinking of our life. Of our long and beautiful life. And I think it was too wonderful for me.” I didn’t laugh. I didn’t even smile. I could see by the pained look on his face that he did not mean to romance me. “What do you mean?” I ask in a level voice. “I mean, sweet girl, that I don’t think I can live another day with you; I have found the limit of wonderful.”

Then he leans down and kisses my forehead. A long kiss that I still feel an hour later, after he has fallen asleep and the lights are out and I am laying there alone. I reach up and touch the spot on my forehead and begin to cry. A long quiet cry that does not wake him. A wonderful momentous cry full of memories and emotions unspent. A cry of release and relief. A once-in-a-lifetime cry. A cry too wonderful for me.

I open my eyes again, roll onto my back, and look at the ceiling. I know what I will feel this time, but I am not afraid. I reach over and touch his cold, still back.

 

Day 37

delicious

Limes—are delicious. In a glass with ice, gin and tonic. Or in a Mexican lager with salt. Or in a pie. Oh! On tacos with onion and salt. Limes…anywhere…with salt.

Chocolate. ‘Nough said.

Meat stews, rich with wine and just soft carrots, and just a bit of heat from chile pasilla or serrano. Crusty bread on the side with a half inch of butter. Hungry?

Jerked chicken is delicious, covered in hot sauce. Hot sauce is delicious.

My favorite cocktail: the Negroni. Delicious texture, bittersweet, sharp but smooth. Can’t say enough.

Also delicious: brined and toasted almonds, dill pickles, Chile Colorado with brisket, smoked trout, slow cooked pork, ginger tahini sauce, toasted bagels with cream cheese onion tomato and capers. Speaking of tomatoes; the tomatoes my grandpa grew and sliced thick for me to eat with salt and pepper. Speaking of grandpa, his wife made a pretty delicious brisket with coca cola. Speaking of grandma, my other grandma made a delicious orange Julius (I can still remember the sound of the ice in the blender.)

Delicious are my lover’s lips after he drinks whiskey. A kiss that is supremely delicious.

When I make something that, when it meets my tongue, triggers my eyes to close and my shoulders to relax, I know I have accomplished delicious.

 

Day 36

music

 One of my earliest memories is laying under the piano bench and listening to my mom play. I lay there while she played or taught, and I distinctly remember touching the bottom of that upright, feeling the vibration in my little hands.

Later when I was six or so, she tried to teach me, but I didn’t have the discipline to practice. It wasn’t until I was fourteen or fifteen when she took me out of public school to homeschool me that I became bored enough to learn. I started with Beethoven’s Fur Elise, learning to play and to read the music at the same time. From there, I became adolescent-obsessed with practicing, playing, improvising, singing.

After I married, I didn’t have a piano, so I got pretty rusty, and since then, playing makes me a bit sad because I miss being more proficient. If I’m singing while I play though, I just don’t care. Singing makes me feel right.

Just now, I was sitting here feeling pretty over it; as I have been all week. I think this whole isolation, weird work schedule, financial stress is finally getting to me. I tried to keep it all at bay for as long as I could, but as so many of you have suggested: it sucks. I decided to put on my Jacob Collier You Tube mix and the first video was him doing a rendition of Billy Joel’s song Just the Way You are. Watching his hands play and listening to his incredible chord progressions brought tears to my eyes. He plays a black upright that reminds me so much of the one I grew up with. This flood of nostalgia and other un-recognizable emotions flooded me. I had a good cry.

Music. It is a cornerstone, a touchstone, a critical element of the most important moments of my life. The feel of piano keys is synonymous with all sensual things for me. The sound of an acoustic guitar makes me feel completely calm and at home. Life is hard, no doubt. Music always, always, always brings me back to myself. Where there is music there is movement, there is vibration, there is rhythm and sense. I can imagine any future as long as I can imagine layered voices. When the tech fails, when we don’t have money for ink or paper, we can stomp and clap and sing. This is a secret even the wind knows.

Day 35

purpose

Even in our childhood we were trying to understand why we did or didn’t, could or couldn’t, should or shouldn’t. We asked “why?” looking for the purpose of the menial tasks our parents gave us, or the purpose of looking nice, or staying clean, or avoiding certain people. We begin life obsessed with purpose.

Yet, so much of our adulthood is spent avoiding the same questions. We start out so intent on discovering why we are doing what we are doing, why it matters so much to be a certain way, only to surrender to a culture that is obsessed with distracting us from purpose. Just buy this, just do that, just post a million pictures of yourself and your life on social media until you become somebody, says the machine. And so we are led glassy-eyed, to lives with purposes dictated to us by whoever profits.

We stop asking why—until we have only enough money to buy what we need, until our movement is restricted and we cannot run from this to that activity or experience, until we become saturated with the hours we have spent scrolling through images and words and “stories” that leave us feeling empty.   Then, looking out our windows, perhaps we see a tulip. Perhaps we ask how it got there. Reaching deeper still, we might wonder at the hidden purpose it serves.

Reaching still deeper, and deeper, into the forgotten curious minds of our childhood, might we ask what hidden purpose we serve, and how we got so distracted from the necessary questions?

Day 34

mom

When my kids were very little they called me “mama.” That was my favorite. So endearing, so precious sounding. This eventually morphed into “mom” with various pre-adolescent inflections as they turned eleven and twelve. My daughter called me “mother,” and still occasionally does, in a kind of half endearing, half mocking tone that is so incredibly her and so does not offend me. I definitely don’t feel like a Mother; that’s a status I feel is more deserved by women like my own mother who had five children and gave so much of her life to mothering. Sadly, I also don’t feel much like a mama. The term that has replaced that in my life is “auntie.” As an auntie I am still loved in that way that only the very young can love, and it keeps me warm.

“Mom” works. It is what I feel I am, to my two grown children. I’m just “mom.” Loved, but also a little dismissed.  Which is exactly what they should be doing right now; dismissing me.

It strikes me as ironic, that we mostly think of moms as being experts in attachment. In fact, we must begin letting go from the moment our children come into the world. “Mom” is just another way of saying woman-who-is-learning-to-let-go. This is hard sometimes, but like all letting go, it is also a gift.

Day 33

recipe

Don’t like ‘em; never really have. I love to cook, but I don’t like to use recipes (and I could do without the novellas that often precede them on cooking blogs). Most of the time when I try to follow a recipe, I’m disappointed in how the food turns out and I end up feeling like a failure. I have learned that recipes can get you only so far. For instance, tonight I am making pheasant and apples, which is basically pheasant, onions and apples braised in apple brandy and cider. I’m sure it will be delicious. I read a recipe on one of my favorite food blogs by a guy named Hank Shaw (honest-food.net) who cooks a hell of a lot of game. The recipe was super helpful because it told me what order to cook things in before I pushed it all in the pot to braise, and it gave me an idea of what levels of heat to use. But if I had followed his recipe exactly, I would have burned the onions instead of browning them and the end result would have been lame.

My current way of interacting with recipes is to think about what kinds of flavors or textures I want to experience (i.e. pheasant with something sweet) and then I do some research. I read through five to fifteen recipes and get an idea of what I want to do and then I wing it. The exception is, of course, most baking, because it is a bit more of an exact science. I’ve never been too lucky “winging” it with cakes.

To be honest, I pretty much live my life this way too. I survey my friends, family, books, films, etc. and figure out how to live in a way that works for me and allows me some freedom to improvise. I can’t imagine living any other way. This does present some challenges. Let’s just say the more you improvise your life, the more your life is like a rich stew; certainly, it’s no piece of cake.

 

Day 32

push

I’ve had one of those weeks that is requiring me to push through. I’m not feeling very supported or motivated, and I’d rather stop pushing and just sleep where I am. This is not an option; so, I’m pushing.

I definitely feel that most of us are trying to push through in the greater sense. It was easier to do when bars were open. Let’s be real, sometimes that beer or cocktail after work really helped. These days I’m finding it hard to keep moving forward. The future feels ominous, but the present is no bag of cherries; and while there is less of it, the momentum is still pressing us onward.

I wish someone…or something…would pull.

Thinking tonight of Sisyphus. That damn rock always coming down on him as he pushed and pushed and pushed and never got to the top of the hill. Mythology is so great; summing up all of our realities into these tight little terrible stories that are so on point.

Maybe if I just step aside and let the rock roll to the bottom to crash into a million pieces, it would not be the end of the world. That does seem, however, like a big risk, not to mention a tricky maneuver.

 

 

Day 31

ocean

There is a man, a writer, a poet, an immigrant, by the name of Ocean Vuong. He writes with the most vulnerable syntax, choosing and arranging words into something so vulnerable, but also so sharp that they cut you up inside. Like a photo of a child in a war zone, so exposed and full of shock, which also cuts us when we see it. Reading so many things has given me a good strong reader’s intuition, and I sense that I can only understand this writer’s meaning, his experience and his language, through the vulnerability that he awakens in me with his words.

This last week, the show/podcast On Being aired an interview between Ocean and the show’s host, Krista. They talk about his experience as an immigrant and as a poet, but what Ocean has to say about language and how it affects us is a Masterclass in the metaphysics of words and how we use them. Listening to him explain and expound on language gave me the same feeling that writing sometimes does; when writing makes me feel tender and bruised and more than a little afraid. But, then also how that same writing turns as I release it into feelings of bravery and confidence.

In the interview, he says “the children of immigrants end up betraying their parents, in order to subversively achieve their dreams.” And because he speaks with such vulnerability, I hear the ache in his voice as he emphasizes certain words and feel the traces of guilt and anxiety and also the matter-of-factness. I think of all the things I’ve felt compelled to say that expose my own discomfort while also speaking the truth. As this sentence hangs in the pause that follows his voice, I feel too the courage that expands out from the words.

Also, reading a poem written in the voice of his mother, I hear this: only a mother can walk with the weight of a second beating heart. …and I just break and sob. All this emotion on my morning commute.

This name of his: Ocean—is it not also the best word to describe his words and their force? You swim out there into his phrases, and try to tread water; but, these words are currents too strong to swim against, so you finally, maybe even suddenly and with joy, let go and fall into the deep, deep art of vulnerability.

Day 30

spring

Up here, Spring is like the slip of a strap from a shy girl’s shoulder. It seems almost accidental and after the most beautiful blush you ever did see, she turns and modestly pulls winter about her shoulders again. Weeks after the snow has melted in all but the most sheltered places, you can still feel the dry ice of it in the breeze. Sure, the birds are going at it, the pond is wet and shivering with the rise of fish and the business of ducks, geese, herons and cranes; the trees are tentatively greening, slowly enough that you look for it and look for it until you forget to look for it, thinking spring must still be a ways off. But then you look up one day, maybe through your binoculars which you have donned to decipher variations of finch at the bird feeder, and the aspen have gone green.  The ice is drawn into the rivers which move down, with a muddy greed that takes as much as it can as it rushes headlong to the desert (the only hurried thing in this season.)

Like a bear from her den, you press out into the sunshine and realize you are starving. You want to eat everything in sight as you dig at the sleep in your eyes and make your clumsy way into the heat of the sun.

I am at home in this sleepy valley where spring drags on and summer is still a shimmering mirage in the distance. I am content to wear my sheepskin slippers a few more days and layer my sweatshirts and bask in the late afternoon hours when the sun has built up enough strength the heat the deck boards. I know from my childhood memories that early summer will feel like Spring prolonged; that Fall will be shouldering its way in by August. By the first of September I will be closing my eyes, trying to hold onto the bare body of summer that aroused me from my sleep in May.

Day 29

wardrobe

When I was a child, like many, many children with me and who followed, I dearly loved The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. Every winter I spend in these mountains calls the lamp in the woods to my mind, and every spring brings me to the end of that tale. As Mr. Lewis predicted for Lucy, I have come to a time in my life where I once again love fairy tales, and in fact prefer them, both for their entertainment and instruction, over most other ways in which I am entertained and instructed.

Today I am thinking about the various wardrobes I have tripped through in my life. Ever curious, I am always pushing back the coats and looking for a hiding place, only to find that the dark spaces open up into vast places of imagination and story. For so many years, I have had the tendency to think it a waste of time to explore the odd Narnia’s of my creative impulses, and tried to stay firmly rooted in “reality.”

But I’m sick to death of reality. Sick of the way in which people talk to each other in real life. Sick of the lack of imagination, tolerance and passion. It seems to me that in all my life I have never felt more true than when I was exploring stories; as a reader or a writer. That which is supposedly a passing figment of the imagination, always feels more real, or at least more meaningful to me than anything else.

Perhaps I am just ready to stumble toward that lamp at last, to discover the deeper magic that is there.

Day 28

camp

The first thing you need to know about camping is that when you arrive at your campsite and the weather is fine and you remembered the lighter and the can opener and upon inflating your sleeping pad you find that there are no holes, you have experienced a miracle. I have found that people who don’t like to sleep in the woods generally don’t appreciate the reminder that their comfort is dependent on a number of details that technology has secured or perfected over the last few hundred years, most of which are absent when one is tent camping. Things like walls and roofs, gadgets and mattresses and coffee pots on timers. They embrace the comforts of civilization with their whole beings. Day-trips are sufficient for them to experience and enjoy nature. 

However, for many people, like my husband Corey and me, forgoing the many gadgets and comforts in order to be “out there” rather than at home or in town, is essential to mental, physical, spiritual and relational health. I think we discover ourselves and each other in a more natural setting while we often lose each other in the throes of work and home life. For Corey and I, after taking approximately 30 minutes to set up camp, there is just us, the dog, and our setting. It seems abundantly clear that whatever petty thing we might argue over is just a petty thing, in comparison to that sunset, or to the force of the wind, or to the curve of the river in the valley below us.

More and more I find that the gifts of nature, can not be overstated; even if the nature we know is a few tall trees in our yard, or a city park, or a riverbank just outside of town. These gifts feed our bodies, minds, souls, hearts, relationships, and give fuel to our creative endeavors. Even if you cannot go camping; go outside, touch a living, growing thing. Allow awe to rise like a tide at your feet. Even a blade of grass holds a mystery that you cannot entirely unlock. Even a small tree on a city street is providing for you. Gaze. Touch. Camp in that square foot of land where nature still has a hold.

Day 27

middle

These days I am obsessed with the middle-way. Not just as a concept, but as the lived experience it is for so many of us. I cannot tell you how many conversations I have had in recent years with people who are Christians struggling to articulate the ways in which they do not fit into the camp that the label “Christian” seems to restrict them to. Same on the other side, talking to people with little or no religious background that are tired of being unable to explore traditions and spirituality without having to commit to institutions that have done so much damage. I believe that under our very noses, we are increasingly becoming a people who live under a white flag between war-camps. A people who are tired of hating, tired of hurting each other, tired of being hurt. A people exhausted of the tyranny of having to choose one group to follow loyally, or risk being ostracized.

Democrats and republicans, liberals and conservatives, believers and non-believers, ignorant and enlightened, straight people and the growing acronym that is everyone else; and these days…supporters of isolation and face masks, and people who resist government mandates. It seems to me that the national obsession, the thing that we all understand, is that there is a line and you must choose which side to stand on.

Day 27 of this project is, for me at least, a day to articulate the middle. To decidedly leave whichever camp I’ve been relegated to by those caught up in that paradigm, and settle my ass on the fence. I am not declaring this the “right” thing to do because we are all just too damn attached to clustering around that word, or creating our own “right” for others to cluster around. What I am doing is declaring this fence sitting, this middle ground, a perfectly acceptable place to be. From here you can see both sides, you can meet other confused and vulnerable folks who are frustrated by the two-party systems. Most importantly you can move from the center, and for some of us this is key to deciding how to proceed.

Day 26

nacarat

If I could choose to manifest a talent right now that I simply do not have, it would be the ability to understand color. To see the subtle colors that combine to make what I see as “straw” colored grass or “gray-blue” clouds. I would like to be able to look at a room that I want to paint, and then look at fifty color swatches in the paint section and actually have some idea of what they will look like on a 10 x 8’ wall.

This might be something I could learn with practice and a good visual-artist mentor, but I have been trying for years, without much luck. Of course, I have always had a fascination with the names of colors, with the words of course.

Nacarat is a kind of red-orange, a pale red-orange, “used by women to give a roseate hue to their complexions” according to finedictionary.com. I’m not typically a fan of orange, but I am a huge fan of this one’s name. I am thinking of a certain farm-egg I recently received, that looked pink, but next to a light blue egg, took on an orange hue; at least I thought so. Kari would probably have called it true. I’m thinking too of terracotta, is that right?

Nacarat is the name of restaurant in Amsterdam; named by someone who loves words too, and color perhaps. It is self-described as “sensual and sophisticated,” which is exactly how I would describe the way this word feels.

Day 25

dreams

 

Last night I dreamt of a yellow canary in a hamster cage. At some point I checked the cage and the canary was laying in a pile of discarded Kleenex and cigarette butts. I revived the bird and it escaped. My sister-in-law Crystal tried to help me re-capture it. Finally, it fluttered and flew against the side of my face, and stayed there. I felt the softness of its feathers and the beating of its heart. I put my hand against it, pinning it against my cheek and soothed it with shushing sounds. When I woke, the first thought I had was that the canary was my daughter and I was trying to rescue, revive, and comfort her. She has a beautiful voice and it makes perfect sense that in my dream she is a singing bird. While she doesn’t need me to save her, I sometimes sense her like a bird, fluttering against me.

Just below the surface of the facts and truths that make up our endeavors, there is a dark liminal space from which all artists create. They are always joining the waking world with the bright yellow canaries that visit us in our sleep.

Day 24

claire

Claire was born in Colorado, and when she was born, I was in Oregon. She was very small when she was born, and I was very worried. At the time, I was living my friend-with-the-most-beautiful-name: Blossom Blueskys. Blossom Blueskys is a nurse and she takes care of mamas and new babies, so when Claire was born and I was so worried, it was very fortunate that I was living with the nurse Blossom Blue, who gave me a lot of hugs and told me that Claire and her mama would be okay. Guess what… She was ok!

I guess I should explain that Claire’s mama is my sister, Hannah, so Claire is my niece. Nieces are incredibly special, I have five of them, and I love each one of them very much, but I love them each for different reasons. I love Claire because she is so strong, and she knows what she likes. This makes playing with her easy, because she always knows what she wants.

Tonight, I am writing this in Claire’s brand-new bedroom, near a lake, in a beautiful neighborhood that she already loves. She has the most spectacular bunk bed, full of soft and beautiful creatures, which are keeping me company as I write on the bottom bunk. (She sleeps on the top, of course.) My favorite creature of Claire’s is a very large, very long caterpillar that is multicolored. It is taller than she is.

Whenever I am with Claire, I remember what a magical experience being an Auntie is. I get to experience what it feels like to be precious to someone. This is an amazing experience and I highly recommend it. (If you do not have sisters and brothers to give you nieces and nephews, surely you have friends with children who can never have too many aunties or uncles!) In fact, I have other honorary nieces that I think of often and hope are well, including the lovely daughter of the friend-with-the-most-beautiful-name, who also has a beautiful name: Tiger Lily. I hope that all of my nieces are well and loved tonight.

Day 23

jacob

Let’s talk about Jacob Collier. Have you heard of him? If not, punch that name in the You Tube Search Bar and let the mind be blown!

My son introduced me to this guy, because I have a bit of an interest in music and different off-beat music types. Since that introduction, I have gone through a few periods, maybe a week or two at a time, where I obsessively watch his videos and listen to his music.

His is a prodigious musical genius who does all kinds of crazy things, most notably incredible arrangements of pieces like the theme songs to the Flintstones and a Grammy-winning arrangement of All Night Long. He grew up in a musical family and obviously, literally, lives and breathes in notes and rhythms.

I keep trying to pin down why I love to watch him so much, and it came to me when I watched a clip of his Grammy-receiving speech. His embodiment of love and passion for music is so rare; from his facial expressions to the way he moves his limbs, he just exudes his passion for music. It is infectious and fun, and most of all, inspiring.

I have always taken my interests so damn seriously – and this kid challenges that in me by embodying a different reality. Watching him makes me want to love and do things for the fun-of-it, and it makes me wonder what it would be like if more of us did things for the fun-of-it; if we just let go of all the expectations and ambitions that we are prone to strap our interests to, hoping to be “successful,” and instead went feet first, giving those interests the freedom to live and move and breathe in us. I think it would be amazing.

Day 22

mother

To be a mother is to be constantly trying to clear the mist of our own fears, expectations, anxieties and hopes, that we might see our children for who they are; apart from us. As our children grow, it becomes increasingly difficult; for early on, they practice the art of hiding in their own fog of fear and expectation.

From the moment of giving birth, a mother begins the process of letting go, suffering a gradual amputation as this child—once part of her very body, tucked deep in her belly, is separated from her.  Even as she lets go, she is learning a new way to love; a way that surrenders to great distances, to longing, to separation, and to the occasional intense re-connection, when her grown children reach out to tell her that they love and need her.

Perhaps we chose God the Father over God the Mother, not just to elevate the male over the female, but because worshiping, adoring, loving, needing and longing for the Mother is so intense and personal. In the Father, we have a maker somewhat removed. We have in Him a master, a protector, and a judge, however merciful. In the Mother God, we would have the complexity and terror of the deepest Love. We would have the womb as our Eden. We would have the confusing angst of needing to be autonomous while also needing the Home that She is. If we chose God our Mother, we would be choosing a bond not easily set aside and an autonomy not easily exercised. We would choose to be aware that we are always connected to Her love, while also knowing that we can never fully return to the Eden that is Her.

And as any child of a damaged, abusive, unstable or inadequate mother will tell you; a life without the intense love of a healthy mother is a lonely one. It is a life without the safety of Her body and Love and without the relief of separation from the same. It is a landscape with horizons that remain eternally distant. For these children, particularly the grown, whose mothers were, and perhaps still are lost; I offer this:

May you remember or discover the God who is Mother. The womb of all creation; the safe center. May you know Her love. May you be seen clearly and be loved for who you are with that perfect Love that all earthbound mothers are trying to embody. And may you find this motherlove in the beauty and wholeness of this Earth and of all the mothers who harness this Holy Love, and see you clearly, and love you completely.

Day 21

discipline

Day 21: I slept in and missed my morning reading/writing routine. I worked a long day that ended in a two hour meeting. I have no desire to write, no feelings of inspiration. I am just tapped and tired. But here I am, knocking out a few paragraphs—exercising my atrophied creative muscles; doing. This is called discipline, I believe. I’m not very familiar with it. Never had much of it, ask my mom.

You see, discipline is that middle part of things. After the exciting part where you discover something new you want to do or experience, and the part where you initially engage it all gung-ho. It is the part before the moment that you find yourself doing something extraordinary as if you had always been doing it. It is the stupid, sucky, lame-ass part where you just do and do and do and do, and try not to hate it. Not my favorite part by a long shot.

But, here in the middle of my life I am feeling the effects of this lack of discipline rather acutely. I can no longer procrastinate the hard stuff until later, I have to admit that my body is simply not going to get more fit or more capable through my wishing it so, and I cannot see myself spending the second half of my life regretting that I didn’t achieve more, or experience more because I lacked the discipline! I guess this means I have to find the will, the desire, the courage to do and do and do and do… Hence this project.

I have always dreaded the day that writing became a chore and have held it at bay until today: Day 21. Here we are at that moment when I am not “feeling” it and yet…I write. I am not “wanting” it, and yet, I write. Here is that nugget of truth that every parent, spouse and caregiver (and apparently writer) confronts eventually: love is a verb. If you love someone or something, you don’t just love when it’s easy, and you don’t just say you love. In fact, love is that thing that happens when you don’t say anything at all. Love is do and do and do and do. And so, I write.